Chapter Text
The paddock in Bahrain was alive with noise and heat. Engines roared in the distance, mechanics shouted instructions across garages, and flashes from photographers lit up every corner of the narrow walkways.
Charles kept his head down as he moved toward the Ferrari motorhome, the familiar fire of frustration burning in his chest.
Second place again.
Second place behind him.
He tried to ignore the way the crowd of journalists swarmed around, already rehearsing answers in his mind: The car felt good. We pushed hard.
There’s always next week.
Lies designed to mask the ache in his stomach every time he saw the Red Bull team celebrating.
And of course, the man himself was waiting.
Max Verstappen leaned casually against the side of the Red Bull garage, cap tilted back, arms crossed. He didn’t look exhausted after a grueling race. He didn’t look rattled. He looked… smug. That infuriating calm of someone who had once again been untouchable.
Charles almost walked past, but Max’s voice cut through the noise.
“Careful, Charles. If you keep finishing second to me, people might start calling you my shadow.”
Charles froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned, jaw tight.
“Funny. I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”
Max pushed off the wall, strolling closer, hands stuffed into his pockets as if they were just having a casual chat. His eyes glittered with amusement.
“You don’t have to ask. I just like helping you face reality.”
Heat flushed up Charles’ neck, the kind that came from anger, not embarrassment—at least, that’s what he told himself.
“Reality is that one day, I’ll beat you. And when I do, I’ll make sure you remember it.”
Max smirked, stepping close enough that Charles had to tilt his head slightly to meet his gaze. “Oh, I’ll remember. Losing to you would be… unforgettable. Because it doesn’t happen.”
For a moment, the two locked eyes, the air between them heavy, sharp, almost electric. Around them, the noise of the paddock blurred, as if the whole world had narrowed to just this standoff.
Charles forced himself to look away first, his voice cold.
“Enjoy it while it lasts, Verstappen.”
Max tilted his head, that insufferable half-smile tugging at his lips.
“Don’t worry. I always do.”
Charles off, fists clenched, refusing to give Max the satisfaction of another word. But he couldn’t shake the echo of that smile, the way it lingered in his mind far longer than any insult should.
And Max—watching him disappear into the crowd—allowed himself a quiet chuckle. There was something addictive about pushing Leclerc’s buttons.
Something sharper, something he couldn’t quite name yet.
The garage was half-empty by the time Charles returned, still flushed from the podium ceremony. Mechanics packed away tools, engineers pored over data screens. Nobody said anything when he walked past—they all knew better.
He sat down heavily in the drivers’ room, peeling his gloves off one finger at a time. His chest still burned, his head buzzing with every replay of the race.
He had been close.
He had been faster in certain corners.
And yet, when it mattered most, Max had blocked him again.
A knock on the door.
He didn’t look up.
“Busy.”
The door still opened, and Max strolled in without hesitation, holding a bottle of water in one hand.
“Relax. I’m not here to steal your secrets.”
Charles’ jaw clenched.
“Then why are you here?”
Max shrugged, leaning against the wall as if it were his own motorhome.
“I thought I’d check in. See how you’re handling the whole… second-place habit.”
Charles shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. “You’re insufferable.”
“True.” Max smirked, uncapping the bottle and taking a slow sip. “But at least I’m first while being insufferable.”
Charles stood, unable to sit still under that smugness. “Get out.”
Max tilted his head, eyes glinting in the dim light. “You really let it eat you up, don’t you? Being behind me. I can practically feel the frustration rolling off you.”
Charles’ breath caught, because the way Max said it—low, deliberate—felt almost intimate. Like he wasn’t mocking, but observing. Reading him too easily.
“I said get out,” Charles repeated, voice tighter this time.
For once, Max didn’t argue. He pushed off the wall, paused at the door, and glanced back over his shoulder with that half-smile.
“Don’t worry, Charles. One day you’ll get me. Maybe. If I let you.”
The door clicked shut.
Charles stood there, fists clenched, pulse racing. He told himself it was anger.
Just anger.