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The hotel room was silent except for the sound of Max’s breathing slowly evening out in the dark. Outside, Singapore glittered beneath them in gold and white, alive with movement even at two in the morning. Expensive cars cut through narrow streets below the hotel windows, distant music drifted upward from bars along the harbor, and somewhere far beneath them people laughed like the world wasn’t capable of ending quietly inside a sixteenth-floor suite.
Charles sat at the edge of the bed pulling his shirt back over his shoulders with trembling hands.
He hated this part.
Not the leaving itself. He had learned how to leave years ago. The hard part was always the few minutes afterward, when everything softened unexpectedly. When Max’s heartbeat was still warm beneath his skin and the room still smelled like him and Charles could almost pretend they belonged to each other in some real, uncomplicated way. That illusion never lasted long. Max shifted behind him against the sheets.
“You’re quiet.” Charles laughed softly under his breath without turning around.
“That’s usually your thing.” Max didn’t answer immediately.
Charles already knew why.
Because silence had become Max’s defense mechanism years ago.
Whenever conversations became dangerous, whenever emotions threatened to spill into something real and irreversible, Max withdrew into himself until Charles either exploded or gave up entirely.
Tonight, Charles was too exhausted to do either.
He stood slowly and walked toward the window barefoot, folding his arms tightly across his chest as he stared down at the city lights below. His reflection stared back at him faintly through the glass: messy curls, flushed skin, bruises blooming faintly near his collarbone. Evidence of another night he would pretend never happened by morning.
“Alex asked me yesterday if I was happy.” The words slipped out before Charles could stop them.
Behind him, Max went still.
Charles swallowed hard and kept staring out at Singapore because looking at Max right now would make this harder than it already was.
“She asked me while we were having dinner,” Charles continued quietly. “She was talking about some vacation she wants us to take after the season ends and then suddenly she just looked at me and asked if I was happy.” Max still said nothing. Charles laughed shakily, the sound painfully small in the room. “And I realized I didn’t even know how to answer her.”
The silence behind him became unbearable.
Finally Max spoke, voice rough from sleep and something heavier. “Charles.”
“No.” Charles shook his head immediately. “No, because I need you to listen to me for once.”
He turned around then. Max was sitting upright against the headboard now, sheets low around his waist, blond hair messy from sleep and hands clasped tightly together like he already knew where this conversation was heading and hated it.
God.
Even now Charles loved him so much it physically hurt.
That was the humiliating part. Not the secrecy, not the lying, not even the guilt.
The humiliating part was loving someone this completely and still never truly having them.
“I’m tired,” Charles admitted softly.
Max’s expression shifted immediately at that. “Tired of what?”
Charles stared at him in disbelief. “Seriously?”
Max exhaled sharply through his nose and dragged a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I meant,” Max stopped himself, frustration already beginning to creep into his voice.
“You know this isn’t easy for me either.”
Charles looked down briefly and laughed again, quieter this time. There it was. That sentence. The one Max always used whenever Charles got too close to forcing the truth into the open. This isn’t easy for me either.
As if that changed anything.
Charles walked back toward the bed slowly until he stood directly in front of Max. “I go home to Alexandra,” he said quietly, “and I let her kiss me while I’m thinking about you.”
Max looked away instantly.
Charles felt something inside his chest twist painfully at the movement.
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“You look away whenever you know I’m right.”
Max’s jaw tightened.
Charles could see the irritation building beneath his skin already, but for once he didn’t care. Maybe because something inside him had finally reached its limit. “And then there’s Kelly,” Charles continued before he could stop himself.
At the mention of her, Max’s entire posture changed immediately. “You don’t have to talk about her like that.”
Charles stared at him. “Like what? Like she exists?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“No?” Charles’ voice sharpened. “Because your entire life exists outside this room, Max. Kelly exists. Your daughter exists. Your perfect fucking image exists. And meanwhile I’m here sneaking through hotel garages at two in the morning hoping nobody sees me.”
Max stood abruptly from the bed now. “Charles.”
“No, let me finish.” His chest felt tight suddenly. Painfully tight. Because the worst part was that he already knew how this conversation would end. It always ended the same way: Max looking guilty, Charles getting emotional, both of them kissing each other like they were trying to erase the damage afterward.
Nothing ever changed.
“I’m tired of pretending I’m not in love with you.”
The room went completely silent. Max stopped moving entirely. For six years they had avoided saying it directly. They buried it beneath jealousy and arguments and desperate late-night reunions after races. They hid it beneath physical intimacy because calling it love would force them to confront what they were actually doing to each other. But now the word existed between them openly.
Love.
Charles watched Max carefully.
Watched panic flicker across his face first.
Then grief.
Then something unbearably soft.
“I love you too,” Max admitted quietly.
Charles closed his eyes briefly.
Hearing it should have made him happy. Instead it only made everything worse.
Because if Max loved him too, then what exactly had all this suffering been for?
“Then why am I ashamed all the time?” Charles whispered.
Max stepped toward him instinctively. “Charles.”
“No.” Charles stepped back immediately. “No, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Touch me like this and then leave me afterward.”
Pain flashed across Max’s face so quickly Charles almost regretted saying it. Almost.
“I just need time,” Max said finally, voice quieter now.
Charles felt his heart break a little at the familiarity of the sentence. “You’ve been saying that for six years.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No?” Charles laughed bitterly. “Tell me what exactly isn’t fair about it.”
Max’s frustration finally snapped loose. “You think this is easy for me?” he demanded. “You think I don’t think about this every single day?”
“But you still leave.” The words landed hard.
Max stared at him.
Charles felt tears burning behind his eyes now, humiliation mixing painfully with anger. “You always leave.”
For a moment neither of them moved. Then Max crossed the room suddenly and grabbed Charles by the jaw before kissing him hard enough to silence both of them. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It tasted like anger, like fear, like six years of wanting something impossible.
Charles kissed him back immediately because that was the tragedy of them: no matter how much they hurt each other, neither of them could stop reaching back. Max shoved him against the wall with enough force to make Charles gasp softly against his mouth.
“You think I don’t love you?” Max whispered harshly between kisses. “You think this doesn’t destroy me too?”
“Then choose me,” Charles whispered back desperately.
Max froze. And that silence answered everything.
Charles felt tears sting his eyes immediately.
Max kissed him again harder this time, almost angry now, like physical closeness could somehow erase the truth hanging between them.
It couldn’t.
Nothing could.
***
Three weeks later, Max was back in Monaco. Kelly found him standing in the kitchen late at night holding their daughter against his chest while staring blankly out toward the city lights.
“You’ve been somewhere else lately,” she said carefully.
Max forced a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Tired.”
Kelly walked closer and rested a hand lightly against his arm. “I’ve been thinking about something.” The dread hit him instantly. “We should get married.”
The words landed heavily in the room.
Kelly smiled softly, almost expectantly.
“It makes sense, doesn’t it? We already have a family. And honestly people already see us that way anyway.”
Max couldn’t breathe properly.
His daughter shifted slightly against his chest, small fingers curling instinctively against his shirt.
This should have made him happy.
This was the life people expected him to want.
Stability, respectability, perfection.
Kelly touched his face gently. “Max?”
And suddenly Charles’ voice echoed through his head again.
Then choose me.
Max closed his eyes. He thought about sponsors, his father, the media, the headlines, everything he had spent his entire life building.
And then he thought about Charles standing barefoot in that hotel room looking at him like he was already halfway gone.
The guilt nearly suffocated him.
But fear won anyway.
“Okay,” Max whispered.
The moment the word left his mouth, he felt something inside himself break permanently.
***
A month later, Charles received a single text message.
'1633.'
Nothing else.
Charles stared at the room number for nearly a full minute before locking his phone.
He should ignore it, he knew he should.
Instead he found himself standing outside room 1633 less than an hour later with his heart beating so violently it hurt. The door opened before he knocked.
Max looked exhausted already.
“You look terrible,” Charles muttered automatically while walking inside.
Max huffed out a humorless laugh. “Nice to see you too.”
The tension between them filled the room immediately. Heavy, familiar, dangerous.
Charles crossed his arms tightly. “So.”
Max looked away instantly.
That told Charles everything. “You’re actually doing it.”
“Charles.”
“You’re marrying her.”
Max dragged a hand through his hair harshly. “I didn’t ask you here to fight.”
Charles laughed in disbelief. “What exactly did you think was going to happen?”
“I just wanted to see you.”
That almost made it worse. Charles stared at him for a long moment before speaking again.
“You promised me.”
“I know.”
“You told me you loved me.”
“I do.”
“Then why does it always feel like I’m the only one ruining my life for this?”
Max’s frustration exploded instantly.
“You think this isn’t ruining me too?”
“You are marrying another person!”
“I have responsibilities!”
“And I have nothing?” Charles shouted back. “Is that it? Am I just the selfish option?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you mean.” Charles shoved him hard enough that
Max stumbled backward slightly.
“Answer me honestly for once in your fucking life!”
Max crossed the room instantly and kissed him violently enough to shut him up. The kiss felt furious, desperate.
Charles kissed him back immediately, fingers gripping Max’s shirt tightly like he hated himself for still wanting him this much.
“I hate you,” Charles whispered shakily against his mouth.
“No, you don’t.”
“Maybe I should.”
Max kissed him harder at that. Because neither of them knew how to stop.
***
Later, lying tangled together in the dark while rain hit the windows softly outside, Charles rested his head against Max’s chest listening to his heartbeat one final time.
“We could leave,” Charles whispered eventually. “Just for a little while. Just us.”
Max closed his eyes immediately.
Charles felt the answer before Max even spoke. “You already chose her.”
Silence.
That silence destroyed something inside Charles permanently. “I waited for you,” he whispered.
Max said nothing.
Charles laughed shakily through tears. “God, the worst part is I would’ve kept waiting.”
Max reached for him instinctively, but Charles pulled away immediately.
For the first time in six years, Max looked genuinely terrified.
“I really loved you,” Charles whispered.
Max’s chest caved inward.
“And I think you loved me too.”
Then Charles walked out.
This time, Max didn’t follow him.
***
The media called it rivalry.
Commentators obsessed over the tension between them, replaying every sharp interview and cold interaction like entertainment. Nobody understood heartbreak looked almost identical to hatred from far away.
At races, they became ghosts orbiting each other.
In Austin, Max caught Charles staring at him across the paddock before Alexandra touched Charles’ arm gently and the moment shattered instantly.
In Mexico, Charles watched Kelly kiss Max after qualifying while cameras flashed around them. Max looked miserable. Nobody else seemed to notice.
In Brazil, they nearly collided on track after Charles refused to yield during an overtake attempt that bordered on recklessness.
Afterward Max called him emotional during interviews.
Charles responded by saying Max only cared about himself.
Everyone loved the drama.
Nobody knew the truth.
***
The wedding happened in Monaco a year later beneath a sky so painfully blue it almost felt cruel.
Everything about it was beautiful.
Of course it was.
The venue overlooked the sea, white flowers covering nearly every surface while cameras flashed endlessly around them. Guests moved through the ceremony dressed in expensive fabrics and polished smiles, champagne glasses glimmering beneath the afternoon light while musicians played softly somewhere nearby.
From the outside, it looked perfect.
That was the word people used most when describing Max Verstappen’s life.
Perfect career, perfect image, perfect family.
Max stood at the altar beside Kelly feeling like he was watching someone else’s life happen from underwater.
He could hear people speaking around him, hear the soft movement of fabric and distant laughter, but everything sounded strangely muffled, blurred together beneath the violent pounding of his heartbeat.
Kelly looked radiant beside him. Everyone kept telling him that.
She smiled beautifully for every camera, fingers curled tightly around his hand while photographers circled them like vultures waiting for the perfect shot.
Max smiled when he was supposed to. Nodded when spoken to. Kissed her when people applauded.
It all felt rehearsed somehow.
Like he had spent years studying the role of the man standing there until eventually he became him completely.
Only occasionally did the mask crack.
Like when he caught sight of Charles’ favorite wine being served during dinner and immediately remembered a night in Italy years ago when Charles had gotten drunk enough to laugh uncontrollably for nearly twenty minutes because Max had tried pronouncing something in French and completely butchered it.
Or when somebody mentioned Ferrari during a conversation and Max instinctively looked toward the entrance before remembering Charles would never come. Especially not here. The realization hollowed him out all over again.
Kelly leaned close enough for only him to hear during dinner. “You should smile more,” she murmured softly, nails pressing lightly into his arm. “People are watching.”
People are watching.
The sentence followed him for the rest of the evening because it summarized his entire existence.
People watched everything.
The way he dressed, the way he spoke, the way he loved.
And Max had spent so long performing perfection for everyone around him that somewhere along the way he forgot how to want anything honestly.
Except Charles.
Charles had always been the exception.
That was the problem.
Hours passed slowly after that. Max danced with Kelly beneath golden lights while guests applauded around them. He posed for photographs. Smiled until his face hurt. Accepted congratulations from people who kept telling him how lucky he was.
Lucky.
The word made him feel physically ill.
Because all night he kept thinking about another future instead.
One nobody in that room would have understood.
Charles barefoot in some apartment kitchen at two in the morning making coffee while complaining dramatically about jet lag.
Charles stealing Max’s clothes because he liked how they smelled.
Charles curled against his chest half-asleep after races while rain hit hotel windows softly outside.
Small things.
Domestic things.
Things Max had wanted so badly he buried them alive.
***
By the time the reception finally ended, Max felt hollow.
Kelly was exhausted beside him while they rode the elevator back toward the hotel suite. She leaned lazily against his shoulder, still glowing from champagne and attention and happiness.
Real happiness.
That made the guilt worse somehow. Because Kelly had got what she wanted, at the cost of his whole life, and she enjoyed it, never knowing what she truly did.
She just never understood there had always been part of him she would never reach.
When they entered the suite, Kelly immediately disappeared into the bathroom to remove her makeup while Max loosened his tie slowly near the windows. Monaco glittered below him again.
“You survived,” Kelly teased softly while walking back into the room wearing silk now instead of white.
Max forced a small smile.
She crossed the room and kissed him gently before curling beside him against the bed. “I’m happy,” she whispered sleepily. “You know that?”
Max looked at her for a long moment. Then nodded.
Kelly fell asleep quickly after that.
Max didn’t.
The room felt suffocatingly quiet now that the music and guests were gone. He loosened another button of his shirt and reached automatically for his phone mostly to distract himself.
One unread message.
Charles Leclerc.
Max physically stopped breathing.
For a second he simply stared at the name glowing against the screen because it had been months since they last spoke.
Months since Charles walked out of room 1633 and took something essential from Max with him.
His hands started shaking before he even opened the message.
'We are no longer in contact. I still miss you. I even miss the petty arguments I would start just so you would respond. The only time you showed me emotion besides lust was when we would fight. I clung onto that just to have something with you.'
Max felt something crack painfully inside his chest.
He reread the words once.
Then again.
Then again.
'I can’t say I wish you the best because I know too much of who you are.'
His breathing became uneven. And then finally:
'I’ll always love you.'
Max stared at the screen so long his vision blurred.
The room suddenly felt unbearably silent.
Behind him, Kelly shifted slightly in her sleep.
His wife.
The word made him feel sick.
Because sitting there in the dark with Charles’ message glowing against his hands, Max realized with horrifying clarity that he had just married one person while loving another so completely it bordered on catastrophic.
And somehow the worst part was that Charles still loved him too. Even after everything. Even after being hidden. Chosen second. Abandoned.
Charles still loved him.
Max pressed the heel of his hand hard against his mouth because suddenly it felt difficult to breathe correctly.
Then finally, before he could stop himself, he typed back.
'I fucking love you, and I will fucking love you forever.'
The message was delivered instantly.
No response came. Of course it didn’t.
Max lowered the phone slowly and stared around the suite. The champagne bottles, the wedding gifts, the diamonds still scattered across the dresser, the sleeping woman in his bed. Everything looked polished and beautiful and completely meaningless.
Because none of it was Charles.
And suddenly the memories started coming all at once so violently Max physically doubled over beneath the weight of them.
Charles asleep against his chest in Italy while rain hit the windows softly outside.
Charles laughing breathlessly into his shoulder after Max nearly crashed a car in Monaco because he couldn’t stop staring at him.
Charles fixing Max’s tie before an award show while nobody noticed their fingers lingering too long.
The secret texts.
'Come over.'
'Miss you.'
'You looked beautiful today.'
The fights. God, the fights.
Charles screaming at him in hotel rooms because loving Max had started feeling humiliating. Max grabbing him afterward like he could physically stop Charles from leaving. Kissing him angrily because anger was the only emotion Max ever let himself show openly.
And then the memory that finally shattered him completely.
The first time Charles stopped calling him Verstappen.
They had both been twenty-three and exhausted after a race weekend, tangled together beneath white hotel sheets while the television played quietly somewhere in the background. Charles had been half-asleep tracing lazy patterns against Max’s arm when suddenly he murmured softly:
“Max.” Not Verstappen.
Not said teasingly through gritted teeth on track.
Just Max.
Like he cared, like he was precious, like he was worth it. Max’s name in Charles’ mouth was a prayer for him. It was intimate, Max didn’t care the context, he just wanted his name on Charles’ french accent.
Max remembered freezing completely.
Because that had been the exact moment he realized this was no longer temporary.
And instead of running then, instead of ending things before they destroyed each other completely, Max stayed.
Stayed because Charles made him feel understood in ways nobody else ever had. Stayed because every time Charles looked at him, Max forgot how to pretend for a few precious hours. Stayed because he loved him.
Loved him so much it ruined everything.
Max stood abruptly then, unable to breathe inside the bedroom anymore.
He walked into the bathroom and shut the door quietly behind him before sliding down against the cold marble wall. His phone remained clutched tightly in his hand. Charles’ message still glowing against the dark.
For years Max had convinced himself he was protecting something important. His image, his career, his family, his perfect life.
But sitting there alone on the floor of a bathroom on his wedding night, still dressed in half-unbuttoned formalwear while another man’s final confession glowed in his shaking hands, Max finally understood the truth.
He had not lost Charles because the world wouldn’t let him have him.
He lost Charles because when the moment came to choose between love and the life expected of him, Max chose the life.
And now he would spend the rest of it haunted by the person he had loved enough to ruin himself over, but not enough to keep.
The grief hit him all at once then, quiet enough to feel endless.
Max lowered his head into his shaking hands and finally allowed himself to imagine the life he could have had.
Charles kissing him openly somewhere crowded without fear. Waking up beside him every morning instead of hiding in hotel rooms. Small domestic arguments over stupid things. Charles stealing his clothes. Charles laughing in kitchens at two in the morning. Charles standing beside him after races not as a secret but as something real.
A real life. Their life.
And God, Max wanted it. Even now. Especially now. Too late.
A broken sound escaped him before he could stop it.
Then quietly, helplessly, alone on the bathroom floor while the woman he married slept in the next room and the only person he had ever truly loved remained somewhere far away learning how to survive without him, Max whispered into the silence:
“I love you.”
And for the first time in years, there was nobody left to hear it.