Lestappen and the Grid

The whole thing was already ridiculous.

An official royal meet-and-greet, scheduled the morning after a GP. Which meant a room full of overtired, slightly hungover F1 drivers stuffed into an absurdly gilded waiting room, looking like overgrown schoolboys about to get scolded.

The assistant stepped in, crisp and terrifyingly efficient.

"Gentlemen," she announced. "His Royal Highness will receive you shortly. Please ensure you're wearing ties — protocol requires it."

An immediate ripple of panic.

"Wait, what? No one told me ties!" Lando squawked, tugging at his open collar.

"I didn't bring one," Yuki groaned.

George, smug as always, was already adjusting his.

Charles, of course, looked like a goddamn magazine ad in a sleek navy suit and matching tie. Like he was born knowing how to pose in royal palaces.

Max, meanwhile, had nothing.

He could feel Charles looking at him. Smug. Superior. Predictable.

"Mate," Lando whispered desperately. "You got a tie?"

Max shook his head.

"Shit."

George rummaged through a bag. "I've got a spare—"

"Does anyone even know how to tie one?" Alex asked, holding up his like a confused snake.

"I do," Charles sighed, his voice thick with martyred annoyance. "Obviously."

He stepped forward, snatching George's spare tie and leveling a look at Max.

"Come here, Verstappen."

Max arched a brow. "Bossy."

"You want to be thrown out of a royal meeting for dress code?"

Max shrugged. "Not my worst scandal."

"Max."

The way Charles said it — tight, clipped, so French it practically dripped out of his mouth — made something stupid spark in Max's chest.

Fine.

He stepped in.

The room immediately went silent, every other driver pretending not to watch and failing miserably.

Charles unfolded the tie with deft fingers and looped it around Max's neck. Close now, so close Max could smell the faint trace of cologne and champagne from the night before.

Max stood still, hands behind his back, wearing a faint, lazy grin as he stared directly at Charles.

"You're staring," Charles muttered, keeping his eyes firmly on the knot.

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"You gonna do something about it?"

And that — that — was when it happened.

Color bloomed high on Charles' cheekbones, starting soft but rapidly deepening into a shade that could only be described as Ferrari Rosso Corsa red.

He scowled down at the tie, jaw tight. "You're insufferable."

Max grinned wider, eyes bright, drinking in every second of it. "I like it when you blush like that."

"Shut up."

"Can't. You're making it very easy to stare."

The room wasn't even trying to be subtle.