#bryannawrites

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You’ve been George Russell’s PR manager for just over a year now, and up until recently, you would’ve called the job… manageable.

George is, by all accounts, the dream client. Polished. Charismatic. The kind of driver who can step in front of a microphone and deliver exactly what you need without more than a raised eyebrow from you in the background. He knows the talking points, he respects the image Mercedes cultivates, and he’s rarely the one to spark controversy.

At least, that’s how it used to be.

When you first started, most of your workload was smoothing over minor hiccups: a slightly arrogant sound bite here, a poorly timed laugh during a press conference there. Nothing you couldn’t handle with a carefully worded quote or a redirect in an interview. The press liked him. Fans called him “Gentleman George,” and you wore that nickname like armor—it made your job easy.

But in the past few months, something has shifted.

He’s edgier. Sharper in his tone. More willing to push back when reporters bait him. You’ve started noticing the jaw-clenching, the tight grip on water bottles when certain names come up. And one name in particular has become the trigger for every storm.

Max Verstappen.

It started small—some barbed comments after wheel-to-wheel racing incidents, subtle digs during press conferences. At first, you dismissed it as rivalry. That was normal, even healthy. But it didn’t stay that way.

Now, George bristles at the mere mention of Max. And worse, Max seems to enjoy provoking him. It’s become a pattern: George speaks, Max twists the knife, and suddenly your carefully maintained PR strategy collapses under the weight of yet another headline about their “feud.”

Which is why you’re here now, at the tail end of another race weekend, watching George glare daggers across the paddock as Max smirks his way through an interview. Cameras flash, microphones crowd closer, and you feel the migraine coming before the quotes even hit Twitter.

This isn’t what you signed up for.

But lately, with George a live wire and Max determined to light the fuse, you’re starting to wonder if anyone could manage this mess.

And if you don’t step in soon, it’ll be your reputation on the line too.

You find George pacing just outside the media pen, jaw tight, arms folded like he’s holding himself together by sheer will. The reporters are still circling Max like vultures a few feet away, microphones angled to catch whatever unmannerly line he’ll drop next. You don’t need to hear it; you know it’s about George.

“George.” Your voice is calm, practiced. Crisis management mode.

“Don’t give them anything more. Just smile, answer what’s asked, and leave.”

He spins on you, eyes flashing. “It’s his fault. He pushed me. He called me names. And now I’m supposed to stand here and pretend it never happened?”

“Yes,” you say simply. “Because the moment you rise to it, you give him exactly what he wants. Headlines. Fuel. He wants to make you look weak and he’s getting in your head.”

George shakes his head, sharp and bitter. “So he gets to run his mouth and I’m meant to sit here like a coward?”

You step closer, lowering your voice so no one else can hear. “Not a coward. Smarter. You’ve built an image, George— you’re polished, unshakable, ‘Gentleman George.’ That’s your armor. Don’t throw it away for something so… pointless.”

For a moment, his gaze softens, uncertainty breaking through the anger. But then his jaw sets again. “You don’t get it. He’s made this personal.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. Of course he has. That’s Max’s specialty—turning everything into a personal battle, dragging everyone else into the fire with him.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You don’t need to check it to know what it is: the first wave of headlines, already spinning out of control. You look at George, who’s still simmering, his chest rising and falling too fast. “Let me see what I can do.”

He raises a brow. “You think you can get him to back down?”

You square your shoulders, already dreading the answer. “I don’t have a choice. I’ll talk to the Red Bull team. This is getting out of hand.”

♡

The Red Bull hospitality suite smells faintly of coffee and rubber, the sharp tang of post-race exhaustion. You find Max’s PR manager slumped at a table, phone buzzing endlessly in her hand as she scrolls through what you assume are the same trending headlines you’re already battling.

You don’t bother with pleasantries. You drop your tablet on the table, screen lit up with article after article. MAX VERSTAPPEN TAKES AIM AT GEORGE RUSSELL. FEUD BOILS OVER IN BAKU. IS GEORGE RUSSELL OUT OF HIS DEPTH?

“This has to stop,” you say flatly.

She glances up at you, dark circles under her eyes. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then rein him in. Tell him no more digs, no more one-liners, no more throwing my driver under the bus every time he opens his mouth.”

She laughs, humorless. “If you think I can control Max, you’re out of your mind. He’s back to being ‘Mad Max.’ Right now, he doesn’t listen to anyone.”

You fold your arms, frustration bubbling. “So what, you just let him torch reputations? Sponsors? The sport itself? Just because he’s ‘Max Verstappen’?”

Her expression softens with weary resignation. “Look… I’ve tried. We all have. But when Max decides he’s angry, he’s angry. And honestly? He just enjoys this too much.”

You press your lips together, the headache pounding behind your eyes. Of course he does.

And then you feel it.

The weight of a stare.

You glance across the room and there he is, Max Verstappen himself, standing near the catering table with a bottle of water in hand. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are locked on you, sharp and assessing.

Your chest tightens, heat prickling the back of your neck. He doesn’t look away—not when you catch him, not even when your expression hardens.

You roll your eyes, exaggerated enough to make a point, then snap your gaze back to his PR manager. “Fine. If you won’t do it, I will.”

The manager exhales like you’ve just volunteered for execution.

“Good luck.”

You don’t say it, but the thought sears through you anyway: I’m going to regret this.

You follow him near the back of the paddock, where the noise has thinned and the air hums with the low growl of generators. Max leans against a barrier like he owns the place, still in his fireproofs, water bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. He doesn’t look surprised to see you behind him.

“Mercedes girl,” he drawls, lips quirking as his gaze flicks from your polo shirt to your face. “Should’ve guessed you’d come marching in sooner or later.”

You stop a few paces away, chin high, every inch of you professional armor. “It’s PR manager, actually. And I’d appreciate it if you stopped using my driver as your personal punching bag every time a microphone’s shoved in your face.”

That earns you a sharp laugh. He tips his head back, amused. “Your driver? Cute. What are you, his babysitter?”

Your eyes narrow. “No, but clearly someone needs to babysit you.”

His smile fades just enough for the bite underneath to show. “I don’t need anyone telling me what I can or can’t say. Especially not George’s… what? Manager? Spokesperson? Girlfriend?” The word drips with sarcasm.

You bristle, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I’m not his girlfriend.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Max mutters, pushing off the barrier. He takes a step closer, just inside the line of your personal space, daring you to flinch. “The way you’re sticking up for him, like he’s helpless. Running to protect him.”

“Because he doesn’t deserve this,” you snap, refusing to back down. “He doesn’t deserve the names, the digs, the constant—”

“What?” Max cuts in, eyes blazing. “The truth? He doesn’t like me, I don’t like him. That’s racing. That’s life. And if it gets under his skin, maybe he’s not as composed as you think.”

You hold his stare, pulse hammering. “Or maybe you just can’t stand not being the center of attention.”

That does it. His jaw clenches, shoulders tight, the water bottle creaking in his grip. For a second, you think he’s going to snap back with something vicious. Instead, he laughs again—low, sharp, dangerous.

“You’ve got a mouth on you, Mercedes girl.”

“And you’ve got an ego problem. I can see I’m getting no where with this.”

The silence between you crackles, electric and hot, neither of you willing to look away first until you finally let out a frustrated sigh and walk away from him.

♡

The feud doesn’t disappear overnight, but things quiet down a bit. After your confrontation with Max, the headlines shift from all-out war to the usual mix of podium chatter, strategy critiques, and sponsor plugs. George, to his credit, listens when you urge him to stay composed. He bites his tongue in interviews, delivers clean soundbites, and even flashes his trademark smile when journalists probe too close.

It’s working. You can feel it. The fire is dying down.

And Max? Surprisingly, he reins himself in. The pointed digs slow, the sharp comments dull to casual shrugs. You can’t tell if it’s because someone at Red Bull leaned harder on him or if your confrontation actually stuck in his head—but you notice the difference. It’s almost… unnerving.

Still, you don’t let yourself relax. Not yet.

It happens at Silverstone, of all places—home soil, high pressure. George pushes hard all race, defending against attacks until the very last laps. By the time he pulls into parc fermé, he’s white-knuckled and heaving, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He climbs out of the car, but you can see it in his eyes: he’s spiraling.

You cut through the crowd, ignoring the cameras, and reach him just as he grips the halo for balance. “George. Hey.” You keep your voice low, steady, grounding.

He blinks at you, chest rising too fast.

“Breathe,” you murmur, slipping a hand over his as it shakes against the carbon fiber. “In. Out. You’re fine.”

For a moment, he listens, matching your rhythm. You press your palm briefly against his chest, steadying the frantic thump of his heartbeat. Slowly, his breathing evens out.

“There you go.” You offer the faintest smile, professional but soft. “Cameras are everywhere—show them you’re in control.”

George nods, straightening, jaw tight as he forces composure back onto his face. By the time he walks toward the press, he looks calm again.

You exhale, relieved.

And then you feel it.

Across the parc fermé, leaning against the Red Bull car with arms folded, helmet off, Max is watching.

His expression is unreadable at first—eyes narrowed, mouth set in a thin line. He came second to George so you could practically feel whatever was lingering in the air between them. But then his gaze flicks from George to you, landing squarely on where your hand had been pressed against George’s chest.

His jaw ticks.

He takes a swig of water, mutters something under his breath to his engineer, and when he finally looks away, the air shifts. You don’t need to hear his words to know: whatever this truce was, it’s over. Sure enough, by Thursday he’s back at it.

A reporter asks about his rivals, and Max’s lips curve into that wolfish smirk you’ve come to dread. “Well, some people spend more time worrying about their PR image than actually racing. I suppose that’s one way to make up for lacking on track.”

The journalists eat it up. Cameras flash. Your phone buzzes nonstop.

George mutters under his breath beside you, “Unbelievable.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. Of course he couldn’t resist.

And when you glance across the room, Max is already looking at you.

That same sharp, knowing stare. He doesn’t smirk this time—he just raises an eyebrow, like he’s daring you to try and stop him again.

♡

You hear him before you see him—low, amused, that unmistakable Dutch lilt.

“Mercedes girl.”

Your shoulders stiffen instantly. You turn, finding Max leaning against the frame of the doorway, arms folded like he’s been waiting for you.

You exhale through your nose. “You need to stop calling me that.”

His brow quirks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Why? It suits you.”

“It doesn’t.” You slam your folder shut harder than necessary, nerves sparking hot. “My name is on every press release, every credential. You know it. Use it.”

Max shrugs, maddeningly casual. “I like Mercedes girl better. Rolls off the tongue.”

You step closer, eyes narrowing. “You don’t call me that because it ‘rolls off the tongue.’ You do it to belittle me. To remind me that you don’t take me seriously.”

His smirk only deepens. “Maybe because I don’t.”

The words sting, but you don’t let him see it. You force your voice steady, cold. “You should. Because I’m the reason your messes don’t stick. You think this feud makes you look strong, but it doesn’t. It makes you look insecure, Max. Small and weak. Like you can’t keep George out of your head long enough to focus on anything else.”

For the first time, his smirk falters.

The silence stretches, heavy and sharp. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t fire back immediately. He just looks at you—like you’ve managed to hit somewhere deeper than you intended.

You gather your bag, heart hammering, and brush past him without another word.

But halfway down the corridor, the weight of it sinks in. You hadn’t just snapped at him. You’d gone for the jugular. And as much as part of you had wanted him to stop, to finally shut up, you can’t shake the flicker of guilt in your chest.

Still, when you risk a glance back, he’s staring after you, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. Anger. Hurt. Maybe both.

You realize with a chill: you haven’t ended this. You might’ve just escalated it.

♡

You know it’s going to be a disaster before the lights even go out.

From the first lap, Max is driving like a man possessed. Aggressive lunges, late braking, squeezing George out whenever the opportunity arises. It’s not reckless—not quite—but it’s furious. Like every ounce of his anger has crystallized into the car beneath him.

George comes over the radio, voice strained. “He’s leaving no room. None.”

Your stomach twists.

By the time the checkered flag falls, the air between the two of them is toxic. George climbs out of the car, jaw tight, and mutters something under his breath about “bloody Verstappen.”

Cameras flash, microphones swarm, and you’re right there at his elbow, reminding him silently: composure. Control. Max delivers another barbed quip with that ice-cold smirk.

“George seems to panic under pressure,” he says into the cameras. “I don’t.”

The crowd eats it up. George bristles beside you. And Max? He doesn’t so much as glance your way.

Not once.

It’s worse than his taunts, somehow—the deliberate ignoring, the way he acts like you don’t exist. Like your last words cut too deep and now he won’t give you the satisfaction of even acknowledging you.

Your blood pressure is a drumbeat in your ears.

Max leans against the barrier during his interviews, casual, unbothered, and every word out of his mouth is another knife:

“George? He’s quick, sure. But quick doesn’t win races. Mentality does.”

“Honestly, I don’t think about him much. He thinks about me.”

You’re so close you can see the smirk pulling at his lips, the way he delivers the lines like gifts to the journalists. And the worst part? They laugh. They lap it up.

George’s fists curl at his sides, and you lay a hand on his arm to steady him. He breathes, sharp and shallow, but he doesn’t rise to it. Not this time.

Still, your own composure is fraying. Every barb feels like it’s aimed not just at George, but at you—the long hours cleaning up, the endless briefings, the nights you’ve spent spinning disasters into talking points.

It’s deliberate. A punishment.

By the time the interviews end, your restraint is gone. You’re done smoothing over his chaos. You’re done letting him toy with you. Toying with George.

You don’t knock. You don’t pause. You shove the door open so hard it rattles against the wall, storming into the Red Bull motorhome like it’s yours to claim.

Max is there, peeling the top half of his race suit off, his undershirt clinging damp to his skin. You take him in, finally letting your gaze sweep past the smirk and the smug tilt of his head.

His fireproofs cling to him in a way you’ve never paid attention to before—the fabric stretched slightly from the race, still flecked with heat and sweat, sculpting the lines of his shoulders and chest. Even after everything he’s done, the curve of his jaw, the way his hair is damp and sticking in rebellious strands, face red and raw, it makes your pulse stutter.

He’s standing there, arms crossed, muscles subtly flexing as he leans against the wall. Every inch of him is sharp and taut, like a coiled spring—dangerous, unrestrained. And suddenly, for the first time, you notice it. The way his eyes catch the light. The careless confidence he radiates even after a punishing race. The slight sheen of sweat along his neck and collarbone.

And you realize, reluctantly, that yes—he’s infuriatingly, undeniably, frustratingly handsome.

You shift, trying to ground yourself in the fury that brought you here, reminding yourself: this isn’t about him. It’s about the damage he’s caused. The games. The constant tension. The way he’s made your life hell for weeks now.

And yet… the heat of him in this small motorhome, the tautness of his body, the reckless arrogance—it’s impossible to ignore.

You blink, take a deep breath, and square your shoulders. The moment passes—or at least, you try to snap out of it. He startles from your intrusion but it’s only a fraction of a second before those dark eyes settle back into place, like he’s been waiting for you.

“Wow,” he says, voice dripping with amusement. “Mercedes girl, do they not knock over there at Mercedes?”

“Cut the shit, Verstappen.” Your words are sharp, your voice trembling with rage. “You’ve crossed the line this time.”

He raises a brow, tilting his head, deliberately unbothered. “You’ll have to be more specific. I cross a lot of lines.”

“You humiliated him. You humiliated me.” You’re shaking now, fury buzzing under your skin. “The digs, the smirks, the cheap shots—fine. That’s who you are, apparently. But today? The blocking, the interviews? You’re being pathetic.”

Something flickers across his face at the word, and you press the advantage.

“And you think ignoring me makes it better? That it makes you look strong? No. It makes you look like a spoiled, insecure brat who can’t handle someone not bowing to you. Well, I’m certainly not just going to worship you just because you’re Max Verstappen.”

His smirk falters, and for a second, you think you’ve finally stunned him into silence. But then he laughs—low, dark, infuriating.

“You really don’t hold back, do you, Mercedes girl?”

Your fists clench. “Stop calling me that.”

He steps closer, slow, deliberate. “Why? You hate it, but you always react. Makes me wonder if you like it even a little bit.”

You glare up at him, chest heaving. “You’re not funny. You’re not clever. You’re just—”

“Weak? Small?” he cuts in, voice low, sharp. The words you’d stabbed him with at Silverstone.

Your throat tightens, but you refuse to back down. “Yes. Weak. Small. Everything you’ve done proves it. Every petty word, every desperate move on track—you’ve made yourself look smaller and smaller. And the worst part?” You step into his space, your voice dropping like a blade. “You don’t even realize it.”

The air between you is molten. He’s close now, so close you can see the pulse ticking in his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls too fast.

Max’s eyes burn into yours, anger and something way heavier tangled together.

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous, almost teasing, and the edge of a smirk curls on his lips.

Max steps closer, closing the small space between you. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the sharp scent of sweat and adrenaline clinging to him from the race.

“And I’m not going to stop using it,” you snap, your hands trembling—not from fear, but from something else.

He tilts his head, eyes dark and unflinching, and for a heartbeat, the world narrows to just you two. The tension crackles so thickly it’s almost a physical thing in the small motorhome.

Before you can step back, he leans in. You barely have time to catch your breath before his lips press to yours. It’s heated, urgent—less about gentleness and more about the collision of weeks of anger, frustration, and unacknowledged attraction.

You stiffen at first, caught off guard, but the intensity pulls you in. Every nerve ending screams, every thought disappears except for the feel of him—close, impossible, infuriating—and the sharp edge of something dangerously like desire.

When you pull back, just slightly, your foreheads nearly touching, both of you are breathing hard, staring into each other. The tension hasn’t gone. If anything, it’s worse. It needs release. The motorhome feels impossibly small.

“You’re impossible. And infuriating. And you—” you breathe, trying to reclaim some control, even as your pulse still races. He slowly slides his hand into your hair, rubbing small circles on your temple. His eye contact intense before he cuts you off with another kiss.

“I know, I know,” he shushes you, lips hovering over yours. He breathes you in with a hunger that only you could feed. He laps your mouth over and over until you give in to him with a little whine.

The air between you hums, full of promise, anger, and everything you’ve been trying to ignore. There was a decision to be made. You either walk away or—

Fuck it, you thought. If you were kissing Max Verstappen in his motorhome, you might as well fuck Max Verstappen in his motorhome.

And then you’re on him, not even a moment later— it was you who was the starved one now. You pull at his fire proofs and practically rip them over his head. His lips find their way to your throat as he leans over to lift you into his arms. With you straddling him, he kicks the door closed behind him as he swings you around to a nearby desk.

You’re running your hands through his hair and peppering his face with aggressive kisses, sucking and nipping at his neck and jaw, gripping hard at the strands causing him to wince a little. Fine. You finally admit it. He was so hot, coming apart in your hands like this. Practically melting under your touch. With each nip at his jaw a little moan escaped his lips. You wanted him, you wanted him so badly it hurt. All these weeks, all the pent up sexual tension. You wondered if he was just desperate for your attention, like you were for his.

Once he places you on the desk, he steps back to look at you. You’re suddenly a little shy under his gaze. Cheeks flush as you sit back on your palms.

“Still hate me?” He smirks a little, licking his teeth and it causes you to roll your eyes at him. He reaches out and grabs you by the cheek, squeezing your lips together, and forcing you to look at him. His palm swallowing your face whole. You feel heat pulling between your legs now.

“I love when you do that.”

“Shut up and take your pants off.” You tsk and he obeys. He begins to pull his pants down, watch still on his wrist, and eyes locked on yours.

You drop to the floor— cold, metallic panels under your knee caps. Max pulls his pants down just enough to release his hard, aching cock. Your eyes widen at the sight. He’s quite large, and his tip is pink and glistening. He looks devilishly handsome from this angle, and you hate it. You were about to let the man who had been tormenting you for weeks, violate your mouth— and honestly? You couldn’t be happier.

“I’ll go slow. Try to breathe through your nose for me, okay?” he instructs. “And try not to choke. We can’t be loud.”

You roll your eyes again. He was so cocky. No pun intended.

The first slide into your mouth is a test to see how deep Max can go. He reaches for your hair, steadying himself as he bottoms out in your throat. He catches his breath, and you are dripping now. You shift a little, trying to rub your thighs together, to provide some sort of friction. Your jaw relaxes the deeper he gets.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it, Mercedes girl.”

You hum, looking up at him in annoyance, nibbling his tip just a little as to tell him you’re still in charge even if you’re on your knees for him at the moment.

“Ow. Sorry— Y/N… I know your name, pretty girl, I’m just messing with you.” He moves your hair out of your eyes and pulls it together to get a better grip before bottoming out again. You run your hands up his thighs for balance as he thrusts into you a couple more times. He uses your face as a fuck toy, and the sounds in the office turned obscene very quickly.

“I’m going to cum if you keep sucking me like that.” He shudders a little, loosening the grip on your hair. “Come on, it’s your turn. I’m not selfish.”

With a pop he pulls out and your lips form a pout as he helps lifts you off the floor. He leans down and kisses you gently. For someone who has a reputation for being angry and aggressive, he was much sweeter in intimate moments like this. You almost look at him in confusion.

When he pulls away, he notices, “Why are you looking at me like that?” he furrows his brows.

“You just— you’re being nice,” you take a seat on the edge of the desk and cross your arms in hesitation.

“I just figured it was time I stopped making your life so hard.” He says with a cocky smirk, kissing you hard again. He lowers you so that you’re now flush with the desk.

With your hair sprawled out behind you, his fingers lightly brush over your cheek, then down your collarbone, and then he follows the shape of your right breast in your Mercedes polo shirt. He chuckles to himself a little.

“You should join Red Bull. Let me be your driver.” His eyes flick up to yours, and your cheeks immediately flush. His tone was serious, like there were suddenly no more games between you two.

“You know you wouldn’t listen to me. Plus, George—“ Max stops your next words with another kiss. This time, he takes your bottom lip in his teeth and sucks softly.

His hands explore your body, pulling your shirt off and over your head. He tossed it somewhere across the room, and you were praying that no one would walk in.

He palms over your stomach first. Rubbing small circles just above your belly button. Then higher. You sit up to unclasp your bra. And when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, you gasp. His left hand travels back up your neck, and he kisses along your collarbone and your shoulder before taking one of your breasts into his big, rough hands. He massages it and flicks at your nipple to harden it a bit before bringing his mouth down to your chest. He latches onto your nipple and sucks, eliciting a moan from deep within you.

You can feel him smile into your chest. “Max, that feels really good.” His eyes flicker to yours and your mouth falls open in another moan. Your brows pull together in pleasure.

He huffs a breath through his nose. “You’re really sensitive here, huh?” he asks, brushing his thumb lightly across your other nipple. You shift a bit biting your lip.

“Yeah, I am.” You flutter your lashes, your breath hitching. You whimper a little but don’t ask him to stop. Instead, you arch into him. Practically begging him to do more to you.

His hands follow the curve of your body and dip lower and lower until—one of his hands dip into your pants. He plays with the band of your panties, teasing a little before he moves in to cup your heat. Finding your clit and rubbing small circles with his middle finger.

You were fully his now. Melting under his touch. You arch more and you felt like you were practically levitating off the desk. You had never considered getting with an F1 driver, especially since two of them were your colleagues. But in this moment, part of you thinks you should’ve sooner. Max was really, really good with his hands.

“Feel good?” Max removes his mouth from your nipple to focus on pleasuring you between your legs.

“Fuck— yeah, it feels so good.” You try to form a coherent sentence but he quickened his pace before slowly dipping a finger into your dripping warmth. “Oh my god, Max!”

Max shoots his other hand to your mouth and smiles up at you. “Shhh, you’re going to get us caught.” You apologize with a look and throw your head back once more. His fingers were heavenly inside you. Now you just wanted the whole thing. You wanted— no, needed him to fill you up. He takes his hand off your mouth and you’re panting for him.

“Max, p-please, I need you inside. Right now.” You look at him with pleading eyes and who was he to turn you down when you looked so pretty for him.

He hooks his fingers around his pants, fully dropping them this time. He grabs your thighs and pulls you down to the edge of the desk to line himself up with your entrance. He pumps into his hand a few times before looking at you.

“You sure?”

You nod frantically, he runs his tip over the slick heat of your core. He rocks his hips forward to slip in slowly. He brings his forehead down to yours and his jaw clenches. You’re soaked and sensitive. You clench around him with every single inch he pushes further and further into you.

He bottoms out and his hand settles on your thigh, spreading you wide and keeping you steady.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” You kiss his cheek and your nails dig into his shoulders. He takes a moment before he starts moving again. Allowing you to adjust to him. He kisses down your jaw and sucks at your neck gently. You whisper his name and he moans into your ear.

He sits up a little to hold your face. He moves some hair out of your eyes, his eyes flickering to your lips before he pumps into you deeper and deeper. Your mouth falls open and he kisses the corner of it before kissing you just as deeply as his thrusts. There’s a desperation to the way he’s fucking into you.

You choke on a groan, face against his shoulder.

“You feel so good, I can’t believe you’re letting me fuck you… I’ve wanted to for weeks now.” He groans into your neck, his voice vibrating against you. He finds that one spot, that one pace that makes you overstimulated. You can feel the invisible coil inside you twisting, you were about to come undone.

“Max, I’m going to cum.” You whine and your sweet voice makes his throbbing cock jerk inside you.

“Okay baby, cum for me.” His forehead is pressed against yours and he keeps the same rhythm, same pace to make sure he doesn’t mess it up for you.

You moan way louder than you mean to. He kisses you roughly as if to quiet you. With each pump you reach your high. You’re trembling and squeezing him tightly now.

“Oh god, I’m going to cum. You feel way too good, t-too tight.” Max growls and you wrap your legs around him.

“Coum for me,” you kiss his face, and wrap your arms around his shoulders pulling him in tighter.

You feel his tip kiss your cervix. He’s warm and you feel him jerk inside of you as he cums. Filling you up. Your velvety walls milking him for everything he’s got. Panting, he lays his head on your chest to catch his breath. You smile a little while running your fingers through his hair. You can’t believe you just did that.

Shit, you thought. Were you starting to like Max Verstappen? No… surely not.

After a minute or two, Max lifts himself off you and pulls his clothing back on. He finds your clothes scattered across the room and collects them to help you get dressed.

You can feel his cum dripping out of you and down your leg. Brushing your shirt and pants, you act as if nothing just happened.

“So… are you going to leave George alone now?” you ask, tilting your head up at him. He’s in your space, close enough that the warmth from his body presses against yours—and, against your better judgment, you don’t mind. Not one bit.

Max leans in, that smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah… I think I will. But when do I get to see you again?”

Your stomach flips at the way he tilts his head, that teasing glint in his eyes.

“Hmmm,” you murmur, letting your gaze linger. “Let’s say… if you manage to stay PR-friendly for the next three races, then maybe you can see me again. Deal?”

He laughs softly, low and amused, and before you can react, he pulls you into a quick, heated hug, pressing close enough to make your pulse race. “Deal,” he murmurs against your hair.

And true to both of your words, Max keeps himself in check for the next three races. No PR outbursts, no digs, no games. Like clockwork. And just as promised… There you are again, standing in his hotel room, anticipation and tension coiling tight in the air between you.

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deuxmoi posted ->

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yn is typing…

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song: please please please by sabrina carpenter

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fan speculation->

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yn is typing…

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To be continued…

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yn.yln just posted a carousel 🎠 ->

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max verstappen is typing…

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To be continued…

To be added to the taglist -> 🔗

The first time you see him again, you’re in papaya orange.

You hadn’t expected the weight of it all—the jacket snug across your shoulders, the lanyard heavy around your neck, the logo bold over your chest. It should’ve just been another job, another team, another driver to manage. But McLaren wasn’t just another team. And Oscar Piastri wasn’t just another driver.

You told Zak and the others the truth during on-boarding. That you and Oscar had history, that it was a lifetime ago, that you were prepared to be professional. They’d waved it off with easy smiles. Teenage dating doesn’t count in F1, someone had joked.

Maybe. But standing here now, camera in hand, the buzz of the paddock in your ears, you realized how naïve you’d been to think it wouldn’t still sting—at least a little.

Oscar walked in, fireproofs rolled down, posture looser than you remembered but his expression sharper. Colder. He looked straight past you, not even a flicker of recognition, before heading to the garage.

Professional, you reminded yourself. You weren’t here for him. You had an entire career that you built for yourself from the ground up. “First day nerves?” Lando grinned at you, leaning casually against the wall, eyeing your McLaren polo. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to go easy on you.”

You laughed despite yourself, the ease of his banter cutting through your nerves. And of course, because the universe was cruel, that was the exact moment Oscar glanced back across the garage.

His eyes flicked to Lando. To you. Back to Lando. And for the first time all day, his jaw tightened. You almost wished you had been invisible, it would be so much easier and way less awkward.

Later in the day, you found him alone near the McLaren hospitality, hands shoved in his pockets like he was waiting for something—or maybe someone. For a split second, it felt like muscle memory, like you were walking up to the boy you used to know. The boy who always waited for you after heats, helmet hair sticking up in every direction, grin soft just for you.

But this wasn’t that boy.

“Hey,” you started carefully, professional tone slipping despite your best effort. “I just wanted to—look, Oscar, this doesn’t have to be complicated. What happened back then… we were practically kids. I’m here to do my job, that’s it.”

His gaze flicked up at you, unreadable, sharp in a way that made your stomach twist. For a beat, you thought he might ease, might give you even a fraction of the boy you once knew. Instead, his mouth tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “I would hope so.”

That was it. He brushed past you, leaving only the faintest trace of his cologne in the air. You stood there longer than you should’ve, the words echoing like a door slammed shut.

It had never been simple with Oscar. Not from the very start. You’d met him in karting, two kids with helmets too big for your heads and dreams even bigger. At first, he was just another name on the entry sheet, another rival to chase down the straights. But somewhere between the long weekends spent at the track and the hours waiting for heats, rivalry melted into something softer.

You remembered one weekend in particular—Wackersdorf, sticky-hot summer, your palms raw from clutching the wheel. You’d been furious after a messy heat, convinced the crash in turn two had ruined your weekend. Everyone else brushed past you in the paddock, but Oscar lingered.

“You drive like you want to kill someone ya know,” he’d said, eyes wide with mock seriousness.

You’d snapped back, “Well, maybe I do.”

But then he’d grinned—that lopsided grin you came to know so well—and pressed a bottle of water into your hand. “Good. Keep it up. Finally some good competition.”

That was the thing about Oscar. He could be quiet, reserved, even aloof—but with you, he let something else slip through. The dry humor, the flashes of warmth. You found yourself looking for him more and more, in the spaces between races, in the quiet corners of crowded paddocks. Somewhere along the line, “rival” shifted into “friend,” and “friend” turned into the crush you never admitted out loud.

Until he admitted it for you.

It wasn’t grand—Oscar wasn’t the grand-gesture type. It was late, both of you stretched out on the roof of your dad’s van, the stars faint above the track lights. You’d been teasing him about the way he chewed his straw wrappers when he blurted, “I like you, you know.” You’d laughed at first, convinced he was joking. But then he turned his head toward you, expression unreadable but eyes steady, waiting. And suddenly your world shifted on its axis.

After that, it was inevitable.

You never called it a relationship, not at first. It was inside jokes and secret looks, his hand brushing yours when no one was watching, sneaking away between heats just to sit in silence together. But eventually, words caught up with what you already were.

He was your first everything.

And you loved him—deeply, fiercely, with the kind of devotion only teenagers can manage. Throughout the years you both worked your way up to F3. Then, when your own racing ended after the crash, when fear wormed its way into your chest and made every lap feel like a countdown, you didn’t resent him. You stood in his corner instead. You cheered the loudest, you believed the hardest, you told him he was meant for more. Your dad never forgave you for walking away, but in your heart it was the choice you’d always make, in every lifetime— you’d rather cheer for Oscar than compete against him.

Looking back, it was almost laughably innocent.

But for a while, it worked. You built your own life around his, a balance that somehow made sense. Until it didn’t.

By the time he reached F2, Oscar was already half gone—physically, emotionally, his head always in the next session, the next race, the next championship. Phone calls turned into voicemails, visits turned into promises, promises turned into arguments.

You remembered one fight clearer than the rest. You’d been sitting cross-legged on your dorm floor, phone pressed to your ear, his voice tinny with bad reception.

“You don’t get it,” he’d said, frustration sharp enough to cut. “This isn’t just a hobby, it’s my career.”

“And I’m not asking you to give it up!” you’d snapped back, tears threatening but stubbornly unshed. “I just—I need to feel like I still matter in it.”

Silence. Too long, too heavy. Then a flat: “Maybe we’re not on the same path anymore.”

That was the night you both stopped pretending.

You let him go. He didn’t fight you on it. And in the strange, cruel way of growing up, life moved on.

You buried yourself in school, in sports media, in carving out your own career in the only thing you’d ever know but far from the circuits that reminded you of him. NASCAR gave you a clean slate, America gave you space, and for the first time in years you felt steady again.

You didn’t stalk his results, didn’t scroll his socials late at night. You knew he was in F1—of course you did. But you never let yourself linger on the thought. He had his path. You had yours.

Back then it seemed like devotion. Looking back, it was nothing but the innocence of youth.

And yet, here you were again, older, wiser, standing in papaya orange. Back in his orbit.

Day to day, the job became routine. Lando made it easy. He was endlessly chatty, always finding ways to make you laugh even on the busiest days, and he never seemed to mind the camera in his face.

Filming him for content felt less like work and more like banter between friends—he’d mug for the lens, crack inside jokes, drag you into the occasional frame when the crew wasn’t looking.

Oscar was the opposite.

He didn’t go out of his way to make your life harder—he just didn’t go out of his way for you at all. If you happened to cross paths in the garage, he’d look through you, polite enough to avoid rudeness but distant enough to sting. It was easier to stay out of his orbit entirely, and you told yourself that was fine. That was professional.

Except the paddock wasn’t that big.

One Friday, his usual media person was out sick, and before you could make an excuse, you were handed the camera and told to get a quick clip of Oscar for socials.

You braced yourself for pushback, but he didn’t argue. He just stood there in his race suit, fireproofs peeking at his collar, expression blank as you lined up the shot. It should’ve been simple.

“Just a smile, maybe a quick ‘ready for quali,’” you suggested, keeping your tone brisk, professional.

Oscar nodded once, delivered the line, and you hit stop. No drama, no issues. Just a short, forgettable clip.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Hours later, someone from the Mclaren team was shoving a phone in your face between meetings, laughing.

“Have you seen this? The comments are losing it.”

You blinked at the screen. The clip of Oscar had blown up, fans dissecting the way his eyes flickered at the camera, the way his expression shifted ever so slightly.

The way he looks at admin?? Hello?? This is not his PR girl why is he staring like THAT.

“I don’t get it,” you said honestly, handing the phone back. “It’s just Oscar. He barely looked at me.”

Your coworker smirked. “Barely, huh? Well, the internet thinks otherwise.”

You rolled your eyes. You didn’t have the time—or the energy—to spiral down the rabbit hole of Oscar’s fans and their theories. You had plenty to juggle with Lando’s own schedule, and Oscar… well. He’d made it perfectly clear you were no one to him now.

In fact, if anything, it felt like a burden. Whenever you crossed paths, his silence weighed heavier than words ever could. It was easier to focus on the things you could control—cameras, content calendars, Lando’s relentless charm—than to wonder why Oscar still looked at you like you were the problem.

The weeks blurred together in a rhythm you quickly learned to live by. Media day chaos, practice sessions, late nights editing clips in hotel rooms that all looked the same.

With Lando, it was easy. Too easy. He made the work light, even when you were running on fumes. One weekend, he convinced you to let him film a “behind the scenes” bit with you in frame—nothing major, just him draping an arm over your shoulders while joking about you being the “real boss” at McLaren. You rolled your eyes, shoved him off, but the fans loved it.

Oscar barely reacted.

If he’d seen the clip, he gave no sign. He didn’t comment when Lando teased you at press conferences or pulled you into TikToks. He didn’t say a word when Lando sat beside you in the garage, showing you memes instead of watching the monitors. He just carried on, stone-faced and untouchable, as though none of it concerned him.

Except sometimes, you caught it—the flicker of his gaze across the room, the way his jaw tightened when you laughed too hard at something Lando had said. Quick, sharp glances, gone before you could even register them.

You told yourself it was nothing.

It wasn’t until Spain that you had to work with him again. His media rep got pulled to help with a logistical issue, and you were handed a mic at the last second with no time to protest.

Oscar gave the bare minimum—short answers, monotone delivery. You tried to coax more out of him, because that was your job, but it was like pulling teeth. Still, you smiled, nodded, and wrapped it up cleanly for the cameras.

When the clip went live later, the comments exploded again.

Oscar answering like he’s in love but fighting it?? “Yeah… it was fine.” Sir, you sound like you’re on the verge of tears?? The way he looks at admin is insane. Tell me I’m not imagining this.

You laughed it off when one of the interns showed you. It was easier to believe the internet was inventing things than to accept any other possibility. Because the Oscar you saw in real life—the one who barely looked at you, who brushed past you in the paddock without a word—wasn’t the boy from your memories. He wasn’t anything close.

You didn’t know him anymore.

In Austria, Lando was fighting for a podium. You’d been glued to the screens all race, headset pressed tight, adrenaline coursing even though you weren’t the one in the car. When the checkered flag waved, you were already sprinting to capture his reaction.

He leapt out of the car grinning, and before you could even frame the shot, he pulled you into a hug, sweaty fireproofs and all. Cameras caught it from every angle. Your laugh, his arm locked around your shoulders, the easy comfort between you.

You didn’t notice Oscar until later.

He was in the background of one of the photos—helmet still on, visor cracked just enough to show his eyes. Looking directly at you. Not at Lando. At you.

You skipped past it quickly, heart unsettled, throat dry.

By Hungary, you’d stopped trying to analyze it. Oscar’s silence was a wall you couldn’t scale, and his rare flickers of attention felt like tricks of the light. It was easier to stay focused on Lando, on the work, on everything else but him.

But if Oscar noticed your avoidance, he didn’t let it show. If anything, he doubled down—cold shoulders, clipped answers, brushing past you without pause.

And for reasons you couldn’t explain, that cut deeper than any argument ever could.

The next race was busier than you expected. The home crowd buzzed like static in the air, the garage overflowing with sponsors, cameras, fans pressing against barricades.

You were supposed to be focused on Lando, your driver, but every so often your gaze strayed.

To Oscar.

He hadn’t been that boy from karting for a long time—his shoulders had broadened, his features sharpened into something that still startled you if you looked too long. He carried himself differently now too—confidence edged with arrogance, posture taut in fireproofs still clinging damp from the race.

You caught yourself staring once, twice—long enough that your chest fluttered, long enough that you had to wrench your eyes back to the camera before anyone noticed.

Professional. You were professional.

But when you finally glanced up again, Oscar’s eyes were already on you.

A flicker of something unreadable passed between you before he looked away, jaw tight, expression carved in stone.

It only made the cold shoulder worse.

He barely acknowledged you around the garage, his words clipped whenever you tried, his back already turned when you offered a polite “good luck” before quali. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that it was easier this way—but the heaviness in your chest lingered.

Until after the race.

McLaren was celebrating Lando’s podium, staff flooding the pit wall, champagne spraying in the air. You caught it all on camera, laughter spilling over as Lando mugged for the lens, but your attention slipped into habit.

You cupped your hands around your mouth, leaning slightly forward over the barrier, fingers pressed together as you shouted encouragement—something you had always done for Oscar in the karting days, without thinking, without noticing the way it made him look.

Later, slipping down the quieter corridor with your equipment, you nearly collided with him.

He didn’t move aside. Just stood there, damp hair curling against his forehead, eyes sharp, unreadable.

“You still do that,” he said flatly.

You frowned. “Do what?”

“That thing with your hands,” he said, voice low but tight. “Cupping them like that, leaning over, shouting. You used to do it for me.”

Your chest tightened. “I—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, voice sharper now. “Just… don’t do it for him.”

The words landed heavier than anything he’d said in years. You opened your mouth, but no reply came. He shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and walked past you, leaving a charged quiet in his wake.

The hallway felt impossibly small, and suddenly you were hyper-aware of the way your own hands flexed at your sides, remembering that small gesture that had once meant nothing… and now meant far too much.

In Italy, just before the post-practice interview, Lando struggled with his jacket, and you leaned in, smoothing the collar and flashing a grin. One of the interviewers gave you a disapproving look, clearly annoyed that you’d wandered into the shot. You rolled your eyes, snapping back, “Relax. He’s my driver,” letting just the right amount of exasperation slip through.

Oscar, standing a few feet away, stopped in his tracks. His expression darkened. When you turned around you were practically inches away from his chest.

“My driver?” he repeated, voice sharp, almost incredulous.

“Yes,” you said firmly, holding your ground.

He exhaled through his nose, teeth grinding, then muttered, “Yeah, well… I’m your—”

And then he cut himself off, jaw tightening. His eyes flicked away quickly, betraying whatever he had meant—boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend? Something else entirely?

You didn’t comment, just focused on Lando, but the tension lingered like static.

Later that evening, you had slipped off to handle a few post-practice clips in the media room, headphones on, focused entirely on your work. You didn’t notice Lando lingering nearby—or Oscar stepping in—leaving the two of them alone for a conversation that would have left your cheeks hot if you’d heard it.

Lando leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “You know,” he said, voice low so no one else could hear, “the fans are really shipping me with Y/N. They’ve even made a few… creative edits.”

Oscar, standing across the room, raised an eyebrow. “Have they?”

Lando smirked, shrugging. “Apparently. According to the internet, I’m her boyfriend now.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. His arms crossed over his chest as he stepped closer, voice calm but laced with steel. “She’s not… yours. She’s off-limits. She’s my ex, and no one gets to flirt with her. Not you, not anyone.”

Lando laughed nervously, holding up his hands. “Whoa, easy there. I’m just saying, fans are shipping. It’s not like I—”

“Don’t say things like that,” Oscar interrupted, sharp, eyes narrowing. “Not about her. You don’t get to make her a joke. She’s off-limits. Got it?”

Lando swallowed, smirk faltering. Hands up in surrender. “Got it… yeah. Didn’t realize there was… history there. Sorry Mate.”

Oscar’s eyes didn’t leave him until Lando nodded. The unspoken warning was clear: cross the line, and there would be consequences.

As soon as Lando left, Oscar exhaled slowly, hands unclenching, jaw loosening slightly. He wasn’t done thinking about you—not by a long shot—but at least now he knew where the line was, and that he would do whatever it took to keep it intact. You were off limits to anyone at Mclaren.

In Monaco, you crouched near the pit wall, adjusting the camera angle to catch Lando exiting the garage. The sun was high, glare reflecting off the tarmac, and the air smelled faintly of fuel and hot tires.

Oscar drifted nearby, ostensibly reviewing data on his tablet, but his presence was unmistakable. When a couple of staff members started hovering too close to you, his arm brushed yours, guiding you subtly out of their path.

“Careful,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. “You don’t want to get in the way.”

You glanced at him, eyebrow raised, lips pressed together. “I can handle it,” you said coolly, though your chest fluttered.

He didn’t press, but the weird protective tension lingered like static in the air between you.

Later that week, an intern nervously approached you, asking if you might want to grab a drink after the day’s work. Oscar jumped in to answer for you, some excuse he came up with about you helping him with his socials. You excused yourself politely and pulled Oscar by his arm a few steps down the corridor. You recently learned from Lando that Oscar practically branded you as off limits and threatened him when he had made a joke about the two of you being shipped by fans.

“Hey… can we talk?” you asked, voice low and controlled.

He nodded, expression tight but curious.

“I know you care,” you began carefully, “and I get it. But you need to remember—I’m not your girlfriend. I can make my own decisions. That includes saying yes—or no—to someone asking me out.”

His jaw flexed, hands clenching at his sides. He exhaled slowly. “I know,” he murmured, voice low, almost grudging. “I just… I forget sometimes.”

“Then remember,” you said, tone firm, giving him a small nod before returning to your work. The tension between you didn’t dissipate—it only simmered quietly, like a storm waiting to break.

The garage at Monza was quieter than usual, most of the team gone for lunch, leaving only the faint hum of machinery and the scent of burnt tires. You were bent over your laptop, headphones on, reviewing clips, when a shadow fell across your desk.

Oscar.

He leaned slightly closer than necessary, his hand brushing yours as he reached to point at something on the screen. The contact was fleeting, almost accidental—but it sent a jolt up your arm. “Hey. You’re ignoring yourself again, aren’t you?” he said, voice low, rough at the edges. His eyes locking onto yours. His voice was soft, familiar.

You glanced at him, trying to keep your voice steady. “No. I-I’m fine. I’m just… working.”

“No,” he interrupted, and this time his hand lingered on your shoulder as he straightened behind you. The warmth, the slight pressure—it was intimate, grounding. He spun your chair around so that you were facing him now. “You’re not fine. I can’t—can’t keep standing by, watching you throw yourself into everything and everyone.”

Your chest tightened. “Watching me? Oscar… what are you talking about?”

He shifted slightly, hand running through his hair as if he was frustrated with the conversation. “I’ve been holding back… holding back for months. Pretending I don’t care. Pretending that our breakup didn’t hurt. Pretending I could stay away while you worked, while you laughed… but god, you make it impossible!” His sudden movements towards you cause you to stand, the back of your thighs pushed into the corner of your desk.

Your hands gripped the edge of the desk. “Oscar…” you whispered, voice shaking slightly. Your eyes flickering to his lips and back up to his eyes. “If you cared, why didn’t you… why didn’t you ever say anything? Why’d you give me such a cold shoulder?”

His hand moved again, fingertips lightly brushing your arm as he stepped closer. “Because I was scared. Scared of messing this up again. Scared of ruining everything. But seeing you here… seeing you with Lando, seeing you do your job…cheering for him and not me… I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t ignore it. I’ve been trying to stay away, but I can’t.”

You swallowed, feeling the weight of his presence and the soft warmth of his touch. His fingers hovering over your arms, moving up slowly until they’re brushing your collarbone. “So… all those little glances, the way you hover—”

“Not games,” he said, voice firm but husky. He let his hand rest just briefly under your chin, caressing your jaw and lingering long enough that your chest started fluttering. “None of it was games. I never stopped caring. I never stopped thinking about you, about us. And now… I can’t hold it in anymore. I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of watching you and not being able to say it.”

The air between you was electric, charged with months of restraint, unspoken feelings, and the gentle, tantalizing brush of his hands against yours. You realized just how much he had hurt—and how much you still cared—while he stood inches away, finally raw, finally honest.

You take a step back, just enough to catch your breath, but not enough to put distance between you. His hands still linger subtly on your arms and shoulders, warm and grounding, and your chest tightens at the reminder of how close you used to be.

“You’ve been… holding all that in?” you ask quietly, voice low, almost a whisper. “For months? Watching me and… not saying a word?” He shifts, thumb brushing lightly across your forearm as if it were instinct, not intention. “I thought I could handle it. Thought I could stay away, thought it would make it easier for both of us. But I was wrong. Seeing you… here… now… it’s impossible to ignore.”

Your heart hammers, part of you furious that he left you in limbo all this time, part of you aching because he’s right—you’ve missed him.

“And now what? We just continue like we never broke up?”

He swallows hard, eyes dark, serious. “I don’t know… I just—I want you. I miss you.”

You feel your chest tighten, hands clenching slightly as he steps even closer, brushing your hair back gently as if to memorize every detail of your face. “Oscar… I—”

He cuts you off softly, pressing his forehead against yours for a brief second. “I never stopped caring. I never stopped wanting you. And I’m done pretending I don’t. You’re not just my ex—you’re… everything I’ve been trying not to think about, and it’s killing me.”

The raw honesty, the closeness, the way his touch lingers on your arms and shoulders—it all threatens to shatter the professional walls you’ve built around yourself. Your breath catches, and suddenly the question you’ve been holding back for months escapes in a whisper:

“So… why now? Why tell me this now, after everything? What’s different from two years ago when you broke it off?”

He leans back slightly, just enough to look at you fully, eyes soft but intense. “Because I can’t anymore. I can’t watch you, can’t keep my hands off you, can’t keep pretending you’re not the person I’ve been missing. I don’t want to wait another day to tell you. I don’t care about timing, or appearances, or anything else. I just… I need you to know. It’s always been you. I still love you. I think I always will.”

And there it is—the confession, raw and unfiltered, accompanied by touches that speak louder than words. You realize that all the subtle tension over the past races, all the soft brushes and lingering glances, was leading here. To this. To him.

You close the last sliver of distance, your hands finding his as if they’ve always known where to go. “Oscar…” you murmur, your voice trembling slightly. “I… still love you.”

He smiles, just a little, tugging you gently closer. “I’m not letting you go again. Not like before.”

The tension in the garage melts into something warmer, something dangerous in the way your bodies are drawn together, your hands brushing, foreheads leaning close. The slow burn that’s been building for months is finally igniting. His hands remain lightly on your arms, brushing against your shoulders and down the curve of your forearms, deliberate yet gentle, as if memorizing you.

“God, I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, voice low and husky, letting his forehead rest briefly against yours. You can feel his breath, warm, mixing with the faint smell of tires and engine oil that clings to him.

“I’ve wanted you to know, to feel this… to know I’ve never stopped.” Your chest tightens, heart pounding in your ears. Without thinking, your hands slide to rest on his chest, feeling the warmth and strength beneath the fabric of his shirt. The faint rise and fall of his breathing under your palms makes something coil in your stomach, and suddenly all the professional boundaries feel like they’ve been swept away by months of tension.

You lean in just slightly, testing the space between you. His eyes darken, locking on yours, and he lets a hand slide gently from your shoulder to the small of your back, pressing you closer. Your stomach flips, breath catching at the intimacy, the electricity in the air, the way his fingers rest lightly but deliberately.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” His lips hover just inches from yours, warm, soft, teasing, and the tension between you explodes in a quiet, electric moment.

You don’t. Every nerve in your body is alight. Your hands tighten on his chest, leaning closer, and he responds instantly, one hand moving to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it makes your knees weak.

You close the last distance, letting your lips brush his in a soft, tentative kiss, just enough to test the waters. His hands move to hold you gently, but with purpose, pressing you closer until the world shrinks to just the two of you.

Every soft touch—the brush of his thumb along your cheek, the warm weight of his hands on your back, the subtle pressure of his body against yours—sends heat spreading through your veins. The months of tension, longing, and unspoken words finally erupt in this one intimate, shared moment.

You pull back slightly, resting your forehead against his, breath mingling. “Oscar…” you murmur, voice trembling.

His lips brush yours again, this time firmer, more insistent, as if reassuring you, reminding you, claiming you without words. “I know, baby” he says, voice rough and filled with something more now.

The garage fades entirely now, all you can feel is him, the warmth of his body, the softness of his touch, the intensity of his gaze. And for the first time since he left, you realize—you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

His lips find yours again, firmer this time, a heated brush that sends shivers down your spine. The subtle teasing of the first kiss melts into something urgent, almost desperate, as if he’s been holding back for months and just can’t contain it any longer.

Your hands press against his chest, feeling the hard planes beneath the fabric, and he responds instantly, fingers sliding along your back, pulling you closer until your bodies are flush. Every brush of skin, every warm touch, sends sparks through you, igniting a fire that’s been smoldering for far too long.

“God, you don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough, breathy. His hands cup your face now, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, drawing your eyes to his. “Every time I see you, every time I think about you… It’s like I’m aching. I’m— so hard for you.”

You can feel it too— the need growing in his pants, the dirty thoughts flooding your mind, making your knees week. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently, eliciting a low groan that vibrates against your lips, and it makes your heart hammer faster.

He leans you back just slightly, enough that you can feel the weight of him against you, the warmth of his chest pressing against yours.

Every subtle brush—his hands along your sides, the feather-light touches along your arms—feels intentional, claiming, intimate. You remember it all. Just like the first time. When Oscar had taken your virginity when you both were younger.

“I need you,” he whispers, voice almost desperate now, as if saying it aloud makes up for lost time. “I haven’t been with anyone else.”

You respond instinctively, pressing closer, lips finding his again, slower this time, savoring the feel of him. “Neither have I.” You groan into his mouth.

His hands move lower, tracing your sides, pulling you impossibly close. You tilt your head, deepening the kiss, and you suddenly remember where you are.

“Osc, not here…” You moan into him, rubbing your thighs together in need. He kisses down your neck, completely ignoring what you just said.

He whispers your name again, low and intimate, and you think about fucking him right here in the garage.

Then, almost instinctively, he steps back just enough to take your hand. His fingers lace with yours, warm and steady, and he gives the faintest tug, guiding you toward the parking area.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice low, urgent, yet teasing.

You follow, your pulse racing as he leads you past the remaining crew, past the distant sounds of engines, until you’re finally at his personal car. The engine is off, the windows completely tinted, the interior dimly lit, the leather warm from the sun. He opens the door for you, not breaking contact with your eyes, and the subtle brush of your hands as you step inside sends another spark through you.

Once you’re both inside, the space is tight, confined, but it makes the air between you even hotter. His hands find your waist almost immediately, pulling you on top of him, lips finding yours again with a ferocity that leaves no room for doubt.

Your hands drift along his arms, feeling the tension there, the strength and warmth. He leans in closer, tilting your head gently, and you let yourself melt into the pressure of him, every touch deliberate, every kiss claiming.

“This reminds me of when we had to sneak away after our races,” he whispers against your lips, breath warm and slightly ragged.

“Oh yeah, when you first got your license.” You giggle, the memories flooding in. You respond instinctively, pressing closer, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him just a fraction nearer. His hands move from your waist, tracing down your back, holding you in place, grounding you, sending shivers through every nerve.

The confined space makes every movement, every brush of skin, feel amplified. Your foreheads touch, breaths coming fast and shallow, hearts pounding in sync.

He whispers your name again, low, intimate, and you can feel it reverberate through your chest. You press closer instinctively, lips meeting his. He responds instantly, tilting your head, deepening the kiss just enough to take your breath away. His hands move lower, cupping your hips, pulling you flush against him.

You let yourself sink into him— then as if you couldn’t wait any longer—theres a sudden sense of urgency. Oscar’s hands are running through your hair as you kiss him fiercely. You steady yourself, hands on his chest as you grind against him, feeling his aching length through his pants.

“Fuck—I could cum like this.” Oscar moans into your mouth biting your lip as he grips the sides of your face, rubbing tiny circles on your cheeks.

“That needy, huh?” You smirk, bottom lip gently being tugged away by his teeth. He nibbles your lip and smiles back, breathing heavily.

“Only for you.”

That was enough for you, you needed him right here. Right now. You rip your shirt off and over your head, tugging at his sides until he does that same. You find yourself grinding your hips against him, Oscar’s eyes flicker from yours to your chest where you’re now just in your t-shirt bra. His hands move from your hips to brush over your chest. Your breath hitches in your throat as he fully cups one of your breasts, massaging gently. His other hand moves between them to grip your throat, quickly tugging you back down to him. His lips meet yours once more and he lets go of your breast to reach around your back, unclasping your bra. A chill spreads across your skin as he lightly pulls your straps down, leaving you completely topless.

“You’re so beautiful.” He’s staring now and you’re suddenly shy under his gaze.

“Osc—!” You moan his name when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking lightly as his other hand massages you roughly. He hums as he bucks his hips up into yours. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you grind even harder against him, feeling his car slowly rock beneath you.

As the windows begin to fog, Oscar’s hand lazily drifts to your pants. Unbuttoning the top and unzipping them slightly. He adjusts you carefully so that he can comfortably angle his hand just enough to circle around—

“Oscar!” You gasp into his mouth, groaning again, only this time the car is filled with obscene, wet noises. His fingers fucking into you sloppily while his other hand circles your clit. His fingers finding the spots he’s had memorized for years.

“Baby, you’re dripping for me.” Oscar stares up at you, a lustful smile plastered across his face. He was enjoying this way too much.

Eyes closed and on cloud nine, you were about to cum. You hadn’t been touched like this in forever. No one could do it like Oscar could. His fingers were the perfect size and he knew exactly where to touch you. It’s not like you hadn’t tried yourself, or even that one time you made out with a guy at a bar at university—he fingered you, trying so hard to get you to cum. He didn’t— you faked it— and told him you had to go home, not even returning the favor. That was the closest you got to moving on from Oscar. It just wasn’t the same.

“Oscar, I’m going to cum.” You threw your head back, a sweet cry escaping your lips as you continue to bounce on his fingers. Your hand was wrapped around the back of his neck, tugging at the strands of his hair while his tongue flicked at your nipple, sucking gently.

You came quickly, breathing heavily. His eyes meet yours and your entire face went red. You collapsed on his chest as he pulled his hand out from your pants. A huge, goofy smile across his face as he desperately licked at his fingers.

He then kissed your forehead as your breathing began to shallow. “I don’t know how I went so long without that.”

You were smiling now, shifting yourself to look up at him. Lips meeting his you kissed him softly before rolling over into the passenger seat. You looped your fingers around your work pants and pulled them all the way down, along with your undies, tossing them into the back of the car.

Oscar watched you, his expression still lustful but mixed with something else. Once you were stripped completely naked, you straddled him again. This time you reached beneath you, grabbing at the growing bulge in his pants. Oscar throws his head back, biting back a moan as soon as you release his hard, aching cock. His brows scrunched together and he was trembling beneath you.

“Is this okay?” You ask, pumping him softly. Oscar nods rapidly, desperate to fill you up. You giggle a little lifting yourself off his lap to line him up with your entrance. Slowly, you begin to sink down on him. Never breaking eye contact with Oscar as you do. He is looking up at you, practically drooling now. A small whine escapes his lips.

“God, I am already so close.” His eyes roll back. He was so hot, you were on the verge of coming again yourself.

After adjusting yourself, you begin to rock your hips. He gestures for you to go slow because he’s already so close. Of course, you don’t listen.

You ride him like you’d never get the chance to again. His grip on your thighs tighten as you lift and lower yourself onto him over and over. The filthy sounds filling his car.

“Y/N—I’m serious, I will cum.” He is pleading with you now, the look in his eyes practically begging. His whines were too much for you at this point.

“Good. Cum for me baby.” You kiss his cheek and place both hands on his shoulder to give yourself that extra bit to push down on him even harder, swallowing him whole.

Oscar bites back a whimper and you can feel yourself soaking him, his pants, and probably the seat beneath him.

“W-Where do you want me to—“ Oscar tries to get out, his breathing was ragged now.

“In me, fuck—in me, Oscar.” You scream, so close yourself.

And he does, with a groan Oscar shoots ropes inside you. His face falling to your chest as you ride out your own high. Using him like a toy, he’s sensitive and you grip him even tighter. He pulls you into a tight hug until you cum and you collapse on his chest.

You both sit there for a moment, unmoving and wrapped up in each other. He kisses your shoulder gently and runs a hand through your hair. You pull back slightly, resting your forehead against his, breaths mingling, chest rising and falling in sync. The warmth of his hands on your back, the lingering pressure of his lips on yours, the quiet intensity in his gaze—it all presses into you, leaving no room for doubt about what’s real.

“So…” he murmurs, voice low, rough with emotion, a tinge of hope lacing every word. “Does this mean we’re back together?” You meet his eyes, heart hammering in your chest, and for the first time in months, maybe years, you feel the tension between you release—like a dam finally breaking. A small, soft smile tugs at your lips as you tuck your hand into his, fingers interlacing.

“Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling slightly but sure. “I think so.”

He grins, a mixture of relief, disbelief, and something uncontainable shining in his eyes. He pulls you in for one last lingering kiss, gentle and affirming, sealing the moment, before letting you rest against him, both of you breathing in the quiet aftermath, hearts still racing.

• pt.1 [link]

A/N: RAHHHHHH - Thank you guys so much for sticking through this <333 My PC crashed and I thought that I lost this entire doc. I replaced my PSU (by myself! pls be proud of me :P) and now I can finally finish this fic * evilly rubs my hands together* One more chapter to go.... hehehehe... how we feeling?

The paddock is loud, well, it’s always loud, but somehow it still feels like silence presses on your ears the moment you spot him.

Max.

Walking ahead of his engineers, race suit half unzipped, head down—even from a distance, it hits you like it always does. That feeling in your stomach that never really goes away, even with the passing of time. Three months to be exact now, 6 race weekends and two breaks.

He still doesn’t look at you though. Not once.

Not even a flicker. Not even a hint of anger towards you. Nothing.

Like you dont even exist in his world anymore. Like none of this, none of you, ever happened.

Vanessa nudges your shoulder lightly breaking you free from your daze.

“Don’t,” she murmurs. “You promised you wouldn’t stare.”

“I’m not staring,” you lie, cheeks going red.

“You are staring,” she corrects. “Like, a lot actually. Should we leave?”

You elbow her in feign annoyance, and she grins, but her eyes soften when they return to your face, worry painted across her face.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” You’re not.

You’ve been trying to be. Ever since Max’s last real words to you, without the cameras — sharp, quiet, decisive — cut whatever invisible string there was between you pulling you together.

“You’re just noise. A distraction I don’t want, not now, not ever.”

You spent months picking yourself up after that. Making new friends. Less doom-scrolling. More sleep. More breathing. More being… you.

Healing from Cyrus. Healing from Lando. You couldn’t quite shake the dutch man though.

But, alas, somehow… you became lighter. Brighter and more centered.

So it doesn’t make sense that your stomach is folding in on itself now after all this time.

As if time had heard your quiet plea for kindness and chose to ignore it, Max’s path crosses yours and Vanessa’s by your walk to the Media Pen, and you know he sees you but he keeps walking.

Vanessa exhales. “Oof. Okay. That hurt even me…”

“He said he didn’t want distractions remember?” Your voice is small. “Well, that meant me.”

Vanessa scoffs. “And now you’re the distraction because what? You’re single single? Did he only like you when there was competition involved?” she rolls her eyes.

You wince. “That’s not—”

“Well you are!” she interrupts. “And not to mention — this is the happiest I’ve seen you in months. He probably hates it.”

“Why would he hate that?”

“Because,” she says, lowering her voice, “you look like someone who’s over him now.”

“Hey—”

Lando’s voice pops in from behind, hesitant but warm.

You turn, surprised. “Lando?”

He gives a half-smile. “I, uh… wasn’t sure if I should come over.

Vanessa said you might not want to talk to me.” He shoots her a devilish smirk.

Vanessa mutters, “Damn it, I said might.”

Lando fiddles with the wristband on his hand. “Just wanted to say hi. And… check in on you.”

You shrug, trying not to make it any mroe awkward than it already was.

“Hi. I’m okay.”

He nods, but he doesn’t move.

He studies your face with the kind of confusing sincerity that should make you uncomfortable, but doesn’t.

“I don’t get it,” he says softly. His eyes searching yours now.

“Get what?”

“Why you cut things off with me if…”

He glances over your shoulder toward where Max had passed you. “…if that isn’t even happening anymore.”

Your throat tightens.

Vanessa steps in like a wolf guarding her pack.

“Because she didn’t want to use you as a rebound, Lando. She cares about you too much for that.”

Lando nods, guilt crossing his features.

“I know. I get that. I’m not trying to make things weird. I just—” He rubs his neck.

“I just don’t understand how you two aren’t together. Everyone sees it. Even he sees it.”

You swallow. “Not anymore.”

Lando opens his mouth but stops when his radio engineer calls him. “Anyway,” he says softly, backing away, “I’m still around. If you need me. Or… if you don’t.” He winks.

You smile. “Thanks, Lan.”

He jogs off, leaving a knot in your chest you didn’t ask for. Vanessa watches him go.

“He’s being so respectful, it’s actually painful. I hate that you didn’t pick him.”

“I know, I know.”

Singapore Grand Prix weekend means one thing: heat. Heavy, relentless, wrap-around-your-lungs heat. You’re already sweating through the barely-there outfit you chose for survival, and you can’t fathom how the drivers manage to walk—let alone breathe—in their fireproof race suits.

The heat grows heavier the longer you stand there — thick, sticky, clinging to your skin.

Vanessa waves a hand in front of her face. “Okay, I’m going to get water before I literally evaporate.”

You nod, grateful for the moment alone. “Go. I’ll be here.”

She squeezes your arm and slips away, leaving you in the noise and light and sweat of the paddock.

You pull out the flimsy paper fan someone handed you at the entrance and start fanning your face, praying for even one molecule of cold air. Sweat trickles down your spine; your shirt sticks to your skin. You’re melting. You tug at your hair to lift it off your neck. The sweat making its way down your chest, past your breasts and pooling in your naval.

You’re too busy trying not to pass out to notice at first — but then you feel it.

Eyes on you. Behind you. You follow the prickle of heat up your neck and turn to see— Max. Watching you.

He stands across the media pen, waiting for his interview slot, hands on his hips, race suit peeled to the waist, chest rising and falling too fast for someone who hasn’t driven yet. His face is flushed — deep red at the cheeks, damp tufts of blonde hair glued to his forehead.

You don’t know if it’s the temperature or anger or if this is just what he looks like when he’s trying very, very hard not to feel anything.

Even from here, he looks completely wrecked. Overheated. Uncomfortable. And beautiful in that painfully unreachable way. You freeze mid-sweep of your fan.

For a second — just a tiny, impossible second — his eyes soften.

Something like recognition flickers.

And then he looks away sharply, jaw tensing, shoulders setting like concrete.

A PR handler calls your name.

“Perfect timing! You’re hosting the Guess the Driver segment with Max and Lando in thirty.”

Your stomach plummets. Hosting. Meaning you’ll be standing in front of him. Meaning you won’t be able to hide behind Vanessa or your fan or the crowd.

Meaning Max will have to look at you. Where was Vanessa when you needed her.

You’re handed a stack of laminated cards covered in hilariously terrible fan-drawn portraits of F1 drivers. Thick Sharpie lines. Goofy smiles. Uncanny eyes. Exactly the type of thing fans love watching drivers suffer through.

In front of you sit Lando and Max—two chairs angled toward the camera, a small high table between them, and your tiny blue mic in your hand. They’re barely looking at each other. They’re definitely not looking at you… yet.

You clear your throat, putting on your host-voice.

Lando lifts his hand in a shy, careful wave — the kind that says I don’t want to step on any landmines, but I’m here if you let me be.

You smile back, small but grounded.

Max… doesn’t wave. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t say hello.

Doesn’t even pretend to acknowledge you’re standing less than six feet away from him right now.

He sits stiffly, elbows on his knees, jaw working, hair plastered to his forehead from the heat. His race shirt clings to his chest and shoulders — damp, stretched, showing every line of tension running through him. He’s overheated and looks way more red up close. He continuously sips through his red bull water bottle trying to stay hydrated.

But the moment the cameras start rolling, you see it:

He’s not looking at you —but at your fan.

You’re fanning yourself out of instinct, each sweep moving air across your collarbones, lifting strands of hair from your neck. It’s innocent, really. Until you pull your hair from off your neck again, pulling your head to one side as if it’ll give you just what you needed right now.

Air.

Max’s eyes track every movement.

You clear your throat and begin reading. “Okay, first drawing—”

“Lewis.” Max answers immediately, monotone.

You blink. “I… didn’t even show the picture yet.”

Lando snorts. “I think he’s speed running the game.”

“It’s too hot for this.” Max mutters under his breath, too low for the cameras, but not low enough for you.

Your chest pinches. You hold up the card anyway. Max is right.

“Alright,” you say lightly, “next one—”

You flip the second card and Lando leans forward, squinting dramatically.

You swallow past the knot in your chest and move on.

“A clue: This driver cried when he got pole once.”

“That’s me?” Lando bursts out laughing. “I look like a potato with teeth!”

You laugh — a real one you didn’t mean to let out — and Max’s attention snaps toward the sound like a reflex he hates himself for still having.

His eyes meet yours. And the moment is electric.

Like he’s angry that Lando made you laugh.

Like the heat in the paddock is nothing compared to the one crawling under his skin.

You tear your gaze away too fast, heart misfiring now. “Okay, card three—”

This time, Lando stares up at you before guessing, clearly distracted, clearly thinking something while his eyes were locked on your neck, and that is what Max sees.

Not the picture. Not the game.

Just Lando… looking at what he had just been looking at.

Max’s eyes go cold.

The same look he gives rival drivers when they’re lining up beside him before race start. His jaw slack and his brows unconsciously pulling together.

You feel your pulse thump uncomfortably.

Lando finally guesses wrong — hilariously wrong — and you giggle again despite trying not to.

Max shifts in his seat, uncomfortable and pointedly looking anywhere but at the two of you.

But he keeps glancing back.

Quick flashes.

Barely-there cuts of attention that feel like fingers brushing your skin. You wanted him to look at you. You wanted him to still feel what you felt when you were in a room with him. How is it so easy for him to ignore?

You try to ignore the way Max’s gaze drops, for a brief, disloyal second, to the exposed strip of skin at your collarbone—the one the heat forced you to leave bare today. His jaw flexes and —Oh! You finally see what he’s trying so hard not to look at. Instead of shutting it down you decide to make it worse for him by bringing your cool water bottle to your neck. The condensation dripping down your clavicle.

He drags his eyes away. Tears them away, actually. Shifting uncomfortably for the umpteenth time during this interview. You keep hosting.

They keep guessing.

And all the while, the tension between you and Max hums like a live wire. You keep selfishly stealing looks now. The way Max is practically panting in front of you, cheeks the color of Charles’ Ferrari.

“Next clue,” you say quickly, voice thin. “Uh—he once got stuck in an elevator…”

Max: “George.” Lando: “George.” You exhale. “Yes, correct! Good job boys.”

But Max simply isn’t paying attention anymore.

He’s still staring at you. Not with a softness or affection but rather a frustration or restraint. Or lack of.

Like the heat is melting all the distance he tried to build over these past few months. He is so visibly frustrated it’s starting to hurt you.

You pretend not to notice, flipping to the next card, but your fingers shake again. Legs crossing uncomfortably.

By the last card, Lando is relaxed, laughing, nudging Max occasionally—completely oblivious to what is happening around him.

Max is so good at undressing you with his eyes that if you were to look at him now you might just jump his bones. So you don’t.

Max answers dryly, checks his watch, rolls his shoulders, wipes sweat from his neck for the seventh time.

You swallow and read the final card. “Okay, last one—”

But before you can finish, Max cuts in: “Can we go? It’s too hot to sit here and pretend this is normal.” His voice cracks a little in a whine that only you catch.

His words are directed at no one in particular but you knew it was for you and you only.

The crew scrambles, the cameras cut, the media crew murmur quick wrap-ups.

Lando stands first, smiling softly at you. “Good job. You made that fun. As always.”

You nod with a small smile. “Thanks.”

Max stands last. Shifting a little to adjust himself.

He wipes his forehead again, breath uneven, chest rising too quickly.

He’s burning. And trying desperately not to show it.

As he turns to leave, he glances at Lando — at how close he’s standing to you now — and something dark flickers across his expression again.

Jealousy, sharp as a blade.

But when his eyes land on yours? They go blank.

Wiped clean. He was back to being indifferent, cold, and calculated. He steps around you both without a word.

But as he passes, you feel it — the tiniest brush of his arm against yours. Sending jolts of electricity up your arm.

And then just like that — he’s gone. Everything once again, in the past.

♡

The Singapore sun feels like it’s settled directly on your shoulders as it goes down for the night.

Even in your lightest outfit—shorts, a cropped mclaren team tee you got from a PR intern, and your hair in a low, messy ponytail—you’re already sweating before you clear the security gate.

You adjust your media lanyard and exhale.

It’s Race day.

Vanessa walks beside you, sipping a painfully neon energy drink. One of Lando’s monsters.

“Singapore is actually trying to kill us,” she mutters.

You snort. “Everything is wet. Even the air feels wet.”

“Ew, babe.” She gives you a pitied once-over. “Don’t remind me.” Despite everything—Max avoiding you, Lando’s confusion, the awkward quiet between corners of the paddock—Vanessa makes you laugh. She squeezes your arm. This race should be fun overall.

“You ready for today?” she asks gently.

Are you? No. Maybe. You don’t know.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Busy day ahead for the boys.” She catches the lie. She always does.

But she lets it go this time. Vanessa throws up her pointer finger to single someone is calling her. “I’ll catch up!” You hear her answer with a smile.

The paddock before a night race is a different energy—hyped, charged, jittery.

Fans screaming from barriers. Engines firing in the garages.

Teams rushing with headsets and clipboards.

You step aside as a group of Ferrari crew barrel past with a trolley of tires.

“Careful, love,” someone says behind you.

You turn and see Oscar, hands shoved into his McLaren shorts pockets, hair slightly damp already.

He smiles softly.

“You almost got run over,” he says.

“Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing,” you say. “Influencer death.”

He snorts. “At least it’d go viral.”

You roll your eyes and keep walking with him toward the McLaren hospitality.

“How’re you feeling today?” he asks.

“Hot,” you say. “Stressed. Avoiding emotions. Normal things.” He hums.

“Yeah. Same.”

You laugh, and it loosens something in your chest.

Oscar bumps your shoulder lightly.

“If you need anything today… someone to walk you between buildings, or someone to block Max from seeing you—just let me know.”

You blink.

“You know about that?”

Oscar gives you a look.

“Lando told me.”

You’re near the McLaren wall of screens when Lando appears, helmet under his arm, fireproofs half on. He looks freshly showered, hair damp, curls sticking to his forehead.

He brightens when he sees you.

“There she is,” he says, voice warm and relieved. “Thought you were hiding from me today.”

You swallow. You kind of were.

Lando steps closer, eyes soft but searching. “You look good,” he says quietly.

You force a smile. “It’s definitely the sweat.”

“Still good,” he shrugs.

Before it can get weird, Vanessa sees this and swoops in to grab your wrist. “Borrowing her,” she tells Lando and Oscar. “Girl stuff.”

“Girl stuff?” Lando repeats, confused. “What does—?”

Vanessa doesn’t let him finish and drags you off, whispering, “He is one longing stare away from asking you to take him back. I’m protecting your sanity.”

You laugh, but your stomach twists.

Lando wasn’t wrong to be confused. You cut things off. Max pushed you away. And somehow you ended up alone on both fronts.

You and Vanessa weave through crowds toward the media center when you hear it— That distinct, unmistakable Dutch accent.

“Is the telemetry fine? It didn’t match what we saw during qualifying.”

Your heart drops into your stomach.

You don’t even want to look— but your eyes betray you.

Max stands just outside his garage, fireproofs tied around his waist, drinking from a red bull water bottle. His hair is sticking up slightly, damp from the heat. His face is flushed, jaw clenched like the heat was getting to him.

He looks good. Annoyingly good. Frustratingly good. UGH.

You wrench your eyes away.

Vanessa mutters, “You wanna go the long way?”

“Yes,” you answer instantly.

But as you turn, Max shifts.

His attention flicks—fast, sharp— straight to you.

His brows pinch the tiniest bit.

Like seeing you physically hurts him.

You look away first. You always do now.

You and Vanessa escape down the opposite walkway, pretending not to hear the way Max’s voice drops mid-sentence.

Pretending not to feel the stare burning between your shoulder blades.

Pretending he didn’t look at you like he remembers the exact feeling of having you pressed against him not too long ago.

You retreat to the media pen platform, exhaling hard.

Vanessa nudges your shoulder. “You okay?”

“No.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Absolutely not.”

She laughs and loops her arm through yours.

"Fine. Then we’re talking about literally anything else. Like how I will never understand why the drivers don’t melt into little puddles at the hot races."

You smile.

For the first time all day, it feels real.

The lights on the track shift.

Engines rev. This is it.

You lift your headset, ready to watch, ready to distract yourself, ready to pretend everything is fine for the next two hours.

Somewhere on the grid, Max straps into his car.

Somewhere in all of this, everything inside you is tightening into one single truth: Something has to give.

And soon. You can almost feel it.

The broadcast opens with the usual glamour shots, but even the camera lenses look hazy, like even the air is sweating.

Martin Brundle’s voice comes through your headphones: “Welcome to Singapore for what is already the hottest Grand Prix weekend on record.”

Then followed by Ted Kravitz: “Yes, we’re hearing cockpit temperatures could exceed 60 degrees Celsius tonight. Absolutely brutal conditions for the drivers.”

You swallow.

You knew it was hot.

You didn’t know it was dangerous hot.

The lights go out. The race begins.

You’re watching from the paddock screens with Vanessa as Red Bull’s radio crackles through the broadcast.

Max: “Car feels heavy. Rear’s sliding.” Max’s race engineer, GP: “Copy, Max. Everyone’s struggling. Manage the tires. You’re doing good.”

There’s strain in his voice. Already. 20 laps in.

Lando’s radio comes through minutes later.

Lando: “It’s like a sauna in here, mate. My visor’s fogging.” Lando’s race engineer, Will: “Understood. Just keep pushing. You got this.”

Then Oscar—

Oscar: “Uh—I’m overheating in here.” Oscar’s race engineer, Tom: “Copy Oscar. Just keep your head down.”

Martin sucks in a breath.“Drivers are really suffering today. That humidity is no joke.”

Ted quickly replies, “Look at Max Verstappen—he’s fighting the car and the heat. He’s just visibly uncomfortable now.”

On-screen, Max shifts in his seat, shoulders tense, his gloved hands move under the halo whenever they can to get a cool air flow. Even through the onboard, you can see it—

He’s suffering.

You grip the railing.

Vanessa glances at you. “You okay?”

You nod. You’re not. You’re still relatively new to F1 but this was just unnerving and you were so anxious.

Then—

Max: “Guys I’m… losing strength. My head feels—so heavy.”

Your heart drops. F1 drivers are able to withstand so much so for Max to say that he can barely hold his head up is not good.

Engineer: “Copy Max. Just a few more laps. Cool your brakes when you can, reserve your breathing.”

But the onboard shows it clearly: Max slumps slightly in the seat.

Ted’s voice sharpens. “Verstappen looks really unwell. That is not normal movement from the dutch driver.”

You feel your throat tighten. You hear the crowd react.

Vanessa grips your arm. “Oh my god.”

And despite everything— the heat his voice fading the way he keeps leaning his head back like he’s desperate for cool air—

Max crosses the finish line first.

Pandemonium.

Fans scream.

The broadcast cuts to the drivers finishing their laps.

You don’t feel relief. Not fully.

Because Max doesn’t whoop or scream or celebrate immediately like he usually does.

He doesn’t even lift a hand as does his cool down lap. His radio is quiet for several seconds.

Too quiet.

Finally: Max, voice slurred: “Yep. Good job.”

That’s it. No laugh. No victory yell.

Vanessa swallows hard. “That didn’t sound good…”

The Red Bull screen shows Max rolling slowly, too slowly, as he pulls into the number 1 spot.

You feel cold despite the heat.

Vanessa sees the crew celebrating on TV and bumps your shoulder.

“Come on, let’s go down there Bradley before he disappears.”

You blink. “Why would he—”

“Because Max won? You think Brad isn’t about to be swallowed by media?”

Fair point. After the cool down room Bradley would be with the rest of the red bull team.

So you go with her.

You expect noise. Shouts. High-fives. Music. Instead—

When you turn into the Red Bull garage, everything is wrong.

No cheering. No champagne. No celebration.

Just frantic movement.

People rushing. Whispers. Hands grabbing ice buckets and towels. Your heart stops.

“What—Vanessa—what’s happening?”

Before she can answer, you hear an engineer shout: “Get the ice bath ready! Strip the car fan off—get him out of the suit now!”

Your stomach drops to your knees.

Max.

They push the RB20 back into the garage and you hear the engine cut off. Max didn’t even get out of the car at the parc ferme.

Then—

Max slumps getting out of the car.

Almost collapses trying to take his helmet off.

Bradley and two mechanics catch him just before he hits the ground. His face is beet red.

His hair is soaked.

He can barely keep his head up.

“Max, stay with us,” Brad says, shaking him lightly. “Look at me, mate.”

Max’s eyes barely slit open. “I—need… air,” he rasps.

The medic checks him quickly. “He’s overheating. Dehydration. Get the ice bath NOW.”

Your vision blurs watching this unfold.

Vanessa grabs your elbow. “Y/N—wait—”

But someone else grabs your wrist. “You—here!”

It’s one of the Red Bull team members, shoving a soaked, freezing cold towel into your hands.

“Hold this on his head! Don’t let it move!”

You freeze. “What? Me?”

“Yes! I need to get more towels—we need someone to hold this on his head!”

Max is practically sprawled out on the garage floor in front of the rb20. The mechanics rush to close the garage so no one can see inside. There was so much happening around you as you kneel immediately, towel in hand, pressing it to Max’s scalp as instructed.

His skin is burning under your palm. You pull his head into your lap to give him a more comfortable place to rest instead of the hard concrete floor beneath you.

“Max,” you whisper, breath shaky, rubbing a thumb across his temple, “hey—hey, stay awake.”

His lashes flicker.

And for the first time in months— he looks at you.

Eyes foggy, unfocused, but soft.

Soft like his walls finally dropped.

He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t snap at you, and instead he leans into your touch.

Your heart breaks a little.

“Bath’s ready!” someone shouts. “Move him!”

Bradley and two mechanics lift Max again. He groans as he’s removed from your thighs.

His knees buckle a little.

You stand, towel still on his head, walking with them as they guide him toward the small treatment room off the garage, behind the tire racks.

Max’s hand—unsteady, trembling—reaches out blindly and finds yours. Your chest seizes.

“Stay,” he whispers. Barely audible. “Stay, please…” His voice cracks—weak, scared, vulnerable.

You’ve never heard him like this. You squeeze his hand.

“I’m here,” you whisper, throat tight. “I’m not going anywhere.”

As they guide him into the room and toward the ice bath, he leans his forehead against your temple for a split second.

A broken, overheated, wordless apology.

Your heart shatters. You stay. Of course you stay. Even if it hurts you—you stay.

They remove Max’s race suit and lower Max into the ice bath slowly, carefully — but even then, the shock hits him like a punch to the face.

He grits his teeth, a strangled sound slipping out as the water climbs up his abdomen, then his chest. His fingers clench around the edges of the tub, knuckles bone-white.

Bradley kneels beside him, checking his pulse, giving instructions that Max is barely conscious enough to follow.

“Deep breaths,” Brad murmurs. “Slow. We’ll bring your temp down gradually.”

But Max’s breaths are fast. Panicked. Shallow. His teeth are chattering together.

Your heart twists. He looks so out of it.

The rest of the crew lingers for a few moments — Someone pokes their head in from outside. “The podium celebrations have been postponed. Media’s been told he’s being seen by medical.”

Another voice adds: “Y/N, if he needs anything, just come get us.”

You blink. “Me?”

“Yeah,” Brad says, almost distracted. “He seems comfortable for now. I am going to get him electrolytes. Just… stay with him. Keep him grounded.”

Then the last of them file out. The door shuts. And suddenly it’s so quiet.

Just you. Him. And the sound of ice cracking in freezing water. He leans back, breath trembling, the towel still pressed to his forehead. His eyes are glassy, unfocused — somewhere between exhaustion and delirium.

“Max?” you whisper, kneeling beside the tub. His lashes lift.

Slow.

Like they weigh a thousand pounds.

He stares at you. Really stares.

And something in his expression breaks open. “Are you…” he whispers, voice hoarse. “…real?”

Your breath catches.

He reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek, then sliding into your hair — barely there, like he’s afraid he’ll go through you.

“I saw you,” he murmurs. “In the garage. Thought I was imagining it.”

“I’m real,” you whisper, leaning closer. “I’m right here.”

His thumb traces your temple with a soft, shaky stroke, like he’s memorizing proof of you.

His voice comes out quiet. Unsteady. Vulnerable in a way you’ve never heard.

“I… lost consciousness.” Your blood goes cold.

“What?”

He swallows hard. “In the car.” A pause. A trembling inhale. “I blacked out. Just for a few seconds.”

“Max—”

“I thought—” his voice cracks, “—I wasn’t going to wake up.” Your throat tightens.

He looks away, ashamed.

“I didn’t tell them,” he says, breath shaky from the cold and from the words he’s forcing out. “Didn’t want to get pulled from the race.” You put a hand against his cheek — wet, freezing, somehow still blazing hot beneath the surface.

“Max, that’s not—”

“I know.” His eyes flick back to yours. “I know. It was stupid.”

Another breath. Uncertain. Raw. His eyes as blue as the ocean.

There’s tears in them now.

“But the only thing I could think was… this might be it.”

The ice water ripples as he lifts a hand toward you again — slow, weak, trembling — resting it against your jaw.

“And I hadn’t seen you yet. Apologized for everything.” Your heart stumbles.

“You kept me going,” he whispers. “I just kept thinking… I’ll see her again. Just hold on. Just a little longer. Just—” His voice breaks. “—just get to her. I didn’t even care about how the race would end.”

Your pulse is a drum in your chest, loud and aching and terrified.

“Max…”

His eyes close, forehead leaning forward until it rests lightly against your hand.

“I was so scared,” he admits, barely audible. “I’ve never been that scared in the car. And all I wanted was you.”

His breathing turns uneven. Not quite crying.

Like the adrenaline has finally worn off and the fear is catching up.

“Why are you here?” he whispers. “After everything I said?”

“Because you needed someone,” you say softly. “And I still—” You stop.

But the rest hangs there in the air. You still loved him, you thought.

Max opens his eyes.

Even half-delirious, the emotion in them is unmistakable.

“I didn’t mean it,” he murmurs. “What I said before. I was angry. Scared. You weren’t a distraction. You were…” He struggles for the right words. “…I just didn’t want to feel something real.”

The ride back to the hotel is quiet, the car humming softly under your hands as you keep a careful eye on Max. His arm is draped over the center console, fingers loosely brushing yours every so often. He doesn’t speak much, but the occasional soft groan, the way he leans against the door, tells you he’s exhausted—physically and emotionally. It’s kind of ironic that it’s you driving him now after everything.

Once in his hotel room, he sinks onto the couch, still pale and flushed from the heat and stress. You sit beside him, gently tugging his jacket off his shoulders. He shivers, and instinctively, his hand finds your hips, head pressing against your stomach, pulling you in for warmth.

You squeeze his shoulders to comfort him. Your fingers combing through his hair.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers, voice rough, breathy against your naval.

“I’m not,” you murmur, brushing a lock of sweat-matted hair off his forehead.

He pulls you into a much deeper hug, bringing you down onto the couch with him. You’re straddling him and he’s holding onto you like you’d float away if he didn’t. Suddenly, pressing his lips to yours softly, tentatively. Sweet, desperate. Nothing rushed, nothing forceful. Just… him. Full of gratitude, fear, and longing all tangled together.

You tilt your head, letting him pull you closer, then gently pull back, hands still resting on his chest. Your eyes meet, and it’s like the whole world narrows down to just the two of you.

“So cold… ‘s too much,” he murmurs against your lips, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I don’t want to let go.”

You shake your head softly, heart hammering. “Not now. Not yet. We’ll go slow.”

He groans softly, but doesn’t resist, curling slightly into you. The vulnerability in his eyes, the way he leans into your touch—it’s all aching and raw.

You settle next to him on the couch, draping an arm around his shoulders, letting him lean into you. He nuzzles against your neck, breathing you in, and you feel the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your hand. His arms snake their way around your waist and he’s holding you against him, the side of his face pressed against your stomach as he practically lays you down.

Minutes pass. Hours feel like minutes. He murmurs your name, soft, broken, almost like a prayer as you play with his hair.

“I’m… sorry,” he whispers. “For everything. I… I didn’t know how to deal with it.” It was like this particular race shook him to his core.

You press a gentle kiss to his temple. “I know. Maxie… It’s okay. I’m here now.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, burying his face against you “I’m being a bit clingy, huh?”

“You’re allowed to be,” you murmur. “Tonight, I’m taking care of you. Plus, I kind of like it.”

He hums, leaning closer. Tentatively, he kisses you again—this time lingering, deep, full of all the words neither of you can say aloud yet.

You respond softly, letting yourself feel it, letting yourself melt into him… then pull back just enough to rest your forehead against his.

The longing in his eyes mirrors yours. The quiet ache between you is heavy but… safe.

Eventually, you let your eyelids droop, exhaustion from the week and the emotional roller coaster catching up. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms around you, keeping you close, cradle-like.

And for the first time in months, with him warm and soft against you, you fall asleep with Max holding you, the tension of the past months dissolving into a quiet, fragile peace.

-

The sunlight filters in through the thin curtains, warm and soft, casting a golden glow across the room. You stir first, blinking against the brightness, feeling the steady weight of Max still pressed against your stomach. His arm drapes loosely around your waist, pulling you closer when you stir. His large body is taking up the entire hotel room couch but you can’t help but feel heat pooling in your cheeks at the sight of it. He’s so large that his body is swallowing you.

Your heart skips. He looks… peaceful, finally relaxed. His hair is mussed in every direction, damp from sleep, and a faint sheen of sweat from yesterday still clings to his neck. Even like this, vulnerable and messy, he’s impossibly good-looking. Your pulse quickens. How did you both get to this point? If you had told yourself that the guy you met on the balcony would now be using you like a pillow and making your heart skip a beat you wouldn’t believe it.

He shifts slightly, muttering your name in his half-asleep, rough voice.

“Morning,” you whisper in a sing-song voice, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

He groans, burying his face into your waist. “Stay,” he murmurs. “Don’t go.”

You bite your lip, smiling softly. Giggling a little, “Maxie, I’m not going anywhere.”

There’s a pause as he relaxes further into your hold, fingers lightly tracing patterns on your arm. His touch is tentative, testing boundaries, but there’s heat in it. That same unspoken pull from the past months that neither of you can ignore forever.

You hear the sound of your phone vibrating nonstop on the coffee table. You reach over to grab it without moving Max off your waist as his eyes flutter shut again.

The second you unlock it, your notifications explode across the screen.

Vanessa, Lando, and Oscar are asking for updates.

Then you see the tags from drama pages saying that Max Verstappen was not in good shape last night after the Singapore grand prix.

The tabloids say that he was seen being driven by you out of the paddock. You would usually be a little annoyed but people care about him so much. It’s sweet.

And on and on you scroll. Dozens of messages. A few memes. A couple clips of commentators talking about how brutal the conditions were. One clip of Max stumbling getting out of the car — you scroll past that so fast you almost drop the phone.

Your heart squeezes. They’re all worried.

And then you look back down at Max…

…he fell asleep again in your lap, cheek pressed to your thigh, brows relaxed at last, his hands wrapped around you.

You feel something warm, and stupid, and kind bloom in your chest. Before you can overthink it, you angle your phone and snap a picture — just his hair, his hand squeezing your waist, the blanket, nothing too revealing. Just enough to show:

He’s safe. He’s resting. He’s with you.

You open Instagram, your finger hovering for a moment over “Add to story,” your heart thudding too hard for someone who’s “just checking in.”

Then you type the caption: “He’s okay guys — I got him ❤️‍”

You hesitate only one beat before hitting post.

Your phone vibrates immediately — heart reacts pouring in, replies popping up — but you set it aside, sliding your fingers gently into Max’s hair.

He stirs at the touch, pressing closer to your stomach with a sleepy sigh.

“I… can’t believe I’m here with you,” he murmurs, finally lifting his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, glazed from sleep, but the intensity is still there. That stormy mix of desire, guilt, and longing.

“I stayed,” you tease softly, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “And you didn’t push me away this time.”

His lips twitch into a half-smile. “I tried… but I can’t.” He hesitates, swallowing. “You’re… impossible. And I’ve wanted you the whole time.”

You feel the ache in your chest. The way he says it, so raw, makes it impossible not to lean in.

“Max…” you start, but he sits up enough to cut you off with a soft, lingering kiss. Just enough to make your knees weaken, just enough to ignite every nerve in your body.

When you pull back slightly, heart racing, he’s still close, forehead pressed against yours. “We don’t have to rush,” he whispers, voice low, shaky. “But… I can’t hide how I feel about you anymore.”

You nod, trembling slightly, letting your hand slide down his chest, feeling the warmth, the steady beat of his heart. “I don’t want to keep hiding it either,” you admit. “In fact, I might’ve just hard launched you on social media trying to let everyone know you’re okay.”

He chuckles softly, breathless, brushing his lips over yours again, this time more insistently, a teasing tug that promises more.

“So what you’re saying is, you’re my girlfriend?” The tension between you is tangible, almost painful, and every glance, every brush of skin sends sparks racing through you.

His eyes darken, and for a moment, that teasing smirk falters into something deeper—wanting, unrestrained. He leans in, brushing his lips over yours, not quite claiming, not quite asking. Just hovering, testing. Your chest tightens.

“God, you look too good like this,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your jaw, your neck. “And I can’t… I shouldn’t…”

You catch his hand and press it to your side, feeling the heat radiate from him. He’s on top of you now, hovering above you on this tiny hotel couch. You’re not sure how you both managed to fall asleep here when there’s a perfectly good bed in the corner of the room.

“You don’t have to stop, especially since I’m your girlfriend” you whisper, teasingly into his mouth.

He groans, low and guttural, tilting his head to claim your lips fully this time. There’s no hesitation, just a slow, heated push and pull—soft and desperate.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he admits between kisses, teeth grazing your lower lip. “Every time I see you, I—” He stops abruptly, almost pained.

You let out a shaky laugh, pressing closer, feeling the warmth, the unspoken months of want and frustration finally pressing back. “Max, stop holding yourself back.”

Max pauses, just long enough for your eyes to meet—messy hair falling over his forehead, sweat glistening on his skin, the barest hint of red across his cheeks—and you see that struggle in his eyes. He wants everything, but he’s still holding back.

“You feel that too, don’t you?” he whispers, fingers tracing a slow path down your spine. He pulls you into him as he sits now to look at you. “This… pull. You’ll never be out of my system.”

You shiver, biting your lip, nodding just slightly. “Yes.”

He leans in again, brushing his nose against yours, lips hovering, and your chest tightens. Every inch, every second stretched out like a taut wire, charged with desire, longing, and the sweet ache of finally being close after months of teasing, arguing, and near misses.

“Maxie,” you mutter, voice low, almost a whine. “I picked you, months ago, I picked you. I’ve been waiting for you to… pick me back. I-I love you.”

You can feel it, every brush of his lips, the lingering heat of his hands, and it’s enough to make you dizzy. Enough to make you forget the world outside this hotel room, the cameras, the podiums, everything—because right now, it’s just him and you.

Max pulls back to look at you, fully absorbing what you’ve just said. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. His eyes search yours, loving, desperate, and impossibly warm. “Me? You love me?” he says quietly, voice breaking just slightly in surprise. “I… I love you y/n.,”

✨ hi hii ♡ i’m breezy and i write fanfiction as my little escape. 🌸 I used to write mostly for anime & manga, but lately my blog has shifted into being more F1-focused 🏎️ (thank u max verstappen) -> that said, i’ll probably still jump back to anime every now and then because it’ll always have my heart ♡

-> It is safe to assume ALL my works are 18+, as my blog is 18+, it will otherwise be stated if it is sfw.

✨ Requests are OPEN for all drivers ✨ (Currently writing mostly for Max, Lando, & Oscar 💌)

🌸 AO3 ✨ - [ Read all my works here → ✦ AO3 LINK ✦ ]

🏎️ Max Verstappen | mv1 | mv33 ...my driver ♡

📁 Series: 🏁 Understeer ⋆˚࿔ (mv1 x reader x ln4 - love triangle with mv1 ending *almost complete -> 46k words total)

📖 Chapter 1: [link] 📖 Chapter 2: [link] 📖 Chapter 3: [link] 📖 Chapter 4: [link] 📖 Chapter 5: [link] 📖 Chapter 6: [link] 📖 Chapter 7: [link] 📖 Chapter 8: [link] 📖 Chapter 9: [link] 📖 Chapter 10: [link] 📖 Chapter 11: [link]

📁Mercedes Girl (aka Max's Girl) - One shot

📁Between Takes 🎬🧨

pt.1 [link] | pt.2 [link]

🍊 Lando Norris | ln4

✦ coming soon…

🧡 Oscar Piastri | op81 🦘

📁 Racing Hearts ♡ - one shot

💌 Other Drivers

Requests welcome! ✦ TBD…

Author's Note: Hi friends! ♡ First off, thank you SO much for reading! This story is just a fun little delulu fantasy that came from a "fine, I’ll do it myself" *Thanos' voice moment when trying to find that perfect F1 fic lol. I’m still pretty new to the F1 world, but I’ve been completely sucked in this past year. All because of an edit of Yuki Tsunoda. Before this, I was a HUGE anime/manga fan fiction writer. That said, if you catch anything I’ve missed or misrepresented, whether it’s racing details, terminology, or team dynamics, please feel free to leave kind and constructive feedback! I’m always happy to learn more about this wild sport and make the story better for everyone. 💌 At the end of the day, this is for fun. Thanks again for being here and sharing in my delusions ⋆˚࿔ Much love, Zombryz ▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

Almost a thousand new DMs. Over two hundred tags in fan edits with captions like “couple goals.” And yet, you still felt completely alone.

With a quiet sigh, you locked your phone and sat back, trying to summon enough energy to get ready for the party. Normally, your routine would be paired with his music, streaming on repeat, showing your support like the good little girlfriend you were supposed to be. But tonight, you did your eyeliner in silence. You curled your hair without humming along. And when you reached for your signature red lipstick, you dabbed the excess onto your cheeks, giving yourself a soft, flushed glow.

It had been just over a year since you started dating the so-called “Indie Prince of Darkness with a God Complex,” as the tabloids so lovingly called him. Everyone adored him. He was cool, cryptic, tattooed, and impossibly hot. His inky black hair is always slightly messy, like he just rolled out of bed. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, silver rings on every finger, and tattoos that snake from his collarbones down to his wrists. Hell, you can admit that you had fallen for him first—hard—and were genuinely surprised when he fell back. He had that charming, brooding thing down to a science: the “bad boy with a sensitive side” that fans ate up like candy.

He was tall, dark, and devastatingly magnetic. And everyone, from your followers to his, from your parents to his label, absolutely loved you two together. On paper, you were the it couple. The dream. So why did you feel like you were fading in his shadow?

You’d gone to every concert. He’d written songs about you. He’d even said he loved you—well, in an interview, never directly to your face. You told yourself you didn’t mind. After all, you weren’t even sure if you’d say it back if he were to say it in person.

“C’mon, we gotta get going.” Cyrus’s voice cut through your thoughts, followed by a heavy sigh. He stood in the doorway, rolling his eyes slightly as he motioned for you to hurry up.

The two of you were staying at a luxury hotel in Miami. His band was playing a private event that night—something about a party for race car drivers? You hadn’t asked. You weren’t really into racing, but Cyrus was. He and the rest of the band were buzzing with excitement, practically vibrating with pre-show energy.

You, on the other hand, just wanted to stay in and watch something mindless. But instead, here you were. Back in the dress. Back in the role. Playing the good little girlfriend for your rockstar boyfriend.

Once you stepped out the door, Cyrus had already started doing that thing he always did when you went out together. Cold, detached indifference—until the cameras showed up. Then came the hand-holding. The forehead kisses. The exaggerated smiles. All of it for show.

God. How had you let it get this bad?

You met him at a dingy after-party in L.A.—grungy couches, too many bodies, the air thick with weed and sweat. Two of your best friends had dragged you there, convinced it would be good for your “image.” You were still on the rise then, in the soft-glow era of your early fame.

And then you saw him.

Everything else faded. The music blurred. You knew who he was immediately—everyone did—but when he walked over and leaned in, you nearly choked on your drink.

“Wow,” he’d whispered, breath warm on your neck. “You look like a fallen angel.”

Every hair on your body had stood up. You’d never wanted someone so badly. You already knew all of his band’s songs—he was your favorite. The drummer. The brooding one. There was just something about a man who had to be skilled with both his hands and feet.

It was instant chemistry. And instant danger.

Back then, you really thought it was love. The kind that made your chest ache in the best way. You both dove headfirst into the honeymoon phase—love bombing, whirlwind trips, blurry nights. The public thought you were chasing clout. His fans despised you. But you didn’t care. Not at first.

Sometimes, though, you wished you’d never gone to that party.

Sure, it made you more famous—but it also gave you a front-row seat to a lifestyle you weren’t ready for. The paparazzi followed you both like vultures. They photographed him carrying you on his back after shows. Caught you outside clubs at 3 a.m. in his hoodie, makeup smudged down your face. The world assumed it was from partying too hard. The truth? You’d just watched him stick his tongue down some other girl’s throat—some fan with a tongue ring—and let her sit on his lap, hands all over him like you didn’t exist.

That was the reality. And still, the internet called you poison and muse.

They obsessed over the tiny tattoo he got for you. Made fan edits of that edgy Calvin Klein ad you did together—him with a rose between his teeth, hair slicked back, you straddling his lap, your face turned away while your black stiletto nails dug into his back. It was hot. It was everywhere.

But what came after was worse.

The drunken flirting. The disappearing acts. The pouting anytime a fan asked you for a photo. Days of silence followed by cryptic new songs hinting at breakups that never actually happened. He stopped showing up to your shoots, your interviews—said they were too small for someone like him.

Once, during a fight, he said, “You’d be nothing without me.”

That night, you posted a story from the bathtub—eyes smeared with mascara, face half-submerged in water. The caption read: “We love those who seek to destroy us.”

You deleted it twenty minutes later.

Not because you didn’t mean it. But because you didn’t even know who you were posting it for. Maybe it was a cry for help. Maybe it was just one more mask, cracking.

♡

It was summer in Miami — thick, heavy, suffocating heat that somehow felt even worse after dark. The kind of night that clung to your skin and made the air buzz with too much noise and too much sweat. From the front of the van, the boys were loud, voices overlapping about how the big race was coming up in a few days. Apparently, the drivers were having a killer season, and GR1D Club was throwing them this private, invite-only party. Velvet Collapse — Cyrus’ band — had been hired to play it.

You were slouched in the back seat, tucked next to the only person in the band who didn’t make you want to claw your way out of the moving vehicle: Mira Ashford. Bassist. Backup vocalist. And a soft-spoken savage when she wanted to be. She was shorter than you, curly blue hair and dressed in a mesh top with expensive chunky silver jewelry.

People used to ship her with Cyrus in the early days — until she casually introduced her girlfriend in an interview two years ago. Since then, she’d been your quiet lifeline in moments like this.

“Is he still being an ass to you?” Mira whispered, leaning closer while the boys up front shouted over each other.

You hesitated, eyes flicking toward the front. “Yeah. It’s okay though,” you murmured, too soft. Too practiced.

“Girl. No, it’s not,” Mira snapped gently. “I swear to God, if I had the arm reach, I’d smack him upside the head. If it were up to me, you’d have left his moody ass months ago.”

She always told it like it was. No sugarcoating. No fake sympathy. She was your internal monologue — the one you always ignored.

“He has his moments,” you said, mostly to defend yourself. Not even him. “Sometimes he’s not so—”

“Terrible?” she finished for you, with one of those knowing sad-smiles. “He’s got you twisted, babe.”

You stared out the window for a moment, heat lightning crackling over the skyline. “Do you know what time we’re getting back tonight? My flight was a nightmare.”

Mira just winced. That told you everything — no plan, no mercy, no rest.

From the front, a hand suddenly reached back blindly into your space. Cyrus. Gesture loose and lazy, like this was muscle memory.

You took his hand. Of course you did.

Because for some reason, you always did.

♡

Jett was the first one out of the van the second it rolled to a stop — as always. The self-appointed frontman and “face” of Velvet Collapse, he had to make every entrance like it was a red carpet. He wore his signature sunglasses, even though it was well past sunset. You were pretty sure he’d popped something earlier — anything to make the night feel less dull to him. His hair, a messy dirty blonde wolf cut, stuck to his temples in the Miami heat. He had on a band tee from some obscure underground group and black pants shredded to hell, held together with safety pins and sheer arrogance. Demonias stomped beneath him like he was born backstage.

You, in contrast, wore a black silk slip dress clung to your frame, dipping low on your back and catching a blue-velvet sheen in certain lighting. You’d gone for sleek elegance: a thin black ribbon tied around your neck, long earrings that swayed with every step, heels that added inches to your height and years to your presence. Your hair was styled soft and smooth, your expression even smoother — perfectly curated to be a rockstar’s girlfriend.

The party, to put it kindly, was boring.

You stayed toward the front when Velvet Collapse took the stage, recording a short video for your Instagram story. You tagged each of the band members, added a single black heart emoji, and tucked your phone away. The rest of the night, you mostly drifted. You made small talk with a few drivers’ girlfriends — they were sweet, genuinely — and one of them asked if it was “so fun dating a rockstar.” You gave her a practiced smile and said something noncommittal, your voice airy and automatic.

Off in the distance, you spotted Mira and Jett talking with someone — a guy who, based on what you’d overheard earlier, must’ve been one of the Formula 1 drivers. You’d only vaguely heard of F1, mostly through influencers and celebrities who flexed their paddock passes online. If someone asked, you couldn’t say a single thing about it except people seemed obsessed with Ferrari and Mercedes. You really had no idea what F1 was all about or what the hype was.

You turned to find Cyrus. He had to be here somewhere, right?

You searched the venue, and your stomach dropped the moment you found him — tucked away at a side bar. The music was pounding, but the sound of your own pulse nearly drowned it out when you saw him. Kissing someone. No — making out with someone. Some girl you’d never seen before, pressed against him like she belonged there. That was it.

You blinked hard, swallowing down the sting in your chest. No more. No more excuses. No more pretending. You were done. You had to be.

The urge to cry was immediate, but you forced it back. Instead, you turned toward the bar with a silent fury, ordered three shots of vodka, and tossed them back like medicine. The sharp burn numbed something in you.

Good.

From the top of the venue, you could see the dance floor where Velvet Collapse had performed earlier. It was dark, packed, electric. You didn’t think — you just moved. You weaved through the crowd and started to dance, body loose, thoughts looser. For the first time in a long time, you let yourself feel untethered. Free. You weren’t Cyrus’s girlfriend. You weren’t anyone’s anything. You were just… you.

And it felt kind of incredible.

A few F1 drivers joined the floor — some with their girlfriends, others solo. One introduced himself as Lewis. You were sure you'd seen him somewhere before. He was friendly, a little flirty. Harmless.

Then another guy appeared. His voice was smooth, almost playful: “Having fun, are we?”

You turned. He was cute — really cute — with a dimpled grin and eyes that sparkled like he was always about to get away with something.

“I’m Lando,” he leaned in, close enough so you could hear.

“Hi, Lando. I’m drunk.” You laughed, your hands raised as you swayed to the beat.

“Well, that’s a very nice name,” he teased, grinning wide. His teeth were slightly imperfect in the best way — the tiniest gap that somehow made him even more charming. His hair was curly like Mira’s, the sides of his head buzzed. You had the fleeting urge to run your fingers through it but resisted.

“I’m just kidding,” you added, with a mock-serious expression. “My name’s Y/N.” You held out your hand like you were making a business deal, which only made him laugh harder.

Just then, someone called his name. He winced apologetically, leaning in close again.

“It was really nice meeting you. Maybe I’ll see you at the race this weekend?”

You just smiled at him sweetly.

Unlikely, you thought bitterly. You had no idea what your weekend looked like — but you did know you wanted out. Out of Miami, out of this relationship, out of this version of your life.

Still feeling tipsy, you wandered off the floor. You were about to order another drink when dizziness hit you like a wave. Nope. Time for air.

You found your way to the balcony — high above the city, the ocean glittering in the distance. It was quiet up there. Breezy. For the first time all night, you exhaled.

You sank into one of the patio chairs and pulled out your phone. The view was stunning — your legs crossed elegantly in your heels, city lights twinkling below. You snapped a pic and posted it to your story.

Caption: “and that’s a wrap folks.”

No context. Just vibes. Drunk, cryptic, and exactly what your followers lived for.

Your phone buzzed almost immediately.

“uhhh—what does this mean?” “omg i’m worried for her and cyrus” “is everything okay?? the F1 party was tonight, right???” “Guys, it’s okay. Maybe she just meant the party is over!” You locked your phone again with a sad sigh.

Enough.

You stood and moved toward the edge of the balcony, letting the warm wind brush across your skin. Your eyes fluttered shut. For now, you just wanted to feel the quiet.

A breeze swept over your bare shoulders, carrying the scent of salt, humidity, and someone’s cigarette from below. Your heart still hadn’t slowed since the moment you saw Cyrus at the bar. You gripped the railing with both hands and let the city lights blur in your vision.

Behind you, the door creaked open. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t care.

“Let me guess,” a voice said — low, smug, and definitely male. “You stormed out here so someone would come after you?”

You blinked slowly, your grip tightening slightly around your glass. “Excuse me?”

“You girls love a dramatic exit,” he continued, already walking toward the railing a few feet from you, eyes on the horizon like he wasn’t just being an asshole. “And then you sit here, posing for the void, waiting for your moment.”

You turned to face him, incredulous. “You girls?”

He shrugged one shoulder, like it wasn’t worth elaborating. He was taller than you expected. Hair messy in a way that was probably intentional. Sharp jaw. Expensive watch. Full of himself in that annoying, cocky, European man kind of way.

You scoffed. “Wow. You don’t even know me, and you’ve already decided I’m desperate for attention. Must be exhausting being that arrogant all the time.”

He glanced at you sideways, completely unfazed. “You’re telling me you wore those heels and dress to not be looked at?” His accent spilling off his tongue laced in alcohol.

Your mouth dropped open for a second. Was this guy for real?

“Okay,” you said flatly, setting your drink on the ledge. “I’m officially over men tonight. Congratulations — you’re the cherry on top.”

“Yeah, well I aim to please,” he said dryly.

You rolled your eyes and turned away from him, facing the city again. His presence felt like a mosquito bite — minor, but irritating enough to ruin your mood.

There was a beat of silence.

Then he muttered, more to himself than to you, “Jesus. Sensitive.”

You snapped your head toward him again. “Do you just wander around balconies hoping to insult strangers for fun, or is this your weird version of flirting?”

He didn’t answer — just gave a slow, humorless smirk and tossed back whatever was in his glass. You shook your head and grabbed your phone, deciding fresh air wasn't worth it. You were about to walk back inside when he spoke again.

“Try not to trip in those things.”

You paused, glancing back over your shoulder with a cold, sharp smile.

“Try not to choke on your own ego.”

Then you disappeared into the party, not sparing him another look.

He stood there, still watching you through the glass—curious, irritated, intrigued—and utterly unaware that you had no idea who he was.

Just a few steps inside, Cyrus suddenly grabbed your arm, yanking you away from the crowd. His grip was too tight, his presence suffocating.

“What the fuck, Y/N? I leave you alone for twenty minutes and you're already trying to sleep with every F1 driver in sight?”

That was it. You weren’t violent by nature, but something inside you snapped. You raised your hand to slap him—he caught it, and kissed you instead. Hard. Possessive.

You pulled away, breath catching in your throat, tears burning your eyes and finally ruining the makeup you worked so hard on.

“I hate you,” you whispered. “I saw you kissing—”

He didn’t let you finish. His hands gripped your face again, cutting off your words with another forceful kiss. You hated him. You hated how much power he still had over you.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.”

You were drunk. Angry. Heartbroken. Exhausted. And as always, you gave in. He carried you out like some twisted prince in a fairytale that you were far too tired to fight.

The next morning, you woke to a trashed hotel suite and a skull-splitting headache. The alcohol had long since worn off, but the shame remained. You remembered everything. How your fog had cleared just enough after that mystery man on the balcony shocked you back to reality. How you and Cyrus came back and had sloppy, bitter makeup sex. How paparazzi caught it all—him grabbing your face, your dress wrinkled, your heels dangling from his fingers. He always managed to look like a gentleman, somehow.

Your phone buzzed endlessly.

“I see you had fun last night 😉” “You and Cyrus are so cute, girl! When are you coming back? Let’s get lunch.”

Cute. If only they knew.

But your feelings hadn’t changed. You were done. Truly done. If he wanted to kiss other women so badly, he could have them.

Cyrus was still asleep beside you, oblivious. You couldn’t bring yourself to wake him. Instead, you left a letter on the desk, your necklace curled atop one of his old band shirts. A soft goodbye kiss to his cheek, and then you were gone. For good.

You texted your manager, Vanessa, and told her everything. She moved fast, as always—booked you a car and a flight out within hours. As you stared out the window mid-flight, the clouds glowing beneath you, a strange calm settled in your chest.

This was your clean slate.

You spent the next two weeks at home, keeping your head down. Then the news hit the tabloids.

'Y/N and Cyrus Kade Split Brace yourselves. A breakup album is coming.'

The public had opinions, of course. Some fans swarmed your feed with love. Others blamed you. Your manager warned you: Cyrus was spiraling. Refusing interviews. Starting fights with photographers. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You’d already mourned this relationship while still inside it.

You finally posted your photos from that night—a faceless shot of your backless dress, the Miami skyline glowing in the background. A moody shot of your heels. A selfie with Mari.

Then, while scrolling through your camera roll, you froze.

A blurry, tipsy selfie of you with a man. One you didn’t recognize until you zoomed in and Googled him. But of course, the other F1 drivers came up first.

No. Fucking. Way.

The balcony guy was Max Verstappen—2023 Formula One World Champion.

You blinked at the screen, unimpressed. That meant nothing to you. He was still a dick.

But the guy in the selfie wasn’t Max. No, that one was Lewis Hamilton—driver for Mercedes. You quickly followed him.

You kept scrolling, spotting another name: Lando Norris, McLaren. You followed him too—he was just as cute as you remembered.

You posted the photos, tagging Lewis. Twenty minutes later, he commented a row of heart eyes and reposted you to his story.

Suddenly, your notifications blew up.

F1 fans flooded your feed.

“Are they a thing?” “No, she was still with Cyrus here.” “My shaylas 🥺” “Ugh. I missed the Mira x Y/N selfies 💔”

Then came a ding. Lando Norris followed you back. Another ding. A DM.

“How are you, Ms. Drunk?”

You could practically feel the smirk behind the screen. You smiled without meaning to.

“I really embarrassed myself, didn’t I? 😅”

“Not at all. It was cute.”

“Hey… I know it’s random, but would you want to come to the Monaco race next week? Yachts, sun, clubbing, good people. Could be fun.”

As you started to respond, Vanessa texted.

“That photo with Lewis is blowing up. Three F1 teams have reached out. They want you in Monaco for photoshoots and interviews.”

Your smile grew.

Maybe F1 wasn’t so bad after all.

Maybe Cyrus had been right about one thing—you wouldn’t be anything without him. But what he didn’t realize…

You were just getting started.

You texted Lando back: “Funny you should mention it. I’ll be in Monaco for some interviews and shoots. I’d love to meet up 😊”

“Great. I’ll hit you up when you get here.”

Vanessa followed up again. Your flight to Monaco was booked. You’d be gone for over a week. You invited her to come with you.

You looked out the window again—this time with purpose.