Archive of Our Own

Monaco in August was quiet in the way Lando liked: no PR meetings, no screaming engines, just the sea air and the luxury of walking around in boxers without judgment—unless you counted the judgment of the empty espresso cups stacked by the sink.

It was the fourth day of summer break and Lando was exactly where he’d promised himself he’d be: lounging on the oversized couch in nothing but an old McLaren tee, half-watching The Office reruns with one leg draped over the backrest like he owned the place. Because, well—he did.

What he didn’t expect was the sharp, deliberate knock at the sliding glass door.

Except it wasn’t a knock. It was a thump followed by a mew . Lando frowned, sitting up slowly and blinking toward the glass.

There, pressed against the door, was a cat.

Not a scruffy street cat or one of those twitchy thin ones that roamed the marina. No, this cat was sleek and elegant, the color of stormy skies and polished graphite. Its eyes were a sharp amber, intelligent and—he swore—annoyed.

“…Hello?”

The cat didn’t answer, obviously. It just flicked its tail and meowed again, pointedly. Loudly. Like it had every right to be there.

Lando blinked again, rubbed at his eyes, then stood up—boxers riding low on his hips—and padded barefoot over the marble tile to the door.

“You lost?” he asked as he slid it open. The cat walked in without hesitation, tail held high like it paid rent.

“…Okay then. Cool. Mi casa es su casa, I guess.”

He closed the door behind it and turned to watch it sniff its way across the living room like it was conducting a property inspection. He crossed his arms.

“You’re very bold for a stray,” Lando muttered, watching as it hopped onto the kitchen island like it owned Monaco. “Wait—you are a stray, right? You don’t have like, a microchip in your paw or something I’m gonna get sued over?”

The cat turned to look at him with what could only be described as mild contempt .

Lando narrowed his eyes.

“You know, you kind of have a Verstappen vibe. That whole judgy face and… vibe-y silence.”

The cat yawned.

Lando tilted his head. “Alright, Maxine. You hungry?”

Ten minutes later, the cat—now dubbed Jet because it was fast (he’d tried to lock it in the bathroom while he Googled ‘what the fuck do I feed a cat’ and it had somehow escaped)—was eating tuna off a small dish and purring softly. Lando was leaned against the counter, watching it with mild amazement.

“I don’t do pets,” he muttered, sipping his iced coffee. “You’re just visiting. Temporary. We’re not bonding. This is not a Disney movie.”

Jet gave no reply. Just licked his paw with smug satisfaction.

Lando raised an eyebrow. “Temporary, Jet. I mean it.”

By the time the sun had set, Jet was curled up on the back of the couch, tail twitching, half-asleep while Lando played FIFA shirtless with a headset on, muttering about lag.

Every now and then, the cat opened one eye and stared, gaze trailing lazily over Lando’s shoulder blades, the curve of his spine, the muscles shifting beneath his skin.

If cats could blush, Jet would have.

But instead, he just tucked his head into his paws and tried very hard not to think about how good Lando looked out of the shower.

Lando woke up to something pressing against his chest.

His first instinct was that he was being smothered in his sleep. His second was oh my god did I fall asleep with my food again , and his third—finally coherent—was the soft, rhythmic purr that vibrated against his sternum.

He blinked blearily.

Jet was stretched out full length across his torso, back paws on Lando’s stomach, front paws tucked under his chin like he was a literal scarf.

“…Dude.”

Jet didn’t even move, except for flicking an ear. His face was peaceful. Smug, even.

Lando sighed, flopping his head back against the pillow. “This is why I don’t do pets,” he muttered.

Jet purred louder.

By the time Lando made it to the kitchen, hair still wet from a quick shower, Jet was perched on the counter again, watching him with his intense golden stare.

Lando, now in nothing but grey sweatpants and socks, was digging through the fridge for anything that resembled a proper breakfast.

“You don’t get to judge me for drinking oat milk out of the carton, okay? You slept on my chest. We’re intimate now.”

Jet let out a chirp—almost like a scoff.

Lando turned.

“You are such a weird cat.”

It had been exactly twenty-four hours since Max Verstappen had woken up as a cat.

Before that? It had been a standard solo hike.

He’d needed space. Time away. Red Bull was winning, yes, but winning was exhausting. Everyone expected perfection. Noise followed him like a second shadow. So he went off-grid. Just him, the mountains, a cabin he'd rented, and silence.

That’s where he met her .

She wasn’t old, exactly. Not in the wrinkled witch way. But she was strange—her eyes like opals, shifting colors in the firelight. She offered him a seat by her hearth when the storm rolled in. She brewed tea that tasted like woodsmoke and honey and… something metallic.

Max, ever blunt, had said: “That’s disgusting.”

She smiled at him with sharp teeth. “You need humbling.”

The next morning, he woke up to the sound of his own meow.

He’d knocked over a candle with his tail and panicked so hard he’d launched himself face-first into a cupboard.

He’d spent the rest of the day running. The woman and the cabin had vanished. No sign. Just tracks in the mud that led nowhere.

Jet was currently lying flat on his back on the cold kitchen floor, all four paws flopped out, staring up at the ceiling while Lando watched a YouTube video and ate cereal straight from the box.

“I think you’re broken,” Lando told him, tossing a cereal puff onto Jet’s belly.

Jet didn’t move.

“You okay, bud?”

Jet lifted his head and gave Lando the slowest blink in cat history.

“…Chill. You’re dramatic.”

Lando yawned and wandered off to grab his phone. He had three messages from Carlos asking if he wanted to jet-ski later. One from Oscar about F1 Fantasy teams. None from Max. Typical.

He glanced over at the cat.

“…You’re quieter than Max. That’s a plus.”

Jet’s tail flicked sharply.

Lando left the sliding door cracked open like he always did on mornings turning warm afternoons, letting in the sea breeze. He padded out onto the balcony with a mug of iced coffee, wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his waist and hair still damp from his second shower of the day—this one after a quick home gym session that lasted exactly twelve minutes before boredom hit.

The sun hit him like a spotlight. Golden tan. Bare shoulders. Defined abs. A single water droplet tracing down his sternum.

Jet, unfortunately, saw all of it.

From the threshold of the open door, Max—cat body be damned—froze.

He hadn’t meant to look. In fact, he’d been trying not to look at Lando all day. But he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye—Lando stretching his arms overhead, muscles shifting with the motion—and he twitched so violently he knocked over a decorative succulent.

Clatter.

Lando turned immediately.

Jet tried to play it off, but his wide eyes and puffed-up tail betrayed him.

“Dude! Are you okay?” Lando walked back over, crouching low, one hand on the towel at his hip, the other reaching toward him.

Jet backed up in a panic, right through the open door—and out onto the narrow balcony railing.

“No—no no no no no—” Lando lunged, but too late.

Jet wobbled on the slim metal bar, back paws slipping slightly, front claws scrabbling. His heart thundered.

I’m going to die in Monaco as a cat. Not even a good cat. A stray. No one will know I was Max bloody Verstappen.

“JET!” Lando’s voice was high-pitched with pure panic.

Jet squeaked.

And then—it happened.

Lando reached out and cooed at him.

“Come here, baby. Come on, sweet boy, come back inside. You’re okay, yeah? Come to Lando, that’s it. You’re so brave, look at you. Brave little muffin.”

Jet stared at him, horrified.

Did he just call me muffin?

But the worst part? His paws obeyed. Whether it was the human in him or the traitorous animal instinct, he carefully—humiliatingly—edged back toward Lando, one paw at a time.

Lando scooped him up like he weighed nothing, holding him gently against his chest.

“You absolute little menace,” he whispered, heart still pounding. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Jet was too busy going into cardiac arrest from the naked skin-to-skin contact to judge him.

His fur was fluffed, his ears were burning, and his tail did the unmistakable flick of pure feline mortification.

Lando carried him back inside, placed him on the couch, and immediately went to shut all the doors and windows.

“No more balcony for you, mister,” he called. “God, I sound like a single mum.”

Jet flopped sideways on the couch, face in his paws.

He had just risked his life.

And been baby-talked.

Ten minutes later, Lando sat down beside him, back in sweatpants, a hoodie thrown over his bare chest. His damp hair was a little curlier than usual.

“Don’t scare me like that again, Jet,” he murmured, scratching behind Max’s ear with maddening gentleness.

Max hated how good it felt.

And how he leaned into it.

And how, when Lando whispered, “You’re kind of growing on me, y’know?” he felt something awful and warm turn over in his human heart.

Jet was napping on the couch when Lando came back from the grocery store. He hadn't meant to buy this much food—it was supposed to be a snack run. But somewhere between the fruit aisle and the refrigerated section, he’d convinced himself that the cat probably needed more protein. And that maybe he was the kind of person who meal prepped now.

He placed the bags on the counter and peeked over at the couch.

Jet was sprawled in an unholy position: belly exposed, one leg in the air, tongue peeking slightly from his mouth like he’d forgotten how to sleep properly. He looked stupidly comfortable.

Lando smiled.

Then frowned at himself.

“…God, what are you doing,” he muttered. “He’s not even your cat.”

Still, he unpacked an extra set of ceramic dishes he’d grabbed on impulse. “You’re not eating out of a ramekin anymore, Jet,” he called. “You’re a Monaco cat now. High society.”

Jet opened one eye and blinked lazily, tail twitching once before he tucked it over his nose and went back to sleep.

Later, after a grilled chicken thigh dinner (Lando shared a few small pieces, to Jet’s undisguised pleasure), they both ended up back on the couch. The lights were low, the sun having dipped behind the water. Netflix was open but paused. Lando had a gaming controller in one hand and Jet curled up at his hip.

He glanced down.

“You’re better company than some people I know,” he said, giving Jet’s head a soft scratch.

Jet closed his eyes, purring quietly.

“I mean it,” Lando continued. “You don’t talk. You don’t ask questions. You don’t make fun of me when I make microwave mac and cheese.”

He paused, thumb resting on the controller.

“I think I get why people get pets now,” he admitted, softer. “You just… exist. No expectations. You like me because I feed you and let you sleep on my hoodies.”

Jet twitched an ear, and Lando smiled to himself.

“You know I’ve never really kept anything alive before,” he added, more to the room than the cat. “Plants don’t count. I killed a succulent in, like, two weeks.”

He paused again.

“…I think I just never really thought I had the lifestyle for it. Racing. Travel. Press. All that shit.”

Jet glanced up at him, those gold eyes catching the faint light.

Lando chuckled and nudged his head gently. “But you’re kinda easy.”

Jet’s tail slapped against the cushion once, offended.

Lando laughed. “Not like that . You know what I mean.”

Jet huffed.

“I think I like having someone here. Even if you are a snobby little asshole sometimes.”

Jet lifted a paw and gently batted Lando’s hand away. Then, with practiced drama, turned around and presented his back.

“Rude.”

Lando grinned and leaned back, letting his head rest on the cushion. “You’ll come crawling back. They always do.”

That night, Jet slept on Lando’s pillow instead of his usual spot on the foot of the bed.

Lando didn’t move him. Didn’t even complain.

He just reached up, scratched behind the cat’s ear, and mumbled, half-asleep, “You’re not as bad as I thought.”

Jet purred in response, but deep down—in the part of him still human—Max Verstappen was silently panicking.

I am bonding with Lando Norris.
As a cat.
I have to get out of this fur suit before I fall in love or something.

It started with an omelette.

Lando had woken up in a good mood. The sun was shining, his inbox was mercifully empty, and Jet had spent the night curled up near his pillow like some living, purring plush toy. It was cute. Domestic, even. Not that he was going to say that out loud.

So: omelette. Ham, cheese, bit of spinach to pretend he was healthy. Jet watched from the counter, tail flicking lazily.

“You don’t get eggs,” Lando said, waving the spatula at him. “You’re a cat. Your diet is, like, weird little fish and judgment.”

Jet meowed once. It sounded sarcastic.

Lando flipped the omelette and stepped away for a second to grab a plate—and that was when Jet made his move.

He jumped.

Not gracefully. Not with intention. It was more like a launch without follow-through, a moment of terrible feline miscalculation.

His back paw hit the side of the pan. The rest of him landed in the warm— thankfully cooling—egg mess on the stovetop.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then—

“JET! WHAT THE F—”

Max didn’t scream, but he wanted to.

There was scrambled egg in his fur. Not just a bit. It was everywhere —matted into his side, clinging to his hind leg, stuck between his toes. He leapt back to the counter, mortified and disgusted.

Lando turned off the stove and looked at him like a disappointed dad.

“Oh my god , what is wrong with you?”

Jet meowed, full panic.

“You just launched yourself into breakfast!”

He scooped Jet up under his arms, holding him at arm’s length. “Nope. We’re doing this. You are getting a bath .”

Jet flailed.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare scratch me. You did this to yourself.”

Lando filled the deep marble sink with a couple inches of warm water and rolled up his sleeves, eyes narrowed like he was prepping for surgery.

Jet sat on the counter next to him, damp, gooey, and furious .

“I watched, like, four videos on how to bathe a cat,” Lando muttered. “The first one said to ‘prepare to meet God,’ so I’m feeling very encouraged.”

Jet hissed once—not a real hiss, just a performative, dramatic one.

“Don’t you start.”

Lando gently picked him up and lowered him into the sink.

The moment Jet’s paws touched water, Max decided he was going to die. There was no other option. Death by humiliation. A cold, soapy, slow demise.

He wriggled. He yowled. He slipped.

“Okay, okay—hold still,” Lando soothed, both hands now soaked, trying to hold a dripping, flailing cat in place without getting slashed. “This is not fun for me either, you know.”

Jet kicked at the edge of the sink and soaked Lando’s hoodie.

“You’re insane,” Lando muttered. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”

Somewhere between the second rinse and the towel, Jet stopped fighting. Maybe it was the warm water, or Lando’s hands being gentler than expected. Maybe it was the way he murmured under his breath the whole time, coaxing him softly like he was a baby.

“You’re alright. There we go. You’re fine now, see? Just a bit of egg. Just need to get it out. Not a big deal.”

Max hated how it made him relax.

After the worst was over, Lando wrapped him in a fluffy towel like a burrito and held him close to his chest.

“You little idiot,” he whispered, half-laughing. “You smell like egg and soap now. Congratulations.”

Max lay very still.

It was humiliating. Undignified. Infuriating.

And yet—

The towel was warm. Lando’s body was warmer. His heartbeat was steady. His voice was low and close.

And Max… kind of liked it.

No one had held him like this in years. Not without cameras. Not without expectations. Just because they wanted to.

He tucked his nose into Lando’s collarbone and didn’t move.

“Okay,” Lando said after a while, “you survived. That’s enough drama for one morning.”

He set Jet down on the couch, towel still wrapped around him, and went to clean up the kitchen crime scene.

Jet remained there, steaming with internal conflict and still faintly damp.

He hated being a cat.

He really hated that Lando Norris had soft hands and a nice laugh.

And he hated, most of all, that he didn’t want to leave anymore.

Jet was asleep on the couch still, half-wrapped in a towel, his fur puffed up like a damp dandelion. The bath had drained him, not just physically but emotionally. He was clean, yes, but also acutely aware that he had been held like a baby by Lando bloody Norris.

And worse?

He had liked it .

Which was probably why he didn’t protest when Lando leaned over and whispered, “Be good while I’m gone. I’m getting you supplies, you messy little freak.”

Max would’ve argued that he didn’t need supplies —he needed a sorcerer and possibly an exorcist—but all that came out was a soft mrrp .

Lando grinned and left.

Lando had told himself he’d just pick up a bag of cat food and maybe a brush.

But the Monaco pet store was aggressively bougie.

Within five minutes, he was holding:

• Two bags of gourmet cat kibble with phrases like “line-caught tuna & parsley” and “gut-health blend”
  
  
• A plush cat bed shaped like a racing helmet
  
  
• A brush with real boar bristles
  
  
• A fish-shaped toy that chirped when touched
  
  
• A tiny hoodie with the words “Meowgic Happens” on the back
  
  
• Treats. Too many treats.
  
  

He texted Oscar a photo of the basket.

Lando: do i need help
Oscar: yes
Oscar: that’s a baby
Oscar: ur shopping like it’s ur actual baby
Lando: he fell in eggs this morning
Oscar: oh so now you have to buy him a wardrobe?
Lando: he looked at me like he judged me for feeding him cheap tuna
Oscar: fair. i’d judge you too.

Max was still napping when Lando returned, but his ears twitched at the sound of rustling plastic bags. He opened one eye just as Lando dumped his haul dramatically onto the floor.

“Voilà,” Lando announced. “You’ve officially been spoiled.”

Jet lifted his head, blinking. The bed caught his eye first. The soft, red-and-black helmet-shaped cushion looked… really comfy. He hated how comfy it looked.

“What?” Lando said, catching the stare. “You get a real bed now. You’re not sleeping in my hoodie pile forever.”

Jet got up slowly and padded over. Sniffed it. Circled once.

Then—despite his internal screaming—curled up inside it and let out the tiniest sigh.

Lando beamed. “See? You are high-maintenance. You just didn’t know it yet.”

Later that afternoon, they ended up on the balcony together. This time, Lando was making sure to keep a close eye on Jet. The sun had mellowed. The breeze was nice. Lando sat with Jet in his lap, gently brushing his fur while humming under his breath.

Jet had stopped protesting five minutes ago. The brush felt obscenely good.

Max hated this. He hated how safe he felt. How relaxed. How Lando’s fingers were so careful, skimming lightly behind his ears and along his spine. How it made him melt into the fabric of Lando’s hoodie.

“You’ve been good for me, you know,” Lando said quietly. “Like—having someone here.”

Jet blinked up at him.

“I get in my own head sometimes,” Lando continued. “Like, when everything’s too quiet. I start overthinking. Like... did I say something wrong? Am I where I’m supposed to be? Do people actually like me or just want the brand?”

He paused, brushing slow.

“But then you’re here. Just… existing. Wanting food. Naps. Attention.”

Jet shifted slightly, confused by the pang in his chest.

“I envy that a bit. Simpler life.”

Max didn’t know what to say—not that he could say anything. So instead, he leaned against Lando’s hand and let himself be brushed, letting the silence settle.

Lando smiled, soft and honest. “You’re a weirdo, Jet. But you’re mine now.”

That night, Lando placed a little tray of fancy kibble next to the ceramic bowl, added a new blanket to Jet’s helmet-bed, and tapped his phone’s alarm for the next morning.

Max curled up in the new bed, but he couldn’t sleep.

He kept looking at Lando.

Trying to figure out what the hell he’d done in life to deserve this version of him—the one who cooked eggs, sang off-key in the kitchen, and bought way too many cat toys because he cared .

And even worse—Max wasn’t sure he wanted it to stop.

It was late now.

Lando had turned off most of the lights, leaving only a warm glow from the kitchen lamp and the soft flicker of the TV as it played some sci-fi show he wasn’t really watching. He was curled up on the couch in joggers and a hoodie, hood up, socks mismatched, a half-empty bowl of popcorn on the table.

Jet was nestled in the corner of the couch, lying atop the ridiculous fish toy like it was a throne. Lando had caught him batting at it earlier—he pretended not to notice when Jet immediately stopped and looked away like how dare you witness that.

Now, the cat was still. Almost too still.

Lando glanced over at him between bites of popcorn. “You good?”

Jet didn’t answer, obviously, but he gave a soft brrp in response. Lando smiled and shifted, reaching out to lazily run a hand along Jet’s spine. It had become instinctive now—like muscle memory. Like Jet was part of the apartment, part of the couch, part of his days.

“I know this sounds crazy,” Lando murmured, voice low and tired, “but it kinda feels like I know you.”

Jet froze for a second. Lando didn’t notice.

“Not, like… in a real way,” he continued. “Just… familiar. I don’t know. You remind me of someone.”

Max pressed his head down tighter into the blanket and shut his eyes.

Not out of fear.

Out of ache .

Later, when Lando finally fell asleep sideways on the couch, head lolled back, one arm flung over his face, Jet moved quietly across the cushions and curled up right beside him.

Close enough that he could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Close enough that if he were human, it’d be too intimate to pretend it meant nothing.

Max didn’t know how long he had. He didn’t know what was coming. All he knew was:

He was falling.

And there was no way to stop it.

Max woke up in fabric heaven.

It was warm. Soft. Smelled faintly like Lando—somewhere between clean laundry and leftover shampoo, with the faintest undertone of something sweeter that Max had never really noticed before. His paws were half-buried in a deep pile of hoodies, his tail wrapped lazily around his body, nose tucked against cotton and fleece.

This is new, he thought, blinking groggily.

This wasn’t the stupid little helmet bed Lando had set up for him the day before. No, this was… better. Way better. He shifted a little deeper into it, rolling slightly onto his side with a small purr that escaped before he could stop it.

“Jet?”

Max’s ears perked.

Shit. Lando was awake.

He peeked up, just enough to see Lando standing in the doorway in nothing but boxers, scratching his head with a sleepy squint. His curls were a mess. One sock on. A pillow line across his cheek. Max felt something curl tightly in his feline chest.

Lando’s brow furrowed for a second, and then—he laughed.

“Well, guess I know where you like to sleep now.”

Max didn’t move. He blinked up innocently.

“Yeah, alright, I get it. My hoodies are comfier than a racing helmet. Whatever. Just don’t drool on the McLaren one. That one’s expensive.”

He left and returned a minute later with a freshly laundered hoodie in his hands. Pale blue, soft-looking. Max watched as Lando added it carefully to the top of the pile—fluffed it out a little.

“There,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “Luxury suite.”

Then he yawned, stretched, and flopped back into bed.

Max stared at the new addition to his nest, then at Lando’s retreating form, then nestled back down with a quiet little sigh.

He hadn’t asked for the hoodie. But it meant something.

The rest of the morning passed in a slow, soft blur.

Lando didn’t go out, didn’t touch his phone except to scroll aimlessly. He made coffee and toast, shared a tiny bite of buttered bread with Jet (who was pretending not to like it), then parked himself on the couch and put on a string of movies he’d already seen before.

He called it a Jet and Chill Day.

Max wanted to hate that.

He couldn’t.

He’d gotten used to the way Lando mumbled when he watched things, talking at the screen like he was part of the movie. How he laughed out loud with no shame, how his foot tapped at quiet moments like he couldn’t sit still, even when he was still. How he’d occasionally reach over and scratch behind Max’s ears without even looking.

“Y’know,” Lando said at one point, fingers absently stroking his back, “if you were a human, I think you’d be the kind of person who never shuts up but still somehow convinces everyone you’re mysterious.”

Max stared at him.

Lando grinned. “Yeah. You’ve got that look. Judgy little bastard.”

Max swatted at his hand. Lando laughed and let him be.

Later, the hoodie nest moved.

Or rather, it expanded.

When Lando shifted from the couch to the floor to game, he dragged over two of the hoodies and spread them beside him like a blanket. Then he patted the spot beside him like Jet could understand. “C’mon. Vibe zone.”

Max hesitated.

Then jumped down and curled up by his thigh.

They played like that for hours. Lando talking to his screen. Yelling. Laughing. Swearing. Occasionally reaching down to run a hand along Max’s back like a grounding wire.

And Max?

He dozed. Warm. Safe. Close.

Around sunset, Lando stretched his arms over his head with a groan.

“Alright, mate. Gonna shower.”

He stood and stripped off his hoodie right there in the living room, then his t-shirt. Max immediately averted his eyes, which—why? He’d seen Lando shirtless a hundred times in the paddock. But it was different now. Intimate. He was still a cat and somehow still flustered.

“You better not move while I’m gone,” Lando warned him jokingly, walking backwards toward the bathroom in nothing but grey joggers. “I’ll know if you betray me.”

Max meowed innocently.

The bathroom door clicked shut.

Max curled deeper into the hoodie pile, nose pressed into fabric that smelled just like Lando, and let out the smallest, most miserable sigh.

This was getting dangerous.

He didn’t want to stop.

He didn’t want to turn back.

The bathroom door cracked open with a hiss of steam, and Max instinctively lifted his head from the hoodie pile. The scent hit first—clean and sharp, like citrus soap and warm water. Then came the sound: the soft tread of Lando’s bare feet, the muted rustle of a towel as it moved across his wet hair.

Max should’ve looked away.

He didn’t.

Lando padded into the living room wearing only a towel slung low on his hips, rubbing at his curls with a smaller one. Droplets clung to his shoulders, caught in the hollow of his collarbone, and rolled down the side of his neck.

Max gave a tiny, involuntary trill of a meow before he could stop himself.

Lando’s head popped up, blinking. “What?”

He glanced down at himself, then chuckled. “You really are spoiled. I’m out here fresh from the shower, and you’re judging me like you pay rent.”

Max’s tail thumped against the hoodie.

Lando walked past him toward the bedroom—his towel slipping a little as he moved—and Max tried desperately to think of literally anything else in the world. Rain tires. Brake bias. Dutch taxes. Your name is Max Verstappen, not some simpering little housecat with a crush—

“Oi.”

Max startled.

Lando had returned, now in a soft tee and boxers, holding something in his hands.

“You shed like mad,” he muttered, setting the lint roller down beside the hoodie pile. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’m covered in your fur.”

He gave Max a long, faux-threatening look… then flopped onto the floor beside him.

“I was gonna go out tonight. But I’m staying in. It’s a nesting day.”

Max blinked.

“Yeah, I said it. Nesting. What’re you gonna do about it?”

He reached for the remote and scrolled aimlessly through Netflix, eventually settling on some vaguely romantic rom-com Max only half-registered. Not that he was watching. He was watching Lando —the way his arms folded behind his head, the little crease in his brow as he zoned out, the way his ankle bounced restlessly even when he was still.

You’re gonna fall for him, Max thought grimly. You already have.

It shouldn’t matter. He was going to change back. Probably soon. Maybe even tomorrow. The week couldn’t stretch forever—and when it ended, so would this.

And yet—

Lando looked over at him suddenly. “You know… I don’t think I’ve felt this relaxed in months.”

Max tilted his head.

“Like, properly. Monaco’s always home, but it gets lonely. I’ve got mates, yeah, but they’re not always here. And I don’t like being alone with my head too long, y’know?”

He scratched behind Max’s ears gently.

“You’ve been good for me. Weirdly.”

Max made a low noise in his throat. A soft, broken purr.

Lando smiled.

Then, without really thinking, he leaned in—slow and easy, like gravity pulled him. His eyes were on Max’s. His breath came shallow. His hand cupped around Max’s jaw, thumb grazing gently under the chin.

Max’s heart—tiny, feline, cursed, and very confused—pounded wildly.

Their noses almost touched.

Then Lando blinked, startled out of the moment. “What the hell am I doing?” he laughed softly, drawing back. “Trying to kiss a cat. Jesus. I need sleep.”

Max said nothing. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Instead, he gently pawed at Lando’s wrist and butted his head against it.

Lando looked down at him, softened.

“No one’s ever gonna believe I almost made out with my pet,” he muttered, scooping Max up and holding him close to his chest. “You little freak.”

Max purred, louder than before.

Because it wasn’t a kiss.

But it was a beginning.

Max blinked awake on the couch, stretching long like a loaf of lazy luxury, but immediately felt the absence beside him. Lando was gone. The pillow was still warm, dented from where Lando had fallen asleep the night before, curled up protectively around Max’s feline form. But now it was empty, and it made something twist in Max’s small, fur-covered chest.

He hopped down and padded through the flat, searching for him.

No one in the kitchen. No steaming mug on the counter. No scrambled eggs on the stove. Just a sticky note, scribbled in looping black ink, stuck haphazardly to the fridge:

“Be back around 3. Be good. – L”

Max sat back on his haunches and stared at it. He didn’t know what time it was. Cats didn’t exactly keep track of hours. But he knew it would feel long. Longer now that Lando was part of his routine. His sunbeam. His anchor.

Wandering the apartment, Max started inspecting things he hadn’t bothered with before. He leapt onto the sideboard where a cluster of old polaroids sat tucked into a frame shaped like a steering wheel. Lando with his mum. Lando on a jet ski. Lando and—Max blinked—Carlos, shirtless and grinning, somewhere sunny. Another one, Max hadn’t seen before. A blurry shot of Max himself—pre-cat—mid-laugh, drink in hand, somewhere in a paddock, arms slung around Lando’s shoulders. Lando had kept it.

That… surprised him.

He moved on, weaving through doorways until he found Lando’s bedroom. It always smelled like the ocean here. Like expensive aftershave, sun-warmed cotton sheets, a bit of engine grease from his hands. Max hadn’t spent much time in the room, preferring the couch and its worn familiarity.

Today, though, he climbed up onto the bed and turned in a slow circle before settling right in the middle. He lay on his side, nose buried in the folds of Lando’s pillow. In his human form, he wouldn’t be caught dead doing this. It was clingy. Desperate. But as a cat… well, that was different. He could indulge without shame.

Still, sleep didn’t come easy.

Something gnawed at him from the inside—something unspoken, impatient. Time was moving faster, even though the minutes dragged. He had no idea how long this spell would last. No idea what had caused it, or what the rules were. All he knew was that this strange, fragile, golden week was more than halfway over… and he didn’t want to go.

Not yet.

Not now that he had Lando. Even just like this.

So Max curled tighter into the hollow of the pillow, trying not to feel the ache blooming in his chest. He shut his eyes and listened for footsteps that wouldn’t come for hours.

And eventually, the loneliness lulled him into another uneasy sleep.

The door creaked open, letting in the warm bite of the late-afternoon Monaco air. Max perked up on the bed at the sound, stretching lazily from where he’d been napping—half-conscious, his tail flicking occasionally like a metronome keeping time in an otherwise silent flat.

Lando stepped inside, talking into his phone with his sunglasses still on, keys jangling between his fingers. Max jumped off the bed and walked out of the bedroom, making his way towards Lando.

“Yeah, nah, mate, I just need a night out, y’know?” he said, kicking his sneakers off without looking. “Been cooped up too long. I need to blow off some steam before the season starts again.”

His voice was light, even amused—but to Max’s ears, it sounded a little forced. Something under it was brittle. Not broken, exactly. But worn.

Max’s tail brushed Lando’s shin as he weaved a soft figure-eight around his ankles. Normally, this would’ve earned him a grin. A scratch behind the ears. A gentle, "Hey, little guy."

Today?

Nothing.

Lando stepped away distractedly, phone still glued to his ear. Max let out a soft, hopeful meow. Lando shot him a distracted glance.

“I’ll call you back in a bit, alright? Gotta shower.”

And just like that, he disappeared into the hallway, voice echoing faintly in the tiled bathroom. Max stood still in the center of the living room, tail slowly lowering.

This wasn’t like the other days. Lando wasn’t just distracted. He was somewhere else entirely. Max padded after him, slower now, climbing up to the doorway of the bathroom just as the glass shower door clicked shut. Steam billowed up quickly, fogging the mirror. Lando’s silhouette moved behind the glass—sharp, sculpted, beautiful in that careless way Max had never quite let himself stare at before.

But he wasn’t looking at Max. He hadn’t really looked at him all day.

When Lando emerged, toweling off his curls, he walked past Max without a word and into the bedroom to dress. Max followed, silent, hopping onto the bed to watch. Lando pulled on a sleek black shirt, the sleeves hugging his arms, then spritzed himself with cologne—something spicy and clean that Max had smelled before on hotel pillows and champagne-sticky race podium hugs.

“Big night,” Lando muttered, more to himself than anyone. “Gonna be out late.”

Max meowed again. A quiet sound, almost asking.

This time, Lando did pause.

He turned, finally looking down at Max, and crouched beside the bed. One hand came forward, fingers curling gently behind Max’s ears. The touch was tender. Familiar. But Max leaned into it with more force than usual, as if he could anchor himself to the moment, make Lando stay.

“Don’t wait up, yeah?” Lando murmured with a little smile, ruffling the fur between Max’s ears. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

And just like that, he was gone.

The front door clicked shut.

The apartment was empty.

And Max was alone.

Night fell like a weight.

The silence wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was restless. Max wandered through the flat aimlessly, every room still carrying Lando’s scent, but none of them feeling right. The silence buzzed in his ears, stretching long and unnatural. He returned to the hoodie—Lando’s favorite one, soft and slightly oversized, tossed carelessly over the arm of the chair. Max pawed at it before curling into the folds, nose pressed deep into the fabric. It helped. A little.

But it wasn’t the same.

He couldn’t sleep.

A warm breeze stirred from the partially opened sliding glass door. Max raised his head. Lando must’ve cracked it open earlier, too distracted to notice. Outside, the balcony glowed under the soft light of the moon, and beyond that, the twisting cobblestone streets of Monaco shimmered in the distance.

The city was alive. And Max… wasn’t.

So, he got up.

Slipping silently onto the balcony, Max paused. One glance back inside. Still empty. Still silent.

Then he jumped.

A perfect, graceful leap onto the neighboring railing, then the terrace ledge, and from there, into the world.

Max’s adventure wasn’t long, but it felt enormous.

He wandered down narrow alleys, past overflowing flower boxes and glowing shopfronts closed for the night. He perched under a parked Ferrari for half an hour, watching the late-night foot traffic and the couples laughing over wine. Someone nearly stepped on his tail. He hissed at a street dog. He narrowly avoided a scooter.

For a moment, he stood outside a bar, peering in through the open door. A flash of pulsing lights. A girl’s laugh. A swirl of perfume. And—

Lando.

Max stilled.

Through the haze and color, he spotted him—Lando in that same black shirt, a glass in hand, smiling like the world was simple. Talking to someone. A girl. Her hand brushed his. She leaned in to say something in his ear.

Max backed away.

He turned before he could watch more, heart pounding fast and wild in his small body, and disappeared into the Monaco night.

Morning came quietly. Too bright. Too still. The kind of morning that felt like it didn’t belong to you. Like you’d borrowed it from someone else.

Max slipped through the cracked sliding door just before sunrise, paws light against the hardwood floor. The city behind him was quieting, winding down from its endless chattering nightlife. But inside the flat, everything remained untouched, frozen in the space Lando had left behind.

Max didn’t go far.

He padded across the living room and straight to the chair—the one Lando always tossed his hoodie over. That same soft grey one, worn and smelling exactly like him.

Max climbed into the folds like he was burrowing into a foxhole. He didn’t even bother grooming the dirt off his paws.

He was tired. Bone-tired.

But he wasn’t just physically drained. Something inside him felt heavy. Muddled. Quiet in a way that wasn’t peaceful.

His head rested between his paws as he stared out into the living room. His ears barely twitched at the sound of the front door unlocking around ten.

Lando stumbled in with a muttered curse—keys clattering to the floor, sunglasses still on, shirt wrinkled and untucked. Max didn’t move. He just watched, eyes tracking Lando as he kicked his shoes off with sluggish feet, then dropped onto the couch with a groan.

He reeked of club air.

Max blinked slowly. Not judging. Just observing. But it ached a little, the way Lando didn’t even look around for him.

Eventually, Lando got up and shuffled to the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. The shower started running.

Max closed his eyes and exhaled.

He didn’t understand it. This feeling. This stupid ache in his chest. This frustration. This disappointment. This—

Jealousy?

No. That was stupid. He didn’t like Lando like that. Lando was just… familiar. Warm. Funny. Kind to him. Generous. Nice-smelling. Pretty when he laughed. Soft when he touched him. Thoughtful when he—

Max groaned.

He buried his face deeper into the hoodie and tried to suffocate the thought before it bloomed. He shouldn’t feel like this. He didn’t even have a body . He was a cat , for god’s sake. This wasn’t some fairytale where a spell got broken by a kiss or some dumb human-boy-makes-cat-boy-fall-in-love nonsense.

He didn’t like Lando.

Not like that.

...He just missed the version of Lando who curled up beside him on the couch and let Max sleep on his chest. The version who talked to him like he was someone real. Who scratched under his chin and let him eat from his fingers, and wore oversized hoodies and had messy hair in the mornings.

Max sighed, curling tighter.

He was probably just touch-starved. That was it. Just a side effect of the spell. Or the lack of opposable thumbs. Or being ignored for a night. Or—

The bathroom door creaked open again.

Lando padded out in a towel, rubbing at his curls, face pink from the hot water. Max peeked out from the folds of the hoodie.

Lando didn’t see him.

He just went into the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

And for some reason…

Max felt lonelier than when the flat had been empty.

Lando emerged an hour later, fresh clothes on, hair damp and curling at the ends. Always taking his time getting ready. He rubbed at his eyes, still bleary from whatever little sleep he’d gotten. The apartment smelled like stale vodka and citrus shampoo.

Max didn’t go to greet him.

He stayed curled in the chair, halfway buried in the hoodie, tail flicking slowly over the armrest like a metronome.

Lando didn’t notice at first.

He went to the fridge, grabbed a can of something fizzy, and popped it open with a hiss. He took a sip, leaned back against the counter, and looked around.

“Where’s my little menace?” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “You not gonna come demand breakfast and bite my ankles this morning?”

Max didn’t move.

Eventually, Lando wandered over, peering around the corner into the living room. When he spotted Max in the chair, he smiled, casual and sunny. “There you are.”

Max looked up, ears barely twitching.

Lando tilted his head. “What, too good for me now?”

Still no response. Just a blink. Slow and unreadable.

“Alright,” Lando chuckled awkwardly. “Guess someone’s got a hangover worse than mine.”

He walked past him toward the kitchen, muttering something about salmon and eggs. Max stayed exactly where he was, even when he smelled food. He wasn’t sulking, not really. He just didn’t want to… perform . Not for now.

Lando cooked in silence, only occasionally glancing back at him.

When breakfast was ready, he called out gently, “Come on, then. Got the fancy stuff today.”

Max hopped down eventually, but not with the usual pep. He padded slowly over, sat down near his bowl, and waited. Not nuzzling, not chirping. Just… sitting.

Lando crouched beside him with the plate, but Max didn’t lean in.

“You okay, bud?” Lando asked, offering a piece of fish with his fingers.

Max sniffed it but didn’t take it from him. He waited until Lando dropped it into the bowl before eating.

Lando sat back on his heels. Watched him. Frowned.

“I didn’t mean to leave you all night,” he said, quieter this time. “It was just—needed to get out. Blow off steam. Monaco gets quiet during the break, you know?”

Max didn’t look up.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” Lando added.

Max paused mid-chew, then resumed eating like he hadn’t heard.

It stung more than it should’ve. Lando wasn’t used to the cold shoulder from anyone, let alone a cat. Especially not his cat. Or… whatever this little guy was. He hadn’t decided yet. He hadn’t wanted to decide.

“Right. Sorry,” Lando mumbled, standing. “I’ll be in the sim room if you need me.”

The moment he walked away, Max stopped eating. He sat there for a long time, staring down into the half-full bowl like it held all the answers.

He didn’t want to be cold. Not really.

But he also didn’t want to feel this… pulled.

Lando was just a human. Max didn’t belong in his world—not in this body, not in this time. He didn’t even know when this would end. If it would end. And the more he cared, the worse it was going to feel when it did .

So maybe it was better this way.

Just a little space.

Just enough to remember he wasn’t his .

Not forever.

From the living room window ledge, Max had the perfect view into the sim room.

He didn’t mean to sit there long.

He’d jumped up out of boredom, tail flicking with mild frustration. But once he caught sight of Lando settling into the rig—pulling on gloves, adjusting his headset, murmuring into the mic—Max went still.

The familiar posture. The focused brow. The way Lando tapped the wheel with his thumbs as he waited at the lights. God, even the slight bounce of his leg before a race began—it was all muscle memory. It triggered something primal in Max’s chest.

He missed it.
The hum of the engine.
The shake of the wheel under his palms.
The rush down a straight, heart-pounding, tire temps peaking.

He could almost feel it still. Phantom sensations locked in a body that was no longer his.

Lando didn’t notice him watching.

He was locked in now, all sharp turns and low murmurs. Jet—the cat, Max , whatever—was just background noise. A lump on the sill.

Max’s tail curled tighter around his paws.

Even from across the apartment, he could tell Lando was fast today. The way he braked late, feathered the throttle out of corners. It was clean, calculated, and familiar.

And frustrating.

Because Max wanted to be in that rig.

He should be in that rig.

But instead, he was pressed against a cold window, ears twitching at the sound of a virtual engine. A literal cat watching someone else drive.

A surge of bitterness rose in his chest. He didn’t even realize he’d made a low mewling sound until Lando paused, glancing over his shoulder with a half-smile.

“You watching me, Jet?” he said through the mic, voice amused. “You judging my lines?”

Max blinked slowly.

Lando laughed to whoever was on the headset. “Yeah, the cat’s giving me the death stare right now. I think he thinks he can do better.”

He turned back around, still chuckling.

Max looked away.

An hour passed. Then two.

The sim session ended and Lando padded into the kitchen, hair a mess from his headphones.

He poured a glass of water, chugged it, then looked toward the living room.

No Jet.

His smile faltered.

He wandered over. Found Max still on the window ledge, curled tight and unmoving.

“Still mad at me, huh?”

Max didn’t respond. But his ears twitched.

“I get it,” Lando said quietly, leaning on the back of the couch. “You like attention. And I’ve been… a bit shit, haven’t I?”

A pause. Then a softer, more uncertain voice: “I missed you today, though.”

Max blinked once.

Lando dropped his chin into his hand and studied him. “You’re not just a cat,” he murmured. “You’ve got… I don’t know. Something.”

Max stiffened.

Lando didn’t notice. He was too lost in thought, eyes tracing the shape of Max’s ears, the curve of his back. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How some animals just get you. Like you’ve known them before.”

Max’s chest ached.

Because if he could speak, he’d tell him he had .

He’d known Lando since they were both kids in karting, since the endless laps and late nights and adrenaline highs. He’d known the boy who used to laugh at his own crashes, who gave nicknames to every corner, who once gave Max the last doughnut even though he’d qualified P1.

He’d known him. And now he couldn’t even say hi .

So instead, Max rose slowly from the sill and stretched, then padded down to the floor. He took his time crossing the room, his claws clicking lightly on the hardwood. When he reached Lando, he bumped his head gently against his leg.

Lando blinked, then smiled. It was small, but it was real.

“There you are,” he whispered, crouching to scoop him up. “Guess we’re okay again?”

Max didn’t answer.

He just tucked his head under Lando’s chin and breathed.

The lights were dim, the room steeped in amber shadows cast by the single lamp near the couch. The hum of Monaco nightlife buzzed faintly beyond the open balcony doors, warm air rolling in with the scent of sea salt and exhaust. Lando sat slouched against the couch cushions, hoodie up, socks mismatched, a half-eaten slice of cold pizza on a napkin beside him, and a bottle of beer resting on his thigh.

Jet—Max—lay curled next to him, belly full from dinner, body warm, fur brushed. His little paws were tucked beneath him like a loaf of bread. He was quiet, his amber eyes trained on Lando's profile as the driver stared out at nothing in particular.

Lando let out a slow breath and scratched absently behind Jet’s ears. “You’re good company,” he murmured. “Don’t need me to be funny or clever or on . That’s rare.”

Jet blinked slowly, accepting the touch.

The silence stretched. Lando took a sip of beer, set the bottle down on the coffee table with a soft clink, and leaned back into the cushions with a sigh that was all weight and weariness.

“I’ve been thinking about Max a lot.”

Max’s ears twitched, but he didn’t move.

“Dunno why I’m telling you that,” Lando chuckled, rubbing a palm over his face. “Maybe because you won’t ask questions. Or tell anyone. Or call me pathetic.”

He glanced down at Jet, who met his gaze calmly, quietly.

“I just…” Lando trailed off, shook his head, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “He’s not gone , I know that. He’s probably training or traveling or doing something stupidly Max. But it’s like—he’s gone in the way it matters. I don’t hear from him. Don’t see him. It’s like he’s just… slipped out of my life.”

Lando’s hand found Max’s back again, running a slow stroke down his spine.

“I didn’t even realize how much space he took up in my head until he wasn’t around. Every time something good or bad happens, I still think about telling him. Every time I hit a corner perfect on the sim or watch some stupid race replay, I want to know what he’d say. It’s fucked.”

His voice cracked around the edges—frustration or something gentler, harder to name.

“I liked him,” Lando whispered. “More than I should’ve.”

Jet stilled. His chest rose and fell against Lando’s thigh, rhythm even, ears trained on the sound of Lando’s voice.

“Not just like… 'oh he’s a mate, I miss him.' It’s different. It was always different with him.”

Lando leaned back again, neck resting against the top of the couch, eyes on the ceiling.

“He’s intense. Scary smart. Rude. You know that kind of person who looks at you and sees through you? That’s him. He made me feel like I was real , sometimes. Like I wasn't just some fast kid everyone wanted to market.”

Jet's heart ached in a way that didn’t feel like a cat’s. His tail flicked once, curling tighter.

Lando exhaled slowly. “I think I might’ve really loved him. In some stupid, impossible way.”

The words hovered in the air, quiet and unassuming but heavy. Like they’d been waiting to be said for a long, long time.

Lando reached out, pulling Jet closer, holding the small body against his chest.

“Feels stupid saying it now. Too late. He’s probably moved on. Probably thinks I’m just a brat with a twitchy brake foot.”

Jet nuzzled into his hoodie.

“But I miss him. Fuck, I miss him.”

Lando’s voice was raw, barely a whisper now.

“I wish he were here.”

Jet closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to Lando’s chest. If he could’ve spoken, he would’ve said I’m here . If he could’ve shifted back, he would’ve taken that chance right then, breathless and overwhelmed.

But he couldn’t.

So he stayed. And Lando held him tighter.

The sun poured in soft and golden through the balcony doors, the sea breeze stirring the curtains gently. Max stretched his limbs out along the couch, blinking slowly as he awoke, nestled against the curve of Lando’s body. At some point in the night, Lando had rolled over, one arm tucked loosely around him like a stuffed toy.

For a moment, Max just watched the rise and fall of his chest. Lando's lips were parted slightly, his lashes dark against his cheeks. He looked peaceful. Trusting.

Max looked away, flustered. It wasn’t like he hadn’t spent nights pressed to Lando like this before in the last few days—but now, after that confession , it felt like every breath between them was charged. His fur prickled a little at the thought.

He hopped off the couch quietly, paws soft on the wooden floors. The ache behind his eyes was subtle at first, like a fuzz of static at the base of his skull. He shook his head, chalking it up to too much thinking, not enough sleeping.

By noon, Lando was in the sim room. Max followed him in like he always did, curling beside the pedals on a folded blanket. The sound of the wheel and brakes, the rhythm of Lando’s shifting and muttering, it all felt like home to Max in a strange, aching way. He missed this more than anything— being a driver. Feeling the strain of G-forces, the hum of tires under pressure, the roar of data streaming in.

Lando had just finished a tough virtual race when he leaned back in the sim seat and exhaled. He reached down absentmindedly and pulled Max up into his lap, burying his fingers into the thick fur around his shoulders.

“You’re so chill,” Lando murmured. “Wish I could take you everywhere.”

Max tucked himself in quietly, purring against the familiar scent of Lando’s hoodie.

There was a pause.

“I know this is weird,” Lando added, laughing under his breath, “but like… I kinda want to keep you.”

Max stiffened just a little.

“You’re the only thing that hasn’t disappointed me in weeks. I tell you everything. You don’t leave. You just… stay .” His voice dipped softer. “I think I really like you.”

Max’s purr faltered. His heart felt like it skipped something—definitely not feline in nature.

Lando chuckled, scratching gently behind his ears. “Not like that , obviously. I’m not into cats.” He paused. “I just—if I could choose, I’d keep you. You make everything easier.”

Max didn’t know whether to curl tighter into him or leap out of his lap and start screaming in a full-blown human panic.

Instead, he simply pressed closer. Because Lando meant it. Even if he didn’t know who he was saying it to.

Max padded into the bathroom while Lando was in the shower, the door cracked open with steam curling out. The scent of Lando’s body wash filled the air, that warm bergamot and cedarwood smell Max had come to associate with comfort. Safety.

He leapt onto the sink counter and looked at himself in the mirror. At first, it was just the usual: dark grey fur, sharp ears, golden slit-pupil eyes. A very serious-looking cat.

Then—

Something shifted .

His left eye—just for a second—blinked human. Round pupil. Familiar blue.

He reared back with a startled yowl, skidding on the counter. His heart was hammering. His tail fluffed straight up. What the hell—?

And then came the headache. Not a soft one. A sharp, pulsing throb that tunneled straight through his skull and down his spine like electricity.

Oh. Oh shit.

The realization hit him in waves:
He was changing back.
It was starting.
Today.

His body trembled—not in fear, exactly, but something more complex. Something torn.

He’d wanted this. Of course he had. He was Max Verstappen , not a pet. Not a lap cat.

But the idea of leaving this —Lando’s gentle hands, the sleepy cuddles, the way he was spoken to like he mattered—left him with a hollow pit in his chest.

He didn’t want it to end. Not completely.

From behind the shower door, Lando’s voice called lazily, “Jet? That you?”

Max meowed in response, trying to sound normal, not like his head was cracking open and his world was turning upside down.

Lando chuckled. “Little creep. I bet you’re staring at me through the fog like a perv.”

Max was , actually. And he hated how much he liked the view.

He jumped off the sink and ran out of the bathroom, ignoring the swirl in his chest. He’d think about all of it later.

He still had a few hours left.

The headache pulsed in slow, rhythmic waves behind Max’s eyes. Not unbearable—but impossible to ignore. Every time he blinked, his vision felt a little off , like a camera lens trying to auto-focus and failing. The bathroom mirror still haunted him, that flicker of human eye staring back. He hadn’t gone near it since.

Lando, oblivious to the impending magic simmering in the air, had spent the afternoon lazily bouncing between his phone and the sim room, trading texts, trying a few more laps. Every now and then, he’d glance around, calling for “Jet” in that warm, casual voice, like Max was just another soft fixture in his home.

“Where’d you go, little guy?” Lando muttered now, stepping into the kitchen with a slice of toast in hand. He bent down and Max, hiding under the counter, reluctantly stepped out.

He hated how fast he responded to that voice. That smile .

Lando immediately scooped him up and nuzzled his face into Max’s fur. “God, you’re like my emotional support animal at this point.”

Max meowed and tucked his head under Lando’s chin. His chest was tight. He could feel his body beginning to buzz with something unnatural, something inevitable.

Lando sat down in the sim chair again with Max in his lap. One arm draped lazily over him while the other scrolled through something on his phone.

“Y’know,” Lando said suddenly, voice low and thoughtful, “I told Oscar last night that I wasn’t gonna go out anymore. That I’ve got everything I need here.”

Max froze.

Lando scratched behind his ears absently. “I didn’t tell him it was because of you. That’d make me sound insane, huh? Falling for a cat.”

Max’s heart skipped hard. His ears twitched involuntarily.

Lando laughed softly. “Not like— not like that. I mean… kind of. You’re just always here. Always listen. No pressure, no drama, no press. I think I tell you more than I tell my friends.”

He let out a sigh, resting his cheek briefly on the top of Max’s head.

“I’ve been lonely, y’know? And then you just… showed up.”

Max swallowed hard. He wanted to say something. Anything. But he wasn’t ready yet. His voice wouldn’t come even if he had it.

Lando continued, quieter, more vulnerable now. “Sometimes I think if I could just freeze this week and live in it forever, I’d be alright. I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

Max buried his face into Lando’s hoodie, nose full of him. He couldn’t stop the purring, even if he tried.

And he didn’t try.

The symptoms returned stronger. His fur felt… wrong . Like it didn’t belong on him anymore. His spine tingled with every movement, bones aching in strange, unfamiliar places. He watched the sunset from the windowsill, dreading what would come next.

Lando had stepped out to grab dinner. He’d asked Max, half-joking, what he wanted—“Chicken? Tuna?”—before locking the door behind him.

Max took the opportunity to test his body in the quiet. He leapt to the floor. Walked to the bathroom. Jumped onto the counter.

When he looked into the mirror this time, he braced for it.

And there it was.

His reflection flickered again—just for a second—but this time it lingered.

Human eyes. Max Verstappen’s eyes. His face , faded and distorted under the shape of the cat.

He blinked rapidly. The vision vanished. The fur was still there. The ears. The tail. But he knew now:

It was happening tonight.

His tail curled tightly. He sat down on the cold counter and tried to steady his breathing.

He was going back.

But he wasn’t sure anymore if he was ready to leave.

Max was still perched on the bathroom counter when he heard the front door unlock.

His ears twitched instinctively, heart pounding in sync with the sound of Lando's voice calling out.

“Jet? I got you tuna, you spoiled little shit.”

Max jumped down and padded slowly into the hallway, trying to walk normally even as every limb felt like it was pulling in two directions. Bones prickled under fur. His skin itched like it didn’t belong to him.

Lando set a paper bag on the kitchen counter and turned toward him with a grin that made Max ache.

“There you are,” he murmured. He knelt, and Max walked right into his arms.

Lando’s hands came up to cradle him automatically, gentle and warm, petting down his spine. Max nuzzled into his neck, inhaling his scent deeply—still cologne from the night before, but also sweat and shampoo and whatever body wash he used that smelled like salt and citrus.

“You’re all I think about lately,” Lando whispered. “Isn’t that stupid?”

Max didn’t move. His whole body felt like it was buzzing again. He leaned his head back, locking eyes with Lando.

For the first time, Lando blinked. “Sometimes, you act so damn human. It’s weird”

Max reached up with a paw, resting it lightly on Lando’s chest.

“You’re not normal,” Lando whispered, like a confession. “You watch me like you know me.”

He laughed once—awkward, self-deprecating—but there was no real amusement in it. “God, I’m talking to a fucking cat again.”

He stood and ruffled Max’s head. “C’mon. Let’s eat before the tuna gets warm.”

Lando fell asleep on the couch again.

Max curled up on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. He could feel his own heart racing against it, unsteady, uncertain. He stared at Lando’s sleeping face and tried to memorize every detail.

He didn’t know if it would be the same when he came back.

Or if he’d be welcome anymore.

Max jerked awake with a jolt, falling off the couch with a sharp yowl. His whole body seized. His vision blurred, distorted, twisted .

It was happening.

Now.

He scrambled to the bathroom, collapsing just inside. His legs didn’t work properly. His paws were twitching. Shifting.

His breath came in shallow gasps. He grabbed the edge of the tub with his fingers and hauled himself up just enough to look into the mirror.

And there he was.

Human. Mostly. Pale skin, tousled brown hair, blue human eyes staring back at him. His body barely clothed in the remnants of the magic that had wrapped around him. Naked, trembling.

Max Verstappen.

He exhaled, a rasp of disbelief, bracing his hands on the sink.

Then he looked up sharply.

Because out in the apartment…
A sleepy voice called out.

“…Jet?”

Max froze. He glanced down at his body— very naked, very exposed, and still trembling.

He couldn’t let Lando see him. Not like this. Not yet.

He scrambled to his feet—legs wobbling—snatched the towel from the back of the door, and wrapped it around his waist. Everything felt loud. The rustle of the fabric. The creak of the floorboards. The racing in his chest.

Then—

“You okay, bud? Thought I heard something.”

Max didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He shut his eyes tight, willing himself to disappear.

“Jet?”

The door slowly started to creak open.

Max lunged for it, slamming his hand down to keep it shut.

Silence. Beat. Then:

“…What the fuck?”

Max panicked. “Don’t freak out,” he blurted, voice raw from disuse. “Just—don’t open the door.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then Lando said, very slowly, “That’s a man’s voice.”

Max let out a breathless laugh. “Technically, yeah.”

Pause.

“Who the fuck are you?” Lando’s voice sharpened, full of panic. “Where’s Jet? What the fuck did you do to my cat?!”

“I am Jet!” Max shouted, regretting it instantly. “I mean—I was! Just let me explain—”

There was a sound like a body slamming into the door. “ Where’s my cat?! I swear to God, if you hurt him—”

“I was the cat! ” Max’s voice cracked. “It was a curse or magic or—I don’t know! I don’t know! But I’m not lying to you!”

Silence again. Max didn’t dare breathe.

“…Say that again?” Lando asked, quieter this time.

Max swallowed thickly. “It’s me. Jet. I’ve been here all week. You named me that. I slept on your pillow. Fell into your omelet. Slept on your hoodies.”

Pause.

Lando exhaled sharply—half disbelief, half bewildered horror. “What the fuck. ”

“Can I come out?” Max said gently, leaning his head against the door. “I swear I’m not dangerous. Just very, very naked.”

Silence.

Then Lando said, voice strangled, “Holy shit.”

Max could hear him back away slowly.

“…There’s some sweatpants in my room,” Lando muttered, sounding like he was losing his grip on reality. “Top drawer. Go nuts.”

Lando was pacing the living room in boxers and a hoodie, clutching a half-empty bottle of Gatorade like it was a life preserver.

Max stepped out of the hallway in borrowed sweatpants and a wrinkled t-shirt that read McLaren Team Staff.

Lando looked up.

Stopped.

And stared.

Max looked… well. Not like a murderer. Or a weirdo. Or anything Lando might have prepared for. He looked like Max Verstappen.

Wild hair. Tall. A little dazed. Same mismatched eyes. Same scar on his jaw that Lando had once traced absently while watching F1 replays.

“You…” Lando whispered. “ Ma x?!”

Max lifted a shoulder sheepishly. “I mean. Technically, yeah.”

“The cat I’ve been cuddling all week.”

“Still me.”

“The cat I told I loved.”

“Yeah…”

“And you literally jumped into my omelet? ”

Max cleared his throat. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

Lando stared a moment longer. Then walked past him to the kitchen, opened the fridge, pulled out a beer, and chugged half of it.

Max leaned against the counter, watching him quietly.

“I didn’t mean to lie,” Max said after a beat. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t even know I was going to change back.”

Lando turned, eyes still wide. “You were a fucking cat. ”

“I know.”

“You— you let me hold you while I was crying! You let me kiss your stupid little forehead! ”

Max gave a tiny smile. “I liked it.”

That did something to Lando’s face. Something raw.

He stared for a long moment, then said, very quietly, “ Why didn’t you tell me sooner? ”

Max hesitated. Then: “Because I didn’t want it to end.”

“You didn’t want it to end,” Lando echoed, voice flat, like his brain had stalled. “Max Verstappen. Four-time F1 world champion. Was a cat. And didn’t want it to end. ”

Max scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I liked… being around you. I’ve been alone a lot.”

Lando blinked. His fingers twitched around the neck of the beer bottle.

Then his eyes widened. " Oh my god. "

Max stilled.

Lando stepped back like he’d just remembered something horrifying . “I— I let you sleep in my bed. I cuddled you. I called you my baby. I told you I was gonna get you one of those stupid cat backpacks— you watched me shower. ”

Max coughed. “I didn’t watch. Just… peeked.”

“ What the fuck, Max. ”

“I didn’t know how to turn around!” Max’s voice cracked, both embarrassed and amused. “And I never looked below the neck. Mostly.”

“ Mostly? ”

“Sometimes your back was just— look, you have a really nice back! ”

Lando looked like he might combust on the spot. “Oh my god, I let you lay on my chest, I let you sleep under my shirt, I literally scratched behind your ears like—like a pet—”

Max bit his lip to stop himself from laughing. “You said I was a ‘perfect little guy.’”

Lando made a noise like he’d been stabbed.

“I fed you by hand. I kissed you. On the nose. And you liked it. ”

Max shrugged, trying not to smile. “I really liked it.”

“No, no, no—this is a fucking nightmare. ” Lando turned around, dragging both hands through his hair like he could erase the last seven days. “You were purring. And I was like—‘he gets me, man.’ I told you things. I held you. ”

“You still can,” Max said softly.

That made Lando go silent.

He turned back around, eyes locked onto Max like he couldn’t believe the words had just been spoken out loud. “You’re not a cat anymore.”

“No,” Max said. “But I still get you. Man.”

Lando stared at him for three full seconds. Then dropped onto the couch with the beer still in hand, burying his face in one arm like the embarrassment was going to kill him.

“I told you I loved you, ” he muttered into the cushion. “I pet your head and said ‘I love you, you’re the only thing that makes me feel okay lately.’ What the fuck. ”

Max padded over slowly, bare feet quiet on the floor.

“You said you wanted to keep me,” he said, crouching in front of the couch. “That you’d take care of me forever.”

“Shut up, I was talking to a cat.”

“You were talking to me. ”

Lando groaned loudly and pulled the cushion over his head.

“You made me a whole plate of scrambled eggs because I blinked at you.”

“I cannot live with myself. ”

“You said I was your favorite guy.”

Lando peered out from under the pillow. His ears were bright red.

Max, suddenly quiet again, looked at him earnestly. “You were mine too. I didn’t expect it, but… you were. Are.”

Lando’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His eyes softened, warily.

“And I meant it,” Max added. “Every purr. Every headbutt. Every time I followed you around like an idiot.”

“You bit me,” Lando said faintly.

“I was mad. You left me for a day.”

Lando gave him a helpless little laugh, half-strangled by disbelief.

Max reached up—slowly—and touched his hand. Real fingers. Warm skin.

“Still wanna keep me?” he asked, voice lower now. “Even like this?”

Lando looked at their hands, at Max’s eyes, and didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly: “Yeah. Kinda do.”