Work Text:
A problem, Max decided, was supposed to be something like understeer or bad strategy calls or someone forgetting to fuel the car properly. A problem, Max decided, was supposed to be something concrete. Understeer you could feel through the wheel. A strategy call you could argue about. A bad lap time you could grind your teeth over and fix next run. A problem, Max decided, was supposed to be something with a clear solution. Brake balance. Tire strategy. Someone blocking in qualifying. Those were problems. You looked at them. You could fight them. You won or you didn’t and then you moved on.
A problem was not…this. Not the way his body kept buzzing like he’d got electricity under his skin. Not the way every sound felt too sharp and every smell too loud except the ones he wanted. Not the way his stupid omega instincts had apparently decided to stage a coup.
Pre-heat.
Fantastic. Brilliant. Loved that for him.
Which would have been fine if he hadn’t suddenly felt like an overstimulated cat desperate for a lap. It was overwhelming. It was embarrassing. He was Max Verstappen. He won championships. He stared down pressure and made it blink first.
It was annoying, mostly, because emotionally he felt fine. Calm. Rational. Completely capable of winning a race and giving a blunt post-session interview. And yet his body was like, yes, but what if we simply melted into another person and stayed there for several hours.
Pre-heat.
He rolled the word around in his head like it might lose its meaning if he chewed on it long enough. He’d dealt with it before. He knew the signs. The heightened senses, the restless energy, the way his omega instincts started tugging at him like a badly behaved dog. Usually, he outran it. Distracted himself. Buried it under exhausting training schedules and data, and sheer force of will.
It was not even concrete. It was the way the air felt empty around him, like the room was too big and he was rattling around inside it. It was wanting pressure, not the racing kind, but arms, weight, enveloping scent that you could drown into and that could lull this damn body buzzing down, someone solid anchoring him in place so his thoughts stopped skidding off in every direction.
He hated how comforting that sounded.
And he was very, very single at that point.
----
Max paced his hotel room for a while, tried a cold shower (bad idea, made him want warmth even more), tried pretending this was just like being jet-lagged and grumpy. It was not. He kept catching himself inhaling too deeply, cataloguing scents that weren’t there, wanting something familiar and steady and close. He was almost sure what he was looking for. Yet it was not there.
It annoyed him more than the discomfort. Every scent in the hotel room felt wrong—too clean, too empty, nothing grounding enough to hold onto. He paced, then stopped, then paced again, like movement alone might solve the itching.
It didn’t.
He tried stretching. His muscles loosened, but the need stayed.
By the time he was done, his hands were shaking.
“This is stupid,” he muttered to the empty room.
He told himself he could handle this.
He thrived under pressure. He didn’t unravel because his instincts told him he wanted to be held and scented. Except - apparently - sometimes he did.
The problem with being Max Verstappen was that all his life he was supposed to be an alpha. A fast strong, unbeatable alpha. His father tried to shape him as a winner. Drive faster. Push harder - beyond limits. Be stronger. He thought Max’s alpha instincts would multiply the efforts.
And here he was, a restless omega in pre-heat, seeking warmth and steadiness.
Pre-heat wasn’t a big problem itself. It’s the feeling it contained. Weakness. Something he hated to experience since childhood. It meant loosening control. It meant you were all alone. And he definitely wasn’t weak. Not that he cared though.
He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor, breathing slow and deliberate, like he’d taught himself to do before races. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. It helped a little. Still not enough.
He groaned and finally gave in.
----
Max hadn’t planned on stopping by. It wasn’t like their motorhome was on his way. Anyway, he trusted his friend. And it wouldn’t take long.
He told himself that as he stood in the doorway, shoulder already leaning into the frame like he belonged there. Lando looked up from his phone, took him in with a single glance that lingered half a second too long, then snorted.
"Jesus, mate. You look like shit."
"Thanks," Max said, automatically.
Lando didn't ask why he was there. Didn't ask if he was okay. He just patted the empty space on the couch beside him, casual as breathing.
“C’mon. Let’s watch somethin’.”
Max sat. Not close. Not far. Enough space to pretend it was incidental. They watched something loud and stupid. Lando laughed too hard at it. Max exhaled slowly, like he hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath all evening. The contact stayed. Warm and grounding. It felt… good. Too good, maybe. Like sinking into a familiar rhythm where nothing was required of him except to exist.
With Lando, there was no fear of misreading signals. No dangerous thoughts that snuck in when he was tired or overheated. He didn't wonder what it would have been like to stay. He didn't imagine hands lingering or breaths syncing. His mind stayed clear, sharp, exactly where he needed it to be.
That was the problem. Lando naturally didn't judge. Omegas tended to gather and get along. Lando got the rhythm of it without explanation — the way pre-heats crept in sideways, the way control slipped at the edges before you realized it was happening. He never made a big deal out of it.
If anything, Lando made jokes.
His knee started bouncing. Lando reached out without looking and stilled it with the flat of his hand.
“Relax,” he said lightly. “You’re making me anxious.”
Max huffed a laugh despite himself. “You? Anxious?”
“Yeah, me. Imagine that.”
Max rolled his eyes, but the tension eased anyway. Lando had a way of doing that - talking just enough nonsense to keep things light without crossing into dismissal. He didn't hover. He didn't push. He just stayed.
Lando's scent was easy. Bright, warm, comforting. It didn't wrap around Max the way Charles's did, didn't sink into his bones. It settled instead, like background noise he had learned to tune out because it had never been a threat. Safe. Platonic. If Charles felt like quiet gravity, Lando felt like sunlight through a window Max had left open for years. And they had known each other for years. In fact, since… Max blinked and shifted, clearing his throat. Lando's hand dropped immediately without a question. He was good at that: giving without keeping.
“You staying?” Lando asked casually.
Max opened his mouth, then closed it.
“Nah,” he said. “Just needed-” He cut himself off and shrugged. “Yeah. Just needed a minute.”
Lando studied him, then noded. “Anytime.”
Max left steadier than he’d arrived. But not settled.
----
The hospitality lounge was too warm.
Not uncomfortable, exactly — just wrong in a way Max couldn't stop noticing. The air sat heavy on his skin, thick with coffee and citrus cleaner and too many different people's scents layered over each other. It was buzzing. Not with noise, but with movement. Mechanics was drifting through in team gear, PR people murmured into headsets, someone laughed too loudly near the bar.
Max claimed a corner of a couch like he was staking territory, feet planted flat on the floor, knees bouncing. It wouldn't stop.
There was a TV mounted on the wall replaying qualifying laps on a delay. He caught flashes of himself taking a corner, smooth and fast and controlled. It felt like watching a stranger. That guy on the screen looked like he had everything under control. Max in the room felt like he had left something important out on track and couldn't remember what it was no matter how long he stared at the screen. All he knew was that he needed to keep looking for it.
He was trying to look normal. Yet very aware that normal currently looked like a performance. His instincts kept tugging him closer to the nearest warmth, the nearest familiar presence.
There was a low hum under everything: refrigerators behind the bar, the distant whine of a generator, voices blending into one soft, restless sound. It reminded him of the grid before a start. Not loud yet. Just waiting. He sighed.
Pierre's laugh cut through it from somewhere to his left. Lando's voice followed a second later, high and familiar. Max didn't look over right away. He let the sounds come to him instead, grounded himself in them.
Someone passed too close, and the brush of their sleeve against his arm made his shoulders tense. He exhaled slowly through his nose and shifted, trying to give himself space without making it obvious. He didn't want attention (at least not everyone's). He just wanted… something else he couldn't quite put his finger on.
The couch was warm from the person who sank down there next to him. He didn't move away from it. The heat seeped through his race suit, settled into his back, and his body reacted like it had found something it didn't know it was looking for. His fingers curled into the fabric of the couch without thinking.
"You okay?" Pierre's voice next to him sounded casual, like he was asking about the weather.
Max blinked and turned his head sharply.
Pierre was the first one who noticed. Pierre always noticed. Maybe it was leftover from when they were younger and angrier, and everything had felt like a competition, even breathing.
Pierre's scent was sharp in a way Max found grounding. Cool and clear, like clean air after rain, with an edge of something restless underneath it. It never overwhelmed him, never sank too deep. It kept him alert instead, reminded him to stay upright, stay present. Pierre carried his energy close to the surface - competitive, emotional, always humming - and his scent reflected that. When Pierre was near, Max felt steadier by contrast, like two lines running parallel without crossing. It was reliable and uncomplicated.
Max shrugged. "Fine."
It was the least convincing lie he had ever told, and he had told some real classics. Pierre hummed, unconvinced, and shifted closer on the couch. He didn't make it obvious. Just closed the gap enough that their shoulders brushed. It was easy. Safe in the way old friendships were, like muscle memory instead of something you had to think about.
Max leaned into it before he realized he was doing it.
Pierre didn't comment. Just stayed there, solid and steady, letting Max borrow warmth without making it a thing. That made Max's chest feel tight in a way he didn't want to examine too closely.
Then he caught a new scent.
Charles's scent hit Max before he saw him. It cut through the layered smells of the hospitality lounge - coffee, cleaning spray, too many people - clean and warm and unmistakably Charles. Max's body reacted instantly, a sharp awareness blooming in his chest, like his instincts recognized something before his mind could catch up. The scent wrapped around him without asking, settled close, sank deep into his bones, familiar in a way that felt too personal. It wasn't overwhelming, but it was present, grounding, impossible to ignore. Max's breath stuttered, just slightly, and his leg stilled like his body had decided this mattered.
Max lifted his head and saw Charles in the doorway, scanning the room like he was looking for something specific. The recognition clicked into place, and the feeling deepened. This wasn't background noise. This was something his body had learned, something it had been waiting for, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Their eyes met, and the corner of Charles' mouth twitched.
For a second, Max forgot about the warmth nearby, the noise, the buzzing under his skin. The lounge didn't feel so big anymore. The door slid open again, letting in a breath of cooler air from the paddock outside. It brushed over his face, and for half a second, his body loosened. He leaned back, just a little.
Then Daniel barreled in like a human sunshine grenade.
Charles's scent was overshadowed by a new one.
Daniel's scent was unexpected, every time. Daniel's was warmer than Pierre's. Softer. It spread without trying to, easy and open, like a laugh you heard before you saw him. There was comfort in it, a laid-back confidence that took the edge off whatever room he was in. Daniel's scent didn't pull at Max's instincts so much as it smoothed them out, reminded him to unclench, to breathe. Max would never have called it subtle. There was a dusty note to it, too, something that reminded Max of open air and long roads, heat rising off asphalt. It didn't sit still. It drifted, spread, filled space the way Daniel did when he walked into a room like he belonged there. It was sunshine without being blinding, warmth without pressure. Being near it felt like someone nudged him with an elbow and said you're doing fine, mate, and Max hated how effective that was.
"Why do you both look like someone canceled Christmas?" Daniel asked, dropping into the chair across from them and immediately tipping it back onto two legs like he was daring gravity to fight him.
Max snorted despite himself. "You're loud."
"Thank you," Daniel said, beaming. "I work very hard at it." Daniel's eyes flicked between them, sharp under all the humor. "Ohhh. I see. We're having a day."
Max groaned, feeling flush creep up his neck. "Don't even start."
"I'm just saying," Daniel continued, standing up and dramatically stretching, "if this is a cuddle emergency, I feel morally obligated to help."
Pierre rolled his eyes with a smirk. "You're not helping. You're making it worse."
Daniel plopped down on Max's other side anyway, slinging an arm over the back of the couch behind him.
“I’m just saying,” Daniel added, pointing at Max, "you didn't cling to me like a koala. That feels personal."
Max was boxed in by warmth on both sides, and his instincts practically purred. He hated how good it felt. He hated how much he relaxed without meaning to, shoulders dropping, breath evening out.
"This is stupid," he muttered.
"Sure is," Daniel agreed cheerfully. "But you look less like you're about to bite someone now, so I'd call it a win."
Max glared at him, but it didn't have much bite due to a stupid smile stretching his lips.
"Wow," Daniel continued, nodding sagely, "he's defensive. That's how you know it's serious."
Pierre took one look at Max's posture—curled slightly inward, shoulder tipped toward Daniel like a magnet found its north - and raised an eyebrow.
"You know," Pierre said casually, "you only do that thing with your shoulders when you're comfortable."
Max stiffened. "I don't do a thing."
"Mhm," Pierre replied. "You're doing it right now."
Max straightened out of pure spite, only to immediately sag back against Pierre when he realized how much colder the air felt two inches away.
That was when Charles walked in.
He didn't announce himself. He never did. He just appeared, quiet and composed, taking in the scene with a soft, curious look. His gaze landed on Max and lingered in a way that made something in Max's stomach flip over.
Charles didn't joke. Didn't comment.
He just came closer and sat on the coffee table in front of them, close enough that Max could feel his scent again.
"Hey," Charles said softly.
Max swallowed. "Hey."
The problem with being comfortable, Max thought, was that it made you careless. He was halfway reclined on one of the stupidly expensive couches in the hospitality area, legs stretched out, Daniel beside him close enough that their thighs touched. It was warm. It was quiet. It was - annoyingly - nice.
Esteban appeared out of nowhere with a drink in each hand and a grin that Max recognized as troubled. He stopped in front of them, looked down, and tilted his head.
"Well," Esteban said. "This is… intimate."
Max groaned and slid lower into the couch. "Go away."
Esteban plopped down on the armrest near Pierre instead, far too close for comfort. "I left you alone for twenty minutes, and suddenly you are starring in a very tender indie film."
Pierre coughed, trying -- and failing -- to hide a smile.
Esteban's scent was subtler than most people expected. Warm, grounded, almost earthy, with a steadiness to it that Max noticed most when things were chaotic. It didn't demand attention, but once Max registered it, it was reassuring in a low, constant way. Esteban smelled like endurance - like someone who knew how to wait things out. Around him, Max felt oddly balanced, less reactive. There was no emotional spike, no instinctual response beyond a calm acceptance. Esteban's presence didn't change the room; it stabilized it.
Meanwhile, Alex and George chose an exactly wrong timing (to Max personally) to wander in, holding plates of food.
Alex stopped mid-step. "Why does this look like an intervention?"
George squinted. "Or a hostage situation."
George's scent was neat. That was the word Max always came back to. Clean and controlled, like fresh laundry and something faintly metallic underneath - discipline, routine, early mornings. It didn't spread much, didn't linger unless George was right beside him. Max associated it with focus, with conversations that stayed on track, with a kind of quiet respect. Being near George made Max straighten without thinking, like his body knew this was someone who valued order. There was no pull there, no instinctual stir - just clarity. George felt like a teammate you could rely on; someone whose presence sharpened rather than softened.
Alex feigned a concerned expression and pointed at Max. "Blink twice if you're being held against your will."
Max stared at him flatly and didn't blink like it was the most important challenge in his life.
Alex nodded solemnly. "Oh no. He's gone." Then he leaned closer to George and stage-whispered, "Is this what team bonding looked like at Red Bull?"
George considered. "I think it was a cultural thing. Very advanced."
Max dropped his head back against the couch and mumbled. "I hate all of you."
Daniel hummed thoughtfully. "No, you don't."
Max shot him a look. "I might hate you a little."
Daniel just smiled, warm and infuriating, and didn't move away.
Pierre shifted closer, crossing his arms. "So… Were we pretending this was temporary, or should we start planning seating arrangements for the next race?"
Daniel perked up. "Oh, I call shotgun for the cuddle rotation."
"There is no rotation," Max snapped.
"Defensive," Daniel said, nodding. "Interesting."
Max muttered something in Dutch that definitely wasn't polite.
Lando from the corner when he was yapping with Oscar, ever helpful, chimed in, "For what it's worth, mate, you look very cozy."
Max opened his mouth to argue, then realized his hand was still gripping the hem of Daniel's hoodie like a lifeline.
He closed his mouth again.
Pierre noticed. Of course he did. He smiled, soft and knowing, not teasing this time. "You're okay," he said simply.
Something in Max's chest eased at that. He huffed out a breath and let himself lean back into Daniel properly, giving up on the idea of dignity entirely.
Daniel grinned like he'd just won a bet. "Wow. We broke him."
Charles, who watched the scene unfold, finally spoke, voice soft and far too amused. "Y’all are very funny."
Max flushed again and stared at the floor, seriously considering fake transferring to another team. Or another sport. Or another planet.
Daniel lifted a hand and rested it at the back of Max's neck, thumb warm and steady there. Max exhaled without meaning to, shoulders dropping.
"Don't get used to it," Max muttered.
Lando stepped closer and snapped a picture with his phone.
Max lunged. "Delete that!"
Lando cackled and danced out of reach. "Too late. This is going on the wall of memories." He peered at the screen. "Oh my god. He look like a cat that found a radiator."
George nodded. "A very angry, very expensive cat."
Max flipped them both off.
Charles laughed quietly, the sound close and real, and Max felt it more than heard. He settled in despite himself, despite the jokes, despite the audience, despite the part of him that insisted this was just pre-heat and nothing else.
A few others checked in too—nothing dramatic, just easy acceptance, like this was a normal Tuesday and not Max Verstappen asking for cuddles.
That thought loosened something tight in his chest. If it was, he thought, then it was the best pre-heat he'd ever had.
Daniel nudged Max's knee. "I'm grabbing a drink. You want something?"
Max opened his mouth to answer, but Pierre beat him to it. "He wants a hot chocolate and a blanket and maybe a nap."
Max elbowed him. "I do not."
Pierre grinned. "You absolutely do."
Daniel snorted and headed off anyway, leaving Max suddenly very aware of the space that opened up on one side of him.
Pierre didn't pretend. He dove into the deep sea immediately. "You're avoiding something," he said, blunt as ever.
Max scoffed. "You always say that."
"Because you always do."
They sat across from each other, too close for neutrality, too far for comfort. Pierre's gaze was sharp, assessing. It made Max feel exposed, like his skin was too thin.
"You've been circling people," Pierre continued. "Never staying."
"So?" Max snapped. "That your problem now?"
Pierre leaned forward. Lowered his voice. "It is if you're using them to avoid choosing."
That landed. Hard. Max's jaw tightened. "And what exactly am I supposed to be choosing?"
Pierre held his gaze. Didn't look away. "You tell me."
There was heat in the room - not physical, not biological. Emotional. Charged. Pierre's presence kept Max alert, keyed up, like every nerve ending was switched on.
Part of him liked it. That was the dangerous bit.
Pierre reached out, paused, then rested his hand against Max's wrist. The contact was careful. Measured.
"You don't have to prove anything," Pierre said quietly. "Not to me anyway. I have my own nest already."
Max pulled his hand back. "That's not what I'm doing," he said.
Pierre studied him for a long moment as if he decided something to himself. Then nodded once. "If you say so."
-----
The room had thinned out slowly - Lando drifting off first, waving and calling something stupid over his shoulder. Pierre followed Estie to Alpine's side of the paddock with a soft squeeze to Max's shoulder that said you're okay without using words. Even the background noise faded, replaced by the low hum of hospitality staff cleaning up cups and empty plates.
Charles stayed.
Max noticed. He didn't comment.
Max could still feel the warmth where Daniel had been pressed against him, like his body hadn't caught up to the fact that they were no longer touching. His instincts wanted to lean back in, wanted to close the distance, wanted to pretend the world was small enough that this was all there was.
He didn't. He stood instead.
"I should go," Max said, and he kept his voice steady, because that was a skill he was very good at.
Charles looked up at him, searching. "You don't have to."
Max almost laughed at that. Almost. Because that was exactly what made it dangerous.
If he stayed, he would keep wanting. If he kept wanting, he might start choosing. And Max Verstappen did not make emotional choices in the middle of a Formula 1 weekend. That way lay distraction, headlines, and a version of himself he didn't know how to be yet.
"It's fine," Max said. "I'm good now."
It wasn't a lie. The pre-heat had dulled, the sharp edge of need softened into something quieter and heavier. Something that sat in his chest instead of his skin. Charles stood too, close enough that Max could smell him again. That familiar, grounding scent that made his instincts stir, made his heart do something stupid and hopeful.
Max stepped back.
That was the part that hurt — not the leaving, but the choosing to create space when every part of him wanted to close it.
He didn't feel ashamed of being an omega. Not really. The grid had never made him feel small for it. If anything, they had made room for him, especially that day. What scared him was how easily Charles fit into that space. How natural it felt to lean into him. How quiet his head got when Charles was nearby.
That wasn't instinct. That was something else.
Max nodded once, like he was sealing a decision, and turned before Charles could say anything that might make him stay.
The paddock air was cooler outside, sharper. It helped. He breathed it in deep, let it remind him who he was - a driver, a competitor, someone who moved forward.
Max left feeling wrung out. Awake. Unsettled.
Max didn't leave because anyone told him to.
That was the part he clung to.
Still, as he walked away, he noticed it.
The absence.
And the quiet, dangerous thought that followed him down the corridor like a shadow: Charles didn't leave. I did.
Max told himself he just needed a minute.
The corridor outside the hospitality was quieter, cooler, and that helped. He leaned back against the wall, folded his arms, stared at nothing in particular. His heart was still going a little too fast, like it had missed a braking point and hadn't quite settled yet. It was annoying. He hated when his body reacted before his head could catch up. He knew what this was. Pre-heat. Hormones. Bad timing. Nothing he hadn't dealt with before. He had handled worse on less sleep, with more pressure. This should have been easy.
Except it wasn't.
Except the moment Charles had been close, really close, something in Max had eased. Not gone quiet - just… aligned. Like the noise in his head dropped a few levels. He hadn’t needed to think about where to put his hands or how to sit or what expression to wear. He’d just existed.
That’s the part that got to him.
It wasn’t need. It wasn’t instinct alone. It was comfort. Familiarity. The kind that feels earned, not demanded.
Max exhaled slowly and pressed his shoulder harder into the wall, grounding himself. He didn't want to read into it. Didn't want to give it a name. Names made things real, and real things could be lost. When he heard footsteps, his first instinct was to straighten, to lock everything back down.
Then he smelled Charles.
His chest tightened, not unpleasantly. More like recognition. Like something slotted into place before he could stop it.
Don't, he told himself. This doesn't mean anything.
And still — when Charles stopped in front of him, when he looked at Max like he chose to be there, Max couldn't stop the thought that slipped in, quiet and dangerous: I wish you hadn't followed me. I'm glad you did.
Charles didn't rush it.
He stepped in close enough that Max could feel the heat of him first, a steady presence at his side, and then there was an arm around his waist, firm and sure like it had always been meant to be there. Max stiffened for half a second out of habit. Control. Awareness. The need to stay upright and sharp.
"You don't have to hide," Charles murmured, just for Max. "Everyone already knows you're comfortable."
Max muttered, "I hate you."
Charles smiled. "No, you don't."
Max told himself it was just the pre-heat. Just instincts. Just biology being annoying and inconvenient and deeply embarrassing. He leaned forward before he could stop himself, resting his forehead briefly against Charles' shoulder.
Charles went very still. Then pulled him in.
Not tight. Not possessive. Just enough that Max's forehead ended up near Charles's collarbone, his shoulder brushing against Charles's chest. The contact was immediate and overwhelming in the quietest way. Charles's scent wrapped around him, clean and warm and familiar, threading through the leftover edge of pre-heat like it knew exactly where to settle.
Max exhaled, long and slow, before he realized he had been holding his breath. The tension bled out of him in stages: shoulders first, then his hands, which curled into the fabric at Charles's side without permission. His body leaned in on its own, weight shifting, trusting. He hated how easy it was. Loved it too.
Charles smelled like calm. Like something steady in the middle of a race weekend that never really stopped. It cut through the noise in Max's head, softened the constant hum of thought and instinct into something manageable. Not gone, just quieter. Safer.
Max didn't think about cameras or headlines or what this meant. For a few seconds, he didn't think at all. He just let himself be held.
The scary part wasn't how much he wanted it. It was how right it felt, how his body recognized this as something it had been missing, something it didn't want to give back.
Then, carefully, like he was handling something fragile, Charles lifted a hand and rested it at the back of Max's neck.
It was like someone had flipped a switch.
Max exhaled, long and shaky, and let himself sink closer, breathing in Charles' scent, grounding himself in it. His fingers twisted into the fabric of Charles' hoodie, gripped tight like he was afraid if he let go, the feeling would disappear.
"This is just—" Max muttered, mostly to himself. "This is just the pre-heat."
"Mhm," Charles said, voice warm and entirely unconvinced.
And when Charles's hand settled at the small of his back, grounding and warm, Max knew this wasn't just pre-heat talking. This was him.
Max closed his eyes. His omega instincts hummed contentedly then, urged him closer, urged him to scent, to mark this as safe. He brushed his nose along Charles' jaw, collarbone, breathed him in until the world felt the right size again. Charles let him, hands steady, presence unwavering. His hands curled into Charles' shirt without thinking, gripped like he was afraid the world might pull them apart. He hated how much he needed this. He loved it too.
"Sorry," Max muttered, out of habit more than anything.
Charles huffed softly, something like a laugh. "For what?"
"For… this."
"For being human?" Charles' fingers slipped into Max's hair, gentle but grounding. "You didn't need to apologize. I got you."
Max exhaled, long and shaky, and let himself sag into the hold. He could feel Charles' heartbeat under his cheek, steady and real, and it anchored him in a way nothing else had all day.
"I’m not usually like this," Max muttered, mostly out of habit.
"I know," Charles said, fond. "That is why it’s okay."
They stood like that for a while. Max felt seen — not examined, not fixed. Just... understood. It calmed his mind, untangled the knot of thoughts that had been spiraling in his head.
But his body still hummed, restless. Wanted something else. Charles noticed the shift, stepped back half a pace. "If you want to go," he said softly, "I won't be offended."
Max tensed, instinctive.
“No,” he said quietly but firmly. He reached out before he thinks better of it.
Not grabbing. Just fingers brushing Charles’s wrist, enough to stop him. “Stay,” he said simply.
“Okay,” Charles said quietly. He stepped back into Max's space, not crowding him, just close enough. Close enough that the scent was there again. They stood there, not touching, not talking. The silence wasn't awkward. It felt chosen. Maybe he definitely needed a blanket and warm cocoa after all.
"Do you want—?"
Max didn't let him finish. "I do," came more naturally than he'd intended to.
Charles laced their fingers together and tugged gently. "Come on, mate."
Max didn't know what this would turn into. He didn't need to yet. He was just Max. An omega in pre-heat. Someone who needed arms around him and the freedom to stay there for a while.
For now, it was enough that Charles hadn't left. And that Max hadn't either.