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Max prided himself on discipline. His life, much like his driving, ran on a meticulously calibrated schedule. Wake-up at 5:45 AM. A glass of cold water. An hour and a half of rigorous training. Breakfast. Then, the day's work. It was non-negotiable. It was the scaffolding of his success.
That scaffolding began to develop a significant, warm, and stubborn crack named Charles Leclerc.
It started subtly, as the days grew shorter and the winter truly dug its claws in. Charles, who was always more inclined to burrow under layers than face a frosty morning, became practically nocturnal in his sleeping habits. Not that he stayed up late. No, he just refused to leave the bed’s ecosystem. Max’s side of the bed, to be precise.
Max’s alarm buzzed, a sharp, digital sound in the dark bedroom. He moved to shut it off, the motion ingrained. The instant the sound died, a hand shot out from the mound of duvet beside him. Not a flailing, awake hand. A sleep-heavy, determined hand that latched onto his bicep with surprising strength.
"Mmmpf," came the sound from the duvet mound.
Max paused, half-sitting up. "Charles? I have to train."
The mound shifted. A face emerged, but only just. Messy brown hair, a creased cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes firmly shut. Charles Leclerc was, by all observable metrics, still completely asleep. Yet, his fingers tightened. "Non," he mumbled, the word slurred and thick with sleep. He nuzzled his face against Max’s arm, a slow, unconscious rub like a cat claiming its favorite spot.
Max felt a strange, warm sensation bloom in his chest. It was… cute. Disarmingly so. The fierce, focused competitor he knew was currently a soft, clingy lump. "Charles," he said, his voice lower, softer than he intended. "Let go. It’s gym time."
Charles made a small, discontented noise. His brow, even in sleep, furrowed slightly. He didn't let go. Instead, he wrapped his other arm around Max’s, pulling the captured limb closer to his chest, hugging it like a personal-sized body pillow.
A idea, wicked and delightful, popped into Max’s head. He leaned down, his lips close to Charles’s ear. "If you want me to stay, you have to ask nicely."
Charles’s nose scrunched. "…Go 'way…"
"Ask properly," Max whispered, a smile playing on his lips. He used his free hand to gently brush the hair from Charles’s forehead. "What do you call me?"
There was a long pause. Max could almost see the gears in Charles’s sleeping brain turning through molasses. The soft lips parted. "…Max…"
"Try again," Max coaxed, utterly enchanted by this sleepy, defenseless version of his boyfriend. "The other thing you sometimes say. When you’re not being stubborn."
Another pause. A deep, sleepy breath. "…’usband…"
Max’s heart did a funny little flip. It was a muffled, barely-there approximation of ‘husband’, but it was enough. He was utterly, completely defeated. "Okay," he murmured, surrendering. He stopped trying to extract his arm. Instead, he settled back against the pillows, pulling Charles a bit closer. "Five more minutes."
Charles, victorious in his sleep, made a contented hum and his forehead smoothed. He released Max’s arm only to sling his own over Max’s torso, fully anchoring him.
Max didn’t get up for another forty-five minutes.
The next morning, the scene repeated. This time, Max was ready. The alarm went off. The hand clamped onto him. The sleepy nuzzle against his bicep.
"Charles," Max said, the routine feeling oddly natural now. "My arm is not a hostage."
"Shhh," Charles breathed, eyes closed.
"You’re keeping me from my routine," Max said, but he made no real move. "What do you say?"
Charles buried his face deeper into Max’s arm. His voice was a warm puff against skin. "…Stay."
"Not good enough." Max’s thumb stroked over the back of Charles’s hand. "Come on. One little word."
He waited. Charles’s long eyelashes fluttered. A soft, frustrated sigh escaped him. "…Frère…" he mumbled.
Max blinked. Brother? That was a new one. "In English, kitten," he pressed, the new nickname slipping out effortlessly.
Charles whined, a tiny, desperate sound. His brain was clearly scrambling for the word that would make the nice, warm pillow stop talking and just stay. "…G…" he slurred, the word for ‘older brother’—a remnant of some long-ago language phase—falling from his lips in pure desperation.
Max burst out laughing, a quiet, joyous sound. He was done for. "Okay, okay, I am here," he said, giving up entirely. He wrapped his arm around Charles, pulling the sleeping form completely against him. Charles instantly melted, a boneless sigh of relief leaving him.
The gym was forgotten.
A pattern was set. Max’s 5:45 AM alarm became a mere suggestion. His trainer began receiving text apologies with increasing frequency. Max found his new morning routine far more compelling: gently extorting terms of endearment from a half-conscious Charles. ‘Max’ was never enough. He wanted the sleepy, unfiltered sweetness. He got ‘love’, ‘mon chéri’, and once, a breathtakingly sincere ‘my Max’ that left him staring at the ceiling for a good ten minutes, Charles peacefully asleep on his chest.
The real test came on days Max didn’t have to leave for the factory or a sim session. Days designated for ‘home office’. He would set up at the large desk in the corner of their bedroom, his back to the bed, determined to get through emails, data analysis, and team correspondence.
It never worked.
He would start, the quiet clicks of his mechanical keyboard the only sound. Within twenty minutes, a small, troubled sound would come from the bed. Max would glance over. Charles had shifted. He was no longer sprawled, but had cocooned himself tightly in the duvet, a perfect, human-sized burrito with only the top of his head visible.
Max would turn back to his screen. Click-clack-click.
Another sound. A faint, distressed sigh. Max looked again. The Charles-burrito had somehow migrated to the edge of the bed closest to the desk. Only his face was visible now, peeking out from the white linen. His expression in sleep was subtly wrong. His plush lips were parted, his elegant brows drawn together in the faintest of frowns. He looked… abandoned. Uneasy.
The third sigh, accompanied by a slight twitch, was Max’s breaking point. He saved his document, got up, and walked to the bed. He didn't say a word. He just lifted the edge of the duvet and slid in behind Charles, his back against the headboard, his laptop balanced on his knees. He resumed typing, the clicks now muffled by the bedding.
The effect was immediate. The minute Max’s weight dipped the mattress beside him, Charles’s tense shoulders dropped. The tiny frown vanished, replaced by serene blankness. He didn’t even wake up. He simply sensed the presence, the heat, the security, and his subconscious deemed the world safe again. He made a soft, snuffling noise and fell still.
Max worked like that for an hour, Charles a warm line against his thigh. It was, admittedly, a little awkward on his neck. But he couldn't bring himself to move. The keyboard clicks, which had been a source of anxiety for Charles, were now a lullaby. Max’s occasional muttered curses at a frustrating email didn’t even make him stir.
During a particularly tedious conference call—one he was on mute for—Max looked down. The late morning sun caught Charles’s face. His cheek was smushed against the pillow, his long, brown lashes casting shadows. His lips were slightly pouted. He was so profoundly beautiful it stole the air from Max’s lungs. The team principal’s voice droned in his ear about aerodynamic updates. All Max could see was the peaceful, trusting face of his sleeping boyfriend.
He slowly, carefully, leaned down. He paused an inch from Charles’s cheek, listening to his steady breathing. Then he closed the distance, pressing the softest, most fleeting kiss to the warm skin. Charles didn't wake. A ghost of a smile, or maybe just a muscle twitch, touched his lips. Max pulled back, his heart feeling too big for his chest. He unmuted his mic. "Yes, I agree with those figures," he said, his voice miraculously steady.
It became their new normal. Max would start at the desk. Charles would begin his silent, sleepy protest. Max would eventually join him in bed, his office hours conducted from their fortress of blankets. The laptop fan whirred, the keyboard clicked, and Charles slept the deep, untroubled sleep of the truly secure.
One Wednesday, things escalated. Max had an important virtual meeting. He needed his dual monitors, his proper chair. He couldn't do it from bed. He explained this to a fully-awake Charles the night before.
"But I will be right there," Charles had argued, his green eyes wide. "At the desk with you. I’ll read. I’ll be quiet."
"You’ll be bored in ten minutes and start poking me," Max said, smiling.
"I will not!"
In the morning, Max sat at his desk, his serious headset on. Charles, true to his word, sat curled in the large armchair nearby, a book in his lap. For the first fifteen minutes of the meeting, it was fine.
Then Charles’s book slid to the floor. Max, discussing logistics with his manager, saw it from the corner of his eye. He kept talking. A minute later, he felt a presence. Charles was standing beside his chair, looking down at his own feet, swaying slightly. He was asleep on his feet.
"Max?" his manager’s voice came through the headset.
"One second," Max said, hitting the mute button. He looked up at Charles. "Schatje, what are you doing?"
Charles’s eyes opened, glassy and confused. "I… fell asleep."
"I see that. Go back to bed."
"The bed is cold," Charles murmured, as if this explained everything. He then, with the sheer audacity of the sleepwalking, simply climbed into Max’s lap.
Max froze. Charles arranged himself sideways, his legs dangling over the arm of the office chair, his head finding a niche between Max’s shoulder and his chest. He was asleep again in seconds, a living, breathing weighted blanket.
Max was mute, on camera, with his boyfriend passed out in his lap during a professional meeting. He had two choices: wake Charles and cause a scene, or brazen it out. He chose the latter. He unmuted.
"Apologies. You were saying about the transport?"
He continued the meeting, one hand resting lightly on Charles’s back to steady him, the other gesturing calmly on camera as if he didn’t have a top-tier Formula 1 driver napping on him. No one on the call mentioned it. He was Max Verstappen. Perhaps this was a new, intense form of focus training.
After that, all pretense was gone. If Max was working from home, Charles was in physical contact with him. No exceptions. Max bought a larger, more comfortable chair. He started scheduling his calls for the afternoon, when Charles was reliably awake and functional.
One cold afternoon, they were on the sofa. Max was reviewing race data (the one concession to his profession in their sanctuary), Charles was dozing with his head in Max’s lap, a documentary playing quietly on the TV. Max’s fingers were absentmindedly carding through Charles’s soft brown hair.
Charles stirred, blinking his green eyes open. He looked up at Max, his gaze clear and soft. "You missed your gym session again this morning," he said, his voice husky with sleep.
"I know," Max said, not looking away from his tablet.
"Why?" Charles asked, though the knowing, gentle curve of his mouth suggested he already had an idea.
Max put the tablet down. He looked at Charles, really looked at him. The delicate arch of his brows, the constellation of freckles over his nose, the perfect bow of his lips. This man, who fought him so fiercely on track, was putty in his hands in the soft morning light. And Max was equally helpless before his sleepy, unguarded need.
"Because," Max said, his voice rough. "Someone keeps bribing me with adorable, sleepy mumbles. And I have a very weak will when it comes to that."
Charles smiled, a real, awake, dazzling smile. "So it is my fault your discipline is broken?"
"Completely," Max confirmed, leaning down. "You are a terrible influence, Charles Leclerc." He kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of sleep and warmth and home.
Charles hummed against his lips. "I am not sorry."
"I know," Max said, kissing him again. "Neither am I."
Later, as they got ready for bed, Charles was brushing his teeth. Max watched him from the doorway. He saw the casual ease, the way Charles now took it for granted that Max would be there when he woke up disoriented. A profound sense of ownership, of rightness, settled over Max.
The next morning, Max’s alarm buzzed at 5:45 AM. He turned it off. He didn’t move. He waited.
Right on schedule, the sleep-heavy hand snaked out and clamped onto his bicep. The nuzzle came. The soft, protesting grunt.
Max turned onto his side, facing Charles. He wrapped his arms around the duvet-wrapped form. "What do you want, baby?" he whispered.
Charles, still more asleep than awake, nosed his way under Max’s chin. "Stay…"
"Who should stay?" Max prompted, the ritual as essential as any training now.
Charles sighed, a long, suffering sound. His brain, trawling the depths of sleep, offered up the winning answer. "…My Max stays," he mumbled, the words blending together. "Mine."
Something fierce and tender clenched in Max’s chest. Mine. He held Charles tighter. "Yours," he agreed, his voice thick. He didn’t mention the gym. He didn't think about his schedule. He thought about the warm, trusting weight in his arms, and the single, possessive word that meant more than any trophy.
The final surrender came a week later. It was a rest day. No work, no obligations. Max woke naturally at seven, a luxurious late hour for him. Charles was sprawled half on top of him, breathing deeply.
For the first time in weeks, Max felt the faint, habitual itch to move, to be productive. He could go for a run. Just a short one. He began the delicate process of extraction, sliding out from under Charles.
The moment he lost contact, Charles whimpered. It wasn't a dramatic sound. It was a small, lost, heartbreaking noise in the back of his throat. His hand scrabbled against the empty sheets, and the faint, worried frown reappeared between his brows.
Max stood by the bed, looking down. He saw the vulnerability, the deep-seated need for safety that only sleep could reveal. Charles, awake, was proud, fierce, and independent. Charles, asleep, was his.
He got back into bed. He didn't just get back in; he gathered Charles into his arms, pulling him flush against his chest, tucking the smaller man’s head under his chin. He surrounded him. "Shhh," he murmured into the soft brown hair. "I’m here. I’m not going anywhere."
Charles immediately settled, a long, slow exhale warming Max’s skin. The frown disappeared.
Max held him, watching the grey winter light slowly brighten the room. He thought about his discipline, his routine, his control. He had spent a lifetime building walls of structure. Charles, in his soft, sleepy way, had not broken them down. He had simply opened a door and invited Max into a warmer, softer space inside.
This was better than any personal best. This feeling—this profound, quiet contentment—was the real prize. The gym could wait. The world could wait. Right here, with a human-sized kitten trusting him enough to truly rest, was exactly where he was meant to be.
He pressed a kiss to Charles’s forehead. "Sleep, schatje," he whispered. "I've got you."
And he did. Not just for the morning, but for every single one to come.