Reset, Chapter Twenty-One
Series Masterlist Teaser: The rally shakedown brings a mixed bag and an awkward dinner. When Max sees something he was never meant to see, an interesting question begins to form.
════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════
Jos finds you crouched beside the car, just after the second session.
Your gloves are off. Your hands are raw. Pink, cracking around the knuckles, fingertips trembling as you hold them over the exhaust like a campfire. Steam rises off the tips like sacrament. You don’t even flinch when the heat bites back.
It’s freezing. January wind cutting through the trees like razors, the cold coiled deep into the tarmac- but you? You’ve done fourteen kilometers, three times over, without complaint. Just got out. Warmed your hands. And now you’re going again.
No camera crew. No engineer hovering over your shoulder. No one asked you to do it.
You’re just built like this.
Jos stands a few feet behind, watching. Quiet. Intrigued.
He’s seen this before. In Max, mostly. That rabid kind of hunger. That need to get better, even when no one’s looking. Especially when no one’s looking. But Max had to be dragged into it as a boy. Screamed at. Pushed until his knuckles bled on karting wheels in the snow.
You? You do it on your own.
There’s a little smudge of grease across your cheek. Your hair’s knotted at the base of your neck messily, strands frozen to your temples in the wind. You don’t look like anyone’s fantasy, not at this moment. But Jos sees it.
The totality of you.
Beautiful, yes. Of course. Even crouched and shaking by the heat of your own exhaust like a starving animal, you’re a vision. Lean, lethal. Razor-cut cheekbones, wide eyes, clever mouth. All presence. All bite. But it’s not that. Not really.
It’s the way you don’t need to be told to suffer. The way you welcome it.
You’re freezing. Exhausted. The setup is clean but you want it cleaner, and that’s why you’re going back out before anyone else. You’re a little track rat- racing’s dirtiest compliment.
And Jos? Jos is delighted. This- this- is why he chose you. Why he’s spent months force-feeding Max just enough rope to get tangled in you.
You’re young. Twenty-two. Still raw. But look at you- already hard on yourself in all the right ways. Already driving until your nerves fray, your fingers lock, your body betrays you. You’ve got just enough polish for the brand. Just enough venom for the track. Just enough desperation to be useful. You’re everything he could have hoped for and more. Perfect on camera, perfect under pressure, and above all: hungry.
So, he lets you go. Let’s you burn gas and track time and crawl around the wheel well of your own car all in the name of study. Tells the mechanic to let you, the cameraman to film you, and the budget to fuck off. He doesn’t interrupt until he absolutely has to.
Jos checks his watch. The crew’s over-time. Overtime he technically signed off on when he said nothing earlier- because he wanted to see how long you’d last. See what kind of feedback you’d give when the light began to fade and your fingers went stiff with cold. When your breath started fogging up the windshield again, and nobody was left to impress.
And you hadn’t disappointed.
You’re halfway through resetting the dash, engine still ticking warm, eyes scanning data that technically isn’t yours to analyze. Max had climbed out for good three runs ago, Ivor two, but you’ve kept going, kept pushing. Kept chewing on the car like there’s something personal between you.
He steps forward now, hands in the pockets of his Verstappen.com jacket. “Girl.” You look up. “That’ll be your last run.”
You blink. “Oh.” There’s a pause- half second, no more. Like you hadn’t considered there would be a limit. Like you’d forgotten that icy weather and labor laws should matter. Like maybe, if no one told you to stop, you simply wouldn’t. Then, a nod. “Okay.”
You stand and stretch your shoulders, then crouch again to unplug the dash tablet. You’re careful with it, despite your own fatigue. Still just as sharp as you were four hours ago. Still logging quiet mental notes.
Jos watches you for a moment longer. Watches the way you pass the device to the nearest tech, then run a sleeve under your nose. He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t praise you, either.
Just turns and heads toward the pit.
Your steps are heavy, boots half-frozen with slush and packed gravel. You peel off your gloves, shove them into your helmet bag, and fish out a spare beanie to tug over your damp hair. Your hands shake a little from the cold, but it’s more annoying than concerning.
As you start packing your things- helmet, balaclava, a few crumpled wrappers from the spicy chips you got at the airport- you glance up, assessing the pit area out of reflex. Not because you expect anything, but because it’s habit. Just checking.
There’s the back corner of the tent where Ivor and Max had changed- open on two sides, tarped on the others. A couple of damp crates pushed together, jackets hanging from a jerry-rigged rack. It’s not just your team here, though. It’s a shared service park. There are two other teams under the next canopy over, and you can see a few of their crew still lingering near the heaters, stripping off gear and chatting with each other. You can’t exactly ask half the track to look the other way while you change.
So, no.
You glance toward the edge of the gravel lot, where the blue port-a-potty squats against the fence. You used it once earlier- it was already borderline unusable. Slush tracked in, wet toilet paper disintegrating on the floor, the smell of cold piss thick like some kind of awful male air freshener. You can’t imagine what it’s like now. No, thank you.
You pause, consider whether a car door or a van might offer enough cover. But it would take coordinating with someone. Asking. It always requires asking.
And honestly? You’re tired of asking.
It’s not a big deal. Not really. Your suit’s already soaked through, and the Audi’s heated. You’ll survive twenty minutes of damp fabric sticking to your hips. It’s uncomfortable, sure, but you’ve been much worse off in much worse places.
This? This barely registers.
So you zip your bag shut, loop the strap over your shoulder, and decide to ride in your fireproofs. No complaint. No fuss. You don’t even think about it that hard. It’s just how things are.
By the time you make it to the car, Max and Ivor are already there- Max leaning against the passenger door, quiet as ever, and Ivor flapping his arms like a cartoon character, trying to get circulation back to his fingers.
Jos unlocks the rental Audi with a chirp and throws a look over his shoulder.
“Ivor, up front with me,” he says. “Want to talk through some strategy on the way back. I see those two enough already.”
Casual. Dismissive. Too easy.
You don’t blink, just trail behind them as they load in, all wet hair and gravel-caked boots, trying to ignore the deep and existential concern clawing at your chest. The upholstery. It’s beige. You glance at the creamy fabric seat in the back. Then down at your race suit. Then back at the seat.
You huff a soft breath through your nose and offer a tight-lipped smile, already lying your new team jacket on the seat and settling in with the careful delicacy of someone sitting in a borrowed wedding dress.
Ivor stops yammering at Jos and twists in the front seat, noticing you settling in, still damp. “You didn’t change?” The tone is pure disbelief. Not cruel- just naïve.
You glance up at him, patient. “No.”
He blinks. “Why not?”
You tilt your head, the smallest smile curving at the corner of your mouth. “Where’d you change?”
“Uh- ” He frowns, trying to recall. “In the back of the tent with the… other…” His voice falters. You watch him piece it together in real time. “…boys.”
You hum softly, polite as ever. “Mm.” You don’t say it outright. You don’t have to. You just leave the noise hanging there, easy and unbothered, like this isn’t your thirtieth time having to gently walk a group of men through the revolutionary concept of I cannot strip in public, actually.
A beat. Then- “Oh.” The sound of realization more than embarrassment. The car ride back is short but silent. Wet boots squeak against the rubber mats, and the heater ticks as it battles the cold. Jos parks just outside the hotel, throws it in park, then glances back over the seat. “Dinner?” he says, casual, like it’s an afterthought. “Unless, of course, anyone has… other arrangements. If there’s any F1 business the… senior members of the team need to talk through,” he says lightly, “Ivor and I are happy to peel off and give you two space.”
It’s too easy. Too practiced. And the reaction is immediate.
You’re sitting upright, spine too straight, forcing your expression to stay open and easy. Your brain is running calculations behind your eyes. You’re not sure what Max told him, if anything. But the suggestion of alternate plans feels… specific. Loaded. Like it might have been angled deliberately. God, if this is about the kiss… You could kill Max with your bare hands. Just dive across this backseat and wrap your hands around- you swear to fucking god-
“Oh, I think dinner as a group makes the most sense,” you squeak, voice a little too bright. “We can discuss tomorrow’s game plan anyways.”
Jos lifts one brow, but lets it slide. Max says nothing. Ivor, for his part, beams like he just won something. He’s already mentally rearranging the table so he can sit beside you. Maybe ask you about the track. Maybe just… hear your voice for longer than a lap debrief.
“Right,” he says as he pops the door, amused. “Just thought I’d ask. Let’s get checked in and meet at the restaurant in fifteen.”
Check-in is quick- mercifully so. You’re first to the desk and first to get your key, offering a polite smile that barely masks the buzzing anxiety under your skin. You leave the boys behind without a second thought. As soon as you round the corner toward the elevators, you break into a clipped, silent power walk.
You check the time. Twelve minutes left. No. Wait. Eleven. You lost time fumbling with your ID. And the elevator hasn’t even arrived yet. You practically jog down the hall once the doors open, jamming your keycard into the slot like it personally wronged you. The green light flashes, and you’re inside.
Ten minutes.
You drop your bag on the bed, tear off your soaked suit, and flick on the bathroom light.
Nine fucking minutes.
You pause. You close your eyes. And then you silently, furiously scream.
Does Jos not have a wife? A daughter? Any concept at all of how long it takes to transform from a waterlogged rat into someone who looks vaguely capable of discussing strategy over a €17 glass of wine?
Nine minutes. This- this- is the greatest injustice of being a girl in this sport. Not the porta-potties. Not the lack of changing rooms. Not even the constant side-eye in driver briefings.
It’s this.
That a grown man will look you dead in the eye and expect you to be both competent and polished in NINE. FUCKING. MINUTES.
You rip a comb through your damp hair, toss in something that promises “frizz control” and probably lies. There's no time to check. Mascara. Concealer. One singular dot on the zit coming in at your temple. Dab dab dab. No time for anything else. Your skin will just have to rawdog it tonight.
What to wear- what to wear- fuck, fuck, fuck. Top and bottom? Too many choices. Dress. Easy. Done. The black velvet one from the Christmas party. High neck. Safe. Acceptable. Team-issue softshell. You peel on a pair of tights while still damp, cursing them the entire time like they’re personally responsible for every microaggression you’ve ever endured in motorsport.
Your hotel room is a blur of movement, limbs, fabric, zippers, and fingernails clamped around a nylon waistband. The final step is trying to shove your ID, credit card, and a stick of gum into the world’s smallest dinner purse while half-speed walking toward the door.
Your shoes aren’t on yet.
Doesn’t matter.
You’re moving.
You yank the door open, catch it with your foot, jam a mule on one foot, purse squashed in your armpit. Second shoe, door slams behind you. You’re out.
Still arranging everything in your arms as you reach the elevator. Still slightly damp. Still furious.
But you’ll make it. And you’ll look like you’ve been ready all day. Because you are a goddamn professional. Your heels click softly against the marble as you approach the hotel restaurant, breath just barely recovered from your mad dash through the lobby. Hair still damp at the nape, but tamed, mostly. Dress smoothed down. You check your reflection in the glass door once, twice- then again in the polished brass as you reach for the handle.
Jos is already waiting by the entrance, arms crossed loosely, glancing at the host stand with the air of a man who’s both impatient and scheming. He lights up when he sees you.
“You’re punctual,” he notes, pleased.
You smile. “I try.”
He gestures toward the entrance, then waves the host off with a casual nod. “We’ll wait here for the others.” There’s a pause before he adds, “How were your holidays?”
You keep your posture open, tone breezy. “Quiet, this year. I spent Christmas Day with my race engineer and his family. Just something easy, since they were trying to pack- board games, a roast.” Polite. Casual. A test. You watch his face carefully, waiting. He doesn’t mention Max. So neither do you.
“I also made my move,” you offer, voice light. “I’m near Monaco now. It just makes sense for sponsorship business- easier to take meetings in person, keep a foot in the media.”
“Smart,” Jos says.
He sounds like he means it.
And still- still- he doesn’t ask if Max helped. Doesn’t mention the Red Bull dorms. Doesn’t raise a brow at your suspicious proximity to his side of town. Just gives you a slight nod, as if you’ve passed some unspoken test.
Your shoulders begin to ease, just a little. If Max had said something… If he’d mentioned anything- the kiss, the factory, the wine- you think Jos would have brought it up by now. Or at least hinted. But there’s nothing. Just cordial small talk and the occasional calculating glance, like Jos is still working some long game in his head.
You can live with that.
Jos glances past you, eyes catching on something through the glass. “Ah- look who’s finally made it.”
You turn just in time to catch Ivor outside the restaurant doors, pausing at the windowed wall to catch his reflection in the mirrored panel beside it. He leans in slightly, adjusting the collar of his sweater- a Redline quarter-zip that he clearly thinks looks mature- and flattens a few strands of damp hair with a practiced sweep of his palm. He exhales once. Checks his breath against his wrist. Straightens his posture.
Then pulls the door open- and nearly jumps out of his skin.
He wasn’t expecting an audience.
His eyes go wide when he spots you and Jos already standing there, both watching. He startles like a teenager caught mid-pep talk, then schools his expression into something brighter, warmer- bashful, yes, but unbothered, like maybe he meant to do all of that with an audience.
“Hi,” he says quickly, eyes darting to yours with the eager glow of someone trying very hard to be charming. “You look nice.”
“Thank you,” you reply easily, already smiling.
His shoulders lift, just a bit. He tucks his hands in his pockets, bounces slightly on the balls of his feet like he’s waiting for a treat. If you asked him to sit, he’d probably do it without question. There’s something doggedly sweet, if not a little dumb, about the way he orients himself entirely toward you, even with Jos standing right there.
The restaurant doors swing open again, and Max steps through, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, jaw tight. He doesn’t look at you- not even for a flicker. Just takes in the host stand, the soft clatter of silverware in the distance, and the fact that the rest of you are already assembled.
Jos straightens and approaches the podium, giving the host a brief nod now that the full party is here. As he steps away, you lean subtly toward Ivor, your voice pitched low. “Make sure to thank Jos for the opportunity to drive today,” you murmur, genuinely.
He blinks at you, wide-eyed, as if surprised you’re speaking to him at all. “Sorry- what was that?”
You do him the mercy of repeating it, just as softly, as the group begins to trail behind Jos and the host- the same calm, gracious tone, like this is something you just assume all drivers pass along eventually. “It’s good business,” you add as you walk, your voice still low but warm. “Sponsors like to feel appreciated. Always thank the person holding the checkbook.”
He nods, mouth parted slightly like he wants to thank you just for speaking to him. His eyes are wide and sincere, full of the kind of eager gratitude that makes him feel ten years younger than you, even though he’s legally an adult. He straightens his sweater again and quickens his pace to stay beside you, nodding like he’s memorizing the moment. Max is a few steps behind, but the distance feels wider than that- like he’s following the group, not necessarily in it. At the table, Jos moves to the sit, gesturing toward the seat beside him with a vague air of orchestration. “Ivor, why don’t you- ” he starts.
But Ivor is already dropping into the seat next to you, practically beaming. “Here good?”
“Perfect,” you say, offering him a polite smile that makes him visibly sit taller. And it is, because with Jos across from you, and Ivor beside you, Max takes the last remaining seat, kitty corner to yours. No touching elbows. No accidental eye-to-eye arrangements. Comfortable. Safe. ════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════
Max trails the group like an afterthought, half a step behind, gaze stuck somewhere between the wine-dark carpet and the exit sign he wishes he could follow instead. If he had his way, he’d be upstairs already. Clean. Comfortable. Controller in hand. Instead, he’s here- crammed into another one of his father’s team-building charades, pretending not to feel the hooks tugging at him from every direction.
Dinner starts the way it always does: with Jos performing hospitality like it’s part of a race weekend strategy. The subtle push of a chair here, a too-casual suggestion there. Max clocks it all. Jos wants him to sit next to you. Badly. Even goes so far as to motion for Ivor to take the other seat- but the kid, God bless him, dives into the chair next to you before Jos can finish his sentence.
Max doesn’t bother hiding his amusement. That’s the first win of the night.
He takes the remaining seat without a word, nods once at the waiter, and zones out before the wine list even hits the table.
When the menus arrive, he barely skims. Orders grilled chicken and steamed vegetables out of habit, skips the sauce, skips the starch. He already knows what it’ll taste like: bland and penitent. Fuel and punishment in equal measure. Every bite a quiet reminder that the season’s coming quick in a sport where every gram is accounted for.
He hates this part. Hates the food noise. Hates the arithmetic of it all- the macros, the scale, the subtle shame of ‘let me ask the chef, sir.’ He hates being hungry. Hates eating in company when he can’t actually enjoy it.
And still, he’s somehow amused.
Because you’re sitting beside across from his father, absolutely radiant in your decorum, perfectly polite as you try to fold yourself into the conversation like it’s instinct. Soft posture. Gentle nods. A measured smile here and there. Jos tries his usual thing. The baited questions, designed to build bridges. Something about sim data. Something about setup translation. Max doesn’t bite. He lets you handle it- because of course you do. With precision, grace, and just enough warmth to seem cooperative without actually offering anything real.
That, for some reason, makes him want to laugh.
Of course you’re acting perfect. Composed. Untouchable. You're fresh-faced, sharp, well-dressed- and completely pretending you weren’t making out with him three weeks ago on company property.
God, he’s almost proud of you. If he had it in him to feel anything too clearly right now, it might even be admiration.
Instead, he’s just... hungry.
Not for you, no- not like that. Just hungry. Full stop. Because dinner, for him, is grilled chicken and plain vegetables, and the smell of garlic bread drifting across the table feels like a personal attack. The scent turns his stomach. Not from nausea, but from irritation. He hates this part of the pre-season- this fucking cut. The calorie math. The constant noise around food. The sheer impossibility of enjoying anything when every bite feels like failure.
Jos turns the pressure up, tries again with a remark about shared baselines and mutual trust. Max is sipping sparkling water out of a short-stemmed glass like a child at a wedding. That alone would piss him off if he had the energy to care. Let his dad stew.
You, instead, begin to talk to Ivor. And that’s when the entertainment really starts.
Because Ivor- God help him- is all in. Puppy-eyed. Practically wagging. Trip-over-his-own-shoes enthusiastic. He leans in when you speak, nods too hard when you mention tire choice, fumbles through compliments about Zandvoort like he stayed up all night rehearsing them. You’re patient. Kind. You give him just enough to keep him breathing, not enough to encourage the hallucination.
You’re kind about it. Warm, even. You tilt your head and offer small conversational encouragements, the kind that keep him from drowning without throwing him a rope.
Jos is fuming quietly. Max can tell by the way he thumbs the stem of his wine glass- calculating and annoyed. This dinner was supposed to be something else. Something Jos designed. Something…not this. Instead, it’s a slow-motion derailment.
Max watches the whole thing like it’s playing out on a screen. By the time dinner hits the table, he can’t tell if he’s more secondhand embarrassed or impressed that the kid is still going. He’s definitely impressed that there’s still patience in your expression- but the moment the table is cleared, the illusion unravels quickly. Chairs scoot back in a fever. Jos disappears toward the bar, citing business, and the three of you make for the elevators.
The elevator doors close. Max doesn’t look at you, or at Ivor. Doesn’t have to. He can feel the desperation rolling off him in waves. He can practically hear the imaginary tail thumping against the floor.
Silence stretches. You’re scrolling on your phone. Ivor is fidgeting like he’s winding himself up for something. Max notices the shift- posture squared, jaw set, breath pulled in like he's bracing for impact.
Then- just past the third floor- Ivor swings an elbow up onto the mirrored wall and half-turns toward you. Like he’s posing. Like this is the moment in the movie where he says the thing that wins the girl. And Max clocks it instantly. The setup. The tilt of the head. The overconfident lean.
Oh, God.
He’s going for it. It takes everything in Max not to laugh.
"So, um… if you're not, like, super tired or anything,” Ivor says, voice a little too loud, a little too rehearsed, “we could... I dunno, hang out a bit more? I brought my laptop. We could watch footage. Or play FIFA or something. If you want."
Max keeps his face neutral. His eyes forward. Barely. His lips twitch so hard it almost hurts.
Because- FIFA? You? The absolute balls on this kid.
The kamikaze instinct it must take to look at you- you, with your sharp mouth and steel-core posture and impossible résumé- and think: maybe. Not a rational maybe. Not one born from chemistry or context or even a hint of reciprocation.
Just pure, blinding, testosterone-fueled hope.
It’s laughable. It’s admirable. It’s suicidal.
Max respects it the way you might respect a moth for flying straight into a bonfire. Misguided. Doomed. But damn, look at it go.
What’s worse- he doesn’t even know what he’s messing with. You’re not cruel, but you’re dangerous. When you want to be. And this kid, with his overgrown golden retriever energy and half-grown confidence, is trying to pet a jaguar.
Max braces himself for a bloodbath.
But it doesn’t come.
You handle it with surgical precision. A tilt of the head. A little smile that’s halfway between kind and pitying. And that soft, sweet-laced voice you pull out for public appearances and people who mean well. “That’s real sweet,” you say gently. “But I think I’m just going to head to bed. Long day.”
Ivor- bless him- deflates just slightly. Like a balloon letting out a little air through a pinhole. “Oh. Yeah- yeah. Of course. Totally. For sure. No worries.”
The elevator pings on the third floor. His floor. He hesitates for half a second. Max sees the impulse flicker in his eyes- Say something else. Salvage it. But then, in the one single flash of self preservation this kid has shown all night, he bails.
“Goodnight,” he says, still hopeful.
“Goodnight, Ivor,” you reply, kind enough that Max almost feels bad for him. Almost. The elevator doors close, and it’s just the two of you now. Max doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
He keeps his eyes forward, fixed on the digital numbers ticking upward, but his jaw twitches- just once. Then again. It’s the effort of keeping the laugh down, of refusing to let it surface, of not letting the sheer absurdity of the moment win.
Because what the fuck was that?
Ivor. Eighteen. Barely out of karts. Green as spring grass. Hasn’t even locked down a full-time rallycross seat, let alone survived the brutal machinery of motorsport long enough to know how fast it’ll chew him up and spit him out. And he thinks he’s going to chase you?
Max doesn’t look at you, but he doesn’t have to do that either. He’s already seen the way you handled it- graceful, warm, unbothered. The exact kind of gracious that makes a kid like Ivor believe, however stupidly, that maybe he has a chance tomorrow.
You’re always kind like that. Too kind, sometimes.
He presses the pad of his thumb against his mouth and tries not to laugh again. It’s not even about jealousy or territory or the fact that he’s kissed you- not really. He knows what this is. He knows what you are.
You’re accomplished. A full-blown Formula driver who took a podium in, essentially, a rental car. You’re clever, sharp-tongued when you want to be. Cool under pressure. You command attention without trying. You’ve been breaking records while still breaking in your racing boots.
You moved across an ocean by yourself. You drive everything like you’re chasing blood. You’re sharp, composed, ruthlessly prepared. Max has spent months trying to antagonize you into cracking, and instead he's... studied you. Accidentally. Intimately.
You’re also beautiful. Max doesn’t have to like you all the time to admit that. Doesn’t have to want you to recognize why someone else might.
And not in the way girls who hang around garages get called pretty just for showing up. You’re fit. Strong. Expressive. Real. Curves that pull at the seams of your suit, long hair that somehow still looks okay after a helmet. Big eyes. And so goddamn capable that sometimes it feels like a sick joke.
It’s not exactly the first time he’s taken stock- but the ease with which the mental image assembles itself is… irritating. Like his brain had it filed under frequent use. He doesn’t even know why he’s thinking about it. Just that the information’s… available. Ready. Like muscle memory.
You’re also mean, when you want to be. Not obviously. Not tonight. Not to Ivor.
But Max knows it’s there. He’s seen it. And, though he’ll never say it out loud, that might be the part he likes - if there was a part of you he liked- most. The quiet capacity for violence. That flicker of calculated cruelty when someone underestimates you. The way not a single soul will believe him if he insists you can be, kind of, a bitch. That you can be petty.
Ivor has no idea what he’s playing at. You’re so far out of his league, that Max wants to grab the kid by the collar and diagram the gap in chalk. Just draw it out on the nearest whiteboard with arrows, circles, and a polite ‘in your fucking wet dreams.’ Not even to be cruel. Just to save him the trouble.
Still, you’d never say it. You’re too polite.
The elevator dings. Max steps out first, shoulders still twitching with leftover laughter he hasn’t let himself fully feel. You follow a few steps behind, phone in hand, scrolling with easy disinterest like nothing about the ride up- or Ivor’s kamikaze attempt- registered at all.
You both turn down the same hallway. He doesn’t say anything. You don’t either. He stops in front of his door. So do you. Max lets out a small, disbelieving exhale through his nose.
You glance over, just once, expression unreadable. Not surprised. Not flustered. Just tired. Both of you just stand there for a second, silent, eyes flicking between your doors- side by side- then back at each other.
Unbelievable.
Of course.
It’s not even subtle. Not a “huh, what a coincidence” type of thing. This is deliberate. Engineered. Like someone thought close proximity would breed chemistry- or at least make surveillance easier.
Max turns to face his door, the faintest shake of his head giving him away. Not angry, not really. Just done. Done with the playbook, done with the scripts, done with being puppeteered like he’s still nineteen and too dumb to notice.
There’s a quiet pause as you each swipe your keycard. Lights blink green in unison. Side by side. No goodbye. No drama. Just the soft, snick-click of twin hotel doors swinging open- two tired, irritated people stepping into two identical rooms with one thin wall between them. Max pushes into his first.
And immediately recoils.
The smell hits him like a slap- wet Nomex, sour and metallic, with just enough sweat and grit baked in to qualify as aggressively unpleasant. It’s not unexpected, but it still pisses him off. The whole duffel stinks like a gym bag that’s been marinating in a rally car footwell. He flips the light on and exhales through his nose, sharp and unimpressed.
He has spares. Several, actually. That’s not the problem.
But if he lets this set stew in the bag overnight, he’s going to spend the entire flight home sitting next to something that smells like a damp locker room. Absolutely not. This has to be handled. Immediately.
Max has a system for this. It’s not complicated, but it’s efficient. Precise. Just like the rest of his gear prep.
He moves through the room with mechanical precision: socks first, balled and wrung out before being draped on the edge of the desk. Balaclava over a hanger and hung on a knob of the dresser. Coat on the bathroom hook. Top and bottom baselayers peeled apart spread over the desk chair, he’s sure to avoid touching. His gloves, still tacky from the fresh wheel wrap, go on the nightstand. His helmet gets its own place- centered, upright, vents open, perched on the suitcase rack and angled toward the heater.
The room starts to take on the look of an exploded gear hamper.
Max runs out of hooks.
He surveys what’s left- the worst of it, his race suit, damp and stinking faintly of fuel and metal and him. No good place for it. No more hangers. He eyes the adjoining door, where the extra base board heater is.
That’ll do.
He crosses to the door with his suit in hand, fingers bracketing the stiff collar, and pops it open without much thought- planning to throw it over the top edge like a laundry line and call it a day. A trick he’s used a hundred times.
What he expects to see is the second half of the hotel’s double-door system. What he sees instead is a yawning gap. An opening.
Your room.
Your door’s already open. And you’re right there.
Max freezes. Completely. There’s a half-second of genuine panic- his spine locking, brain scrambling for a retreat button- as the realization dawns that he’s not just in his room anymore. He’s intruding. That door wasn’t supposed to be open. He wasn’t supposed to see anything. He half expects you to whip around, teeth bared, ready to light him the fuck up for crossing a line.
But you don’t move.
Because you’re asleep.
You’re lying across the foot of your bed, sprawled belly-down and unconscious, lit faintly by the blue glow of your laptop. Your arm drapes over the keyboard, one hand still curled around a notepad like you passed out mid-analysis. The screen flickers with grainy dash cam footage from your run, timestamped, playing on loop. Every few seconds, the sound of gravel crunching softly bleeds into the shared silence between rooms.
You’ve already spread your gear across your room, and he realizes you must have had the same idea as your own suit is slung over your part of the double door.
He doesn’t shut the door. Not right away.
Not because he’s trying to spy. He’s not.
But because he’s already looking.
And for whatever reason- maybe it’s that your tank top’s twisted slightly, riding up just enough to reveal a thin strip of lower back. Your hair’s spread across the sheets in glossy waves, longer than he remembers it being, catching the blue cast of the laptop light. You’re not drooling or snoring or anything- just breathing slow and even, like you finally let your body have a second to quit- he can’t make himself stop right away.
There’s something about it that catches him off guard. Not in a sentimental way. Not even in a particularly pleasant way. Just- off balance. Disarming. There’s a softness to it. Not quite girlish, but close enough to rattle him.
He’s known you for how long now? Worked with you for how many weeks? And still, he hasn’t quite made peace with this particular contradiction. That you can be the most exasperating creature in existence by day- demanding, assertive, a biter- and then, somehow, without warning, look like this. Small. Still. Real.
It shouldn’t feel so intrusive to look. But it does.
And it shouldn’t register as anything. But it does.
Max feels… annoyed. With himself, mostly. Annoyed with you, for that matter. This is ridiculous. You’re annoying. And not in a charming way, either- in a perpetually pissed-off, you-pick-fights-with-gravel kind of way. You challenge. You bite. You overcorrect. You make things harder than they need to be.
But you’re also... a girl. A pretty one, if he’s being honest, which he won’t be.
The fuck is he doing?
He yanks his eyes away, finally, and mutters something low under his breath in Dutch- something like Jesus- as if chastising himself is enough to neutralize the moment.
And then, because he’s not a creep, and because the last thing he needs is you waking up and catching him mid-stare, he tosses the suit up and over the top of his door with a flick and retreats- back into his own room, back into his own head. Both doors stay cracked. Not wide- just enough to keep the air moving, enough to let heat circulate between the two rooms so all the gear can dry. He doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t see a problem with it. It’s practical. Efficient.
He leans around the corner once- just long enough to knock the switch on the inside of your door with the back of his knuckle, leaving you to bathe in the blue light of your laptop. You don’t stir. Good. He didn’t want to startle you. He didn’t even linger. Just figured he’d turn out the light before he started gaming. Save the turtles and all.
He settles in. Pulls his controller from his bag and kicks on the console like it’s muscle memory. Puts his headset on one ear. Lets the boot up music for Rocket League fill the silence. Time blurs in matches and the mechanical sound of his joysticks hitting the controller case in rapid fire - an hour, maybe two, maybe more.
Then he hears it. A sound he doesn’t place at first. Soft. Not quite crying. Not quite talking. Something between a gasp and a tiny- no. He pauses his game immediately. Listens. Nothing. Then-
A thin, strangled whimper. His brow tightens. He pushes the headset off fully now, tilting his head like he’s trying to triangulate the noise. It’s not the hallway. Not the heater. Not the elevator.
It’s you.
He doesn’t recognize it at first, because he’s never heard a sound like that come out of you- never quiet, never fragile, never… scared. It throws something off inside him, unsettles him in a way he can’t name.
Then a crash- sharp, scraping. A sick thump of something- someone- falling off the bed.
He stands instantly.
He’s halfway to the adjoining door before he even realizes he’s moved. Heart knocking hard- not out of worry, exactly, but out of the punch of adrenaline that comes with hearing someone panic.
And then you’re there.
Bursting through the gap in the cracked adjoining door, stumbling into his room like someone shoved you. Your shoulder hits the frame, then your back slaps against the wall as you blindly try to anchor yourself.
You’re shaking. Breathing too fast. Eyes glassy and wide like you can’t quite figure out where you are, like the walls are wrong or the air is wrong or you are wrong. You’re not crying, but you’re right on the edge of it- quiet tears slicking the lower rims of your lashes, your mouth pulled tight in that half-swallowed panic.
Max freezes. Completely. He’s never seen you scared. Never seen you undone. Never seen anything but teeth and edges and steel and snark. He doesn’t know what to do with this version of you- soft, trembling, lost in the fog of a nightmare. The closest to vulnerable you’ve ever been around him was when you told him your family was nice and immediately changed the subject.
You track the room, vision skipping from his suitcase to the heater to the balcony curtains- until your eyes hit him. Recognition slams into you like a blow. And instantly- instantly- the panic mutates into something else.
Embarrassment. Fury. Shame.
“Fuck,” you breathe, barely audible, voice cracking for the first time in front of him. You shove off the wall like it burned you.
You lunge for the doorframe, grabbing your race suit, your baselayer, anything hanging in the way, even if it’s half-falling, half-dragged. You snatch everything off your side of the doorway at once, movements jerky and defensive, like you’re trying to erase the fact that this moment ever existed.
Max opens his mouth- he doesn’t even know what for. To say you’re fine? To say don’t worry about it? To say something stupid like hey, relax?
You slam your door shut before he gets a single sound out.
He stands there for a few seconds- more than a few, because what the fuck was that- then slowly turns back toward his own bed. The game controller is still there, screen still on pause. Max picks it up, flops down onto the mattress, unpauses. Tries to play.
He gets through a goal, maybe two, before he crashes. Not in-game. Just mentally. He shuts off the game, not because he's tired, but because he hasn’t registered the last ten minutes of it. His eyes were on the screen, yeah, but his brain’s been somewhere else entirely. He brushes his teeth, pulls off his hoodie, climbs into bed. Shifts around a few times before settling on his back, staring at the ceiling, arms folded over his chest. At first, it’s just guilt. Not big, emotional guilt- more like the echo of being caught watching something he shouldn’t have. Like he’d seen you naked, even though you weren’t. You were just scared. Embarrassed. Shaking. That wasn’t for him to see.
He’s not sure why he keeps thinking about it- the sound of it. That startled yelp, the thud, the way you stumbled through the door like you'd been dropped into the wrong hotel room on the wrong planet. You didn’t cry. Not exactly. But there was something in your eyes- blurry and startled and small in a way that made him feel weirdly out of place in his own room.
He turns over onto his side.
You weren’t supposed to look like that. Not you.
Not the girl who throws a ream of paper at his head. Not the girl who would rather drive without half of her basic safety gear than let him get one over on her. Not the girl who bites back at him in board rooms without so much as blinking. That version of you- the one with the tank top twisted up just slightly, the one who left your laptop running at your feet like it wasn’t the thing you fell asleep working on- he doesn’t know what to make of her.
He doesn’t even realize he’s still thinking about it until his brain drifts to Christmas Eve.
To the way your voice shifted when your mom called. He was there, sitting on the floor next to you like an idiot, pretending not to listen. But he heard it. Heard you say I miss you too, all soft, and then sit there for a long moment after the call ended, not saying anything at all.
You miss your family. It seemed... nice. Normal. You seemed like someone who was loved.
And that’s the part that sticks under his ribs a little, that scratches behind his thoughts like sand in his eye. He squints up at the ceiling, wondering if that’s what makes it all so confusing.
Because if you have a good family- if no one hurt you- then what is it? Because if someone loved you- if you had a nice home and people who missed you and called just to check in? What made you like this? So fast. So sharp. So goddamn relentless.
He’s been told all his life that pain makes winners. Pressure makes diamonds. That you need suffering. That you have to pay for it- whatever ‘it’ is. Glory. Skill. The right to win.
You’ve got it, no doubt. So where did it come from?
You bled today. Literally. He saw the raw skin on your knuckles when you peeled off your gloves and started poking at your tablet. But he used to think that was new- rookie behavior from someone just close enough to getting their shot to get desperate. Or performative. Or just part of your act.
Now, for the first time, he’s not sure. What if it wasn’t new? What if you’ve always been like this? Not just ambitious, but driven. Not just composed, but locked down. He doesn’t want to psychoanalyze you. He doesn’t want to care, really. But his curiosity itches now that he’s seen a crack. And it’s not the kind of crack he can forget, because it looked a little too familiar. The way you slammed the door like you’d seen yourself- and hated what was showing.
He pulls the blanket up to his shoulders, breathing slow, not sure if he’s trying to warm up or disappear beneath it. Maybe it was just a bad dream. Maybe he’s reading too far into it. Or maybe it’s the first time he’s seen that you’re not polished, not even trying to be. Not perfect. That there’s something gnawing at your edges too, and it’s not just loneliness. And maybe he doesn’t hate knowing that.
He turns to face the wall, eyes catching on the soft spill of light edging beneath the adjoining door. It’s the only glow left in the room now- warm and pale against the carpet. You must still be awake. He shuts his eyes again.
He’s not thinking anything in particular, but the question loops anyway, quiet and persistent:
Are you fucked up too?
════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════ Series Masterlist Previous Chapter/ Next Chapter