Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

One Night Only

Monaco nights are rarely quiet, not even this high up.

The city hums below Max’s hotel suite, all distant bass lines and murmured laughter, yachts glittering in the port like constellations snapped free of the sky. The windows are cracked open just enough to let in the breeze, warm and salted, fluttering the corner of a Red Bull polo tossed carelessly over a chair.

Max lies sprawled on the couch in sweats and a loose tee, the collar tugged wide by the weight of the day. His damp hair curls faintly against his temple. A half-drunk glass of white wine sits on the table beside him, untouched for the last twenty minutes.

His tablet glows in his lap, still open to the article Lando had texted him as a joke.

“MAX VERSTAPPEN SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY BLONDE — WHO’S THE NEW LOVE INTEREST?”

He exhales sharply through his nose and tosses the tablet down, face-first against the cushion.

It doesn’t matter what he does. One dinner with a friend? Headlines. One shared car ride with a guy from McLaren? Headline. God forbid he talks to anyone attractive in a radius wider than arm’s length.

And it’s not just the press anymore.

Gemma from PR had cornered him earlier that afternoon with her usual chipper tone. “Have you ever thought of trying online dating? Just to show people you're open to love? It’d be great for your image right now.”

He’d given her a look that shut it down instantly, but the question lingered.

Even his own engineers have started teasing him again. Since you’re back on the market..., they say. Bet the whole paddock wants a shot now you’ve come out, mate.

He rolls onto his side, irritation humming under his skin. He didn’t come out for publicity. He came out because lying was worse. Because being with Kelly had made him feel safe, but not seen. And when it ended—quietly, months ago—he thought at least the noise would stop.

It didn’t.

Now, every connection feels like a trap. Every smile is speculated. Every look dissected.

And maybe—maybe tonight he just wants something simple. Something polished and temporary. Someone to stand beside him at the gala tomorrow and make it easier to breathe.

He sits up. Grabs the tablet again. Taps quickly this time, purposeful.

The website is sleek. Discreet. Black-on-white with elegant serif text. No photos at first. Just a verification process and a quiet assurance of confidentiality.

Max clicks through it too fast at first—instinct, not thought—until he hits the section that asks for preferences.

He exhales slowly, hand tightening around the tablet.

A small voice in his head whispers that this is ridiculous. That he could call any number of people right now and they’d come. No questions. No invoices. No search filters.

That’s how it’s always been. He’s Max Verstappen. He never had to ask twice—hell, he never had to ask at all. A glance, a smile, a nod at the right moment. People fell into his bed willingly, eagerly, chasing something they thought they wanted. Fame, power, the rush of being close to someone untouchable.

But this—this is different.

This feels like walking straight into the center of something he shouldn't want.

Still, he keeps going.

He narrows his eyes at the list of filters: event type, language, preferred appearance, conversational fluency, shared interests. It's clinical, curated—yet somehow intimate in a way that makes the back of his neck flush with heat.

He selects:

• Corporate appearance

• Fluent in French and English

• Elegant, confident

• Good with press

• Optional: some knowledge of motorsport

He hovers over the next option—sexual preferences—but his hand stills above it.

He doesn’t click.

This isn’t about that. Not tonight. He’s not even sure what this is about, only that his pulse won’t settle and he feels like he’s balancing on the edge of something sharp.

There’s a prickle just under his skin, half thrill, half nausea, as he enters his name for verification. The box flashes MAX VERSTAPPEN back at him in bold text, and it looks wrong. Out of place. Too loud.

His thumb hesitates over the confirmation button. He feels—stupid. Nervous. Like he might laugh or throw up or both.

He’s never done this before.

He’s never needed to.

A single smile usually gets him what he wants. Or what he thought he wanted. But maybe that’s the problem—maybe this isn’t about wanting so much as needing something different. Something controlled. Something simple.

He presses Submit.

A soft chime pings in the corner of the screen. A message opens, crisp and impersonal.

Thank you, Mr. Verstappen. Based on your needs, we recommend M. Blanc — a top-tier escort with extensive experience in high-profile appearances. Fluent in five languages, well-read, and impeccably mannered. Monaco native. Very discreet.

Below, a photo unlocks.

It’s almost clinical in presentation—shoulders squared, neutral background—but Max stops breathing for a second anyway.

The brunette in the photo wears a crisp black shirt, collar sharp, cuffs buttoned. His mouth is set in a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His dark hair is styled with precise ease, a lock curling forward deliberately. He doesn’t look flirtatious. He looks in control.

The name listed is simple: Charles L.

Max studies him. There’s something familiar about the line of his jaw, the bold set of his brow. Not a man used to being overlooked.

He scrolls further.

• Background: Former student of architecture.

• Languages: French (native), English, Italian, German.

• Specialty: Corporate events, press-friendly environments, tailored companionship.

• Note: “Knows how to disappear into a crowd—or command one.”

Max exhales slowly.

He clicks Book Now before he lets himself think better of it.

Just for tomorrow night.

One night only.

The next morning breaks bright and merciless over the port, the kind of cloudless Monaco day that’s designed to blind you with wealth and make your hangover feel personal.

Max isn’t hungover, but he is restless.

The hotel suite has turned into a hive of movement—two stylists hovering like wasps around him, steam rising from an iron, someone unpacking a garment bag while murmuring about lapel lines and pocket squares. His phone buzzes every five minutes with schedule pings: sponsor meetings, a brief press call, then the gala.

He sits in a low chair, black shirt half-buttoned, watching his reflection as one of the stylists brushes invisible lint from his shoulder for the fifth time. His hair is being set with a quick touch—no gel, just enough volume to keep the waves intentional.

Then comes Gemma, all sharp heels and sharper tone, tablet in hand and eyebrows already raised. “Alright, Max. You’re expected at the venue entrance by 18:30. There’s going to be press at the carpet, some sponsors milling early—try not to be late, or wear sunglasses like a vampire again.”

He hums noncommittally, tugging at his sleeve.

“You’ll be seated with the Heineken reps first, then the principal from TAG. And listen,” she continues, stepping in closer, lowering her voice slightly, “you know they’ll ask about your personal life. It's Monaco, and now that you're—” she gestures vaguely, “open—every headline’s going to be about who you’re seen with tonight.”

He looks up, jaw tight.

“You don’t have to say anything, obviously,” she adds, placating, “but if you’d rather we prep a line about being focused on racing—”

“I won’t be alone tonight,” he cuts in.

Gemma stills.

“You’re bringing someone?”

He doesn’t answer directly. Just smooths down his shirt, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

“You’ll see.”

She blinks, caught off-guard for once.

“Alright. That’s… fine. Just keep it polished.”

Max gives her a flat look, but there's something beneath it. A flicker of heat. Anticipation, maybe. Or nerves.

He hadn’t lied. He wouldn't be alone.

And whatever this night turns into—performance or not—he’s stepping into it on his terms.

The ballroom at the Hôtel de Paris glows like something out of a fever dream—gold chandeliers blazing, marble floors gleaming, guests gliding between crystal flutes and murmured introductions.

Max hates this kind of thing.

Too many cameras. Too many handshakes. Everyone watching everyone else, pretending they’re not. His name has already been called twice, flashes going off as he posed in front of the Red Bull backdrop, forcing that neutral, mildly amused smile he keeps in reserve for these exact occasions.

He’s standing near the edge of the crowd now, sleek in a black-on-black suit—no tie, collar sharp, sleeves tailored perfectly. He looks like he belongs here. He always does. But inside, he feels like someone pacing a cage.

Then he sees him.

Top of the marble staircase. Stepping in as if the whole room already belongs to him.

Charles.

The brunette is dressed in a suit so precisely cut it looks like it was sewn onto him—matte black, shoulders squared, the line of his jaw catching soft light. A dark red tie is knotted clean against his throat, subtle enough to not draw attention but striking enough that Max notices it immediately. A signature, maybe. A warning.

He moves like someone used to being observed. Every step measured, deliberate. Eyes scanning the room with disinterest, then—landing on Max.

Their eyes meet.

And Max doesn’t breathe for a second.

It’s not just that Charles is handsome. It’s the stillness in him. The confidence that’s not loud or cocky but contained, curated. Like everything about him is intentional.

He approaches with a faint smile—nothing exaggerated, just the barest shift of lips.

“Max Verstappen?” he asks, voice low and even, with the soft edge of a Monegasque accent. “A pleasure.”

He holds out a hand.

Max shakes it, and it’s absurd—how his pulse jumps at a handshake. The skin-to-skin contact feels too intimate for something so formal. Charles’ palm is warm, his grip firm, brief. Everything about him is… measured.

“Likewise,” Max says, forcing himself to blink. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course.”

Charles’ eyes flick briefly to the side—toward the growing crowd beyond the glass doors of the ballroom, the velvet ropes and flashbulbs lining the entrance. Then back to Max.

“Before we go in,” he says smoothly, “just so I’m clear—what do you prefer tonight? Conversation, or quiet support? Do you want me to handle small talk, or just smile when spoken to?”

Max blinks. “What?”

The brunette offers a faint shrug, casual, practiced. “Some clients prefer silence. Others like someone to laugh at their jokes. I can take the lead in conversation if needed, or I can hang back—look expensive and mysterious.” A pause. “As for the carpet—are we touching? Arm in arm, hand on your back, or would you rather keep distance?”

Max stares at him for a beat too long.

Because Charles doesn’t look flirty. He looks efficient. Unshakable. This isn’t seduction—it’s protocol. He’s calmly laying out a plan like a bodyguard or a consultant, as if all of this is just part of the job. And Max realizes—yeah. It is.

And that should settle him, but it doesn’t.

Instead, it sends his heart into another off-kilter rhythm.

He notices Charles’ hands now, elegant and steady, the glint of silver rings on two fingers—simple, masculine, but stylish. A thin chain disappears beneath the collar of his shirt. And his aftershave hits him suddenly, sharp and clean—bergamot and vetiver, with something faintly spiced underneath.

Max feels a rush of heat crawl up the back of his neck. Overwhelmed. Just for a second.

Charles, still perfectly composed, lifts one brow, waiting.

“Your first time, huh?” he says gently, almost teasing. But it’s not unkind.

That jolts Max back into himself.

“Yeah,” he admits, voice low. “Guess that obvious?”

“Not at all.” Again a pause. “But you looked like you were about to be handed a trophy you didn’t want.”

The blond huffs a quiet breath of amusement, adjusting the cuff of his jacket.

“Okay. We do small talk. You can speak. Smile. Be charming. Just... don’t be better at it than me.”

Charles’ green eyes flash with something dry and amused, No promises.”

He steps to the side and extends a hand—not to shake this time, but as an invitation. Formal. Familiar.

“Shall we?”

The air shifts the moment the doors open.

Warm evening breeze. The low hum of luxury cars arriving. The sharp buzz of camera shutters just beyond the velvet rope. Flashbulbs already testing focus as they step onto the marble threshold of the entrance terrace.

Max hesitates.

It’s brief—no more than a second—but Charles catches it. He doesn’t move forward, doesn’t pressure him. He simply slows, lets Max set the pace.

One step. Then another.

They descend the short staircase together, Max squinting against the sudden burst of flashes. Cameras click, journalists murmur behind the ropes, security subtly clears the path.

Max walks straight at first—shoulders squared, jaw set, that practiced Red Bull nonchalance. But Charles matches him beat for beat, his presence calm and unhurried. A smile that doesn’t overreach. A gaze that lands, flickers, moves on.

Effortless.

And then, without thinking, Max steps a little closer.

Just enough that his hand brushes against the small of Charles’ back, steadying. Claiming, maybe. Or grounding himself.

The brunette doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift. He adjusts naturally—tilting just slightly toward Max, a subtle give, like he’d been waiting for it.

They reach the photo wall, pausing as instructed. Flashes explode.

“Max! Over here!”
“Smile this way—!”
“Is that your new date?”
“Who's the mystery man?”

Max lifts his chin, lets the cameras have their fill. Charles stands at his left, eyes catching light without effort, expression serene.

“Care to introduce your companion tonight, Max?” someone calls.

“He’s with me,” Max says, voice even. “That’s all you need to know.”

Charles turns his head slightly, just enough to offer the press a gracious smile. Not smug. Not coy. Just the perfect blend of undeniably attractive and utterly unbothered.

“Bonsoir,” he says, smooth as satin. “Enjoy your evening.”

The press laughs—charmed already, scribbling furiously, cameras still snapping.

“Any thoughts on the championship fight this year, Max?”

“Think you’ll take back the lead?”

“What does Red Bull have planned for Silverstone?”

He answers briskly, shifting into race mode, giving them just enough soundbites to keep headlines flowing. Charles listens, silent beside him, hands relaxed, posture perfect. He knows he’s not the story. But he knows exactly how to stay close to it.

Max finishes his last comment, flashing that half-smile the PR team loves, and they move on—past the rope, away from the press, into the soft interior lighting of the lobby.

And something changes.

The moment they step off the carpet, the noise softens, the space shifts. Music filters from the ballroom in lilting jazz notes, and guests cluster near the bar in small, glittering groups.

The Dutchman exhales.

He glances sideways—and Charles looks back at him, not quite smiling, but something close to it.

“Not bad,” Max mutters.

“You didn’t push me off the stairs,” the other says. “I’d call that a success.”

“You did all the work.”

Charles shrugs. “You let me.”

Max huffs out a quiet laugh.

Something eases in him—not all the way, but enough. Charles may be playing a part, but it’s played so well that Max begins to wonder what’s underneath it. Not for the first time tonight.

And as they move toward the ballroom—past champagne trays and flickers of perfume—the performance doesn’t drop. But it starts to feel less like acting.

They blend into the party effortlessly.

Max hadn’t expected it to be so seamless. He’s been to a hundred of these sponsor-filled, ego-stuffed galas, and none of them have felt like anything but endurance tests. But with Charles at his side, the space feels different. Lighter. Sharper. Like the room tilts ever so slightly around him.

Charles doesn’t hover or cling. He moves with Max, beside him, always just half a step behind or ahead depending on the rhythm. When he pauses to greet a sponsor or shake hands with someone from Liberty Media, the brunette mirrors him perfectly—smiling, engaging just enough, never pulling focus.

They stop briefly with a group from Tag Heuer, and Charles slips in a comment about the blond's campaign last season, something about the black-and-gold watch and how it somehow made him look even more intimidating on the grid. The sponsor laughs, delighted. Max only glances over, eyebrows raised. Charles just sips his champagne, like he didn’t say anything at all.

Another cluster forms around them near the bar—Heineken reps, a Red Bull exec or two, and someone from the FIA who always tries to be too casual about rule changes.

Charles, impossibly, fits in.

He knows how to introduce himself without seeming rehearsed, and when Max forgets a name, Charles supplies it smoothly, as if prompted. His accent softens when speaking English, rounds out when he switches to French for one of the older sponsors. He never misses a beat.

He even laughs at the right moments.

When one of the Heineken reps raises a glass toward Max with a wink, saying, “Here’s to another year of being dangerously fast,” Charles raises his own and adds, dryly, “Red Bull—liquid courage on and off the track.”

The group bursts into laughter. The rep clinks Charles’ glass.

Max looks over at him again—curious now, not just impressed. There’s something about how effortless it is. How he’s polished without being fake. How he doesn’t try to act like he belongs here—he simply does.

And yet, it’s too smooth.

Max watches him sidelong, glass in hand, while Charles engages someone else in conversation. He’s too good. Which makes Max wonder just how often he’s done this. With whom. And whether any of them had that same edge in their voice when they first heard him laugh.

Later, they find a quiet moment by the open bar, the crush of people thinning slightly as more guests migrate toward the dance floor. The music has shifted to a slower jazz number, softer against the ambient clink of glassware and laughter.

Max leans an elbow on the bar, sipping his drink, letting his shoulders drop for the first time all evening.

Charles joins him a moment later, standing close but not touching. He doesn’t speak immediately, just lets the moment settle between them like a shared breath.

“I’ve watched a few races,” he says finally, eyes trained ahead, voice low enough not to carry. “The ones that matter.”

The blond glances sideways. “And which ones are those?”

The Monegasqueturns just slightly, the corner of his mouth curling, amusement flickering behind his lashes.

“The ones where you win, obviously.”

It catches Max off guard. The tone. The confidence. The heat behind it, subtle and intentional. It’s not a line—it's flirtation in its purest form: earned and easy, with just enough challenge behind it to spark something real.

Max laughs, surprised. Not just at the joke—but at the ease with which it comes. He hadn’t expected this. Any of it.

And for a flicker of a moment, he forgets he paid for Charles to be here.

He just wants to know what he’ll say next.

Max loses track of time.

Not entirely—he’s still aware of the crowd, the weight of eyes, the faint pull of obligation that comes with being the face of a championship campaign—but something shifts. The party blurs at the edges, softens into something he doesn’t mind being in, and it has everything to do with the man at his side.

The brunette moves through the space like he was designed for it. Smooth, unobtrusive, attentive without ever seeming submissive. His posture is perfect, his gestures measured. He smiles in ways that feel curated but never disingenuous, and when he speaks, people lean in.

More than once, the blond catches someone staring too long at him. Not Max. Him.

It’s disorienting. Not the attention, but the fact that the blond finds himself almost... possessive. A curl of something low in his chest when someone from a rival team puts a hand too casually on the Monegasque’s arm. When he laughs at something an Aston Martin exec says, even though Max knows it’s fake.

And the brunette—he seems to sense it. Without a word, he steps a bit closer, just enough to brush against Max's shoulder when they stand still, or to lean in when the room gets too loud, even if there’s no need to speak.

It’s all part of the job. The Dutchman knows that.

But he still feels it.

At one point, they pause near a small arrangement of fresh roses on a side table, and the blond leans in slightly, murmuring, “Do you ever get tired of pretending to be someone else?”

The brunette lifts his eyes slowly. There’s no smile this time. Just quiet awareness.

“I don’t pretend,” he says. “I just give them the version they want.”

“And tonight?”

A pause. Then, with a faint shrug: “You haven’t told me what version you want yet.”

That shuts Max up. Not because he doesn’t have an answer—but because he isn’t sure how honest he wants to be with himself.

The music shifts again. A few couples begin to dance in the center of the room, heels tapping against marble, sequins catching the low light. Someone tries to wave the blond into the circle—a sponsor’s daughter or girlfriend, he isn’t sure—but he shakes his head with a polite smile and turns away.

“Come on,” he says, and nods toward the exit.

The Monegasque doesn’t ask where they’re going. He simply follows.

They step through a quieter side hallway and out onto one of the balconies that ring the ballroom. The noise fades into something distant, muffled. It’s just the two of them now, with the city stretched below in full, glittering sprawl.

Monaco glows at night. The curved sweep of the coastline. The soft hum of traffic. The pale gleam of yachts anchored in their velvet rows, unmoving.

The Dutchman leans forward on the railing, hands braced on the cool stone, head tipped slightly back. His shirt collar is open now, suit jacket unbuttoned, posture looser than it’s been all night.

The brunette lingers a few feet behind, one hand still around the delicate stem of his glass. He watches the blond in silence.

“It’s quieter out here,” the Dutchman says eventually.

Charles hums. “That’s why I followed you.”

The blond glances over his shoulder. His mouth curves, faint but real.

“You’re good at this.” The Monegasque lifts one brow, tilting his head. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Depends on how you mean it.”

Max exhales through his nose. He turns back to the view. “You make it look easy. Like you belong in every room.”

“I don’t.”

“You seem like you do.”

charles is quiet a moment. Then he steps forward, setting his glass down on the railing, just beside the blond’s. They stand side by side now, close enough that their shoulders almost touch. “I studied architecture before this,” the brunette says, voice low. “I wanted to design houses, not smile at strangers and tell them they’re interesting.”

The Dutchman blinks. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” A pause. “But Arthur needed help. F2 isn’t cheap. And Monaco isn’t either. So I found something I was good at, and I used it.”

The blond doesn’t respond right away. He looks at him again, really looks.

The sharp lines of his jaw. The glint of silver at his wrist. That steady, unreadable expression—like a sculpture half-carved, beautiful and deliberately unfinished.

Charles’ gaze is still turned toward the city, but his posture has changed. The line of his back isn't quite so straight now. His shoulders curve in slightly, like something he usually keeps tucked away has been allowed, just briefly, to surface. “He was seventeen,” the Monegasque says eventually, voice quieter now, no polish left in it. “Arthur. Still in karts. My parents were already stretched thin, and he had talent, you know? Real talent. Better than me. But there’s no room for talent in motorsport if you don’t have money.”

The blond says nothing, only shifts to face him more fully. The harbor glows faintly below them, reflected light dancing across the water.

“I was studying architecture,” Charles continues, fingers absently tracing the base of his empty glass. “Living at home. Working nights in cafés, trying to save. But it wasn’t enough. Tuition fees, rent, Arthur’s first Formula Renault season—it all stacked up too fast.” He breathes in slow. The air tastes of sea salt and exhaust. “One of my professors had a cousin. She ran a private agency. Told me I had the look for it. Said I could make enough to pay for both of us if I played it right.”

Max blinks. “Wait. That’s how it started?”

The Monegasque gives a small smile, bitter at the edges. “I was nineteen. Desperate. I did one weekend—just company, no sex. Got paid more than I’d made all year waiting tables. So I took another booking. And another. Suddenly I was helping Arthur buy tires, paying my degree in cash, walking into classes like I hadn’t just spent the night on a yacht pretending to care about hedge funds and wine labels.”

The Dutchman leans on the railing, arms crossed now, watching him carefully. The wind lifts a piece of his blond hair and tosses it against his forehead. “Do your clients know all this?” he asks.

Charles laughs under his breath. “God, no. Most of them don’t ask. The ones who do just want a tragic origin story so they can feel better about fucking me.”

Max stills. The words hit harder than he expects. “You sleep with your clients?” then he asks, before he can stop himself. Not judgmental. Just—stunned. Maybe even a little off-balance.

The brunette turns his head to look at him, slow and deliberate. His eyes are unreadable. “Didn’t you see the box on the website?” he asks, tone flat but not unkind. “Sexual preferences. Physical boundaries. That whole section?”

The Dutchman looks away, jaw tightening. “I skipped it.”

There’s a pause. Then the brunette huffs a sound that might be a laugh or a sigh. “Of course you did.”

“I wasn’t…” the blond hesitates, fingers flexing where they grip the railing. “That’s not what I was looking for.”

“But now you’re not sure,” the Monegasque finishes for him, voice like silk stretched over something brittle.

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The air between them shifts, charged all over again—but differently now. Not the polished pull of appearance. Not the ease of roleplay. Something slower, more raw. It crackles under the surface.

Their eyes meet again, and this time neither of them looks away.

“I just…” the blond starts, then breaks off. Breathes out through his nose. “I’m tired of the questions. Every time I’m seen with someone, it’s headlines. Speculation. ‘Is he dating?’ ‘Is he single?’ ‘What does this mean for the season?’ Like I can’t sit next to a person without the whole world deciding it’s love or scandal or both.”

The Monegasque watches him, still and quiet.

“I came out and I thought it would help,” Max continues. “Like it would make things easier. But it’s just louder now. All the what-ifs. Every interview, every fucking race weekend, someone’s asking if there’s someone in my life. And when I say no, they look at me like it’s a performance.”

There’s a pause, long and still.

Chares, just once. “So you booked someone to control the story.”

The Dutchman’s throat tightens. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The brunette hums. Not in mockery—more like understanding. He leans forward just slightly, resting his arms on the railing. Their shoulders are almost touching now. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “you don’t seem like someone who wants to be alone.”

Max turns his head. “And you don’t seem like someone who wants to be selling himself.”

The brunette gives him a look. Not sharp—just wry.

“That depends on the buyer.”

The silence between them stretches again, but it’s softer now. Familiar, somehow.

Then Max clears his throat. “What do you actually want to be good at?”

Charles doesn’t look at him when he replies. “Architecture. Still.”

Then, with a flick of a glance: “Maybe racing. If I’d started earlier. If I hadn’t always been watching from the sidelines.”

The blond grins. “I could sneak you into the paddock. Get you a Red Bull pass. Pretend you’re my new performance coach.”

The brunette smirks. “And have me evaluate the wind shear on your front wing?”

“You know what, never mind.”

They both laugh, the kind that slips out too easily, that makes something inside the Dutchman ache. Because it feels real. And they both know it’s not supposed to.

Or maybe it could be.

Maybe.

But then the moment stills again, the harbor breathing slow below them, and the light catches in Charles' rings when he folds his hands together. “You don’t need to pretend with me,” he says quietly, gaze still on the glittering water. “This is just a job.”

The blond’s voice is even softer when he answers. “I’m not pretending.” He turns to face him fully, and their eyes meet in the shadows. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

It hangs there between them—weightless and heavy all at once. Neither of them moves. Neither looks away. The world narrows to the space they’ve carved out on the balcony, to the brush of city wind and the way the harbor’s light reflects in the Monegasque’s dark eyes.

Their fingers are resting on the same stretch of marble railing now, just a few inches apart.

Max doesn’t mean to move—but he does. Just barely. A quiet shift of hand, a subtle lean. And then their pinkies brush, knuckles grazing, heat meeting heat in the softest of touches.

The Monegasque doesn’t pull away.

But he doesn’t lean in, either.

Instead, something cuts through the moment. Laughter from inside, sharp and sudden. A piano note fumbled at the end of a song. A burst of clapping.

The night reasserts itself.

The moment slips.

Charles withdraws first—smooth, practiced. He straightens with a polite nod toward the door, already reaching for the empty champagne glass he’d left behind.

“We should go,” he mumbles, all elegance again. “Your driver’s probably circling.”

The blond hesitates. Then nods. “Yeah.”

They move back through the corridors in silence. The ballroom is quieter now, thinning out—half the guests gone, the other half too drunk to care who sees them. Staff begin clearing tables, servers exchanging tired glances.

No one stops them on the way out. They’ve already given the press their moment. Now they vanish as easily as they arrived.

Outside, the air is cooler, tinged with sea breeze and distant engine hum. A sleek black car waits at the curb, headlights casting long lines across the sidewalk.

The Dutchman opens the back door first, nodding to the driver. Then he glances back, just in time to see the Monegasque pause—just for a second—before slipping inside.

Max follows.

The car pulls away from the hotel with practiced quiet, the windows tinting the city into soft shadows and glimmering light. Monaco at night is both beautiful and unreal, like a painting someone forgot to finish.

Inside the car, the space between them feels different now. Not tense. Just... filled.

Charles sits with one leg crossed neatly, hands folded, gaze turned to the window while Max watches him in profile—how calm he looks. How distant.

The blond wets his lips. “I had a good time tonight,” he says, voice low. Uncertain, almost.

The brunette glances over, something shifting in his expression. “I’m glad.”

Max watches him a moment longer. “Not just good as in... smooth. I mean it was—better than I expected.”

That gets him a faint smile. The kind that could mean anything. Gratitude, professionalism, or something a little more real—but the blond can’t tell.

“I’m happy to hear that,” the Monegasque says. His voice is gentle. Polished. Impossibly neutral.

And that’s what unsettles Max more than anything.

He doesn’t know if it’s protocol—or not.

They drive the rest of the way in silence.

The building the Monegasque lives in is tucked into the quieter folds of the city, not far from the Jardin Exotique. More understated than the hotels and high-rises surrounding the port—elegant, lived-in, quietly expensive. A place that doesn’t flaunt itself but never has to explain what it is.

The car slows to a stop. The blond steps out first, then opens the door for Charles, who exits with the same poised grace he’s worn all evening.

They walk the short distance to the entrance together.

Neither speaks.

Not until they reach the door.

The Monegasque turns to him, the silver of his rings catching in the low light. He tilts his head slightly, unreadable.

“Merci pour ce soir,” he murmurs, voice so soft it barely registers.

“You don’t have to say that,” Max replies, mouth curved just enough to not look uncertain. “But... you’re welcome.”

Charles leans in, and the blond stands still.

One kiss to the left cheek. Then the right.

A breath between them.

Close enough that Max can smell the lingering warmth of the brunette’s cologne—bergamot and vetiver, something subtle and expensive and unmistakably his.

“Protocol,” he whisers softly, almost teasing.

But his eyes linger a second too long.

Then he pulls back, turns, and steps inside.

The door closes quietly behind him.

The blond stands there for a moment longer than he means to, hands in his pockets, the night pressing cool and steady around him.

He doesn’t know what just happened.

He only knows he wants to see him again.