mia.

Max Verstappen

And If I Stay? ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ What began as a casual fling turns complicated when feelings get involved.

Shots of rakija ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ Meeting your family for the first time, Max finds himself surrounded by the lively chaos of your Balkan home.

Home is you ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ Max isn’t the same at home as he is on track. He’s softer, clingier, and endlessly distracting. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Ms. and Mrs. Verstappen ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ A " good girl" hits her breaking point, walks away from everything, and finds herself in Vegas and in Max Verstappen’s bed, with a wedding ring on her finger.

Home for Christmas ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ Years after ghosting everyone, you come home for Christmas only for your car to die in a snowstorm. The only contact left in your phone? Max Verstappen.

First Move ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ Having never been in a real relationship before Max, you had no idea how to be a girlfriend or what the "right" moves even were.

Shared Custody ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ Fresh move-in and your indoor cat is already sneaking to the balcony next door for her bengal boyfriend.

Rivals ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ After a crash where you and your teammate-rival Max take each other out, you hide how badly shaken and dizzy you really are, but he comes to take care of you.

Y/N's boyfriend ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ Max flies across the world to surprise you at your Grand Slam final, only to get way too competitive in the stands and completely forgetting he’s not the one competing.

Perfection ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ She ruined herself chasing perfection. With nothing left to lose, she makes one last reckless decision and wakes up carrying a consequence she can’t outrun: she’s pregnant with Max Verstappen’s child.

One Room, Two Enemies ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ You and your enemy-teammate Max Verstappen accidentally eat aphrodisiac chocolate at a boring gala, then get "forced" to share a hotel room.

Oscar Piastri

Taken Down by Destiny ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ At her best friend’s wedding, you're determined to avoid romance, avoid the bouquet, and avoid any emotional nonsense. Unfortunately for you, the bouquet find you anyway and so does Max Verstappen after a very unfortunate run-in with a bathroom door.

Enemies with benefits | MV3 ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ After a leaked video involving rivals Y/N and Max Verstappen, both are forced into damage control by their PR teams, a fake relationship that neither of them can handle.

Unfinished Business ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ I. II. III. IV. V. Alpine’s hope, McLaren’s champion. She was there, he was gone. Years later, old tensions resurface, and some stories are far from over.

Edge of Rivalry ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ Two sports. Two egos. One long game of who breaks first and neither of them plays to lose.

Little Things That Matter ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ After a bad grade leaves her feeling down, her boyfriend shows up, determined to cheer her up.

Shot Your Shot SMAU ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ Oscar likes tennis and maybe Y/N too. He never made a move, just watched, liked, and stayed quiet until Lando made his.

Golden Boy ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ The grid crowned Oscar Piastri the most innocent, most vanilla driver in F1. If only they knew what he’d just finished doing to you.

Familiar Strangers ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ You and Oscar once knew everything about each other : every secret, fear, and dream of a shared future. But dreams pulled you apart, and ten years of silence turned you into complete strangers meeting again back home.

Secrets ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ Being the daughter of Nico Rosberg means you have to keep your relationship with Oscar Piastri extremely private. So you’ve been super careful, until one night in the paddock you let your guard down just once and get caught by Lewis Hamilton.

Lando Norris

Loud & Anonymous ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ in which your neighbor is a "wannabe DJ" who keeps the bass pounding all night, making it impossible for you to study.

Champions ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ When they were two kids with big dreams, they made a promise: to silently support each other, no words, no contact, just showing up in the stands, until both of them made it. And they did.

Uninvited ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ Never anyone's first choice, not in childhood, not now. Another uninvite from your "friend group" leaves you crying at 3 a.m.

Zero ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ You have to explain to your boyfriend that LN1 will turn into jokes, because it reads as ln(1), which equals zero.

Charles Leclerc

Bush Man ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ I. II. It was supposed to be an ordinary night.Just a walk home after the club, the familiar silence of Monaco in the early hours.But then you found him. In your bush. And nothing about that night or the morning was normal.

Checkmate ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ as the gap in the championship narrows, Charles knows he has only one option left: to seduce her.

Lewis Hamilton

Miss Independent ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ You’re the kind of woman who doesn’t need anyone: independent, self-sufficient, and unshakable. Three and a half years with Lewis Hamilton haven’t changed that until one lazy, rainy day.

Big Fish ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ She's told there's no saying no tonight, not to the richest client she's ever had. Mid-action, she freezes, bursts into tears, and completely falls apart in the client's lap. Tomorrow: fired. Or so she thinks.

Lucky Charm ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ You were known as a lucky charm, somehow, whoever you supported always seemed to win. The rumor brought more sponsorships, more invitations, and eventually a race weekend with Scuderia Ferrari… where you ended up cheering for Lewis Hamilton

Oscar didn’t know what to do. He had actually been planning to say goodbye and head home, but you were dead weight against him. One by one the others started leaving, and he kept waiting for you to wake up enough to move, but you never did. Eventually it was just the two of you left.

"Hey... you still with me?"

You only hummed and nuzzled closer. He sighed and pulled out his phone, calling one of the mutual friends who had just left.

"Yeah, it's me. Do you know where she lives now? She passed out and I don't want to leave her here... What do you mean she moved last month? You don't have the new address either?" He rubbed a hand over his face. "Alright. Thanks anyway."

He hung up and stared at the ceiling for a second. There was only one option left if he wanted to make sure you were safe.

"Come on," he muttered, carefully sliding an arm under you. "You're coming to mine."

Getting you into the Uber was a whole production. You kept clinging to him, mumbling things against his neck that he chose to ignore. The driver gave him several suspicious looks. Oscar had to explain twice that you were childhood friends and he was just trying to get a very drunk girl home safely.

Outside his building a couple of neighbours gave them the same look. Another short explanation later, he got you inside.

He laid you on his bed and you were mumbling. It sounded like you were thirsty, and asking for a shot of vodka.

“Water,” he said firmly, and brought a full bottle instead. You drank almost the entire thing in one long swallow with your eyes still mostly closed. When he reached for the empty bottle, his fingers brushed yours. You flinched, then immediately grabbed his hand and pressed it against the side of your neck, nuzzling into it.

“I love your hands,” you murmured, staring at them with unfocused fascination.

“…Thanks?”

“And I like your fingers more. I’d love to have them deep inside me.”

Oscar froze. Before he could pull away, you brought his hand to your mouth and took two of his fingers between your lips, sucking slowly.

“Okay...that’s enough.” He pulled his hand free. You made a soft, frustrated sound and sat up a bit, almost falling forward into him.

"Then touch me. Or let me touch you. I can be quiet. Or loud. Whatever you want. Just... do something."

You pouted, then tried to get closer for a cuddle. He gave in for a moment, until you started kissing his neck. That was the line. He stood up from the edge of the bed. Your eyes were barely open, clearly unhappy about it.

“You can’t leave me here like this. I’m so wet. My pussy’s pulsing. Please, come back. Pleasee.”

“You’re not thinking straight. I’m not touching you like that while you’re this drunk.”

“I can suck you off. I can give you the best blowjob you’ve ever had. You can use my mouth however you want.”

Oscar closed his eyes for a second, exhaled hard, then reached for the covers. He pulled them up and tucked them tightly around you so your wandering hands were trapped. You had basically tried to climb him earlier; getting free of you hadn’t been easy.

“No,” he said one last time, soft but final. “Go to sleep. We’ll talk when you’re sober.”

You made a pathetic little sound of protest, but the alcohol was already dragging you under again. Oscar left a glass of water and painkillers on the nightstand, turned off the light, and went to the living room. He didn’t drink in general, so he was completely sober compared to you. The whole night left him with a complicated expression on his face as he finally fell asleep.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The next morning your head was throbbing like you’d been run over by a train. You blinked at an unfamiliar ceiling, completely lost. A few scattered, useless fragments of the night floated in your mind, none of them explaining where you were or how you’d gotten here.

On the nightstand sat a glass of water and some pills. You tried to get up quietly, hoping to slip out unseen, but your clumsy hand had other plans. The glass tipped over and shattered on the floor.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

The bedroom door opened almost immediately. Oscar stepped in, took in the broken glass and then you, still half-tangled in his sheets. Relief hit you first. It's just Oscar.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

“No, no worries.” He crouched to gather the shards. “How do you feel?”

“I don’t know. Like I got run over by a train?”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm, then left and came back with a fresh glass of water. You took it carefully.

“Thank you, Osc.” You managed a small smile as you sat on the edge of the bed.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed, watching you with that same quiet intensity he’d always had even as a kid.

“…How did I end up here?” you asked, voice smaller than you wanted.

Oscar’s expression softened, but there was a careful edge to it.

“You passed out on me at the club. Everyone else left. I didn’t know your new address, and I wasn’t leaving you there alone. So I brought you back.” He paused. “You were… very drunk.”

The way he said it made something uneasy twist in your stomach. Fragments started slotting into place, his hands, your mouth on his fingers, the things you’d said.

“Oh my god.” You pressed the cool glass to your forehead. “I...did I…?”

“You were pretty insistent,” he said, not unkindly. “Tried to climb me. Kissed my neck. Offered a few things I’m not going to repeat”

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you. “I’m so sorry. Oscar, I...”

“Hey.” He pushed off the doorframe and came closer, stopping just in front of you. “You were drunk. I knew that.”

You looked up at him, mortified. He was still in yesterday’s t-shirt, looking unfairly put-together for someone who’d spent the night babysitting your disaster self.

“I can’t believe I said that shit to you,” you muttered, staring at the floor. “We haven’t properly talked in three years and the first thing I do is throw myself at you like that. I’m so embarrassed.”

Oscar was quiet for a moment. Then the mattress dipped as he sat beside you, leaving a small but deliberate space between your bodies.

“You don’t need to keep apologising,” he said. “I get it. Alcohol does stupid things. I’m not angry. I’m not weirded out. I just… want you to know I stopped it because you weren’t in a state to mean any of it.”

You nodded, still not looking at him.

“I don’t even remember most of it,” you admitted after a while. “Just… bits. Your hands. My mouth. The things I said. God.”

He huffed a soft, almost amused breath. “Yeah. Those parts were memorable.”

You finally glanced at him. There was a small, careful smile on his face, but his eyes were serious.

The words settled between you. You found yourself studying his profile, the same sharp jaw, the same calm way he held himself, just older now, more defined.

“I missed this,” you said before you could stop yourself. “Talking to you. Being around you. Even if last night was a disaster.”

Oscar turned his head to look at you properly. His gaze lingered a second longer than necessary.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too."

You set the glass down on the nightstand (carefully this time) and rubbed your temples.

“My head still kills,” you muttered.

“The pills should help soon. You should drink more water.”

“Yes, doctor.”

That earned you a real smile. It softened his whole face. You found yourself staring at his hands resting on his thighs. The same hands you’d been so obsessed with last night. The memory made your stomach flip, but this time it wasn’t pure embarrassment.

Oscar noticed where you were looking.

“You’re thinking about it again,” he said, voice lower than before.

“Hard not to,” you admitted. “Even if I only remember pieces.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, carefully:

“Do you regret saying those things? Or just the fact that you were too drunk to mean them properly?”

The question was direct, but not unkind. You swallowed.

“I don’t think I regret the… content,” you said slowly. “Just the timing. And the fact that you had to deal with me like that.”

Oscar’s eyes darkened a fraction.

“And if the timing was different?” he asked. “If you were sober?"

“I’d probably still want to,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers light against your cheek.

“You’re sober now,” he said.

“I am.”

He didn’t kiss you immediately. He just kept his hand there, thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone, giving you every chance to pull back. When you leaned into the touch instead, he finally closed the distance.

The first kiss was slow You kissed him back the same way, hands coming up to rest against his chest. It stayed soft for a long time, just mouths moving together, the gradual way his hand slid from your cheek into your hair.

When he deepened the kiss, it still felt unhurried. His other hand settled on your waist, warm through the fabric of your shirt. You shifted closer on the bed until your knees were touching, then further until you were almost in his lap.

Only when you made a small, needy sound against his mouth did he pull back just enough to look at you.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes.”

He kissed you again, slower this time but with more intent. His hands explored carefully : your waist, the small of your back, the edge of your shirt. When you arched into him, he took the hint and slid his palms under the fabric, warm against bare skin.

You broke the kiss only long enough to pull your shirt off. He did the same. The sight of him half-naked in the soft morning light made your mouth go dry.

Oscar’s gaze dropped over you, open appreciation mixed with something hungrier. He leaned in and kissed the side of your neck, the same place you’d drunkenly attacked last night and this time the sound you made was fully conscious.

“I’ve been thinking about this since last night,” he admitted against your skin, voice low. “Even though I knew I shouldn’t."

He huffed a quiet laugh, then kissed you properly again while laying you back against the pillows. His body settled over yours carefully, giving you space to adjust. The weight of him felt grounding.

Hands moved slowly. Yours traced the lines of his back and shoulders. His mapped your sides, your ribs, the curve of your breasts, taking his time like he wanted to learn every reaction. When his mouth followed the path of his hands, you arched into him with a soft gasp.

By the time his fingers finally slipped under the waistband of your underwear, you were already breathing hard. He watched your face the entire time as he touched you : slow circles, careful pressure, two fingers eventually sliding inside once you were wet enough to take them easily.

“Fuck,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours. “You’re so wet.”

“Your fault,” you managed.

He smiled against your mouth and kept working you with unhurried precision, curling his fingers just right while his thumb stroked your clit. The pleasure built steadily, no rush, until you were trembling and clutching at his shoulders.

“Oscar”

“I’ve got you. Let go.”

You came with a broken little cry, thighs shaking around his hand. He worked you through it gently, then withdrew his fingers and kissed you soft and deep while you caught your breath.

Only then did you reach for him, pushing his sweatpants down. He was hard, thick, already leaking. You stroked him slowly, watching the way his jaw tightened.

“Want you,” you said.

He nodded, grabbed a condom from the drawer, rolled it on, and settled back between your legs. The first push was slow, careful, both of you watching each other’s faces. When he was fully inside he stayed still for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“Okay?” he asked.

“More than okay. Move.”

He did, deep, measured thrusts that gradually built in intensity. You wrapped your legs around him and met every one, hands sliding into his hair. The pace stayed controlled for a long time, almost tender, until the need grew too strong and he started moving harder, deeper, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the quiet room.

“You’re so tight,” he groaned against your cheek. “Feels even better than I imagined last night.”

The admission made you clench around him. He cursed softly and shifted the angle, hitting that perfect spot over and over until you were gasping his name. When you came the second time it pulled him over the edge with you, he buried himself deep and finished with a low, rough sound against your neck.

Afterwards he stayed inside you for a while, both of you catching your breath, his hand gently stroking your hair. Eventually he eased out, dealt with the condom, and pulled you against his chest under the covers.

Your hangover was still there, but it felt distant now, muted by the warm weight of his arm around you and the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

“So,” you said after a while, voice a little hoarse. “That was one way to catch up after three years.”

Oscar huffed a quiet laugh and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Your friends insisted on going to Ushuaïa for Martin Garrix, and so far it was the best decision of the entire trip. The music sat heavy in your chest, the lights washed everything and for a little while you forgot everything else.

Until one of your friends grabbed your arm.

“Wait… isn’t that Lando?”

You spun around so fast your neck almost cracked. And there he was : hugging Martin Garrix right next to the DJ , looking every bit the man who had sworn to you and half the team that he was going to sleep through the entire summer break and stay far away from Ibiza.

“Oh, perfect,” you muttered under your breath. “This fucking liar.”

At least he wasn’t wearing a t-shirt that said "eat pussy it’s vegan" this time. And he wasn’t sprinting from paparazzi after another night with Alix Earle. Small mercies. If he stayed glued to the stage and just danced, maybe the night could still be salvaged.

But the bitterness sat heavy in your chest. You had already lost the promotion, the one that depended on him keeping his word until the end of the season. He had looked you in the eyes and promised. You had believed him.

Back then, after that ridiculous conversation in the meeting room, the two of you had made a private deal. He had sworn he would stay out of trouble. In return, you had given him something you never should have. You had let him eat you out. You had even thought that if he actually kept his promise and you got the promotion, you might have gone further by the end of the year. If you felt generous enough.

“Fork found in kitchen,” your other friend said, tugging your arm and pulling you out of your stare. “I mean… it was obvious he was lying.”

You only wanted to keep an eye on him from a distance. Just in case. But the second your gaze left him, it was like he felt it. His eyes swept the crowd, locked onto you, and he started moving closer, slowly at first, then with more certainty.

You tried to disappear behind your friends. They had no idea what you were doing and only stared at you in confusion as you attempted to make yourself smaller.

Lando cut through the crowd with purpose. Your friends shifted at exactly the wrong moment, and suddenly there was nothing left between you and him.

“Y/N,” he said, voice bright with genuine surprise and delight, and then he was pulling you into a tight hug before you could react.

You stood frozen in his arms, awkward and stiff, while he held on like he had no intention of letting go. His face pressed into your hair. One hand came up to gently tuck a strand behind your ear.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he murmured against you.

Drunk Lando, you noted distantly, was clingy. You finally managed to push back enough to look at him.

“Don’t act like that,” you said firmly. “I’m still upset with you. We’re not friends.”

His expression flickered, almost offended. Around you, your friends had already melted away, clearly under the impression they were giving you privacy. There was nothing private about this. You were just his PR person. Nothing more.

“But I don’t want you to be upset with me,” he said, defensive even over the pounding music. “You can’t be upset with me when we’re in Ibiza.”

“Oh, yes I can,” you shot back. “Mr. ‘I’m not going to Ibiza’… and yet here we are.”

The crowd surged, pressing the two of you closer together until there was barely space to breathe.

"Okay, I didn’t lie,” Lando tried again, leaning in so you could hear him. “I didn’t want to come to Ibiza this summer.”

“Did someone put a gun to your head and force you?”

“No.” His voice dropped. Then, quieter: “But I have a better question. What are you doing here?”

“Having fun. What else would I be doing?”

Before either of you could say more, the crowd shoved you both further toward the edge of the floor. Someone shouted something about people catching up in the middle of the dance floor, and suddenly you found yourselves in a slightly quieter corner.

Lando turned to face you fully, that familiar half-smirk tugging at his mouth.

“So you came here to have fun. I came here to have fun. Then let’s have fun together.”

“Are you serious right now? I can’t have fun with the same person I spend half my job scolding for partying too much."

He stepped closer, eyes steady on yours.

“Okay. Let’s take it like this. You’re not my PR person here. And I’m not the F1 driver here. We’re just two people who want to have fun together.”

“Lando, we can’t do that,” you cut him off. You wanted this conversation over as fast as possible. “You don’t understand. We’re not friends. We just work together, and that’s it. What happened in your driver’s room was a total mistake, and you need to forget it. Okay?”

Lando said nothing. He just nodded once, still smiling that soft, slightly drunken smile.

For the rest of the night he did the quietest, most effective thing he could: he got his entire friend group to slowly migrate toward yours. Your “traitor” friends, of course, started making friends with his. They didn’t understand why you kept trying to stay as far away from him as possible. You had never told anyone about the deal , not even your closest friends. That had been strictly between the two of you.

Every time Lando took a step forward, you took one back. He never said a word about it. He didn’t have to. The insistence was in the way he kept appearing near you, in the way his eyes always found yours across the crowd. It ruined your whole night or maybe you ruined it yourself, because you were too focused on keeping him at a distance to actually have fun.

Eventually one of your friends grabbed your hand and started pulling you toward the exit.

“Where are we going?” you asked, confused.

“Lando and his friends invited us to a yacht party,” she said, already excited.

“I can’t go. You know what, I’ll just call an Uber. You guys go without me.”

“What? No. Lando probably invited us because of you.”

“That’s not true. Seriously, go with the girls. I have a flight tomorrow anyway.”

She stopped and looked at you properly. “You’ve been acting so weird since he showed up. You were having so much fun before he appeared, and then you just stayed in a mood the whole night.”

You exhaled, knowing she wasn’t going to let this go.

“It’s nothing, okay? Let’s just go.”

You had no real choice. She would either drag the Lando lore out of you or drag you onto that yacht. You chose the yacht.

As expected, the yacht was loud, expensive, and full of people who had no concept of volume control. You spent the entire time trying to stay as far from Lando as possible while still keeping one eye on him, just in case he decided to do something stupid.

Which, of course, he did. He appeared on the upper deck wearing a white t-shirt with bold black letters across the chest: "I ♡ MILFs."

Where the hell did he even get these t-shirts?

You had two options: deal with it now, before it ended up all over the internet, or clean up the mess tomorrow. Even though you didn’t particularly want to get close to him, the PR person inside you wouldn’t let it go. And you had the sinking feeling that this was exactly the trap he wanted you to fall into. He knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.

You walked straight toward him with long, purposeful steps.

“You have to take that t-shirt off,” you said, face completely serious.

Lando’s smile was immediate and enormous.

"Only if you take it off for me."

“What are you, 15 ? Did you get that line from Disney Channel? Lando, I’m serious.”

He didn’t look fully convinced, but something in his expression softened as he watched you. He liked seeing you care enough to march across the deck just because of a stupid t-shirt. You could keep pretending you only came over because of PR, but he knew better.

There was always something sharper and more personal under the professional mask you wore around him. And right now, with the sea wind in your hair and that familiar irritated look on your face, it was hard not to notice how much he still wanted your attention.

His fingers brushed the bottom of the shirt.

“So here’s the deal, Y/N,” he said, voice low. “I’ll take it off. Right now. But you’re staying right here. No running back to your friends. No more pretending we don’t know each other.”

“Trust me, I know better than making another deal with you. I know you, Lando. You’ll promise things over and over again, and you won’t keep your word.”

His fingers still rested at the hem of the shirt. He waited, close enough that you could smell the faint mix of his cologne and the sea air on him.

"You want the t-shirt gone or not?”

“Fine. Go change. I’ll stay here.”

Lando looked far too satisfied with the answer. He disappeared for a few minutes and came back in a plain black t-shirt, two shot glasses in hand.

"Okay then," he said, offering you one. "Let's have fun."

“I’m not having fun with you,” you muttered, taking the glass anyway.

“I kept my part of this promise,” he pointed out. “So you have to keep yours.”

“Oh, and what about the other promise you didn’t keep?”

“I know,” he said quietly. “About the promotion. About everything. I fucked that up for you. And I’m sorry.”

The honesty in his voice caught you off guard more than any of his usual charm ever did.

“Cheers,” he added after a moment, softer, and clinked his glass against yours.

You drank. Little by little, you started to relax. Lando was a natural party animal, and the vibe was hard to resist. The tension in your shoulders loosened.

You laughed at something stupid one of his friends said. At some point your hand ended up on the back of his neck without you fully realizing it, fingers loosely curled there while he spun you on the deck. The music was loud, the sea air warm, and for a stretch of time you almost forgot why you were supposed to be angry.

You didn’t even know who started the kiss.

One moment you were dancing, the next you were on a low outdoor sofa, mouths moving against each other like you were trying to steal the air from each other’s lungs. Your logical brain had stopped working somewhere between the second shot. All you wanted was to kiss the soul out of Lando Norris on a yacht in Ibiza, and the fact that it was a terrible idea barely registered.

Until a cap flew through the air and smacked Lando in the side of the head.

“Get a room!” Max Fewtrell , his friend , yelled laughing.

He wasn't wrong. You were still in public. The thought cut through the haze just enough to make you pull back, breathing hard.

By that point both of you were exhausted. Lando found a quiet cabin on the yacht, one his friend always left open for him, and the moment he dropped onto the bed you followed, landing half on top of him. Your drunk mind didn’t overthink it. His arms came around you immediately, holding you against his chest.

You fell asleep fast, face pressed against his collarbone. Lando pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head and carefully pulled the covers over both of you without waking you.

It had been a hell of a vacation. Everything possible and impossible had somehow happened in one night.

The next morning the shock hit harder than any hangover. You woke up to a warm, heavy arm locked around your waist, Lando spooned behind you, still deeply asleep. For a second your brain refused to process it. You thought you might actually be going crazy.

Your phone was buzzing nonstop on the floor. You stretched carefully, trying to reach it without waking him, but Lando only tightened his hold, even in sleep, like he refused to let go. After a bit more effort you managed to grab the phone.

The most recent notifications stared back at you.

From a coworker: Please don’t tell me you’re with Norris in Ibiza.

And from your boss: Call me. Now.

Fuck.

​Before Charles could even open his mouth, Lando scoffed, "Does he even know how to play golf? He’s going to hit the grass more than the ball."

​"He knows! ...I think," Carlos snapped, before staring intensely at his ex-teammate. "So, Charles. Golf?"

​"No, I can't either," Charles replied naturally. "I have to stay with my daughter tomorrow.".

​Charles froze. His brain caught up with his mouth about two seconds too late. Did I really just say that out loud?!

​"WHAT?!" Max choked on his water"You have a DAUGHTER?!"

​"Wait, wait, wait," Lando cut in, suddenly leaning across the table "How old is she? How many months?"

​Charles blinked, debating if jumping out the restaurant window was a viable exit strategy. But he’d already dug the hole, might as well jump in.

​"She's five years old," Charles confessed, rubbing his temples. "And I don't know, Lando! Who counts in months after two years?!"

​"FIVE YEARS?!" ​It was a full-on unison scream.

​"Hold on a second!" George interrupted, throwing his hands in the air, instantly stepping into his role as the grid's official FBI agent. "You don't even have a girlfriend! Who are you making children with?"

​Charles buried his face in his hands. If the secret's out, I might as well throw the whole bomb.

​"I’m actually married," Charles muttered into his palms. "For six years."

​"Six years?! And we weren't invited to the wedding?! I thought we were friends, Charles!" George said, sounding offended.

​"How tf is this possible?!" Lando yelled, completely exasperated.

​Meanwhile, Carlos had officially reached his limit. He didn't care about the marriage or the secret kid. He had a crisis of his own.

​"OKAY, GREAT, CHARLES IS SECRETLY A FAMILY MAN!" Carlos yelled, "BUT WHO THE HELL AM I PLAYING GOLF WITH TOMORROW? Alex?"

​Alex, who was quietly trying to blend into the wallpaper, blinked. "I can't."

​Carlos’s jaw dropped in absolute betrayal. "WHY? Do you have a secret family too? Is everyone secretly married with three kids?"

​"Uhh... no," Alex said slowly, raising his hands in defense. "I just... have a flight tomorrow, Carlos."

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The second Charles stepped into the apartment, he was already rehearsing how to break the news. He had kept the secret perfectly for six years and had crumbled under zero pressure.

But the moment he closed the door, he heard it, the familiar sound of a Disney movie playing in the living room. Before he could even call out, tiny footsteps came running.

“Papa! Papa!” your daughter screamed, launching herself at him.

Charles’ face instantly softened. He dropped his bag and caught her, spinning her around as she giggled.

“Mon petit cœur! Did you miss me?” he asked, pressing kisses all over her cheeks.

“So much!” she said dramatically, wrapping her little arms around his neck. “We watched Encanto again. Mom said I could stay up until you came home.”

You appeared in the doorway, smiling at the scene. Charles looked at you over your daughter’s head, eyes full of guilt and love at the same time.

After the bedtime routine, your daughter was finally asleep. Charles joined you in the bedroom, both of you getting ready for bed.

“So…” he started, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I fucked up.”

You raised an eyebrow “How bad?”

“We had the drivers’ dinner tonight and I accidentally told Carlos I couldn’t play golf tomorrow because I have to stay with my daughter. Then I had to confess everything.” He said it in one breath.

“Well… I can’t believe you managed to keep it a secret for this long,” you said, shaking your head. “Six years, Charles. That’s actually impressive.”

He looked up at you, surprised. “So you’re not mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad.” You sat beside him and took his hand. “I think it was always going to come out one day. We didn’t know when… but I guess now is the time.”

Charles let out a big sigh of relief and pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours.

“We should announce it publicly, right? Maybe a soft launch or something?” he asked.

But Max was always there, sensing your insecurities before you even voiced them. He’d pull you close, kiss your forehead, and whisper that you were the woman of his dreams. He made sure you felt loved, seen, and enough. Still, the doubts lingered.

That’s why you started going to the paddock less and less. The stares, the whispers, the cameras, it became too much.

You were scared of what people would say about you in person. So every race weekend you lied to Max, telling him you were busy with work. You were busy, but not every single weekend. Max never pushed. He respected your own life and your own space. But deep down, he knew.

He had seen the comments too. He knew how easily they hurt you. That’s why he always made sure to remind you how much he loved you, not just in private, but publicly. He loved talking about you to others, loved showing you off. He was so proud of you.

Even when you missed weekends with him, staying home instead, rotting in bed and wishing you were there, you still made up excuses. Max would just nod, even though he knew you were lying, then pull you into his chest, kiss your forehead, and hold you until the weight on your heart felt a little lighter.

Today was one of those days you regretted staying home the most. Max had just won the first race of the season. You watched it on the TV, heart swelling with pride and aching with absence.

Then came the moment that stopped your breath: the dedication written on the bottle of champagne in his hands.

“To the most important person in my life, my wife.”

You stared at the screen, tears blurring your vision. You didn’t know whether to cry, scream, laugh, or all three at once. Part of you worried it would only make the online comments worse. But the bigger part knew without a doubt that Max loved you. And he wasn’t afraid to show it.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You were still in bed, wrapped in one of his hoodies, when Max walked into the bedroom. He looked tired, jet-lagged, hair messy from the flight, but his eyes softened the second they landed on you.

“Hey, schatje,” he murmured, dropping his bag and crawling onto the bed beside you. He pulled you into his arms immediately, burying his face in your neck.

You hugged him tight, breathing him in. “Congratulations, baby. I’m so proud of you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His thumb gently wiped away a tear you didn’t realise had fallen.

“I missed you there,” he said quietly. “I always miss you.”

You looked away, guilt and insecurity twisting in your stomach. “I was busy...”

“Don’t,” Max interrupted softly, but firmly. He cupped your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. “I know why you didn’t come. I’ve known for a while.”

Your lip trembled. “Max…”

“Those comments?” He shook his head, voice low and steady. “They don’t know you. They don’t know us. They see a picture and think they can judge. But they have no idea what a sweet, kind, caring woman you are. How you make me laugh even after the worst races. How you’re my safe place after all the chaos.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes closing for a moment.

“You think I could do better? There is no better. You are it for me. You’re the woman I want to come home to every single time. The only one I want to dedicate my wins to. The only one I want to build a life with.”

His voice dropped even softer, almost a whisper. “I hate that they make you feel like this. I hate that you hide at home because of them. But I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not letting you believe their lies. You are enough. More than enough. You’re everything.”

You let out a shaky breath, tears spilling over. Max kissed them away, one by one.

“I love you,” he said against your mouth. “And I’ll keep saying it, showing it, shouting it from the podium until you believe it. Okay?”

You nodded, clinging to him, the weight in your chest finally cracking.

“Okay.”

Max smiled, pulling you fully into his lap, arms wrapped securely around you. Jet lag and exhaustion be damned, he was exactly where he wanted to be.