Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Every year,” Lando panted, hands braced on his knees, the tips of his curls dark and wet where they stuck to his forehead. “Every single year I swear I’m gonna stop letting you convince me to join the track team. And every single year I still let you.”

He looked genuinely aggrieved about it, which was impressive given that he could barely get the words out between heaves.

George slowed to a stop beside him, his own breathing only slightly elevated. He watched a bead of sweat trace a path down Lando’s temple and felt a familiar mix of affection and exasperation. “Stop being such a wuss. You’re embarrassing yourself in front of the freshmen.”

He nodded towards a cluster of first-years who were pretending very hard not to stare at their senior captain having a minor respiratory crisis.

Lando followed his gaze and scowled. “They should respect their elders.”

“They’d respect you more if you actually hydrated.” George gave him a firm pat on the back that was probably a little harder than strictly necessary. “You should start drinking the electrolytes I keep leaving in your locker.”

Something flickered across Lando’s face. “Good idea. I’ll go get them right now.” He straightened up, already angling his body towards the school building.

“Practice isn’t over!” George called after him, but there was no real heat behind it.

Lando waved a dismissive hand without turning around. “Well, I am. Freaking dictator.”

George watched him retreat across the sun-bleached track, his form getting smaller until he disappeared through the side door of the gymnasium. A laugh escaped him, quiet and involuntary. Lando was, objectively, a nightmare to manage. He subsisted on gummy worms, treated sleep like a suggestion, and complained with the theatrical dedication of someone who’d missed a calling in drama.

But he was also, when he bothered to follow the diet plan George had painstakingly put together and actually clocked eight hours, genuinely fast. Like, state-qualifying fast. George reminded himself of this often. It was the only thing that kept him from strangling his best friend on a bi-weekly basis.

“Uhm. Russell?”

The voice came from behind him, hesitant but with an undertone of something harder to place. George turned.

Max Verstappen was standing on the track.

On a Tuesday.

George couldn't remember the last time they'd been this close to each other without the buffer of other people between them. They shared a handful of mutual friends, existed in the overlapping Venn diagram of jocks who took AP classes, but somewhere along the line they'd developed an unspoken agreement to orbit at a careful distance.

Max had lacrosse. George had track. Their paths crossed in hallways, in the cafeteria line, and they did the thing where you nod and maybe lift your chin in acknowledgment and then keep walking.

The track field might as well have been the surface of the moon.

“Can I help you?” George asked, because it seemed like the logical thing to say when someone’s presence didn’t make any sense.

Max was frowning. Not an angry frown, George noted. Something closer to confusion, like he’d walked into a room and forgotten why he was there but was determined to see it through anyway.

“Yeah, well. I wanted to clear some things.” He shifted his weight, jaw working slightly. He looked deeply uncomfortable, which was not an expression George associated with Max Verstappen. Irritated, yes. Bored, frequently. But this squirming uncertainty was new.

“Okay?” George supplied, drawing the word out.

“So, yeah.” Max took a breath, meeting George’s eyes with a directness that felt almost confrontational. “Look, I’m flattered. Or whatever. But I’m gonna be straight with you—you’re not really my type. And Kelly and I just broke up, so it’s really fucked that someone would send this right now.”

The words hit George’s brain in the wrong order. Flattered. Not my type. Kelly. He blinked, trying to find the thread connecting any of these statements to him, to this moment, to why Max Verstappen was on his track.

“Woah, woah, wait up. What are you talking about?”

Max’s frown deepened. Instead of answering, he dug into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a piece of paper. He thrust it towards George’s face, his movements jerky.

“The letter.”

The paper crinkled an inch from George’s nose. Cream-colored. Edges soft and rumpled, the way paper gets when it’s been folded and unfolded too many times. The handwriting on it was his own. Rushed, slightly messy, seventeen-year-old George’s handwriting that still carried echoes of the thirteen-year-old who had first pressed pen to this exact page.

The world tilted, just slightly.

“Jesus fuck,” he breathed. His hand shot out and snatched the letter from Max’s grip before his brain had given it permission. He held it close to his chest, as if proximity could undo the fact that it had been seen. “You read this?”

“Well, that tends to happen when I get mail, yes.” Max’s tone was dry as dust.

“Why would you—how did you—” George’s thoughts were tumbling over each other, a pile-up of panic and disbelief. The letters. His letters. The ones he’d written in the fevered privacy of his bedroom, the ones he’d poured every impossible, inconvenient feeling into with the absolute certainty that they would never, ever be read by anyone but him. They were supposed to be in a box. In his closet. Under his old yearbooks. Not in Max Verstappen’s hands, read and rumpled and real.

“You sent it,” Max was saying, as if this were a simple fact. “That’s your address, right?”

George looked down at the envelope still clutched in Max’s other hand. His name. His address. His stamp. A cold wave of horror washed through him.

“No,” George said, the word coming out strangled. “I mean, yes, it is. But I didn’t—I would never send this. Max, I wrote this in the seventh grade.”

A beat of silence. Max’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. “I was wondering why your grammar was shit.”

A hysterical laugh threatened to claw its way up George’s throat. “This isn’t funny. This wasn’t supposed to be in the mail.”

“Well, like I said, I’m flattered you felt that way once, but—” Max started, and there was something almost gentle in his voice now, something meant to let George down easy, and George simply could not handle that. Not from Max Verstappen, of all people, about a crush that had died somewhere between their last karting race and the first day of high school, when George realized that the boy he'd spent summers chasing around a track had grown into someone whose entire personality seemed to begin and end with being good at things and knowing it.

The flutter had faded so quietly George barely noticed it was gone. One day he just looked at Max across the cafeteria and felt nothing but a vague, nostalgic fondness for the kid who used to share his gummy worms between races.

“God, shut up, Max. I’m not in love with you, I was thirteen!”

Max’s eyebrows drew together. “Okay, rude.”

George opened his mouth to retort, to explain, to do anything that might salvage this situation from the burning wreckage it had become. That’s when his peripheral vision snagged on something. Someone. Moving across the field towards them with a purposeful stride that George would recognize anywhere, in any light, at any distance.

Alex.

The recognition hit him like a physical blow. Alex was getting closer, close enough now that George could see the furrow between his brows, the slight downturn of his mouth. And in his hand, held loosely but unmistakably, was an envelope. Cream-colored. Same handwriting. Same brand of disaster, making its way steadily across the track.

Oh, shit.

That letter was different. That letter wasn’t a relic from middle school, a fossil of feelings long extinct. That letter was from last year. That letter was the reason George had stopped writing them, the one confession so enormous and terrifying that it overshadowed every other feeling he had ever experienced. It had taken him three drafts and most of a Saturday to get the words right, and even then they’d felt inadequate. Incomplete. A pale shadow of what Alex Albon had come to mean to him.

The world narrowed to a pinpoint. George couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but watch his entire life prepare to implode in slow motion.

Max was still talking, something about how he was just trying to be decent about this, but the words were just noise now, static bleeding into the roar of blood in George’s ears. All he could see was Alex’s face. The gentle way he’d hold the letter out. The careful, pitying words he’d choose. I love you like a brother, mate. Or worse, infinitely worse: You know Lily and I... Which George did know. Which George had accepted with a quiet, private ache that had no right to exist. Which was exactly why his feelings were never supposed to leave the page.

The letters were supposed to be a release valve. A way to feel things without consequences. Five letters, five boys who had, at various points, made his heart do something complicated. None of them were ever meant to know.

And now Alex was maybe forty feet away and closing.

George’s mind didn’t exactly blank. It short-circuited completely, synapses firing in desperate, random patterns, searching for any exit route. There wasn’t one. Just the absolute certainty that he could not, under any circumstances, let Alex reach him with that letter.

What happened next, George would later attribute to a sort of temporary insanity. A fugue state brought on by stress and dehydration and the particular horror of having your best friend march towards you to break your heart.

He looked at Max, who was still talking. Max, who had already read his letter and clearly wanted nothing to do with it.

“I’m so sorry for this,” George said.

Then he closed the distance between them, reached up, and pulled Max into a kiss.

It was desperate and clumsy and probably a lot more force than was strictly necessary for a first kiss with someone you haven’t even shook hands with in years. His fingers curled into the fabric of Max’s hoodie, anchoring himself. For one suspended, horrifying moment, Max went rigid against him, and George was certain he was about to be shoved away with extreme prejudice.

Then something shifted. Max’s surprise gave way to—George couldn’t identify it, didn’t have the brain space to try—and he was kissing back. It was probably just reflex, some automatic social response to having someone’s mouth on yours, but George didn’t care. He pressed his eyes shut and prayed, actually prayed, that somewhere beyond this impossible moment, Alex was watching. Alex was stopping. Alex was turning around and walking very far away to give them privacy.

An absurd, intrusive thought surfaced through the panic: Max’s lips were softer than they had any right to be. George filed that away under Things He Would Never, Ever Think About Again and wrenched himself backwards.

Over Max’s shoulder, he saw Alex. Frozen mid-step, twenty feet away, his mouth slightly open, the letter dangling forgotten from his fingers. His eyes were wide with a shock that mirrored what George felt in his own bones.

It was the opening George needed. He released his grip on Max’s hoodie, his fingers uncurling stiffly.

“Thanks,” he managed, the word barely a whisper.

Then he turned and fled. Across the track, past the bewildered freshmen, through the same side door Lando had disappeared into what felt like a century ago. His cleats clattered against the concrete, echoing in the empty hallway as he ran with no destination in mind except away.

Behind him, he left a stunned Max Verstappen standing alone on the track, touching his fingers to his lips like he wasn’t quite sure what had just happened to them.

He locked himself in the second stall of the boys' bathroom near the gym, the one with the broken lock that everyone knew about and avoided, which made it the most private spot he could think of. His back hit the partition and he fumbled his phone out of his pocket, fingers clumsy with leftover adrenaline.

Lando's number. Dial. Ring.

And ring. And ring.

Voicemail.

He tried again. Same result.

"I need you one time, Norris, and where the hell are you," he muttered, jabbing the red button with perhaps more force than his screen deserved. He typed out a text—emergency get to the bathroom by the gym NOW—and watched the delivered notification appear with no accompanying typing bubble.

Useless. His best friend was completely useless.

The bathroom door swung open with a particular creak of hinges. He held his breath, pressing himself back against the stall wall as if he could somehow phase through it. Please be Lando. Please be Lando who finally developed telepathic abilities and sensed his distress and made himself useful by appearing here.

"George?"

The accent curled around his name with a specific, melodic drawl that George would recognize anywhere. He silently cursed every decision that had led him to this moment.

"Come on, Georgie, I know you're there. I saw you come in." A pause. Footsteps, slow and deliberate on the tile. "Thought maybe we could talk."

And wasn't that just great.

The thing was, George actually liked Charles. Genuinely. He was funny in a slightly chaotic way, kind in a way that caught you off guard, and he'd never made George feel like he didn't belong even when the crowd of popular jackasses Charles sometimes ran with definitely did. So of course George had developed a bit of a crush sophomore year. Everyone did. Anyone who claimed otherwise was lying through their teeth.

It was just who Charles was—this effortlessly magnetic person who looked at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room, who touched your arm when he laughed. He drew you in without even trying, and for a while you let yourself believe you were special. Then one day you snapped out of it. You realized he treated everyone that way. The barista, the lunch lady, the shy freshman in the corner of the library. It wasn't flirting. It was just Charles. And the crush evaporated as quietly as it had bloomed, leaving behind nothing but a faint embarrassment and a perfectly normal friendship.

George had moved on completely.

Unfortunately, he had also documented the experience. In excruciating detail. And if one letter was an accident, and two a coincidence, then three was definitely a pattern.

He knew what Charles was going to say before he said it. The gentle tone, the careful words, the way he'd try to make this less mortifying than it actually was.

"I know, I know," George said through the stall door, his forehead pressing against the cool metal. "I'm sorry, it's utterly embarrassing."

"What? No." Charles sounded genuinely surprised. "You don't have to be embarrassed. I think it's kind of cute."

George groaned, letting his head drop forward with a soft thunk against the door. He still hadn't opened it. Couldn't quite bring himself to face Charles yet. "You're not helping."

"Alright, look." Charles's voice shifted, still warm but with an undertone of something more grounded. "I'm sure you don't feel that way anymore. You talked about the charity event we did for the girls' volleyball team—that was sophomore year, no? And I had fun then too. So I get it, really. You spend so much time closely with someone, you romanticize it a bit. It's not something to be embarrassed about."

George swallowed. "So you're not grossed out or something?"

"Why would I be?" There was a laugh in Charles's voice now, not mocking, just genuinely amused. "George, you know I'm gay, right?"

"I mean—" George faltered. "I didn't want to assume—"

Charles laughed properly this time, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles. "Well, I am. And I had my bunch of misplaced crushes too."

"I'm sure you didn't write them love letters though."

"Well, no, I think that is your original experience." Charles paused, and George could hear the smile in his voice. "But I do think it is romantic."

"Yes, very romantic to turn around at every corner and bump into someone else you accidentally harassed through mail."

"So I'm not the only one?" Charles's tone brightened with something that sounded alarmingly like delight. "Ah, and for a second I felt special."

"Unfortunately not, mate." George sighed, the exhale fogging the metal in front of him.

"Then it is even more romantic. And maybe a little insane." A beat. "I'm assuming you didn't mean to send them, no?"

"Obviously! I have no idea how they got out and now I want to die."

"George." Charles's voice shifted again, the playfulness receding into something more serious. "Come out. Seriously now."

Something in his tone made George's shoulders drop a fraction. The understanding there, the complete lack of judgment—it made him feel marginally less like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He unlatched the stall door and stepped out.

Charles was leaning against the row of sinks, arms crossed loosely over his chest, a cream-colored envelope tucked between his fingers. His expression was open, mostly curious, like George was a puzzle he was still deciding how to approach.

"Here he is." Charles extended the envelope. "And here is your letter. I'm assuming you want it back."

George blinked. He hadn't expected to get it returned so easily. "Thanks."

"Well, it wasn't supposed to be mine anyway." Charles shrugged, but his eyes were warm. "But it was a fun read, I will admit. I liked how you described my eyes."

George's face flooded with heat. "Oh, kill me, please."

"No, seriously now." Charles pushed off from the sink and took a step closer, close enough that George could see the sincerity in his expression. "It is fine. I am not offended, so you do not need to feel awkward about it."

"You're taking this the best by now."

Charles's eyebrows lifted with interest. "Ah, so the other suitors weren't as excited?"

"Didn't have much time to catch up." George rubbed the back of his neck.

"Might I ask if I know them well?"

George thought of Max's stunned face on the track, of Alex frozen mid-step with his own letter dangling from his fingers. "Trust me, you don't even want to know."

The house was quiet when he burst through the front door. He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the throb in his legs from practice that never properly ended.

His closet door was already half-open. He yanked it wide and dropped to his knees, pushing aside old sneakers and a forgotten hoodie, reaching for the back corner where the shoebox should have been.

Nothing. Just carpet.

He scrambled forward, patting the empty space as if the box might have somehow become invisible. Gone. Not just the letters—the entire box, the blue one with the Adidas logo worn off at the edges, the one he'd been using since middle school to hide his most embarrassing secret. Everything gone.

He sat back on his heels, breath coming short. How the hell had this happened? He should've been more careful. He'd always been careful.

Then the memory surfaced, unwelcome and obvious. Last weekend, his mom, standing in his doorway with that look that meant negotiations were not an option. You're leaving for college in six months, George. Clean this room. Sort out what you want to donate. I'm not asking.

Alex and Lando had come over to help. Which really meant they'd made the whole process longer and messier, Lando getting distracted by old video games and Alex methodically working through the mountain of clothes while George tried to keep them both on task. At some point, the blue box must have gotten swept up in the chaos, placed in a pile with old books and outgrown jackets. It had probably ended up in the donation bag. It had probably been dropped off at the community center, where someone must have found the letters, seen the addresses carefully written on each envelope, and decided to play good samaritan.

Fuck's sake.

Alright. Maybe—maybe—it was partially his fault that he'd put his full address on each envelope. And their full addresses. And stamps. Like they were real letters, ready to be sent at any moment. But that was the whole point. It made the fantasy more tangible. When he sealed each envelope, he could almost pretend he was brave enough to actually send them. The ritual of it—the paper, the pen, the stamp—was part of the release. Sue him.

Now, personally, he wanted to sue himself.

"Mom!" He was already on his feet, already halfway down the hall. "Did you take the blue box in my closet?"

His mother's head appeared around the kitchen doorway, a dish towel in her hands. "George, you're eighteen. I don't clean your room anymore, do I?"

He groaned, the sound tearing from somewhere deep in his chest, and turned back towards his room.

The doorbell rang.

He froze on the landing, one hand on the banister. From downstairs, he heard the soft thud of his sister's footsteps, the click of the front door opening.

"Oh, hey Alex. Yeah, he's upstairs. Come in."

Shit.

Of course. Of course Alex thought to look for him at home. Where else would George go? Alex knew him. Alex had always known exactly where to find him, ever since they were kids playing hide and seek in this very house. And now Alex was in his living room, making small talk with his sister, probably still holding that godforsaken letter.

George backed into his room on silent feet. He could not—absolutely could not—let Alex corner him. Not before he figured out what to say. But the only way downstairs was through the living room. And the living room currently contained the one person he was most desperate to avoid.

His eyes drifted to the window.

Maybe he had to make another way. Which would hurt a little. But he was an athlete, for God's sake. He could handle a short drop.

He'd only done this once before. Sixteen years old, letting Lando convince him to sneak out to a party at Pierre Gasly’s house while his parents thought he was asleep. He'd climbed out this same window, dropped onto the roof of the shed, and made it to the party in record time. Then he'd gotten so spectacularly wasted that he'd ended up throwing up in someone's azalea bushes and all over Carlos Sainz's shoes. His parents never found out he'd left, but the hangover the next morning was so biblical that he'd confessed everything anyway and grounded himself. Hadn't let Lando talk him into anything ever again.

But maybe that single, disastrous experience was about to prove useful.

He slid the window open. The evening air hit his face, cool and smelling of freshly cut grass. Below, the shed roof looked sturdier than he remembered—or maybe he was just smaller the last time. The drop wasn't big. The grass looked soft enough. He could do this.

He swung one leg over the sill, then the other, and tried very hard not to think about the fact that he was currently fleeing his own house to avoid a conversation that was probably inevitable anyway.

Some things, George figured, were worth a twisted ankle.

George slumped onto a stool at the counter of Nando's Diner, the familiar smell of griddle grease and coffee doing absolutely nothing to improve his mood. The place was mostly empty this time of evening, just a couple of old-timers in the corner booth and the low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

Fernando appeared from the kitchen, dishrag slung over his shoulder, and slid a milkshake across the counter without being asked. Vanilla. George's usual.

"You sure you don't want me to put some alcohol in that, kid?" Fernando leaned his forearms on the counter, studying George with the kind of knowing look that came from years of watching teenagers pour their hearts out over french fries. "You look like you need it."

"No thanks," George replied, wrapping his hands around the cold glass but not drinking. He came here often enough that Fernando had become something like a friend, or at least a friendly witness to his life. But right now he was in a shit mood and even Fernando's gruff concern wasn't going to fix it.

"Suit yourself." Fernando shrugged, already turning his attention to the person who had just slid onto the stool next to George. "What can I get you?"

"Whatever he's having."

That voice.

George's head snapped up. "What are you doing here?"

Max Verstappen looked back at him with an infuriating calm, settling onto his stool like he had every right to be there. "The usual. Having a—" he glanced at George's glass— "milkshake, it seems."

"Stalking me now, Verstappen?"

Max raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth, but George cut him off before he could get a word out. "Yes, I see the irony. Look, I've already embarrassed myself enough, don't you think? So can we please just forget it?"

"Damn, Russell." Max accepted the milkshake Fernando slid his way with a nod of thanks. "Way to shoot a guy down after you kiss him."

"Please don't remind me. I said I was sorry."

"I thought you meant the letter, not jumping me."

"I didn't—" George felt heat creeping up his neck. "Okay, maybe that was a little unexpected. But I needed to distract someone."

"Albon, yes. I saw him." Max took a sip of his milkshake, infuriatingly unbothered. "He looked mad."

"Did he?" George's stomach twisted. "Actually, no. I don't care."

"Then why did you kiss me so he could see?"

"So he would leave me alone. A sentiment I wish you shared now."

"You see, I would." Max set his glass down and turned on his stool to face George more directly. "But now I'm intrigued. I don't get kissed by guys every day."

George felt a fresh wave of mortification wash over him. In the chaos of everything, in the blind panic of seeing Alex approach, he hadn't even considered—hadn't stopped to think about whether Max was even into guys. He'd just grabbed him and kissed him like that was a normal thing to do to someone whose sexuality he knew absolutely nothing about. Looking at Max's relaxed demeanor now, the way he was leaning into George's space rather than away from it, George figured it was safe to say he wouldn't be getting punched in the face. But still. Maybe think twice next time before kissing guys, George.

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it this time. "If it was—uncomfortable."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Nah, you're fine. I don't really care who I kiss, usually." He paused, something flickering behind his eyes. "But now I'm a little curious. You have to admit, it's a pretty curious situation."

"What's it to you?"

"I want to get you." Max shrugged, like this was a perfectly reasonable thing to say. "And you do kinda owe me an explanation. After the letter. And the kiss."

George stared at him for a long moment. Max stared back, unmoving. Fernando had retreated to the other end of the counter with a suspicious amount of discretion.

"Fine," George sighed, the fight draining out of him. "Like I said, the letter is old. It's about a thirteen-year-old George who used to have a small crush on you while we were karting. That is all."

"So you don't have a crush on me anymore?"

"Obviously. I thought that was clear."

"Well, you did say that." Max's mouth curved slightly. "But then you also kisse—"

"Yeah, I get it, I kissed you." George threw his hands up. "Now can we move on from that?"

Max made a gesture that George chose to interpret as go on.

"Like I said." George repeated the words pointedly, as if saying them harder would make Max absorb them faster. "It was a relic. And you were never supposed to read it. I just wrote it for me, to say it once and then never think of it again."

"So you never thought of me again?"

"Well, you weren't exactly the image of friendship and politeness in high school."

"So that's when you stopped liking me? When high school started?"

"Why is this so important to you?"

"I'm just curious." But Max's jaw had tightened almost imperceptibly, and George got the sense that curiosity wasn't quite the right word.

"Fine, then. Yes. You were an asshole in high school, so the crush faded."

"Ouch."

"You asked."

Max was quiet for a moment, spinning his milkshake glass in slow circles on the counter. Then, without looking up: "And what was Albon's deal in all of this?"

George tensed. "He probably wants an explanation too."

"Wait." Max's head came up, a frown creasing his forehead. "He got a letter too?"

"Yes. There were five letters."

Max let out a low whistle. "Damn, Russell. Didn't know you were a player." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "So who are the other four? Well, three, other than Albon."

"I'm not telling you that."

"Oh, come on. I already know now. How much worse could it be?"

George weighed his options. Max had, admittedly, taken the whole thing surprisingly well. And he was still here, still asking questions, still drinking his milkshake like this was a normal conversation and not the most humiliating day of George's entire life.

"Charles Leclerc."

Max laughed, sharp and genuine. "Of course."

"Everyone had a crush on Charles, okay!"

"I didn't." Max scoffed.

"Yeah, well, you had your weird relationship with Kelly all through high school."

Max shrugged, a gesture that seemed to concede the point without actually agreeing to it. "Okay, go on."

"Esteban Ocon."

Now Max really rolled his eyes, his entire posture shifting with disdain. "Ocon is an idiot. How the hell did you like a guy like that?"

George remembered, vaguely, that Max and Esteban had never gotten along. Something about lacrosse freshman year—Esteban had been an exchange student for a semester, played on the team with Max, and the two of them had clashed like oil and water from day one.

George had been Esteban's guide when he first arrived at their school, the person assigned to show him around and help him adjust. They'd clicked in a way that surprised George. Esteban was quiet but sharp, thoughtful in a way that read as mysterious when you were fifteen and looking for depth in everyone. George had liked the way Esteban listened, really listened, when George talked. He'd never acted on it—too unsure, too shy, too aware that Esteban was only temporary—and then Esteban had gone back to France the next year, leaving George with nothing but a handful of what-ifs and a letter he'd written to get them out of his head.

Max, of course, had been delighted to see him go. George was pretty sure Max had almost gotten suspended for punching him once.

"I liked him," George said, a little defensive. "Your opinion doesn't count here, you hated him."

"I didn't hate him." Max's tone suggested this was technically true but only in the most generous interpretation. "He was just a pretentious douche."

"He was nice."

"You mean boring." Max gave him a look. "I hope the last one isn't as boring."

"I'm not telling you the last one."

"Why not? Come on, you can't leave me in suspense now."

"It's—inappropriate to talk about."

Max's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. "What, was he a married man?" A pause. "Shit, was he?"

"No! He isn't married."

"Is he divorced, then—"

"No! Jesus, you don't stop." George took a fortifying breath. "It's Hamilton."

Max's eyebrows, somehow, went even higher. "Our physics teacher?"

"Yes. Don't give me that look. He's hot, okay?"

"So you wrote him poetry about how hot you find him?" Max was definitely enjoying this now, a grin threatening at the corner of his mouth. "Isn't he like forty?"

"He's thirty, and it was really more like admiration than a crush. Misplaced admiration."

"Are you sure that's what he's gonna read?" Max tilted his head. "Or should we expect a resignation letter anytime soon?"

"God, I hope not." George dropped his head into his hands.

"I genuinely don't even get why they had addresses on them."

"It was part of the—" George cut himself off, lifting his head just enough to glare. "Actually, never mind. I already told you enough."

Max hummed, a considering sound, and was quiet for a moment. The fluorescent lights buzzed. Fernando had given up all pretense of not listening and was polishing the same glass he'd been working on for five minutes.

"So," Max said eventually, his voice shifting into something more deliberate. "Albon, huh? Isn't he like your best friend?"

"Yes." The word came out heavy. "And that's exactly why I can't face him yet. It was stupid of me to write that to him, and now it would only make things between us awkward. It's the last thing I want."

"Well, after you kissed me, he seemed disgusted enough, I guess." Max took a casual sip of his milkshake. "So you're welcome."

"Yeah, thanks," George replied, bone-dry.

"Maybe I could help you with that again."

George blinked. "What, kiss me every time Alex is near? That would get old fast."

"No." Max set his glass down with a quiet clink. "Or, well—I mean, we could pretend? He already saw you kissing me once. So let's lean into that. He'll think you're with me, so he won't think you have an embarrassing crush on him."

The words took a moment to register. George stared at Max, waiting for the punchline. It didn't come.

"Wait. Are you genuinely suggesting we—what, fake date?"

"Why the hell not?"

"What do you get out of this?"

Max shrugged, but there was something less casual about it this time. His gaze dropped to the counter, fingers tracing the condensation on his glass. "Kelly broke up with me, remember? I didn't exactly see it coming." He paused, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "She's already moved on. Or at least she's pretending to. I see her with other guys at parties and she makes sure I notice." He looked up, meeting George's eyes with a directness that felt almost challenging. "Maybe if she thinks I've moved on too, she'll realize what she lost. Might even make her jealous enough to want me back."

George turned this over in his head. It was surprisingly honest. More honest than he'd expected Max Verstappen to be about anything involving feelings.

"And you want Albon to not think you wanna carry his babies or something—"

"You're such an asshole—"

"So win-win situation."

"Literally no one wins here."

"You already used me once." Max's voice was steady, unruffled. "Why not now, when I'm suggesting to help?"

"Because—" George grasped for words, for logic, for anything that would make this idea sound as insane as it was. "I don't need a whole scheme to lie to Alex. I will talk to him. Eventually."

"That's why you're here instead of doing that." Max leaned forward slightly, and suddenly the space between them felt very small. "He has a girlfriend, doesn't he? Wouldn't you want him to think that you also found someone? Make it less obvious that you've been pining after him?"

"I don't need to prove anything."

"Sure."

"It's insane."

"Alright." Max straightened up, pulling his wallet from his pocket. He dropped cash on the counter—probably too much for a milkshake he'd barely touched—and slid off the stool. "Then good luck with your convincing."

He was halfway to the door before George could formulate a response. By the time he did, the bell above the door was already chiming, and Max Verstappen was disappearing into the evening, leaving George alone with his melted milkshake and the distinct, uncomfortable feeling that he'd just missed something important.

Lando was on his couch when he got back.

George had taken the long way home, looping through side streets and cutting through the park, stretching a fifteen-minute walk into forty-five. He'd texted Cara from two blocks away to ask if the coast was clear—Alex's car gone from the driveway, no unexpected visitors lurking in the living room—and gotten a thumbs up in response. But somewhere between the park and his front door, Lando had apparently materialized.

He was sprawled across the couch cushions like he owned the place, which he basically did at this point, his shoes kicked off on the rug and his phone in his hand. The moment George walked through the door, Lando was on his feet.

"Dude, where were you? You haven't answered your phone after texting me 'emergency.'" He held up his own phone as evidence, George's message still glowing on the screen. "I was worried."

"Yeah, well, thanks for nothing, Norris." George didn't slow down, heading straight for the stairs. Behind him, he heard Lando scramble to follow.

"What happened?"

"The worst day of my life happened!"

"Whoa." Lando's footsteps were right behind him, quick and light on the stairs. "Slow down. From the beginning."

George pushed open his bedroom door and didn't stop moving until he was pacing the length of his rug. The window was still open from his earlier escape, the evening breeze stirring the curtains. He ran a hand through his hair and launched into it—everything, from the moment Max cornered him on the track to the insane proposal at the diner, the words tumbling out in a rush because if he stopped talking he might actually have to process any of it.

Lando sat on the edge of George's bed, uncharacteristically still, and listened. He didn't interrupt once, which was how George knew the situation was truly dire.

"And it's just—it's insane, right?" George finally stopped pacing, turning to face Lando with his arms spread wide. "Like, who does he think we are? Where does he think we are? No one would believe—"

"Actually," Lando cut in, his voice thoughtful, "I think they would."

George's arms dropped. "What?"

"I mean, Max and Kelly have been on and off a few times, but this time Kelly's like, crazy going out. Like, every weekend, different guy, making sure everyone sees." Lando leaned back on his hands, tilting his head. "And Max hates it. I think it's embarrassing for him, 'cause people know, you know? So his reasoning is solid. And it's not like he hasn't been with guys before—"

"Wait, really?"

"Yeah, dude." Lando shrugged like this was common knowledge. "Max doesn't really care about that stuff. He's chill."

George sometimes forgot that Lando and Max were friendly. They ran in overlapping circles, had the kind of easy rapport from years of proximity. Of course Lando knew things about Max that George didn't.

"So what, you're suggesting I take him up on this ridiculous offer?"

Lando raised an eyebrow. "Is it really more ridiculous than the situation you're already in?"

"I'm already regretting telling you—"

"Alright, look." Lando raised his hands in a placating gesture, the same one he used when he was trying to talk George down from a spiral. "Look. All I'm saying is that since you're clearly not ready to talk to Alex, maybe let Max help you keep him away for a while. Otherwise Alex is gonna keep trying, and you're gonna break under pressure."

"I don't—"

"Mate, you do." Lando's voice was gentler now, the teasing edge gone. "Just think about it, alright?"

George deflated, the last of his frantic energy draining out of him. He dropped onto the bed beside Lando, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Fine." A pause. "Are you sure you're fine with being in the middle of this?"

"Of course." Lando bumped his shoulder against George's. "I'm not letting you go through this alone. And if Alex asks, I know nothing. I'll try to make sure he's always far enough to run."

Despite everything, George felt something loosen in his chest. "Thanks, man." He stared at his hands, the events of the day pressing down on him finally. "I promise I will talk to him. It's just—too weird right now. God, how could I have been so stupid?"

"Hey, hey. None of that." Lando's voice was firm. "Maybe it's like a sign. The universe gave you a push, and maybe you should follow where it leads you."

George snorted. "In Max Verstappen's bedroom?"

"Now, now, you heathen." Lando's grin was back, wide and wicked. "You're already thinking of third base?"

"Shut up." But George laughed, and it came a little easier this time, the knot in his chest loosening just enough to let him breathe.

Before third base, he had to survive third period first.

Physics.

George had been dreading it since the moment he'd woken up, the weight of it sitting in his stomach like a stone. He'd barely slept, his mind cycling through worst-case scenarios every time he closed his eyes. Lewis Hamilton handing him back the letter in front of everyone. Lewis Hamilton requesting a private meeting with the principal. Lewis Hamilton looking at him with that particular expression of disappointment that George had spent his entire academic career trying to avoid.

He spent the entire class period rigid at his desk, eyes fixed on his notebook, answering questions in monosyllables when called upon. Lewis, for his part, acted completely normal. If he'd read the letter—and George knew he had, the envelope had definitely been delivered—he showed no sign of it. His lecture on quantum mechanics was as engaging as ever, his explanations as clear, his demeanor as warm and professional as it had been every day since September.

It was somehow worse than if he'd been cold. The normalcy felt like a trap.

The bell rang. George had his books gathered and was halfway out of his seat before the sound finished echoing.

"George, could you stay a moment after class, please?"

He froze mid-lunge toward the door. Pierre, passing by his desk, let out a low whistle.

"Ooh, someone's in trouble," he sing-songed, but Charles was right behind him and shoved him lightly between the shoulder blades, steering him toward the door with a pointed look at George that clearly said what did you do?

George didn't have time to telegraph back you already know what I did before the door clicked shut, leaving him alone with his physics teacher and the crushing weight of his own stupidity.

George remained frozen by his desk. The classroom had never felt so large, or so quiet.

"Please, sit down." Lewis gestured to a chair in the front row. His voice was calm. Measured. The same voice he used to explain wave-particle duality. "Or stand. Whatever makes you comfortable. I just thought we should—" he paused, pressing his fingertips together— "talk."

George didn't sit. He gripped his backpack strap so hard his knuckles went white. "I know what you're gonna say and I swear it's not what it looks like—"

"George." Lewis held up a hand, and George's mouth snapped shut. "I want to start by saying that you're not in trouble. This isn't a disciplinary conversation. I just—" He stopped. Started again. "I've been trying to figure out how to have this conversation all morning, actually." A self-deprecating smile flickered across his face.

George wanted the floor to open up. He wanted a trapdoor. A sinkhole. A meteor.

"I need you to understand something," Lewis continued, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on his desk. "I am extremely—I want to handle this carefully. Because you are my student. And I am your teacher. And there is a—a dynamic there. A power imbalance. That I take very seriously."

"I know," George said, and his voice cracked on the second word. "I know, I know, I—"

"And I think," Lewis pressed on, as if saying it faster would make it less excruciating for both of them, "that it's wonderful when young people are in touch with their feelings. Truly. Emotional honesty is—it's a gift. And the letter was very—" he searched for a word and seemed to immediately regret every option he found— "eloquent. In parts. The metaphor about the—" he made a vague gesture— "the stars and the—gravitational pull—that was creative. You're a gifted writer."

George made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze. "Oh god."

"But," Lewis said, "I think perhaps some of those feelings might be—misplaced. Not invalid. Just. Aimed in a direction that is—" he winced— "not appropriate. For either of us. And I want to be very clear that while I am—flattered, I suppose, though that's not quite the word—I do not reciprocate. Those feelings. In any way. At all."

"I know that," George managed. His face was so hot he was surprised the fire alarms hadn't gone off. "I know. I don't—I'm not—"

"And the last thing I want," Lewis steamrolled on, "is for this to affect your education. You are genuinely one of my most promising students. Your paper on special relativity was excellent. I gave it an A. I don't give out A's lightly. And I would hate—truly hate—for this to create an uncomfortable learning environment for you. So if you feel that you need distance, or if you'd prefer to transfer to Mr. Vettel's class next semester, I would completely understand and support that decision. No questions asked. No impact on your record."

"No," George said, too loud. "No, I don't—please don't make me switch classes. Lewis." The name came out wrong. Too familiar. He cringed. "Mr. Hamilton. Sir. I wrote that when I was sixteen. I was dumb. I am still dumb, but I was dumber then, and I am not—I don't have a—it wasn't even really a crush. It was—"

He took a breath. It came out shaky.

"You were the first teacher who ever made me feel like I was actually really good at something. Not just passing, but genuinely gifted. And I think I just—I latched onto that. I didn't know what to do with it. So I wrote it down. And I wrote it in a really, really embarrassing way that I wish you had never seen. It's just this thing I do. I write things down so I don't have to carry them around anymore, and then I put them away and that's supposed to be the end of it. Only this time someone found the box and—" he gestured helplessly— "mail."

Lewis was watching him with an expression that was trying very hard to be neutral but was losing a battle with something that looked like relief. "So you don't—currently—"

"No. God no. Zero. None. I promise."

"I think," Lewis said carefully, reaching into his desk drawer, "you might want this back."

The envelope, cream-colored and rumpled. George's own handwriting staring back at him. Lewis held it out between two fingers, the way one might handle something mildly hazardous.

"Yes. Please. Thank you." George snatched it and shoved it into his backpack so fast the zipper screeched.

"And George?"

He looked up. Lewis's expression had softened into something almost amused.

"Next time you want to process your feelings through writing—which I still endorse, by the way—maybe leave the addresses off."

George barked out a laugh, high and slightly hysterical. "You're not the first person to tell me that."

"Well, let's hope I'll be the last." Lewis's smile was warm, the tension finally draining from his shoulders. "For both our sakes."

"Yeah." George adjusted his backpack, the weight of three returned letters pressing against his spine. "Thank you. For being this understanding."

"That's why I'm here." Lewis leaned back in his chair, looking at George with something that felt almost paternal. "And I am glad this won't affect your education. You really are a gifted student. It would've been a shame."

"So you're willing to forget about it?"

"Absolutely." A hint of dry amusement crept into Lewis's voice. "I wouldn't want to make it awkward for you. Well, more than it already is."

"Thanks." George was already inching toward the door, desperate to escape before either of them could say another word that would prolong this exquisite torture. "I'll just—go now. And never speak of this again."

"That would be ideal."

George fled.

The hallway was empty. Fourth period was already underway, the usual chaos of between-class traffic replaced by the muffled drone of teachers' voices bleeding through classroom doors. He leaned against the lockers for a moment, letting the cool metal press into his back, and closed his eyes.

Three down. Three letters retrieved, three disasters narrowly averted. Charles had been gracious. Lewis had been professional. Max had been—well, Max had been weirdly persistent, but at least he hadn't punched George in the face.

He opened his eyes.

Max was leaning against the lockers directly across from him. George was starting to fear he’d summoned him with his mind.

"Why do you show up everywhere I am, suddenly?" George's voice came out more exhausted than accusatory.

Max just shrugged, that infuriatingly calm shrug that seemed to be his default response to everything. "Coincidence."

"You skipping class, Verstappen?" George pushed himself off the lockers and started walking. Max fell into step beside him like he'd been doing it for years.

"No." A pause. "Or I could. If you're offering."

"I'm not." George didn't slow down. "How did you even know I had physics?"

"I knew you shared the class with Charles." Max said it like it was obvious. "I asked him."

George stopped walking. Turned to face Max with narrowed eyes. "Why?"

"Was curious how that went." Max's expression was unreadable, but there was something almost genuine underneath the casual tone. "On a scale from 'fine' to 'you're switching schools,' how bad was it?"

"More than fine, actually." George resumed walking, Max keeping pace. "He's a level-headed man."

"Yeah, I bet you weren't the first student drooling over his tattoos."

George shot him a look. "Are you here to embarrass me further, or did you actually have something you wanted?"

"Fine, fine." Max held up his hands in mock surrender. Then, with a slight shift in his posture: "Yeah. I wanted to see if you reconsidered. My proposition."

George groaned. They'd reached the intersection of two hallways, morning sunlight streaming through the high windows. "Why are you insisting so much on this?"

"Because the more I think about it, the more I know it will work."

"How?"

Max ticked the points off on his fingers. "One: I know Kelly. Two: Albon has been giving me dirty looks all morning, which means he's definitely thinking about what he saw. And three—" he paused for effect— "rumor's already going around that we made out."

George stopped dead. "What?"

"We were in the middle of the field." Max shrugged, utterly unbothered. "People saw. Kelly heard about it. I played it cool, of course, but we could play into it."

"What are people saying about me?" George could hear the edge of panic creeping into his voice.

"Relax. Nothing bad." Max leaned his shoulder against the lockers, facing George with an expression that was almost reassuring. "Just expect to get more attention from now on. Which you could weaponize, if only you listened to me."

"I'm not doing it, Verstappen." George set his jaw. "Drop it."

"Albon won't drop it, I bet."

"Alex is my problem." The words came out sharper than he intended. "Not yours."

Max held his gaze for a long moment. Something flickered behind his eyes—frustration, maybe. Then he pushed himself off the lockers with another shrug, just that this time it was just a little too deliberate.

"Fine. Have it your way, Russell." He turned and walked off down the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets, not looking back.

George watched him go. The morning light caught the edges of Max's silhouette, and for reasons he couldn't quite articulate, George felt the strangest urge to call him back.

He miraculously managed to go through the whole day without bumping into Alex.

It wasn't for lack of opportunity. They shared a free period, and the library was their usual spot. Alex had texted him twice—hey can we talk? and then, an hour later, george please—and both times George had stared at his phone until the screen went dark and then shoved it deep into his backpack where he couldn't feel it burning a hole through the fabric. He'd taken alternate routes between classes, ducked into bathrooms whenever he spotted a familiar head of dark hair in the crowd, and had generally conducted himself with the kind of tactical evasion usually reserved for spy movies.

By the time the final bell rang, he was exhausted. He all but ran home, his backpack thumping against his spine with every stride, and didn't slow down until he was through the front door.

"Honey." His mom's voice floated in from the kitchen. "There's some mail for you on the counter."

George's blood ran cold. He rounded the corner into the kitchen and almost tripped over his own feet.

There, sitting innocently on the granite countertop beside a stack of bills and some coupons, was a cream-colored envelope. The address was Esteban's old housing placement from freshman year—a temporary apartment that had probably changed tenants twice over since then. Someone had scrawled RETURN TO SENDER in black marker across the front.

George picked it up with trembling fingers. He was so relieved he could have cried.

One letter that would never reach its intended target, one conversation he would never have to have with a boy who was currently an ocean away and blissfully unaware of the mortification he'd been spared. Esteban was one less worry. A small mercy, but George would take it.

He trudged up to his room and added the envelope to the growing collection in his backpack, nestled beside the ones from Charles, Max, and Lewis. Three recovered, one returned, one still out there in Alex's possession. He'd probably still want to die from embarrassment for at least a few weeks in Lewis's class until he moved on from it, and Charles was still his friend—had proven it, really, by being so unfailingly decent about the whole thing. Those were wins. Small wins, but wins nonetheless.

Thinking about Max, though, meant also thinking about Alex. Which was still a whole mess.

Max had gotten under his skin. That was the annoying part. It wasn't just the kiss—that had been a panic response, a desperate Hail Mary that George had barely thought through before doing it. It was the way Max had sat across from him at Nando’s, how he had been waiting for him in the hallway, had asked Charles about his schedule, had been thinking about this. Had been thinking about George.

And the thing was—George had noticed people giving him looks today. In the hallways, in the cafeteria line, during the passing period when he was pressed against the lockers trying to be invisible. Not mean looks, just curious ones. Appraising, almost. Like they were seeing him for the first time, or seeing something new in someone they'd looked at a hundred times before. It was unsettling.

Also, if he was being completely honest, a little gratifying.

And he couldn't help but think that maybe those whispers were the reason Alex had kept his distance today. That maybe the rumor of George and Max making out on the track had done exactly what Max said it would do—created a buffer, a reason for Alex to hesitate before cornering George for that inevitable conversation. If Max was right about that, then maybe he was right about the rest of it.

George pulled out his phone.

do you know if there is lacrosse practice today? he texted Lando.

The response came almost immediately. ill ask carlos

A pause. Then: why?

omg are you doing what i think you are???

George could practically hear Lando's voice through the screen, the rising pitch of barely contained glee. He typed back: just send me the schedule.

Lando did, along with a string of emojis that George chose to ignore.

So that's how George found himself driving back to school on an afternoon when he should have been at home, in sweatpants, trying to forget the last forty-eight hours had ever happened.

The lacrosse field was on the far side of campus, past the baseball diamond and the tennis courts. George parked in the mostly empty lot and walked the rest of the way, his sneakers crunching on the gravel path. Practice was just letting out. Boys in pads and helmets were filtering toward the locker room in loose clusters, sticks slung over their shoulders, voices carrying across the field.

George stood at the edge of the field and waited. He didn't call out. Didn't wave. He just stood there with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, and waited for Max to notice him.

Sure enough, Max peeled away from the group he was walking with. He'd taken his helmet off, his hair damp with sweat and sticking up in about six different directions. There was a smear of dirt across his jaw. He looked, against all logic, pleased to see George.

"Hi?" Max said, drawing the word out so it became a question.

"If I say yes to this," George said in lieu of hello, "we need to set some ground rules."

Max's face did something complicated. The smirk started small and grew, curling at the corner of his mouth like he'd just won something and was trying very hard not to be insufferable about it. He shook his head, still half-laughing, and gestured toward the locker room with his helmet.

"Let me shower first. I'll meet you by the picnic tables."

The picnic tables were tucked behind the gymnasium. George was sitting at the far end, a notebook open in front of him, when Max appeared. His hair was still wet, combed back from his face, and he'd changed into a fresh hoodie and jeans. He dropped onto the bench across from George and propped his elbows on the table.

"Is that a contract?" He peered at the notebook. "Are you actually writing a contract?"

"Yes." George kept his voice businesslike. "You wanted me to take this seriously. I'm taking it seriously."

"I didn't think you'd take it this seriously."

"Point one." George ignored him and tapped his pen against the paper. "We need to set a clear deadline. We can't pretend forever."

"How about two months?"

"Months?" George's pen stopped moving. "You want to do this for two months?"

"Yeah, well, it takes time to sell a relationship." Max shrugged, but his eyes were watchful. "If we break up after two weeks, no one's gonna believe it was real in the first place. Kelly definitely won't."

"You want me to ignore my best friend for two months?"

"Well, you did go and confess your feelings for him—"

"Okay, I get it." George cut him off before he could finish that sentence. "Why two months, though?"

"Simple." Max leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "We have to go on the ski trip together."

George stared at him. "Yeah, no way. I never go on that thing."

"If you're my boyfriend, you will. I go every year. No one would believe you'd just let me go there alone."

"Yeah, I know what they say about that trip." The annual winter ski trip was infamous. What happened in the cabins never stayed in the cabins. One weekend of unsupervised teenagers with too much freedom and probably too much to drink. And the more George heard about it, the more he was sure he wanted no part in it.

"If you're worried rumors will spread about you—"

"I'm not a virgin, Verstappen. I just don't ski."

"Then don't ski." Max waved a hand dismissively. "Stay inside and do skincare with the girls or something. But you have to come with me, or else no one will believe we're serious."

"Kelly always went with you?"

"Of course."

"And what, after the trip we magically break up?"

"Couples always fight there." Max said it like it was obvious, like he'd already mapped out the entire timeline in his head. "We'll say we tried to kiss and make up and it didn't work. Easy as that. And two months should be enough time for you to figure out how to approach Albon. He'll forget about the letter after he stops thinking you're in love with him."

"Because he'll think I'm in love with you."

"Madly."

George looked at Max. Max looked back, steady and unblinking. There was something almost infuriating about how calm he was, how sure. Like he'd already won and they were just going through the motions.

"Fine," George said. "I'll go with your logic here."

"Shockingly placid of you."

"Don't make me regret it." George drew a line across the page and started a new bullet point. "Point two. We have to have public appearances."

Max snorted. "You make it sound so technical. We have to hang out."

"What does hanging out entail to you?"

"You know, the usual." Max started ticking things off on his fingers, a gesture George was beginning to recognize. "We have dinner sometimes. You come to my games. I show up for your races. We go to parties after."

"I don't do parties."

"Of course you don't."

"I tried and I didn't like it."

"You haven't tried them with me yet."

George fixed him with a flat look. "Incredibly arrogant of you."

"Again, it won't be believable if I go to parties alone." Max's tone was reasonable, but his eyes were glinting with something that looked a lot like amusement. "People will talk."

"Fine." George wrote it down, the pen pressing harder than strictly necessary. "But if I agree to that, you have to agree to things I like too."

"Like what?"

"Like movie nights in."

"Fine." Max leaned back, crossing his arms. "I'll even let you pick the movies. And post you on Instagram."

"How generous." George didn't look up from the notebook. "Point three: no kissing."

Silence. He looked up. Max was staring at him like he'd just suggested they communicate exclusively through interpretive dance.

"What? How are we supposed to be in a relationship with no kissing?"

"Fake relationship," George corrected.

"Alright, but the kisses need to be real. Otherwise people will know."

"I'm not kissing you, Verstappen."

"You already did." Max's voice dropped slightly, and George absolutely refused to acknowledge the way it made something shift in his stomach.

"Not looking for a repeat."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Thought you weren't a virgin."

"Still not interested in exchanging saliva."

"Then what are we supposed to do? Hold hands?"

"I might allow that, yes." George kept his voice level.

Max sighed, long-suffering. "Can I at least kiss you on the cheek or something?"

George considered this. A kiss on the cheek was—fine. Chaste. Performative in a way that would read as affectionate without crossing any lines he wasn't willing to cross.

"I guess that's not too bad."

"Fine." Max threw his hands up. "I'll work around that."

"Great." George made another note. "Do you have anything to add?"

"Yeah." Max's voice shifted, losing some of its teasing edge. "You have to sit with my friends and I at lunch."

That made George pause. "I sit with Lando and—"

"Albon, yes. I know." Max held his gaze. "Lando wouldn't mind sitting with us too."

George knew Lando wouldn't. Lando could make friends with a brick wall if he put his mind to it. But the thought of Alex alone at their old table, eating lunch by himself, did something painful to George's heart. Max seemed to notice the hesitation.

"And doesn't Albon have his girlfriend?" Max asked, his voice carefully neutral.

George felt himself pale. Lily. He hadn't thought about her much in all of this—hadn't let himself think about her. Lily, who was nothing but kind to him, who always saved him a seat at basketball games and asked about his track meets and had absolutely no idea that George had been pining after her boyfriend for the better part of a year.

"What, don't tell me you're feeling bad about this still?" Max was watching him closely now. "Jealous of her or something?"

"What? No." The denial came too fast. "They're great together."

"But you still want him for yourself—"

"I don't—"

"But you do." Max leaned forward, and suddenly the teasing was gone from his voice entirely. "I mean, my letter was old. So was Charles's, and Ocon's, and Hamilton's. But with Albon it's different, isn't it? That's why you're going out of your way to avoid him. You really like him, don't you?"

George opened his mouth. Closed it. The words felt trapped somewhere behind his ribs.

"It's not like that," he managed finally.

"Then what is it like?"

George looked down at the notebook. At the contract he was writing with a boy he'd barely spoken to in four years, all to avoid a conversation with the person who knew him best in the world. It was absurd. The whole thing was absurd.

"I'm not waiting in the shadows for Alex to drop Lily and realize he wants to be with me," he said quietly. "I don't want him to—reshape his life because I confessed some stupid feelings. They don't matter. I just want him to forget it."

Max was quiet for a moment. "Will you forget it, though?"

George met his eyes. "Do I have a choice?"

Something flickered across Max's face. Understanding, maybe, or something adjacent to it. He held George's gaze for a beat longer, then nodded, leaning back on his side of the table.

"Alright," he said. "At least you'll be busy for the next few months."

"Yeah." George pushed the notebook across the table, turning it so Max could read. "Sign here."

Max looked down at the paper, then back up at George. "Are you seriously making me sign this?"

"Yes. I'm binding you to it." George held out the pen. "I expect you realize how mortifying this would be if it gets out it's fake."

"Don't you say." Max took the pen, shaking his head, and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the page. His handwriting was terrible—a jagged, barely legible scrawl that looked exactly like George would have expected.

He handed the pen back. Their fingers brushed. George pulled his hand away faster than was probably necessary.

"Congratulations," Max said, that infuriating smirk creeping back onto his face. "You've got yourself a fake boyfriend."

George looked at the signed contract, at the list of rules and conditions and deadlines, and wondered what exactly he'd just agreed to.

"Lucky me," he muttered.

They didn't exactly talk about how they would tackle it. George had imagined something low-key—a gradual easing into the performance, maybe let the rumors simmer for a few days before diving in. Let people speculate. Let the idea of them settle into the collective consciousness before they started actually acting like a couple.

Max, apparently, did not share this opinion.

George was at his locker the next morning, still half-asleep and fumbling with his combination, when a presence materialized beside him. He didn't have to look to know who it was.

"Morning," Max said, leaning against the locker next to George's like he'd been doing it for years.

George blinked at him. "Morning?"

"What do you have first period?"

"English. Why?"

"I'll walk you." Max said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

George's hand stilled on his locker door. "You don't have to—"

"I kinda do."

"What period do you have?"

"Chemistry."

"With Rosberg?"

"Yeah."

"But that's like, on the other side of the building—"

"So?" Max shrugged. "He doesn't care if I'm late."

"Why not?"

Another shrug, looser this time. "Got used to it, I guess."

George narrowed his eyes. "Please tell me you're not going to act like a cliché bad boy or something."

An unexpected laugh escaped Max, bright and genuinely surprised. "You know, I don't think anyone's ever called me a cliché before."

"Maybe it's a wake-up call."

"Come on, get your things then." Max pushed himself off the lockers. "So I won't be late."

"Or I could walk alone?"

"What kind of boyfriend would I be then?"

The word landed in George's chest with an unexpected weight. Boyfriend. Spoken so casually, so easily, like Max had been saying it for years instead of less than twenty-four hours. George was going to have to get used to that. Fast.

"Okay, fine. Let's go."

And then Max did something really weird. He reached down and took George's hand.

It wasn't tentative or hesitant. Max didn't pause to check if George was okay with it, didn't glance around to see who was watching. He just slid his fingers between George's like their hands had been designed to fit together this way. And the thing was—they kind of did. George's palm settled against Max's with a strange, unexpected ease. Their fingers interlaced without awkward adjustment. Max's grip was warm and steady and not too tight.

Max wasn't demanding, exactly. It was just that his presence commanded attention, his gestures demanded reciprocity. He moved through the world with such complete, unshakeable confidence that ignoring him felt like ignoring gravity. People didn't. They probably knew better than to openly stare, but George felt the weight of eyes on them as they walked down the hallway—sideways glances, whispered exchanges, a rumor being confirmed in real time.

And George knew, with absolute certainty, that by lunch the word would spread. People he hadn't spoken to in four years would suddenly know his name and say hi in the hallway. The social ecosystem of their school was already rearranging itself around this new piece of information, and George was standing at the center of it, holding hands with Max Verstappen.

It was this simple gesture—just fingers intertwined, just palms pressed together—that made George realize how little he actually knew about Max. Despite Max being at the epicenter of everything that happened in this school, despite George having known him since childhood, despite the years of shared hallways and mutual friends and that whole strange history of karting together as kids. He would never have imagined Max being okay with walking hand-in-hand with a guy in public. More than okay, perhaps—to be the one initiating it, so casually, like it didn't even occur to him that there was anything unusual about it.

It made George feel strange about all the assumptions he'd made. The prejudice he himself had associated with Max without even realizing it. Lando was right. He really didn't know Max at all anymore.

They stopped in front of George's English classroom. A few students were already inside, and George could see the exact moment they registered the two figures in the doorway. Max didn't seem to notice, or care.

"I'm not sure I'll be able to walk with you every break," Max said, still holding his hand, "but I'll see you around. I'll look for you, okay? You could send me your schedule."

"I don't have your number."

"I have yours." Max's thumb brushed absently across George's knuckles. "I'll just text you something so you can save mine."

"How do you have my number?"

"Lando." Max said it like it was obvious.

"You asked Lando—"

"Relax." A hint of that smirk crept back. "I didn't tell him what for."

George decided, very pointedly, not to tell Max that Lando knew exactly what it was for anyway.

"Alright. Text me whatever. I'll see you around."

"And at lunch."

"Yes, at lunch. I remember."

"Good." Max leaned in, quick and casual, and pressed a kiss to George's jaw—just beneath his ear, light as a breath. "See ya."

Then he was gone, heading off toward the other side of the building, hands in his pockets, not looking back. George stood frozen in the doorway of his English class, the spot where Max's lips had touched still tingling.

"I can't believe you actually did it!" Lando was practically vibrating with excitement as they walked toward the cafeteria, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum with every unnecessary skip-step. "I mean, I knew you were considering it, but I didn't think you'd actually—"

"It's not too late to eat lunch in the library," George interrupted, already regretting every choice that had led him to this moment.

"Library is for sad people, not the people dating Max Verstapp—"

"Fake dating." George grabbed Lando's arm, pulling him to a stop just outside the cafeteria doors. The noise from inside was a dull roar, trays clattering and voices overlapping. "Remember that. And also—do not let him know you know it's not real. I haven't really told him."

Lando's eyebrows shot up. "So he doesn't know you're only dating because of my extraordinary convincing abilities?"

"You're meddling enough as it is. Giving him my number?"

"Well, duh." Lando looked entirely unrepentant. "He asked."

"If he asked—" George cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Actually, never mind. I don't want to know."

"Come on now." Lando was already pushing through the cafeteria doors, his voice carrying that particular note of glee that meant he was enjoying this far too much. "I'm hungry. And Max is waiting." He wriggled his eyebrows in a way that made George seriously consider hitting him.

George had expected the walk to Max's table to be an ordeal. He'd braced himself for the stares, the whispered comments, the suffocating weight of walking into a territory where he didn't belong. He'd imagined feeling unwelcome, an interloper in a social ecosystem that had functioned perfectly well without him for years. He'd pictured himself sitting rigidly at the edge of a bench, counting down the minutes until lunch ended, making awkward small talk with people who had no idea why he was suddenly there.

But perhaps he'd underestimated Max. And Max's friends.

They didn't give him looks. They didn't make suggestive comments or exchange knowing glances or do any of the things George had been dreading. Instead, they just did their stupid, elaborate handshakes with Lando—who apparently already knew everyone, because of course he did—and nodded at George like they'd been expecting him. Like he was supposed to be there and it wasn't strange at all that he was.

And knowing Max, they probably had been expecting him. Max had probably briefed them beforehand, in that casual way of his, laying out exactly what was happening and exactly what they were supposed to do about it. And they probably respected Max enough not to question it, or at least not to question it in public.

Charles caught his eye as George slid onto the bench. He had an amused smile playing at the corner of his lips and a question dancing in his eyes—I know something is going on and I will be asking about it later. George just mouthed "Later" across the table, and Charles gave an almost imperceptible nod before turning back to his conversation with Pierre.

Lando, to George's complete lack of surprise, seemed utterly at ease. He was already deep in conversation with Carlos about something that involved a lot of hand gestures, laughing at something Yuki said over his shoulder, fitting into this group like he'd been sitting here all year. Which, George realized with a small pang, he probably could have been. Lando knew these people. Lando got along with these people. All this time, he could have sat anywhere—could have been part of any group in this cafeteria—and he'd still chosen to stick with George and Alex at their small table by the window.

The thought sent a wave of unexpected affection through George's chest.

"How was history?" Max asked, leaning slightly into George's space. "You had a pop quiz, right?"

George didn't bother asking how Max knew that. Max seemed to have his ways of finding things out—through Charles, through Lando, through whatever mysterious network of information he'd apparently been using to track George's movements since the moment that first letter landed in his mailbox. George was just going to have to learn to accept it.

"It was fine."

"You going straight home today?"

"No. Track practice."

"You driving?" Max popped a grape into his mouth, chewing slowly.

"George hates driving," Lando interjected, leaning across the table with the kind of shameless enthusiasm that made George want to sink through the floor.

"I don't hate it."

"He's shit at it."

"Gee, thanks, buddy."

"I'll drive you, then." Max said it like it was already decided, like the offer was a formality rather than a question.

"I wouldn't want to get in your way."

"Nonsense." Max waved a hand dismissively. "I'll pick you up in the morning too. You should've said."

And George—well, he couldn't exactly refuse him. Not with everyone around, not with Charles watching with that knowing look and Lando practically bouncing in his seat. So he just nodded and smiled. A little forcibly, but still.

"Any good freshmen this year on track?" Carlos asked, mercifully changing the subject.

"Actually, yeah," Lando jumped in before George could answer. "There's this kid, Antonelli. He's like, stupid fast."

"Faster than Lando, definitely," George added.

"Hey!" Lando's head whipped around, betrayal written all over his face. "I thought we were friends, Georgie!"

"Start showing up to practice and we'll talk."

"I had a dentist appointment—"

"Sure."

"Oscar, man, come here!" Pierre's voice cut through the noise as he waved at someone walking by with a lunch tray. The guy—Oscar, presumably—just nodded his head in a sort of casual salute and changed course, weaving through the tables toward them.

"This is Oscar," Max said, gesturing as the newcomer slid onto the bench at Lando's right. "He's a junior. Just transferred from Australia this year."

"Hi. I'm George."

"Hello," Oscar replied, his accent curling around the word.

"Lando," Lando said. George glanced at him. His voice had gone a little strange—a little breathless, a little awkward, like he'd forgotten how to introduce himself halfway through his own name. George narrowed his eyes, but Lando was looking at Oscar with an expression George couldn't quite decipher.

"Hi," Oscar said, meeting Lando's eyes for a brief moment before turning his attention to his lunch tray.

"He's our new goalkeeper," Max added, apparently oblivious to whatever had just happened.

"What happened to Stroll?"

Carlos snorted. "What didn't happen to Stroll?"

"The guy only stops balls with his head," Pierre supplied helpfully.

George gave Max a look. Max shrugged, unrepentant. "What? He wasn't exactly prodigy talent. Oscar is great. You'll see at our next game."

He said it like it was a given that George would be there. Which, considering their contract, it was.

"Can't wait," George said, and found that he almost meant it.

Oscar, he learned over the course of lunch, wasn't a man of many words. But when he did speak, he always had something either sarcastic or useful to say. He had a dry, understated wit that caught George off guard, the kind of humor that slipped past you if you weren't paying attention. George was beginning to believe he'd like him a lot.

Lando, on the other hand, was significantly quieter than he'd been before they sat down. He'd stopped bouncing. Stopped interjecting. He was picking at his sandwich with an uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm, his eyes flickering toward Oscar at intervals that George suspected Lando wasn't even aware of.

But before George could pay more attention to that—before he could file it away with all the other things he needed to examine later—his gaze snagged on movement across the cafeteria.

Alex was standing up from their old table by the window. Alone. Lily must have had a different lunch period, or maybe she was home sick, or maybe Alex had chosen to sit by himself today. For one treacherous, heart-stopping moment, George imagined Alex would walk over. That he'd cross the cafeteria, weave through the tables, plant himself in front of Max and demand to know what the hell was going on. That he'd pull George aside and they'd finally have the conversation George had been running from for two days.

But Alex just looked at George. One long moment, his expression unreadable, something flickering behind his eyes that George couldn't name. Then he turned and walked the other way, his tray balanced in one hand, his shoulders set in a line that looked almost—resigned.

Max nudged him gently, his elbow pressing against George's arm. "Want a grape?"

George blinked, pulling his gaze away from Alex's retreating back. "Yeah. Thanks."

He picked one from the bunch Max offered and popped it into his mouth, barely tasting it.

"You really didn't have to drive me."

George said it before he could stop himself, the words automatic, a reflex honed by years of not wanting to be a burden. He was sitting in the passenger seat of Max's car—a towering, boxy G-wagon that sat so high off the ground he felt like he was looking down into the windows of passing sedans—watching the school building recede in the side mirror.

"Are you always going to fight me when I try to do things for you?" Max glanced over at him, one hand loose on the steering wheel, his tone more curious than accusatory.

And George—well, he didn't exactly have an answer for that. Because yeah, he kinda would. He wasn't used to this. He'd spent so long being the one who organized things, who looked after Lando, who kept track of diets and practice times. Being on the receiving end felt foreign. Like wearing someone else's jacket.

"It's just—weird, that's all." He stared out the window, watching the view roll past. "I'm not used to it."

Max was quiet for a moment as he backed out of the parking lot and pulled onto the main road. George was glad for the fact that Max had to look at the road and not at him.

"Am I your first boyfriend?"

The question hung in the air between them. George could be offended by the wording. He could scoff and say it was none of Max's business, that their arrangement didn't extend to personal histories. He could deflect with sarcasm the way he'd been doing every time Max got too close to something real.

But there was no point in denying it, was there? There really had been no one. George thought Max would have guessed it by now—by the way George wrote love letters to people he liked instead of actually telling them, by the way he'd apparently been pining after his best friend for a year without doing a single thing about it. Maybe having a boyfriend would have stopped that habit.

"Yeah." He let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "My first relationship is a fake one. You can laugh."

"I'm not going to laugh at you." Max's voice was quiet but firm. "Come on, George. I'm not such an asshole."

A little pang of guilt flickered through George's chest. Because he used to think Max was an asshole. It was part of the reason they'd stopped talking altogether when high school started—George had watched Max from a distance and built a whole narrative in his head about who he was. Arrogant. Self-absorbed. But he'd also learned, in just the past few days, how wrong he'd been about so many aspects of Max. How many assumptions he'd made that turned out to be flimsy and incomplete.

"I know," he said quietly. "Sorry."

"No, don't—" Max shook his head slightly, his eyes still on the road. "I was just curious. Now it makes sense. Why you act so awkward about this."

"Yeah. I guess."

"Well, you'll have to get used to it." Max's tone shifted, still gentle but with an undercurrent of something more deliberate. "Because this is what a boyfriend acts like. Or how I act like as a boyfriend, at least. I offer to do things to make your life easier. Like driving to and from school when I can. You're not an inconvenience, I swear. Or else I wouldn't offer."

And that—that was exactly what George needed to hear. Even if this whole arrangement was mutually beneficial, even if Max was getting something out of it too, George needed reassurance that he wasn't somehow in the way. That he wasn't a burden being tolerated for the sake of a scheme. And Max had clocked that. Weirdly fast.

"Thanks," George said, and meant it.

Another moment of silence settled between them. The car hummed along the streets, past the park and the diner and the turnoff for George's neighborhood. Max's fingers drummed once on the steering wheel, then stilled.

"Can I ask you another question?" He paused. "Personal."

And that was so pointedly un-Max—asking permission instead of just barreling forward—that George realized something. Max was also trying to get accustomed to how George was. He was meeting him in the middle, adjusting his pace to match George's, the same way George was learning to accept Max's expectations.

"Shoot."

"You said you weren't a virgin. When we signed that thing." Max's voice was careful, deliberately neutral. "Was it like—" He trailed off, leaving the question unfinished.

"Not something that deserved a letter, if that's what you're imagining."

"Was it bad?" Max's tone turned serious, the teasing edge completely gone.

George considered the question. He'd never talked about this with anyone except Lando—and Alex, once, in a halting conversation late at night when they were both half-asleep and the darkness made honesty feel less uncomfortable. It felt strange to be telling Max Verstappen of all people. But also, strangely, not as hard as he'd expected.

"Awkward, more like it. Part of the reason I don't let Lando convince me to go to college parties with him anymore."

"College?" Max's head turned slightly, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

"Yeah. It's pretty boring, actually. Got wasted at someone's frat house and found a cute guy. I didn't really act like myself that night." George stared at his hands, folded in his lap. "Maybe that's when I realized I didn't wanna be that. Didn't want my first time to be something I barely remembered with someone whose name I had to ask for in the morning. But it happened, and I had to live with it. Not very romantic, I know.”

"That's a little fucked up." Max's voice was carefully controlled, but George could hear something sharp underneath it. "Did he know you were in high school?"

"Don't think he cared. Which is fair—I didn't really care either, at the time."

"And you don't do shit like that anymore, right?"

"God, no."

"Good."

The word came out firm, almost protective, and it startled a laugh out of George. The atmosphere had turned serious, but somehow the seriousness felt manageable. "I can't believe I just told you that. No one knows except Lando and—" He cut himself off before the name could slip out. Alex.

"What are fake boyfriends for, right?" Max's voice softened again, the sharp edges smoothing away. "And I wouldn't feel awkward about it if I were you. I've only ever really been with Kelly."

It was such a small honesty. Such a simple admission, offered up like it was nothing, like it was just part of the conversation. But George recognized it for what it was. Max was trying to level the playing field. Trying to make George feel less exposed by offering something of his own in return. Meeting him in the middle again.

"Really?" George turned to look at him. Max's profile was silhouetted against the window, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "I mean, I see why. But there's always been rumors."

"I know. And some of them are true. No point in lying." Max shrugged, a small, almost self-conscious motion. "You know we've been on and off all throughout high school. I got with girls, she got with guys. But I don't sleep with them if I know it's gonna be just one night. I'm not that kind of guy."

And George wanted to say I know. The words were right there on the tip of his tongue. But it felt weirdly intimate, so he just hummed instead, a quiet sound of acknowledgment, and let the silence stretch comfortable between them as Max turned onto his street.

"Thanks for the ride."

And for everything else. But that remained unsaid, tucked somewhere behind his ribs where he wasn't ready to examine it yet.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning." It wasn't a question. Max said it like a statement of fact, like the sun rising and the school bell ringing and George Russell being in his passenger seat at eight a.m.

And for once, George didn't fight it.

"Bye, Max."

He climbed out of the car and walked up the driveway to his front door, his backpack slung over one shoulder and his keys jangling in his hand. There was something strange happening in his chest—a lightness he couldn't quite identify. The afternoon sun was warm on the back of his neck, and Max's car didn't pull away from the curb until George had unlocked the front door and stepped inside. He noticed that. Filed it away without meaning to.

The lightness lasted approximately thirty seconds.

"I saw that."

George's sister Cara was stationed in the living room, curled up in the armchair by the window like a cat who'd found the sunniest spot in the house and had no intention of moving. She was supposed to be in college. She was supposed to be three states away, living in a dorm room, too busy with classes and parties to pay attention to George's comings and goings. Instead, she'd frozen a year to "figure things out," which apparently meant spending her days monopolizing the television and making George's life marginally more difficult at every opportunity.

"Saw what?" George tried to keep his voice neutral as he shrugged off his jacket.

"Who was that?" She didn't bother hiding her interest, her chin propped on her hand.

"No one. A classmate."

"A classmate that drives you home?" She raised an eyebrow. "In a car like that?"

"Do you have nothing better to do than look out the window at noon?"

"No," she replied shamelessly. "He looks familiar. What's his name?"

"Max." The word came out through gritted teeth.

"Verstappen?" Cara sat up straighter, her expression shifting from idle curiosity to genuine interest. "Sophie's son? From karting?"

"Yes."

"I thought you weren't friends anymore."

"We reconnected." George was already moving toward the stairs, hoping to escape before the interrogation could continue.

"Hm."

He stopped. Turned. "What?"

"Nothing." But the smile playing at the corner of her mouth was decidedly not nothing.

He should have known it wouldn't end there.

Dinner that night was his mom's famous lasagna, the one she only made when she was in a particularly good mood.

"Did you know George has a new boyfriend?" Cara announced, completely casual and innocent. George could strangle her.

His mom's eyes lit up immediately, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. "Really? Georgie, that's great!"

"He is not—" George started, but Cara was already steamrolling over him.

"It's Max Verstappen."

"Oh, little Max from karting!" His mom's face broke into a warm smile. "I always wondered what happened to him. You two were so close back then."

George did not point out that "little Max from karting" had once given him a mild concussion during a particularly aggressive overtake on the indoor track. He did not mention that his father had hated Max—had muttered under his breath about that Verstappen kid and his too-aggressive driving and his father who shouted at officials. But his father wasn't here anymore to share his opinion, was he? That thought sat heavy and complicated in George's chest, and he pushed it aside before it could take root.

"It's... new," he settled for, staring at his lasagna like it might offer him an escape route. He could deny it now, but in the future it would expand, and then he'd have some explaining to do when Max kept showing up in his driveway. The whole contract aspect of things was not something he was willing to tackle with his mother over dinner.

"So he is your boyfriend, then." Cara's voice was smug, the voice of someone who'd already won and knew it.

"Yes. Good job on your detective abilities, Miss Marple."

"It wasn't that hard." She shrugged, still infuriatingly pleased with herself. "No one other than Lando or Alex has ever driven you home from school. You’re not exactly Mr. Popular.”

"It's really not that big of a deal—"

"But baby, you finally have someone." His mom reached across the table and patted his hand, her eyes suspiciously bright. "You should invite him to dinner sometime soon. I'd love to meet him properly."

"I don't know. Like I said, it's still new." George pulled his hand back, focusing very intently on cutting his lasagna into perfectly uniform pieces. "I wouldn't want to rush him."

"Whenever he feels comfortable, then. No pressure. But we would love to meet him." She paused, her smile turning a little wistful.

"You've already met him," George pointed out weakly.

"I hardly doubt he's the same thirteen-year-old kid from five years ago," Cara added, her tone entirely unhelpful.

George shot her a look that pointedly said not helping. Cara just shrugged, her expression responding with equal clarity: not trying to.

The next morning, Max was waiting in the driveway at 7.45 a.m., just like he'd said he would be. George slid into the passenger seat, still blinking sleep from his eyes, and accepted the travel mug of coffee Max had apparently picked up on the way. He didn't ask how Max knew he took it with one sugar and no cream. He was learning not to be surprised by the things Max seemed to know about him.

They were halfway to school, the radio playing something low and acoustic, when George finally worked up the nerve to speak.

"I kinda told my sister and mom about us."

Max glanced over at him, one eyebrow raised. "Oh. Nice."

"Nice?" George had been bracing for annoyance, or at least mild irritation. Instead, Max looked almost pleased.

"I mean, we weren't exactly sneaking around." He shrugged, returning his attention to the road. "The whole point is for people to know."

"Yeah, but I doubt Alex or Kelly will ask my mom if we're serious."

"But it's easier that way, right? To be direct about it. Less complicated than having to lie to your family on top of everything else."

George turned this over in his head. He hadn't really thought about it that way.

"I guess. But now they want to meet you."

"That's fine." Max said it without hesitation, taking a sip of his own coffee at a red light. "I could come around to yours. What about Saturday?"

"Mom has a night shift at the hospital."

"Then I'll come meet your sister." Max pulled away from the light, one hand loose on the wheel. "You said you wanted movie nights in. Shoot two birds, or whatever."

George stared at him. "Why are you so okay with this?"

"There is a lacrosse game next week and I need you to come. It’s an away game, I’m not sure if that’s in the contract," Max said, as if that explained everything.

"Ah. Of course." George settled back in his seat, a strange mix of relief and something he couldn't quite name settling in his stomach. "So I do you one, and you do me one."

"That." Max paused. The next words came a little slower, a little more deliberate. "And... I wouldn't mind watching a movie with your sister. Maybe we need to spend more time together. Just us. That way you'd look less tense when talking to me in public."

"I'm not tense."

"Sure you're not, Russell."

George crossed his arms, which probably didn't help his case. "Alright. But I'm picking the movie."

"I'll watch anything but a rom-com."

A smile tugged at the corner of George's mouth before he could stop it. "Now we definitely have to watch a rom-com."

"Do not tell me you're actually watching that shit."

"Cara likes it." George shrugged, feigning innocence. "And I mean, come on. The guy who never had a boyfriend watching rom-coms. Shocking."

Max rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. It was a real smile, not the smirk George had grown accustomed to—something softer around the edges, caught off-guard and genuine. George felt an unexpected warmth bloom in his chest at the sight of it.

"Fine," Max said, pulling into the school parking lot. "One rom-com. But I reserve the right to make fun of it the entire time."

"Wouldn't expect anything less."

When they pulled into the parking lot, people were staring at the car.

Not subtle glances, either. The kind of looks that lingered, that followed vehicle as it rolled into its usual spot near the front. A group of sophomores by the bike rack stopped their conversation mid-sentence. Someone nudged their friend and nodded in their direction. George felt suddenly, acutely aware of every inch of himself—the way his hand was resting on his backpack, the way his seatbelt was still buckled, the way Max was utterly unbothered beside him.

"God, I feel like I'm in that scene from Twilight," George muttered, sinking slightly lower in his seat.

Max killed the engine and turned to him with a blank expression. "What are you talking about?"

"You know. When Bella and Edward show up to school together for the first time. And everyone's staring at the car like they've never seen a Volvo before. Except your car is significantly less inconspicuous than a Volvo."

Max looked at him like he had two heads.

"Jesus, I can't believe you don't know what I'm talking about. You're so uncultured."

"The fuck even is Twilight?"

"No way." George turned in his seat, fully facing Max now, his embarrassment temporarily forgotten in the face of this new and appalling information. "No way. Now I know what we're watching Saturday."

"Should I be worried?" Max's eyebrows drew together, somewhere between suspicious and amused.

"I'm going to educate you, Verstappen." George pointed a finger at him. "This is a public service. You can't just walk around not knowing about one of the most culturally significant vampire franchises of our generation."

"You know you could maybe start calling me Max."

"I call you—" George stopped. He thought back over the past few days, over every conversation they'd had since that disastrous kiss on the track. He'd called him Max in his head, definitely. In his internal monologue, he was always Max. But out loud? To his face? "You call me Russell," he pointed out, a little defensive.

"Yeah, but I also call you George." Max shrugged, that easy, unbothered motion. "I just do better with last names. Force of habit. But you never call me anything except Verstappen."

George opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Max wasn't wrong.

"Fine." George felt oddly flustered, like he'd been caught doing something he wasn't aware was wrong. "Max. We are watching Twilight on Saturday. And you're going to like it."

"Who is watching Twilight?" Charles had appeared beside the open passenger window, his backpack slung over one shoulder, an expression of pure delight already forming on his features.

"Max is," George said, pushing open the car door and unfolding himself from the seat. "Can you believe he's never seen it?"

Charles pressed a hand to his chest in mock horror. "I would have been more shocked if he had. This is the guy who thinks The Fast and the Furious is peak cinema."

"It is peak cinema," Max said, coming around the front of the car to join them.

"That is unacceptable," George declared.

"Yes, George, go off." Charles was grinning now, like he'd found something particularly entertaining to poke at. "Make a man out of him.”

"Har har, Leclerc." Max rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind it. Then he turned to George, and his voice dropped into something quieter, something that felt almost private despite Charles standing right there. "I have to meet Coach before first period, so I gotta run. I'll see you at lunch, okay?"

He reached out and squeezed George's hand—quickly, a brief press of warm fingers—and then he was gone, jogging toward the gym.

George stood frozen for a moment, his hand still tingling where Max had touched it. He was relieved Max hadn't kissed his cheek again. Maybe he didn't feel like he had to put on that much of a show in front of Charles. Maybe he'd sensed that George wasn't quite ready for that at eight in the morning in a parking lot full of staring students. The hand squeeze had been enough.

Judging by the shit-eating grin spreading across Charles's face, it had been more than enough.

"What?" George said, already defensive.

"You said 'later.'" Charles crossed his arms, leaning back against the side of Max's car with the air of someone settling in for a long and detailed interrogation. "It is later. So explain. What is going on with you and Max?"

"It's... new." George shifted his weight, suddenly very interested in adjusting his backpack strap.

"Did he—" Charles paused, choosing his words carefully. "Also get a letter?"

George considered lying. It would be easy enough—a simple denial, a wave of the hand, and Charles would probably drop it. He wasn't the type to push where he wasn't wanted. But the memory of Charles leaning against the bathroom sinks, telling George he had nothing to be embarrassed about, returning his letter without a hint of judgment, was still fresh. Lying to him felt wrong. Ungrateful, almost.

So he settled for a half-truth. Close enough to reality to be believable, far enough to protect the parts of the story that weren't his to tell.

"Yeah. I guess that worked out in my favor."

"Really?" Charles's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Max Verstappen got a love letter from you and his response was to ask you out?"

"Kelly and him were already over." George shrugged, aiming for casual. "So it was way less awkward than it could have been. We got to talking after he found me on the track, and..." He trailed off, letting the implication fill in the gaps.

"Wow." Charles shook his head slowly, a smile spreading across his face. "Who would have thought.”

"Definitely not me," George admitted.

"And you are happy?" Charles's voice softened, the teasing edge giving way to something more genuine. "With him?"

George opened his mouth to deflect, to give the same automatic answer he'd been giving everyone. But Charles was looking at him with such earnest curiosity, such unguarded warmth, that the words got stuck somewhere in his throat.

"I think it's too early to say that," he said finally. "We're still figuring it out. Seeing where it leads."

Charles studied him for a moment, his green eyes searching George's face for something. Whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him. "Well, Max is a good guy," he said. "I've known him a long time. He can be an idiot sometimes, but his heart is in the right place." He paused, then added, more seriously: "But if he does something shitty, tell me. I will handle him."

"You'd fight Max Verstappen for me?"

"I would fight anyone for you." Charles said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that George felt a sudden lump in his throat. "You're my friend, George. That's what friends do."

"Thanks, Charles." The words came out a little rougher than George intended.

Charles nodded, pushing himself off the car and falling into step beside George as they headed toward the main building. "Take care of him too, yes? Max doesn't let people in easily. If he's letting you in, it means something."

George thought about Max in the car, asking permission before asking personal questions. Thought about Max offering to drive him home, to come over for a movie night, to meet his family. Letting George in. Was that what this was?

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I'll try."

Charles smiled, bumping his shoulder against George's as they walked through the front doors. "Good."

"I can't believe you're ditching me to carpool with Max now."

Lando's voice carried that particular whine that meant he was only half-serious, the way he got when he wanted attention but didn't want to actually admit he wanted attention. He was leaning against the locker next to George's, his shoulder pressed to the metal, watching George swap out his morning textbooks with a ridiculous pout on his lips.

"I'm not ditching you." George didn't look up from his locker. "I still see you at school. And at lunch. And at practice."

"It's not the same. We used to have our morning debriefs. Our strategic planning sessions. Our—"

"Our me complaining about Bottas’ pop quizzes while you ate my granola bar?"

"Exactly. Sacred rituals. Now you're probably eating granola bars with Max in his fancy car with his fancy heated seats."

George snorted. "The seats are heated, actually. It's nice."

"Traitor."

Lando gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in theatrical betrayal, but the sound dissolved into a reluctant laugh. George took the opportunity to study his friend more carefully. Lando had been off since lunch yesterday, quieter than usual, his normal chaotic energy dialed down to something more subdued. It was subtle—most people probably wouldn't have noticed. But George had spent years cataloging Lando's moods, and this one was unfamiliar.

"You could drive with Oscar. He seemed pretty cool yesterday, maybe you’d hit it off,” George said, testing the waters with deliberate casualness.

The effect was immediate. Lando froze. His eyes went wide—panic, quickly suppressed, but not quickly enough.

"Aha." George closed his locker and turned to face Lando fully. "I knew it. There is something going on."

"I—I don't know what you're talking about—" Lando's laugh came out strangled, too high, too fast. He suddenly became very interested in picking at a loose thread on his sleeve.

"Drop it, Norris." George crossed his arms. "I told you, in excruciating detail, the most embarrassing thing I'm currently going through in my life. So spill. I saw you at lunch yesterday."

"There was nothing at lunch yesterday."

"You went quiet the second he sat down. You, Lando Norris, who has never been quiet a day in your life, which is genuinely concerning. And you kept looking at him like—" George paused, searching for the right words— "like you were waiting for him to say something."

Lando's expression flickered. His usual defenses—the jokes, the deflection, the wide grin that could talk his way out of anything—seemed to have abandoned him entirely. He looked, for a brief moment, genuinely caught out.

"Who is this guy?" George's voice softened.

"He's..." Lando swallowed, his eyes dropping to the floor. "Oscar. Ask Max. He's the new goalkeeper."

"I know who he is. I'm asking who he is to you."

"No one." The words came out too fast, too forced. "Absolutely no one. Trust me."

"I call bullshit." George leaned back against his locker, keeping his voice gentle. "You're acting weird. And it’s not working with me.”

Lando was quiet for a long moment. The hallway was starting to fill up around them, the usual pre-first-period chaos of slamming lockers and shouted greetings, but it felt distant. Like they were in a small bubble, separate from the noise.

"Something did happen," George said. It wasn't a question. "Didn't it? Why didn't you tell me?"

Lando's voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter than George had ever heard it. "Because it was humiliating."

The word landed heavy between them. George waited.

"I met him this summer." Lando was still picking at the thread on his sleeve, not meeting George's eyes. “August, I think. I was at a party Carlos threw—the one you didn’t even want to consider going to, so looking back thanks for that. And there was this guy there. Australian accent. Kind of quiet. Really—" he paused, searching for a word— "dry. You know? Like he'd say something completely serious and you wouldn't realize it was funny until three seconds later."

George nodded. He'd gotten that same impression from Oscar at lunch.

"We talked. Like, actually talked. All night. He didn't know anyone there except Carlos, and I didn't really feel like doing the whole party thing, so we just... sat outside. On the deck. And we talked about the dumbest stuff. His family. How he missed the beaches back home. How I've never even been to Australia." Lando's voice had gone distant, like he was replaying the memory as he spoke. "And then—"

He stopped. Shook his head.

"And then?" George prompted softly.

"It was just one night." Lando's jaw tightened. "Just one. But it felt like—I don't know. It felt like something. And then he disappeared. Off the face of the earth. I figured he'd gone back to Australia, or it was just a summer thing, or he wasn't actually interested and I'd read the whole situation wrong. Which was fine. Whatever. It happens. I didn’t even get his number.“

"But that's not what happened."

"No." Lando let out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Turns out he'd just transferred here. To our school. To our district. He's been here the whole time, and he just—" He broke off, his voice cracking slightly.

"He just what?"

"I tried to talk to him. When school started. Before any of this. I was dropping by to give Carlos something back before lacrosse practice, and there he was. Just standing there with his gear. I hadn't seen him since that night. I thought—" Lando shook his head again. "I went up to say hi. Figured maybe he'd be happy to see a familiar face, you know? New school, new country, all that. And he just... turned his back on me. Like I was a stranger. Like he'd never seen me before in his life."

George felt a flash of anger on his friend's behalf. "He what?"

"Avoids me like the plague, too. Except when there's other people around. Then he just acts like we're perfect strangers. Polite. Distant. Like we've never said more than two words to each other." Lando finally looked up, and his eyes were bright in a way that made George's chest ache. "So. Yeah. There's your story. Someone write a book about it."

"Then he's an asshole," George said firmly.

"He really isn't, though. That's the thing." Lando's voice cracked again. "You saw him. He's solid. He's quiet and he's smart and he's funny when he actually talks, and everyone on the team seems to love him. He just... doesn't like me. Specifically. I did something wrong, or I misread everything, or he just woke up the next morning and realized I wasn't what he wanted. And that's—" he shrugged, a jerky motion that was supposed to look casual and didn't— "that's fine. It's fine. It's just also really, really shitty."

George didn't say anything for a moment. He just reached out and put a hand on Lando's shoulder, squeezing once.

"That's impossible," he said quietly.

"What is?"

"No one can ever not like you." George held his gaze. "You're annoying and you never show up to practice on time and you steal my granola bars even though I literally pack extra for you. But you're also the best person I know. And if Oscar can't see that, then he's an idiot. Regardless of how solid he seems."

Lando blinked rapidly. For a terrifying second, George thought he might actually cry. But then he let out a shaky breath and managed a smile—small and wobbly, but real.

"I appreciate it, Georgie. Really." He sniffed, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. "But this time it's really just fucked. Some things don't work out. It is what it is."

"If it's weird for you to sit at lunch with the lacrosse guys—" George started.

"No." Lando cut him off, his voice firmer now. "No, I'm not leaving you alone with this. This is like—like James Bond level reconnaissance you're doing. Undercover work. You're infiltrating enemy lines for the sake of your fake relationship. You need me."

"I don't think that's exactly—"

"You need me, mate." Lando's grin was returning, a little shaky at the edges but getting stronger by the second. "Or else you'd just be awkward and off-putting the whole time. Who's gonna break the tension when you and Max are doing your weird eye-contact thing? Who's gonna run interference if Alex decides to corner you?"

"Thanks," George replied dryly, but he was relieved. Relieved that Lando was bouncing back, relieved that he wasn't going to have to navigate that lunch table alone, relieved that whatever was going on with Oscar hadn't broken something essential in his best friend.

"I'll just ignore him right back," Lando declared, slamming George's locker shut with more force than strictly necessary. "Two can play at that game. I'll be so normal he won't know what hit him. I'll focus on you and Max and the absolute trainwreck that is your fake dating life, and Oscar can just—exist. In the background. Being all Australian and forgettable."

"Great," George said, biting back a smile.

"Great." Lando nodded firmly. "Now give me your granola bar. I've earned it."

The next few days allowed George to breathe more freely.

Not completely freely—there was still a knot of tension sitting low in his chest, a constant awareness that the Alex situation was unresolved, that eventually they would have to talk, that he couldn't avoid his best friend forever. But the immediate panic had subsided. Alex seemed to have gotten the memo. He'd stopped trying to corner George in the hallways, stopped sending texts that George left unanswered, stopped looking at him across the cafeteria with that unreadable expression. Instead, he'd settled into a kind of careful distance, giving George space without making it obvious that he was giving George space. It was the most Alex thing he could have done, and it made George's heart ache with a complicated mix of gratitude and guilt.

People were getting used to the new reality, too. The stares in the hallway had faded from open curiosity to casual acknowledgment. George and Max holding hands between classes had become, if not normal, then at least not headline news. The whispers had died down. The lunch table felt less like a job and more like just—lunch.

George even caught Kelly looking at him once. Across the parking lot after school, standing by her car with her friends, her gaze lingering on him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Appraising, perhaps. He decided against telling Max just yet. It felt like the kind of thing that would matter more later, when there was something to actually report.

A routine developed faster than George had expected.

In the mornings, Max picked him up at eight, coffee in hand, already knowing George's order without having to ask. They'd drive to school together, the radio playing something Max had chosen—usually something with a heavy bass line that George didn’t particularly like, but didn’t feel entitled yet to share his opinion with Max. Max would walk him to his first class, squeeze his hand before peeling off toward the science wing, and George would spend the rest of the morning pretending his palm didn't still tingle from the contact.

At lunch, they met at the same table. Same group. Same easy chaos of overlapping conversations and inside jokes that George was slowly starting to understand. Lando was true to his word—he focused on George and Max, filling silences before they could become awkward, deflecting questions George didn't want to answer, and steadfastly ignoring Oscar with a determination that was almost impressive in its own right.

Sometimes their practice schedules aligned. On those days, Max would pick George up from the track, still damp from his own shower, and they'd drive home together in the fading afternoon light. Other times, Max had lacrosse late and George would text him to say Lando had him covered. A few times, George found himself waiting on the bleachers by the lacrosse field, homework spread across his lap, half-watching practice while pretending not to.

He also spent that time helping his best friend not think about the Australian who'd broken his heart. It was a delicate operation. Lando was stubborn about his heartbreaks, the way he was stubborn about everything—loudly insisting he was fine while very clearly not being fine. George tried to hate Oscar for it. He really did. But as Lando had said, the guy was pretty solid. Quiet, unassuming, helpful in a way that seemed genuine rather than performative. He held doors open for people and remembered the lunch lady's name and never had a bad word to say about anyone, until they got on his nerves, which was difficult to achieve anyway. Max seemed to like him too, which was annoying, because George wanted to dislike him on principle.

"Why were you glaring at Oscar today?" Max asked one afternoon, sliding into the driver's seat after practice. His hair was still wet, pushed back from his forehead, and there was a fading bruise on his forearm that George had learned was normal for lacrosse players.

"On principle. I can't disclose this, sorry."

Max gave him a long look. "You're so weird sometimes."

But he never said it with the bite George would have expected from him before. The words came out almost fond, the way you'd tease someone you actually cared about.

Because the thing was—Max was kind.

Not in the obvious, performative way that popular kids sometimes adopted. Max's kindness was quieter than that. It caught you off guard. It showed up in the small moments, the ones he probably thought no one was paying attention to.

George noticed.

He noticed the things Max didn't advertise about himself. Once, when George arrived early to his from lacrosse practice, he stood at the edge of the field and watched Max with the freshmen. Not lecturing them, not barking orders or showing off, but actually helping them. He was demonstrating a defensive stance to a kid who kept getting it wrong, his voice patient, his movements slowed down so he could follow. He corrected with gentle nudges instead of criticism. When the kid finally got it right, Max clapped him on the shoulder with genuine approval.

It was a little off-putting. George remembered Max's father from back when they were in karts—the way he used to yell at everyone, officials and competitors and track staff, but especially at Max. The way his voice would carry, sharp and demanding, while Max stood silent with his helmet clutched in his small hands. George had been thirteen and too young to understand what he was witnessing, but he'd known enough to feel uncomfortable. To feel something twist in his stomach every time Mr. Verstappen's voice rose.

The contrast between that man and the one on the field—patient, encouraging—was almost jarring. Max had become the kind of person his father probably never was. Had chosen to be, deliberately, the kind of person his father probably never even thought to be.

It made George look at him differently. It made him wonder what else he'd missed.

what time should I be there on saturday?

George glanced up from his phone, the text from Max glowing on the screen. They'd just finished lunch, Max heading off to chemistry while George lingered at the table with Lando.

8 works for u?

sure

And true to his word, Max was ringing the bell at eight o'clock on the dot. George heard the chime from the kitchen, where he was pulling a bag of popcorn out of the microwave, and made immediate, panicked eye contact with Cara. She was already rising from the armchair, her expression one of pure delight.

"Don't you dare—" George hissed, but she was faster. He abandoned the popcorn on the counter and sprinted for the door, nearly skidding into the hallway in his socks, and yanked it open a half-second before Cara's hand could reach the handle.

"Max. Hello." He was slightly breathless. From the running. Not from anything else.

"Hi." Max raised an eyebrow, taking in George's flushed face and the way he was blocking the doorway like a particularly determined bouncer. "Everything okay?"

"Come in." George stepped aside, shooting Cara a look over his shoulder that was supposed to communicate behave or I will never speak to you again.

Cara ignored him completely, her smile wide and welcoming. "So good to finally meet you, Max. George is awfully private about his personal life."

"Tell me about it." Max stepped inside, wiping his shoes on the mat with an automatic politeness that George filed away. "He made me sign a contract just to date him."

George felt his stomach drop. But Max's expression was perfectly innocent, and Cara laughed like it was a joke—which, technically, it was. Just not the kind she thought.

"I'm Cara."

"Nice to meet you." They shook hands, Cara looking bizarrely grown-up in a way George wasn't used to.

"I'd normally say sorry for intruding on your movie night—" Cara started.

"But she's unemployed and nosy and isn't actually sorry," George cut in.

"Rude." Cara pressed a hand to her chest. "Where are your manners, Georgie?"

"Yeah, Georgie." Max's mouth twitched. "Be nicer to your sister."

"I like him already," Cara declared.

"God, don't." George was already steering Max toward the kitchen, one hand hovering near the small of his back without quite touching.

"Are we still watching that thing with the light?"

"Jesus." George stopped walking and turned to stare at him. "You're trying to say Twilight?"

"Yeah, that. Same thing."

"You are hopeless." George shook his head, but he was fighting a smile. He could feel Cara watching them from the living room doorway, her gaze knowing in a way that made him want to hide under the couch cushions. "Popcorn's almost ready. Come on, I'll get you something to drink. Cara, wait there."

He pulled Max into the kitchen, the familiar space suddenly feeling smaller with Max in it. Max leaned against the counter, looking around with undisguised curiosity at the family photos stuck to the fridge, the messy pile of mail, the mug he had painted for Cara in third grade that said WORLD'S OKAYEST SISTER.

"Sorry in advance for her," George said, opening the fridge and peering inside. "She can be annoying, but she's just trying to get on my nerves. It's her primary form of entertainment now that she's not in school."

"Nah, she's fine." Max shrugged easily. "I have a sister too. I'm immune."

"Oh yeah." George surfaced with two cans of Coke. "Victoria, right?"

Max nodded, accepting the can George handed him. "She isn't in our high school, is she?”

“No, she's at this private school a little further upstate. They have a great arts program. She really wanted to go, so Mom said yes."

"That's great." George leaned against the counter opposite Max, popping his own can open. "That your mom supports her like that."

"Yeah." Max's voice softened slightly, his thumb tracing the condensation on the can. "She comes home on weekends, though. I worry a little about Mom next year. When she'll be alone."

George knew what had happened to Max's father. Everyone in town knew—or at least, they knew the broad strokes. Jos Verstappen had taken off one day after divorcing Max's mom, leaving behind a house and two kids and a reputation for a temper that made people exchange uncomfortable looks at parent-teacher conferences. George wasn't sure if Max still talked to him. He wasn't sure he was allowed to ask.

Instead, he settled for something else. Something like understanding.

"I know the feeling. Sometimes I think that's why Cara left college.” He took a sip of his Coke. "She says she'll go back, but I think she'll just transfer closer. Stay with Mom so I can go without worrying."

"Do you feel guilty about that?"

The question was quiet. Direct in a way that could have felt intrusive but didn't, because Max asked it like he already knew the answer. George appreciated that Max hadn't asked about his father in return. Everyone in town already knew about that, too—about the accident, about the funeral, about the way George's family had become a little smaller, a little quieter, a little more careful with each other. It wasn't ordinary when accidents like that happened. People remembered.

"All the time," George admitted.

Then the microwave beeped, and Cara's voice rang out from the living room. "Boys, come on! I set up the movie!"

The spell broke. George busied himself with the popcorn, dumping it into a bowl with perhaps more focus than the task required, and avoided Max's eyes as they made their way back to the living room.

Cara had arranged herself on one end of the couch, a blanket draped over her legs and the remote control balanced on the armrest. The opening credits were already playing, that familiar blue tint washing over the screen. George took the middle seat, and Max settled in on his other side—not too far to be weird, but not close enough to look especially intimate. If Cara asked later, George would blame it on nerves. New relationship jitters. Perfectly normal.

"This is Bella?" Max asked, squinting at the screen as Kristen Stewart appeared, looking sullen in the Arizona desert.

"Yes. She's insufferable."

"Then why are we watching her movie?"

"Because her boyfriend is hot," Cara answered without looking away from the screen.

"That." George pointed at his sister. "And because it's about vampires. Keep up."

Max made a skeptical noise but settled back into the couch cushions, his arm resting along the back in a way that wasn't quite around George's shoulders but wasn't entirely separate either. George was acutely aware of the few inches of space between them.

A while later, Robert Pattinson made his first appearance, pale and brooding and radiating early-2000s angst. Max leaned forward slightly.

"That is the guy who's supposed to be hot?"

"Jesus, Max. It's Robert Pattinson. He was literally voted the most handsome man in the world."

"He looks—I don't know." Max tilted his head, studying the screen. "Asymmetrical."

George laughed, a surprised sound that bubbled up before he could stop it. "Don't worry. You're prettier than him."

"Stop laughing at me."

"Watch the movie!"

They watched. Or tried to. Max, as it turned out, was incapable of watching anything without providing running commentary.

"Why is he such a weirdo?" he asked, as Edward stared at Bella with an intensity that was supposed to be romantic but mostly came across as concerning.

"Vampire things."

"And you find this hot?"

"Not this in particular—"

"Is he smelling her?"

"That's his thing. He's drawn to her scent."

"He's drawn to her scent," Max repeated flatly. "That's the romance here."

"This guy's gotta be bipolar," he announced a few scenes later, as Edward veered wildly between declaring his undying attraction and telling Bella to stay away from him.

"That's what I said!" Cara agreed from her end of the couch, pointing at the screen. "Men."

“Exactly. Wait—" Max paused, glancing between Cara and the screen as if realizing he'd accidentally allied himself with the enemy.

"This gets you off, Russell?" Max asked during the infamous bedroom scene, his voice dripping with incredulity. "Want me to call you a bag of heroin too?"

"You're my own personal brand of heroin," George quoted, pressing a hand to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "So romantic."

Max snorted so hard he nearly choked on his Coke.

"Oh, so he flies now too," he observed as Edward carried Bella through the treetops.

"It's not flying, it's—you know what, never mind."

"This could have totally been avoidable if he dated in his species bracket. Jesus, that's a nasty bite," Max winced as James attacked Bella at the ballet studio. George watched Max's face more than the screen—the way his brow furrowed, the way he leaned forward slightly during the action sequences, the way his lips pressed together when Edward sucked the venom out.

"Really?" Max threw his hands up during the hospital scene. "Falling down the stairs? That's what they're going with? Isn't her dad like, a cop?"

"We settled the realism aspect isn't on point, okay," George said.

"I used to love that dress when I was a kid," Cara said dreamily during the prom scene, as Bella descended the stairs in that ridiculous cast.

"Well, it's definitely a choice," Max added.

The credits rolled. The screen went dark. Max sat in silence for a moment, processing.

"That's it?"

"Careful, Verstappen. You almost sound disappointed."

"That was a shitty ending."

"To a shitty film?"

Max considered this, his expression thoughtful. "To an... acceptable film. To an extent."

George grinned. "You know... there are four more."

Max groaned, letting his head fall back against the couch cushion. "No way. I'm going home."

George and Cara both laughed. Somewhere during the movie, George had almost forgotten she was there. He'd been more interested in Max's reactions than the film itself—the way Max scoffed at the romantic lines, the way his expression softened slightly during the quieter moments, the way he kept glancing at George to check if he was laughing too. Cara hadn't seemed to mind the commentary. She'd chimed in when appropriate and otherwise just watched them.

"I'll take my wins where I can get them," George said, pushing himself up from the couch.

"Next time we're watching something actually enjoyable," Max declared, standing and stretching.

"Next time?"

"Well, duh." Max shrugged. "It's my turn. To educate you, or whatever."

"Alright, Verstappen. Do your worst."

Max turned to Cara. "See you, Cara."

"Come by again soon." She waved from her blanket cocoon. “It’s rare when George brings people past the front door.”

"Cara—"

"Just saying."

George walked Max to the door, stepping outside with him into the cool night air. It felt refreshing after the warmth of the living room, the darkness quiet and still around them. The porch light cast a soft glow over the driveway, and somewhere down the street a dog was barking.

"I had fun." Max's voice was quieter now, the teasing edge gone. "Your sister is nice. I like her."

"She seems to like you too." George paused, then added, more softly: "I'm glad you came."

"Me too."

For a moment, Max seemed to hesitate. George recognized the flicker of uncertainty—the way Max's eyes dropped briefly to George's mouth, then away. Normally, this was when Max would lean in for a quick kiss on the jaw, or a hand squeeze, some small gesture for the benefit of whoever might be watching. But there was no public here. Just the two of them on the dark porch, no audience but the moths circling the porch light.

Still, it felt strange to leave with nothing.

Max reached out and touched George's elbow. Just barely—a faint brush of fingertips, a gentle squeeze that lasted maybe two seconds. Then he turned and walked to his car, the gravel crunching under his sneakers.

"See you Monday," he called over his shoulder.

"See you Monday."

George stood on the porch until Max's taillights disappeared around the corner. When he finally went back inside, Cara was still on the couch, the blanket pulled up to her chin and a smirk plastered across her face.

"Don't start."

"I was just gonna say it went fine." Her voice was infuriatingly innocent. "And he seemed to like it."

"He did."

"And you seem to like him."

George busied himself with gathering the empty popcorn bowl and soda cans. "I'm dating him, aren't I?"

"He's good." Cara's voice had lost its teasing edge, replaced by something softer. "He makes you laugh a lot. More than I've seen you laugh in a while."

George didn't know what to say to that. So he said nothing, just stacked the cans in the recycling and wiped down the coffee table.

"Bring him to meet Mom soon," Cara said, getting up from the couch and folding the blanket over her arm. "She'll want to see what all the fuss is about."

"Just..." George paused in the kitchen doorway. "Don't get too attached."

Cara looked at him for a long moment. Her expression was knowing—like she could see right through him, straight to the thing he wasn't saying.

"Me or you?" she asked.

George didn't have an answer. Cara patted his shoulder as she passed, heading for the stairs, and left him standing alone in the kitchen with the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the lingering scent of popcorn.

As promised, George met his end of the deal.

The lacrosse team's away game was two towns over, a forty-five minute drive that George would never have made on his own. But Lando had shown up at his door that afternoon with two coffees and a concerning amount of enthusiasm, and now here they were, trailing after the school bus like some kind of athletic groupies.

"Look at you, Mr. Supportive Boyfriend," Lando said, his voice carrying that particular note of glee he reserved exclusively for George's discomfort. He was sprawled in the driver's seat with one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing expansively out the window. "Showing up to away games. Sitting in the stands. Probably gonna cheer and everything."

"I knew I should have driven myself here."

"You would have turned around ten minutes in. You don't have the patience for this kind of traffic."

"This is very honestly such an attack on my person—"

"Oh, please." Lando waved a dismissive hand. "You love me. You love that I'm driving you. You love that I'm sacrificing my Saturday for your fake relationship."

George just hoped Lando wouldn't feel too bummed about seeing Oscar play. He didn't say it out loud—Lando had been doing a remarkable job of pretending Oscar didn't exist all week, and George wasn't about to poke at that particular bruise. But he'd noticed the way Lando's shoulders had tensed slightly when they'd pulled into the parking lot behind the bus, the way his eyes had tracked the team as they unloaded their gear.

The game itself was actually really, really good.

George didn't know much about lacrosse. He understood the basic concept—ball, stick, net—but the finer points of strategy and positioning were lost on him. It didn't matter. What mattered was Max on the field, and Max on the field was something else entirely.

Some people might call him aggressive. George could see why—the way Max barreled through defenders, the way he fought for every ball like it personally belonged to him, the way his competitive edge sharpened when the game was on the line. His father's son, a small voice whispered in the back of George's mind. But that wasn't quite right. George had seen Max's father and that had been cruelty dressed up as competition. This was different. This was passion, pure and unfiltered, the kind of fire that came from loving something so much you couldn't help but burn with it.

George found himself on his feet more than once. He cheered when Max scored, which surprised even him. He booed when the other team fouled their players, his voice joining the chorus of disapproval from the away team's modest crowd.

"That was such a bullshit move!" Lando yelled beside him, on his feet and gesturing wildly, when some guy from the opposing team shoved Carlos a little too roughly. Carlos went sprawling, and the referee's whistle barely cut through the noise.

Yuki, who was sitting on the bench at the time, turned around at the sound of Lando's voice. "Yeah, what he said!" he shouted in agreement, seemingly glad that someone was backing up the benched players’ ongoing argument with the referees.

Lando pointed at him triumphantly. "This guy gets it!"

The game ended in their favor. The final whistle blew and the scoreboard told the story—a solid win, hard-fought and well-earned. The team flooded the field in a chaos of helmets and high-fives, and George felt something warm and unexpected blooming in his chest. Pride, maybe. Or something close to it.

He found Max right after, leaning over the little fence that separated the stands from the field. Max was still in his gear, his helmet dangling from one hand, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. There was a wild, breathless grin on his face. He looked exhausted and exhilarated and so thoroughly alive that George's breath caught in his throat.

"Good game, Verstappen."

"Finally you saw some real sport." Max's grin widened, his chest still heaving slightly from exertion.

George rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind it. "Track is a real sport."

"Track is running in circles."

"Lacrosse is hitting people with sticks."

"Exactly. Much more sophisticated."

"I already regret coming.”

"Don't I get a kiss for winning?" Max tried his luck, the question pitched low enough that only George could hear. He was probably high on adrenaline, the post-victory euphoria making him bold. His eyes were bright, his smile teasing, but there was something almost uncertain underneath—like he wasn't entirely sure George would say yes.

George stopped. For a moment, he genuinely considered.

They were in public. There were people around—teammates, spectators, parents packing up folding chairs. If there was ever a moment to sell the performance, this was it. But that wasn't why George leaned forward. Or at least, it wasn't the only reason.

He grabbed the front of Max's jersey and tugged him forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Not quite on the lips. Close enough that people would miss the distinction if they weren't looking closely. Close enough that it did the job, judging by the sudden eruption of cheers from Max's teammates behind them.

The kiss lasted maybe two seconds. Maybe less. But when George pulled back, Max looked stunned. His eyes had gone a little wide, his grip on his helmet slack, like he hadn't actually believed George would do it. Like he'd been prepared for a hand squeeze or a joke or a deflection, and the reality had short-circuited something in his brain.

George felt a flicker of satisfaction. It was nice, catching Max Verstappen off guard for once.

"Go shower," he said, releasing Max's jersey and smoothing the wrinkled fabric with deliberate casualness. "You stink."

Max blinked. The stunned expression morphed into something else—something softer. He didn't look like he minded at all.

"You're driving back with Lando, right?" he asked, his voice a little rougher than before.

"Yeah."

"Tell him to pull up to Nando's. Me and the guys are grabbing burgers to celebrate."

"I don't know—" George glanced back at the stands, where Lando was pretending very hard not to watch them.

"Come on." Max's voice dropped, the teasing edge giving way to something more genuine. "I want you there."

And George couldn't exactly deny him that, could he? Not when Max was looking at him like that, still slightly disheveled from the game, still wearing that small, unguarded smile that George was beginning to recognize as something reserved just for him.

"Okay," he heard himself say. "We'll meet you there."

George had never seen athletes celebrate like this.

After his track meets, the routine was simple. He'd clap the other runners on the shoulder, exchange a few breathless words of congratulations or commiseration, maybe linger by the stands to debrief with Coach. Then he'd find Lando and they'd grab some well-deserved ice cream from the place downtown that stayed open late. Alex would usually be there, falling into step beside them like he'd always belonged there, because he had. That was the rhythm George knew: quiet, comfortable and familiar.

This was something else entirely.

Nando's Diner was buzzing, packed to the gills with lacrosse players still riding the high of their away-game victory. The jukebox in the corner was playing something upbeat and slightly too loud, and the air smelled like burgers and fries. Fernando was working the counter with practiced efficiency, sliding plates across the Formica surface and pretending to be annoyed by the noise even as he slipped extra onion rings onto Carlos's plate.

Max was different here. Looser. Brighter. He smiled more in the first ten minutes at Nando's than George had seen him smile all week—a wide, unrestrained grin that transformed his whole face. He kept reaching out to clap his teammates on the shoulder, to ruffle Yuki's hair, to point at Pierre across the table with some inside joke George didn't quite follow.

"Have you guys seen Isack tonight?" Max was saying, his voice carrying over the din of the diner. "Kid was a beast out there. Absolute beast. Did you see that save in the second quarter?"

"And Yuki insulted the referee!" Pierre laughed, throwing an arm around the freshman's shoulders and shaking him with enough force to nearly knock him off his stool.

"He was a dickhead!" Yuki protested, his voice cracking with indignation. "I said what everyone was thinking!"

"No one was thinking of saying it out loud," Carlos pointed out, but he was grinning.

"I said it out loud." Lando raised his hand from across the table, where he was wedged between Charles and a basket of fries. “That guy was definitely on those assholes’ side. Rigged game, let me tell you.”

“And we still won!” Charles said, which earned enthusiastic cheers from everyone.

George watched them all, a strange warmth settling in his chest. He was on the periphery of the celebration, not quite part of it but not quite excluded either—Max kept glancing over at him between conversations, checking in with a small smile or a raised eyebrow, making sure he was still there. It was nice. Unfamiliar in a way George couldn't quite articulate, but nice.

Then he noticed something that made the warmth flicker.

Lando was laughing at something Carlos had said, his head tipped back, his shoulders shaking with it. That wasn't the unusual part—Lando laughed easily and often. What was unusual was Oscar, sitting two seats down, looking at Lando when Lando wasn't looking at him.

It was a strange expression. Almost dejected. Oscar's jaw was tight, his eyes tracking Lando's movements with an intensity that bordered on painful, and his hands were curled around his glass of water like it was the only thing anchoring him to the table.

Then Oscar shook his head—a small, almost imperceptible motion—and stood up, weaving through the crowded diner toward the bathroom. George watched him go, his mind already spinning through the implications.

"I'll be right back," he murmured to Max, already sliding off his stool.

Max's hand had been resting on George's waist—casual, possessive, the kind of gesture that looked natural but was probably calculated for the benefit of their audience. George registered its absence only when Max's hand dropped, fingers trailing briefly against the fabric of his shirt before pulling away.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just need to—bathroom."

Max frowned slightly but didn't push. George was already moving.

He found Oscar in the bathroom, hunched over the sink, splashing water on his face like he was trying to wash something off that wouldn't come clean. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a harsh, unflattering glare. Oscar looked up when the door opened, his reflection meeting George's eyes in the mirror.

"What's your deal with Lando?"

George hadn't meant to be so direct. The words came out before he could soften them, blunt and demanding. But maybe that was better. It left no room for deflection.

Oscar straightened up slowly, reaching for a paper towel. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"We're not doing that, Piastri." George crossed his arms, planting himself between Oscar and the door. "He's my best friend. I'm not letting you mess with his head."

"I'm literally not doing anything to him." Oscar's voice was flat, controlled, but there was something frayed at the edges.

"Exactly!" George threw his hands up. "What did he do wrong? I know he's a little extra sometimes. He doesn't always read the room. He talks too much and he says the wrong things most of the time, yes. But he's also the most loyal person I know, and he doesn't deserve to be treated like he's invisible."

"That's not—" Oscar stopped, pressing his lips together like he was physically holding the words back.

"Yeah, I thought so." George took a step closer. "Why are you playing at? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're pretending he doesn't exist, and he's pretending it doesn't hurt, and neither of you are doing a very good job of it."

"Nothing! I'm not the one playing." Oscar's voice rose slightly, frustration leaking through the cracks of his composure. "Ask your friend, maybe."

"Ask him what? He already told me. You stood him up. One night, he thought it meant something, and then you disappeared and came back acting like he was a stranger. What was he supposed to think?"

Oscar's laugh was short and humorless. "I walked back when I saw what was really going on, mate. I'm not a homewrecker."

The word hit George like a physical blow. "Home—what?"

"This weird situationship he has with Carlos." Oscar's jaw tightened. "Yeah. I'm not getting in the middle of that."

"He's not—" George started automatically, then stopped.

Was he sure? Was he absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure that Lando and Carlos didn't have something going on? He hadn't known about Oscar. Lando had kept that whole story locked away for months, too humiliated to share it. Maybe Lando wasn't as much of an oversharer as George liked to think. Maybe there were things George didn't know about. Maybe—

No. That wasn't the point right now.

"Look, Oscar." George took a breath, forcing his voice into something calmer. "All I know is that Lando was really hurt after you ditched him. It wasn't cool, and he truly doesn't get why. And I thought, 'Oh, he must be an asshole. Maybe he just doesn't care about him.'" He met Oscar's eyes. "But if that's the case, then don't look at him like that. The way you were looking at him just now, at the table. Because he'll see it eventually, and then he's gonna be even more confused than he already is."

"Trust me." Oscar's voice was quiet now, almost tired. "I don't want him to see."

“Why haven’t you tried talking to him? You're clearly conflicted as hell too. Why try so hard to act like this?”

Oscar was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a murmur. "Because he took me as stupid. Said a bunch of stuff, and then—Carlos. And I thought, right, I misread this. I misread him. I misread everything. Better to just... leave it."

"I can't fully say I know what's going on there. Maybe I don't." George uncrossed his arms, letting his posture soften. "But I know you hurt my friend. And I'd either like you to fix it, or leave him alone. He doesn't need you to be fake polite with him, pretending everything's normal when it's clearly not. Tell him to fuck off, and he'll probably be more grateful for that than for whatever this is."

A small laugh escaped Oscar, almost against his will. It was a surprised sound, like he hadn't expected to find anything funny in this conversation. "I didn't really think he'd care."

"Well, he doesn't think you care, either. So maybe start there."

Before Oscar could respond, the bathroom door swung open.

Max stood in the doorway, his eyes moving from George to Oscar and back again. His expression was hard to read—something flickering there, there and gone, before his features settled into careful neutrality.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah." George straightened up, stepping away from the sink. "Bumped into Oscar. We were just catching up."

Oscar took the out gracefully, already moving toward the door, like he really didn’t want to be caught between them. "I'll go."

Max stepped aside to let him pass, but his eyes stayed on George. That weird expression was back, the one George couldn't quite decipher.

"You took a little long," Max said, his voice carefully casual. "I thought maybe you weren't feeling fine."

"I'm good." George moved toward the door, suddenly eager to get back to the noise and chaos of the diner. "Just needed a minute.”

"You sure?" Max didn't move out of the doorway. He was standing close enough that George would have to brush past him to leave. "What was that about?"

"Can't disclose the details."

Max scoffed, but some of the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. "At least stop hanging out in bathrooms. It's weird." He stepped back, gesturing for George to lead the way. "Come on. I ordered you another milkshake. It's getting warm."

The drive home was quiet.

Max had insisted on driving him, not Lando. He'd picked up his car from the school parking lot before heading to Nando's, and when the celebration finally wound down, he'd steered George toward the passenger seat with a hand on his lower back and a murmured "I've got you." Lando had waved them off with a knowing grin that George chose to ignore.

Now the road stretched dark and empty ahead of them. Max was quieter than usual. His hands were at ten and two on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road, his jaw tight in a way that George had learned meant he was thinking too hard about something.

"Are you okay?" George asked, because the silence was starting to feel heavy.

Max didn't answer right away. Then he said, without looking over: "Do you have a crush on Oscar?"

"What?" The laugh that escaped George was incredulous, almost a bark of surprise. He turned in his seat to face Max, expecting to see a teasing grin, a raised eyebrow, the familiar glint of humor in his eyes.

Max was serious. His profile was sharp in the passing streetlights, his expression set.

"You always act a little weird around him," Max continued, his voice flat. "And tonight—"

"I told you already. That was about something else."

"Yeah, you're weirdly secretive about it." Max's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "Look, if you like him, it's fine. At least it's not Albon anymore. That's something. But like, if this came up, maybe tell me, yes? So we can talk about whether we should fake break up or whatever—"

"I don't like Oscar." George cut him off, his voice firmer than he intended. "I mean, sure. He's fine. He's decent. But—god, no. Absolutely not."

Max's jaw worked for a moment. "Then what's your deal?"

George sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet of the car. He thought about Lando, about the way his voice had cracked when he'd told George about that summer night. About Oscar's face in the bathroom, dejected and defensive. About the tangled mess of miscommunication that was somehow George's problem now, even though it really, really shouldn't be.

"It's not really my place to say," he said finally. "But it's about Lando. I'm just very protective of him. You get me?"

Max was quiet for a moment. The streetlights swept over them in rhythmic intervals, light and shadow, light and shadow.

"Oh," he said.

"Yeah."

"So. You don't want to fake break up?"

"Not really, no."

"Good." The word came out quickly, almost before George had finished speaking. Max caught himself, his shoulders stiffening slightly. "I mean—it didn't really show its result yet, right? Albon still lingers. And Kelly barely started getting annoyed. She told me something like 'congrats,' but she was gritting her teeth through it—"

"You didn't tell me that."

"Oh. Yeah." Max's grip on the steering wheel loosened slightly. "We share some classes. It came up."

That was normal. That was the point of all of this—Kelly getting jealous, Alex backing off, the plan working exactly the way it was supposed to. George tried to feel satisfied about it. Tried not to notice the way he was almost nauseous.

"Cool," he managed.

"Yeah." Max's voice had gone a little softer now, the tension bleeding out of the car's interior. "So let's hope for even better results. Maybe we should go out in public more. Like, it's already a given at school, but maybe we should be seen other places. Off campus. And maybe we could be more..." Max paused, searching for the word. "Affectionate. What do you feel about pet names?"

George blinked. "Pet names?"

"Yes. Would you prefer babe or baby? I'm not calling you anything overly British. No darling or whatever."

"What, so no 'sweetheart'?"

"Know your limits, Russell."

"Babe is fine, I guess."

"Okay." Max tested the word, his voice careful. "Babe."

A beat of silence. Then George let out a short, startled laugh. "Jeez, that's weird."

"I know, right?" Max was laughing too now, that genuine, surprised laugh that George was beginning to associate with the best parts of his week.

"Please don't call me that in front of my mother."

"No promises." Max pulled into George's driveway and put the car in park, turning to face him with a grin that chased away the last remnants of the car's earlier tension. "See you Monday, babe."

"Shut up."

But George was smiling as he climbed out of the car, and he was still smiling when he closed the front door behind him, leaning back against it in the dark hallway and pressing his fingers to the corner of his mouth where he'd kissed Max earlier.

It was becoming a problem. The smiling. The warmth. The way his heart did that strange, complicated thing whenever Max was proving him wrong about everything he had ever thought about him.

But that was a problem for tomorrow.

The pet names did work, to George's dismay.

It was subtle at first—Max testing the waters, dropping a casual "babe" into conversation like he was testing how it felt. By Wednesday, it had become a reflex. By Friday, Max's friends—or maybe their friends now, George wasn't sure when that shift had happened—were smirking into their lunch trays every time Max slid a carton of chocolate milk across the table with a perfectly timed "Here you go, babe."

George's attempts not to blush went terribly every single time. His face would heat up, his ears would go pink, and he'd suddenly become very interested in the nutritional information on his granola bar wrapper. The others seemed to find it even funnier that way—somehow endearing rather than mock-worthy.

But the pet names weren't the only thing George couldn't stop thinking about.

Kelly had started paying attention. Real attention, not the cursory glance she'd given him that first week. George caught her watching them in the hallway between classes, her gaze cool and assessing. He noticed the way her eyes tracked Max's hand on George's lower back, the way her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly when Max leaned in to murmur something in George's ear. It should have felt like a victory—the plan was working, Kelly was finally taking him seriously. But it just made George feel strange. Watchful. Like he was waiting for something he couldn't name.

He wondered if Max noticed too. Max never looked her way, never gave any indication that he was aware of her presence. But maybe he was—in a spatial awareness kind of thing. The way you always know where certain people are in a room, even when you're not looking at them.

George knew he had to stop being the one to look away first. Kelly had pinned him with her gaze more than once, and every time, George had almost flinched. Dropped his eyes. Let her win whatever silent battle was happening between them. It was pathetic. He was supposed to be selling a relationship here, not cowering every time his fake boyfriend's ex-girlfriend glanced in his direction.

He was about to say something to Max about it as he climbed into the car one afternoon, sliding into the passenger seat with ease. But the words died in his throat when he saw Max's face.

Max was gripping the steering wheel with both hands, his knuckles white. His jaw was set in a way that meant he was holding something back, clamping down on an emotion that wanted to escape.

"Hey." George pulled his seatbelt on slowly, his eyes never leaving Max's profile. "What's up?"

"Hi." The response was clipped. Max didn't turn his head.

"Did something happen?"

Max took a deep breath. It shuddered slightly on the exhale. "No. It's fine."

"Max." George said his name carefully, deliberately.

The steering wheel creaked under Max's grip. For a long moment, George thought he wasn't going to answer. Then Max's shoulders dropped, just a fraction, and the words came out in a rush.

"I just had a talk with Horner."

George's stomach tightened. Coach Horner had a bit of a reputation, and George was afraid of what he could have said that soured Max’s mood this badly. "What did he want?"

"He's benching me for the next game."

"What?" George's voice came out louder than he intended, incredulous. "Is he crazy? You're their best player. You scored three goals last weekend. He can't—"

"That's what I said." Max's laugh was humorless, bitter. "But he has a point, I guess. I'm failing English."

The word landed like a punch. George blinked, trying to reconcile it with everything he knew about Max. Max, who helped Carlos with his chemistry homework during lunch. Max, who could listen to George talk about physics and keep up because he actually understood what they were talking about.

"What?" It didn't make any sense. Max wasn't stupid—George knew that now, had seen evidence of it over and over again. How the hell did he ace math and chemistry and fail English?

"It's just so bullshit!" Max's composure cracked, frustration bleeding through. "Winter always flunks me. She gives these stupid essays and I never get them fucking right and it's stupid. It's so stupid."

"Literary commentary?"

"Yes. That." Max said the words like they personally offended him. "She wants all this flowery language and symbolism analysis and I just—I can't. I can say what I think. I can tell you what the book is about. But she wants me to dress it up in all these fancy words and I don't know how."

Something clicked into place in George's mind. "I can help with that."

Max's head turned, finally meeting George's eyes. "What?"

"Tell Winter to give you another chance. Does she do rewrites?"

"She did." Max's voice was cautious now, like he wasn't sure where George was going with this. "I have to write a bonus essay on a book of my choosing. If it's good enough, she'll give me a B or something so I can go back to playing lacrosse."

"Then choose a book you like, and I'll help you write it."

"George." Max shook his head, a frustrated motion. "It's not that simple. Just trust me on this—I'm really shit at writing. Like, really shit. You don't understand how bad I am at this."

"Well, I'm not." George shrugged, letting a small smile play at the corner of his mouth. "You saw with your own eyes. Five letters, all very eloquent.”

Max stared at him for a moment. Something shifted in his expression—the anger receding, replaced by something more tentative. Something almost vulnerable. "You'd really do that?"

"Of course. When is it due?"

"Next week." Max's voice was quieter now, the earlier tension draining out of him. "Are you free any nights this week? Maybe you could... come over to mine this time? My mom would like it."

"Your mom knows about me?"

"Of course." Max said it like it was obvious, like it had never occurred to him that his mother wouldn't know about George. "I told her we were... you know. She's been asking when you'd come by."

"Oh." George felt strangely warm at the thought. Sophie Verstappen, who used to hand out orange slices at karting tournaments and always had a kind word for the other kids, even when her husband was glowering from the sidelines. "Alright, then. How about Thursday?"

"Yeah. Thursday's fine."

"Alright, then."

"Thanks, George."

"Don't thank me yet. We haven't written anything."

As it turned out, Max wasn't as terrible at writing as he claimed he was.

He was just, well, very blunt.

They were set up in Max's room on Thursday evening, cross-legged on the carpet with Max's laptop between them and a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray lying open on the floor. Max's room was exactly what George had expected—minimalist, tidy, with lacrosse gear in one corner and a stack of car magazines on the nightstand. What he hadn't expected was the row of trophies still on the shelf. Karting trophies. Some of them, George realized with a jolt, were from races they'd competed in together.

He'd been so nervous walking into Max's house. His palms had been sweating, his heart hammering against his ribs for reasons he couldn't quite articulate. But Sophie had opened the door before Max could even get his key in the lock, and she'd pulled George into a hug before he could say hello.

"Look at you," she'd said, holding him at arm's length and beaming. "So tall now. So handsome. It's so good to see you again, George."

Max had grumbled something that sounded like "Mom" and dragged George upstairs by the elbow, promising they'd be down soon when dinner was ready. Sophie had just laughed and called after them that she'd make extra mashed potatoes.

Now they were working, and George was discovering that Max's writing style was... direct. His ideas were messy, his expression unrefined. He wrote the way he talked—straightforward, unfiltered, utterly without pretense. Not at all what Mrs. Winter was looking for.

"I read it, so I guess it makes sense to do this one," Max was saying, gesturing at the book. "She said Wilde is good for this kind of thing. Lots of themes, or whatever."

"Alright. First impressions on it?"

Max shrugged. "Everyone spews a bunch of bullshit opinions. The painter guy is obsessed with the pretty one, the pretty one becomes a narcissist, the other guy just stirs the pot for fun. They're all terrible people. The end."

George bit back a smile. "Okay. How about this: 'The novel portrays a myriad of morally grey characters who serve as vessels for the author's unconventional views on life, art, and the nature of influence.'"

Max stared at him. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Dress it like that. Make it sound all—" he waved his hand vaguely— "fancy."

"I just... try to think about what she'd want to hear." George shrugged, suddenly self-conscious under Max's scrutiny. "It's a formula, really. You take the blunt truth and wrap it in academic language. Half of it is just vocabulary."

"See, I can't do that." Max leaned back against his bed, frustration creeping back into his voice. "I'm not an idiot. I can obviously read. I understand the book. It's just—it's fucking stupid to search for words so carefully to say something when I can say it just as well in fewer words. Why do I need ten sentences to say 'this guy is a hypocrite' when five words do the job?"

"And that is a very refreshing fact about you," George said, and meant it. "But right now, we need to bullshit her so you can play the next game."

Max let out a short laugh. "Fair."

"Alright." George pulled the laptop closer, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Tell me what you think of the main character. Your actual thoughts. Don't worry about how it sounds."

"The gay painter?"

"The queer-coded artist, you mean. And yes."

Max rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now. "Alright. Well, I think he's an idiot who idolized a vain bastard. He put Dorian on this pedestal without even knowing him, just because he was pretty, and then acted surprised when it blew up in his face."

George typed rapidly. "Basil Hallward idolized a polished version of Dorian in his mind, despite the subject's growing narcissistic tendencies and moral decay."

Max stared at the screen. "That's literally what I just said."

"It's what you said with better vocabulary."

"And the other one?" Max was getting into it now, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "The lord guy. Henry. He was a backstabbing opportunist who treated people's lives like his personal entertainment."

"While Lord Henry displayed multiple instances of dubious morals and manipulated those around him for his own intellectual amusement."

"You scare me sometimes, Russell."

"Thank you."

The essay came together surprisingly easily after that. Max would talk—blunt, honest, cutting right to the heart of what he thought—and George would translate, reshaping Max's direct commentary into something Mrs. Winter would appreciate. It was a strange kind of collaboration, but it worked. By the time Sophie called them down for dinner, they had a solid draft and Max's shoulders had lost the rigid tension they'd been carrying all week.

"She won't believe I wrote this," Max said, scrolling through the document with something that looked almost like pride.

"She won't have any proof."

"Reassuring."

George laughed, leaning back on his hands and letting his gaze wander around the room now that their work was done. It was so simply, undeniably Max. The lacrosse schedule pinned to the bulletin board. The physics textbook on the nightstand with a half-empty mug of cold coffee on top of it. The hoodie draped over the desk chair, the same one Max had been wearing the day he cornered George on the track.

And the trophies. George's eyes caught on them again—a neat row on the shelf above Max's bed.

He asked before he could stop himself. "Why'd you stop? You were really good."

Max didn't ask what he meant. He followed George's gaze to the trophies and was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful. Measured. "Wasn't what I liked anymore. It was more of what my father wanted."

George nodded. He'd suspected as much.

Max turned the question back on him, a sly smirk creeping onto his face. "Why did you stop? You were just as good. Almost."

George rolled his eyes, but the familiar teasing felt different now. Softer. "I guess... I didn't have anyone driving me there anymore."

The words hung in the air between them. Max's smirk faded. "I'm sorry. About your father. I never said it." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentler than George had ever heard it. "But he was really nice when I knew him."

George smiled, a small sad thing that tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah. He was." He looked down at his hands, clasped in his lap. "Karting was our thing. Every weekend, rain or shine, we'd pack up the car and drive to whatever track was hosting that week. He never missed a race. And then he was gone, and I really didn't want to drive anymore. Ever. The thought of getting in a kart without him there to watch—" He broke off, swallowing hard.

"Is this why you don't like driving?" Max asked quietly. "Regular driving, I mean. Cars."

"I don't know. Maybe." George shrugged, uncomfortable with the vulnerability of the admission. "It's just... it's never the same as the feeling of being in a kart. And the traffic makes me antsy. It's stupid, after all this time. I know that."

"It's not stupid." Max's voice was firm now, leaving no room for argument. "It's okay to be affected by it still. You're allowed."

George nodded, not quite trusting his voice. "Sometimes I feel like maybe I should just—I don't know. Man up, or something. Get over it. It's been years."

"I don't think that's a requirement when your dad is gone." Max's eyes met his, steady and unflinching. "Grief doesn't have a timeline. You don't have to perform being okay."

Something in George's chest cracked open at the words. He thought about his father at the track, cheering from the sidelines. Thought about the empty passenger seat in his car, the way he still sometimes reached for the radio dial to switch to his dad's favorite station. Thought about all the ways grief had woven itself into the fabric of his daily life, invisible to everyone but him.

"You said it was what your father wanted," he said, redirecting the conversation before it could get too heavy. "Did he—force you? With the karting?"

Max was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost reluctant. "Not really. Not at first. I guess I just wanted something to share with him when I was a kid. Something that would make him... proud. Or happy. Or just—not angry, for once." He shook his head, a sharp motion. "Then I learned fast that nothing was ever going to please him. But by then I couldn't quit. He wouldn't let me."

George waited. The room felt very still.

"There's this stupid thought I had when I was a kid," Max continued, his voice barely above a whisper now. "And I felt—I still feel—incredibly guilty about it. I haven't—I've never really said it out loud. But I was kind of glad when he left." The words came out in a rush, like he had to get them out before he lost his nerve. "Because it finally stopped. The yelling. The pressure. The way nothing I did was ever good enough. It just... stopped. And I was relieved. What kind of person is relieved when their father leaves?"

Max's voice cracked on the last word. He wasn't looking at George anymore—his eyes were fixed on the trophies, on the dusty remnants of a childhood spent trying to earn love from someone who didn't know how to give it.

George looked at him. At Max, who had just laid his deepest secret bare, offering it up like he expected judgment in return. Max took his silence as confirmation of every fear he'd just confessed.

"I'm sorry." Max's voice was hollow now. "It must be terrible for me to say this. You lost your dad. Mine just fucked off and built another family. I shouldn't be complaining about—"

"It's not a competition, Max." George's voice came out stronger than he expected. "Whose dad had a shittier departure. It's not a contest. You don't win a prize for having the most tragic backstory."

Max blinked, finally meeting his eyes.

"It's okay to feel relieved when something that made you feel bad stops." George held his gaze. "That's not a moral failing. That's just being human."

"But my mom and sister needed him—"

"He was doing a shitty job at being here, wasn't he?" George leaned forward slightly, willing Max to understand. "They have you. You're twice the man he ever was. You help freshmen with their drills and you drive me to school every morning and you worry about your mom being alone next year. That's not nothing, Max."

Max stared at him. His expression was strange—raw and open and utterly unguarded in a way George had never seen before. For a moment, George thought he might say something else. But then Max cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet room.

"Maybe we should check on dinner," he said, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Lead the way."

Dinner with Sophie was a revelation.

George saw immediately where Max got his kindness from. Sophie had the same quiet warmth, the same way of making you feel welcome without making a big deal about it. She asked George about track, about his college applications, about Cara and his mom. She didn't mention his father, which George appreciated more than he could say.

She told embarrassing stories about Max as a child, all while Max groaned and protested and turned slightly pink, but George could see the fondness underneath his embarrassment. The easy affection between mother and son. The way Sophie touched Max's shoulder when she refilled his water glass, a brief, grounding contact that Max leaned into rather than pulled away from.

"This is nice," Sophie said towards the end of the meal, looking between the two of them with a smile that George couldn't quite read. "It's been a long time since Max brought anyone home. I was starting to think he never would."

"Mom—"

"I'm just saying." She held up her hands in surrender, but her eyes were twinkling. "It's good to have you back, George. You were always such a sweet boy. I'm glad you two found each other again."

George felt his face heat up. "Thank you for having me, Mrs. Verstappen."

"Sophie, please. You're not twelve anymore." She stood, gathering their plates.

When dinner was over and George was gathering his things to leave, Sophie pulled him aside at the door.

Max was upstairs fetching his car keys, his footsteps creaking on the bedroom floor above them. The hallway was quiet, the warm light from the kitchen spilling across the floorboards, and Sophie's hand was gentle on George's arm.

"Thank you," she said quietly, her voice pitched low enough that Max wouldn't hear. "For helping him. With the essay. With—" she paused, her eyes searching his face with an intensity that reminded George so much of Max it made his chest ache— "everything. He's been different lately. Lighter. He smiles more. He actually talks at dinner instead of just pushing food around his plate." She squeezed his arm. "I think you're good for him."

George didn't know what to say to that.

How did you tell a mother you were faking being in love with her son? How did you look her in the eye and accept gratitude for something that was supposed to have an expiration date? Sophie was looking at him like he was something good, something real, and George felt the weight of the lie press against his ribs.

So he just nodded, his throat tight, and Sophie smiled like she understood anyway. Like she saw right through him and trusted him regardless. It was such a mom thing to do that George felt his eyes sting with something he refused to name.

Max appeared at the bottom of the stairs, keys jangling in his hand. "Ready?"

George cleared his throat. "Yes. Thank you again for having me, Sophie."

"It was a lovely evening." Sophie released his arm, but her smile lingered, warm and knowing. "Come back soon. Victoria will be home next weekend, and she's been dying to meet you. I think she doesn't quite believe Max has a boyfriend."

"Mom—"

"I'd love to meet her as well," George said, and was surprised to find he meant it.

"And say hello to your mother for me," Sophie added, walking them to the door. "It's been too long. We used to see each other every weekend, and then—" she paused, her expression flickering with something like old grief— "well. Life gets in the way, doesn't it? Tell Alison I'd love to catch up."

"I will," George promised.

The drive home was wrapped in comfortable silence. George found himself watching Max's profile more than the road—the familiar line of his jaw, the way his fingers tapped absently on the steering wheel, the small smile that still lingered at the corner of his mouth from dinner.

When Max pulled up to George's house, the living room light was on. George noticed movement at the window—a shadow shifting behind the curtains, there and gone in an instant. He groaned.

"My sister is watching the road for your car twenty-four-seven," he said, shaking his head.

Max laughed, putting the car in park. "I could come in? Say hello." He paused, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "If that's not weird. I mean—I'm already here. And I'm well-raised, apparently. My mom would want me to say goodnight properly."

"You are. Well-raised, I mean." George unbuckled his seatbelt. "Sophie did a good job."

"Yeah, well. She had to compensate for a lot."

It was said lightly, almost as a joke, but George heard the weight underneath. He didn't push. "Come on in, then. Just be prepared. My family is a lot."

"I survived your sister's movie night commentary. I think I can handle a greeting."

His mom and sister at least had the decency to pretend they weren't snooping when George opened the door. His mom was suddenly very absorbed in a magazine while Cara was scrolling through her phone without really looking at it.

"Mom. Cara." George's voice was dry. "What a coincidence, you're both still up."

"Hi, baby." His mom set down the magazine, her expression a careful mask of innocence. "You're home early. I thought you'd be out later."

"We have school tomorrow."

"Oh, yes, of course." Then her eyes shifted to Max, standing just behind George's shoulder, and her whole face lit up. "Oh! Hello, Max."

"Mrs. Russell." Max stepped forward, offering a smile that George recognized as his charming one. "I thought I'd get George in safely. And say hello properly. My mother also sends her regards—she said it's been too long."

"Oh, Sophie is too sweet." Alison pressed a hand to her chest. "And you—such a gentleman." She waved a dismissive hand. "You must call me Alison, or else I'll feel ancient."

"Alison," Max repeated, and George watched his mom melt in real time.

"I must get going," Max added, glancing toward the door. "But it was very nice seeing you. Both of you." He nodded toward Cara, who had abandoned all pretense of looking at her phone and was watching the exchange with undisguised glee.

"Come back soon!" Alison said. "To stay, next time. For dinner. I make a very good lasagna."

"Mom—"

"I will," Max said, and he was smiling. "I'd like that."

"Max—" George started, not even sure what he was going to say.

Max leaned in and kissed him on the cheek to shut him up. It was quick and casual, the kind of gesture that looked effortless, but George felt the warmth of it spread across his skin like a sunbeam. "I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight, Alison. Cara."

"Bye, Max!" Cara waved, her voice practically a sing-song.

The second the door closed behind him, both of the women in George's life squealed.

"Don't, please—"

"But this is too good!" Cara was practically bouncing on the couch cushions. "He came in to say goodnight to us. Voluntarily. He kissed you on the cheek. In front of Mom."

"Cara, be nice." Alison was beaming, her eyes suspiciously bright. "Georgie, he is so sweet. And handsome, too! Those cheekbones. You really scored."

"Mom, please don't say 'scored.'"

"I'm just saying! He's polite, he's handsome, his mother is lovely, and he clearly adores you. What more could a mother want?"

George opened his mouth to argue—he doesn't adore me, this is all fake—but the words died in his throat. Because Max had come in to say goodnight. Max had kissed him on the cheek even though no one at school was watching. Max had smiled at his mom like he genuinely wanted to make a good impression.

"I'm going to bed," George said instead, his voice coming out strangled.

"Sweet dreams, Georgie," Cara called after him. "Dream about your gentleman boyfriend with the nice cheekbones."

George flipped her off behind their mother’s back. Her laughter followed him all the way up the stairs.

"George! You're early today."

Lewis looked up from his desk, a red pen paused mid-stroke over a stack of papers. The classroom was empty, the morning light slanting through the windows in long golden rectangles, and there was something almost peaceful about the quiet before the bell rang.

"Yeah, I actually wanted to ask you about my last paper." George hovered in the doorway, his backpack slung over one shoulder. "If you have a minute."

"Of course. Come in." Lewis set down his pen and gestured to the chair beside his desk. "I graded it, actually. Excellent, as ever. You've been consistently strong this semester."

George felt a flicker of relief, but it was quickly swallowed by something else. "Really? Because I thought it was a bit shabby. The conclusion felt rushed, and I wasn't sure about my third paragraph. I kept second-guessing the analogy."

"Well, maybe here and there." Lewis tilted his head, studying George with those dark, perceptive eyes. "But overall, you kept your cool. The analysis was solid. You didn't let the uncertainty derail you." He paused. "Were you worried about the grade?"

"Honestly?" George shifted in his seat, his fingers tightening around his backpack strap. "I was worried about what you think of me."

Lewis's expression softened. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on the desk. "George, I told you. That incident didn't change a thing in this classroom. You're still my student. A very good one. Nothing that happened outside these walls alters that."

George nodded, looking down at his hands. "I know. I just—I needed to hear it again, I think."

"Then I'm glad you asked." Lewis's voice was gentle, the same patient tone he used when explaining a difficult concept. "Are you feeling alright? Did things work out in the end? With the letters, I mean."

"You could say that." A small, unexpected smile tugged at the corner of George's mouth. "It's... aligning. Slowly. Not the way I expected, but—aligning."

Lewis smiled back, something knowing flickering in his eyes. "That is good to hear. Sometimes the unexpected paths are the ones that take us where we're actually supposed to go." He picked up his pen again, the moment easing back into normalcy. "Now, was there a specific part of the paper you wanted to discuss, or did you just need reassurance that you haven't fallen from grace?"

"A bit of both," George admitted.

"Alright, then. Pull up a chair properly. We have ten minutes before the bell."

"Is it too late to turn back?"

George's hand was on the car door, but he wasn't opening it. He was staring out the windshield at the house in front of them—a sprawling suburban monstrosity with music already thumping through the walls and a string of fairy lights tangled in the hedges. Daniel's parties were legendary, which was exactly why George had avoided them for the better part of three years.

"Yes," Max said, still scanning the street for a parking spot.

"What if I'm not feeling well?"

"Are you not feeling well?" Max glanced over at him, one eyebrow raised.

"I mean, I could." George crossed his arms. "Suddenly. These things come on fast."

Max put the car in park and turned to face him fully. His expression was somewhere between amused and patient. "Okay. Let's make a deal. If you want to get out of there, for whatever reason, you just look at me and blink three times or something. And I'll know you want to leave. No questions asked."

George considered this. It seemed like a pretty fair offer. "Three blinks?"

"Three blinks." Max nodded. "But you have to promise me something first." He leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping into something quieter. "Try to have fun, maybe. You know the guys—they're nice. Lando will be somewhere. It would do you good to loosen up a little. You've been running yourself ragged with practice and school and—" he gestured vaguely— "everything else."

"Everything else meaning the fake relationship you dragged me into?"

"The fake relationship you kissed me for. Let's not revise history, Russell."

George felt the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself. "Alright. Deal."

"Great." Max killed the engine and got out of the car. When George still didn't move, still sitting in the passenger seat with his hands folded in his lap like he was waiting for a dentist appointment, Max circled around and opened his door from the outside. He did it with a flourish, the kind of gesture that was probably supposed to be mocking but came out almost gentlemanly. "After you, princess."

"I'm not—"

"Acting like one? Come on, let's go inside."

The party was packed.

George hadn't been to one in a very long time—not since That Night, which had cemented his decision to avoid anything involving solo cups and questionable punch. But this was different. This was Daniel's house, which meant the music was good and the lighting wasn't terrible and the crowd was mostly people George recognized from school. This time he had Max with him, Max's hand still loosely tangled with his.

Maybe, who knew.

"You want something to drink?" Max leaned close to be heard over the music, his breath warm against George's ear.

"Not yet."

"Let me know. I'm not drinking, obviously, so I’ll keep an eye on you.”

George nodded, and the knot in his chest loosened another fraction.

"Max! George! Over here!" Charles's voice cut through the noise, and George spotted him across the room, settled on a couch with a girl George didn't recognize and—Oscar.

Oscar nodded at them as they approached. George nodded back. They hadn't talked, not really, since that night in the bathroom at Nando's. And Lando hadn't mentioned him, hadn't brought up anything about Oscar or Carlos or the tangled mess of miscommunication that George still didn't fully understand. So George hadn't pressed. It wasn't his business. Except it was, because Lando was his best friend, and Oscar kept looking at Lando like a kicked puppy whenever he thought no one was watching.

Charles leaned in to say something to Max, his voice too low for George to catch. Max shrugged in response, his expression unreadable.

George frowned, about to ask what that was about, but before he could get the words out, Liam Lawson was barreling toward them through the crowd.

"Verstappen!" Liam grabbed Max by the shoulders, already steering him toward the beer pong table set up on the terrace. "You're playing. Don't argue. We need someone who can actually aim."

"I'm not drinking, mate. I'm driving."

"Then George drinks for you." Liam turned to George with a grin that was equal parts challenge and invitation. "Easy. Come on, lovebirds. Let's see what you've got, Russell."

George looked at Max. Max raised an eyebrow, a silent question—you in?

"You know what," George heard himself say, the words surprising even him. "Why the hell not."

George was, unsurprisingly, very bad at beer pong.

His first shot sailed wide, bouncing off the edge of the table and rolling under the couch. His second wasn't much better, clipping the rim of a cup but failing to sink. By the third round, he'd accepted his fate and was mostly just trying not to embarrass himself further.

His luck came in the form of Max, who apparently had the hand-eye coordination of a minor deity, and Yuki, who had the aim of someone who'd never thrown anything in his life.

"Come on, man, you're making the team look bad!" Max called across the table, laughing as Yuki's ball missed the cups entirely and bounced into a bowl of chips.

"It's a small cup, okay!" Yuki's voice cracked with indignation. "Who made these cups so small?"

"They're regular-sized cups!"

"Then the table is too long!"

George was laughing harder than he expected. His cheeks hurt from smiling, and there was a pleasant warmth spreading through his chest that was only partly from the beer. The music was good, the crowd was friendly, and Max kept catching his eye across the table with a grin that made George's stomach do something complicated. Maybe he drank too much beer. Which was a little embarrassing, but he drank too quickly and it’s been a while, and that was probably the reason he was looking at Max’s lips now.

"You're not a lightweight, are you?" Max asked during a break between rounds, his hand settling on George's lower back.

"No." George paused, reconsidered. "Maybe."

Max shook his head, but he was smiling. "Then this is the last round for you. And we're finding you some water."

"I'm fine."

"You're swaying."

"I'm swaying to the music. It's called dancing."

Max dragged him by the hand toward the kitchen, the crowd parting for them with the kind of deference George still wasn't used to. The kitchen was marginally quieter, the music muffled by the walls, and leaning against the fridge with a bottle of something that was definitely not water was Lando.

"Georgie." Lando's face lit up, then immediately shifted into theatrical concern. "Don't tell me you're drunk."

"Am not."

"Who are you and what have you done with George Russell?" Lando pressed a hand to his chest, turning his wounded expression toward Max. "Verstappen, you kidnapped my best friend and replaced him with someone who plays beer pong voluntarily."

"He's loosening up," Max said, pressing a cold bottle of water into George's hand. "Here. Drink."

"Thanks, babe." The word slipped out automatically. George didn't even flinch.

Lando's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. He looked at George, then at Max, then back at George. But he said nothing, just took a long sip of whatever was in his bottle.

"Why are you hiding in here, anyway?" Max asked, leaning against the counter.

"Oh, you know. Recharging. Social battery running low." Lando's eyes darted toward the living room, then back. "Have you guys seen Carlos?"

George couldn't help the scoff that escaped him.

If he were sober, he would have been more careful. He would have bitten his tongue, filed the reaction away for later, approached the situation with the kind of tact that came from not having two beers and a complicated emotional history with the subject at hand. But he wasn't sober, and the irritation that had been simmering since the bathroom at Nando's was suddenly right there at the surface.

Lando frowned. "You alright, mate?"

"You tell me. Is Carlos alright?" The words came out sharper than George intended.

"What?"

"George—" Max started, his voice careful.

"Max, why don't you go look for him?" George didn't take his eyes off Lando. "Since Lando's so eager to see him."

Max hesitated, his gaze flicking between them. "I don't think it's a good idea to leave you alone."

"But I can't disclose the details of this conversation." George hoped Max would catch the reference, and indeed, understanding dawned on Max's face, followed by something that looked like reluctance. "Five minutes. And I'm outside the door."

He left, and George turned back to Lando, surprised by how mad he actually was. It had been building, he realized. Building since the conversation at the lockers, since the confession about Oscar, since Lando had told him about being stood up and George had felt helpless and furious on his behalf with nowhere to put it.

"What is your deal, man?" Lando set his bottle down on the counter, his expression shifting from confusion to something more guarded. "You've been weird all week."

"Why do you always hide these things from me?"

"What are you talking about? What things?"

"First Oscar, now Carlos. Or was it first Carlos, then Oscar briefly? I'm just trying to figure out the timeline."

Lando's face went through a rapid series of emotions—confusion, realization, and then something that looked a lot like hurt. "Carlos? George, if you're implying—"

"I'm asking. Is there something going on with you and Carlos?"

"No!" Lando's voice rose, genuinely shocked now. "Why would you think that?"

"Because my best friend apparently hides these things from me. And I'm just supposed to—what? Figure it out on my own? Piece together the clues like some kind of detective?"

"I told you why I didn't tell you about Oscar." Lando's voice was defensive, but there was something fragile underneath. "Where is this coming from? Did someone say something to you?"

"Oscar thinks you and Carlos are going out."

Lando went very still. "Why do you know what Oscar thinks?"

"Because unlike you, I asked him."

"Why would you—" Lando pressed his palms against his eyes, letting out a frustrated groan. "See? This is why I didn't tell you. Because I didn't want you to meddle. Because I knew you'd try to fix it, and it's not something you can fix."

"So I was supposed to do nothing? While my best friend was pining after a guy who thought he was in love with someone else?"

"God, you don't hear yourself, do you?"

The words landed like a slap. George blinked. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"That's exactly what you've been doing with Alex!" Lando's voice cracked, raw and frustrated and hurt all at once. "And don't get me started on the fact that you never really told me about that crush either. I just figured it out because I know you, and you let me. You didn't sit me down and say 'Lando, I have feelings for our best friend and it's eating me alive.' I had to watch it happen in real time. So you don't get to lecture me about Oscar. You don't get to be mad that I didn't tell you something when you've been doing the exact same thing for years."

George was stunned into silence.

"You did this whole thing with Max." Lando gestured vaguely toward the door, where Max was supposed to wait. "This whole contracted mess. And I fully supported you. I ran interference with Alex. I sat at the lunch table with the lacrosse guys even though it meant watching Oscar pretend I didn't exist every single day. I did all of that because you're my best friend and I wanted you to have time to figure things out. So I'm sorry if I expected the same from you. I'm sorry if I thought maybe you'd support me in not making a whole thing about Oscar. In just letting it go and moving on."

"And what, just let this pass you by?" George's voice came out quieter now, some of the anger draining away. "You're not even gonna try?"

"Who are you to judge me for that, George?" Lando's eyes were bright, his voice wavering but steady. "You haven't tried anything in your life. When was the last time you took a risk? If it weren't for those letters getting mailed by accident, you'd still be third-wheeling on Alex and Lily's dates, pining in silence, never doing a single thing about it. So don't stand there and tell me I should try when you've spent years doing the exact opposite."

The words hit George square in the chest. He stared at Lando, his throat tight, his mind racing for a response and coming up empty.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was under the impression that I was your friend. Maybe we were both wrong."

He turned and walked away before Lando could respond. Behind him, he heard Lando call his name, but he didn't stop. The living room was a blur of bodies and music, the bass thumping in time with his heartbeat, and all he wanted was to find Max and go home.

Max wasn't at the door. Where the hell was Max? George scanned the crowd, his vision swimming slightly—from the beer or the argument or both, he wasn't sure. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to rewind the last ten minutes and unsay everything and maybe also unhear the things Lando had said that were entirely, devastatingly true.

"George. What a surprise to see you here."

God. That voice.

Kelly was standing by the stairs, a red solo cup in her hand and an expression on her face that George could only describe as predatory curiosity. She looked him up and down with the kind of assessing gaze that made him feel like a specimen under a microscope.

"Kelly. Hi."

"You know, I don't think we ever actually sat down to talk." She tilted her head, her smile sharp around the edges. "I'm hurt, George. I've heard you've been doing rounds, rekindling friendships with everyone. Charles, Pierre, the whole lacrosse team. But not me. I'm starting to think you're avoiding me."

"If that's Max you're referring to, I think you know it's more than a friendship." George wasn't sure why he said it. Why he felt the need to antagonize Kelly, to draw a line in the sand when he could have just smiled and nodded and extricated himself from the conversation. But he'd just fought with his best friend, and Max wasn't here, and Kelly needed to look less smug about whatever she thought she knew.

"So I've heard." Kelly's smile didn't waver, but something in her eyes sharpened. "And I'm not gonna lie, it took me by surprise. I didn't think Max had it in him."

"What? To be with a guy?"

"To be with you."

The words landed with surgical precision. George felt his jaw tighten. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean no offense." Kelly's voice was smooth, practiced, the voice of someone who knew exactly how much offense she meant. "It's just that Max is... a little intense, you know? He needs someone who knows how to handle him. Someone who understands what he needs before he even knows he needs it. That was always my job."

"I don't think he needs handling." George's voice came out steadier than he felt. "Maybe that's where you went wrong in your relationship."

Something flickered in Kelly's expression—a crack in the composed facade. "Maybe you just don't know Max well enough yet. You've been together what, a few weeks? I was with him for years. I know him better than anyone."

"Or maybe you just never did."

"George." And there was Max. The best timing or the worst timing in the world—George couldn't decide.

Max didn't stop when he saw Kelly standing there with George, but his eyes narrowed slightly, his posture shifting into something more guarded. He came to stand beside George, his hand finding the small of George's back with an automatic familiarity that made George's chest ache.

"Sorry," Max said, his eyes flicking between George and Kelly. "Gabi was throwing up outside. I had to make sure someone was driving him home." His gaze settled on Kelly, cool and assessing. "Everything okay?"

"Of course." Kelly's smile was back in place, seamless and bright. "We're just talking. Catching up. George and I haven't really had a chance to get to know each other."

"George?" Max's voice was quieter now, meant just for him.

George looked at Max and blinked three times.

Max's expression didn't change, but his hand pressed more firmly against George's back. "I think we should go. You've had plenty to drink, and I just saw Lando —he looked like he was heading out too."

"Yeah." George's voice came out rough. "Let's just—"

"But it's so early, boys!" Kelly's protest was light, almost teasing. "The party's just getting started."

"See you around, Kelly."

Max guided him through the crowd, steering him past clusters of their classmates and out the front door. The night air hit George's face like a splash of cold water, clean and sharp after the stuffy heat of the party.

Max opened the car door for him—again, the same way he had earlier, except this time George didn't have the energy to protest. He let Max help him into the passenger seat, let Max reach across him to buckle the seatbelt when his fingers fumbled with the clasp.

"I'm not a kid," George muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

"Shut up. You look like hell." Max's voice was gentle, his hand brushing briefly against George's shoulder before he pulled back.

"You know how to compliment a man, Verstappen."

Max didn't laugh. He was still leaning against the open car door, his face half-lit by the streetlamp, his expression unreadable. "Are you okay?"

George shook his head. The motion made the world tilt slightly, and he closed his eyes against the spin. "Just take me home. Please."

Max nodded. He closed George's door gently, rounded the car, and slid into the driver's seat. The engine hummed to life, and the familiar warmth of the heated seats seeped through George's clothes.

"Is your mom home?" Max asked, pulling away from the curb.

"Shift again."

"Cara?"

"Probably. Why, you planning to tuck me in?"

The words came out slurred and a little sarcastic, but Max didn't rise to the bait. He just gave George a long, unreadable look and kept driving until he pulled into the driveway, the headlights sweeping across the darkened front windows of the house.

George expected Max to walk him to his door. That was the gentlemanly thing to do, and Max was nothing if not consistent about that. But he didn't expect Max to follow him inside, to close the front door behind them both with a quiet click, to toe off his shoes in the hallway like he'd done it a hundred times before.

"I can handle the stairs," George protested, though his hand was already on the banister for support.

"You're not going to sleep." Max's voice was matter-of-fact. He toed off his shoes by the door like he'd done it a hundred times before, then gently steered George toward the empty living room with a hand on his elbow.

"What?"

"It's still early, so you're not gonna fall asleep. Not properly." Max helped George out of his jacket, draping it over the back of the armchair with surprising care. Then he pressed on George's shoulders until George's knees hit the edge of the couch and he sank into the cushions. "And I'm not letting you mope around alone. You'll just spiral."

George blinked up at him, the room slightly fuzzy at the edges. "What are you doing?"

"We're watching New Moon." Max was already reaching for the remote, navigating to the right streaming service.

"How do you know the name of the movie?"

Max paused. His shoulders did something that might have been a shrug, but it was too stiff, too self-conscious to be truly casual. "I looked it up."

And normally—normally George would have made fun of him for that. Would have teased him mercilessly, would have asked if Max had been researching vampire movies in his spare time, would have filed it away as ammunition for their ongoing war over film taste. But now he was overwhelmed with such a sudden, aching fondness that the words died in his throat before they could reach his tongue.

Max had looked it up, had gone home after their first movie night and researched the Twilight franchise so he'd know what to expect the next time George wanted to watch movies he claimed were terrible. Max had remembered.

He set up the movie, then came to sit next to George on the couch—closer than last time, closer than the careful distance they'd maintained during Twilight with Cara as a buffer. He settled into the cushions slowly, deliberately, until their shoulders touched.

George let his head fall onto Max's shoulder. The fabric of his hoodie was soft against George's cheek, and he could feel the steady rise and fall of Max's breathing, the warmth of him solid and grounding in the dark room. Max didn't tense up or pull away. He just shifted slightly, adjusting his position so George could be more comfortable, one arm coming up to rest along the back of the couch behind George's head.

"Comfortable?" Max's voice was quiet, rumbling through his chest where George's ear was pressed.

"Yeah."

"Good."

Max still ran his commentary, a quiet, running monologue that George suspected was more for his benefit than Max's own.

"That's why it's not a good idea to party with vampires," Max observed as the opening scenes unfolded.

Or, a little later: "And of course she jumped off a cliff. Because that's a normal reaction to a breakup. Very healthy."

And then, during the Volterra sequence: "So now we're in Italy? This movie has a travel budget, apparently."

George laughed despite himself. It was a weak laugh, a little watery around the edges, but it was real. Max's shoulder was warm under his cheek, and the familiar cadence of Max's voice was soothing something aching in his chest.

At some point, George sighed. It came from somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and exhausted, and Max looked down at him immediately. His free hand came up, his knuckles brushing lightly against George's forehead like he was checking for a fever.

"Still with me?"

"Yeah." George's voice was quiet. "Unfortunately."

"Ouch."

"It's not you—it's just." He swallowed, his throat tight. "I just wish I wasn't at all. Tonight."

"Don't say that."

"It's—I think I just ruined one of the best friendships I ever had. Again. In the span of a month. That's got to be some kind of record." The words came out before George could stop them, tumbling into the space between them. "Alex won't talk to me, and now Lando—" His voice cracked. "What if he's right? What if I just ruin everything and then end up alone?"

"You're not alone." Max's voice was steady. Certain.

"Max, I—" George's voice cracked. "What if I don't have any friends anymore?"

The question hung in the air between them. George felt pathetic for asking it, small and childish and so desperately afraid. But he couldn't take it back now. It was out there, raw and exposed, and Max was quiet for a long moment.

Then Max breathed with him. A deliberate inhale and exhale, steady and grounding, like he was trying to give George a rhythm to follow.

"I am your friend," Max said quietly.

George looked up at him. The blue light from the TV flickered across Max's face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw, the soft concern in his eyes. "Are you?"

"Of course."

George kept looking. Searching for the lie, the catch, the fine print. But there was nothing there. Just Max, steady and sure, looking back at him like the answer was the easiest thing in the world.

He settled back against Max's shoulder. His eyes were heavy, the exhaustion of the night finally catching up with him. The last thing he registered before sleep pulled him under was the steady rhythm of Max's heartbeat under his ear, and the quiet sound of Max's voice murmuring something too soft to make out over the movie's soundtrack.

When George woke up, there was no heartbeat under his ear. Just his pillow, cool against his cheek, and the pale morning light filtering through his bedroom curtains.

He was in his bed. He didn't remember getting here.

Cara was lying next to him, already on her phone, her fingers scrolling lazily through what looked like Instagram. She didn't look up when George stirred, but she must have sensed him waking because she said, without preamble: "Morning, sleepyhead. How's your head?"

"Fine." George's voice came out rough with sleep. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to piece together the fragments of last night. The party. The fight with Lando. Kelly's sharp smile. The couch. Max. "I didn't drink that much. How did I get here?"

"Well, it wasn't me." Cara finally looked up from her phone. "I'm strong, but not 'carry a full-grown athlete up a flight of stairs' strong."

"Did—"

"Max. Yes." She set her phone down, turning on her side to face him properly. "He carried you up and all. Very romantic. Then he came to let me know and made sure I prepared an Advil for you in case you felt unwell in the morning." She paused, letting the words sink in. "He also left a glass of water on your nightstand and texted me at midnight to ask if you were still asleep. I told him you were snoring."

George turned his head. There was, indeed, a glass of water on his nightstand, along with two Advil tablets arranged neatly on a napkin. Something in his chest tightened.

"He's really good," Cara said quietly. "Max. He's really, really good."

"Yeah." George stared at the water glass. "He is."

"But you're full of doubts." Cara propped herself up on one elbow, her dark eyes studying his face with that unnerving sisterly intuition. "Georgie, I know you. You could be so much happier if you just stopped thinking for five minutes."

"You don't know the half of it."

"Then tell me."

George was quiet for a long moment. The morning light crept across his bedroom floor, and somewhere downstairs the coffee maker beeped, a sign that his mother was back home, and Cara was still watching him with that patient, knowing expression.

"What if I told you," he said slowly, "that it's not real?"

Cara didn't even blink. "Then I'd call bullshit, because I saw how he looks at you."

"Maybe he's just a really good actor."

"Why the hell would he act?" Cara's voice sharpened. "What possible reason would Max have to pretend to care about you?"

George's throat tightened. "Because we agreed to it. Because he wants to make his ex jealous, and I want to keep Alex away."

"Alex." Cara's expression flickered—surprise, then understanding, then something that looked a lot like sadness. "That's why he stopped coming around? Alex?"

"Yeah. I did something stupid. He found out something he wasn’t supposed to. And now he probably hates me."

"I don't think that's possible," Cara said softly. "Alex has been your friend since you were in diapers. He doesn't hate you."

"But he might. And now Lando probably also hates me. And Max—"

"Max definitely doesn't hate you."

"But he doesn't like me either. Not like that." George's voice cracked on the last word. "He's just being kind because that's who he is. Because he saw me being pathetic and he took me home and carried me to bed like a decent person would. But it doesn't mean more than that."

Cara was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, her voice gentle: "Do you like him?"

"Yes."

"Like, like like him?"

"Cara—"

"Be honest with me now." She reached out and put her hand over his. "Please. For once. Just be honest."

George closed his eyes. The truth was sitting right there in his chest, a weight he'd been carrying for weeks without letting himself acknowledge it. He'd been so careful. So deliberate. He'd built walls around his heart and drawn up contracts and told himself that this was just an arrangement, just a performance, just two months and then they'd go their separate ways.

But the truth was this: he looked forward to Max's car in the driveway every morning. He'd memorized the way Max's eyes crinkled when he laughed for real. He'd started cataloging Max's small kindnesses. He'd told Max things he'd never told anyone else. About his father. About the college party. About the way he was afraid of being alone.

"Yes," he whispered. "I think I'm starting to. And it's stupid. Because he doesn't feel the same way."

"Are you sure?" Cara squeezed his hand. "Did you ask him?"

"I don't have to ask him. He told me I was his friend. Just his friend. And that's—that's fine. That's more than I could have asked for, considering my current circumstances regarding friendships."

"You think you know everything, George." Cara's voice was soft but firm. "But you don't know what's going on in people's heads. Not even you can achieve that."

"It doesn't matter anyway. This thing has an expiration date."

"Then why don't you do something about it?"

The words hung in the air between them.

You never did anything in your life, George. Lando's voice echoed in his head, sharp and accusing and devastatingly true. Maybe Lando had been right. Maybe that was all George was—someone who watched from the sidelines, who wrote his feelings on paper and locked them away, who let life happen to him instead of reaching out and grabbing it.

He thought of Max. Max, who had crashed into his life like a hurricane and somehow made everything better instead of worse, who blurred every line they'd drawn, who jumped the rope between what they should have been doing and the foreign, terrifying land of actual feelings.

Max, who had said I am your friend with such devastating sincerity that George had felt it in his bones.

George couldn't feed himself false hope. He couldn't let himself believe that Max's kindness meant something more, because believing that and being wrong would destroy him. And Max had been clear. They were friends. Whatever else George might be feeling, whatever complicated tangle of emotions was currently making a home in his chest—Max didn't feel the same way. Max was still thinking about Kelly. He was still hoping this scheme would win her back.

And that was fine. It had to be fine. Because Max being his friend was already more than George deserved, after everything.