The atmosphere in the paddock was charged with energy, a whirlwind of activity surrounding the latest race. Reporters shouted questions, fans clamoured for autographs, and mechanics hurried past, tools in hand. Among the chaos stood Max, fresh off the track, still wearing his racing suit and a triumphant smile—until a reporter shifted the focus of the interview.
"Max, can we talk about your second gender?" the reporter asked, his tone invasive. "We've noticed your scent lately; it's quite strong," the reporter pressed, leaning in with a probing look.
Max felt the ground shift beneath him as the sudden spotlight on his omega status, rather than his performance, disoriented him. He froze, his hand instinctively moving to the back of his neck, where the scent patches rested—a heavy and exposed reminder of his identity. Snippets of laughter and whispers surrounded him, with the words "omega" and "smell" echoing in his ears.
His heart raced, fingers grazing the patches that released his scent into the air. The comment about his scent sent him spiralling; it felt as though all eyes were on him, dissecting his every reaction. Heat rose in his cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and panic swelling inside him.
In a panic, he turned on his heel, rushing back toward his motorhome, but his knees buckled under him, and he collapsed on the ground. Carlos, Daniel, and Lewis watched in alarm as he fell, their concern immediate. They dashed forward, but as they approached, Max's eyes widened with fear, his breath quickening as he instinctively backed away from their outstretched hands.
"Max, are you okay?" Carlos asked gently, his voice a mixture of worry and urgency.
"Max? It's Lewis. Can I touch you?" Lewis's question was cautious, but Max only shook his head, trying to scramble backward, desperation in his movements.
The scene was a spectacle, reporters whipping out their cameras, trying to capture the unfolding drama. But Daniel, fueled by a protective instinct, stepped in front of Max, shielding him from the invasive lenses. "Back off!" he shouted, his voice low and firm, the kind that brooked no argument.
"Max is panicking. He's having a panic attack," Daniel said, his gaze focused on his friend, who had buried his face in his elbow, trying to hide from the world.
The other drivers quickly formed a barrier around Max, shielding him from the prying cameras and relentless reporters, determined to protect him from the onslaught of attention that only added to his distress. Lando, who had witnessed the event, clung to Carlos with teary eyes, while Alex and George exchanged worried glances, unsure how to help. Max attempted to rise, but his body betrayed him, too drained to cooperate.
Lance, seeing Max's struggle, reached out to help, but Max stumbled away from him, a wild look in his eyes as he fought against the overwhelming tide of emotions.
Then, through the haze of panic, Max caught sight of something red—a blur that he couldn't quite focus on. He instinctively tried to retreat further, but the familiar scent enveloped him, grounding him momentarily. It was the rich, comforting aroma that belonged to Charles.
Without hesitation, Charles surged forward, his presence commanding as he gently but firmly swept Max into his arms. "I've got you," he murmured, steering Max away from the prying eyes and curious cameras, heading straight for the sanctuary of the Red Bull motorhome.
Inside, Charles closed the door behind them, shutting out the world. The contrast between the chaos of the paddock and the calm of the motorhome was immediate and palpable.
"Maxie, it's me, Charles," he said softly, crouching down to meet Max's gaze. His voice was soothing, laced with concern. "Try to take a deep breath with me." He placed a hand on Max's chest, guiding Max's trembling hands to rest over his own heartbeat, establishing a connection between them.
