I think...this is the end of my F1 and NHL fanfic writing.
I've tried a couple times to get back into it and the motivation and inspiration is like the well finally ran dry. Which fucking sucks for the record and I hate that I can't even force myself to finish the draft ideas I have.
So I think I'm...logging out and leaving uglyduckingofthe2000s to rest. I'll still be actively discussing F1 and NHL on my side account @duckys-extra and Ik last year I took a break and came back a couple months later, but tbh that was bc I had a summer fling who then completely devastated me at the end of summer and I dove back into writing as a failsafe. This time is slightly different, there's no man in my bed fucking with my head and somehow that is even more frustrating.
Now I will admit...I haven't completely stopped writing fics. I'm actually over on AO3 now but it's not F1 or NHL and it's VERY (I really want to stress so completely different) stuff that I'm writing on there to what I've ever written on here.
I'll never delete anything from this blog (though Tumblr has been known to delete my posts w/o warning) and I hope it continues to bring people some entertainment when they possibly stumble across it or Ik a lot of you have reread fics I've written and go back to them. So nothing is going to disappear, I have backed up as many fics as I could on @duckysbackup though it's not as organised so if you go looking for a fic it might take a while to find but it should be there.
Similar to last year, if I do suddenly refind the inspiration then I absolutely will be back (mainly to finish those damn drafts) but I think I'm just moving into a different point of my life and while I'll never lose interest in either sports, writing fics about the athletes is no longer something that keeps my interest.
I love every single person who has liked, reposted, commented or followed me over the past 3 years. The type of support I've received is irreplaceable for me and I can't thank people enough for it. I'm still always up for a chat on my second account, inbox is always open over there.
If on the off chance you're nosy (bc I am) and you want to see what I'm writing on AO3 then click here and have a cheeky look. Though I do need to emphasise again, it's really nothing like what I've written on this blog...but we love some variety right?
Anyway sending love and wish the best to everyone.
The 2025 F1 season? You mean the season that Max Verstappen won more races than the two drivers in the most dominant car of the year, made up a 104 point deficit and achieved a podium after starting from the pitlane, Nico Hulkenberg got his first podium after 239 race starts, Carlos Sainz got two podiums in a Williams and his replacement, Sir Lewis Hamilton, at Ferrari got zero, Isack Hadjar got his maiden podium and Kimi Antonelli got three podiums in his rookie season? Oh no, nothing else happened. Weird they didn't do a WDC this year though.
β β max verstappen x fem!personal assistent!reader
β β summary: You only took this internship as his personal assistent, because in order to be considered for promotions into the communications department, you needed some paddock experience. But you weren't prepared for the rather charming driver, who seemingly has never had a good personal assistent before.
β β word count: +15.2k
β β warnings: fluff, slow burn, use of [Y/N][Y/LN]
masterlist
Thursday β Media Day
The early Budapest morning drapes the hotel driveway in a warm golden haze, softening edges but catching just enough light to make everything sparkle in a way only the 8 AM summer sun can. You lean against the sleek navy Honda Red Bull rented for the weekend to get their driver from the hotel to the paddock and back. The quiet hum of the waking city is surrounding you while you wait for him, wide-leg pinstripe trousers grazing your hips with effortless precision, black high-neck top hugging your frame in all the right places. Your dark brown leather tote hangs heavy at your side, stuffed with the dayβs arsenal of necessities: folders with important notes, chargers, snacks, deodorant, basically a lifeline in this chaotic new world. From the hotel entrance, a tall figure steps into view. Max Verstappen. His gaze sweeps the driveway laying out in front of his feet, expecting the usualβdriver, assistant, perhaps a nervous internβbut then it lands on you. His breath catches, a flicker of surpriseβor maybe pleasureβpassing through his eyes. You donβt flinch. Confidence is your armor. You step forward, voice calm and professional, but threaded with a hint of unapologetic ease. βGood morning, Mr. Verstappen. Iβm [Y/N][Y/LN]. Your new assistant, as you should probably know.β You extend your hand. He takes it like a pro, not someone thrown off by the latest addition to his team. βMax, please. Itβs my pleasure.β A slight smile touches his lipsβbrief, measured, kind in his own way. You pull the car keys from your purse and reach out to hand them over. βI figured youβd want to drive us to the paddock.β Max blinks, just enough to lose the perfect moment for grabbing them unfazed but not enough to lose control. His fingers brush yours for a heartbeatβelectric, casualβbefore he walks around the car, scanning your face, noting the way you stand: poised but relaxed, the kind of presence that says you know exactly what youβre doing. You slide into the passenger seat without hesitation, the click of the door sealing the start of something quietly charged. Outside, Budapest hums to life, the race weekend just beginning, and already the air between you feels like a fast, unforgettable lap. The city blurs past as you head onto the highway to get to the track βornate buildings, shuttered balconies, the slow churn of a tram. The Honda hums steadily, Maxβs left hand loose on the wheel, the right shifting with practiced ease. He hasnβt said much since leaving the hotel, just a polite, βDid you put on the seatbelt?β and a nod when you adjusted the AC. So you open the black folder resting on your lap ever since you pulled it out right after getting in. βThe PR team expects the media to lead with the incident at Silverstone. Obviously.β You flick through the notes, schedule already annotated in your head. βThereβs the press conference around noon, then a one-on-one with The Race. Dutch media in the afternoon. Iβd suggest drawing a lineβearly.β Maxβs jaw tightens slightly; you catch it in your periphery. βI donβt want to talk about the fucking crash,β he says, voice cutting through the calm like gravel on asphalt. βItβs stupid. We all have to move on from that. Thereβs a race ahead, and I canβt live in last Sunday. I can only change the outcome of the next one.β
You look at him, not startledβjust thoughtful. Thereβs no apology in his tone, but thereβs something in it. Something tired, maybe. Grounded in a way, that is beyond his age. βI fully agree with you on that. Learning from mistakes is crucial, and so is applying that at the next opportunity.β A small pause, not for effect, just to let the words land. βHonestly Iβd advise you to be as real with the media as you were with me just now.β Max glances overβnot a long look, just a flickβbut enough to register something: that youβre not here to smooth his edges or rewrite his tone. That maybe β just maybe β you get it. The car rolls to a stoplight. A cyclist pedals past. A man with a coffee waits at the corner, the last branches of the city buzzing around him. βYou said βadvise,ββ he mutters, quiet, almost to himself. You catch the curve of amusement at the corner of his mouth and raise a brow, teasing. βToo formal for your taste?β βNo,β Max says, shifting into gear. βJust not used to assistants who talk like comms directors.β You smile. βWell, maybe you just never had any good assistants so far.β The Honda hums on. The circuit is still a few kilometers of road awayβbut something has already started to click into place between the two of you already.
The sun hits the tarmac of the Hungaroring sharp and clean, warming the outdated, gravelly paddock paths as the Honda glides to a stop in the parking lot. Max steps out first, cap flattening his hair, lanyard already taken out of his navy backpack and clipped around his neck, his pace effortless β years of race weekend routine distilled into instinct. You follow two steps behind, phone in hand, thumb gliding over the lockscreen. Slack notifications, one calendar shift, two journalists pinging for βa quick five minutesβ of Maxβ time. βMedia briefing first at the motorhome,β you say before he can ask for the schedule again. βThen the official FIA press conference. Lunch after. The Race with Jon Noble. You finish with an interview for some junior reporter from Autosport NL.β He glances back, the visor of his cap shadowing his eyes, but not the amused puff of breath that escapes him. βYou read minds too?β βNo, just emails,β you answer, not looking up from the screen. The paddock hums around youβmechanics in fireproofs and team polos, camera crews wheeling gear, heat rising in soft waves from the concrete. Conversations pause mid-sentence, heads tilting subtly at you and Max. Youβre not in team kit. No logos, no navy polo like he is wearing. Just your black high-neck top and pinstripe trousers, effortless and precise, the kind of outfit that says you belong everywhere but nowhere in particular. A Sky cameraman does a double take. A Red Bull junior ducks his head, confused. You donβt flinch. Max doesnβt slow eitherβbut now heβs walking beside you instead of ahead. By the time you reach the motorhome steps, heβs firmly at your side. You slip your phone back into your tote, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. βIβll have coffee brought up,β you say as the door opens. βI donβt like coffee,β he adds automatically. You blink, unbothered. βNoted. Anything else you want then?β He shakes his head. βTheyβve got Red Bull up there, so Iβm good, thanks.β He steps inside first, and for a heartbeat, the paddockβs gaze lingers on you, just long enough to make you aware of the quiet gravity you carry, effortless and precise.
You quickly learn Max, besides coffee, also doesnβt like having to wait β not in line, not for journalists, definitely not for answers. So you donβt make him. By noon, the two of you have already slipped into some sort of an unspoken rhythm. You move beside him through every hallway, just out of frame in every camera shot, handing him a water bottle when he needs it, making it vanish again when he doesnβt. When his hair starts to rebel before the next interview, your fingers fix it with a light touch, and an even lighter comment: βYou look like someone who slept on a plane in some ungodly uncomfortable position. Let me fix that real quick.β He grins and doesnβt protest. No one else notices, but Max does. The calm. The smoothness. No scrambling, no last-minute panic, no forgotten details. You answer his questions about details from the PR briefing he forgot with quiet efficiency, deflect unreasonable requests of journalists with charm, always one step ahead. Youβre good at thisβtoo good for someone who hasnβt done this before. It throws him off his game just slightly, and heβs not used to it. After the press conference, youβre already waiting when he descends the steps, loosening the collar of his race kit. In your hands: a simple boxed lunch, iced Red Bull, protein bar tucked neatly between napkins. βMedia team said youβve got a free hour,β you offer. βI found a calm spot near the hospitality exit if you want to eat there. But if not, Iβll eat with the comms girls.β He blinks, caught a little off guard. Then: βNoβstay.β You raise a brow, amused. βI should know who my PA is, right?β he adds, lips twitching. βYou could be an axe murderer for all I know right now.β You laugh, soft and slightly surprised. βYou sure about that? Maybe Iβm more of a poison kind of killer. Could have spiked that lunch.β βI donβt know, but you gotta take risks in life, you know,β he mutters, already following you toward the quiet corner you scoped out.
Tucked behind a row of motorhome trailers, shaded and hidden from the worst of the heat and attention. You both settle on the low edge of a service crateβmakeshift, but comfortable. βSo,β he says, unwrapping his sandwich, βassume you studied this somewhere by how good youβre at this. Whereβd you go to uni?β βSt. Andrews,β you reply, sipping your drink. βDid my bachelors in communications and marketing.β βIsnβt thatβ¦ like an elite school?β He nods, mock approval in the gesture. βSo youβre what β a posh little English girl?β βIt wasnβt as glamorous as it sounds. Half my time I spent finishing group projects alone. Itβs remarkable how little effort some people put into a degree theyβre basically paying 200 grand for.β βThat is glamorous. In an F1 sort of way.β He smirks. βFavorite school subject?β he presses next, interrogating you. βHistory,β you answer automatically. βThough Iβm guessing yours was anything but math?β βI actually liked math,β he shoots back, almost offended. βAnd physics. Didnβt hate them as much as everything else. But I wasnβt doing homework between kart races either way, no matter the subject.β He leans back on the crate, posture relaxed, gaze flicking toward you as he pretends this is casual. You cross a leg, toe tapping lightly on the gravel as you finish your lunch. βOkay,β he says, eyes bright, βbig question. Is Red Bull your favorite team?β You hum thoughtfully, pretending to consider. βI think Iβm supposed to say yes.β βIβd rather you be honest.β βThen no,β you admit. His eyes glint with mischief. βNow I wish you had lied. Am I your favorite driver at least?β You let the pause stretch, teasing. βYouβreβ¦ in my top five.β He scoffs, dramatically offended. βTop five? Thatβs it?β βIβve known you for like four hours, Verstappen,β you deadpan. βLetβs see how the weekend goes before I make any life-altering decisions and betray my family.β βOh, so you come from a family of racers?β βNo, but my dad watches the race every Sunday and he thinks thereβs no one better than Charles Leclerc in a red Ferrari car. If I disagreed, heβd probably have a heart attack,β you joke. Max throws his head back, laughingβreal, unpolished, open-throated. Lunch stretches longer than it should, neither of you mentioning it. Somewhere behind you, the paddock churns on. But here, tucked behind the trailers, itβs quiet.
By five, the sun has grown heavier on the tarmac, stretching long shadows across the media pen as the last interviews wrap up for the day. Youβre still shadowing Max, always just a step behind or beside himβoffering subtle signals, nodding at PR coordinators, guiding the rhythm of questions with clipped one-liners and quiet eye contact passed between handlers. Max breezes through it all, confident, almost careless. He has the experience of having done this a hundred times before and the silent confirmation that no matter if he would mess up an answer, there is nothing Red Bull could do. They need him too much. You donβt say a lot, but heβs attuned to the shifts in your posture: the tilt of your chin in disbelieve of the audacity when a question is about to veer too sharp, the way you linger a moment longer at his side when the cameras click off. Thereβs a quiet system. Unspoken, but understood. Back inside the motorhome, the air is cooler and you peel the sticker tag from your lanyard and pull a small protein bar from your tote. βHungry?β you offer casually, holding it out to him. Max shakes his head, but his expression softens at the gesture. βYouβre the most considerate, well-prepared PA Iβve ever had in my career.β You blink, snort a quick half-a-laugh, disbelief wrapped in amusement. βAnd itβs only my first day.β He tilts his head, a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth. βDoesnβt feel like it.β You glance at him, unsure whether to thank him or deflect, but he keeps lookingβserious now, stripped of performance. βYou donβt strike me as someone just trying to get a first impression right,β he adds quietly. The words land differently. Not flirtatious, not flattering. Justβ¦ his honest take on you, his perception of your character after mere hours. And somewhere in your chest, something clicks. Not loudly. Just a shift, a subtle change in gravity. You cap your water bottle and nod. βWell, youβre right about that. Iβm not.β
The paddock is quieting now, around 5:30 PM. The golden light of a sinking sun stretches across the grid of trailers and fences, catching on every chrome edge, every helmet visor on the shelves. A few engineers still linger near the back of the hospitality unit, voices lower and tired, going over data for tomorrow. You check your phone. βI have to go by comms,β you say, half to Max, half to yourself. βQuick debrief on tomorrowβs media timings. Iβll head back to the hotel with them.β Max nods, grabing his backpack and throwing it over his shoulders. Then, as you reach for the door handle, he says itβnot loud, almost uncertain, almost as if heβs testing the words: βBut you will ride to the paddock again with me tomorrow morning, right?β You glance back at him, trying to read his expression and make something of his question. Heβs not teasing. Just looking at you with that quietly focused attention, like heβs already thinking about the next day, the next briefing, the next circuitβbut wants to pencil you into the plan. You smile, that same soft one he caught earlier at lunch. βYeah, Max,β you nod gently. βI will.β He gives a short nod, like thatβs all he needed to know. The door swings open, warm evening light spilling in, and this time, you step out firstβnot behind him, but side by side, walking him to the exit of the paddock before heading back to the motorhome for your last meeting of the day.
Friday β FP1 and FP2
On Friday, the air smells of rocks and stones warmed by the sun and the last bit of moisture from last nightβs rain evaporating β the unmistakable scent of a European summer morning, one could say. Itβs barely eight oβclock yet, but Budapest is alive already: mopeds buzzing in the distance, hotel staff moving with quiet efficiency around the entrance to make everything perfect, and your phone vibrating twice with reminders before you even see him. Youβre early. You always are. Standing by the sleek navy Honda like yesterday, you shift your weight onto your back foot, folder tucked neatly under your arm. Today youβre in white straight-leg jeansβ trying to look polished without looking like youβre trying β paired with a Red Bull shirt tucked in. Loafers are the same as yesterday, your leather purse slung over your shoulder with that just-prepared-enough confidence. You flip through the first page of the dayβs schedule while the sun climbs steadily, golden and unobtrusive. The jingle of car keys announces Max descending the hotel stairs. You glance up, offering a lazy smile. His hair is perfectly glued in place with wax, though he pushes it to the right repeatedly, a habit youβve already noticed. He aims the key fob toward the car; the lights flash once in acknowledgment that the holder has arrived.
His gaze finds you before you can greet him properly βand lingers a beat longer than strictly necessary. βYou always this early?β he asks, his tone casual. You glance over the top of your folder. βWhen the e-mail says 8:30 sharp, Iβll be there to leave 8:30 sharp.β That earns you a grin, but before you can launch into your neatly rehearsed breakdown of his Friday media and race obligations, he softens, interrupting with something different: βDid you get back okay last night?β The question catches you slightly off guardβnot because itβs odd, but because itβs considerate. Something about the way he asks itβas if he thought about it after you leftβmakes your posture shift subtly. Though you recover quickly, arching an eyebrow, mock smugness in your expression, but you donβt feel smug at all. βThere are shuttles for team members like me, you know.β He unlocks the car again, just to be certain and opens his own door, but his gaze drifts across the roof toward you. βThen why were you riding with me yesterday?β You let the question hang just long enough before meeting his eyes again, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. βBecause,β you say, snapping your folder closed with satisfying precision, βitβs much cooler to arrive with the future world champion in a nice, fast car.β Max stares at you for a beat β doesnβt blink, doesnβt speak. And then the corners of his mouth tug upward in a slow, quietly pleased smile. Thereβs a subtle shift in his posture too, like youβve just said something heβll replay later, not necessarily the car part, maybe not even the compliment itself. Just the way you said itβeffortless, certain, like you already knew something heβs still having a hard time learning to believe. βFuture world champion, huh?β he murmurs, sliding into the driverβs seat with that easy, practiced motion. You shrug, slipping in beside him. βWell. Letβs see how free practice goes first.βΒ
The engine hums to life beneath you, a soft vibration that seems to fill the cabin without rushing it. This time, the silence doesnβt feel like space that needs to be filled. Itβs comfortable in a way, expectant. You tilt your folder toward him eventhough he wouldnβt glance at it, the paper crisp beneath your fingers. βFirst up,β you begin, βSky Sports at the garage. They want a bit before practice. Thoughts onβI donβt knowβwhat. They always want your thoughts on something. Youβd think they got everything yesterday, butβ¦β He glances sideways, a flicker of amusement over your commentary tugging at his lips. Outside, the Honda glides toward the circuit, tinted windows reflecting the rising sun to anyone catching sight of your car, the engineβs low hum steady and confident. The river flashes silver to your left, light bouncing off the water in little joyful sparks. Max drives like he always does: smooth, controlled, but with a quiet intensity that makes the car feel alive. You open another page in your folder somewhere between two traffic lights, catching a glimpse of the Parliament building in the distance as it proudly sits next to the Danube. The pages are tabbed, corners annotated in neat ink. βSo,β you continue, scanning your writing in the print, βFP1 is scheduled for 11:30, but youβre supposed to be in the garage at 10:30 for pre-session briefing with your team. Media debrief is after FP1, then another sit-down with your race engineer. Quick lunch today β no more than 30 minutes. FP2 starts at 3pm, which means you gotta be in the garage by 2:30. Strategy meeting for saturday is at 4:30 sharp.β Max snorts lightly at the seriousness in your tone and how you list all of his different schedule obligations. You donβt look up. βThen one final media round in the hospitality suite, and youβre officially released.β βReleased,β he repeats, amusement in his voice. βYou make it sound like Iβm being let out of prison.β βWell,β you reply, flipping the page, βdepends how FP2 goes, honestly. And itβs you who hates media and doesnβt make it a secret.β He throws another side glance, the smile he bites back betraying him anyway.
Traffic slows as you get closer to the paddock parking lot, engines of other cars humming and tires crunching over gravel and asphalt. Max checks the mirror, shifts gears, then β like an afterthought β asks, casual but deliberate, βYou gonna be in the garage today?β You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head in playful challenge. βI meanβ¦ if thatβs what you want.β He doesnβt answer right away, just smiles and looks at the last bit of road ahead, the circuit already in sight. Itβs not the measured, press-friendly smile. Itβs a real smile. He shifts lanes, easy, natural. βIt is,β he says eventually, voice even. βWhat if I need something last-minute before a session? Or someone has to tell me if my hairβs doing that stupid thing again like yesterday?β You roll your eyes, light and teasing. βGuess Iβll be there then.β βThanks. I wouldnβt survive it without you.β A small laugh escapes youβsoft, genuine, caught off-guard. βHow did you do it before me then?β βI donβt knowβ¦ I must have been dead before I met you,β he mutters under his breath. You both pretend not to hear it. Outside, the landscape shifts: chain-link fences, directional signage, the occasional cluster of fans pointing toward some other car, another driver inside perhaps. The paddock is just around the corner. You tuck your notes back into the folder, glance out the window to ground yourself. βAlright,β you say, voice low, steady. βReady to do this?β Max exhales slowly, like flipping a switch. Focus snaps into place, hands firm on the wheel. βYeah. Letβs go to work.β But as he eases the car into the paddock lot and slows near his assigned spot, his gaze flicks toward you one last time before he gets out. βAnd youβre staying in the garage, right?β You smile, quiet but certain. βWell, Iβm not backing out now.β
You step out into the paddock parking lot, the car door clicking shut behind you, and the roar of activity hits immediatelyβcameras snapping, radios buzzing, mechanics pushing trolleys over asphalt, fans screaming and shouting and pointing, PR handlers striding with precise purpose. You sling your purse over your shoulder, folder again tucked tight under your arm, and fall into step beside Max, matching the subtle rhythm of his pace. You can feel the glances the moment you cross into the Paddock bubble behind the security gates β curiosity flickering in sharp, almost imperceptible arcs. Today youβre in uniform, but walking with Max makes you belong here immediately, even though yesterday was the first time anyone had seen you in the paddock. He doesnβt glance back at anyone as he moves toward the motorhome, tugging absently at the hem of his polo. You follow a step or two behind, the sounds of the paddock folding around you, until the sliding doors swallow him and you. He veers left toward the drivers rooms; you go right, heading straight for the garage. The temperature shift hits you before anything else: cooler, clinical, a haven of mechanics and machinery. The air carries the scent of engines warmed and worked, a subtle metallic tang mixing with rubber and oil. Itβs alive, pulsing with purposeβthe mechanical heartbeat of the team. A junior engineer barely glances at you as he passes a headset across the narrow stretch of floor beside the monitors. βYou can stand here,β he says without introduction, voice clipped and overly confident, almost careless. βThat way you wonβt get in anyoneβs way.β You nod, sliding the headset into place, adjusting it just so that it doesnβt flatten your hair too much. Around you, the garage breathes: voices crackle over comms, tires roll into view, laptops and iPads flicker to life and screens go back to black. Youβre part of the sceneβbut only just. No one asks your name. No one tells you whatβs happening. They probably assume youβre just another intern or maybe even only a guest, another temporary shadow in their world. You let the quiet that headphones bless you with linger for a heartbeat, letting the visual rhythm of the garage settle into your bones. Then you pull out your folder again, pen poised, notes readyβbecause Max will ask, and you intend to have answers before he even thinks to voice the question.
He strides in, race suit half-zipped, fireproof undershirt clinging to his abs, chest and shoulders like it was sewn onto him. The second his body entered the garage he is papably at easeβlike his body belongs in this noise, like the garage is muscle memory, home and refuge. His eyes skim the room, catching every detail in half a second, until they catch on you. And thenβlight. A quick spark that makes the corners of his mouth twitch upward. You lift a thumb in his direction, a silent code: All good. Donβt worry about me. Go do your job. But instead of brushing past, he angles toward you, wiping a hand down the back of his neck. βYou alright?β His voice cuts through the static of comms and air guns. βWhy are you standing over there?β You gesture toward the barricade separating the observation area from the part of the garage where actual work is being done. βThatβs where they told me to go. Figured itβs better not to get in the way.β Max frowns, quick and sharp. βThatβs bullshit.β You blink. βItβsββ βNo, really,β he says, cutting you off softly, but firm, like heβs making room for you and gently tries to push you into it. βYou work for Red Bull. Youβre not in anyoneβs way. How are you supposed to help me from behind a barrier?β Before you can answer, heβs already reaching over, fingers brushing the inside of your elbow. βCβmon.β βWhat?β βJust jump over. Itβs quicker than walking around.β For a second, you hesitateβconscious of the eyes, the lines you shouldnβt overstep, the unwritten rules. Then you plant one hand on the railing, and he steadies you as you swing over. Itβs awkward, graceless, but threaded with a flicker of adrenaline. A couple of mechanics glance over, eyebrows raised. Max doesnβt blink. Doesnβt make it a scene.Β βThis is my new PA,β he says, almost casually, to the engineers at the workstation. βSheβll be around from this weekend on. Probably running circles around us.β One by one, heads turn. GP, then Tom, Brad, Leeβeach giving a nod or a brief smile. βChristianβs floating around somewhere,β Max adds. βBut I assume youβve met him already.β βHi,β you say, folder clutched against your chest. It comes out steadier than you feel. You donβt belong in this part of the garage. You know it. They know it. But Max just rewrote the scriptβand now you do. While he leans in to discuss something either highly important or impossibly silly with GP, you hover a half-step away and thumb open your phone. A sponsor rep you chased earlier needs a follow-up, so you hammer the reply out right thereβnoise pressing at your skull despite the headphones that loosely only cover on ear, smell of hot brakes thick in the air. This isnβt where that kind of work is supposed to happen. Media unit, hospitality, anywhere quieterβyes. But here? It is where Max left you, and so you stay.
Just before he slips into the car, he glances back. That unreadable, half-lidded look. Then a small nod, as if to say: good. Please stay. Somewhere behind you, the in-house Red Bull photographer lifts his lens. The wide shot catches everythingβMax, suited and smiling faintly, engineers leaning close, you standing with headset and folder, typing furiously on your phone. Later, when socials announce FP1 is underway, thatβs the picture they choose for some odd reason.
FP1 winds down in a familiar blur β tyre blankets are being tugged back on, laptops snapping shut, a few grumbles about grip in sector two. Max peels himself out of the car, helmet and gloves quickly dumped onto the shelf, race suit unzipped just enough to breathe. Heβs reaching for his watch when you appear at his side, not hovering, just there, as if youβve always been. βYouβve got fifteen until the data meeting,β you say, offering him a bottle of electrolyte water and a protein bar β the same kind you handed him yesterday, the one he demolished before even glancing at his lunch. He takes them with a short huff of relief. βYouβre a lifesaver.β βItβs just a bar,β you shrug, downplaying it. βLunch isnβt until after the briefing. Didnβt want you to crash.β Max tears the wrapper open with his teeth, laughter soft in his chest. βYouβd be surprised how many people forget how tough racing is on the body.β You glance toward the engineers, who are already shoulder-deep in data. βWell. I read somewhere, that the future world champion needs balanced blood sugar.β That earns you a look featured by a smile β amused, but steadier underneath. βYouβre gonna keep calling me that?β he asks, voice lower now, casual only on the surface. βUnless youβd rather I didnβt.β He swallows, lifts the water bottle to his lips. βNo. I like it.β Then, with the same ease he shifts gears on track, heβs already sliding toward debrief mode. βSee you after for lunch?β βBe waiting,β you reply, already walking away, folder tucked close, stride brisk, heart hammering in ways you refuse to acknowledge.
Youβre already waiting when Max finds you β plate in front of you, water half-finished. He arrives with his own tray and a can of Red Bull, sliding into the chair across the small window table. The umbrella outside throws a patchwork of shade over his face, softening him in a way the garage lighting never does. He digs in without checking the time, without twitching toward the door. It looks like he trusts you to keep the day moving. Between bites, his eyes lift β not hurried, just curious. βSo howβd you end up in motorsport, anyway? Not exactly your standard summer internship.β You swallow, sip your water. βWell like I said yesterday, my familyβs always been into it. I kind of grew up orbiting F1. When it came time for uni, I figured itβd be nice to work in this world somehow.β Max leans in a fraction, nodding. βSo youβre one of those.β βOne of what?β βThe ones who actually like this circus.β That earns him a laugh from you. You try to hide it with your hand. βYeah. F1 comms is fascinating β watching how it all gets shaped. Itβs perhaps one of the most carefully threaded public images out there. Butβ¦ I also used to steal my brotherβs kart on weekends. At six I thought Iβd be the next Susie Wolff.β You grin at the memory. βTurns out, I was not very good.β βReally?β He raises a brow, skeptical. βI crashed more than I finished,β you admit, dry as dust. βAnd I hated getting my hands dirty. Thisββyou gesture at your folder, your crisp Red Bull poloββthis is probably as close as Iβll ever get to motorsport.β Max tilts his head, assessing. βLet me be the judge of that.β You blink, lips twitching. βWhat, you gonna challenge me to a kart race? So I can humiliate myself in front of you?β He shrugs, mock-casual. βCould be fun, you know.β Your smile lingers longer than it should. His too. A beat stretches β warm, almost familiar β before Max exhales, pushing back his chair with reluctance. βShame lunch isnβt longer.β You rise as well, brushing a crumb from your shirt. βYouβll survive. Think of the protein bar after FP2.β He smirks. βAnd the world champion pep talk.β βThat too,β you say, and the two of you fall back into a stride β not you trailing behind this time, but side by side, all the way to the garage.
This time entering the garage, you walk straight through to the monitors and workbench. No sidestepping barricades this time, no pretending you donβt belong. The late sun slants soft gold across the clean white garage walls, spotlighting the shift in you as much as the space. Max is half-listening to something Christian is going on about, tugging his race suit into place. For a heartbeat, his gaze flicks over. The corners of his mouth twitch upward β not quite a smile, but something like recognition. You meet it with an amused look, and he answers with a small nod before turning back to Horner. The garage breathes like a single, restless organism. Mechanics move in tight choreography only they know, cords snaking across the floor, telemetry feeds glowing blue and red. You weave through it as though youβve been doing this for years β though your shirt still smells faintly of discount detergent and plastic packaging, and your phone keeps buzzing with calendar alerts youβre afraid to miss. You settle into the control alcove behind the engineers, headset hanging around your neck like jewelry you were gifted and are unsure to wear. Nobody stops you. One of the older engineers even nods as he passes you β distracted, but not dismissive. Progress from this morning. Meanwhile Max is being strapped in, helmet on, gloves flexing over his fingers. His visor is still lifted, and you catch the way his eyes narrow β the exact moment the switch flips to race mode. You glance at the screens, then down at the neat paper printout spread across the counter: tire compounds, wind data, run-plan notes. You donβt understand half of it, but the nearness to the heartbeat of the race is thrill enough. Definitely not what the job description had promised.
The second practice session opens with an eruption β engines roaring alive, vibration tearing straight through your chest. It should rattle you, but it doesnβt. You stay rooted, eyes locked on Maxβs data feed, mentally ticking through the boxes you prepped for. Ten minutes in, your phone buzzes. Comms. You answer with the clipped calm of someone who doesnβt have time to waste. βEighteen-oh-five is fine. Iβll make sure heβs briefedβ¦ yes, I know we already moved that. No, it wonβt run long.β You hang up, slide the phone back into your jeans pocket β only then notice the media camera across the garage aimed straight at you. Red light on. Probably collecting B-roll. Itβs too late now.Β
On track, Max is carving Sector 2 like it owes him a debt. The timing screens flash: purple, green, green. When he rolls back in for tweaks, he looks almost casual inside the noise and frenzy of the garage. His visor lifts. β[Y/N] β can you get Brad that thing you mentioned this morning in the car?β The tire guns shriek around you, but you donβt even blink. βAlready sent it.β A grin cracks under the sweat-damp hair clinging across his forehead β a knowing look, like this is what it feels like to share a wavelength. The rest blurs: tire changes, telemetry lines chasing each other across glowing screens, Max sending lap after lap into rhythm. You forget the clock in the way only people who love what they do can. Him in the car. You by the wall. Head nods lining up like youβve done this for years. By the time he climbs out of the car again β flushed, smiling β the online feed is already humming. Someoneβs clipped the shot of you behind the monitors, lip caught between your teeth as you study a screen. The comments are multiplying, fast.
username1 i don't think i have seen this girl in the rb garage before
username2 Thatβs not his usual PR rep, is it?
username3 why does she kinda look like sheβs running the place?
You donβt see the comments. You donβt see anything but Max cutting through the knot of engineers, gloves half-peeled, words already forming. βGood session, donβt you think?β You glance at the screens on the wall. βP3 overall, long run looked sharp. I heard GP mention something about the rear, though. Donβt know what thatβs all about.β His eyes flicker, quick and impressed. βYeah. Iβll talk to him and Tom. We need to fix it or the weekendβs screwed.β Itβs nothing. Just debrief chatter. Just another line in the noise of the garage. And yetβ the way he looks at you, like youβve always belonged here, makes it feel like everything.
The sun slips behind the Hungaroring paddock, soft orange bleeding into brushed pink. The sharp edges of the day have dulled β no more tire smoke, no more headset crackle, no more logistics shouted over engines. Just the afterglow. You lean against the low wall outside hospitality, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly through the dayβs content, ckecking what was relevant today. The glass beside you reflects streaks of sunset, turning your hair molten, your expression unreadable from the outside. Your lanyard sways with each idle refresh of Instagram. Then β footsteps. You donβt have to look up to know who it is. He walks like he has all the time in the world, yet somehow is always exactly on time. Maxβs hair is damp from the shower, darker at the temples, freed from the last stubborn bit of wax. Heβs swapped fireproofs for a Red Bull polo and skinny jeans, one shoe half-laced like he gave up halfway. Heat still lingers on his cheeks, a faint pink. βYou waiting for me?β You glance over. βThat depends. You driving me home again? Also, your left shoe isnβt tied. Donβt trip.β He grins, bends to lace it. βGuess I am driving you back.β You push off the wall, and as he comes up β now with two laced shoes β you fall into step beside him like itβs muscle memory and something you have been getting used to. No instructions needed. Your strides sync without thought. Near the paddock gates, you tap his shoulder with your phone. βBy the way,β you say, opening a photo you found when you waited for him, βsocial teamβs having a field day. Meme accounts too.β He squints at the screen. A screenshot from FP1 β the second heβd helped you over the barricade. Overlaid text: When your PA intern has main character energy and youβre just a side quest. Max snorts, loud enough to turn heads. βThatβs criminal,β he laughs, shaking his head, leaning closer to squint at the caption again. βI should frame that.β Youβre both still laughing when the shutter clicks. A soft snap from somewhere in the distance. Unnoticed. Unimportant. Except the frame is good β too good. Good lighting, perfect angle, Maxβs smile tilted toward you, real and unguarded. By the time you reach the exit, the photoβs already climbing through fan accounts. Youβre not tagged. But that doesnβt stop the comments.
username1 did any of the gossip pages find out who the f*ck she is??
username2 that's the same girl who was also in the garage during fp2... new wag alert?
β³ username3 i mean she did make him laugh rather lively
But those comments are still somewhere in the near future, a storm for overnight, when everyone who works in the paddock sleeps but fans are wild awake around the globe. Right now, itβs only the two of you, slipping past the last stragglers of camera crews into the lavender wash of a Hungarian dusk. You donβt touch, but the air between you hums with something practiced β like a song you both know by heart but arenβt comfortable to sing aloud. Max glances sideways. βYou want to grab something to eat before we head back?β βDepends,β you say, lips tugging at a smile. βAre you buying?β He rolls his eyes and chuckles. βI just drove fifty laps. You should be buying.β βYou really have no clue how much an intern makes, do you? If Iβm buying, I canβt pay rent, dumbass.β His laugh spills out, quick and unguarded, and then he nods β deal struck. And just like that, you both fade into the falling light: two silhouettes slipping out of frame, and straight into speculation.
Saturday β FP2 and Qualifying
Youβre five minutes early on Saturday morning. As you always are. The hotel lobby doors sigh shut behind you, soles gliding over the polished tiles without quite clicking annoyingly. Your leather tote swings lightly from one shoulder, on your phone already half-dialed with the driverβs number in case Max makes you wait. The sky above is a flat, pale gray, the kind of overcast that presses down on you, thick with humidity β storm-brewing, expectant.
Youβre prepared. Of course you are. Soft-shell jacket zipped halfway, dark jeans neat but easy, black loafers catching the faint damp in the air. Hair pinned back just enough to look intentional and to withstand any showers of rain or mist. Itβs saturday. Quali day β some would say the most important day of the Hungarian Grand Prix weekend. You walk towards the car, to be on time, to be there first. But someone else beat you to it. Max leans against the Honda like itβs his throne, one foot casually crossed over the other, arms folded across the navy of his team polo. A cap covers his hair, his watch glints faintly in the gray light. Dark skinny jeans. Not scrolling through his phone. Not checking the time. Just there. Waiting. For you. You blink once. Then a second time in utter disbelieve. βYouβre early.β His mouth curves, smug in a way thatβs maddeningly subtle. βYou usually get here at 8:25.β You falter mid-step. βSoβ¦ you came at 8:20?β He shrugs, loose and easy. βThought itβd be nice if I waited on you for once.β It shouldnβt catch you off guard. It really shouldnβt. But the way he says it β no edge, no joke, just plain and sure β settles warm in your chest. Or maybe itβs the way he moves forward, hand finding the door handle on the passangers side and swinging it open like itβs the most natural thing in the world. You stop, pulse kicking up as the hinge creaks open. His hand rests light on the frame, his gaze steady on yours. No performance. No irony. Just a gesture. You clear your throat. βWhatβs this?β Max tilts his head, eyes glinting. βItβs a car door. It opens.β βThatβs not what Iββ The words break, too thin, too breathy, a little frustrated perhaps. And his smile sharpens, just enough to tell you he heard it. You slide inside, careful, because suddenly the scent of his cologne feels too close and your pulse is distractingly beating in your ears. He shuts the door with a neat flick of his wrist, and a moment later the driverβs side opens. He settles in with a low exhale, the casual kind that still feels deliberate. You catch it β the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He likes this. Catching you unsteady, making you forget what you were trying to say, getting under your skin. Youβre usually so composed, scaffolding built from years of knowing your worth, your goals, your red lines. Sharp edges, steady footing. And now hereβs Max Verstappen β Formula 1βs Dutch lion, racing monster in human form β quietly savoring the fact he can make you stammer. The car pulls away from the curb. You glance sideways. Heβs watching the road, but the corner of his mouth is still lifted, smug as ever. You shake your head, half-smiling despite yourself. Heβs dangerous, maybe. But at least heβs polite about it.
The car hasnβt even rolled to a full stop before the air tilts β a current of noise and light waiting to swallow you whole. Cameras click in rapid bursts, phones lift like antennae, voices rise and blur together into one restless thrum. The paddock lot is much more alive with motion than the days before: fans pressed to barricades trying to get a glimpse of their stars, photographers circling like flies drawn to sugar, team staff weaving past with coffee cups gripped like lifelines, lanyards flashing as they move. Max steps out first. The moment he does, flashes ignite, a ripple of recognition breaking across the crowd β warm, immediate, and already bordering on suffocating. You slip out a beat later, bag slung over your shoulder, jacket zipped halfway against the morning chill. Without thinking, you fall a step behind. Not submission β strategy. Itβs smoother this way: he commands the spotlight, while you orbit at its edges, free to watch, to manage, to keep things flowing. Thatβs when you see her. A girl no older than sixteen, standing just off the barricade in a faded Verstappen 33 cap, unofficial jacket hanging loose on her frame. Her phone trembles slightly in her hands, screen glowing. You catch her standing there like this before Max does β the nerves, the longing hovering in her small, shaky stance. So you nudge his elbow gently, tilt your chin toward her, guiding him wordlessly in her direction. βWant me to take it?β you ask softly, already extending your hand as if to tell her itβs okay. She nods, eyes wide, the brim of her faded cap dipping with the motion. You take her phone, step back, frame them against the paddock chaos. βBig smile,β you prompt, gentle but sure. βThis oneβs going on the wall in your room, right?β Max flashes a grin on cue. Click. Then itβs two boys next β twins, no taller than your legs, sneakers scuffing nervously against the asphalt. Then another girl. Each time you move quickly, efficient, one clean shot per phone, all vertical. Max doesnβt resist, doesnβt need to. The rhythm steadies under your direction, smooth as a well-oiled engine. He barely speaks; you keep him flowing forward. By the last one, you hand the phone back with a quiet, βHere you go, sweetheart,β a small nod at the grateful dad beside her. And then youβre moving again. Sidestepping a camera crew, slipping back into position just half a step behind him. Max glances over, the faintest tug of amusement at his mouth. βWhat?β you ask. βYou mightβve missed your calling as security detail,β he murmurs under his breath. You smirk, rolling your eyes. βIf I did that instead of being your PA, youβd be late to every meeting.β A beat. He exhales, almost like heβs trying not to let it show. βI know.β You check your watch, the habit automatic. βEngineering briefing in the motorhome in five. Then media. Skyβs been moved to the right paddock lane, so weβll need to loop back after.β He doesnβt ask how you know, doesnβt question the logistics. Just a single focused nod, and he keeps walking. The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. The air is thick with hot brakes and warm asphalt, the background hum of engines bleeding through. Someone calls Maxβs name behind you, but neither of you turns. You just keep moving β fluid, aligned, unknowingly choreographed. Past team reps, junior drivers, crew balancing laptops and precarious trays of coffee. No one stops you. And thatβs the part that catches you off guard: the strange, quiet gravity of it. How natural this feels already. Like youβve been doing it for years. Like you were built for this pulse, this rhythm. But itβs only day three. Only just the beginning. And yet β youβre already waiting in the garage when he arrives for FP3. Because of course you are.
The garage hums alive like it already did yesterday, only is it even more electric today β engineers bent once again over glowing monitors, the low drone of generators threading through clipped shouts for tools and static-laced comms. You slip in along the edges, ducking past a tire trolley, brushing against someoneβs elbow. GP stands hunched at the workbench, coffee in one hand, pen in the other. He barely looks up. βYouβre here early,β he says. βNot possible,β you counter, sidestepping a coil of cables. βMax is just late.β That earns the faintest twitch of a smile. Youβve only exchanged fragments with him these past two days β nods, logistics, the occasional dry jab across Maxβs shoulder β but thereβs already an ease to it now. A kind of shared orbit, born more from necessity than choice. βWhere the hell even is he?β you ask. GP sips his coffee, shakes his head. βProbably still fixing his hair.β You huff a soft laugh. βAs if it wonβt be ruined the second the helmet goes on. Not exactly sponsor-friendly conditions in here.β βYouβd know,β GP replies, dry as sand. βArenβt you the one scheduling all his charm offensives?β Youβre halfway through a retort when the atmosphere shifts. Heads turn. The current changes. Itβs a clear sign that Max has arrived. He slips in through the side entrance, racesuit half-zipped, damp hair re-styled by a simple hand gesture after the walk between motorhome and garage. His eyes cut quickly through the room, scanning, weighing β then settle on you. A flicker of a smirk touches his mouth before he speaks. βGood. You two are getting along,β he says, nodding between you and GP. βThat should improve my performance β if the people closest to me can actually communicate.β βRight,β GP mutters, eyes never leaving the data. βBecause F1 is basically group therapy with occasional laps.β βCareful,β you murmur, not quite smiling. βCommunication is important. Iβd know.β The comment slides out too lightly, almost unthinking. But Max stiffens, arms crossing. His jaw tenses, a line sharpened by something unspoken. GP raises a brow, clearly ready with another dry remark β but Max cuts him off. And thatβs enough.β The words are casual, half-joking, but edged. GP chuckles under his breath and retreats into his sheets of numbers, muttering about βfocusβ and βless drama, more delta.β You donβt rise to it. You only check your watch, nodding toward the car. βTen to green. You ready to go?β Max unfolds his arms, steps closer. His voice drops low. βYeah. Thanks for staying on top of it.β You meet his eyes. βAlways.β For a breath, thereβs something else under the routine β something charged, too delicate to name. But a mechanic calls his name, and just like that, he turns away. Climbs into the cockpit. Helmet down. Visor sealed. The spell breaks. FP3 begins.
The pit lane thrums like a living thing β metallic growls stacking one on top of another until itβs more vibration than sound, rattling up through your legs as the cars streak past. Max is gone in a blur of navy and colorful sponsor logos, the echo of his engine cutting sharper than the sunlight flashing off the tarmac. From where you sit at the garageβs edge, you catch only the afterimage. The rest you read on screens: green sectors blooming, delta lines holding steady, but you are mostly staring at the monitors broadcasting the scenes from the track or your phone. Your headset rests half-cocked, like you canβt quite decide if you want the world piped into your ears or not. The folder on your lap is forgotten, a prop more than a tool. Sunlight angles through the shutters in warm slices, catching on floating dust until the whole air seems painted in gold. Around you, the crew moves with seamless precision β not chaos, though it seems like chaos to you, only rhythm. And on the timing sheets: Verstappen P2. +0.173. Not disastrous. But not what Max wants. You track his car through Sector 2, watching the throttle traces, brake pressure, wheel angle β data that should feel cold, yet hums with life when itβs his. He drives like heβs a neurosurgeon holding a scalpel, not a racing driver holiding steering wheel. Slicing, exact, inevitable. And then your name breaks into your ear. Low, amused. βHey. Cameraβs on you.β Itβs Lee laughing from a couple meters away. Your head snaps up, too late. One of the trackside feeds has betrayed you: world feed, garage shot. You. Just sitting there. Too still, too focused on Maxβ onboards. You can already imagine the captions, the freeze-frames, the Twitter threads spinning into existence. Whoβs the girl in the Red Bull garage? Heat creeps up your neck and ears. You force a small, professional smile, nod once, then drop your eyes to the data like itβs the only thing that matters. Posture straight. Face neutral. Sip from your bottle. Pretend you donβt feel your skin buzzing with a million invisible eyes. Four minutes later, Max barrels back in. Tyres screech, the car halts on the marks, the swarm descends. He doesnβt move much, doesnβt lift the helmet, but when the visor slides up, his eyes find you instantly. Just for a beat. Youβve learned his expressions these past two days β the sharpness, the restraint. But this one is different. Not frustration. Not relief. Something quieter, but alive. Calculation, threaded with pulse. He says something into the radio, his tone as even as ever. But his fingers tap one-two-three-four against the wheel, restless, betraying. And though the camera isnβt on you anymore, it feels like his gaze still is. And your stomach drops β not unpleasantly, not entirely. More like a step missed on a staircase. Or maybe like gravity just remembered you.
The lull after FP3 feels like exhaling after holding your breath too long. The garage thins, voices scattering β GP deep in conversation with Bradley, Horner tossing Max some thumbs-up quip you canβt quite catch. The air is warm with the ghosts of worn-down tyres and lingering engine heat, layered faintly with the bitter trace of someoneβs abandoned coffee. Itβs only early-afternoon, but your body swears itβs lived an entire day already. βIβm hungry,β Max says suddenly, quiet enough that it brushes past only your ears. A beat. βWanna grab lunch?β You blink β surprised, but pleasantly so. Heβs asking this time. βYeah,β you answer a bit too quickly, too eager. βSure.β The hospitality suite feels like stepping into another world. Itβs cooler than the garage. The lights here donβt shine as clinically bright. Air-conditioned hush pressing against your skin until the chaos of the pit lane feels like a dream receding. You both take plates β pasta, chicken, nothing that could weigh him down β and find a table tucked near the window. Golden light cuts across the table in soft stripes, painting the moment in something that feels less like work, more likeβ¦ something unnamed, hovering at the edges.
Max eats like an athlete: mechanical precision, bites measured out of habit. But his shoulders arenβt drawn so tightly anymore, and the edges of his posture have blurred. He looks less like a driver between sessions and more like a man finally letting adrenaline sink into his bones, like heβs thinking about something heβs unsure to share. Then, without warning, his voice cuts the quiet. βI have to win this championship.β Your fork pauses mid-air. You glance up. Heβs not looking at you β not directly. More like somewhere past your shoulder, like the thought has been sitting there all along, waiting for daylight. βI know I should say I want to,β he continues, voice low but steady. βBut itβs not that. I have to.β You donβt interrupt. You let him speak. β2020β¦β He exhales, shakes his head. βI was okay. I gave everything I had. But it didnβt matter. That car couldnβt take the fight to Lewis. Not the way I needed it to. Or maybeβ¦β His jaw flexes. ββ¦maybe I didnβt do it justice enough.β βAnd this year?β you ask softly. βThis year,β his eyes finally meet yours, sharp and unblinking, βIβve got a chance. Not a guarantee. But a shot. And Iβm not going to waste it.β Conviction rings in him like a struck chord β clear, resonant, impossible to ignore. You set your fork down, nodding slowly.
βI know you wonβt,β you say. βIβve seen the work you put in. Every second of it since I started at Red Bull, even before to be honest. Youβve got the car, the team, the discipline. And the talent, obviously.β A faint, almost reluctant smirk tugs at his mouth. βBut more than that,β you add, leaning in just slightly, βyouβve got the mindset for it. You donβt crack. You donβt flinch. Thatβs what it takes to win a title. At least, from what Iβve seenβ¦ as a long-time spectator. So you might not want to make too much of what Iβm saying.β The smirk lingers, softer now. His gaze holds yours a little too long, steady, deliberate. It doesnβt feel like silence. It feels like weight. Like intention. You sip your water, letting the glass linger at your lips a beat longer than needed, as if the coolness can rinse the weight of his words from your chest. βSo,β you say, aiming for lighter, βhow do you switch off? From all this championship pressure?β A quiet laugh escapes him, not unkind but dry. βI donβt.β Your brow lifts. βSeriously?β βSeriously.β He shrugs, deliberate, like itβs the simplest thing in the world. βI get home, I eat, I go sim racing. Thatβs how I stay sharp. I keep my head in it.β βFull immersion. Twenty-four seven.β You tilt your head. βDoesnβt that ever burn you out?β βNo.β The answer lands with the same precision as a braking point. βBecause the only thing worse than burnout would be losing. Thisββ he gestures with his fork, vague but weighted, ββthis is everything right now.β You let the pause stretch, then try again, softer. βAnd the people in your life? Friends, familyβ¦ partner?β He leans back, folds his arms, the posture more thoughtful than defensive. βMy dadβs worse than me,β he says. βSometimes I think he dreams in lap times. He might actually want this championship even a little more.β The corner of your mouth pulls upward, quietly, even if it pinches somewhere beneath your ribs. βMy friends understand. They know Iβm not the guy who texts back right away or shows up to birthdays. They let me be who I am.β He taps his fork against the plate, then stills. βAnd I donβt have a partner, soβ¦ thatβs nothing I have to worry about.β Your pulse skips β one sharp misfire β before steadying again, like nothing happened. βOh.β The word is too quiet, too small, and you bury it under another bite of pasta, as if chewing could disguise the way it lands somewhere you werenβt expecting. If he notices, he doesnβt say. Or maybe he does and chooses not to. βI donβt think Iβd be a good partner anyway,β he adds after a beat, voice even. βNot right now. Itβs hard to explain to someone that the championship always comes first.β You nod, slow. You think about what the most casual seeming answer to this could be and settle for βMakes sense.β The silence that follows is longer, denser β not heavy, not empty, just charged in a way you canβt quite name and would rather not have to think about. You clear your throat, check the time, push gently at the air between you. βYouβve got a strategy meeting in ten. Want me to walk you over?β He nods once. βYeah, thatβd be nice.β When you rise, your shoulders brush for a second β barely. But neither of you moves away.
The walk back from hospitality settles into a kind of companionable quiet. Max drifts half a step ahead, hands loose in the pockets of his jacket, his gaze narrowed not on the path but on some thought chewing at him from the inside out. Not the pasta. Not the strategy. Something heavier and private. You donβt ask, donβt press what has his brows furrowed like that. You just match his pace, let the silence breathe. By the time the garage comes into view, the air has shifted once again β sharp, electric. Mechanics moving around the car for some final touches before Qualifying with practiced precision, tyres stacked in the corners, screens glowing with reruns of data streams. Another phase of the weekend is already beating forward, and you slip into it without thought, stream with the flow around you.Β βMeeting in seven,β you murmur as you draw level with Max again, your voice pitched low for his ears only. βTom and Lee have the sector data ready. Youβll cover Q1 through Q3 projections now, then race prep tonight, depending on how quali shakes out.β He nods, barely turning his head β but this time, when his shoulder grazes yours, it lingers an instant longer. Deliberate. Anchored. βAnd GP wants a quick check on the balance changes from FP3,β you add, eyes forward. βThinks youβll like the tweaks on rear grip.β A flicker at the corner of his mouth, more felt than seen. βAbout time we do something about that,β he mutters. You allow yourself the smallest smile in return, quick as a spark from a match.
The clock tumbles forward, minutes dissolving into briefings, whiteboards, and data sheets scrawled with deltas and projections. Max slips into his focused personaβ sharp, economical, eyes darting between telemetry and his team of engineers, every gesture precise, measured. You hover close but never in the way, a quiet shadow in the current of motion, offering only whatβs needed from you, which frankly spoken isnβt a lot. Every second counts now, and everyone knows it. When the garage shifts gears for Qualifying, the atmosphere charges like static before a thunderstorm storm. Radios spit updates minute after minute. A torque wrench clangs against concrete. Mechanics dart with focused urgency, their movements almost balletic in their coordination. You find yourself by the car just as Max reappears from the driverβs room, race suit zipped, gloves dangling from his hand. Light slips through the shutter gaps, striking across his face in streaks of molten gold. He starts on the earpiecesΒ and pulls his balaclava over his head, adjusts the fit, when you step closer β not too close, just enough. βNot luck,β you say, your voice threading neatly through the garage noise, βbut Iβm wishing for your success out there.β He glances over, one brow arched beneath the edge of his helmet. βAnd,β you add, bone-dry, βa little well-timed traffic for Lewis. Maybe an Aston Martin mid-sector two?β The sound that bursts out of him is quick and unguarded β a laugh, bright enough to cut straight through the hum of the garage. βLet Hannah know. Maybe the junior team can pull a few strings.β He clips the radio pack into place with practiced ease. You tilt your head, a faint smile playing at your lips. βBut you donβt really need that, do you? You can beat them fair and square.β For a breath, his gaze catches yours β steady, unflinching, something unspoken tugging between you. And then, with a soft click, the visor drops, cutting you off from him again. You step back, headset in hand, pulse quickening β not for lap times, not for data. For him.
After media, the paddock feels unhinged. Not from any scandals or headlines, but from the weather. Wind claws at the vinyl walls of hospitality tents, ripping at them like sails. Umbrellas skitter across the asphalt in terrified flight. Rain doesnβt fall so much as hurl itself sideways, slashing anyone caught in the open underneath the almost anthracite sky. It growls overhead, low and vindictive, like itβs been personally offended by the presence of everybody in the paddock. You duck just under the lip of the Red Bull awning, rummaging through your leather tote without flinching while the storm does its best to unmake the Hungaroring. Behind you, someone curses their drenched team polo. A cameraman further down the row wipes at his fogged-up lens, swearing under his breath. And then Max is there. At your shoulder. Cap pulled low, jacket zipped to his chin, the faint scent of cologne and sweat clinging to him in equal measure. You donβt even look up, just snap open the small, black umbrella with a flick of your wrist β clean, precise, a tiny act of control in weather chaos. A smug little smile tugs at your mouth. βPrepared?β His voice is warm, amused, a tease carried on the storm. βAlways,β you deadpan, stepping out into the downpour like itβs nothing. He falls into stride with you instantly, so close his elbow bumps yours now and again. The umbrella tilts between you, straining against the wind, more symbolic than useful. You feel the shift before you see it β the subtle lift of his arm, the pause, the way it hovers just behind your shoulders. Not touching. Not quite guiding. Justβ¦ there. Present and trying to keep some of the raindrops off of you. It doesnβt protect you from a thing. Youβre both soaked in seconds anyway. But the gesture softens the storm, and that softness stays. You donβt bother with words β the rain drowns every noise, pressing against your eardrums until the rest of the paddock feels on mute. Just you, Max, and the hiss of water on asphalt. Jacket sleeves slick. Shoes splashing. His nearness steady, like instinct. At the lot, the car sits exactly where he left it that morning, wipers on the windshield sitting still at the streams that run down the glass. Max moves ahead, jogs the final steps, and pulls the door open for you like itβs second nature. Routine, even. You look up at him from beneath the umbrella. No words. None needed. His gaze lingers a fraction too long, a heartbeat stretched thin, before you slip inside, rain dripping from your collar. He shuts the door carefully β like youβre something breakable, as if you were made out of sugar β before circling around to the drivers side. The windows fog as he starts the engine. Outside, thunder rolls deep and insistent. Tomorrow is race day. But tonight, the storm has the final word.
Sunday β Race
The rain carries that grounding, earthy tang of wet asphalt, the kind that belongs only to early Sunday mornings on race weekends at the track. You push the Honda door open and snap the Red Bull Racing umbrella open with a satisfying click. Droplets scatter off the navy canopy, the fabric taut and gleaming. The paddock is slick and silver-grey, puddles holding fractured reflections of team jackets and fans huddled close together under shared umbrellas or cheap plastic raincoats, the air humming with that peculiar cocktail of nerves and anticipation a wet race always brings. Max doesnβt move out of the car. He stays in the driverβs seat, wipers dragging back and forth in a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm. His gaze is fixed on the rain-streaked glass, jaw tight. You canβt quite tell if itβs nerves or focus, and that little mystery makes you linger. Leaning casually against the car, folder tucked to your chest, you angle the umbrella like a shield against the mist. βGood news,β you say, voice light, teasing but laced with the polish of professionalism. βToday you only have to do what youβre best at β just racing, a bit of media, and a press conference earned by winning. No team lunches, no awkward sponsor smiles, no handshakes with billionaires.β The corner of his mouth twitches, shoulders easing just enough to betray amusement. A soft chuckle slips out, low and quiet. βA wet race will be fun,β he says at last, eyes still following a single bead of water tracking its way down the glass. βMore of a challenge.β You tilt your head, lips quirking. βIsnβt throwing yourself into a carbon-fiber rocket at 300 kilometers an hour challenging enough?β This time, his eyes flick toward you. Brief. Sharp. Warm.
βNot for me.β Something in your chest flutters, traitorous and insistent. Charming. Infuriating. Entirely magnetic. You steady your posture, refusing to let it show, and instead toss him a small, conspiratorial smile. He finally moves, shaking himself out of whatever quiet space heβd been in, turning just enough to catch the curve of your expression before his focus shifts again toward the paddock entrance. Then, with the easy confidence that always seems stitched into him, he pushes the door shut and starts striding forward. You fall into step beside him, umbrella tilted just so the space between you feels deliberate β close, but not forced. Rain splatters against your shoulder where itβs not covered by the umbrella, its muted rhythm creating a strange kind of privacy inside the chaos of Hungaroring. The journalists and fans realizing whoβs just arrived, even the distant thunder of engines firing up β all of it fades to background. Just you. Just him. And the quiet electricity that hums in the space where his laughter usually lives, in the split-second heat of his gaze when it meets yours. βReady to face the chaos?β you ask, words laced with teasing. He grins, eyes sparking even against the storm. βAfter you.β With a quick motion, he plucks the umbrella from your hand and holds it over both of you, the gesture threaded with a subtle intimacy neither of you comment on. You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, leather strap biting against your team jacket, and fumble for your paddock pass. He glances down, umbrella steady above you like itβs the most natural thing in the world. βPaddock pass ready?β he asks, tone playful, edged with softness.
You shoot him a sideways look, half-smile tugging at your mouth. βAlways.β With a practiced flick, you snap the lanyard free from your bag β multiple cards clattering together in a little fanfare of preparedness. Max raises a brow, mock-impressed. The amusement sparks between you, light and unspoken. Then the first wave of fans surges inside the paddock, cameras flashing like lightning, and the moment slips away in a staccato of shutters and shouts.
Maxβs pace slows, and suddenly the dynamic shifts β the umbrella is back in your hands, angled carefully as he leans over to sign autographs. You lean a little closer as well to shield him from the drizzle, your knuckles grazing the sleeve of his jacket each time you adjust. The rhythm of the crowd is wild β pens tapping, voices rising, flashes firing β yet thereβs something oddly private in the way you move with him, syncing the click of your umbrella with the clatter of Sharpies across glossy photos. βYouβre doing really well for your first weekend,β he murmurs, low enough that only you catch it. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, as if itβs half a tease, half a truth. βDo you think theyβd let me do this if I wasnβt?β you shoot back, eyes catching his for just a second too long. His glance in return is sharp, deliberate β a look that says he notices, really notices, you in the middle of all this chaos. When the crowd finally thins, you step aside, offering the umbrella back to him with a polite gesture. He only shakes his head, easy and stubborn, taking it himself but keeping the cover over both of you. And just like that, the roar of the paddock recedes to background static. Now you walk in step, shoulders brushing lightly as you navigate puddles that mirror the washed-out banners from the motorhomes to your left and right. It feels less like dodging chaos and more like sharing a rhythm no one else sees β his quiet checks to make sure youβre still beside him, the way his eyes soften when they catch the outline of your profile in the grey light, the silence between words that feels anything but empty. Professional, yes β but threaded with something warmer, something playful and spiy that hovers in the space between you. By the time you reach the Red Bull motorhome, the rain dripping steady around you, it feels like the world has folded into a bubble: rain, cameras, noise on the outside, and just thisβ¦ whatever this is, walking with him. He holds the door open with an exaggerated little flourish, a wink under the edge of the umbrella. It dips between you as you pass, and for a heartbeat the air hums β sharp, charged, the kind of awareness that lives just beneath the surface, daring both of you not to name it.
The Red Bull garage thrums like a living thing when you arrive β a heartbeat of motion and light and heat. Mechanics lean over the car like sculptors, fingers tracing metal lines with precise obsession. Engineers pace in tiny arcs, tablets glowing in their hands, screens flickering with data that pulses and hums like a biological organism, translating metal and motor oil into its own secret code of DNA. The smell of burnt rubber, warm tires, and just a faint hint of espresso floats in the air, grounding you in the controlled chaos. You linger a few steps back, headset snug over your ears, folder clutched like a talisman, watching Max materialize already in fireproofs, his race suit lazily zipped to his waist, sleeves dangling behind him like careless banners. He glances at you, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reaches for his water bottle. βYou lookβ¦ serious,β he says, low, casual, but carrying that flicker β amusement or charm, you canβt tell. You tilt your head, letting your hair fall back, and step closer. βI donβt envy you out there,β you say evenly, but the weight behind your words is unmistakable. βWet track, limited visibility, full grid of egos, everyone scheming for any sort of advantage.β Max chuckles β low, confident, a laugh that belongs to someone utterly in his element. He flexes his fingers around the branded bottle, taps the flexy straw a quiet rhythm.
βItβs fine,β he says simply. βWet racesβ¦ they feel better to win.β His eyes flick to yours, almost daring you to argue. You raise an eyebrow. βSo, the risk of landing in the wall and perhaps getting a concussion is part of the fun?β you tease. βI mean yeah,β he grins, leaning forward just slightly, energy coiled sharp as wire. βEveryone else is nervous, cautiousβ¦ I like the chaos. Makes it feel better when you come out on top.β You nod, half-smiling, letting a sliver of admiration creep into your posture. βIβllβ¦ be here, keeping the chaos contained from this side,β you reply, tapping your headset lightly. βMake sure the media, PR, and the world see the right Max.β He tilts his head while starting to zip up his suit, scanning you a beat longer than necessary. βYou make it soundβ¦ way too easy. You know the British have it out for me,β he says, tone dropping subtly, intimate. Thereβs a warmth there, just for you, subtle and unspoken. You straighten, trying to hide the flutter in your chest. βEasy isnβt the point. You make winning look easy. I justβ¦ make sure people see it that way, even the British media.β Max smirks again, flapping his gloves together like a challenge. βThenβ¦ I better not let you down and ruin your plans.β You glance at the monitors, then back at him. βYou wonβt. Justβ¦ trust yourself. And maybe donβt forget thereβs a [Y/N] watching, who hates when things donβt go the way she intended.β He shakes his head, grabbing his balaclava and helmet next. βYouβre going to ruin my reputation as a cold, unshakable driver,β he mutters. Then, with a sharp grin: βOr maybeβ¦ Iβll lean into it. Makes me even more unpredictable out there.β And just like that, the garage pulses with a different electricity. Youβre not just an observer today β youβre part of the rhythm, part of the heartbeat. Max is focused, competitive, untouchable in his element. And yet, heβs letting you in, letting you see the calm under the storm. GP pulls Max away seconds later to talk over some last minute instructions for the race. You watch him as he nods at whatever message GP has for him. He pulls the balaclava over his head and you unfortunately loose the sight of his dark blond hair. Thatβs before you loose sight of his face entirely as he straps on his helmet and gets into the car. Itβs your moment to take your place by the screens and let the crew do their thing before itβs time to go to the grid and wait for the lights to turn off.Β
Rain hisses against the Hungaroring asphalt, each drop catching the gray sky like liquid mirrors. You grip the edge of the garage railing, headset snug, pulse thrumming not from the storm but from the chaos unraveling before you. On the big screen, the grid launches the moment the five red lights vanish. Engines scream, wet tires spray mist that erupts into blinding sheets across the first corner. Thenβsnapβcrash. Valtteri Bottas loses control, fishtailing across the racing line. You hear the collective gasp through your headset. Cars swerve, some collide. And thenβNorris smashes into Max. Your stomach lurches as the navy Red Bull spins, slamming briefly into gravel before clawing its way back onto the track. Hands tighten around the folder youβd only set down a minute ago. Mechanics shout from their seats, voices rising over the low drone of the garage. Engineers pace like predators, eyes flicking from screens to car to screens again. Max isnβt calm on the commsβhis voice clipped, edged with anger. βWhat the fuck happened there? Check my car!β βMax, one of the McLarens hit you. Weβre looking. So far everything looks good to go,β GP replies, measured, trying to calm him down, have him focus on the track again. You inhale sharply. Heβs okayβheβs not panickingβbut the debris strewn across the track glints wet under the rain on the screen. Lap two brings a red flag. The world seems to hold its breath for a moment, chaos frozen mid-frame. And then the cameras catch you leaning forward, eyes locked on Maxβ onboards, headset on, lips pressed together tight with concern. The commentators notice. F1 TV captions you as βMax Verstappenβs partner.β Your head snaps toward the screen. βWhat the fβ?!β you mutter, half-laughing, half-panicked. Twitter eruptsβmemes, speculation, wild theories. A few seconds later, the caption updates: βMax Verstappenβs personal assistant.β Too late. The digital storm has already begun. Fans argue, journalists speculate, tabloids light up like fireworks. Maxβs car is rolled into the garage. He remains strapped in, helmet still on. GP approaches, tight smile in place, leaning into the halo. Max nods a couple of times, then throws his head back, laughter breaking through, low and genuine. GP glances toward you, smirking, and gestures for you to join them. You hesitantly step forward. Max turns his head just enoughβvisor upβand you catch the glint of his blue eyes framed by lines that hint at a grin. His voice is low, amused, but thereβs still steel underneath. βYou okay over there? Donβt let the internet chaos get to you.β You bite your cheek, forcing a tight-lipped smile. βIβm fine. Justβ¦ focused. I know how the circus rolls.β Focused. Thatβs the truth. You track hashtags, relay messages, thread the teamβs rhythm. The outside world may misread your roleβor your presenceβbut you know exactly where you belong: here, beside him, monitoring, protecting, silently ensuring he has every advantage he can get off-track, even when rain and chaos conspire against him in the race. Max roars back onto the track once the red flag lifts. Damage slows him slightly, but heβs relentlessβmuscles taut, eyes narrow inside the helmet. You jot down notes for the post-race debrief, but your gaze keeps flicking to his onboards. Heβs unshakable in his determined own way, magnetic in focus, and somewhere in the corner of your mind, a small thrill runs through you: youβre part of this storm now. Youβre part of his rhythm. And the worldβconfused, speculatingβcan wait until the final lap is over.
The media pen is a swarm of umbrellas, microphones, and camera lensesβa jostling, chaotic contrast to the slick, rain-soaked track you just left behind. You fall just a step behind Max, letting him take the front, but your eyes never leave him. Even battered, even stretched thin by the red-flag chaos, he carries that unshakable calm and carelessness that makes your pulse skip anyway. Journalists pivot toward him, pens poised, flashbulbs snapping. Someone leans in, voice sharp through the drizzle: βSo, Maxβ¦ Iβm sure you saw the F1 TV captions. Can you clarify?β Max leans casually against the barrier, one hand wrapped around a water bottle, the other propping him up as if the chaos were nothing more than background noise. Thereβs a smirk tugging at the corner of his lipsβthe kind that says heβs amused, aware, untouchable.
βWell,β he starts, eyes glinting, mischief tucked into every word, βI wouldnβt trust F1 TV for reporting my or anyone relationship statusβ¦β He pauses, letting the tease hang just long enough to make everyone lean forward. Then he gestures toward youβtwo steps beside him, phone in hand, team jacket still damp from the rain. βShe works for Red Bull. Sheβs been my PA this weekendβa very good one.β Journalists lean closer, hunger in their eyes for a follow-up. Max gives none. No concrete denial, no concrete confirmationβjust the faintest shrug, a blink, that lingering smirk. You roll your shoulders back, keeping your expression measured, professional, even as a little thrill snakes through your chest. βThatβs everything he said,β you murmur quietly into the voice memo youβre recording, tapping send to PR. You catch his eye. He nods ever so slightly, half-smile still teasing, longer than it should. Cameras click. Tweets will fly. Headlines will explode. But here, in this pocket of controlled chaos, you and Max share a private understanding: no one outside the garageβor the paddockβneeds the real answer. Not yet. Especially not when neither of you could give the other one abou what there is between you, not even if pressed. He isnβt just shielding you from the press. Thereβs a little spark of mischief in him, tooβmaybe because the assumption hasnβt been corrected. Maybe because he likes the thought. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel the same thrill, though you wouldnβt admit it out loud. You step back just enough to give him space, fingers tightening around the folder. In the rain, among microphones and flashing lenses, youβre a quiet anchorβand he seems to need it.
You leave the Hungaroring together, the bustle and flash of media fading behind you. Max is once again in the drivers seat controlling the car. The city lights coming closer and smear against the misted windows, turning the car interior into streaks of warm amber. Rain taps softly on the roof, a gentle percussion that mirrors your still-racing heartbeat. Max drives with quiet focus, but thereβs an ease now β shoulders loosening, jaw unclenching β the subtle exhale after a weekend that could have gone sideways a dozen times. You glance over, catching him in profile. Streetlights flicker across his face, painting shadows and gold over the sharp planes of his jaw, the curve of his smile. You canβt help it β a small grin escapes you. βWell,β you begin, voice teasing, light, almost conspiratorial, βyou survived your first weekend with me. Iβd promise not to bother you during the break butββ He cuts you off, that devilish half-smile in place, one thatβs been dancing in your mind all weekend. βPlease bother me. Actuallyβlet me bother you. How about dinner sometime? Iβm kinda tired of always only having lunch with you.β Your stomach flips. Heat creeps up your neck, into your cheeks. Professional composure deserts you entirely. A soft, unsteady laugh slips out. βThen Iβd be happy to bother you during the break,β you say, trying for casual, but itβs impossible to hide the flutter in your chest. He chuckles, low and easy, eyes flicking to yours briefly before returning to the wet road ahead. The silence that follows hums, thick with electricity β not awkward, just charged, like the calm pulse between two magnets drawn together. Your hand brushes the edge of your folder, meaningless, a quiet anchor in the shared tension. For the first time this weekend, itβs not about schedules, cameras, or chaos. Itβs just the two of you, the rain pattering, the glow of Budapest spilling over the dashboard, and the quiet understanding that whatever this is β professional, personal, or something thrillingly in between β itβs no longer fleeting. The car hums along, tires whispering over wet asphalt. In that moving, intimate cocoon, something delicate and undeniably real has begun that potentially could threaten your career.
radio: i had this in my drafts for a couple of weeks now and felt too insecure to post it, cause I don't think it's particularly good... but I'm currently also working on a longer Oscar fic and didn't want to leave you hanging without anything... therefore: enjoy it and leave some love if you did <3 kind regards as always!
max verstappen being the perfect boyfriend: a compilation
summary: max verstappen canβt help but talk about his girlfriend whenever he cans, fans make compilation videos about it
folkie radio: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAXIEEE, it's been a minute since the last time i did a compilation blurb and this felt like the perfect occasion to bring them back, i hope you like this!
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
Max Verstappen, three time world champion and the best driver of his generation is known for his incredible driving skills and relentless pursuit of victory on the track.
However, behind the wheel, Max has another passion that rivals his love for racing: his girlfriend.
In every interview, press conference, and social media post, Max can't help but gush about her, seamlessly sharing stories of their life together into conversations about lap times and race strategies.
Fans quickly began doing compilation videos about all the times he mentioned his girlfriend publicly, and those gathered millions of views across social media platforms.
The most popular one was called "Max Verstappen being the perfect boyfriend: a compilation," and it began with a video of Max arriving to the paddock for media day, Red Bull's social media team filming him while he answered some rapid fire questions.
"Waffles or Pancakes? You know I used to love pancakes but I think I've had too many because my girlfriend is obsessed with making them," he said as he signed some stuff, "So I would go for Waffles at the moment, but if my girlfriend is watching this I'd say I take her pancakes every day."
The next clip was from a post qualifying interview, and of course, Max earned the pole position, the interviewer had asked him what was expecting for the race the following day.
"To win of course, that's what I'm here for," he said with so hesitation, "But I'm also looking forward to it because my girlfriend will be here, it's the first race she attends this season and I can't wait to see her in the crowd while I take on the podium."
The video moved to show Max with his teammate Sergio Perez, they were playing a game of Green Flag or Red Flag, they were asked about people who film themselves at the gym and Max immediately waved the red flag.
"I actually don't go to the gym anymore," Max added, "I get annoyed by everyone else so I just exercise at home."
"So no topless selfies, not even at home," the interviewer said.
"I don't need to impress anyone, I've got my girlfriend, so," Max shrugged.
The next clip was taken from Max's own Youtube channel, he was showing some of his preparation routine for a race, that included some neck training, checking statistics, quick meetings with his team and engineers among other things.
And of course, his girlfriend made an appearance, standing in a corner watching everything unfold. He approached her, race suit on and helmet in hand, kissed her lips gently as she caressed his arm.
"Be safe out there okay?" her voice could be faintly heard.
"Always schatje, I love you."
In the next segment, Max had just earned his second world championship and was doing a casual interview for a sports channel.
"Do you have your girlfriend now call you 'Two time world champion Max Verstappen' or just Max,"
"Definitely not the first one," Max laughed, "She'd never do that, she says she likes to keep me humble."
"Your girlfriend has a pet name for you?" the guy asked again.
"We call each other a bit different but I prefer not to say that on camera," Max laughed again, "I don't want the internet to make fun of me for being cheesy."
The next clip was from Max's streamings, he was too immersed in a game that he didn't hear his girlfriend come into the room, noticing her presence when she leaned into him.
Out of habit of keeping their privacy, he covered the camera but forgot to turn his mic off.
"Schatje I'm streaming," he said, unaware that everyone could hear him.
"Oh I'm sorry, I was going to ask if you could feed the cats but I'll do it myself," his girlfriend spoke.
"No I'll do it, just let me get off the stream,"
"Baby, there's no need," she insisted.
"I was missing you anyways, just give me a minute."
His audience couldn't see anything but they clearly heard how Max kissed his girlfriend's lips, turning his attention back to the screen, he realized that he was broadcasting their conversation to everyone.
His viewers went wild in the chat, spamming heart emojis and comments about how sweet the couple was. Max ended the stream with a laugh, addressing his fans. "Alright, you heard the boss. I gotta go feed the cats. See you all next time."
On the same note, another clip from a video for RedBull with Checo was included, they had been asked to show the most recent picture in their phones.
"Oh it's from this morning, my girlfriend with the kids," Max said, showing the picture to the camera.
"The kids?" Checo asked with a laugh.
"The cats are our kids," Max shrugged, "Jimmy and Sassy Verstappen."
A particularly touching moment was from a press conference after a difficult race. Max had finished fifth, a rare position for him given his usual dominance. When asked how he dealt with setbacks, he gave a candid response.
"It can be tough, but my girlfriend always knows how to lift my spirits. She's my biggest supporter and always finds the right words to say. Just being with her makes everything better, no matter how bad the race went."
During a clip of Max giving a tour of the Red Bull factory, he stopped at a wall covered in race-winning memorabilia. Among the trophies and champagne bottles, there was a small, framed photograph.
"This is special to me," Max pointed it out, "It's from my first win with Red Bull. But look closer..."
The camera zoomed in to show a young woman in the background of the photo, cheering in the pit lane.
"That's my girlfriend," Max said softly. "She was there for my first win, and she's been there for every one since - even if she can't always be at the track. The team knew how much that meant to me, so they made sure she was in this photo when they framed it."
In the next segment, Max was asked about his favorite off-track activity.
"I love cooking," Max grinned, "Well, more like watching my girlfriend cook. She's amazing in the kitchen, and I'm just there to taste-test everything."
The compilation included a moment during a press conference, Max addressed a question about his girlfriend facing criticism online. The question arose after she received negative comments following a public appearance with him.
"Look, it's tough sometimes," Max began, his expression turning serious. "She didn't choose this life, but she supports me through everything. It's not fair for her to get hate just because of who she's dating. If you have a problem with me that's fine but don't go after my family or my girlfriend because that is just unacceptable."
The final clip that wrapped the video us was from the FIA Prize Giving ceremony, Max received his trophy for winning the 2023 championship.
In his acceptance speech, he thanked his team, his family, and, of course, his girlfriend.
"Winning races and championships is amazing, but having someone by your side who believes in you and supports you unconditionally is truly special. To my girlfriend, thank you for being my rock and my biggest cheerleader. I love you."
The screen faded to black, showing a text that read: Max Verstappen, three time world champion and the perfect boyfriend.
summary: max verstappen has never been one to read books, but everything changes when he comes across a pretty booktuber who describes him better than anyone else did before
word count: 8.2k + social media posts
folkie radio: another one of my babies finally sees the light of day π₯Ή this fic is really special and i was lowkey gatekeeping it but i feel ready to share it, plss take care of it <3 i hope you like it
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
Max Verstappen was bored.
It was late and he was alone in his hotel room. He had a race the following day and he knew better than staying up late. His team was already on his ass for sim racing at ungodly hours of the night when he had a race, but nevertheless, he was bored and not sleepy yet.
He scrolled through his phone, not really paying attention to what popped up on his Instagram feed, Tiktok for you page or Twitter timeline.
After a few minutes, his finger landed on the YouTube app, one that he barely used if he was completely honest, but for some reason he never deleted it.
A bunch of videos showed up on his main page, most of them about F1, gaming, fitness or cats. He scrolled through the thumbnails absentmindedly until one title caught his eye: "Formula 1 Drivers as Romance Book Character Tropes."
Max had no idea how that video ended up in his suggestions page. He wasn't much of a readerβhe had only read two books in his entire life, for crying out loudβ but curiosity got the better of him. He clicked on the video.
The screen shifted to a bright and lively setup, where a young woman with vibrant energy and a contagious smile greeted her viewers. "Hey everyone! Welcome back to my channel. Today, we have a fun video where I'll be pairing Formula 1 drivers with romance book tropes!"
Max found himself smiling for some reason, he thought she was really engaging and funny β and really prettyβ. He leaned back against his pillows, more intrigued by the second.
"As some of you might already know, books are not my only passion, I'm also a huge Formula 1 fan since I was a little kid thanks to my dad, so I thought it would be fun to do a little crossover of my two obsessions."
Max grinned again, finding himself oddly invested in this unexpected combination of romance literature and Formula 1. Or maybe just mesmerized by the pretty girl who was talking on his screen.
"Let's begin with Mercedes," she said, clapping her hands together, "Lewis Hamilton is definitely our 'Charming Prince Charming.' He's got the looks, the talent, and that air of royalty about him."
Max chuckled, thinking it was a fitting description for his rival.
"Now for George Russell," she continued, "I'm going with 'The Boy Next Door Who Grew Up Hot.' I mean, have you seen his glow-up?"
Max chuckled again, nodding in agreement. George had indeed transformed quite a bit since his Williams days.
"Moving on to Ferrari," she continued enthusiastically. Max wondered if that was her favorite team on the grid, "Charles Leclerc is our classic 'Childhood Best Friend You've Always Had a Crush On.' He's got that sweet, familiar charm, but with a spark that makes your heart race every time you see him."
Max raised an eyebrow, surprised by the change in description. He had to admit, it fit Charles quite well.
"And for Carlos Sainz," she paused dramatically, "he's either our 'Older Brother's Best Friend' or the 'Bad Guy Who's Mean to Everyone but His Sweetheart', just think about it, he's got that rugged exterior, but you just know he's a total sweetheart deep down."
Max laughed, realizing she had Carlos pegged perfectly. He watched with growing interest as she continued.
"Now, let's talk about McLaren," she said with a sparkle in her eye. "Lando Norris is our 'Adorkable Comedian Who Steals Your Heart.' He's funny, relatable, and has a way of making you fall for him before you even realize it," Max grinned at the description of his good friend, "And Oscar Piastri... he's 'The Shy Genius.' Quiet, reserved, but incredibly talented and intelligent. He might not be the loudest in the room, but he's someone you'd definitely want on your side."
Max nodded in agreement, thinking of how Oscar had impressed everyone since joining McLaren. She continued pairing each driver with a character trope, she described Daniel as the "Life of the Party with a Sensitive Soul," highlighting his infectious energy and hidden depths. Pierre was dubbed the "Resilient Underdog," emphasizing his ability to bounce back from setbacks. Yuki was described as the "Fiery Spitfire with a Soft Center" and Logan was labeled the "Rookie with Untapped Potential," suggesting a character arc of growth and discovery.
With each driver's description, Max's anticipation grew. He found himself eagerly awaiting his own characterization, both curious and slightly apprehensive about how the pretty girl with an obsession with books and Formula 1 would describe him.
When she finally got to Red Bull, he sat up a little straighter, his interest piqued.
"Now for Sergio Perez," she said, "he's our 'Loyal Wingman Who Deserves His Own Happy Ending.' Always there to support, but with a story of his own waiting to be told."
Max nodded, thinking it was a pretty accurate description of his teammate.
"And finally, saved the best for last," she said, her eyes twinkling, "we have Max Verstappen."
Max held his breath, oddly nervous about how this stranger would categorize him.
"Max is our 'Misunderstood Hero with a Heart of Gold,'" she said with a warm smile. "Often perceived as cold or distant, but actually deeply caring and protective of those close to him. He's the type who shows his love through actions rather than words."
Max felt his cheeks warm significantly. This description caught him completely off guard. It wasn't the usual 'aggressive driver' or 'arrogant champion' narrative he was used to hearing. Instead, it felt... true. Uncomfortably true. He wasn't sure how to feel about being seen so accurately by a stranger.
As the video ended after she said her goodbyes, Max found himself staring at his phone screen, replaying her words in his mind, his thumb hovering over the comment section. He had never left a comment on a YouTube video before, but something about this one compelled him to break that habit.
After a moment's hesitation, he tapped the comment box and began typing, Once he was done, he paused, reading over his words. It felt strange, almost vulnerable, to acknowledge her characterization of him. But there was also something liberating about it. He added a thumbs-up emoji at the end and hit 'Post' before he could second-guess himself.
As Max set his phone down and settled into bed, a small smile played on his lips. He had a important race the following day, but all he wanted to think and dream about was the pretty stranger who had somehow seen through his carefully crafted public persona.
f1gossip βI went to bed early last night. Just listened to the teamβs orders, you know?β
Max Verstappen for media day today, however he left a comment on a YouTube video around 2:46 am π
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username1 HES SOOOOO
username2 the fact that he left a comment on a BOOKTUBERβS channel MAX VERSTAPPEN YOU DONT EVEN READ BOOKS π
username3 he looks so pretty tho
username4 MAX WE ALL SAW YOU
username5 max was actually checking which romance trope is him according to booktubers
username6 HES SO RANDOM
username7 maxβs search history: lestappen as fictional couples
liked by username1, username2 and 102,438 others
ynreadsbooks in honor of max verstappen x3 world champion commenting on my latest video (which is insane to say out loud wtf) should i do another f1 themed video?? any suggestions?
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username1 YES QUEEN
username2 that max comment was so random but so real
username3 max verstappen, the man who has read two books in 27 years watching booktubers was not on my bingo card
username4 @/maxverstappen1 you favorite youtuber will do another video about you
username5 BOOKS WITH RACING THEMES
username6 books inspired by f1 circuits would be fun
username7 @/maxverstappen drop a suggestion
maxverstappen1 started following ynreadsbooks
liked by username1, username2 and 15,836 others
f1gossip Max Verstappen was seen outside of a bookshop in Monaco today !
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username1 BABYYYY
username2 max ??? bookshop ????
username3 WHAT SHIFTED
username4 he thought it was jimmyz
username5 HEELPP what is he doing there
username6 hello i work there. he arrived with a list of books in hand that he wanted, he bought around 15 action and fantasy books
If someone had told Max that this year he would spend his summer break reading, he would've laughed at their faces. Yet here he was, lounging by the pool in his Monaco house, a book in his hands and a smile on his face.
As he turned the page of "The Martian," the latest sci-fi recommendation from YN, Max couldn't help but reflect on how different this summer break was.
Usually, his days off were filled with lavish yacht parties, exclusive clubs, or intense training sessions and hours of sim racing to stay sharp for the second half of the season. But now, he found himself eagerly devouring books and spending hours chatting with YN about plots, characters, and everything in between.
As the weeks passed, Max found himself growing increasingly close to YN, despite never having met her in person. Their text conversations flowed effortlessly, ranging from in-depth discussions about the books they were reading to playful banter about racing and life in general.
Max was surprised by how much he enjoyed her company, even in this digital form. Her wit, intelligence, and genuine interest in his thoughts beyond his racing persona were refreshing. He found himself sharing things he rarely discussed with others, and looking forward to her messages became a highlight of his day.
He also thought she was absolutely gorgeous.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed with a new message from her.
Max chuckled, about to reply when he heard the doorbell. He remembered Lando and Daniel were coming over for dinner. As he got up to let them in, he quickly typed a response, telling her that he would talk to her later.
"Well, well, well," Daniel's voice boomed as Max opened the door. "If it isn't the newly minted bookworm of Formula 1!"
Lando peered around Daniel's shoulder, "I half expected to find you wearing glasses and a sweater vest, mate."
"Very funny, guys. Come in," Max rolled his eyes as he stepped away from the door.
Ever since his friends noticed his brand new habit, they took it upon themselves to tease him whenever they could. As they made their way to the backyard, Daniel spotted the book on the lounger.
"The Martian?" he read, picking it up. "Isn't this a bit advanced for your reading level, Maxy?"
"Ha ha," Max deadpanned, snatching the book back. "It's actually really good. It's about this astronaut who gets stranded on Mars and has to use science and engineering to survive-"
"Whoa, whoa," Lando interrupted, holding up his hands. "Who are you and what have you done with Max Verstappen?"
Daniel draped an arm around Max's shoulders. "I think our boy here is trying to impress a certain bookish YouTuber. What was her name again? YN?"
Max felt his cheeks warm. "It's not like that. We just... talk about books and stuff."
"And stuff," Daniel repeated, wiggling his eyebrows. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
Max rolled his eyes, trying to brush off their teasing. "Seriously, it's not like that. We just have a lot in common."
Daniel and Lando exchanged knowing glances before bursting into laughter.
"Sure, mate," Daniel said, patting Max on the back. "Whatever you say."
They settled by the pool, beers in hand, and started chatting about the upcoming races and their plans for the rest of the summer. Despite the playful ribbing, Max found himself genuinely enjoying their company. He hadnβt realized how much heβd missed his friends.
As the evening wore on, the conversation eventually circled back to Max's books and his little friend on his phone.
"So, Max," Lando started, a mischievous glint in his eye, "have you color-coded your bookshelf yet? Or are you more of a chronological order kind of guy?"
"Nah, mate. I bet he organizes them by how many times YN has mentioned them," Daniel chimed in, "Top shelf is probably her favorites, right Maxy?"
Max felt his cheeks flush, but he couldn't help grinning. "You two are impossible."
"When are you finally going to meet her in person anyway?" Lando said, sipping from his beer.
Max shrugged nonchalantly, trying to hide the slight flutter in his chest. "I don't know. That's not something I've really thought about,"
He lied. In truth, the thought of meeting YN had crossed his mind countless times. The idea of finally seeing the girl who had captivated him with her intelligence, humor, and beauty made his heart race. He'd catch himself daydreaming about her smile, wondering if it was as warm and infectious in person as it seemed in her videos. But he wasn't ready to admit that to his friends just yet.
Lando and Daniel exchanged a look, clearly not buying Max's nonchalant act.
"Oh come on," Lando scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You expect us to believe that? You've been glued to your phone for weeks, mate."
"I bet he's already planned their first date," Daniel leaned in, "What'll it be, Max? A romantic book reading by candlelight? Or maybe a visit to the library?"
Max felt his cheeks heating up again. "It's not like that, guys. We're just friends."
"Friends who talk every day and have you blushing like a schoolgirl," Lando teased, nudging Max with his elbow.
"I do not blush like a schoolgirl," Max protested, knowing full well that his face was probably bright red by now.
"Sure, sure," Daniel said with a wink. "Just friends. So, have you at least thought about inviting her to a race? You know, show her what you do when you're not reading about Mars?"
"Why would I invite her to a race, that would be weird," Max protested again, "And she already knows what I do, she's a fan of the sport."
"Man, you're so stubborn sometimes," Lando rolled his eyes at him, "If you like this girl, why don't you invite her to a race? It could be a great way to finally meet in person."
"And who said that I liked her," once again, Max's defensive self came through.
Daniel and Lando shared an exasperated look before turning back to Max.
"Come on, mate," Daniel said, his tone gentler now. "It's pretty obvious. We've never seen you this invested in someone before. Not to mention, you're reading books voluntarily for the first time since... well, ever."
"It's written all over your face," Lando said, shaking his head. "You like her, and there's no shame in that. You light up every time your phone buzzes. It's kind of adorable, actually."
Max sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew his friends were right, but admitting it out loud felt like a big step. "Okay, fine. Maybe I do like her. But it's complicated, you know? We've never even met in person."
"That's exactly why you should invite her to a race," Lando insisted. "It's the perfect opportunity. She gets to see you in your element, and you get to finally meet face-to-face."
"Plus," Daniel added with a mischievous grin, "if things go well, you can always show her your trophy collection. I hear that's a great way to impress the ladies."
Max couldn't help but laugh at that. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"
"Maybe," Daniel shrugged, "but I'm also right. What have you got to lose?"
Max pondered this for a moment. The idea of meeting YN in person both thrilled and terrified him. What if they didn't click in real life the way they did over text? But then again, what if they did?
"I'll think about it," Max finally conceded.
Lando and Daniel exchanged triumphant grins.
"That's our boy," Lando said, patting his back.
After a few more beers and food, Lando and Daniel left.
As the night deepened, Max found himself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The conversation with Lando and Daniel kept replaying in his mind. His phone sat on the nightstand, silent but somehow still demanding his attention.
Max's thoughts raced. Should he text YN? Invite her to Zandvoort? The idea made his heart beat faster. He imagined seeing her in person for the first time, wondering if her smile would be as pretty as it was in her videos. But doubt crept in too. What if things were awkward? What if the chemistry they had online didn't translate to real life?
He rolled onto his side, eyeing his phone. The urge to reach out to her was strong, as it always was. Max realized that Lando and Daniel were right - he did like her. A lot. The thought of meeting her filled him with equal parts excitement and nervousness.
Taking a deep breath, Max grabbed his phone. Before he could overthink it, he started typing.
Hey YN, hope I'm not messaging too late. I was wondering if you'd like to come to the Dutch GP at Zandvoort? It's the first race after the summer break, and my home race. Thought it might be fun if you could make it.
He hit send before he could second-guess himself. The wait for her response felt eternal. When his phone finally buzzed, Max's heart leapt.
As Max headed to Zandvoort Circuit for the Dutch Grand Prix, he felt the familiar weight of expectations settling on his shoulders.
The second half of the season loomed ahead, and the pressure to maintain his championship lead was on. He knew the team was counting on him to deliver strong results, especially at his home race where the orange-clad fans would be out in full force.
But amidst the pressure and responsibility, there was another emotion bubbling up inside him - a giddy excitement that he couldn't quite contain.
The thought of finally meeting YN in person after months of texts, calls, and shared book recommendations made his heart race in a way that had nothing to do with driving at a car at a very fast speed.
As he drove to the track, Max found himself smiling at random moments, his mind drifting to imagine what it would be like to see her smile in person, to hear her laugh without the filter of a phone call.
Max realized that for the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to a race weekend for reasons that extended beyond the track.
Unfortunately, his busy schedule kept them from meeting right away. Media commitments, team briefings, and practice sessions consumed his time, leaving him feeling frustrated and guilty for not being able to see her sooner. He sent her a quick message apologizing for the delay, promising they'd meet after qualifying.
As he made his way to the garage, a familiar voice called out behind him.
"Oi, Max! Ready for the big day?"
Max turned to see Daniel jogging up to him, his trademark grin in place.
"Yeah, should be a good quali," Max replied, trying to sound nonchalant.
Daniel raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't talking about qualifying, mate. Your special guest arrives today, right?"
Max felt his cheeks warm. "How did you even remember that?"
"Please," Daniel scoffed. "It's all you've been talking about for weeks. So, have you met her yet?"
"No, my schedule's been packed. We're supposed to meet after quali."
"Ah, saving the best for last, eh?" Daniel's grin widened, "Smart move. Nothing like the adrenaline of a good qualifying session to make a great first impression."
"Or to completely mess it up," Max muttered.
"Hey, none of that," Daniel clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll be fine. Just be yourself. She already likes you for who you are, remember?"
Max nodded, feeling a bit reassured. "Thanks, Dan."
With a deep breath, Max headed into the garage, Daniel's words echoing in his mind.
Qualifying went smoothly, with Max securing a front row start to the delight of the Dutch fans. The cheers of the home crowd were deafening as he climbed out of the car, but his mind was elsewhere.
After the post-qualifying interviews, Max sent YN a quick text letting her know that he was free now and she let him know that she was around the hospitality area.
As he walked towards there, Max spotted YN standing near one of the motorhomes, looking around with wide eyes. She hadn't seen him yet, and for a moment, Max just watched her, taking in the sight of the girl who had been on his mind for months now.
She was even more gorgeous in person than he had imagined.
Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she took in the bustling paddock around her. The way the sunlight caught her hair, the gentle curve of her smile as she observed everything with wonder - it all took Max's breath away.
He noticed little details he couldn't have seen through a screen: the way her eyes sparkled, the subtle freckles across her nose, the graceful way she moved as she looked around.
Taking a deep breath, Max walked over, his heart pounding. "YN?"
She turned, her face lighting up with a radiant smile that made Max's breath catch. "Max! Finally!"
They moved toward each other, and without hesitation, Max pulled her into a hug. The embrace felt natural, as if they'd done this a hundred times before. He was aware of how perfectly she fit in his arms, the subtle scent of her perfume, and the warmth of her body against his.
"It's so good to finally meet you," he murmured into her hair. "I'm so sorry it took so long, this weekend's been crazy."
She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with understanding in her eyes. "It's okay, Max. That qualifying was amazing! I've never experienced anything like it."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it. Come on, let me show you around."
He took her hand and he was struck by how natural it felt. Her fingers intertwined with his perfectly, and a warm sensation spread from their joined hands throughout his body.
They strolled through the paddock, Max pointing out the various team motorhomes, the garages, and the media center. YN was all wide-eyed fascination, asking questions and soaking in every detail. As they walked, Max found himself relaxing more and more, his previous nerves about their chemistry being gone fading away.
As they rounded a corner, they nearly bumped into Lando Norris. Who couldn't help but smirk at the sight of their hands intertwined.
"You guys met already!" he cheerfully said, "You must be YN."
Her cheeks flushed, clearly surprised that Max had mentioned her to his friends. Max felt a warmth spread through his chest at her reaction.
"Yeah, this is YN," Max said, unable to keep the smile off his face, "Meet Lando, the perpetual pain in my ass."
"Nice to finally meet the girl who's got Max reading," YN laughed, and Lando extended his hand, "Quite the accomplishment."
"Nice to meet you too, Lando," YN said, shaking his hand. "I've enjoyed watching you race, I'm a big fan. Congrats on the pole position."
"Cheers," Lando replied, then turned to Max with a mischievous glint in his eye. "So, has he bored you with car talk yet, or has he actually remembered how to discuss books?"
Max rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Shouldn't you be preparing for tomorrow, Lando?"
"Alright, alright, I can take a hint," Lando chuckled. "Enjoy your tour, lovebirds!"
As Lando walked away, Max felt a mix of embarrassment and pleasure. He glanced at YN, relieved to see her smiling.
"Sorry about him," Max said, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Lando has a way of making everything awkward."
YN laughed softly, her eyes twinkling. "It's fine. He seems like fun."
They continued their walk, finally making their way to the rooftop terrace of the Red Bull hospitality area. The view was stunning, offering a panoramic look at the circuit and the sea of orange-clad fans below.
"This is incredible," YN said, leaning against the railing and taking it all in. "Thank you for showing me around, Max."
"Of course," Max said, standing beside her. "I'm really glad you could come."
They stood there for a moment, enjoying the view and each other's company. Max felt a sense of contentment wash over him, the stress of the weekend melting away in her presence.
"Max," YN said softly, turning to face him. "I know this weekend is important for you, and I don't want to be a distraction. But I'm really happy to be here and to finally meet you."
"You're not a distraction," Max replied, reaching out to take her hand again. "You're the best part of this weekend, honestly."
They shared a smile, Max was well aware of the butterflies that fluttered on his stomach and the high school girl blush his friends teased him about, but he didn't care. He felt happy with the pretty girl who had been his source of comfort for months, finally face to face.
"You know," YN said softly, "when I made that video calling you a misunderstood hero with a heart of gold, I never imagined I'd get to see it firsthand. But being here, seeing how you are with your team, with the fans⦠I was right about you, Max Verstappen."
Max felt a warmth spread through his chest at her words. He had always been guarded about his public image, but hearing her perspective meant more than he could ever imagine.
"I'm glad you think so," he said softly, his voice filled with sincerity. "You know, that video... it changed things for me. Not just because it led to us talking, but because it made me reflect on a lot of things."
"Who would've thought," YN said with a smile, "When I recorded that video, I never thought you would ever see it, let alone have an impact on you and let alone lead us to talking and me being here."
When it came time for YN to leave the Netherlands, Max insisted on driving her to the airport himself. The car ride was filled with comfortable silence and soft conversation, both of them trying to stretch out their remaining time together.
Despite their short time together, Max found himself completely smitten, captivated by YN's intelligence, humor, and the way her eyes lit up when she talked about books or reacted to the thrill of the race.
He didn't want to admit it to himself, but he was head over heels for her.
As they stood in the departure terminal, Max felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her. He hesitated, his heart racing, but ultimately settled for a long, warm hug, breathing in her scent and committing it to memory. As he watched her walk through security, he already found himself missing her presence.
Now, a week later, Max was in Monza for the Italian Grand Prix. The day had been busy with media commitments and team meetings. Finally back in the quiet of his motorhome, Max flopped onto the couch, feeling drained but content. Without thinking, he reached for his phone and hit the FaceTime button next to YN's name.
Her smiling face appeared on the screen, and Max felt an immediate surge of warmth.
"Hey, you," she said, her voice soft and welcoming even through the phone's speakers.
"Hey," Max replied, unable to keep the grin off his face. "How's your day been?"
"Oh, you know, the usual. Editing videos, reading, missing the excitement of the paddock," YN teased. "How about you? Surviving the media circus?"
"Barely," Max groaned dramatically, "I swear, if I have to answer one more question about RedBull and their big mess, I might go mad."
YN laughed, the sound making Max's heart skip a beat. "Poor Max. Whatever shall we do to take your mind off your beloved team?"
"Well," Max said, shifting to get more comfortable, "I've been reading that new sci-fi book you recommended. 'The Martian-like Odyssey to Titan,' or whatever it's called."
"'Project Hail Mary,'" she corrected, "And? What do you think so far?"
"It's incredible!" Max's eyes lit up, "I mean, the science is fascinating, and the way the main character problem-solves is just... I don't know, it reminds me a bit of what we do in racing, you know? Constantly adapting, finding solutions on the fly."
"That's exactly why I thought you'd like it! The way Andy Weir writes about scientific problem-solving is so engaging."
They dove into an animated discussion about the book, Max marveling at how easily conversation flowed between them, how YN's passion for books was infectious. As they talked, a thought that had been brewing in Max's mind for days suddenly surfaced.
"YN," Max said, his voice softer than before. "There's actually something I've been wanting to ask you."
"Oh? What is it, Max?" she tilted her head, curiosity evident in her expression.
Max took a deep breath, suddenly feeling like he was about to qualify for a crucial race. "Well, I was wondering... have you ever been to Monaco?"
"No, actually, I haven't," YN's eyebrows raised in surprise, "It's always been on my travel wish list, though. Why do you ask?"
Max felt his heart rate pick up. He'd rehearsed this moment in his head countless times over the past few days, but now that it was here, he found himself fumbling for words.
"Well, you see, I have a two-week break coming up before the Baku GP, and I was thinking... maybe... if you're free, of course, and if you'd like to... you could come visit me in Monaco?"
The words tumbled out faster than he intended, and Max felt a blush creeping up his neck. He watched YN's face carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. His mind raced with possibilities - what if she said no? What if this was too forward?
YN's eyes widened, and for a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. "Oh, Max, that's... wow. That's really sweet of you to offer."
Max, sensing a hint of hesitation, quickly added, "You could stay at my place. I have plenty of room, and it would be great to have you around. Plus I have two adorable cats that I'm sure you'd love."
YN's expression softened, a mix of excitement and uncertainty in her eyes. "That sounds amazing, Max. But⦠are you sure? I wouldn't want to impose on your personal space or your time off."
Truth was, Max wanted to spent every free moment he had with her, but he wasn't sure how to let her know without sounding too forward or like a creep, so he just pressed on.
"You wouldn't be imposing at all, I promise. I really want us to spend more time together, away from the craziness of the race weekends. And I'd love to show you around Monaco."
He watched as YN bit her lip, considering his offer. The silence stretched for a moment, and Max found himself holding his breath.
"If you're not comfortable staying at my place," he added quickly, "I could book you a hotel room, or there are some great Airbnbs with amazing views of the harbor. Whatever makes you feel most at ease. I just⦠I really want to see you again."
As he spoke, Max realized just how true his words were. The thought of having YN in his space, sharing meals, exploring the city together - it filled him with a warmth he couldn't quite describe. It was more than just attraction; there was a comfort in her presence that he craved.
YN smiled, a warm look in her eyes. "You really mean that, don't you?"
"I do. Look, I know it might seem like a big ask, but I just... I can't stop thinking about how much fun we have together. And Monaco is beautiful this time of year. We could go for drives along the coast, have dinner at some amazing restaurants, or just relax by the pool if you prefer. No pressure, just... us. And well, the cats."
Max held his breath, waiting for her response. The thought of having YN in Monaco, of being able to spend uninterrupted time with her away from the pressures of the race weekend, made his heart soar. He imagined showing her his favorite spots in the city, maybe taking her out on his boat, or just lounging by the pool and talking for hours.
"Alright, Verstappen, you've convinced me. But I have one condition."
"Name it." Max grinned, relief and excitement washing over him.
"If I'm staying at your place, you have to let me cook my infamous waffles for breakfast. They're a secret family recipe, and I guarantee they'll be the best you've ever tasted."
"Deal," Max's smile widened, a burst of joy exploding in his chest. "But I warn you, I take my waffles very seriously. They better live up to the hype."
"Oh, they will. And I can't wait to meet the cats."
As they continued to chat and make plans for YN's visit, Max felt a warmth spreading through his chest. The prospect of having YN in his home, of waking up and knowing she was just in the next room, of being able to spend lazy mornings together over homemade waffles - it all seemed almost too good to be true.
He found himself imagining what it would be like to have her there. Would she curl up on his couch with a book? Would they watch the sunset from his terrace? Would he finally get the courage to kiss her?
The thought made his heart race. He remembered the moment at the airport when he had wanted so badly to kiss her goodbye. This time, he promised himself, he wouldn't let the opportunity pass by.
The day of YN's arrival in Monaco had finally come, and Max felt like a giddy teenager preparing for his first date.
In the days leading up to YN's visit, Max had found himself unusually preoccupied with preparations. He wanted everything to be perfect for YN's stay. He'd bought new sheets for the guest bedroom, making sure they were the softest he could find. He'd stocked the fridge with an array of foods, unsure of her preferences but making sure to have options. He'd even gone so far as to buy a small collection of books he thought she might enjoy, arranging them carefully on the nightstand in her room.
The morning of her arrival, Max woke up early, his stomach a knot of excitement and nerves. He double-checked everything one last time - fresh towels in the bathroom, extra toiletries in case she forgot anything, a vase of fresh flowers on the kitchen counter to brighten up the space. He felt almost silly with how much effort he was putting in, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted everything to be perfect for the girl he was smitten with.
As the time to leave for the airport approached, Max found himself pacing, checking his watch every few minutes. He'd planned the route to the airport meticulously, factoring in potential traffic to make sure he'd be there in plenty of time. Just as he was about to grab his keys and head out, the doorbell rang.
Confused, Max paused. He wasn't expecting anyone - he'd made sure to clear his schedule completely for YN's visit. Frowning slightly, he opened the door to find Lando standing there, a wide grin on his face.
"Lando? What are you doing here?" Max asked, glancing at his watch.
"What, can't a mate drop by for a visit?" Lando replied, trying to peer past Max into the apartment. "Thought we could hang out, maybe play some FIFA."
Max shifted awkwardly, blocking the doorway. "Lando, mate, I'm actually just about to head out. I can't hang out right now."
"Oh, come on," Lando's grin faltered slightly, "Just for a bit? We haven't had a proper catch-up in ages."
"I'm sorry, I really can't," Max insisted, glancing at his watch nervously. "I have to pick up a friend from the airport."
Lando's eyes narrowed suspiciously, a mischievous glint appearing. "A friend, huh? Is it that your book dream girl? You're flying her out over here?"
Max felt his face heat up, a blush creeping up his neck. He tried to deny it, but his reaction gave him away.
"It is! Oh man, this is brilliant," Lando's eyes widened in delight, "Max Verstappen, blushing like a schoolboy over a girl."
"Shut up," Max grumbled, but there was no real annoyance in his voice. He couldn't help but smile.
"So, YN is finally gracing Monaco with her presence," Lando teased. "No wonder you've been so distracted lately. When do I get to hang out with her?"
"You don't," Max rolled his eyes, "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go."
"Alright, alright," Lando stepped aside, still grinning. "But I want details later, yeah? And tell YN I said hi."
Max waved him off, hurrying to his car. Despite Lando's teasing, he couldn't wipe the smile off his face. The excitement was bubbling up inside him again as he drove to the airport.
As he parked and made his way to the arrivals area, Max felt his nerves almost making him want to throw up. He found himself fidgeting, alternating between pacing and sitting, his eyes glued to the arrivals board.
Finally, he saw that YN's flight had landed. His heart rate picked up as he watched the doors, scanning the crowd for her familiar face. And then, suddenly, there she was.
YN emerged from the arrivals gate, looking a bit tired from the journey but still radiant. Her eyes scanned the crowd, and when they landed on Max, her face lit up with a brilliant smile.
Max felt his breath catch in his throat. He raised his hand in a small wave, a grin spreading across his face as he walked towards her.
"Hey, Max," she said as she reached him, her voice warm and slightly breathless.
"Hey," he replied, suddenly feeling shy. "How was your flight?"
Without thinking, he pulled her into a hug. As he wrapped his arms around her, breathing in the scent of her hair, he felt a sense of rightness wash over him. It was as if all the pieces were falling into place.
"It was good, just long," she hugged him back tightly. "I'm so glad to be here though."
As they pulled apart, Max found himself reluctant to let go completely. He kept one hand on her back as he reached for her suitcase with the other. "Here, let me get that for you."
"Always the gentleman," YN teased, but her smile was soft and appreciative.
As they walked towards the exit, Max found himself stealing glances at her, still hardly believing she was really here. "So, um, I thought we could grab some lunch if you're hungry? Or if you're tired, we can head straight to my place so you can rest."
YN considered for a moment. "Lunch sounds great, actually. I'm starving, and I'm too excited to sleep just yet. I want to see Monaco."
Max chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through his chest at her enthusiasm. "Lunch it is then. I know just the place β it has a great view of the harbor."
As they made their way to Max's car, chatting easily about YN's flight and Max's plans for her visit, Max felt a sense of contentment he hadn't experienced in a long time. The nervousness from earlier had melted away, replaced by pure happiness.
Loading YN's suitcase into the trunk, Max caught her eye and smiled. "I'm really glad you're here, YN."
She returned his smile, her eyes sparkling. "Me too, Max. Me too."
Three days had passed since YN's arrival in Monaco, and Max couldn't remember a time when he'd been happier.
True to her word, YN had cooked her infamous waffles for breakfast on the second morning of her stay. As Max had taken his first bite, his eyes had widened in surprise and delight. The waffles were light and crispy on the outside, yet fluffy on the inside, with a perfect balance of sweetness and a hint of vanilla. He'd declared them the best he'd ever tasted, earning a proud smile from her.
The days that followed had been filled with laughter, conversation, and exploration. They'd spent hours by Max's pool, talking about everything and nothing. YN would often bring a book, reading aloud passages that she found particularly interesting or amusing, while Max listened, content to hear her voice and watch the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about something she loved.
They'd explored Monaco together, with Max showing YN his favorite spots and discovering new ones together. He'd taken her to the Monte Carlo Casino, where they'd marveled at the architecture and people-watched. They'd strolled through the streets of Monaco-Ville, the old town, where YN had been enchanted by the colorful buildings. They'd even spent an afternoon at the Oceanographic Museum, where YN's enthusiasm for learning had been infectious, and Max had found himself just as excited as she was about the marine life exhibits.
Throughout it all, Max felt himself falling deeper for her. It wasn't just her beauty or her intelligence that captivated him, but the way she saw the world. Her curiosity, her kindness, her ability to find joy in the smallest things - it all made Max see his surroundings through new eyes. He found himself noticing details he'd never paid attention to before, appreciating moments he might have otherwise overlooked.
What struck Max most was how easy and right it all felt. There was no pressure, no awkwardness. Being with YN was as natural as breathing. They could talk for hours without running out of things to say, but they were also comfortable in silence, simply enjoying each other's presence.
As they returned from another long day of exploring the city, both Max and YN retreated to their respective rooms to change into more comfortable clothing. Max opted for a soft t-shirt and sweatpants, relishing the feeling of being relaxed and at ease in his own home.
When he emerged from his room, he found YN already settled on his couch, her legs tucked under her, a book in her hands and one of his cats curling beside her. She was wearing one the t-shirt she picked the night she arrived when she realized she forgot to pack pajamas. It was too big for her frame but Max felt like melting knowing she was wearing his shirt.
The sight made Max's heart skip a beat. There was something so intimate and domestic about the scene - YN looking completely at home in his space, in his clothes, absorbed in a book as if she'd always been there.
Max couldn't help but smile, a warmth spreading through his chest. He found himself wanting this view in his life every day - coming home to find YN there, comfortable and content. The thought both thrilled and terrified him. He'd never felt this way about anyone before, never wanted to intertwine his life so completely with another person's.
YN looked up from her book, catching Max's gaze. Her lips curved into a soft smile. "Hey. Want to join me?"
Without hesitation, Max crossed the room. Instead of sitting next to her, he surprised both of them by lying down on the couch and resting his head in her lap. He looked up at her, his eyes vulnerable. "Would you read to me?"
YN's expression softened, her eyes twinkling with affection. "Of course," she said, her free hand moving to gently run her fingers through his hair.
Max closed his eyes, reveling in the sensation. He felt her shift slightly, getting comfortable, and then her voice filled the air, soft and melodious as she began to read.
Max's lips curved into a smile. "Emma," he murmured. "I remember you mentioning it was one of your favorites."
YN paused her reading, looking down at him with surprise and pleasure. "You remembered that?"
"Of course," Max opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. "I remember everything you tell me."
A huge grin appeared in YN's face, and she bent down to press a soft kiss to Max's forehead. The gesture was so natural, so tender, that it made Max's heart flutter.
As she continued to read, her fingers still combing through his hair, Max found himself only half-listening to the words. Instead, he was acutely aware of every point of contact between them - the warmth of her lap under his head, the gentle touch of her fingers, the soft cadence of her voice washing over him.
In that moment, Max realized with startling clarity that this was what he wanted for the rest of his life. Not just the glamour of racing or the thrill of victory, but this - quiet moments of intimacy, the comfort of being with someone who understood him, who made him want to be better.
He reached up, gently taking YN's free hand in his own, intertwining their fingers. She paused in her reading, looking down at him with a question in her eyes.
"YN," Max said softly, his voice filled with emotion. "I'm really glad you're here."
She squeezed his hand, her smile radiant. "So am I, Max. So am I."
As she resumed reading, her voice mixing with the soft sound of the Mediterranean breeze outside, Max closed his eyes again, a sense of peace settling over him. Whatever the future held, he knew that this moment, this feeling, was something he'd cherish forever.
As the final day of YN's stay in Monaco dawned, Max found himself feeling so many bittersweet emotions. The past week had been nothing short of magical, and the thought of it coming to an end left a hollow feeling in his chest. She hadn't even left yet, and already he missed her.
For their final day, Max had decided to take YN out on his yacht. He wanted their last hours together to be special, just the two of them away from the bustling streets of Monaco. As they prepared for the day, packing a picnic and gathering sunscreen and towels, Max couldn't help but reflect on the past week.
Daniel and Lando had teased him mercilessly about his sudden disappearance from their usual hangouts. They'd made jokes about Max being "whipped" and how he'd fallen hard for his "YouTube dream girl." But Max didn't care. He was too happy, too caught up in the bubble of joy that surrounded him and YN.
As they boarded the yacht, the Mediterranean stretching out before them in shades of turquoise, Max felt a pang in his chest. This perfect week was coming to an end, and he wasn't sure he was ready to face reality again.
Once they were out on the open water. YN leaned over the railing, a look of wonder on her face.
"This is incredible, Max," she said, turning to him with a dazzling smile. "I can't believe I'm here, experiencing all of this."
Max moved to stand beside her, their shoulders brushing. "I'm going to miss you," he said softly, "This week has been⦠I don't even have words for it."
"I'm going to miss you too, Max. So much. But you know I have to go back home. I have videos to make for my channel, work stuff to catch up onβ¦"
Max nodded, understanding but not liking it. "Maybe you could make a video about 'A Week with an F1 Driver'? I'm sure your subscribers would love that."
YN laughed, playfully shoving his shoulder. "Oh yes, I'm sure that would go over well. 'Day 3: Watched Max eat his bodyweight in pasta. Day 5: Learned that F1 drivers are actually big babies when they lose at Mario Kart.'"
"I am not a baby!" Max gasped in mock offense. "I'm just⦠competitive."
"Uh-huh, sure," she teased, her eyes twinkling. "Is that why you pouted for an hour after I beat you?"
"I did not pout," Max protested, but he was grinning.
"You know, it's still surreal to me that a random video I published got us here. If someone had told me a year ago that I'd be spending a week in Monaco with Max Verstappen, I would have laughed in their face."
Max reached out, caressing her cheek softly. "I'm glad you made that video," he said softly. "I'm glad I stumbled across it. I can't imagine not knowing you now."
As they stood together on the boat, the gentle rocking of the waves mirroring the tumultuous emotions within them, Max found his gaze drawn to YN's lips. They were slightly parted, soft and inviting. His heart raced as he lifted his eyes to meet hers, a silent question in his gaze.
YN's eyes, warm and full of affection, met his. A small, knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth, and in that moment, it was all the permission Max needed.
With a gentle tug, he pulled her closer, one hand coming to rest on the small of her back while the other cupped her cheek. Time seemed to slow as he leaned in, their breaths mingling in the space between them. And then, finally, their lips met.
The kiss was tender at first, a soft exploration. But as YN's arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair, it deepened into something more passionate. Max poured all of his pent-up emotions into the kiss - his joy, his longing, his hope for what they could be.
When they finally parted, YN's eyes were sparkling. "You know," she said, a playful tone to her voice, "I've been waiting for you to do that all week."
Max couldn't help but laugh, a mixture of relief and happiness bubbling up inside him. "Really? All week, huh?"
"Mmhmm," she nodded, her smile widening. "I was starting to think I'd have to make the first move myself."
"Well," Max said, his voice low and teasing, "allow me to make up for lost time."
With that, he pulled her in for another kiss. This one was different from the first - more confident, more passionate. His hands roamed her back, pulling her flush against him as her fingers tangled in his hair. The world around them faded away until there was nothing but the two of them, the taste of salt on their lips, and the warmth of the setting sun on their skin.
When they broke apart this time, both were slightly dazed. Max rested his forehead against YN's, unwilling to put any distance between them.
"I really like you," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "More than I've ever liked anyone before. This week with you⦠it's been incredible. I don't want it to end."
YN's hand came up to cup his cheek, her thumb gently stroking his skin. "I really like you too, Max," she replied, her voice equally soft. "These past few days have been like a dream."
Max pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. "I know you have to go back, but⦠I want to make this work. Us, I mean. If that's something you want too."
"I do want that. Very much. It might not be easy with our schedules and the distance, but I think you're worth it."
"We'll figure it out," he said, determination clear in his voice. "I'll come visit you when I can, and you can come to some of my races. We'll make time for video calls, and I'll text you so much you'll get sick of me."
YN laughed, the sound like music to Max's ears. "I don't think I could ever get sick of you," she said, her eyes twinkling. "But I'm holding you to that promise about the races. I expect VIP treatment, Mr. Verstappen."
Max grinned, pulling her close again. "For you? Always," he murmured, before capturing her lips in another kiss.
The month following YN's stay in Monaco had been blissful happiness for both YN and Max. Their parting at the airport had been bittersweet, filled with lingering kisses and tight embraces. They had spent a good hour cuddling in Max's car in the airport parking lot, neither wanting to let go.
"I'm going to miss you so much," YN had whispered, her face buried in the crook of Max's neck.
Max had tightened his arms around her, breathing in her scent. "I'll miss you too. But we'll see each other soon, I promise."
When they finally managed to separate, their goodbye kiss had been passionate and filled with promise. As Max watched her disappear into the airport, he already felt a piece of his heart leaving with her.
In the weeks that followed, they took every opportunity to be together. Max would fly to YN's home during his breaks between races, often arriving exhausted but immediately revitalized by her presence.
Their reunions were always intense, filled with desperate kisses and roaming hands as they made up for lost time. But it was the quiet moments that Max treasured most - waking up with YN in his arms, her sleepy smile the first thing he saw; cooking breakfast together, stealing kisses between flipping pancakes; or simply sitting in comfortable silence, each lost in their own tasks but finding comfort in the other's presence.
Now, as they walked hand in hand through the paddock in Austin for the USA Grand Prix, Max felt a sense of pride and joy unlike anything he'd experienced before. Having YN by his side at a race weekend, this time as more than just a friend, felt right in a way he couldn't fully express.
"This is incredible, Max," YN breathed, squeezing his hand. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it."
Max grinned, his heart swelling with affection. He loved seeing the paddock through her eyes, rediscovering the magic that he sometimes took for granted.
"Wait until you see the track," he said, pulling her closer. "And the sound when all the cars start up⦠there's nothing like it."
They paused for a moment, watching as a group of mechanics wheeled a set of tires past them. Max took the opportunity to really look at his girl. She was radiant in the sunlight, her hair catching the light and her eyes sparkling with excitement. He couldn't resist leaning in to place a soft kiss on her cheek.
YN turned to him, a playful smile on her lips. "What was that for?"
"Do I need a reason to kiss my girl?" Max replied, his voice low and teasing.
She laughed, the sound music to his ears. "I suppose not. But maybe save some for later? We are in public, after all."
"You're killing me," Max groaned dramatically. "How am I supposed to focus on racing when you look like that?"
"Oh, I'm sure you'll manage," YN teased, patting his chest. "After all, I hear you're quite good at this driving thing."
Their playful banter was interrupted by a familiar voice calling out. "Oi, Verstappen! Finally decided to grace us with your presence?"
Max turned to see Daniel approaching, his trademark grin in place. Lando was close behind, an equally mischievous look on his face.
"Hey guys," Max greeted, unconsciously pulling YN closer. "You remember YN, right?"
"Ah yes," Daniel's grin widened. "Nice to see you again, love."
"It's great to see you too, Daniel," she smiled warmly. "And you, Lando."
Lando's eyes darted between Max and YN, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "So, Max, finally managed to seal the deal, huh?"
Max felt his cheeks heat up, but before he could respond, YN jumped in.
"Oh, he did more than that," she said, her tone light but with a hint of something that made Max's pulse quicken. "He's been quite⦠impressive."
Daniel let out a low whistle while Lando burst into laughter. Max couldn't help but join in, marveling at how effortlessly YN fit into his world.
As they chatted, Max couldn't keep his hands off YN. He found himself constantly touching her - a hand on the small of her back, playing with her fingers, rubbing her arm softly. Each touch was like a spark, reminding him of their passionate reunions over the past month.
He thought back to their last meeting, just a week ago. He had flown to her place straight after he was done with some meetings in Monaco, exhausted but desperate to see her. The moment he stepped through her door, all fatigue had vanished. They had barely made it to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in their wake. The memory of her skin against his, the taste of her lips, the sound of her gasps and moans⦠it was enough to make him want to whisk her away to his motorhome right now.
Max was pulled from his thoughts by the approach of another familiar face. Charles Leclerc was walking towards them, his trademark charming smile in place.
"Max! Good to see you, man," Charles said, clapping Max on the shoulder before turning his attention to YN. "And who might this lovely lady be?"
Without hesitation, the words tumbled from Max's lips: "This is YN, my girlfriend."
He felt the girl stiffen slightly beside him, and for a moment, panic flared in his chest. Had he overstepped? They hadn't explicitly discussed labels yet. But when he glanced at YN, she was smiling warmly at Charles, her hand still firmly in Max's.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Charles," YN said, shaking his hand.
Charles raised an eyebrow at Max, a hint of surprise in his expression. "The pleasure is all mine. I hope you're enjoying your time in the paddock."
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, they parted ways. Max led YN towards his driver's room. Once inside the relative privacy of the small space, YN turned to him, a playful glint in her eye.
"Girlfriend, huh?" she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something Max couldn't quite identify.
Max felt a flutter of nervousness in his stomach. "Iβ¦ yeah. I mean, if that's okay? I know we haven't really talked about it, butβ¦"
YN stepped closer, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. "It's more than okay, Max. I was just surprised. We've been in this beautiful bubble, and hearing you say it out loud⦠it made it feel real in a way it hasn't before."
Max let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. His hands found their way to YN's waist, pulling her closer. "It is real," he said softly. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. Feels like you're everything."
Her eyes softened, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. "You're everything to me too, Max. I love you."
The words hung in the air between them for a moment, both realizing it was the first time either had said it. Then Max surged forward, capturing YN's lips in a kiss that was equal parts tender and passionate.
When they broke apart. Max rested his forehead against YN's, his eyes closed as he savored the moment.
"I love you too," he whispered. "God, YN, I love you so much."
YN's answering smile was radiant and she pulled him in for another kiss.
"So," he said, his voice husky, "ready to watch your boyfriend win a race?"
YN laughed, the sound filling the small space and Max's heart. "Always," she replied. "My misunderstood hero with a heart of gold."
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