Em

Not the kind you give when you’re idly watching the world go by, or when your eyes drift across a room without purpose. These are different. You catch Max looking at you in a way that feels intentional, focused like he’s studying the curve of your smile, the furrow of your brow, the way your fingers tap the edge of your water bottle when you’re distracted. It’s not fleeting either. He looks at you like he’s trying to capture the moment, like he wants to hold it somewhere permanent just in case it disappears as if his gaze alone could ask you to turn around and see him in a way you haven’t before.

Sometimes you meet his eyes. Sometimes you hold his stare for just a second too long, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs. And sometimes, more often than you’d admit, you look away, pretending you didn’t notice. Pretending your heart isn’t already tangled in something complicated.

It’s not that you’re unaware. You think he feels it just as much as you do, the tension coiled quietly beneath every glance that lingers longer than necessary, beneath every joke that lands with too much softness, beneath the texts that arrive late at night and mean far more than either of you will ever say out loud.

But still… you’re friends.

Best friends.

There’s something impossibly delicate about that. Something worth protecting. Because once a line is crossed there’s no going back to what you were before, and maybe that’s why neither of you has said anything. Maybe that’s why you keep pretending the glances don’t mean anything at all.

Even when they do.

It escalates, but never all at once.

There’s no single moment you could point to, no obvious line crossed or breathless confession made in the dark. Instead it builds slowly, like a storm creeping in beneath blue skies, subtle, steady, inevitable.

At first it’s simple things. Innocent things. Max brushing past you in the kitchen of his Monaco apartment you sometimes share on quiet weekends. He reaches over your shoulder to grab a mug from the cabinet and his hand grazes your arm. Light. Barely there. But you feel it anyway. You always do.

A soft touch to your lower back when you're both crowded by the sink as if guiding you, even though there’s more than enough space to move around. Knuckles bump when you both reach for the same spoon in the drawer, and neither of you laughs. He murmurs “Sorry” without looking at you, as if not meeting your eyes will keep it from meaning anything more than it should.

It works for a while. You both act like it's nothing. Like these touches are accidents, coincidences, the natural clumsiness of sharing a space.

But they’re not.

You both know they’re not.

Then one evening you’re curled up on opposite ends of the couch watching some mindless show neither of you is really following. The remote sits between you. You both reach for it at the same time.

Your fingers graze his.

And then they stay there.

Neither of you pulls away.

The television continues in the background, some canned laughter rising and falling like static, but the world has narrowed to the space where your skin meets his. His fingers are warm. Your pulse jumps but you don't move. You don’t dare. Because the moment feels suspended in air.

Still you both pretend. You stare ahead pretending you’re lost in the flickering screen, pretending the air hasn’t gone thick with something you don’t have words for.

Eventually you pull your hand back so gently it doesn’t even feel like a retreat and yet you feel the absence like a weight.

That night you lie in bed staring at the ceiling replaying it again and again, the moment, the stillness, the way his skin felt against yours. You wonder if he’s doing the same just a few feet down the hall. You wonder if he feels as wrecked by nothing as you do.

Because if something that small can feel that intense…

What happens if you let it become something more?

It’s raining when you hug him for the first time in months.

Not one of those quick, routine hugs you give friends on instinct or out of politeness. This is different. This is real. Thoughtless in the way only things that matter tend to be.

You’ve both just landed in Austria, strung out on a blur of time zones, delays, and airport chaos. The kind of day where everything feels off-kilter, fans pressing too close, luggage going missing, the air thick with humidity and tension. You’re cold. You’re tired. Your patience is frayed thin.

And then you see him.

He’s standing just ahead of you in the team transport queue, hoodie pulled up halfway against the drizzle, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but he smiles when he spots you, that tired, crooked smile that only ever seems to be meant for you, and before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can rationalise or hesitate or think, you’re moving.

You close the distance and wrap your arms around his neck, sudden and full and tight, not soft or polite or hesitant like it might’ve been a month ago. It's instinct. A reaction to the storm, to the cold, to the way everything lately has felt a little bit too much. You’re not even sure who reaches first. You just end up in his arms, like gravity chose for you.

And he sinks into it.

Like it’s home.

His hands slide around your waist with a kind of aching familiarity, pulling you in closer than necessary. You feel how his fingers tighten just slightly, how his body folds into yours like something long denied. How he doesn’t just accept the hug, he needs it. He clings to it like he’s been holding his breath for weeks and you’ve just given him permission to exhale.

The moment stretches.

Neither of you speaks. For a second it’s just this. Just the press of his chest against yours, the subtle tremble in his exhale, the quiet thud of something unspoken between you both.

Eventually, because you have to, you both pull back. His hands fall away slowly, reluctantly, like they don’t want to let go, like they’d stay right there forever if they could.

You glance at him.

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

But the silence between you crackles with something louder than words.

That night long after the rain has stopped and your body’s finally warm beneath hotel sheets, you dream about that moment, about turning back into his arms, about him holding you even tighter, about him not letting go.

In the dream it’s not just a hug it’s everything neither of you has been able to say, because the truth is, though neither of you would ever admit it out loud, you’re both a little touch-starved.

So when his arms wrapped around you earlier it wasn’t just a comfort, it was a release. A surrender. A moment of being held and seen, and you felt it in the way he clung on, a second too long, a fraction too tight, he needed it just as much as you did.

When you wake up heart hammering and throat tight, you stare at the ceiling and wonder how something so simple could feel so much like the beginning of the end.

Or maybe the beginning of something else entirely.

From that moment on nothing feels quite the same.

There’s no declarations, no stolen kisses behind closed doors, but in the kind of quiet, creeping way that makes it impossible to pretend nothing’s different.

Max starts lingering more.

Longer in hallways. Closer on planes. His knee bumps yours during dinners and doesn’t shift away. His thigh presses alongside yours when you're both crammed into the back seat of a car, and he leans just a little further into your space, always under the guise of something casual, looking at your phone screen, pointing something out on your laptop, brushing an imaginary thread off your sleeve.

He still doesn’t say anything that could be mistaken for flirting.

He still doesn’t cross any obvious line.

But it’s not platonic anymore.

Not really.

It feels like a lie, like you’re both clinging to the comfort of what you used to be while pretending not to notice how it’s morphing into something else entirely. Every touch lingers. Every glance is loaded. Every shared silence hums with all the things you’re not saying.

And then there’s Silverstone.

You’re both waiting under an awning outside the paddock watching the summer rain fall in sharp, rhythmic taps against the concrete. It's one of those passing storms brief but sudden, the air heavy with it, the sky still bright despite the downpour.

Max stands beside you close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him in waves. Your shoulders hover near each other, the two of you are suspended in that delicate in-between space where friendship ends and something else begins.

His arm brushes yours.

Just barely.

A fraction of movement. A breath. But it might as well be a lightning strike with the way it sends something electric shooting through your spine. Your thoughts derail instantly, all clarity lost to the sensation of warm skin against yours.

You turn your head instinctively.

He’s already looking at you.

His gaze is steady, unreadable, but not indifferent. There’s something behind it, deep and dark and dangerous. His voice when he finally speaks is rough like gravel, like it’s been scraped raw from the inside.

“Cold?” he asks.

You nod without thinking, even though you’re flushed beneath your jacket, your skin practically burning.

He doesn’t say anything more. Then in one small movement that feels impossibly significant Max lifts his arm and slides it around your shoulders, gently, like he’s thought about doing it a hundred times and is finally allowing himself the indulgence.

You freeze. His hand settles against the curve of your shoulder and you can feel every inch of him, the press of his side against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the strength in the arm now wrapped around you like it belongs there.

He shifts, just slightly, and now you’re fully shoulder-to-shoulder, his warmth bleeding into your skin like a confession he’s not ready to make.

Your heart is beating so loud, you wonder if he can hear it.

The car arrives. You hear the rumble of the engine, see the flash of headlights through the rain, but neither of you moves both acutely aware that something is unraveling between you slow and irreversible.

And neither of you wants to stop it.

It gets harder to pretend.

Harder to swallow the ache in your throat every time he’s near. Harder to breathe around him without your chest tightening, without your fingers twitching with the need to do something, to reach, to hold, to finally have.

You’ve started recognising the patterns. The rhythm of his touches. How deliberate they are in their disguise.The way his hand finds the small of your back when he’s guiding you through crowded garages, protective and steady, fingers just grazing the fabric of your shirt like he’s holding himself back from more.

The way he always sits close at dinner, close enough that his arm brushes yours when he lifts his glass, close enough that you can feel the heat from his skin as he rests his hand on the table, just inches from yours. Close enough to tempt but never close enough to claim.

The way he laughs, full and unguarded, and then reaches out to you without thinking tapping your knee or squeezing it gently like the joy would be too much if he didn’t release some of it into you. Like contact is the only way he knows how to feel fully now.

It would be easier, maybe, if he didn’t look at you the way he does.

If he didn’t linger in those silences between sentences, watching your mouth as you speak. If he didn’t study your face like he was memorising it. If he didn’t touch you like he was trying not to burn.

Eventually something gives.

You’re sitting on the balcony of his Monaco apartment just the two of you, late into the night after a long, endless day of press obligations and sponsor smiles. The city glows beneath you, a blur of lights reflecting on the sea, and a soft breeze rolls through the stillness. You both have glasses of wine in hand, your legs curled beneath you on the couch, the hush between you thick with unspoken things.

You’re laughing over something dumb. You can’t stop smiling, the wine warm in your chest, your head tilted back toward the stars as you recount it.

Suddenly Max goes quiet.

Completely.

The shift is immediate so still it cuts through the air.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, quiet but firm. A decision, not a suggestion.

You turn toward him slowly, the smile fading from your lips. “What?” you ask.

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight, like he's trying to swallow something that won't go down.

Finally he speaks, voice low and cracked and rough at the edges.

“You know sometimes it physically hurts.”

You blink. “What does?”

“Being around you every day… it’s like torture.”

You don’t interrupt. You barely breathe.

He stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on nothing, his fingers flexing tight around the base of his wine glass like he needs something to hold onto or he might fall apart right there in front of you.

“Seeing you. Laughing with you. Sitting next to you on flights, at home, debriefing after races or just… existing in the same space.” His voice cracks, barely noticeable, but it punches something straight into your chest. “Touching you but not really. Not the way I want to. Some dumb excuse to sit too close on the couch it doesn’t help. It just makes it worse.”

Your throat tightens, but you stay quiet. Let him speak.

“I don’t even know when it got this bad, but it did. Because now when I see you across the room and you smile at me it hurts. When you laugh and I’m not the reason it hurts. When I have to walk away instead of kiss you, when I have to pretend this isn’t killing me…” He finally turns to face you, and the look in his eyes is wrecked. Bare. “It feels like I’m being torn apart.”

He shakes his head once, frustrated with himself, with everything and then finishes quieter now:

“I can’t even breathe near you without feeling like I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

Your heart lurches.

“I’m trying so hard,” he says, voice low and unraveling. “So fucking hard to respect what we are. To not cross that line, to be your friend and pretend that’s enough.”

He laughs not because it’s funny, but because he think it’s hopeless.

“But it’s not. Not anymore and it hasn’t been for a long time.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding so loudly you almost miss the next part.

“Every time you touch me I feel it for hours after. Every time you smile at me I have to remind myself that this isn’t something more, even though it feels like it is. Even though it is.”

He swallows hard.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.”

You go still. The words land in your chest like an earthquake, sudden and irreversible.

Your voice is quiet. “Then why didn't you say anything?”

Max finally turns to you and he’s not hiding anymore. His eyes are wide open all pain and hunger and something devastatingly tender.

“Because I didn’t want to lose what we have,” he says. “But now… not having you like this?” His voice cracks. “That’s starting to feel like losing you anyway.”

“I’ve been holding it in for so long I didn’t think I was allowed to want more,” you whisper. “I kept telling myself friendship was enough, that I could live off scraps of just being near you.”

He’s still, eyes fixed on yours.

“I needed you too,” you say, voice barely holding. “In every way I tried not to. Every time you touched me and then pulled away… I felt it for hours after.”

Max stares at you like you’ve just leveled him.

“I thought I was the only one losing sleep over it,” he says.

“You weren’t,” you whisper.

You don’t know who moves first.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you.

Maybe it’s both of you at once, some invisible tether finally snapping loose, but suddenly his hand is on your cheek and your fingers are curling into the collar of his hoodie, and your mouths are meeting in the middle of that quiet night like it’s the only thing that ever made sense.

The kiss is soft. Uncertain at first. Underneath it is something heavier years of tension and friendship and longing melting into a single moment of release.

When you finally pull away you’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his hands still cradling your face like you might disappear if he lets go.

“I didn’t even notice how disconnected I was,” he says, voice low. “Until you touched me and I actually felt it.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He pulls you in again, arms wrapping around you holding you like he never plans to let go.

It’s better than you imagined.

Being with Max isn’t just about the kisses pressed into your neck in the back of hotel elevators, or the heat of his hands on your skin when the doors close behind you. Though those are incredible. But it’s more than that now. It’s real.

It’s the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention those quiet, reverent glances across the room, like he’s still surprised he gets to have you, and then winks because he knows he can now.

It’s how he reaches for your hand without thinking now during flights, gridwalks, car rides through Monaco always grounding you, always tethering himself to you like instinct.

It’s the way he curls around you in bed, broad chest pressed to your back, one leg always slung over yours like his body refuses to let you go. If you shift away in your sleep, he pulls you right back in with a sleepy grumble, his arms wrapping tighter like even unconscious he knows where you belong.

“Stay close,” he mumbles once, half-asleep, voice gravelly against the nape of your neck. “Don’t go too far.”

You didn’t plan on moving, not even an inch. You never do.

Then there are the mornings.

You used to wake to alarms and stress, fumbling through hotel rooms alone, but now? Now you wake to the quiet murmur of Max on the phone with room service, your Max, shirtless and half-dressed, hair sticking up in all directions, rattling off your breakfast order from memory.

“Scrambled eggs, no toast, oat milk, yeah, thanks,” he says, glancing over his shoulder to check you’re awake.

You blink blearily at him from the bed, sheets tangled around your legs.

“You’ve memorised my entire order?” you mumble, voice still rough from sleep.

He gives a lazy grin, hanging up. “I’ve been paying attention.”

“You’ve been studying me,” you tease, stretching like a cat.

Max walks over and presses a kiss to your hair. “I’ve been in love with you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

It’s in the everyday things too the way he lets you ramble during long car rides between cities, listening like every complaint about traffic or hotel pillows is the most important thing in the world.

“You’re cute when you rant about GPS,” he teases once, smirking when you flip him off without looking up from your phone.

And on race weekends no matter how loud the paddock gets, no matter how many people tug at his attention, Max always finds you.

Every. Single. Time.

He’ll be halfway to the grid, helmet in hand, suit half-zipped, engineers talking in his ear and still, he stops. Just for a second. Just for you. He doesn’t make a scene, doesn’t say much. Just steps close enough that no one else can hear and murmurs, voice low and steady:

“Stay where I can find you.”

And it always makes you pause because he’s not just talking about geography.

You nod, every time.

“Always,” you say.

Then he’s gone, swallowed by the blur of engines and tension and noise but you stay right where he left you because you know he’ll come back, and when he does he’ll look for you first.

Somehow it steadies you every time.

You used to be touch-starved.

Aching for connection. Craving something more than half-hearted affection and temporary flings.

Now?

Now you’re touch-drunk and Max Verstappen is your favourite addiction.

The same messages, the one you haven’t answered, but haven’t been able to stop reading either. Texts that somehow feels like both a confession and a surrender swirling in your head.

I love you. I’m sorry. I let you down. Always. You didn’t deserve that. You are everything. Please don’t let this be the end.

You read them again. For maybe the tenth time this morning. For maybe the hundredth time since he sent it.

At first you thought you needed time to calm down, but it’s not the anger that’s kept you silent it’s the ache, the part of you that knows how much Max has had to unlearn and the part of you that refuses to let that be an excuse for how he let you down.

You know what his ex did to him. You know how long she hovered in his life like a ghost that refused to leave, whispering insecurities back into his ear. You remember the first time he told you, voice quiet and cautious, like he was afraid saying it out loud would bring her back.

“She made me feel like I was always trying to catch up,” he said. “Like I had to earn everything. Her affection. Her approval. Her attention. Nothing was ever good enough.”

You saw it in the way he sometimes over-explained, or shut-down at the start of conflict, or froze when you asked him to be vulnerable without warning. You were patient. You gave him room to feel safe. You never asked him to rush healing but you also never expected to be the collateral damage when those ghosts came calling.

And that’s what this is, isn’t it?

She said his name, and he said yes. Not because he didn’t love you, but because part of him is still wired to respond to her chaos like it’s normal. Like it’s inevitable. Like saying no is something that comes after the damage, not before it.

You breathe out through your nose, rubbing a hand over your chest like you can press the ache down.

He didn’t do it to hurt you.

But he did hurt you.

That’s what you keep coming back to.

You love him. Deeply. Fiercely. In ways that scare you.

But love doesn’t mean swallowing the pain just because it wasn’t intentional. Love doesn’t mean waiting in the rain and then apologising for expecting to be seen.

You reread the message again not looking for a reason to forgive him. Just... trying to find the line between empathy and enabling. Trying to understand how to hold both truths in your hands, that he was conditioned by someone who hurt him, and that he still has the power to choose better now.

To choose you now.

You don’t know if he can.

You don’t know if you can trust him to.

The messages are raw. It’s not manipulative. There’s no “you made me feel” or “I didn’t think you’d find out.” It’s just him stripped down and aching.

It’s maybe the most honest thing he’s ever sent you and even though your heart still hurts, even though the pavement from last night still flashes through your mind like a wound that won't close something shifts.

Not everything.

But something.

You open a new message.

You start typing.

Pause. Backspace.

Try again.

I do want to see you, but I need to feel in control of this, on my terms. No promises, okay?

You read it over once, then hit send.

It doesn’t fix anything.

It doesn’t heal the crack he left in your chest.

But for the first time since you walked away in the rain your breathing evens out.

He’s early.

Of course he is.

It’s the one thing he can control. The first chance he’s had to show up before you, really show up, because he didn’t that night.

The park is quiet, warm in the late afternoon, sun filtering through the leaves in soft golden streaks. It’s not cinematic, it just feels… real. Familiar. This was your place once, a quiet bench under the crooked tree where you’d sit side by side talking about everything and nothing. Hiding from the world when things got too loud.

You spot him before he sees you.

He’s standing near the bench, hands in the pockets of a hoodie you recognise faded at the collar, sleeves pushed up like he always does. His jeans cling to his legs the way they always have, ridiculously snug, like he never got the memo that circulation is important.

You almost roll your eyes in affection. He catches sight of you then. Straightens a little. Eyes dark with sleeplessness and something softer, guilt, maybe. Hope, possibly.

You pause when get closer, in his hand you see something small and familiar. You recognise it immediately. A worn keychain you lost months ago. A tiny bent charm with the initials of your hometown etched on it, your joke version of “home.”

You stop a few feet away brow pulling in. “Is that…?”

He holds it out like an offering.

“Your keychain,” he says, voice low. “I remember you said it fell out of your bag months ago. I found it… well—”

He glances down, the corner of his mouth twitching, self-conscious.

“I actually tore apart my apartment looking for it last night. Thought maybe if I could bring you something that meant something, it might... count for something.”

He pauses glancing off to the side then exhales slowly and when he speaks again it’s with that nervous honesty.

“I don’t know why it hit me so hard when I found it. I just—” He swallows. “I remembered how upset you were even if you pretended you weren’t and I thought maybe if I could give it back, it might… I don’t know... it's stupid... I’m not trying to fix everything with it. I know I can’t. It’s not supposed to mean more than it does. I didn’t want this to be about proving something. I just… needed to remind you that I do remember even the things you think I forgot.”

He hesitates, then adds, quieter this time. “I know how much you missed it. And I just—I needed to do something.”

You blink, caught off guard. The charm is bent at the edge, the little enamel chipped, but you know it like your own hands. The one you stopped looking for. The one you never thought he'd noticed to begin with. You never expected to see it again.

He takes one cautious step forward and offers it to you, palm open.

You reach out and take it, your fingers brushing his. He tenses at the contact like your touch startled him more than he expected.

Neither of you says anything.

You move past him and sit on the bench the same side you always chose, the side slightly closer to the tree trunk. You don’t ask him to join you but he does.

The space between you feels massive even though your knees are barely a foot apart. It’s quiet for a while. The breeze makes the leaves overhead rustle softly, a few distant birds calling. Life going on, even if yours hasn’t quite picked up again.

Then he speaks.

“I should’ve told her no the second she said my name,” he says, voice hoarse, like it scrapes on the way out. “I don’t know why I didn’t. I—I froze. Not because I wanted her there, not because I was thinking about her, but because that part of me the part she used to get in her hands so easily it still reacts before I do sometimes… and I fucking hate that.”

He looks at you then, eyes tired and glassy.

“I hate that she still has that kind of power, even now. I’m not using it as an excuse. I just want you to understand that it wasn’t about her not in the way that it seems. It was never about her.”

He runs a hand over his mouth, overwhelmed.

“I was already beating myself up before I even made it to you, before I saw the story, before the messages. I was gripping the wheel thinking, you’re fucking this up, you’re hurting her, you’re late and you’re going to lose her, and I didn’t turn around. I should’ve. I should’ve never opened the door in the first place.”

He finally meets your gaze again and there’s nothing guarded about him anymore.

“I should’ve been with you. I wanted to be with you. You were all I was thinking about. I should’ve been driving like hell to get to you, not... slowing down for her. Not even for a second.”

He swallows hard, jaw flexing.

“I’m so fucking sorry. Not just for what I did but for making you feel like you weren’t enough. You are always enough. I’m sorry I made you doubt that, even for a second.”

You don’t look at him just watch a group of kids ride by on scooters, their laughter echoing down the path.

Your voice is quiet when you finally reply. “Part of me wants to hate you.”

You pause.

“I still might.”

His head drops, eyes falling to the ground between his feet. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to defend himself.

“I mean…” you sigh. “It wasn’t just the fact that you were late. Or that she got into the car. It was everything around it. The timing. Her tagging you like it didn't matter. The way everyone online saw it before I did. People messaging me like I was some kind of... punchline.”

He flinches at that, and you almost feel sorry for saying it.

You shift in your seat, running your thumb along the edge of the keychain.

“I trusted you, Max. I swore up and down you’d never do something like that to me… not you. And then… fifteen minutes. That’s all it took.”

You glance over at him.

“I’ve never felt so stupid in my life.”

He’s still not looking at you. His hands are clasped together between his knees, knuckles pale, you can see his eyes watering, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him cry.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, voice barely audible. “I know that doesn’t fix it, but... I am. I’m more sorry than I know how to say.”

You believe him.

That’s the hardest part.

Because it would be easier if he were lying. If this were just some PR version of him, clean apology, neat bow, something rehearsed, but it’s not. This is him tired and raw and wrecked.

And it still doesn’t make it okay.

You both sit in silence for a while.

For the first time since that night you finally look at him properly.

He looks like hell. Not in the dramatic movie way, just... human. Dark circles, unshaven jaw, hair he clearly ran his hands through too many times. Someone who hasn’t slept. Someone who’s been carrying a weight he doesn’t know how to set down.

His voice is softer now. “If there’s even a slight chance… I’ll wait as long as you need.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t say I love you.

You don’t even know if you’re ready to.

His pinky brushes yours, tentative, trembling, and you don’t move away.

That’s something.

Not everything.

But something.

Maybe that’s where it starts again.

Things slowly get… better.

Not perfect, and certainly not fixed. Not forgiven, not completely.

But better.

You don’t just let him back in. You make that clear from the start that there would be no quick reset, no sweeping the past under the rug. He wants to earn your presence again, moment by moment, not through grand gestures, but through consistency.

From the very start you make it clear this isn’t about punishment or proving himself to you like he used to have to do for someone else. This isn’t about control. It’s about trust. And trust doesn’t come back with flowers or apologies whispered at your door. There’s no quick reset. No pretending it didn’t happen. If you’re going to move forward, it has to be real. Forgiven in the right way not through guilt or fear or walking on eggshells, but through patience and showing you he wants to be better, not just loved.

Time passes.

Not easily. Weeks stretch out like an obstacle course neither of you asked to run.

You don’t forgive him overnight. You set boundaries. No more vague apologies, no more platitudes. If Max wants this, really wants this, he has to show it. Consistently.

And he does.

With the things you told him mattered when you first met, the things no one else ever noticed. He waits outside your work even when you tell him it’s fine, just to walk you home at night. Just to be there. He leaves coffee on your desk when you’ve had a long day, never asking for a thank you. He texts you before every flight, every late night sim session, every meeting, not because you demand it but because he wants you to know where he is, what he’s doing, that you’re not being left guessing.

He deletes numbers from his phone. The ones you always wondered about but never asked him to. He double checks his ex is blocked on everything, changes his privacy settings, tells his PR team to take her off any possible guest list they can.

You see the effort everywhere. In the way he answers you the first time you call, no matter how late. In the way he sends you updates on the mundane not to be monitored, but to be transparent to show how much you matter. He knows he broke something fragile. He’s trying to show you, with every small action, that he won’t break it again.

It’s not just the little things.

He starts pushing back at the schedule, carving out days to be where you are. Shows up to your work events. Sits in the back during a panel you’re on, anonymous in a baseball cap, just so you know he’s there.

He listens differently now too, doesn’t retreat into silence when things get hard. If you call him on something he stays in the conversation. Sometimes you can see how difficult it is for him to sit with criticism instead of running from it, but he stays anyway. He writes things down. Literally. You’ve caught him making notes on his phone: things you’ve said you like, little details you think he doesn’t hear. He remembers them later.

He doesn’t get everything right. There are still days he texts too late, still moments where the old habits creep in. But he owns them now. Apologises without prompting. Starts over the next day instead of pretending it didn’t happen. And slowly, painfully, you start to believe him. Not because he’s saying the right things, but because he’s doing them.

Sometimes it’s almost comical how far he goes. One weekend, you wake up to the sound of something slipping through your door. When you check, it’s a letter, an actual paper, folded over three times, your name written on the front in his crooked, rushed handwriting. Inside: three full pages of the things he’s never been brave enough to say out loud.

Another time, when you come down with a cold and try to tough it out while juggling deadlines and half a dozen unread emails, he shows up at your door anyway despite the fact that you told him not to worry. He knocks once, waits, then gently lets himself in, arms full, soup in a thermos, a fresh box of tissues, and a stack of your favourite comfort movies ready.

On his off days when you're working he sits on the floor beside the coffee table, quietly checking in when you need something, but never hovering. He waits until you’re ready. Until the tension in your shoulders eases and you finally close your laptop, dragging yourself to the other side of the couch to curl up near him.

He finds a thousand quiet ways of saying I’m here, I'll never leave you alone again, without saying the words out loud.

You start to see him not as the man who hurt you, but as the man trying desperately to be better than that.

There are nights where you still pull away, and mornings where you still hesitate before answering his texts, but Max never complains, never accuses you of holding back. He seems to understand that this isn’t a sprint. That trust is rebuilt one brick at a time.

One evening, sitting in his car after he’s dropped you off, you realise your hand stayed in his the whole drive and you didn’t even think about it.

It hits you… not everything is fixed, but you’re not flinching anymore.

You’re starting to lean back in.

And Max?

He’s still there.

Waiting.

Building.

Loving you.

It starts like most mornings do.

Max is in the kitchen, bare feet on the tile, scrolling his phone while he waits for the coffee machine to finish sputtering. It’s quiet, still early. He’s just about to shut his phone off when the notification pings.

He doesn’t recognise the account that posted it, just one of those chaotic motorsport gossip pages that thrives off blurry sightings and half-truths.

The caption reads:

Spotted: Y/N Y/L/N (girlfriend of Max Verstappen) out in Monaco last night… with her ex? 👀

At first he thinks it’s a joke.

But then he taps it.

And the world shifts.

The photo is grainy and flash-washed, the kind that leaves everything looking a little too exposed, a little too raw. You’re standing in the doorway of a coffee shop. Your ex is next to you. He’s mid-laugh, his hand gesturing toward something, maybe you.

And you… you're smiling.

Max’s stomach sinks.

His thumb hovers over the screen. Zooms in. Zooms out.

Like it’ll change something. Like it’ll explain.

His body goes still. His mug slips slightly in his hand. He doesn't notice the hot liquid spilling down the side.

He just stares.

He doesn’t remember getting into the car.

All he knows is that one second he’s in the kitchen, and the next he’s gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him together. The streets blur past. Traffic lights, pedestrians, the shape of the city all background noise to the chaos in his chest.

His jaw is clenched. His thoughts louder than the engine.

He’s not angry at you. But panic has a way of turning everything red around the edges.

Because for all the progress you’ve made, for all the moments that felt like healing, this photo feels like a trigger. Like a warning. Like karma circling back around with teeth.

And Max knows it.

He knows the irony. Knows the hypocrisy of the way his hands are shaking right now when he’s the one who left you standing in the rain with her laugh echoing through a phone screen.

That doesn’t stop the fear, because as unfair as it might be, the image of you smiling at your ex even just for a second sends something cold crawling up his spine.

He’s finally starting to believe he could earn your trust back and now he can’t breathe at the thought of losing you.

Not after all of this.

Not now.

Online, the photo is already making rounds.

Max’s girlfriend out with her ex. Trouble in paradise?

Is this before or after the car drama with his ex??

Honestly if she left him, good for her.

He gets tagged. Gets texted. A few cautious “you good?” messages from friends who know better than to assume anything.

He ignores them all.

Too busy spiralling.

He knows how this must look, how it must feel from your side. He knows he doesn’t have the right to show up furious or betrayed. He also thinks he’s not imagining the way you smiled toward your ex in that photo.

Comfort.

Familiarity.

It makes his chest ache with jealousy. He doesn’t know if he can survive it so he does the only thing his body understands in moments like this:

He drives to you.

He has to see you.

You’re curled up on the couch in one of his old hoodies, the soft, worn one you used to steal on purpose and now wear by default, hair pulled back, legs folded under you, eyes heavy from hours of staring at your phone.

You saw the photo.

You saw the caption.

You saw the chaos in the comments, the speculation, the assumptions, the people already choosing sides over something no one actually understood.

You knew, of course you knew, that Max would see it too. You’ve been bracing for this moment ever since it dropped, letting the anxiety settle in your chest like lead, pretending to scroll through other things while you waited for the fallout to land.

You’ve picked up your phone ten different times in the last hour, thumb hovering over his contact. You even started typing out a message at one point something short. Hey. In case you saw it…

But every version felt wrong because the truth is you're not even sure what you would say and deep down you know a text wouldn’t fix any of this anyway. You don’t need the buffer of a screen. Not this time. Not after everything.

You need to see him.

To talk.

You also don’t know where your head’s at.

You’re still untangling the last few weeks. The way things have been mending, slowly, but surely. The nights where you almost forgot what it felt like to be hurt. The mornings where it still lingered. The effort Max has put in. The way he’s been trying. And now… this.

So you wait.

You just didn’t expect the knock to come this fast.

Or this hard.

There’s no doorbell. No text. Just the unmistakable thud of knuckles hitting wood like they’re carrying more emotion than Max knows how to hold. By the time you pull open the door, he’s already halfway through unraveling.

“What’s going on?” he blurts, voice too loud, too raw. You can tell he didn’t mean to start that way, but the second he sees you the panic in his eyes sharpens, it’s like the words ripped out of him without permission. “Him?”

You don’t flinch. You don’t step back. You just blink, steady and tired.

“I ran into him and said hello,” you say, your voice flat but calm. “That’s all it was.”

His eyes flash. “In a coffee shop? That was just a coincidence?” His tone isn’t accusing exactly, it’s panicked, like he’s trying to catch up to something that already passed him by.

You exhale sharply, standing slowly, your body uncurling like a loaded spring.

“Yes,” you say, sharper now. “Are you kidding me right now? You think I planned that? You think I staged a casual run-in with my ex just to what piss you off? Be petty?” You shake your head, eyes narrowing.

Max freezes, the weight of your words hitting him like a punch he didn’t brace for. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling a little too fast like he wants to argue but can’t find anything to stand on.

“You don’t get to be angry about this,” you say, your voice quieter now, but firmer. “Not after what happened. Not after I stood in the rain and watched the whole world find out you picked someone else first.”

His face crumbles, the panic twisting into something softer, wounded, ashamed.

“I’m not angry at you,” he says, and this time his voice is quieter too, raw at the edges, he deflates in front of you. “I’m angry at myself. And scared. Because when I saw that photo… I thought…” He runs a hand through his hair, chest heaving, like the words are too heavy to force out. “I thought maybe you were going back to him, or if not him, then that I’d already lost you. That everything we’ve been trying to rebuild didn't mean anything. And I guess… I’m scared that you’ll never be able to fully forgive me. That I’d ruined it beyond fixing.”

You swallow, throat tight.

“I wasn’t going back to anyone... and it isn't—isn't ruined beyond fixing,” you say, quiet and sad, but a little hopeful.

He nods slowly, then lifts his eyes to meet yours again. His face is open in a way that scares you a little unguarded and pleading.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. “Why didn’t you just text me? Call me?”

You meet his eyes.

“I wanted to,” you say quietly. “I thought about it. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t know if it would help or make things worse, or how you’d react.”

You take a breath, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of your sleeve.

“I wasn’t trying to make a point, Max. I wasn’t trying to hurt you or prove anything. I just… needed space to figure out how this works now. If it still works.”

You glance away for a second, collecting your words before looking back at him.

“I saw that photo and I knew what you’d feel when you did. That drop in your stomach. That what does this mean? moment. That awful, sick panic where everything suddenly feels uncertain. And I hated it knowing you’d feel that. I hated that you had to sit with that kind of doubt.”

Your voice dips, softer now.

“But it’s also the same feeling I’ve been sitting with for weeks. Since that night. Since her.”

A pause.

You blink slowly, grounding yourself.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel it too. I just… didn’t know how to be okay yet. I still don’t. But I’m trying.”

And when you say that, Max isn’t looking at you with anger or hurt. Just understanding.

He takes one slow step forward, and then another, his voice breaking as he speaks.

“Will we—” he starts. “Do you think we’ll ever be okay?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because how do you answer that?

The word okay doesn’t even begin to cover what you were. What you are, maybe, if you can find your way back to it.

You’ve never stopped caring. You’ve never stopped hurting. And those two things are still tangled too tightly together to pull apart cleanly.

So you don’t say yes.

But you don’t step back either.

He takes another slow step until he’s standing right in front of you, not touching, just close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him like he’s burning with regret. Alive in the way his hands twitch at his sides. In the way he doesn’t reach for you, even though it’s killing him not to.

“I love you,” he says, the words raw and uneven. “I love you. I haven’t stopped loving you since the day I met you. Even when I got it wrong. Even when I forgot how to show it. I never stopped. Not once.”

He swallows hard, blinking fast. His shoulders curl inward like he’s trying to shrink all the worst parts of himself down to something you can carry something he doesn’t have to ask you to hold anymore.

“I never wanted anyone else. Not even for a second. It was always you. And I know I don’t deserve it, but please… don’t let this be the end. I need us. I need you.”

You stare at him, and something in your chest gives enough to feel the sharp pressure in your ribs soften. Enough to think of the version of him that sits beside you in the dark just to listen to you breathe.

“I told myself I should give up. I told myself it would be easier if I could just turn it all off and walk away.”

He flinches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

You keep going.

“But I couldn’t,” you go on. “Even when I was angry. Even when I tried to shut it all off. You were still there.”

“I kept thinking about how you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. The notes you used to scribble in the margins of my notebook when I was stressed, with your handwriting I can barely read, but somehow still knew exactly what you meant. The little things you’d do without saying a word… just in case I needed it.”

He exhales, ragged, but doesn’t speak.

“And yeah,” you add, voice thinner now, “I still sleep in your hoodie. I still check for your name every time my phone lights up. I still talk about you in present tense even when I wasn’t sure what we were.”

The silence between you thickens, but it’s not heavy. It’s honest.

“I don’t want to keep punishing you, Max,” you say, finally, and this time your voice breaks with it. “That’s not love. That’s not who I want to be. We both know what it’s like to be stuck in someone else’s damage, to feel like no matter what you do it’s never enough to be forgiven. I know what she did to you. I saw it. And I never, ever want to become a version of that for you.”

His eyes glass over, but he doesn’t look away. If anything, he looks like he’s trying to commit every word to memory.

“I’m still hurting,” you admit. “And I don’t know how long that’ll last. But I’m working through it. I want to work through it. Because I still love you. And I want the life we talked about. The one with the Sunday mornings and late nights and too many mugs in the sink.”

Max lets out a breath like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“So…” he says, cautious. “What does this mean for us?”

You step closer this time, your fingers brushing his before you lace them together.

“It means I want to stop surviving it and start choosing it,” you say. “But I don’t want to go backwards. I want to build something new. You and me but better.”

“I can do that,” he says quickly. “I will. I don’t want to live stuck in the version of myself that hurt you. I want to be the one who gets it right. Who shows up. Who makes you feel safe, loved, every day.”

You nod, eyes shining. “I want this to work. No guilt and no ghosts. Just us.”

“I love you,” he says again, quieter this time, but more certain. “I swear I will never hurt you like that again. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your hand lifts before you even realise it. Almost on instinct, and you reach for his face. Your thumb brushes his cheek, and the way he exhales like it’s the first breath he’s taken in hours makes your throat tighten.

He closes his eyes, leans into your touch without hesitation, like he’s been waiting for it, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment.

You don’t kiss him.

You don’t say I love you back. Not yet.

But you don’t pull away either.

And in this quiet, fragile in-between, where everything still hurts but something still lingers…

He presses his forehead to yours.

Nothing needs to be said right now. Not when everything worth saying is already hanging between your bodies like something sacred, something breakable, but still whole enough to believe in.

The next few weeks are lighter.

Not perfect, not without work, but better.

There’s a kind of peace that comes with knowing you’re both choosing this now because the love you share is the kind people don’t walk away from.

You laugh more.

There are real smiles, the kind that reach your eyes, that make Max stare like he’s watching the sun rise for the first time. You catch him doing that a lot lately, just looking at you, like he can’t believe he gets to have this. Not just you, but you happy.

It’s not just joy. It’s effort.

You talk. About the past. About the damage. About the future.

He notices the way your voice softens when you’re tired, or the way you pull your sleeves over your hands when you’re nervous. He doesn’t just ask how you are he knows the answer before you have to say it.

And you… you let him in again. Bit by bit. Moment by moment. Even when it’s scary. Even when it still aches.

There are small things that start to matter again.

Late-night flights, the windows blurry, his hand warm against your thigh as the clouds and lights flickers past in blurs of gold.

Dinner on the couch, your legs tangled under the blanket, some ridiculous reality show playing in the background.

Sticky notes in your notebook again, his handwriting just as messy, his words still exactly what you need.

Little joys.

Big love.

Not rushed. Not taken for granted.

Because when something survives the storm you don’t pretend it never happened you just build stronger walls around it. Softer ones, too.

Eventually she shows up again

This time she doesn’t post a story.

She walks into the paddock in person, bold as ever. Lip gloss perfect. Smile sharp. Wearing confidence like perfume the kind that's always been just a little too strong.

She doesn’t sneak in must have wrangled an invite from another team or sponsor. She doesn’t hesitate. She breezes past security like she belongs there, like the years between then and now haven’t passed, like she’s still the centre of every room she walks into.

Then she sees him.

She says his name, sweet and smooth and artificial, like it’s still hers to say.

“Max.”

He turns.

And for a split second —

He freezes.

Because that’s what old habits do.

They don’t vanish just because you ask them too. They linger in the body, coiled tight in muscle memory.

There was a time when her voice could make him do anything. When she knew exactly which version of herself to become soft, helpless, unbothered, untouchable to pull him back in. When he mistook control for connection. Silence for stability. Cruelty for complexity.

Those instincts don’t disappear overnight.

Even now, even after everything, there’s a flicker of it. That pull wrapped in nostalgia and pretty packaging, but it lasts barely a second.

Because now Max knows better.

Because now he’s learning to choose differently.

He’s doing the work. He knows what manipulation looks like.

More than anything?

He knows how much he loves.

He thinks of you.

Not in a frantic, desperate way. Not in panic.

In clarity.

In certainty.

He thinks of the way you looked last night at dinner, laughing at something dumb he said. The way you always pull your sleeves over your hands when you’re cold or nervous. The way you still hesitate sometimes before touching him, but do it anyway. The way you're giving him a second chance he’s not sure he deserves and treating it like it's his to hold gently.

He thinks of you in his hoodie. In his bed. In his life.

Warm. Beautiful. Real.

Home.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out instinctively, thumb unlocking the screen.

One message. From you.

You got this. Proud of you. Watching from home <3

He smiles. Instantly.

Not a half-smile.

Not a smirk.

A full, wide, genuine smile that creases the corners of his eyes the kind she never could pull out of him even when she tried.

He looks up.

His entire body resets. Shoulders drop, jaw relaxes, eyes go clear. The pause evaporates, and with it, any trace of the boy who used to chase ghosts for answers they were never going to give him.

He takes a step toward her. Just one.

Just enough to make sure she hears him clearly.

Cold.

Calm.

Certain.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

She blinks.

Her smile falters, just barely, like she wasn’t expecting that. Like her script didn’t include him walking away.

But he does.

No looking back.

This time when he walks away from her he doesn’t carry her shadow with him.

Later that night you get a message.

Hey, just a heads-up she came to the paddock today. I kept my distance, didn't let her in. Just wanted you to know so you hear it from me first. Love you.

You stare at the screen for a moment, thumbs brushing over the glass, and for the first time in a long time it doesn’t feel like you’re holding your breath.

You smile.

Not because he did what he was supposed to do, because the version of Max who once needed to be asked is gone, because this message isn’t about proving something. It’s just about keeping you safe.

About keeping you close.

It doesn’t feel fragile anymore. It doesn’t feel like you’re waiting for the ground to shift beneath your feet.

It feels like love.

Solid. Steady. Quiet, but constant.

Yours.

You’re in the passenger seat again.

Your seat.

Not just physically, but in the way it feels when his hand reaches for you at the next red light. In the way your music hums low from the speakers. In the way neither of you needs to fill the silence. Max drives with one hand steady on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh like he never wants to let go.

The city lights blur by in streaks of gold and red, soft and glowing. The air between you isn’t heavy, not full of things unsaid, not tight with apology. There’s space here. Space to laugh. Space to just be.

You lean your head against his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie warm beneath your cheek. You can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the tension gone from his body in a way it hadn’t been for months.

You just watch him.

The quiet curve of his profile lit by passing streetlights. His thumb moves in slow, absent circles, not for show, not to convince you of anything. Just because he wants to touch you. Because he can.

Suddenly it all rises in your chest.

You stare at him for even longer than feels normal, your heart hammering not with uncertainty, but with clarity.

Then you say it, soft, but certain.

“I love you.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

His hand stills.

His smile breaks slow across his face, like the sun coming out after a long, grey stretch of sky. He stares down at your eyes for a beat, as long as he can hold it before he has to look back at the road.

When he does, he doesn’t let go.

Not of the wheel.

Not of you.

“I love you too,” he says, voice just as steady, but the smile he’s wearing now? That’s yours.

You sink back into your seat, his hand moves to intertwine with yours, the lights are still blurring past outside like a movie you’ve seen a hundred times but love all the same.

You’re holding his hand.

You feel good.

Safe.

Happy.

Loved.

And neither of you are going anywhere.

The soft interior glow, the distinct hum of the engine, the carbon fibre dash that he used to let you rest your feet on even though he always said he hated it when people did that. The same grip on the steering wheel, the same slow pull into gear.

It’s the same seat you were supposed to be sitting in.

The same car he promised he’d pick you up in tonight.

The same plan you both agreed on.

The timestamp mocks you, posted ten minutes ago.

Your pickup time was fifteen minutes ago.

And now it’s been five minutes since that.

You’re standing in the rain, alone, watching the story that confirmed what you never wanted to believe. You should’ve known. God, you did know. Some small part of you always knew this was a possibility. You just never thought he’d actually choose her again, not after everything. Not after you.

She’s always been there, lingering at the frayed edges of your relationship like an echo you couldn’t shake. The ex who ended things on her terms, who left him the second things got real only to float back into his orbit whenever the timing suited her. The one whose name you never liked saying aloud because of the way it made something in Max shift. Not in a way he ever acknowledged outright, but in subtle, telling ways you couldn’t unsee. The way he gripped your hand tighter when someone mentioned her in passing. The way he looked at you after those conversations, with guilt swimming just beneath the surface, always followed by a whispered “I love you. Only you.”

You didn’t even mean to see it. You weren’t looking. You’d been waiting. Trusting. Standing beneath a flickering streetlight, phone in hand, counting raindrops and minutes, hoping.

It was your best friend who sent it, who shattered the illusion with a simple ping, a link to the story, followed by a rapid-fire string of messages that bled across your rain-slicked screen.

“Are you okay?”

“Y/N he’s literally driving her. She tagged him.”

“Please call me.”

“Did he tell you??”

You never made it into his car.

Max arrives and he doesn’t see you.

The car slows to a crawl as he pulls up to the curb, headlights cutting through the downpour like a desperate searchlight. The windshield wipers swipe frantically back and forth, barely keeping up with the torrent hammering the glass. The world outside is a blur of water and streetlights, distorted silhouettes and shimmering reflections on wet pavement. He squints through it all, eyes scanning every shadow, every figure under every awning looking for you.

He shouts your name, his voice barely audible over the dull roar of rain pelting the roof.

He glances at the time glowing on the dash.

Over fifteen minutes late.

He winces.

He knows how much you hate waiting. It’s one of the first things you ever told him about yourself, that you’d rather leave than be left waiting. And you especially hate waiting in the rain

Now here he is.

Late.

He taps the unlock button on his car, the familiar soft click echoing through the cabin as the passenger door opens. He half expects to see you jogging up from wherever you might’ve taken cover, hood pulled up, expression annoyed but forgivable.

But the sidewalk stays empty.

No umbrella.

No footsteps.

No bag slung over your shoulder.

No you.

A flicker of unease coils in his gut. It starts small, like a drip in a bucket, but it doesn’t take long to flood into something heavier. He cranes his neck, looks around again. Maybe he just missed you. Maybe you’re still coming.

He grabs his phone.

Calls you.

It rings once. Then again.

Then the call cuts to voicemail and a recorded voice answers instead of you. He stares at the screen, thumb hovering, not sure if he should redial or just wait.

That’s when it happens, he sees the notification across the top of his screen.

Instagram.

His ex tagged him in a story.

His blood runs cold.

His thumb moves before his brain can even catch up. He taps the alert. The app opens. The story loads.

And there it is.

Her voice.

Her laugh.

His car.

This car.

The very same seat beside him that you were supposed to be in, now caught in a three-second video that feels like a goddamn gunshot now that he knows you must’ve seen it. The angle is unmistakable. Her giggle is unmistakable. The timestamp damning.

“Fuck,” Max breathes, the word torn from his throat as if punched out of him.

He clicks the story again, watches it a second time, as if maybe it’ll change. As if maybe this is some kind of mix-up. But it doesn’t change. And it isn’t.

You saw this.

You had to have seen this.

And now you’re not here.

He swears again, louder this time, slamming his palm once against the steering wheel. He doesn’t care about the sting. Doesn’t care that he’s still parked with his hazard lights blinking in the middle of the street.

“No. No, no, no—fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his rain-dampened hair, the adrenaline surging now, panic blooming in his chest like wildfire.

He dials again.

And again.

Still nothing.

Straight to voicemail.

His heart is pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else. The rain, the storm, the voice in his head screaming at him that he fucked up.

And the worst part?

He knows exactly why you’re gone.

And exactly what it looks like.

Because it is exactly what it looks like.

You’re still walking.

No umbrella.

No direction.

Just away.

From him. From the place he was supposed to be. From the people whose eyes are probably on their screens right now asking themselves if you knew. If you expected it. If you’re the fool.

Your legs are moving but your mind is frozen. You can’t stop picturing her in the passenger seat. The seat you’ve sat in countless times, laughing, teasing him, letting him kiss the back of your hand at red lights. You picture her leaning in. Laughing at something he said.

You can see it so clearly it makes you sick.

Her sliding in like it meant nothing. Him not stopping her.

That’s what kills you.

Because it wasn’t an accident.

He had to slow the car.

Had to pull over.

Had to let her open the door.

Had to know what it would look like.

Had to know you were waiting.

And still, he made a choice.

Back in the car Max is unraveling.

He’s not thinking clearly anymore. His grip on the wheel is too tight. His jaw clenched. His thoughts spiral faster than the tyres beneath him.

He doesn’t know where to go.

So he just keeps moving.

He loops the same few blocks again and again, slowing near every café, every covered bus stop, every alley that might give him even a glimpse of you. He checks his mirrors like you might suddenly appear behind him. He pulls over recklessly scanning faces through fogged glass.

His phone buzzes in his hand, slippery with the sweat of panic. He’s called you five times now maybe six. Every time it ends the same way.

Voicemail.

He sends messages instead.

Where are you?

Please Y/N.

It’s not what it looked like.

But even as he types the words, they look pathetic. They look like what they are, hollow.

Because he doesn’t know what to say.

How do you explain something that should never have happened at all?

He hadn’t planned to see her, it was by chance, truly. He’d run into her when the rain started coming down hard. She said she was stranded and would get soaked. She smiled like she still knew how to get what she wanted. Said she just needed a quick lift.

He told himself it was fine, it would be a couple of minutes, that it didn’t mean anything, that you’d never know, that you didn’t need to know.

And that... that was the mistake.

Because he was thinking about timing. About rationalising. Not about you.

He thought he could drop her off and still pick you up like nothing happened.

He thought it would be fine.

He thought it wouldn't matter.

He thought wrong.

You don’t go home yet.

You don’t answer his calls. You don’t open his messages. You don’t even let yourself cry.

Not yet.

Because crying would mean acknowledging that it’s real. That it happened. That the version of him you’ve held onto in your heart, flawed but yours, just unraveled in front of the whole world.

Instead you keep walking until your limbs are too tired to carry you any further and your shoes feel like lead. The rain hasn’t let up, but you finally duck into a dim empty corner of a late-night café. It’s quiet, nearly closing, warm in the way fluorescent lights can be, not comforting exactly, but bearable.

You slide into a booth in the back away from the windows, away from the door. The smell of burnt coffee and old pastries drifts through the air, grounding you just enough. You pull your soaked sleeves over your hands and clench your fists inside them, pretending the tremble in your body is from the cold. Pretending that’s all it is.

Your phone buzzes again.

The vibration against the table is sharp. Insistent. Like it knows it’s already too late.

You don’t want to look.

But you do.

Of course you do.

I’m so sorry. Please talk to me.

She asked for a ride and I didn’t think. I wasn’t thinking I didn’t mean to hurt you.

I love you.

Three more messages. Short. Desperate.

Each one a blow softened by the kind of words you used to ache to hear.

Now they feel meaningless.

Weightless.

Too late.

You stare at the screen, unmoving, your reflection faint in the black of the glass. You don’t react. Don’t type. Don’t scream. Just let the words sit there like ashes, hot and bitter in your chest.

Then the screen dims and you turn the phone off, because none of it, none of it, changes the truth.

It doesn’t change the fact that he left you standing in the rain, waiting, heart open, believing in him.

He let her in.

Even if it was only for fifteen minutes.

Even if it was just a ride.

Even if it meant nothing to him.

Because to you?

It meant everything.

Sometimes it only takes minutes to destroy something you spent years building.

And now?

Now there’s nothing left to say.

Max is still searching when the rain finally begins to ease, tapering into a quiet drizzle that does nothing to calm the storm inside him.

He’s been driving for over an hour now, aimlessly circling through streets that feel both too familiar and suddenly foreign without you in them. He’s tried all your favourite places, places you go when you need to think, when you need space, when you need him to find you. But you’re not there.

He’s called your friends, most of them didn’t answer. The ones who did gave him the kind of silence that says you fucked up, followed by clipped responses and quick hang-ups.

He’s left voicemails he already knows he’ll hate himself for when he hears them again, his voice cracking, rambling, repeating please like it’s the only word that matters. Like it might somehow undo everything.

His throat is raw, not just from the cold or the shouting over traffic, but from apologising to no one, just the air, the rain, the quiet passenger seat that reminds him over and over again of what’s missing.

His chest aches in a way he can’t quite name. It’s not the sharp, fleeting pain of anger or the clean cut of guilt. It’s something deeper. A hollow, echoing kind of grief for something he hasn’t lost entirely, but knows he’s pushed to the edge of slipping through his fingers.

He let someone in, the someone you’ve always worried about, the one you never asked him to choose between, but silently hoped he already had.

He knows he made a mistake.

He’s not delusional. He’s not trying to spin it into something it wasn’t.

He just doesn’t know if this is the kind of mistake you can come back from.

When you finally get home hours later, dry but numb, you stop at the edge of your street and freeze.

There, parked just beyond the curb, is a car you know like the back of your hand.

His car.

You pause. You should've expected it really.

For a moment all you can do is stare. Like if you blink long enough it might vanish. Like maybe it’s just a cruel trick of the night and your exhaustion.

But then the driver’s side door opens.

Max steps out as if propelled by instinct, like he’s been holding his breath waiting to see you for hours. His movements are stiff, tired, soaked in something close to panic. His clothes are rumpled, his hair damp, and his face… his face is drawn tight with guilt and hope and the kind of desperation that makes you want to look away.

His eyes find yours instantly. Wide. Searching. Haunted.

“Y/N,” he breathes your name like it’s salvation and punishment all at once. He takes a cautious step toward you as if any sudden movement might make you disappear. “Please—just let me explain—”

You hold up a hand. To your own surprise your voice doesn’t shake when you speak

“You don’t need to explain Max. I saw everything.”

His face crumples. His shoulders drop. His mouth opens slightly, then closes again like he doesn’t know where to start.

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” he says quickly, stepping forward. “She asked for help. She looked stranded, it was pouring—I couldn’t say no—I—”

“But you did say no! You said no to me. You left me there.”

Your words slice through his excuses like a blade.

That shuts him up.

You watch the realisation settle into his expression, slow and suffocating. The words hang there between you, suspended in the silence, heavier than rain. You let them linger. Let him feel it. Let him sit in the same quiet that wrapped around you when every notification buzzed against your palm, when your phone screen lit up with pity and betrayal, when you stood on that sidewalk like the punchline to a joke everyone else was in on.

“That’s what’s killing me. You knew where I was. You knew exactly where I’d be standing outside at what time, in the dark, in the rain, waiting for you.”

“I didn’t think—” he starts, almost reflexively, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.

“No. Don’t do that. Don’t say you didn’t think. Because that’s exactly the problem Max. You didn’t think. You didn’t think about me. You didn’t think about how it would feel for me to stand there cold and alone, checking my phone and telling myself you were just stuck in traffic or your car broke down or literally anything other than the reality I had to see with my own eyes on a fucking Instagram story."

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he says quickly, stepping forward, hands slightly raised, like that might somehow soften the blow. “She didn’t have anyone, I thought it would be five minutes, I didn’t—”

“You didn’t want to say no to her, but you said no to me without even realising it,” you cut in again, this time quieter, but it hits harder.

He winces. “I know. I know I fucked up. I didn’t think it through, I swear, it was just—”

“It was just a ride, right?” you say bitterly, the words tasting like rust. “Just a few minutes. Just her looking helpless and you caved. You didn’t even think about me. You didn’t even consider that I might find out not because it mattered to you, but because you thought I wouldn’t have to.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you—I would never—”

“But you did Max,” you snap, and now your voice finally rises, not with rage, but with raw, exhausted grief.

His mouth opens and closes like he wants to say something else, but there’s nothing he can offer that you haven’t already crushed beneath the truth.

“Fifteen minutes,” you whisper. Your voice is thinner now, but it doesn’t waver. “That’s all it took. For her to be in your passenger seat. For the entire world to see it before I even knew.”

He moves closer, desperate. “You don’t understand—”

“No, Max,” you cut in, sharper now. “I do understand. You didn’t think it mattered. You didn’t think I’d find out. You were just going to show up late unlock the door like nothing happened, kiss me on the cheek and pretend it was all fine. Like she hadn’t just been in your car. Like I wasn’t standing in the rain waiting.”

Your voice cracks then, a single crack that betrays how deeply it hurts. How close you are to breaking entirely. You wrap your arms around yourself not to keep warm, but to hold yourself together.

“Do you want to know what I thought Max? When I saw that video?”

He opens his mouth, but you don’t give him the chance to answer.

“I thought, of course. Of course she gets to climb back into your life like she never left. Of course you said yes when she asked. Because she’s always had a hold on you. One I could never quite erase no matter how much I loved you.”

“That’s not true,” he says, but the words are brittle.

You shake your head, blinking fast. “She’s the one you chased. I was the one who stayed. I was the one who showed up. And still... you picked her. Even if it was just for fifteen minutes.”

His eyes fill, red-rimmed and glassy, and he takes another step forward like he might close the distance between you with his regret alone. He reaches for you, hand trembling slightly.

You take a step back.

It’s gentle. But it’s a wall.

“I need space,” you say. “I need to not see you right now. Because I don’t know if I can look at you without seeing her. Without wondering if fifteen minutes was all it took to make you forget everything we had.”

Max doesn’t follow. He nods, slowly, eyes shining with regret.

As you turn and walk toward your door this time it’s him left standing in the rain, watching you disappear into the night, too afraid to follow. Too late to fix it. Too broken to speak.

Wondering if he’s truly lost the one person he can’t live without.

The rain hasn’t let up.

It’s thinner now, less furious, but it keeps falling almost like it knows he doesn’t deserve clarity yet.

Max sits alone in his car watching the droplets slide down the windshield, tracing the same pattern over and over again like a punishment. It’s been hours since you walked away. Hours since he saw your face, your eyes wet and brimming with disbelief, your expression cracked open by pain you didn’t deserve. And still, he hasn’t left.

Because where would he go?

What could possibly matter more than waiting for the impossible chance that you might come back outside?

You didn’t force him to draw lines. You never issued ultimatums. You didn’t weaponise your love. You just trusted him.

Still, somehow he’d made the wrong decision.

He didn’t mean to hurt you.

God, he didn’t mean it.

That’s the thing about pain though, intentions don’t matter when the damage is done.

He leans his head back, resting it against the headrest with a dull thud. His eyes close, but there’s no peace. Just the roar of rain, the weight of silence, and the past clawing its way back in through every fractured piece of him that he thought was sealed shut.

Her.

His ex.

Her voice used to be intoxicating, alluring, manipulative, dangerous in ways that took him years to fully understand. Laughing in his ear one second, then gone the next, radio silent for days, just long enough to make him panic. Then she’d come back like nothing happened, smile sweetly, make it seem like he was the one who made her run. When she came back it was always on her terms and with just enough sweetness to keep him hooked, just enough vulnerability to keep him wondering if maybe, maybe this time would be different.

She made him chase.

Always.

He remembers one night in Monaco, a party, an argument, her storming out after accusing him of flirting with someone he’d barely spoken to. He remembers running after her, practically begging her to talk to him while she lit a cigarette on the curb not even looking at him.

She loved the power.

He remembers being twenty-two and stupidly in love with someone who needed him to feel small so she could feel big. In love with a version of her that didn’t actually exist, an idea, not a person. Someone who could only love him if he bled for it.

She never told him what she wanted. She just made him guess. And every time he got it wrong, and even when he didn’t, she’d punish him.

Emotionally.

Silently.

With withdrawal.

With just enough affection to keep him on the hook.

And when she finally broke it off for good he felt relief so strong it made him dizzy.

But even then… he didn’t see it for what it was. Not really.

Not until he met you.

You, who texted back without delay.

You, who laughed with your whole chest and never made him earn your approval like a prize.

You, who spoke to him like he was human, flawed, emotional, not perfect, but worth loving wholeheartedly anyway.

You didn’t make him guess. You didn’t turn every disagreement into a battlefield. You didn’t leave him wondering if he was too much or not enough.

He didn’t have to earn your attention. He didn’t have to guess how you felt every time he looked at you. You didn’t keep score. You were soft and honest and that terrified him at first.

Because when you’re used to love that feels like punishment, kindness feels like a trap. Stability feels like a trick. And for a while he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But it never did.

You were gentle with him, even when he didn’t deserve it.

He remembers one night after a brutal race pressures too high, tempers flaring. He came home angry, silent, pacing like a storm and instead of pushing or asking too much or pulling away, you simply touched his face. Softly. Thumb tracing his jaw.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know you’re trying.”

That undid him. No one had ever said that before. Not like that. Not with grace instead of judgment.

You cracked something open in him.

You made him want to be better.

Now he’s sitting in the very car that used to take you everywhere, on late-night drives, to secret hideouts, to beach parking lots where he kissed you with sand still clinging to your ankles and all he can think is:

He ruined it.

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes was all it took to let the wrong person slip back into his world.

She’d called his name in the parking lot like no time had passed, half-laughing, soaked from the rain but still composed, still playing at vulnerability like it was some kind of charm looking exactly the same as the last time he saw her. Polished. Icy. Familiar.

“Max,” she called out, flashing that same curated smile he’d once mistaken for softness. “Just one ride. It’s pissing rain and I can’t get a driver.”

He hesitated. He really did.

But she was already pulling open the door, acting like it was obvious he’d say yes, like she knew he’d let her in... and he did

That’s what pisses him off now, not the fact that she asked, but the part of himself that still responded like a reflex. Like muscle memory. Like the version of him she used to own hadn’t fully died.

The part of him that still caved to her chaos for fifteen fucking minutes while you were waiting for him in the rain.

He didn’t want her in the car.

He didn’t enjoy it.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t talk.

He just drove. Silent. Detached. Numb.

Still he didn’t stop to think about you.

You, who was waiting fifteen minutes away.

You, who trusted him not to put you in that position.

You, who never asked for promises, only presence. Only honesty.

And now… maybe he’s lost you, and he thinks he probably deserves to.

Max runs both hands through his damp hair, fingers tangling at the nape of his neck as frustration twists inside him like a knife. His whole body feels wired, restless, like if he could just go back turn the wheel, say no, stop her, he might undo it all.

He can’t believe how fast it all crumbled.

One video. One tag. Three seconds of her voice over his engine and suddenly the entire illusion of security you felt with him shattered, and rightfully so, because you weren’t just hurt by the image.

You were humiliated.

He should’ve known better. He should’ve protected you.

Not just from her, but from himself.

From the part of him that still hasn't learned that not all people who smile at you deserve a seat beside you.

The trust you’d so carefully handed him had splintered.

He pictures your face again. The way you looked at him like he wasn’t the person you loved anymore. Like you didn’t recognise him.

In that moment, maybe you didn’t.

Maybe he didn’t either.

He scrolls through your texts. No responses. Nothing since you asked for space.

He doesn’t blame you.

And yet… every part of him aches to reach you.

To go up to your door.

To hold your face and swear again that it didn’t mean anything.

That it was a thoughtless mistake.

That he would never, ever let her between you again.

You were never the rebound.

You were never the easy option.

You were everything he didn’t know he was allowed to have until he had you.

His mind drifts back to a conversation you had a few weeks ago. He’d asked if you trusted him. You smiled, curled up next to him in bed, your fingers running along the inside of his wrist.

“I do. Of course I do… but please don’t make me feel stupid for it.”

He didn’t answer then.

He just kissed you.

Now that sentence haunts him like a fucking echo.

He gets out of the car finally.

Walks in the rain without an umbrella.

Because maybe he deserves to know how it felt. To be cold, soaked, vulnerable, standing there watching someone drive past with a ghost in their passenger seat.

Maybe he needs to remember it viscerally, the water in his shoes, the ache in his gut, the burn in his throat from not saying no when it mattered. Maybe he needs to know what it’s like to stand outside in the dark, and realise, really realise, that the person he loves might not be coming.

He pulls out his phone. His hands are shaking, rain slipping off his fingertips as he unlocks the screen.

He doesn’t expect you to answer.

But he has to try.

I keep thinking about how she used to make me feel like I was never enough, like love was some kind of test I could never quite pass, no matter how much I gave or how hard I tried, like I had to earn every scrap of her affection while constantly fearing I might lose it for reasons she’d never explain. And then you came into my life calm and steady and you loved me without asking me to prove a single thing. You didn’t make me guess. You didn’t make me bleed for your attention. You just gave it. Freely. Without hesitation. Without agenda. You saw the parts of me I tried to hide, the temper, the pride, the insecurity, and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t run. You stayed, and you made me feel like maybe I was someone worth staying for. And I let you down. Because for fifteen stupid, careless minutes I let a shadow slip back into the space that should have only ever belonged to you. I let her in enough to make you doubt me. Just enough to make you question everything we built. Just enough to hurt you in the way I promised I never would. That’s what kills me. That I didn’t have to touch her to betray you. That all it took was silence. Thoughtlessness. The absence of a ‘no’ when you deserved every no in the world. I'm not trying to make excuses only to explain. I would give anything to undo it. To go back and shut the door. To keep that seat empty until it was you in it. To turn the car around, to call you, to remember that fifteen minutes of convenience was never worth five seconds of losing you. You’re it for me. You’ve always been it. You’re the only one I want beside me, in my car, in my life, in every version of the future I’ve ever let myself hope for. I love you. I love you more than I ever thought was possible. And if I never get the chance to show you again… if this is it… if I’ve already ruined it beyond repair… then I just hope you know that every word I’m saying now is true. You were never temporary. You were never second-best. You are everything. Please don’t let this be the end. But if it is… Then I’ll carry this regret for the rest of my life knowing I had something rare, something real and I lost it the moment I forgot to protect it. I’m sorry. I love you. Always.

He hits send and waits in the rain.

“Think of it like… the royal detail,” your boss had said. “Except this king drives at 300 kilometers per hour and thinks small talk is a form of torture.”

You took the job anyway.

Monaco was everything you expected, opulent, sun-soaked, and already crawling with media two days before race weekend. You met the Red Bull head of operations at a private hotel suite overlooking the marina.

“He’s not thrilled,” the man said plainly as you reviewed the logistics packet. “Max hates change. Hates having people in his space but this isn’t negotiable anymore.”

You nodded, you were used to resistance it came with the job.

Then he handed you a cover story ID badge with your picture.

Y/N Y/L/N, Personal Assistant.

“PA?” you asked, raising a brow. “I thought the cover was girlfriend?”

The man shrugged. “Girlfriend works if the setting calls for it but for now keep it professional at base camp. It’s less messy and it will be easier to blend in.”

You smirked. “What you mean is less drama for the gossip pages.”

He didn’t deny it.

You met Max that night. He was sitting on the balcony of his suite, cap pulled low over his face, hoodie draped like armour. His posture screamed closed off, but his eyes, sharp and glacial, were fully alert as you approached.

“Y/N,” you said with a practiced smile, figured you might as well tell him your real name, build some trust. “Your new shadow.”

He didn’t stand at first just looked you up and down with the kind of assessing silence you were used to from military officers, not race car drivers.

“You don’t look like a bodyguard,” he said flatly.

“You don’t look like someone who needs one,” you countered, tone light. “And yet… here we are.”

He blinked once. You caught the faintest twitch of amusement. Maybe.

Max finally stood, tall and rangy in that way only drivers were built, like they were designed to slide into carbon fibre cockpits.

“Let’s make something clear,” he said, stepping closer. “I don’t need babysitting.”

“And I don’t do babysitting,” you shot back easily. “I do threat mitigation, logistics, and perimeter control and if you’re lucky I also make a decent gin and tonic.”

That earned the faintest curve of his lips, not a smile, but not nothing.

“I don’t really do small talk either,” he muttered, brushing past you toward the minibar.

“I talk enough for two,” you replied cheerfully, following him. “We’ll balance each other out.”

By day three you had memorised his schedule. Arrive at 9. Engineering brief at 10:30. Media rounds at 12. Sim sessions in the late afternoon. By day four, you’d figured out his moods. Grumpy in the mornings. Grumpier after practice. Surprisingly soft when talking about his cats.

Your job was seamless, blend into the background, scan the crowds, manage the handlers, and keep the heat off his back when things got chaotic. You developed signals and subtle gestures when he wanted an exit. When he needed a buffer. When someone was getting too close.

You didn’t talk much the first two weeks. You cracked jokes; he grunted replies. You smiled at fans; he signed autographs with clinical efficiency.

Still… you started to notice things like how he always scanned for you first when entering a crowded room or how he’d wait a beat longer in a conversation giving you time to interrupt if needed.

Like he trusted you.

Not liked. Not liked.

But trusted.

Things began to change after Miami.

A drunk fan had slipped the perimeter at the hotel, tried to grab Max’s arm while shouting something incoherent. It wasn’t dangerous, but it was close enough.

You’d moved quickly, intercepting, diffusing, shielding.

Max didn’t say a word the entire elevator ride up to his suite, but when you handed him a bottle of water at the door he took it with a tight nod.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “That was… quick.”

You leaned against the wall, arms folded. “It’s literally my job Verstappen.”

He looked at you for a long moment and then so quietly you almost missed it he said, “Still. You were good.”

You blinked. “Was that… praise?”

“I’m just saying,” he mumbled. “That could’ve been a lot worse without you around.”

A smile tugged at your lips. “Wow. Mr. No-Social-Skills actually complimented me. I should write this down.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t push it.” He paused and then added. “Also you can call me Max you know?”

A slight smirk formed on you lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You pushed it anyway.

Over the next few weeks you let your sunshine edge out his shadows.

It started with the jokes. Bad ones. The kind that made mechanics groan and engineers shake their heads in despair. You told them anyway, with a grin and no shame. He’d roll his eyes every time, but once, just once, you caught him with his hand half-covering his mouth biting back a laugh like it might cost him a championship.

You didn’t say anything just logged the moment away like a tiny win.

Then came the music.

On long drives between the track and the hotel when you were stuck in traffic you’d queue up the most obnoxiously bubblegum pop you could find. Songs with hand claps and key changes and lyrics about love. He grumbled every time threatened to confiscate the aux cord more than once, but he never did, not even when you played the same song three days in a row just to see if he’d snap.

Instead he turned down the volume when you took calls, and tapped the steering wheel off-beat when you hummed.

He didn’t ask you to stop.

You brought snacks during briefings a granola bar tossed onto the table in front of him, a loud crinkle of packaging as you unwrapped something sweet mid-sentence. You teased him about his habits. Called him out on skipping meals for snacks, drinking too many energy drinks and not enough electrolytes.

He scoffed. Told you to mind your own macros.

But then you started finding things left behind for you.

A croissant on your desk. Your favourite iced coffee tucked next to your notes. A bag of sour gummies waiting in the cup holder before a long drive. No note. No mention. Just there.

By the next month something had changed again.

He let you sit in on strategy briefings. He never introduced you, never explained your presence but he didn’t ask you to leave either. Once when someone questioned it, he just said, “She’s staying,” and that was the end of it.

You sometimes scribbled notes when you learned something new. You kept quiet, but when he glanced your way mid-discussion you nodded and he relaxed, barely, but enough for you to notice.

By Spain he was pulling you aside before press conferences. Not for anything important. Just to ask small things: if his cap was crooked, if his collar looked weird, if he should swap watches.

He was a world champion. He knew exactly how he looked and he didn’t much care to impress.

He just wanted your opinion.

Sometimes you fixed the cap yourself, straightened the brim, smoothed a wrinkle in his jacket. His eyes always stayed on yours, like he was waiting for something more than approval. You always gave it with a smirk he pretended not to chase.

He lingered a little too long when you had to go your separate ways. You laughed a little too softly at something he said and the sound curled into the air between you like smoke. When you looked at each other it felt like holding your breath underwater, tense, weightless, inevitable.

Neither of you said anything, but you both knew.

It started raining after FP2 in Montreal, and your jacket had been left behind in the chaos of a credential mix-up. You tried not to shiver as you stood beside the Red Bull motorhome, arms crossed against the wind.

Max noticed.

Without a word, he unzipped his hoodie and tossed it at you.

You caught it mid-air. “Won’t you be cold?”

He shrugged. “Better me than you.”

You raised a brow. “You do know I’m trained for extreme conditions, right?”

He gave you a pointed look. “And yet you’re shivering like a chihuahua.”

You grinned, pulling the hoodie on. It smelled like his cologne and engine grease and something vaguely citrusy. You didn’t give it back until three races later.

Imola. The weekend wasn’t going as planned. He was being short with the press again, stone-faced, minimal answers, barely disguising his boredom.

You waited until they’d cleared before leaning in, arms crossed.

“If you answer more than three questions with actual sentences tomorrow, I’ll bring you the pastries from that German bakery you like.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You know you’re not actually my PA right?” You didn’t respond just narrowed your eyes right back.

He sighed. “Two sentences per question?”

You tilted your head. “Full ones. No mumbling.”

“You’re ruthless.”

You smiled sweetly. “That’s why you like me.”

He didn’t argue, but the next day, he smiled during a post-qualifying interview and looked straight at you as he did it.

Spa. You tried to carry his gear bag after practice. He tried to stop you. You both ended up with one strap each, locked in silent stubbornness at the edge of the garage.

“Max.”

“No. You don't need to carry my bag.”

“It’s fine.”

He raised a brow.

You squinted at him. “I am your protection detail—”

“I’m not under threat right now.”

“You’re always under threat.”

He let out a reluctant laugh and finally let go of the strap.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

“You love it.”

He didn’t respond but he did walk closer to you the next time fans started pressing too hard against the barriers.

The day had stretched long and hot, the kind that left everyone a little sun-drunk and slow-moving. Media rounds were done, sim work wrapped, and the paddock had emptied into stillness. The city buzzed in the distance, lights flickering over the river like a slow pulse.

You found Max out on the balcony of the team’s hotel suite, sitting cross-legged on a deck chair with a blanket thrown haphazardly across his lap and a bottle of something expensive dangling from one hand.

He didn’t look up when you stepped outside.

“Are you supposed to be up here?” he asked.

You ignored him and sank into the chair beside his anyway, pulling your knees up, gaze fixed on the skyline.

“Doesn’t matter I never really listen anyway,” you said lightly.

He snorted. “I’ve noticed.”

You let the silence stretch. It wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. You’d both started getting good at that, the quiet. The closeness. The parts where nothing needed to be said because being there was enough.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Too loud in my head.”

You nudged his knee with yours. “Want me to start talking about obscure niche security protocol until you pass out from boredom?”

He cracked a small smile, didn’t look at you. “God, no.”

You grinned. “What about the time I tased a drunk investment banker outside an FIA afterparty?”

That got him. He huffed a quiet laugh, eyes finally flicking your way. “That was real?”

You held up a hand over you heart. He looked at you, longer now, and there was something new in his gaze, less guarded, more curious. Like he was letting himself really see you for once. You felt it settle between you, like warm air, unspoken but undeniable.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said eventually.

You tilted your head. “Yeah? What did you expect?”

He shrugged, eyes back on the skyline. “Someone colder. More calculated. Less…”

“Charming? Devastatingly funny?”

He gave you a look. “Less annoying.”

You grinned. “Liar.”

He looked away, but his smile stayed, soft at the edges. It wasn’t the kind he gave to cameras. You leaned back, letting the moment breathe.

“You’re not what I expected either,” you said.

He arched a brow. “Let me guess, thought I’d be arrogant, rude, and emotionally constipated?”

“I mean,” you said, eyes sparkling, “two out of three’s not bad.”

He laughed again, short and surprised, like it caught him off guard.

And then, quieter, he asked, “So what did you expect?”

You hesitated.

“I thought you’d be unreachable.”

He blinked at that.

You added, softer, “And I thought I’d be invisible to you.”

The words hung there. He didn’t joke this time. Didn’t deflect.

Instead, he said, “You’re not invisible.”

Your breath caught.

“I see you,” he said, voice low.

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just charged. You looked down at your hands, then back at him, your smile small but sure.

“I talk enough for two, remember?” you said, trying to lighten the mood.

He nodded. “I’m starting to like that.”

Your heart fluttered, quiet and traitorous.

It was late one night.

The paddock was quiet, the energy muted after media day. You were walking side by side toward the garage when Max stopped suddenly, hands in his pockets.

“You ever get tired of pretending?” he asked.

You turned. “Pretending what?”

“That you’re just my assistant. Or PR. Or whatever the hell people think you are.”

You shrugged. “Not really. It keeps things simple.”

He was quiet again, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

“I think I’d rather people think you’re my girlfriend,” he said finally, voice low. “Then at least they’d stop asking why I check were you are before every session.”

Your breath caught but no words followed.

He didn’t look at you just kept walking, but your heart was no longer in your chest it was somewhere in your throat, hammering away.

Zandvoort.

The race was over, the crowd was roaring, and the chaos had begun.

Thousands of fans swarmed the barriers outside the paddock, a storm of orange smoke, flares, and blaring chants. Security was overwhelmed. You were already monitoring comms, trying to coordinate Max’s exit before it turned into a mob scene.

Then the alert came through your earpiece.

“Unidentified individual bypassed paddock checkpoint Bravo. Heading toward driver exit zone.”

You turned sharply scanning the low res security feed. A man was moving erratically near the gated driver corridor carrying something. Not close enough to be considered armed, but not far off.

You didn't hesitate.

“Max.” You caught his wrist as he started heading to the main exit, Red Bull staff buzzing around him. “You need to go through Exit Three. Now.”

“What?” He frowned. “That’s not—”

“I’ll explain later. Just go. I’m handling it.”

His expression shifted immediately, sharp concern clouding the usual gruff confidence. “Handling what?”

You squeezed his wrist. “Please Max just trust me.”

His jaw clenched. He hated being left in the dark, hated not being in control, but he nodded, barely.

Then you turned and moved towards the breach.

You didn't see Max again for another fifty-three minutes.

In that time you helped intercept the intruder some unhinged conspiracy-theorist fan trying to get a “message” to Max personally. Security sorted it quickly, no one injured, but you stayed behind to debrief and double-check the area.

By the time you made it back to the paddock your shirt was torn at the sleeve, your earpiece had died, and your phone had three missed calls from Max.

You were barely through the gate when someone grabbed your arm.

“There she is—” a breathless voice said. One of the Red Bull engineers. His face was flushed with urgency. “Where the hell have you been?! Max has been going mental—”

You blinked. “What?”

“He’s been asking everyone, security, press, anyone if you’re okay. He thought something happened to you. He kept pacing, wouldn’t leave. They had to hold him back from going out the exit himself to look for you.”

Your chest tightened. “Shit.”

“Yeah. I think he thought you got hurt, I’ve never seen him like that. He wouldn’t go back to the hotel until someone found you.”

Your throat was dry as you nodded, heart pounding for a new reason now. You made your way up to the lounge stepping through the crowded hallway and as you turned the corner Max was there, arms braced against the railing, back turned to you, pacing like a caged animal.

You barely said his name. “Max—”

He spun around and you saw it, bare, raw panic still simmering behind his eyes. His eyes went straight to your sleeve, the torn fabric, the scrape beneath it barely a scratch, red and shallow, but to him it might as well have been a bullet wound. He crossed the space between you in three long strides.

“Where the fuck were you?” he snapped, breath ragged. “You disappeared. No contact. Your phone was off. Everyone said you left but no one knew where. And now—”

“I was handling the issue. You were supposed to exit—”

“You were gone for almost an hour,” he cut in, voice sharp. “No contact. You didn’t answer your phone. No one could tell me anything.” His voice cracked, his eyes dropping back to your arm, “what the hell happened to your sleeve?”

“Oh,” you said with a breathless, too-casual shrug. “Caught it on the barbed edge of the service gate. Nothing serious.”

His jaw clenched. “Barbed?”

“I was climbing through a shortcut. Got snagged.”

You flexed your arm, showing him the minor scratch beneath. His hand came up, then dropped, like he was physically restraining himself from touching you.

“Max,” you softened your tone. “I’m fine. It’s handled. No one got hurt. It wasn’t that serious in the end.”

“You could’ve been,” he said, voice low and tight. He swallowed hard, his eyes were slightly glassy now, but not with tears, with emotion he didn’t know where to put.

You stepped closer, watching his chest rise and fall unevenly. “Max this is my job, you have to trust me.”

“I know and I—I do… but I thought something happened to you,” he said, quieter now. “And I hated it.”

You reached up and touched his forearm. “I’m okay. I promise it’s not a big deal.”

His gaze dropped to where your fingers touched his skin and when he finally met your eyes again something had cracked open.

“It is to me… I don’t care if people think you’re my bodyguard or my PA or my fake girlfriend,” he muttered, “but don’t make me go through that again.”

You didn’t say anything because you knew you couldn’t make that promise.

It was one of those weekends where the rain hovered like a threat, never fully arriving but soaking everything in tension.

You were standing just outside the Red Bull hospitality tent, umbrella in one hand, radio crackling in your ear, trying to coordinate logistics for Max’s media rounds. Across the narrow walkway, team staff hustled between motorhomes and sponsor booths, all nerves and waterproof gear.

Then you heard someone call your name.

You turned and found yourself face-to-face with Matteo, the charming, over-smiley performance bodyguard from Ferrari who you’d met in Monaco during a shared security seminar.

“Still chasing Verstappen through thunderstorms?” he teased, shaking water from his jacket as he stepped under your umbrella without waiting for an invite.

You arched a brow, amused. “Still trying to poach me?”

He grinned. “Maybe. I heard you handling this new gig like a pro. Word gets around.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered. “It’s not that deep. Just crowd control.”

“No, no. You’re being modest,” he said, leaning slightly closer. “If Max doesn’t appreciate having you around, I know several drivers who—”

“Y/N.” A sharp voice cut clean through the noise.

You turned. Max was standing a few feet away, hoodie up, rain streaking his jaw, eyes locked onto Matteo with an unreadable expression.

“Team wants you inside,” he said, not looking at Matteo once.

Your brows lifted slightly at the tone.

You turned back to Matteo. “I’ll see you around.”

He gave a low whistle as you left. “You’ve got a fierce guard dog, cara mia.”

Max didn’t say a word until you’d crossed the threshold of the Red Bull tent, umbrella folded, water dripping off both of you.

“What was that?”

You shrugged off your damp jacket. “That was a conversation.”

“With a Ferrari guy.”

You looked up. “Are you allergic to horses or just the idea of someone being nice to me?”

Max didn’t laugh. He reached for a towel, drying his hands, but his shoulders were tense under his race suit. “He wasn’t being ‘nice.’ He was flirting.”

You blinked. “So? I’m not wearing a sign that says property of Red Bull Racing.”

His eyes flicked up. “You think that’s funny?”

You tilted your head. “I think you’re being weird.”

He set the towel down and turned to face you fully, expression unreadable but gaze locked on yours.

“I didn’t like it,” he said plainly. “Him talking to you like that.”

You raised your brows. “And why’s that?”

A pause. Rain tapped softly against the awning. A few voices murmured in the background, but here inside this breath of a moment it felt like only the two of you existed.

Max didn’t look away.

“Because I don’t like sharing,” he said, voice low and deliberate.

Your breath caught. “I’m not—”

“I know,” he cut in quickly, jaw tightening. “I just…” He exhaled, gaze flicking away for the first time. “Forget it.”

But you didn’t, in fact you stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that the air between you thickened like the clouds outside.

“I wasn’t flirting back,” you said quietly. “But even if I had been—”

“I know,” he muttered again, almost to himself. “I just—fuck.” He rubbed a hand over his face like the words were peeling something open he wasn’t ready to see.

He looked at you again. This time, he didn’t pretend it was professional.

“I don’t like it when someone else gets your smile.”

You stared at him and in the silence you felt it that barely-contained thing between you crackling just beneath the surface. Not spoken. Not acted on.

Seen.

Known.

Finally you said, “Then don’t give me a reason to smile at anyone else.”

His expression flickered. Sharp. Surprised. Almost amused.

Before he could reply, the radio in your earpiece chirped.

“Y/N, we need Max in the pen in two minutes.”

You gave him one last glance, then turned to answer the call.

Behind you, he muttered, almost inaudibly, “God you make this impossible.”

You weren’t sure if he’d still be awake at this hour.

The hallway was silent when you stepped out of the elevator, two waters in hand and array of snacks tucked under your arm, security badge clipped low on your waistband, hair still slightly damp from the evening shower. Race day was behind you. Max had won. The media storm would roll through soon, but for now… it was quiet.

You knocked once on his door and waited after a beat it opened and there he was.

Max.

Not the world champion. Not the sharp-edged competitor with posture like stone and eyes like a winter storm. Just Max.

His hair was messy, flattened slightly on one side. He was barefoot in black joggers and a loose grey t-shirt, and for once, the cap and hoodie were nowhere in sight.

No branding. No barriers.

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, blinking at you like he hadn’t expected you either.

“I brought snacks,” you said, holding them out.

He hesitated a second before stepping aside to let you in.

“Were you asleep?” you asked as you kicked your shoes off by the door.

He shook his head, slouching into the couch near the window, legs sprawled out, arm resting lazily along the backrest.

“Adrenaline’s a bitch.”

You handed him one of the waters and settled beside him, leaving a cushion of space but still close enough to feel the shared stillness humming quietly between you.

He took a sip then glanced at you sidelong.

“You always up this late?”

“Only when I can’t stop thinking,” you said lightly.

“About what?”

You shrugged, took a sip of your own coffee. “Whatever’s next. Where the threats are. What I missed yesterday. Whether I remembered to switch my sim card before the flight. That kind of thing.”

He gave you a look. “You never miss anything.”

You smiled faintly. “You’d be surprised.”

He studied you for a long second, and then asked, “why’d you get yourself into this… like being a bodyguard?”

“I mean…” he went on, “you could’ve done anything. Military. Security consulting. Hell probably worked for Interpol if you wanted.”

You laughed under your breath. “Yeah I get that question a lot.”

He waited, eyes flicking back to yours. You leaned back into the couch, letting your shoulders drop the softness of the moment folded around you like a blanket, unexpected and warm.

“I was always underestimated,” you said finally. “Too short. Too nice. Too quiet. I’d pass checkpoints faster than my male counterparts because no one ever looked at me like a threat.”

You glanced down at your coffee. “So I became one.”

He didn’t speak, but he was listening. Really listening.

You went on. “It started as a challenge. Prove I could do it. That I belonged in a field that wasn’t made for me but then…” You trailed off.

Max prompted gently, “Then?”

“Then I realised I didn’t want to be the threat. I wanted to be the shield.” You looked over at him. “I wanted to be the reason someone felt safe enough to just… breathe.”

He blinked slowly as if the words landed deeper than they should have.

“I think that’s why I’m good at this,” you said softly. “People don’t expect me to be and then I am.”

Max didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you like he was seeing something he hadn’t before, like he was trying to remember the exact second you stopped being just a presence in the room and became the one person he watched more closely than anyone else.

Eventually he turned back toward the window.

“You do make it easier to breathe,” he murmured.

The words dropped into the quiet like a stone in water. No splash. Just ripples.

You didn’t reply. You just nudged your knee gently against his in a soft, silent cheers. A little smile ghosted across his lips. You sat in silence after that.

For the first time since taking the job, you didn’t feel like his bodyguard. You felt like the one person in his world he didn’t have to protect himself from.

The night was supposed to be over.

The sponsor dinner had wrapped late, the flashbulbs had finally stopped and Max had just about survived the gauntlet of networking and fake smiles without punching a minor celebrity. You’d both ducked out the side exit, avoiding the main lobby swarm with the ease of two people who’d long mastered the art of vanishing but you hadn’t expected the downpour.

It hit fast one of those sudden, cinematic crashes of rain that turned cobblestone into glass and soaked you through in seconds. By the time you made it to the hotel’s back awning, your hair was clinging to your face and your breath was coming in light bursts of laughter.

Max was just behind you suit jacket half-off, completely drenched, water dripping off his brow.

You both stopped under the awning, chests rising, hearts still racing not just from the sprint but from something else that hadn't been spoken all night.

You looked at him and laughed, wiping rain from your cheek. “Nice shortcut Verstappen.”

He smirked, pushing wet strands of hair off his forehead. “You said beat the press. I beat them.”

“You also nearly ran into a moving Vespa.”

“Still.”

You shook your head, smiling, rain rolling down your arms. “We look like we just escaped a rom-com.”

His eyes flicked over you and lingered and suddenly it was quiet again. The kind of quiet that didn’t come from absence of sound but from tension. From proximity.

You were close. Close enough that his breath hit your skin. Close enough that the soaked fabric of your dress clung to you and his eyes couldn't look away.

They dropped.

To your lips.

Then back to your eyes.

And stayed there.

Your laughter faded slowly, replaced by something slower, heavier, the air between you shifting like gravity had changed direction. He tilted his head slightly, barely perceptible. Water traced his jaw.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

He leaned in.

And then—

The door behind you slammed open.

You both flinched. One of the hotel staff stepped out, muttering something into a headset, not even noticing the two of you pressed under the awning like teenagers caught in something unspoken.

Max froze, jaw tightening as the moment slipped through his fingers, but he didn’t step back. Didn’t reset the space between you.

He just stayed there, eyes still locked on yours. Then, quietly, so quietly you almost missed it he murmured,

“You’re stuck in my head.”

You swallowed, heart in your throat.

His gaze dipped again, one last flicker to your lips before he exhaled through his nose, like forcing himself to let the moment go.

This time he stepped back only by a few inches. The tension didn’t vanish it just tucked itself beneath the surface again. You both turned as if nothing had happened.

But it had.

You felt it in the way your hands shook slightly as you pushed open the door. In the way he didn’t say another word until you were in the elevator, and even then, only whispered your name in goodbye like a confession he didn’t know what to do with.

It was supposed to be a clean exit.

The race had wrapped barely forty minutes ago, the floodlights still humming over the track as fireworks popped overhead, delayed applause echoing through the paddock like thunder long after the storm had passed. Max had finished second, a strategic gamble that hadn’t quite paid off, but it was fine, good points, consistent season. He’d smiled for the cameras, nodded through interviews and thanked the engineers in that clipped, low way of his that meant it’s fine, don’t overthink it.

You’d been watching him the whole time.

From a discreet distance, earpiece active, eyes tracking the rhythm of exits and entrances. The crowd was swelling again at the perimeter fences. Local VIPs were flooding hospitality. The drivers were scheduled to leave through the rear compound tunnel in staggered intervals, a process that had been planned down to the second.

And then the call came through.

A crackle in your earpiece. Sharp, panicked voices.

Checkpoint has been breached. Unverified credential. Person in restricted zone near driver access. Possible decoy scenario divert protocol now. Repeat: divert protocol.

You were already moving before they finished speaking, one hand lifting to signal Max, the other reaching for your comms device.

You reached him just as the handlers were ushering him toward the exit corridor where the private cars waited.

“Change of plan,” you said calmly, stepping in front of him, voice level. “There’s been a breach. Security wants to split exit routes. I’m going through the Service Route, you go out with the rest of the team through Gate Six.”

Max didn’t even blink. “No.”

You stared at him. “It’s just precautionary. I’ll meet you at the hotel in fifteen.”

“I said no.”

There was a beat, a hesitation from the surrounding staff, unsure if this was something to intervene on. A Red Bull PR officer stepped forward, jaw tight, holding out a phone as if that would help.

“Max I don’t have time for this we need to move you now. If we wait the tunnel route is going to get blocked. Media’s already crowding outside.”

He didn’t move.

His eyes stayed fixed on you, unreadable and steady.

“If you’re not in the car,” he said, voice low but clear, “I’m not in the car.”

You blinked, a split-second pause in your breath.

The PR rep’s expression flickered from controlled to mildly panicked. “Max come on. This is not the time—”

“I’m not going without you.”

Now he was louder.

There it was, the first sign of edge. Not quite a snap, but the unmistakable shift from calm compliance to stubborn refusal. Helmut was suddenly there too, appearing like a ghost out of the chaos, phone in hand, brow furrowed so deep it could have carved marble.

“Max,” someone else said sharply, stepping in. “You can’t do this right now. You need to leave. It’s a controlled exit, you know how this works.”

Max didn’t even flinch.

“She goes with me or I don’t go.”

“She’s security,” Helmut snapped. “Not your handler. Not your friend.”

You saw Max’s jaw tighten. The whole corridor was tense now. People were shifting, glancing at each other. The kind of silence that falls right before something detonates.

You were standing in the centre of it, felt the weight of all of it pressing in on your lungs. The professionalism. The line you’d held from day one. The illusion of control you’d worn like armour. Max trusted you it wasn’t about that, but it was cracking now, a boundary had been crossed, fracturing under the heat of the choice he was making in real time.

You stepped forward, voice quiet but firm. “Max it’s okay. I’ll take the alternate route. I’ll see you there—”

“No.”

It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t angry. But it was final.

Then, softer just to you: “I’m not leaving you behind.”

Something in your chest shifted.

It was the way he said it. Not like a driver refusing to leave his bodyguard. Not like a PR stunt clinging to an image. A man who had already decided where his loyalty lived and it wasn’t in the cameras or the contracts or the endless machinery of his image.

It was you.

Helmut swore under his breath and stalked away, muttering something into his phone. PR tried again, more gently this time, but Max didn’t even hear them.

Eventually the backup plan was cleared. An alternate car rerouted. You left together, flanked by other security, eyes locked on each other in the tense, humming silence of a situation that had just rewritten every rule you'd both pretended to follow.

The door of his room shut behind you with a soft click, muffled by the carpet and the long, exhausted quiet that had followed you both into the hotel. Max tossed his key card onto the table, shedding his jacket, tension radiating off his frame like a wire pulled too tight. He hadn’t said much in the car, just rested his elbow on the window and watched the skyline flicker past in silence. His hand had tapped against his leg the entire time, both rhythmic and erratic.

You stood by the door, unsure if stepping farther into the room would be a mistake. He turned toward you, not angry or unkind, but open in a way that startled you.

“I don’t care,” he said, voice rough and uneven, “if that cost me something. If it pissed off Helmut or screwed up protocol or made me look like an idiot in front of the team.”

You blinked, your pulse suddenly louder in your ears. “Max—”

“I don’t care,” he said again, shaking his head. “Because when they told me you weren’t coming with me, that I had to leave you behind all I could think was I’m not going anywhere you aren't.”

The silence between you grew thick. Not awkward just unbearably full. Heavy with everything that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks. For months.

Your voice was quieter now, but edged with something sharper. “You can’t make decisions like that. Not like that. Not for me. And definitely not in front of them.”

His brow furrowed. “I didn’t do it for them.”

“I know,” you said, stepping back half a pace. “That’s what makes it worse.”

He flinched. “Worse?”

“You made it look like I couldn’t handle it. Like I couldn’t do my job.”

You saw the words hit him, the way his face shifted, not defensive, but wounded. Because he hadn’t thought of it that way and now that he had, it was written all over him.

“I know you didn’t mean to,” you continued, voice softer now. “But you did. You made it look like I wasn’t capable of handling a crisis. You made it look like I was the one who needed protecting.”

His expression shattered, even as he tried to hold it together.

“I just—” he exhaled hard, like the breath had turned to lead in his lungs. “I wasn’t thinking about how it looked. I was thinking about what it would feel like if something happened to you. Especially because of me.”

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking up to meet yours, finally saying it plain: “I’m sorry.” That quiet admission cracked something in you. “I am, really, but I can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt,” he added quickly, “I know it’s selfish. I know it’s unfair but the idea that something could happen to you because you’re standing between me and the world that makes me feel helpless.”

You stood still, frozen somewhere between understanding and heartbreak.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said. “But I can’t be sorry I didn’t leave you behind.”

Your chest ached because you got it. All of it. The panic. The instinct. The way Max didn’t know how to turn off his loyalty, even when it cost you both.

But still.

“I don’t know how to do both,” you admitted, voice low and cracked. “Be your shield and be your... whatever this is.”

Max stepped closer, slow and deliberate. He didn’t reach for you, he didn’t try to fix it, he just stood there in the most emotionally bare way you’d ever seen him.

“Then maybe…” he said, voice almost a whisper, “you stop being the shield.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “You’re saying I walk away? From the one thing I’ve built my whole life around?”

“No,” he said gently. “I’m saying you don’t have to stand between me and the world anymore.”

“It’s not that easy Max”

He took one more step forward, close enough now that you could feel the warmth of him. His voice was hoarse, his eyes glassy but focused entirely on you.

“I don’t need you to protect me. I need you. Just you.”

The way he said it, not dramatic or desperate, honest, made your throat tighten. He wasn’t asking you to change, but neither of you had the answer yet, there was no clean resolution. No perfect solution.

Just the ache of something real and the terrifying possibility of losing it.

This wasn’t the moment for kissing or declarations or slamming into each other like a climax.

It was the moment where the truth laid down between you, vulnerable and raw and true.

It didn’t take long.

Twelve hours to be exact.

Twelve hours from the moment you and Max had stood in that hotel room hearts cracked open before the machinery started grinding again.

It began with a knock.

You were in the staff hallway behind the Red Bull operations suite, scrolling through notes, your badge clipped as usual, your body still humming with the ghost of last night. You hadn’t kissed him. You hadn’t slept with him. Somehow it felt more intimate than either.

When the head of VIP Security Operations stepped into the room unannounced you already knew.

“Y/N.” His voice was calm. Professional. Too professional. “Need a word.”

You followed him out into the corridor and into a private meeting room heart sinking before he even turned to speak.

“Protocol review flagged the breach,” he said, tone clipped. “The exit deviation. The delay. The optics.”

You folded your arms. “The breach was real. I followed the chain of command. I stayed with my client.”

He didn’t argue. “We’re not questioning your ability. We’re questioning your positioning.”

There it was.

Not about the job.

About Max.

“We’ve received directives from Red Bull leadership,” he continued. “Due to the growing… proximity between you and the client we’re rotating your assignment effective immediately.”

You blinked. “Rotating me?”

“You’ll be reassigned to a different team depending on availability.”

The words landed like a slap. “Is that what they’re calling it? Proximity?”

He didn’t blink. “You’ve blurred the lines. Whether it’s personal or perceived, it’s compromised the dynamic.”

You clenched your jaw, fighting the rising heat behind your eyes.

“This wasn’t a mistake,” you said, quiet but firm. “I never stopped doing my job. Not for a second.”

He met your gaze. “Maybe, maybe not, but that doesn’t matter anymore.”

You were given until the end of the day to pack your things.

Max found out before you could tell him.

You heard the way his voice echoed down the hall before he even reached you.

“You’re kidding, right?” Sharp, loud, unmistakable fury. “You’re just pulling her off the team? No warning, no discussion?”

You stood at the edge of the suite, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching as Max towered over a PR director and two security officials, face flushed with disbelief.

“I trust her more than any of you and this is your response?”

“She’s not being fired from her team Max,” the PR rep said weakly. “It’s just a reassignment. To avoid conflict.”

“She isn’t the conflict,” he snapped.

The room went quiet.

No one knew what to say.

Max turned eyes locking with yours and your chest split open, because you saw it then the betrayal. Not at you. Never at you. At them, for taking you away from him like he hadn’t just chosen you over all of this less than twenty-four hours ago.

You stepped forward before he could say more, voice calm but resolute.

“Max.”

He shook his head. “No. This is bullshit.”

“It’s done.”

“They don’t get to—”

“They do,” you said, more gently now. “And maybe they should.”

He looked like he might throw something. Or walk out. Or do something so reckless it would cost him more than just a fine.

So you placed a hand on his arm just for a second.

And whispered, “Please don’t fight this for me.”

He stared at you. Breathing like he’d just won a race without brakes. Everything in him said stay. Fight. Don’t let go.

His voice, when it finally came, cracked.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

You blinked hard. “You’re supposed to carry on.”

He let out a sharp exhale. “That’s not enough.”

Your throat burned. “I know.”

You sat on the edge of your bed, suitcase open but untouched, your badge lay on the desk so did the half opened bag of sour gummies Max had left in your bag three races ago.

You could still feel his voice in your ear, the words from the night before, how they’d felt right and impossible all at once. You’d chosen this life knowing it meant sacrifice, but this, this didn’t feel like safety or protocol or professionalism.

It felt like loss.

And it hit deeper than you’d expected.

Your phone buzzed once.

A message.

Max: I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

You stared at the screen.

Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

That’s because it wasn’t goodbye. Just pause.

The sky over Brazil was bruised with storm clouds, a restless wind curling off the sea and tugging at flags and umbrellas as the crowd pulsed with noise and smoke. Flares curled through the air like wildfire, fans screaming Max’s name with every ounce of breath in their lungs. It was electric. Chaotic. Familiar.

You hadn't seen him up close in three weeks.

You were working a freelance contract now high-profile security for a visiting female IndyCar driver doing a guest media appearance. Staying in motorsport had felt like the smartest move, the safest way to stay close without stepping over the line. You moved like you always had, quiet, professional, scanning exits before anyone even noticed they were exits. You weren’t supposed to be anywhere near Red Bull.

You’d felt him the second you'd stepped off the tarmac. The connection hadn’t faded. It had just stretched, tight and taut and waiting.

Now after qualifying you saw him through the blur of press and heat haze.

Max.

Helmet under one arm, suit half-zipped, talking to his engineers outside the garage, lips pulled into a familiar scowl of concentration. His body language was closed off, wary.

Then someone in the crowd jumped the barrier.

It was small at first a ripple in the sea of fans. One person shoving through, frantic and yelling. A second following close behind. Flags dropped. Security swarmed, but slow. Too slow.

It happened fast.

You saw the breach, the path forming between Max and the crowd. His new bodyguard some ex-MMA fighter with a clipboard and a radio, hesitated, unsure if it was a real threat or just overexcited fans.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your client was already inside, secure behind two layers of access and a locked hospitality suite. The threat wasn’t near her. It was here surging through the barricades on Max’s side of the paddock where security had just fallen a beat too slow.

Your feet were moving before you even registered it. Muscle memory took over as crossed the paddock at speed, your jacket flying behind you, your lanyard flipping over your chest. There was no decision to make. You’d seen the breach, calculated the risk, and you were the closest qualified asset in a crowd full of chaos.

Max turned in the same second. He saw you coming, your eyes meeting across the chaos.

You were sliding into the breach like a knife, smooth, focused, fast. You intercepted the lead intruder, redirecting him with a sharp arm-lock pivot while signalling to ground security with your free hand. The second one hesitated, too slow, and you grabbed his wrist mid-swing, holding him back before he even understood who you were.

Clean. Precise. No injury.

By the time the on-site guards reached you, it was already handled.

You stepped back, breathing steady, jaw tight, adrenaline still humming through your fingertips like static.

When you turned to find him again he was watching you but before you could move toward him, a senior Red Bull official cut across your path, intercepting you with a firm grip and hurried praise, pulling you aside with words of thanks you barely registered.

It was quieter now. The paddock was still buzzing with post-breach tension, but inside the lounge, the noise faded beneath the hum of air conditioning and muffled conversations. Max sat on the edge of a long bench, elbows on his knees, head bowed over a bottle of water he hadn’t opened.

You stepped in without knocking.

He looked up. The shift in his face was subtle but immediate like seeing something you thought you’d lost and realising it had been within reach all along.

“You okay?” you asked, leaning against the table.

He nodded. “Yeah, are you?.”

You crossed your arms loosely. “I saw the new guy freeze. Not a great first review.”

Max gave a short, breathy laugh. “He’s fine. Just not you.”

There was a pause. It stretched.

Neither of you filled it.

Finally he stood, hands flexing at his sides, the tension in his shoulders rolling off like water.

“You didn’t have to jump in.”

You shrugged. “You knew I would.”

He sat back down and nodded slowly. “I missed you.”

Another beat. Then—

“You look like you haven’t slept in weeks,” you murmured.

“Because I haven’t.”

You exhaled, your heart both breaking and blooming at the same time. A spark of lightness passed through your expression as you nudged his elbow gently.

“By the way,” you said, “I’ll be vetting your next bodyguard.”

His brow lifted.

You smirked. “You think I’d let anyone with gelled hair and a clipboard walk you through fan barricades again?”

He laughed, full and real. The kind that settled into your chest and rewrote every tired hour of the last three weeks.

“So I've been thinking..." you paused settling next to him. "I’ve decided I’m going to work freelance now,” you continued. “Lower profile, higher control. Pick my own clients. My own calendar.”

His smile faded into something more confused. “What does that mean?”

You looked up at him. “It means if you want me around... I’ll be around.”

“But?”

“But not always. Sometimes I’ll take a job disappear for a bit, come back. It won’t be simple, I won’t give up the job Max I can’t. It’s a part of me. I like being sharp. Independent. Capable. I worked too hard to be taken seriously, to build my own credibility and now I have proof I can do this on my own. I can take contracts on my terms.”

He said nothing, but his eyes didn’t waver. He listened, and you could tell he felt it the change in you. From protector to partner. Not less. More.

You went on. “I know it’s going to be hard. There’ll be days I’m gone, or you are. There’ll be jobs I can’t talk about. Flights we don’t share. And yeah… maybe there’ll be risk, but I’ve thought about it. All of it.”

Your voice softened. “And when I did... I kept coming back to you.” You swallowed hard. “I don’t want to lose who I am, but I don’t want to lose you either.”

“I don’t want to take anything away from you. I never wanted that.”

“You’re not,” you said

“I can’t promise I’ll like it,” he said. “I’ll worry. A lot.”

“I know.”

“But I won’t stop you.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s growth.”

“I’ve had a good teacher.”

You looked at each other. Then he moved closer, close enough that his hand brushed yours.

“I’ll miss you when you go,” he said.

“I'll miss you too, but I’ll come back.”

His voice dropped, just for you.

“I’ll wait. I trust you.”

The next second, without warning or hesitation he reached for you and pulled you in like he’d been waiting his whole damn life to do it.

His mouth crashed into yours, fierce and hungry, like all the space you’d ever left between you was finally catching fire. His hands gripped your waist, possessive, and your fingers tangled in the fabric at his neck, fisting the material like you needed to hold onto something before you burned up entirely.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t soft.

It was everything.

Everything you’d both denied, everything you’d pushed aside in the name of professionalism or fear or timing. It was the kind of kiss that tore something open, not to break it, but to finally let it breathe.

You gasped against him and he chased the sound, deeper still, like he didn’t just want the kiss, he wanted the promise behind it and you gave it without flinching.

When you finally broke apart, lips swollen, hearts hammering, he didn’t let go. Neither did you.

Your foreheads touched, breath mingling in the quiet that followed.

You didn’t say this is it or we made it.

You didn’t have to.

That kiss had already said it for you. This time when you let go it wasn’t to walk away. It was just to take the next step forward.

The air in Japan was crisp, a rare pocket of stillness between races. Suzuka always brought a kind of nostalgic calm, a strange mix of precision and peace. It was one of Max’s favourite tracks, had been since he was a teenager, something about the curves. The quiet challenge.

It was Saturday morning, sun slanting golden through the trees, and Max was standing beside you near the paddock hospitality, hoodie unzipped, Red Bull in hand, the hint of a smile playing on his mouth.

You were laughing softly, arm brushing his as you scrolled through your phone. Media schedules, appearances, weather updates. Freelance now, yes, but you still liked knowing most of his weekend chaos by choice not because it was your job.

Because you liked looking after him.

And because he let you.

He leaned a little closer, voice low. “You realise you’re still doing half the work my actual bodyguard gets paid for right?”

You arched a brow, sipping your coffee. “And doing it better.”

He grinned. “That I won’t argue with.”

Conrad his new, temporary trial-based hire stood a few paces away, politely pretending not to listen. He was fine. Professional. Efficient. Stayed out of the way, but you still eyed him once or twice, scanning his stance, his focus.

Max noticed.

“You’re profiling him again,” he said, amused.

You shrugged, not denying it. “Just checking his reflexes. He missed a photographer earlier. Amateur hour.”

He snorted into his cup.

You nudged him with your elbow. “I already told you I’ll be vetting every bodyguard until you retire. Minimum five-point criteria. Psychological endurance. Physical competence. Must love cats.”

“Pretty sure that rules out a lot of them.”

“Exactly. So if you want to replace me,” you said, smirking, “it’s going to be very difficult.”

He turned his body toward you slightly, the soft amusement in his face shifting into something more thoughtful. Quieter.

“Not replacing you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Ever?”

“Ever.”

You let the silence settle between you, unbothered now. Comfortable. Peaceful.

“I like this,” he said after a moment.

“What me interrogating your staff?”

“No,” he said. “You. Us. Not hiding. Not pretending. It’s nice.”

You glanced around the low buzz of paddock life. Mechanics shouting across garages. The gentle tap of tyres being stacked. Somewhere in the distance GP yelled something toward you both.

You looked back at Max.

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s nice.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to have this. Something real. Safe. Someone who doesn’t just… orbit the chaos.”

You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist something you still did without realising it. You always had.

He watched the movement. Let you stay there.

“Thank you.”

You tilted your head. “For what?”

“For not giving up when they pulled you. For opening me up. For staying even when I didn’t make it easy.”

You let your thumb circle gently over his wrist, still calm.

“Max,” you said, “you were never hard to stay for.”

His eyes met yours, something unguarded and golden in them. You leaned in just enough so he could hear you over the wind and the rumble of passing tires.

“And don’t worry,” you added with a smirk. “Even if I take other jobs I’ll always look out for you, always have eyes on your six.”

He smirked. “You’ll be the most protective girlfriend in paddock history.”

You shrugged. “Hazard of falling for a reckless world champion.”

Max leaned down then, just slightly, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “I love you.” he murmured.

You looked up at him, your hand finding his chest, feeling the solid rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. “I love you too.”

Then you added softly, almost teasing but with a thread of sincerity underneath, “Guess that makes us both in the business of protection now.”

He smiled, eyes warm and full. “Always,” he said, tilting his forehead against yours.

Not like a fan, wide-eyed and giggling. Not like someone who was already cataloguing who to flirt with or who to dodge. Not even like someone who wanted to be noticed.

You just walked in. Confident. Effortless. Self-possessed.

It was his world you were stepping into and you were completely unbothered.

Your sunglasses were still on which normally would've irritated him. Inside? That was attention-seeking behaviour. Strike one. Then when someone asked how you were finding the day you said “It’s loud,” looking out toward the track. Strike two.

And when someone mentioned his name in passing, casually pointing him out near the back wall? You didn’t even glance in his direction. Didn’t even flinch.

Max should’ve been annoyed.

He wasn’t.

He was wrecked.

His eyes snapped to you like a reflex and the rest of him followed, slow and stunned, as if his body hadn’t caught up to the moment yet. Something in his chest paused like his heart had held its breath for too long and was now sputtering back to life.

You didn’t care who he was. You didn’t stumble over yourself trying to say hi, or fish for a photo, or make some too-cool joke to get a laugh out of him. You didn’t bother performing like everyone else did the second they realised Max Verstappen was in the room. You were just… there.

And holy shit he noticed everything about you.

The sarcastic twist of your mouth. The way your hand rested on your hip like a threat. The unbothered confidence that rolled off you like perfume.

He should’ve walked away. Should’ve turned back to whatever briefing or bullshit meeting he’d been half-listening to but he couldn’t. His feet were rooted to the floor, like he’d just seen a ghost, or a god, or something in between.

You didn’t even know what you were doing to him.

That was the worst part.

Max had seen beautiful women before, been chased by them, worshipped even, but none of them had ever made him feel like this, like his entire sense of direction had just been rewritten by someone who barely looked at him.

He ran a hand over his face like that might somehow steady him.

This is insane he told himself. You don’t even know her.

But that didn’t matter because something deep in his gut, something primal and instinctive whispered: There she is.

Her.

The one. The only.

For the first time in Max Verstappen’s life all that stupid “you’ll just know” crap didn’t sound so stupid anymore.

It sounded like truth.

He didn’t speak to you at first, not yet. Didn’t interrupt your conversation, didn’t chase you down.

He just watched, because he thought if he opened his mouth too soon he might ruin it and he couldn’t risk that.

You hadn’t even looked at him.

But he already knew:

That’s my wife.

He’d never seen anyone so dangerous in his life.

He didn’t approach right away.

Didn’t flash a grin. Didn’t lead with a smug greeting using his name like it was a golden ticket. He knew exactly how that would land, with you? It wouldn’t.

So instead he waited. Watched from across the suite as you folded yourself into a seat like you belonged here not because you wanted to, but because why wouldn’t you?

He let the world shift a little. Let it bend in the way it sometimes did when a race turned on one perfect corner, one unexpected overtake like something big was happening and no one else had realised it yet.

Except him.

You were listening to one of the interns stumbling through a rehearsed explanation of tyre strategy, clearly trying to impress you with technical jargon and over-explaining things that didn’t need explaining.

You tilted your head, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Do you ever just wing it?”

The intern froze mid-sentence, but you were still smiling, just teasing, not mean and he laughed a little, grateful.

Max nearly choked on his water, the sound escaping in a sharp snort before he could stop it. You turned your head slowly like you’d heard something interesting from across the room. Your sunglasses slid just low enough for your eyes to meet his, cool, curious, unbothered.

And then you smiled.

Just a little. The corner of your mouth lifted like a secret, like maybe you knew something he didn’t, and just as quickly you turned back around and left.

Max felt it like a punch to the chest.

Not the brush off. The pull.

In that half-second look, half smile, half indifference you’d managed to do what entire press rooms and podiums couldn’t: you left him speechless.

Still, he didn’t move, didn’t chase, didn’t follow. Just stood there, throat tight, water bottle forgotten in his hand, staring at the space where you used to be.

That smile he thought. That single, dismissive, half-interested curl of your lip. He’d faced down title rivals with more fire than that and somehow this hit harder.

Max Verstappen, World Champion, household name, untouchable on track was already, completely, utterly done for.

“You look like you got hit by a truck,” Brad, one of his mechanics, muttered under his breath once you disappeared down the hallway, smirking into his drink like he couldn’t help himself.

Max didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t deny it.

Didn’t crack a joke back.

Instead he kept staring at the door you’d just walked through like maybe if he stared long enough you’d reappear. Like you’d turn around, look at him again, give him another one of those secret little smiles that had already carved itself into the back of his skull.

“She’s not like anyone,” he said quietly.

“What’s her name?”

Max blinked, eyes finally dragging away from the door.

“I don’t know.”

Brad stared at him. “You don’t know? You didn’t ask?”

Max shook his head once, jaw tight. “No.”

There was a beat of silence between them. It wasn’t like him.

Max always scanned the room, measured interest, decided if he wanted to engage or move on, but this, you, weren’t something he could box up neatly and analyse.

His tone was clipped when he said it again. “I didn’t ask.”

Because asking felt dangerous. Asking meant entering the orbit of something bigger than he could control. Meant admitting that this, this pull in his chest, this awareness humming under his skin was real. That it wasn’t just curiosity.

It was that stupid, impossible “when you know you know” thing he’d always sworn was bullshit.

And it was happening to him.

He didn’t know your name.

Didn’t know where you were from. What you did. What brought you here.

But he knew you.

That was the problem.

You were the kind of girl who packed up in the middle of the night and changed countries on a whim. The kind who laughed in the face of expectations and got bored of people who tried to impress you. The kind who didn’t fall for fame, or power, or softly spoken Dutch boys with the weight of a nation on their shoulders.

No, he thought, you fell for depth. For timing. For truth. He couldn’t fake anything with you. Couldn’t flash his accolades or his wins and expect you to melt. Max who could win a race with his eyes half-closed, who made a living being faster and braver than most men dared to feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Careful.

If he came on too strong you’d vanish, slip through his fingers like smoke.

So he waited.

Let the ache build. Let the curiosity bloom like something dangerous in his chest. Let you walk away without chasing, because if there was one thing he already knew about you it was that you hated to be caught.

But God did he want to follow.

And next time? Next time he’d ask your name.

The moment he finally found the courage came quietly.

Late afternoon. Warm light, lazy breeze, the kind of post-briefing lull where everyone milled around the hospitality suite pretending to still be working.

You were leaning against a table, scribbling something in a notebook with a half-empty water bottle balanced beside you, completely unaware that Max had been stealing glances at you for the past ten minutes.

He didn’t approach with a line. Didn’t try to be clever.

He just walked up, slowly, carefully, and said, “Hey.”

You looked up, blinking once. “Hi.”

Pause.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

You raised an eyebrow, smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Already off to a risky start.”

That made him laugh and somehow it steadied him. “What’s your name?”

You blinked. Then smiled wider this time, brighter, like maybe you’d been wondering when he’d ask. “Wow. The famous Max Verstappen didn't do his homework?”

He tilted his head. “I wanted to hear it from you.”

You held his gaze for a moment like you were deciding. “It’s Y/N.”

“Y/N” he repeated, soft under his breath like he was testing it out, like he already knew he’d be saying it a thousand more times.

You smiled again and offered your hand.

He took it and the moment felt bigger than it should’ve warm skin, a gentle squeeze, the start of something new.

You kept showing up.

He knew it wasn't for him. You barely even looked at him half the time. You were there on contract now consulting for one of the new PR firms brought in through the F1 brand to “change up and expand the messaging.” You said that with air quotes every time like it physically pained you to repeat their buzzwords.

You didn’t love the job. That much was obvious.

Max overheard you once, your voice cutting through the usual chatter as you told someone, “If that guy schedules one more meeting that could’ve been an email I’m starting a rival PR firm just to spite him.”

The table laughed and you grinned, unbothered. Max did too quietly, behind his cup.

Then you added, almost too casually, “Once I fix this whole mess I’m retiring from crisis management forever. Gonna open a bakery or something.”

Everyone laughed again, but he didn’t, because even though he hadn’t worked up the nerve to ask you much more than your name yet just the idea of you disappearing before he got to know you made his chest tighten.

It made him feel frantic in a way he didn’t understand.

So he started orbiting you. Never too close. Never obvious. But always near enough to catch the way you rolled your eyes at briefing nonsense or fake-laughed at some marketing executive's attempt at charm. Near enough to watch you sip terrible coffee and mutter about how a lot of motorsport PR was “just smoke, mirrors, and strategic bullshitting.”

He agreed with you more than he’d admit, but he wasn’t ready enough to say that yet.

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. He barely knew you. Had never had a real conversation longer than a few sentences, but there was something in the way you carried yourself, the casual refusal to be impressed that made him feel like he was sixteen again. Clumsy. Flustered. Hopeful.

You were kind, but distant. Curious, but never too much. The kind of girl who left before anyone could ask her to stay. And Max who was used to being chased, admired, feared, figured out had no idea what to do with that.

So he held back. Kept the fire locked behind his ribs. Let it burn in silence while you kept showing up and casually blowing his world sideways with every shrug, every raised eyebrow, every half-laugh you tossed over your shoulder like it didn’t matter.

Every time your gaze skimmed past him without lingering, every time you smirked like you knew something he didn’t, Max thought:

She’s it.

The one.

His.

He just wanted you to stay.

He started sitting near you during meetings. Just a chair across the table or the seat beside yours if it was free. He’d offer you a drink like it was no big deal.

You started sharing tiny things. You told him your worst travel story, and he told you the weirdest fan gift he’d ever received. You made him laugh. He made you blush once, just once, and never mentioned it again.

Some nights you’d linger longer than you needed to and some mornings he’d catch himself looking for you before anything else.

It was just two people learning each other quietly in the background of a world that never slowed down, and every time you laughed at something he said, or nudged his elbow when no one else was looking, or looked at him like maybe you saw him Max would think:

Please don’t go.

The paddock was shutting down after a long day, the kind of day that left everyone drained and too tired to keep pretending they weren’t. PR people were packing up banners, engineers were still muttering over data, and most drivers had already disappeared into their motorhomes or off to team dinners.

Max was lingering near the back of the hospitality suite, half-listening to someone talk about penalty points, but mostly just… waiting. For what, he wasn’t sure. Or maybe he was.

Then he saw you.

You were standing by the empty espresso station, arms crossed, hair a little messy from the wind. You looked… tired. In a real way. The kind of tired that made you drop the performance and just be.

You spotted him a second later and for once you didn’t pretend you hadn’t. You didn’t glance past him or look away too fast or keep walking like you had somewhere better to be.

You walked toward him instead.

Max straightened slightly, suddenly aware of how fast his pulse kicked up.

“Hey,” you said, voice low. You looked up at him and for the first time since he’d met you, you looked open. Not guarded. Not sarcastic.

“Hey,” he said back, careful not to rush it. “Long day?”

You exhaled through a little laugh. “I’ve heard the phrase ‘brand synergy’ so many times I think it rewired my brain.”

He smiled. God, he loved the way you said things.

You leaned a little against the wall beside him, not touching, but closer than usual.

“I needed a second,” you said after a pause. “Didn’t feel like heading back yet.”

Max nodded slowly. “I get that.”

Silence fell, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, it was the kind that stretched in golden threads between two people who had just barely stopped pretending they didn’t want to be near each other.

You looked at him again, slower this time. “You’re different than I thought you’d be.”

He glanced sideways. “Good different?”

You smiled. “I’ll let you know.”

That made him laugh then you nudged your shoulder gently into his. Max turned slightly, looking down at you with something warm in his eyes soft and steady, like he was memorising this version of you.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t ruin it with a joke.

Didn’t run.

Just let it be.

In that moment Max didn’t say any of the things sitting heavy on his tongue, didn’t tell you he thought about you more than was probably healthy, or that he still remembered the first time you laughed at something he said like it was burned into his brain.

Instead, he just said, “I’m glad you stayed.”

You looked at him, really looked, and your voice dropped a little when you replied.

“Me too.”

The moment he finally told you wasn’t as dramatic as he imagined it might be.

No music swelling in the background. No candlelight or champagne. No perfectly timed win or fireworks over the track.

Just a warm Monaco night.

The kind where the city felt like it had exhaled, soft breeze, salt in the air, stars blinking faintly above the marina. Everything below glittered, the water, the lights, the curved edges of polished yachts that looked too expensive to be real.

You were sitting barefoot on the edge of a nightclub balcony you definitely weren’t supposed to be on, legs dangling over nothing but air, one hand wrapped loosely around a cold beer, the other resting behind you on the sun-warmed stone. Your shoes were tossed to the side like they’d offended you, and your laugh moments earlier had echoed out over the water like it belonged there.

You looked too relaxed for someone perched that high up.

Like falling didn’t scare you.

Like nothing did.

Max stood just behind you, watching you against the skyline, light in your hair, salt on your skin, that easy way you held yourself like you had nowhere to be and nothing to prove. You’d spent the night leaning into every conversation you actually wanted to have, and dodging the ones you didn’t with that same soft, sly smile.

You were chaos, but the kind that felt like freedom. Like wind through an open window. Like music in a language he didn’t speak, but understood anyway.

He approached you slowly. “You said you’d tell me what you thought.”

You turned toward him slightly, bottle resting on your knee. “What?”

“How I wasn’t what you expected.”

You looked at him for a moment like you were weighing the answer.

“You’re gentler. Less blunt. Kind. Quiet, when it matters. You pay attention. You care more than you let people see.”

Your voice lowered, almost like you weren’t sure if you meant to say it out loud.

“You have more heart than I was ready for.”

Max didn’t answer right away, just smiled, slow and real.

Because that was it, the opening. The sliver of softness, the space he’d been waiting for since you walked into his world like you owned it only to accidentally rearrange it instead.

He stepped in a little closer bracing one hand beside you on the balcony rail and moving down to sit at your level, not quite touching, but near enough to be felt.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked, voice low.

You raised an eyebrow, that playful edge already tugging at your mouth. “I mean… depends what it is. If it’s a request for a press quote, no.”

Max huffed a laugh, eyes still on you. “It’s not.”

You nodded once, quiet. “Okay. Go on.”

“I knew you were it the second I saw you.”

You blinked.

Didn’t laugh. Just blinked and looked at him.

He kept going. He had to.

“You hadn’t even looked at me yet. You were across the room, in sunglasses—”

He grinned a little.

“—and I just knew. Something in me said, There she is. That’s it. That’s my wife.”

Your fingers stilled around the bottle and for a second you said nothing, your gaze caught on his face like you were looking for the tell, the joke, the line.

But it wasn’t there.

He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t nervous.

He just… meant it.

You exhaled, breathless but not afraid. “That’s bold.”

Max smiled. “I know.”

He let the quiet stretch, the sound of the harbour filling the space between you.

Then he said, “I know that’s a crazy thing to say.”

You looked at him, curious.

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “If someone said that to me I’d probably bolt.”

The honesty in his voice made something in you loosen. He wasn’t performing, he wasn’t trying to make it sound romantic, he was just telling you the truth.

“But I can’t lie to you,” he said simply. “It’s what I felt. It didn’t make sense then, and it doesn’t now, but it’s the only thing that’s ever felt that sure.”

He glanced away for a moment, then back at you, eyes steady a slight smirk playing on his lips. “I had to wait though. You looked like a flight risk.”

That made you laugh. Your knee nudged his and your voice dropped as you said, “I think I still am.”

You meant it. You worked freelance. You moved like you didn’t believe in roots. You told stories with your hands and changed cities like outfits. You took contracts when they were interesting, left when they weren’t. You didn’t keep furniture and you didn’t keep people. Not really.

You had tried not to look at Max that way, not like he was a place you wanted to stay, but then he started looking at you like you were already home.

That terrified you.

Still… you hadn’t run.

Yet.

Max’s chest ached, but not in a bad way. In the I’ll wait as long as it takes if it means you’ll stay kind of way.

And when he finally replied and said, “Then I’ll keep walking with you, until you stop running,” you didn’t laugh it off.

You didn’t move. Didn’t jump down. Didn’t retreat. Didn’t start talking about work or change the subject or disappear into the noise of the night like you usually did when someone got too close.

Max didn’t reach for you. He didn’t need to.

Because for the first time since meeting you, you didn’t have one foot out the door.

And to him?

That was everything.

You didn’t run.

At first you told yourself you were just tired, that the view was too pretty to leave, that it didn’t mean anything staying there on that balcony with him. But when Max leaned against the railing beside you saying nothing just watching the lights flicker against the water, something in your chest eased.

You hadn’t realised how heavy it had been until it wasn’t anymore.

For once you weren’t thinking about where to go next, or what to leave behind. You weren’t trying to calculate escape routes or talk yourself out of wanting something. You were just there, barefoot, beer going warm, with Monaco glittering below and Max’s shoulder brushing yours every so often.

It didn’t feel like you were losing anything. It felt like you were finally allowed to rest.

He turned his head slightly, catching you looking at him. You didn’t look away this time.

“What?” he asked, smiling.

You shrugged, trying for casual, but your voice betrayed you. “Nothing. Just… realising it might not be the worst thing in the world to stay put for a bit.”

His expression softened.

You smiled, slow and real. “You really meant it didn’t you? That whole ‘my wife’ thing.”

He laughed under his breath, low and warm. “You think I’d joke about that?”

You leaned in just a little, teasing, “Maybe. But you do seem like the type who’d commit early.”

“Only when I’m sure,” he said, and the way he said it made your pulse jump.

You tilted your head. “And you’re sure about me?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

It should’ve scared you. A few months ago it would’ve, but now it just felt like standing still for the first time and realising the ground wasn’t going to fall away.

“Dangerous words,” you whispered, smiling against the rim of your bottle.

“I live dangerously,” he said, matching your tone.

“With me,” you said, quietly after a beat, “it’s never been about not feeling something.”

Max tilted his head, listening.

“It’s about what happens when I do,” you added, voice barely above the wind. “And right now? I feel everything.”

His lips parted slightly surprised, maybe. Moved, definitely.

You leaned in slightly, hesitating before diving head first. The kiss wasn’t rushed or messy. It was like slipping into something familiar you didn’t know you missed. His mouth met yours gently, like he’d been waiting.

Your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, fingers pressing lightly, anchoring yourself to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand came to your cheek, warm and steady, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw as you tilted into him.

You smiled into it, into him. Into the safety of it all. Into the terrifying, beautiful truth of knowing this wasn’t a maybe anymore.

When you finally pulled away, neither of you moved far. Foreheads brushing, breaths mingling, your hands still resting on his chest like you didn’t want to let go. His hand came up to your cheek, gentle but sure and you smiled into it, the taste of salt and summer and something entirely new.

You laughed softly, eyes meeting his. “If we ever actually end up married I’m telling everyone you knew on sight.”

Max’s mouth curved into a grin that reached his eyes. “You’d make it sound like a curse.”

“It’s a little terrifying,” you admitted.

“Good,” he said. “Then we’re both brave.”

He whispered, “So you’re staying?”

You nodded, slow but certain.

Max smiled, boyish and a little smug. “That’s all I need.”

You grinned. “Careful, I might start believing in that ‘when you know you know’ crap.”

He laughed, eyes bright. “You should. It’s true.”

You looked at him one last time, that easy confidence back in your eyes, but softer now, gentler.

Then you kissed him again, longer, deeper, and without hesitation.

The woman across from you in her perfectly tailored blazer, and the kind of calm that came from putting out media fires for a living nodded without hesitation. She looked like someone who had said no comment more times than she’d said her own name.

“Max’s performance on the track is untouchable,” she said crisply. “But off-track? Let’s just say he’s not winning popularity polls.”

You tilted your head, suppressing a smile. That was putting it mildly. Max Verstappen’s driving was legendary. So was his reputation for being blunt, intense, and selectively allergic to charm.

“And you think I’m the solution?” you asked with a small laugh.

“You’re respected, mature, scandal-free. You stay out of drama. Your fanbase loves you. When people see you they think elegance. You’re the kind of woman people see and say, ‘She has taste.’ If you choose Max maybe the world will too.”

You let the compliment sit in the air for a moment before leaning back in your chair, tapping a neatly manicured fingernail against the rim of the glass. The water didn’t help. The contract still felt absurd.

“And what does Max think about this?” you asked, eyes lifting from the print to study her expression.

There was the briefest pause, half a beat, just long enough to catch.

“He’s… not opposed.”

You almost laughed. That was PR for he hates this but knows better than to say no. You’d been around enough egos, both onscreen and off, to recognise the diplomatic dodge.

“And if there’s no chemistry?” you asked, watching her closely. “What then? I can act, sure, but I don’t sell what I don’t believe in.”

She blinked, just once, before her lips twitched at the corners, surprised, maybe, but not displeased. You weren’t what she expected.

“You’ll meet tomorrow,” she said. “Private setting. No press. No team. Just the two of you. We want you both to feel comfortable before anything goes public.”

You nodded slowly, eyes drifting back down to the contract.

A role with no script. A story with no control over the ending. You weren’t sure if it was reckless… or just real enough to be interesting.

Either way the curtain was about to rise.

You arrived first.

Of course you did. It was a neutral meeting point an upscale private lounge tucked inside a nondescript hotel in Monaco. Elegant but discreet. The kind of place built for millionaires to be invisible. No entourage. Just you and the low hum of the espresso machine behind the bar.

You didn’t sit. You didn’t want to look too eager. So you stood near the window one hand curled loosely around a glass of water, the other resting lightly against your hip. Composed. Professional. Curious, but not overly optimistic.

When Max entered the room you didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. His presence moved the air. He was taller than you expected. Broader too. Dressed in all black, t-shirt, jacket, skinny jeans, like he didn’t want to be noticed but couldn’t help it anyway. He carried himself like someone always a few seconds away from being somewhere else.

His eyes found you immediately.

No handshake. Just a small nod. Measured.

“You’re early,” he said.

You raised your eyebrows slightly, tilting your head. “So are you.”

He let out a short exhale. Not quite a laugh. He walked over and took the seat across from the one you hadn’t yet occupied, legs spread in the way men always sat when they felt unbothered. Except he was bothered. You could see it in the way his fingers tapped once then stopped. In the way his jaw worked like he was biting back a thousand things he didn’t want to say.

You sat down slowly. The silence between you settled not awkward, but deliberate.

“So,” you said, voice light but not flippant, “should we talk about how we want to do this?”

Max looked at you for a long second. Then, finally: “I’m not good at pretending.”

You leaned back slightly. “Then we have a problem.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said, tone even but firm. “I just agreed to listen.”

You met his gaze, steady. “Same.”

There was a beat of silence. Not hostile. Two people with matching reluctance and a complete lack of context for each other.

“I read the brief,” he said after a moment. “You’re... a good image.”

“Thanks,” you replied. “And you’re a great liability.”

That surprised a short huff out of him, almost a laugh if you squinted.

You crossed one leg over the other, still watching him. “Look I’m not here to change you. That’s not the job. The job is convincing people we like each other.”

Max’s gaze flickered down to your hands, then back to your face. He nodded slowly, considering.

“I don’t know you,” he said plainly.

“You don’t need to,” you countered. “Not yet, but if this works, they’ll think you do.”

That seemed to land but he still didn’t look convinced, but he wasn’t walking out either.

“I thought you’d be different,” he said, voice lower now, more curious than cold.

You blinked. “Me too.”

Another pause. Then, softly almost like a concession: “Maybe this could work.”

You didn’t smile but your voice gentled a little. “Maybe.”

Across the table Max gave you one more glance, this one lingered just a second longer than the others.

The agreement was signed. Paparazzi photos arranged. PR talking points delivered.

It was all so clinical. So transactional.

You’d done this before image management, brand partnerships, a carefully constructed public narrative dressed up as something intimate. But this was different.

This was Max Verstappen.

Your name trended with his every week now.

“Hollywood It-Girl Dates F1 Bad Boy.”

“PR Stunt or Real Romance?”

“She’ll dump him before Monza.”

The headlines followed a predictable arc: curiosity, skepticism, ridicule. Then came the dissection. Every glance between you was analysed in slow motion, every offhand comment, every lack of public affection, all used to prove the same thing manufactured. Hollow. A PR stunt, barely held together with contract terms and glossy red carpet appearances.

You expected the noise.

What you didn’t expect was Max Verstappen showing up early to your first “casual” dinner to “get to know each other better” and standing to pull out your chair when you walked in.

He didn’t greet you with the smooth charm you were used to no smug grin, no camera-ready quip. He just stood, quietly, and nodded like a pilot might to someone who’d just boarded the plane. Respectful. Distant. Watchful.

“I didn’t know what you’d want to drink,” he said as you sat. “So I ordered both still and sparkling.”

Still and sparkling.

A tiny gesture.

And yet telling.

You’d been prepared to carry the evening, light banter, small talk, steering the conversation like you did on talk shows. But he didn’t give you that version of himself. He didn’t offer a performance. He didn’t need to be entertaining or even likeable.

He just... was.

He listened when you spoke, really listened. Didn’t fill silences with rehearsed anecdotes or pre-approved stories. He didn’t flatter you with falsities, didn’t try to match your fame or your charm. He watched, considered, responded.

And slowly something like friendship took root.

You started to find his name already at the top of your inbox when you reached for your phone in the mornings. You sent each other memes. Dry commentary from opposite ends of the world. Video clips. Silence, sometimes but never the heavy kind.

He didn’t talk to you like a fan and you didn’t treat him like a project.

One night after a Red Bull event ran long he texted you from the team van:

Max: You looked bored out of your mind.

You: Was trying not to die inside. You?

Max: Considering retiring mid-season just to avoid another crypto speech.

You’d laughed and thought, this is easy.

It became normal, after that. The check-ins. The private jokes.

Then the night before your press schedule for your most recent movie begins, just when you were curled on your hotel couch rehearsing press answers with one eye on the muted TV, your phone lit up.

Max: Good luck tomorrow. Bet they all cry at the end.

You stared at the screen for a full thirty seconds before replying.

You: You watched it?

Max: You think I fake-date people without research?

Your laugh startled you.

Not because it was loud, but because it was real. Unguarded, warm, snuck out between layers of controlled calm like sunlight through blinds.

The world thought they knew Max Verstappen, ruthless on the track, aloof off of it, emotionally untouchable unless he was yelling over the radio or stonewalling an interviewer. You’d thought that too in the beginning. You knew how this worked. The PR team sold the chemistry, the tabloids ran with the drama, and both of you benefited. Simple.

But then came the tiny ruptures in the persona. Max not only asking what kind of water you liked but remembering it. Ordering your favourite food the way you took it without being told twice.

Noticing how you rubbed your thumb against the edge of your ring finger when you were anxious and quietly moving the dessert menu into your hands during high-pressure media events as a distraction.

He never made it obvious. Never coddled. Just adapted.

He knew how to read a room, not as a showman, but as a strategist. He picked his moments like he picked overtakes: deliberate, sharp, unavoidable.

He sent you the post-race data link before you even asked for it when you expressed interest.

He corrected a journalist, not rudely, just firmly when they tried to pin you with the “distracting girlfriend” trope after a weekend loss.

“She doesn’t distract me,” he said simply. “A bad car does.”

That was the thing he never tried to impress you. Never tried to win you in the way people usually did. No peacocking. No bragging. Just quiet competence, and a strange, unwavering steadiness that left you constantly off balance.

You were used to men who overcompensated. Who postured. Who turned your relationship into content. Max did none of that. Somehow it meant everything.

He was soft-spoken unless provoked. Sarcastic, but never unkind. Sharp, but never cruel. He read articles all the way through before he talked about them and if he didn’t understand something he admitted it without ego.

He was precise, not just on track, but in life. In the way he folded his napkin after eating, the way he looped his headphone wires before dropping them in his bag. The way he texted in full sentences. The way he asked you real questions and waited for real answers.

Worst of all?

He was funny.

Not “celebrity funny.” Not late-night-soundbite funny.

He was mercilessly funny.

Dry, quiet, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it humor that slipped past your defenses before you had time to steel yourself.

During race weekend lunches he would lean over barely audible and mutter quips to you. You’d choke on your drink and Max would only sip his water, eyes forward.

It happened again and again. A well-timed eye roll at a press event. A subtle impersonation of a team principal’s hand gestures during a debrief. Once he made a single comment about your ex’s fashion choices and had you howling in your dressing room mirror for ten straight minutes.

You’d spent years perfecting your poise. Training yourself to be composed. A cool, collected image that could survive red carpets, wardrobe malfunctions, social media avalanches.

But Max Verstappen was undoing all of it without even trying.

And the scariest part?

You didn’t want him to stop.

You were still his “girlfriend” for the cameras. Still wore the right outfits and stood in the right place during paddock walks, posed together at sponsor dinners, smiled for the press like professionals playing their roles, but underneath the surface between press calls and red carpets something had changed.

It started in the quiet spaces. The ones that weren’t meant to be shared. He let you see his routines. The odd little rituals he kept to stay sane: how he always lined up his shoes next to the hotel closet door before sleeping. How he rewound old karting footage on his iPad before race days, not to analyse it, but to remember something simpler.

“I used to think I was so fast,” he murmured once, the screen playing a grainy clip of nine-year-old Max tearing through a corner.

You glanced over from your spot on the hotel bed, legs tucked beneath you, script pages in your lap. “You look like a little menace,” you said, smiling. “You always drove like you had something to prove.”

He turned his head toward you, serious now. “Didn’t I?”

The words hung between you for a beat longer than expected.

Later you let him watch you rehearse while he helped you read lines.

It wasn’t something you shared with many people. You hated being observed in that raw, unpolished space, without makeup, without lighting, just you and the script and all your fears about not being good enough.

Max didn’t critique. Didn’t ask questions. He just sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, elbows on his knees, eyes steady.

“You’re cute when you swear,” he said quietly when you dropped character mid-monologue and cursed under your breath.

You blushed despite yourself. “That’s not in the scene.”

“I know.” A slight smirk.

You rolled your eyes and threw a pillow at him. He caught it without flinching.

You started talking more, not small talk, but real conversations. Late at night usually or in the quiet between commitments. Once in the back of a sponsor car crawling through downtown Monaco traffic, he asked, “How do you handle it? I mean you have it way worse than me… the invasion of your life I mean?”

You turned toward him, surprised by the softness in his tone.

“I don’t,” you said honestly. “I just wait until I’m alone. Then I scream.”

He gave a low, startled laugh. “Does it help?”

“Not really.” You looked out the window. “But it makes me feel like I have some control. Even if it’s just over the volume.”

He nodded like he understood. Another night you found him sitting on the floor of his driver room, back against the wall, headphones in. He didn’t hear you enter at first. You almost backed out quietly but something in his posture made you stay.

When he finally looked up he just pulled one side of his headphones off and said, “Do you ever feel like people are just waiting for you to crack?”

You hesitated, then sat down beside him.

“Every day.”

He didn’t speak again for a while but his shoulder leaned a little into yours.

You showed him a script you'd started to write, a messy, unfinished thing you’d been too scared to send to your agent. You pushed it across the table with no explanation, heart pounding in your throat.

Max read in silence for fifteen minutes, eyes tracking steadily across the pages. You expected him to skim maybe even fake it. He wasn’t the type to read, let alone care about formatting or character arcs.

But he didn’t skim.

He leaned forward halfway through, one hand resting on the page like he was anchoring himself to it. No comments just small shifts in his expression that told you he was actually thinking about it.

“This is good,” he said. “Really good.”

You exhaled slowly, surprised by the lump in your throat. “Yeah?”

He flipped back a few pages, tapped his finger against a section you already knew by heart. Page eleven littered with little x’s next to the text.

“You’re not cutting this part right?”

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged, still scanning the line. “I don’t know. It just... hits.”

Then he looked at you.

“I’d keep it.”

You realised then that Max had never been cold. He’d just never been given warmth without agenda. Not from sponsors, not from the media, not even from the people who claimed to care about him. Everyone wanted something, his win, his brand, his attention, his name.

But you?

You gave him warmth without asking for anything in return and he quietly, slowly gave it back.

It wasn’t grand gestures or whispered confessions. It was the way he noticed when you hadn’t eaten and slid a protein bar into your bag without a word. The way he stayed up late after a double-header flight just to read a new scene with you. The way he always made sure there was a quiet moment just the two of you before any big public event.

One evening after a long day of filming for you and media for him you sat on his hotel balcony, legs up on the railing, hair damp from the shower.

“I forget sometimes.”

“Forget what?”

“That this isn’t real.”

You looked at him. “You mean… us?”

He didn’t look away. “Yeah. I mean… no. I mean—” He exhaled, frustrated. “You’re easy to talk to.”

Your heart thudded. “Maybe it’s not supposed to feel fake.”

“Or maybe we’re doing a shit job keeping it fake.”

You sipped your drink to buy yourself time. “Does that scare you?”

He hesitated. Then, in a voice quieter than you’d ever heard from him, said: “Yeah. But not in the way you’d think.”

You turned your head toward him slowly. “How do I think?”

He didn’t smile. Just held your gaze.

“That you’ll leave when the contract ends.”

The silence was heavy.

You reached out and touched your fingers lightly to his knee.

Silverstone was louder than usual, not just with engines or commentary but with people pressed tight against the paddock barriers, voices rising over one another as if volume alone might earn them relevance. Phones were already lifted, recording before anything had even happened, everyone waiting for the moment that could be clipped, shared, and torn apart online before the day was out.

You were walking beside Max when it happened.

“He’ll cheat on you before the season ends!”

The words were thrown with careless confidence, the kind that comes from knowing you’ll never have to face the person you’re talking about. Max slowed, then stopped entirely, his body going rigid in a way you recognised now, not explosive, but controlled, like something coiled too tight beneath the surface.

You reached for him without thinking, fingers wrapping around his wrist before he could turn toward the sound.

“Not worth it,” you murmured, stepping closer.

For a second you thought he’d pull away. Instead he looked at you his expression stripped of the practiced neutrality he wore in public.

“Doesn’t it piss you off?” he asked quietly.

The question surprised you, not because of the words themselves but because of who they were directed at. He wasn’t asking rhetorically or brushing it off the way he usually did; he was checking in, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to care if it bothered you too.

You let out a soft breath that turned into a small, rueful laugh. “That’s not something I have space to think about,” you admitted.

His eyes searched your face as if he were bracing for you to take it back. When you didn’t, he nodded once and let you guide him forward again, back into motion, back into the noise, though something about the way his hand stayed close to yours suggested the moment hadn’t passed as easily as he pretended.

The next day, it was the press who noticed first.

The event wasn’t even tied to him it was yours, scheduled during track time, weeks in advance, the kind of appearance you’d done a hundred times without incident. Clean lines, neutral colors, an image built carefully over years of never giving anyone a reason to doubt you. You’d made a career out of being untouchable, scandal-free, the safe bet.

Which was why the Red Bull cap on your head caused such an immediate shift in the room.

It wasn’t styled for effect or half-hidden behind sunglasses; you wore it plainly, like it belonged there, and the cameras reacted before the journalists did. A murmur moved through the crowd, curiosity sharpening into something more pointed.

Halfway through the interview, someone finally asked what everyone was thinking.

“Some people are calling this a very calculated PR move,” the reporter said, gesturing vaguely toward you. “Is the support you’re showing Max Verstappen part of the arrangement?”

“No,” you said without hesitation. “He doesn’t do anything halfway, not on track, not in life. That’s the kind of person I’ll always support.”

You didn’t deflect. You didn’t smile it away or soften the answer with something noncommittal. Instead you looked straight into the camera aware of exactly how that stillness would read when the clip circulated. The silence that followed was heavy with attention, the kind that only comes when someone says something unexpected and means it.

Later Max found you tucked into a quiet corner of the hospitality unit, scrolling absently through your phone while the cap rested on the table beside you. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you for a moment before speaking.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

You glanced up. “Do what?”

He nodded toward the phone, then the cap. “They’re already spinning it.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “They always do.”

“That wasn’t neutral,” he added after a beat. “You’re usually neutral.”

“I know,” you said, meeting his gaze.

He studied you the way he studied a circuit before a risky lap, thoughtful and intent. “You’ve never had a scandal,” he said quietly. “Not one.”

You tilted your head, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

“They’ll come for you,” he said, not warning so much as stating a fact.

You didn’t hesitate. “Let them.”

For a moment he didn’t speak at all and when he finally did his voice was lower than before. “Why?”

You considered the question, because the honest answer wasn’t simple and because it mattered that you didn’t cheapen it. Somewhere along the way between late-night conversations, shared routines, and the slow erosion of the rules you’d agreed to you’d stopped thinking about optics and started reacting on instinct.

“Because I don’t like it when people decide who you are without knowing you,” you said finally.

Something in his expression softened, the tension easing out of his shoulders as he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.

The cap stayed on the table between you, neither of you moving it away, and for the first time it felt like the world wasn’t just watching a storyline play out but witnessing a choice being made.

By that evening the clip had already gone viral. Just twelve seconds of you in a plain white blouse, hair tucked behind your ears, a Red Bull cap pulled low, saying one simple thing into a mic:

“That’s the kind of person I’ll always support.”

It had been clipped, reposted, re-captioned. Twitter was ablaze.

#MaxApologist

##RideOrDie

#PRRelationshipMyAss

Some praised you. Called it refreshing. Said it was about time someone in your position said something real.

Others... were less kind.

“Crazy how fast she torched her image for a man who’s never even smiled at her in public.”

“Supporting Verstappen? Girl blink twice if you need help.”

“Another actress mistaking obsession for passion. How original.”

Max hadn’t brought it up again, but you could tell he’d seen it, he was quieter than usual, measured in a way that meant he was trying not to make it worse for you. In the past maybe you would’ve done the same, shrunk back. Waited for the press cycle to move on. Let the silence cover it like it always did.

But this wasn’t a headline you regretted.

So when the interviewer at your next press junket smiled too widely and said, “You’ve certainly sparked conversation do you want to clarify your comment about Verstappen?” you didn’t hesitate.

You didn’t fidget. You didn’t throw PR-speak at the fire and hope it would put itself out. You just leaned back slightly.

“I don’t think there’s anything to clarify,” you said, voice calm but unmistakably firm. “I said what I meant.”

The reporter blinked. “There’s been a lot of backlash to your relationship.”

“There usually is when a woman has an opinion,” you said with a small smile. “Especially when she says something supportive instead of silent. God forbid we defend someone who’s been written off before he even speaks.”

She opened her mouth, maybe to soften the moment, maybe to pivot. You didn’t let her.

“And for the record,” you added, “Max Verstappen works harder than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s focused. He’s precise. He lives and breathes his sport and he cares about the people around him, and if people are offended that I respect that… that says more about them than it does about me.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind of silence that meant everyone in the room knew this part wouldn’t be edited out.

Later, after the interviews, your manager pulled you aside, half-exasperated, half-impressed.

“You know we’re going to get emails.”

“I know,” you said.

Back in the paddock Max found you on the upper terrace after qualifying, Red Bull colours still peeking out from beneath your jacket, hair messy from the wind. You heard him before you saw him, the heavy tread of racing boots on steel.

“They’re saying you went off-script,” he said, voice unreadable.

You turned around. “Did I?”

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Apparently.”

You tilted your head. “Does that bother you?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. I think I’ve just… never seen someone fight for me when they didn’t have to.”

You looked at him for a long moment, something slow and heavy unfurling in your chest.

“Well,” you said softly, “maybe it’s about time someone did.”

Max didn’t answer right away just stepped closer and rested one hand on the railing beside you.

The online noise was still raging. The headlines were still twisting your words into whatever shape suited them but for the first time you didn’t feel the need to correct the narrative.

The premiere wasn’t meant to be a big deal.

At least that’s what you told yourself.

It wasn’t a blockbuster. No major studio campaign. Just a quiet indie film you’d worked on quietly throughout the past year, made on a shoestring budget with a director you believed in. It was personal, messy and intimate and sharp in all the ways you weren’t allowed to be on red carpets.

Your team hadn’t even wanted you to do press for it. “Too niche,” they’d said. “Doesn’t fit the current branding.”

You came anyway wearing the simple black dress the costume designer gave you on wrap day with your hair pinned back.

The theatre was crowded but not glamorous and that should’ve made it easier.

It didn’t.

Because as the lights dimmed and the opening credits rolled you felt your chest tighten the way it always did when it was your name up there. When it was your voice, your face, your work laid bare for the world to judge.

The audience disappeared. So did the noise.

Until—

A familiar voice, low and certain, right behind you.

“Hey, this seat taken?”

You turned.

Max was standing at the end of your row. No Red Bull jacket. Just him black button-up, jaw tense, eyes locked on yours like he’d been looking for you all night.

You blinked. “I though you had media?”

“I left as soon as I could.”

“Max—”

“I wanted to be here.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it landed firm and steady, completely unshaken by the stares he’d drawn walking in. He didn’t care about the whispers or the phones or the fact that everyone in the room now knew what you’d both spent months pretending not to feel.

He dropped into the seat beside you like it had always been his.

You stared at the screen, but you didn’t see it. Not anymore. You felt him beside you his shoulder brushing yours. Halfway through the second act, your hands found each other in the dark, his thumb brushing against your skin like a reminder: You’re not alone.

When the film ended the applause started slowly then built.

You stood with the rest of the cast for the Q&A, lights hot on your face, nerves clawing at your spine. Someone asked a question about a difficult scene. Someone else brought up the emotional tone. The final question came from a young woman in the third row, her voice hesitant.

“What made you feel safe enough to tell a story like this?”

You hesitated. The crowd waited.

Then you glanced at the far edge of the theatre at Max, standing off to the side now, arms crossed, watching you like there was no one else in the room.

You smiled.

“Someone showed up when it mattered,” you said. “And sometimes that’s all it takes.”

Afterwards outside the theatre he waited by your car. You walked toward him in the quiet buzz of post-premiere traffic, heels clicking against pavement, nerves settling now that it was over.

“You left Zandvoort,” you said softly, coming to a stop in front of him.

“I did.”

“You hate missing track time.”

“I do.”

You searched his face trying to read between the lines, but for once he didn’t make you guess.

“I wanted to be here,” Max said. “Not because it’s in the contract, because it matters to you. And you matter to me.”

You looked up at him, heart stumbling in your chest and then before you could gesture to the car or make a light joke he spoke again.

“I love you,” he said, simply.

You exhaled. Laughed, even quiet and breathless and completely overwhelmed. You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw.

“Say it again,” you whispered.

His mouth curled, just a little. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” you beamed back at him.

“I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”

“I’ve been waiting to believe I could.”

This time when he kissed you, it wasn’t an apology or a secret or a performance.

It was a promise.

Six Months Later

The article wasn’t front-page gossip anymore.

Just a small mention buried in the lifestyle section of a major publication. No wild speculation, no screaming headlines. Just a photograph Max and you walking through airport security side by side, duffel bags slung over shoulders, caps pulled low.

The caption read:

“Still together. Still private. Still unexpected.”

You’d laughed when you saw it. Not because it was wrong but because for once they’d finally gotten it right.

The truth was there was nothing performative anymore. No curated posts. No press obligations. You hadn’t done a joint interview since the fake dating contract had quietly expired five months ago not that anyone ever officially announced that it had.

But you’d stayed.

And so had he.

There were no grand declarations now. Just the little things. His passport tossed on your kitchen counter. Your scripts left folded open on his sim rig desk. His toothbrush in your drawer. Your name saved in his phone with a small heart at the end.

Max had learned how to open up and you’d learned how to let him.

You still kept things quiet. Neither of you owed the public anything more but when fans caught a photo of you at a race, pressed into the corner of Red Bull hospitality with a pair of sunglasses and your chin tucked into Max’s hoodie the internet didn’t explode.

It exhaled.

“I think they’re just… happy,” one tweet read.

“Imagine that. Something real.”

That night curled up on the couch legs over his lap you read it aloud to him.

Max glanced over from where he was skimming a strategy brief. “Weird,” he murmured. “Not being accused of cheating, faking, or ruining your life.”

You raised a brow. “I think they might just see you... like I do.”

He smiled, slow and sleepy. You pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw and he leaned into it like it was instinct.

Outside the world kept spinning. Races would be won. Movies would premiere. Commentators would speculate. Fans would guess. But inside your quiet little world on couches and plane rides and track walks and film sets you both knew what was real.

You made room for his life before he even had to ask. You bent around the complicated edges of his world so naturally that, after a while, Max stopped noticing how much you were bending at all.

It was refreshing. Comforting, even. Being with you never felt like another obligation waiting for him when he got home. You were warmth, quiet, peace… but it also made it easy for Max to coast.

Because when you said you didn’t need flowers, he believed you. When you told him birthdays weren’t a big deal, he took your word for it.

When you said you didn’t mind that his attention was always half-distracted by Red Bull, his sim rig, his phone, or whatever new team crisis was unfolding in the background, he didn’t stop to wonder whether you meant it. He didn’t ask himself if you were genuinely fine with being loved in the gaps, or if you had simply learned to make your wants small enough that they never became inconvenient.

He didn’t notice that every time you said, “Don’t worry about it,” you were teaching him that he didn’t have to.

Until he saw the way your smile dimmed at Daniel’s girlfriend’s birthday party.

The boat was filled with champagne and noise, a private Monaco affair organised by Daniel, of course, because no one else could make a birthday party feel quite that excessive and still somehow charming. There was a neon sign glowing above the bar, a curated playlist that seemed suspiciously full of songs Daniel liked more than his girlfriend did, and custom cupcakes with everyone’s faces printed on them. Max didn’t even know you could do that.

You sat beside him with a drink in hand, your shoulder brushing his every now and then as the boat rocked gently against the water. To anyone else you looked perfectly fine, but Max had started paying closer attention now.

Your laugh came half a second too late, your smile faded too quickly, and your eyes kept drifting back to the couple across the deck.

Daniel’s girlfriend had her arms slung around his neck, his jacket draped over her shoulders, and a glittery tiara with Birthday Girl written across the front sitting slightly crooked on her head. Daniel kept adjusting it for her, grinning every time she swatted his hand away, and when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple without seeming to think about it. Thoughtless in the best way, like loving her out loud was simply instinct.

“You made it!” Daniel said, pulling Max into a hug before turning to you with even more enthusiasm. “And you look amazing. Seriously, come on, look at you.”

You laughed, a bit surprised, and looked down at yourself like you hadn’t expected anyone to notice.

Max noticed that.

Daniel’s girlfriend came over next, glowing, happy, adored. She hugged you tightly and thanked you both for coming, then turned to show you the bracelet Daniel had bought her. It was delicate and expensive, the kind of jewellery Max would never have picked out on his own because he would have convinced himself he didn’t know what he was doing and given up before trying.

“He surprised me with it this morning,” she said, beaming. “And he pretended he forgot my birthday for, like, ten minutes, which was evil, but then he had breakfast set up on the balcony.”

Daniel, overhearing, lifted his glass. “Romance is alive and well ladies and gentlemen.”

Normal Daniel. Loud, teasing, affectionate Daniel, who made a spectacle out of caring because he had never been embarrassed by warmth in the same way Max sometimes was, but then Max looked at you.

You were smiling. Of course you were smiling.

You were always polite. Always kind. Always good at being happy for other people, even when something inside you was quietly aching. There was something different about it then, something Max had never noticed before because he had never had reason to look for it.

Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You didn’t look devastated, you didn’t withdraw your hand from his arm or go quiet in a way anyone else would pick up on. You just looked at the bracelet on Daniel’s girlfriend’s wrist, then at the flowers, then at the wall of photos, and for half a second your expression morphed into something almost wistful.

Max felt it like a punch he had no right to react to.

The conversation moved on around him. Daniel was talking about the cake, someone else was laughing about how long it had taken to get the decorations right. His girlfriend was telling you how Daniel had been secretly planning it for weeks, badly, apparently, because he almost exposed himself several times.

You laughed at the story.

You said, “That’s really sweet.”

Max heard the softness in your voice.

For the first time all night, Max looked at the party properly. He looked at the flowers. The photos. The custom menu cards with her name on them. The cake Daniel had apparently taste-tested three times because the first one “didn’t feel like her.”

Then Max looked at you.

You were standing beside him with nothing from him except your own practiced understanding.

No flowers.

No post.

No planned birthday dinner he hadn’t rescheduled.

No little public signs that he was proud to love you.

No evidence, really, that Max Verstappen had ever looked at the woman beside him and thought, she deserves to feel chosen.

His stomach twisted, because suddenly he remembered your last birthday with a clarity that made him feel slightly sick.

He had been in Milton Keynes for simulator work. He’d called you late, later than he meant to, and you had answered in bed, face lit softly by your phone screen. You had smiled like you were happy just to hear from him. He had apologised again for not being able to be there. You had said it didn’t matter and he had promised to make it up to you. You had said, “Don’t stress, honestly. I had a nice day.”

Had you?

Had you really?

Or had you said that because it was easier than admitting you had wanted him there?

He thought about the flowers you always claimed not to need. The birthdays you said weren’t important. The dates you never demanded. The posts you never asked for. The attention you pretended not to miss.

Beside him, you glanced up. “You okay?”

Max blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the gentleness of your voice. That made it worse somehow, even now you were checking on him.

“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Fine.”

You studied him for a moment, clearly not convinced, but you didn’t push. You never pushed. You simply nodded and looked back towards the others, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve.

Max hated that too. He hated that you gave him space even when maybe he deserved pressure.

He hated that you had made yourself so easy to keep that he had forgotten keeping you was still something he had to actively do.

For the rest of the night, he couldn’t stop watching you.

He watched Daniel’s girlfriend pull you into photos, watched you laugh as someone handed you a party hat you refused to wear for about ten seconds. He watched you compliment the decorations, watched you ask questions about the planning, watched your fingers lightly brush over one of the flower arrangements when you thought no one was looking.

You liked flowers.

Of course you liked flowers.

Maybe not in the over-the-top, expensive, social-media way, but you liked them. He could tell by the way you touched the petals carefully, the way your face warmed when Daniel’s girlfriend told you Daniel had chosen them because they reminded him of a dress she once wore in Monaco.

Max stood there, silent and increasingly irritated with himself.

How many things had you convinced yourself you didn’t need simply because he had never offered them?

How many wants had you softened into jokes so they wouldn’t feel like demands?

How many times had you made yourself smaller around his life and called it love?

Later, when everyone gathered around the cake, Daniel made a speech. A terrible speech, because it was Daniel, so half of it was jokes and the other half was him pretending not to get emotional. Then he spoke about how his girlfriend made his life better. How she put up with him. How she deserved more than one night of being celebrated, but he hoped this was a decent start.

Everyone laughed.

His girlfriend cried.

You smiled.

Max felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.

He complimented you in private, usually quietly, usually after you’d done something for him. He told you he loved you, yes, but often in bed, or before hanging up, or in passing when one of you was leaving. He assumed you knew. He assumed choosing you privately counted the same as making you feel chosen.

On the drive home you were quieter than usual.

Your head rested against the window, city lights sliding over your face in brief flashes. Your heels were in your lap because you had taken them off the second you got in the car, and your fingers played absently with the strap like your mind was somewhere else.

Max kept glancing over. Usually he liked quiet with you, it was comfortable and easy, you didn’t need to fill every silence.

Tonight the quiet felt full of everything you weren’t saying.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked eventually.

You turned your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was lovely.”

Lovely.

The word sat between you.

Max swallowed. “Daniel did a lot.”

“He did,” you said, and your voice was warm. “It was really sweet.”

There it was again. That careful admiration.

Max’s hands flexed around the steering wheel. “You like that kind of thing?”

You looked at him properly then, brows lifting a little. “What kind of thing?”

He shrugged, trying to sound casual and failing. “All of it. The flowers. The photos. The big party.”

You looked away and gave a small laugh, the kind that tried to make a truth sound harmless. “I mean, I don’t need all that.”

Max’s chest tightened.

That wasn’t what he had asked.

“I didn’t ask if you needed it.”

Your fingers stopped moving against the shoe strap and for a moment you said nothing. Then you looked down and smiled again, but this one was worse than the one at the party because it was meant only for him, meant to reassure him, meant to protect him from feeling bad about something he had already done.

“I just think it’s nice,” you said carefully. “For her. Daniel clearly put a lot of thought into it.”

Max nodded once, jaw tense.

Thought.

That was the word that stayed with him.

You didn’t need a private room full of flowers or a custom cake or a wall of photographs. You probably didn’t even want something that big, but you wanted thought. You wanted evidence that he had paused, considered you, and chosen to make you feel loved on purpose.

Max, who could analyse tyre degradation over fifty laps, who could remember tiny setup changes from races years ago, who could spend hours perfecting a sim lap by half a tenth, had somehow convinced himself he was incapable of remembering to buy you flowers.

“I should have done more for your birthday,” he said.

You went very still.

The car felt smaller suddenly.

“Max…”

“No,” he said, because he knew that tone. He knew you were about to let him off the hook again. “I should have.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

You exhaled quietly and looked out of the window again. “I told you it was fine.”

“I know you did.”

“Then why are you bringing it up?”

Because I finally saw your face, he wanted to say. Because I finally realised you have been asking for so little that I stopped giving you even that and I do not know how to forgive myself for not noticing sooner.

But Max had never been good with words when they mattered most.

So he said, “Because I think you say things are fine when they're not.”

Your mouth pressed together. That tiny movement cut through him more than any argument would have.

You weren’t angry, but part of him wished you were. Anger would have given him something to meet, something to fix, something loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it, you just looked tired and that was worse.

“I don’t want to be difficult,” you said after a while.

“You're not difficult,” he said immediately.

You gave him a small, sad smile. “I know. I just mean… your life is already a lot. You have so many people needing things from you all the time I never wanted to be another thing on the list.”

“You are not a thing on the list.”

“Aren’t I?” you asked softly.

Max didn’t answer fast enough, once again words failed him, he hated himself for that.

You turned your face back towards the window, and the reflection showed him the truth he had been avoiding all night. You weren’t crying or making a scene. You weren’t asking him to turn the car around or apologise in some grand dramatic way. You were simply sitting there beside him carrying a hurt that had clearly existed long before tonight.

He figured you’d be home from your errands by now.

Probably curled up somewhere in the apartment, wearing one of his hoodies like you always did when he was away for more than a few days. Maybe on the sofa with your knees tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, or half-watching one of those comfort shows you liked to put on in the background while you waited for him. The thought came easily, warmly, and Max found himself smiling before he had even opened the door properly.

He liked coming home to you.

He liked the small signs of you scattered through his space. Your shoes by the door, your hair tie abandoned on the coffee table, your mug in the sink because you always forgot to rinse it. Your presence had softened the apartment in ways he hadn’t realised he needed, turning it from somewhere he slept between races into somewhere that actually felt like home.

The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, but not empty.

Max kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, already turning toward the living room when he heard your voice from the bedroom. Then he heard your best friend’s name, and realised you were on the phone.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He was about to call out, to let you know he was back, but something about your tone made him stop before the words left his mouth. So he stayed quiet, halfway down the hall, one hand still resting against the wall.

“I’m not upset he did all that for her,” you were saying. “It’s sweet. It is.”

There was a pause.

Max’s body went strangely still.

He knew, instantly, what you were talking about.

“It’s just…” You exhaled shakily. “He’s never done anything like that for me.”

The words hit him hard. Max stared at the floor, heartbeat slowing into something heavy and uncomfortable.

“I don’t ask for much,” you continued, and your voice was smaller now, like you were embarrassed to even say it out loud. “I know I don’t. I never wanted to pressure him or make him feel like he had to go out of his way when his life is already so much. I thought if I was easygoing and low-maintenance, it would make things easier on him.”

His throat tightened.

“But sometimes—” Your voice broke so softly he almost missed it. “Sometimes I wish he’d do something without me having to ask.”

Max’s fingers curled around the edge of the wall.

He could feel every careless assumption he had ever made beginning to turn over in his head, one after another, each one worse than the last.

You didn’t care if he forgot plans, if he came home distracted, if he said he would make it up to you and then didn’t, because something else came up and you smiled like it was fine.

“Maybe I enabled it by alway saying I was fine... but I don’t need grand gestures,” you went on, voice wobbling now. “I know that’s not really him, and I don’t want him to be anyone else. I don’t want a big show just for the sake of it, but it would be nice to feel special sometimes… to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”

Max’s chest ached.

He looked toward the bedroom door, but he couldn’t move.

“I just want to know he wants to do those things for me,” you whispered. “Not because he’s apologising or because someone else did it first… because he loves me enough to notice.”

Max couldn’t breathe properly.

He hadn’t known.

He really hadn’t known.

He thought you meant it when you said you didn’t care about birthdays, anniversaries, flowers, or all the romantic things he had always been bad at. He had thought that was part of what made you you. Unbothered by the kind of performative relationship stuff he had never known how to do properly.

The conversation ended a few minutes later.

He heard the soft rustle of sheets then your footsteps moving across the bedroom floor. Max reacted too late, still trapped in the weight of what he had heard and only barely managed to step back into the hallway before you came out.

You stopped when you saw him.

For one awful second, neither of you said anything and then he smiled and wrapped you in a hug pretending like he hadn’t heard a word.

That night Max sat alone in the dark of the living room for a long time, head in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything except sit there in the silence and let every word he had overheard replay in his head until it felt carved into him.

He kept hearing your voice.

“to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”

He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes.

God.

How many moments had you swallowed your disappointment before he could even notice it was there, dimming yourself down just to be easier to love?

It gutted him.

You hadn’t asked him for the world. You hadn’t asked him to become someone he wasn’t. You only wanted to feel considered. Somehow he had made the best thing in his life feel like she had to be grateful for whatever was left of him at the end of the day.

You deserved fireworks, even if you were the kind of girl who said she didn’t need them. You didn’t want more from him. You just wanted to matter enough for him to give it anyway.

You didn’t expect anything to change.

Max was always kind, attentive in the ways he knew how to be. He noticed when you were cold and passed you his hoodie without making a big thing of it. He reached for your hand in crowded places because he liked knowing exactly where you were. He remembered how you took your coffee, which side of the bed you preferred, the shows you put on when you needed background noise. He loved you. You knew he did.

So when he suggested you take a weekend off together “Somewhere quiet, just us” you didn’t overthink it. You figured he wanted to disappear for a couple of days, somewhere without cameras, team radios, sponsor obligations, or someone asking him about tyre degradation.

It wasn’t until you stepped onto the lakeside dock in Switzerland that you realised something was different.

The cottage was small but charming, tucked away by the water with warm wood walls, soft cream blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place glow with the late afternoon light. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t the kind of place chosen to impress anyone, it felt private, thoughtful, almost painfully intimate.

Inside there were your favourite snacks arranged in the kitchen. Your favourite wine chilling in the fridge. Your comfort blanket folded over the armchair by the window. Your favourite book was already resting on the bedside table, the old, worn copy you had once told him you reread whenever your head felt too loud.

You frowned, turning slowly back to him. “Did you… did you set this up?”

Max leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite managing it. “Maybe.”

You narrowed your eyes, sceptical. “What’s going on?”

His smirk softened a little. He just looked at you and there was something unusually careful in his expression, something that made your chest tighten before he had even said a word.

“I listened,” he said.

You blinked. Max glanced down briefly, like the words felt awkward in his mouth, but when he looked back up he didn’t look away again.

“I didn’t realise how much I’d taken for granted,” he continued quietly. “How much you gave by never asking. You made it easy for me, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve stopped trying.”

Your throat tightened.

“Max…”

“No, let me say it,” he murmured, taking a small step closer. “You always said things were fine. That you didn’t need flowers, or birthdays, or plans, or all the extra stuff and I believed you because it was easier because it meant I didn’t have to think about whether you were only saying it so I wouldn’t feel bad.”

You swallowed hard, looking away before your face could betray too much.

He walked you further inside, his hand warm at the small of your back, and that was when you noticed the little table by the window. It had been set for two, facing the lake as the sun began to lower behind the mountains. Candlelight, flowers, two plates, homemade pasta that looked slightly lopsided and very clearly like his doing, and a little folded note beside your place.

You stared at it for a second before picking it up.

In his messy, all-caps handwriting, it said:

I SHOULD HAVE MADE YOU FEEL SPECIAL BEFORE NOW. I’M GOING TO DO BETTER.

Max’s face shifted immediately, concern cutting through the nervousness. “Schatje…”

You shook your head quickly trying to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. “I wanted to be cool,” you whispered. “I wanted to be the girlfriend who didn’t care about all that stuff. I thought if I asked for too much then I’d just become another pressure for you.”

Max stepped closer and cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped out despite your best efforts.

“You are the most important person in my life,” he murmured. “You always are.” His voice dropped softer, rougher. “I wish I could give you the world and I’m sorry it took me this long to show it.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the nervous set of his mouth and the careful way he held you, like he understood now that easiness was not the same thing as not needing anything.

Then you finally kissed him.

Later that night you were curled against his chest with the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the cottage wrapped in that quiet, golden kind of warmth that made everything outside feel very far away.

Max had one arm around you, his hand resting beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin.

You smiled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the soft fabric as you listened to the steady beat of his.

“So,” you mumbled, voice sleepy but teasing, “is this a one-time gesture or…”

Max’s chest moved beneath you as he chuckled. “Oh no.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Oh no?”

“No,” he said, tightening his arm around you. “You’re getting so much romance now it’ll annoy you.”

You looked up at him trying and failing not to smile. “Really?”

He nodded solemnly, like he was discussing race strategy. “Really. I’m talking airport reunions. Flowers for no reason. Random poetry.”

“Poetry?” you repeated, laughing already.

“Bad poetry,” he corrected. “Very bad. Rhymes way too much.”

“Oh, God.”

“And a cheesy playlist,” he added, completely serious. “Maybe several. One for the car. One for when I’m away. One with songs you’ll make fun of me for.”

You laughed properly then, burying your face in his neck as warmth spread through your chest. It was never about the playlist, or the flowers, or whatever terrible poetry Max Verstappen might attempt in the name of love.

It was that he was thinking about it. That he had finally understood the difference between you not needing to be spoiled and you still deserving to be cherished.

Max turned his head and pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’m serious,” he murmured, quieter now. “I don’t want you wondering anymore.”

Your laughter softened. You lifted your face again, looking at him through the firelight. “Wondering what?”

“If I think about you,” he said. “If I notice. If I care enough to try.”

Your throat tightened, but this time the feeling wasn’t painful. Max brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I do,” he said. “I’ll show you better now.”

For a moment you just looked at him, then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before tucking yourself back against him.

“That sounds perfect.” you whispered, smiling against his neck.

You hadn’t seen Max since you’d told him you were leaving Friday night. He had walked back into his penthouse without a word, shoulders tight, the door to the complex closing harshly behind him in a way that made your stomach jump.

He’d texted you the next morning, Not feeling well. Skipping the gym today. The same thing echoed the day after: Still sick.

You didn’t know what to make of it. Max wasn’t a liar. Annoying, blunt, exhausting? Absolutely. But not dishonest. In fact, sometimes you wished he would lie, his harsh truths had a way of slicing through anyone in their way without warning.

So maybe he really was sick. Or maybe he was furious with you, and avoiding you so he wouldn’t snap. Or maybe he was so very sad, and couldn’t face you without completely falling apart. Or maybe he was confused why him being a “perfectly reasonable, perfectly nice boss” didn’t inspire lifelong loyalty, and he was taking time to process it.

Or, judging by the hooded, miserable figure knocking weakly on your car window, maybe he genuinely was sick.

You scrambled to unlock the door, mouthing a quick sorry through the glass.

Max slid into the passenger seat with the same practiced swiftness he always had, but everything else about him was wrong. Black hoodie pulled tight around his head. Eyes red. Nose pink. Stubble edging along his jaw. You’d seen him hungover, jet-lagged, and post-race delirious, but even at all of those times, he’d looked better.

“Seat warmer,” he mumbled, head dropping back against the headrest, eyes already closed.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. If Max was willingly heating a seat? He was really sick.

As you reached down over to turn on the warmer, your eye caught his hand hovering midair, palm up, like it was expecting something. You blinked, confused. He blinked back, equally confused.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Where’s my Red Bull?” he asked, tone light, but slightly offended.

You let out a small, breathy laugh. “Didn’t have time to grab one this morning.”

He scoffed dramatically and dropped his hand back into his lap. 

“I did get you this, though.” You reached into your bag and handed him a thick folder.

“What is this?” he asked, opening it.

“The first one.”

He pulled out a single sheet, a CV, and stared at it for a grand total of two seconds before shoving it back inside the folder. “What do you mean the first one?”

“The first of my potential replacements.”

He stared at you like you’d spoken in a language he didn’t know.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “How long are you going to keep this joke going? Printing all this? This is–it’s dedication. But I don’t feel well enough to deal with jokes today.”

“It’s not a joke, Max.” Your voice was firm. Steady. “This is real.”

Max stared at you, long enough that you wondered if he’d heard you at all. Until you noticed the way his already-pale face somehow drained even further, like the words had physically hit him.

“You can’t actually be serious,” he said at last, voice low and raw.

“I am,” you replied softly. “I told you. Two weeks.”

His jaw tightened. Whatever flicker of emotion had cracked through vanished instantly. He turned his head toward the window, hood pulled tight, shoulders curling inward as if he could hide inside the sweatshirt.

“Fine,” he muttered, barely audible.

The rest of the drive stretched out in a heavy quiet. The only sounds were the hum of the road beneath the tires and Max’s occasional, congested sniffles. Normally he filled the car with some kind of noise between his complaints, rants, and demands, but today he just sat there.

By the time you pulled into the parking lot of his gym, you felt almost wrung out from the silence.

Max reached for the door handle automatically. “Come on,” he said, already half out of the seat, expecting you to follow like you always did. “Let’s just get this over with, today.”

“I’m not staying,” you said gently.

His hand froze on the handle. Slowly, he turned back toward you.

“What?” He didn’t sound angry, just confused, maybe a little betrayed.

“I’m going to pick up the girl we’re interviewing today,” you explained. “I  said I wanted you to meet the candidates. She’s first.”

The confusion evaporated. His whole posture stiffened, shoulders rising defensively.

“So you’re just leaving me here?” he asked, tone sharp despite the rasp in his throat. “When I’m sick?”

You blinked. “Max, you’re going to be in a building full of certified trainers.”

“That’s not the point,” he snapped, then immediately looked away again, avoiding your gaze.

There it was, the same passive-aggressive fallback he always had.

“Whatever. Do what you want,” he muttered as he pushed the door open, not looking at you even once. “You’re good at that lately.”

He climbed out, hoodie bouncing as he slammed the door behind him, and walked toward the entrance without glancing back.

You watched Max disappear into the gym before finally shifting the car back into drive, releasing a long, exhausted sigh. You didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with whatever his attitude was today, not when you’d woken up determined to protect your good mood. Two weeks. That was the light at the end of the tunnel, and you refused to let him dim it.

By the time you pulled away from the parking lot, the heaviness of the morning had surprisingly already begun to lift. The drive toward the first candidate felt like stepping back into your own life for once and not Max’s.

You reviewed her file in your head as you drove. Mary, legal name Marie, but she’d noted the nickname three different times. Fresh out of university. Born in Ireland, moved to Monaco as an au pair, stayed because she fell in love with the Mediterranean climate. Organized, multilingual, flexible schedule, perfect references. She’d checked the most boxes out of everyone. Honestly, if anyone was going to survive Max Verstappen, it was this girl.

When you pulled up to the address she’d texted, you spotted her immediately. She was already standing outside with her bag in hand, posture straight, scanning the road for you. Very punctual—another box checked.

You parked and waved, putting on your friendliest smile. She returned it, bright and eager. A tiny pang of guilt hit you. She had no idea what she was walking into. But you felt she could handle him—and that was more than most.

You were mildly surprised when she opened the back passenger door and slid into the rear seat.

“Oh! You can take the front,” you said, glancing back at her and patting the seat beside you.

She adjusted her purse and gave a polite little shrug. “I assumed Max would sit there.”

You blinked, then let out a small huff of a laugh. “Yeah, fair enough.”

You faced forward again and eased back onto the road toward the gym. “So, you just graduated?”

Mary nodded enthusiastically as you pulled onto the main road. You glanced at her through the rearview mirror. She sat upright, hands folded neatly over her purse. She really was every bit the promising candidate.

“So,” you said, “how are you feeling? Nervous?”

“A little,” she admitted quickly. “I’ve never worked for someone famous. Or someone with a reputation.” She paused. “Not that I’m saying he has a bad one! Just… an intense one.”

You snorted. “That’s a generous way to put it.”

Mary smiled, but it wavered. “Is he really that bad?”

“You worked with children?”

“Yes, of course. My host family I au paired for had three under the age of seven.”

You gave her a thumbs-up. “Congratulations, it’s practically the same job.”

Mary blinked. “Oh—are you joking?”

“I am not.”

She laughed nervously, then added, “Well, if he throws a tantrum, at least I know how to stay calm. Toddlers have taught me patience. And how to ignore screaming.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You can ignore screaming?”

She shrugged sweetly. “Selective hearing. It’s a bit of a learned gift, I guess.”

Oh, Max was going to love her.

Mary hesitated. “What if he hates me, though?”

“He won’t,” you promised. “You’re punctual, polite, organized, and not afraid to be a little passive-aggressive. Honestly, that’s his ideal personality type.”

Her mouth fell open slightly. “Passive-aggressive? Me?”

“You sat in the back because you assumed he’d take the front,” you pointed out.

She flushed, flustered. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s good,” you assured her. “Max responds best to people who think like that. To people who pay attention to little details.”

She nodded slowly, absorbing that.

“So really,” you continued, “just think of the job as taking care of a very tall toddler with more money than sense.”

Mary laughed again, real laughter this time. The nervousness drained from her shoulders.

Yeah, you thought. She could handle him. Maybe even better than you ever did.

When the gym came into view, you slowed into the familiar parking spot and shifted into park. Mary leaned forward slightly, eyes flicking between the building and you like she was waiting for instructions.

“Okay,” you said, unbuckling. “Just a heads-up: today is going to be a lot. He’s got two shoots before lunch, a brand meeting after lunch, and a new contract to review. Race week means everyone wants a piece of him.”

Mary nodded quickly, wide-eyed.

“And also,” you added, lowering your voice, “he’s sick. Like, actually sick. The sickest I’ve ever seen him. So just—don’t take anything personally.”

Mary’s brows pinched with concern. “Oh, should he even be doing all that today? Maybe he should res—”

But the click of the passenger door cut her off.

Max slid into the seat with the grace of someone who’d been doing it his whole life—hood up, eyes half-lidded, nose red, and still absolutely miserable. He didn’t even glance at Mary.

“Drive,” he muttered.

You blinked, then glanced back at Mary, who sat stiffly, confused and visibly thrown off.

“Max,” you said sharply.

He didn’t respond.

“Max,” you repeated, pointedly.

“What?” he snapped, lifeless but still somehow irritated.

You gave him a look that had practically become part of your bone structure over the years. Then, with a tilt of your head, you motioned toward the backseat.

Max finally turned. His eyes landed on Mary like he was just noticing her for the first time.

“Hello,” he said flatly.

Mary straightened even more, offering her hand and a polite, rehearsed smile. “Hi. I’m Mary. It’s nice to meet you.”

Max just stared at her, face unreadable beneath the hood. Then he gave the smallest nod imaginable and turned forward again.

You resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose.

A stellar first impression, as always.

The rest of the morning unfolded in a blur of brand reps, camera equipment, and Max looking like he was one cough away from collapsing.

He powered through the ORB shoot on sheer stubbornness alone, coughing between takes but insisting he was fine.

Mary watched everything with wide, worried eyes, though you noticed the subtle way she wrote in her notebook every time Max snapped a demand.

Between shots, you handed him a towel, a protein bar, and a water. Same routine as every shoot day. He didn’t thank you. He never did. But he took everything without hesitation, exactly like always.

Mary noticed that too.

And judging by the way her eyebrows rose ever so slightly, she was connecting the dots that this job was anything but ordinary.

By the time the second shoot wrapped, Max looked faded, like a book left in direct sunlight for too long. He trudged back to the car without a word. Mary hesitated before climbing into the backseat again.

The drive was quiet at first: Max half-asleep, Mary nervously twisting a sweater string, and you mentally organizing the rest of the day.

Then Mary cleared her throat.

“So for the job,” she said tentatively. “I should probably mention something.”

You glanced at the mirror and smiled. “What’s that?”

She winced. “I don’t have my driver’s license yet. I meant to take the test this summer, but with my host family it was hard to find time. But! I can take buses, trains, bikes, whatever works until I can take the test. I’m totally comfortable finding ways to keep up with Max’s schedule.”

You nodded. Honestly, not the worst problem. A minor inconvenience at most.

But Max’s head snapped up like someone had fired a starter pistol.

“You don’t drive?” he rasped.

Mary swallowed. “Not yet. But I’m planning on—”

“So who’s supposed to drive me?” Max demanded, voice hoarse but sharp.

You opened your mouth to point out that Max, a literal race car driver, could drive himself, but he bulldozed right over you.

“I can’t. No. The team doesn’t want me driving off-track. It’s too dangerous. I have to protect these.” He gestured vaguely at his hands.

You stared at him, stunned.

Protect his hands?

Mary blinked rapidly. “Oh. I didn’t realize—”

“They don’t want me in non-F1 cars,” he repeated dramatically, as if the words held any meaning at all. “It’s a safety thing.”

You slowly turned your head toward him. He refused to meet your eye.

Mary nodded earnestly. “Of course! That makes sense. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize anything.”

You had to bite down a laugh.

When you pulled back up to Mary’s building, she thanked you both sweetly, promising to update her CV and practice interview answers if you wanted to meet again.

As soon as the door shut behind her, you shifted the car into park. The silence dropped immediately—thick and heavy.

Max turned slowly in his seat, lowering his hood just enough for you to see his red-rimmed, narrowed eyes.

“Are you kidding me?” he said.

And just like that, the tension in the air in the car snapped.

Here we go again.

He flung an arm toward the now empty sidewalk.

“That?” he said, voice climbing. “That’s who you think should be responsible for me? Someone who can’t even drive?”

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel.

“Max—”

“How is she supposed to take me anywhere?” he cut in incredulously. “Teleport? Summon a helicopter? Ride a unicorn? Because the bus? Really?”

You drew a slow breath through your nose. “She’s perfectly capable. And you can also—”

He scoffed so loudly it felt personal. “Don’t say it. Do not say I should drive myself.”

You stared at him. “Why not? You have a license. A car. Multiple, actually. And a literal chauffeur service when needed”

“That's not the point!” he snapped.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, staring out the windshield like escape might be possible.

He leaned back dramatically. “Why are you doing this to me? You think I can just” He flailed a hand. “Function like a normal person?”

“Yes,” you said.

“I shouldn’t have to.”

You blinked.

He continued, slicing the air. “You’re supposed to make my life easier, not whatever this is. That’s why I hired you.”

“Max,” you said tightly. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I am being realistic!” he fired back. His nose scrunched in that offended, twelve-year-old way. “I don’t have time for traffic. Or parking. Or existing like that. Race weeks are intense. You don’t understand what it’s like for me.”

You stared at him.

“Max,” you said slowly, “you slept a combined thirty-six hours last race weekend while I had a combined total of sixteen.”

You dropped your head back against the seat.

He leaned forward, voice dropping into a wounded rumble. “You’re impossible.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just put the car in drive and headed toward his apartment before you started laughing, or crying, or screaming, or a combination of all three at once.

The rest of the drive was thankfully silent, except for Max’s occasional grumbling about “irresponsible hiring practices.”

When you finally pulled up to his building, you put the car in park with a sigh so heavy it seemed to deflate the entire vehicle.

Max didn’t get out. Instead, he stared at you, brows furrowed, frustration giving way to something uncertain.

Like he knew he’d pushed too far.

You met his eyes, yours tired, his still somewhat defensive. “Go inside, Max,” you said softly.

He hesitated, then finally nodded and opened the door.

“Goodnight, Max.”

You let out a slow, long breath once he disappeared inside. You survived another day.

Barely.

Taglist!! :p

The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream. 

It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich. 

You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.

He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable. 

After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks? 

Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of  pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.

However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.

The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.

You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.

Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.

“Would you like another shot?”

The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.

“Uh… Sure.”

You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.

“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”

You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.

“And how do you know what I like to drink?”

Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.

“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”

“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”

You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar. 

“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”

You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?

It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now. 

He did not look this hot on tv.

“I’m YN.”

He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.

“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.

“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”

Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.

“You are not from around here.”

He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.

“Damn, do I look that poor?”

You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.

“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”

You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.

“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”

He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.

“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”

“Maybe some RedBull merch?”

That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence. 

“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”

“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”

You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.

You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier. 

“Are you here for the race, then?”

“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”

You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.

“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”

Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.

You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.

You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.

Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.

Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.

“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”

He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.

“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.

“Tough breakup?”

“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”

Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.

“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”

“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”

“Non taken.”

“But Dylan was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”

Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.

“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”

“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”

Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself. 

“So you flew out here?”

“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”

“And who’s that?”

“You.”

Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.

“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”

You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.

“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”

You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.

“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”

You shrugged.

“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”

Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.

“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”

Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.

You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.

“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”

You narrowed your eyes, tempted.

“And what is that?”

“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”

You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.

Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.

Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.

“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”

“So?”

“People will gossip. About me.”

“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”

Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.

“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”

Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.

“I have a condition though.”

“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”

“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”

You smirked.

“Ok, let’s hear it.”

“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”

Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.

“To celebrate your win?” You teased.

“To celebrate both our wins.”

Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.

“You better not crash then.”

Max laughed, relaxing his posture.

“I’m too good for crashing.”

You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

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"won't you guess where i am?"

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.

You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.

You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty. 

Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.

“Hello there, pretty.”

He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.

“Congratulations!”

“Did you enjoy it?”

You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.

“Way better than from home.”

“Any news?”

Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.

“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”

“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”

You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.

Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one. 

“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.

Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.

Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.

If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.

Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.

You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.

Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.

“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.

“What?”

“That fucking radio message!”

And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident. 

“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”

You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.

“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.

“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”

“Yes, I very much would, Max.”

He kneeled before you, reaching your height.

“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”

You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.

Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.

You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.

“So, what time are you picking me up?”

The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.

“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”

“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”

Max giggled, playfully.

“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

“See you later, champ.”

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened? 

Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.

Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.

“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”

He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.

Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.

“Is this yours?”

You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.

“Yes, welcome.”

Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.

The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.

“This is really nice, Max.”

Your compliment eased his nerves.

“I hope this isn’t too much.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”

And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.

“Are you hungry?”

You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.

“Starving.”

He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.

You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable. 

Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.

Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.

“I made them.”

“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”

“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”

“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”

You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.

He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.

“So… How is it?”

“Perfect.”

You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.

The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch. 

As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.

“I really want to keep seeing you.”

Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.

You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.

“How are we going to do that?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”

And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break. 

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.

The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.

And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.

When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.

Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.

Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather.  You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.

Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.

On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.

That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.

Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.

So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.

You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.

When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.

Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.

“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”

You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”

He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.

“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”

Your breath caught.

“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”

The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.

Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”

And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.

The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.

He saw you. Always you. His greatest win.

liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others

vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.

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user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you

user they won best paddock couple 😍😍

user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩

user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏

yourbff my baby is a star 🤩

danielricciardo finally some real journalism!

> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo > danielricciardo you're immediately losing

yourusername what is my life??

> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??

user how's dylan??

❤️ liked by maxverstappen1

user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem

user if they don't get married istg

yourmom my loves 😍

zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.

user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.

florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.

gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅

user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.

user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.

user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.

f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.

user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.

user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.

liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others

maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.

view all comments

user this is actually insane

user mad!max is back 🥵🥵

user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏

redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁

user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?

user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is

> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is > user starting a fuck you dylan campaign

user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin

yourusername the best of the best! 💗

> user she is such a queen 😍

lando congratulations mate!! 🍾

charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him

> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎

lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably

user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡

georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄 user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥

During the team-building days before the season, things were tough. You tried your best to get to know him, asking questions and offering help. But Max barely said a word to you. Sometimes he wouldn’t answer at all. He’d glance at you like he didn’t even understand why you were there. Every time you tried to be helpful or friendly, he just brushed you off, and after a while, you stopped trying so hard.

By the end of the second day, you were already regretting every decision that had brought you here. You found yourself silently cursing Christian for assigning you to Max and not Yuki. Yuki, who actually remembered your name. Yuki, who made you laugh, who teased you in a way that felt like friendship instead of dismissal. He would’ve made your job easy — or at least bearable. But no. You got Max Verstappen. And Max Verstappen made sure you felt like you were nothing more than an annoyance.

───

It was a loud, messy afternoon after the race, and sixth place was nothing close to what Max, or anyone on the team, wanted. From the moment he stepped out of the car, shoulders tense and jaw locked, you knew this was going to be difficult. The frustration rolled off him in waves—quiet but obvious. You’d seen enough drivers after rough races to recognize that look.

You spotted him as he left the driver’s room, weaving through the chaos like it didn’t exist. “Max!” you called, raising your voice above the buzz of crew chatter and camera clicks. You had to practically jog to keep up, clutching the talking points you’d spent your lunch break rewriting. He didn’t look at you—not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Just stared down at his phone, fingers scrolling, face blank. You rushed alongside him, trying to sound firm and helpful instead of desperate. “Okay so—maybe don’t go too hard on the team. Just say it wasn’t our day or something like that.”

He didn’t even glance over. Just muttered coldly, “I know what I’m doing.”

You blinked, biting back a sigh. Of course. Max Verstappen always knows what he’s doing—even when what he’s doing is about to make every post-race article a PR nightmare. You rolled your eyes, but silently. No point in arguing. Not here. Not now. He walked off without another word, and you were left trailing behind, unsure why you’d even bothered.

The media pen was buzzing—drivers giving interviews, team personnel running interference, lights flashing in all directions. You stayed back, pressed against the barrier like an extra on a movie set.

“Max, tough weekend for you, how do you feel?” the interviewer asked, tone casual and open.

You held your breath, praying for a miracle—or at least a scrap of restraint.

But Max didn’t pause. Didn’t consider. His voice was flat. “Yeah, car was slow. Pace was basically non-existent.”

Your eyes widened immediately. Seriously? That’s what we’re going with? You’d rehearsed smoother phrasing, softened the language, handed him options. But here he was—going rogue, again. You threw him a look from behind the cameras, silently pleading for damage control. He saw it. Brief eye contact. Just long enough for you to feel the chill of his piercing blue stare. And then—

“Practically everything went wrong,” he added with a dry, sarcastic smile.

The interviewer blinked, surprised. Probably expecting something a bit more... polished. But Max didn’t wait for a follow-up. He turned and walked away like the microphone had offended him.

You exhaled slowly, gripping your tablet tighter. Your shoulders sank. Everything you’d tried to do today—every note, every reminder, every suggestion—had been tossed aside with that smirk.

He stormed back into Red Bull garage, jaw locked and shoulders stiff, the tension practically radiating off him. Cameras had barely stopped rolling, but his pace said he was done with everyone—and everything. You followed him in, heart pounding, anger rising faster than you could contain it. You weren’t just irritated. You were exhausted.

The buildup over the weekend, the briefings he ignored, the rehearsed lines he dismissed—it all came crashing down with that one post-race interview where he blamed the team. The team that worked day and night to give him a competitive car. The team you were trying to protect with your carefully crafted words.

“Max—what the hell!” you snapped as you walked behind him, voice trembling with emotion. It wasn’t loud enough to cause a scene, but it wasn’t quiet either. Desperate. That’s how it sounded. That’s how you felt. Desperate to be heard, desperate to matter in a job where you were constantly treated like furniture—there, useful, but never acknowledged.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t give you even a glance. Just kept walking, like you were background noise. That silence cut deeper than any insult.

You pressed forward, refusing to let it go. “Can you tell me why you blamed the team?” you asked, trying to keep your voice level. “You did the exact opposite of everything we talked about. Everything I prepared.”

He finally responded, scoffing like your words annoyed him. “I told them the truth,” he said. Then added, like it was just a casual fact: “And I don’t need your help.”

Something cracked inside you. Your nails dug into the edge of your tablet, breath caught in your throat. All the hours spent organizing media schedules, coaching his phrasing, smoothing the tension between him and the press—every ounce of effort you’d poured into making his life easier was suddenly stomped on with seven careless words. You weren’t asking for praise. Just respect. Just a sign that he saw you. And this? This was him looking right through you.

“Yeah, because Max Verstappen never needs help, right?” you said bitterly, voice thick with sarcasm. You laughed—a sharp, humorless sound that surprised even you. It didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like letting go of something heavy. Like peeling off the last bit of patience you had left.

Then, without even a flicker of hesitation, he reached his driver’s room, yanked open the door, and slammed it shut behind him—so hard the walls shook. The echo rang out through the garage. And you just stood there, breath stuck somewhere between fury and heartbreak, your pulse pounding like you’d been the one dragged through a tough race.

───

You were seated in the Red Bull HQ conference room well before the meeting was set to begin—because unlike certain driver, you actually took this job seriously. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of laptops and shuffled papers. A few early arrivals hovered near the coffee machine, chatting about strategy and data points, but your mind was somewhere else. You’d barely slept. Max’s post-race disaster had left your inbox overflowing and the internet buzzing with half-truths and angry fans. You weren’t just tired—you were drained.

The door creaked open, and you turned, half expecting Christian or one of the senior staff—but instead, Yuki walked in, eyes bleary, hair tousled from sleep, holding two Red Bull cans like peace offerings. He looked as tired as you felt, and somehow that made you smile. Sliding into the seat beside you, he gave you a soft, warm smile and greeted you like a friend—not like someone doing his job.

“Hey, Y/n,” he mumbled, voice thick with morning haze.

You raised an eyebrow, watching as he nudged one of the cans toward you. “You want one?” he offered, holding up the pink one without hesitation.

You took it instantly, fingertips brushing his in the exchange. “Thanks,” you muttered. “I really need that.” Your voice was lower than usual, weighed down with exhaustion and something heavier beneath it—disappointment, maybe. Frustration.

The room slowly began to fill—engineers, strategists, logistics coordinators—everyone filtering in, settling down, preparing for another round of analysis and problem-solving. But there was no sign of Max. Of course. Yuki noticed too, glancing at the empty chair a few spots away where Max was supposed to sit. He took a slow sip of his drink before turning to you, face genuinely curious. “So... how’s work going?”

You paused for a moment. You could’ve lied. Could’ve shrugged and given a vague, polite answer. But instead, you let your shoulders drop a little and sighed. “Terrible,” you admitted, almost laughing. “I spent all night cleaning up Max’s mess online.”

Yuki made a sympathetic face, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds rough.”

You nodded, clutching your drink a little tighter, exhaustion weighing heavier now that you’d said it out loud. “Honestly? If he pulls that stunt again, I’m throwing him out the nearest window.”

Yuki burst out laughing, the kind of laugh that was half shock, half pure entertainment. His shoulders shook as he turned to you, eyes wide with amusement. “No way you just said that,” he grinned, nearly choking on his drink. “That’s going in the season highlights.”

You smiled, despite everything. It felt good to be heard. Even if your threat wasn’t exactly real, it was nice to imagine. Yuki didn’t judge—he just understood. And in that moment, he made you feel like maybe you weren’t the only one dealing with Max Verstappen’s chaos.

Christian stepped into the conference room, clipboard in hand, his usual sharp gaze sweeping across the space. “I think we can get started,” he said, voice steady and slightly clipped, like the morning coffee hadn’t quite kicked in yet.

Everyone was settled, files opened, laptops humming—but one chair remained stubbornly empty.

His eyes landed on it. Then flicked to you.

“Where’s Max?”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even particularly stern. But it was definitely aimed at you.

You straightened in your seat, pretending not to feel the squeeze of pressure tighten around your ribs. “I—uh, I texted him earlier,” you replied quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear like it helped you stay composed.

You didn’t. You hadn’t. You’d thought about it. But part of you wanted Max to feel the weight of being late. Of making everyone wait. Of walking through this building like he didn’t owe anyone—even you—a single thing.

Christian didn’t push. He simply nodded, turned back to the whiteboard, and began. But that empty seat lingered.

Suddenly, the door swung open with a soft thud, drawing half the room’s attention. Max walked in like he hadn’t delayed the meeting by ten minutes or left everyone waiting—not a single hint of stress on his face.

“Sorry, traffic,” he said casually, with the same tone someone might use when brushing off a missed text. He dropped into the empty seat directly across from you, stretched out like it was any other Monday. Then, as if you were the only person in the room worth noticing, he looked straight at you—and smirked.

It was effortless. That irritating, smug little curve of his lips that had already ruined your morning once. You rolled your eyes, quietly scolding yourself for expecting anything different. Yet despite yourself, your pulse betrayed you. A tiny spike beneath your skin. A thump you wished hadn’t happened.

Christian’s voice became background noise, lost beneath the buzzing in your chest. You caught bits and pieces—something about tire degradation, aero updates, strategy laps—but none of it stuck. You couldn't focus. Not with Max sitting directly across from you, eyes trained like he wasn’t just attending a meeting—he was watching you. Studying every flick of your lashes, every curve of your expression, like the room was just white noise around the tension stretching between you. You glanced up once, casually—or tried to be casual—and met his gaze. And damn. That split second sent a jolt through you so sharp, you nearly forgot your own name.

You looked away fast, fingers tightening around your laptop as if it could shield you from whatever the hell that moment was. But your heart didn’t listen. It thumped harder, quick and uneven, ignoring your brain’s demand to get it together.

Then Christian spoke again, more pointed this time. “And now—something about PR,” he said, glancing toward you briefly before letting the topic settle like a trap waiting to spring.

Your stomach dropped. Shit. Shit. Shit. You weren’t ready. Not for a call-out. Not with Max watching you like this. You braced yourself for public blame, the kind that would slide under your skin and stay there.

Christian turned toward Max instead, calm and collected. “Max, why did you say the car is shit?” he asked, voice unnervingly neutral.

Max leaned back, barely phased. “I didn’t say it was shit,” he replied, cool and sharp. “I said it’s slow. Which is true.”

His tone wasn’t defensive. It was decisive. Unbothered. Like he knew exactly how much chaos his words caused, and didn’t care. But still—his gaze flicked to you again, just for a second. Like he wanted to see how you reacted. Like he knew you were the one who’d stayed up late, patching up the mess behind the scenes.

Christian’s words landed heavier than you'd expected. “But Max, you have a PR manager for a reason,” he said evenly. “Maybe it’s time you actually listen to her.”

You blinked, taken aback. Support like that—especially in front of everyone—was rare. You sat up a little straighter, pulse quickening, not sure if you were grateful or terrified.

Max shrugged, unfazed. “I listened,” he said. “I just didn’t agree.”

You stared at him. Listened? The word echoed in your chest like a bad joke. No way he was spinning it like that.

You let out a scoff, sharp and breathy, more laugh than amusement. “Listened?” you echoed, leaning forward a bit. “You ignored me like I was damn invisible. You didn’t even look at the notes I gave you.”

Max raised a brow, looking almost genuinely confused. “You gave me any notes?”

You stared at him. For a moment, you couldn't tell if he was messing with you or just unbelievably dense. The question echoed in your ears, hitting like a slap wrapped in cluelessness. You’d sent him documents, bullet points, color-coded media strategies—he’d walked right past all of it like it was invisible. Just like you.

You gave a small laugh, dry and sharp, the kind that didn’t carry any amusement. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, voice dipped in irony as you leaned back in your chair. Arms crossed, face tight, eyes refusing to meet his again. If you didn’t take a breath soon, you might say something you couldn’t take back.

The atmosphere in the room felt like it had gained weight—every breath a little heavier, every shift in a chair echoing louder than it should. Christian glanced between you and Max, his eyes flicking quickly like he was doing a mental risk assessment. The silence stretched, awkward and sharp, until he finally broke it with a clipped conclusion.

“Alright,” he said, tone carefully neutral. “I think we’re done for today. We’ll continue next time.”

Relief surged up your spine before the words were even finished. You pushed your chair back, the legs scraping softly against the floor, and stood before anyone else had the chance. “Thank god,” you muttered under your breath, voice low but dripping with sarcasm. It wasn’t meant for the room—it was meant for him. And maybe, just maybe, Max knew that too.

As you headed for the door, your laptop still tucked under your arm, you didn’t look back. Because if you did, you'd see him still sitting there, eyes following you, silent again—but somehow, no longer indifferent.

After the meeting, the rain poured harder than the forecast had warned, you stood outside Red Bull HQ under canopy, your phone in one hand, your patience draining in the other. Uber kept glitching, canceling, rerouting. It felt like the universe was adding insult to an already exhausting day. You clenched your jaw, thumb hovering over the screen, mentally preparing to walk if it came to that.

And then—footsteps. Fast and confident.

“What are you waiting for, schat?”

You looked up, blinking through the rain. Max. That stupid grin curved across his face like he hadn’t just made your work life hell ten minutes ago. You froze for a second, eyes wide, trying to process what he’d just called you. Schat? The Dutch word hung in the air like a mystery—was it sweet? Was it mocking?

“Trying to order an Uber,” you said, more bitter than you meant. You didn’t owe him charm. Not after the weekend you’d had.

He stopped a few steps ahead, glanced back with an arched brow, and looked at you like he was studying something he hadn’t really noticed before. He hesitated for just a breath—then offered, “I’ll drive you.”

Your heart stuttered. “You don’t have to—” you began, unsure what shocked you more: his offer, or how fast you started calculating whether this was a good idea.

Max took a step closer. The rain trickled off his jacket in soft rhythms, and the expression on his face shifted slightly—no grin, no sarcasm. Just... Max. Almost real.

“Y/n,” he said, voice lower now, and something about the way he said it made your breath hitch. His Dutch accent wrapped around the syllables with unexpected warmth, like he'd known your name longer than you'd realized.

You blinked again, trying to pull yourself back down to earth. He knew your name? And he cared enough to say it like that?

You glanced out toward the rain—relentless, sheets of it pouring like the universe was proving a point. Yeah, no chance you were walking home in that. With a resigned nod, you followed Max to his car. Naturally, it was a sportscar. Sleek, low, ridiculously impractical for weather like this, but still somehow perfect for him.

You slid into the passenger seat, the soft leather cool against your skin. Instantly, your brain started spiraling. What the hell did I get myself into? Riding home with Max Verstappen after a workplace meltdown wasn’t exactly the kind of Monday you planned when you woke up.

As he started the engine, he shot you a sideways glance, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t have a car?” he asked, teasing, the chuckle just beneath his words.

You scoffed, clicking your seatbelt into place. “Some of us are still finishing exams and weren’t born with a steering wheel in hand.”

That got him—he laughed, a real one. You couldn’t help but glance his way, slightly stunned that your sarcasm actually landed. He turned the wheel smoothly, merging out onto the wet road, still smiling.

“I don’t even have the license,” you admitted, throwing him the confession like it weighed nothing, but secretly hoping it didn’t make you sound too helpless.

He raised a brow and flicked his gaze between you and the traffic. “Wait—what? How old are you?”

You looked down, feeling your cheeks flush as you tried to play it cool. “Twenty-two.”

His expression shifted with a flicker of surprise—eyes narrowing slightly, head tilted as if recalculating something. You couldn’t tell if it was good or bad, but it landed with a strange weight in the silence between you.

“You’re younger than I thought,” he said finally, voice clipped—cooler than expected, almost neutral.

You felt yourself tense, unsure what to make of it. “Is that a bad thing?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but the awkward edge in your tone betrayed you.

He was quiet for a beat, then shook his head. “No. God, no,” he said, his voice softening a little. “You just... don’t act like it.”

You blinked, surprised by the honesty. Max glanced at the road, then back at you, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re responsible. You work like you’ve got something to prove every minute. Like you’re holding everything together.” He paused. “That’s not what I expected.”

You turned toward the window, suddenly aware of how warm the car felt. Something about the way he said it—like he’d noticed. Like behind all the sarcasm and cold interviews and slammed doors, he’d seen something more.

───

Christian Horner had a special talent—ruining your day with a single sentence, casually delivered like it wasn’t about to upend your entire afternoon. And today? He’d done it again. Media training with Max Verstappen. Because clearly, after the last race weekend, someone needed it—and lucky you, it fell on your plate.

You sat down on the couch in one of the lounge rooms at HQ, laptop open, trying to look more prepared than you felt. Across from you, Max slumped lazily into the opposite seat, legs stretched out, expression already halfway to bored. You cleared your throat and tried to keep your voice professional. “Alright, let’s pretend I’m a journalist. You’ll honestly answer my questions like it’s a real interview.”

Max rolled his eyes in that signature way that made you want to throw a pillow at his head—but he didn’t argue, so you took that as reluctant compliance.

“Okay,” you said, tapping your notes. “Tough qualifying, Max. What went wrong?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “The car. The strategy. The pace. Pick one,” he replied flatly.

You let out a groan, slouching deeper into the cushions. “Seriously?”

Max turned slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You said answer honestly.”

“Yeah, but ideally not like you’re trying to start a war with your own team.”

He leaned back, arms crossed casually. “I’m not starting a war. I’m just telling it like it is.”

You gave him a look, unimpressed but trying not to laugh. Because honestly? This was going to be a long afternoon.

You clicked your pen like it was a buzzer on a game show, then leaned forward with your best impersonation of journalistic gravitas. “Alright, let’s try again,” you said, voice teasing. “This time, maybe without triggering a full-blown existential crisis in the team.”

Max didn’t even blink. His posture remained perfectly unbothered, stretched out on the couch like he was posing for a magazine shoot instead of being dragged through media training. The faint smirk on his face said he was still half-convinced this entire session was a waste of time—but the fact he hadn’t bailed yet? You counted that as a microscopic win.

You slipped into character, flipping open your notes. “Next question: Critics say the team isn’t performing to its usual standard. What’s your response?”

Max sighed, dramatically. His eyes wandered toward the ceiling like he was searching for divine intervention—or maybe just patience. “Critics talk,” he said flatly. “That’s their job. My job’s to drive.”

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “And the team’s job is…?”

He shot you a lazy glance. “To give me something worth driving.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Max,” you warned, your tone balancing on the edge of a plea. “Please. Can you take this seriously? It would make both of our lives so much easier.”

He raised an eyebrow, that grin creeping back. You leaned forward, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “Triple-header’s coming up. And if you keep pulling the ‘truth bomb’ stunt in front of journalists, Christian is going to murder both of us.”

Max chuckled at that, finally sitting up a bit. “You think he’d start with me or you?”

You didn’t hesitate. “You. No hesitation. But I’m collateral damage, and I’d rather not be.”

For the first time that afternoon, Max looked mildly reflective. Maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten through a layer of Verstappen logic. Not all the way—but far enough to keep going.

He groaned, dropping his head back against the couch like he was physically pained by the exercise. “Just ask me something interesting, Y/n.”

The way he said your name—casual, almost bored, but unmistakably deliberate—sent a tiny jolt down your spine. Just ask me something interesting, Y/n. It wasn't the words. It was the low flicker in his voice, the lazy confidence in how it rolled off his tongue. You hated that it got to you.

You leaned forward slightly, lips curling into a devilish smirk. Fine, he wanted interesting? You could do interesting. “Alright,” you said sweetly, too sweetly. “What’s your favorite position... on the grid?”

There was a split-second pause—a hiccup in the air where his brain caught up with your words. His eyes widened, just enough for you to savor. Got him.

But Max recovered quickly. Of course he did. The shock melted into a smirk, slow and deliberate, the kind that made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t care to admit. “Top,” he said smoothly, voice dipped in smugness. “Who doesn’t like to be on top and dominate?”

You rolled your eyes, but the grin was already tugging at your lips. You hated that he could do this—shake off any curveball, turn it into flirtation, and leave you questioning who was really in control here.

You leaned back slightly on the couch, letting your eyes travel across him—not subtle, but not exactly discreet either. With a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of your lips, you said, “You look like a top.” Your voice was playful, but your eyes watched him carefully, waiting to see what that comment stirred in him.

Max’s reaction came just as quickly. He gave you a knowing smile, that slow, signature smirk of his. He nodded, leaning into the moment, but his tone stayed dry and amused. “That’s not exactly the kind of question a journalist would ask,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking toward yours with faint amusement.

Yeah, maybe it wasn’t the most professional question. And yeah, maybe you knew that. But the truth was, you’d asked it because you were curious. Because the line between work and whatever this was had started to blur somewhere around his third smirk and your second eye-roll.

You gave a light shrug, keeping your tone casual. “You have to be prepared for every kind of stupid question,” you replied, pretending to scan through your notes even though you hadn’t looked at them in minutes.

You blinked at him, not entirely sure if you heard that right. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, a playful glint in his eye that told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

“It’s my turn now,” Max said with casual confidence.

This was supposed to be media training. Professional. Straightforward. Something Christian forced both of you to do so you could avoid another PR disaster in the paddock. And yet, here you were—sitting across from him, your notebook forgotten in your lap, wondering when exactly the lines had started to blur.

You narrowed your eyes, lips twisting into a smirk as you tried to stay in control. “I’m the one asking questions, and you’re supposed to be responding. That’s literally the point.”

Max shrugged, undeterred. “Just one.”

You hesitated, then nodded slowly, thinking—what’s the worst that could happen?

He didn’t miss a beat. “Do you like it fast and rough or slow and steady?”

Your eyes widened, heart thumping once in confusion and amusement. You opened your mouth to respond, but closed it again just as fast. You knew he was talking about racing. You knew that. But the way he said it—the timing, the tone, the look—it was obvious he was deep into whatever game you were now playing.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back in your seat to give yourself space to process what had just happened. “That’s the question?” you asked, voice calm but cautious.

Max nodded, looking way too pleased with himself. “It’s racing-related. Technically.”

You snorted, shaking your head as a grin started to creep across your face. Technically. That word was doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.

Whatever this was between you—it was far from professional. And clearly, he wasn’t about to let that fact slide.

You didn’t flinch. You leaned forward just slightly, eyes locked with his, and delivered your answer without a shred of hesitation. “Fast and rough,” you said, voice smooth and deliberate. “I like adrenaline.”

The air in the room shifted. Not awkward—not even close. It was weighted now, humming with something electric. Max’s trademark smirk flickered, briefly replaced by something you couldn’t quite name—surprise, maybe, or intrigue. His gaze dipped to your mouth and then back to your eyes, studying you like he was trying to decide whether this was part of your game or a glimpse of something real.

Then, slowly, the smirk returned. “Yeah,” he said quietly, almost like a confession. “I had a feeling.”

You swallowed. Not because you were scared, but because the intensity made your chest tighten. Maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was the way he was looking at you now—less like a colleague and more like someone who’d just been challenged and didn’t hate it.

You let out a breath and shifted back in your seat, clearing your throat. “Okay,” you said, trying to reset, ignoring the fact that your pulse had kicked into overdrive. “This is far from professional. Let’s get back to it.”

Max groaned dramatically, flopping back against the couch like a rebellious teenager. “But media training just started to be entertaining.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “Entertaining isn’t the goal, Verstappen. Surviving Christian’s wrath is.”

───

Life had a twisted sense of humor, and today, it was clearly having fun at your expense. First, your flight got delayed. Then—just when you thought the worst was behind you—it got cancelled entirely. No rebooking options that made sense, no clear plan. Just a vague apology from the airline and a sinking feeling in your gut as you stared at the departure board.

And then came Max.

“You can fly with me,” he offered, as casually as if he were inviting you to grab coffee, not hop aboard his private jet. You blinked, unsure what to say at first. Since when was he this... generous? Suspiciously thoughtful, even. You hesitated, half wondering if this was some kind of setup, some twisted Red Bull prank. But then reality kicked in—trying to find another ticket would be expensive and exhausting. And honestly, who in their right mind would choose a cramped economy seat over champagne-smooth leather and a guaranteed takeoff?

So you said yes.

When you arrived at the foot of the jet’s stairs, struggling with your oversized suitcase filled with enough essentials for a three-week storm tour, Max didn’t just watch you struggle. He stepped forward, no hesitation, and reached for the bag.

“Let me help you,” he said, already lifting it like it weighed nothing.

You didn’t protest. Didn’t make a joke or shrug him off. You just nodded, silently stunned by how effortlessly kind he was being. And damn—he carried it like it was filled with feathers, not your entire wardrobe and backup skincare routine.

Inside, the jet was calm and impossibly luxurious. You settled into one of the plush seats while Max casually took the one across from you. He didn’t say much, but his glance lingered for a beat longer than necessary, like he knew you were still trying to figure out why him, why now.

And maybe—just maybe—you were starting to wonder what this unexpected kindness actually meant.

You flipped open your laptop the second you settled into the seat, fingers already flying across the keyboard. No surprise there—you had work to do, deadlines breathing down your neck like they’d booked the seat next to yours.

Max stood up from his seat across the cabin and wandered over to the mini fridge, glancing at your screen like it offended him personally. “You’re working again?” he asked, pulling out a bottle of water.

You barely looked up. “Have to,” you replied, voice muffled under the weight of responsibility. It wasn't glamorous, but it was necessary.

He crossed the space between you and handed you the bottle. “You’re dehydrated. And annoying,” he said matter-of-factly.

That got your attention. You raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused. “Why am I annoying this time?”

Max leaned against the armrest with a smug smile, clearly enjoying himself. “Because your flight got delayed, and I had to rescue you. Obviously.”

You scoffed, cracking open the bottle with a roll of your eyes. “Rescue? You offered, Verstappen.”

His smirk widened. “Still counts as heroism.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile. Honestly? You were grateful. Just maybe not ready to admit it out loud. Not yet.

Max reclined in his seat, arms stretched out, posture relaxed—but his eyes were focused on you. “So tell me,” he said casually, “what’s our plan for media day?”

Our? You glanced up from your laptop, a little stunned. Since when did he include himself in your chaos? Did he genuinely care, or was this just a new form of boredom disguised as engagement?

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face, the screen in front of you a mess of updated schedules and clashing time slots. “I honestly have no idea anymore,” you muttered. “For whatever reason, the internet finds your interviews hilarious. Like meme-worthy hilarious.”

Max gave a lazy smirk, clearly proud of that detail. “Means you’re doing your job right. Try being happy about it, for once. Christ.”

You narrowed your eyes, shooting him a look. “Yeah, well, fans might love it. But sponsors? Christian?” You gestured to the list of formal press obligations with a sigh. “They want charm. Structure. A version of you that isn’t rolling your eyes and casually threatening a mic.”

One second you were neck-deep in emails and sponsor schedules, the next—wham—your laptop was sliding across the cushioned bench like it had just been yeeted into early retirement.

You gasped. “Max!”

He stood there, completely unbothered, hands in his pockets and an unmistakable grin creeping across his face. “You work way too much,” he said, like this was a public intervention. “Live a little.”

You rubbed your temples. “I have to work. It's literally my job.”

He shrugged, already sitting down across from you with maddening calm. “How about a game? Would you rather.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately. Of course. You already knew where this was going. It wasn’t his first attempt to derail professionalism with something vaguely chaotic—and probably flirtatious.

“Are we fifteen?” you asked, rolling your eyes dramatically.

“Maybe,” he said, winking. “But a very charming fifteen.”

You sighed, then glanced at your poor abandoned laptop. “Fine. One round. But if you say something dumb, I’m sending you to media day with a clown suit.”

He just smirked.

You already knew what kind of game Max had in mind. The moment he suggested playing, you saw the spark in his eyes—the one that always meant trouble. So if he was going to push the boundaries, you figured you might as well meet him there, head-on.

You leaned in a bit, let your voice drop just slightly, and gave him a question that didn’t tiptoe around anything. “Would you rather win Monaco,” you said, letting the pause stretch, “or hear me moan your name?”

It was bold. No soft teasing or half-jokes. You went straight for it, watching carefully as the words settled between you like a fire waiting for someone to strike the match.

Max froze—not dramatically, but just long enough for you to notice that brief flicker of surprise. His usual smirk came back quickly, though. “I already won Monaco,” he said, his voice lower than before, eyes never leaving yours. “So you know the answer.”

And you did. The way he looked at you now wasn’t casual or cocky—it was focused. Serious, but laced with something warmer. Something heavier. You hadn’t expected him to lean into it that hard. You were teasing, half testing the waters, and suddenly it felt like you’d dove straight in.

You shifted in your seat, trying to ignore the way your heart was beating faster. It was just a stupid game, right? Something to pass the time midair? But Max didn’t blink or change the subject. He was sitting across from you like he had all the time in the world and every intention of seeing just how far this moment would go.

Max’s gaze lingered on you a little longer, that same familiar glint in his eyes—not just mischievous, but daring. If you were going to throw heat his way, he wasn’t just going to absorb it. He was going to throw it right back.

You watched him carefully as he shifted in his seat, the playful glint still tucked behind his expression—but now wrapped in something darker. “Alright,” he said, voice low and slow, like he was choosing every word with purpose. “Would you rather…” He leaned forward just a little, eyes locked on yours. “Have me whisper in your ear everything I want to do to you—while you're stuck trying to act normal in a crowded press room… or actually be somewhere quiet where I can do it all, no distractions, no interruptions?”

The cabin felt warmer suddenly. Not just from the air, but from the spark curling between the two of you, creeping along every inch of space like tension disguised as oxygen. You knew exactly where this game was heading, but something about how he asked made your breath stick for just a second.

You tilted your head, heart racing beneath a cool exterior, letting your smile stretch slow. “Press room,” you answered, calm and direct. “Without a doubt.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised—but impressed. “Really?”

You nodded, voice lighter but still confident. “There’s something about keeping calm while everything inside is shaking.“

Max didn’t move. Didn’t laugh. Just exhaled, slow and quiet, as if your answer hit harder than he was expecting. His gaze flicked briefly down your throat before returning to your eyes, darker now, lit with curiosity and something else—something bolder.

“Damn,” he murmured, voice low. “You really like adrenaline.”

You shrugged lightly, heart thudding but face calm. “Told ya.”

───

Media day was in full swing. The press room buzzed with noise, reporters ran on caffeine and chaos, and yet somehow—you and Max had slipped away into the quiet of his driver room. It was strange how comfortable it felt, how naturally you fell into this rhythm together. You’d been spending more and more time like this lately, and even if it wasn’t exactly “professional,” neither of you seemed eager to question it.

You stood up from the chair while Max lounged on the couch, stretching out like he owned the place. Trying to shake off the warm, soft comfort that came from being around him, you cleared your throat and attempted to sound official. “Okay, so… you’ll tell them we made some upgrades,” you began, trying to stick to business.

But Max had other ideas.

His hands slid around your waist and settled low with familiar ease, pulling you closer until you were standing right in front of him, practically pressed against his chest. His eyes locked on yours—those piercing blue eyes that always managed to throw you off balance. You stumbled on your words but pushed through anyway. “And… uh, we have high hopes for a good result.”

He hummed, quiet and deep, clearly more interested in you than any PR script. His palms squeezed softly, and you weren’t sure if this was how a driver and his manager were supposed to act—but at this point, you didn’t really care. It felt good. Comfortable. Exciting.

“Max,” you sighed, trying to sound serious again, but your voice came out softer, breathier than you wanted. “Please, just don’t screw this up out there.”

He tilted his head, that familiar teasing smirk starting to grow. “And if I don’t?” he asked, his voice playful but full of intent. You already knew where this was going. He always pushed just enough to make you blush, but never far enough to cross a line you hadn’t invited.

You matched his energy, reaching for his jaw and tilting his face up toward you with a sweet smile. “Then maybe… you get a kiss,” you said, pretending to be innocent even though the heat in your chest said otherwise.

Max groaned quietly, deep and rough, pressing his head back into the couch as if the sound alone could cool him down. “Fuck, Y/n,” he breathed.

You flashed him a smile and reached for both his hands, pulling gently as you coaxed him up from the couch. “Come on,” you said, voice light and teasing. “We’ve got work to do.”

Max let out that familiar groan—low, deep, laced with lazy reluctance. And okay, maybe it shouldn’t have sounded that good, but it did. You still had hold of his hands, fingers loosely tangled with his, and it wasn’t until you stepped toward the door that you realized neither of you had let go.

As he stood, still tethered to you, he gave a quick smack to your ass—casual, playful, completely in character.

You turned instantly, half laughing, half scandalized. “Max!” you hissed, eyes wide.

He raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his lips. “Motivation,” he said simply, like it was the most logical excuse in the world.

You shook your head, cheeks flushed, but the smile stayed. Somehow, despite the chaos of media day outside, everything inside this driver room felt way too good to leave behind.

The room was packed—journalists, flashes, a quiet buzz of anticipation. Max sat at the long table, mic clipped in front of him, posture relaxed but sharp. You were off to the side, scanning through the media agenda, trying not to let your mind wander to how his hand had been on you less than twenty minutes ago.

A reporter leaned in first. “Max, some sources say you’ve made upgrades to the car—what can you tell us?”

Max glanced your way for a split second before answering, voice steady. “Yeah, we’ve made a few changes. Nothing crazy, but enough to feel the difference. We’re optimistic.”

You felt a flicker of pride. You’d fed him that line earlier—and he nailed it.

Another voice chimed in. “So expectations are high?”

Max shrugged. “We’re aiming for a strong result. That’s always the goal, isn’t it?”

Then came the curveball—innocent sounding, but loaded. “Max, you seem happier lately. Different. Something changed?”

Your stomach flipped.

Max didn’t miss a beat. He leaned slightly into the mic. “Good company helps,” he said casually, eyes drifting to you just long enough for your cheeks to burn.

A few chuckles echoed through the room. Someone muttered something about ‘mysterious influences.’ You felt every camera lens tilt just slightly in your direction.

You swallowed, smiling like you didn’t just feel the temperature spike in your skin. Max didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. That one look said more than any statement could.

You waited in Max’s driver room, pacing a little, nerves buzzing under your skin like static. It wasn’t just the adrenaline from the media day—it was what had just happened. Max had done it. He’d actually followed your script. No sarcastic remarks. No thinly veiled jabs at strategy. Just clean, focused answers. Polished but still him. For the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like you were putting out a fire the second the cameras stopped rolling. And if anyone had earned a reward, it was him.

You’d promised him a kiss if he behaved. And Max Verstappen never forgot a promise.

The door creaked open, and there he was. That cocky, slightly sweaty post-interview version of him that knew exactly what he’d done. He looked at you like he’d just clinched another world title—satisfied, smug, and devastatingly handsome.

“So,” he said, closing the door behind him, his voice like velvet over gravel, “how was I?”

You raised an eyebrow, arms crossing over your chest. “Perfect,” you said, fighting a grin. “Didn’t get us cancelled for once. I’m almost proud.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Almost?”

You shrugged, casual, even though your heart was beating a little too fast. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Max took a slow step forward. Then another. “You promised something,” he murmured, tone dropping low. “I didn’t forget.”

You swallowed, pulse skittering. He was close now—too close—and your brain was screaming a thousand things at once. But your body moved on instinct. Without thinking, without overanalyzing, you leaned up and kissed him.

At first, it was soft—almost unsure. A simple brush of lips, like testing the temperature of something you already knew would burn. But then Max deepened it. His hand slid around your waist, firm and certain, pulling you flush against him as his mouth moved against yours like he’d been waiting for this. Like he’d imagined this.

And when his tongue brushed against yours, a spark lit through your chest. It was messy and heated, breath catching, hearts racing.

“Fuck—schatje,” he groaned, the Dutch word curling from his lips like something sinful, voice thick with want.

You pulled back slightly, trying to find breath, your fingers curling into his shirt. “We probably shouldn’t be doing this,” you whispered, lips still brushing his.

His eyes were dark, locked on yours, breath uneven. “Probably not,” he said, voice gravelly and quiet. “But I don’t care. I’ve wanted this since the first time you yelled at me.”

You didn’t pull away. Instead, your hands slid from his hair down to the back of his neck, tangling in the damp strands as you pressed your body flush against his. Max’s breath hitched, and his grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver.

You would never have expected to be kissing Max Verstappen—especially not like this. Not this messy, heated, desperate way that made your head spin and your heart slam against your ribs.

His lips moved against yours with slow, deliberate hunger, as if savoring every second. You could feel the heat radiating from him—dangerous, fierce, magnetic. Your heart hammered like you’d just crossed the finish line, and yet your body felt like it was already on the starting grid, revving for more.

Max’s hands slid lower, tracing the curve of your waist before slipping beneath your shirt. Goosebumps rose in their wake. You swallowed the sharp intake of breath that threatened to escape and tangled your fingers tighter in his hair, pulling him closer.

“Damn, you’re such a mess,” he muttered against your lips, voice filled with need.

“Yeah?” you teased breathlessly, daring him to push further.

His answer was a low growl as he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against yours with a possessive insistence. One of his hands slid under your shirt, tracing fiery lines along your ribs, sending shockwaves through you.

Your legs weakened, and you leaned harder against him, craving the full weight of his body. For a moment, the world outside that cramped driver’s room vanished. No deadlines, no cameras, no expectations—just the two of you, tangled and reckless.

Suddenly, a sharp knock at the door sliced through the charged silence. Fuck. Not now. Not when you were finally breaking through all the walls between you two.

“Max?” The voice outside was cautious but firm, almost reluctant to interrupt. “Christian needs to talk to you—about the upgrades or whatever.”

Max’s eyes darted to you, a flicker of regret crossing his face. He didn’t want to stop—not yet. You could see it in the way his chest rose and fell unevenly, the way his fingers twitched near your skin like he wanted to hold on just a moment longer.

Reluctantly, he took a step back, breaking the kiss. His breath came out in a rough sigh, and he ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear in every movement.

“God damn it,” he muttered, voice low and filled with irritation—not just at the interruption, but maybe at himself, too.

You bit your lip, feeling the sudden chill in the room where warmth had just lived. You wanted to say something to keep him there, to tell him it was okay to break the rules, but the knock came again—more insistent this time.

Max glanced toward the door, then back at you, his expression softening just a little. “We’re not done,” he promised, voice rough but full of meaning.

Thank God. Because you could do this all day. Every stolen moment, every heated breath—it was addictive, intoxicating. And somehow, despite everything, it felt like the only place you truly belonged.

───

The paddock was unusually quiet. The hum of the mechanics working on the car in the background was the only real noise, but even that felt soft—like the whole space had taken a breath. You and Lando sat shoulder to shoulder on the pit wall, not saying much at first. There was comfort in the silence, in the way old friends could drift back into rhythm like no time had passed.

He nudged you with his elbow and held up his phone, screen glowing in the fading afternoon light. “Found something,” he said with a grin.

You looked, squinting at first—then laughed out loud as the image came into view. A younger version of the two of you, captured mid-party. You were nineteen, still in uni and barely getting by on instant noodles and caffeine. He was twenty-three, already driving in F1, messy-haired and wide-eyed without his signature mustache. His arms were wrapped around your waist, yours around his neck, both of you drunk and loud and absolutely fearless.

“Oh my god,” you said, shaking your head with a laugh. “That’s us? We look like babies.”

“Babies with no sense of limits,” Lando added, chuckling. “I completely forgot how wild that night was.”

Your laugh came again, freer this time. God, it felt good to just be. To exist outside of schedules and pressure and drivers who refused to listen to a single suggestion unless it came wrapped in sarcasm. With Lando, it was easy. Familiar.

And then, as if the temperature around you dropped five degrees —

You felt it. That presence.

You didn’t even need to turn.

You just knew he was there.

A slow, sinking awareness pulled at the back of your neck, your spine prickling like it always did when you were being watched. But this was different. This wasn’t the curious glance of a journalist or the buzz of a fan nearby.

This was him.

You turned — hesitantly — and your gaze met Max’s from across the pit lane, standing just inside the shadows of the Red Bull garage.

He looked like stone.

No smile. No smirk. Just unreadable eyes and clenched jaw, arms crossed against his chest as he stared. Not at Lando. Not at the phone.

At you.

His gaze didn’t flicker. Didn’t soften. If anything, it darkened slightly when Lando leaned in again, still laughing at the memory, utterly oblivious to the shift in the atmosphere.

Max took a single step forward, slow and controlled. The shadows moved with him. And when he finally spoke, his voice cut through the air like a blade.

“What’s so funny?”

His tone was neutral — too neutral. The kind of calm that came just before a storm. You knew that voice. You’d heard it on the radio before, right before he overtook someone like it was personal.

Lando didn’t pick up on it. Of course he didn’t.

He turned the phone toward Max, grin still wide. “Just some quality throwback content,” he said. “Your PR girl used to be a menace, apparently.”

Max’s eyes dropped to the screen. He didn’t blink.

Didn’t move. For a second, he just stared.

At your nineteen-year-old self. Glitter. Laughter. Lando’s arm around your waist. The unfiltered freedom in your eyes.

And something in his expression shifted.

Not rage. Not jealousy, exactly.

Something more primal. More controlled. But deeply territorial.

When his eyes flicked back up to yours, it hit you like a punch. The way he looked at you — like he was suddenly seeing something he hadn’t before. Or maybe like something he’d tried to ignore had snapped into focus.

You opened your mouth, unsure what you were going to say — maybe a joke to cut the tension, maybe an apology for something that shouldn’t even feel like a betrayal — but Max beat you to it.

“Actually, Y/n,” he said, voice calm but clipped, “I wanted to ask you about briefing. Can you come with me?”

There was no bite to his words. Not exactly. But there was something far worse.

Control.

That infuriating Verstappen brand of calm that masked everything he didn’t want to say. A chill passed down your spine at how precisely measured his tone was. Like he’d rehearsed it in his head while watching you laugh with someone else.

You nodded automatically, the grin you wore seconds ago now frozen and out of place. Before you could say anything, Max had already turned on his heel and started walking toward the Red Bull garage — like the photo, the laughter, and the very idea of you smiling with someone else had never happened.

But you saw it in the set of his shoulders.

In the stiffness of his walk.

Something had gotten under his skin. And he wasn’t hiding it well.

“Fun’s over,” Lando muttered beside you with a half-laugh, trying to make light of it. But he wasn’t totally clueless — there was something cautious in his eyes now. Like he could sense the shift too.

You exhaled through your nose, a tight smile tugging at your lips as you glanced back at him.

“You tell me,” you said softly, before turning and following Max.

Each step toward the Red Bull garage felt heavier than the last. Not just because you knew you were heading into another round of tension — you were used to that by now — but because this was different.

This wasn’t about strategy or PR or media.

This was personal.

The door closed behind you with a quiet click, sealing the tension into the small space. Max didn’t turn around. He stood with his back to you, shoulders stiff, gaze locked somewhere far ahead like he was thinking too fast to speak. You crossed your arms, unsure whether to push him or wait it out. There was something heavy in the air between you—something you hadn’t felt before. And that feeling only grew when he finally broke the silence.

“You didn’t tell me you knew him before you even knew me.” His voice was low, quiet, but sharp—like he was trying not to sound jealous, and failing.

Your eyebrows pulled together in confusion. What was this about? Just a photo? You blinked, trying to make sense of his sudden mood shift. “It’s not important. At least I thought so. But yeah, we were in the same friend group when I was teen.” You fought the urge to laugh, because honestly, it felt ridiculous. It had been years ago, long before Max had shown up in your life, long before he’d started looking at you the way he did now.

He finally turned to face you, his eyes locking onto yours. There was something cold in his stare, something stubborn. You didn’t hesitate. “You’re jealous.”

He scoffed, but the snort didn’t carry conviction. “No, I’m not.”

You stepped forward, tone steady but biting. “You are.”

Max’s jaw flexed, and you could see it all over his face—the tension, the twisting thoughts he wasn’t saying. You didn’t back down. “You saw a picture from when I was nineteen, and now suddenly it means something? When the only one I think about now is you.” Your voice raised with frustration, sharp and clear and honest.

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, long and quiet, and then said—voice lower now, but laced with something bitter, something wounded—“You were with him. Before me.”

Your breath caught. Not because of what he said, but how he said it. Like it changed everything. Like it erased all the moments between you now. You matched his tone without flinching, cold and unapologetic. “And you’ve been with how many girls before me? Don’t be a fucking hypocrite, Max!”

Before he could respond—before you let the emotion swallow you whole—you spun around and slammed the door behind you, the echo cutting through the hallway like a final punctuation. Your chest was tight, your heart pounding, and part of you already knew this wasn’t over. But for now, you needed space. Because whatever this was, it had turned into something way bigger than a photo—and it was clear neither of you were quite ready to face what it really meant.

───

The day before had been silent. You skipped qualifying completely—no messages, no check-ins, no playful banter in the garage. You were still furious with Max, and the idea of seeing him made your stomach twist. Instead, you sent over the PR briefing and interview notes. No greeting. No sign-off. Just attachments. Strictly business.

Max read the email more times than he’d admit. It wasn’t about the documents. It was about everything you didn’t say. The coldness of it followed him through the sessions. Your absence was loud, louder than any team radio or engine rumble. Even when surrounded by chaos, he felt it—like the air wasn’t quite right without you in it.

Now it was race day. You showed up because, despite it all, this was your job. It mattered. Max mattered. But the energy was different. Muted. You avoided him, stuck to your corner of the garage, kept your words minimal. You told yourself you didn’t care. Told yourself you weren’t watching every lap with clenched fists.

Then lap 36 happened.

He was flying. The race had gone beautifully—smooth overtakes, flawless pace, every moment a reminder of why he was one of the best. And then Russell. A reckless move. A snap of contact. Max's car sliding helplessly off-track, metal grinding against barriers.

Your breath caught as the screens lit up with replays and panic. The adrenaline in the garage spiked, people swarmed into motion, but you couldn’t move. All you saw was Max, climbing slowly from the wreck, helmet still on, body language stiff with anger and disappointment.

Max stormed into the garage, frustration written all over him. His movements were sharp and angry—the way he yanked off his gloves, threw his helmet onto the table without a second thought, and ran a hand through his messy hair like it hurt to keep it still. The race had gone up in flames, and you could see it was eating at him from the inside out. But the moment his eyes locked onto you, everything shifted.

“Oh, someone decided to show up,” he muttered, bitterness thick in his voice. It was a knife straight to the chest. His words didn’t just sting—they surprised you. Like somehow you were part of the crash, like your absence yesterday had thrown him off-track. It felt completely unfair.

You stood still, trying not to flinch. “Well, I work here, so?” you replied, your voice calm, even though your throat tightened.

But Max wasn’t done. His tone rose, sharp and cutting. “And still being completely useless! Why didn’t you were yesterday?!”

You froze. He didn’t just say that. He did not just say that.

“Excuse me—” The word came out shaky, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief. You could handle pressure. You could handle being the punching bag when tension was high. But this? This crossed a line.

He stepped forward, anger cutting through his exhaustion now. “Yeah! All you do is scoff at me. Always something wrong. Always something I do wrong!”

You stared at him, heart pounding. You knew he was angry. You knew he had every reason to be upset after a crash like that. But turning it on you—lashing out like you were the reason—was something else entirely. There was no excuse for this. No adrenaline high or stress level that made it okay.

You wanted to hold back, to stay composed. But it was too much.

You stepped toward him, voice louder now, raw and furious. “Honestly? Fuck you, Max! Fuck you!”

The words echoed off the walls of the garage, hitting both of you like a slap. You didn’t wait to see his reaction. You turned around and walked away, fast, ignoring the stunned silence that followed. Your hands shook. Your chest burned. And as you left him standing there surrounded by broken race plans and bruised pride, you didn’t look back.

The hospitality suite felt colder than usual, too quiet despite all the movement outside. You sat tucked away in the corner, arms wrapped around yourself, legs trembling. Tears streaked down your face, even though you tried to hold them back. You didn’t want to cry—not over Max, not after everything. You told yourself he wasn’t worth it, that you should let it go. But no matter how angry you were, it didn’t change the way your heart felt when you thought about losing him. Working with someone else? Standing in the paddock without his voice in your ear, teasing or stubborn or sweet? It just didn’t make sense. You’d gotten used to him. Worse—you’d let him in.