redbullusa ; dive in for texas qb arch manning, interview, where he talks about his family legacy, his first season ahead of the big game, and details you may not know!
comments;
archmanning: a pleasure
⤷ user19: you're not him lil bro
⤷ randoo93: hasn't played a single minute... give him time
randoo07: he's signing so many NIL deals
⤷ user57: might become the highest paid quarterback in college
user13: wait i loved this interview, he shows a side we don't see much
⤷ randoo12: i think it's because he heavily media trained! but it is nice to see this part of him
vuoriclothing: 💪💪
user41: why is he promoting so much of himself??
⤷ userr65: i think it's to easen the tension the media has on him!! they're saying all sorts of things
⤷ randoo39: he should be used to it. this is what happens when you're a manning and play for texas football...
utbarstool ; qb arch manning is trending after an incident inside the training facility with his teammate michael j taaffe... not good news when first season game is weeks away
comments;
utbarstool: allegedly ** i don't want to get sued
⤷ randoo19: then take the post down!!!!
⤷ randoo03: careful! they can deleted your page for this
user44: what happened??
⤷ user72: maybe it has to do with his gf?
⤷ randoo76: taaffe recently did post her with no context
⤷ randoo12: she cheated?
user11: there's so much drama, it needs to get fixed
alexccc: lol, he's a flop
userr01: probably has to do with michael posting his girl
⤷ randoo54: we don't know anything
⤷ user25: why would she be hanging out with him, if arch and her are together? people need to realize sooner or later that they're not a couple and just friends!!!
arch blurb abt childhood best friends turned to lovers…😽😽
"quit ignoring me! you've been doing it all night and i have the right to know why," arch yells desperately, following you into the room. you rolled your eyes, not knowing if you had it in you to do this tonight.
his hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you from full disapperaing. you despised the butterflies you felt in that moment, looking into his blue gaze, full of curiosity and hurt. he was hurt, and it was all that he expressed.
"arch you know exactly why! i don't know why you want me to say it!"
he shook his head, your hand retracting, looking down at your soften daze, a slight tremor on your lips. "i'm confused y/n... so confused from this sudden distance. i'm not used to it whatsoever..." he whispers.
"i'm not either but i think its the best option if we simply stop-"
"it's not, and you know that. i've known you since we were kids. this isn't like you. you're not the one to simply leave because something is bothering you. tell me what you feel," he grabs your face gently, making you look at him with pure sadness.
"i feel confused! you're right, this isn't like me and it's your fault!" you screamed, your insides churning, not knowing exactly how to handle this sudden pressure or feelings regarding to him.
he was supposed to be your best friend, so why did your heart desire for more? see him as more than what he should originally be? have your chest caving with butterflies anytime his eyes fell on you?
"my fault? why is it my fault?" he asked drastically, his own heart churning at this state of you. it had been weeks of trying to wrap his head around your random distance. he didn't like it one bit because there was a way out of it.
"because i love you arch! not in a friendly manner, or of how we've treated each other all these years. i love you differently. i love you more than a friend, and it hurts me because i shouldn't!"
his face looks stunned, not expecting your words out of the blue. he needed to say something before it was too late. he needed to say it back before you could think otherwise. he was tired of feeling the distance, not bearing the idea of you not at his side.
neither of you were used to the idea of being far apart. you were attached from the hip. you were with each other 24/7. if you weren't, it was constant texts and calls. there was one way out of this, and he was determined for it to fall that way.
"look at me," arch states, brushing away a small tear that fell. he knew you were scared. absolutely mortified with the idea of losing him. "just tell me you don't and we'll move on," you say sadly.
"i can't do that..." he shook his head.
"why not? it's easier that way."
"it's not because i love you too. more thna you can imagine. i can't walk away from here knowing i feel the same way. i can't continue this distance because it hurts me too," arch expressed.
this time your eyes widened, a tiny gasp falling from your parted lips, "what?"
arch one! things get freaky real quick after seeing him for the first time after a month apart?
smut under the cut!! minors dni as this is 18+ and will be blocked!! f receives fingering, m receives handjob, mentions of kissing, some mature language, jealous!arch if you squint!!
"we're... gonna... fall..." you said through his heated kiss, letting him guide you backwards onto the couch. he stopped, grabbing your face with delicacy while his kiss spoke other things. his tongue slowly invading yours, small licks that had your knees week immedietly.
"you're so fucking beautful, i want you," he murmured, this time his lips caputing your bottom lip. you pulled him closer, feeling his growing bulge right in the middle of your tummy. "now?" you asked with a giggle.
"now," he stated nodded, picking you up and guiding your bodies onto your couch. your luggage and purse were long forgotten by the door. they could wait to be unpacked. all arch seemed to carer about was showing you just how much he missed you.
"i've missed you so much, a month has been hell without, i never wanna be that apart from you again," he confesses, helping you remove the baggy old texas shirt you had on, your own hands undoing the string of his sweatpants.
"i missed you too, arch. all of you," he settled right between your legs, his skin soft and warm from wearing a hoodie. his hand raked your side, all the way down to your thigh, where he gave it a firm squeeze.
"all of me? god, you have no idea what you do to me, what you make me feel," he said through another deep kiss, teeth and tongue clashing together. he could taste that sweet flavor he was addicted to, his boxers growing tighter with just kissing.
your hand pulled the hair on the nape of his neck, then flowly guided it down to palm his manhood, swallowing his deep, groggy groan. your touch felt feather-like, squeezing the right amount, not pulling or fastening the pace, enough to send shivers down his spine.
"can't believe you left me a month alone," arch said again, sucking and then biting a small spot on your neck, hearing your faint moan, softly kissing the area before feeling his fingers reach down to remove your shorts.
he reaches over your waistband, two of his fingers circling the most sensitive part of your core, leaving you hastily breathing. "so fucking wet, and all for me isn't that right?" he asked, kissing your brow, watching your face flutter in pure desire.
"yes, just you..."
"none of those spanish boys tried to hit on you, right?" you could sense the jealousy spill from his lips. he was a quiet one. sometimes you didn't know what was running through his head, forcing him to say it out loud. as of now, you'd say what he needed to hear.
"a couple, but i showed them you, and this," his eyes fell on the dangly charm on your neck, his initial lying just below your neck. "that's right baby," his fingers slowly pushed into your coated entrance, your walls fluttering at the intrusion.
two could play at one. your hand moved inside his boxers, feeling the trimmed hairs as your hand barely wraps around his length, giving him a firm tug up and down. arch lets out a quiet curse, your name falling like a devotion.
"i can feel how fucking tight you are... making me feel so good pretty girl," he flirts, trying to reach for your lips once again. his fingers curled in and out, his palm hitting over your clit, making the sensation even better.
you started to meet his pace, jerking him off just the way he liked. arch hated that he was still wearing his boxers, which prevented the full euphoric feeling, yet that was less of his worry with the way you were making him feel.
"fuck arch, keep doing just that," you whined, brows pulled in as your legs parted more, moving your own underwear to the side so he has better access. you kissed his stubbled jaw, looking at his state of pure lust, knowing this was just the start of the night.
"wanna spend the rest of my life with you... and i will..."
both of you seemed to forget there was plenty of time to make up after a month. yet in that moment, it didn't cross your heads, they were full with one thought, which was each other.
Protective arch coming to get you after a night out with friends
he knows he shouldn't, but he does anyway. the random sensation of a cold thrill running through him, seeing you talk with a guy, a guy you've specifically stated was nothing more than a coworker.
he sees you let out a laugh, not a shy or normal one, the kind that only the arch gets to hear. your head thrown back, your hand coming to cover your beautiful smile, eyes twinkling with happiness.
your friends are surrounded, but for some reason, he can't take his eyes off him. he knows that look too well; it's bothering every cell in his body to not go up and cause a scene. your eyes find arch's truck, smiling big upon seeing your boyfriend.
relief. a wave of relief runs through him, not resisting the urge to get out the car and meeting your hug. you still look effortlessly beautiful. your hair down, makeup still intact and glowy despite the harsh humidity, one of your arms carrying his leather jacket, your black dress clung tight.
"hi baby, how was your night?" he murmured, catching his eyes and everyone else's. your face flushes, a clear sign of the drinks starting to hit. "we had so much fun, but i missed you," you said kissing his cheek.
"let's say bye, and we can get going?" you say, accepting arch's grip around your waist, guiding the two of you to the group. he says hi to everyone, some side hug, bro claps, and a rough, tight handshake to the guy who irritated him just by standing next to you.
"everyone has a ride?" arch asks, wanting to be kind in case someone needed a ride home. he knew how expensive uber was at this time, and everyone seemed to live close, so it was no issue from his end.
"arch, you're always so kind! we're all good, we rode here together with tyler," your friend says, swaying around, clear evidence of her tipsy state.
"y/n and lucas rode here from work together," she said again, arch glancing down at you, swallowing a bubble of jealousy. "that so?" arch asked, drawing small circles over your dress, his gaze landing on lucas who stood there cockily, arms crossed over his chest.
"mhm, he offered, and i kept declining, but then it started raining, so i had no other option," you giggled, explaining. "thank you again by the way, you did me a favor or else i would've shown up soaked," you said.
you were always so kind and endearing, something arch loved so much about you. "we couldn't have that, couldn't we? the pleasure is all mine, at any time," lucas winks, seeing you let out a small smile. "i was surprised since he always drops you off," he hinted, arch's jaw clenching.
"he was busy with football at the time, so he couldn't. but he always does, which is why i love him so much," you appreciated kissing his blushed cheek again.
arch knew you hated driving, or anything that had to do with being behind the wheel. and he didn't care where the location was, he wouldn't hesitate to drop or pick you up.
"it's been fun guys, but we're going to head home! i'm exhausted and can't wait to sleep," you said tiredly, arch noticng your tired state. "thank you guys for taking care of her, it means a lot," arch valued.
he helped you into the car, helping you buckle into your seat, brushing a few pieces that covered your face, knowing how much they annoyed you. he opened a cold water, and handed you some crackers he brought.
arch waved everyone goodbye, throwing a glare at lucas, who noticed it, but didn't react. he drives slowly out the crowded street, a hand on your thigh, listening to you yap off about how the night was.
"i'm so glad you had fun, baby. it sounded like you really needed it," arch said, kissing your knuckles delicately at a red light. "i did! it's been a while since we went out for drinks," you said with a tired sigh.
"you looked so beautiful. i couldn't stop thinking of the picture you sent me," arch complimented, watching as you looked away, clearly shy at his words. "stop it, i know what you're doing," you warned, looking forward where he began to drive again.
"thank you again, for picking me up. for every time, actually," you said with a soft look on your face. "anything for you. just don't accept any rides from lucas anymore, hmm?"
"why?"
"because he clearly thinks there's something else, and i don't like that."
"he's just a co-"
"i know he is. but he doesn't respect or understand that. trust me i know," arch says, grunting uncomfortably, the look on your face replaced with confusion.
"you... know?"
"i used to watch you the same way. i know what he pictures and thinks in his head," he says, letting out an embarrassed chuckle. he never got this way unless someone was clearly breaking a boundary.
"okay edward cullen," you joked, your small hand fitting perfectly against his. "i'm not trying to be controlling, that's the last thing i want you to think or that i don't trust you. he just clearly... isn't getting the hint."
"i know arch, and i don't think that. thank you for telling me," you reassured, not wanting him to feel guilty or invalidate his feelings. at a red light he leans over and places an urgent kiss on your lips, tasting the strawberry flavor tainted.
"you hungry?"
"very much... i could go for some in and out? only if you're down?"
Arch and some of his Texas Football teammates surprised the newest babies, NICU graduates and their families at St. David’s Medical Center with a special block party. [20 Jul 2026]
Summary: Touch has always been your love language, until one overheard conversation makes you question everything. When you start to pull away Max realises just how deeply he’s come to need it.
2.7k words / Masterlist
Max always says you’re like a blanket come to life.
You cling. You cuddle. You drape yourself across him the second the opportunity arises. If Max’s lap is free you claim it without hesitation. If he’s stretched out on the couch you’re pressed against his side before he even blinks. Your hand finds his thigh during dinner, your fingers sneak into his back pocket when you’re walking together, and every morning, like clockwork, your nose tucks into the curve of his neck.
It’s not something you think about, it’s instinct. It’s how you express the things you sometimes struggle to say. How you offer comfort. How you say I love you.
And for the longest time Max never says a word about it.
He lets you curl up beside him during movie nights. He leans into your touch when you rub lazy circles into the back of his neck while he’s gaming, or when you lace your fingers with his under the table at dinner.
So you think, this is us. You think, this works.
Until one night, when you overhear something you weren’t supposed to.
It’s nothing serious. At least, not really.
You’re padding back from the kitchen with a cup of tea, bare feet muffled by carpet when you hear Max talking on the phone on the balcony. His voice is low, casual. He’s talking to Daniel you think. Laughing at something.
And then you catch it.
“Yeah, you noticed huh? No she’s super touchy, always has been. Like, always on me.”
A beat.
“No, I don’t mind it. It’s just... I’m not really used to it, you know?”
You freeze, feet still against the carpet. The tea sloshes slightly, forgotten in your hands.
He laughs again, easy and relaxed. “She’s like a human magnet. If I’m sitting, she’s sitting on me. I swear sometimes I think she’d climb into my skin if she could.”
Daniel says something you can’t hear. Max chuckles. “No, she’s not annoying. She’s just... really affectionate.”
You don’t stay to hear the rest.
Your fingers tighten around your mug as you quietly retreat, heart a little heavier than before. You curl back into bed without saying a word, staring at the ceiling while your tea goes cold on the nightstand.
You’re not angry. He didn’t say anything cruel. Not really.
But for the first time questions being to lodge in your chest like a thorn... do I touch him too much? Does he just tolerate it because he loves me?
And just like that, something in you begins to shift.
You're still beside him. Still laughing at his jokes, still making him breakfast. You kiss him good morning and smile across the table. From the outside nothing changes, but the little things in all the tiny invisible places, the things that used to come so naturally they stop.
You don’t climb into his lap while he’s watching race replays, don’t tuck your face into the slope of his shoulder like you used to. You don’t slide your hand beneath the hem of his hoodie when you hug him from behind in the kitchen, fingers sneaking against warm skin. You don’t curl into his side when the movie starts, don’t tuck yourself under his arm like you belong there.
Instead you sit beside him on the couch with your legs tucked neatly under you, wrapped up tightly in a blanket like armour. A careful distance. A subtle retreat.
You keep your hands in your lap at dinner. You nod and listen and smile, but your fingers don’t find his thigh. You don’t reach for his hand beneath the table.
You still want to. God, do you want to.
Your whole body aches to reach for him, to run your fingers over his jaw, to smooth back his hair, to trace lazy shapes across his stomach. You miss the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.
You miss being held without thinking twice, but now that you’ve heard him say it out loud, that he’s not used to it, that he’s not like you, you can’t unhear it. It loops in your mind when the silence stretches between you.
Slowly you start to convince yourself you’ve been suffocating him. That maybe the way you love is too much for him. That maybe softness, when it clings like yours does, feels like smothering.
So you pull back, quietly, carefully, and hope he doesn’t notice how much it hurts. Or worse that he does, and lets you do it anyway.
Max doesn’t say anything at first, but after a few days he starts to notice.
A few inches of space on the couch. Your hand not finding his like it usually does. The way you don't crawl into his lap during breakfast, don't lean into his side during movies, don't rest your hand on his leg during long car rides.
At first he tells himself maybe you’re tired from work. Maybe it’s just one of those quiet moods that passes like the weather. He gives you space, the way people are always saying partners should.
But the distance doesn’t fade.
It expands.
One morning he slips behind you in the kitchen to steal a piece of toast. Normally you’d laugh, you’d wrap your arms around his waist and bury your nose in his hoodie, but this time you step aside without touching him.
He frowns, just a quick flicker, then hides it, but his stomach twists violently anyway.
It’s not like Max to spiral. He’s not wired for emotional uncertainty he prefers problems he can fix with strategy, planning, control.
But this?
This isn’t a problem he knows how to solve.
The way you sit on the far end of the couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling on your phone like it’s more comforting than him. You barely brush his arm when you slip into bed at night. When he tries to kiss your neck absentmindedly like he always does you duck away, not unkindly, but enough to make him panic
He tries not to panic, but that’s what this feels like panic.
It gnaws at him over the next couple days. The silence between your fingers and his. The distance that didn’t use to be there. The way you won’t look at him for too long, like he might read too much in your eyes.
Max isn’t good with emotional guessing games. He’s never been the type to bottle things up or pretend everything’s fine when it isn’t. He doesn’t do insecure. He confronts things. Fixes things. Puts it all on the table and makes it make sense.
And Max doesn’t know how to read silence the way he reads telemetry. He doesn’t know how to fix something when he doesn’t know where the break is.
He replays your interactions hunting for the mistake. Did he forget something important? Miss a signal? Are you sick or bored?
Is she pulling away because she’s planning to leave?
The thought stops him in his tracks. His chest aches with it, sharp and sudden. He sits with it, stunned, rubs at his sternum like he can soothe the ache.
You’re still sweet. Still say good luck before he gets into the car. Still text him updates about your day, what podcast you listened to, what ridiculous thing your coworker said. Still fold his shirts when he leaves them in a pile at the foot of the bed. Still laugh at the stupid jokes he makes when he’s overtired. You're still there.
But it’s different. Your body has gone quiet, your touch has gone still. Less warm. Less you.
And Max, who never thought he’d crave something so soft, so intangible starts to feel the absence like a phantom limb, it feels like someone turned off the sun and expects him not to notice. And it terrifies him because he doesn’t know what he did to lose it, or how to ask for it back.
You can feel the ache in your chest growing stronger every day.
You don’t want to stop touching him. You miss touching him. You miss his warmth, the way he instinctively leans into your touch even when he’s focused on something. You miss curling into his lap without thinking, his fingers combing through your hair like it’s second nature.
But now? Every time your hand so much as twitches toward him, doubt rushes in like cold water.
Am I smothering him again? Is this too much? Is this what he meant?
You thought you were just adjusting. Giving him the space you assume he needs. You told yourself it was mature, respectful, kind, but it’s starting to feel less like an adjustment and more like a punishment.
Every second you don’t touch him? It hurts. In tiny, deceptive ways like a thousand paper cuts.
By the end of the next week, you’re sitting on the hotel bed in Jeddah, scrolling through your phone in silence, without reading a word, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still smells like his aftershave. Max pauses when he sees how far you’re sitting from the edge of the mattress. From him.
That’s when he finally speaks.
“Did I do something?”
You blink. “What?”
“You’ve been...” He trails off, eyes searching yours. “Distant.”
You hesitate. “No, I’m just tired.”
He studies your face for a long moment hoping you’ll offer somthing more, but when nothing comes he doesn’t push. Just nods slowly, then climbs into bed beside you.
You don’t cuddle him that night.
You face the other way, pretending to scroll while your chest feels like it’s being wrung out.
Max doesn’t say anything, but you feel the shift, the slight dip of the mattress, the warmth of his body inching closer in the dark, not quite touching. He stops just shy of you, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to, like he’s hoping you’ll turn around and meet him there.
It takes until Sunday night, after the race for everything to crack open.
You’re both back at the hotel. Max steps out of the shower, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, sweatpants slung low on his hips. You’re perched on the window seat, knees pulled to your chest, phone resting forgotten in your lap as you stare out over Jeddah’s lights.
You think maybe you’ll just go to sleep early. Then Max sits beside you.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits close enough to feel the heat off your arm. He’s never been good at this part, the vulnerable bit. The what if it’s in my head bit. The what if I’m asking for something she doesn’t want to give me anymore bit.
The part where he has to name the thing that’s been gnawing at him for weeks. The part where he has to admit he's scared he’s already lost something and just hasn’t caught up to it yet.
He’s spent enough time memorising the way you speak when you're lying. You don’t flinch or fumble. You just get quieter. Softer. Like you’re afraid the truth will hurt more than the silence.
But he needs the truth now, because he’s been tying himself in knots trying to figure it out. Replaying conversations in his head, wondering if he forgot someone’s birthday or crossed a line or said something he shouldn’t have.
And now all he wants is to be close. To be touched. Held. Seen.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice low, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
“Yeah…” you say, trailing off.
And then, when you don’t say anything else, something in your eyes flickers and he just knows.
Max’s heart kicks hard in his chest, the kind of lurch he only gets right before lights out. He swallows, throat dry, like he’s one bad move away from losing something he doesn’t know how to live without.
“I miss you,” he says, voice quiet. “Even when you’re right here.”
You close your eyes. Then you look at him, really look, and something in you gives. Like you’ve been carrying a weight for days and it’s finally too much to hold, too much to hide.
“I heard you,” you say.
His brow furrows. “Heard me?”
“On the phone,” you clarify. “With Daniel. A couple of weeks ago”
Max’s pauses for a second, trying to remember, and then his stomach drops.
“You heard that?”
You nod slowly, eyes still on the window. “You said I’m always on you. That I’m really touchy. That you’re not used to it.”
His expression shifts, jaw tight, eyes suddenly filled with something that looks a lot like guilt.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I wasn’t trying to. But after that...” You pull your sleeves over your hands, voice quieter now. “I started wondering if I’d been overwhelming you. If I was too much—”
“Wait, baby—”
“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, force you into something you don’t want.” you rush on. “So I’ve been trying to give you space. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
Max’s heart actually hurts.
He didn’t even realise how it might’ve sounded. He remembers the conversation now, half-distracted, casual, him laughing while Daniel joked about your human magnet tendencies. It hadn’t meant anything to him, just a passing comment… but it had meant everything to you.
“Hey,” he says, reaching for your hand. “Look at me.”
You look up. Max’s brows are drawn together. He looks devastated.
“I swear I never meant that in a bad way,” he says. “I wasn’t complaining. I was just… explaining it. I’ve never been with someone as affectionate as you, it caught me off guard at first sure. But I love it. I love the way you love me.”
A beat. His voice softens.
“When you stopped reaching for me, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been going crazy wondering why it felt like you were slipping away.”
You bite your lip, blinking quickly. “I thought I was just annoying you, that you were putting up with it because you love me, not because you wanted it.”
His forehead drops to yours, hands sliding to your waist, holding tight. “No. God, no. Baby, it’s the best part of my day. You crawling into my lap, always reaching for me. It makes me feel wanted... like I matter, like I make you feel safe.”
He leans back just slightly, fingers sliding to your jaw, cradling it gently.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “If I made you feel like you were too much. If I made you doubt what we have. That was never what I meant. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that you thought you had to pull away from me just to make me comfortable.”
Your lips part slightly, like you're shocked by the weight of his words.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he admits. “Watching you pull away, thinking maybe I’d done something. I was scared I lost you and didn’t even know when it happened.”
“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I swear I wasn’t pulling away from you… at least not like that, I just thought I was doing the right thing.”
“I know that now,” he says. “But please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop”
Your arms are around him before he finishes the sentence.
He exhales into your neck, like he’s been holding his breath for days. Pulls you into his lap like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again. His hands spread across your back, and for the first time in a while something in him settles.
You crawl further into his lap like it’s where you belong. Arms around his neck. Fingers threading into his hair. He exhales like someone finally handed him back something precious.
“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin.
“I’m right here.”
He pulls back, eyes soft. “Don’t stop being you, okay? Promise me.”
You nod. “Promise.”
Later, curled up in bed, you trace lazy lines across his chest with your fingertips.
“You really don’t mind?” you ask sleepily.
“Mind?” he echoes, mouth brushing your forehead. “I crave you.”
You smile into his skin, small and shy.
He kisses your hair again. “You ruined me.”
“Good,” you murmur, already drifting.
You’re here. Wrapped around him, where you belong.
And Max? Max feels like he can finally breathe again.
hi! can i request that the reader and max anticipate their first child? he was so worried when the reader had a morning sickness and when the reader was about to deliver the baby? he worried whether he could be a good father or not to their firstborn baby. and how he was so protective, care, and just soft with the reader? thank you! i love your fics anyway, you're doing great! i hope you have a very good day ahead!! xoxo.
What If I Get It Wrong?
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: Max was never afraid of anything, but fatherhood? That’s a different kind of terrifying. As the two of you prepare for your first child, Max is protective, terrified, and completely in awe, and you watch the man you love fall headfirst into fatherhood. (Requested)
4.1k words / Masterlist
You weren’t expecting it to feel like this, equal parts overwhelming and breathtaking. A surreal mix of the mundane and the extraordinary.
Two faint pink lines on a stick, the distant hum of the bathroom fan. The sound of your shaky breathing as you sit on the edge of the tub, blinking down at something that just shifted the axis of your entire world.
Your hands tremble when you press your palm to your stomach. It’s still flat. Still unchanged. And yet… you already feel different. Maybe not physically, but something inside you is new. Expanding. Blooming.
You had a plan.
Of course you did. You’d always imagined telling Max with a smile too wide to hide, maybe over a fancy private dinner at home with the test tucked inside a gift box or a Red Bull baby onesie folded on his plate. Maybe filming his reaction when he opened it. Something worthy of the moment. Something permanent.
You even started writing a card, got as far as, "You changed my life once. Now—."
But when the door opens that night and Max comes in, home late from some media obligations, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, and grumbling about TikTok's and something you can’t quite hear. You don’t even get a word in before he presses a kiss to your cheek. “Sorry I’m late. What’re we having for—”
“I’m pregnant.”
The words leap out of you before you even mean to say them. It’s not soft. It’s not poetic. It’s raw and breathless and a little panicked.
The silence is immediate. Thick. His mouth stays open mid-word. His eyes flick to your stomach, then back to your face.
“I—” you start, already flustered, “I was gonna tell you in some big, sweet way, I swear. With a whole surprise and maybe a stupid cake or balloons, I even wrote like half a card and now I’ve just blurted it out like a maniac and—”
“Pregnant,” he interrupts.
You nod. Your voice is a whisper. “Yeah.”
It takes another two seconds before a breathless laugh escapes him. He crosses the room in one long stride, pulling you into his arms. His hands cradle your face like you’re something breakable. “You’re serious?”
You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I took the test three times.”
He looks down at your stomach again. Then back at you. Then exhales a shaky breath that sounds like something breaking open in his chest.
“I’m going to be a dad?”
You bite your lip, eyes filling. “Yeah. You are.”
You nod again, and before you can say another word, he’s kissing you. Slow. Deep. His hand presses instinctively to your belly, protective already, and you feel his body tremble as his forehead rests against yours.
The nerves come quickly.
You’re crouched over the toilet, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, on what feels like your fifth straight day of relentless nausea. Your stomach rolls again, and you groan, dry heaving into nothing.
Max hovers like a man teetering on the edge of a panic attack. He’s pacing the bathroom floor in bare feet, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other holding your water bottle like it might fix something if he just offers it enough times.
“Should I call someone?” he says for the third time in five minutes. “A hospital? Maybe your mum, I think, maybe Dr. Hendriks? I’ll fly him in. We have the jet, it’s—”
“Max,” you croak, cutting him off mid-spiral. “I’m fine. Just... a bit gross.”
He drops to a crouch beside you so fast you almost flinch. His hand is instantly at your back, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles over your spine like he’s trying to manually ease the nausea out of you.
“You threw up twice, you’ve barley eaten anything since yesterday, and you can’t even stand up straight. This isn’t fine,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for signs of something worse.
You want to reassure him, but all you can manage is another gag and a feeble wave of your hand.
He makes a frustrated sound under his breath, somewhere between a growl and a groan and presses a kiss to your temple. You feel him shift beside you, still kneeling, still rubbing your back.
You’re pretty sure he was supposed to be on a flight to the Red Bull factory two hours ago. His suitcase is still zipped up in the hallway. His laptop sits forgotten on the kitchen counter next to the tea he brewed for you earlier, the tea you couldn’t even look at, let alone sip.
He didn’t even finish drying his hair. It’s still damp, curling at the edges. There’s a red line pressed into his cheek from where he must’ve fallen asleep beside you on the bathroom floor the night before.
“Max,” you mumble, finally able to lift your head. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, exhausted, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack before the baby’s even here.”
He tries to laugh but it comes out hoarse and half-broken. “I just hate this. Watching you like this. I keep thinking, what if I’m missing something? What if I’m not doing enough?”
You tilt your head up slightly, catching the crease between his brows, the lines of guilt that don’t belong there.
“You made me three kinds of toast this morning,” you murmur. “And cut the crusts off, and you held my hair and Googled ginger remedies until your phone died.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but you press a hand to his chest right over the spot where his heart’s racing, fast and wild.
“You’re here,” you whisper. “That’s not useless. That’s everything.”
He exhales shakily, eyes locked on yours and for a second you swear they shine.
“I’m just so scared of getting it wrong,” he admits, barely audible. “This whole dad thing. Taking care of you. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done, and I keep feeling like I’m already screwing it up.”
“You’re not,” you promise, curling your fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt. “You’re already the best dad, because you care so much, because you show up.”
The weeks pass in waves. Ultrasounds. Appointments. Cravings that come out of nowhere at 2 a.m. and leave you both laughing in the kitchen in your pajamas, sharing a jar of pickles and toast with peanut butter. There are stretches of calm, slow, quiet mornings when the Monaco sunlight creeps across the bedsheets and Max wraps an arm around your waist, murmuring something sleepy against your neck. And then there are flashes of chaos, bags packed, schedules rearranged, Max on a video call with his race engineers while still rubbing your swollen feet with one hand.
Somehow, amidst it all, you find a rhythm.
You learn to time what you can around Max’s races, his travel, his returns. You count the days until he’s back, until he’s lying beside you again, one hand stretched protectively over your belly like it’s instinct now.
The first time you hear the heartbeat Max looks like someone knocked the air out of him. His mouth parts. His eyes fill.
“She’s real,” he whispers, the words barely making it past his lips. “Our baby is real.”
You haven’t even found out the gender yet, but he says she instinctively, without hesitation, like his heart already knows something the rest of you don’t.
You tease him about it once, smiling as he folds baby clothes that aren’t even needed yet.
“It might be a boy you know?” you say, watching him hold up a tiny lemon-patterned onesie like it’s the crown jewels.
He looks up from the clothes, something quiet and unshakable in his gaze. “Maybe, but I don’t know, I just feel it, every time I picture the future, it’s you... and her.”
You stare at him, your breath catching somewhere in your throat.
“She’s loud,” he continues, grinning now, his accent curling around the softness of his voice. “Talks too much. Bosses me around. Already a little menace. Definitely your child.”
“Excuse me?”
He laughs, quick and boyish, and leans over to press a kiss to your cheek. “You’ll see. She’s gonna have your fire.”
You don’t say it, but the truth sinks deep into your chest, he already loves this baby with his whole being.
He talks to your belly when he thinks you’re asleep. You catch him doing it all the time, quiet, unguarded moments where his world has narrowed down to two things, you and the life you’re creating together.
When you both lie awake at night, hands intertwined under the duvet, whispering about baby names and nursery colors and what kind of parents you want to be, Max is always a little breathless. Like he still can’t believe it’s real. Like he’s terrified and amazed in equal measure.
“She’s going to change everything,” he murmurs once, voice low in the dark.
“She already has,” you whisper back.
He nods slowly, curling into you like he always does, like you’re the only home he’s ever needed.
Max becomes… soft.
In every possible way.
It’s not just the way he handles you now, like you’re something precious and breakable. It’s not just the way he walks slower beside you or watches your face when you stand up too quickly or how he quietly puts your sneakers on for you when your feet start to swell.
It’s in the little things.
He buys three different pregnancy pillows, a full-body one, a C-shaped one, and some strange ergonomic wedge because he isn’t sure which one will help you sleep better. One night you catch him actually reading a parenting blog in bed next to you, blue light from his phone casting shadows across the duvet. He scrolls silently, occasionally muttering things like:
“Did you know babies can hear our voices by week twenty?”
Or,
“Apparently we’re supposed to play music for her.”
Then there’s the night you find him in the nursery.
It’s late. You’d gotten up to grab water and noticed the light was on down the hall. You pad softly to the doorway, heart already warm with affection and there he is.
Max. Standing perfectly still. The crib is built, assembled a few days ago it sits against the far wall now, freshly made up with soft cream sheets and a stuffed lion tucked in the corner.
He’s just staring at it.
Half terror. Half wonder.
“Max?” you say gently, stepping into the room.
He startles a little but doesn’t turn around.
“Do you think I’ll be good at this?” he murmurs.
You cross the room without answering and slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against the cotton of his t-shirt. He reaches for your hands, holds them tightly over his chest.
“You’re already good,” you whisper.
He lets out a long, shaky breath. The kind that sounds like it’s been sitting in his chest for months.
“It’s just…” he starts, and then pauses, struggling to find the words. “I didn’t exactly have the perfect example.”
You nod, letting the silence stretch. You don’t talk about his childhood much but he’s never needed to say much for you to understand. Jos was many things, passionate, driven, ambitious. But he was also sharp around the edges. Affection was earned, not given freely. Max learned young what it meant to perform under pressure. To please. To succeed, or suffer.
“I’m scared I’ll mess her up,” he says, voice quieter now. “That I’ll push too hard. Or expect too much. Or say something I can’t take back. What if she cries and I don’t know how to make it better? What if she needs something I don’t know how to give?”
You pull back just enough to tilt your head and meet his gaze.
“Max, you’re the most patient person I know.”
He snorts, but there’s not much humor in it. “That’s a word I don’t think has ever been used to describe me.”
“You’re patient with people you love,” you correct gently. “With me. You’ve been soft and kind and so careful this whole time, even when I’ve been sick or moody or irrational. You listen. That’s what she’ll see. That’s what she’ll learn.”
You hesitate, then add softly, “I’m scared too, you know.”
His brows draw together, surprised. Maybe he hadn’t realised, maybe you’ve hidden it well. “You are?”
You nod. “Every single day. I lie in bed and think about how much we don’t know yet. About how overwhelming it all feels sometimes. What if I’m not enough? What if she needs more than I can give?”
His arms tighten around you instinctively, like he’s trying to hold the fear out of your body.
“But then I see you,” you whisper. “And I remember… we don’t have to do any of it alone, and that makes all the difference.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
He just turns in your arms, eyes a little wet, and rests his forehead against yours.
“I don’t want to get it wrong,” he breathes. “Not with her. Not with you.”
“You won’t,” you whisper. “But if you ever feel like you are, we’ll figure it out. Together.”
He nods slowly. Swallows. “Promise me you’ll tell me if I ever forget, if I ever slip. If I start to become…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.
“I promise, but I already know I won’t need to.” you say, holding his face in your hands.
You kiss him then, soft and sure, and he kisses you back like your faith in him is something he never wants to let go of. And in the stillness of that nursery, with your belly pressed to his and the crib waiting quietly behind you, Max lets the fear settle… just a little.
Maybe it’s okay to be scared, as long as neither of you is scared alone.
The last month is the hardest.
Your back feels like it’s been replaced by concrete. Your feet have swollen so much you’ve officially retired every pair of shoes you own except one pair of very ugly slides. You cry at everything, a dog food commercial, a voicemail from your mum, Max just looking at you across the kitchen.
You’re tired in ways you didn’t know were possible. Your body feels like it’s working overtime to grow a person and also remind you of gravity’s cruelest tricks.
Max, meanwhile, has entered full protective mode. As if the impending arrival of your daughter has turned every single instinct inside him up to eleven.
He won’t let you lift anything.
Not a grocery bag. Not a chair. Not even your own overnight hospital bag.
You once reached for a water bottle and he appeared out of thin air swiping it out of your reach with a sharp, scandalized look.
“Max,” you deadpanned, “I’m pregnant, not paralyzed.”
“I’m aware,” he muttered, already unscrewing the cap and handing it to you like a peace offering.
“You think the baby’s going to fall out if I hold a Fiji bottle?”
“No,” he said seriously, “but why take the risk.”
You rolled your eyes then. You do it often now. But secretly?
You love it.
You love how protective he is. How he walks slightly behind you in crowds, like a buffer. How he started driving ten kilometers under the limit the second you entered your third trimester, even though he used to complain that Monaco traffic was basically just expensive cars parked in motion.
You love how he fusses, quietly but constantly. How he now triple-checks that your favorite snack is stocked before leaving the apartment, how he installed a nightlight in the hallway so you wouldn't trip during your nightly bathroom trips. How he downloaded six different white noise apps on his phone so you could try them out in bed. "For practice," he said, “in case she’s fussy.”
But what really gets you, what makes your chest ache with something warm and vast and impossible to describe is the way his face changes every time you talk about the baby.
A softening around his eyes. A slight tilt of his head. The more you speak about her name, about what she might look like, about whether she’ll like racing or painting or maybe dinosaurs, the more he leans in.
He’s never looked at you like this before. Not when he’s on the podium. Not even after winning his first championship. This? This is different.
This is awe. This is devotion. This is Max Verstappen world-class driver, famously unshakeable completely and utterly undone by the thought of his daughter.
He leans down and kisses your skin. “She’s going to wreck me isn’t she?”
“She already has.”
He looks up at you, eyes shining under the soft lamp light, and for once he doesn’t have a smart reply.
Then the day finally comes.
You wake at 3:13 a.m. with a pressure in your abdomen that steals your breath. It isn’t sharp, not at first. Just a heavy, aching pull deep in your core, like gravity has shifted suddenly inside you.
For a moment you think it’s another false alarm.
You shift under the covers, already rehearsing the mental checklist your doctor gave you: hydration, time the contractions, don’t panic. You ease out of bed, try walking to the bathroom, just like they said to do when you’re not sure it’s real yet, but then the pain tightens, sharp and low and unmistakable. It doesn’t come and go. It grips.
Just like that you know.
You shuffle back to the bed and place a trembling hand on Max’s chest.
“Max.”
He jolts upright as if someone’s fired a starter pistol. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it time?”
His voice is gravelly with sleep, but his body is already moving.
You nod, barely able to get the words out through the rising wave of pain.
“Okay. Okay. Alright, okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, as he flings the covers off and springs into motion.
What follows is like watching a pit stop in human form.
Max moves with sharp, terrifying focus. He’s already helped you into the comfiest clothes he can find, sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts, before you even finish brushing your teeth. He pulls the hospital bag from the front closet, double-checks its contents, grabs your water bottle, chargers, snacks, the car keys.
But the entire time, his hands are shaking.
You notice it in the way he fumbles with the seatbelt when helping you into the car. In the way he presses the elevator button three times like it’ll come faster.
By the time he’s in the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the steering wheel, you’re gripping the side of the door, breathing through another contraction.
“Max,” you whisper, chest rising and falling in short bursts. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing, you need to breath.” he says quickly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror even though the road is deserted.
“No, you’re hyperventilating.”
“I’m not, maybe a little,” he admits, cheeks flushed. He loosens his grip on the wheel, forces one deep inhale through his nose.
You reach across the console and take his hand, squeezing through the contraction.
“You’re going to be amazing,” you say through gritted teeth.
He glances at you, eyes shining under the dashboard light. “You’re the one doing the hard part.”
You laugh sort of. It’s half a wheeze, half a whimper. “Hard doesn’t even cover it.”
He presses a kiss to your knuckles at the next red light. “Just keep holding on. I’m right here.”
The labour is long.
Twenty hours of chaos and calm. Of excruciating pain and quiet moments in between, your hand curled tight in Max’s.
He never leaves your side.
“I love you,” he says every few minutes, even when you’re too far gone to reply. “You’re doing so good. You’re so strong.”
He hovers beside you, whispering soft encouragements, brushing sweat from your forehead with shaking fingers.
And then, after everything, comes silence.
The kind that feels holy.
The room stills. You collapse against the pillows, exhausted and trembling. And then it happens.
A sound. Fragile. Piercing.
A cry.
Your baby’s first breath shatters the stillness, high-pitched and perfect and real.
Max sags beside you like his legs can’t hold him anymore. He buries his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since you’ve known him, since the earliest days of cautious flirtation and long-distance calls, since the podiums and the plane rides and the quiet "I love you"s you feel him cry.
“She’s here,” he chokes out. His whole body shakes. “She’s really here.”
When the nurse places your daughter on your chest, something in you clicks into place. She’s tiny. Wrinkled. Red-faced and slippery and making the most outraged little sounds, but she’s perfect. She’s yours.
And Max… Max looks like he’s been struck by lightning. He can’t move at first. Just stands there, one hand braced on the edge of the bed, the other hovering like he’s afraid to touch her. His face is wet with tears. He looks shell-shocked.
“She’s…” he starts, but he can’t finish. His voice breaks again.
You reach for his hand and guide it gently to her. His fingertips brush her hand and her tiny fingers curl around his pinky, as if she already knows him.
“Hi, kleine meid,” he whispers. “I’m your dada.”
Just like that he’s gone.
Hopelessly, entirely, irreversibly in love.
Later, after the visitors come and go after your families cry over tiny fingers and kiss your cheeks with soft, trembling mouths, after nurses shuffle in and out with gentle voices and kind hands the hospital room falls quiet again.
Just the three of you now. The soft hum of machines. The muffled hallway beyond the door. The gentle rustle of a newborn’s breath in the bassinet beside the bed.
Max lies beside you on the narrow hospital bed, somehow fitting his long frame against yours like puzzle pieces. One arm is curled protectively around your back, anchoring you to his chest. The other hand rests on the side of the bassinet, fingers still.
You watch him as he stares at her. He hasn’t looked away in over twenty minutes.
Not since the nurse gently wheeled her over and whispered, “She’s all yours now.”
“She’s got your nose,” you murmur sleepily, the exhaustion pulling at you like a tide, but the kind you’d wade into again without question.
Max smiles, slow and full and a little dazed. His eyes are glassy, bloodshot from lack of sleep and tears he no longer bothers hiding.
“Poor thing,” he says softly.
You chuckle, too tired for more than a breathy laugh. “She’s lucky.”
He looks over to you, his gaze heavy with affection. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there like he’s silently thanking the universe for bringing you through it.
“No,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m the lucky one.”
You curl into his chest a little deeper, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His hoodie smells like hospital linen and baby powder and Max, warm, worn-in, familiar.
“You were worried,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.
He nods without hesitation. “Terrified.”
There’s no bravado in his voice now. No need to pretend.
He exhales, glancing back at your daughter. “I’ve been trying to imagine this moment for months. Her face. The sound she’d make. Whether I’d be good enough for her.” His fingers flex slightly against the edge of the bassinet, just brushing the corner. “And now she’s here. And I just keep thinking… how do I live up to her?”
“Still scared?” you whisper.
He hesitates. “Yeah.”
He glances down at the baby again. She’s sleeping now, her tiny fist curled near her cheek, lips parted in a soft, steady rhythm.
“But it’s different now,” he adds. “I think… how is she real? How did we make her? How is she breathing and blinking and making those tiny sounds like it’s the most normal thing in the world?” His voice catches. “How do I ever make sure she knows how much I love her?”
You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. He grips yours back immediately, tight, like he needs to feel your pulse to believe any of this is real.
“She already knows,” you whisper. “She’s felt it. She’s felt it every time you talked to her. Every time you rubbed my back or held my hair or teared up during an ultrasound.”
Max looks at you then, and you see it all, the vulnerability, the devotion, the pure, unfiltered wonder that hasn’t left him since the moment she arrived.
Summary: You’re pregnant, emotional, and exhausted, and a careless comment from Max during an argument leaves you wondering if he really understands what you’re going through. (Requested)
2.1k words / Masterlist
The fight doesn’t surprise you. It started the way most fights do, after too many days of pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t.
Tonight it starts with a text that never came, a clock ticking past midnight, and the hollow ache of waiting. It starts with the weight of carrying too much, your own body, your own fear, yours and his child.
You’re already pacing the kitchen when the door opens, the slam of it too casual, too late.
Max stands there like nothing's wrong, shoes still on, Red Bull jacket half-off, thumb still tapping at his phone.
“You said you’d be home by nine,” you say, sharp and quiet. Controlled. The kind of quiet that only comes after hours of swallowing it down. “It’s almost midnight.”
He glances up, sighs. “The meeting ran late. I told you that.”
“You texted that at eight,” you fire back. “Then nothing.”
He looks at you properly now, but there’s nothing in his expression, just exhaustion and that maddening calm he wears when you’re storming. “What do you want me to say? I’m here now.”
You blink. That’s it?
Not sorry, not I should’ve called, not even a look that says he noticed the lights still on when he walked in. Just I’m here now, like that’s supposed to be enough.
“I wanted you to care that I waited up,” you say, the words cracking mid-sentence. “That I’m pregnant, hormonal, and alone in this apartment all day while you’re off—off doing whatever you want, like nothing’s changed for you.”
His expression shifted instantly, brows knitting, jacket still hanging off one shoulder. “It was work.”
“I know it was work. I’m not saying you’re out partying,” you said, voice shaking. “But you come home and act like nothing’s changed for you. Meanwhile I can’t sleep, my back hurts constantly, I cry all the time, and now you’re looking at me like I’m some ticking bomb and not the person carrying your child.”
Max’s jaw tensed. “You’re not being fair.”
You laughed, harsh and hollow. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was it unfair when I threw up for the third time today? Or when I started crying because someone in the grocery store bumped my cart?”
He exhales hard through his nose, rubs a hand over his face. “Jesus. You’re just doing this because you’re pregnant. It’s hormones.”
Silence.
A thick, choking kind of silence.
You blinked, once. Twice. Then your arms dropped to your sides.
“I’m doing this,” you repeated, voice low, flat, as if you needed to say it aloud to even process it. “Because I’m pregnant?”
Still, nothing. Just that heavy, awful quiet.
“I’m carrying your child,” you whispered. “And you think this is just about hormones?”
Your voice cracked on the last word, but you didn’t back down. You stood in it, even as your throat burned and your chest rose and fell in uneven, shallow breaths.
“Oh. Right. So that’s what this is,” you said after a beat, nodding slowly like the realisation had knocked you backward. “It’s not us having a problem it’s me being the problem.”
Max’s face shifted his expression softened in that way it always did when he realised too late he’d gone too far. His mouth opened, but the apology didn’t come fast enough.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No, I get it,” you said, swallowing hard. “I’m just the crazy hormonal woman yelling at her boyfriend for being late. Never mind the fact I haven’t felt like me in months. That my body doesn’t feel like mine. That I’ve been trying so hard not to spiral, to give you space, to not drown us both.”
He stepped forward, slow and careful, like you were something fragile. “You’re twisting my words—”
“I’m twisting them?” you shot back. “You said I’m doing this because I’m pregnant. Like I don’t have a reason. Like the fear, the loneliness, the waiting, it’s all just silly hormones.”
“You know that’s not what I think—”
“But that’s what you said, Max. And you know what hurts the most?” Your throat burned and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “I was excited to tell you the baby kicked today. I was waiting all night. But instead you came home and made me feel like I was overreacting for needing you.”
That shut him up. Entirely.
He looked stunned. No guilty. He opened his mouth again, then closed it, hands useless at his sides.
The tension in your chest cracked. You walked past him brushing his arm, he flinched slightly, like instinctively reaching to stop you, but his hand hovered in the air too uncertain to follow through.
You didn’t cry until the bedroom door was closed.
Max didn’t sleep.
You knew that because when you woke up in the middle of the night heart thudding, sheets twisted around your legs like vines his side of the bed was still cold. Still untouched.
The door to the bedroom had stayed closed, but the soft glow beneath it told you he hadn’t left.
You crept out quietly, just for a moment. Just to see.
He was on the couch sitting rigid, elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped together, staring at something that wasn’t there.
You didn’t say anything.
You watched him for one breath. Then another.
And then you went back to bed, the silence following you like a ghost.
He was gone by morning, back at work again.
You spent the whole day nauseous.
Not just from the pregnancy, but from the weight in your chest, coiled and unrelenting. From the ghost of last night’s silence. From the way you’d looked at him and seen a stranger instead of the man who once kissed your belly like it was sacred.
You loved Max, but sometimes you weren’t sure he knew how to love this version of you, this fragile, emotional, sleep-deprived mess.
Late afternoon, you wandered into the bedroom without really thinking, the sun casting long shadows through the window. You started sorting drawers not out of purpose, just to do something. Something that felt normal.
That’s when you found it.
The envelope. Tucked in the back of the bottom dresser drawer, sealed neatly, edges a little worn from being handled more than once.
You knew what it was before you opened it. The first ultrasound. The little blur that had made you both cry.
You’d clutched Max’s hand so tightly that day. He’d kissed your forehead afterward like you were the bravest person he’d ever met.
He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t careless.
He was scared.
Just like you.
You sat on the floor, knees drawn to your chest, the photo shaking in your fingers. And for the first time in hours, you let yourself feel all of it.
By late afternoon, you were too tired to keep thinking. You curled up in bed and tried to sleep.
You didn’t know when the door opened. Didn’t hear footsteps, didn’t hear him drop his bag or kick off his shoes but you felt the mattress shift.
The slow, cautious dip of weight behind you as Max sat down gently, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be there.
You didn’t move. Not at first.
But then something brushed the comforter beside your hip a soft crinkle. A sound that didn’t belong.
“I brought something,” Max said quietly. His voice was rough, like he’d barley spoken all day.
You turned your head slightly.
“It’s stupid,” he added quickly, holding it up now you could see it was a small, plush lion with a Red Bull cap stitched on. The kind of thing you'd normally laugh about, silly, overly branded, too on-the-nose but now, in his hand, it looked more like an apology than a gift.
“I know it doesn’t make up for anything. I just… I saw it on the way home and thought maybe if I brought something for the baby… maybe it’d be a start.”
You stared at it. Then at him.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “What I said. I was frustrated. Defensive. And I said the worst possible thing. And I swear to God if I could take it back—”
“You can’t,” you said, your voice scratchy from crying and sleep.
He nodded, his jaw tightening. “I know.”
You turned your head fully, meeting his eyes finally.
The silence stretched between you again but this time it wasn’t heavy.
“I was waiting to tell you the baby kicked again,” you whispered. “It happened last night. I wanted to share that with you.”
Max’s face crumpled, like the words physically hurt him. He placed the lion down gently on the nightstand and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he was bracing himself for judgment.
“I feel horrible,” he said. “There’s no excuse for the way I’ve been acting. I’ve been selfish. I’ve been scared. I kept thinking if I just… kept going like normal, maybe it wouldn’t feel so overwhelming. But that meant leaving you behind while I pretended everything was fine and that’s not fair.”
“I’m so scared,” he admitted, voice small and raw. “I didn’t think I would be. I thought I’d rise to it. I thought—hell, I don’t even know what I thought. But suddenly it’s real and I don’t know how to be everything you need while still being everything the world expects me to be. And I know you’re the one doing the hard part. You’re the one growing a person, and I’ve made it about me, and that’s—” he shook his head. “That’s not who I want to be.”
You reached for his hand beneath the covers, your fingers brushing his knuckles first, hesitant, uncertain, but the second you touched him, he moved.
Max’s hand closed around yours like he’d been holding his breath all day, like that one simple touch was the only thing keeping him afloat. His grip was firm but trembling, desperate in a quiet, wordless way.
“You don’t have to be everything,” you whispered. “I just need you to be here.”
“I know,” he said hoarsely. “And I’m sorry I made you feel like you were alone. That’s the last thing I ever wanted. I thought if I kept working, kept pushing forward, that somehow I was doing the right thing. That it meant I was providing, preparing, being strong. But I wasn’t with you in any of it.”
Your voice cracked. “I don’t need perfect Max. I don’t need you to have all the answers. I just need to feel like I’m not invisible in this.”
“You’re not,” he said quickly, his voice full of urgency now. “I see you.”
You took a breath, then said, softly, “You don’t have to make it up all at once. Just… stay. With me. In this.”
Max nodded, eyes glassy. Then, slowly, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.
“Did they really kick?” he asked, voice trembling with something between hope and regret.
You guided his hand to the spot low on your belly, where the flutter had happened hours earlier. “They did. Probably annoyed I was crying again.”
His laugh was soft and wet with relief. “Sounds like they’ve got your attitude.”
You smiled, the ache in your chest finally easing. “They’ve got your stubbornness.”
You stayed like that for a long moment foreheads touching, your hand holding his against the swell of your stomach, both of you breathing the same air, the same fear, the same fragile hope.
“I’ll be better,” he said, voice barely a murmur. “I’ll listen. I’ll come home. I’ll hold your hand through every meltdown, every mood swing, every craving at 2 a.m.”
“You’d better,” you replied, teasing, though your voice still carried the edge of exhaustion.
“And next time,” he added, “when you say something’s bothering you, I won’t call it hormones. I’ll sit down. Shut up. And maybe bring ice cream.”
You gave him a faint smile. “Smart man.”
He kissed you then, gentle and slow, full of apology. Full of love.
Just as he pulled back, his hand still resting lightly on your stomach, something shifted beneath it.
A kick. Sharper this time.
“Oh,” he gasped, eyes wide, snapping back to look at you.
You laughed softly. “See? They forgive you.”
He slid beneath the blankets properly this time, arms wrapping around you from behind, his chest pressed to your back, his breath steady against your shoulder. One hand still resting protectively on your belly.
You fell asleep like that, wrapped up in each other, the baby, and something new that didn’t quite feel like only forgiveness, but maybe the start of something better.
You slept better that night than you had in weeks.
