Max’s apartment is quiet in that early-morning Monaco way...sea air pressing softly against the glass, sunlight still pale and indecisive as it slips through the curtains. Inside, everything is almost painfully ordinary. A coffee machine still humming. A discarded Red Bull cap on the counter. A pair of racing shoes by the door that definitely shouldn’t be there because Max had said, very seriously, no traces.

And Carlos Sainz Jr, barefoot in one of Max’s hoodies, leaning against the kitchen island like he belongs there more than anything else in the world. Which is the problem. Because he does.

Max watches him over the rim of his mug. “You left your watch in the bathroom.”

Carlos doesn’t look up from his phone. “That’s not my watch.”

“It is your watch.”

“It is a watch,” Carlos corrects, finally glancing up with a grin. “We have multiple watches in this house, Max. We are a very wealthy and very irresponsible household.”