✨In this 'Bangtan Shit' forever✨

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.

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

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 🇭🇺🏁

charles_leclerc finally

lando bro

carlossainz55 about time

pierregasly you didn’t crop it 💀

danielricciardo oh he’s GONE gone

georgerussell63 interesting

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

user WHO IS THAT GIRL???

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

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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

user - username drop her @ RIGHT NOW

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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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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. . . .

It's still ringing in his ears.

The sound of her flatlining. Her heart finally giving up the fight that it had put up for so long.

Max couldn't leave her. Her body cooling as further evidence she was gone while he held her hand.

He didn't care that his shirt was soaked from his tears, that it hurt to blink because his eyes were raw, he'd not uttered a word after the doctors left, after her family left.

There was an ache in his chest every time he inhaled to breathe. The privilege of each breath ripping a new wave of grief through his system.

They'd known this day was coming, that y/n's death was inevitably close and she prepared for it. She'd done everything to prepare Max for it, she tried so hard. But there was no way she knew that Max would feel half of him die with her, a piece of his soul broken off and dragged from the world with her.

Nurses had passed the doorway enough times that Max is aware they're probably trying to make sure there's no suicidal ideation on display from him.

No he promised her he'd keep living. But suddenly that promise feels impossible to keep. He certainly can't break it literally at her death bed.

It's not till the day shift switch to nightshift and the clock spin deliriously around. Time holding no concept with Max's brain before he finally stands up the ring y/n had given to him only hours before the moment came that she left him in his palm and he leans over and kisses her pale, bloodless skin.

"I love you." Max rasps, not even recognising his own voice, void of emotion before he grips her hand. Almost a sharp pain scorching through him just thinking about letting go.

But he knows he can't sit here forever and it's coming upon 24 hours.

When he finally releases her from his hold the world crashes down on him, his body hunching about to dry heave as he processes reality. The reality he felt trapped in denying.

-

Max returns to the apartment. Eerily quiet till he sees the pets almost lined up. Nino, Donut, Jimmy and Sassy. All looking at him and then seemingly all looking behind him. Expecting the one person he wants to turn around and find is there.

But he turns looking at the empty space behind him and then back to the pets.

"She's gone." He chokes out a fresh wave of thunderous rage pulling him under as he feels his body tremble with emotion, fists clenched with one still holding the gold band. "She's gone. Stop looking for her! She's not coming back. She's never ever coming back!"

His voice echoes aggressively through the apartment, reverbing off the walls.

It takes some deep breaths, closing his eyes and trying to force himself to remember it's not their fault. It's no one's fault. It's not fair to shout at them when they are only looking for someone they love.

"I'm sorry guys." Max whispers then rubbing his hands over his face. "I'm sorry I can't bring her home to us."

He'd turned off his phone 4 days ago when he knew the end was coming. There was no one who was going to interrupt their last moments and he'd have waited till she was go before going to find whoever dared to try and murder them in cold blood. He could live without anyone who disrespected him enough to think they were a priority over his dying wife.

"I hope I'm reincarnated." Y/n comments, voice distorted from her body slowly failing her.

She's rarely conscious for more than 15 minutes at a time and most of the time she's not mentally present with him. Not really.

"What would you like to be reincarnated as?" Max asks not allowing her to think for a second that theres anything wrong as he gently stroked her hollowed cheek with his thumb.

"Maybe a bird...I'd like to know what it's like to fly. Or just a very loved cat, you could find me in the next life." Y/n smiles finally in control of her gaze looking at him while he smiles back, the pain radiating through him not detectable. He won't let her think for a second that he's in agony because it's her losing her life, not him.

"I'll have to get another cat and choose carefully to make sure they're you then." Max nods before internally wincing when tears escape her eyes.

"I'm sorry." Y/n chokes, ragged heaving breaths rattling through her withering lungs.

She hasn't been able to breathe without additional oxygen for a couple months now.

"You have nothing to ever be sorry about. I love you."

"I love you too...but this isn't fair."

Max couldn't argue with that. It's not fair. It's not fair she has to die young. It's not fair that she didn't get to live before she got sick, it's not fair that she can't live a long happy life while scum of the earth walks around till they're in their 80s and 90s wrecking the world but someone as sweet and loving as y/n is robbed from him.

"I'm tired." Y/n coughs earning a nod.

"You should sleep." Max whispers moving his hand up to gently brush the baby hairs at her hairline from her face. "I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Max...I want you to take this and keep it safe for me." Y/n states twisting and pulling at the ring.

"No, you keep it-"

"Please. Please take it. Please. I want you to keep it for me." Y/n begs emotions getting the better of her because she knows how soon it is, in fact it could be that this is it.

"Ok. Ok. I'll keep it." Max assures her taking the ring from her hold before he leans over kissing her temple. Noting the clammy coldness. "I love you so much. Ok?"

"I love you too and wherever I go...I'll find a way to come back to you in every life."

It wasn't. She woke up again after that but she was so disoriented she hardly knew where she was and she was in a lot of pain so when they gave her more medicated to sedate her and make her comfortable. It was the last time she woke up but as long and painful as her last few months had been, when the time came for her to finally find peace. It was quick and anything but painless for her husband.

Max relived every memory as he floated through the apartment, feeding the pets, showering and then passing out in bed.

-

Getting back to racing for the start of the season everyone could see the change. The void of a man Max has become.

They all knew the story.

Max and y/n childhood sweetheart, years of photos of them growing up together, y/n supporting him through every series, wearing his merch, then her getting sick and Max being there as often as he could and y/n still remaining by his side despite the trail of her health.

There was no defining moment that they officially started dating. It was just always something between them. Like they grew up already dating and as they aged and matured so did their relationship to suit their age.

First hand hold, first date, first kiss, losing their virginity, first time drinking, first time voting, his F1 debut, road trips to the European races before he got the jet, his first race win, his first championship. She didn't miss a second unless she was forced to.

And towards the end that was more and more frequent of an event.

No one ever told the media, but they caught wind of y/n's deteriorating health.

The funeral was agonising and Max is certain he didn't manage a full breath the whole event.

He'd been a pallbearer to help carry her coffin with her dad, brother and some other male family members.

"Max." GP states making Max's head snap up from the screen that he'd completely lost focus on.

He'd lost focus on everything.

"What?" Max questions scowling at the man who would usually give him some attitude in return of his own but instead GP sighed and repeated himself.

Headlines for the start of the season were plastered with one thing. Y/n's name and face with Max. They found great joy in reminding him at every opportunity that his wife was dead.

Just the thought makes him stand half way through ignoring what GP was saying yet again. The chair scraping the floor with a nasty screech that catches the rest of the room's attention and he leaves without so much as excusing himself.

He's beyond reason, beyond logic or rationality. There will be people who say he's in no place to get in a car and be trusted to race and be trusted to hold his life and the lives of others to any importance.

They're right.

Because he doesn't care if he lives or dies, he doesn't care if someone gets hurt. He stopped caring when he saw y/n's heart stop beating.

What in the fucking world did he have to care about now?

Max stumbles, ragged breaths coming out uneven as he bumps into people walking through the paddock. He's suffocated with grief. Memories of y/n punch through his chest and leave a concussion like buzz in his head. He head snaps when he hears her voice swearing he heard her laugh, his eyes frantically looking around for her.

She's here.

Maybe it was the worst nightmare known to man and he dreamt it all.

"Woah, hey there mate-Hey. Hey. Max." Daniel frowns grabbing Max's biceps after he's been another victim of Max's distracted stumbling, desperate to locate the woman who's not there.

"I-I...Sorry, mate." Max mumbles reality finally pulling him back.

"It's alright, I was just gonna come find you. Make sure you're doing ok."

The answer goes without saying.

"Why don't we get you somewhere with less people around?" Daniel asks making Max shake him off but he doesn't argue.

-

There was some back and forth on whether Max was stable to race, but he wasn't allowing there to be question. For him he was racing and there wasn't another option. He raced or absolutely no one on the grid did.

They'd have to have him physically restrained.

So they let him in the car and initially it was all fine.

In fact Max felt himself slip into a normality that gave him a grip on reality that he'd lost.

The crash is something he's a victim of but it's a nasty crash. Max tries to avoid the collision between Oscar and George in front of him but he didn't have to crash, it was sloppy on his part and he's slammed sideways into the wall making pain of the force ricochet through his body.

"Max? You ok?" GP asks coming through the radio as Max sighs.

"Fucking idiots. I could've avoided that. What the fuck were they doing?!" Max shouts hitting the steering wheel. "I'm getting out."

"Copy."

They were only 15 laps into the race and Max gets a ride with a marshal before returning to the paddock.

He gets back to his drivers room after handling media who despite the constant headlines have been respectful when it comes to speaking to him directly.

There's a picture of y/n sitting on his table that Victoria brought and hanging from the corner is the ring on a chain. Just the thought of it going missing makes his eye twitch.

"What was that?" Jos asks appearing, making the foolish mistake of trying to knock his son out of his grief with aggression.

"They crashed." Max states eyes still locked on y/n as his dad begins to lecture him on his mistake that took him out the race.

"You bit me." Max laughs with a small hit over her teeth unsticking from where they'd stabbed into his flesh.

"Punishment for being stupid in an F1 car." Y/n giggles, her body and mind not tainted by an illness yet.

"Well my 19th birthday is coming up...do I get a gift for that?" Max asks making her hum, finger tracing over the bite mark she's left on him.

"I've got some things up my sleeve." Y/n smiles then leaning over and kissing him. "Seriously Max, don't do that again. I know you think you have something to prove. But I'll bite you every time you do something I think is stupid and avoidable."

It's not much of a threat.

"Is it not?" Y/n challenges, he must've muttered that under his breath.

"Not the way you do it." Max grins pulling her close. "You can finish what you started though."

"I intend to. Gotta show you how it's done since you started a race you didn't finish."

Max knows if anyone else had said that then he'd have ripped them a new one. But he can only laugh at y/n who holds absolutely no fear with Max, he'd never hurt her or so much as yell.

"I don't care! I don't care what happened. It's done. You think I'm magic? You think I can go back and change the past?! If I could that race is the last fucking thing I'd ever consider going back to. If you don't want to watch me race then don't. I'm not fucking asking you to. The one person I want to be here is fucking dead and you think anything you say matters? It doesn't." Max shouts, his voice making the whole Red Bull hospitality shake with his volume and his dad is silent in shock. "You want me to give a shit? You want me to care? I don't. Especially when idiots come on track making mistakes that you want to blame me for."

Jos seems looks torn between comforting Max and slapping him.

"Get out."

Thankfully Jos does leave and Max collapses on the floor. Others seem to be wiser than to bother him.

Max sighs sitting up against the wall of his room, eyes locked on the picture.

He's not at the point of talking to nothing and pretending y/n is there. In Max's mind, y/n is gone. There is no afterlife. Her soul left and just that, she's not there.

She can't see him. She can't hear him. She won't find her way back to him as much as she promised she would, because she can't.

And Max has to spend the rest of his life without her. A life that had not known living memory of a time she wasn't in his life.

His head drops backs thinking of how he's going to spend his whole life wanting her back, there won't be another woman he loves like y/n and he couldn't fathom the thought of creating a life with someone else.

Max had promised y/n that he'd no let losing her wreck him, but that promise was broken the moment she wasn't there to witness him breaking it.

"Fuck." Max mutters to himself hauling himself up.

He knows he can't go on living like this, he can't spend decades is a haze of grief. But he'll allow himself the time he needs to stem the flow of his pain. Whether it be months, years or even nearing a decade, it won't ever hurt less but maybe he will learn to handle the pain.

Those around him will just have to let him deal with his loss the way he wants to. Which admittedly is braving it alone, because the only person who could've had to ability to comfort him and talk him off the ledge is the person who has caused him to be at this point.

There won't be a time in Max's life he hasn't got y/n in his mind. He'll just spend his life waiting for the moment that he can rest from this.

Until then, he'll take care of their babies who seem to be struggling with Max returning home each time he walks through the door and y/n still not being there with him, he'll keep her memory alive for himself and he'll manage to keep going though that feels like it's a far cry from being in his reach any time soon.

Luckily it seems like he's scared Jos from thinking anything he has to say for the foreseeable is something that matters in Max's mind.

Race ruined. Championship points flushed down the drain.

Adrenaline masked the worst of it at first. You climbed out, helmet hiding the way your vision swam, and stormed back to the garage.

The team was waiting, a storm brewing in the motorhome.

"What in God's name was that?" Horner exploded, slamming a data pad down. "We're supposed to be a team! Fighting other teams, not each other! You two cost us a podium...hell, maybe the constructors' lead. Max, that brake check was reckless. And you—" He jabbed a finger at you. "Diving in like that? You know better. This rivalry bullshit ends now."

You bit your tongue, the room tilting subtly as you nodded. Max shot you a glare, his blue eyes cold. "She went for a gap that wasn't there," he muttered, voice laced with that edge. "If she'd backed off—"

"Back off?" You snapped, leaning forward despite the wave of nausea. "You've been hogging the track all season, Verstappen. Acting like the team's yours. Newsflash: I'm here to win too, not play second fiddle to your ego."

He leaned in, matching your fire. "Ego? You're the one who thinks she can outdrive me. Keep dreaming. "

The room went silent. Horner rubbed his temples. "Enough. Sort your shit out privately. But on track? Clean racing or consequences." The meeting dragged another twenty minutes, data reviews, strategy lectures, but your head pounded harder with each word.

Dizziness crept in, a fuzzy haze at the edges of your vision. Instability in your legs, like the ground was made of water. No way you'd admit it. Not here. Not after this disaster. You'd powered through worse; a little crash wasn't benching you.

Finally dismissed, you grabbed your bag and slipped out, forcing steady steps through the paddock. The hotel wasn't far a quick walk, or so you told yourself.

But by the time you reached the lobby, the world was swaying. You gripped the elevator railing, breathing shallow, as spots danced in your eyes. "Just fatigue," you whispered to yourself. "Shake it off."

Your room door clicked shut behind you, and you leaned against it, sliding down to the floor.

The dizziness hit full force now room spinning like a bad simulator, nausea clawing up your throat. Your neck throbbed where the impact had jarred it, and a headache bloomed fierce and unrelenting.

You were more hurt than you'd let on, the crash's toll catching up. Concussion? Maybe. But telling the team meant scans, sidelining, more lectures. No. You'd handle it alone.

A knock jolted you. "Open up." Max's voice, muffled but insistent.

"Go away," you called, voice weaker than intended.

The knob rattled, he must've gotten a key from reception, the sneaky bastard. The door swung open, and there he was, still in his team polo, looking equal parts annoyed and... worried? "Saw you wobble out of the motorhome. Knew you were full of shit about being fine."

You glared up at him from the floor, hating how vulnerable you looked. "What, come to gloat? 'Told you you're not tough enough'?"

He crouched down, eyes scanning your face. "Shut up. You're pale as a ghost." His hand cupped your chin, tilting your head gently to check the bruise forming on your temple. The touch was surprisingly soft, but you jerked away.

"Don't touch me, asshole. This is your fault."

"Yeah," he admitted, voice rough. "It is. And I hate it."

“You look like absolute shit,” he said bluntly.

You snorted, the sound weak. “Thanks. Really feeling the teammate love.”

He didn’t laugh. His hand came up, fingers brushing your temple where a faint bruise was already blooming under the skin. “You hit your head harder than they said in the medical check, didn’t you?”

You flinched away from the touch, more out of reflex than actual rejection. “I passed the tests. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” His voice dropped, low and rough. “You can barely keep your eyes focused. And don’t lie to me I’ve seen enough crashes to know the difference between shaken and properly fucked up.”

You glared at him, the anger from the track flaring back up like gasoline on embers. “Oh, now you’re the expert? After you fucking launched me into the wall because you couldn’t stand losing a position for once?”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Save it.” You cut him off, voice cracking despite yourself. “You braked late on purpose. You always do. You think because you’re Max fucking Verstappen the track belongs to you."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, standing up again. For a second you thought he’d storm out. Instead he dragged the desk chair over and sat so close his knees brushed yours.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I fucked up. I was pissed you were that close, that you actually had a shot at passing me clean. So I squeezed you. And now you’re sitting here dizzy as hell because of me.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I hate that.”

You stared at him, thrown. Max didn’t do vulnerable. Max did arrogant radio messages, icy stares in the garage, post-race interviews where he called everyone else “not quick enough.”

“Don’t,” you muttered. “Don’t pretend you care now. You’ve spent two seasons telling everyone I don’t belong here. That I’m just Red Bull’s diversity hire."

His expression darkened. “I never said that shit.”

“You didn’t have to. You let the narrative run. Every time a journalist asked why we were fighting so hard, you’d smirk and say something like ‘She’s fast… for a second driver.’”

He looked away, jaw working. “I was protecting my space. You came in guns blazing. You didn’t back down. Ever. ”

The admission hung between you.

You laughed once, bitter. “Great. So you respect me. And still crashed me out.”

“I didn’t want this.” He reached out again, slower this time, cupping the side of your face. His thumb traced the edge of the bruise so gently it almost didn’t feel real. “I wanted to beat you fair. Not… this.”

Your throat tightened. The room spun again, softer this time, and you swayed forward without meaning to.

Max caught you instantly, both hands sliding to your waist, pulling you against his chest so you didn’t tip sideways. “Easy. I’ve got you.”

One hand moved up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading carefully through your hair, avoiding the tender spots.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your temple.

“Adrenaline crash,” you lied.

“Or concussion you’re too stubborn to admit.”

You didn’t answer. Just let him hold you.

After a long minute he shifted, easing you both back so you were lying down, head on the pillow.

He didn’t let go completely stretched out beside you instead, propped on one elbow, watching your face like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked.

“Close your eyes,” he said, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t need a nurse, Verstappen.”

“You need someone who gives a shit. And right now that’s me.” His fingers brushed over your forehead again, slow strokes that felt ridiculously soothing. “So shut up and let me do this.”

You wanted to argue. Wanted to throw every barbed comment he’d ever made back in his face. But the dizziness was winning, and his touch was warm, steady, anchoring.

“Next race,” you mumbled, already drifting, “I’m taking you out. Fair and square.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I’d like to see you try.”

His hand never stopped moving, gentle circles over your temple, then down to the nape of your neck, massaging the tension away.

Every few minutes he’d check your breathing, make sure your eyes weren’t fluttering too much.

“You’re still an asshole,” you whispered, barely audible.

“I know.” He pressed his lips to your forehead, so light you almost missed it.

He was twenty, and the world was screaming his name. But inside these four walls, the noise was different. It was the sound of expectations.

"My dad says it’s for the best, Y/N," Lando said, his voice cracking slightly. He didn't turn around. He couldn't. "Mark, the trainers… they all say the same thing. This is my one shot. If I’m thinking about you, about us, about when I’m coming home… I’m not thinking about the apex. I’m not thinking about the win."

Y/N sat perfectly still, her hands tucked into the sleeves of an oversized hoodie—one of his. "So, that’s it? I’m a distraction? After three years, I’ve been downgraded to a line item in a performance review?"

"It’s not like that," he snapped, finally turning. His face was a map of exhaustion and misplaced resolve. "It’s just… it’s too much. The travel, the pressure. I need to be 'all in.' They keep telling me that if I don't give 100% to McLaren right now, I’ll be out before I even start."

He walked over, kneeling in front of her, his hands hovering near her knees before he pulled them back. The rejection was already starting.

"I love you," he whispered, and the words sounded like a goodbye. "I do. But I can't carry the weight of making you happy while I’m carrying the weight of a whole team. It’s not forever. I just need to focus. Please understand."

Y/N looked at him, searching his blue eyes for the boy she’d gone to karting tracks with, but all she saw was a driver looking for an exit strategy. A strange, fluttering nausea stirred in her stomach—she chalked it up to the heartbreak, the stress of the argument. She didn't know yet that it was the first sign of a life they had created together.

"If you walk out to 'focus,' Lando," she said, her voice trembling but certain, "don't expect me to be a trophy waiting on a shelf when you decide you've focused enough."

Lando swallowed hard, the guilt warring with the relentless ambition that had been drilled into him for months. Ambition won.

"I have to go. The car is outside."

He stood up, grabbed his kit bag, and walked out. He didn't look back. He believed he was doing the "right thing" for his future. He believed he was being "professional."

He had no idea he was leaving behind the only part of himself that truly mattered.

Three weeks after the door clicked shut behind Lando, Y/N stood in her bathroom, staring at two pink lines that felt like a death sentence and a miracle all at once. Her first instinct wasn't fear—it was a desperate, aching need to tell him. To tell the boy who used to talk about "one day" with her.

But the boy she knew was gone, replaced by a silhouette behind a visor.

Y/N tried the phone first. It rang and rang until a cold, professional voice informed her the number had been disconnected. She drove to his family home, her heart hammering against her ribs, only to be met at the gate by his father.

"He’s in Spain for testing, Y/N," Adam said, his voice not unkind but terrifyingly firm. He didn't let her past the driveway. "Look, we all saw how hard that breakup was on him. He’s finally focused. He’s finally winning. If you go to him now, if you bring... baggage... you’ll undo months of work. You love him, don't you? Then let him be great."

"It's not baggage, Adam," Y/N whispered, her hand instinctively hovering over her stomach. "It’s his."

The silence that followed was ice-cold. "We’ll take care of you financially, if that’s what this is about. But Lando doesn't need this distraction. Not now. Not ever."

They took his phone "for his mental health" during the transition to the main roster. They filtered his emails. They told him she had moved out of the apartment and hadn't left a forwarding address. When Y/N sent letters, they were intercepted by assistants and shredded before they ever reached the motorhome.

To Lando, it felt like she had vanished. He spent long nights staring at his ceiling in hotel rooms in Melbourne, Baku, and Monaco, wondering how she could have moved on so fast. He told himself it was for the best. He told himself she was happier without the chaos of the paddock.

The next three years were a study in contrast: Lando's reality was a blur of screaming engines, 300km/h corners, podium triumphs, champagne celebrations, and the perpetual, public adoration that came with interviews about "sacrifice" and "dedication."

In contrast, Y/N's world was defined by the soft, rhythmic creak of a nursery rocking chair, the quiet routine of midnight feedings, and the comforting scent of baby powder. Her focus was on working two jobs to maintain a small countryside home and provide a quiet life for her little girl, Daisy, who possessed her father's unmistakable curly hair and mischievous grin.

Lando became a star. He was the "Twitch quadrant" hero, the funny, fast kid at McLaren. But sometimes, during a national anthem or a quiet flight, his mind would drift back to that small apartment.

He’d check her social media, but she had gone dark years ago. He assumed she was married. He assumed she’d forgotten the boy who chose a car over her. He had no idea that every time he appeared on a TV screen, a toddler would point a tiny finger and say, "Dada?" because Y/N couldn't bring herself to erase him entirely.

He was living his dream. She was living the consequence. And the wall between them, built by "well-meaning" friends and family, remained unbreakable.

Until the rain started falling on a slick British motorway, and a truck lost control.

Silverstone. The British Grand Prix. The pinnacle of Lando’s home season. The paddock was a hive of frantic energy, and Lando was at the center of it. He had just finished a grueling media session and was walking back to the McLaren motorhome, his mind occupied by tire degradation and telemetry data.

"Lando, wait," Charlotte, his PR manager, caught up to him, looking uncharacteristically flustered. She held a phone in her hand. "There’s a call on the team line. A lawyer. He says it’s a matter of life and death."

Lando didn't stop. "Tell them to call Mark. I’ve got the technical briefing in five minutes."

"Lando, he didn't call your agent. He called the McLaren front desk and stayed on hold for forty minutes. He said your name is the only one on an old emergency contact form for a Y/N Y/L/N."

Lando stopped dead. The name hit him like a physical blow to the chest, a name he hadn't allowed himself to say out loud for nearly four years. The "distraction" he had successfully buried.

"Give me the phone," he said, his voice suddenly hollow.

He ducked into a private room, the noise of the fans outside muffled by the glass.

"This is Lando Norris."

"Mr. Norris, my name is Arthur Miller. I’m representing the interests of Y/N Y/L/N. There has been a serious motor vehicle accident. Y/N is currently in a medically induced coma at St. Jude’s. Her parents passed away two years ago, and we found your name on an old residential lease agreement and an outdated medical proxy she never changed."

Lando’s hand gripped the edge of the table. "Is she... will she be okay?"

"It’s too early to say. But the reason I am calling you so urgently, Mr. Norris, is because there is a minor involved. A three-year-old girl. Since there are no other relatives on record, Social Services will have to take her into temporary care within the hour unless a known associate can claim her."

Lando’s brain stalled. The math began to do itself in his head, a cruel, relentless calculation. Four years. Three-year-old girl.

"A minor?" Lando whispered. "What are you talking about? She doesn't have a sister."

"She’s not her sister, Mr. Norris," the lawyer said, his tone softening with a touch of grim realization. "She’s her daughter. Daisy. And looking at the birth certificate... the father's section was left blank, but the timeline... well, I imagine you can do the math."

The room felt like it was spinning at 200 mph. The walls closed in. The F1 world—the trophies, the points, the "focus" his family had demanded—felt like a tasteless joke.

"She has a child," Lando repeated, his voice cracking. "That’s not possible. She would have told me. I... I would have known."

"Mr. Norris, she is in a coma. The child is currently sitting in a hospital waiting room with a social worker. She’s asking for her 'Mummy' and she’s terrified. We need to know if you are coming, or if we proceed with emergency foster placement."

Lando didn't think about the technical briefing. He didn't think about the British Grand Prix. He didn't think about what his father would say about "distractions."

"I'm coming," Lando said, his voice shaking with a mixture of terror and a sudden, fierce protective instinct he didn't know he possessed. "Don't let them take her. I'm coming right now."

Lando walked out of the room, ignoring the shouts of his engineers. He saw his father at the end of the hall, looking at his watch.

"Lando, we're late for the—"

Lando didn't even look at him. He pushed past, his eyes blurred with tears he hadn't shed in years. "She had a baby, Dad. And you knew, didn't you? You all knew."

He didn't wait for an answer. He ran for the car.

The lawyer, Arthur Miller, met Lando in a small, windowless consultation room just down the hall from the ICU. On the table between them sat a thick manila folder, its edges frayed. Inside was a meticulously documented trail of the life Lando had been denied.

Arthur began to lay out the evidence: copies of letters with "Return to Sender" stamped in aggressive red ink, logs of phone calls to the McLaren headquarters that never made it past the reception desk, and legal notices sent to his family’s home address that had been signed for by his father’s assistant.

Lando stared at the dates. He saw a letter sent the week of his first podium in Austria. He saw a call log from the night he signed his multi-year contract extension. Every milestone in his career was shadowed by a desperate attempt from Y/N to reach him. The realization hit him like a physical impact—his "focus" hadn't been a choice he made alone; it was a cage built around him by the people he trusted most.

He collapsed into the plastic chair, his head in his hands, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The rage was a cold, sharp blade in his chest, directed at his family, his management, and most of all, himself for being so easily led.

When he finally entered Y/N's room, the anger vanished, replaced by a crushing, suffocating guilt. She looked so small amidst the forest of monitors and IV poles. Her skin was translucent, the blue veins at her temples visible beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. He sat by her bed, reaching out to touch her hand, but his fingers trembled so violently he had to pull back. He was a stranger here. He had no right to hold her hand when he hadn't been there to hold her through the morning sickness, the labor, or the long nights of a feverish toddler.

He began to whisper to her, his voice thick with tears that finally broke free. He told her about the folder, about the letters he never saw, and the phone calls he never got. He begged her to wake up, telling her he would give up every trophy, every point, and every second of fame just to go back to that afternoon in the apartment and stay.

He repeated "I didn't know" like a mantra, a desperate prayer that if he said it enough, the last four years of her struggle would somehow be erased.

He didn't notice the door creak open or the small shadow that slipped into the room. Daisy had been brought back from the cafeteria, a half-eaten biscuit clutched in her hand.

She stood by the foot of the bed, watching the man with the curly hair sob over her mother’s hand. She didn't know who he was, only that he was wearing a shirt with the same "swish" logo she saw on the television sometimes when her mother thought she was asleep.

Lando wiped his eyes, noticing the movement. He looked at the little girl—his daughter—and felt a terrifying mix of love and inadequacy. He didn't know how to be a father; he didn't even know her middle name.

He tried to offer a small, broken smile, but Daisy just tilted her head, her expression one of solemn, haunting curiosity. She took a step closer to the bed, her eyes darting between Lando’s tear-stained face and her mother’s still form.

"Are you the man Mommy cries about in her sleep?" she asked, her voice clear and innocent.

The question felt like a final, killing blow. Lando couldn't answer. He could only look at the little girl who had spent her entire life watching her mother mourn a man who was only a few hours away, too busy "focusing" to notice the world he had left behind.

The transition from the ventilator to breathing on her own had been a slow, grueling process, but finally, the room was quiet. When Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, the first thing she saw wasn't the sterile hospital ceiling, but Lando’s face.

He looked older, his features sharpened by the stress of the last few days and the weight of the secrets he now carried. He was leaning forward in the plastic chair, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. For a heartbeat, the four years vanished, and they were just Lando and Y/N again.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice thick with a relief so intense it bordered on pain. "You’re back. You’re okay." He reached out, his fingers hovering near her hand on the railing of the bed, desperate for a connection he hadn't felt in years.

But as the fog of the coma cleared, Y/N’s expression shifted. The warmth he expected didn't come. Instead, her eyes grew guarded, distant, and cold. She didn't pull her hand away—she didn't have the strength yet—but she went perfectly still, a silent wall rising between them that no championship trophy could ever scale.

The silence in the room became heavy, suffocating the apologies Lando had been practicing for days. He began to stumble through an explanation, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. He told her about the lawyer, the folder of intercepted letters, and the way his family had manipulated the silence.

He wanted her to know that he hadn't ignored her on purpose, that he hadn't chosen to be a "star in the sky" while she struggled on the ground. He expected her to be angry at his father or the team, but as he spoke, she only watched him with a weary, heartbreaking clarity.

"I know they did that, Lando," she said, her voice a dry, fragile rasp. "I figured it out a long time ago. I knew you weren't that cruel." She took a shallow breath, her gaze moving toward the door where she knew her daughter was waiting.

Then, she looked back at him, and the look in her eyes was worse than any anger he could have imagined. It was indifference mixed with a deep, permanent scar. "But you still left. Even if you didn't know everything… you left."

Lando felt the air leave his lungs. He tried to argue, to say it was for his career, that he was young and pressured, but the words died in his throat. She was right. Before the lies, before the blocked calls, and before the baby, there had been a choice.

He had stood in their apartment and decided that she was a "distraction" he could no longer afford. The family's interference was just the salt in a wound he had already carved. She didn't offer him a hug; she didn't offer him forgiveness. She only offered him the cold, hard truth of his own ambition.

"I won't keep you from her," Y/N continued, her voice gaining a tiny spark of maternal steel. "You can meet Daisy. You can be in her life because she deserves to know who you are. But you don't get to walk in here and demand a family. You don't get to play the hero because you finally found out the truth. You’re a stranger to her, Lando. And right now, you’re almost a stranger to me."

She closed her eyes, signaling the end of the conversation. Lando sat in the silence, realizing that while he had finally caught up to the life he had left behind, the distance between them was still miles wide.

The transition from the roar of the paddock to the quiet, rhythmic demands of a three-year-old’s life was a shock Lando hadn't prepared for. He traded his simulator sessions for a crash course in toddler survival, staying in a modest rental near the rehabilitation center where Y/N was beginning her long road to recovery.

He didn't post about his "transformation" on social media; he didn't call the team to brag about his dedication. He simply showed up every morning at 7:00 AM, his designer clothes replaced by plain hoodies that Daisy could wipe her sticky hands on.

He was learning that in this world, lap times meant nothing—what mattered was the exact ratio of milk to cocoa and the specific way a favorite stuffed rabbit had to be tucked under a chin.

Daisy, however, remained a puzzle that no amount of telemetry could solve. She didn't see the world-famous driver; she saw a man who was taking up space in her mother’s room. She treated him like an intruder, a polite stranger she tolerated only because her "Mummy" said it was okay.

The most devastating moment came on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Daisy had tripped over a rug and scraped her elbow, the sudden pain triggering a torrent of tears. Lando had instinctively reached out to scoop her up, his heart racing with a desperate need to comfort her.

But Daisy had shrunk back, her face red and distorted as she wailed for her mother, her small hands pushing against Lando’s chest as if he were a threat.

He stood there, his arms empty and his chest aching, forced to watch the nurse comfort her instead. He realized then that loving someone didn't give him control over their heart, and just showing up didn't guarantee him the right to be the one who stopped the crying.

Determined to earn his place, Lando started with the small things. He spent forty minutes one morning attempting to comb Daisy’s hair before her mother’s physical therapy session. His hands, usually so steady at two hundred miles per hour, were clumsy and trembling as he navigated the thick, unruly curls he had passed down to her.

The resulting ponytail was a disaster—lopsided, frizzy, and held together by a mismatched collection of ribbons. He looked at his handiwork, then at Y/N, who was watching him from her wheelchair with a weary, unreadable expression.

He didn't make a joke to lighten the mood. He didn't complain about how hard it was. He just looked at the tangle of hair and promised he would do better the next day. He was learning to listen more than he spoke, absorbing the reproaches and the long, heavy silences that followed his failed attempts at being "Dad."

The air between him and Y/N remained thick with the ghosts of the last four years.

One evening, after Daisy had finally fallen asleep in the small cot by Y/N’s bed, Lando tried to speak about the future. He spoke of houses, of security, of "making up" for the time they had lost, his voice filled with the frantic energy of a man trying to pit-stop his way out of a disaster.

Y/N listened until he ran out of breath, her gaze cold and steady. She told him that four years of being a single mother, of hospital bills, and of watching him celebrate on TV while she struggled to buy diapers couldn't be solved with a checkbook or a change of heart.

"You don't get to fix this with good intentions, Lando," she whispered, her voice like ice. "You can’t just decide to be a hero now because it’s convenient."

Lando didn't look away, nor did he mention his family’s lies again. He simply sat back in the hard plastic chair, the same one he had slept in for a week. "I know," he replied, his voice quiet but unwavering. "I’m here anyway."

The shift in Daisy’s heart didn’t happen with a grand gesture; it happened in the quiet, messy spaces of the everyday.

One afternoon, while Lando was attempting to draw a "fast car" for her with a set of cheap hospital crayons, he accidentally drew the wheels in the wrong place. Daisy let out a sudden, high-pitched giggle—the first genuine sound of joy he had heard from her. She grabbed the crayon from his hand and began to "fix" it, her small shoulder leaning against his arm with a casualness that stole his breath.

From that day on, she began to seek him out, asking for "Lando" when she woke up from her naps and reaching for his hand when they walked the long, sanitized hallways to visit Y/N.

Y/N watched these interactions from the periphery, her silence no longer a weapon but a place of observation. She saw him sitting on the floor for hours, his long legs cramped, just to be at Daisy's eye level. She noticed that he didn't check his phone every five minutes or talk about his lap times.

Most importantly, she saw that his guilt wasn't a performance designed to get him back into her good graces. It was a quiet, heavy mantle he wore with humility. He didn't ask for credit for the sleepless nights or the endless errands; he simply performed them as if they were his penance, expecting nothing in return.

The breaking point for Y/N’s resolve came during a late-night phone call Lando took in the hallway, unaware that the door to her room was slightly ajar. It was his management team, their voices loud and frantic even through the speaker.

There was a mandatory sponsor gala in Monaco, followed by a high-stakes filming day that was "non-negotiable" for his contract. It was the kind of event the "old" Lando would have moved mountains to attend—the kind of "opportunity" his family would have insisted was vital for his future.

"I’m not coming," Lando said, his voice low but unshakable.

"Lando, the penalties for missing this are insane," his manager argued. "It’s forty-eight hours. We’ll have you back before she even notices you’re gone."

"Daisy has her first developmental assessment with the trauma specialist on Thursday," Lando replied, and Y/N felt a lump form in her throat as she realized he had memorized the schedule she thought he wasn't paying attention to. "She’s scared of the doctors. She needs to see me there when she comes out. Find another way to fix the contract, or don't. I’m staying here."

He hung up before they could argue further and walked back into the room, tucking the phone away as if he hadn't just put his multi-million-dollar career on the line for a three-year-old’s doctor's appointment.

He didn't mention the call to her. He didn't brag about the sacrifice. He just sat back down and picked up a half-finished puzzle Daisy had left on the bed. Y/N watched him for a long time, the familiar silhouette of the boy she had loved now inhabited by the man he had become.

The bitterness that had anchored her for four years didn't vanish, but it shifted, making room for something she hadn't felt since the day he left: hope.

"You're going to get in trouble with Zak," she said softly, her voice the most gentle it had been since she woke up.

Lando looked up, startled that she had been listening. He shrugged, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. "Let them be cross. I've spent four years winning races I don't remember. I'm not missing a single second of the things I'll never forget."

She didn't say she forgave him. She didn't reach out to hold his hand. But for the first time, she didn't look away. She simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment that for the first time in his life, Lando Norris was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The day Y/N was finally discharged felt more daunting than any race start Lando had ever faced. The hospital had been a safety net of sorts—a place of schedules and professionals where his role was clearly defined as a visitor.

Now, as he pushed her wheelchair through the sliding glass doors and into the crisp morning air, the "real world" felt vast and unforgiving.

He had rented a quiet house in the Cotswolds, far from the prying eyes of the London paparazzi and the suffocating reach of his management. It was a place for them to disappear, even if only for a while.

The process of getting Y/N into the car was a delicate dance of careful movements and unspoken tension. Lando was hyper-aware of her every wince, his hands steady as he supported her weight, but he was equally conscious of the space she still kept between them.

In the back seat, Daisy was a whirlwind of excitement, kicking her legs against her car seat and chanting "Home, home, home" like a rhythmic mantra. Lando caught Y/N’s eye in the rearview mirror as they pulled away from the hospital, and for a split second, the coldness flickered.

She looked exhausted, her face pale against the dark upholstery, but she was looking at the back of Daisy’s head with a look of such profound love that it made Lando’s chest ache with the weight of everything he had missed.

When they arrived at the house, the reality of "family life" hit him with the force of a high-speed collision. There were no assistants to unload the car, no trainers to prep his meals, and no PR team to script his interactions.

There was only a three-year-old who wanted to show her mother every single flower in the garden and a woman who needed help just to navigate the hallway.

Lando spent the afternoon in a blur of activity: he carried the luggage, he struggled with the complex locking mechanism on the new stroller, and he attempted to make a simple pasta dinner while Daisy tried to "help" by throwing handfuls of dry noodles across the kitchen floor.

The turning point of the day came in the late afternoon. Y/N was resting on the sofa, her legs propped up on cushions, watching Lando attempt to settle Daisy for a nap. The little girl was overtired and cranky, her demands for "one more story" turning into a tearful meltdown.

Instead of calling for Y/N or getting frustrated, Lando simply sat on the floor by the bed, pulled Daisy into his lap, and began to hum a low, wordless melody. He stayed there for twenty minutes, his back against the wall, until the toddler’s breathing went deep and even.

When he walked back into the living room, Y/N was still watching him. The silence between them wasn't as sharp as it had been in the hospital; it felt softer, more like a tentative peace treaty.

She watched as he quietly began to pick up the discarded toys, moving with a domestic grace she hadn't known he possessed. He wasn't the "Twitch" star or the McLaren poster boy in that moment; he was just a man trying to figure out how to be a father to a girl who didn't yet know his last name.

"You're getting better at the hair," she said softly, nodding toward the messy but functional braid he’d managed to put in Daisy’s hair earlier that morning.

Lando stopped, a half-eaten crust of toast in his hand, and looked at her. He didn't smile—it felt too early for that—but his expression was open and honest. "I've been practicing on a mop in the kitchen," he admitted, his voice quiet so as not to wake the sleeping child.

Y/N let out a breath that was almost a laugh, a sound that felt like the first drop of rain after a long drought. "Lando," she began, then hesitated, her fingers tracing the hem of the blanket he’d tucked around her. "I still don't know if I can do this. I don't know if 'us' exists anymore."

"I know," Lando replied, leaning against the doorframe. "You don't have to decide anything today. Or tomorrow. I’m just glad I’m the one who gets to make you tea while you figure it out."

It was this domestic peace—the sight of his daughter safe and the woman he loved finally home—that gave him the final, iron-clad resolve he needed. He looked at his phone, seeing three missed calls from his father and a dozen urgent emails from his manager. The "real world" was calling, and it was time to tell them exactly what they had done.

The confrontation didn't happen in a heated moment at the house; it happened in the quiet, suffocating luxury of the Norris family home. Lando had waited until Y/N was stable, until he had the evidence—the "Return to Sender" stamps, the logs of blocked numbers, and the legal threats his father’s lawyers had sent to Y/N while she was pregnant.

He walked into the living room not as the young driver looking for approval, but as a father who had been robbed of his daughter’s first three years of life. He dropped the manila folder onto the mahogany coffee table with a sound that seemed to echo like a gunshot.

His father, Adam, looked at the folder and then at Lando, his expression remaining composed, almost paternal.

He began the same speech Lando had heard since he was seven years old: the talk of sacrifices, the narrow window of opportunity in F1, and the "unfortunate distractions" that could derail a multi-million dollar career.

He admitted to the interference without a hint of shame, framing it as a necessary shield.

"We did it to protect your future, Lando," his father said, his voice steady. "She was a complication you weren't ready for. We made the choice you were too young and too emotional to make for yourself. Look at where you are now—you’re a world-class athlete because we cleared the path for you."

Lando felt a wave of nausea so strong it made his head spin. The "protection" they were so proud of had resulted in a woman he loved nearly dying alone, a child growing up thinking her father was a ghost, and a void in his own soul that no trophy could ever fill.

He realized then that to his family, he wasn't a person—he was a brand, a high-performance machine that needed to be kept in a sterile environment. They hadn't just hidden a child from him; they had stolen his agency, his morality, and the chance to be the man Y/N actually deserved.

"You didn't protect my future," Lando said, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a rage that silenced the room. "You burned it. You let the mother of my child struggle for air while I was spraying champagne on a podium. You let my daughter wonder why her dad didn't want her."

He stepped closer, his eyes cold and unwavering. "If I ever find out you’ve contacted her again, or if you ever try to speak to Daisy without my explicit permission, I will walk away from every contract, every sponsor, and every tie I have to this name. I’m not your 'project' anymore. I’m her father. And I’m Y/N’s partner—if she’ll still have me."

He left the house without looking back, leaving the "perfect" career behind for the messy, difficult, and beautiful reality waiting for him in Cotswolds.

He had spent his whole life being told that F1 was everything, but as he drove back toward the woman who didn't forgive him and the little girl who was just beginning to trust him, he knew he had finally found something worth the fight.

The house in the Cotswolds had finally begun to feel like a home rather than a hiding place. The scent of antiseptic had been replaced by the smell of vanilla candles and the lingering aroma of the shepherd's pie Lando had attempted to make for dinner.

It was nearly midnight, and the silence of the countryside was absolute, broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards. Daisy was tucked into her bed upstairs, surrounded by a fleet of stuffed animals and dreaming of the "fast cars" she now associated with the man who read her bedtime stories every single night without fail.

Lando was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a damp dishcloth in his hand, staring at a stack of clean plates. His hair was a mess, his eyes were shadowed by the kind of deep, domestic exhaustion that no amount of caffeine could fix, and he was wearing an old pair of joggers with a faint smudge of strawberry jam on the leg.

He looked nothing like the polished athlete on the posters. He looked like a man who had spent the last six months fighting a war against his own past, trying to prove he was worth the space he took up in this house.

Y/N walked into the kitchen slowly, her movement more fluid now, though she still favored her left side. She watched him for a moment, seeing the way his shoulders slumped when he thought no one was looking.

She saw the quiet, steady constancy he had brought into their lives—the way he handled the tantrums, the way he navigated her bad days with a patience that was almost painful to witness. The anger that had been her armor for four years hadn't disappeared, but it had grown heavy, a burden she was tired of carrying.

"Lando," she said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

He turned, a flicker of the old uncertainty in his eyes. He always looked like he was waiting for the moment she would tell him his time was up, that the "trial period" of being a father and a partner was over.

"Hey," he replied, his voice a tired rasp. "Everything okay? Do you need your meds?"

"No," she said, stepping into the warm glow of the yellow kitchen light. She stood in front of him, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes and the tension in his jaw. She reached out, her fingers grazing the back of his hand.

"I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that day in the apartment. About the letters. About everything your family did. And I’ve realized that I can’t change the past, and I can’t forget the years I spent alone."

She paused, her gaze steady. "I don't forgive what happened. The things they did, the time we lost… I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with that. But I forgive you, Lando."

The dishcloth slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. Lando didn't say anything at first; he just stood there, the words sinking into him like water into parched earth. Then, his face crumpled. The boyish, resilient mask he wore for the world finally shattered.

He leaned his forehead against her shoulder and began to cry—not the quiet, polite tears of a man who was sorry, but the deep, racking sobs of someone who had finally been allowed to come home. He clutched her to him, his hands trembling as he held onto the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

He didn't make a grand, cinematic speech. He didn't promise her a life of perfection or a world without mistakes. He knew he couldn't fix the four years he had missed, and he knew they still had a mountain of "normal" life to climb.

When he finally pulled back, his face was red and damp, but his eyes were clearer than they had been in years. He looked at her, then up toward the ceiling where their daughter was sleeping, and then back at the woman who had given him a second chance he didn't deserve.

"I'm not leaving again," he whispered, a simple, unbreakable vow. "I don't care about the noise, the pressure, or the career. I’m not going anywhere."

Y/N didn't say anything, but she didn't pull away. She simply took his hand and led him out of the kitchen, turning off the light and leaving the ghosts of the past in the dark. They walked up the stairs together—a driver who had finally found his pace, and a woman who had finally found her peace.

Twelve months had passed since the silence of the ICU was replaced by the chaotic, beautiful noise of a toddler’s laughter. The transition hadn't been seamless; there were still days when the weight of the lost years sat heavy in the room, and moments when Y/N would catch Lando’s eye and he would see a flicker of the old hurt.

But they had stopped trying to be the couple they were at twenty. They were building something new—something forged in the fire of truth rather than the fragile innocence of youth. Lando had learned that honesty wasn't just about telling the truth; it was about showing up when things were hard, messy, and unglamorous.

On the track, the "new" Lando was a revelation. The paddock noticed the change immediately—the frantic, nervous energy of his early years had been replaced by a grounded, iron-clad composure. He was faster because he was no longer racing to escape his life; he was racing to get back to it.

His podium interviews were shorter, his focus sharper, and he had gained a reputation for a quiet, unwavering maturity that commanded respect from every corner of the grid.

He still flew the McLaren colors with pride, but the team knew that the moment the champagne was sprayed, he was headed for the heliport. The "distraction" his family had feared had become the very thing that made him a champion.

Daisy had become his shadow. She knew exactly which days the "vroom-vroom" car was on TV, and she had a miniature McLaren cap that she wore with a pride that made Lando’s heart swell every time he saw it.

She didn't just know who her father was; she knew him as the man who could make the best pancakes, the man who read The Very Hungry Caterpillar with all the funny voices, and the man who always, always came back through the front door.

The trauma of the hospital had faded into a blurred memory, replaced by the security of a father who had fought the world to be by her side.

Y/N’s love for him was a garden that had been reclaimed from the frost. It was careful, protected by boundaries and nurtured by the small, everyday acts of devotion Lando provided.

She still had her "bad days"—moments of phantom pain or flashes of resentment—but she no longer faced them alone.

She watched him now as he sat on the porch of their home, the setting sun casting long shadows across the grass. He was holding Daisy, who had fallen asleep mid-sentence, her curly head tucked under his chin. There were no cameras here, no PR agents, and no roaring engines.

Lando looked up and saw Y/N standing in the doorway, a soft smile playing on her lips. He didn't say anything, but the look he gave her was a promise kept. He reached out his free hand, and she took it, her fingers interlacing with his.

The world outside might still be screaming his name, but in the golden light of the Cotswolds, the only sound that mattered was the steady heartbeat of a family that had finally found its way home.

They weren't perfect, and they weren't the people they used to be, but as they stood there together in the quiet, they were exactly where they were meant to be.

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"It’s handled," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble as he climbed into bed beside you. He didn't come empty-handed. He had a warm heating pad in one hand and a small bowl of fruta con tajín in the other—the specific craving you’d mentioned four hours ago and then forgotten. "The plane can wait an hour. You’re pale, mi amor."

He pulled you back against his chest, his large, calloused hand replacing the heating pad to rub slow, rhythmic circles over your stomach. The age gap between you rarely felt like a gap at all; rather, it felt like a bridge. He provided a steady, grounded calm that you leaned into.

"I feel like a mess," you whispered, the hormonal surge making your voice wobble.

"You’re a beautiful mess," he countered, kissing the top of your head. "Sleep. When you wake up, the bags will be packed for Barcelona. You, me, and the kids."

A week later, the hormones had settled, replaced by the adrenaline of race weekend. However, traveling with Sergio’s three children—Chequito, Carlota, and Emilio—was its own brand of beautiful chaos.

As you stepped off the private jet in Barcelona, you had Emilio on your hip while trying to make sure Carlota didn't leave her favorite doll on the tarmac. Sergio walked beside you, holding Chequito’s hand, looking every bit the focused athlete in his Red Bull kit, yet his eyes kept darting to you with a grateful smile.

"You sure you can handle them in the hospitality suite today?" Sergio asked as the van pulled up to the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya. "The team can arrange a nanny if it’s too much."

You adjusted Emilio, who was currently preoccupied with chewing on the lanyard of your VIP pass. "We’ve got this, Checo. Go. Focus on the FP1. We’ll be watching from the garage."

He leaned in, disregarding the nearby photographers, and gave you a lingering kiss. "I’ll look for you on the screens," he whispered.

The Red Bull garage was a cathedral of technology and tension. You stood toward the back, wearing a navy team shirt that was slightly too big for you, tucked into high-waisted jeans. You had noise-canceling headphones settled over the kids' ears, though Chequito was already leaning over the barrier, mesmerized by the mechanics working on his father’s car.

As the race began on Sunday, the atmosphere shifted. Sergio had qualified P4, and the fight for the podium was cutthroat.

Every time Sergio made a move—a late dive into Turn 1 or a masterful defense against a charging Mercedes—your heart leaped. You were holding Carlota’s hand tightly, your eyes glued to the monitors. You weren't just a spectator; you were the person who had seen him exhausted on the couch just days prior, the person who knew the weight of the pressure he carried.

During Lap 45, Sergio pulled off a breathtaking overtake on the outside. The garage erupted in cheers.

Suddenly, the "World Feed" monitor in the garage changed. The cameras had panned away from the track and onto the Red Bull garage. There, projected to millions of viewers worldwide, was a shot of you.

You were leaning down, pointing at the screen to explain the move to Chequito, a look of pure, unadulterated pride on your face. The commentator’s voice echoed through the garage speakers:

"And there is Y/N, Sergio Pérez’s partner, watching on with his children. A rare public appearance for the couple today, but she’s clearly his lucky charm as he moves into the podium positions."

Your phone, tucked in your back pocket, began to vibrate incessantly with notifications, but you didn't look. You only cared about the man in the RB20.

When the checkered flag waved, Sergio had secured P3.

The walk to the parc fermé was a blur. You held the kids' hands as you were ushered through the crowds. When Sergio climbed out of the car, drenched in sweat and buzzing with adrenaline, he bypassed the immediate circle of engineers for a moment.

He saw you.

He pulled you into a crushing hug, the smell of fireproof Nomex and champagne filling your senses. He then lifted Carlota and Chequito, beaming at the cameras, officially introducing his world to the world.

Later that night, back at the hotel, the kids finally asleep in the adjoining room, Sergio slumped onto the bed, pulling off his team shoes.

"I saw the broadcast replay in the media pen," he said, looking up at you with a tired but mischievous grin. "You looked better on camera than the car did."

You laughed, sitting between his legs to help him stretch out his sore muscles. "I think the commentators officially 'hard-launched' us, Checo."

"Good," he said, pulling you down into his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist just as they had during those painful nights a week ago. "I want them to know who’s really keeping the Minister of Defense standing."

The hum of the private jet’s engines provided a low, steady white noise that finally lulled the children into a deep sleep. Chequito was curled up under a blanket, while Carlota had her head resting on a pillow in your lap.

Sergio sat across from you, a glass of sparkling water in hand, his racing suit replaced by a comfortable grey tracksuit. The adrenaline of the podium finish was finally beginning to ebb, replaced by a quiet, contented exhaustion.

"You’ve been staring at that screen for ten minutes without scrolling, amor," Sergio teased softly, reaching across the small aisle to squeeze your knee. "Is it that bad?"

You turned your phone screen toward him. Your Instagram notifications were essentially a vertical blur of red bubbles. "I went from three thousand followers to fifty thousand in four hours, Sergio. I think the 'Secret's Out' tag is trending in Mexico."

He chuckled, leaning closer to look at the screen as you scrolled through the highlights of the day.

f1paddocknews CONFIRMED: Sergio Perez’s partner joined him in the garage today. The couple, who have kept their relationship private, looked more in love than ever during his podium celebration. Fans are calling Y/N the 'Red Bull Good Luck Charm.'

checofansmx Can we talk about how sweet she is with his kids? The way she was holding Carlota during the trophy ceremony... my heart! 😭🇲🇽

"Look at this one," you whispered, showing him a high-definition still the official F1 account had posted.

It was a candid shot from the garage. You were leaning against the pit wall, biting your lip in nervous anticipation while Sergio was fighting for P3. The lighting caught the worry in your eyes and the way you were unconsciously twisting the ring he’d given you for your anniversary.

"They caught you being my biggest fan," Sergio said, his voice dropping an octave, full of genuine warmth. "I like this one. I look like I’m winning, but you look like you’re the one doing all the hard work."

"There are some people talking about the age difference," you admitted, scrolling past a few skeptical comments. Being eight years younger meant you were sometimes hyper-aware of how the public might perceive your maturity, especially being a parental figure to his children.

Sergio took the phone from your hand and set it face-down on the table. He took your hand in his, his thumb tracing the knuckles that had been white with tension only hours before.

"Let them talk," he said firmly. "They didn't see you three days ago when I was exhausted and you were the one keeping the house running. They don't see how you are with my kids when the cameras are off. The only people who need to understand us are in this plane right now."

He leaned over, kissing your forehead before resting his head against yours. "Besides, the fans are right about one thing."

"What’s that?"

"You are my lucky charm. I haven't had a podium like that in months. I think the team is going to start demanding you come to every race now."

You laughed, the tension in your shoulders finally vanishing. The transition from your private life to being the "Partner of Checo Perez" was going to be a steep learning curve, but looking at him—and the sleeping children around you—you knew you could handle it.

"I might need a bigger Red Bull shirt then," you joked. "This one is already covered in Emilio’s juice stains."

Sergio pulled you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin as the pilot announced the beginning of their descent. "We’ll get you whatever you need, Y/N. Just stay right where you are."

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

You and Max have been texting and calling more than usual since that night at the private members’ club—a quiet dinner that never stopped echoing in your bones.

Every time his name lights up your phone screen, your heart kicks like it’s trying to escape. Heartbeat at 180, you think, just like during qualifying. But this isn’t a race. This is something far more dangerous.

It was supposed to be pretend.

And yet, every time you see him—on screen during press conferences, in candid paparazzi shots, or even in your memories—he’s looking at you with something new.

A softness. A wonder. Like you’re a puzzle he never expected to solve. Like you’re more than the friend he asked to fake a relationship with his father.

And God, you hate yourself for loving it.

You hate how your pulse stutters when he says “Hey, love” like it’s not just for show. You hate how you catch yourself imagining your name whispered in the dark, how you replay the brush of his lips against your cheek like it was anything more than friendly.

You hate how you can still feel the weight of his arm around your waist, the low timbre of his voice saying “We go back to normal.”

So when the Dutch Grand Prix rolls around—Max’s home race, the one where the whole country bleeds orange—you make a choice.

You call in a rare personal day from your accounting firm. You pack your suitcase with carefully curated outfits: elegant, chic, girlfriend material. You don’t tell Max you’re coming.

You want to surprise him.

You want to test something.

You pull up to the luxury hotel in Zandvoort, heart hammering in your chest like you’re the one about to jump into the car for FP1.

You take the elevator to his floor, smoothing down your dress—a deep cobalt blue that hugs your curves and makes your eyes look endless in the mirror of the elevator. You knock.

The door opens.

Max stands there in a gray hoodie and sweatpants, messy-haired and half-awake, his PR smile already forming—cool, polished, ready for whoever’s on the other side.

Then he sees you.

The smile drops. His eyes widen. “Y/N! You’re here?”

“Well duh,” you say, the words slipping out with more confidence than you feel. “The Grand Prix is in our country. I had to support my boyfriend.”

Your voice wavers just on the last word, but you hold his gaze, daring him to look away first.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he blushes—Max Verstappen, blushing—and steps aside, pulling the door open wider. “Come in, come in. You’re gonna make me look bad, showing up unannounced like this.”

Inside, the suite is warm, lived-in. The scent of coffee lingers. And then you hear it—soft meows from the bedroom.

“No way,” you gasp, already walking toward the sound. “They let you keep Jimmy and Sassy in the hotel?”

Max follows, grinning. “It’s Wednesday. No sessions. No media. Just me and the cats. And now,” he adds, voice dropping a little, “you.”

You crouch down, and the two fluffy tuxedo cats immediately weave around your legs, purring like engines revving. “Missed me, huh?”

“You’re their favorite,” Max says, leaning against the doorframe, watching you with that look again—the one that makes your stomach flip. “Even more than me. Which is honestly fair.”

You glance up at him, smiling. “So… am I staying here with you, or are you going to make me go home later?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You brought luggage?”

“Don’t worry,” you say, standing and tossing your car keys to him. “The suitcase is in my car downstairs.”

Max catches them one-handed, but groans dramatically. “You couldn’t just have brought it before? I’ve got to go down in this?”

“You’re the one who wanted me here, remember?” you tease, already lying back on the couch, Jimmy curling into the crook of your arm.

Max mutters something in Dutch, but you catch the word slimme meid—clever girl—and you smile.

He leaves, and for the first time since you arrived, you’re alone with your thoughts.

This is a mistake.

Not because you don’t want to be here. But because being near him like this—sharing his space, his routine, his cats—makes the line between pretend and real impossibly thin.

You walk around the suite, Jimmy in your arms, just to keep moving. The living area opens to a kitchenette, a small dining table, a balcony with a view over the rooftops toward the circuit.

And then, the bedrooms.

You pause at the doorway, holding your breath.

Two of them.

Thank God.

Relief floods through you—until you hear Max’s voice again.

“Hey! I’m back!” He calls, footsteps echoing. “What did you pack? Bricks? I swear, my back’s gonna—”

You step out, grinning. “Everything to impress your family.”

He drops your suitcase by the door, rubbing his shoulder. “You’re evil, you know that?”

“And yet,” you say, walking toward him, “you keep letting me stay.”

He meets your gaze. For a second, the air stills. Then he looks away, scratching the back of his neck—the telltale Max Verstappen I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-my-hands move.

“You hungry?” he asks. “I was about to order room service.”

“Starved,” you say. “But only if you let me have the last bite of your dessert.”

“Then you’re not getting any,” he says, but there’s a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

You wake to the smell of coffee and something sweet—burnt toast, maybe, but still comforting. Sunlight filters through the sheer curtains of the bedroom, casting soft morning shadows across the duvet.

For a disoriented second, you forget where you are. Then it hits you: Zandvoort. Max’s hotel suite. The pretend girlfriend who showed up uninvited.

You stretch, smiling to yourself, and slip out of bed. You’re wearing one of your softer nightgowns—gray silk, elegant but cozy—and you tiptoe toward the kitchen, careful not to wake Max. Though as you round the corner, you stop.

He’s already up.

Max stands at the stove in sweatpants and an old Red Bull Racing hoodie, flipping pancakes like he’s competed in breakfast cook-offs his whole life.

It’s a domestic scene you never thought you’d see: Max Verstappen, world champion, whisking batter with one hand and scratching Sassy behind the ears with the other. Jimmy purrs from his lap, curled like a loaf of bread beneath the kitchen island.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching. He hums something under his breath—Dutch, maybe, or just nonsense. His hair is a mess of waves, still damp from a shower, and there’s flour on his left cheek.

“Breakfast of champions?” you ask.

He jumps, nearly dropping the spatula. “Shit—Y/N! Don’t sneak up on me like that.” He grins, flustered. “You scared ten years off my life.”

“I didn’t sneak,” you say, walking in. “You were too busy serenading the cats.”

“They’re judges,” he deadpans. “They’ll decide if these pancakes are worthy of a podium finish.” He flips one dramatically into the air. It lands perfectly. “See?”

You laugh, and the sound surprises you—light, genuine. You pour yourself a cup of coffee, black, just how you like it, and lean against the counter beside him. “So… how’d you sleep?”

“Fine. You?”

“Good. Very… separate-bed-wise.”

He snorts. “Was there any doubt?”

“Not really,” you say, sipping your coffee. “But I did dream you lost a race to a flamingo.”

“You what?”

“A pink flamingo. With wings. And a number five on its chest. It beat you by one-tenth of a second.”

Max stares at you like you’ve lost your mind, then bursts out laughing. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It made sense in the dream,” you say, shrugging. “Also, you kissed me at the podium to celebrate.”

He freezes. Spatula halfway through flipping another pancake. The silence lingers.

Then, softer, “And… how was that?”

You look up at him. His voice had dropped, just a notch—barely noticeable. But you heard it. You felt it.

You hold his gaze. “It was underwhelming. Needs improvement.”

He exhales, half-laughing, half-relieved. “Well. I’ll work on it.”

The moment hangs, fragile and warm. Then Sassy meows loudly, demanding attention, and the spell breaks.

“Traitor,” Max mutters, but he scoops her up anyway. “Fine. You win. Breakfast first, then maybe we’ll talk about kissing flamingos.”

You sit at the small dining table, the cats curling around your feet as Max plates pancakes, bacon, and fresh fruit. He joins you, pouring orange juice and stealing a piece of your bacon before you can stop him.

“Hey!”

“What?” He grins, unrepentant. “Boyfriend privileges.”

Your heart stutters.

Boyfriend privileges. He said it like he meant it. Like it wasn’t just a line. Like it wasn’t pretend.

You chew slowly, trying to steady your breath. “Got a big day today?”

“Yeah,” he says, wiping syrup from his lip. “Team final build checks, media junket at eleven, engineering debrief at two. Busy until qualifying tomorrow.”

“And Jos?”

“He’ll be here later tonight,” Max says, voice low. “He wants to meet you again. Wants to see if the ‘relationship’ is still going strong.” He makes air quotes, but there’s something uneasy in his tone.

You set your fork down. “So… we’re still on?”

“For today, at least.” He meets your eyes. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“You brought me pancakes,” you say quietly. “I think I’m committed.”

He smiles—small, real, a little shy. “Good.”

The day passes in a blur of deadlines, cat cuddles, and the occasional check of the time. You try to focus on your accounting reports, but your thoughts keep drifting to the empty space beside you in the bed, to the way Max always seemed to carry himself like a man on the edge of something.

You wonder if he’s thinking of you while he’s out there, in meetings and press conferences, surrounded by people he must charm and impress.

When the sun begins to set and the sky turns a deep, bruised orange, you finally give in and scroll through the photos on your phone. There’s one of Max from yesterday, taken when he least expected it.

He’s in the middle of a laugh, eyes squinted, face unguarded. You’ve seen him on TV a thousand times, but not like this—relaxed, human. And suddenly, you miss him.

You text him again.

You: How are you doing?

There’s silence for a long time. Then, a reply.

Max: Tired. You?

You: Same. I think I’m gonna crash on the couch. These cats are heavy.

Max: Don’t let them hear that.

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You set down your laptop, roll up the blanket beside the couch, and let the cats curl up around you like living, purring bodywarmers.

The fatigue from the day seeps into your bones, and you let yourself sink into the pillow, your breathing slow and even.

Max steps into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality that feels almost like a promise.

The living room is bathed in the warm, golden glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows over the couch where Y/N layed nestled between the two cats, their synchronized purring a low, persistent hum.

Her hair spills over the cushions like a halo, strands splayed out in every direction, and the cobalt blue dress she wore earlier has been swapped for one of his oversized t-shirts—ripped at the hem, soft at the collar, and impossibly borrowed.

He freezes, just inside the doorway, heart hammering in his chest as if it’s trying to escape through his ribs.

For a moment, he’s afraid to breathe, afraid to move, afraid that any disturbance might unravel the fragile spell of the scene before him.

Pride warms his chest like a slow-burning fire.

She’s here. In his space. In his t-shirt. Asleep, with his cats, their shared trust evident in the way they’ve curled into her like living, breathing extensions of her.

Relief follows quickly, a balm for the nerves he’d carried all day after dropping her suitcase off. She’s here, he thinks again, as though repeating it might make it feel less like a dream.

But beneath the pride and relief lies something else—something quieter, more dangerous. A tenderness that makes his throat ache and his fingers itch to touch her.

He crosses the room silently, careful not to jostle the couch, and drapes the throw blanket over her, tucking the corners around her shoulders like a shield against the chill of the evening air.

The cats don’t stir, their rhythmic breathing blending with Y/N’s as she shifts ever so slightly in her sleep.

Max watches her for a moment longer, the dim light catching the faint rise and fall of her chest, the way her lashes flutter like moth wings. His shyness resurfaces in a wave, a physical thing that tightens in his gut and makes his ears burn.

He’s never been good at this—this, whatever it was. He’s always trusted his instincts on the track, where the rules were clear and the speed of his reflexes kept him safe.

But here, with her, the rules feel like sand slipping through his fingers. He can’t afford to fumble, not now. Not when she’s trusted him this far. . . .

You stirred from a deep sleep, your mind still cloaked in the remnants of dreams that seemed to swirl around you like a gentle mist. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, pulling you from your slumber with its inviting aroma.

You glanced at the clock, surprised to find that Max was already up and about, a man of habit in a world where time meant everything.

As you stretched, the soft light of morning filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow across the room, illuminated by the early sun.

The silence of the room was comforting, a sanctuary for a heart that had somehow found itself entangled in a charade.

As you moved to the bathroom, the morning routine became a ritual of sorts. The shower was a brief escape, the warm water soothing your thoughts as you washed away the remnants of sleep.

Skincare followed, a loving care you took, not only for appearance but for the confidence it brought you. With each step, you felt the weight of the day ahead growing heavier—today was the first day of the Dutch Grand Prix, a festival of speed and passion, where you, as a girlfriend, would be on display.

You finished your makeup, the colors enhancing your features, and chose a dress that felt like a second skin—elegant yet comfortable.

As you stepped out of the bathroom, your heart fluttered with a mix of excitement and anxiety. Today would mark your first time at the paddock as Max's girlfriend, and the thought both thrilled and terrified you.

The morning sun peeked through the window as you prepared to face the day, the promise of new memories and perhaps, the unraveling of truths yet to be discovered.

As you and Max headed toward the cat sitter, the tension in the air was palpable, a mix of excitement and apprehension swirling around you both.

Sassy and Jimmy, your beloved companions, were nestled in their travel carriers, their familiar purrs a source of comfort in this moment of vulnerability. You hesitated for a moment, glancing down at the carriers with a smile that quickly faded.

Taking care of the cats was your routine you had always cherished, but now, the thought of them being in someone else’s hands felt foreign.

Max gently took one of the carriers from you, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest of moments. “They’ll be fine,” he reassured, his voice steady but not without a hint of concern etched in his tone.

You couldn’t help but notice the way he looked at Sassy, the softness in his eyes as he adjusted his collar.

It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes about the care he took in their world, an unexpected tenderness that made your heart flutter in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

As you watched Max arrange the carriers, you caught a glimpse of your own reflection in the glass window of the car.

Was this really you? The girl who had agreed to play his girlfriend to ease his father’s worries? The lines between the charade and reality were blurring, and the feelings you were starting to experience for Max felt more genuine with each passing day.

“Do you think they'll miss us?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, your heart racing as the words escaped.

Max looked up, his brow furrowed in thought, and you could see the gentle care in his expression as he considered your question.

“They might,” he said softly, “but they know we’ll be back soon.” You nodded, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

The idea of being away from Sassy and Jimmy, and the growing feelings for Max, was beginning to feel like an emotional tightrope, and you weren’t sure which way to leap.

This charade had taken on a life of its own, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were falling into it—into him—far more than you had intended.

The paddock buzzed with energy, a chaotic symphony of engines, radio chatter, and the excited murmur of fans. You followed Max through the narrow pathways between car pits, the sun catching the gleaming metallic bodies of the F1 machines as they were prepped for the first Free Practice session.

Despite the noise and motion, your heart remained still with anticipation. It was your first time here, a place Max had often spoken of with reverence, and now you were standing in the very heart of it, caught in a farce that had somehow felt like a dream.

Just as you passed the catering tent, Jos Verstappen’s familiar figure came into view. He waved at you with a grin that could light up the entire paddock, his beaming smile a testament to how deeply he believed in this charade.

You returned the smile, your heart hammering in your chest as the weight of your deception settled over you. You had known you were faking this relationship for Jos, but now, standing in front of him, you felt the strain of maintaining the illusion.

“Lovely to see you again, my dear,” he said, stepping forward to shake your hand with the warmth of a man who truly believed in his son’s happiness.

His pride was evident, and the way he looked at you—his eyes filled with affection and approval—made your insides twist with guilt.

“Thank you for being so kind,” you managed, your voice steady despite the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. The words felt hollow, yet they were the only ones that would do.

Max, ever the smooth operator, placed a comforting hand on your back, his presence a stabilizing force. “She’s been a big part of my life for a while,” he said with a casual ease, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Jos beamed at you, clearly pleased. “That’s wonderful to hear. Max deserves someone who understands the sport, someone who supports him.”

You bit your lip, the weight of his words sinking in. Max deserved more than a make-believe girlfriend, and the thought of being the cause of his father’s happiness made your stomach churn.

You forced another smile, gripping the notebook you had brought along for “research purposes” a little tighter in your hand. It was only the beginning, and yet, standing in the Verstappens’ orbit, you felt more alone than ever.

Max led you toward the team’s technical area, where the sound of hammers striking metal and the low hum of machinery created an industrial symphony.

At the heart of it all stood Gianpiero Lambiase, his sharp features and intense gaze betraying the precision and focus required of an F1 race engineer.

He was a man used to numbers, data, and split-second decisions, but as Max introduced you, something in his expression softened.

“This is Gianpiero,” Max said, his voice carrying the weight of respect. “He’s been with me for the last few seasons, and he’s one of the smartest people I know.”

“You must be the famous girlfriend,” Gianpiero said with a smile that was both professional and genuinely warm.

He extended his hand, and you accepted it, noting how firm his grip was—as if he had to make sure things held together in the cutthroat world of Formula One.

“I’m just here to watch and learn,” you said, keeping your tone light. “I know nothing about cars, but I want to support Max, even if it’s only from the sidelines.”

Gianpiero chuckled. “That’s what every successful driver needs—a partner who understands the pressure. It’s not just about the race; it’s about consistency, setup, and adapting to the track.”

He handed you a pair of wired earpieces. “These will let you listen to the radio chatter between Max and the pit wall. It’s a different experience than just watching.”

As you fastened the earpieces, the world changed around you. Instead of just seeing the chaos of the paddock, you could now hear the calls of engineers, the quick exchanges of information, the urgency in every word.

Gianpiero offered you a seat near the timing screens, where he worked through a final breakdown of the morning’s planned data collection.

For the first time, you felt a part of Max’s world—not just as a girlfriend, but as someone trying to understand the man behind the driver. As Gianpiero spoke, you leaned in, notebook in hand, determined to absorb everything.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the paddock buzzed with an electric energy, the air thick with anticipation. You settled into your designated spot, the headphones on your ears filled with the crackling of communication between Max and his team.

Gianpiero had given you a rough outline of what to expect during the Free Practice sessions—FP1 and FP2. These initial runs allowed drivers and teams to evaluate car setups, tire performance, and track conditions, essential in preparing for the race proper.

However, for you, it felt like navigating a labyrinth of terminology and technical jargon, each word a doorway into a world you were just beginning to understand.

Max climbed into the cockpit of his car, the engine roaring to life with a deep, resonant sound that sent a shiver down your spine. You watched as he disappeared from view, a figure swallowed by the sleek, black machine.

The tension in your chest heightened, a mix of excitement and anxiety swirling within you.

What if something went wrong? What if the car couldn’t perform at its best? You clutched your notebook tightly, your breath shallow as the pit crew worked with practiced efficiency, preparing for the session.

As the first session began, your heart raced with each lap. You could hear the radio chatter, the engineers calling out data, the urgency in their voices as Max pushed the car to its limits.

It was a dance of precision and power, each move calculated, each second crucial. You felt a deep connection to the world of Formula One, the thrill of competition igniting something within you.

The roar of the engines echoed in your ears, a sound that seemed to pulse with the energy of the paddock.

With every lap Max completed, you felt a swell of pride for him, but also a rising apprehension about the outcome. Would he be able to adapt? Would he find the right balance on the track? As the first session wrapped up, the realization hit you: this was just the beginning.

You were not only a spectator but also part of this chaotic, thrilling world where every second counted, and you were caught in the heart of it all.

As the first session came to a close, Max stepped out of the car, wiping sweat from his brow as he stretched his arms. You were already on your feet, your heart still racing from the tension of watching him disappear into the cockpit.

Gianpiero approached, clipboard in hand, already analyzing the data from the session. Max listened intently, but you noticed the way his eyes drifted to you, a small, knowing smile playing at his lips.

“Did you like it?” he asked as the crew worked to get the car ready for the second session.

You hesitated. You had liked it—liked it more than you had expected. The energy, the intensity, the raw skill it required—it wasn’t just a sport; it was a lifestyle, one you were witnessing up close.

And yet, the more time you spent here, the more you felt the fiction of your presence tighten around you. You weren’t a girlfriend in the way Jos believed.

You were a friend, a reluctant accomplice in a lie that had somehow transformed into something far more complicated.

“Too much information,” you admitted with a wry smile. “But I’m trying my best.”

Max chuckled, but his eyes never left yours. “You’re doing well. I didn’t think you’d last a full hour listening to engineering speak.”

“I didn’t either,” you said softly, the words catching in your throat.

As Gianpiero continued to run through setups, Max stepped closer to you, lowering his voice. “You okay though?”

You nodded, but the truth was, you weren’t sure. Every moment with him blurred the line between the charade and something real. You told yourself it was only temporary, that once this was over, everything would go back to normal.

But as Max’s hand rested lightly on your shoulder, it became harder to deny the truth: you were falling for him, and there was no telling if this was just his game, or something far deeper. . . .

On Saturday morning in the Netherlands, the air hummed with the electric buzz of home soil. Zandvoort shimmered under a pale April sun, the dunes whispering secrets to the wind.

You stood in front of the mirror inside Max’s hotel suite, smoothing the navy-blue dress over your hips—its plunging neckline modest but impossible to ignore, the fabric hugging your curves in a way you knew he would notice.

Not because you were trying to seduce him. Or maybe you were. Just a little.

You hadn’t worn anything like this in years. Not since you used to race go-karts together in the muddy tracks outside Tilburg, long before Max became a global phenomenon.

Back then, your biggest concern was whether your helmet matched your jersey. Now? Now your biggest concern was whether Max would realize how much you actually cared.

You stepped out of the bathroom just as he entered the kitchenette, barefoot and still in yesterday’s T-shirt, flipping pancakes with one hand and scrolling through messages on his phone with the other. The scent of burnt butter and maple syrup filled the room. He didn’t look up.

Then he did.

His eyes trailed from your face down to your feet and back up again. The spatula hovered mid-air. A slow, startled grin cracked across his face.

“Whoa.” He cleared his throat. “You’re wearing that today?”

You crossed your arms, feigning innocence. “What? It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.”

Max snorted. “Yeah, right. You were never good at lying.”

You walked over, stealing a pancake from the plate and biting into it. “I just thought I’d look the part. Fake girlfriend duty and all.”

He leaned against the counter, watching you eat. “You’ve always looked the part, you know.”

There was something quiet in his voice—something that made your chest tighten. You swallowed hard and changed the subject.

“How’s the car?”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Red Bull’s obsessed with the rear diffuser setup, but honestly, it feels better than it has all season. I think we’ve got pole today. Maybe even the sprint.”

You grinned. “Good. I want to see you win.”

“I promise I will.” He winked. “For my lucky charm.”

And now, standing in his kitchen, watching him eat breakfast with syrup on his thumb, you were terrified he’d see it in your eyes.

The Sprint race was a blur of noise and adrenaline. You stood in the garage, wrapped in Max’s Red Bull jacket, cheering louder than anyone else when he crossed the finish line in first. The whole team erupted. Engineers jumped. Strategists high-fived. But Max didn’t go to them first.

He came straight for you.

Still helmetless, sweat glistening on his forehead, he sprinted across the pit lane, dodged a technician, and crashed into you with the force of a car at 200 kph.

His arms wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground. You gasped as his face buried into your neck—warm, damp, smelling of fuel and salt.

Then he kissed you—softly, deeply—just below your ear.

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t part of the act.

It couldn’t be.

For a second, the world stopped. The roar of engines, the chatter of the pit crew, the flashing cameras—all of it faded. There was just him. His heartbeat against your chest. The way his fingers curled into your waist like he never wanted to let go.

And then he pulled back, grinned, and jogged off to his team, leaving you standing there, trembling.

Your hands shook as you touched your neck where his lips had been.

This isn’t real, you told yourself. It’s for the cameras. For Jos. For the story.

But your heart didn’t believe it.

Evening came swiftly.

The lights of the circuit glowed under the twilight sky, and Qualifying for the Grand Prix was about to begin. You watched from the same spot in the garage, heart pounding as Max took to the track for his final lap.

The team was tense. “He’s got one shot,” Christian Horner muttered into his headset. “If he messes this up, Leclerc takes pole.”

You clutched the railing.

Then Max’s onboard feed lit up the screen. Smooth through Turn 3. Flat through the banked corner. He was flying. And when the time flashed—1:07.324—the entire garage exploded.

“Holy shit,” someone yelled.

Max had done it. Pole position. By 0.06 seconds.

You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for an hour.

Twenty minutes later, he entered his driver’s room, sweaty and grinning, peeling off his race suit. You sat on the bench by the door, still in the dress from this morning, legs crossed, trying to look composed.

He pulled on jeans, then a loose black T-shirt, and turned to you, eyes sparkling.

“I swear you’re my lucky charm,” he said, towel-drying his hair.

You smirked. “Sure, Max. You’re literally a four-time world champion. You don’t need luck.”

“I do,” he said, stepping closer. “I didn’t win two races last season when you weren’t here. Remember Japan?”

“That was a brake failure.”

“And Hungary?”

“You had a puncture.”

Max dropped the towel and sat beside you. “Coincidence?”

You met his gaze. “You’re ridiculous.”

He laughed—warm and low—and reached for your hand. “Thanks, by the way. For today. For being here.”

You nodded. “Anytime.”

Then his phone rang.

It buzzed violently on the counter. You picked it up, glanced at the screen—Mama—and handed it to him.

Max answered in Dutch, his voice softening instantly. You understood enough to follow—Ja, mam. Nee, niet gegeten. Ja, ik ben blij met de kwalificatie. Yes, Mama. No, haven’t eaten. Yes, I’m happy with qualifying.

But then his tone shifted.

He sat up straighter. “Wat? Vandaag? Nu?” What? Today? Now?

Your stomach dropped.

Max stood, pacing. “Mam, we can’t just— We have debriefs. And the—” He ran a hand through his wet hair. “Ja, ik weet dat ze er is… Maar—” Yes, I know she’s here… But—

Then silence.

He ended the call.

“You’re pale,” you said.

Max turned to you, eyes wide. “My mom wants you and me to come for dinner. Tonight. At her house. With Victoria, Luka, Lio. All of them.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” He ran his hands through his hair again. “Jos is one thing. I can feed him lines, convince him of anything. But my mom? Sophie? She knows me. She’ll see through it. She’ll know we’re faking it.”

You stood slowly. “Then maybe we don’t tell her.”

“What?”

“You said she remembers me from when we were kids, right? That we used to play at her house during karting season?”

“Yeah…”

“So we be us. Just… with a little more hand-holding.”

Max exhaled sharply. “You’re suggesting we double down on the lie?”

“Until we don’t have to,” you said softly.

He stared at you. “You’re terrifyingly good at this.”

You smiled. “I learned from the best.”

The drive to Sophie’s house was quiet.

Max’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. You held his hand, your thumb moving in slow circles over his skin, grounding him.

“She’s going to ask questions,” he muttered.

“Then we answer them.”

“What if she asks how we got together?”

“Then we tell her the truth—we’ve known each other since we were seven. That you were always annoying. That I kicked your ass in go-karts more times than I can count.”

Max snorted. “You did not.”

“You crashed into the tire wall because you were too busy checking me out.”

“I was not checking you out!”

“You were. You are.” You squeezed his hand. “Relax. This’ll be fine.”

But you weren’t fine.

Your stomach was a knot of nerves. Sophie Verstappen had always been kind to you as a child—warm, sharp, with eyes that saw everything. And now you were walking into her house pretending to be her son’s girlfriend?

It felt like betrayal.

The house was beautiful—a modern villa nestled in the dunes, surrounded by wind-sculpted pines. Lights glowed from the windows. Music played softly inside.

Victoria opened the door.

“Max!” she exclaimed, pulling him into a hug. “You won the sprint! And pole! Mama’s so proud.”

She turned to you, then paused. Her eyes narrowed slightly—curious, assessing. Then she smiled. “And you’re…?”

“Hi, Victoria,” you said. “It’s me. You probably don’t remember—”

“Oh my God,” she said, laughing. “You’re the girl who threw sand in Max’s eyes during that picnic in Zeeland?”

You blushed. “I was eight!”

Max groaned. “She still brings that up.”

Victoria grinned. “Come in, come in. The kids are losing their minds.”

And they were.

Luka, six, and Lio, four, barreled into you the second you stepped inside, shouting, “Auntie! Auntie!”

You knelt, hugging them both. “Hey, you two.”

“We wanna play race cars!” Lio said.

“After dinner,” Victoria promised, ruffling his hair.

Sophie appeared from the kitchen.

She was taller than you remembered, silver in her dark hair, but her smile was the same—gentle, but knowing.

“Max,” she said, arms open.

He hugged her tightly. “Hi, Mama.”

Then she looked at you.

For a long moment, she just studied you. You held your breath.

Then, softly, she said, “I remember you.”

You nodded. “You used to make me pancakes with strawberries.”

Sophie’s eyes softened. “You were the only one who ate them. Max always wanted chocolate chips.”

“I still do,” Max muttered.

The ice broke.

Dinner was warm, loud, full of laughter. Luka told you about his new go-kart. Lio insisted you sit beside him. Max carved the chicken, fed Lio a bite when he dropped his fork, and made faces at you under the table.

It felt real.

Too real.

After dinner, Victoria pulled you aside.

“You two seem… happy,” she said, sipping wine on the balcony.

“We’re… getting there,” you said carefully.

She studied you. “Mama likes you. Which is rare. She didn’t like his last girlfriend. Or the one before.”

“I’m not his last girlfriend,” you said quickly.

Victoria raised an eyebrow. “But you’re not just a friend, either.”

You hesitated. Then, “It’s… complicated.”

“She knows, you know,” Victoria said softly. “About the arrangement.”

Your heart stopped. “What?”

“She overheard Max on the phone with Jos last week. He was complaining about how hard it was to keep up the act. How you were more than just a favor.”

You stared at her. “And she didn’t say anything?”

“She waited. Watched. And now that she sees you with the boys… with Max… I think she’s decided it doesn’t matter if it started as pretend.”

You didn’t know what to say.

Victoria squeezed your arm. “Just take care of him. He’s good, but he forgets to be soft.”

You nodded, throat tight.

When you returned inside, Max was helping Luka clean his plate. Sophie caught your eye and smiled—a small, knowing thing.

Later, as you helped clear the table, Sophie stopped you in the kitchen.

“You’ve always been good for him,” she said, placing a hand on your arm. “Even when he was a brat who wouldn’t share his crayons.”

You laughed, blinking back tears.

“I love him,” you said, before you could stop yourself.

Sophie didn’t seem surprised. She just nodded. “Good. He needs someone who sees him. Not the champion. Just Max.”

The car hums along the winding highway, the night swallowing the city lights one block at a time.

The windshield fogs in the low humidity, and you wipe it with the inside of your sleeve, catching a glimpse of your own reflection—pale, eyes rimmed with a thin line of red, a half‑smile that feels more like a question than an answer.

Max sits in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel with a calm authority that has always impressed you, but tonight the way his knuckles whiten at the slightest tremor of the road makes you wonder what pressure he’s trying to hide.

He hasn’t said much since you stepped back into the kitchen, and the silence between you feels like a stretched canvas waiting for a brushstroke you’re terrified to make.

The radio plays a low‑key R&B track, the kind that seems to belong to the background of a night like this—soft bass, a female voice humming just out of focus.

Every now and then a lyric drifts past, catching your attention for a second before the music swallows it again. “Love’s a reckless thing,” the singer croons, and you feel the words snag on the back of your throat.

You glance over at Max. He keeps his eyes on the road, but his shoulders are tense, as if each curve of the asphalt is a reminder of the thin line you both have been walking.

When the car passes a flickering streetlamp, a brief strip of light catches his profile, revealing a hint of stubble that you’ve never bothered to comment on.

He shifts the gear, the engine growls, and for a heartbeat you think he might say something—anything—to fill the vacuum, but the only sound is the whisper of tires on asphalt.

The backseat, where you’re perched, feels too big for the weight of your thoughts. Your hands rest on your knees, fingers lightly squeezing the fabric of the seat as if to keep yourself grounded.

The hallway in your mind is cluttered with fragments from the evening: Victoria’s words, the way her eyes lingered on you as she pressed your arm; Max’s strained smile when he handed you a piece of chicken; Sophie's quiet endorsement that “you’ve always been good for him.” All of them stitch together a tapestry that’s too intricate to unravel in a single night.

A sudden gust rattles the windows, and Max’s voice cuts through the music, low and practiced. “You okay?” He doesn’t look over, just asks, as if he’s learned to read the tension in the silence.

You swallow, feeling the words catch somewhere between your throat and your heart. “I’m fine,” you reply, and the lie tastes like a bitter after‑taste. “Just thinking about the night.” He nods, a barely perceptible movement, and the car eases into a quiet rhythm.

The highway curves again, the road bending like a question mark. In the rearview mirror, the city lights shrink, and the world beyond the windshield becomes a dark veil dotted with stars.

You feel the weight of the night pressing in, not just on the car but on your chest—a pressure that has nothing to do with the speed of the vehicle, but everything to do with the speed of the emotions you’ve been trying to keep in a measured lane.

Max glances briefly at the rearview mirror, catching the reflection of your profile. For a split second, his eyes linger on yours, a look that is neither accusation nor invitation, but something softer—perhaps a flicker of concern, perhaps a recognition that the act you both have been playing is wearing thin.

The car slows as you approach the hotel’s driveway, the familiar stone arches looming ahead. The light in the lobby spills onto the pavement, warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the cool night outside. As you pull into the parking spot, Max turns the engine off, and a muffled sigh escapes the vehicle.

He shifts his seat back, his shoulders relaxing just enough to signal the end of the journey, but the tension in his jaw remains. . .

You woke to the quiet hum of a sleeping hotel suite—the hush of air conditioning, the faint rustle of fur on cotton, and the absence of the scent you’d come to rely on each morning: Max’s dark roast coffee, strong enough to jolt a charging bull.

That rich, earthy aroma was missing. And so was the usual sound of him muttering to himself in Dutch while scrolling through news on his phone, one cat perched on his lap, the other stretched across his shoulders like a living, purring shawl.

This morning, silence.

You sat up slowly, your bare feet meeting the plush carpet. The sunlight filtered through the blackout blinds, painting thin golden lines across the floor, cutting through the dimness like blades.

It was Sunday. The Dutch Grand Prix day. The air was electric, even from inside the room—buzzing with fanfare, anticipation, the deep growl of engines warming up at Zandvoort. But in your suite, it was still. Peaceful.

Too peaceful.

You padded across the floor, your fingers brushing the edge of the armchair where you often curled up with a book. Then you saw him.

Max was still asleep in his bed, his strong arms tucked beneath his head, one leg bent, the other stretched long beneath the white sheet.

Beside him, Jimmy the cat sprawled diagonally across his chest, paws kneading the fabric of his T-shirt, while Sassy curled into the crook of his elbow like a living pillow. The sight stole your breath.

Even now, after months of this strange arrangement—the act, you called it under your breath—you couldn't help but feel your heart stutter when you saw him like this. Vulnerable. At peace. Real.

“Max…” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath.

Jimmy flicked an ear, blinked his golden eyes, then stretched with a tiny growl before hopping down and trotting toward you. You crouched to scratch behind his ears, but your eyes never left Max.

You remembered the first time you stood over him like this—back when you were ten, and he’d crashed his go-kart into the hay bales at his dad’s track.

You’d sat beside him in the ambulance, not because you had to, but because you were the only one who knew how to calm him when he was angry at himself.

He’d held your hand the whole time, even when you were both soaked in rain and covered in mud.

You were always his safe place. Before fame. Before the world. Before the red helmets and the podiums and the millions screaming his name.

And now, here you were again—watching him sleep, guarding his silence, loving him in a way you weren’t supposed to.

You checked the time on your phone. 7:48 a.m. They didn’t need to head to the paddock until 9:30. You had time. You could let him sleep. But then he stirred.

His dark lashes fluttered. One eye cracked open. Then both.

And there it was—the moment you’d lived for every morning—the way his face softened when he saw you. Not the Max the world saw, polished and poised behind sunglasses and press conferences, but the boy you’d grown up with.

The one who used to sneak you into his dad’s pit garage, who shared his fries when no one was looking, who once carried you on his back all the way up the dunes after your ankle gave out.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Is this late?”

You shook your head, standing slowly. “Not at all. I just… woke up. No coffee?”

He groaned, rubbing his face. “Too early. Jimmy wouldn’t let me up. He sat on my face.”

You laughed softly. “That’s Sassy’s job.”

Max sat up, ruffling his wild red hair. Sassy hissed and leapt off, landing gracefully on the foot of the bed, tail twitching. Jimmy, already at your feet, rubbed against your ankles.

Max swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched, muscles flexing beneath his shirt. “You’re quiet,” he said, glancing at you. “Everything okay?”

No. Everything is falling apart.

But you smiled. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He stood, padded barefoot toward the bathroom. “Shower first. Coffee after. Same routine.”

You nodded, turning toward the kitchenette. “I’ll start the brew.”

As you filled the machine with water, your hands trembled. It wasn’t the coffee. It was the finality pressing down on your chest like a lead weight.

Because today was the last day.

After the race, you were flying back to Amsterdam, then to London the next morning. Your accounting firm had finally approved your transfer.

Six years of late nights, spreadsheets, audits, and climbing the corporate ladder—all for a promotion that required you to relocate. You’d been offered the position months ago. You’d accepted it weeks ago.

But you’d delayed. You’d used every vacation day you had to stay close to Max during the season. You told yourself it was because of the act—because Jos Verstappen needed convincing, and Max needed you around to make it look real. But the truth?

You didn’t want to leave him.

And now, after months of pretending, you weren’t pretending anymore. You were in love with Max Verstappen.

And he had no idea.

You sip your coffee slowly, sitting across from him at the small table in the suite’s breakfast nook. Sunlight spills through the sheer curtains, painting golden stripes across your hands.

Max is animated, talking with that rare kind of earnestness he only reveals when he’s not in front of cameras—about how strange it feels to race here, how the crowd’s roar has a different timbre on Dutch soil, how last year’s win felt like closing a circle.

“Kind of surreal, you know?” he says, stirring his espresso like it holds answers. “Like every kid dreams of winning at home, but actually doing it… people crying in the stands, my dad yelling like he’s twelve again—it hits different.”

You smile, watching him. “You make it look easy.”

“It’s not,” he says, and for a moment, he looks younger—just the boy you used to climb trees with in Tilburg, not the world champion who commands headlines and continents. “But it helps having someone here who gets it. Who’s known me since I was a brat with go-kart dreams.”

You finish your coffee and stand, smoothing the black dress you picked—a fitted number that hugs your curves and ends just above the knee. As you turn toward the door, Max’s gaze lifts from his phone. He freezes.

You glance back. “What?”

He clears his throat, standing. “Nothing. You just… look really good.”

Your pulse stutters. “Thanks.”

He walks over, reaches into his bag, and pulls out his signature red cap—number 3, embroidered in bold white. Without a word, he places it on your head, adjusting it gently, his fingers brushing your hair.

“More convincing,” he says, voice low.

You look up. His eyes are dark, unreadable. For a heartbeat, the air between you shifts, thick with something unspoken. Then he turns and walks out.

You follow, touching the brim of the cap, heart thudding.

The drive to the track is quiet. Max talks—about tire strategy, about the new kerbs, about how he hates the wind here because it messes with the car’s balance—but his voice is softer than usual.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, the way his jaw tenses when he’s thinking, the way his fingers tap rhythmically on the steering wheel.

When you arrive, the paddock is already alive—fans clustered behind barriers, photographers jostling for angles, mechanics in team gear rushing between trucks.

Max waves, smiles, signs caps. You walk beside him, hand occasionally brushing his, playing the part.

Then you see them.

Jos. Sophie. Victoria.

Standing right outside Max’s garage.

Max stops dead.

“Why are you all here?” he asks, stepping forward, voice edged with surprise. “And you didn’t even tell me?”

You and Max walked through the paddock, the roar of engines a constant thunder that vibrated through the concrete floor and the soles of your shoes. Sunlight glittered off the glossy paint of cars, and the air smelled of burnt rubber and hot coffee.

Max was in his element—hand outstretched, signing caps, shaking hands, snapping selfies with fans who shouted his name like a mantra. You stayed a step behind, your smile practiced, your laughter rehearsed for the cameras that followed his every move.

When the crowd thinned and the noise dimmed to the low hum of technicians whispering over data screens, you both slipped into the garage.

The metallic clang of doors closing behind you seemed to seal a world away from the frenzy outside. Inside, the scent changed to a sharper mix of oil, coolant, and the faint, comforting perfume of Max’s mother, Sophie, who had followed you both with a small, well‑packed bag full of snacks and a thermos of coffee.

There was Jos, Max’s father, leaning against a pit wall, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses even though the garage was dim.

His sister Victoria was perched on a stool, hair pulled back into a practical ponytail, a tablet in her hand displaying telemetry data that seemed to flicker between green and red like a heartbeat.

Sophie moved with an easy grace, the kind of woman who can calm a storm just by stepping into it.

“We wanted to support you, Max,” Victoria said, eyes crinkling. “Oh, hey, Y/N! Has Max annoyed you a lot?”

Your heart fluttered, a stray bird trying to find its nest. “Hey!” Max said, his voice low enough that only you could hear it. “I’ve been a great boyfriend.”

Your cheeks burned, and you saw the glint of amusement in Max’s eyes—an unspoken acknowledgment that the charade you both had crafted was more tangible than any script could capture. Your pulse sped up as Sophie stepped forward, arms open.

“Good to see you again, y/n. You made yesterday’s dinner perfect,” Sophie said, hugging you tightly. The warmth of her embrace was a balm, a reminder that the fake relationship you’d agreed to for Max’s peace of mind was already beginning to feel real.

Jos, always the stoic patriarch, gave a small, reluctant smile, his voice low and thick with a hint of humor. “Hello, son. y/n. I hope my son hasn’t been troubling you,” he said, and you could see the thin line of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, as if he were testing the waters.

The five of you gathered around a low table covered in snacks, a half‑eaten cake, and a laptop displaying lap times. You glanced at Max, and he looked back, his gaze softening.

He seemed genuinely happy that his parents were at least saying something to each other after years of cold distance. The moment felt fragile, like a glass sculpture teetering on a table edge.

“You okay?” you whispered, leaning toward him.

“It’s the first time in a long time that it’s the four of us in one room. It’s nice,” he whispered back, his thumb lightly brushing the back of your hand.

Soon the conversation shifted to the track, the car, the upcoming race, but every now and then a stray comment would cut through—something about the weather, the tire strategy, the feeling of the wind on the pit lane.

You caught glimpses of how Max’s family interacted: Sophie's laughter softened Jos’s stern features; Victoria’s sharp observations were softened by a quick smile whenever either of her parents laughed.

All the while, Max’s smile never left his face, but his eyes often flicked to you, lingering longer than they did with the other fans.

Eventually Max had to leave for a debrief with his mechanics. The room hushed as he slipped out, leaving you alone with his family. The moment the door closed, a sudden silence draped itself over the garage, broken only by the faint hum of the ventilation system.

“So, Y/N!” Jos joked, leaning forward, his eyes twinkling. “When will I get my third grandchild?”

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks. The joke was light, but the implication landed like a gentle punch. A small grin played on your lips as you attempted to keep your composure.

“Dad! They just got together! You know Max is a shy kid,” Victoria interjected, her tone teasing. She gave you a conspiratorial look, as if she knew something you didn’t.

Before you could speak, you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned, and there he stood, towering over you in his racing suit, his hair still damp from the morning’s sweat, his eyes dark with a mixture of mischief and something deeper. The world seemed to narrow to this moment.

“I’m getting in the car now,” Max said, his hands finding the back of your neck, his grip firm yet gentle. He pulled you toward him, and his lips met yours in a kiss that was both a promise and a confession.

Time slowed. The kiss tasted of coffee, adrenaline, and something sweet you hadn’t realized you’d missed. It was electric, a spark that ignited a fuse you’d thought you were holding at bay.

He pulled away, his breath a little ragged, his eyes searching yours. “Bye, Mom, Dad, Victoria. See you later,” he said, smiling at each of them, his tone softened.

He turned, walked toward the sleek black car waiting outside, and with a wave, slipped into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, echoing the thrill that still vibrated through your veins.

You stood there, heart still thudding, as the family’s eyes turned to you. Their expressions were a mixture of amusement, curiosity, and something else—an unspoken acknowledgment that perhaps the fake girlfriend was not so fake after all.

“Maybe that grandchild is coming sooner than expected,” Victoria smirked, nudging you with an elbow.

You laughed, a little breathless, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “Maybe,” you replied, unsure if you were joking or not.

The garage was buzzing with energy, the hum of engines and the distant cheers of the crowd blending into a restless, electric atmosphere.

You sat between Jos and Sophie, headphones in, heart pounding as the race was about to start. The screens in front of you flickered to life, and suddenly, the world narrowed to Max Verstappen’s car in the first position, flanked by his closest rivals. The Dutch Grand Prix had finally begun.

The pre-race tension was excruciating, every breath held as the order was announced, the five-second countdown building suspense. Engines roared to life in unison, and then — green flag.

Max’s car surged forward, maintaining his lead with a clean, confident start. The crowd’s cheers echoed through the loudspeakers, the energy thick with pride for their home hero.

Victoria sat on the other side of Sophie, eyes fixed on the screen with rapt attention, her excitement barely contained. You glanced at her, then at Jos, who was gripping the edge of the table as if his emotions were too big to be contained.

Sophie, as always, was composed, her eyes never leaving the screen. You couldn’t help but smile, knowing that this was what Max needed — a family of support, even if their home life hadn’t always been perfect.

Throughout the race, Max held his position with skill and determination. His car moved smoothly through the circuits, the driver adapting to every turn with precision. The early laps remained steady, but by the fifteenth lap, the tension in the garage spiked as Max executed a perfectly timed slipstream on his nearest competitor, overtaking them with elegance.

The crowd’s cheers grew louder, the pressure mounting as the race reached its peak. You held your breath, the same way you had since you and Max had agreed to this charade.

You were his fake girlfriend for Jos, but as the race unfolded, it was impossible to ignore the emotions that had grown between you — or the way your heart clenched every time Max pushed himself to the limit.

Lap after lap, Max maintained his lead, each move calculated, every maneuver executed with precision. His car danced expertly through the twists of the track, the onboard footage capturing the intensity in his eyes, the way his fingers gripped the steering wheel with steady determination.

The crowd was on the edge of their seats, the Dutch anthem of pride swelling in the background as Max’s name was called out in excitement.

You watched, heart pounding in sync with the rhythm of the race, marveling at how he seemed to anticipate every shift in the field as if he could read the track itself.

By lap twenty, the race had entered its most critical phase. Max’s nearest challenger, Carlos Sainz, made a bold attempt to close the gap, pushing his car to the limit in an aggressive overtake.

Max responded with an equally fierce maneuver — a daring drift through the Turn Twelve complex, the wheels of his car kissing the edge of the track as he held his position with a skill that was nothing short of breathtaking.

The garage erupted in applause, the tension thick with admiration for his audacity. You barely noticed the pressure in your chest loosening as he made it through the corner unscathed, the crowd’s cheers swelling with each clean pass.

The race continued at a feverish pace. Max’s pit stop was as flawless as the rest of his performance, the mechanics working in perfect unison to get him back on the track with no time lost. This was his moment — and he wasn’t going to let it slip away.

With ten laps to go, he began pushing harder, the gap between him and the second-place driver shrinking with each passing second. The crowd’s anticipation was electric, their cheers echoing through the loudspeakers like a second engine powering him forward.

As the final laps unfolded, the suspense reached a breaking point. Max found himself in a tense battle with Lando Norris, both drivers matching each other move for move, neither willing to yield.

The onboard footage showed the moment of decision — Max feinted to the left, then made a sharp swing to the right, forcing Norris to adjust his trajectory and lose precious time.

It was a masterstroke, a calculated risk that paid off perfectly.

You gasped as the final lap began, your hands gripping the edge of the seat as Max led by mere seconds, every movement of his car a testament to his skill, his determination.

The track was his, and there was no question in anyone’s mind — Max Verstappen was going to win the Dutch Grand Prix.

The final lap was a blur of adrenaline and anticipation. Max’s car sliced through the track like a blade, his name being chanted with increasing fervor as he approached the final straight. Then, with seconds left on the clock — it happened.

“Verstappen has won the Dutch Grand Prix!” The commentator’s voice echoed through the loudspeakers, followed by a deafening roar from the crowd.

The garage erupted in celebration, Jos and Victoria jumping to their feet with wild cheers, their hands in the air. Even Sophie, ever composed, allowed a rare smile to grace her lips.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your heart pounding with exhilaration. Max had done it.

Without thinking, you turned to Victoria and pulled her into an impulsive hug. She laughed, eyes sparkling with pride for her brother, and squeezed you back.

Jos was already shouting for them to head to the parc fermé to congratulate Max in person, his voice barely audible over the noise around you. The energy was euphoric, a collective joy that seemed to spread through the entire garage like wildfire.

Everyone was moving — Jos shoving you toward the exit, Sophie wrapping an arm around your shoulder, and Victoria at your side, still grinning from ear to ear. The team had done it, and this was just the beginning of the celebration.

As they pushed through the corridors, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this moment was more than just another grand prix win. It felt like a culmination of something deeper — a shift in something you hadn’t dared to name.

Every time Max had pushed himself to the limit, you had felt it in your bones, an invisible thread binding you to him more tightly than you could have ever imagined.

The parc fermé was alive with the glow of spotlights and the hum of cameras, confetti already swirling in the air. The cheers of the crowd faded into the background as you, Jos, Sophie, and Victoria stepped onto the scene, Max standing in the center of it all.

His car, the winner of the Dutch Grand Prix, sat proudly in front of the first-place banner, its livery gleaming under the lights. Max climbed out of the cockpit, the weight of his victory evident in the way he stretched, shaking out the tension from his arms.

He dapped up, high-fiving his crew chief before turning to embrace the people who had stood by him throughout his career. He smiled at Jos, who was already clapping him on the back, and then moved to hug Sophie, who held onto him with quiet pride.

Victoria followed next, her eyes glistening with tears as she gave Max a fierce hug before punching his shoulder in a gesture that was all affection and none of the sting.

And then his eyes landed on you.

You could feel your breath catch, the space between you suddenly charged with an unspoken something. The moment stretched — the noise of the celebration fading into a distant hum — as Max took a step toward you.

No words were needed, no explanation required, because everything that had built between you over the past weeks, the fake relationship, the shared history, the unacknowledged feelings, it all coalesced into this one, fleeting instant.

Before you could process the meaning of it, before you could even think to pull away, his lips were on yours. The sensation was like a current, electric and unexpected, your stomach flipping as your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck.

He held you close, one hand curling around your waist, his chest pressed against yours, and for just a moment, the world stopped.

When you finally pulled away, your breath unsteady, Max was smiling. “You did it,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath.

“We did it,” he said, and with that, he turned, nodding toward the podium. It was time for the interview.

The moment lingered even after your lips parted, the weight of it settling over you like a warm, lingering touch.

You stood there, heart still racing, breath unsteady, as Max turned away, stepping toward the podium where the photographers were already swarming. The kiss had been impulsive, unexpected — and yet, it had felt so right.

But what did it mean?

The question gnawed at you as you followed Jos, Sophie, and Victoria away from the track, away from the noise of the parc fermé and into the relative quiet of the hospitality tent.

You should have been elated, but instead, you were drowning in confusion. Max had kissed you — not in the way of a fake girlfriend marking a victory with a perfunctory peck on the cheek.

This had been something else, something real. He had kissed you with certainty, with a quiet intensity that made your knees weak.

Had it been a moment of triumph, a celebration of his long-awaited victory? Or had it meant something more?

The thought sent a shiver through you, your fingers brushing at the base of your neck where he had held you. You had known from the beginning that it would be difficult to keep your feelings at bay, but the moment his lips had found yours, everything had changed.

The walls you had built around your emotions — the ones keeping you from falling for Max — had crumbled like dust in your hands.

Then came the second layer of guilt, the one you had been pretending not to feel. You weren’t supposed to fall for Max. You were supposed to be his fake girlfriend — a quick fix for Jos and the family who had expected him to bring someone to the races.

But the truth was, it had never felt like a lie. The way he looked at you, the way he joked with you, the way he had kissed you — it all felt too real to be an act.

For the first time since you had started this charade, you wondered if it had ever really been just that.

You stayed in the corner of the suite, watching as Max spoke to the interviewer, his voice calm and composed, his answers perfect.

He was Max Verstappen, a champion under pressure, and yet, when your eyes met across the room, when he smiled that smile only for you, you couldn’t help but feel like your world had shifted.

The question that remained was whether you could let this moment be enough — or if you would have to decide what came next.

Max stood at the top of the podium, his hands raised in triumph as the Dutch national anthem played beneath his feet. The camera flashes were relentless, but he bore his celebration with ease, eyes scanning the crowd as if he was already looking for you.

The moment his gaze locked onto you, a slow smile spread across his face, and it was as if the energy of the entire race, the years of hard work and determination, had culminated in this one, perfect second.

You had no time to respond before you were caught in the motion of the moment, the suite coming to life with the energy of the celebration.

Victoria rushed to your side, gripping your arm with excitement as Jos clapped her on the back, beaming with pride.

Sophie, ever composed, simply watched as her son basked in the glow of his victory, her eyes soft despite the distance between them.

Max’s moment on the podium was brief but electric. With a gracious wave, he accepted the trophy, raising it high as the crowd roared in approval.

Then came the champagne, sprayed joyfully in all directions, a shower of golden liquid that caught the light and shimmered through the air like a final flourish to an unforgettable race.

Max turned toward the cameras, his grin wide, and the moment froze in your mind — the image of a man on top of the world, the man who had just kissed you in the parc fermé, the man who had somehow, despite everything, managed to make you feel like you were part of his world.

Back in the hospitality suite, the music was already playing, the team's celebrations in full swing. The energy was electric, and yet, as you sipped a glass of champagne, your eyes never left Max.

He was surrounded by well-wishers, his charisma on full display, but even in the midst of the noise, he found you, his gaze steady, his smile something familiar and comforting.

You were on your phone, idly scrolling through photos from earlier in the weekend—Max grinning with his helmet under his arm, you two younger self squeezed side by side in the back of a golf cart, Sophie and Victoria teasing you both with knowing smirks.

The air in the hospitality suite was thick with the scent of champagne and rich desserts, the kind of indulgence only a race victory could justify. Outside, fans were still chanting in the stands, their voices carrying like echoes of celebration through the warm Zandvoort evening.

Then, a shadow fell over the screen.

You looked up—and there he was. Soaked. Dripping. Hair plastered to his forehead, his team jacket heavy with spray, his grin equal parts exhaustion and mischief. Max Verstappen stood before you, champagne still glistening on his cheeks like stardust.

You laughed, covering your mouth. "I think they got you more than you did."

"Very funny," he deadpanned, though the corner of his lip twitched. He reached out, grabbing your hand with a grip that sent a jolt through your entire body. "Now come with me."

You didn’t even have time to grab your phone. He pulled you up, fingers laced with yours, and led you through the winding hallways of the circuit, past staff and mechanics and technicians who still clapped him on the back, still shouted congratulations.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Not until he pushed open the door to his driver’s room—a private, modest space behind the pits, usually reserved for changing and medical checks.

The air here was cooler, hushed. The chaos of the day felt distant.

You stepped inside, letting go of his hand only to flick on a lamp in the corner. The soft glow spilled across his face as he shut the door behind him, leaning against it like he needed it to hold him up.

"So what do you want to talk about, Dutch lion?" you teased, perching on the edge of the small couch along the wall, your voice light, playful. "Another strategy session? Final confession before the world consumes you again?"

He didn’t smile.

And that’s when you knew.

Something was wrong.

Or—or maybe something was right, and that’s what made your stomach twist.

He looked at you—really looked at you—the way he used to when you were kids, when he was about to say something important and didn’t know how.

His jaw tightened. His fingers curled into his palms. He started pacing, small, restless steps across the tile floor, water dripping from his sleeves onto the ground.

You stood up slowly. "Max? What’s going on?"

He stopped, turning to face you. Took a deep breath.

Then another.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“You know,” he began, voice low, rough around the edges like he’d been saving these words for weeks, “I didn’t think this would hurt so much.”

Your breath caught.

He ran a hand over his face. “I asked you to help me with Jos because… because he wouldn’t stop asking when I was going to settle down. You know how he is—he wants grandkids, he wants photos, he wants a story. And I was tired. Tired of explaining that I didn’t have time. That racing was everything. So when he called me before the Monaco race and said he wanted to come to Silverstone to meet whoever I was seeing… I panicked.”

You nodded slowly. “And that’s when you asked me.”

“Yeah.” He met your eyes. “I thought—you wouldn’t mind. We’ve known each other since we were kids. You’ve met my mom, my dad, Victoria. You fit. And you said yes. You always say yes to me.”

You swallowed. “Because you’re Max. And I’ve never been able to say no to you.”

He exhaled, almost a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The thing is… I thought this would be easy. Just pretend. Smiles. Hand-holding. A few staged photos. We’d fool Jos, he’d stop nagging, and then we’d go back to normal.”

“But?” you whispered.

“But you made it real.”

Your heart dropped.

“You didn’t just play the part,” he said, stepping closer. “You remembered how I take my coffee. You laughed at my stupid jokes. You brought my mom flowers when she came to Barcelona. You teased Jos about his golf swing. You danced with Victoria at that party in Austria. You lived it. And I… I didn’t notice until it was too late.”

“Too late?” you echoed, your voice trembling.

“Because somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending.”

The room felt smaller. The air heavier.

Max took another step. Then another.

“I stopped pretending when you fell asleep in the car after the Monaco race and I carried you to your room. When you sneezed during the press conference and I instinctively turned to you. When I saw you talking to my mom after Canada and realized you two were closer than I’ve ever been to anyone.”

You blinked fast, suddenly aware of how close he was. How his chest rose and fell, how his eyes—green, intense, pleading—never left yours.

“I didn’t plan this,” he whispered. “I didn’t want this. I told myself I wouldn’t do this—get close, get attached. Not with someone like you. Not with you.”

“Someone like me?” you asked, voice barely above a breath.

“Someone who sees me,” he said. “Not Max Verstappen. Not the world champion. Not the guy on the posters. Just… me. The kid who used to sneak out the back door to ride bikes with you. The one who cried when my parents stopped talking. The one who only ever felt normal when you were around.”

Tears pricked your eyes.

“You didn’t just fake it,” he said. “And neither did I. And now… now you’re leaving.”

Your stomach twisted. “Max—”

“You got the job,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “In London. You start next tomorrow. And I… I’m never in one place long enough to make it work. You know that.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he stepped forward, cupping your face in his hands—still slightly damp, but warm, so warm.

“I was supposed to let you go tonight,” he said. “Just hug you, say thanks, tell you you were brilliant. Let you walk away. But I can’t. I lied to myself for weeks, but I can’t lie anymore.”

His thumbs brushed your cheekbones. “I love you.”

The world stopped.

You stared at him. The boy—the man—you’d grown up with. The one who’d shared your first bike ride, your first concert, your first heartbreak. The one who’d held your hand when your dog died. The one who’d called you at 3 a.m. the night his dad missed his first F1 race.

And now, he loved you.

Not the fake girlfriend. Not the cover story.

You.

You felt it then—the dam breaking. Years of suppressed hope, of stolen glances, of pretending your heart didn’t race every time he smiled at you. All of it flooded out in a single, shuddering breath.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry. Like you’d been holding your breath for years and finally, finally, you could exhale. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you against him as he backed you into the wall, the cool surface pressing against your back, your fingers tangling in his wet hair.

He kissed you like he was memorizing you. Like he was trying to etch every second into his bones.

His lips were warm, insistent, moving with a desperation that mirrored your own. You kissed him back with everything—you love, your pain, your fear of losing him, your joy at finally having him.

One of his hands slid up your spine, tilting your head, deepening the kiss. The other stayed wrapped around your waist, holding you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

And you didn’t care.

Let the world end. Let the season pass. Let time stop.

This was all that mattered.

Your heart pounded. Your breath came in short gasps between kisses. He tasted like champagne and salt and home.

You didn’t hear the door open.

You didn’t hear the footsteps.

But suddenly, a voice—gruff, amused, unmistakable.

“Well. That explains the talk about grandchildren.”

You froze.

Max didn’t.

He pulled back slowly, resting his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard. Then, without looking, he raised a hand—one second—and kept his eyes locked on you.

Jos Verstappen stood in the doorway, arms crossed, lips twitching like he was trying not to laugh.

“I’ll… come back,” he said, already stepping out. “Though frankly, it’s about time. And maybe those grandkids are coming sooner than I thought.”

The door clicked shut.

And Max? He laughed. A real, deep, joyful sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.

Then he kissed you again.

And again.

And again.

Like nothing else in the world existed. . . .

Two weeks in the new apartment, and your cat decided to rewrite the rules.

She’d never shown the slightest interest in the outside world, content to judge life from the couch.

Then the balcony became her fixation. She’d perch there for hours, nose to the glass if the door was shut, tail flicking impatiently.

You even tried a harness walk down the hallway once. She spent the entire five minutes trying to drag you back toward the balcony.

Then you saw why.

A bengal cat, notched ear, smug expression was sunning himself on the neighboring balcony.

Luna was already there, paws on the low divider, purring. The bengal cat (Jimmy) batted one of his toy mice across the gap. It landed at her feet. She snatched it, trotted inside, and proudly dropped it on your rug.

The next morning: another toy. Then a mini teddy bear, slightly chewed, reeking of catnip.

Some afternoons you’d catch them properly: tangled in a shared sunbeam that crossed both balconies. Luna’s head tucked under Jimmy’s chin, his tail draped over her like a blanket. Purring in stereo. Disgustingly domestic.

Luna carried it everywhere, slept curled around it, batted it across the floor like it was the greatest gift ever.

You crouched one day, coffee in hand, and gave her the talk.

“Listen, babe. I’m happy for you, but I need to meet this guy. Vet him. Make sure he’s not just dropping toys and dipping. You’re my kid. I have standards and you should have too.”

Luna yawned so wide her tiny fangs showed, then rolled over for belly rubs from Jimmy.

Then the slider next door opened.

A guy in gray sweats and a faded hoodie stepped out, hair messy, clearly looking for someone.

“Jimmy… come on, man. Again?”

That low Dutch accent. Max Verstappen, your new neighbor.

He spotted the furry pile and sighed.

“I give you everything. Food. Scratching posts. And you’re over here like it’s your honeymoon.”

Jimmy ignored him completely.

Max looked up and saw you watching from your side, mid-sip.

“That is your cat?”

“Yeah. Luna.” You nodded at the toys scattered around.

Max crouched next to them, scratching Jimmy’s head. The cat leaned in but refused to budge from Luna.

“How long’s this been going on?”

“Few weeks. She’s always out here now or on your side. I think I own half your cat’s wardrobe.”

He huffed a laugh.

“So they’re properly down bad.”

“Very.”

A beat. Sun warmed the railings. Purring filled the quiet.

“Sorry,” he said, straightening. “I’m Max.”

“They look glued together. No one’s moving.”

“Y/N.”

“Yeah. I tried separating them once. Luna gave me the death stare.”

Max smirked.

“Jimmy’s the same. Thinks he’s king.”

You talked a bit longer light stuff: how long you’d lived here, how the building group chat was 90% complaining about parking. The cats stayed tangled, shameless.

Eventually you both agreed: let them have it. No point fighting fate when it came with free toys and double purring.

***

A few days later : panic.

Luna wasn’t in the apartment. Not on your balcony. Not on his. You checked under furniture, closets, even the stupidly small storage cupboard.

Heart hammering. The drop wasn’t huge, but she wasn’t built for streets. You were mentally drafting a “missing cat” post when your phone buzzed. Unknown number.

You almost ignored it then thought: collar. Number tag.

“Hello?”

“Oh my god. Thank you. I was losing it. Can I come get her?”

“Hi. It’s Max. Your neighbor.” His voice was calm, amused. “Your cat’s in my place. With Jimmy.”

“Yeah, sure. Door’s open. But fair warning, Jimmy’s not letting her go without a fight.”

You grabbed your keys and jogged next door. Knocked once. “Come in!”

Inside: modern, minimalist, racing helmets on a shelf like decor. And there on Max’s couch, Luna sprawled across Jimmy’s back, both blissed out in a sun patch from his window.

“Luna.”

She cracked one eye, saw you, and immediately looked away like “who dis?”

You stepped closer.

“Come on, kid. Time to go home.”

You reached. She hissed then bolted.

What followed was chaos.

Luna darted under the coffee table. You dropped to your knees, army-crawling after her.

“Luna, please. You’re embarrassing me. I’ve known this guy three days.”

Max leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching with open amusement.

“Don’t worry. I don’t mind.”

She shot out the other side, zigzagged across the living room. You scrambled after her, half crawling, half lunging, knocking a pillow off the couch.

She made a break for Max’s legs.

And jumped.

Straight into his arms.

Max caught her easily. She immediately started licking his biceps.

You froze on your knees in front of him, face burning.

“Seriously?”

He looked down at you then at Luna, who was now purring against his chest.

You stood up slowly, brushing dust off your knees.

“Hand her over, thief.”

You reached. Luna clung tighter, tiny claws in his hoodie, still licking like Max was her new favorite person.

Max raised an eyebrow, fighting a grin.

“Looks like she’s staying. Joint custody?”

You sighed, defeated but laughing.

“Fine. Five more minutes. But she’s coming home tonight.”

He shrugged, still holding her like a trophy.

“Deal. Coffee while we negotiate terms?”

Luna purred louder.

You glanced at the two traitors, your cat glued to your neighbor’s arm, Jimmy watching from the couch like “mission accomplished.”

Yeah.

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