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AMY / AMES . nineteen . she/her . student . a place to write + rant . formula one rpf blog . music enthusiast . writing under the mv69 33 flag .
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I'm a sure bet of a losing streak ⛐
You're telling me they had a picture of Max looking like this and they didn't release it earlier?
one lap in and I’m immediately distraught. check on your local max fans
lestappen really said we are in this together. I respect it but Jesus can one of you PLEASE have a decent race
one lap in and I’m immediately distraught. check on your local max fans
Yes yes i know love is love. But they are still killing CHILDREN. over this.
"Love is love" is a milquetoast cishet marketing phrase
Pride is a FUCK YOU to a society that wants us dead.
not loudly enough - part two (max verstappen x reader)
🏁pairing: max verstappen x f!reader. 🏁 word count: 27.4k total. this part: 17.6k. 🏁 genres/warnings: co-workers to lovers to strangers. set between 2024 - 2026 season, creative liberties with race outcomes so bear with. reader is a performance engineer. no smut but implied sex/sexual references. fwb/secret relationship, both are toxic in their own way. they are in LOVE and it ruins everything, just two emotionally intelligent people still failing to communicate properly. right person wrong time. sprinkle of jealousy, fear of vulnerability, this does not have a happy ending. brief mention of a crash (but its minor and very minor injury), max genuinely believes there is nothing underneath the driver worth loving and reader thinks nobody sees her beyond being a female in motorsport. reader insert but no use of y/n. 🏁summary: you were never just casual. two years of almost-conversations, hotel rooms, and loving each other in every way except the one that mattered most.he loved you quietly. you just needed him to do it out loud. 🏁 author notes: very loosely based on gethsemane by sleep tolken and again i'm so sorry this is a two part-er <3
read part one here.
Pre-season testing arrived too quickly after that. The paddock hummed with nervous energy again. New cars. New upgrades. New expectations. New 2025 season.
And Max.
You saw him constantly throughout the first day: briefings, garage meetings, media obligations. But never alone. Every interaction stayed frustratingly professional. Like the winter break had never happened at all.
Which was why by the time you finally returned to your hotel room that evening, your nerves had become completely unbearable. Because now you knew. He would come eventually. He always did.
You changed clothes three times before settling on something you hoped looked accidental.
Which was humiliating. Then you waited. An hour passed. Then another.
No signal. Your stomach tightened gradually with every minute that crawled by. Maybe he wasn’t coming. You had given the signal hours ago during debriefs.
Tap. Tap. Against your wrist while nobody else noticed.
Max had looked directly at you afterward. And done nothing. The humiliation settled slowly beneath your skin.
Fine, whatever. You were halfway through convincing yourself not to care when a knock sounded against the hotel door.
Your entire body reacted instantly. Idiot.
You opened the door too quickly. And there he was. Sweat-darkened training shirt. Hair damp. Face flushed slightly from exertion. Max looked exhausted. And somehow impossibly beautiful because of it.
“You look disappointed,” he observed immediately.
You stepped aside before answering. “You took too long.”
“I was training.”
“You couldn’t shower first?”
Max brushed past you into the room carrying a small overnight bag over one shoulder. Your stomach flipped violently. Overnight bag. Oh, you were in trouble. “You’re rude when you miss me,” he murmured. The words hit dangerously hard considering how casually he said them.
You crossed your arms quickly. “You’re sweaty.”
“Tragic,” but there was no sharpness to it tonight. No tension. No fight. Just tiredness settling softly around the edges of him. Max dropped the bag near the bathroom before glancing back toward you. “You got food?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m starving.”
You stared at him for one long second before laughing despite yourself. And suddenly something shifted. The tension that had existed between you for almost a year loosened slightly around the edges. Not gone. Just softer somehow.
“You can use the shower,” you muttered eventually.
“I know.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
Max looked faintly confused. “I brought clothes.”
Your eyes dropped automatically toward the overnight bag again. Spare clothes. The idiot had planned this. Something warm twisted painfully beneath your ribs. “You’re very confident for someone who ignored me all day.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“You literally didn’t answer the signal.”
“I was in a meeting.” The answer came so simply that your irritation dissolved almost instantly. Annoying. Very annoying.
“You’re still sweaty,” you informed him weakly.
Max’s mouth twitched faintly. “You keep saying that like you want me to care.”
The bathroom door shut behind him a minute later. And suddenly you were left standing alone in the hotel room with your pulse behaving catastrophically inside your chest. Because this felt different tonight. You just didn’t understand how yet.
By the time Max emerged from the shower, your nerves had become genuinely unbearable.
Mostly because he looked painfully domestic now. Grey sweatpants. Navy t-shirt. Damp hair curling slightly at the edges. Like he belonged here somehow. Which was ridiculous.
You were both sitting on opposite ends of the bed eating cold room service leftovers when he asked quietly, “How was your break?”
You frowned immediately. “What?”
“Your break?”
“You’re asking me about my holidays?”
Max looked unimpressed. “Should I not?”
“No, I just—” you laughed softly in disbelief. “You usually come here and immediately start trying to take my clothes off.”
His eyes flicked briefly toward you. Dangerous look. “I can if you want.”
Heat climbed instantly into your face. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Mm.” You hated that sound. But your chest still felt strangely warm as the conversation drifted onward. He asked about your family. About England. About the new simulator programme you’d been working on over winter. And worse, he listened. Actually listened. Like he cared about the answers. At some point you both ended up sitting closer together without consciously deciding to. Your knee brushed his thigh. Neither of you moved away.
The room had gone quiet around you by the time you finally asked softly, “Do you not want me?”
Max looked genuinely startled. “What?”
You swallowed carefully, suddenly unable to meet his eyes properly. “Well, you’re here,” brilliant explanation. “You don’t seem to—” you gestured vaguely between you both. “—Want me.”
For one terrifying second, Max just stared at you. Then he laughed quietly in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
Your embarrassment flared instantly. “Forget I said anything.”
“Are you actually insane?”
You glared immediately. “Wow. Charming.”
Max shifted closer before you could retreat properly, one hand catching lightly against your waist. “I always want you,” he said quietly. The words landed low and devastating inside your chest. Not rushed. Not teasing. Honest.
And suddenly all the distance of winter break seemed to collapse inward at once. Because God— You had missed him. Missed this. Missed him looking at you like that. Missed the feeling of his attention settling entirely onto you.
Your hand lifted almost instinctively toward his face. Max went still beneath the touch. Tiny reaction. Easy to miss. You noticed anyway. Always.
Then he kissed you. And this time it felt nothing like the beginning. Not sharp. Not angry. Not consuming in the same destructive way. Still intense. Still desperate. But slower somehow.
Like neither of you wanted to rush through finally having each other again. Your fingers slid into his damp hair as Max kissed you deeper, one hand tightening carefully at your waist while his forehead rested briefly against yours between breaths.
And the terrifying thing? He touched you like something precious now. Like he knew exactly how badly he had missed you too.
When you woke the next morning, sunlight had already begun spilling weakly through the hotel curtains. For one disoriented second, you forgot where you were. Then you felt warmth wrapped around your waist.
Your breath caught softly. Max. Still asleep beside you. No. Not beside you. Practically wrapped around you. One arm heavy across your stomach while his face remained half-buried against the pillow beside yours, breathing slow and even in sleep.
Your chest tightened painfully. Because this had never happened before. No staying over.
That had been one of the rules.
And yet here he was. Still there. You studied him quietly in the pale morning light. The softness of sleep had stripped something away from him. No sharpness. No arrogance. Just warmth and exhaustion and the unfair prettiness of someone completely unaware they were being looked at.
Your heart did something deeply inconvenient inside your chest. God— This was bad. And worse, you didn’t want it to stop.
The room still smelled faintly like rain and soap. Somewhere outside the hotel windows, the city hummed quietly beneath the dark, blurred by the soft glow of streetlights against wet pavement. The television played something neither of you had paid attention to for at least an hour.
Max lay sprawled across the bed beside you, shirtless and half-asleep beneath tangled sheets while your head rested against his chest. At some point during the last year, nights with him had stopped feeling temporary. That was probably the first problem.
The second was this. The softness afterward. Not always. Sometimes it still stayed sharp-edged and desperate, all collision and heat and unspoken things neither of you wanted to examine too closely.
But lately— Lately it had become this strange quiet intimacy that settled naturally between you once the restlessness burned itself out.
You traced lazy patterns against his hand where it rested over your waist, absentmindedly slotting your fingers between his. Max glanced down sleepily. “You’ve got tiny hands.”
You smiled faintly against his skin. “You have massive hands. It’s unsettling.”
“They’re normal.”
“No,” you laughed softly, holding your hand against his properly now. “This is ridiculous. You could probably palm my entire face.”
A tiny huff of amusement vibrated beneath your cheek. “Maybe your hands are just small.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
You rolled your eyes despite the warmth blooming quietly beneath your ribs. This was dangerous now. Not the sex. Not the secrecy. This.
The ease of him. The way your body had started treating his as somewhere safe to rest.
Max’s thumb brushed lazily once against your knuckles while your fingers remained tangled together across his stomach. Neither of you spoke for a while after that. Comfortable silence.
The kind that would have terrified you six months ago.
Eventually you asked lightly, “So did you sleep with anyone over the break?”
Max frowned slightly like the question genuinely confused him. “No.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
You tilted your head enough to look up at him properly. “Seriously?”
“I told you already,” he murmured. “I’m not sleeping with anyone else,” your pulse stumbled traitorously. Even now, hearing him say it still did something catastrophic to your nervous system. “Just you,” he added quietly.
You tried disguising the sudden tightness in your chest with humour. “Very romantic.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late for that,” you looked back down quickly before he noticed how warm your face had suddenly become. “Same, by the way,” you muttered.
A pause. Then his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around yours. Tiny movement. Devastating effect.
The room settled back into quiet again afterward. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows. Your eyes drifted lazily across the ceiling while your fingers continued playing together absentmindedly between you both. Then, because apparently self-destruction was your hobby now, you asked, “So why me then?”
Max looked down slightly. “What?”
“You don’t date. You avoid emotional vulnerability like it’s a media obligation. But apparently a friends-with-benefits situation with me is fine?”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I have needs.”
You snorted immediately. “That is such a man answer.”
“It’s true.”
“Right. Of course. Max Verstappen, tragic victim of his own sex appeal,” that actually earned a quiet laugh from him. Warm. Sleep-heavy. Dangerously fond. Your heart betrayed you instantly. You smiled faintly against his chest before mumbling, “You’re unbelievable.”
But when you looked back up at him properly, the amusement had faded slightly from his face. Something quieter had settled there instead. “You’re different,” he said eventually.
Your stomach tightened unexpectedly. “How?”
Max’s gaze drifted toward your intertwined hands like the answer was somewhere there instead of inside him. “You don’t—” he paused briefly, searching for the words. “You’re not impressed by any of this.”
You frowned slightly. “The racing?”
“The lifestyle,” a tiny shrug. “Everything.”
Your chest tightened softly. Because you understood immediately what he meant. The money. The fame. The mythology of him. All the things people usually wanted first. “You don’t care about any of that,” Max said quietly. There was no arrogance in it. No smugness.
Just genuine confusion. Like he still couldn’t quite understand why you’d stayed.
You swallowed carefully. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I see you.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. And suddenly the room felt very still. Max looked at you then with an expression so open it almost hurt to witness. Like something inside him had gone quiet for one suspended second. Too vulnerable. Too real.
You felt your pulse trip unevenly beneath your ribs. Dangerous territory. Max cleared his throat softly a moment later, retreating slightly from the edge of whatever that moment almost became. “Well,” he muttered, “this conversation’s getting serious.”
You laughed weakly beneath your breath. “Terrifying.”
His thumb moved slowly against your knuckles again. Then he looked at you more carefully. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Why don’t you date?”
You barked out a startled laugh immediately. “Please. Men in motorsport barely take women seriously professionally, never mind romantically,” Max’s brow furrowed slightly. “It’s true,” you said lightly. “Most of them either think you’re terrifying or assume you got hired because somebody fancied you.”
His jaw tightened faintly at that. You smiled crookedly. “Though the irony of sleeping with my driver while complaining about professional credibility is not entirely lost on me.”
That finally dragged another real laugh from him. And wow, you loved that sound. The realisation arrived suddenly enough to almost wind you. You looked away quickly. Max’s fingers were still loosely tangled with yours between you both. Neither of you moved. Then, after a long silence, quieter than before, he whispered, “I see you too.”
Your breath caught instantly. Not flirtatious. Not teasing. Honest. And somehow that was infinitely worse. Because suddenly all you could think was: this is it. This is the thing people spend years searching for. To be fully known by another person and loved gently anyway.
Your throat tightened painfully.
Max looked up toward the ceiling again afterward, expression quieter now. “I just— I don’t know,” he admitted eventually. The honesty pulled your attention back toward him immediately. His jaw shifted slightly like he was trying to organise thoughts he usually kept locked somewhere airtight behind his ribs. “People like drivers,” he said.
“Well, yeah.”
“No,” his thumb brushed slowly against yours again. “They like what comes with it.”
Something uncomfortable tightened low in your chest. Max stared up at the dark ceiling while rain tapped softly against the windows. “They like winning,” he murmured. “The attention. The image,” a tiny shrug. “It’s different.”
You frowned slightly. “Different how?”
For a moment, Max didn’t answer. Then finally, as though he never meant for you to hear it, “I don’t think there’s much left once racing’s gone.”
The sentence settled heavily into the room. Not dramatic. Worse. Matter-of-fact. Like he genuinely believed it.
And suddenly all the fear inside him made horrible sense.
Max was late. Not unusually late. Just enough that irritation had started curling slowly beneath your ribs by the time the hotel room door finally opened.
“You’re twenty minutes late,” you said from the bed without looking up from your laptop.
“Mm,” the door clicked shut behind him. No apology. Typical. You heard the soft thud of his backpack hitting the floor before silence settled briefly between you again. “You’re still awake?”
You snorted lightly. “Some of us have jobs.”
“So do I.”
“That’s generous considering what you call media day effort.” A quiet huff of laughter answered you from somewhere near the minibar. Your chest warmed traitorously at the sound. It always did.
You finally glanced up then. And immediately regretted it. Because Max looked exhausted.
Not angry exhausted. Not post-race sharp-edged frustration. Just worn down in a way that made something protective twist painfully inside you.
His hoodie sleeves were shoved messily to his elbows, hair damp from the outside, jaw shadowed with the beginnings of stubble. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes that he probably hadn’t even noticed because Max rarely noticed things about himself unless they affected performance.
The season had barely begun and already he looked as though he was holding himself together through sheer stubbornness alone. “You look awful,” you murmured softly.
“Thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
His gaze lifted briefly toward yours at that. And there it was again. That terrible thing between you now. Not tension anymore. Recognition. Like somehow the space between you had become crowded with all the things neither of you said aloud. Max crossed the room slowly before stopping beside the bed.
“You ate?” you asked automatically.
A tiny pause. “No.”
Your irritation returned instantly. “Max.”
“What?”
“It’s nearly midnight.”
“I forgot.”
Of course he did. You sighed heavily before pushing the laptop aside and climbing off the bed. “There’s still pasta left from my dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet you still haven’t kicked me out.”
The words should have sounded arrogant. Instead they landed quietly between you.
Dangerously honest. Because he was right.
You moved toward the small kitchenette anyway, trying very hard not to think about the fact that you knew exactly how he liked the sauce reheated because you had done this enough times now for it to become muscle memory.
Behind you, Max loosened the strap of his watch absently before setting it on the counter.
Tap. Tap. Against the marble surface. Your movements stalled for half a second. The signal. Once upon a time it had meant meet me upstairs, come to me. Now sometimes he did it without even thinking. Like breathing. Like habit. Like you.
“You know,” you said quietly while reaching for something that could resemble a plate, “normal people usually go on dates before they start memorising each other’s eating habits.”
“Sounds inefficient.”
You laughed softly despite yourself. And suddenly Max was close. You hadn’t even heard him move. One second there had been empty space between you. The next his warmth pressed lightly against your back, chin resting briefly against your shoulder while he peered down toward the microwave.
“You’re burning it,” he murmured.
“I’m literally not.”
“You forget the edges.”
“You’re unbelievably annoying.”
“Mm.” But he didn’t move away.
Your pulse had started doing that awful uneven thing again. Because this was the problem now. Not the sex. Not the secrecy. Not even the fighting. It was this. Domesticity. The quiet intimacy of existing together in borrowed hotel rooms around the world like you belonged there.
Max’s hand settled absently against your waist. Casual. Unthinking. Like he had touched you this way so many times now that his body no longer asked permission first. You closed your eyes briefly. Dangerous. Everything about this had become dangerous. “You should just sleep tonight,” you said softly.
“I do sleep.”
“You know what I mean.”
A beat of silence passed before he said quietly, “You hate when I leave after.”
The words caught you completely off guard. You turned slightly toward him. “What?”
His expression remained frustratingly unreadable. “You’re quieter the next day.”
Your chest tightened painfully. Because of course he had noticed. Max noticed everything about you. That was the tragedy. “You’re imagining things,” you lied.
“No.” Just that. No. Certain. Steady. Like he knew you better than you knew yourself. Maybe he did.
Rain tapped softly against the hotel windows. Neither of you moved. His hand still rested against your waist. Your heart still betrayed you inside your chest. And suddenly you couldn’t breathe properly beneath the weight of everything unsaid between you. “You can’t keep doing that,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
Something flickered across his face. “Doing what?”
“This,” you gestured vaguely between you both, already hating how fragile your voice sounded.
Max frowned slightly. “I don’t know what that means.”
Of course he didn’t. Because he genuinely thought this was sustainable. Your laugh came out quieter than intended. Sad around the edges. “You hold me like you’re never going to let me go,” you said softly, “and then act confused when I start thinking maybe you mean it.”
Silence. Complete. Devastating. Max’s hand tightened involuntarily against your waist. There it was. Proof. Not spoken. Never spoken. But there. His eyes searched your face like he was trying desperately to find the correct answer to a question he didn’t fully understand. And for one terrible moment, you thought he might finally say something real.
Instead he said quietly, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
The words shattered something inside you with terrifying softness. Because that was exactly the problem. To him, presence was confession. Consistency was commitment. Touch was love. And maybe for him, it really was enough.
But suddenly all you could think was: why do I still feel lonely sometimes when you’re standing right in front of me?
Max must have seen something change in your expression because his entire posture shifted subtly. Alarmed. “Hey,” he said quietly. Too late. You stepped carefully out of his hold before you could stop yourself. And the look on his face then hurt worst of all.
Because he looked like someone watching something precious begin slipping through his fingers without understanding why.
At some point, the signal stopped meaning meet me or come upstairs. Neither of you acknowledged when it changed. It just did.
Tap. Tap. Sometimes it meant where are you? Sometimes are you okay? Sometimes come find me.
And increasingly, it had nothing to do with sex at all.
In Miami, you were halfway through a strategy discussion with GP when a coffee appeared silently beside your laptop. You looked up automatically. Max had already kept walking. No acknowledgment. No pause. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to notice you’d been awake for twenty hours straight and quietly fix it without discussion.
GP glanced between the coffee and Max’s retreating figure before raising an eyebrow slowly. You ignored him. Mostly because your chest already felt too tight.
You fell asleep during the flight home with your head against the window. At some point during the flight, Max shifted you gently sideways until your head rested against his shoulder instead.
Neither of you acknowledged it after you woke up. But when turbulence hit twenty minutes later, his hand closed automatically around yours beneath the blanket. Not romantic. Instinctive. Like his body had made the decision before his brain caught up.
Imola arrived loud and chaotic and painfully bright.
The paddock buzzed with post-race adrenaline while engineers moved frantically between garages carrying laptops and champagne bottles in equal measure. Radio chatter crackled endlessly overhead. Cameras flashed somewhere near the front of the garage while reporters circled like vultures around another Max Verstappen victory.
You stood near the back of the garage pretending to focus on telemetry while the celebration unfolded around you in overlapping waves of noise. Someone from marketing brushed past carrying champagne. Mechanics laughed somewhere behind you. Laurent was already halfway through another interview.
Max had won. And somehow that made this worse. Victories always made him restless afterward. Like the adrenaline had nowhere to go once the race was over. You’d learned that almost a year ago. Unfortunately, you’d also learned you liked being the place it landed.
You kept your eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen in front of you even as you felt him approaching before you saw him. Ridiculous really, how aware of him your body had become. Like some part of you was permanently tuned to his frequency now.
“Everyone’s looking for you,” you said without turning around.
“And yet I found you first.”
Your stomach tightened traitorously. You finally glanced sideways at him. Still in his race suit. Balaclava hanging loose from his hand. Champagne droplets drying against flushed skin.
His hair was damp with sweat beneath the harsh garage lighting and his expression still carried that familiar sharpness victories never quite smoothed away.
“You’re supposed to be celebrating,” you murmured.
“I am.” The look he gave you with those words settled far too low in your chest.
You looked away first. Coward. “You know,” you said carefully, “one day somebody’s going to notice the amount of time you spend hovering around me after races.”
Max leaned casually against the workbench beside you. “Then stop being interesting.”
“That’s not a real solution.” But your lips twitched despite yourself. Dangerous. Everything with him was dangerous now.
Someone shouted his name from across the garage. Max ignored it completely. Your eyes followed the sound instinctively. “Go,” you said softly. “Before Laurent starts sending search parties.”
“Mm.” But he still didn’t move. You hated how much that affected you. The fact that in a garage full of people celebrating him, he was standing here instead.
With you.
A mechanic passed nearby and clapped Max enthusiastically on the shoulder before disappearing again into the noise. The interruption shifted the moment just enough for you to breathe properly again.
Barely.
“You were good today,” you said quietly.
Max looked at you then in a way that made the entire crowded garage seem to disappear at the edges. Not because of the compliment. Because of who it came from. “You were right about the second stint,” he admitted.
You blinked once. “Did Max Verstappen just voluntarily admit I was right?”
“Don’t make it weird.” Too late for that. Far too late. Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, and something in his expression softened instantly at the sound. Tiny. Almost imperceptible.
But you saw it. You always saw it. And suddenly, horribly, you became aware of how close he was standing. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his every time someone passed behind you. Close enough that if you tilted your head slightly your mouth would be near his ear. Close enough that you could smell champagne and clean soap and the lingering trace of race fuel still clinging stubbornly to his suit.
Your pulse stumbled unevenly. “Max,” you said quietly. A warning. A plea. You weren’t sure anymore.
His gaze dropped briefly toward your mouth. And there it was. That unbearable thing between you. Not lust anymore. Not only that. Something slower. Deeper. Far more difficult to survive.
Someone called his name again from the front of the garage. This time louder. Max barely reacted. “You should go,” you whispered. But your voice lacked conviction now. Because some selfish part of you wanted him to stay exactly where he was.
His fingers brushed briefly against your wrist then. Tiny contact. Barely there. Yet somehow it felt more intimate than half the nights you’d spent in his bed. “You coming tonight?” he asked quietly.
The question should have sounded casual. It didn’t. Not anymore. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. Because you were painfully aware that you always came when he asked.
Always. No matter how many times you promised yourself you wouldn’t.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “You didn’t even use the signal.”
For the first time all day, something almost amused flickered across his face. “Didn’t think I needed to.”
And that should not have felt as devastatingly tender as it did. Because hidden beneath the arrogance was something far worse. Certainty. Certainty that he could find you in any crowded room. Certainty that you would still be there when he reached for you. Certainty that this thing between you belonged to him as instinctively as breathing.
The terrifying part was that he was right. You looked away first. Again. “Thirty minutes,” you said softly.
Max nodded once. Like he already knew your answer before you spoke. Then he finally stepped back, disappearing slowly into the noise and flashing lights waiting for him at the front of the garage.
But just before he reached the cameras, he glanced back over his shoulder.
And tapped twice against his wrist.
In Monaco it was three in the morning again. Some things never changed. You sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter in his flat eating takeaway noodles while Max wandered barefoot through the flat complaining about simulator issues.
At some point he stopped talking. You looked up. Max was staring at you.
“What?”
Something softened almost imperceptibly in his expression. “You’re here a lot.”
Your stomach flipped nervously. “You invited me.”
“Mm.” Not disagreement. Observation. Then he stepped automatically between your knees, hands settling absentmindedly against your thighs while he stole the food from your fork.
The movement was so casual. So familiar. Your chest ached with it suddenly. Because there it was again. That terrifying feeling of belonging.
Austria came with too much wine and not enough dignity. The night before qualifying, you laughed so hard wine came out of your nose. Which should have ruined the moment completely. Instead Max nearly fell off his chair laughing at you while you threatened murder across the restaurant table.
“You’re actually crying,” you accused.
“You snorted.”
“I did not snort.”
“You absolutely snorted.”
“I hate you.”
“No,” Max said immediately. “You don’t.” Still laughing. Still smiling. But immediate. Like correcting that mattered instinctively.
Your breath caught softly. Because neither of you spoke for a second afterward. And suddenly the air between you had changed again. Tiny shift. Barely noticeable. Still irreversible.
The paddock became unbearable after qualifying in Austria. Media everywhere. Mechanics stressed. Max already irritated before he’d even climbed out of the car. You found him eventually hidden behind the engineering trucks alone, jaw tight with frustration while sweat soaked slowly through the shoulders of his fireproofs. “You’re hiding,” you said softly.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
A tiny twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth. Victory. You stepped beside him quietly beneath the storm-dark sky. Neither of you spoke for a while. Then Max said quietly, “I don’t know how to be normal about any of this.”
Your chest tightened instantly. “The racing?”
A pause. Then, softer, “All of it,” he replied. The honesty of it settled heavily between your ribs. Because suddenly you understood something terrible. Max wasn’t withholding because he didn’t feel it. He was withholding because he genuinely did not know what to do with it once it existed.
You reached for his hand before you could think better of it. For one terrifying second, Max looked down at your intertwined fingers like he’d never seen anything more dangerous in his life.
But he didn’t let go.
The morning of the race at Silverstone arrived grey and freezing. You were cold. That was it. That was the entire problem. Rain hammered endlessly against the garage roof while engineers rushed around adjusting setup plans and tyre projections.
You rubbed your hands together absently while staring down at telemetry. Without looking away from the screen in front of him, Max tugged his hoodie over his head and dropped it directly onto your laptop. You blinked at him. “What?”
“You’re shivering.”
“You need this.”
“You need it more.”
Simple. Like it wasn’t intimate at all. Meanwhile your pulse was suddenly behaving catastrophically inside your chest because the hoodie smelled like him and Max had already turned back toward the telemetry as though this interaction required no further thought.
Which somehow made it infinitely worse.
By the time the red flag was raised halting the race, rain hammered against the garage roof hard enough to drown out half the radio traffic.
The entire paddock had descended into controlled chaos sometime around lap twenty-three. Visibility gone. Cars sliding everywhere. Engineers speaking too fast over overlapping channels while mechanics crowded around monitors with the particular tension only wet races seemed capable of producing.
You stood near the strategy screens trying very hard to keep your breathing normal. “Has anyone seen him?”
One of the mechanics glanced up briefly. “Medical car took him initially, I think.”
Think. Your stomach twisted violently. The crash replay looped silently across one of the side monitors again. The moment the rear snapped. The violent spray of water. Carbon fibre exploding against barriers.
You looked away immediately. He’s fine. He has to be fine. The thought repeated uselessly through your head while adrenaline crawled painfully beneath your skin. You’d seen crashes before. Hundreds of them. But none with your pulse lodged somewhere in your throat like this.
“Radio contact?” you asked sharply.
“Nothing yet.”
That horrible cold feeling spread further beneath your ribs. Around you, the garage kept moving normally. Data. Radios. Damage assessments. Strategy discussions already shifting toward salvaging points.
And meanwhile you were standing perfectly still trying not to visibly unravel in front of half the team. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen anymore.
Not like this. Somewhere along the line, you had both agreed to keep whatever this was contained neatly within its existing boundaries. No complications. No expectations. No more than this.
You’d nodded along at the time because it had felt safer that way. But suddenly all you could think was: if he’s hurt and I can’t even go to him, what exactly are we doing?
Your hands were shaking. You shoved them into the pockets of your team jacket immediately. No one seemed to notice.
The garage entrance stirred suddenly with movement. Your head snapped up instinctively. And there he was.
Relief hit so hard your knees almost gave out beneath you. Max walked slowly through the paddock entrance still half out of his race suit, damp hair sticking messily to his forehead from the rain.
One of the FIA medics was speaking beside him but you barely registered any of it beyond upright, conscious, alive. Your body reacted before your brain did. You took one step forward automatically. Then stopped. Because you couldn’t. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
The reality of that landed like something bruising against your chest. Max looked exhausted.
Sore probably. But okay. And somehow that almost made it worse. Because the urge to reach him physically hurt now.
Your eyes met his across the garage. Instantly. Like they always did. For one terrible second, all the panic you’d spent the last twenty minutes trying to hide threatened to spill visibly across your face. Max’s expression shifted immediately the moment he saw you. Subtle.
Tiny. But enough. He knew. Of course he knew.
You swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in your throat. Then carefully, where nobody else would notice: Tap. Tap. Against your wrist.
Max stared at you for one suspended heartbeat longer. And then, slowly: Tap. Tap. Back against his own wrist. I’m okay.
The smile that touched his mouth afterward was so soft it nearly destroyed you. Not teasing. Not sharp-edged. Just tired. Reassuring. For you.
And suddenly— horrifyingly— you realised this wasn’t casual anymore. Not even slightly.
Because casual didn’t feel like panic clawing through your ribcage watching someone hit a barrier at two hundred miles per hour. Casual didn’t feel like relief so overwhelming it made your eyes sting. Casual definitely didn’t feel like looking at someone across a crowded garage and realising your entire nervous system had quietly rearranged itself around their survival.
Your chest ached with the understanding of it. And worse still, some part of Max seemed to realise it too. Neither of you looked away first.
The knock at your hotel room door came just after midnight. You frowned immediately.
Nobody knocked like that except him.
Two slow knocks. Pause. Then two more.
You opened the door expecting him to look worse. Instead, somehow, that made it more dangerous. Grey sweats. Red Bull hoodie. Hair still damp from the shower. Bruising beginning faintly along one side of his jaw. And exhaustion. God, he looked exhausted.
Your expression tightened instantly. “What are you doing here?”
Max leaned one shoulder tiredly against the doorframe. “Wanted to see you.”
“You hit a barrier at speed today,” you said incredulously. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“I tried.”
“And?”
His eyes held yours steadily. Couldn’t. The word hung there unspoken anyway. Your chest tightened painfully. Because suddenly you understood. He’d gone looking for you instinctively. The same way you’d searched for him in the garage. Dangerous. Terrible. Far too late to stop now.
You stepped aside silently to let him in. Max moved slowly tonight. Careful beneath the exhaustion. You noticed immediately. Of course you did. The hotel room fell quiet once the door shut behind him. No tension. No sharpness. None of the familiar combustion that had once defined this thing between you.
Just tiredness. And something unbearably soft beneath it.
“You scared me today,” you admitted quietly before you could stop yourself.
The honesty startled both of you. Max looked at you carefully then. Not defensive. Not dismissive. Just quiet. “I know,” that almost hurt worse. Because he sounded affected by it too.
You folded your arms tightly across yourself instead. “You can’t keep doing that.”
A faint tired smile touched his mouth. “Crashing?”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
The smile faded slightly. Silence settled between you. Heavy now. Not awkward. Just full.
Then Max stepped closer. Slow enough that you could have moved away if you wanted. You didn’t. His hand settled lightly against your waist, warm through the thin fabric of your shirt, and suddenly every bit of adrenaline you’d been surviving on since the race finally started collapsing beneath your skin. “You were panicking,” he said quietly.
Not a question. You looked away immediately. “No I wasn’t.”
“Liar.” The word landed softly. Familiar now.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “I couldn’t get to you,” you whispered before you meant to say it aloud.
That did something to his expression. Something painful. Because the reality of what this relationship actually was seemed to settle visibly between you both. All this love. All this fear. All this instinctive devotion. And still hidden.
Max’s hand tightened faintly at your waist. Then, quieter than before, “I looked for you first.”
Your breath caught hard in your chest.
Oh.
Oh, that was bad. Because people who were casual did not say things like that. Neither of you spoke after that. There wasn’t really anything left to say.
Eventually Max sat down heavily against the edge of the bed, exhaustion finally winning against stubbornness. “You staying?” you asked softly.
He looked up at you then with that same unreadable openness that always felt far more intimate than words. “If you want.”
The terrifying thing was how immediate your answer felt. Always. Instead, you only nodded once.
Later, long after the city outside had gone quiet, you lay beside him in the dark while rain tapped softly against the hotel windows. No urgency tonight. No collision. No pretending this was still only physical.
Just warmth. Max lay on his side facing you, one arm resting loosely around your waist beneath the blankets while exhaustion pulled slowly at both of you.
You should have felt trapped by this closeness. Instead you felt frighteningly safe.
Half-asleep now, Max brushed his thumb once absently against your side. Tiny movement. Thoughtless. Intimate enough to ruin you.
Your eyes burned suddenly with the weight of it all. Because this was the tragedy, wasn’t it?
You loved him. And he loved you. You knew he did. But would it ever be loud enough to let you keep him.
COTA was chaos. Media everywhere. Mechanics sprinting between garages carrying tyre blankets and coffee with equal urgency while the entire paddock dissolved slowly into weather-induced irritation.
You stood near the engineering station trying unsuccessfully to untangle a headset cable while listening to three separate strategy conversations happening simultaneously through your radio.
Somewhere nearby, Max was giving an interview. Unfortunately loudly.
“Your problem,” you muttered while wrestling the cable again, “is that you enjoy suffering.”
“Talking to yourself now?” You looked up. Max had appeared beside you seemingly out of nowhere, still half-dressed in his race suit with his balaclava hanging loose around his neck.
“You’re supposed to be in media,” you said.
“I escaped.”
“Brave.”
His mouth twitched faintly. Then his eyes dropped toward your shoulder. “You’ve got grease on you.”
“What?”
Before you could react, Max reached forward automatically and brushed his thumb lightly along the shoulder of your team jacket. Tiny movement. Thoughtless. Intimate enough to make your pulse immediately trip over itself.
Worse still, neither of you realised how it looked until the surrounding silence registered half a second later. You glanced up. Three mechanics were staring openly. One of them immediately looked away. Far too late.
Heat climbed violently up your neck. Max’s hand dropped back to his side instantly, but something unreadable had already shifted across his face too. Awareness. Not of the touch.
Of being seen.
You nearly died on the spot. Max, unbelievably, looked amused. “You’re enjoying this,” you accused under your breath.
“A little.”
“You’re horrible.”
“Mm.” But his shoulder brushed yours as he moved past anyway. And for the rest of the day, every time someone looked at the two of you for slightly too long, your pulse behaved catastrophically.
The offer came on a Thursday. Which somehow felt offensive. Not dramatic enough for the way it quietly threatened to unravel your entire life.
You’d stayed late reviewing simulator correlation data when Laurent stopped beside your desk and said casually, “Can I have a quick word before you leave.”
You hadn’t thought much of it. At first. Then Laurent had smiled at you across the conference room table in that particular way powerful men smiled when they were about to change the trajectory of someone’s career. And suddenly your stomach had tightened.
“We’ve had enquiries about you,” he said.
Plural. You blinked once. “Enquiries?”
“Other teams.”
Your pulse stumbled slightly. Oh.
Laurent leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled thoughtfully. “You’ve moved through the engineering structure very quickly,” he continued. “Performance, strategy integration, driver communication... frankly, your work has been exceptional.”
Heat crawled awkwardly up your neck. Praise still made you uncomfortable. Especially here.
“We know you’ve had opportunities already,” Laurent added calmly from beside him. “But this one is significant.”
You frowned slightly. And that was how you found yourself an hour later sitting alone in your car outside the factory with your phone clenched tightly in your hand while the autumn-dark Milton Keynes sky pressed heavy overhead.
A promotion. A real one. Not just another incremental step upward. A leadership role. More responsibility. More influence. More visibility. A future. And the worst part? You wanted it.
That was the truly terrible thing. Because for the first time since joining Red Bull, your future stretched beyond simply surviving Max Verstappen.
You stared blankly through the rain-streaked windshield. Then finally you turned the car on.
By the time Max arrived at your hotel room that weekend for the next race, you still hadn’t told him. Which was unusual.
You told him everything now. Not officially. Not deliberately. But somewhere along the way he had become the first person you looked for after every difficult meeting, every frustrating strategy call, every small victory. Like your thoughts instinctively bent toward him before anyone else. Dangerous habit.
Tonight he looked exhausted in the familiar way that no longer alarmed you because you had memorised all his moods by now. Race exhaustion looked sharp. Media exhaustion looked distant. This was different.
This was just him. Tired. Comfortable. Safe enough here to let himself unravel slightly around the edges. He dropped onto your bed with a long exhale while you sat cross-legged beside him scrolling aimlessly through your phone pretending your heart wasn’t beating unevenly beneath your ribs.
“You’re quiet,” Max murmured eventually.
You glanced sideways at him. “Am I?”
“Mm.” His hand found your ankle absentmindedly where your legs brushed. Tiny touch.
Automatic.
Your chest tightened painfully. Because this was exactly the problem. The intimacy of him had become constant now. Not explosive anymore. Not frantic. Just woven quietly into the shape of your life. You swallowed carefully. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Max looked up immediately. Not alarmed. Attentive. Always attentive when it came to you. “What?”
You suddenly wished the room were darker. “I got offered another job.”
Silence. Not immediate anger. Not shock. Something stranger. Stillness. Max’s fingers stilled against your ankle. “Where?”
You named the team softly. And there it was. The shift. Tiny. Instant. Like something inside him had gone rigid without warning. Your stomach twisted. “It’s a promotion,” you continued carefully. “A big one.”
Max looked away first. That scared you more than if he’d argued. “What kind of role?”
You explained it quickly. Too quickly. Like if you rushed through the details fast enough maybe neither of you would have to acknowledge the thing thickening painfully between you.
Max stayed quiet the entire time. Which felt wrong. You’d expected irritation. Questions. Something. Instead he just sat there staring down at the duvet beside him with his jaw pulled tight enough to hurt.
Then finally— “So you’re leaving.” The words landed harder than they should have.
You frowned immediately. “That’s not what I said.”
“You’re considering it.”
“Yes, because it’s a huge opportunity.”
Max laughed once quietly. Not amused. Sharp around the edges. “Right.”
Your chest tightened instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
You hated when he did this. Shut down. Retreated inward. Expected you to somehow decode him anyway. “No, say it.”
His eyes lifted finally to yours. And suddenly the room felt too small to breathe inside. “You want to leave,” he said evenly.
Frustration sparked hot beneath your ribs. “This isn’t about wanting to leave.”
“It’s another team.”
“It’s my career.”
“And Red Bull isn’t enough for that anymore?” The words hit like a slap. Because suddenly this wasn’t about strategy. Or opportunity. Or ambition.
It was about him.
You stared at him in disbelief. “You think this is personal?” Something flickered across his face then. Too fast to fully catch. Maybe because it was. “You know what,” you said quietly, anger rising now to protect all the softer things underneath it. “You don’t get to act like I’m betraying you because somebody finally recognised I’m capable of more.”
Max’s expression hardened instantly. “I never said you weren’t.”
“No,” you laughed softly, bitter around the edges. “You just sound angry enough about it.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Bullshit.” The word cracked sharply through the room. And suddenly there it was again. The old version of you both. Sharp-edged. Defensive. Dangerous. Except now it hurt differently.
Because underneath the anger sat love. Raw and terrified and completely unspoken.
Max stood abruptly from the bed and moved toward the window. Distance. Your chest ached watching him create it. “You said you were happy here,” he said quietly. The words almost undid you. Because they didn’t sound accusatory. They sounded wounded.
“I am.”
“Then why would you leave me?” There it was. Not stay at Red Bull. Stay with me. Your throat tightened painfully. Because this was it, wasn’t it? The moment. The open door. All he had to do was ask. Just once.
You stood slowly from the bed. “Why do you care?” you asked softly.
Max turned toward you immediately, frustration flashing across his face. “What kind of question is that?”
“The kind you’re not answering.”
Silence. Heavy. Breathing. Dangerous. You could practically feel the words trapped between you both now.
Stay. Please stay.
But Max just looked at you like the sentence physically could not force its way out of his chest.
And suddenly anger became easier than heartbreak. “You don’t get to ask me to sacrifice things for you,” you said quietly. “When you won’t even admit what I am to you.”
The words hit him visibly. You saw it. Max’s jaw tightened hard enough to ache. “That’s not fair.”
A laugh escaped you then. Small. Broken. “Fair?” you repeated softly. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive this version of you,” you whispered. “The one who loves me constantly but still won’t say it out loud.”
Max looked almost wounded by the words. “You hold me like you’re terrified of losing me,” you continued softly. “But every time I need something real from you, you act like I’m asking for too much.”
Your chest ached so badly now it was difficult to breathe through it. “And you keep talking about your own fear like I don’t have any of my own,” you said quietly. “Like loving you hasn’t been terrifying for me too.”
His expression cracked slightly at that. Tiny fracture. Devastating. Because there it was. The truth. Not denial. Fear. “You think this is easy for me?” he asked suddenly, voice rougher now. “You think I know how to—” He stopped himself hard.
Your heart slammed painfully against your ribs. “How to what?” you whispered.
Love me.
The words hung there anyway. Breathing between you both. Max looked away first. Like a coward. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
And God, that hurt. Because you suddenly realised he meant it. Not manipulative. Not cruel.
Just genuinely incapable of giving shape to the thing destroying both of you. Your eyes burned unexpectedly. “I want you to ask me to stay.”
The honesty slipped out before you could stop it. Max went completely still. For one horrible second, you thought he might actually do it. Might finally crack himself open enough to reach for you properly.
Instead he said quietly: “You should take the job.”
The room went silent. Your chest hollowed instantly. Because there it was. His answer. Not because he wanted you to go. But because wanting you to stay terrified him more.
You saw it all at once suddenly. The panic behind his eyes. The restraint. The fear. Max would rather lose you himself than hand you the power to destroy him later. And the worst part? He loved you enough that he genuinely believed letting you go was the kinder option.
Tears threatened hot behind your eyes. You hated him for that. “No,” you whispered. “You don’t get to do that.”
His expression tightened. “Do what?”
“Act like this doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one bleeding for it?”
That landed. Hard. Because suddenly Max looked angry too. Not at you. At himself. At the situation. At the fact he couldn’t become the version of himself you needed no matter how badly he wanted to. “I don’t know how to be what you want,” he admitted quietly.
And there it was. The tragedy. Because the awful truth was he already was.
He just couldn’t see himself clearly enough to believe it.
The rain started sometime after midnight. You could hear it against the hotel windows, soft and relentless, turning the city outside into little more than blurred lights smeared across wet glass.
Max was asleep beside you. That alone probably should have frightened you more than it did. Not because sleeping like this together was unusual anymore. At some point over the last year, staying the night had stopped feeling accidental. The awkwardness disappeared first. Then the excuses. Then eventually the awareness that either of you should leave at all.
Tonight, though, felt different. Maybe because there had been no argument beforehand. No sharp tension. No collision of tempers disguised as attraction. Just exhaustion. A long race weekend. A delayed flight. His quiet knock against your hotel door close to one in the morning.
And then, softly: “Couldn’t sleep.”
As though that explained anything. As though you had ever denied him entry anyway.
You shifted slightly beneath the blankets, careful not to wake him. The room was dark apart from the thin strip of city light spilling through the curtains. Enough to make out the shape of him beside you. One arm stretched loosely across your waist, his breathing slow and steady against the back of your neck.
The intimacy of it still caught you off guard sometimes. Not the physical part. That had never scared you. It was this. The unconscious tenderness. The way Max reached for you even asleep, like some part of him had learned your absence and disliked it instinctively.
Your chest tightened painfully. Because this no longer felt temporary. And maybe the worst part was that you weren’t entirely sure it ever had.
You stared quietly toward the rain-streaked windows. A week ago, you’d told him about the offer. You could still remember the exact look on his face when you said another team wanted you. The way something in him had gone still so quickly you almost missed it.
And afterward, when you told him you weren’t going to take it, you had waited. Not intentionally at first. But then the silence stretched. And stretched. And suddenly every part of you had been listening for something he never said.
Stay. Don’t go. Choose me.
Anything. Instead, Max had simply kissed you hard enough to stop the conversation entirely. Like if he could just pull you back into bed, neither of you would have to acknowledge the thing cracking open between you. Like you hadn’t practically told him you loved him. Like he hadn’t looked at you the exact same way and still refused to say it out loud.
So you’d let him. Because what else were you supposed to do? You couldn’t force someone to love you out loud. Even when you knew they already did quietly.
Since then, something strange had settled between you. Not distance exactly. Worse.
Awareness. Like too many truths had slipped accidentally into the open and now neither of you knew how to gather them back up again.
You still reached for each other instinctively. Still shared hotel rooms and exhausted flights and late-night conversations that blurred dangerously close to intimacy. But now every soft touch seemed to carry another question beneath it.
What are we doing? How long can this survive like this? Why does loving you suddenly hurt more than losing you?
Behind you, Max shifted slightly in his sleep. His arm tightened automatically around your waist. Your throat burned unexpectedly. Because even now, half-asleep and unconscious, he held onto you like someone afraid of waking up alone. And somehow he still didn’t understand why you were beginning to break apart beneath the weight of this.
You closed your eyes briefly. At the beginning, you’d thought the hardest part of loving Max would be getting close enough to matter. Turns out the hardest part was realising you already did. And that it still might never be enough.
You stared quietly toward the rain-streaked windows. There had been a time when nights with him felt volatile. Reckless. Something sharp enough to leave bruises beneath your skin and confusion in their wake. Now it felt dangerously close to peace. That terrified you far more.
Behind you, Max shifted slightly. Then, voice rough with sleep, “You’re thinking too loud.”
A quiet laugh escaped you. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does when you do it.”
A reluctant smile tugged briefly at your mouth. His hand tightened lazily against your waist before relaxing again. “You should be asleep,” you murmured.
“So should you.”
Silence settled again. Comfortable. Heavy. You could feel the warmth of him pressed along your spine, steady and grounding in a way you had long since stopped wanting to examine too closely. Eventually, quietly, you asked: “Do you ever think about stopping?”
Max was silent long enough that you wondered whether he’d drifted back to sleep. Then he murmured, “Stopping what?”
“Racing.”
The answer came immediately this time. “No.”
You swallowed lightly. “Not ever?”
“No.”
Something about the certainty of it made your chest ache unexpectedly. You turned slightly then, enough to look back at him over your shoulder. His eyes were open now, dull blue beneath the darkness, fixed somewhere beyond you toward the wall. “What happens when you have to?” you asked softly.
His jaw shifted faintly. “I won’t.”
“You can’t drive forever.”
“I know.” But he said it strangely. Flatly. Like the thought itself irritated him.
You studied him quietly for a moment. “You hate talking about this.”
“I hate talking in general.”
“That’s unfortunately true.” That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. But it disappeared quickly.
Your gaze lingered on him. And suddenly you understood something that settled cold and heavy inside your ribs. Max knew exactly who he was inside a car. But outside of it? You weren’t sure he believed there was anything left worth knowing.
The thought hurt more than it should have. “You know,” you said quietly, “you’re allowed to exist as a person outside of racing.”
His eyes shifted toward yours then. Direct. Unreadable. “Am I?”
The question was so unexpectedly genuine your breath caught slightly. Not sarcastic. Not dismissive. Real. You turned fully toward him without thinking, his arm sliding automatically with the movement until you were facing each other properly beneath the dim wash of city light.
“Max—” You didn’t even know what you were trying to say. That you saw him. That you loved the parts of him nobody else seemed to notice. That somewhere along the line he had become the first thing you looked for in every room. The words crowded painfully against your throat. But fear held them there. Because saying them aloud would change everything.
Even though you wanted it to.
Max’s gaze lingered on your face quietly, searchingly, like he was trying to solve something he didn’t have the language for. “You don’t understand,” he said eventually, voice roughened by exhaustion more than emotion. “People only—” He stopped himself briefly, jaw tightening. “—They only care because I win.”
Your chest ached instantly. “That’s not true.”
“It is.” The certainty in his voice hurt. Not arrogance. Resignation. Like he had convinced himself of this years ago and never allowed anyone close enough to challenge it.
You frowned slightly. “You genuinely think there’s nothing underneath all of this?” you asked softly. “Nothing outside the racing that matters?”
Max looked away first. And somehow that tiny movement felt devastating. “What happens when it’s gone?” he asked quietly. “When I stop winning. When I stop driving.”
The question hung heavily between you. Not hypothetical. Fear. Real fear. You could suddenly see it so clearly it almost hurt to breathe around it. The panic underneath everything. The reason he kept love at arm’s length even while sleeping wrapped around you like you belonged there.
Because Max genuinely believed there would come a day when someone looked at him and realised there was nothing left worth staying for. And God— If only he could see himself the way you did.
You moved closer before you could think better of it, your hand finding his face gently in the dark. His eyes closed briefly at the touch. Heartbreaking. “I don’t care about the driver,” you whispered. That made his eyes open immediately. You swallowed carefully against the emotion thickening in your throat. “I mean, I do,” you corrected softly, thumb brushing lightly against his jaw. “I’m proud of you. All the time. But that’s not—”
You struggled for the words. Because how could you possibly explain this properly without admitting everything? “It’s you,” you said finally, voice quieter now. “I like you, not the driver. You.” The simplicity of it somehow made it more devastating.
Max stared at you like the words physically hurt him. Because maybe they did. Your fingers remained against his skin while rain tapped softly against the windows behind you. “You’re impossible when you’re tired,” you continued quietly. “And stubborn. And emotionally repressed to a level that should probably concern medical professionals.”
A tiny breath of laughter escaped him despite himself. You smiled faintly. “You forget to eat when you’re stressed. You pretend you’re fine when you’re not. You hate asking for help even when you clearly need it,” your throat tightened slightly. “And you still come looking for me first anyway.”
Something shifted visibly across his face then. Not relief. Something sadder. Because the more you loved the parts of him outside racing, the more frightened he seemed by it. “You shouldn’t,” he said quietly.
Your chest tightened painfully. “Shouldn’t what?”
“Look at me like that.” The words landed somewhere deep enough to bruise. Because he sounded almost afraid of it. Afraid of being seen too clearly.
You frowned softly. “Max—”
“What if one day you realise I’m not enough outside of this?” he asked suddenly, cutting you off.
The honesty of it knocked the breath from your lungs. There it was. The thing sitting underneath all of this from the beginning. Not fear that he didn’t love you. Fear that eventually you would stop loving him. You stared at him in disbelief. “Do you really think that little of yourself?”
His jaw tightened immediately. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said,” silence. Heavy now. The rain outside had intensified, tapping harder against the glass while the city beyond blurred further into shadow. “You think this hurts less?” you whispered suddenly.
Max frowned slightly. “What?”
“This,” you gestured weakly between you both. “Pretending this isn’t what it is.”
His expression shifted carefully blank. Coward. You could see him retreating already. “I’m not pretending anything.”
A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped you. “You sleep wrapped around me every night,” you whispered. “You look for me first after everything. You know how I take my coffee. You kiss my forehead when you think I’m asleep,” your throat burned suddenly. “What exactly do you think this is?”
Max looked at you helplessly then. Actually helpless. Like he was standing at the edge of something enormous without any idea how to survive crossing it. And suddenly your anger vanished completely. Because this wasn’t cruelty. It was fear. Pure, devastating fear.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted finally. The confession settled softly between you.
Raw. Unprotected.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly. “You already are,” you whispered.
And somehow that seemed to hurt him most of all. Because he pulled you against him immediately afterward like proximity could silence the conversation entirely. Like if he held you tightly enough neither of you would have to acknowledge the inevitable ending looming somewhere ahead of you both.
You let him. Of course you did. But long after his breathing finally evened out again, sleep refused to come anywhere near you. Because for the first time, you understood something terrible. Max loved you enough to break his own heart.
He just didn’t love himself enough to believe you wouldn’t eventually leave too, once you saw all of him.
The hotel balcony overlooked the strip, all blurred gold lights against a black sky and distant music drifting softly up from somewhere below. You stood barefoot beside the railing wrapped in one of Max’s hoodies while the party inside the suite carried on without you.
Or more accurately, without both of you.
Max stepped out onto the balcony a moment later, shutting the glass door behind him with a quiet click before leaning beside you against the railing. “You disappeared,” he said.
“You invited too many people.”
“You knew there’d be people.”
“I tolerate approximately four humans at a time.” A faint huff of laughter escaped him.
Silence settled comfortably afterward. Not awkward anymore. That had vanished months ago. Now quiet with Max felt dangerous in an entirely different way.
Easy.
Below you, Vegas glittered endlessly beneath the dark sky. Expensive cars. Flashing lights. Music drifting across the strip. Max nudged your shoulder lightly with his. “You cold?”
“No.”
“You’re wearing my hoodie.”
“That’s because you keep your room at arctic temperatures.”
“Liar.”
You smiled faintly into the night. Beside you, Max exhaled slowly through his nose before tilting his head back toward the sky. Tired tonight. You could see it in the looseness of him. The way he only got when his guard slipped low enough to rest for a while. “You know,” you murmured, “most people would probably be inside celebrating themselves right now.”
“I was.”
You rolled your eyes softly. “You signed two hats and insulted a journalist.”
“Exactly,” a tiny smile tugged briefly at his mouth before fading again. Then quieter, “I wanted to come out here.”
Your chest tightened immediately. Because there it was again. The thing he kept doing. Offering pieces of himself so casually that he never seemed to realise how devastating they actually were. You looked sideways toward him. “Why?”
Max shrugged once. But not dismissively. More like he genuinely didn’t know how to explain himself properly. Finally he said, “Too loud in there.”
You hummed softly. “And I’m not?”
His eyes shifted toward you then. Direct. Steady. “No,” he said quietly. “You’re the opposite, actually.”
Your breath caught slightly. The terrifying thing about Max was that when he did say something real, he said it with absolutely no awareness of the damage it caused. Like he had no idea your entire nervous system had just lit on fire beneath your skin. You looked away quickly toward the strip again. Beside you, Max’s shoulder remained pressed lightly against yours. Then after a long silence, he said quietly, “You’re my favourite part of this.”
Your heart stopped. Not racing. Stopped. You turned toward him slowly. Max still looked calm. Thoughtful almost. Like he hadn’t just cracked something open inside your ribcage with one sentence. “The racing?” you asked softly.
A pause. Then: “All of it.”
And there it was. Not quite a confession. But worse. Because it was honest. You stared at him helplessly while the wind shifted softly around the balcony. Max frowned slightly then, like he’d only just realised how much he’d revealed. Immediately afterward you watched the walls start rebuilding themselves behind his eyes. Retreat. Always retreat.
“So,” he said, too casual now, “are you coming back inside or are you planning to become part of the scenery out here?”
And just like that, the moment was gone. But the words stayed. They stayed for weeks.
The hotel room was dark apart from the television flickering soundlessly against the opposite wall.
Max hadn’t bothered turning on any of the lamps when he walked in, tossing his room key onto the table before disappearing into the bathroom without a word. The door stayed half-open, steam curling slowly into the room while you sat at the edge of the bed still wearing your team kit, exhaustion pressing heavily beneath your ribs.
The race had been catastrophic. Not spectacularly catastrophic. No screaming over radios. No shattered carbon fibre scattered across gravel traps. Somehow those weekends were easier to survive because anger had somewhere to go.
This had just been disappointing. Poor pace. Bad strategy calls. Endless frustration simmering beneath every clipped response Max had given since qualifying. You heard the bathroom tap shut off. A moment later he emerged in grey sweats and a green t-shirt, hair still damp, expression unreadable in the low light.
“You’re still here,” he said quietly.
You looked up from where you’d been staring blankly at the muted television. “You sound surprised.”
“I thought you had an early flight.”
“In the morning.”
He nodded once before crossing the room toward the minibar. The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore. That was the problem. At some point over the last two years, silence had become its own language. You watched him twist open a bottle of water. “You should sleep,” you said eventually.
Max leaned back against the counter. “You saying I look bad?”
“You always look bad after races like that,” a huff of laughter escaped him then. Brief. Tired. Real. It settled low in your chest in the dangerous way things always seemed to around him. “You know,” you murmured, “most people would probably hate me for talking to them like this after a weekend like today.”
“Most people annoy me.”
“And I don’t?”
His gaze lifted fully then. Direct. Steady. Too intense for this time of night. “You annoy me constantly.”
You rolled your eyes softly, but something warm unfurled anyway because you knew what he meant. Or at least you thought you did. That was the trouble with Max. Everything meaningful sounded careless coming out of his mouth. He crossed the room a moment later, dropping heavily onto the mattress beside you. The bed dipped beneath his weight, your shoulder brushing his automatically. Neither of you moved away.
The television continued flickering silently across the room. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows. “You were quiet after the debrief,” you said after a while.
Max stared ahead. “Didn’t have much to say.”
“That’s new,” another tiny smile ghosted briefly across his face before disappearing just as quickly. You looked down at your hands. “There’s still a chance you can win it.”
“Mm.”
“You’ll still probably win next weekend just to make everyone else miserable.”
This time his shoulder nudged yours lightly. “You sound very supportive.”
“It’s one of my better qualities.”
“Debatable.”
You laughed quietly beneath your breath. And there it was again. That awful, dangerous ease between you. The kind that had started as tension and somehow become comfort without either of you noticing when the shift happened.
You weren’t even sure why you’d come here tonight. Nothing had happened between you after the race. No argument. No charged glances across the garage. No signal beneath the debrief table. You had simply found yourself outside his hotel room fifteen minutes after leaving the paddock. Like your body had already decided where it belonged before your mind could catch up.
Max exhaled slowly beside you. Then, quieter this time, “You should take that job.”
Your entire body stilled. Not because of the words. Because for one terrible second, before he’d said them, you thought he was finally going to ask you to stay. You turned toward him slowly. “What?”
His gaze stayed fixed ahead on the muted television. “The offer, the one you told me about.”
Your stomach tightened painfully. Of course this again. Weeks ago you had practically handed him an opening. Ask me to stay. Choose me. Tell me this matters enough to fight for.
And instead he’d looked at you with fear in his eyes and told you to take the job before distracting you the best way he knew how. Now here he was doing it again. Like he was trying to carve the ending into both of you himself before either of you could hope for something different.
“You already told me that,” you said quietly.
“I meant it.”
The words landed hard. Too flat. Too controlled. Like he’d rehearsed them. You stared at him in disbelief. “Why are you doing this?”
That finally made him look at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Max’s jaw tightened faintly. “It’s a good opportunity.”
“There you go again,” you laughed softly, bitterness slipping around the edges. “Talking about this like it’s just career advice.”
“What do you want me to say?” The question cracked through the room sharper than he intended. Your chest tightened immediately. Because there it was. The real problem. He genuinely didn’t know. Or worse, you knew he did and was too terrified to say it aloud.
You looked away first. “Nothing,” you murmured. “Forget it.”
But Max was already watching you too carefully now. “You’d be good there,” he said quietly.
“Better than here, probably.”
The self-sabotage of it almost made you angry. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes I do.”
“No, you don’t,” your voice sharpened despite yourself. “You just think if you push me away first it’ll hurt less when I leave.”
Silence. Heavy. Immediate. Max looked like you’d hit something exposed. You swallowed hard against the emotion climbing your throat. “Why are you acting like this?” you whispered. “Why are you so determined to make this easier to lose?”
His expression shifted then. Tiny fracture. Gone almost instantly. But you saw it. Always. “Because eventually,” he said quietly, “you’ll realise this isn’t enough.”
Your chest ached so sharply it almost stole your breath. There it was again. That horrible belief sitting underneath everything he touched. You shook your head slowly. “You don’t get it.”
“No,” Max laughed softly, but there was nothing amused about the sound. “I think I do.”
“You really think I care about titles and paddock politics more than...” You stopped yourself too late. More than you. The words hung there anyway. Breathing between you.
Max went very still. Rain tapped steadily against the windows behind you while the television flickered meaningless light across the room. And suddenly it felt like you were both standing at the edge of something enormous and inevitable. “You want more than this,” he said eventually. Not accusatory. Just tired. Like the truth exhausted him.
Your throat tightened painfully. “Yes.”
The honesty of it hurt. Because neither of you were pretending anymore. Max looked down at his hands for a long moment before speaking again. “I don’t know how to give you that.”
And God— That really was the tragedy, wasn’t it? Not that he didn’t love you. That he did.
Completely. Terrifyingly. And still believed love alone would ruin you both in the end. You stared at him quietly while your chest ached beneath the weight of everything unsaid between you. “You already give me most of it,” you whispered.
That seemed to hurt him more than anger would have. Because Max closed his eyes briefly like the words physically exhausted him. “You shouldn’t stay somewhere smaller because of me.”
The sentence came out rougher now. More honest. And suddenly you understood this wasn’t manipulation. It was sacrifice. Twisted. Fearful. Self-destructive sacrifice. He loved you enough to want your future bigger than himself. Even if it destroyed him.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly. “You really think this is noble, don’t you?” you asked softly.
Max frowned slightly. “Letting me go before I can choose to stay,” you continued quietly. “You think if you ruin this yourself first, it’ll hurt less.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It is.” Your voice cracked slightly around the words. Because the cruelest part was that some part of you understood him.
Max had spent his whole life surviving pressure by controlling outcomes before they could control him. And now he was trying to do the same thing with love. You looked away before he could see how badly the realisation hurt. For a long moment neither of you spoke.
Then quietly, almost to himself, “You’d leave eventually anyway.”
The words hollowed something inside your chest. Because he sounded so certain. Like he had already mourned you long before you were gone. You turned toward him slowly. “Max,”
He didn’t look up. “You know what the worst part is?” you whispered. His jaw tightened. “I think you actually believe that.”
Silence swallowed the room whole after that.
Outside, rain continued streaking endlessly down the hotel windows while the city blurred somewhere far below. Max sat beside you close enough that your shoulders still touched.
Close enough that you could feel his warmth. Close enough that he could love you in every way except the one you needed most.
And somehow that made the distance between you feel unbearable.
Lando won the championship on a floodlit night in Abu Dhabi.
You watched it happen from the Red Bull pit wall with your headset half-off and your heartbeat somewhere down near your stomach while fireworks exploded violently above the circuit. Around you, the paddock celebrated in fragments. McLaren mechanics screaming. Orange shirts flooding the pit lane. Camera flashes everywhere.
And beside him on the podium, Max stood perfectly still. Not angry. That would have been easier. Just quiet in a way that unsettled you more.
The season had slipped away slowly. Not one catastrophic collapse. Just enough mistakes. Enough second places. Enough races where the car stopped feeling untouchable.
You looked toward him instinctively. Max’s expression remained unreadable beneath the harsh lights, jaw tight while champagne sprayed next to him around a laughing Lando. Your chest ached unexpectedly. Not because he lost. Because you knew him well enough now to understand what losing did to him when nobody else was looking. And selfishly, terribly, some part of you already knew where he would go afterward.
You were halfway through disconnecting your equipment when a shadow fell across the strategy monitors.
“You leaving tonight?”
Your fingers stilled. Max stood beside you still wearing his race suit half-zipped to his waist, exhaustion carved visibly into the sharp lines of his face. “I was going to,” you said carefully.
“Don’t,” the word landed softly. Immediately. You looked up fully then. His eyes were fixed on you with that same unbearable intensity that had ruined your life two years ago in a hotel corridor. “You should come to Monaco,” he said quietly.
Your stomach tightened instantly. “Max—”
“I mean it.”
Something dangerous flickered low beneath your ribs because he sounded almost hesitant saying it. Not casual. Not careless. Real. You swallowed carefully. “For how long?”
A tiny shrug. “A while.”
That shouldn’t have affected you the way it did. A while. Not tonight. Not a few days. A while. Like he wanted more time before the inevitable ending swallowed you both whole. The thought hurt. You looked away first. “Don’t ask me that.”
His jaw tightened faintly. “Why?”
Because if I come, I’ll pretend this still has a future. Because if I wake up beside you on some stupid yacht in Monaco while you make coffee and complain about simulator data and kiss me half-asleep in kitchens at two in the morning, I’ll forget this is already dying. Because I don’t know how to survive loving you in pieces anymore. Instead you forced out quietly, “You know why.”
Silence stretched heavily between you. Around you, celebrations still exploded across the paddock while cameras followed the new world champion through champagne and confetti.
Max didn’t move. “You’re already leaving,” he said eventually.
Your chest tightened painfully. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
You turned toward him sharply. “You’re the one who keeps pushing me away every time this becomes real.”
Something flashed across his face then. Too quick to name. Gone immediately. “I’m asking you to come with me now.”
“No,” you whispered. Not because you didn’t want to. No, that was the problem. You wanted it too much. You just couldn’t bare to put yourself through the thought of what if, what if he asked you to stay. When deep down, you knew he wouldn’t.
Max stared at you for a long moment. Then finally, “You don’t even want to try.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped you softly. “Try what, Max?”
He looked away first this time. And suddenly you understood the problem. He wanted the intimacy. The closeness. The illusion of forever. But not the words required to hold it together once winter ended. Your throat burned unexpectedly. “You don’t get to ask me for everything except commitment,” you whispered.
His expression hardened immediately. “I never asked for everything.”
“No,” you laughed bitterly. “You just take it anyway.”
The words landed hard between you both. Max’s jaw tightened sharply. “You think this season went badly because I wasn’t focused?” he asked suddenly.
Your stomach dropped. There it was. The cruelty people reached for when they were frightened. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you think it.”
“No.”
“Maybe you should,” his voice had gone flatter now. Colder. “Maybe having you around all the time wasn’t exactly helpful.”
The sentence hollowed something inside your chest. Because you knew instantly he didn’t mean it. And somehow that made it worse.
You stared at him in disbelief. “Wow,” Max looked angry immediately afterward. At himself. At the conversation. At the fact he’d said it at all. But neither of you knew how to stop now. “You don’t get to blame me because you’re scared,” you said quietly.
“I’m not scared.”
“You’re terrified.” Silence cracked violently between you. Because there it was. The truth neither of you could survive hearing aloud.
Max looked at you like he wanted to say something enormous and devastating. “Fine,” he said instead, before dropping his eyes.
Your chest ached sharply. Fine. Not stay. Not please. Not I need you. Just fine.
You nodded once because suddenly speaking felt impossible. Then you walked away before he could see your eyes burning.
The winter break passed in silence. Not complete silence. That would have been easier. Instead it became something worse. Half-typed messages never sent. Instagram stories watched immediately. His name appearing in your notifications at two in the morning only for nothing to arrive afterward. Like both of you kept reaching instinctively toward the other before fear pulled your hands back again.
You spent Christmas in England. Max spent it in Monaco. And somehow the distance between those places felt larger than entire continents.
By New Year’s Eve, your chest felt permanently hollowed out by him. You told yourself you wouldn’t think about him at midnight. That lasted until 10:43 p.m, when your phone lit up beside your drink.
Max. Your breath caught instantly. For one terrible second you just stared at the screen while your pulse thundered unevenly beneath your skin. Then finally, you answered. “Hi.”
Music thundered faintly through the speaker. Laughter somewhere behind him. Fireworks already beginning outside. But Max sounded tired. Not physically. Something deeper. “You busy?” he asked quietly.
You swallowed carefully. “At a party.”
“Mm.”
You could picture him perfectly from that single sound. Leaning somewhere private away from the crowd. One hand rubbing tiredly at his jaw. Looking for you anyway. Your chest ached. “How’s Monaco?” you asked softly.
A pause. “Loud.”
The answer made something painful twist beneath your ribs because you understood immediately what he meant. Too many people. Too much noise. Not you. You closed your eyes briefly. Around you, people were screaming songs drunkenly somewhere across the room.
Max stayed silent on the line for a moment, before he inhaled sharply. “I miss you.”
The words stole the breath from your lungs completely. Not I miss this. Not I miss the sex. Not some carefully detached version of longing.
You. For one horrible second, tears threatened unexpectedly behind your eyes. Because there it was. The thing you had spent two years destroying yourselves trying not to say. You gripped your phone tighter. “Max—”
“I know,” he interrupted quietly. “I know.” But he didn’t. That was the tragedy. He still thought loving you and keeping you were separate things.
Your throat tightened painfully. “You can’t keep doing this,” you whispered.
Silence answered you for a moment. “But I tried.” That almost ruined you completely. You pressed your hand hard against your ribs like it might stop your heart physically breaking apart inside your chest.
Over the phone, you could hear fireworks exploding somewhere beyond where he was. The countdown had started.
Ten.
“I know you tried, I just— It’s nearly midnight there, you should be with people,” you said shakily.
“I want you to be here.”
Nine. Eight.
Your eyes burned. “Max...”
Seven. Six.
“I don’t know how to let you go,” he admitted quietly. The confession cracked straight through you.
Five. Four.
And suddenly you thought about how he loved you enough to drown in it. He just still didn’t know how to choose you over his fear. The tears fell freely from your eyes now, burning down your face as you pressed a hand to your mouth, covering the sounds which slipped through your trembling lips.
Three. Two. One.
You could hear erupted cheers faintly through the static on the phone. Fireworks exploded violently above him. And through the noise, through the shouting and music and champagne and the beginning of a brand new year, neither of you spoke for a long moment.
“Happy New Year,” you whispered softly.
Max exhaled shakily on the other end of the line. “Yeah,” he murmured.
Like nothing about it felt happy at all.
Your flat was quiet apart from the rain. Again. Somehow every devastating conversation between you and Max seemed to happen while rain battered helplessly against windows somewhere in the background. Like the universe itself had decided subtlety was overrated.
You hadn’t seen him properly since Abu Dhabi. Not really. There had been the New Year’s call. His voice rough with alcohol and longing and something dangerously close to honesty as he spoke.
I miss you.
Three words. Three catastrophic words. And then the next morning, again, he’d acted like none of it had happened. Like he hadn’t cracked your ribcage open from six hundred miles away. So you’d both done what you always did.
Pretended. Pretended the silence afterward wasn’t unbearable. Pretended the distance didn’t feel like grief. Pretended this thing between you still had somewhere left to go.
In truth, the ending had already begun taking shape quietly over winter. More days at the factory. Handover meetings stretching late into the evening. Laurent reassuring you softly one afternoon that opportunities like this didn’t come often.
You hadn’t trusted yourself to answer properly.
The factory had been your first real collision since then. Just after New Year.
You’d felt him before you saw him. Ridiculous still. Across the engineering floor, through exhausted mechanics and telemetry screens and endless preseason noise, your body had recognised him instantly anyway.
And then: Tap. Tap. Against the inside of his wrist. Softer now than it used to be. More dangerous.
So you’d let him follow you home.
Of course you had. The second your door shut behind him, Max kissed you like a man trying to outrun something. His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you against him hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs while rain hammered against the windows outside.
You kissed him back just as desperately. That was the worst part. You knew what was coming. You knew this was ending. And still your body opened for him instinctively like it always had.
Max kissed like he was starving tonight. All rough edges and restrained panic buried beneath control. His fingers tightened against your hips when you made a small sound against his mouth, and suddenly you understood with terrible clarity that he knew too.
He knew this was slipping away. So he was doing what he always did when something frightened him— hold it with his hands instead of his words. Your fingers tangled briefly in the front of his shirt before you broke the kiss first, breathing unevenly. “Max...”
His forehead rested briefly against yours. “Don’t.”
The word came rough. Almost pleading. And there it was again. He would beg you to stay physically. Emotionally. Instinctively. Just never aloud. Your chest ached so violently it almost made you angry. “You can’t keep doing this,” you whispered.
His jaw tightened immediately. “Doing what?”
“This,” you gestured weakly between you both. “Acting like if you kiss me hard enough none of this exists.”
Max stepped closer again instantly, like even half a foot of distance already felt unbearable to him. “It does exist,” he said quietly.
“Then why do you act like it doesn’t?”
“I don’t.”
A humourless laugh escaped you. “Max, you talk about your pain like I don’t have any.”
That stopped him. Actually stopped him. The silence afterward felt enormous. Because suddenly all the things neither of you had wanted to say were standing naked between you both anyway. Your throat tightened painfully. “You act like you’re the only person scared here,” you whispered. “Like you’re the only one this hurts.”
His expression shifted instantly at that. Wounded. Guilty. Terrified. You kept going before you lost the nerve. “I know you’re trying,” you said softly. “I do. I know this is your version of trying,” your voice cracked slightly around the edges. “But I need more than hidden hotel rooms and late-night phone calls and pretending I don’t exist the second other people are around.”
Max looked like he wanted to interrupt. You didn’t let him. “I want to hold your hand in public,” you admitted quietly. “I want to support you properly when you win instead of standing at the back pretending I’m not looking for you,” your eyes burned suddenly. “I want people to know.”
The room fell devastatingly silent. Rain against glass. Uneven breathing. The sound of both of you breaking apart slowly. Max stared at you like you’d just exposed something he’d spent years trying not to examine directly. “But this is good,” he said finally.
And somehow those four words hurt more than shouting would have. Because he meant them. God, he meant them. To him, this was love. Just a version small enough to survive.
“Is it?” you whispered.
His jaw tightened slightly. “Why can’t we keep going like this?”
Because it’s killing me. The answer sat hot and painful behind your ribs. Instead you laughed softly without humour and stepped back from him properly for the first time since he walked into the flat. “You still think I’m going to leave in the end.”
Max went very still. There it was. The thing underneath everything. “You don’t understand,” he said quietly.
“No,” you whispered. “I understand perfectly.”
Your chest physically hurt now. Because the tragedy was that you did understand. You understood every sharp edge of him. Every instinct to retreat. Every terrified belief that eventually you would realise he was only worth loving when he was winning. But he still couldn’t understand the one thing that mattered— you had already chosen him. Not the driver. Not the championships. Not the mythology.
Him.
And somehow he still looked at you like abandonment was inevitable. Max’s voice sounded rough now. “I’m trying to give you what I can.”
The honesty of it nearly destroyed you. Because you knew that too. He was trying. God, he was trying so hard. That was what made this unbearable. Your eyes burned as you looked at him standing there in your flat, soaked in rain and fear and love he could not survive speaking aloud. “Do you love me?” you said quietly.
The words landed like a gunshot between you. Max stopped breathing for half a second. You saw it. The panic. The longing. The instinctive urge to deny it colliding violently with the truth.
Your pulse thundered painfully beneath your skin. “Say it,” you whispered.
For one terrible moment, you genuinely thought he might. His eyes closed briefly. His throat moved. His entire expression cracked open with something raw enough to make your chest ache. And still— nothing.
When he looked back at you, he looked devastated. “I can’t,” he admitted softly.
The words hollowed something out inside you. Not because he didn’t love you. That would have been easier. No, the truly heartbreaking thing was that he did. Completely. And somehow it still wasn’t enough to make him believe he deserved to keep you.
You stared at him through the silence that followed, suddenly understanding with horrible clarity that this was the last chance. Not the last time you’d touch him. Not the last time he’d knock on your door.
But the last chance for this to become something survivable. And Max had let it pass him by.
Again.
Barcelona felt cruelly bright. Sunlight spilled endlessly across the hotel balcony doors, warm against polished floors and untouched coffee gone cold on the table beside the window.
Somewhere outside, the distant noise of private testing drifted faintly through the city.
Max had barely slept. Not properly. He’d known the second you texted: Can we talk?
Not come upstairs. Not are you awake? Just can we talk. And somehow that had frightened him more than anything else ever had.
The knock came ten minutes later. Max crossed the room slowly before opening the door. And immediately knew.
Not because of your expression. That was bad enough already. Eyes red-rimmed. Sadness sitting so heavily beneath your skin it looked exhausting to carry.
No. It was the clothes. No Red Bull kit. No team jacket. No credentials hanging absentmindedly around your neck. Just jeans. Trainers. One of your oversized jumpers swallowing your hands slightly at the sleeves.
Civilian. Separate. Gone.
Something cold dropped violently through his chest. “You took it,” he said immediately.
Not even a question. Your face crumpled slightly at how fast he understood. Slowly, you nodded. “I asked them not to announce it yet,” you said quietly. “I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
The silence afterward felt catastrophic. Max stared at you from the doorway, something sharp and disbelieving twisting across his face. Even now, some irrational part of him had genuinely believed you wouldn’t go. That you’d stay. Because you loved him.
And maybe that was the worst thing he’d ever done to you. Assume your love meant permanence while offering none in return. His jaw tightened hard. “So that’s it?” he asked flatly. “You’re leaving.”
Your eyes immediately filled. “No, Max—”
But he was already stepping back from you, anger arriving in the only place panic knew how to survive inside him. “Right,” he laughed once without humour, dragging a hand through his hair. “So all of this was bullshit then?”
The hurt on your face was immediate. Real. “Don’t,” you whispered.
“I thought you loved me.”
“I do love you,” the honesty of it nearly knocked the breath from him. Your voice cracked visibly around the edges now. “This was real to me,” you said. “God, Max, it was so fucking real.”
Something in his chest splintered quietly. Because he knew. He knew that. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he loved you too and somehow still couldn’t build a future out of it without feeling terrified. You wiped angrily at your face before continuing. “But I need more.”
Max looked away immediately. There it was. The thing underneath everything. The thing both of you had spent months trying not to say directly. “I’m not asking you to become someone you’re not,” you whispered. “I’m not forcing you into something you don’t want,” your breathing shook unevenly now. “But I also can’t keep shrinking myself to fit inside what you’re capable of giving me.”
The words landed like knives because they were true. And Max had known for months this was coming. You swallowed hard. “This opportunity—” Your voice wavered slightly. “They see me, Max. They see what I can do.”
“I know how good you are,” the response came instantly. Violently. Like instinct. “You’re incredible, that’s why I...” He stopped.
Your entire face broke open at the hesitation. Because there it was again. The edge. The cliff. The impossible, unbearable thing sitting behind his teeth that he still couldn’t force himself to say even now. Tears spilled hot down your cheeks. “You can’t even say it now,” you laughed weakly through the crying. “Jesus Christ.”
Max’s expression twisted painfully. “But you know,” the words sounded rough. Desperate. “You know how I feel.”
“That’s not fair,” your voice cracked hard enough this time that Max physically flinched.
Because suddenly you looked exhausted. Not angry. Not dramatic. Just heartbroken in a way that seemed to reach all the way into your bones. “I would’ve given you everything,” you whispered. Max stopped breathing. You shook your head softly, crying openly now. “I had nothing to lose with you,” your lips trembled around the words. “Nothing.”
The hotel room felt too small suddenly. Too warm. Too full of grief. “But I can’t keep living inside hotel rooms and secret signals and pretending this doesn’t matter more to me than it’s allowed to,” you wiped helplessly at your face again. “I can’t keep being something hidden.”
“It’s not because I’m ashamed of you.” The panic entered his voice properly for the first time then. Sharp. Immediate.
You crossed the room toward him instinctively before he could spiral further. Of course you did. Even now. Your hands lifted gently to his face, thumbs brushing lightly against his jaw while he looked at you like someone already grieving. “I know,” you whispered softly. And somehow your understanding destroyed him more than anger would have. “I know, Max,” your fingers trembled slightly against his skin. “You’re just afraid.”
His eyes shut briefly. “There’s a difference.”
“No,” you whispered sadly. “Not really,” he leaned unconsciously into your touch for one devastating second before catching himself. Your chest physically hurt at the movement. “I get it,” you said quietly. “I really do,” a watery laugh escaped you. “You talk about pain like I’ve never had any but I understand you better than anyone.”
Max looked wrecked now. Not externally. Anyone else would’ve missed it. But you saw him. Always. “I know why you keep waiting for me to leave,” you whispered. His throat moved hard. “And maybe one day someone will stay long enough to convince you they won’t,” your face crumpled suddenly around the next words. “I’m just sad it couldn’t be me.”
The silence afterward felt endless. Rain tapped softly against the windows again. Of course it did. You smiled weakly through tears. “These last two years...” Your voice broke. “They were the best years of my life.”
Something inside Max nearly shattered at that. Because they were his too. Without question.
You stepped back carefully then. Small movement. World-ending consequence. “But I need to choose myself now.”
Max stared at you like he genuinely could not comprehend the shape of a life where you no longer existed inside it. “So this is it,” he said quietly. Not angry anymore. Just hollow. “We’re done.”
Fresh tears slipped down your face immediately. But your smile softened sadly anyway. “No,” you whispered. “We’ll probably see each other again,” your throat tightened visibly. “Just not like this.”
That was the moment something inside him finally cracked. You saw it happen. The panic. The grief. The sudden horrifying understanding that this was real. That you were actually leaving. You turned toward the door before you lost the strength to do it.
“Wait—”
Your entire body stilled instantly. Slowly, you turned back. Max stood frozen near the centre of the hotel room, chest rising unevenly beneath the thin black t-shirt, eyes locked onto yours with something so raw it almost made you walk back to him immediately.
This was it. The moment. You saw him fighting himself in real time.
Say it. Please.
His throat moved once. Twice. Then finally: “I do though,” your breath caught. Max looked devastated. “You know I do,” he whispered roughly. “Isn’t that enough?”
And there it was. The tragedy of him. Loving you completely while still being unable to survive the vulnerability of naming it aloud. Fresh tears burned instantly down your cheeks.
Because God— You wished it was enough.
“It might be enough for your heart,” you whispered shakily. “But it’s not good for my head,” his face twisted slightly. “And one day,” your voice cracked, “it won’t be enough for either of us.”
The silence afterward felt like mourning. You reached for the door handle slowly. Then paused one final time.
Max looked up immediately. And despite everything, despite the grief clawing through your ribcage, your expression softened when you looked at him. “You’re amazing,” you whispered. The words visibly undid him. “One day you won’t be afraid anymore,” your lips trembled hard. “And that’s going to be wonderful.”
Max looked suddenly on the verge of collapse. You smiled sadly through tears. “I hope you love that person properly,” his eyes shut briefly. “And I’m just...” your voice failed for a second. “I’m just sad it won’t be me.”
The entire room went devastatingly still. Then finally: “I love you, Max.”
The words landed softly. Certainly. Without hesitation. Max’s eyes opened instantly. Too late.
Because you were already gone.
And this time, for the first time in two years, he didn’t follow.
The first race weekend of the 2026 season felt wrong in ways nobody else would ever notice.
Different garage. Different colours. Different voices speaking through your headset while strategy engineers argued quietly around you over fuel loads and tyre windows and race simulations that still didn’t feel fully yours yet.
Everything worked. That was the problem. The promotion was exactly what everyone promised it would be. More responsibility. More authority. More visibility.
Senior Race Strategy Engineer. One of the youngest on the grid. The kind of role people spent entire careers trying to reach. You should have felt triumphant every time someone introduced you properly now. Every time your opinions shifted meetings. Every time senior staff listened when you spoke.
Instead, some traitorous part of you still kept expecting to hear Max somewhere behind you saying something argumentative about tyre degradation. Pathetic, really.
Six weeks. It had been six weeks since Barcelona. Since the hotel room. Since you’d walked away from the only thing that had ever really felt like home. And somehow you still carried him everywhere.
You had no one left to protect you from your own memories now. That was the worst part. At Red Bull, he had been unavoidable. Constant. Built into the rhythm of your days so thoroughly that loving him had felt almost survivable simply because he was always there.
Now the absence echoed. You heard him in silence. In hotel rooms after midnight when the television played quietly in the background and exhaustion settled too heavily for distraction.
In rain against windows. In the instinctive glance toward empty space beside you during debriefs where he no longer sat.
Sometimes you still caught yourself turning slightly, expecting warmth at your back. A hand against your waist. Tap. Tap.
And God, you still remembered how he touched you. Like you were something precious he didn’t know how to keep. Grief had become strangely ordinary now. Not smaller. Just familiar. You had learned how to carry it beside everything else.
Because leaving him had not made you stop loving him. It had only made loving him quieter.
And maybe that was the cruelest part of all. You still thought he might have been the greatest love of your life. Your chest tightened softly at the thought.
Sometimes you wondered what would have happened if you’d stayed. If eventually he would have believed you long enough to stop being afraid. If one day he would have looked at himself outside a race car and finally understood what you saw so clearly every time you looked at him. That he was gentle. Funny. Loyal in strange invisible ways. So much softer than the world realised. That there had always been far more to him than racing.
You had wanted so badly to teach him that. He just never let you stay long enough to try.
The paddock buzzed loudly around you while you crossed toward hospitality carrying strategy reports against your chest. People moved constantly around you. Mechanics. Engineers. Journalists. New faces already learning your name.
Everything ordinary. Everything moving forward.
And then you looked up. Mistake. Because there he was. Across the paddock beside the Red Bull motorhome, talking quietly with GP. Your body recognised him before your mind did. Instantly. Like instinct. Like muscle memory.
Your pulse stumbled painfully beneath your ribs. He looked tired. Not physically. You knew the difference. Something quieter sat beneath the sharpness of him now. Like grief had worn some of the edges softer since the last time you saw him. Or maybe you were imagining it because heartbreak had made you sentimental.
GP was saying something while gesturing toward a tablet in his hands. Max wasn’t listening.
Because suddenly his eyes lifted. And found you immediately.
Everything inside you went still. The paddock noise blurred softly around the edges while the distance between you stretched impossibly wide and painfully small all at once.
There you are. The thought arrived so suddenly it almost winded you.
Across the paddock, Max looked completely frozen now. Like the sight of you had physically interrupted whatever thought he’d been having before. GP followed his gaze a second later.
And understanding crossed his face almost instantly. Soft. Quiet. Sad enough to make your chest ache further. He offered you a small wave. You managed one back automatically. Then GP glanced toward Max once, touched his shoulder lightly like: I’ll give you a minute.
And walked away without another word. Leaving Max standing there alone. Looking at you like regret had become something living beneath his skin.
Your throat tightened painfully. Because suddenly all you could think was: I hope you know how hard this was for me. I hope you know I would have stayed forever if loving you hadn’t started destroying me.
Max’s expression barely shifted outwardly. Anyone else would have missed it. But you knew him too well. You saw the grief in the way his shoulders held tension. The exhaustion behind his eyes. The way he looked at you like someone seeing the shape of his own loss reflected back at him.
And somehow, despite everything, you still understood him. That was the tragedy. You understood that he had not failed to love you. He had simply never learned how to survive being loved in return.
He had loved you in every language except the one you needed most.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly. Because even now, standing in different colours on opposite sides of the paddock, you could still feel the shape of him inside your life.
You had loved him enough to leave. And he had loved you enough to let you.
A small sad smile touched your mouth before you could stop it. Across from you, something in Max’s expression cracked slightly at the sight of it. Not dramatically. Worse. Quietly. Like pain settling deeper instead of louder.
You nodded once toward him. A goodbye. A thank you. An I still love you. Then you turned away. One step. Two. And then:
Tap. Tap.
You stopped instantly. The sound didn’t exist. Not really. But your body knew it anyway.
Slowly, you looked back over your shoulder. Max stood exactly where you’d left him. Watching you. Two fingers pressed lightly against the inside of his wrist.
The signal. Now it meant something else entirely.
I loved you. I still do. I probably always will.
Your breath caught painfully in your chest. For one devastating second, you considered answering it. Giving in. Crossing the paddock. Falling back into him one final time just to feel loved by him again, even incompletely.
Because God, it would be so easy. Too easy. You stared at him across the noise and movement and fluorescent light of the paddock while your heart broke quietly all over again.
Then, slowly, you shook your head. Not angry. Just sad.
Max’s face fell almost imperceptibly. Still, after a second: Tap. Tap. Again. Like hope. Like apology. Like love arriving too late.
Your eyes burned fiercely now. But this time, you didn’t look back again. You turned and walked away while the paddock swallowed you whole around the edges.
And somewhere behind you, Max Verstappen finally understood that loving someone was not the same thing as knowing how to keep them.
© piestri. please do not copy/repost/translate my work without asking. thank you for reading, i appreciate all comments/reblogs and likes :-)
I can’t believe I just read one of the best fics of my life. I’m devo I won’t be able to read this for the first time again
and when I say you are so not ready. YALL AREN"T READY
STAY SAFE!! [ID: the Gilbert Baker pride flag with the words “Happy pride to all those who are unable to celebrate openly and safely. You are loved and seen!” in all-caps black text over it. /end ID]
NEW DAY NEW THEME
LOOKS AMAZINGGGGGGGGG
THANK YEWWWWW!!!! the great divide / stick season has had me in its clutches for WEEKS!! 😼😼😼
a strong hand and a sound mind ─── max verstappen x reader
featuring . police!max , paramedic!reader , time loop au , roommate!charles , max's station is just redbull drivers , mentions to @theonottsbxtch's the station down the road (only if you squint) , my only knowledge of police stations is brooklyn 99 , sprinkles of maxiel and a reference to a noah kahan song , open ending (or unfinished... depends on personal interpretation lol) . title from noah kahan's you're gonna go far .
word count . 4.3k
author's note . in honour of max's first podium this year, I finally finished this old ahh draft to celebrate! (if you told 2023 me that I would be celebrating a mere podium... I would've passed out). considering mr kahan just came out with a song about his best friend dan, I couldn't not have hints of maxiel. ik my writing doesn't necessarily do well, but I had a lot of fun writing this, so I hope you all enjoy xx
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Max wakes up to the sound of his alarm blaring in his ear.
He doesn’t move. Doesn't open his eyes. Just sighs, a small, tired thing that speaks volumes to his current predicament. Without even acknowledging waking up, Max knows deep in his soul that today is May 24th, 2026. It’s 6:30am. In three minutes time, Jimmy will start scratching on his door. His flatmate Charles will start the coffee machine at 6:41. A car will speed by his building, running through a puddle outside and honking its horn at nothing in particular around 7:03.
By then, Max will have started his day, getting ready for his shift – the routine had become muscle memory at this point. He gets dressed into his uniform, drinks his coffee, brushes his teeth, bids goodbye to Charles, and heads down to his car.
It’s the same routine that he has lived for the past 22 days. 22 repeats of the exact same Sunday with no explanation as to why. Its overcast outside his window, the minimal light diffusing a soft glow over the room from the blind that never got put down the night before – or, well, 21 nights ago.
Max leaves his place at exactly 7:20, arriving to the station at 7:37, 8 minutes before the start of his shift, just like every other day so far (apart from the one time – day 11, he thinks – where he spent the whole day at home, praying that it would change his fate. Spoiler; it did not). Max knows by now that it takes him 3 minutes to get from his car to his desk, leaving him 5 minutes to spend alone with his thoughts. He runs through it all in his head: in 13 minutes, Captain Vettel will walk through his office door into the bullpen, greet everyone, then politely but firmly tell them to get back to work. Sargeant Webber will spill his coffee on his desk at 8:12, refusing any help offered to him (once Max forced Mark to let him help, hoping that was the change he needed to make. It was not). They will get a call of a child with no parents around at 9:23, which Max and his partner, Ricciardo – ‘the hometown heroes’ as the station likes to call them – will respond to. The lady who called it in is kind, idly waiting with the little girl until her mother comes down to take her home.
Max originally tried to keep a comprehensive list of all the things he changed day-to-day, but he remembers it all. No point in writing it down when it erases itself at midnight, he thinks. He could recite it all from memory if prompted (granted that would never happen, though). Besides, he knows what he has to do to be freed. He hates that he remains acutely aware of everything he does anyway, despite the fact that that’s not what needs to be done. He knows that changing his coffee order, or not laughing at Daniel’s jokes, or wearing different socks, isn’t what he needs to do to get out. The repetition of it all becomes more and more daunting by the hour.
Like clockwork, at 4:01pm, 29 minutes before Max is supposed to finish his shift and head home, him and Ricciardo are called out again. This time, instead of a lost child, it's a potential drunk driver swerving all over the road. Code 1, lights and sirens. The pair will be the first on the scene where they will see one car flipped on the wrong side of the road, crumpled on the passenger side and clearly t-boned with the perpetrator nowhere to be seen. A hit-and-run, presumably.
Daniel will take a deep breath before he gets out of the squad car, mentally preparing himself, like he has every day beforehand. Even though he would never admit it, Max knows how much Daniel hates car accidents. How much he hates not knowing what they are walking into, or how serious it could be. In the past, he did too, but he supposes that being in a time loop works out well in his favour. He knows it all too well, considering he's relived it the past 22 days.
As they step out, Max hears ambulance sirens in the distance, about 2 or so minutes away. There is no one else around, so he is still unsure of who called for help. Daniel notes, same as he always does, that its oddly quiet for 4:07pm on a Sunday. As the sirens get closer, so do Max and Daniel. Through the shattered passenger window, they see the driver hanging limply, barely held up by his seatbelt with the faintest of movement in his chest. The ambulance wouldn’t get there in time, Max thinks. They never do.
Max knows they aren’t called to help the victim – they are there for scene control, to direct traffic, or deal with pissed off assholes who just totalled their precious trucks. But a small part of him always wants to help. To save a life. That’s what counts, he thinks.
They can hear the roaring sirens of the fire brigade now, too. Similar in pitch, but different in tone – the ambulance carries a heavier, more urgent cry. Max hates how it makes him feel – like he's useless in these kinds of situations. There isn’t much he can do, except check the scene for dangers and report back to dispatch on sitrep. No one on scene except the totalled grey car, one ambulance unit, asking for intensive care if available.
As the attending paramedics pull up, he greets them the same as always. They nod in acknowledgement; the usual grimly focused expression painted on their faces. They move with such grace, assessing the patient the best they can given everything happening.
Max hates the horrid sense of deja vu that washes over him; despite living this repeatedly for three weeks, the uncomfortable crawling of goosebumps up his spine rattles him. He hates that, even with his eyes closed, he could describe every single injury the patient has, where the blood streaks down his face, the clean break in his wrist. He could recite it in such vivid detail even a psychic would be impressed.
Max also hates that he is never identified by the end of the day, so Max is stuck in a shitty limbo of being unable to look him up and stop this whole mess from happening. But he guesses that’s the whole point of this karmic justice, or whatever is happening. He hates that he is the only one who knows that the patient will be pronounced dead on arrival after being airlifted to the nearest trauma service. He hates that he has tried, in so many different ways, to prevent this from happening, and failed every time.
So, Max goes home and showers, scrubbing his face hard enough his skin turns red, as if it would somehow cleanse his mind of the poor man's bloodied face. It never does.
DAY 33
Max is smart. At least, he considers himself to be. He’s adaptive to his environment, creative in his ways, but easily frustrated. So, when he wakes with the sun in his eyes and alarm beeping in his ear now over a month into this whole ordeal, he decides to change up a lot for the day. He'll put on a different uniform, wear his badge on the other side, eat breakfast instead of just coffee, leave for work 10 minutes late, greet the captain before he can greet Max. Maybe even work at Daniel’s desk if it comes to it. Refuse the coffee that the new intern Liam will offer him. Intentionally mispronounce Isack from finance’s name. Maybe he will make Daniel drive everywhere they go, just to see how that changes things.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
He gets called to the scene of little girl as usual, grabbing his jacket this time and heading down. He decides some small talk would be good whilst they wait for the mother to arrive, straying from the same conversations he has been having for the past 4 and a half weeks. It's nice, refreshing, not having to laugh at the same crap jokes Daniel makes every day, or using the same 3 replies to Alex’s sarcastic comments. As the mother and daughter leave, the lady who waited with the girl mentions something of working at a coffee shop, which he decides to investigate someday. It’s not like he’s running out of days to go anytime soon. Maybe tomorrow he can stop there before work. To spice things up, he reasons.
It makes Max feel a little lighter as he heads back to the station, knowing what he is to face in just a few hours.
On day 23, he tried to miss work and just camp out at the scene of the accident. About an hour in, Vettel called and told him off for skipping work when his big drug case was going to court in 2 days, and he hadn’t finished the paperwork. Considering he couldn’t exactly explain his predicament, he gave in and left. Nothing had changed that afternoon.
On day 26, he tried to convince Daniel to leave 10 minutes before they would get the call, but Daniel told him to piss off, that he was too busy to entertain whatever bullshit Max was pulling that day.
On day 30, he asked Webber to take his place and go with Ricciardo, to which he is vehemently denied, and told to hurry up and go.
Nothing was working. It frustrated Max to no end. How was he supposed to save this anonymous man if he couldn’t get to the scene early enough to prevent it, or let someone else go? So, on day 33, he tried something new. He tried everything new.
He called emergency services themselves, 10 minutes before the accident would happen. He told them that it would happen on Highway 1, before the M3 inbound turn off, in the hopes that they would get there at the right time.
Right on cue, at 4:01pm Max and Daniel got the call to respond. They got into their patrol car, and it took them exactly 5 minutes and 20 seconds to get there, just like every other time. It was the same crash in front of him as it had been the past 33 days, with the car upside down smoking on the left, the culprit nowhere to be seen.
Except now, parked a few metres away, sat a single-occupant intensive care unit. The back doors are open, but there is no one inside.
An ambulance, lights and sirens blasting, pulls up next to them less than a minute later. They get their gear, and prepare for extraction, just like always. Daniel sighs, gets out and asks for directions.
Max, on the other hand, is frozen in shock.
This is new.
He can’t see their face, but he can make out that they are crouched by the driver’s side. He doesn't even realise he isn't breathing until dispatch crackles over the radio, asking for a report. He gives what he can, clearing his throat and getting out of the car. Daniel is helping extraction, cutting the seatbelt as one of the attending paramedics cradle the patients head, doing their best until the fire trucks arrive. The intensive care paramedic makes the call for a helicopter, says they can land in a field 15 minutes away.
It the first time Max sees you; you look up, hair pinned back, looking more put together than Max has ever felt, so sure of yourself and your decisions, and he can feel the breath leave his lungs.
“Your partner normally this useless?” you mutter to Daniel, who scoffs and barks at him to get involved.
But Max can’t move his feet. He’s rooted to the spot, a metre from the open car door staring hopelessly, willing his body to just go. He doesn’t.
The Fire Brigade are there, and proper extraction begins. He blinks and the patient is out, on a spine board then a stretcher. The ambulance doors close, engine turning over before the lights and sirens flick back on.
He sees you glance over at him, headed back for your car.
“I haven’t seen you before,” he calls out before he can stop himself.
You don’t reply in words, just an odd look before hopping in and speeding off to try and save a life.
Max watches as the lights fade into the distance, the thumping of his heartbeat slowing in his ears, giving him a second to think to himself. Daniel calls for him, and he falls back into the same routine before he has the chance to process what just happened.
When the scene is sectioned off and cleared, and backup arrives so Max and Daniel can return to the station, someone will tell him that the victim didn’t make it – was pronounced DoA, again. This was normal, the usual outcome to the day. So, he heads home, makes him and his flatmate dinner, and goes to bed.
And when he wakes up the next morning, the backlit clouds crowding the sky, incessant blaring of his alarm, Max knows that he is still living the same Sunday. So, he zones out and relies on muscle memory and instinct to get ready for his day. He gets dressed, drinks his coffee, brushes his teeth, bids goodbye to Charles, and heads down to his car. On the drive over, he tries to think of new, innovative ways to change the day.
He decides that it’s a later problem, locking his car and heading to his desk. He gathers his things and arrives at exactly 7:30. He keeps his eyes down, enjoying the view of the dirty linoleum tiles scuffing his shoes.at this point, he was willing to avoid any kind of conversations.
Someone clears their throat. Max's head snaps up, and there you sit. Perched in his chair, waving his name plate around like it was the only lifeline you had.
“Hey, Verstappen,” you say, voice strained as if you were struggling to maintain your composure, and he immediately recognises your face – you were the extra paramedic yesterday. The one who took his place with eased practise and made him freeze in the worn tracks of his routine. You look a little worse for wear, but he could pick you out of a crowd blindfolded. “Funny seeing you here,” you continue, a smile plastered on your face that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
He swallows, refusing to move any closer, as if you were poised to attack him. “Go ahead,” he coughs out, almost worried he would scare you away if he raised his voice too loud.
“What the hell have you done to me?”
Max stiffens. “...What, uh, what do you mean?”
You stand, stepping closer to him. “Yesterday, after the accident? I finished my shift, went home and went to bed blah blah blah whatever. I woke up this morning, and my phone says its Sunday the 24th again. I figured it was a glitch so I just got ready and went to work. But, and this is the kicker right here, no one remembers anything from the accident yesterday – none of my coworkers, not your boss, not even your partner Ricciardo.”
“You talked to...? I-” Max swallows, his throat dry, fear practically radiating off his skin. His brain was short circuiting, struggling to come up with a solid answer, so he settles with; “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
For a moment, your expression breaks into one of dread, before you school it back into some faux-neutral that even Max can see past. “Before we left the scene you said, ‘I haven’t seen you before.’ You looked genuinely shellshocked – like you had seen a ghost or some shit. And you don't know what I'm talking about?”
Max was at a loss for words. It was barely 8am and he could hardly form a single coherent thought. He stood in silence as you stared at him expectantly, a slow, creeping suspicion pulling at his chest.
He could pull people into the time loop.
DAY 44
Max wakes up as usual, just the same as the past month-and-a-half of mornings. Sun dimly shining through his curtains, the frost of the morning nipping quietly at his feet. He knows it's another Sunday in May; he can feel the same dread, the same foreboding settle deep into his bones. He wonders when he escapes, will the next morning be different? Will the weight of it all finally be lifted from his shoulders? Will he wake up and know that he has moved on, that a new day has dawned?
He hasn’t seen you since you fled the station 11 days ago. He wonders what happened to you. Why hadn’t you come back? Had something happened and that day was just an anomaly? Or worse, had you found a way to escape without him? What had you tried that he hadn’t?
He pulls on his work pants as Jimmy circles his feet, brushing his soft tail lightly against the side of the bed before he disappears into the dark hallway, being the feline-enigma that cats are. It makes Max smile, if only a little. He hopes that Charles is taking care of both of them on the other side of whatever this was. (If that was even how this worked – do other people just continue with their lives? What was Max like in that scenario? It hurt his brain to think about, so he never let himself get caught up in it).
The coffee cup that he had balanced so carefully between his thigh's spills at the lurch of acceleration, dripping down his pants and onto the floor mats. Another pro to the time loop; what usually would make the car reek of brewed coffee for weeks will be gone by tomorrow. And his dirtied pants will be clean the next morning – he hasn't done a load of washing in 44 days.
It's the little things, right?
The sound of his footsteps echoes through the quiet hallway, easing him back into reality, the precinct wrapped in the muted routine of the morning around him. He stops by Captain Vettel’s office as he goes. The room feels somewhat like a temple; a dedication to all the hard work Sebastian has put into the force to be where he is now. All of his medals and certificates ordain the walls, imposing in its own formidable way. Vettel sits behind his desk with the unbothered aura of someone who has better things to be doing than making small talk.
“Briefing starts in 15, Verstappen,” the superior officer notes, dismissal clear in his tone.
Max nods, taking his leave.
Some part of him almost dreads returning to his own desk, doing meaningless work that gets him nowhere. His train of thoughts are cut off when he gets to his desk. He barely manages to put his bag down and settle in before a chill runs down his spine; he can feel a pair of eyes boring into the back of his head, swivelling in his chair to find the source before even thinking it through. He spots you standing near the front desk, as if his mental spiral had somehow summoned you to his workplace.
The glare you are giving him buries deep into his chest, crawling between his ribs and suffocating his lungs, but it is quickly replaced by something that looks a hell of a lot like exhaustion. Not the kind that is usually paired with the paramedic uniform draped over you, but the kind where you’re stuck in a time loop and tried everything to escape, and nothing seems to be going your way.
It’s a look that Max knows all too well.
“You’re here,” he huffs, disbelief clear in his expression.
You nod, unsure if you can even form words. He gently guides you by the elbow to the guest seating area, empty as usual for early on a Sunday morning. Max leaves a seat separating you, as if being too close might fracture the moment – or the illusion. For a moment he isn’t sure if he is hallucinating; 44 days in isolation would do that to you.
“I...” You watch as his fists clench in his lap, gears turning behind his eyes as he tries to figure out what to say. “You came back.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
You sigh. “Didn’t really have much choice, did I?”
“It’s been eleven days... where have you been?”
You can tell he isn't asking out of anger, or malice, just plain curiosity and something else that looks like worry.
He looks down at his lap, almost timidly. “Are you okay? I was nervous for a second that you had managed to get out, or worse that I had hallucinated the whole thing and that if I had just made it all up in my head-”
“Max.”
He shuts his mouth, but he doesn’t look up.
“I was freaked out,” you sigh. “You denied being in whatever this is – which, by the way, you are a horrific liar – and I was terrified. I didn't know what to do, so I went home and cried myself to sleep, praying to some higher being for this to have just been a bad dream.” You shift uncomfortably in your seat, rubbing a hand across your forehead as if that would ease the headache you've had for the past week or so.
“But you didn’t,” he says.
“No,” you say, “I didn’t. So, for the next few days I tried everything I could think of to get out. I called out of work, drove for 20 odd hours with no sleep to see if it was zoned or something. When that didn’t work, I just tried to stay awake as long as I could, which also did not work.”
“Yeah, I tried those too when I first got stuck.”
You hum, playing with your sleeve mindlessly. “Did you write down everything that you have tried? Or kept some kind of list?”
He grimaces, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I remember it all, though.”
“Right...” you can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation – being stuck in a time loop with a cop who you’ve never seen before. He laughs too, and the tension in the room lifts a little.
“What else have you tried?” he asks, briefly glancing back toward his desk as Ricciardo rifles through some papers he had just printed.
You huff, thinking back to the start. “I think it was the fourth or fifth day, and I waited at the scene of the accident with all my gear. I was there for two or so hours - I couldn’t remember the exact time it happened, so I just sat and waited by myself. They wouldn’t let me take an ambulance, but honestly, I was lucky that they even let me leave in the first place. When the call to respond came through, the accident hadn’t even happened yet. I was baffled.”
Max’s stomach drops. “Uh, yeah that, um-...” he clears his throat, “that’s me. The first time I called it in early was the day that you got roped into this mess, so I guess I...” he smiles sheepishly, not wanting to finish his sentence.
“You what?”
He takes a deep breath. “I guess I just wanted to see you again, and if that was what it took, then I'd do it every time. But you didn't show up again. Either way, I changed a lot that day, so that might have not even been why you were there, but I guess that was what just made the most sense to have worked. I don’t know.”
You nod inquisitively, as if all the pieces of the puzzle were coming together. “That first day, when I was called to the job, they said it was a big accident and needed at least 2 units. Maybe it just came down to a difference in describing the scene compared to whoever called it in originally.”
Max hums, unsure where to take the conversation from there.
“How long have you been in here, anyway?”
“44 days, give or take.”
You blanche, skin going pale at the thought of being stuck in a never-ending loop for 6 weeks. Alone. “That must have been hard for you.”
He sighs, cracking his knuckles as he leans back in the chair. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was. Is. I tried not to think about it too much.”
“No, not is. You have me now,” you smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
He slowly nods, as if struggling to come to terms with it – 44 days alone, spent in utter isolation with no one to sympathise, but now you were there. Someone in the same situation. It’s almost unnerving, the giddiness gripping his chest.
“So,” you continue, picking at your nails like they held the secrets you were looking for. “Tell me everything you know. From the start until now.”
“Honestly I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Every story has a beginning, Max. What happened the first morning? What have you tried? Literally any information is useful.”
His mind went blank. So much for being able to recite it from memory.
“Max?”
“I think it’d be easier to list what I haven’t done.”
You looked at him, long and hard, as if you could unravel his secrets if you tried just enough. He could see the cogs turning behind your eyes, deciding how to approach this.
“Alright. You've been here longer than me, so it’s only fair – where do we start?”
love the recent max fic x
awww thank you !! I’m so so glad:)) it’s been sitting in my drafts for a hot minute ngl!
a strong hand and a sound mind ─── max verstappen x reader
featuring . police!max , paramedic!reader , time loop au , roommate!charles , max's station is just redbull drivers , mentions to @theonottsbxtch's the station down the road (only if you squint) , my only knowledge of police stations is brooklyn 99 , sprinkles of maxiel and a reference to a noah kahan song , open ending (or unfinished... depends on personal interpretation lol) . title from noah kahan's you're gonna go far .
word count . 4.3k
author's note . in honour of max's first podium this year, I finally finished this old ahh draft to celebrate! (if you told 2023 me that I would be celebrating a mere podium... I would've passed out). considering mr kahan just came out with a song about his best friend dan, I couldn't not have hints of maxiel. ik my writing doesn't necessarily do well, but I had a lot of fun writing this, so I hope you all enjoy xx
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Max wakes up to the sound of his alarm blaring in his ear.
He doesn’t move. Doesn't open his eyes. Just sighs, a small, tired thing that speaks volumes to his current predicament. Without even acknowledging waking up, Max knows deep in his soul that today is May 24th, 2026. It’s 6:30am. In three minutes time, Jimmy will start scratching on his door. His flatmate Charles will start the coffee machine at 6:41. A car will speed by his building, running through a puddle outside and honking its horn at nothing in particular around 7:03.
By then, Max will have started his day, getting ready for his shift – the routine had become muscle memory at this point. He gets dressed into his uniform, drinks his coffee, brushes his teeth, bids goodbye to Charles, and heads down to his car.
It’s the same routine that he has lived for the past 22 days. 22 repeats of the exact same Sunday with no explanation as to why. Its overcast outside his window, the minimal light diffusing a soft glow over the room from the blind that never got put down the night before – or, well, 21 nights ago.
Max leaves his place at exactly 7:20, arriving to the station at 7:37, 8 minutes before the start of his shift, just like every other day so far (apart from the one time – day 11, he thinks – where he spent the whole day at home, praying that it would change his fate. Spoiler; it did not). Max knows by now that it takes him 3 minutes to get from his car to his desk, leaving him 5 minutes to spend alone with his thoughts. He runs through it all in his head: in 13 minutes, Captain Vettel will walk through his office door into the bullpen, greet everyone, then politely but firmly tell them to get back to work. Sargeant Webber will spill his coffee on his desk at 8:12, refusing any help offered to him (once Max forced Mark to let him help, hoping that was the change he needed to make. It was not). They will get a call of a child with no parents around at 9:23, which Max and his partner, Ricciardo – ‘the hometown heroes’ as the station likes to call them – will respond to. The lady who called it in is kind, idly waiting with the little girl until her mother comes down to take her home.
Max originally tried to keep a comprehensive list of all the things he changed day-to-day, but he remembers it all. No point in writing it down when it erases itself at midnight, he thinks. He could recite it all from memory if prompted (granted that would never happen, though). Besides, he knows what he has to do to be freed. He hates that he remains acutely aware of everything he does anyway, despite the fact that that’s not what needs to be done. He knows that changing his coffee order, or not laughing at Daniel’s jokes, or wearing different socks, isn’t what he needs to do to get out. The repetition of it all becomes more and more daunting by the hour.
Like clockwork, at 4:01pm, 29 minutes before Max is supposed to finish his shift and head home, him and Ricciardo are called out again. This time, instead of a lost child, it's a potential drunk driver swerving all over the road. Code 1, lights and sirens. The pair will be the first on the scene where they will see one car flipped on the wrong side of the road, crumpled on the passenger side and clearly t-boned with the perpetrator nowhere to be seen. A hit-and-run, presumably.
Daniel will take a deep breath before he gets out of the squad car, mentally preparing himself, like he has every day beforehand. Even though he would never admit it, Max knows how much Daniel hates car accidents. How much he hates not knowing what they are walking into, or how serious it could be. In the past, he did too, but he supposes that being in a time loop works out well in his favour. He knows it all too well, considering he's relived it the past 22 days.
As they step out, Max hears ambulance sirens in the distance, about 2 or so minutes away. There is no one else around, so he is still unsure of who called for help. Daniel notes, same as he always does, that its oddly quiet for 4:07pm on a Sunday. As the sirens get closer, so do Max and Daniel. Through the shattered passenger window, they see the driver hanging limply, barely held up by his seatbelt with the faintest of movement in his chest. The ambulance wouldn’t get there in time, Max thinks. They never do.
Max knows they aren’t called to help the victim – they are there for scene control, to direct traffic, or deal with pissed off assholes who just totalled their precious trucks. But a small part of him always wants to help. To save a life. That’s what counts, he thinks.
They can hear the roaring sirens of the fire brigade now, too. Similar in pitch, but different in tone – the ambulance carries a heavier, more urgent cry. Max hates how it makes him feel – like he's useless in these kinds of situations. There isn’t much he can do, except check the scene for dangers and report back to dispatch on sitrep. No one on scene except the totalled grey car, one ambulance unit, asking for intensive care if available.
As the attending paramedics pull up, he greets them the same as always. They nod in acknowledgement; the usual grimly focused expression painted on their faces. They move with such grace, assessing the patient the best they can given everything happening.
Max hates the horrid sense of deja vu that washes over him; despite living this repeatedly for three weeks, the uncomfortable crawling of goosebumps up his spine rattles him. He hates that, even with his eyes closed, he could describe every single injury the patient has, where the blood streaks down his face, the clean break in his wrist. He could recite it in such vivid detail even a psychic would be impressed.
Max also hates that he is never identified by the end of the day, so Max is stuck in a shitty limbo of being unable to look him up and stop this whole mess from happening. But he guesses that’s the whole point of this karmic justice, or whatever is happening. He hates that he is the only one who knows that the patient will be pronounced dead on arrival after being airlifted to the nearest trauma service. He hates that he has tried, in so many different ways, to prevent this from happening, and failed every time.
So, Max goes home and showers, scrubbing his face hard enough his skin turns red, as if it would somehow cleanse his mind of the poor man's bloodied face. It never does.
DAY 33
Max is smart. At least, he considers himself to be. He’s adaptive to his environment, creative in his ways, but easily frustrated. So, when he wakes with the sun in his eyes and alarm beeping in his ear now over a month into this whole ordeal, he decides to change up a lot for the day. He'll put on a different uniform, wear his badge on the other side, eat breakfast instead of just coffee, leave for work 10 minutes late, greet the captain before he can greet Max. Maybe even work at Daniel’s desk if it comes to it. Refuse the coffee that the new intern Liam will offer him. Intentionally mispronounce Isack from finance’s name. Maybe he will make Daniel drive everywhere they go, just to see how that changes things.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
He gets called to the scene of little girl as usual, grabbing his jacket this time and heading down. He decides some small talk would be good whilst they wait for the mother to arrive, straying from the same conversations he has been having for the past 4 and a half weeks. It's nice, refreshing, not having to laugh at the same crap jokes Daniel makes every day, or using the same 3 replies to Alex’s sarcastic comments. As the mother and daughter leave, the lady who waited with the girl mentions something of working at a coffee shop, which he decides to investigate someday. It’s not like he’s running out of days to go anytime soon. Maybe tomorrow he can stop there before work. To spice things up, he reasons.
It makes Max feel a little lighter as he heads back to the station, knowing what he is to face in just a few hours.
On day 23, he tried to miss work and just camp out at the scene of the accident. About an hour in, Vettel called and told him off for skipping work when his big drug case was going to court in 2 days, and he hadn’t finished the paperwork. Considering he couldn’t exactly explain his predicament, he gave in and left. Nothing had changed that afternoon.
On day 26, he tried to convince Daniel to leave 10 minutes before they would get the call, but Daniel told him to piss off, that he was too busy to entertain whatever bullshit Max was pulling that day.
On day 30, he asked Webber to take his place and go with Ricciardo, to which he is vehemently denied, and told to hurry up and go.
Nothing was working. It frustrated Max to no end. How was he supposed to save this anonymous man if he couldn’t get to the scene early enough to prevent it, or let someone else go? So, on day 33, he tried something new. He tried everything new.
He called emergency services themselves, 10 minutes before the accident would happen. He told them that it would happen on Highway 1, before the M3 inbound turn off, in the hopes that they would get there at the right time.
Right on cue, at 4:01pm Max and Daniel got the call to respond. They got into their patrol car, and it took them exactly 5 minutes and 20 seconds to get there, just like every other time. It was the same crash in front of him as it had been the past 33 days, with the car upside down smoking on the left, the culprit nowhere to be seen.
Except now, parked a few metres away, sat a single-occupant intensive care unit. The back doors are open, but there is no one inside.
An ambulance, lights and sirens blasting, pulls up next to them less than a minute later. They get their gear, and prepare for extraction, just like always. Daniel sighs, gets out and asks for directions.
Max, on the other hand, is frozen in shock.
This is new.
He can’t see their face, but he can make out that they are crouched by the driver’s side. He doesn't even realise he isn't breathing until dispatch crackles over the radio, asking for a report. He gives what he can, clearing his throat and getting out of the car. Daniel is helping extraction, cutting the seatbelt as one of the attending paramedics cradle the patients head, doing their best until the fire trucks arrive. The intensive care paramedic makes the call for a helicopter, says they can land in a field 15 minutes away.
It the first time Max sees you; you look up, hair pinned back, looking more put together than Max has ever felt, so sure of yourself and your decisions, and he can feel the breath leave his lungs.
“Your partner normally this useless?” you mutter to Daniel, who scoffs and barks at him to get involved.
But Max can’t move his feet. He’s rooted to the spot, a metre from the open car door staring hopelessly, willing his body to just go. He doesn’t.
The Fire Brigade are there, and proper extraction begins. He blinks and the patient is out, on a spine board then a stretcher. The ambulance doors close, engine turning over before the lights and sirens flick back on.
He sees you glance over at him, headed back for your car.
“I haven’t seen you before,” he calls out before he can stop himself.
You don’t reply in words, just an odd look before hopping in and speeding off to try and save a life.
Max watches as the lights fade into the distance, the thumping of his heartbeat slowing in his ears, giving him a second to think to himself. Daniel calls for him, and he falls back into the same routine before he has the chance to process what just happened.
When the scene is sectioned off and cleared, and backup arrives so Max and Daniel can return to the station, someone will tell him that the victim didn’t make it – was pronounced DoA, again. This was normal, the usual outcome to the day. So, he heads home, makes him and his flatmate dinner, and goes to bed.
And when he wakes up the next morning, the backlit clouds crowding the sky, incessant blaring of his alarm, Max knows that he is still living the same Sunday. So, he zones out and relies on muscle memory and instinct to get ready for his day. He gets dressed, drinks his coffee, brushes his teeth, bids goodbye to Charles, and heads down to his car. On the drive over, he tries to think of new, innovative ways to change the day.
He decides that it’s a later problem, locking his car and heading to his desk. He gathers his things and arrives at exactly 7:30. He keeps his eyes down, enjoying the view of the dirty linoleum tiles scuffing his shoes.at this point, he was willing to avoid any kind of conversations.
Someone clears their throat. Max's head snaps up, and there you sit. Perched in his chair, waving his name plate around like it was the only lifeline you had.
“Hey, Verstappen,” you say, voice strained as if you were struggling to maintain your composure, and he immediately recognises your face – you were the extra paramedic yesterday. The one who took his place with eased practise and made him freeze in the worn tracks of his routine. You look a little worse for wear, but he could pick you out of a crowd blindfolded. “Funny seeing you here,” you continue, a smile plastered on your face that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
He swallows, refusing to move any closer, as if you were poised to attack him. “Go ahead,” he coughs out, almost worried he would scare you away if he raised his voice too loud.
“What the hell have you done to me?”
Max stiffens. “...What, uh, what do you mean?”
You stand, stepping closer to him. “Yesterday, after the accident? I finished my shift, went home and went to bed blah blah blah whatever. I woke up this morning, and my phone says its Sunday the 24th again. I figured it was a glitch so I just got ready and went to work. But, and this is the kicker right here, no one remembers anything from the accident yesterday – none of my coworkers, not your boss, not even your partner Ricciardo.”
“You talked to...? I-” Max swallows, his throat dry, fear practically radiating off his skin. His brain was short circuiting, struggling to come up with a solid answer, so he settles with; “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
For a moment, your expression breaks into one of dread, before you school it back into some faux-neutral that even Max can see past. “Before we left the scene you said, ‘I haven’t seen you before.’ You looked genuinely shellshocked – like you had seen a ghost or some shit. And you don't know what I'm talking about?”
Max was at a loss for words. It was barely 8am and he could hardly form a single coherent thought. He stood in silence as you stared at him expectantly, a slow, creeping suspicion pulling at his chest.
He could pull people into the time loop.
DAY 44
Max wakes up as usual, just the same as the past month-and-a-half of mornings. Sun dimly shining through his curtains, the frost of the morning nipping quietly at his feet. He knows it's another Sunday in May; he can feel the same dread, the same foreboding settle deep into his bones. He wonders when he escapes, will the next morning be different? Will the weight of it all finally be lifted from his shoulders? Will he wake up and know that he has moved on, that a new day has dawned?
He hasn’t seen you since you fled the station 11 days ago. He wonders what happened to you. Why hadn’t you come back? Had something happened and that day was just an anomaly? Or worse, had you found a way to escape without him? What had you tried that he hadn’t?
He pulls on his work pants as Jimmy circles his feet, brushing his soft tail lightly against the side of the bed before he disappears into the dark hallway, being the feline-enigma that cats are. It makes Max smile, if only a little. He hopes that Charles is taking care of both of them on the other side of whatever this was. (If that was even how this worked – do other people just continue with their lives? What was Max like in that scenario? It hurt his brain to think about, so he never let himself get caught up in it).
The coffee cup that he had balanced so carefully between his thigh's spills at the lurch of acceleration, dripping down his pants and onto the floor mats. Another pro to the time loop; what usually would make the car reek of brewed coffee for weeks will be gone by tomorrow. And his dirtied pants will be clean the next morning – he hasn't done a load of washing in 44 days.
It's the little things, right?
The sound of his footsteps echoes through the quiet hallway, easing him back into reality, the precinct wrapped in the muted routine of the morning around him. He stops by Captain Vettel’s office as he goes. The room feels somewhat like a temple; a dedication to all the hard work Sebastian has put into the force to be where he is now. All of his medals and certificates ordain the walls, imposing in its own formidable way. Vettel sits behind his desk with the unbothered aura of someone who has better things to be doing than making small talk.
“Briefing starts in 15, Verstappen,” the superior officer notes, dismissal clear in his tone.
Max nods, taking his leave.
Some part of him almost dreads returning to his own desk, doing meaningless work that gets him nowhere. His train of thoughts are cut off when he gets to his desk. He barely manages to put his bag down and settle in before a chill runs down his spine; he can feel a pair of eyes boring into the back of his head, swivelling in his chair to find the source before even thinking it through. He spots you standing near the front desk, as if his mental spiral had somehow summoned you to his workplace.
The glare you are giving him buries deep into his chest, crawling between his ribs and suffocating his lungs, but it is quickly replaced by something that looks a hell of a lot like exhaustion. Not the kind that is usually paired with the paramedic uniform draped over you, but the kind where you’re stuck in a time loop and tried everything to escape, and nothing seems to be going your way.
It’s a look that Max knows all too well.
“You’re here,” he huffs, disbelief clear in his expression.
You nod, unsure if you can even form words. He gently guides you by the elbow to the guest seating area, empty as usual for early on a Sunday morning. Max leaves a seat separating you, as if being too close might fracture the moment – or the illusion. For a moment he isn’t sure if he is hallucinating; 44 days in isolation would do that to you.
“I...” You watch as his fists clench in his lap, gears turning behind his eyes as he tries to figure out what to say. “You came back.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
You sigh. “Didn’t really have much choice, did I?”
“It’s been eleven days... where have you been?”
You can tell he isn't asking out of anger, or malice, just plain curiosity and something else that looks like worry.
He looks down at his lap, almost timidly. “Are you okay? I was nervous for a second that you had managed to get out, or worse that I had hallucinated the whole thing and that if I had just made it all up in my head-”
“Max.”
He shuts his mouth, but he doesn’t look up.
“I was freaked out,” you sigh. “You denied being in whatever this is – which, by the way, you are a horrific liar – and I was terrified. I didn't know what to do, so I went home and cried myself to sleep, praying to some higher being for this to have just been a bad dream.” You shift uncomfortably in your seat, rubbing a hand across your forehead as if that would ease the headache you've had for the past week or so.
“But you didn’t,” he says.
“No,” you say, “I didn’t. So, for the next few days I tried everything I could think of to get out. I called out of work, drove for 20 odd hours with no sleep to see if it was zoned or something. When that didn’t work, I just tried to stay awake as long as I could, which also did not work.”
“Yeah, I tried those too when I first got stuck.”
You hum, playing with your sleeve mindlessly. “Did you write down everything that you have tried? Or kept some kind of list?”
He grimaces, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I remember it all, though.”
“Right...” you can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation – being stuck in a time loop with a cop who you’ve never seen before. He laughs too, and the tension in the room lifts a little.
“What else have you tried?” he asks, briefly glancing back toward his desk as Ricciardo rifles through some papers he had just printed.
You huff, thinking back to the start. “I think it was the fourth or fifth day, and I waited at the scene of the accident with all my gear. I was there for two or so hours - I couldn’t remember the exact time it happened, so I just sat and waited by myself. They wouldn’t let me take an ambulance, but honestly, I was lucky that they even let me leave in the first place. When the call to respond came through, the accident hadn’t even happened yet. I was baffled.”
Max’s stomach drops. “Uh, yeah that, um-...” he clears his throat, “that’s me. The first time I called it in early was the day that you got roped into this mess, so I guess I...” he smiles sheepishly, not wanting to finish his sentence.
“You what?”
He takes a deep breath. “I guess I just wanted to see you again, and if that was what it took, then I'd do it every time. But you didn't show up again. Either way, I changed a lot that day, so that might have not even been why you were there, but I guess that was what just made the most sense to have worked. I don’t know.”
You nod inquisitively, as if all the pieces of the puzzle were coming together. “That first day, when I was called to the job, they said it was a big accident and needed at least 2 units. Maybe it just came down to a difference in describing the scene compared to whoever called it in originally.”
Max hums, unsure where to take the conversation from there.
“How long have you been in here, anyway?”
“44 days, give or take.”
You blanche, skin going pale at the thought of being stuck in a never-ending loop for 6 weeks. Alone. “That must have been hard for you.”
He sighs, cracking his knuckles as he leans back in the chair. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was. Is. I tried not to think about it too much.”
“No, not is. You have me now,” you smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
He slowly nods, as if struggling to come to terms with it – 44 days alone, spent in utter isolation with no one to sympathise, but now you were there. Someone in the same situation. It’s almost unnerving, the giddiness gripping his chest.
“So,” you continue, picking at your nails like they held the secrets you were looking for. “Tell me everything you know. From the start until now.”
“Honestly I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Every story has a beginning, Max. What happened the first morning? What have you tried? Literally any information is useful.”
His mind went blank. So much for being able to recite it from memory.
“Max?”
“I think it’d be easier to list what I haven’t done.”
You looked at him, long and hard, as if you could unravel his secrets if you tried just enough. He could see the cogs turning behind your eyes, deciding how to approach this.
“Alright. You've been here longer than me, so it’s only fair – where do we start?”
Police!mv33 is calling my name… is it finally time to finish police!max x paramed!reader? Only time will tell…
➤ CURSED | THE COSTUME (LN4)
pairing: lando norris x single mom!reader
summary: before the abu dhabi grand prix, milo suffers from a string of bad luck, or as he calls it, a curse, which sees you and lando trapped in a mclaren bathroom before the world championship race
(or: lando realizes he's in love with you on a bathroom floor)
wc: 8 k
warnings: little bit of angst with a happy ending!
➤ MASTERLIST - part one - part two - part three - part four(ish) - part five
Milo was having a bad day. No, not bad - cursed.
It had started with the flight to Abu Dhabi. He had dropped his charger to his tablet somewhere in the airport, and you didn’t have any others that fit it. Lando has chartered his private jet for you, but the turbulence made Milo sick, meaning you and he were in the bathroom for the entire flight, and Milo's custom jumpsuit, which he insisted on wearing, was stained beyond saving. Then, when Lando came to swap out the clothes for extras you’d packed in his carry-on, Milo accidentally shut the door on his hand. It wasn’t hard, and it didn’t hurt, but it sent Milo into a frenzy.
Two days later, that frenzy hadn’t stopped.
He’d run into a glass door, spilled his breakfast on himself, and he’d even tripped Oscar, though in Milo’s defence, he was sitting down and in plain view, and in Oscar’s, not many people expect children sitting in the McLaren hospitality hallways.
Only, Oscar was holding some electrolyte drink, which flew through the air and hit Lando square in the chest, covering his fireproofs, and forcing the poor guy to change. You had stepped with him into the McLaren hospitality washroom to help him clean up the sticky mess, the door closed to give Lando privacy as he pulled the fabric over his head.
So Milo was having a cursed day, or better yet, a cursed week, even though it was really not the time for that to happen.
“One more race.” Lando says, staring down at his fireproofs with his own sort of frantic energy, “One more race and I might be World Champion.”
“One more race and you will be world champion.” You say as you extend a clean fireproof top, and he offers an unconvinced smile as he pulls it on.
“Not if I eat shit.” Lando says, and you can't help but shake your head.
You had never known someone so laid-back, yet so stressed by the world on their shoulders. To the outside world, Lando was this happy-go-lucky F1 driver, but you knew by now the deeper parts of his mind, what weighed on him, what kept him up at night in your arms. Right now, those cracks showed more than ever before, one race between him becoming World Champion, or crushing under pressure.
Gently, you brush the hair back from his forehead, and his breath catches, as if he forgot you were infront of him. It was likely, honestly. He'd been stuck in his mind for so long, you'd be surprised if he knew where he was, or who you were. "How many podiums have you been on so far, Lando?"
You watch his brain slowly switch gears, eyebrows scrunched as he tries to come up with the number. Finally, when it fails him, he grabs his phone and quickly searches it. "43."
"43?" You echo, not in disbelief, but for what today is. 44. "I guess today will be the 44th, then."
The grin that graces his face for just a moment could light up the night sky before it's instantly gone. "Not if I-"
You shove a hand over his mouth with a soft laugh as he fights back, smacking you away. "Stop saying that!"
"Hey, you're the one who is a mum, aren't you supposed to be comforting?" Then, after a moment, "Well, I guess mums can be smothering too, but I didn't think they meant literally."
"If it gets you to shut up for once." You tease, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "You, Lando Norris, number 4, are going to get your 44th podium today, and become World Champion. I know it." Lando opens his mouth, and you raise your hand again. "You say anything against that, and I'll smother you again."
"Alright, alright." He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into him. "How about we compromise?"
"I'm listening," You mumble into his neck.
"Neither of us talk about it. Just let it be." You glance up at Lando, and decide that's the best course of action. Today is like any other day, and Milo is not cursed, and-
Milo. You had left him outside with Oscar to get Lando changed, but the poor boy was probably beside himself over this. Luckily, he hadn't said anything of his luck, but you knew it weighed on the poor boy. You look back to the door as the handle wiggles, and to your surprise, falls off the door and onto the floor with a clatter.
Both you and Lando stare at the knob on the floor, and then immediately try the door, only to find it absolutely stuck. "Mum?" Milo's voice calls from the other side, muffled, and you yank at the door from the small gap left behind by the knob. "It's stuck."
"Milo, love, the knob's broken. Is there someone there?" Then, from the other side, the door is tried, and you're sure it's Oscar, putting his force into it, until you hear a snap, and a metal clatter.
"Shit." Oscar's voice says, and sure enough, the knob had fallen off the other way. It leaves a little hole where you can squat to look through, and Milo looks at you, terrified. "You didn't hear that, Milo." Oscar quickly corrects, gently rubbing at Milo's shoulder.
"Are you trapped?" He asks, coming to peer up at the hole. Then, he gasps. "I broke the door!"
"You didn't break the door, you muppet." Lando says loudly so the boy can hear it through the door, and it's strange how quickly the words put Milo at ease. It's a sort of loss, knowing there's someone else whom Milo looks up to, but at the same time, it's a kind of quiet happiness. That there is someone else, in Milo's life, who loves him as much as you do. Who can take care of him, wipe his tears, rock him after a nightmare. It's also soothing for Lando, you think, to have something to care about besides himself, as you're sure right now he's far more worried about Milo than his upcoming race. "It's just an old door, probably. Nothing a janitor can't fix. Osc, can you find a janitor?"
You watch as Oscar's shadow starts to leave, and you have to call after him. "Oscar! Take Milo with you."
"What?" Milo says, clinging to the door. "But I-"
"Honey, I am stuck in a stinky bathroom. You'll have a lot more fun with Mr. Piastri." Besides, Oscar cannot leave that child in a hallway alone! He could run off anywhere, and after Singapore, you're not leaving any chances.
Oscar's hand comes into view, and Milo, rather than taking it, extends his arms. "Oh, uh-" Then, in perhaps the most adorably awkward thing you've ever seen, Oscar squats to pick up Milo, and stands. "We'll be right back, I promise Milo."
-
Lando was having a not great week.
Some may call it bad, but that would jinx all this, so he settles for not great. Milo got plane sick and kept having accidents, making the poor boy miserable, and making you put all of your attention on Milo. That was normal, after all. You were Milo's mum. But Lando sort of needed you to calm him down, to be there in his corner, and being the great mum that you are, you couldn't do that before the race.
Well, he supposes he has you all to himself now, but he's in the bathroom, with the race hours away. There was so much he needed to do, and he was stuck.
In the bathroom.
So Lando is sort of spiralling, but based on how zoned out Oscar was to trip over Milo, he's sure Oscar is too. Hell, even Max must be, considering how close the three of them were. Lando needed to get fourth or lower for Max to win, and he's sure Max is also aware of that fact. All it takes is one wrong turn, one envious driver, and Lando's dreams are done.
But, your voice remains in the back of his head.
What if he wins? What if he gets on that podium, and raises that trophy up, and he's World Champion?
He's not sure what he'd do. It's all he's ever worked toward, and the fact that it is so close, and he could lose it all, has turned him into human mush. He could be World Champion. That's not just another first place or podium. World Champion. It would prove everyone wrong, what they've said about him, about his mentality, how he couldn't do it.
Or, he could prove them right, and lose it all now, and be the biggest laughing stock. He wouldn't be able to show his face. He-
"Breathe, Lando." Oh, right.
You're still here. At least he finally gets some proper alone time with you, but it's tinged by your combined worries about Milo, and his worry about the race, despite your confidence. He opens his mouth to say something about it, but then remembers the compromise.
You have enough on your plate that listening to him ramble about his race wouldn't help, and he needs to not jinx it. To not think of it, or later, at all. Instead, he needs to think about being stuck inside this bathroom with you, and what to do to get out of it. "You're not claustrophic, yeah?"
"It's a good sized bathroom, Lando. I'll be fine." You reach up to mess with his hair, likely already drenched in sweat. "Are you?"
"No," He says, hands coming to rest on your waist, "Not if you're here. In fact, there actually could be less room between us, that would be nice."
You roll your eyes at him and continue to play with his curls, and Lando's sure he's as red as a tomato, but can you blame him? The love of his life is playing with his hair.
Love of his life.
Love. The word keeps repeating in his mind, what it means, what he wants to say. It had been haunting him, lately, because he kept almost saying it, when he hung up the phone, when you danced around with Milo in your arms, when you lay in his. He was pretty sure he was in love with you, except it was not something either of you had said yet. If it didn't sound so insane, Lando would say he loved you since Milo's birthday party, since that first kiss, but it would sound insane.
So Lando has loved you a normal amount of time, and he thinks it's about time to say it.
"We should probably tell more people about our, uh, predicament." You say, and Lando nods, picking his phone up from the counter to start pulling up numbers, considering the mass of texts he's receiving about his whereabouts.
And there, nestled in his texts, is one from Max:
MAX
Have you finalized the plans for tonight?
LANDO
Why? Haven't won yet
Plans! As if it's a done thing! Lando has gotten fourth or lower plenty of times. What's to make this weekend any different? He had qualifying soon, anyway, and what if he fucked that up too?
MAX
Either you're drowning your sorrows or we're celebrating, so you'll need a drink
What about a babysitter?
Oh.
He can't exactly bring Milo into a club, can he?
MAX
You bringing Spider-Mum, Spiderman?
Lando made the mistake of telling Max and others how you two got together, which admittedly is a very cute story, but now he has to deal with randomly being called Spider-Man, and you Spider-Mum. In all honesty, it could be a worse nickname.
LANDO
A bit late now
MAX
Nico's got kids, hasn't he? Can't he babysit?
Max isn't wrong. There are plenty of people on the grid with kids that could watch Milo, but for the night?
He's not sure you would let the boy go for that long.
LANDO
idk
MAX
Leave the babysitter to me, I'll figure something out
LANDO
The kid'll end up on a Twitch stream, not happening
Leave the babysitter to me, you deal with the club
"Well?" Oh, shit, right. He's quick to send off a message and gets instant replies, which he ignores to focus the conversation back on you, and Milo, and the whole winning situation.
He wanted you out tonight, if he won. Hell, there were a good couple of things he'd like to do with you tonight if he won, but that's besides the point - he wanted you, his cheerleader, right there alongside him. But your duty was to Milo first, not him, and he can't exactly bring Milo where he wants to go, with you.
"Would you go out with me tonight?" He asks, then remembers the compromise. "If...If something good happens?"
"I'd go out with you no matter the outcome." You tease, and Lando wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into him as he presses a wet kiss to your cheek, and you try to get out of it.
"Okay, you muppet. I meant like out to a club." He watches the thoughts click in your mind of what would be required for a night out on the town. "We could get Milo a babysitter."
"On this short notice?" You ask, and he understands your hesitancy. He couldn't picture leaving Milo with anyone less than perfect, making the pool for babysitters rather small, but he can't help but think of you, and him, wrapped up in the night, in love and alone. Maybe he'd find a nice balcony, some champagne, confess his love over bubbles. Maybe he'd say it in the hotel room after it's all over, as you check in on Milo. "I don't know. I trust our friends, but..." It's a win, Lando thinks, that you called them 'our' friends and not just his, but he still understands.
"Just think about it," He says, pressing a kiss to your forehead as someone knocks on the door.
-
Okay, so lesson one of parenthood: know how to hold a child.
Oscar is already failing. Milo sits awkwardly in his arms, sulking, and he's sure it's because Oscar is the one carrying him around as they coordinate with a small army of custodial staff to get Lando and you free from the bathroom. It was almost comical, the way the handle just fell off the door, if it wasn't for the fact that the race was a few short hours away, and now Oscar was Milo-wrangler, and Milo did not want to be wrangled.
As they return to the door, Milo turns away, much to Oscar's surprise. "What's up, Milo?" He says, nudging his arm. "Mum's about to be free any minute."
"I don't want to see Lando." Oh. That's new. Milo loves Lando, he's pretty sure, considering the boy was a beacon of Lando-branded neon green.
"Why not?" He asks, now committed to whatever drama was going on in this four-year-old's life.
"My bad luck is going to make Lando crash. His boss said so." Oh, Zak!
Yes, Oscar had heard the jokes about Milo's bad luck lately, but he hadn't thought the boy would have heard! "Aw, come on now, that's not true."
"One of the big guys said I was a bad luck charm." Milo continues with a pout. "And that I shouldn't rub off on Lando. What if I make him crash? What if I make him lose?"
"Lando is a very talented driver," Oscar tries to soothe. He tries to picture what you do, and attempts to sway, but it doesn't seem to have the same sort of calming effect, or maybe he's just doing it wrong. "You're not going to make him lose."
"I don't want to see him." He finally whispers and plants his face into Oscar's shoulder with a sniff.
Oh, no. No no no no no.
Lesson number two of parenting was learning how to deal with tears, and Oscar was pretty sure he'd fail that lesson pretty miserably, too. He gently rubs Milo's back, trying to think of what a good parent would say.
How do you explain to a little boy that bad luck isn't real? Well, there certainly is bad luck out there, Milo is having a pretty wicked stretch of it, but it wasn't something you could transfer. It was just life, unfortunately. "Well, let's say bad luck exists. You know what that means?"
"I'm cursed." He says, muffled.
"No, it means good luck exists. You are pretty lucky to have Lando as a friend, and to get to come to all these races. I even heard Spider-Man came to your birthday. That's pretty lucky." Milo slowly peeks up at him, and Oscar offers a smile. "So, why don't we think about good luck-"
"Can't get it by the hinges." He overhears one of the custodians say, knocking on the doorframe. "We have to break it down, I think."
It's a metal door. That's not exactly an easy breakdown. "Break it down?" Lando's voice comes from the other side. "How long would that take?"
"With the right tools? Half hour." Okay, so not terrible. Maybe they can request to postpone the race? But Oscar's sure Lando doesn't want him getting stuck in a bathroom with you making headlines, so maybe they'll just have to suck it up.
"Hear that, Milo? Half hour, and mum is free!" Oscar explains, and Milo face plants again.
"I'll be out so soon, buddy!" You call, and Milo rubs at his eyes. "Are you having fun with Oscar?"
"No." Well.
Oscar's pretty sure he doesn't deserve such a hostile response, but at the same time, he understands. The kid's got loyalties, and Oscar also tripped over him earlier, so he's sure that doesn't help. "Why don't we go try to find a good luck charm, hm?"
"Where?" Oscar thinks of a little sticker unicorn, and heads straight for Williams.
"I think I know just the place."
-
A half hour.
Another half hour that you're trapped with Lando in this bathroom. Not ideal, but it could be worse. While Milo did not sound happy, apparently Oscar had things under control, and that's better than most, you'd say. Lando sits down on the bathroom floor, and normally you'd say something about the germs, but instead, you sit down beside him, and watch as he examines the door knob.
You can't talk about it, so instead you return to what he'd said earlier.
Getting a babysitter, spending a night out with him. It would mean the world to celebrate with Lando tonight, if he wins.
If. As if there was ever any if. It doesn't matter whatever curse Milo thinks he brings, or whatever doubt Lando has. The if, however, was if you could go out without Milo. You had packed a nicer dress for it, just in case, but you hadn't actually thought you'd use it. You didn't really plan for a babysitter, not because you didn't think he'd win, but because it still hadn't quite hit you that Lando wanted you around.
You had been together for months now, but it still felt as if he occupied a very different life than your own, of an F1 driver and a single mum, and that it would end in anything more. Lando wasn't like that, however. He loved you and Milo endlessly, but you just couldn't quite accept it.
Love.
Love for Lando had come in two stages, first for what he did for Milo, second for what he did for you, but it was never something you could fully bring yourself to say. His world had accepted you, but it felt like they might spit you out at any moment, and love didn't exactly fit into that equation.
Lando reaches over and takes your hand and squeezes it three times, and you squeeze back four, as if reading each other's minds, and you exchange a little smile as something that sounds like maybe a chainsaw starts up in the hall.
-
Of all the people Carlos expects to be waiting in the paddock for him, it is not Oscar with Lando's partner's kid in his arms. Maybe they're just on a walk, but the race was fast approaching, and he was pretty sure Oscar had bigger things to concern himself with than being a babysitter, yet judging by the look on his face, he was here for something completely different.
"Milo, have you met Carlos before?" Milo's head snaps to look at Carlos, almost judging in nature as he observes.
"He races too." He says softly, and Carlos smiles at him.
"Hi, Milo." Carlos says with a little wave, and Milo leans closer to Oscar, who presses his free hand to the bridge of his nose. "You alright there?"
"Milo is in need of a good luck charm, and I thought you could show off your sticker."
Carlos can't help but laugh, shaking his head as he twists around his helmet, the little unicorn sticker shining on the back. Of all the things, Carlos cannot say he expected that, but then again, he didn't really know what to expect. "I got this from a fan," Carlos holds up the helmet to Milo's level. "Just a bit older than you are, I think. I'm not sure if it's a real good luck charm, but it hasn't failed me yet."
"A unicorn?" Milo's little hand reaches out to poke at it, and Oscar nods eagerly.
"See? A good luck charm can be anything." Oscar explains, and Carlos kind of understands. Going good-luck hunting wasn't the worst idea for Oscar, but where did Milo factor into this? Was he a hostage to make sure Lando failed?
"Can I have it?" Milo asks, looking rather determined himself. "So I don't curse Lando?"
"That's for Carlos, and you're not cursed." Oscar tries to soothe, obviously out of his element, as Milo pouts.
Carlos just has to ask. "Where is Lando?"
"Stuck in a bathroom." Oscar says, and Carlos blinks at him. "Door handle fell off with him and Milo's mum inside."
Oh shit. "As in..."
"As in I dumped a drink down Lando and Milo's mum went to help him get changed." He shoots Carlos a look as he opens his mouth to speak, and he immediately shuts it.
Not in front of the kid, obviously, but this was prime joke material, and he couldn't say anything about it? "I broke the door." Milo solemnly explains, and Oscar sighs.
"You did not, Milo. Why don't we try to find a good luck charm like Carlos?" There wasn't exactly much around for good luck material, especially not at Williams.
"You could always try to find a clover?" Carlos used to do that, as a kid, but there wasn't exactly grass and clovers around. "Or like Alex, a bracelet?"
"Hm?" Alex raises his head from where he was, rather lost in some video on his phone, one Carlos was sure was a TikTok. He pulls off his headphones, leaving them around his neck, and comes over. "What about my bracelets?"
"They are good luck charms. Milo here needs one." Alex nods along, as if he understands, and he holds up his wrist to Milo's level to show them off.
"I don't think you'd know what they are, but monks gave them to me." Milo looks at Alex in awe, very obviously not understanding what a monk is. "They're very special to me. I'm sure you have something lucky you wore once?"
"I think you do, Milo." Oscar say softly, gently tapping his shoulder. "Weren't you wearing a jumpsuit when Lando won?" The boy looks down at clothes, as if trying to remember. "At Silverstone?"
Then, disaster strikes. Milo's bottom lip trembles, and he starts to cry. The three of them freeze, watching Milo sob as he buries his head into Oscar's shoulder, and he wishes someone with a kid would swoop in and save the day, but evidently, there were a lot more important things than Milo's curse for the people around them to be dealing with, so instead, they have to come up with a plan, together.
"Shhh, it's okay Milo." Oscar says, trying to bounce him, and looking desperately to Alex and Carlos.
"Aw," Alex coos, reaching out to gently rub Milo's back. "Are you missing your mum?"
Milo dissolves into another wave of tears, and Carlos smacks Alex's arm. "Really, you think that's going to help?"
"Hey, I'm trying!" Oscar keeps swaying and bouncing Milo, which, luckily, doesn't upset him, but instead seems to piss him off, and Milo actually leans out of Oscar's arms and towards Alex, who takes the boy quickly, lest Oscar drop him.
Alex holds Milo on one hip, reaching up to get his hair out of his face, and Carlos quickly brings tissues. That has to help, right? Tissues when you cry? "I-I spilled," Milo whines, "On my suit! It's all dirty!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, Milo." Carlos tries to hand Milo the tissue, but he does not accept it, despite the snot on his face. Finally, Alex takes it with a sigh, and as carefully as a man can who does not want to touch snot, he wipes it away. "What if we found you a replacement?"
"Mum made it." He says, shaking his head. "We don't have paint or anything."
"Well, what if we made something new?" There had to be something they could make, like a bracelet, to calm him down? "Something special for this race, to cure your bad luck. Like Alex's bracelet."
"I'm sure we can find something," Alex says, his presence calming Milo more than Oscar's actions did. Maybe the kid can sense fear. "Is there anything you think is lucky?"
"Spider-Man." Milo instantly answers, before pausing. "Cars?"
Ocon. Lawson.
Oh, this might just work. "Milo, I think I know just the guy."
-
Well, they started doing something to the door, and then stopped, and Lando doesn't really have the mind to care what's going on outside.
Inside, or at least inside his mind, he is spiralling for the third or sixth time today, depending on how much counts as a spiral. Maybe he's just in one, constant nosedive, or like 18 different ones. You had made light talk of anything to distract yourselves, but the compromise was weighing on him, and he's sure you could tell.
He couldn't talk about his race, but he needed to. He couldn't help but think of all the people he'd disappoint today, if he failed. His family, his fans, his friends, you. You said you'd never be disappointed in him, but what if you were? What if he fucked it up, and couldn't get it back?
Maybe, actually, it would make saying 'I Love You' easier.
After all, if he told you he loved you when he won, then you might think it's the adrenaline, and if you went out tonight, and he told you, you might think he's just drunk. If he told you, after losing it all, maybe he'd be able to express what you mean to him by staying, by having you as a constant in his life.
"I know we said we wouldn't talk about it," Your voice almost startles him, but it soothes more than anything. He needed someone else to take the first step for him. "But I think you need to."
"I can't fuck it up." He says softly. "I've got...there's everything riding on this. It's the most I've ever wanted anything."
He turns to look at you, and he can't help but see how young you are, how young he is. You both related so well, he thinks, because you both understood pressure. The pressure to be a parent, to always be on, to always be perfect. The pressure to be an F1 driver and a star, to always be on, to always be perfect. Very different lives, but at your cores, you could share in each other's stress.
Lando leans his head onto your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around him, and you live in that stress together, shared on a bathroom floor. Maybe this is what he needed, after all. To be locked away with you, with no distractions, to calm his poor racing mind. To think of nothing but himself, but that was a hard thing to do with so much on his shoulders. "And it's not like any other race, like everyone keeps saying. I've never felt like this before."
"You're right," You whisper softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "It's not like any other race. It's the one you've worked for your whole life. And if I've ever been sure of anything in my life, Lando, it's that you can do it. And I know that doesn't ease the stress, but what reason is there that you can't?"
"It's all luck." He says, and you hum in disagreement.
"If it were all luck, why have you been on so many podiums this year? It's about skill, Lando, and determination, and my god, you are one of the most determined people I've ever met." He looks up at you, and he finds himself lost in the memories your eyes bring. "You showed up to Milo's birthday party in a Spider-Man outfit because you were determined for him to have a good party. You flew us out to your races because you were determined to win me over. And that's just for me."
Of course it's for you. Beyond the world champion, the first thing he truly wanted, in a very long time, was you. It was a daydream, really, of someone pretty across the hall with a cute kid. It was a stupid idea, dressing up as Spider-Man, but when was Lando a smart man? Well, he supposes that's not true. It was the smartest thing he'd ever done, pursuing you, because now you and that cute kid were his.
"Just for you?" He echoes softly, and he finds something unravel in you, a soft shrug.
"Your racing career is a lot bigger, and means a lot more than me. So, if you're that determined for Milo and me, just imagine how determined you are for-"
"You think that?" Well, on one hand, racing is his life. It always has been. The World Championship means more to him than he could ever fathom, but it remained in a part of his heart he'd always had.
You carved out the rest of it with a smile, and a kiss, and a touch, and your laugh, and your love. It was an entirely different beast than he would never possibly categorize as the same. "My love for you doesn't compare to a car."
Oh shit.
Oh.
He said it. Wasn't even like his normal slip-ups, he fully said it. Frantically, he looks away, trying not to see any reaction, trying not to ruin this. God, he had plans! Maybe roses, and champagne, not here, on this bathroom floor, waiting for the world to end. "I was, uh...I was going to wait to say that." He says, heart pounding so frantically he's sure you can hear it. "Make it a big gesture, after the race, or something, but-"
"Lando."
"Just...let me. Fuck." He wipes a hand over his face, trying to will himself to look at you. "I get it if maybe you're not ready for that, and that this is all a lot, but I-"
"Lando." That's the no-bullshit voice you use when Milo is in trouble. He finally looks up at you, and you have an expression on your face he's never seen before. "Just-shut up."
Oh.
Oh fuck. He ruined this. Everything he fought for with you, all down the drain because he said it too early. He's sure you've been burned before, considering the whole situation with Milo, but he hadn't thought-
Your hand tightens at the collar of his fireproofs, and you just sort of crash into him, lips on his before he can really think what's happening. Immediately, he melts into your arms, deepening the kiss because, god, he needs this, he needs you. More than he thinks is an acceptable amount, really, but none of that matters, because you're kissing him, and he didn't fuck things up. You pull back, out of breath, and he's never seen a view so beautiful. "It was perfect, Lando." You whisper, and his chest might as well collapse in on itself. "And I've loved you since you wore that stupid costume."
The chainsaw sound returns, and unable to do much else, Lando gathers you into his arms, peppering kisses over your face, and you watch as they break down the door for both of you. Your ear is pressed to his chest, likely listening to the still frantic pounding of his heart, and you say something to him that he can't hear over the sound of the saw.
But he knows what you're probably saying. Everything will be okay, that he'll win the race, all because he is strong, and determined, and worthy of it.
And, for the first time, in a long time, he believes it.
-
When Milo finally comes into view, he looks as if he also had quite the eventful afternoon. He's nestled in Oscar's arms, chatting away as he plays with a small, British flag in his hands and a cutout of Lando's face, and you feel the stress slowly slip away as his face brightens at seeing you. "Mum!" He exclaims, wrenching out of Oscar's arms and into yours.
You're not sure you believe today happened. You got trapped in a bathroom, Lando confessed his love for you, and Milo...got Lightning McQueen stickers? The moment he's out of Oscar's arms, the man lets out a long sigh, stretching out his shoulders. "What have you got there, love?"
"They're good luck charms." He shows off a red and blue bracelet on his wrist. "It's like Spider-Man, from Mr. Ocon. The stickers are from Liam, and the flag from George." He then waves the small cutout of Lando's face. "This was from a fan."
What?
You turn to look at Oscar, who looks a little sheepish. "Milo, uh, was worried about his luck today, so some of the drivers offered up good-luck charms." Immediately, your heart swells at the warm reception from the grid. You'll have to have Milo make thank-you cards, for all of them. Especially Oscar.
"Thank you, Oscar." You say, pressing a kiss to Milo's forehead. "He's had quite the eventful weekend."
"He, uh, also said that maybe...Zak...said something." For a moment, the world pauses, and you slowly look up at Oscar and watch the colour drain from his face. "He overheard Zak joking about him being c-u-r-s-e-d."
Oh, you're going to kill a man today.
You whip around, trying to spot Zak anywhere nearby, and instead, your eyes find Lando, who looks over, rather concerned. "Everything okay?" He says, jogging over. "Hey there, Milo! See? Me and mum got out of the bathroom, no problem."
"Apparently, Milo thought he was c-u-r-s-e-d because Zak said so." You watch Lando put together the letters in his head as his brow knits together. "I was just looking for him to have some...choice words."
"Ah. Don't mess with mama bear, right?" You shoot Lando a soft glare, and he holds up his hands. "Don't worry, I'll talk to him. Did you have a good afternoon with Osc, Milo?"
Milo shrugs, fiddling with his bracelet, before sparing a look up at the Australian. "Yeah."
"Really?" Oscar says, a shocked smile passing over his face. "Well, I'm glad I could babysit."
"Which, speaking of-" Lando begins, only for Oscar to immediately backpedal.
"But, you know, you are both much better at this than me. I'll stick to, uh, uncle duties." Oh, you're sure the two of them had quite the adventure today, and that Oscar probably was not exactly equipped for any of them. Uncle Oscar.
You're sure Milo would like the sounds of that.
"Truly, thank you, Oscar." You repeat, letting the subject drop. "What do you say, Milo?"
Milo acts shy, turning away, and you spin around so he's still facing Oscar, and he laughs, offering a little wave. "Thank you, Oz-car."
"Now, I'm sure the two of you have places you need to be." You lean over and press a kiss to Lando's cheek, and he lets out a slow breath. "I'll see you later, my love?"
"I'll see you at the podium," He says hesitantly, before quickly adding, "My love." You watch the two of them start to walk away, before Lando turns on his heel and returns to Milo, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head, and then holding out a hand for a fist-bump. "Can't forget my good luck charm, can I?"
-
-
You think this is the closest you've ever come to dying, and the race is barely halfway done. Lando was hovering in third place, which was all he needed to win, but you had never been so on edge before, eyes glued to the screen in the garage, shaking in ways you didn't expect.
There's a soft hand on your shoulder, and you turn to look at Lando's mum, who offers a kind smile. He had introduced you at numerous races, over FaceTime calls, for one nice dinner at his place in Monaco, but it was still a strange sort of thing. All mothers want the best for their sons, and you're still not sure if you're the best fit for Lando. It seems like he should be with someone without kids, someone who doesn't force him into only staying out until 9 PM, who has to watch his language around the two of you, who only gets certain dates at certain times.
But he loves you. It was not a fairytale confession, but in some ways, it was.
He loves you more than his cars, which sounds ridiculous, but means the world. His love for Milo, too, eases those doubts, because the two get along like a house on fire. Thick as thieves, Lando never seems to tire of him, and Milo treats him as family. After all, there's a reason Milo called him dad, a word that he hasn't repeated since the event. Either way, it was hard to tell what she thought of you, but much like Lando, you knew how much she cared about Milo. "It only gets more stressful, doesn't it, dear?"
"I'm learning that the hard way." Milo, cupping his hands over his ear protectors, doesn't seem to hear or notice her presence. "Milo was convinced this weekend that he was cursed, and he was going to make Lando lose."
"Oh, they're so alike. Lando used to only wear certain underwear on racedays. Wouldn't even let me wash them." You share a smile and a laugh at the absurdity of children's brains, and Milo finally seems to notice, twisting to look at Cisca. "Hello, Milo."
"Hi, Lando's Mum!" Milo shouts in answer, and she grins at him.
"Oh, they're a treat at this age. Hard to let go of." Considering she had four children of her own, she definitely had experience in that regard. You only had Milo, and it seemed impossible that he would grow and not fit in your arms. That was your job, though, to help them grow to become their own person, but it didn't make it any easier. "What's all this, Milo?" She asks, gesturing to the British flag and Lightning McQueen stickers plastered over his face and shirt.
"My good luck charms!" He shouts again, and she nods in approval, before pulling off a bracelet and offering it to Milo.
"For extra luck, then. I'm sure you're a very lucky boy, with a very lucky mum, and a very lucky Lando." Milo accepts the bracelet, putting it onto his wrist, but it's far too big and immediately falls off. "Ah. Why doesn't mum wear this one, then?"
You slip on the bracelet, not thinking much of it, when you realize it just says 'Norris' on it, a marker that does something strange to your insides.
Because, for the first time, you let yourself imagine taking it on.
"Enjoy it." She continues on, offering your shoulder a squeeze. "Be young, go celebrate."
"Milo and I will be celebrating from our hotel room." You wouldn't trust anyone taking Milo here, in a foreign country, with no previous arrangements. "Have a pyjama party."
"Oh, nonsense. We can take Milo for you." You pause, turning to look at her as your brain weighs the options. "The joy of being a mum is raising your kids," She says softly, to the point you almost don't catch it over your own earmuffs. "But we're not just mums, are we?"
It's the sort of sentiment that makes the chaos of the world around you go still. Because you were a mum, through and through, but as this afternoon proved, you could be more than just a mum sometimes. You could be in love with Lando and take in all the wonders this racing world has to offer.
You could go out and celebrate him, and not worry about bedtimes. As if knowing you need one final push, she offers a smile. "Go out, be young. You don't get moments like these every day."
You could be you, and Lando could be Lando, and you could celebrate him the way he deserved. And, later, you and Milo could celebrate Lando in your way, too. "Milo," You finally say, getting his attention. "Would you like to have a sleepover with Lando's mum tonight?"
"Why?" He asks, and Cisca, quick as ever, immediately answers.
"When people win races, there's a lot of very boring paperwork they have to do to get their trophies and medals, and it will be boring for you. Lando's nieces are here, and are about your age, so we thought you might enjoy spending the night with them instead?"
"Oh." Milo turns to look at you, with his big, beautiful eyes, and you almost fold. "Will you be there in the morning?"
You press a soft kiss to his forehead. "I will be there whenever you need me, love."
"Okay." Then, after a pause, "Can we watch Cars?" Cisca laughs, a good, full laugh.
"Oh, you really are just like Lando. Of course, Milo." There's a new, soft warmth that fills you as you watch out the rest of the race, anxiety somehow dissipated.
Lando would win. There was no question, no doubt in your mind. Even with the stress of the race, you knew exactly what would happen when Lando won, and he did.
Was there really any doubt?
-
World Champion.
World Champion Lando Norris.
His vision blurs the moment he parks the car, gets on top of it, shakes his fists in the air. Third place, but who the fuck cares? That's all he needs.
World Champion.
It's his parents, first, who crash into him, and he's sobbing at this point, unable to lift his visor to face them. Everything they had done, they'd done for him. It was the culmination of every race, of everything he'd worked for, and he's sure they're saying something to him, but he can't hear, and he doesn't care. Fuck the mentality shit, fuck everything anyone has ever said about him, he did it.
Just him. All him, and his team, and his car. He was World Champion, and he think he might piss himself about it.
He watches his mom disappear for a second before returning with you, Milo in arms to avoid being crushed by the crowd, and to his surprise, you're crying. You're quick to wipe away the tears, but Lando will have none of it. He rips off his helmet and his balaclava, and the wall of sound that hits him is deafening, and it takes him a second to realize they're chanting his name.
"I love you." He rambles, pressing a hard kiss to your lips. When he pulls away, you reach up to wipe the tears from his cheeks, and he does the same to you. "Holy shit," He says, though he really shouldn't, considering Milo, but he just has to. "Holy shit, I love you, I love you, I-"
"YOU WON!" Milo screams in his ear, and Lando reaches down to press a kiss into the boy's curls, cupping his face.
"I love you, Milo!" Milo just sort of looks up, confused, and then he grins.
"WORLD CHAMPION!" World Champion, Lando Norris!
There's press, and his team and interviews he needs to do, but everything he ever wanted was right here in his arms, for that, he could die a happy, happy man, the media bullpen be damned.
-
"Mum?" Milo says up to you, pointing towards Oscar, who is currently embraced in a family hug. As much as you were overjoyed for Lando, hell, thrilled, you knew that with every win came loss. Just as much as it wasn't an easy season for Lando, it also wasn't one for Oscar. "Can we go see Oz-car?"
"Let's give him a moment with his family, love." Finally, Oscar breaks away, and Milo takes this as his opportunity to point again, and you bring the boy over.
Oscar takes a second to register your approach and offers a tired smile. "Hey, Mi-" Then, to your surprise, Milo leans out of your arms and wraps his arms around Oscar's neck, giving him a hug.
Flash of lights surround it, of photographers definitely getting a photo of this, and Oscar smiles and gently hugs him back, taking him from your arms. Milo doesn't really say anything, but eventually pulls away, and extends the last of his Lightning McQueen sticker sheet to Oscar. "These are for you."
"Me? But they're your stickers." Milo nods, somewhat solemnly.
"You deserve them." Oh, your little heart.
Milo had always liked Oscar, but you knew he felt he had to pretend he didn't because he only supported Lando. Now, after everything Oscar helped him with today, you're very proud to see him recognize that.
"That's very sweet of you, Milo." You press a kiss to his forehead, and he peels off one of the stickers, and presses it to Oscar's jumpsuit.
"Thank you for taking care of me. Can you get one to Mr. Signs? And Mr. Albon?" Carlos and Alex helped? You really need to ask Oscar what went down this afternoon, but that can be for another time.
"Of course, Milo." There's an arm around your waist, and suddenly your spinning, and Lando grins down at you and he presses you to his sweaty, sweaty body. Any other day, and you'd care about it, but for now you just wrap your arms around him.
"What's this? Oscar gets stickers, and not me?" World Champion, Lando Norris.
As if there was any ever doubt. "You're World Champion," Oscar teases softly. "You don't get stickers."
"Yeah." Milo says, and you have a feeling there's going to be a lot more of 'Uncle Oscar' in your future.
People steer Oscar away, along with Lando, and he waves them off to press a quick kiss to your cheek, and you take the chance to finally ask what you've been dying to say all evening. "So, where are we going tonight?"
"What?" Lando asks, somewhat stunned.
"Your mum offered to babysit Milo. So, where are we going?"
-
So, maybe Lando is a little drunk, and you're a lot of pretty, and he has you all to himself. Sure, he normally is clingy, but he's pretty sure you haven't been an arm's length away from him all night, mostly because he's wanted you in his arms. He's had one around your waist, or is holding your hand, or is dancing so close he can feel every breath, every heartbeat. The music is pounding and drinks are pouring and people are spinning aorund him, an entourage of congratulations, of his closest friends, of all the chaos, and there you are in the middle of it.
You had dressed up, and while he thinks you look beautiful in everything, it always takes his breath away to see you like this, in a dress from another lifetime that shows every curve that he adores, that's all for him as you laugh and spin around in the disco light.
Maybe, on a different night, when he drags you away from the dance floor, it's for a far different reason, but for tonight, there's only really one thing he has in mind, and one request he forwarded to Max. There's a little balcony, looking out over the night, with a little bouquet of white roses, and two glasses of champagne.
Classy, though champagne might not be great to add to the drunken mix. "What's this?"
"Remember, how I said I pictured it going differently?" He gestures to the roses and champagne. "I was picturing something more like this."
With a laugh and a sway, you lean into him, and Lando loops his arms around your waist to hold you close. "Well?"
"In my life, it's hard to find people who can keep up with the chaos," He begins, just sort of rambling from nowhere, but it was true. He'd lost friends and lovers all because of his racing, his travelling, himself. "But when I first met you, you and Milo were your own kind of chaos, one where I fit in. It honestly took me all my courage just to ask that stupid Spider-Man kiss question, and I couldn't even do that! But then...then you kissed me, and you got Milo all dressed up in that jumpsuit, and all that chaos turned to peace. I'm quiet, when I'm with you."
There's a beat of silence before he watches the next sentence form through the grin on your face. "When are you ever quiet, Lando?"
"Oh, shut up, you muppet, I'm trying to be sweet." You laugh, head tilted back and hair softly moving in the breeze, the most perfect sound he's ever heard, the most perfect image he's ever seen. "If you'll let me continue. I couldn't picture my life without you and the calm you bring, or Milo running around after us, or...or any of it, really. Today kind of proves that, because when we were trapped in that bathroom, you know what I was thinking? Of how happy I was just to be there with you. If not for my race, I wouldn't have minded staying there just a bit longer, to be in that calm with you."
"In my life," You echo, somehow managing to get even closer, his head dipping down as he's desperate to kiss you. "It's hard to find people willing to stay. But you were just somehow always around, not just for me, but for Milo, and you...you filled the spaces I didn't want to accept as missing." You look off into the night, a lifetime behind your eyes that Lando might never understand. "I am still not sure I believe this is real. Our lives are so...different, and crazy, but you never seemed to mind. You showed me that the right people will stay, not just for me, but for Milo. You mean more to me than you know because of that."
"I love you." He says, raising one hand to tilt your head back towards him, because what else is there to say?
You were two different people stitched together by love. That's the only explanation, of why Lando could stay, why you calmed him amid the chaos. It was all the little moments, of silly costumes and late nights and park benches and parenting, of how you looked at him, like you do tonight, with that soft sparkle in your eye, with all your attention on him.
He's a lucky, lucky man, for everything you and Milo have given him, curse included. "I love you too." You kiss him, but this time, it's not like any of the rest. It's like that Princess Bride movie, about the most passionate and pure kisses. It's everything he's ever felt wrapped up into one, single moment, and is a precursor for everything he gets to feel in his future. Call him drunk, but this is what love is supposed to feel like. Not crazy confessions, but the natural knowing that this, right here, is the rest of his life. You slowly pull away, and he's sure you feel it too, the soft blush rising to your cheeks as you stare up at him. "People will be wondering where you are, you know."
"Let them wonder," He says, the next words a bare whisper before he leans in to kiss you again, and again, for hopefully the rest of his life. "I'm exactly where I need to be."
a/n: thank you all for your patience 😭🫶 the costume series finally returns!
politely enquiring how this fine evening is treating you m’lady 🙂↕️👒🤏 that’s me tipping my hat btw
LOLLL it was good! Celebrated my brothers birthday with the family so that was nice:)) but between uni and work I’ve had no spare time and I’m starting to tweak out… but we live laugh love anyway!!
thank you for the lovely inquiry my dear 🙂↕️👒🤏
Oscar for HP Tuners iRacing Event | May 4th 2026
