𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴~ Lestappen

The Croissant Conundrum

Charles woke up to the sound of Max's alarm blaring like it was on a mission to destroy their collective will to live. He groaned, burying his face deeper into his pillow. Why did Max's alarm always sound like a fire drill?

"Turn it off," he mumbled into his pillow.

Max, of course, didn't seem to hear him. The guy was immune to alarms. Charles could only assume Max was one of those people who set 12 alarms in a row, just to ignore every single one until they were physically dragged out of bed.

"Max," Charles groaned louder, rolling over and launching a pillow in Max's general direction. It hit its mark.

"Wha-?" Max stirred, finally reaching over to slap his phone until the alarm stopped. "Why is it so early?" he mumbled, still half-asleep.

"It's 10 a.m., Max," Charles said, rubbing his eyes. "Not exactly the crack of dawn."

Max grumbled something unintelligible and rolled over, pulling the blanket over his head. Charles shook his head, amused. The guy could handle the stress of leading a race, but getting out of bed? Apparently a Herculean task.

Charles sat up and stretched, yawning. He had to admit, these mornings with Max had started to feel oddly... nice. Comfortable, even. The kind of mornings where you didn't have to rush anywhere, where you could just hang out in your pajamas and talk about stupid stuff.

Like croissants.

He grinned to himself, remembering the conversation from the night before. He had no idea why he'd told Max about his random bakery fantasy, but somehow, it had just slipped out. And now? Now he was going to have to live up to it.

"Hey, Max," Charles called, smirking to himself. "You still up for those croissants?"

Max groaned from under the blanket. "You're not serious."

"Oh, I'm deadly serious," Charles said, standing up and dramatically pulling open the curtains, flooding the room with sunlight. "You challenged my baking skills. Now I have to prove you wrong."

Max peeked out from under the blanket, squinting at the light. "You don't even know where to get croissant ingredients."

Charles waved a hand dismissively. "Details. We'll figure it out."

Max sighed, but he was clearly too curious to stay in bed. "Fine. But if you burn down the kitchen, I'm not explaining it to the hotel staff."

Charles grinned, already grabbing his phone to Google the nearest grocery store. "Trust me, Verstappen. You're about to experience the best croissants of your life."

---

Fast forward an hour later, and Charles was standing in the hotel kitchenette, staring at a pile of ingredients with a look of intense focus. Flour, butter, yeast-he had everything he needed. The kitchen, however, was... questionable. The stove looked older than both of them combined, and the oven made a strange buzzing noise whenever he walked by.

Max leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Charles with an amused look. "So, what's the plan, Chef Leclerc?"

Charles shot him a glare. "Don't distract the chef. This is serious business."

Max held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I'll be quiet. But I'm not convinced you know what you're doing."

Charles puffed out his chest, trying to look more confident than he felt. "I told you. I'm great at this. I made croissants once when I was, like, twelve."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Once?"

"Yes, once. And they were perfect."

Max snickered but didn't say anything, clearly enjoying watching Charles fumble with a bag of flour like it was some kind of enemy.

Charles ignored him, focusing on the task at hand. He mixed the dough, kneaded it (well, sort of), and started the long, slow process of folding the butter into the dough. He was only about halfway through when he realized he'd miscalculated just how long this would take.

"Okay, so... this might take a few hours," Charles admitted sheepishly, glancing at the clock.

Max, who had been scrolling on his phone, looked up, confused. "A few hours? For croissants?"

Charles nodded. "It's all about patience, Max. You have to let the dough rise, then fold it, then let it rise again, then fold it again-"

Max groaned. "You didn't mention that last night. You made it sound like a quick thing."

Charles chuckled. "That's the art of croissants, my friend. They take time."

Max sighed dramatically and slid down the kitchen wall until he was sitting on the floor. "I can't believe I agreed to this. We could've just ordered room service."

Charles threw a dish towel at him. "No! This is a journey, Max. An experience. You're going to appreciate these croissants so much more because we made them ourselves."

Max stared at him. "Correction: you are making them. I'm just here for moral support."

Charles laughed, shaking his head as he continued folding the dough. "Don't worry. You'll be eating the best croissant of your life soon. Probably."

---

Three hours later, the smell of butter and fresh bread finally filled the tiny hotel room. Charles pulled the tray out of the oven, beaming proudly at the golden, slightly lopsided croissants.

"Et voilà!" Charles said, holding up the tray like he'd just won the Great British Bake Off.

Max, who had spent most of the last hour half-asleep on the couch, blinked awake and sniffed the air. "Wait, they actually smell good."

Charles scoffed. "You doubted me? Look at these beauties."

Max got up and peered over Charles's shoulder. "Well... they're not exactly the prettiest croissants I've ever seen."

Charles rolled his eyes. "They taste better than they look."

He handed Max a croissant, and they both took a bite at the same time. The room went quiet for a second as Max chewed thoughtfully.

"Well?" Charles asked, nervously awaiting judgment.

Max swallowed, then turned to him with an expression that was... suspiciously neutral.

"They're... good," Max said slowly. "But..."

Charles narrowed his eyes. "But what?"

Max broke into a teasing grin. "But they're not as good as room service."

Charles gasped dramatically. "Excuse me? These are handcrafted!"

Max laughed, holding up his hands in defense. "Okay, okay! They're great. I'm just messing with you."

Charles shook his head, but he couldn't help but laugh along. Max was impossible, but he was also probably the only person who would eat a slightly burnt, homemade croissant just to humor him. And that? That was something.

They both sat down at the tiny hotel dining table, devouring the croissants with a mix of genuine hunger and shared amusement. Charles looked across the table at Max, who was smirking around his croissant like a kid who'd just won a bet.

It was in that quiet moment-just the two of them, laughing over half-burnt pastries-that Charles felt a weird, fluttery warmth in his chest. It wasn't the same feeling he got from racing, or from winning, or even from eating a perfectly buttery croissant.

No, this was different.

He glanced at Max, who was now busy wiping crumbs off his shirt. And suddenly, Charles realized something that hit him harder than a missed apex on a tricky corner.

Maybe-just maybe-he was falling for Max Verstappen.