🏁 — safe place | #MV3
now playing: anchor — novo amor ► •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|• 3:15 ↻ ◁ || ▷ “anchor up to me, love”
wc: 2.8k
summary: after a whole day trying to deal with something you can't control on your own, Max comes home and notices — as always — that something is wrong long before you say a word.
themes: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, established relationship, emotional comfort.
contains: anxiety attack, mild physical symptoms, insecurity.
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the silence of the flat doesn’t leave you in peace.
it creeps along the walls, seeps into every corner, returning to you like a constant echo — heavy, insistent, impossible to ignore.
the air feels static, carrying the subtle scent of cold coffee and a candle that burnt out hours ago.
you’ve already tried to make it go away.
you’ve tried to shake it off in every possible way.
you turned on the tv, left some youtube video running without really watching it, just for the background noise.
you opened your phone, replied to messages you didn’t even remember receiving.
you walked back and forth, tidied the bedroom, stood in the kitchen staring at nothing, went back to the living room.
nothing worked.
nothing stuck.
because the feeling came with you.
at first, it was almost imperceptible.
it starts with a slight tightness in your chest, a strange restlessness, as if something is about to happen — even with no reason at all. your own body’s telemetry indicating an anomaly. you recognised it instantly, of course you did. you knew it was coming.
but you pretended you didn't.
it’ll pass.
always the same phrase.
you clung to it as long as you could.
you tried to breathe deeply, tried to distract yourself with your pinterest feed, tried to read the book you started last week, tried to ignore the way your thoughts were starting to race too fast, crashing into each other, directionless, like a car with no brakes…
but time kept passing. and with it, the feeling only grew.
slowly.
steadily.
until it took up too much space inside you.
now, you’re curled up in the corner of the sofa, back against the cushion, but your body is tense, as if you’ve forgotten how to relax your muscles. your hands are pressed together in your lap, fingers interlaced so tightly your knuckles are white, almost as if you’re trying to keep yourself there, inside your own body. and your heart…
it hurts.
so, so much.
your breathing doesn’t follow the rhythm you want it to.
it comes short.
irregular.
and the more you try to rationalise and fix it, the more aware of it you become — which only worsens the cycle.
“it’s nothing…” you whisper to the empty hallway, your voice weak, almost automatic. hopeful.
but it’s not convincing anymore.
you’re just so tired of this.
you just wish you never had to feel that way again.
but it always comes back, doesn't it?
your eyes sting.
tears well up before you even realise, flowing silent and warm down your cold face.
you wipe them away quickly with the back of your hand, almost irritated with yourself.
even though you’re alone. especially because of that.
because no one is watching. and yet, you feel exposed. vulnerable. weak for not being able to control your own chemistry.
the sound of the front door opening cuts through the static air.
your body reacts before your mind — a slight jolt, your breath catching for a full second in your tight chest.
Max.
you don’t know what time it is. you don’t know if it’s day or night outside. you don’t know how long you’ve been stuck in this position on the sofa.
and suddenly, you don’t know what to do either.
because you didn't have time to pull yourself together.
to turn off the lights.
to hide the evidence.
to pretend.
his footsteps enter the flat the same way they always do — firm, familiar, direct.
you hear the muffled thud of his suitcase being left by the door, the metallic click of his keys being tossed into the ceramic bowl, his jacket being hung up.
sounds of normality that now feel intrusive.
he brings the scent of the outside world with him: the freshness of recent rain, the subtle aroma of his leather jacket, and that almost imperceptible trace of jet fuel and airport lounges. a violent contrast to the stagnant air of the flat.
“hey love, i’m home.” his voice comes automatically, a bit raspy from the travel fatigue, filling the space. you hear him take off his watch, the metal clinking softly on the hallway table.
practical, routine gestures.
you don't have strength enough to answer.
and then, he stops at the entrance to the living room.
the silence that follows is different.
short. but dense. heavy with understanding.
you feel his gaze.
even without looking up.
it’s the exact moment his analysis finishes. he’s a driver; processing data and understanding anomalies quickly is what he does. he doesn't need data points to read you.
his footsteps change. they get faster, more direct towards you.
he rounds the sofa and enters your field of vision.
without rushing, he’s wearing that white hoodie he made for the suzuka race last year; he always liked that one much more than the others. and you did too.
his face looks exhausted, but his eyes are totally focused.
focused on you.
and there’s no hiding it anymore.
his blue eyes find yours, analysing every detail. not in a cold or clinical way, never that. but in an attentive, careful way. they scan your tear-stained face, the dampness still on your cheeks, your tense, trembling white-knuckled hands in your lap, the way you’re trying to make yourself small on the sofa and in the world.
he understands. too fast. as always.
“how long?” he asks.
calm.
his voice has lost the casual homecoming tone and is now low, anchored in reality. no judgement, just seeking facts.
you hesitate, trying to control the tremor in your chin.
“it’s nothing, Max, i just…”
he lets out a short sigh through his nose, shaking his head slightly. he doesn’t buy it. he knows you.
“you can be honest with me”, he says softly, cutting through your excuse not to be rude, but because he sees right through it.
he closes the distance between you.
and then, he kneels on the rug, right in front of you.
the movement is natural, practical, without any dramatic hesitation. it’s simply logical to him: he needs to be at your height. on your level. so you don’t have to struggle to look at him.
your eyes meet again, much closer now. you can see the exhaustion built up in his, but also a fierce determination to be right there.
“how long?” he repeats. gentler now. patient, willing to wait for the honest answer.
you swallow hard, feeling the lump in your throat tighten.
“…since this morning.”
saying it out loud to him makes it all brutally real.
heavier.
his expression shifts subtly — worry etching deeper into the corners of his eyes.
“the whole day?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.
you shrug, looking away at your interlaced fingers, embarrassed.
“i thought it would pass. i tried, but…”
for a second, he doesn't answer.
but you see it. you see it in the way his jaw tightens slightly, how he takes a deep breath, controlling an immediate reaction. it’s not anger at you. it’s never anger at you during these times. it’s a protective frustration, a pain from seeing you like this.
“alone?” he asks.
and you don't answer. you can't. you don't need to. he already knows.
a short silence settles before he moves a little closer, slowly, his knee brushing the rug, giving you time to pull back if physical contact is too much right now.
you don't pull back. you crave it.
his hand rises carefully. his palm is warm, but his fingertips still carry the chill from outside when they touch your face. his skin is a bit calloused, firm, the touch of someone who holds steering wheels at three hundred kilometres per hour, but now moves with unbelievable delicacy.
his thumb brushes under your eye, wiping away the trace of a tear you hadn’t even realised was still there.
“hey…” he murmurs. so low. so close. his accent thickening with emotion. “look at me.”
you obey without thinking. because there’s something in the way he speaks — firm, direct, but unequivocally kind — that works as an anchor.
“you don’t have to deal with this alone” , he says. simple. straightforward. as if it’s a basic rule of physics, an unquestionable truth of your lives together.
your lip trembles slightly at his honesty.
“sorry… i ruined your homecoming…” the words slip out before you can rationalise.
his reaction is instant. the focus in his eyes intensifies.
“no.” firm. no room for technical discussion.
his thumb stays on your face for a second, pressing lightly, a tactile anchor to ensure you’re there, processing what he’s saying.
“don't say sorry for this”, he repeats, calmer, but still totally resolute.
“but i’m a mess, Max. i can’t…”
“no.” softer this time. he cuts off your self-deprecation. “you’ve done nothing wrong. it’s just something that’s happening. okay? and you’ll get through it. you’re strong.”
something inside you breaks at that. because his simple, accepting logic goes against everything your anxious mind has been repeating on a loop for hours.
your eyes fill up again. and this time, with him right there, kneeling, accepting everything without blinking, you can’t hold back the chaos rising in your throat anymore.
Max notices immediately.
he stands up just enough to sit beside you on the sofa — close enough for you to feel the heat from his body, but still giving you space to choose the level of contact.
and you choose.
you always choose him.
you lean towards him almost automatically, like a plant seeking light.
he opens his right arm, pulling you in carefully, without rushing, bringing you against his chest. his other arm moves to your head, his firm hand holding you there, against the curve of his neck, creating a safe cocoon.
and you finally break down.
the crying comes harder now. not uncontrolled or hysterical, but deep. bottled up. painful. a purging of all the tension you’ve stored all day.
and he doesn't try to stop it. he doesn't ask you to calm down. he doesn't say ‘it'll be alright’ in a hollow way. he doesn't try to ‘fix’ the problem immediately with words.
he just stays.
his hand moves down your back in a slow motion, up and down, in a constant, repetitive rhythm. safe. the kind of touch that demands nothing from you, asks for no answers. it just lets you feel his presence.
“it’s okay…” he murmurs against the top of your head after pressing a soft kiss there, his voice vibrating in his chest against your face. “i’m here. i’ve got you.”
and it doesn't sound empty. it sounds present. real. like a technical promise that the car won't leave the track because he’s in control now.
your face hides deeper against his hoodie, inhaling his scent — the familiar comfort your mind recognises as ‘safety’. your fingers clutch lightly at the fabric of his t-shirt under the hoodie, needing that physical texture to stay anchored there.
he lets you. more than that — he adjusts his hold, clutching you back with the same silent intensity.
after a while — you’ve lost track of whether it’s been minutes or hours — your breathing starts to slow down. it’s not normal yet, still shaky, but it’s no longer the chaos from before.
Max notices. he always notices the shifts in rhythm.
“breathe with me”, he says softly, his voice near your ear.
he takes your hand, which was clutching his shirt, and guides it slowly to the centre of his chest. he presses it there, firm, under the hoodie.
you feel it.
his heart.
it’s strong. steady. in a calm, unbothered rhythm despite everything. the rhythm of someone trained to stay cool under the most extreme pressure in the world.
“feel my rhythm” , he murmurs. “forget the rest. just follow my heart. slowly… no need to rush.”
you close your eyes and focus all your attention on the palm of your hand against his chest. thump-thump. thump-thump. steady. safe.
you try to adjust your breathing to his pace. inhale… exhale… following the beat.
and this time, with him there, serving as a physical metronome — it works. a little. enough for the tightness in your chest to yield a few millimetres.
“well done, darling”, he murmurs, almost imperceptibly, against your hair. simple. a validation. but you can hear the relief in his voice. the encouragement.
when the crying fades into just sporadic sobs, he doesn't pull away immediately. he stays there, holding you, letting the silence and the warmth finish the job of calming your nervous system.
only after a few minutes, when he feels you’re truly ‘back’, does he move carefully.
“stay here a second, yeah? i won't be far.” he says, lightly touching your arm, making sure you don't feel abandoned by the movement.
you nod, still a bit lost in the feeling of exhaustion that always follows a crisis, but the panic is gone.
he gets up and goes to the kitchen. you hear the sounds — the hum of the electric kettle, the opening of a cupboard, the metallic clink of a spoon in a ceramic mug. simple, normal, domestic things.
and somehow, hearing his routine right there, in your kitchen, calms you more than any words could.
when he returns, he brings a simple mug.
“tea”, he says, handing it over as if it’s the most logical solution in the world for any problem.
you let out a small, weak laugh, the first crack of normality on your face all day.
“thank you.”
he sits beside you again, closer this time, your thighs touching. he places the mug in your hands carefully, making sure you have a firm grip, his fingers lingering on yours a second longer than necessary.
“careful, it’s hot”, he warns.
you hold the mug, feeling the warmth spread slowly through your hands that are still cold and shaky. you take a slow sip. the familiar taste of chamomile helps. it anchors you in the present.
Max watches. not in an invasive way, as if he’s waiting for you to get better so he can rest. but attentively. present. waiting on your time.
“better?” he asks after a while, once you set the empty mug on the coffee table.
“a bit.” you admit. honest. the exhaustion is hitting hard now.
he nods, accepting the answer. that’s enough for now.
the silence that settles between you two no longer feels heavy. it isn’t that creeping silence from the beginning. it’s a… sustained silence. filled by his presence. safe.
“i hate this, Max” , you say after a while, your voice low, staring into the empty space.
he turns his face towards you. “i know.”
“it feels like i lose control of everything”, you continue, the frustration subtly returning. “and i know rationally that it doesn't make sense to get like this, but…”
“hey.”
he interrupts you gently. not to cut you off, but to bring you back into his reality.
his hand rises again to your face, turning your head softly so you're forced to look directly at him.
“it makes sense to you in that moment” , he says, his voice firm and serious. Max Verstappen doesn't downplay feelings; he deals with reality as it presents itself. “so it matters. and i don't care about the logic. i care that you're okay.”
you stay silent, absorbing his words. because he doesn't try to rationalise something that, in that moment, isn't rational. he just accepts it.
“you aren't this”, he continues, lower now, the intensity in his gaze almost palpable. “this doesn't define who you are. it’s just a storm. and storms pass.”
your eyes sting again, but this time it’s out of gratitude.
“sometimes it feels like it’s all i am.”
“it’s not.” simple. firm. certain. his word is a final sentence. he doesn't lie. if he says it isn't, you believe him.
you take a deep breath, much steadier now, and without realising, you rest your head on his shoulder, too tired to hold your own weight.
he adjusts immediately, pulling you a bit closer, tucking you perfectly against his body. the arm around you is firm. protective. a barrier against the rest of the world. the kind of presence that doesn't go away, no matter how tough the race gets.
“i’m here”, he murmurs against your ear.
and you know it’s not just a line.
for Max, it’s a technical promise. a performance guarantee.
your fingers find his in your lap, interlacing slowly. this time, without force, without desperation. just… presence.
and for the first time on that long, terrible day, it doesn't feel impossible to wake up tomorrow. it doesn't feel like you have to fight this battle all alone.
the world outside slows down. your breathing matches the calm rhythm of his chest.
and the silence of the flat, finally, becomes a safe place.
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☆
