Max

Max Verstappen was terrible at romance.

Objectively terrible. Statistically, probably bottom percentile. He didn’t do grand speeches. He didn’t do poetry. He forgot birthdays if they weren’t written on the whiteboard in the kitchen, and even then he sometimes stared at the date like it was a tricky apex he wasn’t convinced existed.

Carlos, meanwhile, was romance. Carlos remembered things. Carlos planned surprises. Carlos did everything like he meant it.

Which was why Max was standing in their kitchen at six in the morning, staring at a cutting board with sliced strawberries arranged into something that vaguely resembled a heart...if you squinted and were generous.

“Too much,” Max muttered to himself.