#maxverstappen

The house is quiet in a way that feels heavy.

Not peaceful. Not calm. Just… quiet.

You’re sitting on the living‑room floor with your daughter, her tiny hands patting at the wooden blocks you’ve stacked for her. She knocks them over again, giggling, and you smile because she deserves to see you smile. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re lonely in a way that feels embarrassing to admit.

Max should be home by now.

He said he’d be home by seven. It’s half past nine.

You don’t check your phone. You don’t need to. You already know the message waiting for you will be something like sorry, got caught up at the factory or meeting ran late or I’ll be home soon - except soon never means soon anymore.

Your daughter crawls into your lap, warm and soft and smelling faintly of the baby lotion you put on her after her bath. You kiss the top of her head and hold her close, letting her weight anchor you.

You don’t cry. You’re past crying.

You just sit there, in the quiet, and wait.

—

— Max

Max doesn’t realise he’s sprinting until he’s already halfway down the corridor of the factory, keys in hand, bag slung over his shoulder. He’s late. Again. And he hates it. He hates the way his stomach twists when he thinks about you sitting at home, waiting for him. He hates the way he’s become the man he swore he’d never be - the man who lets racing swallow everything else.

He loves racing. He loves you more.

But lately, he hasn’t been acting like it.

He gets into the car, starts the engine, and exhales sharply. He should’ve left hours ago. He should’ve been home for dinner. He should’ve been the one giving your daughter her bath, reading her a story, tucking her in.

He should’ve been there.

He drives faster than he should, guilt clawing at him with every passing streetlight.

—

— you

You’re in the kitchen now, rinsing bottles, wiping counters, doing the small repetitive tasks that keep your hands busy and your mind from spiralling. Your daughter is asleep upstairs. The house is still quiet.

You hear a knock on the doorframe.

“Hey.”

You turn.

It’s Daniel.

He’s leaning against the doorway, jacket half‑zipped, hair messy from the wind. He gives you a soft smile - the kind people give when they’re worried but trying not to show it.

“Thought I’d drop off the stuff you asked for,” he says, lifting a small bag of groceries. “Didn’t want you running out of milk again.”

You smile back, grateful. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says gently. “But I wanted to.”

Daniel has been around more lately. Not in a weird way. Not in a threatening way. Just… present. He checks in. He helps carry things. He plays with your daughter when he visits. He listens when you talk.

He notices you.

Not romantically. Not in a way that crosses any lines. Just in a way that feels like someone finally sees you again.

He sets the groceries down and leans on the counter. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He gives you a look - the kind that says he doesn’t believe you but won’t push.

“Max still at the factory?”

“Probably.”

Daniel hesitates. “You know… you’re doing an amazing job. With her. With everything.”

Your throat tightens. “Thanks.”

He squeezes your shoulder - warm, reassuring - and then steps back. “I’ll get out of your hair. Call me if you need anything.”

You nod again, and he leaves.

The house is quiet.

You stand there for a moment, staring at the groceries, wondering when you started needing someone else to fill the gaps Max left behind.

—

— Max

He sees Daniel’s car pulling away as he turns onto the street.

His stomach drops.

He parks quickly, gets out, and walks toward the house, heart pounding. He knows Daniel. He likes Daniel. He trusts Daniel. But seeing him here - at your home, at night, when Max should’ve been the one inside - makes something sharp twist in his chest.

He opens the door quietly.

You’re in the kitchen, back turned, wiping the counter again even though it’s already clean.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You freeze for a second before turning around. “Hi.”

He steps closer. “I saw Daniel leaving.”

“Yeah. He dropped off some groceries.”

Max nods, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease. “Right.”

You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t ask. The silence stretches.

He hates it.

He hates how unfamiliar it feels - this distance between you, this carefulness, this quiet.

He steps closer again. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“I should’ve been home earlier.”

“Yeah.”

He swallows. “I’m trying.”

You look at him then - really look - and he feels the weight of everything he’s missed. The exhaustion in your eyes. The loneliness. The resignation.

He reaches for your hand.

You let him take it, but your fingers don’t curl around his.

It breaks him a little.

—

The next few days are the same.

Max leaves early. Comes home late. You handle everything - the meals, the naps, the tantrums, the laundry, the endless cycle of domestic tasks that never seem to end. You don’t complain. You don’t ask for help. You don’t ask Max to stay home or slow down or choose you.

You just… stop expecting him to.

Daniel stops by twice. Once to drop off a toy he found that he thought your daughter would like. Once to bring you coffee because he was “in the neighbourhood.”

Max notices.

He notices everything.

He notices how your daughter lights up when Daniel walks in. He notices how you laugh more when Daniel’s around. He notices how Daniel kneels on the floor to play with her, how he listens to you talk about your day, how he fills the space Max keeps leaving empty.

He notices how he’s losing you.

Not to Daniel. But to the quiet.

To the loneliness.

To the absence he’s created.

—

It happens on a Thursday.

Max comes home late again - nearly ten - and finds you sitting on the couch, staring at the baby monitor. Your daughter is asleep, but you’re still watching the screen like you’re afraid she’ll disappear if you look away.

He sits beside you.

You don’t move.

“Talk to me,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “About what?”

“About us.”

You keep your eyes on the monitor. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There is,” he insists. “There’s a lot.”

You exhale slowly. “Max… I don’t want to fight.”

“I’m not trying to fight.”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

He hesitates. “Fix it.”

You finally turn to him, eyes tired. “You can’t fix something you’re never here to see.”

The words hit him like a punch.

He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “I know I’ve been gone a lot. I know I’ve been… distracted.”

“Neglectful,” you say softly.

He flinches.

You don’t say it cruelly. You say it like a fact.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“I love her.”

“I know.”

“But you don’t feel it,” he says, voice cracking.

You look down at your hands. “I feel alone.”

He feels something inside him fracture.

You continue, voice quiet. “I feel like I’m raising her by myself. I feel like I’m living by myself. I feel like I’m married to someone who’s never home. And when he is home, he’s exhausted or distracted or thinking about the next race or the next meeting or the next thing he has to do.”

He swallows hard. “I didn’t realise it was this bad.”

“That’s the problem,” you whisper. “You didn’t notice.”

He closes his eyes.

You don’t cry. You don’t yell. You don’t accuse. You just sit there, calm and quiet, telling him the truth he’s been too busy to see.

He reaches for your hand again.

This time, you pull away.

And that’s when he breaks.

—

The next morning, Max doesn’t go to the factory.

He doesn’t go to the simulator.

He doesn’t go to meetings.

He stays home.

He wakes up early, makes breakfast, feeds your daughter, changes her, plays with her, lets her crawl all over him while he lies on the floor laughing.

You watch from the doorway, arms crossed, unsure whether to trust this sudden shift.

He sees you.

He gets up, walks over, and cups your face gently.

“I’m here,” he says softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, but you don’t melt. Not yet.

He doesn’t expect you to.

He spends the entire day with you both - taking your daughter to the park, pushing her on the swing, carrying her on his shoulders, letting her tug at his hair. He holds your hand when you walk. He kisses your temple. He listens when you talk.

He’s present.

Really present.

And for the first time in weeks, the quiet feels warm again.

—

It’s not perfect overnight.

There are moments when you still feel unsure. Moments when Max still feels guilty. Moments when the distance between you feels like something you’re both learning to cross again.

But he tries.

He tries so hard.

He starts coming home earlier. He starts saying no to unnecessary meetings. He starts carving out time - real time - for you and your daughter. He starts noticing things again — the way you hum when you cook, the way your daughter scrunches her nose when she laughs, the way the house feels different when he’s actually part of it.

He starts being the man you married.

One night, after dinner, you’re sitting on the couch with your daughter asleep upstairs. Max sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch.

He takes a breath. “I was scared.”

You look at him. “Of what?”

“Of losing you,” he says quietly. “Not because of someone else. But because of me.”

Your chest tightens.

He continues, voice soft. “I got so caught up in racing that I forgot racing isn’t my whole life. You are. She is. And I don’t ever want to make you feel alone again.”

You swallow. “I don’t want to feel alone again.”

He reaches for your hand.

This time, you let him take it.

Your fingers curl around his.

He exhales shakily, relief washing over him.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I love you too.”

He wraps his arm around you, pulling you close, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip.

You don’t slip away.

You stay.

—

Weeks later, the house feels different.

Lighter.

Warmer.

Alive.

Max is in the living room, lying on the floor with your daughter sprawled across his chest, babbling happily as she pats his cheeks. He laughs - a soft, warm sound - and kisses her forehead.

You watch from the doorway, heart full.

He sees you and smiles, reaching out a hand.

“Come here.”

You walk over and lie beside him, your head on his shoulder, your hand resting on his chest. Your daughter reaches for your face, giggling, and you kiss her tiny fingers.

Max looks at you - really looks - and his eyes soften.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.

You smile. “Good.”

He kisses you - slow, gentle, full of everything he hasn’t said and everything he’s learning to say now. Your daughter squeals between you, and you both laugh, pressing your foreheads together.

The quiet in the house is no longer heavy.

It’s peaceful.

It’s home.

And Max holds you both like he finally understands what he almost lost - and what he’ll never take for granted again.

ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ: ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱ, ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ, ᴇxᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: ʀᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ - ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ʀᴇϙᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

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. . .

The stadium lights went dark so suddenly that seventy thousand people screamed before the music even started.

Then came the bass.

Deep. Loud. Shaking the entire arena.

A single spotlight hit the center of the stage, revealing Y/n standing there in a glittering silver bodysuit and thigh-high boots, her microphone sparkling under the lights. The sold-out crowd exploded immediately, deafening chants echoing through the stadium.

And from the VIP tent at the side of the stage, Max Verstappen couldn’t stop smiling.

Beside him, Lando Norris was filming the crowd with his phone while Charles Leclerc laughed. Even Oscar Piastri looked genuinely impressed.

“Mate,” Lando yelled over the noise, “your girlfriend is insane.”

Max only smirked proudly. “I know.”

The giant screens flashed red.

Smoke cannons exploded.

And then Y/n grinned into the microphone.

“GOOD EVENING, BABY!”

The crowd screamed louder somehow.

The opening beat of WHERE IS MY HUSBAND? blasted through the stadium.

“Baby- Where the hell is my husband?

What is taking him so long to find me?”

Y/n strutted down the runway stage dramatically, placing a hand over her heart as dancers surrounded her. The audience screamed every lyric back at her instantly.

She laughed breathlessly.

“Oh, you guys know this one?”

The fans practically shook the earth with their response.

During the chorus she danced wildly with her backup dancers, hips swaying perfectly with the beat while fireworks burst behind her. Cameras kept cutting to Max in the VIP area, his face pink from smiling too hard.

The internet would lose its mind over that later.

Especially when Y/n pointed toward the VIP tent during the lyric—

“I would like a diamond ring on my wedding finger”

—and winked directly at Max.

Lando nearly collapsed laughing beside him.

“Oh my god, she’s flirting with you in front of seventy thousand people.”

“She does that,” Max said casually, though the blush on his face betrayed him completely.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Three songs later, the stadium somehow had even more energy.

Y/n had changed into a short sparkly pink dress for Busy Woman and then transitioned into House Tour.

The second the playful intro started, the crowd already knew they were about to lose their minds.

“TAKE YOUR SHOES OF”

Y/n danced across the stage with a teasing grin, spinning around one of the dancers while fans screamed every word. She pointed at different sections of the stadium dramatically as if actually giving them a tour.

At one point she climbed onto the piano platform, singing:

“I just want you to come inside”

before dropping into laughter when the crowd screamed the next lyric louder than she did.

The cameras flashed to the drivers again.

Charles was covering his face laughing.

Oscar looked traumatized.

And Max?

Max looked completely in love.

Not even embarrassed anymore. Just gone.

Y/n noticed it immediately on the giant side screens and giggled into the mic.

“Baby, stop staring at me like that, I’m trying to perform.”

The crowd screamed.

Max just shrugged dramatically from the VIP section.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Later in the show, the atmosphere shifted softer.

Purple lights flooded the stadium as Y/n sat at the piano.

“Okay,” she smiled softly, tucking hair behind her ear, “this one means a lot to me.”

The opening notes of Lover echoed gently.

The crowd immediately lit up the stadium with phone flashlights.

“Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?”

Y/n’s voice softened beautifully as she sang, emotion clear on her face.

And instinctively, her eyes drifted toward the VIP tent.

Only—

Max wasn’t there anymore.

Her smile faltered slightly.

She glanced again while still singing.

Nothing.

No Max.

No orange cap.

No familiar blue eyes staring at her.

For a second she thought maybe he’d gone to get a drink.

Or maybe Lando dragged him somewhere.

Still, something felt odd.

But the show continued.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Near the end of the concert, Y/n stood center stage in a flowing white dress while the first notes of Love Story started playing.

The reaction from the crowd was immediate chaos.

“Oh, you guys LOVE this one,” she laughed.

The giant bracelets around the stadium turned golden, making the entire venue glow like stars.

“We were both young when I first saw you…”

Fans screamed every lyric before she even sang them.

Y/n smiled brightly, running down the long runway stage while waving to different sections. But halfway through the second verse, her earpiece crackled.

“Y/n,” her stage manager whispered urgently, “go to center stage. Now.”

Her brows furrowed slightly.

Technical issue maybe?

Still singing professionally, she slowly walked toward the middle circular platform.

“Romeo, save me…”

Then suddenly—

The massive back wall of the stage began opening.

The crowd erupted instantly.

Not cheering.

Screaming.

Y/n blinked in confusion, still facing the audience.

“What’s happening?” she mouthed silently.

But the fans only screamed louder.

Some were crying already.

Phones everywhere shot into the air.

Completely confused, Y/n turned around—

—and froze.

Max was walking toward her.

The entire stadium exploded.

Y/n’s mouth fell open.

Actually open.

And because she was still a professional, somehow she kept singing while staring at him in total disbelief.

Max looked nervous for maybe the first time in his entire life.

But he kept walking toward her slowly.

The song reached the bridge.

The crowd was already hysterical.

Y/n laughed breathlessly into the microphone, tears immediately filling her eyes as realization hit her.

“No way,” she whispered.

Then she sang the lyric.

“He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring…”

And Max did exactly that.

He dropped onto one knee.

Pulled out a ring.

And seventy thousand people absolutely lost their minds.

Y/n covered her mouth with both hands instantly, crying and laughing at the same time while the crowd screamed so loudly the music nearly disappeared.

The band kept playing softly in the background.

Fans sang the next lyrics for them.

And Max looked up at her with the softest smile she’d ever seen.

Quietly—so only she could hear—he sang along with the song.

“Marry me, Y/n… you’ll never be alone…”

His voice shook slightly.

“I love you. That’s all I really know.”

Y/n was crying too hard to answer immediately.

The giant screens showed tears streaming down her face while the crowd chanted:

“YES! YES! YES! YES!”

Max laughed nervously. “Please say yes before Lando faints.”

Somewhere in the crowd, Lando was in fact screaming louder than everyone else.

Y/n dropped to her knees in front of Max immediately.

“Yes,” she cried. “Of course yes.”

The stadium exploded.

Fireworks shot across the sky.

Max slipped the ring onto her finger before pulling her into a kiss while the entire crowd sang the final chorus around them.

And for a moment, under golden lights and screaming fans and fireworks lighting the night sky—

it felt like the whole world stopped.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

The rest of the night turned into complete chaos.

Happy chaos.

Y/n finished the concert wearing Max’s Red Bull jacket over her stage outfit because she “needed emotional support.” The fans screamed every single time they looked at each other.

The drivers stormed the stage afterward.

Lando tackled both of them into a hug.

Charles immediately demanded to see the ring.

Oscar kept repeating, “I can’t believe this actually happened.”

And backstage, while champagne sprayed everywhere and everyone celebrated around them, Max pulled Y/n close by the waist.

“So,” he murmured against her forehead, “guess you finally found your husband.”

Y/n burst out laughing.

“You are so annoying.”