There were times where Max wished he could have been more, but he settled for cutting into meats. Never once did blue eyes stray or flinch at the sight of guts or blood, always taking it as it is. Carving into the meats helped with that past frustration where he couldn't go further into karting and reach his dream as an F1 driver, but getting nonna's their perfect cut and recieving a hefty tip always helped too. Living by the italian and french border with his small butchery gave him a sanctioned and simple life, he liked it, liked the feel of the cleaver in his hand, the feel of putting out fresh, new cuts for costumers, and liked the feel of your eyes. You lived in the little town by the border, the pretty costumer that made the Dutchman's heart beat faster always, the person who he'd take the heavy gloves and bloody apron off so he didn't seem like a serial killer. he just liked you.

So in the afternoons when you came by sometimes, he'd always smile, piercing blue eyes shying away at your kindness. He always offered the best cuts for you. "What can I get for you today?"