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Chapter Text

The paddock at Monza was buzzing, but not with celebration. Not for Ferrari. Charles Leclerc had dragged his scarlet car across the line in a miserable P18, a cruel punishment after a weekend where nothing seemed to go right. Strategy calls went sideways, pit stops felt endless, and the tifosi’s groans still rang in his ears.

The Ferrari garage was tense. Engineers avoided eye contact, strategists buried themselves in laptops. Carlos Sainz tried to cheer things up, clapping Charles on the back with a sympathetic grin.

“Hey, hermano… bad days happen. Tomorrow we fight again, eh?”

Charles didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, his eyes sharp with that haunted look he got when Ferrari failed him again. Without a word, he slipped past everyone and marched straight to his driver’s room.

---

Two hours later, Lewis Hamilton, dressed casually in Ferrari red, was wandering the hospitality area, glancing around.

“Has anyone seen Charles?” he asked a mechanic. “Haven’t heard from him since the race.”

The mechanic shrugged. “He went to his room. Hasn’t come out.”

Lewis frowned. Charles usually reappeared after sulking—either with Carlos dragging him out for dinner, or George Russell poking fun until Charles cracked a smile. But now? Silence.

Something felt wrong.

He walked to the driver’s room and knocked. “Charles? It’s Lewis. You in there?”

No answer.

Lewis knocked again, then cautiously pushed the door open.

---

What he saw made him freeze.

There, sitting on the carpet, surrounded by a pile of discarded Ferrari overalls far too big for him… was a baby.

Not just any baby. A tiny, one-year-old child with messy brown hair, big green eyes, and an unmistakable scowl.

Lewis blinked. “Oh, hell no…”

The baby blinked back. Then—hilariously—tried to fold its arms like Charles usually did when sulking, but only succeeded in toppling over onto the carpet.

Lewis rubbed his temples. “Okay. Okay. Either I’ve lost my damn mind, or Charles Leclerc just turned into a toddler.”

---

The baby squealed in protest, kicking at the giant Ferrari overalls. Lewis picked him up, awkwardly holding him at arm’s length.

“Mate, what the—? Charles, is that you?”

The baby responded by grabbing Lewis’ chain necklace and tugging on it with surprising strength.

“Yup. Definitely Charles.”

---

News spread fast. Within minutes, the Ferrari driver’s room was packed with half the grid.

Carlos arrived first, wide-eyed. “No. No, no, no, this can’t be real.” He looked at Lewis holding the squirming baby. “What did you do to him?”

Lewis glared. “Why does everyone assume this is my fault?”

Next came George Russell, filming everything on his phone. “Oh my god, this is the best day of my life. Baby Charles! Look at him!”

“George, stop filming him!” Lewis barked.

“Too late, mate. This is going viral.”

---

Soon, drivers from all teams crowded in. Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri nearly fell over laughing. Pierre Gasly dramatically declared, “Mon dieu, he is even cuter as a baby!” while Esteban Ocon rolled his eyes.

Ollie Bearman and Kimi Antonelli stood in the back, whispering nervously. “Are we supposed to… babysit him now?” Ollie asked.

“I think so,” Kimi muttered, pale.

“Why is this happening?” Yuki Tsunoda asked, staring at Baby Charles like he might explode at any second.

Lewis sighed. “I don’t know. But one thing’s for sure—we can’t exactly… leave him like this.”

---

Then, the chaos really began.

Baby Charles, seemingly determined to assert dominance, wriggled free from Lewis’ arms, crawled across the floor, and made a beeline straight for—of all people—Max Verstappen, who had just arrived with his Red Bull cap still on.

The room went silent.

Max froze as Baby Charles tugged at his leg, staring up at him with wide green eyes. Then, to everyone’s shock, Baby Charles let out the happiest squeal they’d heard all day—and raised his tiny arms, clearly demanding that Max pick him up.

The World Champion blinked. “Oh. Uh…”

George nearly dropped his phone from laughing. “No way. He likes you?”

Lewis muttered under his breath. “Of course he does. Bloody typical.”

---

Max, still looking baffled, carefully bent down and scooped up the baby. And just like that, Charles went from sulky gremlin to content angel, resting his head against Max’s chest and giggling.

“Unbelievable,” Carlos groaned. “I spend years as his teammate and he never looks this happy with me.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Well… I guess he has good taste.”

The room erupted with laughter and groans.

---

Lewis pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright, alright, let’s get serious. We need to figure out what happened here. Drivers don’t just—” he gestured at the baby—“turn into infants after a bad race.”

Pierre, half-serious, half-dramatic, said, “Maybe it is the curse of Ferrari strategy. It finally broke him.”

Yuki snorted. “Then half of us would’ve turned into babies already.”

---

Meanwhile, Baby Charles reached up and pulled at Max’s cap until it fell off. He clapped his hands, delighted.

Max just sighed, oddly patient. “Guess I’m stuck with him for now.”

“Wait,” Oscar interrupted. “Are you actually volunteering to babysit Charles Leclerc?”

Max shrugged, adjusting the baby in his arms like he’d done it before. “He seems to want me. Besides… how hard can it be?”

“Famous last words,” Lando muttered.

---

The room buzzed with speculation, laughter, and concern. But one thing was already clear:

Baby Charles adored Max Verstappen.

And Max Verstappen… didn’t seem to mind.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Max Verstappen had handled pressure at 300 km/h, dodged chaos in Monaco, and stared down Lewis Hamilton in title-deciding battles. None of it had prepared him for the situation he was currently in: sitting in the Ferrari hospitality lounge with a baby Charles Leclerc asleep against his chest.

The rest of the 2025 grid looked on like a pack of confused babysitters.

“So,” George Russell broke the silence, still filming everything on his phone, “what exactly are we supposed to do with a one-year-old?”

“First of all, delete that video,” Lewis said sharply.

“Not a chance,” George grinned. “This is gold. Internet-breaking gold.”

---

Carlos Sainz folded his arms. “Look, what matters right now is Charles. He’s… a baby. Which means he’s going to need certain things. Diapers, food, toys—”

Yuki Tsunoda grimaced. “Wait. Who’s changing him? Because I’m telling you now—it’s not me.”

“Not it!” shouted Lando instantly, holding his hands up.

“Same,” Oscar added, scooting his chair back.

Pierre Gasly looked scandalized. “Why are you all acting like this is some punishment? He is Charles! Our Charles!”

“Pierre,” Esteban Ocon sighed, “he’s still a baby. Babies are messy.”

“Oui, but he is cute! Look at his little cheeks!” Pierre cooed, leaning in to poke at them. Baby Charles stirred, wrinkled his nose… and then promptly buried his face back into Max’s chest.

---

Everyone groaned.

“Why is it always Max?” Carlos muttered. “The kid won’t even look at me. I was his teammate for years!”

"Speak for yourself, i am his current teammate, but he doesn't even recognize me" Lewis muttered.

“Maybe because Max doesn’t try so hard,” Ollie Bearman said quietly from the back.

Kimi Antonelli nodded. “Yeah. He just… holds him. Doesn’t fuss.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You two sound like you’ve been reading parenting books.”

“We’re rookies,” Ollie mumbled. “People keep telling us to ‘observe and learn.’ Guess it applies here too.”

---

Lewis cleared his throat, trying to take control. “Alright, jokes aside, Carlos is right. We need to think practically. Charles is… however old that body is. Probably around one. Which means—”

“Baby food,” Oscar supplied.

“Nap times,” Lando added, smirking. “Though he already picked Max’s chest for that.”

“Diapers,” Yuki repeated, shuddering.

“Supervision,” George said, dramatically. “Can’t let him crawl off into the paddock. Imagine finding Baby Charles stuck in a tire stack.”

The room went quiet as everyone pictured it.

“…We definitely need supervision,” Lewis confirmed.

---

Max adjusted Charles slightly, frowning. “We’re not keeping him in this lounge forever. Someone has to take him home. To Monaco, maybe?”

“And who’s doing that, mate?” George asked. “His family can’t exactly show up to passport control with a one-year-old and say ‘oh yes, this is our 27-year-old Formula One driver, don’t worry about it.’”

“That’s true,” Carlos said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We can’t even explain this to the FIA, let alone customs.”

Pierre gasped. “The FIA! Mon dieu, do you think they will penalize him for being a baby? That would be cruel!”

“They penalize me for breathing sometimes,” Esteban muttered.

---

The argument spiraled until Gabriel Bortoleto, sitting cross-legged on the floor, raised a hand. “Maybe we’re overcomplicating it. Right now, he’s here. He’s safe. He likes Max. Maybe… we just take care of him. As a group. Until we figure this out.”

Heads turned toward him.

“Like… a babysitting rota?” Isack Hadjar asked skeptically.

“Exactly.” Gabriel smiled. “We’re drivers, right? We plan strategies. We adapt. We survive chaos. This is just… another race. With diapers.”

Yuki groaned. “Worst pep talk ever.”

But Lewis nodded slowly. “He has a point. We don’t know what caused this, and we don’t know how to fix it yet. So until we do—Charles is our responsibility.”

---

Max looked down at the baby in his arms. Charles had shifted, now clutching the fabric of his race hoodie with tiny fists. For someone so famously fiery, he looked peaceful. Trusting.

“…Fine,” Max said finally. “I’ll take care of him. At least for tonight.”

“Of course you will,” Carlos muttered.

“But we split responsibilities,” Lewis insisted. “Feeding, changing, playtime. Max can’t do it all alone.”

“I can,” Max replied flatly.

“Not an option,” Lewis shot back. “If this lasts longer than a night, it’ll burn you out.”

---

Lando snickered. “Imagine Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion, getting burnt out from babysitting.”

“Four-time,” Max corrected automatically.

“Ohhh,” George grinned. “Baby Charles is your biggest rival and your new teammate.”

Oscar leaned back in his chair. “Imagine Drive to Survive covering this.”

“Netflix doesn’t need to know,” Lewis snapped. “In fact, nobody outside this room needs to know.”

George coughed innocently, hiding his phone.

---

The group spent the next hour awkwardly planning. They scribbled names on napkins, argued over schedules, and assigned vague responsibilities.

Feeding duty: Pierre, who swore he could make baby purée “with French flair.”

Diaper duty: Ollie, after losing a rock-paper-scissors tournament to Kimi.

Playtime: Lando and Oscar, who immediately promised to teach Charles about McLaren merch.

Nap supervision: George, who swore he had “the patience of a saint” (Lewis rolled his eyes).

Emergency fallback: Lewis, naturally.

And Max? He got the permanent role of “comfort provider,” since Baby Charles refused to be pried away from him anyway.

---

By the time the rota was half-drafted, Charles stirred again, blinking awake with bleary green eyes. He looked around, spotted Max instantly, and gave a little giggle that melted half the room.

Then he sneezed—straight into Max’s hoodie.

The room exploded with laughter.

“Welcome to fatherhood, Verstappen,” George teased.

Max just sighed, patting Charles’ back. “Yeah. Thanks.”

---

As the drivers trickled out for the night, Lewis stayed behind with Max.

“You alright with this?” Lewis asked quietly.

Max shrugged, glancing down at the baby now sucking on his hoodie string. “Not like I have a choice. He picked me. Guess I’ll deal with it.”

Lewis smiled faintly. “You know, Charles doesn’t trust people easily. But right now? He trusts you.”

Max didn’t answer. He just looked at Baby Charles, who smiled up at him with sleepy eyes.

And, maybe for the first time all season, Max felt something strange. Something soft.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The Lewis's hotel room suite had been converted into something between a nursery and a warzone.

It was past midnight, and every driver who had pulled “night shift” was already regretting their decision.

George Russell sat cross-legged on the carpet, waving a stuffed Ferrari mascot someone had found in the gift shop. “Look, Charles, a horsey! Vroom, vroom!”

Baby Charles responded by grabbing it, smacking George in the face with it, and giggling hysterically.

“Ow!” George yelped. “He’s still got Leclerc-level aggression!”

From the couch, Max deadpanned, “That’s not aggression. That’s payback.”

---

The rota was supposed to be simple. Max would hold him until Charles got sleepy, then George and Oscar would supervise him as he slept. Easy.

Except Charles wasn’t sleepy.

Not even close.

He was crawling across the carpet at lightning speed, pulling himself up on furniture, and giggling whenever anyone tried to catch him.

“He’s supposed to be tired!” Oscar groaned, sliding across the carpet like a goalkeeper trying to stop Charles from escaping under a chair.

“Babies don’t follow strategies,” Lewis said flatly from the corner, sipping tea. “Learn that now.”

---

Pierre Gasly strutted back into the room holding a baby bottle filled with warm milk, looking proud of himself. “Voilà! My masterpiece. Organic, perfect temperature, French-approved. This will make him sleep like an angel.”

He crouched, holding it out like an offering. “Charles, mon petit, taste this.”

Baby Charles sniffed the bottle, took it in his tiny hands… and promptly threw it across the room. It hit Esteban Ocon in the chest.

Esteban blinked, unimpressed. “Figures.”

Pierre looked like his heart had shattered. “Non! My beautiful bottle!”

Charles clapped his hands, delighted with himself.

---

Lando, sprawled on the floor with Oscar, groaned. “He’s not a baby. He’s a menace.”

“Like a baby version of himself,” Oscar said, trying to grab Charles again as he scrambled toward the snack table.

“Oi!” Yuki barked as Baby Charles pulled himself upright and made a grab for his Red Bull can. “No! That’s mine!”

Charles gave him a look—the Charles Leclerc look, all stubborn defiance in miniature—and reached again.

“He’s already a Ferrari driver,” Yuki muttered, holding the can out of reach. “Always making risky moves.”

The baby pouted, then twisted around and reached back for Max.

Max sighed, walked over, and scooped him up effortlessly. Charles immediately calmed down, curling against him like nothing had happened.

Everyone groaned.

“Unbelievable,” Carlos muttered from his chair. “The moment Max picks him up, he’s an angel. For us? Demon.”

---

It didn’t last long.

Ten minutes later, Charles wriggled out of Max’s arms and toddled toward the pile of race helmets in the corner. He smacked one with his tiny hands and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

“That’s mine!” Ollie Bearman yelped, diving to rescue his Haas helmet before Charles drooled on it.

Baby Charles squealed and tried to grab another.

“Great,” George muttered. “Now he’s starting a helmet collection.”

---

Around 2 a.m., the drivers were slumped against walls, defeated.

“Why isn’t he tired yet?” Oscar whined, rubbing his eyes.

“He is Charles Leclerc,” Carlos pointed out. “When has he ever gone to bed early? Man stays up all night on his piano when we have early flights.”

“True,” Lando said. “Imagine him as a baby still having the same habits.”

They all looked at Baby Charles, who was now sitting on Max’s lap, banging tiny fists rhythmically against his chest like a drum.

“Yeah,” George sighed. “That tracks.”

---

Finally, Lewis stood up. “Alright. Enough. I’m putting him to sleep.”

“Good luck,” Yuki muttered.

Lewis reached for Charles, who gave him one wide-eyed look, then buried his face deeper in Max’s hoodie.

Lewis froze. “…Did he just reject me?”

George howled with laughter. “Seven-time World Champion, defeated by a toddler!”

Lewis glared. “Shut it, Russell.”

But it was undeniable—Charles was glued to Max.

---

Max shifted, looking around the room full of exhausted drivers. “Alright, enough clowning around. He’s not going to sleep with all this noise. I’ll take him somewhere quiet.”

“Where?” Carlos asked suspiciously.

“My hotel room.”

Everyone froze.

“You’re taking Charles… alone… to your hotel room?” Lando repeated slowly, smirking.

Max rolled his eyes. “Don’t make it weird. He just needs quiet.”

“Sure, mate,” George teased. “But if he calls you ‘papa’ tomorrow morning, we’re never letting you live it down.”

Max ignored them and stood, carrying Charles like it was the most natural thing in the world. Baby Charles yawned, finally looking drowsy.

---

As Max left the lounge, Charles’ tiny hand clutching at his hoodie, the other drivers slumped in exhaustion.

Pierre sighed dramatically. “He chose Max. Always Max.”

Carlos groaned. “This is going to be unbearable.”

Lewis rubbed his temples. “We’ll regroup tomorrow. Maybe he’ll… I don’t know… wake up back to normal.”

But as they all stumbled off to their rooms, the image lingered: Baby Charles, finally peaceful, finally content—only in Max’s arms.

---

Meanwhile, in the quiet of his hotel room, Max carefully set Charles down on the bed.

The baby blinked up at him, still fighting sleep.

“Stubborn,” Max muttered. “Just like you always are.”

Charles reached up, grabbed Max’s finger with his tiny hand, and finally drifted off with a soft sigh.

Max stared down at him, strangely still.

“…Great. Now I’m officially a babysitter.”

But there was the faintest smile tugging at his lips as he sat back, keeping watch.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The next morning, the Ferrari motorhome looked like a kindergarten classroom on fire.

Half the grid had gathered again, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. They’d all assumed Max would return Charles sometime in the night. Instead, he’d calmly walked in at 8 a.m. carrying a still-snoozing baby Leclerc in one arm and a coffee in the other, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Morning,” Max said, dropping into a chair.

Everyone else groaned.

“You actually got him to sleep,” Carlos muttered, dark circles under his eyes. “How?”

Max shrugged. “He just… did.”

Lando pointed at him accusingly. “That’s not fair. You’ve got some kind of baby magic.”

“Or Charles just likes winners,” George teased, earning a glare from Lewis.

---

The rota’s first task of the day was feeding duty, and Pierre Gasly had taken it upon himself to deliver nothing less than Michelin-star baby cuisine.

“Mes amis, watch and learn,” Pierre declared proudly, unveiling a steaming bowl of homemade baby porridge he’d somehow whipped up in the Ferrari kitchen. “Oats, banana, touch of cinnamon. Fit for a future champion.”

He spooned a tiny bit into Charles’ mouth.

Everyone leaned forward.

Baby Charles tasted it… blinked… and then spat it straight onto Pierre’s shirt.

The room exploded in laughter.

“Rejected!” Yuki cackled.

Pierre looked like he’d been mortally wounded. “Non! He does not appreciate my craft!”

Charles banged the table with his fists, giggling.

---

Ollie Bearman, sitting nervously nearby, tried next with a jar of store-bought apple purée. “Maybe something simpler…”

He scooped a spoonful, held it out… and Charles smacked it clean out of his hand, sending purée splattering across the table.

“Oi!” Yuki yelped, dodging the flying goo.

Oscar snorted. “Kid’s got better aim than half the grid in qualifying.”

Baby Charles clapped, clearly pleased with himself.

---

By the third attempt, tensions were running high.

“Okay, that’s it,” Lewis said firmly, taking the spoon from Ollie. “He needs proper nutrition, not just whatever he wants. Charles, you’re eating this porridge.”

He held the spoon toward Charles like a challenge.

The baby glared at him. The same stubborn, don’t-you-dare glare Charles Leclerc had perfected over years of fighting Ferrari strategies.

Lewis narrowed his eyes.

Charles narrowed his.

It was a standoff.

Everyone leaned in.

Then Charles turned his head away, clamped his mouth shut, and shook it violently, nearly toppling his high chair.

Lewis groaned. “He’s impossible.”

---

While the rest argued, Lando reached for a packet of biscuits sitting on the counter.

“Maybe he just wants… normal food?”

“Biscuits are not breakfast,” Carlos said sternly.

“Bet he’ll eat them though,” Lando muttered, opening the pack.

He broke one in half, crouched down, and offered it to Charles.

The baby looked at it, suspicious.

Then, slowly, he reached out, grabbed it with both hands… and took a bite.

The room went silent.

Charles chewed. Swallowed. Then his face lit up with the happiest giggle yet.

“Mon dieu,” Pierre whispered. “He approves.”

---

Within minutes, Charles was munching biscuits happily, crumbs smeared across his cheeks, little legs kicking in delight.

“He wouldn’t eat my porridge,” Pierre moaned, collapsing into a chair.

“Because your porridge was nasty,” Yuki said bluntly.

“It was gourmet!” Pierre snapped.

“Biscuits are gourmet,” Charles said—or rather, would have said, if he could speak. His enthusiastic chewing made the point clear enough.

---

The drivers all watched in varying states of disbelief.

“He refuses all baby food,” George said, shaking his head. “But biscuits? He’s all in.”

“That’s Charles for you,” Carlos muttered. “Man skips half his proper meals, but if you offer him pastries, he’ll demolish them.”

Ollie blinked. “So… his habits didn’t change? He’s just a baby version of himself?”

“Exactly,” Lewis sighed. “We’re doomed.”

---

Meanwhile, Max sat back with arms crossed, watching Charles contentedly gnawing on his biscuit.

“You’re making a mess,” Max told him flatly.

Baby Charles giggled and shoved more biscuit in his mouth, crumbs scattering onto Max’s hoodie.

The others waited for Max to lose patience.

Instead, he pulled a napkin from the table and wiped Charles’ face gently. “You’re hopeless,” he muttered, but there was the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

The room went quiet for a beat.

Lando elbowed Oscar, whispering, “Tell me that didn’t look like a dad moment.”

Oscar whispered back, “Mate, that was a dad moment.”

---

Breakfast descended into chaos soon after.

Pierre tried to sneak in spoonfuls of purée between biscuit bites (“for balance!”), but Charles dodged every attempt like a seasoned defender.

Yuki nearly lost his temper when Charles grabbed another Red Bull can off the counter, forcing him to wrestle it back.

George filmed everything, narrating like a wildlife documentary: “And here, we observe the Baby Ferrari in his natural habitat—throwing food and rejecting authority.”

Lewis confiscated George’s phone twice, only for George to pull out a backup.

Through it all, Charles remained glued to Max’s side, reaching for him whenever someone else tried to take over.

---

By the time breakfast was over, crumbs littered the floor, Pierre’s shirt was stained with porridge, and half the drivers were reconsidering their life choices.

But Charles? He was happy. Full. And giggling.

All because of a simple biscuit.

---

As the drivers slumped in exhaustion, Max stood, Charles perched on his hip.

“I’ll clean him up,” Max said simply.

Everyone stared at him.

“You’re volunteering?” Carlos asked, skeptical.

Max shrugged. “He trusts me. Might as well.”

Yuki groaned. “Unfair. Totally unfair.”

But as they watched Max carry Charles off toward the washroom, the baby resting contentedly against his shoulder, one thing was clear:

Biscuits had solved breakfast.

But Max had solved Charles.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

If anyone thought Baby Charles would be calmer after his biscuit breakfast, they were wrong.

By mid-morning, the Ferrari motorhome had turned into a madhouse. Charles was a whirlwind of tiny energy, crawling across the carpet faster than anyone thought possible. Every time someone tried to scoop him up, he wriggled free and took off again like he was gunning for pole position.

“Why does he move so fast?!” Oscar Piastri groaned, lunging across the floor as Charles crawled under a chair.

“He’s literally one,” Lando said, exasperated. “How is he faster than you?”

“Because he’s Leclerc,” George said, filming. “Even as a baby, the man refuses to finish behind anyone.”

---

The first disaster came when Charles spotted Oscar’s phone lying on the table.

Before Oscar could blink, Charles crawled up like a tiny mountain climber, grabbed the phone, and took off again with surprising strength for someone who couldn’t even walk yet.

“Oi! That’s mine!” Oscar yelped, chasing after him.

Charles giggled wickedly, holding the phone above his head like a trophy.

“Look at him!” George laughed, still recording. “He’s robbing Piastri blind!”

“Stop filming and help me!” Oscar cried, diving at Charles—only for the baby to dodge like a seasoned karting prodigy.

Finally, Max intervened. He simply stepped in front of Charles, arms crossed. The baby froze, looked up… and reluctantly surrendered the phone, pouting.

Oscar grabbed it, glaring. “Not funny.”

Charles giggled.

Everyone else thought it was hilarious.

---

The second disaster came ten minutes later.

Ollie Bearman, unfortunately on diaper duty, noticed Charles crawling in suspicious circles. He froze.

“…Uh, guys?” Ollie said nervously. “I think he’s… y’know…”

The room went quiet.

“Oh no,” Lando whispered.

“Oh yes,” Esteban muttered darkly.

A second later, the smell hit them.

“Not it!” George shouted instantly, bolting for the door.

“Not it!” echoed Oscar, Yuki, and Pierre in rapid succession.

Ollie groaned, pinching his nose. “It’s literally my rota job, isn’t it?”

“Good luck, hermano,” Carlos said, patting him on the back with mock sympathy.

---

Ollie dragged Charles off toward the bathroom with Kimi trailing nervously behind, carrying a bag of supplies.

Fifteen minutes later, they emerged looking like they’d survived war. Ollie’s shirt had a suspicious stain, Kimi’s hair was sticking up, and Charles looked fresher than anyone else in the room—kicking happily in Ollie’s arms.

“I hate this rota,” Ollie muttered.

“You survived,” Lewis said dryly.

Ollie shot him a look. “Barely.”

---

Unfortunately, disaster number three followed almost immediately.

Charles, freshly changed, was crawling again—this time straight toward Pierre Gasly’s lap.

“Aww, finally! He loves me!” Pierre said dramatically, scooping him up. “Mon petit, I knew you would choose me eventually—”

And Charles, the smart Charles took off his diaper.

And then Charles peed.

All over Pierre’s designer jeans.

The room erupted into chaos.

“OH COME ON!” Pierre yelped, jumping up in horror. “My trousers! These are new!”

Lando was on the floor wheezing. “He marked you!”

Esteban was smirking smugly in the corner. “Karma.”

Pierre stood frozen, holding Charles at arm’s length like a ticking bomb. “Max! Take him back! Vite!”

Max calmly retrieved Charles, unfazed, and put Charles' diaper back on, while Pierre dashed off screaming about spare clothes.

Charles, meanwhile, clapped happily like he’d won a race.

---

From that point, the drivers decided the safest plan was to let Charles crawl between them in shifts, like some cursed relay race.

First, he made his way to Lando, who tried to entertain him with toy cars. Charles immediately grabbed the Red Bull diecast and threw the McLaren one across the room.

“Oi!” Lando cried. “Traitor!”

Next, he crawled to Esteban. Esteban, unimpressed, simply lifted him up and plopped him back in the middle of the carpet. Charles responded by yanking on Esteban’s hair.

“Figures,” Esteban muttered. “He’s just like Verstappen.”

After that, Charles targeted George, who was still filming. George leaned down cheerfully—only for Charles to slap the phone out of his hand, sending it skittering across the floor.

“Hey!” George shouted. “That’s sabotage!”

“Finally,” Lewis muttered. “Peace.”

---

It was chaos. Pure, unrelenting chaos.

By noon, the drivers were sprawled around the lounge like they’d just finished a double-header race weekend. Baby Charles, on the other hand, was still buzzing, crawling from one victim to the next, laughing the whole time.

“He has more stamina than all of us combined,” Oscar groaned.

“He’s not even walking yet,” Carlos pointed out. “Imagine when he does.”

“Don’t say that,” Lando muttered. “Don’t curse us.”

---

Through it all, Max remained the calm in the storm.

Whenever Charles got too rowdy, Max would scoop him up and hold him steady. Whenever Charles got cranky, Max would pat his back until he settled. Whenever Charles stole something (phones, spoons, even George’s sunglasses), Max would simply take it back without fuss.

And every time, Charles clung tighter to him, like he knew Max was his safe harbor.

The others noticed.

“Why’s he so attached to you?” Yuki demanded at one point.

Max shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe he just knows I won’t drop him.”

“Or maybe,” George said slyly, “he likes you.”

Max rolled his eyes. But Charles, nestled against his shoulder, giggled like he agreed.

---

By the time the afternoon sun hit, the rota was in shambles, the drivers were exhausted, and the Ferrari hospitality staff were seriously considering charging them for damages.

But Baby Charles? He was thriving.

He’d stolen, crawled, laughed, pooped, peed, and tormented half the grid.

And somehow, impossibly, he was still full of energy.

Max looked around at the wrecked room, sighed, and adjusted Charles on his hip.

“Alright,” he said. “Nap time. For everyone.”

Nobody argued.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The Ferrari motorhome was quiet. Too quiet.

At least, it was supposed to be.

“Nap time,” Lewis said firmly, standing over the crib the mechanics had hastily assembled out of spare parts and cushions. “He needs rest. And frankly, so do we.”

The other drivers nodded. Their morning with Baby Charles had been nothing short of carnage. Phones stolen, trousers peed on, biscuits demanded at gunpoint (well, tiny finger-point). They were running on fumes.

So nap time was non-negotiable.

Except Charles… had other ideas.

---

Max set him down gently in the makeshift crib.

Charles looked around, blinked, and immediately pulled himself upright, shaking the bars like a prison inmate.

George chuckled, filming again. “It’s like Shawshank Redemption: Baby Edition.”

“Put that away!” Lewis snapped.

Charles shrieked with laughter, then threw his toy Ferrari across the room. It hit Pierre, who had just returned in fresh jeans.

“Mon dieu!” Pierre cried. “He targets me!”

---

“Okay, okay,” Carlos said, clapping his hands. “We need a strategy. Babies sleep eventually, right?”

“Not this one,” Yuki muttered, rubbing his temples.

Pierre stepped forward dramatically. “Leave it to me. I will sing him a lullaby. A classic French song.”

Everyone groaned.

But Pierre ignored them, leaning over the crib and starting to sing.

Charles listened… for all of three seconds. Then he stuck out his tongue, blew a drool, and toppled backwards into the cushions.

Pierre’s face fell. “He mocks me.”

“Yeah, welcome to our world,” Carlos muttered.

---

Oscar tried next, crouching by the crib with a stuffed animal. “Maybe he just needs comfort. Here, Charles. Look, it’s a kangaroo!”

Charles took the kangaroo, studied it… then bit its head.

Oscar winced. “Okay. Maybe not.”

Next up was Lando, who tried to crawl into the crib himself to show Charles “how it’s done.” Instead, Charles sat on Lando’s chest like he’d conquered a mountain and giggled maniacally.

“I think he likes you,” Max deadpanned.

“He’s crushing me!” Lando wheezed.

---

Eventually, Lewis had enough.

“Move,” he ordered, gently but firmly lifting Charles out of the crib. He bounced him carefully, swaying side to side. “It’s about rhythm. He’ll sleep if we stay calm.”

Charles yawned. Everyone held their breath.

“See?” Lewis said proudly. “You just need patience.”

Then Charles reached up, yanked Lewis’ earring, and laughed in his face.

Lewis groaned. “I take it back. He’s Satan.”

---

The chaos went on for nearly an hour until, finally, Max sighed, picked Charles up, and sat down in a chair.

No tricks. No toys. No songs. Just Max sitting, holding him.

Within minutes, Charles’ tiny fists unclenched, his head dropped against Max’s shoulder, and soft snores filled the room.

The entire grid stared in disbelief.

“…Unfair,” Carlos whispered.

“Completely unfair,” Yuki agreed.

Max smirked. “Guess I just know how to handle him.”

---

Nap time didn’t last long.

Barely thirty minutes later, the staff came knocking. “Drivers, time to leave for the airport. Flights to Singapore.”

The room groaned collectively.

“Perfect timing,” George muttered. “He just fell asleep.”

Lewis sighed. “We’ll have to carry him. Quietly.”

Everyone turned to Max, who was still holding Charles like he weighed nothing.

“What?” Max asked.

“You’re the carrier,” Carlos said bluntly. “He’ll scream if anyone else tries.”

Max rolled his eyes but stood, adjusting Charles gently. The baby stirred, blinked up at him once, then went back to sleep.

The rest of the grid looked like they might collapse from envy.

---

At the airport, the plan was to take Max’s private jet. Commercial flights were out of the question—nobody could explain showing up with Baby Leclerc. The FIA still had no clue, and the drivers were desperate to keep it that way.

Max led the way across the tarmac, Charles snoozing peacefully against his chest.

“Why do you get a private jet?” Lando grumbled, dragging his suitcase.

“Because I win races,” Max shot back.

George smirked. “And apparently, babies.”

---

Boarding was chaos.

Pierre insisted on carrying Charles’ bag (“he deserves luggage of his own!”).

Carlos argued with Yuki over seating arrangements.

Oscar tripped on the steps, nearly sending the kangaroo toy flying.

Meanwhile, Charles woke up mid-boarding, rubbed his eyes… and promptly smacked George’s phone out of his hands again.

“For crying out loud!” George shouted.

Charles giggled, already wide awake again.

“Nap time’s over,” Max muttered grimly, settling into his seat.

---

The jet took off smoothly, the drivers scattered across plush leather seats. For a moment, there was peace.

Until Charles wriggled out of Max’s arms and started crawling down the aisle like he owned the place.

“Catch him!” Lewis barked.

“I’ve got him!” Oscar shouted, diving—only for Charles to veer left at the last second.

“Slippery little bugger,” Yuki muttered, lunging.

Charles zipped past him, giggling uncontrollably.

“Why does he look like he’s enjoying this?” Lando cried.

“Because he is!” Carlos yelled back, chasing after him.

---

Finally, Max stood, walked down the aisle calmly, and scooped Charles up mid-crawl. The baby squealed, kicking happily.

The drivers collapsed back into their seats, panting.

“This is torture,” George muttered.

“Speak for yourself,” Max said, sitting back down with Charles still squirming.

Lewis gave him a look. “You don’t even look tired.”

Max smirked faintly. “I’m used to endurance.”

---

The rest of the flight was a mix of chaos and comedy.

Charles tried to steal Yuki’s snacks.

Pierre attempted another French lullaby, only to be booed by everyone.

Carlos discovered that Charles would only sit still if he had a steering wheel-shaped toy.

George narrated everything like a documentary until Lewis threw a pillow at him.

Charles fell asleep again halfway through, sprawled across Max’s chest like a satisfied cat.

By the time they landed, every driver looked wrecked.

Except Max.

And Charles.

Both were well-rested, calm, and ready.

The rest of the grid hated them for it.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The humid Singapore air clung to the drivers as they stepped off Max’s jet, each one looking like they’d just survived a 24-hour endurance race.

All except Max and Charles.

Max strolled calmly across the tarmac, Charles balanced on his hip, pointing at airplanes and giggling. The rest of the grid dragged their feet, dark circles under their eyes, muttering curses under their breath.

“Why does he only nap with you?” Carlos groaned, hauling his suitcase.

“Because he likes winners,” George smirked.

Lewis glared. “Don’t start.”

---

The first stop was Ferrari hospitality at the track. There was no avoiding it—they had to tell team principal Fred Vasseur.

Fred was waiting in the garage, clipboard in hand, looking at his watch. “Where is Charles? He should be here by now for debrief.”

The drivers froze.

Lewis cleared his throat. “Well… about that…”

Fred’s eyes narrowed. “What did he do? Please don’t tell me he skipped town again.”

“No,” Carlos said quickly. “He’s… here. Sort of.”

Max stepped forward, turning so Fred could see the one-year-old tucked into his arms. Charles blinked up with big green eyes, then waved a sticky hand.

Fred dropped his clipboard. “God.”

---

For a long moment, Fred just stared. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I knew this team was cursed,” he muttered. “But this… this is new.”

“It wasn’t our fault,” Lewis said defensively. “We found him like this.”

Fred blinked. “So you’re telling me that my twenty-seven-year-old driver has turned into a baby, and you are all just… keeping him alive?”

“Pretty much,” Yuki said, shrugging.

Fred took off his glasses. “I need a drink.”

---

Eventually, after a chaotic twenty-minute explanation (with George interjecting documentary-style narration until Lewis smacked him), Fred sighed.

“Fine. Until we figure this out, you hide him. The FIA cannot know, or they’ll have a field day. And above all—keep him safe.”

“Yes, boss,” Lewis said quickly.

“Good,” Fred muttered. “Now get out before I fire all of you.”

"Well, technically, not everyone works for you" Carlos muttered.

---

The drivers trudged to their hotel, checking in as discreetly as possible. Charles had dozed off in Max’s arms during the cab ride, but the second they entered the suite Ferrari had booked, he was wide awake again, wriggling to be put down.

Max sighed, setting him on the carpet.

Big mistake.

Charles immediately crawled toward the minibar, opened the door with surprising strength, and pulled out a shiny soda can.

“Oi!” Yuki barked. “That’s mine!”

Charles giggled, hugged the can to his chest like treasure, and took off crawling again.

---

“Why does he move like he’s training for a sprint race?” Lando complained, diving across the carpet to block him.

“He is Charles,” Carlos said, shrugging. “The only speed he knows is flat out.”

Charles ignored them, now crawling toward the curtains, fascinated by the dangling pull cords. He tugged one, nearly toppling the entire rail.

“Non!” Pierre cried dramatically, lunging to stop him. “He will destroy the suite!”

“Too late,” Esteban muttered.

---

After twenty minutes of chaos—Charles trying to climb onto the coffee table, Charles stealing Oscar’s phone again, Charles attempting to eat the hotel remote—Max finally scooped him up with a long sigh.

“Enough,” Max muttered. “You’re going to sit with me.”

But Charles had other plans.

He turned in Max’s arms, grabbed his face with sticky little hands, and planted a wet, drool-soaked kiss on Max’s cheek.

Max froze.

The room went silent.

Then Charles giggled, leaned in, and smothered Max’s entire face with more drooly kisses—forehead, chin, nose, all of it.

---

“Oh my god,” George wheezed, doubled over laughing. “He’s in love with you!”

“Mon dieu, it is adorable!” Pierre squealed, clasping his hands.

Max grimaced, trying to wipe his face with his sleeve while Charles giggled harder and grabbed for his jaw. “Stop. That’s disgusting.”

But Charles didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down, squealing happily as he covered Max in drool.

Lando fell off the couch laughing. “He’s marking his territory!”

“Looks like Max has a new girlfriend,” Oscar teased.

---

Carlos crossed his arms, frowning. “I was his teammate for years. I never got kisses.”

“Because you don’t win,” Yuki shot back instantly.

Carlos glared.

Lewis just smirked. “Seems like Charles has made his choice.”

---

Max finally managed to pull Charles back, wiping his face dry. “You’re insane,” he muttered to the baby.

Charles only giggled, snuggled against his chest, and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

For the first time all day, he looked calm.

And for once, so did Max.

---

The other drivers exchanged looks.

“He really only listens to Max,” Oscar whispered.

“It’s unfair,” Pierre sighed.

Lewis nodded slowly. “Maybe it’s not about fairness. Maybe… he just feels safe.”

The room went quiet.

Max glanced down at the little Ferrari driver snoozing against him, his shirt damp with drool but his chest warm with tiny, steady breaths.

“…Yeah,” Max said softly. “Safe.”

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Friday morning in Singapore was heavy with humidity, the air already sticky as the drivers filed into the paddock. The crowd buzzed, cameras flashing, fans screaming their names.

Hidden away in the back of Ferrari’s motorhome, Baby Charles squirmed in Fred Vasseur’s arms.

“Non, non, non, stay still!” Fred muttered, trying to balance a squirming one-year-old while simultaneously looking at the timing sheets. Charles had other ideas—he grabbed Fred’s glasses, yanked them clean off, and tried to chew on the frame.

“Mon dieu!” Fred barked, snatching them back. “Why me? Why did you all leave me with this gremlin?”

---

The drivers had promised: just FP1 and FP2, then they’d collect Charles again. But ten minutes into FP1, Fred was already sweating more from babysitting than from the Singapore heat.

Charles wriggled, his little legs kicking furiously. He spotted Fred’s Ferrari cap on the desk, grabbed it, and plopped it onto his own head. The cap slipped down over his eyes.

Fred groaned. “You think you are cute? You are trouble.”

Charles giggled, tugging the cap down even further until he stumbled into a chair leg. He didn’t cry—he just laughed harder, clapping his hands.

---

Fred tried distracting him with a soft toy, but Charles wasn’t interested. He wanted movement. He crawled straight toward the door, tried to yank it open, and nearly succeeded.

“Non! You cannot go to the garage!” Fred panicked, scooping him up.

Charles responded by smearing drool across Fred’s shirt.

By the time FP1 ended, Fred looked like he’d been through a ten-hour strategy meeting with no coffee.

When Max finally walked in, peeling off his Red Bull overalls, Fred thrust Charles at him immediately.

“Take him. Take him now. I am not paid enough for this.”

---

Max blinked but accepted the baby without hesitation. Charles immediately lit up, squealing happily and grabbing at Max’s race suit zipper.

Fred slumped in a chair. “How? How does he only behave for you?”

Max shrugged, bouncing Charles gently. “Guess he knows I’m the world champion.”

Fred groaned. “He is impossible.”

---

The rest of the drivers filtered in soon after, dripping with sweat. Singapore’s heat was punishing, and even twenty laps of FP1 had them exhausted.

Carlos dropped into a chair with a sigh. “That was brutal. How’s Charles?”

Fred pointed at Max, who had the baby calmly sitting on his lap, clutching a water bottle like it was a trophy.

Everyone stared.

“You’re kidding,” George muttered. “He was screaming the whole time we were out there?”

“Not screaming,” Fred corrected. “Plotting my murder.”

---

During FP2, Fred insisted again that he could “handle it.” He lasted all of fifteen minutes before Charles launched a water bottle across the room, somehow opened Fred’s laptop, and managed to send an email to Ferrari headquarters that just said: “aaaaaa.”

“Max!” Fred barked into the garage intercom. “As soon as you finish this session, you come here and take him!”

---

When FP2 finally wrapped, Max returned, wiping sweat from his brow. Charles spotted him instantly from across the room, bounced in Fred’s lap, and reached out both arms.

Max barely had time to unclip his helmet before Charles was shoved into his chest.

“There. He is your problem again,” Fred muttered darkly. “Never again. Next session, you all hire a professional nanny. I am not it.”

But Charles didn’t care. He squealed, smacked Max’s face with both hands, and buried his head into his shoulder.

Max sighed, but his lips twitched with a small smile. “Missed me, huh?”

---

The other drivers piled in, tired but curious.

“He seriously only wants you,” Lando said, shaking his head.

“It’s ridiculous,” Pierre agreed. “I sing for him, I entertain him, but no. All he wants is Verstappen.”

Oscar chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “Max is basically his security blanket now.”

“That is terrifying,” George muttered.

---

Max ignored them, adjusting Charles so the baby could rest more comfortably. Charles yawned, thumb slipping into his mouth, eyelids drooping as he clung to Max’s race suit.

Within minutes, the little Ferrari driver was fast asleep against Red Bull’s world champion.

“Unbelievable,” Lewis muttered. “We can’t even get him to nap after two hours of chasing him. Max gets him down in two minutes flat.”

Max shrugged, settling into a chair with Charles still curled against him. “Guess I’m just good at this.”

---

Fred rubbed his temples. “This is a nightmare. How am I supposed to explain to Ferrari management that their star driver has turned into a baby who only listens to a Red Bull driver?”

The room was quiet for a moment. Then Yuki snorted.

“You don’t,” he said. “We just keep it quiet, keep him safe, and make sure no one finds out.”

Fred shot him a look. “You all are insane.”

But even he had to admit… seeing Charles finally sleeping peacefully, tiny fists curled into Max’s race suit, was almost… sweet.

Almost.

---

The night stretched ahead, but for the first time all day, the paddock was calm. FP1 and FP2 were over, Charles was asleep, and Max was—against all odds—handling things like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The rest of the grid slumped into chairs around him, too exhausted to even argue anymore.

It was chaos. It was ridiculous.

But somehow, it worked.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Saturday dawned heavy and humid, the kind of Singapore morning that felt like stepping into a sauna. Most of the grid dragged themselves to the hotel’s buffet for breakfast, yawning and sluggish.

Charles, however, was wide awake.

He sat perched in a highchair wedged between Max and Lewis, slapping the table with both hands. A plate of scrambled eggs had been placed in front of him, but he ignored it completely, eyes locked on the basket of croissants in the middle of the table.

“Don’t even think about it,” Lewis warned, moving the basket out of reach.

Too late.

Charles launched himself sideways, snatched a croissant with lightning-fast baby reflexes, and stuffed half of it into his mouth before anyone could react.

Crumbs went everywhere.

Max sighed, brushing flakes off his race tee. “Guess he likes carbs.”

---

“Just like the real Charles,” Carlos muttered, sipping his coffee.

The baby beamed at that, as if he’d understood, and waved the half-mangled croissant proudly.

“He’s a menace,” George said, shaking his head. “If the FIA finds out, we’re finished.”

Pierre leaned over, cooing. “Non, he is adorable! Look at him! A little croissant king!”

Charles squealed at Pierre’s sing-song voice, then promptly dropped the rest of the croissant into Lewis’ coffee mug.

Lewis stared at the soggy mess, unimpressed. “Brilliant. Fantastic start to the day.”

---

By the time breakfast ended, Charles had managed to:

1. Throw a spoon at Yuki.

2. Drool all over Oscar’s lanyard.

3. Crawled under the table and tugged on Lando’s shoelaces until they came undone.

“Nap,” Max declared firmly, scooping him up before more chaos erupted. “You’re going to nap before quali.”

Charles, of course, giggled in his face.

---

Later: The Paddock Problem

Getting Charles into the paddock was like trying to sneak a puppy into a library.

They wrapped him in a Ferrari hoodie, pulled the hood low, and tucked him against Max’s chest as if he were just a very clingy nephew.

But Charles was curious. Too curious.

As they entered the crowded paddock, fans pressed against the barricades shouting names. Cameras flashed everywhere. And Charles—deciding this was the perfect time to wriggle free—pushed back his hood and waved at the crowd.

The fans screamed even louder.

“Who’s that kid?” someone shouted.

“Oh no,” Oscar muttered.

“Hide him!” Lewis hissed.

Max quickly pulled the hood back down, but not before half the photographers had snapped pictures.

---

Inside the motorhome, the drivers regrouped.

“This is unsustainable,” Fred groaned, massaging his temples. “We cannot parade a baby around like this!”

“He’s not just a baby,” Lando reminded him. “He’s Charles.”

“That makes it worse!” Fred snapped.

Meanwhile, Charles had crawled onto the couch and was clapping happily at a miniature Ferrari flag someone had left lying around.

Max sighed. “Relax. No one will suspect it’s him.”

Fred looked like he wanted to strangle him.

---

Qualifying Build-Up

The drivers headed off for media duties and prep, leaving Charles again in Fred’s reluctant care.

But Charles wasn’t having it. He fussed, wriggled, and finally let out a loud wail that could be heard down the hall.

“Shhh!” Fred hissed, bouncing him awkwardly. “You’re going to blow our cover!”

Charles only screamed louder, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. He wanted one thing, and one thing only: Max.

---

FP1 and FP2 yesterday had been bearable, but qualifying today was too much. Fred finally caved and called Max on the radio channel usually reserved for engineers.

“Verstappen. Come get him. Now.”

Max, midway through debrief, rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”

The noise of Charles’ cries bled through the comms.

Max sighed. “I’m coming.”

---

When he returned, sweaty and still half-zipped in his suit, Charles immediately lunged for him, tears forgotten.

“Unbelievable,” Fred muttered, watching the baby settle instantly in Max’s arms.

The others gathered around, amazed at the transformation.

“You’re like his pacifier,” Yuki said, shaking his head.

“His emotional support Dutchman,” George added.

Max ignored them, adjusting Charles against his shoulder. “Quiet now, yeah? I’ve got quali.”

Charles babbled happily, tugging on Max’s hair.

---

Qualifying

When it came time to suit up for Q1, there was a problem: Charles refused to be put down.

Max tried handing him to Lewis. The baby screamed.

He tried giving him to Carlos. More screaming.

Fred gave it a go. Near meltdown.

Finally, Max crouched, looking Charles in the eye. “I’ll be back. Promise.”

Charles stared at him for a moment, lip trembling. Then, miraculously, he let Fred take him without protest—though his little eyes never left Max as he walked toward the garage.

---

Through Q1 and Q2, Charles sat on Fred’s lap in the Ferrari motorhome, glued to the TV screens. Every time Max’s car appeared, he perked up, pointing and clapping excitedly.

GP who saw it shook his head. “He’s obsessed with you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Max’s voice crackled through the radio after Q2.

By the time Q3 ended, Max had snagged provisional pole, and Charles was squealing with delight, bouncing so much in Fred’ arms he nearly toppled off the chair.

---

After Quali

The second Max walked back into the motorhome, Charles reached out both arms, babbling excitedly.

Max picked him up, letting the little one cling to him as he wiped sweat from his brow.

“Pole position,” George announced dramatically. “And the prize is apparently… Charles Leclerc.”

The room burst into laughter, even Fred cracking a reluctant smile.

Charles planted another drool-soaked kiss on Max’s cheek.

Max sighed, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, thanks. Just what I needed.”

---

That night, back at the hotel, the drivers collapsed into their rooms, utterly drained from the day.

Charles, however, was still buzzing with energy, crawling around Max’s bed and playing with his discarded race gloves.

“Bedtime,” Max muttered, scooping him up.

Charles yawned, tucked himself against Max’s chest, and finally, finally drifted off.

Max leaned back against the pillows, exhaustion catching up with him too.

Pole position, baby chaos, and an entire paddock to fool.

Tomorrow was race day.

And somehow, Max already knew—it was going to be even more ridiculous.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Race day in Singapore was always tense. The night race, the humidity, the pressure—it drained everyone before they even touched the track. But somehow, in the Ferrari motorhome, things felt… weirdly calm.

Fred had Charles again. Everyone braced for screaming, but to their shock, the baby sat quietly on Fred’s lap, clutching a soft Ferrari plush toy.

He wasn’t fussing. He wasn’t trying to escape.

He was babbling.

Long strings of nonsense syllables spilled out of him: “Ba-ba-da-da-mm-mm!” followed by giggles.

Fred blinked. “He’s… he’s talking?”

“Not words,” Lewis corrected, adjusting his race suit. “But he’s definitely saying something.”

Charles jabbered happily, smacking his toy against Fred’s desk like he was explaining strategy.

“Look at him,” Lewis laughed. “He’s already complaining about pit stops.”

Fred groaned. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.”

---

On the Grid

As the grid prepared, tension rose. Mechanics swarmed cars, engineers shouted last-minute instructions, and fans roared from the grandstands.

Back in the motorhome, Charles continued his nonstop stream of baby-talk commentary.

Fred held him up toward the screen. “See? That’s Max. He starts pole. You like that, huh?”

Charles lit up, slapping the air with both hands. “Mmm-da-da-da!”

“Unbelievable,” Fred muttered, but he couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips. “You really are obsessed with him.”

---

The Race

Engines roared as the lights went out. Max shot forward from pole, with Lando and George right on his tail. The chaos of Turn 1 unfolded, but in the motorhome, the chaos was baby-sized.

Charles watched intently, babbling louder every time the Red Bull appeared on screen.

“Mmm-ba-ba-da!” he yelled when Max overtook traffic after the first pit stops.

Fred looked at him, half-convinced. “Are you… are you commentating? No. No, don’t be ridiculous.”

But every overtake, every replay, Charles reacted with wide eyes and chatter. He even clapped when Max pulled a gap.

By lap 40, Fred was shaking his head in disbelief. “You know, you’re easier to deal with when Verstappen’s on screen. Maybe I should hire him as your babysitter full-time.”

---

The Chequered Flag

Max crossed the finish line first, crowd roaring as fireworks lit up the Singapore sky. Charles shrieked with joy, bouncing so hard Fred nearly dropped him.

“Ba-ba-Mmm-DA!” he cried, pointing at the TV.

“Yes, yes, your hero won,” Fred muttered, though even he chuckled at the enthusiasm.

---

Post-Race Chaos

The paddock was electric after the race. Media swarmed, mechanics celebrated, and champagne sprayed everywhere.

Eventually, the drivers trickled back to the lounge, exhausted and sweaty but buzzing from adrenaline.

Fred was already there, Charles bouncing happily in his lap. The moment Max stepped inside, Charles let out a loud squeal and reached out both arms.

Fred handed him over without hesitation. “Take him. He’s been waiting for you all race.”

Max didn’t even protest. He scooped Charles up, and immediately, the baby launched into another stream of babble.

“Da-da-ba-ba-da!”

Max blinked. “What are you even saying?”

Charles smacked his chest with tiny hands and kept going: “Mm-mm-da-da-pphhhhh!”

The others gathered around, amused.

“He’s definitely trying to talk to you,” Oscar said, flopping onto the couch.

“Maybe he’s trying to say your name,” Pierre suggested.

“Or maybe,” George muttered, sipping water, “he’s just spitting nonsense, like usual.”

But Max looked down at the baby clinging to him, eyes bright and intent, babbling away as though he truly expected Max to understand.

For a moment, something in Max softened. “Feels like he’s actually… telling me something.”

Carlos smirked. “Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re becoming sentimental.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

But Charles only babbled louder, smearing drool across Max’s shoulder like punctuation to his baby-speech.

---

The Lounge

The rest of the grid collapsed into the paddock lounge, trading stories from the race.

Lewis stretched, groaning. “That was brutal. I swear I nearly passed out in sector two.”

“Tell me about it,” George agreed. “The heat was unreal.”

Yuki grinned. “At least I overtook Pierre.”

Pierre’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

As their banter spiraled into arguments and laughter, Charles kept babbling to Max, completely tuned out of the chaos around them.

Max leaned back, letting the baby chatter against his chest. “You’ve got a lot to say, huh?”

Charles nodded—nodded—as if he understood. Then he reached up and grabbed Max’s cap, plopping it onto his own tiny head.

The room erupted in laughter.

“Max Jr.!” Lando cackled.

“Mini Verstappen!” Oscar added.

Max scowled, but there was no hiding the twitch of his lips. “Very funny.”

---

Later

As the night wound down, most of the drivers trickled back to their hotels. Max lingered in the lounge, Charles still wide awake despite the late hour.

The baby was quieter now, babbling in softer tones, his head tucked against Max’s chest. It almost sounded like a conversation—nonsense syllables mixed with little giggles, as if he was telling Max all about the race.

Max listened, oddly content.

“You think you did better than us out there, huh?” he murmured. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your turn.”

Charles cooed, blinking sleepily, and finally gave in to his exhaustion.

As his breathing evened out, Max let out a quiet sigh, adjusting him gently.

He’d won the race. But somehow, the biggest victory tonight felt like this—holding a babbling, drooling, ridiculous baby Charles who trusted him completely.

And Max didn’t even mind.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The morning after Singapore, the paddock felt like it had a hangover. Everyone was dragging luggage through the hotel lobby, sunglasses on, coffees in hand. Max, meanwhile, had Charles strapped to his chest in a baby carrier someone (probably Carlos) had bought last night in desperation.

Charles was happy—babbling nonstop, little legs kicking as if the world was his playground. He clung to Max’s shirt and occasionally smacked his chin like he was emphasizing his baby-words.

The rest of the drivers were too tired to tease Max about it. Almost.

“Admit it,” Lando said, shoving his suitcase onto a trolley, “he looks good like that. Natural. Like a dad.”

Max scowled. “Shut up.”

Charles babbled louder, as if backing up Lando’s point.

---

Media Trouble

By the time they reached the airport, the problem was obvious. Reporters clustered by the gates, phones out, lenses clicking.

And sure enough, someone shouted:

“Max! Who’s the baby?”

Flashbulbs exploded. Charles, delighted, clapped his hands at the noise.

“Oh no,” George muttered, tugging a cap lower on his face. “They’ve clocked him.”

The drivers tried to form a human shield around Max, but it was useless. Cameras caught everything—Charles’ wide grin, the tiny Ferrari hoodie, even his little hands tugging at Max’s hair.

“This is bad,” Lewis muttered as they hustled through security. “Really bad.”

---

On Social Media

By the time they boarded Max’s private jet, the internet was already in flames.

Twitter/X:

“WHO is Verstappen carrying around???”

“Secret Verstappen baby???”

“Looks like the Ferrari logo on the hoodie. 👀”

“Mystery paddock baby confirmed.”

Instagram:

Clips of Max and Charles entering the airport went viral, with captions like: “Pole, win, AND a baby? Verstappen doesn’t miss.”

Pierre scrolled through the chaos, laughing so hard he cried. “You have to see this, Max! Someone edited Charles’ face onto your Monaco win photo!”

Max groaned, covering Charles’ eyes. “Don’t show him.”

Charles babbled in protest, trying to grab Pierre’s phone.

---

In-Flight Mayhem

At cruising altitude, the drivers tried to relax. Some slept, some played cards. But Charles had no intention of letting anyone rest.

First, he crawled across the seats to steal Oscar’s headphones.

Then, he managed to pull the emergency instruction card out of the seat pocket and wave it around like a trophy.

Finally, he got his little hands on Yuki’s snack bag, stuffing crackers into his mouth before Yuki noticed.

“Oi!” Yuki yelped. “That’s mine!”

Charles giggled, crumbs falling everywhere.

“Unbelievable,” Yuki muttered, crossing his arms. “Not even a year old and already stealing from me.”

---

Nap Attempt

Eventually, they tried to get him to nap.

Lewis dimmed the lights. George put on lullaby music. Carlos even rocked him gently.

Charles yawned… then suddenly shrieked with laughter, wriggling free.

“No nap?” Max asked flatly, chasing him down the aisle.

Charles clapped his hands, babbling triumphantly: “Da-da-da-ba!”

“Looks like a no,” Alex said from his seat, stifling a laugh.

---

Flight Chaos

The rest of the flight was pure madness:

Charles crawled under the seats and had to be fished out by Lando.

He pulled Ollie Bearman’s shoelaces until they unraveled.

He smacked Gabriel Bortoleto in the face with a stuffed toy.

He found a button on the armrest and pressed it repeatedly until the flight attendant begged Max to intervene.

Through it all, Max looked more and more resigned.

“You signed up for this,” Carlos teased.

“I didn’t sign up for any of this,” Max muttered, adjusting the carrier.

Charles, tucked against him now, only babbled happily, eyes half-lidded as he finally began to drift.

---

Quiet Moment

As the engines hummed and the cabin quieted, Max leaned back, Charles asleep against his chest at last.

The others whispered and joked quietly, but Max tuned them out. For a moment, it was just him and the baby—tiny breaths, warm weight, complete trust.

He brushed a stray curl from Charles’ forehead. “You caused chaos today, you know that? Whole world thinks you’re mine now.”

Charles stirred, babbling softly in his sleep, and pressed closer.

Max sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah. Not the worst thing.”

---

Arrival

By the time they landed, media speculation had doubled. Headlines screamed:

“Verstappen Spotted with Baby in Singapore Airport—Secret Son?”

“Ferrari Hoodie Mystery: Is This Charles Leclerc’s Relative?”

“The Paddock Baby: Everything We Know So Far.”

The drivers groaned as they checked their phones.

“They’re going to hound us next race,” George said.

“Then we keep hiding him,” Lewis replied firmly.

Max looked down at Charles, who was once again babbling in his arms.

Hide him? Sure.

But Max knew one thing: Charles wasn’t making that easy.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The plane landed under cover of night, but the media didn’t sleep. By the time the drivers checked into the hotel, the internet was already wild with conspiracy theories.

Lewis scrolled through headlines in the lobby:

“Verstappen’s Mystery Baby: Adoption or Affair?”

“Why Is the Ferrari Logo on the Baby’s Hoodie?”

“Could This Be… Leclerc’s Secret?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re doomed. Absolutely doomed.”

Carlos leaned against the counter, smirking. “Relax. They’ll get bored in a week.”

“Or,” Pierre cut in, waving his phone, “they’ll keep going until someone digs too deep. Look—someone already compared Charles’ baby picture to… well, Charles now.”

They all groaned in unison.

---

Hotel Room Trouble

They had split into groups for hotel rooms. Max, predictably, had been saddled with Charles. Not that anyone argued—Charles made it obvious who he wanted.

The baby wriggled through Max’s arms, babbling away, before dropping to the floor and crawling toward the minibar.

“No,” Max said flatly, scooping him up again.

Charles pouted, waving his hands like he was offended. Then, with toddler determination, he leaned forward and planted a drooly kiss on Max’s cheek.

The room went quiet for a second before Lando, sprawled on the spare bed, burst into laughter. “Oh my God. He’s actually flirting with you.”

Max glared. “He’s a baby.”

“Yeah, but look at him! He’s smitten.”

Charles, as if proving Lando right, grabbed Max’s face with both hands and slobbered another wet kiss across his jaw.

“Brilliant,” George muttered from the corner. “The baby’s in love with Verstappen. That’s… that’s just our lives now.”

---

Night Before the Race Weekend 

Getting Charles to bed was a nightmare. He crawled across the duvet, pulled the pillow off the bed, and discovered that throwing socks at Lando was the funniest game in the world.

Finally, Max managed to settle him with a biscuit and a bottle of milk. Charles sat in Max’s lap, chewing happily, eyes wide with mischief even as sleep threatened.

“You’re trouble,” Max muttered, brushing crumbs off the blanket. “But at least you’re my kind of trouble.”

Charles babbled softly in reply, eyelids heavy, before finally sagging against him.

Lando took a sneaky photo. “Perfect. Verstappen: World Champion and Babysitter of the Year.”

Max shot him a deadly glare.

---

Media Madness

The next morning, arriving at the paddock was chaos. Reporters were everywhere, microphones shoved forward.

“Max, is the baby yours?”

“Lewis, are you hiding something?”

“Why is Verstappen carrying a child in Ferrari gear?”

Max pushed through with Charles strapped to his chest again, ignoring the noise. Charles, unfazed, chewed on his toy and waved at the cameras.

“Great,” George muttered behind them. “Now they think he’s doing press.”

Inside, Fred nearly had a breakdown. “You cannot—cannot—parade him in front of the cameras!”

Max raised an eyebrow. “What do you want me to do, leave him outside?”

Fred groaned. “I don’t know! But this is a disaster.”

Charles chose that exact moment to babble loudly, waving his arms like he was giving a speech.

Lando snorted. “Look at that. Already media trained.”

---

Practice Sessions

While the drivers hit the track for FP1, Fred was left on babysitting duty again.

At first, Charles fussed, squirming in his stroller. But the second the big screens lit up with cars racing, he went quiet—eyes fixed on Max’s lap times.

He clapped when Max went P1. He babbled when Lando clipped a wall. And when Charles saw a Red Bull pit stop replay, he squealed so loud Fred nearly dropped his coffee.

“Why do you like him so much?” Fred asked, exasperated. “He’s not even on your team!”

Charles responded with a string of happy nonsense and tried to climb out of the stroller.

---

After FP2

When the drivers returned, sweaty and tired, Fred shoved the baby at Max immediately. “Your turn. I can’t do this.”

Charles lit up the moment Max held him, babbling as if recapping every lap. Max listened, expression unreadable, then gave a small nod.

“Yeah. Sector two was messy.”

The room went silent.

“Did you just—” Alex started.

“Don’t,” Max warned.

But Charles babbled again, smacking Max’s chest for emphasis.

“Unbelievable,” Pierre muttered. “They actually understand each other now.”

---

Evening at the Hotel

Back at the hotel, the drivers tried to unwind. Some played cards, others scrolled through their phones. Charles, of course, refused to sit still.

He crawled across George’s legs, grabbed Oscar’s phone, and somehow managed to FaceTime Logan Sargeant, who had stayed behind in the U.S.

“Uh… hi?” Logan’s confused voice came through. “Why is there a baby in the paddock?”

Oscar snatched the phone back, mortified, while the others laughed themselves sick.

Later, Charles wriggled into Max’s lap again, clutching a plastic spoon he’d found somewhere. He babbled happily, waving it like a wand.

“You’re chaos,” Max muttered, but he didn’t let go.

And when Charles leaned forward to give him another sloppy kiss, Max sighed… and let him.

---

Quiet Reflection

As the others finally drifted to their own rooms, Max sat in the quiet with Charles curled against him.

The baby was warm, breathing softly, tiny fingers clutching his shirt. Max stared down at him, frowning slightly.

He’d won another practice day, survived another round of media chaos. But for some reason, what stuck with him most was this—Charles babbling at him like he was the only person in the world who mattered.

Max brushed a hand over the baby’s hair.

“You’re making this complicated, you know that?” he whispered.

Charles shifted in his sleep, drooling on his chest.

Max shook his head. “Yeah. Figures.”

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Saturday morning was meant to be focused and sharp. Qualifying always demanded the best out of everyone. But the moment the drivers arrived at the paddock, focus was the last thing on anyone’s mind.

Because Charles was in Max’s arms, wide awake, babbling like a tiny commentator on wheels.

“Da-da-ba-ba!” he squealed, waving his biscuit.

Max looked exhausted already. “He’s been at it since five in the morning.”

George leaned over, smirking. “You sure he’s not just rehearsing his love confessions?”

“What?” Max frowned.

Lando snorted. “Come on, mate. It’s obvious. Baby Charles is obsessed with you. And babies don’t lie, right? So maybe…” He grinned wickedly. “…adult Charles has a huge crush on you, too.”

The entire room cracked up.

Even Lewis chuckled into his coffee. “Makes sense. Babies only follow what’s true. And he won’t leave your side.”

Max went scarlet. “That’s—no. He’s just—” He broke off, glaring as Charles smeared drool on his sleeve. “He’s just sticky.”

“Sticky with love,” Pierre sang, earning himself a swat from Carlos.

---

Paddock Mayhem

When they wheeled Charles through the paddock, it was like leading a parade. Reporters shouted questions, cameras flashed, and even mechanics paused mid-setup to wave at the baby.

Charles thrived under the attention. He squealed, clapped, and blew raspberries at random intervals.

Fred tried to hide behind his clipboard. “This is a circus. A Ferrari-branded circus.”

“Hey, at least he’s popular,” Yuki said, smirking as Charles grabbed his headset and tried to put it on. “Look at that. Future engineer.”

“No,” Max deadpanned, prying the headset free. “Future nightmare.”

But when Charles babbled again, smacking Max’s face affectionately, Max’s glare softened—just a little.

---

Pre-Qualifying Distractions

As drivers prepped for Q1, Charles was still the center of attention.

He stole one of George’s gloves and refused to give it back.

He crawled under a bench and had to be coaxed out with a biscuit.

He grabbed Oscar’s drink bottle and dumped half of it onto his overalls.

“You’re cursed,” Oscar muttered to Max.

“Tell me about it,” Max replied, towel-drying Charles’ sticky hands.

But then Charles reached up and kissed Max’s cheek again, unbothered. The room exploded into laughter.

“There it is again!” Lando shouted. “Proof. He’s literally in love with you!”

Max glared at him, but his ears went red.

---

Qualifying Session

When Q1 began, Charles was left with Fred again. At first, he whined, trying to wriggle out of the stroller. But once the cars hit the track, his eyes locked on the big screens.

Every time Max appeared, Charles perked up—bouncing, clapping, babbling like he was cheering.

Fred sighed. “Hopeless. You’re hopeless.”

By Q3, Max snagged pole position. Charles nearly launched himself out of the stroller, clapping so hard he smacked the tray table.

Fred groaned. “This kid is going to make me retire.”

---

Post-Qualifying

Back in the garage, Max was swarmed by congratulations—and by Charles, who lunged straight into his arms, babbling with pride.

“See?” Pierre said, smirking. “Not even adult Charles congratulates you this much.”

Lewis raised a brow. “Maybe that’s because adult Charles is hiding the same crush.”

Max groaned, rubbing his temples. “I hate all of you.”

But Charles kissed him on the nose, gurgling happily. The garage erupted with laughter.

---

Evening at the Hotel

Later that night, the group gathered in the hotel lounge. Charles had been fed, bathed, and dressed in pajamas—courtesy of Ollie, who turned out to be surprisingly efficient with baby clothes.

Now he was toddling between the drivers, giggling each time someone picked him up.

“Look at him,” George said, holding Charles up. “Pure attachment. Pure love.”

“Yeah,” Carlos agreed with a grin. “Babies don’t fake it. What they want is what they want.”

“Exactly!” Lando chimed in, poking Max in the ribs. “So if Baby Charles is this glued to you, what does that say about adult Charles, eh?”

The room erupted with laughter again.

Max buried his face in his hands. “You’re all idiots.”

But Charles crawled straight back to him, as if proving the point.

---

Quiet Moment

Later, when most of the drivers had drifted off to bed, Max found himself alone with Charles again.

The baby was curled against him on the couch, half-asleep, tiny fingers tangled in his shirt.

Max stared at him for a long moment, remembering the others’ teasing.

Adult Charles has a crush… baby never lies.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

And yet—when Charles stirred, mumbling softly, and pressed his face into Max’s chest, Max felt something tug at him. Something he couldn’t quite push away.

He sighed, brushing a hand over Charles’ curls. “You’re too complicated for a baby, you know that?”

Charles made a soft sound, almost like agreement, before drifting deeper into sleep.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Race day in Singapore was always brutal. The humidity clung to every pore, the heat pressed down like a weight, and tempers ran hotter than the track itself.

But for the drivers, the biggest storm wasn’t just in the air—it was the tiny Ferrari baby glued to Max Verstappen’s side.

---

Pre-Race Morning

Charles was cranky from the moment he woke. His babbles were louder, his little fists were restless, and his usually bright eyes looked watery.

“Uh-oh,” Yuki said, watching Max try to wrestle Charles into a clean onesie. “That’s not normal baby noise.”

“He’s fine,” Max said shortly, though his brow furrowed. He touched Charles’ forehead briefly, then frowned deeper. “Warm.”

“Warm?” Lewis perked up from across the room, immediately dropping his energy drink. “Max, he might be coming down with something.”

Carlos groaned, tugging on his race boots. “Of course. The one day we can’t deal with sick baby chaos—race day.”

Max adjusted Charles on his hip, jaw tight. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

---

The Race

When the cars lined up on the grid, Charles was reluctantly handed back to Fred, who promised to keep him in the hospitality suite.

At first, the baby fussed, crying for Max and smacking at Fred’s arms. But as the laps went by, his cries turned softer, weaker, and eventually he sagged against Fred’s chest, too tired to fight.

Fred frowned, patting his back. “Oh no. Don’t you dare be sick on me, Charles.”

Meanwhile, on track, the fight for positions was intense. Max defended his lead, Lando battled Carlos, and Lewis clawed up the order with trademark determination. But in the garage, whispers started spreading: Charles wasn’t just cranky—he was feverish.

---

Chequered Flag

The race ended with Max on the podium again, a tired but satisfied champion. But when he returned to the paddock lounge, the first thing he saw was Fred pacing, Charles in his arms.

“He’s burning up,” Fred said urgently. “He’s been like this since lap thirty.”

Max’s victory smile vanished. He stepped forward, immediately gathering Charles from Fred. The baby whimpered softly, head resting against Max’s shoulder, face flushed and damp.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Max murmured, voice uncharacteristically soft.

The other drivers crowded in quickly.

“Is he okay?” George asked.

“Does he need a doctor?” Alex pressed.

“Oh God, what if he throws up?” Lando said nervously.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Lewis snapped, though his eyes were just as worried. “He’s clearly got a fever. Babies get sick fast in this climate.”

---

Panic in the Lounge

Charles whimpered again, tiny fingers clutching Max’s shirt. He wasn’t babbling, wasn’t smiling—just resting limply against him.

That was enough to send the entire room into chaos.

Pierre ran to fetch cold water.

Yuki grabbed a towel and started soaking it.

Carlos called for the team doctor.

Oscar nervously checked his phone, Googling “baby fever remedies” like it would save them all.

“Stop panicking!” Max barked finally, though his arms tightened around Charles. “He needs calm, not all of you screaming.”

The room went quiet at once.

Max sat on the couch, carefully pressing the cool towel to Charles’ forehead. The baby whimpered but didn’t resist, eyelids heavy.

---

Team Doctor

The Ferrari team doctor arrived minutes later, kit in hand. He checked Charles quickly—temperature, breathing, hydration.

“Just a fever,” he confirmed. “Likely from the heat and exhaustion. Keep him cool, fluids if possible, and let him rest. He’ll be okay.”

The collective sigh of relief nearly rattled the walls.

“Okay,” Lewis muttered, hand on his chest. “That was terrifying.”

“Don’t you ever scare us like that again,” Lando told Charles, who was far too out of it to respond.

---

Aftermath

The drivers gathered around quietly as Max rocked Charles gently, keeping the cool towel in place. The baby’s eyes fluttered open once, searching weakly—then fixing on Max.

He let out the faintest babble, barely more than a whisper.

Max’s jaw tightened, but he leaned down so Charles could touch his cheek. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Carlos folded his arms, smirking despite the tension. “You see? Even sick, he only wants Max.”

“Baby never lies,” Pierre added softly.

Max rolled his eyes, but the usual sharpness was missing. Instead, he kissed the top of Charles’ curls, holding him closer.

---

Evening

Back at the hotel, they turned Max’s suite into an impromptu sickbay. Drivers rotated shifts, though Charles refused to stay with anyone but Max.

Lando tried: disaster. George tried: louder disaster. Even Lewis tried, only for Charles to cry until Max returned.

So it was Max—Max carrying him, Max keeping the towel cool, Max coaxing tiny sips of water into him.

The others hovered, worried, but eventually relaxed when Charles’ fever dipped slightly by midnight.

---

Quiet Moment

As the others drifted to their own rooms, Max sat in the dimly lit suite, Charles curled against his chest, finally asleep.

The weight of the day pressed down—another win, more teasing, media chaos, and now this. But somehow, what mattered most was the small, warm body breathing softly against him.

Max brushed a hand over Charles’ hair, whispering, “You scared everyone today, you know that?”

Charles stirred slightly, sighing, then nestled closer.

Max let out a long breath, leaning back against the headboard.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he admitted quietly. “But I’ll take care of you. That’s a promise.”

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The morning after the Singapore race dawned heavy and humid, but calmer than the chaos of the day before. The paddock was quiet, the mechanics and engineers already packing freight for the next leg.

But in the hotel suite, the drivers’ attention wasn’t on logistics. It was on one tiny Ferrari baby, lying in Max Verstappen’s arms, still fever-warmed but undeniably better.

---

Morning Check

Fred, who had stopped by at sunrise, touched Charles’ forehead with practiced care. “Better. Still warm, but not dangerous.”

Max gave a curt nod, adjusting Charles slightly so his head rested on his shoulder. Charles whined softly, but not with the same weak cries as yesterday.

“See? He’s stronger already,” George said brightly.

“Stronger at what?” Yuki asked, eyeing the baby skeptically. “Crying? Clinging? Ruining our sleep?”

“Stronger at loving Max,” Lando muttered, earning himself a swat from Carlos.

Max ignored them all. His eyes were only on Charles, who yawned, rubbed at his eyes, and babbled faintly—half words, half nonsense.

---

Breakfast Battle

By mid-morning, Fred insisted: “He needs proper food. Not just biscuits.”

So the drivers rallied in the hotel lounge, armed with everything from mashed fruit to porridge to some questionable baby food jars Yuki had found at a convenience store.

“Alright, Charles,” Lewis said, crouching in front of him with a spoonful of apple puree. “This will make you feel better.”

Charles blinked at him… then turned his face into Max’s shirt.

“Rejected,” Oscar said, muffling a laugh.

Carlos tried next with mashed banana. “Come on, it’s sweet. You’ll like it.”

Charles opened his mouth—then spat the mush right onto Carlos’ sleeve.

The room erupted.

“Beautiful aim!” Pierre cheered.

“Future world champion, clearly,” Liam added.

Carlos groaned, wiping his arm. “Unbelievable. I used to be his teammate.”

---

Max’s Attempt

Finally, Max took the spoon, sighing heavily. “You lot are hopeless.”

Charles perked up immediately, eyes fixed on him.

“Alright,” Max muttered, trying the banana again. “Just one bite.”

Charles leaned forward… took it… and made the most dramatic disgusted face anyone had ever seen. He gagged theatrically, drooled banana everywhere, then shoved the spoon away with surprising force.

The drivers howled with laughter.

“Oh my god,” Lando wheezed. “That’s exactly the face adult Charles makes when he hates the strategy call!”

George clutched his stomach. “Identical! Copy-paste!”

Max muttered something in Dutch that probably wasn’t polite, wiping banana off his shirt.

---

Biscuits Win Again

Eventually, in desperation, Ollie brought over a plain biscuit. “Maybe… just try this again?”

Charles lit up instantly, grabbing it with both hands. He gummed it happily, drool soaking the edges, crumbs raining down his pajamas.

“See?” Ollie said proudly. “Problem solved.”

“That’s not nutrition,” Fred complained.

“Try telling him that,” Alex said, gesturing to Charles—now smearing biscuit bits onto Max’s arm like finger paint.

Max sighed, but let him. “At least he’s eating something.”

---

Midday Chaos

Despite still being sick, Charles showed flashes of his usual energy.

He stole Pierre’s sunglasses, trying to chew on them.

He crawled under the coffee table and refused to come out until Max coaxed him with another biscuit.

He sneezed directly into George’s face, leaving George dramatically demanding disinfectant.

“Unbelievable,” George said, scrubbing with sanitizer. “He just weaponized germs!”

“He’s Monegasque,” Pierre shrugged. “Of course he’s dramatic.”

---

Quiet Nap

Eventually, the biscuit crumbs and laughter gave way to yawns. Charles fought sleep stubbornly, clinging to Max’s shirt like glue.

But Max, patient in a way none of the others expected, simply rocked him gently, murmuring nonsense in Dutch until Charles’ eyes fluttered shut.

The drivers exchanged looks, half amused, half touched.

“Unreal,” Lewis muttered softly. “He doesn’t even trust us for food, but he knocks out in Max’s arms like it’s the safest place in the world.”

“Baby never lies,” Carlos reminded, smirking.

Max didn’t respond. He just adjusted Charles so his tiny head rested against his chest, then leaned back into the couch, eyes closed.

---

Evening

By evening, Charles’ fever had eased further. He was still clingy, still refusing most food, but the sparkle was returning to his babbles.

The drivers gathered again, exhausted from babysitting shifts, watching as Charles stubbornly refused applesauce but eagerly gnawed another biscuit.

“Hopeless,” Fred muttered. “Completely hopeless.”

“Hey,” Max said, without looking up, as Charles tucked his face into his shoulder. “He’ll get better. Just give him time.”

The room went quiet for a moment.

Because Max sounded certain—not irritated, not sarcastic, but sure.

Like he’d already decided he’d see this through, no matter how long it took.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The hotel suite in Singapore was unusually quiet that night.

The drivers had finally exhausted themselves after days of chaos—feeding attempts, fevers, biscuit battles. By midnight, the lights were dim, and one by one they’d collapsed across couches, armchairs, even the floor, like a camp of overgrown teenagers.

And in the middle of it all, on Max Verstappen’s bed, slept Charles.

Still a baby. Still warm with a fading fever. Still curled into Max’s chest, breathing softly against his shirt.

---

Midnight Calm

Max hadn’t really planned to fall asleep. He’d told himself he’d stay awake, just to be sure Charles was okay. But the rhythm of Charles’ tiny breaths had lulled him, and eventually his own eyes had closed.

The suite was silent, save for the occasional snore from Yuki on the couch or Lando’s restless tossing on the carpet.

And then—something shifted.

---

The Change

It was subtle at first: the weight in Max’s arms growing heavier, the body lengthening, limbs stretching. Charles stirred, pressing closer, and Max felt fabric shifting strangely beneath his hand.

His eyes snapped open.

“What the—”

Before he could finish, Charles wasn’t a baby anymore. He was… Charles again. Full-grown, twenty-seven-year-old Charles Leclerc, still tangled against him, face pale, fever-sweat dampening his curls.

Max’s heart nearly stopped.

“Charles?” he whispered.

The man groaned softly, voice rough. “Mhm… Max?”

Max froze. The last time Charles had spoken, he’d been babbling nonsense. Now—now he sounded like himself. Weak, but undeniably himself.

---

The Panic

“Oi! Wake up!” Max barked suddenly, loud enough to jolt the drivers awake.

Lando sat up immediately, hair sticking out. “What—what’s happening?!”

Yuki fell off the couch. George blinked blearily. Carlos nearly tripped over Oscar as they scrambled.

And then they all saw it.

Charles. Full-grown Charles. Half-asleep and sick, sprawled against Max’s chest like nothing had changed.

The room exploded.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” Lando yelled.

“He’s back?!” Pierre shouted.

Lewis rubbed his eyes furiously. “No, no, I’m hallucinating.”

George’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god, he’s actually an adult again.”

“Shut up!” Max snapped. He tightened his hold slightly as Charles stirred. “He’s still sick.”

---

Adult, But Weak

Charles blinked slowly, trying to make sense of the scene. His voice was raspy, accented, soft. “Why… why are you all staring at me like that?”

“Because you were a baby like five minutes ago!” Yuki blurted.

Charles frowned. “…What?”

“Yeah, mate,” Alex said, wide-eyed. “Like an actual baby. Diapers, biscuits, Max carrying you around—”

Max shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Not now.”

Charles looked confused, then winced, pressing a hand to his forehead. “My head… feels like it’s on fire.”

“You had a fever yesterday,” Fred explained quickly, already kneeling by the bed. “Doctor said it was exhaustion. But—Charles—do you remember anything?”

Charles’ brow furrowed. “…I remember finishing eighteenth. The strategy was…” He trailed off, groaning. “Terrible.”

The drivers exchanged looks. He didn’t remember.

---

Charles, Meet Chaos

Within minutes, water was fetched, towels replaced, medicine offered. Charles was eased back into the pillows, pale but at least coherent enough to sip carefully from the cup Max held out.

“Slow,” Max instructed.

Charles obeyed without argument, his eyes flicking up once, briefly, to Max’s. “…Thanks.”

That tiny word had the room holding its breath.

And then, of course, the teasing began.

“So, uh…” Lando grinned slowly. “You don’t remember clinging to Max like a koala? Or drool-kissing him all over the face?”

Charles nearly choked on his water. “Excuse me?!”

“Oh, you don’t wanna know, mate,” George said, smirking.

“Baby Charles never lied,” Pierre added innocently. “Very telling.”

“Shut it,” Max growled, glaring at all of them.

Charles’ cheeks flushed red despite the fever. “You’re all insane.”

---

Max, Unshaken

The room eventually settled, though the drivers kept sneaking looks at Charles like he might shrink back into a one-year-old any second.

Max sat by the bed, arms folded, expression unreadable. He hadn’t moved since Charles transformed—still alert, still protective, as though daring anyone to disturb him.

Charles, hazy with fever, noticed. “…Why are you… hovering?”

Max arched a brow. “Because you’re sick. And because you fainted into my arms as a baby yesterday, and I’m not dealing with you passing out again.”

Charles blinked at him, face going redder. “I did what?”

“Don’t,” Max warned flatly. “Don’t ask.”

---

The Rest of the Night

Eventually, Fred herded the other drivers out, insisting Charles needed calm, not chaos.

“Fine,” Carlos said as he left, smirking. “But if he turns back into a baby tomorrow, don’t call me for diaper duty again.”

“Same,” Yuki grumbled, already half-asleep on his feet.

The door shut, leaving only Fred, Max, and Charles.

Fred sighed, adjusting his glasses. “Rest, Charles. You’ll need strength for Japan. And Max—don’t let him get up.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” Max said dryly.

When Fred left, silence fell.

Charles shifted slightly under the covers, glancing sideways at Max. “…You really… took care of me?”

Max leaned back in his chair, gaze steady. “Someone had to.”

Charles hesitated, then smiled faintly, weak but genuine. “Merci…”

Max didn’t answer. But for once, he didn’t look away.

---

Closing Scene

Charles drifted off again, fever easing but still present. His breaths steadied, his face relaxing against the pillow.

And Max stayed. Not out of obligation, not because the others teased, but because he wanted to.

He sat there long into the night, arms crossed, watching over Charles with the same stubborn focus he gave to every race.

Because this—whatever it was—wasn’t over yet.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The first rays of sunlight spilled through the curtains of the Singapore hotel suite. The air-conditioning hummed softly, and the city outside was already buzzing. But inside the room, peace didn’t last long.

Charles stirred, blinking awake. For the first time in days, he felt somewhat rested. His head still throbbed faintly, his throat scratchy, but he was undeniably himself again.

When his eyes focused, the first thing he saw was Max Verstappen, sitting in the chair beside his bed, arms folded and head tilted back, asleep.

Charles blinked. “Oh, mon dieu…” he whispered under his breath.

---

The Awakening

The door creaked, and Lando poked his head in, followed by George and Carlos.

“He’s awake!” Lando shouted far too loudly.

Max snapped upright instantly, sharp as if someone had waved a green flag. His eyes darted to Charles, checking. “You okay?”

Charles nodded faintly. “Oui… better. Just tired.”

George grinned. “Good, because we’ve been waiting for this.”

Charles frowned. “…Waiting for what?”

The smirks spreading across all three faces told him immediately: trouble.

---

The Teasing Begins

Carlos crossed his arms. “So, baby Charles. Do you want to explain why you refused baby food but devoured biscuits like they were podium champagne?”

Charles’ face turned crimson. “I—what—no—”

“Oh, and don’t forget how you crawled under the coffee table to escape us,” George added cheerfully.

“And kissed Max,” Lando chimed in, eyes twinkling. “All over his face. Drool included.”

Charles’ jaw dropped. “That is a lie!”

“Non, non, non, it happened,” Carlos insisted, chuckling. “I have witnesses.”

Charles buried his face in his hands. “I want to disappear.”

---

More Arrivals, More Jokes

Within minutes, the room filled with the rest of the drivers, drawn by the scent of fresh gossip.

“Look who’s an adult again!” Pierre announced, striding in with Oscar and Alex. “Do you remember being carried everywhere?”

“Or when you sneezed directly into George’s face?” Oscar added, grinning.

George raised a hand. “Yes, thank you for reminding me. Traumatizing, honestly.”

Yuki plopped onto the couch. “He doesn’t need to remember. We remember enough for him.”

“I swear,” Charles groaned, voice muffled against the pillow, “I hate all of you.”

---

Max Cuts In

Through all the chaos, Max sat silently, arms crossed, expression hard to read.

When the teasing got too loud, he finally cut through: “Enough.”

The room quieted instantly.

Max’s gaze flicked to Charles. “He’s still sick. He doesn’t need a bunch of clowns crowding him.”

Charles peeked out from the pillow, wide-eyed. He hadn’t expected Max to defend him like that.

The drivers exchanged looks, smirks suppressed but not gone. They started filing out, some muttering, some laughing under their breath.

As they left, Pierre leaned close to Lando and whispered: “You see? Baby never lies.”

---

Breakfast Struggles, Again

Later that morning, Fred arrived with a tray of food—soup, bread, tea.

“You must eat,” Fred said firmly, setting it on the table.

Charles grimaced. “I’m not hungry.”

“You refused everything yesterday,” Fred reminded. “You need strength.”

George offered with a grin: “Want me to spoon-feed you, mate? I’ve had practice.”

Charles glared. “No.”

Max, without asking, picked up the tray and set it in front of Charles. “Eat.”

Charles frowned but picked up the spoon. The drivers watched like hawks as he hesitated, sipped the broth, then sighed. “…It’s not bad.”

“Victory!” Alex shouted, earning himself a glare from Fred.

---

Private Words

When the others eventually left for media duties, only Max remained. He sat by the window, scrolling on his phone, but his attention clearly lingered on Charles.

Charles shifted uncomfortably. “…Did I really… kiss you?”

Max didn’t look up. “Yes.”

Charles groaned, pulling the blanket over his face. “Merde…”

There was a pause. Then Max’s voice, dry but softer than usual: “It wasn’t that bad.”

Charles peeked out, startled. “What?”

Max finally met his eyes. “You were sick. A baby. Didn’t know what you were doing. Don’t overthink it.”

Charles swallowed, his cheeks hot. “Still… embarrassing.”

Max shrugged. “Not for me.”

That shut Charles up faster than anything else.

---

Afternoon Rest

By afternoon, Charles was strong enough to sit by the window, watching the Singapore skyline glitter in the sun. The fever had broken almost completely, leaving only exhaustion.

The drivers drifted in and out—Oscar dropping off juice, Ollie leaving a stack of comics, Yuki handing him crackers. Each had their own way of showing care, though most still teased him mercilessly when they got the chance.

But whenever Charles grew too tired, whenever his voice faded or his body sagged with weariness, Max was always there. Silent. Steady. A hand on his shoulder, a glass of water at the ready, a word of calm that cut through the noise.

---

Evening Reflection

That night, when the suite quieted again, Charles found himself staring at Max across the room.

He remembered nothing of his time as a baby. But the way everyone talked—how they laughed, how they teased, how they hinted—it painted a picture.

A picture where, for some reason, even as a child, he had trusted Max most of all.

And now, as an adult again, sick but healing, he found himself wondering if maybe… they weren’t wrong.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

By the time the Japanese Grand Prix weekend rolled around, Charles was officially back to normal—or at least, that’s what he kept telling everyone.

The fever was gone. He could walk without wobbling. He could eat more than biscuits. His hair was back in its usual neat, curly chaos. But as soon as he set foot in Suzuka’s paddock, the drivers pounced.

---

Paddock Welcome

“Look who’s back from daycare!” Lando called out the moment Charles appeared, dressed in his red Ferrari gear.

Charles groaned. “Lando…”

“Oi, don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it,” Yuki teased, grinning up at him. “Everyone took turns babysitting you.”

Pierre chimed in with a wink. “Except you only wanted Max. Always Max.”

Max, walking a few steps behind Charles, muttered, “Can you all shut up for once?”

The others burst into laughter.

George leaned in, smirking. “We’re just saying, mate—babies don’t lie. And you were very, very obvious.”

Charles turned bright red. “I WAS A BABY! How can you even—”

Alex clapped him on the shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. The truth always comes out somehow.”

Charles groaned so loudly he nearly drowned out the chatter of mechanics around them.

---

Trying to Act Normal

Through FP1, FP2, and media duties, Charles tried desperately to act like nothing had happened. He smiled politely at journalists, gave the usual “we’ll see how the car performs” answers, and avoided every driver who looked like they were holding back a smirk.

But it was impossible to ignore.

Oscar walked past him in the paddock corridor, miming rocking a baby in his arms.

Esteban waved a toy rattle he’d apparently picked up just to tease.

Lando shouted, “Don’t forget the biscuits!” loud enough for fans to hear.

Charles nearly combusted.

---

The Straw That Broke Him

By Saturday evening, after a long debrief, Charles stormed back into the Ferrari motorhome, cheeks flushed with frustration.

Max was already there, waiting.

Charles shut the door behind him, dropped into a chair, and groaned into his hands. “They are never going to let this go.”

Max raised a brow. “You expected them to?”

“I hoped.” Charles peeked through his fingers. “…Do you think it’s true? That maybe… it means something? That I… liked you even then?”

Max stared at him for a long moment, unreadable. Then he shrugged. “Maybe. Babies are honest. No filters.”

Charles’ ears turned crimson. “That’s not helping.”

---

Gratitude

For a few minutes, silence stretched. The only sound was the hum of voices outside the motorhome walls.

Finally, Charles sat up, exhaling slowly. His voice softened. “I never said thank you.”

Max tilted his head. “For what?”

“For… all of it. Taking care of me. Staying with me when I was sick. Making sure I was okay.”

Max leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“Yes, I do.” Charles’ gaze was steady, despite his embarrassment. “I don’t remember everything. But I know you were there the whole time. Everyone else said so. And even now… you’re still here.”

Max’s jaw tightened, eyes flicking away. “Someone had to keep you alive.”

Charles smiled faintly. “It didn’t have to be you. But it was.”

For a heartbeat, Max didn’t respond. Then, quietly, almost reluctantly: “I didn’t mind.”

---

Interrupted

Before Charles could say anything, the door burst open.

“Charles!” Ollie Bearman shouted, barreling in with a grin. “We’ve got baby pictures!”

Charles’ face drained of color. “WHAT?!”

George appeared behind him, holding up his phone. “Screenshots. From when Yuki tried FaceTiming half the grid while you were chewing on Max’s hoodie.”

Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You idiots actually saved those?”

“Of course we did,” Lando said, appearing next. “Priceless content.”

Charles lunged for the phone. “DELETE IT!”

The motorhome filled with laughter, Charles’ indignant shouts, and Max’s annoyed muttering.

---

Later That Night

Hours later, when the noise had died down and Charles was finally free from the endless teasing, he found himself standing outside, staring at Suzuka’s glowing ferris wheel.

Max appeared beside him, hands in his pockets.

“They’ll forget eventually,” Max said, watching the wheel turn.

“No, they won’t,” Charles muttered, though he smiled a little. “They live for this.”

Max’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Probably true.”

Silence lingered, comfortable this time.

Charles glanced sideways at him. “…You’re not laughing though.”

Max met his eyes. “Because I don’t think it’s funny.”

Charles swallowed, pulse skipping. “…What do you think it is then?”

Max’s gaze held his, calm, steady, unshakable. “I think maybe they’re right.”

Charles’ breath caught.

For once, he had no clever response.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The Japanese Grand Prix was always a favorite of the drivers. Suzuka was unforgiving, demanding, and beautiful. But for Charles Leclerc, this weekend felt heavier than usual—not because of Ferrari’s struggles, not even because of the endless teasing from his fellow drivers.

It was because of Max.

Ever since last night’s conversation, Max’s words had replayed in his head: “I think maybe they’re right.”

The thought alone made Charles flush.

---

Morning Tension

In the Ferrari garage, mechanics bustled, engineers shouted numbers, and Fred was muttering strategy. Charles should’ve been focused, but his eyes betrayed him every time.

Max was across the paddock, laughing with Yuki, helmet under his arm. Confident. Relaxed. Effortless.

Charles caught himself staring. Again.

Carlos noticed. Of course Carlos noticed.

“Hermano,” Carlos said, leaning on the desk, smirking. “Your eyes are not very subtle.”

Charles nearly dropped his tablet. “W-what are you talking about?”

Carlos tilted his head toward the Red Bull garage. “You’ve been staring at Max for ten minutes. Should I get you binoculars?”

Charles turned crimson. “Shut up, Carlos!”

Carlos only grinned wider. “Admit it. You like him.”

Charles spun in his chair, flustered. “I—he—non, it’s not like that!”

Carlos raised a brow. “Baby Charles liked him. Adult Charles likes him. What’s the difference?”

Charles groaned into his hands.

---

The Race

When the lights went out, Charles forced himself to focus. Suzuka demanded perfection—every corner punished mistakes. And for a while, it worked. The adrenaline drowned everything else out.

He fought hard, climbing positions, threading through chaos. Max, of course, led comfortably, his Red Bull untouchable. Charles pushed until the checkered flag, finishing solidly in P5. Respectable, given the Ferrari’s pace.

But when he climbed out of the car and heard the cheers, the exhaustion hit him. He glanced up at the podium ceremony—Max, once again victorious, spraying champagne with his usual cool smile.

And something inside Charles settled. He couldn’t deny it anymore.

---

The Lounge

After the race, the drivers gathered in the paddock lounge, as always. Snacks, drinks, tired laughter filled the space. Charles sat quietly, sipping water, his gaze drifting toward Max again and again.

Lando, Oscar, and Alex were whispering in the corner, shooting him looks. George was pretending not to listen.

Finally, Pierre couldn’t resist. “So, Charles,” he said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “when are you going to tell Max you’re in love with him?”

Charles nearly spat his drink. “PIERRE!”

The room erupted in laughter. Even Max looked up, blinking in surprise.

Charles buried his face in his hands. “I hate you all.”

---

Escape

Embarrassed beyond measure, Charles slipped out of the lounge, escaping into the quiet night air. The paddock was calmer now, crews packing up, lights dimming. The ferris wheel glowed in the distance, casting soft colors over the track.

He leaned against the railing, breathing deeply. Maybe if I stay out here long enough, they’ll forget about it.

Footsteps approached. He didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“Running away again?” Max’s voice was calm, with a hint of amusement.

Charles stiffened. “I’m not—”

Max stepped beside him, hands in his pockets. “You always run when you’re embarrassed.”

Charles swallowed, eyes fixed on the track. “Can you blame me? They won’t stop teasing. It’s… humiliating.”

Max tilted his head. “Only if it’s not true.”

Charles’ heart stuttered.

---

The Confession

Silence hung between them, heavy and charged. Charles’ chest rose and fell quickly, his throat tight.

Finally, he whispered, “They’re right.”

Max blinked. “…What?”

Charles forced himself to turn, meeting his eyes. “They’re right. I like you. More than I should. More than I’ve admitted to myself.”

The words tumbled out, shaky but real. “Even when I was… like that, I clung to you. And now I understand why. Because it’s always been you, Max. Even when I tried to ignore it. Even when I told myself it was impossible.”

He exhaled sharply, as if lifting a weight off his chest. “So yes. They’re right.”

Max stared at him for a long moment, unreadable as ever.

Charles’ stomach twisted. “Say something.”

---

Max’s Answer

Max finally moved, stepping closer until Charles could feel the heat of him. His voice was low, steady.

“You’re an idiot,” Max said.

Charles froze. “Excuse me?!”

Max’s mouth curved, the faintest smile. “For thinking it was impossible.”

Charles blinked, stunned. “You—what?”

Max shook his head slightly. “You think I stayed by your side for days just because? You think I carried you around, fed you biscuits, dealt with your drool… for nothing?”

Charles’ jaw dropped. “So you—”

“Yes.” Max’s eyes softened, the guarded edge slipping away. “I like you too.”

---

Relief

Charles let out a laugh—half-disbelieving, half-relieved. “Mon dieu… I thought you would laugh at me.”

“I don’t laugh at things that matter,” Max said simply.

The words hit Charles harder than any podium, any victory. His chest ached, but in the best way.

He grinned, wide and genuine. “So… what now?”

Max shrugged lightly, though his gaze was intense. “Now? We see where it goes. One step at a time.”

Charles nodded, his heart racing, a smile tugging at his lips. “I can live with that.”

---

Interrupted, Again

Of course, the universe wouldn’t let the moment stay private.

“HE CONFESSED!” Lando’s voice rang out. From the shadows of the motorhome balcony, half the grid peeked out—Lando, Pierre, Yuki, Oscar, and even George.

Charles turned scarlet. “YOU WERE SPYING?!”

“Of course we were,” Pierre said smugly. “This was better than Netflix.”

Max groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I’m going to kill all of you.”

The group scattered, laughter echoing through the paddock.

Charles buried his face in his hands again, but this time… he was smiling.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The morning after Suzuka, the paddock was buzzing. Not because of strategy, not because of tire wear, not even because of Red Bull’s latest domination. No, the story of the weekend was far juicier: Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen.

---

Breakfast Chaos

At the hotel breakfast hall, Charles walked in, still half-asleep, hair messy, clutching a coffee like his life depended on it. He hoped—prayed—that maybe the others would give him a break.

They didn’t.

“Look, it’s Juliet!” Lando called, clapping his hands.

Pierre added, “Where’s Romeo?” before ducking a slice of bread Charles lobbed at his head.

George smirked from behind his tea. “Did you two at least sleep well after your balcony scene?”

Charles groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Can I not eat in peace?”

Oscar leaned forward innocently. “Depends. Did Max feed you biscuits again?”

The table erupted in laughter.

“Mon dieu,” Charles muttered. He was about to bury himself under the table when Max appeared, plate in hand, sitting down beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Immediately, the teasing hit a new level.

“Aw, they’re sitting together!” Alex sang.

“Take a picture, quick!” Yuki said, pretending to fumble for his phone.

Max, unfazed as ever, calmly buttered his toast. “You’re all children,” he muttered.

Charles, blushing furiously, whispered, “They’re never going to stop, are they?”

Max smirked slightly. “Nope.”

---

Media Storm

By the afternoon, word had leaked beyond the paddock. The fans on social media had caught wind of the “confession.” Clips from the night before—blurry phone footage, shouts of “he confessed!”—were already trending.

“CHARLES BABY LECLERC” was somehow a hashtag again.

“LESTAPPEN” was everywhere.

Fred cornered Charles in the Ferrari motorhome. “Charles, mon garçon, what is this?!” he demanded, holding up his phone with a headline: Leclerc and Verstappen?

Charles groaned. “Fred, I—”

“I don’t care about your love life,” Fred interrupted, sighing. “But please, for once, do not let this become a distraction. I beg you.”

Charles nodded sheepishly. “I’ll… try.”

---

A Quiet Moment

After a whirlwind of teasing, chaos, and media duties, Charles finally found a quiet moment. He slipped away to the rooftop terrace of the hotel that night, seeking peace.

The city lights stretched out below, humming with energy. And, as always, Max found him.

“You hide too much,” Max said, joining him, leaning on the railing.

Charles smiled faintly. “Maybe. But sometimes hiding is easier.”

“Easier doesn’t mean better,” Max replied.

Charles glanced at him, warmth pooling in his chest. “Since when did you become so wise?”

Max’s lips curved. “Since I had to babysit a one-year-old version of you.”

Charles laughed, cheeks pink. “Don’t remind me.”

They stood in silence for a while, the kind of silence that felt safe.

Finally, Charles exhaled. “You know… for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel so alone here. Not with you.”

Max’s expression softened. “Good. Because I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

---

Interrupted, Again

Just as the moment grew heavier, a chorus of voices rang out from below.

“WE CAN SEE YOU FROM HERE!” Lando shouted from a balcony on the floor below.

“DON’T KISS UNTIL WE’RE READY TO RECORD!” Pierre added.

“SERIOUSLY, STOP STALKING ME!” Charles yelled down, throwing his arms in the air.

Max just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why do we put up with them?”

Charles shook his head, but laughter bubbled out of him. “Because they’re family. As annoying as they are.”

---

The Next Day

On Monday morning, most of the drivers were flying out for their next commitments. The airport lounge was filled with tired faces, luggage, and—unsurprisingly—more teasing.

Ollie walked by Charles, humming a lullaby.

Isack handed him a baby rattle “just in case.”

Gabriel said sweetly, “Don’t worry, Charles, we’ll babysit if Max is busy.”

Charles wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

But when Max casually draped an arm across the back of his chair, all the teasing seemed to fade. Just like that, the noise didn’t matter anymore.

---

Epilogue: One Year Later

The 2026 season opener was a media frenzy. New cars, new rivalries, and new rumors. But when Charles and Max walked into the paddock together—side by side, calm and collected—the cameras went wild.

Reporters shouted questions, flashes exploded, fans screamed. But Charles didn’t flinch. Not this time.

He glanced at Max, who gave him the faintest nod. And in that tiny moment, Charles felt anchored. Steady.

Later, as they sat in the paddock lounge, surrounded by the usual chaos of their friends, Charles smiled to himself.

From P18 and pit stop disasters to turning into a baby, from sleepless nights and biscuits to confessions under the stars… it had been ridiculous. Chaotic. Unbelievable.

But somehow, it had brought him here.

And as Max reached over, brushing his hand lightly against Charles’ under the table, Charles realized something simple and certain.

For once in his career, this was one race he’d already won.

---

(End—To be continued for bonus epilogue...)

Chapter Text

It had been a full year since the “incident.” Charles had long returned to his normal self, his career back on track, his relationship with Max steady and surprisingly domestic.

And yet… nobody was ready to let him forget.

---

It started during a rare drivers’ dinner in Monaco. A big round table at a seaside restaurant, filled with laughter, wine, and too many inside jokes.

Of course, someone brought it up.

“Remember when Charles ate biscuits but refused baby food?” Yuki grinned, nearly choking on his drink.

“Excuse me,” Charles cut in, pointing his fork like a weapon. “I was one year old. I had no concept of cuisine.”

“Still true today,” Carlos muttered. “He only eats pasta and Nutella.”

The table burst into laughter. Charles groaned, hiding his face in his hands. Max, beside him, just sipped his water calmly.

---

Story One: Oscar’s Phone

“Best memory,” Oscar said, raising his hand like he was in class. “When Baby Charles stole my phone and crawled under the table with it. I thought he deleted all my contacts.”

Charles buried his face deeper. “Why would I even do that?!”

“You babbled into the microphone and sent Max a three-minute voice message of pure nonsense,” Oscar explained.

Lando snorted. “And Max listened to the whole thing like it was Shakespeare.”

Max shrugged, totally unbothered. “It was important to him.”

The table howled. Charles wanted to vanish.

---

Story Two: Pee Disaster

“Non, non, non,” Pierre cut in. “The best was the pee incident.”

“Pierre!” Charles gasped, scandalized.

Pierre smirked. “We were in the lounge. Charles was sitting on George’s lap. Suddenly—”

“DON’T SAY IT!” Charles begged.

“—George looked like he’d been shot. Pee. Everywhere.”

The table roared. Even George, red-faced, tried to wave it off. “I didn’t want to say anything, but he smiled after. Like he knew.”

Charles covered his ears. “I hate you all!”

---

Story Three: Drool Kisses

Lando leaned forward eagerly. “But my favorite was in Singapore. Baby Charles drooled all over Max’s face.”

Max blinked. “That’s not a funny story.”

“Yes, it is!” Lando laughed. “He climbed on your lap and just—smooch smooch smooch—with drool dripping down.”

Charles groaned, glaring at Max. “And you let me?!”

Max’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. “You were happy. That’s all that mattered.”

The table fell silent for half a beat before exploding again.

“Mon dieu,” Charles muttered into his hands, blushing so hard his ears burned.

---

Story Four: Biscuit Drama

Yuki slammed the table, unable to contain himself. “No, the biscuits! Fred tried so hard with baby food. Charles screamed, cried, threw the spoon—then Max handed him a biscuit, and suddenly he was the happiest baby alive.”

“Selective taste,” George mused. “Classic Charles.”

Charles glared. “It was not classic Charles. I was one.”

“You’re still like that,” Carlos teased. “Throw a tantrum until Max gives you what you want.”

Charles froze, mortified. Max only smirked and said nothing, which somehow made it worse.

---

Story Five: Nap Time Fail

Alex raised his glass. “I’ll never forget nap time. We all tried—rocking him, singing, even dimming the lights. Nothing worked. Then Max just picked him up, and bam—out cold in two minutes.”

Everyone nodded, laughing.

“It was impressive,” Ollie admitted. “Like a lion tamer.”

Charles groaned. “So you’re saying I was a wild animal.”

“Still are,” Pierre teased.

---

Story Six: Jet Flight

Kimi, quiet until now, smirked. “Remember the private jet flight? He screamed every time Max left his sight. We couldn’t move.”

Gabriel chimed in, “I had to pee for three hours because Charles wouldn’t let Max get up.”

The whole table laughed again.

Charles muttered, “I feel bullied.”

“You feel loved,” Alex corrected with a grin.

---

Story Seven: Babbling at Max

Isack leaned in. “Best one was after the Singapore race. He sat on Max’s lap, babbling nonstop. Like he was giving a press conference only Max could understand.”

Max actually chuckled at that one. “He was very… passionate.”

Charles groaned, covering his face. “You can’t even remember what I said!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Max said simply. “I understood.”

The table erupted with awws, much to Charles’ horror.

---

Toast

As the laughter died down, George raised his glass. “In all seriousness, though… baby Charles brought us closer together. We actually worked as a team—Ferrari, Red Bull, Williams, McLaren, Mercedes, all of us—for the first time. It was chaos, but it was family chaos.”

Everyone murmured their agreement.

“True,” Carlos added with a smile. “And it showed us what matters. We tease because we love you, Charles.”

Charles blinked, cheeks hot, but this time he smiled. Soft, genuine.

“Merci,” he said quietly.

---

The Final Punchline

Of course, Pierre couldn’t resist ruining the sentimental moment.

“So…” he smirked. “When’s the baby shower? You and Max planning a family already?”

The entire table dissolved into chaos again.

Charles groaned, hiding behind Max’s shoulder. “I regret everything.”

Max, as ever, stayed calm. He placed a hand on Charles’ back and said dryly, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle the diapers.”

The laughter grew so loud the restaurant staff had to ask them to keep it down.

And even though Charles wanted to melt into the floor… he couldn’t stop smiling.

---

Later that night, walking back along the quiet streets of Monaco, Charles nudged Max with his shoulder. “You’re never going to let me forget, are you?”

Max smirked. “Never.”

Charles sighed, but his lips curled into a grin. “Fine. As long as you’re stuck with me, I can live with that.”

Max glanced at him, eyes warm, voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And just like that, Charles knew—even if the others never stopped telling “baby stories,” even if the teasing lasted forever—it didn’t matter.

Because he and Max had written their own ending.

---

The End.