#verstappen

He stood across the arena with the rest of the Ares campers, braced and coiled like he was preparing to go to war instead of morning practice. The light caught on the edge of his jaw, making him look like he’d been carved from a block of irritation and muscle. His expression was unreadable, but his posture - tight shoulders, rigid spine - was classic Max. Silently annoyed, always watching, always calculating. 

You didn’t hate the kid, per se, but he definitely wasn’t your favorite of the Ares bunch. (Which said a lot, considering the bar was already underground.)

The Ares’ head camper read off partners, voice booming through the arena like they were announcing gladiators instead of teenagers with wooden sticks.

You turned your head.  He turned his.

Your eyes met like two swords clashing. 

And it was done. The Fates were clearly bored today.

You walked toward him with what you hoped was a neutral expression, even though your stomach did an entirely unnecessary flip. Max didn’t move aside when you approached. He never did. But he held himself like he expected you to hit him with your blade, and not the flat side.

His shoulders were tight, his jaw was tighter, and his entire aura radiated I am not affected in the way only someone extremely affected would.

“Verstappen,” you said in greeting 

He nodded stiffly. “Let’s get this over with.”

You raised your wooden practice blade; he mirrored. A whistle blew, crisp and sharp, echoing off the stone walls of the arena. Max stepped in - 

And immediately dropped his guard. 

His arm sagged just slightly. His stance cracked open on the left, a gap so obvious it was practically an invitation. 

You tapped his wrist lightly with your blade. “There.”

He blinked at you. “What?”

“You’re exposed.” You demonstrated the angle, stepping to the side. “If I wanted to land a hit, you just made it easy.”

He straightened. “No, I didn’t.”

“Max,” you said, stepping closer, “you did.”

You took his elbow and lifted it. 

He went rigid - so rigid you almost stepped back. The muscles in his arms flexed under your touch, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t even anything flirtatious. It was a correction. Practical. Standard training procedure. 

But he reacted like your hand was molten. 

“There,” you repeated softly. “Better.”

Behind you, a wave of whispers, not-subtle gasps, and giggles rose from the younger Aphrodite campers who were definitely not supposed to be in the arena.

“Oh my gods, they’re so cute.” “He’s blushing.” “Max Verstappen, BLUSHING!” “Someone write this down!”

Max’s ears went scarlet. 

You could practically feel his embarrassment crackle like sparks of flint. He stepped back too quickly, heel sliding in the sand, flailed for balance, and missed the easiest counter in the universe. 

He never missed. 

The entire arena saw it. A couple of Ares kids stared at him like he’d sprouted wings; an Apollo archer paused mid-arrow draw.

Max stumbled, regained his footing, and acted like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just sent a shockwave through half the camp.

“Again,” he said, voice sharp enough to cut stone.

“Okay,” you said gently, lowering your blade.

But your heart was pounding. His was too, you could sense it in the air like heat from the forge.

You repositioned yourself. He adjusted his stance a second too late. You parried, tapped, corrected, falling into the rhythm you’d practiced a hundred times. 

Except today he felt… different. 

Hesitating. Distracted.  Trying not to look at your face.  Trying not to let you close enough to see the truth hiding in his eyes.  And trying desperately not to let it show.

You circled each other carefully, blades raised, feet shifting through the sand in practiced arcs. Dust kicked up beneath your heels, and clung stubbornly to the sweat collecting at your collarbone. Max was breathing a little harder than usual. Not from effort, but from something unsettled. 

You struck.

He blocked, wooden blades colliding with a muted crack, but too late. You slipped through the opening and your blade tapped his rib with a dull thunk. 

His eyes snapped up to yours, widening just a fraction. Surprise. Annoyance. Something dark and flickering.

“You hesitated,” you said, lowering your blade just enough to make the point sting.

“No, I didn’t”

“Max.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, tension snapping in a tiny visible ripple down his shoulders. “You keep getting too close.”

“That’s literally how sparring works.”

“That’s not-” He cut himself off so abruptly it was like the words burned his tongue. His jaw locked again, and he looked away for a heartbeat too long, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder rather than at you.

Your grip tightened on your sword. ‘What’s going on with you today?”

“Nothing is going on.” His posture stiffened, chin lifting a fraction too high, a tell you’d learned to read. “Can you just spar?”

Before you could answer, he lunged. 

Instinct snapped through your muscles. You dodged left, felt the whoosh of his swing skim your arm, and pivoted, catching his next strike midair. The wooden swords clashed with force that vibrated all the way up your arms.

He didn’t slow. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink.

He pressed forward with a sudden ferocity, faster than you’d seen him all morning. His  movements were sharper, less controlled. The Ares precision was still there, but under it was a wildness, like he wanted to push you back and pull away from you at the same time. 

Your sneakers slipped slightly in the shifting sand as you blocked another strike, then another. You felt the shock of each impact in your wrists, the rapid thudding of your own heartbeat.

He wasn’t sloppy.  He wasn’t distracted. 

He was… angry.

And you didn’t know why. 

You only knew you could feel the frustration radiating off him like heat from a forge.  

Finally, you caught him off guard and swept your blade under his arm, clean and precise. He froze, breathing hard, chest rising and falling beneath the orange camp T-shirt. 

“Point,” you announced quietly.

Silence. Thick. Tense. 

He didn’t answer. 

Didn’t nod. Didn’t reset his stance. Didn’t even look at you. 

He just stood there, blade at his side, shoulders trembling ever so slightly with the effort of keeping something inside from breaking loose. 

You stepped into the Aphrodite cabin hoping for a few minutes of peace, maybe a cold drink, maybe five uninterrupted minutes where nobody said the word Max.

Just five. That’s all you wanted.  

Instead, you barely crossed the threshold before a shriek split the air like a battle cry.

“There she is!” “Our heroine returns!” “Tell us everything!”

You stopped dead in the doorway. “No.”

It didn’t matter.

Instantly, you were swarmed, engulfed in a tidal wave of perfume, pastel fabric, and lethal enthusiasm. Aphrodite kids descended like piranhas, moving in perfect, terrifying synchronization. 

One sibling grabbed your wrist. Another plucked your training sword away (why? No idea). A third shoved a pink notebook into your hands so quickly it nearly smacked you in the face. 

Lacy, the cabin’s smallest agent of chaos, practically launched herself onto your bed and flipped open the notebook with a flourish. 

The title page sparkled. Literally sparkled. 

Daughter of Aphrodite Threat Assessment Chart with doodles of hearts, daggers, and questionable smiley faces. 

“Alright,” Lacy said, clicking her pen with an authority she did not deserve. “Max Verstappen. Son of Ares. Thoughts?”

“No,” you repeated, firmer this time.

“Too late.” She drew a huge giant heart. Then aggressively struck it through with an X. “He’s dangerous. He’s emotionally repressed. He’s hot. That’s the holy trinity.”

“Lacy-”

“You touched his arm.” She pointed her pen at you like a sword. “And I swear to mom he almost combusted on the spot.”

“He got nervous,” another sibling chimed in, lounging dramatically on a chaise. “An Ares kid. Nervous. Around you. That’s basically a prophecy.”

“Stop,” you groaned, rubbing your temples.

But they were merciless:

“He’s totally into you.” “He’s not subtle.” “He dropped his sword today. HIS SWORD!” “Name one other time Max Verstappen has shown weakness.”

Silence.

“Exactly. You are the weakness.”

“Guys, he just had an off day,” you said, exasperated, “there’s nothing going on.”

A collective gasp sucked all the oxygen out of the room. 

“Not yet,” someone whispered ominously.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at the cluster of them. It bounced harmlessly off two of them and hit a third in the face. Nobody cared. They only laughed harder, collapsing into each other in melodramatic triumph. 

You dragged your hands down your face. “I can’t do this today.”

Your siblings couldn’t hear you over their own cackling. They collapsed onto beds, onto each other, flinging limbs everywhere, celebrating like they’d just discovered a scandalous secret rather than invented one from thin air.

You shook your head and pushed your hair back, trying - and failing - to hide the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. Annoying as they were, they meant well. Sort of. Usually. In their own… chaotic way.

But in the middle of the chaos, you felt a tiny tug of warmth in your chest. A shift in the air. A soft, distant awareness. 

You froze for a second. 

Everyone else in the cabin kept giggling, kept arguing about fonts for the threat chart, kept plotting your nonexistent love life… but you no longer heard any of it. 

Then the feeling faded. 

Your mother was listening. 

Dinner was usually lively, campers shouting across tables, the sizzle from the grill pit, harpies circling overhead threatening violence if anyone tried to sneak extra dessert. It was home. Warm. Chaotic.

But tonight, every clang of cutlery felt like someone was hammering on your nerves with celestial bronze. 

You sat at the Aphrodite table, pushing blueberries around your plate. The air smelled like roast beef and freshly poured nectar, sweet enough to make your head spin. 

And across the pavilion, barely thirty feet away, Max was pretending you didn’t exist. 

He sat with the Ares cabin, shoulders rigid, posture a perfect soldier’s silhouette. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t eating. He was just… staring at his plate with the intensity of someone trying to will it to open a portal he could escape through. 

But even from this distance, you felt it. 

Every time you shifted in your seat. Every time you sighed. Every time you ran your fingers through your hair or lifted your cup. 

His attention flicked to you. Fast. Sharp. There and gone in a heartbeat.

But you felt it like static under your skin.

Ares kids were not subtle. And Max, despite trying desperately to be, was not an exception. 

“Hey, Max!” one of his siblings shouted, loud enough to snap half the pavilion’s heads in his direction. “Your girlfriend looks lonely!”

A chorus of snickers rose from the table. Someone banged their shield on the wood for emphasis. Someone else wolf-whistled. 

Max froze. 

Then jerked so violently he nearly launched his goblet across the table. It clattered, nectar sloshing over the rim, and the entire Ares cabin erupted into laughter, pounding him on the back, shoulders, helmet, whatever they could and a hit before he swatted them away. 

You didn’t react. 

You kept your expression perfectly, flawlessly neutral as you stabbed your fork into a piece of strawberry with far more force than necessary. 

You didn’t look at him. 

Not even when your siblings leaned in dramatically, whispering:

“Oh my gods, he’s so obvious.” “He’s going to explode.” “Should we place bets?” “You two are killing me.”

You ignored them. 

But your heart betrayed you instantly, skipping, tightening, warming with that same infuriating pull that had been haunting you all day. That invisible thread tugging between you and him, no matter how far he tried to stretch it.

A breeze drifted through the pavilion, stirring your hair, brushing cool air across your shoulders. 

You lifted your gaze for the briefest moment. 

Max looked up at the same time.

Your eyes met across the distance. Just one second, one breath, one flash of something unguarded. 

Then he looked away so fast it nearly snapped his neck. You swallowed, a knot forming in your chest. 

If this was avoidance… Something was definitely wrong. Or complicated.  Or dangerous.  Or all three. 

But gods, you could feel it. 

Whatever was happening inside him - a storm, hesitation, a want so tightly locked down it was starting to crack - it was aimed right at you.

Golden hour spilled through the forest like melted honey, turning pines into towering pillars of gold and shadow. The leaves glowed with a warm translucence. The air shimmered as if the whole world were holding its breath. It should’ve been breathtaking. 

Except you were sprinting for your life. 

Branches clawed at your arms as you tore through the underbrush, the forest floor kicking up in bursts beneath your boots. Every inhale scorched your lungs. Every exhale tasted like panic and pine sap. The woods around you echoed with the chaos of Capture the Flag - war cries, clashing weapons, the metallic snap of traps springing shut, the thundering rhythm of feet pounding earth.

A shadow darted left. Someone shouted orders behind you. The sharp tang of ozone from a shock trap stung your nose.

You vaulted over a fallen log with a grunt, nearly slipping, then ducked beneath a low-hanging branch at the last second, feeling pine needle graze your hair. You skidded to a stop at the edge of a clearing. 

That’s when you saw them.

Three Athena kids closing in on Max.

He stood in the clearing’s center, framed by sunbeams slanting through the canopy like stage lights. His T-shirt was sweat-darkened beneath his armor, clinging to the sharp lines of muscle across his shoulders. His hands, cut and bruised, gripped his weapons in a stance that was solid but fraying. His jaw was clenched hard enough you could see the strain from where you stood. 

Max was holding off two attackers at once, barely. Their strikes were precise, coordinated, strategic in a way that screamed Athena. A fourth kid apparently hadn’t been as lucky, judging by the lone pair of sneakers dangling from a nearby branch, they were probably tied up in a tree somewhere, courtesy of Max’s earlier efforts.

But even Max couldn’t fight three of Athena’s best indefinitely.

You saw the moment his stance faltered. The moment exhaustion pulled at his shoulders. The moment fear - not for himself, but for the flag behind him - tightened the air. 

Then one of the Athena campers raised a spear. Aimed straight at him.

You didn’t think. Didn’t weigh the consequences. Didn’t consider that charm-speak in a game was technically frowned upon.

You just moved. 

“Hey!” you called, voice slicing through the clearing. The Athena kids didn’t look. Of course they didn’t. Athena kids were trained to ignore distractions. 

So you pulled the power up from somewhere warm, sweet, and dangerous in your chest, and let it ring. 

“Look at me.”

The command struck the clearing like a shockwave. 

The Athena campers froze mid-step. Their heads snapped toward you in perfect unison, eyes glazing, shoulders slacking. Spears dipped toward the dirt as their focus melted away like wax under heat.

Max spun at the sudden shift, shock flashing across his face for only a heartbeat. He understood the opening instantly.

One - disarmed with a twist of the wrist Two - a sweep of his leg sent them crashing into the leaves Three - a clean strike knocked their spear into the dirt.

The forest exhaled. Silence rushed in.

It was over in seconds. 

But when Max looked back at you, chest rising and falling, jaw clenched, there was more than battle adrenaline in his eyes. 

There was fear. There was anger. But more than anything, there was that same raw, unguarded softness he kept trying to bury. 

“You could’ve been hit,” he barked, the roughness in his voice sharper than any blade on the field. 

“So could you,” you shot back, stepping boldly into the clearing. “What, you wanted me to just stand here and watch you get skewered like a kebab?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

His nostrils flared. His fists curled at his sides. He looked like he was trying to hold twenty emotions in at once and had no idea which one was going to break free first.

“You can’t just throw yourself into danger like that,” he ground out, low and strained.

“Funny,” you laughed, sharp, humorless as you crossed your arms, “coming from the guy who refuses to call for backup because his pride won’t let him.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away. Looked back at you with something close to pain. 

Max Verstappen, son of Ares, future warlord of bruised egos and flaming weapons… looked absolutely wrecked.

He wasn’t furious at you. He wasn’t even furious at the situation.

He just looked like someone who cared far, far too much. 

The trees around you rustled gently, as if gossiping. The fading sunlight pooled at his feet, turning his disheveled hair gold. Sweat glistened on his jaw. His chest rose too fast, too unsteady, betraying everything he was trying to hide behind anger.

He looked like a boy standing on the edge of a cliff. 

And you were the drop.

The sun had dipped low behind the hills, bleeding soft pink and lavender into the sky like the world was sighing itself into evening. Capture the Flag had ended hours ago, but your pulse still hadn't settled, and your thoughts spun in tight, tangled loops. 

You should’ve been heading to the campfire. Or the cabins. Or anywhere normal.

Instead, you sat alone on the steps behind the strawberry fields, hugging your knees to your chest. The boards were cool beneath you. The breeze was cooler, soft fingers threading through your hair, carrying the smell of berries and bonfire smoke. 

Fireflies blinked lazily through tall grass, glowing like little golden secrets. From somewhere behind the cabins, someone laughed, light, unbothered, unaware of the war in your ribcage.

You weren’t doing anything dramatic. No tears. No declarations. Just…sitting. 

But gods you were tired. 

Tired in that deep, soul-heavy way where even thinking felt like wading through honey. Tired of the way Max looked at you like you were dangerous. Tired of the way he pretended not to care, only to throw himself between you and danger every five minutes. Tired of the way your chest twisted every time he walked away before you could say something real

You pressed your face into your hands and muttered, barely above a whisper. Barely anything at all.

“If he could just tell me how he feels for once in his life.”

It wasn’t meant for anyone. Not a prayer, not a plea to the heavens. Just a thought escaping before you could swallow it. 

But the wind shifted. The air warmed. Softened. 

And somewhere unseen, silk rustled. Roses unfurled. A divine pulse rippled through the camp, faint but unmistakable.

Because it didn’t matter that you hadn’t said her name. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t meant to call her. Aphrodite heard heartbreak the way sharks smelled blood.

Your mother’s awareness brushed your cheek like the softest fingertips, curious, attentive, humming with interest. 

Then, she was gone. 

Across camp, in the dim glow of the armory lanterns, Max sat alone on a wooden bench, elbows on his knees, head hung low. The room around him was still and heavy, smelling of steel shavings, old leather, and the sharp metallic tang of weapon oil. The remnants of battle clung to him like a second skin.

His knuckles were scraped raw from the game. A smear of dirt streaked his cheek. Sweat dried in salt-crusted lines along his jaw. 

Sure, he looked like the son of Ares, tired, battered, coiled with leftover adrenaline, but there was something hollowed out. Something hurting.

He dragged a hand back through his hair, pushing damp strands off his forehead, and let his shoulders slump in a way he would never allow in front of anyone else

He was exhausted. Wrung out. Haunted. 

The armory should have been silent. Should have been safe. But he didn’t see the way the shadows shifted. How the lantern flame flickered though the air was still. How the temperature rose by a single, subtle degree. 

He just let out a long, breaking breath and murmured into the empty room:

“Why do I have to feel anything at all?”

Not a prayer. Not spoken with intention. Definitely not meant for Aphrodite. 

But it didn’t matter. She heard it anyway. 

And this time, her presence stirred with something sharper. Interest, surprise, a slow smile curled in the dark. 

Two hearts wanting opposite things. Two mortals fighting with themselves and each other. Two threads in the same woven tapestry, pulling tighter with every breath.

How utterly delicious.

Aphrodite leaned in - not physically, but with the divine focus that could split mountains. Her awareness wrapped around him like warm fingers under his chin, tilting his face toward a truth he refused to see. 

She stretched herself thin across camp, touching both of you at once - your yearning, his fear - tasting the friction, the spark, the storm forming between love and war. 

Clashing desires. Conflicting emotions. A connection neither of you could escape.

She was absolutely intrigued. 

Surprisingly, Aphrodite didn’t appear with trumpets or glowing hearts or a dramatic whirlwind of pink petals. No cascade of doves, no harp glissando, no “my darling daughter, behold!” theatrics. 

She simply appeared. Calm, composed, with elegance and a little too much knowing in her smile. 

You had wandered far from your sulking spot behind the strawberry fields, seeking somewhere else quiet, somewhere wide and empty enough to hold your spiraling thoughts. The Long Island Sound stretched before you like a sheet of dark glass, catching the last traces of lavender dusk on its rippling surface. 

You stood ankle deep in the cool water, waves lapping gently at your skin. You tried to breathe. To think. To unknot the tension in your chest that Max had somehow become entirely responsible for.

The breeze shifted suddenly. Warm. Honey-sweet. Too gentle to be natural.

Your spine went rigid. 

By the time you looked up, she was already there.

Aphrodite stood on the shoreline as if she had risen from the foam itself. Her bare feet sunk into the wet sand, gown shimmered like it was spun from morning light. Her hair fell perfectly, untouched by humidity, wind, or physics. And her eyes, the same warm, liquid gold you’d catch glimpses of in your own reflection. 

Beautiful. Effortless. Utterly terrifying.

“What do you want?” you asked immediately, exhaustion flattening your voice. Your shoulders sank as if you already knew the answer. “Seriously, can we not do this tonight?” 

“Well hello to you too,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s always so refreshing to see how deeply appreciated I am.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but she raised a brow and continued before you could.

“You’re glowing lately,” she said, tone too casual for your liking

Flush filled your cheeks. “I am not.”

“Mmm,” She stepped closer, circling you like she was inspecting a piece of fine jewelry. “There’s that little flutter in your aura… that sparkle behind your eyes… that tilt in your smile… It’s adorable.”

A groan escaped your lips. “Please stop observing me like I’m a museum exhibit.”

Aphrodite only hummed, the sound laced with knowing amusement. She was intimately aware of every secret you’d ever tried, and failed, to hide.

“I see the way you look at him.” She said lightly. “And the way he tries not to look at you.”

Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. “Okay and? Ares won’t like it.”

She waved a hand, dismissing the notion like it was a mildly annoying fly. “Ares doesn’t like anything that doesn’t involve bloodshed or that dreadful bronze polish he insists on using for his armor.” 

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

Aphrodite stepped closer, and her expression softened. Not condescending, just… sincere. A rarity that made your throat tighten. 

“But I didn’t come to scold you,” she said. “Or tease you.” She paused. “This time.”

You swallowed. “Then why?”

Her eyes darkened with weary beneath the glow. “I came to warn you.”

Your whole body went still. 

“Children of Ares burn bright,” she murmured, voice suddenly heavy with meaning.. “They love like war - intensely, destructively, fiercely.” Her gaze drifted briefly toward the cabin in the distance, then back to you. “And they break just as hard.”

“I know,” you whispered, though the words felt small, unsure.

“Do you?” Her voice was gentle but sharp. 

She cupped your cheek with a touch so light it barely existed, but the warmth of it spread through you like a blooming flower. “Ares will push him. His siblings will challenge him further. His own heart is a battlefield. If he thinks loving you makes him weak, he may run from you. Or worse - lash out.” 

A lump formed in your throat. 

“Be careful with your heart… and his.”

Before you could breathe, before you could ask what she meant, before you could ground yourself enough to speak, she vanished. 

Just a dissolve of light. A whisper of rose-scent. And the sudden, crushing silence of being alone with your racing heartbeat. 

The tide washed over your ankles again. 

The dream didn’t feel like a dream. 

It felt like the arena behind the Ares cabin - dirt underfoot, iron in the air, the distant tang of smoke from the forges curling lazily upward. Max stood alone in the center, chest rising and falling in steady, controlled breaths. 

Except the sky above him wasn’t the camp’s sky. It was wrong. Too red. Too heavy. Like it had been painted in dried blood and set on fire. A suffocating, pulsing crimson. 

A shadow moved behind him.

He didn’t turn. He already knew who it was. 

Heat rolled across his back first. Then the crunch of boots on dirt. Then the low, vibrating hum of restrained violence. 

Ares never announced himself. He didn’t have to.

He materialized in a flare of red heat and the stench of old battlefields, blood, dust, steel. His armor looked like it had been torn from corpses on different continents in different time periods and hammered together with impatience. His hair was wild. His beard was uneven. His presence burned.

He looked at Max the way a general looks at a rookie soldier already on thin ice. 

“Still soft,” Ares said, voice rough enough to scrape bone. “All this training, and yet you never learn.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “I’m not soft.”

Ares dragged the tip of his spear across the dirt, leaving a long, ugly scar in the dust. “Strength isn’t just about your arms, boy. It’s about your head. Your heart.” He flicked the spear up, pointing it directly at Max. “And yours is cluttered.”

Max didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t give Ares anything. Silence was safer. 

Ares stepped closer, a sharp, predatory smirk on his lips. “She’s making you weak.”

The flinch was tiny, almost nothing. But Ares noticed. Of course he did. The god’s smile widened into something feral, a confirmed suspicion.. 

“There it is.” His voice dipped low, almost silky. “Affection. Attachment. All that… mortal fragility.” His lip curled like he smelled something rotten. “She will be your downfall.”

Heat surged under Max’s skin. Embarrassment, anger, fear. Each one overlapped until his breath stuttered. He hated that Ares saw too much. Hated more that the god was right about at least one thing: he wasn’t thinking clearly these days. He wasn’t fighting clearly. 

Ares stepped closer, the air warping with the force of him. “War is survival. Love is distraction.”

Max’s fists clenched until his knuckles cracked. “You don’t know anything about-”

But Ares cut him off with a short, mocking laugh, like a blade striking armor. “I know everything about you. You’re mine. My son.” He jabbed the spear towards Max’s chest. Not enough to hit, but enough to slice the air between them. “And you’re acting like you think you get to choose who you are.”

Max’s pulse hammered. His ears rang.

“Wake up, boy,” he continued, cruel in softness. “Before she costs you everything.”

The arena split between Max’s feet. The sky bled downward. The whole world collapsed inward like a dying star. 

Max jolted awake.

His body snapped upright so fast the mattress groaned. Cold sweat slicked down his spine. His chest heaved like he’d been sprinting for miles. For a moment he didn’t recognize his own cabin, the rows of bunks, the moonlight cutting across the floor.

His hands were shaking.

He pressed both palms over his face, dragging in air that refused to steady. Ares’ words clung to him, colder now that the dream was fading. 

She’ll be your downfall.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, jaw tight, shoulders rigid. He felt angry: at Ares, at himself, at the feeling clawing under his ribs. And beneath the anger, something worse: fear. 

You didn’t expect to see him again that night. 

After your mother’s warning, you spent the rest of the evening doing everything in your power to feel normal. You helped your siblings braid each other’s hair. You messed with glittering nail polish. You pretended the ache between your ribcage was nothing. You forced yourself to laugh at a joke you didn’t hear. 

Though through it all, that strange, lingering tension in your chest only pulled tighter. It felt like walking around with someone else’s heartbeat pressed against your own, too loud, too uneven, too close.

By the time the Aphrodite cabin dimmed its lights, everyone slipping into soft pajamas and softer gossip, your skin was buzzing. You tried to sleep. You couldn’t. You laid in your bunk, staring at the twinkling charm lights on the ceiling, counting each uneven breath.

Then: A knock.

Sharp. Contained. Barely holding together. 

Your stomach sank. 

You opened the door.

When you opened it, the moonlight poured over him first. 

Max stood on your doorstep like a shadow carved out of fear. Shoulders rigid. Face pale. Knuckles split and bruised. Sweat dried in uneven streaks on his temples. His eyes were dark, unfocused, as if he’d sprinted here from a nightmare and hadn’t realized he was awake yet. 

He didn’t look at you. Because looking at you might break him completely.

Something inside you fractured instead. 

“Max?” You whispered

He didn’t answer. His breath came out in a rough, uneven exhale. A sound only made by someone who had been running or drowning, trying desperately not to fall apart. 

Then, without warning, he sank down onto the top step of your cabin. Shoulders shook once. Hands braced on his knees. His head bowed. 

Ares kids don’t show fear. 

But this was something even you couldn’t name.

You sat beside him, leaving just enough space for him to choose. He didn’t move at first. He didn’t speak

Then, very slowly, like the weight of the world was dragging him forward, he leaned his forehead against your shoulder. 

You froze. Not from fear, but from the realization that this boy, made of iron and war, was trembling against you.

Ares kids only lean in when they’re breaking. 

After a long, brittle minute, he muttered, voice raw sandpaper:

“He was there.”

Your chest tightened. He didn’t need to explain. There was only one “he” that could shake Max. 

Ares. The god of war. His father. His worst nightmare. His sharpest shadow.

“What happened?” you whispered

He gritted his teeth. “I couldn’t shut him out.”

You closed your eyes. Aphrodite’s voice echoed in your mind “Ares will push him. He will push you away when he gets scared.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “You’re not him.”

The words must’ve struck a nerve because he let out a small, splintered sound, and your heart shattered. You wanted to hold him. You didn’t. Not until he asks.

But before you could gather your thoughts, a soft breeze drifted past. Warm. Sweet. Scented unmistakably with roses. 

Max flinched. His breath caught. His body went rigid against your shoulder. He lifted his head, eyes wide, pupils blown.

“Was… that-?” He couldn’t finish his sentence.

You nodded “She was here earlier.”

His jaw locked. Something ugly and scared flashed across his face. “She saw me?”

“She felt you,” you said gently. “She knows.”

Max stood so fast the step creaked. He paced once, twice, running a shaking hand through his hair, breath coming sharp and uneven again. 

Then he turned to you, not angry at you, but terrified for you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracked, raw with panic. “Why didn’t you warn me she was watching?”

“Max,” you breathed, rising to your feet slowly, “she wasn’t angry.”

“That’s worse.” His voice was sharp, but his eyes were glassy. “Ares - he doesn’t - he won’t - fuck, you don’t understand.”

You stepped closer. “Then help me understand.”

He let out a harsh, broken laugh. “She knows how I -” He stopped himself violently, fists clenched. “How I… care. And Ares - he sees it as weakness. He’ll push. He’ll punish. And you’ll be the one who gets hurt.”

You shook your head. “Aphrodite didn’t come to threaten me.”

He stilled. His breathing stuttered. 

“She came to warn me,” you admitted softly. “That you’d run. That you’d get scared and pull away.”

Max’s eyes snapped to yours. Destroyed. Conflicted. Desperate. 

“I came here,” he said quietly, like the words were dragging blood from him, “because I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t want to run.”

You took another step closer. Then another. “Then stay.”

He exhaled like he’d been stabbed. He looked at you like you asked him to step into fire.

“I can’t protect you from him,” he whispered

“You don’t have to,” you reached up, barely brushing his wrist. “Just don’t shut me out.”

He exhaled, ragged. Something broke open in him. Something folded. Something gave up fighting itself. 

He leaned in until his forehead rested against yours. Warm. Trembling. Fragile in a way he desperately didn’t want to be. 

“You smell like roses,” he murmured, almost pained. “I should’ve known. I should’ve known she touched you. That she was telling you things. I thought -”

“What?”

“That you’d realize loving someone like me is a mistake.”

Your breath hitched. Your hand rose to his jaw, cupping it gently, your thumb tracing the line where fear met fury.

“Max,” you whisper, “loving you would be brave. Not foolish.”

His eyes closed. A single, shaky breath escaped him. He leaned into your touch like it was the first real thing he’d felt in hours. Slowly, carefully, like touching sunlight after years in the shadows. 

And his voice, barely audible, terrified, broke between your hands:

“Don’t leave.”

“Never,” you whispered.

Hospitality Unit, Later That Night

The rookies were busy play-fighting over who got the last pack of Oreos, while Y/N sat cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through her phone.

“Hey, kid,” Lewis said casually, sliding into the seat next to her.

Y/N blinked up. “I’m literally 22.”

“You’ll still be a kid when you’re 30. Anyway.” He sighed as he leaned closer. “Where are your parents?”

The room went silent. Like—too silent. Even Ollie stopped mid-bite of his stolen Oreo.

Y/N blinked. “What do you mean?”

Lewis gave her the patented Big Brother Squint™. “I mean… I’ve never seen them. Ever. Not in karting clips, not in junior formulas, not even on the broadcasts. What’s the deal?”

Y/N hesitated, eyes flicking to the others. Oscar, Ollie, Kimi, and Isack had all leaned in like nosy meerkats. Max, from across the room, pretended to be on his phone but was absolutely listening.

“...They don’t come,” Y/N said finally, tone flat.

“Don’t come? Like, what—too busy?” Lando asked, frowning.

Y/N snorted humorlessly. “Try not interested.”

That earned a collective silence. Even Max set his phone down.

Y/N’s Story (aka the accidental therapy session)

“Look,” Y/N started, twirling her phone nervously, “I’ve got four siblings. All boys. Two older, two younger. Sports-mad family. My brothers play football and rugby, and my parents never miss a match. They’ve got the scarves, the chants, the whole deal.”

She laughed a little, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I started karting when I was a kid. Paid for it by working extra shifts at a café, getting sponsors wherever I could. My parents didn’t think it was worth it. ‘You’re a girl, why bother with cars?’ That kind of thing.”

Daniel—who had wandered in with a Red Bull and overheard the worst part—looked personally offended. “Excuse me?! You’re literally in Formula One. You’re pulling overtakes on world champions.”

“Yeah,” Y/N said, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter. They still don’t come. Never did. I just… kind of blend in, you know? Middle kid. Easy to forget.”

The drivers exchanged a look. A dangerous one. The kind of look that usually meant trouble for the FIA—or in this case, maybe Y/N’s parents.

The Protectiveness Kicks In

“You’re joking,” Lando muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

“Nope.”

“They didn’t even come to your first win?” Oscar asked softly.

Y/N shook her head. “I called them after. They said congrats, then asked if I’d seen my brother’s rugby try. He got featured in the local paper.”

The room exploded.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” — Daniel “That’s actual insanity.” — Carlos “They should be bragging about you every day.” — George “Y/N, you literally overtook me into Turn 1 in Bahrain. That was art. If I were your parent, I’d have that replay framed.” — Charles

Max, who had been quiet, finally said: “That’s their loss. You don’t need them. You’ve got us.”

And just like that, Y/N’s throat tightened. Because damn it, she wasn’t going to cry in front of them.

Chaos Ensues (Because Feelings Make the Grid Uncomfortable)

Of course, because this was the grid, the heartfelt moment didn’t last long.

“Right,” Daniel clapped his hands together. “New rule. Y/N officially has 19 parental figures. Actually, scratch that. 19 chaotic older siblings. We’re adopting you.”

“I’m not sure if that’s better or worse,” Y/N muttered.

“Better,” Carlos said firmly. “Much better. My father would agree.”

“I call dibs on being the cool uncle,” Lando announced immediately.

“You’re literally two years older than me.”

“Uncle. Dibs.”

Fernando strolled in at that exact moment, heard none of the context, and just said: “I’ll be the grandfather.” Then he walked out with an espresso.

“See?” Daniel grinned. “Family sorted.”

Over the Next Few Weeks…

The grid collectively decided that Y/N’s lack of parental support was a personal offense.

Lewis started inviting her to dinners, casually dropping wisdom like it was spare change.

Sebastian Vettel (back in the paddock for a consultancy role) began sending her little notes of encouragement. “Proud of you. Keep going.”

Max started threatening to “have a word” with her parents, which everyone knew would probably involve terrifying silence and one raised eyebrow.

Oscar became her automatic partner in track walks. “If your parents won’t watch you race, I will. Every lap, every turn.”

Lando obnoxiously cheered her name into the radio during cooldown laps: “LET’S GOOOO, Y/N, THE OVERTAKE QUEEN!”

Daniel tried (and failed) to FaceTime her parents after a podium, demanding they “show some respect.”

Y/N pretended to be annoyed. But secretly? She’d never felt more seen.

Monaco Grand Prix Weekend

Quali was a nightmare—traffic, red flags, the usual Monaco chaos. Y/N barely scraped into Q3.

Back in the garage, she slumped against the wall, helmet still on. Normally she’d text her family, maybe get a half-hearted “good luck.” Instead, her phone buzzed with messages from—

Lando: P10? That’s nothing. Watch you make magic tomorrow.

Charles: Don’t worry, the streets love an underdog. Trust me 😉

Max: Stop overthinking. Just drive.

She grinned despite herself.

Race Day

Lap 48. Y/N made a daring double overtake into the chicane—clean, precise, the kind of move that had commentators screaming and fans climbing over barriers. She finished P4, just behind the podium.

She pulled into parc fermé, ripped off her helmet, and was immediately engulfed by Lando and Oscar. Then Daniel, then Charles, then Lewis.

It wasn’t her family waiting at the barriers. But maybe… this was better.

Post-Race Interview

A reporter asked, “Y/N, your family must be so proud watching from home. Any message for them?”

Y/N paused, smile flickering. Then she looked over at the drivers crowded nearby—cheering, clapping, holding up homemade “OVERTAKE QUEEN” signs they’d scribbled during quali.

“Yeah,” she said finally, eyes soft. “I just want to say… thanks to the people who do show up. The ones who see me. You know who you are.”

Her voice cracked just a little. And when she walked away, Lewis slung an arm around her shoulders, murmuring: “That’s family, kid.”

And for once, Y/N actually believed it.

✨ End.