Hate to race lestappen

Spain

Charles ran, feet pounding against the ground as the deafening roar of the explosion filled his ears. He stumbled, falling hard as the force of the blast sent him to the ground. When he scrambled to his knees, there was nothing.

No car. No Max.

Smoke and flames consumed everything in front of him. Charles blinked through his tears, his hands clawing at the ground as if he could reach through the fire and find him. But Max was gone.

The sound of his own breathing pulled him out of the dream, sharp and shallow as he sat up in bed. His chest heaved, and it took a moment for his surroundings to register. He was in his hotel room in Spain, alone, the weak morning sun creeping through the blinds.

Charles exhaled loudly, running a hand through his damp hair, trying to shake the nightmare. His phone sat on the bedside table, screen dark, but it might as well have been calling to him. He wanted to pick it up, to call Max, to make sure he was okay.

But he didn't.

It was a stupid dream. Max was fine. Victoria was there with him now, taking over the role Charles had played for the past week while Max recovered. He reminded himself of that as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

The floor was cool beneath his feet as he stood, stretching out his arms. He glanced at the clock. Too early. But there was no point in trying to sleep again.

This weekend mattered. He had a front-row start here in Spain, and he needed to keep his head straight. Max was in good hands, and Charles would win this race.

At least while he was at Max's place, he'd found time to work out, squeezing in enough gym sessions to keep his form sharp. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough.

Charles moved to the window, pulling the curtains back slightly to let in more light. His reflection in the glass looked tired, worn from the juggling act of the last week. He sighed and turned away.

He would win this race. Then he'd go back to Max. At least there would be a week's break before the next one.

-

The paddock buzzed with its usual energy, mechanics and media rushing around, fans pressing against the barriers for a glimpse of their favorites. Charles walked through it all alone, headphones resting around his neck, trying to focus on the task ahead.

Still, the absence of Max felt heavy.

Even if Max were here, Charles knew he wouldn't have seen him much. But just knowing Max was somewhere in the paddock, lurking around Red Bull hospitality or throwing sharp comments across the way-would have felt better.

His feet slowed as he passed the Red Bull motorhome. Liam Lawson was there, chatting with a few engineers. Charles couldn't begrudge the guy his opportunity—he looked thrilled to be stepping up while Max recovered–but it still felt off.

Charles offered a small smile, lifting a hand in greeting. "Congrats, Liam. Big weekend."

"Thanks," Liam said, grinning wide. "Feels surreal."

"Enjoy it," Charles replied because that's the kind of person he was. Polite, encouraging, even when his thoughts were elsewhere. Even when a part of him wanted to see Max in that racing suit, glaring across the paddock like he always did, making some snide comment about Charles' too-big pants.

Charles would've snapped back with something about Max wearing the same boring shirt and jeans every day. And Max would've smirked, unfazed.

But Max wasn't here.

"Charles!"

Charles turned at the sound of Carlos calling his name, calm as ever. "Carlos."

But Carlos didn't stop. He breezed right past Charles, barely slowing down.