#mv33 fluff

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.

You and Max are both lying on the beach. It’s a hot, dry, summer’s day, the kind that was perfect for being belly down on a beach towel, the sun’s rays hammering down on your back. Your face is propped up by your hands, eyes watching the water out in front of you ripple under the sunlight.

“Look at that boat,” you say, extending a hand to point towards the object of your interest - a white yatch, luxurious, huge, with two levels that is floating on the water, “it’s huge.”

Max hums in agreement without looking upwards, his focus trained instead on the magazine in front of him.

“I wish I could have a boat like that one day,” you sigh, as you drop one of your elbows back on the surface of your beach towel, cheek propped up in your upturned palm. It wasn’t so much the boat you were attracted to, but rather the group of you people you could see on the top deck, their strains of laugher floating towards you - people that were happy, carefree, effortless.

“I’ll buy one for you,” says Max who finally glances up from the soccer magazine he has open in front of him to look at the yatch, “when I become world champion”

“And why would you do that,” you say teasingly without glancing towards Max. You can hear him flip a page of the magazine which he is pouring through.

“Because we’ll be married,” Max says it as if it were second nature to him, without a beat of hesitation. You roll your eyes, but feel the heat of a flush creeping up your cheeks. Max had never wavered in his stance - not since you both were 6, but it was something that you had begun to notice since the beginning of spring. You were now 11, almost 12, with puberty well and truly kicking in for you and surging on slightly ahead of Max.

“You don’t know that,” you drop your head, face down on your towel as if to hide your embarrassment.

“I do,” Max says again, without missing a beat, as if it were fact. You feel wandering fingers tugging on your hair, asking silently why you had face planted yourself into your towel.

“They are going to sign me,” Max exclaims as the door of your bedroom flies open with a bang. You stare at him from where you are seated, curled up in an old, soft arm chair in the corner of your room, book open in your lap.

“Wha-” you start to question only for Max to supplement his i initial statement in a rush of excitement. His eyes, blue, striking and dancing wildly with equal parts excitement and equal parts adrenaline as he remains rooted in the doorway of your room.

“Toro Rosso,” the words are tumbling out of his mouth, “they are signing me as a test driver for the remainder of the season, and to drive for them next year.”

You’ve karted a handful of times, casually, the result of Max and his sister Victoria dragging you to the track - as one would expect being friends with Max Verstappen, but despite not being anywhere near as good as Max and Victoria, you’ve been friends with Max long enough to understand the ins and outs of karting, F3, F1. His words make you freeze, your eyes widening, jaw literally dropping open.

“Straight from F3?”

“Straight from F3,” Max voice is quieter this time as he confirms it, but his eyes - his eyes grow even brighter.

“Max,” your voice is shaky as you scramble out of your chair into a stand. Your eyes welling up with tears - of shock, happiness - because god knows how much he has wanted this since you both could remember.

There isn’t a need for anymore words and Max chooses instead to speak with his actions. He crosses the distance of your room in seconds, body slamming into yours, arms winding tight around your body. Max picks you up, lifts you so you are feet off the ground as he crushes you in a bone crushing hug. You laugh, the sound wet with the tears that have now slipped out from the sides of your eyes.

“I’m so proud of you,” you say, as Max chuckles, before setting you back on the ground. He pulls apart from you, giving himself enough space to peer at you.

“Don’t cry,” he says, lifting both his hands to cradle your face in his palms, thumbs swiping away at the tears that falling rapidly down your cheeks, “you heard I was getting signed right?”

His tone is gentle, but the smile remains firmly on his face.

“I know, I’m just,” you sniffle, your hands gesturing blindly in the air beside you as you try to finish your sentence.

“I know,” Max says more softly this time as he drops his hands from your face, arms going around your shoulders instead to pull you into him. Your face collides with his shoulder, tears causing the material of his hoodie to go damp. You don’t have to explain yourself, because Max knows - knows just how happy you are for him.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, voice muffled from being buried against Max, “I shouldn’t be crying. It’s stupid.”

“Well, it’ll be a good story for the wedding,” his joke comes soft, sudden, and teasing but you both feel a hidden weight behind the lightness of his tone. Max’s marriage proclamations had dwindled from the moment his voice started to drop in octave, and became almost non-existent since he started shaving regularly. The weight of the world and words had become heavier as you both grew from tweens to 17 year old teenagers just hanging around the cusp of adulthood.

“Max,” you find yourself laughing against his shoulder. You keep your face buried against the well worn material of his hoodie, not daring to look up as you feel your stomach do a series of somersaults, “is that your attempt to stop me from crying?”

“Yes,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice grow. Max holds you tighter, pressing you even closer into him as if he was afraid you would slip from his fingers, “it worked, didn’t it?”

He tilts his head to rest the side of his cheek against the side of your hair, as he feels your shoulders shake with another laugh. You miss the look that flashes through Max’s eyes, wistful, longing, want - a look that the world didn’t commonly associate with Max Verstappen.

“So, you and him huh?” Max slides into the kitchen in the pretext of getting himself a new bottle of beer while shutting the door quietly behind him. The echos of the celebratory ruckus caused by your joined families, and more, muffled, but still audible from the hall. You are both 19 now, one an F1 driver, the other a University student; a pair of best friends who had seen too little of each other this year.

“Mhm,” you hum as you pull can of diet soda from the fridge. You set it down on the table intending to search for spoon to crack the tab open, but Max reaches for it the moment the can hits the countertop. His fingers make quick work of popping the tab open, before he sets the can down in front of you.

“Fragile nails, I know,” he shrugs. He had seen you chip your nails too many times from wrestling with stubborn drink cans.

“Thanks,” you smile before you lift the can to your lips.

“You guys dating?” Max redirects your conversation, asking his question, straightforward, to the point - Max.

“Something like that,” your tone is non-committal, casual, but Max can tell that there is something bothering you and more behind your words.

“Something like what?” He pushes you with his words, and you know he is. Max sees yours shoulders square with a tension and he takes a step towards you.

“Leave it Max,” you say, brow furrowing at his question. The truth was you wanted to give him, Will, the guy you had brought home for Christmas a name, but each time you had tried to broach the topic of ‘what are we’, left you and and Will hanging, suspended in limbo because of his reluctance to explore the topic further.

Max takes another step towards you. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. Max’s eyes are hard, but unreadable and you tighten your grip around the cool can you still have in your hand.

“Something like what?” He asks again, his voice lower this time, quieter, almost dangerous.

“Max, leave it,” you say again, your tone sharper, voice slightly louder.

“So, I’m around less for one year and you end up forgetting what taste is?” Max’s words manage to be both blunt and cutting at the same time. You glare at him, feeling the tell tale sign of your throat seizing up, as you fight back tears that prick behind your eyelids.

“Around less?” You scoff with an empty, humourless laugh, “you mean weren’t around at all?” Your words come out more accusatory and bitter than you had intended.

You’ve never blamed Max for not being around, but you felt his absence, and you had never asked him, but you were sure that you felt his absence more than he did yours. He was off, around the world, living his dream, and you? You felt like you were still, just you. It wasn’t for a lack of trying to keep up with one another - he tried, you tried but you barely saw each other in person, him a junior driver, already on the rise to dominance but still struggling to prove himself everyday, and you a University student with classes, school work, extra-curricular’s, and a general lack of time and funds to fly yourself from race to race. You both made do with FaceTime, calls, messages, but time zones complicated things, had you and Max missing each other one too many times.

You see Max open his mouth to say something, but you hear the knob on the door turn.

“Everything alright?” Will’s voice accompanied but his head peeking through the door. You manage to take a step to your side, slipping away from Max before he can even react.

“All good, got my soda,” you say with a false cheeriness as you head for the door. Will pushes it open further and offers you a hand. You take it, and follow him out of the kitchen, and back in the hall, leaving Max alone, fist clenched, heart hammering.

Max doesn’t speak to you for the rest of the party, and you don’t seek him out, but his text comes later that night after all your guest had left, your phone lightning up on your nightstand with a buzz.

Max: I’m sorry.

You find yourself exhaling, as if you are letting go of a breathe that you hadn’t even noticed you were holding. He doesn’t tell you exactly what he is apologising for, but he doesn’t need to. You understand.

I’m sorry too. That wasn’t fair.

Max: I wish I got to be around more often.

I wish you did too.

Your reply is simple, truthful. Max knows you aren’t accusing or blaming him for not being around, just telling him in more words than necessary that you missed him.

Max: You will be.

Max: You know, when we’re finally married.

His reply makes you laugh, a sudden sound ringing out in the silence of your bedroom. It is unexpected - but entirely Max.

With our two children?

You find yourself smiling as you type back your reply.

Max: I was thinking three.

Max: Can I come over tomorrow? You know, just to hang out.

The smile on your face softens a the question

I would like that.

Max: Anyone that doesn’t see you are amazing is stupid.

His message comes, sudden, out of the blue and with no link to the previous conversation, but hard hitting - just the way Max is. You don’t respond, you don’t know how, but it means everything to you.

“Max Emilian Verstappen,” you groan as you stagger out of the lift, “are you even trying to walk?”

“M’ trying,” Max mumbles, as you drag him out of the lift and down the hallway towards his apartment. He moves his feet, as if attempting to walk on his own, but only ends up leaning further into you.

“Trying my ass,” you mutter to yourself as you begin the walk towards the door of his apartment.

“Mmm,” Max hums, eyes barely open, “you have a nice ass.”

“Max,” you gasp, half incredulous, half amused.

“I mean it,” he says, raising his arms in a failing motion, before dropping them back to his side.

“How did you get so drunk,” you sigh as you muster your strength to drag him the last few steps towards his door. The question is rhetorical - you had watched his grid friends ply him and themselves with an inhumane amount of alcohol to celebrate the start of the F1 summer break - fourteen blissful days of well deserved rest which Max had cajoled you into taking time off the spend with him in Monaco. He had booked your flights, planned our the two weeks, arranged for your transportation from your home to the airport, and for himself to pick you once you landed in Monaco, cleaned up his guest bedroom for you - giving you absolutely no reason to say no.

“M’happy you’re here,” Max sighs out as he turns his head to nuzzle the side of your hair. It makes you gulp, suddenly nervous, your brain threatening to run itself into overdrive, but you push the feeling away as the movement causes him to lean more of his weight on you, causing you to plant your feet even more firmly onto the ground for balance. You stop mid walk, your focus on keeping Max upright and standing.

“I’m not going to be very happy I’m here if I die from you collapsing on me.”

“Won’t let you die,” Max exhales, his breath tickling the top of your ear. He smells like a mix of tequila, courtesy of Daniel and the last three shots that pushed Max into sleepy drunk mode, and his cologne, “M’gonna marry you, can’t let you die.”

“Max,” you can’t help the chuckle that escapes you even now. You’re both 22 now, but his words from 6 years of age still float in and out of your life.

“S’truth,” he says, planting a soft, careless kiss onto the top of your head. It’s just a brush of his lips against your hair, but it feels intimate - too intimate for a pair who were just best friends. You freeze, for a full three seconds before Max sways in the other direction, reminding you of just how drunk he is. You brush your shock, and his actions aside, refocusing your energy on getting him into his apartment.

“Alright, c’mon Maxie, one foot in front of the other.”

The doorbell rings, and you ignore it, letting the sound sweep over you. You are a mess - hair tangled, in the same clothes you had slept in the night before - clearly not having bothered to change, your eyes tired and red rimmed from crying. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten a proper meal. It rings again, this time the sound accompanies by three loud knocks.

You don’t want to answer it, but the person on the other side is persistent, ringing it again and knocking. You get up, feeling wobbly on your feet, while pulling the hood of your jacket over your head in an attempted to hide the state you are in. You inhale deeply, bracing yourself before cracking open the door just an inch.

You expect to see a deliveryman, but the sight on the other side shocks you.

“Max?” You croak, voice scratchy from crying and a lack of use, “what are you doing here.”

“I’m here to see you,” he says simply and you take a step backward, pulling the door open, just wide enough for him and his carry-on to step through. Max shrugs his backpack off his shoulders as you close the door of your apartment behind him. He turns to look at you- he is wearing jeans, a plain black tshirt, with a red bull jacket thrown over the top.

“You look like shit,” he says while opening his arms. He doesn’t need to say another word, and you don’t need to be asked twice. You step into his embrace, winding your arms around him. You shutter your eyes close as Max wraps himself around you. You don’t cry, because you’ve cried enough since the breakup 4 days ago, but your hands shake and you find yourself gripping onto the fabric of Max’s jacket to steady yourself.

“You should be at home,” you say to Max. He was race fresh, having just come off another win - you had texted him to congratulate him through your tears. Max had found out the day the break up happened - you hadn’t wanted to tell him, because it had happened mid week, during the week leading up to the race weekend, but he had sensed something was off from the way you texted. Max had FaceTimed you right away, and your resolved had crumbled, involuntarily, the moment your cameras flickered on. You had apologised, profusely, amidst ugly tears, but Max had brushed it off, stopped your apologies and asked you to tell him what was wrong. His jaw had tensed, shoulders going rigid, eyes darkening with anger as the story tumbled out of your mouth: your boyfriend of almost 4 years had cheated. Not even a drunken one night stand, but worse: a full on 6 month affair that had been going on with a colleague from work.

“I’ll go home once you’re alright,” he says, hands now rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“I really thought I was going marry him,” you whisper into Max’s hoodie. The thought had been playing around in your head the past few days, and it was the first time you had said it out loud. You were now 26, thinking that you had your life together, and everything was smooth sailing only for yourself to be proven wrong.

Max tenses for a second, his teeth clenching together, hands pausing their ministrations against your back. You would have noticed normally, but you don’t, not with grief in the forefront of your heart and mind.

“It’s his loss,” Max says after a beat of silence. Those are the words that he wants to say, but he can’t - not now, not with you like this, and more importantly, not with a girlfriend back home.

-

Max doesn’t tell you why, but you hear it from him six months later, a casual text that lands in your phone in the middle of the night: I broke up with her.

“Take me to dinner,” the words tumble out of your mouth as soon as Max opens the door of his apartment.

“Well hello to you too,” Max steps aside to let you in. He takes note of the determined look you have in your eyes as you barrel on, straight into his apartment. Things had changed in the past 2 years since you had become single, you had, with Max’s encouragement, searched for, and found a job in Monaco - something suited to your skillset, with better prospects, a more exciting portfolio, and better pay. You weren’t earning big bucks, but it was enough for you to get by, even in a city like Monaco. Max played a big part, not by giving you money, but by arguing with you until you relented to renting an apartment from him - it wasn’t as big as his, just a small one bedroom in the same building as him, a few floors down. He had set a price, which you were aware was well, well below market rate for the location, and by Monaco standards, but you had been itching for a change, and reluctant to continue arguing. You tried to make up for it in your own ways - cat-sitting when he was off for races, cooking an extra portion for him when he was home, picking up his dry cleaning when you picked yours.

“I need you to take me to dinner Max.”

“Do you want to explain more?”

“I’ve a date,” you say as you throw yourself down onto his couch. A cat, Jimmy, jumps onto your lap and you extend a hand to scratch the feline behind its ears. It purrs happily, rubbing its body against you.

“A date?” Max keeps his voice neutral as he settles down beside you.

“Mhm,” you hum in response as you trail your fingers down Jimmy’s back, the feline settling into a loaf like structure on your lap.

“With?”

“A friend of a friend from work,” you say with a shrug, finally looking up at Max, hands continuing the trail down soft fur, “she invited him for drinks a couple of times. He asked me out. Nice guy, cute.”

“Nice guy, cute,” Max repeats, tone flat, “if he is taking you on a date why do you need me to take you out for dinner?”

“I haven’t,” you start, clearing your throat, feeling suddenly self conscious, a far cry from the determination you had barged into his apartment with, “been on a date in a while.”

You hadn’t - not since you broke up with your previous boyfriend. Flirting with the occasional handsome stranger at the bar, dancing a little too closely with someone with a charming smile at the club, but not a proper date.

“So I’m FP1?” Max arches a brow at you.

“If we must speak in F1 terms, yes,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

Max doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to extend a hand towards Jimmy’s nose. The cat scrunches its nose to sniff his hand, before closing its eyes with measured indifference. Max scowls lightly at the betrayal of his own pet, before he finally responds.

“Alright, when do you want to do this?”

“The coming Saturday?” You know there no races the coming weekend.

“Fine with me.”

“Where shall we go?”

“He had no ideas, huh?” Max throws you a look, half amusement and half disbelief. It was a guess, inference on his part, but he hadn’t expected to be, had hoped that he wouldn’t be, right.

“He just asked for suggestions,” you say defensively.

Max shakes his head slowly in disapproval. He is playing it cool, calm and collected outwardly, but his heart is hammering against his ribs, thoughts spinning in his brain. He doesn’t want you to go on a date, but he wants this excuse to take you out for dinner. Not just the both of you heading to the Italian place down the road or ordering takeout.

“6pm on Saturday,” Max says as he leans forward. You find yourself holding your breath as you stare into light blue irises that are just inches from your face, “don’t think of coming down here, I’ll pick you from your doorstep.”

You see his eyes dart down for a millisecond, ghosting over the curve of your lips and you can’t help the similar pattern which your gaze traces down his face. You can’t say you haven’t thought of Max’s lips before, wondering how they would feel against your own. You drag your eyes back up to find Max’s again. You see a flicker of light in his eyes, something that looks an awful lot like hope, intrigue, curiosity.

“Why-” you start, mouth acting on instinct, moving faster than your mind - you want to ask him why, why he is looking at you like he wants to kiss you; but a shrill meow breaks through the space between you as Jimmy sinks his claws into the surface of your pants, sick of having his space crowded by his two humans.

“Jimmy,” you yelp as you and Max jump apart, startled as the feline jumps off your lap, leaping onto the coffee table. He turns back to stare at you both with a look that is almost too scathing for a non-human.

“He’s definitely your cat,” you mutter to Max as the sassy feline swivels his head slowly around to pad his way to the corner of the coffee table.

“Can’t even deny that he is.”

-

The knock on your door sounds at 6, sharp.

“Coming,” you call out as you steal one last glance at yourself in the mirror hanging in the hallway by the door. You looked good - date ready, even if you said so yourself - hair done, and light makeup that helped you look fresh but very much still yourself. You smooth the front of your dress down, brow furrowing with a slight uncertainty - Max had refused to tell you the destination for the night and had, only after much pleading, told you in a vaguely unhelpful fashion that “any dress is fine”. You had gone safe with a black dress, straps holding it up on your shoulders, cinched at the waist, skirt flaring out slightly and falling to mid-calf. You inhale deeply and pull open the door.

The sight that greets you stuns you, but in a good way - the kind that has a smile involuntarily creeping onto your face and butterflies filling the pit of your stomach. You see Max, dressed in a dark linen shirt, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, holding flowers - a small bouquet, not ostentatious, but thoughtful.

“Hi,” you breathe out as a sudden shyness washes over you.

“Hey,” Max says as he offers you the flowers, before leaning in to brush his lips against the side of your cheek, barely there and fleeting, not something he hasn’t done before, but it makes your skin burn with a blush.

“Do you always greet your dates like this?” You tease, a poor attempt to cover up the flush you can feel against your skin.

“Only when they look like you,” Max says, his words ghosting against your skin before he pulls away. Max’s gaze doesn’t drift below your below, but you find piercing blue eyes holding yours.

“You’re making me nervous,” your words are soft and honest, you saying them as they come to mind.

“It’s part of the experience. You’re supposed to feel nervous on a first date,” Max says his voice equally soft, his cheeks dimpling - only lightly teasing, with a genuine curve to his smile.

It was meant to be practice, something to warm you up - your very own FP1 courtesy of Max Vertsappen, but it didn’t feel like just practice.

-

Max had chosen perfectly - he hadn’t gone for anything fancy, opting instead for a restaurant slightly out of the city, perched on the edge of a cliff, nice, polished but subtly so and busy but in a pleasant, quiet laid back manner. He had wrangled you both a table tucked in the corner with a view of the evening sun dancing over the water’s surface, reflecting off the boats floating across the deep blue water.

“So, come here often?” Max asks casually, elbows on the table as he pops a piece of calamari into his mouth. He had ordered, but only after asking you what you felt like having, and had topped your order off with other plates of things he knew you like. You arch a brow at his question, a hint of amusement on your face only for him to shrug innocently, “FP1, remember.”

“No one is going to ask that,” you say deadpan before picking up the glass of wine in front of you to take a sip.

“Alright, I’ll try again,” Max dusts his hands off before leaning casually back in his chair, “what brings you to Monaco.”

“Max,” you start only for him to stop you.

“Nu-uh, FP1 remember.”

“My move to Monaco was caused by guy,” you say slowly, fingers tracing the outline of the base of the wine glass which you had placed back on the surface of the table, “and because of the badgering of some other guy.”

“Some other guy huh?” Max’s smile mirrors the faint, amused one on your features, “he must be pretty amazing for you to move to a whole new country for.”

“He’s alright,” you say with feigned carelessness.

“Just alright?” Max’s smile grows, “I think he’ll be a pretty great guy, You know, handsome, pretty good at what he does, thoughtful, caring.”

“You know an awful lot about him without me having mentioned his name.”

“Just a hunch,” Max says as he throws you a wink.

“He is,” you play along, pretending to nod thoughtfully, “handsome, great at what he does, thoughtful, caring, generous.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

“I think some other guy is handsome,” you correct.

“So, have you and this some other guy dated?” Max asks his question without missing a beat. You fix Max with a look that borders on exasperated, but he counters, too smoothly and pointedly, “you said you moved here at his badgering.”

“No,” you fiddle with the necklace that hangs around your neck, a habit of yours since the very man across the table had gifted you the necklace on your last birthday. Something which you had insisted was too expensive, only for him to have told that he couldn’t return it either because he has thrown away the receipt.

“Why?” Max remains with his tone light, stance open, eyes gentle, but with just a hint of the same calculated focus he uses when racing.

“We’re friends,” you start, fingers still touching your necklace as you turn your face slightly to the side, letting your gaze dance across the sea which has started to ripple with the evening breeze, “and he doesn’t see me that way. I’m not his type anyway. His girlfriends have always been stunning, put together, not me.”

You end your answer with a soft laugh - not mean, but just honest. You had answered without giving it much thought, letting the same words that came to mind, out. You had been thinking of Max’s last girlfriend - she had been glamorous, put together, polished, and with the natural confidence of someone who had grown up in all the right circles. His previous girlfriends hadn’t been all that different either. It wasn’t surprising to you - after all, you knew him as your Max, but he was, well - the Max Verstappen.

“How do you know you’re not his type,” Max’s voice is steady, the same as before, but you keep your gaze focused on the water, missing the intensity in his gaze which goes a notch up.

“He’s a four time world champion, arguably one of the greatest drivers to hit F1 and I’m just me, we don’t really match,” you tone is teasing but your words reflect the truth of your belief. You had asked yourself before, and throughout the years you had known Max, why not - allowing yourself on one too many occasions to toy with what if, only to always remind yourself that this was Max, and you were just you: his childhood friend.

Max doesn’t say anything in response, and you tear your gaze from the view to turn your attention back to him only to find him with his brow slightly furrowed, eyes looking as though a storm is brewing behind. Your heart catches in your chest as his gaze locks on yours - you can’t place a finger on why exactly, but you feel your pulse quicken.

“Max?” You shake off your silence, quashing any feelings that come bubbling up to the surface down.

“Yeah,” he snaps back to his previous self, reaching out for his own glass.

-

“You really didn’t have to walk me to my door.”

“What, you mean your dates don’t walk you to the door?”

“Well, I don’t really live in the same building as my dates.”

Your response has Max letting out a light chuckle as you both come to a stop outside door. Your keys are already in hand.

“Well, this is me.”

“Mhm,” Max hums in agreement, slight amusement on his face. He doesn’t say anymore.

“Thanks for dinner. I’ll get you for-”

“You will not,” Max cuts you off with a disapproving expression. He doesn’t need you to finish your sentence offering to pay for half of dinner.

“I-” you struggle with your words for a beat, before you sigh, choosing not to fight a battle you can’t win, “thank you for dinner, and also for this, FP1. Next weekend seems less daunting now.”

Max doesn’t say anything, but nods lightly.

“You’re leaving tomorrow?” You probe gently.

“Yeah, tomorrow morning. They want to test some upgrades with us in the sim. See what we can do before the race weekend comes around.”

“We’ll see you when you’re back,” you don’t have to explain we. Max knows you mean yourself, Jimmy and Sassy. The found family he comes back to after every race.

“Always,” Max nods again, and you smile, about to turn on your heel to unlock your door when he speaks again, “one more thing.”

“One more thing?” You look at him curiously.

Max steps a step forward, putting himself in your personal space. The scent of his cologne envelops you. Max moves, gently, with purpose, and slow enough for you to move away if you wanted to. His hand comes up to cup the side of your face, thumb ghosting across your cheek. You feel your heart hammering against your ribs, your stomach flipping - and in a good way.

“Alright?” Max’s voice is low, soft as he checks in on you. His eyes searching yours.

“Alright,” you confirm, barely a whisper.

He leans in, face inches from yours, gaze still locked onto you.

“Still alright,” he murmurs again, and you can only nod. Your confirmation something Max can feel against his palm from the slight motion of your head.

It happens before you have a chance to overthink. You feel Max’s lips against yours, softer than you had imagined, gentle, but decisive - without an ounce of hesitation. It’s innocent enough, one kiss, but the look in Max’s eyes as yours flutter open is what finally sends your mind reeling. One that makes it look like he wants more.

“FP1, right.” you say softly, Max’s hand still against your skin, the warmth of his palm a welcome sensation against your cheek. Max gives you a crooked smile, that is tinted with a hint of amusement, but also wistful and saying so much more.

“Don’t kiss him on the first date,” you find his searching yours, gentle but with something raw behind the blue, something threatening to burst at the seams.

“I won’t,” you both don’t say anything more, but manage to be both sure, while completely unclear on what you’re both agreeing on.

-

The week passes without much fanfare, and as it usually does when Max is away. You let yourself into his apartment twice a day, once before work to check on the cats and feed them and once after, for a longer time to feed them, replenish their water, and to provide a human presence and comfort. You send him pictures, videos of Jimmy and Sassy, peppered in through your usual text conversations. Neither of you mention the last Saturday, or your date on the coming Sunday.

Nothing has changed between you and Max, but there is an undeniable crackle of something more threatening to bubble over.

Max wins, takes 1st, and you watch, eyes glittering, joy surging through your chest as the television shows him stepping onto the podium with ruffled hair and flushed cheeks. You pause the rummage through your closet for a date appropriate outfit to send him a text, something which you always do after each race, podium or no podium, which you know he won’t see till later - after the debrief, his work and media obligations, and the celebrations have taken place.

-

Marc is nice, good looking, sweet, almost without a flaw. He picks you up from your door, holds the doors open for you, is nice to waitstaff, and up takes you to a nice restaurant - fancy, and after for a drink in well selected bar nearby, something that is currently trendy. He doesn’t let you pay for anything, says and does all the right things, compliments you in the sweetest way, which you are sure will have any other girl swooning - but you can’t help the nagging thought running through your brain. The date is perfect but it isn’t Max - it isn’t the both of you sitting amongst a quiet bustling crowd with a sea view, it isn’t Max driving you home with easy conversation and making a detour along the way for ice cream cones at a quaint, but quiet kiosk just before you hit the city.

“Well, this is me,” your words bring about a small smile to your face. One that comes off as being for Marc, but which really is because you had said the same exact words to Max one week before, “thank you for today, it was lovely.”

“Can I see you again?” Your date asks, and you hesitate, visibly, mouth opening briefly before closing again. You had no reason to say no - he was a catch, by anyones standard, but he wasn’t who you wanted, wasn’t Max.

“I’m sorry,” you offer him a weak smile, only for him to nod, understanding even in the face of rejection.

-

Max’s mind is racing at a million miles per second, he hadn’t stopped moving, since he had left you, not at HQ leading up to the race weekend, not during the each segment of race weekend not since he had gotten off that podium, not during media, the debriefs, not since the rushed shower he had before heading for the airport, not since he had boarded his jet, and not since he had ran out and off practically the same moment the wheels hit the tarmac.

Max had channeled his energy into the week, distracting himself from you, from himself, from thinking too much about you. He had flown through the race weekend in a flurry of activity, pushing himself and the team to finish on the top step of the podium, just so he could worm his way home unbothered by anyone else. From experience Max knew, that the surefire way to gain goodwill and a few days of sanctioned silence was to be at the top of the leaderboard.

He tries your apartment straight from the parking garage, suitcase in tow. He rings the bell twice, knocks three times - no answer. He checks the time, it’s late, but still within Sunday, and he hasn’t heard from you since your congratulatory text earlier in the afternoon. Max feels his heart sink, as the realisation sets in that it was likely that you were still on your date and it was going well.

He drags himself back to his apartment, the sinking feeling growing with every step, morphing slowly into something more bitter, into regret. He should have asked you not to go when he had kissed you last Saturday, but Max had been bold enough to kiss you, but too afraid to say more, because while Max wanted you, his greatest fear was losing you.

Max steps in, locking the door behind him and leaving his suitcase and backpack in the hallway. He frowns, ears not picking up the usual sound of claws clicking against the floor that greets him upon entry. Max toes off his shoes, leaving them strew in the hallway as he pads in, eyes darting around in search of the cats.

The sight that greets him as enters his living room has him freeze in mid-step, his attention transfixed on you, lying curled up in a corner of his wide sofa. You’re in tights and a hoodie, arms curled around one of the throw blankets you had left in his apartment with both cats dozing as individual loafs at your feet. Max feels his gaze soften as the bitterness he had been feeling ebbs slowly away. He knows you’ve been out, because Max knows that you would have said something if you had cancelled your date, but seeing you now curled up on his sofa, in his home, his cats dozing at your feet - Max feels like he won more than the Belgian Grand Prix today.

Max flops onto the floor beside you, bringing a hand up to brush your hair behind your ear.

“Hey,” his voice is soft, careful not to startle you. You start to stir, shifting with a soft whine of protest which has Max chuckling softly.

“Welcome home,” your say with a sleepy smile as you bring a hand up to rub your eyes, “I thought you were only going to be back tomorrow.”

“Wasn’t much in Spa,” he shrugs, not bothering to explain the fact that he had in fact, been a whirlwind since he had left you, bothering on a menace for the entire week he had been away, pushing everyone harder than he had in a while simply to keep up with the pace he set for the entire week, prompting even GP to question if this was him making a Mad Max come back.

“Congratulations on the win,” you push yourself up into a seated position, moving to a side and patting the space beside you for Max to settle into. He does, and you let yourself shift closer, mind still foggy with sleep. Max opens an arm, bracketing the back of the sofa, allowing you to curl your body towards his, allowing your head to drop towards his shoulder as your eyelids flutter close again, “you had everyone online questioning if this marks the return of your Mad Max era.”

Max hears the amusement that tints your voice even as you stifle a yawn. Your body is warm against his, the weight of your head against his shoulder, dropping towards his chest a welcome anchor. Max inhales, feeling like he can breathe again for the first time in a week.

“GP asked me that, as well” he admits. Max pauses, before his mouth moves again, words coming out of his mouth faster than they can spin through his mind, “but I just wanted to get home to you.”

“To me?” His words have you cracking open your eyes, pupils clearer, more awake than they were a moment again. Max sees you bite down on your bottom lip as you shift slightly, letting your head tilt up to look towards him. You both stare at each other, and Max searches your face. He’s looked at you thousands of times, memorised every mark you have on your skin - whether a mole or a freckle, but for the first time, Max feels as if he is watching you in daylight because he sees the same expression he has on his face in yours, the same swirling of a storm behind your eyes - fear, hope, anxiousness, longing, the same tell tale sign of someone who has wanted more for a long time. Max watches as your eyes search his, and it emboldens him.

“I keep thinking of Saturday,” the admission comes, raw and honest. Max sees the shift in your expression, micro - with your eyes widening just slightly, but it tells him everything he needs to know.

“What about Saturday?” You are asking him, but you both know the answer to his question.

“I keep thinking,” Max pauses, eyes darting across your features again, “about how I wish I could have kept kissing you.”

Max watches as your lips part, and your eyes widen even more. He sees a light behind your eyes grow, and he keeps talking.

“About how I’ve wanted to kiss you for so fucking long but let every opportunity slip. About how I should have told you not to go on the date after I kissed you. About how I wish you were there in the garage for every single race because you are the only person I care about seeking out after I get out of the car. About how I’ve seen you get your heart broken more times than it should have, and thought to myself that you should have been with me. About the time we were 6 and I promised I would marry you. About the time I broke up with my last girlfriend and walked into a jewellery store on the same day and picked up an engagement ring which I’ve had hidden in my bottom drawer for the last one and half years without wanting to admit to myself that the only person I saw when buying that ring was you.”

You’re now gaping, full on, lips parted, eyes blown wide with the tirade of information which Max had just let out.

“Talk to me,” Max starts again slow, voice almost pleading. You don’t say anything, not yet, but your brain is running at a thousand miles per hour trying to process everything.

“Fuck,” the next word comes again from Max as he moves his arm, leaning forward elbows on his knees. He drags a hand down his face before covering his face with both his hands, “I fucked up didn’t I? Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

Your body mourns the loss of warmth as he shifts away, and you pull yourself from your shock. You don’t touch him, but you start talking.

“I went on the date today,” you see Max’s shoulders tense visibly, the rounded edges of his shoulder going rigid and square, “he was nice, the date was perfect, but I couldn’t stop thinking that it was wrong - because it wasn’t a drive out of town to a sea-side restaurant, it wasn’t comfortable silences and effortless conversations, it wasn’t stopping for ice cream and watching as you struggled you eat the ice cream faster than it melted. It wasn’t right because I kept thinking about you.”

Max drops his hands from his face slowly, as he turns, full body moving, to look at you.

“I think I love you,” you blurt out the sudden confession, and you can feel the heat of a blush prickling against your face immediately, warming cheeks, creating a tingling sensation on the tips of your ears and running down the sides of your neck.

“You love me,” Max echos as he stares at you and you feel yourself cringe internally as he parrots your own words back to you.

“Max I-,” your doubt kicks in as you fumble over your own words.

He doesn’t give you a chance to continue, but he moves like lightning. His lips are against yours, arms winding around you, pulling you onto his lap. Max manoeuvres you with a shocking ease so that each of your knees are bracketing his thighs. You’re kissing, his mouth sliding over yours, your lips meeting his with equal feverance, like you have both waited for this forever. It is desperate, messy, heated - but perfect.

“You love me,” he mumbles again, and this time you can feel his words against your lips. He pulls away, only to rest his forehead against yours, hands slipping under the hem of your hoodie, but still only gripping either side of your hips over the material of your tights. Max holds you as if afraid that if he didn’t, you would slip away. You see blue irises sparkling, brighter than you’ve ever seen them after a race or championship win.

“You bought a ring?” You ask, unable to help the smile that creeps onto your face. Your palms are light, pressed flat against his chest. The confession doesn’t scare you, not when it is you and Max, not when it is this. Not when he has been telling you since you were both 6 what exactly he wanted to do.

“I did,” he doesn’t even attempt to deny it.

“You’re insane,” you breathe out, but you statement is without malice, as Max leans forward to capture your lips with his again. It feels so natural to him, for you both to be here with everything different and yet it being all the same.

“I’m insane but I love you,” Max mumbles once again, against your lips. His confession slips out as easily as yours. You pull back slightly, causing Max to frown at the loss of your lips against his. He squeezes your hips lightly in protest.

“Were you just going to hide it in your drawer forever?” Your curiosity gets the better of you.

“Until you were ready, yes,” the response answers your current question, “and until you are ready, because I am going to marry you.”

He repeats his promise of 22 years ago again, with a smile on his face that manages to straddle mischief and a genuine happiness, and which causes his cheeks to dimple.

You run your hand up his chest, along his shoulder, along the side of his neck letting your fingers hang loosely from the base of his neck.

“You’ve always been presumptuous.”

“Or I’ve just know all along that you’re mine.”

“Am I?” You only mean to tease with the question but it elicits a growl from the back of Max’s throat. He drags you closer to him, pulling you further along his lap, closing the mere inches of space you have left between you.

“Yes,” his voice is low, tone featuring a possessive edge, “you’re mine.”

There were roughly four billion men walking the Earth. Four billion faces, four billion personalities, and—well, maybe not quite four billion names, but close enough. 

Actually… if Relia thought about it, there were probably more than four billion names. Maybe not all at once, but spread across time and languages and the countless phases humanity had limped, sprinted, and occasionally danced through. Humans were creative like that. And with the number of regions in the world—with their alphabets and Gods and scattered histories—names were endless. 

Gwyneth Paltrow named her daughter Apple, for God’s sake. 

So names were not quantifiable, Relia decided grimly as she stared across the table and tried to contain the anger bubbling in her gut at the sight of her mom’s new boyfriend. 

The one she had chosen out of four billion possibilities. 

Her mom was talking—rambling nervously about the drive into town, the “cute” café she’d spotted, the price of mushrooms at the Thursday market—but the words slid right past Relia. 

All she could focus on was him. 

Jos. Out of four billion names, four billion chances, her mother had landed on Jos. 

A man who carried a reputation like a permanent stain. A man with a temper. She didn’t know the details, not really, and she didn’t want to. But she had googled him. She had read the articles. The ones that described court cases and headlines and a past filled with choices she didn’t want anywhere near her mother. 

He was not the kind of man she wanted within a hundred kilometres of her family. 

And yet he was sitting at the same table, in the same restaurant, and he was smiling. 

Relia glanced down at her plate of roasted vegetables and scowled. 

At least he wasn’t her soulmate. 

He couldn’t be. 

Her father would always retain that title. 

“—so, do you watch any motor racing?” Jos’s voice cut through the static in her head. Dutch cadence, thick around the vowels. He leaned forward slightly, trying to capture her attention. 

Relia blinked. He was talking to her. 

Great. 

“No,” she said flatly. 

There was a brief silence before he tried again, a strained chuckle shaping his words. “Ah. Well… a lot of people don’t. But maybe you’ve seen—” 

“No,” she repeated, sharper this time. “I do not like sports, and fast cars make me nauseous. I don’t follow any of it.” 

Viviana shot her a warning look, but Relia ignored it. 

She didn’t think Jos was dangerous, not in a sudden explosive way, but there was something about him that scraped at her nerves every time he shifted or spoke or breathed too loud. 

He sat back, clearing his throat. “Right. Well. Different hobbies, then.” 

Relia nodded once, lips pressed together. 

Viviana jumped in with a too-bright laugh, launching into a story about all the dancing Relia had done as a child. 

Jos watched her talk, and the lines around his eyes softened. 

Relia bit her lip, grip tightening around her fork. 

All she could think was, Dad would’ve hated him. 

—

Relia barely made it up the stairs before the tears she had been fighting all night broke loose, flooding her vision until she had to catch herself against the wall. 

She shut her bedroom door with a soft click. Trembling, she pressed her back to it. 

Her whole body felt like it had been waiting for impact for over an hour, and now that she was alone, everything inside her had collapsed at once. Her chest hurt. Her jaw ached from clenching. Her hands were still curled into fists without her noticing. 

She squeezed her eyes shut. 

Her mother’s sparkling laughter still echoed faintly in her head. That bright, pretty sound that attracted attention like a magnet. The one Relia had grown up hearing in every room of the house. 

Relia sank to the floor, pulling her knees up and resting her forehead on her arms. She exhaled shakily. 

It wasn’t fair. 

None of it was fair. 

Her father had been her mother’s soulmate. Truly and completely. 

Relia had grown up watching the way they looked at each other, the way they moved around each other, the way everything between them seemed effortless. She had believed in soulmates because of them. She had wanted a love like theirs because of them. 

And then he was gone. 

Just like that. 

Relia sniffed and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. 

The universe didn’t care about fate.

Fate didn’t care about soulmates. Not in the way people pretended it did. 

She knew that because she had watched her mother fall apart piece by piece. Losing a soulmate wasn’t just losing a person. It was losing something built into you. Something no amount of time could repair. 

She’d had to grow up inside the emptiness that loss created. 

So how was she supposed to sit at a table and watch her mother smile at someone else? 

Someone who wasn’t meant for her. 

Someone who wasn’t her soulmate. 

Relia wiped her face again as a new sting gathered behind her eyes. 

She refused to cry over Jos. 

She clenched her teeth and looked at her wrist—the spot where the words had appeared on her tenth birthday. A mark she had spent years trying not to think about. 

People talked about soulmates like they were blessings. Miracles. Gifts from somewhere above. But Relia had seen the reality behind all that. She had seen what happened when the universe took the one thing it had promised. 

If she never met him, her so-called destined other half, then he would stay distant. He would stay hypothetical. He would never become someone she could lose. 

Relia pushed herself off the floor and stood on unsteady legs. She walked into her bathroom, opened the cabinet, and pulled out the box of two hundred extra-large bandage plasters. Her hands shook as she peeled one open. 

She pressed it firmly over her soulmate mark. 

She wasn’t going to give fate the chance to hurt her again. 

—

The next morning, the smell of coffee and toasted bread filled the kitchen, but it didn’t loosen the tightness in her stomach. 

Relia slid into her usual seat quietly, trying to take up as little room as possible. 

Viviana looked tired—shadows under her eyes, hair pulled into a loose braid that had clearly been slept in. She set a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Relia, then paused. 

Her gaze dropped to the bandage on Relia’s wrist. 

A small frown formed. 

But she didn’t say anything. 

She turned back to the counter and stirred honey into a mug, her movements slow and careful. The silence grew heavier by the second. 

Across the table, Jos noticed the bandage too. His eyes flicked to it, lingered, then he cleared his throat. 

“Sleep alright?” he tried. 

Relia stabbed at her eggs. “Sure.” 

He nodded awkwardly. “So… uh… is your wrist okay?” 

Her mom inhaled sharply. She spun around, eyes wide, silently begging him to stop talking. 

Too late. 

Relia didn’t hesitate. She lifted her wrist. “Oh, that? No. My soulmate’s first words to me are that I’d make a great prostitute. You can imagine how embarrassing that was for a ten-year-old.” 

Jos froze. 

Then he blanched. 

“Relia—” Viviana nearly dropped the kettle. “No, no, she’s joking! Jos, she’s sixteen, she—Relia, please don’t—” 

“I’m kidding,” Relia muttered. She took a sip of her tea without looking at either of them. “It was just a joke.” 

Jos rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable. “Teenagers,” he said quietly. “My kids were the same.” 

Viviana forced a tight smile and sat. “She’s… very unserious in the mornings.” 

“Right,” Jos said. 

“How many kids do you have?” Relia asked. 

Jos shrugged, trying for jovial. “Just a few.” 

“Right,” she muttered slowly, before pushing back her chair. “The bus will be here soon.” 

She walked toward the front door quickly, hoping to escape before anything else could be said. 

“Relia, wait.” Her mother caught up to her, dish towel still in her hand, worry written all over her face. “That was a bit much,” Viviana murmured gently. 

“I was just joking,” Relia replied. 

“Honey…” Viviana hesitated. “Jos doesn’t know you like to cover your mark sometimes. We can’t expect him too just... I should’ve told him. But I—” She looked down, then back up, voice soft. “He’s kind. He’s good to me.” 

Guilt rose in Relia’s throat. 

Viviana stepped closer. “I’m not asking you to like him. Just try to be nicer. A little. He wants to get to know you. He’s trying.” 

Relia’s stomach twisted. She couldn’t say he’s not Dad. She couldn’t hurt her mom like that. 

“I just want you to give him a chance,” Viviana whispered. 

Relia swallowed. “Whatever.” 

Viviana’s relief was immediate, gentle. “Have a good day at school,” she said. “We can get pizza tonight, if you want.” 

“Yeah,” Relia muttered. “Sure.” 

She stepped outside before the guilt became too much. 

—

That night, Relia lay in bed, staring at the faint line of light under her door. 

Her mother and Jos were watching a movie downstairs. Their voices drifted up the stairwell. Calm. Steady. Comfortable. 

Relia pulled the blanket over her head. 

It won’t last, she told herself. I just have to get through it. A few months. She’ll get bored. Or he’ll get annoying. Or they’ll disagree about something stupid. It’ll end. 

She closed her eyes. 

It won’t last forever. I just need to be patient. 

She repeated the words until they blurred into the darkness around her. 

She held onto them until sleep finally dragged her under. 

—

Three Months Later 

Relia stood in the hallway, arms crossed tightly as her mom fussed with her hair, smoothing down strands that didn’t need smoothing. 

“It’s just a small gathering,” Viviana murmured, adjusting Relia’s jacket collar even though it was already straight. “Nothing formal. Just some family.” 

Relia nodded once. “Okay.” 

“And they’re all very excited to meet you.” 

Relia didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice not to give away the small, restless knot stuck somewhere under her ribs. 

She wasn’t scared. Not exactly. She was good with people. Could make conversation with a brick wall.  

She just hated that this felt… official.  

Like Jos wasn’t a temporary disruption but somebody her mother was actively folding into their lives. 

She grabbed her shoes and followed them out the door. 

Jos’s house was a little outside of town; too far to walk, too close to feel like a separate life. The house was loud before they even stepped inside. Voices, laughter.  

As soon as they pushed inside, they were swarmed. A handful of faces turned toward them. Some older, some around Relia’s age, a few somewhere in between. They looked curious, not particularly warm but not unkind either. 

Relia forced a small nod. “Hi.” 

“Come, sit,” an unfamiliar face said, waving her toward a long table crowded with plates and bowls. 

Viviana squeezed her hand before joining a cluster of adults. Jos drifted toward his children, greeting them with quick hugs and Dutch words and fond smiles.  

Relia sat at the edge of the table. She kept her hands folded in her lap.  

Jos’s oldest daughter, Victoria, slid into the seat beside her. “Hello,” she said, voice friendly enough, “You’re very pretty.” 

Relia stared down at her plate. “Thanks.” 

She smiled gently. “He said that you were shy.” 

Relia just nodded, keeping her gaze downcast.  

She wasn’t shy. She’d never been shy.

She just didn’t want to be there.

The room hummed with conversation. Food was passed around. Someone put a slice of cake on Relia’s plate before she could protest. 

A woman across the table lifted her glass. “It’s a shame Max couldn’t come,” she said lightly. “He would’ve liked to be here.” 

At the mention of Jos’ oldest son, a few people made small sounds of agreement. 

Jos shrugged. “He’s training,” he said. “He’s a good boy. Focused. He doesn’t care about silly birthday parties.” 

The comment passed easily through the room. 

Relia bit her lip until it stung.  

Because she liked birthdays. She liked the idea of them. She liked the little rituals her father used to do. She liked the way the day felt like it mattered, even if nothing changed. 

She swallowed and looked down at her slice of cake. 

It wasn’t even her birthday; it was Jos’s. A late celebration after a busy week. She’d helped her mother wrap his present. She’d watched Viviana write his name on the card with careful handwriting; even drawing a little heart. 

She shouldn’t care that some boy she didn’t even know thought that birthdays were pointless. 

But she felt something tighten in her chest anyway. 

Jos laughed at something that somebody said. Viviana smiled at him, warm and easy. 

Relia pushed a piece of cake around with her fork. 

It had been three months. 

And Jos wasn’t going anywhere. 

—

Six Months Later 

Relia lay on her stomach across her bed, the lights off, curtains drawn, her bedroom dim except for the soft blue glow of her phone. 

Her headphones sat snugly over her ears. 

She double-checked, again, that her door was shut. 

Her mom thought she was doing homework.  

Nobody had any reason to think she was streaming the final laps of a Formula One race she absolutely, definitely, completely did not care about. 

She turned the volume down another notch anyway. 

Her thumb hovered over the screen as the commentators’ voices filled her ears, fast and bright, building toward the end of the race. 

She didn’t understand the rules.

She didn’t understand how the scoring worked.

She didn’t even recognize most of the names that flashed across the leaderboard. 

Except one. 

Verstappen. 

Jos’s son. 

The one who didn’t go to birthday parties. 

The one who people always spoke about with a mix of fondness and awe. 

The one Relia still hadn’t met, despite seeing his name printed across Jos’s travel itineraries on the kitchen counter. Despite overhearing calls late at night. Despite how often he drifted uninvited into conversations. 

Her mother talked about him like he was already family. 

Relia didn’t know what he sounded like. 

What he looked like in motion instead of on a still photo frame on the mantle. 

On the track, a flash of orange and black swept around the final corner, engine screaming through her headphones.  

“Max Verstappen crosses the line to take an impressive second place,” the commentator said, adrenaline sharp in his voice. “Another incredible performance from the young Dutchman—” 

Relia exhaled.  

She didn’t know why she felt relieved. 

She hadn’t even realised that she’d been holding her breath. 

One by one, the rest of the cars crossed the finish line. The race ended. The screen filled with stats she didn’t understand. The drivers started climbing out of the cars.  

She closed the tab. Cleared her browser history even though nobody checked her phone. Pulled her headphones off and let them fall beside her pillow. 

In the quiet, her heart thumped.  

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. 

Then she scratched her wrist, sighing irritably as the skin there tingled beneath the plaster she still wore every day. 

It wasn’t supposed to tingle. 

Not unless— 

No. 

No, no, no. 

It was nothing. Just nerves. Or fabric irritation. Or the fact that she’d been lying in one position too long. Or literally anything that wasn’t the reason people whispered about in soulmate forums and school stairwells. 

She pressed her thumbnail hard into the edge of the plaster until the feeling dulled. 

She wasn’t going to meet him. 

She wasn’t looking for him. 

And she sure as hell wasn’t getting pulled into whatever cosmic nonsense had broken her mother's heart. 

“Stupid,” she muttered under her breath, flinging her arm over her eyes. 

Across the house, she heard the front door open and close again as her mom ushered her book club inside.

Relia rolled onto her side, tugged her blanket up to her chin, and squeezed her eyes shut. 

Her wrist kept tingling. 

She ignored it. 

She’d gotten very, very good at ignoring things that made her uncomfortable.  

—

Relia’s seventeenth birthday arrived like any other day—just her phone buzzing against her cheek at 7:03 a.m. with a flood of messages from the people in her life who loved her enough to remember.  

By the time she walked through the front gates of school, her friends had already gathered.  

“Birthday girl!” Maren yelled across the courtyard, loud enough to turn several heads. She bounded over, nearly knocking Relia off the pavement as she threw her arms around her. “Seventeen! Welcome to the club! We’re, like, so close to adulthood.” 

“I’m aware,” Relia muttered into her shoulder, but she didn’t pull away. 

Behind Maren trailed the rest of their little cluster, Lina with her oversized football hoodie, Jin balancing a carrier of coffee cups, and Paul trying to wrangle his backpack shut.  

Jin thrust a cup at her. “Here, we got your favourite.” 

“Which resembles a cup of sugar and milk more than coffee,” Paul said. 

“Which is why she likes it,” Lina said smarmily. 

A small smile tugged at Relia's mouth. “Thanks.” 

They walked toward the main building, the morning as loud as usual; sneakers squeaking against linoleum, lockers slamming open and closed.  

Maren leaned close, nudging her. “So? Any special birthday plans tonight?” 

Relia shrugged, her stomach twisting bitterly for some reason. “Just dinner at home with my mom.” 

“Pizza?” 

“Probably.” 

Maren grinned. “Classic.” 

Relia didn’t mention the unspoken variable in that dinner. She didn’t mention Jos or how unpredictable the house felt now depending on whether he was travelling or not.

She didn’t mention that she’d already told her mom that she didn’t want any kind of party. 

She didn’t mention the tingling under her bandage that had woken her up again in the middle of the night. 

“Hey,” Lina said, tugging gently at Relia’s sleeve. “You okay? You’re doing that... like, twitchy thing you do.” 

Relia dropped her hand instantly. “Sorry. I'm fine.” 

Maren threw an arm around her shoulder . “Anyway! At lunch we’re getting cake. The shitty cafeteria kind. It’s our tradition.” 

“Our tradition tastes like drywall,” Relia said. 

“And yet,” Paul replied, “we all still smile and lie and say that we love it. Which, by the way, is also part of the tradition.” 

The bell rang overhead, echoing down the hall. 

Everyone dispersed with quick goodbyes, and Relia headed to her first class—still smiling faintly, still warm from the attention, still very aware of the quiet electric buzz at her wrist she refused to think about. 

Seventeen felt… different. 

—

Relia expected the smell of tomato sauce to hit her the moment she pushed open the front door. Or at least the sound of her mom humming in the kitchen, or the TV playing a rerun.

Instead, the house was silent. 

Completely silent. 

Relia stepped inside, dropping her bag by the shoe rack. “Mom?” 

No answer. 

She checked the kitchen. Empty. The living room. Empty. Her mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway either. 

A little prickle of confusion crawled up her spine. 

Viviana wouldn’t forget her birthday. That was impossible. Even in the ugliest times, those awful years after her dad died, her mom had still baked the lopsided cakes and wrapped the handmade gifts.

Relia pulled out her phone. 

Relia: hi. is mom with you? 

It took a full minute for the typing bubble to appear. 

Jos: Yes. She’s with me. 

Relia’s stomach tightened. 

Another bubble. 

Jos: Max had an issue during training. Nothing severe, but she came with me to check on him. We will make it up to you.  

Relia read the message twice. Then a third time. 

Her hand felt stiff around her phone. 

Relia: ok. 

She didn’t add anything else. She didn’t ask what happened, or how bad it was, or why her mom hadn’t texted her herself. 

She just set the phone down on the coffee table and lowered herself onto the couch. 

The living room looked like it was waiting for a party that never arrived. 

A cheap metallic birthday balloon hovered near the ceiling fan, bobbing slightly in the draft from the vent. On the counter sat a box of candles; unopened. And on the table was the stack of plates she’d set out that morning before school, too early, too excited, too hopeful. 

Relia stared at the balloon. 

The house hummed quietly around her. The refrigerator clicked on. A car passed outside. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. 

Her chest hurt. 

A slow, strange pressure that sat right behind her ribs, dull and warm and heavy. 

She wondered if it was normal. 

If seventeen was supposed to feel like this. 

If other people spent their birthdays alone on the sofa, watching a balloon drift in and out of the overhead light while their mom took care of someone else’s kid who wasn’t even a kid anymore.  

Relia pressed a hand against her sternum. 

The ache didn’t go away. It pulsed. 

She swallowed, blinking up at the balloon again. 

Happy Birthday. 

The words looked ridiculous floating above a room full of nothing. 

Relia hugged her knees to her chest and waited for someone, anyone, to walk through the door and tell her that she wasn’t being forgotten. 

Nobody did. 

Not for a very long time. 

—

Two days later, Relia sat at her desk with her homework laid out in-front of her.  

A soft knock sounded on her door. 

“Honey?” Viviana pushed it open before Relia answered. She held a grocery bag in one hand, the faint smell of roasted chicken drifting out. “I… I picked up dinner. Your favourite. I thought we could have a little birthday redo.” 

Relia looked at the bag, then at her mother’s face. Something inside her twisted uncomfortably. 

“I’m not hungry,” she said. 

Viviana paused. “Sweetheart… we should celebrate your birthday.” 

Relia shrugged. “It’s just a day.” 

“That’s not true,” Viviana said quietly. “You used to love your birthday. You—” 

“I said I’m not hungry, mom.” She snapped.  

Viviana’s mouth trembled at the edges. Not a full wobble; just enough to make Relia feel like she’d kicked something fragile. 

“I’m sorry,” Viviana whispered. “I’m sorry, honey.” 

Relia looked down at her hands. “Whatever.” 

“I didn’t want you to spend it alone,” her mother said, voice shaking. “But I just... Jos was shaken up, and it just made sense to go with him, and I had no idea that we’d be gone for longer than a few hours.”  

Relia felt the guilt settle in her chest, thick and heavy. But the pain was still there, stubborn and sharp. 

“It’s fine. I don’t care. I’m just tired,” she said. “That’s all.” 

Viviana nodded too quickly, brushing under her eyes. “Okay. I’ll keep the food warm.” 

The door closed softly. 

Relia didn’t move. 

Later that night, she heard her mother crying quietly in the kitchen.

She didn’t go downstairs. 

—

The next morning, the tension still lingered in the air, thin and uncomfortable. Viviana barely met her eyes as she handed over a travel mug of tea before leaving early for work. 

Jos was waiting near the front door, keys in hand. 

“You shouldn’t have to catch the bus,” he said. “I’ll drive you today.” 

Relia stiffened. “I’d rather walk.” 

“It’s raining,” he pointed out. 

“…School has showers.” 

“You’ll be late.” 

She scowled. “How do you even know what time my classes start?” 

He tapped his nose. “I know everything.”  

Relia opened her mouth to say something snappy back, but she didn’t have the energy. She stepped past him toward the car without saying anything. 

They drove in silence for several minutes, the sound of the wipers filling the car. Relia stared out the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She could feel Jos glancing at her every so often. 

Finally, he cleared his throat. “About your birthday,” he said quietly. “I’m very sorry.” 

Relia didn’t react.  

“I didn’t mean to do what I did… I was selfish,” he continued. “I know that your birthday is important. I know that your mom wanted to be there with you.” 

Relia felt her throat tighten. “It’s fine.” 

“It’s not,” he said. “She was worried about you the whole time."  

Relia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I was fine,” she muttered. 

“I know that,” he said. “You’re almost grown-up, but that doesn’t mean you should have spent your birthday alone.”  

She didn’t say anything.

After the silence had stretched for too long, Jos tapped the screen on the dashboard, and music began to play.  

When they pulled up in front of her school, he put the car in park but didn’t look at her. 

“Relia,” he said. “For what it’s worth… I hope your next birthday is better.” 

She stared at the road for a long moment. 

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Me too.” 

Then she got out of the car before he could say anything else. 

—

Her mom had been talking about their trip back home for weeks, and Relia had let herself look forward to it. 

Just a little. 

Just enough to imagine a weekend without Jos in the picture. 

But when she came downstairs Saturday morning, backpack ready, shoes tied, excitement tucked carefully behind a neutral expression— 

Jos was already standing by the door. 

Holding her mom’s suitcase. 

“Ready?” he asked.  

Relia froze on the last step. 

Her grip tightened on the railing. 

“You’re coming with us?” She asked. 

Viviana shot her a cautious look. “He just thought it might be nice to see… you know… where I grew up.” 

Relia swallowed the sting in her throat. 

“Right,” she muttered. “Of course.” 

The flight was easy. The drive from the airport to the village was long, winding through hills and stray patches of fog. Viviana spent half of it pointing out familiar landmarks; old orchards, the fields where she used to sneak out with her cousins, the dirt road where her father taught her to ride a bike over the summer. 

Jos listened politely.  

When they reached the village, Relia felt the usual tug in her chest. 

The houses were old and painted in faded pastels. 

Vines curled around gates. 

The church bell, rusty and slightly off-key, rang once as they stepped out of the car. 

It always felt like stepping into a memory. 

Relia inhaled the air; it smelled like damp earth, yeast, and wood smoke. 

Like every summer of her childhood. 

They walked toward her grandmother’s house together. Neighbours waved from their porches. 

“Bine ați venit!”  

Viviana beamed. “Bună ziua!” 

Relia smiled.  

Jos nodded awkwardly, lifting a hand to wave.  

Inside, her grandmother greeted them with a hug that nearly cracked Relia’s ribs. Then she turned to Jos, gave him a long, appraising stare, and said something quick and sharp into her mom’s ear.  

Relia walked straight to the fridge.  

At lunch, the table was covered in dishes—sarmale, mămăligă, cozonac, roasted peppers, bread still warm from the oven. Viviana slipped easily back into her mother tongue, speaking faster than she ever did in English. 

Jos looked lost. 

He kept glancing at Relia, like she might help him follow the conversation. 

She pointedly did not. 

For almost a year, her mom had been making the effort to learn Dutch. It would be her third language. 

Jos had made no such effort.  

Relia dug into her food, answering questions from her grandmother, slipping back into Romanian without effort. 

At one point, Jos leaned toward her. 

“What is she saying?” he whispered, gesturing at Viviana. 

Relia didn’t look at him. “Family stuff.” 

“Right,” he said with a small, stiff laugh. “I, uh, I feel a bit left out.” 

“Yeah,” she said. “Kind of the point.” 

Jos blinked at that, his expression tightening for a second. Not hurt; irritated. 

He covered it quickly, but she saw it anyway. 

Her grandmother noticed too. She gave Relia a knowing look across the table, patting her hand once before launching into another story.  

From that moment forward, Relia couldn’t help but notice the way Jos’s jaw clenched anytime the conversation excluded him. 

She hated the way he corrected her grandmother when she handed him the wrong utensil, even though he didn’t understand a word she said. 

She saw how his smile thinned whenever the attention shifted away from him. 

Four days later, when they were packing to leave, Viviana hugged her mother tight and promised they’d visit again soon. Relia swooped in afterward, letting her grandmother kiss her cheeks and mutter a string of well-wishes and prayers under her breath. 

When her grandmother reached out to hug Jos, he hesitated a little too long before leaning forward. Barely touched her. Pulled away fast. 

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

Relia stepped between them without thinking, not willing to let him make her sweet grandmother self-conscious. 

As they walked toward the car, gravel crunching under their shoes, Jos said, “Your family is… very lively.” 

Relia shrugged. “We’re Romanian.” 

“Right.” He paused. “Some people are too lively.” 

Relia didn’t laugh.  

“I had a good time,” Jos added, glancing at her. “Thank you for inviting me.”  

“I didn’t,” Relia said quietly, not letting her mom overhear. “But you came anyway, didn’t you?” 

Jos’s steps slowed behind her. Then stopped. 

Viviana turned to look at him, confused. He recovered quickly with a tight smile and told her everything was fine. 

Relia didn’t wait to see if he kept that tone or dropped it the second her mother turned her back. 

She just got in the car and shut the door before anyone could say anything else. 

—

“—I don’t understand why you keep doing this!” Viviana’s voice cracked as she slammed the drawer shut. “You’re rude, you’re cold, and you don’t even try. He has done nothing to deserve this.” 

“He’s done plenty,” Relia snapped back. “You just don’t want to face the reality of any of it.” 

Viviana spun around, face flushed. “Relia, stop. I am tired of this. You act like you know him better than I do—” 

“I know what I’ve read,” Relia shot back. “I know the truth. The women who said he hurt them. The fights. The arrests. The way he treated his kids—” 

Viviana’s expression hardened. “Those were allegations. Old ones. And most of them weren’t even true.” 

“You don’t know that!” Relia threw her hands up. “You don’t! You’re just trusting him because he smiles at you and buys you flowers and pretends to be this perfect, harmless—” 

“He is harmless!” Viviana shouted, her voice sharp enough to sting. “You’re repeating rumours. People love tearing down anyone connected to fame. You don’t know the whole story.” 

“I don’t need to,” Relia hissed. “I know enough to know he was accused of killing someone—” 

Viviana flinched. 

Relia didn’t stop. 

“—enough to know he went to jail. Enough to know the awful, borderline abusive things he did to his son just to make him a better athlete.” 

“That is not fair,” Viviana said, shaking her head. “You’re taking the worst moments of hislife and acting like that’s the whole person. People change!” 

“No. No, mom. People don’t change that much.” 

Viviana’s breath hitched. “He’s good to me.” 

Relia’s throat tightened. “For now.” 

“For now?” Viviana repeated, stunned. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“That you don’t know him.” The words came out low, shaking. “Not really. You’re so desperate to feel something again that you’re ignoring every warning sign right in front of you.” 

Viviana stared at her, eyes wide and hurt. 

Relia instantly regretted saying it—but she couldn’t take it back. 

Viviana shook her head slowly. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” 

“I’m trying to protect you,” Relia whispered. 

“I don’t need protecting from him,” Viviana said, voice flat. 

Relia opened her mouth—but Viviana held up a hand. 

“No. Stop.” Her voice was final in a way that made Relia’s stomach drop. “I won’t let you ruin this for me.” 

Relia felt something in her chest twist. 

“I’m not—” 

“You are,” Viviana said. “And I’m done arguing.” 

She turned away, shoulders trembling. 

Relia stood there, fists clenched, breathing too shallow, the rest of her protest trapped somewhere behind her teeth.  

—

The sun was brutal, glaring off the rows of plastic chairs set up across the football field. Parents waved little paper programs like fans and the loudspeakers crackled. 

Her name was called, mispronounced as always. 

Relia walked across the stage, shook the principal’s clammy hand, and forced a smile for the camera. Her mom was in the crowd somewhere, crying openly, and Jos stood beside her with one arm wrapped around her waist.  

Relia didn’t look at them. 

After the ceremony she found a patch of shade by the bleachers, kicked off her heels, and scrolled through her phone, letting herself breathe for the first time all day. 

Her notifications were exploding; classmates, cousins, a few teachers, people she barely talked to tagging her in their graduation pictures and quotes.  

She scrolled through her camera roll to find a picture of her own to post.  

She found one that Maren had taken. It was a shot of her from behind, in her cap and gown, her long dark hair falling in cascading waves down her back.  

She didn’t caption it, just tagged her best friends and hashtagged it with her high school's name.  

She locked her phone, shoved it in her lap, and leaned her head back against the bleacher. 

High school was over. 

She stared at the sky.  

Two weeks ago, she’d promised her mother that she’d go to a race with her and Jos “as a family” after she’d graduated. 

The promise had been wrung out of her on a night when her mom had looked tired and hopeful and so heartbreakingly in love that Relia couldn’t bring herself to say no. 

She’d regretted it every day since. 

—

That evening, when the sun was setting into an orange hue, her mom clapped excitedly. “Picture time! Come on. Let’s go outside for photos!” 

“Yeah,” Relia muttered. “I just need to grab something first.” 

She bolted up the stairs before her mom could argue, her pulse hammering hard enough to shake something loose inside her. On the wall beside her, more pictures of Jos’s kids. Smiling, posed, carefully framed. 

At the centre, as always, Max. 

Bright grin, confident shoulders, trophy catching the light. 

She glanced away before irritation could curdle into something worse. 

Her room was tidy. She crossed to her desk, slid open a drawer, and grabbed the small stack of documents she’d been quietly gathering. Early employment papers, scholarship forms, brochures for programs far from home. 

Not escape. 

Just preparation. 

Just the knowledge that eventually, she’d have an out. 

She tucked them into her backpack and zipped it shut just as footsteps thudded up the stairs. Heavy, deliberate. 

Jos. 

Her stomach tightened. 

He stopped in her doorway, leaning against the frame. “Look at you,” he said. “Big day.” 

She adjusted her backpack. “Yeah. Whatever. Mom wants pictures.” 

“She does.” He nodded slowly. “You should appreciate how proud she is.” 

“I do,” Relia said sharply. 

He raised his eyebrows, amused in that quiet, condescending way. “Good. Because she’s been looking forward to the race this weekend too. First big trip after your graduation. Good timing, hm?” 

Her jaw tightened. “I said I’d go. So I will.” 

“You’re part of my family now,” he said, an edge of satisfaction threading through the words. “We do things together; and we support Max.” 

Relia felt her skin prickle. 

She stepped past him, close enough to smell the cologne he overused, but far enough to avoid brushing him. 

“You’re not my family,” she said under her breath. 

He heard her anyway. 

His smile was thin. “You’ll come around.” 

“Don’t hold your breath,” she muttered. 

She walked down the stairs, her heart a wild, trapped flutter against her ribs. Behind her, Jos didn’t follow, but she could feel his eyes on her all the way to the front door. 

Viviana was waiting outside with her phone, smiling wide, proud and tired and radiant in that way only mothers could manage. 

Relia forced a smile back. 

Because she had graduated. 

And even though she wasn’t free yet, she would be soon. 

—

Night had fallen before she finally escaped upstairs. She sat on her bed, diploma tossed aside, gown still tangled around her shoulders. 

She pulled off the plaster that concealed her wrist. 

Her soulmate mark sat there, as humiliating as ever. 

Don’t cry about it. 

She’d always hated those words. 

Hated the implication. 

Hated the way they made her feel. 

And that night, with everything else pressing in around her, they felt like an insult. 

She washed her wrist with water and mild soap to get rid of the tacky bandage glue before getting into bed and laying down flat, staring at her ceiling. 

If the person fate had chosen for her was as condescending as his words made it seem, she wanted nothing to do with him. 

dim morning light flowed in through the thin curtains, a modest warmth heating up the room from the cool fall night. max stirred slightly at the soft glow and turned to his other side, avoiding the harsh reality of life and work and his confusing–stupidly confusing–feelings.

his cats roamed the room, nipping at his toes underneath the comforter, a desperate plea for him to wake up. the cold side of the pillow was thrown over max’s face for a brief moment before he turned back to check the alarm clock. it was already a few minutes after 7, but for max it felt like he had just closed his eyes. 

a cold feeling of dread washed over max as he sat up and started thinking all of his plans for the day. have to workout, grade papers and do the exam– “fuck me…” he whispered to himself, not ready to deal with seeing you again. it hadn’t even been a week since you made it clear how little you wanted to do with him anymore.

max huffed as he stood up and lazily went to feed his herd of cats, slopping cans of food in the dishes as if it was the hardest task in the world, slowly meandering over to his bathroom and changing clothes. it was all very theatrical.

all he could do was think of you, how exhausted you sounded when you told him to leave you alone. he opened the fridge to find something to eat, but he flashed back to the small tears that crept into your eyes while you spoke. he paced around the counter, feet pulling him towards the barstool he sunk down into, back curved and head in his hands. the way you looked at him with a weak smile that thinly veiled your lies replaying in his mind. 

whatever it was, it had ended abruptly and left max with an insatiable pit in his stomach.

your morning mirrored his, not feeling too bothered to rush into the day ahead of you. discomfort and nerves hovered over you in preparation for the exam. you pretended to ignore it for as long as possible, staying in bed doomscrolling, trying to keep busy with other classwork and some much needed basic self-care. none of it really took your mind off of him, not enough for it to be useful at least.

in a moment of incredible timing, while you were pretending to look over your–admittedly shitty–notes from dutch class again, your phone buzzed with a text from lando.

lando: when’s your exam scheduled for? you: first slot. you? lando: it’s like halfway through lando: can you help me study? you: not sure how much help i’ll be, but sure.

the pair of you met in the loud and crowded student center on campus and ended up sitting right outside of it at some tables. the sun blinded your eyes as you tried to pay attention to what lando was saying to you, distracted by your anxiety instead. 

“you with me?” lando asks. you nod, “yeah, so do you just want to practice what you’ve already prepared to say?” he nods in agreement, “i’ll point out anything horrible that i hear in your pronunciation,” you add, with a hint of a smile.

at some point while sitting with lando you decided that you’d go in early to talk to max. you were lost in thought about what you might say, strange waves of guilt washing over you as you remember how cruel you were. the contradictions ran rampant through your mind, not wanting to apologize, but not wanting to leave things in a hostile place either. 

breeze rushed through your hair, whistling in your ears to bring you back to reality. you looked back over at lando who was now staring at his notebook with his brows furrowed. he met your soft gaze and you gave him a polite smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. you checked the time on your phone and exaggerated your reaction. “ugh! sorry i just saw the time, i have to go over there now,” you said with enough warmth in your voice to smooth over the lie.

“oh alright! thought we’d have more time, but thank you,” lando replied meekly.

“yeah… i just really hate being late,” you offered, “but i’m sure you’ll do alright.”

he nodded at you as you headed in the direction of the old building where professor verstappen’s office is. your body went cold with anticipation as you approached the door and goosebumps trickled over your arms as you entered, becoming more prominent as you took the elevator to his floor and neared the doorway. 

the door was closed with a note from the professor telling students to wait outside for him to get you when he is ready. assuming this was more of a warning for others than the first slot and predicting that he would make an exception to not be upset with you anyways, your fist met the door with three tentative knocks.

max huffed audibly and said, “give me a moment, please. i will be with you soon.”

you nodded, feeling a little bit dejected by his bothered tone, and retreated back against the other wall of the claustrophobic hallway. for a few short moments that felt like hours, you waited and tried to force your body back to a normal state, hoping that the goosebumps would subside.

when max opened the door a look of shock flashed over his face before being briefly replaced by the slightest broken smile. “you’re early, but come in,” he said, avoiding looking at your gentle eyes. 

“did you forget who you scheduled first?” you asked him, almost mocking him for his surprise. 

he didn’t respond instantly, instead he looked you over, observing you like it was the last time he’d get to see you up close. he noticed the tightness in your shoulders, how you crossed your legs so tightly it felt like it might still mean something, and he saw how you looked at him, your body language all afraid, attentive, and cautious.

“of course not,” max defended himself, opening his mouth again but hesitant to say more. he pursed his lips and decided to leave it alone, “we can go ahead and get started now.”

you bounced your eyes around the room, averting your eyes from his to look at his messy stacks of books and papers and personal belongings scattered about. “i was actually hoping we could talk first.” you finally gathered the courage to speak, but your professor only looked at you expectantly, “uh… about what i said last week?” 

he simply stared at you, his strong gaze stubbornly telling you to continue.

you played with the sleeves of your sweater as you spoke, “i just don’t really like, um, how i came off… if that makes sense.”

max hums to himself, his face losing confidence ever so slightly, “but you meant what you said.”

you shrug your shoulders and almost roll your eyes. “yeah,” it comes out just above a whisper with a crack in the middle. “yeah, i do,” you claim unconvincingly. 

he nods at you in agreement despite not believing you, or at least not wanting to. the white noise of the room feels like dread, the uncomfortable pit in your stomach growing in the silence. 

max inches forward to fill the quiet just as you do. 

“that’s alright–” he says, and your voice overlaps his, “well, maybe not all of it.” 

he lifts his head to meet your awkward glances, light blue eyes searching yours for answers. 

“i- i shouldn’t- i don’t know, i’m sorry,” you stutter out.

max looks at you like he’s been wounded, “you don’t need to be. you haven’t done anything wrong.”

you roll your eyes, “haven’t i? haven’t we?”

“it doesn’t have to be,” his soft words linger in the air, your turn to leave the room silent. “i’ve been,” he scoffs, “i’ve been trying to tell you that i do care.”

“but why? it’s not right,” you retort. “you shouldn’t care about me how you think you do.”

his hand meets his furrowed brow, “but i do.”

“i can’t believe you, i won’t,” you mutter. it doesn’t have to be wrong, give me a fucking break. is he stupid? you think to yourself, fidgeting with your hair tie beneath your sleeves. 

“is it because you think i’ve done this before?” his words make your head snap back up. “you know how you get frustrated for how i uh- in your words ‘pretend to know you?’” you nod at him slightly. “it’s a bit hypocritical, no?”

“i guess so,” you mumble, “but it’s different when you do it.”

max doesn’t waver, “none of this matters.” you open your mouth to respond, but he doesn’t let you, “we’re arguing over something that doesn’t need to be a problem. it’s not really about what you say it is, that’s a lazy excuse.”

you tilt your head slightly, a tell. 

max continues “you don’t trust me, and i understand that. this- it’s like you said. it’s not right, but if this is the last time we ever talk like this- i need you to know that i see something in you, and i really do care. it’s been killing me how much i care, when i see how exhausted you are, it hurts me. i just… want you to be okay.”

tears begging to be released sting your eyes. you take a deep breath, “i think it’s time for the exam.”

max checks the clock, and seeing that you two had eaten through a good portion of the official time slot, max doesn’t dare push back, “of course. let’s get through it fast, not much time left.”

he asks you a few questions, and every response feels like a chore, like everything you’ve studied is just out of reach in your mind. you don’t even want to think about what the score will be, you just want to be done– with your professor, with this class, the whole semester. 

“alright, that was actually not bad. you’re getting a bit better,” he says, slightly backhanded yet still genuine. 

“thanks,” you stand up and ask, “am i free to go?”

“yes, and i want to give you something- if that’s okay,” he replies.

you raise your eyebrows at him, “which is what?”

he was already halfway through scribbling something on a sticky note before you asked, presenting it to you before you could even finish your sentence. “it’s my number. you don’t have to take it, but if you want to talk about anything… it’s there for you.”

you glare down at max and hesitate for a long pause before snatching the neon paper out of his hands almost aggressively. the note is shoved in your pocket as you stare into max’s soul before walking out of the door without another word.

the note was stuck on the corner of your dresser, somewhere between being a reminder of him and a plea to reach out. it bothered you when you shined a flashlight in your room to safely guide your steps to the bathroom, the neon green reflecting in your eyes. you envisioned yourself tearing up the note into a hundred pieces so that you’d never have the option. but you wanted to type in the number, to see if anything could happen, always torn between what’s best for you and what feels good.

the thought nagged at you as you tossed and turned trying to fall back asleep, imagining what he would say, how he could be, fantasizing about all of the wrong possibilities. in spite of the dissenting voice in your mind, you fell asleep thinking about his voice, how he might whisper to you sleepily as he holds you close to his chest, how you wished it could be right now. 

for a moment you wanted to believe in everything he seemed to promise.

a/n: sorry this one took so long to come around. i've been very busy and sick. i'm happy to report that i am making a comeback. i'll be dropping another part of this soon, there will only be like two or three left maximum (although i could be convinced...). thank you all for reading my silly little fanfiction & let me know if you'd like to be removed from the taglist.