#max x reader

Max Verstappen, on the other hand, was a gentleman. Capital G Gentleman. He held doors, carried bags, and insisted on walking closest to the street, even if it meant getting hit by a rogue bird scooter or even Charles Leclerc.

Which is what made dating you . . . a little frustrating for him.

“You’re my girlfriend, schat,” he’d complained to you over and over, “I want to spoil you. Why won’t you let me do things for you?”

And you always laughed, sweet and low. “Because I can do them myself.”

“Yeah,” Max would huff, “But you shouldn’t have to.”

It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate it—it was that you weren’t used to it. That kind of gentleness had always felt like something from a storybook. But Max was different. He meant it. Every time he tried to make you feel like a princess, it wasn’t performative. It was just who he was.

Still, habits die hard.

Even tonight, after a perfect dinner date—wine, laughter, one too many appetisers—you walked yourself to the car like always. You were scrolling through your buzzing phone, a message from your best friend lighting up the screen as your heels clicked steadily against the concrete of the underground parking lot.

Max didn’t notice you had paused. With a hand in his pocket, he made his way over to the passenger door, expecting you to reach the handle before him like you always do.

Max didn’t realise you were a meter behind. Not really. He was deep in thought—his hand already reaching for the handle on your side, not expecting anything, just doing. His mind was somewhere between Should I take her to that little vineyard next weekend? and god, she looked good tonight, when he heard your steps stop beside him.

You looked up from your phone and raised a brow, amused. “Max?”

He blinked. “Yes, schatje?”

And for the first time . . . he’d opened the door for you.

You smiled. No teasing, no smug quip—just warmth in your gaze as you leaned forward, pressing the softest kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, baby.”

Max blinked again, stunned, and then—he grinned. No. He beamed. And as you slid into the seat, completely unbothered, Max’s mouth stretched into something close to villainous glee.

When he sat in the driver’s seat, he just took a moment, not even starting the car, but looking at you with this cute smile that slowly widened the more he looked between your eyes.

By the time he was driving through the roads of Monaco, he was full on giggling. A "Heh. Heheheheheh." escaped under his breath, a cartoon villain chuckle if you’d ever heard one. It grew louder, more triumphant. You loved it when Max laughed like this, a usual sight in his streams; scrunched nose and crinkled eyes with his teeth showing in his smile.

When he stopped at a red light, he was buzzing. “Did you see that?” he asked like he’d just won a Grand Prix. “I opened the door for you!”

You raised an eyebrow. “You did.”

“You let me.”

You snorted. “I was texting!”

“I won,” he said dramatically, head thrown back in glee as he started driving again once the light turned green. “That was the greatest moment of my life.”

“You literally won the world championship—”

“This is better.” He whispered like it was some sort of secret, “I have four of those championships, but I only have one of this.”

The whole way home, Max couldn’t stop smiling. Grinning like an idiot, eyes crinkled and squinted and nose scrunched, humming to himself like a ma man, eyes gleaming with chaotic joy. You leaned your head against the window, giggling every time he said something like, “I can die happy now,” or “Do you think there’s a trophy for Most Romantic Door Opening?”

But it wasn’t over.

Oh no.

As the car eased into the garage and the engine turned off, you moved to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Alright, come on—”

“NO.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Don’t move,” Max said, already leaping out of the car like it was on fire. “Don’t. Move. Don’t get out, don’t even breathe!”

“MAX—”

“I MEAN IT!” he shouted across the hood, which he had jumped on in hopes of getting to your side of the car faster than just walking around.

You watched, stunned, as your Formula One world champion boyfriend lunged across the hood like a man possessed. Dress shirt half-untucked, what a sight. he slid off the hood at your side.

You crack the door open and start to get out—but you are quickly shoved back in your seat with the door slamming shut in your face.

You blinked up at him, lips twitching.

He held up a finger, signalling “give me a second”, chest rising and falling as he straightened his shirt. Fixed his posture. Ran a hand through his hair like he was about to walk into a royal ball.

Then, with the gravitas of a knight, he slowly opened the car door.

“My lady,” he said with a bow, extending his hand.

You laughed. Laughed. It bubbled up from your chest and spilt out, uncontrolled. “You are so dramatic.”

“Shhh,” he whispered, eyes twinkling. “Take my hand.”

You did.

He helped you out like you were made of glass. Tucked your hand into the crook of his arm like you were royalty. Walked you up to the elevator, then your shared apartment like he was on some period drama set, absolutely giddy with pride.

You were still laughing when you reached the front door. Shaking your head.

“If this is how you get when I let you open one door,” you teased, “I’m never letting you open one again.”

Max stopped. Froze, his jaw dropped.

His face crumbled—comically horrified, like a man who had just realised he’d wished on a cursed monkey’s paw.

“No. No, no no no—wait. You can open some! Not all of them—I’ll pick which ones—WAIT, PLEASE DON’T TAKE THIS FROM ME.” The Dutchman shook you from your shoulders.

You cackled as you stepped inside, him following quickly in step, pleading dramatically. “I’m begging you, schatje. You can open the fridge. Open your own texts. But let me have the doors, PLEASE—”

“You’re so ridiculous,” you giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck.

His hands slid to your waist, still pouty. “I’m ridiculous for you.”

You kissed him again, slow and sweet this time. “Fine,” you whispered against his lips. “You get the car doors.”

Max lit up again.

“I’m going to start timing myself,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Make it a sport. Beat my personal best to the passenger side.”

“You’re the fastest man in the world, Max,” you said with a grin. “Use your powers for good.”

“Schatje, they call me Mad Max for a reason.”

That question followed you home. The next evening, Max came up behind you in the bedroom, pressing his chest to your back and kissing your neck slowly , his silent “I need you” signal. You were needy too, and the curiosity burned hotter than usual.

You turned into his arms. "Max... about that thing my friend asked. I want to test it but let's turn it into a challenge"

His competitive grin appeared instantly. “Yeah?”

“Whoever taps out first has to be the other’s personal servant for the next two months. Whatever they want, whenever they want. No excuses.”

“Deal,” he said, eyes gleaming. “But I’m not losing, schatje.”

You both loved sabotaging each other. You had secrets to make him lose his mind. He knew your weak spots too. Game on.

You started slow, saving energy. He peeled your shirt off, you did the same to his. Clothes dropped piece by piece until you were naked. He rolled a condom on carefully, then pulled you into soft, deep kisses, hands gentle on your waist as he laid you down.

It was sweet, slow rolls of his hips, lazy making out. Until Max pulled an ace from his sleeve.

While still moving inside you with that unhurried rhythm, his thumb found your clit and started rubbing tight, perfect circles. He knew how easily you got overstimulated there. The gentle session turned electric in seconds. Your breathing grew heavy, hips jerking.

“Max— fuck...” you gasped.

He didn’t stop. He kept the slow thrusts going and rubbed your clit relentlessly until the orgasm hit you like a wave. You cried out, clenching hard around him, thighs shaking. He didn’t let your poor clit rest, drawing out every aftershock until you were panting and dizzy.

It took you a moment to recover. Then you remembered: you had to fight back if you wanted to win.

You pushed him onto his back and straddled him, sinking down onto his cock in one smooth motion. You were in control now.

“No hands,” you ordered, grabbing his wrists and pinning them beside his head.

You rode him exactly how you knew he liked: deep rolls of your hips, then faster bounces, then slowing down cruelly when he got close. Max’s eyes started rolling back, fingers gripping the sheets tightly.

“Please… please let me come,” he murmured, voice strained.

You slowed even more, teasing. “What did you say? Say it louder if you want it.”

Max was too desperate to fight his pride. “Please, Y/N… just let me come, pleasee”

“Good boy,” you whispered, riding him hard and fast until he came with a deep groan, filling the condom.

It was obvious this was only the beginning. Normally you would have stopped here, but your friend was right: pushing limits was addictive. And neither of you liked losing.

Max reached for another condom. You stopped him.

He raised an eyebrow until you slid off the bed and knelt between his legs. His cock twitched at the sight. You rarely did this ,maybe twice in five years, and he knew you weren’t a big fan. That made it even more effective.

“Don’t put it on yet.”

Max needed a bit longer to get fully hard again. You used the time to tease him with your mouth.

He hardened instantly when you kissed the tip. You teased with soft kitten licks and kisses, drawing it out. Soon his hand rested on the back of your head. You let him guide you, relaxing as he pushed deeper.

You gagged and pulled back for air. “Sorry… I’m really inexperienced with this.”

He just stroked your hair gently, breathing hard. You went back in more determined. Your eyes watered, tears slipping down your cheeks as he grew frantic. The ache between your legs became unbearable, so you slipped a hand down and rubbed your clit while sucking him.

Max groaned at the sight. You looked up at him through wet lashes and cupped his balls and that broke him. His eyes rolled back and he spilled into your mouth with a broken moan.

“You don’t have to swallow if you don’t want to,” he rasped.

But you did. You pulled off, opened your mouth to show him, then swallowed.

“Fuck… such a good girl,” he murmured, voice wrecked. His cock twitched hard at the sight.

He noticed your hand still between your legs and grinned. “Is my pretty girl horny? Want me to help?”

“Yes please,” you whispered.

He pulled you back onto the bed, spread your legs wide, and settled between them. He spread your soaked folds, admiring how your pussy clenched around nothing. He toyed with you, circling your clit, sliding fingers along your labia, dipping one finger in only to pull it out.

“Please Max, do something,” you begged, hips humping his hand.

“Naughty girl. Be patient,” he said, then gave your pussy a light slap.

Your whole body jolted and a strangled moan escaped. Max looked surprised but pleased, he’d never done that before. He did it again, a little harder. Your hips jerked and another moan tore from you.

“I see… we’re learning new things about each other,” he said, voice low. He gave one more light slap, then dove between your legs with his mouth, making you see stars.

“How about a 69 if we’re experimenting?” Max suggested with a wicked grin, still catching his breath.

The night became a blur of exploration. You tried positions you’d never bothered with before. Max took you from behind while you gripped the headboard. You rode him reverse cowgirl, grinding back against him. He fucked you against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist. You switched dominance constantly : sometimes you pinned him and edged him until he begged, sometimes he held you down and made you come over and over until your voice went hoarse.

You both lay there for a minute, catching your breath, sweaty and laughing softly.

“Still good?” he asked, competitive glint still in his eyes.

“Better than you,” you shot back.

“Oh my god, Max, you and your stupid 69 jokes,” you laughed.

“Please?” He gave you the softest, subby eyes and sweet talk until you gave in.

It wasn’t a joke. He was obsessed, eating you out like a man starved while you took him back into your mouth. The mutual pleasure was overwhelming. You both came hard again.

Round… you’d lost count.

You were both exhausted, bodies covered in sweat, legs trembling. But neither would quit. You wanted to break him.

“Don’t take a condom this time,” you said, voice hoarse. “I want you raw.”

Max’s eyes darkened with surprise and lust. You were both clean and you were on birth control. He was more than happy to agree, but you could see he was fighting exhaustion too.

He slid into you bare and you both moaned at the feeling. He found your g-spot almost immediately and hammered into it relentlessly, trying to make you tap out. The raw friction felt incredible, too good. You were sore, overstimulated, and felt like it had been hours, but the pleasure kept building.

You came once more, but this time the overstimulation was bordering on too much. Your muscles were tired. Max chased his own release, thrusting deep until he spilled inside you with a guttural groan. He pulled out slowly, watching his cum drip from your pussy for a moment before collapsing beside you.

You both stared at the ceiling, chests heaving.

You turned to look at each other, shocked, then started laughing weakly.

“I’m quitting,” you said at the exact same time as him.

“So… we both lose?” you asked.

“Technically yes,” Max grinned tiredly. “This time. Rematch in two days?”

You groaned but smiled. “Deal.”

He pulled you into his arms and kissed your temple. You stayed there for a while, enjoying the warmth.

“Okay, I need to go clean up,” you said eventually, trying to stand.

Max reached for you. “Sit back down, I’ll clean you up—”

Too late. Your legs gave out the second you stood. You started falling. Max tried to catch you but when he stood up, his own legs buckled too. Both of you ended up on the floor in a tangled, exhausted heap.

You burst out laughing. “I was just… searching for something on the ground.”

Max's brow furrows as he glances to your left hand. While your wedding ring is still on, slender and golden, matching his perfectly, your engagement ring is nowhere to be found. His heart drops. Not because he's upset at the possibility of misplacing the ring permanently, but because he knows how important the ring is to you.

A few years ago he was scrolling through jewelry websites at 2AM, frantically clearing his search history whenever he heard you so much as shift in your sleep. Then, a few months after that, when he had found the perfect ring—one that screamed your name to him so clearly—he found himself down on one knee, confessing all of his feelings that he had already told you a million times over. You had said yes before he could even finish his speech, and, well, the rest was history.

You've cherished that ring ever since. Not only for how much you're sure it cost your husband, but for what it symbolized. You haven't taken it off once for the past three years. You always had a fear of misplacing it or losing it somehow. Now that your fear is being realized, you're seconds away from tears.

"It's okay—it'll be fine. Just calm down first. You had it on this morning?" Max grabs your hands in his, studying your distraught face. Your fingers brush against his ring, the one that matches yours perfectly. The first tears slip down your cheek.

"It was on when I woke up. I never take it off. You know I never take it off." Your voice trembles as your husband pulls you into his arms.

Max starts hunting the house high and low before you've even stopped crying. He knows that you'll feel less panicked if you know he's already on the hunt for it, triple-checking all your usual spots. You've been scatter-brained recently, which isn't quite like you. He tries to ignore a twist in his gut telling him that something must be causing it. Misplacing your keys or phone, forgetting things you came into the room to get, and now your ring is missing too.

Max's eyes scan the bathroom medicine cabinet and then drop to the counter. Out of anywhere in the house, it's a likely place for it to be. He's about to give up on it entirely when he spots a little gold next to the rug on the floor. Sure enough, it's your ring, intact without a scratch on it. He's about to call you to say he's found it when something else catches his eyes. There's a box in the trashcan.

'Pregnancy Test: Ultra Early. Results 6 Days Earlier'.

He picks it up. There's a used test in it— white plastic, unmistakable. He flips it over in his hand carefully, staring at it like it holds the answers to the universe. There's a dark pink line, and as he squints closer, a faint second line. It's barely visible. Max's almost certain he's imagining it. He holds it up to the light, studying it just to be sure. It's undoubtedly there.

"Honey, I found your ring!" he calls out, eyes unable to leave the small test. He knows you would've told him immediately. You wouldn't hide something like this from him. You're too bad at keeping a secret to do that even if you wanted to, especially with him.

Which means… you must not even know. You must've thrown the test out without noticing the second line.

Your face is flooded with relief when you step into the bathroom. Max sets the test down, smiles at you like nothing has changed, and holds out the ring. You grin.

"Thank God it's not lost for good."

Your husband slips the ring back on ceremoniously, kissing your ring finger for good measure which makes you giggle. You pull him down for a real kiss. You're about to deepen it when he pulls back.

"I found something else while looking for your ring," he whispers, lips still a breath away from yours.

"Hm?"

"Tell me," he starts, reaching behind him to pick up the test again. "I'm not imagining the second line… right?"

The paddock always felt like a place you weren’t meant to enjoy. It was too loud, too fast, and filled with too many people acting like a car going in circles was the pinnacle of human achievement.

You adjusted your sunglasses, leaning closer to your manager as the humidity began to mess with your blowout.

“Be honest—if I ‘accidentally’ get lost and end up back at the hotel, how bad would it be?”

“Catastrophic,” she replied, her eyes glued to her phone. “You’re headlining the post-race concert tonight. Try to look like you’re having the time of your life.”

You hummed, unconvinced, watching a camera crew scurry past. A collective hush fell over the nearby crowd, followed by a wave of frantic whispers. It was the kind of energy usually reserved for a surprise drop or a red carpet entrance.

“That’s him,” your manager muttered, finally looking up.

You followed her gaze, uninterested. “Which one? There are fifty guys in matching polos.”

“The World Champion. Max Verstappen.”

He didn’t look like what you expected. There was no dramatic entrance, no ego-flaring energy. He was just… quiet. Hands tucked into his pockets, expression unreadable, walking with a focused stride that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else.

You shrugged, turning back toward the hospitality suite. “The Dutch guy?”

Max heard it. The words were tossed over your shoulder like a piece of confetti—light, colorful, and entirely dismissive.

He slowed his pace, just for a fraction of a second, catching a glimpse of you walking away. You didn’t look back. There was no double-take, no flash of recognition, and absolutely zero interest.

It was a refreshing, if slightly jarring, change of pace.

Later, a PR representative insisted on a formal introduction. It was the "famous singer meets famous driver" photo-op that everyone but the two of you seemed to want.

You offered a polite, practiced smile, your hand feeling small and warm in his when you shook it.

“Hi,” you said, your voice airy and calm. “I think I’m supposed to know exactly who you are. My apologies.”

Max blinked, his blue eyes searching yours for a hint of sarcasm. He didn’t find any. “That would usually help the conversation, yeah.”

You tilted your head, studying the sharp lines of his face like he was a puzzle you weren’t quite sure was worth solving. “They said you’re the best at this?”

A beat of silence passed. Max gave a small, almost shy shrug. “...Sometimes.”

You nodded, accepting that as if it were a perfectly mundane answer. Your eyes drifted toward the garage behind him, where millions of dollars of machinery sat in pieces. “They all look the same, honestly. Does it matter which one you pick?”

Max huffed a quiet laugh before he could catch himself. It wasn't his usual media-trained chuckle; it was genuine. “It matters a little bit, yes.”

You didn’t ask for a picture. You didn’t linger to talk about his stats. You didn’t even try to keep the conversation going once the silence grew thin.

“Well, good luck, I guess,” you added, already stepping back and checking your watch. “Drive safe, or whatever.”

Max watched you leave. Again.

“She just dismissed you,” Lando said, appearing at his side with a grin that was far too wide. “Completely blew you off.”

“I noticed.”

“Called you ‘the Dutch guy’ earlier, too. I heard her.”

Max exhaled, but it wasn't the sigh of someone who was annoyed. His gaze stayed fixed on the spot where you’d disappeared into the crowd. “I’m not thinking about it,” Max said, preempting the comment.

“You definitely are.”

Max didn't answer.

But later that night—when your voice carried over the circuit, clear and effortless, amplified by a thousand speakers—Max stopped mid-sentence in the middle of a technical debrief. He looked up at the monitors, watching you command a stage of thousands with the same casual indifference you'd shown him.

And for the first time all weekend, he wasn't thinking about his lap times. He was paying attention.

-

ynuser

liked by friend1, friend2, f1 and others

ynuser sang, danced, almost passed out from the heat… and apparently met “the dutch guy” 🏁 idk what’s going on but it was fun

friend1 NOT “THE DUTCH GUY” 💀

friend2 girl that’s literally THE max verstappen

user1 THE LAST PIC???? HELLO????

user2 excuse me why is max in her photo dump 😭

user3 max smiling like that??? oh this is serious (it’s been 5 minutes)

user4 new crossover just dropped???

charles_leclerc nice performance 👍

user1 CHARLES WHAT DO YOU KNOW

user5 she said “the dutch guy” like he’s a random man at starbucks 😭

user6 coming back to this when they’re dating btw

ynuser guys relax he was nice 😭

- weeks after

replies:

a - username ain’t no way 😭

b - username HE DOESN’T GO OUT LIKE THIS???

c - username why does he look… soft

d - username that’s literally him I’m sick

-

tiktok

clip: you in your bathroom, phone propped up on the counter. Lipsyncing a love song, you turn to grab something and—in the mirror—there’s a figure behind you. Sitting on the counter, cap low. Scrolling his phone like he doesn’t even realize he’s in frame.

comments:

user1 UM???? PAUSE??? BACKGROUND???

user2 WHO IS THAT MAN

user3 GIRL IS THAT THE DUTCH GUY

user4 he’s just… there. like a side quest character 😭

user5 this is the most accidental hard launch ever

-

-

The studio was stifling.

It was a chaotic mix of expensive equipment, half-empty energy drinks, and a vibrating energy that usually made you feel alive. Today, though, the air felt heavy. You were in the middle of a playback, leaning over a mixing board with Julian, the artist you were collaborating with.

He said something—a dumb joke about a missed note—and you erupted into a laugh, your hand instinctively resting on his forearm for balance. It was the "industry" version of you: warm, accessible, effortlessly charming.

“Okay, okay—run it back from the second verse,” Julian said, grinning back at you.

You nodded, sweeping your hair over your shoulder as you stepped toward the vocal booth. But your eyes drifted to the corner of the room.

Max hadn’t moved in an hour.

He was leaning against the soundproof foam wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his Red Bull cap pulled low. He was a silent spectator, watching the scene with the same terrifying focus he usually reserved for a telemetry screen.

You caught his eye and flashed him a quick, bright grin.

He didn't smile back. He just gave a singular, slow nod—the kind that meant he’d seen exactly what he needed to see.

“Five-minute break?” the producer called out.

You pulled your headphones off, the silence of the booth ringing in your ears. You walked straight toward Max, trying to shake off the sudden chill.

“Hey,” you said, stepping into his space. “You’ve been so quiet. What do you think of the track?”

Max shrugged, his eyes finally lifting from the floor to your face. “It’s good. Very catchy.”

“‘Catchy’?” you teased, poking his arm. “I just spent three hours bleeding my soul into that mic and you give me ‘catchy’?”

“It’s your world,” he said simply, his voice flat. “You know if it’s good. You don't need me to tell you.”

You squinted at him, the playful mood dying. “You’re being weird, Max.”

“I’m not.”

He pushed off the wall, bypassing you to grab his water bottle. He didn't look back.

It was nearly 1:00 AM by the time the elevator dinged on your floor. The silence of the hotel hallway felt like a relief after the roar of the studio.

You kicked your heels off the moment you crossed the threshold of the suite, tossing your bag onto the sofa. “Julian is actually a genius,” you said, still trying to bridge the gap between you. “The way he writes melodies on the fly… it’s actually insane. I think this might be a Top 10 hit.”

“You laugh like that with everyone?” The question was so soft you almost missed it.

You froze, your jacket halfway off your shoulders. You turned slowly. Max was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, the lights of the city casting sharp shadows across his face. He looked like he regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.

“…What?”

“When you’re working,” he clarified, his jaw tight. “Is that just… the standard? The touching, the laughing at things that aren't funny. Is that how it works?”

You stared at him, the realization hitting you like a physical weight. You walked closer, stopping just a few feet away.

“Are you jealous, Max?” you asked. You didn't mean it as a taunt; you were genuinely floored.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re the World Champion,” you whispered, taking another step. “You’re the most confident person I’ve ever met. You really think I’m looking at anyone else in a room you’re standing in?”

He exhaled a harsh, jagged breath, his eyes finally snapping to yours.

“It’s different, seeing it,” he admitted, his voice dropping an octave. “I spend my life in a car where everything is logic and data. Then I watch you… and you’re so easy with people. You give them so much of yourself.”

He reached out, his fingers catching your wrist and pulling you into his space. His grip wasn't tight, but it was possessive.

“I know it’s work,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes. “Doesn’t mean I have to like watching them think they have a chance.”

You didn't answer with words. You just reached up, cupping his face, feeling the tension in his neck finally start to break.

Max didn't do "subtle" often, but when he did, it burned.

-

ynuser

liked by user1, lanadelrey, charles_leclerc and others

ynuser lost my voice, lost my mind, found my favorite place again 🤍 thank you for screaming with me

friend1 YOU ATE SO HARD???

friend2 i have no hearing left btw thanks

user1 THE LAST SLIDE HELLO???? WHO IS THAT 🫦

user2 she looks so happy lately 🥹

user3 WAIT IS THAT MAX VERSTAPPEN BACKSTAGE OR AM I DELUSIONAL

lando good show 👍

user1 LANDO WHAT DO YOU KNOW

user4 THE DRIVERS IN HER COMMENTS????

ynuser idk who you’re talking about 😭

-

“We’re not serious.”

Max says it like he’s reading a data sheet. Like if he labels the situation, he can keep it from spiraling out of control. It’s a boundary. It’s a safety net.

You always nod like it doesn't matter, your expression as practiced as a red-carpet pose. “Totally. Just casual.”

But "casual" doesn't usually involve sneaking through service elevators at 3:00 AM. It doesn't involve the quiet, heavy click of a hotel deadbolt and the immediate relief of being in a room where nobody is holding a camera.

When you open the door, he’s always there—no announcement, no fanfare. Just Max, leaning against the doorframe with that half-hidden smirk.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi,” he responds, his voice low and raspy from a day of radio comms.

No labels. No questions. Just the way his hands find your waist like they’ve memorized the coordinates. Casual doesn’t feel like the glow of a phone screen in the middle of the night.

[2:07 AM] Max: you’re still awake?

You’re staring at the ceiling of a penthouse in London, the city lights bleeding through the curtains. You smile into your pillow, the heat of the text hitting you harder than it should.

You: jet lag is ruining my life. why are you up?

There’s a pause. The "typing..." bubble appears, disappears, and then comes back.

Max: you have rehearsal at 10. go to sleep.

Your chest feels warm, a frantic little flutter that you try to ignore. You know for a fact he didn't have your tour itinerary—at least, he wasn't supposed to.

You: yes, dad.

Max: shut up. sleep.

You laugh softly, burying your face in the duvet so your stylist in the next room doesn’t hear you.

“Just casual,” he repeats a few days later, almost like a mantra he needs to hear out loud.

You’re in his kitchen in Monaco, barefoot and swallowed whole by one of his oversized Red Bull hoodies. You’re humming a melody that hasn't been released yet, opening his fridge with the casual entitlement of someone who knows exactly where the orange juice is kept.

“Yeah,” you echo, glancing at him over your shoulder. “No strings.”

But "casual" doesn't memorize your flight numbers. It doesn't know exactly what time your soundcheck starts in a different time zone. It doesn't result in a vibration in your pocket five minutes before you go on stage.

Max: good luck tonight.

Max: you’ll be great.

Max: text me after.

Casual doesn’t stay on the phone while you fall asleep.

There are nights when the tour is too much, when the noise of the fans and the pressure of the label feel like they’re crushing you. You’ll call him, and he won’t say much—he isn’t a man of many words—but he’ll stay.

He’ll stay on the line while you breathe, his own steady, rhythmic breathing acting as an anchor. He’ll wait until your voice trails off, until you’ve finally drifted away.

“You did good today,” he’ll whisper into the silence, thinking you’re too far gone to hear him.

One night, you’re sitting on his kitchen counter, your legs brushing his thighs as he leans in to grab a glass. You don't move. He doesn't either.

“You’re actually terrible at 'casual,' Max,” you say, your voice daring him to look at you.

He pauses, his hand hovering near the cupboard. He doesn't look away. “…I’m not.”

“You text me before every single show. You know my schedule better than my assistant does.”

“That’s just being efficient,” he counters, though his voice has lost its edge. “I like knowing where you are.”

“You remember things I don’t even remember telling you,” you press, stepping off the counter so you’re standing directly in his space. “The name of my first guitar. How I like my coffee when I’m tired. That’s not 'casual' behavior.”

“Max.” He looks at you then. Really looks. The World Champion, the man who can navigate a turn at 200 mph without blinking, suddenly looks like he’s hit a wall he didn't see coming.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy with everything neither of you is supposed to feel.

“Just casual,” he repeats, but his voice is a ghost of itself. His hand lingers on your waist, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle against the fabric of his own hoodie.

He doesn't pull away. And for once, you don't let him.

-

lando

liked by ynuser, alex_albon, user and others

lando weekend 👍

10 minutes later… POST DELETED

-

user - username WHY WAS SHE ON HIS LAP LIKE THAT????

user - username I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE LANDO NORRIS

user - username NOT EVEN HARD LAUNCH THIS IS FULL ON CONFIRMATION 😭

user - username HE DELETED IT BUT WE WERE QUICKER

-

TIKTOK - EDITS MADE BY FANS

user this won’t last

user she’s too young for him idc

user He’s gonna get bored 🙂

user this is such a rebound situation

user She’s literally an influencer. What is he doing?

user They don’t even match ❗❗❗

user opposites attract but this is too much

user I give it 3 months.

user He’s never been with someone like her…

-

user ACTUALLY REALLY SWEET??? OH

user charles confirming before max does 😭

-

-

ynspam

monaco16 has started following you.

saintalex has started following you.

lilythegolfist has started following you.

12 more users has started following you.

-

ynspam

liked by fastlion, monaco16, saintalex and others

ynspam he said this song isn’t good btw

friend1 HE’S WRONG

friend2 DUMP HIM

saintalex THIS IS GOLD 😭

lilythegolfist he looks so domestic???

-

The apartment in Monaco was too quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy and expectant, like the air right before a thunderstorm. Max was pacing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, his jaw tight, while Y/N sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, her phone face down on the coffee table as if it were a live grenade.

"I’m just saying, Y/N, you don't have to engage with it," Max said, his voice clipped and frustratingly calm. "Why do you even read the comments? It’s just noise. If you stop posting the behind-the-scenes stuff, the vultures have nothing to pick at."

Y/N let out a sharp, dry laugh, looking up at him. "It’s not 'just noise,' Max. It’s my career. I’m a singer, not a driver who can just put a helmet on and disappear into a cockpit. My brand is my connection to people. If I go silent, I’m 'aloof.' If I speak up, I’m 'dramatic.'"

"Then let the PR team handle it," he countered, stopping his pacing to look down at her. "You’re making yourself miserable over people who don't know you. I’ve been through this for a decade. You ignore the bullshit, you do the work, and you move on. It’s simple."

"It’s simple for you," she snapped, standing up to meet his gaze. The height difference usually felt comforting, but right now, it felt like a wall she couldn't climb over. "You’re the world champion. You’re older, you’re established, and you’re a man in a sport where being 'aggressive' or 'cold' is a compliment. I’m twenty-one. To the world, I’m a girl who got lucky with a catchy hook, and they are waiting—begging—for me to mess up so they can call me a child."

Max stepped closer, his expression softening into that protective look that usually made her feel safe, but today, it felt like a cage. He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she stepped back.

"I’m trying to protect you, Y/N. I don’t want to see you crying over a Twitter thread at 2:00 AM. I’ve seen how this world chews people up. I’m just telling you how to survive it."

"You’re telling me how to be quiet," she corrected, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and exhaustion. "You treat me like I’m some fragile thing that needs to be shielded, Max. Every time I try to vent, you give me a lecture. You talk to me like I’m a rookie who doesn't know the tracks, but this isn’t your world. It’s mine."

Max crossed his arms, his blue eyes hardening again. "I’ve had cameras in my face since I was seventeen. I know what it’s like to be the villain in the headlines. Don’t act like I don't understand the pressure."

Y/N looked at him, really looked at him—the man who had lived a whole lifetime of fame before she’d even graduated high school. The gap between them had never felt wider than it did in that moment.

"You understand your pressure," she said quietly, her voice cutting through the room. "But you don't get what it’s like to be me online. You’ve never had your entire worth as a human being debated because of the shirt you wore or the way you breathed in a ten-second clip. You don’t get what it’s like to be a young woman in this industry, Max. You don't get the vitriol, and you definitely don't get how much it hurts when even you look at me like I’m just a kid who doesn't know any better."

Max opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. He looked at her—really saw the frustration and the genuine hurt in her eyes—and for the first time in a long time, the man who always had a calculated answer was left in total silence.

-

user - username she’s so pretty but she looks like she’s playing dress up in her kids clothes… idk

user - username the age gap is really starting to show. she looks like a fan he picked up at a concert.

user - username Kelly had that elegance. Y/N is just… a pop star. It’s a massive downgrade in maturity if you ask me. ☕️

user - username Max went from a woman to a girl who still uses TikTok filters. I give it six months.

user - username @ user RT. Max needs someone who understands the pressure of the sport, not someone who’s spiraling over her own album charts every week.

-

-

maxverstappen1

liked by ynuser, charles_leclerc, alexandraleclerc and others

maxverstappen1 My favorite person ❤️

user Still think Kelly was a better fit for the champion lifestyle…

maxverstappen1 @ user Then go follow her. I’m happy with my life, you should try finding one of your own. 👍

-

ynuser

liked by maxverstappen1, lilymhe, friend1 and others

ynuser ocean air, salty hair 🌊

maxverstappen1 Nice 👍

ynuser @ maxverstappen1 max i am literally your girlfriend, "nice 👍" is for a podium finish, not this. this is why we don't let you comment.

user Not the thumbs up 😭 he is such a dad i’m crying

-

-

The air in the Monaco penthouse was thick with the scent of expensive hotel candles and the lingering metallic tang of Max’s race gear, discarded near the door. Suitcases were open like jagged teeth across the floor—hers, packed for the Asian leg of her world tour; his, barely zipped for the triple-header in the Americas.

Y/N was sitting on the floor, her head resting against the side of the bed, staring at a stack of polaroids they’d taken in Ibiza. She looked small, swallowed by one of Max’s oversized Red Bull hoodies.

"I can’t even look at my phone without seeing a side-by-side of us and his 'past life,'" she whispered, her voice sounding thin and frayed. "And tomorrow I’m in Tokyo, and you’re in Austin, and then Mexico... Max, I’m drowning. I feel like I’m dragging you down into this circus with me."

Max stopped mid-motion, his hand hovering over his watch charger. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. "You think you’re dragging me down? Y/N, I’ve lived in a circus since I was four years old. I don't care about the noise."

"I do!" she stood up, the movement sudden and sharp. "I care because it’s hurting my music. I care because every time I post a song about being happy, people find a way to make it about your history. Maybe..." she swallowed hard, the word catching in her throat like a shard of glass. "Maybe we should just... take a break. Just until the season is over. Until my tour wraps. Just so we can breathe."

The silence that followed was deafening. Max didn't move. He didn't even blink. He just looked at her with a terrifyingly calm intensity that made her heart stutter.

"A break," he repeated, the words sounding foreign and bitter.

"Just to take the pressure off," she tried to explain, her eyes filling with tears. "So the media stops hunting us. So I can focus on my fans and you can focus on the championship without having to defend me every five minutes."

Max took three slow steps toward her, stopping only when he was inches away. He didn't reach for her. He stayed perfectly still, a statue of cold, hard resolve.

"I’m going to say this once," Max said, his voice dropping into that low, guttural register he used when he was absolutely serious on the radio. "I spent a year alone after Kelly. I spent a year doing exactly what everyone told me to do—focusing on the car, staying quiet, living for the points. It was the most boring, empty year of my life."

He stepped even closer, forcing her to look up.

"I already did the 'break' thing once, Y/N. I’ve seen what my life looks like without the person I actually want to come home to. I’m not doing it again."

"Max—"

"No," he cut her off, his hand finally coming up to cup her jaw, his thumb wiping away a stray tear with a firm, almost desperate pressure. "If you’re tired, we’ll buy you a private jet so you can sleep between shows. If the media is loud, I’ll hire more security to keep them away from your door. But I am not letting you go because some losers on the internet can't move on from my past. You are my present. You are my future. And if you think I’m letting you walk out that door because things got 'difficult,' then you really don't know me at all."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath hitching just slightly. "Don't ask me for a break again. I don't do breaks. I win, or I crash. And I’m not planning on crashing this."

The tension from the night before hadn't fully vanished, but it had shifted from a sharp, jagged edge to a low, steady hum of mutual understanding. The suitcases were still there, a reminder of the thousands of miles about to come between them, but the "break" was officially off the table.

The drive to the private terminal was silent, but not heavy. Max’s hand was anchored on Y/N’s thigh, his thumb tracing small circles over the fabric of her jeans. It was his way of tethering her to him before the world tried to pull them apart again.

"You're going to kill it in Tokyo," Max said, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep. "And I don't want to hear about you checking the charts at 3:00 AM. You do the show, you go to sleep. I’ll be awake in Austin if you need to call."

Y/N leaned her head on his shoulder. "And you? No 'nice thump up' comments while I'm gone? I need real support, Max. At least a heart emoji."

Max let out a short, huffed laugh. "I think I’ve established my position on the internet for the week. I’m sticking to the 'defender' role for a while. It’s more effective."

Three days later, the media was still buzzing about the "breakup scare" rumors and the deleted comments on Max’s Instagram. During the Thursday press conference, a journalist couldn't help himself.

"Max, there’s been a lot of talk about the 'distractions' in your personal life lately, especially with the crossover between the F1 world and the music industry. Does the intense media scrutiny around your relationship affect your focus on the championship?"

Max didn't even lean into the mic. He just stared the reporter down with that famously blunt "Verstappen" gaze.

"The only 'distraction' is having to answer questions about my private life instead of the car," Max said coolly. "My girlfriend is currently selling out stadiums in Japan. She’s the hardest working person I know. If anything, her 'circus' makes mine look like a playground. She doesn't distract me; she makes me want to be better. Next question."

-

-

user - username Y/N just performed a new song in Tokyo and the lyrics are: "You tell me I’m young like it’s a crime / But you’re the one running out of time / To keep up with me." OH SHE’S TALKING TO THE WORLD CHAMPION. THE AGE GAP TENSION IS CORE TO THE DISCOGRAPHY 🎤🔥

user - username the way they fought, almost broke up, and then Max decided to become her #1 PR manager is the character development I needed

user - username "I don't do breaks" - Max Verstappen, 2026. He really said 'If we're going down, we're going down together.' I'm crying.

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user - username “My boy’s a winner, he loves the game / My lips reflect off his gold chain” OH SHE’S NOT EVEN TRYING TO HIDE IT ANYMORE. Max literally wears that gold chain every single race day. 😭

user - username “Losing all my innocence in the back seat” AND SHE’S 21/22??? Max Verstappen what have you done to our girl 💀💀

user - username The way Makies is probably having a heart attack over the “fog up the windows in the parking lot” line right now.

user - username Not her writing a whole anthem about a Red Bull driver and mentioning Diet Pepsi… the brand conflict is hilarious.

-

ynuser

liked by maxverstappen1, llilymhe, alexandraleclerc and others

ynuser untouched, xo. 🍒

maxverstappen1 I told you Red Bull tastes better. But the song is good. 👍

ynuser @ maxverstappen1 max please… i am trying to have a "pop star" moment and you’re doing brand deals in my comments. 🙄

charles_leclerc Nice song! But I think the "back seat" part might be a bit difficult in a race car, no? 😂

maxverstappen1 @ charles_leclerc Focus on your own car, Charles.

-

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

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━TRANSCRIPT OF THE 2025 JAPANESE QUALIFYING━

❪ y/n walking into the garage ❫ [ fan ] Y/n, who are you supporting today? [ Y/n ] Umm.. the world champ!

❪ y/n and max in the garage learning your dance challenge ❫ [ Y/n ] so your hand goes like this.. [ Max ] Mhm.. following Y/n’s dance move [ Y/n ] sighs ok but don’t be so stiff! you’re not even moving your chest— [ Max ] You didn’t tell me to move my chest! [ Y/n ] But do you see me going all- awkwardly starts copying the way he moved, before he pushes you away while laughing [ Y/n ] Gosh—all those nights clubbing for what..

━TRANSCRIPT OF THE 2025 JAPANESE GRAND PRIX━

❪ max walking into the garage ❫ [ reporter ] max, what’s the thing keeping you motivated right now? [ Max ] .. listening to my favourite music? shows your song playing on his phone

❪ max at the press conference ❫ [ reporter ] All your fans were cheering for you today, Max, and uh.. you shared a special moment after the win with one of your best friends, Y/n, who’s making her first appearance at the garage! [ Max ] laughs in surprise Well I.. I was certainly glad that she came, you know we’ve been friends for years and.. frankly, she doesn’t have a clue about racing but she said that my car looked the coolest. [ reporter ] do you think with the overwhelming support, you were able to perform better? [ Max ] You know, to be honest, I don’t really show off when I’m racing—I just do what I believe is the best for myself. but today I just.. sort of wanted to show off a little bit more?

❪ y/n leaving the garage ❫ [ fan ] y/n!!!! can you sign my hat? gives redbull cap [ Y/n ] of course~ [ Max ] somehow appears behind you and grabs the hat heyyyy these are supposed to be for me to sign! [ Y/n ] rolling your eyes while fans laugh see how he dramatic he is?

liked by lilymhe, maxverstappen1, madisonbeer and others ynln roses4ruby view comments

user7 oh girl is getting FED liked by author user8 PRETTYYY user9 I AM LIVING FOR THESE SOFT LAUNCHES user10 WHO IS THATTTT GIVE US A HARD LAUNCH 🙏🏻 user11 that last photo miss you cannot just do that to us

user12 babe we need a step by step guide on how you get these kinds of men ynln I fled to Monaco LMAO

user13 Max treating her right I see user14 I still dk how people think they’re together aren’t they like best friends TT user15 Her song ‘get set go’ was literally about a secret relationship with a race car driver? am I the only one not surprised orrrr… user16 max and a wag in the likes is all it takes for me to confirm their relationship 😂

liked by carmenmmundt, maxverstappen1, and others ynln helloooo 2026 view comments

maxverstappen1 ❤️❤️ liked by author ynln love youuu

lilymhe my fav cat parents ynln 🤭🤭

user17 CUTEEEE user18 Called itttt

user19 our first maxyn post 🥹 user20 BABE YN HAS BEEN POSTING MAX LOLL user21 legitttt seeing her old posts and his stories now make me question how we were so clueless 😭

The air inside the rented penthouse overlooking the Monaco harbor smelled of expensive champagne, lime wedges, and the distinct, humid electricity of a Formula 1 weekend that had finally reached its chaotic conclusion.

Down below, the Mediterranean lapped lazily against the docks, indifferent to the multi-million-dollar yachts jostling for berth and the adrenaline still humming in the veins of everyone inside the room.

You were sitting on the edge of a velvet-upholstered sofa, nursing a gin and tonic that had long since lost its ice, watching the room spin in a blur of designer labels and relieved laughter.

Across the room, standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, was Max.

Earlier that evening, under the blinding lights of the podium, he had been the portrait of the ruthless, hyper-focused machine the world knew him to be.

The grim set of his jaw, the sharp, calculating glint in his blue eyes as he sprayed the champagne—that was the three-time World Champion.

That was the driver who lived and breathed apexes, telemetry, and tenths of a second.

Right now, however, Max was leaning against the window frame, wearing a slightly rumpled white linen shirt with the top three buttons casually undone, holding a red solo cup that looked entirely too casual in his hand.

He was talking to Christian and a couple of engineers, and he was currently laughing so hard he was practically folding in half.

It wasn't his usual polite, media-trained chuckle. It was a breathless, high-pitched giggle that made his shoulders shake, his hand coming up to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.

You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of your lips. You knew the secret that the rest of the paddock, the press, and the millions of fans watching on television would never believe: when Max Verstappen had a few too many drinks, the ice melted entirely.

The ruthless competitor vanished, replaced by a warm, impossibly affectionate, and deeply giggly mess who only had eyes for one person in the room.

You.

As if feeling the weight of your gaze across the crowded room, Max’s head snapped up. His eyes, bright and unfocused, scanned the room until they landed on you.

Instantly, a massive, brilliant grin spread across his face—the kind of smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look ten years younger.

He abandoned his conversation mid-sentence, mumbling something to Christian that caused the team principal to just laugh and wave him off with a knowing smirk.

Max navigated the room with the slightly buoyant, uncoordinated stride of a man whose equilibrium had been entirely compromised by tequila and a very successful race weekend.

He weaved past a group of mechanics, narrowly avoided a low-hanging brass lamp, and dropped heavily onto the sofa right next to you, sliding across the velvet until his thigh pressed flush against yours.

"Hiii," he breathed out, the word stretching into a soft, melodic sigh. He dropped his head immediately onto your shoulder, his forehead resting against the crook of your neck.

"Hi, Max," you murmur, setting your drink down on the marble coffee table before your hand instinctively finds its way into his soft, messy hair, your fingers threading through the damp strands at the nape of his neck. "Did you have a good night?"

Max let out a muffled giggle against your collarbone, his warm breath fanning against your skin. "The best night. The best night ever. You look…"

He pulled his head back just enough to look up at you, his blue eyes wide, glassy, and completely starstruck. "…you look so pretty. Did I tell you that? I feel like I didn't tell you that enough today."

"You told me three times while we were getting out of the car, and twice in the elevator," you tease gently, a fond warmth blooming in your chest.

Max gasped dramatically, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead with exaggerated shock. "Only five times? That’s terrible. I am a terrible boyfriend. I need to fix this immediately."

He tried to sit up straight to deliver a proper compliment, but his coordination betrayed him, and he wobbled dangerously to the left, letting out a sudden, high-pitched snort of laughter as you caught him by the waist to keep him from tumbling off the sofa.

"Careful there, champion," you laugh, steadying him. "Don't break yourself on a Sunday night. You have simulator work on Tuesday."

"Simulator," Max repeated the word slowly, as if it were a foreign language he had never heard before. He wrinkled his nose in profound disgust. "No. No simulators. Simulators are stupid. You know what's not stupid?"

"What's not stupid, Max?"

"You," he declared triumphantly, pointing a slightly unsteady index finger right at the tip of your nose. "You are very smart. And very soft. And I love you so, so much."

The declaration was delivered with such absolute, unfiltered sincerity that it caught you completely off guard.

Even when he was sober, Max wasn’t a man of excessive, flowery words; his affection was usually shown through quiet loyalty, shared meals, and the occasional lingering hand on your lower back.

But when the alcohol hit his system, his emotional filter dissolved entirely, turning him into a walking, talking puddle of pure devotion.

"I love you too, Max," you whisper, your thumb gently tracing the line of his cheekbone, feeling the heat radiating off his skin.

Max beamed, looking immensely pleased with the answer, before his expression suddenly shifted into one of deep, philosophical concentration. He stared at your hand on his face for a long moment, blinking slowly.

"Hey," he whispered conspiratorially, leaning in close so his lips brushed against your ear. "Do you think the fish in the harbor are sleeping right now?"

You pressed a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh. "It's three in the morning, Max. I'm going to guess yes."

"That's wild," he giggled, burying his face back into your neck, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "Imagine being a fish. Just swimming around. No tires. No pit stops. Just vibes."

By four in the morning, the party had thinned out significantly. The music had been lowered to a soft, ambient hum, and the remaining guests were slumped in corners, nursing coffees or quietly talking in small groups.

Max, however, had reached the stage of intoxication where sitting still was no longer an option, but walking in a straight line was a distant dream.

He had spent the last twenty minutes trying to balance a coaster on top of your water glass, giggling uncontrollably every time it tilted and slid off.

"Okay, sleeping beauty," you whisper, gently taking the coaster out of his hand and setting it aside. "I think it’s time we head back to the hotel."

Max blinked up at you, his lower lip pushing out in a dramatic, pathetic pout that would have melted the heart of the sternest team boss on the grid. "So soon? But we haven't fed the fish."

"We can feed the fish tomorrow. Come on." You stand up and offer him your hand.

Max stared at your hand for a second before wrapping both of his large, warm palms around yours, letting you haul him up to his feet.

As soon as he was upright, his momentum carried him forward, and he promptly crashed into your chest, wrapping his arms securely around your waist and burying his face right in your stomach.

"You're warm," he mumbled happily, refusing to let go.

"Max, we have to walk across the room. People are watching."

"Let them look," he sighed dramatically against your shirt. "They don't get to hug you. Only I get to hug you."

With a soft laugh, you managed to guide him—half-walking, half-dragging him—toward the private elevator that led down to the underground parking garage.

After a brief, quiet goodbye to Gianpiero, who shot you a deeply sympathetic and amused look as Max waved frantically with both hands, the elevator doors slid shut, sealing the two of you in blessed, air-conditioned silence.

As the car descended, Max let out a long, contented sigh, his forehead resting gently against the cool mirrored wall of the elevator. Then, slowly, a mischievous little smile crept onto his face.

Without warning, he turned around, wrapped his arms around your shoulders, and lifted you effortlessly off your feet, spinning you around in a slow, clumsy circle.

"Max! Put me down!" you yelp, laughing despite yourself as your feet dangle in the air.

"Weee!" he giggled, the sound bubbling out of him bright and carefree. "Look! I’m stronger than an F1 car!"

"You're going to drop me!"

"I would never drop you," he said instantly, his tone suddenly dropping from playful silliness to a soft, profound seriousness that caught you off guard.

He set you back down on your feet carefully, keeping his hands firmly on your waist, his blue eyes searching yours in the dim light of the moving elevator.

"Never. You're my favorite person in the whole universe."

Before you could reply, the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to the quiet, concrete expanse of the underground garage.

The cool night air hit your skin as you finally made it to your rented car. You unlocked the doors, and Max slid into the passenger seat with the practiced grace of a man who spent his life climbing in and out of tight spaces, though he immediately hit his head on the door frame because he was smiling too wide to look where he was going.

"Ow. Okay, that hurt," he whispered, giggling again as he rubbed the top of his head. He pulled his seatbelt across his chest with exaggerated precision, clicking it into place with a loud clack. "Safe! Safety first. Safety car deployment."

You slide into the driver's seat, shaking your head with a fond smile, and start the engine. The drive back to your hotel was short, winding along the empty, sodium-lit streets of Monaco.

Max spent the entire five-minute journey pressed flat against the passenger window, staring out at the passing streetlights with wide-eyed fascination, occasionally humming a tune that didn't seem to belong to any known song.

Getting Max out of the car, up the hotel elevator, and into your suite required the kind of tactical coordination usually reserved for a high-stakes pit stop.

By the time you finally managed to unlock the suite door and guide him inside, Max looked like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut.

He kicked off his designer loafers—leaving them haphazardly in the middle of the entryway—and shuffled into the bedroom like a giant, sleep-deprived toddler.

"Bed," he announced to the room at large, before face-planting directly onto the king-sized mattress, burying his face deeply into the crisp white pillows.

He let out a long, wheezing groan of pure satisfaction. "Oh, god. This is the greatest invention in human history. Better than the RB19. Better than anything."

You walk over to the side of the bed, crossing your arms and looking down at the heap of limbs currently occupying your sheets. "You know, you still have your shirt and jeans on, Max."

Max slowly turned his head to the side, one eye peering out from beneath a pillow. He looked at you with an expression of profound, tragic betrayal. "Are you telling me I have to move?"

"I'm telling you that you'll regret sleeping in jeans tomorrow morning when your head feels like a V10 engine failing on the final lap."

With a dramatic, theatrical sigh that sounded like he was being led to the gallows, Max rolled over onto his back, throwing a forearm across his eyes. "Help me. I am a broken man."

Suppressing a laugh, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and gently pull his arm away. Max opens one eye, squinting up at you with a dopey, affectionate smile.

"Come on, sit up," you murmur.

You help him shrug out of the rumpled linen shirt, tossing it onto a chair. He cooperative, albeit entirely limp, letting you guide his arms out of the sleeves like an oversized toddler.

When it comes to the jeans, he insists on unbuttoning them himself, though his fumbling fingers take three clumsy tries to get the button through the hole, setting off another round of quiet, breathless giggles.

Once he's finally stripped down to a soft pair of gray sweatpants, he wriggles beneath the duvet, pulling the covers all the way up to his chin.

He looks up at you from the pillows, his hair sticking out in every direction, looking entirely unlike the fierce, unyielding athlete the world worships.

"You're taking care of me," he whispers softly, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion. "You always take care of me."

"Of course I do," you say softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Now close your eyes and go to sleep, Max."

Before you can pull away, a large, warm hand shoots out from beneath the blankets, wrapping securely around the back of your neck. With surprising strength for a man who had nearly fallen off a sofa an hour ago, Max pulls you down toward him.

He doesn't kiss you immediately. Instead, he just presses his forehead against yours, breathing you in, his blue eyes shining in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

"I love you," he murmurs again, the words quiet, steady, and utterly sincere, stripping away all the giggles and silliness to reveal the deep, anchor-like devotion underneath. "Don't ever leave me, okay?"

You smile, your heart swelling to fill your entire chest, and wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him close.

"I'm not going anywhere, Max. Go to sleep."

Max hums contentedly, closing his eyes as the alcohol finally pulls him under. Within seconds, his breathing deepens and evens out, the tension draining completely from his frame.

You turn off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness, and slip into bed beside him.

Almost instinctively, even in his deep sleep, Max shifts closer, throwing an arm heavy and warm over your waist and pulling you flush against his chest.

Safe in the quiet dark of the hotel room, far away from the screaming fans, the flashing cameras, and the relentless pressure of the racing world, the World Champion finally rests, anchored safely in your arms. . .