Work Text:
Setting: A crowded campus café, mid-afternoon. Charles is sketching in a half-used notebook while sipping on overpriced espresso. Lando is picking apart a croissant and humming to himself. Max Verstappen, physics major, general overachiever, and current Academic Crisis Incarnate, slams his tray onto the table and glares at the two of them.
….
The campus café was packed. Mid-afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall arched windows, painting soft golden patterns across the tiled floor and the scattered student bodies hunched over textbooks, laptops, and iced coffees. The air buzzed with quiet conversation and the occasional clink of ceramic mugs. At the back, tucked into a corner near the student art wall, sat Lando Norris and Charles Leclerc — an unlikely duo, united by proximity and mutual love for gossip.
Charles had his sketchbook out, fingers stained faintly with charcoal and smudged blue paint, completely absorbed in the details of the sharp cheekbones he was sketching (which might have looked suspiciously like Carlos Sainz’s, but that was beside the point).
Lando was attempting to dissect a croissant with all the patience of a toddler. He popped another crumb into his mouth just as—
SLAM.
A tray hit the table with enough force to rattle the espresso cups. Both Charles and Lando jumped.
Enter: Max Verstappen. Physics major. Robotics team captain. Personal enemy of the concept of “group projects.” Currently radiating the kind of academic crisis energy that made TA's weep and professors check their email spam folders.
He looked...horrified. And oddly betrayed.
MAX
(voice deadly serious, as if announcing his own funeral)
"I have to take a drama class."
Charles blinked, eyebrows arching in amused surprise.
CHARLES
"...Pardon?"
Lando, mid-bite, promptly choked on a flake of croissant. After a brief coughing fit and a slap to the chest for drama’s sake, he wheezed,
**"You? In drama? Oh, I need front-row seats for this."
Max ignored him. Entirely. As usual.
MAX
"I’ve finished all my STEM requirements. My thesis is in final edits. My internship log is complete. But I need two more liberal arts credits to graduate this semester. Two."
(he held up two fingers like they were curse words)
"I applied for Social Work and Philosophy of Logic. Both full. Nothing left... except this."
He pulled a wrinkled paper from his hoodie pocket like it was radioactive. Charles leaned forward to get a peek. At the top, bold serif letters read: “DRAMA CLUB – PERFORMANCE ELECTIVE FORM.”
CHARLES
(with barely concealed delight)
"So you went from social work to Shakespeare?"
MAX
(gritting his teeth)
"It was the only one open. The only thing left with credit. I checked three times."
LANDO
(tearing up from laughter)
"You, on stage? You don’t even emote when you win a race. What’re you gonna do? Physics your way through Romeo and Juliet?"
Max gave him a long, unamused look. Then said, perfectly deadpan:
MAX
"I’m hoping for a background tree."
Charles nearly dropped his sketchbook from laughing.
CHARLES
"Max Verstappen, Tree Number Two. A performance for the ages."
Max rolled his eyes and sat down with a sigh like he was carrying the weight of humanity on his shoulders.
MAX
"This isn’t funny. They handed me a script. A full script. I already have a lab partner and a weekly robotics meeting. I don’t have time for... monologues."
Lando wiped a tear from his eye.
**"Who’s directing this disaster?"
MAX
"Some second-year drama major. Loud. Australian. Talks with his hands. He called me—"
(Max’s eyes narrowed, offended)
‘Handsome but emotionally repressed.’ Repeatedly."
That’s when Charles choked. Literally choked on his espresso and coughed it into a napkin, eyes wide.
CHARLES
"Wait. Wait wait—Daniel Ricciardo?"
Max’s eyes narrowed further.
"You know him?"
LANDO
(delighted)
"Oh, you are so doomed."
CHARLES
"He’s a menace. In the best way. But still. You might survive quantum physics and calculus. But Daniel Ricciardo will have you sobbing on stage with a fake dagger and a glittery tear painted on your cheek by next month."
Max stared at them. Blankly. Then sighed like a man defeated.
MAX
"God help me."
LANDO
"No, no, mate." (grinning like a Cheshire cat)
"Daniel will help you. That’s the problem."
Charles was already flipping to a new page in his sketchbook. He drew quickly, scratching out the beginnings of a dramatic figure with a cape and curls.
CHARLES
"I must be there opening night. Max Verstappen in a ruffled shirt doing a death scene? That's art."
Max, meanwhile, pulled out his script again. The thing was slightly damp and aggressively annotated. He glared at it like it had personally tanked his GPA.
In the corner of the form, a scrawled note from Daniel read:
“Great bone structure. Might cast you as the brooding prince. Don’t fight it. – D.”
Max exhaled loudly.
He didn’t know it yet, but “drama class” was about to become a turning point. Not just in his semester. Not even just in his emotional bandwidth. But in ways he absolutely, positively was not ready for.
…
Max stood outside the auditorium doors for a full minute before he walked in.
He wasn’t nervous, obviously. Max Verstappen didn’t do nervous. He’d done solo presentations to tenured faculty with dead projectors and once corrected a PhD student mid-paper. He had wrestled with robotics code at 3 a.m. while surviving on three energy drinks and a granola bar.
But this?
This was different.
Because this was drama club.
He pushed the door open.
Chaos greeted him like a slap to the face.
Students were everywhere—draped across stage blocks, climbing scaffolding, waving props, reciting sonnets to the ceiling. Someone in the back was humming a song from Hamilton while painting a giant papier-mâché tree. A girl in fake chainmail was sword-fighting a boy in sweatpants.
Max stared.
This was not his domain.
And that’s when he heard it:
"MAXY!"
He barely had a second to react before Daniel Ricciardo flew at him like a golden retriever on espresso. Lab partner, performance major, and Max’s number one headache, Daniel slid across the polished stage in his socks and flung an arm around Max’s very stiff shoulders.
DANIEL
"You're here! I was beginning to think you dropped out of college just to avoid me!"
MAX
(deadpan)
"I considered it."
Daniel only laughed—loud, full-bodied, the kind of laugh that echoed and drew attention. Half the drama kids turned to stare, some openly whispering as they recognized Max.
"Isn’t he the robotics guy?"
"He’s so serious."
"Did Daniel drag him here?"
Max glared at all of them in turn, expression pure murder.
DANIEL
(ignoring it completely)
"Okay, okay, so I know you're a little new to this whole… feelings thing, but don’t worry. We’re gonna ease you in. Warm-ups first, then a few breathing exercises, and then we’re doing Act I scene blocking. You’ll love it."
MAX
"Absolutely not."
Daniel turned to him with a too-bright grin and clasped both of Max’s shoulders like he was steadying a particularly grumpy building.
DANIEL
"Listen. You already agreed to six weeks of this for credit. I promise I won’t make you do anything horrifying. Probably."
Max glared.
MAX
"I already have to see you three times a week for lab."
DANIEL
"And now twice more for rehearsal! Look at us bonding. It’s practically a romcom—angsty nerd meets sunshine."
Max looked heavenward, like perhaps divine intervention would spare him.
MAX
"God help me."
DANIEL
"God’s busy. You’ve got me."
And with that, Daniel tugged Max toward the stage like it was the most natural thing in the world. Behind them, someone hit a button and a dramatic swell of music filled the room.
Max sighed deeply, clutching his script like a lifeline.
This was going to be the longest six weeks of his life.
He was doomed.
…Or maybe not.
(But don’t tell him that yet.)
…..
Max didn’t realize it had become a routine until it was already happening.
Lunch used to be his time—precious, quiet minutes spent reviewing notes, catching up on coding lectures, or just sitting alone in the corner of the cafeteria with a sandwich and no one asking him about his “feelings.”
But somehow, Daniel Ricciardo had wormed his way into that sacred routine like glitter in a sock drawer.
Max sat at his usual table, focused on the notes pulled up on his tablet, when—like clockwork—Daniel plopped down across from him with all the subtlety of a stage explosion.
DANIEL
"Did you know you blink super fast when you’re concentrating? Like—little hummingbird blinks. It’s actually cute."
Max blinked at him.
Once. Slowly. With judgment.
MAX
"Stop observing me like I'm a wildlife documentary."
Daniel just grinned and unwrapped his lunch like this was completely normal. He had a salad today. And a cookie. And a juice box. Who the hell brought a juice box to college?
Max tried to refocus on his notes, but Daniel kept talking. About everything. About nothing. About how drama warmups were secretly a form of therapy. About the girl in costume design who accidentally sewed her sleeve to a curtain. About how Max had been voted “Most Likely to Kill With a Glare” by the props team.
Max didn’t reply much. He grunted once or twice. Raised an eyebrow. But he didn’t get up either.
And the thing was… he hadn’t told Daniel to stop coming. Not once.
The first day, he assumed it was a fluke. The second time, a coincidence. But now it had been a week. A full week of Daniel’s chaotic presence during Max’s lunch breaks. No one else dared sit at Max’s table.
Just Daniel. Always Daniel.
Max told himself it was annoying.
Really.
Like now, when Daniel leaned over to steal one of his fries without asking, like it was a perfectly acceptable thing to do to someone who once redesigned an entire gear system because a bolt was 0.02mm off-center.
MAX
"You do realize this is my lunch?"
DANIEL
"Correction: it was your fry. Singular. And I’m giving it a good home."
Max stared at him. Then, against all logic, slid the fry container an inch closer to the middle of the table.
Daniel didn’t comment. Just smirked and kept eating.
Max looked down at his sandwich and took a slow bite.
Maybe having someone to eat with wasn’t entirely terrible. Maybe it even made the cafeteria less unbearable. Maybe the way Daniel’s voice filled every silence meant Max didn’t have to fill it himself. Maybe—
He caught himself staring. Quickly looked away.
Nope.
Not thinking about it.
Not about Daniel’s smile. Or his laugh. Or the fact that Max’s notes didn’t seem so interesting when someone was watching him with such ridiculous warmth in their eyes.
He took another bite of his sandwich.
Definitely not thinking about it.
……
The drama club’s costume storage room was chaos. Not dramatic chaos. Not theatrical chaos. Just actual, physical, health-code-violating chaos.
Max was there for exactly one reason: Daniel. Because Daniel had said, "Hey, I left my script binder near the sewing machine — can you grab it while I go print the cue sheet?" And Max — inexplicably — had said yes.
He should have known better.
He was elbow-deep in tulle and sequins when he heard voices from the other side of the room divider.
STUDENT 1 (laughing)
“Ricciardo is insane. Did you see him during warmups? Full interpretive dance mode. Like, calm down, it’s college theatre, not Broadway.”
STUDENT 2
"Seriously. Every rehearsal, it’s like the Daniel Show. I don’t think his face knows how to be still.”
Max froze. Back still turned. Fist tightening slowly around a glitter-covered sash.
They kept going.
STUDENT 1
“I bet he fake-cried again today. You think it’s possible to be allergic to attention?”
STUDENT 2
“At this point, I think he's just performing for you-know-who.”
Max dropped the sash. Turned.
He didn’t even think.
Didn’t even care that he was now visible. That both students looked mildly terrified at the sudden appearance of Max Verstappen — perpetual academic weapon and human glare machine.
MAX (flatly)
“If either of you ever talk about him like that again, I’ll personally email your professors and attach a spreadsheet of your missed cues and flubbed lines.”
The silence was instant. Cold. Horrified.
MAX (still calm, voice lethal)
“Daniel works harder than anyone in this club. And unlike you, he actually makes people feel something.”
STUDENT 1
“…we didn’t mean—"
MAX
“You did. But now you won’t.”
They backed away like he was a lion with a script in one hand and a grudge in the other.
Max turned back, found the binder, and walked out.
He was halfway to the stage when Daniel caught up to him, bouncing lightly on his heels.
DANIEL
“There you are! My savior! Did you get it—oh no, is that glitter on your shirt? I owe you so many cookies. Or like, emotional compensation.”
Max handed over the binder. He didn’t mention the incident. Didn’t say a word.
DANIEL (smiling)
“You’re a hero, Max. I swear.”
MAX (gruffly)
“I’m not.”
DANIEL
“You just did a favor for me, carried my binder. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”
Max looked away sharply, ears tinged pink.
MAX
“Shut up and go rehearse your fake crying, Ricciardo.”
DANIEL (grinning)
“You think it’s fake?”
Max didn’t respond. But Daniel was still smiling when he walked away.
And Max didn’t even try to hide his smirk.
….
It started with a bowl.
A stupid, plastic bowl with a handwritten sign taped to it:
CASTING LOTTERY — PICK ONE SLIP. NO TRADES. FATE DECIDES. :)
Max stared at it like it was radioactive. Or cursed. Probably both.
Daniel stood beside him, practically vibrating with excitement.
He had already picked his role and clutched the folded slip like it was a golden ticket. His eyes were twinkling. Max hated that his heart did that thing when Daniel smiled like that.
DANIEL
“You go next, Verstappen! Go on, dive into destiny.”
MAX (flatly)
“I don’t want destiny. I want to be Tree #2.”
Daniel snorted.
“I think the tree’s taken.”
Max closed his eyes, muttering like a man on the gallows.
MAX (under his breath)
“Please let it be minor. Please let it be ‘Passerby #4’ or ‘Dead Cousin #1.’ Just no talking. No dying. No drama.”
He reached in. Picked a slip. Unfolded it.
Stared.
MAX (horrified whisper)
“…Romeo.”
DANIEL
“What?”
Max looked up, expression blank, soul exiting his body.
MAX (despondent)
“I got Romeo.”
A beat.
And then Daniel burst into laughter.
Max turned, only to see the director (a third-year with a man bun and three rings in each ear) checking the cast list and announcing loudly:
DIRECTOR
“Oh, perfect! Daniel pulled Juliet! Chemistry testing: check.”
MAX
“…What?”
DANIEL (cheerfully, already twirling imaginary skirts)
“Oh yeah. I’m Juliet.”
Max looked up at the ceiling. He didn’t believe in God, but if he did, he would’ve filed a formal complaint.
MAX (still monotone, bordering on a full existential breakdown)
“Juliet?”
DANIEL (grinning way too much)
“What? I have range.”
MAX
“You’re playing my love interest.”
DANIEL
“And you’re playing mine.”
Max looked back at the casting slip in his hand, like if he squinted hard enough, it would turn into something else. Like “Bench” or “Wall #3.”
No such luck.
DANIEL
“I knew we had chemistry! Oh man, you’re gonna have to say romantic things to me. In front of people. With emotions.”
Max visibly twitched.
MAX
“There’s got to be a mistake. I’m an engineer.”
DANIEL
“And now you’re also a romantic lead.”
MAX (mutters)
“Death would be easier.”
DIRECTOR (clapping)
“Alright, lovebirds! First table read is Friday. Bring your passion, bring your pain. And maybe tissues, because Act V hurts.”
Max sat down on the floor, quietly, as if the earth might swallow him faster if he just got low enough.
Daniel plopped down next to him, shoulder bumping his, all sunshine and mischief.
DANIEL (softly, teasing)
“Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on you. Unless it’s the balcony scene. Then I’m going full method.”
MAX (not looking at him)
“I don’t like you.”
DANIEL (smiling)
“Sure you don’t, Romeo.”
…..
Oscar is half-asleep over a calculus problem. Carlos is eating cereal out of a mug. Pierre is judging the universe.
The door slams open.
MAX (storming in)
“HE KISSED ME.”
All three heads turn.
CARLOS (without looking up)
…Who?
MAX (dropping bag, pacing)
Daniel. Ricciardo. That reckless, infuriating, too-happy drama gremlin. On stage. During rehearsal. It wasn’t even opening night. I was not prepared.
OSCAR (blinking, still not awake)
So… like, part of the scene?
MAX (flailing slightly)
Yes! But not like that! That wasn’t acting. That was—he put a hand on my waist. His thumb—circled. That’s not in the script!
PIERRE (instantly invested)
Wait. Was it good?
MAX (quietly, as if horrified by the truth)
…It was my first kiss.
Silence.
CARLOS (chokes on cereal)
What?!
MAX (still pacing)
I was saving it for someone logical! Someone normal! Someone who didn’t say “chest hair adds texture” during costuming!
OSCAR (yawning, very confused)
You’ve… never kissed anyone?
MAX (frustrated)
I was busy! With circuits! And my thesis. Kissing seemed… inefficient.
PIERRE (already opening a fresh page in his journal)
So. How did it feel?
MAX (pauses, like he doesn’t want to admit it)
…Warm. His hand was cold, but his mouth was… never mind. There were… sparks. Like literal static shocks. And I forgot my lines and my name and how to breathe and I think I said “oh” out loud and now I want to walk into the ocean.
CARLOS (muttering)
Bro’s got the love virus.
MAX (spinning around dramatically)
And then—he just smiled at me like he does this all the time! Like it wasn’t the most moment-shattering, soul-upending, reality-bending kiss in human history!
OSCAR (flatly)
It’s Daniel. He probably does do this all the time.
MAX (devastated)
I knew it.
PIERRE (gleeful)
Are you going to tell him?
MAX (offended)
Absolutely not. I have standards. And shame. And a midterm.
PIERRE (writing furiously)
Fascinating. So the kiss was emotionally devastating, Max is spiraling, and you’re now both playing doomed lovers on stage. This is better than Netflix.
MAX (collapsing on couch)
This is a disaster.
CARLOS (drily)
Or Act Two.
……
Meanwhile….
Daniel didn’t mean to kiss Max like that.
Well… okay, maybe he meant to, a little. But only because Max had been looking at him with that sharp, calculating focus like he was a problem to solve. And Daniel? Daniel had always been a little too interested in causing problems.
The moment their lips touched onstage, though — that moment hit different.
Max went completely still.
No stage presence. No pushback. Just frozen lips and a surprised, quiet "oh."
Daniel pulled away, searching Max’s face. He expected some teasing. A grumble. A “do we really have to do this again?” Maybe even a groan of dramatic disgust.
What he didn’t expect?
Max turning ghost-white and walking out without saying a single word.
…
Later, in the costume room, Daniel sat cross-legged on a pile of stage curtains, scrolling through his texts.
Daniel to Max: “That was good! The kiss felt way more natural than expected, yeah?”
Delivered. Not read.
Daniel to Max (15 minutes later): “You good, Verstappen? Did I cross a line?”
Still nothing.
Daniel (half-joking): “Was that your first kiss or something? 😅”
The second he hit send, his stomach dropped.
Because—wait.
Wait.
Oh.
OH.
…..
Cue Daniel bursting into Oscar and Carlos’s dorm ten minutes later.
DANIEL (breathless, guilty, dramatic):
“I THINK I STOLE HIS FIRST KISS.”
Oscar nearly dropped his pen.
Carlos did not look surprised.
Pierre perked up immediately.
PIERRE:
“You did kiss him like it was the end of a romance movie.”
DANIEL:
“I thought he’d pull back! Or punch me! Or at least blink twice!”
OSCAR (sighing):
He froze like a crashed computer, Daniel.
CARLOS (chewing thoughtfully):
He said there were sparks. Literal ones.
Daniel flopped onto the floor.
DANIEL:
“I felt them too. I thought it was stage lights or static or—I don’t know. My crush short-circuiting.”
PIERRE (gleefully):
So you admit it. You have a crush.
DANIEL (muffled into the carpet):
Yes. Okay? Yes. He’s infuriating and blunt and smarter than all of us combined and kind of hot when he frowns, and now I’ve probably ruined everything with one very illegal stage kiss.
OSCAR (calmly, like this is routine):
You can fix it. He’s not that emotionally repressed.
CARLOS:
He is, actually.
PIERRE:
Write him a letter. Like in the movies. Or sing a song.
DANIEL (sitting up quickly):
NO songs. He already thinks I’m unhinged.
CARLOS:
He’s not wrong.
DANIEL:
Okay but what if—hear me out—I just… ask him out?
Silence.
OSCAR (shrugging):
That’s either going to work beautifully or result in a robot meltdown. Either way, I want popcorn.
….
Max thought maybe things would go back to normal.
That maybe the tension would fade after that kiss.
(It didn’t.)
Instead, every rehearsal since then had been... strange. Not bad, just charged. Every line they exchanged crackled like static. Every glance lingered too long. Every accidental brush of fingers made Max’s brain glitch like a broken AI.
And Daniel? Daniel had been suspiciously quiet.
Which was honestly more terrifying than his usual chaotic commentary.
So when Daniel walked into the rehearsal hall early — alone — Max was already on edge.
“Hey,” Daniel said, voice lower than usual, eyes flicking toward the stage lights like they were brighter tonight.
Max gave a grunt in response, flipping through the script, not looking at Daniel’s mouth.
Daniel cleared his throat. “We need to talk.”
Uh-oh.
Max didn’t look up. “About what? The lighting cues or your inability to stick to blocking?”
Daniel laughed nervously, then stepped in front of him, forcing Max to meet his eyes.
“No,” he said. “About us.”
Max blinked. “There is no ‘us.’”
Daniel exhaled like Max had physically punched him in the solar plexus. Then he pulled out something from his hoodie pocket — a crumpled, torn page of the Romeo and Juliet script.
And he began to recite.
DANIEL (dramatically, far too dramatically):
“For never was a story of more woe, than this of—me and the emotionally constipated Dutch boy who won’t admit he liked our kiss.”
Max froze. “...That’s not Shakespeare.”
Daniel took a step forward, still in mock-performance mode, hand over his heart.
DANIEL:
“Was it not magic? Did sparks not fly? Did your knees not go a little weak when I kissed you on that godforsaken balcony set we barely finished building?”
Max felt his ears turn red
Daniel grinned. “Just the two of us. Off-stage. Over dinner.”
Max stared.
“Are you asking me out,” he asked slowly.
DANIEL (shrugs, still smiling):
It’s either that or I perform a dramatic monologue about how I fell in love with you during lab while you glared at the circuits and called me incompetent. Honestly, it's a better love story than Twilight.
Max opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“You’re ridiculous.”
DANIEL (softly, more real now):
Yeah. But I meant every word. I like you, Max. More than I should. And I know I talk too much, and I ruin perfectly good experiments, and I kiss too hard sometimes—”
Max cut him off by grabbing the collar of his hoodie and yanking him in for a kiss.
A real one this time. No stage. No lines. Just Max and Daniel and a very stunned tech crew watching through the glass window.
When they finally pulled apart, Daniel blinked like he couldn’t believe it.
Max smirked. “Fine. Dinner. But if you make one bad Romeo joke, I’m switching lab partners.”
Daniel practically beamed.
DANIEL:
So… you like me?
MAX:
Tragically.
DANIEL:
Best. Play. Ever
….
The lights dim.
The audience hushes.
Backstage, Max paces like a man awaiting trial. He’s in full costume — linen shirt, cloak, sword at the hip — and completely aware that he looks like a romantic lead despite wanting to vanish into the floorboards.
Daniel, dressed in Juliet’s flowing costume with a fake braid and far too much eyeliner, is calm. Serene, even. Because of course he is. The man thrives under attention.
“You okay?” Daniel murmurs, slipping in beside him behind the curtain.
“No,” Max grits out.
“You’re gonna be brilliant.”
Max glares. “You said that about the physics bowl and I blacked out during the final round.”
Daniel grins. “And yet here you are — Romeo to my Juliet.”
Max’s scowl twitches. “Still time to trade places with Tree #2.”
But the lights shift, the curtain rises, and suddenly there’s no turning back.
…
Backstage is a whirlwind of flowers, cheers, and group selfies. But amidst it all, Max and Daniel find each other in the quiet corner behind the props table.
“You know,” Daniel says, adjusting the ridiculous wig, “you were better than I imagined.”
Max raises a brow. “As Romeo?”
“No,” Daniel grins, reaching for his hand. “As mine.”
….
The curtain has just gone up. Spotlights warm the stage. A hush falls over the crowd… except for row two, where five very chaotic boys are not handling Max Verstappen in a Romeo costume well.
Carlos, arms crossed, leans back with a smirk. “Ten euros says he bolts before the second act.”
Charles gasps, clutching his theatre program like a fanfic heroine. “Absolutely not. I’ve waited weeks for this. Max Verstappen in a romantic tragedy? This is my Avengers Endgame.”
Lando, halfway through a popcorn tub he smuggled in, muffles a laugh. “Bro looks like he’s going into cardiac arrest and they haven’t even kissed yet.”
Oscar, deadpan: “That’s because he knows his lab partner is going to kiss him. On stage. In front of all of us. In front of Pierre.”
Pierre, already filming: “And posterity. Don’t worry, I’m getting all of it in 4K. Max can thank me later.”
Carlos (chuckling): “We are terrible friends.”
Charles: “And yet, here we are. Supporting him. With snacks. Emotional support. Mockery.”
Lando points at the stage. Max has just appeared, stiff as a robot in love, walking with the grace of someone being held at gunpoint.
Lando (barely containing himself): “He’s walking like the stage is hot lava—why is he walking like the stage is hot lava?”
Pierre: “Because Daniel is smiling at him and Max doesn’t know where to look. That’s the power of Drama Club Daniel.”
Oscar, squinting: “Wait… did Max just almost smile back?”
Charles, already fanning himself: “He’s in love..”
Carlos, sighing: “I swear, if they pull off a real kiss and Max doesn’t combust—”
Just then, Max and Daniel reach the kiss scene.
The audience holds its breath.
So do the boys.
And when it happens — Max kissing Daniel first, slow and intense — the group erupts.
Lando: “NO WAY. He actually kissed back!”
Charles (screeching): “THAT WASN’T EVEN ACTING.”
Oscar (grinning): “He’s doomed.”
Pierre, smugly: “I’m putting this in the group chat with the caption ‘Verstappen.exe has stopped responding.’”
Carlos (with fake solemnity): “Rest in peace, our boy. Taken down by the Drama Club.”
They all burst into laughter, loud enough to get a glare from a row ahead.
But none of them care.
Their emotionally constipated friend just fell in love — on stage — and it’s the greatest performance of the night.