#mv3 x reader

"We lost three men trying to get her into the van," his trusted underling reports. "She also almost crushed Daniel’s windpipe with her knee when she came around and he was still tying her down."

There is a hint of humor there, buried under the brutality of the act. Had the captive been anyone else, like the local baker who has deferred protection pay for three months straight despite the daily heavy traffic in his bakery, they might’ve even chuckled at Daniel’s expense. The act would’ve been nothing more than a civilian’s futile attempt to protect themselves.

But, alas, the current resident of the safe house’s basement is not the mere socialite she claimed to be when he first slept with her seven months ago.

YN LN, the charming self-made socialite he has taken an interest in, is a deception. The truth is Seraph: a shadow operative for hire who has lived a thousand lives with different objectives.

Seraph, who deals with silent, untraceable services—usually a life or information for pay.

Seraph, who has killed men with a single sharpened fingernail coated in deadly nightshade.

Seraph, who has bankrupted a syndicate with a single bobby pin.

Seraph, who specializes in sliver openings to tear a situation apart.

Daniel is lucky she’s still coming out of a chemical haze when she woke. Otherwise, Max would’ve definitely been forced to bury a lieutenant and promote a replacement—neither of which is tolerable to him amidst the betrayal.

Max still doesn’t look up to meet Yuki’s eyes, but he finally stops trying to look preoccupied with the document in front of him. "And her apartment?"

"Checo and the others are still combing it for any clues about her current employer," the younger man replies. "They’re ready to torch it once they’re done."

"Good." He looks up, his gaze cold with unvoiced fury awaiting an outlet. "Keep her sedated until I’m ready for her."

Any ghosts of the Zandvoort wind are left behind once the elevator reaches the underground levels. There is no room for a phantom breeze here—not with the suffocating echoes of lives lost in these very floors haunting the walls.

The word comfort takes on an entirely different meaning below the foundation soil. Space may be as plentiful here as it is above, but cushions of any kind and the mere privilege to stretch are luxuries that never visit. Here, silence and solitude are much preferred by its residents to the alternative.

Yet, as it is above ground, being taken to a second location is a move that cannot guarantee a return.

"Hello, schatje," Max smirks as he looks down on YN’s current state: disheveled, disoriented, and cuffed to a bolted steel chair. "Missed me?"

She takes a second to calibrate. In a completely different circumstance, specifically under his silk sheets, YN being disheveled and disoriented is a personal checkered flag. In this particular situation, however . . . "Hardly." Her voice comes out hoarse, a familiar timbre that resonates in their morning afters. "I saw you this weekend, didn’t I?"

Max can’t help but to clench his jaw.

The familiarity of her bite is a bullet he isn’t prepared to catch. It’s one of the things he loved about her—how her sweetness comes with an edge she bares just enough times to remind him to check his ego.

She had been so perfect.

Hence why the betrayal hit him with the force of a high-speed impact.

"Right," Max acknowledges curtly. He crosses his arms across his chest, looking more like the boss that he is rather than the lover she knows. "You mean two nights before an RB shipment went missing?"

As he calculated, the mention of the missing shipment immediately clears the lingering chemically-induced fog in her brain. "What? What shipment?" Even more so when the chains snapped her hands back with a sharp echo when she tried to move them to the front of her face. "What— I don’t— I don’t understand." She tries again for good measure, the chains making the same condemning noise amidst the basement’s silence. "Max, seriously, what is this? Is this some kind of—"

"I don’t know, YN, you tell me," Max interrupts her theatrical confusion, not having the patience to see her acting through.

"What are you talking—"

"Or perhaps Seraph can." He moves one shoulder in a small shrug, "Whichever personality you want to use to come clean."

The mention of her shadow name makes YN freeze. However, like a professional operative for hire he now knows she is, the shock doesn’t last long. "Who told—"

"Please," he cuts her off for the third time, feeling no remorse for talking over her. After all, she isn’t the first person he refuses to hear out. "Don’t mistake me for one of your naive targets. It’s insulting."

Her face blanks in a blink. For a second, she just sits there, unmoving, mimicking a life-sized statue. She isn’t frozen. She’s . . . assessing.

It’s the first tell that her socialite mask has cracked—and before her next words shatter it completely. "Don’t flatter yourself, schatje." The smirk that slowly blooms in her face makes him tighten his hold on his arms. It’s the same expression she makes whenever she’s trying to rile him up and bait him into a round—except, this time, there’s a razor edge to the way her eyes twinkle. "Who told you RB is my target?"

Max forces himself to not fall for it. "You’ve been lying to me for months. What makes you think—"

This time, it’s Seraph who doesn’t let him finish. "Come on. I can’t even cross my legs?" Albeit accidentally, since she’s merely attempting to get into a more comfortable position on the steel chair, but ends up causing another ripple of echo due to the chains shackled on her. She looks back up at him, incredulous, "I’ve been to better interrogation rooms."

"Does it look like I care if you’re comfortable?"

She doesn’t flinch. If anything, she just shrugs, more nonchalant than he ever appeared to be. "I expected some sort of special treatment, is all, given that I’ve kept your bed warm."

Regret comes in the form of his lieutenants. Max is this close to throwing both of them out of the windows, the lockdown protocol be damned. Perhaps he should’ve let YN—Seraph—have a go at them and bestow matching black-eyes; maybe then he would’ve known a sliver of peace.

"No, but seriously," Daniel restarts, reining in his laughter for another round of teasing Max can detect from a kilometer away. "Do you want to share with the class why you came back from the basement disheveled?"

"Not just disheveled," Checo interjects, his eyes also shining with mischievous amusement. "It’s walk-of-shame, no-comb, forgot-how-buttons-work disheveled."

"Right, right." Daniel doesn’t just take the bait to tease him further; he swallows it whole with a chuckle. He raises his glass of whiskey in Checo’s direction for an acknowledgment toast. "Those chains were definitely used for constraints, alright."

Max doesn’t look down when he undoes the top buttons of his long-sleeve button down with one hand. He doesn’t even bother to check if he really did his buttons wrong. "Get your minds out of the gutter," he growls. "She denied being involved with the missing shipment."

That—much to his silent relief—is enough for his lieutenants to pivot to the real matter at hand. The mischievous glints in their eyes vanish in an instant.

"She denied it?" Checo halts the hand that’s halfway through bringing his glass to his mouth for a drink, suspending the action in the air. "That’d be the first, wouldn’t it? Seraph is known to claim her handiworks when asked."

Daniel takes a second longer to articulate his reaction. "Do you believe her?" It comes out rather thoughtful, a rare feature for his first lieutenant who leans into the humorous disposition as a deliberate tactic. "I mean, the intel we have on Seraph doesn’t necessarily specify if she takes credit immediately or eventually."

"No," Max answers before the I don’t know echoes in his skull. The "special treatment" she spoke of is really not doing her any favors. "It’s her signature work. We can’t give her the benefit of the doubt."

He takes a sip of his whiskey, letting the alcohol burn in his throat. He barely feels it, but it’s a welcomed distraction from his racing thoughts.

He doesn’t know if he wants her to be right, or if he wants to be.

Max catches his lieutenants share a quick look. He opts not to question it. Both Daniel and Checo are aware of his . . . relationship . . . with YN, in a deeper sense than she has ever been allowed to know. He feels the weight of their concern about the complication this current situation has created for his personal plans in the air, even with their gazes away from him.

He doesn’t validate their unvoiced concern. It is simply too much to unpack at the moment—and time is a luxury they don’t necessarily have right now.

"What do you want us to do now, then, Boss?"

Regret has been long forgotten by the time his lieutenants even thought of vacating his study and calling it a night. Their glasses have been refilled and emptied at least twice during their tactical meeting, unintentionally serving as their clocks in the clock-less room.

While Daniel doesn’t linger after a "catch you later," Checo turns back before he can completely exit the threshold. "It might be irrelevant," his second lieutenant starts, "but we found an opened pregnancy test when we searched Seraph’s apartment."

Max must admit, when Checo started that sentence, he didn’t know how it’d end. But he certainly didn’t expect that. He unconsciously grips the arms of his chair tight. "What did it say? The test?"

"It wasn’t used yet; but based on how it was by the sink, I’d say it was supposed to be next on her agenda." Checo’s voice was even and nonchalant, as if he’s merely giving a trivial piece of data. Even if they both know it’s far from that. "Figured you could use that information the next time you’re down there."

Information is everything in the world they live in. For better or worse, every piece of intel that reaches the RB syndicate’s ears is used for their benefit. And this one . . .

"I’ll keep that in mind."

This one is no different.

Even if the pregnancy test would’ve read two lines had she had the chance to take it. Especially then.

Because he had guaranteed—after the first time they slept together seven months ago—that it eventually will.

The Zandvoort wind that flows into the study is an artificial imitation. The coldness doesn’t have a specific bite, nor does it smell salty like the North Sea. It’s too sterile, too chemically clean.

Yet, Max still has to settle for the centralized air conditioning rather than the natural sea wind.

It has been three days since Seraph was taken from her current alter ego’s residence. Three days since he went down to the basement and attempted to interrogate her. Three days since Checo and his men torched YN LN’s apartment.

Yet, they still have nothing concrete to tie Seraph to the missing shipment. Nor on the current whereabouts of the container in question.

Two strong knocks shatter the silence that fills the study.

Max is not in a good mood when he commands for the knocker’s entrance, already feeling the incoming headache before the progress report even reaches his ears.

"She’s still not eating, Boss," Yuki reports from the door without any prompt. He doesn’t need to wait for one, the same way he doesn’t need to speak in specifics. He’s been put in charge of YN’s— Seraph’s stay in the basement and, as it stands, she’s currently the only one there.

Max’s left hand immediately moves to massage the bridge of his nose. The syndicate’s reputation is currently under threat, and their—presently only—lead is being a picky eater. The sheer audacity.

Had she been any other prisoner, RB would’ve either just forced her to eat so she doesn’t die before they get the intel out of her or let her starve herself to death once she’s no longer useful. (Not that starvation is the only way to die in RB’s confinement. It’s just the least brutal of the selection.)

But Seraph . . .

She’s not just a temporary resident of their basement. She will be the mother of his heir—who potentially is already forming in her womb.

For all Max knows, she might be refusing to eat because his child is rejecting the food.

He leans onto the backrest of his chair, his arms crossed on his chest and his eyes calculating. "Has she thrown up? In the mornings?"

"No, sir," Yuki replies. "She just doesn’t touch the food."

That doesn’t give him much to go on. There are multiple reasons why kidnapped people—especially highly-trained professionals like Seraph—refuse to eat what their captors feed them. One of those being the small, but not unlikely, chance of the food being poisoned.

As if he’ll do that to her—to them—over a missing shipment container. Even if it has the spare parts of their competitive car.

"It is likely that Seraph is conserving her energy," Yuki adds as an afterthought. "Her activity levels have dropped significantly since the first day."

Max tightens his arms across his chest. He doesn’t like how probable Yuki’s speculation is, given who she turned out to be.

Leniency is not in the RB syndicate’s vocabulary. As it stands, all their evidence points to her as the thief—the person responsible for why their container got stolen, that is—and RB is not one to let a slight like that slide.

Yet, at the same time, she’s also carrying the next head of the syndicate. Possibly.

He eventually relaxes his arms to lean forward and place his forearms on his desk. "Hook her to an IV. We can’t have her dying without a location."

The Zandvoort wind doesn’t reach underground. It’s simply too deep within the earth. So deep, in fact, that every wall in the basement is cold to be next to—let alone to touch.

Of course, there’s also the paranormal aspect of the same coldness. There are no bodies buried in the lot where the safe house stands, but there have definitely been lives lost within the vicinity of its fence.

That is not to say that the phantom chill is the only reason for the eeriness of the space.

Not that a complete list of all the things responsible for chill crawling down the visitors’ spines—past and present—matters at the moment.

Especially with Seraph back in the interrogation box: back on the steel chair and the heavy chains holding her down.

She looks different than she did three days ago.

Three days ago, she was disheveled from the kidnapping—her hair tousled, her clothes wrinkled, and her mind still slightly drowsy from the fast-acting chloroform used to subdue her. She had open cuts on various parts of her body from the strong fight she put up against his men as well.

Now, three days later, she simultaneously looks both worse and better. Her hair is still tousled and her clothes are still wrinkled. There is now dust on her, too, from the holding cell she has been living in for the past few days, but her cuts from the kidnapping have been covered in bandages. (RB can’t have her dying of infection before she yields the information. Nothing more.) And, as ordered, she’s tethered to an IV line on one arm—though the saline drip has done little to fix her chapped lips and thinner build.

"I don’t know if it was clear the other day," she rasps as soon as he steps into the interrogation room with her, her voice hoarse from the lack of swallowed liquid, "but our unofficial relationship has ended. It was a mutual decision, from what I gathered."

Max approaches her with a scoff, "I see you’ve gotten delirious from hunger."

The sharpness of her eyes doesn’t waver. "Not delirious, schatje." Even with starvation clawing at her, the fire that he had fallen for doesn’t dim. If anything, it burns brighter with her nonchalant shrug. "You're furious because you think I crossed you. I'm furious because your intelligence network is apparently incompetent. So, yes, I'd say the breakup is mutual."

It takes a conscious effort for him not to clench his jaw at her words. Like hell. "Everything my men are finding about that shipment container leads back to you, Seraph."

At the corner of his eye, he watches the saline drip from the IV bag into her vein.

"Is Daniel feeling better?" YN inquires, seemingly ignoring whatever he just said on purpose. "Can he or Checo be my interrogator instead? At least I like them to an extent."

"You’re not in any position to request anything, Seraph," Max responds like steel, not even giving her appeal a second to settle in the air. "You only get me."

She tsks. "This is a new form of torture, I see." She moves to cross her arms, seemingly forgetting the chains attached to her wrists—which quickly remind her of their presence when they tug her arms back with a crisp echo. "Being stuck in the same room as an ex. Lucky me."

A dry chuckle almost escapes him. "If you have energy to mock me, you have energy to tell me where my container is."

"Except I don’t know where it is," she fires back. "Full offense, but if I’m going to steal a syndicate container, I’m going for Merc’s. Everyone knows they’re better these days."

Max is directly in front of her in an instant, his forehead pressed against hers to give her no choice but to look into his eyes. "Say that again."

Up close, the physical toll of her three-day captivity is undeniable. Gone are the healthy tint of her skin and the perfect softness of her socialite persona. They’ve been replaced by a concerning pallor and the beginnings of a gaunt frame.

He involuntarily clenches his jaw at the sight, completely aware that doing so will only be interpreted as a reaction to her provocation.

"Say it," he orders with a growl from the back of his throat.

Seraph doesn’t obey. Even in a chained, weakened state, there’s no fear in her eyes. She stays silent, observing the little she sees of him due to their extreme proximity. Eventually, on her own terms, she finds her voice again. "I’d go for the most competitive car on the grid rather than settle for the fourth best."

Max’s hand moves to shoot up and wrap around her throat. But, by sheer will, it raises to hold onto her waist instead, his thumb digging into the part of her that has occupied his mind for three straight days.

"You think you’re funny, schatje?"

"I think you’re funny, schatje," she counters with a barely concealed smirk. "So convinced that it’s me, but I haven’t seen any . . . dedication . . . in getting what you want from me."

His eyes harden. Worse, he knows he can’t prove her wrong. Not with what she’s potentially carrying for him. "Yeah? You think so?" He steps back just enough to break the suffocating proximity. "Why don’t you eat the food Yuki brings you and find out?"

The chuckle that escapes her is weak, but it only heightens the tension in the air. "I don’t fancy captor’s culinary specials."

He scoffs, "You think I’d poison you?"

"I think you’re a syndicate lead who has been stolen from."

Max crosses his arms across his chest, his muscles flexing under his folded long sleeves. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t give you a quick death."

"Slow-acting poison exists," Seraph reminds him. "I should know." She leans back on the chair, relaxed as she can be with chains on all her limbs, as if it’s just a simple afternoon chat. "It can be effective in getting compliance—or so I’ve heard. It hasn’t worked on me yet."

Her nonchalant shrug infuriates him. He has no doubt that her boast is not a bluff. Seraph, after all, has a well-known reputation amongst the European syndicates. A shadow whose tolerance is as incomprehensible as the limit of her skillset. A shadow who’s perfect for every job, but whose rates keep her boxed in riskier missions.

But that’s then—before she has his heir sharing her nutrition. Potentially.

"Should I be impressed?" He utters the sarcasm with as much venom as he can muster, "Give you a reward for being a skilled operative?"

"A reward," she repeats, her voice suddenly huskier than it had been a second ago. He watches her swallow almost involuntarily, her gaze drifting towards his biceps. "I can think of one."

Max can almost believe YN LN the socialite now sits before him, rather than Seraph the shadow. She sounds—and looks—exactly like she did back then, right when her blood would suddenly flare with lust.

Or so he had believed.

He doesn’t retreat. If anything, he decreases the distance once more. He doesn’t put his hand back on her waist or press his forehead to hers, but he doesn’t need to. He smirks, "You think that siren act will still work on me, schatje?"

Seraph’s expression only intensifies. She stays silent, but her dilated eyes drop to his button-down and linger intentionally at his belt line.

"Does it not?"

Dread comes in parts.

The first was twenty-one hours ago, down at the safe house’s basement, when he leaned into the sexual tension Seraph created, leveraged their raw history, and continued the interrogation in that unconventional atmosphere. Not only was the tactic unsuccessful in extracting the location, but it also planted a seed of doubt. Worse, it revealed a subtle shift in her that even a master operative couldn’t fake.

She couldn’t handle him being too close without her breath catching between words, her pulse visibly hammering against her throat, her skin radiating a sudden, familiar heat. It was not performative, different from the way he now categorizes her attraction to him during their past relationship. It was worse. Much worse. It was too raw, too uncontrolled, too real.

A blood test for her HCG levels was almost unnecessary.

It was as if something of his inside her—her body, her soul, the life taking root—was aching to be connected back to him.

The second began five minutes ago, inside his study, when his first lieutenant sat across from him to report the latest development in his and his men’s task to collect stronger evidence to indict Seraph once and for all. Max knew, regardless of how the conversation progressed, he wouldn’t like what follows.

But, as it turns out, there are still some things beyond his comprehension until it’s right in front of him.

"The more we look at it, the less it makes sense," Daniel continues after giving him a moment to process. "At best, Seraph did steal the container and plant those inconsistencies on purpose. Based on what we know of her repertoire, I wouldn’t put it past her—she’s more than capable of making a master job look sloppy."

His lieutenant shifts in his seat to change his posture. "At worst, however . . . we’re looking at the real culprit still at large."

For the life of him, Max can’t decide if he agrees with what’s ‘best’ and what’s ‘worst.’ Especially when half of him has a compelling reason to believe otherwise.

Her being the culprit means victory for the syndicate—their preventative guilty until proven innocent has saved time on another chase yet again. He can sentence her with whatever punishment he sees fit, including keeping her and their child by his side, breakup be damned.

But that also means he has no reason to trust her ever again. She’ll be nothing more than a prisoner draped in silk. She won’t be the partner—the queen—he envisioned when he started orchestrating his guarantee.

On the other hand, her not being the culprit means he doesn’t need to worry about anyone from the syndicate board being in the way. With no crime committed against RB, it’s just a matter of him getting back into her good graces.

It won’t be ideal for the syndicate to have spent four days (and counting) on a false trail, but they can certainly recover from that setback. Especially with the talent she can bring them—and the heir in her womb. It’ll only be a matter of time before they have the real thief in their chains, with or without the container back.

"Keep digging," Max eventually orders. "She’s mine until then."

Dread completes itself just after sunset.

Max is barely halfway through his first glass of whiskey—neck-deep in discussing his plans for Seraph with his trusted lieutenants—when the safe house’s emergency alarm system screeches to life.

Given the active lockdown protocol, the blaring siren is far more deafening than the last time it bounced off the walls. With no open windows or gaps to escape from, the sound remains tightly contained inside the building, uncaring for the inhabitants’ eardrums.

"What the—" Checo doesn’t even bother to finish his curse, instinctively reaching for the radio clipped on his side.

Max, whose own radio sits on his desk ten steps away, snatches Checo’s before his second lieutenant can even key the microphone. "Talk to me."

It’s the longest three seconds of their lives.

"Boss," Yuki’s voice crackles through the speaker, sounding slightly winded. "Seraph’s out."

All three of them are out of their seats in an instant.

Daniel keys his own radio, his other hand unconsciously moving up to where Seraph almost crushed his windpipe four days ago. "What? How?"

"One of my men saw a pool of blood under her and called the doctor down," his underling—who is practically his third lieutenant-in-training—replies. "GP told us to uncuff her all the way and she took the opportunity."

A sliver opening.

Max tosses Checo his radio back, launching for his own before bolting towards his study’s door. He doesn’t look back, trusting that they’ll be hot on his heels.

Checo keys his radio as they run to join the chase for their escaped prisoner. "You got fooled by some blood from her IV site?"

"No! Not from there!" Yuki defends amidst the sound of his shoes hitting the concrete as he runs. "It was thick blood! All over her lap and dripping!" He adds between controlled breaths and an offended huff. "Seriously, have you seen anyone fake being deadly pale? Even GP bought it!"

Max immediately halts in his tracks, his lieutenants almost running into him if not for their quick reflexes. Neither of them ask why.

After all, that had been the topic of their conversation before the alarm went off.

"Max— The baby—"

He doesn’t hear anything over the sudden, violent thundering of his heart.

Is she losing—

"Listen very carefully," Max orders into his radio’s microphone, his low voice vibrating through every device on the frequency. "Secure her, but do not fucking hurt her unless you want to die."

The Zandvoort wind is the coldest at night, even more so kilometers off the nearest North Sea shore. It is no longer a ghost remembered like a muscle memory, but a force of nature demanding not to be ignored.

True to Seraph’s elite reputation, the severe blood loss doesn’t deter her from her mission to escape. Somehow, even when pale and unsteady on her feet, the active lockdown protocol is a mere illusion.

She hasn’t added to her body count on her way out, but she has certainly left a trail of injuries behind.

Max’s order against harming her has undoubtedly tied his men’s hands. There is only so much they can do to try and re-contain an operative driven beyond reason.

She slips past them and out of the safe house’s perimeter in record time. Although they stayed on her without fail, the chase continues over water.

And only halts in stalemate when Seraph’s stolen yacht sputters to a dead stop, trapped in the center of an RB-owned fleet.

Max’s eyes snap straight towards the blood that follows her when she steps back onto the upper deck. He has seen it up close, since she had left quite a trail in the safe house during her escape, but seeing how the crimson has vividly stained her trousers, even at a distance . . .

GP had made the right call.

Looking at her now, the infirmary is really the only place she should be—if not his own bed.

"YN!" He shouts onto the howl of the wind. "Stay there! We’re getting you help!"

He can hardly hear her response over the aggressive wind and the crashing waves. "You’re telling me to wait?" Her attitude is still there, but it doesn’t land the same with the rawness it obtained since the last time he saw her yesterday. "I have. For four days. And look where it got me."

She doesn’t raise her voice more than necessary, but she might as well have on top of her lungs with how she has to grip the nearest railing to stay upright. Still, she flashes him a smirk—pained, but a smirk nonetheless. "There’s only so much boredom I can take."

It’s a sight to behold. With the cold wind blowing hair across her face, the floodlights pinning her to the deck, and her playful expression, it reminds him of the first time they met—under Monaco night lights, away from the chaos of the inter-syndicate gala, draped in navy blue silk. It was the night he first tasted her fire, and decided to never let go.

But as the wind wracks her frame with involuntary shivers, the lights only highlight how dangerously thin she has become. She looks more frail than ever. It doesn’t help that her knuckles have turned white from the death grip she has on the railing.

She doesn’t have much energy left—that he knows for certain—and, yet, she still positions herself for a fight she can’t possibly win.

She’s a shadow operative through and through.

"Don’t move," Max commands over the wind. He steps right up to the edge of his vessel’s bow, uncaring for the dark water churning between the hulls, putting himself as close as possible to her yacht. "You’re bleeding out."

YN stands her ground, her posture impeccable despite her shallow breaths. "A little— A little blood never killed anyone, schatje."

"‘A little blood’?" His voice cracks, breaking his boss persona along with it. "You’re bleeding for two!"

The wind seems to freeze, swallowed by the silence that has engulfed them in an instant.

For the first time since he met her, she appears rattled—unable to recover quickly enough for a comeback. "What— What did you just say?"

"You heard me."

He can practically see the gears of her mind turn. He can also hear it buffer in real time, amidst her sudden speechlessness. And, as frantic as he feels for the situation at hand, he lets her have a moment.

After all, they’re really nowhere near an appropriate for such revelations, with their respective rides rocking from the pitch black waters hitting the hauls.

"That’s impossible," her hoarse voice eventually scrapes against the roar of the North Sea, stripped of all bravado. Her free hand unconsciously reaches for her lower abdomen. "I’m on—"

He doesn’t wait for her to finish, already knowing what her rebuttal is. "I’ve had them replaced with placebos on your first refill."

YN’s hold on the railing loosens as she stumbles back, her legs momentarily buckling from shock. "No," she says in disbelief.

He leaps the gap between the vessels without any invitation or warning to his crew. He doesn’t glance down at the dark, dangerous waters on his way over, his mind entirely focused on being able to catch her on time in case her legs give out. But, before he can even recover from the vibration of his hard landing and take another step closer, she has already anticipated the move. "No, don’t . . . don’t move any closer."

Max doesn’t heed her warning and takes a slow, deliberate step forward. "You need to let me help you, YN," he coaxes with a low and steady voice. "You’re not doing well."

Despite her weakened state, she still has the energy to scoff. "Of course I’m not doing well," she hisses between her teeth, seemingly recovered from her initial shock. "You were trying to make me an unpaid surrogate and a scapegoat for your stolen shipment!" She sucks in a breath as she adjusts her hold on the railing to stabilize her footing. "If you can’t afford my fees, just say that."

His jaw tightens involuntarily, the boss in him momentarily flaring back to life. "Stop being stubborn. You’re bleeding to death."

YN doesn’t blink. "I’d rather die."

"YN—"

Max doesn’t think. He doesn’t have the time to.

He reaches for her, but even his fast reflexes aren’t fast enough for a cornered operative well-acquainted with death.

She flashes him one last playful smirk—"Goodbye, schatje."—before letting go of the railing, tilting herself backwards, and free-falling headfirst into the waiting, freezing abyss.

max had been nervous all day, which was saying something considering he drove at 200 km/h for a living. he’d introduced you to his friends, family and even his team but this felt different. more important. more personal. today, he was bringing you home. not just to his apartment, but to his little world he kept tucked away from everything else. his daughter, lily. his cats. the parts of himself he didn’t let many people see.

“you’re overthinking it” you teased from the passenger seat of his audi rs6 abt, noticing how tightly his hands gripped the wheel.

max huffed out a laugh, glancing over at you. “i’m not.”

“you are.”

he sighed, the corner of his mouth twitching “okay. maybe a little.”

that made you smile, reaching over to rest your hand on his thigh. “it’s going to be fine.”

but max wasn’t worried about you. not really. he knew you were gentle, patient and warm in ways he wasn’t always sure how to be. what worried him was lily. she was only one — unpredictable, clingy and at the centre of his entire universe and his cats? jimmy, sassy and donatello were somehow even more judgemental.

if they liked you, max thought, maybe this could really be something.

—

the second the apartment door opened, chaos greeted you. jimmy was the first one there, weaving around max’s legs before spotting you and freezing. sassy sat a little further back, watching like she was assessing your soul. donatello, the youngest, came barreling forward with zero hesitation, rubbing against your ankles.

“well” you laughed softly, crouching down to let him sniff your hand. “hi to you too”

max blinked. donatello didn’t warm up to anyone that quickly.

then came the tiny patter of feet, bare on the hardwood floors of the apartment.

“dada!”

max’s face softened instantly as lily waddled into the room, tiny curls bouncing as she launched herself toward him. he scooped her up with ease, pressing a kiss to her cheek before glancing at you.

“and this” he said quietly, almost cautiously “is lily”

your heart melted immediately. she stared at you with wide curious eyes, little fingers gripping max’s shirt. for a moment, max held his breath waiting to see if she’d hide or cry.

instead, lily leaned towards you. you smiled, holding your hands out. “hi, lily.” to max’s complete shock, she let you take her.

and just like that, she settled against you like she’d known you forever.

max stood there, staring.

his daughter, who usually took forever to warm up to new people, was resting her head on your shoulder, playing with the necklace around your neck while donatello circled your feet and Jimmy cautiously came closer. even sassy, who hated everyone, jumped up onto the couch beside you.

“you’ve got to be kidding me” max muttered.

you looked up, laughing “what?”

“she doesn’t do that.”

“do what?”

“like people.”

lily giggled at something, tiny hands reaching for your hair and you laughed with her, careful and gentle as you shifted her onto your lap. jimmy jumped beside you, letting you scratch behind his ears, while Donatello batted at lily’s little sock. even sassy, curled up against your leg.

max just stood in the doorway, completely stunned. it was like watching the most important parts of his life fit together without effort.

—

later that evening, max found you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, lily in front of you with her toys scattered everywhere while the cats lazily stretched around you. you were helping lily stack little blocks, clapping softly every time she knocked them over, laughing like it was the greatest thing in the world.

lily squealed happily, reaching for you again.

jimmy was asleep in your lap, sassy had claimed your foot, donatello was trying to steal one of lily’s plushies and max… max felt something in his chest he hadn’t felt in a long time.

home.

he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, just watching.

you looked up eventually, smiling “what?” he shook his head, smiling to himself “nothing.”

but it wasn’t nothing.

because for the first time in a long time, max could picture it, coming home after race weekends and seeing this. you. lily. the cats. warmth. chaos. love.

a future.

he crossed the room and sat beside you, pressing a kiss to your temple while lily instantly crawled into his lap.

“you know” he murmured against your skin, “i was worried today.” you turned to him, surprised “why?”

his fingers brushed lily’s back as he smiled softly “because if they didn’t like you…”

he glanced at the cats sprawled all over you, then at lily, who was half asleep in his lap.

“…i’d have a problem.”

you laughed, nudging him.

but max only pulled you closer, looking at the picture you all made together and with lily safe between you, cats piled around your legs, and your hand tangled in his, max realized something terrifyingly simple.

he didn’t just want you in his life.

be wanted you in all of it. forever.

max had never liked family dinners. growing up, they had never been easy, never warm, never something he looked forward to. dinner meant silence so sharp it could cut, expectations heavier than the plates in front of him, and words that always seemed to carry more weight than they should. there was never softness in it, never comfort. so when you asked him if he wanted to come to your parents house for sunday dinner, he almost said no out of instinct alone. but then you looked at him, all casual and warm, like inviting him into your life was the most natural thing in the world, and max found himself agreeing before he could overthink it.

the driver there was easy, your hand resting over his on the centre console while you rambled about your mother making to much food, your younger brother definitely asking him a thousand questions about racing, and your dad pretending he wasn’t excited to see him. max smiled at that, glancing over at you. he was used to people being excited because he was max verstappen. world champion, race winner, the face people wanted photos with and stories from. but your family had never treated him like that. they didn’t seem interested in what he could give them, only in who he was when the helmet was off.

the second you stepped through the front door, your mother was already pulling you both inside because it was too cold to be standing there. she kissed your cheek, gave max a quick smile, and immediately started asking if he was hungry. your younger brother barely looked up from where he was sprawled out on the couch, muttering a lazy “hey, max” before asking if he wanted to play FIFA later. it was so normal it almost made max laugh. then your dad appeared from the kitchen, drying his hand on a towel and held out his hand.

“good to see you again, son.”

son.

the word harder than it should have.

not champ. not max. not world champion. just son. like he was welcome here, like he belonged in this house as something more than just a guest.

dinner itself was chaos in the best way. your brother kept stealing food from your plate, your mother kept scolding him and piling more onto everyone else’s, and your dad was making terrible jokes that had you laughing so hard you nearly choked on your drink. max sat there quietly at first, watching it all happen around him, feeling almost like an outsider looking in on something he didn’t quite understand. then your mother refilled his glass without asking. your brother dragged him into some stupid argument over football teams. your dad asked him how training at been, not racing, not media, just training, like he genuinely cared about how max was doing.

it was strange, the kind of strange that made his chest feel tight, because nobody wanted anything from him. no pressure. no expectations. just… him.

after dinner, everyone moved into the living room. your brother had insisted on a FIFA match, and max had let himself get dragged into it, sitting cross-legged on the floor while your father watched from the armchair. your mother hovered in the doorway, cleaning up but still half-listening. the room felt warm, the kind of warmth that came from too many people in one place, laughter filling every corner of the room. it felt lived in. real.

then your brother lost and groaned, muttering something about dads being annoying.

it was harmless, just teasing, but your dad laughed and shook his head before saying “careful. some dads deserve this title.”

your brother frowned. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

max’s stomach twisted. he knew where this was going before anyone else did.

your dad leaned back in his chair, his expression calm, almost thoughtful. “there’s a difference between pushing your kid to be better and hurting them because you can’t control your own anger. some men think fear makes their kids stronger. it doesn’t. it just teaches them how to survive.”

the room went quiet. max stared at the controller in his hands, unable to look up. your dad didn’t look at him. didn’t make it obvious. but everyone knew. they all knew enough.

your dad sounded angry. not awkward. not pitying. angry. like what happened to max mattered enough for someone else to be furious about it. it made his throat close up.

for years, max had convinced himself it had been necessary. that it had made him who he was. that it was worth it because he’d won. but sitting here, in this warm living room, surrounded by people who loved eachother so easily, it suddenly felt ugly. wrong.

before he could stop himself, he stood up to quickly, muttering something about needing air.

outside, the cold hit him instantly, but it didn’t help. his chest felt tight, his breathing uneven. he gripped the porch railing and stared into the dark, trying to get himself together. it was ridiculous. he’d handled championship deciding races, media storms, crashes at 200mph but one family dinner had him feeling like he was falling apart.

the door opened a minute later and you stepped out, closing it softly behind you, blocking out the noise from inside. you didn’t say anything at first, just moved to stand beside him.

“max?” you asked gently.

he let out a shaky breath. “your dad hates him.”

you knew exactly who he meant.

“yeah” you said simply.

max laughed bitterly, wiping a hand over his face. “he said it like it was obvious. like hurting your kid automatically makes you a bad father.”

you turned towards him, your expression soft. “because it does.”

that broke something in him.

his eyes burnt and before he could stop, tears slipped down his cheeks. he turned away immediately, embarrassed, angry at himself for crying, but you reached for him before he could put distance between you. your hands caught his face, grounding him and the second you did, max folded.

he wrapped his arms around you and buried his face into your shoulder, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him upright. the tears came hard then, mess and unrestrained, years of hurt cracking open all at once. he hated crying. hated feeling weak. but you didn’t make him feel weak. you just held him tighter, one hand rubbing slowly up and down his back, the other tangled in the his hair at the back of his head.

“it’s okay” you whispered against his temple. “you’re okay.”

his breathing broke into shaky gasps. “i don’t know why this is happening.”

you pressed a kiss to the side of his head, your voice so soft it almost hurt.

“because you’re safe.”

safe.

the word lodged itself deep in his chest. max didn’t know if he’d ever felt that before. not really. not growing up. not in racing. not anywhere.

but here, in your arms, outside your childhood home with warm lights spilling through the windows and your family inside waiting for him, he thought maybe this was it.

maybe this is what it felt like. to be loved without conditions. to be cared for without having to earn it. to exist without fear.

after a while, the door opened again. your dad stepped outside, holding a blanket in his hands. he looked at max, really looked at him, and there was no pity there. just understanding. quiet, steady understanding.

he scrapped the blanket over max shoulders and gave them a firm squeeze.

“your mum says if you’re going to stand out here all night, atleast don’t freeze.”

it was such a simple thing, but max laughter through the tears still stuck in his throat. your dad smiled faintly before heading back inside, leaving the two of you alone again.

max stood there wrapped in that blanket, your arms still around him and felt something in him shift. something old and broken loosening for the first time.

for the first time in his life, home didn’t feel like a place he had to survive. it felt like this. like you. like warmth and laughter and people who wanted nothing from him except to stay.

and for the first time, max let himself believe he deserved it.

It’s just that you’ve never liked being told when something is supposed to matter.

You don’t like that affection suddenly becomes scheduled, that restaurants become battlegrounds for reservations, that love feels louder on one specific date than it does on the quiet, ordinary Tuesdays when it actually lives. You prefer the small things: coffee handed to you exactly how you like it without asking, fingers laced together in the car, the way Max rests his hand on your waist without even looking.

You assume he feels the same.

Max has never been performative. He doesn’t post long captions or stage surprises for cameras. If he does something, it’s deliberate and private. He doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t waste gestures either.

So when you ask one evening, trying to keep your voice light and as casual as possible: “So… are you doing anything on the 14th?”. You don’t exactly expect the shift.

He’s standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, phone in one hand. He looks up at you, and there’s the smallest pause before he answers.

“No. Why?”

It’s barely noticeable. A fraction of a second. But you know him.

That pause settles somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.

Oh.

He’s thinking about it and he’s definitely planning something.

Maybe he was waiting to see if you’d bring it up. Maybe it matters to him more than he lets on. Maybe you’ve misread this entire time.

You shrug like it’s nothing.

“Just checking.”

He nods once, and the conversation moves on, but it doesn’t really move on. It lingers. It reshapes itself into assumptions.

Because what he hears is something different.

He hears: She expects something.

And Max has never been good at guessing expectations, so when he thinks there is one, he locks onto it with the same intensity he brings to everything else.

Neither of you clarifies.

And that’s where it starts.

The Week before

You don’t talk about it again, but suddenly it exists between you in a quiet, invisible way.

You catch yourself thinking about it while scrolling through restaurant options you already know you’ll hate. Candlelit tables with limited menu and too much couples around you. The exact kind of place you’d normally avoid. Still, you book one. The confirmation email lands in your inbox and makes you feel strangely nervous.

You tell yourself it’s important to him.

Maybe he doesn’t show it, but maybe he wants one night that feels deliberate. Maybe he’d be disappointed if you brushed it off. Maybe you’ve been too casual about something that matters more than you realized.

So you order a gift that feels thoughtful but not overwhelming. You buy a dress that’s softer than your usual style. You rehearse, in your head, what the night is supposed to look like.

Meanwhile, Max is doing the exact same thing in his own quiet, methodical way.

He calls ahead to confirm reservations at a place he knows you wouldn’t normally choose, because he assumes that’s the point. He buys flowers, which he almost never does, because that feels like the expected move. He stands in a store longer than he’d like, staring at something small and understated that he thinks you’d wear, telling himself that if he’s going to do this, he’ll do it properly.

He doesn’t complain about it. He doesn’t question it.

He just commits.

Because if you care, he cares.

February 14th

When he knocks on your door, he’s holding a bouquet that looks slightly too red to be natural.

You open the door and immediately clock everything at once.

The flowers. The way he’s dressed just a little more put together than usual. The fact that he looks almost… tense.

He clocks you too.

The dress. The effort. The way you’re trying to look relaxed and not overthink it.

“For you,” he says, holding out the flowers in a way that’s careful but not overly soft.

“They’re beautiful,” you reply, and you mean it, even if your stomach tightens slightly.

You both look like you’re about to attend something formal, something structured. Something neither of you actually likes.

The drive is quieter than usual, not in a bad way, just in a concentrated one. Max focuses on the road like he does before a start, very composed and controlled. You glance at him once or twice, wondering if you’re overthinking everything.

You reach over eventually and rest your hand on his thigh, grounding yourself. He covers it with his own without looking away from the road.

That part feels normal.

That part feels like you.

The moment you walk into the restaurant, you both know.

It’s worse than expected.

Pink candles line every surface. Rose petals are scattered across white tablecloths like someone lost control of a florist. A violinist plays something slow and cinematic in the corner. The hostess beams at you with an enthusiasm that feels aggressive.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“You too,” you both answer in identical, neutral tones.

The table is small, intimate in a way that feels forced. There’s a single candle between you, flickering dramatically. The air smells like perfume and champagne and something overly sweet.

Max pulls your chair out, and you thank him. He sits across from you, posture straight, jaw slightly tight.

You both try.

You really do.

You make polite conversation. You ask about his day. He asks about yours. You comment on the ambiance in a way that avoids being sarcastic.

But you notice the way he stares at the menu like it’s a strategic puzzle. He notices the way you keep adjusting your napkin, smoothing it over your lap.

The waiter approaches with a smile that suggests this is his favorite night of the year.

“And what are we celebrating tonight?”

There’s a fraction of hesitation.

“Valentine’s,” you both say at the same time.

It sounds rehearsed. Obligatory. Because it is.

The waiter nods approvingly and moves on.

Silence settles between you again, heavier this time.

Max looks at the heart-shaped appetizer placed in front of you, then at you.

“You hate this, don’t you?” he asks, finally.

The question lands softly, but it splits everything open.

You blink. “…You don’t?”

He frowns, genuinely confused. “I thought you liked it.”

“I thought you did.”

The realization spreads slowly across his face, mirrored by the same one on yours.

“I booked this because I thought you’d be disappointed if I didn’t,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

“I bought the flowers because I thought you expected it,” he replies immediately.

There’s no accusation in his tone. Just clarity.

You stare at each other across the candlelight, and the whole evening suddenly feels absurd.

“I don’t care about the day,” he says after a moment, leaning back slightly. “I care about you. The date doesn’t change that.”

You feel something in your chest loosen.

“I don’t like being told when I’m supposed to do something romantic,” he continues. “If I do something, it’s because I want to. Not because it’s February.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I thought if we didn’t do something, you’d think I didn’t care.”

His eyebrows pull together slightly. “You think that’s how I measure that?”

The answer is obvious. Of course not.

You both sit there for a moment, the violin swelling unnecessarily behind you.

“We could leave,” he says.

There’s no hesitation this time.

“Yes,” you reply immediately.

You leave before dessert.

The hostess looks faintly scandalized, but neither of you slow down. The cold air outside hits your skin and feels like relief. No candles. No expectations. No music trying to narrate your feelings.

You both exhale at the same time, and this time, you laugh.

Not polite laughter. Not controlled.

Real laughter.

“I can’t believe we did that,” you say, shaking your head.

“I can’t believe we both thought the other one liked it,” he replies, almost as if he doesn’t believe it..

In the car, the tension is gone. He reaches over and laces his fingers through yours, grounding you in that familiar way.

“I don’t hate Valentine’s,” he says after a while, eyes still on the road.

You glance at him.

“I hate pretending,” he clarifies.

That makes sense. It fits him perfectly.

You squeeze his hand. “Me too.”

Back at his place, you both change into comfortable clothes, the kind you actually live in. You order takeout that arrives in paper bags instead of silver trays. You sit on the couch, knees touching, plates balanced carelessly.

There are no candles.

No speeches.

No schedule.

At some point, you lean into him, and he wraps an arm around you automatically, like he always does. His thumb traces slow circles against your side, absentminded and grounding.

“I was worried you’d think I wasn’t doing enough,” he admits quietly, almost like it surprises him to say it out loud.

You tilt your head up to look at him. “You always do enough.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, but his arm tightens slightly around you, like that’s answer enough.

Midnight passes unnoticed.

There’s no dramatic kiss or grand declaration.

It’s just the two of you, comfortable and close.

And for the first time all evening, nothing feels staged.

It just feels like the real version you.

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

You have both declined Valentine’s sponsor activations. You have both ignored suggestive captions drafted by PR teams. You have both, very deliberately, treated February 14th like any other day on the calendar.

You are not heartbroken.

You are not bitter.

You simply dislike being told that affection must happen on command.

Which is precisely why being seated together at the end of a long, elaborately decorated dinner table beneath a glitter banner feels like targeted psychological warfare.

The moment you walk into the private dining room, you register the damage immediately.

Pink candles scattered across every free surface. Rose petals decorating white linen. A champagne tower catching the light like it’s part of a proposal. A Polaroid photo station in the corner with a glittery backdrop and heart-shaped props.

Max steps in seconds after you and your eyes meet across the room almost immediately.

There is no greeting or smile. Just shared recognition and the exact same thought of: “This is absolutely unbearable.”

The host beams at you both. “You made it! See? It’s just dinner.” It is not just dinner because just dinner wouldn’t include a seating chart.

Couples sit paired neatly along the long table, fingers already intertwined, knees angled toward each other like they’ve rehearsed the posture.

And at the very end stand two empty chair. Which you presume or for you and Max.

While you just stare at the chairs like they are insulting you by just existing, Max exhales through his nose, slow and sharp. “Unbelievable.”

You sit without comment, smoothing your napkin over your lap, trying very hard to stay calm.

“This is humiliation,” you say evenly.

He nods once, agreeing. “Targeted humiliation.”

While the first course is served, conversation rises around the table in gentle waves. Couples share anecdotes about how they met, how long they’ve been together, who planned what surprise.

You and Max on the other hand, sit slightly angled away from the rest of the table, mostly observing.

Someone starts the playlist. A mix of slow, acoustic covers start to weave through the room. Most of them sounding too romantic when they are slowed down.

Max tilts his head subtly. “Is this really necessary?”

You glance toward the speaker. “If someone proposes, I’m leaving.”

“If someone slow dances,” he replies calmly, “I’m coming with you”

You don’t smile but the corner of your mouth twitches suspiciously.

Appetizers arrive in beautiful arrangements and even the butter is sculpted into something that resembles a heart.

You lean closer, voice low. “That’s aggressive.”

“It’s unnecessary,” he replies dryly.

Across the table, someone reaches across to wipe sauce from their partner’s mouth. You both look away at the exact same time, noses wrinkled in disgust.

Halfway through the second course, the host stands and claps lightly.

“Okay! Couples game!” You and Max go both completely still.

The rules are explained with far too much enthusiasm. “And our singles,” the host adds brightly, gesturing toward you both, “can observe and take notes.”

“We’re not participating,” you and Max say simultaneously.

Someone, slightly tipsy already, grins. “You two should just date already.”

Silence falls faster than anyone expects. You roll your eyes instinctively, but Max doesn’t. Instead, his jaw tightens.

“No,” he says flatly.

Not joking or amused. Just firm.

The conversation stumbles forward again, but something subtle shifts. So subtle that only you can feel it.

Later, during a particularly intimate exchange about love languages, someone across the table laughs and says, “She’s too intense to date anyway.”

You’re about to respond something sharp and dismissive like you always do, but Max beats you to it.

“She’s not.” His voice isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s certain, like he knows you inside out.

The table moves on quickly, distracted by wine and stories and slowly escalating sentimentality.

But you don’t. You feel his words slowly settle in your chest. How certain he sounded.

The room grows louder as glasses refill and voices rise. The air feels thicker, scented heavily with a mix of different perfumes and something overly sweet.

You both lean back in your chairs at the exact same time.

“This is exhausting,” you say.

“Yes,” he replies.

Your eyes meet. And this time, you smile.

Not your usual sarcastic one and not the performative one you’ve been wearing all evening either.

Just relieved. Because no matter how horrible it is, at least you are not alone in this.

The host announces a slow dance portion “just for fun!”, and someone knocks over a glass of wine. There’s laughter, mild chaos, someone arguing playfully about anniversary dates.

The room feels smaller and Max shifts slightly closer.

“Want to leave?” he asks quietly.

It isn’t romantic in any way, more like he knows you are just as fed up about the evening as you.

You nod once and you both slip out of the room without offering an excuse or announcing your exit.

Even when you grab your coat nobody says anything.

The hallway outside is quiet and cool.

When the front door finally closes behind you and the cold night air hits your skin, you both exhale at the same time.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Streetlights glow softly against the pavement. The world feels real again.

“Well,” Max says dryly, hands in his coat pockets, “that was a nightmare.”

You laugh. Real laughter. Uncontrolled and light.

“I don’t hate Valentine’s,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now that there’s no audience.

You glance at him.

“I hate just pretending.” The honesty in his voice is simple, stripped of irony.

You nod slowly. “I don’t hate relationships. I hate the expectation that they have to be… staged.”

“If I do something,” he says carefully, “it’s because I want to. Not because someone circled a date.”

You understand that immediately. Because that’s how he operates in everything.

He slows his steps.

“If I was going to do something,” he continues, more measured now, “it wouldn’t look like that.”

You swallow.

“Good thing it’s almost midnight,” you reply lightly.

He huffs a small laugh. “Yeah.”

But neither of you turn away.

Instead, you keep walking. Side by side. Steady footsteps echoing faintly through the night.

And somehow, that feels far more intimate than anything that happened inside.

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

You don’t rush. You never rush any more.

Your heels click against concrete with intention, red soles flashing briefly when you step. The dress is black, cut clean and unapologetic, sunglasses shielding your eyes from scrutiny you no longer fear.

Max’s hand rests on your lower back. It’s not possessive. It’s anchoring.

“You okay?” He asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

And you are.

You can sense people looking at you differently.

They don’t smile the same way. They don’t speak to you like you’re an extension of someone else. There’s curiosity now, laced with caution and respect.

You catch reflections of yourself in glass. You look tall, composed, and still. This time, you don’t flinch away from the image.

The girl who waited would’ve softened, would’ve smiled to reassure everyone that she was still kind.

You don’t.

Lando sees you before you see him. Like he always used to.

It hits him like a physical blow. The way you move. The way you don’t look for him. The way Max fits into your space like it’s natural, practiced.

You look… finished.

Not broken. Not angry. Just finished.

Oscar notices his stillness. “Mate,” he says quietly.

Lando doesn’t answer. Instead, his chest tightens with a realization that arrives far too late: you didn’t come back to fight for him. You came back because you were done running.

The media notices you immediately. Photographers angle for shots. Reporters whisper. Names are typed into headlines before anyone’s confirmed anything. You don’t give them fuel. You don’t hold Max’s hand for show. You don’t lean into him for effect. You simply exist beside him in a comfortable and confident kind of way.

Somehow, that seems to unsettle people more than spectacle ever could.

The first time you and Lando cross paths, it’s unavoidable. A narrow corridor with nowhere to retreat.

He stops short when he sees you. Really sees you.

“You look different,” he says.

You tilt your head. “So do you.”

There is no warmth in your voice, but there isn’t cruelty either. Just truth.

“I heard you were back,” he continues, like he doesn’t know what else to say. “I wasn’t sure it was real.”

You offer a small smile. “It is.”

Your gaze flicks to Max, who stands a few steps away, watching calmly.

“Is this…” Lando hesitates. “Is this serious?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you glance at Max, who meets your eyes with quiet certainty.

“Yes,” you say finally.

Something in Lando’s face collapses.

The confrontation that follows isn’t dramatic. Just two people standing in the quiet aftermath of everything they never said.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he says.

“I know,” you replay.

That’s what surprises him most. “You know?”

“Yes.”

He laughs weakly. “Then why does it feel like this?”

You inhale slowly. “Because intent doesn’t erase impact,” you say. “And love doesn’t survive being taken for granted.”

His eyes shine.

“I would’ve changed.”

You shake your head gently. “You would’ve resented me for asking.”

Silence stretches between you.

“I loved you,” he says.

You nod. “I loved you too.”

And for the first time, it feels more like a goodbye instead of a wound.

Max doesn’t ask questions afterward. He doesn’t need to. That night, in the quiet of the hotel room, he sits beside you on the bed, shoulder brushing yours.

“You okay?” He asks again.

You lean into him this time.

“Yeah,” you say. “I really am.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding something in.

The races pass. Japan. Bahrain. Miami.

Each weekend, the narrative shifts slightly. People stop framing you as Lando’s ex. They stop calling Max a rebound. They start seeing you as what you are now: Max Verstappen’s partner, but more importantly yourself. Not necessarily as an extension to someone.

You weren’t arm candy. Not a statement.

More like a constant that’s there when he wins and when he doesn’t. You learn his silences. He learns yours.

You realize something quietly, one night on a balcony overlooking a city you can’t really remember the name of:

This isn’t revenge. Because revenge burns hot and fast.

But this, this is steady.

Monaco is the turning point. You wear red. Not because of symbolism. Not because of headlines.

Because you want to.

Max offers you his arm when you step onto the dock, cameras exploding around you. He doesn’t look at them. He looks at you.

“Ready?” He asks.

You smile, real and unguarded.

“Always.”

That night, as the city glitters below, you rest your head against his shoulder and feel something unfamiliar settle in your chest. And that something is safety.

The entire weekend, Lando watches from afar. He doesn’t approach again. He doesn’t need to, because somewhere between the way you laugh now, lower and steadier, and the way Max looks at you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, Lando finally understands.

He didn’t lose you to Max.

He lost you to himself.

The last race of the season is loud and bright and overwhelming. Max wins and when he finds you after, sweaty and grinning, he pulls you into a hug that’s all relief and triumph and something deeper.

“I couldn’t do this without you,” he says quietly.

You look up at him. “I know,” you answer, but there isn’t arrogance in your voice. Just trust.

Later, when the noise fades and the world narrows to just the two of you, Max traces slow patterns along your arm.

“You’re not soft anymore,” he says thoughtfully.

You arch a brow. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” he says immediately. “It means you know your worth.”

You smile, resting your head against his chest.

“I didn’t lose who I was,” you say. “I just stopped giving it to people who couldn’t hold it.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I can.”

You might not wear sundresses anymore. But sometimes, rarely, you smile the same way you used to. Not because you’re naive, but because you’re free.

Taglist: @pharmasennapuff @alessa-the-enchantress @vinylphwoar @bigdaddy32587 @f1obsessor4life @d160 @charlesgirl16 @96mcobo @stuffyownswrld @skynel09

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

You move through it like a ghost. You don’t answer messages. You don’t explain absence, and you don’t correct anyone when they say your name like it still belongs on the paddock.

You just exist. In small, survivable increments. 

At first, the crying is constant. 

It ambushes you in grocery stores, in taxis, in the shower where the water is loud enough to hide the sound. You cry until your chest aches and your body folds in on itself like it’s trying to disappear. 

You cry because you miss him. You cry because you don’t. You cry because you loved someone who let you believe you were enough. Until you weren’t. 

Some nights, you sleep in his hoodies. Some nights, you shove them into the back of a drawer like they might burn you if you look too long. 

The phone stays face-down.

You don’t block him yet because that would mean acknowledging permanence. Instead, you let the messages pile up like unopened mail. 

“I know I hurt you.” 

“I’m getting help.” 

“I don’t recognize myself either.” 

You wonder how long it took him to stop recognizing you. 

Eventually, the tears slow. Not because it hurts less, but because your body gets tired of holding that much grief. 

You wake up one morning and realize you haven’t cried yet. The absence of it feels wrong and suspicious. So, you sit on the edge of the bed and wait. 

Nothing comes. The thing is, you don’t feel better, but what you do feel is quieter. 

To get your mind off that new feeling, you start walking. No destination and no headphones. Just moving through the streets that don’t know your name. You walk until your legs ache and your mind finally shuts up. 

You start to notice small things again. The sound of heels on pavement, the way light hits glass, the rhythm of your own breathing. 

It’s the first time in months you feel like you’re inside your body again. 

The first thing you change isn’t your clothes. It’s your posture. You stop folding inward to make yourself smaller without realizing it. 

Instead, you begin to take up the space you’re in. 

The haircut comes next. It’s nothing dramatic. Just something cleaner and sharper. Something that frames your face instead of hiding it. 

You stare at your reflection afterward, unsure how to feel. Because the girl that looks back at you doesn’t look softer or sadder. She looks awake. Like a fire that just started burning. 

You don’t throw away the sundresses. You could never, but you stop reaching for them. 

You try something darker, something more structured. Something that doesn’t flutter when you move. It feels strange at first, like you’re wearing someone else’s skin. But it also feels safe in a way. 

The Louboutins happen on a rainy afternoon. 

You hadn’t planned it. You were just killing time, sheltering from weather that matched your mood. The boutique is warm and quiet, smelling faintly of leather and something expensive you can’t name. 

You look at them like you once looked at race cars. With awe, but also with distance. Like they belong to a different life. 

“I’ve always wanted them,” you admit quietly, more to yourself than anyone else. 

The sales associate smiles gently. “Then you should try them.” 

They fit perfectly. Of course they do. 

When you stand, something shifts. It’s not confidence. It’s the feeling of control. 

You buy them with no guilt and when you walk out with the box tucked under your arm, rain taps against the pavement like it’s applauding you. 

That night, you line your lips in red for the first time. You don’t recognize yourself immediately, but you don’t look away either. 

There are other things that change too. You stop apologizing for everything. For taking time. For saying no. For existing without explanation. 

You realize how often you used to soften your words, round your edges, make things easier for people. 

You don’t do that any more, and somehow it makes you feel lighter. 

After some time, the silence becomes intentional. You don’t fill it with distractions. You sit with it. You learn what your thoughts sound like when they aren’t echoing someone else’s expectations. 

You start liking your own company, and that surprises you most of all, because you never liked it. You meet Max on a Wednesday. It isn’t dramatic. There are no cameras. No paddock noise. Just a quiet café and a mutual friend who makes the introduction casually, like this moment won’t matter. 

It does. 

He recognizes you instantly. Of course he does, but the thing is, he doesn’t react. 

There isn’t any kind of curiosity that is shaped by gossip in his eyes. He isn’t awkward about it. He doesn’t mention Lando. Not once. There is just recognition, the kind that says he sees you as yourself and not as an extension of Lando. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hi,” you reply. 

Conversation unfolds naturally. It’s not flirty, but it isn’t forced either. Just honest in a way you didn’t realize you missed. 

He talks about racing like it’s a problem to solve, not a persona to maintain. You talk about leaving without explanation and not regretting it. 

He listens. Really listens. 

When you stand to leave, he notices your shoes. 

“They’re nice,” he says simply. 

You smile. “They’re new.” 

“They suit you,” he adds after a moment. “Not the shoes. The choice.” 

With his words, something warm settles inside your chest. 

You don’t rush anything with him. You don’t want to. Because you’re not looking for a replacement. You’re looking for peace. 

Max doesn’t push. He doesn’t crowd. He exists beside you like he knows exactly how much space to give. 

That feels new. It feels good. 

By the time you step into the paddock almost a year later with your heels steady, sunglasses shielding your eyes and lips dipped in red, the girl who waited is gone. 

In her place is someone who knows exactly what she’s worth. And she isn’t waiting for anyone anymore. 

Taglist: @pharmasennapuff @alessa-the-enchantress @vinylphwoar @bigdaddy32587 @f1obsessor4life @d160 @charlesgirl16 @96mcobo @stuffyownswrld @skynel09

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

You met him before the noise swallowed him whole. 

Before every smile was content, before every sentence was clipped for interviews, before the paddock decided who he was supposed to be. Back then, he laughed too loudly and apologized for it. He talked with his hands. He worried aloud, and he was sweet in a way that felt unguarded. 

You loved him there first. 

The paddock liked you. 

That was the first thing people said about you. 

“She’s so sweet.” 

“She’s so normal.” 

“She’s good for him.” 

You wore sundresses that moved when you walked, light fabrics that caught the air as you waited by garages or leaned against railings. You didn’t dress for attention. You dressed for comfort, for warmth, for the versions of yourself that still believed gentleness would be enough. 

Lando noticed you like that. 

He always reached for your hand without thinking. Always leaned his head toward you when things got overwhelming. You grounded him by trying to soften the edges of his world. 

“You keep me sane,” he told you once in a hotel room somewhere between time zones, forehead pressed to yours. You always smiled at that and kissed his cheek. You never told him that sanity takes work. 

At first, nothing was wrong. 

Or maybe everything was, but it was small enough to ignore. 

He cancelled plans, but he always apologized. He forgot to text back, but he blamed the schedule. He flirted a little too easily, but everyone said that was just who he was. 

And you believed them. 

You believed love meant trusting someone even when it pinched a little. 

You learned to recognize the sound of his phone buzzing and not look. You learned not to ask who he was messaging when his smile tilted private. You learned not to flinch when girls leaned too close in photos. 

Because he always came back to you. 

Because at night, when the world quietened, he curled into your side like it was instinct. And that had to mean something, right? 

The first time you realized you were waiting alone, you were standing outside the McLaren garage. 

It was late. The track lights buzzed overhead. People had started packing up. You’d been there for almost an hour, leaning against the wall, sundress cooling against your legs. 

You didn’t mind. 

You scrolled through old photos you never posted. You watched mechanics move past you like you were part of the scenery. 

When Lando finally appeared, he blinked like he’d forgotten something. 

“Oh shit,” he said softly. “You’ve been here the whole time?” 

You smiled automatically. “Yeah.” 

Guilt flickered across his face, but it was quick and shallow. 

“I got pulled into something. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you said. 

And you meant it. 

You always did. 

His behaviour didn’t change overnight. 

It repeated. Small things slowly accumulating. 

Late nights he couldn’t explain clearly. Stories that didn’t quite line up. Girls that appeared in the background of photos and disappeared before you could ask. 

You told yourself not to be that girlfriend. 

The one who questioned. The one who doubted. The one who made things harder. 

So you stayed soft. 

So when he suggested a trip to Milan, it felt like a peace offering. 

He’d been distant for weeks. His answers distracted, his movements restless in a way that made your chest ache. You chalked it up to pressure. To stress. To the sport chewing him up like it chewed everyone eventually. 

You finished your fitting early. The dress was yellow. You liked how it made you feel light again. Like yourself. 

You didn’t text him. You wanted the surprise, and maybe you also wanted to remind him that you were still here. 

The hallway was quiet. Too quiet. 

You remember noticing the smell first. Something unfamiliar and expensive. Something sweet. Not his cologne. Not your perfume. 

Your key turned easily. That detail stays with you longer than anything else. You stepped inside. 

“Lan-” 

The world died in your throat. 

You didn’t see bodies clearly. Your mind refused to catalogue details. But you saw enough. Shoes that weren’t yours. Laughter that wasn’t meant for you. Lando’s voice, pitched lower, intimate in a way that had once been reserved for you alone. 

Time seemed to slow and then he looked up. 

And the look in his eyes told you so much more than any of the details. It told you that this wasn’t the first time. 

Because his face didn’t look shocked. 

It looked caught. 

“Wait-” he said, standing too fast. “This isn’t-”

You raised your hand. 

“No.” 

Your voice was quiet in a controlled kind of way. And calm. Almost too calm. 

The girl scrambled, muttering apologies you barely heard. You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t. Your eyes stayed on him, searching for something you weren’t sure existed any more. 

“How long?” You asked softly. 

He hesitated. 

The hesitation was answer enough. 

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” he said. 

Something inside you cracked. 

“So there was a way you planned to?”  You asked. 

He stepped toward you. 

You stepped back. 

“I love you,” he said desperately. “This didn’t mean anything.” 

You smiled, but it felt wrong on your face. 

“That’s the problem,” you said. “It should have.” 

You turned, but you didn’t run, didn’t scream, didn’t collapse. 

You just waked out in your sundress, holding yourself together on instinct alone. 

The door closed behind you and the girl who waited stopped waiting. 

When you disappeared, no one understood it at first. You didn’t announce anything, didn’t post, didn’t explain. You simply… just stopped being available. 

Lando called. 

Then texted. 

Then sent messages that blurred together in tone and separation. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I messed up.” 

“Please just talk to me.” 

You listened to one voicemail. Just one, but when his voice cracked while saying your name, you turned the phone off. 

The crying came later. In private. It’s the ugly kind where you are gasping for air. You cried on bathroom floors and hotel beds that didn’t smell like him. You cried until your chest hurt and your eyes burned and your body felt emptied out. 

You replayed everything. 

Every moment you’d ignored. Every excuse you’d accepted. Every time you’d waited. 

And slowly, quietly something hardened. 

Not into anger, but into clarity. 

You packed away the sundresses. You don’t throw them out. Instead, you folded them carefully because they still belonged to someone. To someone who loved deeply and trusted easily. To someone you loved so deeply, but also to someone who you couldn’t be anymore. 

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.