🦈

You run your hand through his damp hair and ask, “Tired?”

“Very,” he mumbles. 

You hum in response, and you feel him nod against your shoulder. For a while neither of you move, you’re just standing there in the middle of the kitchen while dinner cooks on the stove. 

Eventually he pulls back enough to look at you, and his eyes immediately drop to your hands on his waist. He grabs one and brings it up to look at. He’s looking at your nails. Again. 

You laugh, “What?”

“They still look nice,” he says, running his thumb back and forth over your fingers. 

“You've told me that six times in the past two days.”

“They do.”

He reaches for your other hand. Now he’s holding both your hands in his, and staring at them. Examining them like he hasn’t spent the past couple of days doing this exact thing. 

A small smile tugs at your mouth, “I’ve probably thanked you a million times already, but thank you for paying for them, you don’t have to do that.” 

“I know I don’t,” he says, “but I know you like having them done so why wouldn’t I?” 

You grin at him, reaching up to press a kiss onto his cheek. 

“Best money I've ever spent,” he says, smiling. 

You laugh, slowly backing away from him to turn the eye of the stove off and finish fixing the two of you dinner. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Later that night, he's stretched out across the couch. Not quite asleep, but very close to it. 

The apartment is dim now except for the lamps in the corner of the living room, and the glow of the TV not currently playing anything, but flashing slow ads for every movie and TV show imaginable.

You're tucked into the opposite end of the couch reading something on your phone, quietly. 

After a while, Macklin shifts his head up to look at you, then away, then back to look at you again. You notice it immediately, “What?” you ask. 

“Nothing.”

“Mack.”

Then he hesitates. Macklin hesitating either means he wants something or he has to talk to you about something serious. You assume it’s the former, because if it wasn’t you would've already had a conversation about whatever was on his mind. 

You set your phone down, “What do you need?”

His ears go a little pink, which you find cute because he almost never gets nervous to tell you or ask you something. 

“Can you—and you can say no—could you maybe…nevermind,” he says, and stuffs his face back into the couch cushion. 

You immediately start smiling, “Macklin.”

“I'm serious,” he mumbles, his words muffled by the couch. 

“Babe," you insist, trying to get it out of him. He looks back up at you, embarrassed now. "You got your nails done,” he says, cautiously. 

You stare at him, a little confused, but then it clicks, and you immediately understand. 

“Oh.”

His expression gets even pinker somehow, “Yeah.”

You laugh softly, “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Don't call me that,” he says, but he’s smiling. 

“You want scratches.”

He tries denying it, “No.” You raise an eyebrow, and he caves instantly, “...Maybe.”

The smile on your face becomes impossible to hide, because for all the confidence he has everywhere else in his life, asking for affection still makes him shy sometimes. 

"Come here,” you say. His entire face brightens, and he starts moving to your side of the couch. 

“You could’ve just asked, Mack.”

“What?” he says, stopping in front of you. 

“You could've just asked,” you repeat. 

“I did ask.”

"You looked like you were about to ask for something insane.”

He shrugs, “I didn't know if you'd want to.”

The fondness that hits you is overwhelming, because he’s so sweet. “I’d always want to,” you say. 

His expression flickers, almost confused. “Why?” he asks. 

You stare at him for a second, “What do you mean, why?”

He shrugs, suddenly looking very interested in a loose thread on the couch cushion. “I dunno. I just feel bad sometimes.”

Your heart practically melts. “Mack, you shouldn’t feel bad.”

He glances up.

You continue, “You know I love you, right?” 

His ears immediately turn pink, “Yeah,” he mumbles.

“Then why would I not want to do something that makes you happy?”

The blush spreads higher across his cheeks, and he grins. “I love you too,” he says, placing a kiss on the top of your thigh, before laying his head across your lap. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Five minutes later he's basically melted into you. His head is still in your lap, his eyes are closed. One of his arms has looped loosely around your waist while the other is running slowly up and down the side of your leg. 

Meanwhile your nails drift slowly through his hair, down the back of his neck, then lightly across his shoulders. 

Every now and then he’ll sigh, or nuzzle deeper into your lap. He just seems so content. 

“Good?” you ask quietly.

“Mhm,” is the only response you get, and you smile. 

His eyes don’t open, but he’s not fighting sleep like he was earlier, now he’s just completely relaxed. 

“You're spoiled,” you say, joking lightly. 

He protests, “No.”

“You absolutely are,” you argue. 

He shakes his head against your legs. 

You give him a look, even though he can't see it, “Baby.”

Finally one of his eyes opens. “I buy you flowers," he says. 

“That's true,” you say, smiling

He continues, “I make you coffee, and I paid for the nails.”

You start laughing.

“I think I'm entitled to some benefits,” he says. 

You shake your head. He's ridiculous. But he's also visibly relaxing under your hands with every passing minute, all the tension he came home with from practice is slowly disappearing the longer the two of you lay here. 

His shoulders are loosening, his breath is evening out; and that’s exactly when your phone rings. 

You glance at the screen to see who’s calling: Mom.

“Sorry, one sec,” you say as you take your hand off his back to reach for your phone. Immediately the scratches stop, and surprisingly Macklin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even open his eyes at first, he just waits. 

Then after about thirty seconds you feel him shift, and a minute later he opens his eyes, looking up at you expectantly as you listen to your mom talk about things going on back home. 

He’s looking at your hand, then he’s looking back at you. You almost laugh. Right now he’s reminding you of a puppy watching it’s favorite thing be taken away. 

His expression is so sad, not manipulative, he looks genuinely disappointed. 

You take the phone away from your ear for a second, “You okay?”

He nods, but then he pauses. “You stopped,” he says quietly. 

Your heart nearly stops because he looks upset that you stopped. Once you give him a sympathetic look, he immediately looks embarrassed. 

“No, it's fine,” he insists. 

Your brows furrow, confused. He just nods. 

He pauses again, looking like he wants to say something else, he finally does, “But when you're done, can you...” he trails off and gestures to your hand and then his head.

You smile so hard your cheeks hurt, and without missing a beat, you move your free hand back into his hair. The relief on his face is immediate. His eyes close again, and his entire body relaxes. 

By the time your phone call ends ten minutes later, he's completely asleep in your lap. Still holding your waist, still resting his other hand on your leg, and you don’t stop moving your nails across his back. When you look down at him, all warm and comfortable and completely content, you can't help thinking: Maybe he wasn't lying when he said paying for the nails had been the best money he'd ever spent after all.

If Lando asked for the moon, Y/N would have learned how to fly.

That was the embarrassing truth of her life.

Not that she loved him. That had become almost ordinary to her, folded into the rhythm of race weekends and late nights and the humiliating little lift in her chest every time he said her name.

No, the embarrassing part was that he knew.

Maybe not every detail of it. Maybe not the nights she lay awake replaying things he hadn’t meant. Maybe not the fact that half her life had started arranging itself around his moods without her permission.

But he knew enough.

Enough to know she would stay.

Enough to know she would fix it.

Enough to know that if he smiled first and asked second, she would say yes before the question had even finished leaving his mouth.

He liked that.

That was the part Y/N hated herself for understanding.

He liked being wanted. Liked being taken care of. Liked the certainty of her, the way she was always there, always soft for him, always ready to make his life easier.

He liked the devotion.

He just didn’t care about the girl attached to it.

“Y/N.”

She looked up too fast.

Lando was leaning against the office doorway, cap in one hand, team quarter zip half undone, still sun-warm from outside. Pretty in the kind of thoughtless way that should have made a person less dangerous and somehow only made him worse.

He smiled the second he saw she was looking.

“There you are.”

Her pulse kicked.

“What do you need?”

His grin widened.

“See? That’s why you’re my favourite.”

Across the room, Mia didn’t even bother hiding her expression.

Y/N looked back down at her laptop. “You say that to get things.”

“Yeah,” Lando said easily, crossing the room. “And it works.”

He dropped into the chair beside her desk and pushed his phone into her hand.

Two schedule blocks. One sponsor appearance. One media stop. Same time.

Y/N closed her eyes for a second. “You said yes to both.”

He leaned back, stretching his legs out. “Probably.”

“Lando.”

“Definitely.”

She started fixing it while he watched her do it, perfectly relaxed now that the problem belonged to someone else.

After a second, he said, quieter, “I knew you’d sort it.”

That voice.

That exact voice.

Warm enough to feel personal. Light enough to deny later.

Y/N kept her eyes on the screen. “You always know I’ll sort it.”

“Because you always do.”

He said it like praise.

It wasn’t.

It was ownership.

She handed the phone back a minute later.

“There. You’ll have to leave the sponsor thing early.”

He looked at it, relieved. “You’re actually unreal.”

Then he looked at her.

Really looked.

And smiled in that lazy, devastating way that made it feel like he had chosen her out of every person in the room.

“Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Before she could stop herself, she smiled back.

That seemed to satisfy him.

Of course it did.

He reached out, brushed two fingers over her shoulder, and stood.

“Love you.”

Y/N froze.

Mia looked up immediately.

Lando had already made it halfway to the door.

He glanced back when he felt the silence.

“What?”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “What did you just say?”

His mouth curved.

“Relax.” He gave her a look like she was being sensitive on purpose. “You know what I mean.”

And then he left.

Mia waited exactly two seconds.

“He’s evil.”

Y/N let out a thin laugh.

“No,” she said, still staring at the doorway. “That would require effort.”

⁜

He led her on in ways that were hard to explain to people who hadn’t seen it.

Because it was never enough to be undeniable.

That was what made it so effective.

If he had kissed her once and regretted it, she could have hated him.

If he had told her outright that he liked the attention, she could have left.

If he had been careless enough to say I know you love me and I don’t care, at least there would have been honesty in the cruelty.

Instead, he gave her moments.

Little ones.

He would find her in crowded rooms and stand too close.

He would text her past midnight with you awake? and then, after she answered immediately like an idiot, follow it with need a favour x.

He would say things like I only trust you with this and you get me better than anyone here and stay with me for a sec in a tone soft enough to make her forget she was still technically at work.

He never promised.

He never had to.

Hope did all the labor for him.

One night after a sponsor dinner in Abu Dhabi, Y/N was outside by transport trying to reorganize cars when Lando came down the hotel steps with a brunette tucked under his arm.

He saw her and smiled.

“You’re still here.”

It was almost impressive, how he could make that sound intimate when all it really meant was good, the thing I need is where I left it.

“I work here,” Y/N said.

“Right.” He stepped toward her, lowering his voice as if this were something private. “Can you cover for me if anyone asks?”

Her eyes flicked to the brunette waiting by the car.

Then back to him.

“Cover what?”

He gave her that look. The one that said don’t make this difficult while still smiling.

“Just say I left early. Sponsor exhaustion. Whatever sounds official.”

Y/N stared at him.

For one awful second, he looked almost amused.

Then he softened, just a little.

“Please?”

There it was.

The tilt in his voice. The sweetness. The quiet confidence that she’d fold.

Because she always did.

Y/N swallowed. “Fine.”

His smile turned pleased.

“Knew I could count on you.”

Then he turned and walked back to the brunette without another thought, leaving Y/N standing there under the lights with her phone in her hand and her dignity somewhere under his tires.

That night, she lay in bed replaying knew I could count on you until she wanted to scream.

Not because it was kind.

Because it wasn’t.

Because it was certainty.

Because he knew exactly what she was and kept using her for it.

⁜

She asked him out on a Wednesday night.

Later, when everything had already gone wrong, Y/N would keep coming back to that moment and wondering if that had been the last clear warning she ignored.

The office behind hospitality was nearly empty. Most people had gone. The overhead lights were too bright, the air-conditioning too cold, the whole room suspended in that late-night stillness where everything felt more honest than it should.

Lando was sitting across from her desk in a hoodie, elbows on his knees, watching her rebuild the next day’s schedule because he’d changed his mind about three separate things and expected the universe to rearrange itself accordingly.

He looked tired.

Tired Lando was dangerous.

Softer. Slower. More likely to say things that felt true.

“You always take care of me,” he said.

Y/N kept typing because looking at him felt unsafe. “Someone has to.”

He smiled.

“No, but you do.”

She glanced up.

Big mistake.

He was already watching her with that unreadable softness he slipped into sometimes, the one that made her feel chosen and stupid in equal measure.

He tipped his head.

“You like taking care of me.”

It wasn’t a question.

And because she was tired too, because she was so tired of living inside things he could deny, Y/N heard herself say, “What if I do?”

He blinked.

Then smiled a little, like he thought she was being bold in a way that amused him.

“Then I’m very lucky.”

Her heart started racing.

There should have been a fire alarm inside her for moments like this. Some mechanism that said: he is doing it again. He is giving you just enough to keep you standing still.

Instead, there was only that awful bright hope.

She set her laptop aside before she could lose her nerve.

“Do you want to go out with me sometime?”

He frowned slightly.

“Out where?”

Her mouth went dry.

“On a date,” she said, because if she didn’t say it plainly now, she never would.

At that exact second, his phone lit up.

He looked down instantly. Swore under his breath. Grabbed it off the desk.

“Yeah, yeah, one sec...”

He scanned whatever message had come in, half-listening, already leaving her.

Then, distracted, he nodded and said, “Yeah, sure.”

Y/N stared at him.

“Really?”

“Mmhm.”

He was already typing.

She should have heard it then. The vagueness. The inattention. The fact that his yes had not landed on her at all.

She didn’t.

Or maybe she did and hope just drowned it.

“Okay,” she said softly.

“Text me,” he said, still looking at the phone. “Tomorrow’s a mess.”

And somehow she still went home glowing.

That was the pathetic part.

That a half-heard yes from a man who wasn’t even looking at her still felt like being chosen.

⁜

He didn’t show up.

Of course he didn’t.

Y/N sat alone at a restaurant in Monaco for forty-six minutes, checking her phone like each time might produce a different result.

Nothing.

No text.

No call.

No apology.

At minute fifteen, she told herself he was late.

At minute twenty-eight, she told herself something urgent had come up.

At minute thirty-four, she started to understand.

At minute forty-six, she knew.

He had never heard her properly.

Or worse : he had heard enough to answer and cared too little to remember.

The waitress came over with that careful smile people wore when they knew they were witnessing something embarrassing and wanted to pretend they weren’t.

“Would you like another minute?”

Y/N swallowed. “No. Just the bill.”

Her phone buzzed when she was halfway back to the hotel.

It was him.

For one stupid second, her whole body lit up.

Then she opened it.

need you to move tomorrow’s sponsor breakfast

She stopped walking.

That was it.

No sorry. No where are you? No I forgot.

Just need.

Y/N typed back before she could talk herself out of it.

you didn’t come

The reply took less than a minute.

to what?

She stared at the screen so long it dimmed.

That hurt more than anything else could have.

Not because he said no.

Because he didn’t even know what he had failed to show up for.

She typed nothing.

Another message came in.

seriously can you move the breakfast?

Then:

please

Then:

you know i wouldn’t ask if i had another option

Y/N laughed out loud on the sidewalk, the sound sharp enough to make a couple passing by glance at her.

There it was again.

The lie they both participated in.

As if she were the last option.

As if he didn’t come to her first because he knew exactly what she’d do.

She replied:

can’t. it’s mandatory.

He didn’t answer after that.

The next morning, he missed the sponsor breakfast anyway.

By afternoon, leadership knew.

By two o’clock, HR knew.

By two-ten, Y/N learned exactly what he had told them.

⁜

The conference room was too cold.

That was all Y/N could think at first, sitting across from the woman from HR and two senior staff members while they arranged papers in front of themselves and wore expressions that already had the decision built into them.

This wasn’t a follow-up.

This was a dismissal with good posture.

“There have been concerns,” the HR woman began, “about judgment and professionalism where Driver Norris is concerned.”

Y/N frowned. “What?”

The senior PR lead folded his hands. “Yesterday evening and this morning created a situation that we can’t ignore.”

Her stomach dropped.

“The sponsor breakfast?”

“In part.”

The HR woman looked down at her notes.

“We were informed that there may have been confusion caused by you regarding his evening plans, and that this may have contributed to him failing to attend his mandatory breakfast commitment.”

Y/N went still.

Not metaphorically. Not dramatically.

Literally still.

She stopped breathing for a second.

Then said, carefully, “I’m sorry. Confusion caused by me?”

The PR lead glanced away.

No one answered immediately.

That was answer enough.

Y/N’s voice came out thinner than she wanted. “What exactly did he say?”

The HR woman’s expression stayed neutral.

“That he believed there had been a misunderstanding created by you around a personal outing, and that his schedule may not have been communicated to him clearly enough afterward.”

The room went white at the edges.

There it was.

Not just that he’d missed the breakfast.

Not just that he’d forgotten her.

He had let them pin it on her.

Maybe because it was easier. Maybe because he’d been annoyed. Maybe because he hadn’t even thought through what it would do.

That almost made it worse.

Y/N laughed once.

The sound came out awful.

The HR woman softened slightly. “I understand this is upsetting.”

“No,” Y/N said, before she could stop herself. “You don’t.”

All three of them looked at her.

And because some final piece of her had already cracked open, the truth slipped out.

“He didn’t even know it was a date.”

Silence.

Immediate and complete.

Y/N shut her eyes.

Too late.

When she opened them again, the HR woman had gone very still.

“I see.”

No, Y/N thought. No, you really don’t.

The PR lead cleared his throat. “This only confirms the blurred boundaries we’ve been concerned about.”

Blurred boundaries.

What a clean phrase for something that had ruined her so thoroughly.

By the time they said terminate your contract effective immediately, she was no longer really hearing them.

Badge revoked. Apartment linked to role. Access removed. Pack your desk.

She nodded because her body knew how to perform compliance even while the rest of her was in freefall.

At one point, the HR woman said gently, “Why would you put yourself in this position for him?”

Y/N looked at her.

There were a hundred true answers.

Because he asked. Because he knew. Because he kept asking. Because I loved him and he liked that more than he liked me.

Instead she just said, “I made a mistake.”

It was the smallest lie she had told about him.

⁜

She went to find him immediately.

Not because she thought he would fix it.

Not because she thought he would even be sorry in the right way.

Because she needed him to hear it from her.

Needed him to know that this one, at least, had landed somewhere real.

He was near hospitality, half-dressed for the next obligation, phone in hand, talking to someone from media while two sponsor reps hovered nearby.

He looked up when she said his name.

“Oh...hey.”

Hey.

Y/N almost smiled at that. The ordinariness of it. The complete mismatch between his tone and the fact that her life had just been taken apart because of him.

“I need to talk to you.”

He glanced at the people around him. “Can this wait? I’m about to...”

“No.”

That got his attention, briefly.

He stepped half away from the group, enough to suggest privacy without actually giving it.

“What happened?”

Y/N stared at him.

Then said it plainly.

“I got fired.”

His brows drew together.

“For what?”

She actually laughed.

There it was again. The confusion. The pure, undisturbed confusion of a man who had moved through his day never once imagining that another person’s world might have collapsed under the weight of his convenience.

“For you,” she said.

That made him frown. “What?”

“I got fired because you missed the sponsor breakfast. Because HR thinks I mishandled your schedule. Because apparently you told them I confused you about your evening plans.”

His expression changed.

Not enough.

Just enough to say he understood this might become inconvenient.

“Y/N, I didn’t...”

His phone buzzed.

He looked down.

Actually looked down.

At his phone.

While she was standing there trying not to come apart.

Something inside her went very quiet.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “One sec.”

He typed a reply.

One sec.

That was the line her mind would come back to later. The thing that would hurt in all the empty places long after the rest of it blurred.

Not the firing itself.

Not the date.

Not even the blame.

One sec.

As if devastation could hold.

As if she still existed in his life as something that would wait until he was finished with the important stuff.

Y/N let him finish.

Then, when he looked up again and said, “What were you saying?” with the faint impatience of someone trying to catch up to a conversation he’d half-missed, she just looked at him.

Really looked.

At the charm. At the carelessness. At the almost-boyish confusion that had gotten him forgiven by too many people for too long. At the man who knew she would bleed for him and still found ways to ask for more.

“I said,” she told him quietly, “I got fired.”

He stared.

Then glanced over her shoulder because someone from media had just called his name.

He was already leaving again.

Even now.

Even here.

Y/N felt the last of her hope die so cleanly she almost mistook it for relief.

“That’s insane,” he said absently. “I’ll talk to someone.”

“No, you won’t.”

He frowned, distracted. “Why are you doing this now?”

That almost made her laugh.

Doing this now.

As if heartbreak had scheduling etiquette.

“Because you blamed me.”

“I didn’t blame you.”

“You let them.”

“That’s not...”

“Lando,” the media guy called again, closer now. “Now.”

He turned his head, annoyed.

Then looked back at Y/N.

And in that pause, that tiny split second where he clearly wanted this conversation to be over because he had somewhere else to be, she finally saw him as he was.

Not torn.

Not secretly in love.

Not scared of what she meant.

Just inconvenienced.

By her feelings. By her firing. By the timing of a mess he hadn’t meant to make and didn’t especially want to clean up.

He had always known she’d risk it all for him.

He’d just never thought that might become his problem.

Y/N stepped back.

He said her name, but only because she was moving away.

She smiled then.

Small. Sharp. Done.

“You should go,” she said. “You’ve got media.”

Something flickered across his face.

Guilt, maybe. Or annoyance. Or just the discomfort of being seen too clearly for the first time.

“Y/N...”

But she was already walking.

And the awful, perfect thing was that he let her.

Of course he did.

Because he always thought there would be time later.

⁜

Don't be silent readers guys, i like feedbacks 😞🤭

Hope you liked this story

You stared at his contact for a minute.

Absolutely not.

No.

There had to be someone else. You scrolled up. Then down. Then up again. As if your contacts might rearrange themselves and present a better option. They didn’t.

You watched as your battery dropped to two percent.

His name sat there, annoyingly available… annoyingly useful.

You knew that he was probably awake and it annoyed you that you knew he would be. Max had always had the worst sleep schedule of anyone you’d ever met. If he wasn’t at a race, in the gym, or chatting with engineers, he was on his sim rig until some ungodly hour, barking into a headset, swearing in Dutch and acting like an online race in the middle of the night was as important as a world championship.

You could practically picture him now, hoodie pulled over his head, hair a mess, face lit by the glow of three monitors. One hand on the wheel, the other probably reaching for an energy drink he definitely shouldn’t be having at nearly three in the morning.

The thought made something familiar and irritating tug in your chest.

You and Max had known each other for years, long enough that the sharp edges between you had worn into something strangely comfortable even if neither of you would admit it.

At first he had been impossible. Blunt and arrogant. Too competitive for his own good. The kind of person who could turn anything into a contest, from lap times to who got to the paddock café first. You’d met him through mutual friends in the racing world, and within twenty minutes he had corrected something you said about GT racing with the kind of smug certainty that made you want to throw your drink at him.

You had called him unbearable.

He had called you dramatic.

That had been the start of it.

Years of bickering followed. Max making sarcastic comments whenever you walked into the Red Bull garage. You rolling your eyes whenever he pretended not to care what people thought. Him stealing chips from your plate without asking. You hiding his cap once before qualifying and watching him lose his mind for ten full minutes before giving it back.

You wouldn’t call it friendship, it was something more annoying than friendship, something with a lot of history and not enough honesty.

“You two flirt like you’re trying to kill each other,” Lando had once said, grinning behind his bottle of water.

“We do not flirt,” you had snapped at the exact same time Max said, “As if.”

Maybe you had caught yourself looking at Max for a little too long when he was focused, jaw tight, eyes narrowed, his whole body wired with impossible concentration. Maybe he had once put a hand on your lower back to guide you through a crowded afterparty, and maybe the warmth of it had stayed there long after he’d moved away.

Maybe there had been a night in Monaco years ago when you’d both ended up outside on a balcony, tired of noise and people pretending to be more interesting than they were. You had argued about nothing for fifteen minutes and then somehow talked until sunrise.

He had looked at you differently that night. Then, the next morning, he had acted like nothing happened.

That was how it always went with Max. One step closer, two steps back. A strange almost, a constant nearly. A tension you both buried under sarcasm because sarcasm was easier than admitting anything real.

Which was precisely why calling him now felt like handing him a loaded weapon.

You could already hear him.

Really? You got stranded? How do you even manage that?

You closed your eyes.

The phone blinked at one percent again.

“Fine,” you whispered. “Fine… but if he’s smug, I’m hanging up.”

You tapped his name before you could change your mind.

The line rang once.

Twice.

Your heart thudded harder than it should have.

“What drunk dialling now?” Max’s voice came through low and, yes, smug. “Didn’t take you for the type.”

Instant regret. You squeezed your eyes shut and leaned your head back against the seat. “Don’t flatter yourself Verstappen.”

“Then why are you calling me at…” he stopped, “…2:47 in the morning?”

You glanced out of the window.

Still nothing.

“I’m stranded,” you said.

Another pause.

“Stranded?”

“Yes.”

“As in… emotionally?”

You would have laughed if your nerves weren’t stretched so thin. “Physically, Max.”

“Right.” His tone sharpened slightly. “Where?”

“My car died. I don’t know where I am. I think I took a wrong turn.”

The background noise on his end changed, less amused now, more alert.

“What do you mean died?”

“What do you think I mean? I mean it made a terrible clicking noise, refused to start and now it’s sitting here dead!”

“Okay, okay. Where are you?”

You swallowed and looked down at the dash as though the car might provide an answer. “I took a wrong turn after dropping Poppy off, and then my phone started dying, and now I’m on this empty road with no charger and no idea where the nearest anything is.”

“Can you see anything?”

You peered through the windscreen at the faded sign half-hidden near the bend. “There’s a sign. Something like… Mont Angle? Or Mont Aville. I can’t properly see it.”

“What can you see?” he repeated, firmer now. “Any houses? Signs? Junctions? Anything.”

You sat up straighter, thrown slightly by his tone, and squinting through the windscreen. “A field. Trees. A broken fence. There’s a small signpost near the bend but I can’t read all of it. And there’s a mile marker, I think. B-something.”

“Can you send your location?”

“I can try, but if my phone dies—”

“Try.” He interrupted.

You quickly opened your location, fingers clumsy from cold and panic. The screen lagged and for one terrifying second, it froze completely.

“No, no, no,” you whispered.

Then it loaded and you sent it to him.

“Did you get it?” you asked quickly.

Silence.

“Max?”

“I got it,” he said.

Then the call went quiet again, except for the faint sound of movement on his end. A drawer opening, something being shoved aside, the sim rig audio cut out abruptly.

“Lock your doors,” he said.

“They are locked.”

“Check.”

You frowned. “I’m not five.”

“Check.”

Something in his voice made you do it without arguing and you pressed the lock button again.

“They’re locked.”

“Good. Don’t get out.”

“I wasn’t planning to go for a scenic walk.”

“I’m serious.”

“I can tell,” you said, softer despite yourself.

There was a beat and when he spoke again his voice was lower. “Stay on the phone with me yeah? For as long as it lasts.”

Then you heard keys. You suddenly felt embarrassed, pressed your lips together, unsure what to do with the warmth crawling into your chest. “You don’t have to.”

“You called me.”

“I know, but I mean… I can call someone else.”

“With what battery?”

You didn’t answer.

“Exactly,” he said. “I’m coming.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“I called you because you’re the only idiot awake at this time.”

“And yet I’m the idiot coming to get you.”

You leaned your head back, eyes closing for a second. The car felt too quiet around you. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“It’s okay.”

For some reason, that was worse. You opened your eyes and stared out into the dark. “Don’t sound so pleased about it.”

“I’m not.”

“No?”

“No.” His voice changed again. Rougher, almost irritated, but not at you. “I don’t like that you’re there alone.”

Your chest tightened, he said it like your safety mattered to him in a way that didn’t fit neatly into the version of your relationship you both pretended to understand.

“Well,” you said lightly, because light was easier, “I’m not exactly thrilled either.”

“Why are you even out there alone at this time?”

“I told you. I dropped Poppy off.”

“And you didn’t stay at hers?”

“She had an early flight. I didn’t want to be a bother.”

“You are unbelievable.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

“You would rather drive alone at almost three in the morning than inconvenience someone.”

“You’re making it sound like I planned to be stranded.”

“No,” he said, and you heard a car door open on his end. “I’m saying you do this thing where you act like needing help is a criminal offence.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Outside wind brushed against the side of the car rattling faintly through the trees.

“I don’t do that,” you said, but it lacked force.

Max gave a short, humourless laugh. “You do.”

Max Verstappen who had made a career out of acting like nothing scared him, who had rolled his eyes at you more times than you could count was getting in his car at almost three in the morning because you had called.

“How far are you?” you asked.

“Twenty minutes. Maybe fifteen if I ignore the speed limits.”

“Please don’t die trying to rescue me from my own car.”

“I am not dying. Also this is not a rescue.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“A retrieval.”

You stared at the phone. “I’m not luggage.”

“You are currently stranded on the side of the road and need collecting. Sounds like luggage.”

“Remind me to never call you again.”

“You say that like you call me often.”

For a moment the familiar rhythm returned, the back and forth, the easy bite, the verbal sparring that had always been safer than saying anything with weight.

You listened to the sound of his car through the phone, the faint rush of speed, the occasional click of his indicator. It was strange hearing him like this, Max breathing quietly on the other end of the line, driving through the night because you were scared and trying not to admit it.

“You still there?” he asked after a while.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“You keep checking.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His answer came too fast. “Because your phone is dying.”

You smiled faintly despite yourself. “Right. That’s the only reason.”

“You want a better one?"

“Depends,” you said, voice quieter now. “Do you have one?”

Max didn’t answer immediately. For a moment there was only the road noise on his end and the nervous beat of your own heart.

Then he said, “I don’t like not knowing if you’re okay.”

You looked away from the phone like that might make the words easier to bear. “That sounds dangerously close to concern.”

“I am concerned.”

You swallowed. Max rarely said things plainly unless he was annoyed. Or certain. There was something disarming about hearing it without sarcasm wrapped around it.

“Oh,” you said, because apparently your brain had stopped working.

He huffed softly. “That’s all you have?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Thank you for your concern, almighty racing prince.”

“There she is.”

You smiled, but it faded quickly. Your eyes drifted to the dark road again.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For calling.”

His reply was instant. “Don’t.”

“But—”

“No. Don’t do that.”

You frowned. “Do what?”

“Apologise for needing someone.”

The words settled hard in your chest. You looked down at your lap. Your hands were cold, fingers curled tightly around the phone. “It’s just… I know we’re not exactly—”

“What?”

“Like this.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

“No,” he said, voice lower. “Say it.”

You loathed him a little for that. For making you be the brave one when you were sitting in a dead car in the middle of nowhere and already feeling exposed. You rubbed your thumb along the edge of your phone. “We’re not exactly the kind of people who call each other when something goes wrong.”

Max was quiet for long enough that you wondered if the call had dropped.

Then he said, “Maybe we should be.”

You stared at the screen still somehow hanging onto one percent, still somehow alive, as if even your phone had decided it needed to hear what happened next.

“Max,” you said carefully.

“I know.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yes I do.”

You almost laughed. “Still arrogant.”

“Still right.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re impossible.”

“You’ve said.”

“I’ve meant it every time.”

“I know,” he said. “But you still called.”

You looked out of the window again, but all you could see was your own reflection. Wide eyes. Tense mouth. The expression of someone who had spent too many years pretending she didn’t feel anything just because the alternative was too complicated.

“You were the only one I knew would be awake,” you said.

“That’s why you called?”

“Yes.”

“But not the only reason.”

You didn’t reply. Max exhaled through his nose. You could imagine him gripping the steering wheel, eyes fixed ahead, jaw set the way it always was when he was pushing too hard.

“I’m not trying to make you say anything,” he said after a moment.

“That’s a first.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Then you said, barely above a whisper, “I knew you’d come.”

The line went quiet. Your pulse thundered. You wished immediately that you could take it back, but not really, because some part of you had always known that beneath the snark, beneath the stubbornness, beneath years of pretending not to care Max would come if you really needed him.

“Yeah.”

That one word did more damage than a confession.

Finally headlights appeared in the distance. At first you thought you imagined them. Two faint beams cresting the bend far down the road, cutting through the darkness like a promise.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. “I see headlights,” you said.

“What side?”

“Behind me. Coming from the bend.”

“That’s me.”

Relief hit so suddenly your eyes stung. The car slowed as it approached, sleek and dark and unmistakably Max’s. It pulled up behind you with a controlled sharpness, headlights flooding your rear-view mirror as the engine cut off. For a second neither of you moved, then his voice came through your phone one last time.

“Stay there.”

The call ended. Your phone died immediately after, screen going black in your hand.

Max was in a hoodie and joggers, hair messy, face set in a hard line. He looked like he had left in the middle of whatever he’d been doing without a second thought, no cap or jacket. Just keys in hand and concern written plainly across his face before he managed to bury it.

He walked to your window and knocked once as you unlocked the car. His eyes moved over your face, your shoulders, your hands, like he was checking you for damage.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His jaw flexed. “Really?”

“Yes, Max.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Only then did some of the tension leave his shoulders.

He looked away, dragging a hand through his hair. “Jesus.”

You blinked, surprised by the raw edge in his voice. “I told you I was fine.”

“You told me you were alone on a dark road with a dead car and no battery.”

“Well. When you say it like that.”

He shot you a look and you gave him a weak smile.

Max crouched slightly beside the open door, one hand braced against the frame. “Do you know how stupid that was?”

Your spine stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“Driving alone at this time with no charger.”

“Thanks. I really needed a lecture.”

“I’m not lecturing.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m saying you should have called earlier.”

“My car died five minutes before I called you.”

“You should’ve had a charger.”

“I usually do.”

“Usually doesn’t help now.”

You glared at him. “Are you always this charming when rescuing people?”

“I told you, retrieval.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re the one stranded.”

“And you’re being insufferable about it.”

For a second, his mouth twitched, then his eyes softened. “I was worried,” he said.

You went silent and Max seemed to realise he’d been too honest. He looked away, jaw tightening, gaze fixed somewhere over the roof of your car.

“I mean,” he added, too late, “it's not exactly ideal.” He straightened, glancing towards your bonnet. “Pop it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually know what you’re doing?”

He gave you an offended look. “I know cars.”

“You know Formula One cars.”

“Still counts.”

“This is a very sad little road car.”

“I can see that.”

“You said it.”

You popped the bonnet and got out, wrapping your arms around yourself as the cold hit properly. Max immediately looked at you.

“Where’s your jacket?”

“In the back.”

“And you didn’t put it on?”

“I was a bit busy trying not to be murdered by the countryside.”

He rolled his eyes but moved before you could protest, opening the back door and pulling your jacket out. Instead of handing it to you he stepped close and draped it around your shoulders himself.

The movement was quick but his hands lingered at your collar, tugging the fabric closed around you.

You looked up. He was close enough that you could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the sleep-creased side of his face, the focus in his expression that had nothing to do with engines or racing or winning.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved, the cold air curled between you and his hands dropped away slowly.

Max cleared his throat and stepped back. “Bonnet.”

“Right,” you said quickly.

He inspected the engine like he could forcce it into behaving. You stood beside him watching with absolutely no useful input. After a minute he sighed and lowered the bonnet.

“What?” you asked.

“I think it’s the battery.”

“I told you it was dead.”

“I meant the car battery.”

“Oh.”

He looked at you.

You looked back.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it loudly.”

“I was thinking many things.”

“Like?”

He wiped his hands on his joggers, glancing once down the empty road before looking back at you. “Like I’m taking you home.”

Your stomach gave a small, stupid dip at how easily he said it.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Max raised a brow. “Your car is dead. Your phone is dead. And you're standing on a road that looks like the opening scene of a crime documentary.”

You roll your eyes.

“I can wait with you until recovery comes.”

“At three in the morning?”

“You’re here now.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “So get in my car.”

You gave him a look. “Bossy.” The corner of your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

He pulled out his phone. “I’ll call someone to sort the car. You can deal with it tomorrow.”

You looked back at your car, sitting abandoned under the weak glow of his headlights. “I hate leaving it.”

“It’ll be fine.”

There was something steady in his voice, something that made it hard to argue so you didn’t, you just pulled your jacket tighter around yourself and nodded.

“Fine.”

Max’s expression softened a little, like he knew that was the closest thing to surrender he was going to get from you.

He opened the passenger door for you.

You stared at him. “Are you seriously doing the gentleman thing?”

“Get in before I change my mind.”

“Too late. I expect princess treatment now.”

He snorted. “You are a nightmare.”

“And yet you came.”

The words slipped out lightly, almost teasing.

But Max didn’t answer straight away he just looked at you, the humour fading from his face.

Then he exhaled through his nose. “You’d have done the same.”

You paused, fingers resting on the open car door. “Would I?”

Then, almost too quiet to catch, he said, “Yeah. I think you would.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

It was warm inside his car, and smelled faintly of his hoodie, his cologne, and the late-night world he seemed to exist in better than anyone else. Max shut the door walked around to the driver’s side and got in.

You glanced over.

He kept his eyes forward. “Don’t say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say thank you.”

His hand rested on the gearshift for a moment before he looked at you.

“Okay,” he said. “You can say that.”

You smiled faintly. “Thank you Max.”

His gaze flickered over your face, just briefly, before he turned back to the road.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Anytime.”

Anytime.

You turned your head towards the window, watching your dead car shrink in the side mirror as he pulled back onto the road. For once the silence didn’t feel like a fight and behind the wheel Max kept both hands steady, driving you home like it was the easiest thing in the world to come for you when you needed him.

but it was his first win. his first proper win, not just a podium or a scraped drive into points. kimi antonelli had won his first grand prix, and his friends would not let him just go back to his hotel room.

which is how he got here — music overlapping the shrill voices of the 2025 rookies as they chattered and laughed. ollie bearman had sunk into a stool on the bar, begging the bartender for “just one more drink, i promise!” whilst isack hadjar mumbled about his own race strategies.

you and kimi? tipsy, sure, but being the responsible parent figures of the idiots.

when the night finally ended, you two lugged the grown men to the shared hotel, the exhaustion from a days worth of activities had tired kimi to the point where he didn’t notice isack creep into his room.

not until he came out of the shower to see the unmistakable figure of his good friend comfortably nuzzled in the comforter of kimi’s bed, snoring peacefully.

the only reasonable action kimi seemed to think of was running straight to you — as he always did when having a problem.

and so, here he was, holding a pillow (because he knows you don’t like sharing yours), a water bottle (because you like your water unreasonably cold) and a tired, lopsided grin.

when you finally open the door, kimi sucks in a breath. how could anyone be so beautiful, even when your hair was slightly messy and exhaustion was evident on your features.

“is something wrong?” you softly question, ever so concerned for the boy.

“can i sleep with you?” he blurts out, attempting to feign nonchalance.

you pause and widen your eyes, as he begins to turn tomato red, stammering and opening his mouth to attempt to save himself from embarrassment.

”relax, kimi. i know what you mean.” you laugh, and he can’t help but smile. you always understood him.

“are you not going to ask me why?” he teases, as he makes his way to the left side of the bed (since you prefer the right — something else he has noticed. completely platonically…) and settles down, reaching a arm out.

taking the sign, you crawl beside him, innocently perching your head on his shoulder. “nah, to be honest, im too tired to speak.”

he hopes you don’t notice how fast his heart beats. you hope he doesn’t notice your shallow breaths.

and as the night progresses, your limbs tangle further, intertwining, providing warmth and comfort. at one point, you’re convinced that he presses a kiss against the back of your hair. whether he does or not, that’s up to him.

infact, you find so much solace in each other that none of you notice ollie, the menace, creeping into the room, originally concerned that kimi had been kidnapped when he couldn’t find anyone but the frenchman in his room, but now oddly excited by how close you and kimi had gotten overnight.

so when kimi awakes to the faint buzz of a iphone taking photos, he almost leaps out of bed to see the tall figure standing at the edge of the bed.

but he doesn’t want to wake you up — not when you look so beautiful asleep.

“sweet dreams, mate?” ollie questions, before darting out of the room, giggling down the hallway.

kimi opens his mouth in retaliation, but is cut off by your stirring.

yeah, whatever. he doesn’t care about any photo his friend took, he can deal with him later.

why would he go fight ollie, when he could stay in bed with you?

The Miami heat was already doing its best to melt you into the asphalt, but honestly, that wasn’t the reason you were flushed.

It was because you were, once again, trailing behind Kimi Antonelli’s mum like a very devoted, very eager little duckling.

You hadn’t meant for it to become a thing.

But somehow, every time you were in the paddock, you ended up gravitating toward his family like it was gravitational law.

And today? Miami had you in full duckling mode.

“Come on, sweetheart,” his mum laughed, looping her arm through yours as if you’d been part of the family for years. “Shade’s better this way.”

You followed her without hesitation, smiling like an idiot because she always called you sweetheart, and it always made your chest go warm.

Kimi’s little sister, Maggie, was glued to your other side — literally. One hand wrapped around your wrist, the other swinging your joined hands dramatically as she chattered about school, the beach, and how she’d painted her nails McLaren papaya “because it’s lucky.”

You were pretty sure she’d adopted you.

You were also pretty sure you didn’t mind.

Every few minutes, someone would walk past and do a double take.

Because it wasn’t subtle.

You weren’t just tolerated by the Antonellis.

You were claimed.

At one point, Toto Wolff walked by, paused, looked at the three of you, and said, “Ah. The Antonelli women,” before continuing on like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You nearly choked.

Maggie tugged your hand. “Come on, I want to show you the garage! Papa said I can bring you.”

Her parents exchanged a look — the kind that said she’s not going anywhere without you anyway — and waved you off.

And so you went, hand-in-hand with a ten-year-old who had decided you were her emotional support adult.

---

Later, In The Garage

Kimi spotted you before you spotted him.

He was still in his fireproofs, hair damp with sweat, eyes bright with that pre-race adrenaline. But the second he saw you, his whole expression softened — that quiet, private smile he only ever gave you.

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “You good?”

You nodded. “Your sister kidnapped me.”

“She does that,” he said, but he was smiling like he loved it.

His mum appeared behind you. “She’s been perfect. Honestly, Kimi, she’s easier when your girlfriend is around.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” she said, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re good for all of us.”

Kimi’s ears went pink.

Yours probably did too.

---

The Race

You watched from the garage, Maggie perched on a stool beside you, her small hand wrapped tightly around yours every time Kimi overtook someone.

And when he crossed the finish line — first, unbelievably, beautifully first — the entire garage exploded.

You screamed.

Maggie screamed louder.

His mum hugged you so tightly you lifted off the ground.

And when Kimi ran in, helmet off, grin blinding, he went straight to his family.

But then he saw you.

And everything else blurred.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t care that cameras were everywhere.

He grabbed your face in both hands and kissed you — quick, breathless, joyful — the kind of kiss that tasted like victory and disbelief and you’re the person I want to share this with first.

The garage erupted again, louder this time.

Someone wolf-whistled.

Someone else yelled, “GET IT, ANTONELLI!”

Kimi pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“You saw that?” he whispered, breathless.

“I saw everything,” you said, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

His sister barreled into both of you, hugging your waist. “YOU WON! YOU WON! YOU WON!”

Kimi laughed, wrapping an arm around her and another around you, pulling you both in.

And that was the moment — the three of you tangled together, sweaty and emotional and glowing — when you realized everyone was staring.

Not in a bad way.

In a soft, knowing way.

Because it was obvious.

The Antonellis didn’t just like you.

They didn’t just approve of you.

They had folded you into their family like you’d always belonged there.

---

After The Podium

You were walking back through the paddock, Kimi’s hand in yours, when a group of mechanics passed by.

One of them nudged another. “Look at that. The whole Antonelli clan today.”

Kimi squeezed your hand. “You know they adore you, right?”

You shrugged, shy. “I adore them too.”

He stopped walking, turning to face you fully.

“They treat you like family,” he said softly, “because you are.”

Your heart did a very dramatic, very embarrassing flip.

“And,” he added, leaning in, “because you’re the best thing that’s happened to me.”

You kissed him again — slower this time, softer, the kind of kiss that wasn’t for cameras or celebration, but for him.

When you pulled back, his sister was waiting impatiently with two ice creams.

“One for you,” she said, handing you the one with extra sprinkles, “because you’re my favourite.”

Kimi groaned. “She’s known you for five minutes.”

Maggie shrugged. “She’s still my favourite.”

Kimi looked at you like he couldn’t even argue with that.

And honestly?

Neither could you.

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.