aria

it’s sunday. max won. you’re on the podium. which means you’re stuck sitting next to the one person the grid has decided to shove into your personal space for an entire week.

oscar’s there too, quiet as ever, hands folded behind his back like he’s supervising a crime scene. he was added to the groupchat, so he knows. he’s probably waiting for one of you to snap so he can say i knew it.

you take a slow sip from your water bottle, trying to cool down even though the heat feels glued to your skin. sweat clings to your forehead, your ponytail’s pulled too tight, tight enough that you can already feel the headache forming behind your eyes.

it puts you on edge, and sadly for you, max verstappen exists in your general vicinity.

“look,” max says suddenly, chin lifting toward the monitor in front of the three of you.

your car flashes on screen— your onboard from the overtake on oscar. a slightly late brake, aggressive but controlled.

“you braked late,” he comments, the tone somewhere between judgmental and concerned, which is honestly worse, “you could’ve caused an accident.”

you huff out a breath, already annoyed, “but i didn’t. and the stewards didn’t say anything.”

if max verstappen wants to end this bet on day one? he’s more than welcome. you’ll even hold the door open for him.

he makes a low, unimpressed sound, “right… you think that’s gonna fly when you’re fighting me—? wait, sorry, i forgot.” he pauses, smirk sharp and stupid, “you can’t overtake me.”

you mutter something extremely rude under your breath. oscar hears it and nearly chokes on air.

you straighten your shoulders, force yourself to breathe before your competitiveness drives you into doing something dramatic. you have to be smart. strategic. cool-headed.

(qualities you rarely possess around max, but whatever.)

“sure, verstappen, sure,” you say with a playful roll of your eyes, the kind that looks harmless even though you’re imagining throwing him off the podium stairs.

oscar snorts, badly trying to hide it.

max goes quiet. just… quiet. no comeback, no smug retort, no extra jab.

it throws you off more than the comment itself. you’re almost grateful— almost— because it makes staying calm easier.

for a second, the three of you just stand there, watching the replay loop on the large screen. your car. oscar’s. max’s. three drivers, three podium spots, three very different thoughts running through your heads.

then a marshal calls your names, announcing it’s time for the podium ceremony.

max brushes past you first, the faintest accidental touch to your arm. you pretend not to feel anything. he pretends he wasn’t paying attention.

oscar falls into step behind the two of you, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s stuck in the middle of whatever this rivalry-situationship-disaster is.

you exhale one last steadying breath.

day one isn’t even over.

and somehow, it already feels like the bet is laughing at you.

but you still follow them out, chin up, ready to claim your trophy.

and possibly ready to kill max after.

you haven’t decided yet.

you somehow ended up walking back to the hotel with max verstappen— a fate worse than death, in your honest opinion— and of course he’s wearing that shit-eating grin like it’s part of his race gear. you swear he does it just to see if he can get a reaction out of you.

you keep reminding yourself:

no fighting with max verstappen this week.

just this week.

next week you can go back to running him off the track emotionally.

the lobby doors aren’t even in sight when he decides to speak.

“you’re quiet.”

you breathe in slowly, because the urge to pin him against the nearest wall isn’t sexual, it’s violent, “you’re being a bitch.”

max blinks, “that’s the only thing i said!”

“exactly,” you mutter, “so let’s keep the conversation to a minimum, yeah? don’t you want to win the bet? less talking means less chances of us murdering each other.”

he actually laughs. you hate that it sounds… nice. easy, “you know,” he says, bumping his shoulder into yours like you’re friends or something, “i think we can be civil off track. it’s just rivalry banter. right?”

you give him a look. the kind that says: do i look like someone who believes that?

he rolls his eyes, “oh come on. you’re the most competent driver i know.”

you snort, because what the hell are you supposed to do with that? a compliment? from him?

“whatever you say, verstappen,” you sing under your breath, trying not to let it show that it landed somewhere under your ribs.

you fall back into silence, the kind that’s not exactly comfortable but… not awful, either. he doesn’t try to fill it. you don’t break it.

maybe because, for once, you both don’t feel like fighting.

or maybe because you’re both too scared of what might slip out if you talk too much.

either way, you walk the rest of the way side by side— not quite allies, not quite enemies, but something strange in between.

the elevator dings the second you step inside the lobby, like it’s mocking you, like it’s saying hurry up, get trapped in a metal box with the one person who makes your blood pressure spike.

perfect.

max steps in after you, leaning against the rail like he owns the place. you keep your eyes on the glowing panel of buttons, pretending you don’t feel his gaze sliding over you like he’s studying your edges. eventually he presses a button, and it's the same goddamned floor that you're staying at too.

you assume that max saw the reaction you gave when he pressed the button, “same floor?” he asks.

unfortunately. you nod.

“of course,” he mutters with a grin, like the universe personally arranged this just to annoy you.

the doors close. the silence is heavy, almost humid. you can hear the soft hum of the elevator. you can hear max breathing. it’s infuriating.

“you know,” he says, too casual, “you really did drive well today.”

you stare ahead, “don’t be weird.”

“i’m not being weird, i’m being—”

“complimentary. which is weird.”

max huffs out a breath, amused, “fine. then i take it back.”

that somehow makes your stomach twist, which is even more annoying, “good.”

but he keeps looking at you, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes warm in a way you absolutely refuse to interpret.

“i wasn’t lying though,” he adds quietly.

you blink at the doors, “max.”

“just saying.”

you want to groan. or scream. or maybe hit him with your helmet the next time you see him on the track. it’s too much, the sincerity, the proximity, the fact that he’s not being the usual asshole you rely on him being.

you don’t know what to do with a version of max verstappen who isn’t actively trying to piss you off.

the elevator dings again. your floor.

you walk out first, refusing to let it feel awkward, but his footsteps fall beside yours anyway, matching your pace like he’s been doing it all week. like it’s natural.

you stop at your door. he stops at the one right across from it.

of course.

of-fucking-course.

you stare at the identical gold numbers, “did they plan this?”

“i don't think so,” he says, shrugging, “just a weird coincidence.”

“that’s sick.”

he smiles, and it’s small, not the smirk he defaults to, but something softer. something more dangerous, “night, then.”

you nod, “night.”

you swipe your keycard and slip inside your room quickly, shutting the door behind you before he can say anything else.

but you stand there in the dark for a moment, heartbeat annoyingly loud, trying to understand why your chest feels tight and warm all at once.

one week of not killing each other.

one week.

but suddenly you’re not sure the problem is killing him.

you’re starting to worry the problem might be something else entirely.

you don’t sleep well. you don't sleep at all.

maybe it’s the post-race adrenaline, maybe it’s the headache finally settling behind your eyes, or maybe— and you’d rather die than admit this out loud— maybe it’s because max verstappen is sleeping ten feet away from you with only a hallway separating you.

you toss. you turn. you punch your pillow twice. none of it helps.

by 1:47 a.m., you’ve accepted defeat.

you grab your keycard, throw on a hoodie, and slip out into the hallway, planning to go find a vending machine and stress-eat overpriced gummy worms.

you’re halfway down the hall when a door clicks open behind you.

of course.

“couldn’t sleep either?” max’s voice is softer than usual, rough around the edges, like he didn’t expect anyone to hear him at this hour.

you turn around. he’s in a t-shirt and sweats, hair a mess, eyes tired but sharp enough to pin you in place.

annoyingly attractive. and annoyingly awake.

“i’m going to get snacks,” you mutter, “don’t make this weird.”

he cracks a tiny smile, “me? never.”

you glare at him, but he falls into step beside you anyway, hands in his pockets like this is normal, like you have a habit of taking midnight vending-machine trips together.

“insomnia?” you ask eventually, because curiosity wins over silence.

“since forever,” he says, “gets worse when i’m traveling.”

you hum, “didn’t think anything could make you worse.”

max laughs under his breath, “funny.”

you reach the vending machine, its humming neon lights flickering over the tiled floor. you start pressing buttons, debating gummy worms vs chocolate, when you notice max leaning against the wall, watching you.

“what?” you snap.

“nothing,” he says, “you’re just… quieter at night.”

you scoff, “so are you.”

“i’m always quiet.”

“you’re never quiet. you just mutter insults under your breath at a lower volume.”

that gets a real laugh out of him, low and warm, and you hate that it sounds… nice.

you finally choose gummy worms and a bottle of iced tea. max doesn’t buy anything— just stands there like he’s been doing this every night for years.

on the walk back, he doesn’t talk. he doesn’t tease you. he just walks next to you, close enough that your hands almost brush.

you don’t move away.

when you reach your doors again, you stop in the same spot as earlier. it feels different now— charged, soft, something in the air you don’t want to name.

“goodnight, verstappen,” you murmur, voice lower than you intend.

he hesitates before answering, eyes lingering on you in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

“goodnight,” he says, and his voice is so gentle you barely recognize it.

you slip into your room again, closing the door carefully, quietly, like being loud might break whatever… this is.

and even as you crawl back into bed, gummy worms on your nightstand, you know the truth:

you’re not sleeping tonight.

and this time, it has nothing to do with the race.

i wake up to soft kisses trailing over my cheek, then my jaw, then lower— like he’s mapping constellations no one else gets access to. i barely crack one eye open and yep, there he is. max verstappen. looking far too proud of himself for someone who’s been kissing me like i’m sunlight.

“max,” i mumble, half-warning, half-smiling.

he grins like he’s won pole, “good morning to you too.”

one last kiss— right between my eyebrows— and then he pulls back with that annoyingly pretty morning face. messy hair, sleepy blue eyes, smug expression. unreal and illegal.

“how’d you sleep?” he asks, voice rough.

“good,” i stretch lazily, “dreamless. which is rare.”

he sits up, sheets pooling low around his waist and i have to look away before my sanity evaporates, “christian checked in with me,” he says casually, like he didn’t break a record number of rules last week just to get to me, “told me off for skipping the rest of barcelona.”

i sit up too, knees brushing his, “and? did you tell him?”

“yeah,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, “i told him what i want to do. told him about us.”

my heart stutters— stupid thing.

“and what did he say?”

max shrugs, but it isn’t careless. it’s frustrated. exhausted, “he told me to hold off. said it wouldn’t look good. that it’d seem like i’m… two-timing," there’s a flicker of embarrassment there— just a flash— and it makes something in my chest ache.

i breathe slowly. measured. neutral. because if i let myself react too fast, i know exactly where my brain will go.

“so,” i ask quietly, “what are you going to do?”

he stands, stretching, and looks out the window before answering.

“i’m sure,” he says, voice steady now, “that i want to tell the world about you.”

my ribs go soft for half a second.

“but?” i already know there’s a but.

“but christian’s right. timing matters. image matters. and i don’t want our story rolled out like damage control or scandal cleanup,” he turns to me then. softer. certain, “i want it to look real. because it is.”

i nod, even though disappointment curls somewhere behind my ribs. i swallow it down because i know he sees everything.

and of course he does.

“i’m not changing my mind,” he says, stepping closer until he’s right in front of me, “i’m just… waiting for the moment that feels right instead of messy.”

he doesn’t touch me right away— he gives me space to choose him first.

so i do.

my arms slide around his waist and his chin dips to rest on top of my head like it’s muscle memory.

“are you sure?” i whisper, even though i already know the answer.

he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.

“i’m not going back to some random model,” he says with a tiny scoff, “if anything, the world should be worried you’ll ditch me.”

i snort, “you? ditchable? please. you’re just an indecisive bitch sometimes.”

he gasps dramatically, “that hurt me personally.”

“good.”

his hands cup my jaw, thumbs brushing under my cheeks like he’s memorizing the shape of everything he almost lost.

“i love you,” he murmurs, forehead resting against mine, “and i’m tired of pretending i don’t. i want to walk into the paddock holding your hand. i want your face next to mine on the screen with the stupid title that says ‘max's verstappen's partner.’ i want the world to know i chose you.”

a laugh slips out of me— small, warm, helpless.

a loud buzzing noise slices right through our soft little bubble and i swear i don’t even need to look to know exactly who it is.

i bite back a laugh, drag myself over to the nightstand, and grab my phone.

“oh my lord, when are you coming back, bitch?!” maya practically explodes through the speaker, and i flinch so hard i almost drop the phone. i have to hold it a solid foot away from my ear unless i want permanent hearing loss.

i’m already smiling, “i landed yesterday.”

there’s a gasp so dramatic it could win awards.

“then are you homeless?? me and sofia were literally breaking into your apartment and you are NOT here!” maya shrieks, and i just lose it. full laugh. no control.

god, i missed these idiots.

“no, i’m at max’s—” i start, and of course that’s where she cuts me off.

“okay, so invade max’s apartment we go,” she declares like she’s leading a military coup, and then the line goes dead.

i just cover my face with my hand and laugh because of course. of course.

max watches me from the bed with that fond but mildly terrified expression he reserves specifically for my friends, “so i’m guessing we’re about to have guests?”

i nod, still laughing, “they can’t go a single day without terrorizing us both.”

i lean in and kiss his cheek, and he rolls his eyes but he’s smiling like he secretly loves it.

“let the circus commence,” he groans.

“who’s a gooood kitty? yes, you are,” maya coos, baby-talking sassy like she didn’t just break into my apartment. sassy immediately melts into her, tail flicking, purring like a traitor.

max watches this unfold with the same expression he uses when someone overtakes him on track— pure betrayal.

“it’s like they hate me and they’re only using me for food,” he mutters, staring at his phone like it personally wronged him. i can’t help the tiny smile that slips out.

honestly, the whole scene feels like home. i’m stretched out on the sofa, head tucked on max’s chest, his arm around me. maya’s on the carpet with sassy, sofia’s dangling a cat toy in jimmy’s face like she’s conducting some sort of feline exorcism.

“what are we doing today?” i whisper up to him. he shrugs, one hand scrolling, the other absentmindedly tracing patterns down my back.

“i bought a yacht,” he says like he’s telling me he bought toothpaste, “when you were back home. we can take it out.”

i blink at him. yacht. multimillion purchases. casual.

“i think i’ve had enough sun,” i mumble, choosing peace and pretending i did not just hear that man say i bought a yacht like he found it on sale at the supermarket.

“then we can go to metropole,” he says, still half-distracted, “just hang out. the four of us.”

i peek at his phone and snort. spreadsheets. race data.

max gives me a sideways look, “grind never stops,” he deadpans, then leans down to kiss me like he didn’t just say the nerdiest thing imaginable.

i laugh, turning my attention back to the chaos corner.

“you guys are gonna get your eyes clawed out,” max warns.

maya smushes her whole face into sassy’s fluffy cheek to make her point, and the demon cat purrs louder.

“she loves me,” maya declares.

sofia, meanwhile, is terrorizing jimmy with a feather toy she summoned from god knows where.

“i’m gonna go get ready,” max says, sitting us both up. “mrs. verstappen wants to go to metropole.”

i freeze. my face goes nuclear.

maya and sofia both whip their heads toward me in perfect unison, eyes wide, expressions screaming so you’re married???

i shoot max the deadliest glare i can manage for someone whose heart is doing cartwheels.

he just grins, smug little shit.

once everyone finally got their shit together, we had to deal with the car situation.

“well, my car isn’t gonna fit all four of us… unless one of you wants to ride on the roof, which is totally fine by me,” max says as he clicks the key fob and his stupidly shiny valkyrie chirps from the garage.

maya flips him off before he can even finish breathing, “i own a porsche, asshole. go drive with your wife,” she throws me a wink and shakes her own keys, “nepotism, baby. use it or lose it.”

i laugh under my breath as she and sofia strut toward their car like they're filming a music video. meanwhile, i head toward max’s spaceship of a vehicle.

the drive starts off quiet, just the soft buzz of traffic and whatever playlist i left queued on my phone. the sea outside looks unreal— like monaco’s trying to show off for us.

“you didn’t mind the wife joke, right?” max asks, squeezing the hand he’d casually left on my thigh. my face goes red immediately. i can feel it.

“no, i didn’t,” i mumble, “it was just… unexpected.”

the coastline glitters and i keep staring out the window like it’ll save me from my own embarrassment.

“so it’s fine if i keep calling you mrs. verstappen?” he teases.

i turn and give him the driest look known to mankind, “not in public.”

“so… in front of the drivers is fine?” he tries again, grinning like he thinks he’s funny.

i slap his hand away, “i’m revoking your touch-privileges.”

“what? no!” he gasps like i personally destroyed his soul.

i just smirk, leaning back into the seat, “actions have consequences, champ.”

he groans dramatically, like i’ve committed an actual war crime.

we pull up to metropole and, of course, maya and sofia have already arrived. maya’s leaning against her porsche like she’s posing for a magazine cover, arms crossed, smug as hell.

“how come i drive faster than the world champ?” she asks, loud enough for the valet to hear.

“because your best friend threatened me with no touching for the rest of the day,” max mutters, handing his keys over like a defeated man.

i raise a brow at him. “so it’s mrs. verstappen when i’m nice to you and ‘your best friend’ when i’m not?”

he freezes for half a second before snapping into damage-control mode, "of course not, my beautiful queen, wife, mother of two demonic furry beings at home.”

sofia straight-up cackles. maya drags me away before max can keep up his groveling.

“come on,” she says, looping her arm through mine, “let’s go shopping and leave this buffoon behind.”

max trails after us like a very expensive, very grumpy golden retriever. meanwhile, the three of us are arm-in-arm like we own the place.

metropole is all marble floors, shiny lights, perfume clouds, and price tags that make my soul leave my body. i don’t think i can afford a single pen in here, but god it’s fun to pretend.

“chanel first,” sofia decides, nudging me, “i need makeup.”

we don’t even bother looking back to see if max is following. he is. he always is.

inside chanel, it's all glossy counters and perfectly aligned lipsticks. maya and sofia immediately start swatching things on the backs of their hands like their lives depend on it.

i hover next to them while max stands a few steps behind us, hands in his pockets, looking like the world’s most bored billionaire boyfriend.

“that color would look so good on you,” sofia says, pointing to a lipstick shade and pressing it into my hand before i can protest.

“i’m not buying anything,” i say, laughing a little, already feeling overwhelmed by all the glass counters and gold accents.

“no one asked you to,” maya sing-songs.

i glance back at max.

he’s watching me. not the store. not the counters. me.

the soft, stupid smile on his face is the only thing that isn’t screaming ‘luxury marketing scheme.’

he walks over, gently nudges my elbow, “pick whatever you want,” he murmurs, “or don’t. i just like watching you look at things.”

i blink at him, “that’s creepy.”

“romantic,” he corrects.

“creepy,” i insist.

maya snorts from the other side of the display, “stop flirting in the perfume section, some of us are trying to emotionally distance ourselves from the price tags.”

max rolls his eyes but slips an arm around my waist anyway, tugging me just a little closer.

and yeah… for the first time in days, it feels normal. soft. easy. like we’re not constantly bracing for the world to explode.

“should we check out the bags next?” sofia asks, already walking.

max groans dramatically, “i knew bringing you guys here was a mistake.”

but he follows us anyway. always trailing, always watching, always staying close enough that my hand keeps brushing his.

after maya’s done practically drooling over the bags and sofia’s already got half the makeup section swatched across her arms, all eyes land on me— empty-handed, pretending i’m just here for vibes.

“are you sure you’re not buying anything?” maya asks, eyebrow up, and yeah, she very obviously glances at max.

“no, it’s fine. i’m only accompanying you guys while i window shop,” i brush her off, already turning away when steady hands land on my waist.

“it’s on me, schatje,” max murmurs against my ear, voice low enough it almost startles me. i twist just enough to look at him, and he presses a soft kiss to my cheek like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“no, it’s okay, i’m not really interested in—”

“you were eyeing that one lipstick. just get it,” sofia cuts in. she doesn’t even look up from the mirror she’s using, and somehow max already knows exactly which one she means. he’s telling the saleswoman to wrap it before i can even open my mouth again.

that familiar warm feeling settles in my chest, the one i pretend not to overthink. he just… gets me. more than anyone should. it’s terrifying sometimes, but most of the time it feels like someone finally turned the lights on in a room i didn’t realize i was stumbling through.

maya and sofia go to pull out their cards, but max stops them with a look, “it’s fine. my treat.” he says it like he’s ordering takeout, not casually volunteering to pay for an entire small country’s GDP.

their jaws drop. understandably. it’s a combined 10k euros.

“you guys better stop annoying me from now on,” max mutters as he swipes his card like he’s buying gum. i mean… this is the same man who bought a yacht because it was “nice,” so honestly, this is on brand.

maya bows dramatically, “of course, king of the netherlands. we would never.”

i snort. these three are going to be the death of me.

once everything’s wrapped, max grumbles as the saleswoman hands him what looks like the entire chanel inventory. i reach for one of the bags, but his grip is instantly steel.

“max,” i whisper, trying not to laugh, “let me take one—”

“no.” dry. immediate. not up for debate.

we step out of chanel with him absolutely loaded like a luxury pack mule— bags up both arms, jaw tight, muttering under his breath like manual labor has personally betrayed him.

maya and sofia trail behind us, losing their minds.

“you’re gonna throw out your back, old man,” maya chirps.

“i’m turning twenty-eight, not eighty,” max snaps, which only makes her cackle harder.

i bite my lip, fighting a smile as we walk through the central hallway of metropole. soft piano music drifts through the speakers, everything smells like expensive perfume and cold air, and next to me, max is suffering nobly with every step.

“you two bought too much,” he grumbles.

“i bought makeup,” sofia says simply.

“and i bought one bag,” maya adds, all innocent.

max levels her with a stare, “…for eight thousand euros.”

“she’s pretty,” maya defends weakly.

“so am i,” max deadpans.

i completely lose it, leaning into his side as laughter spills out of me, and without even thinking, he nudges me gently with his shoulder— soft, grounding, like he’s reminding me i can always lean.

and god, that warm stupid feeling blooms again, taking up too much space in my chest.

“you okay?” i murmur.

he turns toward me just slightly, eyes softening the second they land on me, “never better.”

i look away before i combust.

we wander through a couple more stores, mostly window shopping now that max has declared emotional and financial bankruptcy. eventually, we drift into the tiny café tucked into the corner of the mall— the one with gold accents and pastries that probably require a mortgage.

maya and sofia get iced lattes with enough whipped cream to suffocate a small animal. max, obviously, orders an espresso. i meet them halfway with something sweet but still caffeinated enough to keep up with these people.

we sit. we breathe. the world slows down a little.

and max… max looks more relaxed than he has in weeks. maybe months. like the static finally quieted in his head. like barcelona didn’t bruise him mentally the way we both know it did.

i watch him while maya talks about her 'boss' (which is really just her dad) and sofia rants about some awful sales consultant in paris. and he’s smiling.

not the one he throws at cameras. not the cocky one he throws at lando. the real one— soft, warm, the one he saves for the rare few.

including me.

under the table, i fidget with the cup, and without a word, max finds my hand. links our fingers like it’s instinct. squeezes once.

i squeeze back.

maya looks up mid-rant, clocks our hands, and groans, “oh they’re disgusting again. thank god.”

sofia sighs dramatically, “finally. the universe can rest.”

i roll my eyes. max hides a laugh in his espresso.

and suddenly… it doesn’t feel like we’re pretending things are okay.

they actually are.

“alright, how do i get these in my car?” maya mutters to literally no one, clicking her keys so the trunk pops open. max is trailing behind her with… honestly, an olympic-level armful of shopping bags, looking like he’s questioning every choice that led him here.

“i don’t know, maybe put them inside of the fucking car?” he says, dead serious, and sofia immediately bites her lip to keep from laughing.

maya shoots him a glare and reaches to take the bags, but max—being a stubborn little gentleman—dodges her hand and loads them up himself, “there.” like he wasn’t just carrying the weight of a small village.

i slip a hand into the pocket of his jeans, steal his keys, and jingle them in front of his face, “guess i’m driving.”

i wait for the panic. the lecture. the whole “don’t crash my baby” speech. instead, max just… walks around the car and gets in the passenger seat like it’s nothing.

i blink. okay then.

i climb into the driver’s seat, start the car, and immediately feel the familiar oh-god-this-is-too-expensive pressure settle in my spine. i know how to drive, obviously. just… not a hypercar that probably costs more than my internal organs combined.

“you’ve driven stick before, right?” he asks gently, hand already landing warm and steady on my thigh.

i nod. of course i have. he bullied me into learning, calling automatics “for pussies” until i finally gave in.

for fun— and maybe to prove a point— i rev the engine once.

max smirks. okay, that might’ve been worth it.

i take off, leaving maya and sofia choking on my dust, which is honestly satisfying.

“i’m surprised you didn’t tell me off,” i say quietly, eyes on the road, “guys don’t normally let their girlfriends drive their supercars.”

max looks out the window, fingers still loosely curled on my leg. “why would i tell you off?” he asks, like it’s obvious, “i could put you in a formula one car and you’d probably put it on pole.”

i laugh, shaking my head, but some tiny delusional part of me wants to believe it anyway.

we pull into max’s apartment garage, and i park— nearly perfect. i pat my own shoulder. i deserve that.

maya’s loud-ass porsche rolls in a minute later. she rolls down the window immediately.

“you should replace him, honestly,” she calls out, “can’t believe you drive faster than a formula one driver.”

i grin, “he told me i’d get pole in an f1 car.”

maya looks at max. max shrugs like, yeah, obviously.

“damn right,” sofia adds, as maya finds a parking spot. sofia hops out to get the bags, but max is already there in two strides.

“go be pretty and stand with mrs. verstappen,” he tells her, grabbing everything himself. he throws me a wink, i roll my eyes, but my heart does something dangerous anyway.

the moment we get inside, max dumps the entire mountain of bags onto the coffee table like he’s staging an intervention.

“you guys and your shopping addiction need to be studied,” he groans.

i flop onto the couch, “listen, i bought one singular bag. blame sofia.”

maya drops onto the floor beside me, and sassy immediately climbs into her lap like she pays rent.

jimmy, though— still a traitor in max's eyes— chooses me this time. he curls up in my lap and purrs, and i stroke his fur while max crouches down to eye level with him.

“backstabber,” he whispers dramatically.

jimmy meows innocently, like he didn’t just commit treason.

sofia joins me on the sofa with a content sigh, “ah, what a great day.”

“for you,” max says, flopping onto the carpet like a man who’s accepted defeat, “not for my bank account.”

“please. you’re a millionaire,” sofia scoffs, “i didn’t dent your bank account. if i really wanted to, i would’ve bought a new makeup collection that's purely chanel.”

“ah yes,” maya declares, “sofia langston, nepo baby of the century.”

i laugh, because honestly this whole dynamic should be televised.

max sprawls out fully, arms above his head like he’s surrendering to god, “how long are you guys planning to terrorize my alone time with my girlfriend?”

“for however long we’d like,” maya answers sweetly, wearing the smile of a cartoon villain, “she’s been gone forever, and we’re just trying to spend time with her before you kidnap her to god knows where.”

i look down at max, who looks up at me with that soft, stupid fondness in his eyes, and yeah… i think he might actually kidnap me soon.

and honestly? i’d probably let him.

max groans like they’ve personally wounded him, one arm flung across his face as if he’s in some tragic dutch telenovela, “kidnap her? i don’t kidnap. i escort.”

“oh my god,” sofia snorts, “you sound like a chauffeur who charges in kisses.”

“i do charge in kisses,” max says, still sprawled dramatically on the floor, “very expensive rate, actually.”

i kick his shoulder gently, “your kiss inflation is insane.”

he tips his head just enough to look up at me, “supply and demand, schatje.”

maya fake gags, “god, you two need a leash or cold water or something.” she pets sassy like a cartoon villain, “anyway. we’re sleeping over.”

i blink, “wait— what?”

“yeah,” sofia says casually, already leaning back into the couch like she owns the place, “what, you thought we were going home when we finally have you back? be serious.”

i look at max. he looks at me. he then looks at the disaster duo taking over his living room. his soul leaves his body for exactly two seconds.

“fine,” he exhales, “but if jimmy throws up on your stuff, that’s between you and god.”

maya waves him off, “as long as he doesn’t throw up on the chanel bag.”

“he’s throwing up on the chanel bag,” max whispers to himself like he’s manifesting it.

i slide off the couch and sit on the floor next to him, leaning my shoulder against his. he shifts immediately, tucking me under his arm like i belong there— which, honestly, i do.

maya eyes us, “look at them. domestic. disgusting.”

sofia nods, “comfortably in love. vomit-worthy.”

i flip them both off without moving from max’s hold, “if you make them leave, i’ll cry.”

“they can stay,” max adds, but he’s trying really hard not to sound pleased, like he didn’t want them gone five minutes ago.

maya grins, “we knew you missed us.”

“i didn’t say that,” max argues weakly.

“you didn’t have to,” sofia says, “your tone said ‘please don’t abandon me with my own feelings’.”

max looks personally attacked.

i giggle, resting my head on his shoulder, “don’t worry, love. you have me.”

“yeah,” he murmurs, squeezing my thigh gently, “i do.”

maya claps once, “okay, enough. group dinner. i’m starving. someone cook.”

all three sets of eyes turn to max.

he sits up straighter, offended, “why me?”

“because you’re the only one who lives here,” maya says.

“and because the two of us will set something on fire,” sofia adds.

i lift my hand, “i can help.”

max looks at me like i’m handing him a lifeline, “yes. yes you can help.”

“traitors,” maya mutters.

“cowards,” sofia adds.

“get your asses in the kitchen then,” max huffs as he gets up, stretching like an overworked old man, “we’re making pasta.”

maya gasps, “you’re feeding us carbs? willingly?”

max side-eyes her, “if i feed you anything else, you’ll just yell at me.”

“true,” she says.

we shuffle into the kitchen, the four of us bumping shoulders and hips, knocking into each other, talking over each other like the world’s loudest friend group.

max grabs ingredients. sofia steals a jar of olives. maya puts music on. i stand beside max, hip to hip, helping him chop vegetables while he occasionally leans down to kiss my temple like it’s instinct.

and maya catches it.

“EW,” she screams, “disgusting. PDA in my vicinity? prison.”

i laugh. max doesn’t even flinch, “get used to it.”

maya places her hands on her hips, "oh, i fully intend to. i’m torturing both of you for the rest of your lives.”

sofia raises her jar of olives like a toast, “to lifelong psychological warfare.”

max sighs, “why did i agree to this?”

i bump his hip gently, smiling, “because you love me.”

he looks down at me, soft in a way that makes my chest feel too full, “yeah,” he murmurs, “that’s exactly why.”

and somehow— between the noise and the teasing and the chaos— it feels warm.

it feels like home.

dinner turns into the kind of mess that should honestly be illegal.

maya tries to grate cheese and ends up grating her own knuckle. sofia steals spoonfuls of sauce when max isn’t looking. max keeps muttering dutch curses under his breath every time someone touches something they shouldn’t.

and me? i’m just laughing, tucked under max’s arm whenever he needs “emotional support” (his words, not mine) while stirring pasta.

the apartment smells like garlic and butter and something warm i don’t have a name for.

eventually, max plates everything like he’s on some michelin-star cooking show, even though the rest of us are crowding around him like starving raccoons.

“move,” he scolds, nudging maya with his hip, “i need space.”

“you’re in my personal space,” maya fires back.

“your personal space is a myth,” sofia adds.

i snort into my hand.

we carry everything to the dining table— well, max carries it, the rest of us carry cutlery we forget halfway across the room and argue about who sits where.

we finally settle down.

maya digs in first and moans dramatically, “holy shit. i’m marrying you.”

max doesn’t blink. “get in line.”

“damn,” sofia whistles.

i kick him under the table.

he shoots me a look. a soft one. warm in a way that makes my lungs misbehave.

dinner is loud. messy. full of maya accidentally knocking over her glass, sofia throwing bread at her in retaliation, max looking at them like he’s reconsidering every life choice he’s ever made.

but he always, always looks back at me.

every time.

and that does things to me i’m not ready to unpack.

after we finish, we gather everything up. max tells the girls to leave the dishes, but sofia insists on helping. three minutes later, she drops a glass into the sink and it shatters.

“okay,” max says, voice dangerously calm, “out. all of you. out.”

maya salutes him and drags sofia away while i cover my laugh with my sleeve.

i linger in the kitchen as max sweeps the glass, careful, focused. i lean against the counter, just watching him. he glances up, catches me staring, lifts an eyebrow.

“what?” he murmurs.

“you look good doing chores,” i tease.

he shakes his head, cheeks pink, “don’t.”

“don’t what?”

“don’t flirt with me, my heart feels like a formula one car.”

i grin, “this is me being helpful.”

he gives me a look that says you’re full of shit but i love you anyway, stands, and walks over— wet hands, dish towel hanging from his shoulder and all— and presses a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth.

my breath stutters.

he smiles like he knows exactly what he just did, “come on. we should go before they decide to light something on fire.”

he’s right because the second we step into the living room, sofia has five remotes in her hand and no idea which one turns on the tv, and maya is yelling at sassy for sitting on the popcorn bowl.

“this is hell,” max mutters.

“no,” i say, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind, “this is home.”

he goes still. just for a breath. then he turns his head slightly, eyes softening like they always do when he looks at me.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “it is.”

movie night doesn’t even pretend to be normal.

maya picks a horror movie but screams every five minutes. sofia screams because maya screams. max sits with his arms crossed, unimpressed, until a cheap jumpscare makes him flinch and maya pauses the movie just to laugh at him.

“i hate all of you,” he grumbles.

“love you too,” i say, kissing his cheek.

he melts. visibly.

and maya, of course, catches it.

“DISGUSTING,” she announces, “OUT OF MY SIGHT.”

“this is my apartment,” max argues.

“and yet your girlfriend let us stay,” sofia says sweetly.

i’m half in max’s lap by this point, his arms wrapped around me, chin resting on my shoulder. he’s warm. grounding. safe.

the movie plays. maya screams again. sofia threatens to throw the remote at her.

max presses his lips to my shoulder, slow, the kind of kiss that isn’t meant to be seen by anyone else.

the kind that says something without saying it.

and i think, yeah.

yeah, this is it.

this is everything.

i don’t even know how it spiraled into this, but somehow maya and sofia talked max into agreeing that a “real” sleepover meant all four of us sleeping in the living room. like we were twelve again.

and the wildest part? he actually caved.

thank god he has multiple couches because we would've looked stupid as hell piled on top of each other. two couches pushed together, one long one across from them— we basically built a fort out of expensive furniture.

it’s midnight now and we haven’t stopped giggling since we sat down. i’m pretty sure max’s soul left his body an hour ago.

“i’m going to throw all of you out,” max groans, eyes shut, one arm flung dramatically over his face like a victorian widow. he also somehow got guilt-tripped out of holding onto me, so i’m stuck sandwiched between maya and sofia on the big sofa.

“NO, STOP— i’m trying to sleep,” maya snorts through her own laughter, kicking her blanket.

i just shake my head. “this is impossible.”

i sit up, hair a mess, blanket falling off my shoulder, “okay, what if we watch a movie? that has to calm us down. it works on small children.”

“we watched like three!” sofia whines.

“yeah, and none of you were quiet for any of them,” i mutter as i grab the remote, “if the tv is on, theoretically, we shut up. and then maybe we sleep.”

theoretically. realistically? these two are feral.

i scroll through options, already knowing what i’m going to pick, “legally blonde,” i announce, hitting play before anyone can argue.

maya and sofia immediately grin like gremlins.

as soon as elle woods shows up on screen, they mumble in perfect unison, “don’t stomp your last season prada shoes at me, honey.”

i roll my eyes so hard i think i see god.

max doesn’t even open his eyes, “if you two quote one more line—”

“shhh,” maya says, waving him off like he’s background noise.

i shake my head again, biting back a smile. this chaos, these idiots, this stupid little sleepover in a millionaire’s living room— it’s ridiculous and loud and perfect in all the ways it shouldn’t be.

we make it, like… maybe fifteen peaceful seconds into the movie before sofia starts giggling again. it’s tiny at first, the kind of giggle someone tries to swallow, but then maya catches it like it’s contagious and suddenly the couch is vibrating with their laughter.

i throw my head back on a cushion, defeated, “you guys are actual menaces.”

“we’re fun,” sofia corrects, wiping a tear from her eye.

“you’re loud,” max counters from his couch, sounding exhausted in a way only deeply loved idiots can cause.

i peek over at him. he’s sprawled out like he fought a war today, blanket half kicked off, hair a mess. but he’s watching us from the corner of his eye, trying so hard not to smile. he fails miserably.

maya points at him, “look at him. he loves this. he lives for this. he’d die without us.”

max snorts, “yeah, sure. hand me my knife.”

“violence won’t save you,” sofia says, patting his ankle. she gets a lazy kick in response.

i curl deeper into the sofa, tucking my knees to my chest. the warm glow of the tv washes over us, pink and soft. legally blonde plays like comforting background noise— every scene familiar, every joke predictable. it settles the room, even if maya and sofia still have the occasional whispered commentary.

a little while later, the chaos melts into tiredness. the giggles get quieter, the room softer, the air heavier in that sleepy way.

maya starts nodding off first, head dropping onto my shoulder. sophia follows immediately, turning into my other side like i’m a human pillow.

i blink slowly, caught in the middle, warm and full and too comfy to complain.

across from us, max finally opens his eyes again. he pushes himself up on one elbow just to look at me properly. his expression softens in that way he only lets himself do when nobody else is really paying attention.

he mouths, come here.

i shake my head, gently pointing at the girls glued to me. the human barnacles.

max rolls his eyes but it’s fond. annoyingly fond.

he mouths back, exaggerated, mine.

i bite back a smile and shrug like, sorry, take it up with them.

for a moment it’s just… quiet. that rare, late-night sleepover quiet— where everyone’s breathing lines up and the tv hums softly and the whole apartment feels like a giant warm blanket wrapped around us.

then—

“i want ice cream,” maya mumbles against my shoulder, eyes still shut.

max groans into his pillow so hard he might suffocate himself, “absolutely not.”

sofia lifts her head weakly, “i want ice cream too.”

i whisper, “please don’t start—”

too late.

maya sits up like a cryptid rising from the dead, “ICE CREAM. NOW.”

max leans back on the couch, hands covering his face, “i should’ve stayed single.”

i stifle a laugh, “you love us.”

he peeks through his fingers, “i tolerate two of you and love one.”

“awww,” the girls say in unison, instantly weaponizing the information.

he groans again.

and somehow— somehow— the night begins spiraling into yet another round of chaos.

lando’s had enough. genuinely. he’s been watching the two of you snap at each other for months now, the kind of bickering that sounds less like rivalry and more like two people who accidentally signed divorce papers in a past life.

it’s always you complaining that max “didn’t brake in time,” and max muttering that you’re “just incompetent,” even though everyone on the grid knows there’s no real bite in it anymore. it’s routine. comfortable. almost affectionate, though neither of you would ever admit it.

so lando, being lando, decides he’s going to fix it. or break it more. either one works for him.

first step: create a groupchat. second step: add literally everyone. third step: throw you and max in there like two cats forced to share a room.

the notification pops up instantly.

lando: so i have a bet

you’re already suspicious.

charles: what is it

lando: max and your teammate can’t stand a week before killing each other

max: why was i added again?

you: NO WHY WAS I ADDED you: ARE YOU GUYS STAGING A COUP

more notifications. the groupchat lights up like a christmas tree.

carlos: u guys do fight like a married couple

you: it’s called a rivalry. get it right.

lando ignores you entirely, which is honestly worse.

lando: anyways, if you guys lose lando: you two owe me 100

lewis: i don’t have to put in money, right?

lando: nope lando: that’s if we win though

you sigh, already rubbing your forehead. you should ignore him. you should leave the chat. you should block lando for your own peace.

instead, you type:

you: you know what, deal.

because if there’s one thing you hate more than max verstappen, it’s losing a bet to lando norris.

max responds a second later, like he’s physically exhausted.

max: let’s try not to murder each other…

you: wow, enthusiasm coming from garage 33

max: shut up.

lando: see???

you roll your eyes and lock your phone, letting it fall onto your bed with a soft thud. the screen goes dark, but your mind doesn’t.

a week.

one week.

you can survive that. you can deal with max’s insomnia-ridden grumbling and his stupid smug face and the way he somehow manages to get on your nerves without even opening his mouth.

fine. it’s just a week.

just a stupid bet.

just max verstappen.

and yet—

you catch yourself smiling at your dark screen like an idiot.

this race week’s about to be fun.

or a disaster.

usually the line between them is thin with max.

either way, you’re ready.

the headlines hit like a tornado— fast, messy, no warning— just enough chaos to knock the air out of my lungs and leave everything upside down.

max verstappen spotted with model kelly piquet — new romance?

i stare at the screen until the words blur. i wait for someone— anyone—to tell me it’s fake, or planned, or coming, or at least not real.

but no one does.

not sofia. not maya. not even max.

the stupid part? i don’t know why i expected a heads-up. a text. a warning. something.

maybe because two weeks ago he was asleep in my bed with his arm around my waist like he owned the world and i was the part he was scared to lose.

now i’m just… what? a placeholder? a glitch? old news?

the pit in my stomach hasn’t left since that morning— since everyone found out he was with me. since the internet claimed me, dissected me, decided who i was.

now they think he’s moved on.

and i want so badly to scream that they’re wrong— that whatever that kelly girl is to the media, it’s not what he feels for me.

but i can’t. because this is a pr stunt, and i signed up for it. willingly. stupidly.

my head hurts— not physically, but from thinking too much, looping the same questions until they taste bitter.

i don’t know how to fix this. i don’t even know if i’m supposed to fix it.

he calls the next day— after the photos drop. after the internet tears itself apart. after i’ve stared at images of him holding someone else like it’s choreography.

i pick up anyway.

“hey,” he breathes out— relief, exhaustion, nerves— wrapped in one word.

“hey,” mine is empty. flat.

he knows.

“you saw it,” he says— not a question. a statement. unavoidable.

“yeah,” i whisper, “i did.”

silence stretches— not heavy, not angry— just tired.

“please don’t take it personally, schatje,” he says softly, “it’s just how things have to play out.”

the words try to sound gentle, but they land sharp. cold. strategic.

i hum instead of answering. my throat feels tight.

he tries again, slower this time, “i hate that you’re upset.”

too late. too shallow. too scripted.

“i pushed back,” he continues, “i tried. they didn’t give me final say.”

i swallow, but nothing feels less painful.

“say something,” he asks— no, pleads.

a tiny, humorless laugh slips out, “what do you want me to say? honesty? or the version that makes this easier?”

he exhales— annoyed? hurt? i can’t tell.

“that’s not fair,” he murmurs, “you know it isn’t.”

my voice cracks before i even speak, “maybe this was a mistake.”

his inhale is sharp. immediate. desperate, “what? no. no—don’t say that.”

“i shouldn’t have agreed to this,” my voice wavers. but the words don’t stop, “i let you run it your way. i trusted you. and now—” my breath stumbles, “now i’m the one drowning.”

he’s quiet for too long and i hate the tension sitting between us.

then finally—broken, “you promised you wouldn’t walk away.”

“i know,” i whisper. “and i tried. i really did," my tears fall before i notice them, “the comments, the articles— the way everyone talks like i’m disposable— max, it hurts.”

he swallows hard, voice shaking, “you think i don’t see it? you think i don’t hate myself for it?”

silence.

then, quieter, “you didn’t even tell me,” i add, “not even a text. i found out with the rest of the world.”

that’s what breaks him, “i know. i know and i’m sorry,” he rushes out, “i should’ve called. i should’ve warned you. i should’ve—fuck—i should’ve done a lot of things.”

there’s a beat.

then another.

he whispers, fragile, like he’s terrified the line might snap, “i love you.”

the three words punch a sob out of me.

and somehow it still isn’t enough.

“i can’t do this,” i finally say, voice shaking, “not like this.”

“then fight,” he begs— raw, unfiltered, “fight for us. fight for me. please—don’t walk away.”

i close my eyes.

and i break, “i’m sorry, max.”

and before he can say anything else— before i hear more pain i can’t carry— i hang up.

i collapse into my pillows and cry until everything hurts— eyes swollen, lungs tight, body shaking. eventually, the door opens.

my mom steps in quietly, sits beside me, and strokes my hair like she used to when i was five, “oh, liefje,” she whispers.

and i sob harder.

because the only person who could fix this is the same person breaking me.

and i don’t know what hurts more— loving him, or walking away.

i spend the next few days in a fog. everything feels distant, muted, like i’m watching myself from outside my own body.

wake up. eat breakfast because my mom practically puts the fork in my hand. take a walk because it’s the only part that doesn’t feel forced.

repeat.

the air outside is heavy—thick and warm in that early-summer way that makes it hard to breathe. my thoughts feel just as suffocating.

all i can think about is monaco. how i’m supposed to go back and pretend things aren’t shattered. pretend i’m fine. pretend max won’t try to find me.

because the moment i see him… i know i’ll fold.

not because i’m weak. but because loving him has always been instinct, not decision.

and that’s the part that scares me the most—that no matter how hurt i am, he still feels like home.

my brain keeps whispering things i don’t want to hear.

just talk to him.

please.

but i don’t. i can’t. my chest feels cracked open and raw, and silence feels safer than honesty.

so i walk.

no music. no distractions. just my thoughts chewing me alive.

usually, when things get too heavy, i call sofia. or maya. or both. but i can’t do that either—not when i feel one bad sentence away from completely unraveling.

i don’t want comfort. i want clarity. and i don’t have it yet.

my feet eventually drag me somewhere familiar—not because i planned it, but because muscle memory did.

sophie’s house.

my second home. my second mother.

i stand there for a second, debating whether i should turn around and leave before i fall apart on the doorstep. but my knuckles betray me and knock anyway.

victoria opens the door, eyebrows lifting in surprise before her expression softens.

“wow—hi. i haven’t seen you in forever.”

i let out something that sounds like a laugh but feels twisted. “yeah. i’ve been… around.”

she gestures me in, and i step inside. everything smells the same—fresh laundry, warm vanilla, childhood safety.

“i figured you’d seen the headlines,” i mutter as we sit on the couch.

“i did,” she admits quietly. but she doesn’t push. she just lets the silence exist without forcing it into something else.

it’s comforting.

before either of us says anything, i hear small footsteps—then squeals.

“auntie!! we missed you!!!”

luka throws himself into my arms and i hug him tight. vic smiles, relieved i’m smiling at something.

lio climbs up more carefully, shy and curious.

“where’s maxie?” he asks, voice soft.

his name does something sharp in my chest—like someone pressing on a bruise.

“maxie’s racing in spain,” i answer gently, tapping his nose. “maybe when he’s done, i’ll tell him to come visit.”

“yes!” he beams, content.

i swallow down whatever that feeling is—pain or love or both.

vic watches me for a moment, then asks:

“you two aren’t talking?”

i shake my head.

“no. not right now.” the words taste bitter. “we’re… figuring things out.”

she hesitates, then:

“so the thing with kelly—it’s not real?”

i laugh under my breath. humorless. exhausted.

“no. it’s not.”

but my brain doesn’t care about logic—it cares about what hurts.

“he loves you,” she says softly. “everyone can see it.”

i blink hard. because yeah—maybe everyone sees it. but right now, love doesn’t feel like enough. it feels like a wound.

“you should talk to him,” she continues gently. “running won’t make the feeling go away.”

i stare at my hands.

“you talked to him?” i ask.

“yeah, yesterday,” she nods. “he seemed… scared. worried. lost.”

i look down as lio curls against me and luka plays with my hair—same way max does without thinking. my throat tightens.

vic doesn’t push. she just says:

“you don’t have to fix it today. but you do have to face it eventually.”

and god— she’s right.

i sigh, leaning back into the couch, kids still hanging onto me like gravity.

“feelings are stupid,” i mutter.

vic laughs—soft, knowing. “yeah. but they’re real.”

i close my eyes for a second.

because somewhere deep down, under all the hurt,

i know i’m not done loving him.

not even close.

i want to throw my phone across the fucking room.

we were never officially together. no label. no conversation. nothing defined. i told myself keeping it undefined would protect us until everything settled, until the world stopped trying to pry us apart.

but here i am — in the middle of a hotel room that suddenly feels too big, staring at a text where she basically said she’s done. that she’s tired. that she doesn’t want to keep fighting for something that was never allowed to exist.

and i can’t even do anything about it.

not during race week. not when i’m supposed to be composed and focused and doing fucking interviews with a smile plastered on my face.

my chest aches like someone’s sitting on it. i can’t breathe right. everything feels too tight, too loud, too wrong.

someone knocks on the driver room door, saying something about press or media or whatever the fuck. i don’t care. i don’t move. i can’t. if i speak right now i’m worried i’ll say the truth— that i’m losing the one person who feels like home.

i make up some bullshit excuse about being sick and leave. nobody stops me. maybe they know better. maybe they can see the disaster behind my eyes. maybe i’m just too far gone to pretend anymore.

i run back to the hotel like i’m being chased, but the only thing chasing me is her silence.

kelly’s here and i’m supposed to look like i give a shit. smile. wave. let cameras make their own assumptions. meanwhile the only thing i want is her. her voice. her laugh. her hands tugging me closer like i’m hers.

i call. and call. and call again. each voicemail feels like a punch.

by free practice, i’m done pretending. i can’t focus. i’m snapping at everyone. the pitwall. the mechanics. the car. the world. myself.

it all blurs— two days, barely any sleep, everything and nothing at the same time. i feel restless and angry and lost. like before she moved to monaco. before i knew peace existed outside winning.

finally the race is over. p10. one point. meaningless.

i get on my jet the second i can, rules and consequences be damned. i turn my phone on before we even fully land and call her again. nothing. so i call vic.

she picks up and i don’t even say hello, “can you go to evangelina’s house and—”

“max,” she cuts in softly, “she’s here. she’s trying to put the kids down for a nap.”

i don’t answer. i just hang up and drive— way too fast— straight to my mom’s house.

she meets me in the driveway, confused, worried, trying to ask something, but i hug her quickly and bolt inside.

i call her name.

she’s there.

sitting on the couch with luka and lio sleeping across her lap. her hair messy. her eyes tired. her face soft in that way that always ruins me.

she looks up when she hears me.

“max— shh, you’re gonna wake them,” she whispers.

god. normally this would feel domestic. warm. like a life we could’ve had. but right now it hurts. because she feels close and distant at the same time.

“i need to talk to you.”

she glances at the kids, “luka and lio—”

“now." my voice leaves no room for negotiation.

she carefully sets the boys down, and when she stands, i take her hand without thinking— muscle memory— and lead her upstairs.

the door closes behind us.

she walks straight into me and wraps her arms around my waist like she’s been waiting to breathe.

“i missed you,” she murmurs into my shirt.

my hands go to her hair, her back, anywhere i can touch to make sure she’s real. i kiss her forehead because i don’t know how else to keep myself together.

“schatje,” i whisper.

she looks up at me like i'm something good— like i still matter— and it nearly breaks me.

“please don’t walk away from this,” i breathe out, “from us. please fight.”

her eyes flicker downward like the guilt is heavy. like it’s crushing her too.

“i don’t know if i can keep fighting, max,” her voice cracks. “i’m exhausted. watching you with some girl you barely know while people act like i’m irrelevant— it fucking hurts.”

“i know,” i whisper, kissing the tears as they fall. “i know, baby. i should’ve handled it differently. i should’ve protected you.”

she presses her face into my chest and sobs quietly — and that sound feels worse than any crash i’ve ever had.

i hold her tighter, like if i let go, she’ll disappear.

“i’m done hiding you,” i promise against her hair, “i’ll stop the fake shit. it’s not worth losing you.”

she shakes her head weakly, “i don’t want you doing it because of me.”

“i’m not,” i say instantly, “i’m doing it because i can’t keep pretending someone else belongs next to me when it’s always been you.”

she goes quiet for a moment.

“when?” she finally asks.

“when i take you back to monaco,” i say softly, “let them take pictures. let them talk. i don’t care. i just want you beside me.”

she swallows hard, “are you sure?”

i nod. no hesitation.

“i’m always sure when it comes to you, schatje.”

we say goodbye slowly. not because we need more time— but because neither of us wants to rush something that finally feels steady again.

sophie hugs me first, long and understanding, her hand rubbing circles on my back the way moms do when words aren’t enough. victoria stands beside her with that look— the one she gives max when he’s being emotionally dense and finally figured it out.

“take care of each other,” she says, soft but firm.

the boys crash into me next— luka nearly knocking me off balance and lio climbing onto my hip like muscle memory. their hair smells like sunscreen and apple juice and childhood. it almost breaks me open.

“you’re coming back now, right?” luka asks, hopeful eyes and sticky fingers on my cheeks.

before i can answer, max crouches beside us, voice gentle.

“she’s coming home with me.”

the word home hangs there. quiet and sure.

i don’t correct him.

when we finally make it to the car, the world outside keeps moving— kids on bikes, someone walking their dog, sunlight spilling through trees— but inside, everything feels still.

max’s pinky hooks mine on the center console, small and cautious, but it’s enough to tell me we’re choosing each other again.

by the time we’re in the jet, the silence has changed shape. it isn’t tense anymore— just soft, like we’re relearning how to exist close without breaking.

max leans back in his seat, watching me the way someone watches the sky clearing after a storm.

“i almost shaved my head,” he announces out of nowhere.

my head snaps toward him, “what?”

he looks completely serious, “i thought the mental breakdown aesthetic might help.”

i blink.

then i laugh— really laugh— the sound scraping out of me like i haven’t used it in weeks.

“max,” i breathe, wiping my eyes, “you would’ve looked like a european egg with depression.”

he clutches his chest dramatically, “my god. you wound me.”

“you’d survive.”

“barely.”

we fall into a softer quiet then— not awkward, not heavy— just… easy. his thumb traces lazy circles over my knuckles, grounding me in a way nothing else has lately.

after a while he whispers, “it feels better now.”

“yeah,” i murmur, letting my head rest on his shoulder, “it feels like we’re okay.”

he presses a kiss into my hair.

like a promise.

monaco comes into view like a held breath finally exhaled— familiar and terrifying and ours.

i brace myself the moment we land. i expect chaos. cameras. shouting. headlines forming in real time.

but there’s nothing.

just the wind, and the hum of the runway, and max’s hand tightening around mine like relief.

“one quiet day,” he says softly, “we deserved at least that.”

his apartment feels like a place i’ve been and a place i’m just getting to know again. sweaters draped over chairs, a pair of sneakers kicked somewhere they shouldn’t be— real living, not staged perfection.

and then i’m tackled.

meow.

sassy. followed by jimmy who makes eye contact with max, decides he doesn’t exist, and immediately curls up in my lap.

i blink down at him.

max stares in betrayal.

“seriously?” he demands, “you ignored me for three days.”

jimmy purrs louder.

i smirk, “they’re showing you where the loyalty lies.”

“apparently not with me.”

“maybe you should’ve shaved your head.”

he looks offended and amused all at once— the perfect mix.

later, when the sun has lowered and the apartment feels quieter than it did when we arrived, we sit on the couch with the cats asleep between us like smug chaperones.

the conversation comes naturally— not rushed, just… arriving.

“how do you want to tell them?” i ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he exhales slowly, “i don’t want a rollout. or a staged thing. or a strategy.”

i nod, waiting, “i just want to tell them the truth,” he says simply, “i love you. i’m done hiding it. end of story.”

my chest tightens— not with fear now, but with something softer.

“you’re sure?”

he meets my eyes like it’s the easiest thing in the world, “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

the room stays quiet for a beat— calm, warm, steady.

then he shifts closer, forehead brushing mine.

“tomorrow,” he whispers, “we tell the world. but tonight… you’re here. with me. and that’s enough.”

and somehow, for the first time in weeks,

it is.

the night sits quiet — soft, dim, like it’s holding its breath. everything feels still except your mind, because that won’t shut up. it keeps spinning, picking at wounds that weren’t open before, making problems out of shadows. thinking things you wish you could unthink.

you started feeling the distance the day he came home with the trophy. the one you should’ve been there to see him win. since then, his touch has changed — or vanished. it’s not even about sex. it’s the way he used to brush his hand across your back when he reached past you, or steady his fingers on your hip when he walked by. lazy affection. unconscious intimacy. the kind that says i’m here. i choose you. i see you.

now, it’s nothing. like his body forgot yours.

his voice changed too. clipped. tired. formal in a way that makes your name sound like a stranger’s. no nickname, no softness — just your name, then silence.

and every time, you wonder what part of you started slipping first.

maybe you haven’t been supportive enough. maybe missing that race mattered more than you thought. maybe his life was getting bigger and you stayed small. maybe you just… stopped being someone worth coming home to.

you tried. god, you tried. but sometimes trying still isn’t enough.

the front door clicks open — that quiet, routine sound that used to make your stomach warm. now it makes your spine tense.

you don’t turn. if you meet his eyes, you’ll cry, and you’re not giving yourself permission to fall apart in front of him. not tonight.

“i’m home.”

lando’s voice is tired — not the good kind, not the earned kind. the drained kind. the kind that makes you wonder if being with you is work.

he calls your name and you look up a little too fast. his expression changes — surprise? confusion? maybe disappointment.

“what’s wrong?” he asks, voice low, careful.

you shake your head. nothing. always nothing. it’s safer that way.

but he studies you, eyes slow and soft, “you look like you’ve been crying.”

your fingers won’t stop moving — twisting, untwisting, betraying every lie you’re trying to make believable.

“i haven’t,” you whisper.

and he almost smiles. not because it’s funny — because he knows you. knew you.

“you’re a terrible liar,” he murmurs, “just tell me.”

you look at him — really look — and suddenly your throat feels too tight, too full. you don’t even know where the starting point is in all of this.

the missed race? the coldness? the way you feel like you’re loving someone who’s halfway out the door? or the quiet fear that he already left — just not physically.

“i… i think i'm just feeling under the weather.”

your voice cracks, and that alone makes his hand reach for you.

you flinch.

and that — that tells him more than anything you could say.

his whole face shifts, softer, sadder, worried. but he doesn’t push. instead, he gets up and disappears for a second, returning with painkillers and water.

“here,” he says gently.

you take them because it’s something to do. something to avoid the ache in your chest that medicine can’t touch.

he sits beside you again, voice quieter this time, “is that really what’s going on?”

you nod, because lying feels easier than truth, “you should sleep. long day.”

it comes out too flat, too rehearsed.

you try to stand, but his fingers wrap lightly around your wrist — and this time, the touch feels foreign. hesitant. almost unfamiliar.

“you’ve been pulling away,” he says, and his voice isn’t sharp — just steady, “what’s going on? i’m only asking one more time.”

your mouth opens — but nothing comes out.

because how do you tell someone that the thing hurting you is them? how do you say you stopped choosing me and i don’t know when it happened without sounding dramatic or broken or clingy?

so instead, you slip your wrist out of his hand. gently, but final.

“i’m fine,” you lie, “just tired.”

his eyes flicker with hurt — quick, but real — and then he nods, stands, and walks to the bedroom without another word.

the house goes quiet again.

too quiet.

and you sit there, staring at nothing, feeling everything.

and all you know is: you’re losing him.

and you don’t know how to stop it.

you’re feel alone again. even with people around you. it doesn’t even sting the way it used to— it just feels expected. routine. either he’s working, or laughing somewhere with people who aren’t you, and you’re here pretending that silence isn’t starting to sound like abandonment.

you could ask him to stay home. to spend time with you. to talk. but the words never make it past your teeth. because somewhere deep down, beneath every excuse and soft denial, you’ve convinced yourself this is your fault.

you must’ve done something wrong.

or maybe it’s everything you didn’t do. the things you forgot to say. the moments you let slip instead of fighting for them. the fear you let grow until it built walls between you both.

you shove the thoughts away — you don’t have time to fall apart. you have work to finish. responsibilities to meet. you tell yourself that matters more.

the walk home feels longer than usual. too quiet. the kind of quiet that presses against your ribs and whispers all the thoughts you’ve been avoiding. you wrap your coat tighter even though you’re not cold.

your phone buzzes.

lan 🧡: r u not home yet? me: not yet lan 🧡: when r u coming home? me: soon, i'm walking home now

you lock your phone quickly, like leaving the conversation unread will somehow make it feel fuller. your fingers tighten around your bag strap, grounding yourself.

you remember when he would’ve been beside you for this walk — warm hand tangled with yours, making stupid jokes, kissing your hairline at red lights, asking if you wanted takeout even though he already knew the answer.

now it’s just your footsteps. just your breath. just empty space where his presence used to live.

sometimes the fear creeps in — the quiet, ugly one — wondering if he ever thinks about losing you. if that thought scares him. if he’d fight for you the way you’d still fight for him.

you don’t know. you’re not even sure you want to know.

when you finally get home, you push the door open and call out, soft but hopeful, “i’m home.”

the words echo back at you.

he’s not here.

your heart drops because part of you — the foolish, loyal, painfully hopeful part — thought his texts meant he was waiting. thought maybe tonight would feel different. maybe something was shifting back toward what you used to be.

but the apartment is quiet.

cold.

empty.

your phone stays locked in your hand, thumb shaking as you check for another message.

nothing.

just your own last text staring back at you.

your throat burns, eyes stinging, breath uneven.

why do you keep doing this to yourself?

why are you still waiting for someone who stopped showing up?

the answer comes quietly — the one you hate the most.

because you still love him.

too much. too deeply. too stupidly.

you scroll.

headline after headline. photo after photo. speculation stacked like proof. and every word feels like it was written with the intention of hurting you specifically.

you thought maybe he was distant because he was tired. overwhelmed. unsure. maybe because he changed his mind about you. that alone already hurt.

but this?

this feels like someone reached into your chest and twisted.

you didn’t even hear it from him.

no text. no reassurance. no “don’t worry, baby, it’s bullshit”.

nothing.

like protecting you wasn’t the first thing on his mind. or the second. or maybe even on the list at all.

your knees are tucked to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold together whatever pieces are left. the balcony air is cold, sharp enough to bite through your clothes, but you don’t move. you don’t go inside. the distant city noises feel like company — imperfect, but better than silence.

you don’t even cry anymore.

you just feel numb. hollow. like the feeling burned itself out.

maybe this is how relationships end — quietly. slowly. with distance and silence and unanswered questions until one day it just snaps.

maybe heartbreak isn’t dramatic — maybe it’s just sitting somewhere you once felt safe, realizing someone stopped choosing you.

the door opens.

your whole body tenses.

you turn to see him standing there — tired and guilty.

and somehow, the first words that spill out of you aren’t anger or questions or accusations.

they’re soft. defeated, “i’m sorry.”

you don’t even know what you’re apologizing for — existing? caring? hoping?

he doesn’t speak yet, so you do.

“are they true?” your voice is barely there.

he moves closer, dropping his phone and wallet without a thought, “no. but the fact that you had to see them at all is… awful.”

you nod, but it doesn’t soothe anything.

“then why didn’t you text me?” it comes out fragile. scared.

he sits beside you, arm wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you into warmth you’ve been missing.

“because i wanted to tell you in person,” he murmurs against your temple, “not over a screen. from me.”

his voice cracks a little, “you mean everything to me. i’d never do that to you.”

the dam breaks.

your tears fall hot, messy, silent at first — until they aren’t. he kisses them like they’re something sacred.

“you’ve been pulling away,” he whispers, “and i didn’t know why. i didn’t want this to be… the thing that broke us.”

you shake your head hard, “it’s not me, lan,” you choke out, “it’s you.”

your voice trembles.

“you stopped touching me. you don’t look at me the same. being around me feels like work to you," he tries to explain — something about stress, about sex — but you cut him off.

“it wasn’t about sex," your breath shakes, “it was the way your hand rested on my back when we walked through crowds. the little sleepy touches in the morning. the way you’d reach for me without thinking.”

your lip trembles, “you stopped… choosing me. even in the small ways.”

his forehead drops to yours, “i’m sorry,” he whispers, again and again, between soft kisses — your cheeks, your jaw, the corners of your mouth, your tears. every kiss feels like a promise and a plea.

“i was overwhelmed. and i shut down. i shouldn’t have made you feel unloved," his voice breaks for the first time, “i would never want to lose you.”

your sob catches in your chest and he pulls you fully into him — arms around you, warm palms sliding under your shirt to your skin because he knows that grounds you.

“i love you,” he breathes into your hair, “please don’t doubt that. not even for a second.”

you melt into him, crying into his shoulder — and for a moment, just one fragile, trembling moment — it feels like things might be okay again.

like maybe you’re not losing him after all.

i can't keep fucking doing this. running away, hesitating, wanting her and then pretending i don't.

i'm only a few meters away from her apartment, but my heart feels heavy. she deserves so much more, so much better than what i have to offer her.

i can't keep playing this pull and push game and expecting her to feel the same way about me, because that's not how it works. you have to commit to it. if you don't, you'll lose them along the way.

the phone feels heavy in my hand. i should go back, tell her and beg for her forgiveness, for being such a shitty best friend.

before i can think much about my decision, i click on her contact information and i type.

You: I lied, I'm sorry. You: I'm coming back, let's talk.

i don't wait for her reply, i turn around and walk faster.

i don't let myself think myself out of this one. it's really now or never.

when i reach her door, she's there already, door opened, wide-eyed, maybe a little confused, maybe a little scared. before i can talk myself out of it, my hands are on her waist and my mouth is on hers.

the kiss feels like an overdue truth, messy and desperate and completely out of my control. she gasps against me and all i do is pull her closer, terrified someone will come and snatch her away from me.

my skin feels like it's literally on fire, i can't think, can't breathe. all i can feel is her, against me, molded against me. and the one thought i can think of is how perfect she feels against me, kissing me like this, on her tippy toes.

my hands travel to the nape of her neck, pushing her deeper into the kiss and she whines, she fucking whines, and it ruins me. it's like i've lost control and all i can see is her.

she's the one who pulls away first, "max, what—"

"shh," i whisper, forehead pressed into hers, "let me say this before i lose the courage," my voice is shaky, and i don't try to hide it this time around.

"i've been in love with you since... fuck, since forever. and i get it if you don't feel the same way or if i've ruined everything, but i needed you to know. because pretending i don't care about you is killing me and i'm tired of running away," i blurt out, and it feels like a weight has finally been lifted off my chest after all these years.

i'm met with silence and it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, but then she laughs, soft, disbelieving, relieved, "i feel the same way max, where did you get the idea that i don't feel the same way?"

i don't even answer her question, i lift her up and she yelps. i walk use inside like i've done it a thousand times and set her gently onto her bed. i lay beside her and prop my head on my hand, elbow holding my head up.

"i don't even know why i thought you didn't feel the same way, it's just my brain. it's too damn loud sometimes, and i't's hard to think logically when it comes to you," i breathe out, "you're everything for me, i hope you know that."

she cups my face and her thumb brushes my jaw, "then let's talk about everything, debrief. we've done that before right?" she asks, eyes soft, as if there has been a massive weight lifted off her chest as well.

i sigh, "i know, i've been such a fucking asshole," i collapse on her, half-hugging, half-clinging, "i should've stayed, i should've meant it the first time i blurted it out."

she runs her fingers through my hair gently, "you hurt me," she whispers, not accusing me, just her being honest.

i don't say anything to that, i only kiss her neck, as an apology, not as a distraction, "i know, and i'm sorry. i'm tired of running," i tell her and her hand slips to the back of my neck.

"but why did you run? it made me feel hopeless, like you would never feel the love that i have in my heart for you," she tells me honestly.

"i... i didn't mean to hurt you," i start, "i just fucking panicked."

she nods once, slow, "why?"

i laugh, a humorless, quiet and almost ashamed, "because this is the one thing i can't control. racing? i know how to win. media? i can fake it. pressure? i've lived for it forever. but you..." i pause, i'm trying to search for the words that i've avoided all these years.

"you terrify me," i can see her stiffen up, almost in disbelief.

"i terrify you?"

i huff, "yes, because if i mess this up, i don't just lose a relationship. i lose you. i lose my best friend. i lose the person who talks to me, honest, brutal, instead of letting me spiral."

she looks at me, as if she's trying to decode something in her brain. i take this opportunity to speak again, "that night," i continue softly, "when i told you i loved you, it slipped out. i wasn't planning it. i just looked at you and the atmosphere was just right and i decided it was a good time."

her eyes are glassy, and it does something in to my stomach.

"and when you didn't say anything back, when you froze... i thought i ruined everything. i thought you didn't want me like that. so i took it back before you could reject me."

she shakes her head almost immediately, "max, i froze because i never thought i'd hear you say it. not because i didn't feel it."

now it was my time to freeze, the words hit me and i'm trying not to let it break me open completely.

she reaches for my hand, tracing small circles over my knuckles, "you're not the only one who's scared," she says quietly, "i've spent months trying to figure out what we actually are. friends? something more? something almost? it was confusing, it hurt. that's why i pulled away when i visited my mom, because it was either confess and bare my heart open to you or pull away slowly before you would notice i was gone."

i wince, there's guilt clearly on my face, "i know and i'm sorry, i messed everything by giving you half of me and acting like it was enough," i take a breath, "i don't want to do that anymore. you deserve me, entirely, no pieces left out."

she stares at me, it was as if her eyes were searching, hoping and terrified to assume too much, "so what do you want?"

"you."

it's only one word, but it's steady, certain, "but the real version," my voice incredibly soft now, "not almost, not 'whatever this is'. not undefined. if we're doing this... i want it to be real."

my heart is warm now, full, as if there was a piece missing before and i don't even have to guess, it was her. this entire time.

"real?" she repeats, "meaning what?"

i smile nervously, "meaning i don't pretend you're just someone else, meaning i kiss you because i want to, not because the moment gets away from me. meaning i stop running," i inch closer to her face, "meaning if someone asks me if you're mine, i don't think, i just say yes."

her breath catches, "and if i say yes now," she whispers, voice barely there, only for me to hear, "you won't freak out and disappear on me again?"

my hand comes up and brushes her jaw, "no more running, schatje," the nickname i call her now filled with even more love than before, i didn't think it was possible but here i am, "not from you."

i lean in until our foreheads touch.

soft. quiet. real.

"then i'm yours," she breathes out.

and for the first time, i don't kiss her like something desperate or forbidden.

i kiss her because i chose her.

i wake up before he does.

of course i do, because max verstappen sleeps like someone who has finally stopped running. arms heavy around me, breathing slow, face buried in my shoulder like he's trying to memorize what comfort feels like.

his touch feels different now.

now that i know that he does want me too, it feels more driven, it feels like it's filled with more passion.

i enjoy it for a second.

the stillness.

the warmth.

the quiet kind of happiness you don't get very often.

and then reality hits.

the paddock. the media. red bull. the entire fucking world.

they don't know.

and none of them are gentle.

my stomach twists.

this, whatever this is now, isn't protected once we step outside of this room. and as much as i want to believe last night changed everything, a tiny, ugly, part of me whispers.

what if he wakes up and regrets it?

i try to ignore it but it sits tight at the center of my chest.

max shifts against me, half-asleep, voice still raspy from sleep, "why are you thinking so loud?"

i almost laugh. almost, "i'm not," i whisper back at him.

he cracks one eye open, barely, and gives me that lazy smile that could probably restart my heart if it ever stopped.

"liar," he leans in to kiss me, slow, soft, and for a moment it fixes everything.

until my phone buzzes on the nightstand.

once. twice. three times.

i reach for it without thinking and see the notifications.

sofia: the media is talking about you. sofia: you guys need to start being careful.

my stomach drops and max notices immediately, brows pulling together, "what is it?" his voice sharper now, i show him the screen.

he escapes my grip and grabs his phone, checks his feed and his jaw tenses instantly.

paparazzi photos, from yesterday.

not our kiss, thank god for that, but it's close enough for people to take the wrong way.

him walking into the apartment building.

and then the worst one, us holding hands on the way home from the paddock.

captioned with the exact sentence neither of us were ready for, "is max verstappen secretly dating long-time friend?"

the air instantly turns heavy.

he exahales sharply, running a hand through his hair, and i can't tell whether the sound that escapes his lips is anger, frustration or regret.

i hate that i have to ask, but i do so anyway, "max... is this going to be a problem?"

he doesn't answer right away.

the silence stretches, thick, uncomfortable, suffocating, and suddenly it feels like we're miles apart even though his thigh is still touching mine. he finally looks at me, and the softness from last night is gone, replaced with something guarded.

"i just... didn't want it to come out, not yet," he mutters, "not like this."

the words stings, more than i want to admit.

"right," i murmur, "because keeping me a secret worked so well before."

'that's not what i meant."

"then what did you mean?" my voice is quiet, but it feels sharp anyway, "because it sounds like you woke up and you changed your mind about me."

he stands up, away from me, and that hurts.

i watch him struggle for words, not the usual max frustration, not the media-trained silence, something deeper, something older.

fear.

real fear.

he drags a hand through his hair and finally looks at me, really looks, like he's trying to decide how much truth i can handle.

"it's not you," he says first, which is exactly the kind of phrase that makes my chest tighten, because people only start sentences like that when they already know it's going to hurt.

"max," i whisper, "then tell me, what is it?"

he exhales slowly, eyes flicking to the floor before rising back to mine. his voice is quieter, the version of him i only get when doors are closed and the world can't hear, "i don't want the media near you."

i blink.

that wasn't the answer i expected.

he continues before i can response, words tumbling out faster, like he's finally opened a door he kept shut for years, "you saw what they do to other drivers' girlfriends. the comments. the stalking. the cameras everywhere they go. people digging through their family, their life, their past—" he shakes his head, jaw clenching, "they don't care if they hurt someone. they don't stop."

he pauses for a second, swallowing hard.

i've never seen him look like this. not angry, not guarded but terrified in a quiet, human way, "i can handle the bullshit when it's about me," he murmurs, voice raw, "but not you."

and suddenly, everything makes sense.

the silence.

the hesitance.

the way he held my hands behind walls but never fully in front of cameras.

his love was never the problem.

his fear was.

i tug at his arm to make him sit next to me, "max... you don't have to protect me from loving you,' i say softly, not accusing, just honest.

he lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head slightly, "you think that's all this is? a headline? speculation?" he looks at me like i don't understand the depth of it, "once they put our names together, once they decide you belong to my life, they won't treat you like a person anymore."

his leg bounces, a nervous habit he's never had around me before, "i've seen it happen," he whispers, "i've watched fans tear people apart just because they were close to someone in this sport. and you—" his voice cracks just slightly, the smallest fracture, "you're the one person i can't risk losing."

my chest hurts.

not in a bad way.

but in the way love hurts when it's real and complicated.

i take his hand, not to force comfort but to remind him that he's not alone in this, "i'm already in it," i tell him quietly, "i've been in it."

he meets my eyes, blue and terrified and soft. and then barely audible, "i'm scared they'll take you away from me."

not because he doubts us.

not because he doesn't want me.

but because loving publicly, when the world feels entitled to you is its own kind of battlefield.

and for max verstappen, someone who's spent years building walls just to survive, letting me in wasn't the fear.

letting the world know?

that was the risk.

the silence between us shifts, not heavy anymore. just fragile. like something delicate was finally named, and now we're both afraid to breathe too hard in case it breaks.

max's thumb brushes my knuckles, slowly, like he's relearning what he's allowed to do, "i don't want to stop," he says, barely above a whisper, "i don't want distance or space or pretending none of this exists."

his voice softens further, only for me, "but i need to be smart about it."

i nod, because i understand even if a part of me hates that i do.

"so what does that mean?" i ask, voice softens further, not accusing, just tired of guessing.

he shifts closer, knee touching mine, but he doesn't pull away this time, "it means..." he pauses, jaw flexing like the words taste complicated in his mouth, "we take this slow. not because i'm unsure but because i want to protect it."

my heart stutters, because that's so much worse and so much better than anything i expected.

he looks at me like he needs me to believe him, "i'm not asking you to wait," he murmurs, "just... don't walk away yet."

that breaks something in me, soft and dangerous, "i wasn't planning to," i admit quietly.

his exhale is relief disguised as composure, "good," he says voice low but steady, "then we do this, privately, until i figure out how to handle the rest."

i tilt my head, "so... we're what? friends?"

he gives me that look, the one full of unspoken things, the one he never lets anyone else see. his answer is almost a laugh, breathless and disbelieving, "you know sure as hell we're not just friends, we never were."

my chest tightens, because he's right, friends don't look at eachother like that. friends don't touch eachother like that. friends don't memorize breathing patterns. friends don't share a pillow at 3am and friends sure as hell don't kiss eachother like that.

but he isn't done, "no labels yet," he says carefully, "not until i know the media won't get to you first."

the phrase lands like a boundary and a promise at the same time.

not yet.

not never.

his hand lifts, hesitant for once and he rests his fingertips on my jaw, tracing the line softly like he's apologizing without speaking.

"i need time," he whispers, striking blue eyes locked on mine, "just enough to prepare things, for you, for us."

my voice is quiet, raw, "and in the meantime?"

his thumb grazes my cheekbone, slow and familiar, the kind fo touch that says he's done this a hundred times in private and misses every moment he couldn't.

"in the meantime," he says, brushing my skin, "i still care about you. i still want you close. i just... won't make you a headline."

i swallow, because that's more intimate than any kiss.

i nod once, "okay," i breathe.

his shoulder drop, relief, gratitude, fear all tangled. then he leans forward, slowly, and pressed a soft kiss to my temple.

not greedy.

not rushed.

intentional.

a promise disguised as restraint.

when he pulls back, he's close enough that his voice is barely audible, "not forever," he says, "just until i know i can love you without the world ruining it."

and maybe that shouldn't feel like hope.

but it does.

"how did you let this happen?" my manager is pacing the length of the meeting room like she’s training for a marathon. it's annoying. and dramatic. and not helping.

"i knew she was going to be a problem the second you walked in all starry-eyed about her years ago."

i ignore that, because i’m two seconds away from walking out.

"i don’t want the media tearing her apart," i tell her, jaw tight. "just fix it. whatever it takes."

she finally stops moving and gives me that look—half exhausted, half judgmental.

"max, i can’t just make this disappear. this isn’t a random rumor. you’ve never been caught with anyone else and the media already knows who she is. they know her face. her neighborhood. everything. they’re going to eat her alive."

"i promised her i wouldn’t let that happen," i say, voice flat, final. "so fix it."

"the only fix is another headline," she says, crossing her arms. "another scandal. someone else has to enter the picture—someone who looks like they're dating you."

"no." it’s out before she even finishes. "i’m not covering up fake gossip with more fake gossip."

she snorts, humorless. "then take your promise and shove it somewhere creative, because that’s the only thing that would work."

i know she’s right. i hate that she’s right.

i drag a hand down my face. this is going to be hell.

the pr team files in—three people dressed like they're about to stage a coup.

michael, the head of the team, starts talking before he even sits.

"option one: create a new dating narrative. fast, clean, and it redirects attention. she’ll be old news in a week."

"no. next," i snap.

he exchanges a look with the others.

"option two: win the next race. not as strong, but media will be focused on your comeback."

"the car’s a shitbox," i tell him. "also no."

my phone buzzes. i swipe the notification and feel my stomach drop.

love of my life: paparazzi is trailing me.

i shut my eyes for a second.

"ten minutes," i mutter, already standing. my manager gives me that don’t you dare disappear glare. i ignore her.

i call immediately.

"schatje? you okay?" i ask, listening to the sound of her moving around.

"yeah. i’m good. i just went out to get groceries and suddenly there were cameras everywhere." she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours. "i’m home now. but… is it always like this?"

my chest tightens.

"i know. i'm sorry," i say quietly. "they're sharks. once they smell blood they don't stop."

she goes quiet.

then, softly: "are you talking to the pr team right now?"

"yeah."

"what are the options?"

i can’t tell her. not yet. not like this.

"nothing good," i admit.

she sighs. she’s tired. overwhelmed. i hate myself for being the reason.

"well," she says after a moment, "my mom wants me back in the netherlands while we sort out the will. maybe going home will help things cool down."

"okay. i’ll arrange the jet. stay low until then."

she hums in agreement, "max?"

"yeah?"

"i love you. and please don’t destroy the pr team. they’re just doing their jobs."

somehow, even right now, she makes me laugh.

"i love you too," i say. "and… no promises."

i hang up, look at the meeting room door like it's a firing squad, and take a breath.

then i walk back in.

kill. me. now.

the meeting ends with a decision i never agreed to. the fake dating scandal. the one thing i said no to first. apparently it's “bigger than me” and “we can’t let the golden boy crumble over one messy headline.”

whatever the fuck that means.

i don’t tell her. i can’t. not yet. i don’t want her sitting alone with that news and spiraling. she deserves peace for at least one night.

i set up the jet for tomorrow morning. one-way flight home. somewhere quieter, safer, somewhere without lenses pointed at her face like she’s a crime scene.

hopefully once she's gone, the media will get bored. hopefully.

the hotel room feels… empty. maybe it’s the silence. maybe it’s the distance. maybe it’s just me being fucking dramatic. but everything feels colder than it did a few hours ago.

milton keynes makes everything worse. nothing good ever comes from being here. the walls feel sharp. the air feels heavy. i hate it here.

she’s on my phone screen now, propped up against a glass of water on her counter. she’s making dinner, humming something soft and familiar. she’s not looking at me— but i’m watching anyway.

not in a creepy way (maybe eventually it’ll be... something else but right now it’s innocent).

i just like seeing her when the world isn’t burning.

"so what did they say?" she asks eventually, voice casual but not really. she’s chopping something, tomatoes maybe, and she’s off-screen again.

i bury my face into the pillow and speak into it because i’m a coward, "they’re planning something. it’s bad. and i don’t know if you wanna know."

she walks back into frame and gives me that look. the one that means don’t bullshit me, “tell me now, verstappen. i’d rather hear it from you than from twitter.”

i sigh, flip onto my back, stare at the ceiling like it’ll feed me better lines, "i have to fake-date some dumb model to make this go away."

i say it flat, like ripping off duct tape that’s welded to skin.

her reaction kills me, confusion first, then anger, then something like disappointment sitting behind her eyes.

"what? that’s insane. they can’t seriously expect—"

"i told them that," i cut in, frustrated. "i’ve been arguing with them for hours and they don’t give a shit. they think winning the next race will fix everything but i can’t drag that tractor to p1 even if god himself came down and pushed."

she laughs, but it’s not a happy laugh. it’s the kind that sounds tired, "if that’s what it takes to save your image, max… i don’t really have a say, do i?"

i hate that she’s calm about it. i hate that she sounds resigned. i hate that she’s already making herself smaller for my sake.

"let’s not think about it right now," i mutter, like changing the topic will magically solve it. she raises an eyebrow like she’s seconds from throwing a knife at the screen.

"seriously," i add quickly, "i’ll deal with it. just… not right this second."

she shakes her head, "you’re such a child."

i sit up, offended, "i am not."

she snorts. not even trying to hide it, "you are. a big one."

"i hate the idea as much as you do," i mumble, softer now, "but what choice do i have?"

she shrugs, but it’s the kind of shrug that looks like giving up on something she wishes didn’t hurt, "just go along with it. it’ll blow over. eventually the press will get bored and leave me alone."

my chest tightens. she’s right, and i fucking hate that she’s right.

"i hate it when you’re right," i mutter.

she smirks, smug and adorable, "get used to it, mister formula one. i plan on being right a lot."

i smile, tired, but real. it feels weirdly grounding, "okay. i’m gonna sleep. your flight’s at ten tomorrow. i’ll text you the details. don’t be late."

she nods, softer now. calmer, "thank you, max."

she pauses. breathes, "i love you."

it hits me every time. like the first time. like it’s brand new.

"i love you too, schatje."

and god— i would burn the world down to mean it properly.

scrolling twitter should be the least of my priorities right now. genuinely. i should be sleeping, or journaling, or deep breathing like every therapist on the planet tells you to do when your life starts spiraling.

but no.

i’m on max’s jet, the one he arranged like it was nothing, like private aviation is just another tuesday task, flying back to the netherlands, staring at my phone like it has the answers to life’s biggest questions.

spoiler: it doesn’t.

but i’m still scrolling. doom scrolling. self-esteem ruining scrolling.

tweets fill the screen faster than my nerves can process.

and then the others, the fun ones, the ones that slice instead of scratch.

they’re not the majority. but they stick.

they always stick.

i try to rationalize it, people get weird when they feel parasocial ownership over celebrities. especially ones who drive at 300 km/h and look stupidly good doing it.

i get it. i’d be protective too.

if i didn’t already have him.

kind of.

technically.

whatever.

labels don’t matter right now. twitter trolls don’t matter. paparazzi doesn’t matter.

i tell myself that but my chest still feels tight.

so i lock my phone and stare out the window for the rest of the flight, trying to mentally prepare for whatever disaster is waiting for me on the ground.

spoiler: disaster was a generous understatement.

as soon as i step out of the car and walk up the long driveway, i see them.

the woman who screamed at my mother at the funeral— lieke— standing in front of the house like she owns the air around it. beside her, her daughter, fleur, looking like she’s auditioning to be the human embodiment of irritation.

my stomach sinks, “why are they here?” i whisper to my mom.

she just shrugs, exhausted, and my chest aches. she hasn’t been sleeping. she’s barely been eating. there are shadows under her eyes where soft, warm expressions used to live. i can tell.

it breaks something in me.

“this is our estate,” lieke snaps before either of us can breathe, “we’ve lived here for twenty years. there is no reason we shouldn’t rightfully keep it.”

entitlement drips off every syllable.

and honestly? if the situation were reversed, i’d probably be pissed too, but she’s been awful from the second we met, so my sympathy is limited.

her daughter jumps in, voice sharp and bratty, “it isn’t fair! i grew up here. why should we hand it over to them? to that sly bitch and her—”

my mouth moves before my brain can stop it, “we’ve been nothing but respectful,” i snap, voice steady in a way that surprises even me, “and you two have been entitled assholes from the beginning.”

the lawyer, poor man, physically flinches, “please,” he tries, sweating. “let’s keep this civil.”

nobody listens.

we sign the papers anyway, pens scratching across legal documents like the world is shifting under our feet.

“there,” the lawyer announces, “as of now, the estate legally belongs to you both.”

my mother whispers thank you. he practically runs to his car.

coward. but honestly? fair.

the moment he’s gone, lieke straightens her jacket like she’s about to negotiate a hostage situation, “we strongly urge you to reconsider,” she says, saccharine but strained.

i laugh. actually laugh.

“no,” i say, too tired to dress it pretty, “we passed ‘civil’ weeks ago. you have four weeks to pack your shit and leave before we send a formal eviction notice.”

that’s when fleur snaps, “evict this you spoiled bitch—”

she lunges and grabs a fistful of my hair, nails sharp. i react on instinct, hands in her hair, pulling back.

chaos.

pure chaos.

we’re clawing and yanking and swearing while both mothers scream at us like this is some deranged reality show and we’re the season finale catfight.

and honestly? maybe i should be embarrassed.

but right now? right now, it feels kind of fucking deserved.

i’m sitting on the kitchen stool while my mom holds an ice pack to my cheek like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like she didn’t just find her daughter in someone’s driveway going feral.

“you shouldn’t have provoked them,” she says it gently, like she’s tired of repeating the same lesson.

i scoff, because what else am i supposed to do? “they were bad mouthing you when they don’t even know you. the only reason they even know we exist is because of paul. that fuckass—”

“language,” one word. sharp, tired, final.

and just like that, any fire i had burns out. she’s good at that, putting me back into silence with nothing but a look or a small inhale.

she looks exhausted. she’s been exhausted for weeks, maybe years, maybe since he left. maybe since she stayed longer than she should’ve. maybe since loving someone turned into surviving them.

the bruise throbs but the real pain is in her face.

“if they really want the mansion, they can have it,” she murmurs, lifting the ice pack to inspect the damage like she’s inspecting a weather report she already knows is bad, “i don’t care for it. and you shouldn’t either.”

“it’s not that i care about the house,” i try, and she raises an eyebrow, the kind that says be careful, so i tread lightly but i don’t back down, “he was abusive to you. and this was the only apology you ever got. you should at least think about taking it.”

she shakes her head before i even finish.

“i’ve made my decision, liefje,” she sets the ice pack down and stands like she’s done talking, like the universe has been too loud today, “they can have it. i don’t want it. i don’t want them. i don’t need a reminder of what i survived or two entitled women breathing down my neck.”

she sits across from me on the couch, and i watch her unravel, not loudly, not dramatically, just quietly. quietly enough that it hurts more.

a tear slips down her cheek, and that’s it, that’s the killing blow. every comeback dissolves in my throat, “these last few weeks have given me enough stress,” she whispers, voice thin like tissue paper, “i don’t want any more.”

i bite down on the inside of my cheek until i taste metal.

i want to fight. i want to scream. i want to defend her like she deserves. but she’s tired. and i love her more than i love being right.

so that’s that.

they can have the fucking mansion.