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Chapter Text

The studio smelled of sweat, polished wood, and the faint metallic tang of the barre. Mirrors lined the walls, reflecting light in fractured shards that caught every flick of motion. Music blared, a drum-heavy rhythm that thumped against ribs, bounced off ceilings, and pulled bodies into motion.

Charles moved through it like a shadow threaded with light. Every step precise, every flick of his wrist deliberate. His troupe didn't just follow him. They orbited him, a chaotic solar system of limbs, laughter, and momentum. Lando and Ollie were mid-spin, laughing when Ollie almost collided with the wall. Kimi and Isack were crouched in perfect synchronicity; Gabi's leap arching just a fraction higher than anyone else's.

"From the top," Lewis said with the kind of tone that screamed: I still love you, but you're wasting my time.

Charles nodded once, quickly wiped sweat from his brow, and positioned himself center-front. It was not an ego thing but rather simple math. He was simply the most consistent, and everyone knew it.

The music slammed into a drop, and the dancers obeyed like a living machine, and yet, somehow, human enough that one tiny misstep made them all laugh. Ollie collided lightly with Kimi's arm during a spin; Kimi rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted in amusement.

"Someone's going to get hurt if you keep spinning like a whirlwind," Charles muttered, but there was a grin threatening the corner of his mouth.

"Better a whirlwind than a bore," Ollie shot back. "You're just jealous I'm faster than you today."

"Jealous?" Charles raised an eyebrow. "Hardly."

Lewis pressed play again. The beat dropped like a stone into deep water.

And they moved.

Charles lead with the clarity of a blade, slicing clean lines through the air.

Oscar landed every turn with the neat precision of a scalpel; Alex poured himself into the spaces between beats, effortless like smoke.

Lando sparkled with pop, pop, linger, grin; George hit every curve like it personally offended him.

Isack hit his moves sharp enough to make the mirror tremble; Gabi's hips spoke a language older than all of them.

Ollie wove mischief into movement, improvising just slightly more than he should and Kimi dropped to the floor, spinning once, twice, and three times, sliding a fingertip against the mirrored wall.

Pierre and Yuki burst through the studio door, iced coffees in hand. Pierre's scarf trailed behind him like a banner, Yuki's sneakers squeaking across the polished floor.

"You're late," Lewis called without turning.

Pierre gasped like a wounded Victorian heroine. "We brought offerings."

"Still late," Lewis said. Yuki flipped him off behind a coffee cup.

Lando rolled onto his back, arms flung wide, kicking an invisible dust cloud. "I want to retire."

"You're twenty-two," George said, smirking, catching the edge of Lando's sleeve as it flailed across the floor.

"Retiring is a mindset," Lando countered, spinning onto his side.

Charles exhaled, bending at the waist to stretch, feeling that familiar satisfaction thrumming through his muscles: they're good today. Sharper than yesterday. And when they move like that together, something inside him settled.

The choreography was complex, but the group breathes as one. That's what Charles lived for: the unity, the precision, the quiet trust.

Lewis clapped twice. "Break in ten. Then again from the top. I want this number clean by tonight."

The song ended on a final echo of bass as Lewis went out to take a phone call. Everyone collapsed into various forms of "dramatic on-purpose exhaustion," except Oscar, who simply knelt like he was posing for a Renaissance painting.

Gabi blew a strand of hair from his face. "Daniel better appreciate the emotional damage we're suffering because of his retirement."

"Oh, please," George said, wiping his neck with his shirt. "He's at home with a margarita the size of my ego. He’s fine."

"That must be a tiny drink," Lando muttered.

George threw him a towel that Lando dodged with a flourish.

Pierre hopped onto the speaker. "Speaking of which, Lewis wants to start auditions by the end of the week."

Charles lifted a brow. "Already?"

"Already," Pierre nodded, sipping iced coffee. "He wants someone solid before the showcase next month. And Daniel left a hole the size of… well, Daniel."

Groans echoed through the studio. Auditions meant chaos. Drama. Egos. Tears. Blood, sometimes (Kimi once broke the floor.)

The room still felt like Daniel, his laughter echoing faintly in the mirrors, his energy embedded in old floor scratches.

Charles missed him. They all did.

He sighed, but he didn't argue. He knew how this worked. Perfection doesn't pause. Not for grief. Not for nostalgia. Not even for Daniel Ricciardo.

Still, he felt a flicker of unease. Strong dancers flock to their troupe like moths to a chandelier. And strong dancers meant challenges.

The group soon dispersed: some collapsing on the floor, some wandering to the water station, some lying face-down and reconsidering their life choices.

Charles rolled out his shoulder. The studio air smelled like sweat and floor polish. He likes it. It means work. Purpose. It means this is his place.

He tells himself he isn't worried.

He's lying.

***

Across town, Max Verstappen hit the ground as he landed poorly. Again.

Not disastrously, not the crack that still haunts his dreams, but wrong enough. Off-balance. Weak.

He hates weak.

Pain shot up his leg, sharp and familiar: a reminder of the injury that derailed his last solo tour.

The studio floor pressed cold and unyielding against his palms with each failed landing. The mirror across the room reflected everything he loathed: stiff shoulders, tight hips, a version of himself slowed down, fractured, imperfect.

He pressed his palm against the mirror, breath fogging the glass. His reflection stared back: hair damp, shirt clinging to his spine, anger curled tight in his shoulders.

Nico leaned back on the worn leather couch in the corner, one ankle resting on the other knee, coffee balanced on the armrest. "You're thinking too loud."

Max didn't turn. He straightened against the wall, shoulder blades pressing into the cool surface. "I'm thinking normally."

"Exactly," Nico said, tilting his head, eyes tracing Max's tense shoulders. "Too loud."

"But I hit it." Max flexed his fingers against the wall, trying to wring out the frustration.

"You half-hit it," Nico corrected, leaning forward slightly, resting an elbow on his knee. "Which is new for you, so congratulations on entering your mediocre era."

Max rolled his eyes, but the edge of frustration in his chest loosened slightly. Nico had a talent for that. For poking him back into equilibrium.

"You know," Nico continued, shifting to perch on the edge of the couch, fingers tapping lightly on the cushion, "you don't have to keep doing the acro if it's hurting."

They'd been circling this conversation for weeks - months. About a change, about finding new grounding. About not breaking himself for pride. But Nico never pushed.

"I'm not giving it up," Max muttered, sliding his back down the wall until he was seated on the floor, knees pulled up, forearms resting heavy on them.

"I didn't say you should. But I'd like you to still have ankles by your thirties."

"Twenty-seven," Max corrected, dragging a hand through damp hair. "I'd like ankles until twenty-seven."

Nico snorted, reclining on the couch. "Aim high, schatz."

"Again," Max ignored him, pushing himself off the floor, muscles screaming in protest.

Nico sighed like a disappointed parent. "Or - hear me out - maybe don't do the same jump that nearly shattered your ankle."

Max glared at him. "It didn't shatter."

"All right," Nico conceded. "It politely cracked."

Max tried the jump again. Worse this time. Pain flared, sharp and immediate, but he swallowed the curse, grit between his teeth.

Nico rose slowly, hands in his pockets. "Vanguard posted their audition call," he said lightly, as if it's just another piece of industry gossip.

Max froze.

They'd talked about the possibility before. Hypothetically, strategically, jokingly, angrily, tearfully. But it had never been real. Not tangible.

Not until now.

"They're running low since Ricciardo retired," Nico said gently, stepping back to lean one shoulder casually against the wall opposite Max.

Max dragged a hand through his hair, heart thumping. "You want me to go."

"I think," Nico said, voice calm, sure, "it could be good for you. Structure. Teamwork. A place where you're not carrying everything alone."

"We've talked about this," Max muttered, shifting his weight to one hip.

"Yes," Nico's voice lilted with amusement. "Soloing forever isn't going to do you any favors right now. This? This is strategic. You - You'll shake things up. Trust me."

Max stared at the ceiling. "This isn't just about me."

Nico folded his arms. "No. But you need team experience, you stubborn little gremlin."

"I don't need a team."

"You can do both. Solo and troupe."

"I don't - "

"It's Lewis' troupe."

The words hung between them. The air shifted. Nico's face was calm, but his hands betrayed him: thumb unconsciously rubbing the back of the other.

Max sighed, the weight of inevitability settling on his shoulders like a familiar costume. He leaned fully back against the wall, legs stretched, wrists resting on knees. "You said you weren't ready."

"I wasn't," Nico said, back on the couch, stretching one arm behind his head. "But maybe I am now."

Max wiped sweat from his jaw, chest tightening, pulse picking up.

Lewis Hamilton. The Lewis Hamilton. The man Nico had once orbited like a sun. The man Nico hadn't spoken to in years.

Max rolled his eyes. "You're insane. You know that, right?"

Nico smiled, shark-like. "I know."

Max exhaled slowly, pressure building behind his ribs again. He pushed off the wall, limping a little, grabbing his water bottle and taking a long drink he didn't really want.

"Fine," he said, quieter, calmer. "We'll go. I'll audition."

Nico blinked. "Really?"

"You'll haunt me if I say no."

"I absolutely would," Nico confirmed.

"But if I don't get in," Max held up a hand, voice firm and low, "you're dropping it. No pep talks, no strategic arguments, no 'but think of the opportunities'. It ends. You don't bring this up ever again."

Nico blinked once, expression flat in the way that meant he was trying very, very hard not to smile. "Max Verstappen, the prodigy, not selected for an audition at the world's best dance troupe?" He scoffed, throwing an arm over the back of the couch like a man preparing his own eulogy. "I'd rather die before I see that happen."

Max groaned, tipping his head back. "You're dramatic."

"And you're ridiculous," Nico replied. "We're both suffering. It's balance."

Max shook his head, but a tiny, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His ankle still hurt. His chest still felt too tight. His future felt like a jump he wasn't sure he could land anymore.

Lewis Hamilton's troupe. The best in the world.

The one place Max never intended to touch.

And he had a very bad feeling that whatever he's walking into, he won't be walking out unchanged.

Chapter Text

Max regretted everything the moment he saw the line.

Dancers were everywhere - stretching on the floor in impossible shapes, doing last-minute turns, adjusting glittery jackets that shed sparkles like dandruff. Someone was crying into a water bottle. Someone else was humming off-key. Someone was aggressively doing high-kicks in a corner. A boy in a mesh top was stretching and trying to touch his toes at the same time. The whole hallway smelled like nerves and hairspray.

Max muttered, "I didn't sign up for this."

"You didn't," Nico replied cheerfully. "I bullied you into it. There's a difference."

Max glared. Nico patted his shoulder like an overproud soccer dad.

They stepped inside.

Lewis stood at the front, arms crossed, scanning the room with sharp, practiced eyes. Behind him, Pierre and Yuki organized papers, making notes, whispering among themselves. The troupe was scattered around, stretching, adjusting shoes, and occasionally exchanging playful jabs.

Lewis was mid-conversation with Pierre when he turned toward the door - and froze. His expression shifted from bright professionalism to a flat, emotionless Oh hell no the moment he heard Nico's voice.

"Lewis."

A beat of absolute silence.

"Absolutely not," Lewis said.

Max considered walking back out. Nico folded his arms, jaw set, eyes sharp.

"It's an audition, Lewis. You don't get to say 'absolutely not.'"

"I just did," Lewis replied.

"You can't blacklist my dancer because of me."

"Watch me."

Max stood between them like a hostage. "Can we postpone the divorce proceedings after I humiliate myself onstage?"

Pierre clapped loudly. "Boys. Behave. We have forty-seven dancers today and I refuse to die here."

Lewis turned away sharply, muttering something that sounded a lot like, "Of all the studios in this city…"

Nico looked triumphant. Max wanted to evaporate.

***

The moment Max stepped into the main space, every dancer in the room collectively gasped like they were watching a Marvel crossover event.

Lando nudged Ollie. "Is that…?"

"Yeah," Ollie breathed, eyes wide. "Max. Max Verstappen."

"Oh my god - Max Verstappen?"

"Can you sign my shoe?"

"Sign my face?"

"Mate, your leap in Berlin? I watched that like, every night for a month."

"MAX. OVER HERE."

Lando, Ollie, Gabi, Isack, and Kimi barreled toward him in a cluster, waving phones and notebooks like caffeinated toddlers.

Max blinked. "I… don't sign faces."

"Coward," Lando said, but handed him a notebook anyway.

"Sign my clavicle - !"

"NO," Max said immediately.

"You're like… my Roman Empire."

Max blinked, overwhelmed. "I'm here to audition like you guys."

Some guy shouted, "No way man, I'm going home. What's the point now?" Some girl said, "At least I can say I lost to Max Verstappen."

"How high do you actually jump?"

"Do a flip."

"Write something inspirational!"

"Uh," Max said, scribbling. "'Drink water.'"

Pierre and Yuki exchanged looks on the other side of the studio.

"Do we… manage this?" Pierre asked.

"No," Yuki said. "Just let it happen."

***

A thin wall separated the noise from the judges' room, but inside, the energy couldn't be more different. The air was still. The lighting dimmer. Charles slouched in his chair, chin in hand, looking like a deity of boredom.

The auditions so far were… fine.

A girl did thirty turns and fell on turn thirty-one. A guy attempted a backflip he definitely shouldn't have attempted. One person performed entirely to the wrong song.

It dragged on. Charles scribbled. George yawned. Someone's stomach growled loud enough to echo.

Then there was a sudden noise. The kind that meant trouble.

Charles resisted the urge to go out there and scold them all like unruly toddlers. If the studio was burning down, someone would eventually scream his name.

Charles shot George a look that said: Which one of the idiots broke something this time?

Little did he know it wasn't something. It was Max Verstappen. And Max Verstappen wanted to disappear.

Not because he hated dance. He loved it in a way that felt stitched into his bones. And not because he was ungrateful for his success. But being famous meant being visible, and Max had spent months wanting nothing more than to be unseen.

He'd worn a plain hoodie, kept his head down, entered the building as quietly as possible. Didn't matter because the second he stepped through the door, every pair of eyes in the hallway was on him.

Max Verstappen. The prodigy. The guy whose injury was trending on industry forums. The dancer everyone thought had vanished for good.

It wasn't even malicious attention - just overwhelming. Hands reaching out for photos. Voices calling his name. People talking at him, not to him.

Max kept trying to shrink himself. To slip past. To breathe.

It didn't work.

By the time he was waiting backstage for his turn, he was exhausted. He had come here for discipline, for structure, for something to force him out of the spiral he'd been stuck in for months. But standing backstage, surrounded by whispers and stares, all he wanted was to run.

He was halfway to asking Nico if they could leave when Pierre called, "Next! Verstappen, you're up."

Max exhaled, rolled his shoulders, and stepped out. His ankle pulsed in time with his heartbeat, as if reminding him what failure felt like.

He looked at the floor first. Then the mirror. Then the judges' table.

And the world clicked back into place.

Because sitting there - arms crossed, expression unimpressed, posture perfect - was a man with dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that looked like they'd seen storms and kept the secrets.

Charles Leclerc.

Max didn't know the name yet. But God, he felt the impact.

Those eyes, steady, unreadable, quietly furious with the world, hit him like a spotlight.

Something electric snapped beneath Max's ribs. The noise of the room faded. The whispers died. The tension in his shoulders eased for the first time that day.

Max's boredom evaporated. His frustration quieted. He wasn't trying to run anymore. He was trying not to stare.

And when Charles shifted, tilting his head just slightly, something flickered in those eyes - something Max wanted to understand.

Max felt his breath catch. Suddenly he wanted to dance. For the first time in months, he wanted to move. Not for prestige. Not for legacy. Not even for himself.

He wanted to move because Charles Leclerc was watching.

And that, unbelievably, felt like enough.

***

The afternoon sun had shifted, spilling gold across the studio floor and catching in the mirrors, turning everything warm and slightly unreal. Charles barely noticed; his mind had numbed hours ago. Names, numbers, music, missteps. The chatter outside softened to a distant hum as the next dancer prepared. Pierre shuffled papers, cleared his throat, and the room seemed to settle.

Charles looked up. Max Verstappen.

Max Verstappen?

Max? Verstappen?

Charles sat up so fast that George snorted.

"Oh," Alex murmured next to him. "Somebody's awake."

"What's he doing here?" Charles muttered under his breath, scanning the newcomer. He knew the name, of course. Who didn't? Max. A prodigy. A solo act who made the impossible look effortless. And now… apparently auditioning for a group.

Max's eyes scanned the hall and landed on Charles for just a moment too long. Something in that calculated, perfectionist gaze intrigued him. And annoyed him. Perfect.

Charles shifted in his seat at the sudden commotion behind him, not loud, but the specific kind of rustling that meant his dancers were up to something.

Ollie, Kimi, Isack, and Gabi slipped inside like a group of raccoons that had learned to open doors. They moved with the confidence of people who absolutely did not have permission to be here. They didn't even watch the other dancers. They all stared directly at Max like he was the season finale of their favorite show. Perfect.

"I swear his legs are insured."

"I'd insure them."

"I'd worship them."

"I'd - "

George turned back and glared at his crew. "Finish that sentence and I will smite you."

The music hit the first beat.

Max moved.

His body knew what to do, muscle memory, training, instinct.

But his mind? His mind was embarrassingly elsewhere. Specifically on the man in the judges' panel whose eyes were on him like they were dissecting him and worshipping him and challenging him all at once. Charles Leclerc looked… intense. Controlled. Every line of his posture sharp enough to draw blood.

Max tried to focus on the choreography.

He really, really tried.

But every time he turned, every time he extended his arm or hit a clean line, his gaze kept catching on Charles.

And Charles didn't look away. Not even once.

Max swallowed.

Okay. Fine. Ignore the beautiful man with the unreadable eyes and jawline sculpted by gods with grudges. Focus on the - hips - no, don't think about hips, Jesus Christ.

He moved into a turn, and for a moment the entire room spun with him except for Charles, who remained perfectly still, perfectly centered, perfectly -

Stop looking at him.

Stop looking at him.

Stop looking -

Max finished the turn and immediately looked at him.

Great. Fantastic. Excellent self-control.

Charles' expression didn't change. He didn't smile, didn't flinch, didn't blink. Just watched. Like Max was some complicated equation he needed to solve or some storm rolling in that he didn't trust.

Max hit the next series of steps with more force than intended.

Why is he looking at me like that?

Does he hate me?

Is he judging me harder than the others?

…does he look like that at everyone?

God, I hope not.

He shouldn't care. He shouldn't notice. He shouldn't be this affected. He tried to channel that irritation into precision, landing a controlled turn so silent the floor barely felt it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charles' lips part - just slightly. Like Max had surprised him.

Max nearly missed the next count. He masked it with a breath, flowing into the next motion. But inside, his pulse jumped.

Charles Leclerc was distracting. Not loudly. Not intentionally. Not even in a way Max could put into words.

Max pushed into the final sequence, chest tight. Every time he lifted his gaze, Charles was there. Watching intently. Thoughtfully. With a kind of sharpness that made Max feel exposed in a way that had nothing to do with technique.

He hit the final pose, held it, exhaled.

Silence.

Max finally, finally let himself look directly at Charles.

Charles didn't applaud.

Didn't smile.

Didn't even nod.

He simply stared back, eyes dark and unreadable, like he was withholding a thousand conclusions all at once.

Max's heartbeat stuttered.

Well.

That was a problem.

A Charles-shaped problem.

***

Charles forced himself to lean back, arms crossed, face neutral. If anyone noticed the way he was staring too hard, they didn't say anything.

Max didn't do anything dramatic. No flips, no tricks, no back-breaking show-offery. He simply moved. Clean lines. Strong control. Every beat hit with precision that came from years of discipline, not luck. But it was the calmness that made the room go silent. The quiet intensity. Like he wasn't auditioning but rather confessing something.

Lewis, despite himself, leaned forward.

Yuki whispered, "Fuck, he's good."

Pierre scribbled something like a shopping list but his eyes were locked on Max.

Charles tried not to blink. Tried not to admit that Max danced like someone who'd bled for precision.

And every time he turned, his eyes found Charles.

Not once.

Again.

Again.

Charles' grip tightened on his pencil. He pretended it wasn't happening. He pretended very, very poorly.

Max noticed.

He wasn't sure what to do with that.

When Max finished, the room exhaled like it had been holding its breath. He nodded stiffly and walked off, face unreadable.

Charles' jaw was tight.

Lando leaned over. "Oh no. Charles has a rival now."

Pierre didn't look up from his clipboard. "He's going to be insufferable."

***

Max stepped off the stage, chest still rising and falling, not from exertion but from… whatever the hell that performance turned into. Nico was leaning casually against the wall, pretending he hadn't watched Max's brain melt in real time.

Max walked straight up to him.

"Who is that guy?" he blurted. Shame who?

Nico blinked slowly. "Which guy?" he asked, too innocent to be real.

Max scowled, lowering his voice as a trio of dancers scurried past them. "You know which guy. The one on the panel."

Nico smiled like someone who'd just been handed free blackmail material.

"Oh," he said lightly. "Charles Leclerc."

Max tried saying the name in his head. It felt like a beat he hadn't danced to yet. Sharp. Clean. Too interesting.

He cursed internally.

Nico crossed his arms, studying him. "Why do you ask?"

Max tried to summon his usual cold detachment. Failed instantly.

"He was… staring," Max said, choosing the least embarrassing version of the truth. "Very intensely."

Nico raised an eyebrow. "And that bothers you?"

"No," Max said too fast. "I just - I want to know who I'm dancing for. That's all."

Nico hummed. He did not believe a single syllable. "Mhm. Right."

"Nico."

"Mhm."

"I'm serious."

"Mhm."

Max glared. "Stop that."

Nico pushed off the wall, smirk widening. "You looked different on that stage."

"What?"

"You had light in your eyes again."

Max froze. Nico didn't tease about that. Ever.

Nico's voice softened, but the smugness remained. "And I've been your manager long enough to know exactly what - or who - caused it."

Max felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. "Shut up."

Nico beamed. "Oh, this is delicious."

"Shut up."

"I'm going to enjoy this so much - "

"Nico."

"Yes?"

"I will quit dance forever."

"You won't," Nico said, patting his shoulder. "Not when Charles Leclerc exists."

Max groaned, dragging his hands over his face. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," Nico said, already turning to leave. "But you are absolutely, catastrophically screwed."

Max watched him go.

He did not - absolutely did not - look back at the judging panel.

Not at the eyes he already couldn't stop thinking about.

***

After a couple more auditions, someone flicked off the overhead lights as they left the panel room, leaving only the warm glow of the hallway lamps.

Charles went looking for Oscar, planning to ask for his notes, planning to discuss the scores.

He found Oscar backstage.

Not taking notes. Not checking forms.

Oscar was stood in front of Max, eyes wide, starstruck, smiling like he'd just discovered religion.

Charles could actually feel his blood pressure spike.

Max was polite, nodding along as Oscar rambled something embarrassingly earnest about technique and influence and 2019 Seoul Tour. "The way you land - you're so soft - no sound at all - I watched that tour every night in high school - "

"Oh. Uh. Thank you."

"Oscar." Charles stepped, voice dead calm, which meant danger. "We're deliberating."

Oscar jolted. "Right! Yes! Sorry, sorry – uh - Max, thank you – goodbye -sorry - !"

Max looked at Charles. Charles did not look back.

Max smiled.

***

By the time the final dancer bowed, sunlight had drifted lower in the windows, casting long shadows across the studio floor. The day was thinning. Nerves were thickening.

Charles rubbed a thumb over the corner of his score sheet. "Panel room?"

Lewis nodded, and the team gathered around the table as the door clicked shut behind them.

Pierre opened the meeting dramatically. "So. Max Verstappen."

"Yes," Yuki said. "Take him."

"Absolutely," George agreed.

"Insane technique." Alex added.

"A hundred percent yes," Gabi said, appearing out of nowhere like he'd stepped through a wall.

"Monster strength," Isack said, already halfway leaning over the table. Apparently, this discussion wasn't judges-only anymore.

"Hot," Lando added.

George murmured, "Lando," but didn't deny it.

Pierre stared at the suddenly overpopulated panel. "Guys, a moment alone please?"

Everyone groaned.

They started to leave.

Started.

Ollie and Kimi drifted toward the door with the enthusiasm of children escorting themselves to timeout. Lando, however, stayed planted, gripping the back of a chair like he was presenting a legal case. "But we'd be the ones dancing with him," Lando said, chin raised with righteous conviction. "We should get a say too."

Pierre opened his mouth to object.

Lewis beat him to it, sighing. "…He's not wrong."

"Thank you, Lewis," Lando breathed, absolutely glowing.

Charles snorted under his breath.

Pierre just rubbed his forehead. "Fine. One sentence each. Then you leave."

Lando's entire face lit up like he'd just discovered the meaning of life. He opened his mouth to continue… and promptly realized he had nothing else to say. Except, of course, the important point. "Max is… obviously… undeniably… the best."

The group paused, staring at him. Alex tilted his head. "That's… it?"

"Yeah," George added dryly. "That's all you had to say?"

Lando, undeterred, simply smiled like he'd just gazed upon the moon and the stars. 'Yup," he said, radiating reverence.

Someone - Ollie - squinted around the room. "Wait… where's Oscar? Has anyone seen him?"

Charles didn't even look up from his score sheet. "Probably still circling the superstar."

Lando's eyes sparkled. "Further testament. Nobody manages to impress Oscar - except Max, apparently."

Pierre ran his fingers through his hair. "Others?"

"We already said our sentences," Gabi whispered.

"Then go," Pierre said, pointing at the door with a desperation that suggested a looming migraine.

They finally shuffled out, Lando pausing to flash Lewis a small, reverent smile before he obeyed. Lewis gave him a weary thumbs up.

The door closed. Blessed silence.

For three seconds.

Pierre exhaled. "Lewis?"

Lewis winced. Not at Max's talent. Max was brilliant. But if Max joined…Nico joined his daily life too.

He massaged his temples. "It'd be stupid to let go of him. So, yes."

"Brilliant. That's four yesses," Pierre said. "Charles?"

All eyes turned to Charles.

Charles didn't look up. "I don't think he'll fit."

Alex snorted. Lewis raised an eyebrow.

Charles continued, voice tight. "He's only ever performed solo. He won't know how to integrate. He won't know how to work in formation. He's used to being the center. He'll clash with the group. He'll disrupt the chemistry we've built - "

"You're making this personal," Yuki said.

"I'm making it professional." Charles snapped.

Pierre arched a brow. "So… you're worried he's too good?"

"I'm worried he's wrong for us," Charles snapped back.

Pierre didn't argue. He simply pointed behind Charles.

Charles turned.

Max was surrounded by the troupe - laughing, chatting, bright-eyed as Kimi taught him Italian curse words, Lando clinging to his arm, Gabi poking Max's shoulder like he was testing the structural integrity of a statue, Isack asking about training routines.

Max didn't look disruptive. He looked like he belonged… adored.

Charles' eye twitched. "I hate all of you."

Pierre smiled sweetly. "Still think he won't fit?"

Charles inhaled through his nose. Deeply.

Pierre patted his back. "Ça va aller, mon cœur. He's in."

Charles glared at Max across the room. Max looked up at that moment.

Their eyes met. The air tightened.

Charles inhaled, long and slow, the way Lewis taught them to calm before performances.

It didn't help. Because Max laughed again, warm, low, genuine, and the sound pulled Charles' attention like a magnet he had no control over.

Charles immediately looked away.

I am NOT jealous. I am NOT threatened. I am NOT –

…good God, he was smiling again.

Charles closed his eyes.

Max Verstappen was going to be a beautiful, irritating, catastrophic problem. Because the next challenge he'd have to face wasn't just Max's talent. It was Max himself.

***

The studio lights dimmed as the sun dipped behind the buildings outside, evening shadows stretching across scuffed floors.

Dancers dispersed into little clusters: some packing up, Max's name floating in the mix. Always Max now.

Charles exhaled sharply and stalked off.

Lewis cornered Nico the first second Max walked away to grab his water bottle.

"You knew," Lewis said quietly, voice tight.

Nico didn't even pretend. "Knew what?"

Lewis flicked his eyes toward the end of the hall, where Charles was pretending to fix his pencil grip for the fifth consecutive minute.

"That he noticed Charles."

Nico blinked. "…Oh. That."

Lewis pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't you oh that me."

"Well," Nico said, shrugging, "he did. Painfully obvious, really."

"You used to tell me Max doesn't get distracted," Lewis hissed. "Ever."

"That's the point," Nico said, smugness oozing. "He hasn't been distracted by anything in months. No spark. No interest. No fight. Nothing."

Lewis looked at him sharply. "And you think Charles - my boy - "

Nico's expression went flat. "Your boy?"

Lewis' eyes widened. "I mean - not mine - you know what I meant - "

Nico smirked like a man who'd found the most valuable gossip gem of his life.

Lewis tried again, voice strained. "I meant he's one of my dancers - "

"Sure." Nico cut in, deliberately vague and dangerous.

Lewis exhaled sharply, palms pressed together. "This is a disaster."

"Why?" Nico asked, tilting his head.

Lewis gestured helplessly between Max and Charles, who were very obviously not looking at each other but also absolutely aware of each other.

"Because Charles is competitive. Territorial. And Max is Max."

"And?"

"And that combination," Lewis whispered, "is going to set my studio on fire."

Nico grinned. "Good. Things were getting boring."

Lewis groaned into his hands.