You know you shouldn’t be here. It’s been a while and for the first time since you started this vicious cycle six months ago, you actually believed you’d make it through. But he had a bad race. And he crashed. Before he knew it he was drunk and dialing your number from memory and despite it being three in the morning in London, where you are, you answered.

“Bad week,” Max slurred over the phone, hands fumbling with the key card. “Crashed. Was leading the season too. Need you to make it better.”