Annbobann

He was twenty, and the world was screaming his name. But inside these four walls, the noise was different. It was the sound of expectations.

"My dad says it’s for the best, Y/N," Lando said, his voice cracking slightly. He didn't turn around. He couldn't. "Mark, the trainers… they all say the same thing. This is my one shot. If I’m thinking about you, about us, about when I’m coming home… I’m not thinking about the apex. I’m not thinking about the win."

Y/N sat perfectly still, her hands tucked into the sleeves of an oversized hoodie—one of his. "So, that’s it? I’m a distraction? After three years, I’ve been downgraded to a line item in a performance review?"

"It’s not like that," he snapped, finally turning. His face was a map of exhaustion and misplaced resolve. "It’s just… it’s too much. The travel, the pressure. I need to be 'all in.' They keep telling me that if I don't give 100% to McLaren right now, I’ll be out before I even start."

He walked over, kneeling in front of her, his hands hovering near her knees before he pulled them back. The rejection was already starting.

"I love you," he whispered, and the words sounded like a goodbye. "I do. But I can't carry the weight of making you happy while I’m carrying the weight of a whole team. It’s not forever. I just need to focus. Please understand."

Y/N looked at him, searching his blue eyes for the boy she’d gone to karting tracks with, but all she saw was a driver looking for an exit strategy. A strange, fluttering nausea stirred in her stomach—she chalked it up to the heartbreak, the stress of the argument. She didn't know yet that it was the first sign of a life they had created together.

"If you walk out to 'focus,' Lando," she said, her voice trembling but certain, "don't expect me to be a trophy waiting on a shelf when you decide you've focused enough."

Lando swallowed hard, the guilt warring with the relentless ambition that had been drilled into him for months. Ambition won.

"I have to go. The car is outside."

He stood up, grabbed his kit bag, and walked out. He didn't look back. He believed he was doing the "right thing" for his future. He believed he was being "professional."

He had no idea he was leaving behind the only part of himself that truly mattered.

Three weeks after the door clicked shut behind Lando, Y/N stood in her bathroom, staring at two pink lines that felt like a death sentence and a miracle all at once. Her first instinct wasn't fear—it was a desperate, aching need to tell him. To tell the boy who used to talk about "one day" with her.

But the boy she knew was gone, replaced by a silhouette behind a visor.

Y/N tried the phone first. It rang and rang until a cold, professional voice informed her the number had been disconnected. She drove to his family home, her heart hammering against her ribs, only to be met at the gate by his father.

"He’s in Spain for testing, Y/N," Adam said, his voice not unkind but terrifyingly firm. He didn't let her past the driveway. "Look, we all saw how hard that breakup was on him. He’s finally focused. He’s finally winning. If you go to him now, if you bring... baggage... you’ll undo months of work. You love him, don't you? Then let him be great."

"It's not baggage, Adam," Y/N whispered, her hand instinctively hovering over her stomach. "It’s his."

The silence that followed was ice-cold. "We’ll take care of you financially, if that’s what this is about. But Lando doesn't need this distraction. Not now. Not ever."

They took his phone "for his mental health" during the transition to the main roster. They filtered his emails. They told him she had moved out of the apartment and hadn't left a forwarding address. When Y/N sent letters, they were intercepted by assistants and shredded before they ever reached the motorhome.

To Lando, it felt like she had vanished. He spent long nights staring at his ceiling in hotel rooms in Melbourne, Baku, and Monaco, wondering how she could have moved on so fast. He told himself it was for the best. He told himself she was happier without the chaos of the paddock.

The next three years were a study in contrast: Lando's reality was a blur of screaming engines, 300km/h corners, podium triumphs, champagne celebrations, and the perpetual, public adoration that came with interviews about "sacrifice" and "dedication."

In contrast, Y/N's world was defined by the soft, rhythmic creak of a nursery rocking chair, the quiet routine of midnight feedings, and the comforting scent of baby powder. Her focus was on working two jobs to maintain a small countryside home and provide a quiet life for her little girl, Daisy, who possessed her father's unmistakable curly hair and mischievous grin.

Lando became a star. He was the "Twitch quadrant" hero, the funny, fast kid at McLaren. But sometimes, during a national anthem or a quiet flight, his mind would drift back to that small apartment.

He’d check her social media, but she had gone dark years ago. He assumed she was married. He assumed she’d forgotten the boy who chose a car over her. He had no idea that every time he appeared on a TV screen, a toddler would point a tiny finger and say, "Dada?" because Y/N couldn't bring herself to erase him entirely.

He was living his dream. She was living the consequence. And the wall between them, built by "well-meaning" friends and family, remained unbreakable.

Until the rain started falling on a slick British motorway, and a truck lost control.

Silverstone. The British Grand Prix. The pinnacle of Lando’s home season. The paddock was a hive of frantic energy, and Lando was at the center of it. He had just finished a grueling media session and was walking back to the McLaren motorhome, his mind occupied by tire degradation and telemetry data.

"Lando, wait," Charlotte, his PR manager, caught up to him, looking uncharacteristically flustered. She held a phone in her hand. "There’s a call on the team line. A lawyer. He says it’s a matter of life and death."

Lando didn't stop. "Tell them to call Mark. I’ve got the technical briefing in five minutes."

"Lando, he didn't call your agent. He called the McLaren front desk and stayed on hold for forty minutes. He said your name is the only one on an old emergency contact form for a Y/N Y/L/N."

Lando stopped dead. The name hit him like a physical blow to the chest, a name he hadn't allowed himself to say out loud for nearly four years. The "distraction" he had successfully buried.

"Give me the phone," he said, his voice suddenly hollow.

He ducked into a private room, the noise of the fans outside muffled by the glass.

"This is Lando Norris."

"Mr. Norris, my name is Arthur Miller. I’m representing the interests of Y/N Y/L/N. There has been a serious motor vehicle accident. Y/N is currently in a medically induced coma at St. Jude’s. Her parents passed away two years ago, and we found your name on an old residential lease agreement and an outdated medical proxy she never changed."

Lando’s hand gripped the edge of the table. "Is she... will she be okay?"

"It’s too early to say. But the reason I am calling you so urgently, Mr. Norris, is because there is a minor involved. A three-year-old girl. Since there are no other relatives on record, Social Services will have to take her into temporary care within the hour unless a known associate can claim her."

Lando’s brain stalled. The math began to do itself in his head, a cruel, relentless calculation. Four years. Three-year-old girl.

"A minor?" Lando whispered. "What are you talking about? She doesn't have a sister."

"She’s not her sister, Mr. Norris," the lawyer said, his tone softening with a touch of grim realization. "She’s her daughter. Daisy. And looking at the birth certificate... the father's section was left blank, but the timeline... well, I imagine you can do the math."

The room felt like it was spinning at 200 mph. The walls closed in. The F1 world—the trophies, the points, the "focus" his family had demanded—felt like a tasteless joke.

"She has a child," Lando repeated, his voice cracking. "That’s not possible. She would have told me. I... I would have known."

"Mr. Norris, she is in a coma. The child is currently sitting in a hospital waiting room with a social worker. She’s asking for her 'Mummy' and she’s terrified. We need to know if you are coming, or if we proceed with emergency foster placement."

Lando didn't think about the technical briefing. He didn't think about the British Grand Prix. He didn't think about what his father would say about "distractions."

"I'm coming," Lando said, his voice shaking with a mixture of terror and a sudden, fierce protective instinct he didn't know he possessed. "Don't let them take her. I'm coming right now."

Lando walked out of the room, ignoring the shouts of his engineers. He saw his father at the end of the hall, looking at his watch.

"Lando, we're late for the—"

Lando didn't even look at him. He pushed past, his eyes blurred with tears he hadn't shed in years. "She had a baby, Dad. And you knew, didn't you? You all knew."

He didn't wait for an answer. He ran for the car.

The lawyer, Arthur Miller, met Lando in a small, windowless consultation room just down the hall from the ICU. On the table between them sat a thick manila folder, its edges frayed. Inside was a meticulously documented trail of the life Lando had been denied.

Arthur began to lay out the evidence: copies of letters with "Return to Sender" stamped in aggressive red ink, logs of phone calls to the McLaren headquarters that never made it past the reception desk, and legal notices sent to his family’s home address that had been signed for by his father’s assistant.

Lando stared at the dates. He saw a letter sent the week of his first podium in Austria. He saw a call log from the night he signed his multi-year contract extension. Every milestone in his career was shadowed by a desperate attempt from Y/N to reach him. The realization hit him like a physical impact—his "focus" hadn't been a choice he made alone; it was a cage built around him by the people he trusted most.

He collapsed into the plastic chair, his head in his hands, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The rage was a cold, sharp blade in his chest, directed at his family, his management, and most of all, himself for being so easily led.

When he finally entered Y/N's room, the anger vanished, replaced by a crushing, suffocating guilt. She looked so small amidst the forest of monitors and IV poles. Her skin was translucent, the blue veins at her temples visible beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. He sat by her bed, reaching out to touch her hand, but his fingers trembled so violently he had to pull back. He was a stranger here. He had no right to hold her hand when he hadn't been there to hold her through the morning sickness, the labor, or the long nights of a feverish toddler.

He began to whisper to her, his voice thick with tears that finally broke free. He told her about the folder, about the letters he never saw, and the phone calls he never got. He begged her to wake up, telling her he would give up every trophy, every point, and every second of fame just to go back to that afternoon in the apartment and stay.

He repeated "I didn't know" like a mantra, a desperate prayer that if he said it enough, the last four years of her struggle would somehow be erased.

He didn't notice the door creak open or the small shadow that slipped into the room. Daisy had been brought back from the cafeteria, a half-eaten biscuit clutched in her hand.

She stood by the foot of the bed, watching the man with the curly hair sob over her mother’s hand. She didn't know who he was, only that he was wearing a shirt with the same "swish" logo she saw on the television sometimes when her mother thought she was asleep.

Lando wiped his eyes, noticing the movement. He looked at the little girl—his daughter—and felt a terrifying mix of love and inadequacy. He didn't know how to be a father; he didn't even know her middle name.

He tried to offer a small, broken smile, but Daisy just tilted her head, her expression one of solemn, haunting curiosity. She took a step closer to the bed, her eyes darting between Lando’s tear-stained face and her mother’s still form.

"Are you the man Mommy cries about in her sleep?" she asked, her voice clear and innocent.

The question felt like a final, killing blow. Lando couldn't answer. He could only look at the little girl who had spent her entire life watching her mother mourn a man who was only a few hours away, too busy "focusing" to notice the world he had left behind.

The transition from the ventilator to breathing on her own had been a slow, grueling process, but finally, the room was quiet. When Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, the first thing she saw wasn't the sterile hospital ceiling, but Lando’s face.

He looked older, his features sharpened by the stress of the last few days and the weight of the secrets he now carried. He was leaning forward in the plastic chair, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. For a heartbeat, the four years vanished, and they were just Lando and Y/N again.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice thick with a relief so intense it bordered on pain. "You’re back. You’re okay." He reached out, his fingers hovering near her hand on the railing of the bed, desperate for a connection he hadn't felt in years.

But as the fog of the coma cleared, Y/N’s expression shifted. The warmth he expected didn't come. Instead, her eyes grew guarded, distant, and cold. She didn't pull her hand away—she didn't have the strength yet—but she went perfectly still, a silent wall rising between them that no championship trophy could ever scale.

The silence in the room became heavy, suffocating the apologies Lando had been practicing for days. He began to stumble through an explanation, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. He told her about the lawyer, the folder of intercepted letters, and the way his family had manipulated the silence.

He wanted her to know that he hadn't ignored her on purpose, that he hadn't chosen to be a "star in the sky" while she struggled on the ground. He expected her to be angry at his father or the team, but as he spoke, she only watched him with a weary, heartbreaking clarity.

"I know they did that, Lando," she said, her voice a dry, fragile rasp. "I figured it out a long time ago. I knew you weren't that cruel." She took a shallow breath, her gaze moving toward the door where she knew her daughter was waiting.

Then, she looked back at him, and the look in her eyes was worse than any anger he could have imagined. It was indifference mixed with a deep, permanent scar. "But you still left. Even if you didn't know everything… you left."

Lando felt the air leave his lungs. He tried to argue, to say it was for his career, that he was young and pressured, but the words died in his throat. She was right. Before the lies, before the blocked calls, and before the baby, there had been a choice.

He had stood in their apartment and decided that she was a "distraction" he could no longer afford. The family's interference was just the salt in a wound he had already carved. She didn't offer him a hug; she didn't offer him forgiveness. She only offered him the cold, hard truth of his own ambition.

"I won't keep you from her," Y/N continued, her voice gaining a tiny spark of maternal steel. "You can meet Daisy. You can be in her life because she deserves to know who you are. But you don't get to walk in here and demand a family. You don't get to play the hero because you finally found out the truth. You’re a stranger to her, Lando. And right now, you’re almost a stranger to me."

She closed her eyes, signaling the end of the conversation. Lando sat in the silence, realizing that while he had finally caught up to the life he had left behind, the distance between them was still miles wide.

The transition from the roar of the paddock to the quiet, rhythmic demands of a three-year-old’s life was a shock Lando hadn't prepared for. He traded his simulator sessions for a crash course in toddler survival, staying in a modest rental near the rehabilitation center where Y/N was beginning her long road to recovery.

He didn't post about his "transformation" on social media; he didn't call the team to brag about his dedication. He simply showed up every morning at 7:00 AM, his designer clothes replaced by plain hoodies that Daisy could wipe her sticky hands on.

He was learning that in this world, lap times meant nothing—what mattered was the exact ratio of milk to cocoa and the specific way a favorite stuffed rabbit had to be tucked under a chin.

Daisy, however, remained a puzzle that no amount of telemetry could solve. She didn't see the world-famous driver; she saw a man who was taking up space in her mother’s room. She treated him like an intruder, a polite stranger she tolerated only because her "Mummy" said it was okay.

The most devastating moment came on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Daisy had tripped over a rug and scraped her elbow, the sudden pain triggering a torrent of tears. Lando had instinctively reached out to scoop her up, his heart racing with a desperate need to comfort her.

But Daisy had shrunk back, her face red and distorted as she wailed for her mother, her small hands pushing against Lando’s chest as if he were a threat.

He stood there, his arms empty and his chest aching, forced to watch the nurse comfort her instead. He realized then that loving someone didn't give him control over their heart, and just showing up didn't guarantee him the right to be the one who stopped the crying.

Determined to earn his place, Lando started with the small things. He spent forty minutes one morning attempting to comb Daisy’s hair before her mother’s physical therapy session. His hands, usually so steady at two hundred miles per hour, were clumsy and trembling as he navigated the thick, unruly curls he had passed down to her.

The resulting ponytail was a disaster—lopsided, frizzy, and held together by a mismatched collection of ribbons. He looked at his handiwork, then at Y/N, who was watching him from her wheelchair with a weary, unreadable expression.

He didn't make a joke to lighten the mood. He didn't complain about how hard it was. He just looked at the tangle of hair and promised he would do better the next day. He was learning to listen more than he spoke, absorbing the reproaches and the long, heavy silences that followed his failed attempts at being "Dad."

The air between him and Y/N remained thick with the ghosts of the last four years.

One evening, after Daisy had finally fallen asleep in the small cot by Y/N’s bed, Lando tried to speak about the future. He spoke of houses, of security, of "making up" for the time they had lost, his voice filled with the frantic energy of a man trying to pit-stop his way out of a disaster.

Y/N listened until he ran out of breath, her gaze cold and steady. She told him that four years of being a single mother, of hospital bills, and of watching him celebrate on TV while she struggled to buy diapers couldn't be solved with a checkbook or a change of heart.

"You don't get to fix this with good intentions, Lando," she whispered, her voice like ice. "You can’t just decide to be a hero now because it’s convenient."

Lando didn't look away, nor did he mention his family’s lies again. He simply sat back in the hard plastic chair, the same one he had slept in for a week. "I know," he replied, his voice quiet but unwavering. "I’m here anyway."

The shift in Daisy’s heart didn’t happen with a grand gesture; it happened in the quiet, messy spaces of the everyday.

One afternoon, while Lando was attempting to draw a "fast car" for her with a set of cheap hospital crayons, he accidentally drew the wheels in the wrong place. Daisy let out a sudden, high-pitched giggle—the first genuine sound of joy he had heard from her. She grabbed the crayon from his hand and began to "fix" it, her small shoulder leaning against his arm with a casualness that stole his breath.

From that day on, she began to seek him out, asking for "Lando" when she woke up from her naps and reaching for his hand when they walked the long, sanitized hallways to visit Y/N.

Y/N watched these interactions from the periphery, her silence no longer a weapon but a place of observation. She saw him sitting on the floor for hours, his long legs cramped, just to be at Daisy's eye level. She noticed that he didn't check his phone every five minutes or talk about his lap times.

Most importantly, she saw that his guilt wasn't a performance designed to get him back into her good graces. It was a quiet, heavy mantle he wore with humility. He didn't ask for credit for the sleepless nights or the endless errands; he simply performed them as if they were his penance, expecting nothing in return.

The breaking point for Y/N’s resolve came during a late-night phone call Lando took in the hallway, unaware that the door to her room was slightly ajar. It was his management team, their voices loud and frantic even through the speaker.

There was a mandatory sponsor gala in Monaco, followed by a high-stakes filming day that was "non-negotiable" for his contract. It was the kind of event the "old" Lando would have moved mountains to attend—the kind of "opportunity" his family would have insisted was vital for his future.

"I’m not coming," Lando said, his voice low but unshakable.

"Lando, the penalties for missing this are insane," his manager argued. "It’s forty-eight hours. We’ll have you back before she even notices you’re gone."

"Daisy has her first developmental assessment with the trauma specialist on Thursday," Lando replied, and Y/N felt a lump form in her throat as she realized he had memorized the schedule she thought he wasn't paying attention to. "She’s scared of the doctors. She needs to see me there when she comes out. Find another way to fix the contract, or don't. I’m staying here."

He hung up before they could argue further and walked back into the room, tucking the phone away as if he hadn't just put his multi-million-dollar career on the line for a three-year-old’s doctor's appointment.

He didn't mention the call to her. He didn't brag about the sacrifice. He just sat back down and picked up a half-finished puzzle Daisy had left on the bed. Y/N watched him for a long time, the familiar silhouette of the boy she had loved now inhabited by the man he had become.

The bitterness that had anchored her for four years didn't vanish, but it shifted, making room for something she hadn't felt since the day he left: hope.

"You're going to get in trouble with Zak," she said softly, her voice the most gentle it had been since she woke up.

Lando looked up, startled that she had been listening. He shrugged, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. "Let them be cross. I've spent four years winning races I don't remember. I'm not missing a single second of the things I'll never forget."

She didn't say she forgave him. She didn't reach out to hold his hand. But for the first time, she didn't look away. She simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment that for the first time in his life, Lando Norris was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The day Y/N was finally discharged felt more daunting than any race start Lando had ever faced. The hospital had been a safety net of sorts—a place of schedules and professionals where his role was clearly defined as a visitor.

Now, as he pushed her wheelchair through the sliding glass doors and into the crisp morning air, the "real world" felt vast and unforgiving.

He had rented a quiet house in the Cotswolds, far from the prying eyes of the London paparazzi and the suffocating reach of his management. It was a place for them to disappear, even if only for a while.

The process of getting Y/N into the car was a delicate dance of careful movements and unspoken tension. Lando was hyper-aware of her every wince, his hands steady as he supported her weight, but he was equally conscious of the space she still kept between them.

In the back seat, Daisy was a whirlwind of excitement, kicking her legs against her car seat and chanting "Home, home, home" like a rhythmic mantra. Lando caught Y/N’s eye in the rearview mirror as they pulled away from the hospital, and for a split second, the coldness flickered.

She looked exhausted, her face pale against the dark upholstery, but she was looking at the back of Daisy’s head with a look of such profound love that it made Lando’s chest ache with the weight of everything he had missed.

When they arrived at the house, the reality of "family life" hit him with the force of a high-speed collision. There were no assistants to unload the car, no trainers to prep his meals, and no PR team to script his interactions.

There was only a three-year-old who wanted to show her mother every single flower in the garden and a woman who needed help just to navigate the hallway.

Lando spent the afternoon in a blur of activity: he carried the luggage, he struggled with the complex locking mechanism on the new stroller, and he attempted to make a simple pasta dinner while Daisy tried to "help" by throwing handfuls of dry noodles across the kitchen floor.

The turning point of the day came in the late afternoon. Y/N was resting on the sofa, her legs propped up on cushions, watching Lando attempt to settle Daisy for a nap. The little girl was overtired and cranky, her demands for "one more story" turning into a tearful meltdown.

Instead of calling for Y/N or getting frustrated, Lando simply sat on the floor by the bed, pulled Daisy into his lap, and began to hum a low, wordless melody. He stayed there for twenty minutes, his back against the wall, until the toddler’s breathing went deep and even.

When he walked back into the living room, Y/N was still watching him. The silence between them wasn't as sharp as it had been in the hospital; it felt softer, more like a tentative peace treaty.

She watched as he quietly began to pick up the discarded toys, moving with a domestic grace she hadn't known he possessed. He wasn't the "Twitch" star or the McLaren poster boy in that moment; he was just a man trying to figure out how to be a father to a girl who didn't yet know his last name.

"You're getting better at the hair," she said softly, nodding toward the messy but functional braid he’d managed to put in Daisy’s hair earlier that morning.

Lando stopped, a half-eaten crust of toast in his hand, and looked at her. He didn't smile—it felt too early for that—but his expression was open and honest. "I've been practicing on a mop in the kitchen," he admitted, his voice quiet so as not to wake the sleeping child.

Y/N let out a breath that was almost a laugh, a sound that felt like the first drop of rain after a long drought. "Lando," she began, then hesitated, her fingers tracing the hem of the blanket he’d tucked around her. "I still don't know if I can do this. I don't know if 'us' exists anymore."

"I know," Lando replied, leaning against the doorframe. "You don't have to decide anything today. Or tomorrow. I’m just glad I’m the one who gets to make you tea while you figure it out."

It was this domestic peace—the sight of his daughter safe and the woman he loved finally home—that gave him the final, iron-clad resolve he needed. He looked at his phone, seeing three missed calls from his father and a dozen urgent emails from his manager. The "real world" was calling, and it was time to tell them exactly what they had done.

The confrontation didn't happen in a heated moment at the house; it happened in the quiet, suffocating luxury of the Norris family home. Lando had waited until Y/N was stable, until he had the evidence—the "Return to Sender" stamps, the logs of blocked numbers, and the legal threats his father’s lawyers had sent to Y/N while she was pregnant.

He walked into the living room not as the young driver looking for approval, but as a father who had been robbed of his daughter’s first three years of life. He dropped the manila folder onto the mahogany coffee table with a sound that seemed to echo like a gunshot.

His father, Adam, looked at the folder and then at Lando, his expression remaining composed, almost paternal.

He began the same speech Lando had heard since he was seven years old: the talk of sacrifices, the narrow window of opportunity in F1, and the "unfortunate distractions" that could derail a multi-million dollar career.

He admitted to the interference without a hint of shame, framing it as a necessary shield.

"We did it to protect your future, Lando," his father said, his voice steady. "She was a complication you weren't ready for. We made the choice you were too young and too emotional to make for yourself. Look at where you are now—you’re a world-class athlete because we cleared the path for you."

Lando felt a wave of nausea so strong it made his head spin. The "protection" they were so proud of had resulted in a woman he loved nearly dying alone, a child growing up thinking her father was a ghost, and a void in his own soul that no trophy could ever fill.

He realized then that to his family, he wasn't a person—he was a brand, a high-performance machine that needed to be kept in a sterile environment. They hadn't just hidden a child from him; they had stolen his agency, his morality, and the chance to be the man Y/N actually deserved.

"You didn't protect my future," Lando said, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a rage that silenced the room. "You burned it. You let the mother of my child struggle for air while I was spraying champagne on a podium. You let my daughter wonder why her dad didn't want her."

He stepped closer, his eyes cold and unwavering. "If I ever find out you’ve contacted her again, or if you ever try to speak to Daisy without my explicit permission, I will walk away from every contract, every sponsor, and every tie I have to this name. I’m not your 'project' anymore. I’m her father. And I’m Y/N’s partner—if she’ll still have me."

He left the house without looking back, leaving the "perfect" career behind for the messy, difficult, and beautiful reality waiting for him in Cotswolds.

He had spent his whole life being told that F1 was everything, but as he drove back toward the woman who didn't forgive him and the little girl who was just beginning to trust him, he knew he had finally found something worth the fight.

The house in the Cotswolds had finally begun to feel like a home rather than a hiding place. The scent of antiseptic had been replaced by the smell of vanilla candles and the lingering aroma of the shepherd's pie Lando had attempted to make for dinner.

It was nearly midnight, and the silence of the countryside was absolute, broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards. Daisy was tucked into her bed upstairs, surrounded by a fleet of stuffed animals and dreaming of the "fast cars" she now associated with the man who read her bedtime stories every single night without fail.

Lando was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a damp dishcloth in his hand, staring at a stack of clean plates. His hair was a mess, his eyes were shadowed by the kind of deep, domestic exhaustion that no amount of caffeine could fix, and he was wearing an old pair of joggers with a faint smudge of strawberry jam on the leg.

He looked nothing like the polished athlete on the posters. He looked like a man who had spent the last six months fighting a war against his own past, trying to prove he was worth the space he took up in this house.

Y/N walked into the kitchen slowly, her movement more fluid now, though she still favored her left side. She watched him for a moment, seeing the way his shoulders slumped when he thought no one was looking.

She saw the quiet, steady constancy he had brought into their lives—the way he handled the tantrums, the way he navigated her bad days with a patience that was almost painful to witness. The anger that had been her armor for four years hadn't disappeared, but it had grown heavy, a burden she was tired of carrying.

"Lando," she said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

He turned, a flicker of the old uncertainty in his eyes. He always looked like he was waiting for the moment she would tell him his time was up, that the "trial period" of being a father and a partner was over.

"Hey," he replied, his voice a tired rasp. "Everything okay? Do you need your meds?"

"No," she said, stepping into the warm glow of the yellow kitchen light. She stood in front of him, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes and the tension in his jaw. She reached out, her fingers grazing the back of his hand.

"I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that day in the apartment. About the letters. About everything your family did. And I’ve realized that I can’t change the past, and I can’t forget the years I spent alone."

She paused, her gaze steady. "I don't forgive what happened. The things they did, the time we lost… I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with that. But I forgive you, Lando."

The dishcloth slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. Lando didn't say anything at first; he just stood there, the words sinking into him like water into parched earth. Then, his face crumpled. The boyish, resilient mask he wore for the world finally shattered.

He leaned his forehead against her shoulder and began to cry—not the quiet, polite tears of a man who was sorry, but the deep, racking sobs of someone who had finally been allowed to come home. He clutched her to him, his hands trembling as he held onto the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

He didn't make a grand, cinematic speech. He didn't promise her a life of perfection or a world without mistakes. He knew he couldn't fix the four years he had missed, and he knew they still had a mountain of "normal" life to climb.

When he finally pulled back, his face was red and damp, but his eyes were clearer than they had been in years. He looked at her, then up toward the ceiling where their daughter was sleeping, and then back at the woman who had given him a second chance he didn't deserve.

"I'm not leaving again," he whispered, a simple, unbreakable vow. "I don't care about the noise, the pressure, or the career. I’m not going anywhere."

Y/N didn't say anything, but she didn't pull away. She simply took his hand and led him out of the kitchen, turning off the light and leaving the ghosts of the past in the dark. They walked up the stairs together—a driver who had finally found his pace, and a woman who had finally found her peace.

Twelve months had passed since the silence of the ICU was replaced by the chaotic, beautiful noise of a toddler’s laughter. The transition hadn't been seamless; there were still days when the weight of the lost years sat heavy in the room, and moments when Y/N would catch Lando’s eye and he would see a flicker of the old hurt.

But they had stopped trying to be the couple they were at twenty. They were building something new—something forged in the fire of truth rather than the fragile innocence of youth. Lando had learned that honesty wasn't just about telling the truth; it was about showing up when things were hard, messy, and unglamorous.

On the track, the "new" Lando was a revelation. The paddock noticed the change immediately—the frantic, nervous energy of his early years had been replaced by a grounded, iron-clad composure. He was faster because he was no longer racing to escape his life; he was racing to get back to it.

His podium interviews were shorter, his focus sharper, and he had gained a reputation for a quiet, unwavering maturity that commanded respect from every corner of the grid.

He still flew the McLaren colors with pride, but the team knew that the moment the champagne was sprayed, he was headed for the heliport. The "distraction" his family had feared had become the very thing that made him a champion.

Daisy had become his shadow. She knew exactly which days the "vroom-vroom" car was on TV, and she had a miniature McLaren cap that she wore with a pride that made Lando’s heart swell every time he saw it.

She didn't just know who her father was; she knew him as the man who could make the best pancakes, the man who read The Very Hungry Caterpillar with all the funny voices, and the man who always, always came back through the front door.

The trauma of the hospital had faded into a blurred memory, replaced by the security of a father who had fought the world to be by her side.

Y/N’s love for him was a garden that had been reclaimed from the frost. It was careful, protected by boundaries and nurtured by the small, everyday acts of devotion Lando provided.

She still had her "bad days"—moments of phantom pain or flashes of resentment—but she no longer faced them alone.

She watched him now as he sat on the porch of their home, the setting sun casting long shadows across the grass. He was holding Daisy, who had fallen asleep mid-sentence, her curly head tucked under his chin. There were no cameras here, no PR agents, and no roaring engines.

Lando looked up and saw Y/N standing in the doorway, a soft smile playing on her lips. He didn't say anything, but the look he gave her was a promise kept. He reached out his free hand, and she took it, her fingers interlacing with his.

The world outside might still be screaming his name, but in the golden light of the Cotswolds, the only sound that mattered was the steady heartbeat of a family that had finally found its way home.

They weren't perfect, and they weren't the people they used to be, but as they stood there together in the quiet, they were exactly where they were meant to be.

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

Sure, he had great reaction time, was athletic, could probably match a beat, but dance? Being out of his element, Max could only make a few demands: nothing that required him to be flexible, nothing that would make him make a fool of himself on camera. That's how they landed on some kind of ballroom dancing, but it didn't settle the strange feeling in Max's stomach that arose anytime he tried something truly new. 

"You ready?" Some assistant says, leading him down the hallway of some fancy Dutch dance school. They'd rented out a studio for three days, arranged some high-up dance instructor to help him. Three days, he tries to remind himself as he takes in the walls lined with trophies and photos and ignores the rare dancer giving him odd looks as he passes.

It would be three long, hard, weird days, but at least he reasoned, it wasn't ballet, or anything fancy, and it was only three days. "Mr. Verstappen!" An elderly woman greets him, happily extending a hand for him to shake. "We're so excited for you to join us this week." 

"I should warn you, it's going to be a long week," Max laughs, knowing the cameras trailing him are on. "I'm not exactly a dancer." 

"Nonsense," The woman says warmly, patting his arm. "Everyone can learn to dance, no matter the age." 

The door across the hall from them bursts open and a group of young dancers tumble out, laughing and whispering as they move their way down the hall, and Max is transported to a memory. There used to be a dance studio in the same parking lot as Max's old karting track, and on the nights when karting ran late, Max used to be able to make out the image of the backlit little dancers through the large, glass windows. It was the sort of memory Max hadn't thought of in a while, and it did nothing to ease his churning stomach. "Putting me into the junior level, hm?" 

"Ah, they're just excited because they had a special visitor today. One of the best dancers in Europe is here! She just finished an international ballet tour." A moment later, a woman appears in the doorway, and Max almost recognizes her. Perhaps he'd seen her advertised, somewhere, seeing as she was some famous ballerina. Her eyes turn to him, and the moment their gazes lock, Max is sent back to a chainlink fence on a cold, dim night. 

You.

"Max?" 

-

Max hadn't meant to wander away from the track, but sometimes, and only sometimes, he felt bad when his dad was yelling at people. Tonight it was some attendant who did something wrong, again, and Max had decided to wait out the growing storm by the back fence, where, to his surprise, a princess sat on the other side, picking at the flowers and weeds. 

"Oh." Max says, and you look up, a matching sour expression as his. "What are you doing here?" 

"Waiting for my mom to finish yelling at my instructors." You answer softly, and Max found himself smiling as he plopped himself down across from you. He knew that feeling well. "What are you doing here?" 

"Waiting for my dad to finish yelling at the attendants." You smile back, and it looks like his. He wasn't used to people relating to him, especially not princesses. "You look like a princess." Max says, and you adjust your skirt so as not to let any dirt get onto it.

"You look...cozy." You say, gesturing to his suit. "Like strange pyjamas." 

Max gasps, clutching his hands to his race suit. Pyjamas! These were fireproofs, the thing that kept him safe from accidents, the things that were his second skin at this point.

They were very cool.

Did they really look like pyjamas? "They are not! It's my racing suit." 

"Racing suit?" He gestures behind him to the dimly lit track. 

"For karting. You know about karting?" You shake your head, and it's a shame, really, that not everyone knew about karting. Max loved it, the speed, the fun, the hard work. It was a lot of hard work, but his father had shown him that it was worth it, all the yelling and energy and time away from everyone else. He was already winning trophies, travelling around Europe to race against people older and bigger and more powerful than him.

Though he wasn't supposed to boast, he always won. 

You rip up a handful of grass, and in an attempt to show solidarity, Max does the same. "All I do is dance." 

"All I do is kart." You look at him, and Max shoves the grass he ripped up through the fence, and it falls onto the ground beside your hand. You pick it up and shove it back through the fence, and the two of you do that back and forth, giggling, until Max realizes how strange it is. He wasn't supposed to be wasting time, talking to random people through fences, but he'd never done it before. He had a very small circle, so meeting someone new, who was truly new, was different. "Do you like dancing?" 

"I like certain kinds of dancing." You answer properly, all-knowing about the subject, and Max happily took your word for it. Looking back on it, Max thinks you were probably just trying to show off. "I like ballet, and ballroom dancing, and sometimes jazz. Do you like karting?" 

"I'm going to do more than karting some day. I've going to race actual cars." The side door to the dance studio opens, casting a harsh orange square across the lot and onto you, and Max squints up at an angry figure. 

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" You scramble to your feet, using the fence to rise, and in his own fleeting attempt to avoid getting in trouble, Max does the same, and ends up putting his hand over yours through the fence. The person he assumes to be your mother doesn't really notice him, face scrunched up as she glares at you. Max knew what that felt like, too. He'd think parents would be nicer to princesses, but his father wasn't any nicer to him for being a champion, so he supposes you have that in common. "I told you to wait in the car! You're going to get grass stains everywhere." 

You turn to look back at Max, hands still touching, and you offer a small smile. "Good luck with your racing." 

"Good luck with your dancing." Then, because he realizes he never introduced himself, "I'm Max." 

"Let's go!" You leave before Max can catch your name, and he returns to the garage before his father can yell at him like that. 

-

"Oh." Max responds somewhat dumbly, taking in the grown-up version of you. You were wrapped in a black leotard and skirt, a stark contrast to the pale pinks he used to remember you in. You had matured, though your features were still as soft as his memories, something peaceful, almost sad about you. You were pretty, but Max had always thought that about you.

When boys used to talk about crushes and how far they'd gone with girls, way back when, he used to brag that he'd held hands with a girl before, only he left out the part that it was accidental, and through a fence, and that he was maybe 8 years old. "You know each other?" The woman asks, and you finally smile, and Max thinks he might melt into the floor beneath him. 

"My old dance studio used to be in the same lot as one of his old karting tracks. We haven't seen each other in..." Years, enough that he can't count them all. He'd sort of wondered about you, every so often, on clear nights and in parking lots. He'd picture you on a stage somewhere, and considering you'd just got back from some international tour, it seems you both achieved your dreams. "In a long, long time." You finally settle on as your eyes take him in, slowly scanning his body, and he's terrified of what you see. He was most certainly grown, compared to his chubby and then lanky childhood self, but the hair, the stubble, he had no idea if he had matured as gracefully as you had, and he finds himself awkwardly rubbing at his cheek to disguise the patchiness of it. "What are you doing here?" 

It takes Max a minute to realize it's a question he can answer. "F1 is partnering with different arts...things. They want me to learn how to dance. I race for Formula One, now." 

"I know." It had felt stupid to say, but he wasn't sure you'd have any interest in the world of racing, outside of knowing him. But you knew that he'd made it, and that little smile you're giving him is making him feel like a young boy again. You glance around him and clue in that there are cameras on you, and Max watches something change in you, a performer coming out to take the place of who he used to know as you politely wave at the camera. "Well, you're in the right place for it. It's a wonderful school. What are they making you do?" 

"Ballroom." The woman answers, and you shake your head with a fake smile, and Max had never realized how quickly he was able to pick things up about a person, let alone one he hadn't known for a long, long time. 

"You'll want a waltz, then." You answer easily. "I'm not sure about teaching you to tango." 

"Would you want to?" Both of your heads whip to stare at the woman, who smiles blindly back. "I mean, if you already know each other, you'd be better suited than I would be. Plus, I'm sure Mr. Verstappen wouldn't mind a younger, better dancer to teach him." 

You turn to look at Max, facade slipping, and he wishes he knew what you thought when you saw him. "Well?" Max finally says, trying to keep his voice steady. "For old times sake?" 

"Well." You answer slowly, as Max realizes how much he's asking of a stranger. You didn't really know each other, didn't really have much to do besides stare at each other strangely in a hallway, but it felt like more. It felt like it should mean more. "For old times sake." 

-

As much as Jos had been hard on Max, your mother had been hard on you. She was some famous dancer in another life, some great performer who travelled the world and took plenty of lovers and brought you into the mix. You don't remember much of your early life on the road, but you do remember when she first enrolled you in a dance class.

You hadn't stopped since. It had been one goal after another: get into a good dance school, get into a good company, build up your resume, get into a prestigious company, travel the world, get out of her hair and be a pawn for her to brag about. It was one stage after another, another audition, another rehearsal; it was a constant cycle that never ceased, and no one ever really knew how you felt. 

Except Max.

Some random boy you only saw in parking lots, who took over the world of racing by storm, whose father yelled when your mother did. 

And now, he was sitting on a studio floor, awkwardly trying to stretch himself as you stared, and tried to keep yourself composed. It had been a childhood infatuation, catching up with his races, celebrating his wins in dressing rooms alone. You were trying to not make a fool of yourself, but it was hard when you had so much history and yet so little spoken between the two of you. "The lady said you just finished an international tour." Max tries to make conversation, leaning to touch his toes. 

"I was Aurora, in Sleeping Beauty." It was an honour. There was so much to say about the experience, so many people, so many memories. All the children in the audience, watching in awe. That had been you, once, and you had finally made it to where you had wanted to be. You would never, ever voice it aloud, but it somehow hadn't satisfied the pit in your stomach. You had done enough, surely, so why didn't it feel like it? 

"A princess!" Max says, head snapping up to look at you as you try to hide how much it makes you smile. He always said you looked like a princess in all your costumes, and you still think his look like grown-up onesies. "I called that." 

"For those wondering," You say up to the camera, "Max used to say all of my costumes were princesses. He didn't understand the difference between them." 

You had grown used to that, too. The camera presence, the collaborations, the sponsorships. You were stuck between putting on a good show for Formula 1, and for the school, and getting to know Max again. It was a hard thing to balance when all you wanted to do was join him on the floor and talk about all the things you never got to. "Well, they all look like princesses, even the swans." 

"You remember that?" Max's eyes don't quite meet yours as he moves to stretch out the other leg. 

"Of course I do." 

-

It was the very first snowfall of winter. It was light, not yet able to cover the ground, but it was still frigid, and the perfect opportunity for photos, your mother had insisted. You were in Swan Lake, after all, so getting some nice photos of you in actual snow would be good for some portfolio or another. It was your dream role, you think, to be the actual White Swan, to play Odette. It had gone to someone else, much to your mother's annoyance. 

She had used this photoshoot as a way to cheer you up, she'd said. Didn't make it any less cold, any less miserable. You strike another pose, pushing up onto your pointe shoes, hands resting perfectly above you. "Hands." Your mother reminds you, and you stare up at them as if they hold the answer to their own misdoing. You shift your fingers and hope it's right. "I told you not to overdo it on the blush." 

"Blush?" Your hands find your cheeks, feet resting back on the hard pavement of the parking lot. You hadn't applied much blush at all - perhaps it was the cold. "I'm just cold." 

"Don't complain!" A car pulls up, and your mother glowers at its headlights ruining the photos. To your delight, Max gets out of the car, though it does nothing to help your apparently overblushed cheeks. It was always nice, to see him in passing. The other girls liked to watch the karters, sometimes, point out the ones they thought were cute from the windows of the studio. Max had always been your favourite, because he thought you were a princess. 

"What are you doing?" His father says to your mother, making the both of you freeze. "You're taking up the race track's parking spots!" 

Your mother had dragged out one of the moveable backdrops, a deep blue one that let the snow show up, and set it up in the empty lot. She plants a hand on her hip, camera waving wildly in the other as she responds. "This lot is available to both the studio and the track! I am perfectly within my right to be here." 

"Another princess?" Max offers quietly as he approaches, fingers idly drumming against his helmet. 

"Swan, actually." You correct him, fluffing out your feathers. 

"A swan princess?" He just had to rub it in, didn't he? You scowl, and Max quickly apologizes. "Sorry, I didn't know." 

"I didn't get cast as the White Swan." You complain, rubbing your arms to keep yourself warm. "I'm just a background swan." 

"This half of the lot is for the track, that half is for your little dancers. You need to take this all down." For no other reason than to show off, you bounce back up onto one foot, now taller than Max. He smiles up at you, going up on his own tiptoes to try and match your height. 

"You look more like a fluffy angel than a swan." He jokes, and he was right, considering the wings were made from an angel costume tucked away in one of the studio's costume closets. "Who would want to be a duck anyway?" 

Your mother says a word you don't understand, and Max's eyebrows raise in shock. "What does that mean?" 

"Oh," Max breathes out, quickly shaking his head. "Nothing. Just don't repeat it." 

"Come on, I'm old enough, you can tell me." You didn't actually know how old Max was, and considering the look he's giving you, he doesn't know how old you are. "I'm eleven." 

"I'm also eleven." Max answers, finally resting back on his feet. "But princesses shouldn't know bad words." 

"I thought I was a fluffy angel." Finally, it seems your parents have realized you're talking, and Max's dad snaps his fingers at the boy and points to the track. 

"Distracted by the pretty ballerina, are we? Get going!" Max offers a small wave which you return as your mother grabs your wrist and hauls you toward the studio.

-

"So, a waltz is what we call a box step, because you're moving around in a square." You hold out your hands to Max, and he slips them into yours, and he hopes they feel as nice in yours as yours feel in his. You're directing him into different steps, one forward, to the side, then his feet slide together as yours do the same, and for a moment, he thinks he has it until he spares a glance up and finds you staring at him, a softness to your expression that he hasn't been awarded in a while. "You're alright," You soothe, "Just fall back into the box step. Forward," 

"To the side," Max continues, "Then together." 

"You're a quick learner." You say as you stop, letting his hands fall from your grip. "No wonder you're world champion." 

World champion. It was a title he was given often, but it seemed strange coming from you. "You followed my races?" 

"You're a very important man here in the Netherlands." You say, moving over to grab your phone. You spare a glance at the film crew, showing them your Spotify page. "I'm going to play copyrighted music, is that an issue?" 

"We just won't record audio for this portion, then." The boom operator says, setting down the mic. "We can fill in music over it." 

You put on something soft and slow, and you return to him, and this time, you gently place a hand on his shoulder and extend the other, and Max's hand finds your waist, careful in his hold on you. His other hand slots into yours, and this close, he wonders if you can feel how fast his heart is pounding. It's ridiculous, he can hear his father say in the back of his mind, to be this worked up over some ballerina, someone he hasn't seen in so long, but a young version of him is still tucked away somewhere in his chest, and has come to life at seeing you again. "Now, I want you to do the box step without looking at your feet. Just look at me, and try to get it. It's alright if you stumble or step on my feet, it is your first day." 

"Did you ever watch my races?" Max asks, somewhat selfishly, now that the microphones are off. It's just you and him, and he can ask whatever he likes and no one else will be able to hear over the music. He begins the box step, awkwardly hitting your feet as he goes, but his eyes don't break from yours. 

"When I could. I was in Vienna, when you got your first world champion win." You answer, moving as if this melodic sway is simply second nature. He's not sure how to take the admission, that you could remember exactly where you were when he first won. "I know it's silly, since we were children, but I was so proud to have known you. I liked to check in, just to see how you're doing." 

"I hope you'll forgive me for not doing the same." Proud. The word pierces something in Max's heart, and his eyes drift from yours to over your shoulder, gaze falling on the wall of mirrors behind you to ignore the guilt. You had seen him become what he'd always talked about, and he'd not thought once to google your name and see if you did. 

Your foot nudges his, somewhat purposefully, and Max looks back to you to find you staring at him intently. "You don't need to be forgiven. You are a very busy man, Max Verstappen. I don't blame you. We weren't...we weren't exactly best friends, either." 

"I think under different circumstances, we could have been." Max finds himself saying, betraying the emotion behind the distance between you. In another life, Max would have loved to come to your birthday party, and he would've loved for you to attend one of his races. But you had been children, with very big things ahead of you, and no way to combine being young and being famous together. "I'm not sure your mum ever would have allowed me to come for a playdate." 

"I'm not sure your dad would have allowed the same." It's different, when it comes from someone else, someone less knowing. When people read or see his family life and offer comments, concerns, Max wants to think they come from the right place, but that's not what he's been through. You knew, however. You could tease him because you had been through the same dynamic, though in some ways, fared better or worse. You had been so similar as children, which is probably why you never were more than strangers in the night.

The song ends and you step away, clapping your hands together once. "Well, I think you've nailed the box step. Want to try turning?" 

"Turning?" He watches as you set up the next song, something slightly faster, and tries to find a balance between providing entertainment for the cameras, actually learning to waltz, and keeping his childhood at bay. "You're going to have to go slow with me." 

The grin you offer him is real, and you slot right back into his arms like you were meant to be there. "I'm sure you haven't said that often." 

"I can take things slow." Max retorts lowly, and he pretends the pink on your cheeks had always been there. After the box step, you move, turning the two of you to the side, and Max stumbles to realign himself. "You didn't have to agree to do this," Max says as he steps on your foot accidentally, quick to look down to try and right himself. "Just because it's me. I'm sure this is much below your level." 

"Keeps me humble, the charity cases." You joke softly, and Max spares a glance up to roll his eyes at you. "Besides, I'm not sure we'd get a reunion any other way. Not every day you can say you taught Max Verstappen to waltz." This, Max would argue, isn't waltzing, more like blindly stumbling in a square, but you have a point. There aren't many options for the two of you, between the world of racing and the world of dancing, to just have an afternoon together. "How does it feel? Being Max Verstappen, World Champion?" 

"Not much different than the Max Verstappen who kept you company in parking lots." If his younger self could see him, he'd be proud, though confused at many things. Currently, he'd probably be losing his mind about you teaching him to dance, and the fact that you're holding hands again. Maybe, his younger self prods at him, he could make up for lost time. "How does it feel? Being a world famous dancer?" 

"Not much different than the princess you used to make fun of." That peaceful, almost sad look return to you, and you shrug one shoulder as you lead him into another turn. "It's not as glamorous as we dreamed, I'm afraid. Haven't touched any of the bucket list we made up as kids." 

It was some random weeknight, late enough that you probably both should have been in bed, Max waiting for his father to finish talking with another family, you waiting for your mom to return from somewhere. You had sat on the steps to the karting track together, listing off all the things you'd do once you were rich and famous. "Ah, so no army of cats and dogs yet?" 

"Unfortunately, no. I also don't have my own fashion line, or a sandwich named after me. Yet." Funnily enough, Max did have his own fashion line technically, and somewhere, he thinks, there must be a Verstappen sandwich, but he keeps both of those thoughts to himself.

"I don't have my own personal race track either, but I do have you beat in one aspect." You turn again, and Max actually does it, falling right back into step, and he grins like an idiot. "I've got three cats."

Your smile matches his, but strangely, he doesn't think it's from the dancing. "Really?" 

"Jimmy, Sassy, and Donatello." This time, you falter, foot hitting his before quickly righting itself, and he'd forgotten the depths from which he'd pulled the name.

"What?" It was another late night, when you were both older, and kittens had been found abandoned in the parking lot. You named them all after historic figures, and Max had mocked you for it. Who'd name a cat Donatello?

"After two, I couldn't come up with a name." Him, apparently. "You should come see them sometime, in Monaco." 

"Monaco!" Your face lights up in disbelief, and this song ends much quicker than the other. "You really did make it, huh?" You don't move away from him yet, despite the silence rippling through the room now. 

The last thing he wants in this world is to let go of you, but there are cameras, and commitments, and Max can't ignore either. Slowly, he steps back and bows, trying to play it off, and you feign a courtesy with a small smile. "We made it." He says as he rises, and something glints in your eyes. Then, before he can convince himself out of it, he asks, "If you don't mind, could I have your number? I'd like to reconnect, outside of all this. After rehearsal, if you want." 

Just friends, he'd say if anyone, or you, questioned him about it. Just to catch up for old times' sake. And, if you kept looking at him like that, and you felt the way he did, then it was a date some twenty-odd years in the making. "Of course," You answer, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Someone gets his attention to do some little side interview, and you watch him go with a smile. "Good job, Max." 

He's going to die in this dance studio. 

-

Max 🏎

I've got a strange question 

Do you remember the summer, before I left? 

Princess 🩰

When you spilt ice cream all over yourself?

Max 🏎

On the ground, actually

Princess 🩰

But yes, I remember that summer

Why? 

Max 🏎

There's an ice cream van, in the park by my airbnb 

Make up for lost time?

Princess 🩰

I'm sure we both have diets were not supposed to ruin 

Max 🏎

I'm paying 

Princess 🩰

Deal 

-

There were many things you were not allowed as a child. You did no other extracurriculars, you could not dye your hair, you could not go out without your mother's supervision, could not do anything extreme, lest you hurt yourself and your dancing career. You were not allowed ice cream, either, or many sweets, to keep you in shape. 

Having grown, you know it wasn't healthy to avoid the same things, but you had yet to grow a sweet tooth, or have the desire to do anything spontaneous, anything rebellious. Max, you think, had fairly similar experiences. You knew he liked football, though he wasn't allowed to play often. Racing probably had its own dietary needs, and despite the fact he was already involved in one high speed sport, he probably wasn't allowed to put himself at risk, either. 

So standing here, together, with the sun setting in some little park waiting in line for ice cream, you had felt more out of place than you had in a long, long time. 

You felt happy. "I never realized they had so many options," You whisper to Max, eyes glued to the menu. "I thought it was like, just vanilla, or just chocolate." 

"What are you thinking of getting?" He asks, and you glance over at him, rather lost. It's odd to think you're both so grown, fallen back into the same patterns after so long away. It should be awkward, strange, anything, but it just sort of feels normal. Like you were always made for late nights in random parking lots, though the ice cream is a nice exception. "Do you want to both get something and split them? So we can try different things?" 

"One normal, one crazy." You answer resolutely, and then Max goes about ordering, and gets some chocolate thing, an expected choice from him, and some brightly coloured swirled one in a waffle cone, which he extends to you. You hadn't really meant to make him pay for both, but he seemed far too happy with himself to say anything about it now. 

"Mum," A child harshly whispers nearby, though he's not too quiet about it, "Max Verstappen!" 

The woman turns to look at Max, who offers a little wave, and that's all the boy needs before he rushes to Max, a thousand questions spat rapid fire at him, and you take the ice cream cone from him so he can squat to the child's level. "Don't eat that," He says up to you jokingly, and the child stares up at you in wonder. "She's going to steal my chocolate, isn't she?" 

"I wouldn't do that to World Champion Max Verstappen." You tease, and the boy launches back into his questions, but Max doesn't look away from you, and you can't stop staring at him, because it sort of hits you all at once that this is real. 

You aren't children sitting on cold pavement talking about futures you didn't really understand yet. You aren't making up titles because you didn't know if you'd ever get one. You aren't friends, barely know each other, but you know each other so deeply because you had been forged in the same kind of fires. The child keeps asking questions and Max finally looks away to answer him, and you remember it all so well. Of being that young and excited about the world, dreaming of going big places and meeting your biggest heroes. 

But you were here, now. The childhood wonder had long faded, the years caught up to you, and now it was Max posing for a photo with a fan, not the other way around, that same cheesy grin as he's always had, and it almost hurts. That everything you went through, all the struggles and the triumphs and the pains and the endless nights had happened, and they led you here, and it wasn't what you dreamed of. 

You're sure for Max it had to be. It had to be all worth it, to be him, to be this known and loved and a four-time world champion, but it was different when all that work paid off and you were on stage and thrown roses and brand deals and it never felt like it was worth it. All the sores from your dance shoes, all the bruises, all that pain of childhood that had meant so much, and still did, but was tarnished in comparison to everyone else. 

You hadn't let yourself think of it, really, of that unfulfilment waiting in the back of your mind, that you staved off with promises of more shows and more work, but it returned with a vengeance when Max rises, waving goodbye to the boy as his mother has to drag him off, and you handed him back his ice cream.

You never got to have ice cream as a kid. 

So what could it be like to enjoy it now? "We should go somewhere more secluded, maybe." Max says, unaware of the battle he'd returned you to. "Before your fans start flooding us, too." 

"That was really sweet." Is all you can bring yourself to say, letting Max guide you through the park as the sun dips below the trees, the sky a deepened purple as he finds some random bench nestled between the trees and settles there. You fold yourself up on the hard wooden planks, turning to face him as your back presses against the bench's arm rail. He plucks the chocolate piece off the top of his ice cream and extends it to you, and your heart sinks just a little bit further into your chest. "That's your favourite, Max. You can have it." 

"You never told me your favourite chocolate." He bites half, and you shrug, looking past him and down the path. 

"Never was allowed to have enough to have favourites." You offer quietly, and Max moves his head to force himself into your line of sight, and he has a look on his face you've never seen before. "I've got a very strict diet, Max, I always have." 

"But everyone has a favourite chocolate." He holds out the half-bitten chocolate, and you slowly pick it up staring at the little brown piece in hand. 

You could've tried more, now that you're grown. You could've snuck more behind your mom's back, could've done a lot of things, but you'd never thought to.

It had just always been that way. "You always were a princess, weren't you?" Max says softly, though not as an insult. "You never thought to be a rebel." 

"You're one to talk." You say lowly, afraid to voice it more than a whisper. 

"I used to think we were so similar. You were the only person who really understood the kind of pressure I was under." Max tilts his head back to look at the fading sunset, and your eyes don't follow. "But it was different, wasn't it?" 

"I was allowed to do more things." You begin, still staring at the chocolate.

"But you were micro-managed, more. I could eat chocolates. I remember that one time you ruined your hair by talking to me in the rain. I don't think my dad ever cared about my hair." His eyes finally return to you, gently nudging your hand with his. "Your secret is safe with me, you know. It's okay to rebel, princess." Then, when you don't move, he reaches over to gently move some hair away from your face, finally bringing your eyes to him. "I promise." 

You pop the chocolate into your mouth before you can overthink it, letting it just sit on your tongue, and you can't help the smile that grows on your face from the flavour of it. 

"You're not going to eat it?" Max asks, incredulous, and you shake your head.

"M' savouring it." You say around the chocolate and he beams at that, shaking his head as he takes the coloured ice cream from your hand and presses the chocolate cone into yours, and he tentatively licks it, pulling a strange face at whatever flavour he picked. "What is it?" 

"I don't know. Sugary?" You lean over to try it, chocolate finally having dissolved on your tongue, and he's not wrong. It's some bright, tangy thing, maybe citrus, maybe just sugar, something to give even a child a headache. "I don't, uh," Max clears his throat as you pull away, "I don't think I can finish it." 

"Want to just split chocolate?" It was a waste, but Max doesn't seem to care, dropping the cone into the wastebin beside him. Then, without a word, you extend the cone to him, and you take turns eating it, living in a moment that neither of you really knows how to navigate, though it seems Max is doing it better. 

It's okay to rebel, princess.

I promise. 

"You know, I always wanted this." Max says, taking the words out of your mouth. "When they'd come out to the racing track on our big race days, and I never got it." 

"Same here." Max eats over the same space you did, and you wonder if you should be less comfortable with each other, having just rekindled after years of not seeing each other. But it was right, you think, for you to be sitting idly together and sharing a moment you never got to have before. Tonight, you could let some barriers fall just for him. "I always wanted to try something like karting," You admit, and Max's eyebrows pinch together. "Not for the actual racing, but just for something dangerous, a change of pace." 

"I always wanted to take a trip for a reason other than racing. I got to see so many countries, but I only got to see their racing tracks. I've changed that, now." You let Max finish the rest of the cone as night falls. The first stars will show up soon, and you tilt your head back to try and see if you can map them out. 

You did that so often. You used to feel so special, compared to some of the children at your school, that you got to stay up late on school nights for dance, that you could point out constellations and show off your dancing skills at talent shows. You hadn't fully realized what you were missing back then. "I always wanted a sleepover." You say to the sky, though you never had any friends to sleep over with, anyway. "I always saw slumber parties in movies and thought they'd be so fun. I never got a single one." 

You shift to swing your legs over to sit on the bench properly, and your hand lands on Max's, taking you back to that chainlink fence. You always thought he meant to do it on purpose, just to make yourself feel better. You don't immediately move your hand, and Max doesn't move his, and you just stare at each other for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. 

"I lied, I think." Max says suddenly, "I did get that ice cream once." 

"No," You answer for him, "You spilled it everywhere." 

He offers you one, long stare, before looking up at the sky. "I still tried." 

-

The last time you saw Max, before he went off to pursue racing, before you went off to a proper dance school, you had been back on that grassy patch by the fence, hiding away from your mom, from the heat of the dance studio, from the other dancers. You got special treatment, they'd said. You didn't deserve it. 

Your mother said it was jealousy, the other dance teachers saying you were just kids, but you had heard enough words, felt enough cold stares, eaten at break alone enough to know that while you might be a good dancer, you weren't a good kid. Good kids had friends, had other hobbies, had something going for them. 

You were determined to be the next big ballerina or ballroom dancer, and to do that, you had to give up being good. 

Didn't mean it hurt any less. There was a rough slam, and you expected your mother to be behind whatever door was being blown up, a flurry of unkind words to get you back into the studio and dancing again, but her voice never came. Instead, Max, in full racing gear, powered his way over to you, helmet not removed. You hadn't seen him in full get-up this close, your reflection staring back at you through his visor. 

Without a word, he sat down on the grass beside you, folded his knees to his chest, and shoved his helmet against them. You had never seen Max angry before, or maybe upset, and it suspended your own tears long enough to investigate. You gently placed a hand on his back, ignoring the sweat, and began to move it soothingly, like how you'd imagine someone would do if they were comforting another person. "Go away, princess. This is my grass." Max's voice is muffled, and you scowl at him, though he can't see.

"Your grass is on the other side of the fence. You go away." You didn't want him to. You were just angry, and he was angry, so it felt right to say. Really, you wanted him to comfort you, not the other way around, but it was Max, and you'd never seen him like this, so you were kind of at a loss. 

"It's all my fault." Max's voice is quiet, raising his head to shake it. "I fucked up the kart." 

"Max!" You gasp, and he rips off his helmet to reveal a little sleeve thing under it, which he also pulls off. His hair sticks up every which way, rather spiky with sweat, and you take the time to wipe your wet hand on your leggings. The tear tracks staining down his face probably match yours.

"It's true. I fuc-I messed up. And I dropped my ice cream." Max corrects himself this time, pointing down to the stain on his stomach. You'd wanted to go get something from the truck that had come for the race, but you hadn't been allowed. "The one time I could, and I dropped it! At least I ate the cone." It was another one of the little unfair things in life that Max shared with you. Staring at him now, you're pretty sure he'd grown over the summer, a bit taller, a bit thinner. He was still kind of handsome, if you could call him that. "Oh." He breathes out softly, finally looking at you properly. "I'm sorry." 

You shake your head this time, wiping your nose on your arm. You're sure it's not the most ladylike thing to do, but you don't really care, and you're sure Max doesn't either. "I'm not crying because of you." 

"What happened?" He asks and you shrug, words lost for a moment. Max extends his hand this time, gently rubbing the back of your shoulder, and it's the sort of thing you thought would bring more comfort than it did.

"The girls were mean." You played with the grass, plucking some up to drop it on his lap. "They don't want to dance with me anymore, and...and they said I wasn't pretty enough to be a ballerina." 

"You're pretty." Max answers instantly, and you shove him. "I'm serious. You...you look nice, like a...like a bird." 

You sniff softly, staring at him as he tries to come up with a compliment. You think you might like anything he calls you, really. "A bird?" 

"I don't know. Elegant. They're just being mean." Max's name is bellowed from the karting track, and Max sniffs, pulling back on the strange sock thing. Before he can pull on his helmet, you stop him, and you hug him for the first time. 

You, to this day, don't know why you did it. It had just seemed like what you both needed at the time, maybe, maybe some part of you knew you wouldn't meet again, and Max hadn't hugged you back, just stared at you, half hidden by his mask thing. Max's name is shouted, again, and Max rises to his feet.

"I'm sorry you dropped your ice cream," You say, trying not to be embarrassed about the hug. "And fucked up your kart." 

"Hey!" Max gasps and you laugh, wiping your nose again. It felt good to say something like that. "You can't say that. You're a princess, remember?" 

"Well, this princess can. Don't tell my mom." Max smiles at you, and his dad bellows again, and you know what it means when you get yelled at like that. Something bad's going to happen, but Max doesn't seem all that bothered. "Your dad's going to get mad at you." 

"He's always mad. Doesn't matter if I did good or not." He tugs on his helmet, finally, and your reflection blinks back at you. You look rather sad, sat here alone. "Don't tell him I cried." 

"I won't." You say, extending a pinky, and Max interlocks his with yours. "I promise." 

-

Max was trying, desperately, not to think of the dress you were wearing, a navy blue flowy thing, or the fact that it had an open back, his hand pressed gently to your bare skin, or that you had spent yesterday tucked against each other, learning more dance moves in a blur that Max can't really remember. 

Or that you had shared ice cream, that you didn't really have chocolate enough to have a favourite flavour, or that you had held hands, again, by accident. 

There was a lot going on in his mind that wasn't dance moves, and he needed to clear his head if he was to actually do this final performance properly. He was even wearing a suit, to make it seem more formal, and your hand slipped from his to adjust his bowtie as someone set up the music over the speaker. "You're nervous." You say quietly, so the team doesn't hear, as your hand smooths down his lapel. It rests over his pounding heart, and he doesn't know how to tell you it's not really the dance portion, and more so that his childhood crush has returned full force, and he's not sure what to do about it. "Just one dance, then this is all over." 

"I know." One dance. That's all it is, but it doesn't feel like that as the music starts up, and your hand returns to his, and he carefully begins plotting out the steps you'd taught him so patiently. He wasn't really a patient man, though he tried to be. Being raised to be fast, to win, patience wasn't exactly a virtue, but somehow you were. 

He turns the box step, like you taught him, and you offer a proud little smile that he doesn't mess up. There's something different to it, however, the same as when that fan had come up to talk to him. You had stared at him like he was the only man in the universe, like he was something strange to be studied, and you were doing it again. "Can we talk, or will that distract you?" 

"I don't know," He answers truthfully. Your voice had distracted him before, both in ways that let him dance freely and that had him stumbling. "What do you want to say?" 

"We made it." You whisper softly. "It just keeps hitting me, seeing you again, that we've done what we said we wanted to do." 

"I'll need to see you perform sometime." Max extends his arm as you move out, so he can spin you around. Your dress perfectly swirls around you, and with every turn that Max gets a glimpse of your face, he finds that you're not quite happy. 

He's not sure what he's said wrong. "I'm not sure if I'll perform for a while, so I'm not sure if you ever will." 

"What? Why?" He questions as you return to your previous position, falling back into the dance step. You weren't the kind of people raised to take breaks, so Max's mind immediately moves to ideas of struggling artists and a world of dance that was just as hard to get into as F1. "You toured internationally. Surely there are more roles for you." 

"It's not about if there are roles, it's about if I want to take them." You look back up at him, a sorrow to you that Max hadn't realized was always there. It was that sadness, etched from childhood, that had taken Max some time to shake off. "Do you ever...doubt it? The success?" 

"I don't know what you mean." 

"It's all I've ever wanted, to perform in front of crowds like that, and it was incredible, but it didn't satisfy me like I thought it would." It was all we were raised for, he's sure you'd add, but instead, you let your eyes drop, looking away from him. "It sounds selfish, doesn't it?" 

"We're too used to fighting." The words come out before Max realizes he's saying them, head dipping slightly to speak into your ear, words he'd rather not have others overhear. "We've had to fight to get places, fight to prove ourselves, especially to...to those who matter to us. Once you make it big, it's hard not to feel like you have to keep fighting, but you get there, eventually." 

This close, Max can feel you shiver when his breath hits your neck, and he pulls away before he oversteps any further. He knew what it was like to be on the podium, to be the best, and to feel like it never mattered at all. There were people who made it to the same place as him who didn't have to fight half as hard. There were days when he failed, where it all felt like a waste. Nothing could satisfy the craving for power, except to replace it with something else, something neither you nor Max were taught to enjoy: contentment.

When you won, or you kept winning, and the world kept turning, and it wasn't the prize you wanted or gave you the same joy, you just had to live with being happy. With being where you were, with coming this far, with being still. To stop fighting and not feel like you're giving up or giving in. "We're allowed to just be. We don't have to fight for that anymore. No one's going to come yell at us for sitting in the grass anymore." 

"I didn't know you were a poet, too." You say softly, eyes returning to his, and Max has never been so overwhelmed with the need to kiss someone before. To hold you, hand splayed against your back, and be with you. You're looking at him in a way that sort of defies everything he just said, because it feels like he's winning, all over again. 

The music swells, and before Max can really think what he's doing, he dips you, low and fast. You let out a shocked breath, arms gracefully wrapping around his neck before you break out into a smile, and he grins right back. He knows he is going to get so many comments about this video, about this whole stupid thing, but when he gets to hold you like this, he's not sure if it's going to really matter in the end. 

He pulls you back up to spin you again, and this time, every time you turn, he catches you staring right back at him, and when you fall back into the box step, your cheeks are flushed, and he finds his own words coming back to haunt him. He doesn't have to keep fighting anymore. He doesn't have to skirt around corners or hide in back alleys to be with you, doesn't need to feel like he's doing something wrong when he tries to hold your hand. 

He can be content with you, and no one can really say anything about it. Maybe he is a poet, or some motivational speaker, when he's not really thinking of what he's saying. "You are something else, Max." You whisper up to him, "Where did all that come from?" 

"We don't have to keep fighting anymore." Max repeats, somewhat shyly. "So I'm allowed to dip you if I want, just as you are allowed to do anything you want, princess. Do you want to keep dancing?" 

"With you? Happily," You tease, though it does something strange to Max's heart that he's never felt before. "On stage? I'm still not sure. It's my...well, it's my dream." 

"Then take a break, travel, maybe see some car races. I hear Monaco is great this time of year." You roll your eyes as Max grins, the music finally slowing, and you step apart so that Max can bow, and you can curtsy, but the distance suddenly feels so far, no longer having you in his grip. 

Without much thought, as soon as the film crew starts to applaud, Max wraps his arm around your shoulders to pull you into his side. It's where you should always be, nestled against him, and when you rest your head back on his shoulder, Max doesn't really care that there's a film crew, or that they're asking him questions. 

You're looking at him like he'd always wanted you to, and he can't doo anything but stare into your eyes. 

-

Max 🏎

I've got a surprise for you 

A thank you for putting up with my dancing this week 

Princess 🩰

Is it a race car?

Max 🏎

Something better

Come over? 

Princess 🩰

Isn't it late?

Max 🏎

You can bring pyjamas?

NOT in a suggestive way!

Just...bring pyjamas

-

You're not sure what to expect when you get a text from Max Verstappen in the middle of the night, telling you to come see him and bring pyjamas, but you definitely weren't expecting this. 

He opens the door to his Airbnb to reveal a large living room, set up in what you can only describe as a slumber party. There are blankets and pillows piled around, snacks laid out, some movie already loaded on the screen, lights dimmed, and candles lit. You sort of malfunction at the door, gym bag sliding off your shoulder and hitting the ground with a soft thud as you try to understand it. 

I always wanted a sleep over, you told him. 

Max awkwardly stands by the door, and you can't do much more than blink at him as he offers a sheepish smile, gesturing to the whole set up. "Your reward," He says softly. "I thought we could make up for lost time." 

"Max, I..." It had been too much, you think. Teaching him to dance, getting ice cream, actually dancing with him. He had dipped you, and in that instant, you knew that whatever stupid crush you had a kid had returned full force, and standing in front of him now, you didn't know whether or not to cry or kiss him. 

He'd set up a slumber party for you to make up for lost time. What you never got to do as kids. "If you don't like it, I-" 

You cut Max off as you throw yourself at him, and he catches you easily, spinning you around with the force of it. You know it's too much, to be holding him like this, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders and face pressed into his neck, but you had been close all week. You suppose one more night wouldn't hurt. 

"I take it that you like it." Max whispers into the top of your head as he gently puts you back down on the ground, and you stay in his arms as you stare up at him.

"Max, this is too much." Max's arms remain around your waist and yours around his neck as you take in all the things he got, a true array of sweet and savoury snacks, like he couldn't figure out what you might like. It was the sort of thoughtfulness you wouldn't expect, let alone from Max after just three days. 

It was the sort of grand gesture that happened in movies, not in real life. It was the sort of thing that made you realize you had fallen entirely for him, though you wouldn't say that aloud until you figured all this out. You look back up to Max, and realize the position you're left in, so close that you could bounce up on the tips of your toes and kiss him. Max stares down at you intently, and you forget about the boy he used to be for a moment to think of the man he is now. 

That he had every chance to forget you, to not care, to keep going, but he chose to do this for you. He let you teach him to dance, took you out, like it was a normal thing to do. Then again, nothing about you and Max was normal. From childhood, you have been raised to win, to be the best, every move monitored. Success in adulthood was just as wonderful as you wanted it to be, but this freedom, being here in his arms, this was what made the other things, the winnings, the shows, the races, all worth it. 

It was having someone to understand them, to be there, even if it was in childhood. You suppose now is as good a time as ever to stop thinking of that, of childhood boundaries, of old crushes, of what your past did to draw the two of you together. You were here, now, and it was time to focus on the future. 

Without much ceremony, you rise up and kiss him, and you feel Max's muscles all draw tight before relaxing in a second, practically melting into your touch as he kisses you back eagerly. It's a soft, longing thing, with no rush or no heat behind it. It's the sort of kiss you wouldn't expect to be your first, but rather your hundredth with someone - so sure in that it was right to do. 

Max's hands flex on your waist as your hands slide up into his hair, playing with the growing out edges as you pull back. "Thank you." You say as earnestly as you can, and Max just sort of blinks at you. 

"May I kiss you?" He asks softly, one arm letting go of your waist to shut the door behind you. "Again?" 

"You don't have to-" Max's mouth is on yours before you can finish, back pressed to the door as he hovers over you, still just as sweet as the first time you kiss him. It feels that much more real, pressed between him and the door, that you're here and kissing him, something you'd fantasized about for as long as you've known him. 

Max pulls away for air, your own chest heaving with the intensity of it. His pupils are dilated so wide you can barely make out the soft, stormy blue of his irises. "You can...you can strike that off the bucket list." 

"What?" 

"You said you wanted to have a real kiss, not a stage kiss, with someone who asked." He recalls, a heavy blush painting his cheeks as he speaks, the colour spreading down his neck. "I always wanted to, but wasn't allowed." 

"Then you can strike that off the bucket list, too." Max leads you to the couch, where he unceremoniously falls onto it, still trying to catch his breath as he stares at you. For a professional driver, you'd think he'd have better lung capacity, but something tells you it's not just the kiss that has him breathing so heavily. 

You curl up beside him, and you stare at each other for a long while as you realize that you just kissed. Your heart couldn't quite figure out its pace, picking up as you took in how dishevelled he looked, slowing back down with the calming effect of having him nearby. It could all not work out, your brain tries to supply. You were a dancer who toured, he was a driver who did the same, and whatever this was might not work. 

But you couldn't stop staring at him, realizing that maybe, just maybe, it could. "Did you, uh, want to get changed?" 

"Oh, right." Pyjamas. Your cheeks warm at the thought of having a proper sleepover with him, the kind that your younger self wasn't fantasizing about yet, and he's quick to cut through your thoughts, redder than you've ever seen him.

"You don't have to, or stay the night, I-"

"I'm surprised you're not wearing yours." You say, trying to stop the words tumbling from his mouth, and Max glances down at himself, obviously in sleep pants and a t-shirt, before up to you. "Where's the adult onesie?" 

"For the love of-" You don't get to hear the end of Max's complaining as you laugh, and Max wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his lap as he scowls. "It is called fireproofs! You're never going to let that go, are you?" 

"You still call me princess," You retort, happily curling up against his chest, and resting your head on his shoulder. "So it's only fair." 

Max's fingers drift up your arm, tracing a shape that you think is awfully close to a race track, and he shakes his head. "You don't like it?" 

"Never said that," You whisper softly. "Just saying that some things stick." 

"Go get changed," He says, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to the side of your forehead, smiling to himself at the action. "And it better not be a onesie, or movie night's cancelled." 

-

Max had changed the way he was sitting on the couch seven times in the time it took for you to get changed. 

So, needless to say, he was screwed. You had kissed him! He hadn't meant for it to go this way, but he was most certainly not complaining. He just wanted to do a nice gesture for you, after everything, and you had kissed him for it, and he had made up some lie about kissing you again to get it off your bucket list. 

In reality, he had done it to make sure that you had actually meant it when you kissed him, and it wasn't just some fluke, thank-you kiss. 

You liked him, and he liked you, as much as it was obvious, and he was absolutely screwed. He'd forgotten how to sit, how to breathe, how to do anything really, and when you step out of his bedroom, he's pretty sure he's forgotten how to keep his heart beating, because you're beautiful. 

You always were beautiful, didn't matter what form, but you were in an oversized t-shirt that made you look like innocent incarnate, and then his eyes land on the design, and he's staring at his helmet, and him with a trophy over his head, and the words "2021 World Champion" underneath. 

And his heart stopped beating, because that wasn't his shirt. You had to have bought that, when he won his first world champion title, and it was worn enough to show that you likely slept in it often. 

If Max was screwed before, he's fucked now. "What movie did you pick?" 

"Uh-" He has to clear his throat, sitting up and focusing his eyes on the tv screen, and not you as you approach. Movie, he thinks. Pick a movie. "We could do Cars?" 

"I should've guessed." You place a hand on his shoulder gently as you sit at his side, and Max spares a glance towards you and it takes a considerable amount of strength not to just kiss you senseless. You probably wouldn't mind, but tonight was supposed to be innocent. Movies, snacks, maybe falling asleep in your arms. 

He wanted all the softness he dreamt up as a kid; nothing more, nothing less. "You're making me look bad," He mutters softly, eyes dragging down to your shirt. "Celebrating me like that." 

"It was for your first big win. Least I could do." Max barely manages to look back at the TV before his resolve breaks, dropping the remote to plant his hands on either side of your face, and kissing you once more. 

It's hotter, heavier this time, the way your hands splay against his chest, the way he can't think of anything else besides you in his merch, representing his number, his first win. He didn't expect himself to be a territorial man, but he was now thinking of all the Red Bull merch he could shower you in before it became obscene. "I'd sleep in a shirt with your face on it, too, if I had one." He says and you laugh, a bright thing that seems to surprise you as you slap a hand over your mouth. 

"You would not! I don't even think they make those." Without missing a beat, Max wraps an arm around your shoulders and drags you into his side. 

"Well I'll make one, then." 

You say nothing as you lean into him, watching him flip between racing movies, and very gently, you trace patterns over his bare arm, and Max would get the touches tattooed there if he could. "If you want," You begin quietly, "I have a video of me performing? To finally see me dance." 

"You do?" He had thought videotaping those things was illegal, but the moment you offer it, there's no other movie Max could ever want to watch. He spares a glance down at you, and you're lost in thought, and Max places his hand over yours. "We don't have to if you don't want. If it's...too much." 

You said you didn't want to dance again, and Max somewhat understood that feeling. He'd never gotten this close to quitting, but he had days where it didn't feel like it was worth it, and he can imagine from your point of view, it must be that much worse.

You shake your head, and shift back against the arm of the couch as you open your arms. Max doesn't have to think twice before laying down between them, passing the remote off to you, and you go about pulling up an almost 3-hour-long video on YouTube, to his surprise. 

He'd thought ballets were short things. 3 hours seems...extreme, but for you, he'd happily watch every second. He's careful in the placement of his head on your chest, arms wrapping around you as you set the remote aside, and your hands find his hair, gently petting through it, and Max is so content he might start purring. No wonder the cats like this - it feels heavenly. "I want you to see," You whisper down to him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "It's just not going to be the same thing as it being live. It's more magical that way." 

"You're always magical," Max says as the curtains part and the ballet begins. "But I guess I'll have to wait to compare it to the real thing sometime." 

"I wonder if Monaco has any ballet companies." The words become ice in Max's veins for all the right reasons. "I hear it's nice this time of year. I could do a little vacation." 

Max, however, stops paying attention to your conversation once you're on screen. While slightly grainy, you're dressed like a princess, tutu and tiara and all, and you move so fluidly across the stage that Max is captivated. He's unsure how long he lies there, unresponsive as you gently card your hands through his hair, watching you become Aurora before his eyes. 

Finally, when there's a break from your dancing, he pushes himself up onto his hands to stare down at you. "I've been missing that? This whole time?" 

"Max, that was-" He's not sure what you're going to say, but it doesn't matter, because he's kissing you as passionately as he can. It was one thing, to know as a kid that you were a dancer. It was another for you to teach him to dance. 

But to watch you dance? Like you belonged on the stage forever, like you were in your element, a perfect princess that made fun of his fireproofs. You gasp into his mouth and Max slows his movements, torn between needing you and needing to be with you, lying here, watching you dance. "If you ever choose to dance again," Max says softly against your lips, "Know that I will be at every show." 

"And if I don't?" He lies back down on your chest, turning to watch you spin on screen. 

"Then I'm buying you tutus to perform with the cats." You laugh, the sound reverberating through your chest as your hands return to his hair. 

"I'll get you in one, too." And Max, despite it all, doesn't argue against it. 

-

-

-

Max was good at being quick. He would argue it's his job, but he's also say he's fast in real life, juggling all the shoots, the dinner, his family and friends, practicing, and you. 

Tonight, however, might be the quickest turn around he's ever had. He'd won the Monaco Grand Prix, stood on that podium with his trophy above his head, but he couldn't care to look at it, or the crowd, but rather tried to find you, nestled among the rest of his crew. It had been months since your dance lesson, since that video had come out and everyone, including those on the grid, lost their mind about him dancing like that. 

They lost their minds, too, when Max had introduced you to this world for the first time, too. It had blown up in a way Max had never expected, of childhood sweethearts reunited, but the biggest shock of all was how good you were with it. With fitting into his world, into Monaco, like you'd always been there, slotting into the other side of his bed like something he didn't know he'd been missing. 

And now, he was slotting into your life, rushing home while you rushed to the city centre, the morning that started all this looping in his mind.

"What's this?" It was a rather official-looking envelope that showed up at Max's door, and he was used to them, save for the fact that this one had your name on it. You had snatched it out of his hand that morning, scandalized, and you hugged it tight to your chest. It was odd, after all, for you to get mail, considering you'd only been living with him for a week at that point. "Liefje?" 

"You can't open it." You'd said, before promptly shoving the envelope back into his hands. "I can't open it! You do it." 

"What is it?" And there, scrawled in the return address, 

Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo. 

He had never asked. You had entered his life and left dance out of it, and Max didn't pressure you. It was your dream, your life, your choice. He had been serious about ordering tutus for the cats, but this envelope seems to erase those ideas for the time being.

You had sought out a ballet company in Monaco. "It's not...I don't know." Your hands twisted together, stuck watching the envelope like it held all the universe's secrets. "It's not a big company, or anything prestigious, but it's for me."

"For you?"

"I don't want to fight anymore. I don't want to give up on my dream because I overworked myself for it." It was the sort of thing Max did with the Nurburgring. He didn't want to hate racing because of all the little things that wore him down, so he tried something new, something similar, to let himself enjoy the speed and what got him started here in the first place. "It's Swan Lake, and I told myself if I get cast as the White Swan, I'll give myself another chance at something bigger someday."

Was it healthy, to pin your future as a dancer on one role? No, but Max understood it so well, of wishing on stars and praying to gods and pinning hope on random raindrops, that maybe if they fell in the right order, Max might get ahead.

Max ripped open the top of the envelope, not wasting any time and pulled out what appeared to be a contract. You're quick to cover your face with your hands, and Max is taken back to that last day as kids, of seeing you cry, of having you hug him, and he decides to make things right for his past self and he sets the paper aside to pull you into his arms.

"Being a swan means this much to you?" He whispers into the top of your head, and you nod against his chest.

"Swan princess, actually." You corrected, and Max couldn't help but laugh. 

"Of course you're a princess." You pulled back, gesturing to the paper, tired of his antics, and Max picked it up. "We would like to offer you the role of Odette." Odette. Probably still a good role, but not what you wanted. "Oh, love, I'm s-" 

The scream you let out was the closest thing Max could compare to bloodcurdling. He knew you'd be disappointed, but this? Rather than burst into tears, however, you ripped the paper from his hands, and turned as white as it was. Max carefully pulled you into his arms, knowing the heartbreak this must be, but there, pressed against his chest, you began to giggle.

"Listen, schatje, there will be other roles-" You pulled back, a growing grin on your face as you shoved the paper into his. 

"Max, Odette is the Swan Princess." A pit drops into Max's stomach. 

"What?" He stared down at the paper, the last shot you had given yourself. 

You were the Swan Princess. "I'm going to be sick, I think." 

"No, we are going to celebrate!" Max picked you up, hoisting you onto his shoulder like how the mechanics do with him after he wins. You had laughed down at him, and Max spun you around the living room. "You are going to do so well, schatje. I can't wait." 

And now, after all that waiting, Max was frantically changing into his best suit to get ready to see you perform. You had gotten special permission, to miss your rehearsal this afternoon to see him race, and like hell was Max going to be late in return. He doesn't say a word to any of the attendants or ushers who try to help him, but rather takes the stairs two at a time to get up to a special viewing box you'd reserved for him. 

-

You had never been this nervous for a performance before. Perhaps it was because it was Swan Lake, perhaps it was because it was Monaco, or perhaps it was because you had poured so much hard work into this, you weren't sure if you would be able to come back from this if it failed, if it didn't feel right.

It also didn't help that Max was in the audience. Well, it did, after everything you'd gone through together, but it was his first time seeing you perform live. 

It was strange, that so much time had passed since lying with him, on that couch, watching you dance in Sleeping Beauty. It had been his reaction that had convinced you to apply to Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo. It had been his encouragement that powered you through, and his win this morning made tonight all the more important. 

You're broken from your daydream of Max at the balcony seat as one of the other dancers reaches over to squeeze your hand. Perhaps you looked as afraid as you felt, but in a few seconds, you couldn't show any of that. 

Instead, you had to be the White Swan, the role that had plagued your mind for years, only this time, your prince wasn't just one stage, but out there in the audience too. The curtains pull, the lights dim, and you move across the stage like you'd practiced your entire life, from your bedroom to the studio to parking lots late at night, and you dare one, single glance up to the seat you'd booked for Max, and he's leaned on the railing, eyes glued to you, and for a moment, you lock eyes. He makes no gesture, and you don't either, having to go about the rest of your dance moves, but it was a spark you hadn't felt in a long, long time. 

The next eyes you land on are a young girl's, sitting in the second row, perched up on her seat to properly see you, and a single tear slips from the corner of your eye from the soft knowing that you made it. The music swells, the prince approaches, and for a blissful moment, you're not on stage or staring at the audience, but in your childhood bedroom, practicing these steps and watching in the mirror, looping the soundtrack you'd gotten for your birthday

And that little girl knew every move. You know every move. 

When you glide, it's with purpose. When you spin, it's with grace.

When you fall back in love with ballet, it's with Max in the audience, who falls in love with watching you dance like you were always meant to.