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Max stepped in carrying a white pastry box, pressed the button for the twelfth floor with his elbow, and watched the numbers climb.
He knew Charles would say it. Charles always said it.
The door opened. Max walked down the hallway, past the identical doors with their identical brass numbers, and stopped at 1204. He knocked three times.
The door swung open. Charles stood there in an oversized hoodie that had seen better days, his curly brown hair a disaster, dark circles under his green eyes. He looked exhausted and sad and so beautiful it made Max's chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with his Alpha instincts and everything to do with the fact that he had been half in love with Charles Leclerc since they were twelve years old and Charles had beaten him at the Karting de Cormeilles with a move so clean Max had laughed out loud in his helmet.
"I'm fine," Charles said, before Max could say a single word.
Max held up the box. "I know. This is for Leo, not for you."
Charles blinked. His mouth opened, then closed. Behind him, from somewhere in the apartment, came the click of tiny claws on hardwood, and then Leo the golden long-haired dachshund came skidding around the corner, tail wagging furiously, because Leo knew the sound of Max's voice and Leo knew that Max's voice often meant cakes that Charles pretended he didn't want but always ended up eating.
"That's a lie," Charles said. "Dogs cannot eat chocolate."
"It's vanilla and raspberry. Dog-safe. I checked."
"You checked," Charles repeated.
"I asked the baker. She said the vanilla and raspberry one has no chocolate and no xylitol. Leo can have a small piece. The rest is for you."
Charles looked at the box. Then at Max. Then at the box again. His scent, usually something bright and citrusy, bergamot maybe, had been muted for weeks now. Dulled. Like someone had turned down the volume on Charles Leclerc, and Max couldn't stand it.
This was the fifth time in two months.
---
The first time had been a Sunday after Monza. Max had watched Charles's Ferrari slide into the barriers from the comfort of his own cockpit, twenty seconds ahead and cruising toward another victory, and he had felt the crash in his chest like a physical blow. Not because it helped his championship. Because he knew what Monza meant to Charles. Because he knew what Ferrari meant to Charles. Because he had spent years watching Charles's face in briefings and press conferences and those terrible cooldown room moments, cataloguing every expression, every flicker of those green eyes, and he knew what it looked like when Charles was pretending.
After the podium, after the champagne and the interviews and the debrief that lasted an eternity, Max had gone back to his Monaco apartment and lain on his couch with Jimmy on his chest and Sassy curled on the armrest, and he had thought about Charles alone in his apartment three floors up, probably staring at the wall, probably not eating, probably telling everyone who texted him that he was fine.
He had ordered the first cake from a bakery near the port. A small lemon tart, because Charles liked lemon, or at least Charles had mentioned liking lemon in some interview three years ago that Max definitely should not have remembered but did anyway.
Charles had opened the door that night with red-rimmed eyes and an Omega scent so steeped in sadness that Max's Alpha instincts had screamed at him to fix it, fix it, fix it.
"I'm fine," Charles had said.
"Okay," Max had replied, and handed him the box. "I just had extra."
"Extra lemon tart?"
"Extra lemon tart."
They had stood there for a moment. Charles holding the box. Max with his hands in his pockets. Then Charles had said, "Thank you," very quietly, and closed the door, and Max had gone back downstairs and lain awake for two hours thinking about the way Charles's voice had cracked on the second syllable.
---
The second time was three weeks later.
Singapore. Charles had qualified pole, led the first twenty laps, and then his gearbox had failed. Max had seen him in the media pen afterward, answering questions with that carefully neutral expression Charles wore when he was two seconds away from screaming. Max knew that expression well. He had seen it on Charles's face in France last year. He had seen it in Belgium. He had seen it so many times that it felt like a language they shared, one no one else spoke.
Back in Monaco, Max hadn't even gone to his own apartment first. He had taken the elevator straight to the twelfth floor with a box of tiramisu from the place near the casino.
"I'm fine," Charles had said, standing in his doorway in sweatpants and a hoodie that Max was eighty percent sure had once belonged to Pierre Gasly, which made something in Max's chest twist uncomfortably.
"I know," Max had said. "Tiramisu helps with gearbox failures. It's a known fact."
"That is not a known fact."
"I just made it a known fact. I am a world champion. I can do that."
Charles had actually laughed. It was a small laugh, barely a huff of breath, but it was real. Max had felt absurdly proud of himself.
"Thank you," Charles had said. "For the tiramisu that fixes mechanical problems."
"You are welcome."
That time, Charles had eaten half the tiramisu before remembering that he was supposed to be sad, and Max had texted him a picture of Jimmy and Sassy wrestling on his couch, and Charles had sent back a picture of Leo asleep on his pillow with his tongue hanging out, and Max had stared at that photo for an embarrassing amount of time before falling asleep.
---
The third time was after a race where nothing had happened at all. No crash, no mechanical failure, no drama. Charles had finished fourth. Not terrible. Not great. The kind of result that no one would remember at the end of the season.
But Max had seen Charles's face during the post-race interviews. Had seen the way his shoulders curved inward. Had seen the way his hand trembled slightly when he lifted his water bottle. Had seen the way a Ferrari mechanic had touched Charles's shoulder and Charles had flinched, just barely, a micro-expression that was gone in an instant but that Max's brain had catalogued and filed away before he could even think about it.
Back in Monaco, Max had brought a slice of chocolate cake.
"I'm fine," Charles had said, and this time his voice had been so flat, so empty, that Max had wanted to pull him into a hug and wrap himself around Charles like a shield. But they didn't do that. They were rivals. They were Alphas and Omegas who were supposed to be professional. They were two people who saw each other in elevators and at drivers' meetings and exchanged polite nods, and sometimes Max brought Charles cake when he was sad, and that was the extent of their relationship. That was all it could be.
"I know," Max had said. "But Leo wanted cake."
"Leo is a dog. Leo wanted chicken."
"Leo told me specifically that he wanted chocolate cake."
"Max. Dogs cannot talk."
"Leo can. He talks to me. We have conversations. He thinks you should eat more."
Charles had taken the cake. And Max had gone back to his apartment. And neither of them had addressed the fact that Max kept showing up at Charles's door with desserts like clockwork, that Charles kept opening the door even though he could just pretend not to be home, that something was building between them like pressure in a tire, slow and steady and inevitable.
---
The fourth time was two weeks ago.
Max didn't even remember what race it had been. That was the terrifying thing. He had stopped needing a reason. He had just known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Charles was not okay. Maybe it was the way Charles had looked during the drivers' parade. Maybe it was the way his scent had shifted, the bergamot turning bitter at the edges. Maybe it was just the fact that Max had spent more than half his life aware of Charles Leclerc's existence, aware of his moods and his sorrows and his joys, and he could feel when something was wrong the way he could feel rain coming before the first drop fell.
He had brought a box of macarons. Assorted flavors. The good ones from the patisserie in Monte Carlo.
"I'm fine," Charles had said, and this time he had sounded almost angry about it. Defensive. Like he knew Max could see right through him and he hated it.
"I know," Max had said. "I just happened to be in the neighborhood."
"We live in the same building. You are always in the neighborhood."
"That is a fair point. Do you want the macarons or not."
Charles had grabbed the box. "You are very annoying."
"Yes."
"Why do you keep doing this."
Max had shrugged. "Leo gets sad."
"Leo is not sad. Leo is a very happy dog."
"Then the macarons are for you, and you are not a very happy person, and that bothers me, and I don't know how to fix it, so I bring you cake. Is that what you wanted to hear."
Charles had stared at him. His scent had flared, bergamot and something else, something sharper, and for a moment Max had thought Charles might actually yell at him or slam the door in his face or tell him to stop, stop pretending this was about cake, stop pretending they were just neighbors, stop pretending there wasn't something enormous and terrifying growing between them.
But Charles had just said, "I will eat the macarons. Thank you. Goodnight, Max."
"Goodnight, Charles."
And that had been that.
---
Now it was the fifth time, and Max was standing in Charles's doorway holding a vanilla raspberry cake that was supposedly for a dog, and Charles was looking at him with an expression Max couldn't quite read.
"What happened," Max said.
It wasn't really a question.
Charles stepped back from the door. "There was no race this weekend. Nothing happened."
"Something happened."
"My mother called."
Max felt his stomach drop. He knew about Charles's father. Knew about the years of watching Hervé Leclerc slowly fade. Knew that Charles's mother lived in Monaco now, that they were close, that every phone call from family could be a landmine.
"Is she okay," Max asked.
"She's fine. She just. She asked me if I was happy. And I said yes. And then I hung up and I realized I lied to her, and I don't lie to my mother, Max. I don't." Charles's voice cracked. "And I have been standing in my kitchen for three hours thinking about that, and I can't. I don't know what to do with that."
Max stepped inside. This was new territory. Charles had never invited him in before. The four previous visits had all been conducted in doorways, threshold conversations that ended with cake and closed doors and Max going back to his own apartment alone.
Charles's apartment smelled like Charles. Bergamot and warmth and underneath that, the faintest trace of something that made Max's Alpha instincts sit up and pay attention. The nest-scent, the one that Omegas carried in their homes even when they weren't actively nesting. It was subtle, probably undetectable to anyone who wasn't an Alpha, but Max could smell it, and it made his chest tight.
Leo came trotting up to Max and sat at his feet, tail thumping against the floor.
"He does want cake," Max said.
"Leo always wants everything," Charles said. He was still holding the door, like he wasn't sure whether to close it with Max inside or outside. "Do you want to come in. Properly. I have. I have wine. Or coffee. I don't know what time it is."
"It's nine in the evening."
"Coffee, then."
"Coffee at nine in the evening is a terrible idea."
"I don't sleep anyway," Charles said, and the way he said it was so matter-of-fact, so devoid of self-pity, that Max felt his heart crack right down the middle.
He set the cake box on the kitchen counter. Charles's kitchen was clean but cluttered in the way of someone who lived alone and didn't bother putting things away. A coffee mug in the sink. A stack of mail on the table. A Ferrari jacket draped over a chair. Pieces of Charles scattered everywhere, and Max wanted to gather them all up and hold them against his chest and never let them go.
"Where's the rest of your nest," Max asked before he could stop himself.
Charles froze. "What."
"Your nest. I can smell it. It's in the bedroom, isn't it. But Omegas usually have pieces of it in the living room too. Comfort objects. You don't have any out here."
"That is. Really invasive. Alphas are not supposed to ask about nests."
"I know. I'm sorry. I just. You said you're not happy, and I've been bringing you cake for two months, and I was trying to figure out what else I could do, and I noticed about the nest. I notice a lot of things about you, Charles. I have been noticing things about you since we were twelve years old."
Charles leaned against the kitchen counter. His green eyes were very wide. "Since we were twelve."
"You beat me at Cormeilles. Do you remember that race. You were in the blue kart. You passed me on the inside of turn four with a move that was so good I almost let you win just because I wanted to watch it again."
"That is not what happened. You did not let me win. I beat you."
"You beat me. It was the first time anyone my age had beaten me in a straight fight. I couldn't stop thinking about it. About you."
Charles's scent was changing. The bitterness was fading, replaced by something warmer. Something that made Max want to step closer, close the distance between them, press his nose against the curve of Charles's neck where the scent gland sat just beneath the skin.
"You have been bringing me cake for two months," Charles said slowly. "Because I beat you in a go-kart race when we were twelve."
"No. I've been bringing you cake because you're sad, and I can't stand it when you're sad, and I don't know how else to help. The go-kart thing is just. Context."
"That is insane."
"Probably."
"You are a three-time world champion and you have been using your free time to deliver pastries to my apartment because I looked sad in a press conference."
"When you say it like that, it sounds very strange."
"It is very strange. It is the strangest thing anyone has ever done for me."
"Do you want me to stop."
Charles looked at him. Really looked at him, the way Max had wanted Charles to look at him for years. Green eyes meeting blue, direct and unflinching.
"No," Charles said. "I don't want you to stop."
"Okay."
"Okay."
They stood there in Charles's kitchen, three feet apart, the cake box on the counter between them like a small white flag of surrender. Leo had given up on getting cake and was now sprawled on the couch, snoring softly.
"My nest is in the bedroom," Charles said. "I don't keep pieces of it out here because I don't like people knowing. When I bring a hoodie or a blanket out to the couch, it feels like I'm announcing that I'm building a nest. And people look at Omegas differently when they know. They look at me differently."
"Fuck those people," Max said.
"They're not bad people. They just. They see an Omega driver, and they already have all these ideas about what that means, and I have spent my whole career trying not to fit those ideas. No nesting in public. No scenting in public. No bonding, obviously. No claiming. Just. Neutral. Professional. Safe."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is exhausting. It's so exhausting, Max. And I'm so tired." Charles's voice broke on the last word, and then his face crumpled, and he was crying. Not the quiet, controlled tears of someone trying to hide it. Full, ugly, gasping sobs that shook his shoulders and made his scent spike with distress.
Max moved without thinking. He crossed the kitchen in two steps and pulled Charles into his arms, one hand on the back of Charles's head, the other wrapped around his waist. Charles stiffened for half a second and then collapsed against him, face pressed into Max's shoulder, fingers gripping the fabric of Max's shirt like Max was the only solid thing in a world that had turned to water.
"I've got you," Max said into Charles's hair. "I've got you. It's okay."
"It's not okay. Nothing is okay. The car is terrible and I keep losing and my mother knows I'm lying and I can't even have a proper nest because I'm scared someone will find out, and you keep bringing me cake and I don't understand why, I don't understand what you want from me."
"I don't want anything from you," Max said. "I just want you to be happy. That's it. That's the whole reason."
"That's not a reason. That's not how Alpha instincts work. You should want to claim me or protect me or. Or something."
Max pulled back just enough to look at Charles's face. "Do you think I'm here because my Alpha instincts told me to bring you tiramisu?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I don't know how Alphas think."
"Charles. I'm here because I like you. As a person. Not as an Omega. Not as a rival driver. As you. The you who beats me at go-karts and makes terrible jokes in press conferences and loves your dog so much you have fifteen pictures of him on your phone. I've liked you for a really long time. This isn't instinct. This is just. Me. Wanting to take care of you because you deserve to be taken care of."
Charles stared at him. His face was blotchy from crying, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. He was still the most beautiful thing Max had ever seen.
"You like me," Charles said.
"Very much."
"For a really long time."
"Since we were twelve, probably. I didn't figure it out until later, but yes."
"Oh," Charles said. He sniffled. "That's a very long time."
"I'm a patient person."
"You're not. You're the least patient person I know. You get annoyed in traffic. You hate waiting for food. You once left a restaurant because the waiter took too long."
"That restaurant was terrible. The food wasn't even good."
"You are the least patient person I know," Charles repeated, "and you have been waiting for me since we were twelve."
"I wasn't waiting. I was. I was just living my life, and you were always there, and I kept noticing things about you, and eventually I realized that all the noticing meant something. But I wasn't waiting. You didn't owe me anything."
Charles leaned his forehead against Max's shoulder. His scent was shifting again, the sharp edges smoothing out, bergamot and something sweeter now. Something that made Max's chest ache.
"Can you stay," Charles said, his voice muffled by Max's shirt.
"For how long."
"I don't know. A while. I want to show you my nest."
Max's heart stopped. "Are you sure. That's. Omegas don't usually. That's a big deal."
"I know what it means. I want to show you." Charles stepped back, and this time when he looked at Max, his eyes were clearer. Still sad, still exhausted, but with something new underneath. Something that looked like hope. "I want you to see it."
"Then I want to see it," Max said.
Charles took his hand.
It was such a small gesture. Fingers intertwining, palm against palm. But it felt enormous. It felt like the moment at the top of a rollercoaster, right before the drop, when gravity hasn't quite caught up with you yet and everything is suspended and thrilling and terrifying.
Charles led him out of the kitchen and down the hallway. Max followed, his heart beating too fast, his Alpha senses flooding with Charles's scent now that he was actually paying attention to it. The nest-scent was stronger here. Warmer. Inviting.
The bedroom door was half-open. Charles pushed it the rest of the way and stepped inside, still holding Max's hand.
The nest was built in the corner, a carefully constructed pile of blankets and pillows and soft things. Max could see at least three hoodies mixed in with the bedding, and one of them was definitely the Ferrari jacket from the kitchen. There were fairy lights strung above it, tiny warm white lights that cast a soft glow over the whole thing.
"It's beautiful," Max said, and meant it.
"It's small. I had to keep it. Contained. In case someone saw."
"It's still beautiful."
"When I was little, my mother used to help me build nests. She's a Beta, so she didn't really understand the instinct part, but she tried. She would bring me blankets and let me rearrange the whole living room if I wanted to. I never used to be ashamed of it. And then I started racing, and the other drivers would make jokes about Omegas, and the journalists would ask me about my secondary gender like it was this thing I should apologize for, and I just. I stopped."
Max squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault."
"No, but I'm still sorry. I'm sorry you've had to carry all of that alone. I'm sorry you haven't had anyone to bring you cake when you were sad."
Charles laughed, a wet and slightly hysterical sound. "You brought me cake."
"Five times. You've been sad a lot more than five times, Charles. I've been watching you be sad for years."
"And I've been watching you watch me. Did you know that. I've known for a while. I just didn't. I didn't know what to do about it."
"You could have said something."
"So could you."
"I was scared," Max admitted. "I didn't want to make things weird. You're my rival. You're also my neighbor. If I told you how I felt and you didn't feel the same way, I'd still have to see you in the elevator every day. That would be really awkward."
Charles turned to face him. "I do. Feel the same way. I have for. I don't even know how long. A while."
They stood there in the doorway of Charles's bedroom, holding hands like teenagers, Charles's nest glowing softly behind them. Max felt like he was dreaming. Like any moment he would wake up on his couch with Jimmy and Sassy on his chest and this whole conversation would have been a fantasy.
"I want to scent you," Charles said. "Is that okay."
"Very okay."
Charles stepped closer. He was shorter than Max by a few inches, so he had to tilt his head up. Max could feel his breath on his jaw. And then Charles pressed his face against the side of Max's neck, right where Max's scent gland was, and rubbed his cheek against it.
Max's knees nearly buckled.
He had been scented before. He was an Alpha; people scented him all the time, teammates and friends and once an overenthusiastic fan who had been immediately escorted out by security. But this was different. This was Charles, whose scent Max had been cataloguing from across rooms for years, pressing his Omega scent directly into Max's skin.
"Can I," Max said, his voice rough.
"Yes."
Max lowered his head and pressed his nose to the curve of Charles's neck. He inhaled. Bergamot and warmth and Charles, Charles, Charles. His Alpha instincts were roaring with satisfaction, and underneath that was just Max, just the simple human joy of finally being allowed to touch the person he had wanted to touch for so long.
When they pulled apart, Charles was smiling. It was a small smile, fragile and new, but it was real.
"Will you stay," Charles asked again. "Not just tonight. I mean. In general. Will you. Be here. With me."
"I thought you'd never ask," Max said.
"That's not an answer."
"Then yes. Yes, I'll stay. I've been waiting for you to let me stay since we were twelve years old."
"Maybe you are patient after all," Charles said.
"Maybe I just knew you were worth the wait."
Charles pulled him toward the nest. "Come on. I want to see if you fit. You're very tall."
"Alphas are usually tall."
"Yes, but you're very tall even for an Alpha. I might need more pillows."
"I'll buy you more pillows."
"No, you'll buy me cake. The pillows are my responsibility."
"That seems like a fair division of labor," Max said, and let Charles pull him down into the warm soft glow of fairy lights and blankets and the beginning of something that felt, finally, like home.