𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠~𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛

Race Day

It was supposed to be Charles Leclerc’s day. The sun was shining, the fans were roaring, and everything seemed perfectly aligned for a triumphant race. But as fate would have it, Ferrari had other plans. Plans that involved Charles's car deciding it was a good day to spontaneously combust—or at least, that’s what it felt like.
One could say Ferrari loves fucking up Charles but that's another topic.

The race had started with Charles in a strong position, zipping around the track with the precision and confidence of a man who was born to do this. But then, halfway through the race, disaster struck. His car began to slow, sputtering like an old lawnmower trying to start up. Charles frantically pressed buttons on the steering wheel, hoping to revive his dying machine, but it was no use. The dreaded message came through his radio: **“Box, box. We have to retire the car.”**

Charles’s heart sank. Retire? But he had so much more to give! So many laps to conquer! Yet, here he was, forced to bring his car back to the pits, his dreams of victory crushed like a soda can under a truck tire.

As he climbed out of his car, he tried to keep it together. The cameras were on him, the fans were watching, and the last thing he wanted was to be remembered as the guy who threw a tantrum on live TV. But inside, he was seething. He wanted to kick the tires, throw his helmet, maybe even scream into the heavens. Instead, he settled for a deep sigh and a resigned shake of his head.

That’s when Max Verstappen showed up. Now, Max wasn’t exactly known for being the warm and fuzzy type. He was more of a "win at all costs and maybe smile later" kind of guy. But there he was, walking over to Charles with a surprisingly non-smug expression on his face.

Charles looked up, expecting some kind of sarcastic comment or maybe just a nod of acknowledgment. But instead, Max did something completely unexpected. He offered Charles a fist bump.

"Hey, tough break, man," Max said, his voice lacking its usual competitive edge.

Charles blinked, momentarily stunned. Was this… sympathy? From Max Verstappen? Eh he was scared to say the least.

"Yeah," Charles mumbled, still processing the situation. "I guess it just wasn’t my day."

Max nodded, leaning casually against the pit wall. "Tell me about it. I’ve had my fair share of DNFs. It sucks. You spend all week prepping, and then boom—something out of your control just ruins everything."

Charles glanced at Max, half-expecting him to follow up with some backhanded compliment or joke about how he was still leading the championship. But to his surprise, Max seemed genuinely empathetic.

"Thanks," Charles said, managing a small smile. "It’s just… frustrating, you know? You do everything right, and then the car decides it’s done for the day."

Max chuckled. "Yeah, cars can be real divas. One minute they’re purring like kittens, the next they’re throwing a full-blown tantrum. You’d think with all the tech we’ve got, they’d be more reliable."

Charles laughed, and for a moment, the sting of the race faded. "I guess we’re just along for the ride, hoping they don’t decide to explode."

Max grinned. "Exactly. Sometimes I feel like I’m babysitting a very fast, very expensive child."

There was a pause, and then Max did something that caught Charles completely off guard. He put a hand on Charles's shoulder—not in a condescending way, but in a genuine "I’ve been there" kind of way.

"You’re a great driver, Charles," Max said seriously. "One bad race doesn’t change that. You’ll bounce back."

Charles nodded, feeling a surprising warmth in his chest. Max wasn’t just saying it—he meant it. And for some reason, that meant a lot.

"Thanks, Max," Charles said quietly. "I appreciate that."

Max gave him a final nod, then gestured toward the paddock. "Come on, let’s get out of here before the media descends. I’ll even let you complain about how terrible your day was over dinner. My treat."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Wait, are you *actually* offering to buy me dinner? Who are you, and what have you done with Max Verstappen?"

Max smirked. "Don’t get used to it. I’m just in a good mood today. Plus, I figured you could use a decent meal after all that ‘soul-crushing defeat’ stuff."

Charles chuckled as they started walking. "You’re not wrong. But if you’re paying, I’m ordering the most expensive thing on the menu."

Max laughed. "Go ahead. Just don’t expect dessert."

As they made their way out of the paddock, away from the disappointment of the race, Charles couldn’t help but feel a little lighter. Sure, the day hadn’t gone as planned, but maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all bad. After all, it’s not every day you get comforted by Max Verstappen—especially with the promise of free food.