Chapter Text
The thing about having a near-violent love-hate relationship with your newfound rival was that it never quite stayed where you left it. It had a tendency to hover, cropping up at the most inconvenient of times, in the most damning of ways.
George Russell could feel it hovering now, an invisible yet heavy presence in the media pen, in the way the microphones were angled just a fraction too eagerly between him and reigning World Champion Max Verstappen, in the glances that lingered a beat longer than necessary. Shared history had a way of sharpening people’s memories, sanding off nuance and delicacy until all that remained were headlines and half-remembered quotes.
Max stood beside him, arms crossed, race suit unzipped to the waist, hair damp and cheeks flushed from the post-session cooldown. Relaxed, outwardly. He was always relaxed these days. That is, if you ignored the way his jaw tightened and fists clenched for a brief second whenever someone brought up those seasons.
“George,” a reporter called, “given everything that’s happened between you and Max over the last few years, how does it feel sharing a podium again?”
There it was. First question out of the fray. Predictable.
George didn’t look at Max immediately. He’d learned - somewhere between 2023 and now - that it was better to answer first, to give Max room to bite back the impulsive reply, rather than force him into a reaction.
“Well,” George said lightly, “I think if we were still stuck in 2022, this would be a very different conversation.”
A few laughs rippled through the room. Max huffed a quiet breath beside him, not quite a laugh, but close enough to count.
George continued, tone easy, practiced. “People change. Circumstances change. We’re here to race, not to rehash every single disagreement we’ve ever had.”
The reporter tried again, “Max, do you agree?”
Max tilted his head, eyes flicking sideways toward George - quick, assessing, unreadable to anyone who didn’t know him well. Then he shrugged.
“I think,” he started, shooting George a quick grin, “if George still wanted to fight me every weekend, I’d notice.”
That earned a bigger laugh.
George turned towards him, eyebrow lifting, “You saying I’m slipping?”
“Maybe you’re just smarter now,” Max replied, blue eyes flashing with humour.
The banter landed easily, like it came naturally to them. Like it hadn’t been built painstakingly over months of cautious truce and even more cautious trust.
George remembered the ghosts hovering between them with uncomfortable clarity. Remembered the anger, the certainty, the way he’d believed - truly believed - that standing his ground meant standing alone, against Max.
Now, in 2025, the anger just felt… old. Like a jacket he’d outgrown but still kept in the back of the cupboard, just in case.
The session wrapped up quickly after that. Cameras powered down, reporters dispersed, lights dimmed. George exhaled slowly, trying to release the bone-deep tiredness that had been steadily creeping up his spine.
Max rolled his shoulders, stretching, “Same questions every race,” he muttered.
“Consistency is key,” George said. “It’s what we’re known for.”
Max snorted. “Speak for yourself.”
They walked side by side out of the room, close enough that George could feel the heat radiating off Max’s arm. He was suddenly, acutely aware of it - of how natural it felt now, how unnatural it would have felt even a year ago.
“You handled that well,” Max said, almost casually.
George glanced at him. “High praise.”
“I’m serious.” Max’s tone softened just a fraction, lisp curling around the words, “you didn’t escalate.”
George smiled faintly. “I’ve learned that escalation rarely gets me what I want.”
“And what do you want?”
George paused. The honest answer rose unbidden: You calm and safe. You not braced for impact every time my name comes up. You having as much fun battling me as you do with Charles.
Instead, he said, “A quiet weekend. A decent result. Maybe fewer questions about us trying to murder each other.”
Max’s lips twitched. “No promises.”
They reached the paddock doors, where their paths would split. For a moment, neither moved.
“See you later,” George said.
Max nodded. “Yeah. See you.”
George watched him walk away, easy stride, shoulders loose, no trace of the defensive coiling that used to live under Max’s skin in his initial years. Or whenever George was nearby.
Progress, he thought. Real progress.
He turned in the opposite direction, phone already buzzing with notifications - clips, quotes, recycled narratives. Somewhere online, someone was already stitching together old footage, already reminding the world of what George Russell and Max Verstappen used to be.
George found himself much more interested in what they were becoming. And that, for reasons he couldn’t yet articulate, felt far more dangerous than rivalry ever had.
If someone had told Max 3 months ago that he would get to see George fucking Russell defend him in front of a camera, he would’ve laughed right in their face. Picture-perfect George, whose posh words hid a personality filled with pettiness and grudges, defending his self-appointed arch-rival on camera? Please.
But the Universe apparently had a sense of humour and Max had always somehow found himself on the wrong end of the laughter.
The incident itself was nothing, really. A marginal squeeze into Turn 4, tyres kissing paint, sparks lighting up the kerb for half a second before both cars made it through intact. The kind of moment that barely registered on Max’s internal threat scale - except that the stewards had a habit of turning every single nothing into a veritable something when his name was involved.
By the time Max pulled off his helmet in parc ferme, the noise had already started.
George heard it from two meters away; raised voices, a flurry of tablets replaying the onboard ,a reporter practically vibrating with anticipation.
“Max,” someone called, “do you think that move was over the line?”
Max’s shoulders tensed. Not visibly - never visibly - but George had learned the signs. The slight stillness. The way Max’s gaze sharpened, preparing to defend something he was tired defending.
Before Max could answer, another voice cut in.
“It wasn’t.”
George hadn’t planned to speak. He only realized he had when every head, camera and microphone in the vicinity snapped towards him.
He shrugged, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to defend someone he’d publicly insulted less than 6 months ago. “I was right behind. Plenty of space. Hard racing, but racing nonetheless. Nothing reckless.”
The silence got deafening.
Max looked at him then, properly this time - brows drawn together, eyes electric, surprise flickering across his face before he smoothed it away.
The reporter blinked. “George, you’re saying -”
“I’m saying we can stop inventing drama where there isn’t any,” George said pleasantly. “We’re allowed to race.”
There was another beat of silence.
Then the scrum dissolved, interest waning now that the confrontation had been denied its fuel. The crowd thinned, attention shifting toward shinier controversies.
Max turned slowly, fidgeting slightly with the sleeves of his racing suit. “You didn’t have to do that.”
George met his gaze, unflinching. “I know.”
“People will make assumptions.”
“They always do,” George smiled, small and wry. “Might as well give them something boring for once.”
Max studied him for a moment longer than necessary, like he was recalibrating an internal map. Or rearranging a mental hitlist.
“...Thanks,” he said finally.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t cloyingly earnest. It was simply honest. Soft.
George felt it settle somewhere warm in his chest.
Later, tucked into a quiet corner of the paddock with a lukewarm coffee and a pile of telemetry printouts, Max found himself replaying the moment against his will. It wasn’t the defense itself - although it was rare that other drivers jumped in front of the metaphorical gunfire for him - but rather who had done it.
George Russell. Of all people.
The same George who’d once looked at him like his very presence was akin to poison in the Brit’s veins. The same George who’d spoken with the sharp certainty of someone trying to carve a space for himself beyond Max’s winning shadow. The same George who had made it a point to emphasize numerous times that he didn’t think that Max was unbeatable.
And yet -
“You’re frowning,” George’s voice cut in, light but observant.
Max glanced up. The Brit stood there, leaning against the table like he belonged there, coffee in hand, expression unreadable in that infuriating polite way of his.
“Am I?” Max asked.
“No I just walked up to you because you were grinning and I was afraid I’d walked in on a crime scene.”
Max snorted despite himself, “You stalking me now?”
“Hardly,” George gestured vaguely around them. “Shared workspace. Occupational hazard.”
Max hummed. “That was different. Back there.”
George tilted his head. “Different how?”
Max considered him. Considered the easy posture, the lack of expectation in his eyes.
“You sounded sure. Not like you were trying to prove something.”
George’s smile softened almost imperceptibly. “I was sure.”
Something loosened in Max’s chest. He didn’t comment on it - wouldn’t, couldn’t give it a name - but he felt the shift all the same.
“Guess that makes you my favourite witness today,” he said instead.
George’s eyebrows rose. “High honour.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. I thrive on inconsistency.”
They lapsed into an easy silence, the kind that didn’t itch. The kind that even a few months ago, would’ve seemed impossible between them. Around them, the paddock buzzed with movement, the lazy energy of a finishing weekend coupled with the frenzy of packing up and going home.
Max realised, distantly, that he felt lighter.
Which was ridiculous. One comment didn’t rewrite history. Didn’t erase years of friction or the muscle memory of bracing himself whenever George got close. And yet.
“See you at the debrief,” George said, pushing off the table with the easy kind of grace that somehow came so naturally to him.
Max nodded, “Yeah.”
George took a step away, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“For what it’s worth,” he added, “you drove that corner perfectly.”
Max blinked. By the time he got his burning cheeks under control, George was already gone.
Max stared after him for a second longer than necessary, something unfamiliar curling low in his stomach - not suspicion, not irritation, but curiosity.
Careful, he told himself. Old habits die hard.
Still.
When Max turned back to his data, he realized he was smiling.
If there was one thing Max Verstappen hated - and the list was shorter than most people thought - it was surprises.
If there was one thing he hated more, it was surprises that didn’t immediately feel like threats.
The simulator wing was quiet in the way only high-end motorsport facilities ever were - climate-controlled, fluorescent, humming softly with restrained power. Max hadn’t expected company when he’d slipped in after dinner, hoodie pulled low, intent on running through a few stubborn laps that had been bothering him since the afternoon session.
He definitely hadn’t expected George Russell.
“Oh,” George said, blinking when he spotted Max already seated at the workstation. “You’re here.”
Max turned slightly in his chair. “You sound disappointed.”
George smiled, quick and reflexive. “More surprised. I was told this slot was empty.”
“Plans change,” Max said. “I’ll be done in a bit, if that’s any help.”
George considered him for a second, then shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I’ll take the other rig.”
Max watched him set up with quiet efficiency - no fuss, no attempt at small talk, just the familiar choreography of someone deeply comfortable in their environment. It struck Max abruptly, that George moved like he belonged everywhere he stood. All sharp edges but no defensive tension.
Annoying, really.
They ran laps in parallel for a while, the only sounds the whir of cooling fans and the muted click of buttons. Max couldn’t help sneaking glances to his right as he watched George get lost in braking points and weight transfers.
He didn’t realise he’d opened his mouth until the words had already escaped him.
“You’re braking earlier into Turn 7.”
George stiffened. “And?”
“And you’re still carrying more speed through the exit,” Max continued, trying to sound casual. “You’re sacrificing entry for consistency.”
George swivelled in his chair. “You’re spying on me now?”
Max laughed. “You’re literally on the shared screen.”
George glanced up, then laughed sheepishly.
“Does it work?” Max asked.
George hesitated. Max could almost feel him weighing the answers in his head before honesty won out. “It’s safer. Less margin for error.”
Max nodded, thoughtful, “Makes sense. Especially here.”
He tried to keep his voice free of all forms of judgement. No challenge, just understanding.
“The line’s ugly,” George added, almost like he had to drag the words out against his will, “but it keeps the rear stable.”
Max smiled, slow, genuine. “Ugly lines usually win races.”
George’s soft look of surprise made something warm flicker in Max’s chest. He ignored it.
They talked after that - about setups, tyre degradation, about how the track surface changed after sunset. It was technical, precise, the kind of conversation Max trusted because it left little room for ego. At some point, Max realized he’d leaned back in his chair, shoulders loose, tension drained away without him noticing.
“Can I ask you something?” he asked, the easy conversation loosening his tongue.
George glanced over, “Depends.”
Max hesitated, and something about that must have struck George as he sat up a little straighter. “Do you still think I underestimate you?”
The question landed, soft but absolute.
George let out an involuntary scoff, before sobering up. “I don’t know. You used to.”
Max nodded. “I think I did.”
The admission - simple and unguarded as it was - seemed to catch George off guard.
“And now?” he asked, blue eyes not wavering in their intensity.
Max swallowed. He hadn’t seen this through in his head. “Now I think you’re terrifying,” he rasped out, “and brilliant. And far more deliberate that people give you credit for.”
He shook his head slightly, unable to maintain eye contact anymore.
George blinked, a slight flush crept onto his cheeks, glowing in the reflection of the screen.
“That wasn’t meant to be flattering,” Max added hastily. “Just accurate.”
George laughed, slightly hysterical, “You’re bad at insults.”
“You had a very different opinion a year ago.”
Silence settled again, heavier this time but not uncomfortable.
Max stared at the track map on screen, lines blurring slightly. He felt light, the image of gold-flecked blue eyes and blush pink cheeks making the tightly wound thing in his chest ease just a little.
“You know,” George said slowly, deliberately, “I was almost sure you were trying to take my seat.”
Max sucked in a sharp breath, but didn’t interrupt.
“Like if you pushed hard enough, spoke loud enough, people would stop seeing me as good,” he swallowed, “stop seeing me as enough.”
Max’s throat bobbed, “I wasn’t ever trying to rob you of your seat.”
“I know,” George said quietly. “I didn’t then. But I do now.”
Max exhaled roughly, clearing his throat before saying the next words, “For what it’s worth, I never wanted to erase anyone. I just wanted to win, on my terms, with my work.”
George looked at him then - really looked.
Two drivers. Two careers carved into parallel lines that had intersected violently before learning how to run side by side. They packed up not long after, the moment lingering like static in the air. At the door, George paused.
“Hey,” he said.
Max turned.
“You were right earlier,” he said, “About the corner. Thanks.”
Max felt his mouth pull into a smile, “Anytime.”
The banter crept up on them quietly.
A message sent at an ungodly hour after a late debrief.
George:
You left Turn 11 wide again.
Max stared at his phone, brow furrowing.
Max:
I did not.
George:
Telemetry says you did. Telemetry never lies.
A pause.
Max:
Telemetry is dramatic.
Max set the phone down, half-expecting that to be the end of it. It should have been. They weren’t friends. They were… improved colleagues. Mutual respect with a side of sarcasm.
The phone buzzed again.
George:
You’re just upset because the ugly line worked.
Max snorted before he could stop himself.
He typed back without thinking.
Max:
You’re obsessed with my ugly lines.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
George:
Occupational hazard.
Max didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.
The smile stayed anyway.
By the next race weekend, the messages had multiplied.
Not constant. Not intrusive. Just… there.
A photo from George of a truly tragic hotel-room espresso machine. A voice note from Max, deadpan commentary over a replay clip: “See? Not wide.”
George replying with exaggerated offense and a screenshot circled aggressively in red.
It was easy. Too easy.
And that was what made Max wary.
He’d learned, over the years, that ease often came with strings. That laughter could be leverage. That people didn’t just stay unless they wanted something. George, infuriatingly, seemed to want nothing at all.
“Why are you smiling at your phone?” Lando asked one afternoon, flopping into the chair beside Max in the hospitality unit.
“I’m not,” Max said automatically.
Lando hummed. “You are. It’s weird.”
Max locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket. “Mind your own business.”
Lando grinned. “Oh, I definitely will not.”
The shift became undeniable the day George noticed.
Max had had a messy session - traffic, radio confusion, a lap that never quite came together. He emerged from the car composed as ever, helmet tucked under his arm, answers clipped but polite.
To everyone else, he looked fine. George caught the moment Max rubbed his thumb against the edge of his glove, over and over again.
He fell into step beside him without comment.
“Want to walk?” George asked, voice casual.
Max hesitated. “I’m supposed to -”
“You can be late,” George said lightly. “Once.”
Max exhaled through his nose. “You’re a bad influence.”
“I’ve been saying that for years.”
They took the long way around the paddock, the noise fading as they moved toward a quieter stretch. Max didn’t speak at first. George didn’t push.
Eventually, Max said, “I hate days like this.”
George nodded, “Because you know you’re better.”
Max glanced at him, surprised. “Yes.”
George shrugged, “It shows.”
There it was again - that unsettling clarity. That sense of being read without being dissected.
Max’s steps slowed. “Most people tell me not to dwell.”
George stopped too, turning fully toward him. “You don’t dwell. You catalogue. There’s a difference.”
Max stared.
“How do you -”
“I do the same thing,” George said gently. “Just louder.”
Something in Max’s chest gave, just a little.
“…It helps,” Max admitted, eyes fixed on the ground, “when someone else says it.”
George smiled, not triumphant, not smug. Just present.
“Anytime,” he said. And meant it.
That night, Max lay in bed staring at the ceiling, phone warm in his hand.
He typed, erased, retyped.
Max:
Thanks for earlier.
The reply came slower this time.
George:
Of course. You don’t have to carry it alone.
Max swallowed.
That sentence lingered long after the screen went dark.
By the next weekend, it wasn’t just racing they talked about.
George complained about jet lag like it was a personal betrayal. Max admitted he hated interviews more than bad weather. George confessed, late one night, that he sometimes felt like he was still proving he deserved to be here.
Max stared at that message for a long time before replying.
Max:
You don’t have to prove anything to me.
The typing dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
George:
That means more than you know.
Max set the phone down, heart thudding uncomfortably fast.
This was dangerous territory. This was the kind of closeness that snuck past defenses and settled somewhere tender. The kind that made you miss someone even when they hadn’t gone anywhere. Across the paddock, in a different hotel room, George lay awake too, staring at his phone like it might offer answers he wasn’t ready to ask for.
Neither of them named it.
But then neither did they run from it.
The bad weekends always announced themselves early.
Max felt it in the way the car refused to settle under braking, in the millisecond hesitation on throttle that bloomed into tenths lost by Sector Two. By the time he pulled back into the garage after qualifying, helmet heavy in his hands, he already knew how the narrative would go.
Questions about pressure. About expectations. About whether the field was finally catching up. Same script. Different weekend.
He answered them cleanly, efficiently, giving nothing away. Smiled when expected. Deflected when necessary. By the time he escaped down the back corridor of the paddock, his jaw ached from holding everything in place.
He didn’t go to the debrief room.
Instead, Max found himself outside, sitting on the low concrete barrier near the freight trucks, elbows braced on his knees, staring at nothing in particular. The night air was cooler here, quieter. No cameras. No voices asking him to perform relief or confidence on command.
He focused on breathing.
In. Out.
He didn’t hear George approach.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
Max glanced up, irritation flaring automatically, then fading just as fast. George stood a few steps away, hands in the pockets of his jacket, posture deliberately unintrusive.
“I didn’t tell anyone where I was going,” Max said.
“You didn’t have to,” George replied. “You always come here when you don’t want to be seen.”
Max stiffened. “Do I?”
George winced slightly. “Sorry. That sounded creepy.”
A reluctant huff of laughter escaped Max before he could stop it. “A bit.”
George smiled, relieved. “I meant - pattern recognition. Very professional.”
“Of course,” Max said dryly.
George didn’t sit immediately. He waited, gauging. When Max didn’t tell him to leave, he lowered himself onto the barrier a careful distance away.
They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of generators filling the space between them.
“It was a messy session,” George said finally.
Max’s shoulders tightened. “I know.”
“But not because you drove badly.”
Max turned his head sharply. “You didn’t see -”
“I saw enough,” George said. “Traffic. Balance issues. The car didn’t give you what you needed.”
Max stared ahead, jaw working. “People don’t hear that part.”
“No,” George agreed softly. “They rarely do.”
The quiet stretched again. This time, Max didn’t fight it.
“I hate when it feels like this,” he admitted eventually. “Like I’m back to explaining myself. Like winning isn’t enough unless it’s perfect.”
George’s voice was gentle when he replied. “You’re allowed to have off days.”
Max laughed, humorless. “Am I?”
“Yes,” George said without hesitation. “You just don’t let yourself.”
Max swallowed.
He hated how easily George named things. Hated how accurate it was. Hated - secretly - how relieving it felt to be understood without having to unravel himself piece by piece.
“I keep thinking,” Max said, quieter now, “that if I let it slip, even once, it’ll confirm whatever they’re already waiting to believe.”
George leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees now, mirroring Max’s posture without thinking about it.
“And what is that?”
“That I’m only good when everything’s stacked in my favor,” Max said. “That without the car, without a winning streak, I’m… ordinary.”
George turned fully toward him.
“Hey,” he said.
Max met his gaze.
“You are many things,” George said, voice steady, “but ordinary isn’t one of them. And you don’t stop being exceptional just because a session goes wrong.”
Max’s chest tightened. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
George nodded slowly. “No. I don’t know what it’s like to be you.” He paused. “But I know what it’s like to feel like one bad weekend could erase everything you’ve worked for.”
That landed.
Max exhaled, something heavy leaving him with the breath. “I’m sorry. This sucks, I don’t like feeling like this.”
“I know,” George said. “But you don’t have to carry it alone.”
The words echoed - familiar now - threaded through late-night messages and quiet moments. And wasn’t that a miracle in itself, how Max had gotten used to hearing the phrase from the Brit, to the point where now he had begun to expect it.
Max looked away, blinking hard. “You’re very good at this,” he muttered.
“At what?”
“At knowing when to show up.”
George smiled, small and sincere. “I’ve had practice.”
They stayed there longer than either of them had planned. Eventually, Max straightened, rolling his shoulders.
“I should go,” he said. “Debrief.”
“Yeah,” George said. “Me too.”
They stood at the same time, an unspoken understanding settling between them.
As they walked back toward the paddock lights, Max glanced sideways.
“…Thanks,” he said again. “For not trying to fix it.”
George shrugged lightly. “You didn’t need fixing.”
Something warm bloomed low in Max’s chest, quiet and dangerous.
As they parted ways, Max realized - with a mix of apprehension and something dangerously like hope - that this was becoming more than banter. More than convenience. More than two drivers learning how to coexist.
This was trust.
And Max had learned long ago that trust, once given, changed everything.
Singapore always felt like a secret.
The rest of the calendar shouted - wide skies, loud circuits, daylight stretching everything raw and exposed. Singapore folded in on itself instead. Heat clung to skin long after the sun disappeared, the air thick with salt and neon and engine exhaust. The city glowed rather than burned, lights reflecting off glass and water until everything felt slightly unreal.
Max liked it for that reason.
He stood on the balcony of the hotel, city humming below, phone warm in his hand. Qualifying had gone well - better than expected - and the relief still thrummed quietly under his ribs. Not joy, exactly. Just steadiness.
His phone buzzed.
George:
You alive?
Max huffed a laugh.
Max:
Barely. This humidity is a hate crime.
Three dots appeared.
George:
I’m downstairs. Thought you might want to walk before the world remembers we exist.
Max hesitated. A familiar instinct flared - don’t overstep, don’t blur lines, don’t make it something it isn’t.
He stepped into his shoes anyway.
The night wrapped around them the moment they stepped outside.
They didn’t say where they were going. They didn’t need to. Singapore had a way of guiding you - along the waterfront, past reflections that doubled the skyline, away from the noise until the only sounds were distant traffic and their own footsteps. George walked beside Max, close enough that their arms brushed occasionally. Each time it happened, something sparked - small, contained, impossible to ignore.
“Good quali,” George said eventually.
Max glanced at him. “You too.”
George smiled. “You looked… calmer.”
Max considered that. “I felt calmer.”
George nodded, like that mattered.
They stopped near the water, city lights rippling in fractured lines across the surface. Max leaned against the railing, forearms resting on the cool metal. George stood beside him, mirroring the posture without comment.
For a while, neither spoke. The silence wasn’t empty. It felt deliberate. Like both of them were standing at the edge of something and knew it.
“I like this version of us,” Max said suddenly.
George turned his head. “Which version?”
“This,” Max said, gesturing vaguely between them. “Whatever this is.”
George’s expression softened. “Me too.”
Max swallowed. The words sat heavy on his tongue now, unavoidably present.
“I don’t usually…” He stopped, exhaled. “I don’t usually let people get this close.”
“I know,” George said quietly.
Max looked at him then. “You don’t seem afraid of that.”
George shook his head. “I am. Just… not enough to stop.”
That did something to Max’s chest - tightened it, cracked it open all at once.
“I trust you,” Max said, almost like he was testing the words aloud.
George didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. His voice was steady when he answered. “I know.”
Max let out a breath that trembled despite his best efforts. “That’s terrifying.”
George smiled, fond and understanding. “Yeah. It usually is.”
They stood there, inches apart now. Max could feel the heat radiating off George’s skin, could count the freckles along his cheek if he wanted to. He wondered, distantly, when he’d started noticing details like that.
“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” Max said, reflexive caution creeping in.
George shook his head again. “It already does.”
Max’s heart stuttered.
“Is that okay?” George asked gently. “If it does?”
Max searched his face for expectation, for pressure, for anything that felt like demand.
There was nothing. Just openness. Choice.
“…Yes,” Max said.
George didn’t move right away. He gave Max time. Space. One last chance to pull back.
Max closed the distance himself.
The kiss was soft - hesitant in the way first kisses always were, more question than answer. George’s hand came up slowly, resting at Max’s waist, not pulling, just anchoring. Max’s fingers curled into the fabric of George’s shirt without conscious thought.
When they broke apart, foreheads resting together, Max laughed quietly.
“Well,” he said. “That’s inconvenient.”
George smiled, breathless. “Tragically.”
Max met his eyes, something bright and vulnerable flickering there. “You’re not… using this. Me.”
George’s expression sobered immediately. “Never.”
“I need you to mean that.”
George cupped Max’s face gently, thumb brushing under his eye. “I do. I choose you. Not the rivalry. Not the history. It fucking terrifies me but God knows I’m falling for you.”
Max’s throat tightened. He nodded, trusting himself too much to speak.
They stayed like that for a while longer, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the city night. When they finally pulled apart, nothing felt rushed. Nothing felt uncertain.
As they walked back toward the hotel, shoulders brushing, fingers occasionally tangling, Max realized something with a sense of wonder that bordered on fear. For the first time in a long time, his insecurities were quiet. And for the first time ever, that quiet felt like safety.
Austin was loud in a way Singapore never was.
The sky felt too big, the sun too unforgiving, the paddock buzzing with a restless energy that clung to everything. The Circuit of the Americas sprawled out like it wanted to prove a point, and by Friday evening, George felt like it had succeeded.
Practice hadn’t gone to plan.
Nothing catastrophic - no crashes, no dramatic radio messages - but the pace wasn’t there in the way he needed it to be. He’d missed a braking point in Sector One, overcorrected in the esses, watched the delta bleed away despite doing everything right. By the time he climbed out of the car, helmet tucked under his arm, frustration sat heavy behind his ribs.
He kept his answers tidy. Professional. Smiling.
Max noticed anyway.
George found him later, tucked into the shadow beside the motorhome, scrolling aimlessly through his phone like he was trying not to think too hard.
“Bad day?” Max asked.
George exhaled, shoulders dropping. “I hate it when you don’t even know what you did wrong.”
Max hummed, understanding immediate and instinctive. “You drove tight.”
George looked up, surprised. “I did?”
“Yeah,” Max said. “Like you were trying to be perfect instead of fast.”
George laughed weakly. “That obvious?”
“To me,” Max replied. He stepped closer, voice lowering. “You don’t have to do that.”
George’s chest tightened. “Do what?”
“Prove yourself,” Max said simply. “Not to me.”
The words landed with unexpected force.
George stared at him, something fragile and unguarded flickering across his face. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
Max didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
George swallowed hard, nodding once. “Okay.”
It felt like permission. It felt like relief.
Saturday was better.
Not flawless - but freer. George pushed when it mattered, trusted the car where he usually second-guessed it. When he stepped out of the cockpit after qualifying, sweat-soaked and exhausted, Max was there, offering a bottle of water without comment.
“You looked like yourself again,” Max said.
George smiled, real this time. “Guess I had a good coach.”
Max scoffed. “Please. I just told you to stop being annoying.”
They shared a quiet laugh, shoulder to shoulder, sun blazing overhead.
That night, they escaped. Austin at night felt different - warm and loose and alive with music spilling out of open doors. They didn’t go far. Just a small bar tucked away from the main strip, dimly lit and half-empty. They sat close, knees brushing under the table, fingers tangling briefly when neither of them was paying attention.
“You okay?” Max asked, voice low.
George nodded. “Yeah. Better than okay.”
Max studied him, then nodded back, satisfied.
Later, walking back under the glow of streetlights, George slowed.
“Hey,” he said.
Max turned. “What?”
George hesitated, then reached out, hand brushing Max’s wrist - not hidden, not rushed.
“This,” he said softly. “Us. I don’t want it to be temporary.”
Max’s heart skipped. “It’s not.”
“You’re sure?” George asked, vulnerability threading through his voice. “Because I -”
Max stepped closer, closing the distance decisively. “George. I don’t do temporary.”
Something in George’s expression broke open - relief, affection, something dangerously close to awe.
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Max’s temple, lingering just a moment longer than strictly safe.
“I love you,” he said quietly, like he was testing the words.
Max didn’t hesitate.
“I love you too.”
The certainty in his voice was steady and unshakable.
Race day came and went in a blur of heat and adrenaline. George didn’t win. Max didn’t either. But they both drove well - clean, controlled, satisfied. It felt like momentum, even without trophies. Later, back in the quiet of George’s hotel room, Max lay stretched out across the bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily overhead.
“You know,” he said, “this is a terrible circuit.”
George laughed from where he sat on the edge of the bed. “You say that every year.”
“I mean it more now.”
George shifted closer, lying beside him. “Still worth it.”
Max turned his head, eyes soft. “Yeah.”
They lay there in companionable silence, fingers loosely intertwined.
Texas had been loud and bright and demanding - but it had given them something solid. A line drawn in the dust. A promise, spoken and kept.
When Max drifted off to sleep, George stayed awake a little longer, watching him breathe, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the calm that settled over him in rest.
Whatever came next, whatever the world decided to dig up from their past, George knew one thing with absolute certainty.
This was real.
And he wasn’t letting it go.
Well. The past had a way of resurfacing when you least expected it.
It happened on a Tuesday.
Not during a race weekend. Not in the middle of controversy or chaos. Just a quiet, ordinary day at the end of the season, when the noise had dulled into something manageable and Max had finally let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, things could stay good for a while.
Max was alone in his apartment, scrolling idly through his phone while dinner cooled on the counter. George was still flying back from a sponsor event, their time zones misaligned just enough to make conversation lag. Max didn’t mind. He liked these quiet pockets of waiting now. They felt temporary instead of lonely.
The notification came from a group chat he rarely paid attention to.
Media clip circulating. You seen this?
Max frowned and tapped it open without thinking.
The video loaded slowly. George appeared on screen, younger, sharper around the edges, posture rigid in that way Max remembered too well. The lower-third graphic read:
End of 2024 - Driver Predictions for 2025
Max felt something cold settle in his stomach.
George Russell:
“I don’t think Red Bull will win the championship next year.”
The clip was short. Casual. Almost throwaway in tone.
It wasn’t the words themselves that hurt. It was everything wrapped around them. The timing. The certainty. The familiar implication Max had spent years trying to outrun.
The video cut to analysis, commentators nodding sagely, praising George’s foresight now that Lando Norris had clinched the title.
“Turns out Russell was right all along,” one voice said. “Red Bull dominance finally broken.”
Max stared at the screen, pulse thudding in his ears.
Red Bull won’t win.
He knew - knew - that the comment wasn’t about him. Not really. It was about regulations, competition, momentum shifts. He’d said the same things himself in different words, at different times.
But insecurity wasn’t rational. It was muscle memory.
The old thoughts slid back into place with horrifying ease.
He didn’t think you could do it.
He never did.
He just learned how to hide it better.
Max locked his phone and set it face-down on the counter, breathing shallowly. The apartment felt too quiet now, every sound amplified - the hum of the refrigerator, the distant noise of traffic, his own heartbeat refusing to slow.
He sank onto the couch, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floor.
He remembered nights when he’d admitted, voice low and careful, how much it hurt to be seen as inevitable instead of earned. How tiring it was to feel like people were just waiting for him to fail so the narrative could finally change.
You don’t have to carry it alone, George had said.
Max pressed his thumb into the edge of his palm until it stung.
Had George meant it then?
Or had it been only after Max had proven - again - that he was worth believing in?
His phone buzzed.
George:
Just landed. You awake?
Max stared at the message, throat tight.
He typed.
Erased.
Typed again.
Max:
Yeah.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
George:
You okay?
Max closed his eyes.
Always knows, he thought distantly. Even now.
Max:
I’m fine.
The lie tasted bitter.
The dots appeared again. Disappeared. Reappeared.
George:
I saw the clip.
Max’s breath hitched.
So George knew. Of course he did.
George:
I want to explain.
That was worse.
Max set the phone down, chest aching in a way he hadn’t felt in months. He didn’t want explanations. Explanations implied logic, and logic had never been able to talk his insecurities down before. He stood abruptly, pacing the length of the room, running a hand through his hair.
I trust you, he’d said once. Like it was a promise.
Trust, he was learning, didn’t mean immunity. It meant having something to lose.
When he finally picked the phone back up, there were three missed calls. Max swallowed and hit dial before he could talk himself out of it. George answered immediately.
“Hey,” George said, voice soft with relief. “I was worried.”
Max closed his eyes. “Why did you say it?”
There was a pause. A careful inhale.
“It wasn’t about you,” George said quickly. “It was about the team, the regs, the -”
“I know,” Max cut in, sharper than he intended. He softened his tone immediately. “I know that.”
Another pause.
“But,” George said quietly.
Max laughed, brittle. “But.”
“I didn’t think about how it would sound,” George admitted. “I didn’t think about… now.”
Max leaned back against the wall, phone pressed to his ear. “Did you believe it?”
The question hung between them, fragile and dangerous.
George didn’t answer right away.
“I believed,” he said carefully, “that things were changing.”
Max closed his eyes, something twisting painfully in his chest.
“And me?” he asked. “Did you believe in me?”
Silence.
Max could feel George struggling to articulate his thoughts, could feel his hitching breath deep within his own chest.
“I do,” George said finally. “I do now. Completely.”
Now.
The word echoed louder than anything else.
Max let his head fall back against the wall, exhaustion washing over him. “I need… time,” he said, voice low. “I just - this brought things back. Things I thought I’d dealt with.”
“I understand,” George said immediately. “Take all the time you need. I’m here.”
Max nodded even though George couldn’t see it. “I know.”
They hung up gently, no raised voices, no slammed doors. Which somehow made it hurt more.
Later, alone in the quiet again, Max replayed the clip one last time before deleting it from his phone. George on screen - confident, certain, untouched by the knowledge of what the future would hold. Max curled in on himself on the couch, arms wrapped tight around his middle. He loved George. That hadn’t changed. But love, he was learning, didn’t stop old wounds from reopening.
And as the city lights flickered outside his window, Max wondered - for the first time since Singapore - whether belief was something that could truly be unlearned.