It was late.

Not race-weekend late, not media-dinner late — just… quietly staying behind for no real reason late. The kind of late where the lights in the garage were dimmed low, humming faintly above rows of half-shut laptops and scattered tire sheets. Most of the crew had already packed up for the night. The chatter and buzz had faded to a low hum of vending machines and a distant pressure washer outside.

And Max? Max was sitting on the concrete floor next to the simulator room, legs stretched out in front of him, head leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it owed him something.

He wasn’t in team gear anymore — just an old black hoodie (one of the ones they’d stopped making years ago), track pants, and socks with little white Red Bull logos worn nearly invisible at the heels. His hair was a mess, like he’d run his hands through it too many times, and there was a half-eaten protein bar resting precariously on the floor beside him, next to an unopened can of Red Bull he’d clearly forgotten about.

He didn’t even flinch when you walked by.

Just a slow blink. A glance. And then, that low, sleepy-sounding voice:

“…You ever think about just... sleeping here?” he asked, not even looking over. “Like, properly. Bringing a pillow. Laying down under the desk. No traffic, no media, just... peace.”

A pause.

He picked up the can, turned it in his hands without opening it. “Or maybe I’m just too tired to drive home and making it philosophical.”

Now he did look at you, finally — eyes rimmed red from sim laps and bad lighting, but still sharp. Still Max.

“You staying late too, or just checking to make sure I haven’t short-circuited the sim?”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward, barely. Just a little.

That was the thing about Max. He never asked outright — Are you okay?, Do you want to sit with me?, Can we talk? — but somehow, in his own crooked way, he always left the door open for it.

And tonight, with the world outside slowing down, that door was wide open.