Lestappen and the Grid

Since you guys are so nice to me...

Max Verstappen was in a mood.

Qualifying had been a disaster.
A yellow flag here. Traffic there. A poorly timed pit release and a lockup on his final run. P13 on the grid — his worst starting position in years.

He hadn't spoken much after it.
The mechanics knew better than to try.
Even Christian gave him space, handing him his telemetry sheet and a brief squeeze to the shoulder without a word.

Max didn't sleep well.
He hadn't, really — not since that crash last week.

Since Charles' car had careened into the barriers, carbon fiber and smoke and silence on the radio. Since Max had bolted from his own cockpit without permission, hauling Charles out like a goddamn movie hero. Since he'd sat at his side in the med bay for hours, refusing to leave even when Charles scowled and told him he was fine, you're being dramatic, stop hovering.

Charles had been cleared a few days ago.
No racing yet — ribs bruised, hand taped up — but good enough to go home.

Except he hadn't.

And when Max arrived at the paddock on race day, still pissed off, stomach twisting with nerves, what he wasn't prepared for was the sight of him.

Charles.

Fresh-faced, hair soft and floppy from the wind, dressed in a light linen button-up with the sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perched low on his nose. He was walking with a bit of a limp still, hand curled protectively against his ribs, but stubborn as hell, as always.

The entire paddock stared.

The Ferrari crew practically fell over themselves getting him a seat. The Red Bull mechanics whispered and elbowed each other, eyes flicking toward Max, whose jaw clenched the second he spotted Charles on the pit wall, perched gingerly on the seat the med staff had insisted on.

Even the Sky Sports cameras abandoned their shots of the front row to catch him. Reporters whispered. Pierre literally dropped his headset.

Charles Leclerc was back.

And Max's heart did something he'd never admit to.

"Why is he—" Max started, only to get a smug, knowing look from Christian.

Christian (handing Max his drink bottle, too casual):
"He said he wasn't missing your comeback drive."

Max swore under his breath.
Jaw clenched so hard it ached.

He watched as Charles greeted Seb with a warm hug, Yuki with a head pat, and Pierre — who tried to lift him off the ground — with a swat. But it wasn't until Charles made his way to the Red Bull pit wall that Max's stomach properly flipped.

Cheeks flushed from the heat and the attention, biting his lip as the cameras lingered too long, eyes bright when Max peeled off his helmet and approached the wall for a final word with his engineers.

And Max almost walked right past them until a gentle hand caught his wrist.

Charles (soft, teasing):
"Came to see if you're actually gonna race, Verstappen."

Max (gruff):
"Shouldn't you be resting?"

Charles rolled his eyes.
"Not missing your drive just because you binned Quali."

Max scowled.
Tried to be annoyed.
Failed miserably.

Charles (softly, teasingly):
"Hey... bonne chance Monsieur Verstappen."