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Charles stirred against the mess of blankets he had dragged from three different rooms. His phone buzzed once on the nightstand. He ignored it.
It buzzed again. Then a third time.
He reached out with one arm, the rest of his body still buried in the nest he had spent the evening perfecting. The screen glowed in the dark. Instagram notifications. Someone had tagged him in a screenshot.
Charles squinted.
The image showed a Twitter account. A small one. Private. The profile picture was a cat Charles had never seen before. The bio read: "recording purposes only."
And the username.
sharl_said_what
Charles sat up so fast he nearly elbowed his phone off the bed.
"What the fuck," he said to no one.
The tag came from an anonymous F1 gossip account. The caption read: "rumor is this secret account belongs to a certain grid mate. three years of receipts. some of you are not ready for how soft this is."
Charles opened the account. Private. He requested to follow it with fingers that had gone slightly numb.
Then he stared at the ceiling and tried to remember every embarrassing thing he had said in the past three years.
The doorbell rang at 8:15 AM.
Charles was still awake. He had not gone back to sleep. His brain had spent the last five hours cycling through possibilities. Pierre? No, Pierre would just bully him directly. Lando? Lando would make the username something stupider. Carlos? Carlos did not have the attention span for three years of anything.
The doorbell rang again.
Charles shuffled to the door in sweatpants and one of Max's old Red Bull hoodies. The fabric still carried traces of Max's scent. Sandalwood. Something warm underneath. Charles had stolen it two months ago and refused to return it. Max had stopped asking.
He opened the door.
Max Verstappen stood on his doorstep holding a phone in one hand and a paper bag in the other. He was wearing a light blue sweater. His hair was still damp from a shower. He smelled like cedar soap and barely concealed panic.
"Charles," Max said.
"I requested to follow that account," Charles said. "They have not accepted yet."
"I know."
"You know."
"I know because it is my account." Max held out the paper bag like a peace offering. "I brought pastries. The ones from that bakery you like."
Charles did not move from the doorway. "You have a secret account called sharl_said_what."
"Yes."
"For three years."
"Three years and four months, actually."
Charles crossed his arms. The Red Bull hoodie smelled like sandalwood and home. His nest inside still held the shape of his body. His brain was trying to process information that refused to process.
"You have been documenting things I say," Charles said slowly. "For three years. Without telling me."
Max lowered the paper bag slightly. "When you say it like that, it sounds creepy."
"How else would I say it, Max?"
"I prefer to think of it as cataloguing important data."
"That is worse."
"The pastries are getting cold."
Charles stepped aside.
Max's apartment in Monaco was smaller than people expected. Charles had been here many times. He knew the layout. He knew which side of the couch Max preferred. He knew the cabinet where Max kept the tea Charles liked even though Max himself only drank coffee.
Right now Charles was sitting on that couch. Max was in the kitchen. Charles could hear him making tea. The familiar sounds of cabinets opening and closing.
The pastries sat untouched on the coffee table.
"Your account went viral," Charles called toward the kitchen. "Someone found it last night. They tagged me in a screenshot at two in the morning."
Max appeared in the kitchen doorway. "I know. I woke up to two hundred follow requests."
"How many followers did you have before?"
"Four."
"Who were the four?"
Max hesitated. "Daniel. Lando. Your mother."
Charles turned around on the couch to stare at him. "My mother knew about this account and I did not."
"She follows a lot of accounts, Charles. She probably forgot about it."
"My mother does not forget things."
Max disappeared back into the kitchen. The kettle clicked off. Charles heard the pour of water into a mug.
"When I requested to follow the account," Charles said, "I used my private account. The one with no posts. You would not have known it was me."
Max returned carrying two mugs. He set one on the coffee table in front of Charles. Tea. Made exactly the way Charles liked it.
"I knew it was you," Max said, sitting down in the armchair across from the couch. Not the couch. The armchair. The distance between them felt deliberate.
"How?"
"Because only you would request to follow at three in the morning. The other requests came in after the screenshot went viral. Yours came first." Max wrapped both hands around his own mug. Coffee. Black. "You were already awake. That means someone sent it to you directly. Probably the same person who sent it to the gossip account."
"You should accept my request."
"Charles."
"I want to see what you wrote."
Max stared at his coffee for a long moment. His scent shifted. The sandalwood note Charles usually associated with calm now carried something sharper. Anxiety or fear. Charles could smell it from across the room. His omega instincts picked it up immediately. The urge to comfort warred with the urge to demand answers.
"Please," Charles added.
Max pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen a few times. Charles watched his expression. Max's face was difficult to read to most people. Charles had learned to see the small things. The slight tension in his jaw. The way his thumb paused before pressing down.
Charles's phone buzzed. Notification. sharl_said_what has accepted your follow request.
He opened the account.
The first entry was dated February 14, three years and four months ago.
Shanghai circuit. Overheard in the media pen. Someone asked Charles about the turn one incident. He said "I cannot be mad at Max because he looked very sad about it afterward and his sad face is very effective." I have never heard anyone describe my face as effective before. I think about this constantly.
Charles scrolled.
July 8. Silverstone. C. said my overtake was "not entirely terrible." Coming from him this is basically a marriage proposal.
Charles felt heat crawling up the back of his neck. He kept scrolling. His scent was going haywire. He could smell himself. The usual citrus notes of his omega scent now mixing with something warmer. Embarrassment or something else.
Max had not moved from the armchair. He was watching Charles read. His coffee sat untouched in his hands.
September 22. C. wore a sweater today that was approximately eight sizes too big. He kept pushing the sleeves up and they kept falling back down over his hands. I lost the ability to speak for approximately five minutes. Daniel noticed. Daniel will not stop making fun of me. I do not care.
October 7. Charles told me my hair looked "very organized" today. I think this was meant as an insult but his accent made it sound cute. I have started using more product. Just in case.
Charles laughed. A small sound. Almost involuntary. He covered his mouth with one hand and kept reading.
December 4. Off-season. Interview clip surfaced of Charles talking about his ideal date. He said "someone who actually listens when I talk about the things I love." I have been listening for two years. I would listen for two hundred more.
Charles stopped scrolling. He looked up.
"You were in love with me," he said. It was not a question.
Max met his eyes. "Yes."
"This is December of the first year. We were barely friends."
"I know."
Charles set his phone down. His heart was doing something uncomfortable in his chest. "Can I keep reading?"
Max nodded.
Entries from the second year. Charles could see the shift. The observations had become more intimate. Less about public moments and more about private ones.
Miami. May. C. fell asleep on my shoulder during a flight to Barcelona. We were on the same private jet. He had been reading a book and his eyes kept closing. Eventually he just slumped sideways against me. His hair smells like coconut. I did not move for two hours. My arm fell asleep. Worth it.
Zandvoort. August. Charles wore my jacket after his race suit got wet in the rain delay. He did not ask. He just took it from my driver room when he thought no one was looking. I saw him. I pretended I did not. He kept the collar pulled up near his face the entire time. I think he was scenting it. I think I might die from wanting.
Charles felt his throat tighten. The Zandvoort race. He remembered that. His race suit had been soaked through. He had been cold and miserable and Max's jacket had been hanging on a hook just inside the Red Bull hospitality door. He had grabbed it without thinking. He had spent the entire post-race briefing with the smell of sandalwood wrapped around him.
He had thought Max did not notice.
Monza. September. Ferrari garage. Charles won. He got out of the car and the first thing he did was look for me in the crowd. I was standing near the barriers. He saw me and he smiled. I forgot how to breathe. Daniel says I looked "embarrassingly devoted." I do not care. I would look embarrassingly devoted every day if it meant Charles would smile at me like that again.
November 17. Charles is sick. He has a cold. His voice is all scratchy. He called me to complain about it. He said "I sound like a frog and I hate it." He called me. To complain. About his voice. I am going to propose marriage.
Charles picked up his tea. His hand was shaking slightly. The warmth of the mug helped. His nest back at his apartment was calling to him. Every omega instinct he had was screaming at him to drag Max back there, to surround them both with soft things and familiar scents and safety.
But he was not done reading.
The third year entries started the week after Max won his fourth championship.
December 12. Charles came to my celebration party. He stayed until 3 AM. Everyone else left by midnight. He helped me clean up the mess. We did dishes together. He rolled up his sleeves and I had to look away multiple times. At one point he flicked water at me and laughed when I flinched. I think I experienced genuine euphoria.
January 3. We are dating. I am dating Charles Leclerc. He does not know about this account. I should probably tell him. I will tell him. Eventually.
February 11. C. called me "mon chéri" for the first time today. He was half asleep. He probably does not remember. I have replayed it in my head approximately four hundred times. I am never telling him because he would be embarrassed and then he would stop doing it. Some things are too precious to risk.
Charles looked up sharply. "You never told me you remembered that."
Max's ears had gone red. "I was not supposed to tell you. You were barely conscious."
"I remember saying it. I was hoping you did not notice."
"I notice everything about you."
Charles went back to the phone. His face was hot. The citrus scent in the room had sweetened noticeably. He could feel Max react to it. The sandalwood notes deepened.
March 2. Charles has started stealing my clothes. He thinks I do not know. My hoodie collection has decreased by thirty percent. Every time I see him he is wearing something that belongs to me. He brings the clothes into his nest. I found out because I went to his apartment and saw my missing sweatshirt arranged very carefully among the pillows. My alpha instincts have never been louder. He is nesting with my scent. I am going to lose my mind.
"You went through my nest?" Charles asked.
"You left the door open."
"You said you were getting water."
"I was. And then I saw my sweatshirt and I forgot about the water."
Charles covered his face with both hands. His phone dropped into his lap. "Max."
"I will delete the account," Max said quietly. "If you want me to. I know this is strange. I did not mean for anyone to find it. I did not mean for you to find it. It was just a place to keep track of things. Things I did not want to forget."
Charles lowered his hands. "Why did you not just tell me?"
"Tell you what, exactly?"
"That you felt like this."
Max set his coffee mug down on the side table. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His scent had shifted again. Less sharp anxiety. More something steady. Deliberate.
"I did not think you felt the same way," Max said. "For a very long time. And by the time we started dating, the account had become something else. It was a record of us. Even if you did not know about it. I liked having it. I liked going back and reading old entries and seeing how far we had come."
"That is very romantic," Charles said. "In a slightly obsessive way."
"I am aware of how it sounds."
Charles picked up his phone again. He scrolled to the most recent entries.
April 10. Charles and I argued about tire strategy. He was right. I apologized. He said "you are very good at apologies, has anyone ever told you that." No one has. I think I smiled for three straight hours.
April 28. Charles fell asleep in my bed last night. He does not usually stay over on race weekends. He says it is bad luck. But he was exhausted and I told him to just close his eyes for five minutes. He was asleep in two. He makes this small sound when he breathes. Like a tiny sigh. I stayed awake listening. I am very tired today. I regret nothing.
May 2. C. built a nest in my apartment. He used every blanket I own. He also used three of my jackets. He looked very proud of himself. When I walked in he said "this is yours now too if you want it to be." I got into the nest with him. He fell asleep with his head on my chest. I think this is what happiness feels like.
Charles reached the last entry.
It was dated yesterday.
He read it. Then he read it again. Then he read it a third time.
The entry was short.
Yesterday Charles said "I think I might love you." He was laughing when he said it. We were watching a movie and I had made some stupid joke and he laughed so hard he started coughing. Then he looked at me and said "I think I might love you" like it was the most casual thing in the world. I did not know what to say. I still do not know what to say. So I am writing it here. Charles Leclerc might love me. I have been waiting to hear that for three years and four months and now I do not know what to do with the feeling.
Charles set the phone down very carefully on the coffee table.
"There is no entry for today," he said.
Max had gone very still in the armchair. "No. There is not."
"You wrote an entry yesterday. About something I said."
"Yes."
"But you did not write one today."
Max swallowed. Charles watched his throat move with the motion. "Charles."
"What did I say to you today?"
"You have not said anything yet. Not really. You have been reading."
Charles stood up. He walked around the coffee table. Max watched him approach with an expression Charles could not quite identify. Hope and fear mixed together. His scent was so strong now. Sandalwood and warmth and the sharp edge of vulnerability.
Charles stopped directly in front of him.
"Yesterday I said I think I might love you," Charles said. "I was scared when I said it. I tried to make it sound like a joke. So if you did not feel the same way, I could pretend I did not mean it."
Max reached up and took Charles's hand. His fingers were warm. "I felt the same way."
"I know. I read your diary."
"It is not a diary."
"It is absolutely a diary, Max."
Max tugged gently on his hand. Charles let himself be pulled down. He ended up in Max's lap, sideways across the armchair, which was not designed for two people. Max's arms came around him. Charles pressed his face into the curve of Max's neck. The scent gland there was warm against his cheek. Sandalwood surrounded him.
"I was going to tell you about the account," Max said into his hair. "Eventually."
"When?"
"Today, actually. I was planning to come over and show you. And then explain that I am not a stalker, I am just in love with you."
Charles pulled back just enough to look at him. "You are terrible at explaining things."
"I know."
"You kept a three-year log of everything I said."
"I know."
"My mother knew about this."
"I know."
Charles kissed him. Max made a soft sound against his mouth. His hands tightened on Charles's waist. The kiss was slow. Unhurried. Charles could taste coffee on Max's lips. He could feel the steady thrum of Max's heartbeat where their chests pressed together.
When they broke apart, Charles was breathing harder. His scent had bloomed into something unmistakable. The citrus notes were bright and sweet and utterly content.
"You still have not answered my question," Charles said.
Max's brow furrowed. "What question?"
"You wrote about me saying I might love you. You did not write about me saying anything else." Charles traced a finger along Max's jaw. "What about today? What am I saying today?"
Max's lips parted. "You have not said it."
"Not yet."
"Are you going to?"
Charles leaned in until their foreheads touched. His green eyes were bright. Max's blue ones were wide.
"I am not very good at saying things either," Charles whispered. "So I will say it now. Properly. I am not laughing. I am not trying to make it a joke. I love you, Max. I have loved you for longer than I want to admit. I loved you when I stole your jacket at Zandvoort. I loved you when you stayed on the phone with me while I was sick. I loved you when you did not tell anyone I said mon chéri because you knew I would be embarrassed. I love you. I love you. Is that enough entries for today?"
Max kissed him again. Harder this time. Charles laughed against his mouth.
When they finally separated, Max pulled out his phone. Charles watched him open the notes app. Type something with one thumb while the other arm stayed wrapped around Charles's waist.
"What are you writing?" Charles asked.
Max turned the phone so Charles could see the screen.
Charles said he loves me. He said it four times. I counted. He said he loved me at Zandvoort. He said he loved me when he was sick. He said I was his for longer than he wants to admit. I am going to marry him. I am going to build him the biggest nest he has ever seen. I am going to tell him I love him every single day until he gets tired of hearing it. He will never get tired of hearing it.
Charles read the entry. His ears were red. His cheeks were red. His entire face was red.
"I am right here," he said. "You could just tell me."
"I am putting it in the official record," Max said. "For documentation purposes."
"You are the worst man I have ever met."
"You love me."
"I do. Unfortunately."
Max kissed his temple. "What did you say?"
Charles groaned. "Do not make me repeat it."
"For the record."
"You are going to write this down too, are you not?"
"Absolutely I am."
Charles buried his face in Max's neck again. He could feel Max's laugh rumble through his chest. The sandalwood scent had settled into something steady. Content. Safe.
"Fine," Charles mumbled against his skin. "I love you. You are the most ridiculous person on the entire grid. You keep a secret diary about things I say. You let my mother follow your secret diary. You have been pining for three years and you never said anything."
"In my defense," Max said, "you also never said anything."
"I said mon chéri."
"Once. When you were half asleep."
"It still counts."
Max's arms tightened around him. "It counts," he agreed. "It all counts. That is why I wrote it down."
Charles lifted his head. He looked at Max for a long moment. Then he reached over and picked up his own phone from the coffee table. He opened Instagram. Navigated to sharl_said_what. Typed a comment on the most recent post.
Charles said he loves me and he means it and you should write that down.
He hit post.
Max's phone buzzed immediately. He looked at the notification. Then he looked at Charles.
"You left a public comment," Max said.
"I did."
"Everyone can see it."
"Good."
"My account is public now. I accepted all the requests this morning."
"Even better."
Max stared at him. His blue eyes were very bright. "You want people to know."
"I want everyone to know." Charles settled more firmly into Max's lap. "You have been documenting my words for three years. Now I am documenting yours. Max Verstappen is in love with me. He has been in love with me since Shanghai. He thinks my accent is cute. He likes when I steal his clothes. He wants to build me a nest."
"That last part was private."
"I am making it public."
"Charles."
"Write it down, Max."
Max laughed. The sound was startled and bright and full. Charles felt it reverberate through his own chest.
"I love you," Max said.
"I know. I read the account."
"Say it again."
"You have three years of entries. Read those."
"I want a new one."
Charles kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you. Now write it down and then come back to my apartment. I want to add more of your clothes to my nest."
Max was already typing. "For the record, that was the most attractive thing you have ever said."
"You have said that about seventeen different things in your account."
"They were all true."
Charles climbed out of his lap. He grabbed the pastries from the coffee table and Max's hand in that order. "Come on. Bring your phone. You can document the nest."
Max let himself be pulled toward the door. His hand was warm in Charles's. His scent was everywhere. Sandalwood and joy.
"What are you going to say when we get there?" Max asked.
"That depends."
"On what?"
Charles looked back at him. Green eyes bright. "On whether you are writing it down."