The consulting detective’s girl

Max had finished third that day. Third. It was hardly a disaster. He had been annoyed about strategy, about balance, about a lock-up that had cost him time in the first stint, but when he came back to the garage and found you waiting there he had smiled.

He had pulled you into his arms, kissed your temple and muttered, “Long day.”

You had rubbed your hand over the back of his neck and whispered, “You still did amazing.”

He had grumbled something about not wanting amazing, wanting first, but he had leaned into you anyway. So no you didn’t think much of the comment.

The second time you noticed more.

Monaco was supposed to be fun. It was one of your favourite races to attend, even though Max always complained about the current celebrification of it all. You loved the narrow streets, the balconies, the impossible glitter of the harbour, the way the whole weekend felt like it existed in some strange, historic bubble.

Max had qualified poorly after a messy final sector. Then the race had been worse, you can’t overtake here at the best of times but the car looked like it wanted to fight him at every corner.

He finished seventh.

By the time you got back to the motorhome your phone was already burning with notifications.

You told yourself not to look.

@f1_tea: Max when his girlfriend is there: fighting for his LIFE

Max when she’s not there: untouchable

make it make sense.

@orangearmy: She seems nice but the stats are getting scary now.

@rbrupdates: Races attended by Y/N this season: P3, P5, P7

Races missed: P1, P1

Interesting…

@maximylove33: Red Bull need to ban her from the garage I’m sorry.

You stared at that one a little longer than the others.

Ban her from the garage.

Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to laugh under your breath because it was absurd. It was social media. People said anything online. They blamed girlfriends, mechanics, fans, helmets, haircuts, cats, moon phases.

It didn’t mean anything.

Still when Max came into the room, damp-haired and exhausted, you locked your phone before he could see. His eyes flicked to the movement immediately.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “Just tired.”

Max studied you for a second, blue eyes narrowing with that sharp, quiet attention he always had when something felt off. He might have been blunt with the rest of the world, impatient with questions he didn’t like, but with you he noticed everything. The forced smile, the tucked-away phone, the way your shoulders sat too high. He crossed the room and sat beside you.

“What’s happened?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Don’t do that.”

You looked down at your hands. “It’s nothing.”

“Y/N.”

“It’s just stupid fan stuff.”

Max exhaled through his nose, already irritated, never at you, but at the invisible crowd of people who seemed to think loving him meant they owned every part of his life.

He reached for your phone. “Show me.”

“No.”

His expression softened at once, that was somehow worse, the anger you could handle but the softness made your throat close.

“Mijn liefje,” he murmured, quieter now. “What is it?”

You shook your head. “They’re just saying I’m bad luck.”

Max stared at you, then he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” You didn’t say anything and so he shifted closer, his knee pressing against yours. “I could drive into a wall by myself and they would find a way to blame you if you were standing three countries away.”

You laughed, but it came out weak.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re not bad luck.”

“I know,” you said, but neither of you quite believed that you meant it.

The third time was Austria.

You loved Austria because Max loved Austria. Even before the weekend started he was lighter there, still intense and focused, still Max, but happier. The sea of orange in the grandstands always did something to him even if he pretended it didn’t.

You wanted that weekend to go well for him more than anything.

Instead qualifying was messy and then the race unravelled.

A poor start again then a strategy gamble that didn’t pay off. A late-race battle that left Max furious over the radio and fifth at the flag.

You didn’t need to check your phone to know what people were saying. You felt it before you saw it.

In the garage people were careful around you, no one was outright rude, you didn’t think anyone would dare be rude, not openly and certianly not around Max, but there were glances. Tiny pauses. Conversations that dipped quieter when you walked past.

You told yourself you were imagining it. Then you heard one of the junior PR assistants whisper, “It’s going to be a nightmare online again.”

Someone else said, “Honestly they should just keep her away for Silverstone. Not because it’s real, obviously, but the optics… the comment sections are getting brutal.”

The optics.

Your stomach dropped. You stood frozen in the corridor outside hospitality, one hand still on the door you had been about to push open.

The first voice replied, “Yeah. It’s becoming a thing now.”

A thing.

You were becoming a thing.

You're Max’s girlfriend. The person who holds his hands all night when he's too wired after races to sleep, the person who knows exactly what he needs before early flights, the person who watched him be too hard on himself again and again and loved him through it all.

Now you’re reduced to a thing.

A bad-luck narrative.

A problem to manage.

You stepped back before anyone could see you.

Silverstone was the next weekend. You had planned to go. Max had asked you three times if you were sure you wanted to come because he knew the British media could be brutal, and you had kissed him in the kitchen and said, “Of course I’m coming.”

He had smirked at that, pulling you closer by the hips. “Good. Then you can watch very carefully.”

Later, sitting alone in bed waiting for Max to finish on the sim you felt something inside you twist.

What if you went and he didn’t win or missed the podium again?

What if everyone was waiting for it?

What if even the team didn’t want you there?

By the time Max came to bed you had fixed your face. His hair was a mess and his expression stormy, but when he saw you the storm eased.

He came closer, his hand finding your waist automatically. “You okay?”

You looked at him, at the tiredness in his face, at the frustration he was trying to swallow because he didn’t want to bring it to you and you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t add yourself to the list of things he had to handle.

So you smiled.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m okay.”

Max did not win Silverstone.

But you weren’t there. You watched from home, sitting cross-legged on your sofa in one of his hoodies your phone face down on the cushion beside you.

He finished second after a late safety car, close enough to make it painful.

When he called you afterward, his face appeared on your screen still flushed from the race, hair damp and eyes tired.

“You should've been here,” he said.

Your chest ached.

“I watched.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I know.”

He frowned. “Why didn’t you come again?”

You had told him you weren’t feeling well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. You had felt sick every time you imagined stepping into the paddock and seeing everyone wonder if you were going to ruin his weekend just by existing.

“I told you,” you said. “Headache.”

“For four days?”

“It was a very committed headache.”

Usually he would have laughed but he very pointedly didn’t.

“Y/N.”

You looked away from the screen. “Max.”

“What is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

You swallowed. “I’m just tired.”

He watched you in silence and for one terrifying second you thought he was going to push. Max was stubborn. He hated being shut out, especially by you, but then someone called his name in the background.

His jaw tightened. “I have to go,” he said reluctantly. “We’re going to talk later.”

“Okay.”

His voice softened. “I love you.”

You closed your eyes for half a second.

“I love you too.”

After the call ended, you turned your phone over.

You lasted eight minutes before checking socials.

@f1girlies: She wasn’t there and Max was back on the podium. Coincidence? 👀

@mv1nation: Not a win but better than last week. Keep the pattern going.

@paddockspy: Red Bull garage seemed calmer without Y/N there, just saying.

@verstappening1: I don’t hate her but if she loves him she should stay home until the championship is safe.

If she loves him.

That was the one that got you, because of course you do.

You loved him so much it terrified you sometimes. You loved him when he won and when he didn’t. You loved him when he was impossible after bad races, pacing hotel rooms and replaying overtakes in his head. You loved him when he was soft in the mornings, half-asleep and clingy, pulling you back into bed with a grumbled “five more minutes” even though he was always the one with the schedule.

You loved him enough to wonder whether loving him meant removing yourself.

The thought was unbearable so you did what people always did when something hurt too much you tried to make it logical, you told yourself it was temporary. Just a few races. Just until the noise died down.

Until Max won again.

And he did.

Hungary.

You stayed home again, claiming work, though you had finished everything by Friday afternoon and spent the entire weekend watching coverage with a knot in your stomach.

Max won.

Dominantly.

The internet exploded.

@f1tea: Y/N absent = Max win. Third time lucky. I fear the curse is real.

@orangeprophecy: Someone send her flowers and also keep her away from the paddock please.

@mv1updates: Max has won or come 2nd at every race she hasn’t attended this season btw.

@paddockwives: Imagine being such bad luck your boyfriend performs better when you’re not there.

You stared at the screen until the words blurred. You watched him smiling up there, happy and champagne-soaked, feeling like the whole world thought your absence had helped put him there.

Max called you after.

You didn’t answer.

Then he texted.

Max: Where are you?

Max: I wanted to see your face.

Max: Schatje?

Max: Are you asleep?

You stared at the messages until the screen went dark. Then you cried so hard you had to press the hoodie sleeve against your mouth to keep quiet even though there was no one there to hear you.

A few hours later you replied.

You: Sorry I fell asleep. I’m so proud of you. You were amazing.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Max: Thank you.

Max: I missed you.

You squeezed your eyes tight.

You: I missed you too.

Spa was where everything broke.

You weren’t going to go, in fact you had promised yourself you wouldn’t. Hungary had confirmed it, hadn’t it? He was better off without you there. But Max had been strange all week, he wasn’t angry or even mad, but he was quiet. He kept asking if you were coming, casually at first, then less casually.

“You love Spa,” he said over dinner one evening, pushing vegetables around his plate like they had personally offended him.

“I do.”

“So come.”

“I have some things to do.”

“What things?”

“Work things.”

“You can work from the hotel.”

You gave him a look. “Not everything can be done from a hotel Max.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on you. “You sure?”

In that moment you hated how well he knew you. You hated that you had built a life with someone who could tell the shape of your lies before you even finished speaking. Excpet you didn’t really hate it, because really it was part of the million reasons why you loved him.

“I just can’t this weekend,” you said.

Max’s mouth pressed into a flat line.

“Okay.”

That was all he said.

Okay.

Later when you were brushing your teeth you heard him on the phone in the bedroom, his voice was low and irritated.

“No, I don’t care what they’re saying.”

A pause.

“I said no.”

Another pause.

Then, sharper, “Because she’s my girlfriend, are you stupid?”

You froze, toothbrush still in your mouth. His tone changed after that, quieter but no less furious.

“You think I don’t know what people are saying? Of course I know.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“I’m not asking you to manage her. I’m asking you to shut it down.”

Silence.

Then Max said, “If anyone in the team has made her feel unwelcome I’ll find out.”

You stepped back from the door and a strange panic rose in your throat. Somehow instead of making it better, it made you feel worse because now he was worried and he was distracted. Now you weren't only bad luck you were also a problem.

So the next morning when Max left early for training you booked a last-minute flight to Belgium.

You told yourself you just needed to prove something to yourself. That you could be near him and not ruin anything. That the world was not actually keeping score.

You arrived on Saturday and stayed hidden. It was pathetic really, you wore sunglasses and a cap low over your face, sitting in a quiet hospitality corner you knew cameras rarely reached. You didn’t tell anyone except one security guard you trusted, who looked at you like he wanted to ask questions but wisely chose not to.

Qualifying went badly. Not catastrophically but badly enough. A mistake in Q3. A snap of oversteer. A lap that should have been pole but turned into fourth. You felt the garage change around you before the session had even ended.

Then you heard the buzz of a message, but it wasn’t to you. It came through on the screen of a team tablet someone had left on the table beside you, a notification from a group chat flashing bright before disappearing.

But you saw enough.

Is Y/N here? Because this is going to become a whole thing again.

Your whole body went cold.

A second message appeared.

Can someone please make sure she’s not around tomorrow? Max doesn’t need the distraction.

The distraction.

For a second you couldn’t breathe.

Not bad luck this time.

Worse.

A distraction.

You stood up so fast your chair scraped loudly against the floor but no one seemed to notice, or maybe they did and pretended not to. You left before Max got out of the car and by the time he called you were already on your way back to the airport.

“Where are you?” he asked, hearing the noise around you.

“At home.”

“No you’re not.”

Your silence betrayed you.

Max’s breathing changed.

“Y/N.”

“I came for qualifying,” you whispered.

There was a pause.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? Where are you I’ll come—”

You closed your eyes, and the tears slipped out anyway. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Max went very quiet.

“What do you mean? Did someone say something?”

“No.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

“Max, please.”

“Who said that to you?”

Your voice broke. “Everyone.”

The word came out small.

Humiliating.

And then you couldn’t stop.

“Everyone says it. Online, in the comments, in the paddock, your team, everyone. When I’m there, you don’t win. When I’m not, you do. And I know it’s stupid, I know it isn’t real, but then I come and something goes wrong and people look at me like I brought it with me and it feels real.”

Max said nothing.

You wiped your face with the heel of your hand.

“And then today I saw a message. Someone said to make sure I’m not around tomorrow because you don’t need the distraction.”

His voice, when it came, was low and rough.

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who, Y/N?”

“I don’t know, Max. I just saw it.”

Another pause.

Then he said, “Where are you right now?”

“The airport.”

“I’m coming to you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You have a race tomorrow.”

“I don’t really care.”

“Max this is exactly the—.”

“No,” he snapped, and you flinched even though he wasn’t angry at you. It was as if he felt it anyway, because his voice softened immediately. “No, listen to me. I care about the race. Of course I care but not more than you.”

“I don’t want to be something you choose over racing.”

“You’re not something I'm choose over racing,” he said. “You’re my world. That’s not the same thing.”

“But what if I make it harder?”

“You don’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“How?”

“Because I drive the car,” he said, blunt and immediate. “Not Twitter or the team or the fans. Me.”

A sob caught in your throat. Max breathed out shakily.

“Schatje,” he said, softer now. “You think I win because you stay home?”

You couldn’t answer.

“You think when I am in the car I‘m faster because you’re sad somewhere without me? You think I don’t put every single ounce of effort into the race no matter what.”

The words hit you hard enough to hurt.

“No,” you whispered. “I know you do”

“That’s not what you’re saying.”

You went still. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“You are hurting me by disappearing.” Max rarely said things like that, it wasn’t because he didn’t feel them, but because feeling them out loud had always been hard for him.

“You don’t answer after races,” he continued. “You lie about work. You say you’re sick. You look at me like you’re already leaving and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Your chest caved.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why am I being punished?”

You broke. Right there, in the corner of an airport lounge, with people walking past and announcements echoing overhead, you pressed your hand to your mouth and cried.

Max stayed on the phone. He didn’t fill the silence with useless comfort, he just breathed with you until you could speak again.

“I saw the comments after Hungary,” you admitted. “Everyone was so happy you won without me there and I was happy for you, I was, but I felt like I wasn’t allowed to miss being there. Like the best thing I could do for you was stay away.”

Max cursed softly in Dutch.

Then he said, “Do not get on that plane.”

You sniffed. “What?”

“Don’t get on it… please. I’m sending someone to bring you back.”

“Max, no.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t walk into that paddock tomorrow.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” he repeated, steady now. “Because you’ll walk in with me. And if anyone has something to say then they can say it to my face.”

The next morning you woke up in Max’s hotel room. You had planned to come back, talk to him, then hide somewhere until the weekend was over.

Max had other ideas. He had met you at the hotel entrance himself, even though it was late, even though he had meetings, even though everyone would have told him rest mattered more. He was wearing sweats and a hoodie, hair messy, face tight with worry.

The second he saw you, he crossed the lobby and pulled you into his arms.

Hard.

You’d whispered, “I’m sorry,” into his chest.

He’d answered, “Stop saying that.”

Then he took you upstairs, gave you one of his shirts, made you drink water and got into bed beside you fully dressed because you were crying too hard for either of you to pretend sleep would come easily. At some point in the night you had woken to him gently taking your phone from your hand.

“No more,” he murmured.

“I wasn’t looking.”

“You were going to.”

You hadn’t argued.

Now in the grey morning light Max stood at the end of the bed already dressed in the team kit, watching you carefully.

“You don’t have to come ,” he said.

Your stomach dropped and he saw your expression change immediately.

“No,” he said, moving toward you. “Not like that. I just mean you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I would never force you, but please don’t not come because of them.”

You sat up slowly. “Do you want me there?”

Max looked almost offended.

“I always want you there.”

Your eyes burned.

“But I under—”

“I want to come,” you said.

His face softened.

“Okay.”

“I’m scared.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and took your hand. “I’ll be there.”

You finally smiled, small and private.

“There she is,” he murmured.

The paddock noticed. Of course it did. You arrived with Max, his hand firmly intertwined with yours, his expression giving absolutely nothing away except the very clear message that anyone with an opinion should reconsider having it near him.

Cameras turned and whispers started and you felt them against your skin like heat.

Max did not let go of your hand when you passed photographers or when you entered Red Bull hospitality, or when two members of staff glanced at you and then quickly away. In fact he tightened his grip.

“Max,” you whispered.

He leaned closer, eyes forward. “I’m behaving.”

“You’re walking like you’re about to commit a crime.”

Inside the garage, the air felt strange. Then GP looked up from his station and smiled at you.

A geuine smile.

“Good to see you,” he said.

Something in your chest loosened.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

A few minutes later Laurent came over, his expression was professional, but gentler than usual. Max stood beside you like a guard dog.

“Y/N,” he said. “Glad you’re here.”

You weren’t sure if Max had spoken to him. Judging by the slightly haunted look behind his eyes he probably had. In fact you had a feeling he had a spoken to a few people.

GP cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth I’m sorry if anyone made you feel otherwise.”

Your throat tightened. “Thank you.”

Max’s jaw flexed. That, apparently, was him continuing to behave.

The race was chaos. Spa always was. Rain threatened, then disappeared, then threatened again. Strategy shifted every few laps. The start was messy, the midfield dangerous, the radio tense.

You stood in the garage with headphones on, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your fingertips.

Max climbed from fourth to third.

Then third to second.

Then, with twelve laps to go, he hunted down the leader.

The garage barely breathed.

You watched the timing screens one hand pressed to your mouth as Max closed the gap lap by lap.

A defensive squeeze, and then Max went around the outside with the kind of impossible bravery that made your stomach drop and your heart soar at the same time and reminded everyone exactly why he was the best.

The garage erupted.

You didn’t move.

Not until GP’s voice came over the radio after the chequered flag.

“P1, Max. That’s P1. Great job mate.”

The sound that left you was half laugh, half sob.

On the screen, Max’s car slowed on the cooldown lap.

His radio crackled and his voice came through.

“Yes! What a race!”

Then.

“Is she there?”

The garage went quiet and GP glanced over at you, smiling.

“She’s here mate.”

Max breathed out.

“Good,” he said.

A pause.

Then, clear enough for everyone to hear he added, “Tell her she’s my good luck charm.”

Your face crumpled.

He had made sure they heard. He had made sure the world would hear too.

By the time Max got back, you were trying very hard not to cry and failing miserably. He climbed out of the car, pulled off his helmet, and looked for you before anyone else.

He pushed through the crowd and reached for you. He was sweaty and champagne-less, but the second he reached you none of that seemed to matter. He wrapped both arms around you and lifted you clean off your feet. Cheers erupted around you, cameras flashed, and for a moment it felt impossibly cinematic, like the final scene of a film. You buried your face in his neck, holding on as tightly as he was holding you.

“You’re incredible,” you whispered.

His hand spread across your back.

“We did it.”

You shook your head. “Max—”

“No.” He set you down but didn’t let go. His eyes locked on yours, intense and unflinching. “Listen to me. I don’t ever want to hear you say you’re bad luck again.”

Your lips trembled.

“I mean it,” he said. “If I lose, its because of racing. If I win, its because of racing. But you? You are the person I want to come back to after both.”

The tears spilled over. He wiped them away with his thumbs, not caring that cameras were catching every second.

“I’m sorry I disappeared.”

“I know.”

Later after the podium, after the anthem, after champagne and interviews and a hundred people trying to pull him in a hundred directions, Max posted a rare photo. It was a picture someone had taken in the garage just after the race. Max still in his race suit, arms around you, your face hidden against his shoulder while he pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

The caption was simple.

My good luck. Always.

The internet, predictably, lost its mind.

@f1tea: MAX SAW THE COMMENTS AND SAID ABSOLUTELY NOT.

@verstappenfiles: Curse broken. Everyone apologise.

@mv1nation: Never calling her bad luck again. I fear he will personally fight us.

@paddockspy: Max Verstappen hard launching a defence of his girlfriend was not on my bingo card but I support it.

@orangearmy: “My good luck” I’m crying he loves her so much.

You didn’t read most of them. Max made sure of that.

That night back at the hotel your phone stayed on the bedside table while you sat between his legs on the bed, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder.

The trophy sat on the desk across the room. Max had barely looked at it.

“Do you want to celebrate?” you said softly.

“I am.”

“You’re sitting in bed.”

“With you.”

You smiled faintly. “Very wild.”

“I’m older now.”

“You’re twenty-eight.”

“Exactly. Ancient.”

You laughed and felt him smile against your neck. For a while neither of you said anything, then Max’s arms tightened around you.

“I need you to promise me something.”

You turned slightly. “What?”

“If you ever feel like that again you tell me.”

Your chest tightened.

“Max—”

“You tell me. Even if you think it is stupid. Even if you think I have more important things. Especially then.”

You looked down at his hands, warm and secure over yours.

“I didn’t want to distract you.”

“You’re allowed to need me.”

After a moment, you whispered, “I promise.”

He kissed your shoulder. “Good.”

You turned in his arms to face him. He reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his touch gentle in a way the world rarely got to see.

“You are the furthest thing from bad luck,” he said again.

This time you believed him.

“I know.”

His eyes searched yours and then he nodded, satisfied.

Outside somewhere far below, fans were still singing, the city was still buzzing. The internet was still doing what the internet always did, loud and frantic and hungry for the next thing to tear apart or worship, but in the quiet of Max’s hotel room none of it reached you.

There was only him. His steady hands and his heartbeat beneath your palm.

They’d spent years hearing about each other before they’d ever met.

It had started as passing comments between mutual friends, the kind of conversations neither of them paid much attention to at first.

“You’d actually like him.”

“She’s just as stubborn as you.”

“Honestly, it’s a bit terrifying how similar you are.”

Neither of them entertained the idea.

Relationships weren’t something either of them chased. Max’s world revolved around lap times, simulator sessions, race weekends and squeezing every last hundredth of a second out of himself. Every day was planned with almost military precision, his routine becoming something he relied on rather than questioned.

Y/n buried herself just as deeply in her own career. She thrived under pressure, willingly taking on impossible deadlines and collecting overtime instead of hobbies. Her colleagues often joked she practically lived at the office, but they weren’t entirely wrong.

Their circles were intentionally small.

Routine wasn’t a cage to either of them. It was comfort.

Meeting someone new, especially because their friends had decided they’d be perfect together, felt entirely unnecessary.

Still, after months of hearing the same arguments, the same teasing, the same relentless encouragement, they eventually gave in.

Mostly because saying no had become more exhausting than simply agreeing to one dinner. Just one date.

A tiny restaurant tucked away in a sleepy town where Max could exist without cameras flashing every few minutes. Somewhere quiet enough that he could simply be another man meeting someone for dinner instead of a four-time World Champion.

When they arrived, they wore almost identical expressions. Polite smiles and carefully built walls.

Y/n had already prepared an excuse to leave after dessert before she’d even pulled into the car park.

If there wasn’t a spark, she’d thank him for the evening, wish him well and throw herself back into work on Monday morning.

Simple.

At least, that had been the plan.

Instead, they stayed until the staff began quietly stacking chairs around them. Conversation never stalled.

There wasn’t any awkward small talk or forced politeness. They slipped from one topic to another with surprising ease, talking about childhoods, careers, ambitions and the strange comfort of routines.

Max liked that she challenged him.

Most people either agreed with everything he said or treated him like a celebrity first and a person second. Y/N did neither.

She questioned his opinions. Interrupted him when she disagreed. Raised an eyebrow whenever she thought he was exaggerating.

It was refreshing.

She looked at him as though he were simply Max.

Y/n found herself equally surprised.

She’d expected someone serious, maybe even intimidating. Instead she discovered someone unexpectedly funny.

His smile was ridiculously infectious, appearing without warning whenever he caught her off guard. Every attempt he made to make her laugh felt so natural that she found herself doing exactly that, something she hadn’t expected walking through the restaurant doors.

She realised, somewhere between the main course and dessert, that she hadn’t checked the time once.

They seemed to understand one another from the moment they’d sat down.

She understood why he obsessed over details most people overlooked, why shaving a fraction of a second from a lap felt worth hours of work.

He understood why she’d stay in the office until midnight simply because something still wasn’t finished to her standards.

Neither of them had to apologise for being ambitious. Neither of them had to explain why work so often came first.

It wasn’t a competition. It was recognition.

Looking at each other felt strangely like looking into a mirror. Most people would’ve found their shared outlook exhausting.

For them, it felt like finally exhaling.

Neither of them felt the need to soften the sharper edges of their personalities. Neither of them had to pretend to care less than they did.

Months later, between airport terminals, race weekends and stolen evenings together, y/n realised something she absolutely hated admitting.

She was becoming soft. Hopelessly, embarrassassingly soft.

Her brain, once so painfully organised, seemed to dissolve into complete mush the second Max wasn’t beside her.

She blamed him for it constantly.

“I hate you,” she’d mutter over FaceTime one evening, typing one-handed through a mountain of emails.

Max barely looked up from the setup notes spread across the hotel desk.

“No, you don’t.”

“My brain doesn’t work anymore.”

“It does.”

“No, it actually doesn’t.” She sighed dramatically before rubbing a tired hand across her face. “I’ve got maggots for brains.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

The sound made something flutter annoyingly inside her chest. She hated that he’d managed to make her soft. She hated even more that she loved it.

The nights before he flew away were always the worst.

A silence settled over the apartment the moment the suitcase zipped shut. Max would kiss her forehead before leaving for the airport while the city outside was still asleep.

The apartment would stay frozen exactly as he’d left it. Traces of him scattered across her apartment, she’d leave them there, the abandoned shoes at the front door, the hoodie on the couch. It was her way of pretending he was still there.

For the first couple of days, she could still smell his aftershave lingering in the bedroom.

She’d catch it as she’d brush past his clothes in her wardrobe when dressing for work in the morning or leaning against his pillow after a long day of meetings.

It almost fooled her into thinking he’d just stepped out. But, inevitably it disappeared.

She refused to sit in the emptiness. She’d stay late at work. Volunteer for overtime. Take projects nobody else wanted.

Anything to avoid walking into an apartment that didn’t have Max sprawled across the sofa asking how her day had been.

She’d always insisted she didn’t need anyone. That part was still true. She was perfectly capable on her own.

But there was a difference between surviving and missing someone so fiercely that every ordinary moment reminded you they weren’t there to witness it.

That feeling was entirely new.

She’d never had a real relationship before him. A few flings, but never anything serious. Nothing worth rearranging her life for.

She used to think people who missed their partners this much were dramatic. Now she understood. She’d become one of them. She hated how much she loved it.

Max wasn’t handling it much better. He’d never admit that publicly. To anyone else, he was exactly the same.

But the people inside the garage noticed, the people in his team closest to him, the few he let inside his inner circle.

When y/n was there, the sharpness in him settled.

The frustration that normally simmered just beneath the surface disappeared before it could boil over. He was even more controlled, they put it down to the calmness that y/n could install in him. The ease that simply her presence would bring.

Even the engineers joked she’d become some kind of lucky charm. Every single race she attended seemed to end with another trophy.

Max thought they had it backwards. She wasn’t luck. She was peace.

Everything else around demanded something from him.

Y/n never did.

She simply reminded him who he was underneath the helmet.

His latest win should’ve tasted sweeter. Instead, the memory stayed forgotten at the hotel door.

In a few hours, she’d be gone again. Back home. Back to an apartment that felt far too big without him.

The hotel room had fallen into a peace they attempted to ignore would be broken in a few hours.

Outside, distant traffic hollared below the balcony, but inside everything felt suspended in time.

Max lay stretched across the bed, still wearing the team T-shirt he’d changed into after the podium celebrations. The winner’s hat sat forgotten on the dresser, catching the golden glow of the bedside lamp.

Y/n thought it was almost funny.

Hours earlier he’d been sprayed with champagne, surrounded by cameras, congratulated by hundreds of people.

Now he was grounding from his high, sat across from her, playing cards, enticing both of their competitive streaks.

“You’re cheating,” she accused, narrowing her eyes from where she sat cross-legged opposite him.

“I’m not.”

“You definitely are.”

“I just happen to be better.”

She laughed, reaching across the duvet to steal one of his cards. “You literally had that hidden under your leg.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She held the card up triumphantly. “Oh really?”

Max looked between her and the evidence in her hand before letting out a defeated sigh.

“It was strategic.”

“It’s called cheating.”

“It worked.”

“It didn’t.”

“It nearly did.”

She shook her head, unable to stop smiling.

“You are unbelievable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He watched her gather the cards into a messy pile, her concentration making the slightest crease appear between her eyebrows.

He loved that expression.

Loved the way she tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear.

Loved how she always sat with one leg folded beneath her no matter where she was.

Loved that she absent-mindedly hummed when she was cooking.

None of those things were remarkable. To him, they were everything.

“You staring at me?” she asked without looking up.

“No.”

“Liar.”

“I was thinking.”

He smiled.

“You’ve got a line here.” His thumb brushed gently between her eyebrows.

“It only appears when you’re concentrating.”

She blinked, a look of faux horror taking over. “I have a concentration wrinkle?”

“You do.”

She groaned dramatically, letting herself flop backwards onto the mattress. He found himself lying beside her, both staring at the ceiling.

“I’m twenty-something and I already have wrinkles.”

“I think it’s cute.”

She turned her head to the side, looking at him suspiciously. “I think you’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You have to say that.”

“I really don’t.”

He reached over, brushing a strand of hair away from her face before pressing an absent minded kiss to her forehead.

“I love every part of your face.”

She felt her stomach perform that annoyingly familiar little flip. Months together and he still did that to her.

She hated it. Almost as much as she loved it.

“You know,” she mumbled into his shoulder as she shuffled closer, “I was doing perfectly fine before you.”

“Were you?”

“Mhm.”

He gave her a look, one which screamed how much he didn’t believe her.

“I was.”

“You worked until ten every night.”

“I still do.”

“You ate cereal for dinner.”

“…Occasionally.”

“You forgot your own birthday.”

She frowned. “That happened one time.”

“You also forgot to buy yourself a birthday cake.”

“I didn’t want one.”

“Your friend had to show up at your door with one. That was the only thing which reminded you what day it was.”

“That cake was too big.”

“You ate half of it.”

“I was being polite.”

He laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest where her head rested.

She smiled despite her heart pounding.

This was the part she’d never expected.

Not the grand gestures. Not expensive gifts. Not dramatic declarations of love. Being able to lie against him in complete silence without feeling the need to fill it.

Knowing exactly how he’d take his coffee in the morning. Automatically reaching for his hand whenever she felt anxious or unsafe in busy streets.

Falling asleep before the film they’d promised they’d watch because talking to each other had somehow become more interesting than anything on the television.

She wasn’t sure when he’d stopped feeling like someone she dated and when he’d quietly become home.

Max rested his chin against the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo.

He knew every version of her now.

The composed woman who walked into boardrooms without an ounce of hesitation. The stubborn woman who refused help carrying shopping bags that were obviously too heavy. The sleepy woman who stole all the blankets before denying it the following morning. The woman who absent-mindedly reached for him in her sleep as though checking he was still there.

He loved every single one.

The silence settled again.

Neither of them noticed the clock on the bedside table. Neither wanted to.

Eventually, y/n tilted her head just enough to look at him.

“What?” Max asked, a look of curiosity gracing his sleepy features.

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

He shrugged lightly. “Am I not allowed? Just memorising you.”

“Max…” Her smile faltered just enough for him to notice.

“The way your hair looks.” He twirled a loose strand around his finger.

“The sound you make when you’re tired. When you’re about to fall asleep.”

“I snore? I definitely don’t.”

“You do this little sigh.”

She rolled her eyes. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“And you’re making fun of me.”

“I’m admiring you.” His voice had become quieter “So it’s easier.”

Her chest tightened. “Easier?”

“The hotel always smells like your shampoo after you leave.” He smiled softly. “It lasts a day or two.”

She swallowed hard. “I know.”

“I don’t open the windows.”

She laughed through the lump in her throat.

“That’s ridiculous.”

He smiles down at her.

“I do the same thing.” She admits, avoiding eye contact.

“You do?”

She nodded.

“I leave your hoodie on the sofa.”

“Why?”

“So the apartment still looks like you’ve just gone out.”

Neither of them had realised the other did exactly the same thing.

Two fiercely independent people. Both quietly pretending the other had never really left. Max reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers.

“You know…”

“Hm?”

“I hate airports.” She smiled sadly.

“No, you hate saying goodbye.”

“I do.”

“We’re getting quite good at it.”

“I don’t want to be good at it.” She squeezed his hand.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. “I love you.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It was spoken the same way he’d ask if she’d eaten lunch. The same way he’d tell her to text him when she landed.

She closed her eyes. “I know.”

A beat passed before she smiled.

“And I love you.”

Outside, the city carried on exactly as it always had. Inside, time felt unbearably cruel, each passing minute stealing another moment from them.

Neither of them said it aloud. But both were already mourning what was coming.

Hours slipped away exactly the way they always did when it was only the two of them. Too fast for either to bear, and soon enough the drive to the airport happened before either of them felt ready.

They sat in the parked car long after check-in had opened. Neither wanting to acknowledge the clock.

He reached across the centre console, resting hand against cheek.

“I’ll see you soon.”

“I know.”

“You’ll blink and it’ll be over.”

“I know.” She couldn’t utter anymore words than that. Her distrust in her voice was too great.

He planted a gentle kiss against her lips, slow and savouring. He was attempting to stretch a few seconds into forever. When they pulled away he could see the familiar glossiness in her eyes. She never left the tears fall, but he felt that similar pain that her eyes showed

When she finally climbed out of the car, Max watched until she disappeared through the terminal doors.

Only then did he drive away.

with weak knees you make your way through the club, hazy eyes scanning for the aussie or literally anyone you know. the dark corners of your mind start to take over as you begin to panic. your phone is dead, portable charger in oscar’s pocket. but you’re all alone in the middle of a bright club, surrounded by drunk people and none of them look familiar.

“y/n?” a british accent calls from behind you and you can almost cry in relief. turning around, you’re met with the sight of lando’s confused face, not understanding why you’re alone in a crowd of people.

“have you seen os?” you slur out, interrupted by a couple of hiccups. lando places a hand on your shoulder, pulling your upper body towards him. he gives you a soft smile as you look around helplessly.

“come on, let’s go find him and get you home,” he starts, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. he pulls you along, walking towards booths that line one of the walls.

when you notice the aussie sitting in one of the booths, you wrestle yourself free of lando’s grasp, speed walking to the man surrounded by drivers. before you know it, you’re climbing into his lap, head in the crook of his neck.

“hey sweet girl,” he says cautiously, wrapping one of his arms around your waist. “everything okay?”

“want you. want to go home,” you mumble into his neck, inhaling his scent. you feel him tense slightly under you. his free hand comes up to grab the back of your neck to pull your face out to where he can look at you.

"how much did you drink?" he asks, eyes soft as he takes your appearance in. he lightly pulls the back of your dress down, trying to keep you from flashing anyone.

"not too many," you mumble, looking away. he uses his finger to bring your attention back to him. his brows are raised as he looks into your dilated eyes.

"you wanna go home? back to the hotel?" he asks, brushing hair off your forehead. you nod, forcing your face back into his neck, just wanting to be as close as possible to him. he chuckles lightly, patting your back.

"i just want you," you slur into his ear causing him to shiver under you. his right hand grips your hip, thumb moving along the bone. he takes a shaky breath.

"okay darling, i need you to move so i can get up," oscar says, gently removing your from his neck. you whine, the loss of his warm neck offending you. he chuckles lightly, the hand that’s holding the back of your neck holds you up, preventing you from going back to his neck. his thumb is slowly moving up and down the column of your neck.

“don’t wanna leave you. just want you,” you whine, trying to force yourself back to his chest. he smiles lightly, titling his head.

“baby, let me get up and then we can go to the hotel. you don’t have to leave my side if you don’t want to, but you need to let me get up,” oscar’s voice is gentle, as though he’s talking to a child and not a grown woman. you hesitantly nod, beginning to slide backwards off his lap. he lets out a soft groan at the feeling, already missing you against him.

his hand lands protectively on the small of your back, holding your dress down from sliding up as you make your way to the exit. you’re stumbling over yourself, unable to stand completely. oscar has to basically hold you up on the walk to the car.

“your heels hurting you, baby?” he asks, opening the passenger door for you. you make a little noise, barely audible, nodding. he smiles softly at you, picking your feet up and putting them in the footwell of his car. he carefully undoes the buckles of your heels, letting your feet rest. you let out a content sigh, pulling your feet up into the seat and curling in to a ball.

oscar gently shuts the door, making his way to the drivers side. he hadn’t drank much - a beer and a half and had almost completely sobered up the moment you climbed into his lap. when he slides into the drivers seat, your body instinctively curls towards him, like it’s trying to seek him out despite the console between the two of you.

he gently chuckles, reaching across. his hand cups your face, thumb rubbing up and down your jaw slowly. you make a little noise, eyes closing in contentment.

“hungry? or straight to the hotel?” he asks, lifting your chin so his eyes can meet yours. your eyes a little glossy, dazed over.

“hungry,” you whisper, eyes lighting up ever so slightly. he grins, letting your face drop from his hand. he starts up the car, the rumble of the mclaren under you makes you giggle. he just gently smiles over at you, eyes full of awe.

“what do you want? mcdonald’s, taco bell?” he starts naming places off as he slides the car into reverse. his arm comes to rest around the back of your seat as he looks out the back window.

“taco bell,” you mumble, fiddling with your nails, one on the verge of popping off. oscar nods and gently reaches over the stop your hand from destroying your nails. his hand laced with yours, the feeling grounding you.

“you want a baja blast?” he asks, already knowing your answer. he glances at you, finding you staring at your hand that is intertwined with his. “sweet girl?”

“mhm, baja blast please. oh! and three of those cheesy stick things,” you murmur, glassy eyes a little brighter. he chuckles, nodding as he pulls into the drive thru. he quickly orders and gets the food, starting back to the hotel.

“eat your cheese sticks hun,” he says, gesturing to the bag, which to your surprise has landed in your hands without you realizing. you stare at it for a moment, trying to remember how it got there. after a couple of moments you reach into the bag, pulling one out and gently unwrapping it. oscar watches out of the corner of his eye as you nibble on the cheese stick, eyes still hazy and lost.

“you okay?” oscar asks, watching your slow movements as he pulls into the parking lot of the hotel. you don’t answer, you just stare at the glovebox as you continue to nibble on the cheese stick. he parks the car, turning to you. “pretty?”

“‘m okay,” you mumble, still staring and not really paying attention. your brain has almost shut off after the drinks mixed with the fact that you’re with the person that you love and really want.

"lets go in, yeah?" his voice is so gentle and soft - warm. you nod, letting him take the cheese stick from your hands to wrap back up, slipping it into the bag. he shuts off the car and slides out, gently shutting his door before making his way to the passenger side. he chuckles as you reach up towards him, asking to be carried inside.

"hold your drink and food, sweet girl," he instructs before bending to slide one of his arms under you knees and the other just behind your lower back. you giggle as he gently lifts you, avoiding hitting your head on the car.

oscar carries you through the lobby, not caring about the looks he gets from people - only caring about the girl in his arms. you nuzzle your face against his chest, breathing him in. there’s still a tiny hint of champagne that you can smell, a reminder of his win and accomplishment. you sigh continently, melting into him.

“you okay sweet girl?” he asks, glancing down at you as he enters the elevator. you nod sleepily, fingers loosening their grip on the bag of food. he chuckles lightly at you as he gently tilts you towards the door to hit his floor number.

he somehow gets you to his room, having to ask someone to help open the door since he didn't want to set you down on the hotel floor. he moves through the room, gently setting you on the bed and taking the drink and food away from you. he smiles softly, taking in the vulnerability of the moment and the pure trust you have in him.

"os?" you murmur, reaching for him. he moves closer to you, crouching down to meet your tired eyes.

"yes sweet girl?" he asks, his hand pushing hair off your cheek, a smile of comfort and content spreading across your face.

"want out of this dress," you mumble, reaching for him. he chuckles, a light blush settling on his cheeks.

“you want my help?” he asks, knuckles brushing across your cheekbone. you nod, pushing your face closer to his hand. he lets out a little sigh of content, pushing himself to stand up. he grabs a t-shirt of his, making his way to unzip the back of your dress. he pulls the small straps off your shoulders, pulling the t-shirt over top of your head before pushing the dress down the rest of your body, careful to not accidentally reveal you to him.

a soft sigh leaves your body as the dress is pulled all the way off and you’re left in a t-shirt and underwear. he looks away as you shift, pulling the blanket around yourself and snuggling up into the pillows before you look up at him.

“os,” you whisper, as though you’ll wake people in the rooms around you. he looks at you, an eyebrow raised. “i love you.” he blinks, a little confused by the sudden statement.

“i love you too,” he says, softly as he goes to stand. he starts to make his way across the room to change before you call out to him again.

“osc, i love love you,” you whisper, its a desperate confession, one that you’ve swallowed down for months since you’d realized. his heart races as he looks at the beautiful and slightly disheveled angel in his hotel bed. his wide eyes make you second guess if he felt the same way but before you know it, he’s crossing the room in quick strides and sitting in front of you.

“baby, you’re drunk,” he says, hands cupping your face. you shake your head and swallow hard.

"but i love you. i love you so much os. i don't want to pretend anymore. i just want you," you slur out, your voice getting weaker with each word. his eyes are soft and warm, you could lay here staring into them forever. slowly, he starts leaning towards you.

you push yourself up, connecting your lips to his as he lets out a soft groan at the feeling. you pull him closer towards you, like you're tying to merge your bodies together. you just want him, nothing else in the world. all you know, all you see, is him. the world around you is long forgotten as you feel his body on top of yours, holding you so close. all you know is peace and love in his arms.

"i love you too, so much," he mumbles out between kisses. eventually, he pulls away, leaving you to whine at him. he chuckles, placing a soft kiss to your forehead. "let me change, baby." he moves quick throughout the room, discarding the clothes worn to the club and replacing his pants with a pair of sweats before crawling into the bed beside you.

the warmth of his body close to you makes you curl up into him. you breathe him in, looking up at him.

"can i be yours?" you whisper out, venerability lacing your voice. he chuckles lightly, placing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Max’s eyes locked on the apex, his grip tight on the wheel as the car screamed through the flat-out left-hander. The vibrations rattled through his hands, every nerve firing.

“Inside line... inside line...” he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

He glanced at the timing; two-tenths up. “Don’t mess this up, Max.”

The world around his focus tunnel was blurry, aside from consciously listening to his Redline Teammates. every now and then.

Chat was a blur of lap-time spam and back seat driving.

They couldn’t hear it clearly, soft but unmistakable, was a click of the front door. Max didn’t glance over, but the faint thump of shoes being kicked off on the hallway mat bled through the otherwise silent apartment.

A slow, groggy “Heeey…” floated in. And instantly, the driver smiled. “Hi, liefje,” Max said, tone effortlessly warm even as he was trying not to crash in-game.

The chat barely reacted at first, until the words really sank in.

what’s a liefje?? DID HE JUST CALL SOMEONE BABE IN DUTCH?? whose voice was that omg

Something else was mumbled from somewhere in the room, but too quiet to make out for chat.

Max didn’t answer until the next straight. He reached behind his chair, grabbed the folded blanket slung over the backrest, and tossed it toward the couch.

The camera didn’t catch her, only the sound of fabric hitting cushions, the soft rustle of her curling up, and a tiny, content sigh.

HELLO??? WHO TF JUST WALKED INTO HIS HOUSE blanket toss mid race?? Damn

Max’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “Don’t fall asleep before the end, want to show you something,” he said over his shoulder, voice pitched lower than usual.

Aside from a soft ‘Mhmm’, no answer came.

Ten laps later, after finishing the race, Max relaxed in his seat, pushing the headset off his ear on one side. The guys in the call were already laughing in his ear. “So, uhm… Max? Anything you wanna tell us?” He blinked, feigning innocence. “About what?”

“About who just wandered in mid-race.”

Max leaned back in his seat, taking a sip from his water bottle like he had all the time in the world. “Oh, yeah. That was my girlfriend.”

For half a second, there was silence. Then chat detonated.

GIRLFRIEND??? MAX HAS A GF??? SINCE WHEN??

The Redline guys were cackling. “Mate, you just drop that in like it’s nothing?”

Max only smirked, glancing toward the couch, voice dipping softer. “She’s a teacher. Had parents’ evening tonight, so she’s wrecked. Pretty sure she’s already asleep.”

A soft ‘nuh-uh’ was heard from the direction of the couch. The camera caught just a sliver of her when Max tilted it over a bit, a blanket draped over her, the curve of someone curled into the couch. Still no face.

Max twists in his chair, eyes wide open in suprise. “Hey,” he said softly. “You want some tea or just… sleep?”

From under the blanket came a muffled, “Sleep. Forever.”

He chuckled. “Long night?”

A groan, then: “Do you know how many parents told me today that English isn’t important anymore? Like, apparently spelling doesn’t matter because ‘we have autocorrect.’ Or, get this, they say their kid doesn’t like reading so I should just… not make them do it?” She yawned mid-sentence. “Max, I swear, some of them are worse than the kids.”

Max’s smile turned helpless. He leaned an elbow on the armrest, just watching her. “Yeah?” he murmured, like every word she said was gold.

bro’s in love this is DISGUSTING i want what they have

“Go to sleep, liefje,” he said eventually, still grinning. “I’ll be done soon.”

“Mm.” She was already halfway gone again.

Max reached over without thinking, adjusting the edge of the blanket so it covered her shoulder completely, tucking it underneath her chin. “Sleep well,” he murmured, almost too low for the mic to catch.

Then he turned back to his screen, shaking his head with a smile on his face.

It was barely past nine in the morning on the first day of summer break, when a Redline stream was up and running. Max’s headset was snug, wheel centered and he looked freshly showered, hair still wet in some spots. Chat was still waking up too, their greetings a mix of sleepy emojis and half-hearted banter.

“Morning,” he said into the mic, sipping his coffee. “Early start today. I’m more awake than some of you, I think.”

He was mid-qualifying lap when the soft shuffle of bare feet came from the hallway. His eyes flicked toward the camera for half a second, subtly thinking of what could be seen from this angle, which was second nature by now, before answering one of his teammates questions.

“Max…” came a hoarse, gravelly voice, still warm from sleep.

“Mhm?” he hummed, braking into a chicane.

“…there’s no coffee.” She stood in the doorway like she’d walked straight out of bed (which was probably the case), hair messy, one sleeve of her (Max’s) oversized T-shirt slipping off her shoulder, and the blanket still trailing behind her like a cape. 

She spotted the half-full mug in his hand and gasped in mock outrage. “Hey!”

Chat latched on instantly.

SHE’S BACK bro she sounds like she just crawled out of the grave

Max bit down on a smile. “There’s beans in the cupboard,” he told her, ignoring his teammates giggles in his ears.

“…the grinder’s too loud,” she mumbled, and he could practically hear the pout without looking.

“That’s… how grinders work, Liefje,” he said, steering with one hand for a moment just to shrug, and eye her with a teasing smile.

A pause. “Can’t you make it for me?”

bro make the coffee for your queen he’s WHIPPED i know it

Max let out a short laugh. “I’m,” the car twitched for a second, he corrected it “,kind of busy here Schatje.”

She didn’t argue. Just a deep and dramatic sigh, the quiet scuff of her feet retreating, and the whump of her collapsing onto the couch. “I guess you want your girlfriend to have a terrible start to her summer holidays.”

Over comms, one of his teammates snorted. “Mate, that’s cruel. Your girlfriend’s asking for coffee and you’re ignoring her?”

Another chimed in immediately, tone dripping with mischief. “Bet you could wake her up better than any espresso, huh, Max?”

Max burst into a laugh so sudden he clipped a kerb, muttering, “Oh my god, shut up,” as he tried to stop his cheeks from blushing. “They’re saying I could have woken you up differently,” he called over his shoulder.

From under what sounded like a pillow came a muffled groan, “Tell them they’re worse than my teens.”

He laughed out loud, flipped the mic back on, and relayed, “She says you’re worse than her students.”

The guys roared, one muttering something else questionable. Max laughed so hard he had to lift off the throttle.

“What’d he say?” came the sleepy voice from the couch.

He hesitated, still grinning. “…That you should give him detention.”

She snorted. “Yeah, well, I’d make him write out ‘I will not be gross on the internet’ a hundred times.” Max smirked, relaying it word for word while his teammates howled. Chat spammed that he should just put her on the call instead of being the transmitter.

The rest of the laps went by with the occasional background yawn, the rustle of a blanket, and the faint hum of her scrolling on her phone and laughing at some TikToks. 

this is so domestic i can’t stand it not her giggling in the background

When the team finally took a short break before the next race, Max decided to be a nice boyfriend. “Alright, I’m gonna make her coffee now.” He turned in his chair to get up, only to find her curled up, blanket pulled to her chin, already fast asleep again.

Max just shook his head, smiling to himself. “Never mind. Crisis averted, she’s back to sleep. Gotta make the most of the time without school.”

From the couch, without even opening her eyes, she mumbled, “Still no coffee, though…”

Max just sighed in defeat.

The stream started unusually quiet that evening in the winter. Max’s usual chatter was replaced by a soft tone when he talked, and the glow from his racing rig was the only light in the room. The Redline team and chat noticed immediately.

One of the guys on comms teased, “Oi, Max, what’s with the creepy mood lighting? You look like you’re hiding from a ghost.” Another chimed in, “Yeah, mate, this isn’t supposed to be a séance!”

Chat flooded with laughing and confused emojis, but Max just smiled gently.

“Yeah, I’m sitting in the dark today,” he admitted quietly, “Because… well, my girlfriend’s had a migraine all day. She missed me while I was at work, and she didn’t want to be alone.” His voice softened as he spoke, eyes flickering to the shadowy couch nearby.

One of the guys asked, “She’s there right now?”

Max nodded, lips curling into a fond little smile. “Yeah. I moved the couch closer so she could be next to me while we do our stuff. She’s just resting, but she’s here” 

Between practice laps and breaks, Max shared a few little updates, careful not to sound too heavy. “She’s wrapped up in that big blanket, it's weighted so it feels really good,” he said, “and she’s really tired… but she keeps reaching out for me.”

Then he shifted the camera angle slightly, revealing the outline of a blanket pile on the couch, after a moment, a hand crept into view, gently resting on Max’s thigh. Really she was going for his hand, but her arm wasn’t long enough, so she settled for the thigh.

“Ohhh, hand reveal,” Luke teased. “She’s real!” one of the others laughed, while chat was freaking out an equal amount.

Max chuckled, a little embarrassed but clearly amused. He adjusted his seat, sliding his hand gently over hers and letting her hold on before rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “She’s just grounding herself, I guess,” he explained softly, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “I’m lucky she trusts me enough to do that.”

During one of the races, a quiet, pained sound came from the couch. Max’s whole focus shifted. “Hang on, guys,” he said into his mic, before abandoning his sim-rig mid lap. He took off his headset and set it on the desk, then leaned toward her.

“You still hurting, Liefje?” he whispered. She nodded under the blanket, barely opening her bleary eyes.

Max brushed her hair gently back from her forehead. “Alright. I’ve got something for you.” He moved to the fridge and came back with one of those gel-filled cooling headbands. He knelt beside the couch and eased it over her hairline, adjusting it until it sat just right over her eyes.

“Better?” he asked softly.

“Mm… yeah,” she mumbled, but after a beat, her lips twitched. “You know this makes you an official migraine assistant now, right?”

Max huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s not a real job title.”

“It is now,” she said, eyes already closed underneath the eye mask again. “And you’re really good at it, maybe I'll give you a promotion”

He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand before tucking the blanket more securely around her. “I’ll be right here.”

Sliding back into his seat, he put his headset on again. “Alright, crisis handled,” he told the guys.

“What’d you do?” Diogo asked.

“Cold headband. Weighted blanket, and of course - Me,” Max deadpanned, earning a round of snickers.

From the couch came a faint, sleepy murmur. Max leaned back, his eyes flicking to her silhouette under the blanket.

“She’s been so tired all day,” he said. “I think she’s been fighting the migraine more than she lets on.”

For the rest of the stream, Max’s attention was split between the track and the hand in his. When she shifted slightly, Max smiled wider.

The final lap ended, and as the stream wound down, the dim light bathed the room in a warm glow. She was asleep again, nestled against the couch cushions, hand still softly clasped in his.

Max whispered, barely above the hum of his computer, “Sleep well, liefje.”

Max’s fingers danced over the sim wheel, as they were watching some footage back, the familiar hum of a race filling the living room. His eyes were sharp and focused, but behind him, the soft creak of the front door caught his attention.

“Hey,” came a sleepy, barely audible voice from just off camera.

Max smiled without turning, the immediate ‘Tell her hello!’ from his teammates filling his ear.

“Hey, liefje. What’s up?”

Slow footsteps padded closer. Before Max could say more, a small tray appeared at the edge of the frame. A hearty dinner plate with a jug of water beside it. “I thought you’d be hungry, and I just ate, so..” she murmured, voice thick with tiredness.

“Thank you,” Max said, reaching out to take the tray, tearing his eyes away from the screen. “You didn’t have to.” She shrugged, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “I didn’t want to bother you, but you’re ignoring your stomach. And while it’s still early, I’m gonna crash any minute now.”

Chat instantly lit up with heart and food emojis, some playful teasing about Max being whipped.

Max chuckled, keeping his eyes on her. “You’re a saint.”

Quickly he pushed the camera downwards so that he could press a gentle, thankful kiss to her lips in peace. What he hadn’t thought about was how everyone could now see a) the hoodie she was wearing was definitely his, and b) the grip he had on her waist.

There was a beat of silence before Enzo whistled low over comms. “That’s not very PG-13, mate.”

Gianni laughed, “Forget the hoodie, chat! I’m more concerned with where your hands are, Romeo.”

Chat was already going feral:

HELLO?? WAIST GRAB?? that is NOT a handshake max

Max’s ears went a little pink as he straightened the camera again after ensuring that she was out of frame, or at least her face. “You’re all ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Enzo shot back, “and you’re whipped.”

Max just grinned, not bothered by their teasing at all. “She just brought me dinner, in my hoodie, in my apartment… of course I’m whipped.”

Before he could take a bite, she yawned, “I’m gonna go crash on the couch after this,” she mumbled, almost to herself.

Max nodded, voice warm but steady. “Go get some rest. I’ve got you. Thank you again for dinner, Schatje. It’s delicious.” She disappeared fully from frame, the soft footsteps retreating as Max turned back to his teammates and the chat buzzing with questions.

Gianni grinned, “So, who is she, really? You’ve gotta spill some secrets, mate.”

Max laughed softly. “She’s a teacher. Right now, exam season’s been brutal for her. Tons of stress, migraines have been hitting hard. And she tries to help her students as best as she can, and when they get stressed, she gets even worse. So yeah.. bit rough at the moment.”

“Ah, she’s one of the good ones then? The kind who really cares?”

Max’s tone grew a little softer, more thoughtful as he stared at his sleeping girlfriend. “Yeah. She cares.. a lot. When we started dating, she wouldn’t let me take care of her. She was always the strong one… didn’t want to be the one needing help.”

Enzo teased, “Sounds like she’s got you wrapped around her finger now.”

Max smiled, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… she’s still that strong girl. But now? I get to be the one who’s there. When the migraines hit, when she’s tired or stressed, I’m here. Even if it’s just sitting quietly while she naps.”

Chat filled with “awws” and hearts.

Max glanced toward the couch, voice dropping to a gentle whisper. “She’s the kind of person who doesn’t ask for help easily. But she lets me in now, and that means a lot.”

During this particular stream, chat notices how distracted Max was, glancing at the door and his phone every few minutes.

You okay, Max? don’t mind him.. he’s just hearing voices

Max’s voice is tight. “Yeah… she’s had a long day at work. Said texted and said that she would be home by now, but, nothing yet.” He types a quick message, then puts his phone down.

The front door opens quietly. Footsteps shuffle in.

She steps into their shared home, eyes red and tired, shoulders heavy as her bag and jacket were dropped next to the door. Without a word, she beelines it towards Max, blind to the fact that he was streaming, before sliding into his lap, burying her face against his throat.

WHO IS SHE?? is this THE girlfriend???

Max’s arms close around her immediately, pulling her even closer in the tight space as he pressed soft kisses to her hair, “Hey Schatje, there you are. Rough day, huh?”

A shaky, muffled nod.

In Max’s ear, his teammates kept their voices low, not wanting to disturb the quiet moment. Luke whispered, “Max, do you want to end the stream? You can take a break if you need.” Max glanced down at her, then back at the screen. “She’s okay with me staying, right?”

From his lap came a tired but calm, “As long as you let me stay.”

i’m gonna cry this is so soft max being boyfriend of the year rn

Max strokes her hair, voice almost a whisper. “It’s okay, Schat, just let it out.”

She trembles slightly, tears soaking into his shirt as she cries silently against his neck. Max stays as still as he can, letting her lean into him as they start the next race in the simmulator. 

Slowly, her tears dry as exhaustion finally wins over, and she drifts to sleep, curled against his chest, breathing soft and even. Max doesn’t move, just gently brushing her hair back, careful not to wake her.

After a while, she blinks awake, still curled against Max’s chest. He carefully lifted a second headset over her ears, and leaned toward the camera with a soft smile.

“Alright, chat,” Max said, voice warm but playful, “the moment you’ve all been waiting for. This is the mystery girl who’s been sneaking into my streams and stealing me away from you guys.”

From the call, Luke’s voice broke in, teasing and a bit impatient. “About time, mate! We’ve been waiting forever for this.”

Diogo laughed quietly, “Finally! She’s making her debut. Hi there!”

Max glanced down at her, then back at the stream. “Yeah, this is my girlfriend. Go ahead and say hi.”

She shifted slightly, heat rising to her cheeks, voice a little shy but steady. “H-hi... Sorry for crashing in like this. It’s been a really rough day.”

hi gf!!! OUR girlfriend nowwwww

Gianni’s voice was quick to respond, gentle and welcoming. “No need to apologize! We’re just happy to finally meet you.”

Luke’s tone softened, clearly impressed. “We like you already. Liefje, you’ve got yourself a whole fan club now.”

Max grinned, cutting in with mock seriousness. “Hey, ‘Liefje’ is my name for her! Get your own! That counts for you too, chat.”

A small laugh escaped her lips, mixed with a tired sigh. “Thanks for letting me just... be here. With him.”

Diogo chuckled. “He’s wrapped so tight around your little finger, I don't think there was any other option.”

Max relaxed back in his chair, wrapping an arm around her as she settled beside him. He gave her a gentle squeeze to make sure she’s okay.

While Max raced, she stayed curled in his lap, half-listening to the hum of the sim and half-soaking in the easy banter between him and the guys, Max’s quiet chuckles rumbled against her cheek, calming her down one by one. 

The steady rhythm of their voices, the familiar sound of tires screeching in the headset, and Max’s hand idly tracing circles on her arm all worked together to ease the tight knot in her chest. 

By the time the next race ended, the heaviness in her shoulders had lightened, and there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

Luke grinned, “Hey, so when’s she gonna hop in the sim and show us how it’s done? You think she’s got what it takes?”

Max laughed, glancing over at her. “You wanna give it a go?”

She lifted her head from his shoulder, eyes sparkling despite the exhaustion. “You bet. I’ll wipe the floor with you guys.”

YESSS LET HER DRIVE this is gonna be chaos and I’m here for it

The team erupted into laughter. “Oh, it’s on now!”

Max shook his head, smiling. “Guess I better step up my game, she’s coming for my seat.”

Max freezes mid-step. He turns halfway, brows pulled together. “No, I didn’t,” he says, lifting his phone as evidence. “Wallet, keys, phone. See?”

But you’re already crossing the room toward him, steps quiet on the hardwood. He blinks, caught off guard, phone lowering slightly as you reach him.

You hook your fingers into the front of his hoodie, tugging him down gently not forcefully, just enough for him to get the hint. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t even hesitate. Max bends down instinctively, like his body’s done this a hundred times before, muscle memory at this point.

You kiss him.

It’s not a quick goodbye peck. It’s soft. Slow. Warm. The kind of kiss that says come back safe and I love you and don’t be in such a rush. You feel his breath stutter a little in his chest, and then he relaxes into it, the hand holding his keys dropping to his side. His other arm slips around your waist, pulling you in closer like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. To you.

His lips are still a little chapped from the early autumn air, and he smells faintly like hair gel, his cologne, and the hoodie you slept in last night.

When you finally pull back he’s blinking at you like he forgot what day it was.

“Okay,” you murmur, smiling up at him. “Now you’re all set.”

Max just stares at you for a second. His expression softens, softer than most people ever get to see. There’s a tiny, disbelieving smile playing at the corners of his mouth, like he can’t quite believe you’re real. That you’re his. Then he exhales a small laugh and shakes his head.

“You can’t just do that,” he says, voice still gravelly with sleep.

“Do what?” you ask, tilting your head, playing innocent even though you both know exactly what you’re doing.

“Make me forget whatever I was just talking about. Make me…” His voice drops lower, almost sheepish now. “Make me want to stay.”

You bite back your grin, smoothing a stray piece of hair off his forehead, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Not my fault you’re so easily distracted.”

Max huffs like he’s annoyed, but the way his arm tightens around your waist gives him away. He dips his head again, pressing a slower, deeper kiss to your lips. The kind that makes time slow down. The kind that leaves you both breathless in the best way.

“I should go,” he mumbles, though he still hasn’t let go of you.

“Probably.”

Neither of you move. It’s almost laughable how reluctant he looks, like the door behind him is some impossible hurdle he doesn’t actually want to cross. His thumb brushes lightly over your side, and you wonder if he’s stalling just to commit every inch of this moment to memory.

Eventually, eventually, he sighs and pulls back. His fingers squeeze your hip once like a promise.

“I’ll text you when I land,” he says, already missing you, already thinking about the moment he gets to come home.

You nod, eyes crinkling with affection. “Have a safe flight.”

He lingers at the doorway for a moment longer, just long enough to glance back one last time. His gaze sweeps over you, your bare feet, the way his hoodie hangs on your frame, the sleepy love in your eyes and something shifts in his face, it’s like he’s trying to take a picture with his heart.

Then he smirks.

And just like that he’s gone.

But not before blowing you a cheeky kiss over his shoulder.

You catch it without thinking and shake your head, grinning as you shut the door behind him, already counting down the hours until he’s back.

Later that evening you’re curled up in bed, his side is empty and cold in that distinct way that feels unfair, like even the sheets miss him. The TV plays something low and forgettable in the background, but your attention flickers when your phone buzzes softly against your thigh.

Max: You seriously expect me to survive an entire race weekend with just one kiss?

You laugh under your breath, instantly typing back.

You: I gave you at least two.

There’s a pause. Then the familiar three dots appear… disappear… reappear again like he’s rewriting his response to be just right.

Max: Not nearly enough. Not even close.

You roll your eyes fondly, but your cheeks are already warming. The little ache in your chest stretches into something soft, something fluttery.

You: You’re very needy you know that?

Max: Only for you.

You cover your face with one hand, letting out a small, giddy groan. God, he is such a menace. A sweet, lovesick menace who somehow makes you feel like the only person in the world, even from a thousand miles away.

A few minutes later another message pops up.

Max: You still awake?

You: Yeah? Why?

Max: Because I’m still lying here thinking about that kiss.

You curl deeper into the blankets, biting your lip, smiling like an idiot.

You: Oh?

Max: Yeah.

Max: And how you tugged on my hoodie like you couldn’t stand to let me leave.

You blink at the screen, suddenly way too aware of the way your heart's thudding in your chest.

You: You’re being unfair right now.

Max: You started it.

Max: Now I can’t stop thinking about you.

Max: About how much I wanted to come back and crawl into bed with you.

You press your phone to your chest for a second, trying to collect yourself. You feel like a teenager again completely wrecked by the simplest kind of love.

Then your phone buzzes again.

Max: And about all the ways you’re going to make it up to me when I get back.

You let out a surprised laugh, cheeks on fire, shaking your head.

You: If you win this weekend maybe I’ll consider it.

It takes less than a second for the response to come through.

Max: Now I have no choice but to win.

You bite your lip again, warmth blooming in your chest like sunlight.

You: Simp.

Max: Proudly.

Max: I miss you already.

You: I miss you more.

Max: Not possible.

You blink at that, a soft ache tugging at your heart. Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard before you send:

You: Come home safe.

Max: Always. I’ve got someone to come home to.

You don’t reply right away. You just stare at the screen, heart full, eyes glassy, wishing he could see the way you were smiling right now.

Moments later, one last message buzzes through:

Max: Sweet dreams liefje. I’ll dream of you.

You curl deeper into the blankets, holding the phone to your chest like it might bring you closer to him.

And yeah.

You're already ready for him to come back.