Welcome to the establishment, I'm Sea Nguyen, a female writer and I only write MLM. Food critics and request? Please don't be shy and pique my interest. Ima leave the door open babe!
For today's menu, as your chef, I'd like to introduce to you...
Heated Rivalry 🐚
● Shane Hollander
Douglas fir scent
● Ilya Rozanov
Remember: Follow the law, f!ck the lawyer
Go! Go! Legally man!
Celebrity 🦑
● Hudson Williams
Mr.Williams's idea of a perfect evening
Gala night with Mr.Williams
Formula 1 🦞
● Max Verstappen
Good luck, babe!
HOT! TO! GO!
Starboy interlude
● Charles Leclerc
Something sweet, something simple
Peaky Blinders 🐠
● Tommy Shelby
My love is wider, wider than Victoria lake
My love is taller, taller than the Empire State
Million dollar man
● John Shelby
After The Storm
Saltburn 🪼
● Felix Catton
Come to Saltburn
Harry Potter 🐙
● Theodore Nott
Think I like you best when you're just with me and no one else.
Hello Sea I'd love to see how you carry out the idea of Mercedes/McLaren (or whatever you like!) racer reader being rivals with Max Verstappen. But due to a few conflics the company decided to drop reader and debut a younger driver. So Red Bull signed with reader and reader becomes teammates with Max. Years of rivals helped Max and reader reads each other's mind effortlessly and they become unstoppable!!!!
This can be like a pt 3 or 4 of your Max series? Where reader and Max got together. I want to see how Max and reader handles the critism (homophobic audience?) And dating life in general!!! Fluff? Angst or hurt/comfort please!! And I was hoping for a slice of life kind of fics, so its going to be a long fic focusing on the mental of both of them. What do you think? Let me know if you like the idea. Love you and your work so far Sea!!
I'm in loveeee with this idea sirrr. Honestly I dont know what racers do on daily basis. Training? Modeling? Idk butttttttt I'll work on it! I'm currently writing pt2 for Starboy Interlude right now and I think I can MAYBE OR MAYBE NOT continue the fic with this idea. Or idk a seperate fic? Maybe not so long since I dont really know what to talk about their daily life as racers!
would you be willing to do headcanons for Sal fisher with a male s/o who isn’t good with words but rather shows affection physically, like holding sal’s hand, lots of hugging, cuddling, etc? if you’re cool with that :) thanks!
Quiet Male Reader/Sal Fisher Headcanons
I'm concussed atm, so I do apologize if nothing here makes much sense! Don't get socked in the head, kids. Warning: NSFW under the cut!
SFW:
You planned on being the one to ask him out, hell, you even planned out a whole prom date poster.
...But it didn't quite go as you hoped.
You had both walked to a nice, isolated little spot that faced the sunset.
The words tripped over themselves before you could even pull the poster from behind your back.
It was a totally incoherent mess of a sentence, but he understood you anyway.
Prom was overrated, but the post-prom hangout with the group made the night fly.
Oh, and getting to dance with Sal as the shitty LED lights blurred and his hair tangled as it flew made it simply perfect.
You clutched onto his hands like he'd spin away at any given moment.
College was a whole other horizon of anxiety, but you both fit into being roommates like it was natural.
The bonus of it all was that you got to snuggle up to him anytime, anywhere inside your dorm.
It never felt too small with Sal in it.
NSFW:
Sal knows you love him, and knows especially that words aren't the only way to communicate that.
He can tell you love him because on the days his scars ache, you pull him into your arms and kiss him in the same, gentle way only you know how to.
On those days, you fuck into him deep, but soft and ever so slow.
You don't quite hover over him as you do lay beside him, but you always look him in the eye.
To your credit, you try to whisper sweet nothings into his ear, which he doesn't mind.
But the real message lies in how your hands move up his skin, as if he were something precious to hold and care for.
The night was anything but fun, cheap beers, popped champagne soaked the P1 driver from head to toe. You left early without a proper excuse and found yourself at the rooftop, drinking in the sight of the city above. Mood sour, maybe from the fact that you and Max both got DNF after making a miscalculation on the track and crash. Or maybe from the stupid phone call from your lame of a sibling asking for money that you can’t refuse because you’re nothing but an ATM in your family’s eyes. You heard footsteps from behind and let out a long sigh.
“You’re just everywhere huh?” Max scolded. He’s not a big fan of loud parties and short talk. So he left too. And met you here. Right where he thought he could have some peace.
Max rolled his eyes at your dismissive tone. Without hesitation, he swiped the cigarette from your lips and crushed it under his boot again. Just like the first time during your rookie years when he found you depressed about family pressure and neglect, smoking behind the stadium.
“Not in the mood, Verstappen” you warned. Usually you would have a nasty comeback ready to shoot at him, but not today. You only bring the cigarette closer to your mouth and take a puff.
"You're gonna burn holes through your lungs" he muttered, didn’t look at you. Just stared ahead like he was suddenly deep in thought which was rare for him.
“About what?” You said with that dismissive tone you didn’t mean to use. You’re just having a lot on your plate right now. Max turned his head slowly, jaw tight. That look in your eyes, the one that said you were done, exhausted, pissed him off more than anything. About what? Really? He exhaled sharply through his nose and finally snapped.
"...We should talk.”
"The fucking crash! What else?" His voice rose slightly before he caught himself, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. Lower now: "We both went out like idiots." A beat of silence. Then quieter still:
“You’re being ridiculous” you turn away, not wanting to even maintain eye contact, when usually, you would be staring Max nervous with your eyes. Max lets out a small “tch”, turning fully toward you now. His fingers tapped impatiently against his thigh, annoyed, frustrated.
"You scared me.”
"Ridiculous? I'm not the one who nearly spun into a wall because he was too busy trying to push me off track like a damn amateur!" He leaned in slightly, voice dropping but still intense.
"You used to race with your head. Now you're just reckless and it's pissing me off." Not because he cared or anything. Definitely not that.
“It was only one race. One, Verstappen. Don’t bristle yet” you scolded. Questioning why he’s getting all worked up when you hardly even care about your performance today. Max narrowed his eyes, studying your face, the way you avoided looking at him, the tension in your jaw. One GP? That’s all it was? Bullshit.
He knew you better than that, even if he’d never admit it out loud. You didn’t suddenly start driving like a maniac over one race.
"Cut the crap, L/N" he said flatly. "You’ve been off for weeks." It’s just Max being... weirdly serious for once.
Max blinked, then immediately scowled, his cheeks betraying him with the faintest pink tint. Damn it.
“One day without my trash talk and you're already missing me? Geez Verstappen” you joked with a faint smirk. Trying to avoid the bitter seed blooming inside of you. You didn’t want your rival to know you have been doing like shit lately.
"Missing you? Are you high?" He shoved your shoulder lightly, but there was no real force behind it. Still... that smirk of yours, the one he secretly loved hit him right in the chest like always. He crossed his arms, turning his face away to hide the stupid half-smile trying to crawl onto his lips.
“Still…I'm glad you crashed into me. Felt like I couldn't keep driving with that aching head” you shrugged.
Max went completely still. The city lights blurred below, but his focus snapped entirely to you, your voice, your words. You were glad he crashed into you? That hit harder than any impact on the track. For a second, he didn’t know what to say. No sarcastic comeback ready. No smug remark about how he saved the day. Just... silence. Then quietly, so quiet it barely carried over the hum of Singapore at night:
"...Why?” His voice sounds almost soft.
“None of your business, stickybeak” you snorted, breaking the tense atmosphere entirely by a stupid nickname you said.
"Don't give me that." he said slowly. "You don’t just say something like that and then shut down." His thumb brushed lightly over your cheekbone, briefly soft before his usual cocky mask tried to slide back on.
Max's jaw twitched. Stickybeak? Really? He leaned back, feigning offense but the corner of his mouth twitched. Only you could call him that and live. Still... he wasn't letting this go. Not now. Without warning, he grabbed your chin, gentle but firm and turned your face toward his, forcing eye contact under the dim glow of the rooftop lights.
“And why would I tell you about my stuff?” You scolded.
Max’s eyes flashed, annoyed, frustrated, but not angry at you. Never really at you. He dropped his hand from your face and exhaled sharply through his nose like a bull about to charge.
"Because I care, okay?" The words burst out before he could stop them. Then immediately…oh shit, he stiffened. Did he just say that? His ears burned. He looked away fast, jaw clenched tight like if he didn’t move a muscle, the world wouldn’t notice what just happened. But it was too late. The admission hung heavy between you both under the Singapore night sky.
Max’s lips crashed onto yours before his brain could catch up, fueled by nerves and that stupid I-care confession hanging in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t slow or sweet. It was Max, reckless, desperate to shut you both up and now his heart was hammering so loud he swore you could hear it.
“Oh really?” You raise an eyebrow, a faint smirk at the admission.
When he finally pulled back an inch, both of you breathless, he didn't say anything. Just stared at your mouth like…what did I just do? And then... panic flickered across his face for half a second before he braced himself for your reaction.
“…seriously?” You muttered. Stunned? Yes, turned on? Also yes. You love it when he gets mad and starts doing stupid things that make himself regret later. It’s cute. Even this.
Max’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. He looked like a deer in headlights, actually nervous, which was so rare for him. He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze for exactly three seconds before forcing himself to meet it again.
"...Had to do it." he said quietly, voice lower now, less defensive, more honest. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just raw Max being weirdly vulnerable on a hotel rooftop after kissing his rival like an idiot who couldn't handle feelings.
Then, because silence was killing him:
"I've wanted to... since Las Vegas.”
Max blinked, then his face exploded in embarrassment. Consent? Right. Yeah. That was a thing people talked about. He opened his mouth, then closed it like a fish out of water, brain short-circuiting because…oh god, did he just kiss you without asking? His confident, cocky Red Bull persona cracked right down the middle.
“...Ever heard of consent?” You can’t help but tease your favourite person in the world again. Just by being with him makes you forget what you are mad about in the first place.
"I—" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I mean..."
Then, with zero grace:
"...Can I try again?" Voice quiet now, uncertain in that rare way only you ever got to see.
Max’s eyes narrowed…oh, you were enjoying this. Absolutely loving watching him squirm. And that pissed him off. Not because he was mad at you, but because his stupid heart kept racing and now he looked like a kicked puppy who just got rejected on live TV. Without a word, he turned sharply on his heel and took two steps away from you, arms crossed, shoulders tense. Full-on sulk mode activated. Mostly because he can’t handle such a level of embarrassment. But he can’t run away from you either, you two will still be rivals for as long as you race. The city lights reflected in his glare as he stared straight ahead at nothing important... pretending very hard that the kiss never happened.
“No?” You snorted. You just want to mess with him a little, poking more into his embarrassment.
Petty? Yes. Max? Also yes.
Max was still sulking, chin high, arms locked like a stubborn child when you suddenly yanked him back around. His breath hitched as your hand grabbed his arm and spun him to face you. For a second, he just stared, caught off guard by the sudden contact. And then... that tone. That stupidly cute playful voice of yours, the one that always made his stomach flip no matter how much he tried to fight it. All the fake anger drained from his face in an instant. Before he could say anything or overthink this, Max closed the gap between you and kissed you this time. Properly. Slowly. Like he’d been wanting to for months but was too scared or too proud to admit it until now.
“Nooo I’m just kidding, Verstappen. I wanted to kiss you too” you chuckled and whined to him. That ridiculous voice of yours only deepens Max’s annoyance.
The soft click of the elevator opening somewhere below the hallway made both of you freeze mid-kiss. Max’s lips hovered just an inch from yours, his entire body tensing like a soldier on high alert. He didn’t pull away completely, but his head tilted slightly toward the sound, ears straining. Footsteps. Light ones. Probably some late-night caretaker.
For a second, neither of you moved, heartbeats loud in your own chests and then Max slowly turned his face back toward yours with narrowed eyes that clearly said: ...Should we care?
"You look good, Verstappen" You look Max up and down, admiring his perfectly tailored suit he got for the gala night. Your fingers brushed against his chest, adjusting the tie he’d been fidgeting with all night. He wasn’t used to this, being touched so casually by you, of all people. Not during a race weekend. Not when you were supposed to be rivals glaring from across paddock garages.
The suit was black, sleek, F1 event formalwear but right now, it felt way too stuffy compared to the adrenaline rush of kissing you on a rooftop. His cheeks warmed under your touch and he stayed perfectly still, letting you fix what was already straight… because honestly? He just liked having your hands on him.
"Thanks." he mumbled, unusually shy for someone who usually had a sarcastic comment ready.
You both drove with that same relentless fire, Red Bull’s golden boy versus Mercedes’ rising star. No one else could touch #1 or #2, it was always one of you two fighting for the top spot. Max remembered how much he hated losing to you... but also how badly he wanted to beat you every single race because you were the only rival who truly matched him.
When did this…rivalry started? The memories never left Max’s head, those early days at 17, wide-eyed and hungry. The two of you were always together back then: beating each other’s ass on track like immature kids, arguing over strategy during debriefs, pushing each other to go faster in practice.
Back then? He’d never admit it but there was respect beneath all that rivalry. Maybe even something more… though neither of you would’ve said it out loud.
You, fresh-faced and cocky in your Mercedes gear, had been staring at him from across the garage during pre-race prep. Not with curiosity or politeness, but with that targeting look. The one Max had only seen on other top drivers before: I’m coming for you.
Max remembered that first Australia GP like it was yesterday. His and yours debut.
And then post-qualifying interview? You didn’t even hide it. When the interviewer asks about your opinion on your same-age rival who is also a rookie.
"Verstappen’s fast." you’d said to reporters, "but I’ll be ahead of him by race five."
Cue Max scoffing through his own interview moments later: "We'll see about that."
He never forgot the way you relished in his mistakes. Every time he messed up a corner, every off-track excursion, every botched overtake, you’d be on team radio laughing with your engineers or worse… dropping some smug comment during an interview later. Your engineers only scold and tell you to focus on the track, they were old and mature, they knew teenagers like you can be nasty with words.
From day one, it was war and honestly? He loved every second of it.
"Verstappen had it covered... until he didn't." you'd say with that infuriating smirk, like you were above it all. And post-race? You’d seek him out just to rub salt in the wound. Leaning against the Red Bull garage door after podiums where he finished second and you were first:
"Better luck next time, red bull." It pissed Max off so much… but secretly? He admired how fearless you were. How unapologetically competitive. It fuels him to be better.
And Max? He’d be fuming, still sweaty from driving, adrenaline crashing but seeing you casually chatting with his mechanics? It lit a fire in him. Once he even snapped at an engineer: "Why is he here?"
Max’s jaw clenched so tight every time you showed up at the Red Bull garage, especially after a race where you’d outshone him. You weren’t even supposed to be there. No reason to linger, no team business… but you did it anyway. Just strolling in like you owned the place, helmet under one arm, that stupid cocky grin on your face.
His team just shrugged, you were very fun to be around. You are Mercedes's rising star, the media love having both of you together for drama.
Max’s face instantly flushed, bright red all the way to his ears. Cute? Anger? That was supposed to be intimidating! He wasn’t some pouting kid, he was Max Verstappen, Red Bull’s champion, a man who fought for every inch on track!
“You’re very cute when you’re angry, Verstappen” you smirked.
At 17, neither of you had the patience or emotional control to handle rivalry and whatever weird tension was simmering underneath. When you smirked that "cute" comment right in his face, Max’s last nerve snapped. In one swift motion, fueled by pure teenage rage and embarrassment he shoved you hard. Not a punch, not even violent… but a full-on push straight out the Red Bull garage door.
But hearing that word from your smug mouth while you were standing right there in his garage… it short-circuited him completely. He opened his mouth to snap back something sharp, a "Shut up!" or maybe even a threat but nothing came out. Just silence and that ridiculous blush he couldn’t control. So instead? He glared harder… which only made you smirk wider. He got that look that says he’s going to beat you with the helmet. But can’t because there are interviewers and too many adults there.
Or that after-party when Max is 21 and still can’t get your silhouette off his head. The club was loud, bass thumping, lights flashing and Max hadn’t wanted to come. Post-race parties weren’t his thing after a loss, especially when you had just taken P1.
You stumbled back into the hallway with wide eyes as mechanics froze mid-conversation and engineers dropped their clipboards in shock. The whole paddock would be talking about this tomorrow.
But the team dragged him along anyway: "Come on, Max! You need a drink!"
And then he walked in… and there you were.
Max froze near the entrance. Jaw tightening instantly. The ugly feeling curled in Max’s chest like smoke, hot and tight, unfamiliar. He was used to being the only one you paid attention to. Even if it was through trash talk or post-race arguments, it was still him. You were always watching him on track, reacting to his moves… hell, sometimes he thought your rivalry burned hotter than anyone else’s.
At 21 years old, you were already magnetic, the center of attention without even trying. A confident smirk on your face as you leaned against the bar with some girl’s arms around your neck… laughing at something she said while her fingers played with your hair. You’re a smooth talker with a to-die-for facecard, it’s not anything surprising that any girl would want you.
The jealousy twisted into something fiercer, something physical. Off-track, you two were always competing. Bikes at the training center? You’d race down the hill and Max would beat you by a hair’s breadth but then next time, you did. Weights? Arm wrestling challenges in the gym turned into full-on battles of strength. And after sessions when you were both drenched in sweat, gasping for air… that little ritual happened without either of them realizing it. You’d grab your water bottle and chug, then toss it aside without wiping the cap. Max always drank from his too… but sometimes he didn’t wipe his mouth first either and if their bottles ever got mixed up? Or worse: if Max took a sip from yours thinking it was his? That indirect kiss tasted like hot sandy salt and rivalry.
But now? Here you were, laughing with some girl who wasn’t even into F1 or knows about it like he does and completely ignoring he existed.
Max was still catching his breath, hair damp and sticking to his forehead from the champagne spray. The victory celebration had been loud, confetti, cameras flashing but he’d slipped away from it all to lean against the Red Bull garage wall in silence. He didn’t even hear you approach at first.
The Las Vegas Grand Prix weekend was legendary, crowds screaming like it was a rock concert. And there you both were: Max in Red Bull gear and you in Mercedes cyan, always side by side on track. No other rider could touch either of you. They even started joking about who would win… but secretly? You both thrived off each other's presence.
Then your voice, dry as ever, that classic "congrats? On P1?" with zero real enthusiasm, hit him like a splash of cold water. You stood there in your team race suit, arms loosely crossed… looking more like someone paying mandatory respect than actually celebrating his win. And damn if that didn't annoy Max more than losing would have.
"Wow." he deadpanned back, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "You came all this way just to say that?" A beat of silence passed between them in the dim garage lighting… heavy with unspoken everything.
He pushed off the wall slowly, still sticky from champagne, and turned to face you fully. That intense stare, the one he saved for rivals who pissed him off just right.
Max’s breath hitched. Room 1410. Your hotel room. That smirk of yours, the one that always meant trouble lingered in the air as you walked away, your boots echoing against the concrete floor toward Mercedes's garage without looking back.
“Nope. Room 1410. If the after-party ever bores you?”
Just as Max was about to slip away, already mentally calculating how fast he could ditch the party tonight and find Room 1410, the garage doors swung open. And there they were: his parents. Jos and Sophie Verstappen, dressed casually but with that proud parent energy radiating off them. They held a bouquet of flowers, probably bought last minute at some Vegas gift shop and smiled when they saw him.
Was it an invitation? A challenge? Or just you being you… teasing him like always but this time with a hotel room number attached? He didn’t move for a solid ten seconds.
"Max!" his mom called out, stepping forward first for a hug. His dad followed right after with an arm around his shoulders. "Great race today, boy"
Max groaned internally. His dad, a former racer, had that look in his eyes: the one where he wasn’t just coming for fun. He wanted to network, chat with sponsors, catch up with old teammates and engineers. All to expand Max’s connection and career. He is a demanding man.
The timing couldn’t have been worse.
And of course… his mom was already looping her arm through Max’s like she’d do at home, except this time it was at Red Bull garage and later on… Vegas afterparty full of loud music and champagne towers.
"Come on." she said cheerfully. "We're celebrating! Your P1 win! It’s not like we are always free to come to one of your races" They weren't asking if he could leave early, they assumed he'd stay right beside them all night. Cue Max’s soul leaving his body.
Max spent the entire night smiling through gritted teeth. Every time a sponsor approached, some energy drink exec, a tire company rep, or his dad’s old teammate, he had to shake hands and listen politely while they talked about market strategy, aerodynamics from 2015, or "Remember when I raced with your father?" Meanwhile, his eyes kept darting toward the party entrance… thinking about what his evening would be like if he showed up at your door.
His mom chatted happily with other parents. His dad laughed loudly with former rivals who hadn’t seen him in years. And Max? Stuck playing the perfect Red Bull racer son, even though all he wanted was to bail and drive back to the hotel to see you.
Your manager gave you a skeptical look when you said you had a headache, but the guy didn’t push it. Racetrack stress was a valid excuse. Back at the hotel, you slipped into your room, Room 1410 and kicked off your shoes. The suite was quiet, lights dimmed. He ordered room service: a bottle of vodka, just in case and some snacks. Fruits, mostly.
The minutes ticked by slowly. You lay on your back, arm behind your head, staring at the ceiling. The TV was on, replaying the race. The soft hum of the AC and distant city noise filtering through the windows.
By 10:05 PM, your patience wore thin. The quiet of the room started feeling less like anticipation and more like rejection. Max wasn’t coming, end of story. With a sigh, you sat up and grabbed your phone off the nightstand. No texts from Max either… not even a "Hey."
You’d showered, hair still slightly damp and dressed in loose gray sweats and a dark hoodie that smelled faintly like your cologne. You picked at them fruits in the bowl absently and the vodka sat half-finished on the nightstand beside you as you waited. And waited.
Without another thought, he got up and changed again, this time into baggy black jeans, a fitted dark shirt that hugs your muscles perfectly and slipped on leather boots.
A quick text to your manager:
"Going out." Then you left Room 1410 behind...and headed straight for one of Vegas’ hottest clubs.
The club pulsed with bass and neon, crowds dancing, bodies pressed close under flashing lights. Tonight? You needed distraction. Noise. Something to drown out the disappointment simmering in your chest. You just wanted to celebrate the win of Max after he trained so hard and still couldn’t beat you in the last few races.
"Hey." She said over the music, blonde hair with perfect blowout, thin two stripes silk dress that looks like it is about to slip off her perfect body… totally your type if you closed your eyes and ignored everything else happening right now inside of your chest. The girl leaned in closer, her smile widening as you gave her a once-over. She wasn’t bad-looking, confident, easy on the eyes and clearly knew how to approach someone.
You walked straight to the bar, ordered a strong drink without hesitation and before it even arrived, some guy had already sidled up next to you with a grin.
"First time here?" She shouted over the music after taking a sip of her own drink.
That night at Las Vegas was the fuel to Max Verstappen’s reckless action tonight on the rooftop. If he could come back in time…that would have been him on your bed.
You nodded slightly, not feeling talkative but you still lifted your glass in a half-assed toast before knocking back some whiskey. The burn was welcome. The girl grinned again and signaled for another glass to the bartender… already moving into flirty territory with those seductive eyes. Can’t blame a girl for trying, you were stupidly handsome even when annoyed, masculine energy flows. So you took her back to your hotel suite.
hiii, okay, so you just answered my ask a few minutes ago and I realized at the end I put Xavier, I'm SO SORRY, I didn't mean to, I meant to just put reader, I'm so sorry. Xavier is one of my OCs I usually write with and my brain totally just like mixed two things together, sorry!!
okay so I was wondering if u could do a Max Verstappen x male reader with a reader who races for Mercedes and it kinda seems like in every single race, it's always Max and reader fighting for P1 and nobody else. Reader s secretly a big softie on the inside but he acts tough and stoic all the time and everybody buys it. Anyway, I was thinking, so Max and Xavier are rivals, obviously, but like after races where Xavier wins, he likes to tease Max because he thinks Max is cute when he's mad and there's one time where Xavier is teasing Max in the driver room and Max just like kisses him and Xavier's just standing there like "...what"
plz lmk if u don't like this request and choose not to write it :)
Hello bro, I veri beri love this idea. Id love to write another Rivalry Max Verstappen x male reader cuz im having the fattest crush on him rn. I WILL cook this dish and see how it goes.
● angst, hurt/comfort, porn with plot, aftercare, slowburn?
● word count: 14.229 words
■ If you haven't read part 1: My love is wider, wider than Victoria Lake
Days pass. Then weeks. And somehow… you two keep running into each other.
In the Garrison Tavern, Tommy with Grace at his side, laughing over drinks while you sit alone in the corner. Sometimes with your private detective Solomon.
On Birmingham streets, you walking home from work, Tommy passing by in his car with a nanny holding baby Charles. You don’t speak. Just stare. A glance that says too much and nothing all at once.
The party is in full swing, candles lit, champagne flowing, powerful men and women mingling under crystal chandeliers. Grace stands near Tommy’s side, beautiful in a pale gown, baby Charles in his arms. She laughs at something the general beside you says…
Then, a gunshot. The loud bang cuts through the conversations as everyone freezes. Grace gasps and then collapses. Right there on the marble floor… blood blooming across her dress like a grotesque flower.
You move fast but not toward the chaos. You step outside into the cool night air, away from panicked guests and screaming attendants. Pull out your phone. Within minutes, you’re giving orders to your men in low tones.
"Spread out. One-kilometer radius around the gala grounds.” you instructed coldly. "Find that hitman with the sniper." Pure focus like a predator locking onto prey.
You don't question your own actions, not fully.
Why am I doing this? You thought.
You could’ve ignored it. Could’ve stayed inside, let the police handle it like a normal person. But no. You're already mobilizing your men, giving orders with chilling precision, all because Tommy is involved. Because Grace just died shielding him. And deep down… where you never admit it aloud… yes. You still love Tommy Shelby. Too much to walk away when blood spills near him.
Tommy shuts down completely after Grace’s funeral. His vision drowned in silent, hollow grief. Then comes the drinking. Whiskey, rum, gin by the bottles at home. At meetings, where he used to be ice-cold composed, he now shows up reeking of liquor.
And when he’s not drunk? He’s planning revenge on whoever ordered that sniper shot… obsessively.
You observe from a distance, silent, watchful.
How Tommy becomes a ghost of himself: hollow eyes, perpetually holding a glass. The man who once commanded rooms with just his presence now stumbles through them like an echo.
Meanwhile…
Your men work relentlessly, interrogating dockworkers, tracking gun purchases near the gala location. They tear Birmingham apart brick by brick.
You sit in your dimly lit office, smoking, flipping through files of Birmingham’s most ruthless men. Names marked with red ink: enemies, rivals who’d benefit from Tommy’s downfall. All given by your private detective. You crossed out the weak ones, the small-time crooks without reach or motive. Then narrows it further to those with both power and a grudge against Tommy Shelby.
Your eyes lock onto the report, the name Angel Changretta marked by Solomon. The son of a powerful rival. Humiliated by John Shelby in a brutal beating weeks ago.
Motive? Plenty. The Changrettas have long hated the Shelbys, and Angel…pride shattered after that public humiliation would want revenge on Tommy’s family.
The detective, Solomon, an older man with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. He’s been working for you long enough to recognize the quiet intensity in his boss’s gestures. He sits in the armchair without being told twice, removing his hat as he does. The scent of lavender from your candle mingles with tobacco smoke lingering in the room. Files are spread across every surface by Solomon: maps, photos, lists of names… all evidence leading toward Angel Changretta.
“Tell me more about the Changrettas” you leaned back onto the armchair, not really looking at Solomon but staring holes into the wall.
The detective leans forward, lacing his fingers together as he begins explaining.
"The Changrettas are old-school Italian. Mostly bootlegging, racketeering, and extortion. Very traditional, very connected to the underworld." He takes a file from the stack, a photo of Angel’s father: a broad-faced man with cold eyes.
"Vicente Changretta rules their empire with an iron fist. And Angel? He was always his favorite… until John Shelby beat him half to death over territory."
“Can you keep a close eye on them?”
The detective doesn’t flinch at the risk. He’s done this kind of work before, shadowing dangerous families, gathering intel in the dark.
"Of course," he says simply, voice steady. No hesitation. He knows what this means: following Changrettas means walking into a lion’s den. One wrong move and they won’t just catch him, they’ll make an example out of him. But you trust him… and vice versa.
“Thank you…that’s enough for today” you always try to make meetings as short and efficient as possible to avoid being suspected.
Solomon gives you that look…the one. Not quite affection, not quite pride… but something close. A quiet devotion born from years of loyalty.
He’s seen you grow into a sharp, powerful man, one who commands respect without needing to shout. And though your relationship is strictly professional on paper… there’s more in how the old detective watches you leave sometimes. You can’t quite put your fingers on. How his gaze seems to linger.
Now, he just nods and stands quietly, ready to vanish back into Birmingham’s shadows for surveillance duty. You take the phone call and slowly grab your jacket and visit the warehouse to inspect the newfound problem.
Tommy stumbles through the fog, drunk, coatless, his usual sharp posture collapsed into a swaying shuffle. The rain soaks him instantly, but he doesn’t care. Muscle memory takes over… guiding him not back to the Shelby manor or any bar, but straight to your warehouse.
That night under the moonlight, the quiet talk, the shared silence haunts him now. A time when things were simpler… before Grace died. He reaches the heavy metal door and leans against it weakly, catching his breath.
“Did I hear someone outside?” you cautiously take a look around the warehouse and then the door.
The worker, a broad-shouldered man with a thick accent, shakes his head.
"Probably just rats, boss. Or wind."
But you frown slightly. The warehouse is isolated at this hour, no one should be out here in the rain unless they meant to be. You grab an oil lamp from the desk and strides toward the door, wiping your hands on your trousers before pushing the door open slowly, light spilling onto Tommy’s drenched form outside.
Your eyes lock, really meet for the first time in weeks. Tommy looks wrecked. Hair damp and messy, suit wrinkled, his usual cold composure shattered by grief and alcohol. The Tommy Shelby everyone fears is gone… replaced by a broken man standing in the rain. You don't speak immediately. Just stares, taking in every detail of him: the hollows under his eyes, the tremor in his jaw… all that pain on display because he showed up here, somewhere familiar when things were good.
The lamp casts warm light over Tommy’s face, illuminating the exhaustion and sorrow etched into his features. You step closer, your own coat dry from being inside and without a word, you shrug it off. Then, gently… you drape it around Tommy’s shaking shoulders. You close the warehouse door so your worker won’t poke nose into your business.
You see the crack on Tommy's expression. He's getting weaker. Fueled by alcohol and sorrow. "You should go home. Let me call my chauffeur" but before you could turn away. Tommy steps closer. He doesn’t hug you. Just rests his forehead heavily against your shoulder, damp hair dripping rainwater onto your shirt. It's a vulnerable gesture… something Tommy Shelby never does. Silent collapse, grief and alcohol finally winning as he sags slightly against you, seeking warmth without asking for it outright.
“Thomas…” you sighed. Completely unprepared for this level of intimacy from Tommy.
You're not used to being the one someone leans on like this. Your hands hover awkwardly at your sides for a second before, slowly, cautiously you lift one and rest it lightly on Tommy’s back. Not pulling him closer… not pushing him away either. Just letting the contact exist… while rain drips around them and the lamp flickers in your other hand.
Your voice is gentle but firm as you nudged Tommy, not pushing, just guiding. Tommy shivers harder now that the initial warmth from your coat wears off. He looks even worse up close: pale, lips slightly white from cold.
"Thomas…let’s go home." You say softly, not unkindly, but with clear worry underneath. You lift your free hand to signal one of your men inside the warehouse after creaking the door open abit… silently asking them to call for a car without making it obvious this is about Tommy Shelby.
Tommy clings tightly like a drowning man grabbing driftwood now. Arms locked around your middle, face buried in your shoulder, murmuring “I missed you” over and over between hiccuping breaths. Drunk words, slurred but achingly sincere.
The man who used to share quiet nights with you under moonlight is now drunk and clinging to you like you're the only solid thing in his crumbling world. You almost wonder if he is missing you…or missing Grace.
“It will be alright, Thomas…” you muttered. Tommy melts at the sound of his name from your deep voice, each syllable vibrating through him like a physical touch. He’s never drunk this much. Never lost control like this before… and it shows. His knees buckle slightly, forcing him to press even closer to you for balance, lips parted in a dazed, tipsy haze. The alcohol has stripped away all his usual restraint. Right now, he just wants you. To stay here. Forever.
You don't know if the wetness on your shirt is rain or Tommy’s silent tears but you pat his back anyway. A slow, rhythmic motion meant to soothe. The words are soft, maybe even a lie, but one you say anyway because Tommy needs it right now. You can’t promise that Grace’s death won't haunt him forever… but for tonight? You’ll get him home safe.
Without another word, you gently guide Tommy toward where your driver has pulled up, the car idling quietly by the warehouse entrance.
You give a quiet order to the chauffeur. not Shelby Manor and instead directs him toward your own home. You don't explain. Don’t need to.
Back inside, you help Tommy out of the rain-soaked coat and guide him through the dimly lit house. Fancy decor, functional warmth. A living room with a couch, a fireplace already lit for comfort. Tommy sways slightly… still drunk but now safe from the storm outside.
“Miss Tarasov…you’re still up” you stated. Not asking. Miss Tarasov, her face lined with years of hardship but eyes kind, looks up from her knitting by the fireplace. She’s small, wrapped in a shawl, and though she doesn’t smile often… there’s warmth in her gaze when she sees you. After the war Tarasov, as a half Russian half British war nurse, was abandoned and found her way back to England. Traveling until her feet give up in Birmingham, right outside of your warehouse. So you took her in, and she began to treat you like you’re her son.
"Ah." She says softly in a thick Russian accent. Then her eyes land on Tommy Shelby, drunk and disheveled and she blinks slowly. She stands quietly… already sensing this is not a normal guest arrival.
“I thought you had to be asleep by now” you commented as you settled Tommy down on the warm couch. Miss Tarasov nods, adjusting her shawl slightly.
"I was waiting." she admits simply, her voice quiet but steady. She doesn’t question why you are bringing a drunk man home at this hour. Instead, she moves with practiced efficiency, grabbing a clean blanket from the nearby chair and heading toward the kitchen without another word. Within minutes, she returns with a glass of water and a clean towel.
“I told you before...you don't have to, yes?” you sighed. You’re like an owl, work late, leave early. She tried to adapt to your schedule somehow.
Miss Tarasov pauses, the glass of water in her hands. She looks at you, not with defiance, but quiet stubbornness. Then she explains softly. "You gave me home… I take care of you." A simple truth from an old woman who knows gratitude better than most. She places the water on the side table near Tommy before stepping back, letting you handle whatever comes next without interference.
Tommy stirs slightly, half-conscious, his face slack with exhaustion and alcohol. He mumbles something incoherent but obediently takes the glass when you nudge it toward him. He drinks slowly, water dripping down his chin a little as he swallows. It’s probably the first clear liquid he’s had all night besides heavy liquor. The firelight flickers across Tommy’s face as you carefully wipe his damp skin with the towel, gentle strokes over his forehead, cheeks, jaw. Tommy leans into it slightly, still dazed but comforted by the warmth and touch. The alcohol is starting to burn off slowly… replaced by exhaustion. Miss Tarasov quietly disappears upstairs after making sure you’re settled, giving you privacy in the quiet living room where only crackling flames fill the silence now.
“Come on…don’t fall asleep here.”
Tommy stumbles as you help him up, legs unsteady, head lolling. He’s seconds from passing out right there on the couch. You loop Tommy’s arm over your shoulder, supporting most of his weight as you two shuffle toward the stairs. Each step is slow… careful… because Tommy keeps nearly toppling sideways like a drunk sailor. He is.
You work efficiently, stripping Tommy out of his drenched suit with minimal fuss. The expensive fabric hits the floor with a wet thud. Tommy barely helps, just swaying slightly as you pull off his shoes and dress him in simple sleepwear, a white tank top and loose shorts that hang just right on Tommy’s frame.
You lie on the couch, staring at the ceiling in the near-darkness and letting Tommy rest on your bed. The oil lamp’s glow is faint, just enough to see shapes but not details.
You wonder why you brought Tommy here… why you're letting him stay. This isn’t logical. Tommy is a married man…well, widowed now, drunk, and you have your own life.
But why? guilt? Pity? Old feelings? Whatever it is… it is stupid.
The question lingers in the dark, heavy and unanswerable. Did Tommy ever love you? Not just as a friend… not just as someone he kissed under moonlight… but truly, deeply?
You remember all the times Tommy looked at you, those rare moments when his usual icy mask slipped. The way he lingered after conversations and how you'd always show up when he called. But love? That’s something neither of you two ever said out loud.
The faint rustling of fabric and the soft creak of floorboards wake you. 4 AM. Tommy’s always been an early riser, even after drinking himself into a stupor. You blinked awake, squinting through the dimness to see Tommy moving quietly, carefully gathering his dried suit from where it was hung overnight. He dresses swiftly in silence… like he doesn’t want to wake anyone.
“Thomas…?”
Tommy freezes when he hears your sleepy voice. Your hair is messy from the couch cushions, wearing your suit still. He guessed you must have fallen asleep and forgotten to.
For a second, Tommy just stares at you. Then quietly:
"...Sorry," he murmurs, not for waking you up… but for being here, maybe.
“Don’t even…” you huffed.
Tommy exhales, almost a humorless laugh and finishes buttoning his shirt. The room is quiet except for the faint ticking of an old clock somewhere in your house. He doesn’t apologize again. Doesn’t explain why he left so early or why he didn’t sleep properly. Just… stands there, fully dressed now, looking like his usual composed self, except for the shadows under his eyes from grief and alcohol.
Tommy moves quickly, no hesitation, no lingering. He grabs his tie, knots it in the mirror with practiced efficiency, adjusts his cufflinks… every motion precise and automatic. No eye contact with you. No "how are you" or "thanks for last night." Just the silent urgency to leave like being here is suddenly too painful now that he’s sobered up. Tommy finishes getting ready, tie perfectly straight, suit impeccable again as if last night’s vulnerability never happened. He pauses by the door for half a second… maybe expecting you to say something. Anything. But when he hears no movement from the couch, sees nothing but silence… he opens the door and steps out without a word. The click of it shutting echoes softly in your empty bedroom.
You stay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, jaw tight with frustration, not at Tommy… but at yourself. At the stupid hope that maybe you two could’ve talked. That maybe something could’ve been fixed. But no.
You’re not a man who builds love over graves, especially not Grace’s fresh one.
So you let Tommy walk out without chasing after him… because some things aren’t meant to be mended right away.
The funding event is a sea of polished shoes and forced smiles, wealthy donors mingling to support Grace’s legacy fund. Tommy moves through the crowd effortlessly, holding baby Charles in his arms for photo ops with influential women who coo over the toddler.
He’s charming, smiling, laughing politely but it all feels performative. The second business talk starts… he hands Charles off to a nanny without missing a beat. No glance back at the child as he strides toward serious negotiations.
The nanny, Changretta’s planted agent smiles sweetly as she carries baby Charles toward the exit, blending seamlessly with staff. No one notices. Not the guests chatting, not Tommy mid-negotiation… certainly not his distracted bodyguards. But your private detective does. From across the room, in a suit that makes him blend in with the businessmen, he watches her load Charles into a waiting car and drive off smoothly. His pulse spikes… but he doesn’t panic yet.
Meanwhile…
Your office is tense, logistics workers hunched over maps and paperwork, some rubbing their temples in frustration. Then your eyes land on it: a sealed letter with red wax, official Changretta family insignia pressed into the seal. No name written… just that ominous mark. The kind of delivery that means trouble. You pick it up slowly, turning it over once before breaking the seal with careful fingers. Your blood runs cold as you read the letter.
The Changrettas knew. They knew about your detective, knew you hired him to investigate them. And now… they have him. The threat is clear. Come alone to rescue your man by midnight at the old dockyards… or he dies screaming. No signature, no proof of life yet but the red wax seal confirms this is legit. A trap waiting for you. You almost drop the letter in complicated feelings.
Your assistant confirms it once you call, the detective hasn’t checked in at his usual time. That silence is worse than any bad news. It means the Changrettas have him… and they’re moving fast. You exhale sharply through your nose, jaw tightening as you stare at the letter again. The dockyards by midnight, barely a few hours from now. No backup plan yet… just a race against time to save one man who might already be dead.
The little warehouse owned by the Changrettas. You move like a ghost through the shadows, knife and gun hidden beneath your trench coat. No backup… no plan to call for help if things go south. You're alone because they demanded it, come alone or your detective dies. So here you are, walking straight into enemy territory at 10 PM like a man heading to his own execution.
Every instinct screams at you to turn around, to walk away, call the police, rally a team instead of charging in blind. But you don't.
Your feet keep moving forward, past the iron gates, left slightly ajar… like they expected you, down a dimly lit hallway lined with Changretta guards who don’t stop you. They know you're coming. This was their plan all along.
Your gaze locks onto Father Hughes, standing stiffly near the desk and then to the baby boy in another woman’s arms. The realization hits you like a bullet: This isn’t about rescuing your detective anymore. This is a setup. The Changrettas lured you here under false pretenses… and now you're trapped inside their den with no backup. You have expected it. Your mind runs plenty kilometers per seconds, taking in the sight of the warehouse.
“Where is he…” you can feel the cold metal of the gun pressed firmly against your skull, no hesitation, no warning. A thug stands behind you, finger already on the trigger.
Father Hughes doesn’t flinch. The woman holding the baby just watches silently… as another man steps forward, a heavy-set thug with a sneer.
"You came alone like we asked," he says mockingly. "Good man."
You frowned “Where is Solomon?”
The thug grins wider, clearly amused by your confusion. "Solomon?" he repeats, voice dripping with sarcasm. "There is no Solomon."
Father Hughes finally speaks, calm but chillingly composed: "We never had your detective. We just know there has been a British rat following us."
The woman holding the baby shifts slightly… and now you realized, this entire room was staged to lure you here. The letter was fake. Three of their men had been beaten half to death by Solomon and they couldn’t kidnap Williams, your loyal worker who knows everything about your business, so they targeted baby Charles, after finding out your emotional conflict with Thomas by a little tea party with the nuns.
“What do you want?” Your voice is firm, masking the growing fear in your heart. There’s no time to be scared and tremble right now.
Priest Hughes smirked. He likes straight forward men who know their places.
"Your next shipment from Russia." he says smoothly. "The one arriving at your warehouse tomorrow night."
Your stomach drops. They know about the Russian cargo… and they want it destroyed. No theft, maybe to sabotage you financially or politically. And to serve the Changrettas’ benefits.
Father Hughes folds his hands, watching silently as the thug adds:
"You’ll call off security for that delivery… and destroy the lorries."
Father Hughes follows your gaze to the baby and smiles. A slow, cruel thing. He steps forward deliberately, reaching out to gently touch the infant’s cheek as he speaks:
"That little Shelby… so fragile. One wrong move from you, good man… and poof." He mimics an explosion with his fingers. The threat is clear: Charles’s life depends on you obeying every Changretta demand from now on.
“Fine, deal...it will be arranged” you scold before the priest can get under your skin further. But a plan was formed in your mind. They can be 2 steps ahead, but you are several.
The Changretta enforcer’s smirk widens, victory written all over his face.
"Smart man." he purrs, lowering the gun slightly but not fully holstering it yet.
Father Hughes nods once, approval granted and steps back. The woman holding the baby doesn’t relax… she just keeps staring at you like a hawk tracking prey.
Now they wait for you to prove your cooperation by sabotaging that Russian shipment tomorrow night… with Charles’ life hanging in the balance.
The thug roughly shoves you toward a wooden chair, still keeping the gun trained on you as he forces you to sit down.
Father Hughes takes a seat across from you, calm and collected like this is just another business meeting. The woman with the baby remains standing near the priest. No one offers you water or coffee. Just cold silence and the weight of what you just agreed to press down on your shoulders.
Father Hughes picks up the old-fashioned phone and dials a number, your office’s where you printed on your business card with each turn, then hands it to you without a word.
The line rings twice before Williams answers, voice groggy from falling asleep on the office table and forgetting the world exists.
"Boss?" the man asks, clearly confused why he’s getting called. Hughes watches you like a hawk… waiting for you to give the order that will betray your own people.
“Anderson, my good man”
Williams’s voice shifts instantly, no longer groggy. The code "my good man" triggers an alarm in him. And the way you intentionally call him the wrong name is signalling him too. It’s a code you taught your workers to signal each other if bad things ever happen.
"Yeah, boss?" he responds carefully… too calmly for someone who just woken up. His mind is already racing: you’re in trouble.
Father Hughes doesn’t react to the tone change. He just leans back, arms crossed, waiting for you to say the words that will doom your own shipment.
“Tomorrow's day off. reschedule the patrol team number 505” you said calmly.
"Understood, boss" he replies flatly… but his mind is screaming. Code 505, was to signal for Williams to listen closely to what’s coming next carefully as you tap on the phone morse code, each nail tap noise was recognized by Williams right away. An address. The whole secret code thing was taught by Solomon, he knew you can be reckless sometimes and brought it up in advance to look out for you. Now you’re silently thanking him in the head.
Father Hughes gives a small, satisfied nod, thinking you just caved to their demands without resistance. The woman holding Charles shifts uncomfortably… this feels too easy.
“Loud and clear?” You glare at Hughes as you lower the phone. Hughes meets your glare with icy indifference, unfazed by the hostility in your eyes.
"Loud and clear." he confirms, voice smooth as polished stone. The thug finally lowers the gun completely now that Hughes is satisfied with your "cooperation." Silence stretches again, thick and suffocating. No one tells you you can leave yet… They're waiting for something else?
Your mind maps out everything. Two armed thugs, one who held the gun, one by the door. Father Hughes is unarmed but dangerous. The woman with Charles doesn’t seem like a fighter… probably just hired help. Four total in the room. You keep breathing evenly, hands loose, posture non-threatening but your mind races through escape plans or possible distractions.
Then the room: every exit, every object that could be a weapon. The heavy brass lamp on the table, potential. The glass statue is the size of a cup. The fireplace poker nearby, long, sharp. Glass windows… fragile but loud if broken. Your gun has exactly 5 bullets. You’ll need to make each shot count. No sudden moves yet… just waiting for an opening, a distraction, the perfect second to strike first.
The moment the thug tugs the gun in their pocket, the room erupts into chaos.
Two shots, clean, right in the forehead drop the first two thugs instantly, blood splattering across the wall behind them. Father Hughes roars and lunges at you like a feral animal, tackling you toward the bookshelf. The gun is knocked loose in their scuffle… skidding across the floor. You two crash into each other with brutal fists flying, Hughes swinging wild punches at your face.
You weren’t a fistfight man, your strength lies in strategy, not brawling, your reflexes are sharp, but Father Hughes is bigger and fueled by rage. The gun clatters away after the scuffle… out of reach now. You dodged a wild punch only for Hughes to grab you by the collar and slam you into the wall again. Hughes doesn’t speak, just snarls through gritted teeth as he raises his fist for another strike. The woman with Charles finally moves, rushing toward where the pistol fell. Hughes wore rings on his fingers, so every punch landed sure made a number on you.
Your eyes widen as you squirm under the priest's pin when he tries to use weight to make you hit the ground. You roll over to dodge the bullet the woman fired, her hand trembling, clearly not knowing how to handle a gun. Just as calculated, you reached for the cup-sized glass statue on the table and smashed it against the priest's head, and then lunged for the gun in the woman's hand.
The woman fires again in panic, trembling hands still manage to pierce your rib with a fired bullet. Pain flares… but you don’t stop. In one fluid motion, you dive for the gun still clutched in her trembling hands and wrenches it away from her with brutal efficiency. Now you're armed again.
You don't waste a bullet on her. In one brutal motion, you yank the screaming baby from her arms, holding Charles securely against your chest with one arm while the other fist grips the woman’s hair. Then you slam her face-first into the glass window several times. A sickening crack echoes, not sure if it's glass or bone breaking first. The woman crumples instantly, unconscious… blood trickling from her nose as she slides down to the floor.
Your breath comes in shallow, pained gasps, every inhale a stab of agony from the bullet pierced through your ribs. Blood soaks into your vest, warmth spreading too fast. But you don't drop Charles. The baby wails softly in your arms, tiny fists flailing as if sensing the danger. Father Hughes groans on the floor… dazed but not out cold yet. The two dead thugs lie motionless nearby, their blood mixing with that of their fallen lady near the window. You sink down on the ground, still sharing body warmth with the trembling baby as your head spins. Damn those rings on Hughes, making your head bleed messily now. You lose consciousness for a few minutes until…
The screech of tires outside makes you freeze, every muscle locked in terror.
Changretta reinforcements? Your own men? You can't tell. The baby’s cries are loud now, drawing attention… and you’re bleeding, injured. Footsteps approach the front door, heavy boots. No knocking. Just the handle turning. You tighten the grip on Charles, gun trembling slightly in your other hand as shadows stretch across the floor from whoever just entered. Your heart stopped.
The door swings open and there stands Tommy, face pale with panic, eyes wild as they lock onto you covered in a pool of blood and holding Charles.
Behind him are Arthur, Michael and…Solomon? Tommy doesn’t speak at first. Just stares, horror dawning as he takes in the carnage: dead bodies, unconscious woman by the window… and you injured badly but still standing like a shield over his child.
The detective steps forward first, taking in the scene with sharp eyes. "Jesus Christ" he mutters at the corpses on the floor. But Tommy moves faster, striding straight to you without hesitation. His hands hover like he wants to grab you but is terrified of hurting him further.
Arthur takes Charles instantly, cradling the baby against his chest with surprising gentleness, despite the chaos.
Michael steps in right behind Solomon, face grim as he surveys the bloodshed. His eyes locked onto the priest, who once molested him when he was younger… then to Tommy holding you in his arms.
"Bloody hell" Arthur mutters under his breath. He doesn’t ask questions yet, just assesses how bad this is about to get with Charles sobbing in his arms.
Father Hughes’ dazed eyes widen as Michael Gray steps forward with a knife glinting in the dim light. With no hesitation, Michael drives the blade straight into Hughes’ chest, once… twice… hard, fueled by years of pent-up rage for what this priest did to him as a child. The room falls silent except for Hughes’ choked gurgles before he goes still forever.
Tommy’s expression shatters the second you cough and blood gushes out more from your rib. He doesn’t think. Just moves. “Y/N…easy, easy," he murmurs, voice tight with panic as he helps you up on your feet.
Tommy hurried to the car, his arm tight around your shoulders, half-carrying you. Arthur is already in the driver’s seat, engine running. Michael silently climbs into the back with Charles still cradled safely against his blood stained arms. Solomon opens the passenger door for Tommy and you before sliding in too and closes the door.
Tommy’s grip tightens as he notices your breath going slower and slower. The blood loss is worsening, soaking through your vest and Tommy’s own sleeve where your arms press together. Your breaths are shallow, uneven… like each inhale might be your last.
"Stay awake." Tommy orders hoarsely, voice cracking despite himself. He shakes you slightly, but you don't respond properly. Tommy grabs the flask of whiskey he kept and pour it on you. You gasp sharply through clenched teeth as the alcohol hits the wound, burning pain flaring across your ribs. Tommy doesn’t hesitate, pouring more despite your pained reaction. It needs cleaning before they can do anything else. Arthur glances back from the driver’s seat, wincing at your muffled groan. Michael stays silent in the backseat, holding Charles protectively while watching Tommy work.
Tommy ignores your weak plea “Thomas…stop!-”. Cleaning the wound is necessary, his own hands tremble slightly as he pours more alcohol over the bullet graze. You almost moan from pain, back arching off the seat, fingers twisting into Tommy’s coat like a lifeline. Your face twists in agony… but no sound comes out except those breathy gasps. Michael looks away, uncomfortable with witnessing such raw vulnerability between you two. Arthur keeps driving fast through Birmingham streets.
Solomon watches from the front passenger seat, his jaw clenched with helpless frustration.
He wants to do something, anything to ease your pain… but he’s not Tommy. He can’t touch him, comfort him, or even speak without overstepping. So he just sits there silently, eyes flicking between Tommy tending to the wound and you writhing in agony. Every flinch of pain from you makes Solomon’s chest ache. But he did his best, by informing Tommy about what he had witnessed and coming in time when Williams called.
Over the weeks, you slowly heal, Miss Tarasov fussing over you like a mother while Tommy becomes an almost constant presence. He checks on you every day, bringing medicine without being asked and occasionally sends a doctor directly to the house to check up. He sits quietly by your bedside during the worst of the pain… not saying much, just being there.
The wound scars eventually, pain fading into dull reminders rather than sharp agony. The rain stops… and sunlight starts creeping back in.
Those nights, watching you lie half-conscious, pale from blood loss, something in Tommy broke.For the first time in months, real fear gripped him. Not business fear, not grief over Grace… but raw terror of losing someone he couldn’t imagine living without. And then there was the weight of what you had done: saved Charles when no one else could have. Risked everything for his son. Tommy never cried but his hands shook sometimes when he thought about it too much.
No witnesses survived to tell the tale. The Changrettas were being erased from Birmingham slowly and violently by the Shelby brothers. People whispered about it. Even the Garrison bartender snorted: "Tommy’s gone bloody mad." Not over business. Not for power. But over love.
Under Miss Tarasov’s strict but loving care, you actually ate real meals instead of just coffee and cigarettes. She force-fed you porridge in the mornings when you would rather have a black coffee and a cigarette, stuffed you with hearty stews for lunch, and even made sure you had proper desserts like fruit tarts after dinner.
The result? You gained weight, healthy color returning to your face. Your wounds healed faster than expected because your body finally had the fuel it needed.
“Jesus, lady. My abs are shoving into one single pile of fat” your eyes widen, seeing miss Tarasov carrying a tray of dinner.
Miss Tarasov doesn’t even blink at your dramatic complaint, just plops the heavy tray onto your lap with a stern look.
"Abs are overrated…You were skin and bones when you came home. Now? Strong.” The tray holds roasted chicken, mashed potatoes with herbs, and steamed vegetables… and a small bowl of fruit for dessert, all doctor-approved nutrition packed into one meal.
“Of course...you're slavic after all.” You huffed. You do have a specific image of slavic people at that time: giants, fight bears and drink vodka cooled by the snow.
Miss Tarasov doesn’t hesitate. SMACK right on the back of your head with her wooden spoon.
"Slavic and your mama" she corrects sharply, eyes flashing. "So eat." She points sternly at the tray.
After making sure you ate every last bite, Miss Tarasov carefully peeled back the old bandages to check your healing wound. She worked in silence, gentle hands applying fresh salve and wrapping clean gauze around your ribs. No fuss, just efficient care. Once done, she kissed your forehead like a mother would and shooed you back under the covers with a "Sleep now." before quietly shutting the bedroom door behind her.
The giant mirror on the ceiling reflects only the bed, a weird design that makes you feel like you’re floating under an endless sky of your own room. You don’t know why the previous owner had it there instead of on the wall, but you bought the house anyway and thought it was sort of unique.
It’s peaceful. The soft light from the lamps glows gently onto you, and for once… there’s no pain distracting him. You watch your own face in the reflection, no tension, just quiet rest. For a moment, everything feels still. You slowly close your eyes.
The door creaks open, Tommy’s familiar presence filling the room. He steps in quietly, already changed into casual clothes, a rolled-up shirt and trousers. No suit tonight. Just Tommy coming to check on you like he does every evening. His eyes immediately find you awake in bed… and for a second, something unreadable flickers across his face before he schools it back to calm.
“Welcome home?” you teased, unsure of what to say. Tommy practically has been living in your house for a while. Sharing meals with Miss Tarasov even though he hates Russians, he changed his mind when he realized she's just another war victim just like himself.
Tommy huffs, almost a laugh at your tease.
"Yeah" he says simply, stepping further into the room and shutting the door softly behind him. He doesn’t complain about Miss Tarasov anymore, even sits through her lectures about eating properly without flinching. The way she glares at him like he’s another stray dog to fatten up… it almost amuses him now.
“You look happy” you snorted. Tommy’s expression softens at your words, relief, not happiness. It is over. The Changrettas are gone. Every last one of them, erased by Tommy and the Shelbys together. He sits on the edge of your bed without asking, exhaustion finally showing in his shoulders now that the violence is done.
“God...you’re smiling too. Are you the top dog of Birmingham now?” You chuckled, observing his expression. Tommy’s smile doesn’t fade, if anything, it grows a fraction wider at your playful scolding.
"Top dog?" He repeats, voice laced with dry amusement. "Always was." But there’s no real arrogance in his tone, just quiet certainty. He reaches out without thinking, brushing a stray hair from your forehead like an old habit.
“You're being weird. Is this my last day on earth?”
That made Tommy roll his eyes…dramatic little shit.
"Nah," he says, deadpan. "Just in a good mood." A rare thing for him… but true. No impending doom, no business crisis, just peace after bloodshed. Tommy leans back against the headboard like he owns it, which at this point…he basically does.
“good mood?! Then you’re about to bomb the city, I assume?” You can’t help but tease him again. Tommy snorts, not quite a laugh, but close.
"Bomb England?" he echoes, raising an eyebrow. "Christ." If anything’s getting bombed today… it’s probably just Arthur accidentally setting the kitchen on fire trying to prepare his cocaine. He shakes his head at your dramatics but there’s no real irritation in it. Just fondness.
Then Tommy’s movements are slow, deliberate, no hesitation as he turns to face you fully. His gaze lingers on your healed body, your steady breathing… and then the words come, quiet but heavy with meaning.
"The world out there may not tolerate us" he starts, voice low. "But here in Birmingham… my life is yours."
And then, he pulls out a delicate white gold ring from his pocket. No grand speech after that… just the offering of it.
“You just haveeee to do it on my death bed.” you pretended to roll your eyes and joke again. But in reality, you’re in shock. Just can’t find the correct word for it yet.
Tommy’s lips twitch, of course you would joke about this*. He doesn’t call him out on it. Just exhales through his nose, half-amused, half-exasperated… then does it anyway. Without another word, he slides the ring onto your finger, gentle but firm and holds your hand there for a second. Just Tommy Shelby claiming what was always meant to be his.
You huffed at the movement playfully “I didn’t even say yes”
Tommy’s expression doesn’t waver, unbothered. He already knows the answer. You wouldn’t have let him slide the ring on if it was a no. But… “I’m not asking. I’m taking” he muttered. No asking for permission. No waiting for verbal confirmation, Tommy leans in for a kiss. Just claiming what’s his, finally.
Tommy makes a low sound in his throat, surprised but pleased as you nip at his lip. The kiss turns hungry, messy with months…years? of unspoken tension finally breaking loose. Tommy’s hands find your cheek and rest his hand there. No hesitation now, just heat and the quiet understanding that this was always where they were headed.
Tommy’s kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours, hungry and insistent. He sucks lightly on your top lip before tilting his head to angle the kiss better… chasing more contact like he can’t get enough. Because It isn’t enough, not after all this time of holding back, of watching from a distance. Now that he finally has permission? Tommy takes it greedily.
Tommy breaks the kiss just long enough to yank your shirt off, fabric bunching in his grip as he sends it flying to the corner of the room, drawing a scold out of you. Skin meets skin now, warm and solid. Tommy doesn’t waste time before diving back in, mouth crashing onto yours again, hands already mapping the planes of your chest like he needs to relearn every inch. Once free of the layers, he takes a look at your naked state… mindful of your healing wound. He braces himself on his elbows to avoid putting full weight down.
“Don't...Miss Tarasov would hear” you nudged him back.
Tommy smirks, he knows. But Miss Tarasov is already asleep downstairs, her snores faintly audible through the floorboards. She’s a heavy sleeper. Still… Tommy presses his lips to your jaw instead of kissing you again, moving slow and quiet like a thief in the night. Every touch deliberate, every shift careful.
Your breath hitches as Tommy slips his fingers into your mouth, saliva slicking them before withdrawing to trail down your neck with teasing kisses. Then those same damp fingers start slow, firm strokes lower… deliberate and just right, not rushed, not desperate. Tommy takes his time like he has all night. His lips linger on the curve of your throat between soft bites and open-mouthed kisses.
He feels the subtle shift, you are getting harder in his palm and it sends a quiet thrill through him. He doesn’t tease… just keeps the same steady rhythm, warm and sure. His mouth softens against your neck, kissing now more than biting. The shyness radiating from you makes Tommy oddly tender, an unexpected vulnerability between you two that he wants to cherish rather than exploit.
Tommy’s kisses trail downward, the blanket pooling around him as he reaches your stomach, playfully grazing his teeth over those defined abs and V lines. He pauses there, looking up with a rare hint of playful curiosity in his eyes before asking:
"Have you been with any ladies lately?" His tone is light, not accusatory… just genuinely curious.
“Never” you muttered. It was true.
Tommy’s gaze darkens slightly at your answer. Pleased. He doesn’t comment on it… just exhales through his nose, something possessive flickering in his eyes before he ducks back down. Your thighs tensing, curling slightly around his head as he hovers just beneath the blanket. The air is thick with anticipation. Tommy doesn’t rush… but every slow breath he takes ghosts over sensitive skin, teasing without full contact yet.
Then, finally he presses a single, deliberate kiss right where it matters, testing your reaction first before committing further.
“Don’t tease me…” you groan, hand reach for Tommy’s hair and just rest your palm there.
Tommy smirks against your skin, deliberately taking his time, drawing out every second just to watch you squirm.
The groan, the restless shifting… It's adorable. And Tommy isn’t above enjoying this power dynamic. He slows down even more, switching to featherlight kisses now, barely there. A torturous pace designed purely to make you ache for more.
Tom’s breath catches at that single word escaped your mouth “Please…” It’s rare to hear you beg… and it does things to him.
Finally, finally he stops teasing. His mouth seals over the spot properly, nibbling at the tip there with firm intent instead of just ghosting touches.
The blanket shifts with Tommy’s movements, his head rising and falling in a steady rhythm, hidden from view but unmistakable in intent. You can feel every careful motion, the warmth of his mouth. It’s intimate… private just for them under the covers.
Tommy notices the clean scent, subtle, pleasant, no trace of sweat or neglect. Just your natural warmth mixed with whatever fancy shampoo Miss Tarasov made you use. It’s… unexpected for a man like you to care about such details. But Tommy appreciates it, the effort, the attention to hygiene that most blokes wouldn’t bother with. The experience becomes even more intimate because of it… something softer beneath the heat.
The quiet moans spilling from your lips are music to Tommy, each one a victory. Tommy adjusts his rhythm, throat flexing just right around you… learning what makes you gasp versus what makes you melt. Your chest rises and falls faster now, breath uneven. The pleasure is building and Tommy feels it in the way your body tenses beneath the blanket.
Tommy doesn’t mind the gentle grip in his hair, it’s grounding. Every time he takes you all the way down, his nose brushes against warm skin… a quiet reminder of how close they are. The intimacy of it isn’t lost on him. He keeps the pace steady, no gagging, no rushing. Just smooth, practiced movements that have you unraveling under him with every descent. His head bobs up and down in a rhythm, tongue swirls around the tip each time he pulls back for air before diving back into his meal. Your eyes locked into yourself in the mirror on the ceiling, dazed out by how good Thomas’s mouth was, sucking you with passion. Drinking in the sight of Tommy’s head bobs up and down, hollows his cheeks to give you the best head of your life.
Tommy feels the thighs clamping around his head, a clear sign you're close and he doubles down, not pulling away. He takes you deeper this time, nose pressing into your stomach as his throat works around your cock… no hesitation now. Just pure focus on pushing you over that edge. The room fills with nothing but your muffled noises and his slurping sound.
Tommy feels the conflicted tug in his hair. You want to stop but not really and he doesn’t relent. He keeps going, undeterred by the moan or the grip… reading it as overstimulation rather than a true demand to halt. The sensation builds until, finally, your body tenses, thighs locking tight around Tommy’s head despite his effort to pin it down the bed as everything crashes into release. Soft moans escape your lips as you throw your head back onto the pillow, sweats coaxing your skin.
Tommy pulls back slowly, breathing just as heavily, impressed by how long you lasted. Most men wouldn’t have held out that long… but then again, you aren't most men. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before crawling up to lie beside you, their shoulders brushing. No words yet, just catching breaths together in the dim light.
You nudge him the tissues grabbed from the nightstand “Thomas…spit it out” you feel embarrassed enough that Thomas didn’t pull out when you were close.
Tommy takes the tissue you offer even though he didn’t need it, he swallowed everything, and wipes his mouth out of habit anyway. Then, without missing a beat, he turns to you and says plainly:
"You lasted longer than I expected.” Delivered with Tommy’s usual deadpan honesty.
“Yeah?” You catch your breath in the meantime, wiping the sweats on your forehead with the back of your hand. It’s hard to ignore the burn you’re feeling in your stomach post-orgasm.
Tommy studies your face, the slight flush, the way your breathing is finally steadying and nods once.
"Yeah" he confirms quietly. Then, because it feels natural… he leans over and kisses you softly, just once before settling back against the pillows.
“I think I should get rid of the mirror…it’s kind of embarrassing having to watch” you muttered, staring at your naked state next to Tommy, who is fully clothed.
Tommy’s eyes flick up to the ceiling mirror, watching their reflection for a second. He doesn’t find it embarrassing at all. If anything… he thinks it’s hot. Seeing them together like that from above.
"Keep it." he says simply, voice low. No explanation needed, just his preference stated plainly. Then, because the view is still nice… Tommy leans in and kisses you again.
You didn’t ask if he is staying. The way his body relaxes on your bed tells you everything you need to know.
Thomas, who usually wakes at 4 AM sharp like clockwork, sleeps until 6 AM. Eight full hours. No nightmares, no business calls interrupting… just deep, uninterrupted rest curled around you.
When he finally stirs, it’s because sunlight is filtering through the curtains, not an alarm or duty pulling him up. He blinks awake slowly… still half-entwined with you in a way that feels oddly domestic for Tommy Shelby.
Tommy feels the soft brush of your fingers against his, gentle, almost hesitant and the nuzzle into his shoulder. It’s a quiet morning moment… nothing urgent, no demands. Just them waking up together slowly. Tommy doesn’t pull away or speak yet. Instead, he turns his head slightly to press a lazy kiss to your forehead, something affectionate and uncharacteristically tender for him. Tommy shifts slightly, aware of the discomfort in his pants, but doesn’t pull away entirely. Instead, he just adjusts his position a little… trying to lessen the pressure without making it obvious. It’s not ideal, but waking up tangled with you like this is worth enduring hardness in the pants. He’d rather stay close than untangle himself completely.
Miss Tarasov's voice can be heard "breakfast in 10 minutes, Y/N!" Her usual reminder. Tommy hears it clear, sharp and no-nonsense as ever. He exhales through his nose, not ready to face her yet… but they’ve already stayed in bed longer than expected. Reluctantly, Tommy sits up first, rubbing sleep from his eyes and glances at you. No words needed… just a silent agreement that breakfast is coming whether they like it or not.
The bathroom now has two of everything: double toothbrushes, two shampoos, your fancy scent one and Tommy’s plain, even two towels hung side by side.
It feels… domestic. Normal in a way that would’ve seemed impossible months ago for Tommy Shelby, a man who once lived alone with only alcohol and smoke as company. Thomas doesn’t bother asking you tk drive him home so he can put on his suits and go to work, he takes your clothes and wears it like it’s his own. How wonderful you two share almost the same size, you get to admire him in your perfect suit.
Tommy follows you downstairs, the smell of breakfast: eggs, grilled mini tomatoes, bacon, sausages, buttered toast already filling the air. Miss Tarasov is at the table setting three full plates with her usual stern efficiency. She doesn’t look up as they enter… just keeps plating. The clink of silverware and sizzle from the stove are the only sounds until she finally speaks: "Sit." There’s a bit of awkwardness during the meal. So you decide to break the silence “Miss Tarasov…what’s your plan for the day?”
Miss Tarasov chews her food thoughtfully before answering.
"Market" she says simply. "Need more flour, sugar… vegetables." A typical Tuesday for her, stocking up on groceries for the week ahead.
“I'm free this afternoon. Maybe I can take you down town, shopping a little.” You shrug. It’s been a while since you did something for Miss Tarasov so you offered to take her shopping. Looking for new dresses, maybe a scarf or trenchcoat. To thank her for taking care of you so attentively.
Miss Tarasov’s eyes light up, just a little at your offer. She doesn’t often go out to do something for herself, always busy cooking or cleaning.
"You… take me shopping?" she asks, as if making sure she heard right. Then nods slowly. "Da… that would be nice."
She rarely buys things for herself, clothes are practical, jewelry even more so but the thought of you helping picking something out for her is touching.
The Shelby office looms as the car pulls up, Pol and Arthur already chatting inside.Tommy gives you a quick, firm nod of goodbye, no public kiss, just a silent understanding between them. Then he strides inside to join his brothers. Your driver takes you next to the warehouse… where crates are being unloaded by workers under his foreman’s supervision. Business as usual. You two already kissed in the house before entering the chauffeur’s car.
After work, you come back home for lunch with Miss Tarasov and take her to shop afterward. As you two walk down the street, you stop in track at the jewelry shop, shopping bags full of Miss Tarasov's clothes in hand.
Miss Tarasov follows your gaze to the wedding ring display, gleaming under the shop lights. She doesn’t say anything… just watches you stare, her expression softening with quiet realization. The jewelry store is elegant, not flashy. Perfect for something meaningful. And after a beat, Miss Tarasov gently nudges your arm. a silent prompt to go in if you want.
The jeweler, a composed woman in her 40s, gives you a warm smile as they enter.
"Welcome" she says kindly, eyeing the shopping bags in your hands first before noticing where your gaze keeps drifting… toward the rings. She doesn’t rush you, just waits patiently to see if you’ll browse or ask about something specific.
“I’d like to see some..uhm… white gold designs” you finally speak up.
The jeweler’s smile stays polite and professional.
"Of course" she says smoothly, gesturing to the display case where several white gold rings gleam under soft lighting. She opens it for you, letting you get a proper look, some simple bands, others with subtle engravings or tiny gemstones along the band.
Miss Tarasov takes the shopping bags from your hands without a word, understanding that this is your moment and carries them to one of the plush couches near the entrance. She sits there, patiently observing as you make an important decision.
“This is…?” you finally pick up a ring that stands out the most in your eyes. Pointing at the white dots.
The jeweler follows your finger to the ring, white gold with tiny, evenly spaced diamonds embedded along the band.
"Ah," she says warmly. "That one is exquisite. The white dots are micro-diamonds…tiny but brilliant, catching light beautifully."
She carefully lifts it from the display and places it on a velvet tray for him to examine closer… admiring how elegant yet understated it is.
“I’ll take it, please.”. you said. Mind already falls in love with the ring at the first sight.
The jeweler’s face brightens at your decision. "Wonderful choice." she says, taking the ring to ring it up with care. She wraps it in a small velvet box, secure but elegant before sliding it in a bag. After handling payment, she hands him the package… and gives him a knowing smile that says…this is special.
Miss Tarasov walks beside you, chattering about the fabrics she bought, the sales at different stores, her voice lively for once. Then… casually, like it’s just another topic: "Who was it for?" She doesn’t sound nosy. Just genuinely curious, maybe even a little hopeful as she glances at the jewelry bag in your hand.
“Oh…uhm…this is for Thomas”
She reaches over and squeezes your arm affectionately. "Ah" she breathes, nodding like it all makes sense now. Then, after a beat: "Da…He’ll love it." Her voice is warm, proud of you for choosing something so beautiful for Tommy.
You stop in front of the food market. “Can Thomas and I have a date in?” Miss Tarasov follows you into the food market, brightly lit with fresh produce and butcher shops.
At your question, she considers it. A date night? With Tommy Shelby?
"Da." she says without hesitation, already scanning for ingredients. "I’ll make something special." No pressure on you to plan everything… just her offering to help set the mood.
Once the chauffeur drives them home, you help carry the bags into the house and head out again to pick up Tommy from work. She rolls up her sleeves and gets straight to work: chopping vegetables, prepping the salmon, setting a pretty table for two. The kitchen is filled with savory aromas.
Tommy stands by the curb, cigarette dangling from his lips, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jacket slung over one shoulder. The Changretta takedown had been brutal… but successful. Now he’s drowning in extra paperwork as a result of expanded territory. He spots your car approaching and takes one last drag before flicking the cig away. The tired lines on his face soften slightly at seeing him.
“Long day?” You turn to him.
Tom actually feels the difference, the eight-hour sleep and decent food from earlier helping more than whiskey and cigarette ever could. No hangover, no smoke haze fogging his mind… just tired in a normal way.
“Yeah” he said simply. He turns his head slightly to glance at you, appreciating that he’s not slumped over drunk like some of their Shelby brothers would be after a long day.
You sneak your hand closer and turn his palm up to properly intertwine their fingers. The chauffeur keeps his eyes firmly on the road, discreetly pretending not to notice… giving them this quiet moment together. No words. Just Tommy squeezing your hand gently, a small comfort after a long day of chaos.
The kitchen is dimly lit, candles flickering softly, casting a warm glow over the velvet red tablecloth. Miss Tarasov must’ve set everything up before slipping away to give them privacy… no sign of her now, just the delicious aroma of cooked food waiting in pots and the oven. Tommy pauses at the doorway, taking it all in, the effort clearly went through for their date night.
Tommy lets you lead him further into the kitchen, their fingers still linked, his usual hardened expression softened by the candlelight.
Tommy watches as you plate the food, everything looks and smells incredible. The salmon glistens with lemon, the corn pone is golden-brown, and even the Russian-style curry has that rich aroma he associates with Miss Tarasov’s cooking paired with sourdough slices.
He pulls out the chair for you first, a rare gesture, before sitting across from him at the candlelit table.
“So about yesterday...you gave me this.” you touch the ring on your finger nervously “... I wanted to give you something in return. Something I've picked myself”
You slip the velvet box out of your pocket and held it out opened
“...I love you Thomas. even in this city where there's no such thing as a happy ending. I beg to differ....Will you marry me?”
Tommy’s breath catches, just for a split second. The ring in the box glints under candlelight: white gold, elegant, with those same micro-diamonds you had chosen so carefully.
And then, your words. Not just "I love you" but a proposal, right here in their messy city where happy endings don’t exist… and yet you are defying it all.
Tommy doesn’t speak immediately. He just stares at the ring… then into your pretty watery eyes.
Tommy’s heart pounds, not from nerves, but from sheer weight of the moment. Years. Years of history between them… and here you are, holding out a ring like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Without a word, Tommy stands up slowly, chair scraping back and walks around the table to stand right in front of you. Then he takes your face gently in his hands… and kisses the goofy, dorky, deer-like smile off your face. Deeply. Like an answer.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression uncharacteristically open, raw.
Voice low but clear, no hesitation:
"Yes."
And before you can react further… Tommy kisses you again, slower this time… sealing the promise with another kiss. There’s no turning back.
Tommy steadies you with a hand on your back, keeping you upright as the kiss deepens between you two. He crowds closer, knees pressing against the chair legs as he cups your face again… pouring every unspoken love into this moment. The candles flicker around you. The food cools and is forgotten. Nothing exists but Tommy and you right now… absolutely engaged.
Tommy watches, completely still, as you take the ring from the box, your hands steady now despite how emotional this moment is. You slide it onto Tommy’s finger… and it fits perfectly. For a second, Tommy just stares at his hand, the white gold catching the light. It feels foreign but right… like something he was meant to have all along.
Tommy immediately wraps his arms around you tight, securely pulling you into a proper embrace. No words needed. Just the warmth of your bodies pressed together, the quiet joy in Tommy’s chest as he feels the ring now on his finger. He rests his chin on top of your head for a moment… breathing him in. This is real. They’re engaged.
“No Thomas, the food is getting cold” you swat Tommy’s hand off, the one that is trying to unbutton your shirt.
Tommy chuckles against your neck, low and warm before reluctantly pulling back.
"Right." he mutters, straightening his tie with one hand while the other finally stops fiddling with your shirt button. He takes his seat again, picking up his fork… but not before shooting you a look that says we’re definitely continuing this later. The food is good, but so was kissing you.
Tommy digs into the food with appreciative focus, the salmon is perfectly cooked, the curry rich and fragrant. He eats like a man who hasn’t had a proper meal in hours… which isn’t far from true, considering how chaotic his day was. Between bites, he glances up at you, smiling faintly, grateful for this quiet moment together. The ring glints subtly on his finger as he lifts his fork.
The wine bottles are half-empty, glasses filled again and again as you two dine. Now, slightly flushed from alcohol but not drunk, Tommy and you just… look at each other. No pressure. No words. Just the comfortable silence of two people who’ve been through hell together, now sitting across a candlelit table as fiancés. Gazing lovingly at each other.
Tommy watches you drain your glass in one go, a bold move and raises an eyebrow, mildly impressed. The alcohol hits you both now, that warm buzz settling into their veins. Tommy reaches over and gently takes the empty glass from your hand… setting it aside. His movements are slower, more relaxed than usual, liquor loosening him up without making him sloppy.
“Let’s go up…” you muttered.
The house is quiet now, just the soft hum of the refrigerator downstairs. Miss Tarasov has long since rested in her room. You head upstairs together, Tommy’s hand finding your waist naturally… both a little tipsy but fully aware of where this is going.
The door clicks shut behind them, soft but final and you crash into Tommy’s lips again, all passion and warmth from the wine. Tommy kisses back eagerly, hands sliding under your shirt to feel your skin… no hesitation now that they’re alone in their bedroom. The ring on his finger catches the dim light, still a novelty but it doesn’t slow him down. Nothing does right now.
Tommy undoes each button of your shirt with deliberate slowness, no rushing, just savoring the process. His fingertips brush over warm skin as fabric parts… revealing more of you inch by inch. The kiss breaks only for Tommy to pull the shirt off entirely, letting it fall to the floor.
Tommy helps you peel off his own jacket, tie, and shirt, each piece discarded as messy kisses are exchanged between you. Lips meet again whenever there’s a pause in undressing… a sloppy but tender rhythm of fabric hitting the floor followed by hungry mouths reconnecting.
Tommy guides you backward onto the bed, gentle but firm until you're lying down, looking up at him. Then Tommy climbs over you, bracing himself on his forearms as their mouths find each other again… slower now, deeper. Your hands explore Tommy’s back and shoulders, learning every ridge of muscle beneath warm skin as you kiss like this is the first time all over again. A needy groan escapes you when he pulls back.
His hands work his belt with practiced ease, metal clasp clicking open, leather sliding free and the way you watch him makes Tommy’s pulse jump. He doesn’t rush. Just strips off the rest of his clothes… letting you look, because he knows that hungry stare burns hotter than any touch right now. Broad shoulders, defined arms… all on display under the bedroom light.
Then he kicks his pants the rest of the way off, his cock already half-hard, fully exposed now and your bitten lip tells him everything. No shyness here. Just raw attraction as Tommy crawls back over you on the bed… bare skin meeting bare skin. The heat between you two is palpable, charged with desire and that newfound engagement thrill making every touch electric.
Tommy lets himself be flipped by you, no resistance, landing on his back with a quiet exhale as you take charge. Each soft kiss pressed down Tommy’s chest, over his abs, then tracing the defined V-line of his stomach sends a shiver through him. His hands rest on your back… not roaming yet, just feeling every light brush of your lips like they’re branding him.
Tommy’s breath hitches sharply at the wet heat of your saliva spat on his cock, a teasing prelude before your mouth takes him in. No warning, just instant warmth and pressure, and Tommy arches slightly into it, a quiet groan escaping. His hands finally move, one tangling gently in your hair, not forcing, just holding while the other grips the sheet beside him. The vibration of your moan around him sends a jolt straight to Tommy’s spine. Tommy bites his lip hard, hips twitching instinctively… but he doesn’t push. Just lets you set the pace, enjoying the sinful heat and wetness surrounding him. His chest rises fast, breath uneven as pleasure builds with each bob of your head. You can feel him hitting the back of your throat, small tears forming in the corner of your eyes each gag.
He tugs your hair gently, not harshly to break the contact, then immediately yanks you up into a searing kiss. Your mouths collide, Tommy tasting himself on your lips as his hands roam down to grip your waist. No hesitation… just pure need now. He rolls you over again, reclaiming dominance, kissing deeper. His tongue slips in your mouth as he takes what he wants.
Once he pulls back to let you catch your breath, Tommy reaches for the condom box, four packets left from his pants pocket, tearing one open with his teeth without breaking eye contact. He doesn’t rush though, still kissing you between motions, hands wandering back to bare skin. Tommy uses the slick lube from the foil on his fingers, practical and efficient to stretch you gently while their kiss distracts you both. Warm pressure spreads as Tommy’s finger eases you open… slow and careful, checking for any tension before going further. The kiss stays deep, consuming, hiding any soft sounds between you.
Tommy positions himself between your legs, no hesitation now and slowly pushes in, both of you breathing out at the stretch. The alcohol has you relaxed but eager… bodies pliant and hungry. Tommy braces his arms on either side of your head as he sinks deeper.
Tommy notices your gaze flickering toward the mirror, watching his back muscles flex with every movement and it makes him smirk slightly. He rolls his hips just right, emphasizing the ripple of muscle along his shoulders and spine… knowing how turned on you are by it.
Tommy pins your wrists above your head with one large hand effortlessly, using the other to brace himself as he drives into you. Each thrust is deep, rhythmic… not brutal but insistent, creating that perfect friction that wrings those breathy moans from you.
The mirror reflects them: Tommy’s back muscles, sweat coaxing his skin, while you lie beneath him, flushed and beautiful under the dim light.
Tommy meets your teary, overwhelmed gaze, seeing every flicker of pleasure and helplessness there, and it wrecks him. The tight heat around him is maddening… but the way you look right now? Even better. Tommy leans down, kissing your forehead before capturing your lips again in a slow, searing kiss mid-thrust. Your legs wrap around his torso, keeping him close as Tommy maintains the same pace, his cock filling you up each thrust. His hips find that perfect angle, hitting deep with every thrust, making you arch beneath him. At the same time, his teeth graze your neck… not biting hard yet, just testing before leaving a faint mark there. A possessive claim without words. The room fills with their shared breaths and the slick sound of skin on skin… intimacy thick in the air.
The headboard thumps against the wall with each powerful thrust, rhythmic, loud and your whimpers grow louder, unrestrained. Tommy doesn’t care about noise. Let the whole house hear if it wants. He focuses on your face, the way your lips part with every gasp and keeps pounding into you relentlessly. No slowing down… just building that sweet friction until neither can hold back much longer.
Tommy smirks, not in a mocking way, but in pure satisfaction as he nails your prostate over and over with precise thrusts.
“Thomas!” Your moans climb higher, louder… unfiltered, no holding back now. Tommy loves it, the sounds spilling from you, the way your body squirms under him. He doesn’t let up. Just keep that same rough pace… determined to wreck you completely.
Tommy hisses at the sting of your nails, sharp little bites of pain but the smirk that follows is all arrogance and pleasure. He likes it. The marks, the possessiveness… proof this is real, not some dream. So he leans into it, thrusting harder now, letting you claw at him as much as you want while Tommy keeps chasing their shared high.
Tommy’s teeth sink into your shoulder, not enough to break skin, just possessive bites as his thrusts grow wilder, less controlled. Your head falls back against the pillow, exposing the throat further… a silent invitation for more and Tommy takes it. Each bite syncs with a deep roll of his hips, their bodies moving together in a messy, desperate rhythm now.
Tommy barely registers the phone ringing, too lost in the haze of pleasure until your breathless voice snaps him back. “Thomas…stop-!”
"What?" He glances at the nightstand where your old rotary phone sits… probably one of your men calling about business. A piss-off timing. With a grunt, his hips slow down.
“Might be my workers calling” you huffed. Tommy reluctantly slows his movements, annoyed but obliging and grabs the phone, handing it to you with a frown. He stays hovering over you, though… one arm braced beside your head while he waits. Still half on top of him, warmth lingering between their bodies. The call could be important… but Tommy hates being interrupted right now.
The voice on the other end, one of your warehouse employees comes through slightly staticky. "Boss, sorry to call this late… but we got a shipment delay at the docks. Customs is holding it up."
Meanwhile, Tommy takes advantage of you being distracted, pressing hot kisses along your collarbone and shoulder again, hips rolling in slow motion to build up pleasure… testing boundaries.
“Send Williams to handle it, yes?” You try to sound normal, annoyingly pushing Tommy’s by hand on his chest but he takes it and brings it to his mouth. Lips kissing the fingertips.
The employee stammers, clearly stressed on the phone:
"Boss, Williams is already there… but without the signed paperwork, they won’t release it. The driver lost them."
Tommy chooses this exact moment to snap his hips forward hard, slamming back in with deliberate roughness, knowing you can barely focus on work now. And then continue the same pace, skin clapping noises echo in the room.
Tommy loves the way you bite your lip to stifle sounds, it only fuels him more. He keeps thrusting, relentlessly… each movement calculated to make it harder for you to concentrate on the call.
The employee’s voice rises slightly: "They won’t move the truck without those papers. We need your signature here or someone with authority." His voice filled with urgency.
“Damn it…tell…Williams to get the red stamp in the second drawer…in my office” you managed to breathe out.
The employee says quickly on the line: "Yes, boss. I’ll send Williams right now." Then, hearing your tense tone and abrupt instructions, they add carefully "We’ll handle it. Apologies for the disruption." before hanging up.
Meanwhile… Tommy doesn’t let up at all, if anything, he thrusts deeper, taking advantage of you finally being off the phone.
“You fucking asshole” you huffed, glaring at Thomas. He only grins, unrepentant, smug in the return as the phone clatters to the floor. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t slow down either. Just crashes his mouth onto yours again in a messy kiss, swallowing your frustration. His hips snap forward harder now… punishingly, because if they’re both pissed about work interrupting them? Fine, he’ll make it worth your anger.
Tommy’s movements turn desperate, no finesse left, just pure urgency as he drives into you with deep, full-bodied thrusts. Each one bottoms out completely, hard and relentless, chasing his own release now. The friction is electric, every nerve in his body alight.
Tommy’s entire body tenses, then shudders as he spills into you, his release hitting him like a wave after holding back for so long. He doesn’t make noise… just bites down gently on your shoulder to muffle it, face pressed against your neck as pleasure rips through him. His hips stutter through the aftershocks, still connected, still close before slowly coming down from the high. Your nails dig onto the muscles on his back as you reach the high too, body trembles in pleasure beneath him.
Tommy melts slightly under your touch, fingers carding through his hair. A moment of softness after the intensity. His breathing evens out slowly, forehead resting against yours as you both come down from the climax. No rush to pull away… just quiet closeness now. The room smells like sex and sweat… but Tommy doesn’t care. He stays curled around you, skin-to-skin.
Finally Tommy carefully slips out, then grabs the condom, tying it off neatly before tossing it into the waste bin beside the bed. Then he stretches slightly before turning back to you, lying down next to you on the rumpled sheets. Exhausted. He turns his head, meeting your gaze, both of them flushed, hair messy from the bed sheets, skin still dewy with sweat.
“Are we going to shower or not?” You muttered. After drinking some water, you and Tom lie there, talking about yours and his favourite part of the sex, eyes lingers on each other naked, wrecked state. Tommy blinks, coming out of his drowsy haze at your voice.
"Shower" he agrees immediately, his own skin sticky with sweat too. He shifts carefully, finally slipping out before sitting up.
As they talk about what parts they liked earlier, Tommy mentioning how much he enjoyed fucking you on phonecall, it was honestly so sexy, the way you got all tense and squeezing his tip from the inside. Then he stretches and stands, offering a hand to pull you up.
Tommy watches your wobbly legs with a slow smirk, amused and undeniably turned on again as the shower water heats up. He steps closer, bracing one hand on the tub rim above your head… leaning down to murmur:
"You look good like this. Another round?" No pressure in his tone, just an offer, his eyes dark with renewed interest.
“How are you not tired?” You complained, raising an eyebrow at his sexy invitation. Tommy chuckles, low and unapologetic as he straightens up slightly, still caging you in against the tub.
"You know me." he says with a shrug "Shelby stamina." He’s always had high endurance… though even he’s impressed by his own energy right now.
“You Shelbys fueled on alcohol and cigarettes. I doubt that” you glared at him playfully. Tommy grins in return, unbothered by the glare.
"Maybe." he admits “but I’m also fueled by you." No boast. Just honesty… and faint smile before he closes the distance, kissing you properly, no shower water needed yet.
Tommy kisses you deeply, slow and lingering before pulling away to grab another condom from the nightstand drawer. He moves efficiently, not breaking eye contact as he tears it open with his teeth. The water’s still running in the shower… but they have time. Back at your side in seconds, Tommy presses close again, condom ready now. He turns off the running spray with a quick swift.
Then Tommy lifts you effortlessly, strong arms holding you up as their bodies press against the fogged shower glass. The warmth of the steam surrounds you, water droplets glistening on the skin… and Tommy kisses you hungrily, one hand supporting your weight while the other grips your hip. No rushing. Just slow, wet friction as they find each other again in this new position.
Tommy holds your gaze, his blue eyes, usually so guarded, soft now, letting you see the depth of them without any walls. Feels like you were staring into something vast and beautiful. The steam curls around them as Tommy leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away if you want but not kissing yet… just looking.
“Has anyone ever said you got ‘em pretty ocean eyes?” you smile faintly.
Tommy exhales, almost a laugh, but softer at the compliment.
"No." he admits quietly. People usually called his eyes cold, heartless, anything but pretty. He leans into your touch as those fingers brush his hair back… something tender in the gesture that makes Tommy’s chest tighten. Then, because he can’t resist… he finally closes the distance and kisses you, gentle this time.
Tommy sinks into you with a slow, deliberate motion, pushing himself with that perfect heat, the steam from the shower making their skin even slicker. No rush. Just savoring the sensation… how tight and warm you feel around him, how sexy this position is against the glass. His hands grip your ass securely as he starts moving, gentle rolls of his hips at first.
Tommy feels the subtle shift. You’re relying on him more, going gentle and adjusting instinctively, taking your full weight without complaint. You’re probably sore by now, wrapping around him and letting him do whatever he wants. Every soft kiss to your collarbone sends a shiver through you… sweet contrast to their usual roughness. Tommy keeps thrusting slow and shallow now, minimizing soreness but still giving pleasure.
“You’re strong…” you muttered, impressed by how he carries you and still balances against the glass wall.
Tommy’s lips quirk at the praise, simple but meaningful as he continues supporting you effortlessly, his strength showing in every controlled thrust. No flexing or bragging… just quiet pride that you acknowledge it. His thrusts stay steady, strong… unshaken by carrying all their combined weight. He presses a kiss to your temple, wordless gratitude for the compliment before returning to their rhythm against the glass.
Tommy’s control slips, just slightly as the tight heat around him sparks something primal. His thrusts grow rougher, less measured… hips snapping forward with more force now, chasing that friction. Still careful of your wound, but the rhythm turns harder, deeper, the pleasure overwhelming his usual restraint. He slips out almost the tip and slam back in again, punching a breathless, sweet moan out of you as you wrap your arms around his neck, sharing the harsh breath for air. The heat coils at your stomach as you stare into his ocean eyes.
Months ago you were kissing him at the cathedral, now he’s wrecking you in every way possible, engagement ring on fingers. On the Birmingham street, Thomas can be that criminal boss with a soul like the smoke and fog of the city, drifting further apart. But here in your manor, he will be the man who takes you apart and loves you for as long as this ring remains on this finger.
Tommy’s body tenses, then releases as pleasure crashes over him in waves. A quiet groan escapes his lips, raw and unfiltered. He doesn’t bite or hide this time… just lets the sensation take him, hips stuttering through the aftershocks. For a moment, he stays pressed close to you, forehead resting against your shoulder as you both catch your breath again.
Tommy smirks against your neck, feeling the way your body reacts to him, that warm fullness and he deliberately shifts slightly, just enough to tease. Warm liquid spilled out of you now dripping on your own stomach as you looked dazed out, riding down from the high. No words. Just a lazy grind of his hips… testing how sensitive you are right now after everything you two have done tonight. His kisses stay feather-light on the shell of your ear, playful but not demanding more yet.
“Do you think we were loud?” you muttered, sitting in the tub with your back facing Tommy. He only snorts, scrubbing hands through your hair with that scent shampoo.
"Probably." he admits with zero shame, because yeah, you both definitely were loud. The headboard banging the wall. Moans. The bed creaking… neighbors would’ve heard everything if they weren’t heavy sleepers. He shoots you an amused side glance, no regrets in his expression as he washes your hair.
“So sore…” you complained, sitting still and letting Tommy handle the aftercare work.
Tommy traces the faint scar on your rib with his fingertips, light, almost reverent before pressing a kiss on your shoulder from behind.
"Healed good." he murmurs against skin… proud that it’s closed up properly now. No infection, not much pain from that wound anymore. Then he soaps up a washcloth and starts cleaning your body more thoroughly, being extra careful around the tender area.
Tommy works in silence, gentle, washing your hair, shoulders, arms… every inch with quiet care. No teasing now. Just the sound of water and his careful hands moving over skin… taking time to ensure every bit of sweat and mess is gone.
After drying off and slipping into loose pajamas, Tommy leads you to bed, tucking you in first before crawling in beside you. You two settle naturally into each other’s arms… Tommy spooning behind you, an arm draped securely over the waist. No talking anymore. Just warmth and steady breathing as you and him drift off, completely spent but content. Sleep comes easily for both of you.
This whole marriage thing…yeah, you can do that. As long as the one waiting for you at the end of the aisle is Thomas Shelby.
heyyy, how are you? So your Max Verstappen fic (both Good Luck, Babe! and Hot To Go!) were soooooo goood, I loved them soo much, like honestly where did you get these insanely good writing skills? I could never. So I had an idea and this could either be like a part 3 of that fic or like a seperate one, idk. Anyway, my idea was that Max introduces Y/N to Kelly and they get along and she's just like so kind to Y/N and Y/N is like super confused on why she's this nice. Then like another time Max meets Y/N's ex, who's like a major dick and they were in a super toxic relationship before Y/N broke up with him and like he was abusive to Y/N and things like that. Yeah, idk, it was just thoughts and I thought it would be cute for Max to stand up for Y/N because Y/N wasn't going to
but yeah, lmk if you don't like this, I can give other ideas too :)
Have a good day/afternoon/evening/night!!
That idea sounds good ngl Ive been wanting to write more fluff fanfic. Well there's no such thing as fluff in my life lol so it feels super awkward writting it, i just feel like i dont catch the feelings of the character correctly. BUT I'll think about it! Thank you for the request!
With complicated feelings buried in his chest, what will Max Verstappen do?
■ If you haven't read part 1: Good luck, babe!
The podium ceremony felt hollow. Max stood on the top step, helmet in hand, Dutch flag draped over his shoulders, the usual cheers and fireworks exploding around him. Fans screamed his name. Cameras flashed nonstop. But he didn’t smile. Like the victory meant nothing.
Lando Norris grinned beside you in sixth place, relieved to have salvaged points after a messy race, but you… you had finished eighth. A massive drop for someone who’d been fighting for top five consistently this season and had such a brilliant debut season 2 years ago. It seems like the airport encounter has mentally destroyed you. You keep making mistakes, miscalculation at turns, trembling hands, ect. Fans must be so disappointed. You can’t stop thinking about Max. Your heart is still mourning in silence.
The media instantly pounced. "Where’s the fire? Max Verstappen, world champion, looks pissed on top of the podium."
Reporters shouted questions as he descended the stairs:
"Max! Are you upset about something?"
"Is there tension with McLaren after Y/N L/N’s poor performance?"
But Max ignored them all. He walked straight to his team motorhome, no interviews, no photoshoot with sponsors, just silence and a closed door behind him. Not now. Inside, he peeled off his racing suit and sat on a bench alone. No celebration music playing like usual. His manager quickly arranges for the interviewer to come back later, he knows Max needed space for now.
Meanwhile, Lando and you, both in race suits, still sweaty and slightly disheveled, sitting side by side on the hot Bahrain pavement like two defeated soldiers. Lando had his arm slung casually over your shoulders, both holding half-empty water bottles.
You weren’t laughing. The way y’all heads tilted slightly toward each other like ugh, this is us now.
Fans immediately latched onto it. Memes started popping up: "McLaren’s dynamic duo of disappointment." With pictures of Lando stares into nothingness while you palm your face with two gloved hands. It’s over.
The realization hit like a flat tire on the straight, hard and sudden.
Brands loved consistency, performance, and marketable drivers. A rookie who finished top five one race… then dropped to eighth twice in a row? That wasn’t exciting enough for luxury watch companies or energy drink giants.
Lando might still get offers, he’d had steady results this season, but you?
“God…I’m so doomed” you muttered. More to yourself. It’s not your fault family kicked you out once you turned eighteen with birthday money saved up for your racing dream. They only support the first rookie year of yours and that’s it. You’re on your own now.
The weight of it all crashed down on you as you stared at your scuffed racing boots. The memory of your first independent year flashed through your eyes: an old garage, your part-time mechanic job, where you’d tune up, wash cars, change oil, anything the owner was willing to teach, felt like a lifetime ago. McLaren covered some expenses for their drivers… but not everything. Especially not when performance dipped this badly. You still have college to attend and so much more things… It's not like McLaren’s payment wasn’t enough, but you had to pay for a huge tuition too. You didn’t get a full ride to this university you got into, the one your parents insisted on or they wouldn’t let you race, so without parent’s financial support, it’s just you now.
The shower water turned icy, almost too cold, but you didn’t adjust it. You let the chill seep into your skin, washing away the sweat and frustration of the day. Your mind wandered back… to simpler times.
When you and Max weren't strangers.
When you used to talk after practice sessions, laughing about small mistakes made on the race. When Max would text you random questions at the most questionable hour.
And you? you always replied.
The deeper you sink into thoughts, the more sting the memory.
The way he sends you links to articles he thinks are interesting. And it became a part of your day, having looked forward to reading things he shares. Always the link and simple text: "Read."
It could be anything, a new engine development story, F1 replays with detailed analysis , even some random scientific fact about friction. But it always meant I thought of you first.
The silence of your apartment wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. The shower had stopped, but the coldness lingered, both from the water and in your chest.
You sat on the edge of the bed, towel draped over damp hair, staring at nothing.
Your thumb hovered over the screen, over that last message. And then remembered the words you said when you’d snapped:
"No, I didn’t answer your boring messages. Now will you go?"
The words looked ugly now. Not sharp or justified like they had in the moment… just cruel. You remembered how your voice had been cold at Bahrain airport. And suddenly, guilt flooded you, not dramatic sobbing or regret, but a quiet, heavy shame. Like your mouth still tasted bitter from saying those things.
You hadn't meant to push Max away forever. Maybe just for a moment, you were being immature with your complicated feelings. Is it really your fault you acted out that way? Or is it just a trauma response?
No childhood best friend. No group of mates from high school who still texted weekly.
Just… silence where friendship should’ve been. Where people who mattered the most should’ve stayed. Even before F1, you’d always been quite bookish, focused. People found it hard to really connect with you. Yeah, some might say you’re an autistic nerd. Maybe you were just in the wrong crowd. You never understand. It’s like a cycle where someone picks you, makes you feel like you matter as much as oxygen. And before they could have the chance to hurt you or simply make the tiniest mistake, you leave them first so it wouldn’t happen.
In this case, you have romanticized Max. Possibly portraying him in a glamorous, appealing way that often glosses over flaws and harsh realities. You’re blinded by what you think of him, so bad that when you know he fancies someone else, your mind went on a hell of a roller coaster of emotions. He wasn’t acting like the version of him inside your head and it makes you withdraw. Your action affects both you and Max. While you’re stuck dealing with disappointment and heartbreak, he is wondering why he has lost a dear friend out of nowhere. Totally confused by the new state of emotion he was unwillingly put in by you.
You start eating less, training more until your muscles give up. Anything to keep your mind occupied. You spend most of your time hanging out with coach Artturi Simila, fishing, training again, sharing meals like father and son while he lectures you about your previous performance. He often invites you over to the family BBQ, and you end up eating so little, his family members think the food is not up to your expectations. You just lost your appetite, that's all, not feeling like eating, only eating when you are starved to death. You would blame yourself for this. Usually you would stick to a strict diet. A full nutritious portion turned into at least eat half of it.
Max sat across from Kelly’s parents at their elegant dinner table in Monaco, crystal glasses, silverware polished to a shine, the smell of expensive wine filling the air.
Her father, a legendary Brazilian racing driver and three-time World Champion, spoke most of the time.
And every question was about Max’s career:
"When are you renewing with Red Bull?"
"How much do they pay you per race?"
"Will there be sponsorship deals this year?"
He doesn’t blame her father for being unsure about his stability.
Max answered politely, calm, composed but inside, something hollowed out. He wasn’t their son-in-law. Not yet. And they didn’t see him as a person. Just… an asset?
Kelly tried to steer the conversation, asking about her dad’s new investment project or her mom’s charity work but it always circled back:
"So Max… are you thinking of buying property here?" Like he was just another rich guy.
He stayed for dinner and played with Kelly’s daughter, the one she has with her ex boyfriend, he didn’t mind stepping up. Never did. Penelope, the baby girl, adores Max. She clings to him all the time and never misses a game of his. The two were expecting as well. As we all know, Max is pretty much a family oriented man. He can provide just fine.
The car was silent, no music, no city noise outside. Just the soft hum of the engine as Max parked in front of their shared penthouse. She turned to him, expecting a kiss like always. Instead… he didn’t move.
Just looked at her, calm but serious and said:
"We need to talk."
A beat passed.
Then quietly:
"I think we should break up."
“What? Why? Was it my parents? What did I do wrong?” There's a sudden panic in her tone now. Max exhaled slowly, hands still on the steering wheel. The dashboard lights cast soft shadows across his face, making his expression harder to read than usual.
"No…" he said, not lying, but not blaming her parents either. "I…." His voice was low, not angry. Just tired as he confesses the truth.
The pressure of being judged for who he wasn’t. The loneliness in Kelly’s circle where no one cared about him beyond trophies and money. And the growing distance between them lately, even before tonight. They barely see each other anyways. And Max is someone who lives by societal norms. He dated his girlfriend for five years because she was a good person, both families approved of the relationship, and he felt that "at this age, everyone has to get married eventually." He had never experienced "madly falling in love" until he met you.
Your persistent yet sincere pursuit touched a hidden part of Max that he had long kept concealed. Terrified of his own sexual orientation, Max had hastily gone public with a girlfriend in a desperate attempt to run away from the truth. However, the moment you were hurt and cut off contact, it served as a wake-up call. Max realized that marrying this woman would mean deceiving her for the rest of his life. And it goes against every aspect of who he really is.
“Please we should talk. Don't give up on us like this…” Kelly muttered, her hands go to wrap around Max’s
His jaw tightened. He saw the panic in Kelly’s eyes, the first real crack in her usual poised demeanor. She wasn’t yelling or throwing accusations… she was pleading. But that made it harder, not easier. He didn’t want to hurt her. Never. Didn't enjoy breaking someone's heart, especially hers. Still… he couldn't pretend this was working anymore. He can’t share the same bed with someone while thinking of another. It feels wrong.
"I'm sorry…" *he said softly, finally turning his head to look at her properly. "I just don't think I'm happy anymore.”
The conversation stretched into the night, Kelly in her leather armchair, Max sitting on the couch while she curled up across from him, wrapped in a blanket. No yelling. No blame. Just… quiet sadness.
She asked questions, not to change his mind, but because she needed answers.
"Was I not enough?"
"What happened that made you feel that way?"
"Is it really over just like that?"
Max answered honestly, without cruelty, but each word still cut. He never once mentioned you, even though you are the main reason why he’s feeling this way. He opens up to his girlfriend about his sexual orientation. She might cry, but she chooses to let go because she knows she deserves a man who loves her wholeheartedly and she’s ready to go so they can both go find happiness. They end the relationship in peace, as Max promises to still visit her and Penelope…still supporting from afar and making sure every need is met.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and quiet. Max woke up first, already dressed in his usual hoodie and sweatpants, sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of black coffee. She was packing. No dramatic goodbyes, just silent movement, folding clothes into suitcases, zipping up bags she’d kept here for months. Her other apartment in Monaco wasn’t far from her parents’ place… she could move easily. She never sold the place even after moving in with Max. He respects her decision to move out, thinks it was for the best. Max stood up quietly when Kelly finished packing, her suitcases neatly lined by the front door. Without asking, he took the handle of her largest bag and carried it to his car outside. Penelope is still staying with her grandparents for vacation. He didn’t offer empty words like "It'll be okay" or "We can still talk." Just silence and action.
Max threw himself into training, harder than ever. Extra simulator sessions. Longer track practices at dawn when no one else was around. Weight lifting until his arms burned. He told himself it was discipline. Focus for the next race season. But everyone on the team noticed, the intensity in his eyes, how he’d zone out during meetings like something or someone, was eating him alive. At night, alone in his hotel room or apartment… All he did was scroll through old photos. Photos of you.
Max zoomed in on the photo, the one he’d taken secretly during a race weekend last year. You stood there, helmet tucked under your arm… and right where Max had signed it, near the visor: a faded black marker smudge remained. His heart tightens. He remembered that signature clearly. Not just any fan autograph, he’d actually written something:
To Y/N – Keep pushing. It was personal. Meaningful. And now… it is gone. He didn’t see it on your helmet anymore last race. Maybe you have erased it. Or bought a new one. Either way, it makes him even more drowned in sorrow. He just misses you so much. Miss your late night texts, miss your adoration filled gaze and how you would chase him like a puppy after racing to chat. The efforts you made to breathe the same air as him.
The Australian Grand Prix was loud, sun blazing, fans screaming, the track alive with energy. Teams and drivers walked through the paddock like stars on display. And then Max saw you. You stood near McLaren’s garage, wearing the team suit, helmet tucked under one arm. But something was… off.
You looked leaner. Harder around the edges, not unhealthy, but like you’d been training relentlessly or cutting back seriously on carbs. The crowd cheered when they spotted you but Max just froze for a second.
The broadcast camera panned over, just a routine shot of the McLaren garage and for five seconds, it lingered on you.
You were adjusting your hair, fingers brushing through damp strands as sweat glistened on your forehead from the Australian heat. No cap yet, just you in full team gear, looking focused but slightly uncomfortable under the blazing sun. Fans in the stands lost it.
Max stood a few feet away, having just finished a pre-race interview with Dutch media. He glanced at the screen mounted near the Red Bull garage, where Sky Sports was showing live paddock footage.
And there you were. Sweating. Hair messy from running fingers through it. Eyes squinting slightly against the sun. The fans’ screams echoed over the broadcast and Max didn’t need subtitles to know they were losing their minds over you.
The race started and from the first lap, you were on fire. No hesitation. No conservative driving. Just pure aggression like you had something to prove, not just to McLaren or fans… but to yourself. Trying to make up for the shame of the previous race because you don’t like having people think your skills have degraded. You overtook two cars in the opening corners with clean but daring maneuvers. The crowd roared. Commentators couldn’t stop talking about it:
"McLaren rookie is moving!"
"Y/N L/N looks completely different today! A man possessed? Or just fueled by previous disappointment?!"
It wasn’t just skill…it was desperation. You keep telling yourself that you need to win. If not then you will never be able to forgive yourself. Because all of that damage will be for nothing at all.
Your focus was razor-sharp, every gear shift, every braking point calculated like a mission. You don’t allow yourself to make a simple mistake. Shame will be the death of you if you get placed lower than Max again, the man you literally just go no-contact with.
You wanted victory. The humiliation of the past season, the airport fight with Max, hours of starvation and being left to face depression, it all fueled you now. This race was his redemption. Between two options: fall again so people know you’re struggling or win so you know you can overcome this and believe in yourself again. You choose the second one without hesitation, even if somewhere in the back of your skull, you really wish to be seen. To be known you’re drowning.
Your car roared around the turn, flawless. Noise echo like lightning cut through the sky from the hot brakes and engine as you pushed through the high-speed corner. And then it happened. On straightaway after the fifth turn, you pulled alongside Max’s Red Bull car, tire to tire for half a second… before surging past with a perfectly timed overtake.
The crowd gasped. The commentators erupted: "Y/N L/N JUST SURPASSED MAX VERSTAPPEN!"
Your body became a machine, every muscle locked in, your mind razor-focused on the race ahead. The tires screamed against the ground as you pushed them to their limit, feeling every millimeter of grip. You can’t afford distraction this time.
Just drive.
Every turn is sharper. Every straightaway faster. You were racing like your entire year depended on this single lap and right now… it kind of did. You certainly don’t like to be anywhere else but in the top three.
Fan cameras captured every second, zoomed in, shaky but exhilarating as your McLaren car blazed through the track like a streak of lightning. The orange and blue livery flashed under the Australian sun as you carved through corners with insane precision.
The checkered flag waved and you crossed first. P1. First place.
The crowd erupted, some in shock, others screaming with joy for the McLaren rookie who had just dominated the race once again.
You barely registered it at first. When you unclipped your helmet, pulled off the gloves… and stood there by the car as mechanics rushed to you. But you weren't smiling.
Weren’t celebrating like usual winners did. Your hands trembled slightly, like adrenaline was crashing all at once.
The podium drivers assembled on the stage, Max stepping up, stoic expression, then Russell in third with a calm smile.
And there were you, still standing by the McLaren, staring blankly ahead while cameras flashed around you. A staff member approached and offered you a water bottle. You didn’t take it immediately. The weight of what you’d just done, the victory after everything that happened was hitting all at once.
Your teammate, Lando Norris was the first to notice. He nudged you gently, waving a hand right in front of your face.
"Hey… hey!" Lando said, voice low but urgent.
The McLaren engineer nearby also stepped forward, touching your shoulder lightly.
"Are you okay? You need to go up now, the podium ceremony is starting." Around them, cameras kept flashing, fans and media waiting for you to move. At that moment, you feel like you have been reborn in the same body. Damn, your head aches like hell and you feel…weird. You don’t feel like a teenager eager to prove yourself, to be seen anymore. But more like an adult, racing for the love of the game.
You blinked, finally focusing as Lando guided you by the elbow, steadying your steps. Your legs felt weak, not from exhaustion, but from the emotions swirling inside of you. The adrenaline crash was real. You walked beside Lando toward the podium ramp, where flags of Australia waved under golden sunlight. The crowd noise surged again as you approached.
Max stood at second place on stage, already in position and glanced down when he saw you.
Their eyes locked, just for a split second as you climbed the podium steps to the first place. A flash of everything they’d been through, the past, the silence, the airport fight. All condensed into one quiet moment. And under all that intensity? That stupidly strong feeling you hadn’t been able to shake: you still liked Max. A lot.
The official photographer, positioned near the podium called out:
"Y/N! Look this way, please!"
You startled slightly, snapping your gaze from Max to the camera like you’d been caught daydreaming. The flash went off immediately, capturing your mid-turn: cheeks faintly pink under race-day tan, eyes wide and a little dazed. You forced a small smile for the photo but it didn’t reach your eyes like Max’s confident grin did.
The picture would later trend online: "McLaren’s rookie… distracted?"
The bitterness lingered like the taste of something horrible and shameful that wouldn’t go away no matter how much you swallowed. Every time you glanced at Max on the podium, standing there all cool and collected in second place, the resentment crept back.
Not because Max seems happy. But because they hadn't spoken. Because everything between them had broken… and here they were, side by side, pretending nothing happened.
The internet exploded within minutes. Every news outlet, fan page, and racing meme account immediately posted the photo:
You on the podium, cheeks flushed red, from heat or embarrassment?, eyes wide like a startled deer, mouth slightly open. Clearly not focused on being champion… but staring at someone else.
Back in the McLaren garage, the atmosphere was electric. Mechanics grinned at each other, some smacking you on the shoulder as they walked through. One even handed you a cold drink without asking. The mood was pure celebration: their rookie had just won his P1.
Coach Artturi Simila stood by a monitor, arms crossed but smiling. "Well done," he said simply when you approached. You hugged him and said your “thank you, coach” for being your friend, for being a father figure and a good coach.
The garage buzzed with post-race energy, mechanics still high-fiving, engineers reviewing data but the moment Max walked in, everything shifted slightly. He wasn’t announced. Didn’t need to be. Just appeared at the entrance of the McLaren garage, Red Bull cap pulled low, hands holding 2 cans of energy drink. The crowd around them quieted instinctively. Your small smile faded instantly.
Max stood there, tall and quiet, mechanics pausing their work to glance at him. The tension was thick. Then he spoke, voice calm, measured. No anger. Just… direct.
"Congrats on your first P1.” Simple words.
But they hung heavy between them.
“Thank you.” You didn’t want to speak further.
Max held two energy drinks, one in each hand. The same brand you two always shared after races: citrus-flavored, high caffeine, their little tradition from the past. He didn’t say anything about it. Just stood there… offering one to you like nothing had changed. Like they still did this every post-race. Like you hadn’t stopped texting him weeks ago. The mechanics nearby watched quietly, they remembered this ritual too. He took a breath, then dropped it casually, like he was commenting on the weather.
"I broke up with Kelly." then looked at you, waiting to see how you’d react. His expression gave nothing away: calm blue eyes searching your face.
“Why is it my business?” you raise an eyebrow. Wow, you don't care anymore.
Max’s expression didn’t change, no hurt, no anger. Just a slow blink, like he expected that response. He shrugged.
"Didn't say it was your business." he replied evenly. before adding:
"Just telling you." The garage felt suddenly quieter around them. Mechanics pretended to be busy tuning engines or checking data but they were listening.
The glare was cold, sharp, even. You didn’t say anything, but your expression screamed judgment: like Max had just said something stupid or irrelevant. Max noticed. Of course he did. He wasn’t used to being glared at by you, not after all the years they’d known each other. It stung a little… but he kept his face neutral. It made him realize you’re no longer the eager kid chasing him around wanting to know everything about him anymore. Like your soft spot for him is gone, and now he’s getting to know how you treat people with none.
The garage erupted into celebration once Max leaves and corks popping, champagne spraying as mechanics passed bottles around. The McLaren team was ecstatic: their rookie had just won his first Grand Prix! Let's focus on the happy news here! Lando grabbed you by the shoulders, pulling you into a tight hug before splashing champagne over your head playfully.
"Congrats, mate!" other engineers shouted, raising glasses. You laughed, a real one this time, letting yourself get swept up in the joy. The champagne sprayed everywhere, foamy and fizzy, drenching your race suit from head to toe. You squeaked, actually squeaked as cold liquid soaked through the fabric, sticking your hair down.
Cameras captured everything: The wide-eyed look on your face. Your now-soaked McLaren logo faded by bubbles. The pure chaos of a rookie being absolutely drenched in celebration.
The broadcast camera zoomed in, focusing on you, drenched head to toe in champagne, your suit clinging wetly to you. The golden liquid sparkled under the lights. Social media exploded instantly.
Fan edits popped up within minutes:
"Champagne Baby Y/N L/N” followed by trending hashtags: #Y/NTheChampion
#champagnebaby
Fans called you "handsome," "gorgeous," even posted slow-mo clips of the spray hitting your face, zoomed into the wet suit that hugs your abs, some saying you looked like a romance movie scene.
One win race and you’re in demand. The Calvin Klein ad dropped, just a single teaser image at first: you shirtless, wearing only their iconic black-and-white boxers, standing in front of a sleek minimalist backdrop. Your toned physique on full display: defined shoulders, abs from training hard for months, slutty waist, meaty biceps. It blew up. Fans lost their minds. Comment sections flooded with heart emojis and screams. It’s like the ad sent women into mass psychosis.
Calvin Klein stores worldwide became temporary tourist attractions the moment your ad video started playing on their giant screens. Customers crowded around, phones out recording the footage of you striding confidently in slow motion, shirtless and smirking subtly. Some even took selfies with the screen. Sales spiked immediately. Employees reported people buying whatever was featured in your campaign just because it looked like you. It’s like you made their boxers look ten times hotter. The brand hadn’t seen this level of hype since a major celebrity collaboration.
The British Grand Prix was drenched, constant rain poured over Silverstone, turning the track slick and dangerous. The sky was gray, heavy with storm clouds. Max drove… but not like usual. He wasn’t aggressive. Didn’t push hard in overtakes. Even his team radio sounded off, less fiery than normal. Something about this race felt different for him. Distracted. Off his game.
The race unfolded with Lando and you leading on the track, McLaren’s duo dominating in the rain, their tires performing better than expected. They exchanged positions smoothly, working together like a well-oiled team. Max struggled to keep up. Not because he wasn’t fast but because his rhythm was off. He made a risky move to overtake Gasly… only to spin slightly on wet track before recovering and keeping the same pace for now. The crowd groaned at the rare mistake.
The sky opens up, turning the track into a sheet of glass. Max fights the steering wheel, but the tires lose their grip on the wet asphalt, hydroplaning out of control. In a heartbeat, the car spins. The rear tire clips the high curb at the wrong angle, and gravity loses its hold. Time seems to slow down. The world goes upside down as the multi-million-dollar car flips through the air, a terrifying blur of carbon fiber and spray. Inside the cockpit, Max is gripping on the wheel with his life, the breath knocked right out of him. The upside-down car slams back onto the gravel trap with a sickening crunch. Silence fills his helmet, broken only by his own heavy breathing and the frantic call of the team radio. "Max, are you okay? Respond, please!" Heart pounding against his ribs, he blinks through the visor, alive but completely shaken and stuck. The Red Bull car looks just like a smushed bug, trapping half conscious Max inside.
You saw the incident on your dashboard monitor, Max’s car wedged against the barrier, motionless. No pit crew near yet. Max wasn’t moving either. Something in you snapped. Without hesitation, ignoring McLaren team radio yelling "Y/N, focus!" You turned your wheel sharply and steered off-course, cutting through grass to get back to where Max was stuck. The crowd gasped as cameras zoomed in. The spot is too far for Max to be rescued in time before anything worse happens.
You unbuckled your helmet, shoved the McLaren door open and sprinted across the wet grass toward Max’s car. Without thinking, you grabbed the side of Red Bull’s rear wing and pull, muscles straining as rainwater soaked your race suit. The barrier had pinned Max stuck in the cockpit. Steam seeps out from the crash and makes your blood run cold.
The camera drone hovered above them, broadcasting live:
The McLaren rookie gave up the race and helped Verstappen.
The Red Bull’s engine hissed violently, steam erupting from the overheating radiator as you strained against the metal, pulling with every ounce of strength you had. The crash has made it crooked and completely crushing Max inside. It was hard. And so damn heavy.
But finally, with a loud creak, the barrier gave way just enough for Max to shift his body forward an inch or two. Not free… but no longer completely jammed. Max blinked, startled by what you were doing.
Max fumbled with the cockpit hatch, finally managing to unlatch it after a few desperate tries. The second he swung it open and tried to climb out on his own but couldn’t, the pain shot through him and then you were there, reaching in. Without hesitation, you grabbed Max’s arm and yanked, pulling him out of the car. Your palms, slit open from contact with the sharp, broken metal, now bleeding all over his.
The Red Bull’s engine roared, metal screeching as steam poured out in thick clouds. The smell of burning rubber and overheating parts filled the air. You panicked for a second…Was it going to explode?
You didn’t wait to find out. Still holding Max’s arm, you yanked him further away from the car, dragging them both toward your McLaren parking nearby.
You shoved Max, hard right in the chest, once, twice. Not angry like yelling… but frustrated. Hurt.
"Why do you keep making mistakes?!" You snapped, voice cracking slightly. Each push was more about emotion than force, like you couldn’t understand why Max, of all people, the fastest driver on the grid was messing up like this. Max staggered back a step, stunned by your outburst. Max swallowed hard, rain mixing with the sweat on his face. His voice came out quiet, raw, not like his usual confident self.
"I… can’t stop thinking about you…" No excuses about Kelly. No blame on you for pulling away. Just that: he missed you.
“Oh fuck you! You’re full of shit-” you scold, voice loud and shaking with emotion, and stomped your foot beside Max, who was slumped against the curb, half-conscious from pain and exhaustion. Max didn’t even try to argue. Just winced as he adjusted his burned hand slightly. The adrenaline crash was hitting him hard. The stress of the race… your outburst… everything. He blinked slowly at you, tired eyes full of regret. If only he has forced himself to focus…
The rainwater mixed with a thin trail of blood trickling from Max’s temple, likely from hitting his head when the car spun. It wasn’t gushing… but it was enough to stain the wet pavement beneath him. You finally noticed the red streak cutting through rain-soaked hair. Your anger vanished in an instant. Without thinking, you dropped to your knees beside Max, hands hovering like you didn’t know where to touch without hurting him more.
You carefully gathered Max into your arms, cradling him like he weighed nothing. The world around them exploded into motion, medics sprinting from the medical center, marshals clearing the area and checking out Max’s crashed car, quickly preventing it from further destruction. One medic gently pried your arms away to check Max properly.
The medical team swiftly loaded Max onto the stretcher, oxygen already administered as they carried him toward the ambulance waiting at the edge of the turn. You sat back on the curb alone, soaked and trembling, not from cold, but from an adrenaline crash. Your race was definitely disqualified for leaving track to help. McLaren would face scrutiny later.
The F1 broadcast camera, mounted on a drone glided overhead, capturing the aftermath in high definition. The feed cut to you: still sitting alone on the curb, helmet gone, hair damp and messy from rain.
The large screens around Silverstone displayed him live, the world seeing his exhausted face, shoulders slumped. No celebration. Just… quiet devastation.
Commentators went silent for a beat.
Then David Croft spoke softly into his mic:
"That's Y/N L/N... who just risked everything."
The glove was torn, split right down the side from where you had grabbed Max’s car in a panic. Underneath, his palm and fingers were raw, red with irritation from pushing against hot metal. It stung. Badly.
But you hadn’t even noticed it until now, too focused on Max being taken away. Only when you flexed your hand did pain shoot up. The adrenaline was wearing off… and reality, injuries were hitting.
You pushed yourself up from the curb, wincing slightly as your burned hand throbbed. You ignored it and focused. Without a word to anyone, you walked back toward the McLaren car. They knew what had happened… and that you shouldn’t even be racing now. But you climbed into your car anyway. At least let you finish this race.
You crossed the finish line, last place, miles behind the leader. But you finished. Mother did not raise a quitter.
The moment his McLaren rolled into park, mechanics and staff rushed over like worried parents. They surrounded him: checking for injuries, scanning your face for signs of exhaustion or pain. One engineer gently took your bleeding burned hand to inspect it properly, others asked if you were okay despite everything that happened.
The engineer gasped softly at the sight of your burned palms, red and inflamed from pulling on Max’s overheating car.
"Oh, damn." he muttered, immediately loosening his grip. The team doctor arrived next, gently taking your hands to assess the damage properly.
The podium lights glowed, Lando Norris stood proudly on the top step, champagne bottle in hand. The crowd cheered for him: first place.
You should’ve been there too.
If you hadn’t stopped. If you hadn’t dragged Max away from a burning crashed car.
You would’ve finished second… right beside your teammate.
But instead? You sat on a bench near McLaren’s garage, bandaged hand resting as medics treated it quietly. You look up to see coach Artturi Simila. “I’m sorry…” automatically escapes your lips. You feel like you have let him down.
He only looked at you, really looked. No anger in his eyes. Just understanding. He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze.
"Don’t be sorry." he said quietly.
Then, after a beat:
"You did the right thing."
The coach knew what mattered more than podiums, and saving lives was one of them.
The giant screen replayed it, the dramatic moment you had spun your McLaren into a perfect, almost cinematic circle to reverse course back to Max’s wrecked car.
The F1 MC narrated:
"A move of pure instinct… and heroism."
Then added something overly sentimental:
"When racing meets humanity."
You groaned, mortified by how cheesy it all sounded.
The medic didn’t warn you, just dabbed soaked cotton on your burned hand with clinical precision to clean up. You jumped, a loud "FUCK!" bursting out of you as pain shot through your fingers. You nearly kicked the medical bench in reflex.
The mechanic flinched too, then apologized:
"Sorry! The job needs to be done." But he kept going anyway, cleaning the raw skin.
Lando walked into the garage, still buzzing from his podium finish, champagne stains on his suit. But when he saw you sitting there with a bandaged hand and exhausted face…
His smile dropped instantly.
"Oi" he said softly, rushing over. He crouched in front of you, scanning you like a worried brother would, concerned flashing across his features. “Congratulations” you said. Lando studied your face, the exhaustion, the pain in your eyes. Then he glanced at the bandaged hand.
"Thanks." he said quietly about his win… but it didn’t feel important right now. He sat beside you on the bench, close enough to show support.
The after-party buzzed, music, champagne, celebrations for Lando’s win. But you weren’t there. Instead, you texted your manager:
"Can you take me to the hospital?"
No explanation needed. Your manager knew exactly why: Max had been taken there earlier after his injuries. Within minutes, they were heading out in a private car toward Silverstone Medical Center. The hospital room was dim, soft lighting, the steady beep of monitors. Max lay in bed, propped up slightly with pillows. His head was bandaged… but his blue eyes were wide open and alert.
You crept in silently. Didn’t announce yourself.
Just walked to the bedside like a shadow. Then, Max turned his head slowly. Their eyes met. And you froze mid-step like a startled cat.
“AGH!” you flinched out loud, body flinched like you had seen a ghost. “Jesus, I thought you haven't woken up yet. The doctor said at least not until another hour” you muttered, hand rubs your chest where the heart lays to calm yourself down. A habit.
Max blinked, startled by your loud flinch and shout. Then, when he processed the words… a tiny smirk tugged at his lips.
"Doc said that?" he mumbled, voice hoarse from lying down for hours. His hands were bandaged too, resting stiffly on top of the blanket. The monitors beeped steadily beside him. He studied your face, the guilt, worry… maybe relief? All mixed together.
“Damn it, Max. You scared the shit out of me” you huffed. Max exhaled, almost a laugh, but it hurt too much to fully smile, his entire face aches. He watched you kick the chair closer with that signature scowl.
"Sorry," he said dryly, with no real apology in his tone.
Then, after a beat of silence:
"You came." Like he feels the need to confirm it. He hadn’t expected you to show up at all.
“Of course…” you muttered before turning to the TV where the race replay was still looping, showing your flawless drift maneuver to reverse back toward him. “Why the hell are you watching this” you huffed.
He shrugged slightly, wincing at the movement.
"They’ve been playing it all afternoon," he admitted.
Then, with a faint smirk:
"It’s kinda badass." Written all over his face was genuine appreciation for what you had done.
“What do you know about badass?” You roll your eyes and snatch the remote to turn it off, embarrassed that the replay is all over the internet now with corny headlines.
Max chuckled despite the pain. It was rare for him to laugh, especially after a crash like that.
"Hey" he protested weakly, raising a bandaged hand like he could stop you from turning it off. But you already snatched the remote and clicked the TV off, plunging the room into quiet except for monitor beeps. Now it was just them. No distractions.
The movement of snatching the remote had pulled at your bandaged hand, your face tightened slightly as pain flared in your palm. You didn’t make a sound… but you clenched your jaw. That’s enough for Max to notice instantly. His eyes dropped to your wrapped hand, the redness peeking through the gauze. Without asking, Max slowly reached out and gently took your wrist to inspect it.
You pulled your hand back, like playing hard to get while Max's feelings are all over the place.
“All thanks to you.” you huff sarcastically.
Max’s expression flickered, hurt flashing in his eyes for a split second before he masked it. He wasn’t used to being the one who messed up… and had someone resent him for it.
He swallowed, then spoke quietly:
"I know." The silence between them grew heavier, charged with unspoken words and regret.
“Damn! Are you nuts?!” You scold and grab his wrist, stopping him from unplugging the heart rate monitor and IV lines. His intent was clear: he wanted to hug you. So bad. Those things were in the way. Your scolding made Max blink… then, slowly, a small, tired smile tugged at his lips. He didn’t say anything.
Just shifted slightly, making it obvious he still wanted that hug. The machines beeped protestingly as Max leaned forward carefully.
The realization hit you like a wave. Max, injured Max, wanted to hug you. For a split second, you stayed rigid… surprised. Then instinct kicked in. Gently avoiding the IV tubes and wires still attached to Max’s arms, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him carefully, a soft but firm hug. Max exhaled into it… relief flooding through him.
Your burned hand throbbed painfully as you hugged Max, every muscle in your arms stiff from the injury. But you ignored it, tightening the embrace slightly instead. Max pressed his face into your neck, breathing you in, warm skin, faint sweat from rushing to the hospital earlier, and that familiar scent.
Max kept murmuring "sorry" against your shoulder, each whisper quiet, raw. He could feel the tension in your arms, the stiffness from your injured hand and body. Guilt twisted inside him. He hated that he was causing you pain just by hugging. Gently, Max tried to loosen his grip… like he wanted to let go before hurting you more.
“Rest” you simply said.
Max nodded, reluctantly pulling back from the hug. His eyes, usually so intense, looked tired now. The adrenaline crash and painkillers were hitting him hard. He sank back into the hospital pillows, wincing slightly as his bandaged head brushed against them. You watched him settle… then quietly reached for the blanket at the foot of Max’s bed and adjusted it over his shoulders like a caretaker would.
Max’s voice was soft, uncertain. A rare crack in his usual confident demeanor. He calls out before you can reach for the door.
"Y/N…"
He hesitated, then asked:
"Are you coming back?"
The question slipped out before he could stop it. Max hated sounding needy, but right now, in this sterile hospital room with no one but machines around him… he felt abandoned.
“Yeah.”
The door clicked shut softly behind you. The sound was quiet… but to Max, it carried weight. He exhaled slowly. Relieved.
You had said yeah. That alone was enough for Max to close his eyes, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he finally let himself relax, knowing you would come back.
Every day, without fail, you show up at the hospital with random things. Today’s item was a magazine. On page 7 was you, shirtless, posting in only boxers and unzip denim.
Max would flip through them quietly when alone… staring at the glossy pages long after dark. Then text you random things late at night: "Did you really pose shirtless for this?"
Or just send memes out of nowhere.
Your phone buzzed constantly, late-night texts from him to you. Memes, random articles about racing, even photos of his own Red Bull merch collection with text like "This one’s my favorite." It was weird for him, usually so private but he couldn’t stop. Every time you visited and left again… Max felt the silence too much. And every day without fail, you walked in holding takeout or a magazine or poster featuring your latest campaign, a smug little grin on your face when Max stared at the pages like they were sacred.
Max kept the Calvin Klein poster tucked under his arm like it was contraband, especially that one spread. The black-and-white minimalist shot: you in nothing but sleek boxers and unzipped jeans, all sharp angles and confidence. It did things to him. Things he couldn’t control. Things that made hospital nights feel…awfully long. He’d stare at the page until his cheeks burned, then quickly shove it under his pillow when nurses walked by.
You found it amusing, how Max, of all people, was turning into the clingy one. It mirrored your own past self: when you used to obsess over Max silently, watching races just to see him drive. Now? The tables had turned.
Max was the emotional one texting nonstop… while you, the once starstruck rookie had grown private and composed. More mature. You didn’t complain about the messages though. Just smirked at your phone between meetings.
Coach Artturi Simila crossed his arms, leaning against the garage wall as he watched you again, glancing at the buzzing phone with a tiny smile. The kind only love-struck idiots wore. He sighed. Not angry… but concerned.
During their next debrief, Artturi didn’t mince words:
"Y/N. You’re distracted."
A pause. Then bluntly:
“Max Verstappen is going to ruin your focus."
“How do you even know-” you huffed out loud like a teenager caught red handed by mother. How could Coach know you were messaging Max?
Coach Artturi raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. He didn’t need proof, he’d seen the way you looked at your phone like it held the universe.
"Please..." *Ryan scoffed "you’ve got that lovesick face every time your screen lights up. It’s not hard to guess."
Then he leaned in slightly:
"And I saw Max’s name pop up on your lock screen yesterday while your phone was buzzing like crazy."
“Oh.” You scratched the back of your head, caught. Your usual cool, collected demeanor cracked for a second under Artturi’s knowing stare. The garage was quiet except for distant engine tests.
Artturi softened slightly but stayed firm:
"Look… I’m not saying stop seeing him."
A beat.
"But don’t let it mess up your race prep."
You heard it loud and clear “Yes sir”
The engineer, usually calm and analytical, chewed his lip as he watched your telemetry. The data told the story: slightly slower reaction times, half-a-second delays in cornering that added up over a lap.
"Something’s off" the engineer muttered to Artturi not blaming you… just stating facts. Artturi exhaled through his nose. He knew exactly what or who was the variable here.
The helmet came off, your face was slick with sweat, hair sticking to your forehead from the summer heat. Your chest rose and fell heavily after pushing through practice. Coach Artturi didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you, the exhaustion in your eyes, the tension in your jaw.
Then Ryan finally spoke:
"We need to talk." No anger. Just a firm tone that meant this isn't about performance anymore.
“Am I in trouble?” you asked.
Coach Artturi's stern expression softened slightly at the question. He wasn’t about to scold you like a child, Artturi had practically raised you since you joined McLaren. He sighed.
"No.” he said quietly.
"I’m worried. It’s affecting your driving. Clearly"
Coach Ryan saw it, the flicker in your eyes. Not guilt… but flashbacks. The memory of Max’s car spinning, the steam, the panic…it was replaying every time you hit a high-speed corner. He exhaled slowly, reading you like a book. "Is it… about Max?"
“Yes…I’m sorry. The memory wouldn’t go away” you admitted quietly.
Artturi’s expression shifted, understanding dawning. This wasn’t about Max romantically… It was about the crash. The trauma of seeing your rival nearly die in flames. He didn’t scold you.Instead, he pulled him into a firm hug, the kind a dad gives when their kid is carrying something heavy.
"It’s okay." Artturi murmured, rubbing your back slightly. "You don’t have to apologize for that."
For a moment, they just stood there, sun warming their backs as the distant hum of engines echoed from other teams’ practice sessions. They broke the hug.
Then Artturi spoke:
"You need to talk about it."
“To who? Max? Hell no” you huffed. Body tensed up a little. One thing about you is that…you don’t like facing the problem directly.
Artturi raised an eyebrow at your immediate refusal. He didn’t push about Max, not yet. Instead, he focused on the tense reaction itself.
"Not just Max." Artturi clarified calmly. "You need to process it with someone… a therapist, maybe."
“I don’t need a therapist” you shoot back stubbornly. Artturi didn’t argue with you, just gave you that look. The one that said I know you better than this.
He kept his voice level:
"You think I’d suggest it if it wasn’t serious?"
Then softer:
"It’s not a weakness. It’s taking care of yourself."
The pout melted off your face as the reality settled in. He was right, you did need help, even if admitting it felt weird. Artturi didn’t push further. Just nodded subtly, satisfied that you were at least considering it now.
Then he added:
"I can recommend someone discreet… no one has to know." A private solution for a private problem.
“Thank you” You simply said. Grateful? Yes
Artturi gave a small, warm smile, rare for him and squeezed your shoulder one last time before standing up.
"Anytime" he said Then, in classic coach fashion:
"Now go shower. You reek of sweat."
It was his way of lightening the mood… and giving you space to breathe after such a heavy talk.
About therapy…At first, you showed up on time, sat in the quiet office, answered questions honestly. But as sessions went on… you started making excuses.
"Too busy with practice."
"Race prep is crazy."
Then your texts to Max slowed too. Ghosting him without explanation. The therapist noticed. Max definitely did. He didn’t take it as easy. He was pissed.
The Qatar Grand Prix buzzed with electric tension. Max was back, fully healed, sharp as ever and he dominated the race, standing tall on the podium in first place.
You finished second. A solid result… but emotionally hollow. You managed to focus and recorded a good performance.
During interviews: reporters asked about their dynamic. Max gave polite answers, glancing subtly at you, who kept your gaze forward or down, barely acknowledging him.
Afterwards, you sneak into the changing room, feeling like you need to breathe. You don’t understand why you are an emotional wreck now, maybe months of bottling up and isolation has come to a point.
The moment the changing room door clicked shut behind them, Max, still in his podium suit shoved you backward. Not violently… but with intensity, pinning you against the lockers. His hands gripped your racing collar tightly, blue eyes blazing. No words yet, just raw frustration and hurt boiling over. How could you ignore him? In front of the interviewer too? Max wasn’t asking nicely anymore.
"What the fuck?" Max hissed through gritted teeth. "You saved me… then you ghosted me like I meant nothing?" No greeting. Just demands for answers.
“You don't understand" you scold. Couldn’t bring your gaze away from his either. He was caging you there already.
His frown deepened at your scolding tone like he was the unreasonable one.
"Then make me understand." Max shot back, voice low but fierce. “How you won't even look at me?" The hurt underlined every word.
“I can’t drive properly with you stuck in my mind…you’re like a distraction I can’t afford” you muttered. Tone filled with exhaustion.
Max froze for a split second, processing your words. A distraction.
His grip on your collar loosened slightly, the anger shifting into something more confused… vulnerable.
"So you… avoided me." Max said slowly.It wasn’t an excuse but it made sense in a painful way.
“I have to relive the moment your car spins off every damn practice. All over again”
*Max’s expression shifted completely—anger melting into stunned realization. The crash. You weren't avoiding him… you were running from the trauma of that day.
The image of Max’s car spinning, sharp metal cut through gloves, the horror you must’ve relived every time you took a high-speed turn.
For the first time, guilt flashed across Max’s face. He hadn’t considered how much it had affected you too.
“You make me soft, Max. When I finally toughened up” You admitted bitterly.
Max’s chest tightened at your words. The bitterness in your tone… it stung. He wasn’t used to being the reason someone felt weak. He was a competitor, hard, ruthless, focused on winning. But you had spent years building that mental armor… and Max accidentally shattered it by just existing. For once, Max didn’t have a comeback. Just silence as he absorbed the weight of what he’d unknowingly done.
His voice cracked, something rare for him. He took a shaky breath, hands still loosely gripping your collar like he was afraid to let go completely.
"I didn’t realize…" he admitted "that I cared about you that much until you were gone."
Then quietly, almost pleading:
"Please… give me a chance to fix this."
The fog in your mind thickened, panic rising. This was too much: Max confessing, emotions spilling everywhere, the weight of months of avoidance crashing down at once. Your breath hitched. Muscles tensed like you might bolt. Max saw it, the instinct to run. And without thinking, he did something impulsive…He closed the distance and kissed you. Just once. Soft but firm, cutting through all the chaos.
The kiss lasted only a few seconds, Max pulled back just enough to search your face for a reaction. You were frozen, eyes wide, lips slightly parted in shock. Your entire body stayed rigid like your brain hadn’t caught up yet.
Max held his breath. Did he mess up? Was this too much?
Max didn’t kiss you again. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you in a gentle hug, careful, tentative. Like offering comfort rather than demanding anything. His heartbeat was steady against your chest, the champagne scent fading as Max nuzzles in the crook of your neck. A silent plea for forgiveness… and maybe a chance to start over.
Max felt the subtle shift, your arms hesitantly lifting to return the hug. It wasn’t enthusiastic… but it was something. A small, quiet yes. His shoulders relaxed instantly. Relief flooded through him, the first real hope he’d had in months. He didn’t say anything.
Just held you a little tighter.
“If you place first in the next race…I’ll consider it.” You said simply. With that tiny smirk of yours finally showing.
Max blinked, processing your condition. A challenge wrapped in a promise.
If he won the next Grand Prix… then you would actually consider being with him? Not just forgiveness but a real shot?
A competitive smirk tugged at Max’s lips. He loved challenges, especially ones tied to racing.
"Deal." he said simply, voice firm and already focused on victory.
“You fucking asshole…” You scold and push him back, clearly annoyed he stormed in and grabbed you like that.
Max grinned, actually grinned at the playful shove. The tension from earlier was completely gone, replaced by something lighter. He caught your wrist before you could pull away fully and tugged you back in, stealing a quick kiss on your cheek this time teasing, not serious.
"Asshole?" Max repeated with mock offense "After I just hugged you like a gentleman?”
Coach Artturi stopped dead in the doorway, his keys still dangling from his hand. The sight of Max kissing your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world short-circuited him. His eyes widened. Mouth slightly open. For a second, he just stood there… processing that Max Verstappen, the guy who raced with awfully arrogant smugness, was being affectionate with Y/N L/N. His driver.
“Coach-...” you shoved Max back and straightened yourself up. Max stumbled back half a step, still smiling like an idiot, cheeks slightly pink from the kiss. He turned to face Coach Artturi too, but his expression was more calm than guilty.
Ryan cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Uh."
A beat of silence. Then:
"You two… good?" Asking about them, not racing for once.
“...yeah?” You muttered
Artturi nodded slowly, still taking in the scene: you slightly flustered, Max looking uncharacteristically soft. He didn’t judge. Didn’t even tease you… yet.
Instead, he just said:
"Good. Dinner’s at 8." his usual post-race team dinner invitation before turning to leave and give you space again. The door clicked shut behind him as he exited quietly.
Max chuckled at your frustrated huff “God damn it…” it was cute how flustered you got. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second too long.
Then Max smirked:
"So… we’re doing this?" gesturing vaguely between them, voice low with quiet excitement.
“Yeah...after allat anger shit you got going on there?” you rolled your eyes.
Max laughed, a real, unfiltered laugh. Your bluntness was refreshing after months of silence. He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish about how intense he’d been earlier: grabbing you, demanding answers… basically going full drama mode.
"Yeah… sorry about that…" Max admitted with a crooked smile. "Got a little heated."
“A little?” You huffed sarcastically.
He rolled his eyes at your sarcasm but he was smiling, so it didn’t land as an insult. If anything, Max found it endearing how unimpressed you acted.
"Okay, fine." he conceded with a playful sigh. "I lost my shit." Then he stepped closer again, slowly this time and brushed his thumb over your cheekbone before leaning in for another kiss… softer this time.
What if he lost? Well…he won’t. You know Max will make sure of that.
