Wednesday, October 3rd, 2018- Monte Carlo, Monaco
The Penthouse
No one had ever looked less impressed to see him than you did in the seconds that followed his unceremonious return home, your face impassive, your eyes hard, a steely glint to them that made him shiver, feeling desperate to look away, to escape your scathing glare but unable to look away, almost as if he'd been turned to stone with one glance like this was some Greek epic and he was merely the latest in a long line of undeserving men to meet his end at your hands.
It feels well deserved on his part. There's no denying that.
"Da! Da!" Kaia ends the standoff, her little voice shattering the stare down as she reaches out for him, making little grabby motions with her hands, utterly oblivious to the discord her father's presence has sown, too consumed by excitement and the naivety of youth to pick up on the conspicuous shift in demeanor you've undergone in the blink of an eye.
-----------
A short time later, once Kaia had proudly explained that the cookies the two of you had spent the better part of the morning making were for him, a late birthday present, which had left him feeling guilt stricken and wholly undeserving of the little family he had somehow been lucky enough to be blessed with, he'd done the only thing he could think to do in such a situation- he'd eaten his feelings, consuming his weight in cookies while valiantly trying to ignore your stony silence.
After that, at your suggestion, which had marked the first thing you'd said to him yet, he had taken Kaia to her room and put her down for a nap, a task that he'd been grateful for if only because it meant he could escape your disapproving silence.
It had been easier than he'd expected to get his daughter to sleep, the toddler evidently exhausted by earlier excitement, and sooner than he would have liked, Max found himself closing her bedroom door and wandering back out into the apartment, knowing what he needed to do but dreading it all the same.
Following the sound of running water and the muffled rattle of dishes, Max returned to the kitchen, which was still in a state of disarray but looking infinitely better than it had just a matter of minutes before. You glance up when he enters the room, then quickly avert your eyes, like the very sight of him is something by which you cannot abide by, going back to the task at hand without any further acknowledgement of his presence.
"Here, let me," Max says suddenly, taking the mixing bowl out of your hand, gently nudging you away from the sink with a shoulder, "I'll do it. You- you just go sit down."
"No," you tell him firmly, refusing to meet his eyes, "but you can help. Here," you hand him a dish towel, "I'll wash and you can dry."
"I-" Max considers fighting you on it, giving a thought to finding a way to force you to let him do the work for you before he abandons it, deciding that if he's trying to make amends then it's likely best that he conforms to your wishes then to try and make you follow his, "okay."
His intention had been to not waste anyone's time, to get what he wanted to say out of the way before he can think better of it or he has a chance to fuck things up further and yet, here he is, standing beside you, at a loss for words.
"Say whatever it is you came in here to say," you break the silence that had fallen, "I can feel the nervous energy pouring off you and it's driving me fucking nuts."
"Sorry?" Max says lamely, feeling instantly appreciative when you ignore the awkwardness in his reply, "I, uh, just wanted to talk about last night."
"I figured," you reply with a derisive snort, handing him a freshly washed plate, "you're not a particularly difficult man to read, Verstappen."
"It's not what you think."
