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The paddock always seemed to agree on one thing about George Russell.
He handled things better than most people expected.
Better than Max, most of the time. Better than the engineers when strategy went sideways. Better than the reporters trying to pull something messy out of him in the middle of a mixed zone.
George Russell stayed composed.
It was almost irritatingly consistent.
That Sunday, the noise of Max Verstappen’s race still felt like it hadn’t fully left the air. Not just the radio messages, but the way everything had escalated. Sharp calls, clipped frustration, the kind of edge that made engineers glance at each other instead of responding immediately.
Max had stepped out of the car like it had personally wronged him. In some ways, it had.
Helmet off. Jaw locked. No lingering. No performance for cameras. Just gone through the motions of being present without actually staying in any one place long enough to be read.
George, in contrast, had done what he always did. Debrief, thank yous to the team. Small moments of attention given where they were expected. A hand on a shoulder, a quick smile that didn’t overstay its welcome.
Someone near hospitality watched him pass and shook their head.
“Don’t know how he deals with Verstappen.”
“At least one of them has to be normal.”
George heard it. He usually did. He didn’t react, just adjusted his sleeve and kept walking.
Normal.
If only it were that simple.
The apartment was quiet in a way that didn’t sit right.
Max had kicked his shoes off by the door but hadn’t properly moved past the entryway. He stood in the kitchen instead, staring at the kettle like it had offended him personally.
George noticed the stillness immediately.
“Do you want tea?”
Max didn’t respond right away, and a bief silence settled over the room for a moment.
“Yeah.”
George reached for a mug, then hesitated. “Sorry- I can do coffee instead if you want. I wasn’t sure.”
Max looked up from the kettle.
“What?”
“I just- didn’t know what you’d prefer.”
“You don’t need to apologize for that.”
“I know,” George said quickly. “Sorry.”
Max exhaled through his nose, slow. Not angry yet. Just tracking something. “You’ve said sorry twice since I walked in.”
George gave a small, almost embarrassed smile. “That doesn’t sound right.”
“It is.”
George grimaced. “I’m just being polite.”
Max turned towards him. “You apologized for existing in your own kitchen.”
George stopped mid movement.
“…Right.”
He turned back to the counter too quickly, like resetting his hands might reset the conversation.
Max stayed where he was and watched.
“You’re doing it again.”
George glanced over. “Doing what?”
“Apologizing.”
Another pause.
George set the mug down a little too carefully.
“I didn’t mean to.”
Max’s expression tightened slightly at that- not frustration, something more uncertain underneath it.
“I know.”
That landed heavier than it should have.
It didn’t stop.
George apologized when Max brushed past him in the hallway. Apologized when the toast came out too dark even though Max had already said that he didn’t care. Apologized when Max went quiet after a long call with the team. Apologized when nothing was actually wrong.
Max didn’t comment on all of it at first. Even at the beginning of their relationship, it was a pattern. Back then, Max had simply thought it was the strange posh British politeness George seemed to impose on himself.
As the months went on, the pattern only seemed to become more frequent.
Max watched, then started counting without meaning to.
Then he couldn’t stop noticing.
“Why are you saying sorry?” Max asked one afternoon, catching it mid sentence.
George blinked. “I don’t know. It just… comes out.”
Max’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s not an answer.”
George dismissed it. “It’s not important.”
“It is if you keep doing it.”
George smiled faintly, but it didn’t hold. “It’s fine.”
Max didn’t respond immediately, because it wasn’t fine. Not really. Not when it sounded like George was constantly stepping out of the way of something that wasn’t there.
The race weekend that followed was bad for Max in a slow, grinding way.
Nothing dramatic. No single failure to point at. Just a car that didn’t behave, strategy that never quite aligned, and a frustration that followed him all the way back home.
He didn’t explode when he walked in. He just went quiet.
George noticed immediately. He always did. But instead of filling the space like he usually would, he started adjusting to it.
Too much.
He cleared plates that weren’t finished. Spoke less. Waited longer before asking questions. Filled silence with movement instead of words.
Max watched it unfold without commenting at first.
“You don’t have to do that,” Max finally said.
“It’s fine,” George dismissed him.
“It’s not about fine.”
George paused.
“I thought you’d want a quiet evening.”
Max crossed his arms. “I didn’t say that.”
Both of them paused.
George nodded once.
“Oh.”
That was it.
But something shifted anyway, because now Max wasn’t just frustrated about the race. He was starting to feel like he was watching George leave the room without even physically moving.
It started so gradually that neither of them could have pointed to the day it changed.
Max had always been expressive.
If he was annoyed, everyone knew it. If he was happy, the garage seemed lighter for it. If he was frustrated, it leaked out of him in sharp edges and clipped replies until he had somewhere to put it.
George had learned that long before they started dating. They had their spats on track. Even their fair share of spats off track.
But h’ed also learned something else.
Max never stayed angry forever.
It arrived quickly. It left quickly. But that didn't stop George from bracing for it every single time.
Three weeks after the race, Max arrived home almost two hours later than expected.
George looked up from the sofa as the front door opened. "Hey."
Max didn’t turn to look at him as he responded, "Hey."
"You ate?"
Max dropped his backpack beside the door with more force than necessary. "Yeah."
George watched him disappear into the bedroom without another word, and the apartment settled back into silence.
He stayed on the sofa for another minute before standing.
Dinner was already in the oven.
He turned it off.
There wasn't much point anymore.
Max found him forty minutes later wiping down a kitchen counter that had already been cleaned.
"What are you doing?"
George glanced over his shoulder. "Nothing."
"You've cleaned that three times."
George’s movements slowed. "I missed a spot."
Max frowned.
"There isn't a spot."
George smiled, small and practiced.
"I know."
"...George."
"It's okay."
"No."
Max folded his arms. "It's clearly not."
George looked down at the cloth in his hands. "I figured you probably weren't hungry."
"I told you I ate."
"I know."
Max’s brows met. "So why did you turn dinner off?"
George hesitated for a fraction too long. "I didn't want it to go to waste."
Max stared at him.
"George."
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
George blinked. "What?"
Max shook his head lightly. "What are you apologizing for?"
"I don't..."
His voice trailed off.
"...I don't know."
Then it happened again the following weekend.
Max spent all afternoon on the simulator. By the time he got home, he had a headache that settled somewhere behind his eyes and refused to leave.
George met him at the door with a smile.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"You alright?" George asked quietly, his brows furrowing in concern.
"Mhm."
Max leaned down to kiss him.
George kissed him back.
Everything was fine.
Until Max walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and sighed. Just once. Quietly.
But George still heard it.
"What happened?"
"Nothing," Max dismissed it.
"You sighed," George insisted.
"I'm tired."
"Oh."
Another pause.
"I'm sorry."
Max closed the fridge. "...George."
"Sorry."
"No."
Max looked at him carefully. "I sighed."
George looked confused. "Yes?"
"So why are you apologizing?"
George laughed awkwardly. "I don't know."
"You always say that."
"I really don't."
Max wanted to ask more.
Instead, he let it go.
The problem wasn't that George apologized. The problem was that he changed afterwards. Every apology seemed to come with another tiny adjustment.
Max sighed, and George spoke a little softer. Max had a long meeting, and George cancelled dinner with Alex. Max spent an evening reading instead of watching television, and George stopped asking if he wanted to go out.
Individually, none of those events meant anything. Together, it started to feel like George was slowly whittling himself down into someone who took up less space.
Max mentioned it to Alex by accident.
They’d been on good terms even afte Alex left Red Bull, but had gotten closer once Max had started dating George.
They'd met for coffee between simulator sessions, conversation drifting aimlessly from racing, to travel, to whatever happened to come next.
"I think George's mad at me," Max said suddenly.
Alex looked up from his cup.
"You?"
"He keeps saying he's fine."
Alex laughed. "Welcome to dating George Russell."
"I'm serious."
"So am I,” Alex set down his cup.
Max frowned.
"He won't tell me what's wrong."
Alex stirred his coffee for a moment. "George's weird."
Max rolled his eyes. "Thank you, for that groundbreaking analysis."
"No, listen." Alex leaned back caefully. "If George's upset with you, he'll spend three days convincing himself he's actually upset with himself."
"...What?"
"He'll get quieter."
Max's stomach sank.
"He'll apologize more,” Alex continued. "He'll start asking what you want for dinner every night even though you always say you don't care."
Max didn't answer.
Alex tilted his head. "He does that, doesn't he?"
"...Yeah."
"I've known him since karting," Alex smiled sadly. "It's kind of his thing."
Max looked down at the table. "I thought it was me."
"It probably isn't."
Probably.
The word lingered in Max’s mind.
It wasn't enough. Certainly not when Max could see something was wrong every time he looked at George, yet couldn't reach it.
Max tried.
George never doubted that.
He was better than he had been a year ago, better than he'd been six months ago. There were fewer slammed doors, fewer sharp replies thrown at the nearest person simply for being within reach of his frustration. The edges were still there, but they were blunter now, worn down by practice rather than disappearing altogether.
George knew how hard he'd worked for that.
It made the moments when he slipped easier to excuse.
The problem was that Max didn't have to raise his voice anymore. George had become frighteningly good at reading everything that came before it.
One Thursday evening, Max arrived home nearly an hour later than he'd promised. He dropped his keys onto the kitchen island with a clatter that echoed through the apartment before tugging a hand through his hair.
"Traffic?" George asked, looking up from where he'd been chopping vegetables.
"No."
George waited.
Max opened the fridge, stared into it for a second, then shut it again with a little more force than necessary.
"The simulator ran over."
George nodded. "Long day."
"Mhm."
His answers weren't rude. They weren't even particularly short by Max's standards. Still, George found himself watching every movement. The way Max rubbed absently at the back of his neck. The crease between his eyebrows that hadn't eased since he'd walked through the door. The tension sitting high in his shoulders.
He reached for another plate before he'd even realized he was doing it. "I can plate yours if you want."
Max frowned. "Why?"
"So you can sit down."
Max’s brows furrowed. "I can manage a plate, George."
The words came out sharper than either of them intended.
Silence settled between them.
Max closed his eyes for a brief moment, exhaling through his nose. "Sorry. That wasn't-"
"It's okay," George interrupted, already shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I was just trying to help."
"You don't have to apologize."
"I know."
"You've done it again."
George blinked. "Done what?"
Max looked at him. "You said sorry."
George looked down at the plate in his hands as though the answer might be written there. "I suppose I did."
"You suppose?" Max let out a humourless laugh. "You just apologized because I snapped at you."
"It wasn't really snapping," George defended him.
"I was short with you."
"You'd had a long day," he justified.
One of Max’s eyebrows rose. "So I was short with you."
George smiled, small and reassuring. "It's alright, Max."
But it wasn't reassurance that Max wanted. He was disagreement. He wanted George to tell him that he'd been an arse. He wanted George to say, ‘Yes, you were unfair, and I didn't like it.’
Instead, George absorbed it so easily that there was nowhere for the guilt to go except back onto Max.
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
"I'm going to shower."
George nodded. "Dinner will still be warm."
By the time Max came back downstairs twenty minutes later, the kitchen was spotless.
Dinner had already been served. George's plate sat untouched across from his own.
"You didn't have to wait," Max said, moving to pull his chair out.
George looked up from his phone and smiled. "I wasn't that hungry."
Max looked at the clock. It was nearly nine.
"You've eaten lunch."
"Yeah."
"You skipped breakfast."
George shrugged. "I got busy."
Max’s eyes narrowed slightly. "No, you forgot."
George opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Max knew that look.
George wasn't deciding whether to argue. He was deciding whether correcting Max was worth the possibility of an unpleasant conversation.
He ended up pulling out his chair with more force than necessary, the legs scraping loudly against the floor.
George's shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly.
That tiny reaction was there and gone in less than a second, but Max caught it anyway. His frustration evaporated as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by something heavier.
"...George."
George looked up immediately.
"I'm not angry with you."
"I know."
"You keep saying that."
"I do know."
Max studied him for a long moment.
George sounded sincere.
That was the worst part. He genuinely believed he wasn't reacting. He genuinely believed everything was fine.
Max looked across the table at the man he'd fallen in love with, and for the first time since they'd started dating, he had the uncomfortable feeling that George was fighting someone Max couldn't see. And no matter how carefully he looked, he couldn't figure out how to help.
That conversation stayed with Max longer than he expected.
He caught himself watching George in ways he hadn't before. Not suspiciously, but more carefully.
It turned out there were dozens of things he'd stopped seeing simply because they'd become part of the rhythm of their life together.
George apologized to strangers who stepped into his path. He thanked cashiers twice. He asked whether Max minded if he sat beside him on the sofa they shared. He prefaced almost every opinion with, "I don't know, but..." or "You don't have to agree..."
None of it had seemed unusual when viewed on its own. Together, it painted a picture Max couldn't stop looking at.
A week later, he found himself sitting across from Alex in the Williams hospitality unit while they waited for an engineering meeting to finish.
Alex had arrived carrying two coffees without asking, placing one in front of Max before dropping into the chair opposite him.
"You look like you've slept about four hours."
"I slept eight."
Alex grinned. "Worse."
Max snorted despite himself.
For a while they talked about the weekend ahead. Tyre compounds. The forecast. A new kerb that everyone had already started complaining about before a wheel had even gone over it.
The conversation drifted naturally, as it usually did.
Max stared into his coffee.
"Can I ask you something?"
Alex looked up immediately. "Depends."
"It's about George."
Alex smiled. "Of course."
Max ignored him.
"Has he always been like this?"
Alex’s eyebrows rose slightly in inquisition. "Like what?"
"He..." Max searched for the words, frustrated by how difficult they suddenly felt. "He apologizes for everything."
Alex's smile faded a little.
"He gets quiet whenever I'm in a bad mood."
Alex nodded.
"He acts like he's waiting for permission to exist in the same room as me."
Alex was silent for a moment, then he leaned back in his chair and sighed.
"Yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Max frowned. "I thought maybe I was imagining it."
"No," Alex denied.
Max’s eyebrows met in confusion. "He wasn't like that when we were younger."
Alex smiled faintly. "He was."
Max’s eyes narrowed even further in disbelief. "I raced against him for years."
"You raced against him," Alex stirred his coffee absent mindedly. "I lived it with him."
That shut Max up.
"He hides it well," Alex continued. "Most people don't notice unless they've spent a lot of time around him."
Max thought about the apartment. About dinner. About George asking permission to put a film on in his own living room.
"I didn't notice," he said quietly.
"You weren't looking."
"I am now."
Alex nodded slowly.
"I figured."
Silence settled between them, comfortable enough that neither of them rushed to fill it.
Finally, Max asked the question that had been sitting in the back of his mind for days.
"Why?"
Alex looked at him.
"I don't know."
"You've known him for years."
"I know."
"So?"
Alex looked down into his cup. "I don't know why."
The answer came quietly, without hesitation.
"I just know he's always been the first person to blame himself."
Max waited.
Alex continued after a moment.
"If the team had a bad weekend, George wondered what he could've done differently."
Alex then paused, as if trying to verbalize his observations. "If someone cancelled plans, he'd ask whether he'd been boring."
Alex set his cup down on the table before continuing. "If one of us was in a bad mood, he'd spend the next hour trying to fix it."
“To be honest,” Alex started hesitantly, “I think it only got worse after he went to Mercedes.”
Alex smiled sadly. "I used to think he was just considerate."
Max looked confused. "You don't anymore?"
Alex shook his head. "I think he is considerate."
Alex met Max's eyes.
"But I also think George's first instinct has always been to make himself responsible."
Max didn't say anything for a long time.
Outside, mechanics wheeled tyre blankets down the paddock. Someone laughed loudly a few garages over. An engine fired into life before settling back into silence.
Life carried on.
"So what do I do?" Max asked finally.
Alex smiled, but there wasn't much humour in it. "If I knew that, I'd have solved it years ago."
"You've tried," Max tried to ask, but it came out more like a statement.
"’Course I have." Alex looked out through the glass for a second before looking back.
"The thing is..." He hesitated, choosing his words more carefully than Max had ever seen him do. "George doesn't do it for reassurance."
Max frowned. "I know."
"He's not trying to get you to tell him everything's okay."
"I know."
"He genuinely thinks he's helping."
That landed somewhere uncomfortable.
Alex gave a small shrug.
"He thinks if he can make himself easier to love, easier to live with, easier to understand..." He let the sentence trail away before quietly finishing, "...then nobody will have a reason to leave."
Max's chest tightened.
He thought back over the last few weeks. George cleaning instead of sitting down. George cancelling plans. George asking if Max wanted space before disappearing into another room. George apologizing after Max had snapped.
None of it had been about avoiding conflict. George had been trying to protect the relationship from something that wasn't there.
Alex broke the silence first. "Don't tell him I said any of this."
"I won't."
Alex glanced at him wearily. "I mean it."
"I know."
Alex broke into a small smile. "He'd be mortified."
Max looked down at the coffee he'd barely touched. "I don't want him to feel like I think he's broken."
"I don't think he is."
Max looked up.
Alex's expression was steady. "I think he's spent a very long time surviving."
Max didn't mention the conversation with Alex.
He wouldn't.
The thought crossed his mind more than once over the following week, usually when George apologized for something that made no sense, but each time he imagined George's expression if he admitted he'd sought advice from one of his oldest friends.
Mortified even didn't begin to cover it.
Instead, Max tried something else.
He started narrating his moods.
It felt ridiculous the first time.
He came through the apartment door on a Tuesday evening with a crease between his eyebrows and a headache that had followed him home from the factory. George looked up from the dining table, where his laptop was open beside a stack of papers, immediately reading something in Max's face.
"Tough day?"
Max nodded as he shrugged off his jacket.
"Yeah. The simulator was a disaster." He hesitated, feeling strangely self conscious. "It's got nothing to do with you."
George looked surprised.
"...Okay."
Max waited as George smiled, closed his laptop and stood.
"I'll put dinner on."
That wasn't quite what Max had been hoping for, but he let it go.
The next morning, George woke before his alarm.
Max was still asleep beside him, one arm tucked beneath his pillow, breathing slow and even. George lay still for a moment, watching the early light creep through the gap in the curtains. His mind had always been loudest first thing in the morning.
The simulator was a disaster.
It's got nothing to do with you.
The words replayed themselves before he'd even climbed out of bed.
They should have reassured him. Instead, they lodged somewhere uncomfortable.
Max had never felt the need to say that before.
Why now?
George frowned at the ceiling. Maybe he'd been too obvious. Maybe Max had realized he'd been hovering after difficult days. Maybe he'd made Max feel guilty for bringing work home.
Those thoughts settled heavily in his chest.
By the time Max wandered into the kitchen twenty minutes later, George had already decided he needed to do better.
It wasn't a conscious decision. That was the difficult part. George never woke up intending to make himself smaller. It happened in increments.
He waited until Max had chosen a seat before sitting down himself. He stopped asking whether Max wanted to watch something in the evenings and simply let Max choose. He answered more questions with, "Whatever you'd prefer."
It was easier that way.
Less chance of adding one more decision to Max's day.
Less chance of getting it wrong.
Max noticed within days.
George had always been accommodating.
Now he was... disappearing.
"Where do you want to eat?" Max asked one Friday afternoon as they wandered through the paddock.
George glanced at him. "I'm happy anywhere."
"I know."
George smiled.
"So... anywhere."
Max stopped walking.
Mechanics and engineers flowed around them without either of them paying much attention.
"I'm asking where you want to eat."
George blinked. "I don't mind."
Max’s eyebrows narrowed a fraction. "I didn't ask if you minded."
All he received was another small smile.
"You choose."
Max looked at him for a long moment before shaking his head. "No."
George's smile faltered. "What?"
"You choose."
George laughed softly. "I really don't-"
"You do." The words came out more firmly than Max intended.
A few people glanced in their direction before continuing past.
George's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. Max noticed immediately. He lowered his voice.
"George..."
"It's alright."
"No."
George's smile returned, practiced enough that most people would've believed it. "It really is."
Max let out a slow breath.
"Fine."
He hated saying it. George hated hearing it.
The conversation ended there anyway.
The rest of the afternoon felt slightly out of step.
George chatted easily with mechanics, laughed at something Alex said in the hospitality unit, answered media questions with the same measured confidence he'd always had.
Watching him, nobody would've guessed anything was wrong. Max almost convinced himself he was imagining it. Until they climbed into the hire car to head back to the hotel.
George reached for the radio, then stopped. "You can pick."
Max kept his eyes on the road.
"I don't care about the music."
"Oh."
George withdrew his hand.
Silence settled between them.
It lasted nearly fifteen minutes before Max broke first.
"You've done that all week."
George turned slightly in his seat. "Done what?"
"You keep asking me to choose."
George frowned. "I thought I was being considerate."
"You are."
George waited.
"But you've stopped telling me what you want,” Max continued quietly.
George looked out of the window.
"I didn't think it mattered."
"It matters to me."
The words escaped before Max had time to soften them.
George was quiet for a long moment.
"...Sorry."
Max gripped the steering wheel tighter.
There it was again.
Not even defensive, not even dismissive, just automatic. An apology for existing in the conversation.
He wanted to ask what for?
He wanted to ask who taught you this?
Instead, he swallowed both questions.
Neither of them were ready for the answers.
George had always been good at compartmentalizing.
It was one of the first things people noticed about him. A poor session stayed in the garage. A frustrating interview ended the moment the microphone disappeared. By the time he reached the paddock, he was already smiling at someone else.
Being at Mercedes had only refined the skill.
There was always another meeting. Another debrief. Another engineer with a graph that deserved his full attention. Another journalist waiting to ask why something had gone wrong.
There wasn't room to carry every emotion into the next conversation.
So George learned to put them away.
Somewhere along the line, he'd started putting away everything else too.
Max noticed it first at the circuit.
George was standing with Marcus and one of the performance engineers, listening intently while telemetry scrolled across a monitor. Every so often he nodded, asked a question, scribbled something in a notebook.
Perfect and attentive, were the best way to describe it. Exactly what everyone expected.
The meeting wrapped up a few minutes later, and George thanked both engineers before stepping back into the corridor.
Max fell into step beside him. "You ready for lunch?"
George looked over with an easy smile. "Whatever works for you."
Max's brows furrowed. "There it is again."
George frowned. "What?"
"'Whatever works for you.'" Max quoted with air quotes.
George laughed softly. "I was answering the question."
"No." Max kept walking. "You avoided it."
George looked genuinely puzzled. "I don't understand."
"I asked what you wanted."
George cocked his head to the side. "I said I didn't mind."
"Those aren't the same thing."
George's smile faded just enough for Max to notice. "I honestly don't know why this matters so much."
"It matters," Max replied, "because I haven't heard what you wanted in nearly two weeks."
George opened his mouth, closed it again, then looked away.
"I hadn't realized."
"I know."
They reached the hospitality entrance.
George stopped to hold the door open for two mechanics carrying equipment cases, thanking each of them as they passed. One apologized for nearly clipping his shoulder with the corner of a crate.
George apologized back.
Max heard it. So did the mechanic.
The man blinked, looking between them with obvious confusion before giving George an awkward smile and disappearing inside.
Max waited until they were alone again.
"You weren't the one who nearly got hit."
George looked down at the floor. "I know."
"So why did you apologize?"
"I..." George hesitated, his brow furrowing as though he was trying to reconstruct the last thirty seconds. "I don't know."
Max pursed his lips. "You really don't, do you?"
George let out a quiet breath. "No."
Later that afternoon, George qualified third.
The lap was excellent. The interviews said as much.
"You must be pleased with that result."
George smiled into the microphone.
"I think there was probably another tenth in turn one. We lost a little bit through the middle sector as well, so there's still work to do."
Another interviewer laughed. "You've just put it on the second row."
George smiled again.
"There's always something to improve."
Max watched from the television in Red Bull hospitality.
One of the engineers beside him chuckled. "Russell's impossible to satisfy."
Another nodded.
"That's why Mercedes love him."
Max didn't say anything.
He thought about George apologizing to a mechanic for almost being hit. He thought about Alex quietly admitting, He stopped knowing where his responsibility ended.
He wasn't sure anyone at Mercedes had created that instinct, but he was becoming increasingly certain the environment had fed it.
George found him later on the pit wall after sunset.
"You disappeared."
"I needed some air," Max said.
George nodded as though that made perfect sense, then glanced back toward the circuit. "You drove well today," he said.
"So did you."
George smiled faintly. "I missed pole."
Max gave him a small look. "You qualified third."
"I know," George said, still smiling, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Max paused. "You looked disappointed."
George leaned his forearms against the barrier, looking out across the circuit as marshals packed away equipment for the night. After a moment, he answered quietly, "I was."
"You drove a good lap," Max said.
"I drove a lap that could've been better," George corrected.
Max studied him for a moment, then shook his head. "You never let yourself have one."
George glanced sideways at him. "Have one what?"
Max crossed his arms. "A good day."
George laughed, genuinely amused by that. "Of course I do," he said.
"When?" Max asked.
George didn't answer immediately.
Max waited.
Finally, George shrugged one shoulder. "When we win," he said.
"And if you don't?" Max asked.
George looked back towards the circuit.
"There's always something to improve."
The words came so easily that he didn't seem to hear them.
Max did.
He wondered how many times George had repeated that sentence over the years. How many meetings. How many interviews. How many lonely drives home.
Always something to improve. Always something he could have done better. Always another reason to believe he hadn't quite earned the satisfaction everyone else thought he should feel.
For the first time, Max found himself wondering whether George knew how to stop.
The following evening, Mercedes had organized dinner for the drivers, engineers and a handful of senior staff. Max was only invited by proxy.
It wasn't mandatory.
It never really was.
George still went every time.
The restaurant buzzed with conversation, chairs scraping against polished floors as people drifted between tables. Someone at the far end was telling a story that had half the room laughing before they'd even reached the punchline.
George smiled through most of it. He laughed in all the right places. Asked questions. Congratulated Kimi on qualifying. Thanked one of the mechanics for staying late after Friday practice.
From the outside, he looked exactly like himself.
But Max knew better now.
He watched George let someone else choose the wine for the table. Watched him wave away the first offer to order dessert before quietly agreeing once everyone else had decided they wanted it. Watched him apologize to the waiter after another engineer knocked a glass of water into his elbow.
The waiter blinked. "No worries."
George smiled apologetically anyway.
Max felt something tighten in his chest.
Later, when the meals arrived, one of the engineers frowned down at his plate.
"I think they've mixed our orders up."
George looked down.
They had.
His steak sat in front of the engineer instead.
Before anyone else could say a word, George reached across the table.
"Sorry, that's mine."
The engineer laughed. "I was wondering why I'd suddenly become a medium rare person."
George smiled.
"It's my fault."
Max looked up. "What?"
George had already started swapping the plates. "I must've confused him when he took the order."
"You didn't order."
George looked at him. "What?"
"You didn't order," Max repeated again.
The table grew quieter.
Marcus looked between them.
"The waiter came to the table after George was in the bathroom," he said. "I ordered for him."
George stared for a second before looking back down at the plates.
"Oh."
A small smile.
"Sorry."
Nobody spoke.
The engineer across the table frowned.
"George..."
"It's alright." George shifted in his seat and picked up his knife and fork as though nothing had happened.
Conversation slowly resumed around them. Max barely heard a word of it.
The drive back to the hotel was quiet.
George reached for the radio. His hand hovered there for a second before falling back into his lap.
"You can pick." Max kept his eyes on the road.
"No." George smiled faintly.
"I really don't mind."
"I know."
Silence settled between them again. Streetlights flashed rhythmically across the dashboard.
After another minute, Max spoke.
"Do you remember dinner?"
George looked across at him. "Of course."
"You apologized."
George smiled awkwardly. "I did."
"For someone else's order."
"I know."
"You apologized for something that couldn't possibly have been your fault."
George looked out of the passenger window. "I suppose."
"And then you apologized again."
George didn't answer.
"You know what worried me the most?"
George swallowed.
"You didn't even question it."
Max’s words hung between them.
"You just..." Max searched for something that felt fair. "...accepted it."
George let out a slow breath. "I don't think it's a big deal."
Max’s fingers curled around the steering wheel. "I think that's exactly the problem."
George's fingers tightened around the sleeve of his jacket. "I wasn't trying to upset you."
"I know you weren't."
"I'm sorry."
Max's grip on the steering wheel tightened.
George frowned. "What?"
"You've done it again."
George opened his mouth then closed it. "...I know."
"No." Max glanced at him briefly before looking back at the road. "I don't think you do."
The rest of the journey passed without another word. When they reached the hotel, George quietly thanked Max for driving, then apologized for making it such a long day.
Max closed his eyes for the briefest moment.
He wasn't angry. He was exhausted. And for the first time since Alex had explained it, he realized exhaustion wasn't enough anymore.
Watching George disappear one apology at a time hurt too much to keep pretending it would fix itself.
Sunday evening arrived with an unexpected kind of relief.
The race had gone well enough. Neither of them had won, but both had escaped the weekend with solid points and, more importantly, without another round of questions about strategy calls or missed opportunities.
For once, there wasn't much to dissect.
The drive back to Monaco was quiet in the comfortable way it usually was after a long weekend. Max drove with one hand resting loosely on the wheel while George scrolled absent mindedly through his phone, reading messages he'd ignored since the podium celebrations.
"You've got one from Alex," Max said as they stopped at a red light.
George looked up. "Hm?"
"He asked if we're still coming over tomorrow."
George's thumb paused over the screen.
"Oh."
Max glanced across at him.
"'Oh'?"
George locked his phone. "I completely forgot to reply."
"So reply."
George nodded. "I will."
The conversation ended there.
Or at least, Max thought it had.
The following afternoon, Max arrived home just after five.
The apartment was unusually quiet. George was curled into one corner of the sofa with a book balanced across his lap. He looked up as the front door opened, smiling immediately. "Hi."
"Hey." Max crossed the room to kiss him before dropping his bag beside the sofa.
"You ready to go?"
George frowned. "Go where?"
"Alex's."
A flicker of something crossed George's face.
"So... “ George started almost hesitantly, “we're not going?"
Max straightened. "What do you mean?"
George set the book aside. "I messaged him this morning."
Max felt his stomach sink. "You cancelled?"
George nodded once. "I thought it'd probably be better."
Max squinted. "Better for who?"
George looked at him as though the answer were obvious.
"You."
Silence stretched between them.
Max searched his face, waiting for the rest of the explanation.
It never came.
"You've had three long weeks," George continued gently. "I know you've been tired, and you've seemed a bit... I don't know. Quieter. I thought you'd probably rather stay home."
"I never said that."
"I know."
"You never asked."
George blinked. "I was just trying to make things easier."
"Easier," Max repeated slowly.
George nodded.
"I thought-"
"I know what you thought." The words came out sharper than Max intended.
George flinched.
It was tiny. Barely noticeable. Max still saw it.
He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to breathe before speaking again.
"I'm not angry."
George nodded too quickly. "I know."
"No," Max shook his head. "You don't."
"I do."
"You don't."
George looked down at his hands. "I'm sorry."
"There." Max let out a frustrated laugh, one completely devoid of humour. "That's exactly what I'm talking about."
"I didn't mean-"
"I know you didn't."
George fell quiet.
Max scrubbed a hand over his face. "I wanted to see Alex."
George looked up. "What?"
"I wanted to go."
"You've been exhausted."
"So?"
"I thought you'd rather stay home."
"You thought."
George's brow furrowed. "I don't understand."
Max took another slow breath. "I never asked you to decide for me."
"I was trying to help," George said quietly.
"I know," Max said.
"I know you were," he said again more softly.
George looked so genuinely confused that it almost derailed the conversation entirely.
He wasn't being manipulative. He wasn't trying to control anything. He truly believed he had done something kind.
That made it hurt even more.
"I don't need you to protect me from decisions, George."
George shifted. "I wasn't protecting you."
"Weren't you?"
"No," George hesitated. "I was just..."
His voice faded.
Max waited.
George stared at the floor for several long seconds before speaking again.
"I thought if you had to choose between staying home because you wanted to and staying home because you felt guilty saying no..."
He swallowed.
"...I'd make the choice for you."
Max felt something inside him twist.
"You thought I'd feel guilty?"
George nodded almost imperceptibly. "I didn't want you to think you had to come for my sake."
"And it never occurred to you that I might have wanted to go for mine?"
George opened his mouth, but nothing came out. For the first time since they'd started talking, Max watched certainty leave his face. Only for a moment. Then it returned in the form of something much more familiar.
"I'm sorry."
Max stared at him.
George looked stricken, like he'd realized he'd answered a different question than the one Max had asked.
"I'm sorry," he repeated quietly. "I should've asked."
Max's shoulders slumped.
It wasn't enough.
George was apologizing for the decision. He still couldn't see the pattern underneath it. He still thought this was about Alex.
It wasn't. It had never been about Alex.
It wasn't about dinner reservations. Or radio stations. Or choosing restaurants. Or apologizing to waiters.
Max looked at the man standing in front of him, shoulders beginning to curl inward as though he could somehow make himself smaller, and realized he couldn't have this conversation in circles anymore.
He spoke before he could lose his nerve.
"George."
George looked up.
"Tell me what I've done."
The room fell silent.
George frowned. "...What?"
"Tell me." Max held his gaze. "What have I done that's made you think you have to spend every day trying to make yourself easier to live with?"
George's face went completely blank.
George looked at him for a long moment.
"You didn't do anything."
Max didn't look convinced. "You've been apologizing for breathing in the wrong direction."
A faint crease appeared between George's eyebrows. "I haven't."
"You apologized to a waiter for bringing you the wrong meal."
George opened his mouth then closed it again.
"That..." He frowned, searching his memory. "I suppose I did."
"You apologized to a mechanic for nearly walking into you," Max continued to list.
George looked genuinely puzzled. "I don't remember that."
"I know." Max's voice softened again. "That's what scares me."
Silence settled between them.
George stood where he was, one hand still resting against the back of the sofa. His shoulders had drawn in almost without him noticing, his weight shifted onto one foot in the way Max recognized immediately.
It wasn't defensive. It was uncertain.
"I don't know what you want me to say."
Max took the barest of steps closer to him. "I want you to tell me why."
George blinked. "Why what?"
"Why every time I'm frustrated with something, you start apologizing."
"I don't," George replied with furrowed brows.
"You do."
"I..."
George stopped.
His mind flickered back through the last few weeks.
He could remember apologizing. He just couldn't remember why.
"I don't know."
Max’s expression softened. "You must."
George shook his head. "I really don't."
Max let out a slow breath before walking directly in front of George and grabbing his hand. George gave Max his hand without protest and let himself be led back to the couch without protest.
"When I have a bad day," Max finally said quietly once George was seated again, "what goes through your head?"
George looked at him, caught off guard by the question. "I don't know."
"Try."
Another silence.
George's instinct was to say nothing.
That wasn't true. There was always something.
"I suppose..." He hesitated, uncomfortable hearing the thoughts out loud. "I wonder if there's anything I can do."
"Such as?"
"Making dinner."
"You always make dinner."
"I know."
"Try again," Max pushed gently.
George swallowed. "I can... keep things quiet."
Max nodded once. "What else?"
"I don't know."
"You do."
George looked away. "I can stay out of your way."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
The room fell completely silent.
George stared at the floor. He hadn't meant to say that.
Max didn't move. "...Out of my way," he repeated.
George rubbed absently at the side of his thumb, suddenly finding it impossible to meet Max's eyes.
"I don't mean..."
He stopped.
What did he mean?
"I just..."
His voice felt strangely unsteady.
"If you've had a difficult day..." He searched for words that had always existed as instinct rather than language. "...I don't want to make it worse."
Max's expression softened, but there was heartbreak in it now. "You think you make my days worse?"
George looked up immediately. "No."
"Then why would staying out of my way help?"
"I didn't say that."
"You did."
"I..." George pressed his lips together. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Then tell me how you meant it."
George opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
For the first time in years, the habit he'd lived by so naturally refused to explain itself. He'd never questioned it. Never had to. It had simply always felt... sensible. If someone you loved was already carrying enough, why would you ask them to carry you too?
"I don't know," he admitted quietly. "I've just always done it."
Max's gaze didn't leave him. "Always?"
George nodded once.
The word escaped before he could think about it. "...Yeah."
Max was quiet for a long time. Then, very gently, "Long before me?"
George didn’t answer immediately.
Not because he was thinking of a clever reply, or searching for the right phrasing, but because the question didn’t seem to land in any place he knew how to access. It hovered there for a second, suspended between them, as though it had arrived in the wrong conversation entirely.
“Long before me?” Max repeated, softer now, like he was trying to give George somewhere gentler to place it.
George blinked once.
His mouth opened slightly, closed, then opened again as if the motion itself might eventually produce something useful.
“I…” he started, then stopped. He looked down at his hands like they might offer instructions. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Max didn’t respond straight away. He didn’t push, either. The silence that followed wasn’t empty in the usual way- it was full, tight around the edges, like the air had shifted density.
George shifted his weight slightly, thumb brushing against the side of his finger in a small, repetitive motion he didn’t seem aware of.
“I don’t think I do it,” he said finally, quieter than before. “Not like that.”
Max exhaled slowly through his nose, not frustrated exactly, but strained in the way of someone realising how far back the thread actually ran.
“You do,” he said, but not sharply. Just certain. “But I’m not asking about now.”
George’s eyes lifted slightly at that. Max held his gaze. “I’m asking if it was already there before I showed up.”
That made something in George’s expression shift, subtle, almost imperceptible, but real enough that Max caught it immediately. Not defensiveness. Not disagreement. More like the question had bypassed the present entirely and landed somewhere behind it.
George swallowed once. “I don’t know,” he admitted.
The honesty in it didn’t feel like progress. It felt like absence.
Max nodded faintly, as though he’d expected that answer and was still disappointed by it anyway.
“You said you’ve always done it,” he said.
George frowned slightly. “I said I think I have.”
“That’s the same thing to you?”
George paused.
“I don’t know,” George said again, and there was a faint edge of frustration in it now- not at Max, but at himself, like he was realising how little he trusted his own memory when it came to anything internal.
Max looked away for a second, jaw tightening, then back again.
“Think back,” he said, quieter. “Not to me. Before me. Before Mercedes. Before all of it.”
George almost laughed at that, not because it was funny, but because it sounded impossible to untangle.
“That’s…” He hesitated, searching for the shape of it. “That’s a long time.”
“I know.”
George’s gaze dropped again, this time not to avoid Max, but because looking forward didn’t help. His focus drifted somewhere further away, unfixed, as though he was trying to pull memories into order that had never been stored in sequence.
When he spoke again, it was slower. “I suppose… I’ve always tried to be careful.”
Max didn’t interrupt.
George continued, voice quieter now, less certain with every word. “At Williams, you had to be. If something went wrong, it was… it was on you to explain it properly. Or fix it quickly, rather. Make sure it didn’t happen again.”
He paused.
“They loved me- Claire loved me. But it still felt like I had to take responsibility when the car was already in a state. I think I got used to that.”
Max watched him carefully, but didn’t speak yet.
George’s fingers flexed once against his palm.
“And then Mercedes was…” He stopped, searching for the right framing, then gave up on it entirely. “Everything mattered more. Every session. Every comment. Every result.”
His eyes flicked up briefly, then away again. “You don’t really get to just have a bad day there without it becoming something people talk about.”
Max’s expression tightened slightly, but he stayed quiet.
George exhaled through his nose. “I don’t think anyone made me feel like I had to fix everything,” he said, almost carefully. “It just… became the way things worked.”
He rubbed at his wrists.
“If something went wrong, you explained it. If someone was frustrated, you didn’t add to it. If there was tension, you tried to smooth it out before it became worse.” He shrugged slightly, as if that explained everything and nothing at the same time. “I suppose I just never stopped.”
Max stared at him for a long moment.
“That’s not what I asked,” he said eventually.
George looked up again, confused.
“I know,” Max continued, voice lower now. “I’m asking when it stopped being just… work. And started being you doing it here.”
George’s brow creased faintly. “I don’t know where the line is.”
“That’s the point.”
Silence again, this one longer and heavier.
George looked away first this time, not abruptly, but slowly, like his focus had simply run out of places to land. “I don’t think I’m doing anything wrong,” he said quietly.
Max’s expression softened at that, not because he agreed, but because he was finally beginning to understand.
“I don’t think you are either,” Max said.
George looked back up. Max held his gaze. “But you’re doing it like you are.”
George didn’t respond immediately. Something in his posture changed again, not retreat, exactly, but a kind of stillness, like his body had decided movement wasn’t helping.
“I don’t know how to stop,” he said finally.
And this time, it wasn’t an apology.
Max didn’t say anything for a moment. He just looked at him. Really looked at him, in a way that wasn’t searching for the next problem to solve or the next explanation to pull apart, but something steadier than that. Something that didn’t need George to keep performing coherence in order to stay in the room.
Max stepped forwards. Not suddenly. Not like he was closing distance out of frustration. Just enough that the space between them stopped feeling like something George might instinctively apologize for occupying.
“I don’t want you easier,” Max said again, quieter this time, like he needed George to actually hear it rather than analyze it. “I want you here,” he finished while crouching down to meet George at eye level from where he was seated on the couch.
George’s breath caught slightly at that. Not dramatically, not visibly to anyone who wasn’t already watching him too closely, but enough that his attention narrowed down to just Max.
Max continued, voice softer now.
“Not the version of you that’s already adjusting before I even say what I feel. Not the one that disappears a bit every time I’m tired or frustrated or quiet.”
He paused to let his words settle in George’s head.
“I want you. All of it. Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s inconvenient.”
George looked at him like he was trying to reconcile the sentence with every instinct he had learned over years.
“I don’t disappear,” he said, but there was no edge to it anymore. Just uncertainty.
Max shook his head once, not disagreeing, just correcting the framing. “You make yourself smaller,” he said gently. “There’s a difference.”
George didn’t respond straight away. His gaze dropped for a second, then came back up, like he was checking whether Max really meant it or whether there was a hidden condition attached that he hadn’t found yet.
Max saw it, and something in his expression softened even further. “Stop looking for the catch,” he said quietly.
That made George still.
Max exhaled, a small breath through his nose, and for a moment looked almost tired. Not in the way of frustration, but in the way of someone who had finally understood the shape of what they were trying to hold together. “There isn’t one,” he added, ““you don’t have to manage me.”
George blinked once. “I’m not managing you,” he said automatically, then stopped, like he’d heard the sentence differently as it left him than it had sounded in his head.
Max nodded slightly. “I know you don’t think you are,” he said. “But you are trying to stop anything bad from happening between us before it even exists.”
George’s mouth parted slightly, then closed again. He didn’t argue. That silence was new.
Max watched him for a second longer, then softened his tone further. “I can have a bad day,” he said. “And you don’t have to fix it. I can be annoyed at something and it not mean anything about you. I can go quiet and still be here with you.”
Max paused again.
“And you don’t have to earn your way through that.”
George’s throat moved as he swallowed. “I don’t know how to do that,” he admitted quietly.
Max gave a small, almost sad smile at that, not because it was funny, but because it finally made sense in a way that hurt less than the guessing had.
“You don’t have to know all at once,” he said.
Then, after a beat, just as softly, “You just have to stop leaving while you’re still standing right in front of me.”
That did it. Not in a dramatic collapse, not in an immediate emotional break, but in something quieter. Something that shifted the entire weight of the conversation into a different place.
George looked at him for a long moment, and for once there was no immediate instinct to apologize, no reflex to smooth the edges of what he’d just said or how it might have landed.
“…Okay,” he said finally.
It wasn’t agreement with everything. It wasn’t resolution. But it was the first time he didn’t step away from it.
Max stayed where he was, one forearm resting lightly against his knee. He nodded once, like that was enough for now.
It had to be.
Okay.
It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t neatly undo years of instinct or rewrite the shape of how George moved through the world. But it also didn’t run away from the conversation, and for someone like him, that alone felt like a different kind of effort entirely.
Max didn’t push further. He didn’t fill the silence with clarification or reassurance or another attempt to land the point from a slightly different angle. He just stayed where he was, close enough in front of him that George could see him properly without having to search for meaning in his expression.
George exhaled slowly, almost uncertainly, like he was testing whether the room would change if he breathed differently. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it like that,” he said quietly.
Max gave a small nod, not surprised. “I know.”
That made George glance up at him again. Not defensively. Just… checking.
Max softened slightly at the look. “You don’t have to explain it more,” he said. “I’m not trying to interrogate you.”
A faint, almost absent smile flickered across George’s face at that, but it didn’t fully form. “I know,” he said, and this time it sounded like he was starting to believe it, even if only a little.
Another pause settled in, but it wasn’t as sharp as before. The air in the apartment still felt heavy, but no longer unstable. More like something had finally been set down instead of held at arm’s length.
George shifted slightly, then seemed to catch himself halfway through the movement, as if unsure whether he was allowed to take up that much space again. His shoulders loosened a fraction anyway, almost without permission.
He looked down at his hands again, then back up at Max, like he was trying to track the idea as it moved through him. “I don’t want to make things harder,” he said eventually.
“I know,” Max replied.
George looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded once, almost to himself. “I just didn’t realize I was disappearing in the process.”
Max’s voice dropped a fraction. “You’re not disappearing,” he corrected gently. “You’re just… stepping back before anyone asks you to stay.”
George was quiet at that. Not resistant. Just processing.
“I can try,” he said finally.
Max looked at him. “I don’t need you to try to be perfect at it,” he said. “I just need you to stop assuming you’re already in trouble.”
That made something in George’s expression soften again, properly this time.
“…That’s going to take a while,” he admitted.
Max let out a quiet breath that almost resembled a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “I figured.” Then, a little quieter, he added, “We’ve got time.”
George looked at him at that, without scanning for correction or consequence, and something in his posture eased just slightly, like the idea of time wasn’t something he had to earn in increments anymore.
“…Okay,” he said again.
And this time, it didn’t feel like the end of a sentence. It felt like the first one that might finally continue forwards instead of looping back.
The apartment settled back into silence. Not the uncomfortable kind that had followed them for most of the evening. This one felt quieter somehow. Less like something waiting to break.
George stared at the floor between them, his thoughts moving more slowly than they had all night. For the first time in what felt like hours, he wasn't trying to find the right answer. He wasn't searching for the sentence that would fix the conversation or make it easier for Max to carry. He was just... thinking.
"I used to think it was a good thing," George said suddenly.
Max didn't interrupt.
George let out a quiet breath. "Taking responsibility."
He gave a small shrug. "It was what everyone wanted."
He thought back to karting. To junior formulas. To Williams, where every weekend felt like an opportunity to prove he deserved to be there.
Then Mercedes. Every qualifying session dissected. Every strategy call analysed. Every mistake replayed.
He'd convinced himself that if he could just stay one step ahead of the next problem, maybe it would never become one.
"I kept telling myself that if I caught it early enough..." he said quietly, more to himself than to Max. "If I apologized first. If I fixed it before someone else had to point it out. If I made myself... easier..." His voice trailed away.
Max waited.
George swallowed. "...then nobody would ever have a reason to be disappointed."
The words settled between them. Saying them out loud made them sound smaller somehow. Not less painful. Just... visible.
George laughed once under his breath. It wasn't amused.
"I don't even know when I started believing that."
Max looked at him carefully. "You were never supposed to carry everything."
George smiled faintly. "I know that."
"You do now."
George looked over at him.
"I know it here," he said, pressing two fingers lightly against his temple. "I'm just not sure it's reached the rest of me yet."
Max couldn't help the small smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth. "That sounds about right."
George huffed a quiet laugh, a real one this time.
It disappeared almost as quickly as it came. "I think..." He paused, his gaze drifting towards the darkened window. Their reflections looked back at them, softened by the glass. "I think I've spent a very long time trying to outrun it."
"Outrun what?"
George was quiet for several seconds, then he shook his head. "These... demons, I suppose."
The word felt strange in his mouth. He'd never used it before.
"They've just always sounded like my own thoughts." He looked down at his hands. “They’ve been with me for a long time.”
The admission was almost gentle. There was no anger in it, no self pity, just exhaustion.
He didn't tell George he was wrong. He didn't promise that everything would be different tomorrow. He didn't say he would never leave. Those words would have been too easy.
Instead, he reached out and rested a hand against the side of George's face.
"You know what I see?"
George shook his head.
"I see someone who keeps trying to earn things he's had for a long time."
George frowned slightly. "What things?"
"My patience."
A thumb brushed lightly across George's cheek.
"My understanding."
Another pause.
"My love."
George closed his eyes. His chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.
"I know you'll have bad days," Max continued quietly. "I know there'll be mornings where you apologize before you've even realized you've done it."
George gave the smallest nod.
"I'll probably still slam a door every now and then," Max warned quietly.
That earned him the faintest smile. "I know."
"I'll get frustrated," Max continued softly.
"I know."
"I'll say something before I've thought it through."
George opened his eyes again. "I know."
Max looked at him steadily. "And none of that will ever make it your job to stop me."
George's throat tightened. For so long, he'd treated every difficult emotion around him like a fire that belonged in his hands. He'd never stopped to ask whether anyone had actually given it to him. "I don't know if I can change overnight."
"I don't want overnight." Max's answer came without hesitation. "I just want tomorrow."
George looked at him.
"And the day after that,” Max continued steadily.
Another pause.
"And the one after that."
Something in George's chest loosened, not enough to disappear, but enough to breathe around.
"I'm going to forget," he admitted quietly, bringing up one of his hands to rest on top of the one cupping his cheek.
"I know,” Max nodded lightly.
"I'll probably apologize again."
"I know."
George smiled sheepishly. "Maybe immediately."
Max laughed softly. "Probably."
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The apartment was still. Outside, the lights scattered across the harbour reflected against the water.
George looked down at the space between them. Then, before he could think too hard about it, before he could ask whether Max minded or wonder whether he was interrupting something or taking up too much room, he reached for Max's free hand.
He didn't ask. He didn't apologize. He simply threaded their fingers together.
It was such a small thing.
On any other day, neither of them might have noticed.
Max did.
His fingers tightened around George's, steady and certain.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Neither of them trying to fix the silence, neither of them trying to earn it.