#mv1 fluff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hm?"

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

"Hey, would you...be able to build that new chest of drawers today?" Y/n asks batting her eyelashes and flash a smile hoping for once Max will do it.

"Of course I will, I'll do it later." Max nods leaning down to kiss her. "I have a few things to do first."

And of course, Max doesn't. Then when she gently reminds him the next day, he assures her it will get done and yet...the whole thing is untouched by the end of the night.

"For fuck sake." Y/n huffs deciding to just do it herself.

Max is on the simulator though she doesn't know if it's for Redline, race prep or just because he wants to.

Y/n spends the next 2 hours working to get the drawers built and in the end, she's pretty proud of herself. The drawers themselves are expensive vintage drawers that she bought from a luxury vintage furniture store. Usually vintage doesn't require building but this one had been shipped to Monaco and y/n asked if they could find a way to flat pack if for getting it up to the apartment.

The store wasn't thrilled but they agreed with a generous additional payment from y/n for the label of dismantling it and boxing it up.

Y/n grins gently tapping the top of the drawers quite proud of the fact she managed to put it all together. Then she sighs as she looks over at the place that she wants the drawers to be in the room. Which is a good few yards.

"Ok, time to get you from here...to over there. Did he have to get the biggest apartment in Monaco." Y/n huffs to herself before beginning to lift the antique drawers. "Probably gonna wreck the carpet."

Y/n manages to get it a few foot before Sassy appears rubbing up against y/n's leg and while Max's cats are usually kept to themselves, but Sassy has a habit of climbing up y/n for some reason.

"No, Sassy. Not now." Y/n whispers but it falls on deaf ears and before she can carefully place the drawers down, Sassy is clawing her way up y/n's leg making her drop the drawers.

Her scream that rips through the air finally catches Max's attention and if she couldn't her her own pulse battering her ear drums so heavily then she'd hear him scrambling so quickly that he falls and thuds down on the ground before stumbling back up to her feet.

Sassy has shot out the room in fear of her pained sound.

"Max! Get it off, get it off. It's-" Y/n chokes, crying as she looks at her foot near impaled by the foot of the chest of drawers.

"I'm here, I got it." Max states lift the chest and managing to push y/n's leg as she snatches it away.

"I think I'm gonna be sick." Y/n mumbles looking completely white, near green, before she follows through on her words and passes out with Max managing to just place the drawers down and catch y/n's head before it hits the ground.

"Fuck." Max mutters then looking at her foot with the sock showing specks of blood.

Y/n comes back around as Max lifts her up ready to get her to hospital.

"Max?-Ah, my foot." Y/n hisses feeling the pain hit her as her conscious comes back to her.

"Why were you even trying to move it?"

"Are you trying to piss me off right now? I've been asking you for a WEEK." Y/n near growls through gritted teeth.

"I was going to-"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence."

"I'm sorry. I should've done that." Max mumbles since he knows it was something she'd been on him about.

Y/n remains silent after that and is silent all the way to the hospital where she finally explains what happened to the doctors and after a couple x-rays they conclude that she'd managed to break a couple bones in her foot.

"Baby, I'm really sorry." Max states as the nurse straps the boot on for her since they said she doesn't need a cast. They also gave her some painkillers and stitches for her foot.

"No...I shouldn't have just tried to move it on my own." Y/n mumbles knowing she snapped at Max in the heat of the moment. "I was in a lot of pain."

"I know you were and I shouldn't have been trying to excuse myself for being shit." Max states he lifts her into the car not wanting her to end up causing more damage to her foot. "Let's get you home. yeah?"

"Yeah." Y/n nods with a small smile before she leans over and kisses him softly. "I love you."

"I love you too."

-

Safe to say the next 6 weeks y/n rarely lifted a finger and Max even tried to avoid letting y/n walk without him being there to hold her off the ground.

Though Rupert eventually suggested she may want to be putting some weight on her foot. Which was a good point but y/n didn't appreciate it all that much.

Y/n gets her boot off with a final x-ray confirming the bones healed perfectly and she's all clear to just go about life as normal, with a warning to not be moving heavy furniture on her own.

Y/n, maybe feeling a little petty, does decide to just testing if Max will follow through on his promise to not force her to repeatedly ask him to do something.

"Baby, I've been thinking could we maybe...rearrange the living room today?" Y/n asks and thankfully Max isn't an idiot, he grins moving over and smiling at the young woman as he leans over her and pecks her lips.

"We can do it right now."

"Really?"

"Well, I'll do it really. You aren't lifting a finger." Max states earning a small smile from the young woman. "I won't make the same mistake twice, baby."

"You know it wasn't really your fault I hurt my foot."

"Never would've happened if I'd just done it when you asked." Max sighs shaking his head making her tilt her head at him a little. "You find a comfy spot and direct me one where you want everything.

"Ok." Y/n smiles making him chuckles since he knew she'd enjoy the idea of that. "But I can help if you need it."

Max adjusted Yn on his hip as they stepped out of the car in front of The Galleria Al Maryah Island. The mall gleamed in front of them, glass and marble reflecting the sky like something out of a movie.

Yn, four years old and already very used to paddocks, private jets, and places most people only saw on Instagram, rested her cheek against Max’s shoulder. Her curls were slightly messy, her tiny sneakers dangling as she kicked lazily.

Behind them, Lando let out a low whistle.

“Mate,” he said, looking up at the building. “You sure we’re allowed in here? I feel underdressed and emotionally unprepared.”

Daniel laughed, reaching over and scooping Yn up effortlessly. “Relax, Norris. If they try to kick us out, I’ll distract them with my charm.”

Yn immediately perked up in Daniel’s arms, small hands grabbing the collar of his shirt.

“Uncle Danny,” she mumbled happily.

“There she is,” Daniel said softly, pressing his forehead to hers. “My favorite little jet-setter.”

Oscar walked alongside them, hands in his pockets, smiling quietly at the scene. “She looks exhausted.”

“She skipped her nap,” Max replied calmly. “Again.”

Yn yawned dramatically, her mouth opening wide as if on cue, then buried her face into Daniel’s chest.

“Traitor,” Max muttered. “I carry you all day and the moment Daniel shows up—”

“She has taste,” Lando interrupted. “Excellent taste.”

They headed inside, the mall instantly cooler, quieter, filled with soft music and the subtle scent of expensive perfume. Yn’s eyes fluttered between open and closed as Daniel carried her through the wide corridors.

They found a small luxury café tucked between designer stores, all white marble tables and gold accents. Tea was ordered, along with an excessive plate of biscuits that Yn poked at lazily before losing interest.

Oscar watched her carefully. “She’s really out of it.”

“She’ll crash any minute,” Daniel said, rocking her gently. “Honestly, I could carry her all day.”

“I know,” Max replied flatly. “You’d steal her if you could.”

Daniel grinned. “Tempting.”

Yn lifted her head just enough to point weakly at Lando.

“Uncle Lan… biscuit.”

Lando immediately slid the plate toward her. “Anything for you, boss.”

She nibbled one, crumbs sticking to her fingers, then leaned back into Daniel again, eyes drooping.

They stayed there for a while, talking about the season, the race weekend, laughing quietly. It was easy. Comfortable. One of those rare moments where everything felt normal.

Eventually, they stood and continued walking through the mall.

Yn was nearly asleep now, head tucked under Daniel’s chin, her small arm draped around his neck. Her breathing had gone slow and even.

They were passing store after store when suddenly Yn stirred.

She lifted her head slightly.

“Shiny,” she whispered.

Daniel slowed. “Hm?”

Yn lifted her hand, pointing weakly. “Glitter.”

They all followed her finger.

The Rolex storefront stood there, glowing. Glass cases, perfectly lit, diamonds and gold catching the light and throwing it back in a thousand tiny sparks.

Yn’s eyes widened just a little more.

“Stop,” she murmured.

Max stopped immediately.

Lando blinked. “Did… did she just command us?”

“Yes,” Oscar said calmly. “And we listened.”

Daniel chuckled, shifting Yn slightly. “You like the sparkles, huh?”

She nodded once, very seriously, then yawned again.

Max stepped closer to the display, crouching slightly so he was at her eye level. “You like that?”

“Mhm,” she said, then rested her head back on Daniel’s shoulder again, interest already fading.

Lando laughed softly. “That was the shortest attention span I’ve ever seen.”

Max straightened.

“Let’s go inside.”

All three of them froze.

“…What?” Lando said.

Daniel looked between Max and the store. “Mate, she’s asleep.”

Oscar added carefully, “Also, this is… Rolex.”

“Yes,” Max said simply, already walking toward the entrance.

They exchanged looks but followed.

Inside, the store was quiet, elegant. A sales assistant immediately approached, smiling politely.

“Good evening,” she said. “Welcome.”

Max nodded. “Hello.”

The woman’s eyes flicked briefly to Yn, then back to Max. “How can I help you today?”

Max glanced around the display, then said, calmly, casually—

“I’d like to buy the entire collection on display.”

Silence.

Absolute, deafening silence.

Lando actually choked. “You— what?”

Daniel’s eyebrows shot up. “Max.”

Oscar stared. “The… whole collection?”

The sales assistant blinked. Once. Twice.

“I’m sorry, sir, did you say—”

“Yes,” Max repeated. “Everything in this section.”

The woman’s professional smile faltered for just a fraction of a second before she recovered. “Of course, sir. If you’d like, I can—”

“That’s fine,” Max said. “Just let me know the total.”

Lando leaned closer, voice low. “Mate, are you okay?”

Daniel whispered, “Blink twice if this is a cry for help.”

Oscar looked at Yn, still half asleep, completely uninterested. “This is for… her?”

“Yes.”

They stared at him.

“For Yn?” Lando echoed incredulously.

Max nodded like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Daniel let out a laugh. “She doesn’t even know where she is.”

Yn shifted slightly, murmuring something incoherent, her tiny fingers clutching Daniel’s shirt.

Lando shook his head. “Why?”

Max finally looked at them, expression calm, almost amused.

“For her future.”

Oscar hesitated. “Her… future?”

“So she doesn’t bring home some loser boyfriend one day who can’t live up to her standards.”

Silence again.

Then—

Lando burst out laughing. “You’re insane.”

Daniel snorted. “Four years old and already intimidating future partners.”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck. “What standards?”

Max reached into his phone.

“I’ll show you.”

He pulled up a photo and turned the screen toward them.

It was Yn’s closet.

Perfectly organized, soft lighting, rows of tiny designer dresses and coats. But that wasn’t what made them freeze.

Shelves of handbags. Miniature, yes—but unmistakably luxury. Jewelry trays lined with diamonds, gold, gemstones.

Lando’s mouth fell open. “Is that—”

“Yeah,” Max said proudly. “And that. And that.”

Daniel squinted. “Are those—”

“Van Cleef. Cartier. A few others.”

Oscar looked stunned. “She’s four.”

“She has taste,” Max replied calmly.

Lando let out a weak laugh. “I didn’t even own furniture at four.”

Max zoomed in on another photo. “She likes this one best.”

A delicate Cartier necklace, pink diamonds catching the light.

“She calls it her ‘princess necklace,’” Max said, voice softening slightly. “Pink is her favorite.”

Daniel glanced down at Yn. “She doesn’t even wear it.”

Max gently took Yn from Daniel’s arms, careful not to wake her. He lifted her small sleeve slightly.

There, on her wrist, were thin Van Cleef bracelets, delicate and unmistakable.

“They’re light,” Max said. “She doesn’t like heavy jewelry. Says it gets in the way when she plays.”

Lando stared. “She… told you that?”

Max nodded. “Very clearly.”

Oscar smiled softly despite himself. “That’s actually really sweet.”

“She only wears a little when we’re out,” Max continued. “Most of the time she doesn’t want anything on. I don’t force it.”

The sales assistant returned quietly, tablet in hand. “Sir, whenever you’re ready—”

Max nodded, handed over his card, not even looking at the total.

The beep of the machine sounded absurdly normal.

Lando shook his head slowly. “You just bought enough jewelry to bankrupt a small country.”

Max shrugged. “She’s my whole life.”

Yn stirred slightly as Max lifted her back into his arms, one tiny hand curling around his shirt.

“Papa?” she mumbled.

“I’m here,” Max whispered immediately, kissing her hair.

She sighed contentedly and fell back asleep.

The others watched, the shock slowly melting into something warmer.

Daniel smiled softly. “She’s lucky.”

Lando nodded. “Yeah. Spoiled rotten, but… loved.”

Oscar added quietly, “She’s everything to you.”

Max didn’t deny it.

As they walked out of the store, bags discreetly carried by an assistant behind them, Max adjusted Yn gently, shielding her from the lights.

“She doesn’t need all of this,” he said softly. “But she’ll never need to wonder if she’s valued.”

The mall glittered around them.

Yn slept peacefully.

"What's up?"

He sighed, taking off his glasses.

"Look, we have a problem. Ramirez got sick, and today we have to cover the Red Bull Racing event. Presentation, sponsors, the whole thing."

You frowned.

"Formula 1? I write about football; why are you sending me there?"

"Because there's no one else." His tone was dry, as if the logic were obvious. "Just go, ask basic questions, a couple of color notes, and that's it. We don't need a technical report, just a presence."

You rolled your eyes.

"So... I'm a placeholder?"

"You're versatile," he corrected with a quick smile. "Besides, think of it as an opportunity: you get to know another sport, you make contacts. What could go wrong?"

You didn't answer, though you thought about it in silence: a lot of things.

With a resigned sigh, you closed your notepad and nodded.

"Fine. But let it be clear that if they ask me questions about tires or spoilers, I'm not answering."

"Don't worry. Just smile, record what they say, and write something decent. That's all."

What neither of you knew, in that instant, was that this impromptu mission was not only going to give you material for an article... it was also going to change the course of your life.

The conference room was packed: cameras lined up, microphones with media logos from all over the world, and an expectant murmur. You felt out of place, with your notepad in hand and your newspaper's logo hanging from your accreditation.

When it was time for questions, you raised your hand almost by inertia. The moderator nodded at you, and they brought the microphone closer.

"Uh... Yn Ln, from El Diario Deportivo." Your voice came out firm, even though you were a little shaky inside. "Max, there are those who say your on-track personality is too aggressive and that it affects the public's perception of you as a champion. What would you say to them?"

There was a brief silence in the room. Max turned his head toward you with those cold, sharp blue eyes.

"I don't care what they think," he replied, without a hint of doubt.

Some nervous laughter was heard among those present, while photographers captured the moment. You pressed your lips together, trying not to show discomfort.

"So... nothing to add?" you insisted, because you at least needed a worthwhile quote.

He raised an eyebrow.

"If you're here looking for easy headlines, I guess you already have it."

Your cheeks burned, but you maintained your composure, jotting notes in your pad as if everything were under control.

The worst came later: the clip started circulating on Twitter that same afternoon with headlines like "The Journalist Verstappen Can't Stand" or "Max Shuts Down Football Reporter."

Meanwhile, you kept repeating to yourself: great... just what I wanted, to become a meme for meddling in a sport I don't even cover.

The Monaco paddock was a beehive of activity, a chaotic and perfectly choreographed dance of mechanics, engineers, and celebrities. The air vibrated with the anticipation of the race, an intoxicating mix of gasoline, burnt rubber, and the faint scent of victory. In the midst of that whirlwind, you moved forward, trying to keep your heart from pounding out of your chest. The accreditation, heavy as a medal of merit, swayed on your neck. It was your first time there officially, not as just another fan, but as a professional. The notebook in your hand felt like an anchor, and every step reminded you of the gravity of the situation.

Suddenly, a murmur ran through the crowd. The flashes intensified, pointing in a single direction. And there you saw him. Max Verstappen, emerging from the mouth of the Red Bull garage, an unmistakable figure even among the commotion. He walked alongside his engineer, with the same stony seriousness that characterized him in interviews. His jaw, tense, and his gaze, fixed on the horizon. Nothing and no one seemed able to divert him from his path.

You saw him before he saw you. Or so you thought.

The moment his eyes met yours, something seemed to crack in his cold facade. It was only a second, a fleeting glint in his pupils, a fraction of a millisecond where the barrier of the unassailable driver dissolved. But it was only an illusion. His jaw tensed even more, his gaze hardened, and his step, which was already fast, became more determined. He walked past you without stopping, not even for a simple acknowledgment. Only a minimal shift of his eyes, an almost imperceptible gesture, and then he continued, as if you hadn't been there.

The flashes didn't spare the moment, and the echo of the shutters was etched in your memory.

"Ugh, that's going to go viral" a photographer murmured behind you, in a tone that mixed surprise with amusement.

You adjusted your recorder with slightly trembling hands, exhaled the air you didn't even know you had been holding, and forced yourself to continue on your way. Professional. You had to be, even if the pressure in your chest reminded you that you were as human as any other fan.

That night, Twitter went crazy, as expected. The memes and headlines flew faster than a single-seater on the straight.

"Max literally hates her 💀 look at his face in the paddock today" "new meme unlocked: 'the journalist he can't stand' 😂" "bro, the tension is crazy, someone put them in a room together"

You watched the memes from your phone screen, frustration competing with disbelief. The photo of him, with his brow furrowed and an icy stare, and you, in the background, with your notebook in hand, was already a sticker. But what really consumed you was the question no one else was asking: had he avoided you because of the cameras and the press, or just because of you?

Hours later, while jet lag reminded you that you were a long way from home, you found yourself going over the headlines again and again. The journalist Verstappen can't stand. Max cuts off football reporter. The glow of your laptop was the only beacon in the hotel's gloom, illuminating your dark circles and the half-finished cold coffee on the table.

You sighed, closing the lid with a soft thud. You weren't going to gain anything by tormenting yourself with comments that had already gone viral. You fell onto the bed, ready to disconnect, when the phone's buzz interrupted the silence.

A notification. Instagram.

maxverstappen1 → New message.

Your heart jumped into your throat. Why would he message you? And why now? You hesitated for a few seconds before opening the chat.

Max: Hey… I didn't mean to be rude today.

Max: Coffee tomorrow and we'll clear things up?

You stared at the screen, the cursor blinking as if it could read your thoughts. Do you ignore it or reply? The most professional thing would be to keep your distance, but curiosity outweighed common sense. In the end, your fingers moved on their own.

You: I thought you weren't here to make friends…

"Typing..." appeared immediately.

Max: Touché. But I can make an exception. Just this once.

Max: Besides, I have to defend my reputation. I don't want to be the guy who hates football journalists 😏

You rolled your eyes, though a smile escaped you before you could stop it.

You: Alright, Verstappen. Coffee. But no undercover interviews.

A few seconds later, his reply came.

Max: Promise. Just coffee.

The phone vibrated again, another notification: a coffee cup sticker accompanied by a thumbs-up. So simple, so unexpected... and so dangerous. You sank into the pillows with the phone still in your hand. Maybe tomorrow wouldn't be just another day. Maybe you were crossing a line you didn't even know existed.

The following days became a silent game, a secret pact that only the two of you understood. In the paddock, under the watchful eye of the cameras, he was still the focused driver and you, the professional journalist. Neither of you spoke in front of the flashes, but your gestures spoke for themselves: a coffee carefully placed on your table, a fleeting smile as he passed, a barely perceptible wink that disappeared before anyone else noticed.

One afternoon at Silverstone, you saw him deliberately deviate from the path everyone else was following. The photographers adjusted their lenses, trying to capture every movement, but he simply stopped next to you and waited for you to stand up. That silent moment was loaded with intention: only you knew what it meant.

"I don't want you to get lost," he said, in a low, playful tone, almost as if you were sharing a secret.

"In a paddock you know by heart?" you replied, trying to hide the smile that was escaping you, aware of the message between the lines.

He shrugged, amused, and added: "Exactly. So I don't get lost either."

As you walked together toward the press room, dodging technicians and cameras, you felt that every shared step was a small territory conquered. The game of glances, gestures, and silences became more and more addictive. To everyone else, they were just a driver and a journalist. But you knew the truth: there was something more, palpable and electric, that no headline could capture.

'Accidental' photos began to circulate on social media. You in the background of a shot of photographers while Max seemed to be looking at you. He was passing a cup of coffee with a distracted gesture, but the image was captured by a telephoto lens. You were laughing in the mixed zone just as he walked behind you.

The comments were quick to arrive, and the mystery became a comedy.

"ok but why is Max suddenly soft when she’s around 👀" "he’s literally giving her coffee omg boyfriend vibes" "they swear it’s accidental but i don’t buy it 😏" "she just wants fame, she's probably hanging onto the driver"

Memes began to circulate: GIFs of Max looking at you with a amused expression, subtitled with 'when the journalist you hate crosses your path again,' and exaggerated comparisons to romantic scenes from movies.

Meanwhile, at your newspaper, the bosses were starting to get worried. Your internal email was filled with warning messages and unexpected meetings:

Internal email: Subject 'F1 Coverage' "We have been informed of possible objectivity problems in the Formula 1 coverage. A recurring closeness has been observed between the assigned journalist and the driver Max Verstappen. Please remember that the relationship with the subjects of the story must be kept strictly professional. You will be asked for explanations if the situation persists. Management."

Reading it, you felt a knot in your stomach. You couldn't blame them: the photos had started to circulate, and anyone could misinterpret a coffee being handed over or a shared gesture in the paddock.

You took a deep breath and remembered the golden rule of journalism: objectivity above all. But you also thought about Max, his messages, the little glances, how the tension became a silent game that only the two of you understood.

A sigh escaped your lips. You knew you had to keep your distance... but, at the same time, a part of you didn't want to lose that bond that had become so special in such a short time.

As you reviewed the photos from the previous day, in which he was passing you a coffee without anyone noticing, you couldn't help but smile. For others, it was just professional closeness; for you... it was much more.

With the warning emails still fresh in your mind, you decided it was time to set boundaries. No secret gestures, no "accidental" coffees, no prolonged glances. Just professionalism.

The next day in the paddock, Max appeared with his typical confident stride and focused gaze. You approached him, notepad in hand, taking a deep breath.

"Max," you said, trying to keep your voice neutral, "I need to confirm the press conference details for tomorrow's story."

He looked at you with that raised eyebrow that always left you speechless, and for the first time, you saw a small hint of bewilderment in his expression.

"Oh... objective, huh?" he murmured, with a crooked smile. "That sounds strange."

It wasn't a joke. The playful glint in his eyes dimmed a little, replaced by a look of genuine surprise.

"Yes," you replied, calmly noting his words. "No conversations outside of this, please. Just facts."

Max nodded slowly, and for an instant, the silence between you became tense. You had never seen him so aware of his behavior around you.

As you walked away to prepare the recorder, you heard his voice, low, almost to himself:

"Wow... this really changes the rules of the game."

And although he tried to hide it, the way he watched you as you walked away made it clear that "objective" didn't suit him at all. The dynamic that had been a secret game until now began to transform, and neither of you knew how to handle it yet.

In the following days, the professional distance you had imposed didn't last long. Max seemed incapable of staying completely on the sidelines. His every gesture became calculated, but always with a touch of mischief that only you could decipher.

In the mixed zone, while you were reviewing your notes, he appeared behind you with a coffee in his hand. He didn't announce it or speak; he simply placed it gently on your table, an almost imperceptible gesture, but loaded with intention.

"Is that part of the story?" you asked, looking up and barely managing a controlled smile.

He shrugged, feigning indifference, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Consider it... color context."

On another occasion, during the press conference, he leaned slightly toward you to whisper a correction about a detail that almost no one else noticed, making sure your notes were accurate.

"Just so you don't hate me more than necessary," he joked, with an almost imperceptible wink.

The effect was immediate: while you maintained your composure and recorded everything with professionalism, you felt how his every gesture disarmed you a little.

And for Max, seeing your seriousness in front of him, so focused and firm, made him feel strange, even vulnerable. He wasn't used to someone being able to look at him like that, without fear and with such authority, but at the same time, without closing the door to what was between you.

The paddock became a silent chessboard. Every coffee, every glance, every measured comment was a carefully calculated move. And although the world could only see a driver and a journalist, you knew you were playing a much more intimate game, a push and pull full of tension, complicity, and contained flirting.

On May 25th, you woke up with your heart racing. As soon as you opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was a notification from an international media outlet: the news you had been dreading had materialized. The headline, in huge letters, screamed:

"Max Verstappen Under Fire for 'Questionable Behavior': Full Article by Yn Ln."

Your chest lurched. Not only was your name at the top of the story; it was your signature that gave credibility to something you hadn't written. Your hands trembled as you grabbed your phone. A whirlwind of notifications, emails, and missed calls attacked you: messages from alarmed colleagues, tweets criticizing your supposed bias, and even message chains asking if you were okay. Among it all, you saw a missed call from Max.

That afternoon, the paddock felt like a battlefield. The atmosphere was unbreathable: murmurs behind you, flashes exploding around you, photographers who wouldn't take their eyes off you. Every step you took seemed to be watched, every breath scrutinized.

Max walked past you without stopping. His jaw was so tense you feared it would break, his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on a distant point beyond you. The cameras captured every second, and the headlines that same night left no doubt:

"Breakup between Driver and Journalist? Max Rages in the Paddock."

The fandom divided in real time. Some defended you; others attacked you mercilessly:

"She just wanted fame, there's the proof." "Max doesn't deserve that." "Don't be naive, she doesn't even write all the articles."

You felt a lump in your throat, a weight in your stomach that kept you from moving normally. And then the message you feared the most arrived. Short, dry, very Max.

Max: So this is your neutrality.

Your breath caught. You wanted to explain, to yell that it wasn't your text, that the signature was a betrayal, that you would never write something like that. But you knew that the press, your bosses, and the thousands of eyes on you wouldn't allow you to clarify anything so easily.

As you walked among photographers and technicians, the narrative was self-imposing: Max, angry and distant. You, trapped in silence and helplessness. Two figures under an impossible spotlight, every move interpreted, every gesture analyzed.

There was the real dilemma: defend your career and remain silent, or risk everything to protect what had grown between you?

The clock seemed to have stopped, and in your chest beat the answer you still didn't know if you had the courage to face.

You took a deep breath, the cold air barely mitigating the knot of anxiety in your stomach, before pushing the imposing oak door that led to your editor's office. The sound it made as it closed behind you, a dry and definitive click, echoed in the silence, hammering at your already tense nerves. The dim light of the desk lamp barely illuminated the expression on your editor's face, but you could feel the weight of the situation.

"Yn," he said, his voice unusually calm, too calm, which only intensified your premonition. "Have a seat for a moment?"

The offer to sit sounded like a delaying tactic, an attempt to soften what you knew would be a confrontation.

"No," your response was immediate, firm, a determination that even surprised you. Every fiber of your being refused to yield an inch of ground. "I want to talk right now."

He raised his eyebrows, a mixture of curiosity and a slight nervousness crossing his face. He remained silent, seemingly weighing your unwavering stance. The air was charged with an almost palpable tension.

"The article about Max," you began, controlling every word, every syllable, making sure your voice didn't tremble. The rage burned inside you, but you encapsulated it, transforming it into a cold logic.

"I didn't write it. I didn't approve its content. And yet, it was signed with my name. That's not only unethical, it's...—you swallowed, the word stuck in your throat, but you forced it out—...a betrayal of my credibility as a journalist."

The editor leaned back in his chair, his fingers intertwined on his stomach, a pose that was familiar in his attempts to appear serene. His arms were crossed, an invisible barrier between you.

"It was necessary to publish quickly. You know how editorial pressure works."

"No!" your interruption was abrupt, your voice louder than you had planned, but you didn't regret it. The excuse was so flimsy, so predictable.

"That's no excuse. You put me in the middle of a media attack without my consent. It's my name that's on there! My career is on the line. Every year of effort, every story I've done with integrity, it could all fall apart because of this."

A heavy silence settled in the office, interrupted only by the distant hum of the air conditioner. His lips were pressed together, the evidence that your words had hit the mark was clear on his face. He knew you were right, that the line they had crossed was undeniable.

"You're right," he said at last, his voice an almost inaudible whisper.

"Perhaps we should have handled this differently. But now it's too late. The story is published."

The resignation in his tone only fueled your fire.

"It's not too late to take responsibility," you replied, your eyes shining with a mixture of indignation and an iron determination.

"I need you to retract it, to publicly state that I didn't write this. And if you don't, I'm going to have to make serious decisions about my staying here. I can't keep working in a place that compromises my ethics and my reputation in this way. I am willing to take this to the full extent."

He sighed, a long, heavy sound that denoted a clear defeat, crushed by the unwavering intensity of your stance. He looked into your eyes, and you knew he had understood the seriousness of your ultimatum.

"I understand," he said, his voice softer now, his resistance abandoning him. "I'll do what I can. I'll talk to management and we'll see what steps we can take to mitigate this. I'll keep you informed."

You left the office with a persistent lump in your throat, but also with a strange sense of relief. The adrenaline was still running through your veins, the echo of your own words resounding in your ears. You had made it clear that you would not tolerate them using your name as a weapon, or trampling on your professional integrity.

Although the media storm was still raging outside, for the first time in days, you felt that you could still regain some control over the situation. The battle was not over, but you had planted your flag, and that, for now, was enough.

The phone vibrated in your hand as you checked the latest news about the media uproar. A message from Max appeared on the screen as the phone vibrated in your hand.

Max: We need to talk. Not about racing or the press. Just us.

You stared at the screen for a moment, hesitating. You could ignore him, keep your distance, protect yourself... but something inside you knew you couldn't. You replied with caution:

You: Now? Between flashes and rumors, I don't know if that's a good idea.

Max: I know. But I can't just sit back and watch them drag you through this. I care more about what you say than what they see. Can we meet after today's session?

You took a deep breath. His message was clear: he wanted to clear the air, not to argue publicly, and above all, he didn't want this to destroy what was between you.

You: Okay. But no headlines, no stories. This is just... us.

Max: Promise. Just us.

That afternoon, in a secluded corner of the paddock, he waited for you with his jaw relaxed, a coffee in his hand, and a smile that barely contained the relief.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "For everything. For the tension, for the misunderstandings... even for how they've dragged you into this unintentionally."

You approached him, breathing the same air as him, aware of the distance you had maintained for weeks.

"It wasn't your fault, Max," you replied, trying to make your voice sound firm but without hiding the tremor you felt. "It was the newspaper... and the whole world watching everything."

He nodded, and for an instant, the noise of the paddock disappeared. It was just the two of you, face to face, breathing, aware that this was the first step to rebuilding something that you had both started to feel without realizing it.

"So... do we start over?" he asked, with that playful spark that always characterized him.

"Over," you confirmed, and for the first time in days, you felt that you could make it work without anyone else interfering.

After weeks of tension, misunderstandings, and headlines that put both of you in an impossible spotlight, the relationship between you found its balance. You had learned to balance professionalism and closeness, and Max had understood that your independence as a journalist did not threaten what had arisen between you, but rather made it even more valuable.

In the paddock, the interactions became discreet again: a coffee handed over carefully, quick glances that spoke more than any words, shared smiles when no one was looking. Neither of you needed to explain anything; the silent game of gestures was enough.

One day, at the office, you handed in your resignation letter. It was time to leave the pressure of the newspaper behind and start something of your own. The project: an independent podcast where truth, curiosity, and the passion for storytelling would be the only things that mattered.

When Max received the invitation to be your first guest, he smiled in that way that made all problems seem small:

"Just me?" he asked, feigning shyness.

"Just you," you replied, sure that this time you were in control of the narrative.

On the day of the recording, the studio was full of laughter and animated conversations. Max told behind-the-scenes anecdotes, you laughed with him, and the chemistry that had always been there became undeniable for both of you, even if no one else needed to see it.

Between jokes about racing, comments about the press, and small shared secrets, it became clear that this time you could build something together without external interference. Professionalism and romance coexisted, not as a conflict, but as a perfect balance: a driver and a journalist who learned to find each other in the midst of the chaos of the world around them.

The final shot of the podcast's last episode showed you smiling in front of the microphones, close, confident, and with the certainty that you could rewrite your own stories, both on and off the track.

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

💌 tag list: @mysthicwhispers @anamiad00msday @st4r-girl-official @kartuke @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane

@pedriglazer @viper-0800 @clocouettelife @leviathan0000 @roseannih

lestappenradios

Liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, victoriaverstappen, and 6,829,623 others

lestappenradios Max’ and Charles’ radio from the Australian GP today, right after Max almost made contact with his boyfriend in turn 5.

Well, we hope the couch is soft, at least.

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username i can’t fucking believe years ago people called me crazy for shipping this and now we get radios like these

username ok but the way charles immediately backtracked 😭😭

username fr i wonder what wouldve happened if that was yuki

username oh what a great day to be a lestappen shipper

charles_leclerc Oh so you do know that was wrong? @/maxverstappen1 ❤️ by author

maxverstappen1 I did say I’m sorry, didn’t I? ❤️ by author

charles_leclerc Oh hahahahaa, when you say it like that! Have fun on the couch tonight 😒 ❤️ by author

username Lestappen married couple confirmed

username Oh my god I just love them so much 😭 power couple fr

username Lmao look who’s talking Mr Nothing-Just-An-Inchident

lestappenradios

Liked by redbullracing, carlossainz55, and 5,443,776 others

lestappenradios Max & Charles checking with their team if the other is okay today in Austria 🇦🇹 ❤️

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username Always something going on with these two in Austria istfg

username i can already smell the austria compilation videos

username Lestappen checking on each other like worried sick husbands, meanwhile Oscar: 🧍🏼😐

username lmao this comment took me tf out 😭

username and when i tell you i’ve dreamed of days like these coming true???

pascaleleclerc My boys 🥰 ❤️ by author

charles_leclerc ❤️

maxverstappen1 ❤️

username Not Maman Leclerc approving I’m gonna cry 😭😭😭

username My real life enemies to lovers

username Charles my baby 😭 he sounded so desperate to know he’s ok i can’t

lestappenradios

Liked by gplambiase, redbullracing, victoriaverstappen, and 7,927,662 others

lestappenradios Lestappen radios during the Dutch GP today, and we can’t help but feel like we’re interrupting something.

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username GP and Bryan really have no fucking filter

username yeah but like imagine what they have to go through behind the scenes when the public shit is that bad already 😭😭

username someone please let Max and Charles talk to each other on the radio 🙏🏻

username that would quite literally end in a disaster

victoriaverstappen Nothing better than hearing your brother talk about foreplay!

maxverstappen1 😐

victoriaverstappen Get a fucking room next time

username not his own sister calling them out 😭

username Victoria be like: Imagine how tired we are

username Charles was STRESSED lmao

username Max: Let’s dance 🕺 Charles: *sassy bitching noises*

lestappenradios

Liked by f1gossippofficial, danielricciardo, sebastianvettel, and 5,736,192 others

lestappenradios Well, we watched the Canadian GP with mixed feelings today: Charles’ DNF after his pit stop on the 21st lap, while Max finished the race in P1. 😔

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username oh my fucking god did he just?!?

username he did.

username calling out your boyfriends team while he never said a bad word about them is CRAZY

username yeah but it’s safe to say that max probably knows how Charles is actually feeling with them yk

username Charles can never catch a fucking break 😭😭😭 the way he was still happy for Max

username Charles being happy for Max’ win while Max is angry for Charles’ DNF 😭 soulmates your honor

maxverstappen1 I said what I said. ❤️ by author

username WHAT FHE ACTUAL

username Charles is really quiet about the situation 👀

username well wtf is he supposed to do?? he’s still in a contract with them

username even if he wasn’t, Charles would never say a bad thing about them

lestappenradios

Liked by scuderiaferrari, maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, and 8,727,442 others

lestappenradios CHARLES LECLERC WINS THE MONACO GRAND PRIX!! 🇲🇨

A really emotional day for the fans and especially Charles’ biggest fan: Max Verstappen.

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username no because max wouldve been pissed would it be anyone else finishing in front of him

username Oh max 😭😭 He’s always so supportive and proud of Charles

danielricciardo Oh my sweet lovesick children

username this actually made me fucking cry while watching F1 with my dad 😭😭

username omg same i cried like a baby

username i just love their love, always supporting each other in achieving their dreams ❤️

charles_leclerc Couldn’t have done it without you, @/maxverstappen1 ❤️

maxverstappen1 We both know that’s not true. This was all you. So fucking proud of you! ❤️

username that’s it. i can die happily now.

—

Other drivers: Radio Check | Masterlist

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! (For a particular driver or every version is up to you!)

THE SOUND OF THE front door clicking open was enough to pull you out of the trance you’d been in. Your pencil paused mid-line, hovering over the sketchbook that was balanced on your knees. You had been buried in a design for the past hour, every detail of the fabric, neckline, and silhouette running circles in your mind. It was one of those evenings where inspiration refused to leave you alone.

But the familiar shuffle of sneakers on hardwood floors made your lips curve into a smile.

“Baby?” Max’s voice carried down the hallway, tired but warm.

“Here” you called back, already setting your sketchbook aside just in case.

A moment later, he appeared in the doorway, framed by the golden spill of sunset. His training clothes were damp, sticking to him in places, his hair plastered to his forehead. There was a faint flush across his cheeks, the kind that only came after hours of pushing himself on the simulator and in the gym.

Before you could even tease him about it, he was already crossing the room. His steps were quick, determined, like he couldn’t get to you fast enough.

“Hi,” you said softly, half-laughing.

“Hi,” he murmured back, and then his lips were on yours.

The kiss was immediate, a little messy, tasting faintly of salt and sweat, but you didn’t care. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your skin as he kissed you like he’d been gone for days instead of just a few hours.

You let out a soft sound of surprise but kissed him back, fingers curling lightly into his damp shirt.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far, just enough to press his mouth against your cheek, then lower to your jawline, then further, to the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“Max,” you warned, laughter bubbling in your voice as he continued his trail of kisses down your neck.

“Hm?” he hummed against your skin, utterly unbothered.

“You’re sweaty,” you complained half-heartedly, though you tilted your head anyway, giving him more room.

“Don’t care,” he muttered, his breath hot against your throat before he pressed another kiss there.

You tried to wiggle away, but he tightened his hold, his lips dotting kisses everywhere he could reach your temple, the corner of your mouth, the slope of your shoulder. Each one left you flustered and smiling, even as you tried to play annoyed.

“Max” you said with a breathy laugh, trying to twist away as your pencil nearly slipped from your fingers. “Please, you’re distracting me.”

“That’s the point,” he muttered, and you could feel his smile against your skin.

His kisses grew slower but more insistent, a soft press here, a lingering brush there, until you had to gently push at his chest. He leaned back reluctantly, and that’s when you caught the faint crease between his brows.

You sighed, setting your pencil down completely this time. “Max,” you said softly, brushing your hand against his jaw, the stubble rough under your fingertips. “At least shower first, okay? Then you can have all the cuddles you want.”

His eyes flickered, the tension easing into something more playful. “Promise?”

“Yes, promise,” you smiled. “Go. You’re sweaty.”

He let out a soft hum of contentment, finally peeling himself away and heading toward the bathroom. You watched him go, smiling to yourself at the way he dragged his feet like a sulky child.

By the time he reappeared fifteen minutes later, his hair was damp but clean, a loose t-shirt clinging comfortably to his frame. He looked softer, calmer, your Maxie, not the one the world saw.

“Better?” you asked from the couch, where you’d already sprawled out with a blanket.

“Much,” he admitted, padding over to you. Without waiting for an invitation, he collapsed onto the cushions beside you, pulling you into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You laughed softly, adjusting until your head was on his chest and his arm was around your shoulders. The blanket tangled around both of you as he shifted, tucking you close.

“See? Wasn’t so hard,” you teased lightly, your fingers drawing absent circles on his stomach through the fabric of his shirt.

He pressed a kiss to your hairline. “This is better.”

The quiet settled around you both, comfortable and warm. His heartbeat thudded steadily beneath your ear, grounding you in a way nothing else could.

After a while, Max’s voice broke the silence. “You work too much.”

You smiled faintly, recognizing the way he always turned things back on you. “Says the guy who pushes himself every day, all day.”

“That’s different.”

“How?” you asked, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Because when you work too much,” he said, eyes flicking toward you, “I don’t get enough of you.”

Your chest tightened. He said it so simply, but there was weight behind it. For all his success, for all the confidence he carried on track, Max still had these moments, these cracks where his vulnerability slipped through.

“Max,” you whispered, shifting to cup his cheek gently. “You get all of me. Always.”

He closed his eyes briefly at your touch, leaning into it. “Sometimes I don’t feel like it. Sometimes it feels like the world takes little pieces of you away.”

“And what about you?” you asked softly. “You think the world doesn’t take pieces of you too? The team, the media, the fans?”

“That’s different,” he repeated stubbornly.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It’s not. But we always come back here, don’t we? To this. To us.”

His arms tightened around you in answer, pulling you even closer.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “To us.”

The two of you fell quiet again, this time letting the weight of your words settle. You could feel the tension in him easing, his muscles relaxing beneath your touch.

Minutes passed, and then you spoke again, voice quiet. “You know, you’re very different at home.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“On track, you’re… Max Verstappen. Fast, intimidating, untouchable. But here” you poked his chest lightly, “you’re just you. My clingy, distracting boyfriend who refuses to shower before kissing me.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your ear. “You love it.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” you teased, earning another laugh.

His laughter faded into a sigh as he rested his chin on top of your head. “Can we just stay like this?”

“Of course,” you murmured.

And you did. The evening stretched on, the golden light outside fading into the blue of night. You talked quietly about little things,your sketches, his training, the future. Nothing heavy, nothing overwhelming. Just life.

At some point, the rhythm of his breathing grew slower, steadier. His arm loosened slightly around you, though his hand still rested on your hip, keeping you close.

“Max?” you whispered, glancing up.

No response. His lashes were low against his cheeks, his features soft in sleep.

A fond smile tugged at your lips. You shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket around both of you, careful not to wake him. The warmth of his body, the weight of his arm, the steady beat of his heart, it all lulled you, too.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your last thought a simple one: there was nowhere else in the world you’d rather be.

And like that, the two of you drifted off together, tangled in each other’s arms, safe and content in the quiet of your shared little world.

—

“Coming home, see you soon, schatje.”

You were nestled against the hoard of pillows in the huge ass bed that Max bought when you told him you’re pregnant. Since the calendar marked your seventh month, you stopped being public and you just enjoyed your safe space, preparing everything for the upcoming birth of your little one.

Because Max wasn't in the aggressive title fight this year, he went and achieved his long term goal at GT3 series, winning the race along with his mate Chris.

For the past four years you were by his side, watching him fight for his goals, being a supportive beacon of light for him.

It was somewhere between his second and third championship, when you decided to start trying to make a baby.

Everybody said that it’s really easy, just one time thing and voila you’re pregnant, but in your case it wasn’t like that. Each month was tinted with the disappointment of the negative tests and it went like this to the start of this year's season. You were tired, constantly hungry and nauseous, and you fell really sick after accompanying Max in Australia.

“So, what’s with her that she’s fragile like a porcelain doll?” Max pressed at the doctor who was examining you, while you held his hand, trying to calm him down that it’s nothing. He was done with your nothings.

“Ehm, Mr. Verstappen, please sit down. We ran some labs on Miss here, but— well, her iron levels are low, same goes to the magnesium and— Miss, when was the last time you had your period?” The doctor held his composure, clutching some papers from which he read the results.

You frowned in confusion. “What do you mean? This has nothing to do—“

But Max turned his head to look at you with wide eyes and you immediately took the hint. Shooting a look at the doctor, you were starting to get emotional. “You mean—“

“You’re pregnant. Exactly six weeks or so.”

The entrance door screeched as Max opened them, giving himself a mental note to give them a little bit of a touch to not being that noisy. Tossing his backpack somewhere in the hallway, the space of the apartment was quiet and he knew where to find you. The clock signalled it was about midnight when he walked inside the bedroom, the space filled with the dim light of the bedside lamp, only to catch a sight of you laying in the soft white sheets that caressed your delicate skin, enhancing your full figure as you snored.

Lips curling into an amused smile, his feet padded quietly to the bed, to carefully crawl beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His eyes wandered over you, taking in how peaceful you looked deep in your slumber, your body clad only in sports bra and low shorts, positioned on your right side with a maternity pillow supporting your swollen stomach, your hand resting on top of it. Suddenly he noticed the slow movement under your stretched skin and you grunted softly from the sleep, brows knitted in displease. Max chuckled lowly, understanding that the baby gave you a hard time again, most likely kicking into your poor bladder.

Cupping your baby belly with his large hand, his fingers skimming across your skin, the warmth of you seeping into his veins, the life you carried made a shiver run down his spine. He was so proud of you, how you managed to keep your mood lifted all the time, but also how you let your emotions flow out whenever you needed, trusting him with your fragility.

Shifting a little, you opened your eyes slowly, eyelashes fluttering in surprise. “Max…”

“Shhh, liefje.” He shushed you to fall asleep again, but you were so excited that he’s home that you couldn’t.

“How was your flight?” You asked with your voice hoarse.

“Good, but I was looking forward to being home with my girls.” His smile widened, while his fingers patted your belly gently.

You knew the gender for a week but you wanted to surprise him. “How do you know about our baby being a girl?”

“Before I left for a weekend I spotted a sticky note on the fridge beside the ultrasound pictures and it said girl with a heart.”

You sighed, your pregnant self forgot about sticking it there to not forget about it later. “It was meant to be a surprise.”

Max leaned close to kiss your nose. “It was. Thank you.” His breath mingled with yours as you laughed softly, pulling him even closer to you by the collar of his shirt.

“I’m so proud of you, Max. I watched the quali and race and hell, you’re like a beast in that car. It’s hot.” You kissed his lips softly.

“And when I’m driving a formula one car, it’s not hot? I’m actually hurt now, schatje.” He whispered between the kisses with a joking laugh.

“You know what I mean.” You grunted teasingly, helping him out of his shirt.

Max cradled your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, while he simply looked into your eyes. “Did I tell you how much I love you?”

Your face softened at his words, chest tightening from the beautiful sensation. “You can tell me now.”

“For the rest of our lives.” His smile got even wider, as if he implied something.

You frowned in confusion. “What—“

But at the same time he pulled the black velvet box out of the pocket of his jeans and you knew.

“Yes!” You blurted out quickly, which made him laugh loudly.

“I haven’t even asked you yet.”

“I know my answer.” You laughed with him.

“No, let me do this properly. Please.”

When you saw his pleading eyes, you nodded with a huge grin.

“Ehm, so— My dear darling, the only bright star in my sky, who’s guiding my steps through life, my hot and beautiful girl, mother of our child, will you do me an honour and will you marry me?” His eyes were glistening with tears, it was a rare sight to see Max Verstappen cry.

And you were full on crying. Sobbing softly you nodded. “Yes. Thousand times yes, Max.”

With a shaky laughter he took the ring from the box, sliding it down your finger but it stuck in the middle because your hands were swollen because of the pregnancy.

“Fuck.” You swore under your breath and Max panicked a little.

“I thought I measured it right.”

You saw his panic and you wiped your tears, cupping his face. “It’s okay. I’m gonna fit into it when I give birth. I’m swollen like an elephant these days.”

Max calmed down a little, taking the ring off your finger, placing it to the bedside table. “It’ll be here whenever you want to look at it.”

“I can put it on my necklace and wear it this way.” You suggested when he laid beside you, you felt his hot skin against yours, noticing that he’s still in his fuck ass skinny jeans.

He took the hint of your glance and instantly pulled them off his legs. “Better?”

You hummed in contentment, smiling smugly. “Absolutely. Now hold me close, I need to feel your skin on mine, it brings me comfort.”

Max chuckled, wrapping his arms around your waist, carefully pulling you close to him, feeling the swell of your belly at his side and in that moment he was grateful for you, because you were the greatest achievement he ever got.

—

© All stories and written content created by me is not allowed to be used without my permission. If you wish to share, quote, or use any portion of my stories, please contact me directly.

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