#f1 throuple

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mayahamilton ready to get back to business!

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lewishamilton Another year of gratitude for your support and dedication babygirl🩷

user17 LETS FUCKING GOOOO ANNUAL MAYA POST MEANS F1 IS BACK FOR REAL

user2 me foaming at the mouth: maya hamilton pls just give me a chance one chance i’ll treat you so good

user11 bro she’s not gonna pick you lmaoooo

vogueuk Your reminder that Maya was voted the most beautiful woman in the 2020 F1 paddock—and we can’t see that changing anytime soon!

mayahamilton mwah kisses <3

--

Maya Hamilton had mastered the art of slipping through the paddock unnoticed—or at least she thought she had.

Tote bag slung over one shoulder, she flashed a practiced smile to a couple of Sky Sports reporters, weaving her way past the McLaren motorhome. The Bahrain sun burned low, casting the desert in gold, and if she tilted her head just right, she could pretend her heart wasn’t racing at a thousand beats per minute.

Because somewhere behind that locked hospitality door, Lando Norris and Max Verstappen were probably already arguing.

Again.

She knocked once, paused, then entered without waiting.

Inside, Lando sat on the edge of the leather sofa, fidgeting with the ring on his finger—the one she’d given him, stupidly, sentimentally, back in Monza. Max stood against the far wall, arms crossed, every inch of him taut with restrained fury.

The air was sharp. Tense. Familiar.

Maya shut the door behind her with a quiet click, as though silence might hold the tension at bay. “Okay. Who’s going to snap first?”

Lando looked up, his mouth twitching into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Depends. Do I get a kiss before or after Max accuses me of stealing his girlfriend again?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Max said sharply, his voice like flint.

Maya blinked. “Wow. Nice to see you too.”

Silence settled over them like desert heat—thick, slow, suffocating.

It had been like this for months. Since Abu Dhabi. Since that night in Monaco when Max kissed her in the dark behind the Red Bull garage like he couldn’t help himself. Like she hadn’t left Lando’s bed four hours earlier and her lipstick stain still marked his neck. 

What started as a mistake—a tangle of limbs and too much vodka—had become something else. Something dangerous. Something that hurt in ways she hadn’t expected.

She loved them both. She didn’t know how it happened, only that she had cracked open somewhere along the way and they had poured into her—bright and brutal and absolutely unavoidable.

And they—God help them—loved her back. In their own impossible ways.

Lando loved her like sunshine. Like laughter and late-night voice notes and clumsy fingers trying to memorise her. Max loved her like gravity. Like drowning in deep water. Like claiming, not asking.

And maybe, if either of them had the courage to admit it, they loved each other too.

But Lewis could never know.

Her big brother would lose his goddamn mind.

Lando broke the tension first—he always did. “Okay,” he said, standing, pushing both hands through his hair. “Let’s just be grown-ups about this.”

“Says the child,” Max muttered under his breath.

“I heard that,” Lando snapped.

“Good.”

Maya groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m not doing this again. We talked about this. Nobody owns anyone. This works because it’s balanced. Max, you get me. Lando, you get me. And when you let your egos chill out for five seconds, you get each other.”

Lando looked away, jaw tight. Max didn’t.

Max never looked away. He watched her like she was the only fixed point in a spinning world. And sometimes, it scared her—how much of herself he saw. How much of her he wanted.

His intensity was magnetic and terrifying, like he wanted to consume her whole.

Lando, in contrast, gave her room to breathe. He held her by the hand, not her throat. He kissed her slowly, let her laugh during sex, wiped tears off her cheeks when the world outside their bed got too loud.

She needed both. She wanted both.

And that’s what made her feel like the worst kind of woman.

Selfish. Greedy. Slut. Liar.

She’d called herself all those things in the mirror more than once, brushing her teeth with a guilty mouth and red-raw lips.

Max stepped forward, slow, gaze locked on her. “Lando gets to joke with your brother. Walk beside you—play the best friend act. And I have to stand in corners like a dirty secret.”

“You are my dirty secret,” she teased weakly, voice trying to lift the weight between them. “Both of you.”

But neither of them laughed.

Max’s voice dropped to a low rumble. “It’s not funny anymore, Maya. When Lewis finds out—”

“He won’t,” she snapped, more harshly than she meant. She swallowed, instantly regretting the heat in her tone. “Because we’re careful. Because I’ve spent my whole life being suffocated by him, and for once, I want something that’s mine. Without having to ask for permission.”

The confession left her breathless.

Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts. Her throat ached.

She blinked away the sting in her eyes. “I don’t want to be Hamilton’s little sister every time I walk into a room. I want to love who I want. I want to make my own mistakes. Even if it means—” Her voice cracked. “God—I don’t know.” 

Lando moved first, always soft when she started to spiral. He approached, voice gentle. “We’re not saying you can’t have that, baby. We’re just… we’re heading into the season now. It’s not like winter break. Everything’s more intense. The media. The pressure. The rivalry.”

“Yeah,” Max added, his tone unreadable, his eyes unreadable. “And you think Lewis is overprotective now? Wait until he finds out his sister’s in bed with the man who’s going to steal his eighth title.”

She flinched.

It wasn’t just the words—it was the weight behind them.

Max meant it.

He wanted that title. That legacy. That history.

Even if it tore Lewis apart.

Even if it tore her apart.

And that was the part Maya couldn’t reconcile—the cruel irony of loving the man who wanted to undo the one person who had built her entire world. Who had raised her. Protected her. Carried her through every storm she didn’t have the strength to face alone.

Max didn’t just want to win.

He wanted to win against Lewis.

And maybe that should’ve been enough to make her walk away.

But instead, she stepped forward. Always forward.

Heart hammering. Hands trembling.

She moved like a magnet drawn to flame, unable to stop herself as she slid between them, reaching out—fingers wrapping around Max’s left and Lando’s right.

Their skin was warm. Familiar. Her anchors in a world that shifted beneath her feet every day.

She could feel Max’s pulse against her palm, steady and strong. Lando’s hand twitched slightly in hers, like he didn’t quite believe she was still choosing them—still choosing this—despite the inevitable fallout.

“I know this isn’t ideal,” she said softly. Her voice barely carried in the hush between them. “I know it’s selfish. And maybe I don’t deserve either of you—”

“Don’t say that,” Max cut in, sharp and immediate. His frown deepened, not out of anger but frustration. “Don’t ever say that.”

She glanced up at him, startled by the intensity in his eyes. Not cold, but burning. Like he’d set himself alight just to prove her wrong.

“You’re allowed to want something for yourself,” he said, quieter now but no less fierce. “Even if it’s us.”

Lando leaned in then, pressing his forehead to hers, grounding her with the kind of softness Max could never quite manage. “We chose this too, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing her hairline. “You’re not the only one risking something.”

Maya exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed.

The guilt was always there, curling in her stomach like smoke. For lying to Lewis. For keeping secrets from the team that had always treated her like family. For loving so recklessly, so expansively, that she hadn’t even tried to contain it.

But this—this twisted, complicated, sacred thing between the three of them—it was hers. Untouched by anyone else's judgment. Untamed by logic or permission.

Max kissed her temple then—slow and uncharacteristically sweet. “Until it burns down around us,” he whispered.

She swallowed.

And maybe it would.

Maybe they were building something doomed to collapse under the weight of scrutiny and legacy and bloodlines.

But when she looked at Lando—still holding her hand like it was a lifeline—and at Max, standing close enough to feel his heartbeat echo in her chest…

She couldn’t bring herself to care.

Maybe it would burn.

Maybe she was the one holding the match. 

--

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mayahamilton beautiful bahrain 🇧🇭 bring on the first quali of the year tomorrow morning!

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mickschumacher that pasta looks sooooo good

user22 🫵 @/lewishamilton

mickschumacher YO WTF???????

mercedesf1 We are so excited to have you with us this year, as always!🩷

mayahamilton so much love for you all!!!!!

user62 did you get seasick??!?? i will never forget that vlog where you were rocking back and forth on toto’s yacht begging them to put you back on solid land😭😭😭😭

mayahamilton we were actually still docked in this pic i just made lewis take it at an angle that make it look like we weren’t😭😭😭😭😭

user15 STOP IM CRYING THATS SO FUNNY

user83 catfishing being out at sea as a seasick person is insane😭💀

lewishamilton Great pics!❤️

mayahamilton he says like he didn’t take 3 of them loooooool

lewishamilton I didn’t wanna steal your shine!

mayahamilton not possible 👸🏾✨

--

The Mercedes garage buzzed with its usual pre-qualifying electricity—monitors flickering, radios crackling, engineers darting between laptops and tire carts. Controlled chaos.

Maya stood near the back wall, familiar lanyard hanging from her neck, sipping lukewarm coffee from her battered Mercedes-branded flask. She wore the team polo, like always, but today it felt a little tighter across the chest. Or maybe that was just her guilt constricting her ribcage.

It was the first qualifying of the year. Normally, she’d be excited—grinning, making jokes with the engineers, sneaking pictures of Lewis warming up in the driver room to post to his private Instagram. She’d grown up in these garages. Crawled under tool benches. Learned how to curse in five languages by age ten.

This was home.

But today, the air felt different. Or maybe she did.

She caught sight of Lewis through the windowed partition, arms folded, head bowed in conversation with Bono. Focused. Calm. Her chest ached.

She hadn’t looked him in the eye all morning.

Not since she woke up tangled in sheets that weren’t hers, with Max’s hand resting heavy on her hip and Lando’s sleepy voice murmuring something soft against her spine.

She shouldn’t be here. Not like this.

“Good morning, trouble,” a familiar voice called, breaking through her spiral. Maya looked up to see Toto striding toward her, tall and purposeful in his signature white shirt. “You hiding out back here?”

She forced a smile. “Just observing.”

Toto narrowed his eyes. “You observe better when you’re harassing strategy with your silly questions and stealing the gummy bears from my desk.”

“Are you calling my questions dumb, Mr. Wolff?”

He grinned. “Only the ones about if we can put glitter on the tires.”

She smiled, grateful for the distraction.

But before she could relax, Angela slid up beside her, slipping a cool water bottle into her hand like she always did. Maya blinked at her. “I’m not the one doing quali.”

“No, but you’ve looked like you’re gonna faint twice today, and it’s bloody hot. So hydration it is,” Angela said lightly, squeezing her elbow. “You okay?”

Maya nodded a little too quickly. “Yeah. Fine. Just… pre-season nerves, I guess.”

Angela didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press.

Then came Shov, arms full of data printouts, offering her a warm nod as he passed. Jasmin, the comms girl, gave her a hug and whispered, “Lewis looked over the data. Reckons he’s got pole in him.” Even Roscoe ambled over and flopped at her feet. 

Lewis finally stepped out of his drivers room, race suit half-zipped, headphones around his neck. His eyes scanned the garage automatically—and landed on her.

His smile lit up instantly.

“’Bout time you showed up,” he called, making his way toward her with long strides.

Maya smiled, but it wobbled at the edges. “Thought I’d let you warm up without me distracting you.”

“You’re my good luck charm,” he said, pulling her into a hug without hesitation. “You’re supposed to be annoying my engineers and doing your anxious pacing routine by now.”

His grip was strong. Familiar. Steady.

Her stomach twisted.

Lewis pulled back to look at her properly. “You alright?”

She hesitated.

It was just a second, barely more than a breath. But his expression shifted—just slightly. The concern cracked through.

“I’m okay,” she said quickly, too quickly. “Just a bit tired. The AC in my hotel room wouldn’t work properly last night, so I’m knackered.”

He studied her. The way she avoided his eyes. The way her fingers curled too tight around her coffee cup. The way she was wearing the necklace he gave her last year—the tiny ‘44’ pendant, but there was a second thin chain tucked under her t-shirt.

“Is it something with the media team?” he asked. “Toto said some people from F1TV have been pushing harder this year. If they’re giving you shit, I can talk to them.”

“No—God, no. It’s nothing like that.” She forced a laugh. “You don’t have to solve everything for me.”

He raised a brow. “Kind of my job.”

Her heart cracked a little more.

Because he meant it. Lewis had always made her problems his to carry. And here she was—carrying one she couldn’t let him anywhere near.

“I’m fine,” she said again, softer now.

He studied her for a long beat, then pulled her in for another hug. Longer. Tighter. One hand gently cradling the back of her head like she was still his baby sister and the world was still simple.

“You’d tell me, right?” he murmured. “If something was wrong?”

Maya closed her eyes.

She thought of Lando’s soft kiss on her collarbone.

Max’s voice growling mine into her skin.

The way her body was marked with secrets her brother would never forgive. The way his ’44’ necklace was now layered with a pendant engraved with ’334’. 

She nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah,” she lied. “Of course I would.”

—

The garage held its collective breath.

Maya stood pressed between Angela and one of the data engineers, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, trying to look like any other team member—calm, collected, focused.

But her insides were twisting.

Q3 had been chaos. Max was flying. Lewis had just put in a near-perfect lap and yet—Maya could feel it before the final sector even lit up red on the screens.

He’s going to do it, she thought, not with pride, but dread.

And then it happened.

"Verstappen goes fastest by nearly four-tenths of a second!"

The words echoed out from the broadcast feed just as the live timing confirmed it: 1:30.499.

Max Verstappen, P1. Pole in Bahrain. 

The Red Bull garage erupted somewhere down pit lane, a ripple of cheers and fist bumps and exhaled adrenaline.

Inside Mercedes, there was only silence.

Not disappointment—no one would ever dare call P2 disappointing—but something close. Tight-jawed restraint. The kind that came from knowing the fight had already begun and this year, it wasn’t going to be easy.

Maya stared at the screen as Max’s name flickered to the top.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

Max. Her Max. Standing in the spotlight that had been Lewis’s for so long. Not as a fluke. Not as a surprise. But as a credible championship threat.

She swallowed hard.

Beside her, Lewis was still in the car, helmet on, visor down. No reaction. Just silence, his hands resting still on the wheel as if he could slow the rotation of the world through sheer will.

Toto muttered something low into his headset. Bono nodded, already making notes.

And Maya?

Maya just stood there, eyes glued to the monitor, like if she blinked, maybe she’d give herself away.

Because she wasn’t just watching a race for pole.

She was watching everything she loved begin to unravel.

—

“Not bad,” Lewis said later, climbing out of the car, voice steady but clipped. “But he’s quick.”

“Too quick,” Toto said under his breath, eyes narrowed toward the Red Bull pit wall.

Maya stayed quiet, biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to hurt.

Lewis yanked off his helmet, hair damp with sweat, face unreadable. “I’ll get him tomorrow.”

And he meant it.

There was no panic in him. Just fire.

Maya wanted to feel proud—did feel proud—but it tangled in her chest with something darker. Max had wanted this so badly. Had trained, obsessed, studied every weakness.

He’d told her last night, all cocky and sure, “I’m taking pole tomorrow. Watch me.”

She had.

And it felt like betrayal.

“You alright, Maya?” Angela asked beside her, voice low.

Maya blinked. “Yeah. Just… adrenaline.”

Angela smiled but didn’t look convinced.

Around her, the team started to reset. Engineers filed data. Tires were rolled back into the bays. Lewis ducked into the cool-down room. The day went on—qualifying melting into race prep.

But Maya stood frozen, staring at the screen as they showed a replay of Max climbing out of his car, grinning, waving, drinking in the roar of the crowd.

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. One message.

Max: That one was for you, mooi meisje ;)

Her thumbs hovered over the screen.

She didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Not when every part of her felt like it was fraying.

—

The private dining room at the Four Seasons was as beautiful as it was unbearable.

White linen, glinting crystal, plates arranged like art installations. Half the Mercedes team had shown up in tailored shirts and watches worth more than her apartment. Lewis looked sharp in dark navy, his jewellery glinting under the lights, all confidence and quiet authority.

Maya sat two seats down from him, nursing a glass of sparkling water and trying to ignore the way her skin felt too tight.

Everyone was celebrating Lewis’s P2. Quiet jabs at Red Bull. The conversation flowed easily, punctuated with champagne flutes and inside jokes.

She smiled when she needed to. Laughed at the right times.

But her food sat mostly untouched.

“Not hungry?” Lewis leaned over during a lull, his brow creasing with concern.

Maya shook her head lightly. “Just a bit of a headache. Might head back early.”

“You sure?” His eyes narrowed slightly, protective mode flickering to life. “You’ve barely touched your food.”

“It’s fine, Lew.” She smiled softly, touched his hand. “Just tired. Too much sun today.”

That placated him—for now.

Still, when she excused herself a little after dessert, she felt his eyes on her all the way to the elevator.

—

Her heels clicked quietly through the marble halls of the hotel. She peeled off her pink sequined jacket, fingers already itching to wipe off her lipstick.

Room 1608. Keycard in. Heartbeat loud.

She pushed open the door.

And there they were.

Lando and Max.

Barefoot on the carpet. Dressed in old shirts. A paper bag of Bahraini takeout between them on the low coffee table. The room smelled like garlic and lemon and cardamom.

Lando lit up the moment he saw her. “Hey, gorgeous.”

Max didn’t say anything. Just looked at her. Took her in like he always did—like he was seeing past the makeup and the silk and the smile she’d worn like armour all evening.

“We thought you might be hungry,” Lando said, lifting the paper bag. “You hate fancy food, eh? The shit with the tiny portions and the—what did you call it? Sea foam?”

She laughed before she could help it. “God, yeah. I do hate it.”

“We got your favourites,” Max added, his voice low. “That lemon rice thing. And the roasted chickpeas.”

Her eyes stung instantly.

It was stupid, really.

They hadn’t bought her diamonds. They hadn’t swept her away on a platinum vacation with cabana’s and champagne on tap. 

They just… noticed things. And then remembered them.

Maya shut the door quietly behind her and toed off her heels.

“You alright, baby?” Lando asked, watching her closely.

She nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Just—long day.”

Max stepped forward, reaching out to take the jacket from her. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

“And kind of exhausted,” Lando added, frowning as he set out the containers.

She exhaled, breath catching in her throat as she stood there, bare feet on plush carpet, in a beautiful, lavish hotel room lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. 

Maybe she didn’t deserve them. Either of them.

But in that moment, with the scent of home-cooked spices and two pairs of eyes watching her like she mattered—

She felt seen.

She crossed the room, curled onto the floor between them, let Lando tuck a pillow behind her back and Max pass her a container with a plastic fork.

They didn’t ask about the Mercedes dinner. 

Instead, Lando handed her a can of Diet Coke and said, “Max, I swear to God, if you  eat all the hummus again—”

“That was one time,” Max muttered, stealing a bite from her rice.

She laughed through the tears that slipped down anyway.

And no one said a word when she wiped her eyes on Lando’s sleeve and whispered, “Thank you.”

—

The penthouse smelled like eucalyptus and lemon disinfectant. Again.

Maya stepped into the foyer, kicking off her shoes before she could even call out, already knowing the routine by heart.

“Lew?” she called gently, balancing a tote bag and her phone as she tiptoed further into the open-plan space.

“Bathroom!” came his voice, muffled. 

She heard the sink shut off, followed by the hiss of the automatic soap dispenser refilling. A moment later, Lewis emerged, wearing joggers and a loose black hoodie, dreads tied back in a bun, hands freshly dried on one of his eco-cloth towels.

He opened his arms wordlessly, and she walked right into the hug.

“You good?” he murmured into her hair, holding her a little tighter than necessary.

“Fine,” she lied, letting her head rest on his shoulder. “Just needed this.”

“Same.” He let her go reluctantly, stepping back and scanning her face like he could see a fever if he looked hard enough. “Did you wear your mask on the flight?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Double. Plus visor.”

“Proud of you.” He grinned, but there was that edge of real concern in his voice, always there since 2020. “I wiped down the groceries. There’s ginger tea in the kitchen. You hungry?”

Maya dropped her bag by the couch and sank into the corner of the sectional. “Starving. But not for quinoa, so don’t even try it.”

He chuckled, already padding toward the kitchen. “Fine. I’ll do that chickpea pasta you like. But no dairy.”

“God forbid.”

The apartment was all clean lines and natural light. Candles flickered on nearly every surface—lavender, sandalwood, some obscure eco brand she’d never heard of. Plants climbed up the balcony railings, and soft music played from the built-in speakers—Snoh Aalegra, probably.

It was safe here. And calm. 

“You sanitised your phone, right?” he called.

“First thing.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.” She mocked. 

He laughed again, but she heard the tension behind it.

The thing was—her big brother really was scared. Ever since COVID nearly derailed his 2020 season—and long after he recovered—he’d become almost fanatical about health. He didn’t just follow protocols; he added his own layers. Masking between hotel rooms. Distancing in the garage. No hugs. No parties. No exceptions.

Maya understood. But she also knew she’d broken almost every rule last weekend.

She’d kissed Max Verstappen without a mask. She’d fallen asleep in Lando Norris’s hoodie. She’d snuck back into Lewis’s hotel suite in Bahrain with aftershave clinging to her scarf.

And now here she was, sipping herbal tea, while her brother made her dinner like she was still ten years old. 

“How’s your jet lag?” Lewis asked as he chopped shallots.

“I’m holding up.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Just… weird being back here. Monaco.”

“It’s your home.”

“I know,” she said quickly, guilt climbing up her throat like smoke. “I just meant… after being back in the paddock. It’s quiet.”

He smiled, gentle. “That’s the point. This place is your reset button.”

Right. Reset.

Wipe away the lies. The longing. The way Max’s touch lingered like a bruise. The way Lando’s laughter followed her into her dreams.

She watched Lewis light another candle at the table. He was so careful. So loving. So damn sure he was doing what was best for her.

“Hey,” he said, sitting across from her once dinner was ready. “You doing okay with all the traveling again? Like mentally, not just physically.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

And then she smiled. “I’m okay.”

Because what else could she say?

--

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mayahamilton my love letter to italy—this year was very different, but i still got my gelato, so life goes on💘

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lewishamilton Beautiful!❤️

landonorris Yummy!!🤤

mercedesf1 Our girl is glowing in Italy!🇮🇹

--

Imola was one of Maya Hamilton’s favourite places in the world.

There was something about the way the trees bowed over the track like silent witnesses, the ghosts of legends hanging heavy in the air. It felt older than the sport itself, reverent and raw. The air smelled of wet grass and motor oil, and the soft murmur of Italian from the paddock staff always made her feel like she was drifting through some hazy dream of a life that wasn’t hers.

But it was.

Sort of.

She sat tucked into a corner of the Mercedes hospitality unit, sunlight slanting through the sheer white awnings, her iced water sweating against her palm. The Friday debrief had been going on for almost forty minutes, and she hadn’t contributed more than a nod. Not that she needed to—she wasn’t on payroll. But they liked having her here, the team. The kid sister. The emotional barometer.

Lewis, seated at the head of the table in his black team polo and braided bun, was deep in conversation with Bono and Shov about tire degradation in Sector 2. His voice was calm, clipped, surgical. Every word deliberate. The energy around him buzzed with intent.

Maya leaned back in her chair, legs crossed at the ankle, trying to look engaged without letting her mind drift. Toto sat on her right, scanning a data tablet, occasionally muttering to the race engineers. Angela was on her left, chewing absently on a granola bar and highlighting something in her notes.

Maya’s phone, face down in her lap, buzzed once.

Then again.

She glanced down—quick, subtle—and felt a flutter rise in her chest.

Lando: Max just told an Italian journalist to fuck off because he said he preferred twisty pasta to spaghetti 

Max: It’s called fusilli 

Lando: Twisty tho ain’t it

She smothered a laugh behind her water glass, keeping her face neutral as Lewis debriefed something about tire temperatures to Bono and Shov. 

Another buzz.

Lando: You staying at the team hotel or Lew’s villa?

Maya: Team hotel.

Max: Can I see you tonight?

Lando: Can we see you tonight he means 

Maya: 🙃

She tucked her phone under the table for a second and exhaled slowly.

They were relentless. Sweet, stupid, hers. And so, so dangerous.

“Everything okay?” Angela asked gently beside her.

Maya startled a little too hard. “Yeah—just George texting. He wanted the link to that yoga app I told him about.”

Angela nodded, satisfied.

Another buzz.

Max: I’ll be in the parking garage at 9. Left side, by the back entrance.

Lando: I’ll bring u some of the cannoli you like yh 

Maya: You two are going to get me killed.

Max: Then we’ll die smug.

Lando: I’ll die holding your hand bb

She typed slowly, carefully.

Maya: I can’t stay long

Max: Five minutes. Just to see you.

Lando: Five minutes or forever. Up to you <3

She stared at the screen until Toto asked her if she had any insight on Lewis’s sleep patterns this week, and she made something up about melatonin and magnesium.

Later, she’d sneak out the hotel’s back door, hoodie pulled low, mask snug on her face.

But for now, she smiled politely, tucked her phone into her lap, and pretended she wasn’t being pulled in a million directions. 

—

It started slow.

Imola was chaos—wet and wild and unpredictable. Max won. Lewis made a heroic recovery drive from the gravel trap to second, and everyone called it one of the best races of his career. 

Maya sat in the Mercedes garage, clapping along, smiling for the cameras, while her phone buzzed with a single message from Max. 

Max: For you. Always. 

And she’d felt it like it was exactly that—for her. Every lap. Every snarl of the Red Bull carving through spray like it was born in the rain.

She met him that night. Hotel room. No lights, just hands and breath and whispered I missed yous.

Lando came the next day. Brought her espresso and chocolate and that stupid charm that made everything feel okay—even when it wasn’t.

—

Portugal was another battle. Lewis took pole. Max hunted him like a wolf. The lead switched, again and again. Maya could barely breathe as she watched it all from behind tinted garage screens, Mercedes crew around her cursing and cheering and pacing like caged animals.

After the podium, Max didn’t text. He called.

“I hate him,” Max said, voice hoarse.

She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “No you don’t,” she whispered. “You just want to win.”

—

Spain.

Another Mercedes win. Another Max podium. The tension between the two teams had become nuclear. The smallest remarks in the media turned into grenades on Twitter. Every glance, every gesture, was interpreted as strategy.

Maya stopped sleeping properly.

Lando noticed first.

“You’re not built for keeping secrets,” he told her softly, tracing her knuckles with his thumb. “You’re too good. Too honest.”

“I’m not,” she whispered, curled against him in a Monte Carlo flat she didn’t live in. “Not anymore.”

“You love us?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. Immediately. No hesitation.

“Okay,” he said, kissing her like he didn’t care that she had to sneak out before sunrise to make breakfast with Lewis.

—

Monaco should have been the breaking point.

Lando podiumed.

Max won.

Lewis finished seventh, livid.

Maya nearly lost it.

She spent half the night arguing with Lewis—about Red Bull, about Max’s aggressive driving, about how close the championship was becoming.

“I don’t trust him,” Lewis had said flatly. “I don’t trust them. And I sure as hell don’t want you anywhere near that garage anymore.”

Maya bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood.

She couldn’t tell him she’d already been in Max’s garage that night—wrapped in his arms, pressed into a wall, his victory champagne still clinging to her skin.

She couldn’t tell him about the messages she and Lando had exchanged during the team dinner, the silly hearts and fire emojis and shared glances no one else seemed to catch.

She couldn’t tell him anything.

So she just hugged him and waited for the next race.

—

And now, it was Baku on the horizon.

Red Bull had the momentum. Max was leading the championship for the first time in his career.

Lewis was angrier than she’d seen him in years—sharp-edged, distrustful, more obsessed than ever with precision and control. Maya couldn’t blame him. He felt the walls closing in. The weight of history. The eighth title slipping out of his reach.

The hotel room was too warm.

Not hot—just humid in the way that made the silk of Maya’s blouse cling to the small of her back, her wine glass sweat in her hand, and her thoughts fuzz at the edges.

Max had the balcony door open, a breeze occasionally lifting the edge of the curtain. Lando sat cross-legged on the bed, a sandwich half-eaten in his lap, scrolling through TikToks on mute and barely pretending to watch.

Maya stood near the dresser, drink in hand, watching the city glow.

She’d come here for quiet. For a few hours off-grid from the Mercedes camp, from Lewis. 

And yet, somehow, the silence had only made things worse.

Behind her, Max leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, face unreadable.

He spoke without looking at her. “Who do you want to win the championship?”

The question hit the air like a spark.

Maya turned slowly. “Max—”

He looked up, eyes sharp. “No games. Just say it.”

“Maya,” Lando said quietly. “Don’t—”

“She’s allowed to answer,” Max snapped.

“And you’re being a dick,” Lando shot back.

“Don’t do this,” Maya said, more tired than angry. “Not tonight.”

But Max stepped forward, jaw tight. “Because you want it to be him? Lewis?”

She held his gaze, not flinching. “You know I can’t answer that.”

“Yes, you can,” Max insisted, something desperate creeping into his voice. “You love him. He’s your brother. I get it. I do. But I need to know—do you want me to win?”

The silence cracked.

Maya opened her mouth—then closed it. She set her glass down carefully on the dresser, walked over to the bed, and sat beside Lando. He leaned into her instinctively, hand brushing her knee.

She didn’t look at Max when she spoke.

“Lando.”

The word was soft. Certain.

Max blinked, thrown. “What?”

Maya finally looked up at him, face unreadable. “You asked who I want to win. It’s Lando. I want Lando to win it.”

“That’s not an answer,” Max said.

“It’s the only one I have,” she replied, voice thick now. “Because he’s the only one who hasn’t tried to make me choose. Not once.”

Max flinched, but only slightly.

Lando’s hand slid into hers, steady and warm.

She went on, quieter now. “I love Lewis. I love you. But this thing… this fight between you two—it’s war. And I can’t be involved, okay? I won’t survive it.”

Max didn’t speak.

Then he crossed the room slowly, like a storm winding down to a drizzle. And when he reached her, he didn’t argue. He dropped to his knees in front of her, hands resting on her thighs, forehead bowed to hers.

“I don’t want to be at war,” he said. “Not with you.”

Her breath caught. “Then don’t ask me to choose.”

Lando leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck.

Max’s hands slid up to her waist.

And then it unraveled—not with fire, but with something gentler. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

They fell into each other—Max and Maya and Lando, tangled up in silk sheets and half-spoken promises. The world outside kept spinning: titles and telemetry and history waiting to be written.

But in that room, just for the night, none of it mattered.

—

The paddock buzzed with tension.

Maya stood just outside the Mercedes hospitality unit, arms crossed, heart pacing faster than it should’ve been this early in the afternoon. Everyone was on edge. The engineers, the pit crews, the team principals. No one trusted Baku, and Baku had no interest in being tamed.

The street circuit wound through the city like a razor-blade. Tight. Twisty. Unforgiving.

She watched the pre-race build-up from her usual spot in the garage, pressed behind a row of monitors. Angela stood beside her, sipping ginger tea, eyes locked on Lewis’s helmet cam.

Eventually her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Max:Love you no matter how this ends.

It wasn’t directed at either her or Lando specifically. And Maya knew he’d done that on purpose—because it wasn’t a message for only one of them. 

Then, seconds later,

Lando: Guys do either of u have tummy aches I think the food was weird last night 

She nearly laughed. 

Max: I feel fine mate. 

Maya: Ask Will for a gaviscon Lan <3

—

The race started clean.

Lewis got the jump. Max surged. Lando held his own. The first half blurred—strategies playing out, overtakes and tire management. Maya held her breath for most of it, eyes flicking between timing screens and team radios.

Then: chaos.

Lap 47.

Max’s Red Bull was leading. Confident. Controlled.

And then it snapped.

A straight-line blowout at over 300kph. No warning. Just a cloud of smoke, a violent skid, and silence.

Maya didn’t scream—but she felt something inside her crack, hollow and sharp.

The garage fell into chaos. 

Maya’s hands trembled around the edge of her chair.

He was okay. He was okay.

They showed the replay. Again. Again.

Max kicking the tire barrier. Furious. Frustrated. Alive.

Then came the red flag.

She texted him, not caring who saw.

Maya: Are you okay?

Max: I’m fine. Just want to punch the fucking world.

She exhaled.

—

The restart.

Two laps. One shot.

Lewis surged forward at lights out—and then, unbelievably, went straight. Turn One. Brakes on. Magic brake settings not switched off. A lock-up. Gone.

He dropped out of the points in one breath.

Maya sat frozen.

It wasn’t joy she felt. Not relief. Not even horror.

Just... confusion. The kind that made her feel weightless and sick at once.

She looked around. The garage was in shock. Toto shouted something unintelligible into a headset. Bono cursed. Lewis’s voice over the radio—calm, too calm—sounded like grief.

—

After the race, she didn’t go looking for anyone.

She walked the paddock like a ghost. Ignored the Sky Sports crew. Brushed past her brother’s darkened driver room. Didn’t go to Max. Didn’t go to Lando.

She ended up at the far end of the paddock, sitting on the edge of a generator crate.

Her phone lit up.

Lando: Want me to come get you?

Max: Where are you?

Lewis: Waiting for you in the garage

She stared at the screen.

Because for all her talk about not choosing, about balance and control—Baku reminded her of the truth. 

In Formula 1, everything comes undone eventually.

—

Maya’s trainers hit the pavement in rhythmic thuds. Early morning sun poured over the marina, glinting off the sea like shattered glass. She’d taken this route a hundred times—around Port Hercule, through the quiet streets of La Condamine, past the curve of the Fairmont hairpin.

She ran to feel empty. Or maybe to feel anything.

But today, she came to a full, breathless stop at a corner café tucked under the awning of a designer boutique.

Max was sitting at a table by the window.

And he wasn’t alone.

The girl was beautiful, effortlessly so. Model-beautiful. Laughing at something Max said, tucking her hair behind her ear like she knew exactly who he was and what he was worth. His hand rested on the table between them. Close. Comfortable.

Maya didn’t move for a long moment.

Then she turned, walked back the way she came, and ran until her lungs burned.

—

She didn’t speak to him until three days later.

—

It was Lando’s flat in Monaco.

Safe territory. Neutral ground. Or at least, it used to be.

Maya had barely stepped inside before she said it. Couldn’t keep the words inside any longer. “I saw you.”

Max, standing by the window with a glass of water, turned slowly. “What?”

“At the café,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake, but her heart did. “With her.”

Lando looked between them, confused. “Wait—what café? What’s going on?”

Max’s expression shifted, just barely. But Maya knew that look. That wall slamming down behind his eyes. “Nothing happened,” he said. Too fast.

“You were on a date.”

He didn’t answer.

Maya crossed her arms, holding herself together with sheer will. “Say it.”

Max set the glass down with a soft thud on the table. “Fine. Yeah. I went out. Had a coffee. It was nothing.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, what the hell, Max?”

Maya’s voice cracked. “We say we love each other. Max, we say it all the time.”

“Do we?” Max snapped, too loud now. “Do we actually say it? Or do we just whisper it in dark rooms?”

Maya flinched. 

Lando froze. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.

Max started pacing, running a hand through his hair, every movement too sharp. “Your loyalty is with your brother—okay, I’ve accepted that. But this relationship? It’s always going to be a secret, isn’t it? I can’t hold your hand in public, can’t kiss you in the paddock, can’t even look at you for too long without someone putting two and two together and ruining everything. You want me to believe that that’s enough?”

Maya’s eyes welled up. Her throat burned. “So that’s it?” she whispered. “You’re not happy, so you just go and—what—punish me by going on a date with somebody else?”

Max’s mouth opened, then shut.

“I wasn’t punishing you,” he said, but it didn’t matter. His voice was like gravel now. “I just… I needed to breathe. Just once. To not feel like some shameful little secret you keep locked away.”

“I didn’t know you felt like that,” Lando said quietly, and this time his voice wasn’t gentle. It was tight. Controlled. Dangerous.

Max turned to him, faltering. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Too fucking late,” Lando said, his voice slicing through the room.

Maya backed away a step, her hands trembling now. “You told me you loved me. You said that and meant it. And I believed you.”

“I did mean it,” Max said, stepping forward.

She shook her head hard. “No. You don’t do this to people you love. You don’t humiliate them. You don’t cheat on them and call it ‘needing air’.”

Max’s face crumpled—just for a second. Then he looked away.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he said, and that, more than anything, made her knees almost buckle.

“You didn’t think I would care?” she asked, blinking fast. “You didn’t think this—us—was real enough to matter?”

“I didn’t think this was forever,” he said, barely audible.

Maya’s face twisted in pain. “But we said it was. I was building something with you. With both of you.”

Lando stepped in now, chest heaving. “And I was all in, man. I’ve been all in since Monza. You think I haven’t wanted more? Think I didn’t wish we could walk into a fucking restaurant and just exist like normal people? But I never once even considered bailing. Never looked at what could possibly exist outside of this. Us.”

Max swallowed hard, guilt rising like bile. “I wasn’t bailing—”

“You were,” Lando said, sharp. “You fucking were.”

Max turned to Maya again. “I didn’t think. I was—I didn’t think—“

“I don’t know what to say, Max,” she whispered, tears running freely now. “Because I don’t know how to come back from this.”

—

The air smelled like burnt rubber and heat haze.

Everything was too bright—too clean—and Maya Hamilton felt like she was made of broken glass.

She stood in the back corner of the Mercedes garage, arms folded tightly over her chest, watching Lewis climb into the W12 with that same focused fire in his eyes. It used to make her proud—used to make her heart swell with something close to worship.

Now, it just made her feel small.

“Alright, Maya?” Bono asked as he passed her, clipboard in hand, offering her a quick smile.

She nodded, managed a soft, “Yeah, all good,” even though she hadn’t really eaten since Monaco, and the bags under her eyes were hidden only by genius makeup artistry.

She was not all good.

She hadn’t spoken to Max.

And Lando—God, sweet, loyal Lando—he’d been checking in with quiet texts. 

Across the paddock, Max stood like a statue in front of his car, arms crossed, face unreadable. But she could feel it—his gaze drifting toward the silver garage, like maybe if he stared hard enough, she’d appear and forgive him.

She didn’t.

Lando passed her in the hospitality zone earlier, sunglasses on, jaw tight. He didn’t stop. Didn’t even look at her. But he’d brushed her hand as he passed—so quick, so light she almost thought she imagined it.

And she almost cried right there in the corridor.

“Three minutes to lights out,” someone called. The garage snapped into life.

Maya flinched at the sound, as if the race could somehow shake her loose from everything she was holding inside.

She shifted closer to Angela, who gave her a knowing look. “You okay, babe?”

She nodded. Lied again. “Yeah.”

The lights went out.

And the world moved forward, even if her heart hadn’t.

—

The race was brutal.

Max won. Again.

It wasn’t just a victory—it was a statement. He took it from Lewis in the final laps, overtaking with a precision that Maya knew would haunt her brother for days.

And it gutted her.

Not because Max didn’t deserve it.

But because she couldn’t tell him congratulations.

Could only share the grin with Lando when he finished fifth—she'd seen it bloom behind his helmet visor on the cool-down lap.

All she could do was stand in parc fermé, arms folded, watching Lewis climb from the car and throw his gloves down, jaw tight, too angry to talk.

Toto clapped him on the back. Shov muttered something to him in his ear. Maya didn’t move.

And from across the way, Max caught her eyes for just a second.

One second.

And in it, she saw the win meant nothing to him.

Not really.

Because she wasn’t there to congratulate him.

—

The apartment was quiet when they got home. 

Maya toed off her shoes, kicked her bag under the hallway table, and tried to make it to her bedroom without being stopped.

No such luck.

“Hey.”

She halted.

Lewis had leaned against the frame of the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest. 

She forced a small smile. “Hey. I thought maybe I’d get an early night—”

He didn’t return it. “Yeah—no. You thought wrong.”

Maya sighed, rubbed her temple. “I’m really not—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, voice quieter than she expected. “Don’t give me that I’m fine crap. You haven’t been fine for weeks.”

She turned away, walking toward the fridge just to give her hands something to do. “I’m just tired.”

“That’s not all it is,” Lewis said, stepping closer. “You’ve been checked out. You barely talk to me anymore. I don’t even know if you’re sleeping. It’s like… it’s like when you were sixteen all over again.”

That landed like a punch. She turned, slowly, eyes wide. “I’m not—” Her throat tightened. “I’m not there, Lewis. It’s not like that.”

“Then talk to me,” he said, voice breaking now. “Because I know you, Maya. And whatever this is, it’s not good. And I don’t want to wake up one day and realise I didn’t see it happening again.”

She looked at him. Her big brother. Her protector. The man who had pulled her back from the edge more times than she could count.

And her heart just gave out.

“I fucking fell in love, Lew,” she said suddenly, voice cracking like glass. “And he’s an asshole. And I hate him. But I love him so much.”

Silence.

She didn’t know what reaction she expected. Anger? Confusion?

Lewis’s eyebrows drew together, slowly. “Who?”

Her lip trembled. She blinked fast. “Max.”

He just stared at her.

“And Lando,” she added, barely above a whisper.

His mouth opened, then shut again. “Jesus Christ.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said, tears falling freely now. “I didn’t. It started out… I don’t even know. It wasn’t serious. Then it was. And I love them both. And I know how messed up that sounds. And Max—he—he did something, and I don’t know if I can forgive him, and it broke me, Lewis. It really fucking hurt me.”

Lewis stepped forward, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal.

He wrapped his arms around her without a word, held her so tight she could barely breathe. But she didn’t fight it. She just buried her face in his chest and let the sobs shake out of her.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I didn’t want to lie to you.”

“I’m not mad,” Lewis murmured into her hair. “I’m not. I just wish you’d told me.”

She nodded against him, fingers fisting into the soft fabric of his hoodie like she might fall apart if she let go. His arms were a wall around her, warm and steady, and for the first time in weeks, she let herself stop holding it together.

But the silence didn’t last.

“What did he do?” Lewis asked after a beat, his voice lower now. Sharper. “Max. What did he do?”

Maya froze.

Pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her lips parted, but no words came.

Lewis’s jaw ticked. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “No, not like that.”

“But he did something,” he pressed, not letting go. 

Her throat worked around the answer, heavy and aching. “He went on a date.”

Lewis blinked. “A date?”

Maya nodded once. “I saw him. At a café with some girl. Laughing. Holding her hand—kind of.”

Lewis was quiet for a long time. “You’re not together, though. Not properly. Right?”

“No,” she whispered. “But we were… we are something. We’ve said we love each other. All three of us. It’s messy, and it’s complicated, and it’s so stupid, but it’s real, Lew.”

Lewis’s brow furrowed. “And he knew that?”

She nodded. “Yeah. He knew.”

He pulled away slightly, pacing toward the kitchen counter with his hands on his hips. “So what, he just... he fucking cheated on you?” 

“I think he thought I wouldn’t care,” she said softly. “Or maybe he wanted me to care. Maybe he wanted to prove a point. I don’t know. He said he was tired of being hidden, of always being the secret. And I get it, Lew, I do—but it still fucking hurt.”

Lewis’s eyes narrowed. “So instead of talking to you like a man, he decided to break your heart and play the victim.”

Maya sighed, wiping her cheeks. “It wasn’t that simple. Nothing with Max ever is.”

Lewis leaned forward against the counter, silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “I don’t like him.”

She let out a humourless breath. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re my sister. I’ve seen you at your worst, and I know how long it took for you to feel whole again. And now you’re risking all of that for… for him?”

Maya looked down, voice small. “It’s not just him. Lando too. And he’s been… perfect, honestly. Patient. All in. But this thing with Max is like--I don’t even know how to describe it. It pulls at me even when I don’t want it to.”

Lewis’s shoulders dropped a little. “Then why not just be with Lando?”

“Because I love Max too,” she whispered. “Even when it hurts. Even now. And Lando, he—he loves Max too. In his own way.”

Lewis stared at her for a long time, and then walked back over, resting his hands on her shoulders. “You don’t deserve halfway love, Maya. Not from anyone. You hear me?”

“I know.”

“And if either of them—either—ever makes you feel like you’re hard to love, you come to me. Because I will bury them in the goddamn gravel.”

A shaky laugh broke out of her. She leaned forward again, pressing her face into his chest. “Thanks, Lew.”

He held her tighter this time. “Always, baby girl. Always.”

—

Lewis shut the door to his bedroom harder than necessary. The click echoed in the quiet Monaco penthouse. His chest was still heaving, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

He paced once, twice.

Then grabbed his phone off the desk and hit the number he'd called more times than he could count.

“Hey,” came Bono’s voice, calm as always. Familiar. Safe. “Everything alright?”

“No.” Lewis’s voice cracked like a whip. “No, Bono. It’s not.”

There was a pause. “Talk to me.”

He closed his eyes. “He hurt her. Max. He fucking hurt my sister.”

Bono was quiet again. But not surprised. “How bad?”

“She was crying in my arms,” Lewis snapped. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve seen her like that? Since she broke down like that?”

Bono’s voice dropped, gentle. “What happened?”

“She fell in love,” Lewis bit out. “With both of them. Norris and him. Max. And Max—he went on a date. With someone else. While telling Maya he loved her. Like she’s some disposable thing and not the most precious girl in the entire world.”

Bono sighed softly. “Shit.”

“I’m serious, man.” Lewis raked a hand through his braids. “I swear to God, I’m two seconds away from getting in the car and going over there. I don’t care if it loses me the championship. I’ll put him in the fucking wall if he even looks at her again.”

“Lewis—”

“No, Bono, I mean it. You didn’t see her. She was shaking. And she’s still trying to defend him. Still trying to make it make sense in her head, because she loves him. And he—God, he’s a fucking idiot.”

“I know,” Bono said gently. “I know you’re angry. You’re her big brother. That’s your job.”

“Then let me do my job,” Lewis growled. “Let me protect her. I can fight him and win—easy.”

“And what happens after?” Bono asked calmly. “You go over there, punch him in the face, make headlines around the world, maybe get suspended from the next GP? You think that fixes anything for Maya?”

Lewis was silent.

Bono continued, voice firm but warm. “You’ve been the anchor for her, always. You can’t lose that now. Don’t let your anger speak louder than your love.”

“I just…” Lewis rubbed his eyes. “I just hate seeing her like this. And I hate that I didn’t know. That I didn’t protect her soon enough.”

“You’re protecting her now,” Bono said. “Just by being there. That’s what matters.”

A long silence passed between them.

Lewis sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, the tension in his body slowly bleeding out. “She deserves better.”

“She does,” Bono agreed. “But she has to be the one who makes that choice.”

Another silence. Then, quietly, Lewis said, “If he hurts her again, I’m not calling you first next time.”

Bono chuckled. “Fair. Just… give me a warning before you end your career, yeah?”