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The scarf was green.
Not a subtle green. Not the muted olive of military surplus or the deep forest green that might pass for tasteful. It was a green that screamed, a green that demanded attention, a green that belonged on a highlighter or a traffic cone or a very angry tropical frog. Max had never seen this scarf before in his life, which meant Charles had bought it specifically for this purpose, whatever that purpose turned out to be.
They were in Pierre's apartment in Milan. Pierre had invited them over for dinner, which was code for "I haven't seen either of you in two months and if you don't show up I will personally drive to Monaco and drag you here." Charles had arrived already slightly tipsy from some team function he'd escaped, and Pierre had made the strategic error of opening a second bottle of wine.
Now Charles was standing in front of Max with the scarf clutched in both hands, his green eyes focused with the intensity he usually reserved for qualifying laps. His brown curls were a mess, falling across his forehead.
"Sit still," Charles commanded.
"I am sitting still."
"You are not. You are doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you pretend to sit still but actually you are vibrating."
Max, who had been doing exactly that, made a conscious effort to stop. They were on Pierre's couch. Pierre himself had retreated to the kitchen three minutes ago, muttering something about needing to check on a dessert that Max was fairly certain did not exist.
Charles stepped closer, positioning himself between Max's knees. The scarf dangled from his fingers. Up close, Max could smell him properly now. Charles always smelled like citrus and something warmer underneath, like honey left in the sun. Right now the scent was stronger than usual, unfiltered by the scent patches he wore during race weekends. It was the kind of scent that made Max want to press his face into the curve of Charles's neck and stay there.
"I am putting this on you," Charles announced, as if this was a groundbreaking revelation.
"I can see that."
"No. You do not understand." Charles shook his head solemnly, curls bouncing. "This is important. This is a strategic decision."
"What strategy?"
Charles did not answer. Instead, he draped the scarf around Max's neck with the solemnity of a priest performing a sacred rite. The wool was scratchy against Max's skin. Charles's fingers brushed his collarbone, warm and slightly clumsy.
"You have to hold still," Charles murmured. His scent spiked, something pleased and possessive threading through the citrus. As an omega, Charles's scent shifted more dramatically with his emotions than Max's ever did. Right now he smelled like satisfaction, like a cat that had caught something and was very proud of itself.
Max held still.
Charles looped the scarf once. Twice. His movements grew more deliberate, his tongue poking out between his teeth in concentration. Max watched him and felt something settle in his chest, something quiet and enormous that he had no intention of naming.
"There," Charles said. He tugged on both ends.
Nothing happened.
Charles tugged again, harder this time. His brow furrowed.
"Charles?"
"One moment."
A third tug. Charles's scent shifted, satisfaction giving way to confusion, and then to something that smelled suspiciously like embarrassment. His cheeks went pink, a flush spreading down his neck.
"Charles."
"Shut up."
"Did you tie a knot?"
"I tied a beautiful knot. It is a very good knot. It is just..." Charles worried his lower lip between his teeth. "Perhaps a little too good."
Max reached up and felt around his throat. There was definitely a knot there, a tight one, right under his chin. He tried to find the end of the scarf. Both ends appeared to have been incorporated into the knot itself with a level of commitment that was honestly impressive.
"It is a tactical knot," Charles said.
"It's a disaster."
"It is a tactical disaster. That is different." Charles stepped back and surveyed his work with the air of someone who had just realized he'd driven into a wall but was determined to call it a strategic parking decision.
From the kitchen, Pierre's voice floated out: "Is everything okay in there?"
"We are fine," Max called back.
"We are excellent," Charles added, a bit too loudly. His scent was all embarrassment now, sharp and sour. He looked at Max with an expression that was trying very hard to be defiant and landing somewhere closer to a puppy that had just been caught chewing a shoe.
Max tugged at the knot again. It didn't budge. He could probably cut it off, but Charles was still watching him with that particular expression, the one that meant he was two seconds away from either laughing or panicking, and Max found that he didn't want to cut it off. Charles had put this ridiculous scarf on him. Charles had tied this impossible knot. Charles's scent was woven into the wool now, citrus and honey and embarrassment.
"Leave it," Max said.
"What?"
"Leave it on."
Charles blinked. "But it is stuck."
"Then it's stuck."
"For how long?"
Max shrugged. "Until it comes off."
"It cannot come off. I tied a very good knot. I just told you this."
"Then I guess it stays."
Charles stared at him. His scent was doing something complicated, embarrassment fading into something softer, something that made Max's alpha instincts sit up and take notice. It was the scent of being pleased and not wanting to admit to being pleased, a combination Max had learned to recognize over the months they'd been together.
"You are ridiculous," Charles said.
"You're the one who attacked me with a scarf."
"It was a tactical attack."
"What was the tactic?"
Charles opened his mouth, closed it, and crossed his arms. The pink in his cheeks had spread to the tips of his ears. "I do not have to explain my tactics to you."
Max grinned. He couldn't help it. Charles was standing there looking rumpled and indignant and gorgeous, his hair a disaster and his scent doing that pleased-embarrassed thing, and Max was wearing a scarf the color of an angry amphibian tied in an unbreakable knot, and somehow this was the best he'd felt all month.
"Can we go home now?" Charles asked.
"We have to say goodbye to Pierre."
"I do not want to say goodbye to Pierre. Pierre will laugh at me."
"Pierre is definitely going to laugh at you."
Charles sighed, a long-suffering sound that was somewhat undermined by the way his scent kept pulsing pleased-embarrassed-pleased. "Fine. But you are doing the talking."
Pierre did laugh at him.
He laughed so hard he had to lean against the doorframe, and then he laughed some more, and then he took a picture, and then he laughed until Charles threatened to tell the story of the Lyon hotel incident of 2019, at which point Pierre stopped laughing very quickly.
"You cannot tell that story," Pierre said.
"Then you delete the picture."
"I will not delete the picture. I will merely... keep it private."
"That is not the same thing."
"It is the same thing in spirit."
Max stood by the door with the scarf still firmly knotted around his neck and watched them argue. Charles's hands were waving, his accent thickening the way it always did when he got worked up. His scent was bright with mock outrage, but underneath it was the honey-warm contentment that Max had come to recognize as Charles's home scent, the one that only appeared when he was completely relaxed.
Eventually Pierre surrendered the phone for inspection, Charles verified the deletion of three photos and one video, and they said their goodbyes. Pierre hugged Charles, then turned to Max.
"Good luck with that," Pierre said, gesturing at the scarf.
"I don't need luck. It's a tactical knot."
"I cannot believe he told you about the tactical part."
"He told me."
Pierre shook his head. "You two deserve each other."
Max looked at Charles, who was already heading toward the elevator, still talking under his breath about French people and their inability to respect privacy. He was still pink-eared and rumpled, and he smelled like home.
"Yeah," Max said. "We do."
The scarf was still there in the morning.
Max woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of Leo's claws clicking on hardwood floors. Charles's side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool. The scarf was tangled around Max's neck, the knot as secure as it had been the night before. He poked at it experimentally. Nothing.
"Charles?"
"In the kitchen."
Max extracted himself from the bedding and padded out to the kitchen. Charles was standing at the counter in one of Max's Red Bull shirts, his curls flattened on one side from sleep. Leo was at his feet, tail wagging hopefully. On the stove, the coffee maker was doing its final gurgling thing.
Charles turned around and his gaze went immediately to Max's neck. His expression did something complicated. His scent, already warm from sleep, went honey-sweet with satisfaction.
"You still have it," Charles said.
"You tied a very good knot."
"I did." Charles poured coffee into two mugs and handed one to Max. Their fingers brushed. Charles's scent spiked, just a little, at the contact. "Do you have meetings today?"
"One. Engineering debrief."
"In Milton Keynes?"
"Yeah."
Charles took a sip of his coffee, watching Max over the rim of the mug. His green eyes were very bright in the morning light. "Are you going to take it off?"
"Can't. Tactical knot."
"You could cut it."
"I could."
"But you are not going to."
It wasn't a question. Max thought about it. He thought about the engineering team, and Christian, and GP, and the dozen or so people who would definitely notice if he showed up to a meeting wearing a highlighter-green scarf tied in an unbreakable knot. He thought about explaining it. He thought about the look on Charles's face right now, the way his scent was pulsing pleased-pleased-pleased, the way he was trying very hard not to smile and failing completely.
"No," Max said. "I'm not going to."
Charles's smile broke through, bright as a sunrise. His scent flooded the kitchen, citrus and honey and something purely happy, and Max thought that wearing a ridiculous scarf to a meeting was probably worth it.
"You are insane," Charles said.
"You're the one who bought a scarf specifically to assault me with."
"How do you know I bought it specifically for that?"
"Was it not?"
Charles took another sip of coffee, still smiling. "I am not answering that question."
The engineering debrief was at ten. Max walked into the conference room at the Milton Keynes factory and seven heads turned toward him in unison.
GP looked at the scarf. Looked at Max's face. Looked back at the scarf.
"Max," GP said.
"GP."
"Are you wearing a scarf?"
"I am."
"Inside."
"Yes."
"It's green."
"Very observant."
GP opened his mouth, closed it, and apparently decided that some questions were not worth asking. The other engineers exchanged glances but said nothing. Max sat down in his usual chair and pulled out his tablet like nothing was unusual.
The meeting proceeded normally for approximately twelve minutes. Then someone asked about the tire degradation data from the last stint, and Max leaned forward to point at something on the screen, and the knot of the scarf bumped against his chin.
"So," said one of the younger engineers, a guy named Chris who had not yet learned the value of self-preservation, "the scarf."
"What about it?"
"Is it... a fashion choice?"
Max considered the question. He thought about Charles that morning, smile breaking across his face like dawn. He thought about citrus and honey. He thought about the way Charles's scent had wrapped around him last night, satisfied and possessive.
"My boyfriend tied it," Max said.
Chris blinked. "He... tied it?"
"Knotted it. Specifically."
"And you can't..."
"It's a very good knot."
GP made a sound that might have been a laugh hastily converted into a cough. The rest of the engineering team was staring at Max with expressions ranging from bewilderment to dawning comprehension.
"Your boyfriend," Chris repeated.
"Charles Leclerc. The Ferrari driver. He tied this knot last night and now it won't come off." Max shrugged. "Tactical knot."
"You're wearing a scarf tied by a Ferrari driver," GP said slowly, "to a Red Bull engineering meeting."
"Yes."
"And you're just... fine with that."
"Why wouldn't I be fine with that?"
GP stared at him for a long moment. Then he shook his head and turned back to the data. "Alright. Let's move on to sector two times."
The meeting continued. Max caught Chris sneaking glances at the scarf for the rest of the hour. He didn't mind. The wool still smelled faintly of Charles.
By Wednesday, the scarf had become a thing.
Max wore it to the simulator session. He wore it to the gym. He wore it on a video call with Christian, who took one look at the splash of green and said "Do I want to know?" and Max said "Probably not" and Christian said "Fair enough" and they moved on to discussing the aero package.
The knot showed no signs of loosening. Max had tried to work it free a few times, usually while Charles was in the shower, but Charles's tactical knot was apparently a genuine engineering achievement. The wool had felted together slightly from body heat, creating a seal that would probably survive a hurricane.
Charles was insufferably pleased about this.
"You know," Charles said on Wednesday evening, "I could probably get it off now. The knot."
They were on the couch in Max's Monaco apartment. Jimmy was perched on the back of the couch like a gargoyle, and Sassy was somewhere under the coffee table. Charles was curled against Max's side with Leo draped across his lap. The TV was playing some documentary about deep-sea creatures that neither of them was actually watching.
"Could you?" Max asked.
"Probably. I have been studying knots."
"You've been studying knots."
"In case of future tactical situations." Charles tilted his head back to look at Max, his green eyes dancing. "Do you want me to try?"
Max looked at him. Charles's scent was warm and relaxed, honey-slow contentment. His hair was a mess. He was wearing another one of Max's shirts, this one with a faded Red Bull logo on the sleeve. He looked comfortable. He looked like he belonged here, on this couch, in this apartment, in Max's life.
"No," Max said.
"No?"
"I think I'll keep it a while longer."
Charles's smile went soft around the edges. His scent bloomed, that particular pleased-embarrassed-pleased combination that Max had become addicted to. "You are ridiculous."
"You already said that."
"It bears repeating."
Charles shifted, pressing closer. His nose found the spot behind Max's ear, the one where his scent was strongest. Max felt him inhale, felt the way his body relaxed further into the couch.
"You smell like the scarf now," Charles murmured. "The scarf smells like you."
"Is that a problem?"
"No." Charles's voice was barely above a whisper. "It is the opposite of a problem."
Max pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Charles's hair smelled like Max's shampoo. His scent was woven into the fabric of the couch, the blankets, the air of the apartment. Max had lived here for years and it had never smelled like home before Charles started leaving things behind, hoodies and shampoo bottles and Leo's toys.
"I have a thing tomorrow," Max said.
"What thing?"
"Dinner. With some people from the team. Lando might be there."
Charles made a sound that was probably supposed to be acknowledgment but came out more like a cat's purr. "Are you going to wear the scarf?"
"I don't have a choice. Tactical knot."
"There is always a choice. I offered to untie it."
"Did you?"
"I did. Just now. You said no."
Max tightened his arm around Charles's shoulders. "I don't remember that."
"You are a liar."
"I'm a world champion."
"These things are not mutually exclusive." Charles tilted his head up, green eyes finding blue. "You are going to show up to dinner with Lando wearing a highlighter scarf tied in a knot, and Lando is going to ask about it, and you are going to say something insufferable."
"Probably."
"And Lando is going to text me."
"Probably."
"And I am going to tell him that it was a tactical decision."
"Was it?"
Charles's smile turned mysterious. He settled back against Max's chest, one hand coming up to rest on his shoulder. "You will never know."
Thursday dinner was at a restaurant Max didn't remember the name of, somewhere in central London. Lando was indeed there, along with Daniel and a few other people Max knew from the paddock. Max walked in wearing the scarf.
Lando spotted it immediately.
"What," Lando said, "is that."
"It's a scarf."
"I can see it's a scarf. Why are you wearing a scarf inside a restaurant that is heated to approximately the temperature of the sun?"
Max sat down across from him. Daniel was already laughing, which meant Lando had probably been complaining about something before Max arrived and was now about to redirect all his energy into this.
"My boyfriend tied it," Max said.
Lando's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Charles," Lando said. "Charles tied a scarf around your neck."
"Yes."
"And you can't take it off."
"It's a very good knot."
"It's a green scarf."
"Charles picked the color."
Daniel was properly laughing now, his head thrown back. The other people at the table were watching the exchange like a tennis match. Max picked up a menu and began browsing appetizers.
"Charles Leclerc," Lando said slowly, "put a scarf on you that you cannot remove, and you're just... fine with this."
"Why would I not be fine with it?"
"Because it's insane."
"It's romantic," Daniel said, still wheezing. "It's the most romantic thing I've ever seen. He's been wearing it for how long?"
"Since Saturday," Max said.
"Since Saturday. Five days. He's been wearing a Ferrari-green scarf tied by a Ferrari driver for five days. This is better than any movie."
Lando was pulling out his phone. "I'm texting Charles."
"Go ahead."
"He's going to be insufferable about this."
Max shrugged. "Probably."
Lando typed furiously for about thirty seconds, then stared at his phone with the expression of a man who had just been personally victimized by a text message. "He says, and I quote, 'it was a tactical decision and you would not understand.'"
Daniel howled. Max smiled into his menu.
"What does that even mean," Lando demanded. "Tactical decision. It's a scarf."
"It's not just a scarf," Max said.
"Then what is it?"
Max thought about Charles on the couch, warm and relaxed and smelling like home. He thought about Charles's face that morning, smile breaking through like dawn. He thought about the way Charles's scent had gone honey-sweet when he realized Max was going to keep the scarf on, the way it pulsed pleased-embarrassed-pleased every time he saw it.
"It's a tactical decision," Max said. "You wouldn't understand."
Lando threw a bread roll at him.
On Friday afternoon, Max flew back to Monaco. The scarf was still around his neck. It had been almost a full week, and the knot remained stubbornly intact. The wool was starting to pill slightly, and it had acquired a complex scent profile that was part Charles, part Max, part whatever they'd been cooking on Wednesday night.
Charles was waiting at the apartment door when Max arrived. Leo was at his feet, tail wagging. Charles's own scent was doing something complicated, the citrus bright with anticipation and the honey undertone rich with satisfaction.
"You are still wearing it," Charles said.
"It's still stuck."
"It has been six days."
"Six very fashionable days."
Charles stepped forward and hooked his fingers into the scarf, pulling Max down until their foreheads touched. His green eyes were very close, bright and warm.
"I can get it off now," Charles said. "I figured out the knot."
"Oh?"
"The trick is to pull the left end before the right. I was doing it backwards before."
"You were not doing it backwards. You tied it on purpose."
Charles's smile flickered. "You have no proof."
"I have six days of proof."
"Circumstantial evidence."
Max reached up and covered Charles's hands with his own. The scarf was warm between them. Charles's scent was everywhere, wrapped around them both.
"Do you want to take it off?" Max asked.
Charles considered the question. His thumbs traced small circles on the wool. His expression was thoughtful, his scent steady and content.
"No," Charles said finally. "I think I would rather show you how to take it off, and then you can decide if you want to."
"What if I don't want to?"
"Then you can wear it for six more days."
"And after that?"
Charles's smile widened. "After that, I will buy another scarf. A red one this time. And we can start over."
Max kissed him. It was a gentle kiss, unhurried, the kind of kiss that happened in doorways when no one was counting the minutes. Charles made a soft sound against his mouth, and his scent went honey-warm and bright, and Max thought that he would wear a hundred ridiculous scarves, a thousand, if it meant Charles kept smelling like that.
When they broke apart, Charles was pink-cheeked and smiling.
"So," Charles said. "Do you want me to show you the knot?"
"Maybe later."
"Later?"
"I'm thinking about the red scarf."
"There is no red scarf yet."
"There will be."
Charles laughed. It was the kind of laugh that started in his chest and bubbled up, bright and unguarded. Leo barked, demanding attention. Somewhere in the apartment, Jimmy meowed in response.
"One scarf at a time," Charles said. "I have to plan my tactics."
"I look forward to the next tactical assault."
"You should." Charles's eyes were very green, very bright. "I am very good at tactics."
Max looked at him, this ridiculous beautiful person who had tied a scarf into an unbreakable knot and called it strategy, who smelled like citrus and honey and home, who had somehow decided that Max was worth all the tactical decisions in the world.
"I know you are," Max said. "Show me the knot."