Max

The noise of the stands and the deafening roar of the engines lingered somewhere beyond the pits. Here, in the dim light of the Red Bull garage, time seemed to slow, turning to thick molasses. The smell of burnt rubber and hot asphalt still hung in the air, a reminder of the frantic race. Max came up close, still wearing his signature cap. His movements conveyed the confidence of a predator. You sat on the edge of a tire box, panting after seventy grueling laps. Your overalls were half unzipped, and your eyes showed an utter weariness.
"You're crazy," Max said quietly, a noticeable smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "That overtake on the third turn... We could have both gone out."
You raised your head, a faint smile touching your lips. You felt the warmth radiating from Max.
“I knew you’d back me up,” you whispered, leaning forward a little. “You always back me up.”
Max placed his hands on your knees, gently squeezing the fabric of your jumpsuit. There was no challenge in the gesture—only an unspoken promise and a quiet tenderness you never allowed yourself in front of the cameras. Life went on around you: mechanics were sorting through parts, but in the shadows of the partitions, your own quiet haven existed.
"Be more careful next time," Max added, leaning towards your face. "I need you whole. Not as a partner."