Chapter Text
A pale blue sky, slightly hazy. Dry, light air. Mornings in Bahrain at the end of February were still a little cool, but already warmer than Monaco. Thinking of the heat in April, when the Grand Prix would be held here, it would be better—at least as a driver—if it stayed like this.
“Morning. Long time no see.” Voices like that could be heard all over the paddock. A familiar scene of pre-season testing. Max raised a hand lightly, answering each call with a small smile as they came one after another.
“Max!”
At the voice from behind, he turned, and found Charles there.
“Charles. Hey, long time no see.”
He took the offered hand and pulled him in, a brief hug—more of a light bump at chest height. Short, casual. Charles was dressed much the same: team kit and jeans.
“Two months, yeah? You’ve been good?”
“Yeah. You?”
“…Same as always.”
Well, not exactly. Over the winter break, George Russell had gone from a rival he couldn’t stand to something else entirely. He could tell Charles, but after everything he’d said about him before the break, Max decided to keep quiet for now. Charles would definitely be surprised, and the questions would be endless.
If he asks, I’ll tell him.
After that, more team members and drivers called out to him one after another. He noticed someone approaching at the edge of his vision, looking his way, just as he finished talking to Carlos Sainz.
“Max.”
George’s composed smile. Max barely stopped himself from laughing. At a glance, it looked like the same expression he had worn before the break—practised, controlled. But only his eyes were different. Softer. Subtle enough that maybe only Max would notice, but still. He made a mental note to tell him later that he was a terrible actor.
“Hey.”
They exchanged a perfectly polite handshake as if nothing had changed. But unlike before, neither of them stepped back. Their arms stayed close enough to feel each other’s warmth.
"It’s been a while."
In reality, it had only been two weeks. Before that, they hadn’t gone more than a week without seeing each other for a month, so it wasn’t exactly a lie.
“Yeah.”
Ice-blue eyes looked down at him slightly. As expected, the gaze alone was very gentle.
Maybe because it was them—two supposed rivals—talking, a few camera lenses had already turned their way. George seemed to have noticed too, lifting one brown eyebrow ever so slightly, and Max had to swallow another laugh.
They had agreed, for now, to keep it secret from anyone they couldn’t trust. There was no need to give the media or the public anything to feed on. With the Grand Prix season ahead, anything that could interfere with their focus should be cut out.
They couldn’t talk long here.
“How long are you staying?”
The faint smile on George’s handsome face, set slightly higher than Max’s line of sight, deepened just a fraction—subtle enough not to show through a lens.
“I’m thinking of leaving Saturday. You?”
That meant the day after testing.
“Same.”
Max said it casually, taking a sip from the Red Bull can in his hand, already thinking he’d ask which hotel George was staying at later.
“Only driving in the morning?”
“Afternoon. You?”
“Same here. Kimi’s got the morning.”
Kimi Antonelli—George’s new teammate, an eighteen-year-old rookie.
“Right. …Then I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah. Later.”
Max held out his hand. George took it and pulled him into a hug. It looked no different from any other, but it lasted just a fraction longer. As if they had simply been a beat late letting go. As they parted, George pressed his palm lightly against Max’s lower back, just above his waist. Even with people watching, his possessiveness hadn’t gone anywhere.
…That's how it should be.
Max let a small, satisfied smile slip, hidden from view.
He parted from George and headed for the Red Bull motorhome. Somehow, he felt lighter, and there was still a warmth lingering in his body. It felt like the test would go well.
Max stepped inside and changed into his race suit. He wasn’t driving until the afternoon, so there was no need to fully gear up. He left the suit half unzipped and threw on his team jacket. His place for the morning was the pit wall. He took a seat beside Horner, watching the data from his new teammate, Liam Lawson.
The engine note tore past through the headset. Radio chatter overlapped in quick bursts.
—It was back.
What kind of season this would be was, as always, impossible to know. A strong test didn’t mean wins in races. Run, refine, run again. Aim for the next championship trophy. Those days had returned.
On the onboard feed, Lawson guided the car into a corner. Max’s brow tightened slightly.
“Turn ten, a bit unstable.”
Horner’s voice came through the headset.
“Yeah. Front’s not biting on entry.”
He followed the traces on the monitor with his eyes. The front end wasn’t coming in cleanly, and the rear looked unsettled on exit because of it.
“Rear’s sliding on the exit.”
Waché said it at the same moment, as if they’d reached the same conclusion.
Max kept his eyes on the screen, brow still faintly furrowed.
It wasn’t a major issue, but it looked like the balance would fall apart if pushed. What to check in the afternoon run. Which inputs would confirm it. He built a working hypothesis from the data.
“Box this lap, box this lap.”
The engineer’s call went out to Lawson. Listening to it, Max leaned back, straightening from where he’d been hunched. Behind him, a Mercedes car passed down the pit lane. Car number 12. His gaze drifted toward their garage almost on instinct.
Not there. Maybe on the pit wall?
“Balance issue, you think, Max?”
Horner again. Max pulled his attention back to the monitor.
Lawson spun once at Turn 2 after that, but there was no damage, and the morning session went on without any major problems. Straight-line speed was good. The corners were the concern. That was about it.
“Session complete. Good work, everyone.”
The radio call came through, and Lawson’s car was brought back into the garage. Max took off his headset, left the pit wall, and went to meet his teammate climbing out of the car.
“Strange spin.”
“Yeah, I just lost it on the exit of Turn 2…”
His voice still held a trace of tension. Max watched the car while listening to him and the engineers. At least visually, nothing looked wrong. Built on the RB20, it looked almost identical. The RB20 hadn’t been bad, but it was nowhere near the RB19 from 2023, the car that had given Max and the team an unprecedented win rate. How would this year turn out?
“When do you need me back?”
It was his turn in the afternoon. Horner told him, “Be here by 14:30.” Max nodded and headed toward the hospitality area in the motorhome.
There was no running between 13:00 and 14:00. The hospitality area was packed with team members taking a break. It should have been all Red Bull uniforms—
“Ah, there you are, Max!”
“Lando.”
Papaya orange stood out immediately. Of course it did. It wasn’t like other teams couldn’t come and go, but it was still completely away territory. Lando didn’t seem to care.
“What are you doing here?”
“Came to talk, obviously.”
“What about your test?”
“Afternoon.”
“Oscar?”
“Left him behind.”
“…Of course.”
Didn’t look like he’d be leaving anytime soon. Max gave up and went to get food. He passed by the tables lined with pasta, fish, and meat, and reached instead for salad and chicken. All the while, Lando kept talking. Max half-listened to his winter stories, taking what he needed onto his plate.
“So, how did it go?”
The moment they sat down, Lando leaned forward.
“What?”
Max poked at his salad, eyes dropping to his phone.
“George.”
“Hm?”
“Come on, tell me what happened. I helped you out in London, remember?”
“Ah…Right.”
He had, hadn’t he. Max had completely forgotten. He let out a small laugh, recalling that night. He’d thought he was just making use of Lando’s loose mouth—but when George realised it had actually been set up by Max, the look on his face had been priceless.
“…So? You two together?”
His voice was lowered, at least, but there was no restraint in the way he asked. Lando had been part of the setup with Daniel that caused the “incident” in Abu Dhabi. And after that, he’d even helped lure George out in London, so he already knew most of how things had unfolded.
“Maybe.”
No point lying. Max gave a short answer and checked the weather on his phone. Rain was forecast from tonight into tomorrow.
“Whoa—seriously? Have you done it yet? What’s he like?”
The shift in energy was obvious, his voice rising even as he tried to keep it down. Max glanced over. Lando was staring at him, eyes practically shining.
“What are you gonna do with that?”
What was even fun about hearing about someone else’s sex life? He couldn’t quite understand it.
Lando threw his hands out, overreacting as if deeply offended.
“Course it’s fun! It’s you and George—how am I not gonna be curious?”
Come on, please. I won’t tell anyone.
Lando pressed on. At this point, he clearly wasn’t going to back off. Max let out an exasperated sigh.
Well, it’s not like it’s something I have to hide.
“…It’s normal.”
Probably. Or maybe not. Max reconsidered. He didn’t have anything to compare it to—first time with a guy—but if anything, there was probably more attachment than usual.
“He bites a bit.”
The moment he added that, Lando’s eyes lit up in a way that spelled trouble.
“He bites?”
A hushed, excited whisper.
“What, is he really that intense? Like—actually sadistic? Doesn’t it hurt? Or are you into that?”
“…You’re asking too much.”
Max’s voice dropped as he shot Lando a look, then took a bite of his chicken.
Saying George had a bit of a sadistic streak was one thing, but there was no way he was letting Lando know he enjoyed it.
“Come on, just tell me more.”
“I already told you.”
That was all he was getting. Max made it clear and ignored him after that. Lando kept complaining for a while, but eventually went quiet. Must’ve given up. He was typing something into his phone. Relieved he wouldn’t be asked anything else, Max opened his chat with George and sent, Where are you staying? He’d probably get a reply before the afternoon session ended.
“Hey, I heard you’ve been biting Max a lot when you two hook up—what, are you a sadist or something? Or is Max just into it? 🤣🤣🤣”
The read receipt ticked on almost immediately.
The rear stepped out for a split second. Instinctively, Max threw in opposite lock and stamped on the brakes. The car spun.
“Fuck!”
The timing should have been right. But he couldn’t stop the spin.
“Any damage?”
GP’s voice came over the radio.
“No.”
Max answered shortly.
Something felt off.
It wasn’t quite the same as the RB20’s behaviour that had given him trouble last year. It looked like it would need a careful analysis.
“Alright, Max. Back at it tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Night.”
The session ended. Night fell. A power outage had delayed things by an hour. Max dropped onto the sofa in his hotel room and let out a breath.
There were still plenty of issues. Overall, the pace wasn’t bad. His time today had put him third, just behind Lando and George. But the moment he pushed through corners, the car became extremely unstable. It would depend on further adjustments, of course, but the RB21 might turn out to be a difficult car to handle.
Mercedes looked good.
George had seemed to be getting through his runs without trouble.
Max picked up his phone and opened his messages. There was a reply to the one he’d sent earlier.
“The Ritz-Carlton.”
Same.
The team had put him in a deluxe room at the Ritz-Carlton Bahrain. George was probably in the same class. If so, they’d likely be on nearby floors.
“Same.”
He paused for a moment, then added another message.
“Let me know your plans for the last day.”
The read receipt came almost immediately. A thumbs-up reaction appeared on his sent message. No reply followed.
“That’s new.”
He muttered under his breath.
Maybe he was tired. Or still at dinner with the team.
—That was probably it.
After waiting a little longer, Max tossed his phone onto the sofa. Pre-season testing lasted three days. Tomorrow would be the real day for adjustments.
Day two. The Bahrain International Circuit greeted the morning with the remnants of last night’s rain. Max’s steps through the paddock felt a little heavier than yesterday. He wasn’t scheduled to drive today.
Would’ve liked to try it on a damp track.
Still, time on track was valuable. The team’s decision to give as much running as possible to Liam, who had just joined Red Bull, made sense. It was just dull for Max.
The surface wasn’t fully dry yet. Streaks of water remained in places, scattering into fine spray whenever someone passed. The sky hung dull and overcast. If the track was in the same condition, finding grip wouldn’t be easy.
He headed toward the motorhome, exchanging greetings along the way, when a flash of silver caught at the edge of his vision.
There.
His steps turned that way without thinking.
“George.”
He called out. Same distance, same tone as yesterday.
George looked up.
“Morning.”
The reply was calm, but something about it felt flat..
“You were out yesterday morning, right?”
“Yeah. Just a bit.”
George answered shortly. He didn’t continue. Silence fell. Max searched for something to say.
“I'm not driving today.”
“Yeah. I heard.”
The conversation ended again.
…?
Max frowned slightly, looking up at George. Their eyes met for a brief second. Then those ice-blue eyes slid past him, drifting somewhere into the flow of people, into the paddock.
One second. Two. Short, but decisive silence. George glanced down at his watch.
“I should go. I’ve got a meeting.”
“…Yeah.”
No reason to stop him. Nothing solid enough to press him on. Max gave a small nod. George turned and walked away.
What was that…?
The unease lingered as Max made his way to the motorhome. If he’d had to change into his race suit, it might’ve helped reset his head, but unfortunately the only official thing he had today was a press conference. Jeans, team jacket, cap—that was enough. And then, just after the session started, the rain came. The car was rolled back into the garage, and Max was left with nothing to do.
As he looked over Lawson’s test data, his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
George’s behaviour was clearly off. Yesterday morning had been normal—the soft look in his eyes, warm enough to make Max laugh, the slightly longer hug, the palm pressed to his back. None of it had been there today.
He’s pissed?
But he couldn’t think of a reason. They hadn’t even seen each other since yesterday morning, so there was nothing that should’ve caused it.
Then was it something else? Just a bad mood? Maybe the test wasn’t going well.
No…
Pre-season testing was being broadcast, so he could check other teams through the stream. Mercedes looked solid. So that wasn’t it either. No answer.
The rain stopped, and the session resumed. Mercedes kept logging laps without issue. It stood in contrast to Red Bull, who had cut their run early and boxed the garage off with screens, going into heavier adjustments.
The morning session ended as it was.
He went up to the second floor of the motorhome for lunch. With the test not going particularly well, the atmosphere in hospitality was a little subdued. Max filled his plate with the same menu as yesterday and settled into a seat by the window. As he moved his fork, he let his gaze drift outside. People moved back and forth in front of the motorhome, the usual mix of team uniforms—until a familiar silhouette caught his eye.
George.
Half out of his race suit, a silver jacket thrown over it, walking past the Red Bull motorhome.
—Talking with Carlos beside him, smiling.
Max’s hand stopped.
George was turned toward Carlos, listening, laughing, answering with an easy, soft expression. It was natural. Completely different from this morning.
What the hell?
George and Carlos stopped, laughing as they briefly touched each other’s shoulders before heading off in different directions. This morning, George hadn’t even looked like he might reach for Max.
Max slowly set his fork down. He didn’t feel like eating anymore. He stood, zipped his jacket all the way up to his neck, and buried his mouth in the collar. Then he left hospitality and headed back to the garage. He thought it might be better than being alone, but the car’s floor was still off, and the garage was hectic.
“Max, coming through.”
An engineer’s voice.
“Yeah, sorry.”
Max stepped aside. At this point, there was almost nothing a driver could do. He moved to the edge of the garage so he wouldn’t be in the way and looked up at the monitors.
But he couldn’t focus.
He could follow the numbers. He understood the situation. But his attention kept slipping.
Shit…
The scene from earlier wouldn’t leave his head.
One of the monitors kept showing the live broadcast. Mercedes, while not quite matching McLaren, looked far more stable than Red Bull. The camera followed the silver car driven by the rookie, Kimi. Max’s gaze lingered on the feed before he caught himself and turned back to the data screens.
Don’t think about it.
This wasn’t the time to be looking for George.
Maybe he was just in a bad mood this morning.
Probably that. Max settled on that, for now. It was the only explanation he had.
A little while later, the car was sent back out, but nothing improved. A few laps, then back in. Adjust, then out again. Over and over. No matter how many changes they made, nothing translated into results.
“Session over. That’s the end of the session.”
Day two ended on schedule. Lawson’s time put him seventh. In the end, the instability through the corners hadn’t been resolved.
Something was wrong. With the car, and—
The cause of neither was clear. It left a bad taste.
The feeling didn’t lift on the way back to the hotel. He walked into his room, dropped his backpack onto the sofa, and let out a breath. He opened his phone, scrolled through his social media feed for no reason, then locked it again.
He considered asking George directly. But maybe he was just off this morning. And the idea of being the only one checking the other’s mood didn’t sit right with him.
His phone buzzed.
“—”
He grabbed it reflexively. He almost opened it without checking the name, then his finger paused.
It was Horner.
“Team dinner at Cantina Kahlo.”
A restaurant in the hotel. Another message followed right away.
“Smart casual.”
“…Right.”
He let out a small breath.
What a pain. He wasn’t in the mood to make nice over dinner. If it was work talk, fine—but with people from other teams staying at the same hotel, it would probably just be safe, surface-level conversation. Still, he couldn’t ignore a call from the team principal.
He sent back an OK and tossed his phone onto the sofa.
Dragging himself up, he pulled his suitcase closer from beside the bed and rummaged through it, still half-unpacked. A navy half-zip caught his eye. That would do. He stripped off his team shirt and threw it onto the sofa, then shoved his arms and head into the new top with a quiet sigh. He kept the jeans. Horner probably wouldn’t approve, but he didn’t care. A quick glance in the mirror, a hand through his hair, and he left the room.
The restaurant was Mexican. The moment he stepped inside, what caught his eye was the deep turquoise walls and the bronze chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Paintings lined the walls. The chairs and sofas were colourful, bold, and yet somehow everything worked together. Voices and the clink of cutlery blended into a low, comfortable hum.
Not loud, but not silent either. It made sense Horner had picked it for a team dinner.
And apparently, Horner wasn’t the only one. In his line of sight, a familiar brunet. George.
…Huh.
For a few seconds, Max found himself staring. Long enough for the man sitting across from him—Mercedes’ Toto Wolff—to notice.
“Max.”
Toto lifted a hand with an easy smile. Kimi, who had been sitting beside George with his back to him, turned and, spotting Max, smiled as well.
But George didn’t turn around.
He wasn’t sure if he was smiling properly. Max forced his stiffening cheek into something like a smile and walked over to their table.
“Good to see you.”
“Good to see you too, Max. Enjoying the test drive?”
He shook Toto’s hand, then Kimi’s when he stood.
“Yeah. Only got yesterday, but it was alright. Hey, Kimi.”
“Evening, Max.”
“I was watching. Good run.”
“Thank you.”
Easy conversation. And through all of it, George didn’t so much as pause his meal. Knife and fork moving, cutting into the food on his plate. Only once did those ice-blue eyes meet Max’s. That was it. They slipped away immediately, and George returned to his meal as if nothing had happened.
“…”
Max narrowed his eyes slightly.
The silence lasted only a moment—but it was decisive. Toto’s gaze flicked once between Max and George.
“…Team dinner?”
“Yeah. Christian’s over there.”
He gestured toward a table along the wall. Horner noticed and lifted a hand in greeting; Toto returned it.
“Shame. We’ve got a seat open—I’d have asked you to join us if you were free.”
“Hah, thanks. Maybe next time.”
The atmosphere stayed polite. But under that smile, something hot was starting to build in Max’s gut.
George still didn’t look at him.
This wasn’t coincidence. Not a misunderstanding. Not just a bad morning.
That settled it.
Just me.
Max gave Toto a small nod and turned away from the table, his expression already tight.
What the hell is that supposed to be?
He reached Horner’s table, pulled out a chair, and sat. “You’re late,” Horner said; Max gave a vague answer, placed an order. Conversation moved on—test runs, the car, plans for tomorrow. He wasn’t not listening. He answered when needed. But it all slid past, thin, like the words weren’t quite his.
His gaze drifted on its own, toward the table across from him.
George was still there. Listening to Kimi, nodding now and then, smiling softly. It looked natural. Easy. And just moments ago, he’d all but ignored Max.
Max watched in silence.
So he is pissed at me.
Anger, and something sharper, coiled together.
Max couldn’t think of a reason. But something must have set George off. Fine. Their personalities were opposites—it was only a matter of time before something like this happened.
Then he should just say it.
He didn’t mind a confrontation. If the other side had a point, he’d take it. If not, they could push back and forth until they found one they both could live with. But saying nothing, acting it out, expecting him to read it—
That was unfair. And childish.
At least, Max wasn’t going to put up with it.
──── Read the room? That phrase didn’t exist in Max Verstappen’s vocabulary.
Under the table, he unlocked his phone and opened the messaging app.
"Impressive attitude, George."
Across the room, George glanced down at the notification. Read.
"Come explain."
He sent his room number next. Read. Through the noise of the restaurant, their eyes met. George must have caught his expression too. His face tightened, just slightly, before he looked back down. The typing indicator appeared.
"Alright."
That was all.
Max set his phone face down and forced his attention back to the table. He picked up his fork and took a bite. GP shot him a concerned look; Max ignored it, and the others seemed to take the hint—they didn’t press him further.
“I’m heading back. Night.”
He finished quickly and stood at a natural break. The Mercedes table was still in easy conversation. He could feel George watching him as he chose a route that didn’t pass by them and left the restaurant.
The face in the lift mirror looked more irritated than he’d expected.
“…”
He let out a slow breath, trying to settle it. It didn’t help. Even once he was back in his room, the irritation didn’t ease.
Why won’t he just say it?
Max’s anger was simple. If he had something to say, he should say it. That was all.
They were in a relationship. If anything, that made it more important. Whatever they were, it was built on mutual respect—on being equals. Not something where one of them had to tiptoe around the other’s mood.
He didn’t know why George was angry. If it was his fault, then fine—he’d apologise. But he wasn’t going to quietly accept being shut out instead of talked to.
“Fuck…”
Max threw himself onto the sofa hard enough that his head knocked against the backrest. He dragged the discarded uniform out from under him and tossed it aside. Tilting his head back, he stared up at the ceiling, lit by the soft indirect lighting.
Where did it go wrong?
Yesterday had been normal. Those eyes had been full of affection—enough to make him laugh just looking at them. And overnight, it had all changed.
He’d thought things were working. Different from most, maybe, but steady.
He hadn’t expected it to shift this completely, this fast.
A knock.
Max closed his eyes for a few seconds, then pushed himself up and crossed the room. George stood on the other side of the door. White shirt, beige knit jacket, navy chinos—perfectly put together from his brunet hair down to the camel driving shoes. And the same, flat gaze from earlier.
“…”
Max held that ice-blue stare as he opened the door and stepped back half a pace. George walked in without a word. The faint scent of his cologne followed. Familiar. Max’s brow tightened. It had all been something he liked, until yesterday.
Why the hell is it like this?
Max shut the door, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. When he looked up again, George had his back to him, taking in the room—the open suitcase, the uniform left crumpled on the sofa.
“…You call me here and this is what I walk into.”
A low murmur.
“What?”
George turned, looking down at him. His eyes were still cold.
“Didn’t think I’d come? Or did it just not matter to you whether I did?”
His tone was even—less accusation, more like he was confirming something. Max’s brows drew together sharply.
“What are you on about?”
“Exactly what I said.”
George didn’t elaborate. As if it didn’t matter whether Max understood. As if he had no intention of explaining.He just stood there, watching him. Testing him—and that was enough to push Max past his limit.
“…You’ve been like this all day. What’s your problem? What are you, three? If you’ve got something to say, say it. Don’t just dump your mood on me!”
It broke out of him, sharp and uncontrolled.
“What, do you hate me that much now you can’t even talk to me?”
George’s eyes wavered, just slightly. Max didn’t look away.
“…That’s not it. I couldn’t sort out how I felt. Not when you seemed completely fine with it.”
“With what?”
The frustration kept building, inching closer to a breaking point.
“You really don't get it?”
George frowned down at him, like he was looking at something he couldn’t believe.
“Then, just say it straight—”
“It just means it didn’t matter that much to you.”
“The hell are you talking about?”
“The time with me.”
The words were quiet, but edged with anger. Max went still for a second.
“…What?”
Confusion overtook the anger. He genuinely didn’t understand what George was trying to say.
George went on.
“Something you can just tell anyone, is it?”
“What are you even—”
It didn’t make sense. Max’s eyes flickered.
George exhaled, sharp, then turned his phone toward him.
“Hey, I heard you’ve been biting Max a lot when you two hook up—what, are you a sadist or something? Or is Max just into it? 🤣🤣🤣”
The sender was Lando.
“…”
Max’s brow tightened.
“…That’s it?”
So that was it. That’s why George had been off. But it still didn’t track.
“You’re pissed about this? Because I told him about us?”
George didn’t answer. His gaze stayed on the screen—but the look on his face had sunk into something heavier. Disappointment. Something close to hurt.
“It’s not like I told just anyone. Lando already knew.”
“…That’s not the point.”
“Then what is it?”
“You made it sound like it meant nothing.”
“How the hell does that make any sense?”
The conversation wouldn’t line up. Friction, building again.
“He asked, so I answered. That’s it.”
“Exactly. That’s why I’m angry.”
“What, you think it’s something we’re supposed to hide? Like it’s something to be ashamed of?”
“That was ours. Just ours. I don’t want anyone else in it. …I didn’t want anyone but you to see me like that.”
“That’s—over the top.”
“Yes. To you, it is. That’s why you can throw it around like it’s nothing.”
"That wasn't something to joke about." George added. "I wasn't." Max replied reflextionally.
They weren’t getting anywhere. Not even close. Silence dropped between them. George broke first, looking away, shoulders dipping just slightly, as he murmured,
“…If you don’t get it, then fine.”
“FINE?”
Max snapped back immediately.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You won’t even explain—”
“I did. You’re just not trying to understand.”
The words cut clean. Max fell silent.
George lifted his gaze. There was barely any anger left in it now. Just something quiet—like a line drawn between them, invisible but absolute.
“You’re not even trying to think about what matters to me.”
“I am—”
“Then answer me.”
His voice stayed low.
“When you saw that message—did you even stop to think how that would feel for me?”
“…”
Max froze. George said nothing more. He looked away, turning his back on him.
“Wait.”
The word came out, but Max couldn't move.
“George.”
He said his name. Just once, George’s steps faltered. But he didn’t turn back.
“…Not right now.”
The words were quiet.
“Wait—”
“Until you actually understand, there’s nothing to talk about.”
A quiet refusal. Clearer than any shout.
“George—”
The door closed behind him.
Max’s hand, half-raised, fell short.