maxy

max (is my actual name) | she/her | 22

[ricciardostuff]

Daniel Ricciardo | headers ♡

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requests are always open.

[formulaheaders]

max verstappen

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©chicagoricc

[absolutelynotmate-archive]

said something stupid, instead of 'i love you.'- c.leclerc

can't we just act like we never broke each other's hearts? pairing: charles leclerc x female reader word count: 26.9k (my bad fr fr) warnings: 18+ minors dni, protected sex, oral sex, google translated french. tw: charles' 2022 season (including france) a/n: this is something, that's for certain. good or bad is yet to be decided.

You’d texted him two weeks before the season opener. It was short, simple, and a huge overstep, one you promised yourself years ago you’d never make. Do you have any extra paddock passes? He’d said yes, and you begrudgingly asked if you could have an extra, if you could bring a guest, a boyfriend, Michael. He’s a big fan, of Charles and of Formula One. I really want to impress him.

Michael’s been impatiently itching to meet Charles since he spotted a photo of the two of you in your living room. You thought you’d taken them all down before he came over, but, you missed one. He’s sort of a Ferrari fan-boy, an Italian whose transplanted himself to Monte Carlo. You’d been putting off the meeting as long as possible, forced to consider if Michael actually liked you, or if he just wanted to know Charles. It wasn’t easy, to keep them apart. It was winter break, and Charles was in Monaco too much to be easily avoided. There’s a lot of verbiage that is used to describe home, vast is not one of them. 

You feel strangely out of place with someone else to look after in the paddock. Ferrari hospitality had been your home away from home for years now, the way you followed him around the globe like a helicopter parent that first year he wore red. The paddock was always different, but maintained a comfortable familiarity, recognizable faces, names, buildings and colors. Michael was wide-eyed and curious and you smiled at the way the sun bounced off his hair, the excitement he couldn’t contain when amongst the chaos you’d become accustomed to. His presence, though, felt intrusive on something that had, for so long, been just yours. 

Arthur’s familiar voice calls your name, over the bustling hum of different important and wealthy figures. You grin when your eyes meet his, stand up from the leather sofa you’re seated on, give him, and Pascale, big hugs. Charles told me you brought someone? She asked, voice sweet and curious. 

Her tone was contrasted by Arthur’s quip asking where your arm-candy had run off to, wiggling his brows and searching the room for a man he’d never seen. He’s oblivious to the glare Pascale shoots into the side of his head. 

You explain that he’s in the bathroom, check your watch. “Have you seen Charles today?” It’s not like him to not stop by and say hello, to check in and make sure you’re still enjoying yourself–or that you’re still capable of pretending you are. You wonder if he’s avoiding you, annoyed by the presence of your guest, a guest he doesn’t know. It’s unheard of, you asking for passes. It’s literally never happened. You’d asked about the possibility of one for yourself, back when he was with Sauber, and he’s maintained that you have an open invite since. 

“We were just with him.” Arthur says.

“How is he?” You ask, because he might be mad at you, but also because you know him. His brain works like clockwork. Two hours before a race, right now, he’ll be doubting himself, doubting the car, doubting himself again. In his moments of downtime, before he’s swept up into the chaos of it all, his brain will pick itself apart with nervousness. You think it’s endearing, his nerves. They remind you that he’s still Charles at times where he feels so grand and invincible. 

“He’s good.” Arthur says, because between crucifying jokes and mockings of his big brother, Arthur idolizes him. He’s none the wiser to Charles’ anxieties and insecurities because he’s never looking for him, blind confidence in the man he’ll never admit is his biggest role model. You look to Pascale, who understands the depth of your question, and get a reaffirming nod. 

Arthur diggs two sticker tags from his pocket, full grid access. “For you.” He says, fastening one onto your lanyard. “And for the boy.” He holds out the other, presents it like a crown jewel. You sigh, snatch it from his hand and shove it into your pocket. You hate watching races in the garage, with all the hyper-wealthy motherfuckers who buy their way in. You always feel like you don’t belong. Like, no matter where you move, you’re always in someone more important’s way. Your limbs don’t feel like your own, unable to settle, so close to the comfort of your best friend yet miles away from his occupied mind. 

“What’s going on?” Michael asks, airy tone in direct conflict to his hand on the small of your back, tense with envy. He’s silently laying claim to you, reminding you who you belong to, and you almost laugh at the thought of someone being threatened by Arthur. Charles, you could see. Charles, you’ve had that argument about before. Arthur, though? Arthur, who slept with his ratty blanket until he was sixteen, who lost not one, but two pet goldfish in the span of a year. Arthur, who is very happily in love with the sweetest girl to ever grace this Earth. 

“C’est lui?” Arthur asks, tone bored. “Il est vieux.”

“This is him.” You say, through gritted teeth, introduce them all formally and sit by as an observer in their conversation. The lowlight was Arthur’s mention of grid access, and Michael’s giddiness at watching the race in the garage. You knew then that you’d be uncomfortable well into the night. 

You end up in the garage during the driver’s parade. “Don’t touch anything.” You told Michael, the same warning Charles had given you the first time he brought you through a garage. The warning you give was less for your boyfriend, and more for you, who is desperate to run a hand over the red chassis, to memorize every detail of it. If you do, you might feel more comfortable when he’s inside, might be able to pretend you understand the concepts he casually mentions over dinner. 

You squeal like a child when you see Isa, hugging her tight and spilling all the details of your lives since Abu Dhabi last year. You introduce her to Michael, who says he’s a big fan of Carlos. Joris tugs on your ponytail, appearing with Andrea, who kisses your cheek, tells you Charles is going to be so happy to see you in the garage. You roll your eyes. 

Charles is heard before he is seen, a loud laugh, a familiar voice calling out your name as soon as he turned the corner. He’s probably just as surprised to see you in here as you are uncomfortable about it. When you hug him, the knotted waist of his overalls digs into you awkwardly. “You’re warm.” You say, peeling your body from his sweaty form. 

“It’s hot.” He says, runs a hand through his salty hair.

“They shouldn’t make you wear all this during the parade.” You said, and he shrugged it off, asked where your guy was. You look around, search the garage for him. He can’t be far, and surely he’s gawking from one corner or another. If not at the sight of Charles Leclerc, Formula One driver, than at Charles, a man, whose hand hovers just behind the small of your back. 

Two hands, two separate distinctions. One, possessive and impossible to ignore. The other, protective, almost goes unnoticed. For a few breaths, your shoulders are relaxed, but then his hand is gone, shaking Michael’s. “Good to meet you, Mate.” Charles says, and the whole place feels like a straightjacket again.

– – 

You stand next to Isa, your hands wrapped nervously around each other’s the entire race, watching monitors and listening in on the headsets. “Carlos says the cars have it this year.” She says, while the guys are lining up in their starting spots. It feels like everyone at Ferrari has been chasing it, whatever it is, for a decade. Every year is the year, and every year, you’re begging Charles not to base his self-worth on a bad race or a bad season. You’ll believe in him until your last breath, but your glass of Ferrari is never going to be half-full.

Charles and Max, Max and Charles, Charles and Max. They flip flop positions lap after lap. When it seems like he’s settled in, you allow yourself to breathe. The universe has never allowed him comfort, though. Enter, safety car. The replay is on the screen, and your heart pangs for Pierre, watching his dash go black in system failure. Your heart aches for Charles, though, and the forty-six laps of hard work that was erased just like that. 

Max races like Max, inching closer and closer to Charles, practically lining up next to him. You’re rearing up for a dogfight, but Max fucks up. You don’t know what he did, why he did it, and it doesn’t seem like anyone else does either. It doesn’t matter, though, because Charles is gone. Something in you settles, sure and confident, even if it’s not over yet. You hear murmurs, celebrations, Max is retiring. Charles is going to win.

A Ferrari one-two to start the season. Your smile is so big your cheeks ache. Under the lights, watching him up on the top step, listening to your national anthem, you allow yourself to hope, to buy into the hype everyone else is swearing by. 

His skin shines brighter than his smile, sparkling with whatever lemon-lime soda they’d filled the champagne bottles with this year. You have a momentary lapse, consider what his skin would taste like, sweaty and sticky and sweet. Michael’s presence, his arms caging you in between him and the barricade, assures that the thought is nothing more than a passing one. 

He hugs you when he makes the rounds, being whisked away to whatever media responsibilities he had to fulfill before he heads to the debrief. Sweat and seven-up soaked, he’s running on pure adrenaline, squeezing you so tight you struggle to breathe. 

– –

You shower back at the hotel, wash his hug down the drain with the rest of the race anxiety. He takes everyone out to dinner late that night; Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale, Andrea, Joris, Michael, and you. It’s a tradition. No matter how late or early in the day it happened. A podium, a celebratory dinner. Like always. 

The air is light, happy conversations flow from smiling faces, filling the room with laughter and excitement and hope. You’re sandwiched between your boyfriend and your best friend. Charles’ arm throws itself around your shoulder when Lorenzo retells a story meant to embarrass you. Michael reacts accordingly, hand on your thigh, fingers digging into your skin. They’re fighting over you and only one of them knows it. 

Charles is engaged in conversation, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to have bruises in your leg by the time you go to sleep tonight. You nudge Charles’ foot with yours, his head turns before his eyes, lingering on Andrea and the conversation you’re pulling him from before he's searching your eyes curiously. You shrug your shoulder, and as if noticing it’s there for the very first time, he drops his arm onto the table and returns to the conversation. 

He must’ve showered, changed, and hurried here. His hair is still damp, and you want to play with it. Curl the long pieces around your finger and play with the short pieces at the nape of his neck. You soak up his presence as much as you can, knowing it’s going to be several weeks and several races before you see each other again. Crazy lives and crazy schedules that won’t feel normal again until break. You both take care to cherish the times you do get to spend together these days. You’re not twenty-one following him around the world anymore.

“Merci.” You say, at the end of the night. “For everything.”

He shakes his head, shoos your words away like they’re unnecessary, like you shouldn’t be thanking him for pulling strings. “Ton jouet garçon parle-t'il français?” He asks quietly, just for the two of you to hear. You roll your eyes, shake your head. “Il aest assez fan de moi.” 

“Tu l’aime bien alors?”

“Non.” He chuckles. “Je ne l’aime pas. Pas pour toi.” He says it matter-of-factly, annoyingly so and without any elaboration. 

“Heureusement, que tu n’es pas ma mère.”

“Heureusement.”

It’s Miami when you see him next. Hot and humid and sunny, once more. Windy, too. Big gusts move the palms, gluing your hair haphazardly across your face before you tie it back, blowing his shirt tight across his chest. “How’s grandpa?” He asks at lunch. You’re sat across from him on the expansive patio of a waterfront restaurant, waves crashing against the cement beams below you, a seagull running around on the wooden planks in search of fresh crumbs. 

After Bahrain, Arthur wouldn’t drop the salt and pepper allegations, pushing until he found out Michael was seven years older than you. None of the boys have referred to him as anything but a grandfather since. 

“Oh, that?” You say, nonchalant, like you can’t be bothered when you very much were. “He liked me too much.” Translation, he wanted me on a leash. 

“He liked you too much.” He repeated, smile tugging on his lips. “Please,” He gestured to you, “Élaborer.”

“You never liked him, anyway.” You say into the rim of your water glass, taking a long, cold drink. The condensation from the glass drips down your wrist, forearm, off your bent elbow and onto your bare thighs, just past the hem of your sundress. The glass makes a heavy clunk when you set it back on the tabletop. 

“Oh, I loved him.” He laughed. “He was just wrong for you, chou.”

“You barely knew him.”

“After he left you alone in the garage?” He leans back in his seat, gestures harshly across his throat and clicks his tongue. “There was nothing to know.”

“You leave me alone in the garage.” You remind him and he’s quick to jump in. 

“I do not.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, animated. You smile, he smiles. “I leave you with Arthur.”

“You do not!” You laugh, protest without thinking, without needing to. The memory of each and every race you’ve spent in the garage is burnt into your memory. Every second feels like a second and a half. There are no distractions, it’s just you, in the way, and him, flying around in a death trap at a million kilometers an hour. 

He tries to argue, insist he would never leave you alone if he thought you were uncomfortable. You don’t want to hear it, though. If he does leave you under the watchful eye of someone, they have always done a pretty shitty job at looking out for you. “Whatever.” He finally concedes. “Who’s on the radar now?” Nobody, you tell him. Going to be single for a while. 

“What are your plans tonight?” He asked over the phone. It was the middle of the decade, the start of your first year at University. The longest you’ve been away from home and the only time he’d been there without you. 

Jules had died that summer, and the sun had felt dimmed since. You spoke to Charles almost every day, but you were in no rush to get back home. It was ironic, Monaco reminding you of Jules, you finding an escape from the memories in France. It should be the other way around, but, logic has never had much hold over grief. 

“I have a presentation, remember?” He listened to you revise for it, mindlessly picking apart your notes, adjusting even the most minute details, for hours last week. You cried when the ancient printer in the library wouldn’t fulfill it’s only earthly purpose, and he patiently calmed you down, stayed with you on the phone until you fell asleep that night. He never acknowledged it, and you were grateful for it. 

“That’s tonight?” He asked, sounded defeated.

“Yes. Why?”

“I miss you.” He said, and you nearly crumbled into a little ball on the street. “I was going to come see you.”

You hesitated for a moment, tried to remember just how messy your apartment was, sized up your outfit. You didn’t want him to go telling stories to your parents of a disheveled daughter drowning somewhere just below the surface in France. You wanted to be put together when you saw him again, be the rock you were before you left. 

Generously, you would say you fell somewhere in the grey. “Come, then.’ You told him. “You can pick me up.”

– –

Nearly three hours later, after the conclusion of your presentation and his mind-numbing drive, he’s parked a short walk from your university building, waiting for you. “Sulut.” He said. 

“Hey.” You replied, climbing into the passenger seat. “How was Portugal?” He’d just gotten home and you’d been too busy with school to check any race results. Plus, you always liked hearing his recounts of races more than Google results. 

“How was your presentation?” He asks, doesn’t answer your question. 

“Good.” You smiled, buckled your seatbelt. 

Last season, before last summer and before Jules, you couldn’t get him to shut up about racing. It was all he ever wanted to talk about. He could be winning races or embarrassing himself on track, it didn’t matter, he’d talk your ear off. Now, he’s a lockbox with a combination that changes every day. You talk and you talk but nothing is really said, not anymore. You use each other’s voices to drown out the ones in your heads, to dull the pain, if even briefly. 

Growing up, it had always been your three families. Your fathers were best friends, had known each other before they knew their wives. You vacationed together, spent holidays together, had monthly family dinners and walked to the bus stop together. All of you kids were the same ages. Not planned, completely coincidental, they’d always say. You didn’t buy it, Arthur was the only one without a match, poor kid, the permanent brunt of jokes and the forever baby brother. 

“I don’t know my way around here.” He says, hand on the back of your headrest, backing the car out onto the road. 

“I do.” He smiles. Oh, how you missed his smile. All perfect and pretty, just like the rest of him, only happier.

You arrive in Spain early, with him. There’s optimism after Miami, Charles is back on track, back to believing he deserves the title and then some. You all spend the entirety of Monday in La Barceloneta, soaking up as much tranquility and Spanish sun as you can.

Someone is knocking–pounding–on the door of your hotel room. The sun has barely risen, pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting hard golden shadows on the entire room. “Fuck.” You groan, rubbing sleep from your eyes, dragging your feet the entire way to the door. When Charles had said, we’re going to spend all day at the beach, you thought he meant midday, at the earliest. “What?” You say, met with Arthur’s annoyed face. 

“You could sleep through a freight train.” He says, and you flip him off. 

“You could have called me.” You say, yawn, stretch your arms out above your head. He rolls his eyes, and it gets under your skin in a way only a little brother can manage. You wish you had a shoe to throw at his stupid face. 

“Charles did. Three times.” He holds up a matching amount of fingers and you nod, that sounds like something you’d sleep through. “Are you ready?” 

Deep breaths, deep breaths, don’t lunge at him. “Do I look ready?” He looks you up and down and you can actually see the gears turning in his head, all three of his brain cells working overtime trying to convince him to keep his mouth shut. “Don’t answer that.” You say, stop him before your eye starts to twitch. “Give me half an hour.”

You knock on the door to Charles’ suite forty-five minutes later. Messy ponytail that you barely brushed, swimsuit, shorts, cotton button-up, entirely too large tote bag slung over your shoulder. Lorenzo answers, “Good morning, sunshine.” He says, all sing-songy and stupid. “Sleep well?”

You walk straight past him into the suite. You think your entire room could fit in his living area. You walk through it, past Joris and Arthur, engaged in a heated conversation, and Carla, who looks about as sleepy as you do. Charles is leaning against the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of something colorful. “No coffee?” You say.

Mouth full, he answers around his spoon, “I don’t drink coffee.”

“But, I do.” You say, grab a sliced strawberry from his bowl, eat it in one bite. 

“Feel free to make some.” Lorenzo chimes in. You flip him off, too, pouring coffee grinds into a paper filter and starting a pot. Lorenzo grabs a strawberry from Charles’ bowl too, and the metal spoon promptly collides with his arm. “Ay!” He yelps, tries, and fails, to jump away from the cutlery. “You let her have one!”

“She scares me when she’s tired.” He says, and you take another one because you know you’ll get away with it. He points the spoon at you, warningly. You wink, pop it in your mouth and he smiles, chuckles into the breakfast. 

– –

You fall asleep on the cabana bed in your shorts and bikini top, cotton shirt unbuttoned and laid over your face like it’s going to block the light out. You wake up when you’re hit with a bottle of sunscreen. There’s a possibility whoever threw it didn’t realize you were asleep, but the seam lines on your legs lead you to believe you’ve been relatively stationary since laying down here. 

You pull the shirt off your face, sit up, disoriented from the nap. “You’re going to burn,” Charles says, rubbing the lotion into his face. “You have pink cheeks.”

“No, I don’t.” You say, but lather up anyway, ask Carla to reach the places you can’t. 

The first drinks of the day come with lunch, a round of beers. Corona with lime. You keep yourself paced for the first couple hours, a 1:1 ratio between liquor and water. You maintain the slightest of buzzes, one that you really only feel when you catch yourself giggling too hard at one of their stupid jokes. It’s not the beer that takes you out, you’ve spent your entire life trying to keep up with Charles and his professional-drinker friends. It’s not the Sangria, either, however fun that is to sip. It’s the shots. It’s always the cheap tequila shots that do you in. You feel them too late, don’t realize you’re tipsy until you’re shitfaced. You’ll learn one day. One day, but not today. 

You and Charles are sent to find tequila, and you walk down the beach until you find a bar that looks like it’s got decent shit. “I like you like this,” You say, toes sinking into the wet sand, cool water washing over your feet with each crashing wave. 

“Like what?” He asks, squinting through the sun to see you. You left your sunglasses at the cabana and he gave you his to wear. They were big on your face and you thought if you moved too quickly they’d fall off into the sand. His linen shirt whips in the wind, his hair is sticking up in all directions, greasy with sunscreen. He glistened with sweat and coconut lotion, beautifully sunkissed.

“Just.” You shrug. “Happy.”

“Awww,” He teases, throws an arm around you, makes you miss a step and trip into him. He smells like summer and sandalwood and fresh, warm towels. “So sweet.”

At the bar, you order and he pays. Licking the salt off the back of your hand, you down the shot, pucker your lips around the lime, and set off back toward the rest of the group with a handful of shot glasses. It’s harder to carry them than you thought it would be, both of you fighting laughter when a bit of alcohol spills out of the tiny glasses, moving quickly over the burning sand. Back with everyone, you take another shot, no salt this time. 

The next round is broken up by something sweet and fruity. Joris takes a picture of you and Charles drinking them, arms intertwined like newlyweds at their wedding reception. You hope it doesn’t end up on social media, uninterested in a weekend full of online death threats. 

Another round of shots follows soon after, and then another. Not a single water has been sipped in hours. “We should go swimming.” You declared, unbuttoning your shorts and wiggling out of them. “Before we’re too drunk.”

“We’re not getting drunk.” Lorenzo says. Carla laughs from Arthur’s lap. 

You shrug. “I am.”

“You already are.” Charles laughs into a beer bottle. “No deeper than your ankles.” Fuck you, you mouthed, walked backwards towards the sea. You wade out until the waves splash against your chest. On the beach, Charles is unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it on the cabana, taking off his sunglasses. You feel hot in the chilly water. 

“My babysitter!” You laugh when he’s within earshot, slowly cutting through the water to you. 

“I told you ankles.” 

You shrug, form first with your hands and push them against his palms. “I’m not drunk.” He pushes back, laughing, you are. You shake your head, move your hands from his and run them over your hair, gather it to one side, twist the water from the ends. “The water is sobering me.” You lower yourself, sinking down until the salt water tickles your chin. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look up at him, probably with blown, tipsy pupils. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

You hum, dipping your head back into the water. “You never do.”

“I always do.” He says, and you laugh at the immediate contradiction like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. You might be drunk. 

You cut yourself off after that, until you can eat something and drink a non-alchoholic beverage. You won’t let yourself get sober, because then you’ll be passed out on someone’s shoulder by sunset. You won’t get trashy, though. It’s a race week, anyone could see him, take a picture with him, a video with you in the background. When you’re together, whether you like it or not, you’re a reflection of him, a public display of the type of people he wants to associate himself with. Tipsy and fun is cute and carefree. Trashed and blacked is messy and irresponsible. 

You’re trying to hold your composure in the taxi, resting your head, and eyes, on the window. The guys picked a restaurant while you and Carla were using the bathroom, and now you’re making Charles read you the menu. He’s doing it in butchered Spanish, trying to pick out the words and meals he recognizes. 

“Is there tapas?” You ask, smacking his chest with the back of your hand. 

“There is tapas.” He confirms.

You almost cry, laugh instead. “My god, I could kiss you right now.”

“You are so drunk.” He chuckles, and you bite your fist, sink into your seat, wish you could fake it better. Have fun and let loose without embarrassing him. 

“Je suis désolé.” You whisper, drop your head the other way, onto his bicep. He adjusts, moves his arm so it’s around you, runs a hand over your hair. He doesn’t ask you what you’re apologizing for, knows that you’ll tell him anyway. “Pour être embarrassant.”

“Chérie,” He says into the crown of your head, a soft kiss before continuing. “You could never embarrass me.”

– –

The sobriety returns during dinner, bringing a pulsating headache with it. You drown your sorrows in delicious, cheap food, and drink an entire pitcher of water by yourself. When you leave, on the street outside, a band is playing in front of a fountain. You all stop, gather around and listen, sway to the lyrics you can barely understand. Joris is taking pictures of the band, Arthur is spinning a giggly Carla around. Charles grabs your hand, twirls you around and dances with you under the orange street lights. You rest your head on his chest. 

“You should sing along.” The vibrations from his laugh soother your aching head. 

It feels like a scene from a movie, like every other person in the city fades away into obscurity and it’s just you and he swaying on the cobblestone street. You’re so close to him, can’t be much closer, wish you could be. If you could, you’d crawl inside him, inspect his brain and the beautiful way it thinks, admire the way he sees the world. You know it’s special. Everything about him is magnificent, from the tallest hair on his head to the soles of his feet, every birthmark and fallen eyelash in between. 

Slowly, your sway has come to a stand still, and he’s staring at you with dopey, tired eyes. It should be illegal, the way he;s looking at you. His sightline jumps all over your face. Your right eye to your left, your nose to your lips. They linger there, on your lips, and then he’s staring into your soul, searching for something. Can I kiss you right now. Give me a reason not to. You don’t know what he wants you to silently speak. If you knew, you’d tell him. 

A cat-call whistle snaps both of your heads to Lorenzo. “Get a room!” Arthur yells, pretends to gag. Carla smacks his chest a little too hard to be playful. 

The gap between you and Charles is only a few inches larger, but he feels unreachable, eyes glossy and avoiding you. “Fuck off, mate.: He says, drop a bill into the band’s opened guitar case. 

– – 

Sunday is a nightmare. There’s no way to sugar coat it or make it sound prettier than it is. Andrea grabs you from hospitality, throws his pass around your neck because nobody is going to stop him from getting into the garage. He keeps you at an arms length for the entirety of the short walk. 

The car is already stopped in front of the garage, he’s climbing out. His posture is defeated, depressing. You wonder if you’ll be able to say the right words or if he’s just going to want to yell. A few people give him encouraging words, pats on the back, a hug. They’re already asking him to go to the media pen, to feed him to the sharks like a bucket of chum. He moves past them all, gets his weight taken and bee lines it to his drivers room. 

Andrea nudges you in his direction. You stay in play, your feet frozen. You don’t know what to say. Go on, he says. 

Fuck. 

You knock on the door softly, nothing. Opening the door just wide enough to squeeze through it, you find him sat on the floor. Knees bent, arms locked and resting on them, fingers intertwined. His back is against the edge of the couch and his head is hung low. He doesn’t look like himself. 

“What?” He says, rigid, doesn’t even bother to look in your direction. 

“Do you want me here?” You ask, and his eyes shoot over to you. He looks exhaustingly sad and sorrowfully tired. You wish you could make it better, rub Neosporin on his cutes and stick a race car bandaid over them. Promis the wound would get better and know you were telling the truth. 

“Stay.” He says, so you close the door behind you. 

You sit on the couch, awkwardly scooch yourself over and around him, a leg on either side of his body. His head rests on your knee and your fingers toy with his hair, soaked with sweat. You don’t know how long you sit like that, just that it’s long enough for someone to knock on the door twice. You stay seated. 

“You should change.” You finally say, after the third set of knocks noticeably lacks the patience of the previous two. 

“Yeah.” He says, and you both stand. “Don’t go home?” He asks when you’re already halfway out the door, when you’re already looking at Mia in the stairwell. You look over your shoulder, nod, smile, and leave the door open for her to slide in and get to work. 

You wait on the stairs, take a deep breath before re-emerging into the chaos. Carlos is still fighting for the podium and you don’t want to drag the mood to the Marianas Trench. It’s just so, so hard to see him hate himself. 

Energy is low, morale is lower, but you stay seated in the back of the garage. When the race is over, you head back to hospitality, linger in his room there. Your phone is dead, abandoned on the floor and you lay on his massage table, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. Everything replays on the blank canvas. The perfect lap the day before, his pole position. The sparkle in his eyes and the lightness to his voice. A great start and a commanding lead and a quick pit stop and then he’s slowing down, Andrea is grabbing you and hurrying you across the paddock strip. 

Your presence scares him, makes him jump when he opens the door. “Fuck.” He says. “I thought you went home.”

You don’t bother to look up at him, to sit up. “You asked me to stay.” You listen while he shuffles around the room. His presence means the presence of others, and it’s not long before Andrea is there, picking up your phone and placing it on your stomach. His brothers are gone, Carla too. Joris lingers, the silent, unrelenting support of a friend. 

“Are you hungry?” Charles askes, and you turn your head to face him. His expression is as tired as his voice. 

“Are you?” You aren’t, but you can be if he is.

“No.”

“Me neither.” His eyes narrow, trying to decipher if you’re telling him the truth or if you’re being agreeable. He hates it when you do that, when you tell people what they want to hear instead of what they need to, instead of the truth. “Serious.” You reaffirm, and he returns to packing up his things. 

You just watch him. There’s nothing else to do, but, you want to live in his head, know what he’s thinking and feeling and fighting. You relish in any hint towards those emotions, from the way his shoulders hand to the way he zips up his backpack. 

“Come,” He says, extending a hand, pulling you to your feet. He grabs his sunglasses from their comfortable position on the collar of his shirt. It’s dark out. He just wants to hide the disappointment. There are still people lingering on the track, after all these hours. On your way out, he stops and talks to Pierre and Esteban. About what, you don’t listen. You don’t ever want to talk about this race again, want to leave it in the past. Head down, focused on the things yet to come. When Charles is ready to move on, Pierre gives him a heavy pat on the shoulder and a hug, one of the largest displays of encouragement any of these guys are capable of giving to each other. 

It must be so strange, you think, hoping for someone’s success and failure simultaneously. 

Fans are still here, too. He holds his head high and takes pictures and signs everything, makes them all feel loved and appreciated. Nobody is any the wiser to his inner turmoil, to the way he wil pick apart every single aspect of the race and internalize it, use it as fucked up motivation. He’s silent when he’s not interacting with the stragglers. You, Andrea, and Joris all trail behind him, engaged in quiet conversation about Monaco; the race, sleeping at home, the always surprising strangeness of a race you could watch from your bedroom window. Ahead, he holds out a hand to you, and you take a hurried couple of steps to match his pace. 

“You okay?” You ask. He nods. “Anything but?”

Anything but, a term you’d coined after Jules’ accident, when all anyone ever wanted to talk to you guys about was how you were doing, what you were feeling. The constant retelling, reliving, reassuring everyone you were doing okay when you were far from, it was almost as painful as losing him. Anything but is invoked, and the other has to change the subject, ignore the elephant in the room, no matter how big it is. 

A soft, sad smile tugs on his lips, silent gratitude, and he squeezes your hand tighter, barely so. “Yeah.” He says, and you go on about the haircut you’re thinking about getting once you’re back home in Monaco, asking if he thinks bangs are an option on a face shaped like yours. 

– –

You’re flying to Monaco with Charles, and the rest of Ferrari, early tomorrow morning, so your small group deciding in the hotel lobby that the night will be made better by liquor, probably isn’t the wisest of decisions. You do it anyway.

You all behave, careful not to get tipsy. Andrea reminds Charles he still has to train tomorrow, and that keeps him from going too far. The rest of you are just following his lead. 

He insists on walking you back to your room at the end of the night, even though Andrea and Joris both swore they’d get you there safe. She’s a runner when she’s drunk, he’d said, and you scowled. “Not since I was sixteen!” You defended, insistent that you didn’t need anyone; Joris, Andrea, or Charles, to walk you to your room. It’s not like you’re lost and drunk somewhere in an unfamiliar city. It’s a five-star hotel and you had all of one floor to travel between. 

He doesn’t even say anything on the walk he’d insisted on being present for. Your footsteps echo off the carpeted floors, bouncing between the thin walls and reflecting off the sleek, minimalist artwork. He has a beer in his hand, something from the hotel bar, priced entirely too high for the quality, you’re sure. Each time he brings it to his lips, the glass clinks against the ring on his pinky finger. 

He’s flushed, beautiful as ever, and you wished you were an overpriced bottle of beer; your sweat on his skin, the cold ring contrasting his warm, calloused hands. Those soft, pink lips on you, the way they almost were this week. They almost were, you keep telling yourself, you weren’t imagining it. “Charles.” He raises his brows, silently tells you to continue. “It,” You hesitate. You falter, because it’s not too late to say nothing, to bask in the silence a little longer. You can still stop yourself, shove the thoughts deep down and abandon them somewhere in the back of your mind. Curiosity, desperation, something sparked by the green in his eyes and the red on his shirt and the condensation on the bottle, it all gets the best of you. “The other night, it felt like you were going to kiss me.”

“Hmm.” He hums against the lip of the bottle, finishing off the last of the drink. There’s a long pause. You, waiting for him to say something, memorizing the strange pattern on the carpet. Him, saying nothing. You reach your room, hold the key card up to the lock. The silence is amplified by the shifting electronic gears and you’re pushing the door open. “Are you going to ask me?” You blink. “If I was going to kiss you?”

You exhale. Long and slow, do you want to know? “I haven’t decided yet.” You finally say. I’m not ready for this to get flipped on its head, you could’ve said. I love you too much to like you, you could have said. You didn’t.  “Nuit, Charles.” You say instead, disappearing into the darkness of your room. 

“Bonne nuit.”

“I’ve decided against the bangs.” You tell him in the grocery store around the corner from his apartment, leant against one of the doors in the refrigerator aisle. He’s waiting for a text back from his nutritionist, trying to figure out what he’s going to cook on the boat tonight. It’s family dinner night, and he’d volunteered to host, which meant he volunteered you to host on his yacht

“Good.” He says.

“You told me they would look good.” You laugh, wonder if he even remembers the conversation or if your words were just the backing track to his overthinking. 

He shrugs. “You’re supposed to stop me from looking like a fool.” He laughs at his phone screen, turns it off and slides it into his pocket. 

“My favorite thing about you is that you’re a fool.” He says, pulling open the door you’re leaning against, moving you with it. That’s not very nice, you said as he piled two packages of chicken breasts onto the groceries already in your hands.

“Chicken. Brave.” You add, reminiscent of the last time he tried cooking chicken on the water. It’s a good thing there was a fire extinguisher on board, and saying anything else would break the oath of secrecy you were sworn to. 

“Ha, ha.” He mocks. “Not funny.”

“You know what isn’t funny?” You grab another pack of chicken, just in case. “Telling me bangs would be good.”

Good luck this weekend, the cashier tells him when you’re checking out. Break the curse, yes? Charles laughs, because he’s a good sport, and agrees. You hate all the curse talk, it pisses you off, more than it does him. The conversation around it gets worse every year, every time he doesn’t win at home. 

They love him so much here, he’s their poster-boy during their poster-week, they don’t mean any harm by it, but it still gets under your skin. Curse this, curse that. Fuck off, shut up about it already. Everyone knows his Monaco track record, can everyone please find anything else to talk about?

– –

He finishes fourth, and it feels somehow worse than last year’s DNF. SO close, only to be screwed by the same shit as last week. You drink your weight at the club that night because maybe a lack of sobriety will make it sting a little less. 

“You are not wearing that.” Lorenzo says when you walk out of your building. You groaned, looked down at your outfit. It was slinky, but slinky is what everyone wears to the club, especially during the grand prix.

You settle for a blazer, tell him to suck your dick, and fill the pockets so you can abandon your purse. You start off at a smaller club, one that transitions from a restaurant after dark and has intimate, smaller tables. You’re there for a couple hours, eat something and get buzzed. Predictably, you meet up with half of the grid at Formula One’s favorite club, where you have a bigger section and a bigger group and get a bigger buzz.

“I can’t wear these anymore,” You whined, stopping to lean against the wall of a building to take off your heels. Your feet were blistering, and the thought of having to continue the walk with them on was dreadful. Charles carries them because you keep dropping one without realizing it. It’s not your finest moment, but, you only threaten to jump into one bush on the nearly fifteen minute walk. Overall, a strong showing on your part. 

You lose Charles at Jimmy*z, dancing with friends and strangers and other drivers and their parties. You’re drinking Negroni’s, and you aren’t sipping, occasionally splitting it up with a shot whenever someone suggests it. That’s when you see him again, when he’s putting a double shot of something expensive in your hand. I shouldn’t, you say, because you're teetering close to the line of embarrassment. He rolls his eyes, fully inebriated. Shiftfaced, if you will. “Shut up and take a shot with me.”

You do, it goes down smoother than water. 

“That’s good!” You say, examininging the glass. 

“I know.” He deadpans, and you both laugh. Sober Charles is one of the funniest people you know. Drunk Charles is the funniest person you know. He’s so unserious in everything he does–the way he talks, dances, expresses emotions, there’s nothing not funny about it. 

The club comped the table and a few bottles of champagne for the publicity that comes with having half of Formula One partying under their roof. In exchange, a manager is trying to wrangle Charles’ section into a group photo. You were standing back, laughing at them all failing to maintain any semblance of sobriety, all logic and composure out the window three drinks ago. Charles and Arthur are yelling your name, yelling at each other, looking for you in the strobe lights. You move, hope he doesn’t see you. He does, locks eyes with you, dopey smile, summoning you with this come-hither motion, his middle and ring finger calling you to him. Even drunk, you notice the gesture, the subtle curl, twitch of his long fingers. 

Fucking, hell. Flushed cheeks burn bright and you’re grateful your hair is down, covering your undoubtedly matching ears. He almost kissed you. He did. You’re not crazy, he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s too smart not to. 

You smile, lips pursed, and shake your head. It makes him pout, and then he’s yelling your name, gesturing you over with the rapid movement of his entire arm. His other hand is smacking Arthur’s face, trying to rile he and Carla up. It works, and now half the group is yelling your name, so, you give in. Celebratory cheers leave their mouths and the boys share a near-miss high five. Charles grabs the back of your head, pulls you under his arm in one fail swoop. You hone in on his cologne. Tom Ford Tuscan Leather, no doubt. His signature night-out fragrance, the one you and Lorenzo nearly peed your pants laughing at when Pascale bought it for him a few years ago. The hints of raspberry and amber wood, the ones nobody can smell unless they’re this close to him, make you dizzy.

“You smell nice.” You say, and he just looks at you, lowers his head to talk directly into your ear. You look beautiful, he says, and you might be sober. “Don’t say that to me.” You laugh, smooth down your hair.

There’s a  real possibility at least one of the twenty people in the photo were actually looking at the camera. 

At some point in the night, you end up in the bathroom with Carla for an evening debrief. You don’t realize how drunk you actually are until you’re staring into your hazy soul in the bathroom mirror. It’s an out of body experience, truly, you’re watching this conversation from the astral plane. 

“Fuck.” You say, looking to Carla, who appears to be having the same experience as you. You both burst into a fit of laughter, the hunched over, sore abs, red faces, threat to the integrity of your bladder-type laughter that doesn't require anything to actually be funny. “I have to work tomorrow.” You say, trying to catch your breath. You work from home, she reminds you, and you’re both laughing again. “Je t’aime.” You slur, overwhelmed by the alcohol and emotion. “Beaucoup.”

“Non,” She giggles. “Je t’aime le olus.” 

“You look.” You hiccup. “So pretty, I hate you for being so pretty.” Carla shakes her head at her own reflection, adjusts her top, checks herself out. You pat the sweat off your forehead and wipe under your arms with toilet paper from a stall. “Arthur is so, super lucky.” Another hiccup. “You are so pretty. So nice and pretty.”

“No, you are so pretty.” She laughs. “Charles is lucky, and he doesn’t know it.” Charles, Charles, Charles. You don’t want to talk about Charles and his stupid face and stupid smile and stupid fingers and stupid skin. “I should call Michael.” You say, digging your phone out of your jacket pocket. 

“You should not.” She laughs, but you’re already searching your contacts for his name. “Nope.” SHe says, snatches your phone from your hands and holds it out of your reach. 

“Carla.” You hiccup, pleading and pouting.

“Nope.” She says, putting the device in the bag that hands around her body. 

– – 

“This is my song!” You yell, quickly downing the shot in your hand, entire body vibrating with the bass pouring from the speakers. 

“We should start a band.” Someone says, and Charles laughs. 

“We should!”

“You’re my best friend.” You tell him, stumbling over your own feet without even taking a step. His arm reaches out as a stabilizer, just in case you need one. 

“No,” He laughs. “You’re my best friend. More-er.” That’s not a word. You shake your head. 

“I could play the drums.” 

“I know we’re drunk, but, like. I love you.” You slur, test the waters of shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Another stumble, another hiccup. “I’d do, like, anything for you.”

“I know.” He says, but you can’t hear his voice over the music. “I love you.” He adds, smacking Lorenzo on the arm to get his attention, to draw him out of band practice planning. “She’s my best friend!” He says. 

“I know!”

“I love her.”

Lorenzo laughs. “We all know.” 

“We should take a picture!” You suggest to Charles, and he agrees. “I don’t have my phone. Someone stole it.” He gives you a puzzled look, concerned, grabs your elbow like you’re going to float away in the crowd and asks you to clarify. You just shrug. I have it, dumbass. Carla laughs, takes a picture of the two of you, doesn’t give you your phone back. 

The next time you see him, you’re sat at the table having one of those drunken moments of emotional, existential crises. Your fingers twiddle with the fake eyelashes you peeled from your lids minutes earlier. “I’ve been looking for you.” He says, heavily drops into the space to your right, slings an arm around you. 

You’re always under his damn arm, you never realized before just how often you’re here. Not that you don’t like it, it’s just an observation, confusing and emotionally charged, but an observation nonetheless. He’s so relaxed, completely slouched into the rich leather, legs spread wider than they need to be, the arm that’s not around you resting on the back of the booth. He’s watching everyone else, observing the different people with sleepy eyes and heavy lids. When he talks to you, he turns his head all the way, cranes his neck so he’s speaking into your ear again. You don’t turn your head, you’d be too close. “I have a secret to tell you.” He doesn’t whisper.

“What?” You laugh, settle into his side, into the laxity of it all. 

He opens his mouth to speak, pauses, rests his forehead on your temple. “I forgot.” He chuckles. You hiccup. You both laugh. 

Your eyes are closed, tired and so, so comfortable. You might fall asleep here, despite the loud noises and loud music and loud heartbeat. “You were going to kiss me in Barcelona.” You say, liquid courage forcing the words from your mouth like vomit. It isn’t a question. It doesn’t need to be. 

“I kiss you often.” He says, a weak defense, and kisses the crown of your head. “See?”

You’re not crazy. He was going to kiss you. He was. “Charles.” Your voice is quiet, strained and scratchy and serious. You don’t open your eyes, can’t look at him when you demand an answer, a confirmation. 

“I was.” The admission is suffocatingly delicate, like he might go for it, right then. His hand might grab your face and guide you to him. You’re ready for it, you think, as ready as you’re ever going to be for everything to change.

You don’t have to worry about it, to think about it and dwell on if he’s going to do it. He doesn’t. He just rests his head on yours. Your thoughts race faster than your heartbeat, and you wonder if he can feel your temples pulsing.

2013, family dinner. You’re in your room, hiding out for as long as possible, uninterested in the family events. Very teenaged girl of you, in all regards. Charles burst through your door, no knock, no warning. You didn’t even know they were there yet. Luckily for you, nothing incriminating was happening. He was quite the snitch back then, a real tattletale, especially if you were the one getting in trouble. 

“I have something to tell you.”

“Unless it’s that you’re going to turn around and leave my room, I don’t care.” You’d said, annoyed by his presence. At sixteen, your relationship could best be described as friendly enemies. He was always around, especially when you didn’t want him to be, and he was always the golden child. Perfect in school, perfect on the track, perfect son, perfect friend. His existence was infuriating and because you were so close in age, everyone always wanted you to be the best of friends. 

As a teenage girl, it was evolutionarily impossible for you to go alone with what everyone else wanted. You had to rebel, to run against the grain. Charles and you were not friends, and you did not care about what was going on in his life. 

“Single-seaters.” He said with a dumb smile, leaning on his hand against your dresser. You take maybe one step between your bed and his arms, hugging him tighter than you had since you were children. Okay, maybe you did care about his life. There are some things even evolution can’t change. 

“With who?”

“I thought you didn’t care?”

“I don’t”

His smile grew. “Fortec.”

You half-screamed, half-laughed, hugging him again, somehow tighter. “I’m so happy for you, Cha.” You said, with a level of sincerity you hadn’t used in years, especially with him. You thought for a moment you might cry, that he would make fun of you for it, that you’d do it anyways because you were so happy for him. 

“Don’t tell anyone, I’m not supposed to say anything.”

“Who knows?”

“Like, nobody.” He’s giddy, it’s almost cute. Almost. 

“Jules?” You ask, even though you think you already know the answer. Jules is God to Charles, this untouchable, invincible figure that represents the culmination of all his own dreams. He was the first person, you expect him to say. 

“Not yet.” He told you before Jules. 

You’re traveling in the weeks after Monaco, jet-setting around the world for your own career. It’s not until France that you see him again. You beat him there, actually, opting to spend some time visiting friends from University nearby, taking a bit of time to enjoy yourself and relax. Despite what everyone in your Instagram comments thinks, race weekends are not a holiday. The nerves and anxiety and heightened emotions you feel during one is so stress-inducing that the work week feels like a week in the Maldives. 

Love you, always proud. You texted him moments after he won in Austria, along with a picture of you and the drink you were having in celebration in your hotel room. 

You were a little bummed you couldn’t be there, celebrating with him. He really needed that win, and you could only imagine the weight it lifted off his shoulders. It’s been a while since you saw him genuinely happy on a Sunday night.

Love you, too. You suck. He texted back seven hours later, reiterating the sentiment the entire time he was home in Monaco and you weren’t. When you jokingly suggested he come to France early, you were met with the threat of being blocked. 

– –

You spent the weekend with Pascale, spending every day at the track trying to out-anxious each other. You don’t know how she sleeps, Charles and Arthur both doing this shit. You’re a nervous wreck and she barely flinches. 

“You remind me of myself a lot.” She tells you. Your knee is bouncing anxiously under the table you’re eating at. “Your mother, of course, but. Selfishly, I see the good parts of me in you.”

You’d always wished Pascale was your Mom, growing up. You have a great mother, you love her to death, but she was your mom. She had to discipline you, she had to put her foot down. Pascale didn’t have to do those things, not with you. She could be cool and carefree and spoil you because she was a bonus parent, not an actual one. If you grew up to be all kinds of fucked-up, she could wash her hands of you. Your mom couldn’t do that. 

You’re so lucky to have her as your Mom, you would say to the boys. They’d say the same thing to you. 

“You’re going to make me cry.” You say, picking at your cuticles. 

“Chérie.” She says, grabs your hand, stills your anxious fingers. “Je suis nerveux rien qu'à te regarder.”

“I don’t like Monaco.” You say. “No room for error.”

“You don’t like any track.” She chuckles, releases your hands. You put them in your lap and go back to picking at the skin. “Not when the boys are out there.”

She’s right, you’re squeamish when you watch Arthur and Charles, don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. Charles loves to make fun of you for it, has videos saved on his phone of you, caught on the television cameras, captured by friends, that one time you were in the background of a Drive to Survive episode. He laughs and laughs at them, but when he watches Arthur, he’s just as bad as you are. 

It’s different, when you love the driver. When you love them more than the sport, more than the team, more than nearly any other person in the entire world, every corner feels tighter, every straight feels faster, the whole thing feels like a narrowly avoided death sentence. 

“I don’t know how you do it.” After Jules, how you do it after Jules. After Anthoine, after hugging a grieving mother and watching your son drive on the same track. 

“I love watching them race.” She says. “I hate it, but I love it. All a mother can hope for her children is that they are brave enough to achieve their dreams.” They’re brave because of her, because of Hervé and because of her. They raised all three of their boys to be strong and brave and kind, and when Hervé passed, she picked up the pieces of her boys and glued them together again, built them up stronger, braver, kinder than before. 

– –

You don’t see him for a while after the race, don’t know if you want to. He’s been eerily calm all when things have gone wrong all season, at least when you’ve been around. It’s only a matter of time until he loses his cool, until he snaps. That radio call? Snapped like a glowstick. He’s angry, at himself, at the car, at the team, at the world. There’s nothing anyone is going to be able to say or do that would make him happy, neutral even. It’s going to be all pity-party and hushed curses until he gets some rest and resets. 

Behind the garage, when you’re finally leaving, he hugs Pascale tight. Her hand runs comforting circles on his back, and then it’s your turn to be suffocated. He squeezes you like it’s the last time you’re ever going to see each other, hangs on like gravity is pulling him in the other direction. “Anything but.” He said. “All night.” 

You nod. “My mom sent me a video of Gi playing with the dog today.” You spoke of your niece, of Charles’ goddaughter. If anyone could hit his soft spot, it was her. “Do you want to see it?”

“Yeah.” He said, and when he watched her stumbling around the park, when her innocent belly laugh and giddy screams spilled out of the speakers, he actually smiled, might have even let a little laugh slip. It’s impossible not to, really, with that little girl. 

He walks in relative silence back to the driver's lot, just listened to you go on and on. You feel nauseous, watching him put on a smile and interact with fans, laugh and take pictures and make children’s days by just existing. It must be such a strange life, a miracle his head hasn’t gotten ridiculously big. 

– –

At the hotel, you can tell he’s still pissed. Rest, reset. He’ll be himself in the morning. You exchange goodbyes in the elevator, you’re on a different floor than him. You expect it’s the last you’ll see of him until summer break. He leaves for Hungary early in the morning and you’re driving back to Monte Carlo with Pascale tomorrow afternoon. You expect, because he’s knocking on your door an hour later while you watch L’Atalante on your laptop. 

The light from the hallway is almost blinding in contrast to your dark room. “Hi.” He says, in running shorts and a t-shirt, bare feet. “L’Atalante?”

“How do you-”

He smiles. “You’re predictable.”

“What do you want?” You say through a  yawn, shocked he makes out the words at all. 

“Can I watch it with you?”

You sigh. “Charles.” You were minutes away from falling asleep, from putting this day behind you. Now, your feet are so cold on the floor it hurts and you’re becoming increasingly conscious and awake with each passing moment. 

“Please?” He asks, voice small and broken. Fuck. You hold open the door, because you’re weak when it comes to him. You’d let him treat you badly if it meant he’d treat you. “You know there’s a giant TV right here, no?”

“I like my computer.” You say, crawl back into the bed, sit up against the million pillows. He flops down next to you, on top of the comforter because he runs hotter than a fireplace. When he’s finally done moving around, shifting until he’s nice and comfortable–sorry, he said–you press play on the movie. 

“I love this part.” He says. 

“You hate this movie.”

“I do not.” He does. He complains every time you watch it, says you need to find a favorite movie that’s in color, that doesn’t have random cat montages, that the main love interest has too many glaring red flags. Watch it with rose-tinted glasses, you told him once, threw a piece of popcorn at his head. “This is my favorite part.”

“No, it’s not.” You laugh. “You hate this part.”

He laughs, too, sweetly and softly, into his own shoulder. “I love it.” You shush him, shove his shoulder because he can’t even say it with a straight face. He doesn’t stay quiet for long, and it’s clear he came here to talk, not to watch the movie, but he tries to pretend. “You need to come to more races.” He says, his head resting on your arm. “I don’t like it when you’re not here.”

“Okay.” You say, only half-listening. It’s your favorite movie.

“Today sucked.”  You paused the movie. Blinked twice, hard, frustrated because it;s your favorite movie, but he’s your favorite person. 

You look at him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” He reaches over and unpauses it, adjusts so he’s sitting up, too.

You pause it again. “I think you do.”

“I don’t.”

You close the laptop, set it on the bedside table and flip on the lamp. “I don’t know how to make you feel better right now.” You say, stand up, pace the room. It sounds like you’re admitting your defeat, expressing disappointment in yourself with a half-hearted apology. 

He stands up, too, follows you for a step but then you're still. There’s something unfamiliar painted across his face. Exhaustion, anger, desperation–you can’t pinpoint it. Urgency. You realize its urgency when his hands are on your face, thumbs dancing on your jaw, eyes darting between yours. Urgency. 

He was going to kiss you. He is going to kiss you, you think, and you’re going to let him. He can use you as a distraction, if he needs to. You can kiss it better, you’re sure you can. His forehead rests on yours, the tips of your noses bumping against each other, shuddered, broken breaths. Your lips are so close, jaws slack, sharing the air. You’re dizzy. Dizzy and hot and then he’s kissing you. The taste of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth, the softness of his lips, it’s all so new, so butterfly-inducing. He smells like himself, whatever soap he always uses when he’s traveling. It’s crisp and clean and you want to lick it off his skin. 

He’s the one to pull away, but you open your eyes first. “Sorry.” He says. You smile, kiss him again because you’re not sorry, wishing you could crawl inside his mouth and build a home there behind his beautiful, sharp, white teeth.  

Your name sounds like a symphony when he says it, all dopey and sing-songy, hands firmly on your waist. “Don’t look at me like that.” He says, laughs into your mouth. 

“Like what?” You ask, innocently. 

“Just. Fuck.” He shakes his head, one of his hands slipping under the hem of your shirt, open and flat, exploring the vast bareness of your back. “You.” 

“Me?” You giggle at his words, the stumble of them, cheeks hot and flustered. You shouldn’t be nervous. It’s Charles. You know him like you know your own hand, but, he’s never been yours, not like this. Your hands have never searched him like this, fingers never tugged on his hair with lust and longing, never felt the scratch of his stubble on your skin.

“Yeah,” He says into the crook of your neck, leaving a flurry of open mouth kisses in the space between your jaw and your collarbone. “You.”

“We shouldn’t.” You say, even though you’re helping him out of his shirt. “We should stop.”

“Do you want to stop?” He asks, his fingers stalling on the buttons of your pajama top. 

“We can do this, right?” You ask, because you need his reassurance. You don’t need honesty. You know the truth. You need to hear what you want to hear, for him to tell you if it’s safe to jump, to fall aimlessly into the unknown. You need him to lie to you. “Can we go back to normal after this?”

“Ouais.” He says, and even though you don’t believe him, you think he believes himself. “Retour à la normale.”

“Okay.” You say, and he’s unbuttoning your shirt again. If his mouth didn’t feel so good on you, if his big hands didn’t send shivers up your spine when he ran them up the sides of your body, you might have thought a bit harder about what normal is for the two of you.

His hands do make you shiver, though, and he’s looking at your body with these sweet, drunk eyes, sliding the shirt off your arms and letting it pool on the ground with his. 

You’re dropping to your knees on the cold floor next to the bed, pulling his shorts, his underwear, down with you. While he steps out of them, kicks them to the side, you admire him, toned and tanned and so, so pretty. You want to memorize it in case it’s the last time you see him like this, take notes on every freckle and muscle and defining feature under the harsh light. You need to feel him everywhere, to taste him, to make him feel as good as he looks. 

He’s already hard, cock twitching with lust and adrenaline and arousal, all for you. Your work is cut out for you. You tease him, whisper profanities and place soft kisses against the skin of his upper thighs. “You make me crazy.” He says, you take him in your mouth, and he goes momentarily stiff before he relaxes, lets your fingers and your lips work in tandem to pull your name from him. 

“Fuck.” He says, tastes like sex, sweet and salty and manly. His hands knot into your hair, pull it back into a haphazard ponytail that only loses shape as you continue. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He repeats, rutting into your mouth, fucking into your throat. You swallow around him, hollow your cheeks and he lets out this whimpered, wounded sound, forces your mouth off him. “Don’t do that.”

“You don’t like it?” You ask, take him in your hand, stroke over the slick of your spit, kissing the base of his cock and looking up at him with these big, saucer eyes. 

“No,” He shakes his head, drags a hand over his stubble. “You’ll make me come.”

You swipe your tongue in one long stripe, swirl it around the head of him, smile. “That’s the point.” You say, filling your mouth with him again, sinking until he’s hitting the back of your throat, gagging you, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. 

He says your name like he’s battling to reason with himself, his grip on your hair tightening, pulling you off him again. You pout, and he rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “Tu es mauvais.”

“Ç’est vrai.” You roll your thumb over the tip, mindlessly, really, looking at him and waiting for him to speak. You’re an addict, already. It’s just so pretty. 

“Want to last for you.” You’re not even standing and your knees are unsteady underneath you. You look at the floor, your forehead on his thigh, and laugh. You laugh harder than you should, just out of shock and disbelief. “What?” He laughs, too.

You’re standing, he’s helping you stand. “Who would’a thought?” You can’t stop giggling, cock your head to the side and try not to smile. “You and me?”

His tongue is in his cheek, eyes rolling in such a bratty way. You wonder if he can see how swollen your lips are, all because of him. Your mouth feels empty without him there. “I hate you,” He says with a smile, and kisses you.

Your knees buckle at the edge of the bed, and it’s too easy, the way you’re both on it without ever parting lips for more than a hasty breath. He moves you around like a doll, gentle and effortless in his removing of your shorts, of your underwear, in the manipulation of your positioning on the soft mattress. 

He’s kissing you, sucking bruises into your collar, marking you like there’s any possibility you’re not already his. It’s hazy and intoxicating, him exploring your body, taking his time as he trails down your collar bone, through the valley of your breasts, hot, sloppy breath on your stomach, on your legs. You’re almost disoriented by it all, the natural comfort, the familiarity of him in a place so unfamiliar to his touch. He kisses your clit, you watch him, feel his hot breath on you, jaw slack and eyes glazed over. It makes you hot, makes your whole body flush and shiver. 

“Putain, t'es chaud.” He curses, smiles at you from between your legs. His fingers splay over your hip, his thumb dragging itself over you, parting your lips with the slick of you, amused smile tugging on his face. “You’re so wet.” He says, moves up to kiss you.

“Sorry.” You whisper into his open mouth. 

He shakes his head, mumbles something incoherent, kisses you again. “It’s hot, chérie. That you want it.”

“Want you.” You say, and he slides a long finger inside you, surprised whimper escaping from your lips into his open mouth. He curls it into you, crooks it at just the right angle and you writhe against the sheets. You can’t believe he’s got you like this, that you’re a mess for him over a single finger. 

He moves back down your body, another trail of nibbles and kisses before he laps at you, swirling his tongue around your clit in a way that’s almost painfully good, curling his finger into that same spot. When he slides in another, you’re a goner, moaning out his name like it’s the only word you know. 

“Let go.” He says. Your eyes are pinched shut in an attempt to keep yourself at bay for just a while longer. His eyes are glued to yours when you can finally open them. 

You shake your head. “I’m not.” You start, stopping short to compose yourself when your leg twitches, shakes in applause of his work. “No ego boosts.” You sputter. He laughs against you, the vibrations of it blinding, a whole new sensation that spreads fire over your skin, sends you over the edge with little warning. 

He doesn’t stop, not for a second, when you come. His fingers maintain their rapid pace even as you tense around him, his tongue, his lips, suctioned to you as your body tries to wiggle away. “Charles.” His name leaves your lips in a shudder, your thighs trying to close in on his head, the hand that isn’t inside you holding you open for him. 

He works you over, skilled fingers and skilled mouth, coaxing you through another, louder this time. He leaves you catching your breath, restless, incoherent, shaky on the crisp white sheets and two orgasms ahead. 

He’s so satisfied with himself, licks his fingers clean and grins and kisses you some more, just because he can. Because, it’s all gone to shit and the unspoken, unwritten rules of your friendship have gone so far out the window, they’re in another country. Maybe they’re in Hungary already, or waiting for the two of you on summer break, in Monza, hell, they might even be Abu Dhabi, there’s no telling. 

“Do you have a condom?” You ask.

He freezes, strong arm holding him over you, caging you in. His eyes shut hard. “No.”

“You didn’t bring one?”

“When I came to your room, I didn’t.” He sighs. 

“How gentlemanly.” You quip, wiggle out from underneath him. He flops back onto the bed, apologizing. You grab his t-shirt from the floor and hold it up to cover your body, he chuckles at that. “Apologize if I don’t have one.” You say, rifle through your backpack. Your leg shakes under you while you try to balance, squatting in front of the bag. You hope he notices, sees what he’s done to you without even filling you up all the way.

“Why would you have one?” He asks, just as you find the little package at the bottom of your bag. You turn on your heels, still bent over, condom wrapper in your teeth and look at him with narrowed eyes. 

“Do you really want me to tell you?” You ask around the wrapper. 

He thinks about it for way longer than should be required. “No.”

“Yeah.” You nod, dumbfounded, and stand back up. 

“Really, with the shirt?” He asks, laughing about it again.  

“Salope!” You say, drop the shirt, throw the condom at him. “Put this on yourself.”

“I don’t even like you.” He says, rips open the wrapper with his teeth and slides it over his cock. It hurts, almost, how badly you want him inside you, how empty you’ve felt since he took his fingers out. 

“Don’t do that, you’re going to make me come.” You mock his earlier words, puff out your lips, raise your brows, a knowing glance. 

“I was.” He defends, and you straddle him, wrap your arms around his neck. 

“No, you weren’t,” You kiss him, his hands explore the curve of your ass, fingers dig into your hips, push you down so you grind against him, spread your wetness over him. 

“Okay.” He says with a smirk, lust riddled and completely enthralled by you, one hand moving to thumb at your clit, start chasing another release for you. 

“Okay.” You repeat, barely a whisper, lift yourself up enough for him to line himself up with you. You sink down slow, savor the burn of the stretch, wish it was the first time anyone had ever done this to you, that you could belong to him and only him. 

“Fuck.” He says into your shoulder, kissing and sucking a purple spot into the flesh there, his hands splayed across your back, warm and strong and dragging across the hot skin. “Si bon.” Every inch of your body can feel him, hungry for more, the insatiable urge to hear his moans, to make him whimper, make him feel how you feel.

You grind your hips against his, chasing an unachievable leverage, a static inducing friction. Your foreheads rest on each other and your noses collide roughly in the sweaty, steamed, hitched breaths. 

You’re obsessed with the way he watches your bodies, eyes glued where he disappears into you. You never want to hear anyone else say your name, not after hearing the way he says it while he’s inside you. “That.” He says. “Love that.” You do as you’re told, eager to please, hungry for him to finish. “Es-tu proche?” You shake your head, because you are, but he’s closer. 

In a swift movement, he flips you over, switches your positions, slides back inside you. Even when he’s manhandling you, using you as a device for his pleasure, strong and without thought, there’s something gentle about it, something that anchors you to him. 

He fucks into you with deep, measured thrusts. The new position, the new angle, it drives you fucking crazy, your back arching off the bed, grinding onto his fingers in the selfish chase of your own high. “Charles. Fuck.” I know, he tells you, shaky, pace reduced to an erratic grind. I know, baby, and you’re coming again, biting into the muscles of his strong shoulders, wet and warm and so fucking full of him.

“I’m.” He whispers into your neck, nibbles on your ear. He pulls out and you whimper at the loss. “Where?” He asks, pulls the condom off, jerks himself with those long, veiny fingers. You smiled, devilish. You wanted, needed, his cum in your mouth. 

He’s too close to be gentle, now, to take care and take time. He’s desperate, it’s so fucking hot. His hands are on your head, knotted into your hair, holding you steady so he can fuck your throat. You gag around him, dizzy, hazy, eyes forced shut because everything is white and on fire. “Look at me.” He says. You do, and he has a fucking smile on his face, lewd and practically pornographic.

You hum, pleased with the state you’ve got him in and then he’s bottomed out, still and stiff, coming down the back of your throat, chanting your name like a prayer. 

– –

“What am I supposed to do with these?” You laugh into the bathroom mirror, after a shared shower, delicate fingers examining the fresh bruises he burned into your skin. “I’m spending the day with your Mother.”

He’s drying his hair with a towel, laughs. “Nobody thinks you’re La Sainte Vierge.”

You move through the bathroom, back into the bedroom to retrieve your pajamas from the floor. “And what is that supposed to mean?” You tease, returning, tossing his clothes on the counter. 

“It means,” He hums, wraps his arms around you, hugs you from behind. Your knees are weak and wobbly, his chin resting on your shoulder, looking at each other in the mirror. “Tu es belle, jeune et amusante.”

“Je suis amusante?” You ask, try to bite back a smile, fail.

“Très.” He says, nuzzles into your neck.

He sleeps in your room that night, wakes up early, shuffles around the bathroom, the light pouring out. His movement stirs you, his heavy feet roaming around the silent room. “Go back to sleep,” He says, kisses your hair, and the heavy door locks behind him.

Tired, from the weekend, from him, you let yourself go back to sleep. You should’ve got up and kissed him, you think. Really, truly kissed him, while the rules still didn’t apply and things weren’t back to normal. Whatever normal is for the two of you. 

“What?” You said, spit, when Charles called you for the third time within five minutes. The first Monday of summer break, he’s in Monaco and you’re in France, a thousand kilometers, an hour and a half flight, away. More specifically, you’re standing in the corridor of your office building, meters away from the door you’d just stepped out of, the meeting you had to excuse yourself from leading because your phone won’t stop ringing and surely, something must be wrong. 

“Hello to you, too.” He says, and you can hear the smile on the other end of the line. “Where are you?”

“Work.” You say, inspiringly calm. Fuck, she’s at work, you hear him say to someone. “Can I call you back in a bit?”

“Oui, désolée.”

“Ne sois pas.” You force a smile, like he can see it, and hang up, shut your phone off completely before returning to the meeting with an apologetic grimace claiming family emergency. 

You call him back an hour later, after the conclusion of your meeting and then some, pushing past the heavy glass doors to your office building and out onto the street, the breeze blowing your hair into your mouth as you step between two buildings. He answers, but it’s just shuffling on the other end, hushed, muffled voices. “Are you there?” 

“Oui, oui. Une seconde.” He says, far from the speaker. More shuffling before a proper greeting. “You’re on speaker.”

“What are you doing?” Shopping, he says, moves the phone, how’s work? You have to put a finger in your other ear to hear him, between the sounds of the city and the chatter on his side. “It’s fine.” You say, drag out the vowels because you’re bored, because you wish you were with him. He’s always so relaxed on summer break, so content and breezy and fascinating. You haven’t seen him since he was kissing your hair goodbye in France. You need to know if you can actually return to something normal.

“It’s fiiineee.” He mocks, laughs with whoever else is with him. You smile, all toothy and stupid. “Coming home today?” You can hear the hope in his voice. You’ve been here for less than twenty-four hours, it’s an unusually short trip. Most times, you’re here for a minimum of a weekend, almost always more. He shouldn’t be expecting you. 

“Yeah.” You check the time on your watch. “In a few hours.”

“You want to come on the water tonight?” He asks. 

“La Mala?” Of course, he says, like it shouldn’t even be a question. “With?” He speaks to someone else in Italian, you think you hear Andrea say something, and then Charles’ voice is louder, off speaker, you assume. 

“Lorenzo and some camera guys. We’re doing some… comment dire, day with my life?”

“I don’t know.” You hesitate, because the last thing you want to do is be one of three people, to be on display somewhere on Instagram or Youtube or wherever the video they’re making is going. You love him, but the attention is overwhelming and you like to stay as far from it as possible, especially when you’re nervously sorting out the normalcy of your relationship. 

You took a photo of him once, with a fan, just walking around the city. You weren’t even in the photo, didn’t say more than two sentences to the guy he was posing with. And yet, when he posted it on Twitter, said Charles was with some girl, posted a screenshot from your Instagram and said her, he was with her, you had a full inbox begging to know if you were dating Charles, calling you obscene vulgarities, threatening you. You weren’t even in the fucking picture. 

“It will be fun.” He says. “I haven’t seen you since france.” Exactly, you haven’t seen each other since France. Just over a week. It’s chump change for the two of you, at least it was, before his spit dripped down your thigh and he came in the back of your throat. Now, a week is the opportunity for an awkward plant to take root, grab onto you and make everything weird and uncomfortable and wrong/ “We’re having pasta.” He says, can sense your uncertainty, knows it sweetens the deal. 

“No chicken?”

“Never again.” He laughs. “You’re coming?”

“I guess.”

“You guess.” God, he is a child, truly. “Call me when you land, yes?”

“Yeah.”

– –

You can’t remember the last time you felt so nervous to see him. Sitting on the edge of the concrete landing, watching him cruise in on a little boat full of strangers, it’s almost worse than watching him race. Do you have to say something? Is he going to say something? Do you ignore it? That’s the agreement, right? Everything goes back to normal. Normal, normal, normal.

He looks like he’s been in the sun all day, cheeks pink and rosy, the blue of his shirt mellowing him out, making him glow. A God, Heaven shining down on him, presenting him to you like a gift. You hate that you have to share him with anyone when he’s like this, especially with strangers, with people who don’t know how lucky they are to see him like this. 

“Did you miss me?” He calls out when he’s within earshot. You stand up, take your shoes off because there is no way that boat is making it all the way to you. 

“Who called who?” You say, and he laughs. 

You hopped off the landing into the shallow water, walked out to the boat on your tip-toes, trying to keep the bottom of your pants as dry as possible. You had a change of clothes in your bag, but, even a minute in wet pants is too long. He helps you into the boat and you introduce yourself to the strangers pointing cameras at you. 

This was a mistake. It doesn’t even take the distance from the landing to the yacht for you to realize that. So fucking uncomfortable, cameras in your face, recording your conversations, watching the way you look at him. You can already see the comments calling you pathetic, calling you a whore, calling you a bitch.  

It is pathetic, you remind yourself when your hand is on his, stepping around him, moving from one boat to another. They will think it’s pathetic and they’ll be right. 

There’s more production people waiting for your arrival, waiting to take your place next to Charles and capitalize on the fleeting light and beautiful scenery. It’s unusual, there’s nobody here. You introduce yourself to them, too, because it feels strange not to. 

Once you’re onboard, you change in the guest suite. Sweats and a hoodie because the sun is setting, dusk settling on the horizon, bringing in wind with the tide. Bowl of pasta in your lap, mindless television playing, you lounge on the couch, watch Charles do an interview on that stupid little boat, rocking back and forth like a buoy on the open water. 

You want to reach out and grab his hand, hold it still, stop him from pulling his fingers and twisting his rings because then nobody will know he’s nervous, that he’s off balance. “What do you think they’re talking about?” You ask, pulling Lorenzo’s attention from the television. “He looks nervous.”

Lorenzo laughs, quiet, under his breath. “You.” 

You don’t turn back, know your face is going to give it away, can feel the blood rushing, the skin of your cheeks boiling. There’s no way he knows, right? Charles didn’t tell him. He wouldn’t. Lorenzo has no idea how close his joke hits, how deep the knife cuts. He’s just an older brother, living with the sole purpose of embarrassing you. “What?” You say, force out a laugh and almost choke on it.

“Kidding.” He says, and goes back to whatever is on TV. Your eyes stay on Charles, though, infatuated with the way the wind runs its fingers through his hair, the way it tugs on his shirt and inches the boat closer and closer to the yacht, to you. You stare so hard he can feel it, catches your eyes mid-sentence, smile pulling on his words. You’re convinced the upturned corners of his lips can lift even the lowest of spirits. He winks, and then he’s back in the conversation like he never missed a beat. 

Charles has made fast friends with the crew long before you got there. You wonder if they know each other, if they’ve met before. Light words flow with the waves, your body relaxing at the loss of the cameras, put aside to enjoy the experience, to breathe in the moment. His pull is gravitational, even through the strange tension and the awkwardness of the unknown. In your uncertainty, you linger just out of his reach, now comfortable enough to participate in their conversations. He catches you staring off into space, into the vast, starry sky, silently identifying the constellations above you. He pulls your mind back to your body with the tap of his foot on your outstretched leg. With what has to be the softest smile to ever grace this beautiful Earth, he calls you to his side with careful eyes and a subtle nod. 

You scooch closer to him, half-expect his arm to lazily drape itself around you because that’s what always happens. It doesn’t, and a pit of something grief-like settles in your chest. Instead, your arms hang at your sides, upper arms gracing each other every time one of you even thinks about breathing. Your hands are knotted in your lap, thumb examining the texture of your palm, fingers tugging on each other with agonizing anxiousness.

You were so naive to think, even for a split second, that you would go back to normal. THe tension you thought would settle has only become increasingly taught. 

“You okay?” He asks. You nod with a weary smile. A lie, and he knows it. “You worked all weekend?” He continues to prod, ignores the conversation happening around you like it’s just the two of you in a bubble. 

“No, just today.” You said. “Meetings all day.” You don’t look at him, eyes focused on your hands, popping knuckles and digging nails into your palm. You can’t remember the last time you were so unsettled in his presence. “I got a huge logo redesign deal.” 

“Of course you did.” He bumps your shoulder, jolts you. “You’re the best they’ve got and they know it.”

“I’m not the best one there.”

"Maybe not the most confident.” He laughs, reaches into your lap and grabs your hands, stilling them like a patient partner would do. “But definitely the most talented.” He squeezes your hand tighter, and you slide your fingers between his, envelope his hand in both of yours like you’re the one doing the comforting, squeeze back, thank you. 

Your head falls to his shoulder, sigh like you’re carrying the weight of the world, like you’re moments away from breaking down into a pile of ash, blown away with the breeze. A new normal. Maybe that’s what you’ll have to do, create a new normal that’s just as sweet as the old one. When the only options are a life of awkward anxieties or one without him in it entirely, a new normal doesn’t seem so sad. 

– –

He gets stopped seven times on the walk from the berth to the parking garage, takes careful time to be kind, especially to the kids. He’ll never not stop for a child, making their grabby hands, freckle faced days time and time again. You’re a good guy, you say after the fifth, know it’s the last thing he wants to do after his long day. I don’t know how you do it.

He shakes his head, sighs. “Le strict minimum ne fait pas de moi un bon gars.”

“You go beyond the bare minimum.”

He shrugs. “The bar is in Hell, I suppose.”

You take the train to Monza, hunkered over your laptop for the entirety of the ride, working. You weren’t planning on coming in until late Friday night,but Charles asked you if you’d get on the next train, if you’d come with him to sponsorship dinners and obligatory events in the leadup to the weekend. Please, he’d texted. Sayingno, doing anything but getting on the 6 am departure this morning, didn’t feel like an option. 

You texted Isa for three hours trying to figure out what the dress code was for these events, planning out your outfit. All you could get from Charles was, I don’t know, I’m wearing a blazer, probably. The last thing you wanted to do was stick out like a sore thumb, draw anymore attention to yourself or embarrass him. Underdressed, overdressed, you don’t know which is worse. 

You check your phone, scroll through social media and pick at a meal from the dining cart. You’re met with the same stuff you’ve been seeing since that stupid Monaco Vlog on Charles’ YouTube channel. The general consensus amongst all the strangers who know you so well, is that you and Charles are dating. I want this. They way they look at each other. Couples who are best friends make me melt. A friend told you those should make you smile, they don’t, because you aren’t dating. You aren’t dating and he’s going to see them and everyone wants to know everything about you and someone asked on a bikini picture how good Charles was in bed. None of them made you smile. 

Does she know she’s the third choice? Not smiling. Charles, serial monogamist or serial cheater? Not smiling. You’re a whore. You’re a slut. I hope you die, bitch. No smiles. 

They stung, they made you cry at your reflection in the mirror, private your accounts, limit your comments. They were everywhere, in your Instagram DMs, your Twitter mentions, your TikTok ForYou page. It was suffocating. 

Charles was trying his best to check up on you, which only made it all worse. You wanted to believe he wasn’t seeing them. He was just making sure your head was above water, and it was those best intentions that got you invited here, you assumed. It’s easier to keep an eye on you when you’re with him. 

It was a good idea, a good effort, for sure. It was a miscalculation, though, Charles seemingly forgetting just how much attention he has to give to strangers at these events. In a room full of people, dressed in your best cocktail attire, sipping a martini and watching people fight for his attention, you can’t remember feeling so alone, so on display. 

Everyone knows, or thinks they know, you’re Charles’ girlfriend. You’re a bigger extension of him than ever. Side-stepping cameras won’t cut it anymore, they’re hungry to judge you. Look who Charles brought, what do we think of her? Look what she’s wearing, how she speaks, how she stands. They hate you, you’re sure of it. You aren’t classy enough for this scene, not sweet enough, not pretty enough. You aren’t important enough. 

“How are you doing?” Isa finds you leaning on a tall table, poking your olives around your drink with the toothpick they were originally skewered on. 

“Are these things always this weird?” You ask, voice laced with hope that there is a learning curve, that there is some top-secret strategy she can give you so you don’t feel so shitty and deflated again tomorrow night. 

She laughs. “You’ll get used to it. But, yeah.”

“Any advice?”

“Threaten a sex strike if he leaves you alone for too long.” Your eyes go wide, shocked by her words. She just shrugs, downs the remainder of her drink. “Works every time.”

“Charles and I. We’re not. We–” You stumble over your words, and she looks at you with raised brows and a grin that makes you think Charles might be blabbing to the whole grid. “We’re not sleeping together.”

“Aren’t you, though?”

“Did Charles say something?”

She smacks her hand over her mouth, muffling her laugh. “No, but you just did!”

You nod, jaw clenched, tongue running over the front of your teeth. You’ve been so paranoid that Charles was going to tell someone and you’re the one who can’t keep their mouth shut. “It was once, and you can’t tell anybody.” You whisper, sharp. “Not even Carlos.”

“I’m going to tell Carlos.”

“You can’t.” It comes out as more of a plea than an argument. “He’ll say something to Charles, and then Charles will know I told someone.”

She says your name so sweet and patient, like you’re a preschooler about to get a passive-aggressive scolding. “I’ve never seen two people look like they want to fuck more than the two of you. If Carlos says something, it won’t be the first time someone has vocalized it to him.” It’s a horrifying thought that burrows all the way to your bone marrow. You’ve always thought you were so good at hiding it. 

You’re drowning at this party, under the waves of lingering and prying eyes. It’s been an hour since you’ve spoken to Charles, forty-five minutes since you’ve seen him. You pull out your phone and delete all your social media. This is so much worse than wallowing about death threats in the comfort of your own bedroom with the familiarity of your favorite ice cream. 

– –

You’re doing your hair when he knocks on the door. Impatient, impatient, impatient. You don’t answer, he keeps knocking, over and over again. “What?” You say, sharper than warranted, opening the heavy door with as much force as it will allow. 

“This is what you’re wearing?” He says, walks right past you and into your room. You’re not in the mood for his humor today.

“That’s really funny, coming from you.” You say, go back to the bathroom, hairspray your hair, pull a few face framing pieces out from the low ponytail. 

“I look great.” Says the man who hate-crimed an entire country with his jeans in Monaco, who is cosplaying as a banana this weekend. 

“Did you dress yourself?”

He appears in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning on it, looking annoyingly handsome in his suit jacket and white button up. “I did.”

“Oh,” You lock eyes with him in the mirror, put on a phony smile, fingers digging through your makeup bag on the counter searching for eyelash glue. “How nice for you.”

You watch him check his wrist in your peripheral, opening the cardboard lash box and pulling them out, carefully applying glue to one. “What aren’t you ready?” He asks.

“I’ll be ready at five.” You said, setting the falsies on your lash line, trying not to make your concentration face because you know he’s watching. 

You put glue on the other lash. “We’re leaving at four-thirty.” Your head snaps up from the task at hand. 

“You told me five.”

“I did not.”

“You did.” You say, continue putting the lash on before the glue dries because you don’t have another set with you. Quicker, this time, because apparently you’re running a half hour behind. 

“I told you it starts at five.” He says.

Oh. He did tell you that. “We have to be there when it starts.” You say in unison, your foggy recollection becoming clear. 

“Wonderful.” You laugh, to nobody at all. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, and it feels earnest, makes you laugh harder while you hove all your makeup back into the tiny cosmetics bag. There’s no way he’s that clueless, you think, blink hard in the mirror a few times, size up your hair and makeup. 

“No, I’m not okay!” You say, toss the bag onto the counter with a heavy noise. “I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to do this.” You push past him in the doorway, stop in the little hall between the bathroom and the bedroom, next to the mini fridge and Keuring-clad kitchenette, sigh at the ceiling so you don’t cry, don’t ruin your makeup. You’re already running late, no time for tear streaks. “I feel like a fucking idiot.” 

“You’re not an idiot.” 

You scoff, don’t even know why you’re angry, so emotional, why every nerve in your body feels supercharged. “You do a great job of letting me feel like one.” You don’t mean it, not really. You say it anyway. You know it will hurt him, and you’re tired of hurting alone. 

“What did I do?”

“Nothing.” You say, hoist the ironing board out of the wardrobe. “You did nothing.” You don’t bother setting the legs up, just lay it across the bed. 

“What was I supposed to do?” He asks, grabs the iron from your hands and fills it with water in the kitchenette sink, sets it on the iron board, plugs it in and turns it on. You did through your suitcase for your dress and blazer, shaking them out like they’re dusty old relics rather than something you’d bought just for this. 

You don’t know what to tell him. You can’t summarize all of your emotions into something succinct and comprehensible, especially not while you’re in the middle of feeling them. Everyone wants me dead, everyone is staring at me, I know I’m  not good enough for this. I want to be good enough for this, to make you proud, but it’s so hard. “You left me alone last night.”  You say, roll your eyes and take the tears with it. Elaboration feels like a giant, insurmountable, unachievable challenge. “You left me alone last night.” All you can do is repeat yourself, stare at the dress in your hands, examine the stitching like your life depends on viewing the heather grey fabric at a microscopic level. 

You can’t look at him, know he’s going to be staring at you with soft, sad eyes. You see him look at you like that and it’s game over. You’re not leaving the hotel tonight, not making it to that event. You’re going to cry yourself a bath, melt into a puddle of your own tears. 

“I’m sorry.” He says. 

“Don’t be.” You flatter out the dress on the ironing board. “You’re doing your job.” You move the iron in hard, quick lines over the fabric. 

“I’m still sorry.” He’s behind you, wrapping his arm over the front of your chest, pulling you back against his chest in some kind of strangely affectionate reverse-hug. It feels to right, so you squirm from his grip, keep at the hasty ironing. 

“Don’t feel bad for me.” Flip the dress, iron the other side. “I can hold my own in a room full of strangers.”

“I know you can.” You hate the tone in his voice; proud, almost. You’re not his to be proud of, even if everyone else seems to think you are. 

“Can we just?” You look at him for the first time since he dropped the time bomb on you. “Anything but?” He nods. You nod, switch the dress out for the blazer.

 “I like this jacket.” He says. You look at the outfit, grey dress, green blazer, white accessories. You thought it was too Christmas-y, the red accents on the bottoms of your heels and the red of your lip. It’s Ferrari red, Isa convinced you, very subtle. “You look good in green.”

“Green is my favorite color.” 

“I know.” He laughs.

“You know.” You yank the iron cord from the wall and pull your top over your head without thinking. You meet his eyes, and they don’t dare to waiver from yours. You nod, an I really just flashed you nod, sigh, pick up the dress and walk past him into the bathroom. “You can stare, Charles. I have good boobs.” A laugh from the other room while you step into the dress, pull the straps over your shoulder and leave the back unzipped. “And, you’ve literally been inside me.” You add for good measure. He coughs, chokes on his own laughter. 

Leave it to anything but to abandon one elephant and pick up a new one. “We’re talking about that now?”

You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, wonder if he can hear it in your voice, if he knows you that well, listened to you speak so intently for so long that he can pick out minor fluctuations like that. “Talking about what?”

“You are.” He pauses, you tug on the hem of your dress and it doesn’t give any. You thought there was more fabric than there is. “Are you on something?” You can hear the smile.

“I haven’t been not talking.” You say, coming out of the bathroom, ball of pajamas wadded up tight in your hand. He tracks you across the room, back exposed, while you put the clothes in your bag. You walk back to him, pull your ponytail to one side, gesture for him to zip up the back of your dress. You suck in before he does it, even though the dress fits. 

“You’ve been telling people?” He says, his warm fingers gracing your skin, sending goosebumps up your spine. This never would have happened before, you lie to yourself. You’ve been blushing everytime he looked at you since you were in high school. 

“Maybe.” You say quietly, bit the smile off your bottom lip when his fingers linger at the top of the zipper. “Have you?”

“No.” He says, and when you turn around his eyes trail up your body slowly, taking your permission to stare as gospel, soaking up every inch of you with unabashed eyes. 

“I told Isa.” You say, shove an earring through your lobe.

“You.” Your words pull him back from the glossy eyed size-up with a chuckle. “You told Isa.” The other earring, and then you clasp a necklace, wish you had the nerve to make him do that, too.

“Accidentally.” You add, pull the blazer on, tug on the dress again. Still not budging. 

“Does that mean I can tell someone?” He pretends to mess with the settings on his watch. Pretends, you know, because his watch is never wrong. He changes it as soon as he’s in a new location. That watch has been right since his plane landed.

You sit on the edge of the bed, put your heels on and wonder if the red bottoms are really with the pain and suffering. “No.”

“Are we going to talk about it?” He asks, follows you to the bathroom where you’re already twisting your tube of lipstick, painting them a dark, lustful red. Ferrari red, a dark, ferrari red. 

“We’re running late.” You close the lipstick, put it into your handbag and clasp that shut.

“We are.” He says, and you’re already tugging the door open and gesturing him out. “I’m sorry for not looking out for you last night.” He says in the middle of the elevator ride. “Really.”

“Don’t.” You say. “We agreed, anything but.”

– –

Anything but, you agreed, but he’s silently apologizing all night. You’re not out of arm’s reach for more than a few minutes the entire night, and when you are, he’s got eyes on you, eyes on the bathroom door, eyes on the back of the head of whoever blocks his sightline. He finds you in the crowd every time. The green, he says, I just look for the pretty girl in green. “Don’t say things like that to me.” You told him, even though it makes you warm and fuzzy and grateful when he says it, when he’s there every time you look for him.

“Questa è la tua ragazza, no?” Mattia says to Charles when he introduces you. You’ve met him before, always in passing, though, so it’s a safe assumption to think he won’t know you. 

“Qualcosa del genere.” Charles says, thinks you don’t catch it, pulls you closer to his side. 

“Che cazzo significa?” Mattia asks, and all three of you laugh with varying levels of awkwardness, too much to say for anything to be whispered in the unsaid. 

By the end of the night, you've spoken to more people than you can count and done so in three languages, four, if you count the butchered Spanish class Carlos held with you. You’ve been confused for his girlfriend a dozen times, and somewhere along the line his corrections progressed from just a friend, through no correction at all, to yes. 

“Why did you say that?” You asked the first time he did it. 

“They’re going to think what they want to think.” He said. It felt like a cop-out answer. 

You don’t know if you’re more affected by his presence or if the hoards of strangers are, but it seems like everyone is more interested in what you have to say instead of just staring you down. Calling yourself comfortable would be quite a stretch, but, the room tonight feels a little less like a fishbowl and a little more like a cocktail party. 

You love watching him on stage, really love it, him addressing the audience. You almost burst into laughter, the customer service voice that transcends industries and languages and is something you never get to hear from him. He oozes confidence, talking and laughing with the MC and Carlos and Mattia. He’s so pretty under the hard lighting, it makes all his features look sharper, more defined, somehow. Heaven-sent.

When he comes back he says he’s hot, takes off his blazer and hangs it from the back of his chair, rolls up his shirt sleeves. It’s very grassroots political, very, mind-numbingly attractive. “How are you doing?” He asks, takes a sip of your drink because his is empty, maintains insightful, careful eyes and contrasts them by wriggling his brows over the lip of your glass. 

“I’m good.” You say, nod and smile so he knows you mean it. 

“Really? He sets the glass back down on the tablecloth. 

“Really.” 

– –

You’re at the track early Friday morning, watching Arthur’s practice session with Carla. You haven’t seen him race nearly as much as you’d like to this year. In Bahrain, you didn’t come to anything except Charles’ race, so scared about bringing Michael along. No Imola. You wish you could have been in Silverstone, watched it on your phone at work with the volume on level one. The only time you’ve actually seen him race in person was in Barcelona, and you were basically hungover that entire weekend. Hungover, and trying to convince yourself Charles was going to kiss you. 

You were going to watch him as much as you could this time around, make up for all the ones you missed. That was one excuse for staying away from Charles. The other, everything the two of you did felt emotionally charged. You’re either wishing you could wring his neck, or wishing you could nuzzle into it. Sometimes both. A lot of times, both. 

You grab lunch with Carla in general hospitality and then sneak your way  into the Paddock Club’s pit lane walk to blow some time. Charles is doing his warm up, probably playing football or doing neck exercises that could be in the director’s cut of a Fifty Shades of Grey film. Carlos, though, Carlos is talking to some engineer about something or another, and you catch each other’s eye. He smiles, looks away, and does a double take, furrowing his brows. You just shrug, make him laugh and shake his head. 

“Heard you were being sneaky today?” Charles asks when you’re leaving the track. Someone ahead is taking pictures of him, one of the regulars, one you recognize but don’t know. He’s the one that always asks Charles for a smile and is responsible for half the pictures in his living room. 

You step several feet to the side, remove yourself from the frame, out of the shot. Arthur laughs. No free food for anyone, not even the ones he likes. It’s going to be a long time before you volunteer yourself to be tormented online. 

He says your name, the photographer, and it startles you because you don’t know him. He shouldn’t know your name, you’ve never introduced yourself to him. Charles looks in your direction, holds out his hand and even though you don’t want to take it, don’t want any pictures of you two walking hand-in-hand, you also don’t want to leave him hanging like that in front of a camera. So, you take his hand and let yourself get pulled back into the shot. Maybe they’ll never see the light of day, you can only hope. Surely, a million other things will be more interesting than this. 

Mr. Photographer, Kym, Charles calls him. Kym asks your opinion on the yellow, and Charles laughs because you haven’t been shy with him about your distaste for them. You know Ferrari is really pushing it, though. “I think they’re great. Very avant garde.” You lie.

Yellow not a favorite color? He asks, says your name again. 

“She thinks yellow is a coward’s color.” Charles says, laughs with Kym the photographer. You cringe, even though he’s right. “She likes green.”

– –

You wake up miserable on Saturday, spend the day in your hotel room with the shades drawn and the do not disturb sign hanging from the door handle. Flu symptoms, someone from Ferrari, someone worried about Charles’ possible exposure, delivers a rapid test to your door. Negative. 

You have your phone playing on the lowest possible volume, still too loud, if you’re being honest, and listen to Arthur’s Sprint Race, to FP3, to Quali. 

I thought you didn’t have it in the straights, you mustered up the nerve to text him. Pole, right? You weren’t positive where anyone was starting tomorrow, too many penalties. If you had to bet on being right about one, though, it’s that Charles is on pole. You’d bet on that blind, though. 

We don’t, he replies an hour later. Extremely timely for him, especially on a race weekend. How are you feeling?

Like shit. Even with the brightness all the way down, your eyes still yearn to be clawed out when met with the LCD screen. 

Sorry.

You wallow, pick at the entirely too expensive meal from room service, take a few too many Advils because you’re pretty sure this bug will kill you before the liver damage gets a chance. You nap, you shower, shiver and shake, and nap some more. COnsider scoping your brain out and squeezing it until it pops, your pulse making your temples bulge. 

Your phone lights up the dark room. You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at the ceiling, forcing your eyes closed until galaxies and oil spills of color paint themselves across your eyelids. It could be eleven in the morning. It could be eight at night. Will you answer if I knock?

You say yes, figure he’s still at the track. He’s not. 

A single, quiet knock on the door, he couldn’t have used the force of more than a single knuckle. Your eyes are squinted shut when you open it, hand shielding your eyes. He laughs, just as quiet as his knock, slides into the room and pulls the door closed as fast as the slow-closing hinges allow. 

He puts the back of his hand on your forehead. You search to make out his features in the pitch-black darkness. “I’m dying.” You say, pitiful.

“You’re not dying.” You think he’s smiling, can hear it, even with congested sinuses and clogged ears. 

“I promise I am.” Your voice is so nasally and muffled and sick. 

“Poor thing.” His voice is half an octave higher when he mocks you. 

“Did you just come here to be mean?”

“No. I came to check on you.”

“Consider me checked.” You said, crawling back into bed. Even with your hands moving wildly in front of you in the dark room, you still run into the side of the bed with a thud. “Don’t laugh.” You warn, and he tried his hardest not to. You read once that orgasms can cure headaches. Briefly, you consider the logistics of it. 

Not worth it, you decide. You’d rather have your brain explode all over the walls of this dark room than make things any weirder, leave more feelings and emotions to linger in the shadows of the unknown. “Sommes-nous bons?” He asks, and your face controls into a twisted mess. No way is he doing this now. No way. 

“Pourquoi ne serions-nous pas bons?” You mutter, after much hesitation. 

“Je ne sais pas.” He says. “Vous vous sentez loin.”

“Je suis là.” You lie, and reach your hand out. He finds you in the darkness, or you find him. You find each other, that’s all that matters, really. You move in the bed messily, tangling the sheets and comforter with your legs, pulling him with little force onto the bed. “I’m here.” You repeat with your head on his chest, rising and falling with each breath. You don’t say it because you mean it, you say it because you know when his thoughts are on the verge of becoming all consuming. You say it because the last thing he needs to be thinking about this weekend is if you’re distancing yourself from him. You might know him better than he knows himself, you think sometimes. 

When you wake up in the middle of the night, you’re feeling alive, less corpse-like. He’s not in the room anymore. 

You wonder if it’s possible to distance yourself from Charles, or if your lives are so completely and utterly intertwined that it’s too late for that. A life lived together too long to make distinctions, you think. Nothing is yours, not really. 

Fight or flight, you will freeze every time. You can’t take the leap, have the hard conversations. If you do it, and it goes terribly wrong, crashes and burns brighter than the sun, there’s no walking away, no picking up the pieces and putting yourself back together again. 

When you were young, your Mother once told you she thought you and Charles were each one half of a puzzle–incomplete without the other. You’re lucky to have him, she told you, people spend their whole lives looking for the other half of their puzzle. 

You always found comfort in it. Now, you think maybe you and Charles are two separate puzzles that have been combined into the same box. Sure, they could be sorted, but pieces are probably missing, stolen by time or never there to begin with. The only way to sort each other apart would be to dump it all out on the table, slowly rebuild from the corners in, constantly checking the box to make sure that piece is a piece of you, not him. Nobody has time for that task, not even the people who love the puzzles, not even the puzzles themselves, so you sit on a shelf all mixed up until the end of time. 

He came to see you on your nineteenth birthday. Drove in from Monaco to the apartment you were renting with University friends. Four bedrooms, six people, two emotional support cats, low ceilings, broken fire escape, one bathroom, and a pantry full of cheap alcohol. 

When he arrived, there were significantly more than six people, the pantry full of liquor was a kitchen full of liquor, and you were dancing on a table, drunk in a way only a nineteen year old is on her birthday. Even sloppy and shitfaced, you could make out the distinctive tone of his holler over the hoots of the rest of your cheer squad. 

You’d laughed, giddy and loud, jumped off the table and threw yourself into his arms. “Vous êtes ici?!” You yelled into his ear, adjusting the strap of your top. 

“Je suis là.” He said, at a sober volume. “Bon anniversaire.”

“Merci!” You laughed, hiccuped. “Buvons!”

He should have been playing catch-up, but you’d never let a friend take a shot alone. A gruesome mistake you learned when you were curled over the porcelain toilet bowl two hours later. 

He had your hair knotted into a shitty ponytail, too loose, the part of your haircut meant to frame your face falling victim to the contents of your stomach. He rubbed his hand on your back, like a parent would, and told you it was going to be okay. You spit, laughed into the toilet because he was always so annoyingly sweet to you. You looked over your shoulder and told him so. You’re too sweet to me, you said, he looked at you all sober and earnest and chillingly, and then you threw up again. 

You rallied, though. The birthday girl always rallies. You smoked a cigarette from the perch of your bedroom window and listened to Charles talk about some girl and lecture you, going on and on about how you really shouldn’t be smoking. It’s quite bad for you. You wondered what would happen if you threw yourself out the window, if it would hurt more than his bashful words about her. It’s only the third floor. It won’t kill you. Hearing him say her name and blush one more time might, though.

Jealousy is ugly on you. You realize that in the weeks that follow, and decide that until you have the balls to say something to him, to take charge, you don’t get to be jealous of who he spends his time crushing on. Jealousy is for women who lose, and you’re not even playing, not even on the team. 

It’s a good thing you do, put it behind you, because he brings her to the family cabin you spend Christmas at every year. He warms her hands in his and kisses her under the mistletoe hung in the entryway. At the end of the week, he thanks you for being so kind and warm and welcoming to her. You smile, hug him. Anytime, you told him, cry yourself to sleep for three days thinking about how happy he is.

She’s too good for you was the nicest thing you ever said about her. It was a lie. Nobody is too good for someone as sweet as him. 

You see him next in Austin, a late birthday celebration in the land of unfamiliar accents and oversized portions. The losing battle for the championship is over, Max won in Japan and sat in some stupidly oversized armchair in the cool-down room. It’s ridiculous, honestly, I’m glad I didn’t win, he told you. You went along with it even though you know he’d give an arm and a leg to look like a fool in an oversized armchair in a cool-down room in Japan. 

Despite that, because of that, whatever, the pressure is off his shoulders a bit, the need to perform at superhuman level lowered. He seems lighter when you hug him. 

“I did a hot lap with Brad PItt.” He tells you.

You laugh at the absurdity of his life, follow him on his walk up the paddock. “And?”

He shrugs. “Tires were shit.” His typical day at the office might be batshit insane, but he’s always going to be Charles–little boy who loves cars-Leclerc. 

“Tires were shit.” You repeat. “That's all you got for me?”

“He didn’t speak much.” Make him speak, Charles. It’s Brad fucking Pitt, you would’ve said if it was a few months earlier and things were normal and deadpan and sarcastic between the two of you. You roll your eyes instead. 

– –

“You guys should not let them do this.” You tell the girl working the counter at Austin’s–an amusement park in, you guessed it, Austin, Texas. Americans are incredibly creative, you’ve come to learn. “They’re going to kill each other.” 

She can’t be making more than minimum wage–seven U.S dollars and twenty-five cents an hour–but there isn’t any amount that is enough to deal with this crowd in karts. Two of the most competitive men on the planet, egged on by each other and by the group of guys in line behind you trying to pay for your group’s tickets. 

Do not let them pay for you, you told Charles and he nodded, told you he knew, paid for everyone’s tickets. At any moment it feels like a little red dot is going to appear on your head and Ferrari is going to take you out. They won’t be thrilled to discover both their poster-boy and Disney prince were out late the night before a race, even less thrilled when they find out Charles and Carlos were risking injury in search of cheap thrills with strangers. 

You and Isa share a laugh, feel like mothers chasing toddlers around at Disneyland. We should do that, we should do this. Oh! Look at that, we can’t leave without doing that. 

You watch them ignore the teenager telling them the rules about the karts, telling everyone not to run into one another. It’s just the four of you; Charles, Carlos, Isa, and you. You know they’ll be crashing into each other before you get through the first turn. 

They argue about if they’re fighting for first or fastest lap, flip a coin and throw a fit about the results, play rock-paper-scissors to come to a decision. They lap you and Isa–the rule followers who don’t exceed the speed limit–fly around the track at a speed you didn’t expect anyone to be able to pull from the cheap karts. 

Carlos wins, Charles contests, says he’s going to formally protest it. Then, they want to switch to two-seater carts, so you and Isa are passengers to their reckless driving. Charles wins that round. Carlos and Isa leave after that, claim they’re tired. You and Charles stay for a meal. 

“It’s a pre-podium celebratory meal.” You said. 

“You’re going to curse me.” He groaned. 

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, a meal shared with Charles is awkward, stiff. Before today, you’d barely spoken since Monza. Your social media was still full of death threats, or so you’d been told. The apps have yet to be redownloaded, it’s not healthy for anyone to see that kind of stuff. 

This is how it happens, you think. How lifelong friendships fall apart. There isn’t a separation spot that you can pinpoint and say yes, this is where it all went to shit. It’s a gradual separation, a day without a call, a week without a text, a month without speaking. Slow, steady, and sure, until eventually, you live separate, untangled lives. 

“So,” He says, eats a fry. “That big work deal?”

“Yeah.” You nod, cross one leg over the other on the cold metal chair. “It’s good. Almost done, I think.”

“I’m sure you killed it.”

“Yeah.” Uncross the legs. “Thanks.” Cross them again. The positioning of your legs isn’t the problem, the cold metal chair that doesn’t sit evenly on the floor and rocks when you shift your weight isn’t what’s making you uncomfortable. The food is good and the drinks are cold and your waitress is a sweetheart with a southern accent and long blonde hair. 

Y’all came from the race? She asked. We were busier than ants at a picnic all weekend. You told her yes. I like y’all’s accents, and that was the end of it. He couldn’t get away with that interaction anywhere else in the world. 

Everything is perfect, but you’re still uncomfortable. The problem is him. The problem is you. Everything breaks under enough pressure, even unbreakable things. 

“I miss you.” He said, because the closer your bodies are, the further away your minds wander. 

“I’m here.” You lie. 

He sees right through it. “No, you’re not.” Any possible defense would be weaker than the lie, so you don’t bother, sit in suffocating silence and pick at your fries. “Things have been weird since we slept together.” It was a mistake, you brace for the impact of it. Sleeping with him wasn’t a mistake, not for you. It was everything that has followed that was the issue. It should have been the end of a chapter, a closing book, one way or another. Instead, you’re writing an epilogue and flying by the seat of your pants, stumbling over your words and forgetting characterizations and just trying to make it to the next page. You should be in a new book entirely–a book without him or a book with him on every page. 

It was a mistake, you brace and brace but it never comes. He doesn’t say it. The other shoe doesn’t drop. He just looks at his hands, twists his rings on his fingers, pops his knuckles. “I don’t know how to fix this.” He speaks, finally, and it reminds you of when he kissed you, when you didn’t know how to make everything better. 

More silence, until you’ve both cleaned your plates, until Mary-Grace, the sweet talking southern-belle, sets the check down on Charles’ side of the table, until you watch him google how much gratuity he’s supposed to leave because he’s always scared he’s going to mess up tipping when you’re in the U.S. 

Distance is good, you think. Distance. People need distance. “Abu Dhabi is going to be my last race.”  You whisper. 

He laughs almost, sliding his card into the leather folder and setting it back on the edge of the table. “It’s going to be everyone’s last race.”

“My last race for a while, Charles.” My last race, ever, you think, if distance goes the way you think it will. “I’m going to–I think we.” You sigh. “We need some space, I think.”

“No. Don’t be stupid.” He shoos your words, brushes them under the rug. 

“We can’t fix it. We both know we can’t–”

“--I don’t know.” You speak over each other, building a Jenga tower of lies and one-ups until you finally snap into a different language. 

““--Doit-on vraiment continuer à prétendre que tout va bien?”

“I love you.” He blurts, cuts you off like it’s some grand admission, like you haven’t been saying it to each other since before the word love had any sort of connotation to it, back when it was just something people said to each other. The distance, it doesn’t mean you don’t love him. You’ll always love him, he’s Charles. You just. You need to breathe, and you can’t catch your breath when he’s around. 

“I love you, too.” You say, like you have a million times before, like you’re almost offended he thought any of this meant you didn’t love him. 

“No, no.” His voice is desperate, pleading with you to understand something you’re clearly missing. Surely, he doesn’t mean. “How do you… je suis amoureux de toi.” You clench your jaw and blink, and you’re pretty sure one eye closes before the other.

“Don’t say that to me.” You say. Not, I’m in love with you, too, even though you are. You’re trying to put yourself first here, trying to objectively look at your life, at the things in it that are hurting you. Mixed signals, hurting you. Death threats, hurting you. Unwanted attention, hurting you. The common thread is him, you need to separate yourself from him and he’s saying the only thing that could make you waiver. 

“Pourquoi pas?”

“Because.” You dig your shaky fingers into your leg, burrow them into the denim. It’s going to bruise, you don’t care, so will this conversation, so will walking away. “You don’t mean it.” Shake your head, lip quivering like a little girl who got hurt on the playground. He does mean it.You know him well enough to know he does, which only makes it that much fucking harder. “And I’m not going to say it back.” 

You love him so much, more than oxygen, maybe. You’d throw it all away for him, your heart would let you lose yourself if it meant making him happy, if it meant being with him. You’d stay off social media and pretend nobody was wishing for your death. You’d sit at awkward dinner parties and watch races with limbs that didn’t feel like your own. You’d do it all, if your heart was in charge, because you love him, and can’t fathom losing him. 

Space. Space will make it better, ease the sting of unspoken feelings and heavy words and stupid little games. Space will wash the salt from the wound. 

He says your name like a plea, a desperate prayer, bloody knees and lit candles. You say nothing, too much internal conflict to sort out to verbalize anything. 

The drive to the hotel is deafeningly silent. You can hear the tires of the rental car on the road below, can hear his feet on the pedals, the grind of his teeth because he’s angry at you. He’s angry and he doesn’t want to be. In love with you and he doesn’t want to be. You understand it well, recognize your own emotions being reflected back at you. If you listen hard enough, you convince yourself you can hear the traffic lights changing colors. 

You fly home commercial the next morning, skip the race, hear about his podium three days later from a friend. 

You don’t go to Abu Dhabi.

--

You don’t go to November, or December’s family dinner. He doesn’t text you, doesn’t call, makes no attempt at playing phone tag. 

--

You skip Christmas at the cabin, find out after the fact that he’d done the same thing. 

“Ça devient ridicule, chérie.” Your mother tells you over the phone. “Vous agissez comme un enfant. Vous l’êtes tous les deux.” You’d just told her you were skipping your dad’s birthday party. I have to work, you lied. I’ll bring his gift by the house next week. It was the straw that snapped her back, it would seem. “Vous serez ici demain. Pour papa. Il ne t'a rien fait.” She said it sternly, and if you were sixteen you might have been intimidated by it, might have listened. 

You told your sister after you got off the phone with Mom that you wouldn’t be there, told her as a heads up, so she knew the shit-show of slamming cupboards and passive aggressive comments she was walking into tomorrow. 

Go to your dad’s birthday. He texted you for the first time in months. I won’t go.

I’m an adult. There’s no way to send a message like that without sounding like a child. 

I wish I could see my dad on his birthday. Nobody does the guilt-trip like he does. Go. I promise I won’t be there.

Charles is scarily close to your Dad. Growing up, Charles–hell, all of the boys–they were the sons your dad never had, the ones he didn’t realize he wanted. It was infuriating, sharing him. And then Hervé got sick, and then he was gone, and your dad became a father figure for the boys. It was slow, and subtle, but it happened nonetheless.

You were the one who blew things up, who demanded space and time and distance. If anyone should suffer because of it, it’s you, not him. You should be there.

Not more than you. You disagree, but he’s impossible to argue with without being face-to-face. 

I can be an adult. You say, even though you aren’t so sure you can be. We can both go.

– –

You lingered in your apartment, wondered if he was really going to show up, if you were actually going to get in the car and drive over there, if it was too late to say you’d caught Covid or something. 

You change clothes seven times. Seven, because you want to look good, but not like you tried to look good. Effortlessly glamorous and classy and sophisticated. You don’t know why, it’s not like he’s the one who wronged you. If anyone should be spending extra time in the bathroom today it should be him, he should be trying to prove you wrong, to show you your mistake in walking away. 

It wasn’t a mistake. It was the biggest mistake. There were two very distinct sides to the coin. You’re back on social media, back to living your life without death threats and constant judgment. You haven’t spoken to your best friend in months, have no idea what he’s up to, don’t know anything more than his millions of followers. You miss him, but you don’t miss being Charles Leclerc’s friend, Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend. You like having your own name, being a person with traits that go beyond knowing him. You hate not seeing him, not being with him, worrying that you’re going to run into him around any corner. It’s a small, congested city. He could be any of the faces in the crowd. 

You get to your parents house after your sister and your brother-in-law and your niece. The house smells like pasta sauce and your mom’s flowery candle–the one that is teetering awfully close to potpourri and death and elderly woman. The Bianchi’s aren’t coming–they thought the party was next weekend, called and apologized three different times in the past forty-eight hours, according to your dad. The Lecelerc’s are yet to arrive. 

You slip into comfortable conversation with your family, Mom is right, you aren’t avoiding any of them. You help her out in the kitchen, get yelled at for tasting the sauce, chase your niece around the house, fulfill your duties as the fun aunt, sneak her candy from the jar in Dad’s office and swear just enough that she might call the dog a bitch. 

Arthur and Pascale get there first, before Lorenzo and Charles. They’ll be here late, Pascale says to someone, not you. “My brother is an idiot.” Arthur says when you greet him with a tight hug. You haven’t seen him since Monza, either. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You say. You haven’t seen him, but you’ve spoken to him, congratulated him on moving to F2, offered to take him out to dinner the next time your schedules lined up. Drama with Charles wasn’t going to stop you from celebrating the closest thing you’ll have to a baby brother. 

You almost forget he’s coming. Almost, and then he’s knocking and walking through the door with a small, gift-wrapped box and an expensive bottle of wine, charming smiles onto everyone’s face with just his easy presence. He looks good. He always looks good, but damn, he looks good in that sweater and those jeans and his glasses–he should wear his glasses more, you’ve always thought. He doesn’t hug anyone, and you wonder if it’s so he doesn’t have to hug you. Instead, he hoists Gigi up into the air and steals her seat on the sofa. It’s his seat, unassigned, but assigned by years of occupying it at every family function. Gi wants to lay claim to it, but she’s just as happy on Charles’ lap as she is curled up in the corner seat of the sectional. 

You keep meeting his eyes, snapping them back to the ground every time. It’s sad, if you think about it too long. You were right,the two of you are too entangled. There’s no separating you, not with ties that run so deep, not when you and Charles are just pieces of a giant web of people. There are a million invisible strings and unseen connections that intertwine every member of your family and every last one of your friends. 

You’re painfully cordial. He helps your mom serve dessert, hands you a plate with a corner piece of cake and your favorite ice cream, doesn’t have to ask you like he does everyone else. You don’t even know how he knows your favorite flavor of ice cream, why he remembers that you love the corner piece of cake. 

You thank him, tell him the wine he brought is good and overpriced. I’ve missed being judged for every purchase I made He said, and you told him he couldn’t get rid of you that easily. It’s weird, the weirdest, because he did get rid of you pretty easily. 

“I’m going to F1. Sauber.” He told you in his kitchen while the two of you were washing dishes. You dropped the forks into the dishwasher with a spattering of clangs.

“Really?” You asked, a glaring absence of excitement in your voice. You knew it was coming, everyone knew it was only a matter of time, a talent like his is destined to get to the top. You knew it was coming, but, still, you selfishly and silently hoped it wouldn’t work out. He was yours, and you wanted to keep him to yourself, hated how much you already had to share him with the rest of the world. Gone for nine months of the year, away from home and away from you, it will be so lonely. 

He’s happy to leave you behind, overjoyed, even, and you struggle to come to grips with it, struggle to separate the emotions he’s feeling about achieving the dream versus the ones he feels about leaving you. It feels like the end of the world to your young and naive heart, like nothing is ever going to be the same, like you’re losing another person you love more than life. 

– –

It was the beginning of the season, he hadn’t been home in almost two months, was in the middle of a double header, China and Azerbaijan, you think. You were just trying to survive to Monaco. He’d never been so busy, you’ve never missed him so much. 

Your roommates were having a party, and you were working late. When you got home, his favorite song was playing through the apartment. You don’t know the name, aren’t even sure about the artist, but you know every word, learned them all against your will. Listened to him sing it under his breath while he cooked and scream it during long car rides and blast from his headphones so loud you were worried he’d have hearing damage. He was always, always, singing this song, and you were always, always, asking him to turn it off. 

You wished he was here right now, singing it out of tune and thinking he’s a popstar. You wish you could begrudgingly sing it with him. Instead, you grab a snack from the pantry and lock your bedroom door and put in your headphones, play your music so loud you can’t hear the party on the other side of the door. Tune it out, turn off your longing for him with it. 

You can’t wait until you graduate, until you can pack everything up into a little suitcase and spend all of your money and follow him around the world, can’t wait until you never have to miss him again. 

Come see me. He texted, a month after your Dad’s birthday, right before pre-season testing in Bahrain. He’s already there, or so you can piece together from the text, from the attachment in the subjectless email he’d sent you. Plane ticket, two, actually. Nice to Dubai, Dubai to Muharraq. Both first class. 

No. You replied. Get a refund.

See you tomorrow night. You hated the cockiness of the reply, hated more that you were already packing a suitcase. He didn’t even ask if you were working, didn’t check to see if your schedule was clear or if it was even something you wanted to do. 

I’m not your booty call.

Trust me, I know. He said. Ma vie serait tellement plus simple si tu l'étais. Well, he’s not wrong about that one. 

Your sister drives you to the airport. “I think I’m in too deep.” You told her. You two have never done shallow, she said. You promised to protect yourself, to prioritize yourself, and to text her updates whenever you had them. 

You wished your life was as simple as hers, a good job and a husband and a perfect baby girl. Big family parties and plenty of babysitters for date night and a village that loved and supported everything they did. She had the perfect family, had all her ducks in a row and her shit situated. “I love living vicariously through your insane life.” She said, and you kissed her cheek goodbye. 

– –

You follow his instructions, feel like you’re on a delusional scavenger hunt. Board the plane, land in Dubai, board another plane, land in Muharraq, get on the bus, talk to Azim at the front desk of the hotel, he knows you’re coming. Azim isn’t there. He works the night shift, apparently. 

Azim is not here. You texted your sister. 

Who is Azim?

They call Azim, he answers, and it’s all sorted out when the day-shift manager hands you a key. You wonder what Charles had told Azim. There’s a girl coming, be discreet. It doesn’t seem like him, none of it seems like him. Azim, I’m drunk and tired and invited my best friend, who claims to need space from me, to my room. Please let her in. That felt like more of a possibility, felt like it would confirm your suspicions, that he doesn’t want you here. He wants you, of last year, here. You, of France, likely. 

You’re not having sex with him. Not happening, you won’t fold, not even if he asks nicely. It would solve nothing, and has already fucked up enough of your relationship. If you suck his dick again, you won’t be able to be cordial at birthday parties, he’ll forget what kind of ice cream you like, and neither of you will ever be seen at the christmas cabin again. 

When you get to the room, the suite, you find there’s two bedrooms. Maybe he wasn’t looking for France, maybe he got into the room and saw there was another room and had a momentary lapse where he thought, you know who would enjoy being here? He bought the tickets, sent the text, and by the time he realized what he’d done, it was too late to back out. 

You’re replying to emails on the couch when he walks through the door. That redesign deal, after months and months of back and forth about something as small as the shade of one pixel versus another, is finally launching this weekend. You’re trying to make sure everything is in order, putting the final bows on the project and making sure no ends are left loose. 

“Hi.” You call out, in case he forgot he invited you. 

“Hi.” He says, appears in the lamp-lit room all comfy in that one sweatshirt you’ve always loved on him. “Are you watching L’Atalante?” He asks, moving past you and into the kitchen. It’s too normal. Eerily so, the plane might have passed through the z-axis or something and now you’re in an alternate timeline where none of it ever went sour. 

“No.” Everytime you watch it you think of him. Not in the cheesy, God, I love him and he is such the main character in this love story, way. In the God, I love him and wish he was here to make fun of me for loving this movie, way. “Haven’t watched it in a while.”

“Shame.” He says. “I liked that movie.”

You don’t feel like humoring him about this again, vividly remembering exactly where it got you the last time. Really, you could blame all of this on that fucking movie. If you never watch it, he never asks to come in, you never have sex, and everything is happy-go-lucky between the two of you. “How’s the car this year?”

“Don’t know yet.” He says, pulls a bottle of water from the fridge, the seal snapping when he turns the cap. “Why aren’t you watching L’Atalante?” He takes a drink.

“I told you.” You say quietly, unfocused on your words, fingers rapidly moving across your keyboard. 

“No, you told me you haven’t watched it.” He says, flops down onto the couch. “I want to know why.”

“I don’t know, because I haven’t felt like it.” You tell him, a little more annoyed this time. You haven’t watched the movie. A lot of people don’t watch their favorite movie all of the time. “Why do you care so much? Did you call me out here to play anything but?”

“I called you out here because I miss my best friend.”

“You don’t know me, anymore.”

“It’s been a few months, not a few lifetimes.” Even then, he’d probably still remember the corner piece of cake and his hand would probably still hover behind you protectively and find you in the dark rooms and the crowded rooms. You know no amount of time could make you forget his favorite song, or at what point in his day he gets nervous, what he needs when everything is going wrong, and the way he can sober you up with one look. “I still know you. I still love you.” You sympathize with it, relate to it, because nothing is as hard as trying to unlove another person, you’ve come to learn. “I miss my best friend.”

Don’t break. I still love you, Charles. Don’t break. I miss my best friend, too. Don’t break. Don’t break. “We can pretend for a weekend.” He says. “Just, be normal again. Be us again.” Us. There is no us. Don’t break. 

It’s not like it’s an argument you can just apologize and move on from. He can’t apologize for loving you, for needing to vocalize it. You can’t apologize for loving him, for not being able to take the leap. Normal, normal sounds so good. 

Can we go back to normal after this? 

Yeah. Back to normal. 

You never should have let yourself believe him. You wonder if he loved you, then. If he knew when he said it that it was a lie. You can’t remember when you knew you loved him, like really, really loved him. It was gradual, you suppose, a combination of time and sweetness and jealousy, of grief and joy and innocence. At some point, you were forced to face the sobering reality, but, you don’t know how long you’ve loved him like this. Does he remember a moment, or was it gradual for him, too? 

“Back to normal.” You said. The ultimate game of anything but, the final boss of your friendship. “Just for the weekend?”

“Whatever you want.” He says. “We can do whatever you want.” 

Don’t break. Do not break. “Okay,” you crack, and then, with the force of your entire heart, “yeah.” You break. 

A long time ago, before the gradual realization, you thought Charles and you were platonic soulmates. Today, can you go back to that? To the platonic love. Was there ever a fork in the road, a wrong turn, a path where you end up somewhere else, or have you always been destined to end up like this, in a hotel room, in a foreign country hiding from the rest of the world and pretending everything is light and breezy and comfortable when it’s far from. 

– –

It’s Monday morning, and your weekend together is over. It was a shorter adjustment period than you could have predicted, like relatives who don’t see eachother but once a year. It’s awkward hellos and bombed small talk until suddenly one of you makes a joke and it’s like you were apart for minutes instead of months. 

You go to this tourist attraction together, the Tree of Life. It’s a four-hundred-year-old tree that’s like, ten meters tall or something. It sits alone in the middle of the desert and nobody knows how it’s still alive. It’s a spectacle, according to Google, and was nominated to be another wonder of the world. Someone says its roots run fifty meters deep, and it sticks with you, the idea that there’s so much beneath the surface. You wonder if the tree had a companion four hundred and some odd years ago, if it always imagined spending every day with the companion tree, if their roots were tangled fifty meters below the surface. The tree is gone, now, but maybe its roots are still there, fifty meters down, all tangled up in the roots of this tree. 

It’s probably not from the Garden of Eden like they claim, and there’s surely a scientifically sound explanation for where the tree is getting its water from in the middle of the desert in a rain-less country. It’s just a big tree, destined to dry up and fall over and burn with the rest of the planet. It’s just a big tree, unless it isn’t. 

Does the tree know if it’s special or if it’s just that? You don’t know if what you and Charles have is something special or if you’re just something, but, then again, you aren’t a tree. Maybe the tree knows. Maybe you know. How does a person know that they know?

Charles seems to know, to think you’re worth his unrelenting patience, deserving of the corner slice and the color green, of the stars and the sand and everything in between. He understands you, and he still seems to know, to declare with confidence in the rush of a sports bar in the middle of Texas that he loves you. He’s sure enough that he skips Christmas because you thought space would make everything better, doesn’t tell you that you’re wrong even when you so obviously are, doesn’t stop loving you when you push him in the opposite direction. 

You’ve never been that sure about anything, you think. 

“Looks a bit lonely, doesn’t it?” He offers into the dry air, taking a picture with his phone. You hadn’t thought of it as lonely until he said something, viewed it as possessing an other-worldly strength and unmatched level of determination. The tree never told its companion it loved it, the tree kept to itself and eventually, learned to live alone in the sand. 

You shook your head. “It’s strong.”

“You can be both.” The tree can be both, he’d meant to say, because the Tree of Life is not a metaphor. It’s just a tree. 

– –

The weekend, the game of anything but, the avoidance of the World’s biggest elephant, is over. It’s Tuesday, now, breakfast from room service in the suite, awkward tension filling all the available space, compromising each molecule at an atomic level. He’s wearing a red t-shirt, because he always is, and it sits on him so nicely, looks so comfortable on his skin. You’re wearing a yellow pajama top and the silky material is charged with static and clings to you in all the spots you wish it wouldn’t. 

How do you know when it’s real? You had texted your sister in the middle of the night prior, two-twenty-three if you remember correctly. You couldn’t sleep, had a bad dream–couldn’t decide what was worse, the nightmare while you sleep or the nightmare when you wake.  

You don’t. She replied at a normal hour, when normal people wake up after going to sleep at a normal time. You never know for sure.

That’s fucked.

“I booked a flight home last night.” You told him, picking at the plate of eggs in front of you, the fork scraping on the ceramic plate like nails on a chalkboard, your teeth clinking against the metal everytime it was in your mouth. Just, wrong. In every possible way. 

“Why?” He asks, takes a drink of orange juice, a new quirk, you think. He always used to complain about the pulp getting stuck in his teeth. Don’t be such a princess, you’d tell him and he would roll his eyes, drink the remainder of the glass just to prove he could do it without complaining. 

“The deal was a weekend.” You say, pretend you’re not conflicted, regretting buying the ticket, admit you’re running away again. “The weekend is over.”

“You’re just going to leave again?” He nods, reassures himself through the sentence, wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Not even going to talk about it?” You stay quiet, teeth clicking against the fork. “I–you are. God, you are so–”

“–Anything but.” You invoke it like a constitutional amendment, like a prophecy, like an unbreakable law. 

“​​Oh, va te faire foutre.” Your head rears back, but you don’t let it sting, know you deserve it. “We’re not doing Anything-fucking-but.” It’s been a long time since he was angry with you, openly like this, cussing you out. He’s scary when he’s angry at you, because he’s always calm about it. Raises his voice, maybe, but never yells at you. You wished he’d scream sometimes, it would be easier to read. 

“This weekend was really great, Charles. I don’t want to ruin it.” 

“I just. I don’t understand.” He runs his hand over his stubble, deep in contemplation, trying to analyze you, make sense of you. Good luck, you want to tell him. “I love you. I really, really fucking love you. Je sais que je ne suis pas fou. Vous le sentez aussi.”

A single, heavy tear falls from the corner of your eye. You wipe it with the rough cuff of your jacket before it can trail down your face. The inside of your cheek is bleeding, you think, because you can’t feel the pressure from your teeth but you can taste copper. “I’m scared.” There, you said it. You admitted it, exhaled it with the weight of the world, vomited it into his lap. 

His lips are tight in their frown, eyes red and glossy like he’s going to cry, too. He laughs, though, a sad and defeated chuckle. “You think I’m not scared?” He asks, voice fighting against itself not to crack. “I’m scared as hell to want you.”

He’s scared? But, nothing scares him. He’s fearless, you’re frightened. Unflinching and hesitant. Gutsy and cowardly. Nothing scares him, not even his own mortality. You’re supposed to believe that you, of all people, you, scare him? Impossible, you think.

“I didn’t tell you for fun.” He continues. “I told you, because it was eating me alive. I was so scared to tell you, thought I would ruin us. Mais tu partais, et je ne pouvais pas te perdre. Je ne pouvais pas.” 

Why, why, why is this so fucking hard for you. Sixteen-year-old you, twenty-year-old you, twenty-five-year-old you. Every version of you is screaming at you, we’ve loved him forever, this is all you’ve ever wanted from him. They kick your shins and gut-punch the breath from your lungs and scrape their nails behind your eyes. They are furious, because for longer than you can remember every wish–shooting stars, birthday candles, fountain pennies, fallen eyelashes, dandelions, and ladybugs–they’ve all been for the same thing. The very thing being served to you on a desert platter, all you have to do is pick up the fork. 

“Tu as peur?” 

“Pétrifié.”

Pick up the fork. Eat the corner piece of cake and savor every bite. Be scared. Be terrified that the world is going to take something pure and wreck it. Be scared, but do it together. Pick up the fork.

“I love you, too.”

You feel strangely out of place with someone else to look after in the paddock. Ferrari hospitality had been your home away from home for years now. The paddock was always different, but maintained a comfortable familiarity, recognizable faces, names, buildings and colors. He was wide-eyed and curious and you smiled at the way the sun bounced off his hair, the excitement he couldn’t contain when amongst the chaos you’d become accustomed to. 

“Ask before you touch, please.” You told him, his hand in yours, the same warning Charles had given you the first time he brought you through a garage. 

He is heard before he is seen, a loud laugh, a familiar voice calling out your name as soon as he turned the corner. “Hi.” You beam.

“Hi” He says, kisses you, runs his hand through the boy’s hair. “Quoi de neuf, Crevette?”

“Il fait chaud, papa.” He says, with poor enunciation and the dramatic waving of a little hand, fanning himself. Charles nods, hoists the little man onto his hip, whispers something in his ear. A private conversation between the two of them, you don’t dare intrude. “Dis-sa.” Charles says, repeats it when he’s met with a giggly belly laugh. 

“We go.” He says, in little, butchered english with a thick french accent. It’s easier to decipher a babble. 

Charles laughs, quirks his brows at you, shrugs. “We go.” He backs away from you slowly. 

“We go, where?” You say, laughing, too, because you can’t not laugh at your little boy’s giggle. It’s too pure, cracks even the toughest exteriors. Charles looks to his mini-me. “Où allons-nous mon amour?”

“La crème glacée.” He says, beams at his father. 

“You coming for ice cream, Maman?” Charles asks, holds out his free hand because it’s a rhetorical question. He’s looking at you with the eyes that make you sober and find you in any crowd, but he doesn’t have to have eyes on you to know you’re coming. “Do you think they have Maman’s favorite flavor?” He asked. 

“Ouais. Ils l'ont eu."

[fewwawifwiends]

and they were roommates!!!

what follows is a story that gradually builds to absolute filth - read at your own discretion

trigger warning: alcohol and substance abuse (le oueed) for recreational purposes -no angst involved

word count: 13,085 (could this have been split to chapters? yes. could it have also been proofread? also yes. could it have a beta? it should have a beta. but none of these things happened and here we are)

it was 8 o’clock but it was late. for him anyway, it had been such a long day and to be honest, an excruciatingly long season so far, and he was only half way through. he had a lead over charles, sure, but it wasn’t a comfortable one, and after hungary, nothing seemed comfortable except perhaps the thought of his own bed to just lie in. the anticipation to reach it was killing him as he made his way up to his apartment, only for his hopes and dreams to be entirely crushed. 

instead of his cats waiting for him at the door in an otherwise quiet home, he could hear music through the walls as he entered his key in the door. who the fuck was in his apartment? too tired to be alert for a dangerous intruder, max was just extremely irritated, nothing more, nothing less. not even curious as to who the person inside was. for all he knew, it was daniel trying to cheer him up. but that wasn’t daniel’s off key singing he could hear. it didn’t really matter though. all that mattered was getting this party out of his place and literally anywhere else but those four walls. 

with a deep sigh, he opened the door and saw her. 

her face was familiar, not one he could place. not that he bothered himself too much with that. 

“who the fuck are you?” he spoke over the music. 

“oh good, you’re home!” her head turned as she exclaimed and ran over to hug him. an eyebrow was raised and max was still waiting for an answer to his question, standing perfectly still as he did so.

the girl let go of him and just stared at him with wide eyes for an awkwardly long time before speaking again.

“vic said it was cool if i crashed here for a while, she told me where to find the spare key.” max didn’t react, waiting for more. “we met when we were karting as kids.” she hopped to jog his memory. “i’m rowan.” 

“oooh.” he finally made the connection and rowan gave him a wide smile. “yeah, i remember.” max made a mental note to kill his sister, feed her to the pigs, make sure no evidence is left behind. the perfect crime and it was taking place right behind his eyes. 

“want a beer?” rowan’s voice snapped him out of his homicidal daydream. 

“and for how long did vic say it was okay for you to be here, exactly?” 

“oh i only just got here a few days ago, kinda found myself homeless in monaco. i was hoping it would be okay with you if i crashed until i find a way out of the country.” 

her logic was severely flawed, but max was just too damn tired to argue. 

“i have not touched your bedroom, i swear. and your cats seemed to be glad someone was around…” 

“well, now i’m here.” 

“obviously.” 

“i can’t do this right now. i need to go to bed. just please keep the noise down. i’ll deal with this in the morning.” 

“oh yeah, absolutely, quiet as a mouse. won’t even notice i’m here.” she crossed her fingers and kissed them, as if that meant anything other than a childish gesture.

“that’s impossible, but i’d love to see you try.” he offered her a sarcastic smile before turning on his heels and taking his luggage into his room. 

a few days went by and rowan did not seem to budge, having taken over his couch entirely. it took a while, but soon enough, she was forced to adopt his sleeping pattern, out of courtesy if nothing more; her mother raised her better than sleeping when the host was awake, especially when her host needed the room and was a bit of an asshole on top of that. 

had she come into his house unannounced? absolutely. did he actually know her? not really. had he had chances to throw her out? every damn day. had he thrown her out? no. so at this point, this was on him, really. 

max went on with his routine, waking up at the crack of fucking dawn (which was around 8 am), training, sim racing (as rowan was forced to learn what it was called) and chatting up with his friends and just wasting a bit of time until it was bed time -never later than 12 am. 

he made minimal effort to interact with her and for the first couple of days, it was the most awkward position rowan had ever been in. she thought about leaving, but her next thought was her empty bank account and the third one was her promise to victoria: get him to actually relax during his break. so getting the hell out of there wasn’t exactly an option. 

neither was laying around all day, tiptoeing around max needlessly. if she were to tiptoe, she could at least be useful about it. once she got his routine down, she started doing the housework, out of boredom and as a means to pay him back for his… well, it wasn’t hospitality per se, so for letting her crash. 

she got his meal plan from the fridge, stocked up for a few days and started meal prepping. it was a friday, so max was due for another training session in the afternoon, it was a no brainer that he’d be coming home starving, allowing rowan to take a couple liberties with his dinner, make the meal a bit more hers. besides, she’d have to eat that as well, and plain grilled chicken and salad just didn’t cut it. 

careful not to add any extra carbs or go overboard in the calorie count, she managed to make something out of the meal of the day, earning her -or at least her plate, as max wouldn’t really bother with looking at her- a genuine smile he was quick to hide. 

one day, after returning from yet another training session, he took a much needed shower, washing as many thoughts as he possible could away. the only thing that seemed to linger in his mind was how he was going to get rid of rowan and killing his sister all in one swift blow. perhaps a double homicide? but as he wrapped a towel around his body and tousled his hair to get most of the moisture out, he resolved that this was a problem that tomorrow’s max would be more than capable of solving. 

max got out of the bathroom and as soon as he got used to the smell of his shampoo and body wash, a new scent grabbed his attention. 

“is that fucking weed?” he did a full 180 and took long, heavy strides following the smell to his balcony. 

“oh shit, sorry, is it bothering you?” rowan was quick to put out the joint in a makeshift ashtray. 

“you do realise it’s not legal, right?” she nodded no profusely and max exhaled deeply as he sat down in the other chair around the table. “look, rowan” he paused a little, trying to think of his next words. “i don’t know what vic told you and frankly, i don’t give a shit. i’m tired, and really need to relax. i need my space and my home.” 

“we just thought it would help you relax…” she was apologetic, which didn’t particularly help, but it didn’t make things worse either. 

“by finding a stranger in my house the moment i walk in, ready to enjoy my only vacation and risking jail plus a hefty fine?” 

“well, when you put it like that… besides, we’re not strangers.” 

“we’re not childhood buddies either.” 

“point made. i’ll be out of your hair.” she replied with a flat tone.

she was defeated, the plan was a bust. all vic wanted was to help her brother unwind after the season he’d had and at the same time, help out an old friend. both backfired terribly and rowan was on the receiving end of things. 

without anything else left to say or do, she got up and made her way past max to reach the living room, mind occupied with where her broke ass would spend the night and how she’d pack her things than anything else. too occupied to notice max’s hand reaching out and grabbing her wrist, bringing her to a halt. surprised, she sucked in a breath.

“you can go tomorrow, i have no intention of kicking you out in the middle of the night. contrary to popular belief, i do have a soul and manners. just don’t get me arrested in the meantime?” 

“the bar is higher than you might think.” rowan gave him a chuckle. “but seriously, i get that it’s a lot and a bother, i’ll be out in like 10 minutes tops.” 

“don’t make me the guy who kicks a girl out on the street.”

“i’m leaving voluntarily, max.” she spoke softly. 

“if you stay, will that be voluntary as well?” 

“fuck yeah, your couch is like a fucking cloud, dude.” and that earned her a chuckle from max. a chip in his grumpy armour, perhaps there was hope of getting him to actually unwind over his break. 

“great. and now that you’re up, how about you grab me that beer you offered?” his tone was condescending, but all rowan did about it was roll her eyes and break free of his weak -as it turned out- grasp on her hand, as she made her way even further to the apartment and into the kitchen. 

the girl came back just a minute later, two beers in hand and the cats expertly walking between her feet, making rowan struggle a bit for balance, earning her yet another small laugh from max. 

“is my misfortune entertaining enough for you, verstappen?” 

“as a matter of fact, yes, thank you. your misery brings me joy.” 

“you’ll be the happiest man alive when i’m done with you.” rowan smiled bitterly. 

she sat down and placed one beer can in front of max, and with just one look, she knew that both her attempt at dark humour and the beer were appreciated, making her feel at ease. 

“no glasses?” he asked. 

“tonight, we drink like men.” she slammed the cans on the table. “tomorrow i can get you a bottle of bubbly rosé, if that’s your fancy.” she cracked the can open and took a sip, max mimicking her movements. 

“bold of you to assume there will be a tomorrow.”

“think of it as a parting gift. so is rosé okay, or are you more of a cabernet kind of guy?”

“i’d prefer a bottle of gin, if you’re going to the liquor store.”

“my grandpa used to say that gin is the drink of alcoholics.” 

“let me guess - liver failure?”

“damn fucking straight.” she raised her beer can to a toast and winked at him. 

“wait, seriously?”

“yup. still want that gin?” 

minutes quickly went by and turned into hours, the small table on the balcony soon filled with empty beer cans. and unlike the remaining cans in the fridge, max found himself not running out of things to discuss with rowan. 

there was a sober version of himself still clinging to the back of his mind, telling him that it was getting late, that he needed to rest. but he just couldn’t bring himself to get up and go to bed. besides, she’d probably be gone come morning. he’d never hear the end of it from his trainer. but it was just one night. he deserved a night off, no matter how unexpectedly -to say the least- that came to happen. 

there was a moment of silence that allowed him to have more of that inner monologue, weighing the pros and cons of that night so far, but it was quickly filled by rowan’s voice again. 

“you do realise you’re still in a towel, right?” 

“and you’re wearing just an oversized t shirt.” he noted in return. “hey, is that mine?” 

“maybe” the girl gave him a cheeky grin. 

“you’ve taken over everything! so what, now jimmy and sassy curl up at your feet when you sleep?” 

“wait, they don’t normally do that?” and that was the final straw. max’s jaw hanged in surprise, speechless. “i’m just fucking with you, mate. your cats still love you.” she lied, hoping it was convincing enough. sure, his cats still loved him, but they were sleeping on the couch with her those past couple of days. 

“so you’ve raided my fridge, my closet, taken my cats away from me but sleeping on my bed was too much?” 

“sounds about right, yeah. don’t give me that look, your bed will remain yours. but a girl has to eat. and your wardrobe is pretty limited. don’t you own anything other than polos and skinny jeans? who even wears skinny jeans in 2021?” 

“got any other complaints about your free accommodation?” 

“give me a couple minutes, i’ll come up with a list. want it in alphabetical order or from most to least important?” 

“you’re impossible.”

“yet, still here.” 

“don’t push your luck.”

and as if his last sentence never left his lips, rowan absentmindedly picked up the joint she’d left earlier and lit it up again.

“are you actively trying to throw me in jail?”

“oh relax, verstappen. who will know it's from us? besides, you’re not the one in possession. and being the gracious lady i am, you’re free to have some. just take it easy, i’m not in a state to deal with a bad trip.” 

“how generous of you. and i have smoked before.”

“of course you have.” she openly and clearly doubted him, grinding his gears even further. max being max plus a hefty handful of beers, decided to prove his point and gestured for rowan to pass him the joint, from which he took a long, satisfying drag, slowly letting the smoke out of his lungs. 

he didn’t cough, or came close to having anything that might seem like an asthma attack and that put rowan at ease. first time smokers tend to cough up a lung or two. not max though. there was a thick cloud of smoke around his face and he kept on releasing more and more. he held the joint between his index and middle finger and rowan found herself entranced, looking at his expression loosening up, sandy blond hair falling in his clouded eyes mixing with the smoke, how his hand looked with the mixture of tobacco and weed wrapped in a thin paper lacing his fingers. 

“is this hand rolled?” 

“by yours truly.” 

he shot her a grimace of approval as he looked down at the joint in his hand and then looked up at her look of disbelief. 

“you forgot i’m dutch, didn’t you?” 

“i- well, yes. besides, you’re an athlete and you freaked out about it earlier, so…” 

“so you thought it wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole.” he took another drag. “it’s just nature, baby.” 

rowan was fully aware that this was an expression. she was clear on the fact that he hadn’t just called her baby. but her heart skipped a beat nonetheless. it was the closest she’d gotten to being close to him, and the that little word, endearing as it was, made it worse. 

max passed the joint back to her and she welcomed the distraction and the chance to get herself under control again. 

“seriously though, aren’t you going to get dressed?” she asked, trying to change the subject. 

“maybe. eventually. aren’t you?” 

“i’m not the one spending the last hour in a towel. i am dressed.” 

“if that’s what you’d call being dressed. besides, it’s my house. i can walk around with my cock out if i want.”

“now that’s a mental image i certainly didn’t need.”

“of course, keep lying to yourself.” his deadpan expression had rowan frozen. 

“i am a lady, max. please, do keep that in mind.” 

“it’s hard to when not ten minutes ago you let out a burp i’d be jealous of.”

“fine, i’m a lady who’s had beer. it makes me burp. sue me.” 

“for that, no. for trespassing, though… or even breaking and entering, that’s a great idea. perhaps the smartest thing you’ve ever said.” 

“and here i was, thinking that weed would be the end of your legal troubles” 

“i could add you to the list, no worries.”

“happy to see i’m not a bother, then.” 

“don’t push it.” he glared at her but his gaze softened in a matter of milliseconds. “but to return to my original point, you’re not a lady. ladies don’t barge into strangers’ homes unannounced, they don’t walk around in nothing but said strangers’ t shirts and they certainly don’t happen to carry expertly hand rolled joints to pass around.” 

“expertly, huh?” 

“focus.”

“fine, if i’m not a lady, what am i?”

“trouble” he gave her a smirk and extended his hand to ask for the joint again. 

rowan was quite pleased with the characterisation, unbeknownst to her returning the smirk, although it hadn’t gone exactly the way she wanted. she was willing to settle, but not go down without a fight. 

“are you under the impression that you are a gentleman?”

“me, gentle? no, baby. never.” he winked and the innuendo was not lost on her as a blush crept up her cheeks, but other than that, she wasn’t phased. 

“then what kind of man throws a woman with nowhere to go out of his house, not even recognising the fact that his home is spotless, his cats and himself are well fed and taken care of, and any and all efforts she makes to help him relax after a tough day at the office?” 

hearing the words come out of her mouth, rowan realised just how domestic that sounded. however, she’d said nothing but facts. sure, she was getting free rent in monaco those past few days. but she’d made sure that whenever he got home -thank you vic for not giving her a time window to work with- everything would be clean and proper. 

max finding her dancing wearing his t shirt was not part of the plan, much like many other things that happened in the course of the last few hours. but that didn’t magically erase the fact that she had been taking care of things as if she were in her own place, and then some. 

“the kind that blends well with trouble.” 

he could not have a line for anything she threw at him. they’d had the same to drink and smoke. it was just not fair. rowan struggled a couple seconds to find her pace again, remember her endgame, while hoping that the delay wouldn’t be too apparent, or attributed to simply how max had the right thing to say to everything. 

“so you are having fun!” a grin was plastered on her lips. 

“that’s not how i have fun.” 

“oh please, pray tell.” she regretted the words as soon as they came out of her mouth. the innuendos had certainly not helped, nor had her intoxicated state, at remaining civil. faster than the speed of light she could see the conversation derailing as max would go on providing specifics on what ‘fun’ entails. 

to rowan’s surprise, he just raised an eyebrow and replied like anyone you practically just met would:

“i play with my cats, watch some shit on netflix and play games.”

“that’s so pedestrian of you verstappen, colour me shocked.”

"not all of us lead the exciting life of a world touring, couch surfing hobo, rowan. some of us just enjoy a quiet night in-"

"much like this then-"

"without surprises." 

"fine mr clean and proper, straight as an arrow who has never done a single fun thing in his life. i get it, i'm a nuisance. so then why have you spent all night with me?" 

"if i'm going to go to jail for a year, i deserve to know my cellmate and enjoy the weed that gets thrown in, don't you think?" 

"for a year?" 

“what part of ‘illegal’ was so hard for you to grasp?” 

that shut rowan up. the last thing she wanted was to ruin the man’s career, end him up in actual prison or both. she stood there, frozen in fear, staring at the view of the city and the sea before her, but looking at nothing in particular. a gigantic spider could be ruining the city one leg at a time and she probably wouldn’t have noticed. 

she couldn’t tell if she stayed like that for seconds or entire minutes, but she was certain of what brought her out of it: max’s laugh. she’d only heard it through closed doors as he was playing with his friends, or coming up the stairs with his trainer after a session, but she couldn’t mistake the sound. her head turned to face him and he was actually doubled over. 

“what?” she muttered, trying to get her brain to work and figure out what might be so funny. 

“i’m just- fucking with you” max uttered in between attempts to take a breath and rowan could feel the blood boiling in her veins. how could he let her believe- “marijuana is still very illegal, but it’s unlikely we’ll get in trouble.” he managed a more serious voice. 

“i’m going to kill you in your sleep and drag your lifeless body through the streets before feeding you to the cats.” her tone was flat but her voice was shaking in anger. 

max let out another giggle. “i’ll give you one for your creativity. here, take a hit, it’ll help you feel better.” he handed her the joint. 

“oh my god, i’m feeding you to the cats alive.” but she gladly took it and lit it up again, filling her lungs to capacity before exhaling and taking another drag. 

a few moments later, she was more relaxed, a combination of the substance along with the blood not rushing to her head anymore proving to be most helpful, but still pissed at max. 

“why would you ever think that this was funny?” 

“you didn’t see your face.” 

“is this payback, because we already said, i’ll be out of your hair come morning.”

“i thought we agreed you’d stay.”

“so you’re just an asshole then, cool.” she stated matter-of-factly and took her third consecutive hit. 

rowan was starting to feel a bit numb, a sign that it was kicking in. finally. she sighed as the smoke clouded her face. and then she realised that max never cared to dispute the fact that he was an asshole. or apologise, highlighting her point. great. rowan rolled her eyes, gaze falling on him for just a split second - enough to see him a bit more gloomy than usual, earning him another eye roll. 

“fine, you’re not an asshole. here, peace offering.” and she extended the joint back to him, which max silently took. 

after another couple of hits, he got up towel still surprisingly hanging on his hips and went inside. rowan was a bit worried about the repercussions, how he’d be acting around her from then on, but she couldn’t bring herself quite to the point of analysing that. that was a problem for the next day and one she was not equipped to handle at the time. 

so she occupied herself with stargazing, trying to find constellations and then trying to match them with the endless small lights of the buildings below. 

max came back, interrupting the silence of her mind. he had put some pants on, but his torso was still bare, and rowan noticed, shifting her focus from stars to him with inexplicable ease. while she had been visualising constellations just a few moments ago, now she was visualising his arms trapping her body between them. she also noticed the veins in said arms, just barely visible, but there. and they extended to his hands, followed by long fingers, which by the way would look so good on her thighs-

“enjoying the view?” a tinge of his lips was the only thing betrayed the meaning behind his words. 

“quite spectacular.” 

“the sights of monaco are something to behold.” fuck, she was going to make him lose it just by looking at him. 

it was borderline unreal how easily the conversation flowed and how comfortable the silences were. she got his humour; even if she wouldn’t laugh at one of his jokes, he could see the glint in her eyes under the soft light of the night. it had been a hot minute since max had clicked like that with someone and while he enjoyed it, he decided not to read too much into it; he could leave some friendly banter and some flirty glances be bygones. the situation was already quite bizarre as it was, there was no need to make it even more complicated and he was just too fucking tired of everything, adding drama to the pot was the last thing he needed. but the way she kept eyeing him up and down was getting very hard to ignore. 

max got to the point of wondering if the table between them was a cockblock or keeping him from making a mistake. it was an uneasy feeling, not knowing if he was grateful or pissed, especially when the little exposed skin rowan showed looked so fucking delicious. he was right; she was trouble. and he wanted to blend with her so bad. 

this was getting ridiculous and max was getting impatient. there was this small, still rational part of his that kept him from getting up and dragging her to the rails of his balcony, take out his frustrations right there and then. the mental image of her back arched, hair unruly and all over the place, and her ass pressed up against him didn’t help. 

rowan heard him sigh and her attention was brought back to the real max immediately, the one before her and not the one teasing her with those beautiful, long fingers in her imagination.

“what’s troubling you?” an innocent enough question that did not have an innocent answer. 

max took his sweet time to reply, shifting in his chair to have his body turned to her, finding her eyes before even opening his mouth.

“you”.

“haven’t we been through this already?” exasperated she took another hit, deep enough to make the cigarette come very near its end, passing it again to max. “want me gone? i’ll go!” 

rowan watched him finish the blunt with a long drag which he kept in his lungs for a few seconds, releasing much less smoke than what he inhaled but still creating a cloud over his features. he put out the cigarette with a bit more force than necessary before speaking again. 

“it’s not about that.”

“then what is it about?” 

max didn’t grace her with an answer. instead, he looked at her for a while and then stared off into the endless view of his balcony for a few minutes. once he decided that that was enough, he got up and went to bed without uttering another word. 

another couple days went by and things went back to normal, as if the other night never took place. rowan was good at hiding her disappointment and irritation; sharing weed was supposed to be a bonding experience, but apparently max thought otherwise. and that was okay. at least, that’s what she told herself to get through the day without erupting. what was different however, was something very subtle and at the same time reassuring. the silences were comfortable now. 

to max it was almost surreal how comfortable a silence would be. he now knew she got his humour, even if she didn’t laugh or had a snarky comeback she probably didn’t even think of holding back on. it got to the point where he’d like nothing more than explore that possibility, test the limits of their chemistry, but it would make things too complicated and there just wasn’t enough room in his life, or his brain for that matter, to deal with the repercussions. for once, he was doing less than his best and that was okay. ignoring her to the extent he did, or even the possibility of her, was already hard enough, taking more power than he’d like to admit. 

but there was a limit on how rude he could be, and when he was invited to a club on his day off, he had to invite rowan. 

a deadpan expression was plastered on her features. “you want me there. with you.”

max sighed, tired of having to repeat himself. “look, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.” 

“the max verstappen is inviting little old me to a night out in monaco.” 

“yes.” he rolled his eyes. 

neither of them said another word as rowan jumped off the couch and went straight to the bathroom. 

“give me like 30 minutes and we’re out the door.” she yelled from behind the closed door, the sound of the water running almost muffling her words.

“i’m setting a timer”

“of course you are.” her voice was lower this time, but rowan didn’t particularly care if he heard her. 

she took the quickest shower of her life, hands lathering and shaving and rinsing furiously her body as she waited for her conditioner to set after washing her hair in record time and after another thorough rinse, rowan draped her towels on her body and head, dashing for the living room and to her clothes she’d neglected to take with her. 

“careful, you’re going to fall.” max turned to look at what could have been the afterimage of the girl sprinting and digging through her suitcase. 

“i’m a big girl, versta-” and in true rowan fashion, she lost her balance. 

with lightning quick reflexes, max was already up and extending his arms to catch her. 

rowan’s face was one of pure shock, eyes open wide and mouth agape, still mid-sentence. max’s eyes were locked into hers for a moment and as if by instinct, he let his fingers that gripped her arm curl a bit, ensuring that she was secure. he sighed and rolled his eyes in disappointment. 

“i warned you.”

this was responded with a roll of her eyes and dismissive words, as rowan freed herself from his grip. “oh get off it verstappen, you’re going to make us late.” 

“oh am i the reason we’re going to be late your majesty?” 

she didn’t bother replying. in fact, his words were lost in a blur of still feeling his fingertips on her skin and the way he looked at her. she was definitely overreacting, there’s no way he could be looking at her in any way that would make the air stand still in her throat. and she made up her mind: that night she’d get her mind off him, this wasn’t a viable situation anymore. and a club in monaco was the perfect place to do just that. 

rowan got dressed and put on minimal makeup, time closing in on her. besides, she couldn’t wear anything heavy in that kind of heat, it would sweat right off her. so with an off shoulder crop top, a small skirt, some concealer, waterproof mascara, blush, highlighter and lipstick as her allies, she got ready in the confined space of the bathroom. not ideal, but at least the lighting was good. 

“ready!” she emerged with a victorious smile. 

“shoes.” max pointed out and rowan cursed under her breath, smile quickly fading away. rushing again to her suitcase she dug for her only pair of heels and put them on. 

“ready!” she repeated, same smile on her face. max shook his head and grabbed his keys, rowan following suit. 

the drive over was silent, but the club was packed, music coming in as loud noise at the contrast. but being a permanent resident had its perks, such as access to the vip lounge. the music was just loud enough and there was plenty of space to sit, drink, dance and mingle. all of which, max hated. except for the drinking. and he could do with a nice, comfortable seat. 

if daniel hadn’t pressured him to finally go out, he probably wouldn’t be there, but it was his only chance of seeing him over the summer break before the australian went back home to crash on a mountain bike or whatever it was he did on his time away from the track. 

the welcome was warm, contrary to the abundance of bottles on the table sitting in an ice bucket, almost begging for rowan to empty them. with a silent promise that she’d do just that in a little while, she poured her first drink, two parts gin and one part soda. give or take. it was exactly what the doctor ordered, or what they would if they knew what she’d been through those past few months, especially those past few days. holding the bottle over to max’s direction, she silently gestured if he’d like a drink as well. max being max and to no one’s surprise, he abruptly pried the bottle from her fingers, doing it himself. 

she’d gotten the message that she wasn’t exactly welcome -despite max himself inviting her over- rowan didn’t stay with max’s friends for longer than necessary. after some small talk, she excused herself to the dance floor and got herself away enough to not be a bother. drink in hand, eyes closed and body swaying, there was nothing she’d like more than to get lost in the music. dance and drink the night, her worries and troubles away. 

her peace was bound to be shortlived as the girl felt a presence too close behind her. curious, she turned around and found herself disappointed it was not max, but a complete stranger. but then, a few gears clicked in her mind and in a split second she’d decided that the rather attractive stranger would be a perfect distraction. 

she never found out his name and she couldn’t remember if she ever gave him hers. but it didn’t matter. only a few words were exchanged before they both resumed dancing, this time together, moves syncing to the beat and to each other.

a few songs passed and rowan was pleasantly surprised to see that the stranger hadn’t gotten too close nor had he touched her, not even her hands. her back was turned to him and when the song changed once more, she turned around to face him and her free hand caressed his, giving him a green light of sorts. the stranger gladly took it, intertwining their fingers and raising their hands in the air as he bent down and touched her forehead with his. 

the proximity was sudden and a bit uncomfortable. rowan wasn’t interested in having a stranger’s alcohol infused breath hitting her face, so she turned her face to the side. in an inexplicable way, or just sheer damn coincidence, her gaze was met with max’s. he’d been watching her and it was only in that moment that she realised. she also came to realise that it was in that instant that the fire in her belly roared again. neither was a fact she could explain. all she could do was drag her body to continue its rhythmical movements, trying not to shatter the illusion of her attention being to the music. but it felt like max could see right through her, knowing that it was him that had her captivated and not some random guy. smug bastard. 

max on the other hand didn’t feel smug at all. he felt a raging heat in his chest, watching rowan dance the night away, away from him, with someone neither of them knew. he did his best to participate in the conversation his mates were having, sipping their drinks and sadly attempting to dance. there was no reason for them to know that his attention was elsewhere and he did all in his power to conceal it, speaking whenever spoken to, pretending that the music was too loud when he was too lost in thoughts of rowan grinding against him like that, and more than thankful for the interruption of his train of thought. these were dangerous waters and he’d made up his mind, it was not worth pursuing. besides he wasn’t jealous, how could he be? just worried, was all. she was in a foreign country, amongst people she didn’t know, in a club. things could be dangerous. he was just being protective of his guest. but he still couldn’t tear his eyes away for more than a few seconds, especially when she turned and finally looked at him, acknowledging his presence for the first time that evening. how gracious of her, he thought and scoffed. 

“she okay?” daniel’s voice echoed his concerns and max didn’t bother with an answer. with long, purposeful strides he closed the distance and got close enough to rowan to make himself heard. 

“why don’t you come back with us?” 

“didn’t wanna ruin your night out.” 

“bullshit. come back.” determined, his grip found her arm and pulled her closer, with every intent of dragging the girl back to the booth by force if need be. 

rowan followed willingly, body limp and a bit numb from the dancing and alcohol. she didn’t pay that stranger another thought, didn’t even say goodbye or feign an excuse. max counted that as a win, and rowan didn’t even notice. what she did notice, even though a minute too late, was that he got in the way of her fun. 

“why did you drag me back here?” she pouted and fuck if max didn’t want to sink his teeth into that bottom lip. 

“it’s safe, i was worried.” 

“i don’t need a chaperone.”

“if you can’t tell that dancing with strangers is the definition of unsafe, you clearly do.” 

rowan placed her almost empty drink on the table with what might have been a loud thud, but it was never heard, and she crossed her arms over her chest. 

“ugh, fine, dad.” she made sure to stretch that last word, and max clung on for dear life to not tell her that she was missing a syllable there. 

she did her best to mingle with his friends, she really did. the abundance of alcohol at her disposal certainly helped and she’d be damned if she didn’t take advantage of it, not bothering to take note of the drinks she’d downed. 

they were fun peeps, great fun even, but feeling max’s gaze burning a hole in her wasn’t exactly allowing her to let go. coming with him was a mistake, one she was regretting already. on the other hand, she didn’t want to be the reason he left his friends early; she’d already caused enough trouble, and she wasn’t about to ruin the one night out he allowed himself. so rowan did what she did best and blended in, chatting, dancing, smiling and blatantly ignoring the pain in her feet from her shoes. she’d been standing for longer than she’d like, but it was okay. she probably had a day or two left at max’s place to allow the swelling to subside.

dare she say, after allowing herself to blend in with the crowd, she had a blast. the only semicolon in her night seemed to be that perfect stranger she never got another dance with. their eyes still met a few times in the dimly lit room, and she made a point of holding his gaze as she swayed along to the music, not much unlike the way she was swaying against him. disappointment coloured her features when the stranger looked away quickly and the girl was just as quick to pin this on verstappen; he probably thought that they were together. she wouldn’t be caught admitting it out loud but as much good as max had done, he’d taken just as much and this oh so easy opportunity for a one night stand that would calm her nerves was the final straw. 

the time that went by from that realisation to how rowan found herself home was a blur. with almost frantic movements she locked herself into the bathroom, got rid of her clothes and put on an oversized tshirt that she used as a pyjama, feeling much relieved already to be out of tight seams and her feet touching the ground. she went straight into the kitchen, grabbed a beer and another joint from her suitcase and went outside, ready to let go of everything and enjoy the rest of her evening in peace. it was way past max’s bedtime anyway. 

not a single word was uttered and max was left dumbfounded, watching rowan roam the apartment after finally settling down in the balcony, in her usual spot. 

he broke the long silence after taking his usual spot on the opposite end of the round table. 

“penny for your thoughts?” 

“at the moment, trying not to have any.” she propped up her beer as if to say cheers and after taking a sip she lighted up her smoke, inhaling sharply. there was still smoke in her lungs when max spoke next. 

“did you have fun tonight?”

“yeah, did you?” there’s no way she’d say anything else, praising him till the day she died. in front of him at least, and switching the focus of the conversation to him was the easiest way to not talk about her… annoyance. 

“of course. but i’m not convinced that you had fun.” he rested his forearm on the table and leaned in closer, studying her face which wasn’t giving anything away. 

“my night isn’t over yet, i have my favourite companions with me.” 

“oh what an hono-”

“i was talking about my besties over here, beer and weed. you’d need to work a little harder to make the list.” 

“ouch.” rowan just raised an eyebrow in response. “aren’t you going to share?” the girl remained silent yet again, and took a long hit off the joint while looking him in the eyes, taunting him. again. rowan was testing his patience in a newfound way and max didn’t know for how long he’d be able to play along. she finally gave passed him the blunt and max took an equally long drag. 

“so, how was your night?” perhaps she’d been rude enough for one night. 

“honestly, exhausting.” his lips were covered by a thick veil of smoke. 

“was chaperoning me too much work?” 

“yes.”

“well, i didn’t need a guardian, i’m a grown woman capable of making my own choices, thank you very much.”

“i never suggested otherwise.”

“then what the fuck was your problem?” if he wasn’t a misogynistic prick, what other explanations were left?

“i just -” max fumbled for words and it was obvious, he even felt his cheeks heating up. he never lied, but now even concealing the truth was becoming harder and harder with substances rushing through his bloodstream. “i just didn’t want you to get hurt.” 

“jesus, can’t a girl get railed in peace?” rowan was exasperated and max’s eyes widened in surprise. bottom line, that was exactly what he was trying to prevent, but he never expected her to be so blunt about it. but if we were going with honesty, two could play the game and max was a ticking time bomb until he burst. 

“not when you have a complete stranger ogling you and grinding against you.” sure, his tone was raised a little, but it was so worth it, the weight lifting off his chest. 

“that was the point, verstappen.” she rubbed her face, the lack of communication finally getting to her. “or would you rather it be one of your friends? daniel’s hot.” 

“or how about you contain yourself until you’re no longer staying here?” in a moment of maturity that was slowly but surely slipping away from him, max refrained from commenting on daniel, biting back the remark. 

“why?” simple question, three letters, one syllable. rowan extended an arm and stole the joint back from max, taking a hit as she waited for an answer, eyes clouded and glued on his, mouth just slightly agape, letting smoke escape from her lips which he never wanted to bite into more than at that moment. 

“because the way you’re looking at me doesn’t help me contain myself.” 

the girl got up and closed the distance between them with a couple slow steps. she bent down until their faces were inches apart and took another drag before speaking again, sure to exhale on his face. “why?”

max took a few seconds to study her face, feel her breath against his skin, get lost in her eyes. once she blinked slowly in a small nod, he took the cigarette from her hands and placed it on his lips, inhaling sharply, while his other hand was busy finding the nape of her neck and wrapping his fingers in her hair. 

“because you’ve made me want you a writhing, moaning mess underneath me.” it was his turn to blow smoke on her face and he left the cigarette on the table on his left. 

“are you trying to make this my fault as well, verstappen?” 

“oh i’m prepared to take full responsibility.” 

all she did was walk walk around his apartment wearing his clothes, cooking and laughing at his jokes. it wasn’t her fault she looked so damned good in his shirts that barely covered anything, that rode up dangerously high when she stood on her tiptoes and stretched trying to reach the plates for dinner from the top shelf. it wasn’t her fault. but he wanted more and his inhibitions had been smoked and drank away a while ago. 

“get up” he reluctantly let go of her hair, allowing rowan to do as she was told. “turn around and lift up that shirt.” 

rowan didn’t hesitate but she took her time. in her hazy state, there as not much sense of right and wrong; all she had left was a fire burning in her core, one she really didn’t want to put out, and with each word that left max’s mouth, it only got stronger. 

with lazy moves she turned around and tucked her fingertips between the hem of his her shirt, slowly lifting it up, while she wondered and waited for his next instructions. she was just above her waist when he told her to stop, and she froze, not moving an inch. 

he took her in slowly, drinking away at the sight. to think that all this time he’d been so close and yet so far away made him want to burst with built up anticipation he’d been ignoring all along. the curse of her waist giving way to her hips, dressed only with an inch of dark green lace. he followed the fabric to her ass, noting how it turned into silk or sating, or any soft fabric that could still never compare to the softness of her skin. 

under any other circumstances, he wouldn’t have spent so much time and attention to something that would be discarded and on the floor in the next moments, but he just found it fascinating, how that small line of lace turned to satin and then subtly disappeared into her ass. such skimpy, feminine underwear for the woman that could burp his full name. the contrast between the tomboy and the sensual creature before him made him throb and the thought of how rowan’s moans would sound almost edged him. 

rowan heard max mutter something in dutch, probably a curse, and turned her hear around to look at him, meeting glazed eyes that were taking her in. 

“never took you for an ass guy.” 

“wasn’t one until now. you fucking tease.”

“says the man parading around shirtless.”

“you’ve seen mine, isn’t it only fair to want to see yours?” he gently touched her waist as he spoke, still careful about where his hands went, that bit of self restraint barely hanging on, but rowan shivered and he froze, not taking his hand off her. “you okay, love?”

“please touch me.” 

“such a good girl, begging for me already.” 

his next move was clumsy, hands tightening around her waist and bringing her down, sitting on his lap. he could feel her pressing against his shameless, raging hard on and rowan shifted on him to get more comfortable, to get more friction. she only made things worse. images of her grinding against some other guy flashed before his eyes and his grip got tighter, bringing her even closer to him, back firmly pressed against his chest. 

rowan had barely any time to steady herself, much less appreciate the fact that she was sitting on the thighs she’d spent more time admiring and fantasising about than she cared to admit, even to herself. she was too lost in her own haze to notice anything other than the fact that the friction felt too damn good. there wasn’t too much room in her head for coherent thoughts, so it wasn’t until later that she found herself actively grinding on max’s thigh and even though a blush crept up her face, she didn’t stop; she didn’t know if she could. 

all this time, max was watching her intently, recording her ever move, every change that made her bite her lip and inhale just a bit sharper. he was learning her. but even after realising that, rowan again didn’t stop. what she did was turn her face to hold his gaze, bottom lip between her teeth and reached down to hold on to his legs for more stability as she rolled her hips a little faster. knowing that she was giving him a show that she herself enjoyed fueled her stamina.  

there was only so much max could take; he was just a man after all. feeling he’d reached the limit of his patience, he lifted rowan up only slightly and turned her around. in perfect sync, her legs went over his and when he put her down again, he could feel her core on his cock, the heat and pressure doing something crazy. but that was just a byproduct, a happy surprise. what he really wanted to do was kiss her and he did just that. 

his hand found her neck once again and brought her in close, clashing their lips together and he kissed her hard, hungry for the promise of more. her tongue found his and they played, like this was a well rehearsed dance they had before. it was all so familiar and new, it felt like for just that moment, she belonged there, on top of him. 

he interrupted the kiss with a bite on her lower lip, completing just one fantasy on the long list she’d created unknowingly for him, and max felt her nails digging softly into his shoulder, hips not stopping to roll against him and he knew that this would be interesting as his last second thoughts and inhibitions left his mind, leaving only his body to take over. 

his lips resumed their feverish kiss and hands reached over to her lower back, bringing her closer and her movement to a halt, the pressure feeling too good. his hands then moved to her thighs, fingers finally digging into the soft flesh, and max relished in the feeling as he kept her in place. 

however, he did need to taste her. all of her. her sweet lips were just a start. with a last squeeze of his hands on her thighs, max removed her shirt with every intention of diving in, to kiss lick and suck on each square inch of skin but his plans were delayed. this was by no means a romantic evening, but the way the moonlight reflected on her shoulders, painting shadows on her chest left him staring. 

quickly, his hunger was replaced by an intense desire to appreciate what was in front of him, offered so generously. nothing changed much, other than the intent and execution: instead of attacking rowan, biting and marking her, max started placing open mouthed kisses on her exposed skin, leaving invisible traces of his tongue, as he worked his way from the top of her stomach to her neck. he had every intention of being civil, of holding himself back, but as he reached that sweet spot above her collar bone, her scent filled his nose and as if in a trance, his teeth sank into the soft skin, earning him the softest of ohs that escaped rowan’s mouth and max didn’t need much more to loose it. he did need more of those moans though. bigger, louder. and he had a rough idea of how he could make that happen. 

for rowan, being on top normally meant she was in control. this time around though everything was different. as soon as he had his cock pressed against her cunt, she was no longer in control of anything. not what she did, not what she felt, not what she said. in record time, max had found her sweet spot, and there was no helping the moan that escaped her, nor how she eased herself into his arms, craning her neck to allow him more access to that point, pushing her chest into his. her nipples were painfully erect and neglected, and rowan was only praying that max would at least pay them some attention, as her mouth wasn’t capable of allowing words to escape, being otherwise occupied with sighs and soft moans as max bit and sucked into her neck. 

it was so easy for her to give up control when giving up felt so damn good. but she needed more, so she pushed herself just a bit harder against his cock, legs closing around his back and against the back of the chair.  clothes needed to be removed, hands and mouths needed to get to work. yes, letting max take the lead was good; him taking his sweet time wasn’t. it was time she took matters into her own hands. with quick and clumsy moves she unbuttoned his shirt and rolled it down from his shoulders, but as max’s arms were still around her and didn’t seem to be letting go any time soon, rowan had to make do. the feeling of his chest against hers would need to be enough for the moment and the urge to dig nails and teeth into his biceps would need to wait. 

rowan's desperation was clear and max was thriving in it, so much so that he chuckled. 

“is this funny to you?” 

“i’m just enjoying how… ready you are for me.” there was a pause between his words, as he reached out and slipped a hand into her panties, feeling just how wet she was. rowan gasped at the contact but quickly got over her surprise and rolled her hips into his hand. max cursed again under his breath, eyes finding hers. without really thinking about it, his fingers reached inside her and curled up, earning him another of those delicious moans of hers and he continued exploring her pussy, allowing rowan a few moments of pleasure. “this is for me, right?” she didn’t answer straight away and max stopped. 

“you cannot be serious.” rowan tried to take matters in her own hands, move her body to get more, but max’s other hand on her waist held her firmly in place. neither of them spoke or moved until rowan broke the silence. “yes max, it’s for you. happy now?” 

“not quite.” he removed his hand from her cunt, licking his fingers clean. he got her off him and got up. before the girl could react, he’d grabbed her by the wrist and made his way inside and into the bedroom, rowan trying to keep up with his large strides. 

she’d spent almost a week in that house, but his bedroom was untouchable, door always closed and she respected that enough to feel strange passing through the doorframe. she had a few questions, but articulating them was hard enough, especially when she was being pushed against a wall and kissed so hard and passionately. 

she was infuriating him by the second; one minute, it felt like she was clay in his hands, eager and ready to be moulded and shaped. and the next, it felt like she was giving him some other guy’s leftovers. like that man had gotten her all hot and bothered and max just happened to be there. what little logic was left in him knew that this was perfectly plausible, but that didn’t mean that he needed the reminder. would it be so hard to allow him to believe that this was all for him? 

rowan on the other hand was thriving in max’s frustration. his touch became more rough, just a bit less careful and that was the salt and pepper of whatever what they were doing was. he scratched her back and she groaned into his mouth in appreciation, resuming her endeavour of undressing him, struggling but succeeding to take off his shirt. she broke their kiss and started working on her next task, his pants, while her mouth got busy on those biceps she’d only dreamt of touching, now finally nibbling and biting and licking at the salty skin. 

as soon as the girl’s hands managed to unbuckle his belt and undo his pants, she reached over his boxers and grabbed his balls. max sucked in a breath and his head was thrown back. god, his neck looked delicious like that, but she couldn’t reach him. so instead, rowan focused on his arms and chest while her hands were getting familiar with his dick, its length and girth, preparing and fantasising about how it would feel in her mouth and in her cunt. feeling she’d teased him enough, she reached through his boxers and finally got a good understanding of what would follow; suddenly her hands felt so small and she stopped in shock. 

max reached down and lifted her chin up with just a finger, eyes darkened and keenly focused into hers. 

“you alright?” 

“i don’t know if i will be with that inside of me.” 

“one way to find out.” he gave her a smirk and in a swift movement, rowan’s back went from against the wall to against the mattress.  

surprised and turned on beyond recognition, she couldn’t wait for max to get on top of her, drag her nails over every square inch of skin she could and feel him inside her. her thoughts started becoming reality, as max did get on top of her and she did have a chance to run her fingertips all over his back, shoulders and arms while their lips were too busy clashing against the other’s. 

max’s hands were working on keeping him from collapsing on top of her and also removing his underwear and then also removing hers. it was a tricky endeavour but a successful one. as soon as rowan realised that she was so close to getting what she so desperately needed she clung onto him for dear life, hoping that it would be enough to keep him in place and finally give him no choice but get inside her. she should have known better, as max escaped with one quick and elusive manoeuvre and got himself exactly where he needed to be: face mere centimeters  from her dripping cunt, juices overflowing. he couldn’t help himself, he reached out and licked the drop that was on the verge of staining his sheets. she tasted so sweet, he could consider eating her pussy as a cheat meal. there was no desert he could ever want more. 

tentatively, he gave her another lick, one she was sure to feel and he heard her suck in a breath and her hips bucked. max took the opportunity and grabbed her ass, holding her in place. 

“if i let go, will you stay like that?” his voice was soft and his breath was hitting her folds, a firm reminder of how close he still was. 

rowan could only whimper a weak yes as an answer and as soon as max let go of her ass, she did her best to stay in place. 

her efforts were greatly rewarded. not only max’s tongue kept on licking and exploring and flicking at all the right spots, but his fingers joined in as well. with one hand he was propping himself up, while the other was following his lips and soon -but not soon enough- he had his fingers inside her again, pumping, curling and rubbing in a unique tempo that made rowan’s legs shake. but she still wouldn’t dare move. not when she was so close. all he had to do was keep doing whatever he was doing and she’d be coming undone right then and there, from him, for him. 

his name and a curse escaped from her lips in a shaky, guttural voice and her body was beyond her control, yearning for more contact, friction, feeling as she came, knees propped up and buckling, fingers lost in his hair, pulling him close, hips moving frantically until she’d had enough and finally, spent, she collapsed on the soft sheets. 

after catching her breath for a moment or two, rowan erupted into laughter. she didn’t know why, there was nothing funny about any of what had just happened. but she couldn’t read too much into it, not when her brain was nearly shut off, fuzzy and hazy. 

max met her glazed eyes and kept eye contact as he softly and slowly kept on what he was doing, licking and moving his fingers just enough for rowan to come down off her high gently, gradually, giggles still escaping her. 

“do you think you have another one of those for me?” he asked, soft, hopeful, barely keeping it together from attacking her with everything he had. 

“oh god no. i think i’m good for the entire month.” 

“we’ll see about that.” 

and with that, he left his place from between her legs and got next to her, eager to have her taste herself from his lips. rowan returned the kiss and found herself moaning again into max’s mouth, and that was all the indication he needed. one hand reached down to cup her breast, fingers running circles around her nipple, building up the anticipation for when he’d actually touch it, but just barely. rowan’s body responded by arching her back against his hand, showing him she needed more after all. 

after feeling like she’d regained enough strength, rowan thought she’d ought to return the favour, and broke the kiss to get herself on top of him once again. she sat on his crotch, making sure he could feel her wetness as her fingers caressed his arms, shoulders, chest and drove down lower, reaching his abdomen and moving to his thighs. nails dragged across the skin and her hips rolled just a little bit, and max’s breath stilled. 

with slow and what she could only pray were seductive moves, she replaced her fingers with her lips, kissing her way down his body until she reached his cock, ready to explore and play. she took it in her hands and ran her tongue over the tip, making sure to apply just enough pressure. she’d tease him a bit more, but her eagerness got the most out of her and quickly found herself sucking on that very tip and getting more and more of him into her mouth, testing the limits of her gag reflex. 

once she found a comfortable tempo for her mouth, her hands started roaming again, over his thighs, what of his cock was left out of her mouth and to max’s surprise, his balls. she let saliva drip down his length and the sensation of that along with her fingers in sync with her lips was driving him insane. there was no way to tell the passing of time; the only measure he had was his pleasure building up and up and up as rowan tried different things and sped up as soon as she got used to what she had to do, leading max along to a climax of his own. 

if it were anyone else, he’d probably try to hold it back, tell her to stop, but the wet sounds and soft vibrations of the moans of her mouth, her expert hands, the thought of his cum hitting the back of her throat was too much to not give in to. besides, there were so many other things he needed to do with rowan that night. once wouldn’t be enough. and with a final stroke, max started coming, fingers quickly wrapped around her hair, keeping her down as he felt his cum hit the back of her throat exactly like he’d imagined. only better. rowan gagged and moaned but she made no effort be released from his grip; to the contrary, she tried to fit even more of him in her mouth, lips tightly wrapped around him while her tongue worked to get a taste of it all. 

once she was sure that she’d gotten it all, rowan raised her body to stand on her knees and with a triumphant smile she made a show of swallowing with an audible gulp and licking her lips. 

“fuck you’re amazing.” 

“yeah, i’ve been told before.” a smug smile hung from her lips and there was another twinge of jealousy from max. it was unreasonable for him to believe that rowan had ever been like that only for him. it was unreasonable for him to want her to be like that only for him. in spite of knowing all that, he couldn’t help himself. 

darkened blue eyes met hers and rowan shivered, unsure of what had caused that or what would follow. 

“so… that was fun.” she said awkwardly and got up to try and gather her articles of clothing that had been discarded somewhere in the room, but she was stopped by max keeping her in place as he grabbed her wrist. 

“who told you that was it? you’re free to take a break if you want, but i’m nowhere near done with you.” 

almost instinctively, rowan looked down and saw that max was hard again. or still? and his words did have her intrigued. she’d be lying if she hadn’t spent quite a few nights wondering how max verstappen would fuck. was she really about to walk away from an opportunity to find out? her consent was a nod as her eyes glossed with flash images of what it would be like. but no fantasy could ever prepare her for what was to come. 

max got up and whatever was left of her mind in the present and not lost in indulgent scenarios admired his form. 

“you ready for more?” his voice was deep and raspy, more than usual. rowan couldn’t speak, only nod again. “i’ll take that as a yes, but from here on, when i ask you a question i expect an answer. okay?” 

“okay.” her reply was delayed, the word shaking on her tongue, but she mustered it nonetheless. 

“good girl.” her efforts were met with praise and that only made her knees weak again. “now come here, baby.” his grip on her wrist was enough to drag her where he wanted her to be. 

rowan found herself strategically positioned in front of the full length mirror, max behind her, one hand still on her wrist and the other brushed her hair off her back and on her shoulder as he placed kissed on the nape of her neck that made her hair stand straight. 

honestly, he wasn’t over the thought of her hair falling on her back again as he thrusted inside her, and this was turning to be as close to that fantasy as he could get. sure, railing rowan on the rails was still a fantastic idea, but it had been polluted by a need to make sure that she was his and he was hers. even for just the night. 

“now, i’ll need you to keep your eyes on the mirror and your hands on the frame.” slowly, he guided her hands to close around the wooden frame. 

max leaned in and his body was against hers, cock firmly pressing against her ass. reluctantly, his hands left hers and travelled down her body. one stood on her waist, one of his favourite spots, and the other dipped even lower, checking her wetness. as he did so, his eyes were focused on the mirror, keen to see rowan’s reaction. she closed her eyes and bit her lip as she let out a small moan; perfect. 

“eyes on us, baby.” came his next instructions as he removed his fingers from her cunt, sure that she was ready for more. “i need to know that you’re watching this, that you know it’s me making you feel like that.” 

rowan opened her eyes but rolled them at his words. “you talk big, ver-” he cut her mid sentence, but didn’t bother with words. instead, his reply was a decisive thrust into her. that’s not how he’d envisioned it, but it didn’t matter. it felt like heaven, so wet and tight and perfect. and it also shut her up. 

with one hand still on her waist, his other snaked around her and after making the briefest of stops on her nipples, he laced his fingers around her throat, propping her head up. her eyes were wide with surprise and her mouth was agape in pleasure and she had front row seats to the show. 

rowan had given up on controlling the sounds that came out of her mouth a long time ago. the substances and lust running through her bloodstream had rendered that almost impossible. and seeing herself in such a state, lips parted, eyes dark and wide, body exposed and wanted, made things even harder. it felt as if she was on autopilot, like an out of body experience, except she could feel every little thing. and there was no saving her from wanting more. 

“max…” she pleaded. 

“yes baby?” fuck, how she loved hearing him call her that. and it showed, as her cunt clenched around his cock. but max wasn’t doing her any favours, keeping very still despite her best efforts to get him to move inside her. 

“more.” she couldn’t muster more than one syllable at a time and that was okay. 

that was all the encouragement the man behind her needed, as he didn’t waste any more time, sinking deeper and deeper into her with each thrust, building up speed. rowan met him halfway, thrusting back into him, her back arched and as they went harder, her hair fell onto her back and her breaths came out exclusively in moans and sighs that sounded like his name. 

his eyes roamed, from her back, her ass to her reflection, her tits as they bounced beautifully in perfect sync, her neck which was covered by his fingers, her face as her mouth was in the perfect oh shape and her eyes struggled to stay open, as per his instructions. she was being so good and max was finally almost convinced that it was indeed for him. all he needed now was to hear her say it. 

without missing a beat, he spoke. “are you this wet for me?” 

“yes.”

“do you want to come?” he went just a bit harder on purpose and rowan’s pussy clenching around him again was answer enough. but she spoke when spoken to. again as instructed. 

“fuck… yes!” 

“fuck baby, you’re so good for me.”

“for you…” she replied in a mindless haze, voice barely audible and hoarse but her vocal chords got busier as she came again, with max relentlessly pounding into her. 

feeling her tremble and shake beneath him, muscles spasming around him, max let go of rowan’s waist and instead grabbed a handful of her hair, allowing her more freedom to experience her climax, while he shamelessly enjoyed how it felt with him inside her. 

his grip around her neck tightened and he used his hold on her hair to tilt her hair back, ensure that his next words would be heard. “touch yourself.”

“i- i can’t, it’s too much.” rowan tried to explain, but it was in vain. 

“it’s okay, we can start slow.” but he didn’t slow down. not one bit. it was almost impressive how he could talk to her and fuck her as hard at the same time. 

rowan couldn’t waste more energy to speaking, or arguing for that matter. and the prospect of at least trying to touch herself did sound exciting. determined to give max a show, she put a finger in her mouth, sucking as she did on his cock not too long ago, eyes focused on the reflection of his face. a string of saliva left her mouth along with her finger, which she used to caress her nipple. she didn’t know when or how, but soon, her entire hand was clasped around her breast, rolling the nipple between her fingers, enjoying the jolts of pleasure it sent down her body and into her core as max’s cock was reaching all the right places. 

she spent a few moments like that, and as soon as she got used to the sensations overflowing her body, her other hand left the mirror’s frame as well, hoping that max’s hold on her neck and hair would be enough to keep her from falling; her legs had given up a while ago. her free hand didn’t stay free for long, reaching down to rub her folds, feel the wetness he’d created and even reached to feel the girth of his dick, earning her a sharp, surprised inhale. she played like that for a while, but then, in spite of any previous experience, rowan felt the need to come again. her fingers found her clit and started rubbing in familiar, well rehearsed motions in a way only she knew how to. 

max was watching intently, as rowan’s every move fueled him further, which he didn’t consider possible. not only had she overcome her initial objections, but she was well way into coming for a third time. she had indeed started slow and worked her way on her body slowly, but confidently. and when she started rubbing her cunt, words began spilling from her mouth, incoherent words, but max was the one to make sense of them. 

she was calling out his name, she was telling him that she was so close, that he’d gotten her so close, that she needed him. all that between moans and cries and convulsions of her body. like a new language only made for them. 

and once the words were over and all that was left were beautiful sounds, it was max’s turn to tell her how fucking good she felt, how she had him wrapped around her finger, how damn good she looked when she had his cock inside her, how pretty it sounded when she was saying his name, and what a good girl his baby had been for him. it appeared that the last one was what sent rowan over the edge as she cried his name, and did her best to ride out her orgasm without convulsing out of max’s grip. 

hearing how his name rolled out of her tongue as she came on his cock was all it took for max to reach a climax of his own, his hand finally releasing her neck and wrapping around her stomach, keeping her close as he thrust into her for those final few times, needing the proximity. 

allowing a few moments to pass, rowan took a small step forward, and the emptiness she felt as max’s cock slid out of her was not welcome. but they couldn’t stay like that forever, and she needed to kiss him. as her tongue slid into his mouth, she felt his cum drip on the inside of her thighs and smiled against his lips. his arms wrapped around her body and softly he pulled away, his forehead touching hers, lips only a breath apart. 

“was this because we’re high?” 

“no, max.” she scoffed and laughed. “it’s because you’re hot. and you can consider it a thank you for your hospitality.” 

“i’m still thinking of suing you for breaking and entering.” 

“of course you are. now was this because we’re high?” she repeated his question back to him. 

“no, rowan.” max mimicked her reply perfectly. “it’s because you’re hot. and a fucking tease. and because i couldn’t stand watching you grind against a random guy.” 

“oh so that’s what got you so possessive. interesting.” 

“considering of using it against me in the future?” 

“was this not a one time thing?” 

“of course it was. unless you don’t want it to be.” 

and with those words echoing in her mind, rowan made her way into the shower, with max following suit. they washed themselves and each other, with gentle, caring and slow motions that were only fit for a couple as spent and still considerably intoxicated, as they were. the only thing breaking the silence was the water that was running. 

once they got out of the shower, neither of them cared about clothes. what they cared about was sleep, and rowan took a step towards the living room, headed for the couch that almost had her body’s print on its pillows. but without uttering a single word, max lead her to the bedroom instead without thinking twice about it. 

content from those moments of intimacy, max slept better than he had in a long time. but when he slept through his alarms the next morning, and woke up with the sun shining right through his window and hitting his face, rowan was not in his arms or by his side. he came to realise that she wasn’t in the house at all. neither her nor any trace of her ever being there, except for her smell on his sheets. 

[fewwawifwiends]

soft serve ice cream

this is a story that might appear innocent. but it's not. reader discretion is advised for the filth that follows.

trigger warning: none that i can think about?

word count: 11,345 (this has not been proofread as much as it should, beta'd or anything of the sort. so, small disclaimer: it might have been better and it's also my first attempt to smut, constructive criticism is welcome)

soft serve ice cream

fucking imperial system. his gps for some godforsaken reason had changed upon landing to england and now his drive was approximately 68 miles. how hard would it be to have one system and fucking stick to it so that people can have at least one thing in common worldwide? 

an image of the babel tower as he used to imagine it as a child collapsing flashed through his mind as he connected his phone to the car’s speakers and put his spotify playlist on shuffle. he shook his head, and a few blond strands of hair fell in front of his face, pushing them back harshly; this had not been an easy day and the slightest inconvenience, that otherwise he might have brushed off, now fuelled his anger more. 

trying to leave all thoughts of what happened in the testing session behind him; he’d heard once that a good way to do that is to imagine all negative thoughts and emotions becoming smaller and smaller when picturing them in the rear-view mirror, quite literally, leaving them behind. but max could now attest that this was a bunch of horse shit. all this ‘mindfulness exercise’ did was to bring images that he wanted to forget right in front of him. quite frankly, now he didn’t want to leave them behind but have them right in front of him, ready as ever to run them over. or run that cocky bastard over, whatever came first. 

surprisingly, the turn that his train of thought took, along with the visual of a certain driver’s face flattened by his wheels, brought him some clarity and peace. his pride allowed him to acknowledge this much, so perhaps that exercise wasn’t as useless as he initially thought, even though he knew fully well that it was his ideas that had worked in the end. then again, he did always require to personalise everything, make it somehow his own, one way or another, why would something like that be any different? 

he even took a deep breath, concentrating on that for a few minutes, while his eyes wandered aimlessly in the somewhat scenic route around him. who would have thought that his might actually work? not him, that’s for sure. but it did help. the deep bass blasting from the car’s speakers had a part to play as well; it was part of his ritual now, and rituals equal routines and routines equal stability. quite a simple equation, even though it took more than he would have liked to fully understand it. 

soon enough though, his mind started going back, desperately trying to make him face what happened, who said what and why. needless to say that max wasn’t having any of it, so he trying converting miles to kilometres in his head, trying to also somehow measure the distance he’d already made, and subtract it from the total, which was a logistical nightmare on its own accord. his speedometer showed 130 kilometres, you know, like a normal person. and then he realised that that wasn’t exactly a normal person’s speed margin on a freeway, but there was no way he’d budge on the metric system. or slow down. 

he was driving as if he were in some kind of trance, not fully aware and definitely not realising when he reached london’s civilisation. but he was there, and the sun was still up, so he probably had made good time. 

he figured that parking in the centre of the city would be much harder than it turned out to be, so he was quickly out of the car, absentmindedly banging the door on his way out into the street. apparently just driving didn’t cut it, his nerves were still on the verge of snapping. but he was prepared for that, he knew that much, so his plan wasn’t obviously to just drive; that would be irrational, who works to let off steam caused by their job?  

“shit” he cursed under his breath, retracing the few steps he had taken away from the car; his phone was still in there, and while he couldn’t care less about being reached from anyone in the team, or his family for that matter -god forbid, his father- he’d rather shoot himself in the face than not having music taking his mind off things. sometimes, it was the best company he could ask for and the only thing he needed. other than bashing a coworker’s face in, of course. but that wasn’t socially, or legally acceptable for that matter, so music was the next best thing. he wasn’t one to settle, but exceptions had to be made from time to time. 

with quick and sudden movements, he opened the door, grabbed his phone and, oops, banged the door again. 

his step was heavy and determined, even though he had no clue where he was going. a park would be nice, probably get a jog in there as well, and just his luck, regent’s park was only a song’s walk from where he found a parking spot. to be fair, he had no idea if the place was actually called regent’s park but there was a park and a train station with that exact same name, so how far off could he be? 

he entered the park, making a conscious effort to slow his pace, breathe in through his nose, exhale through his mouth, take in his surroundings and all that yogi bullshit that he could think of, in what, in retrospect, could only be characterised as pathetic attempts to act like a person and not a kettle about to explode. 

he made a challenge with himself, to take a note and comment on everything his eye caught, in some adult version of ‘i spy’, in order to enhance his mindfulness. sometimes he wondered how he was even related to his sister, when such words came out of her mouth in all seriousness. for a few minutes, his challenge was something along the lines of ‘tree - very green, tree - almost dead, squirrel - kind of cute, trash - much like the human that left it there, tree - barely clinging to life, middle-aged jogger - enough to discourage me from jogging at the end of the day, group of loud girls - ugh, group of teenage boys pining over the girls - double ugh, dog shit - ew, much like the human that left it there’ and so on, until he saw it: a vendor. 

the humidity and heat of an english summer was enough to drive him mad. he was sweaty but not exactly sweating, and everything felt sticky. peeling off his skin seemed like a very nice workaround to survive this. or an iced tea and some shade. and that’s how the vendor from a simple man in his forties, became the closest thing to a god max could see that day. picking up his pace in spite of himself, he found himself releasing some more of the tension that he kept on holding -and that useless challenge did fuck all at getting rid of it. perhaps a nice exercise was in the cards for him, but the mental image of the shirtless skinny middle-aged man was now etched in his mind. so an iced tea and just trying to fucking relax for once was the plan he chose to stick to. 

approaching his own little oasis, he saw a girl getting in front of him, in the same direction. trying to suppress a groan -because of course nothing would go his way the first time around-, he fixed his sunglasses and silently accepted his fate, waiting as patiently as he could behind her, not even realising that he was tapping his foot on the gravel. his eyes searched for a quiet bench and he marked one just before it was his turn to order at that over-packed stand. he could only hope that it was still be unoccupied when he reached it. 

max’s interaction with the vendor was brief, his eyes focused on the bench, as if mentally claiming it, only darting at the man who was supposed to be the main focus of his attention, just enough to make sure that the transaction would be completed and successful. not wasting a fraction of a second, knowing full well the difference it can make, he walked towards his bench with long, assured strides. 

but it was all in vain. like appearing out of thin air, the same girl who took his place at the vendor, was now taking a seat on his bench. 

“fucking unbelievable” was all he could think and the words turned into a sound before he realised it. 

a quick scan of the area provided him with an alternative, not too far away. certainly close enough to keep an eye on his original bench and reclaim it as soon as she got up. trying not to fuss over it too much, he sat down and took a few large gulps of his drink, enjoying the cool feeling in his hand and almost feeling his throat opening up again as soon as the liquid touched it. a headache he didn’t know he had subsided substantially and everything seemed a bit brighter, in spite of his dark shades.  

however, his mind was still fixated on its previous activity: observe and note, so in lack of anything more stimulating to occupy his brain with, he drifted back to finding patterns and correlations. this time around though, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the girl on the bench. unwillingly on both ends, she was the object of his observation now, and there wasn’t anything either of them could do about it. 

her hair was a sweet shade of brown, with something that resembled gold highlighting the strands framing her face when the sun hit just right. he wasn’t close enough to notice her eye colour, but he imagined a plain but warm brown. fitting of the bitch that took his spot, derailing his plan to actually catch a god damn break. she was no one, and yet, she already held that much power over his mood. not only was she no one, max didn’t even know her. it wasn’t a matter of socioeconomic standing at that point. unbeknownst to her, it became personal. 

one hand was holding a cup and the other a spoon, presumably soft serve vanilla ice cream. she looked like a vanilla kind of girl, which pissed max off even more. not to brag, but he always felt some considerable steps ahead of anything vanilla. and now that exact same thing had the audacity to get in the way of his one big attempt at finding some god damn peace and quiet. 

still, he couldn’t find the power in him to look away. only if he took in every single detail about her would he be in peace, his brain dictated and max could only accept and follow that; so what else besides a fairly common hair colour, a definitely dull eye colour and the fact that she was eating ice cream on his bench could he gather about her?

on her right, on the far end of the bench, she’d placed a white (or beige?) tote bag with a minimalist design he couldn’t quite make out, as it was scrunched and crumbled away into a shapeless mass. all he could see were black lines, ‘artistically’ squiggled on a what could’ve been white canvas. max had never met a girl who carried a tote bag and wasn’t pretentious. she’d definitely go on endlessly about feminism -which he was all for, don’t get him wrong- but then complain that chivalry is dead the instant he doesn’t open a door for her, as if it made a fucking difference. 

and then her rest of her clothes went through the scan; her plain white t-shirt, elaborately white as to not have the sun constantly overheating her -a smart move, no doubt, considering he didn’t bother to change out of his dark blue, borderline black redbull attire- didn’t give anything away about her figure, short of her arms that were exposed. they were not the skin-stuck-to-bone arms he was so used to seeing, there was a bit more to it, and he had to admit, it was a bit refreshing. nothing strong enough for this heat though. certainly not as effective as his lemon iced tea, from which he sipped on carefully, making sure he had enough to last him for however long he’d stay there; he could splurge on his way home. or to the hotel room he’d call home for the next few days. 

her legs were covered by an equally white, long skirt, reaching all the way down to her ankles, which were laced with the thin straps of her leather sandals. another smart move on her end, he hated to admit as his jeans felt like they were embedded on his thighs and calves more and more as the minutes in the heat went by. she’d be able to feel the slightest breeze, while all he could savour was the sweat beads that were slowly forming on his brow being slightly cooled, if some wind blew his way. 

a few moments passed and max was having a very hard time accepting his defeat. it was always a hard pill to swallow, made even worse by his a small voice in his head dared to whisper that the girl did absolutely nothing wrong, certainly nothing to be in the receiving end of his temper. but that voice was quickly silenced, no questions asked. she was his nemesis, for the day at least. 

his gaze was fixed on her movements, time passing by so, oh so slowly. he felt the heat having a consistent toll on him, despite of the fact that the sun was about to set, not really relating the cues of his body to his mental state. he took his eyes off her to enjoy the split seconds of another big sip of his iced tea, but when he opened them again, there she was again. it was ridiculous to expect that she would be gone in an instant, but a man could hope. 

he was now watching her hand guiding the plastic spoon to take a scoop of the ice cream and bringing it to her mouth. it was a very simple thing for a person to do, but max couldn’t help but notice how her wrist flicked almost delicately, and how her lips wrapped softly around the spoon. he kept watching her, repeating the same monotonous moves, spicing things up a bit by playing around with the spoon from time to time, making sure that no ice cream was left when she dipped it in the cup again.

she seemed so lost in her thoughts that he couldn’t help but feel a sting of jealousy overcome him. how would max have liked to just be lost in thought, mindlessly repeating the same motions over and over again, just a nudge away from his mind going completely blank. but he couldn’t remember the last time he ever felt that calm, a thought which caused a scoff to escape his lips while a smirk formed. was he ever capable of something like that?

still, this served as some kind of trance, slowly bringing his blood down from its boiling point that it had been reaching, but just not quite, for hours on end now. but of course, this couldn’t go on forever, not that such a thought ever occurred to him. a sudden move from her was enough to bring everything crumbling down all over again: angrily she stabbed the ice cream with the spoon, and with a very sudden move she turned her head to face him. before he had a chance to collect himself, he heard her voice. 

“can i help you?” her tone was sharp, and very much directed at him. turns out she had a bone to pick with him? well, wasn’t that just rich! 

“you’re sitting on my bench.” he replied calmly, stating his fact, not letting his smirk being wiped away as he pushed his weight forward, arms resting on his knees. if she wanted to play, he was more than willing. 

“oh i’m sorry, i didn’t realise it was reserved for assholes” her voice dripped with sarcasm, and normally that would be okay. max was no stranger to delivering verbal blows ever since he found out that they were more acceptable then physical ones. in his current state, he was practically itching for a fight, and a stranger calling him an asshole would be ideal. 

in a weird twist of his brain though, it had the opposite effect. he wasn’t the asshole in the situation, but he momentarily remembered the voice that he was too quick to silence earlier. he wouldn’t dream of calling that voice reasonable, but maybe it had a point. the girl had done absolutely nothing wrong from an objective standpoint, and all she’d received was some guy eyeing her for no apparent reason. he’d come off as a creep at best. 

max sighed as the realisation dawned on him and a hand reached to scratch the back of his neck. he looked down and forced his legs to help him stand up and take a few steps towards her, his drink still on hand. behind his sunglasses he could see a flicker of fear in her eyes, although the rest of her body was consistent in its aggressive stance towards him. 

“i- i’m sorry. i had a really shitty day and i know it sounds crazy, but i was looking forward to that specific bench. and then you just came and took it-”

“how old are you?” she cut him off, venom still slowly dripping from her words. 

“three and a half.” max replied, defeated, concealing exactly two decades. a small smile formed on her lips, fit for a victor. 

“i appreciate your honesty. you can sit here, if you want.” she said simply, gesturing at the empty space next to her, her eyes averted from his, as if she didn’t care, knowing fully well she had indeed already won. 

“thank you.” he replied almost coldly, taking the offered seat. 

quite a few silent minutes followed, during which max realised that the location of the bench didn’t to the slightest difference for his mood. this was all in fucking vain. but he couldn’t let it go to his head, not again. 

in a desperate attempt to keep whatever was left of his cool, he decided to take up his little challenge again and the first thing he noticed was her, the girl sitting next to him, so he decided to take a closer look. 

her features weren’t exactly typical; cheekbones were high but not sharp, her nose was long and straight and her mouth was perhaps small, but her lips were full. he smiled when his eyes met hers; he was fucking right, plain brown. there was absolutely nothing special about them, but for some reason he couldn’t quite define, he couldn’t look away so he stayed there, staring looking. they were brown, sure, but there were some darker lines and a weird feeling in his chest. fuck him if he’d ever met another human being who could convey their emotions just by a single look so effortlessly. and she felt… defensive. 

“what the fuck are you looking at?” her words indicated more than ferocity, there was definitely a hint of regret, if not that fear he detected in her eyes earlier. 

“i tend to stare and zone out.” he stated, keeping his tone as neutral as he could. his breaking point wasn’t far off and he’d already established it would be a shame if he took it out on her. 

“that doesn’t make it any less creepy. nor did i hear an apology anywhere there.” her last words came through gritted teeth that he was sure she wouldn’t hesitate to bare, figuratively or literally. 

max took a deep breath, taking her words at face value, trying to ignore her tone or what she might have meant. 

“you’re right. i am sorry. it’s very rude to stare, even where i’m from.” he forced a chuckle to lighten the mood and it seemed to put her at ease, even a little. 

“and where might that be?” 

“i’m dutch, actually. and my name is max.” he extended his hand. 

“amelia”

“you have a very nice handshake there.” 

“hm… this tends to intimidate men like you.” she let go of his hand and took a long look at her palm, as if she were trying to figure out if there was something wrong with it. 

max raised an eyebrow in response. 

“what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” his tone was borderline playful and if he were to be honest with himself, he didn’t exactly have the capacity to sugarcoat or hide anything. so it came as quite a surprise when her comment didn’t push any more of his buttons. but boy, was he right. he was in for a rant and there was no way out of it but through. 

“oh you know, insecure creeps who think that a woman is inherently ready to eat from their hand.” she replied matter-of-factly, still examining her hand. 

“that’s quite a leap to make, isn’t it?” 

“i’ve made quite a few attempts to help you prove me wrong, but none of them have turned out in your favour, i’m afraid.” 

“i’m just a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to believe him when he says that he’s not a misogynist.” he laughed at the turn this conversation took. once he managed to let out the last chuckle he continued; “worst thing you can charge me with is anger issues. but if you ask me, those are just rumours.”  

“how’s that supposed to make things better? okay, so now you’re an unstable creep with an elevated social vocabulary who can quote notting hill.” she sounded almost exasperated and he felt something connect a bit different inside him, like he took a wire that almost fit, put it in the right spot and now it was surging with electricity. looks like her victory might have been short lived after all, and he needed a win.

“if you ask me, i’m managing my anger just fine. and the fact that we’re talking like civilised adults does prove my point. besides, i told you, that’s just a rumour.” a smirk laced his words and he saw her lips pout just slightly, mind racing to find the words to wipe it off. 

“this is just pointless. guess i’m glad i didn’t get killed, or worse-”

“expelled?” he finished off her sentence, barely holding back another surge of laughter. “oh come on, it was right there!” he responded to her glare.

“god, you’re a privileged asshole!” her hand collided against the wood of the bench and instantly reached for her bag, which she put over her shoulder and picked up her ice cream, getting up to leave. 

his reflexes worked faster than his brain, that was what he was supposed to do anyway. it was his job, so in a sense, it was a good thing. grabbing a strange girl’s arm as she’s trying to leave, on the other hand, might not be considered that good. for a second he froze, body locked in place, fingers against her arm, eyes for the first time, gentle, even if just a little. 

“this was your bench. i should be the one to go. i have to get back anyway.” he let go as soon as he could; it was like touching ice: the mistake doesn’t quite register until it’s too late and your hand is on fire so you drop it. and that’s exactly how he let go, he dropped her arm as if it was burning cold. “i’m sorry.” he continued. “i- i don’t know why i did that. have a good one!” he flashed her a smile and a small wave, like he was trained to do by his pr specialist when he needed to end an encounter in a friendly way, a tip he hadn’t used as much as he should, but was apparently engraved in his brain. 

and just like that, he turned around and left. 

two days later, the weekend was looming and he felt very close to bursting, so much so that tuesday felt like a walk in the park (pun sort of intended). he realised that at this point, his biggest threat was himself. everything else had worked like clockwork, his team was a well oiled machine but that fucker was still finding the smallest and subtlest ways of getting to him; a passive aggressive comment muttered under his breath, a cocky wink when things didn’t turn out as his team expected to name a couple. 

the press conference wasn’t much easier. max found himself gritting his teeth and digging his nails into his palms every time he opened his mouth. by the end of it, he couldn’t tell if he felt more angry or anxious that he wouldn’t be able to control it. however, eventually it did end and feigned a bullshit excuse to get out of the rest of his responsibilities for the evening. he needed to rest and get ready for the start of the weekend the day after, it was only rational to take an evening off to collect himself. 

thankfully, the team refrained from asking too many questions. most of them probably knew exactly what was going on and knew better than to push him further or try to make him talk about it -ugh. and those who didn’t, those not yet familiar with max’s moods, received glares from everyone else, alerting them of the potential and imminent danger speaking about it would put them in.  

if there was something in max that would balance out those moods of his, that would be his consistency and professionalism. he never read too much into it, but it looked like those two attributes helped him get away when he needed, because it had only happened a handful of times in the five years of his career and he’d always make sure that everything was set before demanding strongly asking to be excused. 

after a cold shower his room seemed too small, as if it couldn’t fit him anymore, so he found himself in the leased honda once again, taking the exact same route he did two days earlier. getting to the park was much easier, considering that this time around he knew where he was going. he didn’t know why he chose to be there again, but rationalising at his current situation wasn’t a strong suit. all max knew was that repetition did him some good and that was enough. it was far and familiar enough to at least pretend that it could help. 

he forced a smile at the same vendor he found, with the same iced tea in hand. max felt his lips relaxing into a more genuine smile as he managed to sit on the bench he had set his eyes on from the get go the first time around. for some reason this felt more fulfilling than knowing that everything was exactly as it should be to grant him another pole, if not another podium -wouldn’t want to get too cocky now. 

the park seemed more peaceful than it did the other time he was there; less people, less noise, letting the nature really speak for itself. of what was left alive of it, anyway. it was a much nicer time to be there as well: the sun was almost setting when he sat down, giving a warm hue to everything, making the sky a true spectacle. maybe not everything about england sucked. max felt finally free to get out of his head, let go and just close his eyes, and enjoy life as it was at that moment; calm and serene. he allowed his elbows to rest on the back of the bench, almost levelling with his shoulders, and the cracks from his shoulder blades indicated that this was a smart move to make, allowing him to finally start relaxing.

“you have got to be fucking shitting me” his peace was short lived, as the familiar-but-can’t-quite-place-it voice stabbed it in the neck, letting it bleed out profusely, much like his patience. 

blue eyes shot wide open, one eyebrow instantly and instinctively raised, head turning to his left, the exact location of the sound. his gaze landed on what’s-her-name from the other day. just his fucking luck. 

“we have to stop meeting like that” he said with a snicker, trying to lighten the mood, more his than hers. 

this earned him a very intense eye roll, but she remained silent, continuing her path. it didn’t take more than a couple of steps for max to notice that she was headed his way and before there was anything he could do about it, she took the empty spot on his right. he opened his mouth to speak, his next snarky remark just hanging on the edge of his tongue, but the glare she shot him shut him up pretty quick, albeit not for long. 

“now who’s being entitled?” he just couldn’t keep it in any longer, there was no other option.

“you’ve got some nerve.” she replied, not even bothering to look at him. 

“you called me privileged the other day.” 

“mmhm…”

“what gave it away?” 

“name one article of clothing on you that isn’t designer.” she stated simply, still not even facing in his direction. 

“why did you sit next to me?”

“you said it was my bench, didn’t you?” 

“i also said i was three!”

“you certainly keep acting like you are.” 

“oh that’s rich coming from a girl who sat here out of pure pettiness.” 

“don’t you ever shut up?” 

“am i wrong?” 

“i just go after what i want, and i wanted this bench.” she finally looked at him. 

it took just this one simple phrase to make his eyes darken. 

“you clearly have no idea who you’re talking to.” he smirked, knowing that he knows better, gaze locked into hers. 

“max, right?” she faked a ditzy look and a wide smile, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, which made the lights in his head go on. god, she knew exactly which buttons to push. 

“aw you remembered! such a good girl.” max made sure to stretch out his words, certain that it would sound condescending enough to get her as riled up as he was. 

“i’m not leaving.” she stated calmly, thinking that she saw right through him. but he didn’t want to make her leave, not in the slightest. it hadn’t even crossed his mind. out of everything he’d tried in the past two days, this was the only thing coming actually close to help him let off some steam. 

“i’m not trying to make you leave.” his reply was sincere, but still not enough to change the tune of the conversation. 

“you sure as hell are doing your best.”  

and just like that, for the first time, silence fell between them.  but max was now noticing her every move. 

she took her canvas bag off her shoulder and placed in the small space between her and the far right end of the bench. with swift movement she placed the cup she was holding between her knees, bringing to his attention that she was wearing a pair of jean shorts this time around, that surprisingly, didn’t cling to her skin. he caught only a glimpse of it, careful to not give himself away, but even though she was wearing the same plain white shirt, the shorts did baffle him; like her arms, even more so perhaps, her thighs were more than skin clinging on to bone, but the shorts weren’t suffocating her. an amazing fit, if he had anything to say about it. 

the cup, he noticed next, contained both chocolate and vanilla soft serve ice cream, and somehow it felt good that he’d been wrong about her choice of ice cream flavour. even though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it… 

before he had a chance to lift his gaze from the ice cream cup, a book made a loud noise as it fell on her thighs, constricting his view. he could sense a hint of disappointment, but it wasn’t enough to pay attention to. max could have at least noticed the title, see what she was interested in, but that didn’t interest him enough. he decided to wait a few moments, let amelia (he finally remembered her name, fuck yes) get lost in her book, whatever it was, other than a heavy stack of pages stitched together, before annoying her again. 

“so vanilla and chocolate, huh?” 

“what of it?” her voice gave nothing away, as if she was keeping her cool, but the fact that she didn’t look at him once again and a quite violent flip of the page suggested otherwise. 

“i just took you for a vanilla kind of girl, is all.” max replied, taking some weight off his statement by nonchalantly drinking some of his tea that he’d almost forgotten.

“you clearly have no idea who you’re talking to” she returned him his exact words, holding her ground, with her indifferent tone and her eyes glued on her book but the blush on her pale cheeks betrayed her.

“amelia, right?” he kept up his charade of pretending that this conversation was as casual as talking about the weather. 

“does this conversation have a point? i’m kind of in the middle of something.” she shook the book that was carefully held open in place with her thumb. 

“does everything have to have a point? i’m just trying to get to know you-”

“no need.” she cut him off and picked up her book with her left hand, emphasising that she was busy.

that was enough to shut him up, but only because his mind was now otherwise occupied. the innuendos certainly helped with that. her actions brought his attention back to her bare legs, as now there was no book to cover them up, not spending as much time on the cup, as on the fact that her thighs clung on to it. she wasn’t thin, which meant that she wasn’t his normal type. but that didn’t stop him from having images flooding his brain, namely of what her skin would feel like, especially perhaps around his head. 

for those fleeting seconds that that mental image lasted, he lost touch with reality and that was an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling, so he shook it off. he didn’t know her, he didn’t even know if he liked her, for that matter. averting his eyes, his gaze landed on her face, but he had a new thing coming; apparently, while he zoned out, she’d taken a spoonful of the ice cream, which she was now nursing, full lips softly wrapped around the relative small bite. once the spoon was empty, she darted out her tongue, collecting what could have remained. this time around, max didn’t even have to zone out, it was taking place right in front of him and he found himself unable to look away. 

“you have got to be kidding me.” he muttered under his breath, not really caring if amelia heard him or not. there was no way this was as innocent as she’d certainly have him believe. 

“hm?” she gave him half a glance and a raised eyebrow in response. 

“was this on purpose?” max almost pleaded. almost. there was no way he’d give away that much. 

“maybe.” 

“so you’re not denying it.” not a question anymore. a part of him was relieved that he didn’t have to explain himself which would inevitably end in a very well deserved kick in the balls. another part of him was getting riled up all over again over the sheer audacity of that girl. 

“that’s what you get for calling me vanilla.” 

she was playing him like a fucking fiddle. he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, his brow furrowing. there was absolutely no emotion in her voice, talking as if to say that the sky was blue, not even a hint for him to cling to. she knew what she was doing better than he cared to ever admit out loud. 

without really realising why, max stood up and started noticing their surroundings. the park was notably less crowded as the orange and pink colours of the sky faded to be replaced by purple and dark blue. it was around the time that normal people went home. he knew he wasn’t normal and he was certain she wasn’t either. and then it dawned on him: he was actively looking for some place with a bit more… privacy than their current location. was this really where the evening was going? 

"that's all it took to get you to leave?" there was a tone of superiority in her voice, proud that she was able to push his buttons so easily. perhaps a little disappointed that it was that easy.

she spoke as if she didn't care if he were truly about to leave, which realistically, would make sense. but he wasn't done yet and he chose to interpret the disappointment in her tone as an opportunity to take this just a little bit further. his next words weren't carefully chosen per se, but he knew it would make or break whatever that was. 

"what will it take for you to shut up?" he glared at her, unable to hide his frustration. max felt his eyes darken as they were locked with amelia's, that were laced with a gleam that made his blood boil all over again. nothing was final until she spoke again. 

"why don't you find out?" a smirk formed on her lips as she slowly closed her book and putting her ice cream cup on the side, almost… preparing for what would follow? was he really that transparent? 

he didn't take time to dwell on that, it was the last thing on his mind, not that the list was very long. with his body on autopilot, he found himself just dropping his body on top of her, his hands wrapped tightly around her wrists, pinning them to the hard wood beneath her, his face a few centimetres away from hers, blue eyes still locked into brown ones. 

her gasp was sharp and short lived, immediately turning back into the smirk she had on moments earlier. she raised an eyebrow as she spoke, her sweetened breath hitting his face. 

"is that all?"

"oh for the love of fuck" he muttered while closing the distance between them, lips clashing. 

it wasn't sweet or soft, far from it; it was violent and deafening. nothing else existed for those moments, just skin against skin with his hands still holding her down, lips against lips. she opened her mouth, maybe trying to pull away, add another snarky remark but he didn't let her. he grasped the opportunity to deepen their kiss, if he could even call it that, slithering his tongue in her mouth, grazing it with her teeth before finding her own. this was their first gentle contact, and he dared think the last of the sort. she let it be gentle, knowing fully well that it wouldn't last; that much was evident from her attempt at pushing her body closer to his. once again, he didn't let her. he pulled away, breaking some of their contact. like hell would he let her have it her way. 

reality shot him though as he opened his eyes and he saw the sight in front of him: the girl, eyes wide open and dark. he couldn’t be sure if this was because she felt what he was feeling, wanting this as he wanted it, or because she was about to engage in either fight or flight. 

“you sure?” he whispered, voice barely reaching his throat, breath uneven but just not quite. 

she slowly blinked and her head nodded a slight ‘yes’. her teeth found bite marks on her lips that he left and his eyes followed them. maybe reality was a tad better than he thought it would be. 

he let go of her right hand, grip never wavering on her left. her eyes found his and he found them anxious. did she think he would just up and leave? perhaps he was that kind of sadist, but certainly not that kind of masochist. however, he couldn’t help but grin at the thought of walking away, imagining the look on her face; simply priceless. 

smirking still, he took his sweet time to make a move. any move other than breathing. a few seconds later, he yanked her hard enough to let her know it was time to get up. 

“i’m not a dog!” she hissed, but her body followed him with no resistance, bag hanging from her free wrist, clicking on her legs as she half-jogged behind him in order to keep up.

“give me 10 minutes.” he turned his head as he replied to her, making sure that she saw the smirk still etched on his face. 

he heard her huff in response, still following his lead. a few meters later, just a bit deeper, there were no passersby and a tree that probably predated his grandfather, big enough to provide some sense of cover. he didn’t waste any time rushing towards the tree, his stride wider than before, hearing amelia struggle to keep up behind him. the rest of the things that happened between max locating that tree and having amelia’s back pinned on it, both hands now in his grip, above her head, would remain a mystery. 

all he knew was that he was once again crashing onto her and while he was kissing her lips, he was admiring the smell of her neck, which he found irresistible, he simply had to dig in. and so he did, teeth latching onto the part where her shoulder met her neck, slowly but intensly worked his way up, until his lips were now on the back of her ear. his free hand reached to cup her face. 

her eyes were closed and from her mouth escaped small, almost inaudible, rhythmical sighs. until his hand that was cupping her cheek inched fast but strongly downward, his thumb moving, closing a bit around her throat. that was when be felt her eyes open and her sighs collecting into one sharp gasp that quickly turned into a small moan. 

‘don’t mind if i do’ thought max, having the green light and letting his thumb squeeze a bit harder, a smile growing wide on his lips against her skin. 

he let go of her hands and she didn’t waste any time digging into his hair, ready to tug. his teeth toyed with her earlobe as his now free hand reached for the thighs he could only image the touch of only minutes earlier. her skin was soft and he didn’t know why he was surprised by that. he allowed some pressure in his palm and found the sense more than gratifying, letting it squeeze and grab and feel until he felt like it was barely enough to not leave a bruise. 

with slow but rough motions, his hand found her waist, not neglecting to admire her figure and giving it a squeeze as well, and after that he stopped right below her breast. face now moving away of hers, he expected to see some pleading look, but he was bound for disappointment. in her eyes he saw inextinguishable fire, but not a single sign to show anything that would allow him to feel on top of the situation. 

determined to make that change, his arm left her chest, snaking right beneath her belly, stopping where her thigh met the crotch of her jeans. max looked up once again, hoping to see a change, but she wouldn’t do him the favour. determined still, he moved his hand forward, reaching exactly between her legs. at the same time, his other hand reached to find her nipple and give it a tug, a contact that was over as soon as it started. 

the look in her eyes didn’t waver, but amelia pouted her lips, letting a very exaggerated breath through her nose with a faked grunt accompanying it. 

oh, he could do this all day. he reached for the same spots again, making sure to linger a little longer this time. results remained the same, until the third time, when max unbuttoned and slid down her shorts instead of attempting to tease. in a flash, he was on his knees, helping amelia get one leg off, so he could spread her legs just wide enough to be able to reach her panties. 

max would never remember the colour of her underwear, but the smell of her cunt would be hard to forget. his face inched closer while his hand hooked her panties and pulled them to the side, until he was close enough to place a swift lick along the length of her slit, making sure to thoroughly check her taste and how wet she was. he moaned in accomplishment. she was wetter than he thought and she tasted sweet and tangy; perfection. 

he thought he heard her release a moan, so he quickly made sure to look up and make sure she heard him. 

“don’t you dare make a sound.” this would be a fun game. 

“bold of you to assume you could get a sound out of me.”

“now that was a whole string of sounds.” he smiled too sweetly as he talked and looked up at her. “and your only warning.” eyes darkened in a matter of milliseconds and torn away from hers. 

returning to his prior position, max continued offering long licks along her lips, suckling and biting slightly even, to exploring her folds and entrance with his tongue, to giving small and tentative licks and suckles on her clit. 

amelia remained silent, but her body told him all he needed to know; the grinding of her hips when she needed more and the slight convulsion of her thighs around his head let him know when to stop so she wouldn’t come were enough. once he calculated that she was a few seconds away from release, he gently pulled away, making the transition as slow as possible, torturing her for a little longer. once satisfied by the sight, he reached up.

“you were so silent, such a good girl.” he whispered softly, raising her head with his finger, so he could look at her when he praised her. 

“like i’d want to get caught with you” she retorted, averting her gaze to the ground. 

“was that a sound you just made?” his voice remained soft, his eyes, reflecting his tone while searching for hers, as if it wasn’t the insult that got to him, reminding her calmly of her second strike. if that’s how she wanted to play, he didn’t mind reminding her that she was never on top of their game. did she know that most things end on strike three? 

when she not only didn’t reply, but didn’t give him any cues either, he completely let go of her and took a step back. 

“it’s okay, you know. if you don’t want to get caught with me, you can just leave.” he called her bluff, still giving her an out.

“and miss this?” came her response as she closed the gap between them and reached for his erection over his pants, making sure she familiarised herself with the entire outline. 

“sounds like you need me.” max smirked, lacing his hand with hers over his cock. 

“i  feel  like you need me.” she reciprocated his smirk and squeezed a bit harder and then proceed to unbutton his pants, slithering her hand behind his boxers and letting her fingers find his cock and start playing with it. 

he bit his lower lip and inhaled sharply through his mouth. 

“your pussy was dripping into my mouth not a minute ago.” he replied, an edge in his voice. 

amelia squeezed her fingers around his cock just a little too hard. “you’re lying.”

in an instant, his hand was dipped between her legs. he took a few seconds to run his fingers through what his tongue was all to familiar with, giving her clit a couple gentle flicks, for good measure. continuing to toy around for a few more seconds, he suddenly located her entrance and quickly added two fingers, making her inhale sharply, in both pleasure and surprise.

the softness of her pussy lips paled in comparison and she was oh so deliciously wet, but he knew that she could do better, so he curled his fingers slightly searching for what made her tick. after finding and repeating the move he found to make her shake her hips ever so slightly a couple of times, he took his fingers out, bringing it between their faces. 

“taste it.”

amelia reached closer to max’s fingers painfully slow. locking anew her look with his, she stuck her tongue out and kept it hanging from her mouth until she tasted herself. she took a long lick of his fingers and then, in a swift motion, took them inside her mouth. she used her lips and her tongue to clean his fingers off her juices, eyes filled with an innocent look which drove max insane because she knew exactly what she was doing and there was nothing innocent about it. 

“is this you asking if you can take me in your mouth?” 

she didn’t reply, she just winked at him, lowering herself, getting to eye level with his crotch. 

before he knew it, he was sure that she was doing to the spoon and his fingers she was now doing to his cock. the thought was enough to make him twitch inside her mouth. forcing himself to relax, he sighed and let his muscles drop. he closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of her lips wrapped firmly against his length, her tongue darting all over the head, making sure to taste it all. 

amelia’s hands didn’t stay idle; she gripped his thigh for stability with one, nails digging into his skin, while her other one covered what her mouth couldn’t. 

max couldn’t be sure for how long she was in front of him, sucking him quite expertly, he could say, but he’d be lying; the expression he was looking for was more along the lines of better than he expected, even though his expectations never fell under than that. and if not that, then best he’s ever had would cut it. but then again, all of that was just details, as was the time. it could be standing still or rushing past them, it wouldn’t matter. all that mattered was to feel her until he had his fill.

“do you want me to cum in your mouth?” he hissed as he felt his orgasm build up. she didn’t react, other than looking up at him and maintaining eye contact, while crossing her tongue around his head. 

“we can stop, you know.” escaped another hiss from his lips, unsure of whether he’d gotten a yes or a no in his question, holding himself back as best he could, nearing closer to the edge with each passing millisecond. 

with a throaty groan -the vibrations of which max could feel send a shiver down his spine-, amelia broke eye contact and started working harder on his cock. in his book that was a yes. a hell yes. a satisfied smile formed in his mouth as he reached down to grab a handful of hair by the root. he made sure to tug just hard enough and then reward her with a soft caress before resuming tugging. 

he felt his orgasm build even more intensely than before, and in a few seconds he, no she, let him explode in her mouth. slowly she got up, releasing her head from his hand, and looked him in the eye before swallowing discreetly and licking her lips ever so slightly. with his body on autopilot, max closed the distance between them and then some, pinning her against the tree and kissing her with a new fire burning in his stomach. his tongue still had her taste while hers had his, and the combination was heavenly. 

he sensed her pulling away and reluctantly, he let her. 

“condom?” her voice was hoarse and low. 

max immediately sobered up and frantically searched for his wallet; he must have one stashed in there somewhere. 

“don’t get your knickers in a twist” he heard her voice again, along with a small laugh. he stopped fumbling as soon as she reached down for her bag and had one in hand in just a few seconds. how could she be so calm and collected? she would definitely use his lack of composure to get back to him, it was just a matter of time and he knew it. 

she gave him the condom and he wore it as discreetly as he could, taking comfort in the fact that there wouldn’t be as much of need for him to be discreet, but for her. 

he pushed down her panties, dropping them to her ankles and then turned amelia around with a sudden and quick grab of her arm, her back now facing him. her hands reached out just in time, just as he expected her to; ready. and just like that, he slid inside her with ease. 

once he was inside her, he felt all inhibitions abandon him. hands kept a firm hold of her hips, eyes fixed on the curve of her back. it didn’t take long for him to go feral at all. allowing amelia only a couple of seconds to adjust while he familiarised himself with how she felt around his cock, in contrast to around his fingers. his body was now in control as he thrust with quick and deep moves, almost curious to see just how deep he could go. 

he heard her breath align with his thrusts, and from simple exhales go to sighs and from sighs to the softest of moans. needing to hear more of her, he released his right hand from her hip, reaching up to the curve of her neck, pulling her head upwards, resting it against his shoulder. his mouth was now right next to her ear and almost daring her to moan for him. 

she breathed in again and instead of just the breath leaving her mouth, so did another moan. instantly his right hand snaked over her neck reaching for her left breast, making sure to apply just the smallest bit of pressure in his forearm, against her throat. 

“didn’t i. say. not. a fucking. sound?” he accented every part of his sentence with a considerably slower and more forceful thrust and a graze against her nipple, as his fingers squeezed around it, making it just a little bit harder for her to stay completely quiet. his words, should she listen to them, would bring him less of her. but if there was one thing he was known for, was consistency.

but she didn’t even try. she kept tickling his ear with her moans, so he decided to take it one step further. continuing with his slowed pace, he let go of her hip, reaching out for her pussy. exploring her folds, he found her clit and run gentle and rhythmic circles over it, making sure to keep pressing on her neck and playing with her nipple. 

he continued for a few moments, allowing her to relax in his touch, letting her back hit his chest. 

“do you like that?” he said softly, his breath hot on her cheeck .

“mhmm” she muttered between increasingly louder sounds and audible gasps. 

that’s all he needed. max pulled away his hands, keeping his steady rhythm, slithering them down her arms and on her waist. 

“not until you stay quiet” he said through gritted teeth. he almost hoped for a whimper to escape her throat and it would be a shame to not have his arm still around it to feel it, but no such thing ever came. all the reaction he got from her was a twitch of her hips and her small sounds turning back to almost even breaths. 

he smiled and half a chuckle left his lips. he kept going, enjoying the feeling of her pussy sucking in his cock, certain that her juices were flowing around him. after god knows how long, he realised that he’d lost himself in a trance, and no sound from amelia to break it. 

“hm. that’s my good girl.” he said with a hint of pride lacing his voice and a small smile forming. he decided that they both waited long enough for her to cum and resumed his hands in their earlier positions: right hand over her throat, bringing that small pressure back, palm on her left tit, fingers toying with the nipple. his left hand was once again focused on her clit, finding the rhythm that made her gasp and break her silence. he heard her immediately suck in her breath, scared that he might have heard and take his hands away again. 

another small, throaty laugh escaped max’s throat at her reaction. there was no way he’d tell her that it would be okay to let go a little now that he was touching her again, this was about her at the end of the day. if amelia wanted to make it harder on herself just because, he wouldn’t interfere.

a short while later, it seemed like amelia had enough, as her breaths became more and more shallow, until she was very clearly inhaling in sharp gasps and exhaling even sharper, slowly morphing into now familiar small and barely audible moans; music to his ears. he smiled as he reached down to suckle on her neck, surprisingly careful to not leave a mark. 

it didn’t take long for her to come undone in his arms. with very little warning, he felt her cunt spasm around him, her back arching. he saw her close her eyes. he heard her release the most satisfying and satisfied sound. 

when her orgasm started to subside, she rode it out on his dick, rolling her hips along with his movements and reached behind to grab his waist, making sure to let her fingers run along the side of his chest and abdomen. 

her soft caress and the softer noise topped with her orgasm fading out around him was enough to send him over the edge again. he held on to her tightly, as he tried to control his body as much as possible, remembering that anyone could pass by at any time. but that only made him cum harder. 

once his own orgasm was starting to subside, he found the strength to pull out of her. as he took off the condom and tied its end, she turned around, her chest centimetres away from his. 

“want more?” he asked, a gleam in his eye. 

“you can go again?” not only did she not answer his question, and she also had the nerve of raising her eyebrow. 

“last chance, amelia.” he growled. “do you want more?” he knelt down, bringing his face a breath away from her pussy. he gave her a long lick. “god, you taste so good and you’re so wet. you’ve been a very good girl for me, amelia.” he said, looking up, sure that his words would press her buttons. 

“i don’t need you to make me cum again.” 

“good girls get what they need. but bad girls get what they want, isn’t that right?” he paused, enjoying the confused look on her face. “so, do you want more? don’t make me repeat myself a fourth time.” 

“or what?” she questioned, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“that’s for me to know and for you to find out.” he said before burying his face between her silky thighs again, only coming up for air. “so are you a good girl, or a bad girl?” he asked, squeezing her leg for emphasis of his patience running out. 

“i’m both.” she replied shakily. 

“and what do you think little brats like you get?” 

“your face between my legs.” she muttered, careful not to be heard. 

instantly he sent his hand to play with her, keeping his face purposely just far enough. after a few moments of his index and middle finger working inside her, his thumb explored her lips and clit out of tempo, earning him a frustrated groan and a buck of her hips, attempting to get closer to his face. another small win. 

allowing her to be tortured for just a little longer, max enjoyed the sight of her biting down on her lips, exhaling sharply, trying to contain the sounds escaping from her throat, eyebrows furrowed. 

when he finally decided to give in, amelia didn’t waste a second; her hands reached for his head, keeping it in place. his fingers were still inside her while his tongue met the same rhythm, her hips grinding on his face following shortly after. 

lapping hungrily at her cunt, unable to get enough of her taste, max almost didn’t realise it when she came. his only indication was a new wave of her wetness and her hips slowing down, but max didn’t think much of it. he wasn’t done with her yet, so he kept going. 

before long, her hips were picking up the pace once again, more forcefully this time around, her thighs forcing his head into place, still, and it felt even better than be imagined so he couldn't help but lose himself in the sensation. his fingers were still playing with the sweet spot they’d found inside of her and his tongue kept contact with her pussy, but other than that, he stayed completely still. after a few movements of her hips, he felt her thighs crushing his head but he didn’t stop; she was on the edge, there was no way he’d let anything stop him from licking her clean. soon, her small spasms became more frequent until they became one longer one, cunt rubbing shamelessly against his lips, a small scream escaping from hers. 

he stopped moving and refused to do anything until he knew she was satisfied. he looked up, waiting for amelia to open her eyes so he would know. the second she met his gaze, she gave him a smile and nodded, and that was his cue. with careful moves, he pushed her shorts and panties up from her knees, planting kisses on her legs and then, he pulled away, pulling his own pants up. 

“where’s the condom?” came her voice in a breathless whisper. 

“dunno. around here somewhere, i guess.” he replied, not really able to follow, but still looking around for it.

“you need to throw it away.” she continued, buttoning up her shorts and fixing her shirt. 

“it’s your condom!” 

“exactly, i did my half of the job, now you do yours.” she said reaching down and picking it up, having found it. 

“i think i did my half by fucking you.” he carried on his defensive tone. 

“oh please” she extended her hand, the used condom dangling from her fingers. 

“you’re being ridiculous!”

“and you’re being a child!” 

“oh for fuck’s sake!” he took it from her hand, and walked away, trying to find a trash bin, not bothering to dwell on the triumphant smirk on her face. “happy now?” 

amelia picked up her bag from the ground and met him halfway. 

“sure, you’re decent.” she said as she wrapped her arms around his neck. 

“i think making you cum three times deserves something more than decent.” he kissed her again, making her sigh into his mouth, proving his point. “thought so.” 

“fine.” she sighed. “max,” sex was dripping from her voice just from uttering his name, sending a jolt from his brain straight down to his cock. “you were the best. thank you for making me cum so hard and for letting me suck on your cock and taste your cum.”

he kissed her again, hungrily, fingers laced in her hair, biting her lower lip and then running his tongue over it before meeting hers. 

“good girl.” he smiled against her lips, pulling away ever so slightly. 

“was that enough to stroke your fragile, male ego?” her fingers played with the collar of his shirt, tingling him whenever they made contact with his skin. her voice was soft, but her tone was razor sharp, contrasting the blush creeping up her cheeks. 

“why are you insisting so hard on accepting the fact that you’re being such a good girl for me?” 

“because good girls don’t fuck strangers in public places.”  came her reply, simple and unapologetic.

“we’re not strangers. you know me. i’m an entitled bastard with anger issues. and i know you. you’re a loud-mouthed, disobedient and independent brat with a secret praise kink.” 

“some couple we are.” she scoffed and pulled away, not denying a word he said. “how’s that anger thing going for you, anyway?” 

“better now, thanks.” he gave her a small wink and for the first time during their evening together did he notice the passage of time. it had to have gotten pretty late, considering how dark the sky was and how he couldn’t hear anything but the sound their synchronised footsteps made on the gravel as they walked back. 

he should be getting back, resting, preparing for the weekend ahead. but a few more minutes couldn’t hurt, right?

he lead her back to their bench, and sat down. amelia surprised him by sitting down next to him and snuggling up to his chest, resting her head against him. instinctively almost, his arm reached around her shoulders, holding her closer, leaving absentminded strokes of his fingers along her arms. 

they didn't speak for a while, and max had a strange feeling. he was feeling… serene, in a way he'd almost forgotten how, so he stayed there, emptying his mind of any thought that wasn't her, enjoying having her in his arms, for however long that would last. 

"will i see you again?" amelia broke the silence but not their contact. 

“probably not, but doesn’t that make it better?” his question was rhetorical, he didn’t expect an answer, nor did he get one. there was a mutual understanding: they knew that leaving things as they are protects them both. he didn’t get to know her better and neither did she; there was nothing to tarnish and eat away at what they had, no matter how brief. both of them knew just enough to make this a fun and pleasant memory. 

she nuzzled closer to him and he smiled, against his better judgement. he wasn’t one to smile at intimacy. it was something entirely unfamiliar, but it was… it was a good ending. soon her breathing became even and heavy. max glanced down at amelia and found her sleeping soundly. in his arms. was she really that reckless or did she feel that safe? and what was the difference between the two?

he reached out and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. this shouldn’t go on and it had already dragged on more than it should, or more than it did normally for him, anyway. that didn’t mean that he had to ruin it for her as well. 

“wake up, princess. it’s time to go home.” 

[timetorace]

𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭

HELLO! My first Max one shot, so excited for this one. To the anon that requested it: Thank u so much I hope you like it. 

ship: max verstappen x toto wolff daughter!reader.

summary: Five years ago you used to love Max but you had to say goodbye, will you be able to save what you could have been?

warnings:  SMUT. SMUT. Unprotected sex. Oral (f! receiving). Doggy style. Dirty words. 

word count: +6.0K

waity katie: Catherine Middleton was given the nickname “Waity Katie” to mock her because of the time Prince William took to propose to her.

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[xhopelesslyromanticx]

Romeo asked Juliet three questions - Max Verstappen x Reader

Masterlist

Warnings: smut, mentions of alcohol

summary: Your dad had done everything to protect you. In return he would ask you for one thing; loyality. To his family, to his brand. But one night with his enemies golden boy Max makes you question your morals. One night and three questions.

Growing up your dad used to tell you stories about how he had met your mother. How her dad had always depsised him and how hard her whole family made it for the two of them. The odds were against them; he had told you it was sort of like Romeo and Juliet. You loved hearing about it, especially with your mom being gone. After she had passed your father rarely spoke about her and whenever he did, you made sure to listen closely. The stories of their life before you and before success fascinating you as you were unsure of when he was gonna talk about her next. He didn‘t like it, it hurt him too much.

Their love had seemed so sweet and everything you strived for to find for yourself and even though they didn’t always have it easy you knew it was meant to be. Like Romeo and Juliet. Your dad had taught you the importance of family from early on. He said there was nothing more important than family and even when he remarried and had another son, he never made you feel like a lesser part of his life. You adored your father for that very reason and had made a promise to yourself to never dissapoint him. That’s why you chose to be in motorsports and that‘s why you hadn’t let any guy near you that you felt like wouldn’t meet your fathers standards. His agreement the most important thing to you. Until someone came into your life that made you question your morals. Made you rethink everything you had been taught. But that’s too far for now. Let’s start from day one, the day you had bumped into a guy on the paddock.

The laugh escaping his lips was something you’d probably remember forever as you rubbed your forehead with the palm of your hand, trying not to blush. You were sure your cheeks were already rosy as you looked into his ocean blue eyes. They were mesmerizing and in combination with the blonde hair. God, you had always had a thing for blonde guys but like your dad had taught you, to be on the lookout for any red flags; your eyes immediately travelled to the logo on his chest. The most important thing; loyalty. The bulls on his shirt making you frown as you took a step back „Sorry.“

With that you were gone as Max watched you leave confused. He hadn’t even seen your whole face yet and had already found interest in your beautiful eyes. But you leaving so abruptly made him wonder, maybe you were in a rush or maybe you had a boyfriend? But he hadn’t even flirted with you yet. Max had shrugged it off, continuing his way down the busy pitlane. And in the upcoming weeks he‘d see you more often. He‘d come to learn who you worked for and it would all make sense to him. The way you‘d avoid his gaze or turn on your feet and go into a different direction as you saw him in the paddock. He was understanding but to a certain degree he felt like it was childish to act like this. Just because you worked for Mercedes, you didn‘t have to act like this.

Maybe it was that, that made you so incredibly interesting to him. The mystery of knowing almost zero to nothing about you. A mission is all he had craved, a plan was set in his bones that he‘d get to know you even if it was against your will. He wasn’t unlikeable after all, everyone on the track got along with him quite decently or let’s say almost everyone. But he wasn’t okay with you not liking him. Your beauty was not lost on him but it wasn’t just that; it was the way you carried yourself, the way you laughed and greeted people who you deemed worthy of your attention.

He had caught a glimpse of it. One day in the paddock. You had approached Charles, who was standing only a few meters away from Max. Max was lost in his own world, waiting for his turn to get interviewed. Charles arms wrapped around the small of your back as you embraced him in a hug. It was more than collegial but less then friends. It seemed like Charles knew you, or at least he was acquainted with you. He was talking to you about something and Max was relieved it looked casual and more like small talk. Wait why was he relieved? That was a little extreme; he didn’t even know you, he didn’t even know your name.

Well, not technically but he had overheard someone on your team calling you Juliet. He felt like it was an odd name for someone so young but lord knows. He decided he‘d just stick with it. In his head you became Juliet. Juliet who he knew nothing about, Juliet who had no instagram, Juliet who seemed to be completely anonymous on and off track. And Juliet, who unfortunately seemed to work for Mercedes. For a moment he wondered if he should just let it go. It was clear that you didn’t want to get to know him, by the way you paid him no attention at all. If Max wasn’t so confident that it was probably just about the fact that you worked for his biggest rival, he would habe been offended for sure.

But he was so sure that after some drinks and in the right setting, he'd eventually get you around and you‘d finally let him hear your beautiful voice again. There was a gala ahead of the Monaco Grand Prix. You had agreed to attend it, after Lewis had begged you to keep him some company. With the way the season had been going for him, he felt like he didn‘t have a lot of friends on track anymore. All of them seemingly friends with Max. Max, what an odd name for someone like him. You were torn between it being the perfect fit for the blonde haired guy or it being extremely far off. It sounded innocent and childlike, two things you were convinced the guy wasn’t.

You didn‘t know much about the dutch guy and you didn’t care to know more. Even though you knew most people adored him, you only cared about your dads opinion. And though your father agreed, Max was a talent in the sport, he found his attitude and demeanor off-putting and cocky. As with everything, you took your dads word for it and avoided the Red Bill driver as well as you could and you had almost succeded. Maybe you would have, if Max hadn‘t been so incredibly determined to get to know you.

The sparkling sensation of the overpriced champagne, melting on your tongue and then slowly running down your throat made you feel somewhat less anxious. You stood in the corner of the room, your satin gold dress fitting you ever so perfectly as it was topped off with a diamond braclet around your wrist. One you‘d have to return after this event. The necklace dangling from your neck, was one of your own. It was rather simple, just a gold heart along with the Letter J. Your dad had gifted it to you and you never ever took it off. The same guy was now standing further away in the big hall, suited up in his tuxedo as he talked to some seemingly very important people.

The look he sent you, the furrow in his eyebrows. You knew he was asking if everything was okay. You shot him a reassuring smile as he continued to endulge in his conversation, Lewis next to him. You weren’t sure why the driver had asked you to tag along. He had been busy talking to different influential people all night. You felt kind of like an outsider here but you were fine with that. You knew you had kind of put this on yourself. The only women your age here were some of the drivers girlfriends but you never really talked to them either. You werent like them after all. Not yet.

You wondered sometimes if they didn’t feel silly, whenever they accompained their partner to these things like some kind of accessories to be dropped off at the bar and picked up again before going home. None of them really knew anything about the sports and you couldn’t blame them for not being interested in talking to the people in this room. Hell, not even you were interested in long boring conversations about financing and campaigning. You weren’t here to do that, and if Lewis hadn’t begged you you would have never attended this event at all.

„Is your forehead fine again?“ a voice appeared. The sound of it unsteady but somehow still confident; cocky some may say. You turn your head to the right, looking at Mercedes nemesis. His ash blonde hair styled to perfection as his tuxedo was for sure tailored; he sort of looked like James Bond like this. It made you want to giggle but you figured that would have been rude. Not that you cared about what he thought of you.

„My forehead?“ you ask him.

Max chuckles shaking his head as he takes a sip of his water. He had opted for no alcohol tonight, which might have seemed odd to anybody else. This event almost seemed unbearable to any normal human being but Max was sort of used to it. Plus he had to race in a couple of days and he found that he could use the other drivers waisting their day to recover tomorrow to his advantage.

„Yes when you bumped into me you hurt your forehead.“ Max explained in sincere hope you‘d remember. You furrowed your eyebrows, avoiding his gaze. Fuck, you didn’t remember. Max cursed himself for being embarrassing; how silly to think you‘d remember it.

„That was so long ago though.“ you chuckled, running your fingers through your hair. Max sighed in relief, you did remember. He wasn’t so forgettable after all. He only needed that validation to gain his confidence back as he quite obviously looked you up and down, only standing about half a meter away from where you were leaning against the edge of a wall, behind you a big hall that led into all sort of different directions. You cleared your throat, feeling the dutch guys eyes travel you up and down. It wasn’t that you felt insecure but no one had ever checked you out this bluntly; cocky.

Why did this make you nervous? You felt like the voices in the room went silent as the jazz music playing in the background disappeared with them. Your lungs were running out of air but you couldn’t gasp for it. Max eyes fell on your face, your lips slightly parted. Did he notice you were about to pass out? The dutch guy took a step closer to you as you held your breath, what was he doing? There were so many cameras and people here.

„Juliet.“ Lewis, your savior appeared next to you. You finally could breath again as Max took a step back allowing Lewis to approach you. Lewis eyes shortly fell on Max as he looked at you with the same look your father always looked at you with; Are you okay?

You nodded, sending Lewis a reassuring smile. Max hadn’t done anything wrong, he was just trying to be nice right? After all you looked quite pathetic alone in the corner of the giant hall.

„Toto wants you to go home.“ Lewis pressed his lips together, completely ignoring Maxs presence. The dutch guy studying what was just happening in front of him. The way you relaxed in Lewis presence, you two were for sure close; but not in a romantic way. More like a big brother and a little sister? Max for sure hoped so. He didn’t understand why though, his obsession scaring even himself somehow.

But before he could even comprehend anything else he watched your smile turn into a frown. You nodded your head, much to his dislike. He didn’t want you to go home. Why did Toto even get to tell you what to do?

„I‘ll get a cab then.“ you nodded.

Lewis furrowing his eyebrows and shaking his head „No I‘ll get you home.“

„No Lewis, you should stay.“ you put on a reassuring smile, hoping it be enough to convince the older guy. Before wrapping your arms around his shoulder, embracing him in a short lived hug. A small kiss planted against his cheek before whispering in his ear „Have some fun.“

Max watched as your eyes fell on him one last time, ever so swiftly before sending him a quick smile. It was probably just your manners, being raised right but it meant much more than just a gesture to the blonde guy. He watched you turn on your heel, heading down the empty hallway and into the dark. His body filling with regret, he still knew nothing about you. Well, except your name; Juliet.

„Who is she?“ it sounded innocent, naive. Like Max forgot who he was talking to for a second. Lewis looked at the dutch guy, squinting his eyes. He shook his head as if he was trying to tell Max; not this one. No this one was way too special. But that wasn’t Max's intention; he wasn’t looking for a quick fix. He really wanted to get to know you. Every interaction seemingly leaving him knowing less than he thought.

He paced up and down a little standing in the corner where you had stood, the glass in his hand now empty. Staring at the bottom of it. It was empty. Sort of like his heart. God, why did he have to get sentimental now? He could feel his fathers eyes on him. The man standing next to his team principle, mustering his son with the stern look he had always on. Max had to resist the urge to roll his eyes, feeling like a five year old watched by his father. Monitored. That’s when it struck him, it had only been about five minutes since you left. Taking his chance, he turned around and hurried down the hallways. Running all the way down the stairs, people passing him left wondering why the one and only Max Verstappen was running down a staircase.

Outside, cars where lining up. The staircase packed with men and women dressed in fancy attire. Everyone stopping for the cameras hoping their picture would be printed in a monegasque tabloid which only consisted of gossip as far as you were concerned. You awaited your turn, knowing it probably take a while as this was one of the busiest week all year in Monaco. Your phone rang, so you pulled it out your bag. Seeing the name on your screen you sighed; you weren't in the mood to talk right now. He was probably just wondering why you left early. A slight breeze blowed through your hair and just as you wanted to sit down onto the cold pavement of the stairs a voice appeared behind you again.

„Don't you need to get that?“ Max spoke, his hand buried in the pockets of his pants ad he stood above you just about three steps away. You turned around looking up at the guy, confused by the sight of the most popular guy in the sports seemingly leaving the gala early. Or had he just followed you out here? However you shook your head, declining the ingoing call. You didn't even know what made you do it.

"You never told me your name."

„You never asked.“ you smiled back, feeling stupidly charmed by the thought of him having actually followed you here. Max smiled, feeling satisfied seeing you seemingly didn’t just hate him with all your guts. The dutch guy opened his mouth but before he could say anything, you interrupted him by jumping up the steps till you were literally almost chest to chest. You took your hand and held it over his mouth as Max furrowed his eyebrows and looked at you with wide eyes.

„Don’t ask. You only get to ask me three things.“ you whispered and Max seemed taken a back by your little game. You removed your hand from his face, allowing him to speek to see he was actually smiling.

„Why?“

„Is that your first question?“

„Oh, wait no!“ Max whisper yelled and it made you chuckle. This was very amusing to say the least. And you knew that your dad wouldn’t agree with this, but what was the harm in a little innocent game between two strangers, who by the break of dawn would never talk to one another again.

„Okay.“ Max took a deep breath, looking around the parking lot. If he only got to ask you three questions he knew he had to choose them wisely.

„I’ll give you this one; three questions. One night. That’s all we've got.“

Max wanted so badly to ask you why. To ask why only three questions. Why only one night? But for now he‘d just accept the fact that you offered to spend time with him. So without another word he held out his hand to you. He wasn’t afraid you‘d reject it anymore and he was proven right when you grabbed it. Raising your eyebrows, as if you were trying to ask him what he was planning to do. Max led you up the stairs again and then with a shrug, he looked back at you „If we only have one night I need to show you this.“

As you walked out onto the roof of the buildingi you almost couldn’t believe your eyes. Max had bribed some security guard into letting you two up here as it wasn’t actually permitted. You wondered how he knew this? Did he bring a lot of girls up here? You looked up at the sky, stars filling the night sky as you could feel Max follow closely behind you. The sound of the church bells ringing; midnight.

„I come out here when I need to clear my head.“ Max stated. You were surprised by his sudden openness, as you held onto the railing, that was made of thick marble. From up here you could see Monaco in all it’s glory, the promenade filled with people, the lights of the boats, the beautiful ocean. You loved it here, having grown up here most of your life.

„It’s beautiful.“ you muttered, smiling at him as he leaned against the railing next to you. Only his eyes weren’t set on the view. They were resting on you steadily. You blushed, readjusting your hair; so he wouldn’t see it. Max chuckled bringing up his hand to your face and tugging the piece of hair behind your ear again and as his fingers ever so slightly touched the skin of your ear, you held your breath „Don’t do that. You’re too beautiful to hide it.“

You chuckle, shaking your head „You’re bluntly straightforward aren’t you Verstappen.“

„Yeah, well I figured if we only have one night I might as well speak what's on my mind.“

As if he didn’t already do that. You liked it though, having always had a hard time committing to your feelings. To be honest about them.

„Okay. First question.“ Max now spoke, looking straight at you. You turned your body towards him, intrigued by what he might ask. The words that escaped his mouth surprised you „Have you ever been in love?“

You cleared you throat, almost embarrassed by your own game. Thinking back to all the times you had loved and lost people. Sure you had been in love before right? No name came to your mind though.

„It depends on how you perceive the word love.“ you shrugged, acting like you had this all under control „I have been in love with a lot of things; friends, family and even food. Even with places-"

You pointed at the view. Max understood then; you had grown up here. He looked at your face, the look behind your eyes one of insecurity. Where you not content with your answer? Max thought it was beautiful. He hadn’t ever heard someone connecting being in love to a place. It was unique but then again everything about you was different.

„Okay your turn.“ the dutch driver spoke, in order to make you stop questioning yourself. He walked backwards before dropping into one of the chairs that was placed on the roof. It looked like some of the staff sometimes hid up here to smoke a cigarette or something. The roof was abandoned otherwise overgrown with weeds: you loved that. It gave it an eerie look, like something out of a movie.

You plopped down on the chair facing Max, crossing your legs as you mustered him. You were intrigued, so many questions wandering your head. What was behind this happy exterior?

„Why do you race?“

Max put on a smile, he looked almost sad though. It looked like he thought about it for a second before pressing his lips together „I used to do it for my dad but now I probably just wanna prove to him that I can actually win this championship. Do what he couldn't do.“

„So you’re still doing it for him in a way.“

Max swallowed. He knew there was some truth behind your words.

„Not only. I also truly couldn‘t live without it.“ he stated and it sounded almost defensive. You shot him a smile, signaling you weren't trying to be rude. There was a moment of silence, the cars honking the only sound you could hear from up here. You looked up, the night sky clear showing off its thousands of stars; glistening up there like glitter. Max knew he had to be honest tonight, there was no time to waist. And as he watched you sit back in your chair looking up the sky with your hair falling over your shoulder he couldn't help himself.

„Okay, brutal honesty coming."

You perked your head up, looking at the guy merely a meter away from you. Max staring straight at you. He grabbed a hold of your chair before pulling you closer to him, with one swift motion. You had to resist the urge to yelp as it caught you by total surprise but you liked it. Max somehow was unpredictable and it was totally not the impression you had had of him. With his face now only inches away from you he leaned over, you could see the clearness in his eyes. The slight stubble on his face and his perfectly placed hair and god, he smelled good. The kind of smell, you would want to breath in in your final moments.

„Brutal Honesty?“ you asked.

„I really wanna kiss you.“

You didn't need nothing else. Your hand wrapping around his neck as you connected your lips. For a moment forgetting all about your worries and why this wasn’t the best idea. Maxs hand finding its way into your hair as his lips move against yours. His tongue slides against your bottom lip as if he was asking for entrance. It only takes you parting your lips for him to slide his tounge in fully. You hold your breath, whimper even as his hands begin to roam your body. Max had imagined kissing you a couple of times ever since he had laid eyes on you for the first time. It might sound silly and like he was a hopeless romantic and he would never have described himself as one but it was just something about you. He couldn’t quite put a name on it yet.

„Second question.“ he pulled away from you breathlessly. You giggled, pressing together your swollen lips „Already?“

„Would you like to come back to my place?“

Huge trees were placed on both sides of the road as you leaned your tiny frame out the window of the car that drove down the road like smooth butter. Maxs hand placed firmly on the bare skin of your thigh as his other held the steering wheel effortlessly. There was something about him im his element, although you knew that his attention was now mostly on you. His glances and smiles not going unnoticed on you as you could see the big house appear at the end of the road. A gate in front of it. This was a mansion. It was huge, in fact it looked like a full on palace. You had been in your share of fancy houses over the course of your live but never had you ever known someone to live like this. Just outside Monte Carlo. It was a dream. For a moment you actually pictured a live there. You‘d do so much with the place. The ideas running endlessly through you mind.

Then you remembered your dad. No, you shouldn’t think about him. All your live you had done everything he wanted. Done as he pleased. And it wasn’t that you didn’t like him anymore or that he had done something to upset you. In fact you didnt know why you had gone with Max. It was just something about him. Something about that night. It all just felt so right. But you knew that no one could ever find out about it.

Max parked his car right before the entry, ambient light glistening on the big patio with a huge pool in the middle. You gasped stepping out the car, looking around the place as you held on to your clutch „You must be filthy rich.“

Max chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped out beside you „Looks like my honesty is rubbing off on you.“

He was right, it wasn’t actually well mannered to talk about someones money. You had been around people with money all your life, it didn’t have that much meaning to you. But you were also aware of the fact some people hadn’t had that much fortune in life. That’s why you had chosen a rather private life; no public social media. You were completely anonymous in this world of glamour and you wouldn't ever wanna change that. Maybe thats why you kept away from people like Max.

„What about you? Who are you?“

„That‘s two questions.“ you looked back. Maxs face only lit up by the moon. He gives you a weak smile „You only have one left.“

The dutch guy chuckles shaking his head before licking his lips „You‘re gonna be the death of me woman.“

„Ouch. That‘s sounds derogatory.“ you joked, clutching your heart as if you had just been stabbed. But the feeling in your heart wasn‘t one of pain. You were afraid it was more one of comfort and peace. You felt safe here. Safe with Max. The guy shook his head once again before stepping towards you, his hands grabbing you by your waist. Firmly the held onto you ad he pulled you in towards his. His body against you, faces only inches apart.

„I wouldn‘t ever do that.“ he whispered, and you could swear you could feel his heartbeat „I wouldn‘t ever put you down.“

„I know.“ you nodded. His on hand travelled to the back of your neck as he pressed his lips against yours once again. It wasn’t as eager as the first time on the roof. But still it was senough to make your stomach go crazy. You moved your lips against Maxs, swearing that the taste of them would be imprinted in your mind forever. Your thoughts began wandering, you only had two questions left and you wanted to make sure that they were good ones. Your hand found it's way into his hair as you slightly tugged on it. Max chuckled against your lips.

„Let‘s get inside.“

Max studied you. The way you wandered around his dark halls, mustering the paintings and all the details. You hadn‘t taken Max for this kind of guy. You thought his house would have been modern and cold. But it was everything but that. The golden details against the gorgeous walls only being topped of by huge chandeliers hanging down from everywhere. It looked like something straight out a fairytale. This is just how you had always imagines Romeos house. But enough with that story as we all know how it ends.

„Do you live alone?“

The question may seem bland. But you wondered, didn‘t it ever get lonely in this big place? Although it was so beautiful, gorgeous even you couldn‘t picture spending your nights here alone. But Max was a handsome successful young man, he probably hardly ever was alone.

„Yes.“ he nodded, looking around the place as he followed you quietly. Like he didnt want to interrupt you connecting to the place. He always felt like it was special, even almost magical how people connected to this house. And he hoped that you‘d feel it too. He certainly could feel it with your presence here. It sounds silly but to Max it kind of felt like the house liked you „Well, mostly anyways. I of course have my family, dad mostly, that spends time here. And with my schedule, I hardly get to stay here for a long period of time.“

„That’s a pity. It‘s beautiful.“ you stated stopping in your tracks as a huge marble staircase unfolded in front of you. You looked back at Max, raising your eyebrow. he nodded allowing you to get up there. At the end of the staircase there was this huge wall, displaying all of Maxs medals and prices. There where also pictures of Max, over the course of his life. You silently looked through them. It was like his whole life was splattered on this one wall. But you just felt like there was something missing. The shiny and gold didn‘t fool you. There was so much more to that blonde boy on the picture, with his fathers arm around him. The expression on his face confusing as it looked like he was smiling but the smile didn‘t reach his eyes. You traced the picture with your finger before muttering under your breath „Don‘t waste your love on somebody, who doesn‘t value it.“

„What?“

„Nothing.“ you shook your head. You shouldn‘t say anything. You turned around putting on a smile, trying to distract drom the fact you had just gotten a little to personal. Your dad used to say that to you. It was of course his favorite quote from Romeo and Juliet and you had lived by it. But you felt like it applied to everyone. Even your fathers enemies had their share of hardships and heartache. The nature of his fathers character being publicly known. How could he have treated this little boy with so little love or care? You'd never understand, coming from a loving family yourself.

„Okay.“ Max chuckled shrugging his shoulders.

„Okay.“

The pressure against the bare skin on your back drove you crazy as you felt the stone cold wall press against you. Max hands all over you as he attacked the skin on your neck with kisses. You threw your head to the side, your hair feeling greasy already. The waves of emotion you had went through tonight caused you to sweat like crazy. You were basically glistened and glazed but Max didn't seem to care much. No in fact he was eagerly undoing his white button up, as he had already dropped his blazer sonwhere. You helped him, fidgeting with the material of his shirt.

You felt nervous knowing what was about to happen, you hadn’t ever considered yourself good at it and other than that you only had a handful of experience. But Max clearly knew what he was doing. This came easy to him and you envied that somehow. If only knew that in Maxs mind everything about you was perfect in this very moment. He didn’t care about how experienced you were or even what underwear you were wearing. This was about so much more than that to him. If only you knew.

„Max.“ you whimpered, as his hands started oppening the back zipper of your dress. His lips connecting to yours again as he swiftly pressed a kiss against it. He pulled away looking into your eyes with concern. Why did he care this goddamn much?

„Tell me.“ he spoke, his hand caressing your cheek.

„I don’t know:“ you shrugged, shaking your head „I’m just not that good at this.“

„What are you saying?“ Max furrowed his eyebrows. He almost wanted to laugh at how ridiculous you were being but he was scared it might come off as rude or insensitive.

Instead he shook his head before whispering „Don’t say that. You’re perfect.“

„I’m not.“

„Brutal honesty; shut up.“

You giggled, punching his chest playfully as Max pressed his lips onto yours, so he could silence you. And you knew just then, how hard it would be to leave this one behind.

The sex was great. Really great. Max basically took the lead after you had expressed your concern to him. Laying you down on his bed, your clothes were gone within seconds. You thanked god, that it was relatively dark or you‘d have been having second thoughts about laying there completely naked. The moonlight hit your face, as Max hovered above you putting on a condom. You watched him do so propped up on your arms: It was sort of hot, watching him eagerly rip open the package. He then hovered above you again, his lips finding yours once again.

He gave you a little time to adjust to him after he entered inside you. And then his pace was steady. It was silent in the room the only sound, the sounds of your moans and bodys moving against eachother. Your legs wrapped around Max as you tried to not reach your high to early. but it seemed almost impossible, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. And when Max‘s lips connected with yours again after whispering „You‘re addicting.“

His movements got faster. You bit the skin on his shoulder resisting the urge to scream as he want deeper and deeper with each of his movements. It was all you needed. The sweet sensation came over you and it didn’t take much longer for Max, just a couple of pushes and he was there as well. A deep groan escaping his lips, somehow so masculine but also so vulnerable. Not that those two couldn’t go hand in hand but Max seemed incredibly confident to show it to you.

He collapsed above you, resting inside you for a little while longer. Both catching your breath. And then ever so wholesome he placed a kiss on top of your lips before whispering „Thank you.“

Had he just thanked you for having sex with him?

„Max.“ you mumbled, as he held your body close to his.Laying between his sheets just waiting for the morning to come, talking about life and death. Whether or not you believed in an afterlife. Everything important you'd talk about in a relationship, just in one night. It was tragically ironic; how similar you an Max seemed to be. Considering that the sun would rise soon and you‘d never ever speak to him again. You just wished it could have lasted a little longer.

„What?“

„You still have a question left.“

„You first.“

You chuckled, thinking about it for a second. There wasn’t one question that would satisfy you. You knew that. You knew you wanted to know much more about Max. Why had you done this to yourself? You should have listened to your dad.

„Will you ever tell anyone about this?“

Max swallowed, you didn’t trust him? He hadn’t done anything weong had he. He pulled your body closer to his, noticing you tense up. It was all done on purpose by you. The sudden cold demeanor. You wanted to somehow make this easier on both of you.

„No of course not.“

„Okay. That's good."

Silence fell over the the two of you again. Max was hurt. Hurt about your sudden distance. Had he been wrong about you? Whatever had just happened? Your emotion switching not going unnoticed to him. Little did he know that a tear was dropping down onto his pillow and it was you who was just as hurt. Hurt by your own actions and hurt that you‘d have to leave this house, this place, this man in less than an hour.

The sun rose, slowly. You could hear Maxs steady breaths beside you and thanked god he had fallen asleep. That would make all of this a little less gruesome. In absolute silence you untangled yourself from his grasp. Collected your things along with his shirt, as it was probably rather fresh outside. And then you walked out the bedroom door. Down the halls of the huge place, not being able to look left or right. The only place you put in a short stop was in front of the wall. Looking at the picture of the little boy once again.

„Don’t waste your love on someone, who doesn’t value it Max.“

The weekend came around. Max was strutting the paddock after qualifying, giving interviews to reporters as his mood was rather down. Even after the good qualifying, he just couldn’t stop thinking about you. Ever since he had woken up without you in his bed that morning. He had hoped you would have at least told him goodbye. He knew he would see you again but he was sure you would not pay him attention. After all you had been stone cold clear; one night. And he had promised you, to stay true to the deal.

„Good drive mate.“ Charles approached Max, who was leaning against the wall watching the other drivers give interviews. Max smiled, patting Charles on the back. Knowing it meant a lot to the Ferrari driver that he had gotten pole in his home race. Unaware of how unlucky his race would turn out to be.

„You too.“ Max nodded, drinking from the straw from his bottle.

Charles continued to talk to Carlos, who had also approached the two guys as Max's mind began to wander once again.

The conversations he had with you. The way you had listened to him all night. How you had told him your dream was to live in a place like his house. And how he promised you, he'd buy you one one day. Your sudden change in demeanor. Your last question. And what you had left behind on his nightstand; a necklace. The letter J on it. He'd probably just drop it off at Mercedes, saying he'd found it on the ground some time. But for now he couldn't get himself to get rid of it. He knew close to nothing about you and yet he knew your soul so well. The necklace was all he had. It was horribly tragic.

„Lewis!“

Max couldn’t believe his ears. He looked to the right, seeing you sprint across the paddock after Lewis. Lewis stopped in his tracks, you handed him some paper with a smile on your face. Dressed in your mercedes attire. Lewis seemed to be happy about whatever was written on the paper but Max couldn’t be less interested in that right now. All he knew was that you were here. You were here. And you didn’t even look at him.

„What‘s the deal with that Juliet girl?“ he tapped Charles shoulder, to get his attention. Charles looked up at Max confused on why the dutch guy had interrupted him and Carlos. He furrowed his brows „Who?“

„You know that Juliet girl. That works for Mercedes.“

Still nothing. Max began to grow worried that Juliet was all in his mind. Was he going crazy?

„The one you sometimes talk to?“

„I don’t know a Juliet Max.“

„Her.“ with frustration Max pointed towards you standing next to Lewis. Charles looked confused for a second before he chuckled seeing who Max was talking about. His eyes falling on the stunning woman he did in fact sometimes talk to, having known her for quite some time himself.

„That’s not Juliet.“ Charles giggled, Maxs stomach dropped. How had he been supposed to know that Juliet wasn’t your actual name. Just how your dad had always called you; your nickname.

“Her name’s Y/n.“

„What?“

„Yeah she‘s Totos daughter. Not many people know he had a daughter some time ago.“ Charles explained and Max felt like the ground had just been pulled out from beneath him. All he had known seemingly a big lie. Well you hadn‘t lied about it, you just had forgotten to mention it. Now Max understood everything. Your secret act. The way Lewis had told you, Toto wanted you to go home. The way you couldn’t be with him. Not because of Mercedes, no because your dad absolutely despised him„Why are you asking anyways?“

Charles looked at Max, somewhat suspicious. The look on Maxs face, was not one Charles could read. Max looked almost startled.

„I wouldn’t think about it though Max.“ the Ferrari driver advised his friend, scared he might actually find you interesting „Her dad's somewhat crazy from what I've heard. Plus I think she basically is dating George. Rumor has it, that‘s how he got his seat for next season.“

Your eyes had fallen onto Max now. Charles next to him. Fuck. He knew.

The look in Max's eyes one of betrayal as he stared right at you. It all went so fast after, Max stomping straight towards you as you could hear your phone ring „George“. Just like the night on the staircase. Only now this time you choose not to ignore it, hoping it hinder Max from actually causing a scene.

„Hey George.“

„Hello love, where are you? I‘m done with Interviews.“

The terror in your eyes grew. Lewis now noticing the dutch guy strutting towards you as he nudged your shoulder a questioning look on his face. Max couldn‘t do this, he had promised you. But that was before you realized; Max had one question left.

[julessymphonies]

Viper // Part 6 // MAX VERSTAPPEN – N.01 (N.033)

Author’s Note: Here’s the sixth part for Viper! Picking up where we left off in the last part in Abu Dhabi, for the final race of the season. I think you guys are going to like this one. Let me know what you think about it in the replies and likes, it makes me smile and even more motivated to get the next parts written and out for you guys ☺️

Also, I got an ask about the length of this story. When I started writing Viper, I fully thought it was going to be like, 3 parts maximum. The first part is a lot faster pace than the recent ones, because I was basically only writing highlights of the first half of the season to establish my reader and their tense relationship with Max. I didn’t think I’d get this sucked into it and want to explore the smaller details. And now here I am, dedicating an entire 13k+ word part just to Abu Dhabi. In my opinion, this is better than rushing through everything. More emotional attachment lol

Anywho, enough rambling from me. Enjoy!

Find the previous 5 parts on my masterlist, here.

Summary: Y/N fills the vacant Red Bull seat at the beginning of the 2019 season, craziness ensues.

Characters: Max Verstappen / Driver Reader, Daniel Ricciardo x Driver Reader (besties).

Word Count: 13.7k

Warnings: Fluff, Comfort, Drama, Angst. All the good stuff. Mentions of sex, Mature content, language, etc. Google Translate for Dutch words.

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“We’d like to start the last FIA Driver’s Press conference ahead of the final race of the 2019 season, here in Abu Dhabi by welcoming our drivers. From left to right, we have Max Verstappen and Y/N Y/L/N for Aston Martin Red Bull Racing, alongside Lewis Hamilton and Valtteri Bottas for Mercedes AMG Patronas Motorsport.” The camera panned over each of the drivers as they were introduced, representing the two teams fighting for first in the constructor’s championship.

Though it may not be replayed through the screen, the journalists in the conference room all noted the tension between the two teams, both equally focused on the job that was ahead of them. The Constructors Championship would be decided on Sunday, and it was clear they both wanted the top spot.

“We’re going to start with you, Max.” The moderator spoke up off screen. “Congratulations again on your win in Brazil two weeks ago. Do you think your team is capable of a repeat performance this weekend at the Yas Marina Circuit?”

“Yeah, well that 1-2 in Brazil for the team was definitely a lot of fun.” Max had a small smile on his face, as he quickly glanced towards his teammate that was sat to his left.

“So much fun that a few of you missed your flights the next morning.” A journalist off camera cut in, earning a few chuckled off camera. If the Dutchman was annoyed by the interruption, he didn’t show it. In fact, he and Y/N found themselves laughing along.

“It had been the first 1-2 in a couple years. Worth celebrating if you ask me.” Y/N cheekily cut in, the charming smile ever so present on her face.

“Exactly.” Max agreed with a nod of his head. “Going back to the question, I think it’s very possible. All the upgrades the team have brought to the car throughout the year have helped up to close the gap with the dominant Mercedes and allowed us to be competitive and win more races. We’ve been making the most of the opportunities available and doing more than was ever expected from us in Winter Testing. Not only that, but the team is all on the same page about what we’d like to accomplish this weekend. If there’s a chance, we’re going for it.”

“Y/N, anything to add to that?”

“Nope.” She was smirking. “Max stole some of my lines and said it all for the team.” Her additional comment earned a round of chuckles again from around the room.

“Max,” the moderator spoke up again pausing as he read the question he was meant to ask next and letting out the smallest, near imperceptible sigh. “As the season comes to a close, do you have any thoughts you’d like to share on your rookie teammate’s performance this year, seeing as she’s consistently outperformed you and brought in the most points for the team.”

Y/N’s face dropped before she could stop it, anger flaring behind her gaze. It wasn’t the first time that they dared to ask a question like this during the broadcast, but she was usually better at maintaining her composure and appearing unaffected. The camera was completely focused in on her reaction instead of the person to who the question had been asked.

She looked like she was about to speak up and call out the moderator for that clearly argumentative question, but Max spoke up before she could. “Y/N’s fought for and earned every single point she’s gotten this season. Believe me, I tried to fight her off but she’s good. And though she may be a ‘rookie’, it doesn’t change the fact that she is one of the most experienced drivers on the grid. She’s been racing longer than any of the other rookies, held back not because of a lack of skill but because she continuously had to prove that woman can have a place in this sport. It’s just a shame that she didn’t have the opportunity to race in Formula 1 at 17 or 18 like the rest of us, cause she surely would’ve earned a handful of titles by now if she’d been allowed to race for the past 8 or 9 years.”

And to everyone’s surprise, Max wasn’t the only one to speak up about this. “Y/N had me worried at more than one point this season in the fight for the Championship.” Lewis added, having always been vocal in his support of having more women in the sport. “Even watching her win the F2 Championship last year, I knew she was going to be trouble. I’m not surprised to see all the wins and accomplishments in her first year. And that’s not to discredit Max’s performance as well. Both drivers have made the most of their seasons and fought hard.”

Y/N seemed to have calmed down, that small smile back on her face as she made a comment to get the press conference back in line. “Careful now, you boys are going to make me blush with all these compliments. I’m just glad I didn’t just magically forget how to drive when I first got into our RB15. It’s sure been a season I’ll never forget.”

The attention was now focused on the second Red Bull driver. “On that note, Y/N, would you mind walking us through some of your highlights from your rookie season?”

“Of course.” She said, a bright smile on her face. “I mean, as fun as the 1-2 in Brazil was, I’ve got to admit that Monaco is at the top of my list. It was the best I’d felt in the car up to that point in the season, and everything clicked into place. Once the team let me through, I had no doubts that I would be able to see that one home. I just… I don’t think anything’s going to top that first win, you know? And Canada was also pretty special, even though it wasn’t the best result of the season. It was the first time by family got to see me race in Formula 1, and there were so many amazing moments off the track at that Grand Prix so it’s easily up there for me too.”

Y/N paused, so though she was debating whether or not she should share a little bit more. “Um, and then I’d guess another highlight I’d say is the… unexpected friendships I formed with the other drivers on the grid. No matter what people were saying about me, the drivers have had my back through it all. They never doubted whether or not I deserved to be on the grid and treated me fairly. It’s nice to have that support, from the only other people in the world who really understand what you’re going through. I know that some of them will be there for me no matter what happens on track, and vice versa.” It was impossible to miss the way her head had turned towards Max for a moment, catching his eye as she spoke. “So yeah, those have been my highlights.”

“And is there any comment you’d like to make in regard to a rumoured potential move to Mercedes in 2021?”

There were sounds of cameras clicking and reporters jostling behind the camera, all waiting for this particular snippet. But Y/N didn’t react in the way they thought she would at the question, keeping her expression neutral and not giving anything away. “The rumours are just that, rumours. I’m happy at Red Bull and have no intention of moving. This is my team.” She smiled sweetly at the end of her answer, pushing her microphone away once the FIA moderator moved on to the next driver for questioning.

Max however, didn’t appear nearly as composed. The boy had gone pale, and barely spoken another word throughout the rest of the conference. The questions that followed from journalists were answered with simple responses, barely paying them any mind.

Viewers could only wonder what had gotten into the younger Red Bull driver, as the conference was wrapped up and the broadcast ended.

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You’d tried to get away from that conference as quickly as your feet would carry you, but even that hadn’t been enough to avoid Max once they’d cut the conference broadcast. He’d followed you out of the room, the pair of you walking too fast for your press officers to keep up and drag you towards your next media commitment.

When it became clear that Max wasn’t going to let you get on your day, you walked right through Red Bull hospitality and straight up to your driver’s room where you could have this conversation without anyone else overhearing. You made a mental note to get your performance coach to dig and find out who had leaked that stupid rumour, because this had the fucking power to ruin everything. Toto wasn’t stupid enough to broadcast your conversation from the gala to everyone, knowing that it would piss off a lot of people, his drivers included. You were sure that it had come from somewhere else.

“Mercedes? Are you fucking serious?” Max barely waited for the door to shut behind you before he was spitting the question at you. He was visibly upset, having been caught completely unware when the question had come up towards the end of the conference. “Was all that talk yesterday about being in it together just to get a better result and make yourself look better to them? Toto wasn’t just asking you to race fairly on Sunday, was he?”

“I’m not fucking going anywhere, Max.” You snapped back at him, not appreciating the way he’d automatically assumed the worst. “Did you not hear my answer? It’s just a fucking rumour. There’s nothing to it.”

“Nothing?” Max repeated, arms crossed over his chest. “What did Toto talk to you about yesterday? You lied to me yesterday, but I didn’t push because I didn’t think it mattered.”

You narrowed your gaze, still not a fan of his tone. “It’s none of your fucking business.”

He took your response as confirmation, gaze hardening further. “So, you are going to Mercedes.”

“No! I’m not!” You didn’t care that you were yelling, or that anyone stood outside your door could hear you. This stupid boy was going to be the death of you, if you couldn’t get this point through his stupid, stubborn skull. “Even though it would very likely be better for my career in the long run, I told him to fuck off.”

That seemed to get him to calm down slightly, realizing that you genuinely weren’t interested in leaving the team. Part of you wanted to ask why he cared so much, but you never got the chance because he came at you with another question. “How would it be better for your career? We have a car that’s only getting better. We’re going to be able to win.”

“We can’t both win the driver’s championship next year Max.” You stated bluntly, because it was so obvious in your eyes. “Red Bull has made it very clear that you are their future. They let us race this year because it was clear very early on that neither of us were going to win it. Even the team never thought I was going to do this well. It’s going to be different next year, if we have another good car. They’re going to choose between us. I… I’m going to resent having to compromise my race to help my teammate… which I’m sure you would hate it just as much if the team chose to back me.”

He didn’t deny it, because you were both far to competitive and ambitious to ever be content playing the second driver role. As much as you loved working with Max as a team when you had a common goal, you were so acutely aware of how easily it could fall apart. All the more reason you should never have let yourself get this emotionally attached to your teammate. You should’ve been able to genuinely consider the seat at Mercedes, because it probably was your best shot at the championship.

“If you’re so sure about that, then why are you staying?” He asked, his voice far quieter now as he finally met your gaze.

Fuck. You really had messed up, letting the younger driver in. You’d never gotten this close to any of your other teammates in the past. Hell, you’d never opened up this much to anyone else… ever. You’d never had someone walk into your life and make you want to risk it all. You’d never trusted anyone like this and given them this much consideration in your life decisions. It terrified you, how much what this one person thought about you had the power to make or break you.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, knowing full well it was another lie. It had more to do with Max than you were willing to admit out loud.

You should’ve known Max wouldn’t just leave it. “No lying, heerlijk.”

“I know, but I can’t tell you the real reason.” You whispered to him. “Because, the second I say it out loud, it makes it real and that’s… way too complicated to handle before this fucking race. There’s too many people counting on us for us to be distracted… Too many reasons why it would be a bad idea. So, I’m not really lying when I say that I don’t know what to tell you, Max.”

Before Max could continue to push for more information, you were saved by a sharp knock at the door. You took a big step back from Max, forcing your media smile onto your face and pretending that you hadn’t just had a massive yelling match with your teammate as your PO officer stepped into the room.

“Sorry to… interrupt, but I need Y/N. We need to get a handle on this Mercedes rumour, so there’s an impromptu PR strategy meeting starting in a few minutes.”

“I’ll be right there.” You said, forcing another smile.

You turned back towards Max after the door had closed and saw that he’d built his walls back up and had that unreadable expression on his face. He refused to meet your gaze, so you couldn’t even look into his eyes to try and figure him out.

“Look, I swear to you right now, I’m not going to Mercedes. It’s not even on my radar. I want to stay with Red Bull for as long as they will have me. We’re a team, remember?”

The last four words seemed to be the ones to break through, Max’s shoulders relaxing slightly as he nodded. “I believe you.”

You were slightly caught off guard by the wave of relief that washed over you, but had to bury it because you had a job to do and couldn’t afford to do it while distracted. “Are we good?”

“We’re good.” Max didn’t hesitate, tension completely leaving his shoulders after he let out one more long breath. “Sorry for… losing it on you. It caught me off guard.”

“You and me both.” You sighed, shooting him a forced smile. “It’ll be fine, the team will sort everything out.” At least, you hoped they could make it all go away quickly enough to focus on the weekend ahead. This was one more thing that you didn’t want on your plate right now…

Damn Toto Wolff and his crazy ideas.

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Friday flew by, practices over in the blink of an eye.

Unsurprisingly, the Red Bulls and Mercedes cars topped the charts in terms of lap times, passing the lead back and forth throughout the sessions. You knew that it was going to be like this for the rest of the weekend, and that track position would be incredibly important come the start of the race.

People had all but forgotten about that rumour from the day before now that everyone involved had denied it, the media refocussing on the battle between the two teams instead. You’d spent a lot of time in a conference room with the strategy teams, making sure you and Max would be able to get the most out of your cars for the rest of the weekend. Then you’d made yet another appearance at a Red Bull sponsorship dinner, before heading off to bed early.

Saturday had been interesting, going through the motions leading up to qualifying. Everyone had been so dialed in through the final practice session, feeling confident about the team’s potential for the later qualifying sessions. You and Max had helped one another through qualifying, providing a tow through one of your runs for the other to try and get an even better time.

Though Hamilton had snagged pole by a few thousandths of a second, you and Max were still starting P2 and P3, still giving you a pretty decent shot at the points you needed. It helped that Bottas was starting from the back of the grid due to an engine penalty. You weren’t worried, knowing that you’d put everything you had into winning the race tomorrow and whatever would happen, would happen.

Through Sunday morning, it seemed like you were the only one on the team who wasn’t feeling the pressure.

You weren’t greeted by the standard jovial atmosphere as you’d walked through the garage to check in with the mechanics. There wasn’t even the usual booming music playing through the garage and annoying every other team in the paddock… Everyone was hard at work, going over every bit of data they had at their disposal and working hard to make sure the car would be perfect. In fact, most of them looked like they’d already been working at this for hours.

“When’s the last time you guys took a break?” You asked the lead mechanic.

He startled slightly, snapped out of focus by your question. “What’s a break?” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but you could hear how exhausted the team was. They really were putting their blood, sweat and tears into making sure everything would run smoothly during the race later this evening.

You decided that your crew deserved a couple minutes to think about something other than your car, so you spent the next few minutes going back and forth between the garage and hospitality and grabbing coffees, Red Bulls and snacks for everyone. You bumped into your brother and Max somewhere along your third or fourth coffee run, encouraging Max to do the same thing with his crew. Then, once everyone had some sort of drink or snack in hand, you joined them with your own cup of tea.

But it only took a few seconds to realize that even though you’d semi forced them all to take a break, they were still talking about the things they wanted to check with your car.

That wouldn’t do.

“Hey, Calum, would you mind giving me a hand with something?” You asked your power unit technician, knowing he had enough pull within the crew to get everyone to go along with your spur of the moment idea.

“Yeah, what do you need?” Calum didn’t even hesitate.

“Where’s the AUX cable for the sound system?”

Calum’s brow furrowed slightly, but he stood from his folding chair and led you to the back of the garage, to a wall of tech between the two sides. He pulled out a cable, plugging it directly into the system and offering you the other end. You took your phone out of your jean’s back pocket, unlocking the device and pulling up Spotify. You pulled up your favourite playlist, scrolling through a few viable options before glancing back at Calum for his input. “Drake, Frank Ocean, or Taylor Swift?” You provided three choices.

“I am allowed to ask what for?” He asked cautiously.

“Of course.” You nodded, a smirk slowly growing on your face. “We’re going to have a mental health dance break.” The mechanic reacted exactly how you thought he would, eyes going slightly wide, so you carried on with your explanation. “The vibes in the garage are far too heavy for my liking. We can’t go into the last race of the season like this. It’s not us.”

Though it was slightly unusual, and something that would definitely raise a few eyebrows from those outside of the garage, Calum’s own smile grew as he got onboard with your plan. Red Bull was known for being the laid back, fun group. It was important not to forget that just because this race was a little more important. “Start with Frank Ocean, then Drake and save Taylor Swift for the finale.”

“I like the way you think, Nicholas.” You said, cueing up the songs in the order Calum had suggested. You pressed play, the opening beat of ‘Lost’ filling the garage. You cranked it up, putting your phone down on the counter. “Now, I’m gonna need your help to get everyone else onboard with my crazy plan.”

“Say no more.” Calum understood the assignment, already nodding his head along to the beat.

He led you back to the front of the garage, between the two sides where most of the two crews were still gathered, chatting as they finished up their drinks. You zeroed in on your brother and Max, talking with Max’s race engineer who was looking at you as you shimmied your way over, trying not to smile. “Sorry to break up this very important meeting, but in case you haven’t heard we’re having an impromptu dance break. Participation is not optional.”

With that being said, you linked your arm through your brother’s and dragged him to the middle of the garage, ignoring his protests. You pulled out your cheesiest dance moves, wiping that unimpressed look right off his face. When he realized that most of the crew was in fact dancing along and following your lead, a genuine smile cracked his face and he started copying your moves. You couldn’t help but laugh, because dancing wasn’t yours or your brother’s strong suit but you still managed to let loose and have fun, singing along to your favourite Frank Ocean song.

It wasn’t until the song changed to Drake’s ‘Too Good’ that you glanced over to Max and saw that the little shit hadn’t joined in on the dance party, watching from the sidelines with an amused smile at your antics. Like hell you were going to let him get away with that when literally everyone else had embraced your silly idea to brighten the mood in the garage.

You skipped over to your teammate, singing along to the first part of Rihanna’s verse. I don’t know how to talk to you. I just know I found myself getting lost in you. Max’s smile grew slightly as you stood in front of him, still moving along with the song. “You scared of a little dancing, Verstappen?”

“I’m not nearly drunk enough for this.” He laughed, shaking his head at you. “And I just so happen to be enjoying the show.”

“Well, that’s too bad.” You responded to the first part of his statement, ignoring the way that the second far more flirty part made your cheeks flush. “Dance with me.”

He shook his head. “We should be getting ready for the race.”

“That’s what we’re doing! Moving, loosening up the muscles, team building so everyone can calm down a bit.” You said, providing a few justifiable examples before deciding that you weren’t going to take no for an answer. “Besides, I’m not giving you a choice.”

With that being said, you grabbed him by the arm and dragged him right into the middle of your dancing crew, smile growing wide as they cheered for your reappearance. You threw your arms up in the air, dancing and jumping along to the rhythm. And even though his movements where highly reluctant and slightly awkward, Max started jumping around with everyone else, a genuine smile soon cracking his face as the song and dance went on. You’d almost think he was enjoying himself too, having this silly little moment with your team.

Max’s face was priceless when Taylor Swift’s ‘Shake it Off’ started playing through the speakers next. He tried to make a run for it, but you reached out and grabbed his wrist before he could, giving him a look to make sure he knew he didn’t have a choice but to stick this one out too. You didn’t care that the garage was open for everyone to see this little dance party happening inside, singing and dancing along to some very different music than what usually played in your team’s garage. You spun around with everyone, laughing without a care in the world, knowing that when you’d look back at it this would probably be one of your favourite paddock memories of the year.

That is, until the music cut out as you were clapping along to the bridge.

“What one earth is going on here?!” Christian asked, looking at his two star drivers like they’d lost their minds. He handed you back your phone, which you assumed he’d been the one to unplug and cut the music. “You do realize that just about every media outlet has a camera trained on our garage right now?”

You let out a breath, eyeing the rest of the crew who all seemed in better spirits than before, laughing amongst themselves as they got back to work. In your mind, you’d done what you’d set out to do. “They’ve been watching us since we stepped into the paddock on Thursday, it’s nothing new.” You argued with your boss, refusing to let him kill the good vibe. “Besides, you have to admit that this is better content from our garage than what they filmed after Germany.”

Christian didn’t look impressed, but also seemed to notice the lighter atmosphere in his team garage. So instead of chastising you further, he let out an unimpressed huff. “No more dancing around like monkeys.” His tone was stern. “You both have a race to prepare for, for Christ’s sake.”

“Party pooper.” The frown on your face was more mocking than anything else, but it still got a chuckle out of your brother and Max when Christian rolled his eyes at you and mumbled under his breath that it was like Daniel had never left. “I was just trying to give everyone a small break from stressing out over this race. You’ve got to admit, they don’t look nearly as glum and pessimistic anymore. This team works better when we’re all in sync and enjoying ourselves. We were just…shaking off the pressure.” The groan both Christian and Max let out at your pun didn’t take away from the fact that you felt really good about yourself for coming up with it.

You caught sight of your press officer coming to wrangle you for your first of many commitments of the day behind Christian. “On that note, I’m about to get whisked away for all the press our lovely communications department lined up for me today. I promise not to cause much more havoc… for now.”

You barely caught Max’s gaze looking at you in wonder with that small smile before it was hidden behind his usual professional demeanor.

Instead of worrying about that more than you already had in the past 24 hours, you followed your press officer out of the garage back into the paddock, getting on with your commitments. The sooner you could get through everything, the sooner you’d be sitting in your race car for the last time this season.

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As much fun as you’d had throughout the day, there was no changing how dialed in you were when you drove around the track for the recon lap in order to get your car into your starting grid position. The moment you’d parked it on you P2 grid box, the crew converged on your car to do their thing. You jumped out of the car, handing you helmet, gloves and balaclava to your performance coach, lingering around the car as they did their final checks and ran through all your plans one final time.

That final hour before the race flew by in a flurry of grid interviews, the anthem procession, chats with your team and over drivers on the grid, and well wishes from your crew ahead of the last race. It had been nice to hug your brother before getting in the car, something you could get used too if he wound up taking Max’s offer to be his permanent coach going into the next season. Max had wandered over to your grid slot to give you a fist bump before everything started as well, making sure that you were both still on the same page.

Before you knew it you were getting back I your car to get ready for the final formation lap of the season. You still weren’t stressed, while checking to see if your radio system was working properly. In fact, you were looking forward to the lights going out in order to do what needed to be done.

You followed behind Hamilton through the slow formation lap, leaving enough space between the two of you to run through your own starting procedures and give yourself the best chance for a good start. Most of your plans were centered around being able to pass the Mercedes in the first few laps, so you needed to make sure to do everything you could for the best possible start. You stopped right on your line, letting out a calming breath as you waited for the rest of the grid to line you behind you.

“No matter what happens over the next 55 laps, there’s no changing the fact that this has been a hell of a season, Y/N.” Your engineer spoke up. “Let’s wrap it up with a fucking bang.”

You didn’t answer, slipping into your racing mindset as the red lights in front of you started to light up.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Breathe.

The lights went out and you slammed your foot down on the throttle, the race officially underway.

You gaze narrowed slightly as the Mercedes slipped into the space in front of you, blocking off any attempt from you to try to pass him going into turn 1. You heard about a yellow flag from contact behind you as you continued to chase the Mercedes, not willing to give up just yet. You stayed as close as you could using the slipstream from the car you were chasing to your advantage, watching his moves, and planning out the best place to attack for the next lap.

You got your first chance during lap three, with the assistance of your DRS and a wide line from Hamilton. You caught him toward the end of the straight leading into turn 1, holding off on the brakes just long enough to lunge by him on the inside and take the lead. “Well fucking done!” Your engineer applauded the move, and you could faintly hear the rest of your pit wall celebrating the move as well.

A smirk rose on your lips as you saw Hamilton’s car in your mirrors, trying and failing to get his place back. “Thanks, mate. Critical comms only for a while, I want to focus on keeping the Merc behind.”

“Understood.” Your engineer responded, letting you do what you needed to do in order to sustain your lead.

And you did everything you could for the next couple of laps to build up a gap. Perfect corners, optimal lines, no unnecessary risks. You were completely focused on the track in front of you, allowing your instincts to take over, and managing to get yourself out of DRS threat in the detection zones. Your tires continued to feel good, even as you continued to wear them down, lap after lap. You watched the gap between you and Hamilton grow by a few tenths every lap, your pit board keeping you up to date without having to rely too much on your engineer.

They waited until you’d rounded the final corner and started going down the main straight before coming to you for your opinion on the race strategy. “We’re thinking of moving Max to plan B, to cover Mercedes if they try doing the same thing. Can you sustain Plan A?”

“Yes.” You didn’t even hesitate to answer. It was the thing that made the most sense now that your team had the lead. It ensured that if Mercedes tried to undercut you, Max would be there to stop them from taking P1 and you’d be able to hold them off. Given how the race was unfolding, it was the plan that gave you the most likely opportunity to win the race.

“Understood. Keep us posted on your tires. It looks to us like you’re managing them brilliantly.”

“Will do.” And with that, you were left alone to carry on with your race. You were only about 15 laps in, but you were in control. You pushed that little bit harder to keep building a bigger gap, doing everything you could to keep Hamilton behind you.

On lap 18, you were informed that Max went for his first pit stop, before Lewis to head off the undercut. He went onto another set of softs, confirming that your teammate would have no choice but to commit to a two stop race, but the extra grip he would gain from this second set of softs should be enough for him to charge through the field and render an undercut attempt from Mercedes completely useless. You just needed to make your tires last long enough to make the one stop strategy work for yourself.

Hamilton went into the pits on lap 20 for a set of hard tires, showing that he was also on a one stop strategy. You continued to push, getting every inch of performance you could out of your car and tires. There wasn’t anyone in your mirrors, and none of the back markers in front of you yet. You had the track to yourself to carry on and try to stretch out you first stint as long as possible.

By lap 27, your original softs were barely hanging on. No matter how careful you were, there was no way to stop the natural degradation.

“Tires are shot. Is Max close enough?”

“11.7 seconds behind in P3. You will come out behind him.”

“What about Hamilton?”

“13.5 behind in P4. It’ll be close.”

“Call it. The gaps just going to keep shrinking, the tires are barely hanging on.” As though to help prove your point, your rears slid out from under you going through turn 9. Thankfully, you managed to regain control before things went too badly.

“Box, box.”

You dove into the pitlane, shoulders tensing slightly as you pitlane limiter clicked in and you had no choice but to go the speed limit. You slid into your pit box cleanly, hitting your marks. Breathe in, tires off, breathe out, tires on. You got the green light, wheels squeaking as you took off again. Though the stop had felt like it had lasted an eternity, your engineer told you otherwise. “Stop was 2 tenths faster than Hamilton.”

“What’s the damage?” You asked,

“You’re now P5, behind Leclerc who is 1.98 ahead.” Your engineer paused as you took the first couple of corners, using your newfound grip to already start closing the gap with Charles. Once you were on the back straight, he carried on through the running order to give you an idea of what you needed to do. “Max P1, 16.2 seconds ahead. Hamilton P2, 14.9 ahead. Ricciardo, yet to pit in P3, 6.8 seconds ahead.”

“Got it.”

“It’s important we clear Leclerc as soon as possible. He hasn’t got the pace.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.” You smirked, zeroed in on the bright red target ahead of you. The plan was going perfectly up to this point, so overtaking Leclerc shouldn’t be an issue.

Except, the Monegasque proved to be more of a thorn in your side than you’d anticipated. The little bugger was defending against you like he was racing for his life, pulling out every trick in the book to keep you behind him. He was wasting your time, and you didn’t appreciate it at all. Your engineer’s voice in your ears keeping you updated on the growing gap between yourself and the front runners wasn’t helping, as the laps started winding down past the halfway point of the race.

And then things got worse.

“Double yellow flags being waved going out of turn 8. One of the Williams is in the wall. Russell” There was a pause, as you released the throttle slightly and gave up your latest overtaking attempt. “VSC.”

You let out a string of curses, not caring that your radio was probably going to be picked up and aired on the race broadcast. “Are you fucking serious?! Are Mercedes pitting Hamilton? He’ll be on fresher tires in front of me with the free fucking pit stop! How the fuck am I supposed to get past him now?!” You cursed some more, huffing out a breath as you weaved to keep as much temperature in your tires as possible as you followed behind Charles.

“Full safety car.” Your engineer said, sounding just as irritated as you felt. “We’re pitting Verstappen as well. He should maintain track position ahead of Hamilton.”

You were seething through the following lap, glaring at the Ferrari in front of you. You could see the leaders cars coming out of the pitlane ahead of you, the safety car picking them up and starting up the cue. Except the order wasn’t what it should be. “Did we lose track position?!”

“There was a problem with the left rear on Max’s car… just long enough for Hamilton to come out in front.” Your engineer confirmed what you could already see.

You sure hoped the broadcast wasn’t picking up your response to that, or it would be a lengthy bleep sound… The plan had gone to shit, the safety car coming out at the worst possible time for you. You’d been the one who’d lost out the most… and Mercedes had taken advantage of the situation. It almost seemed impossible now. “We’re fucked.” You summarized your loss of temper.

“Don’t get all pessimistic on us now, Y/N.” Your engineer sassed, earning an eye roll from you even though no one would see it. “Mercedes chose hard tires. You and Max are both on Mediums and Leclerc is on even older hard tires. You can take Leclerc at the restart now that his tires will be cooler, and you’ll be caught up to the pack without having to make up the gap anymore.”

Well, that was one way to look at it.

You let out a long breath, forcing all your annoyance out of your system so that you wouldn’t be able to linger on it any longer. If you were going to do this, you needed to be focused. Your engineer was right. Though it wasn’t ideal, you were still within striking distance of the Mercedes one the race got back underway. You and Max were still in some high scoring point positions, and had 20 laps to try and improve them. You weren’t done yet. “Understood. Let’s catch em’.”

Now that you’d refocused, the laps behind the safety car seemed to drag on as they cleared the track of debris from Russell’s crash. You weaved, doing everything you could to keep the temperature in the tires. Your grip tightened on the wheel slightly when the green light lit on the safety car, allowing lapped cars to unlap themselves. Your engineer kindly reminded you that this would help you once you got past Leclerc, because there were no longer any back markers between you and Max in P2.

The safety car went in, and you were right on Leclerc’s ass. You stayed right on him through the restart, pushing your car to the absolute limit and putting all your faith in the brakes, as you lunged past him in the first corner. You heard yelling in your ears as you made the move, and made it stick. Just like that, you were back in it, following Hamilton behind your teammate.

The three of you pulled away from the rest of the field again within a few laps, pushing your cars and skills to the extreme. You heart leapt into your throat every time Max got close to passing Hamilton, and would sink when Hamilton kept pushing back. Max tried along the straight once DRS was enabled, and even attempted a few questionable passes in the corners that nearly sent him off track a couple of times. The lap count continued to rise, the three of you remaining in the same places. You wanted your teammate to pull this off so you could have your own chance to beat Hamilton too.

“We’re switching you and Max. He’ll tow you through the straight and let you through at the corner before turn 11. Get you as close to Hamilton as possible.”

“What?” You hadn’t been expecting that.

“You had better pace during the first stint. Max think’s it’s the best way to get the win for the team.”

The fact that it was Max’s idea blew you away even more. Sure, you’d both promised to do whatever you could to win the team the Constructor’s championship, but this was… you didn’t even know. “Are you sure? He’s close.”

“If it doesn’t work, we can switch back before the end of the race.”

That was… fair. “Okay, let’s do it.”

You got even closer to Max’s car, putting yourself in the perfect slot behind him to make the most out of the slipstream he was providing. And like it was a move you’d rehearsed a thousand times before, he moved over to let you through and you flew past, the momentum and extra push putting you right on Hamilton’s tail going into turn 11.

You braked later than you had been all weekend, somehow managing to keep the car on track as you rounded the corner taking the outside line around Hamilton. Your front left wheel was equal to his rear right wheel as you went into turn 12, the opposite direction of the corner giving you the inside line to get past Hamilton. You were just inches ahead of him heading into turn 14, but because you were on the racing line Hamilton had no choice but to yield the corner to you or you would’ve both ended up in the wall.

You yelled as you rounded the corner, feeling absolutely fucking elated that you’d managed to reclaim P1, all thanks to your teammate. Your engineer sounded just as pumped, especially when you managed to hold off Hamilton in the next DRS zone. “Bring it home, Viper. 4 laps to go!”

“How far back is Max?”

“0.9. He’s within DRS and looking better than before now that Hamilton is running in your dirty air.”

“Do you want me to defend or push?” You asked, wanting to know if they thought it was better for you to try and hold back Hamilton even more to help Max or to pull away from the duo fighting behind you over P2 and P3.

“Run with it, we don’t want to take any unnecessary risks.”

“Understood.”

And with that being said, you took off, showing what you and the RB15 could do. You flew, setting fastest lap times and leaving the other two behind. Your smile grew wider and wider with every lap, jitters growing in your stomach as your engineer told you that you were starting your final lap, now a few seconds clear of Hamilton.

Just 21 more corners.

You could do this. You were made for this. All the practicing and strategy meetings and debriefs. All the highs and lows of the season. All the challenges you’d faced, and the memories you’d made. It was all coming down to this moment right here, and you couldn’t help but feel like you were fucking invisible. No drug in the world could ever match the high you were feeling as you executed your final perfect lap, knowing that you’d done the impossible.

You could swear the volume of the yelling in your ears only got louder as you rounded the last few corners, not even really able to make out what they were saying anymore. You could see your team hanging over the pit wall fence, arms in the air as they cheered for you. The pit board with your name on it said P1, as you crossed the finish line, chequered flag waving high above you. You joined in on the yelling, positive that you were about to lose your voice as fireworks started lighting up the night sky around the track.

“DID WE JUST DO WHAT I THINK WE DID?!” You yelled in disbelief.

“YES, WE FUCKING DID, VIPER! YOU AND MAX WON US THE CONSTRUCTORS. OH MY GOD, THIS IS UNREAL. WE’RE CHAMPIONS OF THE FUCKING WORLD!” Your engineer’s voice sounded just as ragged as your own. “This is incredible. We’re in awe of the two of you, playing the ultimate team game. Congratulations, Viper. This win is as much yours as it is for the team. 5 wins in your rookie season. I for one, can’t wait to see what we can accomplish next year.”

It hit you all at once, how incredible this really was. Even when you’d signed your contract at the start of the year, you’d never expected any of this. You never would have expected to win so early on, let alone get 5 out of 21 races. You never expected to beat fucking Mercedes of all teams in the Constructors championship, the goal being a very clear P2 at the beginning of the season because of Mercedes dominance over the last few years. You’d never expected to be thankful towards your teammate, knowing that this wouldn’t have been possible had he not made the call towards the end of the team to switch places.

The emotions hit you all at once, tears streaming down your face as you did your cool down lap. You only managed a wobbly “thanks, Christian” when your team boss had come onto the radio to share his own congratulations for the incredible thing you’d managed today, and let out a watery laugh when he told you that you could have all the dance parties you wanted in the garage next year.

About halfway through the cool down lap, you saw Max’s Red Bull next to yours. You could see his fist in the air, clearly not bothered that he’d had to give up his chance at the win for the benefit of the team. In fact, he shot you a thumbs up to make sure you knew there was no hard feelings. You threw your fist up towards him too, making sure that he knew this wouldn’t have been possible if it hadn’t been for his call.

You pulled up in parc fermé side by side, and to your surprise Max slipped into the P2 slot on your right. “He got past Hamilton?!” You asked your engineer, waiting for the confirmation before disconnecting your comms and getting out of the car.

“Yes he did, at the final corner! Wait until you see the highlight, it might have been a better lunge than yours before.”

That got you even more excited to celebrate, shutting off your car and disconnecting all the systems. You pulled off the steering wheel, setting it on the chassis and pulling yourself up using the halo. You stood on your seat, throwing your arms in the air in celebration. You looked beside you and saw Max doing the same thing, his visor raised enough so that you could see his giant smile through that small crack in his mask. He jumped out of his car first, before coming to stand next to you and offering you a hand to help you out of the car.

You grabbed it, letting him basically yank you out of the car and into a massive hug. It wasn’t as charged as any of your previous encounters over the past few days, both too distracted by the sweet taste of victory to even think about that. No, right now was all about celebrating and remembering how incredible this moment was for the rest of your lives. Now was the time to celebrate accomplishing the impossible with your team.

Because you were Constructors Champions.

Your Christmas bonus was going to be fantastic.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Max was well aware that he shouldn’t feel this happy about another person’s success. He’d made the call that was best for the team, instead of the one that would have given him a better result. His father had always taught him to look out for himself and to put himself first. Racing was not a team sport; it was about being the best and trying to beat your teammate. Helping others made you look weak. But right now, he didn’t care about any of that.

Right now, he was happy for this team and what they’d managed to pull off. And even though he shouldn’t be, he was happy for you and your win today. You were probably the only person who could beat him where he wouldn’t feel disappointed about it afterwards. Because where he’d usually feel a little pinch of resentment towards those who bested him, he’d never once felt that way towards you when you’d stood above him on the podium. He’d only ever felt happy and proud, knowing that you’d beat him fair and square. (Well, maybe not that time you beat him after Germany just to prove a point but that was different…) Had it not been for the ill-timed safety car today, Max had zero doubt that you would’ve won the race without the team orders.

Besides, having you in his arms right now as you celebrated your 1-2 victory that clinched the Constructor’s Championship for your team made it all feel worth it, because he knew you’d be just as happy for him if the roles had been reversed today. How could he feel anything bad when you were smiling as brightly as the sun itself?

“We actually pulled it off!”

Your voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and seeing your excitement brought another wide smile onto his own face. Thank god he still had his helmet on, or the rest of the world would probably be able to see the effect you had on him too. “We did.” He finally answered.

“Why’d you let me through? You clearly would’ve gotten past him sooner or later, seeing as you came in at P2.” You asked him with those eyes that made him want to tell you his deepest, darkest secrets.

“I barely made it through at the end. We got maximum points this way. It was the best for the team.” He gave the diplomatic answer, the one that they would be sharing with the media after the podium. He knew that you could see right through his answer, but actively chose not to call him out on it right now.

In fact, you never got the chance to say anything more because Lewis made his way over to the two of you for handshake. Max watched as you pulled off your helmet and balaclava, greeting the Mercedes driver with that same wide smile you’d had after winning your first race.

“I tried so hard to keep you both behind me…” Lewis mumbled lowly enough so that it wouldn’t be overheard by anyone other than the two of you. “Congrats on the constructors, you guys had the better car today.” He paused, a smirk slowly lining his face. “Next year’s going to be a good fight, I can already tell.”

Your smile widened further than Max thought was possible. He could see how much the praise from your recent on track rival and long-time idol meant to you. Even though you’d been his biggest competitor this season, Lewis had always been vocal in his support for you and your place within Formula 1.

“I can’t wait to watch you from my mirrors.” You quipped lightheartedly, letting the now 6 time World Champion driver know that you were coming for his title.

Lewis laughed, shaking his head at you before moving on to shake Max’s hand and congratulate him for that last second overtake. You ran off to go celebrate with the team, jumping right you’re your brother’s arms.

Max watched the moment unfolding with a small smile, unaware that Lewis had been watching him with a knowing smile on his fact until he spoke up again. “Something tells me the team dynamic might be a little bit different with the two of you at the top of your game. Just… try to make sure the rivalry remains on track only. This sport is not worth losing special people because we can’t get over our own egos.”

“What?” Max tried to appear completely unaffected by Hamilton’s advice, because he had no idea what he was talking about.

“Things change when you actually have a shot at winning.” Lewis summarized, clapping a hand on Max’s shoulder before heading off for a far more muted celebration with his team.

Knowing that now was not the time to be overthinking his brief conversation with Lewis, Max pushed that to the back of his mind and also ran over to his team to celebrate their massive win today. It was all rushed hugs and exclamations, the team on top of the moon that they’d been able to pull one over on Mercedes at the very last moment. You both shook Toto Wolff’s hand, who’s come to congratulate you because it was the politically correct thing to do.

Max breezed through his post-race interview with sky sports, not having a single clue what he said throughout it. He assumed his answers were ok, given the fact that the crowds in the grandstand cheered when he spoke. Then he stood off to the side while you gave your own interview, capturing everyone in the vicinity with that smile and the genuine happiness and relief with which you spoke. You had everyone hanging onto your every single word. Really, he had no choice but to stand there and watch along with everyone else.

Once the parc-fermé interviews wrapped up, the three podium finishers were sent off to the cool down room while they got everything ready for the final podium celebration of the season. Christian was coming along as well to accept the constructor’s trophy on behalf of the team. The second you all stepped into the cool down room, you reached for a water bottle and plopped yourself down on one of the chairs to watch the race highlights and finally take a breath.

Max followed your lead, watching with interest as they showed the move that the two of you had pulled off to get you back into P1.

“I had no chance there.” Hamilton commented, impressed by the move as well. Max didn’t doubt that this move would be on highlight reels for years to come.

He also saw the light rosy tint that rose on your cheeks at the compliment. “I’m just glad the brakes held up. I pushed them rather hard going into that corner to stay ahead.”

“Ever so humble, still can’t take a compliment.” Christian joked, over the moon with his drivers and their accomplishments tonight. Your blush deepened, especially when Max shrugged his shoulders in agreement.

“They’re ready for you!” One of the FIA representatives announced as they burst into the cool down room, ready to get the show on the road. Christian and Lewis were the first out of the room, because they would be the first to be introduced in the ceremony.

Max waited for you, watching as you jumped out of your chair. You rezipped up your suit that you’d undone slightly to cool down in the few minutes you had access to air conditioning. He continued to watch as you pulled your hair out of its braid and ran your fingers through your long locks of hair to tame any odd strands, before plopping that P1 Pirelli hat back onto your head.

There was no denying how good you looked like that, face flushed with your hair flowing over your shoulders, Red Bull race suit mostly done up. From the way your eyes shone and your smile made the corners of his own mouth rise slight in response, it became crystal clear that everything Daniel had been telling him about those feelings was true. Things started to make more sense, looking back on it now that he'd figured it out. In fact, it was almost painfully obvious. He liked you, as more than just a teammate.

Fuck.

“Ready?” You asked him softly, completely unaware of the way you’d fully just knocked the breath out of his chest.

Max nodded, knowing that words wouldn’t work. Not when he was in the middle of this big life changing revelation.

So he put on his best media trained smile and followed you up onto the podium. Trophies were awarded and the Canadian national anthem rang loudly through the grandstands, Y/N singing along even though no one but maybe Max and Lewis could hear her. It was a podium celebration that no one would soon forget, because of the uttermost glee on the winner’s face as she was completed dowsed by champagne from those up on the podium with her, her laugher and joy contagious to everyone else who was involved.

As they posed for the group photo on the top step of the podium, the only thing he could think about was their conversation on the roof of the hotel on Thursday. The promise to wait until the race was over…

Who the fuck cared if it was right or wrong anymore?

Who cares if it would only make things complicated?

He wanted to talk to you, let you in.

Max wanted you.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

“I’ll be back down in like 15 minutes. I just want to rinse the champagne and Red Bull out of my hair and change out of this suit before doing media.” You told your performance coach as you walked through hospitality towards the stairs that led to your drivers room.

You’d quickly snapped a team photo with the whole team after getting off the podium, which had of course resulted in one of the infamous Red Bull sprays. You’d gotten even more soaked, and now reeked of both champagne and sugary energy drinks. It wasn’t a good combo, and you’d be damned if you subjected the media to it as well.

“Take all the time you need, champ.” You coach didn’t seem to mind, everyone on top of the world after what you had Max had pulled off today. It might not be the driver’s championship, but taking the constructors still felt damn good for everyone involved. “I’ll be in the garage with everyone else, celebrating.”

You nodded with a cheeky smile, already looking forward to the Heineken with your crew that would be waiting for you after media. You took the stairs two at a time, practically skipping through the hall towards your private room. The top floor of the motorhome was deserted, everyone celebrating down on the grid or in the garage. You didn’t mind the quiet, because it was the first moment of genuine peace you’d gotten in weeks. No more stress or unrealistic expectations, the season was finished.

You stepped into your room, brow furrowing when you found the light from the bathroom on, spilling into your space. You scanned the still dark space, nearly jumping out of your skin when you found Max sitting on your massage table on the right side of the room, race suit half undone to show off the form fitting white fireproof undershirt, his legs dangling off the edge of the table.

“Max? What are you doing in my ro-”

You never got to finish your question, because the second you’d started speaking Max had snapped out of whatever daze he’d been in prior to your arrival, pushed himself off the massage table and stalked over to you. He cut you off by grabbing your face between both of his hands and angling your head upwards slightly before crashing his lips against yours. Caught off guard by the suddenness of the action, it took a moment for your brain to realize that Max was kissing you.

Holy fucking shit, this was happening.

Your body reciprocated on autopilot at first, blindly grabbing at the chest of his race suit to pull him flush against you as you kissed him back. Those stupid flutters that you’d been ignoring for months came back in full force, as Max set your whole world on fire. He tasted of sweat, Red Bull and the champagne you’d just sprayed each other with on the podium minutes ago and something else you couldn’t quite pinpoint, a combination you could see yourself easily getting hooked on. His lips were soft but in no way gentle against your own, Max in control the entire time.

You didn’t feel the need to fight him for control, just enjoying it before it would inevitably come to an end. If something as simple as a kiss felt this good, you couldn’t help but wonder how everything else would feel with him. Why had you waited so long to do this again?

You let out a muffled gasp when your back hit the closed door behind you, Max taking advantage of it and deepening the kiss. His right hand buried itself into your wet, tangled hair; the other finding a place along your waist and sliding around your lower back to wrap around you, pulling you even closer. The intensity with which Max continued to kiss you left you absolutely breathless, as though the Dutchman was convinced that this was the one and only time something like this would happen, so he was making the most out of it.

And then like he couldn’t get enough of you, his lips traveled along your jaw and down the column of your neck, skin burning everywhere he touched. He quickly figured out when he found that particular spot on your neck that cleared your mind of anything other than the feel of his lips, your whole body shuddering in his arm as he continued to nip and suck at the spot. You knew in the back of your mind that he was leaving a mark, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care when it felt this fucking good. You then pulled him back up to meet your lips again, getting lost in him.

Just like he’d been the one to start it, Max had also been the one to break the kiss, his forehead falling to rest against yours as you both struggled to catch your breath. He lifted his head but stayed close, looking directly into your eyes and showing you up close that he was just as mind blown and affected by that kiss as you had been.

“Gorgeous.” He said quietly, not breaking eye contact.

What? “Huh?” You voiced your confusion, wondering what he was going on about.

“Heerlijk is a sort of what do you call it… a term of endearment, that loosely translates to gorgeous depending on the context.”

The revelation seemed to blow your mind even more than that kiss just had. “Wait… Let me get this straight.” You mumbled, now that you’d found your voice again. “You’ve been calling me ‘gorgeous’, for months? Even when I kind of hated you and you kind of hated me?!”

The corners of his lips lifted in a sheepish smile, and you couldn’t tell if Max was flushed because he was a little embarrassed or because of that kiss. “It was the only thing I could think about when you got out of the car after you won in Monaco. You were so happy and your smile was… breathtaking. Quite literally, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

You remembered it vividly, getting out of your car for the first time behind the P1 banner, feeling on top of the world and Max being the first to pull you in for a hug. You remembered his bright smile, and thinking that you’d never seen that kind of smile on his face before when looking at you but it suited him. You had chalked it up to Max being happy for his fellow teammate at the time, because the first win was a big deal no matter who you were.

Part of you couldn’t believe this, because of how convinced you’d been that Max disliked you at the time.

“Now you understand my reluctance to translate it for you.” Max let out a soft chuckle as he watched you processing this before his very eyes. “I never hated you, heerlijk,” The way he drawled it out had you feeling some kind of way inside, now that you knew what it meant. “I may had been irritated, and a little defensive after Germany… But I could never bring myself to dislike you.”

“You sure about that? It seemed like there was some pretty strong mutual hate after Germany… I mean look at that time in Monaco when you came over to hang out with Daniel. There’s no way you didn’t hate me at least a little then, especially when I was provoking you. I said some pretty bad things… we both did.”

Max pulled a face. “That wasn’t hate, in Monaco.” He let out a long breath, as though contemplating if he should tell you whatever it was that was running through his mind. “That was me being a jealous fool, as Daniel so eloquently put it after you’d left to go on your date with that loser.”

“Jealous?” Now you really didn’t believe him. Because why on earth would he be jealous? It just didn’t make sense. But then again, maybe it did, as you suddenly recalled that conversation sitting on a bench in Brazil outside of a McDonalds, when Max had sort of fessed up to having a crush on you in the past. Maybe it hadn’t just been in the past. Maybe, if you took more time to think about it, you’d be able to see all the little things that Daniel had alluded to. Maybe it wasn’t so crazy after all.

“Yes, jealous.” He confirmed with a nod of his head. His hand tightened around your waist, reminding you that it was there. “You know, I’ve grown up in a privileged position where I could always go after the things I wanted. I wanted to compete in karting, so I did and won. I wanted to be the youngest to ever compete in Formula 1, and made it happen. I wanted to win races and show everyone that I wasn’t just another one of those kids trying to live up to their father’s legacy… and I did. I took the record for youngest driver to ever win a Grand Prix, and I don’t think it will ever be beaten. From the moment I set my sights on something I want; I won’t stop until it is mine.”

You wanted to tell him that you understood because you’d grown up with the same drive and determination, but something about the way he was looking at you right now made you keep your mouth firmly shut. You thought he was going to kiss you again as he lowered his head towards yours, closing your eyes and giving in to him again. However, you never felt those glorious lips. Instead, buried his head into the crook of your neck, lips grazing at that small sliver of skin exposed above the neckline of your racing suit. It almost felt more intimate that the kiss.

“No matter how much time spent trying to convince myself otherwise… Somehow you became one of those things.” He murmured against your skin, triggering yet another explosion of butterflies in your stomach. “But you were different because I knew I could never have you. Knowing that didn’t make the want go away. I got jealous as acted like an ass in Monaco because the thought of you getting all dressed up like that for someone else, someone who didn’t deserve it… it was enough to make me want to throttle them.”

Again, you didn’t know what the fuck you should respond to that. So instead of speaking, you did the only thing you could think of. You weaved your fingers through his hair and pulled his head back slightly, just enough to grant you access to his lips again. You didn’t hesitate to press yours against his, being the one to instigate the kiss this time around. You could feel Max’s smirk against your lips as you kissed him, that is, until you tugged on his hair again and wiped that smirk right off his lips. The groan that rumbled through his throat was enough to make your knees go weak, mind racing as you wondered what other sinful sounds you’d be able to pull from him.

His hands wandered a bit more this time around, over your champagne-soaked race suit. They trailed along your waist, gripped at your hips to pull you closer, and grabbed at your ass to keep you firmly against him. You tugged at Max’s fireproof undershirt, pulling the damp fabric upwards and hoping he’d get the hint. Though he made an unhappy sound when he’d pulled away from your lips, he barely wasted any time to peel the offending layer from his body and blindly toss it onto the floor behind him before his mouth was back on yours.

You trailed your fingers along his newly exposed skin, raising trails of goosebumps in your wake. Like this, you could feel the muscles rippling beneath your hands as you let them wander around his shoulders, back and chest. You wanted to memorize it all, the way he flexed and relaxed under your touch, the way his breath hitched when you ran your fingers along his sides, all the ridges, curves and lines that made up Max Verstappen.

Max seemed to think that it was only fair that he get to do the same thing with you, slowly pulling at the zip of you race suit and pulling it all the way down. He broke the kiss, in order to look directly into your eyes and search for any kind of protest. You held his gaze, shrugging out of your suit’s shoulders and pushing the soggy material down your arms. You then pulled your own fireproof shirt off, having half the state of mind to wish that you had something a little more attractive than the high coverage and constricting sports bra you always wore under your suit, but there was nothing you could do about it now. It wasn’t as good of a show, tugging, stretching and fighting with the thick damp fabric so you could get out of it. Not the sexiest move you’d ever pulled…

Max didn’t seem to mind, eyes taking in every inch of newly exposed skin and looking like he wanted to taste all of it. “Gorgeous.” Max rasped out, meeting your gaze once again.

You felt the blush blossoming on your cheeks and across your chest. You’d never been good with compliments. Especially not when you knew that the person giving them meant it. God, it was only two weeks ago that you were mortified that Max had seen you in a towel, and now your entire upper half was bare.

As though he couldn’t stand the distance any longer, Max pulled you back into his arms and picked up the kiss right where you’d left off. Except, this time his hands were far more selective of where they were touching, slowly driving you crazy. A teasing graze along the side of your breast, a rough grab at your waist, hands moving everywhere along your back… it was almost too much and not enough all at once.

You gasped when his hands dropped to the back of your thighs, hoisting you up effortlessly so you’d wrapped your legs around his hips. He didn’t break the kiss, carrying you away from the door and placing you on the edge of the massage table before his hands carried on with their exploration. You kept your legs locked firmly around his hips, rolling your own hips against his and creating the most delicious friction against your core, spending all kinds of sparks tingling through your body.

The whine that left your lips when Max grabbed your hips to still your movement would have been embarrassing, had you not seen the way his eyes darkened further as he took in the sound. “Patience, heerlijk.” You couldn’t believe the way your whole body burned when you heard that word again, knowing what it meant.

“No time for patience.” You whispered shakily, knowing that you were already pushing your luck. You attempted to roll your hips again, but Max’s grip remained firm.

He really didn’t seem bothered by the prospect of people outside of this room waiting on the two of you. Instead, he took his sweet time fumbling around with the hidden button that kept your race suit intact at the hips so it wouldn’t fall if you walked around with it half on. “They’ll make time for us when we’re ready. We fucking won today. You won today. That calls for celebration, don’t you think?”

Your eyes went round as Max sank down onto his knees in front of you. He carefully unlaced your race boots, getting them out of the way. Then he pulled at your race suit, urging you to lift your hips so that he could pull them down. You helped him, pushing the fireproof under layer and underwear along with it, leaving you completely bare when he pulled everything down and off of your legs.

He met your gaze, silent question in his eyes making sure that this was still okay with you. You nodded, sucking in a breath not even a second later when he grabbed you by the hips and pulled you right to the edge of the table and put his mouth on you. If you’d thought Max was a good kisser, it was nothing compared to what those lips and tongue could do when eating you out.

Holy shit.

You had to place a hand on the massage table behind you in order to keep yourself upright as Max worked you over with his mouth. Your other hand wound itself into his hair, fingers locking around it to keep him in place because quite frankly, you never wanted him to stop. He was doing everything just right without any additional prompting from you, teasing and satisfying at the same time. He didn’t focus too much on one thing, spending just the right amount of time lapping at your cunt, teasing and rolling his tongue around that little bundle of nerves, tasting you… it was only a matter of time before you’d snap.

Max had caught on to the fact that you were trying so fucking hard to keep quiet, and was doing everything that he could to break you. The whimper you couldn’t contain when his fingers started to toy with your soaked core only seemed to spur him on further. You didn’t stand a chance when he worked two fingers into you, almost immediately finding and stroking at the spot that had you seeing stars. You had no choice but to let go of his hair and bring your hand up to muffle your mouth, moans involuntarily breaking free as he pushed you closer and closer and finally over the edge.

You came hard, thighs shaking on either side of Max’s head. Your vision went out of focus, nerve endings on fire as your high burned through your body. You forgot about everything else in the world, only able to think about this feeling and wishing that it could last forever. Max slowed his movements enough to prolong your high, working you through it. When you finally came back down to earth, Max was looking up at you with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face as his thumbs gently stroked at the top of your thighs. The contrast was almost dizzying.

Cocky little shit was probably keenly aware that he’d just ruined that for you when it came to any other men. You couldn’t even imagine anyone else making you feel like that. You weren’t even mad about it because it had been that good.

Max slowly rose to his feet, wiping the evidence of your orgasm away with the back of his hand. You reached for him, letting him pull you back flush against him so you could kiss him again. However, to your complete surprise this kiss was so different to the ones that had proceeded it. This one was gentle and sweet, slow and a whole different kind of intimate. There was no rush, no do-or-die urgency.

Max must have sensed your confusion, because he pulled away with an almost shy grin. “As much as I’d love to keep going down this road, it’s only a matter of time before the team sends out a search party for us and we get caught. I couldn’t care less if they caught us, but I know that it would be a bigger deal for you, and I don’t want to put you in that situation.”

You couldn’t help the way your jaw dropped, not having expected this. Not after the most mind-blowing release you’d ever experienced. The surprise gave way to disappointment when you realized that Max was right. You’d already been in your driver’s room for too long. People were going to start asking questions. “I guess…”

Max cursed in Dutch when he saw the disappointment flashing across your face. “Don’t look at my like that, or I will change my mind.”

“Logically, I know that it would be a bad idea if you changed your mind… but that doesn’t make me want it any less.” You told him exactly where your head was at. Your confused, lust filled head.

Max looked like he was fighting some sort of internal battle as he took in your words, letting out a shaky breath before gently reaching out to cup your cheek. “I’m going to fuck you, just not right now.” God, you almost burst again just with those words and the intensity with which he spoke them. “You deserve more than just a quick, careless fuck against the clock. I want to take my time with you, learn what makes you tick. Make you cum more times than you can count on my fingers, tongue and cock. We don’t have the time for that right now.”

“Jesus Christ, Max.” You groaned, that mental image and promise not helping you right now.

“After the party tonight… come to my room.” Max said, sounding nervous despite the fact that he had you hooked. “If you still want this, I’ll be waiting for you. If you change your mind after you’ve had time to think about it… no hard feelings.”

You frowned the second option, knowing that it was a lie. His tone of voice gave away how much he didn’t want that to happen. You’d crossed a line tonight that you wouldn’t be able to uncross. Things could never go back to the way they were. You didn’t want them to.

You found yourself wanting to reassure him, so you did the only thing you could think of and placed the gentlest of kisses against his lips and whispered a promise of your own. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.” The smile on his face completely gave away how much he wanted this to happen between the two of you. It made you feel all warm and fluttery inside again. “Now, get in the shower before your PO gets back. You smell like sex and champagne.”

“… is that a bad thing?” You smirked at the Dutchman.

His smile twitched as you purposefully tested his patience. “Shower.” He repeated, stepping out of your reach. His eyes scanned your very naked body one more time, that cocky smile making its way back onto his face as he shamelessly checked you out.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going.” You muttered, pushing yourself off the bed and scurrying over to the other side of the room. You grabbed your change of clothes from the shelf on the way to the ensuite, turning to glance at Max as you stood in the bathroom doorway. “Go start your press rounds. Sooner we wrap media, the sooner we can go to the party. And the sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave. Get on with it, Verstappen.”

He seemed amused that you were now the one trying to kick him out, given that moments ago you were the one who wanted to continue. Regardless, he pulled his damp undershirt back on and shot you a wink. “See you later, heerlijk.”

“See you later, gorgeous!” You called back, stepping into the bathroom and locking the door shut behind you.

Catching sight of your reflection in the small mirror, the first thing you noticed was how completely fucked you looked. Now that you were alone, you started to think a little bit more deeply about what had just happened. You’d just done the thing you’d sworn you’d never do in Formula 1, and with a teammate nonetheless. And, you didn’t even care about the possible consequences. You could no longer pretend that there was nothing going on between you and Max. Everything was different now.

You were in too deep.

There was no going back.

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