A Day in the Life with Max Verstappen
Summary: Dating Max Verstappen means dealing with 6 AM wake-ups for menu research, losing every argument about his Red Bull wardrobe collection, and watching him turn casual games into life-or-death competitions. He's glued to his racing simulator, obsessed with keeping you hydrated, and refuses to acknowledge that fancy buttons exist. It's weird, but you're not complaining.
Note: Hello, my darlings! I'm thrilled to be back and continuing my writing. I know my break was quite long, but I've finally found the courage and motivation to write again. I've had this idea for weeks, and I’m so happy I finally had the time to write it out. Sorry if it’s a bit long. It’s around 13k words.
You wake up at some ungodly hour because Max is already up doing whatever psychotic morning routine he's decided on today. Sometimes it's simulator work at 6 AM. Sometimes he's just staring at telemetry data with his coffee like it's the morning paper. You've learned not to question it.
"Morning," he mumbles, not looking up from his laptop screen, his hair still messy from sleep.
"Max, it's 6:15," you groan, squinting at him through half closed eyes.
"Yes, I know what time it is." He takes a sip of his coffee, still not looking at you.
"Do you though?" You sit up, pushing hair out of your face and immediately regretting the movement.
He finally looks at you, his expression completely innocent, those blue eyes blinking at you like he's done nothing wrong. "We have that thing later. The dinner thing."
"That's at 7 PM, babe. It's currently 6 AM." You gesture at the still dark window for emphasis.
"I know. I'm just preparing," he says matter-of-factly, turning back to his screen like this is completely normal behavior.
"Preparing for what? To eat food twelve hours from now?" You flop back onto the pillow dramatically, pulling it over your face.
"No, I'm looking at the restaurant's menu online. I want to make sure they have good options." He scrolls through something, completely focused, his brow furrowed in that way it does when he's concentrating.
You lift your head to stare at him, the pillow falling away. "You've been to this restaurant five times."
"Yes, but they might have changed things." He's completely serious about this, his brow furrowed in concentration like he's studying race data.
"You're ridiculous," you mutter, but there's no heat in it. You watch him for a moment, the glow of his laptop illuminating his face in the dim room.
"You love it," he replies without missing a beat, finally glancing at you with a small smile.
Breakfast is interesting because this man will eat the same thing for three months straight and then suddenly switch to something completely different with zero explanation. Right now it's in an egg white phase. You miss the pancake era.
"You know eggs have yolks for a reason, right?" you say, watching him push around his sad, colorless breakfast with his fork.
"The yolks have too much fat," he replies without looking up, stabbing at the pale eggs.
"You're a professional athlete. You burn like four thousand calories a day." You take a pointed bite of your own properly assembled breakfast, making sure he sees the golden yolk.
"Still." He takes another bite of his sad, pale egg whites, completely unbothered by your judgment.
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. "I genuinely don't understand you sometimes."
"Most people don't," he says simply, reaching for his coffee. "That's why you're special."
The casual sweetness of it catches you off guard, and you feel warmth spread through your chest even as you roll your eyes at him.
He's weirdly obsessed with making sure you're hydrated. Like, genuinely will hand you water throughout the day as if you're a houseplant he's trying to keep alive.
You're curled up on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when suddenly a glass of water appears in your peripheral vision.
"You need to drink more water," he says, standing beside the couch with the glass extended.
"Max, I literally just drank water." You don't even look up from your phone, knowing exactly what expression he's wearing.
"That was an hour ago." His voice is patient but firm.
"I'm fine, I promise I'm not going to shrivel up and die." You wave him off dismissively, still not looking up.
He gives you that look. You know the one, even without seeing it. You can feel it. The "I'm a four-time world champion, and I know about optimal performance" look. The glass stays extended, hovering in your peripheral vision like a persistent fly.
"Max," you sigh, finally looking up at him.
"Just drink the water." His voice is patient but immovable, like talking to a particularly stubborn brick wall.
You take the water, but instead of glaring, you find yourself smiling at his genuine concern. It's annoying and endearing at the same time. "You know, most boyfriends bring flowers."
"Flowers don't prevent dehydration." He says this completely seriously, like he's explaining a fundamental law of physics.
"That's... actually a fair point." You take a long drink, watching his face light up with satisfaction.
"See? I'm very logical." He leans down to kiss the top of your head before walking away, clearly pleased with himself.
"Logic is not your strong suit when it comes to clothing!" you call after him.
"Different category entirely!" he calls back, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
The cats have claimed you as their second favorite person, which means you get the honor of being their backup when Max is busy. Sassy judges you from various high places. Jimmy just wants to be involved in whatever you're doing, even if that's just sitting on the couch scrolling through your phone.
"Sassy's giving me that look again," you call out, eyeing the cat who's perched on top of the bookshelf like a furry gargoyle of judgment.
"What look?" Max appears in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel, his hair flopping into his eyes.
"The one where she's judging my entire existence." You gesture up at the cat, who slowly blinks at you with what can only be described as disdain and superiority.
He glances at Sassy, who is indeed staring at you from atop the bookshelf with extreme judgment. A small smile tugs at his lips. "She does that to everyone."
"She doesn't do it to you," you protest, watching as Sassy continues her unblinking stare.
"That's because I feed her." He shrugs like this is obvious, moving to lean against the doorframe with his arms crossed.
"I feed her, too!" You're getting indignant now, sitting up straighter.
"Yes, but I'm the main feeder. There's a hierarchy." He says this with the same serious tone he uses to discuss race strategy, nodding solemnly.
"A hierarchy," you repeat flatly.
"It's basic cat psychology." He's trying not to smile now, you can see it in the corner of his mouth.
You throw a pillow in his direction. He dodges it easily, laughing, the sound warm and genuine. Jimmy jumps off your lap at the commotion, giving you both a look of disapproval before stalking off.
"Now you've upset Jimmy too," Max points out, grinning.
"This is your fault!" you accuse, but you're laughing too.
If he's home between races, there's a 90% chance he's on the sim rig. You've accepted that you're basically in a relationship with both Max and his racing simulator. The simulator might be getting more quality time, honestly.
Around 2 PM, you decide to take a different approach. Instead of trying to pull him away from the sim, you grab your book and settle into the beanbag chair in the corner of his sim room.
"What are you doing?" he asks during a pause between races, finally noticing your presence.
"Reading," you say simply, turning a page.
"In here?" He sounds genuinely confused, swiveling his chair slightly to look at you.
"Well, this is where you are. So this is where I am." You don't look up from your book, keeping your tone light.
He's quiet for a moment, and when you glance up, he's watching you with this soft expression that makes your heart skip. "You don't have to sit in here. I know it's not exactly comfortable."
"It's fine. I like being near you, even if you're busy." You shrug, meaning it. "Plus, someone needs to make sure you actually eat the sandwich I'm going to bring you in an hour."
"I eat the sandwiches," he protests.
"Max, I found yesterday's sandwich untouched at 9 PM." You raise an eyebrow at him.
"That was..." He trails off, realizing he has no defense. "Okay, point taken."
"Besides," you add, settling deeper into the beanbag, "I kind of like watching you race. You get this intense focus that's pretty attractive."
His ears turn pink, and he quickly turns back to his screens. "You're distracting me."
"I'm literally just sitting here reading!" you laugh.
"Still distracting," he mutters, but you catch the small smile on his face as he starts his next race.
True to your word, you bring him a sandwich an hour later. This time, he pauses his race immediately, spinning his chair to face you.
"Thank you," he says, taking the plate and actually eating it while you're there, maintaining eye contact like he's proving a point.
"Look at you, consuming food like a normal human," you tease.
"Only because you're here supervising." He takes another bite, deliberate and exaggerated.
"I'll take that as a compliment," you say, stealing a chip from his plate.
He catches your wrist gently before you can pull away, tugging you closer until you're standing between his knees. "Stay a bit longer?"
"I thought I was distracting?" you murmur, running your fingers through his hair.
"The good kind of distracting," he says, leaning into your touch, his eyes closing for just a moment before he pulls you down for a quick kiss.
It's these small moments, between races and sim sessions, that make the chaos worth it.
Around 5 PM, you remember the dinner and make your way back to the sim room with renewed determination and a game plan.
"Max, you need to start getting ready." You walk in and stand directly in his line of sight, blocking part of his view of the screens.
"I am ready," he says distractedly, leaning to see around you, his body shifting in the seat.
"You're in a Red Bull shirt and the same jeans you've worn for three days." You don't move, keeping yourself firmly in his line of sight.
"They're comfortable." He states this like it's a perfectly reasonable argument, finally pausing his race and looking up at you.
"We're going to a nice restaurant. With actual people. Remember? The thing you spent an hour researching this morning?" You're using your stern voice now, the one that occasionally works, hands on your hips.
"I am an actual people," he replies, finally pausing his race and spinning his chair to face you with an innocent expression that doesn't fool you for a second.
You can't help but laugh at his logic, even as you shake your head. "That's not the point, and you know it."
"Isn't it, though?" He tilts his head, genuinely seeming to not understand your issue.
You go to his closet and pull out a button-down shirt you bought him two months ago. The tags are still on it, mocking you and your futile attempts at upgrading his wardrobe.
"What about this?" You hold it up hopefully, already knowing this is a losing battle but trying anyway.
He glances over, makes a face like you've offered him poison, and turns back to his screen. "I don't like it."
"You've never worn it. You don't even know if you like it." You're trying to keep the exasperation out of your voice and failing miserably.
"I know." He clicks something on his screen, the picture of casual dismissal.
"Max." You walk closer, dangling the shirt in front of his face, forcing him to acknowledge it.
"It's not comfortable," he insists, gently pushing your hand away without even touching the fabric.
"You haven't tried it on!" Your voice is getting higher now.
"I can tell by looking at it. The fabric is wrong." He peers at it like it's personally offended him, his nose wrinkling slightly.
"The fabric is literally just cotton," you say slowly, as if explaining to a child, holding it closer to him.
"Exactly. Wrong cotton." He nods like this makes perfect sense, pushing it away again.
"There's no such thing as wrong cotton!" You're almost laughing now, despite your frustration.
"There is. That's wrong, cotton." He points at it accusingly.
You take a deep breath, counting to ten in your head. You grab another option, switching tactics. A nice plain navy shirt. Simple. Inoffensive. The kind of thing literally any human man could wear without complaint.
"This one?" You hold it up with raised eyebrows, hoping the simplicity will appeal to him.
"Eh." He barely glances at it, already turning back to his screens.
"'Eh' is not an answer," you snap, your patience wearing thin, shaking the shirt for emphasis.
"It's my answer." He does something with the wheel that apparently requires his full concentration, his tongue poking out slightly in focus like it always does.
"Plus, I don't know where that came from," he adds absently, squinting at his screen.
"I bought it for you! For your birthday!" Your voice goes up an octave, and you're gesturing wildly now with the shirt.
"Oh." He pauses, looking genuinely confused, his brow furrowing. "Was that the one with the buttons?"
"All shirts have buttons, Max." You're speaking through gritted teeth now, clutching the shirt like you might strangle him with it.
"The fancy buttons. I don't like fancy buttons." He wrinkles his nose in distaste, like fancy buttons personally wronged him.
"They're NORMAL BUTTONS." You shake the shirt for emphasis, the hangers rattling.
"They look fancy," he insists, finally giving the shirt a proper look and immediately dismissing it.
At one point, you hold up a perfectly nice sweater, cashmere even, and he goes, "That's not really my style."
"What IS your style, Max? Red Bull merchandise and jeans that could walk themselves to the laundry?" You throw your hands up in defeat, the sweater dangling from one hand.
He finally spins around in his chair fully, looking at you with those impossibly blue eyes, completely serious. "Yes. Exactly. You get it now." He's grinning, clearly pleased that you've finally understood his worldview.
"That's not something to be proud of!" you exclaim, but you're fighting a smile now.
"Why not? I know what I like." He shrugs, completely unbothered by your judgment.
You look at him, really look at him, and something in you shifts. Maybe it's the way he's sitting there, so completely comfortable in his own skin, so utterly unconcerned with what anyone else thinks. Maybe it's the realization that this is just who he is, and trying to change it is like trying to change the weather.
"You know what?" you say, setting down the sweater. "Fine. Wear whatever you want."
He blinks, surprised. "Really?"
"Really." You cross your arms, but you're smiling now. "But I'm wearing something nice, and when people stare at us, I'm going to tell them you're my eccentric billionaire boyfriend who dresses like this ironically."
He laughs, standing up and pulling you into a hug. "I can live with that."
"Plus," you add, your voice muffled against his chest, "you do look good in Red Bull colors. I'll give you that."
"I know," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.
You pull back to look at him. "But you're wearing different jeans."
"What's wrong with these jeans?" He looks down at them, genuinely perplexed, turning slightly to check them out.
"Max, I'm pretty sure these jeans have been to more countries than most people." You poke at the worn fabric, which is soft from a thousand washes.
"Then they're well-traveled. Sophisticated jeans." His eyes are twinkling now. He knows exactly what he's doing, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"They have a hole in the knee." You point at the evidence, sticking your finger through it for emphasis.
"That's fashion. Distressed denim." He's trying not to smile now, biting his lip.
"That's not distressed, that's just destroyed." You pull your finger back, shaking your head.
"You're being dramatic." He starts gathering his keys and wallet from the desk, the conversation clearly over in his mind.
"I'm being accurate!" you call after him.
He's already up and moving toward the door, checking his phone, completely unfazed. At least he changes into jeans without holes, even if they're still Red Bull-branded somehow. You've lost the battle but won a minor concession. It's progress.
"One day," you say, following him out and grabbing your bag from the counter, "one day I'm going to get you in something that isn't Red Bull merch."
"Good luck with that," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice even though you can't see his face, his back to you as he checks for his wallet.
At the restaurant, he's completely at ease in his Red Bull shirt while everyone else is in actual dinner attire. He genuinely doesn't notice or care, settling into his chair and immediately reaching for the menu, his face relaxing into focus as he studies it.
"Max, everyone is staring," you whisper, acutely aware of the looks you're getting from nearby tables, trying to hide behind your menu.
"They're probably recognizing me." He doesn't even look up from the menu, completely unbothered, his finger tracing down the options.
"They're staring at your shirt." You peek over the top of your menu at him.
"It's a nice shirt." He looks down at it, genuinely confused about your point, smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle, examining it like he's seeing it for the first time.
A fan approaches, nervous and excited, asking for a photo and enthusiastically complimenting his shirt. "Love the Red Bull shirt! Are you always repping the team?"
"Always," Max says with a grin, standing up for the photo. "It's comfortable."
He shoots you a look over the fan's shoulder that clearly says "see?" while posing for the picture, his arm around the fan's shoulders, looking absolutely vindicated.
"That doesn't count," you whisper once the fan walks away, leaning across the table.
"That absolutely counts. That's a data point." He's pointing at you with his fork now, triumphant, his eyes sparkling with victory.
"You can't use racing logic for fashion." You steal a bite from his plate in retaliation.
"Why not? Data is data." He steals something from your plate in immediate retaliation, popping it in his mouth with a satisfied smirk, chewing deliberately.
The dinner is actually lovely. You talk about everything and nothing, his hand finding yours across the table at random moments, his thumb tracing patterns on your skin. He tells you about the upcoming race, his eyes lighting up as he explains some technical detail you don't fully understand but love hearing about anyway.
"You're cute when you talk about racing," you say, interrupting his explanation about tire compounds.
"I'm always cute," he counters, but his ears are pink again.
"And so humble," you tease, squeezing his hand.
Later, when you're both looking at the dessert menu, he leans over, his shoulder pressing against yours warmly. "Thank you for not making me change."
"I didn't have much choice," you point out, but your voice is soft. "You're pretty stubborn when you want to be."
"I know what I like," he says simply. "And I like that you try anyway. Even when you know I won't change my mind."
"Why do you like that?" you ask, genuinely curious.
"Because it means you care. About how I present myself, about how people see me." He looks at you, serious now. "Even if I don't care about those things, I care that you care. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah," you say, your throat tight. "Yeah, it does."
He kisses your temple, soft and sweet. "Now, about this dessert..."
The drive back from the restaurant is comfortable, Max's hand resting on your thigh as he navigates the familiar streets. You're both full and content, the evening air cool through the slightly cracked window.
"That was good," you say, leaning back in your seat.
"Told you the menu looked good," he replies, glancing at you with a satisfied smile.
"You spent an hour looking at it this morning, Max. It better have been good."
"Research pays off." He's so serious about it that you can't help but laugh.
When you get home, you kick off your shoes by the door, immediately feeling more relaxed. Max heads straight for the kitchen, and you hear him rummaging around.
"What are you doing?" you call out, following him.
"Getting snacks," he says, emerging with an armful of random items: chips, chocolate, and some leftover stroopwafels. "We should do game night."
"We just ate dinner," you point out, but you're already smiling because you know where this is going.
"That was dinner. This is competitive fuel." He's already heading to the living room, dumping everything on the coffee table. "Uno or Mario Kart first?"
"You're going to destroy me at both, does it matter?" You settle onto the couch, tucking your legs under you.
"It matters for strategic purposes." He's digging through the drawer where you keep the games, pulling out the Uno deck with a look of determination that's frankly ridiculous for a card game.
"Strategic purposes," you repeat, watching him shuffle the cards with unnecessary intensity.
"Yes. I need to know if you're already demoralized or if I need to build up to it." He grins at you, dealing out the cards.
"You're the worst," you say, but you're picking up your cards, already knowing this is going to end badly for you.
"I'm the best. There's a difference." He organizes his cards, that competitive gleam already in his eye.
Game nights are competitive. Everything is competitive. You could be playing the most casual game ever invented, and suddenly it's the championship decider.
"It's just Uno, Max," you sigh, looking at your terrible hand of cards, wondering how you always end up with the worst possible combination.
"There's no such thing as 'just Uno.' Uno is a game of strategy and psychological warfare." He's arranging his cards with intense focus, his jaw set, that competitive gleam in his eye that you know all too well.
"It's a children's card game." You play a card, any card, not even caring anymore.
He plays a Draw Four with the intensity of someone defending a championship lead, slapping it down on the pile with force. "Tell that to your children's card game strategy."
"That's illegal! You can't do that! You have a red card in your hand!" You point accusingly at his cards, leaning forward to try to see them better.
"Prove it." He leans back, crossing his arms with a challenging smirk, holding his cards against his chest.
"Max!" You're half laughing, half outraged.
"It's Uno, not the Geneva Convention." He's fighting back a smile now, his lips twitching.
"There are RULES, Max! Written rules! From the company!" You're laughing despite your outrage, reaching for the draw pile with exaggerated frustration.
"Rules are open to interpretation," he says philosophically, watching you draw your cards with barely concealed glee, his eyes tracking each one.
"That's literally what you say about FIA penalties." You glare at him over your now massive hand of cards, struggling to hold them all.
"And I'm consistent. That's called integrity." He nods solemnly, but his eyes are dancing with amusement, crinkling at the corners.
You draw four cards while glaring at him. He's trying not to smile, biting his lip to keep it in, his shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed laughter.
"You're enjoying this way too much." You fan out your cards, trying to organize the chaos.
"I'm just playing the game." He arranges his remaining cards innocently, but you can see the satisfaction radiating off him.
"You're a menace," you mutter, organizing your cards and plotting your revenge.
"Uno," he says, placing down his second-to-last card with a flourish, making direct eye contact with you as he does it.
"I hate you," you groan, throwing your head back dramatically, your cards drooping in your hands.
"No, you don't." He's grinning now, full and bright and absolutely infuriating, leaning forward on his elbows.
"I'm reconsidering." You play a card without looking, just to get it over with, slapping it down.
"Too late. You're stuck with me." He plays his final card, winning with a triumphant laugh, throwing his hands up in victory.
He wins the first game, obviously, but then something shifts. You win the second game through what can only be described as a miracle and incredible luck. Max stares at the final card you played like it personally betrayed him.
"How did you..." he starts, genuinely baffled.
"Sometimes chaos beats strategy," you say smugly, gathering the cards with a grin.
"That was luck, not skill," he protests, but he's smiling.
"Still counts as a win." You're practically glowing with victory, savoring this rare moment.
"One more game. Best two out of three," he insists, already shuffling.
You win that one, too. You're not sure how, it just happens, the cards falling perfectly into place. Max looks at you with newfound respect mixed with suspicion.
"Are you counting cards?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.
"Max, it's Uno. There's like four colors." You're trying not to laugh at his serious expression.
"Still. That was statistically improbable." He's studying you like you're race data that doesn't make sense.
"Maybe I'm just better than you thought," you tease, standing up and stretching.
"Okay, Mario Kart. I'm better at Mario Kart," he declares, reaching for the controllers with renewed determination, that competitive fire reignited.
"Are you though?" you ask innocently, taking your controller.
His eyes narrow. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing," you say sweetly. "Let's just play."
You absolutely destroy him in the first race. Like, embarrassingly. He comes in fifth place while you cruise to victory, and you can see him physically struggling to process what just happened.
"The controller," he says, looking at it. "Something's wrong with the controller."
"Max," you laugh, "there's nothing wrong with the controller."
"We should switch controllers," he insists.
"Fine." You switch. You win the next race, too.
He's quiet for a moment, staring at the screen. "Are you... have you been practicing?"
"Maybe," you admit, unable to keep the grin off your face. "I might have been playing while you were on the sim. Just a little."
"How much is a little?" His voice is suspicious.
"Every day for the past three weeks," you confess. "I wanted to actually have a chance."
He turns to look at you, and for a moment, you think he might be annoyed. Then he starts laughing, really laughing, the kind that makes his whole body shake.
"You've been secretly training to beat me at Mario Kart?" he manages between laughs.
"I was tired of losing!" you defend, but you're laughing too.
"That's..." he pulls you into a hug, still chuckling, "that's actually really cute. And impressive. And now I need to practice more because I can't let you beat me."
"So competitive," you murmur against his chest.
"You literally just admitted to three weeks of secret training," he points out.
You play a few more races, and it's actually competitive now. He wins some, you win some. It's more fun this way, both of you actually trying, both of you celebrating victories and groaning at defeats.
"This is better," Max admits after a particularly close race where you beat him by half a second. "More challenging."
"Are you saying you like it when I fight back?" you tease.
"I'm saying I like that you care enough to get better." He pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Makes it more interesting."
"Everything's a competition with you," you say, but there's no bite to it.
"Not everything," he says softly. "Just the fun things."
You end up watching some documentary he picks about racing, of course, but you don't mind. His arm is around you, you're warm and full, and he's doing that thing where he absently plays with your hair. It's comfortable. It's home.
About twenty minutes in, there's a knock at the door. You both look at each other, confused.
"Were you expecting something?" you ask.
"No," Max says, already getting up. "Stay here, I'll get it."
He comes back a moment later with a package, looking at it with a slight frown. "It's for you."
"For me?" You sit up, taking it from him. You weren't expecting anything. "I didn't order anything."
"Open it," he says, settling back down next to you, looking curious.
You tear through the brown paper wrapping, and your breath catches. It's a book. But not just any book. It's the exact edition you'd mentioned wanting a couple of weeks ago when your book club chat had been blowing up your phone. The original edition with the vintage cover art that's been out of print forever.
"Max..." You look up at him, eyes wide.
"What?" He's trying to look innocent, but there's a small smile playing at his lips.
"Did you... Did you get me this?" You're staring at the book, then at him.
"Maybe," he says, reaching for his water like it's no big deal.
"Max, I mentioned this once. Like two weeks ago when my book club was discussing it." You're holding the book carefully, like it might disappear.
"I know." He shrugs, still trying to act casual.
"You couldn't remember where you put your phone this morning," you say, half laughing, half in disbelief. "You spent fifteen minutes looking for it."
"That's different. The phone moves around. The book stayed in one place in my memory." He taps his temple, completely serious.
"That makes absolutely no sense," you laugh, but you're smiling so wide your cheeks hurt, clutching the book to your chest.
"Sure it does. The phone is a moving variable. The book was a fixed data point." He's using his engineer voice now, like he's explaining race strategy.
"You're ridiculous." You set the book down carefully and lean over to kiss him, properly this time, trying to pour all your gratitude into it.
"But I got the right book, didn't I?" he murmurs against your lips, smiling.
"The exact right one," you confirm, pulling back to look at him. "How did you even find this? It's been out of print for years."
"I have my ways," he says mysteriously, but his ears are turning pink, that telltale sign that he's embarrassed about how much effort he put in.
"You spent hours searching for this, didn't you?" You cup his face, making him look at you.
"Maybe," he admits quietly. "You got this look when you talked about it. Like you really wanted it. So I just... remembered."
"You're such a sap," you tease, but your voice is thick with emotion.
"Only for you," he counters, pulling you back into his arms.
You settle back against him, the documentary forgotten, the book resting on your lap. His arms wrap around you from behind, his chin on your shoulder.
"Thank you," you whisper. "Really. This is... this is perfect."
"You're welcome," he murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple.
And you think, not for the first time, that for all his quirks and stubbornness about Red Bull shirts and his obsession with hydration, Max Verstappen might just be the most thoughtful person you've ever met.
Even if he can't remember where he put his phone for more than five minutes.
The documentary eventually ends, and you're both yawning, the day finally catching up to you. Max stretches, his arms reaching above his head as he lets out a long breath.
"Bed?" he suggests, already standing and offering you his hand.
"Bed," you agree, taking it and letting him pull you up.
You go through your nighttime routines, brushing teeth side by side at the bathroom mirror, him stealing glances at you through the reflection, and smiling when you catch him. You change into comfortable clothes while he's already in bed, having stripped down to just a t-shirt and boxers with record speed.
By the time you climb in beside him, he's already on his phone, the blue light illuminating his face in the darkness, casting shadows across his features.
"Who are you texting?" you ask, rolling over to face him, squinting at the brightness.
"Lando," he replies, his thumbs flying across the screen with practiced speed.
"What's he saying?" You rest your chin on his shoulder, trying to read the messages, but they're in Dutch and going too fast.
"He's being an idiot." Max's tone is fond despite his words, and you can feel the vibration of his voice against your cheek.
"So a normal day then," you yawn, your eyelids getting heavy.
"Basically." He's smiling at his phone, though, so it's the fond kind of idiot, that soft expression he gets when talking about his friends, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"What's he saying?" You're getting sleepy, your eyes drifting closed, but you're curious.
"He's complaining about something from the race. Making excuses." He types something back quickly, grinning, his fingers moving rapidly.
"Are they valid excuses?" You're getting sleepy, your words starting to slur slightly.
"Absolutely not." He types something back with more vigor, clearly enjoying himself, actually laughing under his breath.
"Max, are you bullying Lando?" You crack one eye open, looking at his face in the glow of his phone.
"I'm not bullying him. I'm simply stating facts." He sounds incredibly pleased with himself, still typing away.
"That sounds like bullying," you mumble into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his body wash.
"It's friendly competition," he insists, his free hand coming up to play with your hair absently.
His phone buzzes immediately with what you assume is Lando's response. Max actually laughs out loud, the sound rumbling through his chest where you're pressed against him.
"What?" You're more awake now, curious about what could make him laugh like that.
"He called me something I can't repeat in front of you." He's still chuckling, shaking his head, the movement jostling you slightly.
"I've heard you on team radio, Max. I know you know bad words." You poke his side, feeling the muscle there tense.
"Yes, but I'm trying to be a gentleman," he says primly, tilting his phone away from you, holding it out of reach.
"Since when?" You try to grab the phone to read it, reaching across him.
"Since right now. I'm evolving." He holds it out of reach, grinning down at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
"You're impossible," you mutter, giving up and settling back against him.
You eventually give up, settling back into the pillow, and he finally puts the phone down on the nightstand, the room plunging into darkness. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close, his chin resting on top of your head.
"Love you," he murmurs into your hair, his voice soft and genuine.
"Love you too," you reply, already half asleep, feeling safe and warm in his arms.
He's weirdly particular about his sleep schedule during race weeks but completely chaotic when he's off. It evens out somehow.
"Max, it's 2 AM. Come to bed," you call from the bedroom, having given up waiting for him an hour ago, your voice heavy with sleep.
"Five more minutes," he calls back, the glow from his screens visible through the doorway, casting long shadows.
"You said that an hour ago." You pad out to find him still on the simulator, looking completely wired, his eyes bright and alert despite the late hour.
"This time I mean it," he promises, not taking his eyes off the screen, his hands gripping the wheel tightly.
"Max." You walk up behind him, putting your hands on his shoulders. "Bed."
"Just finishing this race," he insists, but he leans back into your touch, tilting his head to look up at you.
"You're always finishing a race," you point out, squeezing his shoulders gently.
But then, during race week, he's in bed by 10 PM sharp, no exceptions, as if he's a completely different person with an entirely different operating system.
"Max, the movie's not even over," you protest as he starts turning things off, reaching for the remote.
"It's 9:55. I need to start my sleep routine." He's already gathering his water bottle and phone, his movements efficient and practiced.
"Your sleep routine takes five minutes?" You pause the movie in disbelief, looking at the clock to confirm.
"I need to be in bed by 10. That's the schedule." He's checking his watch, serious as ever, that focused look on his face.
"You literally stayed up until 3 AM last Tuesday." You're simply gesturing toward the sim room, which is exasperated.
"That was off week, Max. This is race week, Max. Different protocols." He says this as if it's the most normal thing in the world, as if having two completely different sleep personalities makes perfect sense.
"You're insane," you laugh, following him to the bedroom, shaking your head.
"I'm consistent." He's already in the bedroom, setting his phone on the charger, his routine unbreakable.
"Those aren't the same thing!" you call after him, but you're smiling, turning off lights as you follow.
"Within their respective contexts, they are," he calls back, and you can hear him brushing his teeth.
Living with him means getting used to the travel, the time zones, the weird hours, and the fact that his primary relationship is with speed. But he's also loyal, funny in his own way, and will absolutely make sure you're drinking enough water whether you like it or not.
It's not a normal life, but honestly, what did you expect when you started dating a four-time world champion who thinks a relaxing day involves spending six hours on a racing simulator?
And who owns approximately seven hundred Red Bull shirts and will die before wearing anything else.
"You really won't wear the navy shirt?" you ask one more time as you're getting ready for bed, already knowing the answer, brushing your teeth beside him.
"I'll think about it," he says, meeting your eyes in the mirror, toothbrush in his mouth.
"That's a no," you say around your toothbrush, giving him a look.
"That's a 'I'll think about it.'" He rinses and spits, wiping his mouth.
"Max," you sigh, following suit.
"Fine. It's a no. But I thought about it, so technically I didn't lie." He's got that mischievous glint in his eye, leaning against the counter.
You throw a pillow at him from the bedroom doorway. He catches it without looking, his reflexes absolutely unfair, not even turning his head.
"Good reflexes," you admit grudgingly, impressed despite yourself.
"I'm a racing driver. It's kind of my thing." He tosses the pillow back gently, and you catch it against your chest.
"Your thing is being stubborn," you correct, hugging the pillow, watching him move around the room.
"That too." He finally looks up, smiling that soft smile reserved just for you, the one that makes your heart skip. "But you love me anyway."
And annoyingly, frustratingly, completely... he's right. You walk over and wrap your arms around him, feeling his warmth, the solid reality of him. He holds you close, his arms strong and secure around you, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there.
"Yeah," you sigh into his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong against your cheek. "I really do."
"I know," he murmurs into your hair, and you can hear the smile in his voice, feel it against your skin. "You tell me every day."
"Don't get cocky about it," you warn, but there's no bite to it, just warmth and affection.
"Too late," he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest, and guides you toward the bed, his hand warm on the small of your back.
You settle in, and he wraps around you like he always does, one arm under your head, the other draped across your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. His Red Bull shirt is soft under your cheek, worn from a thousand washes, and it smells like him. Like home.
"Goodnight, Max," you whisper, already drifting off, safe and warm.
"Goodnight, liefje," he whispers back, his voice soft and full of something that makes your chest tight in the best way. His lips press against your temple one more time before you both finally, finally fall asleep.
