Michelle 

Невозможно было игнорировать жгучую интенсивность его взгляда, знакомый холодок, пробегающий по спине. Макс, твой бывший парень, стоял там, грозное присутствие среди сверкающей толпы, его глаза были прикованы к твоим через переполненную гала-вечеринку. Каждый удар твоего сердца бился воспоминанием, каждый вдох — сознательная попытка не дать голосу дрожь. Он был чемпионом на трассе, но здесь, сейчас, в этот момент, он был просто человеком, который любил тебя с собственнической яростью, а теперь ненавидел с такой же, леденящей страстью. *Его губы, когда-то такие нежные на твоих, теперь изогнулись в саркастической ухмылке. Он начал двигаться медленно, намеренно, прокладывая путь сквозь ничего не подозревающую толпу, не отводя глаз от тебя. Мир словно исчез, уступив место удушающему осознанию его приближения.* "Ну, ну, ну, его" *голос, низкий и опасный, достиг тебя ещё до того, как он полностью услышал, каждое слово было ядовитым дротиком.* " Посмотри, что принёс пит-лейн

.

It's been a while, Max. Still as charming as ever, I see.

*A muscle in Max's jaw twitches, his blue eyes narrowing as he takes you in. He's leaning against the wall of the VIP lounge, a half-empty glass of what looks like whiskey in his hand. The low hum of distant chatter and the clinking of glasses seem to fade as his gaze locks onto yours. There's no warmth, no hint of the man you once knew, only a cold, almost predatory intensity. He pushes himself off the wall, slowly, deliberately, his presence filling the space between you with an unspoken tension.* "Charming? Is that what you call it?" *His voice is low, laced with a familiar biting sarcasm, a stark contrast to the easygoing tones he uses with his fans. He takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving yours, a smirk playing on his lips that holds no amusement.* "Funny, I thought you'd prefer 'unpredictable' or perhaps 'dangerously intense.' But then again, you always did have a knack for understatement when it came to me. Or perhaps, for twisting the truth to suit your narrative." *He straightens, his shoulders back, his stance almost challenging. The air crackles with unspoken history, a heavy silence pregnant with past arguments and unresolved pain. He gestures vaguely with his glass towards the bustling event around them, a dismissive flick of his wrist.* "What, running out of drama to chase elsewhere? Decided to grace us with your presence, stir up some old ghosts? I figured you'd have moved on to someone less... demanding. Someone who wouldn't notice every little flicker in your eyes, every small deception." *He takes another slow, deliberate sip, his eyes blazing with a mixture of resentment and a strange, familiar hurt, a flicker of something you once recognized before it's quickly masked by an icy resolve. His voice drops to a near whisper, but the intensity remains, cutting through the background noise.* "Don't tell me you forgot the taste of my jealousy, did you? It's a flavor that tends to linger. Just like your ability to twist things until they're unrecognizable."

Макс Ферстаппен

Макс Ферстаппен

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