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Max stared at his phone screen. The text message glared back at him, simple and utterly baffling.
Sorry, I don’t date married men.
He blinked. He read it again. He looked around his own living room, as if the answer might be perched on the sofa. His eyes landed on a framed photograph on the bookshelf. It was from their wedding. He was in a sharp, dark suit, grinning like an idiot. Charles was next to him, a vision in cream silk, his green eyes crinkled with laughter, a soft, beautiful smile on his lips. The late afternoon sun had caught the chestnut tones in his hair, making them glow. Max’s own blond head was tilted towards Charles. They looked happy. Very married.
He looked back at the phone. The text was from Charles. His Charles.
His thumb flew over the screen. But I am your husband.
The reply came almost instantly. No excuses.
Max slumped back into his chair. What was happening? He replayed the last few hours. It had been a normal, quiet Tuesday. He’d texted Charles, who was spending a couple of days at his own apartment in Monaco, suggesting a nice dinner out that weekend. A date. Just because they were married didn’t mean they couldn’t date, right? He thought it was a sweet idea. Charles loved romance when he wasn’t being stubborn.
Apparently, now he was being very stubborn.
Charles, he typed, patience fraying. Look at your left hand.
A minute passed. Then two. It’s a very nice hand.
Look at the RING on it.
I have many rings.
Max growled in frustration. This was ridiculous. He called. It went to voicemail. He called again. Straight to voicemail. Fine. If this was how Charles wanted to play it, he would play.
The next morning, Max drove to Charles’s apartment. He had a key. He used it. The place was tidy, sunlight streaming in. Charles was in the kitchen, wearing soft grey sweatpants and an old Ferrari hoodie, his hair a messy, perfect cascade of waves. He was making coffee. He looked breathtakingly beautiful, and for a second, Max just stood there, disarmed.
Charles turned, saw him, and gave a small, polite smile. “Max. What a surprise.”
The tone was all wrong. It was the tone Charles used for polite interviews, not for his husband who had just walked into his home.
“We need to talk,” Max said, walking in.
“About?”
“About you accusing me of being married.”
Charles poured coffee into a mug. “It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement of fact. You are married. Therefore, I won’t date you.”
Max pointed a finger at him. “You. You are married. To me.”
Charles took a slow sip of coffee, his green eyes wide and innocent over the rim of the mug. “Am I? I don’t recall signing anything.”
“We have photos! We have a certificate! It’s in a drawer somewhere!”
“Photoshop is a powerful tool,” Charles said serenely, walking past him into the living room. He curled up on the sofa, tucking his feet under him.
Max followed, feeling like he was in a surreal play. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what? Maintaining my moral standards? It’s very simple, Max. I have a rule. I find you attractive, yes. But you are off the market. It would be wrong.”
The casual admission of attraction was a tiny hook in Max’s chest, but the rest was madness. “I am not off the market! My market is exclusively you! You bought the whole market!”
“Interesting metaphor,” Charles murmured, looking at his nails.
Max sat down heavily on the coffee table, facing him. “Is this because I forgot to empty the dishwasher last week? Or because I used your fancy conditioner? I told you, it smelled nice!”
Charles’s lips twitched, but he schooled his features back into mild indifference. “This is not about chores or haircare. This is about ethics.”
“Our marriage is not an ethical dilemma!”
“It is if you’re trying to date other people while married to me.”
Max let out a sound of pure exasperation. “I am not trying to date other people! I am trying to date YOU!”
“And I,” Charles said, setting his mug down with a soft click, “do not date married men. Goodbye, Max. It was nice seeing you.”
He picked up a magazine from the side table and started reading. The dismissal was absolute.
Max left, thoroughly confused and more than a little irritated.
The following day, he tried a different tactic. Grand gestures. He sent a massive bouquet of white lilies and blue irises to Charles’s apartment. The card read: To my beautiful husband, from your devoted husband. Please go on a date with me.
The response was a photo text. The flowers were in a beautiful vase. The next photo was of Charles’s hand, the simple platinum band clearly visible on his ring finger, hovering near the blooms. The text below: Your husband is a lucky man. These are lovely. You should take him out.
Max stared at the image of Charles’s own wedding ring being used as proof against him. He wanted to scream.
He called Daniel. Daniel, who had been their best man.
“Mate, I think Charles has had a psychological break.”
Daniel’s laughter boomed down the line. “What’d he do now?”
Max explained the situation. There was a long silence on the other end.
“So… let me get this straight. He’s pretending he’s not married to you… so he can reject you for being married… to him.”
“Yes!”
“That,” Daniel said, admiration clear in his voice, “is the most chaotic thing I’ve ever heard. That’s genius. I’m not helping you. This is too good.”
“Daniel!”
“No, mate, you’re on your own. This is a masterpiece.”
Lando was no better. When Max messaged him in desperation, he got back a string of crying-laughing emojis and a single line: He’s got you in a logic loop. I respect it.
Fine. If his friends were useless, he would handle it himself. With logic.
That evening, he went over again, armed with evidence. He had a folder. Physical, printed evidence.
Charles let him in, looking utterly unperturbed. He was wearing glasses, which was unfairly distracting.
“More arguments, Max?”
“Evidence,” Max corrected, spreading photos on the dining table. “Exhibit A: our wedding. Us at the altar.”
Charles peered at it. “A lovely commitment ceremony for you and your mystery spouse. I look good, though.”
“That’s YOU next to me!”
“A striking resemblance.”
“Exhibit B,” Max said, slamming down a copy of their marriage license. It had their names. Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc. Max Emilian Verstappen.
Charles adjusted his glasses and leaned in. “Hmm. Forgeries are so detailed these days.”
“EXHIBIT C!” Max was nearly shouting. He pulled out his phone, pulling up a shared cloud album. “Our holiday in the Maldives last year. Us together. On a beach. That is clearly a honeymoon!”
Charles scrolled, a faint smile on his face. “You take very nice holiday photos with your husband. He has excellent taste in swimwear.”
Max snatched the phone back. “You are impossible!”
“I am principled.”
“You are a menace!”
Charles finally looked up at him, taking off his glasses. His green eyes were clear and bright, sparkling with suppressed laughter. “Max, why are you so desperate to date me? There are many single men in Monaco.”
“Because I love you!” The words burst out of him, loud and raw in the quiet apartment. “Because I want to have dinner with you and hold your hand across the table and take you home afterwards. Because you’re my person. Even when you’re being absolutely insane.”
Charles’s expression softened for a fraction of a second, then the mask of polite detachment slid back into place. “That’s very sweet. Truly. But my rule stands.”
Defeated, Max gathered his evidence. “This isn’t over.”
“I’m sure it isn’t.”
For a week, it continued. Max tried everything. He cooked Charles’s favorite meal and brought it over. Charles ate it appreciatively, thanked him for cooking for “a lonely bachelor,” and sent him home with the clean containers.
He suggested they watch a movie. Charles agreed, but sat on the opposite end of the sofa, maintaining a conspicuous gap. When Max’s hand strayed too close, Charles tutted and moved it away. “Please respect my boundaries. I don’t touch other people’s husbands.”
He booked a table at the fancy restaurant where they’d had their first anniversary. Charles cancelled the reservation, citing a “schedule conflict,” and sent Max a link to a couples’ cooking class instead. “This looks fun for you and your spouse!”
Max was starting to lose his mind. The physical distance was torture. He was used to touching Charles—a hand on his back, a kiss on his temple, falling asleep wrapped around him. Now he was treated with the polite distance of a slightly annoying acquaintance. It was maddening.
The breaking point came on Friday night. Max had had a long, frustrating day of simulator work. All he wanted was to collapse next to Charles on the couch and forget about it. He went to Charles’s apartment, exhausted and emotionally thin.
Charles opened the door. He looked soft and warm, his hair damp from a shower.
“Max,” he said, not unkindly.
“I’m not here to argue,” Max said, his voice flat with tiredness. “I just… can I come in?”
Charles studied his face and stepped back silently.
Max walked in and went straight to the sofa, sinking into it. He closed his eyes. He heard Charles move around, then the clink of glass. A moment later, a tumbler of whisky was placed on the coffee table in front of him. His favorite. Neat.
Max opened his eyes. Charles was sitting in the armchair opposite, watching him.
“Rough day?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Max sipped the whisky, feeling it warm a path down his throat.
“Why are you really doing this, Charles?” he asked, not looking at him. His anger had burnt out, leaving only a confused ache. “Did I do something wrong? Did you… change your mind?”
He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. Did you stop wanting me?
Charles was quiet for so long Max finally looked over. The playful, teasing mask was gone. Charles looked… thoughtful. A little vulnerable.
“Do you remember,” Charles began slowly, “what you said to me the night you proposed?”
Max frowned, thinking back. It had been here, in this apartment. Not down on one knee, but lying tangled together in Charles’s bed, whispering in the dark. “I said a lot of things.”
“You said,” Charles continued, his gaze fixed on his own hands, “that you would never stop chasing me. That getting married wasn’t the finish line. That you’d keep trying to win me over, every day.”
The memory clicked into place. The words, whispered against Charles’s skin, fierce and sincere.
“I meant it,” Max said quietly.
“I know you did.” Charles finally met his eyes. “But then life happens. We get busy. We move in together. We get comfortable. We stop going on dates. We talk about bills and schedules and who’s feeding the cat. And it’s good. It’s so good, Max. I love our life.”
He took a breath. “But I missed it. I missed the feeling of you trying. I missed the butterflies of you asking me out. I missed being courted. Not because you’re not affectionate, you are. But it’s different. So I thought… if I created a little obstacle. A ridiculous, impossible obstacle. Maybe you’d have to chase me again. And you did.”
Max stared at him, the puzzle pieces finally tumbling into place. It wasn’t rejection. It wasn’t madness. It was a test. A request. A beautifully, typically convoluted Charles Leclerc way of asking for attention.
“You,” Max said, standing up. He walked over to Charles’s chair. “You are the most infuriating, beautiful, clever, impossible man on the planet.”
Charles looked up at him, a hesitant hope in his green eyes. “Is it working?”
Instead of answering, Max did what he’d been dying to do for a week. He bent down, cradled Charles’s face in his hands, and kissed him. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a week’s worth of frustration, confusion, and pent-up longing. Charles melted into it immediately, his hands coming up to grip Max’s wrists, a small, desperate sound escaping his throat.
When they broke apart, both were breathing heavily.
“So,” Charles whispered, his lips reddened. “Does this mean you’re having an affair with me?”
Max rested his forehead against Charles’s. “No. It means I’m taking my husband on a date. Right now.”
“Now? It’s 9 PM.”
“I don’t care. Get your coat. And for god’s sake, acknowledge your ring.”
A real, full, radiant smile broke across Charles’s face. The one Max had fallen in love with. “Okay. But only because you asked so persistently.”
The restaurant was nearly empty, but they got a corner table. Charles, for the first time in a week, reached across the table and laced his fingers with Max’s. The simple contact sent a wave of relief through Max.
“So,” Max said, tracing circles on Charles’s knuckle with his thumb, feeling the metal of the ring. “How does it feel? Dating a married man?”
Charles leaned forward, his eyes glittering under the soft restaurant lights. “Scandalous. Thrilling. I hope his husband doesn’t find out.”
“He won’t,” Max said, bringing Charles’s hand to his lips and kissing the ring. “He’s secretly rooting for us.”
Later, back at their shared home—the one with the wedding photo on the shelf—Charles finally stopped pretending. He curled into Max’s side on the sofa, his head on Max’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry for the mind games,” he murmured.
“I’m sorry I stopped making you feel chased,” Max replied, kissing his hair. “But you know, you could have just said ‘Hey, Max, take me out more.’”
Charles scoffed lightly. “Where’s the fun in that? This was more memorable.”
“It was that,” Max agreed dryly. A thought occurred to him. “So, just to be clear. The marriage is back on? You remember it?”
“Hmm,” Charles pretended to think. “I might need some reminding. Daily. With dates. And flowers sometimes. And kisses that make me forget my own name.”
Max smiled into the chestnut hair. “I think I can arrange that. Starting with the last part.”
And he did.