I genuinely don't know what's worse: the fact that Max HAS TO touch Charles every time they're within 3 feet of each other like it's a biological impulse or the fact that Charles just. Lets him. Not only that, but acts like it's the most natural thing in the world to have Max grabbing him by the scruff of his neck like a kitten.
And most of the times Charles doesn't even react because he knows it's Max I'M UNWELL.
Summary- A young driver and the manager who’s been by his side since day one slowly fall for each other between long race weekends and quiet garage moments, until one accidental text creates an awkward distance that finally forces them to admit what’s been building all along.
Warnings- idiots in love, no smut, just kissing, arguing, a little angst.
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Franco Colapinto’s first day at Alpine felt like being dropped into the deep end without being told how to swim.
The factory buzzed with fluorescent lights and overlapping voices and the sharp smell of coffee that had been reheated too many times. Everyone walked fast like they had somewhere important to be, and he kept checking his phone just to look busy.
He was reading the same email for the fourth time when someone turned the corner too quickly and smacked straight into him.
Paper flew everywhere.
“Oh my god — I’m so sorry, that’s my fault,” you said immediately, already crouching to gather everything before it slid across the floor.
He dropped down too. “No, it’s okay, I— I wasn’t looking either.”
Your hands brushed reaching for the same folder.
You looked up first.
You smiled like this wasn’t embarrassing or awkward or the first day of his career , like he was just another person you’d known forever.
“You must be Franco,” you said, pushing hair behind your ear. “I’m your manager. Which sounds official but really just means I make sure you don’t forget your badge and accidentally die.”
He blinked. Then laughed.
“So you’re… saving my life?”
“Constantly,” you said easily. “Get used to me.”
He didn’t know it yet, but that would become the truest sentence he’d ever heard.
⸻
At first, you were just logistics, Schedules. Meetings. “Franco, this way.” “Franco, media now.” “Franco, you forgot your pass again.”
But then it turned into coffee orders memorized without asking.
Protein bars shoved into his hands with a quiet, “Eat, please.”
Inside jokes whispered during long debriefs.
You calling him “troublemaker” when he purposely showed up late just to see you sigh dramatically.
And it happened so gradually he didn’t notice when you stopped being part of the job and started being the best part of his day.
⸻
On flights, you always stole the window seat and half his blanket.
In the garage, you leaned against his chair like it was yours too.
When he messed up interviews, you’d murmur, “Painful. Actually painful,” under your breath and he’d bump your knee with his, trying not to laugh on camera.
He started hovering near your desk for no reason.
Once you glanced up and caught him standing there awkwardly and asked, “Do you need something?”
“…No.”
“Then why are you staring at me like that?”
“I’m not staring.”
“You’re absolutely staring.”
“…maybe a little.”
You shook your head, smiling. “Weirdo.” He carried that smile with him all day.
⸻
The paddock noticed before either of you did.
Pierre had been the first.
He’d watched you reach over Franco’s shoulder to fix his headset and smirked, nudging him. “You two always this close, or should I give you some privacy?”
Franco nearly choked on his water. “What? No. She’s just-she’s my manager.”
Pierre raised a brow. “Mhm. Sure.”
Later, Esteban had grinned when you stole fries off Franco’s tray and said, “Careful, mate. That’s basically marriage behavior.”
You’d rolled your eyes, tossing a napkin at him. “Shut up”.
But Franco had gone suspiciously quiet after that.
⸻
Then came the long nights. The soft ones.
The kind where the garage lights dimmed and everyone else left and it was just the two of you finishing reports.
Sometimes you’d fall asleep sitting next to him, head knocking gently against his shoulder.
The first time it happened, he froze. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.
Just let you rest there like you trusted him.He stayed like that for almost an hour.Arm numb. Heart full. He thought, very stupidly, I could stay like this forever.
⸻
The picture happened months later. His phone buzzed with your name while he was half-listening to an engineer.
He smiled automatically. Opened it without thinking.
Wasn’t meant for you. His stomach dropped. He typed before thinking.
He deleted the photo after. Stared at the blank screen way longer than necessary. Pretended his chest didn’t feel hollow.
⸻
After that, you changed. Not dramatically. Just subtly.You stopped sitting next to him in briefings, stopped texting late-night jokes.
Your messages turned stiff. schedule attached briefing moved to 3, let me know if you need anything
Anything. Like you weren’t already everything.
When he tried to joke, you smiled politely instead of laughing.
When he bumped your shoulder, you stepped back.
When Pierre teased, “Where’s your shadow today?” you just said, “Busy,” and walked off.
It felt like grief. And he didn’t even know what he’d lost.
⸻
Two weeks later he snapped-
He caught you alone by the monitors and asked quietly, “Did I do something?”
You wouldn’t look at him. “No.”
“Then why are you acting like I’m HR?”
“I’m just being professional.”
Professional.
God, he hated that word.
“I don’t want professional,” he muttered. But you were already walking away.
⸻
Race weekend, there he stood in the hotel hallway. Almost midnight. He stared at your door for a full minute before knocking.
When you opened it, sleepy and soft in oversized pajamas, you looked surprised. “Franco? Is everything okay?” “No,” he admitted, voice small. “Can we talk?”
Inside, the room felt too quiet.
He paced once, then blurted that he missed you , missed talking, missed joking, missed you stealing his food, and the words kept spilling until you finally whispered, “It’s easier this way.” “For who?” he asked.
“For me.”
“Why?”
Your voice cracked when you finally said it. “Because that picture wasn’t meant for you, okay? And after you saw it I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About what you thought of me. I felt stupid and exposed and— and I like you too much to have you see me like that by accident.”
The room went still as je stepped closer. “I always look at you like you’re something”.
You blinked. “What?”
“I deleted it,” he admitted softly. “Because if I’m going to see you like that… I want it to be because you meant it for me.”
Your breath hitched. “I’ve liked you since day one,” he said. “Since you picked my papers up off the floor. Since you fell asleep on my shoulder. Losing you these last weeks felt worse than any bad race.”
Your eyes watered. “I avoided you because I like you too much. It scared me that I wasn’t meant for you.” Silence. Fragile. Warm.
Then he reached for your hand like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“Then don’t avoid me,” he murmured. “Stay.”
“Okay,” you whispered.
You were so close now your foreheads brushed. His thumb traced slow circles against your knuckles. He gave you one last out, searching your face, and when you didn’t move away, he leaned in carefully, like approaching something breakable.
The kiss was soft. Hesitant. More breath than pressure at first. Warm and slow and shaky. Like both of you had waited months just for this.
Your fingers curled into his shirt. He kissed you again, deeper this time, smiling against your mouth when you melted into him.
When you finally pulled back, foreheads still touching, he whispered, “Next time… send it to the right person, yeah?”
You laughed quietly, hiding your face in his chest. “Shut up.” But you didn’t let go. And neither did he.
