#openmarriege

PAIRING: Lewis Hamilton x Reader x Max Verstappen

CH – 08

Light filtered in through the living room curtains in soft streaks, casting a pale gold across the scattered remains of last night.

Two glasses—one half-empty, one turned over. A mostly finished bottle of bourbon. Your laptop still open but asleep. Notes, paper, and a crumpled blanket hanging off the edge of the couch. And in the middle of it all: you and Max.

You didn’t know who woke up first—only that your head was heavy, your body stiff, and your phone was buzzing like a wasp trapped in a glass.

You blinked groggily, sitting up slowly. Your neck ached from sleeping crookedly. Max was still lying across the far end of the couch, one arm tucked under his head, breathing softly, chest rising and falling in rhythm. The blanket was tangled between you both.

Your phone buzzed again. You finally reached for it.

14 missed calls. 9 texts. All from Lewis. And one from Lizzie:

Lewis called me last night. I didn’t answer. I just saw your missed call from earlier. What the hell is going on??

Your stomach twisted.

You locked the phone and set it back down, rubbing your hands over your face. There wasn’t a hangover—just that emotional exhaustion you couldn’t sleep off.

You stood carefully, making your way to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, the smell of fresh coffee drifted into the living room.

Max stirred. You heard his low groan before he sat up slowly, eyes half-lidded. His hair was slightly messy, a faint line across his cheek from where it had pressed into the sofa. He looked… normal. Young. Almost gentle.

“You’re up early,” he muttered, voice still rough from sleep.

You passed him a mug. “Habit.”

He took it, fingers brushing yours briefly, and gave you a grateful nod.

Silence settled again, but this time it was warm. Mutual. Unhurried. You sat beside him on the couch, careful not to collapse against his side, but closer than maybe you should have been.

You both sipped quietly.

His voice was softer now. “Did he call?”

You nodded once. “A lot.”

“Are you going to answer?”

You didn’t reply right away. Instead, you glanced at your phone, screen dark again. “Not yet.”

He hummed, then took another sip of coffee.

“I don’t think I’ve ever slept that well on a sofa,” he said with a quiet smirk, breaking the heaviness between you.

You laughed under your breath. “I think I died for six hours.”

“I was kind of hoping you hadn’t,” he teased.

You looked at him, amused, and then your expression softened. “Thanks for staying.”

He shrugged, eyes meeting yours. “Thanks for letting me.”

A quiet beat passed.

And then you said the truth. “It was… nice. Waking up next to someone and not feeling like I owed them something.”

Max turned his head slightly, watching you. “You don’t owe me anything.”

You looked back at him. “I know. That’s the part that scares me.”

He didn’t push. Didn’t move closer. Just gave you space to sit with that feeling—whatever it was.

You didn’t talk about Lewis again. You didn’t talk about what this meant.

But the coffee between you went cold while you stayed on that couch far longer than you should have. And for the first time in days, you didn’t feel entirely broken.

You just felt… understood.

.

You stared at the screen of your phone long after Max had left.

The coffee mugs were still on the table. His scent lingered faintly in the air—faint cologne, clean laundry, the ghost of a night that hadn’t crossed any lines… but still felt dangerously close to doing so.

You didn’t owe Lewis an explanation. But you knew you needed to call.

Eventually, you stepped out onto the small balcony, where the air was cold and sharp enough to wake you up fully. Your fingers hovered over the screen for a second before pressing his name.

Dialing… Connecting… One ring. Two. Three—

“Finally.”

His voice was low. Not angry. Not desperate. But definitely not okay.

“Hi,” you said, voice rougher than intended.

“You disappeared last night.” A beat. “You hung up on me.”

You sighed, leaning your back against the railing. “Because I didn’t want to hear the lie you were about to tell.”

There was a silence on his end. You heard him exhale.

“I wasn’t going to lie to you,” he said. “I just… didn’t know what to say.”

You shut your eyes. “You had someone there, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His silence said more than words could.

“I didn’t bring her to my room,” he added. “But I didn’t stop her from being around, either. So yeah, maybe I crossed the line. I don’t know. Everything feels fucked right now.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “You told me this arrangement was supposed to avoid cheating. You made the rules. You said—”

“I know what I said,” he interrupted. “I know. And I hate that I hurt you.”

You laughed bitterly. “But not enough to stop.”

Another silence. You could almost picture him pacing.

“I panicked,” Lewis admitted quietly. “That night after we talked, I felt like everything was falling apart. The car. The team. Us. I didn’t know if you even wanted to fight for this anymore.”

“I did,” you said sharply. “Even when it hurt. Even when you were already halfway out the door, I stayed. I didn’t run to someone else the first moment I felt lonely.”

That silence again. He didn’t deny it.

Then, gently—“Is there someone else now?”

You paused.

Your lips parted, but the words wouldn’t come. No. That was the truth. But there was also… Max. His voice, his steadiness, the warmth of that sofa last night. There was something.

But it hadn’t happened. And yet it had.

“There’s no one,” you finally said. And after a pause: “But I don’t know how much longer I can keep waiting for you to choose me.”

Lewis’s voice cracked, just slightly. “You were never second place.”

“Then why do I feel like a placeholder for the version of you that doesn’t exist anymore?”

You heard him inhale slowly. “I don’t know.”

The admission was soft. Painful. Honest.

You nodded, more to yourself than to him. “I’ll ...You have my schedule if you need to talk.”

“I want to talk,” he said quickly.

You closed your eyes. “Okay.”

But neither of you said goodbye. You just ended the call—quietly. Like a chapter gently being folded shut.

And this time, it wasn’t anger that lingered. It was something worse. Doubt.