Archive of Our Own

Leclerc's apartment was never perfectly clean, but today it looked like a battlefield. Toys were scattered across the living room floor: a plush koala lay upside down by the sofa, Lego pieces crunched underfoot, and a half-eaten chocolate candy was proudly displayed on the coffee table—left behind by his four-year-old son. Raising a little omega was a challenge comparable to piloting a plane through a turbulence zone. Oscar was a hurricane, and when he was fed sugar, that hurricane turned into a tornado. His head was pounding from the endless reports he'd been editing for the last four hours. His shoulders ached, his temples throbbed, and the only thing he wanted was silence, at least for ten minutes. But fate, as always, decided otherwise.

"Oscar!" — Charles's voice came out sharper than he intended. — "Stop it right now."

Oscar froze for a second, turned around, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. He knew perfectly well that Papa was tired, that Papa wanted silence, and that was exactly why he jumped—higher and more dangerously than a minute ago.

"You're going to hurt yourself! How many times have I told you not to jump from the armchair?" — Charles crossed the room in two strides and scooped his son into his arms. The boy squirmed, kicked his legs, and tried to break free while simultaneously hugging his parent around the neck in a ridiculous way, because his body was arched backward in an attempt to escape.

"I won't get hurt!" — Oscar shouted, trying to hug his parent. — "Papa, let me go. I want to play!"

"You want to go to bed," — Charles said firmly. — "Look at yourself. You're covered in chocolate. Your T-shirt is stained."

He sat Oscar down on the sofa and straightened up, rubbing his aching lower back. The boy immediately scrambled onto his knees, grabbed Charles's shoulder, and started tugging at him, rocking him from side to side.

"Papa, please! Play with me! Please, Pa-a-a-a-pa!" — Oscar pulled at his sleeve, making it impossible even to stand still. He got under his arm, stared into his eyes, sighed dramatically, and kept tugging until Charles felt his head was about to split from this endless "Papa-Papa-Papa." He looked at his son, who showed no signs of calming down. Persuasion wasn't working.

"Oscar, sit down!" — Charles barked, and his voice carried a steel edge he hadn't expected from himself. — "Sit down and don't move, please!"

Oscar froze, surprise reflected on his face. Papa rarely raised his voice. For a few minutes, it worked on the little omega, and he quieted down. Charles turned on cartoons to redirect the child's attention. Oscar stared at the screen where colorful puppies were jumping around, but his thoughts were somewhere far away. He sat still, but inside him, the desire to run, jump, and scream was still boiling. He was just waiting for his parent's attention to slacken. Charles sighed with relief and returned to work. He needed just a few minutes of silence, but Oscar couldn't even last three.

The cartoons bored him almost immediately. The puppies were boring—they kept searching for things and never defeated anyone. The boy sighed with exaggerated suffering and started pulling at the cushion, picking out threads. Charles realized this was going to last forever. Oscar wasn't going to calm down.

"Alright," — he said, and his voice became unnaturally calm. — "Do you want to watch TV?"

Oscar stopped pulling at the cushion. He became alert; gears started clicking in his childish head. Was Papa giving in? Too easy, too suspicious.

"Fine," — Charles walked over to the coffee table, picked up the remote, and sat down on the sofa. — "You'll watch TV. But you'll watch what I want. And you'll sit quietly. If you make even one sound, I'll turn off the TV and put you to bed right now. Do you understand me, mon petit?"

Oscar frowned but nodded. He didn't like the terms, but he understood this was his only chance not to go to bed immediately. After all, he thought Papa would just put on the cartoon channel. He was wrong. Charles pressed the remote. Channels flickered on the screen: news, a cooking show, some series. Charles switched them mechanically, not looking at the image. He just wanted to show his son that things don't always go the way a little omega wants.

"Papa," — Oscar whispered quietly. — "I want cartoons."

"And I want you to be obedient," — Charles retorted and pressed the remote again.

The screen went dark for a second, then lit up again. It was a sports broadcast—a ring, ropes, two men in gloves. He looked at Oscar, who sat there sulking, staring at the screen with obvious disdain.

"Ugh," — he said. — "This is boring."

Charles simply leaned back against the sofa and placed the remote on his lap, signaling that negotiations were over. Oscar opened his mouth to launch a new tyranny against Papa, but Charles raised a finger.

"One word, Oscar, and I turn off the TV," — he said in an icy voice. — "And we go to bed."

Oscar snapped his mouth shut. He sat there, pouting, boring a hole into the screen with his dissatisfied stare. He didn't like this, he didn't want to watch it. But he stayed silent because he knew Papa would actually follow through on his threat. He was about to start tugging at Papa again when something on the screen caught his attention. One of the men, dark-haired, lunged at the other, swinging his arms as if trying to punch him. But the second one, with light hair, suddenly dodged to the side. Oscar's mouth fell open, and he held his breath. He forgot about his tantrums; he went still.

"Oh," — he said softly.

The light-haired man wasn't just running away. He moved beautifully, his steps quick yet powerful. And then something happened that made the boy forget to breathe. The opponent threw a punch, but the light-haired man dodged again. And in the next second, he stepped forward himself, sharp as a spring, and his fist slammed right into the opponent's jaw. The blow was so powerful that even through the screen, Oscar thought he heard a dull, heavy thud. The dark-haired man staggered, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the floor like a sack. Oscar's mouth hung open.

"Brilliant knockout by Verstappen!" — the commentator shouted into the microphone. — "He's done it again! Max Verstappen—our undefeated fighter! That was a perfect punch!"

The arena erupted in a roar. Hundreds, thousands of people screamed simultaneously, and the sound rolled through the living room. The light-haired man raised his arms and turned to face the camera. There was no anger on his face—just a smile. Satisfied, almost boyish, as if he'd just won a video game, not knocked out an opponent in front of millions of viewers. The replay showed the lightning-fast, beautiful punch. The camera zoomed in on the winner's face—cut brow, but beaming with a victorious smile.

"Papa! Papa, did you see that? He won! He hit him, and he fell!"

Charles shifted his gaze to the screen. They were showing an interview with the winner, a young man with tousled blond hair, saying something about training. He had a fresh bruise under his eye, but he was smiling so sincerely, as if he'd just received a birthday gift.

"That's boxing," — said Charles, stroking his son's hair. — "Not a very good spectacle for little children."

The interview ended, and now they were showing a montage of the best moments of the fight. Max Verstappen appeared on screen again and again: dodging punches, landing his own. Oscar stared at the screen with an intensity Charles had never seen in him, not even during his favorite cartoons. Where half an hour ago a hurricane had raged, now there was silence, broken only by exclamations.

Two days later, Charles found Oscar in the living room again. The TV was on, and the boy sat on the floor, chin resting on his hands, staring at the screen with the same reverence as that evening. Charles smiled—Oscar must be watching "Paw Patrol" or some other cartoon. The boy had been so rarely calm lately that Charles didn't want to disturb this idyll. He quietly stepped closer, peering into the room, and froze in the doorway. There were no cartoons on the screen. Max Verstappen sat there. He wore his recognizable attire: a dark blue sleeveless wrestling shirt, tight over broad shoulders, revealing muscular arms covered with a light web of veins from exertion. A black baseball cap was on his head, worn backward, with unruly blond strands sticking out from underneath.

He sat in the studio across from the host, slightly reclining in his chair, smiling lazily as he answered questions. His voice sounded calm and confident, as if he weren't talking about breaking people's faces but about something mundane and simple. He spoke about training, diet, the importance of getting enough sleep before a fight, and occasionally laughed openly and sincerely, causing fine wrinkles to appear around his eyes. And Oscar sat on the floor—a toy car lay beside him, but he didn't even notice it; it just lay there, forgotten and unnecessary. All his attention was fixed on the man on the screen.

Charles leaned his shoulder against the doorframe and held his breath, not wanting to spoil this moment. His little omega, who just a minute ago could have been racing around the apartment demanding cartoons, sat motionless, listening to some boxer talk about his life. And in that silence, there was something incredibly touching and simultaneously unsettling, as if Oscar had found something Charles couldn't give him himself.

"Papa," — Oscar suddenly said, not even turning around, as if he could feel his parent's presence with his back. — "Look."

"What is it, mon petit?" — Charles asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Max Verstappen," — Oscar pronounced with difficulty but correctly.

He stared at the screen for a few more seconds, where Max was just finishing his interview, smiling into the camera, and then suddenly got up from the floor, turned around, and padded barefoot across the parquet to Charles. The boy raised his arms, demanding to be picked up. Oscar rarely asked to be held lately, preferring to run around and explore the world on his own. But now he stood there, looking up at the omega with a soft, trusting plea in his green eyes. Charles bent down and scooped him up under his arms. He lifted him and held him close. Oscar immediately hugged his neck, pressed his cheek to his shoulder, and wrapped his legs around his waist. He fell silent for a few seconds, simply hanging onto Papa, warm and relaxed. Charles felt the small body go limp in his arms, as Oscar laid his head on his shoulder and let out a contented sigh—the kind only children make when they feel good.

"Papa," — Oscar called, not taking his eyes off the screen. — "Max looks like Uncle Arthur. He's just as strong. And his arms are strong too. Uncle Arthur always carries me around. And Max fights, so his arms must be really strong. Stronger than Uncle Arthur's, probably."

Oscar paused for breath and continued, not letting Papa get a word in.

"And he's smart, like Uncle Lorenzo. Max explains things too, like Uncle Lorenzo. And Max is both strong and smart. He's like the two of them together."

Oscar fell silent, satisfied with his own reasoning, and stared back at the screen, where Max continued talking about his life. Charles sat nearby, listening to this endless stream of childhood associations, and felt warmth spreading inside him.

"Yes," — Charles said quietly. — "Max is just as smart and strong."

Over time, Oscar learned exactly when and on which channels boxing was shown. He could name popular commentators, knew what a "jab" was and what a "knockout" was. On this particular day, Charles had a rare day off, but Oscar had been picked up early in the morning by Charles's younger brother, Arthur. He hadn't noticed how time flew by. The sun was already setting when he heard noise in the hallway—the patter of little feet, ringing laughter, and the heavy footsteps of an adult man, which Charles had even missed.

"Papa! Papa! We're back!" — Oscar shouted, flying into the living room with shining eyes and red cheeks. Charles didn't even have time to stand up before Oscar had already jumped onto his lap, hugged his neck, and started kissing his cheeks, babbling something unintelligible from sheer overwhelming emotion.

"Look what Arthur bought me," — Oscar blurted out. Arthur appeared in the doorway with a kind smile.

"He saw it in the window," — the alpha nodded at the magazine his nephew was holding up to his parent. — "Now I know a hundred facts about Max Verstappen."

"Uncle Arthur!" — Oscar protested, but without malice, because he was too happy to be offended. — "This is important!"

"Of course it's important," — Arthur chuckled. — "I'm not arguing."

Charles took the magazine and looked at the cover. It was a glossy sports magazine with a bright photo of a man in boxing gloves. The man on the cover was smiling, and Charles didn't even need to guess who had made his son want this magazine.

"Oscar..." — Charles started, but didn't get to finish.

"Papa, will you read it to me, please?" — Oscar burst out, and his voice held so much hope that Charles simply couldn't refuse. He looked at his son—at his flushed cheeks, his happy eyes, the way he fidgeted impatiently on his lap—and smiled.

"Of course," — he said softly. — "But first, let's feed Arthur, okay? And you can look through it yourself in the meantime. Pick the most interesting page, and we'll read it together."

Oscar nodded so fast his hair bounced, and immediately buried his nose in the magazine, forgetting about everything else. He flipped through the pages, muttering to himself, and his little index finger traced the lines, trying to guess familiar letters. Charles smiled at his son and silently left the room, heading for the kitchen. Arthur stood by the stove, pouring tea into cups. Charles stopped in the doorway and watched his brother for a few moments.

Charles walked up to his brother and hugged him from behind, leaning his full weight against the familiar man. He buried his nose in his shoulder and closed his eyes for a second, inhaling the familiar scent that always reminded him of home and safety. Arthur turned as much as the embrace allowed, and his face broke into that familiar warm smile. He handed Charles a cup, gesturing toward the table. Charles reluctantly let go of his brother and sat down, wrapping his fingers around the cup. The tea burned, but it was pleasant, grounding him back in reality.

"Thank you," — he said quietly, looking into the cup. — "For buying it. For spending time with him."

Arthur shrugged, looking away. He always got embarrassed by thanks.

"It's nothing, Charles. He's my nephew; I love him. You should have seen his face when he saw that magazine. I couldn't not buy it." — Charles laughed quietly, but the laugh was a little sad.

"I don't know what I'd do without you and Lorenzo," — he said, gripping the cup. — "Without your support. Sometimes I feel like I'm not coping."

Arthur paused. His face softened, and he spoke, placing his hands on the table.

"You're doing great, Charles," — he said firmly. — "We see how hard you try. You're raising him alone, and he's growing into a wonderful child. But..." — Arthur paused, choosing his words. — "Oscar needs an alpha figure too. Someone to look up to as he gets older. Not just you."

Charles nodded, understanding. He knew this. He felt it. And that thought had always lived somewhere inside him, but he rarely allowed himself to admit it.

---

A year passed. Their small apartment was still covered in posters of Max, and Oscar knew practically everything about his idol. He no longer just watched fights—he analyzed them, commented on punches. Charles still worked at the same agency but felt cramped. He had outgrown his tasks, and in recent months, he'd been thinking more and more about change. Especially after seeing how his son looked at the TV screen. Oscar's eyes burned. Charles felt a pang inside—he wanted to give his son more. Wanted to someday take him to a real fight so Oscar could see his hero live.

One evening, Charles was going through work documents. Outside, it was growing dark, and the fatigue was starting to make itself felt. He was about to shut his laptop when his phone rang. Charles answered without glancing at the screen.

"Hello?"

"Charles Leclerc?" — a voice came through the line, confident, businesslike. — "Good evening, this is Christian Horner, Max Verstappen's manager."

"Yes?" — he repeated, trying to keep his voice steady. — "I'm listening."

"You've probably heard we're looking for a new PR manager for Max," — Christian continued. — "The previous one left for another project, and we need someone who can build his image. Especially in Monaco and France. And your agency strongly recommended you, Charles. They said you work excellently with athletes and have experience with difficult clients."

Charles ran a hand over his face, feeling a strange sensation spreading in his chest. Max Verstappen—whose posters hung in his son's room. The one Oscar talked about every day for nearly a year.

"I..." — he faltered, gathering his thoughts. — "This is very unexpected."

"I understand," — Christian replied. — "But we'd like to invite you for an interview. If you're interested in the offer, of course. The work is demanding, intense. But we pay well, and the conditions are flexible."

Charles pressed the phone to his ear and closed his eyes for a second. Several thoughts raced through his head, all contradictory.

He thought about his current job. How it had become too small for him, how he'd outgrown his responsibilities. He wanted more—not just to support B-list athletes but to work with someone significant. He thought about money. About Oscar growing up and soon needing new expenses: clubs, clothes, school. About being the sole provider for their small family, and how any extra income would help. He thought about himself. About how the past few years he'd existed in survival mode. Work—home—Oscar. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to do something that lit him up. And this job could remind him that he wasn't just a single parent but a professional with ambitions. Then he thought about fear. Fear that he wouldn't cope, that he wouldn't be good enough. But that fear was exactly the kind he needed to overcome.

"I agree," — he said, clearly and firmly. — "I'll come to the interview."

"Excellent," — approval colored Christian's voice. — "Tomorrow at ten in the morning, at our training center. I'll send you the address and all the details by message."

"Alright," — Charles nodded. — "I'll be there. Thank you for the invitation."

"See you tomorrow, Charles."

He hung up and sat motionless for a few seconds, staring at the phone. His hands trembled slightly, but his breathing was steady. He'd just agreed to a job that could change everything: his career, his life, his son's life. And then it hit him. He was going to work with Max Verstappen.

The next morning, Charles stood in front of the tall training center building. He'd arrived fifteen minutes early, deliberately, so as not to be late. He took a deep breath, pushed open the glass door, and walked inside. The lobby smelled of wood and sweat. Somewhere deep in the building, dull, rhythmic thuds could be heard. Charles walked up to the reception desk, where he was already expected.

"Charles Leclerc?" — the receptionist asked, checking her tablet. — "Christian is waiting for you. Follow me, I'll take you."

She led him down a long corridor, past gyms with equipment, past press rooms, and stopped at a massive door at the end.

"Go on in," — she smiled. — "Christian is inside."

Charles thanked her, pushed open the door, and entered. The office was spacious, bright. Photos of fights hung on the walls, and a stack of papers lay on the desk. In the center sat a man in his fifties with a sharp, attentive gaze.

"Charles," — he stood and extended his hand. — "Pleased to meet you. Have a seat."

"Thank you," — Charles shook his hand and sat down opposite.

They talked for about half an hour. Christian asked about his experience, his projects, how he envisioned working with Max. Charles answered confidently, clearly, giving examples from his practice. He could tell Christian liked his approach—calm, professional, without unnecessary fuss.

"Good," — Christian finally said, leaning back in his chair. — "I like your approach. Max is currently training. Would you like to meet him in person?"

"Of course," — Charles nodded. Christian stood and headed for the door; Charles followed. He saw Max in person for the first time.

Verstappen was in the ring. With him was his trainer, Lambiase—a tall man with a sharp gaze and an ever-serious expression. He held boxing pads and set the pace, moving around Max.

"Come on, Max!" — Lambiase commanded, his voice cutting through the air in the hall. — "Work your feet! Don't stand still!"

Max moved around him, throwing punches—each punch quick, precise, dangerous. He wasn't just hitting; he was working. Every movement was honed to perfection, as if he were dancing to music only he could hear. His body was perfectly toned: broad shoulders, defined muscles rolling under sweat-slicked skin. Blond hair was wet and plastered to his forehead, and his eyes burned with focused intensity. He saw no one around him, only Lambiase, only the pads, only the punches. Total concentration.

"Faster!" — the trainer commanded. — "Again! Don't stop!"

Max sped up. His breathing grew heavier, but the pace didn't falter. He worked like a machine. Punches rained down one after another, forcing the trainer to step back slightly under their force.

Christian opened the door to the gym and gestured for Max. He slowed down, caught his breath, and turned toward them. His gaze was still focused, but when he saw the stranger, a flicker of curiosity appeared in his eyes.

"Max," — said Christian. — "This is Charles Leclerc, the new PR manager."

Max wiped his face with a towel hanging on the ropes and stepped down from the ring. He came closer, still breathing heavily. Now Charles could see him up close: blond hair wet, jaw tight, and his eyes burning with that cold fire Charles had only seen on TV.

"Charles has been working at the agency for many years," — Christian said calmly. — "He has excellent references."

"Hi," — Max said, extending his hand. His voice was low, a little hoarse from exertion, but carried a casual friendliness. — "Max."

Charles shook his palm—warm, damp, calloused.

"Charles," — he replied.

"Christian mentioned a new PR person," — Max released his hand and adjusted the towel on his shoulder. — "I don't really get that stuff, but they told me you're a pro. So, welcome."

"Thanks," — Charles smiled.

Max slung the towel over his shoulder and looked at Christian and Gianpiero.

"Are we done with training, or is there something else?"

"That's it, Max, rest up," — Christian replied. — "I'll show Charles the office."

Christian led Charles down the corridor to a small but cozy office. White walls, a desk, a laptop, a couple of chairs.

"This is your workspace," — Christian said, gesturing around the room. Charles nodded, looking around. He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

"Christian," — he began. — "I have a question."

"I'm listening," — Christian perched on the edge of the desk, signaling he was ready to listen.

"I have a son," — Charles said. — "He's five. I'm raising him alone, and sometimes there are situations where I have no one to leave him with. I wanted to ask if I could occasionally bring him to work. I know it's unusual, but he's well-behaved."

Christian looked at Charles attentively. His gaze held no judgment, just calm consideration.

"You know," — he said after a pause. — "Kids aren't common here, but if you're willing to take responsibility for him, I don't see a problem."

"Thank you. That means a lot to me." — The omega exhaled, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders.

"But only in your office or with you," — Christian raised a finger. — "That's safety protocol, you understand."

"Of course," — Charles nodded quickly. — "I understand completely. He'll sit quietly, I promise. He's an obedient boy."

"Then it's settled," — Christian smiled and stood up. — "Welcome to the team."

He extended his hand, and Charles shook it with genuine gratitude.

A few months had passed since Charles started working with Max's team. He quickly fell into the rhythm: a packed schedule, constant meetings, interviews, press conferences. Max's image had truly taken off—Charles skillfully shaped his media presence, found the right wordings, smoothed over rough edges. Christian was pleased; Max was, too.

"Papa, I'll be so quiet," — Oscar promised, curling up on the work chair behind Charles's desk at the training center. — "I'll draw, and no one will even see me."

"You're my quietest little son," — Charles smiled, adjusting the light Spider-Man hoodie on his son. Oscar's blond hair kept falling into his eyes, and Charles tucked it behind his ear. — "I'll step out to see my colleagues for a bit, okay? If anything happens—call security; they know you're with me."

Charles kissed the top of his head and left. Oscar nodded seriously and opened his sketchbook to a blank page. At Papa's work, it smelled like strange alphas, leather, sweat, and the metal of the ring. Oscar wrinkled his nose but then returned to his task. In the drawing, a stern-faced man with blond hair was winding up for a punch. His fists, wrapped in white tape, seemed the strongest in the world to Oscar.

At the training center, everything proceeded on schedule. Oscar diligently drew lines, but the longer he sat alone, the more anxious he became. There were too many unfamiliar pheromones around. The scents seeped even through the closed door. They pressed down on the little omega, stirring a vague unease that grew with each passing minute. Papa had left, and everything here was strange, not yet saturated enough with the familiar scent of home. Oscar shivered and put down his pencil. He needed to find Papa.

He slid off the chair and tiptoed to the door. He cracked it open and peered into the corridor. Empty. He could only hear muffled sounds from somewhere far away. Thuds, shouts, the hum of voices. Papa could be anywhere. Oscar took a step into the hallway. Then another. He followed the sounds, hoping that among these strange adults, he'd see a familiar face. The scents grew stronger, his heart beat faster, but he stubbornly moved forward. The corridor ended at a massive door from which those familiar thuds emanated. Oscar pushed it open, and it gave way. Inside was a huge hall. A ring, surrounded by ropes, sat in the middle. And in the ring—him. Oscar recognized him instantly. Blond hair, wet and plastered to his forehead. Broad shoulders. Hands wrapped in tape, delivering blows to another man's pads. Max Verstappen.

Oscar couldn't believe his eyes. He watched Max move, his fists slam into the trainer's pads—the trainer with the difficult surname Oscar also knew—sweat dripping down Max's face. Oscar's mouth fell open, but he made no sound. He just stood and watched, mesmerized, forgetting his fear, forgetting he'd been looking for Papa.

He noticed Lambiase slow down and look toward the door. He noticed Max stop and turn in his direction. He just stood and stared at his hero.

"Hey," — he heard Max's voice, low but not angry. — "Who are you?"

"I... I..." — Oscar stammered, but his voice betrayed him. Oscar couldn't answer. His heart was pounding so loudly he was afraid everyone could hear. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't obey. Max jumped down from the ring and came closer. He was huge. Much bigger than on the posters. Oscar felt his heart start pounding somewhere in his throat.

"Hi," — Max said, stopping a few meters away. — "Are you lost?"

Oscar nodded but couldn't say a word. He stared at Max with huge eyes, wide open, full of awe and fear simultaneously. Oscar was mesmerized, taking in every detail: how the tape on Max's hands was slightly damp, how a bead of sweat glistened on his collarbone, how heavily he was breathing. Oscar's little palms trembled. He wanted to say something important, something he'd rehearsed a hundred times in front of the mirror, but all the words vanished, leaving only an unblinking gaze filled with admiration, shyness, and childish, defenseless adoration. Max looked back at him. He didn't rush the boy, didn't pressure him. He just stood and waited, letting the little omega get used to his presence.

"What's your name?" — Max asked, crouching down to be at eye level with him. Oscar opened his mouth, but no words came. He felt his cheeks burning red, a shiver running through his body.

Gianpiero stepped closer.

"Kid, are you mute?" — he asked.

"He's probably just shy," — Max said, watching Oscar closely. — "Right? You're shy?"

Oscar nodded again. He felt like he was about to burst into tears. From embarrassment, from happiness, from the fact that his idol was talking to him and he couldn't answer. He took a step back. His body wouldn't obey—it wanted to run, hide, yet at the same time stay and stare at Max forever.

"Don't be scared," — Max said, extending his hand. — "No one bites here."

Oscar looked at his hand—big, wrapped in tape, calloused at the knuckles. He was afraid to touch it, yet he desperately wanted to. And then a worried voice came from the corridor. It was Charles. He was running down the hall and, upon seeing his son, exhaled with relief.

"Oscar, what are you doing here? I told you..." — He stopped, seeing Max crouched in front of his son.

"Papa," — the child breathed, and in that one word, everything was said. Charles noticed how Max, who had stood motionless, was now watching them both. His gaze had changed, become different. More attentive. Something flickered in those blue eyes: surprise, curiosity, and perhaps even disappointment.

"I'm sorry," — Charles said, stepping closer and pulling his son to him. — "I left him in the office, but he wandered off."

Max nodded, but his gaze was still fixed on the little boy hugging Charles's neck and burying his nose in his shoulder.

"Your son?" — Max asked, and there was a question in his voice—one he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to.

"Yes," — Charles replied, stroking his son's back as the boy pressed against his neck, which smelled of pheromones. — "Sorry if he disturbed you."

Max looked once more at the boy, who had turned away, then at his parent. Charles felt Oscar stir in his arms and hurried to leave. Max stood in the hall, staring at the door through which Charles and his son had disappeared. Lambiase returned to the ring, picked up the pads, and looked at him questioningly.

"You coming?" — the trainer asked.

"Yeah," — Max replied absently, running a hand through his damp hair. Max returned to training, but mentally, he wasn't there at all.

Charles was handsome—face, body, he dressed well. And his eyes. That look he'd caught several times over the past weeks. Charles always looked at him calmly, but sometimes Max caught something else in that gaze. And he thought that maybe this was the start of something. The thought of inviting him somewhere, just to talk, had crossed his mind a few times.

And today, he'd seen him with his little son in his arms. Anxious, but incredibly beautiful in that worry, in the way he held the boy close, protecting him from the world. Something tightened inside Max when he noticed how the omega's fingers trembled, how he gripped his son's shoulders as if afraid to lose him.

Max's next punch was harder than the previous ones. He has a husband. Of course, he has a husband. A handsome, confident omega with a child. Of course, he can't be alone.

Lambiase raised the pads slightly higher to absorb the force of the punch and watched him carefully. The trainer's gaze was calm, but Max knew that look. It meant: "I see you're not here, but I won't say anything. Figure it out yourself."

"It's fine," — Max muttered, not giving him a chance to ask. — "Let's go again."

---

Charles entered his office with Oscar in his arms and gently set him on a chair. He closed the door and crouched in front of his son, looking into his eyes. Oscar was still trembling, but not as badly. Next to Papa, in the familiar scent, he was beginning to calm down.

"Mon petit," — Charles took his hands, feeling the small palms still trembling slightly. — "What happened? Why did you leave? I asked you to stay here. I was so worried when I couldn't find you."

Oscar hung his head, hiding his gaze. His lower lip trembled.

"It was scary there, Papa," — he whispered. — "It smelled like strangers. I felt bad. And I wanted to find you, Papa."

Charles felt something clench inside him. He pulled his son close, hugging him.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left you alone. Were you scared?" — Oscar nodded, burying his nose in Papa's shoulder. Charles stroked his back, feeling the small body gradually relax. He was about to say that everything was okay, that it wouldn't happen again, when Oscar suddenly sobbed. Once. Then again. Charles pulled back to look at his son's face.

"Oscar, what is it? Everything's okay, I'm here." — But Oscar couldn't stop. Tears streamed down his cheeks—big, hot, desperate. He hiccupped, trying to say something, but the words drowned in sobs.

"I... I..." — he choked out. — "I forgot, Papa!"

"What did you forget, mon petit?" — Charles wiped his wet cheeks. — "Tell me."

"I forgot to ask Max for an autograph!" — Oscar cried out, his voice breaking into desperate sobs. — "I stood there, and he talked to me, and I didn't ask! I wanted it so much, I thought about it every day, but when I saw him—I forgot everything! I'm so stupid, Papa!"

He covered his face with his hands, shaking with sobs. Charles looked at his little omega, crying so bitterly as if he'd lost something infinitely precious. And something turned over in Charles's chest.

He could have just taken a piece of paper, walked up to Max, and asked for an autograph for his son. It was so simple. Colleagues constantly asked Max for autographs for their nephews, friends' kids. Max never refused. Charles knew that. He'd seen Max smile and sign everything handed to him. And he knew Max wouldn't refuse him either. But Charles couldn't. Every time he found himself near Max, a strange, constricting feeling rose inside him. He couldn't explain it—he just looked at this tall, confident alpha and felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. Max was too... big, too strong. And Charles, without meaning to, began to feel small and insecure next to him. He was embarrassed. He didn't know why himself. Just the thought of approaching and asking for something personal made him tremble.

He looked at his son, crying bitterly, and understood that he couldn't bring himself to approach Max after what had happened. After the look Max had given him in the gym, a sense of guilt was added. They'd already distracted Max. Burst into his training, knocked him off his rhythm. It seemed to Charles that if he approached now and asked for a favor—even such a small one—Max would think he was using his child to get attention. He was simply uncomfortable about the situation he'd put his son in by not watching him properly.

"Oscar," — he said quietly, stroking his son's head. — "Look at me."

Oscar looked up with tear-stained eyes. His face was red, his eyes swollen from crying. Charles hugged him and pressed him close, feeling little hands clutching his T-shirt in despair.

"You'll have another chance," — he said, kissing the top of his head. — "Sometime."

He didn't believe his own words himself, but what else could he say to his crying son? Oscar sobbed against his chest, and Charles stroked his back, feeling helpless. He could have fixed everything with one gesture. But he couldn't force himself to approach Max. Not now. Not after everything inside him had been turned upside down.

Charles had been sitting in his office for the third hour, rereading notes, articles, interviews, analyzing how Max was perceived in the media. Before, when he'd watched these interviews with Oscar, they'd just seemed cool. Max was bold, straightforward, charismatic. But now, looking at them from a professional perspective, Charles noticed details that had previously escaped him. Too sharp responses to provocations. Too open emotions that journalists could twist against him. Max wasn't aggressive—he was honest, but in the media world, honesty often works against you.

Charles jotted down key points and knocked on Christian's door.

"Come in." — Charles entered and placed his notes in front of him.

"Christian, Max has a few areas we should work on. I've watched his interviews from the past year and noticed he reacts too emotionally to provocative questions. Not aggressively," — he clarified, — "but journalists use it. They know he can be triggered, and he gives them answers that can be taken out of context to create a scandal."

Christian hummed, studying Charles's notes. He exhaled, feeling he was being heard.

"I want to work with him on his responses."

"I see." — Horner nodded actively. — "Of course, I agree. Take Max and work with him."

"Thank you," — Charles replied, slightly flustered.

"Let me know if I can help." — Charles nodded and, feeling a flutter of excitement in his chest, left the office. He closed the door behind him and paused in the hallway for a moment, pressing the folder to his chest. A mix of excitement, hope, and a slight fear of what he'd just taken on spread through him.

The door to Charles's office opened without a knock. Max walked in, focused on unwinding the tape from his left hand. He was bare-chested, a damp T-shirt slung over his shoulder. Broad shoulders, defined muscles gleaming with sweat as they moved with every gesture.

"You wanted to talk?" — Max walked up to the desk, still unwinding the tape. — "Christian said you were looking for me."

Charles opened his mouth to reply, but for a moment his gaze lingered on Max's bare chest, on how his skin glistened in the lamplight, how muscles rippled when he moved his arms. He quickly looked back at his laptop.

"Yes. I've prepared some ideas about your image." — Max huffed and, without asking permission, sat on the free chair opposite the desk. He looked around his PR person's office. On the desk stood a neat photo frame with a picture of Oscar, a few pencils, and several folders with papers.

"Christian wants to make me a nice guy again?" — Max leaned back in his chair, still not putting his T-shirt on. He wasn't in a hurry. His eyes swept the room, lingered on Oscar's photo, then returned to Charles.

"No," — Charles smiled. — "I analyzed your interviews from the past year. There are a few moments where you react too emotionally to provocations. For example, the question about losing to Hamilton two years ago. You answered sharply, and they spun it as 'Verstappen still can't accept defeat.'"

"Because it was a robbery by the judges," — Max muttered.

"Maybe." — Charles didn't argue. — "Look. The question was simple: 'What do you think about that fight?' You could have answered neutrally: 'It was a tough fight; I learned from it and became stronger.' Instead, they ripped it out of context and made headlines like 'Verstappen blames judges for defeat.'"

Max huffed, massaging his wrist, and looked up at Charles with an attentive gaze. He paused for a moment.

"But isn't that your job? To watch what I say?" — he asked. — "So I don't look like an asshole to journalists?"

Charles opened his mouth to answer, but the words got stuck somewhere in his throat. He felt a chill of embarrassment run down his spine.

"Well... generally, yes," — he began, stammering slightly. — "My job is to build your image, to make sure you're perceived correctly. But I can't control every word you say live. I can only give you the tools to make the right decisions yourself."

He felt his cheeks start to warm. Why was he making excuses? Max had just asked, and he was already blushing like a teenager. Max noticed. For a moment, his face became serious; he squinted, studying Charles. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned forward slightly.

"Listen," — he said, his voice softer. — "It's just... my previous PR person handled all that stuff himself. He watched interviews, answered press questions, dealt with journalists. I didn't have to do anything except go into the ring and win. So this is new for me."

"I understand," — Charles looked up. There was no excuse in Max's words, just an honest explanation. — "But I don't want to do everything for you. I want you to be able to handle the press yourself. To choose when to be honest and when not to give them ammunition for headlines."

"Then let's do it my way," — he said. — "I won't just sit and learn. I want to understand how it works myself. So you'll have to explain why one answer is better than another. That way I'll learn faster."

"So you want to understand the mechanics?" — Charles looked at him in surprise. Max nodded.

"Well, you said yourself you want to give me tools," — Max smirked. — "So give them to me."

"Okay," — Charles's eyes lit up. For the first time in the entire conversation, he felt Max was genuinely interested. — "Then we'll do it like this: I ask you a question, you find an answer. Then I explain why it works or doesn't. We break down each option until you start to feel the structure."

"Deal." — Max nodded approvingly.

The results came quickly. Max became calmer in interviews, appeared less often in provocative headlines, and the public began to see him not just as "angry Max" but as a man with character and a sense of humor. Christian was pleased; the team was too. While reviewing another interview, Max listened as Charles explained why one answer had worked better than another.

"You said here: 'I respect any opponent,' but then you added: 'But if he thinks I'm weak, let him step up and prove it.' That sounds strong but without aggression. You leave him room to respond while showing confidence." — Max nodded, thinking.

"That's what I intended," — he smiled, pleased with himself. — "So he knows I'm not afraid."

"That comes through," — Charles's smile didn't take long to appear. At that moment, the omega's phone vibrated on the desk.

"Sorry," — he said, picking up the phone and stepping out of the office. — "Hello? Lorenzo?"

A voice came through the line—low, alpha, confident. The door closed behind him, and Max was left alone in silence. He could only hear Charles's muffled voice from behind the door. It sounded soft, warm. Max picked up the pen the omega had been holding and started twirling it in his hands. Lorenzo. An alpha. Charles talked to him as if they were close. And this alpha was probably the husband with whom Charles had a child. Max felt an unpleasant, cold feeling spread inside him. He didn't know why it bothered him. They were just colleagues. Just work. But a dull, aching pain settled in his chest, making him want to clench his fists and punch the desk.

He stared at the door Charles had disappeared behind and replayed everything he knew about him. Handsome face, green eyes that always looked at him calmly and warmly. A light smile that appeared when he talked about his son. How he adjusted his shirt when embarrassed. How his fingers brushed the desk when he explained something.

Charles appealed to Max. Not just as a handsome omega. There was something about him that drew Max in. He understood it was wrong. Charles had a husband, a family, a child. And Max had no right to even think of him that way. But he couldn't stop noticing him. Every time Charles walked into a room, Max felt something shift inside him.

He squeezed the pen in his fist, feeling it dig into his palm. He didn't want to admit to himself that he was drawn to Charles more than to anyone in years. And that scared him because he didn't know what to do about it. He exhaled deeply, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. Two feelings warred inside him: the understanding that he shouldn't think of Charles this way, and the desire he couldn't control. He needed time. Or answers. But he knew he had neither.

The door opened, and Charles walked back in, putting his phone in his pocket.

"Sorry, Max," — he said, approaching the desk and gathering his folders. — "I need to go home right now."

He smiled at Max, but Max didn't return the smile. His face was tense, jaw clenched, and something dark had settled in his eyes.

"Is everything okay?" — Charles asked, noticing his expression.

"Yeah," — Max replied shortly. — "Everything's fine."

Charles looked at him for a few seconds, feeling that something was off but unable to pinpoint what. He wanted to ask but thought better of it.

"See you tomorrow, then," — he said and left the office.

Max remained sitting in the silence, staring at the closed door. A dull, unpleasant emptiness still burned in his chest. He looked at the empty coffee cup on the table and knew he didn't want to think about Charles having a husband—but he did. And that annoyed him more than anything.

They were sitting in Charles's office again. Max had come to discuss the plan for the next interviews. Charles was explaining something, and Max listened, leaning back in his chair with a slight smile. The awkwardness of the early days was gone. They'd grown accustomed to each other, and a light, warm atmosphere hung in the air.

The office door opened with a loud bang. Lambiase stood in the doorway, giving them both an attentive look. He shifted his gaze from Max to Charles, who was jotting something down in his notebook.

"I've been looking for you, Max," — he said. — "You said you'd be down in the gym in five minutes. That was twenty minutes ago."

Max looked up, giving an apologetic smile.

"Yeah, sorry, we got carried away. I'm coming now." — Lambiase nodded curtly, glanced at Charles once more, and left, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.

"I didn't mean to keep you." — Charles exhaled, feeling the tension leave his shoulders.

"It's fine," — the alpha stood up, stretching. — "We were discussing work."

He headed for the door but paused for a moment and turned back.

"I'll drop by tomorrow," — he said, winking at the omega before disappearing from sight. — "We're not done yet."

Max went down to the gym, where Lambiase was already waiting. The trainer stood by the ring, watching him closely. Max climbed into the ring. Lambiase grunted but said nothing. He started the training; the first few minutes they worked in focused silence.

"You're different today," — Gianpiero remarked when Max landed an especially strong jab.

"What do you mean? I'm the same as always."

"No," — the trainer disagreed. — "You were different before Leclerc showed up."

Max froze for a second, then raised his hands into a guard stance, resuming his punches.

"So? Is that bad?"

"No," — Lambiase shrugged. — "He's good, but he's an omega, Max. You have to be careful. Alpha and omega at work—always rumors, always misunderstandings. You two have been spending a lot of time together lately."

Max quickened his pace, landing a series of rapid punches, as if trying to pound the nagging thoughts out of his head. He stepped forward, forcing the trainer to retreat, and slammed his fist hard into the pad.

"He's just doing his job. Working on my image."

"I see how you look at him, Max. And I see how he blushes when you walk in. Do you think it's not noticeable?"

Max slowed for a moment, dropping his hands, but immediately raised them back into guard and kept punching, feeling a dull, unpleasant anger simmering inside. He didn't know who he was angrier at—Lambiase, himself, or the situation he'd found himself in.

"I'm not going to meddle in his personal life," — he said through gritted teeth, his voice low and almost defiant between punches. — "He has a husband and a son. And I don't fit into his life."

Max fell silent, the noise in his head drowning everything out. He knew Lambiase was right. Knew that someone else stood between him and Charles. But whenever he imagined Charles going home to that alpha, his chest tightened so much it was hard to breathe. Gianpiero watched him carefully but said nothing. He raised the pads, signaling the conversation was over.

"Keep working," — he said shortly.

Max nodded, raised his hands into guard, and started punching. But his thoughts were still in that office, where Charles had smiled at him goodbye. He didn't fit into Charles's life—but feelings didn't listen to logic.

---

The party was in full swing. In the rented restaurant hall, soft music played, blending with voices and the clinking of glasses. Christian was animatedly telling something to a group of coaches; Lambiase stood in a corner with a drink, staring thoughtfully into space. Max, with a few center employees, laughed shortly at someone's joke, but his gaze kept drifting toward the bar, where Charles stood.

Charles felt out of place. He held a glass of white wine and pretended to listen intently to two strangers discussing a new sparring partner, but his thoughts were far away. He was already calculating how to politely leave when he felt someone's presence behind him.

"Want to escape?"

He turned. Max stood a step away, his eyes holding that warm, slightly teasing smile Charles had learned to recognize. He wore a black shirt, unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked relaxed and slightly tipsy.

"Yeah, I'm not very comfortable," — Charles admitted, smiling back involuntarily.

"We can step out if you want," — Max offered, and there was no pressure in his voice, just a calm desire to keep him company. Charles set his glass on the counter and nodded. They went out through the back door onto a small terrace. The night air was cool and fresh, streetlights illuminating the wet asphalt. Only the distant hum of the city and the quiet buzz of air conditioners could be heard.

"It's better here," — Max said, leaning on the railing and looking at the city lights. — "I don't like these gatherings either. Too many people, too much noise."

"I noticed," — Charles stood beside him, feeling the light breeze touch his face. — "You looked a bit tense."

He turned his head and looked at Charles. For a moment, their gazes met, and Charles felt a light shiver run down his spine.

"I'm glad you came," — Max said. — "You're the only one here I can just be quiet with."

"Not a fan of small talk either?" — Charles smiled.

"I hate it," — Max chuckled. — "Especially when they ask how I feel before a fight. I feel like I want to fucking sleep."

Charles laughed softly, feeling the tension leave his shoulders. They stood side by side, looking at the night city, and the silence between them wasn't awkward but warm. Charles didn't notice how he took half a step closer, leaning his shoulder against Max's arm. His head almost touched his shoulder, and he could feel the warmth of Max's body seeping through the fabric of his shirt. It felt easy and natural, as if it was meant to be.

"You smell good," — the alpha said. Charles felt his heart beat faster, but he didn't pull away. — "Maybe we should go to my place?"

Charles looked at him, feeling the familiar warm excitement rise inside him. He knew what this meant. He knew he could refuse. But he didn't want to.

"Okay," — he replied, his voice softer than he'd intended. — "Let's go."

They went back to grab their things. No one paid them any attention; everyone was caught up in the party. Charles felt Max's hand lightly touch his back, guiding him toward the exit. The gesture was barely noticeable, but Charles felt it through the fabric. Charles walked, feeling that spot on his back continue to burn even after the alpha's hand had disappeared. He didn't look back, but inside, everything trembled from that simple yet intimate touch. They stepped outside, and the night air touched their faces again. Max turned to Charles.

"If you want to change your mind, there's still time," — Max said. — "I can call you a cab home right now."

"I don't want to back out," — Charles answered, his voice certain.

Max's apartment turned out to be spacious and bright, with high ceilings and large windows. Inside was quiet and cozy. Charles stood by the window, looking at the night city, feeling a light tension building inside. Max came up from behind and began pressing kisses to the back of Charles's neck, from the base of his skull downward. His lips were warm, slightly damp, and Charles felt goosebumps run down his spine, forcing an involuntary exhale.

"I'm glad you agreed," — he said, his voice quiet and warm.

But Max wasn't waiting for an answer. His lips were already sliding along Charles's jawline, toward the sensitive skin behind his ear, leaving damp, hot trails. Charles closed his eyes, feeling his breath catch from these slow, possessive touches. Max's lips seemed to be tasting him, exploring, memorizing.

The alpha's hands settled on the omega's waist, fingers slipping under the edge of his jacket, finding his shirt, pulling Charles closer. Charles felt warm palms encircle him, slide over his stomach, lingering for a moment, then begin a slow, confident descent. Max kept kissing his neck, unhurried, but with each passing second, his lips grew a little greedier, a little more demanding. He nipped at the skin—lightly, almost weightlessly—but enough to make Charles flinch with each bite, feeling a hot wave spread inside him.

Meanwhile, Max's fingers reached the waistband of Charles's trousers. He didn't ask permission—just started unbuttoning them, skillfully, one-handed, while the other hand gripped his side, holding him in place. Charles heard the soft sound of a zipper coming down, and that sound resonated somewhere deep in his gut.

Max pulled the fabric aside, and his palm slid inside, meeting hot skin. He ran his fingers along Charles's thigh—lightly, almost stroking—and simultaneously kissed his shoulder, just above his shoulder blade. But the alpha quickly pulled back, returning to Charles's ear.

"Can I?" — he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah." — Charles turned his head, giving the alpha more access.

Max turned the omega to face him and kissed him. It wasn't a gentle, testing kiss. Max pressed into his lips with hungry insistence, immediately deepening it, demanding a response. His hand still slid over smooth thighs, fingers kneading into yielding skin, squeezing, leaving marks. He squeezed with such confident force that Charles could feel the alpha's fingers digging into his flesh, holding, pulling, staking a claim. Each movement left a light burning sensation on his skin, and Charles arched toward those hands, feeling them squeeze harder, then almost release, teasing, making him seek more contact. Charles exhaled right into his mouth, feeling a hot wave rush through his body.

The alpha's tongue slid inside, making Charles respond. He kissed deeply, almost roughly, drinking in every sound, every breath. Charles tasted wine and something warm, earthy, that was uniquely Max. The alpha's lips were firm yet yielding, and every time Charles tried to take control, Max immediately responded, pressing harder, biting into his lips with such passion that Charles lost his breath.

Max bit his lower lip—not hard, but enough to feel—then soothed it with his tongue, easing the slight sting, making Charles shudder and press against him fully. Heat spread inside, making his vision blur. Max's hands never stopped. One still gripped Charles's thigh, fingers pressing into the skin just beside the thin fabric of his underwear; the other slid higher. Max ran his palm over his stomach, feeling muscles tense under his fingers, and paused at the edge of his shirt.

The alpha broke the kiss, catching his breath, and looked down at Charles. His gaze swept over his open collar, the collarbones peeking out from the fabric.

"Take this off," — he said hoarsely, his fingers already pulling the shirt from Charles's shoulders without waiting for an answer. Charles let it slide off, feeling the fabric glide over his skin, baring his shoulders and chest. Max didn't wait for the shirt to fall completely—his palms were already on Charles's bare shoulders. He ran his thumbs over his collarbones, pressing, and Charles closed his eyes at the sensation. The alpha's palms slid lower, fingers brushed his chest, circling a nipple, teasingly slow, and Max leaned closer, almost touching hot skin with his lips.

"Can I?" — his voice was low, hoarse, full of desire. — "I want..."

"No," — Charles interrupted. Max froze, looking up. Surprise flickered in his eyes, but not disappointment—more like curiosity, which only heightened the arousal.

"Max, I don't like long foreplay," — Charles said, his voice steadier than he'd expected. He met Max's gaze directly, without a trace of doubt. — "Let's just move to the bed, and you fuck me properly?"

He saw Max's pupils dilate. He grabbed Charles under his thighs and carried him to the bedroom in his arms. Charles wrapped his arms around his shoulders, feeling strong hands grip him, holding him steady. Max carried him confidently, without stopping, and there was energy in every step, ready to explode.

Charles felt his back touch the soft surface of the bed. Propping himself up on his elbows, he watched the alpha. Max didn't waste time—his fingers were already undoing the remaining buttons of his own clothes, impatiently, almost ripping them off. The fabric fell to the floor, and Charles could see the tension in his shoulder muscles, his chest heaving with rapid breaths.

Max paused for a moment, looking down at Charles's almost naked body, at the thin fabric of his underwear that barely hid anything. In the dim light from the window, Charles saw the gleam in his eyes, and there was so much hunger in that gaze that his breath caught. The alpha lowered himself onto the bed, looming over Charles. His hands settled on his thighs, fingers hooking into the waistband of his underwear and pulling them down slowly, savoring, revealing pale skin. Charles lifted his hips, helping, and in a moment, the fabric slid down, leaving him completely exposed to Max's gaze.

But Max didn't look where Charles expected. His gaze swept along the inside of his thigh, and he ran his fingers over it—lightly, almost weightlessly, stroking the sensitive skin.

"Such soft skin here," — Max breathed, his voice almost reverent. He stroked again, pressing slightly harder, feeling Charles shudder under his touch. — "And so hot..."

He squeezed Charles's thigh, fingers digging into the inner skin, leaving marks, and Charles exhaled, tilting his head back, feeling everything tighten inside from that touch. Max leaned down and kissed the spot his fingers had just stroked—wet, leaving a mark.

"Max," — Charles breathed, his voice trembling. — "Stop teasing."

The alpha looked up, a boyish pleasure gleaming in his eyes. He straightened, looming over Charles, and his hand slid lower, between Charles's legs, lifting his hips, pulling him closer. Charles looked into his eyes, feeling Max's hot, hard cock pressing against his entrance.

Max entered him deeply in one smooth motion, not giving him time to adjust. Charles exhaled, biting his lip, feeling himself filled, stretched, a tight, hot warmth spreading inside. It was sharp, almost on the edge of pain—but it was exactly what he wanted. No tenderness, just this primal, direct possession. Max paused for a moment, letting him feel the fullness, and Charles could see his jaw trembling with restrained tension, beads of sweat forming on his temples.

"Fuck," — Max groaned, pressing his forehead to Charles's shoulder. — "You're so tight."

Charles wrapped his legs around him, pulling him deeper, and whispered hoarsely.

"Move."

Charles woke up lying on Max's chest, feeling his arm around his shoulders, the alpha's steady, calm breath touching the top of his head. The room was quiet, warm, and this moment felt endless. Charles didn't move. He just lay there, feeling Max's body heat transfer to him, his fingers twitching slightly in sleep. He looked at his relaxed face and thought about how strange and yet right it felt to be here.

Charles's gaze drifted thoughtfully over his chest, his broad collarbone, the faint scars from old training sessions, the steady rise and fall of his ribcage. Without thinking, he began tracing light, barely visible patterns on Max's skin with his fingertips. Circles, lines, something like waves. He touched the alpha slowly, feeling his pulse beat under his fingers. The next second, his hand was gently but firmly caught. Charles looked up and met the warm, slightly sleepy gaze of blue eyes. Max was watching him with a smile. Charles intertwined their fingers.

"I thought you were asleep," — Charles purred.

"I woke up when you started touching me," — the alpha pulled him closer and kissed the top of his head. — "Just wanted to see what you'd do next."

They lay together in silence for a while, intertwined, listening to each other's breathing. Charles felt Max's fingers slowly trace his back, leaving warm trails. The room was peaceful, sunlight flooding the bed, and this moment seemed endless.

"I went too far," — Max began. — "I shouldn't have rushed you. You were tired, emotional after the party, and I just couldn't hold back."

"Mmm?" — Charles turned to Max, still lying on his chest.

"I should have controlled myself. But I acted like a selfish jerk. I didn't think about you, about your son, about the fact that you have..." — he paused, and Charles saw guilt appear on his face. — "...that you have a husband," — Max finished. — "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have intruded into someone else's family. I should have respected your boundaries. If you want, I'll call him myself and say it was my idea, that I..."

"Max," — Charles interrupted him, taking his hand. — "What husband?"

Max looked at him in surprise.

"Well... your husband. Oscar's father. Children don't appear out of nowhere, you know." — Charles looked at him, a mix of laughter and bitterness in his eyes.

"I don't have a husband," — he said slowly.

"I saw your child with my own eyes," — the alpha frowned.

"Yes," — Charles nodded. — "I have a son, but I don't have a husband. I'm raising him alone."

"But..." — Max asked, surprise in his voice. — "Where's his father?"

Charles took a deep breath. He knew this conversation would happen sooner or later, but he hadn't expected it so soon.

"He left," — Charles said quietly. — "When Oscar was six months old. He said he wasn't ready to be a father, that an omega child was too much. And that he'd wanted an alpha son."

Max was silent, processing what he'd just heard. His hand was still holding Charles's.

"You're strong," — he finally said.

"I have to be," — Charles replied, a faint bitter smile crossing his face.

They lay in silence, and Charles felt his hand still in Max's palm. He looked up to break the quiet and suddenly noticed how Max's expression had changed.

"You know," — Max said, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice. — "Once, when we were working, an alpha called you. Named Lorenzo. I heard you talking to him, and I thought he was your husband. That you were going home to him, that you had a family."

"Lorenzo is my older brother. He helps me with Oscar sometimes," — Charles said, his voice soft, calm. — "I also have a younger brother, Arthur—he's an alpha too."

Max looked at Charles, and something warm slowly kindled in his eyes—relief.

"I'm an idiot," — he whispered, a smile in his voice. — "I spent so long thinking you were taken, that you had a husband..."

"Were you jealous of me?" — Charles asked, an eager smile spreading across his face.

"Bitterly," — Max admitted honestly. — "And scared I didn't have a chance."

Charles smiled wider, then shifted to straddle Max's hips beneath him.

"My brothers are crazy about their nephew," — Charles said, a warm, homey note in his voice. — "But he's crazy about one boxer named Max Verstappen."

"Really?" — Max smirked, his hands sliding over Charles's thighs as if he couldn't stop touching him.

"I'd never lie to you!" — Charles smiled. — "He knows your biography better than you do. Every evening at dinner, he tells me something new about you."

"To be honest, he didn't seem very talkative when we met last time."

"He froze," — Charles laughed softly. — "My boy saw you in person and forgot his own name."

"I'd love to get to know him better," — Max smiled, his fingers tightening on Charles's waist.

"That might happen sooner than you think," — Charles replied, leaning closer and giving the alpha a childish peck on the lips. — "But first, I need to do something for him."

Max raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"So, last time Oscar cried so hard because he forgot to ask you for an autograph. Could I ask you for an autograph for him?"

"Of course." — Charles felt a strange, warm relief spread inside him.

"Thank you," — He fell silent, feeling a lump form in his throat. Covering his face with his hands, Charles sobbed. — "It means a lot to him. And to me too. I know it's hard for him growing up without a father," — he continued quietly. — "He's always looking for someone to look up to. And he found you. You're a hero to him."

Max didn't answer. He just pulled Charles to him and kissed him—slowly, gently, as if to say he was here, he wasn't going anywhere.

Max drove. The silence between them was warm, peaceful. Charles sat in the passenger seat, watching the city views glide past the window. He felt tired but happy. A calm he hadn't felt in a long time spread through him. Max broke the silence first.

"Can I ask you something?" — he said, not taking his eyes off the road.

"Yes," — Charles replied, turning his head.

"If you've raised Oscar alone since he was a baby," — Max paused, choosing his words. — "How did he get through the period when he needed the scents of both parents?"

Charles held his breath for a moment. The question was unexpected, but he could tell Max wasn't asking out of idle curiosity—he genuinely wanted to understand.

"Very hard," — Charles answered honestly. — "I think it affected him a lot. He grew up anxious, a bit insecure. Sometimes he withdraws, afraid of new people."

He paused, gathering his thoughts.

"He only had me." — Max listened without interrupting. — "Arthur and Lorenzo tried to help—stayed with him, held him, left their things near his crib. But nothing worked."

"Why?" — Max asked, glancing at him briefly.

"Our scents are too similar," — Charles looked out the window, his voice dropping. — "We're family; we share notes in our scents. Oscar could tell they smelled like me—but slightly different. He cried a lot and never wanted to leave my side. I think he grew up feeling like something was missing."

They fell silent again, but Max broke the quiet.

"Thank you for answering. That's important," — he said, genuine warmth in his voice. — "You know, if Oscar ever needs help with anything, I'm always here."

Charles turned his head and looked at Max—his face soft and calm. Max's words resonated somewhere deep inside, where Charles was used to hiding his exhaustion and fears.

"Didn't think sex would awaken your paternal instincts," — Charles smirked, trying to lighten the mood. Max smiled, but his voice stayed serious.

"Well, I like you. Why not?"

Charles didn't reply. He just looked at Max, feeling a warm calm spread through him. His hand reached out on its own, and a moment later, Max's fingers intertwined with his. They drove on in silence, but it was a silence full of promise.

Charles walked into the apartment and immediately heard the patter of little feet. Oscar flew out of his room and flung himself around his neck, hugging him with such force as if they hadn't seen each other in ages.

"Papa!" — he shouted. — "You were gone so long! I started thinking you forgot about me and I'd have to live with Arthur!"

"How could I forget about you, mon petit?" — Charles kissed the top of his head, warmth spreading inside him. — "I have something for you."

He gently set Oscar down, slung his bag off his shoulder, and unzipped it, rummaging in the inner pocket. First, he pulled out a folder of documents, then a notebook, his fingers flipping through pages in search of the right one. Oscar watched every move with curiosity, holding his breath. Finally, Charles found what he was looking for. Between the pages of the notebook lay a glossy photo, slightly bigger than a palm. He carefully pulled it out and handed it to his son.

In the photo was Max. Not in a fighting stance, not with his hands raised in victory, but simply sitting in the training hall. He wore a T-shirt, no tape, a tired smile on his face. His hair was damp after a shower, and sunlight fell on his face, making him look almost domestic. This photo hadn't been published anywhere—it was personal, taken in a moment. And in the lower right corner, in black marker, was a signature. Sweeping, confident, with a long flourish at the end. Oscar recognized it instantly—he'd seen it hundreds of times on magazines, on posters. Charles looked at the photo, remembering how Max had pulled it from his own album, how carefully he'd signed it at his apartment.

"Here," — Charles said, handing the photo to his son. — "This is for you."

Oscar froze. His eyes widened, his mouth fell open. He slowly took the photo with trembling hands, as if afraid it would disappear if he grabbed it too quickly. His fingers traced the letters, the neat loops he knew so well from the magazine cover.

"Papa..." — he whispered. — "Is this Max's signature?"

"Yes," — Charles smiled. — "He knows you're his fan. And he sends his regards."

Oscar stared at the picture, his face glowing with happiness. But after a few seconds, his lip trembled, and his eyes filled with tears.

"Oscar, what's wrong?" — Charles knelt in front of him to be at eye level.

"I... I wanted to ask him myself," — he whispered, his voice breaking. A tear rolled down his cheek, then another. — "And now... now I won't be able to. Papa, celebrities only give autographs once per person!"

He burst into tears, clutching the photo to his chest. His little shoulders shook with sobs. Charles hugged him, holding him close, and felt something clench inside. Oscar sobbed again, looking up with his tear-streaked face.

"Papa, now I'll never get Max's autograph myself and talk to him." — Charles hugged him tighter, feeling the small body trembling in his arms. He stroked his son's back, his slightly curly hair, and everything inside him tightened at this childish, so genuine grief. — "I got one, but not myself—through you. Now he'll definitely think I'm a coward who's afraid to approach."

"Mon petit, Max doesn't think you're a coward," — Charles said softly. — "Even adults sometimes get scared to approach their idol. I've seen people blush and lose their voice in front of Max. And you know what? He said himself he wants to see you again. He wants to meet you."

Oscar looked at Papa, his face gradually smoothing. He looked at the photo he still clutched, his fingers tracing the signature.

"Does he really want to meet me?" — he asked, timid hope in his voice.

"Really," — Charles nodded. — "And you'll be able to approach him yourself. And say everything you wanted."

Oscar wiped his tears with his sleeve and smiled. Still wet, trembling, but sincere. Charles hugged him again and closed his eyes, feeling relief spread inside.

After Oscar received the autograph from Verstappen, they spent almost an hour in a store choosing a frame. Oscar examined every option, touched each one, squinted and sighed seriously like an expert. He finally picked a light one with carved corners. Now, standing in the doorway of his bedroom, Charles watched Oscar sit on the floor, spreading out all his "treasures" on the carpet: magazines, posters, stickers, and of course, the most important thing—the photo Max had signed.

"Mon petit, I brought the frame." — The boy looked up, his eyes lighting up. He jumped up and ran to Papa, carefully accepting the frame.

"I want to put it in myself," — he said, and Charles nodded, watching his son return to the carpet and carefully insert the photo. His little fingers trembled with excitement, but he managed.

"You're doing great," — Charles said quietly, sitting down on the floor beside him. — "Do you need help?"

"A little," — Oscar asked, and Charles held the frame steady while the boy fastened the clips. When the photo was secured and the frame covered with boxing-themed stickers, Oscar looked at it, his eyes shining.

"Now it'll stay here," — he said, placing the frame on his nightstand. — "Right by my bed."

He turned to Papa and smiled—bright, sincere, but with a barely noticeable hint of sadness still hidden in it. That evening, after Charles tucked Oscar in, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and felt warmth spread inside him. Max. Charles slipped into the hallway so as not to wake his son and answered the call.

"Hello?" — he said, closing his son's bedroom door.

"Hey," — Max's voice came through. — "Did I wake you?"

"No," — Charles walked into his room and sat on the edge of the bed. A brief awkward silence passed between them, broken by the alpha, and Charles heard Max sigh.

"I miss you," — he said simply.

Charles froze. His heart skipped a beat, and he felt his cheeks warm. So much time had passed since their first meeting; they'd slept together, talked about feelings. Yet every time Max said things like that, Charles was swept by a wave of that same embarrassment he'd felt at the start of their acquaintance. He couldn't get used to the alpha saying this to him. Charles bit his lip and felt his fingers tighten around the phone.

"I miss you too," — he finally answered. — "Very much."

"Would you like me to come over?" — Max asked. — "Right now?"

Charles laughed.

"It's night, Max."

"So what? I can be there in twenty minutes—just say the word." — His voice carried a smile.

"No," — Charles shook his head, even though he knew Max couldn't see. — "Oscar's asleep."

"Did he like the autograph?" — the alpha asked.

"He's thrilled. We bought a frame; he put your photo by his bed. But he's still upset he didn't ask for it himself," — Charles admitted, his voice dropping. — "He thinks you'll never sign anything for him again because he already has one. Kid logic."

"Did you tell him that's not true?"

"Of course!" — Charles replied. — "I tried, but he doesn't believe me. He thinks I'm just trying to comfort him."

"Then," — Max paused, — "maybe I should tell him myself? When I see him. Next time."

Charles closed his eyes and felt relief spread inside him. Max's words resonated somewhere deep in his chest, warming him from within.

"Max, thank you," — he said quietly. — "You're doing so much for me and Oscar."

For a moment, silence hung on the line. Charles could hear Max breathing, and the sound soothed him.

"After all, he's not just a fan," — the alpha said, his voice softer, more serious. — "He means a lot now—not just to you."

Charles froze. Max's words sounded so simple, yet they carried so much depth that his breath caught. He felt something big and warm growing inside him that he couldn't contain.

He closed his eyes and let himself stay in that moment. He remembered how Max had crouched in front of Oscar for the first time, how he'd looked at him with that warm smile, asking about Oscar after their night together. How he'd listened and remembered every little detail. Charles was usually the one who took care of things. But Max did it so naturally, so easily, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. And he did it not to get something in return, but simply because he wanted to be there.

---

A few weeks had passed since Charles brought Oscar to work again. Charles led Oscar through the corridors, feeling the small hand squeezing his fingers. They reached the office, and Charles opened the door, letting his son go first. Oscar stepped over the threshold, paused for a moment, and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. The familiar, calming scent lingered in the air. He turned to Charles and smiled.

"Papa," — he said, — "it smells like you here."

Charles smiled. In those simple words, there was more meaning than in any explanation. This office no longer felt foreign to the little omega, because Papa's scent had soaked into the walls. He was no longer afraid—he felt safe. Oscar walked up to the desk and placed his magazine on it. The very first one, read to tatters, with Max smiling from the cover. The corners of the pages were crumpled, but to Oscar, the magazine was still a priceless treasure.

"Papa," — he said, turning to Charles. — "Is Max here?"

"Yes," — Charles replied, smiling at his impatience. — "He's in the gym, but he promised to come by as soon as he's free."

Oscar nodded and looked at the magazine again. He opened it to the first page and started flipping through, muttering familiar facts about his idol under his breath. Charles sat at the desk and watched him. A couple of hours later, the office door cracked open. Oscar looked up and froze. In the doorway stood Max. He shifted his gaze from smiling Charles to the boy sitting on the chair with a magazine on his lap, and a hint of shyness appeared on his face.

"Hi," — he said, looking at the child. Oscar swallowed. His fingers tightened on the magazine, but he didn't lower his head. Shyness and the desire to say something important warred inside him. Max noticed his tension and stepped into the office, closing the door gently. He walked to the desk and sat on the chair opposite the boy. — "I remember you. I'm Max, and what's your name?"

"Oscar." — The child looked up at him and answered quietly.

"Beautiful name," — the alpha said. — "How do you like our center? Do you like it?"

Oscar nodded, feeling warmth spread inside him because Max was speaking to him as an equal.

"It smells like Papa here," — he replied. Max glanced at Charles, who sat at his workspace. Charles didn't interfere, letting them find their own rhythm of communication, and that felt right.

"Smells like Papa," — Max repeated, his voice softening. — "That's nice. I like it too."

Oscar smiled, feeling his shyness begin to fade. Max talked to him as if they'd known each other forever.

"Is that a magazine you have there?" — Max asked, nodding at the issue Oscar was holding to his chest. Oscar nodded and carefully placed the magazine on the desk between them.

"It's a magazine about you," — Oscar replied, a little shy. — "Uncle Arthur bought it for me. Papa read it all to me."

"Can I see?" — Max asked, and Oscar nodded. The alpha opened the magazine and saw it was read to pieces. Some pages were taped, and childish scribbles—clearly attempts to copy his signature—filled the margins. He smiled, feeling warmth spread inside him. He knew this little omega was doing something few adults dare to do—talking to him, looking him in the eye, not hiding. Oscar watched his idol flip through the magazine about himself and didn't understand why. He looked at Max, at his own still-trembling fingers, and felt a wave of uncertainty rise inside him.

"Mr. Verstappen," — he said, trying to keep his voice steady so it wouldn't tremble and reveal the weakness the omega felt throughout his body. — "I would really like you to sign it. But I already have one of your autographs."

Max closed the magazine and looked at Oscar with a soft smile. He noticed how his fingers trembled, how he gripped the edge of the desk, and understood the boy was struggling. He knew this little omega was fighting himself, trying to keep face before his idol, and felt he couldn't just sign the magazine—it would be too simple. He decided to play by Oscar's rules. If the boy believed a celebrity only gives one autograph, then he'd find a way around that logic so Oscar could feel like a winner. Max smiled gently, approaching the conversation from an angle where Oscar could take a step forward himself.

"You're right," — Max said, a hint of mischief in his voice. — "You already have one of my autographs. But here's the thing."

Oscar tensed, looking up at him.

"The autograph you have," — Max paused, — "your Papa asked for it. For you. But it's his autograph, not yours—he just decided to give it to you."

Oscar froze, processing this. His eyes widened, and he glanced at Charles, who was sitting at his desk, hiding a smile behind his hand.

"Really?" — Oscar asked, turning back to Max.

"Really," — the alpha nodded. — "So you haven't gotten your autograph yet. You didn't ask for it yourself. Which means if you ask me now, it'll be your first personal autograph."

Oscar stared at Max, and light gradually kindled in his eyes.

"So... I can ask now?" — he asked, his voice trembling with hope.

"Yes," — Max answered. — "If you ask, I'll sign your magazine. And it'll be your own autograph. The one you earned."

Oscar couldn't hold back. He exhaled and smiled as broadly as he could. He asked Papa for a marker and handed it to Max.

"Mr. Verstappen, could you please sign my magazine? Please." — Max took the marker and smiled back.

"With pleasure, Oscar." — He turned to the first spread and carefully wrote: "To my biggest fan. Max Verstappen." He handed the magazine to Oscar, and the boy took it with reverence. He traced the fresh ink with his finger, his eyes filling with happiness.

"Thank you," — he said, his voice trembling—but no longer from fear.

"You can just call me Max," — the alpha replied, winking at him. Oscar smiled and hugged the magazine to his chest. He turned to Charles, who watched them with a gentle smile. Oscar moved closer to his parent and held up the magazine so he could see.

"Papa, look!" — his voice rang with happiness, his eyes shining. — "Max signed it! I asked myself, and he signed it! Now it's my very own autograph!"

Charles reached out and stroked his son's head, feeling the soft hair under his fingers. He let his hand rest on Oscar's nape, letting him know he was there, that he saw and shared this joy.

"I see, mon petit," — he said. — "You were brave and asked yourself. Now it's your own autograph, the one you earned."

He looked up at Max, and their gazes met. In that brief, warm look was gratitude and tenderness they both felt.

A few weeks had passed since Oscar received his first personal autograph. Since then, Max had become a more frequent presence in their lives. At first, it was meetings at the center—where Oscar started begging to go more often—then short visits after work—"stopping by for tea," as Max called it. And then he started coming over to stay the night.

Oscar got used to him. He stopped being shy, started calling him "Max" instead of "Mr. Verstappen," and greeted him at the door with a shout of "Max is here!" every time. They played with cars, built towers, rewatched recordings of his own fights, and Max patiently explained everything, then just as patiently listened to Oscar's enthusiastic opinions.

One evening, Max stayed late. Charles was in the kitchen making dinner, while Max sat on the living room floor assembling Legos with Oscar. The boy was focused, his tongue poking out in concentration as he tried to connect two pieces.

"Coming along?" — Max asked.

"Almost," — Oscar replied, his brow furrowed. Max reached out and helped him connect the pieces. The bricks clicked, and Oscar looked up at him, his eyes shining.

"Thanks," — he said.

"Anytime," — Max smiled.

Oscar paused, looking at him. A thought had been circling in his head for days. He'd heard Papa talk about him, heard his uncles call Max "your alpha" in front of Papa, heard Arthur joke once that Max would soon replace all of them. He dropped his eyes and whispered, almost inaudibly.

"Daddy..." — He said it so softly Max wasn't sure he'd heard. But he had. His hand froze over the Legos, and he slowly turned his head to Oscar.

"What did you say?" — he asked, his voice soft but holding a note of surprise.

Oscar felt everything tighten inside him. His cheeks instantly flushed, and he dropped his head lower, hiding his gaze. His heart pounded somewhere in his throat, and his fingers nervously gripped the Lego piece he held.

"Nothing," — he muttered quickly, his voice trembling. — "I just... I didn't say anything."

He fidgeted, feeling the blush spread not just over his cheeks but up his neck and to his ears. He wanted the floor to swallow him. He was afraid Max would think he was imposing. Afraid it would make him uncomfortable. Afraid he'd crossed an invisible line he shouldn't have.

"I didn't mean to..." — he started, his voice breaking into a whisper. — "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

He curled in on himself, trying to become smaller, to hide from this moment that had suddenly grown too big. He opened his mouth to say something else, to smooth over the awkwardness, but Max cut him off.

"Oscar," — he said quietly, his voice softer than Oscar had ever heard it. Oscar didn't look up. He was ashamed. He felt small and stupid, and wished it would all go away. The alpha's hand gently rested on the boy's shoulder. — "I'm not angry. I just want to hear what you said. Please."

Oscar looked up. There were tears in his eyes—from fear, from embarrassment, from not knowing how to explain. Max looked at him with such warmth that the boy felt the tension begin to ease.

"I..." — Oscar swallowed, feeling his voice betray him with a tremor. — "I called you Daddy. I didn't mean to offend you or make you uncomfortable. I just... I wanted to try it once. I'm sorry, Max, I won't do it again."

He fell silent, waiting for Max to say something that would shatter his hope. But the alpha smiled. He carefully took the Lego piece from Oscar's hands and held his palms in his own.

"You didn't do anything wrong," — he said, his voice firm but warm. — "And it doesn't make me uncomfortable. Actually, I'm glad."

"Really?" — Oscar whispered.

"Really," — Max answered. — "I want you to call me Daddy. Every minute if you want. And I want to be your daddy. You're already like a son to me, Oscar. And I want to be the dad you come to when you're scared or sad."

Oscar couldn't hold back. Tears streamed down his face. He threw himself at Max and hugged him, burying his nose in his shoulder.

"Daddy," — he whispered, and there was no more fear in that word. Max hugged him back, holding him close, and felt his own eyes sting.

---

Charles sat at his desk in the training center, sorting through paperwork, when a wave of nausea suddenly hit him. He tried to swallow it down, but it only worsened the attack; his ears began to ring.

"Charles?" — Christian's voice came from the doorway. — "You look rough."

Charles looked up, feeling cold sweat on his face.

"It'll probably pass," — he said, but his voice was weak.

"Take the day off," — Christian said. — "You're not in shape."

"But I can finish..."

"Don't," — Christian cut him off. Charles wanted to argue, but another wave of nausea silenced him. He nodded, feeling exhaustion wash over him. Ten minutes later, he was in a taxi, clutching his bag of documents, staring at the passing houses. At home, Lorenzo was waiting. His older brother was in the kitchen when a pale Charles walked in.

"Charles?" — Lorenzo stood and walked over to him. — "You're early. What happened?"

"I got sick at work," — Charles replied, sinking onto a chair. — "Christian said I looked like death. I'm just tired; it'll pass."

Lorenzo looked at him closely and suddenly sniffed the air around his brother.

"Having fun with Verstappen last night?" — he said with a grin, not taking his eyes off his brother. — "Are you pregnant?"

Charles looked up with weary eyes.

"I..." — the omega faltered. — "I don't know."

"Your scent changed," — Lorenzo placed a hand on his shoulder. — "A little, but I can smell it."

Charles sat there, clutching the small test in his hands. Two lines. He'd been staring at them for several minutes now; they weren't disappearing. Inside him, everything trembled with disbelief. He was going to be a Papa again. He and Max were going to have a baby. The omega pressed himself against his brother, feeling tears stream down his cheeks. He didn't know what he'd tell Max. He didn't know how Oscar would react. But in that moment, in his older brother's embrace, he felt safe. He felt that everything would be okay.

---

When Charles heard the first cry of his youngest son, all the pain vanished. Oliver was born healthy, a little alpha who would grow up in their family, filling it with new light. He looked at Oliver with such tenderness that Max's breath caught. Oscar stood nearby, on tiptoes, peering into his parent's arms, his eyes burning with curiosity and admiration.

"He's so small," — Oscar whispered, reaching a finger toward his brother's tiny hand. — "How are his fingers so tiny? He looks like you, Papa."

"You were that small too, mon petit." — Charles smiled, stroking Oscar's head.

Max took Oliver in his arms, and Charles watched the alpha hold their son with such care as if he were made of glass.

"Hey, little one," — Max whispered, looking at Oliver. — "I'm your daddy."

Oscar stood nearby, watching the scene, and something tightened in his chest. He saw how Max looked at Oliver, how his eyes shone with the same warmth he'd given Oscar when they first met. But now it felt different. Charles noticed Oscar step back, his face tensing. He wanted to say something, but at that moment, Max turned and smiled at them.

---

A few days passed. They were home. Oliver slept in his crib, and Charles was recovering—tired but happy. The house smelled of milk and warmth. But Charles noticed his older son had grown quieter, more thoughtful. One evening, Charles asked Oscar to hand Max Oliver's pacifier, which lay in the room. Oscar took it and walked to the bedroom, where Max stood holding Oliver, quietly whispering to him.

Oscar stopped at the entrance. He watched Max hold Oliver, stroke his head, look at him with the same tenderness Oscar himself had only recently received from Max. Everything inside him tightened. He felt he had no right to intrude, that this moment belonged only to them.

"Max," — Oscar called softly. Max looked up, his face breaking into the smile that usually appeared when he saw Oscar. But when he heard his name, not "Daddy," his smile faltered. He noticed Oscar standing in the doorway, fidgeting with the pacifier, his gaze full of the same uncertainty from before.

"Oscar," — Max said, trying to keep his voice soft. — "Come here."

Oscar slowly walked over and handed him the pacifier. Max took it with one hand, still holding Oliver.

"What's wrong?" — he asked. Oscar stayed silent. He looked at Oliver sleeping in Max's arms, and his eyes filled with tears. He didn't know what to say. He felt lost. He opened his mouth but couldn't utter a word. Instead, he just whispered:

"Are you glad you have a real son now?" — Oscar sobbed, not looking up at him.

"Of course I'm glad—I now have two wonderful sons," — the alpha said, trying to keep his voice soft but firm.

"No," — Oscar shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. — "I'm not your real son. Oliver is your real son."

He sobbed, trying to hold back the tears, but they flowed harder.

"Do I have to stop calling you Daddy now?" — he whispered, his voice trembling on every word. — "Now you have your own child. A real one."

Max quickly laid Oliver in his crib and knelt before Oscar, cupping his face in his hands.

"Oscar," — the boy looked up, red and swollen, full of such pain that Max felt his own heart break.

"You are my son," — he said. — "You were my son from the moment we met. And you'll be my son forever. It's not about blood. It's about what I feel for you. And I love you like my son. Oliver doesn't replace you—he completes our family."

Oscar was silent, but his tears flowed harder. He couldn't believe Max meant it.

"Then can I still call you Daddy?" — he asked quietly.

"Only Daddy," — Max pulled him close, hugging him tighter. — "Only that. You'll be my son for the rest of your life. Do you understand?"

"You promise?" — Oscar whispered.

"I promise," — Max said. Oscar buried his face in his shoulder and sobbed—no longer from pain, but from the relief that had finally come.

"I love you, Daddy. And I'll never stop loving you either." — Max hugged him tight, feeling his own tears stream down his cheeks.

"And I love you too, son."