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Max knew the exact moment Charles Leclerc’s day at the Ferrari simulator had gone to hell. It wasn’t a text, or a call. It was the specific, overly-precise way Charles closed the front door of their Monaco apartment. A soft, controlled click that screamed of repressed force.
He found Charles in the living room, standing stiffly by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. His back was to Max, shoulders tense under a soft cashmere sweater. Even rigid with anger, Charles was breathtaking. The late afternoon sun caught the rich chestnut of his hair, the elegant line of his neck, the sweep of his lashes against his cheek. Beautiful, and currently vibrating with quiet, furious misery.
“Bad day?” Max asked, leaning against the doorframe.
Charles didn’t turn. “They changed the set-up again. After I said it was finally feeling predictable. Now it is understeering like a bus in the slow corners. I told them, I explained the balance issue. They said they would look at the data. ‘We will look at the data, Charles.’” His imitation of his engineer’s voice was impressively flat and maddening.
Max pushed off the doorframe. This was the dangerous phase. Charles, the perfectionist, the over-thinker, would now begin the internal spiral. He’d replay every word, every email, every sim session, his brilliant mind turning into a self-flagellating machine. The doctor’s words from last month, after a particularly nasty bout of stress-induced migraines, echoed in Max’s head: He needs calm. Low stress. His constitution… he internalizes too much. Keep him happy.
Right. Keep him happy. Max had become something of an expert.
He didn’t go to Charles directly. Instead, he walked to the large, plush cat tree in the corner. Nestled in the topmost cubby,Sassy opened one disdainful eye. The other two, Jimmy and Donut, were likely causing trouble elsewhere.
“Come here, Sassy,” Max murmured, scooping up the surprisingly compliant cat. Sassy, despite her name, had a soft spot for Charles’s particular brand of gentle melancholy.
Max approached the tense figure by the window. He didn’t say anything. He simply stepped in front of Charles, gently interrupting his glare at the yachts below, and deposited the warm, purring weight of Sassy into his arms.
Charles’s automatic reaction was beautiful. His arms came up to cradle the cat, his graceful fingers sinking into the soft fur. His rigid posture softened by a fraction. Sassy, the traitorous creature who usually ignored Max’s summons, butted her head against Charles’s chin and purred louder, a rusty motor of contentment.
Charles let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh, but the fight left his shoulders. He tucked his face briefly into Sassy’s fur.
“They don’t listen,” he muttered, but the venom was gone. It was just a sad, tired statement.
“I know they don’t,” Max said, stepping closer. He kept his voice low, reasonable. “They have a hundred people and a supercomputer, but they won’t listen to the one person actually driving the thing. It’s stupid. It’s infuriating.” He validated the feeling first. That was step two. Step one was always the animal.
“It is stupid,” Charles said, his green eyes, usually so bright and lively, now clouded with frustration, lifting to meet Max’s blue ones. The physical connection—Sassy’s purring body, Max’s proximity—was pulling him out of his head.
“But you,” Max continued, reaching out to brush a stray curl from Charles’s forehead, his thumb lingering on his temple. “You told them exactly what was wrong. You did your job. Perfectly. The fact that they are too… whatever… to use that information is their failure. Not yours.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “My clever, beautiful boy. You are not the problem.”
A faint blush colored Charles’s cheeks. The anger was dissipating, replaced by a familiar, soft vulnerability. He nuzzled Sassy again. “She’s purring so much.”
“She knows you need it,” Max said, a smile finally touching his lips. “And I know you need dinner. Come on. Leo hasn’t had his walk yet.”
The mention of his beloved long-haired dachshund, Leo, was the final key. Charles’s face completely cleared. “Oh, poor Leo! I am late for his walk.” He gently placed Sassy on the back of the sofa, where she immediately began meticulously washing a paw, her job done. Charles turned fully to Max, his expression now one of gentle concern. “He must be so bored.”
Max pulled him in, wrapping his arms around Charles’s slender waist, kissing his hair. Crisis averted. The Ferrari storm had been weathered, replaced by the simple, manageable duty of walking a small, long dog. “He’s been napping on my feet while I was on the sim rig. But he’ll be happy to see you.”
Charles melted into the hug, his earlier tension a distant memory. “Thank you, Max,” he whispered into his shoulder.
“For what?”
“For… Sassy. And for knowing.”
Max just held him tighter. It was a system. And it worked.
The system was tested again two days later, via a lengthy, jargon-filled email chain Charles read on his iPad, his frown deepening with every swipe.
“They want to change the run plan for Barcelona testing,” he announced, voice deceptively calm. “Again. The third time this week.”
Max, who was assembling a new racing rig controller at the dining table, glanced up. This was a quieter frustration, but more insidious. The kind that would gnaw at Charles for hours, leading to him staring blankly at strategy documents, not absorbing a word.
Max put down his screwdriver. He didn’t summon a cat this time. He let out a low, sharp whistle.
The pad of little paws was immediate. Leo, his coat a silky cascade of brown and cream, trotted into the room, his long ears flopping. He went straight to Max, who pointed firmly at Charles.
“Go on. He needs you.”
Leo, ever obedient and deeply attached to his human, waddled over to Charles’s armchair and nudged his nose insistently under Charles’s dangling hand.
Charles looked down. The sight of Leo’s big, liquid brown eyes, his whole body wiggling with the effort of asking for pets, was irresistible. A small smile broke through the frown. He scooped the dachshund into his lap. Leo immediately curled into a contented circle, offering his belly.
Charles’s fingers automatically began stroking the soft, long fur. “They have no consistency,” he said, but he was talking to Leo now, his voice softer. “How can I build confidence with the car if every plan is written on… on water?”
“It’s incompetent,” Max agreed from the table, watching the magic work. Charles’s shoulders were relaxing, his free hand moving rhythmically over Leo’s belly. The dog’s eyes were closing in bliss. “But you’ve driven well in Barcelona before. You’ll learn the car, whatever their plan is. You always do.”
“But the time lost…” Charles trailed off, too absorbed in finding the perfect spot behind Leo’s ears. The dog’s back leg thumped in ecstasy.
“Is their time lost,” Max finished. “Not yours. You’ll be in the car, driving. That’s your part. That’s the part you love. Let them handle their… water-writing.”
Charles was silent for a minute, just petting Leo. Then he sighed, a real, genuine sigh of resignation. “You are right. I cannot control their plans. Only my driving.”
“Exactly.” Max went back to his screwdriver, hiding his smile. Two for two.
The third time required escalation.
It was after a sponsor event. Charles came home smelling of expensive cologne and simmering with a very specific, social-exhaustion-fueled irritation. He was polite to a fault in public, the perfect Ferrari prince, but it cost him. The minute the apartment door closed, the princely mask cracked.
“He talked to me for twenty minutes about the ‘marketing synergy’ of the color red,” Charles seethed, pulling his sweater over his head with more force than necessary. “Twenty minutes! And he kept calling me ‘Carlos’. I corrected him twice!”
This was prickly, annoyed Charles. The cat who’d had his tail stepped on. Words alone wouldn’t cut it. The cats were hiding from the sudden energy, and Leo was already asleep in his bed.
Max knew it was time for the newest members of their menagerie. He wordlessly took Charles’s hand and led him, still sputtering about the misnamed sponsor, to the enclosed balcony they’d converted into a sunroom.
There, in a large, beautifully crafted hutch, lived two miniature rabbits: Pip and Pop. They were fluffballs of neutral territory, impossibly soft, and fascinated by Charles’s watch.
Max opened the hutch and carefully extracted Pip, the calmer of the two. He placed the warm, quiet bunny into Charles’s hands.
The effect was instantaneous. Charles’s rant cut off. All his attention narrowed to the small creature cradled against his chest. Pip’s nose wiggled, twitching against the skin of Charles’s throat. Charles’s anger seemed to physically drain away, replaced by a focused tenderness.
“Hello, little one,” he whispered, his voice completely different now, soft and warm. He sat down on the sunroom sofa, completely absorbed. Max sat beside him, watching as Charles gently stroked the rabbit’s back with one finger.
After a long, peaceful silence, Charles spoke, not looking up from Pip. “I hate when they call me Carlos.”
“I know,” Max said, leaning his head on Charles’s shoulder. “It’s disrespectful and stupid.”
“It is.”
“But you were charming. You always are. And now you’re home.” Max pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “With the rabbits who know you’re Charles.”
Charles finally looked at him, his green eyes clear and fond. The sponsor was forgotten. “We need to get more hay tomorrow,” he said, as if it was the most important thought in the world.
“We will,” Max promised.
The fourth incident was the worst one yet. A strategy call that had gone catastrophically wrong, ending with Charles’s voice tight and clipped on the phone. When he arrived home, he didn’t slam anything. He was scarily quiet. He went straight to the bedroom and closed the door.
Max gave him fifteen minutes. Then he assembled the cavalry.
He collected Donut, the most cuddly and emotionally intuitive of the cats, and Leo, who was always worried when Charles was upset. He carried Donut and let Leo follow. He pushed the bedroom door open without knocking.
Charles was lying on his back on the bed, arm thrown over his eyes. He wasn’t crying; Charles rarely cried from anger. He just looked utterly defeated.
Max didn’t say a word. He placed Donut on Charles’s stomach. The cat immediately kneaded the cashmere of Charles’s sweater, purring like a chainsaw. Then Max patted the bed. Leo, with some effort, jumped up and wormed his way under Charles’s arm, licking his chin.
For a moment, Charles remained still. Then, a shudder went through him. His arm fell away from his face, and he wrapped it around Leo, his other hand coming up to bury itself in Donut’s fur. He turned his face into Leo’s neck.
Max lay down behind him, spooning his body around Charles and the animals. He pressed his forehead against the back of Charles’s head.
“It’s okay to be furious,” Max murmured into his hair. “It was a terrible call. A joke. Anyone would be raging.”
Charles shook his head slightly, his voice muffled by dog fur. “I should have overruled them. I had the feeling. I always have the feeling, and I never… I never push hard enough.” The self-blame was back, the worst of it.
This called for the final, nuclear option in Max’s playbook. He softened his own voice, letting a thread of vulnerability into it that he rarely showed anyone but Charles. “You’re thinking about them so much right now,” he whispered, tightening his hold. “You’re here, in our bed, with me and Donut and Leo, and you’re still there with them. It feels like you care more about their mistake right now than… than being here with us.”
It was a calculated move. A slight manipulation, maybe. But it worked every single time.
Charles immediately stiffened, then twisted in Max’s arms, dislodging a protesting Donut. His beautiful face was a picture of horrified concern. “No! Max, no. That’s not true. I’m sorry.” His green eyes were wide, searching Max’s face. “I’m here. I am.”
The Ferrari disaster was utterly eclipsed by the fear that he’d hurt Max’s feelings. Max’s heart clenched with love for this ridiculous, sensitive man. He cupped Charles’s face. “I know. I just miss you when you’re that far away in your head.”
Charles kissed him then, a desperate, reassuring kiss. “I am here. I am with you.” He glanced at the animals now snuggled around them. “With you all. This is what matters.”
Max kissed him back, slow and deep. “Good.”
The fifth time wasn’t about Ferrari. It was about a journalist, a particularly nasty piece written questioning Charles’s mental fortitude. Charles read it online and went preternaturally still. This wasn’t hot anger or cold frustration. This was hurt. Deep, personal hurt that touched the insecurities he tried so hard to hide.
He retreated to the balcony, staring out at the sea, looking heartbreakingly young and alone.
Max felt a different kind of protectiveness surge. This wasn’t a job for one animal. This was a job for the whole family.
He gathered Jimmy, who was playful, and Sassy, who was dignified, and let Leo follow. He didn’t bring the rabbits; this needed feline energy. He joined Charles on the balcony, not speaking. He sat on the wide lounger and placed Jimmy in his own lap. Sassy jumped up and settled regally at the foot of the lounger. Leo sat at Charles’s feet, looking up with a soft whine.
Charles finally looked down at the dog, then at the scene Max had created. His expression softened from pained to tenderly puzzled.
“The whole committee is here?” he asked quietly.
“Needed a full vote,” Max said, scratching Jimmy’s chin. “The motion on the floor: Is Charles Leclerc the strongest and most brilliant driver we know? Jimmy says yes.” Jimmy meowed, as if on cue. “Sassy says obviously, but do not disturb her sunbathing. Leo says you are the best human in the world and his vote counts triple.”
A tear finally escaped, tracing a path down Charles’s cheek. But he was smiling, a wobbly, beautiful thing. He sank onto the lounger beside Max, letting Leo jump onto his lap as well. He was surrounded by warm, living, loving creatures.
“The journalist is an idiot,” Max stated, putting an arm around him, a cat in each of their laps, a dog sprawled over both. “He writes to get clicks. He doesn’t know you. Doesn’t know your heart. Doesn’t know that you carry the weight of every single person in that garage. Doesn’t know that you’re kind. That you cry at sad films. That you get overly excited about new rabbit hay.” He kissed Charles’s temple. “We know. We’re the only ones whose opinions matter.”
Charles leaned heavily against him, surrounded by fur and love. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice thick. “All of you.”
“We know,” Max repeated, holding his world close. “We know.”
The “One Time” happened on a rare, completely free Sunday. No sim work, no calls, no commitments. They were in the living room, a chaos of contentment. Jimmy was chasing a toy mouse, Donut was snoozing on a radiator bed, Sassy was observing the scene from a high shelf like a queen. Pip and Pop were in their penned area on the sunroom floor, exploring a new cardboard castle. Leo was, as usual, draped over Charles’s feet where he lay on the sofa, his head in Max’s lap.
Charles was scrolling through his phone, a slight, familiar frown starting to form on his brow. Max, idly running his fingers through Charles’s soft brown hair, felt the subtle tension return to his body. He didn’t need to see the screen. It was Ferrari-related. An old article, a social media comment, an internal memo—it didn’t matter.
Instinctively, Max’s gaze swept the room for a furry solution. Donut was asleep, Sassy was aloof, Jimmy was hyper. Leo was already in position. The rabbits were busy.
But then he looked down at Charles. The late morning light made his green eyes look translucent, highlighted the perfect arch of his brow, the sweep of his cheekbones. He was so beautiful it sometimes hurt to look at him. And he was his. His to love, his to protect, his to soothe.
Max’s hand stilled in Charles’s hair. He didn’t call for an animal. Instead, he slowly bent down. He replaced his fingers with his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss right to the spot on Charles’s forehead where the stress always seemed to gather first.
Charles’s eyes fluttered closed. The frown smoothed away.
Max kissed his temple, then the corner of his eye. He felt Charles melt under his touch, the phone forgotten in his lax hand. Max continued, gentle, unhurried kisses along his hairline, down to his cheek, finally brushing his lips over Charles’s.
When he pulled back, Charles’s eyes were open, looking up at him, clear and full of a love so deep it made Max’s breath catch. There was no trace of Ferrari, no trace of anger or hurt. Just them.
“What was that for?” Charles whispered, his voice husky.
“You were thinking about work,” Max said simply, tracing Charles’s lower lip with his thumb.
“I was.”
“And now?”
Charles smiled, that radiant, unguarded smile that was for Max alone. He turned, wrapping his arms around Max’s waist, burying his face against his stomach. “Now I am thinking about how I do not need a single other thing in the world.”
Max looked around the room, at their chaotic, furry family. He looked down at the man in his lap, his heart so full he thought it might burst. The system was perfect. But sometimes, just sometimes, the best way to soothe his beautiful, tempestuous, perfect fiancé was even simpler than a purring cat or a wiggling dog.
It was just them. And it was more than enough.