hi i'm ana! just a nutrition student, entirely too obsessed with sports, and writing silly fics.
about me 💌
• she/her | 18+ | latina
• english is not my first language, so please excuse any typos!
• rbr fan, music & cinema lover & i literally love talking to people, so please don't be shy!
requests & asks 💬
• requests are open! send me ur prompts/ideas (i DO NOT write smut!!)
• my askbox is always open, come scream about races or just chat anytime! <3
pairing: Lando Norris x Reader (second-person pov!!)
contents: fake dating, friends to lovers, pr nightmare, slow burn, mutual pining, flustered lando, paddock politics, soft touches, late night conversations (bc why not), shared hoodies.
word Count: 3.8k
synopsis: When a hot mic joke on a live stream gets twisted into a massive tabloid rumor about Lando Norris dating McLaren’s junior media manager, the team’s PR department decides the easiest way to handle the press is to play along. It’s a simple arrangement: pretend to date through the European leg of the season to shift the media focus. But when the cameras stop flashing and you’re left alone in his Monaco apartment, the lines between what’s fake and what’s real begin to blur.
author's note: hey guys! first of all, i am so, so sorry for completely disappearing for like a whole month. i promise i didn't abandon you! 😭 the reason for my absence is actually amazing news: i got into my dream college! 🎉 i was so incredibly happy (and honestly in shock) that my brain just completely reset. between celebrating, screaming, and having to run around like crazy to sort out all the paperwork, send in documents, and organize my life, i completely forgot to update things here. but the chaos has finally settled and i am officially back! i actually have some ideas and recipes already prepared and waiting for you guys. thank you so much for your patience and for supporting me on my first post!! hope you enjoy the read! xx
"I’m going to kill you," you muttered, staring at the massive glass windows of the McLaren hospitality suite.
Lando sat across the table from you, his head buried in his hands, his knuckles white against his messy brown curls. He looked incredibly small in his oversized orange team hoodie. The ears sticking out of his hair were bright, burning red.
"I didn't think the mic was live," he groaned, his voice muffled by his palms. "Seriously. Jon told me the stream was on mute. I was just taking the piss."
"You were taking the piss," you repeated, leaning forward and tapping the screen of your iPad. On it, a Twitter clip was currently sitting at over $2\text{ million}$ views. The video was a snippet from his charity stream the night before.
In the clip, someone had asked Lando if he was seeing anyone. Instead of giving his usual awkward, stuttering refusal, he had looked off-camera—right at you, where you had been sitting on his sofa answering team emails—and grinned.
"Actually, yeah," Lando had said on the hot mic, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "I'm madly in love. We're getting married in Monaco. She just doesn't know it yet because she's too busy yelling at me about my instagram captions."
He had meant it as a joke. You were his junior media manager; your entire job was keeping his chaotic online presence from turning into a corporate disaster. You were also one of his closest friends in the paddock, the one who stayed late at the simulator with him and ordered greasy takeout when he was too tired to function.
But the internet didn't know that. Within ten minutes, the clip had gone viral. Within an hour, the British tabloids had dug up every photo of you walking into the paddock beside him, every candid shot of you laughing at his jokes on the grid, and spun it into a full-blown secret romance.
"The press is having a field day," Charlotte, the senior PR director, said as she walked into the room, her expression remarkably calm. "And honestly, given the massive headache we've had with the engine upgrade rumors and the paddock politics this week, the board thinks this is actually a very convenient distraction."
You froze. Lando slowly lifted his head, his blue eyes blinking in confusion.
"What do you mean, convenient?" you asked.
"I mean," Charlotte said, leaning against the table, "we want you to play along. Just for a few weeks. Through Silverstone and Spa. If the media is busy writing articles about Lando's sweet, low-profile relationship with a team member, they aren't writing articles about our aerodynamic floor issues."
"No," Lando said immediately, his voice cracking slightly. He looked at you, his eyes wide and slightly panicked. "No, we can't do that. That’s... that’s mental. We work together. She’s my friend."
"It’s just fake dating, Lando," Charlotte replied with a small shrug. "A few hand-held paddock walks. A couple of nice comments in press conferences. It keeps the pressure off your racing, and it keeps the team out of the negative spotlight. We’ve already cleared it with Zak."
You looked at Lando. He was staring at you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. There was a weird, heavy tension in his gaze that you couldn't quite read. He wasn't laughing anymore. The cheeky, confident boy who regularly drove at $300\text{ km/h}$ looked completely terrified by the prospect of holding your hand in public.
"It's just business," you said softly, trying to convince yourself as much as him. "We can handle a few weeks, right? It's just acting."
Lando stared at you for a long moment, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice suddenly very quiet. "Yeah, sure. Just acting."
The first test of the agreement came on Thursday afternoon at Silverstone.
The British GP was always the most chaotic weekend of the year for Lando. The home crowd was loud, demanding, and utterly obsessed with him. As you walked down the concrete steps of the engineering trailer, you could already hear the roar of the fans gathered at the paddock gates.
Lando was waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs. He was dressed in his full race kit, his helmet bag slung over his shoulder. When he saw you, he stopped, his fingers fidgeting nervously with the strap of his bag.
"Ready?" you asked, offering him a small, encouraging smile.
"Not really," he admitted, a small, self-deprecating laugh escaping him. "My hands are sweating, mate. If I hold your hand, you're going to think I'm gross."
"I already think you're gross, Norris," you teased, stepping closer. "You leave your dirty socks in the simulator room."
That made him chuckle, the tension in his shoulders dropping slightly. "Alright, fair enough."
He took a breath, his expression shifting into something a bit more focused. He reached out, his hand hesitating in the air for a fraction of a second before his fingers slid into yours.
His hand wasn't gross. It was large, warm, and slightly calloused from the steering wheel. He didn't just hold your hand loosely; his fingers slipped between yours, interlocking them tightly, his thumb resting right over your knuckles.
The moment his skin touched yours, a sudden, electric shock traveled straight up your arm, settling right in the center of your chest. Your breath caught.
As you stepped out of the trailer and into the paddock, the flashing lights of the cameras instantly found you. The quiet murmur of the crowd turned into a sudden barrage of shouting.
"Lando! Over here!" "Is it official, Lando?" "Give us a smile!"
You felt your posture stiffen, your natural instinct to shrink back from the media taking over. But before you could pull away, Lando squeezed your hand tightly. He didn't look at the cameras. He kept his eyes forward, but he leaned in slightly, his shoulder brushing yours.
"Just look at me," he whispered, his voice low and incredibly steady. "Ignore them. Just walk."
You looked at him. His profile was calm, his jaw set, but you could see the faint, nervous flush rising on his neck. For the first time, you realized how much effort he put into looking untouchable. You kept your eyes fixed on his profile until you reached the safety of the McLaren garage, the doors sliding shut behind you to block out the noise.
The moment you were inside, you went to pull your hand back, but Lando’s grip lingered for a beat too long, his fingers reluctantly sliding away from yours.
"See?" he said, his voice a bit raspy as he rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks pink. "Not so bad. Didn't even drop you."
"You did great," you said, your heart still beating a little too fast. "Go do your engineering meeting. I'll be at the media desk."
He gave you a quick, lingering nod before turning toward the back of the garage. You watched him go, your hand still tingling where his fingers had been.
By Saturday night, the paddock had cleared out, but the pressure of the weekend had clearly caught up to him.
Lando had qualified fourth—a good result, but he was a perfectionist, and he had missed out on the front row by less than $0.1\text{ seconds}$. When you walked into his private driver’s room to deliver his media schedule for Sunday, he was lying flat on his back on the small physical therapy table, his eyes closed, his arm draped over his forehead.
"If you're here to tell me I have to do another sponsor interview, I'm going to jump out the window," he muttered without moving.
"No interviews," you said gently, closing the door behind you. "Just your schedule for tomorrow. Warm-up at ten, drivers' parade at eleven."
Lando let out a long sigh, removing his arm from his face to look at you. He looked exhausted. The pressure of being the golden boy of British motorsport was a heavy weight, and tonight, it showed in the dark circles under his eyes.
"Sit down," he said, patting the empty space on the edge of the table. "Please. I haven't talked to anyone today who didn't ask me about tire degradation or corner speeds."
You smiled, setting your iPad down on the desk, and sat on the edge of the table near his feet. "You drove a good lap, Lando. The car just didn't have the straight-line speed of the Red Bull."
"I made a mistake in sector three," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, self-critical tone he always used when he was disappointed in himself. "I carried too much speed into the chicane. I could have had second."
"And you'll get them at the start tomorrow," you said firmly. "You're the best starter on the grid. You know that."
Lando looked at you, his blue eyes soft and incredibly quiet in the dim light of the room. He shifted his position, sliding up on the table until he was sitting cross-legged right next to you. He was wearing his gray McLaren team t-shirt, his hair a wild, curly mess.
"Do you really think so?" he asked. There was no arrogance in his voice, no world-class athlete bravado. He looked like the nineteen-year-old boy who had entered the paddock years ago, desperately hoping he was good enough.
"I know so," you said softly. "I've watched your telemetry, Lando. I see how you drive. You're incredible."
A slow, genuine smile broke through his exhaustion, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before his fingers gently caught the hem of your sleeve, tugging on it lightly.
"Thanks," he whispered. "You always know what to say."
You looked down at his fingers on your sleeve. The distance between you felt incredibly small. The quiet room was a world away from the roaring grandstands and the flashing cameras, and for a second, you forgot about the PR strategy, the fake dating, and the team directives. You just wanted to lean in, to slide your hand into his hair, to find out if his lips were as soft as they looked.
Lando’s gaze dropped to your mouth, his breathing turning a fraction shallower. His fingers slowly slid up from your sleeve, his skin brushing against your bare forearm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.
"Lando," you whispered, your voice shaking slightly.
The door suddenly clicked open, and Jon, his trainer, stepped in holding a protein shake. "Alright, Lando, time for your stretch—"
Lando pulled his hand back instantly, leaping off the table with a sudden, clumsy energy that was classic Lando. "Right! Yes! Stretching! Excellent. Let's do that."
He didn't look at you as you grabbed your iPad and slipped out of the room, but you could hear the frantic, rapid beat of your own heart echoing in your ears all the way back to the media center.
The race on Sunday was a triumph.
Lando drove an absolute masterclass, overtaking two cars at the start and holding onto a brilliant second-place finish, standing on the podium in front of a sea of roaring British fans.
By the time the post-race media frenzy finally died down, it was nearly ten in the evening. You were sitting on the steps of the McLaren hospitality unit, your legs aching from standing all day, watching the clean-up crews dismantle the grandstands in the distance.
"Hey," a voice said.
Lando walked out of the building, his trophy tucked under his arm, his race suit unzipped and tied around his waist. He looked tired but completely radiant, the residual adrenaline of the podium still glowing in his eyes.
"Hey," you smiled, standing up. "Congratulations, podium boy."
"Thanks," he said, setting the heavy gold trophy down on the step next to you. He looked down at his boots, then up at you, a familiar, cheeky grin spreading across his face. "I think... we have to do one more thing before we leave."
"What's that?"
Lando pointed to the paddock gates. Even though it was late, there was still a small group of dedicated fans and photographers waiting outside the barrier.
"Charlotte said we need a good 'victory' shot for the tabloids," Lando said, his voice dropping into a softer, slightly hesitant register. "To finish the weekend narrative."
Your stomach did a nervous flip. "What kind of shot?"
Lando stepped closer, his physical presence suddenly very warm, very real. He reached out, his hand sliding gently around the back of your waist, his palm flat against your lower back. The warmth of his hand burned through the fabric of your team shirt.
"Like this," he murmured, his eyes locked on yours.
With his other hand, he gently reached up, his fingers sliding into your hair at the back of your neck, his thumb resting along your jawline. He pulled you a fraction closer, his chest almost pressing against yours. He smelled like champagne, sweat, and the rain-slicked asphalt of the track.
"Lando," you breathed, your hands automatically coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the fast, steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palms. "Are we... is this still acting?"
Lando looked down at your lips, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizingly soft line along your jaw. The playful, cheeky boy was completely gone, replaced by a quiet, fierce intensity that made your knees feel weak.
"No," he whispered, his voice incredibly low, almost a confession. "Not for me."
Before you could process his words, Lando leaned down and pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss wasn't clumsy, and it wasn't for the cameras. It was deep, warm, and full of a desperate, lingering hunger that had been building between you for months. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him, his lips moving over yours with a gentle, possessive rhythm that made the rest of the world completely fade away.
You let out a soft sigh, your fingers tangling in the curls at the back of his neck, pulling him closer, giving yourself completely to the feeling of his mouth on yours. There was no paddock, no media, no strategy. There was only Lando—his warmth, his breath, the frantic beat of his heart against your chest.
When he finally pulled back, just a few inches, his forehead rested against yours. He was breathing heavily, his eyes dark and incredibly bright, his cheeks flushed a beautiful, deep pink.
"Definitely not acting," he murmured, a breathless, happy laugh escaping him as he squeezed your waist.
You looked up at him, your hands still resting on his chest, a soft, matching smile breaking across your face. "So... what does this mean for our PR strategy?"
Lando grinned, his fingers gently playing with a strand of your hair. "I reckon Charlotte’s going to have to write a very different press release."
Hi! I was wondering if you would use the "keep reading" tumblr feature on your long posts like your fics? The reason is because when someone is scrolling a tag on their phone, if they scroll too long on one post, the tumblr app shuts down. It's a known bug, but tumblr won't fix it. Thanks so much!
omg thank u so much for the ask!! tbh i literally just learned how to use the 'keep reading' feature yesterday because the option never showed up for me on mobile so i had no idea lol. i'll definitely start using it for my fics from now on, tysm for letting me know!! 💕
pairing: max verstappen x strategy engineer!reader, afab!reader
contents: coworkers to lovers, enemies to lovers, workplace tension, emotional slow burn, she fell first but he fell way harder, championship pressure, idiots in love, some angst ig, dry humor, soft moments, comfort.
warnings: EXTREMELY PROMINENT APPEARANCE OF JOS VERSTAPPEN AND HORNER (srryy). mentions of toxic parenting, verbal and emotional abuse from this little bitch, early-story dismissive/mildly sexist attitudes from max that are challenged and unlearned, garage rage, crying, panic, and eventual comfort.
word Count: ~8k idk...
author's note: hiiii!! this is my first fic not written in my native language so please be nice... max is genuinely on my nerves for the first half of this story but unfortunately that's necessary. reader is also kind of a menace. nobody communicates properly. enjoy and lemme know what i can do better!!
You spent five years in the freezing rain of junior categories, dragging yourself through the relentless, exhausting grind of Formula 2. You had sacrificed your sleep schedule, your personal life, and your sanity to analyze tire degradation curves on dirty plastic tables behind tire barriers. You were confident, ambitious, and a relentless perfectionist. You stood on business, always.
Unfortunately, your reward was Max Verstappen.
The transition from the F2 paddock to the sleek, hyper-corporate headquarters of Red Bull Racing in Milton Keynes was supposed to be the highlight of your life. Instead, it felt like stepping directly into a lion's den.
The official introduction happened on a rainy Tuesday morning in the main simulator briefing room. The long glass table was crowded with senior aerodynamicists, race engineers, and Christian Horner, who sat at the head of the table with a quiet, observant gaze.
"Everyone, this is our new senior performance and trackside strategy engineer," Christian announced, gesturing toward you. "She’s spent the last few seasons turning the F2 grid upside down with her tire-model predictions. We’ve brought her up to car number one to give us the edge we need against McLaren this season."
A murmur of polite welcome rippled through the room. But at the far end of the table, Max Verstappen didn't join in.
He was sitting low in his leather chair, a can of Red Bull loosely gripped in his hand. He hadn't bothered to put on a team polo, wearing a plain black t-shirt instead. His green eyes swept over you—slow, critical, and carrying a cold, dismissive undercurrent that felt entirely deliberate.
"F2 is a spec-series," Max drawled, his thick dutch accent cutting through the room's murmurs. "The aerodynamics are basic. Here, we actually develop the car. I hope you aren't planning to run our Sunday strategy based on a simulator model built for a car with half our downforce."
The room went dead silent. A few engineers looked down at their tablets, suddenly very interested in their stylus pens.
You didn't flinch. You didn't shrink. You leaned forward, placing your hands flat on the glass table, looking Max straight in the eye.
"I ran the F2 tire models because that was my job, Verstappen," you said, your voice calm, steady, and entirely unfazed. "But I also know exactly how a high-rake floor behaves under heavy yaw. And if you think my strategy models are basic, I suggest you look at the telemetry from your wind-tunnel test last week. You were stalling the diffuser on entry because you were carrying too much speed. My 'basic' F2 model is what solved that stall. You're welcome."
Max’s eyes narrowed, a hard, stubborn line forming along his jaw. He wasn't used to pushback—certainly not from a fresh face, and certainly not with this level of absolute, unwavering confidence.
Christian Horner let out a quiet, amused hum, leaning back in his chair. "Well. I think we’re in safe hands. Let's get to the Bahrain tire allocations."
The paddock in Bahrain was loud, hot, and smelled of expensive fuel and burnt rubber.
As the weeks went on, the team slowly began to adopt you. They liked your precision; they liked that you didn't panic when the live timing screens glitched. Checo bought you a coffee on your second day; GP spent hours helping you integrate into the radio loop; and Ben, the lead mechanic, had already given you your own personalized toolbox as a joke.
But Max remained an absolute brick wall.
He was a classic product of his environment—raised in a brutal, old-school world where anyone who didn't look like a grease-stained mechanic was a distraction. He was defensive, stubborn, and carried a mild, casual dismissiveness toward your role that bordered on condescension.
"Our data-desk princess has arrived," Max mocked one afternoon, leaning against the hospitality barrier as you walked past with your clipboard.
You stopped, turning on your heel to face him. Daniel Ricciardo was standing next to him, a half-eaten plate of fruit in his hand, watching the interaction with wide eyes.
"My living arrangements and my clipboard have zero impact on your downforce parameters, Max," you said, standing on business. "If you spent as much time looking at your turn-twelve telemetry as you did making snarky comments, you wouldn't have lost three-tenths to Charles in FP2."
Max’s smirk vanished. He stood up, towering over you, his presence instantly heavy and intimidating. "I drive the car. I feel the tires. If I tell you the car is understeering, I don't want to hear about your little math equations. I want a mechanical change. I don't need a girl with a laptop telling me how to handle a corner."
The casual, old-school dismissiveness of the comment hit you like a physical slap, but you didn't let him see it.
"I spent five years in the rain at F2 races while you were already driving in F1," you said, your voice dropping into a deadly, quiet register that made a nearby mechanic stop his pneumatic gun. "I know exactly how a car behaves. And if you think my gender makes me weak, I suggest you look at the strategy that put you on the podium in Bahrain. That was mine. Not Christian's. Mine."
You didn't wait for him to respond. You turned on your heel and walked toward the engineering office, your heart hammering a frantic, angry rhythm against your ribs.
"Hey, kiddo," a warm voice called out.
You paused, taking a deep, shaky breath before turning around. Daniel Ricciardo was leaning against the hospitality barrier, a massive, comforting grin on his face. He held out a paper cup of tea.
"Daniel," you breathed, letting your shoulders drop slightly.
"Heard the thunder from over here," Daniel said, his eyes kind and full of understanding. "Come here. Sit down for a minute."
You let him lead you to a quiet corner of the hospitality terrace. Daniel had been your absolute savior since you started. He was like the big brother the paddock didn't know you needed.
"He's such a jerk, Daniel," you whispered, your fingers wrapping around the warm cup. "He looks at me like I'm... like I'm nothing. Like I'm just a distraction. I worked so hard to get here."
"I know, I know," Daniel said softly, patting your arm. "Look, Max... he's a complicated guy. He was raised in a very hard way. Jos... well, you know how Jos is. In their world, the garage is a war zone, and anyone who doesn't look like a grease-stained mechanic is a threat or a distraction. He’s defensive. He doesn't know how to trust people who aren't in his immediate, tiny circle."
Daniel leaned in, his smile turning genuine and fierce. "But you stand on your business, alright? You’re brilliant. GP told me your tire-model predictions are the most accurate he’s seen. Don't let Max's big mouth make you doubt that. Everyone in this garage has your back. We’ve adopted you now. He’s the one standing in the cold."
You let out a small, wet laugh. "Thanks, Danny."
"Anytime, boss. Now go back in there and make him look stupid on the data screens."
It happened in Baku.
The Azerbaijan Grand Prix was a brutal, concrete canyon of a street circuit. It was hot, dusty, and the wind off the Caspian Sea made the car's balance wildly unpredictable.
From Friday morning, something was wrong with car number one. The brake pedal pressure was dropping slowly over long runs. It was a microscopic leak in the internal hydraulic seal of the front-left caliper—something you could see in the high-frequency telemetry, but because of parc fermé regulations and the tight schedule, a full rebuild would mean breaking the seal and taking a massive grid penalty.
You spent friday night huddled over your laptop in the engineering trailer, your eyes burning, a headache pounding behind your temples.
You worked with Ben, the lead mechanic, until three AM.
"We can't change the caliper, Ben," you muttered, rubbing your temples. "But if we adjust the engine-braking harvest map... we can use the MGU-K to drag the rear axle back earlier in the braking zone. It will take like 40% of the thermal load off that front-left brake. It’ll make the car feel incredibly stiff on entry, but it’ll keep the seal from blowing."
Ben looked at the screen, then looked at you, his face full of deep respect. "This is genius, actually. It’s going to be a bitch to drive, but it’ll keep him out of the wall. Let's load the software patch."
But on Sunday, forty laps into the race, the heat inside the brake duct spiked.
Max was leading, but his corner entry was getting messy. The car was sliding, the stiff engine-braking making the rear end snap on the bumpy street circuit.
"The car is undriveable!" Max roared over the radio, his voice high-pitched and furious. "What the hell did you guys do to the brake mapping? The rear is snapping everywhere! I have zero confidence! It’s a complete joke, honestly!"
"Max, the mapping is protecting the front-left caliper," GP tried to explain, his voice calm but tight. "We have a pressure issue."
"I don't care about the pressure! Who wrote this code? It’s completely shocking! They don't know what they are doing!"
Max crossed the finish line in third, losing the win to Charles Leclerc.
The moment the car stopped in the pit lane, the tension in the Red Bull garage went taut like a wire. You stood behind the strategy desk, your hands ice-cold, your stomach churning.
The garage doors flew open.
Max stormed in. He didn't even take his balaclava off fully, dragging it down around his neck, his face red, sweat dripping down his temples. He was breathing heavily, his eyes wild and toxic with the frustration of a lost race.
"Where is she?" Max shouted, his voice echoing over the hum of the cooling fans.
Christian Horner stepped forward, trying to intervene. "Max, let's go to the back—"
"No!" Max snapped, pointing a finger directly at you. He marched over to the strategy station, slamming his helmet onto the carbon-fiber desk right next to your laptop. The impact made the screen flicker. "You. You changed the brake harvest before the race, didn't you?"
"I did," you said, keeping your voice steady, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. "I adjusted the mapping to..."
"You ruined my race!" Max roared, stepping into your space, his chest puffing out, his shadow completely swallowing you. "You played with the software because your stupid computer thought it knew better than my foot! You have no idea how a car feels at 300km/h. You are completely incompetent, honestly! Why are you even here? To help others win the championship? Is that your plan?"
The accusation—the raw, public humiliation of your professional integrity in front of fifty mechanics, Christian Horner, and the media cameras hovering outside the glass—was too much.
"Max, that's enough," GP professionally warned, his voice hard.
"No, it's not enough!" Max yelled, his temper completely unhinged. He turned and kicked a heavy, unmounted pirelli hard tire lying on the floor, sending it crashing into a tool cabinet. "We are trying to win a championship, and we have people on the pit wall who are playing games! Go back to F2. You don't belong in this garage."
The tears hit your eyes before you could stop them. You felt the hot, stinging humiliation flood your face. You had worked thirty hours straight. You had saved his life—saved his car from a high-speed brake explosion on a street circuit. And he was standing here, screaming at you like you were a saboteur.
You didn't say a word. You grabbed your headset, pulled it off your ears, and dropped it onto the desk.
You walked out.
You didn't go to the hospitality unit. You ran. You found the dark, narrow alleyway behind the FIA medical center, where the concrete walls blocked out the noise of the paddock. You slid down the wall, burying your face in your hands, and you completely crashed out. The tears came in violent, choking sobs, the exhaustion and the sheer cruelty of his words breaking through your armor.
"Hey. Hey, look at me."
A pair of strong arms wrapped around you. You looked up through your blurred, tear-filled eyes. Ricciardo was kneeling in the dirt in front of you, his face completely devoid of his usual smile. It was serious, full of a deep, protective anger.
"Daniel," you sobbed, leaning into his chest.
"I've got you," Daniel whispered, holding you tight as you cried into his team shirt. "I've got you. He’s an idiot. He’s a complete, blind idiot."
"I saved his car," you choked out, your voice breaking. "The caliper... the caliper was leaking, Daniel. If I hadn't changed the map, the brake would have blown. He would have crashed at turn one."
"I know," Daniel said, his voice hard and steady. "Ben just told Christian. Christian is furious with Max. He is going to look like the biggest fool in this paddock in about five minutes. You did a brilliant job. You saved him."
Daniel pulled back, wiping your tears with his thumbs. "Come on. Let's get you out of here. You're coming to the motorhome. We’re going to get you a tea, and you’re going to ignore his texts. Let him stew in his own stupidity."
Inside the private driver's room, the air was suffocating.
Max sat on the edge of the physio table, his hands over his face, his breathing slowly returning to normal. His anger was leaving his system, replaced by that hollow, cold regret he always felt when his temper got the better of him.
The door didn't knock. It slammed open.
Ben, the lead mechanic—a man who had been with Red Bull since Max was a teenager—stepped into the room. He didn't look at Max like he was a triple world champion. He looked at him with pure disgust.
"You're a real piece of work, Max," Ben said, his voice vibrating with a quiet, furious heat.
Max looked up, his brow furrowing. "What? The car was snapping, Ben. The brake—"
"The front-left caliper had a structural seal failure," Ben interrupted, stepping right up to the table. "It was leaking hydraulic fluid after Friday. We couldn't change it without a ten-place grid penalty. She stayed up until three in the morning writing a custom software patch for the engine braking to save the car. She bypassed the physical load so the brake wouldn't explode on lap ten."
Max froze. His heart felt like it plummeted through the floor. "What?"
"If she hadn't put that software cushion in, your front-left brake would have failed completely going into turn one," Ben spat. "You would have hit the concrete wall at 300km/h, Max. She didn't sleep. She didn't eat. Her hands were shaking during the strategy meeting because she was so exhausted. And you just went out there and told her she was incompetent in front of the whole garage because you finished third."
Ben turned on his heel, stopping at the door. "She’s a better engineer than you deserve. You owe her more than an apology."
The door slammed shut.
Max sat in the silence, the weight of Ben’s words crashing down on him like a physical blow. A cold, sickening wave of guilt flooded his chest. He closed his eyes, remembering the way your eyes had filled with tears, the way you had looked so small and broken under his shouting.
He had been a monster. He had let his worst, most defensive, toxic impulses take over because he was scared of losing.
He stood up, his legs feeling like lead, and walked out into the paddock. He looked for you everywhere—the engineering room, the hospitality unit, the garage. But you weren't there.
He finally saw Daniel standing outside the motorhome, his arms crossed, guarding the entrance like a sentinel.
"Daniel," Max said, his voice tight. "Is she inside?"
"She is," Daniel said, his voice completely devoid of his usual warmth. He didn't move an inch. "And you're not going anywhere near her."
"Daniel, I need to apologize. I didn't know about the caliper—"
"That's the damn problem, mate!" Daniel snapped, stepping closer, his finger poking Max’s chest. "You never know. You just scream first and think later. She worked herself to the bone to keep you safe today, and you treated her like trash in front of the whole team. She's done with you. Go home."
Max looked at the closed door of the motorhome, his chest aching with a strange, sharp pain he had never felt before. He had always been the one who pushed people away. But looking at that door, knowing you were inside, crying because of him, made him feel utterly, completely hollow.
By the time the paddock arrived in Montreal, you had built an iron wall around yourself.
You returned to the garage, but you were no longer the quiet, eager engineer trying to fit in. You were a machine. You did your job with clinical, terrifying precision. Your strategy calls were flawless, but your voice on the radio was completely deadpan. You didn't banter with GP. You didn't look at Max. When you had to give him feedback during the engineering briefings, you looked at his tablet, never his eyes.
And it was driving Max completely insane.
He had tried to apologize. He had left a brand-new, expensive laptop on your desk with a clumsy note that read: 'I am sorry for Baku. The software was good.'
You had handed the laptop back to Ben, telling him to put it in the team's spare inventory. When Max tried to talk to you in the hospitality corridor, you had simply looked at him and said, "I have to finalize the fuel load metrics for FP3, Verstappen. Excuse me."
You fell first—you knew that. You had spent months secretly admiring the brilliant, terrifying way he drove. But you had your pride. And you were going to make him crawl for it.
And crawl he did.
Max found himself completely unable to focus on anything but you. He stared at you during the briefings. He noticed the way your fingers tapped the edge of your clipboard when you were thinking, the way you drank your coffee with both hands because the garage was cold, the way your lips parted slightly when you were analyzing a difficult data set.
He was falling. And he was falling harder.
The boiling point came during a rainy Saturday in Montreal.
The track was wet, Q3 was a lottery, and the timing of the red flags had been a disaster. Max had been held in the garage for an extra minute due to a suspected loose sensor on his floor, which meant he missed the driest track window and qualified fourth.
When he got back to the garage, the old, toxic adrenaline took over. He ripped his steering wheel out, threw his gloves onto the tire rack, and kicked a stack of wet tires, sending them rolling across the floor.
"What a joke!" Max screamed, his voice echoing over the sound of the rain. "The timing was completely shocking! Why did we wait? We knew the rain was coming! It's the same old story every time the weather changes!"
The mechanics shrank back. Christian Horner sighed, rubbing his face.
You slowly stood up from your engineering chair. You didn't look intimidated. You looked completely, utterly done.
"Max," you said, your voice cutting through his shouting like a steel blade. "Sit down."
Max turned on you, his eyes flashing with anger. "Don't tell me to sit down! The strategy was a disaster. You left me in the garage for two minutes while the track was drying!"
"We left you in the garage because your rear floor had a loose pressure sensor that Ben had to physically secure," you said, stepping around the strategy desk, walking straight into his space. You didn't flinch. You stood on business. "If I had sent you out sixty seconds earlier, that sensor would have detached, your floor would have lost fifty points of downforce, and you would have spun into the wall at turn four. I made the call to hold you. I made it to protect the car and to protect you."
"It was a bad call!" Max yelled, trying to use his height to crowd you. "You always have some numbers to hide behind! You're just a bureaucrat with a laptop! You don't know what it’s actually like to take a risk out there!"
The word bureaucrat—the deliberate effort to minimize your intellect and your courage—was the final straw.
You looked at him, and for a split second, the anger in your eyes died, replaced by a cold, hollow disappointment that made Max’s breath catch in his throat.
"You're right," you whispered, your voice dropping into a quiet, deadly calm that made the entire garage go silent. "I don't know what it's like to take a risk. But I know what it's like to have respect. And you don't have a single drop of it."
You closed your laptop with a soft, final click. You grabbed your backpack. You didn't cry. You just looked at him like he was a stranger, a child who couldn't control his own tantrums.
"I'm going to the hotel," you said to GP, completely ignoring Max. "The race simulation data is saved on the server. Do whatever you want with it."
You walked out of the garage, leaving Max standing there in the middle of the room, his hand half-raised, the words dying in his throat as he watched you disappear into the rainy paddock.
"You're a real idiot, Max," GP muttered from behind his screens. "A real, complete idiot."
By Sunday morning, the atmosphere in the Red Bull engineering office was toxic. Max had qualified fourth, but a power unit penalty meant he was starting fourteenth.
You were sitting at the back of the small, private engineering room inside the hospitality unit, running simulation models for an overtaking strategy. The door didn't open quietly. It was thrown back with a violent force, slamming against the plastic stopper.
You looked up.
Jos Verstappen stepped into the room.
He was a large, imposing man with hard, washed-out blue eyes and a face that looked like it had been carved out of old concrete. He radiated a cold, suffocating authority that instantly made the air in the small room feel thin.
Christian Horner followed closely behind, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his posture tight with corporate caution, while Max trailed at the very back.
But Max looked different. The fierce, untouchable world champion who had won twenty races last season looked... smaller. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his eyes fixed on the floor, his face completely pale. It was the face of a boy who had been beaten down so many times he had forgotten how to fight back.
"Where is the setup sheet for Spa?" Jos asked, his voice harsh, raspy, and entirely devoid of any polite greeting. He didn't even look at you; he spoke to you like you were a servant.
"The setup sheet is with GP and Christian" you said, your voice dropping into a cold, defensive register. You stood up from your chair, your posture rigid, your perfectionist armor snapping into place. "And this is a restricted engineering room. Only active team personnel are allowed during simulation windows."
Jos let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter, finally turning his hard eyes onto you. "Team personnel? Don't talk to me about rules, girl. I built this driver. And right now, your strategy is turning him into a loser. Fourteenth on the grid? At Spa? It’s a joke. You’re running too much downforce on the rear wing. He’s going to be a sitting duck on the Kemmel straight."
"The downforce configuration was chosen to protect the rear tires during the second stint when the track temperature spikes," you said, stepping around the table, putting yourself physically between Jos and Max. You noticed Max’s hand was twitching against his thigh, his eyes completely hollow. It made your blood boil. "It is the mathematically superior setup for a multi-stop race from the back of the grid."
"Mathematical superior," Jos sneered, stepping closer, trying to intimidate you with his size. He raised his voice, his tone turning vicious. "You data people are ruining his career. He’s starting fourteenth because you couldn't manage the engine mileage properly. You're incompetent. Just like your old team. A bunch of clowns who don't know how to win a championship."
He turned away from you, turning his fury onto Max, who was standing like a statue by the door.
"And you," Jos growled, his finger pointing aggressively into Max’s face. "You just sit there and let her give you a slow car? You have no balls anymore, Max. You're soft. You let a girl tell you how to drive. If you don't win tomorrow, you're a failure. A complete failure. I didn't spend fifteen years at karting tracks for you to finish fifth in a Red Bull."
Max didn't move. He didn't speak. He just took the verbal blows, his jaw locked, his eyes staring at a spot on the wall behind his father's head. It was a terrifying glimpse into the decades of emotional abuse that had shaped the monster in the garage. Beside him, Christian remained silent, watching the dynamic with a calculated, steady gaze, unwilling to step into the family crossfire.
You felt a white-hot explosion of pure, unadulterated fury in your chest. You didn't care about your job. You didn't care about the corporate rules, about Christian Horner, or about the Verstappen name. You loved Max. You loved him with every broken, chaotic piece of your heart, and you would rather burn your own career to the ground than watch this man destroy him in front of you.
"That is enough!" you shouted.
The sound of your voice—loud, sharp, and commanding—was like a gunshot in the small room.
Jos froze, his face twisting in shock. Max’s head snapped up, his green eyes wide with terror and disbelief. Christian Horner took a small step back, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise.
"Excuse me?" Jos hissed, turning slowly to face you.
"You heard me," you said, stepping directly into Jos’s face, your chin held high, your eyes burning with a terrifying, unyielding heat. You were smaller than him, but you looked like a dragon guarding its cave. "Get out of my office."
"Do you know who I am—"
"I know exactly who you are," you said, your voice dropping into a deadly, razor-sharp whisper that vibrated with pure hatred. "You are a man who hasn't driven a Formula 1 car in twenty years, and when you did, you weren't even half as good as your son. You are a parasite who feeds on his talent because your own career was a disappointment."
"Don't," Max whispered from the corner, his voice trembling with real fear for you.
"No, Max, I am speaking," you snapped, not taking your eyes off Jos, whose face was turning a dangerous, dark purple. "Let me make something completely clear to you, Mr. Verstappen. I am the senior performance engineer for this car. My calculations, my data, and my choices are what keep that car on the track. Max is not a failure. He is a triple world champion, and he is the greatest driver on this grid despite you, not because of you."
You pointed a firm, shaking finger toward the open door.
"You do not come into my garage and humiliate my driver. You do not talk to him like he is a child. He doesn't owe you anything. If you want to scream at someone, go find a mirror. But if I see your face in this engineering suite again before the race tomorrow, I will have Christian revoke your paddock pass before you can even cross the pit lane. Now get out."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Jos stared at you, his fists clenching at his sides, his chest heaving with fury. For a second, you thought he might actually hit you. But you didn't flinch. You stood your ground like an iron wall. Christian finally cleared his throat, a subtle signal that he wouldn't challenge your threat if Jos pushed further.
Jos looked past you to Max, his lip curling in disgust. "Look at what you've become," he muttered. "Letting a girl fight your battles."
He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard the glass pane rattled in its frame. Horner lingered for a brief second, giving you a quiet, respectful nod that said everything he couldn't put into words, before slipping out behind him to manage the fallout.
The room was suddenly entirely silent, the only sound the distant, muffled roar of a support race out on the track.
You stood there, your chest heaving, your breathing ragged as the adrenaline began to leave your system. Your hands were shaking violently now. You realized what you had just done. You had just insulted the most powerful, feared father in the paddock. You had probably ruined everything.
But when you turned to Max, expecting to see relief, or gratitude, or the soft vulnerability he’d occasionally let slip in Montreal, your heart stopped.
Max’s face was not soft. It was white-hot with a defensive, toxic fury. His green eyes were wide, blown-out, and manic. He was shaking, his chest heaving under his team polo, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were white.
"What the hell did you just do?" Max whispered, his voice vibrating with a terrifying, quiet rage.
You blinked, stepping back slightly.
"Who the hell gave you the right to speak to him like that?" Max roared, suddenly stepping forward and slamming his open palm against the metal cabinet beside you. The loud BANG echoed like a gunshot in the cramped room, making you flinch. "Who do you think you are? My savior? My bodyguard?"
"Max, I was defending you—"
"I don't need you to defend me!" his face turning red, his jaw locked in a terrifyingly familiar line of unhinged temper. "You don't know anything! You think you can just march in here with your degrees and your little formulas and fix my life? You just made everything ten times worse! You have no idea what he is going to do now. You have no idea what it's like!"
He stepped closer, towering over you, his shadow completely blocking out the harsh fluorescent lights. But for the first time, you didn't just see anger. You saw a deep, primal, animalistic terror. He was lashing out because he was absolutely terrified of the consequences of his father being humiliated, and he was taking it all out on you.
"You're just an engineer," Max spat, his voice dropping into a cruel, dismissive whisper that cut deeper than any insult he’d ever thrown at you in the garage. "You're a stranger. You don't know my family, you don't know my life, and you don't belong in my business. You wanted to protect my car? Fine. Do your job. But keep your mouth shut about my father."
The words felt like a physical slap. The room seemed to tilt beneath your feet. You looked at him—at the raw, ugly defense mechanism of a boy who had been trained to protect his abuser at all costs—and a cold, hollow disappointment settled deep into your bones.
"I did it because I couldn't watch him destroy you," you said, your voice dropping into a deadly, quiet register that made his breath catch. "But if you want to be his dog, Max, go ahead. Keep taking the hits. I won't stop him next time."
You didn't wait for him to respond. You grabbed your backpack, pushed past his heavy shoulder, and walked out of the room, leaving him alone in the suffocating silence.
For the next twenty-four hours, the tension in the Red Bull garage was downright radioactive.
Max completely shut you out. He wouldn't look at you. During the Sunday morning strategy briefing, he sat as far away from you as possible, his eyes cold and fixed on his tablet. When GP asked him a question, he answered in clipped, monosyllabic grunts. The silence between the two of you was deafening, a thick, impenetrable wall of resentment and unexpressed shame.
He hated you. He hated you because you had seen him at his absolute weakest, stripped of his world champion armor, and he hated you because he didn't know how to handle the terrifying realization that you were the only person in his life brave enough to fight for him.
By Sunday afternoon, the Belgian grandstands were a sea of orange smoke, the air vibrating with the scream of twenty engines accelerating up Eau Rouge.
Inside the Red Bull garage, you sat in your engineering chair, your headset pressed tightly to your ears, your fingers flying across the live telemetry screen. You had given him the strategy. He was starting fourteenth, but your calculations were perfect.
And Max drove like a man possessed.
Car number one was a red-and-blue streak of lightning, cutting through the field with a clinical, terrifying aggression. Lap twelve: tenth place. Lap twenty: fifth place. Lap thirty-two: Max pulled off a spectacular, breathless overtake around the outside of Lando Norris at Blanchimont, taking the lead of the Grand Prix.
But there was no joy on the radio. No banter. Just flat, professional confirmations.
When the checkered flag fell, Max crossed the line twelve seconds ahead of the rest of the field. He had done the impossible. He had won from fourteenth on the grid at Spa.
The garage erupted into absolute madness. Mechanics screamed, hugged each other, and sprayed water into the air. But you stayed in your seat, logging the final tire metrics, your face a calm, emotionless mask. You didn't join the celebrations. You didn't look at the podium.
An hour later, the garage had cleared out as the team prepared for the long pack-up. The heavy hum of the cooling fans was the only sound left under the buzzing fluorescent lights. You were standing by the back engineering desk, wrapping your laptop cables, when you heard the heavy thud of racing boots behind you.
You didn't turn around.
"Hey."
The voice was quiet, raspy, and completely devoid of any of the anger from yesterday. It sounded small.
You slowly turned around.
Max was standing there, still in his champagne-soaked race suit, his hair messy, his helmet held loosely in one hand. He looked completely exhausted—not from the race, but from the crushing weight of his own mind. He didn't look like a giant anymore. He looked like he was about to fall apart.
"I'm packing up the telemetry server, Max," you said, your voice professional, distant, and cold. "If you need the post-race reports, they’ll be in your inbox by tomorrow morning."
Max didn't move. He set his helmet down on a flight case with a quiet, hollow thud. He took a slow, hesitant step toward you, his green eyes dark, wet, and completely exposed.
"I don't want the reports," he whispered. He stepped closer, his boots squeaking against the clean garage floor, until he was standing just inches away from you. The smell of sweet, sticky champagne and sweat rolled off him, but his presence was entirely hesitant, almost reverent. "I'm sorry."
You kept your hands flat on the desk, refusing to make this easy for him. "I thought hated me, Max. You told me I was a stranger."
"I was lied to," Max choked out, a single, heavy tear escaping his eye and sliding through the grime on his cheek. His chest heaved as he fought to keep his voice steady. "My whole life, I was told that if I let anyone see... if I let anyone fight for me, I was weak. I was soft. And when you stood up to him... I was so scared. I was terrified of what he would say to me, of how he would look at me. And I was so ashamed that you had to see me like that. I was ashamed that I couldn't do it myself."
He reached out, his large, calloused hand trembling violently as he hovered his fingers near your arm, not quite touching you, waiting for your permission.
"I don't hate you," Max whispered, his voice cracking completely, a raw, beautiful vulnerability breaking through his chest. "God, I don't hate you at all. I was just... I was so angry at myself. Because you were the only one who cared enough to protect me. Nobody has ever done that for me. In my whole life. And I treated you like a monster because I was too much of a coward to admit how much I need you."
He took the final step, closing the distance between you, his forehead coming down to rest gently against your shoulder. He let out a ragged, trembling breath, his large shoulders shaking as the tears finally spilled over.
"Please," he murmured against your team kit. "Please don't look at me like I'm a stranger. I can't handle it. I can't drive without you."
The last of your cold, defensive wall crumbled into dust. You looked down at his bent head, at the raw, broken honesty of his surrender, and your heart ached with a love so immense it felt like a physical weight.
Slowly, you raised your hands, wrapping them around his neck, pulling him closer. Max let out a choked, desperate sound, his arms instantly wrapping around your waist like a vise, pulling you flush against his chest, squeezing you so hard your ribs ached.
"You're such an idiot, Max," you whispered into his hair, your own tears finally falling.
"I know," he breathed, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. His face was flushed, wet with tears, but his green eyes were burning with an intensity that made your breath catch. "I know. But I love you. I love you so much it's completely shocking, honestly. Please let me prove it to you."
"You don't have to prove anything," you said softly.
Max didn't wait. He leaned down and captured your lips with his.
The kiss was not slow, and it was not polite. It was a desperate, breathless collision of teeth and lips, a violent release of all the anger, the shame, and the agonizing tension of the last twenty-four hours. His mouth parted yours with a fierce, possessive slide of his tongue, tasting of sweet champagne and salt, pulling you against his core until you felt the wild, erratic racing of his heart.
You tangled your fingers in his short, damp hair, pulling him closer, giving him everything you had kept hidden behind your clinical walls. Max groaned, his hands sliding down your back to grip your hips, lifting you slightly until you were pressed entirely against the edge of the engineering desk. The metal was cold against your thighs, but his hands were burning hot, anchoring you to him in the quiet, empty garage.
When he finally broke the kiss to breathe, his forehead rested against yours, both of your chests rising and falling in heavy, synchronized gasps.
"No more father," Max murmured, his thumb tracing your wet cheekbone with an incredible, lingering tenderness. His eyes were dark, clear, and filled with a quiet, unbreakable devotion. "No more running. Just us."
You smiled, your hands sliding down to rest over his heart, feeling its steady, unbroken beat—the one parameter you would never have to calculate.
