Lance, who is annoyingly handsome even under the fluorescent assault of a bubble tea shop, blinks once. Then again. His lips twitch.

“I mean,” he says slowly, like he’s seriously considering it, “I wouldn’t be a bad sugar daddy.”

You snort. Loud enough that the girl behind the counter looks up. A few heads turn. Lance looks proud of himself.

He shrugs and leans across the small table, resting his chin on his hand. “Do I get a say in my nickname? Or is it a package deal with the girlfriend title?”

“You lost naming rights the moment you bought me that $11 crème brûlée without blinking.”

“To be fair, you looked like you were about to cry when they brought it out.”

“Because it was on fire. And because I haven’t had sugar since the flight back from Jeddah.”

You’re six months into this thing—long enough that you know he keeps a tube of lip balm in his race suit pocket, short enough that you still hesitate before reaching for his hand in public. Long enough that he texts you good night without fail, short enough that every time he’s away feels like a novelty and an ache.

You remember how it started: a launch party, champagne that tasted too expensive, heels that betrayed you by hour two. You’d noticed him noticing you. Then again. Then again. But every time you caught his eye, he looked away like you were the sun.

So you did what any sane, responsible adult would do: marched over and opened with, “You’re either terminally shy or deeply allergic to eye contact.”

He’d flushed, then met your gaze properly. “I’m just trying not to blow it,” he’d said.

And that had been it. The match struck. The moment when all the gravity shifted.

Since then, things have fallen into a rhythm. One that involves shared playlists, sleepy 2 a.m. calls from hotel beds, and a running joke about his inability to cook anything that doesn’t come with instructions and a warning label.

Now here he is, arguing over boba as if it’s a boardroom deal. You nudge his foot under the table. “You spoil me.”

He shrugs again, but this time it’s soft. Real. “I want to.”

And he means it. That’s the thing about Lance. He doesn’t try to dazzle you. He just shows up. Day in, day out. In the quiet gestures: holding your coat open, sending you photos of weird hotel lobby art, setting reminders to call when you’re anxious about work. He’s romantic without theatrics, deliberate and intentional in his affection.

He reaches over and plucks the receipt from your side of the table, shoving it into his wallet. “It’s my turn, anyway.”

“You said that at the restaurant.”

“I mean in life, babe. It’s my turn to treat you right.”

Your breath stutters, caught off guard. It’s delivered so casually that it takes a second to hit. When it does, it lodges in your chest like something warm and slow-burning.

Lance is not always the loudest. He doesn’t perform affection with fanfare. But when he says things like that—with the barest smile and his thumb brushing yours over the table—it feels louder than any podium celebration.

You take another sip of boba to hide the way your face goes pink. “You keep this up and I will post about you on Reddit.”

He teases lightly, “Just make sure you link my Instagram. I need the clout.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “Romantic and opportunistic.”

“Multitalented,” he shoots back.

God help you, you laugh. You’re in a bubble tea shop on a Monday night, and you’re in love with Lance Stroll. A man who gets flustered by compliments but has no issue dropping romance like it’s casual. A man who makes you feel like you’re not just lucky, but chosen.

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically. “You win, sugar daddy.”

Lance almost chokes on his drink. “That better be a one-time thing.”

“No promises.”

“You’re evil,” he says, eyes crinkling.

“And you love it.”

He hums, reaching for your hand again, and this time you let him intertwine your fingers over the sticky table. “Yeah,” he hums. “I do.”

The night stretches on like taffy. You talk about nonsense. About the race calendar. About that one embarrassing thing he said to Fernando on the grid that he swore no one heard. About whether you should buy matching pajamas or put it toward a shared mortgage and a cat.

The windows outside glow gold with streetlight, and Lance insists on getting the cab, again. When you slide into the backseat beside him, he takes your hand without thinking. Muscle memory, gravity.

Things begin to shift a little more. 

At first, you don’t notice. Not really.

Because Lance has always been a giver. The kind who gets more satisfaction out of watching your eyes light up than anything else. He’s tactile, generous, embarrassingly good at knowing exactly where to press his mouth to your neck and when to buy your favorite snacks before you even remember craving them. 

In every sense of the word, the man gives.

So when a small bouquet shows up at your door on a random Tuesday—sunflowers, because he remembers you told him once that they make your apartment feel like a Wes Anderson set—you think: cute. Thoughtful. Lance.

When the flowers come again on Friday, you think: okay, double cute. You text him a green heart emoji and a picture of them on your windowsill.

By the following Wednesday, when you’ve filled three vases and two drinking glasses with floral arrangements, you start to suspect something is up. When a fourth bouquet arrives Saturday morning, accompanied by a card that just says “happy Saturday :)”, you FaceTime him with a single goal: confrontation.

He answers on the third ring, lying sideways on a hotel bed somewhere in Belgium. His hair is still damp, voice warm with sleep. “Hey, baby.”

You hold the phone up so he gets a full panorama of your kitchen, which now resembles the inside of a botanical garden and smells faintly like a perfume counter.

“Do you have something you want to confess?” you ask sweetly.

Lance squints at his screen. “Uh. No?”

You arch a brow. “My apartment looks like a greenhouse. If I breathe too hard, a petal might fall off.”

He tries to look innocent. He does not succeed. “Is this about the flowers?”

You stare.

“Okay,” he says quickly, sitting up against the headboard. “I may have gotten a little carried away.”

“A little? I had to move a bouquet off the stove to make pasta last night.”

He bites his bottom lip, valiantly fighting back a smile. “You said you liked them.”

“I do like them. But I also like walking into my apartment without sneezing.”

Lance holds his hands up like he’s surrendering to police. “Alright. Alright. What if we scale back to one bouquet a week?”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re negotiating like this is a hostage situation.”

“It kind of is. You’re holding my flower privileges hostage.”

You groan. “You’re so weird.”

“I’m your weirdo,” he says, smug.

You settle back on your couch, tucking a throw pillow under your arm. “Why the sudden florist obsession?”

“It’s not what you think,” he says. “I just… liked the idea of surprising you. Making you smile when I’m not around.”

“Ridiculous,” you grumble, and you have to cover your face with the pillow for a moment. These damn honeymoon phases always gutted you.

Eventually, you peek over the edge. “Fine. One bouquet a week. But if you send me another arrangement that requires its own zip code, I’m calling your PR manager and telling them you’re going feral.”

He laughs, and you do too, until your chest aches a little. Until the call stretches long and lazy, until you’re curled sideways on the couch listening to him ramble about qualifying strategy. Until the flowers in your kitchen stop feeling excessive and start feeling like love, growing wildly in all directions.

The bouquets continue, once a week like clockwork.

Every Thursday morning, without fail, there’s a knock or a buzzer or a politely confused delivery man holding a vase roughly the size of your torso. 

They start getting thematic. Tulips for the Amsterdam race weekend. Peonies when you complain about cramps. Red camellias because, according to the handwritten note, they remind him of your lipstick from the first time you kissed. Which is unfair. And kind of devastating.

You try to keep up. Really, you do. You rotate vases like a gallery curator, water them dutifully, send him photos of the freshest ones in increasingly elaborate lighting setups. But then the gifts start arriving.

Not every day. Not even every week. Just enough that you notice. 

A silk scarf in your favorite color, folded neatly into a Cartier box you mistake for a prank. A leather tote that comes with a note in his handwriting: For airport chaos control. One of the interior pockets has a Polaroid of the two of you tucked inside.

There’s a necklace, eventually. Fine, delicate, with a tiny charm that looks like a steering wheel. You find it dangling from your coat hook with a Post-It: Wear this when you miss me.

And you do miss him. A lot.

But the necklace makes your chest go tight in a way that isn’t romantic. It’s just a little much. A little sudden. A little out of nowhere, even for him. Lance has always had a generous streak, but this reads like a spending spree with emotional subtext.

When you try to bring it up, he kisses your forehead and says, “Don’t worry about it.”

When you push harder, he says, “I just like making you happy.”

And when you push even harder, he distracts you with kisses, and maybe your bra ends up on the floor, and maybe it works.

But you’re not stupid. And you don’t let things fester. Not with him.

So, in a moment of slightly unhinged logic and high-level pettiness, you send him a BuzzFeed-style link titled “Take The Love Languages Test With Your Partner.” You frame it like a game. A bonding exercise. He groans about it, but plays along.

You’re expecting his results to scream Receiving Gifts in all caps.

They don’t.

It’s not even second.

Words of Affirmation is first. Then Physical Touch. Then Quality Time.

Receiving Gifts is fourth.

“Are you sure you didn’t rig this?” you ask as you sit beside him on the couch, watching his screen as if it’s a bomb countdown.

Lance’s eyebrows drawn inward. “I’m sure.”

“You give me, like, jewelry and bags and mental damage. Weekly.”

“Yeah, but that’s just something I do. I don’t need stuff back.”

You frown, just a little. “Okay, but you do need to stop laundering your feelings through leather goods.”

He laughs. A real one. Head tilted back, eyes crinkling. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“I don’t know! You tell me, Casanova,” you huff. “Are the weekly bouquets a metaphor for repressed emotional intimacy?”

Lance rests his chin on your shoulder, peering up at you with eyes that scream lovesick puppy. “They’re a metaphor for how obsessed I am with you.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart does something traitorous.

Later, when he’s asleep, you scroll back through your camera roll. There are so many pictures of flowers. Of the scarf. Of the tote. Of the necklace. Of him.

You don’t get it. Not really. But you know what it looks like when someone is trying. And Lance—sweet, chaotic, frustrating Lance—is trying in the only way he knows how: consistently, persistently, and with a deeply unfair understanding of your exact ring size.

You’re still not sure if he’s lying to you or to himself. In the morning, you put the necklace on anyway.

It’s not all sunshine, though. 

One evening, you come home tired. The kind of tired that lives in your shins. Work has been hell. The trains have been late every day this week, and the bus smelled like expired cheese this morning, and the humidity made your shirt cling to all the wrong places.

When you kick your shoes off at the door and flop onto the couch with a groan that sounds like it should be subtitled, Lance looks up from his phone and asks, too gently, “Rough day?”

You groan again. “I swear to God, if one more man elbows me on the train like I’m invisible, I’m gonna start carrying a taser. Or a medieval mace.”

He smiles, the kind of half-laugh that’s mostly sympathy. “Want me to buy you new shoes?”

You pause. “What?”

“For walking. Better soles. More support. Or—I don’t know, maybe—” He hesitates like he’s weighing how much to say. Then, like it’s just a casual Tuesday suggestion: “A car?”

You glance at him. “A car?”

He stares back at you, completely serious. “Yeah. Something small. Hybrid, maybe. We can put a bow on it. Real commercial vibes.”

And that—somehow—is the final domino.

You sit up, full spine. “Lance, I was venting. Not… not fishing for a car.”

“I know,” he says, too fast. “I’m just saying—you don’t have to deal with public transport if it’s making your life harder. I can fix it.”

“I don’t need you to fix it. I just need you to listen.”

He leans forward, defensive now. “But I am listening. And you’re miserable. Why wouldn’t I want to help?”

“Because I’m not asking for help,” you snap, louder than you mean to. “I’m not trying to be your little side project you throw money at until the problems go away.”

That lands. You watch it hit. His whole expression shifts, softens, shutters.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

You fold your arms. Not because you mean to be cold, but because your heart feels like it’s rattling against the cage of your ribs. “I just wanted to rant. Not be handed a solution in the shape of a steering wheel.”

He nods, looking down at his hands. “Got it.”

The silence that follows is heavy, sharded, like both of you are walking around a glass object neither of you wants to admit you dropped.

Eventually, he gets up. Mumbles something about needing air. You let him go. Mostly because you don’t trust yourself not to cry if he stays.

You stew.

You stew so hard you forget to eat dinner.

You replay the conversation while lying dramatically on your bed, as one does, arm flung over your eyes like a Victorian widow. You don’t feel good. You feel like a jerk. Because you know Lance. You know he loves you in ways that are big and confusing and sometimes impractical, but never insincere.

When he slips back into the apartment an hour later, he doesn’t say anything. He only kicks his shoes off soundlessly and pads over to the bedroom. You pretend to be asleep. Badly.

He crawls in beside you. Doesn’t say a word.

You roll toward him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, not meeting your eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

His brow furrows. “You don’t have to be.”

“No, I do,” you say, tugging the blanket higher. “I went full drama queen and threw a fit over… your generosity. That’s not fair.”

He exhales. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to make you feel like a problem I was trying to solve.”

You slide closer, nudging your nose into the space between his jaw and collarbone. “You weren’t. You were trying to love me,” your murmur. “Maybe a little too efficiently.”

He chuckles. “Sorry I tried to love you like a pit crew.”

You laugh a bit yourself. “I’m just saying, you could try loving me like a guy who sometimes forgets to do his laundry. More relatable.”

“Already halfway there,” he whispers, kissing your forehead.

You kiss his mouth. Slow and soft. Apology and promise.

When you pull back, you murmur, “Still not letting you buy me a car, though.”

“Fine,” he says against your mouth. “But I am buying you arch support insoles.”

You should’ve known he was up to something when the insoles came in a limited-edition shoebox.

Like, yes, they were orthopedic. Yes, they were comfortable. Yes, your arches have never felt more emotionally supported.

But the packaging had gold trim. And the shoes they were nestled inside? Not even remotely casual. Italian leather, with little stitching details that spell out your initials if you squint.

You round on him about it immediately. “Lance. Why do my arch support shoes cost more than my rent?”

His nose scrunches, all innocent charm and cheeky grin. “They’re cute. And practical. Win-win.”

“You’re making me look like someone who runs errands in designer heels.”

He kisses your cheek and says, “You’d make it fashion.”

It’d be easier to roll your eyes if he wasn’t so goddamn proud of himself.

The real kicker isn’t the shoes, though. 

It’s the fucking scooter.

A week later, it shows up outside your apartment like a sponsored Instagram post come to life. Matte green. Sleek as sin. With a little helmet that has your name printed on the back in cursive.

You text him a photo and say, YOU BOUGHT ME A SCOOTER?!

He replies, Thought it’d help with your commute. Also, you’d look adorable zipping around on it. 😁💚

You are, officially, losing your mind.

You start to spiral. Late one night, after a particularly long day, you lie in bed with the lights off and your phone screen dimmed to a whisper, and you Google it: how to know if I’m being love bombed.

You don’t think he is. Not really. But it’s a lot. It’s just so much.

You forget all about it the next morning. Until that night, when Lance asks if he can borrow your phone to check a flight email he forwarded to you. You hand it over without thinking, still half-asleep on the couch.

There’s silence. Then a quiet, careful voice: “Um. Babe?”

You open one eye. He’s standing in the kitchen, your phone in hand, with the screen very clearly displaying your search history.

You bolt upright. “Shit.”

His lips curl into a frown. He’s not angry, but he’s confused. And he looks a little… small. “Are you really worried I’m love bombing you?”

Your stomach drops. You stammer, “No—well—not exactly. I just… I don’t get it. The gifts. The scooter. The shoes. I keep trying to figure out what changed, and you won’t tell me, and it’s starting to make me feel like I missed a memo somewhere.”

He leans against the counter, quiet. Then, softly, “You really don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

He smiles a little, crooked and fond, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That boba shop. Months ago. I treated you to mango boba, and you said—”

He breaks off, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What did I say?”

He sighs. “Uh, you said, ‘You win, sugar daddy.’”

You gape at him. “I what?”

He laughs, now self-conscious. “You were joking, I know. It stuck anyway. Dunno. I thought—if that was something you liked, maybe I’d… try harder. Be someone who could give you that.”

It hits you like a gut punch wrapped in velvet.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “Lance. I was making fun of you.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I figured. But, like… the fun kind. And it made you laugh. I just wanted to keep being the reason you smiled like that.”

Your heart does something ungodly.

You cross the room and wrap your arms around him, pressing your forehead to his chest. “You absolute idiot.”

He rests his chin on your head. “Takes one to date one.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “You don’t have to buy me things to keep me looking at you.”

“I know,” he says, delicate and devoted and yours, yours, yours. “But I wanted to. I still do.”

In the end, you come to a compromise.

The weekly flowers stay. They arrive on Thursdays like clockwork, still from that one florist with the minimalist wrapping and the bougie eucalyptus leaves.

But the luxury gifts taper off, relegated to birthdays and podiums and the occasional Really Awful Day when you cry over spilled oat milk and Lance panics like he’s just watched someone key your soul. He still has the impulse—he’s Lance—but now he channels it somewhere less likely to bankrupt him or overwhelm you.

Instead, he starts sending you magnets.

Magnets from race stops, mostly. Little rectangles with bad clip art and worse fonts, tucked into your backpack with a note or slipped into your laptop sleeve between meetings. Postcards, too. Cheap ones, creased at the edges, with love letters written in his cramped half-cursive, all lowercase like he’s whispering.

Wish you were here, he writes from Silverstone, Hungaroring, Albert Park.

Did you see? Those points were for you, says a card from Spa. 

Wait for me, please, he pens in a particularly long note, marked Zandvoort. I don’t know how anybody survives on this Earth without someone like you. 

Not to forget the wacky keychains he claims he thrifted himself. One looks like a cursed frog in a cowboy hat. Another is a sparkly dolphin with eerily human eyes. You hang them on your keys immediately like they’re sacred relics.

You love them all. They make you laugh, and more importantly, they feel like him. Not the curated version that comes with press conferences and net worth lists, but the Lance you get in your kitchen at 1 a.m., eating cereal out of a mug and humming Harry Styles, feet cold and conversation warm. 

And he notices.

He never says it out loud, but you see the way the gifts evolve. He starts collecting earlier. Sending things from airport vending machines—one time, a mini Eiffel Tower from Charles de Gaulle that you now use to hold rings. Scribbling notes on hotel notepads and leaving them folded in your makeup bag. 

You suspect, with a ridiculous flutter of affection, that he started carrying stamps just for you. That somewhere in his carry-on is a dedicated pouch for ridiculous trinkets and rapidly inked declarations of love.

Then, one Thursday morning, the doorbell rings.

You’re in a hoodie and one sock, hair a disaster, clutching your half-empty coffee mug when you open the door—expecting a courier, maybe, or that neighbor who keeps asking if you’ll sign up for community Pilates. 

Instead, it’s Lance. Holding a slightly crumpled bouquet of supermarket flowers.

He looks sheepish. Sweaty. Clearly rushed. The plastic wrapping is half-torn and one of the daisies is doing something medically concerning. He’s wearing a sweatshirt you definitely left at his place last month and his socks don’t match. It’s giving chaos. It’s also giving effort.

“Hi,” he says, almost out of breath.

You can barely breathe yourself. “Hi.”

He thrusts the flowers at you like a middle schooler asking someone to prom. “I know I’m early. And I know they’re janky. But the florist cancelled my order and I panicked and I didn’t want to miss a week so I—”

You don’t let him finish.

You set the mug down on the console table with a soft thunk, reach for his jacket, and yank him inside mid-sentence like you’re rescuing him from his own perfectionism.

“Babe—”

You kiss him. Hard. Trying to communicate every dumb, grateful, chaotic thing in your heart through osmosis. He still tastes a little like mint and airport coffee. Your sock slips on the hardwood, and he nearly steps on your toes in his haste to meet your kiss. 

When you finally pull back, he rests his forehead against yours, smiling in that punch-drunk way he gets when he knows he’s been loved right. There’s a daisy petal caught in his hair. He doesn’t notice.

“You could bring me weeds from the parking lot,” you murmur, “and I’d still kiss you like that.”

“Noted,” he whispers. “Next week: parking lot weeds.”

You swat his shoulder. He laughs that wide open laugh that makes you feel like sunshine is a sound. And then you’re hugging him with your face buried in his neck, supermarket bouquet still clutched between your fingers, slightly crushed between the two of you.

You don’t need perfection. You don’t need the grand gesture or the barrage of gifts.

One night, your friend—who always seemed to know someone who knew someone—dragged you to a party she swore would be crawling with celebrities. You didn’t believe her, but you went anyway, dressed in something sparkly and slightly too short, because why not? Vegas was built for nights like this. The party was on a rooftop, lights glowing against the desert sky, music thumping through your bones, and drinks flowing like water. You weren’t sure who was famous and who was just pretending to be, but everyone looked expensive and slightly untouchable.

And then you met him.

He was tall, with messy hair and a grin that made you feel like you were the most interesting person in the room. Dutch, he said. His name started with an M—Mark? Max? You couldn’t quite remember. He was charming in a way that felt effortless, confident in a way that bordered on cocky, and somehow still made you laugh until your cheeks hurt. You didn’t know who he was, but you liked him. And the drinks kept coming. Tequila shots, champagne, something neon blue that tasted like candy and regret.

The night blurred into a haze of laughter, dancing, and whispered conversations that felt like secrets. You remembered him pulling you onto the dance floor. You remembered him saying something about fate and bad decisions. You remembered kissing him. And then—

Well, no drink could have prepared you for what came next.

───

You woke up with a headache so sharp it felt like someone was playing drums inside your skull. The room was too bright, too quiet, and far too unfamiliar. But what truly terrified you wasn’t the pain—it was the man sleeping beside you.

His back was turned, broad and bare, the sheets tangled around his waist. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction. He looked peaceful, annoyingly comfortable, like he belonged there. Like you belonged there.

You sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to your chest as if it could shield you from the chaos of whatever had happened the night before. Your dress—what was left of it—was draped over a chair like it had given up. One heel peeked out from under the bed. The other was missing entirely.

You glanced at him again, trying to piece together the night, and that’s when your eyes caught something that made your stomach drop.

A ring.

On his left hand.

Bold, shiny, and impossible to miss.

Your heart stuttered. Oh God. Did you sleep with a married man? You stared at the ring, panic rising in your throat. But something about it tugged at your memory—a flash, a moment, a laugh. You looked down at your own hand, slowly, carefully, like you were afraid of what you’d find.

And there it was. The same ring.

Only yours had a diamond. A very large, very catchy diamond.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Oh fuck.

Your heart was already racing, but it kicked into overdrive when your eyes drifted to the nightstand. Amid the clutter—an empty glass, a phone, a crumpled napkin—was a piece of paper that looked far too official for a party night in Vegas. Thick, cream-colored, with bold lettering across the top. You leaned closer, squinting through the haze of your hangover, and your stomach dropped.

It wasn’t just a piece of paper.

It was a marriage certificate.

You froze, staring at it like it might disappear if you blinked hard enough. But it didn’t. It stayed right there, mocking you with its very real, very legal presence. You reached out with a shaky hand and picked it up, scanning the names printed neatly in black ink.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

You blinked. That name sounded… familiar? Maybe? You weren’t sure. It rang a bell, but not loud enough to make sense of it. You looked down, and there it was—your own name, printed right beneath his. Only now it had a new addition. His last name. Your name, with his last name.

You stared at it, mouth slightly open, brain refusing to catch up.

You married him.

You didn’t walk. You launched yourself out of the bed like it had burst into flames, nearly tripping over the twisted sheets as you scrambled to grab your phone. Your heart was racing, your brain still foggy, and you had no idea what you were doing—only that you needed to not be in that room. You bolted to the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind you, and locked it like you were hiding from a monster. For what? Safety? Privacy? Maybe just a moment to breathe. Or maybe in case Max Verstappen woke up and decided it was time for a honeymoon on a yacht. You didn’t know what married people did. You weren’t supposed to be one of them.

The bathroom light was way too bright, and you winced as it hit your face. You blinked hard, trying to adjust, and caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. Your makeup was smeared like a bad painting, your hair looked like it had fought a tornado, and your eyes were wide with panic. You looked exactly how you felt—like a disaster. A very confused, slightly drunk, newly married disaster.

Your thumbs were shaking as you opened Google, typing in the name from the certificate as fast as you could.

Max Verstappen.

And then your screen exploded with results.

Photos. Headlines. Videos. Interviews. All of it.

“Four-Time World Champion Max Verstappen Wins in Las Vegas.”

“Verstappen Dominates Under the Vegas Lights.”

“Undeniable King of Formula 1.”

You stared at the screen, jaw slowly dropping.

There he was. The man in the bed. Standing tall in a sleek racing suit, champagne bottle in hand, sweat glistening on his skin under the podium lights. His arms were raised in victory, his grin wide and confident, like he owned the world. Another photo showed him on the top step of the podium, gold trophy in one hand, waving with the other. Cameras flashed around him. Fans screamed his name.

And okay. You could admit it.

Your husband? He was hot.

Like, really hot.

Of course he had to be the kind of guy who looked even better sweaty. Of course he had to have that smirk. That face. That body. That entire vibe. And of course he had to be one of the best athletes in the world.

“Fuck!” you hissed the second your phone buzzed in your hand, nearly dropping it into the hotel sink.

Incoming call: my girl xx

You didn’t even hesitate. You smacked the green button and brought it to your ear like it was a direct lifeline to reality.

“I think I married Max Verstappen!” you whisper-screamed the second the call connected, pacing across the bathroom in bare feet, trying not to pass out or throw up or—god forbid—wake him up. You had no idea if the feeling in your chest was joy or terror. Probably both. Definitely both.

There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end.

Then: “Y/n, what the fuck? Did you take something? Are you high?”

You let out a strangled laugh, half-sob, half-manic giggle. “No! I mean—I don’t think so? But like… I woke up next to this guy, okay? Big, hot, Dutch guy. Tall. Sleepy. Smug. And he had a ring on. And then I had a ring on. And then—” you reached over to snatch the paper from the counter again, yes you took it with you “—there’s literally a marriage certificate. Signed. With both our names. His is Max Emilian Verstappen. I googled him. He’s a four-time Formula One World Champion?!”

You stopped to breathe, then whispered aggressively, “I married a rich race car driver.”

Your best friend went quiet again, then finally said, “Wait… Max Verstappen? Like, actual Max Verstappen? The hot one who wins everything and never smiles?”

“Yes!” you hissed. “Except he does smile, and I think he kissed me last night, and he definitely slept next to me— and with me, and now I don’t know if I should cry or call Vogue and pitch a cover story as his wife.”

“Y/n, I left you alone for five minutes and you got married?!” your best friend shrieked so loudly through the phone that you had to pull it away from your ear before it shattered your eardrum.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” you whisper-yelled, pacing the bathroom like a wild animal trapped in a cage. Your bare feet slapped against the cold tile, your sheet toga flapping behind you like a cape of shame. “There were drinks! There was dancing! He had a really nice smile, okay? I don’t even like racing! I came to Vegas for overpriced cocktails and bad decisions, not a whole husband!”

You were so deep in your meltdown that you didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right outside the door.

Then—two soft knocks.

“Are you panicking in there?” a deep, amused voice called through the bathroom door.

You froze. Completely. Like a deer caught in headlights. Like someone had hit pause on your entire body.

Your eyes went wide. Your mouth opened. That voice—it was him.

Your husband.

Max Verstappen. Actual Max Verstappen. Speaking. To you.

You turned toward the door, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. “Yes—I mean no!” you called back, instantly cringing at how weird your voice sounded. You sounded like someone who had definitely married someone by accident.

There was a pause. You thought you heard him laugh. Just a little. Low and quiet. Like he found this whole thing funny.

You turned back to your phone, whispering like you were in some kind of spy movie. “Gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

“Wait, Y/n! Does he have any hot fri—”

You hung up before she could finish the sentence and dropped the phone onto the counter like it had burned your hand. You stared at the door, heart racing, brain spinning, and absolutely no idea what you were supposed to say next.

You couldn’t stay locked in the bathroom forever, no matter how much you wanted to hide from the world—or from the man waiting outside. You had to face it. Face him. Face the fact that you were somehow married to Max Verstappen.

Slowly, you reached out and unlocked the door, pushing it open just enough to peek your head out. You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe chaos, maybe cameras, maybe him halfway through packing his bags to escape this mess. But instead, you saw him standing there calmly, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and into a magazine cover. His hair was still messy, shirtless, but he looked relaxed. Too relaxed. Like this was just another normal morning.

“There you are,” he said, his voice soft but amused. “Do you want something? Coffee? Water? You look pale.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “Yeah, and you look completely fine! You shouldn’t!” you said, stepping out and slowly making your way back to the bed. You sat down carefully, still wrapped in the sheet, trying to keep your brain from short-circuiting.

He tilted his head, clearly confused. “Why?”

You stared at him, trying to find the right words. “Because you’re Max Verstappen! You’re like… F1’s big dog. The guy who wins everything. You married a random girl in Vegas!” You paused, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of it all. “Oh my god, can you imagine the drama? The headlines? The press? The fans? Your team? Your mom?”

“We can keep it secret for now, if you want,” Max said, his voice calm and casual, like he was suggesting you skip breakfast or order room service. Not like he was talking about hiding a marriage from the entire world. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking way too relaxed for someone who had just woken up married to a complete stranger. His expression was unreadable—cool, collected, almost amused.

Meanwhile, you felt like your entire body was buzzing with panic. Your heart was racing, your thoughts were spinning, and you were pretty sure your eye was twitching. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a sheet, trying to figure out how your life had turned into a headline overnight.

You stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said. Keep it secret? Like it was no big deal? You couldn’t even think straight, and he was already planning how to cover it up. Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.

“We should annul it,” you blurted out, the words tumbling out fast and loud. “Obviously.”

Max turned his head slowly to look at you, like you’d just said something completely ridiculous. His eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“Why?” he asked, voice still calm. “I like you.”

Your brain stopped working.

You blinked at him, mouth falling open, unsure if you’d heard him right. “Wh—what?” you stammered, eyes wide. “You like me? We met like—what—ten hours ago?”

Max shrugged, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “And I liked those ten hours.”

You stared at him like he’d just suggested you move to Mars. “That’s not a reason to stay married!” you said, your voice high and full of disbelief. You couldn’t believe you were even having this conversation. You were wrapped in a hotel sheet, hungover, and somehow arguing about the validity of a marriage with a man you’d met less than a day ago.

Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh. He just looked at you with those stupid, perfect blue eyes—calm, steady, and annoyingly unreadable. “It’s not a bad one either,” he said, voice smooth and quiet. But there was something in his eyes. A spark. A glint of amusement, maybe interest. Maybe even a challenge. Like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.

You clutched the sheet tighter around yourself, trying to hold onto reality, but your brain had already started to drift. You couldn’t help it. You imagined it—being his wife. Not just the ring on your finger or the chaos of last night, but the life that came with it. The luxury. The attention. The private jets and race paddocks. The kind of dinners where the wine cost more than your rent. The interviews where people called you Mrs. Verstappen. Waking up in Monaco. Falling asleep in Italy. Kisses in Singapore.

It was ridiculous. It was insane. It was completely out of your comfort zone.

And yet… it didn’t sound bad.

Okay. Maybe annulment was a little dramatic.

“Okay,” you sighed, dragging a hand through your tangled hair as you sat up straighter on the bed. The sheet was still wrapped around you like some kind of makeshift armor, and you were starting to feel like you’d need it. Your head was spinning, your heart was still racing, but you knew you couldn’t keep dodging the reality of what had happened. “We should… talk about this. All of it.”

Max’s lips curled into a smirk the moment the words left your mouth. He looked far too amused for someone who had just woken up married to a stranger. “That’s how I like you,” he said, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. “Assertive. Calm. Rational.”

You gave him a look. A sharp, tired, are-you-kidding-me look. “I’m none of those things right now.”

He shrugged, completely unfazed, his eyes still sparkling with mischief. “Still. Be grateful you married me and not Lando.”

You blinked. “Who’s that?” you asked, your eyebrows pulling together in confusion.

Max paused, then actually laughed. A real laugh. Not a smirk or a chuckle, but a full, amused laugh that made his shoulders shake slightly. “Oh wow. You really don’t know anything about Formula One, huh?”

You stared at him, unsure if you should be embarrassed or proud. “Is he, like… worse than you?”

Max tilted his head, clearly enjoying the question. “Debatable,” he said, his grin growing wider. “He’s a walking red flag though.”

You didn’t know what that meant exactly, but the way Max said it made you laugh. Just a little. Just enough to forget, for one second, that your life had completely flipped upside down.

───

The hotel breakfast room was way too quiet. That strange kind of quiet that only happens when everyone’s hungover and pretending they aren’t. Even the soft clink of a spoon against a coffee cup felt like it echoed through your skull. You were surrounded by people who probably had millions in their bank accounts, all dressed in expensive clothes and sipping tiny espressos like they hadn’t made a single bad decision the night before. But you knew better. You could see it in their tired eyes and slow movements. Vegas had worked its magic on everyone.

You sat across from Max, your very real, very hot husband of roughly ten hours, trying to act like this was normal. Like you did this kind of thing all the time. Like waking up married to a stranger and then sharing breakfast with him was just another part of your weekend plans. You picked at your croissant, trying to look casual, even though your brain was still spinning.

“So,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you tore off a piece of pastry, “tell me something about you, my husband.”

The word husband still felt strange coming out of your mouth. It made your stomach flip a little. It was weird, but also kind of exciting. You barely knew anything about Max — other than the fact that he was ridiculously attractive, strangely calm about the whole situation, and apparently some kind of international sports legend.

Max leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. “Well,” he began, “I’m Dutch, but I was born in Belgium. So technically I’m Dutch-Belgian. My mum’s from Belgium.”

You nodded slowly, pretending to take that in like it was important information. But honestly, your brain was stuck on the way he said my mum. It sounded so soft, so sweet, and it didn’t match the image of a guy with arms like his and a face that belonged on a billboard.

“I started karting when I was four,” he continued, “then got into Formula One when I was seventeen. And now I’m here—with four world championships.”

You blinked. “Casual,” you muttered, trying to sound unimpressed, even though your jaw wanted to drop.

Max gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal. He wasn’t bragging. He was just telling the truth. And somehow, that made it even more impressive. You could tell he wasn’t trying to show off. He was just… being himself.

And honestly? He was kind of a racing nerd. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up when he talked about karting, in the quiet pride in his voice when he mentioned his career. You weren’t into sports. Like, at all. But there was something really endearing about how much he cared. It wasn’t just a job to him. It was his whole world.

And because you couldn’t help yourself — because even though you didn’t follow racing, you did know the one headline that had practically broken the internet — you tilted your head and asked the question that had been sitting quietly in the back of your mind.

“Aren’t you the one who robbed Lewis Hamilton of his eighth title?”

Max didn’t answer right away. He paused, his eyes narrowing just slightly, like he was deciding how honest he wanted to be. There was a flicker of something in his expression — not anger, not guilt, just… something unreadable. But then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile. Calm. Cool. A little smug.

“That’s what some people say, yeah.”

You blinked, surprised. That was not the reaction you expected. No awkward laugh. No defensive speech. No attempt to explain or justify. Just a simple, quiet answer that carried more weight than a whole press conference. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t back down. He just sat there, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just casually admitted to being part of one of the most controversial moments in sports history.

It was the kind of energy that made your stomach twist. The kind that said he knew exactly who he was and didn’t feel the need to explain it to anyone — not the media, not the fans, and definitely not the girl he’d accidentally married in Vegas.

You chewed slowly, studying him. You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both.

But deep down — and you’d never admit it out loud — you were starting to think you might’ve married someone weirdly interesting. And dangerously charming.

“But that’s a long, boring story,” Max said with a casual wave of his hand, brushing off four world championships and one of the biggest rivalries in sports like it was nothing. Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, and gave you a look — the kind that made your heart skip a beat. There was a mischievous glint in his eye, playful and curious. “I want to know something about you, Mrs. Verstappen.”

The way he said it — so smooth, so relaxed, like it wasn’t the most insane thing either of you had ever done — made your stomach flip. Mrs. Verstappen. You’d been trying not to think about how official that sounded. How serious. How… weirdly not awful. It was ridiculous, but hearing it out loud made something flutter in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was panic or something else entirely.

You cleared your throat, trying to snap out of it. “Uh—well,” you began, suddenly feeling very aware of how painfully normal you were compared to him. He had trophies and fans and a career that spanned continents. You had… a messy Instagram feed and a half-used planner.

“Mostly I live off my dad’s money,” you said, giving a small, awkward laugh. “Because, you know, he prefers to pay me to leave him alone.” You took a sip of juice, hoping it would make you sound less ridiculous. “But I studied art. And now I sort of work in marketing? Like, social media stuff. Influencer-adjacent.”

You winced a little as the words came out. God, you sounded lame. Like you were trying to explain your life to someone who’d never had to worry about rent or job interviews or whether their post got enough likes. You were sitting across from a man who drove cars at 300 kilometers an hour for a living, and you were talking about hashtags.

Max didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just nodded, like everything you’d said made perfect sense. Like you made sense. It was strange, really — how someone so far removed from your world could listen like he’d known you for longer than ten hours. His expression was calm, open, and maybe even a little curious.

“And I, uh, moved to Monaco a few months ago,” you added, almost as an afterthought. You weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe because you wanted to sound a little more interesting. Maybe because you wanted to find some common ground with the man sitting across from you.

But that got a reaction.

Max’s eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. “No way,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You live in Monaco?”

You nodded, feeling a little sheepish. “Yeah. Mostly for the tax thing, but let’s pretend it was for the vibe.”

Max grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made your stomach flip again. “Me too.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “I’ve lived there since I was eighteen.”

You stared at him, trying to wrap your head around that. Eighteen. Already living in Monaco. Already racing in Formula One. Already building a life that sounded like something out of a movie. Meanwhile, you were still figuring out how to pay your phone bill on time at that age.

“I mean, most of the drivers do,” Max said, leaning back in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. “You live in Monaco and don’t know anything about Formula One? Even though there’s a Grand Prix happening there every year? It’s like… the biggest event in the city.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to look offended, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Hey! I do know who Charles Leclerc is,” you said, lifting your chin slightly. “He’s Monaco’s bias — the hometown hero everyone pretends they’re not obsessed with.”

Max blinked, then burst out laughing. Not just a chuckle, but a full, warm laugh that made his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle at the corners. It was the kind of laugh that made your chest feel lighter, like you’d said something genuinely funny and not just accidentally charming.

“I married the right girl,” he said, still grinning, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his luck.

You felt your cheeks warm, and you looked down at your plate, trying to hide the smile that was now impossible to fight off. It was ridiculous. You were still hungover. You were still confused. You were still technically married to a man you barely knew.

You loved every second of it.

───

You’d been in Monaco for a few days now, and somehow, without really planning it, you’d spent most of that time at Max’s place. His apartment was sleek and modern, with huge windows and a view that looked like it belonged in a travel magazine. Sometimes he came over to your place too, and it was starting to feel… normal. Comfortable. Like you’d known each other for way longer than just a few chaotic days. You went on cute dates—late-night walks by the harbor, quiet dinners tucked away from the cameras, even a grocery run that turned into a mini adventure. You’d both agreed to act like you were just dating, like the marriage part was a funny secret between you. And honestly? It worked. It felt easy. It felt right.

So when Max insisted that you had to bake a cake for your one-week anniversary, you didn’t argue. You went out and bought all the ingredients, found a beginner-friendly recipe online, and tried to convince yourself this wasn’t going to end in disaster.

Standing in his kitchen, surrounded by flour, eggs, and a very confused Max Verstappen, you gave him a look. “I’m warning you,” you said, tying your hair up and glancing at the recipe again. “The last time I baked anything, I was eighteen. It was a birthday cake for my best friend, and it was… not great.”

Max raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Well,” he said, gesturing to himself, “do I look like I’ve baked anything in my life?”

“No,” you said as you rolled up your sleeves, determined to make this cake happen—even if it ended up more like a sweet disaster than a masterpiece. Max stood beside you, watching the recipe on your phone like it was written in a foreign language. You handed him the whisk and pointed to the bowl.

“Okay, start mixing the eggs and sugar,” you said, trying to sound confident.

Max squinted at the bowl, then at the whisk, then back at you. “You’re trusting me with this?”

“You drive cars at 300 kilometers an hour,” you said, grabbing the flour. “I think you can handle a whisk.”

He gave you a dramatic nod, like he was accepting a mission, and started whisking with way too much enthusiasm. Sugar flew out of the bowl. You gasped and jumped back, laughing as tiny crystals landed in your hair.

“Max!” you shrieked, swatting at him with a dish towel.

He grinned, completely unbothered. “Precision is overrated.”

You tried to stay focused, measuring flour and butter, but Max kept sneaking little pokes at your side, bumping your hip, stealing spoonfuls of batter when he thought you weren’t looking. At one point, he dipped his finger into the mix and held it out to you.

“Try it,” he said, eyes sparkling.

You leaned in, tasted it off his finger, and paused. “Not bad.”

He smirked. “Told you. Natural talent.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was fluttering. The kitchen smelled like vanilla and sugar, and the air was warm with laughter and something softer—something sweeter.

The cake was safely tucked away in the oven, and for the first time in the past hour, the kitchen was quiet. Warm. Sweet-smelling. You leaned against the counter, catching your breath, your cheeks flushed from laughing too hard and moving too fast. Max stood nearby, watching you with that familiar smirk that made your stomach flip every time.

“You have flour on your nose,” he said, pointing at you and laughing softly.

You reached up to wipe it off, but then paused, a mischievous idea forming. You looked at him, narrowing your eyes playfully, and moved your hand toward his face.

“Oh, don’t you dare,” he warned, stepping forward just as you lunged.

Before you could get him, Max caught both of your wrists in his hands. His grip wasn’t tight—just firm enough to stop you, but gentle enough to make your heart flutter. You tried to wriggle free, laughing, but he was too strong, too steady. And honestly? You didn’t really want to escape.

He pulled you closer, slowly, until your body was pressed against his. Your chin rested just under his collarbone, and you tilted your head up to look at him. His eyes were soft now, not teasing, just… warm. You smiled without meaning to, and he smiled back, like he couldn’t help it either.

And in that moment, something shifted.

You felt it in your chest—a quiet, fluttering feeling that wasn’t panic or confusion anymore. It was something sweeter. Something softer. Were you falling for your own husband? The thought hit you like a whisper, unexpected but not unwelcome.

Max leaned down and pressed a light kiss to your lips. It was gentle, slow, like he was testing the waters. Like he wanted to make sure you were still with him in this strange, beautiful mess.

You smiled against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. “Was this part of the recipe?”

He grinned, eyes sparkling. “Obviously,” he said, and kissed you again—this time longer, deeper, like he didn’t care if the cake burned.

When the oven finally beeped, you jumped a little, startled out of the warm haze you’d been floating in. You grabbed an oven mitt and carefully pulled the cake out, setting it down on the counter. You blinked at it, surprised. It actually looked… good. Like, really good. Golden, fluffy, not burned. You tilted your head, inspecting it like it might suddenly collapse, but it held its shape perfectly.

“See?” Max said proudly, stepping beside you. “It looks fantastic.”

You laughed, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Yeah, but does it taste fantastic?” you teased, eyeing the cake like it might be lying to you.

Max didn’t answer. Instead, he turned toward the fridge and pulled out a bowl of whipped cream—dark blue, of course. “I want to decorate it,” he said, already grabbing a spoon and getting to work.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Okay, Picasso,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter to watch.

Max was focused, tongue slightly poking out in concentration as he carefully spread the whipped cream across the top of the cake. He wasn’t fast, but he was determined. You stepped closer, peeking over his shoulder, and smiled at the mess he was making. The letters weren’t perfect, the spacing was off, and the whipped cream was a little too runny—but it was adorable.

And then you saw it.

Written in slightly crooked, slightly smudged letters across the top of the cake:

Max + Y/n, always and forever

Your heart did a little flip.

You stared at the words, warmth blooming in your chest. It was silly. It was messy. It was whipped cream on a cake made by two people who barely knew what they were doing. But it was also sweet. Thoughtful. Real.

You looked up at Max, who was still focused on smoothing out the edges, and felt something soft settle in your chest. This wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t just a wild Vegas story. It was starting to feel like something more.

“Aww,” you whispered, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

Max glanced at you, eyes twinkling. “Too cheesy?”

You shook your head. “Just cheesy enough.”

───

One thing about your husband, Max Verstappen — he adored Charles Leclerc. Like, actual bromance level. The kind of friendship that involved inside jokes, constant teasing, and way too many shared podium selfies. So when the idea of a double date came up, it wasn’t dinner or drinks or something chill. No. It was karting. Because of course it was. The most on-brand plan imaginable for two Formula One drivers who couldn’t go five minutes without turning something into a race.

The guys were hyped. Already texting about lap times and trash talk before you’d even left the apartment. And you? You were nervous. Really nervous.

Alex was everything. Fashion icon. Gorgeous. Confident. The kind of girl who looked like she belonged on magazine covers and red carpets. She was Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend — the it-girl of the paddock. And you were… well, you. Clumsy. Still adjusting. The newly accidental wife of Max Verstappen who had only just learned what a pit stop was.

You clutched Max’s hand tighter as you both walked toward the karting center, your stomach bubbling with nerves and regret over the fizzy energy drink you’d chugged earlier. Your heart was racing, and not in the fun, adrenaline kind of way. More like the what if I embarrass myself in front of Monaco’s golden couple kind of way.

“Max,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, “what if they don’t like me? I mean, I’m not exactly—”

“Schatje,” he cut in gently, turning his head to look down at you. That soft half-smile was already forming on his lips — the one that always made your brain short-circuit a little. “They’re both excited to meet you. Charles has heard so much about you already.”

You blinked up at him, heart still fluttering, but something about the way he said it made you feel a little steadier. Like maybe you weren’t walking into a disaster. Like maybe you did belong here, even if you weren’t sure how yet.

You stepped inside the karting center, your nerves buzzing just beneath your skin like tiny sparks. The smell of rubber and engine oil filled the air, and the sound of distant engines revving made your heart beat a little faster. You spotted Charles and Alex waiting near the entrance, both dressed casually but somehow still looking like they belonged on a magazine cover. Max’s face lit up the second he saw them. He walked straight over and pulled Charles into one of those quick, half-hug, half-pat-on-the-back greetings that guys do when they’re trying to act cool but are clearly happy to see each other.

Before you could even process the moment, Alex stepped toward you with a bright smile and zero hesitation. “You must be Y/n,” she said, her voice warm and confident. “You look stunning, girl.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how friendly she was. Before you could even say thank you, she pulled you into a hug — not the awkward kind, but the kind that felt real. The kind that said, you’re safe with me. It was soft and strong all at once, and something in your chest loosened. Just like that, you knew: this girl was going to be your girl.

“And you’re even prettier in person,” she added with a grin, looping her arm through yours like you’d been friends forever.

You laughed, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to melt. “You’re literally so cool, this is unfair.”

Max, overhearing your comment, smirked and leaned toward Charles with a playful glint in his eye. “Maybe we should do a few laps without them,” he said, voice teasing. “You know, as revenge for that time you pushed me off track.”

Charles rolled his eyes, already used to Max’s drama. “You brake-tested me,” he replied, deadpan.

Max waved him off, already distracted by the sight of you and Alex laughing together like old friends. You could feel his eyes on you, and when you glanced over, he was smiling — that soft, proud kind of smile that made your stomach flutter.

Alex leaned in and whispered, “I think we’ll definitely find something to talk about.”

You nodded, heart lighter than it had been all day. You weren’t just the accidental wife anymore. You were part of something. Something fun. Something real.

Max walked over, his voice quieter now, just for you. “Cheer for me, schat,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. The warmth of it lingered as he grabbed a helmet and headed toward the karts with Charles, already tossing playful insults back and forth.

You and Alex sat down on the bench near the track, the loud buzz of go-karts filling the air as Max and Charles disappeared around the first corner. At first, the sound was a bit much — engines roaring, tires screeching — but after a few minutes, it started to feel kind of normal. Like background noise to a day that was already turning out better than you expected. You leaned back, letting the sun warm your face, while Alex pushed her sunglasses up and turned to you with a friendly smile.

“So,” she said, her voice light, “how’s it going? Being a WAG and all?”

You laughed softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It’s new. I didn’t grow up watching racing or anything, so I’m still learning. But… I’m happy.”

And you meant it. Even though everything had happened so fast — the wild Vegas night, the surprise marriage, the dates, the quiet mornings — it felt good. Like you’d landed somewhere that made sense, even if it was unexpected.

Just then, a blur of navy and red flew past the pit lane. Max’s kart. He lifted one hand off the wheel and waved as he sped by. Even with the helmet on, you could tell he was smiling. And without thinking, you smiled too — like it was automatic now.

Alex saw it and grinned. “You’ve got it bad,” she teased. “But don’t worry — Max is even worse.”

You blinked. “Really?”

She nodded. “He called Charles the morning after Vegas. Didn’t even say hi. Just started talking about you. Said you were funny, smart, and somehow kept up with him better than anyone else.”

Your mouth opened a little. You hadn’t known that. Max had never told you. You’d been wondering if this was just fun for him, something casual. But hearing that he’d been excited enough to call his best friend the next morning?

Your heart did a little flip.

Alex leaned closer, her voice softer now. “He’s serious about you. I’ve never seen him like this.”

Max and Charles walked over with matching grins, the kind that spelled trouble in the most entertaining way. Their hair was messy from the helmets, their cheeks slightly flushed from the race, and they looked way too proud of themselves for two grown men who’d just spent twenty minutes trying to out-drive each other.

“They’ve got two-seater karts,” Charles said, clearly amused. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and you could already tell he was up to something. “Wanna race?”

Max stepped forward, smirking straight at you like he was already imagining the chaos. “And you two are driving,” he added, handing you a helmet like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Me driving? With you in the kart?”

“Exactly,” Max said, his voice calm but teasing. “Don’t worry, I trust you.”

You stared at the helmet in your hands, heart thudding a little faster. You weren’t a racer. You weren’t even sure you knew how to start the kart. But Max was looking at you like you could do anything. Like he believed in you without question. And somehow, that made you want to try.

Charles turned to Max with a smug smile. “We’ll see which couple’s faster. Verstappen’s or Leclerc’s.”

There was something in his tone — playful, yes, but also curious. Like he was watching closely. Like he could feel there was more going on than you were letting on. You were still supposed to be just Max’s girlfriend, after all. But something about the way Charles looked at you, then back at Max, made your stomach twist. He was catching on. Maybe not the whole story, but something.

You and Alex exchanged a quick glance, wide-eyed and a little too in sync. You could tell she felt it too — the shift, the tension, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.

Alex leaned in, her voice low and full of humor. “If we crash,” she whispered, “at least we look cute doing it.”

“M’lady,” Max said with a dramatic little bow, holding the helmet like it was a crown. You laughed, nerves still buzzing in your chest, as he gently placed it on your head. His hands were careful, adjusting the straps with surprising focus, making sure everything was secure. His fingers brushed your skin, and even through the nerves, you felt a little spark — soft, warm, grounding.

You took a deep breath, the weight of the helmet settling over you like a reminder that this was real. You were about to drive a kart. With Max Verstappen sitting beside you. No pressure, right?

“I’m sorry in advance if we crash,” you said quietly, trying to joke your way through the nerves.

Max looked at you, that familiar grin spreading across his face — confident, playful, and just a little smug. “We won’t,” he said simply, sliding into the seat next to you like he’d done it a thousand times. “You’ve got this. You’re a Verstappen now.”

Your heart did a little flip at that. The way he said it — not as a joke, not as a tease, but like it meant something. Like it was something.

You glanced over at Alex one last time, catching her smile through her helmet. She gave you a thumbs-up, her eyes full of encouragement. You smiled back, grateful for her calm energy, her warmth, her quiet way of saying you’re not alone.

The countdown lights began to flash in front of you — red, red, red — and your grip tightened on the wheel. Your heart was racing now, faster than the engines around you. You weren’t sure if it was fear or excitement, but it didn’t matter.

The lights turned green, and you hit the gas a little harder than planned. The kart jolted forward, and Max let out a quick laugh beside you — not mocking, just amused. “Okay, okay, not bad,” he said, gripping the side of the seat. “Keep it steady, baby. Eyes on the track.”

You nodded, trying to focus, but everything was moving so fast. The wind rushed past your face, the engine roared beneath you, and the track curved ahead like it was daring you to mess up. Max leaned slightly toward you, voice calm but firm.

“Brake a little before the turn. Not during. You’ve got this.”

You followed his instructions, easing into the curve, and to your surprise — it worked. The kart glided through the corner without spinning out or crashing into the barrier. You grinned under the helmet, adrenaline buzzing through your veins.

“See?” Max said, clearly proud. “Natural talent.”

You barely had time to process anything — the speed, the noise, the curve ahead — before Max reached over and casually placed his hand on your thigh. It wasn’t rough or rushed. Just steady. Warm. Like it belonged there. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your heart jumped straight into your throat, and your grip on the wheel faltered for just a second. The next turn came up fast, and you almost missed it entirely.

“Max!” you shouted, half-laughing, half-panicking, as you swerved a little too wide. Your voice was breathless, your cheeks burning, and you couldn’t stop smiling even though you were trying to act annoyed.

He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t even flinch. Just leaned in slightly, his voice low and full of amusement. “What? I’m just helping you relax.”

You glanced at him, eyes wide behind the helmet visor. “You’re distracting me!”

Max grinned, completely unfazed. “Not a chance. You’re doing great.”

You shook your head, trying to focus again, but your heart was racing faster than the kart. His hand was still there, grounding you and distracting you all at once. And somehow, even with the chaos of the track and the roar of the engine, you felt safe. Like you could crash and it wouldn’t matter — because he’d be right there, laughing beside you.

The checkered flag waved, fluttering in the wind like a final exclamation point, and your kart zipped across the finish line just a breath ahead of Charles and his. The moment you passed it, your heart nearly exploded with adrenaline. You’d done it. You’d actually won — with Max beside you, coaching you, cheering you on, and somehow making you feel like you belonged in his world.

Max let out a triumphant laugh, the sound full of pride and joy. He turned to you, eyes shining. “See? Told you we wouldn’t crash,” he said, grinning as you both reached up and pulled off your helmets at the same time.

You were breathless, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, but you couldn’t stop smiling. The rush of the race, the thrill of the win, and the warmth of Max’s presence all wrapped around you like a hug. You barely had time to catch your breath before Max leaned over, grabbed your waist, and lifted you out of the kart like it was nothing.

Your feet left the ground, and you gasped, laughing as he held you close. His arms were strong and steady, and you felt completely safe in them — like the world could spin out of control and you’d still be okay as long as he was holding you.

Before you could even react, Max leaned in and kissed you. It was warm, gentle, and full of everything you’d been feeling but hadn’t said out loud. Your knees went weak, your heart fluttered, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.

As Max pulled back from the kiss, still holding you close, you both heard the unmistakable sound of clapping — slow, exaggerated, and clearly sarcastic.

Charles stood a few feet away, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, well, well,” he drawled. “Didn’t realize the winner got a kiss as a trophy. Is that FIA-approved?”

You laughed, cheeks burning, but Max just grinned and tightened his hold on you. “Oh fuck FIA.” he shot back.

───

People always say that if your marriage can survive building IKEA furniture, it can survive anything. And honestly? They weren’t wrong. Because if there was one thing Max Verstappen could do — besides win races and make your heart race — it was turn even the most ordinary task into something dramatic, chaotic, and somehow… special.

It had all started so innocently. One quiet evening, Max looked around the apartment, spotted the overflowing corner of helmets, trophies, race gloves, and random F1 gear, and casually announced, “I need another shelf.” Like it wasn’t already the fifth one. Like his personal shrine to motorsport wasn’t slowly taking over the living room.

You’d barely finished your tea before you were in the car, heading to nearest IKEA. The store was a maze of bright lights and confusing arrows, and the two of you spent way too long arguing over shelf designs and trying to pronounce the Swedish names printed on the boxes. Max insisted that sturdiness could be judged by how aggressive the name sounded. You ended up choosing one that sounded like someone sneezing mid-sentence and tossed it into the trunk, blissfully unaware of the emotional damage waiting at home.

Now, you were on the floor, leaning against the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips beside you and How to Train Your Dragon playing softly in the background. The room smelled faintly of wood and frustration. Max sat cross-legged across from you, surrounded by a chaotic sea of screws, wooden pegs, and panels that all looked suspiciously similar. He studied the pieces like he was preparing for a race — focused, intense, and slightly overconfident.

You held the instruction manual in your lap, flipping through the pages with growing dread. The diagrams looked like they’d been drawn by someone who hated happiness. You glanced at Max, who was already trying to fit two pieces together that clearly didn’t belong.

You squinted at the instruction manual, turning it sideways, then upside down, then back again. The tiny drawings made no sense, the arrows pointed in every direction, and the parts in front of you looked nothing like the ones in the pictures.

“I can’t understand a single thing,” you groaned, tossing the booklet onto your lap. “This is actual nonsense.”

Max glanced over, already halfway through trying to jam two wooden panels together. He reached for the manual, flipping it over with a smirk. “Maybe because you’re looking at the French side,” he said, holding it up and pointing at the tiny flag in the corner.

You blinked. “Oh.”

He handed it back to you, this time opened to the English section, like it was some sacred scroll. “Voilà,” he said dramatically. “Now we build.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re so annoying.”

You were twenty minutes into building the SNÖRKLIG — or whatever — shelf — and already three emotional breakdowns deep. Your patience was dangling by a thread, or more accurately, by one tiny wooden peg that refused to fit anywhere it was supposed to. The living room looked like a battlefield. Panels were scattered across the floor, screws rolled under the couch, and the instruction booklet had become your personal lifeline.

“I told you that piece goes on the bottom, Max,” you said, clutching the manual like it was sacred scripture. Your voice was calm, but your eyes were wild. You’d stared at the same diagram for so long, you were starting to see it in your dreams.

Max, sitting cross-legged across from you, held a long wooden panel sideways like it was a sword. “No, it doesn’t,” he insisted, pointing at the drawing. “It clearly goes on top. Look at this!”

You leaned over, squinting at the page. Then blinked. Then sighed. “Max… the drawing is upside down.”

He paused, looked at the manual again, then slowly rotated it in his hands. His face shifted from confident to sheepish in about two seconds.

“Oh.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “You’ve been building this thing backwards.”

Max shrugged, still gripping the panel like it hadn’t just betrayed his entire sense of confidence. “Well, it’s a shelf,” he said, voice casual. “It’ll still hold stuff.”

You stared at him, completely deadpan. “No, Max. It will fall. With all your trophies. Do you really want to explain to Christian why your 2023 championship is lying in shattered pieces on the floor because you refused to read IKEA instructions?”

That made him pause.

His eyes flicked to the mess around you — screws scattered like confetti, dowels rolling under the rug, and a pile of wooden panels that looked more like a failed art project than a shelf. He blinked slowly, like reality was finally catching up to him.

“…Maybe we should build it again,” he said, voice quieter now. Almost humble.

You didn’t respond. You just stared at him, blinking once. Slowly.

Max dragged a hand down his face, groaning like he’d just lost a race by half a second. “Oh, fuck this,” he muttered. “Can’t we just steal Charles’s?”

You blinked. “Wait… you actually want to steal a shelf?”

Max held up a screw like it was proof of his suffering. “Yes. I’d rather get arrested in Monaco than build another one of these Swedish nightmares.”

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your water. “You’re ridiculous.”

He gave you a serious look. “Schat, I drive F1 cars. I build engines in my sleep. But this shelf?” He pointed at the wobbly mess in front of you. “I’m ready to throw it out the window.”

You slid off the couch and sat beside him, bumping his shoulder. “Okay, okay. We’ll do it together. I’ll read the instructions. You build. And no making it up as you go.”

He sighed, but a small smile crept onto his face. “Fine. But if it breaks again, I’m calling Charles and asking for his shelf. I’ll say it’s an emergency.”

You snorted. “Deal.”

Max grabbed the screwdriver like he was on a mission, mumbling in Dutch as he started taking the whole thing apart. You sat cross-legged next to him, reading each step slowly while Toothless blinked on the screen, like he was silently cheering you on.

Halfway through, Max smacked his forehead. “Wait—this piece was upside down the entire time?”

───

The whole evening had felt strange from the start.

You’d just gotten back from the Red Bull event, and something heavy had settled over you, like a weight you couldn’t shake off. Everyone at the event had seemed so sure of themselves. They walked through the room with ease, dressed perfectly, laughing like they’d known each other forever. They spoke in a language you didn’t quite understand—F1 slang, sponsor talk, inside jokes that flew right past you. They belonged there. They fit.

And then there was you.

You’d stayed close to Max, smiled when people looked your way, nodded politely during conversations you didn’t know how to join. You weren’t rude. You weren’t awkward. But you felt like a shadow—present, but not really part of the picture. You weren’t one of them. You didn’t have the same shine, the same confidence, the same rhythm. You were just… there. A little too quiet. A little too unsure. A little too you.

And that thought had stuck. It had crawled into your chest and made a home there, whispering doubts every time you tried to push it away.

You didn’t belong in Max’s world. Not really.

And now, sitting in the quiet of your shared space, that realization was louder than ever. It stirred inside you, uncomfortable and sharp, making you question everything. Not because Max had done anything wrong—but because you weren’t sure you were enough for the life he lived. The spotlight. The pressure. The people who seemed born to be part of it.

You slipped off your heels slowly, one by one, letting them fall to the floor with soft thuds. The dull ache in your feet was familiar, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness pressing down on your chest. It had been building all evening, creeping in during small moments—quiet glances, awkward silences.

Max sat beside you on the edge of the bed, close enough that your shoulders touched. He didn’t speak right away, just let the silence stretch for a few seconds. Then his voice came, low and steady, but with that quiet edge that meant he wasn’t going to let it slide.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Talk to me.”

You kept your eyes forward, staring at the wall like it might offer you a way out. You blinked slowly, trying to keep your voice from cracking. “Nothing’s going on,” you said, flat and controlled, like if you said it calmly enough, it might become true.

Max didn’t respond right away, but you could feel the shift in him. The way he turned slightly toward you. The way his gaze settled on your face, searching. You didn’t have to look to know he wasn’t buying it.

“Don’t lie, baby,” he said quietly.

“No—I just think you shouldn’t be with someone basic like me,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked at the edges, soft and shaky, but honest. “I feel like I don’t belong in your world.”

You didn’t need to look at Max to know he was staring at you like you’d just said the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. You could feel the shift in the air, the way his body tensed beside you, the way his silence turned sharp.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he said, voice low but firm, no hesitation. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. What the fuck do you mean I shouldn’t be with you?”

You shook your head, tears brimming, frustration bubbling up. “I mean—I don’t know what tyre strategy works best in fucking Barcelona—“

He snorted, cutting you off before your spiral could go any further. “Neither does Red Bull, so what’s your point, schatje?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden humor in his voice. It was dry, sarcastic, but warm. And it made something inside you loosen just a little.

You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips, but the weight in your chest hadn’t quite lifted. It was still there, lingering beneath the softness of the moment. “You know what I mean,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Max tilted his head, eyes warm and steady. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “But I don’t need you to know every world champion since 1960. You’re not Sebastian Vettel.” His tone was light, teasing, but full of truth. Then he reached out, palm open, waiting. “I just want you to be my wife. My Y/n. The one who makes me laugh when everything feels too damn heavy.”

You looked at his hand, heart thudding, and hesitated for only a second before slipping yours into his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, like they belonged there.

A small smirk played at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting with mischief. “My wife Y/n, who had to Google me the morning after marriage.”

You let out a soft laugh, cheeks warming a the memory, “I thought you were footballer!”

“Just remember that you belong with me. Always,” Max said, his voice low and steady, each word wrapped in quiet certainty. He looked at you like you were everything—like nothing else in the world mattered more than you sitting right there beside him. “And the rest? Fuck it.”

You didn’t even get the chance to respond. Before your thoughts could catch up, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss into your hair. It wasn’t rushed or dramatic—it was grounding. The kind of kiss that said I’ve got you, even when your doubts were loud and your heart felt unsure. The kind that made the noise fade, just for a moment, and reminded you that with him, you were safe.

─── FEW MONTHS LATER

You were home alone while Max was away for the race weekend. Originally, you’d planned to go with him—packed your bag, even picked out your paddock outfit—but work had piled up fast, and someone had to stay back with the cats anyway. Max’s spoiled little shadows had made it clear they preferred you when he was gone, taking turns curling up beside you or watching your every move from the couch like tiny, judgmental bodyguards.

Evening had settled in quietly. The sky outside was a soft shade of blue-gray, and the apartment was filled with the low hum of your laptop fan and the occasional sound of a cat jumping down from furniture. You were slumped behind your screen, shoulders aching, eyes twitching from too many hours of emails and spreadsheets. You blinked hard, rubbed your temples, and muttered to yourself, Just one more email. Then I’m done.

And then—ding-dong.

You jumped, heart skipping. The sound sliced through the quiet like a siren.

You hadn’t ordered anything. You weren’t expecting anyone. Max was halfway across the world, and no one ever just showed up.

Brows furrowed, you pushed your chair back slowly, the cats immediately hopping down to follow you like a tiny security team. One brushed against your leg, the other sat at attention near the hallway, tail flicking.

You padded toward the door, cautious, curious, and just a little unnerved.

You opened the door slowly, still unsure what to expect—and were immediately met with a wall of white lilies. A bouquet so massive it looked like it might swallow the delivery man holding it. You blinked, momentarily stunned, the soft scent of the flowers already drifting into the hallway.

“I didn’t order anything?” you said, brows furrowing as you tried to peek around the blooms.

The man glanced down at the tag, then looked back up with a polite smile. “Are you Mrs. Verstappen?”

Your heart did a tiny flip at the sound of the name. Mrs. Verstappen. It still felt surreal every time someone said it out loud. You cleared your throat, suddenly warm all over. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

He nodded and gently passed the bouquet into your arms. “Then these are yours.”

You took them carefully, the weight of the flowers surprising, petals brushing your cheek as you stepped back inside. The cats stared up at you like you’d just brought home a jungle. You sighed, closed the door behind you, and locked it with a soft click.

You carried the bouquet to the kitchen, heart fluttering, mind already racing with one thought:

Max.

You placed the stunning bouquet into a vase, the lilies blooming like soft stars across your kitchen island. Their scent filled the room, light and calming, and for the first time all evening, the apartment didn’t feel so quiet. It felt like Max had somehow reached across the distance and wrapped the space in warmth.

As you adjusted the stems, fingers brushing against soft petals, something caught your eye—a folded piece of paper tucked gently between the flowers. Your name was scribbled across the front in Max’s unmistakable handwriting, a little messy, a little rushed, but so him.

Your heart fluttered as you pulled it free and unfolded it slowly, careful not to tear the edges.

I wish you were here. Don’t work too hard, and please—eat something other than burnt toast. Even though I’m halfway across the world, I need you to remember how deeply loved you are. Always and forever. With love, Verstappen.

babsie radio ! hope u’re not disappointed y’all cuz this is literally fluff w little plot…still was fun to write <3 love love downbad! max. also yes, i love pet name “schatje” i am not sorry if it’s too many times 🤗