ryu

━━━━━━━━━★

the pressure of fighting for a Formula 1 world championship is already familiar territory for Lando, but defending the title to become a two-time world champion seems to demand three times the oxygen of any normal human being.

the season is a proper war of attrition, a relentless test of nerves, endurance and sanity. it is entire weekends cooped up in the McLaren motorhome, the hum of the simulators echoing late into the night through the thin walls, the scent of strong coffee mingling with leather upholstery, and the constant tension of a point-to-point title fight that drags on, painfully, until this final race of the year.

the whole grid holds its breath; the motorsport world watches with bated breath, but for you, the focus has never been on the cars on track, but on the stubborn lad behind the dark visor.

for both of you, the last few years have been exactly like this: intense, fast-paced and completely intertwined, as if time has been running on a different scale since your paths first crossed. nobody would have thought that a chance bump in the paddock three years ago — back when you were still trying to make sense of the chaotic garage dynamics, the technical jargon and the non-stop stream of people, and he was just the talented driver with an easy smile and a stray curl falling over his forehead — would turn into each other’s anchor.

your romance is not a heavily guarded secret, but rather a safe haven built with patience and silence amidst the whirlwind of private jets, luxury hotels and tabloid flashes.

you learn to read his every shift in mood through the telemetry of his eyes. you know exactly when the frustration of a bad free practice session is about to turn into a sleepless night, spotting the slight narrowing of his eyes that the engineers miss. he, in turn, discovered early on that your embrace after a rubbish race — when you bury your face in his neck, still feeling the heat radiating from his fireproof race suit, isolating him from prs and media handlers — is worth far more than any hundred-page engineering report. it is a silent understanding, a synchronicity that grows stronger with every passing season.

the truth is, even though his career demands absolute focus, the future has always been a frequent topic between you during those rare summer break weeks in Monaco.

you can vividly remember the lazy early mornings on the flat balcony, with the harbour lights reflecting on the water and Lando pulling your body flush against his chest, tracing abstract circles on your skin. he has never hidden his desire to start a family. in fact, Lando is the sort of guy who completely loses himself around kids. you have lost count of how many times you have caught him playing with the mechanics’ children — or even P, who loves him — in the garage after the races, running around the pit box with a soapbox cart tyre or patiently signing mini helmets with his eyes shining brighter than the kids’ themselves. “i’ll be a cool dad, won’t i, baby?” he asked once, laughing, with his chin resting on your shoulder as you both watched one of his cousins take their first steps. “i’ll teach them to kart before they even learn to tie their laces.”

you both wanted this. you just did not know that fate had its own schedule.

the discovery happened just under two weeks ago, in the impersonal bathroom of a hotel in São Paulo, right after the penultimate grand prix.

the subtle suspicion, a missed period ignored due to the chaotic time zones, and finally, the two pink lines glaring back at you on the test while Lando slept like a log in the room next door, dead on his feet after hours of racing. the initial panic lasted a mere five seconds, instantly swallowed by a wave of tenderness so overwhelming it made your legs buckle. it was not planned for this exact month, not with the championship on the line, but it was your baby. a tiny piece of your story starting to take shape.

you chose a temporary silence; Lando needed a clear head to wrap up the championship. the confirmatory blood test, printed on a sheet of paper now folded into four, is tucked away in the right pocket of your official team jacket, burning against your skin like a golden secret.

being here today, in the McLaren garage with your headset drowning out the external roar of over a hundred thousand people in the grandstands, watching the timing screens as he carves through the corners of the track on these final laps, is the absolute pinnacle of everything you are building together.

there are only two laps remaining.

Lando leads with an uncomfortable two-second gap. the back-to-back world championship is just a few corners away, the McLaren box holding its breath in an almost religious silence, the mechanics’ hands clasped in quiet prayers, and only you know that the biggest surprise of the day is not going to come from the chequered flag.

★彡

the roar of the engines echoes off the garage walls, a deep mechanical vibration that makes the metal of the pit box tremble, but the sound that truly fills your ears is the silent countdown the team is making mentally for every sector of the track.

your fingers grip the edge of the engineering bench, your knuckles white from the tight squeeze, the tip of your shoes tapping lightly against the floor.

on the main broadcast screen, the orange dot representing his car carves through the final sequence of fast corners, the worn tyres throwing sparks off the tarmac.

it's the final lap.

the side monitor shows the mechanics already taking their positions along the pitlane pit wall, bodies leaning out, arms raised, faces covered by visors, everyone primed for collective catharsis.

when Lando finally crosses the finish line, the world seems to explode in slow motion before your eyes. the light signal on the screen switches to a brilliant green, fireworks burst into the sky above the track, leaving trails of coloured smoke, and the McLaren garage erupts into a unison roar of cheers, applause, tears and bodies colliding in desperate hugs.

Zak Brown punches the air with both hands, his face completely flushed with pure adrenaline and relief, while the engineers leap from their chairs, ripping off their headsets and throwing their clipboards into the air.

in your ear, the team radio channel is absolute chaos of static, celebratory screams and jagged breaths.

[Tom]: Lando Norris, you are a two-time world champion! i repeat, two-time world champion! you did it, mate! what a race, what a spectacular season! the car is safe, bring it home!

his voice comes through chopped by the helmet microphone, a mixture of genuine crying, the ragged breathing of someone who gave their life on the track, and cries of pure, unadulterated relief.

[Lando]: let's gooo! bloody hell, we did it! thank you, everyone, thank you for every single second of this year! the car was unbelievable through that final stint! i love you, i love every single one of you!

you watch the onboard camera fixed to the nose of the car. Lando releases one hand from the steering wheel to punch the air repeatedly, his helmet shaking from side to side as he tries to process the weight of the crown he has just defended against everything and everyone. the race engineer waits for the initial rush of adrenaline to subside a bit, wiping his own eyes before hitting the radio transmission button again. Tom Stallard glances at you, his eyes shining behind his glasses, and holds out the headset with a knowing smile.

[Tom]: Lando, the radio is clear. there's someone here in the garage who really wants a word with you before you bring the car into parc fermé.

Tom hands you the headset with the mic attached. your hands are shaking slightly, your cold fingers finding the transmission button.

your heart feels like it wants to leap right out of your chest, not just from the overwhelming euphoria of the championship, but from the weight of the folded paper in your pocket. you press the button, taking a deep breath to keep your voice as steady, soft and casual as possible, adopting the tone you usually use when you are completely alone.

[you]: congratulations, my love! i knew you could do it. i am so, so proud of you!

the radio crackles and his voice softens in the exact same second. the tough, focused, aggressive racing driver tone disappears completely, leaving only the Lando you know behind closed doors, the lad who hides away in your arms.

[Lando]: baby... oh my god, i couldn't have done it without you. you know that, don't you? you're my rock. i... listen, i've been thinking about this the whole season, i've been carrying this idea around for months, and there is no better moment in the world than right now.

there is a short pause, thick with anticipation. you can hear his car engine roaring in the background as he shifts down on the back straight for the cool-down lap, but his breathing is rapid in a completely different way now, heavy with nerves.

[Lando]: my love... will you marry me? do you want to be my official wife? do you want to spend the rest of your life putting up with my rubbish jokes?

in the garage, an automatic chorus of "aww" and shocked whispers starts to spread like wildfire among the data engineers and mechanics who are close enough to hear the main channel.

Zak Brown is already splitting into a massive grin from ear to ear, pointing at the screen, ready to celebrate the greatest marketing and romance coup in the team's history: a title and an engagement in the very same minute.

you let out a soft laugh, your eyes fixed on the orange dot moving slowly across the screen, knowing exactly how much chaos you are about to unleash upon Formula 1. you bring the microphone even closer to your lips, your eyes bright with playful affection.

[you]: it all depends very much on how good a dad you're going to be.

the silence that follows on the radio line is so absolute, so dense, that for a millisecond it feels as though the transmission has dropped completely or the FIA satellite has dropped out of orbit.

there is no radio static. there is no sound of breathing. just the continuous hum of the McLaren engine trundling along the empty track.

in the garage, Zak Brown's smile freezes instantly on his face, his eyes blinking as if trying to translate a foreign language.

Tom Stallard blinks three times in succession, staring at the telemetry screen and the tyre pressure graphs as though trying to decode a critical error in the car's system.

two data engineers stop with their hands hovering over their keyboards, mouths wide open. the shock is physical, palpable, as if you had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water right into the centre of the team's celebratory bonfire.

the radio crackles violently. Lando's voice jumps two octaves above his normal tone, a pure cocktail of panic, electric shock, joy and utter incomprehension.

[Lando]: what? hang on! what did you say, darling?! bloody hell, repeat that! what does that mean?! i'm going to be... i'm going to... you're... what?!

on the official broadcast screen, his car gives a slight swerve to the right, clipping the kerb of turn 4 in a completely untidy and dangerous manner, almost as if the driver had completely forgotten he is holding a carbon-fibre steering wheel at over a hundred and fifty kilometres per hour.

Zak practically rips the spare microphone out of an assistant engineer's hand, stepping all over the transmission with his voice trembling in pure, genuine fatherly panic.

[Zak]: Lando! Lando, look at the bloody track, for god's sake! focus on the white line, lad! bring that car and yourself back to the pitlane safely! you can lose your mind, cry, whatever you want afterwards, but do not crash the double-world-championship car on the bloody cool-down lap!

Tom takes control of the line, trying to claw back his professional head-of-engineering posture while his own voice cracks and wavers with nerves.

[Tom]: Lando, cool-down mode on, please. keep your eyes on the track. press the confirm button on your steering wheel if you copy the message. Lando? do you hear me?

no audible reply comes from the car. on the onboard camera, which is now being broadcast to the whole world, you can see Lando's gloved hands squeezing the leather of the steering wheel so hard the stitching looks ready to snap. he is shaking his head frantically inside his helmet, completely experiencing a system crash, his mental circuits entirely melted by the announcement.

[Lando]: baby! answer me! are you playing with my heart?! sweetheart, for god's sake, say something!!

you just smile with the utmost sweetness in the world, release the side button of the radio and hand the headset back to a Tom who is completely paralysed by shock.

you shrug your shoulders innocently, leaving your boyfriend — and future husband, and very soon the father of your child — in the most deafening, lovely and chaotic silence in the history of contemporary motorsport while the orange car slowly approaches the pit entry.

★彡

the turmoil in the McLaren garage turns into a sort of muffled hum under the weight of the deafening silence you just left on the radio line.

the engineers exchange perplexed glances, faces static under the cold light of the monitors; some cover their mouths with their hands, eyes wide, not knowing whether to laugh at the comical audacity of the moment or to panic along with the main pit wall command.

Zak still has his palm flat, heavily pressed against the carbon-fibre engineering bench, his breathing audible and ragged like someone who nearly saw the championship car go straight into the barrier due to a pure psychological distraction from the driver.

Tom, with trembling fingers, pulls at the fabric of his shirt to wipe a thick drop of sweat from his forehead, keeping his eyes glued to the digital telemetry graphs showing Lando’s heart rate skyrocketing, operating in a red zone that even the tightest wheel-to-wheel battle on track today didn't cause. his heart is racing faster than the engine itself.

you subtly step back from the data bench, feeling the adrenaline rip through your own veins, a tingling heat climbing up your neck.

your hands find the textured fabric of your official McLaren jacket, your fingers tracing, through the pocket, the exact rectangular outline of the paper tucked inside. the contrast is stark, almost poetic: outside, the world is celebrating a back-to-back world championship; inside you, an entire lifetime has just quietly shifted its axis.

outside, the pitlane is already a bubbling human anthill. mechanics in fireproof race suits rush from side to side dragging heavy sponsor boards, photographers aggressively jostle against the blue metal fences, and the international broadcast cameramen run with their heavy shoulder rigs, shoving past each other to get the best angle of the hero of the day.

you walk towards the team pit wall barrier, every step feeling like you are floating.

the air out here is thick, saturated with the distinct, sharp smell of burnt Pirelli rubber, high-octane fuel, and the humidity of the heated tarmac radiating an almost suffocating warmth against your face. the crowd in the grandstands across the track chants his name in a deafening chorus, thousands of voices united in a rhythmic beat that makes the ground beneath the soles of your shoes vibrate. but your attention is completely locked, narrowed onto the pitlane entry.

and then, the orange and black nose of his car comes into view.

normally, a driver who has just clinched the ultimate glory in motorsport enters parc fermé parading, weaving, waving to the crowd and savouring every inch of the slowdown.

Lando does none of that.

he brings the car in far too fast, at an almost reckless speed for the confined space. the carbon brakes let out a sharp, shrill squeal, and a puff of whitish, hot smoke escapes the front wheels as he turns the steering wheel abruptly, almost violently, towards the yellow sign with the number #1.

the car stops awkwardly, noticeably misaligned, the rear crooked and nearly touching the side tyre barrier. he doesn't care about symmetry for the official newspaper photos. he has an urgency. a vital urgency.

even before the engine is fully switched off and the mechanical silence settles in with the pops of the cooling exhaust, Lando is already disconnecting the radio cable from his helmet with a sharp jerk.

the movement to unlock and remove the steering wheel is frantic, almost clumsy from the nerves. he tosses it onto the cockpit dashboard without the slightest care, discarding the million-pound piece of kit as if it weighed a ton and were burning his hands.

the FIA marshals approach with quick steps, arms extended to guide him to climb onto the nose of the car for the traditional celebration pose for the cameras, but Lando completely ignores their presence. he plants his gloved hands on the narrow edges of the cockpit and hoists himself out with a physical force born of pure shock and adrenaline. his feet hit the tarmac with a dry thud. he rips off the HANS device with both hands, tossing it onto the pitlane floor without looking back, followed immediately by his racing gloves.

he doesn't even look to the sides, at the photographers who already form a wall around the car. his eyes, bloodshot from the physical exertion and wide behind the dark visor of his helmet, scan the human wall of orange McLaren shirts. he is looking for just one face. the only face that matters.

when the dark visor snaps up with a dry metallic click, his beautiful green eyes — completely damp, overflowing with a mixture of victory tears and bewilderment — lock onto yours. and the world around you simply ceases to exist in the blink of an eye.

the frantic clicking of digital cameras firing at ten frames per second, the deafening roars of the crowd in the grandstands, the protocol congratulations from the other two podium drivers who have already climbed out of their cars and watch the scene from a distance — everything turns into blurred background noise. Lando walks towards you with long, heavy, unsteady strides, his race suit covered in dark rubber soot and sweat marks across his back and chest, looking like a warrior who has just emerged from the toughest battle of his life, but whose single, desperate goal is to completely disarm himself before you.

he shoves past the rigid structure of the metal barrier with his hip, pushing his way through in a blunt but subconscious manner among the mechanics trying to pat him on the back. and before you can form any coherent sentence, his hands — still damp with sweat, warm and visibly shaking — grab your waist with a needy, desperate grip.

Lando pulls your body against his with such impetus that the impact of his chest against yours knocks the wind out of your lungs for a second.

in the next second, your feet completely lose contact with the pitlane tarmac. he lifts you into the air as if you weigh nothing at all, his strong arms locking around your back like unbreakable steel clamps, and starts spinning you right there, in the epicentre of parc fermé, under the frantic flashes of the entire world.

"my love... my love, for god's sake", his voice comes out completely muffled, a trembling, crushed sound, caught between a hysterical laugh and a legitimate sob of disbelief. his heavy helmet bumps lightly against your shoulder, and you can feel the heat radiating from him. "tell me it's true, darling. tell me i didn't get it wrong. tell me you didn't use the bloody Formula 1 radio to give me the biggest shock of my entire life."

you bury your hands in his broad shoulders, feeling the thick, warm fabric of the fireproof suit, and laugh out loud, a laugh mixed with the tears that finally give way and stream down your face. you press your forehead against the opening of his helmet visor.

"i would never, ever joke about something like that, baby", you whisper right next to the opening, knowing that the directional microphones of the TV cameras are pointed at your embrace, trying to capture any sound. "you got the back-to-back championship... and you're going to be a daddy. and yes, obviously i'm going to marry you, Lando. i accept being your wife. but only if you promise you'll change nappies quicker than the team does a pitstop."

Lando lets out a guttural sound that is half uncontrolled laughter, half pure crying of a fulfilled boy.

his body shakes against yours. he lowers you down slowly, allowing your feet to touch the ground, but refuses to move his body even a millimetre away from yours. your hands hurriedly move to his helmet, your trembling fingers undoing the tight buckle under his chin with blind haste.

you help him pull the helmet off, and he simply lets it drop onto the tarmac, without the slightest consideration for the custom gold design or the historical value of that piece. his hair is a complete mess, curls plastered to his forehead from the intense sweat of the race, his cheeks flushed and his eyes shining with an emotional intensity you have never seen in any moment of your three-year relationship.

he holds your face with his two newly bare hands, his thumbs tracing your tear-stained cheeks with an almost painful urgency, pressing his forehead against yours. his tears now flow freely, clearing the track dust on his face.

"a baby..." he whispers against your lips, his voice breaking completely, his eyes scanning every millisecond of your face as if trying to etch your reaction into his soul forever. "we're going to... we're going to have a baby, my love. a little us running around. i can't... my brain has simply melted, darling. i am the happiest man on the entire planet. i swear to god, i'm going to be the best daddy this world has ever seen. i'll give my life for you both, i swear."

he tilts his head and kisses you in front of the entire grandstand. it is a chaotic, deep kiss, salty from his sweat and the tears of both of you, filled with a passionate urgency that makes your heart hammer violently against your ribs. the crowd in the grandstands, realising the sheer sweetness of the moment — even without understanding the secret of the pregnancy —, explodes into a roar of applause and cheers.

around you, the human barrier of McLaren finally breaks, but not by PR handlers, but by the team itself who cannot contain their emotion.

the mechanics start jumping around the two of you, throwing water into the air, clapping and crying along.

Zak emerges like a proper tractor of emotion through the sea of orange shirts. the team boss has eyes completely red and swollen from crying so much. he doesn't think twice: he steps forward and wraps you both in an overwhelming bear hug, squeezing you and Lando against his massive chest at the same time.

"congratulations, you beautiful things! bloody hell, congratulations!" Zak shouts, his voice thick with tears, swaying the two of you in the group hug. he kisses the top of Lando's head and then yours. "what a day! what an unbelievable day for this team! i'm going to be the rich uncle to this baby, do you hear me?! but Lando... for god's sake, lad..." Zak steps back a bit, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt, shifting his tone to desperate comedy. "get to the bloody scales before the FIA comes to confiscate our trophy!"

the romantic bubble is filled with the laughter of the mechanics. Tom approaches right behind, grinning from ear to ear, holding his clipboard.

"Lando! Lando, the scales! now!" Tom's voice rings out, trying to maintain a rigid posture that he has clearly already lost. "the official weigh-in! if you don't weigh yourself in the next two minutes, the stewards will open an investigation for a post-race protocol breach! they could take your championship points away for this!"

"screw them!" Lando grumbles playfully, wiping the tears from his face with the back of his hand, but without letting go of your fingers. "screw the scales, Tom! i just found out i'm going to be a dad! do you think i care about car weight?"

"Lando, please, love", you intervene, laughing at his comical defiance, but using your hands to give a firm push against the chest of his race suit. "they're right. go on. do what you have to do for protocol. the championship is yours by right, don't let them take it away over something silly."

"i'm not going anywhere without you", he protests with a childish pout on his lips, his eyes still bright with tears, looking like a stubborn boy who is afraid the dream will vanish if he lets go of your hand for a second.

"i'll be right here, waiting for you with the team", you reassure him with all the sweetness in the world, standing on your tippets to give a quick, smacking kiss to his lips. "go, champion. go get weighed. go to the cooldown room, have some water and calm down. the other drivers have already gone up to the room, you're delaying everything. we'll meet in a bit."

the mechanics and Zak himself make a playful human wall, physically nudging Lando towards the official FIA scales while he walks backwards, pointing his index finger in your direction with a goofy smile, completely radiant and tearful, making a silent promise in the air.

★彡

Lando complies with the weigh-in protocol as if operating in an absolute trance, on the soul's autopilot.

he steps onto the metallic platform, holding the helmet an assistant retrieved from the ground, but his feet seem to have wings of their own.

the moment the marshal gives the electronic green light on the screen, he practically runs, ignoring the questions from reporters with extended microphones, disappearing towards the entrance of the pit building where the top three drivers isolate themselves.

and when Lando gets there, he shoves the frosted glass door of the cooldown room with entirely unnecessary force, making the whole metallic structure rattle on its tracks.

he steps in like a proper orange hurricane but halts abruptly right on his very first step, arms hanging loosely by his sides, his fireproof race suit half-undone to expose a sweat-drenched undershirt, and his gaze completely fixed on thin air, pupils still dilated from the sheer electric shock of reality.

seated on the black leather sofas under the dim light of the room are Carlos Sainz and George Russell.

Carlos has a wet white towel draped over the back of his neck, methodically drinking water with his eyes glued to the big screen replaying the best moments of the race in slow motion. George, maintaining his pristine posture even after more than fifty laps of pure physical and mental demands, fixes his hair in front of the wall mirror while checking the final lap times on the secondary monitor.

both lift their eyes in perfect sync the moment the McLaren silhouette invades the space, smiles already forming on their faces, ready for the traditional, loud round of back pats, playful shoves and formal congratulations for the back-to-back world championship.

but the static expression on the new champion's face makes them both freeze mid-motion.

Lando does not have the triumphant, expansive, loud look of someone who has just conquered the world. he genuinely looks like someone who has just been struck by lightning beneath a clear blue sky.

"mate... are you alright?" Carlos is the first to break the silence, setting his bottle down on the coffee table and knitting his brows, his spanish accent instantly thick with a deep, brotherly concern. he leans forward. "you look like you saw a ghost on the warm-up lap, man. did Zak give you a proper bollocking over the radio? i saw your rear end give a very strange twitch on the back straight, thought you'd snapped your suspension."

Lando does not reply. he walks almost in a trance, dragging his racing boots across the non-slip floor to the stainless-steel bench where the official podium caps are arranged.

his trembling fingers brush the black fabric of the cap carrying the World Champion inscription proudly embroidered in gleaming gold threads, but his hands are shaking so much, with such a lack of steadiness, that he almost drops the piece back onto the table.

he plants both palms on the edge of the bench, arching his back, his shoulders rising and falling with a heavy, audible breath that echoes off the clean walls of the silent room.

"we were just talking about exactly that a moment ago, Lando", George interjects, abandoning the mirror and crossing his arms over his chest, analysing his long-time friend with that characteristic analytical, observant gaze of his. "the international feed cut the audio of your team radio out of nowhere. there was this absurd silence, a radio vacuum for nearly half a lap before you opened your mic again. did you have some sort of critical communication failure?"

Lando finally turns around to face them both. he lets out a huffed, sharp, uncontrolled laugh that flirts dangerously with the fine line between hysteria and pure happiness.

he rubs his wet face with both hands, pushing his messy, damp curls away from his forehead, and looks right into the depths of each of their eyes.

"she... she's pregnant", Lando lets out all at once, without any anesthesia or prior warning, his voice breaking in a lovely, choked way right on the very last syllable.

the silence that settles over the cooldown room following the statement is so instantaneous, so thick and absolute that he can actually hear the hum of the air conditioning system.

Carlos freezes with his hand suspended mid-air on his way to grab his towel, his mouth completely agape, his dark eyes wide as he tries to process the exact meaning of those words in spanish and english within his mind.

George blinks five times in succession, his ultra-organized GPDA director brain trying to recalculate the route of a piece of information that definitely was not part of any pre-race briefing or FIA protocol.

"wait... what?" Carlos leaps off the sofa in a single bound, the wet towel slipping from his neck and dropping straight to the floor, entirely forgotten. "you are taking the piss. don't joke about something like that, cabrón! on the radio line? is that what she told you over the team radio?"

"i proposed to her!" Lando explains, the words tripping over one another at an absurd speed as he begins to pace in frantic circles around the room, gesturing wildly with his hands. "i spent the last seven races planning the perfect moment, guys. i thought to myself: 'i'll win the championship in the final race, i'll open the radio and make the most epic, beautiful, romantic proposal in Formula 1 history, right in front of everyone.' i thought i was going to be the most incredible guy in the paddock! then i ask over the radio if she wants to marry me, heart in my mouth, and she snaps back: 'it all depends very much on how good a dad you're going to be.' she destroyed me! she gave me a lovely checkmate on global television! i nearly crashed the car because i forgot how to bloody drive!"

George lets out a loud laugh, a clean sound of pure shock and amusement mingled with an instant surge of deep affection. he covers his mouth with his hand, shaking his head as his eyes begin to gleam with genuine emotion. George wipes the corner of his eye, taking a step forward.

"my god, Lando..." George laughs, his voice softening into an incredibly tender tone as he looks back on their journey together. George steps up and plants both hands on Lando's shoulders, looking at him with the warmth of someone who has known him since they were boys in karting. "the lad i saw enter Formula 1 in 2019 right alongside me, who until last year only knew how to eat instant noodles in the motorhome and play video games on the simulator until four in the morning... is going to have a baby! i've watched you grow up, mate. we've lived through all of this here together from the start! i can't even tell you how proud and happy i am for you right now. you're going to be a phenomenal dad, honestly. you guys are going to be amazing parents."

George pulls Lando into a tight, sincere embrace, clapping his back firmly while Lando buries his face in his friend's shoulder, letting a few more tears of pure happiness escape.

before George can even step away, Carlos practically lunges at them both, crashing into them and turning the moment into an overwhelming, massive bear hug.

Carlos has his eyes visibly welling up, his voice thick with the immense fondness he has always held for Lando.

"¡no me lo posso creer! a little Norris running around the McLaren garage... the world is not ready for the chaos and the cuteness that child is going to inherit!" Carlos squeezes the hug so hard it elicits a laughing groan from Lando. Carlos pulls back slightly, cupping Lando's face with both hands, looking at him with the massive pride of an older brother. "congratulations, papa! holy fuck, world champion and a dad on the same day! do you have any idea that you've just ruined the podium for every other driver for the next ten years? nobody, in the entire history of this sport, is ever going to top what you and your girl did today. i love you, mate. i am so happy for you both that my chest feels like it's going to burst!"

Lando grins from ear to ear, the crying finally giving way to a golden, warm, vibrant euphoria that fills every inch of his chest. he looks from George to Carlos, the two guys he has shared podiums, defeats, travels and dreams with since he was just a teenager trying to carve out his space in the world.

the reality of the championship was massive, but the reality of the family he was starting with you was infinitely bigger. he looks down at the golden champion's cap in his hands and realises the metal of the trophy doesn't come anywhere near the value of the folded paper you are carrying in your jacket pocket out there.

and while the three of them huddle together in jokes and affectionate taps, the fixed camera of the official FIA broadcast, installed right in the top corner of the room's white wall, keeps capturing and transmitting absolutely everything live.

Lando knows perfectly well it is there.

he sees the little LED light flashing a vivid red, indicating that the signal is feeding the global broadcast, heading straight into the homes of millions of fans, journalists and screens all around the circuit.

and he doesn't give a single toss about protocol.

Lando breaks away from his two friends with a mischievous smile, walks resolutely until he is face-to-face with the lens of the TV camera, and points to his own chest with both thumbs, flashing the most radiant, goofy, love-struck grin of his entire life. then, he brings his arms together in front of his body and makes the classic, sweet, universal gesture of rocking a baby, swaying from side to side before blowing a loud kiss directly into the camera, pointing an index finger at the lens as if speaking straight to you in the middle of the garage.

"SHE SAID YES!" he bellows at the top of his lungs to the camera, making Carlos and George explode into laughter in the background, with Carlos throwing his arms in the air and George celebrating as though he had just won at life himself. "i'm getting married and i'm going to be a dad, world! screw your telemetry! my best championship is on the way!"

outside that glass room, across social media, absolute hell has formally broken loose. because the audio from the McLaren radio had been cut abruptly right after the marriage proposal, the global audience watching live had no clue about the real context of the mysterious response you gave. the commentators across every country's broadcast try to fill the silence with the most wild theories possible.

"has Lando Norris just announced impending fatherhood or was that a McLaren inside joke?" asks the main commentator on the british broadcast, completely dazed by the rocking gesture on screen. "we saw the gesture... have they adopted a puppy or have McLaren signed a sponsorship deal with a pram brand?" speculates an italian commentator, totally lost in the middle of the euphoria.

on twitter, tiktok and instagram, your name and Lando's already comfortably hold the number one spot among the most talked-about topics on the entire planet. slow-motion videos of the moment he sweeps you off the pitlane floor and spins you through the air gather tens of millions of views per second, with thousands of fans attempting to lip-read the exact moment he ripped his helmet off to kiss you.

the frosted glass door clicks open at the hands of an FIA official with a rigid expression, pointing firmly to his wristwatch and indicating that the national anthems and the podium ceremony must begin immediately.

Lando takes a deep breath, feeling the weight and the sweetness of that unforgettable sunday settle onto his shoulders. he adjusts the black and gold world champion cap on his head, takes one last look at Carlos and George through the reflection of the mirror, receiving one final proud nod of the head from each of them.

he is ready.

ready to climb the steps of that podium to the roars of thousands of people, raise the most important and coveted metal trophy of his professional career toward the sky, and seek out your eyes shining in the middle of the sea of orange shirts in the crowd.

he is going to step up there knowing, with the most beautiful certainty, that the biggest, loudest, most perfect victory of his life story had absolutely nothing to do with the tarmac on the track.

━━━━━━━━━★

✩

━━━━━━━━━★

the grey, typical London light creeps gently through the large living room windows, softly illuminating the flat in a way that matches the silence of this morning perfectly. the characteristic hum of the city feels miles away, leaving only the low murmur of the tv tuned to some random channel and the almost imperceptible turning of pages from the book he is holding.

even though it is a saturday with no commitments on track, your body clocks show no mercy. the habit of waking up early due to an intense training routine means you are both wide awake before eight. but, knowing that the evening will be long and tiring — a mandatory gala dinner with one of his title sponsors, complete with a red carpet, haute couture suits, and rehearsed smiles —, the decision to spend the day locked inside is mutual. nobody wants to think about pressures, flashes, or appearances just yet. there is a silent agreement that, until the sun goes down, the outside world does not exist.

you are comfortably curled up in the corner of the sofa, your legs stretched out over the plush upholstery, serving as an impromptu pillow for him.

Lewis is completely relaxed, wearing nothing but grey joggers, leaving his broad chest and strong arms fully exposed. his breathing follows a calm rhythm that dictates the peace of the room, and one of his hands — large, heavy, and adorned with those silver rings you know so well — rests loosely on your knee, his thumb moving in a lazy, almost unconscious caress against your skin.

for a while, you lose yourself in this quietness. your fingers idly play with the neat braids on the top of his head, feeling the soft texture while your eyes wander from the tv screen for a moment, landing on the open felt-tip pen case on the coffee table.

working in fashion means your mind rarely switches off; your routine is dictated by meticulously thought-out colour palettes, fabric textures, and technical collection sketches that drain your creative energy.

because of this, on rare mornings off like this one, your work sketchbook gives way to something purely therapeutic. you have developed a habit of collecting cosy colouring books — pages upon pages of detailed illustrations of old coffee shops, kittens sleeping near fireplaces, and welcoming settings that require no grand decisions, just the pleasure of filling in the blanks. it is a quirk that Lewis finds the cutest thing in the world, so much so that he always notices when your favourite colours are running out and comes home with brand-new sets of professional felt-tip pens for you.

your gaze travels from the case to one of the colouring books open on the arm of the sofa near you both. careful not to dislodge his head, you reach out and your fingers brush past the pens until they pinch a vibrant red one. you uncapped the fine tip with a soft, almost inaudible click and test it on the corner of the blank page, just watching the damp ink being absorbed by the textured paper. it is a silly, mechanical movement, but a soothing one.

as you lower your hand, the contrast happens.

your eyes travel down from the paper and land straight on Lewis's chest and arms. from up here, the perspective changes. all that heavy black ink and shading in his tattoos — the imposing lion whose gaze seems to follow your movements, the compass just below marking a north that today belongs only to the two of you, and the intricate details covering his arms like armour — suddenly take on a new meaning. the contrast of the dark ink against his warm skin, lit by the dull London light, makes him look like… a canvas waiting to be filled.

the well-defined black lines look a lot like the pages of your favourite colouring books. except here, the contours did not enclose a drawing of a paper coffee shop; they outlined the muscles of his chest, which rose and fell slowly with his breathing. it was an infinitely more realistic, alive, and… masculine canvas.

you bite your lower lip, your fingers spinning the red pen between your knuckles, your mind wavering between common sense and the urge to see how that red ink would stand out against his skin.

and well, you cannot resist.

since you had already tested the red pen on the book, the click of the cap is already done. you hold your breath for a second, swallowing a laugh, and lean a bit closer over him. the fingers of your left hand rest lightly on the top of his shoulder, feeling the firm, warm skin, just to steady your stroke.

slowly, you bring the cold, fine tip of the reddish ink close to the outline of one of the shaded roses on his arm.

the second the cold touch meets the warmth of his body, Lewis lets out a low sigh. his body gives a slight, involuntary flinch from the sudden chill, but he does not move away. instead, he shifts his eyes from the pages, looking askance at his own shoulder, and then looks up at your face. noticing your serious expression, with your eyebrows slightly knitted in pure concentration, an absurdly docile, sleepy half-smile forms on his lips.

he does not protest. he just closes the book slowly, letting it rest on his abdomen, and rests both hands behind his head, shifting his position minutely to give you more room.

"what are you plotting up there, eh?" he asks. his voice comes out in that dragged, husky tone of someone still immersed in morning laziness, but full of quiet amusement at your sudden stillness.

you do not even look away from the outline, gliding the porous tip with millimetric care, filling the first dark petal with bright red.

"shh, don't move. i'm creating art", you whisper back, biting your lip. "your arm was far too monochrome for my liking. it lacks a spring visual identity. you're my new day-off canvas."

Lewis lets out a short laugh, his chest vibrating warmly against your legs, the sound echoing softly in the room. he relaxes his shoulders into your lap, completely surrendering to the whim.

"a spring visual identity? on my arm?" he repeats, finding it incredibly funny. he stretches his arm a bit more in your direction, making it easier for you to reach. "all right, designer. you call the shots. but watch what you're drawing there, yeah? if it's a stickman, i'll want my royalties."

"don't be silly, i work in haute couture, Hamilton. you're receiving an exclusive curation", you witty banter back, sliding your fingers along the side of his arm to adjust the angle. you set the red pen aside and reach out to grab the mint-green shade, uncapping it with your teeth in a natural movement as you begin colouring the leaves around the flower. "and it's water-based pen, it comes off in the shower. you can relax."

"ah, so i don't get to keep your design forever? what a shame", he boasts playfully, tossing his head a bit further back into your lap.

his gaze softens even more, fixed on you. he stays there, quiet, watching the tip of your nose discreetly crinkled in concentration and the way you bite your lower lip every time you need to make a finer line or outline a smaller area. it is a habit of yours that he knows by heart, one of those he usually catches when you spend the night awake drawing croquis for your collections at your bedroom desk, and he loves it. there is immense value in seeing that same focus dedicated to something so silly and purely yours.

with a slow movement, Lewis lifts his free hand. the backs of his fingers, adorned with cold silver rings, brush against your warm cheek before his fingertips tuck that stubborn lock of hair that insisted on falling over your eyes entirely out of the way. he tucks it behind your ear, lingering with his thumb on your jawline for an extra second, ensuring the touch is light enough not to shake your hand or ruin the outline of the mint-green leaf.

"there", he murmurs, his voice dropping a register, soft and welcoming against the silence of the room. "canvas duly stabilised. carry on, boss."

you let out the breath you did not even realise you were holding, laughing softly at the nickname, and take advantage of the permission.

leaving the green pen on the cushion, you place your right hand flat against the firm skin of his chest, feeling the warmth of his body rise through your fingers and the calm beating of his heart right beneath your palm. you slide your fingertips up to his left shoulder, assessing the space with narrowed eyes, like a painter before a valuable canvas.

"hmm... analysing the composition here..." you ponder, tracing the outline of the shaded mane he has there with the tip of your clean index finger. "i think this lion is in need of a more majestic vibe. a golden mane, maybe a gradient with sun-yellow and a touch of orange at the tips. what do you think?"

Lewis lets out a warm laugh, his eyes closed as he savours the caress of your fingers tracing his chest. his body remains completely surrendered, heavy and relaxed over your legs, without the slightest sign of tension.

"i think you're taking advantage of my good nature, designer", he jokes, the corners of his eyes crinkling into that genuine smile of his, though he does not even bother to open his eyelids. "but since i'm an excellent model and i support independent art, i'll let you test your theory. just don't paint my nose while i'm asleep."

"i make no promises, driver", you whisper, already reaching out to grab the yellow pen from the case, your heart warm with how easily he just lets himself be carried away by your silliness.

★彡

the hours pass without a rush, without either of you caring to look at a phone screen or the clock on the wall. the felt-tip pen case, which at the start of the morning was perfectly aligned by shade, has now turned into a colourful, chaotic mess scattered across the sofa cushions. stray caps mingle between the folds of the knitted throw and your bodies.

inevitably, to reach the more intricate details covering his arms without smudging what has already been done, the dynamics need to shift. Lewis moves slowly, sliding his body off the upholstery until he is sitting on the plush rug in the living room. he rests his broad back against the base of the sofa, spreading his legs and creating the perfect space for you to settle right behind him, kneeling on the soft cushions.

from this new perspective, you have the perfect view from above: the slope of his neck, the top of his shoulders, and, leaning just a little bit forward, the geometric design of the compass rose right in the centre of his chest.

you tie your hair up in a loose bun so it does not get in the way and select two new colours: a very bright turquoise-blue and a burnt-yellow.

with your right arm resting firmly over his shoulder for stability, you begin to fill in the cardinal points. the subtle sound of the porous tip gliding across his warm skin blends with the low hum of the television, and without realising it, you start to hum along softly to the melody of a song playing on a random commercial.

Lewis follows your rhythm in an almost imperceptible way, nodding his head gently, completely surrendered to that impromptu spa treatment. every now and then, he turns his face back a little, trying to look over his own shoulder to check the progress, his brown eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"you're taking this very seriously, you know?" he comments, letting out a muffled laugh as he notices that the fingers of your left hand are already stained with little dots of pink and blue ink. "the sun will be setting soon and we're still on the first coat of paint."

"it's meticulous work, Sir. haute couture design requires patience, don't rush the artist's process", you tease, holding back a laugh. for emphasis, you poke his ribs with the tip of your index finger that is free of ink, making him shrug his shoulders with a quick flinch and a rich laugh. "besides, the artist works under specific conditions. did you hear that?"

right on cue, your stomach lets out a perfectly audible rumble in the silence of the room.

Lewis throws his head back, resting it against your knee while looking up, laughing openly at your caught-in-the-act expression.

"heard it loud and clear", he says, his broad smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. he stretches his long arm out to the coffee table, fumbling around the furniture until his fingers find his phone without needing to break the comfort of the position. "leave it to me. i'll order that artisanal pasta delivery you love. the one with the homemade tomato sauce we ordered last month, what do you think? that way nobody needs to move, break the model's pose, or ruin the artwork."

★彡

some time later, the intercom buzzes to let you know the food has arrived. Lewis gets up in one agile movement, heading down to the concierge, and when the flat door opens again, the wonderful scent of fresh basil, melted cheese, and artisanal tomato sauce instantly fills the living room, making your mouth water.

but instead of setting the dining table or suggesting you take a proper break, he simply brings the thermal containers and cutlery straight over to the living room rug. there is a silent complicity in keeping the day unpretentious. you, genuinely inspired and a bit stubborn from the creative flow, refuse to get off the sofa.

"Lewis, sit with your back to me. the light coming from the window is perfect right now, and i need to start working on your back while the ink on the front finishes drying”, you request, your voice soft yet firm, while your fingers are already searching for a new shade of red in the case.

he turns to you, holding the containers of warm food against his chest, letting out a genuinely disbelieving laugh, though it is full of affection.

"let me see if i've got this right… you want me to have lunch while serving as a three-dimensional canvas?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, though the question is purely rhetorical. without waiting for an answer, he is already settling down on the rug, crossing his legs and giving his broad back to you, adjusting himself perfectly between your knees.

"exactly. keep still."

Lewis's back is the biggest challenge of his entire anatomy, but also the most beautiful part. the phrase ‘Still I Rise’ stands out imponent at the top, right above the giant cross with angel wings that dominates almost the entire expanse of his skin.

you lean forward, resting your chin lightly on his shoulder for a brief second, just breathing in the scent of his subtle cologne mixed with the warmth of the food, deciding where to begin. when you pull away, you guide the red felt-tip pen to outline, with a surgeon's patience, the ornate letters of the script on his skin.

the contrast that follows is of an almost comical intimacy. Lewis tries to balance the pasta container in one hand, bringing the fork to his mouth with extreme care, chewing slowly so as not to shake his shoulders or destabilise your stroke. meanwhile, you stretch yourself entirely over the sofa upholstery, reaching out your arm to get to the central curvature of his back, holding your breath at every straight line.

"open your mouth", he commands suddenly.

Lewis turns his face a little to the side, just enough to see you askance, and stretches his long arm back over his shoulder. on the tip of the fork, he perfectly balances a generous portion of the steaming pasta, pointing it in your direction.

"wait, don't move, i'm right in the middle of a delicate stroke on the angel's wing..." you murmur in a muffled voice, trying to dodge the fork without losing visual focus on the black outline of his back.

"none of that starving artist business on my watch. i heard your stomach protesting from down on the floor", he insists, his voice soft and firm. he wiggles the fork slightly, millimetres from your lips, sporting an absurdly amused smile in the corner of his mouth. "open up. come on, i'll keep my shoulder steady."

you give in with a defeated sigh, accepting the bite.

the pasta is wonderful. you chew quickly, and even before you can complain about getting messy, Lewis uses the thumb of his free hand to wipe away, with all the gentleness in the world, a little speck of sauce left at the corner of your lip, making the gesture with such naturalness that your heart completely skips a beat. all of this without you needing to pull the pen away from his skin for more than two seconds.

"hmm, it's incredibly good…” you approve, your voice softer, as you swap the red pen for a dark orange one to start the gradient shading of the angel's feathers.

"i know, right? now, another one", he murmurs, repeating the process with the same patience a few minutes later.

and so your lunch extends, with no rush at all: a colourful and careful brushstroke on the angel wings on his back, followed shortly after by a careful forkful that he patiently brings to your mouth.

the two of you sharing the same plate, the same warm atmosphere, in the middle of the living room in London, completely oblivious to the ticking clock and the monumental gala event that awaits you both in just a few hours.

★彡

the sun begins to set, tinging the room with long, warm, orange tones, warning that your bubble time is coming to an end.

you give the final light-blue touch to the tail of the comet decorating his index finger and cap the pen with a definitive click, sighing with satisfaction and stretching your back.

Lewis is officially a walking piece of art.

the lion on his chest has gained a majestic, multi-coloured mane, the compass glows in vibrant, tropical tones, and the angel with the cross on his back looks like it came straight out of a rich illustration in a fantasy book.

"there. go look at yourself in the mirror before you get in the shower", you say, giving his ribs a light, affectionate pat, swinging your legs off the sofa. "i want to hear your magnificent thoughts on my incredible work."

Lewis gets up from the rug slowly, stretching his body and laughing as he sees his own colourful arms against the light from the window. he walks to the en-suite bathroom and you follow him, your phone camera already open and recording. something like this needs to be documented.

upon stopping in front of the large mirror, his reaction is exactly that of a true art connoisseur. the huge, proud smile appears immediately, but it soon gives way to a genuinely fascinated look.

he steps closer to the glass, leaning in to analyse the gradient shading on the lion's mane, then turns sideways to see the pattern of green leaves on his arms, and finally turns around, twisting his torso to admire the red cross and orange wings.

"girl… this is unbelievable", he murmurs, his eyes shining as he runs his fingers around the designs, careful not to smudge them. "the lines, the transition of the colours… you respected the anatomy of the original tattoo but gave it a completely new life. look at this! blimey, i'm definitely going to want to make this real."

you laugh behind your phone screen, recording every second of his reaction.

"i'm glad my beautiful model has approved. now, pose for the photo because you need to wash this off, and i really want to use your colourful back as my new wallpaper."

"wash this off? no way. i'm not washing this", he announces, categorical, crossing his arms and staring at you through the mirror with a mischievous, determined look.

you lower your phone, shocked.

"what do you mean you're not washing it, Lewis? you have a gala event with master sponsors in two hours! you're the most neurotic man about showers, creams, and cologne i know, you're not stepping onto a red carpet without washing yourself. the internet will collapse; they'll think we've lost our minds or that i'm an immature girlfriend who scribbled all over you."

"screw them", he fires back immediately, turning to face you, his pretty brown eyes locked onto yours with a playful intensity. "listen, you told me earlier it was a water-based pen, right? if i take a quick shower, without putting soap directly on the tattoos, and don't use boiling hot water, will the ink hold?"

you blink a few times, trying to process his stubbornness.

"well… technically, if you don't scrub and it's a quick shower, the ink stays on the skin for a few more hours because the pigment has already dried. but why do you..."

"perfect. then give me forty minutes for the ink to finish settling completely on my skin before i get in the shower", he interrupts, victorious, breaking into a wide smile before leaning down and leaving a long, affectionate kiss right on the top of your forehead.

★彡

two hours later, the quiet rush of the walk-in wardrobe begins.

as you predicted, you finish getting ready first. your designer dress is flawless, makeup done, accessories in place, and you sit on the edge of the king-size bed, just waiting for Lewis — everyone in motorsport and the fashion world knows he takes three times as long to get ready, choosing jewellery, testing fits, and ensuring every single detail is millimetrically perfect.

when the wardrobe door finally opens with a soft click, you stand up, ready to say you need to rush to the car, but the words simply vanish from your mouth the second your eyes land on him.

Lewis has not chosen a traditional suit.

instead, he is wearing a completely innovative, bold, and bespoke haute couture look: impeccably tailored black trousers paired with a shirt made of extremely fine, fluid, and completely sheer fabric, with a sleeveless cut and a deep v-neckline that plunges all the way down to his ribs.

through the translucent fabric and the generous opening of the shirt, every single colour you spent the entire morning and afternoon painting is perfectly visible. the golden lion, the turquoise compass, the reddish roses on his arms, and the angel on his back — everything stands out with an absurd contrast against his skin tone under the warm bedroom lights. the haute couture has become nothing but a luxurious frame for your felt-tip drawing.

you take a step back, your mouth slightly open, looking him up and down.

"Lewis… have you lost your mind completely? the media is going to lose it!"

he takes a slight turn, adjusting the rings on the fingers that still carry the blue strokes you made, and looks at you with that smug, confident, and absurdly charming little smile you love so much. then, Lewis walks over to you with calm steps, flattening his large hands on your waist and pulling you close, making a point of pressing his painted, warm chest against your body, without any fear of creasing anything.

"let them lose it, collapse, or go to hell", he murmurs right by your ear, his husky voice filled with a genuine, deep pride that makes your spine tingle. "everyone spends the whole year praising the clothes i choose, but today i want them to see something truly exclusive. i want everyone at that bloody event to look at me under the lights and know just how talented my wife is."

a silly smile appears on your lips at the term, and you nestle into his embrace while shaking your head in amusement.

the best part of all, however, is that you are not even engaged on paper yet. but as he holds you tightly against his gleaming chest of colours, seeing your bright smile and flushed face, Lewis has never been more certain in his entire life than he is today: that he wants you to be the mother of his children.

━━━━━━━━━★

✩

━━━━━━━━━★

the bedroom is immersed in a heavy silence, broken only by the low hum of the television playing some random playlist on spotify and the rhythmic, metallic ticking of the watch Max is fastening onto his wrist.

the warm light from the lamps softens the edges of the furniture, bathing the silk robes draped over the armchairs and the subtle gleam of the jewellery you selected with such care.

Max finishes adjusting the cufflink of his white shirt, the fabric taut over his broad shoulders, when he looks up out of pure reflex. and, through the mirror, he sees.

you have been standing there for far too long.

it isn't the look of someone checking their makeup, or wondering if those heels match the outfit; it is the look of someone at war.

you observe yourself from the front, then slowly turn your body sideways. your fingers tug at the dark fabric of the dress around your hips, letting go of it immediately after with a sigh that dies in your throat. your brow is furrowed, your shoulders tense, your hands restless.

you look too beautiful to belong to this room. too beautiful to belong to this world.

to Max, you look like a painting. a work of art. a divine creature. the dress hugs your curves, the braided updo exposes the elegant line of your nape, and the red lipstick — that shade he adores — highlights your mouth in a way that makes him lose his train of thought.

but none of that seems to matter to you right now. because you keep staring at your own reflection as if searching for hidden flaws in your own skin.

he watches how you slide your hands down the side of your body and your abdomen, feeling the curvature of your ribs that seem to stand out beneath the skin, and how your eyes drop, disheartened, to the fit of the dress over your bust, which you believe to be too small for the structure of your shoulders.

Max takes off his watch and rests it on the chest of drawers. the sound of metal against wood echoes discreetly.

“schatje.” his voice is a deep murmur that cuts through the silence.

you blink rapidly, your shoulders rising in a slight start, almost as if you had forgotten he was there.

“hm?“

“you have been staring at that mirror for about five minutes now, love.“

you let out a dry chuckle, devoid of any humour, and look away from his eyes in the reflection, pretending to adjust one of the strands escaping your hairstyle.

“i'm just finishing getting ready. the lipstick... i think it is a bit crooked on this side” you lie, your voice coming out a pitch higher than normal, trying to fill the space before he notices the tremor in your fingers, which tap lightly against the corner of your mouth.

'it isn't', he thinks immediately.

because Max knows you. he knows the little signs. he knows the way you pull down the sleeves of your clothes when you want to hide your arms, the way you avoid photos from certain angles, and how you get strangely quiet, retreated into yourself, after spending too much time scrolling through social media or more than an hour talking to the rest of the WAGs.

he begins to walk towards you. his steps are slow, purposeful across the rug, until his silhouette fills the mirror right behind yours. your eyes meet his through the reflection for just a second before you look away again, fixing your gaze on the floor.

and that is enough for him.

his presence is warm, solid, an absolute contrast to the chill that seems to have settled in your chest. through the reflection, you see his hands rise slowly until they rest on the exact curve between your waist, too thin for your liking, and your hips. his touch is firm, anchoring you there.

“what is it?“ he asks, tilting his head slightly to the side to try and seek your gaze.

you swallow hard, feeling your throat tighten. the first layer of protection goes up automatically.

“nothing. seriously, Max. just... tiredness, maybe. we should go, i don't want us to miss the reservation time because of me.“ you make a subtle movement to take a step to the side, a clear attempt to escape the mirror, to deflect the focus from your body. but Max's hands do not leave your hips. they remain there, exerting a minimal but perfectly clear pressure: you are not leaving this spot.

“hey.“ his voice comes out even lower this time. gentle, disarmed of any rush. “look at me. forget the restaurant. what is going on in that pretty little head right now, hm?“

you bite your lower lip, cursing mentally because the red lipstick will probably smudge, but his insistence is breaking down your resistance faster than you would like. you try to take a deep breath, attempting to hold his gaze in the mirror to maintain the farce that everything is fine, but you end up letting the air out too slowly, your shoulders slumping heavily.

your hands move up to grip his wrists, not to push him away, but because you need to hold onto something real. the knot in your throat becomes unbearable. you look at the contrast of his large hands on your waist, then at the width of your own shoulders in the reflection, and the question that had been locked deep inside your chest finally escapes, small, trembling, and full of fear: "do you… have you ever looked at me and thought that i don't look… feminine?"

the silence that follows is immediate and practically palpable.

Max furrows his brow slightly. there isn't a hint of disapproval on his face, but rather a genuine, deep confusion. it is the expression of someone who has just heard a mathematical equation that makes absolutely no sense.

feeling the weight of that silence and the panic of having exposed too much of yourself, you let out a nervous laugh, the words beginning to tumble over one another before your courage fails completely: "i mean, my shoulders are too wide, Max... my arms look strong in a strange, completely unfeminine way. sometimes i look at myself and i feel like... i don't know. there are so many things wrong that i can't even think which one to name first. even my neck, i feel like it isn't as slender as it should be, i look..."

Max interrupts you, letting out a breath through his nose, a sound that is half a sigh and half an incredulous laugh. the dramatic tension in the room wavers for a brief second as he tilts his head, a blonde eyebrow arched high.

"your neck?!" he repeats, and there is an almost amused touch to his voice, though his eyes remain intense. "schatje, are you seriously complaining about having a thick neck to a Formula 1 driver?"

you blink, a bit disarmed by the direction of the conversation. Max gives a half-smile, that genuine, slightly lopsided one, before bringing one of his hands up to his own neck, visibly wider and marked by the intense training to withstand the g-forces on track. the very same neck that drives you wild, for that matter.

"i spend three days a week strapped to resistance bands and weights in the gym so my neck doesn't snap in a corner", he says, his voice soft but firm. "and here you are, thinking yours isn't delicate? look at me. where do you see a flaw in that?"*

the comment cracks your shield slightly, but the melancholy weighs down on your chest again almost immediately. you look away from him in the mirror, lowering your head. the warmth of his hands returns to your waist, contrasting with the chill of your own memories.

"it isn't just that, Max..." you whisper, your voice thick with emotion once more. "it is the whole package. i am completely... out of proportion. my waist looks normal, but then it completely disappears next to these hips and these ridiculously wide shoulders. my thighs are thick, my ribs show when i turn and... i have next to no bust to fill this dress, or any other dress, to be honest. there is just an empty space here. i don't understand how you can look at me like that when you travel the whole world and could have any other woman you wanted. any runway model, or i don't know, any of those highly successful influencers with perfect bodies."

this hits Max in an unexpected way. because there is no vanity in your words. there is no drama or a search for an empty compliment. it is just an old insecurity, one of those quiet ones that grow in the dark and truly hurt.

you take his silence as a bad sign. you think he is going to get annoyed, that he will be eager to just change the subject, anything.

but his thumb, which had been still, begins to caress the side of your waist. a circular, slow, heavy movement that sends an involuntary shiver up your spine. with a calm motion that accepts no counter-arguments, Max slowly turns your body around. he forces you away from the mirror, removing the intermediary from the conversation so that you face reality directly in his eyes.

"do you really believe that?" his voice drops another octave, husky, protective.

he cups your jaw with an absurd gentleness for the size of his hands, his thumb mapping the contour of your lower lip with precision, where the red lipstick still holds on.

"do you think i see flaws where i only see what i love most in the world? do you think i could want any other woman but you, as if you aren't the only person i look for whenever i walk into a crowded room? as if you aren't the woman i desire most every single day of my life?"

you try to look away, focusing on the knot of his tie or the buttons of his white shirt, because facing the sheer depth of Max's gaze right now is too painful. and this silence, this inability of yours to hold his gaze, is answer enough for him.

Max stays silent for a few seconds. it isn't that uncomfortable silence of someone who wants to leave, but a heavy, thoughtful silence of someone recalculating his route to dismantle every single one of your internal lies.

his blue eyes, deep as the arctic ocean on a stormy day, scan your face with a slowness that makes your chest ache. he is deciphering you, reading between the lines of this pain you have kept for so long, trying to understand how two such different versions of you could exist at the same time inside this room: the woman he sees — commanding, uniquely beautiful, strong, and with curves that drive him crazy; and the woman you believe yourself to be — full of mismatched pieces and disproportion.

his thumb caresses your skin slowly, sliding up the side of your neck, the very neck you just criticised, feeling the rapid pulse of your artery beneath his fingers.

"come here", he says, his voice now heavy with a silent promise.

you barely have time to respond before he guides your body, with a disarming care, over to the edge of the bed.

Max sits down first, parting his legs wide enough for you to fit into the space between them. your hands find his shoulders out of pure instinct, searching for a balance that seems to be lacking in your chest, and the difference in texture is immediate: the silk of his shirt beneath your palms contrasting with the raw heat radiating from his body against the chill of your trembling hands.

he tilts his face back slightly to get a better look at you, from the bottom up. and there continues to be so much softness in those blue eyes that it almost makes everything worse.

because it hurts to see such purity. it gives you an overwhelming urge to cry and cry and cry.

"i don't know at what point you started thinking you need to look smaller to be beautiful," he murmurs, his deep voice vibrating low, almost pressed against your abdomen. "but i hate that you think like that."

you try to look away, focusing on a random spot on the wall behind him, as a nervous, wet laugh escapes your lips.

"it is easy for you to say, Max. you are... you. everyone expects to see a specific type of woman by your side. someone who looks like she floats, you know? someone who is... subtle. i feel like i take up too much space. that i am too structured."

"no, love." he shakes his head slowly, his hands sliding up your bare arms, his thumbs applying a minimal, gentle pressure, caressing the soft skin there. "it isn't about being easy. it is about what is real."

the room seems to shrink around you both. the world outside, the restaurant reservation, the time, the phones forgotten on the chest of drawers... everything ceases to exist.

his long fingers continue to map the line of your arms, feeling the firmness of your muscles, the strength that you see as a flaw and that he views as pure power.

"i like your shoulders", he states, and the weight of his honesty makes your knees weaken slightly between his legs. "i like that they are wide, that there is more space for me to kiss or to rest my head when i am exhausted and just need to disappear from the world. i like that you look strong. you are strong."

you let out a short, startled breath, knitting your brows as if you had just heard a complete absurdity. your hands tighten a bit more around the fabric on his shoulders, your fingers digging slightly into the silk of his shirt. Max notices the shock in your expression immediately.

"i am serious."

your heart squeezes in a strange way. because no one had ever presented that as something beautiful before.

with a gentleness that borders on veneration, his hands slide down to the side of your body. through the thin fabric covering you, his thumbs find the ridge of your ribs, gliding over the indentations of your skin while he watches every micro-expression on your face before continuing.

"your ribs..." he sighs, closing his eyes for a second as he feels the symmetry of each bone beneath the skin, memorising your structure with the tips of his fingers. "i like how they show when you take a deep breath. it is as if i can feel how beautiful your structure is internally right from here. and your bust..." he opens his eyes and raises his gaze to your neckline, where you think something is missing. his eyes darken a shade, filled with a dense, focused gleam, making the deep blue of his irises nearly disappear. "i love how they fit perfectly in my hands, or in my mouth. i love how everything about you feels custom-made for my touch. you say your waist is too thin compared to the rest, but look at how my hands fit here. it is a perfect shape."

you feel a chaotic and overwhelming mix in your chest now. the air begins to fail you and the barriers you built over years start to crumble, one by one.

"i don't look at you and think about what i would change." his thumb moves up with an absurd lightness to your face and carefully wipes away a tear before it falls, tracing the contour of your cheek. "i look at you and think about how lucky i was to be the man you chose to love, even with all my many flaws. i see how lucky i am to be the only one to see you like this. and every single detail, every curve you try to hide... to me, they are signs that you are real. and i don't want a magazine model, schatje. i want the only woman who makes me forget how to breathe just by walking into the same room as me. i want you."

there it was. it was enough to break something inside you. you feel your eyes well up again, your chest rising and falling in an erratic rhythm.

"Max…"

"no." his voice comes out low, calm, but charged with an unshakeable firmness that admits no arguments. "let me speak. please."

Max stands up slowly, without breaking eye contact for a single second. even wearing high heels, you find yourself forced to tilt your head back a little to keep holding his gaze.

the space between you disappears completely. the scent of his cologne — something woody, citrusy, and deeply familiar — envelops your senses like a physical embrace. his hand now rests at the base of your spine, his long fingers pressing the fabric of the dress exactly where your waist transforms into the sharp, wide curve of your hips. he pulls you closer, gluing your bodies together until there is no air left between you, until you feel the rigidity of his body against yours.

he tilts his face, his breath brushing against your cheek.

"do you think i am blind?" he murmurs, his voice vibrating so close that you feel the tremor in your own body. "i see your shoulders, and i love them because they are strong, because they sustain who you are. i see your arms and i can only think about how good it feels to feel safe in them."

he pauses, one of his hands moving up with an specialisingly slow, agonizing pace along your ribs, mapping the shape of your skin until it rests on the curve of your breast before returning along the same path to your hip. his fingers tighten there, squeezing your flesh with a possessiveness that makes your chest rise and fall heavily.

"i see this waist, the perfect fit it has for my hands, and these curves you try to hide under loose clothes as if they were a mistake, when in reality they are the most beautiful thing i have ever touched", he continues. "i love the fact that you are intense, that you have this stubborn head that clashes with mine, and this huge heart that welcomes me even when i am unbearable. there is nothing about you that is 'too much' or 'too little'. everything is exactly as it should be."

the crying comes silently at first. a hitched breath, your lower lip trembling as you try, uselessly, to contain the wave of emotion. instinctively, you turn your face slightly to the side, trying to hide in the shadow of your own shoulder.

Max hates that immediately. he hates the idea of you feeling like you need to protect yourself from him, or that your pain is something he shouldn't see.

"hey, hey…" he holds your face with even more care this time, both hands now framing your cheeks. his lips touch your damp skin softly, kissing away the trail of a tear before it can slide down to your jaw. "don't do that. don't hide from me. never from me."

you try to take a deep breath, but it is difficult when he looks at you like that. Max has a gaze that seems to pierce through all your defences, reaching that place where your oldest fears live. there is no rush in the way he studies you; there is only a raw honesty, almost aggressive in its purity.

he gently brushes away a loose strand from your updo, his finger brushing against your ear and your piercings before he lets out a low sigh.

"i wish you could see yourself the way i see you. if only for a minute."

the phrase comes out almost frustrated, as if he were losing a race against his own thoughts. and that stirs something even deeper within you. because there is no exaggeration, no rehearsed attempt to be the 'perfect boyfriend'. it is just Max, being direct, being sincere, being himself.

you let out a faint laugh, broken by the crying.

"you only say that because you want to make me feel better and because, somehow, you love me."

"exactly." he replies instantly, without hesitation. "i love you. a lot. and loving you means i know every single millimetre of your body better than any track i have ever raced on."

his thumb slides across your cheek again, erasing the traces of the mascara that is beginning to smudge.

"and i think it is awful to imagine that you spend so much time being cruel to yourself while i spend all my time adoring you."

your gaze finally meets his, his eyes gleaming under the light of the lamp.

"it is just that…" you stammer. "sometimes i just feel like… i don't look delicate enough. i feel like i am 'too much' to be beautiful."

Max furrows his brow slightly, an expression of genuine confusion crossing his face.

"and who said you need to look delicate to be a woman? who said beauty has to be fragile?"

you open your mouth to reply, but the argument dies in your throat. because the truth is, you don't know. it is years of silent comparisons, comments caught in the air, standards you never asked to follow but that became a prison. everything had blended together inside your head until it felt like an absolute truth.

"i don't want something superficial or stuck in the same boring, fake routine", Max says, his voice husky now, his eyes dropping to your mouth. "i want you. all of you. i like that you are like this, exactly as you are."

your heart stumbles inside your chest.

"i like your waist", he confesses, his hand sliding up your sides, his thumbs tracing the smooth curve there with a reverence that makes your whole skin goosebump. each sentence comes out slowly. calmly. as if Max wants you to absorb them one by one, engraving them in your mind to replace the cruel thoughts. "i like the weight of your hips and the shape of your thighs, how your body is real, warm, and soft, custom-made for me to lose myself in. i like the strength of your shoulders and how you look at me without fear when you are angry. i like the whole of you, schatje. your brilliant mind, your stubbornness that rivals my own, and every single inch of this skin you insisted on wanting to hide."

he leans in a bit closer, his blue eyes shining so brightly they seem to burn away your shyness.

"to me, nothing is missing in you. and there is plenty of everything i have ever wanted."

you close your eyes for a moment when you feel his lips touch your bare shoulder. right there. on the part of your body you spent a lifetime trying to disguise and mentally diminish.

his kiss is slow. lingering. and so full of an almost painful tenderness that it makes your throat tighten all over again.

Max looks up at you right after, just a few centimetres away.

"never speak about your body as if it were a problem ever again", his voice is low, but it carries that typical firmness of someone who does not accept any arguments. "because it isn't."

you feel his hands slide carefully down your waist to your hips, without any rush at all. the touch of his palms is heavy, warm, spreading a trail of electricity across your skin over the fabric. he moves as if he is trying to prove to you, millimetre by millimetre, that there is absolutely no shame in touching you. that there is nothing there that needs to be hidden from the world — and least of all from him.

and perhaps the worst part is realising how desperately you want to believe his truth.

Max notices the hesitation flickering in your eyes and softens his expression even more, the corners of his lips tracing a faint smile.

"love…" he murmurs, as if reading your thoughts, pressing his forehead against yours for a brief second. "i am not trying to convince you of anything. i am just telling you the truth. what i see."

his fingers move slowly along the sides of your dress before he tilts his face and leaves another soft kiss on your skin. then another. and another along the line of your neck. there is no urgency in the way his mouth moves against you. there is none of the blind rush of raw desire. just… care. as if he is trying to love every single one of your insecurities, one by one, until they stop hurting so much.

you don't even realise at what point your hands stopped trembling so much against his chest.

perhaps it was when he kept looking at you with that same calm, focused expression. perhaps when none of his touches felt hesitant or artificial. perhaps when it became obvious that Max wasn't overlooking your supposed imperfections just to be a good boyfriend. he truly, genuinely, does not see you in the distorted way you see yourself. and that is still strange to you.

he lets out a short sigh, his hands moving up to your arms, his thumbs tracing the texture of your skin with a quiet adoration.

"do you want to know what i like most?" he asks, his voice drawn out, in a tone of confidence.

you blink, a bit caught by surprise by the proximity and the sudden change in his tone. a nervous, curious little laugh escapes your lips.

"what?" you ask, arching an eyebrow, trying to read the mysterious glint in those blue irises.

"i like it when you give up trying to feel comfortable in structured dresses just to go to stupid gala dinners", he confesses, bringing his face closer to yours, his warm breath brushing your cheek. "i love it when you steal my Red Bull or Mustang hoodies and wear those clothes three times your size. but what i truly love most is your mind. i adore seeing you focused, the way your eyes shine when you are defending an idea tooth and nail, or how your loud, genuine laugh clears all the tension from my chest after a bad race. you don't pretend to be nice to people you don't like and you don't change your ways for anyone. it is that authenticity that drives me crazy."

you swallow hard, feeling your cheeks warm under his blue gaze. the ghost of self-criticism nudges your mind.

"i look like one of your childhood friends when i dress like that, Max. it is baggy, sloppy... i don't look like your girlfriend. it is ridiculous."

"it is absurdly incredible”, he corrects instantly, his voice firm, his eyes shining with a purely possessive intensity. "i love seeing you comfortable. i like seeing you wear whatever you want, without caring about this paranoia of looking 'delicate'. and if you think loose clothes erase how much of a woman you are... have you accidentally forgotten about that grey suit you wore last year?"

a sudden shiver runs down your spine. you remember the well-tailored suit perfectly, with its structured shoulders and long trousers.

"the media tore me to pieces because of that suit, Max", you murmur, turning your gaze to the side, the memory of the internet comments still hurting a little. "they said i looked boxy. that the outfit emphasised my shoulders and my hips, that it lacked femininity and elegance."

Max lets out a short laugh, that genuine, sharp mockery of his that the whole world knows from Sunday interviews and that rude journalists learned to fear. he holds your chin with two fingers, bringing your face back to him.

"well, whenever the media says something ridiculous about you, do exactly what i do: tell them all to fuck off and carry on with your life."

you can't help but let a proper laugh escape your lips, breaking the last of the crying. Max gives a lopsided smile, satisfied to have extracted that kind of sound from you, before bringing his mouth close to your ear.

"because the truth is…" he whispers, his voice now husky and thick with second intentions, "that suit drove me completely out of my mind. i spent the entire event unable to pay attention to anything that wasn't the shape of your waist in that fabric and how commanding your shoulders looked. you walked around the hospitality with your head held high, without needing to beg for anyone's attention, and i could only look at the contrast of those tailored trousers clinging to your hips. i swear i tried to focus on the conversations with the engineers, but my mind could only think about how badly i wanted to drag you out of there to the hotel just to rip that suit off and see every single inch of what was underneath it."

his fingers finally slide slowly up your back until they find the clasp of the dark dress. Max doesn't open it. not yet. he just leaves his hand there, the cold metal of the zip against his fingers, while he observes your face with surgical attention.

"do you know what the worst part of all this is?" he asks softly.

you shake your head slightly, completely hypnotised by the tone of his voice.

"you think i would like you more if you were different. if you changed your shape to fit into what others say is beautiful."

that makes your chest tighten immediately. because, deep down, that was exactly what you thought every single time you compared yourself to the women surrounding the paddock.

Max lets out a short breath through his nose before tilting his head slightly to the side, his blue eyes locked onto yours. calm. sincere. unshakeable.

"i don't want you to be different. i don't want another woman. i don't want someone smaller, more delicate, thinner, or anything like what you see on instagram. i look at those edited photos, at those millimetrically calculated poses that everyone copies, and i feel absolutely nothing. it is all plastic, it is all the same. what i feel for you... the way my blood boils when you hug me, how much i love the real texture of your skin, the weight of your body on mine... none of those glass girls could make me feel that in a million years."

his free hand finds your waist over the fabric of the dress, squeezing the flesh there with a tender strength, gluing your body to his once more.

"i want you, do you understand me? you. just the way you are. and i don't want you to ever change. never, unless it is for yourself. because you are the only person worth changing for. i want your mind, i want your stubborn streaks, i want your wide hips exactly the way they are right now, without adding or taking anything away. you are my reality, and i wouldn't trade that for any illusion."

simple. direct. so absurdly honest that it almost hurts to receive so much love all at once.

you feel your eyes burn again, but this time, there is something completely different mixed into the knot in your throat. it isn't just the old sadness trying to dictate the rules; it is the strange, almost frightening relief of finally being seen in your entirety, without needing to shrink yourself or apologise for your own size before being loved.

Max notices the minute change in your expression immediately. the defensive rigidity of your face gives way to a quiet surrender, and he smiles faintly, a nearly imperceptible movement at the corners of his lips.

"there you are…" the comment comes out so softly, so stripped of his public armour, that it makes your heart melt completely.

he slowly brings his hand to the back of your neck. with long and surprisingly nimble fingers, he begins to pluck out the hairpins hidden in your braided updo. one by one, he removes them without any rush, letting them drop onto the rug. the dark strands of your hair begin to tumble over your shoulders slowly, spreading across your bare skin and the fabric of the dress. his eyes follow each falling lock, fascinated, as if he were witnessing the unveiling of a sacred work of art.

"fucking beautiful…" he murmurs, his voice husky, almost distracted by the sight of your hair against the width of your shoulders.

you let out a small laugh, your chest still rising and falling with the remnant of the crying that is dissipating.

"you speak as if i were perfect, Max."

he looks up immediately, fixing his eyes on yours with absolute seriousness.

"you are perfect", he brings his face close to yours again, eliminating any protective distance. "and i speak as someone unconditionally in love."

the silence that follows is warm. comfortable. thick with an electricity that doesn't burn, but welcomes. Max rests his forehead against yours for a few seconds, closing his eyes while his hands continue to caress you distractedly, a movement of pure muscle memory.

feeling his warmth and the time slipping away outside, you say very softly, almost in a breath: "what about our dinner, Max? the reservation? it took you weeks to get and…"

"fuck the reservation", he cuts in, without hesitating for a millisecond. "to be perfectly honest, i already doubted we were going to make it out of this room from the second i saw you take off that robe."

you laugh properly this time. a clean laugh that echoes through the room and clears away the last ghost of insecurity.

Max could swear, before anyone, that he had never heard a sound so beautiful in his entire life as that of your genuine laugh. two years have passed since the first day, and he still feels the exact same impact in his chest, the same urgency to protect that sound from the rest of the world.

he smiles as he brings his hand to your face again. his thumb slides carefully across your cheek, wiping away the last salty remnants of the tears as the air between you shifts in weight. it grows lighter. warmer. it is as if the suffocating weight in your chest has lessened — not vanished completely, because old, deep-seated insecurities do not evaporate by magic — but enough for you to finally be able to breathe without feeling ashamed of inhabiting your own body.

his eyes scan your face once more, slowly dropping until they rest on the red lipstick, which is now slightly smudged at the corners from his touch.

"you know this lipstick completely finishes me, don't you?"

you let out a low laugh through your nose, your fingers discreetly playing with the collar of his shirt.

"seriously?"

"mhm. very seriously." Max tilts his face and leaves a slow, heavy, warm kiss right at the corner of your mouth. it is a touch careful enough not to spread the pigment, though from the intensity of his gaze, it is clear he doesn't care in the slightest about ending the night stained in red. "i spent the last twenty minutes trying to think how i would control myself from running my hand through your hair and kissing you in the middle of that restaurant in front of everyone. thank goodness we aren't going anymore."

the heat rushes up your cheeks immediately, tinting your skin with a flush that the light makeup cannot hide. Max smiles the exact second he notices the reaction.

"there", he points discreetly with his chin, his eyes gleaming. "i like that too."

"what?"

"that little face you make when you get shy because of me."

you roll your eyes, but the gesture loses all its strength because, finally, your body relaxes completely between his hands. and Max notices everything. his surgical gaze maps your physical changes: the way your shoulders finally drop, disarmed; how your hands have stopped trying to pull or adjust the fabric of the dress to hide your hips; how your eyes finally hold his, diving into the blue without looking away.

he looks visibly proud of it. as if every single millimetre of comfort he gives back to you is the most important victory of his life, because, in a way, it is.

his fingers slide slowly up your bare arm, rising in a continuous caress until he tilts his head to leave a soft kiss on your clavicle. then, his mouth moves down to the exposed skin at the neckline of your dress, just above your bust. it is a touch without any rush, without the blind urgency of turning it into something purely carnal. it is a poetic adoration. just… tenderness.

"you are so, so beautiful…" he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled by the fabric, sounding almost distracted by his own level of trance. "and you don't even have a clue."

your heart squeezes again, but it is a good squeeze, the kind that expands your chest. you let your hand move up to his face. your fingers gently pass along the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the slightly rough texture of the stubble you love so much — and that you always ask him to keep — as you watch the way he stares at you. it is the look of someone who wants to memorise every detail, every line, every imperfection that, to him, makes up perfection.

"thank you." you whisper, your voice nearly vanishing.

Max pulls his face back just enough for your eyes to align again.

"for what, schatje?"

you hesitate for a brief second, swallowing the rest of your vulnerability before delivering the final truth: "for making me feel… safe. inside my own skin."

Max's expression softens immediately, losing any trace of rawness. and then, he kisses you.

it is a soft kiss. with so much gentleness and depth that it seems impossible for any world or any rush to exist beyond this room. one of his hands remains firm at the base of your spine, anchoring your hips against his, while his other hand holds your face with a precious precision, as if you were something infinitely rare and valuable.

and he isn't trying to prove a theory. there is no desperate urgency, nor exaggerated intensity. there is just… love. love translated into the slow movement of his lips, into the small pauses where breaths mingle, into the shared sighs that echo softly between you.

and for the first time tonight, when Max pulls your body even closer, gluing you against his chest, you don't think about your structure. you don't think about whether your shoulders are large or if your bust is small. you don't think about how your body looks to the rest of the world.

you only think about how absurdly loved it is.

Max pulls his lips back millimetres from yours, his breath short, his eyes fixed on your red-smudged mouth.

"it is an honour to love you, darling," he whispers, his voice husky, his warm breath pressed against yours. "and if you still can't believe everything i say… if you don't believe me when i say i love you completely and that i adore every single piece of you… then, just be quiet. and let me show you."

Max's whisper still hangs in the air, thick and warm, when his fingers finally find the invisible zip on your back and begin to pull it down.

you don't deny him.

and so, the dark fabric gives way completely, slipping past the line of your shoulders, sliding down your hips until it puddles in a perfect circle around your feet.

you step back instinctively, the protective reflex almost winning out. under the warm, welcoming glow of the lamp, you are exposed in nothing but your black lingerie set. the strapless bra supports your breasts with care, shaping your chest where your ribs trace soft lines beneath your skin, while the seamless, thin knickers disappear into the sharp curve of your hips, accentuating the firm roundness of your bum — the very same imposing structure you spent a lifetime criticising, but that Max secretly idolatrizes.

your arms move up to cover your abdomen, your fingers tense as you seem to try and shrink inside yourself.

"Max… turn off the lamp. please." the request comes out almost like a desperate prayer.

during all the time you have been together, he almost always gave in. out of pure respect for your time, understanding that the dark is your refuge against your own judgements, the lights would go off. but not today. today is about tearing away the shadows once and for all.

Max takes a step forward, eliminating the distance you tried to create. he doesn't turn off the light. instead, his hands wrap around your wrists with a gentle firmness, applying a subtle pressure to pull your arms away from your own body, forcing you to open up to him.

"no. not today, schatje", he murmurs, his blue eyes gleaming with absolute conviction. "i spent the whole day watching you pull down the sleeves of your t-shirt in the paddock, and i spent nearly the entire night watching you try to hide in that mirror. now i want to see you completely. no tricks. no shadows. just… you."

before you can voice a protest, the man known worldwide for his unshakeable posture, the driver who dominates the tracks with a surgical aggressiveness and who never bows down before any opponent, simply bends before you.

Max kneels on the bedroom rug.

and the visual impact of this scene makes your breath hitch. then, without any rush at all, his hands slide smoothly down your waist, your hips, and your legs, tracing your calves until they reach your ankles. his fingers find the delicate straps of your high heels, which he knows you hate more than anything in life, and with infinite patience, he undoes the buckles and slides the leather off your feet, one at a time.

when you take that definitive step out of the heels, your feet touch the soft, warm texture of the rug. you lose those centimetres of artificial height, coming down to the floor, left completely disarmed before him.

Max sets the shoes aside and, still on his knees, rests both his palms flat against the firm flesh of your thick thighs, sliding his touch slowly up until it rests on the sides of your hips. the tips of his fingers trace the light, silver lines of the stretch marks that mark your skin — the very same ones you curse every single day, spending so much time in front of the mirror after a shower wishing they would vanish under your hateful gaze.

you contract your abdomen, bracing for the weight of discomfort, but what follows is the direct warmth of his lips. Max leaves a slow, damp, deep kiss right on top of one of your marks.

you let out a trembling sigh, your hands finding the top of his head, your fingers burying into the blonde strands almost out of a need to keep yourself steady.

"Max…" your tone is nearly a moan of pure vulnerability.

"do you think these marks ruin you?" his voice comes out muffled against your skin, his warm breath making every pore of your body goosebump in response. he raises his face slightly, looking up to meet your tear-filled eyes. "to me, they look like lines on a volcano, love. marks of fire and strength that trace exactly where your body expanded to make you this marvellous woman. it is sexy as fuck. i love every single one of them, did you know that?"

he presses his mouth to your skin again, rising in a trail of slow, heavy kisses along your hip, outlining the thin line of the black knickers with a devotion that makes your legs weaken. Max slides his hands around to the back, cupping the firm flesh of your bum, squeezing it with a tender possessiveness that makes it clear just how fascinated he is by your abundance.

there is no rush. he is mapping you as if he were standing before the most valuable trophy he has ever won. and to him, neither the four trophies that mean he was champion of the world nor all the titles possible are worth as much as you.

slowly, he stands up again, his body glued to yours as he gains height once more. his hands move up your prominent ribs, caressing the ridge of each bone with his warm palms until they reach your face.

with a patience that no one who knows him would ever say he possesses, Max uses his fingers to finish undoing the rest of the braid in your hair. he spreads the dark strands with his hands, letting them fall completely free, floating around your face and covering your wide, perfect shoulders like a mantle. he hooks his fingers into your locks, tilting your head back subtly so that you feel the calm urgency of his desire.

"look at me", he whispers against your lips, his eyes fixed on yours. "look into my eyes and tell me if there is anything wrong with this divine body."

you swallow hard, your mouth half-open, completely surrendered to his magnetism. but before the move to the bed happens, Max doesn't step back. instead, his hands slide down your face, passing over your neck and outlining the line of your shoulders until they move behind your body.

his palms press flat against your back.

you contract your muscles immediately, a tense start running down your spine. your back, too wide, has always been a critical spot; you always thought its span excessive, too masculine, lacking that narrow delicacy you saw in other women. you try to lean forward, attempting to glue your chest to his to hide that part, but Max does the opposite. he slides his fingers across the soft skin of your back, mapping the distance between your shoulder blades with a deliberate slowness.

he loves the amplitude of your back. to him, this expanse is an invitation, a firm and perfect territory where he knows he can rest his hands with force without any fear of breaking you.

"love…" you murmur, trying to contain the discomfort as you feel his fingers find the clasp of the black strapless bra.

"shh… relax for me, darling", he whispers against your cheek, his warm breath heating your skin. "i love your back, did you know that? i love the space i have here."

with a precise and focused movement, his calloused fingers work on the hooks. the subtle sound of the fabric stretching and giving way echoes in the silence of the room as the clasp opens. three short clicks and the bra loses its pressure immediately, loosening against your bust, but Max doesn't let the piece fall.

instead, he keeps his hands there, pressed flat against your bare skin now, right in the centre of your back. his thumbs begin to trace the line of your spine, descending vertebra by vertebra, applying a firm and delicious pressure that makes a long, trembling sigh escape your lips. he pulls your body even closer by the width of your back, completely gluing your chest to his. you feel the contrast of the rough texture of his hands against the extreme sensitivity of that region.

"i like how structured you are", he dictates, his husky voice trailing down your nape while he distributes slow kisses along the curve of your shoulder, right at the transition to your back. "i love the line of your bones, the firmness of your skin... you have a presence that intimidates me, and i am completely fascinated by it. i like that there is space for me to dig my nails in when you hold me tight, i like feeling that i have somewhere to hold onto when you drive me crazy. this is the shape i want to feel against my chest every single night. don't change a thing here. never."

his mouth drops a bit further, leaving a damp, lingering kiss on your shoulders, right where your insecurity usually hurts. the touch is so loaded with genuine affection that you finally give in, letting your shoulders drop and relaxing the weight of your own body against his chest.

Max secures your hip with one hand, ensuring you feel every millimetre of the heat radiating from him, while his other hand moves back up to your nape, his fingers tangling in your hair to keep your body glued to his.

"let me take off the rest", he requests in a low murmur, the firmness in his voice mixed with an urgency he can barely contain. "i want to see everything you were trying to hide from me. can i?"

Max pulls back just enough to seek your eyes, holding your gaze with a patient intensity, waiting for your answer. seeing the most focused driver in the world decelerate like that, treating your barriers with so much respect and care, melts you inside. any remnant of hesitation dissipates under the blue of those irises.

"mhm…" you murmur back, the sound nearly vanishing in your throat as you nod your head, surrendering yourself entirely to his command.

the moment your bust is left completely uncovered under the golden light of the lamp, Max lets out a heavy sigh, his chest rising and falling hard. his large hands move up immediately to your ribs, his thumbs spreading across your warm skin, rising until they contour the base of your breasts with an almost sacred reverence.

"gott… you are so damn beautiful…" he dictates, his voice failing slightly, his eyes fixed on your nudity as if he were standing before the most precious work of art in the world. "look at that. beautiful. divine. mine."

only then, with your defences completely undone and the black bra forgotten on the floor along with the dress, Max wraps one of his arms around your waist, keeping you glued to him as he takes slow steps towards the bed.

you yield to his touch, letting yourself be guided until the edge of the mattress touches the back of your thighs. you lie down on the light sheets, and the contrast of your black knickers, your dark hair, and your bare skin against the white immensity of the bed is an image that makes Max's pupils dilate instantly.

his jaw locks for a moment, his breath suddenly shorter. standing there, shaped by the soft light of the lamp coming from behind him, Max looks like a statue before a masterpiece. the contrast is so perfect, so absurdly intimate, that he needs a moment to process it. his eyes shine with a hungry intensity, but his next movement is deliberately slow, as if he were testing the limits of his own sanity by delaying the touch for a few more heartbeats.

he moves over you, but sustains his own weight on his strong arms, the very same arms that serve as pillars to keep you at the absolute centre of his world. without the bra to cover your chest, the warm light of the lamp outlines your small breasts with a nearly poetic softness. your eyes threaten to look away to the side, the reflex to cover your bust almost waking up, but Max doesn't let you.

one of his hands moves smoothly up your prominent ribs, his thumb caressing the warm skin just below your breasts, trapping your attention there. and then he presses his palm flat there, cupping your breast with a deliberate slowness, exploring it with a sweetness that makes your chest rise and fall in an erratic rhythm. there is no space left over; there is nothing missing. his thumbs circle the goosebumped skin, proving in a physical and palpable way what he had said minutes before in the mirror: they fit with surgical perfection in the exact space of his hands.

"see?" he whispers, his voice drawn out by the rising desire, his eyes fixed on the way your soft flesh yields beneath his fingers. "custom-made for me. perfect."

before you can respond, he lowers his face. Max's mouth wraps around one of your breasts, and the warm contact of his tongue sends an electric arc shooting through your venter.

there is no rush, none of that aggressive rawness; there is only a soft, rhythmic suction that pulls a breath from your red lips. he consumes you with an adoration so deep that every single millimetre of your insecurity seems to melt under the heat of that mouth. he leans onto his elbows and brings his other hand to your free breast, massaging it, filling every gap between his fingers with you, demonstrating that the mathematics of his desire never fail.

the physical pleasure blends into emotional relief, and you feel a wave of energy rush through your arms — those very same arms you spent a lifetime criticising for being too strong and masculine. now, they find a perfect purpose. you wrap them around Max, feeling the muscles along his back contract beneath your touch.

your fingers lightly scratch the fabric of his shirt as you slide your hands upwards, rising over his broad shoulders until you reach the line of his neck. Max lets out a heavy sigh against your skin, surrendering control without resistance when your right hand moves up to the knot of the dark tie he is still wearing. your fingers grip the fabric and, with a decisive firmness, you pull him upwards, using the strength of your arms to bring him close, eliminating the rest of the distance between you and gluing his mouth to yours in a hungry, deep kiss.

Max lets out a muffled sound from the back of his throat, a near-growl of approval, completely caught by surprise by your initiative. he adores the strength of your embrace. he loves that you can hold him with so much energy, using the arms you criticise so much to keep him captive against you.

it is in the middle of this overwhelming kiss, while your tongues meet in a lazy, warm rhythm, that your body registers the unfiltered truth. pressed against the side of your thigh, you feel the rigidity of his body — the clear, tense, pulsing volume that betrays just how completely surrendered he is to his desire for you. and to think that the mere sight of your naked body was capable of leaving him in that state ignites a brand-new spark in your mind: the delicious perception of the power you hold over him.

the electric shock of this realisation makes your body tremble. it was you who caused that. the same woman who minutes ago looked at herself in the mirror searching for flaws and feeling out of proportion under the light of the bedroom, has now reduced the most implacable, focused man in the world to a state of pure urgency and necessity.

Max pulls his mouth away from yours just enough to breathe, his lips shining with your red lipstick, his blue eyes two shades darker, focused on you as if nothing else existed in the universe.

"now… let me take this off", he murmurs, his voice husky, his fingers moving up to his own neck.

with a single fluid, effortless motion, he undoes the knot of his tie and throws it away, not caring where it lands. the sophisticated accessory from the gala dinner is now just a nuisance on the floor.

next, his fingers find the first button of his white shirt. he doesn't tear the clothes; he makes a point of keeping his eyes locked onto yours as he undoes each button slowly, from top to bottom. one by one. the fabric opens up, revealing his broad chest, his fair skin, his muscles tense from his accelerated breathing. but Max's focus is not on himself. there is no vanity in his movements. each button he opens is a rite of surrender to you; he is stripping himself of his driver's armour, his status, and the world outside to stay at exactly the same level of vulnerability as you.

when he tosses the shirt to the side and leans over you again, the heat of his bare chest finally collides against yours. the shock of his hot skin against the extreme sensitivity of your uncovered breasts makes you gasp. Max anchors himself on his elbows again, applying that warm, secure weight that pins you to reality, while the fabric of his trousers brushes the inside of your thighs.

"i am all yours, schatje", he whispers against your forehead, his heavy, muscular body fitting perfectly between your legs. "entirely yours. and, if you let me, i am going to show you how lucky i feel that you are mine."

his words float in the short space between you, loaded with a vulnerability that deactivates the rest of the world. in response, your hands move slowly up his bare, firm chest, feeling the accelerated beating of his heart beneath your palms, until they reach his jaw. you caress the side of his face with your thumb, feeling the light texture of the stubble, and let a soft smile appear on your lips.

"i let you, Max", you murmur back, feeling yourself melt inside because he still takes this care, this attention, this tenderness to ask. "of course i let you."

upon hearing your answer, Max closes his eyes for a brief second, pressing his forehead against yours again in a sigh of pure relief and surrender, before stretching his arms out on the mattress, one on each side of your head. as he sustains his weight above you, he forces you to face the intensity of his actions.

under the soft illumination of the lamp, his irises look almost magnetic, dark. the trace of your red lipstick remains marked on his lips, a silent testimony to the urgency of the kiss from seconds ago. he focuses all his attention on your mouth before slowly raising his eyes to yours, the corners of his lips sketching a faint, almost incredulous smile.

"do you have any idea what you have just done?" he murmurs, his voice coming out huskier than usual, a sound that vibrates directly in your chest.

you swallow hard, feeling the heat of his skin radiate against yours. your hands still tremble a bit, pressed flat against his chest, where Max's heart beats in a rhythm just as frantic as your own.

"since i can remember, i have spent the years of my life training my mind to have absolute control over every single millimetre of my body, schatje", he continues, tilting his face a little more, until the tip of his nose brushes your cheek. "i control my reflexes, my breathing, my heartbeat... everything. until you appeared. you destroy every single gram of discipline i have just by looking at me like that."

he lets out a short, low laugh, which blows warm against your skin, before fixing his eyes directly on yours.

"and you still have the audacity to look at my face and tell me i would desire any other woman in the world." there is an incredibly tender indignation in his tone as he raises a hand and caresses your face. "do you really think any of those catwalk women, who look like they are made of glass and fake symmetry, would have a second of my attention while you exist? while i have all this strength all to myself?"

Max moves his hands down to your jaw, his long fingers caressing your skin with a firmness that accepts no doubts. his thumb outlines your mouth again, wiping away the excess of the red that has spread, but his gaze remains trapped by your soul.

"looking at someone else would be a waste of time”, he whispers, his voice dropping to a tone of sacred confidence, his blue eyes flashing with an ardent possessiveness. "none of them have the curve of your hip that fits into my hand as if it had been drawn for me. none of them have this perfume that chases me even when i am inside the car at three hundred kilometres an hour, making my mind fly straight to this bed in the middle of a race. i don't want the untouchable, cold, dull perfection of a magazine. i want your rawness." he pauses, his breath hitting heavy against your lips, the contained urgency making his jaw lock before he continues, even more honest and implacable. "i want the weight of these soft thighs squeezed around my waist, trapping me in you. i want the width of your shoulders sustaining me when i collapse from exhaustion. i want every line of your skin, every curve traced in lava of this body that sets me on fire every time i come close. i want your intensity, your stubbornness, your real touch. everything you think is too much in you, to me is exactly what i lack. it is what completes me and drives me crazy."

his thumb presses your lower lip down slightly, his eyes descending to your mouth with a hunger that makes your venter contract.

"so stop trying to hide from me under this light", he dictates, his voice dropping an octave, husky and thick with promises. "because i am going to spend the rest of the night proving to you, centimetre by centimetre, that you are the only perfect thing in this entire world."

you feel the air leave your lungs, not out of fear, but from the impact of finally understanding the magnitude of what you cause in him. a silly, relieved tear threatens to form in the corner of your eyes, but it is the overwhelming warmth taking over your chest that stands out. the insecurities you carried all day seem to melt under the intensity of that devoted gaze.

the rigidity at the side of your thigh is still there, firm, a physical and undeniable reminder that his words are not a consolation — they are a fact. Max isn't trying to be gentle; he is being consumed by you.

"do you believe me now?" he asks, his blue eyes gleaming with an intensity that seems to burn away the rest of your defences. "can you feel what you do to me? can you see that you have me exactly where you want me, completely surrendered?"

you cannot speak. instead of answering with words, your legs yield to instinct, opening a bit wider to accommodate his weight, while your hands tighten on his broad shoulders, pulling him subtly closer in a silent request for more.

he slides his hand from your face to your nape, his long fingers tangling in the dark strands now fully loose across the light sheet. with a subtle, possessive firmness, Max pulls your body a few millimetres upwards, wrinkling the sheets and ensuring you feel the full extent of his warmth against your bare skin. the direct contact of his trousers against your intimacy is an electric shock of reality, ripping a helpless gasp from you that echoes straight into his mouth.

"i spent the whole night wanting to prove this to you", he says, his lips brushing yours with every word, sharing the same air. "so do us both a favour: forget the rest of the world. forget what they say is beautiful. look at me and see how crazy i am for every single piece of you that you try to hide."

you swallow hard, your mind spinning with the raw intensity of his words. it is impossible not to get lost in the blue of those eyes when Max speaks with so much certainty — with the same implacable precision he uses to win on sunday, but directed entirely at dismantling your fears, one by one, until no barrier is left between you.

your fingers return to his chest, feeling the accelerated rhythm of his heart beneath your palms. your voice comes out in a trembling breath, almost a whisper of surrender: "you leave me completely breathless, Max…" you murmur. "it isn't that i don't believe you, it is just… i don't know how to process that you see me this way."

Max lets out a warm gust of air against your lips. the vulnerability of your confession hits his ego in the best possible way, and a half-smile, mixing a pride typically his with an overwhelming tenderness, sketches across his face.

"you don't need to process anything, love", he whispers, his mouth brushing yours, prolonging the torture of proximity for one more second before finally beginning a slow, torturous descent down your neck. "you just need to feel. let me take care of the rest."

the weight of his body continues to hover over yours, but there is a detail that makes everything even more overwhelming: Max has not undressed completely. his white shirt remains tossed far away, his broad chest and strong arms bare against your skin, but he is still wearing his dark tailored trousers. there is a silent and deeply sexy altruism in this. he is in no rush for himself; in fact, he is the least important part here. his urgency is not to sate his own desire, but rather to consecrate your body. he wants to give himself completely so that you understand, once and for all, how adored you are. he will sort himself out later.

his mouth finally finds the curve of your neck, and you throw your head back into the sheets with a deep sigh. Max's kisses are wet, heavy, and slow, rising back up to the line of your jaw before concentrating on the soft skin of your throat. he sucks the spot with a firm, possessive pressure, leaving a warm mark there that will serve as the first visual warning that you belong to him.

you let out a helpless gasp, your hands moving up to his blonde hair, your fingers tangling in the strands as he repeats the gesture on the other side, descending towards your clavicle with slow hickeys that make your entire body goosebump and clamour for more. each touch of his mouth seems to stamp a definitive promise onto your skin.

"every single centimetre…" he murmurs against your skin, his voice vibrating in your bones while his warm lips continue to trace a torturous path downwards. "every single one is perfect."

he is in no rush at all. Max's right hand slides across the mattress and finds your left breast, moulding its shape with a reverent delicacy that contrasts with the urgency he had been hiding. the warmth of his calloused palm against the sensitivity of your bare bust makes you catch your breath. his mouth accompanies the movement of his hands, distributing slow, damp kisses that circle the base of your skin and make your chest rise and fall in a frantic rhythm.

when his lips find the top of your breast, capturing the sensitive peak with a calculated slowness, an electric current shoots through your spine. you let out a low moan, your fingers abandoning the strands of his hair to bury themselves tightly into the light sheets. Max sucks your skin softly there, savouring your surrender entirely and ripping from you the exact sound of rendition he spent the whole night wanting to hear.

when he finally pulls away from this first side, the sudden absence of his mouth leaves your skin instantly exposed to the air of the room. the subtle draft running between your bodies hits the damp, hypersensitive line his saliva left behind, turning the heat of seconds ago into a chilly, sharp shiver. you let out a sôfregous sigh, your entire body tensing with the thermal shock, your skin contracting even more under the effect of this sudden cold.

but the torture lasts only a moment. Max slides his face through the valley between your breasts, leaving a trail that is damp and pure embers in the centre of your chest, cancelling out the cold with the overwhelming heat of his skin as he transfers his attention to the other side.

his hand presses flat against your rib to steady himself, while his mouth takes your right breast. it is a delicious torture, watching the image of him from above, so imposing and focused, entirely surrendered to the view of your bust under the warm light. he repeats the rite of adoration: his lips contour the soft curve, the tip of his tongue teases the apex of your breast with a calculated slowness, and the firm suction that follows makes your hip give a slight, involuntary start on the bed, seeking more of his weight.

and only after ensuring that each side has received the same devoted attention, after covering your skin with his warmth, does Max continue his descent.

he finds the delicate ridge of your ribs and lingers there. his lips outline the line of each bone with a poetic adoration, alternating between soft kisses and warm puffs of air that make your abdomen contract in a delicious shiver.

you bury your hands back into the short, blonde strands at the nape of his neck, arching your body as Max distributes slow kisses across your abdomen, moving down in a straight line, leaving a shiny, warm trail on your skin.

his mouth slows down when he gets a little lower, veering from the centre to find the crest of your hip bones, right at the transition to your groin. that prominent, protruding structure you always hated looking at in the mirror — for thinking it took away the softness of your body and left you looking too sharp — draws Max's gaze like a magnet. his thumbs find both ends of that bony frame, pressing the skin there with a possessive firmness, while he deposits a lingering, heavy kiss right on top of the ridge of your right bone.

"i love the shape of this right here", he dictates against your skin, his voice so deep it reverberates straight into your hip. "it is my perfect fit. perfect for me to hold onto while i pull you against me."

a violent shiver rips through your body at the raw honesty of that confession. he doesn't just accept what you consider a flaw; he idolises it. his lips continue their downward path until they find the edge of your black knickers, so thin you barely remembered you were still wearing them.

"Max…" you sigh, your voice thick with desire, trying to find a point of support on the mattress while he just continues his implacable trail.

"yeah, schatje... i'm right here," he answers against the hot skin of your belly, his voice so deep and husky that it nearly scratches and vibrates straight into your hip. Max deposits a lingering, firm kiss just above the elastic of your lingerie, an almost desperate caress before pulling back. "just my name. that is all i want to hear you say all night long."

the room seems to whisper along with your breathing. without breaking the rhythm, he slides his body downwards. Max pulls away from your heat for an instant, descending from the bed in a fluid motion to kneel directly on the soft rug, right at the edge where you are lying.

being kneeling before you, stripped of all formality and wearing only his dark trousers, elevates the tension in the room to an almost sacred level. Max holds your thick thighs with both hands, his warm palms contrasting with your skin. his fingers dig lightly into your soft flesh, and he pulls your body with an impressive ease, making your hip slide across the light sheet to the exact limit of the mattress, bringing you into the direct line of his gaze.

with a deliberate slowness and overflowing with affection, he presses his large, warm hands flat against the inside of your thighs. he uses no force, just the firm, secure weight of his fingers, caressing the soft skin there with his thumbs in a soothing back-and-forth that makes your body relax against its will. Max tilts his head slightly, his blue eyes gleaming with an intensity that borders on the unbelievable as he focuses on your every curve.

you catch your breath, your heart beating in your throat as the warm light of the lamp bathes your entire body before him, highlighting every curve you usually spend hours trying to disguise. but there is no room for shame. not when Max looks at you as if he were standing before the most precious sanctuary in the world.

"look at you…" he requests, his voice falling to a drawn-out whisper, almost a plea. "you are the most beautiful thing i have ever seen in my life. every single piece of you is perfect. let me show you how much."

you swallow hard, your chest rising and falling heavily, completely disarmed by the raw sincerity emanating from him.

"look at me, love," he asks softly, his voice husky and drawn-out, his subtle accent making the command even more magnetic.

you prop yourself up on your elbows, using the firm strength of your arms to sustain the weight of your torso, and tilt your face downwards. the dark strands of your hair fall in a cascade, framing your face as you hold his gaze. from this angle, you can see the red lipstick still staining his lips and the firmness in his broad shoulders.

Max slides his hands down your legs until his thumbs find the sides of those knickers. without any rush, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, he begins to pull the silky fabric down, sliding it over the contour of your hips, your thighs, and your legs.

however, as the thin lace slides across your intimacy, it drags along the warm, slick moisture you had already gathered. the fabric gives way slowly, leaving a subtle, shiny, sticky line connecting the edge of the cloth to your most sensitive skin before it breaks. Max tracks the trail of that physical reaction with his gaze, his pupils dilating even further into an impossible darkness. his jaw locks, and he passes the tip of his tongue over his own lipstick-stained lips, wetting them in a hungry anticipation that makes your venter contract hard.

"verdomme…" he curses in a husky whisper, nearly breathless at the sight of how you are for him. "you are perfect like this. so ready for me…"

with a more urgent movement, he finishes removing the piece, tossing it away without caring where it lands. he doesn't break his eyes from yours for a single second as he brings his face close to your intimacy, and you could swear the peak nearly arrives just from this sight. his hands return, firm on the inside of your thighs, opening up space and keeping you anchored to the ground he chose to inhabit. and when the heat of his breath hits your most sensitive skin, followed by the incredibly poetic, damp, and dedicated touch of his mouth, the rest of the world vanishes.

the moan that escapes your lips is sharp, echoing through the quiet bedroom. your hands grip the white sheets tightly, your fingers closing into the fabric as Max proves his point in the most visceral way possible. he hovers there, delivering a focused, slow, and deep pleasure, a veneration that needs no explicit words to make itself understood. it is the poetry of the touch of a man who bent entirely to remind the woman of his life just how a divine masterpiece she is.

and then, the pleasure hits a point of no return. the strength in your elbows fails all at once under the impact of an overwhelming wave that rushes through your entire spine. your back hits back against the mattress in a soft thud, the light sheets welcoming your fall while your head goes back, the dark strands of your hair spreading out like a chaotic frame around your face.

you completely lose your footing. your fingers abandon the fabric of the bed and move straight to your own hair, tugging the strands as your mouth opens in a silent gasp, the missing air in your lungs replaced by the sôfregous sound of your own desire.

but your body doesn't want to hide; quite the contrary. in a purely instinctive reflex, your hip arches up from the mattress, curving your spine upwards in a desperate search for more of that contact, silently begging him not to stop.

feeling your line of defence collapse completely, Max responds immediately. his hands, which before were only soothing, move up your thighs and grip tightly onto the sides of your hips, his fingers digging into your skin to hold you exactly there, elevated and exposed under his command. he presses his body further against the edge of the bed, deepening the touch of his mouth and tongue with surgical precision, sucking and teasing the centre of your pleasure in a rhythm that fluctuates between hungry urgency and the deepest adoration.

every movement of Max's mouth against you feels like a direct response to your gasping, a silent conversation where he dictates the rules and you just surrender, coming apart entirely under the firm, devoted gaze of the man kneeling at your feet.

the accumulated pleasure begins to overflow, turning into an electricity that makes your legs tremble involuntarily. the intensity is so much that it borders on the insupportable, an overwhelming tingling that spreads through your thighs and makes your knees threaten to close once more, a desperate reflex of your body trying to contain the flood of sensations threatening to engulf you.

but Max is not going to let you back down now. not when you are so close.

perceiving the trembling and the tension in your muscles, he advances his body one more millimetre against the edge of the mattress. in a quick and incredibly possessive movement, Max slides his strong arms underneath your thighs, circling them and pinning your legs against his broad chest. he locks you open, his arms serving as handcuffs of flesh and bone that cancel out any attempt at escape, keeping your hip perfectly elevated and delivered to his mercy.

"stay here with me, schatje…" his command comes out muffled against your skin, his voice a husky vibration reverberating straight into your centre. "don't close. let it come."

with absolutely no chance of escaping your own pleasure, all you can do is whimper his name over and over again. your spine curves and your hands abandon the sheets for good, moving down in a desperate reflex to the nape of his neck. you bury your fingers tightly into Max's short strands, pulling him against your body as if he were your only anchor in the middle of that storm of sensations.

the room disappears. the light of the lamp becomes a golden blur. your back arches so much that it nearly loses contact with the bed when the first wave of your limit hits you. it is a violent strike of pure pleasure that makes your body spasm against the arms holding you, a long, sharp moan escaping your throat as you collapse into the deepest, most overwhelming apex of your life, delivering every single drop of yourself to him.

Max holds you tight during every second of the spasms, drinking in your every reaction, until your hip finally relaxes and yields back to the mattress, your breathing descending into sôfregous, tired sighs.

the silence of the room returns little by little, filled only by the sound of your heart hammering in your chest.

slowly, Max undoes the grip of his arms around your thighs. he rests his hands on the bed and rises from the rug with a deliberate slowness, every movement exuding a raw, magnetic sensuality.

from this angle, lying on your back with your eyes half-closed, the view of him is nearly cheating. the blonde strands of his hair are completely messy, sticking up in the directions where your fingers buried themselves seconds ago. but it is his face that steals all your remaining breath: under the soft illumination, Max's lips and jaw shine intensely, wet from everything he just took from you.

he passes the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, tasting the last traces of your pleasure, and stares down at you with his blue eyes still dark, a slow, proud half-smile forming on the face of the man who knows he just made you entirely his.

he looks down at you, and the image reflected in those irises is that of a woman completely disarmed. Max maps your current state: your dark hair spread across the light sheets, your cheeks flushed from the effort, your chest still rising and falling hard, and your thighs — the thighs you criticised so much — lightly marked by the recent grip of his fingers, like a temporary signature of the dominance he exercised there.

there isn't a single drop of judgment in his gaze. what passes through Max's irises is a primitive pride mixed with a deep affection, the glimpse of a man who feels like the luckiest in the world to have been responsible for ripping out every single one of those moans. it is as if, through that crystal blue, he were telling you that you have never been so beautiful, so poetic, and so perfect as in that exact second of rawness and exhaustion.

he swallows hard, the rigidity of his shoulders finally yielding. Max breaks the vertical distance and returns to lean over the bed, crawling slowly up the mattress until he hovers right near your face. he raises his hand and uses the back of his fingers to brush away a sweaty strand of hair that stuck to your forehead, his touch now so light that it seems like a lie that those same arms pinned you with so much force seconds ago.

you see his eyes drop to your mouth, and your heart, which had barely calmed down, misses its beats again when you notice his intention. your face heats up instantly with the flash of shyness trying to return. you know exactly where that mouth was just a few seconds ago.

"Max… wait", you murmur in a breath, trying to turn your face slightly to the side, the reflex of shame acting once more.

but he doesn't let you. with an infinitely sweet patience, Max rests his thumb on your chin, holding your face firmly and guiding you back to him.

"don't turn your face from me, darling," he whispers, his voice so low and husky it scratches your skin. his gaze is pure certainty. "let me show you."

he doesn't give you time to protest. Max tilts his face and glues his lips to yours in a slow, deep, open-mouthed kiss. the initial shock makes your body touse, but the sensation that follows is overwhelming. his tongue invades your mouth without any rush, sliding smooth and warm, sharing with you the damp, sweet, and intensely intimate trail of everything he just took from you down there.

it is a crazy sensation. tasting yourself through his kiss, mixed with the familiar taste of Max and the remnant of your own red lipstick, destroys any barrier of modesty left in your mind.

you let out a muffled sigh against his mouth, surrendering completely, and your arms move up to wrap around his neck, pulling him even closer. Max accepts the invitation with a low moan from the back of his throat, deepening the kiss, his lips moulding yours with an adoration that fills the entire room.

and when he finally pulls his mouth away from yours just enough to breathe, your lips remain shiny with pure intimacy. Max brushes his nose against yours, his blue eyes fixed on yours, overflowing with a genuine pride.

"see?" he whispers against your mouth, a tender half-smile sketching onto his face. "i told you. every single piece of you… even your taste is the most perfect thing in the world. and you have no idea how much i love being the only one who gets the opportunity to have all of this to myself."

you blink your eyes slowly, your brain still trying to process oxygen and the absurd amount of endorphins rushing through your veins. his romanticism is overwhelming, yes, but as your consciousness returns, a very specific — and very rigid — physical detail pressed against your thigh reminds you of a small detail.

you let out a low laugh through your nose, the sound echoing softly against his chest.

"what is it?" Max asks, arching a blonde eyebrow, genuinely confused by the sudden change in mood.

"nothing... it's just that you made this entire speech worthy of a Shakespearean poet..." you rest your hands on his broad shoulders, pushing him lightly to have room to breathe. "but you're sitting here staring at me all messy, with my lipstick smudged all over your face, and if i remember correctly, you still haven't taken off a single piece of clothing from the waist down."

Max blinks, looking down at his own body as if he had completely forgotten he was still wearing his trousers, and then looks back at you. the contrast between the focused driver of seconds ago and the man caught red-handed is priceless.

"i was a bit busy ensuring you didn't hide from me, if you recall correctly", he retorts, his voice still husky, but with that defensive, teasing tone you know so well.

taking advantage of the moment, you shift on the bed, changing your position to make him more comfortable too. you slide your body back and sit up against the headboard, pulling the light sheet slightly over your lap out of pure reflex, though you know modesty had gone out the window a long time ago. Max follows your movement, moving up the bed for good and settling on his knees between your legs, his blue eyes tracking your every inch.

from this angle, with him closer, his urgency becomes even more evident. the fabric of his dark trousers looks ready to tear, outlining the distinct, tense volume he ignored the entire time while focusing solely on your pleasure.

you swallow hard, your humor giving way to a sting of provocation. you stretch out your foot and, with the tips of your toes, lightly poke the side of his hip.

"you are terribly needy, Verstappen. how did you hold out this entire time without complaining?"

the second his surname escapes your lips, Max lets out a gust of air through his nose and shakes his head, that smirk — half-disbelieving, half-dangerous — sketching onto his lipstick-smudged lips. hearing you tease him right now, after the way you just came apart in his arms, is almost a personal offense to him.

he grips your ankle with one hand, his long fingers squeezing your skin with a firmness that makes your stomach do flips.

"you have a lot of audacity for someone who was whimpering my name two minutes ago", he retorts, his deep, husky voice dragging through the room.

you let out a genuine laugh, the nice, relaxed sound echoing against his chest. the contrast between the intense Max from before and this teasing man makes your stomach turn in a wonderful way. you try to pull the light sheet more over your lap, your cheeks still burning under the lamp's light, but he is faster.

Max laughs, tightens his grip on your ankle and, with an agile and incredibly sexy movement, he advances his body, eliminating any space between you as he lays you back down. he rests his large hands on the mattress, one on each side of your hips, trapping you beneath the warm weight of his chest.

"Max, seriously…" you murmur, your voice and your smile failing a bit as you feel the clear, tense volume marked in his dark trousers once more, right before your eyes. "look at you. let me do something. it's unfair for you to stay like this."

he looks down, staring at his own trousers for a second, and then focuses his blue eyes straight into yours. the playfulness vanishes from his expression, replaced by a seriousness so raw it makes your heart skip a beat.

"i don't give a fuck about myself", he says, his voice dropping an octave, direct and without patience for any more words. "i would hold out twice as long just to see you like that again. and besides… i'm not finished", he whispers, tilting his face until his lips brush against your ear, descending in a trail of goosebumps down your neck. "and i am not stopping until you understand."

"understand what?" you manage to ask, your hands moving up to his shoulders, your fingers squeezing his muscles, which contract at your touch.

"that the fault for me being like this is yours", Max murmurs against your skin, his hot mouth tracing the line of your clavicle with a torturous slowness. "every little piece of you, every curve you try to hide from me… drives me completely crazy. and, again, i would hold out all night just to see you undoing yourself again and again and again…"

you swallow hard, the air leaving your lungs as he slides his hands from the sides of your body to the inside of your thighs, opening them again with a possessive ease that makes your abdomen contract.

Max rises a bit, his eyes gleaming with an absolute certainty. even before touching the button, his large hands move down to his waist and find the metallic buckle of his belt. with a rough, precise, and audible movement, he undoes the clasp and pulls the leather from his tailored trousers in a single, firm yank, tossing the accessory away without caring about the sound of it colliding against the bedroom floor.

only then do his fingers return to the top of his trousers, opening the button with a sharp snap that breaks the heavy silence of the room. he doesn't break his gaze from yours for a single second as he slides the zipper down a bit — not to take the clothes off, but just to relieve the absurd tension of that urgency he had been ignoring.

the implicit promise in his eyes makes it clear that the playing is over, but he still isn't going anywhere. he is going to stay right there, serving you.

he advances his body again, the heavy fabric of his now-open trousers brushing against the soft skin of your thigh as he realigns himself between your legs. Max anchors himself on his elbows on each side of your torso, trapping you beneath his warm weight, but keeping his hands free. his long fingers move slowly down your abdomen, mapping every single new shiver that his touch provokes.

"i made you forget the rest of the world down there, schatje", he says, his voice dropping to the darkest, most drawn-out and needy tone of the entire night, while his fingers begin to slide towards your centre, exploring your moisture with a torturous slowness. "now i am going to make you forget your own name. and i am only stopping when you don't have any strength left to try and hide from me."

a slow smile appears on his face as you catch your breath, your head falling back and your fingers burying themselves once more into the light sheets.

you are completely breathless, realizing he is going to use every single minute of this night, and every single centimetre of his hands and his mouth, to adore you until you completely lose your mind — and that, after so much adoration and surrender, Max Verstappen is not even close to being done.

━━━━━━━━━★

✩