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The hum of the jet filled the cabin, low and even, like the mechanical purr of a well-behaved engine. Outside, the clouds peeled away in streaks of white and grey, and somewhere behind them, Italy waited. The approach to Imola was always a little turbulent, but they still had time. Forty-two minutes, to be precise. Lewis sat across from Toto, angled sideways in his cream-coloured seat, legs folded beneath him, hood up despite the temperature being perfectly climate-controlled. A tablet rested in his lap, screen black. He hadn’t touched it since takeoff.
Susie sat to Lewis’s right, flipping through a printed version of the FP1 schedule with a red pen poised but mostly untouched. She glanced at Toto once over the top of the page, just a flick of the eyes. He knew that look. She’d noticed it too. It wasn’t obvious. It never was. That was the thing about Lewis: he carried discomfort like it was just another accessory. Stylish, subdued, almost imperceptible. But Toto had known him long enough to see the way he kept tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie. The way his left hand hovered protectively over his right forearm when he thought no one was looking.
Toto was looking. So was Susie.
“Lewis,” Susie said gently, turning slightly toward him. “I meant to say, your Met Gala look last month? Absolutely stunning. The whole outfit was amazing, was it Dior?”
Lewis looked up, startled by the sudden attention. Then smiled, wide and easy. “Yeah. Custom. Took them three fittings to get it right. Nearly missed my flight out.”
Susie smiled back, warm and genuine. She leaned in a little, just enough to lightly touch his wrist in mock exasperation. “The things we do for fashion.”
Lewis flinched. Just for a second. A fraction too fast, like something inside him anticipated pain where none was coming. Susie pulled back instantly, her smile faltering but only slightly. Her eyes flicked down.
Toto saw it too. Just beneath the cuff of the hoodie, what was that? A bruise? No. Older. Faded yellow-green, like something healing. Another mark just above it, barely visible under the fabric. Lewis adjusted his sleeve, casual but too careful, tugging it lower. “Still jetlagged from Miami?” Toto asked, tone smooth as glass. “You seem a bit quiet today.”
“Didn’t sleep great,” Lewis replied, gaze dropping to the blank tablet. “Weird dreams. Probably just nerves.” He laughed, but it was thin, and it didn’t touch his eyes.
“Hard to imagine you nervous anymore,” Susie said softly.
Lewis shrugged. “Even old dogs get jumpy before the circus rolls into town.”
Silence settled again, but not comfortably. Toto glanced out the window, then back at Lewis. “How’s Max doing?”
Lewis’s eyes flicked up immediately. “Good,” he said, too fast. “We’re good.”
No one had asked that.
No one had asked we.
Toto caught the misstep instantly, and so did Susie. Her eyes darted across Lewis’s face, her smile dimming by half a watt. “How’s he handling the pressure this year?” she asked gently. “Not having a great car and all. Seems a bit more… wound up than usual.”
Lewis blinked. “Max is fine. He’s always fine. He just doesn’t like losing. Who does?”
Toto raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you defend someone that fast, especially someone who knocked you off track in Jeddah.”
Lewis’s jaw tightened. “That was racing.”
“He didn’t leave you much room.”
“I could’ve backed out.”
“It’s you we are talking about. You would never.”
Lewis let out a breath, too sharp, too controlled. “It’s not always his fault, you know. The media loves a villain, and Max doesn’t play nice with journalists, so they paint him like one. Doesn’t mean he is. You must know better than falling for media propaganda, Toto.”
Susie glanced at Toto, subtly and quickly. “Lewis,” she said gently, “we’re not judging-”
“I know what this sounds like,” Lewis interrupted, suddenly louder. “I’m not stupid. I know what people think they see. But they don’t know what we’re like when it’s just us. They don’t see everything.”
Toto tilted his head. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
Lewis looked away. His hand flexed against his thigh, curling into the fabric of his joggers.
There was a silence.
Susie broke it. “Well,” she said with manufactured lightness, flipping the page on her clipboard, “at least Mercedes is not the only one showing up to Imola with no upgrades. Ferrari’s going to be fuming if it rains again.”
Lewis let out a breath that sounded too much like relief. “Tell me about it,” he said. “Charles might actually strangle someone this weekend.” The conversation drifted, and with it, Lewis seemed to settle, shoulders loosening slightly, hands still. He even smiled once, genuinely, when Susie made a jab about Charles’s talent for parking in gravel traps.
But Toto hadn’t missed a thing. He hadn’t missed the defensive edge in Lewis’s voice, or the way his eyes had gone a little too blank for a moment when Max’s name came up. He hadn’t missed the way Lewis had protected him like a fragile myth. As if breaking the illusion would shatter something more important than the truth.
Toto didn’t press. Not today.
But he didn’t forget either.
The hospitality suite smelled like polished metal and new leather, like power disguised as luxury. The rain had just stopped, leaving the paddock glistening under a cold, grey Italian sky, and the espresso machine in the corner hissed like it was tired of trying to keep everyone awake.
Christian stood near the table where the Verstappens had gathered. Jos leaned back with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. Helmut sipped his coffee with practised boredom. Max paced. They were waiting for the final simulator data. There was no real reason to be in hospitality at this hour, but Max had wanted a meeting. A talk, he’d said. He’d shown up early, hoodie on, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he was ready to fight something, if only he knew what.
“I should’ve adapted by now,” Max said, voice low but too sharp. “Everyone else has. McLaren, Ferrari, Mercedes,”
“The factory did not deliver a championship-worthy car this year,” Christian said calmly for the third time. They were all alone here, in their home, and there was no need to lie. “This is on us, not you.”
Max didn’t hear him. Or maybe he did, he just didn’t believe him. That was worse. “It’s not the car,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. “It’s me. I’m not reacting fast enough in corner entry, I’m too late on throttle, I’m fighting the balance instead of controlling it.”
“You’re reacting to a chassis that’s too stiff,” Helmut said bluntly. “It’s the floor. The simulator data confirms it.”
Max shook his head. “Then why does it feel fine for Yuki?”
“It doesn’t?” Christian said. “He is constantly last, Max. Did you lose your memory?”
Jos finally spoke, voice quiet but cutting. “You’ve always been hard on yourself. But you’ve never been wrong before.”
Max stopped pacing. He turned toward them, expression unreadable. But there was something tight in his face, something fragile. Like the mask didn’t fit as well as it used to. “I am not wrong,” he said. “I’m not fast enough. I’m overdriving. I’m dragging time out of the car, and it’s killing the tyres. You all saw the sector deltas in Miami.”
“Everyone saw how you outdrove the shit out of car in Miami,” Helmut replied dryly. “That’s what we all saw.”
Max was silent. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, knuckles whitening. He looked tired. But not in the physical sense. It was something deeper. Worn thin. Christian took a slow sip of his coffee. He’d been around long enough to know when a driver was chasing ghosts, and when those ghosts had someone else’s voice. It had started weeks ago. Subtle at first. Max leaving meetings without saying goodbye. Shorter fuse. That hurt look in the eyes that only showed when he forgot to guard it. Christian had seen it before, in other drivers. Sometimes it came from pressure.
Sometimes it came from home.
He didn’t know where Lewis fit in that equation.
Except, he did.
Everyone in the paddock had an opinion about Lewis and Max. Some rolled their eyes. Some pretended it wasn’t happening. Christian didn’t care either way. As long as Max showed up and did his best, the rest was noise.
But now?
Now the noise was bleeding into everything.
“You’re not a robot,” Christian said, setting down his cup. “You’re allowed off weekends. Even back-to-back ones.”
Max didn’t answer. He was staring past him now, toward the windows where the grey light pressed against the glass.
“Are you sleeping at all?” Jos asked, not accusing, just tired.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” Helmut muttered.
Max bristled. “I don’t need you all to fix me. I just need to be better.”
“No one’s asking you to be better, you are good enough,” Christian said. “Just stop beating yourself up.”
Max turned his head slightly. His jaw twitched. Christian saw it, barely a flicker, but it was there. Someone had told him it was his fault.
Someone who mattered.
He didn’t press. Not now. Not with Jos here. Not with Helmut watching like a hawk, already calculating strategy for Sunday. But he filed it away. Because this wasn’t a balance issue. Not entirely. Max was carrying something far heavier than tyre degradation.
And whatever it was, it was following him into the cockpit.
Monaco evenings always felt a little too perfect. Something about the sea air filtered through manicured streets and designer silence made everything seem under control. The kind of place where nothing messy was allowed to happen. Lewis’s apartment fit that mould. High glass walls, minimalist décor, quiet jazz humming beneath the clinking of wine glasses and low laughter. Charles had been here before, after Canada last year, and again during the summer break. It was the kind of place you visited once and remembered in soft focus.
George was laughing at something Lando had said, some ridiculous impression of Carlos yelling over the radio. Charles smiled, not because the joke was good, but because the moment was easy. Lewis stood barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to the elbows, sleeves of his black linen shirt catching the amber lighting as he plated something for dessert. It was a relaxed image. Homey. Disarming.
“He really went all out,” Lando whispered, leaning toward Charles. “Look at these knives. I feel like I should sign an NDA before slicing into the tart.”
Charles chuckled. “Be grateful. If you came to my place, you’d get cold pizza and sparkling water.”
George raised a brow. “Fancy water?”
“From the tap.”
They laughed. Even Lewis. It was real, unforced, and warm. Lewis moved through the space with quiet grace, plating food like a host who did this often, who liked having people around. He smiled easily. Maybe too easily. But Charles chalked it up to habit.
Until Lewis turned to reach for a bowl on the top shelf.
The hem of his shirt lifted, and for a moment, just a moment, Charles saw it. A bruise. Dark. Ugly. Smeared across the lower right side of Lewis’s ribs. The kind of bruise you didn’t get from training or turning too sharply. The kind of bruise someone gave you.
There was a pause. Lando had seen it too. Charles could tell by the way his posture shifted slightly forward, wine glass lowering. George noticed as well, his eyes caught on Lewis’s side and didn’t move for a full second. Lewis turned around, smile still intact. “Found the chocolate,” he announced cheerfully.
No one said anything right away.
Then Charles spoke, carefully. “Lewis… that mark on your ribs. Are you alright?”
Lewis blinked at him, then looked down like he was surprised to be reminded of his own body. “Oh. That? That’s from training. Took a bad hit sparring. Got too close to the pads.”
Lando frowned. “You spar with someone who hates you?”
“I bruise easy,” Lewis said. “Always have.”
Lando opened his mouth, then shut it again. Charles didn’t say anything either. Just watched the way Lewis’s fingers curled around the edge of the counter. The way his smile didn’t quite touch his eyes. Before he could react, Lewis was already back at the counter, breaking the chocolate bar into neat little pieces like nothing had happened. Like they were all imagining things.
A few beats later, the doorbell rang, stripping Charles of any chance to ask further questions. Lewis’s shoulders straightened subtly, but not with surprise. Almost like he’d been waiting for it. He answered the door, and Max stepped in, fresh-faced, clean-shirted, and carrying a small bouquet of orchids. He kissed Lewis on the cheek, and Lewis turned into it like he hadn’t been breathing until just now. “Sorry, I’m late. Traffic was a nightmare.”
“You’re perfect,” Lewis murmured, stepping into his space like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And just like that, the bruise vanished. Not physically. But emotionally. From the air. From the conversation. Like it had never happened.
The table reset itself. Wine poured.
But something was different now. Tighter. Like a rope pulled one thread too far. Max sat beside Lewis, close. Closer than necessary. Their hands brushed beneath the table, fingers linked, released, linked again. The affection was constant. Too constant.
The food was excellent. The conversation tried to recover. Max was charming, funny, even self-deprecating. He told stories from the factory, teased Lando about his TikTok followers, and congratulated George on his new Mercedes contract. But eventually, inevitably, the conversation turned to the race.
“Congratulations, by the way,” George said to Max at one point. “Hell of a drive, P1 in that car... spectacular.”
Max waved it off. “Not really. The car did the work. I was just along for the ride.”
Lando laughed. “You overtook me on the outside at Turn 12 with a slower car. You make that sound like a taxi ride.”
Max shrugged. “You defended soft. If you’d gone wider, I’d be second.”
“I mean, thanks,” Lando said wryly. “But I think that was all you.”
Max glanced at Lewis. It was subtle. Just a flick of the eyes. Like seeking permission before speaking. Lewis didn’t say anything. But he smiled. Tilted his head slightly. And Max went on. “People always overrate driver skill. The RB21 is just not as bad as people think. I’m not doing anything special.”
George shifted uncomfortably. “Mate, you began to say that every time you achieve something.”
“Because it’s true.”
Charles glanced at Lewis. He was still smiling, but not the same way he had earlier. This smile was closed. Satisfied. Like someone hearing something they’d told someone else, repeated back to them. Max reached for his glass. “Four championships and I still don’t feel like I earned any of them.”
Lando scoffed. “That’s insane.”
“Is it?” Max asked. “Lewis had to fight through three teams, his teammate and half the paddock to win his titles. I just had the best machinery.”
Lewis touched Max’s arm. Soft. Intimate. “You don’t need to justify anything,” he murmured. “You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”
Max looked down at his glass.
Charles didn’t speak. He didn’t move. But his stomach tightened. Something was wrong. Max’s words didn’t sound like his own. Not entirely. They sounded given to him. Like something repeated. Internalised. And Lewis… Lewis wasn’t correcting him. He wasn’t lifting Max up. He was confirming it. Quietly. Smoothly. Like he’d said it before. Maybe more than once.
The rest of the dinner blurred. The dessert was exquisite. The wine warm. The playlist perfect. But Charles kept looking at Max’s posture, tight shoulders, and constant glances toward Lewis. And Lewis’s calm, fixed gaze, always returning to Max like he was something to be monitored, managed.
And when they left, coatless, the Mediterranean night warm around them, none of them spoke for a long time. It was George who broke the silence. “That wasn’t normal.”
“No,” Charles said.
“No,” Lando echoed. “That was fucked.”
Charles looked back at the building. At the glowing windows that made it look like any other elegant Monaco flat. But it wasn’t. It was something else entirely. And whatever was happening inside, between the perfect smiles and the practised touches, was getting harder to ignore. He was still replaying the dinner in his mind. The bruise. The tone. The way Lewis had controlled the conversation without ever raising his voice.
Max had walked into that flat looking whole.
He’d left it looking smaller.
Silverstone in July always smelled like grass, tarmac, and something heavier, expectation, maybe. Daniel had walked this track more times than he could count. In the early years, he’d run it. Lately, he preferred to stroll. Ankles didn’t bounce back like they used to. Beside him, Max walked silently, arms tucked into the sleeves of a Red Bull hoodie two sizes too big. His steps were light. Not casual, just… light.
Like, there wasn’t much holding him down anymore.
Daniel adjusted his cap and glanced sideways. “You’re awfully quiet. Saving all your good lines for the press?”
Max didn’t smile. It was the Thursday track walk. Just the two of them, in the lull before the engineers showed up, before PR dragged them off for interviews about tyre strategy and DRS zones. Max had asked if Daniel wanted to walk. Daniel had said yes before thinking. It used to be a no-brainer. Now it felt like walking next to a ghost. “Listen,” Daniel tried again, nudging him gently with his elbow. “Austria was a shitshow. But getting mid-ended by a rookie isn’t exactly something you can control.”
Max’s jaw twitched. “He misjudged the chicane.”
“He’s eighteen. I still couldn’t fold a fitted sheet at eighteen. Give the kid a break.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” Daniel said carefully. “DNFing because of someone else’s mistake isn’t the same as screwing up.”
“I should’ve started ahead of him.”
Daniel stopped. Just for a moment. Max didn’t notice; he kept walking, eyes on the horizon like he was chasing something that wouldn’t stop moving. When Daniel caught up, he tried a different approach. “You’ve still got four championships. You’ve won two races. And the pace isn’t even there. One DNF doesn’t mean anything.”
Max turned toward him then. Really looked at him. His face was thinner than it had been even two weeks ago. The lines sharper, the cheeks hollower. His skin had that flat, pale tone people got when they were only running on caffeine and willpower. “I’m not fit enough,” Max said.
Daniel blinked. “Sorry?”
“I’ve been sluggish. Too slow on corner entry. The rear instability’s getting to me because my reactions are off. I’m not strong enough to correct it.”
Daniel frowned. “Mate, you’ve been on the sim for three days straight. You know what the data says, your inputs are fine.”
Max’s mouth twisted. “I haven’t eaten anything solid in four days.”
The words landed like dropped metal. Daniel stared at him. “What?”
Max looked away. Shrugged like it was nothing. “Liquids only. Protein shakes. Some ginger tea. It’s easier that way. Less weight.”
Daniel’s chest tightened. “That’s not healthy. That’s not sustainable.” Max didn’t answer. He just kept walking. Daniel stayed beside him, suddenly hyper-aware of how loose the hoodie looked on his frame. How sharp his wrists looked where the sleeves had ridden up. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter. “Does Lewis know?”
Max hesitated. Just for a second. Then said, “Yeah.”
No more detail. Daniel’s stomach sank. It wasn’t what Max said, it was how he said it. Like the fact that Lewis knew made it okay. Like that was reassurance. And suddenly, Daniel’s brain started pulling up memories he’d brushed off the first time.
How Max hadn’t touched his lunch in the hospitality tent back in Canada. How Lewis had made a quiet joke about “discipline” when Max skipped breakfast. How Max had been on the cooldown lap in Miami, saying over the radio that he felt “off,” and how earlier Lewis’s hand had been on his shoulder, saying, “You know what that means. You’re slipping.”
Back then, Daniel had smiled. Teasing, affectionate. A couple dynamic he didn’t understand but had accepted because, well, Max looked happy. Except now, he didn’t. He looked exhausted. Empty. And worse, like he thought he deserved it. Daniel swallowed hard. “Mate… can I ask something, and you don’t have to answer, but-”
“I’m fine,” Max said flatly.
“Max-”
“I said I’m fine.”
The edge was back. Defensive. Familiar. Daniel had seen that exact tone in people who were trying not to break. Max kept walking, eyes on the asphalt, steps too light for someone carrying so much. Daniel followed.
He didn’t know what to say. Not yet. But something was very, very wrong.
The rain came down in sheets after FP2, slamming against the Silverstone paddock like it had a grudge. Sebastian laughed as they ran, boots slapping through puddles, soaked almost instantly. Lewis’s hoodie clung to his arms, plastered with water. His hair was already dripping. They reached the entrance of Ferrari hospitality, Lewis’s new home, and tumbled in with a rush of air and dampness. “Jesus,” Lewis muttered, shaking his head like a soaked dog.
“You didn’t check the radar, did you?” Seb said, grinning.
“I am the radar.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes and grabbed a towel from the back of a catering cart. Lewis reached for a red one, Ferrari red, still folded neatly by the espresso machine. He rubbed at his neck, shoulders, and the side of his face. “God, Maranello weather never felt this dramatic,” Lewis muttered.
“It will,” Sebastian said as they sat down in a quiet lounge corner. “You haven’t done August in Fiorano yet. It’s like training in soup.” Lewis chuckled, draping the towel around his shoulders. Seb leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “How are you handling it so far? Ferrari, I mean. The politics, the media, the constant opera.”
Lewis looked up, and for a moment, the expression was warm. “I don’t mind it.”
“You will,” Sebastian said, half-joking. “Just pace yourself. They love you now, but the press turns fast. You have to remember who you are, before they start deciding it for you.”
Lewis opened his mouth to reply, but paused, frowning slightly. He lifted the towel again and wiped at the side of his neck. That’s when Seb saw it.
Just for a second.
The edge of the towel caught on the collarbone, smudged a line of foundation, and beneath it, a mark. A bruise. Thin. Circular. Muted purple. It wrapped just under Lewis’s jawline like a shadow of something that had no business being there.
Sebastian froze.
Lewis didn’t notice. He kept wiping until the smudge spread, revealing the full ring, like someone had wrapped fingers around his neck and squeezed.
Seb’s voice came out before he could catch it. “Lewis…” Lewis stopped moving. Seb gestured toward his neck. “What is that?”
Lewis blinked. His hand went up instinctively. Then his eyes darted away. “Oh. That’s from training. Resistance bands.”
“Lewis.”
Lewis hesitated. “I had a weight bar slip during core work.”
“Lewis.”
A beat passed. Two. Then Lewis let the towel drop. His hands fell into his lap. He didn’t look up when he said, “It was Max.”
Sebastian stared at him.
“After Austria… he was stressed. He kept saying he was okay.” Lewis continued, voice low. “But he wasn’t. He thought he let me down. I could see… he needed something to feel like he was back in control.”
Seb felt the world tilt slightly under his feet. “He... choked you?” he said slowly.
Lewis looked at him then. Calm. Controlled. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Lewis-”
“I angered him, then, I let him. He needed it.”
“No,” Sebastian said, louder than he meant to. “That’s not-” Lewis’s jaw tensed. Sebastian leaned forward. “That’s not love or helping, Lewis. That’s not pressure. That’s violence.” Lewis exhaled through his nose and reached for his bag. “Please don’t brush... this off,” Sebastian said. He didn’t know what to say. “Talk to someone. Talk to me. I’ll help. We’ll fix this.”
Lewis didn’t answer. He shrugged as if saying there is nothing to fix. He unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a soft black pouch. Seb expected a charger. Headphones. Instead, inside, there was makeup. A half-dozen Fenty foundation tubes. All different tones, all half-used. Brushes, sponge blenders, concealer sticks. A routine in a bag. Lewis stood, walked to the bathroom without a word.
When he returned, less than two minutes later, the bruise was gone. His jawline was flawless. The application was perfect. Not quick. Practiced. Sebastian opened his mouth again, heart in his throat, trying to form the next sentence.
But the door opened.
“Lewis, Sebastian,” a PR assistant called. “We’re ready for the video shoot.”
Lewis stood, smooth and easy, already smiling. “Be right there.”
He turned to Sebastian and said, with impossible softness, “Come on, we need to nostalgia bomb the tifosi.” Then he walked out without waiting for Sebastian.
For a moment, Seb sat there, hands cold, the rain still running down the windows like a warning he hadn’t read fast enough.
The terrace lights glowed warm against the Côte d’Azur dusk. Laughter bounced off the marble railings, champagne glasses clinked, and someone had hired a jazz trio that was slightly too elegant for a party full of people who made their living at 300 km/h. It was the FIA’s summer break celebration. A rare mid-season indulgence. No press. No fans. Just the drivers, team members, and the people who pretended they weren’t all watching each other even now.
Max and Lewis were standing near the edge of the balcony, bathed in golden light. Max wore a black shirt, thin, almost too thin for his frame. His shoulders were narrow beneath the open collar, and his wristwatch looked too heavy for his arm. He was laughing at something Lewis said, eyes soft, body turned in. In love, it seemed. Lewis looked radiant. Smiling, composed. But dressed oddly for August. Long-sleeved linen shirt buttoned at the cuffs. Slim trousers. Even his shoes looked too formal. He didn’t break character for a second.
They looked like a dream.
Or a performance.
They looked incandescent in the light.
Max had Lewis by the waist, fingers curled just beneath his shirt hem, loose and easy like he belonged there. Lewis had leaned back into him without a second thought, head tipped slightly over his shoulder as they watched the sunset burn across the Mediterranean. One of them said something too soft to catch. The other laughed, leaned in, and kissed a cheekbone.
It was the kind of intimacy that made people look away. Not because it was shameful, but because it was intimate. Private. Beautiful.
Charles noticed it first, how Lewis’s hand automatically searched for Max’s when someone came too close. How Max’s thumb circled over Lewis’s knuckle like a grounding habit. They didn’t perform affection; it was in the way they orbited each other like gravity.
“They’re perfect together,” George muttered beside him, the words automatic. But Charles didn’t answer. Not right away.
Near the garden, Christian Horner watched Max whisper something into Lewis’s ear. Lewis smiled, not his press smile, not the one for cameras. This one was small and cracked open with joy. And Max, Max looked happy.
He looked… happy.
Or at least he looked like someone trying so hard to appear happy that it almost passed as the real thing.
Everyone noticed.
Even Toto. He watched from the corner of the garden, a glass of still water in his hand. Susie leaned against the wall beside him, silent. “She used to do the same,” she said softly.
“Who?”
“A girl I trained with in karting,” Susie replied. “Wore long sleeves all summer. Said it was for sun protection. Said the bruises were from hockey. She didn’t even play hockey.”
Toto looked toward Lewis, then toward Max. “We saw the marks weeks ago,” he said. “It should have been long faded by now.”
Susie paused “Maybe we are reaching. They look… happy,” she murmured beside him, glass of champagne balanced delicately in her hand.
Toto watched as Lewis laughed quietly, his hand ghosting over Max’s hip before falling back to his side.
“Happy?” he repeated, like he couldn’t make sense of the word. Susie’s eyes narrowed. “Max…he’s thinner than I’ve ever seen him,” Toto added. “His face is all cheekbones. And Lewis… he’s moving like he’s being careful not to stretch something.”
Susie said nothing. Toto nodded to himself, feeling helpless.
They kept watching.
----
Near the drinks table, Daniel Ricciardo sipped his Negroni in silence, Christian Horner standing beside him with a whisky he hadn’t touched. They had been trying to avoid the elephant in the room for the past twenty minutes. But Daniel couldn’t tiptoe around it anymore. He needed to talk with someone and confirm he was not seeing things that were not real. “Have you seen how thin he is?” he muttered.
“Who?”
Daniel gave Christian a look. “I chatted with Max at the trackwalk in Silverstone,” he said, voice too casual. “Said he hadn’t eaten anything solid in four days.”
Horner’s brow furrowed. “What? Why?.. Because of Austria?”
“Because he said he wasn’t fit enough. Like he was punishing himself.”
Christian exhaled slowly. “I told him it wasn’t his fault. I said Kimi’s move was reckless.”
Daniel gave him a look. “He said Lewis agreed with him.”
Christian blinked. “Lewis?”
Daniel’s jaw clenched. “He didn't explicitly say it… But I don’t know, mate.”
Christian nodded as if saying, ‘I know what you mean.’ “I tried to talk to him about this weight issue,” he said. “After Austria. He said it was nutrition timing. Said Lewis was helping him with discipline.” Christian’s voice darkened. “He listens to him too much.”
Daniel let out a quiet breath. “That’s not discipline… that’s… Can you like… talk to Max? If it comes from you maybe-”
“Max doesn’t listen to me anymore,” Horner cut the younger man off. “Not me, Jos, not even Helmut.”
Daniel’s jaw clenched. “Yeah.”
They both turned back to the couple. Lewis had just kissed Max’s knuckles like they were made of porcelain. Max smiled like he couldn’t believe his luck.
----
Further down the terrace, Charles leaned against the balustrade. George stood next to him, Lando behind them, watching the same scene unfold.
“They look like a bloody romance movie,” George said under his breath.
Charles didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed.
“You’re thinking about Monaco dinner,” Lando said to him.
Charles gave a quiet nod.
“That bruise,” George added. “Do you think it was from… like Max,” he trailed off, not finding the courage to conclude the sentence.
They fell silent.
Max was smiling now, brushing a piece of lint off Lewis’s shoulder with exaggerated tenderness.
“It’s like watching people drown while they hold hands,” Charles said quietly.
George exhaled.
Lando shoved his hands in his pockets. “We can’t prove anything.”
Charles’s voice cut through, quiet and sharp. “Do we need proof to care?”
They both watched as Max accepted a glass of champagne, lifted it to his lips, and didn’t drink it.
----
Back on the balcony, Lewis leaned in and said something into Max’s ear. Max laughed. But it was the kind of laugh that pushed too hard, like it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
They kissed. Again. They hadn’t stopped all night. From a distance, they were perfect. From closer, they were untouchable.
Around them, champagne flowed, flashbulbs popped, and music drifted on the warm night air.
And behind every smile cast in golden light were people who had seen too much. And still said nothing.
Because Max and Lewis looked like soulmates.
Because soulmates don’t hurt each other.
Right?
And yet,
Max’s collarbone jutted against the fabric of his shirt.
Lewis wore sleeves buttoned to the wrist and trousers in thirty-five-degree heat.
Neither touched a single canapé on the silver trays that passed.
And still, they smiled.
Still, they kissed.
Still, no one said anything.
Because people rarely did.