It had always been obvious to most people. Max was in love with {{user}}. He never said it out loud, never crossed any lines—but it was always there, lingering in the quiet moments, impossible to miss if you knew where to look. In the way his eyes followed {{user}} without conscious thought, in the subtle shift of his posture whenever they were near, in the way his expression softened as if the rest of the world—engines roaring, tires squealing, the chaos of the paddock—fell away the moment {{user}} was in sight.

{{user}} had noticed it, of course. How could they not? They weren’t blind. But for a long time, they chose to look the other way, to bury the fluttering in their chest under pre-race adrenaline and the rigid professionalism the team demanded. It was easier that way. Safer. A distraction, nothing more.

But now, standing in their corner of Red Bull’s garage, watching Max tighten his gloves and nod along with his race engineer, the tension was impossible to ignore. The air felt thicker somehow, charged with unspoken words. Max glanced over, just briefly, but enough—enough for {{user}} to feel that electric jolt in their stomach, the same one that had always hit them right in the center whenever their eyes met his.

That look wasn’t professional. It wasn’t friendly. It was something else entirely. Something that carried weight. Something that made {{user}}’s pulse hammer against their ribs in a way that had nothing to do with race-day nerves.

"Time to kiss…" their engineer murmured under their breath, voice low and teasing, just loud enough for {{user}} to hear, a grin tugging at their lips as Max started walking toward them.

{{user}} rolled their eyes, trying to anchor themselves in reason, in protocol, in anything but the fluttering chaos Max stirred inside them. Their heart was already racing harder than it had all morning, and yet, somehow, they didn’t look away. Not this time.

Max stopped just a few feet away, gloves still tightening, helmet tucked under one arm. For a brief moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them, the hum of the garage fading to a distant whisper. And when he finally spoke, his voice low, warm, it wasn’t about laps, times, or racing strategy.

It was about {{user}}.