─── ･ ｡ʚɞ ･
❛ 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔. Warm and close,
as fresh laundry and here we are, Tuesday.
Of course you love me ━ you are wearing
one of my socks. ❜
To prevent marmalade from crystallizin...
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IT'S NO SECRET THAT MAX DESPISES MEDIA DUTIES. At one point, early in his career, he had wished he could enjoy them, imagining what it would have been like to be a natural charmer like Daniel or a smooth talker like Charles with his accented vowels and courteous manners. However, according to his publicist, Max is rude.
He is blunt, tongue-heavy, and too unconcerned. He hardly bothers to remember the scripts given to him by his PR team, which is true, or learn the details of upcoming shoots, no matter how much they stress the importance of preparation, which—yes, true again.
But could Max be blamed? In the end, these marketing ideas or whatever always seem to be something utterly pointless, like reading decade-old tweets or ranking the best ice cream flavors despite not being allowed to eat sweets without fear of losing a thousandth of a second on his next race. So, he never looked forward to any of them. If he showed up late, it was because he simply couldn't bring himself to care; if he showed up early, it was because he wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. He hid in empty offices, loitered around the simulator room, pressed unnecessary buttons on the elevator because anything—truly, anything else—was better than sitting with a camera in his face and answering the same mundane questions over and over again.
It's all boring. All uncreative, all frivolous, and all ultimately a waste of his time. And far worse than any other before, today's shooting felt like a prison sentence, each minute dragging on longer than the last because of one singular reason:
The aroma of cinnamon-roasted apples and caramel seemed to have engulfed the entire filming room.
He had been staying at the nearest emergency exit for no real reason, truly, but no matter how far he tried to distance himself, the sweet scent still managed to find its way to him. It was making him a bit irritable, watching the camera crew lick their fingers and the audio technicians walk back and forth with filled cheeks, when he himself had to think of unnecessary weight gain for the car and the elusive seconds that dictated his life even outside of the track.
It just wasn't fair, really, until Rupert appeared and presented him with a napkin-covered treat.
"Not a word, Verstappen," his personal trainer warned with a knowing smile.
Max grinned as he lifted the vibrantly patterned napkin, disregarding its design to focus on the warm, palm-sized bar of—something delicious, even if he wasn't quite sure what it was. He took a bite and immediately understood why even the most health-conscious crew members couldn't resist indulging in the treat.
It was perfectly sweet, with a buttery Graham cracker crust that was just crisp enough to contrast with the creamy cheesecake filling. The thinly sliced caramelized apple topping glistened with caramel glaze, adding a hint of tartness that made him feel less guilty about devouring it in three large bites.
