Hii, can you do a reader that has never had a really good experience with sex (never had an orgasm) and is oscar's girlfriend and when they have sex for the first time she is a bit lost (like he will go down on her and at first she doesn't know what he is going to do, doesn't really know what an orgasm is like). My english is not the best so I'm sorry 😅
Learning to Feel
Oscar Piastri x Girlfriend!reader
Synopsis: Oscar finds out his girlfriend has never had proper sexual experience and he makes it his mission to make this her best.
The bedroom was bathed in soft lamplight, casting warm shadows across the walls as you sat on the edge of Oscar's bed. Your heart was racing, and you knew he could tell. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining gently as he studied your face with those observant eyes that never missed a thing.
"Hey," he said softly, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. "You're nervous."
It wasn't a question. Oscar had always been able to read you like that—seeing past whatever brave face you tried to put on. You nodded, not trusting your voice just yet.
He shifted closer, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "We don't have to do anything you're not ready for. You know that, right?"
"I know," you whispered. "It's not that I don't want to. I do. It's just..."
"Just what?" His voice was so gentle, so patient. No pressure, no expectation. Just genuine care.
You took a breath, deciding to just say it. "My past experiences... they weren't great. Actually, they were pretty bad." The words came out in a rush, and you felt heat creeping up your neck. "I've never... I mean, I've never actually had an orgasm. With someone else, I mean. I don't even really know what it's supposed to feel like."
Oscar's expression softened even further, if that was possible. He leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. "Thank you for telling me," he murmured against your skin. "That must have been hard to say."
"I just don't want you to be disappointed if I—"
"Stop," he interrupted gently, pulling back to look into your eyes. "I could never be disappointed in you. Never. And if those guys couldn't make you feel good, that's on them, not you. You understand?"
You felt tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. "Oscar..."
"I mean it," he continued, his hand still cradling your face. "We can take this as slow as you need. And if you want to stop at any point, we stop. No questions asked. But if you'll let me..." He paused, his eyes searching yours. "I'd really like to make you feel good. To show you what it should be like. Only if you want that too."
The sincerity in his voice, the tenderness in his touch—it made something in your chest ache in the best way. "I want that," you said, your voice steadier now. "I want you."
Oscar smiled, that soft smile that was reserved just for you, and leaned in to kiss you. It started gentle, his lips moving against yours with a sweetness that made you melt. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss slowly, giving you time to respond, to match his rhythm.
You kissed him back, your hands finding his shoulders, feeling the warmth of him through his t-shirt. The nervousness was still there, fluttering in your stomach, but it was mixing with something else now—anticipation, desire, trust.
When he pulled back, you were both breathing a little harder. "Can I take this off?" he asked, tugging gently at the hem of your shirt.
You nodded, and he carefully lifted it over your head, his eyes never leaving yours until the fabric was gone. Then his gaze dropped, taking in the sight of you in your bra, and you fought the urge to cover yourself.
"You're so beautiful," he breathed, and the way he said it—like it was a simple fact, not a line—made you believe him.
His hands went to his own shirt, pulling it off in one smooth motion, and then he was reaching for you again, guiding you further onto the bed until you were lying back against the pillows. He settled beside you, propped up on one elbow, his free hand tracing a feather-light path from your collarbone down to your ribs.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his fingers dancing across your skin.
"Yes," you whispered.
He leaned down to kiss your shoulder, then your collarbone, his lips warm and soft. "You're so soft," he murmured between kisses. "So perfect." His hand slid around to your back, finding the clasp of your bra. "Can I?"
"Please."
He unhooked it with careful fingers and helped you slip it off, setting it aside before his eyes returned to you. The way he looked at you—with such open appreciation and desire—made you feel beautiful in a way you never had before.
"God," he breathed, his hand coming up to cup your breast gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple. "You're incredible."
The touch sent a spark of pleasure through you, and you arched slightly into his hand. He noticed, of course, and did it again, watching your face as he touched you.
"Does that feel good?" he asked.
"Yes," you managed, your breath catching as he leaned down to replace his thumb with his mouth.
The sensation of his tongue circling your nipple made you gasp. He took his time, lavishing attention on one breast and then the other, his hand kneading gently while his mouth worked magic. You'd been touched there before, but never like this—never with such focused attention, such clear desire to give you pleasure.
Your hands found his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as he continued his exploration. When he finally lifted his head, his lips were slightly swollen and his eyes were dark with want.
"You're so responsive," he said, almost in wonder. "I love watching you react to my touch."
He kissed you again, deep and slow, as his hand trailed down your stomach to the button of your jeans. "Can I take these off?"
You nodded, and he carefully unbuttoned them, sliding the zipper down before hooking his fingers into the waistband. You lifted your hips to help him, and he pulled them down your legs along with your underwear in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare before him.
For a moment, you felt exposed, vulnerable, but then Oscar's hand was on your thigh, warm and reassuring. "So beautiful," he murmured, his eyes roaming over you with such genuine appreciation that your self-consciousness began to fade.
He stood briefly to remove his own jeans and boxers, and then he was back beside you, skin against skin. The feeling of his body pressed against yours was intoxicating—the warmth of him, the solidness, the intimacy of it.
"I want to touch you," he said softly, his hand sliding up your inner thigh. "Want to learn what makes you feel good. Is that okay?"
"Yes," you breathed, even as your heart rate kicked up another notch.
His fingers traced gentle patterns on your thigh, moving higher but not rushing. "Tell me if anything doesn't feel right," he said. "Or if you want me to do something different. This is about you, okay?"
You nodded, and then his fingers were brushing against your most intimate place, and you couldn't help the small gasp that escaped.
"You're already wet," he observed, his voice rough with desire. "That's good. That's so good, baby."
He explored gently, his fingers sliding through your folds, finding your clit and circling it with just enough pressure to make you squirm. It felt good—better than when you touched yourself, better than anyone else had touched you—but you were still tense, still waiting for it to become awkward or uncomfortable like it always had before.
"Relax," Oscar murmured, sensing your tension. "Just feel. Don't think about anything else. Just feel what I'm doing to you."
He kept up the gentle circles on your clit as he kissed your neck, your jaw, your lips. Slowly, you felt yourself relaxing into the sensation, your body responding to his touch. When one finger pressed gently at your entrance, you tensed again, but he was patient, working you slowly until you were ready, until you were wet enough that the slide was easy.
"That's it," he encouraged as his finger pushed inside. "You're doing so well."
He moved it slowly, in and out, his thumb still working your clit, and you felt pleasure building in a way that was unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Then he added a second finger, stretching you carefully, and the fullness combined with the pressure on your clit made you moan.
"Good?" he asked, watching your face.
"Good," you confirmed, your hips moving slightly against his hand.
He worked you like that for a while, his fingers curling inside you, finding spots that made you gasp, while his thumb maintained that steady pressure on your clit. It felt amazing, but you could feel yourself holding back, some part of you still waiting for disappointment.
Then Oscar started kissing down your body—your breasts, your ribs, your stomach—and you realized where he was heading. Your whole body tensed.
"Oscar, what are you—"
He looked up at you from where he'd settled between your thighs, his eyes warm and reassuring. "I want to taste you," he said simply. "I want to use my mouth to make you feel good. Is that okay?"
You'd heard about this, of course, but no one had ever... "I don't know," you admitted. "No one's ever..."
Understanding dawned in his eyes. "Never?"
You shook your head, feeling embarrassed.
"Oh, baby," he said softly, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. "Can I be your first? I promise I'll make it good for you. And if you don't like it, just tell me and I'll stop. Okay?"
The tenderness in his voice, the patience—it made you trust him. "Okay," you whispered.
"Thank you," he murmured, kissing your thigh again, higher this time. "Just relax. Let me take care of you."
He started slowly, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, building anticipation. When his mouth finally made contact with your center, you jolted at the sensation—his tongue, warm and wet, sliding through your folds.
"Oh my God," you gasped, your hands flying to his hair.
He hummed against you, the vibration sending another shock of pleasure through your body. "You taste so good," he murmured, and then his tongue was back, licking and exploring, learning what made you react.
The sensation was unlike anything you'd ever felt. When his tongue found your clit and circled it, you couldn't stop the moan that escaped. It was intense, almost overwhelming, and you didn't know what to do with your body, with the pleasure that was building.
"Oscar, I—I don't know—"
"Shh," he soothed, pulling back just enough to speak. "You don't have to do anything. Just feel it. Let yourself feel good."
He went back to work, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes over your clit. One of his hands slid up to lace with yours, grounding you, while the other gripped your thigh, holding you open for him. The intimacy of it, the vulnerability, should have made you self-conscious, but instead it made you feel cherished, worshipped.
The pleasure was building in a way you'd never experienced before. It was like a wave gathering strength, and you didn't know what was on the other side of it. Part of you wanted to pull away, afraid of the intensity, but Oscar's hand squeezed yours, and his tongue kept up that perfect rhythm, and you found yourself surrendering to it.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice muffled against you. "Let go, baby. I've got you."
His tongue moved faster, more focused, and suddenly the pleasure sharpened into something almost unbearable. Your thighs started to shake, and you felt something building, tightening in your core.
"Oscar, something's—I feel—"
"I know," he said, his voice full of satisfaction. "You're going to come for me. Just let it happen. Don't fight it."
"But I don't—I've never—"
"Trust me," he murmured, and then his mouth was back on you, his tongue working your clit with perfect pressure, and the wave crested.
The orgasm hit you like nothing you'd ever felt before. Pleasure exploded through your body, radiating out from where Oscar's mouth was still working you through it. You cried out his name, your back arching off the bed, your hand gripping his so tightly it must have hurt, but he didn't stop, didn't let up until you were trembling and oversensitive and pushing at his head.
He pulled back, pressing soft kisses to your thighs as you came down, your chest heaving, your whole body feeling like it was made of light.
"Oh my God," you breathed, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. "Oh my God, Oscar."
He crawled back up your body, gathering you into his arms, pressing kisses to your face. "You're crying," he said softly, wiping away the tears with his thumb. "Are you okay? Was it too much?"
"No," you managed, your voice shaky. "No, it was—I've never—that was—"
"Your first orgasm," he finished, smiling down at you with such tenderness it made your heart ache.
"Is that what it's supposed to feel like?" you asked, still trying to catch your breath.
"Yeah, baby. That's what it's supposed to feel like." He kissed you softly, and you could taste yourself on his lips. "You were so beautiful. So perfect."
You pulled him closer, kissing him deeper, wanting to show him what you couldn't put into words. When you pulled back, you could feel his hardness pressing against your thigh, and you realized he'd been focused entirely on your pleasure, not his own.
"Oscar," you murmured, your hand sliding down between your bodies to wrap around him.
He groaned at the contact, his hips jerking slightly. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," you interrupted. "I want you inside me. Please."
His eyes darkened, and he kissed you again, deep and hungry. "Are you sure? We can wait if you need—"
"I'm sure," you said firmly. "I want to feel you."
He reached over to his nightstand, pulling out a condom and rolling it on with shaking hands. Then he was settling between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.
"Tell me if it's too much," he said, his eyes locked on yours. "We'll go slow."
He pushed in gradually, giving you time to adjust to the stretch. The fullness was intense after the orgasm, your body still sensitive, but it didn't hurt. It felt good—really good—especially when he was fully seated inside you and you could feel every inch of him.
"Okay?" he asked, holding perfectly still.
"Okay," you confirmed, your hands sliding up his back. "You can move."
He started with slow, shallow thrusts, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. When he saw only pleasure, he went a little deeper, a little harder, finding a rhythm that had you both breathing hard.
"You feel so good," he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours. "So perfect around me."
Unlike your previous experiences, this didn't feel mechanical or awkward. Oscar was attentive, adjusting his angle when he found a spot that made you gasp, slowing down when you needed it, speeding up when you urged him on. He made you feel connected, cherished, desired.
"Touch yourself," he murmured, his voice strained. "Want to feel you come again. Want to feel you come around my cock."
The words sent a thrill through you, and you slid your hand between your bodies, finding your clit. The combination of his cock inside you and your fingers on your clit was overwhelming in the best way.
"That's it," he encouraged, his thrusts becoming more urgent. "God, you're so sexy. So beautiful like this."
The pleasure was building again, faster this time, and you could tell Oscar was close too from the way his rhythm was faltering, the way his breathing had become ragged.
"Oscar," you gasped, feeling the wave building again. "I'm going to—"
"Come for me," he urged. "Come with me, baby."
Your orgasm hit just as his did, and you felt him pulsing inside you as your body clenched around him. The pleasure was different this time—deeper, more connected—and you clung to him as you both rode it out together.
When it was over, you were both trembling, sweaty, breathing hard. Oscar carefully pulled out and disposed of the condom before gathering you back into his arms, pulling the blanket over both of you.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, pressing kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.
"I'm more than okay," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "That was... Oscar, that was incredible."
"You were incredible," he corrected, his hand stroking up and down your back. "So responsive, so beautiful. I've never seen anything more perfect than you coming apart for me."
Tears were leaking from your eyes again, and he wiped them away gently. "Happy tears?" he asked.
"Very happy tears," you confirmed. "I just... I didn't know it could be like that. I didn't know I could feel like that."
"Now you know," he murmured, holding you closer. "And I plan to make you feel like that as often as you'll let me."
You buried your face in his neck, breathing in his scent, feeling safe and cherished and completely satisfied in a way you'd never experienced before. "Thank you," you whispered.
"For what?"
"For being patient. For caring about my pleasure. For making me feel..." You trailed off, not sure how to put it into words.
"Beautiful? Desired? Cherished?" he offered.
"All of that," you agreed. "And more."
He tilted your face up to kiss you, soft and sweet. "You deserve all of that and more," he said firmly. "Always."
As you lay there in his arms, your body still humming with residual pleasure, you realized that this was what it was supposed to be like. Not awkward or disappointing or something to just get through. But connected, intimate, pleasurable for both of you.
And with Oscar, you knew it would always be like this—tender, caring, focused on making each other feel good. He'd shown you what you'd been missing, and you couldn't wait to explore more with him.
"Stay with me tonight?" he asked softly.
"I'm not going anywhere," you promised, snuggling closer.
And as his arms tightened around you and his breathing began to even out, you felt a contentment settle over you that you'd never known before. This was what it was supposed to feel like. This was what you'd been waiting for.
Hi love, can I make a request? Max and reader are married but lately they have been distant because they kept fighting. Whenever they meet, they fight. It's really tense for a while. Then one day, when Max comes home after a race, reader isn't around and the wedding ring is discarded somewhere?
But actually, reader just went outside doing something and forgot to use it because reader is in a hurry to meet someone. Perhaps male friend so there's a touch of jealousy too? Thank you so much by the way! 🩷🌷
Worn Thin
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: After weeks of fighting and distance Max comes home to an empty house and your wedding ring left behind, and for one awful moment he thinks this is how your marriage ends.
3.4k words / Masterlist
The first sign that something was wrong had been the silence.
It wasn't peaceful or comfortable, the kind that had once existed so naturally between you and Max that entire evenings could pass with no need for words at all, just the sound of a race replay in the background and his hand resting on your thigh, your head against his shoulder, the quiet understanding of two people who knew each other too well to need constant noise.
This silence was sharp.
It lived in the kitchen when you passed each other in the mornings, in the bedroom when one of you came to bed long after the other was already pretending to be asleep, in the strained phone calls when he was away for weekends and every conversation somehow became an argument before it had even properly begun.
You couldn’t even remember how it started anymore.
Whether it had been the missed dinner in Monaco or that interview he had done where he brushed off a question about you and your marriage so bluntly that it left your stomach twisting when you watched it back online. Maybe it had been the way you had snapped at him when he got home, already defensive, already tired, already carrying weeks of tension with him like a storm cloud.
From there it had just grown. Every conversation became a fight. If you asked if he was coming home at a certain time, he heard accusation. If he asked why you seemed distracted, you heard criticism.
You both knew exactly where to press, exactly which words would sting the most, because love like yours came with that dangerous knowledge. There was no cruelty like the kind that could only come from someone who knew every soft part of you by heart, and the worst part was that neither of you seemed capable of stopping it.
By the time Max left for the next race weekend things had become so tense that you barely kissed him goodbye.
He had stood in the hallway with his bag by his feet, waiting. You had leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded.
“That’s it?” he asked, voice already edged.
“What do you want me to say?”
His jaw tightened. “I want you to act like you actually care that I’m leaving.”
A laugh had escaped you before you could stop it. “You already know I care but maybe I’m tired of begging for scraps of your attention every time you come home.”
Then it had spiralled, because of course it had, by the time the door shut behind him the air in the house felt scorched, he didn’t call that night and neither did you.
During the race weekend you exchanged only the bare minimum, a clipped good luck before qualifying, a quick congratulations after the race.
So when Max landed back home late Sunday evening, exhausted from travel, still buzzing faintly from adrenaline and media obligations and the hollow ache of too many things left unsaid he was braced for another cold welcome.
He unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
The house was dim and quiet.
His brows pulled together.
Usually, even when things were bad, there was some sign of you. A light on upstairs, music playing softly from your phone in the bathroom, a mug left abandoned on the kitchen counter. Something.
He dropped his bag by the door and moved further inside, pulling off his cap.
“Y/N?”
Still nothing.
A flicker of irritation sparked first, because lately irritation always came easiest. Had you gone out without telling him? Before he had just gotten home?
Then he saw it.
Your wedding ring.
It sat on the kitchen island, catching the warm overhead light, unmistakable and motionless and completely, horribly wrong.
Max stopped dead.
For a second his mind refused to make sense of what he was looking at. It was just a ring. Just something you must have taken off absentmindedly.
But no.
No, because you never took it off and left it there.
His chest constricted so fast it almost felt physical. A brutal tightening beneath his ribs, a sudden ringing in his ears he crossed the room in two strides and picked it up.
It was yours. Of course it was yours. He knew every tiny detail of it, every glint, every curve. He had slid it onto your finger himself, both of you too young by most people’s standards and not caring even a little, his hands shaking with emotion and the absolute certainty that loving you had been the least reckless part of his life. People had called it early, impulsive, too much too soon, but standing there with you all those years ago, watching that ring settle onto your finger, Max had only ever felt one thing.
Right.
Now it was sitting discarded on the counter like something forgotten.
His throat went dry. Had you left? The thought slammed into him with enough force to make his knees feel weak. His gaze darted around the kitchen as if the answer might be written somewhere, some clue hidden in plain sight. Then he noticed your handbag was gone. Your keys too. His pulse kicked harder.
He reached for his phone immediately, calling you before he had even fully thought through what he was going to say.
It rang… and rang… then voicemail.
“Fuck,” he muttered, hanging up only to call again.
Voicemail.
His breathing had turned shallow now, panic creeping in through the cracks of his anger. He opened your messages, scrolling back through the sparse conversation from the weekend as if he might find something there he had missed. Some warning. Some goodbye hidden between the lines.
Nothing.
He called again.
This time you answered, slightly breathless. “Hello?”
Max nearly snapped the phone in half with how tightly he was gripping it. “Where are you?”
A beat of silence. “What?”
“Where are you?” he repeated, harsher now, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. “I’m home. You’re not here.”
“I know you’re home, your flight tracker said you landed.”
That should have reassured him, maybe, but it only sharpened the confusion clawing through him. “Then where the hell are you?”
You exhaled. “I just popped out, I’m on my way home now.”
“Popped out,” he repeated incredulously. His eyes fell back to the ring in his palm. “You left your wedding ring on the kitchen counter and ‘popped out’?”
There was another pause.
Then, “Oh.”
Oh.
That was all you had to say? Oh?
Max laughed once, but there was no humour in it. “That’s your answer?”
“Max, I was in a rush.”
“In a rush to do what?”
His voice came out colder than he intended, but beneath it was something desperate he couldn’t quite hide.
You hesitated for a fraction too long and then you said, “I was just meeting Luca.”
Something ugly flared immediately in his chest.
Luca.
Of course.
Luca, your longtime friend from before Max, the one person he had never quite managed to like despite knowing, logically, that there had probably never been anything between you. Luca who texted too often and always seemed to appear whenever things between you and Max were rough. Luca, who made Max feel irrationally territorial in a way he hated.
“You’re meeting him?” Max asked flatly.
“Yes.”
“At night.”
“It’s 6pm.”
“You left your ring behind to go meet another man.”
“Do not do that,” you snapped, your own temper sparking to life now. “I forgot it because I was late, not because I’m making some symbolic statement.”
He looked down at the ring again, still cold against his skin. “It looked pretty symbolic.”
“Well, it wasn’t.”
The silence on the line turned taut.
Finally Max said, quieter now but somehow more dangerous, “Come home.”
You let out a disbelieving breath.
“I’m already on my way,” your tone had turned icy. “I’m not a child Max. I’m allowed to go out and see my friends.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
“No you just called me sounding like I’d committed a crime.”
“Because I came home and found your ring discarded on the counter.”
“It was not discarded.”
“It looked fucking discarded.”
You made a frustrated noise. “This is exactly what I mean every conversation with you turns into this.”
He shut his eyes, deep down he knew you were right. He knew it the second the words left your mouth. What had started as panic had twisted almost instantly into accusation, jealousy, anger, because lately that was all either of you seemed capable of giving each other.
Still the image of your empty finger and Luca waiting somewhere beside you was enough to keep his temper lit.
“What were you even doing with him?” Max asked.
Another pause. Then, carefully, “Talking.”
His grip tightened again. “About us?”
Silence.
Something hot and humiliating curled under his skin. “So now your friend is giving you advice about our marriage?”
“No,” you said, exhaustion bleeding into your tone. “He’s listening because every time I try to talk to my husband we end up shouting.”
The truth of it landed like a blow.
For a moment neither of you said anything.
Then you spoke again, softer this time. “I’ll be home soon.”
The line went dead. Max stood motionless in the kitchen for several long seconds, your ring still in his hand.
The house felt too big around him.
He should have put the ring back on the counter. Should have gone upstairs, showered, cooled off, waited for you to get home. Instead he sank down onto one of the barstools and just sat there, staring at the gold band in his palm as though it might explain how the two of you had ended up here.
He thought of your wedding day.
Of the way you had looked at him when he slid the ring onto your finger, eyes bright and wet and full of so much love it had made his chest ache. Of the way you had laughed through your tears when his hands shook. Of the private promise he had made to himself then, that no matter how difficult life became, no matter how demanding racing was, he would never let himself take this for granted.
Yet lately that was exactly what he had done, not because he did not love you. Christ, that had never been the problem.
It was because he loved you so much that every fracture between you felt unbearable, every criticism cutting deeper, every perceived distance sending him straight into defensiveness. He had been tired, stressed, stretched too thin, and instead of reaching for you he had pushed you further and further away.
He had let pride do the talking.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Max let himself really feel how close he had come to losing you.
The front door opened about twenty minutes later. He looked up immediately. You stepped inside, hair slightly windswept, your expression guarded the moment you saw him sitting there in the half-lit kitchen waiting.
Neither of you spoke at first. Then your eyes dropped to his hand.
To the ring.
Your face changed instantly. “Max—”
“You forgot it,” he said.
Your shoulders sagged, some of the fight leaving you at once. “Yes. I forgot it.”
He nodded once, but his voice was rough when he asked, “Did you know what I thought when I saw it?”
Your lips parted, but no answer came.
“I thought you’d left me.”
Something in his expression must have gotten through to you then, because the defensive set of your shoulders softened. The tension in your face cracked.
“Max…”
“I walked in and you weren’t here and that was there.” He held up the ring slightly. “And I thought that was it I thought you were gone.”
You swallowed hard.
“I didn’t leave you,” you said quietly.
“But you could have.”
The honesty of it hung between you.
You moved further into the kitchen, slower now, careful, like approaching something wounded. “Luca just asked me to meet him because he was nearby. That’s all. He knew things have been bad and he wanted to check on me.”
Max’s jaw tightened at the name, but the jealousy that had burned so bright before now felt secondary to everything else. “Did you tell him everything?”
“No.”
He looked away.
You took another step closer. “I wasn’t running away from you.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me where you were?”
A tiny, sad laugh escaped you. “Because lately even telling you I’m going to the shop turns into a fight.”
That stung because it was true. Max dragged a hand over his face. “I know.”
You stared at him for a long moment before saying, “When did we get like this?”
He let out a slow breath. “I don’t know.”
“We used to be so good. Great.”
“We still are,” he said immediately, then corrected himself, voice cracking slightly, “Or we could be. We should be.”
Your eyes filled properly then and Max hated that. Hated being the reason tears existed on your face at all.
“I’m tired,” you whispered. “I’m so tired of fighting with you.”
The words nearly undid him because they echoed exactly what had been sitting in his own chest for weeks. He stepped closer now too, until only a small space remained between you.
“So am I.”
You looked up at him, chin trembling. “Then why do we keep doing it?”
Because it was easier than saying I miss you. Because anger was simpler than admitting hurt. Because loving you this much made every distance feel like rejection.
Max had never been especially elegant with emotion, and the truth often came out blunt and raw instead.
“Because I think you’re slipping away from me,” he said, then took a deep, shaky breath. “And every time I feel that... I get angry before I let myself admit I’m scared.”
His thumb rubbed unconsciously over your ring. “And then tonight I came home and thought maybe I was right.”
Your eyes dropped to the band in his hand, and when you spoke your voice was shaky. “Max I’m scared too.”
You gave a watery laugh, wiping quickly under one eye. “I feel like I can’t reach you anymore. When you’re home, you’re tense. When you’re away, you’re distant. And every time I try to tell you I miss you it somehow becomes a competition about who’s been hurt more.”
He flinched, because that was true too.
“I didn’t meet Luca because I wanted to replace you,” you continued softly. “I met him because I needed to talk to a friend and I forgot the ring because I was running late and my hands were wet and dirty from watering the plants outside before I left. That’s it. That’s all it was.”
The absurd normality of that, watering the plants, rushing out, forgetting something important in the chaos, made Max feel suddenly foolish and unbearably relieved all at once.
He laughed quietly then, once, more like an exhale.
You frowned slightly. “What?”
“I nearly lost my mind because you were watering plants.”
To your surprise, a tiny smile tugged at your mouth. “Yes. Very glamorous.”
He shook his head, stepping the rest of the way toward you. “I was jealous too.”
“I noticed.”
“Of Luca.”
“I definitely noticed.”
His mouth twitched despite everything. Then his expression turned serious again. “I don’t want to be like this with you. I love you so much.”
Your smile faded into something much softer. “I love you too.”
He looked at the ring in his palm for one last moment, then reached for your hand.
You let him take it, your fingers trembled slightly against his, he slowly slid the wedding band back onto your finger. The sight of it settling where it belonged made something deep in his chest loosen.
His thumb lingered over it. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
A humourless little laugh escaped him. “Most of it.”
That pulled an actual laugh from you, small and teary and beautiful enough to ache.
Max’s hand moved from yours to your face, fingertips brushing your cheek like he was remembering how to touch you gently. “I’m sorry for making this house feel like a war zone. I’m sorry for anytime I chose being right over being kind and I’m sorry that you had to talk to someone else because I made it too hard to talk to me.”
Your eyes closed briefly under his touch.
“I’m sorry too,” you whispered. “I’ve been angry for so long that sometimes I start a fight before I even know what I’m actually upset about.”
He gave a slight nod. “Then maybe we stop.”
Your brows knit. “Just like that?”
“No,” he said honestly. “Not just like that but maybe tonight we stop trying to win.”
That made your face crumple in the saddest, sweetest way, because that was what it had become, wasn’t it? Two people who loved each other desperately, trying to win arguments nobody was surviving. You leaned into his hand then and the gesture was so familiar, so heartbreakingly tender that Max’s own eyes stung.
“I missed you,” you admitted quietly.
He let out a shaky breath. “I missed you too.”
Your hands came up slowly, resting against his chest. “You really thought I left.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
“I wasn’t going to. I would never.”
At that he looked down at you, searching your face as if he needed to be absolutely sure.
Then he bent his forehead to yours.
“You can’t leave your ring on the counter like that,” he murmured.
A weak laugh broke out of you.
“It nearly killed me.”
“Poor baby.”
He huffed a laugh against your skin, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the sound did not catch on broken glass.
You smiled against his chest and he pulled back just enough to look at you properly and Max, who could fight wheel to wheel without flinching, who could stare down cameras and critics and rivals with perfect composure, felt almost unsteady from the weight of that simple look.
So he kissed you, it wasn't a desperate or angry kiss you had sometimes shared in the middle of arguments, all heat and frustration and unsaid things. This was gentle, his hand stayed cupped to your cheek, the other at your waist, holding you as if he had learned tonight exactly how fragile even forever could be.
You kissed him back with a small broken sound, and when he felt your hands clutch at him more tightly he deepened it just enough to say everything he had been too proud, too stubborn, too hurt to put into words.
When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathing unevenly. You rested your forehead against his again and gave a tiny, exhausted laugh. “We still need to talk about everything.”
“I know.”
“We’re not magically fixed.”
“I know.”
“You’re still dramatic.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You left your ring on the counter.”
“I was watering plants.”
“Terrorising your husband.”
That made you laugh properly, and Max thought he might spend the rest of his life trying to earn that sound again every day. He wrapped his arms around you then, pulling you fully into him and this time you came without hesitation.
You stayed like that for a long time. Just standing in the kitchen, the quiet weight of each other, the ring back on your finger, and the fragile but undeniable feeling that maybe this was how you found your way back, by choosing to stop treating love like something to defend yourself from.
After a while, your muffled voice came from where your face was pressed into his shirt.
“For the record, Luca says you’re very intimidating.”
Max’s hand stroked slowly up and down your back. “He’s right.”
“And a little possessive.”
“He’s also right.”
You tilted your head up just enough to grin at him. “Good. At least you’re self-aware.” Your smile softened. “You’re the one I came home to. Always will.”
He bent and kissed your forehead. “Good.”
Your eyes softened instantly. You reached for his hand and laced your fingers through his, squeezing once. He kissed you once more and led you out of the kitchen with your hand in his and your ring glinting softly under the light, both of you knowing there was still work to do, still wounds to mend, still long conversations waiting, but for tonight it was enough to know that neither of you would ever walk away.
Y/N x Oscar Piastri
Theme: Angst / Fluff
comforting Oscar after the horrible start of the season x
word count: 2210+
metions of Lando
open for requests :)
The air inside Oscar's motorhome was heavy; the only sound was the hum of the air conditioning and the distant muffled noise from the race that was happening without him.
You closed the door softly behind you, the click of the latch sounding like a gavel. The room was dim, the blinds drawn halfway to shield the interior from the prying long lenses of the paparazzi stationed in the paddock.
Oscar was there, standing by the small kitchenette area. He wasn't moving, taking shallow breaths, his weight supported by his palms pressed against the edge of a small wooden cabinet.
His back was to you. The familiar sight of the papaya-orange racing suit, vibrant and loud, felt almost cruel in its brightness. The number 81, embroidered on the dark fabric of the suit's back, stared back at you.
This was a disastrous start to the 2026 season.
After fighting for the title against his teammate Lando and Max at the same time last year, his car failed him twice in a row. It's been hard enough as it was, missing his home race, and now his car didn't start. He couldn't even take part in the race.
To be strapped in, his mind focused, his heart racing in anticipation of the lights out, only for the race to end before it even began. It was a psychological blow that few could truly understand.
You stood there for a long moment, just watching the slight rise and fall of his shoulders. He looked smaller than usual, despite the bulk of the suit. This whole situation was pressing down on him.
Then, you moved forward, your footsteps silent on the carpet. When you reached him, you didn't say a word. You simply reached out and placed your hand gently at the small of his back, right over the sturdy seam of his suit.
Oscar flinched.
It was a sharp, involuntary jerk of his muscles, like a person being shaken awake from a daydream. He hadn't heard you come in. For a second, his posture stiffened, his fingers gripping the edge of the cabinet until his knuckles turned white.
But then, as the realization of who it was settled in, the tension broke.
He didn't pull away.
Instead, he leaned back into your touch, letting out a breath that he seemed to have been holding since the national anthem.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he turned around.
Oscar has always been known for his "Oscar-Calm," the new "Iceman" of the paddock, the unflappable, stoic Aussie who handles 200-mph corners with the pulse of a man taking a nap. But here, away from the cameras, he allowed himself to let that mask slip.
His eyes were glassy, rimmed with a redness that spoke of exhaustion and suppressed disappointment. He didn't look at you directly at first, his gaze dropping to the floor.
He didn't want you to see the raw pain there; he didn't want to be the "victim" of bad luck.
You didn't force him to look up, didn't ask him how he felt.
You knew.
You stepped into his space, and his arms immediately found their way around you.
He didn't just hug you; he melted.
His forehead dropped onto your shoulder, his face burying itself into the crook of your neck. You felt the rough texture of his suit against your skin, and the heat radiating off him from the adrenaline that had nowhere to go.
A soft broken huff escaped his lips, something between a sigh and a groan of frustration. You began to stroke his back, your hand moving in slow, rhythmic circles over the bright "81."
"It's okay," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the distant noise of the paddock outside. "It's not your fault, Oscar. You did everything right."
He nodded against your shoulder, a small, jerky movement. He knew it logically. The engineers knew it. The fans knew it.
But to a driver, it doesn't matter whose fault it is when you're standing in a motorhome and your rivals are out on the track.
It stung.
You pulled back just enough to reach up and kiss his temple. His skin was cool now, the air conditioning having wicked away the sweat of the garage. You ran your fingers through the hair at the nape of his head, the short, soft strands messy from where his cap had been just minutes ago.
You felt his breathing level out, the frantic beat of his heart slowing as he grounded himself in the present, away from the data screen and the "Did Not Start" notifications.
"Let's get you out of this," you said softly.
Oscar nuzzled against your neck one last time, a lingering gesture of need, before nodding.
There was a ritual to undressing a racing driver, an intimate process, a shedding of the armor that separated them from the rest of the world.
You knelt down first, unfastening the Velcro straps of his racing boots. They were slim and light, built for the pedal feel. One by one, you pulled them off his feet and set them aside before standing back up.
Oscar worked the heavy zipper of the suit down to his waist. He looked weary, his movements sluggish. You helped him slide the sleeves off his shoulders, the papaya fabric pooling around his hips. Underneath, he wore the thin, black Nomex undershirt. It clung to his frame, damp with the humidity of the track.
As he stepped out of the suit entirely, leaving it in a heap like a discarded skin, you reached for the bag you'd prepared. You handed him his dark pants and the familiar black-and-papaya McLaren hoodie.
In slow yet practiced movements, he pulled the Nomex undershirt over his head, revealing his toned chest, before letting it drop to the floor. Next were his Nomex underpants, dropping right next to the shirt.
He moved like a ghost, pulling on the clothes with a quiet intensity. You watched him, noting the way he still avoided your eyes, focusing purely on the task of becoming "normal" again.
Finally, he reached for his team cap.
He pulled it low over his brow, the brim casting a shadow over his eyes, a final piece of protection.
He stood there for a second, hands in his hoodie pockets, finally meeting your gaze. The sharpness of the pain had settled into a dull ache, the kind you can live with, even if you don't want to.
"You want to sit down?" You asked, gesturing to the small, plush sofa in the corner. "Or do you want to watch the feed? See how the others are doing?"
He hesitated.
His eyes flickered toward the television mounted on the wall, which was currently muted, showing a replay of a Ferrari overtaking a Mercedes.
He looked away quickly.
"Sit down," he murmured. His voice was raspy, unused. "Just... sit."
You moved to the sofa. It was narrow, forcing you to sit close, which was exactly what he needed.
Oscar didn't just sit; he collapsed into the cushions, leaning his entire weight into your side. He tucked his head into the space between your head and shoulder. He was looking for comfort like a physical anchor.
You resumed the stroking of his hair, your other hand resting on his forearm. You could feel the slight tremor in his muscles, the leftover residue of a massive shot of adrenaline that had been denied his release.
You knew his mind was a whirlwind.
He was probably replaying the moment they told him about his engine failing. He was probably thinking about last season again, about the height of it all, and about the mechanics who were currently tearing his car apart in the garage, about the sheer, blinding unfairness of technical DNS's.
"Do you want to talk about it?" You asked quietly. "I'm here. You can say whatever you need to say; scream if you'd like to. No one can hear us."
He shook his head against you, the fabric of his cap rubbing against your cheek.
"Too many thoughts," he whispered. "If I start now, I won't stop. I just... I need to not think about the car. For five minutes. I need a distraction."
"Okay," you said, squeezing his arm. "No car talk. No engine talk."
But it was hard.
The very walls of this place were built on car talks. The logos on his chest, the flickering screen, the constant vibration of the track.
Then, an idea struck.
You remembered the chatter of the radio before you'd left the paddock to find him.
"You know," you said, your voice taking on a slightly lighter tone. "You aren't the only one having a rubbish day. Lando didn't make the start either. Similar issue, apparently. The garage is a bit of a disaster zone right now."
Oscar went still.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyebrows knitting together.
"Lando too? Both cars?"
"Both cars," you confirmed. "The 'Double DNS' club. It's a very exclusive, very miserable group."
A flicker of something passed over Oscar's face. It wasn't happiness; he would never be happy about Lando's misfortune, but it was a sense of shared burden. There was a specific kind of solace in knowing you weren't the only one suffering from a freak occurrence.
"Is he in his room?" Oscar asked.
"Probably. Or he's currently trying to dismantle a steering wheel with his bare hands," you joked weakly. "I was thinking... maybe we should go find him? Maybe you can help by distracting each other. Might be better than sitting here listening to the engines."
Oscar hesitated.
He was an introvert by nature, and his first instinct when hurt was to burrow into a hole and stay there until the wound scabbed over. But he also had a deep bond with Lando, someone he could be himself with.
"He's probably taking it worse than me," Oscar muttered, a small ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth. "He's more... expressive."
"Exactly," you said, standing up and reaching out a hand for him. "Go be the 'calm' to his 'chaos.' It will distract you both. I will get some snacks. I think I saw those biscuits he likes in the hospitality suite."
Oscar looked at your hand, then up at your face. The shadows in his eyes hadn't disappeared, but they had shifted.
He took your hand, his grip firm and warm. He pulled himself up, adjusting his cap one last time.
"Okay," he said softly. "Let's go find him."
-------
The walk to Lando's side of the motorhome complex was like navigating a minefield of sympathy. You passed a few mechanics carrying carbon fiber parts, their faces falling into apologetic grimaces when they spotted Oscar.
He nodded to them, a short, professional acknowledgment. He was back in 'driver mode,' but you could feel the way his fingers tightened around yours every time someone looked at him with pity.
"Focus on the biscuits," you whispered as you approached the door to Lando's private unit.
Oscar let out a short, genuine huff of laughter.
"Right. The biscuits. The most important part of the technical debrief."
You knocked on the door.
For a long moment, there was no answer. You were about to knock again when the door swung open with a start.
Lando stood there, still in his racing suit, the upper half hanging loosely around his waist, but he switched to a McLaren shirt instead of his undershirt. His hair was a chaotic mess, and he was holding a half-eaten Kinder chocolate bar like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
He looked at you, then his eyes shifted to Oscar.
For a heartbeat, the two drivers just stared at each other. It was a look of profound, mutual understanding.
"Absolute joke, isn't it?" Lando said, his voice cracking slightly.
Oscar sighed, stepping inside as Lando moved back to let you in. "Yeah, pretty much."
"I was ready, man," Lando said, waving the chocolate bar emphatically. "I had the launch mapped. I was going to send it into turn 1. And then... it didn't even start. A joke. I'm driving a thirty-million-dollar joke."
Oscar sat down on the edge of Lando's table, his posture finally relaxing.
"Mine wouldn't even give me the dash. Just a blank screen. I felt like I was sitting in a sim where the power had gone out."
You moved to a small counter, finding the promised biscuits and putting them on a plate. You stayed on the periphery, watching them.
The energy in the room shifted.
What had been a heavy, suffocating sadness in Oscar's room was turning into a shared, cynical humor. They began to talk, not about the data, but about the absurdity of it. They talked about the long flight home and about how they were going to make the engineers buy them a very expensive dinner.
Oscar looked over at you, caught your eye, and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
He was still hurting.
But as he sat there, arguing with Lando about which one of their cars had died in a more embarrassing fashion, the "Oscar-Calm" began to return.
Summary: as a gifted pianist struggling to make ends meet in Monaco, you never expect your quiet world to collide with Formula 1’s fiercest driver … until a rain-soaked night, a stray kitten, and a cup of hot chocolate change everything
The rain comes hard and sudden, like a tantrum. It slaps against the café windows in sheets, hammering the cobblestones and turning the square outside into a glossy watercolor. The sky is bruised, the streetlights yellowing the mist, and the world feels like it’s been dunked underwater.
You glance up from where you’re wiping down the espresso machine, sighing. Another late night. Another storm.
You're alone. The chairs are flipped upside-down on the tables, lights low, Edith Piaf humming quietly from the little speaker you keep on the counter. The smell of cinnamon and leftover croissants lingers faintly.
You stretch your wrists. Eight hours of class, three hours on shift, and you still haven’t practiced your Liszt etude. The anxiety tightens like thread in your chest.
And then — movement. Outside. You blink, stepping closer to the window.
There’s a man. Tall. Absolutely soaked. He’s crouched beside the steps just past the awning, knees bent, arms out. You squint through the glass.
A kitten. Small, skinny, trembling.
He’s trying to coax it out from beneath a stone bench, his jacket shielding it from the storm.
You hesitate. Logic says to mind your business. Let the guy deal with his savior complex in peace. But your hands are already reaching for the door.
It groans as you pull it open. Cold air slaps your face. “Hey,” you call, barely audible above the downpour. “Hey, do you need-”
He turns.
Your breath catches — not because he’s handsome, though he is — but because there’s something strange in his expression. Like you’ve caught him in something private. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything. Just lifts the tiny ball of fur against his chest with careful hands.
You frown. “Is it hurt?”
“I don’t know.” His voice is low. Rough like gravel. A weird contrast to how gently he’s holding the kitten. “It’s freezing.”
You open the door wider. “Come in.”
He hesitates. Glances down the street, like maybe there’s somewhere else he’s supposed to be. Then back to you. You think he’s going to refuse.
But he steps forward.
The bell jingles above the door. You lock it behind him.
“Sit,” you say, motioning to the bench along the wall. “I’ll get towels.”
He doesn’t argue. Just lowers himself silently, kitten still tucked inside his jacket. Water drips in small pools around his boots.
You disappear into the back room, grabbing the cleanest dish towels you can find and one of the café’s emergency hoodies you sometimes wear when the heat’s out. You hand them to him.
“Thanks.” His eyes flick up to yours briefly. They’re blue — so much lighter up close. He rubs the kitten dry first, talking to it under his breath like it’s a scared child.
You don’t ask questions. Just move behind the counter and start the steamer.
“You want hot chocolate?” You ask.
A pause. Then a quiet, “Yeah. Sure.”
You make it the way you like it — extra thick, pinch of cinnamon, real whipped cream — and slide the mug across the counter. He looks at it like he doesn’t know what to do with something that kind.
“What’s its name?” You ask, settling across from him.
He lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t ask.”
You smirk. “Well, she looks like a Phoebe.”
“That’s a horrible name.”
“I like it.”
“She’ll get bullied at school.”
“She’s a cat.”
He actually smiles at that. It’s barely there, but it softens something in his face. You realize, suddenly, how tired he looks. Not just from the rain. The kind of tired that lives deep in the bones.
You lean forward, chin on your hand. “What were you even doing out there?”
“Walking.”
“In this?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
You nod slowly. “Insomnia or caffeine?”
His brows lift slightly. “Why not both?”
You laugh, short and surprised. “You’re really not gonna tell me your name?”
Another pause. He blows into the mug, watching the steam curl around his fingers. “Do I have to?”
“No,” you say. “But I’ll name you too, if you’re not careful.”
His eyes lift, direct and unreadable. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
That makes you curious. But something about his tone — quiet, almost pleading — makes you let it go.
You sit there a while longer. The storm beats on. He finishes the hot chocolate and wipes the kitten’s nose. You give him a take-home box for croissants and leftover brioche. He accepts it with a small nod, still saying nothing about who he is or where he’s going.
He leaves without giving you his name.
You only realize who he is when you’re sweeping up later. You find the receipt under his mug, flipped upside down, with the credit card slip still attached.
€2,000 tip.
You stare. Check the name.
Max Emilian Verstappen.
You almost drop the broom.
***
The next evening, it rains again. Not as hard, more of a romantic drizzle this time. You’re closing up, humming through your teeth, when the bell above the door chimes softly.
You turn, halfway into your apron. And there he is. Dry this time. No kitten.
He doesn’t say anything. Just stands in the doorway like he’s waiting for you to yell at him for being weird.
“You came back,” you say, blinking.
He shrugs. “You were nice.”
You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You left two thousand euros. I could’ve retired.”
“You work too hard to retire,” he says quietly.
That stops you. You don’t know how he knows that — but somehow, he does.
You clear your throat. “Hot chocolate again?”
He nods.
This time he sits at the counter instead of the bench. Closer. You make the drink slowly, trying not to stare. He’s different tonight. Relaxed. Still quiet, but not like he’s hiding. Like he’s … watching. Noticing.
You set the mug in front of him. “So. Phoebe survived the night?”
“She’s living in my guestroom now. Chewed through my charging cord and pissed on my sock.”
“Sounds like love.”
He smirks, sipping. “She’s angry. Loud. A menace.”
“Like you?”
“Worse.”
There’s a comfortable silence that stretches between you. You wipe down the bar again, more for something to do. He traces a finger along the wood grain.
“I meant to say thank you,” he says after a moment. “For last night.”
You glance up. “You did. With money.”
“That wasn’t-” He sighs. “I didn’t mean to do it like that.”
You raise a brow. “Then how did you mean to?”
He pauses. “I panicked.”
“Panicked?”
He shifts in his seat, suddenly sheepish. “I … don’t usually talk to people like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like-” He cuts himself off. “Like a normal person.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Are you not a normal person?”
He tilts his head, studying you. “Depends who you ask.”
The bell rings softly as a breeze sneaks in through the window crack. You tug your sleeves over your hands, watching him quietly.
“Why are you here?” You ask. “I mean, really.”
He sets the mug down. “Because I wanted to be.”
You blink. “That’s not an answer.”
He leans in slightly, forearms resting on the counter. “You didn’t ask a real question.”
You look at him. Really look. There’s something magnetic in the quiet way he holds your gaze. No arrogance. Just … interest. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you wrinkle your nose or tug your sleeves.
You tilt your head. “Okay, then. Real question.”
“I’m listening.”
“Why come back if you don’t want anything from me?”
He looks down. “Who says I don’t?”
Your breath stutters. You laugh, but it’s nervous this time.
“I don’t-” you start, then shake your head. “I’m not really looking for anything.”
He shrugs. “Me neither. Maybe that’s the point.”
You’re quiet.
You don’t know why this is happening. Why a man like him is sitting here, watching you like you matter. Like he wants something real in a world where everything around him is so curated and artificial.
You take a breath. “What if I like things slow?”
“Then I won’t rush.”
“What if I have too much going on? I study ten hours a day, I work nights, I barely remember to eat.”
“I’ll remind you.”
You blink. “You’re a stranger.”
“I’m Max.”
The sound of his name makes something shift. It sounds … different when he says it. Not like a brand or a headline. Just a person.
You swallow. “You want more chocolate?”
He smiles — small, genuine. “Yeah. Please.”
So you make another mug. And this time, when you slide it toward him, your fingers brush his.
Neither of you move.
Outside, the rain keeps falling.
***
Max begins showing up every few days. Never on a schedule, never with warning. Just … appears. Quiet. Steady. Always a little after dusk, when the tourists thin out and the locals disappear behind shuttered windows. You’ll be wiping a table, or refilling the sugar jars, or humming some half-remembered étude under your breath, and then — there he is. That same quiet presence at the counter.
He never makes a move. Never flirts. Never pries.
Just sits. Watches. Listens.
You talk. He answers. Sometimes only in nods or dry little asides, but you get used to the cadence of it. The careful way he measures his words. You find it oddly comforting, the way he’s so still in a world that never stops spinning.
He tries everything on the menu eventually. Buys an absurd number of pastries he doesn’t eat. Leaves tips like he’s trying to buy the building.
“Max,” you say one night, eyes narrowed as you hold up the receipt. “You’ve got to stop. This is getting offensive.”
He shrugs. “It’s a good café.”
“It’s a tiny café.”
“Still good.”
You lean across the counter, mock stern. “Do you do this at Starbucks too?”
“I’ve never been to a Starbucks.”
You blink. “You’re joking.”
He shakes his head. “Do I look like someone who’s been to a Starbucks?”
You stare at him. The sweatshirt he’s wearing is probably worth more than your rent. “… Touché.”
He just smirks into his coffee.
That becomes the rhythm. Every few days, a quiet ritual. A strange, tender peace you hadn’t realized you needed.
And maybe it would’ve gone on like that forever — slow, safe, unspoken — if not for the man with the red scarf.
***
It’s a Thursday night. Cold enough that your breath fogs when the door opens. The café is quiet. A few locals sipping espressos near the back, and a lone stranger nursing something bitter at a corner table.
You’re behind the counter, arms elbow-deep in hot water and soap, humming under your breath when you feel it. That prickling sensation between your shoulder blades.
You glance up.
The man in the red scarf is watching you.
You ignore it. Keep washing. Then he clears his throat. Loud. Once.
You look again.
He crooks a finger. “Petit cul.”
Your eye twitches. You dry your hands, approach slowly. “Don’t call me that.”
He smiles, too wide. “Pardon, mademoiselle. I forget how things work here.” His French is lazy, Parisian. The kind that pretends not to see dirt. “You’re the one from the other night, no?”
You frown. “Other night?”
“You were playing piano in the square. Badly.”
You blink. “Wow. Thanks.”
He grins like he’s charming. “No, no, I meant it with affection. You're pretty. That’s what counts.”
You take a deep breath. “Can I get you anything else?”
He leans forward. “Maybe your number?”
You pull back. “Not for sale.”
He laughs, but there’s something sour underneath it. “All these pretty girls think they’re so above it now. What happened to politeness?”
You don’t answer. Just walk away.
And that’s when you hear the chair scrape.
At first, you think it’s the man standing. But the weight of a different presence hits you.
You turn.
Max is at the counter. You hadn’t seen him come in.
His voice is low. Unmistakable. “Is there a problem?”
You look between them. Max is calm — too calm. His hands rest lightly on the counter, but his stance is taut. Controlled. Lethal in the way a loaded gun is.
The man in the red scarf scoffs. “This your boyfriend?”
Max doesn’t blink. “No.”
Your stomach twists.
“But you’re going to leave now,” Max continues, “and you’re going to do it without saying another word to her.”
The man’s smile fades. “Who do you think you are?”
Max steps forward once. Not threatening, exactly. Just closer. “I think I’m someone you don’t want to test tonight.”
It’s not a threat. Not really. It’s said with the same calm tone you’d use to discuss weather. But something in it shifts the air. The man goes pale.
He mutters something under his breath and grabs his coat. Leaves without looking back.
You exhale slowly, trying to uncoil the tension in your spine.
Max says nothing. Just waits until your eyes meet his.
“Are you okay?” He asks softly.
You nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
He looks unconvinced.
“I’ve had worse,” you add. “Waitresses aren’t exactly the least harassed demographic.”
Max’s jaw clenches. He says nothing.
You run a hand through your hair. “Thank you. For that.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t do anything.”
“You scared the hell out of him.”
“That wasn’t hard.”
You pause. “Want a hot chocolate?”
He hesitates. “Walk with me instead.”
You blink.
His voice is softer now. Almost hesitant. “If you’re off?”
You glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes to close. The café is empty now. Quiet.
You untie your apron. “Let me grab my coat.”
***
The streets are still damp as you walk. The air carries the smell of sea salt and wet stone. Max keeps close, hands in his pockets, his steps slowing to match yours.
You pass under a streetlamp, and for a second, it feels like you’re inside a movie.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly.
“I know.”
“But I’m glad you did.”
He glances sideways. “Some people think silence is an invitation.”
You snort. “Story of my life.”
He watches you. “You shouldn’t have to fight them off alone.”
You smile, but there’s something sad behind it. “I’m used to it.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
You fall into silence again. His coat brushes yours.
Then — voices.
A small group of teens cross the square ahead. They freeze mid-step when they see him.
One gasps. “No way. Max Verstappen?”
He stops. Exhales. “Yeah.”
“Can we get a photo?”
He nods, patient, stepping aside. You stand back, awkward, watching him smile for the camera. His posture shifts. Not stiff, but practiced. Familiar.
They thank him, then run off, giggling.
He turns back to you.
You raise a brow. “Is that your normal walk home?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “I forget, sometimes, who you are.”
His voice is quiet. “Good.”
You glance up at him. “Doesn’t it get annoying? Being known everywhere you go?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do it?”
He’s quiet for a while. “It used to mean something different. Now … I don’t know. I like the racing. Not the circus around it.”
You hum. “You’re still in the circus.”
“Yeah. Guess I am.”
You stop at the edge of your building. A narrow stone façade with ivy curling up one side. Your windows are dark. The air smells like lavender from the old woman’s garden next door.
Max lingers.
You bite your lip. “Want to come up?”
He lifts a brow. “Do you want me to?”
You shake your head. “No. Not tonight. Just — thank you for walking me.”
He nods. “Of course.”
But he doesn’t leave right away.
You hover near the door. “Max?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not … doing all this just to be nice, are you?”
He blinks. “What do you mean?”
“I mean …you don’t have to fix everything. Or show up every time it rains. Or save me from creeps. I don’t want you to feel like-”
“I don’t.”
You study him.
He meets your gaze. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do.”
Silence.
Then he adds, quieter, “You’re not a project. You’re not something broken.”
Your throat tightens.
“I come here,” he says, “because I want to see you. That’s it.”
You nod. Swallow. “Okay.”
He turns like he’s about to go, then pauses again. “You were playing Debussy in the square. That night.”
You blink. “You where there?”
He nods once. “It was raining then, too.”
A small smile touches your lips. “You like Debussy?”
He shrugs. “I liked how you played it.”
You step inside, the door clicking softly behind you.
And for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep with music in your head and something steadier than loneliness in your chest.
***
It’s late when Max asks.
You’re locking up the café, hands stiff with cold and knuckles raw from the wind, when he leans against the doorway — hood up, collar high — and says, “Come with me.”
You blink, keys half-turned in the lock. “Where?”
“My place.” His eyes hold yours. “Just to get away. For a few hours.”
You hesitate. Not because you’re nervous — well, you are — but not like that. It’s the weight of the offer. The intimacy of it. Not romantic, not sexual — something quieter. Like stepping into the private heart of a man who doesn’t let anyone inside.
You don’t say yes right away. You just meet his gaze, and after a long pause, nod once. “Okay.”
***
His apartment is tucked above the marina. You’d walked past the building a dozen times and never once imagined it held something this still, this understated. High ceilings, wide windows, warm wood and cool stone. Light, but not too much. Modern, but lived-in.
The scent hits you first. Cedar, citrus, and something darker. Probably him.
And cats.
There’s a blur of movement as you step inside. Then a paw. Then two. Then all at once, they’re there.
Max just smirks faintly. “Good luck.”
A sleek, skeptical Bengal perches on the armrest of the couch and stares at you like you’re a problem it’s been sent to solve.
“That’s Sassy,” Max says, slipping his coat off and hanging it neatly. “She owns the apartment. I just live here.”
A white blur shoots past your ankles. “Jimmy?”
“Donut,” Max corrects, heading toward the kitchen. “Jimmy’s the one with the attitude problem. You’ll know when he arrives.”
You bend down slowly, letting Donut sniff your fingers. Phoebe — the little kitten you first met in the rain — tumbles out from under a blanket and immediately starts scaling your leg.
Max’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “They’ll destroy your clothes. Sorry.”
“They’re worth it,” you murmur, untangling the kitten from your tights.
He gestures toward the open-plan kitchen, nodding at the counter. “Hungry?”
You raise a brow. “You cook?”
He rolls up his sleeves with a small smile. “Well. I try. Don’t get your hopes up.”
You step beside him. The fridge door opens to reveal fresh herbs, vegetables, and a frankly unnecessary amount of expensive cheese.
You smirk. “Trying to impress me?”
“Maybe.”
You laugh, and he gives a soft chuckle in return. It’s the most open you’ve seen him. Not the composed driver, not the cool-eyed guardian of Monaco cafés — just Max. Just a guy in a dark t-shirt who stocks more parmesan than sense and keeps four cats alive somehow.
***
You cook together slowly, messily. He slices vegetables with surprising precision while you burn garlic twice. At one point, you knock over a spice jar and send a dust storm of paprika across the marble. Max doesn’t flinch.
“Paprika’s overrated anyway,” he murmurs, sweeping it away with a practiced hand.
The radio plays softly in the background. Old jazz, something French. You hum under your breath while stirring the sauce, and Max leans back against the counter, watching you.
Not in a lustful way. Not even admiring. Something deeper. Like he’s memorizing the moment. Committing it to a part of him that doesn’t let go.
You glance over, caught by the intensity of it. “What?”
He just shakes his head. “You look peaceful.”
“I am peaceful.”
He grins. “Good. That was the point.”
***
Dinner is simple. Pasta, fresh salad, warm bread he didn’t bake but proudly heated up. You eat on the couch, curled under a blanket, with Donut curled beside your thigh and Phoebe nuzzling your ankle.
Max eats slowly. Savors things.
You, however, eat like someone who’s lived on café leftovers all week.
“Jesus,” you mutter, swallowing a bite. “This is good.”
His eyebrow lifts. “So you are impressed.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Too late. His smirk grows.
Afterwards, you both stay where you are. The room glows with soft, golden light. The windows show the harbor below, lights glittering across water like scattered coins. You tug the blanket higher, eyes growing heavy.
Max barely speaks. Just watches you fight off sleep, his hand curled around a mug of something warm, his body still like he’s afraid of ruining the quiet.
“Is it always this calm here?” You ask.
He nods. “When I want it to be.”
You yawn, half-smiling. “I like it.”
Phoebe climbs onto your lap and purrs herself into a tiny, warm puddle. Your eyes flutter.
You don’t mean to fall asleep. You just … do.
***
When you wake, the lights are lower.
The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic purring of cats.
There’s a blanket draped over you now, thicker than before. Heavy with warmth. You shift slightly and feel the unmistakable weight of Jimmy — angrily curled beside your feet. You smile.
Then you hear it.
Max. In the next room. His voice is low, sharp. Controlled — but furious.
“No. I said no.”
You blink, pushing the blanket down slightly. The door to the hallway is ajar.
“I don’t care what they think — she’s not a story. She’s none of their business. Pull it. Now.”
Pause. A longer silence. Then his voice again, colder this time.
“If I see one word printed about her, I’ll bury the piece myself. Understand?”
You sit up slowly, heart pounding. His voice is quieter now. But still hard. Still carved from something that doesn’t yield.
“I don’t give a damn if they think it’s innocent. She’s not part of this. And I won’t let her be.”
Silence.
You don’t wait for him to hang up.
You push the blanket aside and step quietly into the hallway.
He’s in the small office off the kitchen. Back half-turned, one hand braced against the desk, the other holding his phone. He doesn’t hear you at first. Not until you speak.
“Max.”
He tenses. Freezes. Then slowly turns.
His eyes are darker than usual. He looks like someone who’s just stepped out of a ring — wound tight, ready for a fight.
“You heard that,” he says flatly.
You nod. “Yeah.”
He straightens. “I didn’t mean for-”
“Were they writing about me?”
He doesn’t answer. Just sets the phone down.
“Max,” you press. “What were they saying?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
A beat. Then, quietly: “They had pictures. From the café. From the night we walked home. Nothing bad, just … invasive.”
You blink. “Why?”
He shrugs, but the motion is rigid. “Because they can. Because you’re next to me.”
You step closer. “And you called them?”
“I made a call, yeah.”
“To shut it down?”
His jaw tightens. “Yes.”
“Max.” You stop in front of him. “You can’t just-”
“Yes,” he cuts in, voice low but firm. “I can.”
There’s a pause. The air between you shifts. The house is too quiet now.
You exhale. “You don’t need to protect me from everything.”
“I know that.”
“Then why-”
“Because I want to.”
You look up at him. He’s close now. So close it almost hurts.
“I’ll never let them touch you,” he says quietly. “Not while I’m breathing.”
You don’t answer right away. Can’t.
He watches you carefully. “If that’s too much-”
“No.” You shake your head. “It’s not too much.”
A silence falls between you. Not awkward. Not unsure. Just … full.
Finally, you say, “You care about me.”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
“And you’re not going to say it.”
“I just did,” he says softly. “In the only way I know how.”
You don’t know what to say to that.
So you step forward, press your forehead to his chest, and let the warmth of him settle around you.
His arms come up, slow, careful — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like he’s not quite sure you’re real.
But you don’t vanish.
You stay right there. Wrapped in his arms, the soft thrum of his heart in your ear, with the cats still curled on the couch and the rest of the world held outside.
***
It happens the next morning.
You're still warm with the echo of his arms when you sneak out the back entrance of Max’s building, hoodie pulled tight, hair tucked under a beanie. You think you’ve done everything right — quiet footsteps, sunglasses, even that cautious glance around the alley before you step into the light.
But it’s not enough.
The flash comes out of nowhere.
One. Two. Three rapid shots. Then a voice — male, giddy, breathless.
“Miss, are you seeing Max Verstappen? Were you with him last night?”
You don’t answer. Just duck your head and walk faster, ignoring the burn in your throat, the sudden thud of your pulse. You don’t run — you know better — but your steps go tight, clipped. A door slams shut behind you, a car engine revs.
By the time you reach the music academy, your hands are shaking.
You don’t tell anyone. Not at first.
But the whispers start by lunch.
You catch your name in a student’s hushed voice. You hear Max’s in another. Then the article hits — small but vicious, your blurry figure circled in red, a headline that wants blood.
Verstappen’s New Flame? Mystery Girl Leaves Monaco Apartment at Dawn.
By evening, it’s everywhere.
***
Max calls. You don’t answer.
He texts: I’m handling it.
You stare at the message for a long time. Then turn your phone off and leave it on the counter like it’s something that might burn you.
By the next day, the article disappears.
Completely. As if it never existed.
A notice appears in its place.
Retracted at source.
Later, you overhear a barista talking about it with wide eyes. “Apparently his lawyers sent something like — what’s the word? A cease and desist? Except angrier. Like, terrifyingly angry.”
Someone else adds, “I heard he called someone at the top. Shut it down like that.” She snaps her fingers. “No wonder they’re scared of him.”
You press your hands into the counter, steadying yourself. Your phone pings when you step into the storeroom.
A screenshot.
An anonymous deposit confirmation. Six months of your rent. Paid in full.
Another message: Let me do this. Please.
You stare at it for a long time. Then close your eyes, lean your head against the cold concrete wall, and try not to cry.
***
The panic hits later.
Not all at once. Not in an obvious way. It comes quietly, like a tide. Like a soft pull at your ankles before it drags you under.
The guilt first — sharp and sour.
He’s spending his influence, his money, his power — to protect you.
You. A girl who plays piano in a dusty practice room and works shifts to afford cheap ramen. You never asked for this.
And the fear — oh, the fear — of what it means. Of what he might want. Of what you might want back.
So you do the only thing that feels safe.
You pull away.
***
You stop replying.
Not rudely. Just slowly.
A message takes a day to respond. Then two. Then none.
You say no to his quiet invitations — coffee, a walk, just ten minutes — offering gentle excuses that grow thinner by the day.
Your shifts at the café get longer. Your time at the piano stretches until your hands ache. You avoid the harbor. Avoid the old streets he likes.
Avoid everything that makes your heart hurt.
***
He doesn’t chase.
He doesn’t knock on your door. Doesn’t text again and again or show up late at night demanding answers.
Instead, he sends you a care package when you get sick.
It shows up at the café on a Wednesday — delivered by someone who doesn’t ask for a signature. Inside is some lemon tea, cough syrup, throat lozenges, two cans of the soup you once said reminded you of home, and a small stuffed cat.
A note, tucked between the teabags.
I’ll wait.
Nothing else.
Not even his name.
***
You cry in the break room. Not a lot. Just enough to taste salt when you breathe.
You feel stupid.
Then you feel worse — for thinking you were stupid.
You hug the stuffed cat against your chest and whisper, “I’m sorry,” even though he can’t hear you.
***
Three days pass.
Then four.
By the fifth, you can’t breathe when you walk past his street.
On the sixth, you stand outside his apartment building for fifteen minutes and never press the buzzer.
On the seventh, it rains.
Hard. Monaco rain. Thunder at the edges. Wind that flattens your jacket to your spine and makes your cheeks sting.
You don’t bring an umbrella.
You don’t bring excuses either.
You just walk, quiet, soaked to the bone, and let the elevator carry you to the only door that’s ever made you feel like you’re not pretending.
You knock once.
It opens almost instantly.
He doesn’t look surprised.
Just steps back and lets you in, eyes sweeping over you like he’s checking for bruises.
“Hi,” you whisper, wet and breathless.
He says nothing. Doesn’t ask where you’ve been. Doesn’t demand explanations or apologies or promises you’re not ready to give.
He just opens his arms.
And you fall into them like you never left.
His hoodie smells like him. Warm and clean and steady. You press your face into it and wrap your arms around his waist, trying not to shake.
He closes the door behind you with one hand, the other already sliding up your back.
You don’t speak. Don’t have to.
His chin rests on your hair.
You whisper, “I didn’t know how to-”
“I know,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to explain.”
Your breath hitches.
“I just didn’t want to mess it up,” you admit. “It’s so big. What you did. What you do. And I’m-”
“You,” he says gently. “You’re you. That’s enough.”
Your eyes sting again. You bury your face deeper into his chest.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His voice is low. Kind. “You don’t have to be strong around me.”
You pull back, just a little.
Look up at him.
His eyes are impossibly gentle. No walls. No edge. Just patience. Just Max.
“I’m scared,” you say quietly.
He nods. “So am I.”
You laugh — just a breath, wet with tears. “Yeah?”
“I don’t usually let people in,” he admits. “I didn’t expect you.”
You blink. “Then why …”
His fingers brush your cheek, slow and reverent. “Because I’d regret losing you more than I fear what happens next.”
You stare at him. At his mouth. At the way he’s looking at you — like he’s memorizing this moment, too.
You lean in.
So does he.
The kiss is soft.
No urgency. No heat. Just warmth. Just yes.
His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. Yours curls into his hoodie, anchoring you.
When you finally pull back, you’re both smiling.
You exhale. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He rests his forehead against yours.
“I’m here,” he murmurs.
You close your eyes. “So am I.”
Outside, the rain keeps falling.
Inside, everything finally feels quiet again.
***
Max doesn’t say “I love you.”
Not with words.
He says it when he hands you a mug of tea without asking how you take it. He says it when he walks on the side of the pavement closest to the street. When he drapes a blanket over your knees during a movie, and casually shields your face from a photographer’s lens with the curve of his body.
He says it like that. Constant. Quiet. Absolute.
But tonight, he speaks more than usual.
It starts after dinner, while you sit curled against the arm of his couch, legs tucked under you, his hoodie hanging loose off your frame like it belongs there.
He’s staring into the middle distance, a glass of something amber untouched in his hand.
“I used to think loneliness was normal,” he says, voice low, like he’s not sure if he means to say it out loud. “Like it just … came with the job. The way you get used to jet lag or waking up in hotel rooms not remembering what country you’re in.”
You glance over, but don’t interrupt. You’ve learned with Max — he only opens the door a crack at a time. If you’re too eager, it closes.
He takes a breath, gaze still unfocused.
“There’s so much noise around me. All the time. Team, press, fans, cameras.” He finally looks at you. “And it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. But it’s like … you have to wear this mask so long you forget it’s not your real face.”
You reach out without thinking, fingers resting over his wrist. His skin is warm. Solid.
He watches your hand for a moment, then flips his wrist so his palm is up, letting your fingers slot into his.
“I’m not used to people wanting me without the mask,” he says, quieter now.
Your heart tightens.
“I don’t want the mask,” you whisper.
His eyes meet yours, sharp and grateful.
“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why you scare me.”
You laugh, soft. “I scare you?”
Max nods, serious. “You don’t treat me like I’m something untouchable. You just … look at me.”
You squeeze his hand. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For someone to see me.”
That breaks something open in him. You feel it. The shift. The way his shoulders soften, eyes grow tender.
“Tell me,” he says.
So you do.
You tell him about the nights you spent alone in the conservatory practice rooms, pretending the piano was a friend, not a thing you owed perfection to. You tell him about how scared you are to want something for yourself. How it feels to be surrounded by people chasing dreams so loudly you sometimes forget how to hear your own.
He listens like he has nowhere else to be.
Not just hearing — holding.
Your words. Your silence. Your fear. All of it.
When you finish, he doesn’t speak right away. Just leans forward, brushing his lips to your temple.
“You’re not invisible here,” he whispers. “Not with me.”
***
The next few weeks are full of small shifts.
Your toothbrush finds a place in his bathroom. His hoodie disappears from his closet and ends up on your body more than his.
His cats take turns sleeping on you like you’re furniture now. Even Sassy.
Max kisses you in the kitchen. In the car. Once, under a streetlamp with rain brushing your cheeks, his hand cupped gently around your jaw like you’re something rare.
He doesn't let the world touch you. Not even once.
He’s fiercely protective — but not in a loud way. In the way he speaks to hotel staff when you travel with him for a race, making sure you’re not put near the media floor. In the way his hand never leaves your lower back when cameras are near, like he’s placing a shield between you and the noise.
You try not to need it.
You try not to expect it.
But when it’s him, it’s hard not to let yourself be protected. Just a little. Just this once. Just again.
***
The comment comes three races into summer.
You’re not even in the paddock — just sitting at a corner table in a nearby coffee shop, flipping through sheet music and sipping a drink Max had delivered for you before he left for press.
You look up when the door opens.
It's another driver — one of the younger ones. Cocky. Loud. The kind of guy who courts cameras like he was born for them.
He stops at your table, smirking. “Didn’t think Verstappen would go for your type.”
You blink. “Sorry?”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just saying. He usually dates models. You’re … different.”
Your stomach twists, cold and ugly.
You don’t reply.
He doesn’t give you time to.
“Anyway,” he adds, eyes trailing a little too slowly down your body, “guess even the best get bored of the same thing. Nice upgrade, though.”
The chair screeches back before you realize you’re standing.
But Max is already there.
You don’t know how he found out. You don’t even see him enter.
But one second, it’s just you and the smirking boy — and the next, Max is between you, not touching, not yelling.
Just present.
Heavy.
Silent.
The other driver’s smirk falters. “Hey, I was just-”
Max tilts his head. “Say it again.”
“What?”
“That line. Say it to her face. Slowly this time.”
Silence.
Max’s voice stays calm, almost soft. “You want to flirt, do it with someone who hasn’t told you no with their body language. You want to insult her, you say it so I know exactly what I’m responding to.”
The boy opens his mouth.
Max raises a single brow. “Try me.”
The tension shifts. Not loud. Not violent.
But dangerous.
The kind of promise you don’t test.
Max leans in, just a breath. “Next time you speak her name, it better be with respect. Or not at all.”
Then he turns, takes your hand, and leads you out like nothing happened.
Your heart doesn’t slow until you're back at his place, leaning against the door while he kicks off his shoes, jaw still tight.
“Max-”
He holds up a hand. “I know. I shouldn’t have. I know.”
You shake your head. “No. That’s not-”
He exhales, sharp. “I just saw red.”
“I know,” you say again, quieter now.
“I didn’t want you to hear it. I didn’t want you to feel that way. Like you're less.”
You step into him. “I didn’t.”
His hand curls around your waist. “But you could’ve. And I’d never forgive myself.”
Your fingers trace the edge of his jaw. “You stood up for me.”
He lifts his eyes to yours. “I will always stand up for you.”
The kiss is slower this time.
No heat. No anger.
Just need.
Just want.
***
It happens later — after dinner, after soft conversation, after you laugh so hard at a video he shows you that your ribs ache and your makeup smudges from tears.
You’re standing in his bedroom doorway, shirt too big, your hands gentle on the back of his neck, and you say, simply:
“I want you.”
His eyes search yours. Careful. Serious.
“Are you sure?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
He takes a breath, slow. Measured. Then presses his forehead to yours.
“Then I’m going to take my time.”
And he does.
***
It’s not rushed.
Not some fevered tangle of limbs or gasping urgency.
It’s reverent.
It’s slow hands under fabric, Max murmuring praises against your skin like scripture.
“So perfect,” he whispers. “Look at you.”
He never stops looking.
Not once.
He undresses you like he’s being given a gift. Touches you like you’re something he’s memorizing for a time when the world is dark.
You tremble beneath his hands, and he notices.
“Breathe for me,” he whispers, mouth trailing down your neck. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
And you are.
You feel it in the way he checks in with every touch. The way he waits for you to nod before he moves. The way he groans when you whisper his name like it’s a secret meant only for him.
He’s everywhere. Hands, lips, voice.
Guiding. Worshipping.
“Let go for me,” he says against your ear, tone wrecked. “I’ll catch you.”
And when you do, it’s not with noise — but with surrender.
The kind that only comes when trust is absolute.
***
Later, you lie tangled together in the sheets, his chest to your back, hand resting over your heart.
You don’t speak.
You don’t have to.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, and you close your eyes.
The mask is gone now.
For both of you.
***
The letter comes on a Tuesday.
You almost miss it — tucked between a utility bill and a flyer for a French tutoring service you don’t need. The envelope is heavy, your name written in raised black letters, the seal pressed with something official.
You open it with the caution of someone who’s learned that good things don’t always come without cost.
Max is in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring coffee like it’s just another quiet morning. One of his hoodies drowns your frame. Phoebe is perched on the windowsill, blinking slowly at the rising sun.
And then you’re holding the future in your hand.
“Max?” Your voice wavers.
He glances over. “Yeah?”
You hold the letter up.
He stills. Puts the coffee pot down.
You don’t have to say anything. He knows.
The logo at the top says everything: New York Philharmonic.
You stare at the words like they might vanish.
They don’t.
You’ve been offered a position. A permanent one. Full-time, first-chair piano. They want you.
“You okay?” He asks gently, crossing the space between you.
“I-” You look up at him. “This is everything I wanted.”
He nods. “Yeah. I know.”
Before.
Before him.
Before Monaco and rainstorms and kittens and coffee shops and a Dutchman who looks at you like you’re made of sunlight.
You sink onto the couch. Max sits beside you, silent, waiting.
“It’s New York,” you say finally, like that’s the problem and the answer all in one.
“I’ve heard of it,” he murmurs, trying to make you smile.
You almost do. But your eyes blur a little.
“I don’t know what to do.”
He exhales slowly. “You don’t have to know yet.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” you say. “But I don’t want to regret staying.”
Max nods again. No flinch. No disappointment in his eyes.
Only patience.
Only love.
“I’ll never ask you to stay,” he says softly. “Not if it means giving up something you’ve dreamed of your whole life.”
You swallow. “But you’re everything I never dreamed of. And now I don’t know how to want both.”
He takes your hand in his.
“If you go,” he says, voice steady, “I’ll come to you every free weekend. I’ll fly out after every race, I’ll sit in the first row of whatever concert hall they put you in. I’ll drink burnt American coffee and learn the subway system and wait outside rehearsal with a sandwich if that’s what it takes.”
You laugh, eyes damp.
He keeps going.
“If you stay,” he murmurs, “I’ll make Monaco feel like home. I’ll move us closer to the sea, or the mountains, or wherever you sleep best. I’ll build you a studio. I’ll buy you ten pianos and soundproof walls and whatever else you need to play until your fingers are sore.”
Your throat tightens.
“I don’t care where you go,” he finishes. “I care that I go with you. So just … say the word.”
Silence stretches between you. Not tense. Just full. Full of every version of your future playing out behind your ribs.
Then you press the letter flat on the coffee table.
And you say, softly, “I want to stay.”
Max doesn’t speak.
He just pulls you into his arms like he knew all along.
***
You don’t waitress anymore.
One day you show up to work, and the manager meets you at the door with wide eyes and a folded note.
You open it slowly.
It’s Max’s handwriting.
Come home. You don’t need this job anymore. Your job is playing. And writing. And being exactly who you are when no one’s making demands on you. I bought the place. They can keep running it — unless you want it. Then it’s yours.
PS: The espresso machine’s still broken. Tell them I said to fix it.
You stare at the letter for a long time before smiling so hard it hurts.
And you do go home.
But not before waving goodbye to the café that’s now owned by a Dutchman with sharp eyes and a soft smile who only has eyes for you.
***
At night, the café changes.
The lights dim. The chairs shift. A piano appears at the front like it’s always belonged there.
Your concerts start quiet — friends, regulars, a few curious neighbors.
But word spreads.
You begin to compose your own pieces. Sometimes inspired by rain. Sometimes silence. Sometimes Max’s laugh or the way he breathes your name when he’s half-asleep.
He listens to every note like it’s a secret meant for him.
“You should record these,” he says one night, lying on the rug with Phoebe curled under his arm and Sassy on your shoulder.
You snort. “Right. Because everyone’s dying for a six-minute ballad about emotional intimacy and unresolved childhood grief.”
Max smiles, slow and sure.
“I am.”
You meet his eyes.
He means it.
***
You play at the café again that Friday.
The room’s fuller than usual. A couple journalists. A few photographers. Max sits in the back, quiet but unmistakable. Always watching.
You wear black tonight — simple, elegant. Your fingers skim the keys like they’ve always known where to go.
Before your last piece, you clear your throat.
“This one’s new,” you say, voice low. “I wrote it about someone who makes everything feel … easier. Even when it’s not.”
You glance at Max.
His eyes don’t leave yours.
The first chord is soft. Then swelling. A little sad. A lot hopeful.
When the final note fades, the room doesn’t move.
Then, applause.
But you only hear the sound of Max’s hands, steady and certain.
Afterward, he meets you at the edge of the stage.
You smile. “Was it too dramatic?”
He leans in, kisses your temple.
“I like dramatic.”
You tilt your head. “Yeah?”
His mouth brushes your ear. “I’m in love with dramatic.”
***
You find the recording equipment a week later.
Just … waiting.
Set up in the spare room. Wires. Mics. A soundboard you can’t name.
There’s a post-it on the chair.
In case you change your mind.
You roll your eyes. Laugh to yourself.
And start writing again.
***
You don’t take the job in New York.
You don’t regret it.
Not because it wouldn’t have been beautiful. Not because it wasn’t a dream.
But because some dreams change shape when you see what’s possible.
What’s real.
Like playing under golden café lights while Max sits in the shadows, looking at you like music was invented just so he could hear you play.
Like your name written in his handwriting on folded notes left by the stove.
Like Sunday mornings wrapped in each other’s arms, no performances, no cameras, just skin and breath and warmth.
And maybe someday you’ll tour. Maybe someday you’ll go to New York — not to live, but to play. To be heard.
But for now?
For now, you stay.
Because love like this?
You don’t walk away from it.
Not when he’s willing to give you the world.
And not when the life you never knew to dream about turns out to be everything you ever wanted.
Your relationship with your teammate is non-existent at best. Since you've joined Red Bull, a second driver thrown in last second, Max has kept a wide berth. He's more interested in himself... well, until he spots your ex-boyfriend getting a bit too rough with your tipsy self at a bar in Monaco.
max verstappen x racer!fem!reader (can be viewed romantic or platonic)
warnings/notes: drunkenness, physical violence, implied attempted assault, implied drink spiking, sort of 'dark' fiction, hurt/comfort (guys i can write angst but we need happy endings ok?), reader's looks are not described/image used in the header is not to describe the reader, the only descriptor are heels, dress, and she/her pronouns used for the reader,
series link (coming soon!)
--
Max typically steered clear of you. Which was fine, you were a rookie driver, his second, only on Red Bull because an injury that took Checo out for the season and bumped you up from a reserve driver. You mostly stuck by yourself, doing your training alone, racing alone, eating alone... and such. The only time you and Max really spoke was during press, you didn't mind, but it was kinda clear to everyone that Max Verstappen did not like you. For whatever reason.
You assumed it was because he felt partly responsible for Checo's injury, due to also being involved with the accident. So he kept a wide berth because you reminded him of that mistake.
What you didn't know was he ignored you because he liked you way too much, and couldn't risk hurting both of your careers for something as trivial as his feelings. So, he kept his distance, watched from afar and kept tabs on you. Almost like a stalker, Charles had joked to him.
He didn't mind being considered a stalker if it meant keeping you safe.
There was one thing you had told Max, or more so he had been involved in the conversation when you had told Christian. The one deeper thing he knew about you was your ex boyfriend was nothing but a waste of fucking time. He had just been manipulative, urged you into doing a lot of things, and you had been telling Christian about it because someone had seen him at the paddocks. Max had cataloged his name--Isaiah Martelack, and then when he got home that night curiosity killed the cat.
Ten articles and a beer bottle later he told himself, and whatever ghosts might be floating around his apartment, that he'd kill the man. Standing outside this club now, months and months later, with Charles lazily waving goodbye to someone Max didn't recognize... Max realizes he might just have the opportunity.
You'd been very drunk, but promised Max you were going to go home with Daniel. Which was fine, because Daniel was a fucking saint and Max trusted even the absolutely sloshed group that was Lando, Oscar, Logan and Daniel with you. However, Daniel was rubbing a sick Logan's back and yelling for Lando to stop trying to tackle Oscar, who was trying to call their rideshare, and you were not there. Not with the group you had been with only three or so minutes prior.
"Where's hotshot?" Max turns to Charles, the nickname they'd come up with you for in public spaces flowing out without second thought. Charles perks up, turns in a full circle and then shrugs.
"Ask Danny?" Charles peeks around the building, seeing nothing down the front side of the building or in the front parking lot. But that was all he scanned.
"Danny's hands are full enough with the McLaren drivers at the moment." Max laughs under his breath, looking over his shoulder, down the sort of shadier side of the building. It was dark around that side, Charles telling everyone to try and steer clear of it because they might get mugged if they go in that side lot. Max hadn't thought much about it after that, but something in the back of his head was nagging him to look a bit further.
He's happy he remembered you'd worn those little black heels with the silver bow on the front, because he sees one laying there just inside the shadows of the buildings alley. The ankle clasp snapped off and laying nearby, like there had been some sort of struggle. He pauses, holding up a hand as Charles calls for Danny's attention. Charles keeps shouting as Max steps into the shadows to peek, and as his eyes adjust he feels ice in his veins as his arms thrumn with energy. Your ex--stupid fucking Isaiah, has you pinned against the back wall. Max knows you'd be able to fight back in any usual circumstances, but something in the way your eyes flutter open and closed and you try to weakly cry out for help against the mans large hand covering most of your face tells Max there's more wrong than just what he can see.
"Hey!" Is all he can think to shout. Isaiah turns, Max running up, before just clocking the fucking guy in the jaw as hard as he can. Charles shouts behind him, someone else screaming his name as he falls with Isaiah to the ground. He doesn't really count how many times he pummels the guys face into the concrete until it takes Charles, Daniel, Logan, and Lando to pull him back to his feet. Both of Charles' hands pressing Max's chest until Max seems to come back to his sanity after that blip out of his consciousness. The first thing he feels is intense pain in his knuckles, but the first thing he does is look for you.
Oscar's kneeling with you against the wall, a hand under your bloodied jaw as you try and explain, but even the most sober person in the room fails to understand you.
"What the fuck, man!" Isaiah shouts, stumbling back to his feet and wiping at his bloody and broken face. It was almost sort of... therapeutic to see it.
"You ever fucking touch her again and I'll take your hands clean off your body." Max steps forward, jabbing a finger right in Isaiah's chest, making both Charles and Daniel move to push him back.
"Max, Max." Charles pushes Max back against the wall, not like he was trying to be aggressive but more so that he was trying to diffuse the situation.
"Who the hell are you?" Isaiah wipes at his nose and Max takes a second to look around. About an arms length away, a clearly heavily intoxicated Isaiah sways, Lando and Daniel hovering near him, Logan hangs off to the side by the front of the building--waving someone over. Oscar is to Max's right, whispering softly and kneeling with you as he tries to calm you down. Charles holds Max by one hand to his chest, looking over the group.
Max takes a slow breath, shakes out his hands, wipes his own bleeding nose and then turns to where you're curled on the ground. He walks over, Oscar looking up and standing as Max approaches.
"She's... really out of it." Oscar hums, not expecting you to do much of anything, but you stand on shaking legs and lean into Max's arm that flies up to catch you. Oscar brings a hand up to your other arm, watching as you lift a shaking hand to wipe some blood off Max's face.
"You.." your voice is small, weak, and swaying, and Max adjusts so he can hold you against him to keep you upright.
"Relax, okay?" Max shuffles in your hold, before tossing his jacket over your shoulders, trying to hide the red marks he can see forming on your arms and neck, "Take this and... just stay by my side."
"Hey, cars are here to go back to the hotel." Logan calls, sporting a water bottle and four or five phones in his hand, "y'all ready to go, or?"
"What about this fucker?" Lando asks, eyeing Isaiah. Daniel's arms cross firm over his chest and he nods his head over to Max with a small smile.
"I think Mad Max there did enough damage for this guy to understand he should keep away."
"Oh, and--" Charles turns, leaning down to pick up your heel and handing it to Oscar, who helps you try and put it on while Max keeps your stable.
"He should know better than to mess with the friends of the... what do they call me? Prince of Monaco or whatever?" Theres a sly grin that ripples across Charles face and a look of horror dons Isaiah's as he realizes just who he'd been fucking with. When he goes to run, Lando chases him out with a loud drunk cackle as you're escorted to a waiting car.
You know, loosely, that you've ended up in the back of some car, situated between Max and Charles who speak in hushed tones. Your head is swimming, a headache thrumming under the swirling world and sick feeling in your body. The jacket someone had laid over your shoulders providing both heat to your trembling body but also, coverage and protection. The night was pieced together, a mess of shots, dancing, and laughter that had blurred together the longer you had been in that stuffy Monaco club.
That one shot had been the downfall, you'd known it had tasted off but assumed the best. And then Isaiah had shown up, and you should've known from that moment everything was over. You should've told Max to wait with you, instead of waiting for Daniel to get Logan out of the club. Oscar was way too preoccupied trying to keep Lando from being an idiot to notice you get grabbed, of no fault of his own, and Lando was too drunk to know what was happening in general.
And the next thing you can remember seeing, as you recount the nights events to try and keep yourself from losing your stomach in the back of this very nice car, is Max. The way he'd thrown Isaiah down and followed him, each collision of his fist to Isaiah's face, and the way the man beneath him struggled to fight back. The things he had said, the way he looked was nothing like the Max you had grown accustomed to. He wasn't cold and reserved, silent, just a phantom you had grown used to having behind you. No, Max was fiery, loud and violent. No longer was he a passive nod, he was a fist being jammed into teeth with intent to break something, intent to maim the man who'd even just tried to hurt you.
"You alright?" Max asks, and you realize you've been staring. Swallowing, you look down at your lap, holding your shattered phone and broken purse in your hands as you try to think of what to say.
"Y'didn't hav'ta do that." Your words come out more sloshed together than you had hoped, and Max sighs, his own nose scabbed over a while back, you can tell from the darkness of the blood around it.
"No one gets to treat you like that, yeah?" Max says, leaning down to pull the jacket further over you to make sure you're kept safe within it, "No one."
"Christian's g'nna be mad at'ya." You lean into his chest as he sits back, and though he's still for long enough for you to almost pull back, his arms wrapping around you a second later makes you stay.
"He can be mad all he wants, I don't regret pummeling that guys face in." Max shrugs and you hear Charles laugh softly, the car pulling to a stop. The world spins as Max and Charles get you out of the car, into the hotel, and then it's Max who brings you into his room. Charles goes off to get some rest, just leaving you and Max alone. Max says it's because your room is right next to his, so he can just take you next door when you get sleepy. So, you end up on the couch in Max's room with his duvet wrapped around you like a burrito while scouring the room service menu with a water bottle in hand.
"See anything good?" Max asks, emerging from the bathroom in an arguably comfier outfit, you hum setting it down and drinking about half the bottle in one go. The water was helping, or it was placebo as the actual things in your system were finishing up their course. But even though a simple thing of chicken tenders and fries sounds great, you still feel sick enough, you can't imagine stomaching anything.
So you complain, "They have boring food."
"It's a hotel. I wasn't expecting caviar or something." He sits next to you, taking the menu off the coffee table and reading over it, "we can just get junk. I think Christian will understand."
You're quiet for a few seconds, before you poke Max's leg with your foot, "You didn't have to do that, Max. The whole thing with Isaiah."
"If I didn't do that, how far would he have gone?" Max's response is blunt and there's no answer you want to tell him. His hands tighten around the menu before he tosses it down, his hands almost fidgety.
You need to fill the silence, so you say, "You could've just shouted."
"And let him keep his hands on you? God, forget it. Y/n, you should've told me about him, I would've kept a closer eye on you while we were leaving."
"Why would I have told you," You immediately counter, brushing some hair out of your face as you turn to Max and almost curl into the blankets for safety, "it's not like we even talk outside of press."
"I know but..." Max struggles to find the words, you can see it in the way his mouth opens, closes, and then finally he sighs and adjusts the way he's sitting, "you're still my teammate, and... I know you might not really believe me but I'm gonna be here for you. Whenever you're ready to rely on me, I'll be there."
You don't really know what to say, just watching him for a moment before you whisper, "what if I want to rely on you now?"
"Then, let me say this," Max leans forward, brushing a few hairs off your face and adjusting the blanket as he speaks in such a soft tone you're surprised it comes from him, "No one's gonna hurt you as long as I'm here. I promise you that."
There's almost a sort of... pain that fills you. The genuine feeling of his tone, and you shimmy out of the blankets partly as you murmur in your still tipsy haze, "Can I have a hug?"
"Oh, sweetheart... come here," his arms extend and in moments you feel him cradle you to his chest as you hide there, still sickly, still exhausted, still shaking. You close your eyes against his shirt and sigh heavily. Neither of you speak for a while, after Max orders a bunch of random items and two teas from the room service. You know you're crying, even as you try and hold yourself together. Even if you hadn't been in your right mind when everything had happened, it still shook you to your core. Without having to be told, Max rubs along your shoulders, eyes closed as he lets you bury your head against his chest and sob. He doesn't move until you calm down enough for him to feel comfortable gently setting you aside to get the room service left in the hall. When he comes back, he plops next to you on the couch and hands you a plate of shitty hotel food. And as Max plays some videos on his phone for the both of you to watch, you feel the drinks slowly wean off as you sip on the tea, head buried against Max's shoulder as you blink at whatever stupid tik tok has him making a weird face at his screen.
You're not sure when you fall asleep, but you wake up laying on Max's couch, head in his lap as two voices speak above you.
"She's alright, though?" Christian's voice speaks and you feel someones hand running through your hair by its roots, coming back to rest warmly against the back of your neck.
"A bit shaken, but it's y/n, she'll be fine." Max's voice is soft. Christian sighs and shakes his head with a soft chuckle, the sound of a cup being set down as someone gets up off the other side of the couch. Max, who you've been laying upon for a while now, shifting and chuckling softly.
"You've been wrapped tight around her finger, huh?" Christian's voice chimes a bit farther away now.
"Yeah. Just a bit." Max's hand moves, tucking hair behind your ear as he plays with the ends of each strand in a small little pattern, "She's not a bad one to get caught by though."
summary: max knows his feelings for you are wrong, you have a boyfriend. but all bets are off when that boyfriend gets aggressive with you
notes: this one’s angsty guys, also we’re gonna pretend that japan was later in the season just for timing purposes
warnings: physical fight, blood, a toxic relationship
He knew he shouldn’t be staring at you from across the paddock. He knew it was wrong on so many levels. You were a part of the Red Bull team, one of his coworkers. You were also dating someone from the McLaren team. Max had never wanted to hit Lando over the head as much as he did when the young Brit introduced you to your current boyfriend. But he couldn’t stop himself from searching for you in any room he went into, or at any media events or any meetings.
Max Verstappen could confidently say he was without a doubt in love with you.
He had grown attached to you quickly, being one of the only people he worked with that didn’t fawn over him just because he was good at his job. You treated him like a real person. When he was with you there was no Max Verstappen, there was only Max. You were a breath of fresh air, the calm in the storm that was his chaotic life. You were his quiet, safe space he could escape to when things became too much. He wanted nothing more than to wrap you in his arms and shield you away from all that was wrong in the world, but he’d settle for calling you his friend, his best friend.
Max liked to think of himself as a good person, the type of person that just wanted to see you happy, even if it meant seeing you with someone else. He promised himself he wouldn’t act upon his feelings, at least not while you were dating anyone. He wouldn’t dare destroy your happiness just because of his heart.
Max could also admit he was petty, so childishly petty. He didn’t like seeing you hanging around the McLaren garage during race weekends, weekends where you would usually be by his side, making sure he was ready to drive. Instead he had to watch your navy blue stand out against the bright orange at McLaren. It didn’t suit you, being surrounded by papaya, Max thought.
He knew he could complain about it to Christian. He could use his power to make you come back to him, but in doing that he may end up hurting you or your job. So he sat quietly and let his annoyance fester inside him.
He could tell when things started to shift with your boyfriend. When your long hugs and visits to the McLaren garage turned into brushing shoulders and arguments in an empty walkway outside.
Max tries to ask about, tries to help make you feel better, but you shrug him off, telling him that you’ll work it out, it’s nothing but a rough patch.
He asks if you’re okay, if there’s anything he can do to help. You give him a sad smile and shrug your shoulders.
“There’s nothing you can do Max.”
He’s never felt so helpless in his life. He hates that he has to see your face with tear stains over it, that your smile has dimmed in the garage. That you no longer search him out for comfort.
Part of him thinks he should have a conversation with your boyfriend. He thinks he should give him a talking to about how he’s ruining someone so special. But he knows he’d probably end up throwing punches if your boyfriend ticked him off anymore than he already has.
You don’t seem to get any better as the season comes closer to an end. Max tries to help you open up to him again, asking if you have any plans over the winter break. He even invites you to join him on his trip back home to the Netherlands. He tells you that his mother and sister would love to have you with them during the holidays.
You frown, telling him that you planned on staying near Milton Keynes to do some work at the factory.
He scoffs and shakes his head. “It’s winter break, I’m sure they can spare you for a little while.”
“I can’t take time off work just to hang out with you Max.” The words are much harsher than you mean for them to be, you can tell by the way Max takes a defensive step back.
He nods. “Right. Sorry.” Then he leaves you standing there to go to his driver’s room, or somewhere that just doesn’t have you.
Everything becomes clearer to Max at a party near the end of the season. It’s just after the Japan race, and Lando had insisted on celebrating the McLaren 2-3 as well as another tally to Max’s list of wins this season. The nightclub is filled with drivers as well as team members from each team hoping to let off some steam before the next race weekend.
Max doesn’t want to be there. He wants to go back to his hotel and sleep before he has to fly back home just to fly to Qatar a week later. But Lando and Charles keep putting new drinks in his hand, which promptly end up being left on random tables, and dragging him around to converse with everyone else that’s there.
He keeps an eye on you the whole time, watching as you wrap your arms around yourself, staring into the crowd on the dance floor. He can tell you aren’t really looking at them though, that you’re staring off into space. Your boyfriend comes up to sit on the stool next to you. He says something in your ear, to which you shake your head and leave, walking outside.
Max quickly pushes his latest drink into Charles’ hands and follows you outside.
You lean against the wall, attempting to get some fresh air after feeling a bit too claustrophobic in the club, but the heat doesn’t help as much as you hoped. You see Max as he steps outside and quickly walks to you.
“What’s wrong? And don’t say nothing, because I know you, I know when you’re upset and you can’t hide it from me. Is it me? Have I done something wrong?” He asks, his words spilling out quickly.
“Max, it’s not you, it’s just-”
“Y/n! Come on, we can talk this through!” Your words are cut off by your boyfriend who looks around for you, the smile falling off his face when he spots Max standing next to you. “Are you fucking serious Y/n?” He storms over to you, and grabs your forearm, yanking you away from Max. “Always running back to Max, huh?”
You yelp when he roughly pulls you to him.
Max is quick to put himself between the two of you, pushing your boyfriend with just enough force to make him let go of you.
“Don’t touch her.” He snarls.
You already know how this is going to end. Max stares at your boyfriend with fire in his eyes. While Max isn’t quite as tall as him, he makes up for the height difference in his strength. He’s got enough muscle to knock him to the ground in seconds if he wanted to.
Anyone with half a brain would know they’re in dangerous territory, being on the receiving end of Max’s intense stare, but your boyfriend refuses to back down.
“She’s mine Verstappen. I can do whatever the fuck I want.” He says quietly, taunting Max.
That’s all it takes for the first swing to fly. You think it’s Max, but your boyfriend is quick to throw up his own fists in defense.
It’s a mess of navy blue and orange as the two end up rolling on the ground, throwing punch after punch. Max ends up on top, straddling your boyfriend, lifting his fist to swing. You grab his arm and pull him off and away from the fight. You catch a glimpse of your boyfriend, well now ex-boyfriend’s bloody nose and black eye.
Max huffs, pulling his arm away from you and stalks towards his car. You follow him, practically jogging to keep up. You stop when you’re standing between him and the driver door. The lamplight illuminates his face. He’s got a bruise on his cheekbone, a split lip, his hair is a disheveled mess, and his fist is coated in blood, whose you aren’t sure. He’s avoiding eye contact with you, instead looking up at the sky.
“Max, why-”
“I’m fine.” He says when he finally looks at you. “Let me drive you back to the hotel.”
The drive back is quiet. You can’t help but keep looking over at Max, the streetlights passing by spread light over his face. He pulls a plain hoodie from the back of his car, pulling the hood up over his head. He keeps his down as he walks inside, attempting to avoid any interactions with fans that have decided to hang around the hotel.
He walks you to your door, then turns to leave, stopping only when he feels your fingers thread themselves through his. You gently pull him inside your room.
“Bathroom.” You tell him, steering him towards the small bathroom.
He sighs, knowing that there’s no use in trying to argue with you. He tugs the hoodie off and tosses it on your bed. He lifts himself up to sit on the counter of the bathroom, just next to the sink. There’s barely any room between where his legs hang off the counter and the wall opposite the sink, but you manage to squeeze between them with a small towel in your hand.
You run the towel under warm water, then bring it to his face, softly dabbing at his lip. He flinches slightly, pulling away. You apologize softly, then continue to wipe the blood from his lip.
You do the same with his hand, gently holding it in your hand and wiping away the red. It turns out to be mostly blood from your ex boyfriend, his skin only slightly bruised from the impact.
“You shouldn’t have hit him. You could’ve broken your hand. You wouldn’t have been able to drive.” You scold him quietly.
He gives you an incredulous look. “I should’ve done a lot more than hit him.”
You don’t answer, continuing to absentmindedly wipe at his hand. The blood is long gone, but he can tell you’re too lost in thought to notice.
He lifts your head up to look at him with his other hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks.
You shake your head. “You heard him. Always running back to you?”
“I like it when you come to me.” He shifts slightly. “I mean, I like feeling like you can come to me for, well for anything really. You should’ve felt like you could’ve talked to me.” He drops his head down now.
You can tell he’s starting to close in on himself, that he feels somehow at fault for this. It’s your turn to lift his head up this time. His eyes are welled up with unshed tears. He tries to blink his tears away putting on a brave face for you.
You gently swipe your thumb under his eyes, then hold his cheeks in your hands.
“This is not your fault Max. It’s my fault. I let it get bad, I should’ve ended it a long time ago. I just have a talent for being self destructive I guess.” You let out an unconvincing laugh.
He leans into your touch, letting his eyes flutter closed.
After a few minutes you begrudgingly pull your hands away from Max. He immediately misses the warmth on his face.
“You should put some ice over your bruise.” You tell him.
You step back, giving him space to hop down from the counter. He stands over you, but his height is anything but daunting. He looks down at his now clean but bruised knuckles then back up at you.
“Thank you.”
“I should be the one thanking you.” You tell him.
He clears his throat then shuffles around you, back into the main part of your room. “I should probably go.”
You follow him, itching to give him a reason to stay.
He grabs his hoodie from your bed and walks back to your door. He opens it, ready to step through when you call his name. He turns back to see you standing near the door as well, shifting your weight on your feet.
You take a deep breath then throw caution to the wind. You take a quick two steps to him and press your lips to his cheek.
Max freezes, only regaining a semblance of composure when you pull away from him.
“Thank you Max. Really.” You smile.
He gives you a sheepish smile and a nod, his cheeks colored with a light pink blush.
The baby is finally asleep in the bassinet beside your bed, tiny chest rising and falling in uneven little rhythms that still make you check every few minutes just to be sure. Your body feels unfamiliar, heavy in ways that have nothing to do with pregnancy now and everything to do with what it took to bring your child into the world.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed when Carlos kneels in front of you.
“Okay,” he says gently, like he’s approaching something fragile. “We’re going to do this properly.”
“Do what?” You ask, exhaustion full in your voice.
“Shower. The first one that actually feels like a shower.”
He helps you stand carefully, one arm steady around your waist, the other hovering near your back as if you might break. You move slowly toward the bathroom, every step a reminder that your body did something monumental and is still trying to recover from it.
The steam builds quickly once he turns the water on, he checked the temperature with his hand three times making sure it was warm and gentle.
He helps you out of your clothes with quiet patience, and absolutely no rush. His touch is different now, like he’s aware of every bruise, every tender place. When you finally step under the water, you exhale in a way that feels like it’s been waiting days to leave your body.
Carlos steps in behind you without hesitation. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
The water runs down your shoulders, over your collarbones, down your stomach, emptier but no less sacred. You feel his hands at your hips, steadying you as you lean slightly into him.
His fingers reach for the shampoo, pouring a small amount into his palm before gently working it into your hair. His movements are slow, careful, massaging your scalp like he’s afraid to press too hard.
“Too much?” he asks.
“No,” you whisper. “It feels nice.”
The word nice feels inadequate, but you’re too tired to find a better one. The warm water, his hands, the quiet — it feels like being taken care of in a way you didn’t realize you needed.
He rinses your hair patiently, shielding your face from the spray with his hand. Then comes the conditioner, his fingers combing through tangles gently, starting at the ends the way you once taught him.
“I remember,” he says when he catches you watching him.
He reaches for the body wash next, lathering it between his hands before sliding them slowly over your shoulders, your arms. There’s no tension in his touch, no urgency, just love and care. When he moves lower, he hesitates briefly, eyes flicking to yours for permission and you nod. His hands are even gentler there, respectful of soreness, of stitches, of the invisible trauma your body is still processing.
You lean back against him slightly, letting the water rinse everything away — the hospital smell, the dried sweat, the exhaustion clinging to your skin. He stays close the entire time, one hand always anchored somewhere on you.
When he turns the water off, the bathroom feels cooler instantly. He wraps a large towel around you before you even step out, patting your skin dry instead of rubbing.
“Sit,” he says gently, guiding you to the closed toilet lid while he grabs another towel for your hair.
You watch him move around the bathroom, comfortable and focused, and something in your chest swells. This man who stands in front of cameras and race cars and flashing lights is now carefully applying lotion to your arms like it’s the most important job he’s ever had.
“Cold?” he asks when he notices you shiver slightly.
“A little.”
He kneels again, rubbing warmth back into your legs with slow, firm strokes. “Better?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want the loose pajamas or the button-down?” he asks.
“Button-down. It’s easier.”
He nods, helping you into them carefully, buttoning each one with patient fingers. When he’s done, he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Mama’s first everything shower complete.”
You look up at him, eyes glassy with exhaustion and something deeper.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
He brushes his thumb gently under your eye where a tear has escaped. “You don’t thank me for this.”
No, really, he was going to throw up. He could feel the bile rising in his throat as his panicked breaths came out faster and faster.
He had just left the meeting with coach Theriault, Marcel, and Greg Vance, in which he was basically told that he shouldn’t bother coming back to finish the season, and that he should get his things and go.
It wasn’t like Shane thought they’d renew his contract next year, but not letting him finish the season? That was a new low.
A voice in his head, one that sounded suspiciously like Ilya, wanted to smile and wish Theriault good luck winning this year without him. But Shane simply swallowed his tears and left the office without saying anything.
Fuck, he needed to get his shit together. He was still the team captain, no matter what Theriault and Vance said, and he needed to talk to the team. Explain, let them know what’s going on.
Fuck, they’re going to hate him.
All he wanted at the moment was to curl into a ball against Ilya back home, block everything and everyone else. He wanted his fucking fiancé, wanted to hold his hand and rest his head against his chest, wanted the feeling of safety that came from being near Ilya.
Jesus, he wanted Ilya so bad right now.
His fiancé had offered to accompany him, but Shane declined, knowing that having Ilya there would only make things worse with his team. Hayden had tried to make it sound better than it probably was,but Shane knew they were furious with him.
Fuck.
He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t breathing right, his head was pounding almost as hard as his heart, and his limbs felt like they were stuck in cement.
He was going to die right here. What a shame to die so young. Shane had always taken care of his body, careful not to eat or drink anything that would harm it, and yet he was going to die at 28 years old right here in the hallway.
Shane hadn’t noticed that he had sunk to the floor, back pressed against the wall, until he felt two arms shaking him lightly.
“Shane?” Hayden’s worried voice reached his ears. “Shane, can you hear me?”
Shane managed to nod lightly, his head tucked between his knees.
“Ok. You- You are having a panic attack.”
No shit.
“Do you want me to call-”
Shane shook his head. As much as he wanted Ilya to be here right now- and god, he wanted that so bad, he didn’t want to worry the other man more than he already had. Besides, he can handle this. He will handle this, the moment he stops breathing like a cat with asthma.
“Ok, did the-” Shane could hear the hesitation in Hayden’s voice. “Did the meeting not go well?”
Shane struggled to hold in a choked sob. When had he started crying? He needed to get his shit together.
“I am done here,” He managed to say through panicd breathes.
“Don’t be ridiculous, they won’t-”
“They told me not to come back,” Shane let his anger fuel him, managing to lift his head from between his knees to look at his best friend, who was kneeling beside him. “I can’t even finish the fucking season.”
Hayden stared at him as if Shane had grown a second head. “No way, that’s- that’s insane-”
“Apparently, they really don’t want to have a fag on the team,” Shane let his head drop back against the wall. “Fuck, I- Hayden, I don’t know what to fucking do.”
“Hey,” Hayden grabbed his arm. “No. That’s- They are just being stupid right now, ok? They’ll- they’ll realize that they made a mistake in no time. You are the best player this team has ever seen. They will not let you go so easily. Vance is a dick, but there is no way he is that stupid.”
Shane knew that Hayden was wrong. Vance was that stupid. He would rather let Shane go and cost the team this season than allow him to play after what he had learned.
Nevertheless, having Hayden there, talking to him and grabbing his arm, helped Shane calm down a bit and ground himself.
“Vance would rather kill himself than have a fag play on his team.” Shane’s voice was a bit steadier now. “But that’s- that’s ok. I mean, not ok ok, but, I- we thought it might happen. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t say that,” Hayden said instinctively. He looked torn between anger, guilt, and sadness. The three emotions battled for their place across his face before he shook his head, as if trying to throw them away. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll probably go play for Ottawa,” Shane confessed. “Andlauer had already reached out to me earlier this year. They are three players short of their cap, and they can definitely afford me. It’ll be... It’ll be nice, playing with Ilya. Together.”
Despite the shity situation, Shane felt a ghost of a smile tug on his lips at the thought of playing with Ilya, of waking up next to him every single day.
As if he could read his mind, Hayden smiled at him. “Shit, man, I’m happy for you. I mean- this is a shit situation, and this whole thing is fucked, but you and Rozanov on the same line?” He shook his head. “Maybe Ottawa will finally win for the first time in forever.”
He smiled when his joke dragged a laugh out of his best friend. “So, how do you want to do this? Do you want me to talk to the guys, or-”
“No,” Shane took a deep breath and lifted his head to meet Hayden’s eyes. “I’ll do it. Still the captain for now, right?”
“Damm straight,” Hayden agreed. “Or, I mean, not straight, but you know-”
“Hayden.”
“What?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“On it!” Hayden stood and offered Shane his arm to pull him up. “Hey, you know that I’ll always be here for you, right, man? Like, even if you’ll play for Ottawa or fucking Boston, you’ll always be my best friend.”
Shane blinked away his tears before giving Hayden a small grin. “You’re just afraid of losing your best babysitter.”
“That too,” He smiled at him as they started walking to the locker room. “So, how do you want to do this?”
That was a great question. The truthful answer was that Shane absolutely did not want to do this and would have preferred very much to just go home to his fiancé. However, he couldn’t run away from this. His team deserved an explanation.
“I’ll be honest with them. There really is nothing else to do, I mean, at the very least I can explain myself to them.”
Hayden frowned. “You don’t have to explain shit to them.”
Shane sighed and shook his head. “Feels like I do.”
They walked together silently until they reached the locker room. Shane drew a big breath.
In. Out. In. Out.
“Wish me luck,” He attempted to copy one of Ilya’s signature smirks, but the expression on Hayden’s face told him that it probably looked more like a grimace.
He opened the door.
The room was silent.
Wow. Great. Wonderful start that 100% helped ease his anxiety regarding this situation. Fuck his life.
Shane cleared his throat as if to draw everyone's attention, but there was no need for that. All eyes in the room were already on him.
Hayden slipped quietly behind him and took a seat near his locker, looking at Shane with an expression that was probably meant to be reassuring, but at the moment made Shane feel like a prisoner on death row awaiting execution.
“I, uh,”
Great start.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out this way,” He started. “I wanted to talk to you before, but...”
“Sure you did,” Andropov snorted.
Shane Elected to ignore that.
“I didn’t want you to find something else through the news, so,” Shane fidgeted with his hands behind his back, staring at the wall above Wilson. “I will not be finishing the season here.”
The room was still silent.
“I want you guys to know that it was not my decision. I have been... It was an honour, playing for this club, playing with you. This decision was made for me, and I truly wish you guys the best of luck.”
Olsson mumbled something.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
“I said, Finally, some good decisions from Vance.” Olsson stared at him with hatred Shane had never seen on his teammate’s face before.
“Olsson, shut the fuck up,” Hayden interjected.
“Of course, you stand up to the fag. Probably bends over for you, too, huh?”
“That’s out of line,” Shane interfered before Hayden started throwing punches. “You are allowed to be upset, but-”
“Upset?!?!” Comeau stood up. “You have been throwing away games for your little boyfriend just so he could fuck you in the ass, and you talk about being upset?”
Wow. Fuck no.
“I have never thrown a single fucking game,” Shane began to feel angry. “I never have, and I never will. Just because Ilya and I are together does not mean we go easy on each other on the ice, and you of all people should know that, Comeau. Or did you conviniently forgot that your girlfriend’s brother is Cale Wagner?”
“That’s different, and you know it. I don’t suck her brother’s dick.”
Maybe you should, you might inherit some of his talent through his dick, that will be helpfull you talentless motherfucker. The voice in his head, Ilya’s voice, said.
Shane ignored it. “I don’t see why it is. I have played against Ilya countless times, just like you played against Cale. No one has ever accused you of letting him win, so what’s the difference here?”
“Oh come on, do you think we’re stupid?” Drapeau threw his arms in the air. “We have eyes, Captain. You want us to believe that, what, you suddenly don’t know how to skate when he’s around?”
“Excuse me?” Shane blinked, becoming furious. “I still have the highest scoring rating and puck possessions than all of you. I have more assists this year than in any year before at this time, and I have scored multiple times against Ottawa, while Rozanov was playing.”
“And yet we don’t win against him,” Drapeau rolled his eyes. “You think we are stupid? You get dicked down at the beginning of the season, and suddenly you can’t play against Rozanov?”
Shane was getting tired of this bullshit.
“I play against Rozanov the same way I always have. He is one of the best players this league has ever seen, and yes, when you play against someone that good, sometimes you lose. Saying he needs me to throw away a game for him to win is not only ridiculous but downright stupid.”
“Oh, please, we all saw the difference.”
Shane was so done. He did not care anymore, not about this team, not about those people, not about what they thought about him.
“Saw what exactly? Because I have been ‘dicked down’ by Rozanov since before our rookie season, you dense, idiotic asshole.”
You could hear a pin drop.
“Rookie season?” Laine asked. “But that’s-”
“Almost ten years, yeah. So, if you want to accuse me of misconduct, that means the three cups I won for this team are invalid. Because it has always been him. It was never anybody else, and I still managed to drag this team to the top.”
Shane looked around the room at the people he had called his friends not very long ago, and felt nothing. No sadness, no shame, just... Empty.
“There isn’t a single person here who knows a version of me that isn’t in love with Ilya Rozanov. I have loved him since before I joined this team, and I’ll love him much longer after I leave it. So you can be upset, you can call me a fag and decide that everything I have given for this team means nothing, but deep down, you all know that I never lost on purpose. Deep down, you know I love this team. You know I chose to stay here instead of moving to Boston, even though they offered me a whole lot more money. You know I stayed here instead of living with the love of my life. You know I have sweated and bled for this team, so don’t pretend like you don’t know me, because I am the same person I have always been.”
“I just don’t understand why you had to go and fuck Rozanov of all people,” Berkes shrugged. “Like, there were no good men here?”
“Berkes, you are married to a woman from London. You are literally moving there at the end of the season to be with her. You of all people should know that you don’t get to choose who you fall in love with. It just... Happens. And for me, it was Ilya.”
“I just-”
“No, I’m not done talking,” Shane cut him off. He no longer felt shame or embarrassment, but instead, a red-hot fury coursed through his veins.
“Every single one of you is able to go home to your wives and girlfriends. You have a safe space, a person who knows you better than you know yourselves. And if you don’t have one yet, then you have the freedom to go out there and find them. You get to have a life outside of hockey. You get to be happy and fall in love and live. Why the fuck shouldn’t I? I have given everything for this team, and you want to tell me that... what? I should live the rest of my life lonely because that would make you more comfortable? Fuck no.”
“You could have told us-”
“Wilson, you don’t know shit about what I could or couldn’t do,” Shane cut off the defence player. “Even if I wanted to- and I didn’t, because I was afraid you would react the same fucking way you are reacting now- did any of you think for a single moment about the fact that Ilya is from fucking Russia?”
The room was silent.
“Huh? No? That’s weird. What, Wilson, you are telling me you wouldn’t share a secret that would endanger Roby’s life? How weird.”
Shane looked around the room, staring each and every player in the eye. He was done being afraid; he was done being ashamed. They should be the ones cowering their gaze, not him.
“Come on, Stedlund, you wouldn’t tell us you are dating Thalia if it meant she could never go home again without the threat of dying? That’s not friendship.” He shook his head in mock offence. “What about you, Berkes? Would you share your secret with us, even if it meant Shila would never be able to visit her mother's grave again? And you, Comeau,” Shane paused to make sure the goalie was looking at him. “You would feel safe sharing a secret that could very well mean Katie would be kidnapped and killed? Because I sure as shit hope you wouldn’t.”
“none of those things would have-”
“No? Abdulmezhidov Adam Isaevich. Abdulkerimov Side Ramzan Ramzanovich. Alimhanov Islam Aliev. Tsikmaev Sultanovich Ayoub. Yusupov Shamhan Shayhovich.”
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Olsson asked.
“Those are five people who were kidnapped, tortured, and killed for being gay in Russia. Five out of hundreds, and those are just the ones that were reported. You want to tell me again how I’m overreacting? Because I would like to believe that none of you would risk having your wives and girlfriends endangered like that.”
Shane was breathing hard, and for once in his life, he didn’t hold back.
“The love of my life could be taken from me at any moment. Russia can revoke his right to be here, kidnap him, take him away from me and everyone who loves him- and I wouldn’t know. They could charge him for being gay, take him to prison where-” Shane felt the tears in his eyes, and let them flow. They have already seen him raw and broken. What’s the harm in letting them see him cry? They couldn’t possibly hate him any more than they do now. “Where people don’t fucking come back.”
Shane stared at the stunned faces around him, at the men who never saw him so emotional and real in their 9 years of playing together, and started laughing. He could see Hayden eyeing him in concern, but he couldn’t possibly stop, now that his laughter was mixed with sobs.
“What the fuck am I doing?” He said between fits of laughter. “Why the fuck am I even explaining myself to you? I don’t owe you shit!”
While he dubbled over laughing, Shane absently wondered if he had finally lost his mind.
“Ilya, the love of my fucking life, could be taken from me at any moment. I left him at home, knowing he is not safe, to come talk to you guys. Why the fuck did I do that?” Shane wiped away his tears, unsure if they were tears of laughter or sorrow. “I spent years on this team. I met every single one of your girlfriends and wives. I babysat your kids. I have sweated and bled for this team- hell, I won us three fucking cups. Why am I talking to you like I owe you something? This team owes me everything they have!”
And the thing was, that they did. That the Voyageurs were nothing before Shane, and would be nothing when he leaves. Why should he fight for a spot on this team? They should fight for him. They should be the ones feeling scared and embarrassed. They should be the ones begging him to stay after what he had just been through, not the other way around.
If they want to ruin it for themselves, who was he to interfere? Let them dig their own graves; he will spend next year making sure they’ll never leave it.
Shane turned to leave the room, but turned around and looked at the rookies who were sitting there in shocked silence. “I’m sorry you were drafted here. I know you had big expectations, dreams about winning the cup and making friends. I am really sorry that this is what you get instead.” He looked around the room one last time, allowing a bitter smile to curl on his lips. “Good luck next season, huh?”
And with that, Shane Hollander left the Montreal Voyageurs’ dressing room for the last time.
Shane broke down before he reached his car.
Usually, he found statistics comforting, reassuring. But knowing those statistics about Russia, about what very well may happen to Ilya if he ever goes back there? Shane sometimes wished he could forget them, just to be able to sleep through the night.
He managed to drag himself inside before collapsing against the steering wheel and crying uncontrollably.
Despite everything he tried to tell himself, he did care. It did hurt. Those people were supposed to be his family, and...
His shoulders shook with the force of his sobs.
“Shane,” A familier russian voice spoke softly.
What was he doing here?
“What are you doing here?” Shane managed to choke out.
“Apparently, Pike is not completely useless. He text me that things don’t go so well.” Ilya said in a soft voice, lifting his hand to caress Shane’s cheek.
Shane leaned into the touch. “They told me I can’t finish the season.”
“What?!?” Ilya exclaimed, looking furious. “Which debil told you that? I kill them.”
This managed to get Shane to smile. “You can’t kill people, Ilya.”
“Yes I can. Am scary Russian. Very easy.”
Shane chuckled.
“It was management. I was basically fired.”
Looking at his fiance’, Shane could see the internal war in him. On one hand, Ilya was enraged, and probably did want to march straight into the training center and deck Vance in the face. On the other hand, Shane was still shaking, and he knew Ilya wouldn’t leave him like this.
Shane was correct, of course. Ilya shook his head and kissed Shane, giving him a little smile. “Very good that Metros are stupid.”
“Why?”
“Because now I get you with me. Now you don’t need to think about where you want to play next season. Metros are stupid so I get to have you.”
Shane gave him a small smile. “Well, I still have options. I was thinking about the Admirals-”
“Not funny.”
“A little funny.”
“Zero funny. Very boring joke. Because I know even if you don’t like being second best, you will still will come play in Ottawa.”
“Second best?” Shane raised his eyebrow.
“Da. Will be difficult, going from being the best by far in team to second best, but you’ll be ok. We will get cups so you feel happy.”
“Oh, yeah? How many cups are we gonna get?”
“All of them,” Ilya said confidently, wiping Shane’s face clean with his sleeve. “You and me? We will win everything.”
“Sounds good.” Shane smiled. “Come on, let’s go home.”
“You sure you don’t want me to kill them? Will be very fast.”
“Ilya.”
“I can also just scare them. Say I have big russian friends coming to say hello.”
“Ilya.”
“Ok, ok, sweetheart. Let’s go home.”
Edit: The names Shane says here are real names of some of the victims of the 'anti gay purge' in chichinya. May their memory be revolutionary.
Also I don't have that much reception here so it takes me awhile to replay to comments- I want you all to know that I see them and they are so sweet. Love you guys!
what shane means: i can never love a woman in any way resembling the way i love you and when i tried she called my shit IMMEDIATELY so what im trying to say is i can't sidestep whatever we are the way you can, i will never ever love anyone but u
what ilya hears: somewhere along the line of our multi-year situationship that began with me immediately sucking ur dick, i have determined that i like men.
Shane Hollander really is the guy of all time. he's gay. he's autistic. he's wasian. he's the best hockey player in the world. he married his 8 year situationship. he's a millionaire but only because his mom said so. he has beautiful freckles. he had sex with a man for 8 years but the possibility that he might be gay only crossed his mind when he called him by his first name for the first time. to convince himself he was straight he started dating a movie star. he came out as a bottom. he does yoga. his situationship offhandedly suggested getting married for citizenship and he immediately stayed up until 4 am scheming so that wouldn't happen. he's an olympic medalist. he has a dog. his wedding song was diamonds by rihanna. he likes ginger ale.
