#mlm fluff

Despite how loud the music is, you instantly turn around, the furrows of your brow gone the second you see his face. “Hey love, when did you come home?”

“Just now,” he hums, taking off his jacket and lying it against the back of the couch before rounding to you, palms finding its home on your hips. “Missed you.”

You chuckle, own hands finding their place around his shoulders. “I can tell, wanna talk about it?” He shakes his head to instead dip it into your neck, all the stress abruptly leaving his body at his husband’s comforting touch. Your hums vibrates against him.

“Care to dance?”

He can never say no when you ask so sweetly.

“What kind of a lover would I be if I refused?”

He doesn’t give you a second to respond before pulling you in closer, a hand pressed into your jaw as his lips meets yours in a loving kiss. You feel him practically melt into you, the world around him melting away everything but your love.

“So cute…” he hears you mumble between breaths taken, the tips of his ears flushing a darker color. You’ve always managed sweet talk your way into his heart. He pulls away the moment you start to sway his body with yours, humming a tune that sounded better than whatever jazz song was playing.

Your fingers lightly scrape against his hair, massaging his scalp and compelling him to devour lips again. His hand falls down to your hips once more, rubbing circle into the skin and taking you in. This reminds him of his honeymoon, slow dancing with you nearly every night, putting him in a trance and music loud enough to drown out his beating heart. Oh, how much he adores you.

“I love you.”

His heart almost stutters at your whisper, a soft smile tugging on his lips. “And I love you,” a murmur before he takes claim on your sweet lips one more time, swaying to the music, “always.”

Lando Norris grinned beside you in sixth place, relieved to have salvaged points after a messy race, but you… you had finished eighth. A massive drop for someone who’d been fighting for top five consistently this season and had such a brilliant debut season 2 years ago. It seems like the airport encounter has mentally destroyed you. You keep making mistakes, miscalculation at turns, trembling hands, ect. Fans must be so disappointed. You can’t stop thinking about Max. Your heart is still mourning in silence.

The media instantly pounced. "Where’s the fire? Max Verstappen, world champion, looks pissed on top of the podium."

Reporters shouted questions as he descended the stairs:

"Max! Are you upset about something?"

"Is there tension with McLaren after Y/N L/N’s poor performance?"

But Max ignored them all. He walked straight to his team motorhome, no interviews, no photoshoot with sponsors, just silence and a closed door behind him. Not now. Inside, he peeled off his racing suit and sat on a bench alone. No celebration music playing like usual. His manager quickly arranges for the interviewer to come back later, he knows Max needed space for now.

Meanwhile, Lando and you, both in race suits, still sweaty and slightly disheveled, sitting side by side on the hot Bahrain pavement like two defeated soldiers. Lando had his arm slung casually over your shoulders, both holding half-empty water bottles.

You weren’t laughing. The way y’all heads tilted slightly toward each other like ugh, this is us now.

Fans immediately latched onto it. Memes started popping up: "McLaren’s dynamic duo of disappointment." With pictures of Lando stares into nothingness while you palm your face with two gloved hands. It’s over.

The realization hit like a flat tire on the straight, hard and sudden.

Brands loved consistency, performance, and marketable drivers. A rookie who finished top five one race… then dropped to eighth twice in a row? That wasn’t exciting enough for luxury watch companies or energy drink giants.

Lando might still get offers, he’d had steady results this season, but you?

“God…I’m so doomed” you muttered. More to yourself. It’s not your fault family kicked you out once you turned eighteen with birthday money saved up for your racing dream. They only support the first rookie year of yours and that’s it. You’re on your own now.

The weight of it all crashed down on you as you stared at your scuffed racing boots. The memory of your first independent year flashed through your eyes: an old garage, your part-time mechanic job, where you’d tune up, wash cars, change oil, anything the owner was willing to teach, felt like a lifetime ago. McLaren covered some expenses for their drivers… but not everything. Especially not when performance dipped this badly. You still have college to attend and so much more things… It's not like McLaren’s payment wasn’t enough, but you had to pay for a huge tuition too. You didn’t get a full ride to this university you got into, the one your parents insisted on or they wouldn’t let you race, so without parent’s financial support, it’s just you now.

The shower water turned icy, almost too cold, but you didn’t adjust it. You let the chill seep into your skin, washing away the sweat and frustration of the day. Your mind wandered back… to simpler times.

When you and Max weren't strangers.

When you used to talk after practice sessions, laughing about small mistakes made on the race. When Max would text you random questions at the most questionable hour.

And you? you always replied.

The deeper you sink into thoughts, the more sting the memory.

The way he sends you links to articles he thinks are interesting. And it became a part of your day, having looked forward to reading things he shares. Always the link and simple text: "Read."

It could be anything, a new engine development story, F1 replays with detailed analysis , even some random scientific fact about friction. But it always meant I thought of you first.

The silence of your apartment wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. The shower had stopped, but the coldness lingered, both from the water and in your chest.

You sat on the edge of the bed, towel draped over damp hair, staring at nothing.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, over that last message. And then remembered the words you said when you’d snapped:

"No, I didn’t answer your boring messages. Now will you go?"

The words looked ugly now. Not sharp or justified like they had in the moment… just cruel. You remembered how your voice had been cold at Bahrain airport. And suddenly, guilt flooded you, not dramatic sobbing or regret, but a quiet, heavy shame. Like your mouth still tasted bitter from saying those things.

You hadn't meant to push Max away forever. Maybe just for a moment, you were being immature with your complicated feelings. Is it really your fault you acted out that way? Or is it just a trauma response?

No childhood best friend. No group of mates from high school who still texted weekly.

Just… silence where friendship should’ve been. Where people who mattered the most should’ve stayed. Even before F1, you’d always been quite bookish, focused. People found it hard to really connect with you. Yeah, some might say you’re an autistic nerd. Maybe you were just in the wrong crowd. You never understand. It’s like a cycle where someone picks you, makes you feel like you matter as much as oxygen. And before they could have the chance to hurt you or simply make the tiniest mistake, you leave them first so it wouldn’t happen.

In this case, you have romanticized Max. Possibly portraying him in a glamorous, appealing way that often glosses over flaws and harsh realities. You’re blinded by what you think of him, so bad that when you know he fancies someone else, your mind went on a hell of a roller coaster of emotions. He wasn’t acting like the version of him inside your head and it makes you withdraw. Your action affects both you and Max. While you’re stuck dealing with disappointment and heartbreak, he is wondering why he has lost a dear friend out of nowhere. Totally confused by the new state of emotion he was unwillingly put in by you.

You start eating less, training more until your muscles give up. Anything to keep your mind occupied. You spend most of your time hanging out with coach Artturi Simila, fishing, training again, sharing meals like father and son while he lectures you about your previous performance. He often invites you over to the family BBQ, and you end up eating so little, his family members think the food is not up to your expectations. You just lost your appetite, that's all, not feeling like eating, only eating when you are starved to death. You would blame yourself for this. Usually you would stick to a strict diet. A full nutritious portion turned into at least eat half of it.

Max sat across from Kelly’s parents at their elegant dinner table in Monaco, crystal glasses, silverware polished to a shine, the smell of expensive wine filling the air.

Her father, a legendary Brazilian racing driver and three-time World Champion, spoke most of the time.

And every question was about Max’s career:

"When are you renewing with Red Bull?"

"How much do they pay you per race?"

"Will there be sponsorship deals this year?"

He doesn’t blame her father for being unsure about his stability.

Max answered politely, calm, composed but inside, something hollowed out. He wasn’t their son-in-law. Not yet. And they didn’t see him as a person. Just… an asset?

Kelly tried to steer the conversation, asking about her dad’s new investment project or her mom’s charity work but it always circled back:

"So Max… are you thinking of buying property here?" Like he was just another rich guy.

He stayed for dinner and played with Kelly’s daughter, the one she has with her ex boyfriend, he didn’t mind stepping up. Never did. Penelope, the baby girl, adores Max. She clings to him all the time and never misses a game of his. The two were expecting as well. As we all know, Max is pretty much a family oriented man. He can provide just fine.

The car was silent, no music, no city noise outside. Just the soft hum of the engine as Max parked in front of their shared penthouse. She turned to him, expecting a kiss like always. Instead… he didn’t move.

Just looked at her, calm but serious and said:

"We need to talk."

A beat passed.

Then quietly:

"I think we should break up."

“What? Why? Was it my parents? What did I do wrong?” There's a sudden panic in her tone now. Max exhaled slowly, hands still on the steering wheel. The dashboard lights cast soft shadows across his face, making his expression harder to read than usual.

"No…" he said, not lying, but not blaming her parents either. "I…." His voice was low, not angry. Just tired as he confesses the truth.

The pressure of being judged for who he wasn’t. The loneliness in Kelly’s circle where no one cared about him beyond trophies and money. And the growing distance between them lately, even before tonight. They barely see each other anyways. And Max is someone who lives by societal norms. He dated his girlfriend for five years because she was a good person, both families approved of the relationship, and he felt that "at this age, everyone has to get married eventually." He had never experienced "madly falling in love" until he met you.

Your persistent yet sincere pursuit touched a hidden part of Max that he had long kept concealed. Terrified of his own sexual orientation, Max had hastily gone public with a girlfriend in a desperate attempt to run away from the truth. However, the moment you were hurt and cut off contact, it served as a wake-up call. Max realized that marrying this woman would mean deceiving her for the rest of his life. And it goes against every aspect of who he really is.

“Please we should talk. Don't give up on us like this…” Kelly muttered, her hands go to wrap around Max’s

His jaw tightened. He saw the panic in Kelly’s eyes, the first real crack in her usual poised demeanor. She wasn’t yelling or throwing accusations… she was pleading. But that made it harder, not easier. He didn’t want to hurt her. Never. Didn't enjoy breaking someone's heart, especially hers. Still… he couldn't pretend this was working anymore. He can’t share the same bed with someone while thinking of another. It feels wrong.

"I'm sorry…" *he said softly, finally turning his head to look at her properly. "I just don't think I'm happy anymore.”

The conversation stretched into the night, Kelly in her leather armchair, Max sitting on the couch while she curled up across from him, wrapped in a blanket. No yelling. No blame. Just… quiet sadness.

She asked questions, not to change his mind, but because she needed answers.

"Was I not enough?"

"What happened that made you feel that way?"

"Is it really over just like that?"

Max answered honestly, without cruelty, but each word still cut. He never once mentioned you, even though you are the main reason why he’s feeling this way. He opens up to his girlfriend about his sexual orientation. She might cry, but she chooses to let go because she knows she deserves a man who loves her wholeheartedly and she’s ready to go so they can both go find happiness. They end the relationship in peace, as Max promises to still visit her and Penelope…still supporting from afar and making sure every need is met.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and quiet. Max woke up first, already dressed in his usual hoodie and sweatpants, sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of black coffee. She was packing. No dramatic goodbyes, just silent movement, folding clothes into suitcases, zipping up bags she’d kept here for months. Her other apartment in Monaco wasn’t far from her parents’ place… she could move easily. She never sold the place even after moving in with Max. He respects her decision to move out, thinks it was for the best. Max stood up quietly when Kelly finished packing, her suitcases neatly lined by the front door. Without asking, he took the handle of her largest bag and carried it to his car outside. Penelope is still staying with her grandparents for vacation. He didn’t offer empty words like "It'll be okay" or "We can still talk." Just silence and action.

Max threw himself into training, harder than ever. Extra simulator sessions. Longer track practices at dawn when no one else was around. Weight lifting until his arms burned. He told himself it was discipline. Focus for the next race season. But everyone on the team noticed, the intensity in his eyes, how he’d zone out during meetings like something or someone, was eating him alive. At night, alone in his hotel room or apartment… All he did was scroll through old photos. Photos of you.

Max zoomed in on the photo, the one he’d taken secretly during a race weekend last year. You stood there, helmet tucked under your arm… and right where Max had signed it, near the visor: a faded black marker smudge remained. His heart tightens. He remembered that signature clearly. Not just any fan autograph, he’d actually written something:

To Y/N – Keep pushing. It was personal. Meaningful. And now… it is gone. He didn’t see it on your helmet anymore last race. Maybe you have erased it. Or bought a new one. Either way, it makes him even more drowned in sorrow. He just misses you so much. Miss your late night texts, miss your adoration filled gaze and how you would chase him like a puppy after racing to chat. The efforts you made to breathe the same air as him.

The Australian Grand Prix was loud, sun blazing, fans screaming, the track alive with energy. Teams and drivers walked through the paddock like stars on display. And then Max saw you. You stood near McLaren’s garage, wearing the team suit, helmet tucked under one arm. But something was… off.

You looked leaner. Harder around the edges, not unhealthy, but like you’d been training relentlessly or cutting back seriously on carbs. The crowd cheered when they spotted you but Max just froze for a second.

The broadcast camera panned over, just a routine shot of the McLaren garage and for five seconds, it lingered on you.

You were adjusting your hair, fingers brushing through damp strands as sweat glistened on your forehead from the Australian heat. No cap yet, just you in full team gear, looking focused but slightly uncomfortable under the blazing sun. Fans in the stands lost it.

Max stood a few feet away, having just finished a pre-race interview with Dutch media. He glanced at the screen mounted near the Red Bull garage, where Sky Sports was showing live paddock footage.

And there you were. Sweating. Hair messy from running fingers through it. Eyes squinting slightly against the sun. The fans’ screams echoed over the broadcast and Max didn’t need subtitles to know they were losing their minds over you.

The race started and from the first lap, you were on fire. No hesitation. No conservative driving. Just pure aggression like you had something to prove, not just to McLaren or fans… but to yourself. Trying to make up for the shame of the previous race because you don’t like having people think your skills have degraded. You overtook two cars in the opening corners with clean but daring maneuvers. The crowd roared. Commentators couldn’t stop talking about it:

"McLaren rookie is moving!"

"Y/N L/N looks completely different today! A man possessed? Or just fueled by previous disappointment?!"

It wasn’t just skill…it was desperation. You keep telling yourself that you need to win. If not then you will never be able to forgive yourself. Because all of that damage will be for nothing at all.

Your focus was razor-sharp, every gear shift, every braking point calculated like a mission. You don’t allow yourself to make a simple mistake. Shame will be the death of you if you get placed lower than Max again, the man you literally just go no-contact with.

You wanted victory. The humiliation of the past season, the airport fight with Max, hours of starvation and being left to face depression, it all fueled you now. This race was his redemption. Between two options: fall again so people know you’re struggling or win so you know you can overcome this and believe in yourself again. You choose the second one without hesitation, even if somewhere in the back of your skull, you really wish to be seen. To be known you’re drowning.

Your car roared around the turn, flawless. Noise echo like lightning cut through the sky from the hot brakes and engine as you pushed through the high-speed corner. And then it happened. On straightaway after the fifth turn, you pulled alongside Max’s Red Bull car, tire to tire for half a second… before surging past with a perfectly timed overtake.

The crowd gasped. The commentators erupted: "Y/N L/N JUST SURPASSED MAX VERSTAPPEN!"

Your body became a machine, every muscle locked in, your mind razor-focused on the race ahead. The tires screamed against the ground as you pushed them to their limit, feeling every millimeter of grip. You can’t afford distraction this time.

Just drive.

Every turn is sharper. Every straightaway faster. You were racing like your entire year depended on this single lap and right now… it kind of did. You certainly don’t like to be anywhere else but in the top three.

Fan cameras captured every second, zoomed in, shaky but exhilarating as your McLaren car blazed through the track like a streak of lightning. The orange and blue livery flashed under the Australian sun as you carved through corners with insane precision.

The checkered flag waved and you crossed first. P1. First place.

The crowd erupted, some in shock, others screaming with joy for the McLaren rookie who had just dominated the race once again.

You barely registered it at first. When you unclipped your helmet, pulled off the gloves… and stood there by the car as mechanics rushed to you. But you weren't smiling.

Weren’t celebrating like usual winners did. Your hands trembled slightly, like adrenaline was crashing all at once.

The podium drivers assembled on the stage, Max stepping up, stoic expression, then Russell in third with a calm smile.

And there were you, still standing by the McLaren, staring blankly ahead while cameras flashed around you. A staff member approached and offered you a water bottle. You didn’t take it immediately. The weight of what you’d just done, the victory after everything that happened was hitting all at once.

Your teammate, Lando Norris was the first to notice. He nudged you gently, waving a hand right in front of your face.

"Hey… hey!" Lando said, voice low but urgent.

The McLaren engineer nearby also stepped forward, touching your shoulder lightly.

"Are you okay? You need to go up now, the podium ceremony is starting." Around them, cameras kept flashing, fans and media waiting for you to move. At that moment, you feel like you have been reborn in the same body. Damn, your head aches like hell and you feel…weird. You don’t feel like a teenager eager to prove yourself, to be seen anymore. But more like an adult, racing for the love of the game.

You blinked, finally focusing as Lando guided you by the elbow, steadying your steps. Your legs felt weak, not from exhaustion, but from the emotions swirling inside of you. The adrenaline crash was real. You walked beside Lando toward the podium ramp, where flags of Australia waved under golden sunlight. The crowd noise surged again as you approached.

Max stood at second place on stage, already in position and glanced down when he saw you.

Their eyes locked, just for a split second as you climbed the podium steps to the first place. A flash of everything they’d been through, the past, the silence, the airport fight. All condensed into one quiet moment. And under all that intensity? That stupidly strong feeling you hadn’t been able to shake: you still liked Max. A lot.

The official photographer, positioned near the podium called out:

"Y/N! Look this way, please!"

You startled slightly, snapping your gaze from Max to the camera like you’d been caught daydreaming. The flash went off immediately, capturing your mid-turn: cheeks faintly pink under race-day tan, eyes wide and a little dazed. You forced a small smile for the photo but it didn’t reach your eyes like Max’s confident grin did.

The picture would later trend online: "McLaren’s rookie… distracted?"

The bitterness lingered like the taste of something horrible and shameful that wouldn’t go away no matter how much you swallowed. Every time you glanced at Max on the podium, standing there all cool and collected in second place, the resentment crept back.

Not because Max seems happy. But because they hadn't spoken. Because everything between them had broken… and here they were, side by side, pretending nothing happened.

The internet exploded within minutes. Every news outlet, fan page, and racing meme account immediately posted the photo:

You on the podium, cheeks flushed red, from heat or embarrassment?, eyes wide like a startled deer, mouth slightly open. Clearly not focused on being champion… but staring at someone else.

Back in the McLaren garage, the atmosphere was electric. Mechanics grinned at each other, some smacking you on the shoulder as they walked through. One even handed you a cold drink without asking. The mood was pure celebration: their rookie had just won his P1.

Coach Artturi Simila stood by a monitor, arms crossed but smiling. "Well done," he said simply when you approached. You hugged him and said your “thank you, coach” for being your friend, for being a father figure and a good coach.

The garage buzzed with post-race energy, mechanics still high-fiving, engineers reviewing data but the moment Max walked in, everything shifted slightly. He wasn’t announced. Didn’t need to be. Just appeared at the entrance of the McLaren garage, Red Bull cap pulled low, hands holding 2 cans of energy drink. The crowd around them quieted instinctively. Your small smile faded instantly.

Max stood there, tall and quiet, mechanics pausing their work to glance at him. The tension was thick. Then he spoke, voice calm, measured. No anger. Just… direct.

"Congrats on your first P1.” Simple words.

But they hung heavy between them.

“Thank you.” You didn’t want to speak further.

Max held two energy drinks, one in each hand. The same brand you two always shared after races: citrus-flavored, high caffeine, their little tradition from the past. He didn’t say anything about it. Just stood there… offering one to you like nothing had changed. Like they still did this every post-race. Like you hadn’t stopped texting him weeks ago. The mechanics nearby watched quietly, they remembered this ritual too. He took a breath, then dropped it casually, like he was commenting on the weather.

"I broke up with Kelly." then looked at you, waiting to see how you’d react. His expression gave nothing away: calm blue eyes searching your face.

“Why is it my business?” you raise an eyebrow. Wow, you don't care anymore.

Max’s expression didn’t change, no hurt, no anger. Just a slow blink, like he expected that response. He shrugged.

"Didn't say it was your business." he replied evenly. before adding:

"Just telling you." The garage felt suddenly quieter around them. Mechanics pretended to be busy tuning engines or checking data but they were listening.

The glare was cold, sharp, even. You didn’t say anything, but your expression screamed judgment: like Max had just said something stupid or irrelevant. Max noticed. Of course he did. He wasn’t used to being glared at by you, not after all the years they’d known each other. It stung a little… but he kept his face neutral. It made him realize you’re no longer the eager kid chasing him around wanting to know everything about him anymore. Like your soft spot for him is gone, and now he’s getting to know how you treat people with none.

The garage erupted into celebration once Max leaves and corks popping, champagne spraying as mechanics passed bottles around. The McLaren team was ecstatic: their rookie had just won his first Grand Prix! Let's focus on the happy news here! Lando grabbed you by the shoulders, pulling you into a tight hug before splashing champagne over your head playfully.

"Congrats, mate!" other engineers shouted, raising glasses. You laughed, a real one this time, letting yourself get swept up in the joy. The champagne sprayed everywhere, foamy and fizzy, drenching your race suit from head to toe. You squeaked, actually squeaked as cold liquid soaked through the fabric, sticking your hair down.

Cameras captured everything: The wide-eyed look on your face. Your now-soaked McLaren logo faded by bubbles. The pure chaos of a rookie being absolutely drenched in celebration.

The broadcast camera zoomed in, focusing on you, drenched head to toe in champagne, your suit clinging wetly to you. The golden liquid sparkled under the lights. Social media exploded instantly.

Fan edits popped up within minutes:

"Champagne Baby Y/N L/N” followed by trending hashtags: #Y/NTheChampion

#champagnebaby

Fans called you "handsome," "gorgeous," even posted slow-mo clips of the spray hitting your face, zoomed into the wet suit that hugs your abs, some saying you looked like a romance movie scene.

One win race and you’re in demand. The Calvin Klein ad dropped, just a single teaser image at first: you shirtless, wearing only their iconic black-and-white boxers, standing in front of a sleek minimalist backdrop. Your toned physique on full display: defined shoulders, abs from training hard for months, slutty waist, meaty biceps. It blew up. Fans lost their minds. Comment sections flooded with heart emojis and screams. It’s like the ad sent women into mass psychosis.

Calvin Klein stores worldwide became temporary tourist attractions the moment your ad video started playing on their giant screens. Customers crowded around, phones out recording the footage of you striding confidently in slow motion, shirtless and smirking subtly. Some even took selfies with the screen. Sales spiked immediately. Employees reported people buying whatever was featured in your campaign just because it looked like you. It’s like you made their boxers look ten times hotter. The brand hadn’t seen this level of hype since a major celebrity collaboration.

The British Grand Prix was drenched, constant rain poured over Silverstone, turning the track slick and dangerous. The sky was gray, heavy with storm clouds. Max drove… but not like usual. He wasn’t aggressive. Didn’t push hard in overtakes. Even his team radio sounded off, less fiery than normal. Something about this race felt different for him. Distracted. Off his game.

The race unfolded with Lando and you leading on the track, McLaren’s duo dominating in the rain, their tires performing better than expected. They exchanged positions smoothly, working together like a well-oiled team. Max struggled to keep up. Not because he wasn’t fast but because his rhythm was off. He made a risky move to overtake Gasly… only to spin slightly on wet track before recovering and keeping the same pace for now. The crowd groaned at the rare mistake.

The sky opens up, turning the track into a sheet of glass. Max fights the steering wheel, but the tires lose their grip on the wet asphalt, hydroplaning out of control. In a heartbeat, the car spins. The rear tire clips the high curb at the wrong angle, and gravity loses its hold. Time seems to slow down. The world goes upside down as the multi-million-dollar car flips through the air, a terrifying blur of carbon fiber and spray. Inside the cockpit, Max is gripping on the wheel with his life, the breath knocked right out of him. The upside-down car slams back onto the gravel trap with a sickening crunch. Silence fills his helmet, broken only by his own heavy breathing and the frantic call of the team radio. "Max, are you okay? Respond, please!" Heart pounding against his ribs, he blinks through the visor, alive but completely shaken and stuck. The Red Bull car looks just like a smushed bug, trapping half conscious Max inside.

You saw the incident on your dashboard monitor, Max’s car wedged against the barrier, motionless. No pit crew near yet. Max wasn’t moving either. Something in you snapped. Without hesitation, ignoring McLaren team radio yelling "Y/N, focus!" You turned your wheel sharply and steered off-course, cutting through grass to get back to where Max was stuck. The crowd gasped as cameras zoomed in. The spot is too far for Max to be rescued in time before anything worse happens.

You unbuckled your helmet, shoved the McLaren door open and sprinted across the wet grass toward Max’s car. Without thinking, you grabbed the side of Red Bull’s rear wing and pull, muscles straining as rainwater soaked your race suit. The barrier had pinned Max stuck in the cockpit. Steam seeps out from the crash and makes your blood run cold.

The camera drone hovered above them, broadcasting live:

The McLaren rookie gave up the race and helped Verstappen.

The Red Bull’s engine hissed violently, steam erupting from the overheating radiator as you strained against the metal, pulling with every ounce of strength you had. The crash has made it crooked and completely crushing Max inside. It was hard. And so damn heavy.

But finally, with a loud creak, the barrier gave way just enough for Max to shift his body forward an inch or two. Not free… but no longer completely jammed. Max blinked, startled by what you were doing.

Max fumbled with the cockpit hatch, finally managing to unlatch it after a few desperate tries. The second he swung it open and tried to climb out on his own but couldn’t, the pain shot through him and then you were there, reaching in. Without hesitation, you grabbed Max’s arm and yanked, pulling him out of the car. Your palms, slit open from contact with the sharp, broken metal, now bleeding all over his.

The Red Bull’s engine roared, metal screeching as steam poured out in thick clouds. The smell of burning rubber and overheating parts filled the air. You panicked for a second…Was it going to explode?

You didn’t wait to find out. Still holding Max’s arm, you yanked him further away from the car, dragging them both toward your McLaren parking nearby.

You shoved Max, hard right in the chest, once, twice. Not angry like yelling… but frustrated. Hurt.

"Why do you keep making mistakes?!" You snapped, voice cracking slightly. Each push was more about emotion than force, like you couldn’t understand why Max, of all people, the fastest driver on the grid was messing up like this. Max staggered back a step, stunned by your outburst. Max swallowed hard, rain mixing with the sweat on his face. His voice came out quiet, raw, not like his usual confident self.

"I… can’t stop thinking about you…" No excuses about Kelly. No blame on you for pulling away. Just that: he missed you.

“Oh fuck you! You’re full of shit-” you scold, voice loud and shaking with emotion, and stomped your foot beside Max, who was slumped against the curb, half-conscious from pain and exhaustion. Max didn’t even try to argue. Just winced as he adjusted his burned hand slightly. The adrenaline crash was hitting him hard. The stress of the race… your outburst… everything. He blinked slowly at you, tired eyes full of regret. If only he has forced himself to focus…

The rainwater mixed with a thin trail of blood trickling from Max’s temple, likely from hitting his head when the car spun. It wasn’t gushing… but it was enough to stain the wet pavement beneath him. You finally noticed the red streak cutting through rain-soaked hair. Your anger vanished in an instant. Without thinking, you dropped to your knees beside Max, hands hovering like you didn’t know where to touch without hurting him more.

You carefully gathered Max into your arms, cradling him like he weighed nothing. The world around them exploded into motion, medics sprinting from the medical center, marshals clearing the area and checking out Max’s crashed car, quickly preventing it from further destruction. One medic gently pried your arms away to check Max properly.

The medical team swiftly loaded Max onto the stretcher, oxygen already administered as they carried him toward the ambulance waiting at the edge of the turn. You sat back on the curb alone, soaked and trembling, not from cold, but from an adrenaline crash. Your race was definitely disqualified for leaving track to help. McLaren would face scrutiny later.

The F1 broadcast camera, mounted on a drone glided overhead, capturing the aftermath in high definition. The feed cut to you: still sitting alone on the curb, helmet gone, hair damp and messy from rain.

The large screens around Silverstone displayed him live, the world seeing his exhausted face, shoulders slumped. No celebration. Just… quiet devastation.

Commentators went silent for a beat.

Then David Croft spoke softly into his mic:

"That's Y/N L/N... who just risked everything."

The glove was torn, split right down the side from where you had grabbed Max’s car in a panic. Underneath, his palm and fingers were raw, red with irritation from pushing against hot metal. It stung. Badly.

But you hadn’t even noticed it until now, too focused on Max being taken away. Only when you flexed your hand did pain shoot up. The adrenaline was wearing off… and reality, injuries were hitting.

You pushed yourself up from the curb, wincing slightly as your burned hand throbbed. You ignored it and focused. Without a word to anyone, you walked back toward the McLaren car. They knew what had happened… and that you shouldn’t even be racing now. But you climbed into your car anyway. At least let you finish this race.

You crossed the finish line, last place, miles behind the leader. But you finished. Mother did not raise a quitter.

The moment his McLaren rolled into park, mechanics and staff rushed over like worried parents. They surrounded him: checking for injuries, scanning your face for signs of exhaustion or pain. One engineer gently took your bleeding burned hand to inspect it properly, others asked if you were okay despite everything that happened.

The engineer gasped softly at the sight of your burned palms, red and inflamed from pulling on Max’s overheating car.

"Oh, damn." he muttered, immediately loosening his grip. The team doctor arrived next, gently taking your hands to assess the damage properly.

The podium lights glowed, Lando Norris stood proudly on the top step, champagne bottle in hand. The crowd cheered for him: first place.

You should’ve been there too.

If you hadn’t stopped. If you hadn’t dragged Max away from a burning crashed car.

You would’ve finished second… right beside your teammate.

But instead? You sat on a bench near McLaren’s garage, bandaged hand resting as medics treated it quietly. You look up to see coach Artturi Simila. “I’m sorry…” automatically escapes your lips. You feel like you have let him down.

He only looked at you, really looked. No anger in his eyes. Just understanding. He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze.

"Don’t be sorry." he said quietly.

Then, after a beat:

"You did the right thing."

The coach knew what mattered more than podiums, and saving lives was one of them.

The giant screen replayed it, the dramatic moment you had spun your McLaren into a perfect, almost cinematic circle to reverse course back to Max’s wrecked car.

The F1 MC narrated:

"A move of pure instinct… and heroism."

Then added something overly sentimental:

"When racing meets humanity."

You groaned, mortified by how cheesy it all sounded.

The medic didn’t warn you, just dabbed soaked cotton on your burned hand with clinical precision to clean up. You jumped, a loud "FUCK!" bursting out of you as pain shot through your fingers. You nearly kicked the medical bench in reflex.

The mechanic flinched too, then apologized:

"Sorry! The job needs to be done." But he kept going anyway, cleaning the raw skin.

Lando walked into the garage, still buzzing from his podium finish, champagne stains on his suit. But when he saw you sitting there with a bandaged hand and exhausted face…

His smile dropped instantly.

"Oi" he said softly, rushing over. He crouched in front of you, scanning you like a worried brother would, concerned flashing across his features. “Congratulations” you said. Lando studied your face, the exhaustion, the pain in your eyes. Then he glanced at the bandaged hand.

"Thanks." he said quietly about his win… but it didn’t feel important right now. He sat beside you on the bench, close enough to show support.

The after-party buzzed, music, champagne, celebrations for Lando’s win. But you weren’t there. Instead, you texted your manager:

"Can you take me to the hospital?"

No explanation needed. Your manager knew exactly why: Max had been taken there earlier after his injuries. Within minutes, they were heading out in a private car toward Silverstone Medical Center. The hospital room was dim, soft lighting, the steady beep of monitors. Max lay in bed, propped up slightly with pillows. His head was bandaged… but his blue eyes were wide open and alert.

You crept in silently. Didn’t announce yourself.

Just walked to the bedside like a shadow. Then, Max turned his head slowly. Their eyes met. And you froze mid-step like a startled cat.

“AGH!” you flinched out loud, body flinched like you had seen a ghost. “Jesus, I thought you haven't woken up yet. The doctor said at least not until another hour” you muttered, hand rubs your chest where the heart lays to calm yourself down. A habit.

Max blinked, startled by your loud flinch and shout. Then, when he processed the words… a tiny smirk tugged at his lips.

"Doc said that?" he mumbled, voice hoarse from lying down for hours. His hands were bandaged too, resting stiffly on top of the blanket. The monitors beeped steadily beside him. He studied your face, the guilt, worry… maybe relief? All mixed together.

“Damn it, Max. You scared the shit out of me” you huffed. Max exhaled, almost a laugh, but it hurt too much to fully smile, his entire face aches. He watched you kick the chair closer with that signature scowl.

"Sorry," he said dryly, with no real apology in his tone.

Then, after a beat of silence:

"You came." Like he feels the need to confirm it. He hadn’t expected you to show up at all.

“Of course…” you muttered before turning to the TV where the race replay was still looping, showing your flawless drift maneuver to reverse back toward him. “Why the hell are you watching this” you huffed.

He shrugged slightly, wincing at the movement.

"They’ve been playing it all afternoon," he admitted.

Then, with a faint smirk:

"It’s kinda badass." Written all over his face was genuine appreciation for what you had done.

“What do you know about badass?” You roll your eyes and snatch the remote to turn it off, embarrassed that the replay is all over the internet now with corny headlines.

Max chuckled despite the pain. It was rare for him to laugh, especially after a crash like that.

"Hey" he protested weakly, raising a bandaged hand like he could stop you from turning it off. But you already snatched the remote and clicked the TV off, plunging the room into quiet except for monitor beeps. Now it was just them. No distractions.

The movement of snatching the remote had pulled at your bandaged hand, your face tightened slightly as pain flared in your palm. You didn’t make a sound… but you clenched your jaw. That’s enough for Max to notice instantly. His eyes dropped to your wrapped hand, the redness peeking through the gauze. Without asking, Max slowly reached out and gently took your wrist to inspect it.

You pulled your hand back, like playing hard to get while Max's feelings are all over the place.

“All thanks to you.” you huff sarcastically.

Max’s expression flickered, hurt flashing in his eyes for a split second before he masked it. He wasn’t used to being the one who messed up… and had someone resent him for it.

He swallowed, then spoke quietly:

"I know." The silence between them grew heavier, charged with unspoken words and regret.

“Damn! Are you nuts?!” You scold and grab his wrist, stopping him from unplugging the heart rate monitor and IV lines. His intent was clear: he wanted to hug you. So bad. Those things were in the way. Your scolding made Max blink… then, slowly, a small, tired smile tugged at his lips. He didn’t say anything.

Just shifted slightly, making it obvious he still wanted that hug. The machines beeped protestingly as Max leaned forward carefully.

The realization hit you like a wave. Max, injured Max, wanted to hug you. For a split second, you stayed rigid… surprised. Then instinct kicked in. Gently avoiding the IV tubes and wires still attached to Max’s arms, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him carefully, a soft but firm hug. Max exhaled into it… relief flooding through him.

Your burned hand throbbed painfully as you hugged Max, every muscle in your arms stiff from the injury. But you ignored it, tightening the embrace slightly instead. Max pressed his face into your neck, breathing you in, warm skin, faint sweat from rushing to the hospital earlier, and that familiar scent.

Max kept murmuring "sorry" against your shoulder, each whisper quiet, raw. He could feel the tension in your arms, the stiffness from your injured hand and body. Guilt twisted inside him. He hated that he was causing you pain just by hugging. Gently, Max tried to loosen his grip… like he wanted to let go before hurting you more.

“Rest” you simply said.

Max nodded, reluctantly pulling back from the hug. His eyes, usually so intense, looked tired now. The adrenaline crash and painkillers were hitting him hard. He sank back into the hospital pillows, wincing slightly as his bandaged head brushed against them. You watched him settle… then quietly reached for the blanket at the foot of Max’s bed and adjusted it over his shoulders like a caretaker would.

Max’s voice was soft, uncertain. A rare crack in his usual confident demeanor. He calls out before you can reach for the door.

"Y/N…"

He hesitated, then asked:

"Are you coming back?"

The question slipped out before he could stop it. Max hated sounding needy, but right now, in this sterile hospital room with no one but machines around him… he felt abandoned.

“Yeah.”

The door clicked shut softly behind you. The sound was quiet… but to Max, it carried weight. He exhaled slowly. Relieved.

You had said yeah. That alone was enough for Max to close his eyes, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he finally let himself relax, knowing you would come back.

Every day, without fail, you show up at the hospital with random things. Today’s item was a magazine. On page 7 was you, shirtless, posting in only boxers and unzip denim.

Max would flip through them quietly when alone… staring at the glossy pages long after dark. Then text you random things late at night: "Did you really pose shirtless for this?"

Or just send memes out of nowhere.

Your phone buzzed constantly, late-night texts from him to you. Memes, random articles about racing, even photos of his own Red Bull merch collection with text like "This one’s my favorite." It was weird for him, usually so private but he couldn’t stop. Every time you visited and left again… Max felt the silence too much. And every day without fail, you walked in holding takeout or a magazine or poster featuring your latest campaign, a smug little grin on your face when Max stared at the pages like they were sacred.

Max kept the Calvin Klein poster tucked under his arm like it was contraband, especially that one spread. The black-and-white minimalist shot: you in nothing but sleek boxers and unzipped jeans, all sharp angles and confidence. It did things to him. Things he couldn’t control. Things that made hospital nights feel…awfully long. He’d stare at the page until his cheeks burned, then quickly shove it under his pillow when nurses walked by.

You found it amusing, how Max, of all people, was turning into the clingy one. It mirrored your own past self: when you used to obsess over Max silently, watching races just to see him drive. Now? The tables had turned.

Max was the emotional one texting nonstop… while you, the once starstruck rookie had grown private and composed. More mature. You didn’t complain about the messages though. Just smirked at your phone between meetings.

Coach Artturi Simila crossed his arms, leaning against the garage wall as he watched you again, glancing at the buzzing phone with a tiny smile. The kind only love-struck idiots wore. He sighed. Not angry… but concerned.

During their next debrief, Artturi didn’t mince words:

"Y/N. You’re distracted."

A pause. Then bluntly:

“Max Verstappen is going to ruin your focus."

“How do you even know-” you huffed out loud like a teenager caught red handed by mother. How could Coach know you were messaging Max?

Coach Artturi raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. He didn’t need proof, he’d seen the way you looked at your phone like it held the universe.

"Please..." *Ryan scoffed "you’ve got that lovesick face every time your screen lights up. It’s not hard to guess."

Then he leaned in slightly:

"And I saw Max’s name pop up on your lock screen yesterday while your phone was buzzing like crazy."

“Oh.” You scratched the back of your head, caught. Your usual cool, collected demeanor cracked for a second under Artturi’s knowing stare. The garage was quiet except for distant engine tests.

Artturi softened slightly but stayed firm:

"Look… I’m not saying stop seeing him."

A beat.

"But don’t let it mess up your race prep."

You heard it loud and clear “Yes sir”

The engineer, usually calm and analytical, chewed his lip as he watched your telemetry. The data told the story: slightly slower reaction times, half-a-second delays in cornering that added up over a lap.

"Something’s off" the engineer muttered to Artturi not blaming you… just stating facts. Artturi exhaled through his nose. He knew exactly what or who was the variable here.

The helmet came off, your face was slick with sweat, hair sticking to your forehead from the summer heat. Your chest rose and fell heavily after pushing through practice. Coach Artturi didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you, the exhaustion in your eyes, the tension in your jaw.

Then Ryan finally spoke:

"We need to talk." No anger. Just a firm tone that meant this isn't about performance anymore.

“Am I in trouble?” you asked.

Coach Artturi's stern expression softened slightly at the question. He wasn’t about to scold you like a child, Artturi had practically raised you since you joined McLaren. He sighed.

"No.” he said quietly.

"I’m worried. It’s affecting your driving. Clearly"

Coach Ryan saw it, the flicker in your eyes. Not guilt… but flashbacks. The memory of Max’s car spinning, the steam, the panic…it was replaying every time you hit a high-speed corner. He exhaled slowly, reading you like a book. "Is it… about Max?"

“Yes…I’m sorry. The memory wouldn’t go away” you admitted quietly.

Artturi’s expression shifted, understanding dawning. This wasn’t about Max romantically… It was about the crash. The trauma of seeing your rival nearly die in flames. He didn’t scold you.Instead, he pulled him into a firm hug, the kind a dad gives when their kid is carrying something heavy.

"It’s okay." Artturi murmured, rubbing your back slightly. "You don’t have to apologize for that."

For a moment, they just stood there, sun warming their backs as the distant hum of engines echoed from other teams’ practice sessions. They broke the hug.

Then Artturi spoke:

"You need to talk about it."

“To who? Max? Hell no” you huffed. Body tensed up a little. One thing about you is that…you don’t like facing the problem directly.

Artturi raised an eyebrow at your immediate refusal. He didn’t push about Max, not yet. Instead, he focused on the tense reaction itself.

"Not just Max." Artturi clarified calmly. "You need to process it with someone… a therapist, maybe."

“I don’t need a therapist” you shoot back stubbornly. Artturi didn’t argue with you, just gave you that look. The one that said I know you better than this.

He kept his voice level:

"You think I’d suggest it if it wasn’t serious?"

Then softer:

"It’s not a weakness. It’s taking care of yourself."

The pout melted off your face as the reality settled in. He was right, you did need help, even if admitting it felt weird. Artturi didn’t push further. Just nodded subtly, satisfied that you were at least considering it now.

Then he added:

"I can recommend someone discreet… no one has to know." A private solution for a private problem.

“Thank you” You simply said. Grateful? Yes

Artturi gave a small, warm smile, rare for him and squeezed your shoulder one last time before standing up.

"Anytime" he said Then, in classic coach fashion:

"Now go shower. You reek of sweat."

It was his way of lightening the mood… and giving you space to breathe after such a heavy talk.

About therapy…At first, you showed up on time, sat in the quiet office, answered questions honestly. But as sessions went on… you started making excuses.

"Too busy with practice."

"Race prep is crazy."

Then your texts to Max slowed too. Ghosting him without explanation. The therapist noticed. Max definitely did. He didn’t take it as easy. He was pissed.

The Qatar Grand Prix buzzed with electric tension. Max was back, fully healed, sharp as ever and he dominated the race, standing tall on the podium in first place.

You finished second. A solid result… but emotionally hollow. You managed to focus and recorded a good performance.

During interviews: reporters asked about their dynamic. Max gave polite answers, glancing subtly at you, who kept your gaze forward or down, barely acknowledging him.

Afterwards, you sneak into the changing room, feeling like you need to breathe. You don’t understand why you are an emotional wreck now, maybe months of bottling up and isolation has come to a point.

The moment the changing room door clicked shut behind them, Max, still in his podium suit shoved you backward. Not violently… but with intensity, pinning you against the lockers. His hands gripped your racing collar tightly, blue eyes blazing. No words yet, just raw frustration and hurt boiling over. How could you ignore him? In front of the interviewer too? Max wasn’t asking nicely anymore.

"What the fuck?" Max hissed through gritted teeth. "You saved me… then you ghosted me like I meant nothing?" No greeting. Just demands for answers.

“You don't understand" you scold. Couldn’t bring your gaze away from his either. He was caging you there already.

His frown deepened at your scolding tone like he was the unreasonable one.

"Then make me understand." Max shot back, voice low but fierce. “How you won't even look at me?" The hurt underlined every word.

“I can’t drive properly with you stuck in my mind…you’re like a distraction I can’t afford” you muttered. Tone filled with exhaustion.

Max froze for a split second, processing your words. A distraction.

His grip on your collar loosened slightly, the anger shifting into something more confused… vulnerable.

"So you… avoided me." Max said slowly.It wasn’t an excuse but it made sense in a painful way.

“I have to relive the moment your car spins off every damn practice. All over again”

*Max’s expression shifted completely—anger melting into stunned realization. The crash. You weren't avoiding him… you were running from the trauma of that day.

The image of Max’s car spinning, sharp metal cut through gloves, the horror you must’ve relived every time you took a high-speed turn.

For the first time, guilt flashed across Max’s face. He hadn’t considered how much it had affected you too.

“You make me soft, Max. When I finally toughened up” You admitted bitterly.

Max’s chest tightened at your words. The bitterness in your tone… it stung. He wasn’t used to being the reason someone felt weak. He was a competitor, hard, ruthless, focused on winning. But you had spent years building that mental armor… and Max accidentally shattered it by just existing. For once, Max didn’t have a comeback. Just silence as he absorbed the weight of what he’d unknowingly done.

His voice cracked, something rare for him. He took a shaky breath, hands still loosely gripping your collar like he was afraid to let go completely.

"I didn’t realize…" he admitted "that I cared about you that much until you were gone."

Then quietly, almost pleading:

"Please… give me a chance to fix this."

The fog in your mind thickened, panic rising. This was too much: Max confessing, emotions spilling everywhere, the weight of months of avoidance crashing down at once. Your breath hitched. Muscles tensed like you might bolt. Max saw it, the instinct to run. And without thinking, he did something impulsive…He closed the distance and kissed you. Just once. Soft but firm, cutting through all the chaos.

The kiss lasted only a few seconds, Max pulled back just enough to search your face for a reaction. You were frozen, eyes wide, lips slightly parted in shock. Your entire body stayed rigid like your brain hadn’t caught up yet.

Max held his breath. Did he mess up? Was this too much?

Max didn’t kiss you again. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you in a gentle hug, careful, tentative. Like offering comfort rather than demanding anything. His heartbeat was steady against your chest, the champagne scent fading as Max nuzzles in the crook of your neck. A silent plea for forgiveness… and maybe a chance to start over.

Max felt the subtle shift, your arms hesitantly lifting to return the hug. It wasn’t enthusiastic… but it was something. A small, quiet yes. His shoulders relaxed instantly. Relief flooded through him, the first real hope he’d had in months. He didn’t say anything.

Just held you a little tighter.

“If you place first in the next race…I’ll consider it.” You said simply. With that tiny smirk of yours finally showing.

Max blinked, processing your condition. A challenge wrapped in a promise.

If he won the next Grand Prix… then you would actually consider being with him? Not just forgiveness but a real shot?

A competitive smirk tugged at Max’s lips. He loved challenges, especially ones tied to racing.

"Deal." he said simply, voice firm and already focused on victory.

“You fucking asshole…” You scold and push him back, clearly annoyed he stormed in and grabbed you like that.

Max grinned, actually grinned at the playful shove. The tension from earlier was completely gone, replaced by something lighter. He caught your wrist before you could pull away fully and tugged you back in, stealing a quick kiss on your cheek this time teasing, not serious.

"Asshole?" Max repeated with mock offense "After I just hugged you like a gentleman?”

Coach Artturi stopped dead in the doorway, his keys still dangling from his hand. The sight of Max kissing your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world short-circuited him. His eyes widened. Mouth slightly open. For a second, he just stood there… processing that Max Verstappen, the guy who raced with awfully arrogant smugness, was being affectionate with Y/N L/N. His driver.

“Coach-...” you shoved Max back and straightened yourself up. Max stumbled back half a step, still smiling like an idiot, cheeks slightly pink from the kiss. He turned to face Coach Artturi too, but his expression was more calm than guilty.

Ryan cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Uh."

A beat of silence. Then:

"You two… good?" Asking about them, not racing for once.

“...yeah?” You muttered

Artturi nodded slowly, still taking in the scene: you slightly flustered, Max looking uncharacteristically soft. He didn’t judge. Didn’t even tease you… yet.

Instead, he just said:

"Good. Dinner’s at 8." his usual post-race team dinner invitation before turning to leave and give you space again. The door clicked shut behind him as he exited quietly.

Max chuckled at your frustrated huff “God damn it…” it was cute how flustered you got. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second too long.

Then Max smirked:

"So… we’re doing this?" gesturing vaguely between them, voice low with quiet excitement.

“Yeah...after allat anger shit you got going on there?” you rolled your eyes.

Max laughed, a real, unfiltered laugh. Your bluntness was refreshing after months of silence. He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish about how intense he’d been earlier: grabbing you, demanding answers… basically going full drama mode.

"Yeah… sorry about that…" Max admitted with a crooked smile. "Got a little heated."

“A little?” You huffed sarcastically.

He rolled his eyes at your sarcasm but he was smiling, so it didn’t land as an insult. If anything, Max found it endearing how unimpressed you acted.

"Okay, fine." he conceded with a playful sigh. "I lost my shit." Then he stepped closer again, slowly this time and brushed his thumb over your cheekbone before leaning in for another kiss… softer this time.