Chapter Text
Chapter 1. Week One
Monday
The sun is already high enough to bake the leather seats of the Alfa Romeo Spider, but the breeze coming off the Mediterranean keeps the air cool. It is a rare Monday off, a luxury in his packed schedule as an architect, and Charles intends to waste every single hour of it.
This car, a 1970s model that used to belong to his father, is probably the only thing Charles owns that he judges by its sentimental weight rather than its aesthetics or market value.
The steady hum of the engine on the narrow roads above Monaco feels like a conversation across time. He can almost hear his father's voice over the noise, pointing out the scenery just like he used to when Charles was a young boy, perched in the passenger seat with his feet barely touching the floor.
Until the rhythm breaks.
It’s subtle at first. When he presses the accelerator, something feels… off. The car still picks up speed, but reluctantly, as though the engine has suddenly grown heavy. Charles instinctively reaches over to switch off the faint, crackly music coming from the old radio.
A low, strained hum rises from beneath the hood, impossible to ignore.
Charles glances down at the dashboard. His heart gives a small, unpleasant flutter. The temperature gauge isn't just high, the needle is already deep into the red zone. Almost simultaneously, a thick, sweet, chemical smell hits him.
"…No," Charles mutters, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.
He taps the gauge, as if a simple knock could push the needle back. It doesn’t. A faint, ominous hiss rises from beneath the hood.
"Oh, shit."
Up ahead, the road widens into a gravel overlook, a small viewpoint hanging above the blue expanse of the sea. Charles doesn't hesitate. He steers the old Alfa onto the gravel, kills the engine immediately, and yanks up the handbrake.
The sudden silence is deafening.
Charles sinks back against the leather seat, staring at the thin wisp of white steam escaping from the edge of the hood. He knows how to draft a blueprint for a three-story villa in his sleep. He knows how to balance light, shadow, and concrete. But when it comes to whatever is happening beneath all that red Italian metal, he is entirely useless.
He needs an expert. And one who won’t laugh at him for nearly crying over a little white steam.
He pulls out his phone and scrolls past his usual contacts, past Pierre, past Carlos, until he finds the name. Sebastian.
They met three years ago when Sebastian Vettel hired him to design his eco-friendly estate in Switzerland. What should have been a standard architect-client relationship quickly grew into a genuine friendship, cemented over long evenings arguing about sustainable materials and old machinery. Sebastian loves things that have a history. More importantly, Sebastian knows cars.
The phone rings twice before a warm, familiar voice fills the car.
"Charles ! Please tell me you’re calling to tell me the marble for the kitchen has finally arrived."
"I wish," Charles says, leaning his head back against the headrest with a sigh. "Seb, I’m stranded on the road to La Turbie. The Alfa is smoking. Well, hissing, mostly. The temperature went straight into the red and it smells like sweet, burning sugar.”
On the other end of the line, Sebastian’s tone shifts instantly into calm, controlled focus. "Did you turn it off ?"
"Immediately."
"Good. Don't touch the hood, you'll burn your fingers. Could be a cracked hose, maybe the water pump. Listen, you’re actually in luck. You’re just above Beausoleil, right ?"
"Yes, just at the viewpoint."
"There’s a garage down in Beausoleil," Sebastian says.
Charles blinks, looking down toward the dense, colorful layers of buildings stacked on the hillside just beyond Monaco's border. "A classic restoration shop ?"
"No," Sebastian says. A beat of silence follows. "Just a garage."
Charles frowns slightly, his architect’s mind already imagining some sleek, specialized workshop hidden in the valley. "Are you sure they can handle an old Spider ? It’s temperamental, Seb, you know how-"
"Trust me," Sebastian interrupts gently. Another pause, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. "Owner's Dutch."
"Okay ?"
"Can be... blunt," Sebastian warns, and Charles can practically hear the fond amusement in his voice. "Don't take it personally. He doesn't care who you are or what you do."
Charles smiles a little. "I think I can survive some Dutch bluntness, Seb."
"I’m serious, Charles. The place looks like it would never pass a French safety inspection," Sebastian adds, his tone perfectly deadpan. "But he is the best mechanic I've ever met. Let the engine cool down completely. Thirty minutes, at least. Then coast down the hill into Beausoleil. I’ll text you the address and give them a call to let them know you’re coming."
"Thank you, Seb. Truly."
"Good luck, Charles. And remember, don't touch the hood !"
The line goes dead, and a second later, his phone pings with the address. He looks through the windshield at the elegant, sloping hood of the Alfa, then tilts his head to look down the winding asphalt road that leads toward the crowded, unglamorous streets of Beausoleil.
He has a feeling his quiet day off is about to get a lot more complicated.
***
The drive down into Beausoleil is a masterclass in anxiety. Charles keeps one eye locked on the narrow, sun-baked asphalt and the other glued to the dashboard. The temperature needle is once again flirting with the red zone, inching higher with every corner.
As he navigates the tight, claustrophobic streets beyond Monaco’s polished borders, Charles has a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.
When the GPS finally pings to announce his arrival, Charles just stares through the windshield.
A weathered stone building sits tucked away on a steep incline, a faded yellow sign reading Carrosserie hanging precariously above a dark, narrow entrance where a couple of ordinary cars are wedged bumper-to-bumper. There is nowhere to park. No designated spot. Just a chaotic, cramped slice of roadside. Charles is not a fan of tight maneuvers at the best of times, and these French streets offer absolutely no margin for error.
He lets out a slow, desperate breath. This cannot possibly be the best mechanic Sebastian knows.
Anxious and entirely done with the idea of parallel parking a temperamental vintage car on a fifteen-degree slope, he simply pulls the Alfa up directly in front of the entrance, halfway onto the pavement. He cuts the ignition, letting the engine die with a faint, pathetic hiss.
"Nice car," a cheerful voice calls out.
Charles blinks, looking up as a kid steps out from the shadows of the garage. He looks incredibly young, barely old enough to hold a driver's license, let alone a wrench, and is wearing an oversized, grease-stained jumpsuit and a bright, easy grin.
"Uh, thanks," Charles says, stepping out of the car, his designer loafers crunching over the gravel. He gestures vaguely to the hood. "It’s, uh... overheating. Sebastian Vettel told me to come here."
The kid’s eyes widen with interest. "Ah ! You're the guy Mr Vettel just called about. I'm Kimi. Don't worry, we fix everything."
Charles looks at Kimi's youthful face, a sudden wave of panic washing over him. Surely this teenager isn't the mechanical genius Sebastian told him about ? He loves his father's car far too much to hand the keys over to a boy who looks like he should still be sitting in a classroom. Besides, Sebastian specifically mentioned the owner was Dutch, and this kid's rolled R’s and sunny demeanor are unmistakably Northern Italian. This can't be the man he's looking for.
"Is... is the owner here ?" Charles asks, trying to mask his desperation with politeness.
"Yeah, hold on," Kimi says. He turns back toward the dark depths of the workshop and yells, "Max !"
Nothing happens. Only the faint sound of a French radio echoing from somewhere inside.
Kimi rolls his eyes, takes a deeper breath, and bellows even louder, "Maaax !"
A loud, sharp Dutch curse echoes from underneath a car somewhere deep in the back, followed by the heavy, metallic clatter of a dropped tool. Then, a gruff, muffled voice : "Coming."
A moment later, a man steps into the daylight.
Charles forgets how to breathe.
The man is broad-shouldered, his white t-shirt heavily smeared with dark grease and sweat, his hair a chaotic, windblown mess. He carries a heavy wrench in one hand. His skin is dusted with workshop grime, but when he lifts his head, his eyes are an incredibly striking blue.
Max doesn't look at Charles. His gaze snaps instantly to the Alfa Romeo Spider, his sharp features shifting into something entirely focused.
Charles, however, is completely struck. He stands frozen by the driver's side door, his mind suddenly short-circuiting at the sheer, raw presence of the mechanic.
Max walks right past him without a word of greeting. He circles the car slowly, a quiet professional inspecting a patient. He doesn't smile. His large, grease-stained hand reaches out, fingers gently tracing the elegant curve of the red flank with an unexpected softness. He squats down, peering under the chassis, listening intently as Charles clears his throat and tries to find his voice.
"It... it started hesitating on the climb," Charles babbles, suddenly feeling incredibly foolish. He knows buildings, blueprints, and materials, but under the heavy, silent scrutiny of this man, his vocabulary deserts him. "And then the gauge went up. And there was a smell. Like ... sweet, burning sugar ?"
Max stays crouched for a second, then slowly stands up to his full height.
"You drove it here ?" Max asks. His voice is deep, direct, heavily accented.
"Very carefully," Charles replies quickly, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Max gives a single, sharp nod. "Good." He steps toward the front. "Open the hood."
No introduction. No bonjour. No polite small talk.
Charles moves like a man in a trance, reaching inside the cabin to pop the latch. He is utterly, completely ruined. Because as Max props the hood open and leans over the engine bay, Charles realizes he cannot look away.
Max pulls his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing strong, pale forearms dusted with light hair and grease. A stray, unruly lock of hair falls across his forehead. Without breaking concentration, Max simply brushes it away with the back of a soiled wrist. He reaches down and begins checking the hoses, murmuring softly under his breath, not to Charles, but to the car itself, his tone surprisingly gentle, coaxing.
"Coolant's gone," Max states plainly, pointing a dark finger toward a small fracture near a hose clamp. "Radiator hose split. Probably been leaking for a while." He follows the hose with his eyes before giving another one a quick squeeze. "Belts look fine. No obvious oil leaks." He nods once. "Engine actually looks pretty healthy.”
Charles nods instantly, trying to look as though all of this makes perfect sense. He has absolutely no idea what that means, but he finds the entire display completely mesmerizing. He watches the confident, steady movement of Max's hands, the total lack of pretense, the raw competence. Charles realizes, with a sudden spike of internal panic, that he could probably stand here and listen to this man explain the anatomy of an internal combustion engine for three straight hours without getting bored. It is a deeply terrifying realization.
With a loud, metallic thud, Max drops the hood back into place and secures the latch. He pulls an old rag from his back pocket and casually wipes the worst of the black grease from his hands.
He finally looks Charles dead in the eye.
"I'm Max," he says.
Charles is caught entirely off guard by the sudden introduction. "...Charles."
"You'll have to leave it here, Charles," Max says, his blunt delivery leaving no room for argument.
Charles feels a sudden dip in his stomach. "...How long ?"
Max tilts his head, his eyes sweeping over the vintage lines of the Italian car as he calculates. "A few days." A brief silence stretches between them, broken only by the ambient hum of Beausoleil's traffic. "Parts for a '70s Alfa don't exactly grow on trees."
A few days.
The words echo in Charles' head. He looks at the weathered entrance of the garage, then back to the mechanic standing in front of him, wiping his hands, completely unbothered by the Monegasque wealth Charles practically radiates.
That means I'll have to come back.
He tells himself the sudden warmth blooming in his chest is entirely about his father's car. He tells himself he is just worried about the repairs. But as he looks at Max's sharp profile, he knows, with absolute certainty, that it's a complete lie.
***
Tuesday
The next day, Charles is back to his normal routine.
He spends the morning and the early afternoon doing exactly what he does best : meeting clients, reviewing architectural plans, answering an endless stream of emails, and discussing materials with contractors. He is focused, professional, and efficient - the picture of a successful Monegasque architect. The previous day's encounter in the dusty hills and narrow streets of Beausoleil almost feels like a pleasant, slightly surreal interruption.
Then, sometime around four o'clock, while he is sketching a terrace layout on his tablet, Max suddenly crosses his mind.
It hits him without warning. Maybe it’s the memory of those grease-stained hands working so confidently over the Alfa's engine. Maybe it’s simply the phantom echo of that deep, gravelly voice saying “A few days.”
Charles stares at his screen for a long second, his stylus hovering over a glass balustrade. I should check on the Alfa, he thinks.
The excuse sounds perfectly reasonable to his own ears.
On pure impulse, Charles packs up his things and leaves his office. Before heading up the hill, he stops by one of his favorite specialty cafés in Monaco, a hidden gem known for the unmatched quality of its beans rather than the tourist-heavy, flashy luxury typical of the Principality. He orders two high-end coffees to go. Then, at the very last second, his eyes catch a basket of fresh chouquettes on the counter. They look perfect, golden and airy, the perfect pairing for the hot drinks. He adds a bag to his order. Just because... well. Bringing coffee and a little treat seems like the polite thing to do.
He takes his daily car this time. When he arrives in Beausoleil, he doesn't even bother looking for a real parking spot. He just abandons the car outside the garage, throws his hazard lights on, and steps out, barely caring about the minor traffic obstruction he is causing.
Kimi is sitting on a stack of tires near the entrance. The moment he sees Charles, his face lights up. "You're back !"
Charles tries to look entirely casual, adjusting the collar of his shirt. "...Just checking."
Kimi’s eyes immediately drift down to the cardboard tray in Charles' hand. He looks at the two steaming coffees. Then he looks up at Charles.
A heavy, agonizing beat of silence passes.
Shit, Charles thinks, a wave of heat hitting his neck. I should have ordered three.
Pivoting instantly into damage-control mode, Charles shoves the small paper bag of chouquettes forward, holding it out to Kimi with a confidence he absolutely doesn't feel.
"Here, for you," he says smoothly, as if this whole operation had been meticulously planned from the very beginning. As if he hadn’t completely blanked on the kid's existence until three seconds ago.
Kimi doesn't say a word and grabs the bag but a knowing, slightly mischievous glint dances in his eyes as he gestures for Charles to follow him. He leads him straight into the dim, metallic warmth of the workshop.
Max is there, leaning over the engine bay of what looks like an old Toyota. Without even looking up from his work, his voice cuts through the ambient sound of tools.
"I said a few days."
Charles clears his throat, awkwardly stepping forward and holding out one of the cups towards the mechanic's back. "I know." A beat. "I was nearby."
Max finally stops what he's doing and looks up. His piercing blue eyes drift briefly past Charles' shoulder, catching sight of the Ferrari parked hazardously on the curb outside, before snapping back to Charles. He says nothing about the blatant lie. He just stares for a moment, then reaches out to take the coffee.
Seeking any kind of anchor, Charles gestures vaguely toward the corner where his father's car is resting. "So... how is it ?"
Max takes a slow sip of the coffee, his expression entirely matter-of-fact. "Still broken."
Charles blinks. "Right."
Max sets the cup down on a nearby tool cart and goes right back to work, his broad shoulders moving as he tightens a bolt. "Ordered the hose. Should be here tomorrow. Then I need to pressure-test the cooling system."
Charles nods thoughtfully, looking deeply invested despite understanding almost none of the technical jargon.
The conversation naturally dies after that. Max is completely absorbed in his task, the rhythmic clink of his tools filling the space. By all accounts, Charles should leave. He has his answer. He has delivered his coffee. But his feet feel like they've been glued to the oil-stained concrete. He doesn't move. He just stands there, awkwardly drinking his coffee while watching Max work.
After a few minutes, without even looking away from the engine, Max speaks up, his deep voice carrying over the noise of the garage.
"You can sit if you want."
Charles looks around. Tucked away near a rusted toolbox is an old, metal workshop chair. A black, heavily grease-stained rag has been tossed carelessly onto the seat.
Charles looks down at his own clothes, expensive, tailored trousers and a crisp designer shirt that were absolutely not meant for garages like this. He barely hesitates.
With a small smile, Charles steps over, picks up the filthy rag, and places it neatly on the nearby workbench. Then, he sits down on the grime-dusted chair anyway.
From the corner of his eye, Charles catches the briefest stall in the steady movement of Max's wrench. Max doesn't look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches in something that might be amusement, or perhaps approval, before he goes right back to tightening the bolt.
The impending dry-cleaning bill suddenly feels like a very acceptable price to pay.
***
Wednesday
The next afternoon, Charles doesn't even try to fight the impulse. He tells himself he is just being an attentive car owner. Max explicitly said the parts should be here today, which means checking in is the only logical, responsible thing to do.
This time, he stands in the specialty café and proudly orders three coffees and another bag of delicate chouquettes.
When he arrives in Beausoleil, his Ferrari is once again abandoned on the curb with the hazard lights flashing.
Kimi is leaning against the doorframe, idly wiping down a set of chrome rims with a rag. His eyes immediately drop to the cardboard tray, specifically counting the cups. A slow, knowing grin spreads across his face.
"You brought three," Kimi notes, stepping forward to take his cup before Charles can even offer. He takes a long sip, humming in approval, then looks back at Charles with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Just so you know for next time, I like sweet iced lattes. And Max likes Red Bull better. He only drinks coffee when he's desperate."
Charles feels his cheeks flush a light pink. "I'll... keep that in mind."
Kimi just chuckles, gesturing with his head toward the back of the garage. Charles walks in, the bag of pastries clutched in one hand and the remaining two coffees in the other.
Max is under the hood of a dusty old Peugeot. Hearing footsteps, he glances up, wiping his forehead with the back of a bare forearm. His eyes drop to the coffee, then up to Charles' face.
"Parts are delayed," Max says without preamble, his tone completely flat.
Charles halts in his tracks, his chest sinking with a sudden, ridiculous wave of disappointment. "Oh."
"Not my fault," Max adds, shrugging his broad shoulders as he turns back to the engine. "Supplier in Italy is on strike. Should be here Friday."
"Right. Of course," Charles says.
He doesn't leave. Instead, he walks straight over to the metal chair, completely bypassing any polite hesitation. He sets the bag of pastries and Max's coffee on the edge of the cluttered workbench, pulls his tablet out of his leather bag, and sits down. He doesn't wait for an invitation. He has a chair, he has a coffee, and he has a deadline.
For the first hour, Charles actually manages to be productive. He loses himself in his digital sketches, his stylus flying across the screen, manipulating lines, shadows, and concrete structures for a luxury villa project. Occasionally, his eyes drift over the top of the screen, tracking the flex of Max's back muscles as the mechanic hoists a heavy radiator block, or the sharp, intense concentration on his profile. But eventually, the creative flow takes over, and Charles forgets where he is. He gets completely absorbed in his blueprints, murmuring soft French words under his breath.
He is so focused that he doesn't hear the clinking of tools stop. He doesn't hear the heavy boots approaching.
Suddenly, a warm, solid shadow falls over his screen.
"What is this ?"
Charles jumps, his hand twitching so hard his stylus skitters across the digital glass. He looks up, his breath catching. Max is leaning over his shoulder, dangerously close. His blue eyes are narrowed, staring intently at the glowing 3D model of the villa.
"Uh," Charles babbles, suddenly intensely self-conscious. "It's... it's a project I'm working on. In Roquebrune."
As Max keeps staring, Charles finds himself sifting through his words, his usual professional confidence giving way to a nervous, eager energy. He points to the screen with his stylus. "It’s an eco-certified villa. I'm trying to maximize the natural light using these large, angled concrete overhangs. It captures the winter sun but blocks the harsh summer heat, so the house regulates its own energy. And the glass here..."
Charles trails off, realizing he is gesturing wildly with his hands, his voice full of passion. He looks at Max's unreadable face and suddenly freezes, his throat going dry.
"Sorry," Charles mutters, looking down at his lap, a dark flush creeping up his neck. "It’s probably boring."
Max pulls back slightly, tilting his head as he wipes his hands on a rag. His demeanor is entirely nonchalant, completely devoid of the fake, polite flattery Charles usually gets from clients.
"It’s not my thing," Max says honestly. He doesn't pretend to understand architecture. But then, his eyes flicker back to the screen, and his jaw softens just a fraction. "But it looks… good. You're smart."
Before Charles can even process the words, Max tosses his rag onto the workbench. He reaches into the open pastry bag, casually pinching a sugar-dusted chouquette between his fingers, pops it into his mouth, and grabs his now-lukewarm coffee. He walks back to the Peugeot without another word.
Charles stares at his tablet, his heart doing a chaotic tap-dance against his ribs. You're smart. It was such a simple, blunt statement, but it feels heavier than any architectural award he has ever won.
He tries to go back to his sketches. He really does. But the lines on the screen don't make sense anymore. For the rest of the afternoon, Charles pretends to work, but his stylus barely moves. Instead, his gaze drifts over the edge of the tablet, his eyes locked on Max, watching him work far, far more often than he looks at his own screen.
***
Thursday
On Thursday afternoon, Charles doesn't even bother fabricating an excuse.
He arrives at the garage feeling a little too pleased with himself. He has meticulously followed Kimi’s insider advice. Clutching a cardboard tray, he carries a sweet iced latte for Kimi and a perfectly chilled, silver-and-blue can of Red Bull for Max.
There are no pastries today. Charles had hesitated for a full thirty seconds at the café counter, staring at the golden croissants before ultimately deciding against them. Too much, he had reasoned. Overdoing it. He had even imagined Max nodding approvingly at his restraint.
Kimi is waiting by the entrance, as if he had predicted Charles' arrival down to the minute. The moment his eyes land on the cardboard tray, his gaze zeroes in on the energy drink. He snatches his iced latte with a grin, giving Charles a nod of pure approval.
Charles already feels a small, entirely irrational surge of victory.
Deep in the dim warmth of the workshop, Max is under the hood of another car. Hearing the familiar crunch of Charles' loafers on the concrete, he glances up briefly. His sharp blue eyes sweep over Charles before locking instantly onto the can of Red Bull.
"Better choice," Max says. It’s simple, flat, and completely non-negotiable.
Charles feels absurdly, ridiculously pleased with himself. A childish grin threatens to break across his face.
Max steps back from the car, wiping his hands on an already oil-stained rag. Without a word, he walks over to Charles and reaches for the Red Bull.
Then his gaze drops to Charles’ empty hands.
A heavy, agonizing beat of silence stretches across the garage. In the background, the rhythmic, metallic clinking of Kimi’s tools echoes against the stone walls.
Max looks back up, his eyebrows raised just a fraction. "No pastries ?"
Charles completely freezes, his smile evaporating instantly. A sudden wave of heat rushes to his face. "...No."
He clears his throat, his mind scrambling as he immediately regrets every single life choice that led to his less is more pastry strategy. "I thought... I mean, Kimi said you preferred the Red Bull. So I just..."
Max doesn’t look dramatically disappointed or angry. His expression remains entirely deadpan, but his eyes carry a mild, unmistakable awareness that a crucial element of his afternoon is missing.
"Hm," Max grunts.
He cracks open the energy drink, taking a slow, long swallow, but his eyes never leave Charles' burning face. Then, without another word, he turns right back around and plunges his hands into the engine bay, still holding the cold can in one fist.
Charles stands there for a moment too long, feeling entirely outmaneuvered by a man who hasn't even said ten words to him. He forces a small, slightly breathless smile.
"I can... I can bring them next time," Charles offers softly.
Without looking up from his work, Max lets out a low, muffled sound of agreement.
Charles is left standing in the middle of the grease-stained garage, his tablet heavy in his bag, suddenly realizing he has accidentally created expectations he didn't even know existed. And the worst part ? He is absolutely going to buy the entire fucking bakery tomorrow.
***
Friday
On Friday afternoon, Charles doesn't need to worry about where to park his car. As he approaches the weathered stone facade of the garage, Kimi is already standing on the edge of the pavement, waving his arms wildly. He points frantically toward a miraculously empty, perfectly sized space right in front of the open bay doors.
"Just put it here !" Kimi yells over the low rumble of the Ferrari’s engine, gesturing with both hands. "Reverse and get in that spot !"
Charles blinks, surprised, but he smoothly backs the car into the pristine space. He cuts the ignition, grabs the cardboard tray of drinks, along with a paper bag so violently stuffed with fresh pastries that it barely closes, and steps out into the afternoon heat.
He looks at the space, then at the teenager. "Are you sure ? Is Max okay with this ?"
Kimi looks at him like he has just asked if the sky is blue. He casually reaches over, grabs his iced latte from the tray, and takes a loud sip. "Duh, of course. He’s the one who rearranged all the cars outside this morning." Kimi smirks, his eyes glinting with unfiltered amusement. "Said something about not wanting a Ferrari getting towed away just because its owner doesn't know how to park."
A sudden, treacherous flush creeps up the back of Charles’ neck. He stands there for a second, genuinely uncertain if his face is burning because his driving skills have just been blatantly insulted, or because Max went out of his way to clear a spot entirely for him. Probably both.
Clutching the heavy bag of pastries like a lifeline, Charles steps into the workshop.
Max is wiping down a wrench with a rag. Charles opens his mouth, the words "thank you" already on his tongue, but before he can even utter a single syllable, Max cuts him off.
"Parts still not here," Max announces, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. He doesn't sound particularly apologetic. "Thought it was the French who were the best at striking, but the Italians might be too."
Charles snaps his mouth shut, swallowing his gratitude. "Okay."
He doesn't need to say more. It is an unspoken agreement now. Charles walks past the disassembled engines and scattered tools, heading straight for the little corner by the workbench that has unofficially become his.
He stops.
His usual metal chair is currently occupied. Curled up into a tight ball of fur on top of a grimy rag is a cat.
Charles stands there, balancing the coffees and the pastries, unsure of the protocol. But before he can even figure out what to do, Max is there.
He steps past him, his grease-dusted hands reaching down with surprising gentleness. He scoops the half-asleep cat up in one smooth motion. Without hesitating, Max presses a quick, soft kiss to the top of the cat's head, scratches affectionately under its chin, and then deposits it firmly onto the concrete floor.
The cat lets out a sharp, deeply annoyed meow, shooting them both a dark look before trotting away under a car.
"That's Sassy," Max says, his tone completely even, as if he hasn't just shattered Charles' entire worldview by kissing a cat. "He's a bit of a troublemaker, don't worry. But better if you don't pet him, he doesn't really like new people." Max pauses, wiping a stray cat hair off his shirt. "Jimmy would have just jumped right on your lap, though."
Charles just stares at him.
His brain has completely flatlined. First, there is the utterly disorienting sight of Max - blunt, rough, intimidating Max, sweetly kissing a grumpy cat. Second, and perhaps more importantly, Charles realizes that Max has just spoken three consecutive, entirely unprompted sentences about something that has absolutely nothing to do with combustion engines, coolant leaks, or mechanical delays.
Charles slowly sets the Red Bull and the massive bag of pastries down on the workbench, desperately trying to remember how to form a coherent sentence.