The afternoon light in Madrid was soft and winter-pale, the kind that made the city feel smaller and quieter than its usual frantic pulse. Your first anniversary had landed awkwardly in the middle of the season, squeezed between recovery sessions and upcoming match preparations.

You had suggested staying in, letting him rest properly in the few precious hours he had free, and offering to come over instead so he wouldn’t waste energy traveling. Kylian had simply shaken his head, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“We’re going out,” he’d said, casual as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s our anniversary, we should celebrate.”

So here you were, bundled in oversized coats, caps pulled low and sunglasses shielding your faces, wandering through the less tourist-heavy streets of Madrid without any real plan. The air carried a crisp chill, and Kylian walked on the outside of the sidewalk every time, his shoulder brushing close enough that you felt the steady warmth of him. He never announced it or made a show; he simply shifted you gently inward whenever a cyclist or scooter whipped past, his hand light at your back for the briefest second before it returned to his pocket.

You drifted into a tiny bookstore first, the kind with creaky wooden floors and shelves that smelled of old paper and ink. Kylian browsed beside you, occasionally pulling a title down and showing it to you with a raised eyebrow or a quiet comment. When you lingered over a novel, he added it to the small stack without a word, continuing the conversation about the last match as if nothing had happened. At the counter, you reached for your wallet out of habit. His card was already tapping against the reader before your fingers even closed around the leather.

The same thing happened at the neighborhood bakery, the scent of fresh pastries and warm bread wrapped around you like a hug as you stepped inside. You picked out a couple of things you knew he liked, teasing him about his strict diet, and he grinned—boyish and quick—before quietly adding a few more items while you were still talking. By the time you turned back, the bag was in his hand and the transaction was done.

He passed you a warm croissant without ceremony, tearing off a piece of his own as you continued down the street.

A small café came next, tucked into a quiet corner with steamed-up windows and the low hum of conversation. Kylian held the door for you absentmindedly, then pulled your chair out while still mid-sentence about a funny story from training. He ordered for both of you after noticing the way you scanned the menu, remembering exactly how you liked your coffee. When you excused yourself to the restroom, you returned to find the bill already settled and a fresh glass of water waiting at your spot. He had one too, but only after making sure yours was there first.

The afternoon unfolded like that: slow, aimless, perfect in its ordinariness. You wandered into a flower stand where he bought you a small bunch of simple blooms without fanfare, tucking them carefully into the crook of your arm so they wouldn’t get crushed. Later, in a little record store, he flipped through vinyls beside you, occasionally bumping your shoulder with his when he found something he thought you’d like. Every heavier bag somehow ended up in his hand. Every door opened before you reached it.

He adjusted your scarf when the wind picked up, fingers brushing your neck with the casual competence of someone who simply noticed these things before they became problems.

You never asked for any of it, that was the part that settled warm and deep in your chest.

Kylian wasn’t performing. He was just… being Kylian.

Playful when he teased you about your terrible sense of direction, affectionate in the way he slung an arm around your shoulders during a quiet moment on a bench, confident without ever tipping into showiness. His humor stayed dry and light, a quick grin or a muttered joke about how the paparazzi would never find both of you in the ridiculous scarf he was wearing.

As the light began to soften toward evening and you headed back toward the car he’d called while you were still buttoning your coat, the realization crept up on you.

You paused on the sidewalk, turning to him with a small frown. “You’ve paid for everything today.”

Kylian blinked, genuinely confused for a second, as if the observation had come out of nowhere. “...Obviously, bebé.”

You laughed softly. “You’ve never let me pay.”

“I have,” he said, shrugging as he adjusted the flowers in your arm so they sat more securely.

“Name one time.”

He paused, thinking. A slow, boyish grin spread across his face. “You bought popcorn once.”

“After you’d already paid for dinner.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

Another shrug, easy and unconcerned, his hand finding the small of your back as you started walking again. “It just is.”

You glanced up at him, catching the way the late afternoon light caught in the fade out haircut peeking out from under his black cap. A faint smile played on your lips as you shook your head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Mon cœur, I’m just efficient,” he replied, the French endearment slipping out warm and casual, laced with that dry, boyish humor. His eyes crinkled at the corners behind his sunglasses as he grinned down at you.

The city interrupted before you could fire back. A sudden gust of wind whipped down the narrow street, tugging at the edges of your scarf and sending a few stray petals from the small bouquet scattering across the pavement, one stubborn petal landed right in your hair. Kylian noticed immediately, he stopped mid-step, turning toward you with a low chuckle that built into a full, bright laugh, the kind that made his whole face light up and crinkled the bridge of his nose in that boyish way the paparazzi rarely got to see.

“Hold still,” he said, still grinning as he reached up. His fingers were careful, brushing the petal free from where it had tangled in your hair near your temple. “You look like you’ve been rolling around in a flower shop. Very romantic, very Madrid.”

You swatted at his arm lightly, laughing despite yourself, cheeks warming under the cool air. “Thanks for the save. I was going for mysterious stranger, not walking bouquet, but okay.”

“Too late, mysterious walking bouquet suits you.” He tucked the rescued petal into the pocket of his coat with mock seriousness, then offered you his arm so you could loop yours through it. The simple gesture kept you close as you continued down the street, his stride easy and unhurried, always matching yours without effort.

The afternoon stretched like that, unscripted and comfortable, until the sky began to deepen into early evening tones.

Kylian’s steps slowed near the corner where his driver would pick both of you up, his arm still linked with yours. He glanced down at you, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw more noticeable up close.

“You good?” he asked quietly, the question simple but carrying that underlying care. “Not too cold? We can head back whenever you want, mon cœur. No rush, but I know the schedule doesn’t wait.”

You nodded, squeezing his arm lightly. The day had been exactly what you both needed, nothing extravagant, just time woven through ordinary streets and small moments. And as he pulled you a little closer against the chill, his hand warm and steady, it felt like the most natural celebration in the world.

author's note — hope you have enjoyed this tiny drabble lovies!!! kyky deserves the best and his time will come (again) dw <3 (guys i'm actually so heartbroken over his latest appeareances WHY DOES BRO LOOKS SO DEPRESSED NOOOO BBY)

You were young. You had your whole life ahead of you. Or so everybody says. 

“Life’s too short to stay caught up in the past. Live in the present.” 

“There will always be someone better. Something better. Don’t reminisce about the past. Think about what will come to you.” 

But it’s because you were young...  how could you ever forget the first boy you ever fell in love with?  

Eight months and seven days ago, you broke up with Jobe (not that you were counting or anything.) Eight months was long, but it wasn’t that long. You could still feel his touch, his smell... feel him all around you. 

Some days were more difficult than others. The busier it was, the easier it was to forget that you were ever in a relationship. But sometimes, all it took was the notification of your phone to remind you.  

You stood outside a familiar scene, contemplating everything as you stared hard at the building. It was your café. Your and Jobe’s. The place where you and Jobe met. The place where you and Jobe hung out together every day because there was no other place like it.  

Your eyes fell to their sign board, red and pink chalk hearts capturing your attention as much as the lovely ‘Happy Valentine’s Day!’ sprawled across the black canvas.  

You really shouldn’t be here. Not today out of all days. But even though you had purposely gotten home through a different route to avoid this very café for the past eight months, your body seemed to remember.  

Trying not to think too much, you walked in, immediately hit with a wave of nostalgia.  

You hadn’t met Jobe at this point. You knew nothing about him. But the moment you had walked into the café, your eyes almost naturally diverted to the corner of the building. And there you were met with the most beautiful brown eyes you had ever seen.  

You didn’t know it yet, but it would soon become your favourite shade of brown in the world.  

Hesitantly, you looked over at the corner where it all began. You knew Jobe wouldn’t be there. But you couldn’t help being left with disappointment. The corner table was instead taken by a small family.  

Quietly, you peered at the cabinets of sweets. Pistachio croissants, red velvet cookies, lemon and lime cheesecakes... some of the staples of the café. You and Jobe had tried every single one of them, reviewing them in depth. Both of your favourites were the raspberry and white chocolate blondie. It was what you both chose when you first met. And to your rotten luck, you watched it get pulled onto a plate. With a small pout, your eyes followed the server, unable to look away from the dessert.  

But that was a minor distraction compared to the distraction waiting at the table being served. 

You think your eyes are deceiving you.  

That same shade of brown eyes stared back at you. Once upon a time, you were able to read them from afar. But you couldn’t remember how to. Was it disbelief? Doubt? Perhaps shock?  

You weren’t sure when or how, but your feet had managed to inch their way to his table.  

“Jobe,” you breathed out, unsure of how long it had been since you had last said his name. 

Jobe blinked, shaking his head slightly to break his trance. He cleared his throat, calling your name as he always called it. You remembered how he repeated it when you first introduced yourself to him... like he was already in love with you.  

He gestured to the chair next to you. “You can take a seat,” Jobe mumbled towards the end, hand scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.  

As you took a seat, you wanted to say something, hell anything, but you couldn’t find the words. You were pretty sure you were dreaming right now.  

“Do you want me to order you your coffee? Half strength cappuccino with cinnamon, right?” Jobe asked, standing up from his seat.  

“Oh–uh, just a hot chocolate, please,” you tightly smiled, fingers fidgeting underneath the table.  

You could see Jobe furrow his brows, wanting to say something but instead he nodded slowly and went towards the front till. As he ordered, you debated a little bit of everything.  

What were you doing right now? If you were indeed dreaming, was this a sign of some sort of identity crisis? Because dreaming about your ex on Valentine’s Day was a new low for you. If this is real, maybe you could sneak out of here. He probably wouldn’t notice. All you had to do was stand up and just– 

“You don’t drink coffee anymore?” Jobe asked, taking his seat back in front of you.  

You pursed your lips. “Not really. I’m trying to lean off of it these days.” 

Jobe nodded again slowly, processing what you said. He didn’t know this part of you. All he knew of you was the year you spent together and the past you shared. This... it’s like he wasn’t caught up with you anymore. And he hated it.  

You disliked silence. It was a known fact. You always had. It was unbearable. Like a loud clock ticking over your shoulder. So, Jobe wasn’t surprised went you spoke up a few seconds after he had finished.  

“Mum asked about you the other day,” you blurted, eyes quickly  

The corners of Jobe’s mouth quirked up. “Yeah?” He queried, ears paying extra attention.  

You nodded, pulling on your sleeves. “She found your football boots in the garage. The blue ones. She said she misses you.” 

“I miss her too,” Jobe smiled softly. His eyes flickered out the window before coming back to you. “Do you?” 

You raised a brow, ignoring the thump of your heart in your chest. “Miss my mum?” You asked even though you knew that’s not what he meant. 

Jobe laughed to himself, resting in his chair comfortably. “You know what I mean.”  

You opened you mouth to speak as your large cup of hot chocolate was placed before you. Jobe watched you smile widely at staff, thanking them and God did it send his heart running.  

“If you had to choose, what is one thing you like about me?” Jobe queried, looking down at your face as you rested on his lap.  

You pretended to mull over the question even though you knew the answer. You just wanted to feel his hands in your hair for a little longer. “Your eyes,” you decided. 

“My eyes?” Jobe repeated, eyes already crinkling as his smile widened. “What’s so special about my eyes?”  

“They’re my favourite shade of brown. I love looking into them. They’re so warm and calm, filled with so much love and yet they make me so nervous,” you murmured, cheeks heating up as a comfortable silence fell between the both of you.   

Jobe couldn’t help but grin at your shy smile. He pushed the hairs out of your face, taking a good look at you. “Is that why you always look away?” 

Bingo. He had caught you red-handed.  

“Obviously,” you muttered, unable to look at him any longer. “If I could, I would stare at you for forever. But I can’t. So, I just do it when you can’t see,” you shrugged.  

Jobe smiled, pressing a kiss onto your forehead. “I love you,” he confessed. 

“Well,” you sighed, hands warming around your cup of hot chocolate. “You’ve never left my mind. Not that you ever could,” you admitted quietly.  

“I’ll take that,” Jobe sat forward, arms resting on the table. “You miss me,” he teased, smile widening.  

You rolled your eyes, taking a sip of your drink before you put in the marshmallows on the side. Mixing the cup gently, you watched Jobe push forward the raspberry and white chocolate blondie to towards you.  

“You’re first bite. Go on,” he nudged, nodding to the plate.  

You sighed, knowing very well he wasn’t going to start eating unless you did. You grabbed a spoon, taking the corner side of the blondie. As soon as it entered your mouth, you were positive you had died and gone to heaven. “Oh my God, how they do it?” You asked to no one particularly.  

Jobe, who had also grabbed a bite, nodded in agreement. “I know right? How they get the balance so good? Not too sweet and not too sour. We still haven’t figured out what white chocolate they use.” 

“My money’s still on Hamilton’s. Ooh, or maybe Montezumas! Their chocolate buttons were so good the last time you brought them,” you pointed out, still mulling over the thought.  

Jobe stared at you quietly, watching everything fall back to its normal pace for a brief second. The one where you talked and he listened. The one where he absorbed as much of you as he could.  

“What about me?” You asked, turning your head gently to the side. “What’s one thing you like about me?” 

Jobe’s fingers slowly caressed your face as he pretended to think because he also knew his answer. “Everything,” he softly responded.

Your brows furrowed. “Everything? That’s not one thing,” you complained, reaching out to hit his shoulder gently. 

A laugh fell from Jobe’s lips. “It is,” he maintained, “everything about you makes me nervous. Every time I look at you, your smile, your eyes, your kindness... your essence makes me feel like the whole world is collapsing.” 

Reality hit, however, when Jobe recalled your breakup. Eight months and seven days ago (not that he was counting either), you both had reached a breaking point.  

You both knew it was coming. The past few days had been tense. You hadn’t seen each other as much. Jobe could barely see you smile and he hated it. And the warmth in Jobe’s eyes were replaced with exhaustion.  

You were both sat in your room in silence. Another thing you usually hated but it seemed you were trying resist it, allowing minutes to pass.  

“I think we should break up.” 

Your voice, although quiet, was resounding. It was like you had announced it in a stadium. It was echoing back to your ears and making your heart beat thud and your hands clammy.  

“I...” Jobe didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to agree with you. But he knew it was right.  

You let out a tired sigh. “Jobe, how long are we going to go on like this? Hmm? How long are we going to pretend our lives aren’t in the way of our relationship? You’re always at training. And I’m always studying. I can’t reschedule another date... another birthday.” 

Jobe closed his eyes at your words. His body burned with anger and annoyance. He had rescheduled your birthday dinner not once, not twice but four times because he had training.  

You understood Jobe. He was new to Sunderland and he didn’t want to mess anything up. Not with him carrying the Bellingham name. Not with all the eyes watching him. But even that had a limit.  

“I don’t think this is our time, Jobe,” you croaked, throat breaking as hot tears welled up in your eyes.  

Jobe could feel his heart shatter. He hated seeing you sad. Fuck, he hated it so much. But the truth was loud in his ears.  

He couldn’t make you happier. He couldn’t make the time. 

You couldn’t compromise any longer. You couldn’t make the time. 

“Wouldn’t it be so funny if the chocolate was from Sainsbury or Aldi’s or something?” You joked, bringing Jobe back to reality once again.  

Jobe looked at you quietly before blurting, “I’m sorry.” 

You paused, smile dropping off of your face. “Huh? All of a sudden?” 

Jobe sighed before taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry I never made time for you. I’m sorry for rescheduling your damn birthday out of all things. And most of all, I’m sorry I didn’t fight for us more.” 

You sucked in a sharp breath, not expecting your heart to ache so abruptly. You tried looking into his eyes, but all you could do was focus on the floating marshmallows in your hot chocolate, all slowly disappearing. 

Your eyes burned on the brink of crying but for some odd reason... you couldn’t. 

“Do you know what it means to live, Jobe?” 

Your question sent Jobe into a flurry of confusion. “I don’t... I, uh–” 

“To live life is to be in the moment. To take joy and sorrow in all we have. Living means to never take anything for granted.” You breathed in, slowly moving your eyes to his. There it was. Your favourite shade of brown. No exhaustion in sight. Just warmth, calm... love. 

“I don’t think I started living until I met you.” 

Jobe couldn’t help but sit back and truly take you in. Your eyes shook, clearly nervous, but you voice was firm, clear on what you had said. He was sure there’d be times in the future, but right now, you were making him the most nervous he had ever been in his entire life.  

You looked like love.  

You looked like the love of his life–heck, you were love of his life.  

“These past eight months... listen, I know the last few days before our break up sucked but,” your breath hitched while tears officially began welling in your eyes, “these eight months and seven days have been miserable.” 

Jobe couldn’t help but laugh softly at your words as he bent forward, wiping away your stray tears. You had also been counting.  

“I’m in love with you,” Jobe confessed, hand caressing your cheek, “I always have been. And I always will. Please give us, me, a second chance.” 

Your eyes softened at his words, mouth about to open to respond when his voice cut you off. “Unless you’re in a relationship–shit, wait, I forgot to ask you that. You aren’t, are you? Not in like a bad way because like people would be crazy not to ask you out but–” 

“Jobe!” You interrupted; eyes wide with amusement. You could hear him go quiet making you laugh softly to yourself. “I’m not in a relationship,” you confirmed.  

A big sigh of relief fell from Jobe’s lips, shoulders dropping now that he was tension-free. He sat back in his chair, muttering something about how thankful he was to the universe.  

You cleared your throat, gaining his attention once again. “And for the record...” You started, grabbing his hand from across the table. Instantly, he tightened his grip around, afraid you’d let go. “I’d love to give us a second chance. And I promise I’ll make time. We’ll figure this out together, hmm?” 

Those lovely brown eyes you had fallen in love with shone and you doubt anyone would believe you, but you think he’s on the brink of crying. Jobe smiled, holding your hands close to him. “Does this count as a second date?” 

You narrowed your eyes. “You better be joking,” you teased.  

“But this is where we first met!” Jobe retorted, grin playing on his lips. 

You furrowed your brows. “What were you doing here anyways? It’s Valentine’s Day.” 

“Honestly?” Jobe asked, receiving your nod. “I was going to cheer myself up with this raspberry blondie. And then I saw you.”  

You smiled widely. “It’s like the first day we met all over again.” 

you ambled back over to him, wondering why he was so eager to take a picture. "let me see," you urged, whining at him pulling the camera out of your reach, guiding you forward.

"not yet, cariño, c'mon, sigue caminando."

[keep walking]

next, it was on the way to your hotel. you'd spotted a kitten, bending down to pet it,

"d'you think it'd let me pick it up?"

"i don't know, try," he chuckles, getting his camera out.

"oh my gosh- look!" you squeal, holding the furball up next to your expression of pure joy.

a faint grin tugs on his face at your excitement, raising the camera, the shutter going off with a click.

you were squatting in a field of flowers, taking in the sight, smiling at him, "aren't these flowers gorgeous, baby?"

"they are. tilt your head up a littlee for me?"

"you're not even lookinnggg," you dragged, letting out a frustrated exhale.

he reminded you to smile again, the camera clicking right after.

"perfecto," he muttered under his breath.

"look, it's the eiffel tower!" you exclaim, smiling wider than ever, the lights glinting off the sparkle in your eye, making your features glow perfectly.

"mhmm," he hums absently, trying to center his camera onto your face, while still having the monument in the back. he knew you'd be pissed if he didn't

"baby, you're not looking at it-" you noticed, his gaze lingering on only you. "i know, mi amor. dame un momento, ¿sí?"

[give me a moment, yeah?]

"smile," he reminds you, the shutter going off a second after.

back at home, you decided to review the photos he'd taken, coming to the realization that every single one included you.

turned around, smiling, candids, blurry pictures of you laughing, all of it had you as the subject.

the ones he'd requested a pose from you in were only a measly fraction of what he'd captured.

a warm feeling settled in your heart.

"the tower's all blurry in this!" you giggle, tilting the camera to show it to him.

a lazy smirk grazes his lips, reaching out to ruffle your hair gently. "i'm just happy you look beautiful in it, mi vida."

© chiffonbunni

a/n: i'm soo so sorry if any of the spanish in this is wrong, please correct me ૮ ◞ ⸝⸝ ◟ა ! i do not speak the language and i simply researched how to say these things

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

They said you're supposed to know. She has heard the cliche phrase her entire life: “when you know, you know”.

When she met him, she thought she finally got what they meant.

She had been invited to the race by a brand.

She had never watched Formula 1 before, didn't care that much about it. But once she set foot in the paddock, the atmosphere swept her off her feet. The noise. The fierceness. The speed.

They were invited to the afterparty, somehow. Her friend knew everyone and everyone knew her.

When they arrived at the club, she dragged her to say hello to Carlos, congratulate him on winning the race. Carlos smiled at them and thanked them.

By his side, there was a younger man. Curly-haired. Pretty grin. He extended his hand towards her.

“Lando Norris,” he introduced himself. He had been on the podium, she remembered.

She felt for him just as fast as the race cars moved on track.

She was never a stranger to famous people or rich people—most of the time, both. She didn't get starstruck or flustered in front of beautiful people. But those green eyes with tiny specks of gold, looking at her with curiosity and amusement, was the first time she thought to herself “Oh, fuck—I'm in trouble”.

Her friend elbowed her and she realized she hadn't shaken the hand he was extending. She took it trying to fight the blush creeping up.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, trying to ignore the lightning bolts of electricity shooting up her forearm. She knew she had a deer-eye expression and wondered in embarrassment if he was noticing any of this. A little part of her also wondered if maybe he felt it too.

He made no effort to leave their side the rest of the night. Not even when her friend excused herself to go greet an old friend, not even when people came to congratulate him on his podium, or when girls tried to flirt with him. He gave polite smiles and turned his attention back to her.

It was dizzying. It was addicting. Each time he leaned closer, whispered something in her ear to try to keep the conversation going on top of the loud music, arms brushing and knees touching, her stomach did summersaults. She felt as if she was floating in a cloud.

Suddenly, he perked up, an idea clearly dancing in his eyes. He tilted forward, a cheeky grin “Are you hungry?”

She tilted her head, confused, and nodded. It was the right response.

He nodded back, clearly satisfied at her answer. His hand engulfed hers and he started walking, moving them through the crowd.

She let out a carefree laugh, not caring about the people giving them curious looks.

“Lando,” she protested but it didn’t hold much weight as she giggled. “What are you doing?”

“Just trust me,” he shouted back, barely audible above the music.

And so she let him guide her out of the party, into the car, and eventually into a restaurant.

They were clearly overdressed for the place. Despite the dim lighting, the place was simple. Stone walls decorated with landscape photographs and a strong smell of yeast.

Lando collapsed into a chair, table near the window, and gestured at her to do the same. She stood there fidgeting, unsure about what was going on.

“What are we doing here?” she asked.

Lando grabbed the menu, hummed at her absentmindedly as he read.

“Eating,” he replied, as if it was obvious.

She guessed it kind of was. They were at a restaurant, after all, but—

“You can’t be serious. Did we leave your friend’s win celebration for…dinner?”

“Not just dinner,” he replied. He closed the menu, seemingly satisfied with his decision, and stood back up to pull out the chair for her. She sat down, tilting her neck to keep watching him. “This place has the best pizza I've ever had. You can’t miss this, I promise.”

She had met him a few hours ago. It made no sense to keep trusting him. He was practically a stranger, in every sense. But still she did. Her gut or her intuition or something deeper in her believed in him in a way that was inexplicable. Perhaps they had met in a past life. Perhaps it was her crush, messing with her head. Anyhow, at that moment, she thought she was willing to do or give him anything he asked for. She was helpless to fight this feeling.

They ordered and the pizza was in fact amazing. She moaned when she first tasted it and his lips quirked up.

“Told you so,” he said, softly and satisfied. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She took a sharp intake of breath, dizzy with the proximity, the casual intimacy of it all.

She pursed her lips. “Why me?”

“What do you mean?”

“You could have had most women in that party. So why me?”

He looked at her with gleaming eyes, shrugged. He was smirking.

“You are the only one I want.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Four years later, the place looks the same. The tablecloths, the curtains, even the waiters look familiar. Everything except the mood.

The mood is not light and flirty. Nothing like that first date.

Instead it’s heavy. Mourning.

“Sorry, what?” she asked. Because she must have heard wrong.

Lando took another deep breath before speaking again, “I think we should break up.”

She couldn’t comprehend the sentence. She couldn't make peace with the idea.

Coming back to this place should be special. A reminder of where they started. For the past years, it had been their place of celebrations. Birthdays. His first win. His championship. It held every important memory of their relationship—a place of their own.

She couldn’t believe it was gonna hold this one too.

She had been sure, when they entered the familiar location, that the night was going to be memorable. She thought it might end up with a ring.

Of course she was only 23, perhaps too young for it, but people had long engagements all the time, right? And it’s not like they didn’t have the money to make it work. And Lando was older, and they had been dating for years, and they lived together, except when he was traveling for work—

She never imagined what was unfolding in front of her eyes. Her head felt underwater. She knew people were chatting, laughing and moving around her, but everything seemed to happen far away.

She thought she heard a glass breaking and shocked screams but she couldn’t come back to Earth.

She didn’t even think she was breathing.

A hand engulfed her. It took her back to that first night and her heart squeezed in pain inside of her chest.

“Look at me. Breathe,” Lando was instructing her. Breathing in and out for her to copy. To ground her.

She couldn't.

She felt drops in her exposed feet. She was wearing sandals. Why were her feet wet? She looked down at the table and realized the glass she heard break earlier must have been hers. Wine was spilled on the white cloth like blood, like an ironic joke. She heard herself laugh manically. Lando looked at her worried.

“Are you hurt? Did the glass cut you?”

“Those questions have two very different answers,” she muttered, but shook his head, fighting the fog in his brain. “I’m fine.”

“You’re crying.”

She stared at him with glassy eyes. His eyes so familiar.

Four years of seeing pure love in the green orbits. She wondered when it had gone away.

“Why?” she asked.

Such a simple question. Such a heavy implication.

Lando cringed. He looked down at his hands on his lap, breaking eye contact.

“I met someone,” he admitted, voice barely stronger than a whisper.

And there it was.

She had no choice. He didn’t want her anymore.

This was it. End of the story.

She heard him apologize. Heard his explanations. Nothing stuck.

Because it didn't matter. None of it mattered.

In the end, Lando left. But she stayed. Confused. Staring at the empty chair.

If our love died young, I can't bear witness

She knew she was a sad sight. Running mascara, stupefied expression.

She knew people were staring at her with pity.

Or maybe they weren’t, not now, but she knew that was the reaction would be, when everyone found out.

“Oh poor thing, dumped by her rich formula one driver boyfriend. What’s gonna happen to her now?”

She had trusted him. Trusted him to not break her heart. Trusted him to stay. Trusted him to choose her.

She couldn’t get up. Leaving meant it was real. If she closed her eyes, she could still pretend the future held everything she envisioned before: weddings, kids, christmas.

Inside this place, time wasn’t real.

Did you ever hear about the girl who got frozen?

She didn’t dare to move.

How would he find her if she left too?

All she had to do was stay. In case he got it wrong. In case he wanted to come back.

She closed her eyes shut, pressed so tight it hurt. That was the new plan.

She adored gold in the way some people adore validation — excessively and without apology. Not plated, not dipped, not hollow, but real gold, heavy enough to leave faint impressions on her skin by the end of the night, bangles stacked thick along her wrists so that every lift of her hand created a quiet metallic applause, necklaces layered confidently across her collarbone like decorative armor, rings catching light like tiny suns. Stylists had once suggested she “simplify,” to which she responded with complete sincerity, “Why would I ration joy?” Her natural hair fell long down her back, sometimes soft waves, sometimes curls depending on humidity and patience, and she refused to flatten it into sleek submission because she had spent her childhood watching women oil their hair with care, braid it with intention, treat it like something sacred rather than something to be controlled. She was feminine, yes — deeply so — but not in a fragile way; hers was the kind of femininity that could feed you, outdance you, and correct you politely in the same breath.

She was also, unfortunately for certain men, very funny.

The morning the headline appeared, she was sitting cross-legged on her cream-colored couch in Los Angeles wearing a pale blush kaftan that pooled dramatically around her like she had accidentally wandered off a palace balcony and into her own living room, gold bangles clinking as she reached for her mint tea, when her assistant slid a tablet toward her with the kind of caution normally reserved for delivering medical results. “Just… read it calmly,” her assistant said.

Iman raised an eyebrow and took the tablet.

Her name.

His name.

Bad Bunny’s.

The headline screamed in dramatic uppercase:

HER SONGS ARE LITERALLY MEANT FOR CAFÉS, NOT TO INSPIRE PEOPLE.

She blinked once. Then her upper lip curled slowly, not in hurt, but in mild disgust, like someone who had just witnessed a man confidently misuse a word in public.

“Cafés?” she repeated thoughtfully. “Does he think cafés are emotionally irrelevant? Has he never cried over espresso? That feels like a him problem.”

Her assistant tried very hard not to laugh. Iman tapped the video clip and watched him — sunglasses indoors, chains layered like he was preparing to negotiate with nuance and losing — laughing as he described her music as ambiance.She paused the video mid-smirk and leaned closer to the screen.

“Is this his intellectual face?” she asked calmly. “Or is that just permanent?”

Her assistant collapsed into a chair.

Iman resumed watching, her expression shifting from amused to analytically entertained.

“With how frequently he discusses sleeping with women,” she said slowly, almost academically, “one might wonder whether he has ever actually remained in the presence of one long enough to understand her beyond a chorus.”

Her assistant froze mid-breath.

“You have to say that,” she whispered.

Iman nodded. “Obviously.”

But first — research, She opened another tab and began reading his lyrics aloud with the seriousness of a scholar examining historical artifacts. “Women. Women. Money. Women. Flexing. Women.”She looked up thoughtfully.

“Is there a deluxe edition where he discovers emotional nuance, or are we committing to the bit?”

Her assistant wheezed. Iman kept scrolling. “Ah,” she murmured. “We are firmly in the Hormonal Teen Boy Cinematic Universe.”

She set the tablet down gently. “He called me café music,” she said with a small smile. “That’s adorable.”

The interview two days later felt less like damage control and more like sport. Iman arrived wearing deep emerald silk embroidered in gold thread that shimmered under studio lights, long sleeves grazing her wrists, her waist defined elegantly beneath structured fabric, gold layered thick and unapologetic, her natural hair cascading freely down her back. She looked radiant, entertained, and extremely prepared.“So,” the interviewer began cautiously, “Bad Bunny’s recently described your music as more café ambiance than inspiration. How do you respond?”

Iman smiled sweetly.

“First of all,” she said, “I love cafés. Some of the most life-changing conversations of my life happened in cafés. So if that’s the insult, I’ll take it.”

The audience laughed.

“But do you agree with him?”

“Oh absolutely,” she replied smoothly. “If you’re a hormonal teenage boy.”

The audience gasped and then erupted into laughter.

“I think his music is perfect for that demographic,” she continued calmly. “It’s loud, it’s dramatic, it’s very ‘I just discovered desire and now it’s my entire personality.’”

The host visibly struggled not to laugh.

“And what happens when they grow up?”

“They realize it’s not literature,” Iman said gently. “It’s cardio.”

The room lost it.

“And you don’t think his music has depth?”

She leaned forward slightly, bangles chiming softly.

“With how frequently he discusses sleeping with women, one might wonder whether he has ever actually remained in the presence of one long enough to understand her beyond a chorus.”

Silence.

Then absolute chaos.

The desert at noon was unforgiving in a way that made tempers shorter than anyone liked to admit. The stage metal burned under the sun, cables coiled across the floor like snakes absorbing heat, and the air itself felt thick enough to chew. Rehearsals were never glamorous — no smoke machines, no dramatic lighting, no forgiving shadows — just exposed scaffolding, exposed mistakes, and in this case, exposed ego. Iman stood center stage in a lighter rehearsal kaftan, still long, still modest, still structured at the waist but made of breathable fabric that moved when she moved. Her hair was loosely tied back now, strands sticking to the side of her neck from the heat, thin gold bangles resting at her wrist because she refused to rehearse without at least something that felt like her. Around her, sound engineers hovered, stage managers barked cues, dancers shifted nervously, and somewhere behind the speakers, producers watched with the particular intensity of people who believed tension was marketable.

Bad Bunny’s stepped up from stage right with his team trailing behind him, sunglasses off but still in hand, sweat glistening faintly at his temples. He stretched his shoulders once and nodded toward the DJ booth. “Let’s try again,” he said, voice carrying unevenly across the stage.

The track began — her percussion first, steady, layered, controlled. Iman moved through the steps slowly, hips shifting in restrained rhythm, hands carving the air with deliberate softness. The choreography was designed to build — her rhythm leading, his beat sliding underneath gradually before he crossed toward her for the shared center segment. On paper, it worked.

In practice, his bass dropped too early.

It swallowed her rhythm whole. She stopped mid-step. The music cut. Everyone froze. Iman closed her eyes briefly, then opened them slowly. “No.” From the other side of the stage he frowned slightly. “What?”

“It’s too early,” she said, trying to keep her voice even despite the heat pressing into her skull. “It drowns the transition.” He walked a few steps closer, gesturing loosely with his hands. “It has to hit.”

“It can hit later.”

“It loses energy if it waits.”

“It loses structure if it doesn’t.” The sound engineer looked between them nervously. He ran a hand over his face. “You want soft-soft-soft and then boom. I want boom with you.”Iman blinked. “Boom with me is not the problem. Boom on top of me is.” A dancer coughed to hide a laugh. He looked briefly confused, then shook his head. “You know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” she replied, adjusting her earpiece. “And I’m telling you the layering is wrong.” He muttered under his breath in Spanish, low but not low enough. “Siempre complicado…”

Her head snapped slightly toward him. “Excuse me?”

“I said it’s complicated.”

“No,” she said calmly, “you said I’m complicated.”

He hesitated. “Maybe both.”

She exhaled sharply, looking toward the sound booth. “Lower his entry. Four counts later. And don’t let the bass override the drum line.”

He shook his head. “No, no, no, you cut my energy.”

She turned fully toward him now, sun hitting the gold at her wrist, sweat catching lightly along her collarbone. “Your energy is not fragile. It can survive four counts.”

The crew went silent again.

He stepped closer, not aggressively, but too close for the heat. “You don’t feel it,” he said, tapping his chest. “It needs to feel like—” He struggled for the word. “Explosion.”

“And I need it to feel like build,” she shot back. “Not like someone slammed a door in the middle of a sentence.”

He looked frustrated now, English slipping around the edges. “You want control every second.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t let it breathe.”

“It is breathing,” she said, gesturing to the track. “You are hyperventilating.”

A few crew members visibly turned away to avoid reacting.

He laughed once, incredulous. “You’re funny.”

“I’m tired,” she corrected.

And she was. The heat was oppressive, the repetition exhausting, and the fact that twenty people were watching them argue about counts and volume was beginning to itch under her skin. She hated being observed mid-frustration. It felt messy.

“Okay,” he said, spreading his hands. “Show me. Show me what you want.” She stepped back into position, nodded to the booth. “Run it.” The track restarted. Her percussion flowed again, steady, layered. She moved through the counts slowly, signaling with her hand for when the bass should enters

“One, two, three, four—now.”

The bass entered

He crossed toward her this time as rehearsed, their movements overlapping in the shared choreography — his sharper, heavier steps contrasting her controlled sway. They were close now, too close for comfort under the sun, sweat and rhythm and tension blending.

“See?” she said quietly without breaking step. “It breathes.”

He didn’t respond immediately, They finished the segment. The music cut again. He looked at her, eyes narrowed not in anger but in concentration. “It feels slower.”

“It feels intentional.”

He exhaled, wiping his forehead again. “You hate when I’m loud.”

“I hate when you don’t listen.” He stared at her for a long moment, then muttered something again in Spanish. “Dios, eres intensa…” Her eyebrow rose despite herself. “You’re doing that on purpose now.”

He smirked faintly. “You look mad every time.”

“I look focused.”

“You look like you want to fight.”

“Maybe I do.”

That surprised him.

“You’re serious?”

She stepped closer this time, closing the gap deliberately. “You came into my section like it was your stage. You drowned my transition. And now you’re confused that I’m correcting you.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“You think I’m trying to disrespect you,” he said finally.

“Aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Then act like it.” That landed harder than the previous insults.

The sun pressed down.

Finally, he nodded once toward the booth. “Run it again. Her way.”

Her way.

The engineer restarted the track.

They ran it again. This time, he held back slightly at the entrance, watching her cue, adjusting instinctively instead of overpowering. The bass slid under her rhythm instead of crushing it. It felt… balanced.

They reached center again, Closer. Heat radiating between them.

“You get overstimulated?” he asked suddenly, low enough that the crew couldn’t hear.

She blinked, thrown by the shift. “What?”

“You look like you’re about to explode when too many people talk.”

She hesitated.

“I don’t like chaos I didn’t design,” she said quietly. He nodded once, like that made sense. They finished the sequence. The track ended. No one clapped. Everyone was waiting, Iman looked toward the booth. “Again,” she said, but softer this time.

He glanced at her. “You’re stubborn.”

The bakery has a bell that sounds like a tiny apology.

It’s soft, polite, a little too cheerful for how the rest of your life feels most days—like the universe is gently suggesting you try happiness again. Every time you push the door open, warm air wraps around you. Butter, sugar, yeast. The kind of smell that gets into your hair and makes your shoulders unclench before your brain can argue about whether you deserve to unclench.

Your comfort spot.

Your one comfort spot.

And you’ve been rationing it like medicine.

You hover in front of the display case with your tote bag digging into the crook of your elbow, laptop weight still pulling at your shoulder from the library. Your phone is warm in your palm from checking your banking app twice on the walk here, like the numbers might magically rearrange if you stare at them hard enough.

Rent due soon. Utilities not far behind. A textbook you keep putting off because the professor “swears” you’ll need it for midterms. A grocery list you’ve become a champion at turning into half a grocery list.

And then there’s the registration fees for your siblings’ sports, sitting in your notes app like a countdown you don’t want to watch.

You stare at a pan au chocolat.

Flaky layers, glossy dark chocolate peeking through the folds like it’s showing off. The pastry looks exactly like what peace would taste like if peace came in a paper bag and wasn’t followed by a “payment declined” notification.

You swallow.

Not this month.

Not until the first hits. Not until the next paycheck clears. Not until you can breathe without doing math in your head.

You shift your weight and tell yourself you’re just here for the smell. That you’re allowed to stand here and soak in the warmth for a minute like a lizard on a heated rock, no purchase required. That it’s fine.

But your fingers curl around the edge of your tote a little tighter anyway, like you can physically hold yourself back from wanting.

“Hi.”

The voice isn’t from behind the counter.

It’s behind you, low and familiar, threaded with amusement like he caught you doing something adorable and illegal.

You freeze for half a second, pan au chocolat still in your line of sight like it’s about to betray you.

Then you turn.

Max Verstappen in a hoodie and a baseball cap looks unfairly normal and still somehow like Max Verstappen. Like he could blend in if the world wasn’t obsessed with recognizing him, but the world is, and you’re not immune to it either. His hands are shoved in his pockets. His eyes—sharp, bright, too awake—are locked on you.

You feel your face warm.

“I didn’t know you were in town,” you say, like your life isn’t a map of his travel schedule disguised as casual interest.

He shrugs, stepping closer, the bell chiming softly behind him. “Came early. Wanted to see you.”

That should feel like something you can accept without flinching. Like it’s normal. Like someone choosing you is something that happens all the time and doesn’t come with strings.

But your brain has a bad habit of translating love into logistics.

How much time is he losing for you?

How much does he have to rearrange?

What do you owe him now?

“You look like you’re plotting,” Max says, head tilting slightly.

You blink. “I’m not plotting.”

He lifts his eyebrows, eyes flicking to the display case, then back to you. “You’re standing here like you’re about to rob the place.”

Heat crawls up your neck. “I’m just… looking.”

Max steps beside you, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne under the bakery smells—clean, expensive, familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten.

He leans forward to inspect the pastries like he’s choosing tires.

“This one,” he says, pointing at the pan au chocolat you’ve been staring at like it’s your last hope. “Get it.”

Your stomach drops and your heart does that small, stupid flip it always does when someone sees what you want before you say it.

You clear your throat. “No.”

Max looks at you like you just told him the sky is green. “Why not?”

“I’m not—” You stop, because saying I’m not spending money on myself out loud feels pathetic. Like you’re admitting something that should be private. Like it’s a weakness.

Max waits anyway, expression patient in that way he can be when he wants something and thinks you’re being ridiculous.

You exhale. “It’s… next month. I’m sticking to a budget.”

He looks at the pastry again, then at you. “It’s like three euros.”

“It’s not three euros,” you say automatically, because of course your brain is already doing the conversion.

Max’s mouth twitches. “Okay. Four. Five. Still. Get it.”

You shake your head, the motion small but firm. “No. It’s not— it’s not a need.”

Max turns toward you fully. “But you want it.”

You press your lips together.

Wanting is the problem. Wanting is a trap. Wanting is how you end up with empty accounts and a full cart and the sick feeling of realizing you prioritized something silly when other people need you.

Wanting is how you get disappointed.

Max watches your face like he’s reading telemetry.

“You always do this,” he says quietly.

“I do what?”

He gestures vaguely at the case. “You look at something like you’re starving and then you say no like it’s going to kill you.”

You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “It won’t kill me.”

Max’s eyes narrow. “That’s not the point.”

You don’t have a response that doesn’t sound like a confession.

Max steps closer, voice dropping. “Did you eat today?”

You blink. “Yes.”

He doesn’t believe you. You can tell by the way his gaze flicks down briefly, the way his jaw tightens.

“I had—” You stop yourself. Because you had coffee. Because you had half a granola bar in the library. Because you had the kind of “food” that exists purely to keep you functional.

Max exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to get mad in public. “Okay,” he says, and you can hear the decision click into place. “We’re getting you food.”

“Max—”

“Don’t start.” He nods toward the counter. “Two pan au chocolat and whatever else you want.”

“I don’t want anything else.”

Max tilts his head. “Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

He steps closer. “Look at me.”

You do. Reluctantly.

His eyes are steady, blunt in a way that makes your chest ache. Like he’s not playing a game. Like he’s not going to dance around the truth to make you comfortable.

“Stop lying,” he says.

Your throat tightens. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says, calm and certain. “You want things. Everyone wants things. It doesn’t make you weak.”

Your cheeks burn. “You don’t understand.”

Max’s eyebrows lift. “Then explain it.”

You stare at him, the bakery noise suddenly too loud—espresso machine hissing, someone laughing at a table, the paper bags crinkling behind the counter.

Explain it.

Explain that your whole life is a tightrope and you’re balancing everyone else on your back and you can’t afford to wobble.

Explain that you’re scared that if you let yourself want, you’ll fall.

Explain that you don’t know how to be a person who gets treats just because.

Your voice comes out quieter than you want. “It’s not in the budget.”

Max’s gaze doesn’t move. “I gave you the card.”

Your stomach drops.

The card. The sleek black card he’d pressed into your hand weeks ago, casual like it was nothing, like he wasn’t handing you an emergency exit you didn’t know how to use.

You still had it in your wallet, tucked behind your ID like a secret you didn’t deserve.

“That’s for emergencies,” you say, immediately.

Max’s mouth flattens. “This is an emergency.”

You scoff. “A pastry is not an emergency.”

Max leans in slightly, voice turning sharper. “You want it. Get it.”

The directness makes your nerves spark. Like a wire rubbed raw.

“I don’t need it,” you repeat, because need is the only thing you allow yourself.

Max’s eyes flash. “You keep saying that like it’s the only reason you’re allowed to have something.”

You swallow. “Because it is.”

Max stares at you for a long moment, then looks away, jaw working. Like he’s holding himself back from saying something that will make a scene.

“Okay,” he says finally, voice clipped. “Then I’m buying it.”

“No,” you say instantly, too fast, too loud. A couple people glance over. You feel heat flood your face.

Max looks back at you, eyes hard. “Why not?”

Because it feels like charity. Because it feels like debt. Because it feels like the start of you becoming someone who relies on a person and then gets burned when they leave.

Because it’s too easy.

Because if you let him, you might never want to stop.

You lower your voice. “Because I’m not… I’m not going to be that person.”

Max’s brows knit. “What person?”

“The person who—” You make a helpless gesture. “Who spends your money on a pastry.”

Max blinks, then looks almost offended. “It’s not my money. It’s money. I have it. You want something. So you get it.”

“That’s not how it works,” you hiss, because you can feel your composure fraying and you hate that it’s happening here, in your one safe place.

Max’s gaze sharpens. “It is how it works.”

You shake your head, throat tight. “Not for me.”

Max leans closer, voice low enough that it feels like a secret. “Why are you so scared of letting me take care of you?”

The question lands in your chest like a weight.

Because you’ve been taking care of people since you were too young to understand why you had to. Because you learned early that help comes with conditions. Because you learned that relying on someone is just handing them a knife and hoping they don’t use it.

You swallow hard. “I’m not scared.”

Max’s eyes soften just slightly, like he doesn’t believe you but he’s not going to mock you for it. “Yes, you are.”

Your voice cracks around the edge of a laugh. “Okay, fine. I’m scared. Happy?”

Max’s jaw tightens. “No.”

The word is blunt, immediate.

You blink at him.

“No,” he repeats, quieter but just as firm. “I’m not happy that you feel like you can’t have a five-euro pastry because you’re… what? Punishing yourself?”

You flinch. “I’m not punishing myself.”

Max gestures vaguely at you, at the tote bag, the tired posture you can’t seem to fix no matter how much you sleep. “Then what is it?”

You stare at him, heart beating too fast.

“I’m being responsible,” you say, and your voice sounds like something you’ve rehearsed.

Max’s gaze flicks to the pastry again. “Responsible is paying your bills. Responsible is feeding yourself. Responsible is not breaking yourself so everyone else can keep going.”

Your throat tightens.

Max shifts, like he’s deciding something again. “Come on.”

He steps toward the counter.

You panic. “Max, don’t.”

He looks back, eyes sharp. “Why?”

Because if he buys it, you’ll want to cry. Because you’ll feel grateful in a way that tastes like shame. Because you’ll hate that you want it. Because you’ll hate that you want him.

You step forward, catching his sleeve. “Please.”

Max pauses, and you can feel the tension in him—annoyance, concern, something protective that doesn’t know where to go.

He turns back to you fully. “Talk to me.”

You swallow. Your voice comes out small. “I can’t… I can’t do this.”

Max frowns. “Do what?”

“Start relying on you,” you say, and the words feel like ripping open your chest. “Because if things don’t work out, I can’t—” You swallow hard. “I can’t afford to fall apart. I don’t have the luxury.”

Max’s face stills.

For a heartbeat, his expression goes blank like he’s processing a language he doesn’t speak.

Then his eyes narrow, sharp with something like disbelief. “What do you mean, if things don’t work out?”

The way he says it makes your stomach twist. Like the idea is ridiculous. Like it’s not even a possibility.

You almost laugh. Almost. It comes out as a shaky breath.

“Max… be serious.”

“I am serious,” he says, voice firm. “Why are you talking like we’re going to break up?”

Because people leave. Because life changes. Because nothing is guaranteed. Because you’ve lived your whole life in survival mode and you don’t know how to trust stability.

“Because it happens,” you say quietly.

Max stares at you like you just insulted him personally. “Not with me.”

Your chest aches. “You don’t know that.”

Max’s jaw clenches. “I do know that.”

You shake your head. “You can’t promise—”

“I can,” he snaps, the sound startling you. Not loud enough for the whole bakery, but sharp enough that it cuts. “I can promise that I’m not going anywhere.”

You flinch, instinctively bracing for anger.

Max exhales, visibly forcing himself to calm down. “Look,” he says, voice lower, controlled. “This is… this is stupid. You’re arguing about a pastry.”

“No,” you say, and your voice wobbles. “I’m arguing about my life.”

Max’s gaze flickers, and you see it—the moment he understands it’s not about the pastry. It’s about the fear underneath. The way you hold everything with white knuckles because letting go means drowning.

His voice softens. “Then tell me.”

You laugh weakly, eyes burning. “Tell you what? That I’m terrified of being rescued? That I don’t want to be someone’s project?”

Max shakes his head. “You’re not my project.”

“It feels like it,” you whisper, because it does. Because his world is so big and shiny, and your life is duct tape and deadlines and bank transfers.

Max’s expression tightens. “I’m trying to help you.”

“And I didn’t ask you to,” you shoot back, because you can’t stop yourself now. The anxiety has claws. “You keep saying ‘we’ like we’re taking care of everything together, but you’re not taking care of anything. You’re just… paying. And then what happens if you decide you’re done?”

Max’s eyes flash. “I’m not going to decide I’m done.”

“You don’t know that,” you say, voice breaking. “You don’t know what it feels like to have to be the one who shows up no matter what. You don’t know what it feels like to have people counting on you and the second you drop a ball everything falls apart.”

Max’s jaw tightens, frustration simmering. “So what, you think I’m going to— what? Leave and laugh while you struggle?”

“I don’t think you’re a villain,” you say, tears threatening, humiliating in public. “I think… I think people can love you and still not be able to stay. I think things change. I think I can’t build my life on someone else’s money because if it disappears, I’m screwed.”

Max stares at you, breathing hard through his nose like he’s trying to keep it together.

“You think I’m playing hero,” he says, voice low.

You swallow. “It feels like it.”

Max shakes his head once, sharp. “You have no idea how insulting that is.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m not trying to insult you—”

“It is,” he cuts in. “Because I’m not doing this to feel good about myself. I’m doing it because I want to. Because I—” He stops, jaw working, then forces the words out like they hurt. “Because I love you.”

The sentence lands heavy between you, bigger than the bakery, bigger than the pastry, bigger than the budget.

Your heart stutters.

Max’s eyes don’t leave yours. “And you’re acting like I’m some temporary thing you can’t trust.”

Your stomach twists.

You can’t explain it properly. Every time you try, it turns into a mess of fear and pride and exhaustion and shame.

“I’m tired,” you whisper, and it sounds like a surrender.

Max’s expression softens immediately, anger draining into concern. “I know.”

You blink, startled by how gentle it is.

Max reaches out, thumb brushing your wrist where you’re still gripping his sleeve. “Come on. Let’s go.”

You swallow. “I don’t want to fight.”

“We’re not fighting,” he says, but his voice is still tight. “We’re… having a stupid conversation in a bakery.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

Max’s mouth twitches like he almost smiles, then he sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Your throat tightens again. “I’m sorry too.”

Max studies you, then nods toward the door. “Come on.”

You hesitate, glancing at the pastry one last time like it’s going to call your name.

Max catches it and shakes his head, exasperated.

“I swear to God,” he mutters, then opens the door for you.

The bell apologizes again as you leave.

You go back to your routine like slipping into armor.

Strict budgets. No extras. No bakery unless you’re just “walking past.” Grocery store brand everything. Coffee at home. Apps uninstalled so you’re not tempted to order delivery at midnight after studying for six hours straight.

You tell yourself you’re fine.

You tell yourself you’re being smart.

But your comfort spot feels colder when you stand outside it and keep walking.

Max notices, of course.

He notices everything.

He starts showing up more, but quieter—less “let me buy you everything” and more “I’m here.” He brings you food when he knows you’ve been studying too long, sets it down like it’s not a big deal. He asks if you’ve slept. He asks how your classes are. He asks how things are at home in that careful way he uses when he knows you don’t like talking about it.

But you keep a little distance anyway.

Because the argument sits in your chest like a bruise.

Because you hate that you made him feel like a villain.

Because you hate that he made you feel seen and you don’t know what to do with that.

One night, you’re at his place—his temporary apartment, hotel-adjacent, all clean lines and expensive furniture that doesn’t feel lived in until you’re there. You’re folding a pile of his laundry on the couch because he’d tossed it into a heap with the confidence of someone who’s never worried about running out of socks.

Max is sprawled beside you, scrolling through something on his phone, eyes half-lidded like a cat pretending not to pay attention.

You hold up one of his shirts. “This one is inside out.”

He glances. “So? Flip it.”

You roll your eyes, but you flip it anyway.

A beat of quiet passes.

Then Max speaks, voice casual. “You know I’m not joking about the card.”

Your hands still.

You keep folding. “I know.”

“I want you to use it,” he continues, tone firm.

You swallow. “Max—”

“No,” he says immediately, cutting you off, eyes lifting to you now. “Listen. I’m not doing this to make you dependent. I’m doing it because you’re… you’re always taking care of everyone. And I want to take care of you.”

Your throat tightens.

You keep your eyes on the laundry because looking at him feels too much like letting the softness win.

“I don’t need taking care of,” you say, automatic.

Max snorts softly. “You do. You’re just stubborn.”

You shoot him a look. “You’re one to talk.”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah. But I’m right.”

You sigh, setting the folded shirt on the stack. “It’s just… it’s complicated.”

Max shifts closer, knee pressing against yours. “Explain it again. But… slower. Without yelling.”

The fact that he’s trying—actually trying—makes your chest ache.

You swallow. “I’m scared that if I start using it, I’ll get used to it. And then… if anything happens, I’ll be worse off. Because I’ll have built my life around something that isn’t mine.”

Max’s gaze doesn’t waver. “And I’m telling you I’m not going anywhere.”

You shake your head. “You can’t promise that.”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t snap this time. He exhales. “I can promise I’m not planning to leave. I can promise I’m here. I can promise that right now, you don’t have to do everything alone.”

You swallow hard. “But I do.”

Max’s eyes soften. “No. You don’t.”

Your voice cracks slightly. “You don’t understand what happens if I drop something. If I—” You stop yourself, because the panic rises fast, hot. “If I mess up, it’s not just me.”

Max’s hand reaches out, steadying your knee. “I know.”

You laugh weakly. “You don’t.”

“I do,” he insists, voice low. “Not exactly. Not like you. But… I know you’re carrying too much. I see it.”

You blink, eyes burning.

Max watches you for a moment, then his voice drops, gentler. “I’m sorry I pushed you in the bakery.”

You swallow. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you were— like you were trying to be a hero.”

Max’s mouth flattens. “It still annoys me.”

You huff a laugh through the tightness in your throat. “I know.”

He nudges your knee. “But I get it. A little.”

You look at him, surprised.

Max shrugs, like admitting emotional nuance is physically uncomfortable. “I’ve had people… want things from me. And when you don’t know if they’re real, you… you keep your guard up.”

Your chest tightens. “Yeah.”

Max’s eyes lock on yours. “But you’re real.”

The words hit like warmth to a cold hand.

You swallow. “Max…”

He doesn’t push further. He just watches you, steady.

“Okay,” you whisper, finally. “I’ll… I’ll try.”

Max’s expression shifts immediately—relief, satisfaction, something bright that makes your stomach flip.

“Good,” he says simply.

You glare. “Don’t get smug.”

He smirks. “I’m always smug.”

You laugh despite yourself, and for a moment the tension loosens.

But the fear doesn’t disappear.

It waits.

The emergency comes on a Tuesday.

Because of course it does.

It’s always a random weekday when your life decides to test you.

You’re leaving your last class, brain full of lecture slides and half-formed essay sentences, when your phone buzzes. You glance down, expecting a reminder from your calendar or a message from a group project.

Instead, it’s a notification from your bank.

Insufficient funds.

Your stomach drops so hard you almost miss a step on the stairs.

You stop in the hallway, heat rushing to your face. You open the app with shaking fingers, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

A payment hit early. A bill you’d scheduled for the end of the week, a “safe” date, because you’d counted on your paycheck clearing first.

It didn’t.

You stare at the negative number like it’s a personal insult.

Your brain starts doing math at warp speed. Move money from savings—except there isn’t really savings, it’s just the “don’t die” fund. Delay something else—except everything else is already delayed. Call and beg for an extension—except you can’t risk it being denied.

Your throat tightens.

The words I can’t pulse through your mind like a siren.

And then your wallet feels heavy in your bag.

The card.

Max’s card.

For emergencies.

Your fingers hover over your zipper like it’s a grenade.

This is an emergency. This is literally the definition of emergency. This is the kind of thing you’ve stayed awake worrying about.

And yet—

Your hands shake.

Because using it feels like stepping off a cliff and trusting someone will catch you.

You swallow hard, blinking fast because you absolutely refuse to cry in a campus hallway. Not today.

You step into a quiet corner, back against a wall, and pull out your wallet.

The black card sits there like a dare.

You stare at it for a full thirty seconds.

Then you whisper, “Okay,” like you’re talking to your own fear.

You pull it out.

Your fingers tremble as you type in the payment portal details, heart racing, sweat prickling at the back of your neck.

This is stealing.

This is theft.

This is—

You hit submit.

The page loads.

Payment successful.

You exhale so hard you almost laugh, almost sob. Relief hits first—hot, dizzy, immediate.

And then the guilt crashes in right behind it.

Your stomach twists.

You look at the total again and your throat tightens like a fist.

You close your eyes.

Max is going to see it. He’s going to know. He’s going to— he’s going to be annoyed, or worse, disappointed. He’s going to think you’re using him.

You swallow.

You text him anyway, fingers moving fast before you can chicken out.

hey. i had to use the card. i’m sorry. i didn’t know what else to do. i’ll pay you back as soon as i can

You stare at the message after it sends, breath shallow, anxiety buzzing under your skin like electricity.

Then your phone rings.

Immediately.

Max.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

You answer, voice small. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Max says, and his voice is… happy.

Actually happy.

You blink, confused.

“I saw it,” he says, like he can’t stop smiling. “You used it.”

Your stomach twists. “Max—”

“You did it,” he repeats, voice bright, like you just won a championship. “Finally.”

You swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”

Max goes quiet for half a second.

Then, softer: “Why are you sorry?”

Because you can’t just take money from someone. Because you don’t deserve it. Because it feels wrong. Because it feels like being held, and being held is scary.

You swallow. “Because I— it was a lot. I shouldn’t have—”

“Yes, you should have,” Max cuts in, calm but firm. “That’s what it’s for.”

“I said emergencies,” you whisper.

“And that was an emergency,” he says, immediate. “So you used it. Good.”

Your eyes burn. “I’m going to pay you back.”

Max snorts. “No.”

Your chest tightens. “Max, I can’t just—”

“No,” he repeats, more firmly. “You are not paying me back.”

Your anxiety spikes. “Max, please. I can’t— it feels like theft.”

“It’s not theft,” he says, blunt. “It’s my card. I gave it to you.”

“I didn’t— I didn’t earn it,” you whisper, voice cracking.

Max’s tone shifts instantly, sharper. “Don’t say that.”

You swallow. “It’s true.”

“It’s not,” he says, and you can hear the frustration now—not at you, but at the thought. “You do so much. All the time. You’re always running. Always giving. Always—” He cuts himself off, exhales hard, then tries again, slower. “You are my girlfriend. You take care of me too.”

You laugh weakly through the tears threatening to spill. “Max, I don’t— I don’t do anything like you do.”

“Stop,” he says, immediate. “That’s not how it works.”

You press your forehead to the wall, eyes squeezed shut. “I cook for you when I’m there. I fold your laundry. I— I keep you company. I’d do that anyway.”

“That’s exactly the point,” Max says, voice low and intense. “You would do it anyway. You don’t do it because you want something. You do it because you love me.”

Your throat tightens.

Max continues, relentless in the way only he can be—straight to the truth, no soft landing.

“That’s why you deserve it,” he says. “Because you give without counting. Because you don’t ask for anything. Because you think you have to earn every nice thing by suffering first. And I’m telling you, you don’t.”

Your breath shakes.

“I can’t take your money for that,” you whisper.

Max’s voice goes quieter, but no less firm. “You’re not taking it. I’m giving it.”

You swallow. “But why?”

Because you’re scared he’ll say something like because I can, and then you’ll feel small. Like this is charity. Like it’s a power thing.

Instead, Max says, simply: “Because I want you to have options.”

Your chest aches.

“I don’t want you to panic when something happens,” he continues. “I don’t want you to be alone in it. I don’t want you to feel like you have to… drown quietly.”

Your eyes sting.

Max exhales. “And honestly? I wish you used it for more.”

You let out a watery laugh. “That’s insane.”

Max hums. “No. It’s normal.”

You sniff, wiping at your cheek with the sleeve of your hoodie. “I still feel bad.”

“I know,” Max says, softer. “But I’m not going to let you spiral about this. Okay?”

Your throat tightens. “I’m trying not to.”

“I know,” he repeats, and something in your chest loosens at the way he says it—like he sees you fighting yourself and he’s not mad about it.

Then his voice sharpens again, familiar. “But you used it. Good girl.”

Your stomach flips.

“Max,” you whisper, half scandalized, half… not.

He laughs quietly. “What?”

“You can’t just say that.”

“I can,” he says, pleased. “I just did.”

You feel warmth rise up your neck despite the tears. “You’re annoying.”

“I know,” he says, smug. “And you love me.”

You laugh through the ache. “Unfortunately.”

Max’s voice softens again. “I’m proud of you.”

Your breath catches.

“For paying a bill?” you whisper.

“For letting someone help,” he corrects.

The words settle into you like a small, careful warmth.

Max clears his throat. “I’m in a meeting soon. But text me when you’re home. And… use it again if you need. No asking permission.”

You swallow. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats, satisfied.

You hang up feeling wrung out and lighter and still terrified.

But you also feel… held.

Just a little.

The next time you go to the bakery, your hands still shake.

The bell apologizes softly when you walk in, warm air wrapping around you like a familiar sweater.

You stand in front of the case again.

The pan au chocolat is still there, glossy and perfect, like it has no idea it’s been the main character in your emotional breakdown.

You stare at it.

Your brain immediately starts doing math.

Then you remember Max’s voice: I want you to have options.

You swallow.

You order one.

The cashier asks, “Card or cash?”

Your fingers hover over your wallet.

Max’s card feels heavier than before.

You pull it out anyway, cheeks warming, heart racing like you’re committing a crime.

The machine beeps.

Payment accepted.

You take the bag with trembling fingers and walk out into the cold air like you just got away with something.

Your phone buzzes before you make it to the corner.

A notification: transaction.

You freeze, then laugh under your breath, because of course he has alerts.

Your thumbs hover over your messages.

Guilt floods in anyway, immediate and familiar.

i’m sorry i used it. you said i should. i did. but i feel bad.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Good. You did exactly as you were told.

Your stomach flips again.

maxxxxxx you type, because you don’t have a better response and you hate that he can make you feel like this with a few words.

He replies:

😊

You snort, shoving your phone in your pocket, cheeks burning as you bite into the pastry.

Flaky layers shatter, chocolate warm and bitter-sweet, and for a moment your whole body stops bracing.

For a moment, you just exist.

It doesn’t stick perfectly.

Of course it doesn’t.

You try. You really do.

But sometimes you still catch yourself asking, even when he told you not to.

Like the day you find a dress in a shop window—simple but stunning, something you could wear to the sponsor dinner he mentioned next month. Black, fitted, elegant in a way that makes you look like you belong in his world instead of hovering at the edges of it.

You stand outside the shop too long, staring, heart doing that stupid thing again.

You picture it on you.

Then you picture the price tag.

Then you picture the registration fees.

Then you picture yourself being foolish, being greedy, being irresponsible.

Your phone is already in your hand before you can stop yourself.

hey… can i use the card for something kind of stupid?

You wait.

No reply.

You glance at the time. He’s probably in meetings. Media. Team. Life. Everything.

Your heart squeezes. Your palms sweat.

You stare at the dress again.

It would be nice.

You want it.

You hate wanting.

You send another message:

it’s okay ignore me. sorry.

And then—because you cannot handle standing there feeling like you’re wasting the shop staff’s time, because you cannot handle the pressure of wanting something and not knowing how to allow it—you walk away.

Empty-handed.

Your phone buzzes ten minutes later.

Of course. Sorry. Was in a meeting. What is it?

Your chest tightens.

You swallow.

nothing. it was dumb. don’t worry about it.

Max replies immediately.

Not nothing. Tell me.

You hesitate, then type:

a dress. for that dinner. but it’s fine. i have one already.

Three dots appear.

Then:

Did you buy it?

Your stomach twists.

You stare at your screen, cheeks burning, guilt already crawling up your throat.

no. i left.

The typing bubble appears and disappears twice.

Then:

Where is the shop?

Your chest tightens.

max, you don’t have to—

Where. Is. The. Shop.

You exhale, defeated, and send the location.

Max shows up like a storm contained in a human body.

He doesn’t look angry when he finds you—more like focused, determined, eyes sharp.

“You left,” he says immediately.

You shrug helplessly, embarrassed. “I didn’t want to waste their time.”

Max’s eyebrows lift. “Waste whose time?”

“The shop,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “I was standing there forever.”

Max stares at you like you’re speaking nonsense. “You’re allowed to stand somewhere.”

You look away. “It’s fine.”

Max steps closer, voice low. “No. It’s not fine.”

Your throat tightens. “Max—”

He reaches for your hand. “Come on.”

You resist automatically. “No.”

Max pauses, eyes narrowing. “Why not?”

Because it feels like too much. Because it feels like spectacle. Because it feels like someone making a fuss over you and you don’t know how to be fussed over.

Max’s thumb brushes your knuckles, gentle. “You wanted the dress.”

You swallow. “I don’t need it.”

Max’s eyes sharpen. “Don’t.”

You blink.

“Don’t,” he repeats, more firmly. “Don’t do that right now. You wanted it. So we’re getting it.”

Your stomach flips. “Max, I’m sorry.”

He exhales, then says, brutally honest: “I know.”

You stare at him, startled.

Max’s mouth twitches. “But I’m also happy because I get to take you shopping. So… it’s fine.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” he says, smug. Then he tugs your hand gently. “Come on.”

The bell over the shop door chimes when you walk in, and your heart immediately starts sprinting.

The staff brighten when they see Max. Of course they do. Of course.

Someone recognizes him. Someone tries not to stare and fails. Someone offers help with that careful, excited professionalism reserved for people who might make their day a story later.

Max doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t hide. He doesn’t care. He just keeps you close, hand warm around yours, like the whole world can watch and he’ll still choose you anyway.

He nods toward the dress. “That one?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

The assistant brings it carefully, like it’s made of glass.

Max watches you like he’s waiting for you to argue again.

You take it, hands trembling, and disappear into the fitting room.

The dress fits like it was waiting for you.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, breath catching. The fabric hugs you in a way that makes you look… put together. Like someone who isn’t always running. Like someone who belongs in rooms with gold light and champagne.

You step out.

Max looks up from where he’s sitting, and his face changes—something soft and impressed and possessive in the best way.

His gaze drags over you, slow, like he’s taking his time. Like he wants you to feel seen.

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower. “That’s it.”

Your cheeks burn. “It’s too much.”

Max stands, steps closer. His hand settles at your waist, grounding. “It’s perfect.”

The assistant beams like she’s witnessing romance in real time. “You look amazing.”

You laugh nervously. “Thanks.”

Max doesn’t take his eyes off you. “We’re getting it.”

You inhale, ready to protest.

Max cuts you off before you can start. “No.”

You exhale. “Max—”

He leans closer, voice quiet and blunt. “You should have bought it earlier.”

You groan softly, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry.”

Max’s mouth twitches like he’s amused. “I know.”

Then, almost softer: “But I’m glad we came back.”

You blink, surprised.

Max gestures vaguely at the shop, the staff fussing, the shoes being brought over like you’re royalty. “I like seeing you like this.”

Your chest tightens. “Like what?”

He looks at you, eyes steady. “Taken care of.”

Your throat tightens again.

You look away, blinking hard.

Max’s hand squeezes your waist, a quiet reminder that he’s here.

The assistant brings shoes. Then another pair. Then jewelry options. The whole thing feels unreal, like you’re playing dress-up in someone else’s life.

Max sits back, watching like he’s enjoying every second.

When you finally come out with the dress and the shoes, cheeks flushed, half laughing, half mortified, the staff are openly delighted.

Max tips his head toward you, smug. “See?”

You glare. “Stop.”

He grins. “No.”

He pays like it’s nothing.

It makes your stomach twist again, but his hand slips into yours immediately after, warm and steady.

When you’re back in the car, the bag in your lap feels like a confession.

You stare at it, throat tight. “Max, you didn’t have to do that.”

He glances at you, expression flat in that very Max way. “I know.”

You blink. “Then why—”

“You should have just bought it earlier,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You groan. “I hate you.”

Max snorts. “No, you don’t.”

You swallow, voice softer. “I didn’t want to ask.”

Max’s eyes flick toward you again, sharper now. “You don’t need to ask permission.”

“I know,” you whisper.

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

You swallow. “No.”

Max nods once, satisfied. “Good.”

Then, because he can’t help himself: “Also… you look really good.”

Your cheeks burn again. “Max.”

He smirks. “What? It’s true.”

You look out the window, trying to hide your smile.

The sponsor dinner comes faster than you expect.

You stand in the mirror in Max’s hotel room, adjusting the dress with shaking hands, the fabric cool against your skin. The heels make you feel taller, steadier, like you can stand in his world without disappearing.

Max watches you from the bed, already in his suit, tie slightly loosened like he hates it. He looks expensive. Dangerous. Familiar.

You meet his gaze in the mirror.

He stands, crosses the room, and stops behind you. His hands settle at your hips, warm and sure.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

You swallow. “I’m fine.”

Max’s mouth twitches. “Liar.”

You exhale. “I’m just… not used to this.”

Max’s fingers flex lightly against your waist. “Used to what?”

“Being… spoiled,” you whisper, the word tasting strange.

Max leans in, mouth near your ear. “Good.”

You blink. “Max—”

“I like it,” he says, blunt. “I like giving you things. I like seeing you happy.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m happy.”

Max hums. “Not enough.”

You laugh softly, shaky. “You’re insane.”

Max’s hands squeeze your waist. “Maybe.”

He turns you slightly, forcing you to face him. His eyes are steady, serious.

“Hey,” he says, quieter. “Thank you.”

You blink, surprised. “For what?”

“For being here,” he says simply. “For… dealing with all of this.”

Your chest aches. “Max, it’s not—”

He cuts you off with a look. “It is. It’s a lot.”

You swallow.

Max’s thumb brushes your hip. “You do so much. You don’t get enough back.”

You shake your head. “I don’t do it for—”

“I know,” he says immediately. “That’s why I want to.”

Your breath catches.

Max leans in, presses his forehead to yours briefly, grounding you the way he always does—no dramatic speeches, just presence.

“I’m going to give you the world,” he says, like it’s a plan. Like it’s a promise he intends to keep.

Your throat tightens. “Max…”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “Let me.”

You swallow, heart hammering.

Because you still don’t fully know how to be someone who leans.

But standing here, in this dress, with his hands on you like you’re the most important thing in the room, you realize something—slow and terrifying and relieving all at once.

Leaning on him doesn’t erase who you are.

It doesn’t mean you’ll stop working hard. It doesn’t mean you’ll stop showing up. It doesn’t mean you’ll stop taking care of the people who need you.

It just means you don’t have to do it alone.

You nod, small.

Max’s eyes soften. “Yeah?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

His smile is brief but real, like sunlight through clouds. “Good.”

Then, because he’s Max, his voice drops, smug: “Good girl.”

You groan, face flaming. “Max.”

He laughs, grabs his phone, and offers you his arm like you’re royalty.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go show them what they’re missing.”

You take his arm, and the warmth of him steadies you.

At the dinner, he keeps you close.

Not like a trophy. Not like a possession.

Like a choice.

He introduces you by name. He looks at you when people speak to you. He lets you answer. He listens like it matters. His hand stays at your lower back like a constant anchor, his thumb brushing small circles when the room gets loud.

When someone compliments you, he says, “I know,” like he’s proud.

When someone praises him, he redirects it with a shrug and a grin.

When you start to feel small, he leans in and says something quietly blunt that makes you laugh—something only for you.

And every time you glance at him, the same realization settles deeper:

He isn’t rescuing you.

He’s choosing you.

At the end of the night, when the crowd thins and your feet ache and you feel wrung out, Max pulls you aside into a quieter hallway.

He looks at you, serious.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He studies you. “Really?”

You smile, soft. “Really.”

Max’s shoulders loosen like he’s been holding tension in his body without realizing. His hand slides into yours.

“Thank you,” he says again, quieter.

You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to thank me for being your girlfriend.”

Max’s eyes sharpen, fond. “Yes, I do.”

You blink.

He steps closer, voice low. “You deserve everything. And I’m going to keep trying to give it to you.”

Your chest aches, warm and painful.

You swallow. “I’m… trying to let you.”

Max nods once, satisfied. “Good. Keep trying.”

You laugh softly. “Bossy.”

“Always,” he says, and his mouth curves into a small smile.

Then, gentler: “I love you.”

The words hit you like a slow, steady wave.

You breathe out. “I love you too.”

Max’s hand squeezes yours. “Use the card more,” he adds immediately, like it’s a serious mission.

You groan. “Max.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Promise.”

You hesitate, then nod, cheeks warm. “Okay. I promise.”

Max’s grin flashes, pleased. “Good.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart feels lighter than it has in months.

Because maybe—just maybe—it’s okay to be the eldest daughter and still be someone’s soft place too.

Maybe it’s okay to keep carrying the world and let someone take a corner of it from you.

And maybe wanting doesn’t have to be a trap.

Maybe, with Max, wanting can be answered.

Even if it’s just a pan au chocolat.

Even if it’s just a dress.

Even if it’s something small that tastes like peace.

It started subtly. You'd be scrolling through your phone, and he'd lean over, pointing at a video of a friend's baby giggling. "Look at that little guy," he'd say, his blue eyes lighting up "So cute, right? Imagine if..." He'd trail off, chuckling like it was just a passing thought. But it wasn't. Not for him.

Then there were the hints that piled up like snowdrifts.

Walking through a park, he'd nod at families pushing strollers. "Kids change everything, don't they? In a good way."

Or during dinner with his family, when his sister Victoria's little ones would run around, and Max would scoop them up, playing the doting uncle.

You'd catch him watching you with them, a soft smile on his face, like he was picturing something more. "You're great with kids," he'd murmur later, pulling you close. "Natural."

You smiled through it all, but inside, your heart sank deeper each time. You hadn't told him. How could you? Over ten years ago, you'd made up your mind: no kids. It wasn't a phase; it was a decision rooted in self-awareness.

People, friends, family, even strangers had always dismissed it. "You'll change your mind when you're older." "No man will want you if you don't give him heirs."

Heirs. Like it was some medieval dynasty. You'd heard it all, and it had drilled into you a fear that if you said it out loud, especially to someone you loved, they'd walk away.

So you kept quiet, hoping it wouldn't come up. But with Max, it was getting harder. His baby fever was obvious, even if he hadn't said it outright. And God, seeing him so excited... it broke you a little more each day.

You knew what was coming. You’d known for months.

Tonight he finally said it.

You were brushing your teeth when he appeared in the bathroom doorway, leaning against the frame in just sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower.

“Can we talk?” he asked quietly.

You rinsed your mouth, heart already hammering. “Sure.”

Back in the bedroom you sat on the edge of the bed. He stayed standing for a second, then dropped down beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he was gathering courage.

“I’ve been thinking,” he started. “A lot. About us. About… what comes next.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I love you. You know that, right?”

You nodded, throat tight.

“And I keep picturing it. You, me… maybe a little one running around here. ” He looked at you then, hopeful and nervous all at once. “I think I want that. With you. I think I really want to try for a baby.”

The room went quiet except for the low hum of the aircon.

You felt frozen. Every rehearsed line you’d practiced in your head vanished.

Max watched your face, smile fading slowly. “Hey… you okay?”

You swallowed. “I...yeah. I just…” Your voice cracked. “Yes?”

He frowned instantly. “That didn’t sound like a yes.”

You covered your face with both hands for a second. “God, Max, I’m sorry.”

He shifted closer, voice dropping. “Don’t apologise. Talk to me. What’s going on in there?”

The words came out in a rush, shaky and ugly.

“I never wanted kids. Not really. Not ever. I decided that years ago and… I never told you because everyone always says I’ll change my mind, or that no guy will stay if I don’t want to give him a family, and I was so scared you’d...”

Your breath hitched. “I was scared you’d leave. And seeing how happy you look lately when you talk about it, or when you’re with the kids… it kills me. Because I love you so much and I don’t want to take that away from you. But I also know I’d be a terrible mum. I don’t feel it. That instinct. I’d rather regret not having them than regret having them and messing it up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Silence.

Then Max’s hands were gently pulling yours away from your face. His thumbs brushed under your eyes even though you weren’t crying yet.

“Baby,” he said, voice rough. “Why the hell would I leave you over that?”

You blinked at him. “Because you want kids.”

“I want you.” He said it like it was obvious. “Kids would be nice,yeah, I won’t lie. I’ve been thinking about it more and more. But it’s not more important than you. Not even close.”

“But you’d be such a good dad,” you whispered. “And I’m… standing in the way.”

He shook his head hard. “You’re not standing in the way of anything. If we never have kids, then we don’t. We’ll adopt ten cats if you want, I don’t care. As long as it’s us.” He cupped your cheek. “I can live without imaginary kids. I can’t live without you. That’s not even a choice.”

You let out a broken little laugh-sob. “You’re too good at this.”

“I’m really not,” he muttered, pulling you into his chest. “I just know what I want. And it’s you. The rest we figure out. Together. Okay?”

You nodded against his shirt, arms wrapping around him like you’d never let go.

“Okay.”

You don’t know what shape it will take whether it will come like a storm or a whisper, whether it will destroy you again or finally let you breathe. But you feel it in your gut, in your skin, in the way the air wraps around you tighter than usual.

In the hotel breakfast room, Toto watches you with a kind of quiet vigilance, as though he's bracing for a storm only he and you can see coming. His eyes linger too long, the way they did when you were fifteen and reckless and just starting to fall in love with what he thought were the wrong things. He’s not your boss today he’s your father and he looks at you like a man who’s lost his daughter once already and isn’t sure he can do it again.

You remember him pulling you into a long, fierce hug, voice low and firm against your hair as he murmured, “Don’t let him shake you.”

But it’s already too late for that. Because the shaking isn’t in your hands it’s in your core.

It only deepens when you walk into the driver’s briefing and see Max sitting there.

He’s late, but only just. Slipping into the room with the kind of casual dominance that would be insufferable if it wasn’t so earned. He doesn’t glance your way, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer the usual flicker of sarcasm or the teasing drawl he used to wield like a weapon only you knew how to disarm.

He simply sits, legs sprawled, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen and the FIA representative ahead silent.

Completely, unnervingly silent.

It rattles you more than any argument, more than any scathing remark he could have thrown across the table, because silence, from Max Verstappen is never passive.

It is not absence. It is intention. It is control.

You feel the tremor of it ripple through you like a warning, like the crack of ice just before it breaks. Something is going to happen today. You don’t know what but you’ll feel it when it does.

Schiphol Airport - 2020

The terminal feels wrong, too quiet and too still. The usual buzz of rolling suitcases, announcements over the loudspeaker, the distant rush of boarding calls has been dulled to a strange hush. People move like ghosts: faces masked, eyes darting, fingers glued to phones as alerts flood in by the minute.

You stand near your Gate, a departure screen blinking overhead.

Flight Cancelled.

The blinking cursor on your own flight confirmation feels surreal. Everything feels surreal.

You shift your weight, adjusting the straps of your backpack, your knuckles white where they grip your boarding pass. A mother hurries past with a child in tow. A flight attendant shakes her head and speaks low into a walkie-talkie. Somewhere behind you, the television near the bar replays the same montage of closed borders, empty streets, headlines screaming words no one was prepared for: global pandemic. national lockdown. indefinite postponement.

You glance down at your phone.

No new messages.

Your thumb hovers over a contact that’s still pinned to the top of your chat list. Max.

You type:

Guess you get to rest for once.

A half-smile tugs at your lips. He always used to complain about the calendar, too many triple-headers, no off-season, never enough time to breathe.

You stare at the message. Backspace.

One letter at a time.

Until it’s gone.

You lock your phone and slide it back into your jacket pocket. Tell yourself it doesn’t matter he’s not expecting to hear from you, maybe he isn’t thinking about you at all.

Monaco - 2020

A different time zone. A different kind of silence.

Max stands in the middle of his apartment, one hand on the balcony door, the other wrapped around his phone. The TV plays the same loop of race cancellations, the same rising numbers, the same familiar images turned unfamiliar.

His eyes are fixed on one name at the top of the screen.

He types:

This is crazy right?

Stares at it. Then deletes it.

He turns off the screen and walks into the kitchen. Doesn’t send anything.

He doesn’t know you were just standing in an airport with the same thought. The same urge to reach out. The same ache of shared history folded into silence.

Two messages, both unsent, both invisible, cross somewhere between Amsterdam and Monaco, two digital ghosts suspended in the air like radio signals with no one left to catch them.

No proof they ever existed. Only the familiar echo of each other’s name on separate screens.

Friday - 10:13AM

Lewis catches you just outside the briefing room, one hand resting lightly on your arm as you pass.

“You good?” he asks, voice low but steady.

You pause, nod. “Yeah. Just—long week.”

His eyes hold yours for a second longer than casual conversation calls for. He’s not pressing, just checking, the way someone does when they’ve known you long enough to see through the automatic answers.

He nods once, like he’s heard what you didn’t say out loud. “Alright. Just… if you ever need to get out of the noise, or talk—or not talk—I’m around.”

You smile. “Thanks,.”

He gives your shoulder a squeeze. “Anytime. And hey don’t let George wind you up too much. He lives for it.”

You call after him, voice teasing, “I’m always here if you need to escape Ferrari gossip by the way.”

He throws you a grin over his shoulder. “Tempting offer. I’ll keep it in mind.”

You huff a laugh as he disappears around the corner. The tension in your chest eases just a little.

11:48AM – Mercedes Motorhome

You’re half-focused, fingers working on muscle memory as you snap the earpiece into place, adjust the volume dial on your comms, and tug your jacket collar flat. The familiar rhythm of prep should steady you it usually does but today your hands feel too tight, too deliberate, like they’re mimicking calm rather than living it.

Your phone buzzes once against the desk beside you.

You ignore it.

Then it buzzes again. Then again, with the sharp insistence of urgency that doesn’t ask it demands.

By the fourth buzz, you’re already bracing for it, stomach knotting, pulse skipping uneven beats beneath your skin. You pick it up with reluctant fingers, the cold edge of the device biting into your palm as you swipe down.

The first notification lights up the screen like a match in the dark:

@redflag: SOMEONE JUST SAW MAX AND JOS ARGUING BEHIND THE RED BULL GARAGE

Your breath catches before you can stop it. The next one flashes a second later.

@max4stappen: They said Max was yelling?? Jos stormed off???

The words hit like static, messy, loud, and familiar.

You keep scrolling, each line worse than the last.

Sky Sports News: “Tensions Flare in Red Bull Garage: Verstappen Senior and Junior Seen in Heated Conversation” Max left shortly after. No comment from the Verstappen camp.

@behindthevisor: Apparently Jos said something about “keeping your head on straight” and Max just… lost it?

And then…

@wolffwatchers: Did Jos mention her name? 👀

Your name.

They mean you. They always do.

You swallow hard, the motion suddenly difficult, as if the weight of it all is pressing against your throat.

The stream of reactions doesn’t stop. They keep coming, faster now speculation, secondhand reports, half-truths laced with emojis and punctuation marks that feel far too casual for something this volatile. You don’t click into them. You don’t have to.

The air around you seems to shift, like the moment before thunder cracks. The motorhome is quiet except for the low murmur of engineers and strategists in the next room, unaware or pretending not to be. The buzz of electricity hums faintly through the walls.

Max never loses it. Not like that. Not anymore. Not in front of the garage. Not with cameras nearby. Not with him.

You set the phone down, screen still alight with chaos, and try to refocus on your comms but the world has already tilted off its axis, and you feel it in your bones.

It’s already started.

11:26AM – Red Bull Garage

He knew it would happen eventually.

Maybe not today. Maybe not behind the garage with the whole paddock one overheard breath away. Maybe not in this exact way with voices raised and tempers frayed and every nerve in his body pulled taut like wire, but some part of him has been bracing for this for years.

Since Abu Dhabi 2019, he hasn’t known a moment of peace. Not really. Not when the weight of what he lost clings to every silence, every what-if he never said out loud. He’s tried to move forward. Tried to bury it beneath trophies and titles, under the pressure of performance and the grind of race after race, but grief doesn’t work like that. Neither does guilt.

Now it’s here. Boiling over in the place he swore would be the one part of his life he could still control. Jos started it as always, with something small. A throwaway comment lobbed like a spark toward gasoline.

“You’ve been distracted all weekend.”

The words hit harder than they should, maybe because they’re true, maybe because they sound too familiar, or maybe because Max is already hanging on by a thread. He turns sharply, jaw clenched, dragging his father out of sight behind the garage trying to get away from prying lenses and watching eyes.

Then he snaps.

“You think I don’t know that?” he bites out, voice pitched low but vibrating.

Jos folds his arms, unbothered. “Then focus. You let that girl derail and distract you once Max. Don’t do it again.”

There it is. That word. That fucking word again.

Distraction.

The same word that tore her apart. The same word she was never supposed to hear the one that sent her packing without a single goodbye when he didn’t even realise what he’d done until it was too late.

“Don’t talk about her,” he spits, barely managing to keep his voice from shaking with rage. “You don’t get to talk about her. Not now. Not ever.”

Jos tenses. “I’m trying to protect your career.”

Max lets out a humourless laugh. “No. You’re trying to control it. Still.” His voice rises with each word, years of buried resentment breaking through like cracks in a dam. “I’m a grown man you don’t get to decide who I care about. Who I—”

He catches himself but it’s too late. The air changes between them.

Jos glares. “She left Max she didn’t even say goodbye. That wasn’t me. That was her choice. You don’t think she’ll do it again?”

Max steps forward close enough now that Jos has to meet his eyes. “You really think she just walked away without a reason?” He scoffs. “You don’t know anything. You never have.”

Jos goes silent but Max doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. The truth is burning a hole inside his chest and if he doesn’t say it now, it’ll eat him alive.

“You don’t even know what you did,” he says, quieter now, but with more weight than anything he’s said all day. “You don’t even realise what your words do. What I let them do.”

Jos shakes his head, but Max cuts him off.

“Look maybe it was me too,” he says, voice raw. “Maybe I’m the one who stood there and said nothing while you said things about her, about how she was a distraction, how she’d ruin everything and I didn’t say a damn thing. I didn’t defend her. I didn’t stop you. I just… stayed quiet like that would somehow protect everything, if I didn’t rock the boat it would be fine. We’d be fine.”

He shakes his head, eyes flicking up to meet his father’s. “But I wasn’t fine, I let her walk away because I was scared of what you’d think if I fought for her.”

Jos doesn't reply, jaw set.

“So don’t pretend you had nothing to do with it,” Max says, low and steady. “You spent years making me doubt the one person who’s done nothing but be there for me.”

There’s a pause, Max breathes through it.

“She didn’t deserve that. Neither of us did.”

The silence between them stretches thick, bitter, final. Max turns away before his father can respond. Whatever Jos says now doesn’t matter because for the first time in years Max isn’t biting his tongue. He isn’t burying his guilt under performance data and press obligations. He’s speaking for himself.

He’s done letting anyone else write the story.

Not his father. Not the media.

He’s done letting other people speak for him.

Sky Sports Broadcast

David Croft:

"Bit of movement down at Red Bull earlier we hear some of you watching the paddock feed might’ve seen that moment between Max and Jos Verstappen behind the garage. We don’t have confirmation on what was said, but... well, you could feel it, couldn’t you?”

Naomi Schiff:

"Yeah, whatever it was, it wasn’t just a typical pre-race exchange. Max doesn’t usually get into it like that, especially not in public. He’s intense, sure, but that… that looked personal.”

Ted Kravitz:

“I was actually down there a few minutes after. The mechanics were keeping their heads down, but you could tell something had rattled the energy a bit. Jos walked off pretty fast, didn’t even look back.”

Crofty:

“There’s been a lot of chatter lately, hasn’t there? About who’s been spending time in which garage… and who’s come back to the paddock this year. Whether it’s personal or professional, it’s clearly hit a nerve. He’s been sharp all year but you can’t underestimate the emotional toll something like that takes before lights out.”

Naomi:

“If I had to guess, I’d say Max is drawing some lines. And he’s doing it in front of everyone. Which… might be the point.”

Crofty, quieter now:

“He’s grown up in this paddock, hasn’t he? But maybe this is the first time we’re watching him fully step into his own.”

The camera cuts to Max in the garage helmet on, eyes locked ahead, posture calm but coiled. Behind him, the space where Jos once stood is conspicuously empty.

Monaco - 2021

It’s the win they used to whisper about like a shared secret. Late-night simulator sessions. Strategy arguments at 2 a.m. on a flight back from Singapore. Rainy afternoons spent watching archival footage of Senna’s pole laps. Even when Max had barely broken into Formula 1 and you were still being introduced as “Wolff’s daughter” rather than a strategist in her own right, Monaco had always been the dream. The crown jewel. The one race that mattered more than any other even for those who’d pretend it didn’t.

"One day," you said, years ago, curled beside him on a hotel sofa somewhere in the middle of nowhere, "you're going to win Monaco, and when you do I’m going to be right there watching from the pit wall with your name on my wrist."

But she’s not there now, not in the garage, not in the crowd, not anywhere in his periphery. She hasn’t been for over a year.

Max steps onto the top step of the podium, drenched in champagne and sunlight and the deafening roar of a crowd that’s waited too long to see him there. His first Monaco win. The moment he once built castles around in his mind.

It doesn’t feel how he thought it would, at least not entirely, he lifts the trophy and smiles for the cameras. He enjoys himself in the moment. Does the interviews, the handshakes, the protocols. From the outside, he looks unstoppable the championship lead in hand, Monaco conquered, nothing in his way. But later when the lights have dimmed and the motorhome is quiet when the only sound is the whir of a distant generator and the faint echo of a party somewhere down the harbour, he sits on the couch phone cradled in one hand.

The champagne still feels sticky on his skin. He hasn’t changed yet. Hasn’t showered. The adrenaline’s gone now and all that’s left is the ache.

His thumb hovers over a name in his contacts:

He opens the message thread. No new texts. Just the ghost of the last conversation left hanging like so many things between them.

He types three letters:

Hey

Stares at them. Deletes them. Closes the app. Opens it again.

Did you watch?

Deletes that too. He tosses the phone onto the far end of the couch like it’s burned him.

Then he just sits there, staring at the wall, while the greatest win of his life fades quietly into the background. He doesn’t sleep that night his brain won’t stop running corners he’s already won, not on the track in life.

Across the continent in a small apartment lit only by the soft blue hue of a laptop screen, you watch the replay alone. The moment he crosses the line you don’t cheer. Your breath catches. Your heart twists and your fingers hover over your phone before you even realise what you’re doing.

You unlock it. Scroll down.

You did it.

Then delete it.

Congratulations. I always knew you would.

Delete.

You lock the phone. Drop it facedown beside you and bury yourself deeper into the couch. You remember exactly what you’d said all those years ago. You remember dreaming of this day like it was yours too. You wonder if he thought of you if he felt the silence as loudly as you did. You fall asleep to the soft hum of the post-race analysis still playing on the laptop, head resting on the arm of the couch, heart a little heavier than before.

r/formula1gossip

Posted by u/missverstappen

[DISCUSSION] Max Said Something Weird in His Post-Monaco Interview??

During the Dutch post-race segment after Monaco, Max was asked how it felt to finally win the race he’s always called “the big one.” He gave the normal answer at first special, proud of the team, surreal moment, etc.

But then he added this very random line:

“It felt… different than I thought it would.”

The interviewer asked how different, and Max sort of shrugged and said:

“Just not the way I pictured it. That’s all.”

Then he immediately changed the subject. Is this just Max being Max or… what was that?

u/tyrewizard32 Yeah I saw this too. He said it with this TONE™ like he was thinking of something super specific. u/vercedes_wifecollective okay but let’s talk about how he looked genuinely SAD for a second??? at monaco?? like the win they’ve all wanted since karting?? u/gr3yflag Right?? People acting confused like the entire paddock didn’t grow up watching those two run around together. u/veryapping For newer fans: they’re talking about Toto Wolff’s daughter. She used to be everywhere with Max from like 2015–2019. Pit wall, grid, garage, track walks, inside jokes during media days… they were basically a duo. Then she left the paddock out of nowhere and hasn't been back since. u/f1highlights There’s an old clip of them watching Monaco quali together in 2018 where she says something like “When you win this race, I’m going to be right there.” u/vercedes_wifecollective So him saying “not the way I pictured it”… Yeah. I know exactly what picture he meant. u/lando_would_never It’s not that deep… except it absolutely is. He used to talk about Monaco with her all the time. u/senna4ever Okay but if he was thinking of her, then “it felt different than I pictured it” is actually devastating. u/hardslicksforsofthearts Not to feed a fandom theory but… that’s not something you say unless the memory in your head includes another person. u/archivistofpain Max not sleeping after winning Monaco because he’s trying not to text his ex is the most human thing he’s ever done.

Friday – 6:47pm

The rain starts without warning the sky darkening just enough to feel it in your chest before the first drops fall. It isn’t heavy yet, just a slow, rhythmic tapping against the roof of the metal awning you're standing beneath. The world smells like asphalt and electricity the sharp scent of wet concrete mixing with the lingering heat from the day.

You’ve been here a while, tucked behind the garages, away from the cameras and briefing rooms and careful glances. You needed air maybe even silence but instead you got rain. You don’t mind. You always liked how it softened everything blurred the edges of what was too sharp to name.

Footsteps approach. You know them without turning.

He says nothing as he joins you beneath the awning, his hoodie already damp from the walk across the paddock. Rain clings to the ends of his hair, dripping slowly down the back of his neck, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t look at you right away. Just stands beside you, like that’s always been his default.

The rain picks up, a little heavier now, a little more insistent. After a moment, Max speaks, voice low.

“You used to say rain meant something.”

You glance sideways. “I did.”

He looks at you then, brows raised slightly in the way he does when he’s remembering something he never really understood at the time.

“I thought it meant change,” you say finally. “Or that something was coming, rain always felt like a signal.”

Max’s eyes don’t leave yours. “You still believe that?”

You exhale slowly, watching the droplets streak down the edge of the awning. “I don’t know. Maybe. I want to.”

A long pause stretches between you.

You glance down at your hands, thumb brushing a rain-wet line on your wrist. “Brazil. Last year,” you say quietly. “I watched that race three times. Couldn’t stop.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “You did?”

“Of course I did.”

There’s a beat of silence, deeper now.

“Just because I left,” you continue, voice steady, “doesn’t mean I stopped caring.”

Max doesn’t move, but his whole body shifts like the words are sinking into him.

“You were unstoppable that day,” you say. “I’ve never seen you drive like that. Everyone else was scrambling for grip, and you… it was like watching someone actively choose their own destiny.”

Max swallows. Looks out over the paddock, the sky pouring now.

“That was one of the only races that year I actually enjoyed,” he says eventually.

“I could tell,” you say.

His voice drops. “I just wanted to win.”

“You needed to win,” you correct. “That’s what it looked like, the rain certainly wasn’t going to stop you because when you want something you fight for it. That’s always been the difference with you Max. You never give up not when it really matters.”

His head dips slightly. He nods once.

“True,” he says. “But sometimes…” He trails off, then glances back at you. “Sometimes you don’t realise what you have until it’s already gone and then… then it’s too late to fight for.”

You don’t look away. His words land between you like something fragile and unfinished. “I’m not sure anything is ever too late.”

The rain hisses softly above, steady now, casting everything in a haze of movement and sound.

You speak again without thinking. “Did you think I was gone for good?”

Max is quiet. His fingers twitch slightly in his hoodie pocket. “I didn’t let myself think about it,” he says. “Because if I did… I would’ve had to admit that I let it happen.”

Your breath catches. “I should’ve stopped you,” he adds, softer now. “I should’ve said something… anything. But I just waited there and let you drift further and further away. Told myself it was easier than saying the wrong thing.”

“It wasn’t,” you say. “Not for me.”

“I know,” he says. “I know that now.”

Max turns slightly, shoulders squaring toward you, eyes dark and intent.

“I don’t want to do that again,” he says. “Watch you walk away.”

You hold his gaze. “You want something,” you say quietly. “Then fight for it.”

He breathes out a laugh, but there’s no humour in it. Just disbelief. He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t close the distance. He just stands there, in the rain, looking at you like the weight of all the years between you has finally landed and he’s ready to carry it. You stay beside him, two people standing still under the same storm not running from it.

Vienna - 2023

You’re sitting in the corner of a small café just off the Ringstrasse. The TV above the counter is playing the race on mute, subtitles flickering across the bottom of the screen. The other customers glance up now and then, but no one is really watching not the way you are.

He’s on screen again. Dominant. Composed. Effortless. A man in complete control.

It’s his tenth consecutive win, a record, the commentators mouth words like historic and unbreakable, and the crowd in Monza is electric. You can see the flags, the smoke, the faces pressed against the fences. You can practically feel the noise even with the sound turned off.

You stir your coffee once. Twice. You tell yourself you don’t care anymore. That this is just muscle memory glancing up, tracking lap times, calculating gaps out of habit, not out of feeling. You’ve built a life far from this world now. A quiet one. One without flight schedules and timing sheets and press releases.

It’s a lie.

You know it before the thought can even finish forming because as soon as the camera cuts to him, that familiar shot of him climbing from the car, pulling off his gloves, face breaking into a grin that’s half disbelief, half relief, your heart stutters. The same way it always has.

You shouldn’t still know the way he smiles when he’s truly happy, the subtle difference between triumph and satisfaction, the way he glances upward first, just for a moment before facing the cameras.

Yet you do.

The champagne sprays. The anthem plays. The commentators are visibly running out of superlatives. You catch the word dominant in the captions again, repeated like gospel.

Then as he lifts the trophy the golden reflection catching light against the stormy Italian sky you see it.

Your breath stops. The thin silver wristband around his left wrist. The one you gave him in 2017.

It looks scratched now, dulled from years of wear, but unmistakable. You remember how it used to glint against the steering wheel when he’d remove it only minutes before he was due on track. You remember the night you gave it to him, sitting side by side on a hotel balcony somewhere between races, the world asleep, your laughter soft against the hum of the city below.

“It’s not expensive or anything,” you’d said, a little shy as you held it out. “But I thought it’d be kind of nice you know, matching ones. Just us.”

Max had taken it from your hand, turning the simple bracelet between his fingers and then he looked up at you.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said quietly. “Not if it’s from you.”

Then he’d smiled, that quiet, rare smile that only ever meant one thing… he wasn’t teasing. He meant it.

You thought he’d stopped wearing it. You had. After everything fell apart you tucked yours away in a drawer you never opened not because you didn’t care, but because it hurt too much to look at. It wasn’t on your wrist anymore, but you always knew exactly where it was. Bottom right corner. Next to an old photo strip from Monaco and the corner of the note he’d left you on the last day of your first trip to his hometown. You never forgot.

So when you stopped seeing his bracelet in post-race photos, when it stopped peeking out beneath the edge of his glove or the cuff of his sleeve, you told yourself he’d done the same. That he’d moved on. That he’d outgrown the thing a long time ago just like he’d outgrown you.

But there it is, gleaming faintly beneath the podium lights.

Your chest tightens. The café suddenly feels too small, too loud, even with no sound. You stand abruptly, nearly knocking over your cup. The waitress glances up, startled, but you just mumble something and push through the door into the open air.

You lean against the wall, staring down the empty road, the faint echo of the broadcast still visible through the window behind you. You can see him on the screen even from here smiling, waving, wiping champagne from his face with the bracelet still there, flashing silver for half a second under the floodlights.

You inhale sharply, try to shake it off. Tell yourself it’s nothing. Tell yourself it doesn’t mean what you want it to mean. But deep down you know it does, because if he’s still wearing it after all this time, after everything… then maybe you were never as erased as you thought.

Sunday - 4:28pm - Merced Garage Post-Race

The buzz of the paddock has dulled to a low thrum by the time you find yourself back in the debrief room. Most of the Mercedes crew has filtered out, voices still echoing in the hallway, but you’re still there your brain’s still running even though your body’s trying to crash.

You don’t even hear George enter until a protein bar lands beside your keyboard with a soft thud. He’s still in his fireproofs, hair damp, energy surprisingly light. “You’ve officially hit your 'hangry' phase.”

You blink. “What?”

“You get that look,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward your face. “Very do not approach unless bearing data or snacks.”

You huff, but your mouth pulls into a reluctant smile. “Fine. Thanks.”

He leans against the wall, arms crossed. “That double-stack call? You nailed it.”

You shrug, uncomfortable with praise. “It was a gamble.”

“Calculated,” he counters. “Smart. Got us track position we wouldn't have otherwise had.”

Bono smiles, real and tired but warm. “Good instincts. You’ve got a feel for the field not many have.”

You nod, unsure what to say. They leave after that off to physio, or media, or sleep and you sit back in your chair, finally letting yourself breathe.

Monaco Afterparty - 2017

The yacht rocks gently beneath your heels, its polished deck crowded with the usual blur of music, light, and half-recognisable faces. Drivers, PR people, and Monaco’s usual hangers-on drift between champagne flutes and sponsored photo ops.

You lean against the railing, drink in hand, eyes on the glittering water even though you can feel him at your back. Max, somewhere in the crowd. Close enough to track without trying. You can hear his laugh now and then, low and familiar, over the music. The kind of laugh he only uses when he’s trying not to look like he’s checking on you too.

He’s talking to a girl you don’t recognise, gorgeous, leggy, Monaco-polished and wearing a dress that clearly wasn’t designed to be sat in. She laughs too loudly at something he says, touches his arm once, twice. You glance over, quick and neutral.

Your date says something beside you. You don’t catch it.

“What?”

He repeats the joke, and you give him a polite smile, then sip your drink to hide it. Across the deck, Max shifts. Subtle. He’s not even looking at the girl anymore. He’s looking at you.

You raise your eyebrows slightly, as if to say What?

He tilts his head, sips his drink, and shrugs. Nothing.

Eventually, he drifts over. Not right away, not obviously. Just… eventually once your date has left to grab more drinks.

“You look like you’re ready to jump in,” he says casually, nodding toward the railing.

You roll your eyes. “Just thinking about how far I’d have to swim to escape this playlist.”

He snorts. “You’re the one who always wants to come to these things.”

“I like the free drinks,” you say, raising your glass in a mock toast, he clinks his against yours.

“So not having fun then?”

You don’t turn. “Depends on your definition.”

He leans next to you, forearms braced on the railing now too, close enough for your arms to almost brush. “Saw you talking to—what’s his name again? The guy with the blazer and too many teeth.”

You snort. “He’s my date”

“Right.” he replies, tight lipped.

You glance at his glass. “What happened to Miss Bodycon?”

Max tilts his head, feigning confusion. “Who?”

You give him a look. He smiles, lazy.

He swirls the ice in his glass. “You look good tonight,” he said, quieter now.

You blinked. “Thanks.”

His eyes flicker to your mouth and then away again, too fast to mean anything.

Or maybe it means everything.

You let the moment stretch, one beat longer than friendly.

“You’re off tomorrow?”

“Dinner at Christian’s,” he says. “Which will definitely be relaxing.”

You both snort at that.

“I’ll text you if I escape early,” he adds.

You glance at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says easily.

You nod like it’s no big deal.

The breeze picks up again, tangling your hair a little. Max reaches out like he might fix it, then stops, hand halfway up before he thinks better of it. He rubs the back of his neck instead, pretending it was never about you at all.

Someone calls his name from across the deck. He doesn’t look back.

When the party finally winds down and your shoes are dangling from one hand and your date is long gone, it’s Max who walks you back up the pier. Max who says goodnight with a quiet, “See you in the morning, breakfast?” like it’s never a question.

And you say, “Always,” like it never stopped being true.

Brackley – One Week Later

Since last week you’ve thrown yourself into work, simulation modelling, long-run strategy projections, compound wear breakdowns. Anything with numbers, anything precise. You tell yourself it’s productive, necessary even, but the truth is simpler: it’s the only thing loud enough to drown out the hallway. To quiet the memory of the way Max looked at you.

Now it’s after seven, the hotel is quiet apart from the low hum of wind outside and the occasional rush of tires on wet pavement. You’re sitting cross-legged on the edge of the sofa, surrounded by spreadsheets and open tabs with your coffee long gone cold beside you. The overhead lights are dimmed, the only glow coming from your laptop screen and the reflections of rain streaming down the window.

So when someone knocks you almost don’t hear it.

The first knock is tentative. Barely there. The kind of knock that sounds like the person behind it isn’t sure they’re welcome.

The second one is louder, more certain.

You close the laptop slowly, heart already picking up a strange rhythm as your fingers hover for a beat too long on the edge of the screen. You rise from the couch, padding across the carpet with cautious steps.

When you open the door, he’s there.

Max.

His backpack hangs low on one shoulder, and in the side mesh pocket, there’s a folded plane ticket that looks like it’s been crushed and uncrushed a few times over. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you tired, unguarded, as though he still half-expects you to close the door before he gets a word out.

You don’t say anything either. Not yet.

“I flew here,” Max finally says, his voice rough around the edges.

You nod, arms folding instinctively across your chest. “I can see that.”

“I didn’t tell anyone I was coming.”

Your brow furrows slightly. “Why are you here?”

He swallows hard, rainwater dripping from his sleeves. “For you.”

He looks down for a second, runs a hand over his damp sleeve like it might help him think, and then he lifts his gaze again, steady this time, more sure.

“I know I don’t have a right to just show up like this,” he continues. “I’m not here expecting you to forgive me, or act like none of it happened. I just… I had to come. After what you said, after hearing the truth, finally hearing what happened that day I—”

You don’t move, but you feel something in your chest begin to shift.

“I was so scared back then,” Max says. “I thought staying quiet was the safer choice… or maybe just easier. I let other people decide what was best. I let him decide what was best. I thought we’d have time later to figure it out.”

His voice catches slightly, but he pushes on.

“But you disappeared. You were just… gone and I didn’t know why. I kept looking back, trying to piece it together, but I had no idea and now I do… and it hurts even more than before.”

You blink, heart aching, because his voice isn’t sharp it’s not defensive. It’s full of regret that’s had years to steep.

“I should’ve called,” he says, quieter now, but more certain. “I should’ve reached out, found you, done something. Six years is—” he exhales sharply, running a hand through his rain-soaked hair. “It’s too much. Too long to carry this.”

You glance away, not because you don’t want to look at him, but because it is too much because hearing him say everything you once begged for in silence feels like pressing your fingers against a bruise that never fully healed.

“I let you walk away,” he continues. “I’m not proud of that. I'm so incredibly sorry. I’ve thought about it every single day since. I let you think you were something to be erased from the equation, like the safest thing for both of us was pretending none of it mattered. Of course it mattered. You matter.”

“I should’ve told you then that I didn’t care what anyone else thought. That you were never a distraction. That you were the only thing that ever really made any of this—” he gestures vaguely, meaning the sport, the chaos, the pressure, all of it— “feel like it had a point.”

His voice dips again, not out of fear, but out of care. “I didn’t fight for you and I should have.”

He breathes in. “I’m not asking you to forgive me, I haven’t earned that, but I need you to know I’m not running away this time. I’m not pretending I’m fine without you. I’m not pretending this meant nothing when it means everything.”

“I don’t care how long it takes or how messy it gets. You’re not someone I can lose again. I won’t.”

You stand there, absorbing the weight of every word, your arms still crossed more for protection than resolve. You study the way his jaw tightens in silence, the slight tremble in his fingers, the way his shoulders still look like they’re holding the entire season, the entire past, all at once.

Then you speak, your voice quiet, but steady. “Don’t say all this if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean every word,” Max says, without hesitation. He takes one final step forward enough to feel close, but not enough to crowd you and when he speaks again, it’s softer.

“I’m here. I’ll fight for you.”

You don’t move. Don’t answer right away. You don’t close the door either.

That somehow is enough. Max seems to understand. His shoulders ease just a little, the weight hasn’t disappeared, but it’s become something he’s willing to carry out in the open now.

“I’ll wait,” he says, gentler this time. “However long it takes.”

You nod, almost imperceptibly.

“Okay.”

Belgium, Genk - Karting Circuit - 2008

The world was smaller then. Simpler in the way that only childhood makes possible.

The track at Genk stretched out like an endless ribbon of asphalt and trampled grass, coiled between tents and trailers and the low hum of early morning tension. Everything smelled like two-stroke fuel, fresh-cut grass, and the metallic tang of rain still clinging to the air. The sky overhead was a dull slab of cloud, the kind that never broke fully open but soaked everything slowly, turning the paddock into mud before midday.

Engines sputtered and revved like a swarm of mechanical bees in the distance, their whines building into a background hum that never quite faded. Somewhere near the registration tent, a loudspeaker crackled to life in clipped Dutch, mispronouncing someone’s name over the static.

You sat on the low concrete wall beside the paddock gate, legs swinging, the toes of your boots streaked with chalk from the track. A piece of cherry gum clicked between your teeth. Max sat next to you, elbows braced on his knees, gloves clutched in one hand, jaw set in a way that already mirrored his father’s.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His focus was always quieter than the others’ less show, more steel. The kind of pressure that clung to his skin like second nature, the way some kids carried toy cars and others carried expectation.

You nudged his knee with yours. “You’ll win.”

He didn’t look up. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you replied, as if it was the most obvious fact in the world. “You’re Max Verstappen.”

It earned you the faintest quirk of his mouth not a full smile, but the closest thing he gave before a race.

Feeling victorious at the reaction, you tugged something off your wrist. A simple hair band stretched thin, the elastic slightly frayed, a pale blue thread woven through it from where you’d once braided it in during a sleepover in some hotel room. It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t new, but it had survived more race weekends than most did.

“Here,” you said, holding it out. “For luck.”

He hesitated for a beat weighing superstition against logic, or maybe just taking in the fact that you were offering him something personal without making a big deal out of it then lifted his wrist. You looped the band around it, pulling it snug. He turned his hand over slowly, studying the pale blue line against his skin like it meant more than what it was.

“You think it’ll actually help?” he murmured.

You tilted your head, considering him. “Only if you keep it.”

He followed your gaze toward the grid, where other kids were already clambering into their karts, engines coughing awake, exhaust mixing with the chill of the morning fog. Something in his face shifted not fear, but a kind of seriousness that didn’t belong on someone so young, as if he understood the weight of this tiny world even then.

Then he looked back at you, something softer in his eyes. “You’ll be here after?”

“Always,” you said without hesitation.

It was the kind of thing only kids could say and truly believe. No irony. No self-consciousness.

You smiled, wide and unguarded, then held out your pinky. “Promise.” He hooked his finger through yours, tight and quick like he needed to get it done before the moment passed. “Promise.”

A second later, someone called his name Jos, probably, voice sharp through the fog and he was up, jogging backward toward his kart, fireproofs flapping at his ankles, boots slapping wet pavement. Just before turning the corner, he held up his wrist, the hair tie sitting crooked and flimsy shaking it proudly like a banner.

You waved until he disappeared into the engine noise and fog, heart buzzing with something you didn’t yet have a name for. Even then, it had always been him.

Thursday - 09:31AM

You barely make it through the doors of the Mercedes hospitality unit before the storm greets you not in rain, not in raised voices, but in sharp whispers and quick, incredulous glances that ricochet around the room like ricocheting sparks on dry tinder.

“Did you see the photos?”

“What the hell was he thinking?”

“This has to be a PR nightmare.”

“Toto’s going to lose his mind.”

The tension is unmistakable and it has nothing to do with strategy briefings, tyre compounds, or anything remotely technical. This isn’t about car performance or a pit lane scandal. It’s personal. Phones are clutched in white-knuckled grips. PR coordinators whisper in tight circles, faces pale and lips pursed, as if the very shape of this story might shift depending on how quietly they say his name. Just beyond the glass doors, the media pen hums with barely-contained glee, not over regulation changes or late-season upgrades, but because someone finally gave them something.

You already know exactly what they're talking about. You knew before you even left your hotel this morning. The moment you rolled over in bed, eyes still foggy from sleep, and saw the screen glow with a single notification his name.

@maxverstappen1

📸 A carousel of five slightly blurry, weathered printed pictures:

You on the pit wall in 2018, only half in frame, the curve of your shoulder resting near his as Max leans forward, mid-laugh, grinning at something only the two of you shared.

A karting garage, dated 2012, Max holding up a small trophy like it’s gold-plated history, but his eyes aren’t on the prize. They’re on you. You’re grinning up at him, grease-smudged and sunburned.

A beach holiday photo from 2017. You’re on his back, laughing into the crook of his neck, your hair a mess of wind and salt. His hands are braced around your thighs, mouth caught mid-sentence.

A blurry snap from a factory tour his hoodie draped over your shoulders, your back turned to the camera as he follows a step behind, he’s looking at you like you hung the stars.

The last one, FP1 2015. You’re standing just outside the garage beside his car, hair braided tight, face focused, one hand on his helmet like it belonged to you.

Caption: Always side by side.

He hadn’t asked. He didn’t clear it with anyone. You hadn’t even seen some of the photos before, candid, quiet moments buried deep in time, snapshots not taken for anyone but the two of you, blurry with motion and memory and something more tender than you remembered allowing yourself to hold on to.

Yet when you saw it still tangled in hotel sheets, heart rising in your throat it didn’t feel like a betrayal, it didn’t feel like a strategic leak or a desperate attempt to steer a narrative.

It wasn’t the start of some calculated media strategy built to reshape headlines or pacify speculation. It didn’t feel like damage control or nostalgia bait or even a way to get ahead of the next round of questions.

It felt like a decision, intentional and unpolished. Entirely his.

He was proud. Of you. Of what you had shared. Of what you meant to him then and now.

For the first time since it all fell apart he wasn’t afraid of what anyone would say. He wasn’t bracing for backlash, or adjusting the truth to make it easier to digest. He wasn’t protecting the version of himself the world expected he was protecting the truth instead.

He chose you, publicly. Unapologetically. For the first time in years you felt like something in your chest, the part that had been clenched tight since 2019 was finally starting to let go.

The reaction is instant. The internet doesn’t pause. It doesn’t wait for context or clarification. It moves, fast and feverish, like blood rushing to the heart of something it’s been waiting for without even knowing it.

Old clips once lost to the endless scroll of media day fluff and behind-the-scenes footage are suddenly everywhere. More fans than ever are digging through years of archive content with surgical precision, resurrecting every second that now reads differently, every glance, every half-smile, every instinctive touch that had been brushed off at the time as friendly or fleeting.

A video from 2018 goes viral first: Max grabbing your wrist during the chaos of a post-qualifying debrief, pulling you back just as a crowd of reporters surges forward. You glance up, startled, and he doesn’t even look at you his grip is firm but natural, like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s always known where you are without even thinking.

Then another: Media day at Spa, same year. You’re mid-banter, rolling your eyes while Max mutters something under his breath. The camera catches your grin just before you fire back. He smirks. You shove his shoulder lightly. He pretends to stumble.

A quieter clip, barely ten seconds long. Hungary, 2017. It’s hot. The paddock is buzzing. You’re distracted, flipping through a book in the background while Max finishes an interview. As he walks off, he passes you, notices the sweat on your brow and without a word offers you his water bottle. You take it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you needs to.

@maxwolffcanon: WHEN SHE DISAPPEARED IN 2019??? IT WAS HIM. IT WAS ALWAYS HIM.

Beneath it, fan art is already in progress rough sketches of you and Max on opposite sides of a garage barrier, eyes locked, rain streaking down glass between you.

@vettelbaby94: This is the best slow-burn to ever slow or burn.

They post a compilation of every suspiciously charged interaction between you and Max from 2015 to 2019. The video ends on a freeze frame of Max looking back at you in the background of Abu Dhabi 2019, expression unreadable, just before the paddock lost sight of you for good.

@f1dailyfeed: Is this the soft launch of the decade?

@mercedesgworl: The beach pic? The karting photo? My heart wasn’t ready.

@champagneproblems44 someone check on toto wolff because his daughter and strategist just became the lead in an f1 love story and i KNOW he’s sweating

@softtires: “Always side by side.”It’s giving childhood friends. It’s giving “I never moved on.”

@F1wagwatch: Some of y’all are just now realizing she was always there. She’s been part of his story from day one.

@vercedes: Toto after seeing Max soft launch his daughter via blurry beach pics...

@lap1loveletters the real 2025 battle is between my will to live and this max/y/n lore

@ynloremaster: max posting polaroids was him ringing the bell. she better open the damn door

@florenceandthepit lets be real this is way more interesting than this years title fight

@maxitaxi33 this is why he’s been driving like he’s haunted all season. he WAS.

@wolffwatchers imagine dating max verstappen and thinking he’s not gonna be terminally obsessed with you forever. couldn’t be me.

@wagsinwaiting i think we're allowed to be a bit parasocial over this some of us have been waiting YEARS

Racing World Digest: Soft Launch or Sentimental Glitch? Verstappen Posts Rare Throwback

In a surprising move, Max Verstappen shared a series of nostalgic photos from his early F1 days, including several featuring Y/N, once a familiar face in the paddock and daughter of Mercedes TP Toto Wolff. Fans were quick to dissect the post, which lacked context but brimmed with personal history. No official comment from either camp yet.

Sky Sports Commentary (Natalie Pinkham)

“It’s not every day we see Max open up like that online. Whatever the intent, that post was deeply personal. It struck a chord with fans who’ve followed his career since karting.”

Thursday, Midday - Hospitality Lounge

You spot them before you even round the corner a huddle of elbows and lowered voices half‑pretending to look over briefing notes but really doing a terrible job of hiding whatever’s on the glowing screen in the middle of their little circle.

“Did you see the one on the beach?” Liam asks, tapping the screen.

Ollie mutters. “My engineer was saying she used to be around all the time back in the Red Bull junior days.”

“Yeah, but this is the first time Max has ever posted something like this,” Gabi points out. “He doesn’t do this kind of thing. Ever.”

Ollie raises an eyebrow. “So what he just woke up and chose to drop a memory lane carousel out of nowhere?”

Kimi shrugs. “Maybe it’s not out of nowhere.”

“Do you think he edited the caption like fifty times?” Ollie asks.

Gabi grins. “I bet he tried emojis and deleted them.”

Then Ollie says, “That last photo though, what does it mean?”

Liam gives him a look. “You are way too invested in this.”

“I’m just saying, it’s not nothing!”

Then the door swings open. You step inside flipping through a briefing packet, clearly mid-task. You look up just once and clock them instantly. All four straighten up like students caught talking during a lecture.

“Funny,” you say, lightly amused. “I don’t remember this being part of the media briefing.”

There’s a scramble of non-responses.

“We weren’t—”

“Just checking the weather…”

“Track walk timings—”

“—Totally professional.”

You narrow your eyes, not unkindly. “Right.”

Ollie opens his mouth, closes it, then points at Liam. “He started it.”

Liam doesn’t flinch just raises his hands.

Kimi mutters, blinking like he’s still processing it. “Those photos go way back.”

“Did you see the 2012 one?” Gabi adds. “He’s not even looking at the trophy he’s looking at you.”

Kimi just shrinks into his hoodie.

You walk over, grab a can of sparkling water from the mini fridge, then glance at the phone still open on the table paused on the second photo, the karting garage from 2012. You smile, soft and private, then look back at them.

You narrow your eyes. “Do I need to remind you that I’ve seen all your junior contract photos and know exactly how to leak them to a group chat full of bored fans?”

They watch you go, slightly embarrassed, slightly impressed.

“Okay,” Gabi mutters when you’re gone. “That was terrifying.”

Kimi exhales slowly. “She’s the best.”

Liam just nods. “Max is done for.”

Thursday - 09:56am - Red Bull Hospitality

GP corners him just inside the back hallway, away from the press and the chaos, jaw tense as he throws a hand through his hair like he’s trying not to implode.

“You did what?” he hisses, eyes scanning Max’s face as though waiting for him to crack or at least look a little less calm.

Max doesn’t even blink. He simply shrugs, voice maddeningly even. “It was time.”

GP lets out a groan so deep it borders on theatrical. “Mate your social team is probably melting down back there. They’re gonna need CPR.” He laughs once, sharp and incredulous, then shakes his head. “Good luck.”

Max takes a sip from the water bottle in his hand, posture relaxed, like he didn’t just lob a grenade into the tightly wound machinery of his team’s public image strategy. “Let them ask,” he says, quiet but certain. “Let everyone ask.”

He doesn’t say what’s really happening, doesn’t mention the hundreds of messages piling up on his phone, the sudden surge of fan edits, the threads cataloging every shared look, the viral TikToks syncing their history to piano ballads.

He certainly doesn’t bring up the ones that matter most: the quiet messages, the DMs filled with Finally. With I always knew.

This was Max telling the world what he wants.

Thursday - 10:17am - Toto’s Office

The room is quiet, Toto stands near the window, the muted light from the cloudy skies casting long shadows across the glass-topped desk. One hand holds his phone, the other braced against the sill as he stares at the screen. From where you stand you already know what he’s looking at.

The now-infamous carousel.

Your breath catches somewhere in your chest, your fingers curling slightly at your sides as you wait bracing for the inevitable fallout. The lecture. The frustration. The cold reminder that you are a strategist, not a story. That you were supposed to outgrow the era of hallway glances and back-of-the-garage confessions.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just stares at the screen for a long, heavy moment, jaw tight, unreadable. Then, with the kind of patience only age and heartbreak can teach a man, he exhales slowly, sets the phone face-down on the desk, and finally turns to you.

“I’m not going to ask where all this has come from,” he says, his voice carrying that distinct, grounded Austrian calm that somehow makes everything feel heavier. “I know where it came from.”

You shift your weight every muscle stiff with restraint. Standing in front of his desk surrounded by technical briefings and whiteboards filled with data, you feel like a teenager again, young, messy, standing on the edge of a mistake you haven't even made yet. Waiting to be scolded. To be told you’re reckless, unprofessional, emotional.

Instead Toto leans back in his chair folding his hands with careful deliberation. “I saw you after that hallway,” he says, voice gentler than you expect. “After he stopped you. I saw your face when you walked back in.”

You glance away, throat tight.

“I haven’t seen you look like that since 2019,” he continues. “Not even during your best days here. You were present, yes, but… never quite whole. You’ve been sharp and focused, excellent even, but something was missing.”

He pauses. Then says, more softly: “You miss him. That much is obvious.”

The admission hits harder than you want it to because it’s true and hearing it aloud, from him, shatters the last layer of detachment you’d been clinging to. He watches you for a beat longer, eyes narrowed in that particular way that’s both assessment and care.

“If he hurts you again—” he begins.

You nod before he can finish.

“I know,” you murmur, voice quiet. “You’ll kill him.”

Toto tilts his head, almost amused. “No. I’ll make him wish I had.”

There’s a long silence between you, one that’s not quite heavy, more reflective, more personal. A silence that only exists between a father and a daughter who have been through something together.

Then, to your surprise, he lets out a short laugh.

“I can’t quite believe he did that,” he says, still shaking his head like he hasn’t quite made peace with the absurdity of it. “That boy has been media-trained since he could walk, hardened by more press briefings than most politicians and yet…”

He trails off, still baffled.

You blink, uncertain. “You’re… not angry?”

He gives a slight shrug. “A little. There are going to be questions we’ll have to answer. A lot of calls. I’m screening the PR team right now.”

Then he rises, pushing his chair back, walking around the desk until he’s standing in front of you. “But before I’m your team principal,” he says quietly, “I’m your father. That matters to me more.”

Your chest tightens. A smile tugs at your lips despite yourself.

“I trust you.” he says defiantly.

He squeezes your shoulder once, then pulls away, straightening his cuffs like the moment never happened. Already shifting back into the professional mask he wears so well.

You feel it anyway. The protection. The acceptance. You feel like you’re allowed to hope.

F1TV Reporter:

“There’s been a lot of noise around Max’s social post and his personal life recently. Any official comment?”

Gianpiero Lambiase (sighs):

“No comment on Max’s personal life, but... I will say everyone feels a little more at peace lately.”

Sky Sports – Pit Lane Walk with Martin Brundle

Martin Brundle: “Well, if it isn’t the sharpest mind in Brackley. Still running the numbers or just here to keep the boys in line?”

You: “Depends on the day. Today it’s tyre data. Tomorrow? Herding engineers.”

Martin: “Been a few interesting looks coming your way this weekend.”

You: “Nothing gets the paddock talking like a woman doing her job, Martin.”

Martin (laughs):“Fair point but come on now, we’ve all seen the photos. There’s a certain World Champion who looked very... nostalgic this week.”

You (grinning): “Ah, nostalgia. It’s a powerful tool Martin. So is a good caption.”

Martin (amused): “You’re not going to give us anything, are you? Alright then, one serious question what’s impressed you most about the current grid since your return?”

You: “The rookies are fearless. The midfield is chaotic in the best way. And some of the veterans… they’ve grown up.”

Martin: “Anyone in particular?”

You: “Now Martin, that sounds dangerously close to a personal question.”

Martin (laughing): “Fair enough. You’ve still got that media sidestep perfected. We’ll leave you to it.”

Sky Sports Broadcast - FP2

David Croft: “Max Verstappen coming through sector two looking... sharp.”

Karun Chandhok: “He’s always composed from the off, but there’s something... settled about him today.”

Crofty: “Wouldn’t have anything to do with his Instagram post this morning, would it?”

Karun: “Well,I’m not in the PR department Crofty, but let’s just say... a few things from his past seem to be resurfacing in a good way.”

Charles, Lando, and George are standing side by side, fresh from qualifying, still zipped into their suits. The heat of the day clings to their skin, but their energy is high and they've somehow ended up in the same interview.

Reporter: “So a certain post from a certain Dutch World Champion has set the internet on fire. Any thoughts?”

Lando immediately throws up his hands: “Nope. Not getting involved. I value my life.”

George, mock serious: “The best part? As long as they’re taking up headline space, no one is asking me about why I overshot Turn 6.”

Charles, faux innocent: “Or why I was late to briefing.”

Reporter (laughing): “So you’re saying it’s strategic?”

Lando: “Listen, we’re just saying… let the romantics carry the storyline. We’ll be here quietly escaping you lot in peace.”

George: “Exactly. I support them fully. For entirely selfish reasons.”

Charles adds with a dramatic sigh: “True love is a sacrifice. We thank them for theirs.”

All three dissolve into laughter, someone mutters “they’re going to kill us,” and the interview ends with a wide pan shot of the three of them walking away, still chuckling, leaving the audience to speculate just how much of it was real.

As the weeks pass it's strange how easily it becomes routine again.

Not the way it was, not the reckless closeness of childhood, not the intensity of those early paddock years but something quieter, steadier, more deliberate. Max doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for a second chance outright. He simply begins to show up in the places where you don’t expect him, and more importantly, in the ways you care about most.

He doesn’t demand to be let in, doesn’t corner you with grand declarations or apologies that expect anything in return. He never says give me another chance. Instead he shows you what it would look like, what he looks like now, and how deeply he understands what he did wrong.

He doesn’t ask for forgiveness. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t try to pretend that history didn’t happen. He carries it with him visible in the softness of his tone, in the patience in his eyes, in the way he leaves space for you to come to him, always with the unspoken promise that he’ll be there when you do.

Friday - 10:05pm – Your Hotel Room

He knocks once, just like he has every night for the last three race weekends.

You open the door and he’s there, hair flattened from the cap he must’ve worn during media rounds, takeaway dinner in one hand and two drinks balanced precariously in the other. He doesn’t try to come in immediately. He waits for you to decide. You always let him in.

He drops onto the hotel-room floor without asking, unfolding the food on the low table, offering you dessert knowing that’s what you want most, while you settle on the edge of the sofa, legs crossed, laptop still glowing with colour-coded data points. He watches you work for a while not the way someone watches something confusing, but the way someone watches something they respect. You can feel it in the corners of the room, in the silence that settles comfortably between you.

“You always used to do this,” he murmurs after a while, eyes flicking toward your notes from last week. “See things no one else bothered to look for.”

You glance over at him with a light laugh. “I think it’s just pattern recognition.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Everyone sees patterns. You see the reason behind them.”

The compliment lands more deeply than you expect, maybe because it’s never been something he’s said before. Maybe because six years ago he was sometimes too tangled in his own chaos to notice your brilliance.

Now he notices everything. The way you narrate your strategy notes under your breath. The way your brow furrows when a graph doesn’t match your instinct. The way you tap your pen against your knee when you’re on the verge of a breakthrough.

He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, quietly, as if learning the architecture of your thoughts is part of the work he’s set himself.

When he notices you watching, he shrugs. “Still trying to keep up with you.”

Three Weeks Earlier — Media Pen

A reporter leans against the barrier, mic in hand, wearing that half-smile he uses when he’s fishing for something he shouldn’t be.

“So, Max,” he says, glancing toward the cluster of Mercedes staff behind you, “some people are saying her return season is a PR strategy. Optics management. Human interest. You know how these things go, she's not cut out for the job over there at your rivals.”

You’re not even looking at Max you’re focused on the tablet in your hands, heat radiating off the asphalt, but you feel the shift in him like a drop in air pressure.

He straightens, expression cooling in a way you’ve only ever seen when he’s about to say something he won’t let PR fix later.

“No,” Max says, voice firm but eerily calm. “That’s not what this is.”

The reporter blinks, surprised by the tone. Max continues, stepping slightly closer to the barrier, not enough to be aggressive, but enough to make sure the cameras catch every word.

“She’s here because she’s good. Better than most people will ever give her credit for. Don’t reduce her to PR spin just because you don’t understand what she does.”

The reporter taken aback, tries to laugh it off. “Alright, alright no offence meant—”

Max shakes his head once. “If you want to talk about someone’s professionalism you should probably look at your own.”

Your heart stumbles, not just because he’s defending you but because of the way he says it. Calm. Direct. Unapologetic. With none of the tension you’d expect, none of the fear of headlines or backlash or the weight of someone else’s expectations.

He’s not doing it to be gallant. He’s doing it because he understands that silence has consequences and that this time he refuses to be silent.

When you walk past him on the way back to the paddock, he doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t stop you, doesn’t smirk in victory.

He just looks at you, eyes softening the moment you meet his gaze, a question written in the tilt of his head:

Was that okay? Did I help or did I make it worse?

You give him the smallest nod.

It’s enough to make him exhale.

Two Weeks Earlier - Hotel Lobby

You’re tucked into the corner of the hotel lobby, laptop open while other staff filter in and out, dripping water across the marble floor.

Max walks in from the far entrance, shaking rain from his hair, jacket plastered to his shoulders. He spots you immediately, like gravity, and crosses the room.

“I thought you’d be at dinner,” he says.

“I told them I’d catch up,” you reply. “Needed to finish something.”

He nods, gaze flicking to your screen. “You always did your best thinking at night.”

You can’t answer. Not right away. Because it isn’t the memory that hits you it’s the fact that he still carries it. That he kept that silly fact tucked somewhere inside him long after you thought he’d outgrown every part of you.

After a moment, he says quietly, “I can stay with you for a bit, if you want.”

Not You need help?

Not Let me fix this.

Not I’ll tell you what I think.

You nod, and he sits not too close, not crowding just there.It’s small. Almost nothing, but it’s the kind of nothing you feel for hours.

One Week Earlier - Hotel Suite

It’s late, the lighting is low and warm, the music questionable, and the poker game downright ruthless.

No cameras. Just a strange mix of drivers and insiders slouched around a table littered with empty glasses, crumpled napkins, and poker chips stacked like tiny fortresses. There’s a Bluetooth speaker hissing out a terrible club remix and someone (probably Lando) keeps changing the playlist mid-song.

You're leaned back in a chair with your legs crossed and a drink balanced lightly in your hand, surveying your modest but powerful pile of chips like a general preparing a takeover.

Pierre fans his cards out slowly, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t trust you.”

You don’t even blink. “You shouldn’t.”

George groans from across the table, already halfway through collecting his losses. “I swear she gets scarier every time we play.”

Carlos smirks. “She’s running the table tonight.”

“Monaco, 2018,” Esteban says under his breath, pointing a finger at you. “You remember? You took Ricciardo’s entire wallet.”

“I didn’t take it,” you say primly. “He wagered it. I just… won.”

“Semantics,” he deadpans, kicking his legs under the table.

Lando leans forward from where he’s folded, propping his chin on his hand with a gleeful expression. “Max used to say never play cards with her. Said she could read people. Psychic powers maybe”

The table laughs. You lift your glass, hiding the flicker of something behind the rim.

Still, you recover quickly. “Well. He should’ve learned to bluff better.” You eye Max across the table and he just smirks.

“Oh, damn,” George says, dragging out the words.

Pierre holds up his hands in surrender. “You see this? This is exactly what I mean.”

The hand ends. You win. Again. You start stacking the chips in neat, smug columns.

“I’m out,” George says, pushing back from the table. “I’ve got a debrief in the morning and if I’m slow, Toto will personally chain me to a simulator.”

“Tell him I said hi,” you say sweetly, pulling your jacket off the back of your chair.

Pierre’s grumbling in French. Esteban is dramatically counting his remaining chips. Carlos is trying to convince Alex he was cheated somehow.

Charles calls after you as you head for the door, “Don’t let Mercedes PR know we’re corrupting their strategist.”

You flash a smile over your shoulder. “Too late.”

You slip out into the hallway cooler, quieter, and empty except for the hum of distant vending machines and the soft buzz of LED exit signs. You walk slower now, jacket slung over your shoulder, the air outside lighter than it’s felt in years.

“See this is exactly why I never played poker with you.”

The voice comes from behind you familiar, amused, and unfairly warm in the quiet.

You pause, turning. Max is leaning against the wall. His hair’s a little messy and he’s watching you with that infuriating, crooked half-smile that once meant everything and still kind of does.

You arch a brow. “You always claimed you were too tired. I assumed it was just fear.”

Max pushes off the wall and walks toward you slowly. “It was respect. I know a lost cause when I see one.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t stop smiling. “You want another round, prepared to be humiliated again?”

“I came to say goodnight,” he says easily, stepping beside you. “Any humiliation was just a bonus.”

You laugh, shaking your head.

Max’s voice softens. “Seriously, though… it was nice. Hearing you laugh like that again.”

He looks at you for a long moment, then says, quieter now, “You’re really good at this.”

“At poker?”

“At all of it.” His voice is sincere now, anchored. “The way you carry yourself. The work you do. The way you fit in any room and light it up without letting it change who you are.”

You blink, caught off guard for a second. Of all the things you expected tonight, that wasn’t it.

“And?” you ask, like it’s a challenge.

“You might have won tonight but,” he smiles, a little slower this time. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

It’s quiet again, but your pulse is loud. You wonder if he can hear it or if he feels it too.

You nudge him toward the exit. “Come on Verstappen. Walk me back.”

Max falls into step beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, your strides naturally matching like they always used to.

By the time Qatar comes around, it’s obvious, not to the paddock, not to the media, not even to your parents, but to you, that Max has been working at this.

He listens when you speak, not with impatience or distraction, but with the quiet focus of someone who finally understands what he once took for granted. He makes space for you, not just because he’s trying to win you back, but because he finally sees the shape of the space you’ve always deserved.

He protects without overshadowing.

He learns the new parts of you and slowly, so slowly you don’t even notice it happening and the distance between you begins to close.

Not with one sentimental moment but with dozens of tiny ones.

Weeks of them.

Little pieces of proof he keeps offering you, day after day, as if trying to rebuild something brick by brick, patient enough to know it can’t be rushed, determined enough not to let the foundation crack again.

He’s already chosen you and he’s not going anywhere.

Wednesday – 11:56 PM — Abu Dhabi

You scroll endlessly, letting the noise wash over you without really taking any of it in. Notifications. Mentions. Fan edits that leave your chest tight. Memes, fancams, comments in every language.

One post, buried among the noise, makes you pause.

A screenshot from an old behind-the-scenes documentary. You and Max, just teenagers, sitting side by side on the pit wall before a practice session in 2015. You’re laughing at something off-camera, and his gaze is fixed entirely on you, eyes shining.

@y/nmax4ever: He’s only ever smiled like this when he looks at her 🥹

You exhale softly, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth, blinking away the sting behind your eyes. There's a weight in your chest that hasn't quite left you in six years.

Then your phone lights up with a message.

Max:

Meet me at the track. Rooftop. You know the way.

You don’t need to ask which rooftop.

You still remember the shortcuts. The back stairwell behind the catering unit. The old service ladder wedged between the media building and the hospitality suites. The one you both used to sneak up when you were younger, when everything was still easy, before things like reputations and legacy and heartbreak made everything so complicated.

By the time you climb the final rung, the paddock below is still glowing in low orange lights quiet now, tucked into the hush of midnight. The clatter and chatter of the day has faded, replaced by the distant whirr of generators and the hum of cooling systems. It feels like you’ve stepped out of time, like the world has been muted just for this.

Max is already there.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the edge of the roof, overlooking the pit straight, the soft wind tousling his hair. In front of him, he’s laid out a soft blanket, there's two takeaway cups, a box of pretzel snacks you used to love, and a thermos. It's not grand, not staged for cameras, but it’s careful and intentional a silent gesture.

He simply shifts to the side, making room. You sit beside him, knees touching, and for a long time, neither of you speaks.

Not because there’s nothing to say but because, finally, there’s no urgency to say it. Not yet.

Down below, the track sleeps. Everything you’ve both built your lives around feels small from here. Distant. Contained. But up here, above the noise, it’s just you and him. Like it used to be.

Max breaks the silence first. His voice is soft. “They locked the fence by Turn 10, can't sneak that way anymore.”

You glance sideways. “Guess they finally caught on.”

He exhales a laugh, low and familiar. “Took them long enough.”

You both fall quiet again. For a moment it’s just the sound of your breathing, in and out, matching like it always used to. Like muscle memory.

“I think Lando’s trying to recruit me to McLaren,” you murmur, lips quirking.

Max hums, amused. “I don’t think he’ll be the only one trying to after this season.”

“He promised me papaya cupcakes.”

“I’ll bake you cupcakes.”

“You can’t bake.”

“I’ll learn.”

That earns a real smile from you the kind that doesn’t feel forced or guarded. When you glance over he’s already watching you.

“I’m still a little worried you’ll leave again,” he admits.

You shake your head slowly. “I thought about it, at the beginning.”

He nods, eyes lowering to the rooftop beneath his hands. “Do you regret it?”

You tilt your head. “Coming back?”

“Yes... but more letting me back in.”

The question hangs there, suspended between you like it’s holding its breath.

You exhale slowly, eyes drifting out toward the empty track. “I know people say you should live without regrets, but… I regretted leaving more times than I can count. I’d be sitting in some café halfway across the world, staring at my phone, trying to convince myself not to text you.” Your voice softens. “But maybe we had to go through all of it to get here, even if we missed out on a lot on the way.”

He nods, quiet. The wind shifts.

“I’ll keep showing up,” he says. “Every day. For as long as you’ll let me.”

You believe him.

You reach into your jacket pocket and slowly pull out a worn photo, the same photo he sent you the Polaroid version of months ago now. The one you kept, even when it hurt too much to look at. The photo of you both post 2016 win, laughing, joy unfiltered.

“I have a copy too. I never let go of it,” you whisper.

He takes it gently, reverently, like he’s holding a piece of his own history.

From his wallet he pulls something of his own, the Polaroid. You stare at it for a long moment, the versions of yourselves looking up at you. Two kids who had no idea what was coming. Then you turn toward him.

You seem him take a breath, brace himself. When he speaks, it’s not a grand gesture, not a dramatic monologue. It’s simple. Honest.

“I love you.”

He says it like he’s carried it for years, like it’s been sitting just behind his ribs, burning through him slowly, waiting for the moment he finally couldn’t keep it in anymore. You can’t help but gasp as cliche as it is, gasp at hearing the words you’ve waited for for six years, maybe even longer.

“I’ve loved you for longer than I knew how to explain,” he says, voice rough around the edges as if each word scrapes past a decade of silence. “I didn’t say it back then because I was scared. I didn’t know what to do with something that big, something that felt like it could change everything.”

He shakes his head slightly, eyes flickering toward the pit straight as if remembering another lifetime. “I thought that if I said it out loud, I’d mess everything up. That I’d break us or let someone else’s voice convince me it was a mistake.” He swallows, throat tight. “I thought staying quiet would keep you close.”

A soft, humourless breath leaves him.

“Instead it pushed you away and I let it.”

His voice cracks.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, the words trembling with sincerity. “For waiting so long. For saying it now when I should’ve said it years ago. For every version of you that needed to hear it and never got the chance.” He draws in a breath, steadying. “You don’t have to say it back. I just… I need you to know.”

The wind brushes over the rooftop, lifting the edge of the blanket he laid out, nudging a strand of your hair across your cheek. The world feels impossibly still, a quiet suspended between heartbeats.

You look at him, really look, and in that moment, you see it all:

The boy who wore your hairband around his wrist in a muddy karting paddock. The teenager who shared room-service fries on hotel floors. The young man who stood on podiums with your name hidden somewhere beneath his pulse. The one who lost you. The one who fought his way back. The one sitting in front of you now, open in a way you’ve never seen, asking for nothing but a chance.

You’ve held your love for him like a secret locked behind bone, tucked away, protected, guarded, buried beneath everything else you had to build to survive losing him.

But now? Now it rises in your throat too fast, too certain, too real to hold back any longer.

You shift closer, knees brushing his. “Max,” you breathe, “I’ve been trying not to say it for almost a decade.”

“I love you.”

“I loved you then,” you continue, voice steadying, “and I love you now. I love you and I don’t think I ever stopped.”

He lets out a sound half‑laugh, half‑sob, feather-light but devastating, shoulders loosening as if your words have finally allowed him to breathe. Then he leans forward, forehead resting against yours, breath unsteady with relief, disbelief, and something so tender it almost hurts.

“I love you,” he whispers again, softer this time, like it’s finally safe to say it.

You close your eyes, letting the words settle between you, warm and solid and real.

He leans in slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to stop him, to hesitate, to turn away, but you don’t move, not even a fraction. Your breath catches but you stay exactly where you are, watching him with a kind of quiet certainty that’s been years in the making.

Finally… finally, his lips touch yours.

The kiss is soft at first. Just the barest brush, reverent, like he’s still not sure you’re real or that this moment won’t vanish if he closes his eyes.

It’s the kind of kiss that says I need you before it dares to say anything else. It glows, warm and tender and full of everything you both tried to bury.

Then like something breaks open between you the quiet dissolves because neither of you can hold back anymore.

You breathe him in and kiss him harder. He meets you with equal force, his hands sliding into your hair, tilting your face to deepen the kiss like he’s starved for it, starved for you. It’s no longer soft. It’s fierce. Years of tension unspooling in seconds. A collision, not an accident.

Your hands grip the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, and he lets you, lets you take, lets you want, lets you have him. His thumb brushes your cheek but the rest of him is all motion: mouth, hands, heart, urgency.

He tastes like rain and memory, like the version of you that never stopped loving him.

When you finally break apart, it’s not because you want to it’s because you have to. Breathless, chests rising in tandem, lips tingling from the rush of it.

The air between you is charged. It doesn’t feel like the beginning of something new. It feels like finally returning to something that never should’ve been lost.

When you finally pull apart, foreheads pressed together, breathing shared, everything around you feels different, lighter, more real.

Max smiles, just barely. “Took me long enough.”

You whisper against his lips, “You’re here now.”

China - Max's Hotel Room - 2018

The carpet is ugly that generic hotel pattern of swirling beige and navy but it’s soft under bare feet and at this hour it’s the only place in the building that feels alive. The race ended hours ago. The celebrations are long over. Everyone else has either gone to bed or disappeared into team briefings and press obligations.

Except you and Max.

He’s still more boy than man in the way his laughter bounces off the walls. His hair is damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. He’s wearing an oversized team T-shirt and a pair of grey sweats, and his bare toes drum against the carpet. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the sofa a tray of room-service fries balanced between you.

“This is a terrible movie,” Max says, wiping his hand on a napkin, though he’s smiling in that easy, lopsided way that means he’s having a better time than he’ll ever admit.

“That’s the point,” you shoot back, reaching for another fry. “You’re supposed to laugh at it, not analyse it.”

He scoffs playfully. “I can’t help it. The plot makes no sense.”

“The plot is that two idiots are in love and keep messing it up.”

He turns to look at you, something flickering in his expression, amusement maybe. “It’s unrealistic.”

You throw a fry at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands in his lap. He pretends to be offended, gasping dramatically before popping it in his mouth.

“Gross,” you groan. “That’s unsanitary.”

“I’ve eaten worse,” he says through a grin, eyes still glinting with that post-race high, that restless kind of energy that never really fades in him.

You shake your head, laughing, your shoulder brushing his. It’s an accident, probably, but neither of you moves away. The proximity feels normal by now.

He nudges you lightly with his elbow. “Promise we’ll still be doing this when we’re old and boring?”

You grin, turning toward him. “Define old.”

He thinks for a moment, lips twitching. “Like… thirty”

You snort. “That’s not old.”

He smirks.

“Fine,” you say, picking up another fry and aiming it like a dart. “Deal. We’ll sit in another overpriced hotel, eating terrible food, watching worse movies, and you’ll still complain about the plot.”

He tilts his head, studying you with an expression you can’t quite name soft around the edges, like he’s memorising this moment without meaning to.

Years later when you think of before, before everything broke, before silence and distance and growing up too fast this is what you’ll remember.

The almost pink light flickering gently above you.

And that ridiculous promise…

“When we’re old and boring.”

You’ll think about it every time you see him again.

Thursday – 7:43PM - Abu Dhabi

The paddock has quieted, the chaos of media day reduced to the occasional thud of gear cases being rolled and the low drone of generators humming through the night air. A few lights flicker inside the hospitality buildings, but the rest of the world seems to have gone still.

Max walks with his head down, hoodie pulled up, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He’s not hiding, not exactly, but he’s aware that the timing of his presence here could raise questions. He doesn’t care. Not anymore.

He’s halfway across the walkway when he hears the voice.

“Took you long enough.”

Max freezes. Not because he’s scared but because he knows that voice better than most in this paddock.

Toto.

The older man is leaning against the corner of the Mercedes unit, arms folded, suit jacket long gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There’s a coffee in one hand, though Max would bet anything it’s got a hint of something else in. He looks calm, but Max knows better. Calm is what Toto Wolff uses when he’s feeling everything else.

Max approaches slowly.

Toto raises a brow. “You’ve walked past our garage three times now.”

Max shrugs. “Didn’t know if I’d be welcome.”

There’s a long pause before they go inside.

Max sits, grounded in place by something heavier than fear. He’s faced world champions wheel-to-wheel at 300kph, but this conversation carries a different kind of gravity. The kind where one wrong word could undo everything.

“I’m not going to hurt her” Max says eventually.

“I know,” Toto nods once, taking a slow sip from his mug. “But knowing something and trusting it are two different things.”

Max lets out a slow breath. He expected that, honestly, he respects it.

“She’s always been the stubborn one,” Toto says after a beat, eyes drifting toward the paddock. “Even as a kid. Smart as hell. Always did what felt right, not what looked easy. I never tried to stop her just tried to make sure she didn’t get hurt.”

Max smiles faintly despite himself. “She's still stubborn.”

“She doesn’t run from things easily,” Toto continues. “Which means she didn’t leave lightly. She left because she believed no one cared enough to stop her.”

“I know,” Max admits. “I thought staying quiet was protecting her when really I was just protecting myself. She believed in me,” Max says, eyes tightening. “Before anyone else did. Before I even believed in myself. And I let her go. I let her walk away and I told myself I’d reach out later, when the time was better, when I was more sure, when I could handle it.”

“You matter to her too,” Toto says after a beat. “God help me, you always have.”

Max looks at him.

“I needed to hear you say it.” Toto straightens. “Because the last time she let herself care about you she broke and I won’t watch that happen again.”

“You won’t have to,” Max says, voice firmer now. “I’m not a kid anymore. I know what I want. And I know what I lost.”

“She’s not a girl anymore either,” Toto says. “She’s a grown woman. An important member of this team in her own right.”

“I know,” Max says softly. “I’ve been trying to learn what that means. What it looks like to show up for her now. Not just the version of her I knew back then. I don’t want to overshadow her. I want to stand beside her.

Toto nods once, the motion slow and deliberate. “If you’re going to do this, you have to do it properly, all in. Love her like she’s worth.”

Max meets his eyes. “I will.”

There’s another long pause, but the tension shifts, not quite friendship, not quite acceptance, but something adjacent to respect.

As Max turns to go, Toto calls out behind him.

“You screw this up again Verstappen. You waste this second chance?”

Max stops but doesn’t turn around.

“I’ll let you break both my arms,” he says. “But you won’t have to.”

With that he disappears into the shadows not running, but walking with purpose toward something he knows he’s ready for.

Later, when the door to your car shuts and the city lights begin to blur outside the window, you let out a shaky laugh.

“He’s getting soft,” you murmur.

Max still watching the road, doesn’t smile right away. “He’s terrifying sometimes,” he says instead then glances at you with something softer in his eyes. “But he’s not wrong.”

You look at him.

“I’m going to get this right,” he says. “You’re it for me.”

You smile and lean your head on his shoulder, and for the first time in years nothing hurts.

Sunday – 09:33am

You’re tucked near the back of the paddock hospitality unit, alone, a mug of coffee warm between your palms as the low murmur of team chatter fills the space around you. The morning's calm, filters through the occasional scrape of chair legs in the next room. You’re reviewing data on a tablet, but not really seeing it.

A shape enters your periphery. You don’t need to look to know who it is. You feel it in your spine first the familiar tension, the way time seems to slow in subtle defiance. When you do glance up Jos Verstappen is standing a few feet away, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw set in a line you’ve seen mirrored on Max more times than you can count.

“You’re here a lot lately.”

The words aren’t sharp, but they land with a precision that feels intentional.

You don’t look away. “I work here,” you say evenly, voice calm. “It’s not exactly strange for me to be in the paddock.”

Jos’s mouth presses into a thin line. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

A pause stretches between you, brittle and silent.

Then, footsteps. Max. His presence doesn’t crash into the conversation it settles, firm and quiet, like a stake driven into the ground beside you.

He steps up next to you but doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t speak. He just stands there, still, like he’s always known this moment would come and he’s ready to meet it.

Jos looks between the two of you, his expression unreadable. “This thing between you… it’s going to get complicated. Fast. You know that.”

Max doesn’t flinch. “It already is and it's worth it.”

“You’ve got everything lined up,” Jos continues. “A career most people would kill for. You’ve fought too hard to get here. You want to gamble that on—”

“On what?” Max cuts in, voice low but unwavering. “On someone who’s known me since I was a kid? On someone who stood by me long before anyone believed in me. You keep calling this a risk, but it feels like the most certain thing in my life.”

Jos’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I get that you’re trying to look out for me but I’m not seventeen anymore,” Max says, quieter now. “You don’t have to remind me what’s at stake and I’m not asking for permission. I’ve made mistakes sure but this isn’t one of them. I’m not throwing anything away. I’m choosing something.” His voice doesn’t shake, but there’s something raw underneath it.

Jos’s gaze flicks to you again.

“She’s not the problem, she’s not a distraction.” Max says. “She never was.”

Jos exhales slowly, like something in him is trying to uncoil. Then, to your surprise, he speaks not accusingly, but almost… weary.

“Maybe I didn’t handle things the best,” he says.

Max nods once. The silence that follows isn’t cold. It’s filled with the weight of years, with the kind of unspoken connection that’s never been easy to express between them. Jos shifts slightly, gaze softer now, and when he looks at you again, the edge is gone replaced by something that feels like reluctant understanding.

“You leaving again?” he asks, the words quieter, less accusatory.

You shake your head. “Not unless I have a reason to.”

It isn’t forgiveness, not yet. You know you're never going to get the apology you really want, but it’s something like a truce.

Jos nods. Once. Small. Grudging. “Alright, then.”

Max watches him leave, his shoulders tense until Jos is out of sight.

You nudge him gently. “You okay?”

Max doesn’t answer right away. He breathes out, long and quiet. “Yeah. I just hate that look he gives you.”

“I can take it,” you say, reaching for his hand. “I’ve handled worse.”

“I know,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding between yours with. “Doesn’t mean I want you to.”

You squeeze gently. “He’s still your dad.”

Max nods. “Yeah and I still want him in my life I just won't risk losing you to make that happen.”

“You won’t,” you say. “We’ll figure it out. All of us. It’ll just take time.”

He gives you a small smile, tired, but real. “You didn’t have to stand there and take that.”

“I want him to know I’m not going anywhere either.”

Max glances toward the door again, like he’s seeing something more than just his father walking away.

“I think,” he says quietly, “he finally heard us.”

You rest your head briefly on his shoulder, and Max leans into the contact. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t have to.

The way he brushes your hand says enough.

Race Weekly: Six Years Later: A Familiar Walk, A New Story

Fans who’ve followed the sport since the 2010s will remember the quiet camaraderie between Max Verstappen and Y/N from their karting days to early F1 seasons. Their visible walk together through the paddock this weekend sparked speculation that some bonds, no matter how frayed, can be mended and maybe even stronger than before.

00:17AM

It drops in the night. No warning. No caption just a single heart emoji. A quiet joint post shared from both Max's and your Instagram profiles.

There are two photos. Side by side.

The first is an older one, 2014. You're both laughing, caught mid-moment, heads thrown back slightly, hands brushing as if neither of you remembered the camera was there. It's golden-hour light, soft and glowing, the kind of moment no one stages because you can't.

The second is more intimate. Max is kissing you. His hand is cupping the side of your jaw. Your eyes are closed, your fingers curled into the front of his jumper. There’s no tension in your bodies, only ease like you’ve finally arrived at the place you were always meant to return to.

The post doesn’t need to go viral. It detonates. Within minutes, it's everywhere, screenshotted, re-posted, zoomed-in, cried over, defended, dissected, loved.

@mercedesgirlies: I can finally sleep. We made it.

@wolffwatchers: I sobbed in my kitchen. My cat is concerned.

@teamlh4ever No bc I’ve never been a Max fan and even I teared up. This is cinema.

@gp_it_me: we finally got our happy ending. now leave me alone I need ten minutes of silence.

@maxiel87: this wasn’t a soft launch. this was a full, cinematic, 4k, emotionally devastating, Hall of Fame rollout.

@verstappensburner: the way this has more character development than any netflix show.

@mvwdramasept: they gave us enemies to best friends to silence to heartbreak to this. this is why I believe in long-form storytelling.

@vercedes: We were never insane.

@mv33fc1: I don’t even ship real people but Max Verstappen posting that at midnight with no caption like he hasn’t been in love for 10 years is UNREAL BEHAVIOUR.

@monacoapologist: The kiss photo?? He said I waited half my life for this woman now the internet can deal.

@wolffstappen1:: POV: you’ve been secretly in love with your best friend since karting and finally the whole world knows

@maxy/nwatch2025: the way he’s HOLDING her face like it’s sacred… Max Verstappen you are free to hurt me

@lighsout: And the other photo that's from like 2014??? They've been in love forever.

@gr33: Everyone shut up this is the greatest hard launch of all time I am shaking I am crying

@gridwitchery: six years. six YEARS.

@f1editsdaily: I need 12 hours to make the fancam this deserves. I’m calling out of work.

@undercut: YOU GUYS. HE POSTED IT. THEY POSTED IT. THIS IS THE ONE. THIS IS THE MOMENT.

@paddockchronicles: I want this carved into FIA history. I want this in the Louvre. I want this played at my wedding and my funeral.

And in the comment section beneath the post, quietly rising to the top:

@victoriaverstappen: ❤️ @charles_leclerc: Finally. @landonorris: called it. @danielricciardo: i cried. i’m not ashamed. max i’m gonna hug you and you’re gonna take it. @oscarpiastri Congrats. Also… respect for the slow-burn. @fernandoalo_oficial Some things are worth waiting for. @lando.jpg: he’s so whipped and I’m so proud. @lewishamilton Wishing you both the best. @sebastianvettel Glad you figured it out. Protect each other. That’s the whole point. @carlossainz55 Plot twist of the season. Happy for you both. @redbullracing Let’s just say… the paddock’s been waiting for this one.

Later max comments and you pin it to the top.

@maxverstappen1: For the years we missed. And the ones we won’t.

The world keeps spinning. The paddock keeps moving. Races will come and go, headlines will shift but for one night under moonlight and memory you gave the world the one thing it didn’t know it needed.

Proof that love, even in this world, can wait.

Can return.

Zandvoort - Six Months Later

There’s something about the sea air here.

Not quite salt, not quite smoke, just the kind of breeze that carries memory. You stand on the balcony of the trackside hotel, hair tangled from the wind, coffee cooling in your hands. Below, the orange haze of fans is already beginning to thicken, flags waving like fire across the dunes.

Zandvoort used to ache.

Now it just feels alive.

Max steps out behind you, barefoot, still towel-damp from the shower. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, chin resting against your shoulder, breath warm at your neck.

“You always wake up before me,” he mumbles.

“You always sleep through your alarm,” you murmur back, leaning into him.

His laugh rumbles through his chest. He presses a kiss behind your ear.

“This is the best part of my weekend,” he says.

You hum. “What, cuddling and trapping me?”

He nods. “Exactly that.”

His arms stay around you as you watch the sun finish rising over the track, casting long shadows across the asphalt, a perfect line between past and present.

By the time you’re in the paddock, the chaos is in full swing. Someone tries to corner you for a quote, and Max swipes a croissant off a breakfast tray to sneak you between interviews. He steals your pen and signs your forearm with a heart like he’s still sixteen and thinks Sharpie skin is romantic. He lets Lando steal you for a TikTok and then pretends not to watch, except you catch him glancing over anyway.

The whispers have stopped. No one’s waiting for the fall anymore.

You make each other better, and now, the paddock sees it too.

Later you're both off to the side near the railing, two water bottles between you, your shoulder brushing his occasionally, fingers grazing but not fully laced not needing to be.

“Do you remember what Fernando said to us in Austin?” he asked.

You looked up at him, puzzled. “Austin?”

“2017,” Max clarified. “Dinner. You and I were bickering about who won the sim race the night before.”

Your eyes lit with the memory. “Oh god. And he said—”

“Just marry each other and shush,’” Max quoted, grinning now. “‘The whole paddock will appreciate it.’”

You laughed, covering your face with your hand. “He was so smug about it too. Said he’d officiate himself.”

“He might still try,” Max said, eyes dancing with something unguarded and golden.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” you mused.

He tilted his head. “Not the worst future either.”

Late at night after media and briefings and a quiet dinner where even Toto smiled more than he scowled you find Max out on the balcony when you step through the sliding doors, barefoot, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows he’s leaning against the railing, watching the stars come out one by one like they’ve been waiting for permission.

He hears you approach, doesn’t look away from the sky. “You remember what you said back in Genk?”

You blink.

“You gave me that hair band,” he says. “Told me I’d win.”

You nod slowly. “You did.”

He finally turns. “ I didn’t understand what you were really giving me until now.”

You step forward. “What was I giving you?”

“A reason,” he says. “Someone to believe in me before I believed in myself.”

The silence wraps around you like dusk full but calm.

“I used to think love could ruin me,” Max says. “Like I couldn’t be great and have this. Have you.”

Your voice is quiet. “And now?”

His eyes soften not just with affection, but with recognition. With clarity that had taken him years and mistakes and heartbreak to reach. “Now I know I couldn’t be half the man I am without you. I know that every good moment in my life every win, every fight, every night I pushed through something I didn’t think I could all of it traces back to you. In some way.”

Your chest pulls tight.

He steps closer, close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours, hands brushing your waist like he’s still asking permission even though he already knows the answer. “I love you,” he murmurs. “God, I love you so much. And I’m so damn grateful you came back. That you didn’t let the worst version of me be the last one you remembered.”

Your breath wavers, but it doesn’t falter. It never does with him. “I love you too,” you say back, calm and certain. “I'll love you forever.”

He exhales, not shakily, but with the kind of relief that loosens someone from the inside out.

“Every moment…” you continue softly, your fingers lifting to his jaw, “every laugh, every fight, every stupid pinky promise and every terrible decision… all of it still led us here.”

He closes his eyes briefly, overwhelming emotion tightening his grip around your waist as though the words hit somewhere deep, somewhere old. “I’m thankful for everything,” he whispers, “as long as it brought you back to me.”

You lean in first. The kiss begins soft, the kind that presses memory into skin but it doesn’t stay that way it deepens quickly, warm and hungry, tender and fierce.

When you finally break apart, your foreheads rest together as always, sharing breath, sharing something that feels older than either of you.

No more waiting. No more what-ifs. Just two hearts that finally found their way back to each other beating in time, steady and sure, in the place they were always meant to be and the long, unfolding future, finally, beautifully yours.