✨In this 'Bangtan Shit' forever✨

The first time it happens, you think it’s a dream.

You’re warm - deeply, blissfully warm - cocooned in your softest blanket, the one Max jokingly calls your “hibernation shell.” The flat is quiet, the kind of quiet that only exists at three in the morning. And then the bed shifts. A weight lifts. A whisper of cool air brushes your shoulder.

You blink awake just enough to see Max’s silhouette slipping out of the bedroom.

At first you assume he’s going to the bathroom. But then you hear it - the faint click of a power button, the soft hum of fans spinning up, and the unmistakable whirr of the wheel calibrating.

Max is on his sim rig.

At three in the morning.

You groan softly, roll over, and bury your face in the pillow. You should go back to sleep. You really should. But the blanket is warm, and Max is not in it, and you’ve always been a little too attached to him for your own good.

So you drag yourself out of bed, wrap the blanket around your shoulders like a burrito, and shuffle out of the bedroom.

Jimmy and Sassy immediately hop off their cat tree and follow you - one on each side, like tiny, furry bodyguards. Jimmy’s tail flicks against your ankle. Sassy trots with purpose, as if she’s escorting you to a royal meeting.

You whisper, half-asleep, “You two are ridiculous.”

Jimmy meows. Sassy chirps. Ducklings. They’re your ducklings.

You pad into the living room.

Max is already strapped into the rig, headset on, wheel in hand, eyes narrowed at the screen. He’s so focused he doesn’t notice you at first. His jaw is set, his posture perfect, his hands moving with that effortless precision that makes him who he is.

You stand there for a moment, swaying slightly, blanket pooled around your feet, cats flanking you like a sleepy procession.

Then Max glances over - and freezes.

His face softens instantly.

“Baby,” he says, pulling off one earcup. “What are you doing up?”

You blink at him, slow and owlish. “You weren’t in bed.”

He smiles - that soft, private smile he only ever uses with you. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d do a few laps.”

You shuffle closer, blanket dragging behind you. Jimmy and Sassy follow, tails high.

Max laughs quietly. “You look like a little burrito.”

“I am a burrito,” you mumble, climbing onto the couch and curling up. “A cold burrito. Because someone left me.”

He reaches over and brushes your cheek with his thumb. “Sorry, liefje.”

You lean into his hand, eyes half-closed. “It’s okay. Just… don’t be gone long.”

He nods, puts the headset back on, and starts another lap. You watch him - the way his shoulders relax, the way his fingers dance over the paddle shifters, the way he leans into the turns like he’s actually in the car.

It’s soothing, in a strange way. The hum of the rig. The soft glow of the screen. Max’s quiet concentration. Jimmy curls up on your lap. Sassy sits on the armrest, tail flicking rhythmically.

You fall asleep like that - blanket burrito, cats piled on top, Max racing quietly in the dark.

—

The second time it happens, you’re more awake.

Max slips out of bed again, gentle as ever, but you’re already stirring. You follow him without thinking, blanket wrapped around you, cats trailing behind like a tiny parade.

He glances over when you enter the living room. “Again?”

You nod, yawning. “You keep leaving.”

He laughs softly. “I’m sorry. I just… like it. It helps me think.”

You settle on the couch. “Are you having fun?”

He pauses mid-lap. “Yeah. I am.”

You tilt your head. “Show me.”

Max blinks. “Show you?”

“Yeah. Teach me.”

He stares at you for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if you’re serious. You are. Even half-asleep, you’re curious. You’ve watched him do this a hundred times - the focus, the precision, the way he relaxes into it. You want to understand it.

He unbuckles, stands, and gestures to the rig. “Come here.”

You shuffle over, blanket still wrapped around you. Max gently unwraps you - “You can’t drive like this, liefje” - and helps you into the seat. Jimmy hops onto the couch. Sassy sits at your feet, supervising.

Max adjusts the pedals for you, moves the seat forward, tightens the straps. He’s meticulous, gentle, focused entirely on you.

“Okay,” he says, kneeling beside the rig. “Hands here. Feet there. Don’t worry about speed. Just feel it.”

You grip the wheel. It’s heavier than you expect. The screen lights up. The track appears.

Max places his hand over yours. “Ready?”

You nod.

He starts the lap.

The wheel tugs immediately - alive, reactive, demanding. You gasp. Max laughs softly.

“Good. That’s good. Let it talk to you.”

You try. You really do. You turn too early. You brake too late. You spin out within thirty seconds.

Max kisses your shoulder. “Perfect.”

“That was not perfect.”

“It was your first lap. And you didn’t crash the rig, so I’m proud.”

You try again. And again. And again.

Max guides you through every corner, every braking point, every mistake. He’s patient - unbelievably patient - and every time you get something right, he lights up like you’ve just won a race.

You don’t notice how much time passes. You don’t notice how awake you’ve become. You don’t notice how Sassy has fallen asleep on Max’s lap or how Jimmy has curled around your feet.

You only notice one thing:

You’re having fun.

Real fun.

When you finally stop, breathless and smiling, Max looks at you with a mix of pride and amusement.

“You like it.”

“I love it.”

He grins. “I knew you would.”

—

It becomes a habit.

Not just the nighttime wanderings — though those continue, and you still follow him every time, blanket burrito and cats in tow - but the racing.

You start asking to use the rig during the day. Max watches you, correcting your form, giving you tips, cheering when you nail a corner. You get better. Quickly. Shockingly quickly.

Max is delighted.

One afternoon, after you beat one of his lap times on a track you’ve only practiced twice, he stares at the screen in disbelief.

“You’re cheating.”

“I’m not cheating.”

“You’re cheating.”

“I’m literally just driving.”

Max narrows his eyes. “I’m getting you your own setup.”

You blink. “What?”

“You need your own rig.”

“Max-“

“No, no, no. You’re too good. You’re stealing mine. I need mine. You need yours.”

You laugh. “We can share.”

He shakes his head. “No. You’re competitive.”

“You’re competitive.”

“Yes, but I’m used to being competitive. You’re new. You’re dangerous.”

You shove his shoulder. He grins.

Two days later, a second rig arrives.

You help him set it up - or rather, you sit on the floor with Jimmy in your lap while Max does all the actual work. Sassy supervises from the top of the sofa, tail flicking like a metronome.

When it’s done, Max stands back proudly.

“There,” he says. “Your throne.”

You climb into it. “My throne.”

He sits in his own rig beside you. “Now we can race properly.”

You glance over. “You’re going to lose.”

Max laughs. “Never.”

You race.

You race for hours. Sometimes you take turns. Sometimes you race side by side. Sometimes you switch rigs just to mess with each other. Sometimes you play other games - co-op adventures, silly racing games, anything that lets you be competitive and close.

Max loves it.

He loves watching you concentrate, tongue poking out slightly. He loves hearing you swear when you miss a corner. He loves the way you celebrate when you beat him - arms thrown up, blanket falling off your shoulders, cats scattering in confusion.

He loves that this is yours now - something you share, something that belongs to both of you.

And you love it too.

You love the late-night races. You love the quiet moments between laps. You love the way Max looks at you when you’re focused. You love the way he leans over to kiss your cheek after a good run. You love the domesticity of it - the soft glow of the screens, the hum of the rigs, the cats curled up nearby.

You love him.

—

One night, weeks after your first sleepy wander into the living room, you wake up again to an empty bed.

You smile.

You wrap yourself in your blanket, shuffle out of the bedroom, and feel Jimmy and Sassy fall into step behind you.

Max is already racing. He glances over when he sees you - and his whole face softens.

“Hi, burrito.”

“Hi.”

You climb into your rig. Max pauses his lap.

“Want to race?”

You nod.

He loads a track. You grip the wheel. The cats settle in their usual spots. The room is quiet, warm, familiar.

Max looks over at you, eyes soft.

“Ready?”

You smile. “Always.”

You start the race together - side by side, wheels humming, screens glowing, blanket draped over your shoulders, cats curled at your feet.

Max laughs when you overtake him on the first lap.

You laugh when he bumps your car on the second.

You race until you’re both exhausted, until the screens blur, until the cats are asleep and the blanket is slipping off your shoulders.

Max reaches over, takes your hand, and squeezes gently.

“This,” he says softly. “I love this.”

You squeeze back. “Me too.”

He leans over and kisses you - slow, warm, sleepy.

Then he helps you out of the rig, wraps your blanket tighter around you, gathers the cats, and leads you back to bed.

You fall asleep curled against him, blanket burrito restored, cats piled on top, Max’s arm around your waist.

And when he wakes up in the middle of the night again - because he will - you know you’ll follow him.

Every time.

ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ: ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱ, ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ, ᴇxᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: ʀᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ - ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ʀᴇϙᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

A warm, calloused hand gently squeezed your thigh, drawing your attention away from the window for just a second. Max was looking at you with a soft, affectionate smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He had a book resting on his lap, completely abandoned the moment he noticed your mounting excitement.

"You're going to vibrate right out of your seat, Y/N," Max teased, his voice a low, comforting rumble.

"I can't help it," you breathed out, intertwining your fingers with his. "I've literally dreamed about this since I was a kid. The cherry blossoms, the food, the shrines... and we're actually here. I feel like I'm going to wake up."

Max lifted your joined hands, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles. "I promise you're awake. And we have two whole weeks to see every single thing on that itinerary of yours. Even if it means I have to eat sushi for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

You laughed, leaning over to rest your head against his shoulder. "I might hold you to that."

Stepping out of the airport and into the cool evening air felt surreal. The sensory overload of Tokyo was immediate—flashing signs in a language you’d spent months trying to learn on your phone, the immaculate cleanliness of the streets, and the rhythmic hum of a city that never truly sleeps.

Max effortlessly handled the heavier luggage, rolling your massive suitcase alongside his own with one hand while keeping his other arm securely wrapped around your waist. He pulled you close as you navigated the bustling taxi queue, acting as your personal anchor in the middle of the beautiful chaos.

"Tired?" he asked, glancing down at you as a sleek, black taxi pulled up to the curb.

"Not even a little bit," you lied, suppressing a yawn. The fourteen-hour flight had definitely taken a toll, but the sheer adrenaline of finally being in Japan was keeping you on your feet.

Max chuckled, seeing right through you. "Sure you aren't. Let's get to the hotel so you can crash. The city will still be here tomorrow, Y/N."

Your hotel room was on the thirty-fifth floor, right in the heart of Shinjuku. When Max unlocked the door and pushed it open, you gasped.

The room was beautiful, but it was the floor-to-ceiling windows that stole the show. A sprawling, glowing ocean of city lights stretched out as far as the eye could see. Neon signs in vibrant reds, blues, and yellows illuminated the streets below, weaving through the towering skyscrapers.

You walked slowly toward the glass, completely mesmerized. It was even more beautiful than the pictures. A sudden wave of emotion hit you—a mix of exhaustion, overwhelming joy, and deep gratitude.

A moment later, you felt Max’s chest press against your back. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He rested his chin softly on the top of your head, looking out at the city with you.

"Do you like it?" he murmured, his breath warm against your hair.

"It's perfect, Max. Better than perfect," you whispered, reaching up to cover his hands with your own. You turned around in his embrace, looking up into his eyes, which were reflecting the glittering city lights. "Thank you. For making this happen. For coming with me."

Max smiled, a genuine, heart-melting expression that he usually reserved just for you. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, and finally, to your lips.

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be, Y/N," he said softly. "Now, get some sleep. Tomorrow, we conquer Tokyo."

The morning sun practically announced itself, spilling golden light through the sheer curtains you had forgotten to close the night before. You shifted beneath the impossibly soft hotel duvet, stretching your legs out and letting out a quiet hum of contentment.

For a second, your sleepy brain forgot where you were. But then, the faint, distant hum of Tokyo traffic reached your ears, and your eyes flew open.

You turned over quickly, expecting to find Max fast asleep beside you. Instead, the other side of the bed was empty, the sheets already cool.

"Good morning," a warm voice called out.

You sat up, pushing your messy hair out of your face. Max was sitting in the small armchair by the window, already dressed in a comfortable hoodie and jeans. The city was sprawling out behind him in the bright daylight, a stark contrast to the neon wonderland from the night before.

"You're up early," you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

"My internal clock is completely messed up," Max admitted with a soft laugh, getting up and walking over to the bed. He sat on the edge, leaning in to brush a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "But it gave me time to go on a little mission."

"A mission?" you asked, leaning into his touch.

Max reached over to the nightstand and produced a small, crinkling plastic bag. He pulled out two perfectly rectangular sandwiches on impossibly white bread and two brightly colored cans of coffee.

"You spent at least an hour on the flight telling me about how Japanese convenience stores are god-tier and how we had to try the egg sandwiches," Max said, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "So, I figured I'd save us a trip this morning. Breakfast in bed."

Your heart did a ridiculous little flip. He had listened to your sleepy, excited rambling on the plane and actually remembered.

"Max, you didn't have to do that," you said, reaching out to take one of the sandwiches.

"I wanted to," he replied easily, cracking open his can of coffee. "Eat up, Y/N. We have a lot of walking to do today."

You took a bite of the tamago sando, and your eyes widened. The egg was rich, creamy, and slightly sweet, sandwiched between the softest bread you had ever tasted. You let out a muffled groan of absolute delight.

Max chuckled, taking a bite of his own. "Okay, I admit it. You were right. These are dangerously good."

An hour later, the two of you were stepping off the train at Shibuya Station. The sheer volume of people moving in every direction was dizzying, a beautifully choreographed dance of commuters, tourists, and locals.

Max kept a firm but gentle grip on your hand, pulling you a little closer to his side so you wouldn't get separated in the crowd. As you made your way out of the station, the iconic Shibuya Crossing opened up in front of you.

"Wow," you breathed, staring at the massive intersection. The pedestrian lights were currently red, and massive crowds were gathering at every corner, waiting like runners at a starting line. Massive video billboards played loud music and advertisements above, adding to the electrifying atmosphere.

"Ready to brave it?" Max asked, looking down at you with a smirk.

"With you? Always," you smiled.

The moment the light turned green, the iconic jingle began to play, and thousands of people surged forward into the street. It was chaotic, loud, and utterly exhilarating. You held tightly to Max's hand as you navigated the sea of people, laughing as you practically had to dodge and weave to make it to the other side.

When you safely reached the opposite pavement, Max pulled you out of the flow of traffic and against the side of a building, turning you to face him.

"We survived," he joked, his hands resting on your waist.

"I think we deserve a reward for that," you teased, looking up at him. "Maybe some shopping? Or some matcha ice cream?"

Max smiled, leaning down to press a quick, sweet kiss to your lips right there in the middle of the bustling Tokyo street.

"Whatever you want, Y/N," he murmured against your mouth. "Lead the way."

The promise of matcha ice cream led the two of you away from the intense hustle of the main crossing and into the slightly narrower, winding streets of Shibuya. It didn't take long to find a tiny, aesthetically pleasing cafe with a queue forming outside—a universal sign in Tokyo that the food was worth the wait.

Max stood behind you in line, his arms wrapping loosely around your waist as you leaned back against his chest. He rested his chin on your shoulder, watching you excitedly scroll through the café’s menu on your phone.

"Okay, they have matcha parfaits, matcha lattes, and matcha soft serve," you announced, tilting the screen so he could see the vibrant green desserts. "What are you getting?"

"Whatever you're not getting, so I can steal bites of yours and you can steal bites of mine," he reasoned smoothly, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek.

You ended up with a towering soft serve cone, while Max opted for a chilled matcha latte. As you stepped back out into the mild afternoon air, you immediately took a generous bite of your ice cream. The earthy, slightly bitter flavor of the premium matcha blended perfectly with the rich sweetness of the cream.

"Oh, that's amazing," you mumbled, holding the cone up to Max. "Try it."

Max leaned in and took a bite, his eyebrows raising slightly in pleasant surprise. "Okay, you win. That’s actually really good. Better than my latte."

"Told you!" you beamed, feeling a swell of happiness.

Seeing you so thoroughly in your element, radiating pure joy, made Max's chest feel impossibly warm. He pulled out his phone, opening the camera app.

"Hey, Y/N, look here."

You turned, ice cream in hand, a bright, genuine smile lighting up your face just as the camera clicked. Max looked at the photo and smiled to himself. The vibrant Tokyo street was in the background, but all in focus was you, looking happier than he had ever seen you. He quickly set it as his lock screen before slipping the phone back into his pocket.

After finishing your treats, the vibrant chaos of Shibuya began to catch up with you. Sensing the slight shift in your energy, Max suggested a change of scenery. A short walk later, the towering concrete and neon screens gave way to a massive, imposing wooden torii gate.

"Meiji Jingu," you read the map on your phone, looking up at the towering trees that seemed to swallow the city whole. "It's a massive Shinto shrine right in the middle of the city. They planted a whole forest around it."

"Lead the way, tour guide," Max said, intertwining his fingers with yours.

The moment you crossed under the gate, the sounds of the city seemed to instantly vanish, replaced by the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes and the rustling of leaves. The air felt cooler here, shaded by the thick canopy of ancient trees. It was a jarring, beautiful contrast to the sensory overload of the streets just a few blocks away.

You walked in comfortable silence, simply enjoying the tranquility and the steady, grounding presence of Max's hand holding yours. Along the wide path, you passed giant walls of stacked, colorful sake barrels, stopping to admire the intricate designs.

When you reached the main shrine complex, you stood quietly, watching the locals toss coins into the wooden offering boxes, bow, and clap their hands in prayer. The air smelled faintly of incense and old wood.

"It's so peaceful," you whispered, leaning against Max's arm.

"It really is," he agreed softly, looking around before his gaze settled entirely on you.

You walked over to the ema boards—hundreds of small wooden plaques hanging together, covered in wishes written in dozens of different languages.

"Want to write one?" Max asked, pointing to a small booth selling the blank wooden tablets.

"Yeah, I'd love to," you smiled.

After purchasing a plaque, you took a marker and thought for a moment. You looked over at Max, who was watching you with that same soft, entirely devoted expression he’d worn since the plane. You didn't need to wish for anything grand; you already had everything you wanted right here.

You uncapped the marker and carefully wrote your wish, hiding it from Max's view with your hand.

I wish for a thousand more adventures, just like this one, with him.

You tied the wooden plaque to the rack, the wood clacking gently against the others in the breeze.

"What did you write?" Max asked playfully, trying to peek around your shoulder.

"If I tell you, it won't come true," you teased, grabbing his hand and pulling him away from the boards. "Come on, I'm getting hungry again. What do you say to finding the best ramen in Harajuku?"

Max laughed, the sound echoing lightly in the quiet courtyard. "I say you're speaking my language, Y/N. Let's go."

-

Finding a quiet place to eat in Harajuku felt like searching for a needle in a brightly colored, extremely fashionable haystack. Leaving the tranquility of the shrine behind, the two of you were instantly swept back into the vibrant energy of the city.

After winding through a few narrow side streets, away from the main shopping avenues, your nose caught the rich, savory scent of pork broth. You tugged excitedly on Max's sleeve, pointing to a tiny, unassuming storefront with a faded red curtain—a noren—hanging over the entrance.

"I think this is it," you said, practically pulling him toward the door.

The inside of the ramen shop was incredibly cozy, consisting of just a single wooden counter with about eight stools, facing an open kitchen. The air was thick with steam and the mouth-watering aroma of soy, garlic, and slow-simmered bone broth.

You and Max squeezed into two empty seats at the end of the counter. After ordering through a small ticket machine near the door, it didn't take long for the chef to place two massive, steaming bowls of tonkotsu ramen in front of you.

"Oh, wow," Max murmured, picking up his chopsticks and a wide wooden spoon. He took a sip of the broth and actually closed his eyes for a second. "Okay. You weren't kidding. That is unbelievable."

You grinned triumphantly before diving into your own bowl. The noodles were perfectly chewy, the pork belly melted in your mouth, and the soft-boiled egg was exactly how you liked it. For a few minutes, the only sounds between the two of you were the clinking of porcelain and the very polite, very necessary slurping of noodles.

At one point, you looked up to find Max already looking at you, his chin rested in his hand as his elbow propped on the counter. He had a fond, amused smile playing on his lips.

"What?" you asked, pausing with your chopsticks halfway to your mouth.

Max reached over, his thumb gently swiping the very corner of your mouth. "Nothing," he chuckled softly, showing you the tiny drop of broth he had wiped away. "Just enjoying the view. You get really intense when you eat food you like, you know that?"

You felt a flush creep up your neck that had nothing to do with the steam from the ramen. "I'm just appreciating the culinary arts, Max."

"I can see that," he laughed, handing you a napkin. "Eat up, culinary expert."

By the time you stepped back out into the cool evening air, the sun had fully set, and Tokyo had transformed once again. The streetlights and neon signs painted the pavement in washes of pink, blue, and yellow.

You linked your arm through Max's as you made your way toward Takeshita Street, the famous epicenter of Harajuku youth culture. Even at night, the narrow street was bustling. Shops spilled over with brightly colored clothes, oversized plushies, and accessories that sparkled under the harsh store lights.

"This is sensory overload in the best possible way," you laughed, looking at a storefront completely covered in rainbow fur and glitter.

"It's definitely something," Max agreed, looking completely out of place in his simple, dark clothes against the pastel wonderland of Harajuku, yet he looked entirely relaxed just being there with you.

Suddenly, your eyes locked onto a brightly lit glass display case down the block. Inside were dozens of plastic, hyper-realistic replicas of crepes, stuffed to the brim with fruits, whipped cream, and ice cream.

You stopped in your tracks, staring at the display. Max followed your gaze, letting out a low, rumbling laugh.

"Y/N, we just ate our body weight in ramen twenty minutes ago," he pointed out, though he was already pulling his wallet out of his back pocket.

"It's a scientific fact that the dessert stomach is completely separate from the ramen stomach," you explained very seriously, stepping up to the counter. "Plus, it's Harajuku. You can't leave without eating a crepe. It's against the law."

"Well, we wouldn't want to get arrested on our first day," Max agreed, stepping up beside you.

Five minutes later, you were holding an absolute masterpiece of a dessert—a thin, warm crepe wrapped around fresh strawberries, a slice of actual cheesecake, and a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream.

You took a massive bite, humming happily as the sugar hit your system. You held it out to Max. "Try it."

He took a bite, getting a small dot of whipped cream on the tip of his nose in the process. You couldn't help the bubble of laughter that escaped you.

"What?" he asked, oblivious.

You reached up, gently wiping the cream away with your thumb, mimicking what he had done to you in the ramen shop. "Just enjoying the view."

Max smiled, catching your hand before you could pull it away and pressing a kiss to your palm. Surrounded by the bright lights, the eclectic crowds, and the beautiful chaos of Tokyo, you knew this was a day you were going to remember for the rest of your life.

The train ride back to Shinjuku was a stark contrast to the energetic buzz of the morning. The carriage was relatively quiet, filled with tired commuters and tourists equally exhausted by the sheer scale of Tokyo.

You were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Max, the gentle swaying of the train lulling you into a state of deep, comfortable drowsiness. Your head was resting heavily against his shoulder, your fingers loosely laced with his in your lap. Every so often, he would press a soft kiss to the top of your head, grounding you in the sweet reality of the moment.

"Almost home, sweetheart," Max murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your cheek.

"I don't want today to end," you mumbled sleepily, fighting the urge to close your eyes. "It was too perfect."

"We have thirteen more days, Y/N," he reminded you with a gentle squeeze of your hand. "I promise tomorrow will be just as good. But right now, you need sleep. You've been running on pure adrenaline and sugar for the last twelve hours."

You couldn't argue with his logic. By the time you both made it back to the hotel lobby and into the elevator, you were practically leaning all of your weight against his side. Max didn't seem to mind in the slightest, easily supporting you with an arm wrapped securely around your waist.

Stepping back into your room on the thirty-fifth floor felt like returning to a private sanctuary above the clouds. The city was still glowing outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a mesmerizing sea of neon and headlights that never truly dimmed.

You kicked off your shoes with a sigh of relief, padding softly across the carpeted floor to stand in front of the glass one more time. The reflection of the room was faint, but you could see Max moving behind you, shedding his jacket and running a hand through his slightly messy hair.

A moment later, the lights in the room clicked off, leaving only the soft glow of the city to illuminate the space.

Max stepped up behind you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling your back flush against his chest, just like he had the night before. But this time, there was a quiet, settled peace between you, the nervous excitement of arrival replaced by the deep contentment of a perfect day.

"Thank you," you whispered into the quiet room, leaning your head back against his shoulder.

"For what?" he asked softly, resting his chin against your temple.

"For everything. For the egg sandwiches, for holding my hand in the crowds, for eating that crepe even though I know you were stuffed," you smiled, turning slightly in his arms so you could look up at him. "For making this the best day of my life."

Max's expression softened, his eyes reflecting the shimmering city lights outside. He brought a hand up, gently cupping your cheek and brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.

"You've been talking about this trip for as long as I've known you, Y/N," he said, his voice quiet and incredibly sincere. "Seeing you this happy... watching you light up over every little thing today? That was the best part of the trip for me. I'd fly across the world a hundred times just to see you smile like that."

Your heart melted, a warm, overwhelming wave of affection washing over you. You reached up, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down into a slow, lingering kiss. It tasted faintly of vanilla and matcha, sweet and familiar and entirely perfect.

When you finally pulled away, resting your forehead against his, you couldn't stop the wide smile from spreading across your face.

"Come on," Max whispered, sweeping you up into his arms in one fluid motion, earning a surprised, happy laugh from you. "Time for bed. We have a whole country left to explore."

As he carried you toward the massive, incredibly soft hotel bed, you looked out at the glowing Tokyo skyline one last time. Your dream destination was finally a reality, but as Max laid you gently on the mattress and pulled the covers over you, you realized that the best part of the adventure wasn't where you were. It was who you were with.

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💌 tag list: @mysthicwhispers @anamiad00msday @st4r-girl-official @kartuke @gridsandstories @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @pedriglazer @viper-0800 @clocouettelife @leviathan0000 @roseannih @rosietoesf1 @thisdoesntexsist-cherry @elizamoe133 @nichmeddar @galaxygurlll @ojijhij @naenaen @josephinel83 @linnygirl09 @axelstillalive @star73807-blog @meyla123x @vinylphwoar @artyyjia @meritxellao @anaylen01 @martygraciesversion381 @supernatural-harrypotter7 @chair-things @moonlitelaine @hades-favourite-daughter @justaf1girl @liv1209 @celiaisacaterpillar @yellow14m @maebejustmaebe @sainz0fthetimes @waitingatthegreenlight @ilocuras24 @beathreat @biancathecool @thepolyamorywriter @aerangi @recklessyears @natqrvlvr @scenesofobx @sassypostpatrol @dutchlionforev @emmaxdelicate @ophirei @goldi-1-graysons-version @queen-of-disasterrrrr

liked by laufey, conangray, and 4,928,381 others yourusername so excited to finally tell you guys i've been working on the summer i turned pretty movie! can't wait for you guys to see this one 🎬 see you soon ♡

user1 THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY MOVIE??????? user2 EVERYBODY SHUT UPPPPP user3 oh she's collecting franchises like infinity stones user4 THIS IS NOT HOW I FIND OUT

chappellroan THAT'S MY BEST FRIEND!!! liked by creator yourusername ilysm

laufey so proud of you 🤍 liked by creator yourusername my fave 🥹

user5 girl casually dropped the biggest announcement ever user6 mother booked and busy user7 OH SHE'S EMPLOYED

oliviarodrigo can i get premiere tickets yourusername no oliviarodrigo oh wow conangray i knew fame would change you

liked by 86,492 others f1gossip actress y/n l/n has arrived in monaco ahead of this weekend’s grand prix. the actress, who recently announced her role in the summer i turned pretty movie, is reportedly attending as a guest of red bull racing.

user8 i forgot she watches f1 user9 the way she’s actually a fan makes this cuter

user10 i need someone to explain why every celebrity is suddenly at monaco user11 it's monaco, what do you expect? 😭

user12 SHE MADE IT TO MONACO OH MY GOD user13 booked a movie and got invited to monaco in the same week… okay life is choosing favorites user14 she’s so pretty i’m sick user15 i hope she posts a dump

liked by 4,642,192 others yourusername monaco weekend 🇲🇨

oliviarodrigo cutieeee liked by creator

user16 formula one y/n is my favorite genre user17 she's literally living my dream

redbullracing thanks for coming, yn! 💙 liked by creator

user18 what if she's secretly here for one specific driver user19 oh brother here come the shippers user20 😭😭😭😭 user21 can't women enjoy motorsport in peace

user22 actress, model, race enthusiast. leave some jobs for us user23 oh she's seated seated user24 okay paddock princess

liked by laufey and 10 others ynsarchive i know dada... 😂❤️

oliviarodrigo you got a photo with max verstappen and this is how i find out.. ynsarchive sorry i can’t hear you over the overwhelming cheers of my victory

conangray this is like when a victorian woman saw an ankle ynsarchive you’re just jealous conangray of what ynsarchive my aura

laufey did you speak ynsarchive yes oliviarodrigo LIKE WORDS? ynsarchive no olivia we communicated through interpretive dance

chappellroan why you locking in when taking a photo with max ynsarchive cause i had to outmog him conangray a smile might be good ynsarchive there's nothing to smile about in my life.

liked by 96,214 others f1gossip y/n l/n was seen leaving a private red bull dinner in monte carlo last night after attending the monaco grand prix earlier this weekend.

user25 grand prix by day, private dinner by night… okay miss movie star user26 red bull really said we’re keeping her for the whole weekend user27 not her first grand prix being monaco and then a red bull dinner after. she skipped like seven steps. user28 busy woman all the time user29 she looks so pretty omg user30 monaco y/n might be my favorite y/n user31 sign her as the second seat driver at this point user32 imagine being at a random dinner and y/n l/n is just there

story replies:

chappellroan why is there a “max v” in your contacts ynsarchive maybe i know multiple max v’s conangray name another one ynsarchive max velvet conangray who dafaq is "max velvet"

laufey how did this happen ynsarchive i just have too much aura ynsarchive no he js has my jacket laufey WHAT????

liked by danielricciardo, lando, and 34 others franzhermann1 london was alright

danielricciardo who is the girl franzhermann1 a friend danielricciardo 🤨

lando there is a woman in your post franzzhermann1 women exist

danielricciardo who made you go outside? franzhermann1 i go outside

lando “london was alright” and posts a girl franzhermann1 she just happened to be there lando wait is this monaco girl lando soft launch era lando wait come back

liked by chappellroan and 19 others ynsarchive currently accepting prayers and advice

conangray SHUT UP did he take that photo ynsarchive no my ass cheeks took it

laufey did you guys talk a lot ynsarchive yes. chappellroan oh wrap it up 🥀

chappellroan not the celebrity crush becoming a real person ynsarchive don’t say that i’m trying to survive

laufey i think this is cute ynsarchive i’m scared when you’re sincere laufey sorry laufey i mean you’re cooked

liked by 67,829 f1gossip y/n l/n and max verstappen were spotted leaving the same london restaurant last night, weeks after meeting during the monaco grand prix weekend. sources say the dinner was casual and that the two “looked friendly.”

user33 “looked friendly” is so funny. were they supposed to look hostile? user34 right like forget dating rumors. who made him socialize?

user35 maybe they’re just friends omg user36 friends can get dinner, everyone breathe user37 i mean they do look good together but let’s relax user38 this is my niche..

user39 no because her first gp being monaco and then dinner with max weeks later is kind of a plot user40 this is how red bull gets her in the second seat

story replied:

chappellroan ask him to hang out again ynsarchive absolutely not chappellroan why not ynsarchive because what if he says no chappellroan then i’ll fight him

oliviarodrigo he is making moves laufey let it happen conangray ask again after he does something clearer chappellroan you’re both annoying ynsarchive four different answers. amazing work everyone.

liked by conangray, chanelofficial, maxverstappen1, and 6,842,193 others yourusername south of france for work, monaco for dessert. thank you chanel for the prettiest few days 🤍

chanelofficial a dream in the south of france. liked by creator yourusername forever grateful

conangray literal movie star liked by creator user41 she looks like she was made for chanel user42 her face was literally built for beauty campaigns user43 monaco suits her too well

user44 she’s been glowing different lately user45 seriously she looks so happy

user46 monaco y/n part two. we won

liked by oliviarodrigo, conangray, chappellroan, laufey and 19 othersynsarchive came for the cats. no further questions

chappellroan and stayed for the man in slide 2 ynsarchive that is a homeowner

oliviarodrigo YOU ARE IN MAX VERSTAPPEN'S HOUSE????? ynsarchive i am in the cats’ house conangray girl be serious ynsarchive i have never been more serious in my life

laufey did he invite you or... ynsarchive he invited me oliviarodrigo HE INVITED YOU OVER????? ynsarchive to meet the cats chappellroan yeah and i go to the gym to look at walls ynsarchive maybe you do

laufey did the cats like him more or you more ynsarchive me conangray lie ynsarchive one of them sat on me for twenty minutes oliviarodrigo that cat knows game

oliviarodrigo so you like him ynsarchive i like the cats laufey answer the question ynsarchive i like the cats and their legal guardian

laufey are you seeing him again ynsarchive i don’t know conangray he invited you to his apartment with cats as bait. there will be a sequel. ynsarchive don’t say sequel. i’m fragile. oliviarodrigo the summer i dated max verstappen ynsarchive delete your account oliviarodrigo no ❤️

liked by franzhermann1, laufey, and 21 others ynsarchive new follower unlocked

franzhermann1 am i supposed to be impressed liked by creator ynsarchive a little

chappellroan HELLO??????? YOU ADDED HIM???? ynsarchive no idk who franzhermann1 is

conangray WELCOME MAX!!!! ynsarchive don't scare him conangray too late

laufey my endgame 🥹 ynsarchive don't make me emotional laufey too late 🤍

maxverstappen1 what ynsarchive hi maxverstappen1 what is slide three ynsarchive art

oliviarodrigo girl... does he know ynsarchive know what ynsarchive oh conangray HE CAN SEE YOUR OLD POSTS ynsarchive FUHHH franzhermann1 i'm caught up now

liked by danielricciardo, ynsarchive, and 38 others franzhermann1 private account privileges

danielricciardo cute franzhermann1 yeah

danielricciardo that's y/n franzhermann1 correct landonorris NO WAY 😭😭😭

ynsarchive hi everyone. franzhermann1 hi beautiful :) landonorris bless my eyes

liked by yourusername, redbullracing and 3,847,932 othersmaxverstappen1 my lucky charm ❤️🏆

redbullracing ❤️ liked by creatorcharles_leclerc Congratulations 👏 user47 MY LUCKY CHARM?????????????? user48 red bull found da real upgrade package

user49 IS THAT Y/N?????? user50 yes!! i saw it irl and yn was there!!!'

user51 THE HUG IM SICK user52 someone keep her at every race yourusername told you you'd win 🤍 liked by creator user53 THAT'S HIS GIRL. oscarpiastri Congrats mate liked by creator user54 this is NOT the hard launch i expected 😭 user55 I KNEW THAT WAS HER IN THE PADDOCK

lando so THIS is why he was giggling and all giddy all weekend 😒 maxverstappen1 i was not giggling.

liked by maxverstappen1, laufey, oliviarodrigo, and 4,278,392 others yourusername hell yeah my boyfriend won

maxverstappen1 ❤️❤️ liked by creator

laufey this is so cute 🥹 liked by creator yourusername ilysm

user56 she really completed the side quest conangray ABOUT TIME GIRL 😭 liked by creator

user57 wasnt she a huge f1 fan user58 omg she won life

user59 HELLO MY WHAT user60 this relationship is literally just 🏎️ + 🎬 user61 he won because she was there i refuse to hear otherwise user62 "my lucky charm." "hell yeah my boyfriend won a race." YOUR HONOR THEY ARE SO CUTE

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.

2019

The morning had started with Lily staging a full-scale intervention in front of the hotel mirror.

"If I'm going to be sweating in a paddock all day, I am at least going to look cute while doing it," Lily had declared, wielding a curling iron like a weapon. "And you are too. So sit.” She had sat, yielding to her best friend’s cheeky aggression. “Do I really need to go, Li?” she asked now, reluctantly adjusting her top for the tenth time as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. “I don’t know anything about the sport, and I don't know anyone there. I’m just taking up space from someone who actually deserves it.”

Lily smiled, stepping up behind her to give her a playful nudge. “Hey, you know Alex!” She laughed, rolling her eyes. “Come on! It’ll be fun. You’ll love it, I promise,” Lily said, pressing a pass into her hand and kissing her cheek. She sighs at her reflection, knowing she’d lost even before it started.

When they arrived, she quickly realized she was entirely out of her depth. She trailed quietly behind the couple, doing her best to duck away from the cameras that Alex and Lily effortlessly smiled for. Once they reached the hospitality suite, she stepped out onto the balcony, looking down at the blur of mechanics, celebrities, and roaring cars below. Everyone seemed to have a crucial purpose, and she decided that if she was going to survive the day without hiding in a bathroom stall, she needed caffeine. Leaving the suite, she navigated her way toward the Paddock Club to track down some food and coffee, but on her way back, the identical-looking buildings and glass doors blurred together. She forgot which turn she had taken and suddenly realized she had no idea how to find the Red Bull suite.

Wandering down a quieter hallway, she turned a corner too quickly and plowed straight into a solid chest. She tripped backward, losing her footing, but the man reacted instantly. One of his hands caught her securely by the waist while the other gripped her wrist, steadying her arm just in time to stop her coffee from splashing all over them. “Shit, I’m so sorry!” she gasped, quickly steadying herself. “Ah, it’s no problem. I wasn’t looking where I was going either,” the voice replied. She looked up, meeting a warm smile and a pair of striking blue eyes. Her gaze drifted down to his navy shirt, noticing the red bull logo. “Oh, do you work for Red Bull?”

The man blinked, a look of brief, genuine confusion crossing his face before a small smirk broke out. “I—uh, yeah. I mean, yeah, I do.”

“I'm so sorry to bother you, but could you point me in the direction of their hospitality suite? I’m terrible with directions, and it’s my first time here.” He let out a low laugh, nodding toward the corridor. “Of course. Follow me, I’m heading that way anyway.”

As they started walking, she took a sip of her coffee, relieved. “So, first time at a race?” he asked, glancing over at her. “Is it that obvious? I thought I was blending in perfectly.”

“The panicked look when you turned the corner gave it away a bit,” he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But you’re doing great.”

“Good to know. My best friend’s boyfriend is a driver, so she dragged me along,” she explained. “You might know him, Alex Albon?” His smile widened significantly. “Yeah. Yeah, I know Alex. Good guy, good driver.”

“Oh, really? Do you fix his car or something?” she asked innocently. He bit his inside lip, trying incredibly hard not to burst out laughing. They were literally walking past a massive, two-story promotional poster of his own face, but her eyes were fixed entirely on the path ahead.

“Ah, no,” he said smoothly, playing along. “I work over in the other garage. Different car.”

“Is it stressful? It seems like a lot of pressure. I hear you guys had to change tires in like two seconds.”

“It has its moments,” he chuckled, playing into the narrative she built. “But the drivers get all the credit anyway. We just do the heavy lifting.”

“Typical,” she joked, nudging his arm slightly. “Well, make sure you don't screw up his tire change today, okay?” Max let out a hearty laugh. “I’ll do my very best to keep the boss happy.”

Over the next five minutes, the initial awkwardness completely vanished, melting into an easy rhythm of quick jokes, but the moment they reached the entrance of the garage, the bubble burst. A group of engineers in matching team gear spotted them, their eyes going wide before they urgently called him over. Turning back to her, he offered a parting smile that she couldn't help but return. “Thank you for saving me,” she said.

“Anytime,” he said, giving her a quick, playful wink. “If you ever get lost again, I’ll come find you.” With her heart doing a strange, unfamiliar little flutter, she walked into the hospitality area and found Lily sitting by the sidelines while Alex was getting his racing suit zipped up. “Oh, hey! Where have you been?” Lily asked, pulling out the chair next to her.

She sat down, unable to wipe the grin off her face as she set her coffee down. “I got lost on my way back, but this cute guy, I think he’s changes the tires or something, helped me find my way back. He said he knows Alex.” Lily’s eyes widened as she took in her friend's flushed face, a knowing smirk instantly spreading across her lips. “An engineer, huh? Did he have a name?”

“I forgot to ask, but he was really sweet”

“And to think, you almost didn't want to come,” Lily joked, bumping her shoulder against hers. 

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

When it was finally time for the race to start, the atmosphere shifted from chaotic to electric. Lily pulled her by the arm through the garage, navigating around stacks of spare tires and heavily focused mechanics until they found a spot near the back wall. Someone handed them a pair of heavy, noise-canceling headphones, which muffled the sudden, earth-shattering roar of twenty engines firing up on the grid. She clamped the headphones over her ears and stared at the wall of monitors. Truthfully, she was completely lost, not knowing what the numbers on the screen meant nor the little letters or colors of flags. She resolved to look at only one thing: car number 23. The rest of the grid was just a blur of passing colors, but she took her cues from Lily. For as long as her best friend was gripping her arm, jumping up and down, and screaming into the garage noise, she was right there alongside her, cheering just as loud knowing something was going right. 

As the laps ticked down, the tension in the garage thickened. Alex was driving a flawless race, defending his position fiercely. By the time the final lap rolled around, even she was leaning forward on her tiptoes, her heart hammering against her ribs. When the checkered flag finally waved, the entire garage erupted into a wall of sound. Mechanics slapped each other on the back, and team members flooded toward the pit wall. Alex had secured an incredible second place, sharing the front row of the podium with his teammate, who had taken the victory.

Before she could even process the win, Lily grabbed her hand, dragging her out into the bright sunlight of the pit lane to join the swarm of media and team personnel waiting behind the barriers. “Congrats, Alex!” she screamed over the deafening roar of the crowd. Alex broke through the crowd, his face covered in sweat and a massive grin, and immediately pulled Lily into a breathless hug, lifting her off her feet. He pulled back just enough to press a hard kiss to Lily’s lips before looking over. “Thanks!” he beamed, glowing with pure adrenaline. “What a race, right?”

“You were amazing!” she yelled back, cheering for him. Alex gave them a quick wave before a press officer gently nudged him toward the television cameras for his post-race interviews. As he walked away, her eyes began to wander across the chaotic paddock.

The top three cars had parked in their designated slots, and a swarm of photographers was currently surrounding the number one car. The winning driver stood on top of his car, arms raised in victory as the crowd chanted his name, before hopping down. He reached up with both hands, unlatching his helmet and pulling his balaclava off in one smooth motion to shake out his hair, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Her breath caught sharply in her throat. She froze, her eyes widening as the pieces instantly clicked together.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Lily looked over at her, blinking in confusion as she tried to trace her friend's exact line of sight through the crowd. “What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s him,” she stammered, raising a trembling, subtle finger toward the center of the media circus. “The guy. The engineer. From earlier. He said he was...”

Before she could even finish the sentence, the sea of mechanics and photographers seemed to part. The winner wasn't heading straight to the weighing scales just yet. Instead, he was walking directly toward their section of the barrier, a victorious, incredibly smug grin plastered across his face. He had spotted her instantly. He stopped right in front of her, resting his forearms on top of the barrier, completely unfazed by the cameras flashing around him.

“You think I kept the boss happy enough?” Max asked teasingly, his voice carrying easily over the noise. She stared at him, her jaw slightly slack, her brain still trying to reconcile the helpful tire-changer with the reigning champion of the sport. She finally found her voice, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “You said you changed the tires!” Max let out a hearty laugh, his bright blue eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “Actually, if I remember correctly, you said that. I just didn't deny it.” She opened her mouth to argue, but the words were instantly cut off. Fueled by the pure, chaotic high of his victory and the sheer amusement of the moment, Max suddenly leaned over the barrier, caught her jaw with his hand, and pulled her into a hard, breathless kiss.

It was fast, hot, and tasted faintly of sweat. Her brain entirely short-circuited as she gripped the metal rail to keep her balance. When he finally pulled back, a wicked, victorious grin stretched across his lips at the utterly dazed look on her face. He gave her a quick, playful wink, turning on his heel to head toward the garage for his weigh-in, leaving her standing entirely frozen against the barrier.

Beside her, Lily burst into a sudden, uncontrollable fit of laughter, burying her face in her hands before nudging her hard in the ribs. “Oh my god. You didn't. You actually didn't know who he was.” She turned slowly to face her best friend, her fingers coming up to touch her tingling lips, her cheeks burning bright red. “He told me he worked in the other garage!” 

“He did! Driving the other car!” Lily shrieked with laughter, looping an arm through hers as they watched his retreating back. 

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

Their love was as quick and unexpected as that first kiss shared across the paddock barrier. One reluctant visit turned into a permanent, every-race-week habit. She became a constant fixture at Max’s side, cheering him on through every high-speed turn and always waiting right at the edge of the team garage, ready to greet him with a breathless kiss in parc fermé the moment he climbed out of the car.

He was simply never without her, and she was never without him.

The media quickly fell in love with them, though she still preferred the quiet moments away from the cameras. Most days, she would be curled up in the corner of his driver’s room, reading a book or watching a movie on her tablet, simply enjoying the quiet sanctuary away from the roaring paddock. The moment Max walked in, looking exhausted and running a hand through his hair, the tension would instantly melt from his shoulders the second his eyes landed on her. He’d walk straight over, dropping to lay on her and wrapping his arms securely around her waist to pull her close.

"I missed you," he would whisper, his voice soft enough to keep the words a private secret just between the two of them. "You saw me an hour ago," she'd reply with a soft laugh, her fingers instinctively burying into his hair.

Max just buried his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the familiar scent he had completely memorized by now. "That was sixty minutes too long." She giggles, pressing a kiss on his forehead. It was in quiet, stolen moments like these that she realized she was completely, utterly gone for him. 

Falling in love with Max was a sudden shift she never saw coming. It was watching the fierce, ruthless competitor the world saw on television dissolve into the gentle, needy man holding onto her like she was his only anchor. She loved the way his thumb would idly trace circles on her hip when he thought she wasn't paying attention. She loved the quiet confidence in his eyes when he looked at her from across a crowded room, a silent communication that belonged only to them. Standing by the barriers, watching his car fly past at impossible speeds, her heart didn't just race out of excitement anymore, it beat in time with his. 

She had come to the track completely lost, looking for nothing more than a simple cup of coffee, but looking at him now, she knew she had found exactly where she belonged.

2020

Their whirlwind romance was brought to a sudden, screeching halt when the pandemic decided to press pause on the entire world. The moment the global lockdown was officially announced, Max didn’t even bother asking for her input. He simply turned up at the front door of her apartment with a stack of flat-packed cardboard boxes, packed up her entire life himself, and moved her into his Monaco penthouse, stating that his house had a better view of the sea, delivering it with that trademark, matter-of-fact confidence, but on the inside she knew, he just couldn’t stand benign apart for any longer than a day. 

Suddenly, their routinary life on the international racing circuit was replaced by the domestic, deeply cozy reality of quarantine. They spent endless, lazy afternoons completely melted into the deep cushions of his sofa. They would lose track of time binge-watching television series until their eyes blurred, wrapped together in a giant, oversized cashmere throw blanket while the sun dipped below the horizon outside.

Even when Max had to return to his strict daily routine, which involved spending grueling hours competing in highly competitive virtual races on his simulator, he flatly refused to be separated from her. His solution was a late-night impulsive order from Amazon that resulted in the arrival of a plush bean bag so ginormous. He dragged the monstrosity right beside his sim rig, piling it pillows and blankets just so she could read or nap comfortably within arm's reach while he drove.

Naturally, his online racing buddies were quick to notice the sudden shift in his attention. During a live-streamed race, Chris’s voice crackled loudly over the team Discord channel. “Max, why do you keep looking to the side, mate? Is Sassy peeing on your setup again? You’re dipping on the straights.” Max let out a soft, low laugh, his hands remaining perfectly steady on the steering wheel as he turned a sharp corner at two hundred miles per hour on the virtual track. “No, no. My girlfriend’s sleeping. I’m just checking on her. She was stirring.”

Instantly, the stream's live chat exploded into a frantic wall of oohs and awws, and Jarno chimed in over the headset with a laugh. “Is she sleeping on the hard floor, mate? Give the girl a proper bed!”

“No! I bought her this bean bag, it’s massive,” Max defended immediately, a fiercely fond, protective warmth creeping into his voice. “She sleeps there when I play. I just don’t like her sleeping all alone in our bedroom.” The boys teased him relentlessly for being a simp, but Max just grinned, completely unbothered by the banter. He loved her, and if the internet wanted to watch him turn into absolute mush because of it, they were welcome to the show.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

On some days, he drew her into his favourite thing completely. She would never forget the afternoon the delivery truck arrived with a surprise that left her completely speechless: a custom sim rig built exclusively for her. Max had gone to ridiculous lengths, contacting a specialized builder to customize the entire setup, from the carbon-fiber seat to the leather-wrapped wheel casing, in a beautiful, soft butter-yellow, her favorite color.

“Just press down on the gas, schat,” Max encouraged, leaning over her shoulder, his chest pressing against her back as she gripped the steering wheel with pure terror. “You won’t fly off the track, I promise. Just hold it straight.”

“It’s too fast Maxie! The screen is moving too quickly, I’m going to crash into the wall!” she argued, her heart hammering against her ribs as the virtual tire barriers loomed large on the triple monitors. Max let out a hearty, booming laugh that vibrated against her spine, leaning down to press a tender, lingering kiss to the top of her head. “Okay, up,” he commanded gently, pressing pause on the game. She gladly scrambled out of the seat, letting out a breath of relief. Max plop-dropped down into the racing seat, placed his long legs expertly on the pedals, and then caught her tightly by the waist, pulling her down securely onto his lap. “Now drive. You focus entirely on the steering and the apexes, and I’ll handle the speed.”

That became their favorite afternoon rhythm. 

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

On other days, she would coop herself up in Max’s home office, one he barely used her work, simply existing to showcase all his trophies and medals, losing herself in quiet, slow-paced crafts to pass the time. Mondays were reserved for crochet, while Fridays were dedicated to intricate thousand-piece puzzles spread across the mahogany desk, and Max would dutifully follow her there every single time, dragging the giant bean bag into the center of the office floor just so he could be the one napping or watching near her while she worked. It was a kind of calm that built the perfect sanctuary out of isolation.

Of course, being locked in together twenty-four hours a day also fueled a fierce, magnetic sex drive that seemed to grow more intense with every passing week. They didn't even need words anymore. All it took was a specific, heavy, darkened look from Max across a room, whether she was washing dishes or sorting through laundry,she knew exactly what was coming. He would walk over, lift her effortlessly against his chest, and carry her to the bedroom, the sofa, or simply take her right where she stood, their passion entirely uninhibited and raw. That consuming physical closeness naturally bled into a beautiful, heavy sense of emotional safety. 

Late one evening, they lay tangled in their bed, bare and stripped of any inhibition, wrapped securely in each other's damp skin and tangled sheets. The room was entirely dark save for the silvery moonlight filtering through the windows, and Max’s thumb was tracing soft phantom stars and hearts across the soft, warm skin of her shoulder as she rested her head heavily against his chest. Listening to the steady, rhythmic, calming beat of his heart, her thoughts began to drift, floating through the bright future she was secretly beginning to picture, until she couldn't keep the quiet question inside any longer.

"Maxie?" she murmured softly, her voice a tiny whisper in the dark room. "Hmm?" he responded immediately, his hand pausing its gentle tracing to cup her bare arm, squeezing her gently.

"Would you ever want kids?" she asked. She shut her eyes tight against his chest, a sudden wave of intense vulnerability washing over her, terrified that she had broken the golden rule of romcoms and moved way too fast, way too soon, but Max didn't pull away. 

Instead, he just let out a low, breathless chuckle, his chest expanding under her cheek as he tightened his grip, pulling her even deeper into his side. "Of course," he said smoothly, his tone so steady and sure it felt like the most natural, undeniable truth in the world. "I’d love to have them one day. With you." She smiled in the darkness, her heart swelling with an immense, peaceful contentment that made her eyes sting with happy tears. She was perfectly ready to leave the conversation at that, but Max kept going, his voice quiet, deep, and laced with a rare, soft vulnerability.

"Do you think of names sometimes, too?" Too? The realization that he had already been privately dreaming about their future sent a sweet, electric thrill straight through her veins. She shifted slightly, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at his face in the moonlight. "I mean... I used to keep a handwritten list of them when I was much younger. Just silly daydreaming."

"Yeah?" Max’s eyes crinkled at the corners with a soft, beautiful smile. "Okay, imagine if we had a little girl. What would you name her?" Her heart beat a little faster against her ribs. "I don't know, I always used to love the name Autumn, it's my favorite season, and it sounds gentle."

Max smiled up at her, reaching up with his free hand to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "I love it.” A heavy, intimate beat of silence settled over the room. The ocean waves outside crashed softly against the shoreline below, the rhythm matching the peace in their bedroom.

"And if we had a boy?" Max asked softly, his gaze locked onto hers.

She stared up into those blue eyes, the exact same eyes that had gotten her out of trouble the day they first met in the paddock. The same eyes that pulled her in, kept her close, and allowed her to fall in love with Max Verstappen, the person. Not the racer. The pure, domestic, undeniably sweet Max. The answer was already alive and thriving in her heart.

"Emilio." Max repeated the name instantly, testing the weight of the syllables on his tongue, his slight accent softening the edges of the vowels. "Emilio."

"I've always loved your middle name, Emilian," she whispered, her fingers trailing up his bare chest to rest against the warm line of his jaw.

"And if we ever have a boy, Max, I want him to carry one of my favorite parts of you."

2021

The garage wall monitors blurred into a chaotic wash of flashing colors as the final lap concluded, but the commentator’s voice blared over the headsets with absolute clarity, shaking the very foundations of the room.

“And Max Verstappen wins the World Drivers’ Championship for 2021! He is officially the champion of the world!”

The words sparked a roaring fire in her chest. Seeing his car cross the finish line under the sudden, spectacular eruption of Abu Dhabi fireworks felt less like a sporting victory and more like an emotional explosion. She was the absolute proudest she had ever been in her life. Screaming until her throat burned, she jumped up and down, throwing her arms around mechanics, engineers, and anyone within arm's reach before the team aggressively pushed her through the frantic crowd toward the barriers of parc fermé. She stood at the very front, her hands gripping the metal rail, her heart hammering against her ribs as his car rolled to a stop right in front of her, its tires smoking.

The moment Max killed the engine, he vaulted over the nose of the car in a blur of pure, unadulterated adrenaline lifting his fist up in the air. He threw his helmet aside, his eyes scanning the screaming sea of team shirts until they locked onto hers. He ran straight for her, his face flushed, chest heaving as he crashed against the barrier.

“Did you see me, schat? Did you see me?” he gasped, his voice tight with an overwhelming, ecstatic high. “I saw you, baby,” she whispered fiercely, reaching out to cup his sweat-dampened face. “I am so incredibly proud of you.”

Max gripped her wrists, his eyes blazing with a fierce, magnetic intensity. “I could not have done that without you. I need you to know that. This win is yours too.” Before she could even reply, he leaned over the barrier, caught the back of her neck, and pulled her into a bruising, breathless kiss. In that exact second, surrounded by flashing cameras and thousands of roaring fans, Max was riding the greatest high of his existence, and he was doing it with his greatest love tightly in his arms.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

The real celebration, however, started the moment they finally escaped the paddock. They fled to a secluded villa for the winter holidays, leaving the heavy weight of the world behind. Away from the grid, it was as if they had transformed into completely new people. The intense, laser-focused racing driver vanished, replaced by a version of Max that was lighter, softer, and entirely consumed by her. One evening, they were curled up together on the sofa in front of a roaring fireplace. She was leaning back against his chest, and Max’s arms were wrapped securely around her waist, holding her close against the winter chill.

"You're remarkably quiet tonight, champ," she murmured, turning her head to look up at him. "Still trying to figure out if it was all a dream?" Max let out a low chuckle, pressing a warm kiss just beneath her ear. "No. The racing part feels real," he whispered, his blue eyes softening completely as they locked onto hers. "It’s this part that feels like a dream. Just being here with you."

She shifted in his embrace to face him fully, her fingers coming up to rest against his jaw. Looking up, she stared deep into his eyes. A sudden, quiet wave of intensity washed over her, and she stared at them fiercely, memorizing every fleck of light, terrified of ever forgetting exactly how he looked at her in this moment. "I love you, Max," she whispered, the words carrying the simple, unedited truth of everything she felt.  Max’s breath hitched, a soft, captivated smile breaking across his lips. He pulled her flush against his chest, burying his face in her hair. "I love you," he murmured deeply against her skin. "So much, schat."

Holding each other in the quiet room, they both felt incredibly, impossibly lucky. In a world full of chaos, they had somehow found their perfect peace. The year ended on that spectacular, untouchable high. They were completely consumed by each other, Max riding the wave of his historic championship, and her simply happy being his anchor. 

Everything felt so effortlessly perfect, so beautifully permanent, that neither of them could have possibly known this beautiful peak was actually the beginning of the end.

2022

She had naive hopes for his championship. She thought that once the number one was secured on the nose of his car, the suffocating pressure would ease. She thought he would look at the trophy, realize he was exactly as great as he had always dreamed, and finally let himself breathe. Instead, it did the exact opposite. The taste of victory only made him hungrier, sharper, and completely unreachable.

The shift was subtle during the first quarter of the year. A simulator session running two hours later than usual, a delayed text, a lingering engineering meeting. It was manageable. She was okay with it. She had always known racing was his first love, and she was perfectly content being a close second, but by the second quarter, the manageable hours turned into a ghost town. Max was rarely home. When he was, his body was there, but his mind was still on a track thousands of miles away.

Then came the forgotten dinners. One rainy Tuesday night, she spent hours in the kitchen preparing his absolute favorite meal. She texted him, and he replied almost instantly, promising he was wrapping up and heading out. Seven o’clock became eight. Eight dragged into eleven. The food on the stove grew cold, and a matching, heavy chill settled deep in her bones. When the clock struck midnight and the front door still hadn’t opened, she packed the food away in silence. She went to bed alone, waking up the next morning to the predictable routine: an extravagant bouquet of flowers on the counter and desperate makeup sex.

Eventually, even the intimacy shifted. The slow, reverent lovemaking that she was used to with him was replaced by something quick, mechanical, and entirely one-sided, almost always fueled only by whatever leftover adrenaline he had when he finally crawled into bed. As terrible as it sounded, she let him do it. She leaned into it because, in those brief, breathless minutes, it was the only time she could actually feel him.

It was the only time he was close enough to touch.

In the paddock, it was even worse. He used to linger by her side, but now, he would walk away in the middle of their conversations, his eyes darting toward the telemetry monitors, entirely consumed. He was too hard to catch, too far to reach. She used to have a place beside him, but now, she felt like a ghost haunting the room. 

Then came her birthday. Lily had thrown her a beautiful surprise party at a quiet lounge in town. Alex was there, laughing and keeping the drinks flowing, and for a glorious twenty minutes, Max was present too. He kissed her deeply when she walked in, handed her a stunning bouquet, and wrapped his arms securely around her waist as they blew out the candles on her cake.

“Make a wish, birthday girl,” Lily cheered, snapping a photo. She looked back at Max, whispering, “I already have mine.” But the moment the cake was cut, the illusion shattered. Max retreated to the corner of the booth, his face illuminated by the harsh blue light of his tablet. He spent the rest of the night furiously texting GP about tire degradation.

They drove home in absolute, suffocating silence. Max knew he had messed up. He looked over at her at a red light, his expression softening as he reached across the console to grip her hand, and because she loved him so completely, all it took was that single look from his blue eyes for her defenses to crumble. She let him pull her into his arms that night, but when she woke up the next morning, naked and cold to an empty bed and a text saying he had an early meeting at the factory, something inside her snapped. Never again, she promised herself. If he did it one more time, she was done.

Then came the Japanese Grand Prix. Max clinched his second World Drivers' Championship in the pouring rain of Suzuka. Watching him celebrate on the screen, a heavy, painful knot formed in her stomach. It was a double-edged sword. She was proud, but she knew what this meant, the obsession would only worsen. That night, her phone buzzed. It was a text from him: 'WDC again schat! Can’t wait to come home to you and celebrate our anniversary. I love you.'

A desperate spark of hope flared in her chest. He hadn’t forgotten. Their anniversary was on the day he landed. Maybe this was the turning point. Maybe he was finally ready to come back to her. That hope solidified into sheer, terrified positivity when she looked down at the bathroom counter, staring at a plastic stick with two faint, unmistakable pink lines.

Everything was about to change.

She knew how chaotic his schedule was, so she took the lead. She booked a table at the restaurant they had been promising to visit for two years but never had the time for. She texted him the reservation details, the dress code, and the exact time before he boarded his flight.

His reply was instant: 'Perfect. See you at 8, liefje.'

At seven forty-five, she sat in the candlelight of the restaurant, dressed in her best clothes, the tiny Red-Bull t-shirt tucked safely in her handbag. Eight o'clock came and went. By nine, the bread on the table was stale. By ten, the waiters were offering her sympathetic looks. At twelve, the restaurant closed its doors, and she walked out into the cool night air entirely alone.

She didn't cry on the way home. The tears had run dry somewhere around nine-thirty.

When Max finally walked through the front door of the penthouse, it was nearly four in the morning. The apartment was entirely dark, empty and eerily quiet. She was sitting perfectly still on the edge of the mattress, staring blankly into the empty space of their bedroom. Max kicked off his shoes, looking exhausted but entirely oblivious to the wreckage he had left behind.

"Liefje, why are you awake?" he asked softly, untucking his shirt as if it were just any ordinary day. She didn't answer. She didn't even move.

Max climbed into the bed, stretching his long arms out to pull her back against his chest, but her body remained completely rigid, like a statue. "Are you okay?" he murmured, leaning closer. It was only when his hand brushed her cheek that he felt the cold, dried tracks of her tears. Max instantly sat up, panic bleeding into his voice. "Oh god, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

He genuinely didn't know.

“Max,” she said, her voice completely flat, devoid of any anger. “What day is it?” Max blinked, thrown off by the question. He rubbed his eyes, thinking. “I don’t know... Wednesday? No, Thursday now, I think. The flight was long.” She closed her eyes, the last remaining piece of her heart turning to ash. She shakes her head. “What date is it?”

Max pulled his phone out of his pocket, the screen illuminating his face. He glanced at the top corner, and then, the silence in the room became deafening. The color drained from his face entirely. The phone slipped slightly in his grip. “Oh, god,” Max whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. “Our anniversary. Schat, I—I am so, so sorry. I landed and the team… they had a whole surprise reception waiting at the hangar. Christian, the mechanics, everyone was there to celebrate the title. A few friends came by after, we had drinks, and I just… it completely slipped my mind. I lost track of time, I swear.”

“Let’s end this, Max.” she said softly, the firmness in his voice sent a chill down his spine. She was determined, she was decided. Max froze, his chest hitching. “What? No. No, schat, please. It was one mistake. A stupid, terrible mistake, I know, but it’s just one night. The season is almost over—”

“It wasn’t one mistake, Max,” she interrupted, her voice terrifyingly steady, keeping her cool even as his blood ran cold. “Except it wasn’t one mistake, Max. It hasn’t been five, or even ten. It’s been months and months of forgotten dinners and unsent texts.”

“I’ll fix it,” Max choked out, tears suddenly welling in his striking blue eyes, his voice breaking in a way she had never heard before. He reached out, his hands trembling as he tried to grab her waist. “Please. I will talk to GP, I will cut back on the sim—”

“But you won't,” she said, gently placing her hands over his, stopping him from pulling her close. She looked at him with an immense, heartbreaking love, but her grip was final. She was entirely understanding of who he was, but she had reached her limit. “I am so proud of what you’ve achieved, Max. Truly, but I can't be with someone who would easily trade me for a high-speed chase. Not anymore. Not when I spend almost half the time sitting alone in the dark thinking if you still loved me, if you'd come home to me because you'd miss me, praying that we'd go back to how we used to be. How we were when you were just my Max. Not World Champion Max.” She slowly turned her head, her eyes dropping down to her lap. She looked at her stomach, her hand hovering just an inch above it with so much hidden guilt, so much quiet fear, before she looked back up at his eyes, those damn eyes she had promised herself she would never forget. She slid her legs out from under the covers, stepping onto the cold floor. She didn't look at the closet. She didn't grab a bag. She just stood there in the quiet moonlight, looking down at the boy who had once promised to always come find her if she got lost. 

"I love you," he says desperately. “Don’t go.” Max whispers. Her heart pinches in her chest, forcing her to close her eyes and pray it was over. “I’ll grab my things when you're out.” Max sat frozen in the center of their massive, empty bed, the tears finally spilling over his cheeks, his mouth open but completely silent as the quiet weight of his own world crushed him.

2023 ~ 2025

The year that followed was unbelievably hard.

Packing up her life and leaving Max’s apartment was one thing, but carrying a secret as monumental as the one growing inside her changed everything. She knew she couldn't risk the relentless prying eyes of the media, so she flew across the Atlantic, heading back home to British Columbia. Nested among the quiet, towering pines and the crisp mountain air, she sought the anonymity she desperately needed. She did remarkably well on her own, grounding herself in the stillness of her new life. During the long months of her pregnancy, her family wrapped her in a protective bubble of love and privacy, keeping her safe from the echoes of the racing world, but the real test came when her son was finally born. The moment the news reached the other side of the world, Lily didn't even hesitate. She booked the first available flight out for her best friend. Lily spent the first two months living out of the spare bedroom, navigating the sleepless nights, the endless diaper changes, and the overwhelming rhythm of early motherhood right alongside her.

Alex became a constant, anchoring figure in their lives too. Whenever his brutal schedule allowed for a break between races, he would fly straight out, trading his racing suit for rolled-up sleeves and a baby carrier. He was completely natural with the baby, effortlessly stepping in to give her a chance to sleep, eat, or simply catch her breath. Standing in her quiet kitchen, watching Alex walk around the living room rocking her son to sleep while Lily organized bottles, her heart would swell with a profound, aching gratitude. She was endlessly thankful for both of them, their fierce loyalty was the shield that kept her small, fragile new world safe from the chaotic storm she had left behind.

When the baby turned one, Lily decided it was time for an intervention. She marched into the kitchen, confiscated the baby bottle brush, and looked her dead in the eye. "Come on, just one party," Lily insisted. "It’s in Canada, after the Grand Prix in Montreal. I will fly with you there and back. We’re just having a short, quiet gathering to celebrate Alex’s previous win. You need to breathe." She hesitated, her eyes immediately drifting toward the nursery door. Lily’s expression softened, and she reached out to squeeze her hands. "I know why you're saying no, you know, and I already made sure he won't be there. Not even close. I promise you."

It took a few more rounds of convincing, but once her mother stepped in and practically ordered her out of the house, insisting she would take perfect care of her grandson, she finally relented.

Still, it was the first time she had been apart from her son since the day he was born, and the physical ache of the separation hung heavy in her chest. By the time she and Lily arrived at the venue, her heart was hammering against her ribs. She felt entirely out of place, battling a sudden wave of postpartum insecurity about her dress, desperately missing her baby, and wrestling with a toxic, underlying fear that Max would somehow materialize in the crowd.

"You'll be fine, babe," Lily whispered, leaning in close as they scanned the room. "He won't be here. He's all the way back in Monaco from what I heard." She shook her head, forcing a tight smile. "Wasn't thinking about him." Lily let out a knowing chuckle. "Right. If you say so." She gave her a supportive pat on the shoulder before slipping away to help Alex accommodate their arriving guests.

Left alone near the bar, she tried to smooth down her dress, feeling exposed without the familiar weight of a baby in her arms. "What are you having?" The deep, smooth voice came from right beside her. She blinked, looking over, and instinctively pointed a finger at herself to clarify if he was actually speaking to her. Standing there was a man who was devastatingly handsome, with thick, dark hair and heavy, warm eyes that held a distinct air of easy confidence. "Um... a Virgin Piña Colada," she said, her voice a little small. The man chuckled, a rich, low sound. "Nice choice." He turned to the bartender without missing a beat. "One of those, please. And a bottle of beer for me."

She blinked in surprise at the extra drink. "What are you doing?"

"You are Lily Muni He’s best friend, right?" he asked, leaning one elbow against the bar counter. A genuine laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. "Why do you say her full name like that?"

"I like her name," he replied with a slight shrug and a charming grin. "It is like the best name ever."

She laughed, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to ease. "She is my best friend. Inseparable for life. And you are? An engineer of some sort?"

"Alex’s teammate." Her jaw dropped slightly, a cold splash of familiarity hitting her. "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't know." She apologized quickly, a sharp ache in her chest reminding her of the exact same mistake she had made years ago in a different paddock, with a different driver.

"You didn't have to know me," he said smoothly, completely unbothered. "I was willing to introduce myself anyway." She smiled, but as she looked at the lingering, attentive way he was watching her, she could feel it in her bones. This man was flirting with her, and after everything she had been through, she simply didn't have the energy for the racing world's games.

"Look," she sighed softly, turning to face him fully. "I know you're a nice guy. If Alex likes you, I can trust that you're great. But... I have a son. And I know you have much better options out there than a single mother." The man actually smiled, his dark brows drawing together, but the determined glint in his eyes didn't fade for a second. "Well then you’re in luck, I was actually hoping I’d come here and become a dad. Fate, no?"

The unfiltered, blunt, sheer audacity of the line caught her so off guard that a breathless laugh bubbled up from her chest. He smiled, thoroughly pleased with himself, and extended a broad, warm hand toward her.

"Carlos. Carlos Sainz."

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

From then on, Carlos smoothly integrated himself into her world. He was insistent, persistent, and entirely unbothered by her constant reminders that she didn't need a man or a partner in her life. No matter how many walls she put up, Carlos was simply there, taking every step right alongside her. Eventually, the boundaries blurred into something beautiful. One rainy evening, Carlos slept over for the very first time, a duvet lying out on the living room sofa after an exhausting afternoon playdate with her son. Her little boy had grown so much, and in the sweet, chaotic rhythm of their unconventional life, he had started pointing to Carlos and calling him Papa. It had started as a toddler's mix-up, much like how he called her mother Mom, Lily Auntie Mom, and Alex Uncle Dad. It was a funny, tangled family tree, but looking at them all, she felt incredibly, profoundly lucky.

After checking on her sleeping son, she walked back into the living room, sitting on the edge of the sofa near Carlos’s feet. The apartment was quiet, the amber light of the lamp throwing long shadows across the room. "Why do you stay?" she asked quietly, the defenses she usually wore slipping away, leaving her raw and vulnerable in the dark. "Even when I've rejected you so many times?"

Carlos shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. His dark, warm eyes locked onto hers with absolute sincerity. "Because I love you." She let out a heavy sigh, looking down at her hands, but Carlos quickly soft-corrected himself.

"Not in that way," he cleared up gently, a small, melancholy smile touching his lips. "I think I've moved on from it. I've accepted the fact that you will never see me in a romantic way because your mind and your heart are still with someone else, someone so far away."

She looked up at him, her lips parting to deny it, to protect herself, but the lie died in her throat. She couldn't hide it from him. Carlos’s smile widened, turning fond and completely devoid of bitterness. "And I am okay with that, because I found comfort in you. A kind of pure friendship I've never found anywhere else. And... I've come to love him too." He tilted his head toward the small toddler bed they had dragged right beside the sofa, because the little boy had stubbornly insisted on sleeping right next to his favorite playmate tonight. "I love him as a nephew, as a son, as a little boy I never knew I needed in my life."

Silence settled over the room, heavy and comforting. She leaned her head back against the cushion, right near Carlos's shoulder, her breathing slowing down as her body finally relaxed. "My words still stand from the first time I met you at that bar, you know?" Carlos murmured into the quiet.

She shifted her head, looking up at him. "What do you mean?"

"I've always wanted to be a dad," Carlos said, his eyes fixed on the peaceful, rise-and-fall chest of the sleeping two-year-old. "And for that little boy over there, I am prepared to be."

A painful, beautiful ache bloomed in her chest. In that exact moment, staring at the devastatingly good, fiercely loyal man beside her, a desperate thought echoed in her mind: Why couldn't she just love Carlos? Why couldn't she just close her eyes, let go of the past, and convince herself that he was the perfect man for her? Why, even after all this time, after all the distance and the heartbreak, was her soul still fiercely yearning for someone else? Someone who didn't even know their son existed, miles away, racing across the world.

2026

Her son had always been drawn to Formula 1. 

With both Alex and Carlos spoiling him with every miniature die-cast model car and every single Williams kit they could find, the little boy was bound to be hooked. At first, it used to be just about the fast cars, regardless of the team or the color, he simply loved watching the machines blur across the television screen. For months, Alex and Carlos had playfully coaxed him, trying to bribe the toddler into choosing one of them as his absolute favorite. What they absolutely didn't expect was for his first real favorite to be someone else entirely.

“Du du du du! Max Verstappen!” the little boy would sing, bouncing off the living room walls in a miniature Verstappen shirt that her grandparents had bought him. Initially, Alex and Carlos were genuinely bummed, poutingly complaining about their wasted efforts, but they quickly turned it into a relentless teasing game directed at her. They laughed about how a toddler could love a driver without ever meeting him, but deep down, she knew it was bound to happen, terrifyingly, inevitably so. A quiet ache settling in her chest. 

Blood always recognizes blood.

It was bad enough that she had to watch Max on television 24/7 on a loop, hearing that viral song echoed by her toddler’s high-pitched voice. Seeing his face through a screen and hearing that familiar, blunt Dutch accent again made her feel a tidal wave of emotions she had spent years trying to drown. It grew even more complicated when her son requested, and successfully manipulated both his Papa Carlos and Uncle Dad Alex into buying him merchandise and posters of his father's face to line his bedroom walls.

So now that the idea of actually attending a race was finally placed on the table, her entire body froze. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Li,” she whispered, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the fabric of her jeans as she stared down at the two paddock passes Carlos had left on the kitchen counter.

“Come on,” Lily urged gently, reaching out to stop her hands from shaking. “We’ll be locked away in the hospitality unit all day. No one from the public or the media will be able to get to us there. We can cross the paddock to the garage only when we’re completely sure everyone is already locked in their cars, out on track. There’s zero chance of you bumping into…” Lily’s voice trailed off as they both looked over at the now three-year-old boy. He was sprinting around the living room with Alex and Carlos chasing after him, his face lit up with pure, untainted joy, entirely enclosed in his miniature Verstappen racing suit.

She hesitated, the heavy, suffocating knot tightening in her stomach, but as she watched her son's laughter echo through the house, she reminded herself that everything she did was for his happiness. With a deep breath, she reluctantly swallowed her fear. “Fine.”

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

The day of the race arrived with a sky full of nerves, because of the logistics, she and her son stayed tucked away in a private van arranged by Williams in the restricted parking lot, while Alex and Lily went in first to check the coast. Sitting in the backseat, she found herself brushing her hair over and over again, her eyes darting anxiously to her reflection in the rearview mirror every few seconds. “I hope we get to see Mr. Max, Mom! I wanna show him my suit!” the little boy chirped, jumping up and down on the leather seat before scrambling to either side of the big van to peek through the tinted windows.

“He might be very busy today, honey,” she said softly, her voice straining to stay even as she adjusted his collar. “But we can always visit Uncle Dad and Papa and see their garage, okay?” Finally, her phone buzzed with the go-signal text from Lily: Drivers have just been called to the track for the pre-race parade. The paddock is clear.

Relieved that there was absolutely no chance of seeing him, they finally stepped out of the van and made their way into the high-security zone. They reached the hospitality unit safely, but as fate would have it, the Red Bull energy station was positioned directly across the lane from theirs. Fun, she thought ironically, trying not to stare at the massive blue-and-red structure. It was quite chilly out, so she had paired a simple blue tank top with a thick white jacket, pulling the fabric tightly around herself as she stood outside the unit, deeply engrossed in a quiet conversation with Lily.

Unbeknownst to her, a late-running driver was suddenly walking down the paddock lane toward his team's entrance. With the quick, split-second decision-making only a three-year-old could possess, her son spotted the familiar racing suit. Before Lily or she could even react, the little boy’s eyes went wide. He broke away from her side, his small light-up sneakers clicking loudly against the paddock asphalt as he darted straight toward the approaching figure.

“Mr. Max! Mr. Max!” the boy squealed at the top of his lungs, running with reckless abandon. Max Verstappen, completely focused on the impending race and rushing to catch up with his engineers, didn't see the tiny blur of a child until it was too late. The toddler crashed directly into the back of his fireproof-clad legs, wrapping his small arms tightly around Max's knees in a fierce, unyielding hug.

“Oh, I love you, Mr. Max!” the little boy beamed, burying his face right into the fabric of the Red Bull suit. Max stumbled forward a step, completely shocked by the sudden weight around his knees. He blinked, looking down in sheer bewilderment, but the moment his gaze registered the tiny, miniature version of his own racing suit hugging his leg, a warm, booming laugh burst from his chest. “Hey, I love you too, buddy! What’s your name?” Max asked, a wide grin splitting his face as he bent down to the toddler’s level.

But the moment the little boy tilted his head back, the words died instantly in Max’s mouth. He was suddenly staring into a face that was a devastatingly identical mirror of his own. The same golden-brown hair, the exact same nose, and those goddamn, unmistakable blue eyes. “Emilio!” the boy chirped proudly, bouncing on his heels. Max’s heart started booming against his ribs, a violent, deafening rhythm that made his head spin. Emilio? The breath was completely knocked out of his lungs. The world faded into white noise. It can’t be. It’s impossible.

Meanwhile, inside the Williams hospitality unit, she was completely losing her mind. A cold, suffocating panic had seized her chest the exact second she realized her side was empty. “Emilio? Lio, honey, where are you?!” she cried out, her voice cracking as she began sprinting through the hospitality lounge. Lily was running in the exact opposite direction, frantically checking behind couches and under tables. Carlos walked through the entrance just then, laughing about a joke from the garage, but he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her face. “Hey, hey, what’s going on? What happened?”

“Emilio—I can't find him, Carlos! He’s gone!” The blood drained from Carlos’s face in a fraction of a second. Without a word, he whirled around and slammed his weight against the glass doors, sprinting straight out into the open lane. “Emilio!” Carlos’s voice boomed across the entire paddock, raw and commanding, instantly drawing sharp looks from mechanics and team principals alike. “Emilio!” he roared again.

Luckily, the sharp, authoritative voice pierced through the ambient noise of the track, and the little boy’s ears perked up. “Papa! Papa!” Emilio shouted back, his face lighting up. He broke away from Max, who was still frozen on his knees, entirely too shocked and paralyzed to even react as the little boy ran toward the other driver. “¡Ay dios mío, mi amor!” Carlos breathed, dropping to his knees and scooping the toddler up into his arms with a desperation that shook his broad shoulders. He held him flat against his chest, closing his eyes tightly. “We were so worried about you. Don't ever do that again.”

“I just met Mr. Max! He said he loves me!” Emilio beamed, entirely oblivious to the wreckage around him, pointing a tiny finger back toward the Red Bull energy station. A heavy, dark wave of worry washed over Carlos. He slowly looks past the toddler's shoulder to meet the gaze of the man still kneeling on the asphalt. Max was staring back at him, his face completely pale, his eyes wide and hollow. He looked like he had just seen a ghost.

Before another word could be exchanged, the sound of frantic footsteps echoed behind them. She came bursting out of the Williams unit with Lily trailing close behind. “Oh, Emilio, honey! You scared Mommy so much,” she sobbed, rushing forward and practically ripping the boy out of Carlos’s arms, burying her face into his tiny neck as tears finally spilled over her cheeks.

Max wanted to scream. He wanted to run forward, to grab her by the shoulders, to demand answers to the million suffocating questions tearing through his brain, but his limbs felt like poured concrete. He was entirely frozen to the spot, his chest heaving under his race suit. She felt the heavy weight of his gaze, and her eyes briefly flicked over to see Max kneeling just a few feet away, but right now, her heart was too battered and her mind was too consumed by the sheer terror of almost losing her son to even care about the past. She tightly shielded Emilio's head with her hand, turning her back to him.

“Let’s go back inside,” Lily said quickly, her tone sharp and protective as she shot a heavy, warning look at Carlos.

Carlos caught the signal instantly. He glanced back at Max one last time, a silent, heavy look of absolute confirmation, before turning his back. Together, Carlos and Lily flanked her, securely escorting the mother and son back into the privacy of the suite, leaving Max alone in the middle of the paddock as his entire world fractured in complete silence.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

Max walked back to his garage like a shell of a man, his legs moving entirely on autopilot. Mechanics were bustling around him, engineers were thrusting data sheets into his peripheral vision, and Christian was asking him a question about the track temperature, but the noise of the paddock was just muffled, ambient static.

All he could see was the little boy's face. And her.

The love of his life. The person he had spent two agonizing years yearning for, looking for, missing, and desperately loving from afar, it was her, unmistakably, and beside her was a little boy so completely identical to him that it would be a flat-out lie to pretend he didn't know the truth. Emilio. The name they had chosen together in the quiet dark of a Monaco bedroom, under the silvery moonlight, when they were dreaming of a future that felt so certain, but the realization didn't bring him peace; it brought a suffocating, violent wave of agony. Why was his son calling Carlos Papa? Why was Carlos the one the little boy ran to? Why was Carlos the one holding her, shielding her, doing everything Max had ever wanted to do in that moment? The jealousy and regret burned hot in his throat. 

He wanted so badly to rip his race suit off, march across the paddock, and demand his family back, but he had a race to finish. The grid walk was starting. He had to get into the car. Maybe after, he promised himself, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his helmet. After.

Back in the Williams hospitality unit, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Lily had quickly taken a distracted Emilio up to the private upstairs office with a view of the track, making sure to firmly click the lock into place behind them. It left just her and Carlos standing in the quiet of the lower room.

Her hands were visibly shaking, the adrenaline of the paddock encounter still racing through her veins. Carlos stepped close, his heavy, warm eyes filled with an intense, protective focus. "What do you want to do? Do you want to talk to him? Do you want me to kick him in the nards? What? Just tell me." A breathless, panicked chuckle slipped past her lips despite the terror gripping her chest. She reached out, squeezing Carlos’s large hands tightly, anchoring herself to his warmth. "Nothing, it’s just that he saw him, Carlos. He saw Emilio. I'm scared."

"I'm here," Carlos said instantly, his grip tightening around hers without a second thought. "You want me to just bail? I can. I swear, I'll walk away from the car right now and just hold you right here." Oh, Carlos. The sheer, unyielding loyalty of the man made her heart ache with gratitude. She forced a soft smile, shaking her head. "No. No, I want you to win. Win for Lio. He's been so excited all week to see you and Alex race. I'll be okay."

Carlos looked down at her, his brow furrowing with deep, lingering hesitation. "Are you sure?" he asked again, searching her face for any sign of cracking. "I've got it," she said, her voice finding a steady, quiet strength she didn't know she still possessed. "Whatever happens next, I'll deal with it."

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

When they finally moved down into the Williams garage to watch the race, she focused entirely on the two cars she knew. Emilio, however, was on cloud nine. Perched on a high stool with noise-canceling headphones over his ears, he was jumping and screaming every single time Max, or Alex, or Carlos flashed across the broadcast screens.

When the final lap concluded and the checkered flag waved, Max crossed the line first to take P1. For a fraction of a second, her heart jumped right out of her chest, a sudden, violent echo of the exact same pride she had felt all those years ago, but the bittersweet ache was quickly washed over by pure joy as Carlos brought his car home in P2, with Alex crossing right behind him to secure a massive P3 podium.

The garage erupted. Lily was jumping up and down, holding Emilio’s hands as the toddler bounced on his heels. “Yay! Go Papa! Go Uncle Dad! Gooooo Max!” the boy yelled, his voice straining with pure excitement. Before she could even process, the team was ushering them out of the garage. They were pushed straight toward the barriers of parc fermé just as the top three cars rolled into their designated slots. The moment Alex climbed out of his car, he ran straight into Lily's arms, the mechanics surrounding them in a chaotic wall of celebration. Carlos killed his engine right in front of them and jogged straight over to the metal rail, his face flushed with sweat and a massive, bright grin splitting his features. Without a word, he reached over the barrier, pulled Emilio right out of her arms, and hoisted the little boy high into the air.

“You won, Papa! You won!” Emilio screamed, his little light-up sneakers kicking out in pure excitement. When Carlos finally brought the boy back down, cradling him securely against his chest, she stepped forward with a warm, genuine smile. She wrapped her arms around Carlos's shoulders, hugging him tight over the metal rail. “Congrats, Mr. Smooth Operator,” she teased softly, her voice full of affection for the man who had protected them for so long. Carlos pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to the top of Emilio's head before leaning his forehead against hers for a brief, grounded second of gratitude.

All of this unraveled directly in front of Max’s eyes.

He was standing just a few meters away by the P1 board, a water bottle gripped tightly in his hand. What should have been a glorious, hard-fought victory instantly turned incredibly bitter at the sight. The roaring crowd and the flashing cameras faded into the background as he watched another man hold his son, another man comforted his greatest love, and another man received the exact embrace he had spent two years yearning for. Max took a desperate step forward, the water bottle slipping from his fingers as he tried to catch her eye, to make his legs move faster, to call out her name over the noise of the podium track, but before he could even get close, she gently took Emilio back from Carlos, turned her head away from the Red Bull car, and began walking back toward the hospitality unit, leaving Max standing in the heat of his victory, entirely frozen and alone.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

Emilio had fallen asleep in her arms while they waited for the boys to finish their media duties. She sat quietly in the lounge, cradling his small, heavy body against her chest, the soft rise and fall of his breathing the only thing keeping her grounded. The door opened and Carlos walked in, a tired but bright smile instantly gracing his features the moment he saw them. "Ready to go?" She nodded softly. Carlos stepped forward, carefully shifting Emilio into his own arms. The sleeping toddler didn't even wake, instinctively nuzzling his face deep into Carlos’s chest, his small hands gripping the fabric of his team shirt. She picked up her bag from the floor, smoothing down her jacket, and walked out of the hospitality unit side-by-side with him.

Just before they could cross the paddock gates to head toward the parking lot, she heard it. 

Someone called her name.

A sharp, breathless shout over the fading noise of the track. Without even looking, she knew exactly who it was. The voice slicing straight through the cool evening air. She stopped, completely frozen in her tracks, the breath catching painfully in her throat. Carlos paused beside her, his body instantly tensing. He looked down at her, trying to keep his composure so he wouldn't wake the little boy cradled against his shoulder.

Behind them, Max called her name again. It was closer this time.  Her heart hammered violently against her ribs, a deafening drumbeat that made her dizzy. She swallowed hard, staring at the exit gates just a few feet away. "Take Lio to the car," she whispered to Carlos, her voice tight. "I'll follow."

Carlos looked at her, his dark eyes filled with deep, protective worry. "You, sure?" he whispered back. She nodded, forcing her hands to stop shaking.

"I'll be right outside if you need me," Carlos said, his voice firm and reassuring. "Just call."

She watched them leave, watching the way Carlos securely shielded her son's head as they passed through the turnstiles. The moment they disappeared from view, she finally turned around. She didn't say anything. She just stood there, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her jacket. Max was standing a mere two feet away. He had changed out of his race suit into a team polo, but he looked completely unraveled. His hair was messy, his chest was heaving, and the fierce, untouchable posture of a world champion was entirely gone.

He called her name again. "Please look at me," Max whispered, his voice trembling so violently it shocked her. She kept her gaze firmly anchored to the ground, staring at the scuffed leather of his trainers. 

No. No, no, no.

"Please," Max breathed, the sound of it thick with a desperate, heavy ache. When she still didn't move, Max finally gathered all the courage left in his chest. Trembling, he reached out, his long fingers gently placing themselves beneath her chin.

Don't look at him. Don't fall for it.

His touch was incredibly soft, almost reverent, as he slowly, deliberately tilted her head up.

Please, don't.

Then her chin rose, the movement staggered and heavy, until she could no longer fight the gravity of him. Her gaze lifted, and she was looking at him. Those same striking blue eyes were swimming with unshed tears, completely shattered as he looked down at her.

"Schat," he choked out.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

©️𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒔

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You’d always known the cats would be the end of you.

Not in a dramatic, life‑threatening way — more in the “death by a thousand tiny inconveniences” way. Jimmy knocking your water glass over at 3 a.m. Sassy screaming at shadows. Jimmy deciding your laptop keyboard was the perfect place to nap. Sassy stealing socks like she was building a nest for winter.

But this?

This was a new level.

You were standing in the hallway of the Monaco apartment, barefoot, hair in a messy bun, wearing one of Max’s oversized Red Bull shirts, staring at the closed door of the guest room like it had personally wronged you.

Because it had.

Or rather, the cats had.

Inside that room — behind that stubborn, jammed, absolutely immovable door — were Jimmy, Sassy… and your phone.

You’d only stepped in for a second. One second. You’d set your phone down on the dresser, turned to leave, and the cats — your beloved, furry children — had launched themselves at the door like tiny furry linebackers. The latch had clicked. The handle had jammed.

And now you were locked out of your own room.

You pressed your forehead to the door. “Guys. Please. I’m begging.”

A muffled meow answered. Jimmy. Cheerful. Completely unbothered.

Of course he was.

You groaned and pushed off the door just as you heard footsteps behind you.

“What happened now?” Max’s voice floated down the hallway, warm and amused in that way that said he already knew it was cat‑related.

You turned, arms crossed. “Your children locked themselves in the guest room.”

He blinked. “My children?”

“Yes. Yours. I’m disowning them.”

Max snorted, stepping closer. He was still in his training clothes, hair damp from a shower, smelling faintly of soap and that cologne you loved. “Let me guess,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “Jimmy ran at the door like a maniac.”

“And Sassy helped,” you added. “I heard her battle cry.”

Max laughed — that soft, warm laugh that always made your chest loosen. “Okay, let’s see.”

He tried the handle. It didn’t budge.

He tried again, harder.

Nothing.

He leaned his forehead against the door, mirroring what you’d done moments earlier. “You two are unbelievable,” he muttered at the wood.

A tiny paw batted at the gap under the door.

Sassy. The traitor.

Max sighed and straightened. “Alright. I’ll get the toolbox.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“The toolbox,” he repeated, already walking away. “I’m not leaving them in there.”

You followed him into the storage closet. “Max, you are not breaking down a door.”

He rummaged through a shelf. “I’m not breaking it down. I’m… persuading it.”

“That’s worse.”

He turned, holding a hammer like it was Excalibur. “This will work.”

You stared at him. “Max. That’s a hammer.”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to break the door.”

“No,” he said, walking past you with the confidence of a man who absolutely was going to break the door. “I’m going to fix the door.”

You trailed after him, muttering, “You’re going to fix it by destroying it.”

He ignored you.

Back at the door, he knelt down, inspecting the hinges like he was analyzing a race car. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him.

“You know,” you said, “normal people call a locksmith.”

He glanced up at you. “Normal people don’t have Jimmy and Sassy.”

Fair point.

He wedged the hammer under the hinge pin and tapped it. The metal clinked, shifted, and popped free.

You blinked. “Okay… that was actually impressive.”

He grinned. “Told you.”

He moved to the second hinge. Another tap. Another pop.

Then he stood, bracing himself. “Ready?”

“For what?”

He nudged the door with his shoulder.

It didn’t move.

He nudged harder.

Still nothing.

You raised an eyebrow. “Your persuasion technique isn’t working.”

Max huffed, stepped back, and — with the determination of a man who had once overtaken three cars in a single corner — slammed his shoulder into the door.

The entire frame shuddered.

The door burst inward.

And two cats shot out like furry missiles.

Jimmy launched himself directly at Max’s chest, claws out in excitement. Max caught him with a startled laugh, stumbling back.

Sassy darted between your legs, tail puffed up like she’d survived a war.

You stared at the now‑crooked door hanging off one hinge. “Max.”

He looked up from where he was holding Jimmy like a baby. “Yes?”

“You broke the door.”

He shrugged. “But we saved them.”

Jimmy purred loudly, rubbing his face against Max’s chin like he was congratulating him for his heroic act.

You sighed, but your heart softened. “You’re ridiculous.”

Max set Jimmy down and stepped toward you, looping his arms around your waist. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

He kissed your forehead. “You love them too.”

You glanced at Sassy, who was now chewing on the corner of a cardboard box like she hadn’t just caused a household crisis. “I tolerate them.”

Max laughed, pulling you closer. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “You’re fixing the door tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

“With actual tools.”

“Yes.”

“And no more hammer heroics.”

He hesitated. “I make no promises.”

You swatted his arm, and he grinned, leaning down to kiss you properly — slow, warm, grounding. The kind of kiss that made the chaos fade into something soft and manageable.

When he pulled back, he brushed his thumb over your cheek. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… mildly traumatized.”

He laughed again, and you felt it rumble through his chest. “Come on,” he said, taking your hand. “Let’s get them some treats. They’ve had a stressful day.”

You stared at him. “They locked themselves in the room.”

“Yes,” he said, completely serious. “Very stressful.”

You rolled your eyes but followed him to the kitchen, where Jimmy immediately leapt onto the counter and Sassy began meowing like she hadn’t eaten in twelve years.

Max opened the treat jar, shaking it. “Alright, chaos brigade. Sit.”

Jimmy sat instantly.

Sassy stared at him like he’d personally offended her.

Max sighed. “Close enough.”

He handed them each a treat, then leaned against the counter beside you. “You know,” he said, nudging your shoulder, “one day we’ll look back on this and laugh.”

“One day,” you agreed. “Not today.”

He smirked. “You’re still mad.”

“I’m not mad,” you said. “I’m… resigned.”

“To what?”

“To the fact that our life is just going to be like this forever.”

Max wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into his side. “Yeah,” he said softly. “But it’s our chaos.”

You looked up at him, and the warmth in his eyes made your chest tighten in that familiar, stupidly soft way.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “It is.”

Jimmy head‑butted your ankle.

Sassy began screaming at the fridge.

Max kissed your temple.

And despite the broken door, the hammer on the floor, and the two furry agents of chaos plotting their next disaster… You wouldn’t have changed a thing.

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

At this point he had probably read things that would get normal people investigated. But he was still your number one fan.

Max was genuinely invested in every single thing you wrote because you constantly dragged him into the creative process.

“Do you think it would be more horrifying if I peel his skin off,” you asked one evening while typing on your laptop, “or if I leave him physically untouched but make him slowly realize somebody has been replacing parts of his body while he sleeps?”

Max looked up from the manuscript he was reading.

“The second one.”

You blinked.

“Really?”

“Yeah, because psychological horror stays with people longer.”

You stared at him for a second before grinning proudly.

“See? This is why I keep you around.”

And somehow, every time you opened your mouth, his answers became even more concerning.

At first he used to hesitate.

Now? Now he was brainstorming torture methods with you over breakfast while casually drinking coffee.

Which was honestly insane considering the first time he met you, you looked like the least threatening person alive.

Soft dresses. Little rings on your fingers. Glossy lips and the sweetest smile he had ever seen.

You spoke softly, laughed quietly, and looked more like a fairy from a children’s movie than someone capable of writing the most disturbing horror novels of the decade.

So when you shyly mentioned during one of your first dates that you were an author, Max expected romance. Maybe fantasy.

Instead he went and bought one of your books out of curiosity, and stayed awake until four in the morning absolutely traumatized.

Nobody could have prepared him for what he read.

The imagery. The psychological horror. The absolutely unhinged plot twists.

Halfway through the book he literally had to put it down and stare at the wall for a moment because there was no way the sweet girl who smiled at strangers and wore flower clips in her hair had written something this disturbing.

Your appearance simply didn’t match what you wrote. And the internet became obsessed with that exact contrast.

Since then every draft, every manuscript, every half-finished chapter passed through Max’s hands first.

Sometimes you even woke him up in the middle of the night just to ask for advice.

“Max,” you whispered one night while gently shaking his shoulder.

He groaned sleepily. “What?”

“If the protagonist hears scratching inside the walls for weeks before discovering what’s there, is that scarier than immediate silence?”

“…Why are you like this?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“The scratching.”

“Thank you, baby.”

And despite occasionally being genuinely terrified by whatever was happening inside your brain, Max loved every part of it.

He loved how passionate you got when talking about symbolism. How your eyes lit up while explaining tension and pacing. How excited you became after finally figuring out the perfect ending to destroy your readers emotionally.

He was hopelessly in love with you. So in the end, there was only one thing left to do. He asked you to marry him.

And the proposal was the most beautiful thing you could have imagined.

Soft lights, flowers everywhere, Max nervously holding your hands while asking you to spend the rest of your life with him.

And somehow the timing perfectly matched the release of your newest book, so the two of you decided to disappear together for a little while before the Formula One season started again.

A "small honeymoon" before racing took over his schedule once more.

Which meant poor Max once again had to hear every horrifying idea your brain created while relaxing peacefully somewhere romantic.

At this point, whenever he saw you approaching him with your laptop in hand, he already knew.

“You need help planning another torture murder?” he asked casually from the hotel bed.

You gasped dramatically. “How did you know?”

“What creature is it this time?”

“That obvious?”

But that was his way of loving you. Of supporting you completely, even when your search history probably looked deeply concerning.

Eventually the honeymoon ended and the F1 season began, and for the first time in a while you decided to travel with him again.

You had been so busy with the new book, editorial meetings, interviews and publication work that you barely attended races in the last year.

Max was beyond happy to have you back in the paddock with him. He loved showing you off.

Proud that the beautiful girl hiding shyly behind his shoulder whenever he introduced her to someone was also the brilliant author currently terrifying millions of readers worldwide.

“Have you met my fiancée?” he’d say with the biggest smile. “She’s the talented one between us.”

And every single time you’d immediately grow shy and half-hide behind him while smiling politely.

Which made the contrast even funnier considering what you wrote.

Unfortunately for Max, media duties still existed.

And if there was one thing he hated more than anything, it was this media duties.

Max sat down for yet another interview, already looking mildly annoyed before it had even started.

The interviewer smiled. “So first of all, congratulations on the engagement.”

“Thank you,” Max nodded.

“And your fiancée just released her new book, right? Which apparently is terrifying half the internet right now.”

The interviewer laughed nervously. “I’m halfway through her newest book and I’m absolutely terrified. It’s incredible, but horrifying at the same time. Aren’t you scared sleeping in the same bed as her? Do you sleep with one eye open?”

Max snorted softly.

“No. She’s the sweetest person ever.” Then with obvious pride: “And the most talented.”

“Fans are obsessed with the contrast though,” the interviewer said with a laugh. “Because your fiancée genuinely looks too sweet to write something like that.”

Even now, standing on the other side of the paddock in a pastel outfit with your hair moving slightly in the wind.

You were smiling politely at someone from the team, hands hidden inside the sleeves of his hoodie you had stolen earlier that morning.

The interviewer pointed toward you dramatically. “Look at her! That’s not the face of someone writing psychological torture scenes.”

Max laughed again, already knowing where this conversation was going.

“When I first read one of her books,” he admitted, “I genuinely had to stop for a moment because I couldn’t believe SHE wrote that.”

“And now imagine the fans,” the interviewer continued. “Because online people are like: ‘there’s no way this sweet fairy-looking girl wrote the most horrifying chapter I’ve ever read in my life.’”

“That’s basically the reaction every time,” Max nodded.

“She is my sunshine.”

“I think that’s why people are so fascinated by her honestly,” the interviewer said. “Because usually horror authors have this mysterious dark aesthetic or whatever and then your fiancée shows up looking like sunshine.”

“Y/N?”

Victoria was swirling wine in her glass, one leg crossed over the other, gaze turned to you.

“You won’t be able to fly anymore soon, right? Not in the last few months of pregnancy. At least that’s what my doctor told me when I was pregnant with my first.”

You gave her a polite nod. “Yeah, I know.”

“Well,” she continued, her mouth in a frown, “if the baby comes early and Max is in, like, Japan or Canada, he might not make it for the birth. That must suck.”

You glanced at Max to your right, expecting… you don’t know. A reassuring smile. A soft squeeze of your hand.

Instead, he shrugged and muttered, “Doesn’t really matter. Even if I were somewhere in Europe I wouldn’t come anyway.”

Silence.

Your fork dropped onto the plate with a sharp clink.

“What do you mean you wouldn’t come?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. Little grapefruit picked this moment to assault your ribs with some more kicks.

Max didn’t look up. “You know how it is, Liefje. I can’t just drop everything and quit the race. You know how it works.” He shrugged.

The words hit like a slap. Your stomach twisted - this time not from your little baby but from rage, from heartbreak, from disbelief. For a second you just stared at him, as if waiting for him to correct himself, to laugh, to say it was a bad joke.

But he didn’t.

And something in you shifted.

You pushed your chair back and stood slowly. Your heart thundered in your chest. Your hand instinctively hovered over your bump, grounding you, steadying you.

For a moment, your mind flickered through everything you had never said out loud. The canceled plans because he was “too tired from training.” The dinners you ate alone because he was still at the simulator. The birthdays postponed, the holidays reshuffled, your life quietly rearranged around a schedule you were never part of deciding.

You remembered sitting in empty hotel rooms after races, scrolling through photos of him celebrating on podiums. You remembered telling yourself it was okay, because you loved him. Because you chose him. Because that’s what love meant, right? Adjusting. Making space. Not being difficult.

And you had done it. Over and over again.

Because you loved him.

But then your gaze dropped to your stomach, so soft and real and alive, and something in that love changed shape. It was sharper and fiercer. Less willing to bend.

“I always made space for you,” you said quietly at first, almost to yourself. Then louder, steadier. “I moved my entire life around you, Max. I stopped complaining. I stopped asking for things I knew you couldn’t give me.”

Your voice trembled, but you didn’t stop.

“I sat in the background of your life and told myself it was enough, because I loved you. Because I was proud of you even when I was lonely as hell.”

You swallowed hard, your hands curling slightly at your sides.

“But this isn’t a race weekend you can reschedule. This isn’t a podium you can watch on replay.”

Your breath shook.

“This is our child.”

Silence pressed heavy against the table. Even the distant sounds from the marina seemed to fade.

“And I need you to understand something,” you continued, voice breaking now but refusing to fall apart. “I’ve spent years putting you first. Years. And I did it because I loved you.”

A pause.

Your eyes burned.

“But I love this baby more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.”

Max looked at you, confused, maybe eben panicked. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that I have spent years watching you chase podiums while I stood in the shadows. I smiled for the cameras, kept my mouth shut, played the good girlfriend. I let you make racing your priority, even when it hurt.”

He opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak. Your vision tunneled and all you could hear were five words: You know how it works.

“I cried in hotel bathrooms. In closets in your team’s garage. In fucking closets, Max, so no one would see me fall apart. Because I knew, I knew that if I ever asked you to choose, it would never be me.”

His jaw clenched. “This isn’t fair. You knew what this life was.”

“I did. And I lived with it. I supported you even when it shattered me. But this - ” You placed a hand on your belly. “This is different.”

He shook his head slightly. “You can’t ask me to leave mid-season, miss a race-”

“I’m not asking you to quit! I’m asking you to show up for your child.”

Then your voice dropped, and you looked him dead in the eyes.

“Wenn du glaubst, dass eine Trophäe wichtiger ist als dein eigenes Kind, dann kenn ich dich überhaupt nicht. Dann bist du nicht der Mann, den ich liebe.”

His expression cracked for just a second. A flicker of pain, maybe regret. You speaking German has never been a good sign.

But then he did what he always did when cornered, he let pride win.

“I’m doing this for our future. For this kid’s future. You think missing a birth is the end of the world? Plenty of fathers do.”

You laughed bitterly. “And plenty of fathers fuck up their kids.”

He shook his head. “Don’t do this,” he said tightly.

You stepped back from him, not believing what was happening.

You turned and walked out, your vision blurred with tears. Behind you, no one said a word. Not Victoria. Not Jos. Not even Max. Only the sound of the waves hitting the marina and seagulls crying.

And that silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

btw, I know Max speaks Dutch primarly but y/n is German

Y/n stirs as she feels Max's body slide into bed with her, a small smile on her lips as she feels him pulling her backwards into himself and his hands sliding over her body before he sighs and takes it home.

There's part of y/n that is still confused why Max treats her clit like a calming device for himself but he seems to just touch the bundle of nerves for a casual charge of his own inner peace. Not that she's ever fought him on it. It's all just part of their dynamic.

"Hi, baby." Max sighs seeing her look at him.

"Hi." Y/n whispers sleepily before she nuzzles into him.

Despite the stimulation of his fingers resting on her clit. Y/n falls asleep, unbothered by the feeling.

Max on the other hand, he watches her. As he always does, his hand laid in her warmest place without actually being inside her. He presses her face into her neck and smiles to himself.

This is exactly how he wants to be every time he comes home. He wants y/n there for him.

They stay there for hours, just completely settled in together and honestly Max is happier here like this than he is anywhere else.

-

Y/n loves nothing more than killing time on Max's yacht in the summer break in Monaco. Max prefers coming back here with him having lived here for long enough that it to feel more like home than anywhere else.

She's been lying out at the front of the yacht, relishing in the suns heat as it tries to fry her SPF soaked skin. Something Max has been regularly topping up like the well trained boyfriend he is. Plus he uses any excuse to touch her.

At the moment her leg is bent so he can lie his head under it. Not disturb the sun soaking by acting as a block, but it's his hand resting under the material of her bikini bottoms, fingers pressed to her clit. Seeking out that touch like he's attached to her by it.

"Are you ok down there?" Y/n asks reaching down and gently running her hand through his hair that's annoyingly freshly cut and shorter than she would've liked.

Max also has fairly slow growing hair so she doesn't get the knowledge that in a week it'll be back to the best length.

"I'm better than ever." Max confirms sounding half asleep as he speak.

"Good." Y/n smiles while relaxing back into the cushioned surface while she feels Max turn his head to kiss the back of her thigh, that being the closest skin he can access without completely moving his position.

"I love you."

"I love you too, Maxie." Y/n laughs lightly.

-

Another bad weekend in that Red Bull is another bad mood that Max wants to get himself out of.

Y/n is the only answer for that. Y/n, home and their babies. The cats and dog. But what he really wants is just one thing.

He arrives at his jet after y/n with the two having travelled from the track separately, much to Max's annoyance. He's wanted his hands on her right after the race or at the very least after being forced to do media.

She's got her kindle in her lap when he spots her and she looks at im with a smile before shuffling to make space for him and lifts the blanket for him to join her.

"It's not as bad as you think you know." Y/n states softly but they both know she's saying it just to try and ease his annoyance. Sometimes it works, today it definitely has not. Instead he just slides his arms around her body, holding her tight enough that if they were at an earlier point in their relationship, she might actually think he's trying to suffocate her.

Once the jet takes off, Max loosens around her but only so his hand can stray down between her legs and she smiles as his hand finds it's home. Or at least what seems to be it's home and he relaxes down around her.

It might just be one of the weirdest comforts a man could have, but given the amount of men she's been with that couldn't find her clit if she gave them a damn map and put a direct spotlight on it, she's not all that uncomfortable or mad.

"Have you eaten?" Y/n asks eventually as she pulls open the plastic container of fruit she'd swiped on her way out of the paddock. It's a mixture of different options and she suspected that Max maybe hadn't grabbed anything in the haste of his exit.

So while Max's hands are occupied she feeds him some of the fruit, giving a few pieces to herself.

"Better?"

"Better now we have a month off and I can race in another series." Max comments bitterly around chewing on a piece of kiwi. "You make everything better like this, baby."

Y/n grins at him before kissing him softly letting the taste of the fruit they'd been eating mix a little between them before she rolls back and sighs softly.

"It might not be perfect in F1, but you know you're the best thing in my life." Y/n states making Max look up at her with a small shine in his eyes, those teeth flashing at her as he smiles at her. "I love you, Maxie. Your very unique love language and all."

"What you don't like it?" Max questions mockingly, he very obviousy knowing that she has no issue with it.

"I like everything you do, Max. It's one of my greatest flaws."

You never expected the dread to hit like this, sharp and sudden, tightening in your chest until it feels hard to breathe. The music is suddenly too loud, bass thudding through you like a second heartbeat, rattling your ribs. Strobe lights fracture the room into blinding snapshots of faces, hands, and heat. Bodies press in from every direction, the air thick with sweat and perfume and something sour beneath it all. You feel swallowed by it.

You think your phone buzzes in your purse. The sound is faint, almost imaginary, but it makes your pulse spike anyway. Your hands are shaking too badly to dig it out, fingers clumsy, nails scraping uselessly against fabric.

You don’t see him approach.

One second you’re dancing with your friends laughing too loud and the next there’s a body behind you too close, breath warm at your ear. A hand closes around your wrist, not tight enough to bruise, but firm. Possessive. Like he thinks he’s entitled to you.

You freeze then twist away. “Get off,” you say, sharp and clear, trying to pull your arm back.

He laughs like it’s a joke you’re both in on, like you’re being dramatic. His grip tightens and moves to your waist, just enough to make your stomach drop.

“I said no.” Your voice comes out louder this time but it’s brittle at the edges.

You try again. He still doesn’t listen, only pulling you closer. Something cold washes through you, anger, fear, instinct, you wrench your arm free and stumble backward, heart hammering so hard it actually hurts. You shove through the crowd, muttering apologies you don’t mean, shoulder clipping strangers as you push toward the bathrooms, toward the edge of the room where the lights dim and the music dulls to a distant roar.

Your hands are shaking so badly you almost drop your phone when you finally get it out. You don’t think, don’t hesitate, your thumb moves on muscle memory alone.

Calling: Max ❤️

The screen glows in the dark and you can only hope he picks up. It rings once. Twice. Long enough for your chest to tighten with the thought that he won’t—

Then—

“Y/N?” His voice is rough with sleep, low and warm, the way it only ever is when you wake him up. “Everything okay?”

The sound of it nearly undoes you and you suck in a breath but it comes out uneven anyway, your voice cracking around his name. “Max…”

He’s awake instantly, you can hear it in the rustle of sheets, the soft thud as he sits up too fast. “What’s wrong?” he asks already moving. “Where are you?”

“There’s—there’s this guy,” you manage, words tripping over themselves as the fear catches up to you. “He won’t he wouldn’t leave me alone. I told him no. He grabbed my arm.” Your grip tightens on the phone, knuckles white. “I—fuck, Max, I don’t know what to do. I just wanted to go out for a bit. Sorry I’m being stupid.”

“Where are you?” The softness vanishes from his voice, replaced by something sharp and precise, like a blade being drawn every syllable is urgent.

“Bar Lux. Near the square.”

“I’m already in the car,” he says, and you know it’s not an exaggeration. You hear keys, the scrape of a door, the solid slam of it shutting. “Go find security now. Tell them someone touched you and you need a private room. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The speed of it all leaves you dizzy.

“Max—”

“Don’t hang up,” he cuts in quicker now, but gentler too, his voice dropping back into something steady. “Just keep talking to me. Can you do that?”

You nod even though he can’t see you, throat tight. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says. “Start walking toward the front. Can you see the exit?”

You push through the crowd phone pressed hard to your ear like an anchor. The music feels distant now, muffled under the sound of your own heartbeat. You don’t see the guy anymore, but your body hasn’t caught up to that fact and your pulse is still racing, lungs still tight as if he’s right behind you.

“There,” you murmur. “I see it.”

“Good girl,” Max says softly. “Find security. You’re doing great.”

You spot one near the entrance and tap his arm, your hand shaking. “I need help,” you say, forcing the words out. “Someone grabbed me. My boyfriend’s on his way.”

“You okay?” he asks. “Come with me.”

Max hears all of it, checking in, making sure the bouncer is actually leading you somewhere safe. It already feels like he’s here, that you’re not alone, that nothing else matters right now.

You’re led down a narrow corridor into a small office, the door clicking shut behind you with a sound that finally lets you breathe. You sink onto the worn leather couch, legs weak, adrenaline buzzing so hard your fingers feel numb.

You lift the phone back to your mouth, voice barely above a whisper. “You still there?”

“Always,” Max replies without hesitation.

Nine Minutes Later.

The knock on the door is sharp and loud.

“Security said my girlfriend’s in here.”

You know the muffled voice before the door even rattles in its frame.

Your hands fumble with the handle, fingers still a little numb, and when you pull the door open his eyes find you instantly, like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. They sweep over you in one quick, devastating pass the smeared mascara beneath your eyes, the way your arms are folded tight around yourself, the faint tremor running through your legs now that the adrenaline has nowhere else to go.

His chest rises with a harsh breath.

Then he’s moving, he crosses the room in two long strides and pulls you into him so fast it steals the air from your lungs, arms wrapping around you like he’s bracing for impact, like he’s afraid if he loosens his grip even for a second you’ll vanish. You don’t hesitate you fold into him, bury your face in his chest fists twisting into the soft fabric of his hoodie as if anchoring yourself there.

The scent of him hits you all at once, clean laundry, sleep, warmth, something unmistakably Max and it settles your nervous system in a way nothing else has managed all night. Your breathing stutters, then slowly evens out.

“Fuck,” he breathes into your hair, voice low and raw. “Are you okay?” He pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still firm at your sides. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “I—I got away before he could. He just… wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

You feel it immediately the way Max’s body goes rigid, the tension snapping tight through his shoulders, his jaw clenches hard enough you can see the muscle jump.

“I swear to god,” he mutters, anger curling dark and dangerous beneath the words.

You shake your head again, lifting a hand to his chest like you can physically keep him grounded. “I’m okay. I just I—I got scared.”

“I’m here,” he whispers. “He’s not going to touch you again. I promise.”

Your fingers grip the back of his shirt as you try to breathe through the panic.

That’s when his expression shifts, the fury doesn’t disappear, but something softer edges in around it as his hands come up to your face, gentle now, thumbs brushing under your eyes as he tilts your chin up so he can really see you.

“You shouldn’t have had to call me like that,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” you whisper. “I panicked. I just—I needed you.”

His eyes soften at that, the sharp edge of his anger giving way to something fierce and protective. “You did the right thing,” he says without a second’s hesitation. “I just hate that anyone made you feel that way.”

You nod, once, then again and that’s when it breaks the tears come without warning, slow at first, then heavy and unstoppable, spilling over like your body has finally decided it doesn’t need to be strong anymore.

Now you’re here, safe. In Max’s arms. Everything you’ve been holding back comes rushing out.

A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat as you press closer to him, your face buried against his chest, shoulders trembling as the sobs continue. Max doesn’t say anything at first he just tightens his hold around you, one arm firm across your back, the other hand moving in slow, steady circles soothing you one breath at a time.

He lets you cry, lets it happen without trying to stop it, without asking you to explain or be okay faster than you are.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and constant against your hair. “You’re safe.”

Back at your apartment Max doesn’t let you out of his sight for a second.

He follows you from room to room like a quiet shadow always close enough to touch, as if the simple act of being near you is the only thing keeping the night from catching up again. When you change he hands you one of his shirts without a word. It’s soft and oversized, the hem brushing your thighs smelling faintly of him in a way that makes your chest ache with relief. You hadn’t realised how badly you needed that small, familiar comfort until it settles over you like a second skin.

You sit on the edge of the bed and Max comes with you, positioning himself behind you, legs bracketing yours, arms wrapping around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder, his presence solid and warm at your back.

“I feel so stupid,” you murmur, eyes fixed on your hands twisted together in your lap.

“You’re not,” he says immediately, the words firm enough to stop you mid-thought. “Don’t ever say that.”

“I thought I’d be fine,” you admit quietly. “I didn’t think—” Your throat tightens and you swallow hard. “I didn’t think I’d feel that scared.”

Max exhales slowly, his forehead coming to rest against your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the warmth. “I felt like the ground dropped out from under me when I heard your voice,” he says, voice low and honest. “I don’t think I’ve ever moved that fast in my life.”

You lean back into him, letting yourself be held, your fingers finding his and lacing together like they know exactly where they belong.

“I should’ve come with you,” he whispers, regret threaded through every syllable.

You turn your head slightly. “No, Max. You needed rest. You can’t be with me all the time. That’s not healthy anyway.”

“I know,” he says quietly, tightening his grip just a fraction. “But I still wish I’d been there to stop it from happening at all.”

The silence that follows is heavy but gentle, filled with the soft sounds of breathing, the city humming faintly beyond the windows after a moment you turn in his arms just enough to look back at him.

“I’m really glad you picked up,” you say softly.

He gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, something almost broken and deeply sincere. “There’s no universe where I wouldn’t answer your call.”

Your chest tightens, you lift his hand and press a kiss to his knuckles. “You always make me feel safe.”

His voice drops to a whisper, serious and unwavering. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”

You know he means it.

maxverstappen1

liked by carlossainz55 and 1.7M users

maxverstappen1 Race dump 🇭🇺🏁

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carlossainz55 about time

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user WAIT HELLO???? LAST SLIDE???

user WHO IS THAT GIRL???

user she’s wearing his t-shirt i’m SICK

-

user - username nah because that’s not just a girl that’s a GIRL. eating. in HIS t-shirt. in HIS motorhome.

user - username she’s comfortable-comfortable… this is long term idc

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lando had just posted a ig story!

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user - username HE DELETED IT

user - username TOO LATE WE HAVE SCREENSHOTS

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twitter — trending

#1 — MAX VERSTAPPEN #3 — WHO IS SHE #5 — THE HOODIE #7 — MOTORHOME GIRL

your phone — 9:12 AM

notifications: 99+ instagram: 47 requests twitter: 120+ mentions tiktok: tagged in 30 videos

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user - username she’s actually so pretty??? max i get it now

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user - username WAIT SHE WAS SPOTTED BEFORE

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user - username THIS IS A HARD LAUNCH IDC WHAT ANYONE SAYS

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your phone — another notification

charles_leclerc started following you carlossainz55 started following you pierregasly started following you

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user - username MOTORHOME GIRL SPOTTED

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maxverstappen1

liked by yourusername and 2.4M users

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© 2026 curvesonthegrid. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

Vivian Dearden had learned, over the years, to treat long-haul flights like liminal spaces—necessary, vaguely uncomfortable, best endured rather than experienced.

She had her routine down to a science. Noise-cancelling headphones on before boarding finished. Laptop out, emails cleared. Phone on airplane mode but face-up, just in case. A bottle of water, untouched until they were airborne. A window seat every time, same posture, same mental checklist.

Professional. Composed. In control.

Which was why the dull, unfamiliar twist in her stomach caught her off guard.

It wasn’t pain, exactly. More like a quiet objection. A low-grade unease that flared briefly as she shifted in her seat and then settled again, easy to ignore. 

Vivian frowned at it for half a second before mentally filing it under travel nonsense and returning her attention to her inbox.

Across the aisle, George Russell was already half-turned toward her, one long leg stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed up. He looked irritatingly relaxed, as if transatlantic flights were a mild inconvenience rather than a logistical ordeal.

“You’re not eating?” he asked, nodding at the untouched tray on her fold-out table.

Vivian glanced down at it. Chicken or pasta or both, she couldn’t tell. Honestly she wasn’t sure if she wanted to tell. 

The smell made her stomach roll—not violently but just enough to make her lips press together.

“I am eating,” she said lightly. “I’m just… emotionally preparing.”

George huffed a laugh. “You’ve been emotionally preparing for twenty minutes.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Have you seen airline food lately?”

“Hey,” he said, mock-offended. “This is premium. Very exclusive. Very—”

“—microwaved,” she finished. “Aggressively.”

He grinned, and for a moment she forgot about the nausea entirely. That happened more often than she liked. 

George Russell smiled, and Vivan Dearden forgot what she was supposed to be doing. 

Or her own name. 

Both had happened. 

Vivian picked up her fork, stabbed at the tray half-heartedly, then set it down again. The smell hadn’t improved. If anything, it had actively gotten worse.

“Suit yourself,” George said. “More for me.”

He didn’t actually eat it either, but that was beside the point.

Vivian reached into her bag, fingers moving automatically, and popped an antacid from the familiar foil pack. She swallowed it dry, subtle enough that she doubted he noticed.

Still, she felt his eyes on her a second later.

“Everything okay?” he asked, quieter now.

“Yeah,” she said instantly. Too quickly. “Just travel stomach. You know.”

He nodded, accepting it, because George Russell was many things but invasive was not one of them. He turned back to his own tray, rummaging through his backpack a moment later.

“Do you want something else?” he asked. “I’ve got snacks. Proper ones.”

She smiled despite herself. “You say that like you’re about to reveal contraband.”

“I am,” he said solemnly, pulling out a granola bar like it was a prized possession. “Also biscuits. And those weird protein things Alex swears by.”

“That’s incredibly generous,” she said. “But I’m fine. Honestly.”

He studied her for a second longer than necessary, then shrugged. “Offer stands.”

She went back to her laptop, but the words blurred slightly on the screen. The antacid settled things a little, just enough that she could ignore it again. That was fine. Ignoring discomfort was something she was very good at.

She worked for another half hour before George leaned over again, holding out a paper cup.

“Careful,” he said. “Hot.”

Vivian blinked. “What?”

“Tea,” he clarified. “Well. Technically hot water and a tea bag, but still.”

She took it automatically, fingers wrapping around the warmth. “Thanks. I didn’t—”

She stopped.

The tea bag tag was tucked neatly against the rim. The lid was off. There was a small splash of milk already mixed in—just enough to cloud the water, not enough to drown the tea. No sugar. No sweetener.

Exactly how she took it.

Vivian stared at the cup.

George, oblivious to the minor internal earthquake he’d just caused, settled back into his seat. “They were doing drinks. Thought you might want one.”

Her heart kicked, sharp and sudden.

She had spent three years memorizing his world. 

His interview schedule. His preferred phrasing. Which journalists needed firmer boundaries, which ones responded better to charm. 

The subtle differences between his pre-qualifying nerves and his pre-race focus. The way he got quieter when he was stressed, the way he talked with his hands when he was excited.

She knew how he took his coffee. Black, no sugar, unless it was stupidly early, in which case he pretended to consider milk before rejecting it anyway.

Vivan knew George’s routines because it was her job.

George knew Vivian’s tea order because… because what?

Vivian forced herself to take a sip, partly to prove she could. The warmth settled pleasantly in her chest, a sharp contrast to the cold realization spreading everywhere else.

This was dangerous.

She laughed softly, hoping it sounded casual. “You remembered.”

He glanced at her, faintly puzzled. “Yeah. You always complain if it’s wrong.”

That was true. She did. Lightly. As a joke. Once or twice.

Apparently, it had stuck.

“Oh,” she said. “Right. Of course.”

There was something in his expression then—something searching, tentative. Like he was about to say more.

Vivian closed her laptop with a decisive click.

“I’m actually going to try to sleep,” she said, already reaching for her headphones. “Jet lag mitigation.”

“Already?” he asked.

“Already,” she confirmed. “Early start when we land.”

He nodded, respectful as always, and turned back to his own space. The moment passed. The air shifted back into something neutral, professional.

Vivian slid her headphones on, leaned her head against the window, and closed her eyes.

Her stomach twinged again, sharper this time, but she barely registered it.

All she could think about was the tea.

The milk. The lack of sugar.

The quiet, terrifying realization that somewhere along the line, George Russell had started memorizing her back.

She took a slow breath and did what she always did when something threatened to tip out of control.

She shut it down.

Emotion, attraction, whatever fragile thing had just flared to life—she folded it away neatly, locked it behind professionalism and habit and the unspoken rule she had lived by since the day she took the job.

Drivers were temporary. Careers were not.

The discomfort in her stomach lingered, unresolved.

So did the feeling in her chest.

Vivian ignored both.

***

Text Messages: George Russell & Alex Albon

Alex: You look suspiciously cheerful for someone about to endure a ten hour flight.

George: I am always cheerful.

Alex: No. This is different cheerful. This is “I’ve made eye contact with someone specific” cheerful.

George: I don’t know what you’re implying.

Alex: Oh, I think you do.

George: I genuinely don’t.

Alex: Vivian is sitting near you.

George: She’s sitting next to me.

Alex: Ah. 

George: She is my press officer. We are on the same team. Of course she’s near me.

Alex: You didn’t answer the question.

George: There wasn’t a question.

Alex: You have a crush on her.

George: I absolutely do not.

Alex: George.

George: Alexander.

Alex: You do that thing.

George: What thing.

Alex: Where you pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. But your ears go red.

George: My ears are not red.

Alex: Did she just smile at you.

George: Why are you monitoring my facial expressions via text.

Alex: Because I know you. And you get that stupid soft look when she talks to you.

George: I do not have a “soft look.”

Alex: You absolutely do. It’s the same one you had in 2019 when that barista in Monaco spelled your name correctly.

George: That was impressive penmanship.

Alex: Sure.

George: It’s irrelevant anyway.

Alex: Oh this is good. Go on.

George: She works for the team.

Alex: Yes.

George: I am the driver.

Alex: Correct.

George: It would be unprofessional.

Alex: You’re acting like you’re planning to propose mid-debrief.

George: I’m not planning anything.

Alex: Except staring at her when she isn’t looking.

George: I do not stare at her.

Alex: You do.

Alex: Does she know?

George: No.

Alex: Does she feel the same?

George: I don’t know.

Alex: But you hope she does.

George: …

Alex: Oh my God.

George: It’s complicated.

Alex: No it’s not. You like her. You’ve liked her for months. Possibly longer. You talk about her like she’s part of the engineering spec.

George: That is not accurate.

Alex: “Viv prefers early briefings structured with bullet points.” “Viv doesn’t like when journalists interrupt.” “Viv hasn’t eaten properly today, I think she’s stressed.”

You have memorized her.

George: That’s called paying attention.

Alex: It’s called being gone.

George: It wouldn’t be fair to put her in that position.

Alex: You mean tell her how you feel?

George: Yes.

Alex: So instead you’re going to pine quietly and hope she reads your mind?

George: I’m not pining.

Alex: You are absolutely pining.

George: I am being respectful.

Alex: You can be respectful and still tell her you like her, mate.

George: It could make things awkward.

Alex: You know what’s more awkward? When someone else asks her out.

(George doesn’t reply for a full minute.)

Alex: Ah. There it is.

George: That’s not funny.

Alex: It’s a little funny.

George: It’s not.

Alex: You’re jealous.

George: I am not jealous.

Alex: You’re typing very aggressively for someone not jealous.

George: She deserves someone uncomplicated.

Alex: You’re not that complicated.

George: I drive a Formula One car for a living.

Alex: Yes. And?

George: And that tends to complicate things.

Alex: You know what complicates things more? Pretending you don’t care.

Alex: Just saying. If you don’t tell her, someone else eventually will.

Alex: And I will absolutely say “I told you so.”

George: You’re insufferable.

Alex: And yet I’m right.

Alex: Go on then. Offer her one of your weird protein snacks. Start there.

George: She hates those.

Alex: Exactly. You know that. You’re doomed.

***

Qualifying days always carried a particular kind of electricity for George.

They were sharp-edged, tightly wound things—adrenaline braided with precision, every lap a negotiation between confidence and restraint. He liked that feeling. Lived for it, even. By the time he climbed out of the car after Q3, helmet coming off, pulse still humming in his ears, he already knew.

Pole.

It hit him in a rush—grins, claps on the shoulder, the brief chaos of mechanics and engineers converging. Someone whooped. Someone else told him it was a monster lap. George laughed, breathless, letting the joy settle into his bones.

And then, instinctively, his eyes searched for Vivian.

She was standing a little apart from the immediate frenzy, tablet tucked against her chest, already halfway into work mode. That was normal. Vivian always gave the celebrations space, swooping in only when the cameras demanded it.

What wasn’t normal was how still she looked.

Even from a distance, he could see it. The paleness beneath her makeup. The way her shoulders sloped forward, like she was conserving energy. She smiled when he caught her eye, lifting a hand in a small, congratulatory wave—but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

George frowned, just slightly.

“Everything okay?” Kimi asked beside him, helmet still perched awkwardly under his arm.

“Yeah,” George said automatically, then hesitated. “I think so.”

Kimi followed his gaze with the blunt curiosity of someone who hadn’t yet learned to mind his own business. “Your press person looks… tired.”

George snorted. “That’s Vivian. She always looks tired on quali days.”

Kimi hummed, unconvinced. “She looks like she might fall over.”

George opened his mouth to argue—and then stopped.

Because Vivian, thinking no one was watching, shifted her weight and pressed her hand briefly to her stomach. Not dramatically. Just a small, instinctive movement. The kind you made when something hurt but you didn’t want to draw attention to it.

The knot in his chest tightened.

By the time the interviews were done and the garage had settled into its post-session rhythm, George made a point of drifting over to her.

Vivian was scrolling through her tablet, fingers moving quickly, but her movements were slower than usual. More deliberate. Like she was forcing herself to keep up.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You alright?”

She looked up, blinked once, then smiled. “Pole Position,” she said instead. “That lap was insane. You should be very pleased with yourself.”

“I am,” he admitted. “But that’s not what I asked.”

For a fraction of a second—so brief he almost missed it—her guard slipped. Something like surprise flickered across her face. Then it was gone, replaced with practiced ease.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just… period cramps. Long travel, different time zones. You know how it is.”

George did know how it was. Enough to know when not to push.

“Oh,” he said immediately, stepping back half a pace. “Right. Sorry.”

She waved a hand. “Don’t be. I’m just being dramatic.”

But she wasn’t dramatic. Vivian Dearden was many things—efficient, sharp, quietly formidable—but dramatic was not one of them.

George nodded, letting the subject drop like a good, respectful adult. He turned back toward the garage, letting her return to her work.

Outwardly, that was the end of it.

Internally, it was anything but.

Because he knew that tone.

He’d heard it before—during media storms, during sponsor disputes, during moments when something was clearly wrong and Vivian decided it was better if nobody else carried the weight of it. She had a way of smoothing things over, of making problems sound smaller than they were. Of lying gently, convincingly, when the truth might cause worry.

She did it to protect people.

Including him.

George caught himself watching her over the next hour, pretending he wasn’t. She missed a cue during a debrief and had to ask someone to repeat a question. She leaned against the worktable longer than necessary. Once, she pressed her lips together and closed her eyes for a second, like she was riding out something unpleasant.

Each small thing, on its own, meant nothing.

Together, they set off a low, persistent alarm in his chest.

Kimi sidled up to him again, peering in Vivian’s direction. “She really doesn’t look good.”

George exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

“You should make her sit down,” Kimi said, entirely serious.

He almost laughed. “If I try that, she’ll remind me she’s not my responsibility.”

Kimi frowned. “She looks like she should be.”

George startled at that—at the simplicity of it. The unfiltered truth.

He didn’t reply.

Instead, he glanced back at Vivian one more time, watching as she straightened her shoulders and smiled at a passing camera, professionalism snapping back into place like armor.

Pole position should have been all he felt—pride, satisfaction, relief.

And he did feel those things.

But threaded through them now was something else. Something sharper. Something unsettled.

A quiet, creeping fear that Vivian wasn’t nearly as fine as she claimed—and that she wouldn’t tell him when she wasn’t.

George clenched his jaw, forcing his attention back to the present.

Tomorrow was race day.

He told himself he was imagining things.

But he kept watching her anyway.

***

Vivian woke before her alarm.

For a few seconds she didn’t move, suspended in that soft, disoriented space between sleep and consciousness — and then she tried to roll onto her side.

Pain snapped through her abdomen.

She inhaled sharply, the breath catching halfway in her chest as a sharp, precise stab bloomed low on the right side of her stomach. Not the dull, cramping ache from yesterday. Not the vague nausea from the flight.

This was… specific.

She froze, one hand pressing instinctively against the spot. The pressure didn’t help. If anything, it made the sensation brighter, like her body objected to being acknowledged.

“Okay,” she whispered to the empty hotel room, voice thin with sleep. “Alright.”

She sat up slowly.

The world tilted. Not dramatically — just enough to make her pause on the edge of the bed until it steadied again. Her stomach lurched, the kind of rolling nausea that made food feel like a deeply theoretical concept unless she wanted to throw up.

She stared at the complimentary breakfast menu on the desk.

The thought of eating made her throat tighten.

That was… inconvenient.

Vivian pushed herself to her feet and immediately had to straighten carefully, because standing fully upright pulled at the pain in a way that made her teeth clench. She bent forward slightly without thinking, hand still braced against her side.

Period cramps, she decided. Still. 

It made sense. Long travel. Time zones. Dehydration. Stress. Race weekend. She probably hadn’t eaten properly in two days and airplane catering alone was a crime against the human body.

That had to be it.

She moved through her routine more slowly than usual — shower, makeup, hair, outfit — pausing once when another sharp wave of pain hit hard enough to make her lean both hands against the bathroom counter. It passed after a moment, leaving behind a faint sheen of sweat across her temples.

“Fine,” she told her reflection firmly. “You are fine.”

She swallowed two over-the-counter painkillers dry, grabbed her tablet and credentials, and left the room.

Because missing a race weekend was not an option.

In five years working in Formula One, Vivian Dearden had never once called in sick during a race. Illness was something that happened in the off-season. Or on Mondays. Or to other people.

Race mornings were sacred.

***

The paddock was already alive when she arrived — generators humming, engineers moving with quiet purpose, the atmosphere crackling with that familiar pre-race tension. The normalcy of it helped. Routine always helped.

She made it almost halfway to the Mercedes hospitality unit before she had to slow, the movement jostling her stomach in a way she deeply resented.

“Viv?”

Hazel’s voice cut through the noise.

Vivian looked up to find her colleague standing by the hospitality entrance, coffee in one hand, radio clipped to her waistband. Hazel took one look at her and frowned.

“…you look awful.”

Vivian managed a small smile. “Good morning to you too.”

“I’m serious,” Hazel said, already stepping closer. “You’re pale.”

“Jet lag,” Vivian said smoothly. “And I think the catering on the flight tried to kill me.”

Hazel didn’t look convinced. “Are you going to faint on live television today? Because if you are, I need warning so I can stand slightly behind you and pretend I don’t know you.”

Vivian huffed a weak laugh — which immediately turned into a tight exhale as another stab of pain flared at her side. She pressed her hand against her stomach before she could stop herself.

Hazel’s eyes sharpened. “Okay. What is that.”

“Nothing,” Vivian said quickly. “Just cramps.”

“Cramps don’t make you look like a Victorian orphan.”

Vivian leaned her shoulder against the wall, trying to look casual and failing. “I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

Hazel stared at her for a long moment, then sighed and dug into her bag. She produced a small packet and held it out.

“Stronger painkillers,” she said. “Take them. And water. Now.”

Vivian hesitated only briefly before accepting them. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“If you die during pre-race prep, I’m telling Toto I tried,” Hazel replied dryly.

Vivian swallowed the pills with a few gulps from Hazel’s water bottle. The nausea churned in protest, but she forced it down.

“Better?” Hazel asked.

“Obviously,” Vivian said, straightening — carefully. “Race day. We’re professionals. We endure.”

Hazel snorted. “You are terrifying.”

“Says the woman voluntarily handling live requests from sponsors during a potential podium weekend.”

That earned a grin. “Fair. George looked good yesterday. If he keeps the lead at Turn One, this place is going to lose its mind.”

Vivian nodded automatically. Thinking about work helped anchor her. “We’ll need post-race mixed zone planning ready for both scenarios — win or podium. Sponsors will want immediate activation if—”

Another wave of nausea cut her off. She pressed her lips together until it passed.

Hazel watched her carefully but didn’t comment this time. Instead she nudged her gently toward the entrance.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get inside before the drivers arrive and the chaos begins.”

Race day.

The familiar phrase settled over Vivian like armor.

She took a steadying breath, straightened her shoulders, and pushed herself upright despite the pull in her abdomen.

It was fine.

Travel fatigue. Dehydration. Hormones. Bad food.

Nothing serious.

She had a job to do.

And she had never missed a race weekend in her career.

Vivian walked into the paddock, ignoring the way each step sent a small, sharp reminder through her side — and ignoring, completely, the warning her body was trying very hard to give her.

***

The morning blurred into motion the way race mornings always did.

Headset chatter. Schedule confirmations. Journalists asking last-minute questions that had been answered three emails ago. Social posts timed to the minute. Grid walk contingencies. Sponsor obligations stacked neatly in her mind like files she could pull instantly.

Routine carried her.

Routine meant Vivian didn’t have to think about the constant, nagging ache in her abdomen that had sharpened into something far less ignorable. Every step jarred it. Standing upright pulled at it. Even breathing too deeply made her stomach tighten in protest.

Vivian compensated without noticing—leaning slightly against tables, bracing her hand briefly against counters, pausing half a second longer than necessary before moving again.

Nobody seemed to notice.

Which was good.

She was reviewing post-race media timing on her tablet when a message came through her radio.

“Vivian? Toto would like a word. Office.”

Of course he did.

She took a steadying breath and headed toward his office inside the hospitality unit, straightening her shoulders as she went. Professional posture. Professional expression. Professional voice.

The door was half open.

Toto stood inside, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled, reading through a printed brief with a pen in his hand. He glanced up as she knocked lightly.

“Ah, Vivian. Come in.”

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The enclosed space was warmer than the paddock and for a moment the shift made her head swim.

“Toto,” she said, polite, composed. “You wanted to go over the IWC activation?”

“Yes.” He gestured to the chair but she remained standing automatically, tablet in hand. “They are requesting additional post-race content if George finishes on the podium. We need to confirm feasibility.”

“Of course,” she said smoothly, pulling up her notes. “We can schedule a controlled media capture immediately after cooldown, I think. I’ll coordinate with broadcast to avoid interference and keep it under ninety seconds?”

The pain flickered, sharper.

She ignored it.

Toto watched her as she spoke, his expression attentive but neutral, the way it always was during work discussions.

“I will also brief George pre-race,” she continued, voice steady. “If he is aware beforehand, it will—”

The sentence stalled as a sudden, stabbing pressure tore across the right side of her abdomen.

Her breath caught.

For a fraction of a second her vision greyed at the edges.

She kept talking.

“—minimize disruption and ensure sponsor satisfaction—”

Her hand pressed flat against the edge of the desk without her permission. She focused on the words. On finishing the explanation. On not making this a problem.

Toto’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Vivian.”

“I’m fine,” she said immediately.

Another wave rose—violent and fast, nausea crashing up her throat with no warning. Her stomach lurched hard enough that she swallowed reflexively, trying to will it down.

She didn’t make it.

The tablet slipped from her hand, clattering softly against the carpet as she turned away instinctively—but not far enough.

She was dimly aware of the sound she made, small and involuntary, and then—

She was sick.

Directly onto Toto’s shoes.

For a second the room went utterly silent.

Vivian froze.

Horror flooded through her faster than the nausea had.

“Oh my God,” she whispered hoarsely, backing away a step, hand over her mouth. “I am so— I am so sorry, I—”

She expected irritation. Shock. At the very least awkwardness.

Instead, Toto moved immediately—not away from her, but closer.

“Sit down,” he said, voice calm but firm, guiding her gently toward the chair she had refused earlier.

“I’m fine,” she tried again weakly. “It’s just— I didn’t— I can clean it, I—”

“Sit.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry.

It was absolute.

She sat.

The moment she did, the adrenaline drained and the pain surged, sharp enough that she bent forward slightly, fingers pressing into her side.

Toto crouched in front of her, entirely unconcerned about his now-ruined expensive loafers.

“How long?” he asked quietly.

She blinked. “What?”

“How long have you been unwell?”

“Since— just this morning,” she said quickly. “It’s nothing serious. Probably travel stomach. I just need water and—”

“Vivian.”

The single word stopped her.

Toto’s expression was no longer neutral. It was focused. Assessing.

“You are pale,” he said evenly. “You are sweating. You could not remain standing. And you have clearly been in pain before you entered this room.”

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

“I didn’t want to make it an issue,” she admitted weakly.

“How long?”

“…a couple of days.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any raised voice.

Toto straightened slowly.

“You have been in pain for days,” he said, voice controlled but unmistakably stern, “and nobody told me?”

“I didn’t think it was—”

“You did not think?” His gaze sharpened, not angry, but deeply serious. “You work in a high-pressure environment, you are responsible for critical communication, and you decided severe pain was something to ignore?”

“I didn’t want to disrupt preparations,” she said, quieter now. “It’s race day.”

Toto stared at her for a moment longer, then reached for his phone.

“This is no longer a discussion.”

He dialed quickly, already moving into action.

“You are not working another minute today,” he said, glancing back at her. “I am arranging medical evaluation immediately.”

“I can still—”

“No.”

The word landed like a closed door.

He ended the call and picked up her credentials from the desk where they had fallen.

“I am suspending your paddock access for the day,” he said, not unkindly but with absolute finality. “You are going to a hospital.”

She shook her head weakly. “I can do the pre-race brief. It will only take—”

“You are going to a hospital,” he repeated. “Now.”

For the first time since she’d started working in Formula One, Vivian Dearden had no argument left.

***

The pre-race briefing room was quiet in the way only Formula One rooms ever were — not silent, but contained. Screens glowed along the wall, telemetry traces frozen mid-corner. The low hum of air conditioning filled the gaps between voices. It was familiar, grounding.

George liked this part.

Helmet still off, fireproof top half-unzipped, water bottle in his hand, he leaned over the table while Marcus Dudley ran through opening-lap scenarios.

“Grip level will be higher than yesterday,” Marcus said, tapping the monitor. “Track evolution overnight plus better temperatures. The start is everything. Protect Turn One and we control the race.”

George nodded, focused. “Tyre warm-up felt strong in formation simulations. I should have traction.”

“Brake temps will spike behind traffic,” Bono added calmly from beside the screen. “If you lose the lead, don’t panic into Turn Three. We’ll manage the undercut window.”

Kimi, perched slightly sideways in his chair, listened with an intensity that bordered on suspicious for a rookie. “Safety car probability?”

“Moderate,” Marcus replied. “Wall proximity. Lap one chaos always possible.”

George allowed himself a small smile. He was calm — the good kind of calm. Pole position gave clarity. The plan was clean. Execute the start, manage tyres, build gap.

For a moment, everything was simple.

The door opened.

All four of them looked up.

Toto stepped inside.

He did not usually attend driver briefings this close to race start unless something operational had changed. His expression was composed, but there was a firmness to it that immediately shifted the atmosphere.

George straightened slightly. “Everything okay?”

Toto closed the door behind him.

“George,” he said, measured. “There has been a situation.”

The word situation landed wrong in George’s chest before the explanation even came.

“It concerns Vivian.”

The calm evaporated instantly.

“What happened?” George asked, already standing.

“She became unwell this morning,” Toto said. “Severely unwell.”

The room stilled.

George felt something cold settle under his ribs. “Unwell how?”

“She was in my office,” Toto continued evenly. “She has been in significant abdominal pain for several days and did not report it. She collapsed and was sick. I have sent Hazel with her to the hospital for immediate evaluation.”

For a second, George didn’t understand the words.

Then he did.

Several days.

His mind snapped back to qualifying — pale skin, distracted answers, the way she’d pressed her hand against her side when she thought no one was watching.

The knot in his chest pulled tight.

“She’s been in pain for days?” he said quietly.

“Yes.”

George scrubbed a hand down his face. “Why didn’t she—”

He stopped himself.

Because he knew why.

Vivian never wanted to be a problem.

“Which hospital?” he asked immediately.

Toto hesitated only briefly. “The medical team suspects appendicitis. They are assessing her now.”

The word hit harder than he expected.

Appendicitis.

His stomach dropped.

“I need to go,” George said, already moving toward the door.

Bono stepped forward automatically, not blocking him but grounding him. “George.”

He stopped.

The reality caught up all at once — the suit hanging in the next room, the car prepared on the grid, the formation lap countdown already ticking closer.

Pole position.

A race he could win.

His jaw tightened.

“I can’t just—” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Kimi watched him carefully. “They have doctors,” he said quietly, not dismissive, just factual. “You have a race.”

George laughed once under his breath, humorless. “That’s not the point.”

But it was.

He knew it was.

Toto’s voice was steady. “She is receiving medical care. You cannot help her from the hospital waiting room right now. You can help by doing your job.”

George closed his eyes for a second.

Images ran through his head — her on the flight refusing food, her brushing him off after qualifying, her insisting she was fine.

He should have pushed harder.

He opened his eyes again.

“Please,” he said, quieter now. “If you hear anything—anything at all—you tell me immediately.”

“I will,” Toto replied.

George nodded once, sharp, like sealing a decision he hated.

“Alright,” he said to Marcus and Bono, voice steadier than he felt. “Let’s finish the briefing.”

They continued. Strategy, tyre windows, fuel targets. He answered questions, repeated start procedures, confirmed brake settings.

Outwardly, he was composed.

Inside, his focus fractured.

Every few seconds his attention drifted — to his phone on the table, to the door, to the thought of her in a hospital room instead of the paddock where she always was.

He realized, with a clarity that made his chest tighten, that this was the first race weekend since he’d joined Mercedes where Vivian wasn’t managing it beside him.

The absence was louder than the noise outside.

As the briefing ended, Marcus handed him his gloves.

“You good?” his engineer asked quietly.

George nodded automatically.

No.

Not even close.

But he pulled the gloves on anyway.

Because the race was starting whether his world had shifted or not.

And as he walked toward the garage, helmet under his arm, he made a silent promise to himself:

The first thing he would ask when the race ended wouldn’t be about strategy, or tyres, or the win.

It would be about her.

***

The paddock had been noise and motion and urgency — radios crackling, engines screaming in the distance, people moving with purpose. The hospital was the opposite. Quiet in a way that felt almost wrong, fluorescent lights humming softly overhead, everything washed in sterile white and pale blue.

It made the morning feel unreal.

Hazel sat beside her in the emergency room cubicle, still in team kit, headset abandoned somewhere along the way. She hadn’t stopped texting since they’d arrived — short updates to communications staff, carefully neutral messages to Toto, quiet reassurances to people who were very obviously worried.

Vivian clutched the thin hospital blanket in her hands and tried very hard not to move.

Because moving hurt.

Not a dull ache anymore. Not something ignorable. The pain had sharpened into something constant and insistent, radiating across her lower abdomen, every shift of her body making it flare hot enough to steal her breath. Even lying still didn’t fully help. Nausea rolled through her in waves, leaving her exhausted and clammy.

“I feel ridiculous,” she murmured.

Hazel looked up from her phone immediately. “You nearly passed out and threw up on a Toto Wolff, whose shoes cost more than my rent. You’re allowed to stop worrying about dignity for a few hours.”

Vivian closed her eyes briefly. “His loafers.”

“You are not apologizing to him from an operating table,” Hazel said firmly.

“Operating—”

The curtain slid open.

A doctor stepped inside, tablet in hand, expression professional. That alone made Vivian sit a little straighter despite the pain.

“Ms. Dearden,” he said gently. “We have your imaging results.”

Hazel straightened beside her.

Vivian’s fingers tightened on the blanket.

The doctor glanced at the screen once more, then looked at her directly.

“Your appendix is severely inflamed,” he said. “It is very close to rupturing.”

The words didn’t immediately make sense.

“My… appendix?” she repeated.

“Yes,” he said. “You have appendicitis. Given the level of inflammation and the duration of your symptoms, we need to operate immediately.”

Hazel went very still.

Vivian stared at him.

Operate.

Immediately.

“I—” She stopped, her thoughts scrambling for footing. “Today?”

“Yes,” the doctor said calmly. “Soon. We are already preparing a surgical team. A rupture would be dangerous and could lead to serious infection. We need to remove it now.”

For a moment she forgot the pain entirely.

“But—” she said, voice faint. “I have a race weekend.”

The doctor blinked once, clearly not expecting that answer. “I understand you have obligations, but this cannot wait.”

Hazel made a small disbelieving sound. “Viv.”

Vivian’s mind raced uselessly. Grid times. Media sessions. Post-race interviews. Sponsor activations. She pictured the schedule she had finalized last night, the brief she hadn’t delivered yet, the controlled media capture she had promised.

George.

“He has pole today,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “He’ll need— someone has to— the cooldown interview, the mixed zone—”

“Vivian,” Hazel said softly but firmly, taking her hand. “Stop.”

The doctor’s tone remained steady. “Right now your health is the priority. If we delay, your appendix may rupture. That becomes significantly more serious than a communication schedule.”

She looked down at her hospital bracelet, at the IV line now taped to her arm.

It felt surreal.

“I didn’t realize it was that bad,” she whispered.

“You have likely been in pain for several days,” he said gently. “You waited longer than most people would.”

Hazel squeezed her hand. “You idiot,” she murmured, not unkindly.

Vivian swallowed, throat tight. “Did… did someone tell the team?”

“Yes,” Hazel said. “Toto already knows. I messaged the group. They’re aware you’re being treated.”

A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her and she closed her eyes, breathing shallowly until it passed.

George will be in the briefing now, she thought.

He’ll ask where I am.

Guilt settled heavily in her chest.

“He’s going to worry,” she said quietly.

Hazel didn’t pretend otherwise. “Yes.”

Vivian pressed her lips together. “I didn’t want to distract George before the race.”

The doctor gave a small, understanding nod. “Right now, the best thing you can do for anyone — including your colleague — is allow us to treat you.”

Footsteps approached outside the curtain. Nurses entered, beginning to prepare equipment with calm efficiency.

The reality finally landed.

Surgery. Now.

Her hands trembled slightly. “Will I… be okay?”

“Yes,” the doctor said reassuringly. “We caught it in time. But we should not wait any longer.”

She nodded slowly.

As they began wheeling her bed out of the cubicle toward the operating area, the hospital ceiling lights passing overhead in slow repetition, her mind clung stubbornly to one last thought.

She wouldn’t see the race.

She wouldn’t be on the pit wall, wouldn’t hand him the post-session notes, wouldn’t be there when he climbed out of the car.

For the first race weekend since she started working with him, George Russell would finish a race without her there to meet him.

Vivian closed her eyes against the sting behind them.

“I hope he gets a good start,” she murmured quietly.

Hazel walked beside the bed, keeping pace as they moved down the corridor.

“He will,” Hazel said gently. “Now you focus on this. He’ll focus on the race.”

Vivian nodded, though the ache in her chest had very little to do with the appendicitis anymore.

Old habits, apparently, were harder to remove than an appendix.

***

The car always simplified things.

That was what George usually loved about it.

Once the visor came down and the engine ignited behind him, the world narrowed to inputs and outputs — brake pressure, throttle modulation, apex speed. No speculation. No ambiguity. You either did the lap or you didn’t.

Today it didn’t quiet his mind.

He sat on the grid, hands steady on the wheel, watching the mechanics clear around him. The grandstands vibrated with noise. Engines echoed up and down the straight. It should have felt familiar.

Instead, his focus kept slipping sideways.

He had already checked his phone twice before climbing into the car even though he knew he wouldn’t have an update yet.

Hazel was with her.

Doctors were with her.

Appendicitis.

He tightened his grip slightly on the steering wheel.

“George, radio check,” Marcus’ voice came through his earpiece.

“Loud and clear.”

“You’re good. Nice and clean into Turn One. Trust the grip.”

“Copy.”

He exhaled slowly as the formation lap began. Tyres warming, brakes building temperature. Muscle memory took over, but his thoughts still drifted — hospital corridors, sterile lights, the way she’d looked yesterday, pale and insisting she was fine.

He should have noticed sooner.

He should have pushed harder.

The lights went out.

The start was clean.

He covered the inside line into Turn One automatically, instinct overriding distraction. Lap one unfolded in sharp, precise movements — defending, managing traction, building a gap. By lap five the rhythm returned, the car responding exactly as he needed.

And still—

“Marcus,” he said on lap nine, voice controlled but quieter than usual. “Any news from… from the hospital?”

A brief pause.

“Nothing yet, George. We’ll tell you as soon as we know.”

“Copy.”

He focused on the braking zone. Hit the apex perfectly.

Three laps later his mind wandered again.

“Still nothing?”

“Still nothing.”

He nodded to himself, even though nobody could see it.

For the first time in years, racing felt secondary.

Every lap was technically flawless — braking points exact, traction consistent, strategy unfolding exactly as planned.

Marcus’s voice came through periodically with gap updates. Competitors. Tyre wear.

George answered, but automatically.

Because every few laps, the same question pressed forward no matter how much he tried to suppress it.

Lap 34.

“Any update?”

“Not yet, George.”

Lap 42.

“Anything?”

“No news yet.”

He hated the phrase no news. It left too much space for his imagination.

The final stint stretched longer than it should have. The laps ticked down. The car remained stable. The gap behind him was comfortable.

He was going to win.

Normally he would feel it building — the anticipation, the controlled adrenaline before the checkered flag.

Instead there was only a strange hollowness.

He pictured pulling into parc fermé and not seeing her waiting near the barrier with a headset and tablet, already organizing the post-race chaos before he even removed his helmet.

He had never noticed how constant she was until she wasn’t.

“Final lap,” Marcus said calmly. “Bring it home.”

George barely heard the crowd.

He crossed the line.

“P1, George! That’s a race win! Brilliant drive!”

Cheers erupted in his ear — mechanics shouting, engineers clapping, relief and excitement flooding the radio.

George exhaled, but the release he expected never came.

Instead his first thought was immediate and singular.

He slowed on the cooldown lap.

“Marcus,” he said, voice tight despite the victory. “Is there any news about Vivian?”

There was a short pause — not operational, not technical.

Personal.

“Yes,” Marcus said gently. “She’s in surgery. It was appendicitis. Doctors caught it in time.”

George closed his eyes briefly behind the visor.

The tension that had been sitting in his chest since the briefing finally loosened just enough for him to breathe properly.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Only then did the win feel real at all.

***

The champagne was still drying in his hair when George left the paddock.

The podium had been a blur — noise, cameras, the weight of the trophy in his hands, Max clapping his shoulder with a grin, Kimi looking equal parts stunned and delighted beside them. He’d smiled, laughed, sprayed champagne when expected.

He couldn’t remember a single thing anyone had said to him.

Because even while standing on the top step, one thought had sat immovably in the center of his mind:

Hospital.

He barely waited for the last media obligation to end. The moment the final required interview wrapped and the PR handlers released him, he handed off the trophy to a mechanic, grabbed the first hoodie he could find, and left.

The drive felt longer than it was.

He checked his phone at every red light, every stop, every moment the car slowed — messages from the team, congratulations flooding in, group chats exploding, Toto confirming surgery had started.

Then, finally:

Hazel: Out of surgery. Stable. Recovery now.

He didn’t remember the last ten minutes of the ride after that.

The hospital lobby was too bright.

George pushed through the doors still in partial race kit — team trousers, fireproof top under the hoodie, damp hair betraying exactly where he’d come from. The receptionist barely had time to look up before he reached the desk.

“Vivian Dearden,” he said. “I— I was told she’s here.”

Before she could answer, a familiar voice called his name.

“George.”

He turned.

Hazel stood from one of the waiting chairs, looking as tired as he felt. Relief crossed her face immediately when she saw him.

“You actually came straight here,” she said softly.

“Of course I did.” The words came out faster than he intended. “Is she—”

“She’s okay,” Hazel reassured quickly. “They got the appendix out before it ruptured.”

His shoulders dropped a fraction for the first time all day.

“Can I see her?”

“They’re moving her to a room now,” Hazel said. “She just got out of recovery.”

George exhaled, hand briefly pressing to the back of his neck. Only then did he realize how tightly wound he’d been since the morning.

“What happened?” he asked quietly.

Hazel shook her head. “She’d been in pain for days, George. Proper pain. And she kept insisting it was cramps or jet lag or literally anything else.”

He closed his eyes for a moment.

“I knew something was wrong,” he said, voice low. “I just… didn’t push.”

“She wouldn’t have told you,” Hazel replied gently. “She didn’t want to distract you before the race.”

That made something twist sharply in his chest.

He looked down at his hands — faint traces of champagne still sticky across his knuckles.

“I kept asking during the race,” he admitted. “Every few laps.”

Hazel’s expression softened. “She asked about you before they took her into surgery.”

He looked up immediately.

“What?”

“She hoped that you would get a good start.”

George let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh, except his throat was too tight for it.

“Of course she did.”

A nurse appeared down the corridor and spoke quietly to Hazel. She nodded, then turned back to him.

“They’re bringing her to her room,” she said. “You can come.”

They walked down the hall together. The sounds were muted — distant monitors, rolling carts, quiet voices behind closed doors. The adrenaline that had carried him through the race drained away with every step, leaving only a nervous anticipation he hadn’t felt before a start in years.

At the end of the corridor, a hospital bed was being wheeled into a room.

Vivian lay under thin white sheets, an IV line taped to her arm, hair slightly mussed, face pale but peaceful in a way he had never seen at the track. Without the headset, the tablet, the purposeful movement — she looked smaller. Younger.

Vulnerable.

George stopped just inside the doorway.

For the first time all day, the tension in his chest finally released completely.

She was here.

She was alive.

And suddenly, the race — the win, the podium, the noise — felt very far away compared to the quiet of that hospital room.

***

Vivian woke like someone surfacing from deep water.

Slowly. Disoriented. One thought at a time, none of them especially helpful.

George was sitting beside the bed when her eyes finally fluttered open.

He’d been trying not to stare at the steady rise and fall of her chest, at the IV line taped to her arm, at the way her face looked softer without the constant focus she wore at the track. He still looked up immediately, instinctive, relief hitting him so hard it almost made him dizzy.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Careful. You just had surgery.”

Her eyes shifted toward the sound of his voice. They didn’t quite focus at first. She squinted at him, head tilting slightly like she was trying to place a face she almost recognized.

“…George?” she said uncertainly.

“Yeah.”

She blinked slowly. Very slowly. Then nodded once, as if confirming a theory to herself.

“That makes sense,” she murmured.

He smiled a little. “Does it?”

“You’re usually near a race car,” she explained seriously. “Hospitals are less on brand, but I suppose schedules evolve.”

George had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“You’re in hospital,” he reminded gently. “You had appendicitis. They operated.”

She absorbed this information for several long seconds.

“…did I die?” she asked.

“No,” he said quickly.

“Okay,” she said, satisfied. “Good. Because I have emails.”

He exhaled a quiet breath that was half relief, half disbelief.

Her gaze drifted again, unfocused, then suddenly sharpened with alarm.

“Oh no.”

Here it comes, he thought.

“What is it?” he asked carefully.

She looked at him with genuine distress.

“I threw up on Toto Wolff.”

George blinked.

“Yes,” he said cautiously.

Her hand twitched weakly under the blanket as if she wanted to cover her face but forgot how halfway there.

“I assaulted management,” she whispered. “HR is going to have a field day.”

“You did not assault management.”

“I remember the shoes,” she continued, voice wobbling. “Very shiny. Italian. Possibly handcrafted. I ruined a luxury item in a leadership environment.”

A tear slid sideways across her temple.

“I am never working in Formula One again.”

George’s chest tightened painfully.

“Vivian,” he said softly, leaning closer. “Toto is not firing you. He sent you to the hospital.”

She sniffed. “He was being polite. That’s what rich people do before lawsuits.”

He couldn’t help it — he laughed quietly, shaking his head.

“You nearly had a ruptured appendix.”

“But the loafers,” she insisted, eyes glassy. “They were suede. That makes stains worse.”

He gently took her hand before she could work herself into a painkiller-fueled spiral.

“You’re okay,” he said. “That’s the important part.”

Her gaze dropped to their hands like she’d only just realized they were touching. She stared at it with intense concentration, as if it were a complicated puzzle.

“Oh,” she said softly.

Then her eyes filled again — not frantic now, just open, unguarded in a way he had never seen.

“I tried not to,” she whispered.

George’s breath caught. “Not to what?”

Her words came slow and unfiltered, drifting out without her usual careful control.

“I tried not to fall in love with you,” she announced.

The words were abrupt, completely unguarded.

George froze.

She blinked slowly, eyes glossy. “It’s not professional. I know the handbook probably covers that. Page… something. I read it.”

“Viv—”

“You matter too much,” she said, voice small and earnest. “You’re important and I’m supposed to make your life easier, not complicated. I was being careful. Very careful. Except today I also threw up on your boss, so clearly I am failing across multiple categories.”

Another tear escaped.

“I’m sorry if I made work weird,” she whispered. “You can ignore this. I’m very medicated. I barely understand gravity right now.”

For a moment he just looked at her, the relief and affection hitting him so suddenly it almost hurt.

Then he laughed — soft, breathless, not at her but at the absurdity of how long they had both carried this.

He squeezed her hand gently.

“We are not ignoring this,” he said warmly.

She frowned, trying to focus. “We’re not?”

“No,” he said. “But we are going to talk about it when you are conscious.”

“…I am conscious.”

“Barely.”

She considered that for a long moment, eyelids drooping.

“…fair.”

Her grip on his fingers slackened as sleep pulled at her again.

“But tell Toto,” she mumbled, already fading, “that I respect him greatly and I apologize to his footwear personally.”

George brushed his thumb lightly over her knuckles.

“I will,” he promised softly.

She was asleep again within seconds, leaving him alone in the quiet room — smiling helplessly at the ceiling and realizing he had never, in his life, won a race that mattered less than this moment right here.

***

The second time Vivian woke, the world was clearer.

Not comfortable — every muscle felt heavy, her abdomen ached in a deep, careful way that made her afraid to breathe too hard — but clearer. The fog that had wrapped around her thoughts earlier was gone, replaced by awareness.

And awareness brought memory.

Her eyes opened slowly.

Hospital ceiling. IV line. Monitors quietly beeping beside her.

And then—

George.

Sitting in the chair beside her bed, elbows resting on his knees, head tipped slightly forward like he’d been watching her long enough to forget to do anything else.

The last few hours hit her all at once.

The office.

Toto.

The hospital.

The… talking.

Her stomach dropped.

“Oh no,” she whispered hoarsely.

George looked up immediately. Relief softened his expression the moment he saw her awake.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Welcome back.”

She stared at him.

“You’re still here.”

He smiled faintly. “Of course.”

Memory sharpened further.

The words she’d said — or thought she might have said — flickered through her mind in humiliating fragments.

She closed her eyes briefly.

“…I need you to be honest with me,” she said carefully. “Did I say anything… unusual earlier?”

George’s mouth twitched.

“Define unusual.”

Her face flushed instantly. “George.”

He leaned back slightly in the chair, far too calm for someone holding this much power over her dignity.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “you were very concerned about Toto’s shoes.”

She covered her face with her hands and immediately regretted it when it pulled at her stitches.

“I’m going to quit my job and move to antarctica,” she muttered into the pillow.

“You’re not quitting your job.”

“I threw up on the Team Principal.”

“You had emergency surgery.”

“I cried about his loafers.”

George laughed softly, not unkindly, and she wanted the hospital bed to open up and swallow her whole.

“I already spoke to Toto,” he said. “He’s more worried about you than his wardrobe.”

She lowered her hands slowly, peeking at him.

“…really?”

“Yes. He also said you are forbidden from attending meetings while actively dying from now on.”

She let out a weak breath that almost resembled a laugh.

Silence settled for a moment — softer now, but charged with something else.

Vivian focused very hard on the blanket.

“You didn’t have to stay,” she said quietly. “You had a race.”

“I know.”

“Did you win?”

“I did.”

“You should be celebrating.”

“I did the podium,” he said simply. “Then I came here.”

Her gaze lifted to his.

“You came straight here?”

He nodded once.

The reality of that landed somewhere deep and unsteady inside her chest.

“You shouldn’t have,” she said softly, though the words lacked conviction.

“I wanted to.”

Her throat tightened.

The silence stretched, no longer awkward — just honest.

Vivian inhaled slowly. “I don’t… remember everything I said earlier.”

George watched her carefully. “You remember some of it.”

It wasn’t a question.

Color crept back into her face.

“I was medicated,” she said quickly. “I wasn’t entirely coherent.”

“You were honest.”

She swallowed. “You don’t have to respond to anything I said. I understand the situation it puts you in and I would never—”

“Viv.”

She stopped.

He leaned forward slightly, voice gentler than she’d ever heard it.

“I didn’t come because I felt obligated.”

Her hands twisted slightly in the blanket.

“I tried very hard not to cross that line,” she admitted quietly. “You’re my driver. My responsibility. And you matter too much to risk making your life complicated.”

His gaze didn’t leave hers.

“You never made it complicated.”

“I did,” she said softly. “I just hid it well.” A small, nervous breath escaped her. “I care about you more than I’m supposed to. I have for a while. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Or make work difficult. So I decided it would just… stay my problem.”

He was very quiet for a moment.

Then he said, gently, “It was never just yours.”

She blinked.

“What?”

“I came after the race,” he said. “Not because you work for the team. Because it was you.”

Her heart stuttered.

“I kept asking about you during the race,” he admitted. “Every few laps. Winning didn’t feel right when you weren’t there to tell me where I needed to stand for interviews.”

A breath caught in her throat.

“George…”

He smiled softly. “You’ve been important to me for a long time. I just thought you didn’t see me that way.”

“I was trying very hard not to,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because if it went wrong,” she said, voice barely audible, “I’d lose more than a crush.”

His expression softened further.

“You won’t.”

The certainty in it made her chest ache.

He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

His hand rested lightly over hers.

“You matter to me,” he said quietly. “Not as a colleague. Not because of the job.”

The last of the fear she’d been holding onto loosened.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He leaned closer, pausing just long enough for her to understand what he was asking.

She met him halfway.

The kiss was gentle — careful of IV lines and stitches and the fragile newness of it — but it settled something that had been unresolved between them for far longer than either wanted to admit.

When they pulled back, her forehead rested lightly against his.

“…I’m still very embarrassed about the shoes,” she murmured.

George laughed softly.

The past week had been relentless. Between back-to-back meetings and late-night work sessions, there had been barely a moment to breathe.

You needed just one more deadline met, one more problem solved, before you could finally rest. But Max had other ideas.

He had watched you push yourself to the edge, seen the exhaustion etched in your face, the way your shoulders tensed even as you forced a smile in the evening. And yet, you kept going, convinced that staying ahead was the only way.

Max wasn’t like that. He thrived under pressure, but only when it was necessary—he knew when to push and when to step back. His racing career demanded discipline, but it also required balance.

To him, rest was as important as a high-stakes race. That was why, after the latest all-nighter, he had made his decision. As soon as you walked through the front door, you knew something was different.

The house felt… quieter. Cozier. The air smelled faintly of lavender, and a soft playlist of mellow tunes played in the background.

"You're not working today," he said as he stepped out of the kitchen, a tray of food in hand. His voice was calm, but there was no room for argument.

You blinked at him, recognizing the look in his eyes—determination, but also concern.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he shook his head before you could say anything. "I know you're tired. I can see it." His tone was steady, unwavering. "And whatever it is you're trying to fix, it can wait." His hand rested on your arm, his touch firm but gentle.

This wasn’t just about you—it was about him, too. Max had seen what overwork could do to people, had seen it in his own family, in his friends.

He wasn’t going to let it happen to you. You could argue all you wanted, but he had made up his mind. There would be no work today. No emails, no deadlines, no distractions.

Just you, him, and the quiet comfort of home.

—

Max set the tray down on the table with deliberate care, his gaze never leaving yours. "You're not working today," he repeated, his voice steady but not unkind. He had made his decision, and he wasn’t going to back down, no matter how much you protested.

You sighed and slumped into a nearby chair, rubbing your temples. "Max, I just need a few more hours of work and then I can rest for real."

Your voice was soft, but you knew the words were fruitless the moment they left your mouth. Max had that look—his resolve was set, and he didn’t take no for an answer.

He leaned across the table, his expression softening slightly. "Hey," he said gently, reaching out to place a hand on yours. "I know you're used to pushing through, but you're not alone here. You don’t have to do everything in one go. You need to rest properly."

His voice was quiet but firm, and you found yourself unable to look away. He wasn’t just making this a personal intervention—he was making it a mission.

"You make it sound so easy," you murmured, trying to find an escape. "What if I fall behind?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You’ll get back to it tomorrow. But today? Today, you're staying. That's final." He stood up, straightening his back, the authority in his posture impossible to ignore.

He had spent a lifetime making those split-second decisions in the heat of a race—when to push, when to slow down, when to take control. And he was using that same confidence now to remind you that sometimes, the hardest thing to do was stop.

You exhaled, defeat settling in your chest like a warm weight. You had no real argument left. Max wasn’t just being stubborn—he was being the kind of steadfast, caring person you had come to love.

Sighing, you glanced at the tray of food he had prepared. "Fine," you said with a soft smile. "But I'm not pretending this is what I wanted."

His lips twitched in amusement. "I know. But you’ll thank me later."

Max didn't ask again. Instead, he took full control, guiding you toward the living room where soft lighting and the scent of lavender lingered in the air.

A warm, plush robe lay folded on the back of the couch, and a tray of tea waited nearby. "Let’s get you comfortable," he said, his tone warm but firm.

Without another protest, you sat on the couch, letting the soft fabric sink around you. Max knelt before you, undoing the tight laces of your shoes and easing them off with practiced ease.

The moment your feet touched the warm towel on the floor, a sigh escaped you. You had been standing for far too long, and the pressure against your soles was a small, luxurious relief.

"You're wound up," Max murmured, tilting your foot into his lap. He ran his fingers over your toes, then worked his way up the arch, kneading away the tension.

You bit your lip, trying to control the deep exhale that escaped you as his hands moved with practiced ease. He had done this enough times before, either for you or for himself when the racing season took its toll.

"You're quiet," he said, noting your lack of usual commentary. You looked up at him and gave a small shrug. "I think I'm just finally starting to realize that I don't have to be on all the time."

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Exactly," he said. "You can slow down. You don't have to do it all in one go."

The massage slowly transitioned into a foot soak, the warm water bubbling around your tired skin. Max had created a small oasis, complete with scented candles and a playlist of mellow jazz tunes.

He hovered around you, making sure every surface was adjusted to your comfort. A thick towel, warm and soothing, wrapped around your shoulders before you could even ask.

You found yourself relaxing, really relaxing, for the first time in weeks. Max didn’t push you—instead, he let you sink into the ease of the moment.

He kept the conversation light, drawing out laughter with stories of his races and how difficult it could be to make his father listen when he was in a stubborn mood.

The more you laughed, the more your muscles unclenched, your mind quieting. For once, you weren’t trying to fix things or plan for the future.

You were here, exactly where you needed to be. . . .

—

As the foot soak came to an end, Max helped you to your feet, gently towel-drying your skin before guiding you toward the bedroom.

"You're not going to escape this," he said with a teasing grin, already preparing the bed with a thick weighted blanket and a glass of warm milk for you.

It was a familiar routine, one he had orchestrated countless times before when you least expected it. He wasn’t just making you rest—he was making sure it counted.

The night stretched on with no rush, no pressure. Max had no intention of letting you feel like you were wasting time. Instead, he made every moment deliberate.

After a quick change into something comfortable, you laid back on the pillows, and he settled beside you, pulling you close.

"You need to stop running," he said softly, his fingers tracing patterns against your arm. "I know you think you have to stay ahead, but it’s not healthy."

You exhaled, resting your head on his chest. "I just get so used to moving," you admitted. "It’s hard to slow down when everything seems to demand so much of me."

Max ran a hand through your hair. "I know. I used to be the same when I was younger—I thought I had to be in control of everything, that I had to push harder than everyone else to prove my worth. But eventually, I realized that’s not what being strong is about."

You looked up at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. Max wasn’t a man who often admitted to weaknesses, but now, his words carried genuine sentiment. "What made you realize it?" you asked.

He chuckled, nudging your chin with his nose. "The same thing that made me fall in love with you. You pushed so hard, and I respected that, but sometimes, I had to remind you that it’s okay to take a moment for yourself. You don’t owe the world everything."

His sincerity settled in your chest, warm and grounding. It wasn’t just about today—it was about knowing that this was something he genuinely believed in. You had always admired his strength, his determination, but now, his care was just as powerful.

Feeling your eyelids grow heavy, he wrapped an arm around you and guided you into a better position. "You can rest," he said, his voice already carrying the low hum of sleep. "I’m here to keep you from running."

And for the first time in years, you believed him. Instead of reaching for your phone or mentally preparing for the next day’s work, you simply let yourself be.

The weight of the world didn’t lift, but something did—heavier than the workload, it was the unshakable comfort of being with someone who truly understood what you needed. And for once, there was no rush to fix everything.

—

As you lay in the quiet sanctuary of Max's arms, a subtle shift began to take root within you, like a seed slowly finding the light. The weight of the week, the relentless demands of work, and the pressure to perform no longer felt as oppressive as they once did.

Instead, the feeling of Max's steady heartbeat beneath your ear and the warmth of his embrace wrapped around you like a comforting blanket, inviting you to embrace a different narrative—one that centered on balance and the richness of your relationship.

You couldn't help but wonder how something as simple as rest could have such a profound effect, not just on your body, but on your heart and mind as well.

In the stillness, you reflected on the strength it took for Max to step in and prioritize your well-being, a gesture that felt both unexpected and deeply needed.

You realized that while you had always admired his fierce determination on the track and in life, it was his unwavering support that now stood out as a testament to the kind of love you had found in him.

He wasn’t just a partner; he was your anchor, someone who could see through your facade of exhaustion and knew when it was time to pause and breathe.

As your thoughts drifted, you began to question your own priorities. For years, you had equated busyness with success, believing that every second of work would lead to a brighter future.

But now, lying there in Max’s arms, it was becoming clear that this relentless pursuit was not serving you—it was consuming you. You could see the toll it had taken, not just on your health, but on your ability to truly enjoy the moments that mattered most.

Max had shown you an alternative path: one that balanced ambition with the beauty of simply being present, of savoring the small joys and connections that made life worthwhile.

You made a silent promise to yourself in that moment, a commitment to acknowledge the power of rest and the importance of nurturing your relationship with Max.

It was time to embrace the idea that you could be both driven and happy, that you could chase your dreams while also learning to savor the journey.

The realization settled in your heart, a gentle reminder that change didn’t have to be dramatic to be meaningful.

It could begin with small steps, like choosing to stay in that moment, feeling the warmth of Max’s love enveloping you as you surrendered to the peace that had finally found you.

—

In the days that followed, something within you began to change. You didn’t abandon your work, but you allowed yourself to breathe between responsibilities, to pause and truly rest when necessity called for it.

You stopped pushing through the exhaustion, recognizing now that sometimes, the most productive thing you could do was to step back. And Max, ever the steady presence, supported you every step of the way.

You learned to say no to late-night meetings without guilt, to walk away from deadlines when they became unreasonable. The shift didn’t happen overnight, of course—not every day felt as effortless as the one Max had designed for you—but it wasn’t just about making time to rest.

It was about learning to live in a way that felt sustainable, both for you and for the life you shared with Max.

He never once questioned your choices, even when you feared it might slow you down. Instead, he was there with quiet encouragement, a nod of approval when you declined an unnecessary task, a hand squeezed in reassurance when self-doubt crept in.

He reminded you, constantly, that you didn’t have to carry everything alone. That the strength he had always admired in you wasn’t about pushing forward without a break—it was about knowing when to pace yourself.

You found joy in the small moments Max had once insisted were just as important as the bigger ones. You spent afternoons in the house, watching simpler shows or playing with the cats while he cooked.

You took weekend trips to the countryside, just the two of you, with no agenda but to be together. The work was still there, as it always would be, but it no longer consumed you.

You had found a new rhythm, one that allowed you to be present, to be fully in love with your life and with the man who loved you just the same.

And with every passing day, you realized how easy it had been to forget just how much Max had changed your life in the quietest of ways.

Reflecting on the transformation that had taken place, you felt a profound sense of gratitude for the journey you and Max had embarked upon together.

His unwavering commitment to your well-being had not only provided you with a much-needed respite from the relentless demands of work but had also illuminated a path toward a more balanced life.

No longer did the thought of rest feel like a betrayal of your ambitions; instead, it became an essential component of a healthy, fulfilling existence.

The love you had found in Max was a powerful reminder that success could coexist with peace, that pursuing your dreams didn’t mean abandoning your happiness.

The lessons learned in those quiet moments together resonated deeply within you, reshaping your understanding of what it meant to prioritize both ambition and personal connection.

Max had taught you that true strength lay not just in pushing ahead, but in knowing when to slow down and savor the present.

You had discovered that the heart of a successful life was not defined solely by achievement but also by the joy of shared experiences, the laughter, and the comfort found in someone who truly understood you.

As you envisioned the future, a vivid picture emerged—one filled with the warmth of Max’s presence, of mornings spent in each other’s embrace, and afternoons filled with adventure and exploration.

It wasn’t about chasing perfection; it was about embracing life’s imperfections together.

You could already see the sunsets you would watch together, the challenges you would navigate as a unified team, and the beautiful moments that would weave themselves into the fabric of your shared story.

The impact of Max’s love extended into the very core of who you were, instilling a deep sense of self-worth and confidence in your choices.

You no longer felt the need to apologize for taking time for yourself; instead, you embraced it as a vital part of your journey.

In choosing to prioritize your mental and emotional well-being, you had opened the door to a future where you could grow together, both as individuals and as a couple, with Max standing by your side, a steadfast partner in the adventure of life. . . .