Chapter Text
The paddock was quiet in a way it never was during the day.
Hours earlier it had been full of noise—engines screaming, engineers shouting over radios, reporters chasing soundbites—but now the night had swallowed most of it. The lights above the garages hummed softly, casting long shadows across the empty asphalt.
Charles Leclerc was still angry.
Not the hot, explosive anger that came immediately after a race, when adrenaline still rushed through his veins and every overtake replayed in his mind like a personal insult.
This was worse.
This was the slow, simmering kind.
He had been leading. Comfortably. Everything had been perfect—the strategy, the pace, the tires—and then Max Verstappen had appeared in his mirrors like some inevitable force of nature. Lap after lap the gap had closed until it was less than a second, until Charles could almost feel him there.
Then the overtake.
Clean. Aggressive. Infuriating.
And just like that, first place was gone.
Again.
Charles shoved his hands into the pockets of his Ferrari jacket as he walked through the paddock, jaw tight. He should be asleep. Or doing debriefs. Or pretending he wasn’t still thinking about that last corner.
Instead, his feet had carried him across the paddock almost on their own. Toward the Red Bull motorhome.
He stopped in front of it.
The place was mostly dark now, the windows dim, the team long gone except for the few late-night stragglers. Charles stared at the door for a moment, trying to convince himself this was a terrible idea.
Then he opened it.
Inside, the hallway lights were low. The quiet felt almost suspicious, like the building itself was holding its breath. Charles stepped in, shutting the door behind him.
“Verstappen?” he called, his voice echoing faintly.
No answer.
Of course he was here. Max always stayed late after races he won, doing interviews, celebrating with his team, soaking up the victory like it was oxygen.
Charles walked further down the corridor, irritation building again.
“Max,” he said louder.
A door opened. And Charles’ brain stopped working.
Max Verstappen stood there, clearly having just stepped out of the shower. His hair was still damp, darker than usual, droplets of water tracing down his neck. A towel hung low around his waist, and he looked entirely, annoyingly relaxed.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Max blinked.
“…Leclerc?” He raised an eyebrow, both surprised and confused to see him there.
Charles stared. This was not what he had prepared for.
“You’re in my motorhome,” Max said slowly, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe while his gaze fixed on him, as if waiting for an explanation.
“I noticed.”
Max’s mouth twitched.
Charles forced himself to look away from the stupidly unfair view in front of him and focus on why he was here.
“I came to talk to you.”
“At midnight?” the Dutchman’s expression turning more and more incredulous by the second.
“Yes.”
Max folded his arms, which did absolutely nothing to help Charles’ concentration.
“Well,” Max said, “this should be good.”
Charles exhaled sharply. “You knew what you were doing out there.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Driving?”
“That move in turn twelve.”
“It was clean.”
“It was aggressive.”
“That’s racing.” He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal.
Charles stepped closer, frustration slipping into his voice.
“You always do that. You wait until the last moment and then you just—” he gestured vaguely “—throw the car in like physics doesn’t apply to you.”
Max watched him, eyes sharp but amused. “You left the door open.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.”
Charles stopped.
Max pushed himself off the doorframe and took a step forward, closing some of the distance between them. “You’re fast, Charles,” he said casually. “But when you’re leading, you get careful.”
Charles frowned. “And?”
“And I knew you’d hesitate.”
The words landed somewhere uncomfortably close to the truth.
Charles hated that.
“So you’re saying you read me.”
Max shrugged. “I’ve been racing you since we were kids. Of course I can read you.”
The air between them felt suddenly heavier. Charles crossed his arms, trying to recover the upper hand.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You came to my motorhome.”
“To argue.”
Max grinned. “Looks like you’re losing that too.”
Charles rolled his eyes, but the anger that had driven him here was fading, replaced by something far more confusing.
Standing this close to Max was different off the track.
On track he was just another car in the mirrors. Another obstacle. Another rival.
Here he was… a person.
A very annoying person. A very annoying person who was still half naked.
Charles cleared his throat. “You could at least put a shirt on.”
Max glanced down at himself, then back at Charles.
“You came into my room.”
“That’s not the point.”
Max laughed quietly. The sound did something strange to Charles’ chest.
For a moment they just stood there, the earlier tension shifting into something quieter, more electric.
“You’re still angry,” Max said.
“Yes.”
“But not enough to leave.”
Charles hesitated, and Max noticed.
He stepped a little closer, just enough that Charles had to tilt his head slightly to look at him.
“You know,” Max said softly, “most drivers just complain to the press.”
Charles huffed. “I’m not most drivers.”
“No,” Max agreed.
Their eyes met, and suddenly the rivalry felt different. Less like a battlefield. More like a wire pulled too tight.
Charles swallowed. “This is still your fault.”
Max’s grin returned. “Sure it is.”
Then he leaned a little closer and added, “See you next race, Leclerc.”
Charles stared at him for a moment longer before shaking his head and turning toward the door.
He paused just before leaving. Without looking back, he said, “Next time I won’t hesitate.”
Behind him, Max’s voice came easily. “I hope you don’t.”
Charles stepped back into the quiet paddock, the night air cool against his face.
The anger was gone now.
But something else had taken its place.
And somehow, he had the feeling the next race wasn’t going to make things any simpler.