Medical attention I Max Verstappen

Nightfall

As I eyed him, I couldn't help but say, "If this is some sort of elaborate scam to steal my stuff, I'll be seriously fucking pissed."

He simply grinned, "I promise you, it's not a scam," he replied confidently. 

Determined to prove that I didn't need his help, I reach for his duffle bag and yank it from his arm. "Now we are even," I say, holding the bag triumphantly in my arms.

His grin only widened, and there was a playful glint in his eyes. 

"Your bag doesn't weigh much. You're a light traveler," I say. He chuckles, "You learn to do that after the first, like, thirty trips." He glances at my suitcase, implying that it's something I am yet to learn.

His radiant smile seems to light up the entire airport as he speaks. It's one of the brightest, most captivating smiles I've ever seen. I can't help but wonder what's putting him in such a good mood. Perhaps he's off to enjoy a vacation. I mentally kick myself for not asking him about his plans. It feels too late to ask now. 

As I almost stumble over my own feet, a quiet swear word escapes my lips. 

"It's surprising that you're a doctor," he remarks, his tone tinged with both curiosity and shade. I raise an intrigued eyebrow, eager to hear his explanation. "Oh, why's that?"

"I would have expected a doctor to be more... polished. Not rushing through an airport, while swearing." he counters, the corners of his lips curling up in a subtle grin. His honesty is refreshing. 

"I've come to realize that if you're good enough at what you do, you don't need all the extra stuff. You don't need to have a certain look, a certain refined way of talkning, or a certain image. My work speaks for itself ," I reply. There's a flicker of contemplation in his gaze, as though my words have struck a chord within him. Finally, after a beat of silence, he nods, his agreement unspoken but understood.

Our conversation flows, as our steps echo through the corridors of the airport. However, my attention wavers as a sense of regret creeps in regarding my choice of clothing. I feel hot, and not in the good way. The gray sweatshirt and dark dress pants that I thought were practical for the journey now feel like a poor decision, in the midst of Monaco's scorching heat. I silently hope that he doesn't notice how warm I have suddenly started to feel, rosy cheeks and how a sheen of warmth has started to cling to my skin.

His outfit—a plain white t-shirt paired with dark shorts—creates a striking contrast with my own, warmer attire. There are also no noticeable branding on his clothes, despite the quality suggesting they're of good make. I almost get the feeling that he continuously has chosen clothes that give away as little about him as possible. As if his wardrobe would be carefully curated to avoid drawing attention, opting for the most anonymous outfits he can find. Yet, even in the simplest of attires, he stands out. 

As we approach the exit doors, he follows me outside, and signals for a taxi. I still have thirty-minutes left to get to the hotel before they close. I actually think I will make it. I look up at him, feeling a mix of reluctance and gratitude. "I guess this is it," I say.

As the taxi pulls up to the entrance, he takes the duffle bag from my arms and hands me my suitcase, our hands meet on the handle, his touch lingering for perhaps a moment longer than necessary. Maybe he didn't notice. The evening has turned to night, and the starry sky above us gives Monaco a captivating first impression. The city's iconic landmarks, Prince's Palace and the Casino de Monte-Carlo, are illuminated, casting a golden glow over the streets. The twinkling lights of luxury yachts and sailboats in the harbor echo through the calm waters of the Mediterranean Sea. It is truly beautiful.