Hate to race lestappen

Canada

The paddock was alive with its usual pre-race buzz, a chaotic symphony of reporters, team members, and fans. The Montreal air was thick with humidity, the promise of rain lingering in the gray skies above. Charles adjusted his cap as he weaved through the Ferrari garage, nodding politely at crew members but not really paying attention.

It had been a week. Seven days since Max had stumbled into his apartment, drunk and drugged, throwing Charles' entire world off its axis. Seven days since they'd had what was, somehow, the first normal conversation they'd ever shared. And seven days since Charles had realized that something had fundamentally shifted between them.

He'd spent the week trying to shake it off. Trying to convince himself that whatever had happened was just a fluke—an anomaly born of alcohol, adrenaline, and too much shared history. But standing here now, knowing Max was somewhere in the same paddock, Charles couldn't ignore the way his chest tightened at the thought of seeing him.

It wasn't just the memory of Max's drunken jokes or the way his expression had softened, unguarded for once. It wasn't even the lingering guilt from the fight, from the words they'd thrown at each other before everything spiraled. It was the kiss.

He hadn't meant for it to happen. But even now, he couldn't regret it.

Couldn't stop thinking about it—the way Max had kissed him back, fierce and desperate like he'd been waiting for it just as much as Charles had.

Charles exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. He needed to focus. He had a race to prepare for, a championship fight to claw his way back into. He couldn't afford distractions, especially not ones that wore Red Bull caps and smirked like they owned the world.

But as he stepped out of the garage and spotted Max a few meters away, talking to a reporter with his usual easy confidence, Charles felt his resolve falter.

Max looked different. Not physically—he was still the same Max, sharp cheekbones and piercing blue eyes, every inch the reigning champion. But there was something softer about him now, something in the way his shoulders weren't quite as tense, his posture less defensive.

Max caught his eye then, just for a moment. His expression didn't change, but Charles swore he saw something flicker there—recognition, maybe, or acknowledgment of the invisible line they'd crossed.

Charles quickly looked away, focusing on the track instead. But his thoughts kept circling back, an endless loop of questions and confusion.

"Charles!" Fred's voice cut through his reverie, snapping him back to the present. His team principal was striding toward him, a clipboard in hand and a no-nonsense expression on his face. "Meeting. Now."

"Coming," Charles said, forcing his feet to move.

As he followed Fred to the briefing room, he couldn't shake the feeling that this race week was going to be different. That whatever had happened in Monaco wasn't just going to stay in Monaco.

And the worst part? A small, traitorous part of him didn't want it to.

---

The Canadian Grand Prix began under a blanket of overcast skies, a quiet tension in the air as the grid prepared for the lights to go out. Charles sat in his car, hands gripping the wheel, going through his pre-race rituals. His heart thudded in his chest, though not entirely from the usual anticipation of a race. His thoughts flickered to Max, up ahead in P1, and the strange shift in their dynamic over the past week.

But this wasn't the time for distractions.

The lights went out, and the roar of engines drowned out everything else. Charles got a clean start, holding his position as he slotted in behind Carlos and Lewis. The first few laps were surprisingly calm. No chaos, no wild overtakes—just steady, methodical racing.