Carlos had always looked good in black.

It was an objective truth — like gravity, like champagne making him flirtier, like Max Verstappen being possessive when tipsy, Charles Leclerc being dramatic even when sober, Lando Norris being incapable of subtlety, and Oscar Piastri being deadpan until he wasn’t.

So when Carlos walked into the Monaco Motorsport Charity Gala in a tailored black tuxedo that hugged his shoulders like sin and smiled like he didn’t have four men already in love with him, it was over for everyone else.

Max adjusted his cufflinks beside him, already scanning the room for threats like he was a bored hitman.

Charles brushed invisible lint off Carlos’s sleeve and pressed a soft kiss behind his ear, whispering in French about how beautiful he looked tonight.

Lando bounced slightly in place, one hand clutching a flute of champagne and the other hovering dangerously close to Carlos’s waist, trying to look cool.