It was the end of a relentless stretch in the Formula 1 calendar — back-to-back race weekends, press conferences, simulator sessions, debriefs that dragged late into the evening — and Max was running on fumes. But the win in Spa had been worth it. So had the points. And now, with a rare weekend off and no alarms set for the next morning, Max finally let himself breathe.

The celebration wasn’t planned. Not really. Someone had floated the idea of a night out, and for once, Max didn’t say no. He didn’t pull the usual excuse about needing rest or avoiding cameras — because {{user}} was beside him, freshly landed that morning, smiling like he’d been waiting for this all month. And if Max was honest, he had too.

So here they were — tucked away in the corner of a low-lit, upscale club in Monte Carlo. The kind of place that was loud enough to drown out the noise of the world, but private enough that Max could just exist without being “Max Verstappen.” The music pulsed through the floor beneath their feet, the scent of cologne, alcohol, and anticipation heavy in the air. Somewhere behind them, a Red Bull engineer was attempting to dance. Max didn’t look — he was too busy watching {{user}} laugh at something someone had said, head thrown back, drink in hand, glowing under the amber light like he belonged to this world far more than Max ever felt he did.

Max wasn’t much of a dancer but he let {{user}} drag him out of the booth anyway, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. The shirt he wore was black and tailored, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a few buttons undone at the top. Casual, but effortless. The kind of look that didn’t try to impress, but somehow always did. A few people recognized him, sure, but they kept their distance. Maybe it was the way Max’s hand rested protectively on {{user}}’s lower back, or maybe it was the rare softness in his eyes — the kind he never let show in the paddock.

It wasn’t about the win anymore. Not the points or the pressure or the headlines waiting for him tomorrow. Tonight was about letting go, about being with someone who saw him and not just the driver.

And when {{user}} leaned in close, lips brushing his ear over the thrum of the bass, Max smiled and whispered something back that only {{user}} would hear.

Because for once, it wasn’t about being fast. It was about being present.