marta. 🦋

That’s what you’re doing now, sitting in the break room with one of your coworkers on the age-old leather couch as she sits close to watch you play. Currently, you’re watching Dean Winchester try to confess his love for Fluttershy. He’s had a crush on her for what feels like months!

“No! Fluttershy just freaking fumbled… they would’ve been so cute,” you whine, watching as Dean falls to the ground with despair, a blue cloud of depression appearing around the mii after he was rejected. Millee, your friend, chuckles from beside you.

“I feel like she would…” she starts, but pauses as something catches her eye. Then she turns to you again, shaking you, clearly struck with an idea. “Oh my god, you should make Leon!”

Leon’s been your mini work crush since you started. The first time you met him, you fumbled over your words so bad, he gave you a genuine look of concern. Millee teases you about it all the time.

“Wait, you’re freaking smart. I can’t believe I haven’t done that already,” you giggle along with her, putting cheering Dean up to the side for now as you select the option to make a new mii.

The two of you spend like ten minutes making a character identical to Leon, debating on facial features. Once you get one that looks accurate enough, you add his traits and finish by placing his house right next to yours.

“Aw wait, he’s so cute,” you smile, petting the mii’s head and giving him an outfit. Millee makes a joke about drawing on his muscles with the creative features of the game and you laugh as you drag your freshly made Leon over to your own lookalike mii.

You watch eagerly as the two miis interact, then you get a “what’s going on with …?”. You and Millee pause your snickering as you watch the cutscene play out—Leon is speaking, and then it pans to your mii, who suddenly goes wide-eyed with pink cheeks. You just fell in love with Leon.

“What!” You exclaim as she says she thinks she’s in love with him. Millee can’t hold back her snickering as you look between her and the screen in shock. Turns out your mii is more accurate than you thought…

“What are you guys giggling about?”

The sudden voice snaps you out of your little bubble and you look up, not expecting to see… well, Leon. When the hell did he get here?

“Wh-what? Oh, uhm, we’re… playing a game,” you manage to get out with minor stuttering, suddenly not laughing at all. Millee, on the other hand, is barely keeping it in. Clearly amused, he approaches and glances down at your lap to see what you’re doing.

“The hell is that?” Stirring his coffee, he sits on your other side with an amused smile, much to your brain’s dismay and your heart’s pleasure. You look back down to see it’s still on the pink screen with your mii looking flustered, letting you choose whether or not she’ll have a crush on her new friend.

“It’s, uhm, a new game. Tomodachi life,” you say as you quickly allow your mii’s infatuation and immediately skip her lines and click away to another character before he can notice what you were doing. Millee’s still giggling beside you.

Leon leans in a little to watch you as you return to your earlier task of cheering Dean up. His brows furrow slightly as he watched you feed the mii and pet his head to make his sadness go down.

“So, what, they’re like your little pets?” He jokes, his eyes locking with yours briefly before returning to your switch. It’s odd, seeing you all professional in your pinstripe slacks and blouse while you’re playing some silly paradise game.

“Sure… something like that. You just, er, take care of them. And decorate your island,” you mumble shyly, shrugging. You don’t think you’ve ever been more embarrassed in your life. “Ah, look at the time! Should be getting back to work now.”

Millee barely contains herself as she watches you quickly shut off your switch and make a show of standing up and stretching. You say bye to Leon and she follows you out back to your desk where she teases you relentlessly.

Okay, the first time you brushed off as a coincidence, but this is just getting ridiculous. The closer your miis get on your island, the closer you get in real life.

One day you were playing, you hovered over your miis talking, and it said they were discussing the correlation between the pigeon pet between them and a rock album. Next day rolls around, you catch eye of a pigeon outside the window at work. Leon notices and comes up behind you, telling you the way its feathers stuck up on its head made it look like a rockstar. It was stupid. You blushed furiously.

Leon’s mii asks you to give him a new room when you’re playing on your break. When you pass by him later, he’s telling another coworker about how he finally got around to decorating his apartment since moving there months ago.

When your mii gets the hiccups, you drag Leon over to help her. What do you know, the next morning you try to keep your hiccups minimal at your desk, and when Leon pats you on the back, they go away!

When your miis finally become official friends while you’re playing in the morning before work, you don’t think anything of it. Stupid move on your part, because then you’re not prepared for when Leon calls you his friend to someone else at work.

And that’s only some of them. You don’t even like to talk about how you saw a cloud that looks like Leon, exactly like yourself in your game. This is so stupid. So. Freaking. Stupid.

“Millee, I swear, it’s driving me nuts. I almost wanna delete him off my island, but then he’d move away in real life!” You groan, on call with her while you sit in bed after a shower… playing tomodachi life. You’re trying to get Smiski and Saiki K to stop fighting.

Silence passes over the phone for a moment as you play your game and your friend does whatever she’s busy with tonight. Once your miis make up, you go to check on your other ones, and to your surprise, Leon has a pink bubble.

When you click on it to see what he’s thinking about, he tells you that he can’t get your mii off his mind. You giggle in surprise as you tell Millee about it, staring at the screen. Then you decide to tell him that “It must be love!”

The whole pink cutscene plays out. But you really brush it off this time, because why would Leon have a crush on you in real life? This is gonna be where all the weird shit ends. Now the two miis are crushing on each other, and you go on with taking care of your other residents.

The next day, Millee quietly watches both you and Leon. She doesn’t know if she believes you or not. Plus, she agrees with you—Leon doesn’t seem like the time to have any crushes at all.

So, imagine her surprise when she catches Leon watching you in the copy room. Whatever file he was looking for is momentarily forgotten as his eyes switch between your hands and your face.

At first it doesn’t quite click, but when he clears his throat and looks away with… blush on his cheeks? She definitely believes you now. Leon Kennedy totally has a crush on you!

The only problem is, you never notice. It’s obvious on your tomodachi island that you have a crush on each other, but you’re both much more subtle in reality. Millee just silently keeps track of it, lining up your island activities with what she sees.

Today, you sit in the break room, playing like usual. Currently putting off going back to work, you check on all your miis. “Nana you're supposed to move in with Hachi, not Twilight Sparkle,” you mumble, frustrated. Why can’t your miis ever do what you want them to?

You glance up as Millee sits next to you. You don’t say anything to each other as she watches you play, like always. Something catches your eye—Leon has another pink bubble.

“Uh oh,” you murmur jokingly, checking in to see what he wants. He tells you he’s ready to confess to your mii! You roll your eyes and go through with it, having him ask her out with a gift—a Sonny angel blind box. Millee, on the other hand, keeps note of that.

The both of you watch the scene okay out with giggles. Of course your mii accepted and the two are dating! It makes you a little happier than you’d like to admit. Then you go on with your day, thinking nothing of it.

After work, you talk with Millee in the parking lot, something you do when you get the chance to park close to each other. It’s casual, normal. At least until you spot Leon leaving work as well, and he’s… is he walking towards you? You share a look with your friend.

“Hey you two,” he says casually as he stops by you, and with the small smile he gives to you specifically, it doesn’t take long for your cheeks to turn pink. Millee takes a step back, as if to give you privacy—she knows what’s about to happen, and doesn’t waste any time pulling out her phone.

“Got any plans tonight?” Leon asks in this sweet voice, his voice a little softer than usual.

Your poor heart can’t handle this kind of treatment, thumping against your ribs as you shake your head. “No, just going home.”

He nods, and looks away for a moment. Then he pulls something out of his pocket and holds it out for you. “You like these weird baby things, don’t you? I got it for you.”

You blink, gaze shifting to the Sonny angel box in his hand, then his face, and back down. It hasn’t even connected in your head that this just happened on your tomodachi island.

“Really…? Thanks, Leon, you didn’t have to,” you say with a small smile, gratefully accepting the gift and turning it over in your hands. It’s the marine series, too, the one you’ve been wanting to get for a while.

“Well, comes at a price,” he says with this stupid cheeky smirk that makes your heart squeeze. You look up at him with an expectant look. “Now you have to go on a date with me.”

There’s a moment of silence between you. It feels like it’s been minutes—you’re stood there, frozen, completely surprised. Did he just ask you out? Did he just ask you out with a Sonny angel? Wait, did he just ask you out on a date?!

“I… uhm, yeah, I’d love to,” you barely manage to stammer out when you’ve regained coherency… for now. You lose it again later when you finally realize that he asked you the exact same way he did on your island.

Living the dream has a whole new meaning for you now.

a/n: so this was supposed to be WAY shorter guys I have no idea where that went wrong. anyway sorry if this is buns!! also i’m back from london so hopefully i can lock in and write like the 20 ideas i have written in my notes… expect from me soon!! ✌️

Max had finished third that day. Third. It was hardly a disaster. He had been annoyed about strategy, about balance, about a lock-up that had cost him time in the first stint, but when he came back to the garage and found you waiting there he had smiled.

He had pulled you into his arms, kissed your temple and muttered, “Long day.”

You had rubbed your hand over the back of his neck and whispered, “You still did amazing.”

He had grumbled something about not wanting amazing, wanting first, but he had leaned into you anyway. So no you didn’t think much of the comment.

The second time you noticed more.

Monaco was supposed to be fun. It was one of your favourite races to attend, even though Max always complained about the current celebrification of it all. You loved the narrow streets, the balconies, the impossible glitter of the harbour, the way the whole weekend felt like it existed in some strange, historic bubble.

Max had qualified poorly after a messy final sector. Then the race had been worse, you can’t overtake here at the best of times but the car looked like it wanted to fight him at every corner.

He finished seventh.

By the time you got back to the motorhome your phone was already burning with notifications.

You told yourself not to look.

@f1_tea: Max when his girlfriend is there: fighting for his LIFE

Max when she’s not there: untouchable

make it make sense.

@orangearmy: She seems nice but the stats are getting scary now.

@rbrupdates: Races attended by Y/N this season: P3, P5, P7

Races missed: P1, P1

Interesting…

@maximylove33: Red Bull need to ban her from the garage I’m sorry.

You stared at that one a little longer than the others.

Ban her from the garage.

Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to laugh under your breath because it was absurd. It was social media. People said anything online. They blamed girlfriends, mechanics, fans, helmets, haircuts, cats, moon phases.

It didn’t mean anything.

Still when Max came into the room, damp-haired and exhausted, you locked your phone before he could see. His eyes flicked to the movement immediately.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “Just tired.”

Max studied you for a second, blue eyes narrowing with that sharp, quiet attention he always had when something felt off. He might have been blunt with the rest of the world, impatient with questions he didn’t like, but with you he noticed everything. The forced smile, the tucked-away phone, the way your shoulders sat too high. He crossed the room and sat beside you.

“What’s happened?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Don’t do that.”

You looked down at your hands. “It’s nothing.”

“Y/N.”

“It’s just stupid fan stuff.”

Max exhaled through his nose, already irritated, never at you, but at the invisible crowd of people who seemed to think loving him meant they owned every part of his life.

He reached for your phone. “Show me.”

“No.”

His expression softened at once, that was somehow worse, the anger you could handle but the softness made your throat close.

“Mijn liefje,” he murmured, quieter now. “What is it?”

You shook your head. “They’re just saying I’m bad luck.”

Max stared at you, then he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” You didn’t say anything and so he shifted closer, his knee pressing against yours. “I could drive into a wall by myself and they would find a way to blame you if you were standing three countries away.”

You laughed, but it came out weak.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re not bad luck.”

“I know,” you said, but neither of you quite believed that you meant it.

The third time was Austria.

You loved Austria because Max loved Austria. Even before the weekend started he was lighter there, still intense and focused, still Max, but happier. The sea of orange in the grandstands always did something to him even if he pretended it didn’t.

You wanted that weekend to go well for him more than anything.

Instead qualifying was messy and then the race unravelled.

A poor start again then a strategy gamble that didn’t pay off. A late-race battle that left Max furious over the radio and fifth at the flag.

You didn’t need to check your phone to know what people were saying. You felt it before you saw it.

In the garage people were careful around you, no one was outright rude, you didn’t think anyone would dare be rude, not openly and certianly not around Max, but there were glances. Tiny pauses. Conversations that dipped quieter when you walked past.

You told yourself you were imagining it. Then you heard one of the junior PR assistants whisper, “It’s going to be a nightmare online again.”

Someone else said, “Honestly they should just keep her away for Silverstone. Not because it’s real, obviously, but the optics… the comment sections are getting brutal.”

The optics.

Your stomach dropped. You stood frozen in the corridor outside hospitality, one hand still on the door you had been about to push open.

The first voice replied, “Yeah. It’s becoming a thing now.”

A thing.

You were becoming a thing.

You're Max’s girlfriend. The person who holds his hands all night when he's too wired after races to sleep, the person who knows exactly what he needs before early flights, the person who watched him be too hard on himself again and again and loved him through it all.

Now you’re reduced to a thing.

A bad-luck narrative.

A problem to manage.

You stepped back before anyone could see you.

Silverstone was the next weekend. You had planned to go. Max had asked you three times if you were sure you wanted to come because he knew the British media could be brutal, and you had kissed him in the kitchen and said, “Of course I’m coming.”

He had smirked at that, pulling you closer by the hips. “Good. Then you can watch very carefully.”

Later, sitting alone in bed waiting for Max to finish on the sim you felt something inside you twist.

What if you went and he didn’t win or missed the podium again?

What if everyone was waiting for it?

What if even the team didn’t want you there?

By the time Max came to bed you had fixed your face. His hair was a mess and his expression stormy, but when he saw you the storm eased.

He came closer, his hand finding your waist automatically. “You okay?”

You looked at him, at the tiredness in his face, at the frustration he was trying to swallow because he didn’t want to bring it to you and you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t add yourself to the list of things he had to handle.

So you smiled.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m okay.”

Max did not win Silverstone.

But you weren’t there. You watched from home, sitting cross-legged on your sofa in one of his hoodies your phone face down on the cushion beside you.

He finished second after a late safety car, close enough to make it painful.

When he called you afterward, his face appeared on your screen still flushed from the race, hair damp and eyes tired.

“You should've been here,” he said.

Your chest ached.

“I watched.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I know.”

He frowned. “Why didn’t you come again?”

You had told him you weren’t feeling well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. You had felt sick every time you imagined stepping into the paddock and seeing everyone wonder if you were going to ruin his weekend just by existing.

“I told you,” you said. “Headache.”

“For four days?”

“It was a very committed headache.”

Usually he would have laughed but he very pointedly didn’t.

“Y/N.”

You looked away from the screen. “Max.”

“What is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

You swallowed. “I’m just tired.”

He watched you in silence and for one terrifying second you thought he was going to push. Max was stubborn. He hated being shut out, especially by you, but then someone called his name in the background.

His jaw tightened. “I have to go,” he said reluctantly. “We’re going to talk later.”

“Okay.”

His voice softened. “I love you.”

You closed your eyes for half a second.

“I love you too.”

After the call ended, you turned your phone over.

You lasted eight minutes before checking socials.

@f1girlies: She wasn’t there and Max was back on the podium. Coincidence? 👀

@mv1nation: Not a win but better than last week. Keep the pattern going.

@paddockspy: Red Bull garage seemed calmer without Y/N there, just saying.

@verstappening1: I don’t hate her but if she loves him she should stay home until the championship is safe.

If she loves him.

That was the one that got you, because of course you do.

You loved him so much it terrified you sometimes. You loved him when he won and when he didn’t. You loved him when he was impossible after bad races, pacing hotel rooms and replaying overtakes in his head. You loved him when he was soft in the mornings, half-asleep and clingy, pulling you back into bed with a grumbled “five more minutes” even though he was always the one with the schedule.

You loved him enough to wonder whether loving him meant removing yourself.

The thought was unbearable so you did what people always did when something hurt too much you tried to make it logical, you told yourself it was temporary. Just a few races. Just until the noise died down.

Until Max won again.

And he did.

Hungary.

You stayed home again, claiming work, though you had finished everything by Friday afternoon and spent the entire weekend watching coverage with a knot in your stomach.

Max won.

Dominantly.

The internet exploded.

@f1tea: Y/N absent = Max win. Third time lucky. I fear the curse is real.

@orangeprophecy: Someone send her flowers and also keep her away from the paddock please.

@mv1updates: Max has won or come 2nd at every race she hasn’t attended this season btw.

@paddockwives: Imagine being such bad luck your boyfriend performs better when you’re not there.

You stared at the screen until the words blurred. You watched him smiling up there, happy and champagne-soaked, feeling like the whole world thought your absence had helped put him there.

Max called you after.

You didn’t answer.

Then he texted.

Max: Where are you?

Max: I wanted to see your face.

Max: Schatje?

Max: Are you asleep?

You stared at the messages until the screen went dark. Then you cried so hard you had to press the hoodie sleeve against your mouth to keep quiet even though there was no one there to hear you.

A few hours later you replied.

You: Sorry I fell asleep. I’m so proud of you. You were amazing.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Max: Thank you.

Max: I missed you.

You squeezed your eyes tight.

You: I missed you too.

Spa was where everything broke.

You weren’t going to go, in fact you had promised yourself you wouldn’t. Hungary had confirmed it, hadn’t it? He was better off without you there. But Max had been strange all week, he wasn’t angry or even mad, but he was quiet. He kept asking if you were coming, casually at first, then less casually.

“You love Spa,” he said over dinner one evening, pushing vegetables around his plate like they had personally offended him.

“I do.”

“So come.”

“I have some things to do.”

“What things?”

“Work things.”

“You can work from the hotel.”

You gave him a look. “Not everything can be done from a hotel Max.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on you. “You sure?”

In that moment you hated how well he knew you. You hated that you had built a life with someone who could tell the shape of your lies before you even finished speaking. Excpet you didn’t really hate it, because really it was part of the million reasons why you loved him.

“I just can’t this weekend,” you said.

Max’s mouth pressed into a flat line.

“Okay.”

That was all he said.

Okay.

Later when you were brushing your teeth you heard him on the phone in the bedroom, his voice was low and irritated.

“No, I don’t care what they’re saying.”

A pause.

“I said no.”

Another pause.

Then, sharper, “Because she’s my girlfriend, are you stupid?”

You froze, toothbrush still in your mouth. His tone changed after that, quieter but no less furious.

“You think I don’t know what people are saying? Of course I know.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“I’m not asking you to manage her. I’m asking you to shut it down.”

Silence.

Then Max said, “If anyone in the team has made her feel unwelcome I’ll find out.”

You stepped back from the door and a strange panic rose in your throat. Somehow instead of making it better, it made you feel worse because now he was worried and he was distracted. Now you weren't only bad luck you were also a problem.

So the next morning when Max left early for training you booked a last-minute flight to Belgium.

You told yourself you just needed to prove something to yourself. That you could be near him and not ruin anything. That the world was not actually keeping score.

You arrived on Saturday and stayed hidden. It was pathetic really, you wore sunglasses and a cap low over your face, sitting in a quiet hospitality corner you knew cameras rarely reached. You didn’t tell anyone except one security guard you trusted, who looked at you like he wanted to ask questions but wisely chose not to.

Qualifying went badly. Not catastrophically but badly enough. A mistake in Q3. A snap of oversteer. A lap that should have been pole but turned into fourth. You felt the garage change around you before the session had even ended.

Then you heard the buzz of a message, but it wasn’t to you. It came through on the screen of a team tablet someone had left on the table beside you, a notification from a group chat flashing bright before disappearing.

But you saw enough.

Is Y/N here? Because this is going to become a whole thing again.

Your whole body went cold.

A second message appeared.

Can someone please make sure she’s not around tomorrow? Max doesn’t need the distraction.

The distraction.

For a second you couldn’t breathe.

Not bad luck this time.

Worse.

A distraction.

You stood up so fast your chair scraped loudly against the floor but no one seemed to notice, or maybe they did and pretended not to. You left before Max got out of the car and by the time he called you were already on your way back to the airport.

“Where are you?” he asked, hearing the noise around you.

“At home.”

“No you’re not.”

Your silence betrayed you.

Max’s breathing changed.

“Y/N.”

“I came for qualifying,” you whispered.

There was a pause.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? Where are you I’ll come—”

You closed your eyes, and the tears slipped out anyway. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Max went very quiet.

“What do you mean? Did someone say something?”

“No.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

“Max, please.”

“Who said that to you?”

Your voice broke. “Everyone.”

The word came out small.

Humiliating.

And then you couldn’t stop.

“Everyone says it. Online, in the comments, in the paddock, your team, everyone. When I’m there, you don’t win. When I’m not, you do. And I know it’s stupid, I know it isn’t real, but then I come and something goes wrong and people look at me like I brought it with me and it feels real.”

Max said nothing.

You wiped your face with the heel of your hand.

“And then today I saw a message. Someone said to make sure I’m not around tomorrow because you don’t need the distraction.”

His voice, when it came, was low and rough.

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who, Y/N?”

“I don’t know, Max. I just saw it.”

Another pause.

Then he said, “Where are you right now?”

“The airport.”

“I’m coming to you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You have a race tomorrow.”

“I don’t really care.”

“Max this is exactly the—.”

“No,” he snapped, and you flinched even though he wasn’t angry at you. It was as if he felt it anyway, because his voice softened immediately. “No, listen to me. I care about the race. Of course I care but not more than you.”

“I don’t want to be something you choose over racing.”

“You’re not something I'm choose over racing,” he said. “You’re my world. That’s not the same thing.”

“But what if I make it harder?”

“You don’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“How?”

“Because I drive the car,” he said, blunt and immediate. “Not Twitter or the team or the fans. Me.”

A sob caught in your throat. Max breathed out shakily.

“Schatje,” he said, softer now. “You think I win because you stay home?”

You couldn’t answer.

“You think when I am in the car I‘m faster because you’re sad somewhere without me? You think I don’t put every single ounce of effort into the race no matter what.”

The words hit you hard enough to hurt.

“No,” you whispered. “I know you do”

“That’s not what you’re saying.”

You went still. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“You are hurting me by disappearing.” Max rarely said things like that, it wasn’t because he didn’t feel them, but because feeling them out loud had always been hard for him.

“You don’t answer after races,” he continued. “You lie about work. You say you’re sick. You look at me like you’re already leaving and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Your chest caved.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why am I being punished?”

You broke. Right there, in the corner of an airport lounge, with people walking past and announcements echoing overhead, you pressed your hand to your mouth and cried.

Max stayed on the phone. He didn’t fill the silence with useless comfort, he just breathed with you until you could speak again.

“I saw the comments after Hungary,” you admitted. “Everyone was so happy you won without me there and I was happy for you, I was, but I felt like I wasn’t allowed to miss being there. Like the best thing I could do for you was stay away.”

Max cursed softly in Dutch.

Then he said, “Do not get on that plane.”

You sniffed. “What?”

“Don’t get on it… please. I’m sending someone to bring you back.”

“Max, no.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t walk into that paddock tomorrow.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” he repeated, steady now. “Because you’ll walk in with me. And if anyone has something to say then they can say it to my face.”

The next morning you woke up in Max’s hotel room. You had planned to come back, talk to him, then hide somewhere until the weekend was over.

Max had other ideas. He had met you at the hotel entrance himself, even though it was late, even though he had meetings, even though everyone would have told him rest mattered more. He was wearing sweats and a hoodie, hair messy, face tight with worry.

The second he saw you, he crossed the lobby and pulled you into his arms.

Hard.

You’d whispered, “I’m sorry,” into his chest.

He’d answered, “Stop saying that.”

Then he took you upstairs, gave you one of his shirts, made you drink water and got into bed beside you fully dressed because you were crying too hard for either of you to pretend sleep would come easily. At some point in the night you had woken to him gently taking your phone from your hand.

“No more,” he murmured.

“I wasn’t looking.”

“You were going to.”

You hadn’t argued.

Now in the grey morning light Max stood at the end of the bed already dressed in the team kit, watching you carefully.

“You don’t have to come ,” he said.

Your stomach dropped and he saw your expression change immediately.

“No,” he said, moving toward you. “Not like that. I just mean you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I would never force you, but please don’t not come because of them.”

You sat up slowly. “Do you want me there?”

Max looked almost offended.

“I always want you there.”

Your eyes burned.

“But I under—”

“I want to come,” you said.

His face softened.

“Okay.”

“I’m scared.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and took your hand. “I’ll be there.”

You finally smiled, small and private.

“There she is,” he murmured.

The paddock noticed. Of course it did. You arrived with Max, his hand firmly intertwined with yours, his expression giving absolutely nothing away except the very clear message that anyone with an opinion should reconsider having it near him.

Cameras turned and whispers started and you felt them against your skin like heat.

Max did not let go of your hand when you passed photographers or when you entered Red Bull hospitality, or when two members of staff glanced at you and then quickly away. In fact he tightened his grip.

“Max,” you whispered.

He leaned closer, eyes forward. “I’m behaving.”

“You’re walking like you’re about to commit a crime.”

Inside the garage, the air felt strange. Then GP looked up from his station and smiled at you.

A geuine smile.

“Good to see you,” he said.

Something in your chest loosened.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

A few minutes later Laurent came over, his expression was professional, but gentler than usual. Max stood beside you like a guard dog.

“Y/N,” he said. “Glad you’re here.”

You weren’t sure if Max had spoken to him. Judging by the slightly haunted look behind his eyes he probably had. In fact you had a feeling he had a spoken to a few people.

GP cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth I’m sorry if anyone made you feel otherwise.”

Your throat tightened. “Thank you.”

Max’s jaw flexed. That, apparently, was him continuing to behave.

The race was chaos. Spa always was. Rain threatened, then disappeared, then threatened again. Strategy shifted every few laps. The start was messy, the midfield dangerous, the radio tense.

You stood in the garage with headphones on, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your fingertips.

Max climbed from fourth to third.

Then third to second.

Then, with twelve laps to go, he hunted down the leader.

The garage barely breathed.

You watched the timing screens one hand pressed to your mouth as Max closed the gap lap by lap.

A defensive squeeze, and then Max went around the outside with the kind of impossible bravery that made your stomach drop and your heart soar at the same time and reminded everyone exactly why he was the best.

The garage erupted.

You didn’t move.

Not until GP’s voice came over the radio after the chequered flag.

“P1, Max. That’s P1. Great job mate.”

The sound that left you was half laugh, half sob.

On the screen, Max’s car slowed on the cooldown lap.

His radio crackled and his voice came through.

“Yes! What a race!”

Then.

“Is she there?”

The garage went quiet and GP glanced over at you, smiling.

“She’s here mate.”

Max breathed out.

“Good,” he said.

A pause.

Then, clear enough for everyone to hear he added, “Tell her she’s my good luck charm.”

Your face crumpled.

He had made sure they heard. He had made sure the world would hear too.

By the time Max got back, you were trying very hard not to cry and failing miserably. He climbed out of the car, pulled off his helmet, and looked for you before anyone else.

He pushed through the crowd and reached for you. He was sweaty and champagne-less, but the second he reached you none of that seemed to matter. He wrapped both arms around you and lifted you clean off your feet. Cheers erupted around you, cameras flashed, and for a moment it felt impossibly cinematic, like the final scene of a film. You buried your face in his neck, holding on as tightly as he was holding you.

“You’re incredible,” you whispered.

His hand spread across your back.

“We did it.”

You shook your head. “Max—”

“No.” He set you down but didn’t let go. His eyes locked on yours, intense and unflinching. “Listen to me. I don’t ever want to hear you say you’re bad luck again.”

Your lips trembled.

“I mean it,” he said. “If I lose, its because of racing. If I win, its because of racing. But you? You are the person I want to come back to after both.”

The tears spilled over. He wiped them away with his thumbs, not caring that cameras were catching every second.

“I’m sorry I disappeared.”

“I know.”

Later after the podium, after the anthem, after champagne and interviews and a hundred people trying to pull him in a hundred directions, Max posted a rare photo. It was a picture someone had taken in the garage just after the race. Max still in his race suit, arms around you, your face hidden against his shoulder while he pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

The caption was simple.

My good luck. Always.

The internet, predictably, lost its mind.

@f1tea: MAX SAW THE COMMENTS AND SAID ABSOLUTELY NOT.

@verstappenfiles: Curse broken. Everyone apologise.

@mv1nation: Never calling her bad luck again. I fear he will personally fight us.

@paddockspy: Max Verstappen hard launching a defence of his girlfriend was not on my bingo card but I support it.

@orangearmy: “My good luck” I’m crying he loves her so much.

You didn’t read most of them. Max made sure of that.

That night back at the hotel your phone stayed on the bedside table while you sat between his legs on the bed, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder.

The trophy sat on the desk across the room. Max had barely looked at it.

“Do you want to celebrate?” you said softly.

“I am.”

“You’re sitting in bed.”

“With you.”

You smiled faintly. “Very wild.”

“I’m older now.”

“You’re twenty-eight.”

“Exactly. Ancient.”

You laughed and felt him smile against your neck. For a while neither of you said anything, then Max’s arms tightened around you.

“I need you to promise me something.”

You turned slightly. “What?”

“If you ever feel like that again you tell me.”

Your chest tightened.

“Max—”

“You tell me. Even if you think it is stupid. Even if you think I have more important things. Especially then.”

You looked down at his hands, warm and secure over yours.

“I didn’t want to distract you.”

“You’re allowed to need me.”

After a moment, you whispered, “I promise.”

He kissed your shoulder. “Good.”

You turned in his arms to face him. He reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his touch gentle in a way the world rarely got to see.

“You are the furthest thing from bad luck,” he said again.

This time you believed him.

“I know.”

His eyes searched yours and then he nodded, satisfied.

Outside somewhere far below, fans were still singing, the city was still buzzing. The internet was still doing what the internet always did, loud and frantic and hungry for the next thing to tear apart or worship, but in the quiet of Max’s hotel room none of it reached you.

There was only him. His steady hands and his heartbeat beneath your palm.

He's so gorgeous, and you don't even know why. With that dark hair hiding his face and those heavy eye bags. Jeez, even the stubble is unkempt. But by god, you find him so attractive. And no one. No one has made you feel this way. No man besides him has flustered you so intensely before.

Who are you talking about? Well, the president's favorite, of course. Leon S Kennedy. Apparently, he used to be more muscular and put together emotionally. Lately, he's been sarcastic, tired, and just a little rude. Yet, it works for you. . . and your lady bits. Doesn't hurt that his voice is raspy yet smooth as butter. Make it make sense.

It doesn't. Nothing about him does. It just is. Exactly like this big fat crush you've got on him.

Oh, and you are coworkers. Yep, you nearly see him every single day. Does he know you have a crush? Well, the agent hasn't said anything. But you'd be a bit shocked if he hasn't figured it out yet. You're a clumsy fool around him. Eyes can't meet his. Never really know what to say.

Though, he looks for you quite frequently. Maybe it's because you listen so well or 'cause you don't judge the way he's been so gloomy. You don't ask questions about it either. A lot of the time, you'll just sit in silence.

A deep sigh exits your mouth. You haven't been focusing at all. Therefore, you've stayed way too long at work, and your report is nowhere near finished. You had been so optimistic that you could finish before the day's end. And you just had to prove yourself wrong.

You lean back in the office chair, causing it to squeak while you groan in frustration and run a hand down your face.

"What's that for?" A snort of amusement follows the comment. It startles you. Immediately making you straighten up and look towards the source of the sound.

"Leon." You acknowledge your crush with a slight nod. Briefly, your eyes meet before you chicken out.

A smile breaks out on his face. "Shouldn't you be home by now?" The wall of your cubicle creaks as he leans over it to peer down at you. His blue eyes are so bright, and not even his emo hair can hide those gems.

"Um. Yeah, probably." You shrug with a lopsided smile in reply.

"I can walk you home." He leans in further, and your eyes flick upwards to Leon. He offers a devastating wink. "I got an umbrella, too. Protection from loneliness and the rain for no cost." You laugh lightly and shake your head.

He's utterly ridiculous, and yet you got butterflies filling your stomach. It's so unfair. "Sounds good. Let me get my stuff together. This report will just have to kick my butt further tomorrow."

Leon laughs, "That's the spirit." He slaps the top of your rickety cubicle before going for his own things. You both walk out of DSO headquarters side-by-side. Now, you see the rain clearly. It's calm for the moment but consistent.

His pitch black umbrella springs to life, and he holds it over both of you. Childish dreams of sharing an umbrella with your crush pop into your head. You stab at the happy bubbles, trying to stop heat from rising to your cheeks before it's too late.

For a while, neither of you say anything. It's footsteps on wet pavement, and rain drops hitting an umbrella. Your hand is securing the bag hanging from your shoulder. You try to balance being under the umbrella and not brushing up against the seasoned agent.

Leon clears his throat, ending your shared silence. "So, how are you? Anything fun going on?"

Oh god. This is where he finds out you're super boring. "Um, yeah. I'm good. Nothing much going on. You?"

"Yeah, nothing fun these days. I should probably just kill myself, huh?" He laughs it off, a warm raspy chuckle that would normally make you hot and bothered.

Yet, he's been making a lot of jokes like that as of late. It upsets you. A lot. Zero love or respect for himself. It's a heavy, serious subject that shouldn't be taken lightly.

"You know. I wish you wouldn't make those jokes anymore." You huff, walking faster towards your apartment.

Leon snorts, and quickens to keep up with you, umbrella continuing to shield from the rain. "Why? It's just a joke besides no one would actually miss me."

Your feet halt instantly, and you whip your head around to him. "Excuse you? I would miss you." You point to yourself and glare at the blue-eyed man. "Me. That's who."

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. "You'd go on without me. As a matter of fact, you'd be better off without me." The certainty in his voice and the pain he's so clearly trying to hide is a knife to the gut. Every joke and the way his body shifts uncomfortably is an obvious sign to you that he's genuinely hurting.

Your bottom lip starts to tremble, and your eyes begin watering. "How can you say that?" The question tumbles out, weak and crushed.

He sighs your name, setting his work bag down to free his hand. Then, that hand is brushing across your cheek. Your breath catches, and his eyes soften. "You don't need me." He whispers, sounding utterly defeated. How long has he been feeling this way?

You knew he wasn't in the best place mentally, but you didn't think it was this bad. Foolishly, you hoped it was a phase. Something fleeting that he could escape. You must be an idiot.

You step closer, also dropping your bag to grasp his shoulders. "Maybe. Maybe I don't need you. But Leon, I want you." You smile even if it is wobbly from your crying. "We're friends. Aren't we?"

His eyes widen slightly, and he inches closer to you. Gradually, his head dips into a nod. "Yeah," he follows up with a whisper. Your world flips upside down when his eyes drop to your lips.

Does he want to be friends? Or something more? Suddenly, his free hand lands on your waist, and you're gasping. No longer are you crying. It's just the sky that cries alone.

"If I'm about to ruin everything. Please tell me." Leon sounds like a dream come true. Voice low and full of yearning. Yet breaking into beautiful shards of glass and wishing for your delicate hands to glue them back together.

You'd bleed a thousand times over. Cut yourself on every shard if it meant he'd be whole once again. "No. You're ruining nothing. Please kiss me." Your hands curl in his shirt, and your eyes plead with his.

He takes his time. One hand holding an umbrella and the other slipping to your lower back. Leon drags you closer and dips his head to meet your lips. It's absolute magic. I mean, what else can make your toes curl and drench your body in heat?

You part from the kiss, a sigh of relief escaping you both. He pulls back, and you follow his lead. Then, your eyes meet, and a shy smile takes you over. He looks shocked, blinking at you stupidly.

"What?" You feel embarrassed, laughing and picking random fuzzies off his shoulder.

"You kissed me." He shakes his head, appearing completely dazed and confused.

"Um, yeah." You answer with a soft chuckle. "I wanted to kiss you. I've been wanting to kiss you. I thought you knew."

Another shake of his head. "You did? How long?"

"Very long." You shrug as if it's no big deal. As if this hasn't been going on since the start. Since the first day you met the skilled man.

He grabs your chin, his spark returning. A smirk on his delectable lips and a promise of trouble in his ocean gaze. "How. Long?" He punctuates each word, slow and intense.

You burst into flames, heat crawling up your neck and covering your face. "I don't know. Months?" You bite your lip and dart your eyes around. The sidewalk, your apartment in the distance, wet grass, or the gray sky. Anything except the object of your desires.

"Hmmm." He hums thoughtfully and takes notice of your teeth indenting your lip. His thumb pulls your lip loose, and your knees weaken in response.

"You can kiss me again." You whisper, small and feeble like a mouse.

His eyes glimmer with lust, and he tips your head back before pressing his lips to yours. Shy yet, sure you slip your hands to his nape and play with the ends of his midnight black hair. His lips slant, and the game changes. His stubble is scrapping against your skin, and a moan is spilling from you.

He groans hungrily, and the umbrella falls to the pavement. His now freed hand is cupping the back of your head, and the other is on your back, pushing you into his chest. Your knees buckle, knocking into each other. Your hand slides up further, fisting in his hair.

A rich guttural noise leaves Leon, and a needy one escapes you. Both of you are becoming soaked as the rain intensifies. A threatening rumble of thunder can be heard in the distance. Neither of you stops. Your lips meet again and again. Both of you cling to the other like a lifeline.

Your heart drops when he pulls away. But then his lips meet your jaw. "Leon," you sigh like a lovesick maiden. He sucks on your skin and licks a strip up the column of your throat. Your hands slide down his chest and then under his shirt.

He melts, sighing against your heated skin. A few more kisses grace your skin before he's hugging you to himself and nuzzling into the crook of your neck. "Thank you." Your name follows so affectionately from his lips.

"You don't have to thank me." You drop a kiss to his wet hair and rub his back. A steady up and down motion while the rain soaks into your clothes. This continues for a while, and you don't mind one bit.

When Leon raises his head once again, he seems lighter. "I guess I needed this. Huh." He shrugs as if to say, 'who would have thought?'

"I guess so." You shrug in return and drop your hands from his amazing body quite reluctantly.

"We should get you inside. You're soaked." Leon bends over to pick up the forsaken umbrella and his work bag.

"So are you," you mumble and reach for your own bag abandoned on the sidewalk.

The umbrella is wrapped up and held under his arm. The rain is still brutal, but you've been standing in the rain too long for it to change anything. His hand grabs yours, and your fingers interlace. Angels start singing, and you're dancing from one cloud to the other.

The next few hours are spent with your crush. Maybe boyfriend soon. Two cups with steam floating off the top decorate your coffee table. Two towels lay crumpled in your bathroom. He decides to go home after the storm lets up. But you make sure he leaves with a pocket full of rainbows and a heart full of love.

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I'm so happy with how this ended! Yay!! Please enjoy, my incredible taglist!

You made room for his life before he even had to ask. You bent around the complicated edges of his world so naturally that, after a while, Max stopped noticing how much you were bending at all.

It was refreshing. Comforting, even. Being with you never felt like another obligation waiting for him when he got home. You were warmth, quiet, peace… but it also made it easy for Max to coast.

Because when you said you didn’t need flowers, he believed you. When you told him birthdays weren’t a big deal, he took your word for it.

When you said you didn’t mind that his attention was always half-distracted by Red Bull, his sim rig, his phone, or whatever new team crisis was unfolding in the background, he didn’t stop to wonder whether you meant it. He didn’t ask himself if you were genuinely fine with being loved in the gaps, or if you had simply learned to make your wants small enough that they never became inconvenient.

He didn’t notice that every time you said, “Don’t worry about it,” you were teaching him that he didn’t have to.

Until he saw the way your smile dimmed at Daniel’s girlfriend’s birthday party.

The boat was filled with champagne and noise, a private Monaco affair organised by Daniel, of course, because no one else could make a birthday party feel quite that excessive and still somehow charming. There was a neon sign glowing above the bar, a curated playlist that seemed suspiciously full of songs Daniel liked more than his girlfriend did, and custom cupcakes with everyone’s faces printed on them. Max didn’t even know you could do that.

You sat beside him with a drink in hand, your shoulder brushing his every now and then as the boat rocked gently against the water. To anyone else you looked perfectly fine, but Max had started paying closer attention now.

Your laugh came half a second too late, your smile faded too quickly, and your eyes kept drifting back to the couple across the deck.

Daniel’s girlfriend had her arms slung around his neck, his jacket draped over her shoulders, and a glittery tiara with Birthday Girl written across the front sitting slightly crooked on her head. Daniel kept adjusting it for her, grinning every time she swatted his hand away, and when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple without seeming to think about it. Thoughtless in the best way, like loving her out loud was simply instinct.

“You made it!” Daniel said, pulling Max into a hug before turning to you with even more enthusiasm. “And you look amazing. Seriously, come on, look at you.”

You laughed, a bit surprised, and looked down at yourself like you hadn’t expected anyone to notice.

Max noticed that.

Daniel’s girlfriend came over next, glowing, happy, adored. She hugged you tightly and thanked you both for coming, then turned to show you the bracelet Daniel had bought her. It was delicate and expensive, the kind of jewellery Max would never have picked out on his own because he would have convinced himself he didn’t know what he was doing and given up before trying.

“He surprised me with it this morning,” she said, beaming. “And he pretended he forgot my birthday for, like, ten minutes, which was evil, but then he had breakfast set up on the balcony.”

Daniel, overhearing, lifted his glass. “Romance is alive and well ladies and gentlemen.”

Normal Daniel. Loud, teasing, affectionate Daniel, who made a spectacle out of caring because he had never been embarrassed by warmth in the same way Max sometimes was, but then Max looked at you.

You were smiling. Of course you were smiling.

You were always polite. Always kind. Always good at being happy for other people, even when something inside you was quietly aching. There was something different about it then, something Max had never noticed before because he had never had reason to look for it.

Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You didn’t look devastated, you didn’t withdraw your hand from his arm or go quiet in a way anyone else would pick up on. You just looked at the bracelet on Daniel’s girlfriend’s wrist, then at the flowers, then at the wall of photos, and for half a second your expression morphed into something almost wistful.

Max felt it like a punch he had no right to react to.

The conversation moved on around him. Daniel was talking about the cake, someone else was laughing about how long it had taken to get the decorations right. His girlfriend was telling you how Daniel had been secretly planning it for weeks, badly, apparently, because he almost exposed himself several times.

You laughed at the story.

You said, “That’s really sweet.”

Max heard the softness in your voice.

For the first time all night, Max looked at the party properly. He looked at the flowers. The photos. The custom menu cards with her name on them. The cake Daniel had apparently taste-tested three times because the first one “didn’t feel like her.”

Then Max looked at you.

You were standing beside him with nothing from him except your own practiced understanding.

No flowers.

No post.

No planned birthday dinner he hadn’t rescheduled.

No little public signs that he was proud to love you.

No evidence, really, that Max Verstappen had ever looked at the woman beside him and thought, she deserves to feel chosen.

His stomach twisted, because suddenly he remembered your last birthday with a clarity that made him feel slightly sick.

He had been in Milton Keynes for simulator work. He’d called you late, later than he meant to, and you had answered in bed, face lit softly by your phone screen. You had smiled like you were happy just to hear from him. He had apologised again for not being able to be there. You had said it didn’t matter and he had promised to make it up to you. You had said, “Don’t stress, honestly. I had a nice day.”

Had you?

Had you really?

Or had you said that because it was easier than admitting you had wanted him there?

He thought about the flowers you always claimed not to need. The birthdays you said weren’t important. The dates you never demanded. The posts you never asked for. The attention you pretended not to miss.

Beside him, you glanced up. “You okay?”

Max blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the gentleness of your voice. That made it worse somehow, even now you were checking on him.

“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Fine.”

You studied him for a moment, clearly not convinced, but you didn’t push. You never pushed. You simply nodded and looked back towards the others, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve.

Max hated that too. He hated that you gave him space even when maybe he deserved pressure.

He hated that you had made yourself so easy to keep that he had forgotten keeping you was still something he had to actively do.

For the rest of the night, he couldn’t stop watching you.

He watched Daniel’s girlfriend pull you into photos, watched you laugh as someone handed you a party hat you refused to wear for about ten seconds. He watched you compliment the decorations, watched you ask questions about the planning, watched your fingers lightly brush over one of the flower arrangements when you thought no one was looking.

You liked flowers.

Of course you liked flowers.

Maybe not in the over-the-top, expensive, social-media way, but you liked them. He could tell by the way you touched the petals carefully, the way your face warmed when Daniel’s girlfriend told you Daniel had chosen them because they reminded him of a dress she once wore in Monaco.

Max stood there, silent and increasingly irritated with himself.

How many things had you convinced yourself you didn’t need simply because he had never offered them?

How many wants had you softened into jokes so they wouldn’t feel like demands?

How many times had you made yourself smaller around his life and called it love?

Later, when everyone gathered around the cake, Daniel made a speech. A terrible speech, because it was Daniel, so half of it was jokes and the other half was him pretending not to get emotional. Then he spoke about how his girlfriend made his life better. How she put up with him. How she deserved more than one night of being celebrated, but he hoped this was a decent start.

Everyone laughed.

His girlfriend cried.

You smiled.

Max felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.

He complimented you in private, usually quietly, usually after you’d done something for him. He told you he loved you, yes, but often in bed, or before hanging up, or in passing when one of you was leaving. He assumed you knew. He assumed choosing you privately counted the same as making you feel chosen.

On the drive home you were quieter than usual.

Your head rested against the window, city lights sliding over your face in brief flashes. Your heels were in your lap because you had taken them off the second you got in the car, and your fingers played absently with the strap like your mind was somewhere else.

Max kept glancing over. Usually he liked quiet with you, it was comfortable and easy, you didn’t need to fill every silence.

Tonight the quiet felt full of everything you weren’t saying.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked eventually.

You turned your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was lovely.”

Lovely.

The word sat between you.

Max swallowed. “Daniel did a lot.”

“He did,” you said, and your voice was warm. “It was really sweet.”

There it was again. That careful admiration.

Max’s hands flexed around the steering wheel. “You like that kind of thing?”

You looked at him properly then, brows lifting a little. “What kind of thing?”

He shrugged, trying to sound casual and failing. “All of it. The flowers. The photos. The big party.”

You looked away and gave a small laugh, the kind that tried to make a truth sound harmless. “I mean, I don’t need all that.”

Max’s chest tightened.

That wasn’t what he had asked.

“I didn’t ask if you needed it.”

Your fingers stopped moving against the shoe strap and for a moment you said nothing. Then you looked down and smiled again, but this one was worse than the one at the party because it was meant only for him, meant to reassure him, meant to protect him from feeling bad about something he had already done.

“I just think it’s nice,” you said carefully. “For her. Daniel clearly put a lot of thought into it.”

Max nodded once, jaw tense.

Thought.

That was the word that stayed with him.

You didn’t need a private room full of flowers or a custom cake or a wall of photographs. You probably didn’t even want something that big, but you wanted thought. You wanted evidence that he had paused, considered you, and chosen to make you feel loved on purpose.

Max, who could analyse tyre degradation over fifty laps, who could remember tiny setup changes from races years ago, who could spend hours perfecting a sim lap by half a tenth, had somehow convinced himself he was incapable of remembering to buy you flowers.

“I should have done more for your birthday,” he said.

You went very still.

The car felt smaller suddenly.

“Max…”

“No,” he said, because he knew that tone. He knew you were about to let him off the hook again. “I should have.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

You exhaled quietly and looked out of the window again. “I told you it was fine.”

“I know you did.”

“Then why are you bringing it up?”

Because I finally saw your face, he wanted to say. Because I finally realised you have been asking for so little that I stopped giving you even that and I do not know how to forgive myself for not noticing sooner.

But Max had never been good with words when they mattered most.

So he said, “Because I think you say things are fine when they're not.”

Your mouth pressed together. That tiny movement cut through him more than any argument would have.

You weren’t angry, but part of him wished you were. Anger would have given him something to meet, something to fix, something loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it, you just looked tired and that was worse.

“I don’t want to be difficult,” you said after a while.

“You're not difficult,” he said immediately.

You gave him a small, sad smile. “I know. I just mean… your life is already a lot. You have so many people needing things from you all the time I never wanted to be another thing on the list.”

“You are not a thing on the list.”

“Aren’t I?” you asked softly.

Max didn’t answer fast enough, once again words failed him, he hated himself for that.

You turned your face back towards the window, and the reflection showed him the truth he had been avoiding all night. You weren’t crying or making a scene. You weren’t asking him to turn the car around or apologise in some grand dramatic way. You were simply sitting there beside him carrying a hurt that had clearly existed long before tonight.

He figured you’d be home from your errands by now.

Probably curled up somewhere in the apartment, wearing one of his hoodies like you always did when he was away for more than a few days. Maybe on the sofa with your knees tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, or half-watching one of those comfort shows you liked to put on in the background while you waited for him. The thought came easily, warmly, and Max found himself smiling before he had even opened the door properly.

He liked coming home to you.

He liked the small signs of you scattered through his space. Your shoes by the door, your hair tie abandoned on the coffee table, your mug in the sink because you always forgot to rinse it. Your presence had softened the apartment in ways he hadn’t realised he needed, turning it from somewhere he slept between races into somewhere that actually felt like home.

The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, but not empty.

Max kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, already turning toward the living room when he heard your voice from the bedroom. Then he heard your best friend’s name, and realised you were on the phone.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He was about to call out, to let you know he was back, but something about your tone made him stop before the words left his mouth. So he stayed quiet, halfway down the hall, one hand still resting against the wall.

“I’m not upset he did all that for her,” you were saying. “It’s sweet. It is.”

There was a pause.

Max’s body went strangely still.

He knew, instantly, what you were talking about.

“It’s just…” You exhaled shakily. “He’s never done anything like that for me.”

The words hit him hard. Max stared at the floor, heartbeat slowing into something heavy and uncomfortable.

“I don’t ask for much,” you continued, and your voice was smaller now, like you were embarrassed to even say it out loud. “I know I don’t. I never wanted to pressure him or make him feel like he had to go out of his way when his life is already so much. I thought if I was easygoing and low-maintenance, it would make things easier on him.”

His throat tightened.

“But sometimes—” Your voice broke so softly he almost missed it. “Sometimes I wish he’d do something without me having to ask.”

Max’s fingers curled around the edge of the wall.

He could feel every careless assumption he had ever made beginning to turn over in his head, one after another, each one worse than the last.

You didn’t care if he forgot plans, if he came home distracted, if he said he would make it up to you and then didn’t, because something else came up and you smiled like it was fine.

“Maybe I enabled it by alway saying I was fine... but I don’t need grand gestures,” you went on, voice wobbling now. “I know that’s not really him, and I don’t want him to be anyone else. I don’t want a big show just for the sake of it, but it would be nice to feel special sometimes… to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”

Max’s chest ached.

He looked toward the bedroom door, but he couldn’t move.

“I just want to know he wants to do those things for me,” you whispered. “Not because he’s apologising or because someone else did it first… because he loves me enough to notice.”

Max couldn’t breathe properly.

He hadn’t known.

He really hadn’t known.

He thought you meant it when you said you didn’t care about birthdays, anniversaries, flowers, or all the romantic things he had always been bad at. He had thought that was part of what made you you. Unbothered by the kind of performative relationship stuff he had never known how to do properly.

The conversation ended a few minutes later.

He heard the soft rustle of sheets then your footsteps moving across the bedroom floor. Max reacted too late, still trapped in the weight of what he had heard and only barely managed to step back into the hallway before you came out.

You stopped when you saw him.

For one awful second, neither of you said anything and then he smiled and wrapped you in a hug pretending like he hadn’t heard a word.

That night Max sat alone in the dark of the living room for a long time, head in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything except sit there in the silence and let every word he had overheard replay in his head until it felt carved into him.

He kept hearing your voice.

“to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”

He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes.

God.

How many moments had you swallowed your disappointment before he could even notice it was there, dimming yourself down just to be easier to love?

It gutted him.

You hadn’t asked him for the world. You hadn’t asked him to become someone he wasn’t. You only wanted to feel considered. Somehow he had made the best thing in his life feel like she had to be grateful for whatever was left of him at the end of the day.

You deserved fireworks, even if you were the kind of girl who said she didn’t need them. You didn’t want more from him. You just wanted to matter enough for him to give it anyway.

You didn’t expect anything to change.

Max was always kind, attentive in the ways he knew how to be. He noticed when you were cold and passed you his hoodie without making a big thing of it. He reached for your hand in crowded places because he liked knowing exactly where you were. He remembered how you took your coffee, which side of the bed you preferred, the shows you put on when you needed background noise. He loved you. You knew he did.

So when he suggested you take a weekend off together “Somewhere quiet, just us” you didn’t overthink it. You figured he wanted to disappear for a couple of days, somewhere without cameras, team radios, sponsor obligations, or someone asking him about tyre degradation.

It wasn’t until you stepped onto the lakeside dock in Switzerland that you realised something was different.

The cottage was small but charming, tucked away by the water with warm wood walls, soft cream blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place glow with the late afternoon light. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t the kind of place chosen to impress anyone, it felt private, thoughtful, almost painfully intimate.

Inside there were your favourite snacks arranged in the kitchen. Your favourite wine chilling in the fridge. Your comfort blanket folded over the armchair by the window. Your favourite book was already resting on the bedside table, the old, worn copy you had once told him you reread whenever your head felt too loud.

You frowned, turning slowly back to him. “Did you… did you set this up?”

Max leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite managing it. “Maybe.”

You narrowed your eyes, sceptical. “What’s going on?”

His smirk softened a little. He just looked at you and there was something unusually careful in his expression, something that made your chest tighten before he had even said a word.

“I listened,” he said.

You blinked. Max glanced down briefly, like the words felt awkward in his mouth, but when he looked back up he didn’t look away again.

“I didn’t realise how much I’d taken for granted,” he continued quietly. “How much you gave by never asking. You made it easy for me, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve stopped trying.”

Your throat tightened.

“Max…”

“No, let me say it,” he murmured, taking a small step closer. “You always said things were fine. That you didn’t need flowers, or birthdays, or plans, or all the extra stuff and I believed you because it was easier because it meant I didn’t have to think about whether you were only saying it so I wouldn’t feel bad.”

You swallowed hard, looking away before your face could betray too much.

He walked you further inside, his hand warm at the small of your back, and that was when you noticed the little table by the window. It had been set for two, facing the lake as the sun began to lower behind the mountains. Candlelight, flowers, two plates, homemade pasta that looked slightly lopsided and very clearly like his doing, and a little folded note beside your place.

You stared at it for a second before picking it up.

In his messy, all-caps handwriting, it said:

I SHOULD HAVE MADE YOU FEEL SPECIAL BEFORE NOW. I’M GOING TO DO BETTER.

Max’s face shifted immediately, concern cutting through the nervousness. “Schatje…”

You shook your head quickly trying to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. “I wanted to be cool,” you whispered. “I wanted to be the girlfriend who didn’t care about all that stuff. I thought if I asked for too much then I’d just become another pressure for you.”

Max stepped closer and cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped out despite your best efforts.

“You are the most important person in my life,” he murmured. “You always are.” His voice dropped softer, rougher. “I wish I could give you the world and I’m sorry it took me this long to show it.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the nervous set of his mouth and the careful way he held you, like he understood now that easiness was not the same thing as not needing anything.

Then you finally kissed him.

Later that night you were curled against his chest with the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the cottage wrapped in that quiet, golden kind of warmth that made everything outside feel very far away.

Max had one arm around you, his hand resting beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin.

You smiled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the soft fabric as you listened to the steady beat of his.

“So,” you mumbled, voice sleepy but teasing, “is this a one-time gesture or…”

Max’s chest moved beneath you as he chuckled. “Oh no.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Oh no?”

“No,” he said, tightening his arm around you. “You’re getting so much romance now it’ll annoy you.”

You looked up at him trying and failing not to smile. “Really?”

He nodded solemnly, like he was discussing race strategy. “Really. I’m talking airport reunions. Flowers for no reason. Random poetry.”

“Poetry?” you repeated, laughing already.

“Bad poetry,” he corrected. “Very bad. Rhymes way too much.”

“Oh, God.”

“And a cheesy playlist,” he added, completely serious. “Maybe several. One for the car. One for when I’m away. One with songs you’ll make fun of me for.”

You laughed properly then, burying your face in his neck as warmth spread through your chest. It was never about the playlist, or the flowers, or whatever terrible poetry Max Verstappen might attempt in the name of love.

It was that he was thinking about it. That he had finally understood the difference between you not needing to be spoiled and you still deserving to be cherished.

Max turned his head and pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’m serious,” he murmured, quieter now. “I don’t want you wondering anymore.”

Your laughter softened. You lifted your face again, looking at him through the firelight. “Wondering what?”

“If I think about you,” he said. “If I notice. If I care enough to try.”

Your throat tightened, but this time the feeling wasn’t painful. Max brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I do,” he said. “I’ll show you better now.”

For a moment you just looked at him, then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before tucking yourself back against him.

“That sounds perfect.” you whispered, smiling against his neck.

Your smile widened as you leaned over him, your gaze lingering on his sleeping face for a moment longer.

Then, overcome by a sudden wave of what could only be described as cute aggression, you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, letting your lips linger there briefly before pulling away.

A fond smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned in again, pressing another gentle kiss against the side of his temple.

He doesnt move.

So you kissed his cheek, and a giggle bubble up your chest. Then slowly you pressed your lips on his nose.

"God, Leon you're so pretty."

Then his jaw.

"My husband." You smiled and murmured against his skin.

Though still nothing, so you pulled back a bit, Leon wasnt making any noises except few snore that sounded way too fake.

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously at him, because he was way too still and there was absolutely no way Leon Kennedy slept this deeply.

Determined now, you gently brushed your fingers through his hair before trailing them down his arm, slowly tracing the muscles beneath his shirt.

Goosebumps rose over his body as his breathe deepens but he doesnt wake.

"Uh-oh you are gonna play this game, hm?" you whispered and poked his cheek.

He was still-still.

Then you cradled his face before squishing it slightly. Your eyes narrowed further at him and you playfully hum, “Guess I could bite him now.”

Finally, the corner of his mouth twitched upward, the skin around his eyes crinkling slightly even though he still refused to open them.

The moment you caught it, you immediately sat upright, a betrayed smile spreading across your face. "You're awake." you accused and in same breath you gasped dramatically. "You are a terrible actor!"

But still he plays pretend and lies still, then slowly sighing you lean closer to him, "Leon."

The next thing you knew, a strong arm slipped around your waist. You barely had time to let out a startled squeak before the world tilted beneath you.

In one smooth motion, Leon pulled you down onto him, and suddenly you found yourself sprawled across his chest. "Leon!" you yelped, gripping his shoulders as his laughter rumbled beneath you.

"You were saying?" He chuckles deeply, his words vibrating in your chest.

"You were pretending to sleep!"

"You kissed me like twelve times." Leon grins.

"You counted?"

"I counted every single one."

Your face immediately warmed, as heat spreads across your chest and the traitor only looked pleased with himself.

And you notice his one arm remained securely around your waist while the other settled behind his head. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, yet amusement danced inside them.

"You look very proud of yourself," you giggled, rubbing your chin lightly against his chest as you settled more comfortably on top of him. The motion only seemed to make his smug expression grow wider.

"I am." He mumbled.

"For what?"

"Catching you." Leon teased as he rubbed his chin across your hairs, making you giggle again.

Then as you gaze up at him, his smile softened a moment later, and his eyes slothfully locked on yours, like he was seeing something worth millions.

Your heartbeat stumbled at his softened reaction. "What?"

For a moment he simply looked at you. Then his hand came up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

His expression turned unexpectedly gentle and he whispers with a smile, "When I look in your eyes," he paused then takes a big deep breath before continuing, "I see the entire galaxy reflecting back at me."

Your breath get caught in your lungs again, "Wow."

The smug smile returned instantly on his face. "Wow?"

"You are so cheesy first thing in the morning," you teased, though your heart was already betraying you, drumming frantically against your chest as warmth spread across your face.

"I was being romantic," he pouted, his lips jutting out ever so slightly as he looked at you with exaggerated offense.

You mumbled against his chest. "Fine, fine... it made my heart stutter."

Leon chuckled softly at that before pressing a kiss against your temple.

Then he rested his chin lightly atop your head as you settled more comfortably against his chest. Your own chin found its place on his shoulder while his arms remained securely around you.

You stayed like that, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat echoing beneath your ear.

After a while, you glanced up at him and found his eyes closed, a peaceful expression settling across his features.

A small smile tugged at your lips at the sight. For all his toughness, Leon was an absolute softie when it came to you, and moments like these reminded you of that more than anything else.

For a while you just stayed there tangled in each other as morning sunlight continued to spill across the room.

While the blankets tangled between your legs.

You felt so comfortable lying on top of him that it genuinely felt as though you were resting on a cloud.

As the two of you gradually relaxed into the quiet of the morning, you tilted your head upward, your chin brushing lightly against his chest. "When did you wake up?" you asked, letting out a soft sigh against his skin as you looked up at him.

Leon didn't even open his eyes this time, instead he hummed and replied, "When you were staring at me."

You laughed shaking your head and lifted your head to look at him. "You were awake at that point?" you asked, disbelief and amusement slipping into your voice.

"You know when you stirred I though you were going to be awake and I can't sleep when you're not near me. Can't help it, baby," he said, his eyes softening as he looked at you.

A quiet sigh escaped you at his words, and you melted further against his chest, feeling strangely safe there, almost as if you were being held by an angel, instead of Leon.

The sound you made earned another kiss against your temple. Then Leon pulled you even closer against his chest, his arms tightening around you as though he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

Absentmindedly, your fingers found his biceps, tracing lazy circles over them while you settled comfortably against him.

Neither of you made any effort to leave the warmth of the bed, content to remain tangled together in the quiet comfort of the morning. Because after all, some mornings were simply too good to rush.