Rika³

He physically cannot relax unless you're riding his face

Part 2^

Part 3 but it's him between your thighs^

He pulls out just to watch it drip

Riding him slow

Part 2; reverse cowgirl

Riding him fast just to hear him

It doesn't matter how long he's away, he remembers that angle

He's sooo big...

How quickly making out turns into eating out

Bunkering down for more than 12 hours turns into... (grace x leon) | 1 | 2

He'll need more time to make sure this ID is legit (animation)

Bonus

Part 2^

You don't listen to orders, you ride (ashley x leon)

Idk what to caption this it's just Ada and Leon being hot

a monday, 10:47 PM – training facility

the training room is quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that settles into the walls once everyone else has gone home. you wanted to stay, no— needed to stay actually, to get a bit of practice in because you felt a bit restless about your progress. leon insisted that he stayed behind with you despite you saying that you'd be okay for a couple hours but he said he wanted to. and that was the thing about leon kennedy; he was a nice man. a dreamy, selfless, kind and always giving kind of man. and it made you feel taken care of. 

the lights hum overhead while you reload with dainty fingers, trying not to think about the fact that leon is standing right behind you. close enough that you can feel the heat of him and close enough that when you shift your weight your shoulder almost brushes his chest. you miss the target again and the sharp crack echoes down the empty range. fuck. you grimace before he can say anything.

“stop forcing it,” he says quietly, stepping in before you can reset. his hand closes over yours without hesitation, steadying the gun where it wavers in your grip. his touch is firm as he guides your wrist down just slightly. you try to focus on the target, on your breathing, on literally anything except the way his fingers wrap around yours and how his chest presses into your back— but then the metal band on his ring finger drags lightly across your knuckles and your concentration splinters completely.

“again,” leon says after a moment, and he studies your face before stepping back. the absence of him seems so immediate and noticeable, its like you weren't ready for it to be over yet. but you swallow the lump in your throat and reset your grip like you’ve been told, trying very hard not to think about the warmth of his.. everything that was there a second ago— or the ring that brushed against your skin.

you hit the target dead center and you're rewarded with a half smile and a knuckle to the jaw.

a friday, 7:35 PM – the office

you’re checking your reflection in the dark screen of your phone when leon stops beside your desk. you hadn’t noticed him walking up, which is embarrassing on its own, but what’s worse is the way his eyes immediately narrow a little as he looks you over— like he’s trying to figure something out.

“you going somewhere?” he asks. it’s casual enough, but there’s something tense underlying in the question that you don't pick up on until the end of the night doing your skincare.

“a date!” you beam sweetly, clearly a little excited but the word hangs there awkwardly for leon. he doesn’t say anything right away, he just leans a hand on the edge of your desk as he tilts his head slightly.

“a date,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. his gaze drifts back over you again— your cheeks are a little rosier than usual and your lips are coated in a glossy pink that makes them look fuller when you press them together. you smooth the shine once with the pad of your thumb absently as you give him another upwards look, that's when he notices your lashes. pretty.

“with who?” the question lands heavier than it should.

“his name is carlos,” you answer, still smiling. “we met last week.”

“and you said yes.” it doesn’t sound like a question, more like mild criticism.

you frown at him. “is that a problem?”

he straightens a little, his gaze lingering on your face a second longer than it probably should. then his mouth pulls into the faintest hint of a smile.

“well,” he says, pushing off the desk, “you look nice.” leon hesitates for half a beat before adding, almost like an afterthought, “text me when you get home.” his tone is fine but there’s something under it that makes it sound less like a suggestion.. and more like he’s already decided on what he wants you to do, like it's work.

he straightens and walks off down the hallway, leaving you sitting there with that warm feeling you were trying to get away from in the first place— right alongside the equally strange realization that leon probably shouldn’t care that much about how your date goes.

a saturday, 9:45 PM — downtown

the bar is loud but it fades after a while and the conversations register in your ears as a hum while glasses knock together somewhere down the counter. music bleeds softly through the speakers but none of it really reaches you. not when you’re sitting this close to him. god, he’s so handsome.. and manly and he smells so good too! you don't know why you're so attracted to him, he’s older than you by decades for christ’s sake! but unfortunately, you do have a crush on a married man.

leon is facing forward, elbow on the bar with a glass turning slowly between his fingers. his neck is angled toward you, just enough that you know he’s listening as that half chuckle rumbles out of him every now and then but he can’t quite help it. you're cute— he enjoys your company more than he should.

you’re leaning toward leon without thinking about it, body angled in his direction as your hand rests loosely on the firm curve of his bicep. your fingers shift and rub there every now and then when you laugh, glossy lips parting around a soft giggle that’s just a little too giddy from the drinks. the light catches the shimmer on your eyelids when you blink, lashes lidded as your cheeks flush in a way that could be the alcohol or the attention he’s giving you. you like the way he looks at you tonight.

your hand stays on his arm and he doesn’t move it despite his better judgement.

someone down the bar calls his name at one point, loud enough that it should pull his attention away then and there. he hears them but he waits until you're finished talking until his gaze drifts in that direction for a moment before settling back somewhere ahead of him again, the corner of his mouth still faintly lifted.

a wednesday, 2:45 AM — opsec mission 9, phase 1

the car smells faintly like his cologne and leather. it clings to the inside of your nose every time you breathe in, mixing with the sugary sweetness of your lip gloss and the waves of adrenaline that have yet to fully left your system. your hands sit folded in your lap, fingers worrying the edge of your sleeve while the city slides past the windows in streaks of gold and shadow.

leon hasn’t said anything since you both got into the car.

the engine hums low under your feet, wipers drag once across the windshield  clearing a thin mist that had started collecting there. his hands stay steady on the wheel, but the tendons in his forearms stand out under the sleeve of his jacket, tight in a way you recognize from him being angry. though, the anger has never been caused by you until tonight.

streetlights pass over his face in quiet flashes and you try not to look at him but you fail, giving him just a bit of a peek from the corner of your eye. oh, he’s so still so stupidly handsome. you hate this.

you’d been so proud of yourself earlier and now your stomach feels hollow as the silence stretches long enough that it starts to press in on you from all sides. leon being quiet isn’t new—you’ve sat through plenty of those silences before—but this one is different. and the worst part is knowing it’s because of you.

“what were you thinking.” his voice cuts through the car without warning. he’s not yelling and that somehow makes it worse.

your throat tightens a little. “i thought i could—”

“yeah.” leon exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. his eyes stay on the road. “that’s the problem.”

the car slows at a red light, the glow spilling through the windshield and painting everything inside the car dim and red. you stare down at your hands because looking at him suddenly feels impossible and heat crawls up the back of your neck. you know you messed up. you know it. you’d felt it the second the shots started cracking past you, the second someone had grabbed your shoulder and yanked you back behind cover.

but hearing it from him—

you could just die.

“you stepped into a live line of fire,” leon says after a moment, voice rougher now. “that wasn’t brave. that was stupid, (name).” your fingers curl tighter into the fabric of your sleeve. you hate that he’s right. you hate that he sounds disappointed more than angry. you hate that the thought of him being mad at you makes your eyes sting like a kid getting scoldedm

“i was trying to help,” you mumble, softer this time. another pause. “i'm sorry, okay? i know i nearly ruined everything..”

then leon lets out a short breath that almost sounds like a laugh, except there’s nothing amused about it.

“you think i was worried about the mission?” he says quietly.

and that makes you look at him in the eye the first time that night.

It was a blessing when Elizabeth’s uncle had procured Victor’s help for his experiment. It meant Elizabeth would be free from Victor’s leering eyes and domineering presence. And you would no longer have to stomach the humiliation of being so disenchanting to your own husband. 

But each blessing must, of course, come with some sort of penance. You had your own rooms in the tower, separate from Victor's. He claimed he wanted no distractions. But you knew that he had finally found an excuse to escape from you. Aside from that, you were not permitted access to any other chamber. 

You knew of the laboratory on the topmost floor. There was a drainage system that was like a sort of catacombs below you. But this room, this lovely gilded cage, was the only place you were truly allowed to exist in. It did not stop late-night wanderings or occasionally dipping your head into the laboratory when Victor finally slept. 

For once, you were allowed peace. No husband breathing down your neck, demanding perfection you were not capable of. No reminders of your failings as a wife. It was a blissful quiet. 

But only for a short while. 

The candelabra in your hand burned bright against the dim moonlight escaping into the tower. You usually did not risk a light during your explorations, but tonight it felt like you might have need of it. You had heard Victor shouting in his laboratory earlier, raging against something you did not know of. 

But he had gone silent long before sunset. Hopefully, that meant you would not have anyone interrupting your rare experience of rebellion. 

The floors were cool against your feet. The chill shot straight through your legs as you moved toward the lowermost floor. The catacombs were one of the rare exceptions to your exploring. Until tonight, you’d had no desire to creep through wet, dirtied tunnels. But something was beckoning you forward, calling you toward a mission you were not yet aware of.

Just at the entrance, shouting stilled your movements. You quickly blew out your candles and hid behind the overgrown foliage infesting your new home. “One thing!” Victor’s voice, you recognized his anger well. 

“Say one thing that is not my name!” He demanded. Either your husband had finally lost his mind, or he’d accomplished his life-long mission. You could not determine which one terrified you more. 

There was loud grunting, the smack of something metal against flesh. It made you grimace, further tucking yourself into the vines. A loud metallic clatter against the floor and then your husband was storming out. His robe flew behind him as he ran up the stairs, raging about something you could not understand. 

Watching him carefully, you waited a few minutes before you decided it was safe enough to leave. You should have picked up your candelabra, should have headed back upstairs and gone to sleep. 

Instead, you find yourself turning toward the catacombs, searching for the source of Victor’s rage. “Hello?” you call softly, the cold night air seeping in from one of the drains. 

Silence is to be expected as you lean toward the idea that your husband’s mind has finally shattered. Instead, you hear something broken and strained. “Vic-tor.”

The voice stills you, your heart thudding against your ribs as you keep yourself hidden behind one of the stone columns. The gravel of the voice is deep and rougher than any man you’ve ever heard. But there’s something broken rattling within it, scared and hesitant as it waits for your husband to return. 

The pain calls to your own as you slowly reveal yourself. In front of you, curled up like a babe on a stone slab, is something grotesque. 

Not revolting in the sense that the creature hurts to look at. Though the seams along his body do make you ache for it. It is grotesque that any man would attempt to play god like this. To finally bring life into this world and then shelter it away from the sun, from life and light. 

“Oh,” you breathed out. Lifting your skirts, you rushed over the small canal of water and moved toward it. The creature, or man, you suppose, remained curled. 

His hands were covering his head and you could see fresh blood spilling along his arms. Beside him, abandoned on the floor, was a metal poker. Disgust burned in your stomach as you kicked it away. He stirred at that, lifting his hands and peering up at you. 

Something lit up in his eyes at his discovery. You smiled softly at him, attempting not to flinch as you took in just how much your husband had pieced him back together. How many sons did he mutilate to make his own? How many mothers will mourn their young while he takes them and shames them for still living?

“Hello,” you whisper. Your voice is soft from lack of use, strained after remaining silent in this tower for so long. 

The creature’s eyes widen as he slowly unfurls himself. Something about you, perhaps just that you are not Victor, stops him from cowering. And as he uncurls, you realize just how much of himself he was protecting. 

His movements are stilted, like a poorly manipulated marionette, as he moves to stand in front of you. You take a step back, peering up at his face and marveling at just how your husband sculpted him. 

“Has he named you?” You ask, smiling as the creature tilts his head, observing the lace of your gown with fascination. His eyes dart to your hair. To the tight style that Victor insists on, he does not take well to disorder in his wife. 

He lifts his hand, movements stilted as his fingers fiddle with the charm hanging from your pin. “Here,” you reach up and pull it out, caring not for the unkempt look as your hair falls free. You hold out the golden pin with its dangling charm of a leaf.

The creature runs his finger over the charm and the barest thing close to a smile lifts his lips. You watch, perplexed, as he tucks the pin to his chest and turns back toward the stone slab. With how broad his body is, you struggle to see around him. 

Though he does not make you wait long. He turns back quickly, holding out a large, orange maple leaf. 

“For me?” You ask, and he gives a quick nod, eyes eager as he watches you trace your fingers over the veins. “Look,” you reach out for the pin and smile. “We match now,” nodding toward the charm. 

His mouth moves, though no sound escapes. He seems to be attempting the word match, but his voice can’t conjure the sound. His eyes narrow, and you place your hand over his. The coldness of his skin is startling. But your husband had left him with no clothes or blanket, you should not be surprised he froze down in the catacombs. 

Before he can grow frustrated, you tug your shawl from your shoulders and reach up. It’s a slight challenge, attempting to drape the fabric over such broad shoulders, but you manage. He seems startled by the gift, watching you warily as you sit on the slab behind him. 

“So you might be warmer,” you tell him. You know not how much of your words reach him. Victor seems to have taught him nothing but his name. He rubs his fingers over the softness of the fabric and smiles as he sits beside you. 

“A name?” You ask once more. 

“Vic-tor.”

You take his hand in your own, noticing just how much he seems to lean into your touch. His eyes track your thumb as it rubs against his palm. Slowly, he reaches up to trace the shapes of your veins, to marvel at how differently your skin is compared to his seamed flesh. 

“That is his name,” you tell him. “You deserve a proper one.” Looking up into his eyes, you’re reminded of the freshness of a babe. He has just been brought into this world, with no love or warmth to greet him. No mother’s hand to cling to and explain the workings of the world. He is the first of any sort of creature like him. 

“He does always call you his Adam. While he plays with the power of a God.” You reach up to cup his cheek and his eyes flutter shut, the weight of his head resting easily in your palm. “Adam, then.”

His lips part, but again, he cannot produce any sound. “That’s alright,” you soothe. Instead, you tell him your own name. “You don’t have to say it. Just remember me.”

His chin dips and, again, you wonder how much of this he can truly understand. Is it just the softness of your voice he registers? The kindness of your touch? You wish you could better understand him. Wish that you had been with him since Victor dragged him into the world. He did not deserve the cold and darkness all on his own. 

Glancing down, you see the chains on his legs and wrists. “Wait here,” you tell him. His grip around your wrist barely tightens and you offer him a brief smile. “I’ll be back. I swear.” Slowly, his fingers drift along your skin until you’re backing away and running out of the catacombs. 

It did not take you long to find the chain’s keys in Victor’s laboratory. They had been so easily disregarded, as if he never planned to release Adam at all. When you had returned, he’d seemed surprised. Delighted, but surprised. As if he were already so used to people breaking their promises that he could not comprehend you keeping yours. 

You led him from the catacombs, and though he’d wanted to explore, you made him be quiet and follow you up the stairs. He did not resist or fight your grip, but rather followed you like a freshly imprinted babe. 

There was an instinct inside of you, left unfilled for too long, that called for you to care for him. To sit him on your bed and wrap him in as many soft blankets as you could find. You threw open your curtains and finally let him see the true glory of the night sky. 

After so long being trapped in the dark, he’d nearly walked through the window trying to get closer to the stars. “No,” you told him, struggling not to laugh. “You must watch from here,” you directed him back onto your bed. 

He smiled up at you and you brushed your thumb across his cheek, frowning as one of his seams opened. A small trickle of blood ran down his skin, but the wound closed as quickly as it had opened. “Does it hurt?” You asked, wiping the blood off. 

You had not expected an answer and he did not give one. You’re not sure he would even know what hurt means if it’s all he’s known since his heart has beat. 

Slipping onto the bed behind him, you simply watched as he marveled at the night sky. His lips parted slightly, eyes wide and shining with something you’d never seen in Victor’s gaze. “If the only word you know is Victor,” he repeated the name dutifully and you smiled. “Perhaps, tomorrow, I will read to you. Let you learn more of the world outside of your creator.”

Adam watched you now, but silence was thick between you. You pulled back your comforter and leaned against the headboard. “Let’s sleep,” you beckoned him forth. He followed hesitantly, seemingly confused by the softness of your bed. Your hand grazed gently across his arm as you helped him lower himself. 

He curled like a child again, his head resting against your thighs as you tried to revive warmth in his limbs. Tomorrow, you will read to him and work on fitting him with some proper clothes. 

When you awoke, the sun was shining brightly through your open window. It rested along Adam’s back, a better blanket than any you might provide. He’d moved in the night, one arm twined around your legs and the other around your waist as he held you close. His head still rested against your thighs, and you smiled at how soft his face was while he slept. 

“So,” you jumped, head whipping up to find Victor standing at the end of your bed. “This is where it had gone.”

“It?” You questioned, voice sharp and quiet as you tried not to wake Adam. 

“Do you dislike how I refer to my creation?” His lips are tilted in the familiar sneer you’ve grown to despise. 

You scoff, pulling the blanket higher up Adam’s chilled shoulders. “You do not get to claim him when you would not even name him. Would not give him clothes or light or warmth.”

Victor’s head tilted and he shook his head with a dismayed expression. “Do not tell me that you care for that… that thing.”

“If you will not, then someone must.” 

His lips pulled back and he let out an incredulous scoff. “This is ridiculous and I will not allow you to indulge him in such soft comforts.”

“Comfort? Do you not mean basic respect? The barest responsibilities of what we owe the life we create.”

Victor rounded your bed and your hands tightened around Adam’s shoulders. It was enough to finally have him stir. His eyes were bleary as they opened, the soft look on his face slipping through your fingers as his widened eyes found Victor’s glare. His hands tightened around you and you tried to comfort him, but Victor was reaching for his wrist and jerking him forward cruelly. 

“There was no ‘we’ in this, wife. As I recall, you seemed to fail under the one responsibility women have to society.” Your brows turned in as you leapt to your feet. You took Adam’s hand in your own, stopping Victor from dragging him away. 

“You have no right wielding that against me. If I gave you children you would treat them as you treat Adam. And when I do not you create your own life and mistreat it still.”

But Victor heard nothing you said, he never did. The only aspect he would give attention to was Adam. “You named it?”

“Him,” you snapped. Adam shrank into himself as you argued around him. You ran your thumb across his wrist but it did little to quell the fear in his eyes. 

“Enough!” Victor snapped. He released Adam and turned to you instead. You had little warning as he shoved you back against your bed. Your spine hit the post of the frame and you let out a low groan. Adam whipped around, hands raised as he stumbled toward Victor. 

For a moment, there was true fear in your husband’s eyes. A reminder to you why he’d had Adam locked away. He was something new, something fresh, built into the strongest body conceived in this new world. When a babe heard its parents fighting, it cried. But what was it to do when it had all this unknown strength in its hands?

”Back!” Victor shouted, as if Adam were nothing more than a rabid hound. When Adam continued toward him, his only noise a low growl, Victor darted back to you. His hand wrapped into your loose hair and you whined as he jerked your head back. “Back or I will strike her!” He threatened, hand poised over your cheek. 

Adam paused, the anger on his face ebbing into worry. “It’s okay,” you assured, reaching up and ripping Victor’s grip from you. Slowly, Adam’s arms fell to his sides and he shrank back into the shadows of your room. 

Victor spared you no looks or words as he strode toward Adam. He grabbed him so roughly, Adam’s arm bled as he jerked him from your room. 

“Victor!” You shouted, rushing toward your door. But he slammed it closed, your hand wrapped around the handle just as you heard the click of the key outside. “Victor, don’t you dare!” Your fists pounded against the wood but he did not respond. He did not answer your calls. 

The only sound you made out was Adam’s pitiful call of your name. Your heart ached as you slid back against the door, nightgown pooling around your legs as your head fell into your hands. You did not want to fathom what Victor’s punishment would be for Adam being allowed warmth. 

Victor did not return to you until the sun was resting well below the horizon. You had moved from your door to slump against your desk. Your hand stilled on the letter you were penning when you heard his footsteps approaching. You quickly covered the parchment, worried he might catch a glimpse of the plea you were sending Herr Harlander. 

His key slid home and the lock clicked just as you sprang to your feet. Victor’s chin was tilted down as he walked in, curls fallen over his disheveled face. You were going to remain silent, let him stew in his feelings before he finally decided to release you. Just as you always did. 

But then you caught a glimpse of the crimson staining the hems of his sleeves. The composure you usually kept so well shattered as you let out a shuddering breathing. 

“What did you do to him?” You demanded. 

Victor’s face finally lifted, there were grooves so deep under his eyes they might be mistaken for bruises. Never before have you seen your husband so worn, so weary and human. He rarely showed you more than carefully curated disinterest. But if he had wanted you to see him in any other light, he should have done so before you discovered Adam. 

“He plagues me,” he beseeches. “He is an insult to that which I dedicated my life. I have done nothing but be disappointed by him.”

“Oh,” you scoff. “Is that your excuse for beating him?”

Victor shakes his head. “I thought you might listen, I should have known better.”

He turns to leave and you follow. “No, Victor. You do not walk away this time.” He turned but it was clear how little he cared for what you said. “When I am with you, I have no voice. When you are beside me you have no ears. But tonight, for once, you will listen to me. You will pretend I am someone that you care for, respect. Pretend I am Elizabeth if you must, but listen.”

Your voice is the surest it’s ever been when addressing him. It is not soft or controlled, but filled with the jagged edges of anger. Victor watches you warily, eyes widened in surprise that you might speak against him. But, for once, you hold an ounce of his attention. 

“God has granted the gift of life to women. He did so with care and reason. And you stand there and spit in his face, in the very face of life and nature. You have stolen a dozen mother’s sons. You have not granted them the peace or even the dignity of a burial.”

Victor shakes his head with a scoff and turns toward the stairs. But this time you will not allow him to escape. You will not let the sins of his past slip through his fingers as he simply ignores them. You will be the voice of all those he has hurt if you have to, if only to help the man he keeps buried beneath your home. 

“You have debased them and dissected them to create your own life. Through that you ignore the cries and grief of those mothers. You care not for any pain or suffering but your own as you torture and shun that life which you created. The life which you so vehemently sought after.”

"Oh, yes!” He whirls around as you both reach his laboratory. “And what a life it is! Dull and useless, capable of only one word!”

"Yes! Your name. You are his creator, his father, his mother. There is a reason, my dear Victor, that God gave this gift only to his women. Through this endeavor, you have not grown closer to your mother or recovered the pieces of her that were stolen from you. You have become your father as he was to you.”

"Do not,” he steps forward, finger jabbing toward your face. “Do not compare me to that man,” he hisses, turning and pacing the length of the lab. You are relentless, a shadow nipping at his heels, a voice to all the ghosts following behind him. 

“Why? Because you know I speak the truth? He saw you, Victor. He saw the hollowness, the void where a soul and heart ought to be. You have no light inside of you so you must steal it from others. This is why he cherished William, why he hated you as you hate your own son.”

Victor lunges for you and the breeze brushes along the back as you realize how close to the edge of the lab he’s backed you. “That thing,” he shouts, “is not my son!”

"No,” you agree, eyes welling with tears as you struggle not to reach out and just hurt him. “He is the son of a dozen other women. All of whom would rip you to pieces so they might have another moment with their child.” His hands wrap around your arms, jerking you back, but you will not relent. You will not cower. “You have no respect for life,” you hiss. “You wish only to control it. And if your mother could see what you have become, she would turn from you just as you have Adam.”

You could see this shift in his gaze. The moment where he stops seeing you as a wife, as something to dismiss, and as an adversary. Victor hated Adam because he was a reflection of all that Victor could never be. And now, in your eyes, he saw the same. He saw the honesty of himself, the monstrosity of his grotesque being. 

“Enough!” He shouted, releasing you with a shove. Your feet slipped along the cool floor and your breath remained frozen as you fell from the edge. Victor rushed forward, eyes wide as he reached for your hands. But all you could feel was the wind against your back, the momentary weightlessness as you saw nothing but the moon shining above you. Until your body smashed against the rocks below and the lights went out. 

And Adam, stuck beneath the home, he could hear only the vaguest noise of anger and hatred. Then, through his one opening to the world, he saw something white and free. Like the biggest bird he’d never seen, falling past him. And he wondered what it would feel like to fly. 

Victor held no particular love or affection for you. You were a living reminder that even beyond the grave, his father would always have control over his life. You had not given him sons of his own, or embodied the role of his wife in any sort of way as his mother had. 

Truthfully, he’d always imagined that your death would make his life better. Oftentimes, he caught himself picturing how a fever might take you, or you might even face death as his mother had. But, despite his disinterest, he always found himself shamed after such thoughts. 

Still, in all of those shadowed moments of his life, he had never imagined himself so desperately working to bring you back to him. Not as he did now, with thunder sounding above his laboratory. His hands bloodied and shirt ruined as he stitched together the ruined pieces of your flesh. 

The rocks had done much damage to your body, but he could fix you. Just as he’d done with the creature. He could make you better, stronger, and live again. Perhaps, him doing this so quickly after your death meant you might retain some of the intelligence his other creation lacked. Perhaps you might return to him as you once were. 

Much of your bones had been shattered against the jagged coast. He’d had to borrow skeleton and skin from his leftover remains. But you would not nearly be as patchwork as the creature was. Even now, he could still see you beneath his stitches and seams. Your eyes were still your own, your lips and nose. You were still his wife. 

Victor placed the metal casing around your body and lifted you as he’d once done with the creature. You would be his once more. No one ever need know of what happened tonight. Of his brief insanity when he’d pushed you over the edge. 

Elizabeth would never have reason to look at him with hatred in her eyes as she learned of what he’d done to her only companion. 

Victor pushed his rain soaked hair back from his face and watched the lightning strike from above. Your body arched from the slab as his lab worked to ignite life in you once more. 

Yes, it could be as it always had been. 

But, perhaps, this time you would not look at him with such ire in your eyes. 

Adam, that was what you called him. Victor, he’d thought, was the name for all. He knew the sun, knew that sun meant life. But the rest was slow to come. His name first, and then he’d discovered yours. It was the prettiest word he’d ever heard. Though, he had not heard many. 

With that name, it was followed by softness. A touch that was not accompanied by the sharp sting of that rod Victor used. He had not had long with you. But it had been the sweetest moments since he’d first opened his eyes. Sweet as it had been when Victor had first shown him sun, before he took it away. 

And when Victor brought you back down to Adam, he felt something tight within him. He had no word for the feeling, just that it was good. Even in the presence of his creator. 

Adam looked up from the pretty charm you’d given him and stood as Victor carried you closer. The sharp glare his creator gave him had him moving back a step. “Back!” Victor snapped, even if Adam was already doing so. Another feeling, aching and sharp, rattled through him. It was like having something taken from him, that’s all he knew every time Victor appeared. Though, that was less and less lately. 

Victor moved to the slab across Adam and placed you carefully down on the stone. Adam frowned, seeing that you now had bandages similar to his own. They were wound around your arms, chest and bottom. But your face remained similar, only a few marks along your chin. Victor allowed you to keep your hair, something he had not granted Adam. 

Victor’s hands ran over your chest before he leaned down, pressing his ear to the bandages. Adam crept closer, wondering why you were not smiling or speaking. “Back!” Adamn flinched and stayed where he was. But you did not move, your eyes were not open to him and he felt that ache once more. 

Why did you not look at him?

Victor’s eyes pinched closed before your chest lifted and he finally let out a sharp breath. He moved, pressing his forehead to yours as he whispered something Adam could not hear. Victor’s lips lingered against your temple before he stepped back. 

“Do not touch her,” Victor warned. He even picked up the rod, lunging toward Adam until he was curled up along his slab. “I will be back later. Do not make a noise, do not even look at her.” 

For good measure, Victor brought the rod down against Adam until he could feel his seams splitting. Only when Adam was limp against the ground did Victor leave once more. Adam waited until the cold of the ground began to hurt to finally stand. 

Slowly, he crawled toward you. His chains managed just enough length to be able to kneel at your side. His fingers reached out, slowly trailing along the seams of your arms. You had not looked like this before. But now, you were like Adam. Cold like him, skin discolored as his. Did this mean Victor would hate you now as he did Adam? 

Your chest stuttered and Adam watched the bandages around them carefully. Slowly, your eyes began to open. He sank down further, worried you might not want his to be the first face you see. 

Your eyes darted across the ceiling before you sat up. Slowly, Adam began to recognize something else you shared with him. Your eyes, once so warm and soft, were as confused and scared as his so often were. 

His lips struggled around your name, the sound coming slow and broken. Nothing like how you had so sweetly told him. Finally, you looked at him. The care was gone, the warmth was gone and Adam felt that unnamed feeling. Your lips parted, but nothing came from them and he realized just what Victor had taken from him. From both of you. 

He held you as you had held him. The coldness of your skin made him ache as you curled into his arms. Adam did not think himself capable of gentleness, not when Victor had told him he was nothing more than an abomination. The word was foreign to him, but he knew that it was not a term one would use for a sweet creature such as yourself. 

He missed you, even as he held you. He missed the gentleness of your touch, how you had looked at him with such care. You seemed only frightened now, trembling as you took in the grey confines of your new home. You were not chained as Adam was, but you stayed with him nonetheless. 

He said your name again, clumsily stroking your hair as you struggled to repeat the word. You caught on quicker than he had. Already, you had more words than Adam did. “Wrong,” you kept saying. Adam wasn’t sure he knew what you meant, but a bad feeling accompanied the word. 

“Am wrong,” you muttered. Adam simply handed you his favorite leaf, hoping the color might distract you from this feeling of yours. 

Footsteps echoed through the room and Adam tensed, grip tightening around yours. It would be Victor, coming to take him away from you again. 

“Hello?” 

No, this was not Victor. This voice was soft, kind as yours had once been. Adam turned slightly and found the most colors he’d ever seen greeting him. The woman offered a fragile smile, pulling back her veil and revealing hair even brighter than his leaf. 

She moved closer and Adam did not release you. Even as you sat up, head tilting like you recognized the sweet cadence of her voice. She stilled as your face appeared above Adam’s shoulder. The smile fell away and she dropped her hat. 

Your name was a broken sound as she rushed toward you. Adam flinched as she dropped before you both. Her hands shook as she reached toward. Another shattered whisper of your name and you were sinking from Adam’s grip into her arms. 

“What has he done?” The woman curled her arm around you and looked at Adam. Her hand came up to cup his cheek and he sank into the warmth of her touch. “Oh, to both of you? You poor creatures.” Her hands urged at Adam until he was compelled to follow beside you and sit on the floor with her. 

It was in her arms that he felt the warmth Victor had stolen from you. Even you stopped your whispers, simply leaning into her touch. “I am sorry,” she told you. “I never should have let you follow him.”

“Elizabeth,” his creator’s voice. Not as sharp as it always was, but enough to make Adam curl himself around both of you. 

Elizabeth looked up and glared at Victor. “What have you done to her?”

“There was an accident,” Victor snapped. “I saved her.”

“No,” clear liquid trickled down Elizabeth’s cheeks, dissimilar to the blood that usually stained Adam’s skin. “You killed her.”

Victor came over then, he growled when he saw Adam holding you both. “What did I say?” He jerked the chains around his wrists and dragged him back to his own slab. “You do not touch her!” Adam flinched as Victor shoved him back into the slab. 

Victor stood in front of Elizabeth, arm outstretched as you slowly uncurled from her. “Elizabeth, come, I do not yet know if she is dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” Elizabeth scoffed as she got to her feet. “The only dangerous one here is you.”

“Trust me,” Victor breathed sharply, “it is not me.”

“Wrong,” they both went still as you whispered. “wrong,” you muttered again. Adam wanted to go to you, but he didn’t want Victor to punish you both. 

“What?” Victor’s eyes were wide as he discovered an intelligence that had been buried in Adam. 

You lifted your gaze, stringy hair dropping in front of your face. “Victor,” you pushed out, words strangled and cracking. “Victor did this. Am wrong.”

Victor grabbed Elizabeth before you could stand. He led her and another man from the catacombs, despite Elizabeth's protests. You stayed where you were, glaring as he retreated. Slowly, you slumped back against the floor, eyes fluttering shut. 

Again, Adam had little time with you. Despite Victor’s vehement hatred of Adam, you would not leave his side. Victor attempted to shackle you, but you did not trust him as Adam once had. Instead, you fought, clawed and kicked until Victor was flying through the catacombs. His back had struck a column so hard debris had rained down around him. 

Then, you crawled beside Adam and sat stubbornly at his side. Victor had not tried to separate you again after that. Words came to you faster than Adam could discover them. Sometimes you would just mutter them under your breath, stringing something together that Adam had not witnessed. 

“Fall,” you would say. Push and Victor. You would tell him names of people he had never known and Adam would listen, just so long as you stayed so stubbornly at his side. 

Now, something pungent struck the air. Greasy and wrong, something pooled through the water of Adam and yours canal. You held tight to Adam’s hand as Victor carried down large metal jugs that held the same smell. 

Neither of you spoke, simply watched Victor. Each time Victor grew too close, you would position yourself in front of Adam, eyeing the metal rod by your feet with a threat. Victor did not acknowledge either of you, not until he had brought down the last foul-smelling jug. 

“One word,” he said to Adam. “One word!”

Adam said the only word he truly loved, your name. Adam doubted he ever could have said something that would have been the right answer. But that was clearly worse than anything else he could have uttered. Victor strode forward and before either you or Adam could react, he slammed a knife deep into your chest. 

Adam was frozen, eyes wide as he watched the blood spill from your chest. Watched as it bled through your bandages and stained the stone below you crimson. Victor did no hesitate in throwing your limp body over his shoulder. He did not turn even as Adam shouted your name, as his chains rattled as he failed to chase after you both. 

Your blood dripped from Victor’s shoulder, oozed into the water splashing around Victor’s feet until it made its way back to Adam. Something ached in his chest, it burned and ripped until he thought his seams might split. 

When a word made its way to his mind, when something that could poorly capture this devastation was discovered, the fire came. Adam could not chase after you or Victor, not as the water before him ignited. He had little choice but to rip at his chains and follow the downward path of your blood in the water. 

Elizabeth ran her fingers gently across your hair. It was her, not Victor, who taught you what life was. Who read books to you until you could remember the vague outlines of your life. Your mind held no faces, no true memories, just the shadows of feelings. 

Victor had been your husband. Now, he was your creator. Nothing more than a warden to keep you hidden from the world. Elizabeth, you assumed, must be what a mother is meant to be. 

It is her wedding, yet she sits behind you and cares for you. You read from the Bible, a passage of Adam and Eve as that familiar ache of loss burns against the back of your throat. Elizabeth’s fingers go still in your hair as your voice stumbles to a stop. 

“Are you thinking of him again?”

You nod, forgetting the words she’d dutifully retaught you. Elizabeth moves from her chair and kneels before you. Her soft hands soothe over your cheeks as she offers you a small smile. “He is out there,” she promises you. “You feel when the people you love are gone.”

Her hand presses to your chest and you mimic the movement, letting the beat of her heart calm your racing mind. “It is something hollow inside you. Something instinctual as breathing. We feel those we truly love.” She tilts her head and smiles, “Do you still feel him?”

“Yes,” you whisper. 

She nods and brushes your hair back. “So do I,” she promises. 

You let yourself sink into her touch and revel in the warmth only she seems capable of in this cold, aching estate. 

“What have I said?”

You refuse to open your eyes as Victor limps into her room. She pushes your hair down and looks over your shoulder. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

”I thought that was only meant for the groom,” he attempted humor but he was a poor actor at hiding his own bitterness. Again, you could feel his eyes boring into your back. “Now, Eve,” the name was a mockery of the one you’d gifted Adam. A cruel reminder of that which he had stolen from you. 

Elizabeth slowly released you and you got to your feet. As you brushed past Victor, his hand shot out, jerking up your elbow. “I do not want to have this conversation again.”

Your eyes narrowed on his hand and he faltered. With a sharp shove, you sent him stumbling back, his new leg buckling from under him. You took no joy in watching him suffer, just felt that familiar emptiness within you. 

You spared him not another glance as you left Elizabeth’s room and moved quickly to his. He did not want others seeing you. You would not even be allowed to watch Elizabeth be wed tonight. Your only joy would be hearing her recount it to you later. 

Why would he bring you back if he did not even want you? If he had never wanted you?

Inside Victor’s rooms, you found yourself walking toward the windows as you often did. You watched as the guests began to arrive, women veiled and gowned in white. You looked down at your own black dress and felt yourself begin to crumple.

Tears were something new to you. Discovered only after you’d awoken after Victor’s second time murdering you. When you realized the other half of yourself had been left to burn away. But if you could come back, surely so could he. 

Sniffling, you sank to the floor and let your head press to the cool glass. 

“You,” a low voice called. 

You gasped, jumping to your feet as you whirled around. “Who’s there?” You attempted to peer into the shadows of the room, but Victor kept it far too dark for you to see anything properly. 

Then, softer than anyone’s spoken to you in a long time, you hear your name. And he’s appearing. Bigger than you remember, with hair grown in rebellion against your creator. His eyes are still the same, wide and yearning for a kindness the world has given neither of you. 

“Adam,” his name was the first breath of relief you’ve had since you were reborn. Possibly before then. 

He stepped fully into the light, shoulders hunched beneath his furs as you rushed toward him. Your arms flew around his waist and he stilled, unsure what to do with himself. But when you tightened your grip, when you let out a shuddering cry against his chest, he finally held you. Just as he’d done when you’d first woken up in a new body. As you had done for him when you’d first discovered him. 

“I thought he had stolen you from me,” he whispered, back hunched as he cradled you in his arms. 

“I knew,” you whispered. “I knew you would find me again.” Adam’s arms held tighter to you and you basked in the warmth he was finally capable of providing. 

“I will not let you walk this world alone,” he swore. “Will not let you face the harshness of the hordes of man on your own.”

"You will not lose me,” you promised to him. “No matter what man or creature tries, we only have each other in this life and all the next.”

Vows more meaningful than any a priest might have you echo, you and Adam parted, finally having found a reason to live again. Not simply to survive, but to move through this life knowing that there was purpose for it. 

And when Victor returned, he found his chambers empty. His wife and creation having disappeared completely. The only sign where she might have gone being a dying leaf left on his desk. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the novel/movies Frankenstein, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Max, of course, pretends it was your idea.

“You need a break,” he’d said, rubbing your feet one night while you groan about swelling in places you didn’t even know could swell. “Sun, sea, no reporters. And if we bring the rookies they’ll owe us for life.”

What he really meant, though he’d never say it out loud, was that he liked having them close. Liked the way Kimi looked up to him with those serious, eager eyes. Liked the way Gabriel asked him for advice. Liked how Franco cracked up at his silly jokes like they were stand-up gold. Liked that Isack and Ollie bickered over who got to sit next to you at dinner and asked a million questions about the baby’s name, and liked that Liam always offered to carry anything remotely heavy before Max even had to glance your way.

Max used to be the one people warned the rookies about, but they couldn't of been more wrong, he was the one they spoke to when something felt off with the car or their contract or their headspace. Now he was the one they trusted. The one who steadied the room.

You catch him watching them sometimes when they’re not looking, eyes softened, beer forgotten in his hand, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s only just realising how much things have changed. How much he’s changed.

From grid terror to mentor. From lone lion to leader.

From world champion to dad-in-waiting.

And even though your back aches and your feet are twice their usual size and one of the boys just accidentally spilled guacamole on your sarong, you glance over at Max sitting with Kimi, animatedly talking through race lines with toothpick gestures and your heart squeezes.

So here you are, towel draped over your bump, wearing Max’s linen shirt unbuttoned over your bikini, toes dangling in the water from the back deck while the rookies argue over who has to paddle board back to the boat with the beer.

“Rock-paper-scissors doesn’t count if Liam cheats every time!” Franco shouts, splashing water at Liam, who retaliates with a dramatic belly flop off the float.

The float shakes with the aftermath of his impact, nearly capsizing Gabriel, who shrieks and clutches the sides.

“I don’t cheat,” Liam calls, surfacing. “I just read you like a book mate.”

From below deck Max emerges barefoot, relaxed, and tanned in that smug, infuriatingly beautiful way only men on holiday seem to manage. He’s got two bottles of water in his hands and that soft, lazy grin that always melts you. But his eyes? They go straight to you the second he steps into the sunlight.

“You okay?” he asks softly, voice low like always when it’s just for you.

You nod toward the chaos. “They’re arguing about who’s the most annoying,” you report dryly. “Frankly? I’d disqualify the lot of them.”

He chuckles, handing you a bottle and crouching down beside your deck chair. His hand rests on your bump automatically, without ceremony it’s just second nature now. You realise how new that is. Not the act, but the ease of it. The casual certainty.

“I swear I saw Kimi trying to butter you up earlier, calling you beautiful.” he says, eyes still scanning your face as if checking for signs of fatigue.

You grin. “He did. Right before asking if he could race the jet skis later.”

Max groans. “He’s banned.”

“Max.”

“I’m serious, do you not remember last time?” he says, rubbing his hand over his face. “One of them’s going to try something stupid and I’ll end up explaining to the FIA why our rookie class is now down to five.”

You hum as Max leans in, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before whispering, “I’m putting a ban on anyone who makes you laugh too hard and starts contractions early.”

You burst into a snort-laugh so intense your belly jiggles and Max instinctively puts a hand on it like he's bracing for a kick. The timing is impeccable, Ollie suddenly reappears like a wet, apologetic tornado, holding a half-deflated flamingo float.

“Hey, uh, Max?” Ollie says, soaked to the bone and blinking salt from his eyes. “We may have…accidentally lost the jet ski key.”

Max exhales, standing up like a man preparing for war. “I give them two hours of free time.”

You grin. “You love them really.”

“They’re idiots.”

“You’re protective of them.”

“You’re worse.”

“I’m nurturing.”

“You bribed Isack with tiramisu to wear sunscreen.”

“That's effective nurturing,” you say, smug.

Max grumbles something in Dutch under his breath that you’re pretty sure translates to “married a menace,” then stomps toward the edge of the deck like a reluctant camp counsellor.

He shoots you a look but you catch the smile tugging at his lips as he stomps toward the edge of the deck, where a sunburnt Liam is already holding up his hands like he’s pleading innocence. “Mate! Before you say anything—”

Max turns to you, gesturing wildly. “I’m going to need a holiday from the holiday.”

You just stretch out your legs and smirk. He glares at you half-heartedly before turning back to his brood of soggy, sunburnt children as you lean back, heart full.

Later that evening the sun slips below the horizon in a smear of honeyed gold and dusky violet. The chaos of the day has finally ebbed, the rookies all sunburnt shoulders and sore muscles have finally exhausted themselves after spending an hour trying to outdo one another’s flips off the top deck

Now peace has settled over the yacht like a warm blanket. You and Max are curled up together on the wide cushioned sun bed at the stern, wrapped in the gentle sway of the sea. The soft hum of an old playlist drifts through the speakers, something acoustic and nostalgic, and below deck the faintest trace of laughter rises. Gabi you’re sure is trying to convince Franco to microwave instant noodles without reading the instructions.

You shift, discomfort blooming beneath your ribs, and Max responds before you even ask, his hands guiding your body with practiced gentleness, adjusting the pillows and settling you against him until you exhale in relief. His chest is warm against your back, arm around your shoulders, and one hand resting protectively across the spot where your baby has spent the last half hour attempting to audition for a football team.

“They really appreciate you, you know,” you murmur, voice barely louder than the lapping of the waves.

Max hums. “Because I yell at them less than their engineers?”

You turn your head just enough to glance up at him. “No. Because you care and because they know you’ll be there if need someone.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead his eyes drift to the open water, watching the shimmering lights of another boat in the distance flicker across the black waves like tiny beacons. The sky overhead is velvet now, peppered with stars that haven’t looked this bright in years.

“You think I’ll be good at this?” he asks quietly, voice low and uncertain, that rare vulnerability that slips out only when it’s just you and him and the dark.

You blink, surprised by the question. “Good at what?”

He shifts slightly behind you. “Being a dad.”

Your heart tightens that quiet, aching kind of squeeze that comes when love and sadness meet. You reach for his hand where it rests over your bump, threading your fingers through his.

“You already are,” you whisper.

His eyes flick down to your stomach, then back toward the open door where, just moments ago, Kimi had peeked out, clocked your intertwined limbs and whispered conversation, and silently ducked back in. The rookies had learned quickly that when Max was with you like this, he wasn’t to be disturbed unless something was on fire.

“I just… worry,” he admits. “That I won’t know how to protect them. Or that I’ll be too hard. Or not hard enough. That I’ll screw it up without meaning to.”

You reach up and cup his cheek, your thumb brushing the line of stubble there. He closes his eyes at the touch, like it anchors him.

“Max,” you murmur, “you’ve basically raised six grown toddlers this season without even trying. You’re gentle with Kimi when he’s too proud to ask for help. You talk Gabriel through his imposter syndrome. You let Isack rant about strategy and actually listen. You’ll be great with one baby who’s already biologically programmed to think you’re a god.”

“I just want to do it right,” he breathes.

“You will,” you promise. “You already are.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s soft, filled with the sound of waves lapping against the hull, the distant laughter of boys who haven’t yet set the kitchen on fire, and the quiet hum of two hearts leaning into the future together.

And then—

“GUYS,” Ollie voice cuts through the serenity like a siren, “IS THE OVEN SUPPOSED TO BE SMOKING?!”

Max lets out a long, suffering groan, tilting his head back like he’s praying for strength. “I’m getting a babysitter clause in the next contract.”

You laugh, bright and unfiltered, and the baby kicks again, like they’re in on the joke.

Max glances down at your stomach, then at you, and tightens his arm around you just a little more. You don’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have to. You can feel the smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he kisses your temple and slowly starts rising, mumbling something about “adult supervision” and “setting a minimum IQ requirement for future vacations.”

Still even as he stomps downstairs to save the kitchen from whatever culinary war is unfolding you feel it in your bones.

He’s going to be the best dad in the world.

It’s smeared on his skin, on the sheets, on you.

“What—what the fuck?” you say, scrambling up, your chest heaving, heat rushing to your face for all the wrong reasons now. “What—why am I—?”

You can’t even finish the question. You throw the covers back trying to get a better look at yourself, but it only makes it worse. There’s more. On your thighs. A deep red smear. It’s not gushing, but it’s there, and it’s enough, and it’s feels wrong.

“I’m bleeding,” you choke out. “Oh my god, I’m actually bleeding—what the fuck?”

“Hey, hey—wait.” Max’s voice is shaky, not as steady as he wants it to be. He fumbles for something to help clean you, his hands clumsy. “Just hold on. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

But you push his hands away, frantic, climbing off the bed, trying to make it to the bathroom on shaking legs.

Max follows.

“Baby, stop—please. Just—” He runs a hand through his hair, clearly panicking but trying to hold it together. “You’re okay. I mean—you’re… I don’t know what this is but you’ll be okay.”

“It’s not my period,” you say sharply. “It’s not due for another week. And I was fine earlier. I wasn’t—there was nothing—and now—”

“Hey. Look at me.”

You do. Barely. Your hands are shaking, arms wrapped around your bare chest like they might keep your heart from pounding out of it.

Max swallows hard, takes a step closer. He looks scared himself but determined.

“You’re not—fuck, I don’t even know what to say—but you’re not broken. You didn’t… you didn’t do anything wrong. Just breathe.”

Your eyes blur.

“I don’t know what’s happening.”

He grabs a towel clumsily, wraps it around you even though his hands are shaking. “Come sit. Please. Just… sit with me for a second.”

And you do, trembling as he leads you back to the bed, not caring about the stained sheets now. He sits beside you rubbing circles into your back.

“I—” He hesitates, fumbling. “I don’t know why this happens. I don’t get it but it doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you. Bodies just… do weird shit sometimes right? We’ll call your doctor tomorrow. Or now. Whatever you want.”

You look at your hands. “Do you think I need to go to a hospital?”

Max’s jaw tightens. His first instinct is to say yes, but he stops himself, fumbling. “I don’t think—I mean, it’s not like you’re, you know bleeding out… but if you want to go I’ll take you. Right now. Just say the word.”

Your throat works around a lump. “You’re not…grossed out?”

Max blinks, caught off guard. “Grossed—what? No. No, god, are you kidding?”

Your cheeks burn. “We were literally in the middle of—of everything, and then…”

“And then something happened that you couldn’t control.” He tilts your chin toward him, eyes a little frantic but steady on yours. “You really think this makes me… look at you different?”

You open your mouth but no sound comes out. You just stare at him.

“I love you,” Max blurts, almost too fast, like he needs you to hear it right now. “That’s the only thing I always know for sure. This doesn’t change that. Not even a little.”

You let out a shaky breath and lean into him, pressing your face into his shoulder. You hate how your voice wobbles when you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His lips brush your temple, clumsy but tender. “Please don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He wraps his arms around you tighter, towel and all, and just holds you there on the edge of the bed, like the moment wasn’t interrupted, like everything’s still safe and warm.

Eventually he murmurs, “Do you… want me to help you clean up?”

You nod, embarrassed but grateful.

Max helps you up gently, guides you into the bathroom. He turns on the warm water, makes you sit while he dampens a cloth and kneels in front of you.

You tense when he touches your thigh, but his voice is low and careful. “Tell me if it hurts yeah?”

“It doesn’t,” you say quietly.

He’s clumsy at first, but careful. Tender. Like you’re glass and gold and none of this has changed the way he sees you.

When he’s done he dries you off and presses a soft kiss to your knee.

“You’re still perfect,” he says.

You smile, wet-eyed. “Even if my uterus decided to have a meltdown in the middle of sex?”

He laughs, nervous but genuine. “Yeah. Even then.”

You laugh too weak but real and he helps you into clean underwear and hands you one of his old soft shirts

“Take your time,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right here.”

You nod and close the door behind you, when you come back out. Max sets his phone down fast. “Hey. You okay?”

You nod slowly, sitting beside him on the bed.

“I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck, hesitating. “I looked some stuff up. While you were in there. I didn’t know what it was and you looked so scared. I just wanted to… maybe figure something out.”

He shifts, picking the phone back up. “It said it could be like breakthrough bleeding. Or maybe irritation from, you know… us. Sometimes that happens apparently. Or stress, which kind of tracks? You’ve been travelling so much lately and your stomach’s been acting weird.”

He’s rambling yet careful with the words, nervous, like he's afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“I’m not trying to diagnose you or anything. I just didn’t want to sit here doing nothing. I thought—maybe it’s not as scary as it feels.”

You exhale, your shoulders loosening just a little. “Thank you,” you say softly.

Max relaxes just slightly, like your reaction gave him permission to breathe again.

Then more quietly he adds, “We’ll still call your doctor. Just to be sure.”

You look at him, how nervous he is, how hard he’s trying to stay calm for your sake, and for the first time all night, your chest loosens just a little.

Max strips the bed and replaces the sheets, fluffs the pillows without being asked. When you crawl back in he tucks you in like it’s any other night.

Later when you’re curled up beside him, silence filling the room, he shifts closer. His arm slides around your waist, pulling you gently into him until your head rests on his chest. You can feel his heart still beating a little too fast beneath your cheek.

“You scared me a little there” he admits quietly, voice rough in the dark. “I didn’t know what to do. Still don’t really.”

You tilt your head up. His eyes meet yours wide, honest, still nervous.

“You did enough,” you whisper.

Something flickers across his face relief maybe, but also something needier. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your skin and then he leans in. The kiss is gentle at first, tentative, but it deepens quickly.

You breathe into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. The world narrows to the warmth of his mouth, the steady press of him against you, and the way his breath hitches like he’s just as desperate for this closeness as you are.

Eventually he tucks you in closer, your legs tangled beneath the covers, his hand resting on your side like he’s not planning to move for a while.

Your eyes drift shut and just before you fall asleep you hear him exhale against your hair.

“Love you. Always.”

And wrapped up in him, you believe it.

Once you’d clapped Carlos on the back after a post-race debrief, nothing more than a casual gesture, a shared moment between colleagues. Within hours the image was online, zoomed in just enough to make it suggestive. ‘New paddock romance?’ the caption teased, alongside an absurd collage of other completely innocent moments.

Lando had doubled over laughing when you told him the story of your first karting spin, wheezing into his water bottle. The next morning a fan account posted a slow-motion clip of the moment, layered with romantic music and the caption: ‘There’s definitely something going on here 👀’

It was relentless. Exhausting. No matter how well you drove, how many laps you nailed, how composed you stayed under pressure it was always overshadowed by whispers and speculation and the insinuation that your presence was only interesting in relation to a man.

So you adapted. You hardened. You protected yourself the only way you knew how, you kept your head down, your words measured, your smiles polite and distant. You became a master of the neutral expression, of making every interaction quick and forgettable. You learned to keep your circle tight and your tone tighter.

Especially with him.

Max Verstappen. Your teammate. The reigning World Champion. The one person you absolutely couldn’t afford to be linked to not in the way the internet loved to imagine.

Every glance between you two would be scrutinised. Every clipped interview picked apart like evidence. Every frame of every team photo reviewed like it held a secret. Even an accidental brush of hands during a team walk-through could spark an entire Reddit thread.

So you were extra careful with Max. Hyperaware.

Polite. Professional. Distant.

Not because you didn’t like him, but because the world would love to assume that you did and you were tired of being reduced to someone’s side plot.

You knew he noticed.

How could he not?

Max was observant, sharp in ways people often overlooked and with you he had started to notice everything.

He’d make a joke during a press conference, dry, usually cloaked in sarcasm and the room would laugh. You’d smile without laughing, your expression carefully measured. A flicker of amusement quickly smothered. When he gestured toward something during a team debrief you’d nod in acknowledgment, eyes skimming past him too fast to invite further conversation. You communicated mainly through engineers not directly. Debriefs were business-only. On the rare occasions you were near him without a buffer it never lasted long.

Max hadn’t taken it personally, he’d assumed you were cold, or new and trying to make a point. Maybe hyper-competitive, maybe just not interested in camaraderie.

But then he started to see the pattern. To really see it.

It wasn’t coldness. It wasn’t ego. It was… strategy. Self-preservation.

You filtered every comment like it might be repurposed as a headline. You tensed visibly when cameras turned your way, posture tightening as though you could physically shrink the space you occupied. You said nothing that could be twisted, offered no openings, left no footprints behind.

It wasn’t arrogance.

It was caution.

Something about that got under Max’s skin, not in irritation, but in curiosity. In… something softer. Something closer to protectiveness.

He started watching you. Not in a way that was inappropriate or intrusive, just quietly, attentively. He paid attention.

The way you inhaled just before the anthem played and only let your breath go when it ended, like you were bracing yourself for more than just a race. The way you reviewed data after miserable sessions, always asking for the long-run numbers, digging for answers when others would’ve walked away frustrated. The way you folded your race gloves the same precise way before every session, fingertips aligned, palms flat. Ritual, or control. Maybe both.

He started trying to find new ways to talk to you, subtly at first, casually.

“Did you feel that weird tailwind in Sector 2?” he’d ask after free practice, voice low and intentionally offhand.

You’d blink, surprised then give a cautious nod. “Yeah I thought I was imagining it.”

Small moments. Harmless questions. Tyre warm-up, brake bias, aero tweaks, nothing he couldn’t figure out on his own, but asking gave you space to talk freely. It let you exist beside him, not beneath scrutiny.

Slowly things began to change.

You cracked a joke once during a post-session meeting. Quick and dry, but clever. He caught it, laughed under his breath. He didn’t miss the small twitch of satisfaction on your lips before your expression returned to neutral.

You started sitting beside him during briefings instead of across the room, sometimes you’d lean over to point at something on his telemetry, your shoulder brushing his for a split second. Once you handed him a water bottle during a heat-heavy triple-header and he didn’t miss the flicker of a smile when he thanked you.

You were still careful, still guarded, but for the first time Max found himself wondering if maybe you didn’t want to be distant only that the world had taught you to be, but maybe you were beginning to wonder if he was safe enough to let in.

After Canada Max lingered in the hospitality suite longer than usual. He stood apart from the commotion, sipping slowly from a half-full glass of something fizzy, his eyes trained across the room.

You were at the buffet reaching for a spoonful of roasted vegetables, too tired to think about how little you actually wanted to eat. The adrenaline had worn off and the ache was setting in shoulders tight, head pounding from the helmet, mind fogged from too many laps and not enough silence.

You felt it before you saw it: that familiar weight of someone watching.

You looked up.

Max didn’t glance away.

Instead he lifted his glass slightly in acknowledgement, the gesture subtle but unmistakable. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, real and unforced. Not the one he gave to cameras. The kind that felt like it belonged only to you.

You hesitated.

Your instinct was to look away. Stay behind the glass. Play it safe.

But instead, you tilted your head. Considered. Then walked toward him.

His eyebrows rose slightly not in surprise that you’d moved, but in the fact that you'd chosen him to move toward. He straightened a little as you approached, subtly shifting to make space.

“You were on fire in the wet today,” he said, voice low, just between the two of you.

You shrugged, brushing it off. “You were quicker on the inters. I was just trying to keep it clean.”

He nodded. Didn't argue. Just let the moment sit.

After a beat he said, “You don’t have to do that you know.”

You blinked. “Do what?”

He met your gaze evenly. “Shrink.”

Your breath caught in your chest like you’d stepped off a ledge you didn’t know was there.

He hadn’t said it with judgment. There was no accusation in his tone. No pity either. Just quiet understanding, spoken like a truth between equals. Like someone who had lived in the harsh spotlight long enough to recognise when someone else was dimming their own light just to survive its glare.

“I’m not shrinking,” you said, but your voice betrayed you smaller than you intended. You cleared your throat. “I’m surviving.”

Max’s eyes softened. He nodded once, as if to say I know.

Silence stretched for a moment, heavy but not uncomfortable. Something real had passed between you, finally unspoken no longer. You studied him, searching his expression for anything that might make you regret this tiny crack in your armour.

There was none.

“Thanks.”

His head tilted, brow furrowing slightly. “For what?”

“For noticing.”

He didn’t smile this time, he looked at you, really looked, and for a moment, in the middle of the noise and the flashbulbs and the invisible rules that governed your every interaction, it felt like the world paused. Like maybe, for once, you weren’t alone in it.

After that things were different.

There was no grand announcement, no sudden change in how you stood or spoke, but you felt it. A quiet recalibration. A soft realignment of trust.

Max started waiting for you after debriefs. Not lingering awkwardly, but casually loitering near the exit until you were done, walking with you like it was the most natural thing in the world. During press conferences he’d glance your way whenever someone asked something asinine, like when a reporter veiled a sexist jab in a joke, or asked you to comment on another driver’s love life instead of your own performance. He didn’t roll his eyes exactly, but there was a shared look between you dry, knowing. A silent here we go again.

Sometimes he would cut in when a journalist interrupted you or twisted your words, redirecting the conversation without raising his voice or drawing attention. It was always measured. Precise. Just enough to shift the tone, enough that you didn’t feel alone in the room. He never doubted that you could hold your own, but he wanted you to know you didn’t have to do it alone.

You started texting him more often. At first it was technical, lap deltas, tyre degradation, strategy tweaks. You weren’t sure when the tone changed only that one day you sent him a meme about your awkward sponsor shoot where you’d been asked to wear a hideous branded bucket hat, and he sent back a blurry selfie in the same hat the next day with a deadpan caption:

Twins.

Then it spiralled, sarcastic commentary about forced PR, screenshots of ridiculous online rumours, videos of your race engineers falling asleep mid-briefing. He sent you a photo of a “motivational” poster in the Milton Keynes gym that said Second is the first loser, with the caption:

So encouraging. I’m inspired.

It was easy. Effortless. A friendship born not of proximity but of recognition.

One night after Silverstone the weather had finally turned after a long day of grey skies and unexpected delays. The track was quiet now, washed in the faint glimmer of streetlamps and leftover mist. Most of the team had left hours ago. You’d stayed late reviewing onboard footage in the media room, trying to find any mistake you made. Max had been in the sim trailer, running laps just to feel the car again.

You both emerged around the same time.

He fell into step beside you without a word, walking back toward the paddock through the damp gravel path, the air smelling of rain and rubber.

“You know,” he said suddenly, his voice soft against the quiet night, “you’re one of the most focused drivers I’ve ever seen.”

You blinked, surprised. Then laughed, dry and unsure. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

“It is,” he said without hesitation.

You turned your head to look at him. He wasn’t joking. His face was calm, but his eyes were warm, curious, searching, like he always wanted to understand the whole picture not just the headline version of you.

“I like that you care about everything,” he added after a pause. “People think that kind of caring makes you soft but it doesn’t it makes you strong.”

Something in you stilled. You’d heard a lot of things in this sport, too much, too often, but never that.

It wasn’t flirtation, but it loosened something tight in your chest. Something you hadn’t even realised you’d been holding for so long.

You nudged his arm with your elbow, just lightly. “Thank you.”

Max glanced down at you and smiled, a rare, lopsided thing that made him look younger.

“Anytime,” he said.

The media still speculated. Still zoomed in, cropped photos, pushed narratives like they were chasing a prize. A brush of shoulders became a headline. A shared laugh turned into a shipping theory. They whispered about chemistry, tension, proximity always from the outside looking in.

But over time you stopped letting it cage you. The world may never stop watching, never stop twisting pieces of you into stories that sold, but you learned to stop measuring yourself against their noise.

You stopped holding your breath when a camera clicked. Stopped second-guessing every glance, every word, every gesture, because you knew exactly who you were, and exactly why you were here, and that certainty mattered more than their headlines ever could.

You walked beside Max now instead of hanging back. You smiled more in interviews, laughed loudly when he made some dry remark designed solely to make you react. On the grid when he tossed you a teasing comment about beating his time, you tossed one back, quick and sharp, earning a grin from him that lingered long after the cameras had turned away.

When someone finally asked point-blank if the two of you were getting close, Max didn’t dodge. Didn’t play coy.

He just looked at the journalist, then over at you, and smiled like the answer was obvious.

“She’s my teammate,” he said easily. “Of course we’re close.”

You smiled because for once the world had caught on late.

By the time they started speculating about what might be happening behind the scenes Max was already waiting outside your motorhome with two take out cups, one exactly how you liked it, the other still too hot for him to drink, wearing that same quiet, patient smile that always made your walls fall without a fight.

He handed it to you without a word, fingers brushing yours just briefly, deliberately. His eyes searched yours for a moment, checking in like he always did.

And you didn’t look away.

You didn’t need to.

Somewhere between the smirks, the strategy chats, and the slow unraveling of guarded silence… something had changed.

Not just in the way he looked at you.

But in the way you looked back.

You let him see all of it now, the gratitude, the fondness, the tension that had curled around your ribs for months. The way your heart had started to ache when he wasn’t near, and settle when he was.

Max, still holding your gaze, smiled like he understood every word you hadn’t said yet. Then he leaned in just slightly, just enough and said, “Come with me.”

You didn’t ask where.

You just nodded.

He stopped when you reached the edge of the paddock. The lights from the team trailers cast a soft golden glow over his features, and for a second he just looked at you.

You stepped closer, your fingers still curled around the warm paper cup he’d brought you, your other hand brushing lightly against his, hesitant, but hopeful.

It was ironic, in a way. You’d spent so long managing perception. So long playing it safe. Smiling just enough, speaking just enough, keeping a careful distance because one wrong photo, one lingering glance, and everything you’d worked for could be rewritten into someone else’s story.

You’d spent months if not years resisting the headlines, fighting against every lazy narrative that tried to tether your name to a driver’s. You’d built walls of professionalism, of distance, careful not to give them the satisfaction of being right.

And yet here you were, about to close that distance with Max. But it didn’t matter because this moment wasn’t theirs, it wasn’t proof of their speculation and it wasn’t about them. They hadn’t seen this, hadn’t earned this, hadn’t understood the way he’d been the one to help save you from their noise, steady you when the world tried to twist your story.

This moment was yours. Yours and his, and no headline could claim it. It wasn’t about how it looked. It was about how it felt. Just you and him and the quiet, thrilling freedom of finally letting yourself want something out loud.

Voice low and steady, he finally said, “I’ve been waiting so long to do this.”

He leaned in a little, but not all the way.

Not yet.

His eyes searched yours, and then, barely perceptible, he nodded once. Asking, Are you sure?

You nodded back.

And that was all he needed.

When he leaned in it was slow. Soft at first, as if still asking.

Then deeper when you answered.

It wasn’t a kiss made for the cameras. It wasn’t fireworks or heat or spectacle. It was slow, and certain, and impossibly tender. The kind of kiss that says, I see you. I’ve seen you all along.

When he pulled back his forehead rested against yours, both of you still smiling, still breathing like the world had paused for you.

You opened your eyes and found his already waiting.

You didn’t know what came next, neither of you did but for the first time in a long time that didn’t scare you at all.

In fact it felt a little like hope… and a lot like something worth holding onto.

Even as the years passed, as scraped knees gave way to winged eyeliner and dangerous heels, as your wide-eyed chaos turned to sharp wit and flirtatious barbs, Max still called you Trouble.

He said it with a smirk when he passed you in the paddock. With a raised brow when you snuck around different motorhomes. With a warning edge when he caught you talking too close to a driver he didn’t like.

He was older than you by six years and that made Charles uneasy enough, but the real issue was that you never really saw Max as just your older brother’s friend. You pushed buttons. Challenged him. Teased him in a way that left him biting his cheek and avoiding your gaze. You played it light, always laughing, always teasing, but Max could feel it. The heat beneath it. The line you were daring him to cross.

And Max? He did what he was supposed to do.

He hid behind his loyalty. His self-control.

His internal rulebook that screamed, Don’t touch your friend’s little sister.

Don’t look at her like that.

Don’t want her like that.

But you made it so goddamn hard.

Especially now.

Because Monaco was hot and the season was long and tonight… you were back.

The club was dark and loud, drenched in red light and bass-heavy music that made the floor feel like it was breathing beneath Max’s feet. He stood by the bar, nursing a half-finished drink with the detached calm of someone who didn’t want to be recognised. He was planning an early night, a quick appearance, a few drinks, a vague nod to the DJ, but then—

“Maxieeee.”

The voice hit him first. Then came the smell, citrus and something dangerously sweet.

Then he saw you, you were back, he hadn’t seen you in months and you were no longer the girl he first met hanging upside down from the scaffolding. Now you were walking toward him with fire in your eyes and a look that said you knew exactly what you were doing.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders without hesitation, pulling him into a hug that was more skin than fabric, more heat than greeting.

He pulled back slightly, eyes skimming over you.

You were wearing something short and black, all legs and skin and intention, red lipstick that made his head spin and that look in your eyes? It was a spark. No… an open flame.

“Trouble,” he said on instinct, but it came out lower than he meant. Rougher. Hungrier.

You tilted your head. “Haven’t heard that in a while.”

He tried to smirk, tried to keep it light, but he could already feel the warmth creeping up his neck. “Maybe I thought you grew out of it.”

You leaned in closer, your lips just barely brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Maybe I just got better at hiding it.”

Max’s grip tightened around his glass as he nearly choked on his drink, coughed, then exhaled sharply through his nose, like he could laugh it off, like you weren’t affecting him. But you were, and you both knew it.

“Where’s Charles?” he asked, grounding himself, like saying your brother’s name would remind him why this was off-limits.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m a big girl Max I can be out without a chaperone.”

Max let out a slow breath, trying not to look at your legs. “Just looking out for you.”

“Of course you are.” You sipped your drink, eyes locked on his over the rim of your glass. “But when was the last time you looked at me and didn’t just see scraped knees and bad ideas?”

Max met your gaze then. Held it. And for the first time in all the years he’d known you… he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

You saw it happen.

The shift.

And you smiled.

An hour later the two of you were tucked into a dimly lit booth in the farthest corner of the club, half-sunk into cracked leather cushions with drinks in hand. The music thumped through the walls, muffled but constant, like a pulse you couldn’t escape but in that little corner draped in red shadows and shared glances it felt like the rest of the world had gone quiet.

Max had stopped pretending a while ago.

No more polite distance. No more carefully averted eyes. His leg pressed against your bare thigh every time you shifted but he never pulled back. His hand sat casually on the booth, fingers twitching close to yours like they wanted to reach but didn’t dare. His expression was unreadable, sharp jaw, tense shoulders, but his body language was cracked wide open.

You threw your head back at something he said. That unfiltered, warm kind of laugh that made your eyes sparkle and your lipstick smudge at the corners.

Max’s gaze dropped to your mouth.

And without thinking, he murmured it again:

“Trouble.”

You leaned closer, your voice soft but sharp. “Still calling me that like it’s a bad thing.”

Max swallowed. “It is a bad thing.”

You smiled, slow and wicked. “Then why do you look like you’re enjoying it so much?”

He blinked, jaw tightening.

You watched the exact moment the leash around his control started to slip. The war inside him, crumbling brick by brick.

“You want the truth?” he asked, and his voice was hoarse now.

You nodded once.

Maybe it was the alcohol or the dark corner or the way you were looking at him, but before he could stop himself he leaned forward, breath brushing your cheek as he whispered, “Because I’ve been trying not to look at you like this for years,” he whispered. “And now that I am…” His eyes dropped to your lips, lingering. “…I’m fucked.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t tease. Didn’t try to cut the tension with a joke like you might’ve once.

You just whispered back, so quiet it made him ache. “So do something about it.”

His hand moved before his mind did slipping up to your jaw, rough thumb brushing your cheek. He tilted your head just slightly, just enough to really look at you, to make sure you meant it.

You did.

And Max kissed you.

Not like a friend. Not even like someone crossing a line. But like a man who’d been holding back a hurricane and had finally let loose.

The kiss was slow at first, deliberate like he wanted to memorise the taste of you. Like he couldn’t believe he was finally allowed. Your lips parted for him without hesitation, and his other hand found your waist, anchoring you to him.

You tasted like vodka and heat and everything he’d spent years trying to pretend he didn’t want.

Years of tension unraveled in a single, drawn-out kiss.

His lips moved with more urgency, tongue sweeping into your mouth as a low, guttural sound escaped from deep in his chest. Your fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, bodies pressed flush like the space between you had always been too much to bear.

He pulled you further into him without breaking the kiss, his hand sliding down to your hip, gripping like he needed to leave a mark. You gasped softly against his mouth and it only made him kiss you harder.

You were the one who pulled back, just slightly, lips brushing his as you caught your breath. You were smiling, soft and smug, and so you it made Max feel dizzy.

“Took you long enough.”

He let his forehead fall against yours, fingers sliding gently along your waist, both of you still tucked into that impossible little world of red light.

“Charles is going to kill me,” he muttered.

You grinned. “That’s future Max’s problem.”

He laughed as his hand slipped under you pulling you close again.

“Yeah,” he murmured, stealing another kiss, “and you’re still trouble.”

This time, it wasn’t a warning. It was a confession.

Max hadn’t meant to take you home.

At the start of the night that wasn’t even a thought, but now, he couldn’t not. He just… didn’t want the night to end.

Not when you were holding his hand like that. Not when you looked at him like that.

And apparently neither did you.

You’d clung to his hand outside the club, the cool Monaco air brushing your skin as you leaned into him, shoes dangling from your fingertips, bare feet on the cobblestones. You didn’t say anything when he hailed a taxi. Didn’t let go when he said, quietly, “Mine or yours?”

“Yours,” you said without hesitation.

And that was that.

Now, hours later, Max was wide awake.

The apartment was quiet. The kind of quiet that only exists in the middle of the night, soft, sacred, suspended.

You were curled up beside him breathing slow and even, your cheek pressed to his chest, one arm flung across his waist like you belonged there. Like you always had.

You hadn’t slept together. You’d just curled up beside him in a borrowed pair of his pyjamas, warm and quiet, your body pressed to his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He stared up at the ceiling eyes wide open, his fingers tracing light absent-minded circles on your bare arm.

He could still feel the ghost of your lips on his. The taste of your kiss. He could still hear your voice, low and quiet from earlier that night when you had first got back and laid side by side on his couch:

“Do you remember when I tried to set you up with my friend from university because I needed someone to double date with?”

“Yeah,” he’d chuckled, “she asked if I could name three books and I panicked.”

“You told her your car manual counts.” you giggled.

“Technically it does have chapters.”

“Max.”

“Okay, yeah, I was an idiot. I didn’t want to be on that date anyway.”

“Why’d you come then?”

He’d looked at you, soft and honest. “Because you asked me to.”

You’d gone quiet after that. Max had realised that he couldn’t remember a time when you weren’t pulling him into your orbit. A slow, steady gravitational force he’d never quite been able to fight.

And now, lying in bed with you in the dark, heart pounding beneath your cheek, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to try.

He turned his head to look at you. Your lips were slightly parted. One leg had tangled itself between his. Your makeup was smudged and your hair was a little wild and you were so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache.

But then came the weight.

Charles.

Charles who trusted him.

Charles who once glared at Max for an entire day after making you laugh too hard during a press event.

Charles who used to lean on Max for advice about how to protect you from the chaos of this world.

“She’s always been too fearless,” Charles had muttered once, pacing outside the paddock hospitality lounge. “Too flirtatious. She doesn’t understand what kind of attention she draws. I’m not blaming her for that but I just want her to be okay.”

And Max had said:

“I’ve got her. I’ll look out for her.”

He meant it at the time. He still did.

But this? Was this looking out for you?

He hadn’t meant to let the teasing evolve into something warmer. Hadn’t meant to feel jealous every time you dated some new guy who didn’t get your jokes or understand the way your mind worked. Hadn’t meant to start craving your attention. Your chaos. Your company.

Max let out a slow breath and closed his eyes, letting the memories swirl like smoke, familiar, intoxicating, and far too late to run from now.

There was the time you’d snuck into the Red Bull motorhome with a stolen pass and a grin that could get you out of anything.

Max had spotted you crouched at the snack table, wrist-deep in his stash of gummy bears.

“What the hell?” he laughed, already shaking his head.

You glanced up, wide-eyed and unbothered.

“Don’t tell Charles you saw me,” you whispered.

“You are so much trouble.”

“You like it.”

And maybe… even then he had.

Even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud for years.

One year you’d show up in the garage during testing in Barcelona, bold as ever, notebook in hand.

“Doing research,” you announced, sliding up beside him.

“For what?” Max asked.

“Future team principal. I need to understand the enemy.”

“Is that what I am?”

“Only on paper.”

“And off paper?”

“I’ll let you know.”

You were always toeing the line. Always keeping him guessing. Always staying just on the edge of something neither of you had the nerve to name.

He remembered another day, one that haunted him right now.

He and Charles were walking back to the paddock after media day. You’d been in the hospitality suite earlier, charming every single person in the room with your adorable smile and quick wit.

Max had said something stupid, without thinking more amused than serious. “She’s going to ruin some poor guy’s life one day.”

Charles barely looked up from his espresso. “Yeah. Which is why none of you are allowed anywhere near her.”

Max turned, eyebrows lifting. “What?”

Charles didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”

Max forced a laugh, trying to play it off. “Relax mate. I was just saying.”

“If any of my friends touch her… I think I’d kill them.”

“I’m sure you would.” Max had laughed it off at the time.

But the truth?

He was already in deeper than he wanted to admit. Already watching you too closely. Already memorising your smile.

Your 21st birthday. Milan.

You’d dragged Max onto the dance floor, unapologetic and glowing, pulling him into a crowd of bodies and bass-heavy music. You sang into his ear, off-key and smiling, while his hand hovered at your waist, too low, then a little higher, then back again like he couldn’t trust himself to settle.

Charles was watching from the bar. Arms crossed. Always watching.

But you didn’t care. You looked up at him, eyes bright, mouth close, and said:

“One day you’re going to realise I’m not a little girl anymore.”

That line came crashing back now as Max looked down at you sleeping peacefully in his bed wearing one of his old T-shirts, your body curled into his like it was always meant to be there.

You weren’t a girl anymore.

And Max?

He wasn’t just your brother’s friend trying to do the right thing.

He was in it now.

Wrapped up in you, in your laugh, your fire, your absolute refusal to be anything other than yourself.

Heart and soul.

And Charles?

Max sighed, he didn’t know how to face that yet. Didn’t know what it would look like when the truth finally came out, but right now… he couldn’t bring himself to regret a damn thing.

Because your leg shifted beneath the sheets, brushing against his. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and even in sleep, you pressed a little closer to him like your body already knew what he hadn’t let himself say.

Max closed his eyes, head tipping back against the pillow.

Trouble.

Yeah.

He was in so much trouble.

The sunlight cut softly through the blinds, painting pale gold lines across the sheets. Max stirred first.

His body was stiff from staying still all night, he felt the gentle weight of your arm draped across his chest, your fingers curling loosely against his side. Your face was tucked just below his collarbone, lips parted slightly in sleep, breathing slow and even.

You were still wearing his T-shirt. It hung loose on you one shoulder exposed where the fabric had slipped. Your legs were tangled with his beneath the duvet, warm and familiar.

He blinked up at the ceiling, heartbeat steady but too loud in his own ears and couldn’t help but think.

What the fuck had he done? Not from regret. Never that. But in the quiet, slow dawning of consequence. The part where morning light made everything feel more real, more fragile, more dangerous.

His eyes drifted back down to your face and something twisted in his chest. You looked peaceful here. Soft in a way he rarely saw. So unlike the whirlwind girl who used to sprint through the paddock with a pocket full of bribes for the mechanics, the girl who on more than one occasion roped Max into “helping her sneak into Red Bull’s telemetry room for academic reasons.”

He swallowed hard. You were trouble, you always had been, but this, you here, this wasn’t some reckless moment.

This felt real. And that was what scared him most.

His hand hovered near your cheek almost touching you, but not quite. Instead he let his eyes close for a moment as more memories came.

It was summer and you were nineteen, barefoot on the deck of his boat, salt in your hair and wearing a tiny bikini, dancing around with a plastic cup in your hand.

Max sat under the canopy, half-watching, half-annoyed with himself for how long he’d been watching.

Charles stood next to him, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“She’s not a kid anymore,” Charles said quietly, the weight of it pressing into his voice. “She doesn’t make it easy. I hate that I can’t always protect her the way I used to.”

Max had scoffed, trying to seem casual. “She’ll be fine.”

Charles looked at him, sharp and serious.

“Don’t pretend you don’t see it. Don’t be fucking stupid.”

Max had said nothing.

Because he had seen it and he’d been stupid ever since.

One afternoon you’d snuck into Max’s driver room after qualifying, hair still wet from the rain and grinning like you knew he would never kick you out.

“Told Charles I was going back to the hotel,” you grinned, mischievous as ever. “Want to hide from your PR for a bit?”

He should’ve said no but he let you stay. Let you kick your shoes off and complain about hospitality food. He let you laugh at his expense. Let himself laugh more than he should have.

That was the first time he noticed the way your eyes lingered on his mouth a little too long.

That was the first time he felt the warning bells and chose to ignore them.

Now Max opened his eyes again and looked down at you.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, your fingers twitching against his skin like you knew he was awake. His breath caught in his throat.

You looked so peaceful. So unaware of the hurricane you’d pulled him into without even trying.

He was so deeply, impossibly fucked.

The first thing you felt when you stirred was warmth.

Not the kind from sunlight or blankets but from skin, from a chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, from an unfamiliar scent but familiar enough now to make you smile before you even opened your eyes.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains.

White sheets. Muscle under your hand. A steady heartbeat beneath your ear.

Your brows furrowed in confusion for half a second until the night before came rushing back in one, glorious, slightly fuzzy reel.

Max.

His lips. His hands. His low, rough laugh when you called him Maxie just to get a rise out of him.

And then the hours on his couch. The hours spent side by side, talking, teasing, leaning in, falling in.

You tilted your head up slowly, eyes finding him in the morning light. He was already awake. Had been for a while you realised. His eyes flicked down to meet yours the second you moved, but his face was unreadable. Guarded.

You smiled anyway. “Morning.”

“Morning,” he murmured, voice low and rough with sleep.

“You watching me sleep Verstappen? That’s creepy,” you teased, your chin nudging lightly against his chest.

He huffed, but the smile didn’t quite follow. “You snore.”

You blinked, feigning offence. “I do not.”

“You kind of do,” he said, smirking just slightly. “But it was cute.”

That got a grin out of you. “You’re weird this morning.”

“I’m good.”

You studied him for a beat, something sharp and instinctive tugging at your chest. “No you’re overthinking. I can see it.”

You poked his side lightly, playful but not without meaning. “What is it? Regret? Existential crisis? Full-blown panic?”

He looked at you then and for a moment his mask cracked, just a flicker, but it was enough.

There was something in his eyes, something raw… something that looked a lot like fear.

“No,” he said, quiet now. “Just… thinking.”

Your smile faltered not in disappointment but understanding.

You settled your head back onto his chest. “We don’t have to figure it all out this second you know.”

Max didn’t answer. He just wrapped his arm a little tighter around your shoulders, fingers brushing lightly along the curve of your spine like he didn’t want you to see whatever was going on in his head.

He walked you home later that morning, his hoodie slung around your shoulders, your heels tucked neatly into a tote bag swinging at your side. The streets of Monaco were mostly empty at that hour, quiet, glistening faintly from an early morning rinse of rain.

You walked in silence, not awkward, just aware. Like speaking too soon might shatter the delicate balance hanging between you.

Then, without thinking, you reached for his hand.

Max flinched, not obviously, not in a way anyone else would’ve noticed but you felt it. The subtle pause. The way his fingers stiffened, uncertain, like he didn’t know what this meant now, what you meant now.

You didn’t look at him but you didn’t pull away. You just kept walking, your hand still wrapped around his and after a beat he laced his fingers through yours and gave a gentle squeeze.

Later that night steam curled thick around Max as hot water poured down his back, but it did nothing to quiet the noise in his head. It couldn’t rinse away the feel of your hand in his, the press of your body or the sound of your laugh in the dark, soft and unguarded.

You’d been in his bed. His skin on your skin. His arms around your waist.

He should’ve felt satisfied. Like something long buried had finally been unearthed.

But instead… he felt wrecked. Because this wasn’t a one-night thing. This wasn’t something he could laugh off, shrug away, pretend didn’t matter.

This was you.

And Max had known, quietly, stubbornly, maybe even stupidly for a long time now:

There would never be anyone else quite like you.

He exhaled, slow and sharp, leaning his forehead against the cool tile as the water kept falling and once again his mind pulled him backward.

You’d just broken up with some guy you’d been seeing, someone Charles had actually liked. That’s how Max knew the relationship had been real, probably serious.

You showed up at Max’s hotel room after free practice, mascara streaked and chin trembling. He hadn’t even thought just pulled you into the room and locked the door behind you.

You didn’t say much. You didn’t need to. You curled up on the edge of his bed, knees to your chest, and whispered, “He said I’m too much.”

Max sat next to you, quiet for a second, his throat tight with something he couldn’t name.

“You’re not too much,” he said finally. “You’re brilliant. He’s an idiot.”

You looked up at him then lashes still wet, mouth trembling not from sadness now but from hope.

He almost kissed you.

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to, God, he did but because you were too vulnerable, and Charles would’ve absolutely killed him. And more than that Max didn’t want to be another person who took advantage when you were hurting.

But he remembered staring at your mouth. The way your breath caught. How close you’d leaned in before you both blinked and pulled back at the same time, like the moment had swallowed you whole and spit you out just before it was too late.

“You’re the only one who never says that,” you whispered.

“Says what?”

“That I need to calm down. That I should tone it down. That I need to be less… me.”

Max hadn’t known what to say to that so he said nothing.

He just sat there, fists clenched in his lap, shoulders stiff and aching with restraint because he was terrified of what might happen if he moved even an inch closer.

Max turned off the water and braced his hands on the counter, wiping at the mirror to see his own reflection. His jaw was tight. His eyes were tired.

He wiped at the fogged glass until his reflection emerged, jaw tight, brow furrowed, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He looked… wrecked. Not physically. Not entirely. But in that quiet, exhausted way that came from feeling too much all at once.

Out of habit he reached for his phone and then paused.

His thumb hovered over his home screen for a second before he opened the photo gallery.

Scrolled.

There it was.

A picture from exactly one year ago.

You sitting on a rooftop somewhere in Paris, knees pulled up, holding a half-eaten croissant in one hand and a wrinkled motorsport magazine in the other with his and Charles’ faces on the cover. Your hair was a mess, oversized sunglasses perched on top of your head, you were grinning absolutely beaming.

He’d saved it without thinking.

He looked at it now and something inside his chest twisted.

He swiped.

The next was a blurry selfie taken after a race, the two of you grinning like idiots. Your cheeks were flushed, his cap was backwards, and your fingers were up in a peace sign resting lightly on his shoulder.

Swipe.

Another, this time you were sleeping in the back of the Red Bull hospitality suite curled up in one of the oversized chairs with your hoodie pulled halfway over your head, headphones in. Max had taken it without you knowing, back when he used to tell himself you were just Charles’s sister. That he was just looking out for you.

Swipe.

You and Charles standing side by side on a yacht in Monaco arms linked. Max wasn’t even in that one but he’d kept it because your smile was softer in that photo. More real.

He stopped scrolling.

Stared at the screen, chest tightening.

He’d been in love with you for years. He knew that now so plainly it almost hurt. Maybe he always had. Maybe he just buried it under jokes and tension and distance.

But last night had ruined any chance of pretending otherwise because you’d kissed him like you knew. Like you’d always known.

Max dragged a hand through his wet hair, gripping the back of his neck. His skin was still burning from where your body had curled against his just hours ago. Still haunted by the shape of your sigh when you said his name in your sleep.

He looked back at the screen, at that grinning rooftop version of you and exhaled through his nose.

What the hell am I going to do now?

Max didn’t sleep that night, not really, and when he saw you the next day tucked in a quiet corner of the paddock between sessions, coffee in hand, hair pulled back beneath a team cap his chest tightened.

You looked up and smiled when you saw him.

“Morning,” you said, voice light.

“Hey,” he said, stopping a few feet away. Too far. Too careful.

You watched him for a beat, frown ghosting your lips. “Everything okay?” Max hesitated too long. Then nodded once. “Yeah. Just tired.”

A pause stretched between you, not awkward, just… uncertain. Unspoken.

You tried to keep it light. “So… are we pretending that didn’t happen?”

Max flinched. Barely, but you caught it.

“No,” he said quickly. “I’m not pretending.”

You searched his face, reading the change. The retreat already starting.

“Do you regret it?” you asked, quietly.

His gaze snapped to yours. “No. Of course not.”

But he still didn’t move closer.

You gave a small nod anyway. “Good. Because I don’t either.”

Max opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

And that that was the worst part. You could see the war in his eyes, the guilt already eating him alive.

“I should go,” he said. “I’ve got media.”

You smiled anyway, smaller now. “See you soon?”

“Yeah… soon,” he added, already moving for the door.

You just stood there watching him disappear down the paddock his shoulders tense, his pace too quick like he couldn’t get away fast enough.

Your heart pounded in your chest, not from anger or heartbreak, not yet. Just that creeping, awful feeling in your gut that you’d both done something irreversible.

You noticed the shift before Max could say anything.

It started small.

He stopped texting back right away. The inside jokes dried up. He kept his distance even in the paddock where you’d usually catch him mid-joke or leaning against a wall waiting for you with that knowing smirk.

Now? He barely looked your way and when he did it was too fast. Too careful. Like eye contact might undo whatever wall he was trying to build between you.

And you weren’t stupid.

You knew what this was.

Guilt. Fear. Charles.

You tried not to take it personally, even if it stung. Even if it made your chest ache every time you passed him and he pretended he didn’t see you.

You told yourself: Fine. If he wants to play it safe so be it.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Max told himself he was doing the right thing. That keeping his distance was the only move that made sense. That if he just stayed away long enough both of your feelings would settle. That the kiss, the night you spent curled up together could be dismissed as a one-off. A drunk heat-of-the-moment mistake. Nothing more.

But it wasn’t. And he knew it.

He told himself you understood. That you must know why this couldn’t happen. Why you and him could never be anything. That there didn’t need to be some dramatic, drawn-out conversation, because technically nothing had even happened.

But he also knew that was bullshit.

It wasn’t just fear.

It was loyalty. Guilt. A promise unspoken but deeply understood.

Because no matter how much he wanted you, craved you, Max couldn’t shake the image of Charles’s face in Monaco. The warning in his voice. The silent trust they’d built over years of racing, of surviving the chaos together. This would feel like a betrayal. Maybe it was.

Max told himself he was being respectful. That this was him doing the right thing choosing boundaries over desire. Friendship over temptation.

But deep down he knew that wasn’t the whole truth.

He was being a coward because avoiding you also meant not having to face how badly he wanted you. How much he'd already crossed the line. And how even now part of him didn’t feel guilty about it at all.

The worst part? The distance wasn’t helping.

His feelings weren’t fading, they were sharpening. Taking shape. Solidifying into something dangerous.

Now that he’d had a taste of you, your laugh, your skin, your warmth pressed against him in the dark he didn’t think he’d ever be able to look at anyone else the same way again. You had ruined him for good and he didn’t even think you knew it.

Every time he saw you across the paddock laughing with some PR rep, walking with that signature strut of yours, tiny skirt and lanyard swinging, hair tied up and sunglasses perched on your head his stomach flipped. His pulse skipped.

And the only thought louder than don’t be fucking stupid was:

Mine.

Even if he’d already pushed you away.

Then came him. Some new Ferrari reserve guy young, sharp-jawed, too confident. Max spotted him talking to you near the hospitality unit after qualifying. Max wasn’t trying to watch. He really wasn’t, but then the guy leaned a little too close. Said something that made you laugh, really laugh, and Max’s eyes snapped to your face.

You looked interested… and it fucking killed him.

Then the guy touched your arm. Casually. Friendly. But it was enough. Max’s grip on his water bottle tightened so hard the plastic crumpled. He wasn’t thinking when he crossed the paddock. In that moment he didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care if Charles was watching from some garage monitor or if someone caught it on camera.

He just knew one thing: You were his… or at least you were meant to be.

He reached you mid-conversation.

“Hey,” he said, voice sharp.

You blinked, surprised. “Uh… hi?”

The other guy glanced between you two, a little smirk playing at his lips like he’d clocked something.

“Can I borrow you?” Max asked, eyes on you only. “Now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that how we ask nicely these days?”

Max didn’t flinch. “Please.”

You studied him for a second, saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his throat worked like he was swallowing something down. You hesitated but nodded.

He led you around the back of the building, weaving past the media barriers and hospitality tents until you were both tucked between two transport trucks out of view. The hum of paddock noise buzzed in the background.

You folded your arms. “Alright. What the hell was that?”

Max ran both hands through his hair and started pacing, like he couldn’t keep still. “I don’t know. I just—fuck.” He turned to you. “I can’t do it anymore.”

Your stomach dropped. “Do what?”

“This. Pretending nothing happened. Pretending I don’t give a shit.” His voice cracked, jaw tight. “Because I do. You know I do.”

You stared at him, heart racing. “Then why have you been ignoring me for the past week?”

He winced like the words physically hurt. “Because I’m a coward. Because I thought that if I kept my distance it would protect us. Charles he’d kill me. And maybe I deserve it.”

You scoffed and looked away, voice quieter. “So you decided to disappear instead. Let me think I meant nothing.”

“No,” Max said quickly, stepping closer. “That’s not it. You mean everything. That’s the problem.”

You met his eyes again, arms still crossed. “You don’t get to say that like it fixes things.”

“I know,” he said, quieter now. “I know I fucked up, but I thought if I gave it space it would go away. That it was just one night, but it’s not, there’s been so many moments and now every time I see you I feel like I can’t breathe.”

You bit your cheek, hard. “Do you know how long I’ve liked you Max? How many years I’ve had to pretend it was just a stupid crush while you dated models and acted like I was just some kid hanging around Charles?”

His face crumpled. “I know. I know. And I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, eyes stinging. “It killed me when you stopped talking to me. Like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.”

“I was scared,” Max admitted, voice raw. “Not just of Charles of you. Because you’re not a fling. You’re not something I can walk away from if it gets hard. You’ve always been the thing I could never let myself want. But now? After that night? I don’t think I’ll ever be able to want anyone else.”

Your breath stuttered, the words catching you off guard. For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, quietly, he said, “I want to be with you. Not in secret. For real. But only if you still want that too.”

You stared at him, long and hard, unsure if you wanted to kiss him or slap him. “If you do this again, if you disappear on me or push me away because it gets messy or hard I’m not sticking around Max. I can’t do it.”

“I won’t,” he swore. “I swear. I’ll fight for it. For you.”

You took a breath. Then another.

And then slowly you stepped forward. “Good,” you said. “Because I wasn’t kidding. It’s always been you.”

Max didn’t wait.

His hand slid up your spine, tugging you closer until your chest pressed to his, mouths moving in sync like muscle memory. You clutched at his shirt, twisting the fabric between your fingers as his other hand found your jaw, tilting your face just right. He kissed you like he needed you to know. Like he wanted to make up for every second he’d wasted pretending he didn’t want this.

Your back hit the wall as his mouth dragged over yours, slower now, savouring it.

When he finally pulled back, both of you breathless and wide-eyed, Max pressed his forehead to yours. His voice was rough, low, impossibly tender. “You’ve always been my trouble.”

You smiled faintly against his lips, eyes shining. “Took you long enough.”

You didn’t bring it up right away.

Neither did he.

For a while it was easier to live in the moments between. In hotel rooms between sessions, long flights between cities, sleepy mornings where your bare legs tangled under too-white sheets and Max kissed your shoulder before his alarm went off.

But it loomed. Quiet and heavy.

Charles.

His name wasn’t forbidden, not exactly. You still talked about him, ferrari things, family things, Monaco things, but never in the context that mattered. Never us and him in the same sentence.

You knew it had to happen.

Max knew it too.

The topic finally slipped out during a layover in Zurich, your legs draped across his lap while you shared a sandwich and tried not to draw attention in the corner of the Lufthansa lounge.

“He’s going to be so fucking mad,” Max muttered, staring at nothing in particular.

Your stomach twisted. “I know.”

He didn’t say anything for a beat.

“He might not talk to me again.”

You looked at him, heart softening. “Would that change anything?”

Max’s jaw worked. He didn’t answer immediately. “No,” he said finally. “But I hate the thought of hurting him.”

“I do too,” you whispered.

He rubbed a hand over his face, fingers dragging down to his jaw. “I should’ve talked to him before anything happened. I should’ve done this the right way.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“He’s your friend. He’s my brother. He cares about us both.”

Max gave you a look. “That doesn’t mean he’s going to care for this.”

“No,” you agreed. “But if we want it to be real he has to know.”

He nodded, thumb brushing your knee. “I need to be the one to tell him I think.”

“Do you want me to be there?” you asked.

Max exhaled slowly. “No. I think I should do it alone first.”

You tried to hide your nerves, but he saw them. Cupped your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “I won’t let this fuck everything up,” he said softly. “I promise.”

And you believed him.

Even if your heart was already bracing for the fallout.

Max waited until after debrief on Sunday night.

Charles was still towelling sweat from his neck, red team polo clinging to his back, jaw tight from a frustrating day. Max approached him cautiously and said, “Hey, can we talk?”

Charles looked at him, brows knitting. “Now?”

Max nodded. “Yeah. Now.”

They ended up in one of the back rooms of the hospitality unit, the kind used for strategy huddles or quiet conversations with sponsors. It was empty except for the tension that followed them in.

Charles leaned against the table arms crossed. “So? What’s going on?”

Max’s mouth opened. Then closed. He couldn’t do it casually, couldn’t just drop it like it wasn’t about to detonate everything.

“I need to tell you something,” Max said. “And I need you to let me finish before you say anything.”

Charles blinked. That alone was enough to put him on edge.

Max took a breath. “It’s about your sister.”

Immediately Charles straightened. “What about her?”

Max looked away for a second. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I swear. I didn’t go looking for it.”

“Max,” Charles snapped. “What happened?”

Max looked up, met his eyes. “I’m in love with her.”

Silence.

Utter, violent silence.

Charles blinked like he hadn’t heard right. Then laughed once sharp and humourless. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“We didn’t plan it. But it happened… it started that weekend when she came back to Monaco. It’s been building for a long time.”

Charles shook his head, stepping back. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I know you’re pissed—”

“Pissed?” Charles exploded.

“We didn’t— we weren’t planning—” Max stumbled over the words. “It only became something real recently. I didn’t want to disrespect you, that’s why I waited—”

Charles eyes narrowed. “Oh you waited?” His voice rose, tight with fury. “You waited out of respect? You went behind my back, you didn’t say a word, and now you want me to believe this is some selfless, noble act?”

Max’s mouth opened, but no words came.

“You’ve always liked her,” Charles snapped. “I knew it deep down I just didn’t didn’t want to believe it so don’t pretend this just happened. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“It’s not like that. It’s more than that.”

Charles scoffed. “Don’t try to play the good guy now.”

“I love her.”

“That doesn’t make it okay!”

Max flinched like he’d been slapped. “I didn’t say it did.”

Charles paced, hands fisted. “You could’ve told me. You should’ve told me. But instead you, God, Max you know how much she means to me. How protective I’ve always been and you just went behind my back?”

“I didn’t mean to go behind your back,” Max said. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen but it did and I tried to walk away. I did. But I couldn’t. I can’t”

Charles stared at him, something breaking in his eyes. “You’re supposed to be my friend. You were supposed to look out for her.”

“I still am.”

Charles’s voice cracked. “No. You’re not.”

Max stood frozen.

Charles turned away, running a hand through his hair before slamming his palm against the wall. “Get out.”

“Charles—”

“Get out Max.”

And Max did. He walked out into the paddock his throat burning with the words he couldn’t say.

He’d done the right thing, he’d done everything he could and still somehow it felt like losing.

Max found you sitting in the back corner of the paddock hospitality lounge, fidgeting with a half-empty cup of coffee and trying to look like your heart wasn’t in your throat.

The second you saw his face you knew, he didn’t have to say a word.

“You told him?”

Max nodded. “Yeah.”

You sat back in your chair, shoulders falling. “And?”

“He’s furious,” Max said. “I think I broke something that can’t be fixed.”

You didn’t speak right away just stared down at the table, blinking hard.

Max stepped closer, crouched beside your chair. “Hey. Look at me.”

You did.

“I don’t regret telling him,” he said. “I regret hurting him. But not this. Not you.”

You swallowed. “Yeah. Well. I didn’t expect balloons and confetti.”

“I just—” He reached for your hand. “I didn’t want to keep hiding. It didn’t feel right.”

You nodded once, then pulled your hand away gently. “I need to talk to him.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I’m his sister,” you said. “He deserves to hear it from me too.”

You found Charles behind the Ferrari garage somewhere he always went when he didn’t want to be found. His arms were folded and his jaw was still tight with anger.

He saw you coming and for a second he almost turned away.

“Please,” you said, before he could walk off. “Just let me explain.”

He didn’t say anything but he also didn’t move, so you stood there, heart pounding, and said, “I know you’re pissed. I know you feel betrayed. I get it. But I need you to understand this isn’t a joke to me.”

Charles’s eyes narrowed. “So it’s serious?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what’s worse. If it was casual or if you’re actually in love with him.”

You swallowed hard. “We didn’t plan this but it’s not going away.”

He turned, paced a few steps, then looked at you, eyes sharp. “Do you have any idea how it felt? Hearing it from him? Watching him stand there and act like he hadn’t just thrown away a decade of friendship?”

“He didn’t throw anything away,” you said, voice firm now. “He tried to do the right thing. He walked away from me more than once because he didn’t want to hurt you.”

He turned his face away for a moment like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “You know what pisses me off most?” he said finally. “It’s not even just that it’s him. It’s that he promised me. I asked him to watch out for you and he swore he would.”

You blinked, surprised, throat tightening. “He has looked out for me.”

He shook his head. “Looking out for you doesn’t mean falling into your bed behind my back.”

You flinched. “It wasn’t like that.”

Charles went on, angry now. “He’s in the spotlight every second of the day. His life is messy, and loud, and complicated. Trust me I know, and I don’t think he even stopped to think about what that means for you. Or what it does to us.”

“I have thought about it,” you said, stronger now. “We both have. Every step of this has been messy and confusing and hard. But it’s real. And I would rather deal with all the noise, all the complications, everything, if it means being with him.”

Charles stared at you for a beat. “And if it all goes to shit? If it ends badly?”

“Then I’ll be heartbroken,” you said honestly. “But that’s my choice to make.”

He ran both hands through his hair, exhaling hard like he didn’t know what to do with the ache in his chest.

“He didn’t throw away your friendship,” you added gently. “He was scared to lose it. That’s why he didn’t tell you sooner. He thought he was protecting both of us.”

Charles gave a hollow laugh. “So noble.”

You stepped closer. “He loves me. And I’ve loved him longer than I’ve even let myself admit.”

That cracked something.

Charles blinked, slow and pained. “You love him?”

You nodded. “I really do.”

He sighed, jaw tight, then finally said, “I still think it’s a mistake.”

You gave a weak smile. “You’ve always thought most of my decisions were mistakes.”

He huffed, almost a laugh, but not quite.

Silence settled between you.

“If he hurts you—”

“I know,” you said gently. “You’ll kill him.”

Charles finally looked at you. “I won’t forgive him. Not yet.”

“That’s okay,” you said. “But maybe one day?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

And somehow, maybe was enough for now.

You didn’t knock.

He opened the door like he’d been waiting.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, stepping inside. “We talked.”

Max shut the door behind you. “And?”

“And he’s still pissed.”

Max winced. “Fair.”

“But…” you smiled softly, toeing off your shoes. “I think he’s starting to understand. A little.”

Relief passed through his face but it didn’t settle. He looked at you like he still didn’t quite believe this was allowed to happen.

You padded closer, tugging gently at the drawstring of his hoodie.

“Hey,” you said, eyes teasing. “You’re allowed to be happy you know.”

“It still scares me… how much I feel when I’m with you.”

“Good. Means you’re not going anywhere.” You winked.

He arched a brow. “You gonna keep stealing my pyjamas?”

You looked entirely unbothered. “Obviously.”

Max shook his head with a soft laugh and wrapped his arms around your waist. “You know you’re a menace, right?”

You leaned in, your lips brushing his jaw. “I thought I was trouble?”

His breath caught, hands tightening slightly at your hips. “You drive me crazy.”

“Yeah?” you whispered. “And you love it.”

“I do.”

He kissed you then, slow and deep and sweet, like he had all the time in the world now. Like you were his finally. When you pulled back slightly breathless you met his eyes.

“When I picture the future,” he said, voice low and certain, “you’re in every version of it. Every single one.”

You smiled, heart pounding.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t think anyone else could handle me.”

“I don’t want to handle you,” Max said. “I love you exactly as you are.”

One Week Later

The paddock was buzzing.

Photographers, engineers, drivers, and PR teams darted around with the usual Friday chaos.

You were perched on the side of a pit wall barrier, swinging your legs and laughing as Max stood between your knees, holding your hands and trying very badly to look like he wasn’t smiling like an idiot.

You were mid debate about who was more competitive when you heard someone clear their throat behind you.

You both turned.

Charles stood there, arms crossed, one brow raised.

Max instantly straightened like a schoolboy caught sneaking out after curfew.

You hopped off the barrier, brushing your hands on your shorts. “Hey.”

Charles looked between you both. Then finally sighed and extended his hand to Max.

Max blinked, surprised, but shook it.

Charles looked at you, then back at Max, and muttered, “Just… don’t make me regret not punching you.”

Max gave a small, crooked smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Charles rolled his eyes, already turning to leave. “And for god’s sake keep the flirting off the pit wall.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

As he walked off, Max slid his arm around your waist and leaned in.

“Well,” he whispered. “We’re screwed.”

You grinned up at him.

“But at least we’re screwed together.”

Max kissed you quick, certain, like it had always been meant to end this way.

Because winning isn’t just glory. Being at the top… being world champion isn’t just champagne showers and victory laps. It’s pressure like gravity, pulling at your spine. It’s loneliness in crowded rooms. It’s being scrutinised every second, judged by strangers who will never understand what it costs to be this good.

And he understands. He knows.

And that’s what makes it unbearable.

Because no matter how hard you push him away, no matter how much you pretend he’s just another name on the timing screen, some part of you can’t escape the truth:

He’s the only one who sees you.

And you can’t stand that. You hate that.

But there’s a thin line between love and hate.

Max doesn’t remember when the resentment started. Maybe it was the year when your car found pace in the second-half of the season that his couldn’t match and you clinched the title by ten points. Maybe it was earlier, before the points, before the podiums back when you first walked into the paddock with that unshakable calm and a fire in your eyes that made the people at Red Bull start glancing nervously towards his garage.

Or maybe it was the moment he realised he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

You drive him insane. Not just with your speed, but with the way you carry yourself, like you know exactly who you are and have nothing to prove to anyone. The way you speak in interviews: measured, intelligent, sharp, but soft when you want to be. When you ignore him in driver briefings as if you’re too busy playing chess while the rest of them are still learning how to move pawns. The way you win, gracefully, without gloating. There’s no ego in it, no theatrics. Just a hug with your team and that infuriating little smile you try to hide.

It makes something twist in his chest. Something cold and unwanted.

Because showboating would be easier to hate. Showboating, he could dismiss. But your quiet dignity? That’s harder. That gets under his skin.

You make him feel something he doesn’t like to name. Sometimes it feels like fury when he watches you walk away without so much as a glance in his direction, and then there are the moments, brief, dangerous moments when your eyes meet his across the garage or the podium or the paddock tunnel, and you look at him like you see him.

You know what it’s like to be praised for your results but misunderstood for your silence. You know what it’s like to be celebrated for winning and never for simply being.

And that makes it worse.

Because if you’re the only one who understands him…

Then what the hell is he supposed to do with that?

It starts like most things with Max Verstappen do, with a fight.

“You brake-checked me in Turn 8,” you snap, voice still hoarse from the radio, your suit clinging to you with sweat and engine heat. The adrenaline hasn’t faded yet, it never does this quickly and your pulse is still hammering from both the race and him.

Max barely looks up as he unzips his fireproofs halfway down, exposing the Red Bull logo on his undershirt and that same maddening smirk he always seems to wear after a win. Or a loss. Or breathing.

“I didn’t,” he says lazily, like he’s bored already. “You’re just slower through the chicane.”

“You’re full of shit.”

His laugh is short, sharp, the kind that slices rather than stings. “You always get like this when you lose.”

You take a step toward him, close enough to smell the heat coming off his skin, the faint scent of petrol and rubber and whatever soap he uses that drives you insane. Your body is practically vibrating, anger, maybe. Or something more dangerous. Something electric.

“And you always get like this when someone calls you out,” you bite.

He tilts his head, his expression unreadable, lips twitching into something between a grin and a challenge. “You think you scare me?”

“No,” you murmur, eyes locked on his. “I think I bother you.”

That lands.

His jaw ticks. Just barely. But you see it.

Because it’s true and you both know it.

You’re not just a name on his timing screen. You live under his skin. In his rearview mirrors. In his thoughts before he falls asleep. In the way he pushes harder in qualifying, just to make sure you don’t outpace him. In the way he races you like it's personal.

And it's mutual.

You see it in the flicker of his eyes, how they drop to your mouth for a second too long. In the way his fingers twitch like he’s restraining himself. In the silence between you, so charged it feels like a live wire.

You take a breath that scorches your lungs and step back, tearing your gaze away before you do something stupid.

“See you in Monaco,” you say, turning on your heel.

He watches you go, not like he’s letting you win, not like he’s unaffected but like a man who’s drowning and hates the lifeboat for floating.

It happens three races later.

Spa. A classic battleground. And this time it’s drenched in rain and tension.

The skies open during Q3, painting the track in a slick, glistening sheen. You both qualify on the front row, him P1, you P2, separated by half-a-tenth that feels like nothing and everything. The paddock buzzes with a kind of electricity you can feel in your bones. Every camera swings your way like it’s the final act of a long-running drama.

Max doesn’t say much before the race. He doesn’t need to. He just watches you from across the media pen, his gaze steady, unreadable, thunderclouds in his eyes matching the ones rolling above.

The race is war.

No strategy can save you. No tyre call will make the difference. It’s just the two of you, elbows out, nerves frayed, pushing the limits of grip and sanity. Risky late braking into the Bus Stop chicane. Almost contact in Turn 1. Twice.

You don’t flinch. Neither does he.

By the time the chequered flag waves, your hands are shaking from the effort. Max wins. You cross the line less than a second behind, P2. The gap might as well be a breath.

You both disappear into your respective motorhomes, soaked, breathless, muscles screaming. You peel your gloves off like they’ve fused to your skin. The adrenaline hasn’t even faded before the weight of it all starts to hit. Not the loss. Not the place. Him.

Later, much later, after the podium, the press, the hollow fizz of champagne you find yourself walking behind the hospitality units the rain finally reduced to a soft mist.

And there he is.

Alone.

So are you.

“You drove like a maniac today,” you say, voice quiet but not unkind. It’s not an insult. It’s almost… admiration.

“So did you,” he replies, without looking at you.

You lean back against the wall, arms folded, heart still thudding like it hasn’t left the cockpit. “I had to. You don’t leave me much choice.”

He glances sideways. Just once. “It’s not personal.”

You study him, really study him. His rain-damp hair cling to his forehead. His jacket is half-zipped, damp around the collar. His face is flushed from exertion and something else you can’t name.

But his eyes… they’re bright. And burning.

“Isn’t it?” you ask softly, not moving.

He doesn’t answer. Not with words.

He steps closer.

The air shifts.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper he says the last thing you ever thought he’d admit. “You know sometimes you’re the only one who makes it feel like it means something.”

You blink, throat tightening. “What?”

“Winning,” he says, gaze locked on yours. “Losing. All of it. Lately none of it feels real unless it’s with you.”

Silence settles like a held breath.

You understand him in that moment. Completely. Not just what he’s saying, but what he’s not. You understand the weight behind every race, every headline, every stolen glance in parc fermé. Because none of it ever meant as much as when you were fighting him.

All the trophies, all the stats, all the noise, it never lit you up like the fire he puts in your chest when you’re wheel to wheel. He is the one variable you can never calculate. The one opponent who doesn’t just challenge you, he unlocks you.

Because he’s not just your rival. He’s your match.

Something in the space between you shifts.

Not quite a truce. Not quite a confession. But something just as irreversible.

You don’t kiss him.

Not yet.

But you don’t walk away either.

And neither does he.

That night there’s no shouting, no fireworks of rage or lust, no tangled limbs in the dark.

Just silence.

Shared between two world champions on a balcony somewhere in the Ardennes, rain misting the edges of your jackets, the air sharp with the scent of pine and ozone. You’re sitting cross-legged on mismatched patio chairs, nursing cheap red wine from paper cups like teenagers. Somewhere below the paddock glows faintly in the distance, but up here it’s just you and him.

No media. No fans. No noise.

“I hate that you get it,” you murmur eventually, your voice barely above the whisper of rain on metal. You’re not even sure why you say it. Maybe because the words have been sitting inside you for too long, unspoken and heavy.

Max doesn’t turn his head, just keeps his eyes on the horizon like he’s afraid looking at you will make it all too real. “I hate that no one else does.”

“Except I don’t really hate it,” you sigh.

“Me neither.”

You glance over at him, take in the curve of his jaw, the way his fingers tighten slightly around the cup. You lift yours and gently tap it against his.

He huffs out a breath that might be the ghost of a laugh.

Then quietly, so quietly, you let your knee rest against his beneath the table. You don’t even know if you meant to, not really. You don’t look at him when you do it.

But he doesn’t move away.

His leg stays there, solid and warm and steady against yours.

For the first time in what feels like years it doesn’t feel like war.

It feels like peace.

The press still calls you rivals. Headlines pit you against each other like gladiators in an endless arena. “Enemies,” they say. “Opposites.” “Bitter.” “Unyielding.” They twist every glance, every overtake, every podium handshake into drama for clicks and headlines.

The fans still scream whenever your cars go wheel to wheel. They post slow-motion replays and tally overtakes like points in a blood feud. They cheer when you trade paint. They boo when one of you falters.

The world still wants you to hate him.

And sometimes… maybe you do.

But every now and then, when the paddock is dark and the cameras have finally stopped rolling, when the world goes quiet just long enough for you to hear your own thoughts you find him.

And he finds you.

Not on purpose but by instinct. Like orbiting planets drawn back into the same gravity well no matter how far they drift.

Because who else could you find? Who else could possibly know what it means to live like this? To give up everything for glory, to carry the weight of nations on your shoulders, to live and die by tenths of a second.

No one.

No one except him.

Maybe that’s not coincidence. Maybe it’s inevitability. Maybe this, whatever this is, was always going to happen. The world can call you rivals. It can pit you against each other until your names are etched into history as opposites, as foils, as enemies. But you know better.

Because no one will ever understand what it takes to live like this. Because when everything else is stripped away, the headlines, the fans, the noise, there is only this truth: no one will ever understand you the way he does. No one will ever look at you and see you the way he does.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe it always has been.

And if that means you’re doomed to keep finding each other, over and over again, maybe it’s not doom at all. Maybe it’s fate.

Maybe it’s love, waiting for you to stop fighting it.

So for now you sit there after every race knees touching, the air soft around you, the silence holding more weight than a thousand words ever could.

And Max doesn’t stop looking at you.

You could still picture the first day you saw him at the track in Genk. He’d been leaning against a stack of old tires, his posture both restless and reserved, watching his dad crouch beside the kart, hands moving fast and efficient over the engine. There had been a quiet intensity to him even then like he was wound tight and ready to snap forward at the slightest signal.

The moment he pulled his helmet on and slid into the seat, something shifted. It was like watching a storm gather out of a clear sky, deliberate, unhurried, but unstoppable. The second he took to the track you realised you’d never seen anyone drive with that kind of precision and ferocity at the same time. Every lap was a statement.

Later in the paddock you’d found him off to the side, bent over his suit swiping at mud splattered up his leg and muttering under his breath about the conditions.

"You were incredible out there," you’d said without thinking, your voice cutting through the low hum of the generators.

He’d straightened slightly, startled. "Could’ve been faster," he shrugged, like second place in a field probably twice his age was a personal failure.

"You’re faster than anyone I’ve ever seen," you’d replied, no hesitation.

That was the first time he’d really looked at you. Not the distracted glance he’d given when you walked past earlier, but an actual searching look like he was trying to work out why you believed in him so easily, so completely, without needing proof.

From that day on you’d been there.

You’d been there the first time he started waking before sunrise, pulling on layers in the half-dark so you could both get to the track before anyone else. You’d been there when his knuckles split and blistered from gripping the wheel too tight, when the skin across his shoulders burned from endless laps in summer heat. You’d been there when his father’s expectations pressed so heavily on him that you could see it in the set of his jaw, in the way his shoulders rounded as if bracing against a storm.

And through it all you’d stayed, not because you saw what he could be, but because you already saw who he was.

You thought back to Hungary, summer of 2018. The hotel room was heavy with the kind of silence that comes after a day gone wrong, thick, still, and just a little too sharp at the edges. The only sound was the dull thud of Max pacing the carpet, still in his race boots, the laces dragging slightly with each step. His bag sat abandoned in the corner, slumped like it had been thrown there in frustration.

Another mechanical failure. Another race that had promised so much and given him nothing.

"It’s pointless," he muttered, raking both hands through his hair until it stood in uneven spikes. His voice was low but brittle, the way it got when he was fighting to hold something in. "All that work for nothing."

You crossed the room in two steps and caught his arm firm enough to make him stop. He resisted for a fraction of a second before he stilled, breathing quick from frustration more than exertion.

"It’s not for nothing," you said, your voice steady in the quiet. "Every lap you do, every moment you spend out there it’s all building to something bigger."

He looked away toward the window, jaw still tight, but you saw the faintest shift in his shoulders, the way the tension eased just slightly.

"You really think so?" he asked, not challenging you just… tired.

"I know so," you said. "And when it happens, when you’re holding that trophy you’re going to look back and see that every single day, good or bad, got you there."

For a long moment he didn’t say anything. Then his gaze dropped to you, eyes dark but softer now, like he was letting himself believe you just a little. That night, when the adrenaline finally burned off, he fell asleep with his head on your shoulder, his breathing evening out as if the weight of the day had finally lifted enough for him to rest.

You’d been there for all the little moments too, the ones no one outside your world ever saw. The nights he’d call you after a bad press day, his voice tight and clipped, insisting he was fine when you knew he just needed to hear someone remind him he was more than a headline or a result on a screen. The evenings when you’d find him alone in the garage after testing, long after everyone else had packed up, sitting on a folding chair with his helmet in his lap, methodically wiping it down like it was the only thing he could control. The way he’d take your hand when no one was looking, thumb brushing over your knuckles with the kind of absentminded familiarity that made your chest ache.

As you watched the laps count down you thought back even further.

Malaysia, 2015. His second race in Formula One. You’d been waiting just outside the hospitality unit, leaning against the railing as you watched him in front of the press pack. He was still so young then, all restless energy and eager edges, answering questions with that half-smirk that made journalists try twice as hard to crack him.

When it was over, he spotted you instantly, his eyes lighting up as he crossed the paddock. That grin, the one you’d seen in karting paddocks and junior formula pit lanes split across his face as he brushed his shoulder against yours.

"See that? Not bad for a rookie," he teased, the adrenaline still buzzing in his voice.

"You mean incredible" you corrected, unable to hide your own grin. "Points in your second race? You’re going to be champion in no time." you winked.

He’d laughed then, shaking his head like you were indulging in some wild fantasy. But you saw it, the way his eyes softened for just a heartbeat, like the thought wasn’t impossible if it was you saying it.

You’d been there for all of it. Every laugh, every setback, every tiny victory that no one but the two of you bothered to remember.

And now… now you were here for this.

It had been the longest race of your life.

From the moment the lights went out, you’d felt the tension coil inside you, wound tighter with every lap. Every move felt like a miniature heart attack. You’d stood on the edge of the pit wall, headphones pressing into your head, listening to GP's calm voice deliver information you knew Max was filtering through that razor-sharp instinct of his.

Your own breathing fell into sync with his lap times, sharp intakes on the straights, shallow exhales in the corners.

Then, finally, the last lap.

The sound of the crowd roared over the commentary in your ears, a rising wall of noise that made it hard to tell where the track ended and the stands began. Your heart was a drum against your ribs, too fast, too loud, a physical ache that made you press your palm flat against your chest like you could keep it from breaking free.

When the chequered flag fell, it was as if the world hesitated for just a fraction of a second, long enough for you to realise you weren’t breathing at all. The final corner blurred past, the timing screen froze in confirmation, and only then did the air rush back into your lungs in a sharp, shaky gasp.

You thought back to the day everything changed between you.

It had rained all afternoon, the kind that misted more than it poured and clung to hair and eyelashes. The kart paddock was mostly empty now a few caravans humming, a generator grumbling somewhere, the track lights throwing slick ribbons across puddles. You were both sitting on the tailgate of his dad’s old hatchback, feet swinging above asphalt.

Max had a towel around his neck and damp hair stuck to his forehead, race suit unzipped to the waist with the sleeves tied. He’d run out of words an hour ago and was pretending to chew the corner of a protein bar he clearly didn’t want. You nudged his knee with yours.

“You were flying in heat three,” you said.

He huffed a soft laugh. “I bogged down off the line.”

“And then overtook half the field on the outside of Turn 1,” you countered. “Show-off.”

He glanced sideways at you, and for a second the bravado slipped. “I wanted you to see.”

“I did,” you said, and meant more than the move. You’d seen him pull off his gloves with trembling fingers, seen the way he had to breathe in the tent after, steady and slow. You’d seen the hunger and the hope.

He looked down at his hands like they were suddenly very interesting. Then he shoved one into the pocket and pulled something out: a clear, crinkled visor tear-off, the kind he ripped from his helmet every session. He’d folded it into a neat rectangle and scrawled something with a black marker along the edge.

“For you,” he said, and it came out too abrupt, like the words outran his courage.

You took it, warmth fizzing in your chest. Along the thin plastic, in his, tiny, almost unreadable slanted handwriting, he’d written: Genk. P1 with my lucky charm. Hoping you’re here for all of them. Beneath that, today’s date.

“Max,” you breathed, stupidly emotional over a scrap of plastic.

He swallowed, then lifted one shoulder. “It’s, uh, our thing, right? You always wait by the rail. I always take one off. Felt… I dunno. Felt like a good one.” He paused, voice quieting. “Felt like I didn’t want to forget this day.”

You turned the tear-off in your fingers, the black marker already smudged a little from the drizzle. “I won’t.”

The generator coughed. Someone shouted goodbye across the paddock. And Max, who never hesitated in a braking zone, suddenly had too many words and none at all. He cleared his throat, tried again.

“Can I—” He stopped, scrubbed a hand over his jaw, started again with that vulnerable little laugh you’d only ever heard in the soft spaces of the day. “I’m terrible at this.”

“At what?”

“At… saying things that aren’t lap deltas.” He exhaled, met your eyes properly, and there it was the fire you’d seen in him on track, stripped of speed and noise and left bare. “I like you. I think about you when I should think about apexes. I want—” He gestured helplessly between you. “I want this. All of it. Races and rain and… and you.”

Your heart did a ridiculous, cartwheeling thing. “Are you asking me something?”

“Ja.” He nodded, earnest and a little fierce, Dutch vowels softening the edges of his English. “Will you be my girlfriend? Properly. Like—” He grimaced at himself.

You let the silence sit just long enough to watch panic flicker across his face, then you leaned forward and bumped your forehead against his. “Yes.”

His smile came fast and blinding, pure relief turning into something giddy. He laughed, breath fogging in the cool air, and grabbed your hand like he was catching a falling trophy. “Okay. Good. Great.” He looked down at your fingers in his as if memorising the shape. “You won’t regret it.”

You squeezed his fingers, then lifted the folded tear-off. “I’m keeping this forever.”

He smirked. “That’s dramatic.”

You tucked the plastic into your wallet, behind a library card and a crumpled receipt, as reverently as if it were a medal. When you looked up Max was still watching you, the nerves gone, the certainty back, the kind that made him brake impossibly late and still make the corner.

He reached out and slid his hand along your cheek. “I’ll make you proud,” he said, almost to himself.

“You already do,” you answered.

He kissed you for the first time right there on the hatchback, rain hissing on hot tarmac, the whole paddock smelling like petrol and possibility. It wasn’t perfect, you bumped noses, and he laughed into your mouth, but it was yours, sealed with cold fingers and warm promises.

You walked out of the paddock hand in hand, both of you grinning like idiots. Behind you the generator chugged and the lights buzzed and the world kept doing what it always did. Ahead, the road was wet and dark and yet unbelievably bright.

You didn’t know every twist it would take. You only knew this: you’d said yes. And you were going to keep saying it, through wins and DNFs, through questions and answers, through the quiet, ordinary days no one would ever write about.

You kept the tear-off in your wallet.

You kept him in your heart.

And he kept his promise.

The radio crackled in your ears, a static-laced burst of noise that was immediately swallowed by an eruption of voices, his engineer’s steady professionalism breaking into unrestrained shouts, the team screaming down the line, laughter mixing with cheers. But through it all, you were only straining for one sound.

His.

Then, after disbelieving screams and shouts it finally came, shaky and choked with emotion in a way you’d never heard from him.

"We did it… we’re champions."

It hit you like a wave, those five words carrying the weight of everything you’d both lived through to get here. It wasn’t just a victory call it was an acknowledgement. You knew what was tucked between each syllable, he wasn’t just talking about himself. Max didn’t say things lightly, and in those words was everything, the late nights, the heartbreaks, the sacrifices both of you had made to get here.

Your chest swelled, your vision blurring as tears burned their way to the surface. You tried to blink them back, but it was useless.

By the time he rolled into parc fermé, the scene was pure pandemonium. The roar of the crowd was deafening, camera shutters firing in rapid bursts, mechanics swarming the car. In the middle of it all, you saw him pulling himself up out of the cockpit, helmet still on, lifting his arms high before yanking the visor up.

Even from a distance you could read every emotion on his face, the wild joy, the disbelief, the way he kept scanning the crowd like he was trying to burn every detail into his memory and yet still couldn’t quite believe it was real. His hair was messy and plastered with sweat, cheeks flushed from the heat, grin so wide it seemed to split his face.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Pushing your way through the throng of team members and media, you barely registered the congratulatory claps on your shoulder or the photographers snapping away. Your entire focus was the man ahead of you.

And then you were in front of him.

He didn’t hesitate.

The helmet hit the floor with a dull clatter, gloves tossed aside, and then he was pulling you in, arms wrapping so tightly around you that your feet shift under the force of it. His face pressed into the crook of your neck, and you felt the slight tremor in his shoulders, the rapid, uneven breaths against your skin. He smelled of sweat, fuel, and champagne already starting to cling to him, and you knew you’d never forget it.

His grip was almost desperate, like if he let go you might slip away and take this moment with you.

"You were right," he mumbled into your skin, his voice muffled and broken in a way you’d never heard before. "Every time you said I could do it… you were right."

You remembered two years ago, sitting in the dimly lit motorhome kitchen after yet another brutal season finale. The air had been heavy with the lingering smell of energy drinks and the faint tang of engine oil that always seemed to cling to him on race weekends. Max sat slouched in the booth opposite you, still in his team kit, fingers tracing distracted shapes on the tabletop.

The "almost" results had stacked up again, those races that could have been wins if only the car had held together, if only strategy had been perfect, if only luck had tilted his way. You’d seen the same look on his face all season: the quiet frustration of someone who knew they were good enough but was trapped in a loop of waiting for everything else to align.

"Maybe it’s not meant to happen for me," he said quietly, staring at the floor like the words were too heavy to meet your eyes.

You tilted your head, refusing to let the silence swallow him. You held his gaze until he was forced to look up, those tired blue eyes locking on yours.

"I know you’re frustrated," you said softly, "but you have your whole career ahead of you. You’re going to be one of the greats Max. You’re going to be world champion. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His brow furrowed, doubt still clinging to him. "How can you be so certain?"

"Because I know you," you whispered, leaning forward so he could see how much you meant it.

Something shifted in him then, not quite belief, but a flicker of trust. He didn’t argue again that night.

Back in the present, your laughter came out wet with tears, tangled in the rush of emotion flooding you.

He leaned back just enough to meet your eyes, and in that split second you saw every version of him you’d ever known layered together, the determined teenager who refused to lift in the rain, the ambitious rookie who shrugged off the hype, the man who had clawed his way, inch by inch, to this exact moment.

"I couldn’t have done it without you," he said, and there was no hesitation in it.

You knew he meant it, not in the casual, offhand way people use the phrase, but with the weight of someone acknowledging years of unseen work. The nights you’d talked him down after crushing losses, the weekends you’d quietly protected him from distractions, the reminders you’d given of who he was when the rest of the world wanted to tell him instead.

You’d been his anchor when the current threatened to pull him under.

You brushed your hand over his cheek, your thumb catching on the faint stubble there. "You did it Max. I’m so so proud of you."

His smile softened, and he leaned forward until his forehead pressed to yours, shutting out the roar of the world beyond the two of you. "I’m proud of us."

Around you, chaos reigned, champagne flying through the air, flags snapping in the wind, fans screaming his name until their voices cracked. But none of it seemed to touch you.

It was just you and him.

The kid you’d met all those years ago, and the man he’d become.

The champion.

Your champion.

You leaned in to tell him something a joke, maybe, or nothing at all and he kissed you mid-sentence.

No hesitation. No question. Just his mouth on yours like it had been waiting.

And you kissed him back without thinking, without pausing, because it felt too easy not to. Like gravity. Like the most natural thing in the world.

That night you didn’t sleep.

You stayed tangled in hotel sheets and each other. Not just bodies, but arms and fingers, mouths and breath. You didn’t talk much words that would’ve made it too real. Instead you let the silence say everything: I need you. More. Don’t stop.

You fell asleep with his breath against your bare shoulder and woke up to his eyes already on you, soft, sleepy, unreadable.

Neither of you talked about it the next day.

There was no awkward morning-after conversation, no gentle probe of what does this mean? He ordered you breakfast. You teased him about his bedhead. He grinned, eyes crinkling, and then walked you to the car when you were ready to go.

Just like that something unnamed began. Built itself in the quiet, between layovers and races and phone calls that ran long past midnight. No rules. No labels. No pressure.

And for a while it worked.

You stayed in your own little bubble, texting late at night, inside jokes over FaceTime when he was across the world, stolen glances across crowded rooms. He flew you out to races, booked you a hotel room next to his. And after every race, win or lose, you ended up in his bed.

Soon you knew which hoodie he reached for when he was tired. He knew the shape of your silence when something was wrong.

You told yourselves it wasn’t serious.

It couldn’t be. You weren’t dating. You weren’t his girlfriend. He never called you that.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that you started lying to your friends. At first it was to protect whatever fragile nothingness existed between you, that warm, glowing, untouchable thing you didn’t want anyone else to prod at, but eventually it became impossible to explain.

How do you tell someone you’re sleeping with a guy who holds your face like you’re glass and makes you breakfast like he cares, but probably doesn't feel the same way at all?

You couldn’t.

So you didn’t.

Over time your feelings grew like vines around your ribs, quiet, curling, impossible to cut back. You caught yourself watching him for too long. Feeling a rush of warmth when he smiled. Imagining how his name might sound wrapped up in real words like boyfriend or mine.

You wondered if he felt it too, what it would sound like if he ever introduced you to someone as his girlfriend. If he’d say it proudly with that crooked smile. If he’d kiss you in the paddock. If he’d hold your hand in public instead of in the dark of night.

But you never asked, because he never gave you a reason to believe that’s what he wanted.

Sure, he was sweet. He was always sweet, kissing your forehead before a flight, brushing your hand under the table, sending you photos of his view from every hotel room with a simple, wish you were here. He’d call you when he couldn’t sleep. He remembered your favourite playlist, your worst fears, the name of your childhood pet. But he never said the words. Never told you what it meant.

So you convinced yourself not to hope, because if you hoped for more, if you let yourself really, truly believe he felt it too and you were wrong… that would be the kind of heartbreak you wouldn’t recover from.

It’s been nearly a year by the time Monaco comes around again.

By now everything feels like a routine, effortless, familiar, a script you’ve both silently memorised. You show up in whatever city the race calendar dictates, and somehow you always find your way back to him. You’ve learned the rhythms of this world, the hum of engines, the chaos of media day, the way the paddock breathes like a living thing.

You slide in like you belong, like this has always been your life and today in Monaco it almost feels like it is.

You’re wearing his team’s colors, a wristband that screams VIP, your pass hanging comfortably around your neck. Lando had texted you last night with the back door gate code and a smiley face.

The paddock is already buzzing with drivers being shuffled from one interview to the next, camera crews angling for shots, fans lined behind barriers trying to catch a glimpse of their favourites. The energy here is electric but suffocating if you let it get too close.

Lando’s voice cuts through the noise like a knife, sharp, familiar, half-laughing. He’s just stepped out of the garage, race suit tied around his waist, curls still damp and sweat gleaming at his temples. He’s grinning about something, eyes bright beneath the brim of his cap. He looks happiest like this, half-wild, flushed with adrenaline, a little untouchable.

You find yourself smiling without meaning to.

He sees you before you can call out. “Hey,” he says, that lazy grin already softening. He jogs toward you like a reflex.

You return the smile, forcing your voice to sound casual, easy. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

He laughs. “It's windy out there today.”

For a second, you think he’s going to touch you, maybe brush your arm or tuck your hair behind your ear like he sometimes does when no one’s watching. But then someone from his team steps in, headset perched around their neck, clipboard in hand.

“Press in five,” they say, already ushering him away.

Lando gives you a look over his shoulder. “Wait for me yeah? Don’t disappear.”

And then he’s gone, swept back into the whirlwind of cameras and questions.

You nod, but he doesn’t see it.

You kill time by the coffee machine, half-hiding behind a McLaren banner, trying to look like you’re supposed to be here. You cradle a paper cup in your hands more for the comfort than the caffeine.

The paddock hums around you, engines revving in the background, mechanics shouting over radios. You spot a few celebrities further down the lane, sunglasses and cameras and smiles made for attention.

You check your phone. Again.

No texts.

You’re about to move when laughter drifts out from the hospitality tent behind you. It’s faint, just past the flap of the curtain, but unmistakable. Lando’s voice animated, a little too loud, like he’s trying to impress someone.

You freeze.

It’s instinct. You don’t mean to listen.

But you hear your name.

“We're just friends,” Lando says, like it’s a joke. Like it’s obvious. “We hang out yeah. But it’s not serious.”

There’s laughter. You think someone whistles.

“You sure? She’s always around, mate. I figured she was—”

“Nah,” Lando cuts in quickly. “It’s not like that. She's just a friend.”

Just a friend.

The words hit harder than they should.

Your stomach lurches. Something inside you goes quiet.

Just a friend. Just a friend. Just a friend.

It echoes louder than the rumble of engines in your ears, louder than the noise of the crowd, louder than the blood rushing through your body in a slow, nauseating wave.

You don’t move. You can’t.

For a moment it’s like your brain can’t compute what you just heard. You stand there fingers tightening around the cup, blinking at the gravel like maybe you misheard. Maybe it was out of context. Maybe he meant something else.

But no.

You know what you heard.

And worse you know what it meant.

Because you weren’t supposed to care this much. You weren’t supposed to be hurt. You agreed to no labels. No pressure. No expectation. He never promised you more.

But still… you wanted it.

You wanted to believe you were different. That he looked at you in a way he didn’t look at anyone else. That the little things meant something, how he called when he was homesick, how he kissed you like it ached to let go, how he always made sure you had a seat, a wristband, a place in his world.

You wanted to believe that he was just scared. That maybe he felt the same and didn’t know how to say it.

But now…?

Just a friend.

The words rattle around inside your chest like broken glass.

You blink down at your coffee cup, now crushed in your fist, the lid threatening to come off.

You toss it in the nearest bin with more force than necessary, swallowing the burn rising in your throat.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

You avoid Lando for the rest of the afternoon.

It’s not hard, his schedule is packed as always. Press, media, sponsor obligations. You know the routine by now, know exactly when to duck behind a tent or slip down a side corridor to avoid crossing paths. The paddock becomes a maze, and for the first time since you started this it feels like you don’t belong here.

Monaco is hot, the sun oppressive against your skin, the air thick with salt and engine smoke. Somewhere down the hill, boats bob on the harbor like glittering toys, and champagne glasses clink on decks you’ll never be invited onto.

You find a spot along the edge of the water far enough from the crowds to breathe, close enough to still hear the dull, constant growl of the circuit. You sink down onto the concrete, sunglasses shielding your eyes, trying to pretend you’re just another tourist enjoying the view.

But your phone won’t stop buzzing.

Lando: where’d you go? Lando: r u still here?? Lando: someone said you left? what happened? Lando: y/n?

You swipe the screen dark.

You want to scream. Or cry. Or run until your lungs give out and your mind empties and you forget the sound of his voice saying just a friend like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing.

You knew what this was. You did.

But it didn’t stop your heart from aching in a way you didn’t quite know how to stop.

It’s almost sunset when he finds you.

You hear his footsteps before you see him, rushed, scuffed sneakers against pavement, like he sped up after spotting you. He’s out of his race suit now, wearing those soft black athletic shorts he always grabs and a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up his forearms. The hood’s up, curls tucked beneath it, trying to hide from the world.

When he drops down beside you, it’s not Lando Norris, Formula 1 driver.

It’s just Lando.

The same boy who kissed you in a parking lot at 2 a.m. in Budapest. The boy who once asked you to stay until morning, then panicked and changed the subject before you could answer.

“Hey,” he says, voice lighter than it should be. He sits close... closer than friends do. His knee brushes yours. “Did you get lost or something?”

You don’t look at him just keep your eyes on the orange-tinted waves, trying to match your breath to the roll of the water. “No. I just needed some air.”

He’s quiet. The kind of quiet you’ve come to recognise, not dismissive, but searching. You can feel his gaze on your profile, his brow furrowed just enough for it to be visible from the corner of your eye.

“Did something happen?” he asks finally. “Did someone say something to you?”

You shake your head, forcing your voice to stay flat, even. “No. I just I think I should go. Early flight tomorrow.”

You can feel the shift immediately. His body tenses, just barely, and his voice drops lower. “Are you mad at me?”

You almost laugh. Mad? You’re heartbroken. You’re unraveling. But mad would be easier. Cleaner.

“No,” you lie. “Why would I be?”

He leans in slightly, his hoodie rustling. “Did I do something wrong?”

Yes. No. Not really. But it still hurt.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you press your lips together and keep your eyes locked on the water like the truth might spill out if you look at him for even a second too long. Because you want to ask am I really just a friend to you? You want to shake him, make him explain how he can hold you like you’re his and then reduce you to a label that means so little when someone else is asking.

But you’re too scared to find out. Scared that if you say it out loud, this fragile almost-relationship will shatter completely.

So you say nothing.

He sighs softly, the sound curling in the space between you, and then reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. It’s gentle. Familiar. Painful.

“I looked for you all day,” he says, so quiet you almost miss it.

You finally turn your head, meet his eyes.

There’s something raw there, open and unsure. A flicker of something that makes your chest twist, because it feels like the truth.

But you’ve been wrong before.

You just nod, your throat tight. “Sorry.”

Later you lie beside him in his hotel bed, the room dimly lit by the glow of the television playing something neither of you is watching. His hands are slow and familiar, tracing your skin like a routine. He kisses your neck, your collarbone, the inside of your wrist. He whispers something against your shoulder that makes you laugh.

For a little while, it’s okay. You let yourself fall into it, his warmth, his weight, the illusion that this could be real. That maybe if he holds you tight enough he won’t let go. But when he falls asleep, breathing soft, fingers still curled around your hip, you lie awake staring at the ceiling.

Eyes wide. Heart sore.

You turn away from him gently, careful not to wake him, and let the tears slip quietly down your cheeks.

Because this is what you chose.

You told yourself not to hope.

It gets worse before it gets better.

You try to pull back, little by little, hoping that if you detach slowly enough it won’t hurt the same. That you can protect your heart without him noticing. You start cancelling plans with half-hearted excuses. Ignoring his texts for hours. You say you’re tired. Say you’ve got work. Say next time more than you ever used to.

You start building space between you one message at a time.

Lando notices. Of course he does.

He starts calling more than he texts, and when you don’t pick up, he shows up at your place, hood up, hands in his pockets, a takeaway coffee in one hand and something ridiculous in the other. A miniature Eiffel Tower from Paris. A plush koala from Japan. A stupid T-shirt from Miami that says Your loss, baby in bubble letters. You laugh despite yourself.

He doesn’t ask for anything. He just sits on your couch and talks about the race, or the team, or a new track he wants visit. And you let him. You let him stay because you don’t know how to make him leave or if you even could.

One night as you’re both sitting on your floor with half a pizza between you and music playing soft and low, he asks:

“Are you sure I haven't done something?”

His voice is so small, so cautious, that it physically hurts to hear it.

You can't bring yourself to look at him. You pick at a slice of crust, blinking hard.

“No,” you say. “It’s just—life. I’m really busy at the moment.”

It’s a lie. And he knows it.

You can feel him watching you for a long time trying to figure out what you’re not saying, but he doesn’t push. He never does. Maybe he’s scared of the answer. Maybe he already knows.

You start going out more. You let your friends set you up with people you barely remember meeting. Men who work in finance, or law, or music. They’re nice. Smart. One of them even brings you flowers.

But nothing clicks.

Every time someone makes you laugh, it sounds wrong. Every time someone brushes their hand against yours, you flinch, like it doesn’t belong.

Because they’re not him.

They’re not the boy who always remembers your order and presses a hand to your back when you’re crossing a street and lets you wear his only jacket even when it’s freezing outside and he's just in a T-Shirt. They don’t text you when you’re on a plane just to say stay safe and text me when you land, or send voice notes at 2 a.m. just to tell you he can’t sleep and that this hotel has shit pillows.

You go home after every date and sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone.

Then you open Instagram.

There he is, Lando, at some club in Ibiza, or smiling on a yacht beside girls you don’t recognise. His hair sun-bleached, cheeks pink from alcohol and summer heat. The comments are full of fire emojis and girls calling him daddy and people speculating if he’s dating the redhead with the legs for days.

He looks happy.

Carefree.

You wonder if this really has all been in your head. If maybe you were the only one who ever felt the shift from casual to something more. If he really meant it, just a friend, and you’re the fool who built a whole fantasy out of forehead kisses and late-night I miss yous.

It’s Silverstone when everything finally comes to a head.

You hadn’t planned to go.

You were going to sit this one out, watch from your apartment with the volume low and your phone on airplane mode. But a week before the race, his name lights up your screen.

Lando: i miss you Lando: please come Lando: i’ll win for you if you do 🤞😉

You stare at the messages for a long time and laugh before you can stop yourself.

You want to throw your phone across the room. You want to cry. You don't want to show up. You want to show up.

You arrive just before qualifying. Your stomach twists in on itself the second your feet hit the gravel of the paddock. Your pass shakes slightly against your chest as you walk, trying to ignore the whisper of nerves running up your spine. Everything feels heavier here, charged. Too loud. Too close.

You tell yourself it’s just another race as you make your way toward the back of the McLaren garage, and then you spot him.

Helmet under one arm, suit half-unzipped, hair wild from the wind. He’s surrounded by engineers and press and people trying to pull him in a thousand different directions. But the second his eyes land on you—

He stops.

His whole face changes.

A smile spreads across his lips, broad and real, nothing like the polished one he gives to cameras. His eyebrows lift, the sun catching in his irises, and he takes a step forward like he can’t quite believe you’re here.

You feel it in your chest like a punch.

Later after the interviews and debriefs and a hundred empty conversations he finds you in the McLaren hospitality suite.

You’re sitting by the window, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed into your hair, trying to look unaffected. You don’t look up when he approaches, but you feel the shift in the air the second he’s beside you.

“Come with me,” he says quietly.

You don’t argue.

He leads you through the back corridor, past crates of equipment and closed doors, until the noise fades and the hallway narrows. It’s quiet here, quiet enough that you can hear the hum of electricity and the way your heart starts to race.

He stops and turns to face you. His hair is still a little damp from the post-qualifying shower, a faint sunburn across his nose. He looks tired but more than that he looks like he’s holding something back, like he’s about to break.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, voice gentle. Not accusing just sad.

Maybe that’s what finally does it, that look in his eyes. It’s heartbreaking. So honest it knocks the breath from your lungs.

In that moment, even if he doesn’t feel the same way, even if it ruins everything, you know you can’t keep this in any longer.

You swallow, throat thick. “I heard you.”

He blinks. “What?”

“In Monaco,” you say, arms folding tighter across your chest. “You told someone I was just a friend. That we weren’t serious.”

The flinch is immediate. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“I know I shouldn’t care,” you say, forcing your voice to stay even. “But I do. And maybe that’s on me. Maybe I was stupid to believe we were more than that... but I did.

“I thought it meant something,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper now. “The way you looked at me. The way you touched me like I was yours. I know we never said it out loud, but I… I felt it. And then I heard you say I was just a friend. Like none of it mattered.”

You glance away, blinking hard. “It made me feel like I imagined the whole thing.”

He looks at you like you’ve knocked the breath out of his lungs.

“You weren’t stupid,” he says quickly, stepping closer. His voice is raw. “God, no. You weren’t wrong. You didn’t imagine it. I just—I fucked up.”

You finally look at him, and the guilt on his face is almost too much to bear.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice breaking. “I’m so fucking sorry I hurt you.”

You just stare at him, unsure what to believe. So he keeps going, his voice cracking at the edges.

“I only said it because I was scared.”

You blink. “Scared of what?”

“Of you. I thought you wanted easy, no pressure, no feelings. And I thought… if I said the wrong thing you’d leave,” he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck like it physically hurts to admit.

“Honestly I panicked. Like if I admitted out loud how much you meant to me the universe would take you away just to remind me that you weren't really mine. I said you were just a friend because that felt safer. Less risky. Less… real.” His expression twists, ashamed. “But it wasn’t safe. It was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Because I hurt you. I don’t usually let people in. I never have, not fully. But with you… it was different. From the start.”

You’re still frozen, afraid to believe it. So he keeps talking.

“Since that first night,” he admits. “Probably even before. I’ve been falling for you more and more everyday. I told myself it was better this way. Easier. Because if I told you how I really felt and you didn’t feel the same… it would destroy me.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, like he’s finally exhaling months of weight. “So I kept it light. I kissed you like I was in love and then left before the sun came up because I didn’t know how to stay without saying something stupid.”

You suck in a breath, chest aching.

“I watched you flirt with guys at parties and I wanted to fucking scream,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. “But I didn’t say anything because you never asked me to.”

“I didn’t think I could,” you whisper.

“Me neither.”

His eyes are shining now, unguarded. “But I do. I want to stop pretending. Please. I want you, actually, properly. Not just when it’s convenient or behind closed doors. I want to call you mine. Get jealous when other guys talk to you. Tell everyone who you are to me.”

You feel like the breath has left your lungs. All this time, all the aching silences and stolen glances and quiet heartbreaks... and he’d felt it too.

“You mean it?” you ask, voice barely there.

He nods, expression fierce with honesty. “Yes. I do. I’m sorry it took me this long.”

“I'm sorry too. Sorry that I didn't tell you sooner.” You let out a small, broken laugh, tears slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them. “We’re such idiots.”

His smile breaks through slowly, like dawn. “The worst.”

Then he kisses you, slow at first, soft and searching, like he’s still afraid that this isn't real. You press into him, hands gripping his hoodie, mouth answering every unsaid thing between you. His fingers curl at your hips, his forehead pressed to yours when you finally break apart.

You don’t pull away.

Not this time. Not ever again.

Instead you let yourself fall right into him. Into the warmth of his chest, the grip of his hands as they hold you like something precious. Like something he’s finally allowed to keep.

He breathes out, shaky with relief, pressing his forehead to yours again.

“So… what now?” you ask softly, still breathless.

Lando smiles, wide and boyish and completely, devastatingly yours. “Now I take you to dinner and we argue about what to order. And I hold your hand in public just to make up for all the times I didn’t. And then I take you home and ask you to stay not just tonight but for as long as you'll have me.”

You bite your lip, overwhelmed in the best way.

“Sound good?” he asks, raising his eyebrow.

“Sounds incredible” You laugh into his shoulder as he pulls you into his arms lifting you slightly off the ground

“Finally.” he says, grinning like a man who’s just won the best kind of race.

“Finally,” you whisper back, and kiss him again, this time with no fear at all.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, lips pressing into the side of your neck like he always does, a habitual comfort. “Did you see the lap times? I told them mediums would work. Nobody listens to me.”

You nod, forcing a smile, even though your heart is already splitting.

You’ve been thinking about it for weeks. Ever since that quiet moment in the motorhome when Max stared blankly at the telemetry screen and muttered, “I can’t afford distractions right now.”

He hadn’t meant you. You’re almost sure of it.

But the way his tone dipped, the way he said it to no one in particular… you felt it.

You’ve been watching him stretch himself thinner and thinner, juggling press, sim training, briefings, travel, expectations. The sport devours every part of him. And you, standing next to him in the shadows, you’re just another thing he has to make room for.

So you’ve made a decision.

“Can we talk?” you ask softly, pulling away from his embrace.

Max blinks, slightly confused. “Sure. Everything okay?”

You wait until the hotel room. Wait until his shoes are kicked off, until his hoodie is tugged over his head, until there’s no one else but the two of you and the night air heavy between the walls.

You don’t sit. You don’t want to make this harder. You breath in deep.

The air sticks in your lungs like something you’re not supposed to hold.

Your fingers twist and your throat burns. He’s standing there still looking at you like you're his safe place.

You wish you could be softer. You wish you didn’t have to say it at all.

But you do.

“I think we should break up.”

He laughs at first an awkward, confused laugh like you’ve made a terrible joke. “What?”

You swallow. “Max. I’m serious.”

He stares at you and in an instant you see the change. Confusion first. Then disbelief. Then the fear the panic buried in those icy blue eyes.

“Why?” His voice is sharp now. A little rough around the edges. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

You try to stay steady, but your legs are already trembling. “I think… you need to focus. Fully. You’re chasing another title. You’re carrying a team Max. And I—”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t make it sound noble. Like this is some kind of sacrifice I didn’t ask for.”

You look down. “It’s not about me.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

You exhale shakily. “I heard you the other day talking about distractions.”

Max goes still. “I wasn’t talking about you!”

“But you were thinking it.”

He steps back like you slapped him. “Are you serious right now?”

Your arms wrap around your own body like a shield. “I’m not stupid Max.”

“No,” he spits, “you’re not. But you’re being insane if you think I meant you.”

Your breath catches.

His voice is sharp now, tight with hurt. “I was talking about media. About sponsor shit. About fake interviews and social posts and people getting me involved in nonsense.” He runs a frustrated hand down his face. “Not you. Never you.”

“Max—”

“No,” he cuts you off. “You heard one sentence — one — and decided I saw you as something that was holding me back? That’s what you think I see when I look at you?”

You don’t answer.

Max steps closer, eyes stormy, wounded. “Do you think I’d be doing better if you weren’t around?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Maybe.”

“I’ve been exhausted yeah but not because of you. Because of everything but you. You’re the only thing that keeps me sane. And now you want to throw it all away over something I didn’t even say to you?”

“I didn’t want to—”

“But you are,” he says. His voice is quieter now, but it’s no less intense. “You’re walking away based on a lie you told yourself.”

Your heart breaks at the way his chest rises and falls like he’s struggling to breathe. At the way his eyes burn but never look away.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes out. “You’re really doing this.”

You wrap your arms tighter around yourself trying to hold the pieces together. “I can't be the reason you don’t win.”

His voice is quiet now, dangerous in how calm it becomes. “You think you’re what’s holding me back but have you ever thought maybe you’re the only thing holding me together?”

Silence.

You want to believe that. God, you do. You want to believe you’re not the reason he’s exhausted. Not the reason his eyes are bloodshot in every morning briefing. Not the reason he’s chasing time in the car, in the gym, on his phone when he’s late texting you back.

But your mind is cluttered with too many moments you can’t forget.

Early wake-ups where you watched him slip out quietly, thinking he was doing you a favour. Missed calls that piled up while he was on back-to-back simulators. Half-eaten cold dinners you both pretended tasted fine despite the silence hanging over the table. Long flights where he held your hand, but couldn't meet your eyes.

And that one night, the one that never left you where you found him sitting on the edge of the bed at 3 a.m. staring blankly at data sheets on his laptop. In the morning he whispered, “Sorry. I should’ve come to bed.” You kissed his cheek and said it was fine, but it wasn’t. Not because he stayed up working but because you never wanted him to feel guilty in the first place.

You shake your head now, voice quiet. “You don’t need me Max not right now.”

He flinches like the words cut deeper than he expected.

“You need focus,” you continue, forcing yourself to say it, even though your chest is tightening with every word. “You need space. Not someone you have to text between back-to-backs or stay up late comforting. You don’t need to carry me and the weight of the season. And if I love you, really love you, which I do then I let you run without looking back.”

He looks at you like you’ve just knocked the air out of him.

“I don’t want space from you.” Max turns away sharply, hands in his hair, pacing like he’s trying to outrun the truth. “This is insane. You’re breaking up with me for my benefit?”

You can’t breathe.

“Max,” you say gently, “I love you enough to let you go.”

He turns, broken now. “You don’t break someone’s heart and call it love.”

“I’m not breaking your heart to hurt you,” you say, almost begging him to understand. “I’m doing it because I think it’s what’s best for you.”

“You don’t get to decide what’s best for me,” he fires back. “You think this helps? You think waking up without you, going to races and not knowing if you’ll even be watching you think that’s what I need?”

“You need clarity. You don’t need me weighing you down!”

“I can’t believe this,” he mutters. “I’ve given you everything. Every spare second I had. Every bit of me that wasn’t on track it was yours.”

“I know,” you say, tears in your voice now. “I know, and that’s why I have to do this! Because I can’t keep being another thing you have to manage it's not fair and it's killing you.”

“You’re not a thing,” he says sharply. “You’re not an obligation. You’re my person.”

You close your eyes, like maybe if you stop looking at him this won’t hurt as much. “I have to go Max.”

He steps closer. “No you don’t. You don’t get to decide what’s best for me. I choose you, always, racing or not. That doesn’t change.”

You reach out instinctively, but he jerks back like your touch burns.

“Don’t,” he whispers, voice shattered. “Don’t touch me like you love me and then leave.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck sorry,” he snaps. His chest is rising and falling like he’s mid-race, like he’s seconds away from spinning out. “You think you’re doing this to protect me. You’re not. You’re just—” he chokes on the words, “—you’re just giving up.”

You shake your head. “I’m giving you what you need. You don't see it now but you will.” Your voice softens, even as your chest tightens. “I’m just… one more thing you have to think about. One more person to reassure, to make time for. You’re already stretched so thin Max. And I see it every time you’re pulled in ten different directions. I don’t want to be one more thing costing you this championship.”

He glares at you like he doesn’t recognise the person standing in front of him anymore. “No. You’re not doing this for me. You’re doing it so you won’t have to wonder if you played a part if I fall short. And if I’m standing on the podium you can tell yourself it was because you stepped away. That it was worth it. This is for you.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“That’s not—”

“Maybe I’ll win,” he says, his voice barely holding steady. “You’ll be watching wondering if I could’ve made it there with you next to me. And you’ll never get the answer because you never gave us the chance.”

That’s what breaks you. The rawness in his tone. The grief and anger tangled together in the spaces between every word.

You turn, grabbing your overnight bag. If you stay, you’ll take it back. You’ll beg. You’ll cry. And you can’t.

Max watches you move toward the door, arms limp at his sides like he can’t believe this is happening.

“Just tell me one thing,” he says hoarsely. “Is there someone else?”

You freeze. “No. Never.”

“Then why the fuck are you doing this?”

Your voice is so small it’s barely audible.

“Because I love you.”

Silence swallows the room. When you glance back one last time Max’s face is blank. He looks like a statue, like if he moves he’ll break apart.

You leave anyway.

One Month Later

You see him on TV. Monaco podium. Champagne soaking his fireproofs, cameras flashing, fans screaming his name.

But his smile never quite reaches his eyes.

When the reporter asks, “You’ve been in great form lately does it feel like everything is finally coming together?”

Max just shrugs.

“Not everything,” he replies.

And walks off.

He glances up, sighs. “The meeting ran late. I told you that.”

“You texted that at eight,” you fire back. “Then nothing.”

He looks at you properly now, but there’s nothing in his expression, just exhaustion and that maddening calm he wears when you’re storming. “What do you want me to say? I’m here now.”

You blink. That’s it?

Not sorry, not I should’ve called, not even a look that says he noticed the lights still on when he walked in. Just I’m here now, like that’s supposed to be enough.

“I wanted you to care that I waited up,” you say, the words cracking mid-sentence. “That I’m pregnant, hormonal, and alone in this apartment all day while you’re off—off doing whatever you want, like nothing’s changed for you.”

His expression shifted instantly, brows knitting, jacket still hanging off one shoulder. “It was work.”

“I know it was work. I’m not saying you’re out partying,” you said, voice shaking. “But you come home and act like nothing’s changed for you. Meanwhile I can’t sleep, my back hurts constantly, I cry all the time, and now you’re looking at me like I’m some ticking bomb and not the person carrying your child.”

Max’s jaw tensed. “You’re not being fair.”

You laughed, harsh and hollow. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was it unfair when I threw up for the third time today? Or when I started crying because someone in the grocery store bumped my cart?”

He exhales hard through his nose, rubs a hand over his face. “Jesus. You’re just doing this because you’re pregnant. It’s hormones.”

Silence.

A thick, choking kind of silence.

You blinked, once. Twice. Then your arms dropped to your sides.

“I’m doing this,” you repeated, voice low, flat, as if you needed to say it aloud to even process it. “Because I’m pregnant?”

Still, nothing. Just that heavy, awful quiet.

“I’m carrying your child,” you whispered. “And you think this is just about hormones?”

Your voice cracked on the last word, but you didn’t back down. You stood in it, even as your throat burned and your chest rose and fell in uneven, shallow breaths.

“Oh. Right. So that’s what this is,” you said after a beat, nodding slowly like the realisation had knocked you backward. “It’s not us having a problem it’s me being the problem.”

Max’s face shifted his expression softened in that way it always did when he realised too late he’d gone too far. His mouth opened, but the apology didn’t come fast enough.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No, I get it,” you said, swallowing hard. “I’m just the crazy hormonal woman yelling at her boyfriend for being late. Never mind the fact I haven’t felt like me in months. That my body doesn’t feel like mine. That I’ve been trying so hard not to spiral, to give you space, to not drown us both.”

He stepped forward, slow and careful, like you were something fragile. “You’re twisting my words—”

“I’m twisting them?” you shot back. “You said I’m doing this because I’m pregnant. Like I don’t have a reason. Like the fear, the loneliness, the waiting, it’s all just silly hormones.”

“You know that’s not what I think—”

“But that’s what you said, Max. And you know what hurts the most?” Your throat burned and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “I was excited to tell you the baby kicked today. I was waiting all night. But instead you came home and made me feel like I was overreacting for needing you.”

That shut him up. Entirely.

He looked stunned. No guilty. He opened his mouth again, then closed it, hands useless at his sides.

The tension in your chest cracked. You walked past him brushing his arm, he flinched slightly, like instinctively reaching to stop you, but his hand hovered in the air too uncertain to follow through.

You didn’t cry until the bedroom door was closed.

Max didn’t sleep.

You knew that because when you woke up in the middle of the night heart thudding, sheets twisted around your legs like vines his side of the bed was still cold. Still untouched.

The door to the bedroom had stayed closed, but the soft glow beneath it told you he hadn’t left.

You crept out quietly, just for a moment. Just to see.

He was on the couch sitting rigid, elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped together, staring at something that wasn’t there.

You didn’t say anything.

You watched him for one breath. Then another.

And then you went back to bed, the silence following you like a ghost.

He was gone by morning, back at work again.

You spent the whole day nauseous.

Not just from the pregnancy, but from the weight in your chest, coiled and unrelenting. From the ghost of last night’s silence. From the way you’d looked at him and seen a stranger instead of the man who once kissed your belly like it was sacred.

You loved Max, but sometimes you weren’t sure he knew how to love this version of you, this fragile, emotional, sleep-deprived mess.

Late afternoon, you wandered into the bedroom without really thinking, the sun casting long shadows through the window. You started sorting drawers not out of purpose, just to do something. Something that felt normal.

That’s when you found it.

The envelope. Tucked in the back of the bottom dresser drawer, sealed neatly, edges a little worn from being handled more than once.

You knew what it was before you opened it. The first ultrasound. The little blur that had made you both cry.

You’d clutched Max’s hand so tightly that day. He’d kissed your forehead afterward like you were the bravest person he’d ever met.

He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t careless.

He was scared.

Just like you.

You sat on the floor, knees drawn to your chest, the photo shaking in your fingers. And for the first time in hours, you let yourself feel all of it.

By late afternoon, you were too tired to keep thinking. You curled up in bed and tried to sleep.

You didn’t know when the door opened. Didn’t hear footsteps, didn’t hear him drop his bag or kick off his shoes but you felt the mattress shift.

The slow, cautious dip of weight behind you as Max sat down gently, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be there.

You didn’t move. Not at first.

But then something brushed the comforter beside your hip a soft crinkle. A sound that didn’t belong.

“I brought something,” Max said quietly. His voice was rough, like he’d barley spoken all day.

You turned your head slightly.

“It’s stupid,” he added quickly, holding it up now you could see it was a small, plush lion with a Red Bull cap stitched on. The kind of thing you'd normally laugh about, silly, overly branded, too on-the-nose but now, in his hand, it looked more like an apology than a gift.

“I know it doesn’t make up for anything. I just… I saw it on the way home and thought maybe if I brought something for the baby… maybe it’d be a start.”

You stared at it. Then at him.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “What I said. I was frustrated. Defensive. And I said the worst possible thing. And I swear to God if I could take it back—”

“You can’t,” you said, your voice scratchy from crying and sleep.

He nodded, his jaw tightening. “I know.”

You turned your head fully, meeting his eyes finally.

The silence stretched between you again but this time it wasn’t heavy.

“I was waiting to tell you the baby kicked again,” you whispered. “It happened last night. I wanted to share that with you.”

Max’s face crumpled, like the words physically hurt him. He placed the lion down gently on the nightstand and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he was bracing himself for judgment.

“I feel horrible,” he said. “There’s no excuse for the way I’ve been acting. I’ve been selfish. I’ve been scared. I kept thinking if I just… kept going like normal, maybe it wouldn’t feel so overwhelming. But that meant leaving you behind while I pretended everything was fine and that’s not fair.”

“I’m so scared,” he admitted, voice small and raw. “I didn’t think I would be. I thought I’d rise to it. I thought—hell, I don’t even know what I thought. But suddenly it’s real and I don’t know how to be everything you need while still being everything the world expects me to be. And I know you’re the one doing the hard part. You’re the one growing a person, and I’ve made it about me, and that’s—” he shook his head. “That’s not who I want to be.”

You reached for his hand beneath the covers, your fingers brushing his knuckles first, hesitant, uncertain, but the second you touched him, he moved.

Max’s hand closed around yours like he’d been holding his breath all day, like that one simple touch was the only thing keeping him afloat. His grip was firm but trembling, desperate in a quiet, wordless way.

“You don’t have to be everything,” you whispered. “I just need you to be here.”

“I know,” he said hoarsely. “And I’m sorry I made you feel like you were alone. That’s the last thing I ever wanted. I thought if I kept working, kept pushing forward, that somehow I was doing the right thing. That it meant I was providing, preparing, being strong. But I wasn’t with you in any of it.”

Your voice cracked. “I don’t need perfect Max. I don’t need you to have all the answers. I just need to feel like I’m not invisible in this.”

“You’re not,” he said quickly, his voice full of urgency now. “I see you.”

You took a breath, then said, softly, “You don’t have to make it up all at once. Just… stay. With me. In this.”

Max nodded, eyes glassy. Then, slowly, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“Did they really kick?” he asked, voice trembling with something between hope and regret.

You guided his hand to the spot low on your belly, where the flutter had happened hours earlier. “They did. Probably annoyed I was crying again.”

His laugh was soft and wet with relief. “Sounds like they’ve got your attitude.”

You smiled, the ache in your chest finally easing. “They’ve got your stubbornness.”

You stayed like that for a long moment foreheads touching, your hand holding his against the swell of your stomach, both of you breathing the same air, the same fear, the same fragile hope.

“I’ll be better,” he said, voice barely a murmur. “I’ll listen. I’ll come home. I’ll hold your hand through every meltdown, every mood swing, every craving at 2 a.m.”

“You’d better,” you replied, teasing, though your voice still carried the edge of exhaustion.

“And next time,” he added, “when you say something’s bothering you, I won’t call it hormones. I’ll sit down. Shut up. And maybe bring ice cream.”

You gave him a faint smile. “Smart man.”

He kissed you then, gentle and slow, full of apology. Full of love.

Just as he pulled back, his hand still resting lightly on your stomach, something shifted beneath it.

A kick. Sharper this time.

“Oh,” he gasped, eyes wide, snapping back to look at you.

You laughed softly. “See? They forgive you.”

He slid beneath the blankets properly this time, arms wrapping around you from behind, his chest pressed to your back, his breath steady against your shoulder. One hand still resting protectively on your belly.

You fell asleep like that, wrapped up in each other, the baby, and something new that didn’t quite feel like only forgiveness, but maybe the start of something better.

You slept better that night than you had in weeks.

“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper. Because really, what else can you say after almost ten years, multiple countries, and the ache of being forgotten?

He blinks once. Then again. His jaw tightens.

“You came.”

You nod, nervous under the weight of his gaze. “Yeah. I mean, your mum invited me, and… it felt like time.”

Time. That strange, cruel thing that unraveled the knot you’d once tied so tightly between you, a knot built from scraped knees, shared dreams, and the kind of trust that only comes from growing up side by side.

Time turned summer sleepovers into unanswered texts. Turned secret handshakes into blank stares across a room you no longer shared. It turned “always” into “used to.” You had been inseparable. Velcro. Chaos in a two-person unit. Trouble, always in pairs and never quite as brave alone.

You’d kept up with his career of course. You knew his stats, his wins, the way the crowd chanted his name now. But the Max you remembered the one with grass stains on his knees and ice cream on his chin felt like someone else entirely.

You grew up in karting garages together, your laughter bouncing off concrete walls louder than the engines. You were twin shadows slipping between toolboxes and tyre stacks, dodging mechanics and stealing zip ties like they were gold. Oil-smudged fingers. Greasy fries in one hand, tyre pressure gauges in the other. Max taught you how to kick-start an engine before you’d even mastered telling the time. You taught him how to tie a tie, how to tape a blister, how to calm down after a bad lap.

You used to sneak snacks off each other’s trays and pretend neither of you noticed. You fell asleep shoulder to shoulder in the back of his dad’s van, watching old F1 races on a cracked iPad and whispering commentary until one of you snored. You had a notebook, battered and dog-eared, where you’d both sketch ridiculous helmet designs, all glitter paint and fire decals. He always said he’d wear yours if he ever made it. You still have that page, folded and faded.

After every race, whether he won or crashed out, he’d find you. Every time. He’d pull off his gloves and jog toward the barriers just to hear your opinion. When you raced his face would light up when you crossed the line whether first or last didn’t matter. You were his best friend. That was enough.

But then life did what life does. You moved. He kept racing. You said you’d write. He said he’d call. And you did at first, but life moves fast and somewhere along the way you stopped.

Now here you are standing in the Red Bull garage as if no time passed, as if the world hasn’t changed, as if you’re still those two sunburnt kids who thought karting trophies and fizzy drinks were all that mattered.

Max looks at you like you might disappear if he blinks again.

His gaze flicks over your face with an urgency he’s trying to hide, like he’s checking to see what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. Like he’s afraid to find too much of one or the other.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you around here again,” he says finally, voice low and rough-edged, like it’s scraped up from somewhere buried.

You swallow the lump that rises instantly in your throat. “Didn’t know if you’d even remember.”

His mouth tilts not a smile, exactly. More like the ghost of one, soft and haunted around the edges. “You’re kind of hard to forget.”

And just like that, something inside you, something carefully packed away for years, twists, sharp and sudden. An old ache, familiar and stupidly alive. He used to say things like that all the time, back when the only people in your world were each other.

Max shifts like he wants to say something else. Instead his eyes catch on your features again, and he frowns faintly.

“You look…” he starts, then trails off. His lips part like he might keep going, but nothing comes.

You don’t press him. You’re not sure you could handle it if you did.

So you offer a crooked smile. “Older?”

He snorts, a low, almost fond sound that slips past his defences. “Still short.”

You roll your eyes and shove at his arm. “Still rude.”

Then he laughs. Really laughs. It hits you in the ribs like a punch, that sound because it’s the same. Deeper now, with age and wear, but still the same boyish rasp that used to echo through paddocks and across bunk beds and over midnight walks when the world felt too big and all you had was each other.

For a second, it’s like no time passed at all.

You don’t realise how long you’ve been staring, locked into the space between who he was and who he is, until his voice drops lower, softer.

“I missed you.”

Three words, barely breathed.

They land like a stone in your chest.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes at first. Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to reach for something that might no longer be yours.

“I missed you too,” you whisper finally, and the truth in it feels like something dangerous.

Because now you’re not just remembering him.

You’re feeling him.

The next morning, the paddock is alive with chaos, engineers buzzing, cameras swiveling, drivers darting past like comets. But all you can think about is the message from Max that was left at your hotel for you.

Come by the garage in the morning, before FP?

Your fingers tremble slightly as you enter the paddock. You’ve barely slept, head full of things you almost said and things he nearly did. It’s like a door opened yesterday, and now you can’t stop looking inside.

He’s waiting by the back of the garage, half in uniform, half in thought.

His face softens when he sees you.

“I was hoping you’d come.”

You nod, trying not to stare at the way his fire suit clings to his frame. “I figured if I didn’t you’d just track me down.”

He smirks. “Yeah probably. I know where you’re staying.”

You laugh, but there’s a tightness in your chest.

You watch as he fiddles with the velcro of his gloves, not quite meeting your eyes. “There’s something I want to show you. Maybe it’s stupid.”

He leads you to his driver room, past engineers, down the corridor with controlled chaos humming all around you, and when the door clicks shut, it’s just you and him.

He opens a drawer. Pulls out something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

A photo.

Faded. Bent at the corners. But unmistakable.

You and him. Teenagers, around fifteen. Covered in dirt and grease and beaming like idiots. You’ve got a bottle of water in one hand and Max is mid-squint, arm slung over your shoulders.

“I’ve had it since that last race before you left,” he says, voice low. “I kept it in my wallet for years. Then it started to fall apart, so I moved it here.”

Your fingers graze the edge of the picture.

“We look ridiculous.”

“You look happy,” he corrects quietly.

You don’t ask how often he’s looked at it. You don’t have to.

Because you remember that day too.

The air had smelled like petrol and hot asphalt, and your heart was still pounding from the race. You were grinning, practically vibrating with adrenaline. Because for the first time ever you beat Max.

He pulled off his helmet slowly, curls a sweaty mess, and sulked like someone stole his dog.

You plopped beside him in the pit lane, holding out the fries you’d bought from the food truck near the gate. “Truce?”

He gave you the side-eye. “You cut me off on turn six.”

You shrugged. “You left the inside line open. Rookie mistake.”

“I hate you.”

You popped a fry into your mouth. “No you don’t.”

He didn’t say congrats, but the way he smiled when he thought you weren’t looking that said enough.

You offered him the last fry without looking at him. “For your bruised ego.”

He took it, but didn’t eat it right away. “You’re gonna win a lot of races,” he said quietly.

“So will you.”

“But I’ll always remember this one.”

You turned to him, confused. “Why this one?”

His gaze met yours, and something in his expression shifted, a flicker of hesitation, like a thought stumbled too close to the surface.

He leaned in.

It wasn’t fast or sudden. It was slow, careful, uncertain.

Your breath hitched. The grease-stained paper bag slipped from your fingers onto the ground. You felt the sun on your skin and the heat of his body so close, his mouth a breath away from yours.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Your noses nearly brushed. His eyes flicked to your lips. You could count his freckles.

But then, footsteps. Loud. Sharp.

You both jolted back like the moment hadn’t happened at all.

His father walked past, barely glancing at either of you.

You looked down. Max rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in his shoelaces.

And just like that, it was over.

Not a kiss.

Just an almost.

An almost that would live quietly in the silence between you, never spoken about, never quite forgotten.

You didn’t expect to be invited to the RedBull motorhome for lunch. And you definitely didn’t expect Max to sit across from you the entire time, answering questions from media with one eye always flicking back to you.

After the interviews, he corners you in a quiet hallway.

"Come for a drive with me."

You blink. “Now?”

He nods. “Yeah. I need to clear my head. I think… I think we need to talk.”

You hesitate for only a moment before you follow him out into the sun.

The car is fast, obviously, and expensive, a blur of black and blue. But inside it everything slows.

“I tried calling once… recently, I mean” he says, not looking at you.

You swallow. “I changed my number.”

He nods. “I figured. I just, you were gone. One day you were there, and the next…”

“I didn’t want to leave Max, I was a teenager I didn’t get a say.”

Silence. Then, “I know, but I really didn’t want you to. I wished I could’ve done something.”

“You were just a kid too. It was no ones fault.” You take a deep breath and then add. “I waited for you that last night, you know. I kept thinking… maybe you’d come find me.”

You’d gotten the news on a late afternoon: your family was relocating. New country. New start. It felt like the world cracked open beneath your feet.

You’d ran to him heart pounding with the knowledge that your whole life was about to split in two.

“I need to tell you something,” you’d said, voice shaking.

He looked up instantly. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated. Then forced the words out.

“I’m leaving.”

Max blinked. “What do you mean, leaving?”

“My dad got a job offer. We’re moving.”

He stared at you. Completely still. “When?”

You bit your lip. “Soon.”

His soda can crumpled slightly in his grip.

You hated the silence that followed. You wanted him to fight it. You wanted him to shout, to say no. Instead, he looked down.

“For how long?” he asked quietly.

You couldn’t lie. “I don’t know.”

He nodded once. Too slowly. Too carefully. Like the movement itself hurt.

You waited. You waited for him to reach for you, to say anything, that he’d miss you, that he was angry, that you meant something. But he just stood there, like his body had shut down and left only a shell behind.

So you swallowed your tears, your pride, and your heartache and whispered, “Guess I’ll see you around.”

You wanted to throw your arms around his neck and say you’d fight this, that you didn’t want to leave, but your throat burned and your eyes were wet and you couldn’t force the words out.

Then you turned and walked away.

“I should’ve said something,” Max says quietly. “Anything. I was a coward.”

You look at him.

You don’t say me too.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a decade.

It’s quiet after that. The kind of quiet that lives in the space between memory and regret.

He drives to a lookout over the sea. It reminds you of a place you used to sit together as kids, eating fries from a greasy paper cone and talking about what you’d do if you ever made it.

“You made it,” you say as you climb out of the car.

“So did you,” he replies.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Not in the same way.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans against the hood of the car and looks at you like he’s trying to memorise you.

“I thought about you,” he says quietly. “All the time.”

Your breath catches.

“Max…”

“I kept waiting for you to come back. For years, I’d look for your face in the stands. I kept thinking maybe today.”

Your throat tightens. You remember all the times you wanted to reach out, to send a letter, an email, anything. But something always stopped you.

Fear. Pride. Guilt.

“I didn’t know if you’d care.”

He turns fully to you then, and his eyes, older, sharper, but still that same ocean blue burn into yours.

“Of course I’d care. You were everything to me. You still are.”

The air between you shifts.

“Max,” you whisper, and this time your voice trembles. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what it means anymore. It’s been years.”

“I know,” he says, stepping closer. “But you’re still the only person I’ve ever felt like this about.”

You’re too stunned to speak.

He exhales, eyes flicking to your lips before dragging back up. “I don’t expect anything. I just… I needed you to know.”

For the first time in a decade, you let yourself touch him, your fingers brushing against his, slow and tentative.

“I still feel it too,” you whisper.

His hand closes around yours like he’s afraid to let go again.

That night, you sit on the edge of your hotel bed and stare at your phone.

A message from Max.

Come up. Roof bar. Just us.

Your heart is in your throat as you ride the lift.

When the doors open, he’s already there two drinks in hand, back turned to the city view. He turns as you approach, something soft and aching in his smile.

“You came.”

“You asked.”

He hands you a drink. “For old times?”

You take a sip. “Something like that.”

You stare at him. At the man he’s become. Stronger. Sharper. Quieter, somehow. But the boy you knew the one who always gave you the last bite of his sandwich, who held your hand during thunderstorms, who whispered secrets to you in the dark he’s still there.

“Do you think we can go back?” you ask, your voice barely audible over the city noise.

He steps close. Not touching, not yet. But close enough that you feel the pull in your chest like gravity.

“I don’t want to go back,” he says. “I want to start again.”

His next words crack something open.

“You know how often I used to write texts I never sent. Every race, every flight. I’d delete them before takeoff like an idiot.” His voice breaks, just slightly. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you again?”

You nod, because you do. Because every stupid highlight reel of his wins made your heart ache. Because you once screamed into your pillow after seeing him kiss someone else in the paddock and you thought you’d missed your chance for good.

He reaches out. Not touching you yet, just hovering. “I’m never losing you again.”

Your breath catches.

“Max…”

“No. Don’t.” His fingers find yours. Threaded. Familiar. “Please. I’ve won everything I ever wanted. Except this.”

Your forehead presses to his chest before you can stop yourself, and he holds you like he remembers exactly how to. Like he’s angry at the space between you. Like if he squeezes tight enough, you’ll forget the wasted years and remember everything else.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper.

“Don’t ever leave again,” he mutters into your hair.

You don’t answer with words. You don’t even think you just act on instinct.

You kiss him.

Desperate but somehow gentle. A question.

He answers with a hand on your waist, the other on your cheek, anchoring you like he used to when the world spun too fast.

And just like that, you’re fifteen again. And twenty-two. And every version of yourself that ever loved him.

Later, when he walks you back to your room, he doesn’t try to come in.

He just stands there in the hallway, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t,” you promise.

His eyes soften. “Stay. In Monaco. Just for a while.”

You bite your lip. “Max…”

“Not just for me,” he says quickly. “For you. For us. Let’s see where this goes.”

You look at him, this man who waited years, who still looks at you like you hung the stars and you know the answer, you’ve always known.

“Okay.”

And when he leans in, forehead resting against yours, everything feels still.

You were always meant to find your way back to him.

It was always Max.

Always you.

Even after all this time