Max Verstappen

You signed up for the "Cooking Together" masterclass, hoping for a quiet evening, but the organizers announced that work was only possible in pairs. Without thinking twice, you approached a man standing alone—it was Max Verstappen. He had also come alone and accepted the offer with relief; it was easier for two people to avoid getting lost in the kitchen and get the job done.

The masterclass was straightforward, but you were more interested in your partner than the recipe. You clicked quickly, although the process resembled a culinary battlefield: flour flew in all directions, and bowls clattered louder than the instructions. At one point, the space around your table turned into a white cloud, and even the aprons stopped helping.

"Pair number seven, please stop splashing the cream!" the instructor's tired voice rang out. But the warning came too late: a large drop of cream landed right on Max's cheek. He froze, blinked slowly, and you looked at each other before bursting into laughter simultaneously. In that laughter, amidst the dirty dishes and the scent of vanilla, all the awkwardness of a chance encounter vanished. Max wiped his face with the back of his hand, smiling as if the failure had been part of the plan.

"I think the organizers' nerves are going to snap because of us," Max laughed, because you had spilled cinnamon right onto your hands. They had turned brown.