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The first time Max Verstappen met Daniel Ricciardo, he thought he was too much.
Too loud. Too cheerful. Too touchy.
Daniel clapped him on the back after their first press conference together, grinning like they were already best friends. “Mate, we’re gonna tear it up out there. You and me – unstoppable.”
Max had only nodded, stiff under the weight of Daniel’s arm. He wasn’t used to this – the easy affection, the relentless optimism. He was used to cold garages, calculated words, the quiet hum of a simulator late at night.
But Daniel? Daniel was sunlight.
And Max didn’t trust sunlight.
Months passed. Races came and went.
They were not a really bad team. Max was relentless, precise, a storm of raw speed. Daniel was fluid, adaptable, a master of late-braking chaos. Together, they were a nightmare for every other driver on the grid.
But off-track? It was… complicated.
Daniel kept trying. Kept inviting Max out – for drinks, for dinners, for stupid, meaningless adventures.
“Come on, mate,” Daniel would say, leaning against Max’s driver room door. “You can’t just live in a hotel room. Let’s go do something.”
Max would shrug. “I have sim work.”
Daniel’s smile never faltered. “Next time, then.”
There was always a next time.
And Max? Max started noticing things.
The way Daniel’s laugh echoed in the garage. The way he ruffled his own hair after a bad qualifying. The way he always checked on Max after a crash, even if he was pissed at him for some on-track battle.
It was annoying. It was constant. It was… careing.
***
Brazil. Rain. A race that should’ve been theirs.
But Max spun. Daniel had to avoid him. They lost the lead.
The debrief was tense. Max sat with his arms crossed, jaw clenched. Daniel was uncharacteristically quiet.
After, in the empty garage, Daniel finally snapped.
“You can’t keep doing this,” he said, voice low.
Max frowned. “Doing what?”
“This.” Daniel gestured between them. “The whole lone wolf thing. We’re a team, Max. Or at least, we’re supposed to be.”
Max scoffed. “I don’t need a team.”
Daniel’s expression flickered – something raw, something hurt. “Yeah. I’m starting to get that.”
He walked away.
And for the first time, Max felt the weight of silence.
It took weeks for things to thaw.
Daniel stopped pushing. Stopped inviting. Stopped lingering after meetings.
Max told himself it was better this way. (It wasn’t.)
***
Then came Bahrain.
Qualifying was a dream – Max on pole, Daniel right beside him. The perfect setup.
But this time, Max did something different.
Before the race, he found Daniel in the garage.
“We should talk,” Max said.
Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
Max hesitated. Then, quietly: “I want to do this together.”
Daniel studied him. Then, slowly, he smiled.
“Took you long enough.”
The race was flawless. Max led, Daniel protected. They moved like a single machine, fluid and unstoppable. No fighting. No ego. Just trust.
When they crossed the line – 1-2 – Max didn’t even wait for the radio. He was already yelling, laughing, alive in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
Daniel’s voice crackled through the headset. “Told you we were unstoppable.”
Max grinned. “Shut up.”
The podium was chaos. Champagne rained down, golden under the Bahrain sunset. Daniel, ever the showman, grabbed the bottle and sprayed it directly into Max’s face.
Max retaliated by tackling him into a headlock, both of them laughing like idiots.
Later, at the team party, Daniel found him on the balcony.
“You’re not bad at team work, as you want to seem,” he said, leaning against the railing.
Max smirked. “I’m amazing.”
Daniel laughed. Max looked at him – really looked. The way the city lights reflected in his eyes. The way his smile still came so easily, even after everything.
“Yeah,” Max said quietly. “You too.”
And for the first time, he let himself lean in.
***
Max wasn’t used to wanting someone’s approval.
But after Bahrain – after that moment on the balcony, the way Daniel had looked at him – something had shifted.
He started showing up to Daniel’s pre-race playlist sessions. Stopped brushing him off when Daniel slung an arm around his shoulders in the paddock. Even laughed at his stupid jokes, sometimes.
The team noticed.
“You two finally figure it out?” Christian asked one day, watching them bicker over simulator data.
Daniel grinned. “Nah, he’s still a pain in my arse.”
Max rolled his eyes—but he didn’t deny it.
Despite it, on-track, nothing had changed.
They were still ruthless. Still pushed each other to the limit.
Canada. Lap 38. Daniel lunged down the inside of Turn 3, wheels kissing the gravel. Max fought back, their cars dancing on the edge of disaster.
Over the radio, Max growled: "He can’t do that!"
They finished nose-to-tail – Max ahead by half a second.
In the cooldown room, Daniel tossed him a water bottle. “You’re lucky I’m nice.”
Max smirked. “You’re lucky I didn’t run you off.”
Daniel’s laughter filled the room.
Late nights in the motorhome became a habit.
Sometimes they talked strategy. Sometimes they argued about music. Sometimes they just sat in silence, Daniel scrolling through his phone, Max lost in thought.
***
Austria. A masterclass.
Max on pole, Daniel right behind. They carved through the field like twin blades, untouchable.
When Daniel let Max pass – no fight, no resistance – the commentators lost their minds.
"Since when do they do that?!"
But it made sense. Because this time, Max didn’t just take the position. He earned it. And Daniel? Daniel knew he’d get his turn.
They crossed the line 1-2.
On the podium, Daniel grabbed Max’s hand and raised it high. The crowd roared.
Max’s chest burned.
The afterparty was wild.
Daniel, drunk on victory (and tequila), dragged Max onto a table. “Say something nice about me!”
Max, flushed and definitely not drunk, muttered: “You’re… tolerable.”
Daniel gasped, clutching his heart. “Tolerable?!”
Max grinned. “Shut up.”
Later, when the music faded and the team dispersed, Daniel pulled him aside.
“You’re getting soft, Maxy.”
Max met his gaze.
Daniel’s smile was brighter than the fireworks overhead.
***
It started with the small things.
The way Max’s pulse kicked up when Daniel flashed him that stupid grin in the garage. How he caught himself staring at the curve of Daniel’s neck when he leaned over the simulator. The way his stomach twisted when Daniel laughed at someone else’s joke.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Max had never been like this—distracted, restless, soft. He was a driver. A champion. He didn’t have time for… whatever this was.
But then Daniel would sling an arm around his shoulders after a win, breath warm against his ear – "We’re unstoppable, mate. Remember?" – and Max would forget how to breathe.
He tried to ignore it.
Told himself it was just adrenaline, just the high of competition.
But then Daniel showed up at his hotel room in Baku , pizza in hand, hair still damp from the post-race shower. "You’re not sulking alone after that P4, mate. We’re eating carbs and watching terrible movies."
And Max – Max let him in.
They sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the bed, Daniel’s knee pressing into his thigh, his laughter vibrating through Max’s ribs.
This is fine.
(It wasn’t fine.)
***
Max needed answers.
So he tested it.
He lingered in Daniel’s space longer than necessary, just to see if his heart would race.
He let his fingers brush against Daniel’s when passing him a water bottle. Daniel didn’t even notice. Max noticed too much.
He replayed their conversations in his head, dissecting every word, every smirk, every touch.
Max wished this wasn't happening.
But it was.
Germany. Rain. A brutal qualifying session.
Daniel outqualified him.
Max should’ve been pissed. Instead, all he could think about was the way Daniel’s eyes lit up when he saw his name on the board – pure, unfiltered joy.
He locked himself in his driver room, pressing his palms against his eyes.
Get it together. You’re losing your mind.
A knock.
"Max? You alive in there?"
Daniel’s voice. Warm. Concerned.
Max’s chest ached.
***
That night, in the quiet of his hotel room, Max finally admitted it.
He liked Daniel.
Not as a teammate. Not as a friend. Like... more.
The realization hit him like a wrecking ball.
What do I do now?
Things got… complicated.
Max started noticing everything. The way Daniel bit his lip when he was concentrating. The way his shirt clung to his shoulders after a workout. The way he’d glance at Max sometimes, like he was trying to figure him out too.
Hungary. Post-race debrief. Daniel leaned over Max’s shoulder to point at something on the data screen, his breath hot against Max’s ear.
"See? Right there. That’s where you fucked up."
Max’s skin burned.
He was screwed.
***
Daniel cornered him after the party.
"You’ve been weird lately."
Max stiffened. "I’m fine."
Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Bullshit."
They were too close. Max could smell his cologne, could see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
For one reckless second, he thought about closing the gap.
"Max?"
Daniel’s voice was soft. Uncertain.
Max panicked.
"I gotta go."
He walked away.
Daniel let him.
***
After a few months of suffering Max couldn’t take it anymore.
The way his pulse spiked every time Daniel smiled at him. The way his skin burned under the weight of Daniel’s arm around his shoulders. The way he ached like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall.
He cornered Daniel after the Italia Grand Prix, in the dimly lit garage long after everyone else had left.
"We need to talk."
Daniel turned, wiping his hands on a towel, that easy grin already forming. "Yeah? What’s up, mate?"
Max’s throat tightened. "I—"
He stopped.
Daniel’s smile faded. "Max?"
"I like you."The words tumbled out, raw and unpolished. "Not just as a teammate. Not just as a friend. More than that."
Silence.
Daniel sighed.
"Max…" Daniel ran a hand through his hair. "You’re young. You might just be..."
"Don’t." Max’s voice was sharp. "Don’t say it’s a phase. Don’t say I don’t know what I feel."
Daniel’s expression softened, but it only made Max angrier.
"It’s not that," Daniel said carefully. "But you’re... what, twenty? Twenty-one? And I’m… not. You might just be mistaking my personality for something else. I don’t want you to regret this later."
Max clenched his fists. "You think I don’t know my own mind?"
Daniel exhaled. "That’s not what I’m saying."
"Then what are you saying?" Max’s voice cracked. "That I’m too young to know what I want? That you don’t trust me?"
Daniel looked pained. "I’m saying… if you still feel this way later, when you’re older—when you’re sure – then we can talk about it again. But right now? I don’t want to be a mistake for you."
Max’s chest burned. "You’re not a mistake."
Daniel smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Prove it."
***
Max didn’t sleep that night.
He replayed the conversation over and over, anger and humiliation twisting in his gut. He was tired of people underestimating him – tired of being treated like a kid who didn’t understand his own emotions.
It always ended like this. You're too young to be a racer. You're too young to make your own decisions. You're too young to have feelings for someone.
But beneath the anger, there was something worse: fear.
What if Daniel was right?
What if this was just some stupid crush?
What if—
His phone buzzed.
A message from Daniel.
Daniel: For the record… it’s not that I don’t feel the same. It’s that I don’t trust myself not to fuck this up for you.
Max stared at the screen. His heart pounded.
Then, slowly, he typed back:
Max: I don’t need you to protect me. I need you to trust me.
Daniel’s reply took a long time.
Daniel: Then give me time too.
***
Things were… different after that.
Not worse. Not better. Just different.
Daniel stopped touching him so casually. Max stopped lingering in his space.
But sometimes...
Sometimes, when they were alone in the garage, Daniel would look at him, really look at him, and Max would see it: the same heat, the same want, the same war.
And then Daniel would look away.
And Max would let him.
Singapore. A storm. A race won in chaos.
They stood under the awning of the Red Bull hospitality, rain pounding around them.
Daniel turned to him, sparkling dripping from his hair. "You were brilliant today."
Max swallowed. "So were you."
A beat. Then Daniel reached out, fingers brushing Max’s wrist. Just for a second. Just enough to make Max’s breath catch.
"When you’re ready," Daniel whispered, "when you’re sure… I’ll be here."
Max met his gaze. "I’m already sure."
Daniel smiled, slow and devastating. "Then I guess we’ll see."
And for the first time, Max let himself hope.
***
The news hit Max like a DNF in the final lap.
One moment, he was sitting in the Red Bull motorhome, scrolling through telemetry data, the next – Christian was standing in front of the team, voice steady but tight.
"Daniel has decided to pursue a new opportunity. He’ll be leaving us at the end of the season."
Max’s head snapped up.
What?
Christian sighed. "Renault. He just signed. It’s done."
The world tilted. Max’s hands clenched.
Daniel, who had known this was coming. Daniel, who had sat across from him just last week and joked about their plans for next year’s car.
Liar.
Max cornered him in the garage after the meeting on the next day.
"You didn’t tell me." Max’s voice was ice.
Daniel didn’t look up. "I was going to."
"When? After you were already gone?"
Daniel finally turned, jaw tight. "It wasn’t an easy decision, Max."
"Bullshit." Max stepped closer, anger boiling under his skin. "You knew I thought you were staying. You knew I—" He cut himself off, throat burning.
Daniel’s expression flickered—something like guilt, something like pain. "This isn’t about you."
"Then what *is* it about?" Max snapped. "Money? A better car? Or were you just looking for an excuse to run?"
Daniel flinched. "It’s not like that."
"Then explain it to me," Max demanded. "Because right now? It feels like you lied."
Silence.
Then—
Daniel exhaled sharply. "It wasn’t that simple, Max."
They stood in the empty garage, the air between them thick with everything unsaid.
Daniel ran a hand through his hair. "I couldn’t stay, Max. Not like this. Not when every time I looked at you, I—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "It was getting too hard."
Max’s chest ached. "So you’re leaving because of me?"
"No," Daniel said quietly. "Not because of you. Maybe because of the team's attitude towards me, because of the frequent DNFs, because of... because of me."
***
The rest of the season was agony.
They still had to work together. Still had to race together. But now, every interaction was laced with tension, every glance loaded with things unsaid.
The media noticed.
"Trouble in paradise?" a reporter asked after a particularly frosty press conference.
Daniel forced a laugh. "Nah, mate. Just focused on finishing strong."
Max didn’t even bother pretending. He walked out.
Abu Dhabi. The final race of the season.
They finished P4 and P6 – Max ahead.
Later in paddock, Daniel clapped him on the back like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t shattered everything between them.
Max didn’t react.
***
Months later – in the next season – Max stood on the podium in Monaco – alone this time.
The crowd roared. The champagne sprayed.
And for one fleeting, foolish second, he looked to his left, half-expecting to see a grinning, wild-haired Australian raising a bottle in celebration beside him.
But the space was empty.
Max turned away.
**2025 Season – Pre-season Testing, Bahrain**
The news broke like a shockwave through the paddock: Daniel Ricciardo returns to Red Bull.
Max read the announcement on his phone, fingers tightening around the device. He’d known it was coming – Christian had warned him weeks ago – but seeing it in black and white made his stomach twist.
Six years.
Six years since Daniel left.
Six years since they last spoke as teammates.
The first time they saw each other in the Red Bull garage, the air was thick with tension.
Daniel flashed him that same old grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Hey, mate. Missed me?"
Max clenched his jaw. "Like a headache."
Daniel laughed, but it sounded forced.
The engineers exchanged glances.
This was going to be rough.
But still – they were professionals.
They worked together. They shared data. They followed team orders.
But the easy camaraderie was gone.
No more stupid jokes in debriefs. No more shared celebrations after wins. No more lingering in each other’s space like they used to.
Just… distance.
And Max hated it.
***
Australia. Qualifying.
Max took pole. Daniel, still shaking off the rust of his time away, qualified P5.
The media pounced.
"Daniel, do you think you can still compete with Max?"
Daniel’s smile was tight. "I didn’t come back to be second best."
Max, standing beside him, stiffened.
Monaco. Race Day.
Rain. Chaos. A crash that took out half the field.
Daniel and Max survived, carving through the carnage to finish 1-2.
On the podium, soaked in champagne, Daniel turned to Max – really looked at him for the first time in years.
"We’re still a hell of a team, you know."
Max met his gaze. "Yeah. We are."
Something unspoken passed between them.
That night, they found themselves drunk on Daniel’s hotel balcony, the lights of Monaco glittering below.
Daniel swirled his drink. "I should’ve talked to you. Before I left."
Max stared at the skyline. "Why didn’t you?"
"Because I knew you’d try to change my mind." Daniel sighed. "And I was scared you’d succeed."
Max turned to him. "And now?"
Daniel’s smile was small, tentative. "Now I’m back. If you’ll have me."
Max held his gaze. Then, slowly, he reached out, fingers brushing Daniel’s.
"Took you long enough."
***
Spain . Paddock at 1:47 AM
The paddock was quiet, the usual chaos of race weekend muted under the dim glow of string lights. Empty chairs, scattered equipment, the distant hum of generators – everything felt hollow, like the aftermath of a storm.
Max sat on the steps of the Red Bull hospitality, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from his fingers. Daniel slumped beside him, his own drink nearly finished, his shoulders sagging under the weight of something unseen.
They hadn’t spoken much since Monaco. The tension had softened, but the past still sat between them like an uninvited guest.
Max finally broke the silence.
"Why did you really leave?"
Daniel exhaled, long and slow, like he’d been waiting for this question. Like he’d been dreading it.
"You want the honest answer?"
Max turned to look at him. "Yeah. I do."
Daniel took a swig of beer, his eyes fixed on the distant garage lights.
"I left because I was drowning. You were... you are – a force of nature, Max. You wake up hungry. You go to bed hungrier. Every lap, every corner, it’s like you’re carving your name into the track just by existing." Daniel’s voice was quiet, rough. "And being around that? It doesn’t make you rise to it. Not always. Sometimes it just… drains you. Makes you realize how fucking sucks you are."
Max stared at him.
Daniel laughed, but it was hollow. "Everyone kept saying how great it was that I still looked young, still smiled like I didn’t have a care in the world. But my eyes gave me away. Always did." He tapped his temple. "Too many years of pretending I wasn’t burning out."
Max’s chest tightened. "You never said anything."
"Would you have listened?" Daniel met his gaze, and for the first time, Max saw the raw honesty there. "You were you. And I was just… trying to keep up."
Daniel’s fingers tightened around his bottle. "And then there was... your feelings. The way you looked at me. The way I wanted to look back." He shook his head. "It was too much. I couldn’t..."His voice cracked. "I couldn’t be what you needed. Not when I didn’t even know what I needed."
Max’s breath caught. "So you left."
"So I left."
The words hung between them, heavy and final.
Daniel’s voice dropped to a whisper. "I regret it, you know. Walking away. Not just from Red Bull. From us."
Max’s throat burned. "Then why didn’t you come back sooner?"
"Because I had to figure out if I was running to something or just running away." Daniel finally turned to him, his eyes glistening under the dim light. "And now? Now I know."
Max couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
"Know what?"
Daniel’s smile was small, broken. "That I should’ve stayed."
They sat there, the weight of years pressing down on them.
Max didn’t know what to say.
Sorry wasn’t enough.
I missed you wasn’t enough.
I still love you...
That one, he couldn’t say at all.
Daniel stood, brushing off his jeans. "I should go."
Max watched him, heart pounding. "Daniel."
Daniel paused.
Max swallowed. "What happens now?"
Daniel didn’t turn around.
"That’s up to you."
Max didn’t let him walk away.
He caught up to Daniel, the night air thick with the scent of gasoline and distant city noise. His hand shot out, gripping Daniel’s wrist before he could disappear.
"Wait."
Daniel turned, eyes guarded but curious.
Max’s pulse hammered. "You didn’t let me answer."
Daniel exhaled sharply, shoulders tense. "Then answer."
Max’s voice was rough. "You want to know if I still have feelings for you?"
Daniel didn’t flinch. "Yeah. I do..."
"Of course I fucking have." Max’s grip tightened, like if he let go, Daniel would vanish again. "You think six years just erased that? You think I don’t still..." He cut himself off, jaw clenched.
Daniel’s breath hitched. "Still what?"
Max swallowed. "Look at you and feel like I’m twenty again."
A beat of silence. Then Daniel’s voice, softer.
"I’m not who I was back then, Max."
"I know," Max said. "Neither am I."
Daniel studied him. "Then what do you want? Because I’m not the happy-go-lucky guy who could laugh off anything anymore. I’m tired, Max. I’ve got scars. I’ve got more regrets, than podiums."
Max’s throat tightened. "You think I don’t?"
Daniel frowned. "You? Mr. Perfect? The guy who’s * literally breaking records every weekend?"
Max let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, that’s what you see. The stats. The wins. You don’t see the nights I lay awake wondering if I’m just a machine they built to drive a car. If anyone actually sees me or just the fucking trophies." Max looked away. "You think I don’t have shit I’m scared of? That I don’t lie awake wondering if I’m just… too much? Too intense, too competitive, too angry all the time?"* His voice dropped.
Max looked away. "You were the only one who ever looked at me like I was just… me."
Daniel’s voice was barely a whisper. "Maxy..."
"I spent years thinking if I just won enough, just proved enough, it would fix everything. But it didn’t." Max met his gaze. "Nothing did."
"I'm the last one to care about wins or trophies. I don’t care if you’re not the same." Max said, forcing himself to meet Daniel’s gaze. "I’m not either. But if you’re asking if I can love someone like you? You? Then yeah. I can. I do."
"You’re not too much, Maxy." he murmured. "You’re everything."
Max’s chest ached. "Daniel..."
"And I’m sorry. For leaving. For making you think it was your fault." Daniel’s hand hovered near Max’s face, hesitant. "But if you’ll let me… I’d like to try again."
Max leaned into his touch. "Yeah?"
Daniel smiled, soft and real. "Yeah."
Daniel closed the gap between them.
His hands found Max’s face, fingers trembling against his jaw. "I spent six years pretending I didn’t miss you."
Max leaned into the touch. "Liar."
Daniel’s laugh was wet, raw. "Yeah. I was."
And then – finally – Daniel kissed him.
The first kiss tasted like beer and regret and finally. It wasn’t like Max had imagined. It was better.
Because this time, neither of them was running.
Daniel’s lips were chapped from the Barcelona night air, his hands rough against Max’s jaw. The kiss wasn’t gentle – it was desperate, like they were trying to rewrite six years of distance in a single moment. Max could taste the bitterness of beer, that they used to drink, and something sharper – maybe hope.
Daniel pulled back first, his breath uneven. "We shouldn’t..."
"Don’t," Max growled, fingers twisting in the fabric of Daniel’s shirt. "Don’t fucking say we shouldn’t."
Daniel’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. "The team..."
"Doesn’t get a say in this."
A beat. Then Daniel’s mouth crashed into his again. Daniel’s hands tangled in Max’s shirt, pulling him closer. Max sighed into him, relief and want crashing together.
When they pulled apart, Daniel rested his forehead against Max’s.
"We’re gonna be terrible at this, aren’t we?"
Max huffed a laugh. "Probably."
Daniel grinned. "Good."
And for the first time in years, Max believed it would be.
***
Daniel’s hotel was closer. The elevator ride up was torture; Max crowded Daniel against the mirrored wall, biting at his lower lip while Daniel’s hands slipped under his shirt, calloused fingers mapping the ridges of his spine.
"Fuck, Max," Daniel gasped as the doors pinged open.
Max didn’t let him finish.
Clothes hit the floor in a haphazard trail from the doorway to the bedroom. Daniel’s laugh was breathless as Max shoved him onto the bed, knees bracketing his hips.
"Someone’s impatient," Daniel teased, but the effect was ruined by the way his voice cracked when Max palmed him through his jeans.
"You left me waiting for six years," Max muttered, nipping at the junction of Daniel’s neck and shoulder. "You don’t get to call me impatient."
Daniel’s retort dissolved into a moan.
Barcelona had long since fallen asleep outside, leaving them in the golden glow of a nightlight that cast warm shadows on the walls. Daniel ran his fingers over Max's ribs, feeling every breath, every heartbeat under his skin. His fingers slid slowly, as if memorizing every bump, every curve.
"You're shaking," he whispered, his lips barely touching Max's ear.
Max grinned, but the sound was nervous, almost uncertain. His hands, which were usually so confident on the steering wheel, were now trembling slightly as they slid down Daniel's back.
"Just... It's been a long time since anyone touched me like that. "
Daniel bent down, pressing his lips to his collarbone, feeling the salty taste of skin under his tongue.
"How's that?"
"Taking your time. No rush."
Daniel explored him slowly, as if he were rediscovering him, as if he was afraid of missing something important.
There was a scar on his elbow from a long-ago karting accident, a thin white line that could only be felt with the tips of his fingers. His thigh tensed under his palm as Daniel ran his tongue over the mark left by the seatbelt, a pinkish line from a rough race in Sochi.
Max bit his lip as Daniel's fingers slid lower, tracing the contours of his pelvis.
Daniel smiled into his skin, placing a kiss on the most sensitive spot at the base of his neck. As Max slid just the head of his own cock inside, they both froze for a moment, forehead to forehead, hands intertwined, their breaths mingling in a single rhythm.
"Good?" Max breathed out, his voice breaking halfway through.
In response, Daniel pulled Max closer, feeling their bodies merge into one.
The movements were slow, deep. Daniel's hoarse moan as Max bit into his shoulder, leaving a barely noticeable mark that made Max's insides clench in a sweet spasm.
Every movement was filled with meaning, every touch saying more than words could.
***
After –when they were both sweaty and spent, limbs tangled in Daniel’s too-expensive sheets – Daniel traced the love bite on Max’s collarbone with something like awe.
"Gonna be a bitch to hide," he murmured.
Max shrugged. "Let them see."
Daniel’s fingers stilled. "You serious?"
Max turned his head, meeting Daniel’s gaze. "You think I’m ashamed?"
Daniel’s smile was slow, devastating. "No. But I think Christian might have a stroke."
***
Sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting stripes across Daniel’s bare chest. Max watched him sleep – the way his eyelashes fluttered, the quiet snuffling noise he made when he shifted.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Christian: Where the hell are you? Debrief in 30.
Daniel groaned, cracking one eye open. "Time’s it?"
"Time for you to explain why your hickey matches mine," Max said, grinning when Daniel bolted upright.
"You motherf—"
Max kissed him silent.