Summary: When your car dies on an empty road at 2:47am, Max Verstappen is the last person you want to call and the only one you know will come.
3.8k words / Masterlist
The screen of your phone glowed against the dark interior of the car, the weak light washing over your face in pale blue.
Three percent.
You stared at the tiny red battery icon like you could intimidate it into lasting longer.
“Come on,” you muttered, tapping the screen as if that would somehow help. “Don’t do this to me now.”
The phone, naturally, did not care.
Outside the road stretched out in both directions, black and empty beneath the dull orange wash of one distant streetlamp. Beyond that there was nothing, you couldn’t see a petrol station or any passing headlights. It was just fields, a narrow country road, and your very dead car sitting uselessly on the shoulder as if it had given up on life.
You had already tried everything.
Turning the key again and again until the engine made a pathetic clicking noise and then nothing. Popping the bonnet even though you knew absolutely nothing about what you were looking at. Standing outside for all of thirty seconds before the silence became too much and you got back in, locked the doors, and pretended the shadows between the trees weren’t starting to look like people.
You checked your messages again.
Nothing. No replies.
Your mum would be asleep, and even if she wasn’t she was over an hour away and would panic so dramatically that you would end up comforting her while stranded in the dark. Your thumb hovered over the emergency breakdown number, but with so little battery and no charger the thought of being placed on hold until your phone died made your stomach twist.
Then your eyes drifted to another name.
Max Verstappen.
You stared at his contact for a minute.
Absolutely not.
No.
There had to be someone else. You scrolled up. Then down. Then up again. As if your contacts might rearrange themselves and present a better option. They didn’t.
You watched as your battery dropped to two percent.
His name sat there, annoyingly available… annoyingly useful.
You knew that he was probably awake and it annoyed you that you knew he would be. Max had always had the worst sleep schedule of anyone you’d ever met. If he wasn’t at a race, in the gym, or chatting with engineers, he was on his sim rig until some ungodly hour, barking into a headset, swearing in Dutch and acting like an online race in the middle of the night was as important as a world championship.
You could practically picture him now, hoodie pulled over his head, hair a mess, face lit by the glow of three monitors. One hand on the wheel, the other probably reaching for an energy drink he definitely shouldn’t be having at nearly three in the morning.
The thought made something familiar and irritating tug in your chest.
You and Max had known each other for years, long enough that the sharp edges between you had worn into something strangely comfortable even if neither of you would admit it.
At first he had been impossible. Blunt and arrogant. Too competitive for his own good. The kind of person who could turn anything into a contest, from lap times to who got to the paddock café first. You’d met him through mutual friends in the racing world, and within twenty minutes he had corrected something you said about GT racing with the kind of smug certainty that made you want to throw your drink at him.
You had called him unbearable.
He had called you dramatic.
That had been the start of it.
Years of bickering followed. Max making sarcastic comments whenever you walked into the Red Bull garage. You rolling your eyes whenever he pretended not to care what people thought. Him stealing chips from your plate without asking. You hiding his cap once before qualifying and watching him lose his mind for ten full minutes before giving it back.
You wouldn’t call it friendship, it was something more annoying than friendship, something with a lot of history and not enough honesty.
“You two flirt like you’re trying to kill each other,” Lando had once said, grinning behind his bottle of water.
“We do not flirt,” you had snapped at the exact same time Max said, “As if.”
Maybe you had caught yourself looking at Max for a little too long when he was focused, jaw tight, eyes narrowed, his whole body wired with impossible concentration. Maybe he had once put a hand on your lower back to guide you through a crowded afterparty, and maybe the warmth of it had stayed there long after he’d moved away.
Maybe there had been a night in Monaco years ago when you’d both ended up outside on a balcony, tired of noise and people pretending to be more interesting than they were. You had argued about nothing for fifteen minutes and then somehow talked until sunrise.
He had looked at you differently that night. Then, the next morning, he had acted like nothing happened.
That was how it always went with Max. One step closer, two steps back. A strange almost, a constant nearly. A tension you both buried under sarcasm because sarcasm was easier than admitting anything real.
Which was precisely why calling him now felt like handing him a loaded weapon.
You could already hear him.
Really? You got stranded? How do you even manage that?
You closed your eyes.
The phone blinked at one percent again.
“Fine,” you whispered. “Fine… but if he’s smug, I’m hanging up.”
You tapped his name before you could change your mind.
The line rang once.
Twice.
Your heart thudded harder than it should have.
“What drunk dialling now?” Max’s voice came through low and, yes, smug. “Didn’t take you for the type.”
Instant regret. You squeezed your eyes shut and leaned your head back against the seat. “Don’t flatter yourself Verstappen.”
“Then why are you calling me at…” he stopped, “…2:47 in the morning?”
You glanced out of the window.
Still nothing.
“I’m stranded,” you said.
Another pause.
“Stranded?”
“Yes.”
“As in… emotionally?”
You would have laughed if your nerves weren’t stretched so thin. “Physically, Max.”
“Right.” His tone sharpened slightly. “Where?”
“My car died. I don’t know where I am. I think I took a wrong turn.”
The background noise on his end changed, less amused now, more alert.
“What do you mean died?”
“What do you think I mean? I mean it made a terrible clicking noise, refused to start and now it’s sitting here dead!”
“Okay, okay. Where are you?”
You swallowed and looked down at the dash as though the car might provide an answer. “I took a wrong turn after dropping Poppy off, and then my phone started dying, and now I’m on this empty road with no charger and no idea where the nearest anything is.”
“Can you see anything?”
You peered through the windscreen at the faded sign half-hidden near the bend. “There’s a sign. Something like… Mont Angle? Or Mont Aville. I can’t properly see it.”
“What can you see?” he repeated, firmer now. “Any houses? Signs? Junctions? Anything.”
You sat up straighter, thrown slightly by his tone, and squinting through the windscreen. “A field. Trees. A broken fence. There’s a small signpost near the bend but I can’t read all of it. And there’s a mile marker, I think. B-something.”
“Can you send your location?”
“I can try, but if my phone dies—”
“Try.” He interrupted.
You quickly opened your location, fingers clumsy from cold and panic. The screen lagged and for one terrifying second, it froze completely.
“No, no, no,” you whispered.
Then it loaded and you sent it to him.
“Did you get it?” you asked quickly.
Silence.
“Max?”
“I got it,” he said.
Then the call went quiet again, except for the faint sound of movement on his end. A drawer opening, something being shoved aside, the sim rig audio cut out abruptly.
“Lock your doors,” he said.
“They are locked.”
“Check.”
You frowned. “I’m not five.”
“Check.”
Something in his voice made you do it without arguing and you pressed the lock button again.
“They’re locked.”
“Good. Don’t get out.”
“I wasn’t planning to go for a scenic walk.”
“I’m serious.”
“I can tell,” you said, softer despite yourself.
There was a beat and when he spoke again his voice was lower. “Stay on the phone with me yeah? For as long as it lasts.”
Then you heard keys. You suddenly felt embarrassed, pressed your lips together, unsure what to do with the warmth crawling into your chest. “You don’t have to.”
“You called me.”
“I know, but I mean… I can call someone else.”
“With what battery?”
You didn’t answer.
“Exactly,” he said. “I’m coming.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“I called you because you’re the only idiot awake at this time.”
“And yet I’m the idiot coming to get you.”
You leaned your head back, eyes closing for a second. The car felt too quiet around you. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
“It’s okay.”
For some reason, that was worse. You opened your eyes and stared out into the dark. “Don’t sound so pleased about it.”
“I’m not.”
“No?”
“No.” His voice changed again. Rougher, almost irritated, but not at you. “I don’t like that you’re there alone.”
Your chest tightened, he said it like your safety mattered to him in a way that didn’t fit neatly into the version of your relationship you both pretended to understand.
“Well,” you said lightly, because light was easier, “I’m not exactly thrilled either.”
“Why are you even out there alone at this time?”
“I told you. I dropped Poppy off.”
“And you didn’t stay at hers?”
“She had an early flight. I didn’t want to be a bother.”
“You are unbelievable.”
You frowned. “Excuse me?”
“You would rather drive alone at almost three in the morning than inconvenience someone.”
“You’re making it sound like I planned to be stranded.”
“No,” he said, and you heard a car door open on his end. “I’m saying you do this thing where you act like needing help is a criminal offence.”
Your mouth opened, then closed. Outside wind brushed against the side of the car rattling faintly through the trees.
“I don’t do that,” you said, but it lacked force.
Max gave a short, humourless laugh. “You do.”
Max Verstappen who had made a career out of acting like nothing scared him, who had rolled his eyes at you more times than you could count was getting in his car at almost three in the morning because you had called.
“How far are you?” you asked.
“Twenty minutes. Maybe fifteen if I ignore the speed limits.”
“Please don’t die trying to rescue me from my own car.”
“I am not dying. Also this is not a rescue.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“A retrieval.”
You stared at the phone. “I’m not luggage.”
“You are currently stranded on the side of the road and need collecting. Sounds like luggage.”
“Remind me to never call you again.”
“You say that like you call me often.”
For a moment the familiar rhythm returned, the back and forth, the easy bite, the verbal sparring that had always been safer than saying anything with weight.
You listened to the sound of his car through the phone, the faint rush of speed, the occasional click of his indicator. It was strange hearing him like this, Max breathing quietly on the other end of the line, driving through the night because you were scared and trying not to admit it.
“You still there?” he asked after a while.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You keep checking.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His answer came too fast. “Because your phone is dying.”
You smiled faintly despite yourself. “Right. That’s the only reason.”
“You want a better one?"
“Depends,” you said, voice quieter now. “Do you have one?”
Max didn’t answer immediately. For a moment there was only the road noise on his end and the nervous beat of your own heart.
Then he said, “I don’t like not knowing if you’re okay.”
You looked away from the phone like that might make the words easier to bear. “That sounds dangerously close to concern.”
“I am concerned.”
You swallowed. Max rarely said things plainly unless he was annoyed. Or certain. There was something disarming about hearing it without sarcasm wrapped around it.
“Oh,” you said, because apparently your brain had stopped working.
He huffed softly. “That’s all you have?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Thank you for your concern, almighty racing prince.”
“There she is.”
You smiled, but it faded quickly. Your eyes drifted to the dark road again.
“Max?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For calling.”
His reply was instant. “Don’t.”
“But—”
“No. Don’t do that.”
You frowned. “Do what?”
“Apologise for needing someone.”
The words settled hard in your chest. You looked down at your lap. Your hands were cold, fingers curled tightly around the phone. “It’s just… I know we’re not exactly—”
“What?”
“Like this.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes you do.”
“No,” he said, voice lower. “Say it.”
You loathed him a little for that. For making you be the brave one when you were sitting in a dead car in the middle of nowhere and already feeling exposed. You rubbed your thumb along the edge of your phone. “We’re not exactly the kind of people who call each other when something goes wrong.”
Max was quiet for long enough that you wondered if the call had dropped.
Then he said, “Maybe we should be.”
You stared at the screen still somehow hanging onto one percent, still somehow alive, as if even your phone had decided it needed to hear what happened next.
“Max,” you said carefully.
“I know.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Yes I do.”
You almost laughed. “Still arrogant.”
“Still right.”
The corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re impossible.”
“You’ve said.”
“I’ve meant it every time.”
“I know,” he said. “But you still called.”
You looked out of the window again, but all you could see was your own reflection. Wide eyes. Tense mouth. The expression of someone who had spent too many years pretending she didn’t feel anything just because the alternative was too complicated.
“You were the only one I knew would be awake,” you said.
“That’s why you called?”
“Yes.”
“But not the only reason.”
You didn’t reply. Max exhaled through his nose. You could imagine him gripping the steering wheel, eyes fixed ahead, jaw set the way it always was when he was pushing too hard.
“I’m not trying to make you say anything,” he said after a moment.
“That’s a first.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Then you said, barely above a whisper, “I knew you’d come.”
The line went quiet. Your pulse thundered. You wished immediately that you could take it back, but not really, because some part of you had always known that beneath the snark, beneath the stubbornness, beneath years of pretending not to care Max would come if you really needed him.
“Yeah.”
That one word did more damage than a confession.
Finally headlights appeared in the distance. At first you thought you imagined them. Two faint beams cresting the bend far down the road, cutting through the darkness like a promise.
Your fingers tightened around the phone. “I see headlights,” you said.
“What side?”
“Behind me. Coming from the bend.”
“That’s me.”
Relief hit so suddenly your eyes stung. The car slowed as it approached, sleek and dark and unmistakably Max’s. It pulled up behind you with a controlled sharpness, headlights flooding your rear-view mirror as the engine cut off. For a second neither of you moved, then his voice came through your phone one last time.
“Stay there.”
The call ended. Your phone died immediately after, screen going black in your hand.
Max was in a hoodie and joggers, hair messy, face set in a hard line. He looked like he had left in the middle of whatever he’d been doing without a second thought, no cap or jacket. Just keys in hand and concern written plainly across his face before he managed to bury it.
He walked to your window and knocked once as you unlocked the car. His eyes moved over your face, your shoulders, your hands, like he was checking you for damage.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
His jaw flexed. “Really?”
“Yes, Max.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Only then did some of the tension leave his shoulders.
He looked away, dragging a hand through his hair. “Jesus.”
You blinked, surprised by the raw edge in his voice. “I told you I was fine.”
“You told me you were alone on a dark road with a dead car and no battery.”
“Well. When you say it like that.”
He shot you a look and you gave him a weak smile.
Max crouched slightly beside the open door, one hand braced against the frame. “Do you know how stupid that was?”
Your spine stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“Driving alone at this time with no charger.”
“Thanks. I really needed a lecture.”
“I’m not lecturing.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m saying you should have called earlier.”
“My car died five minutes before I called you.”
“You should’ve had a charger.”
“I usually do.”
“Usually doesn’t help now.”
You glared at him. “Are you always this charming when rescuing people?”
“I told you, retrieval.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re the one stranded.”
“And you’re being insufferable about it.”
For a second, his mouth twitched, then his eyes softened. “I was worried,” he said.
You went silent and Max seemed to realise he’d been too honest. He looked away, jaw tightening, gaze fixed somewhere over the roof of your car.
“I mean,” he added, too late, “it's not exactly ideal.” He straightened, glancing towards your bonnet. “Pop it.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually know what you’re doing?”
He gave you an offended look. “I know cars.”
“You know Formula One cars.”
“Still counts.”
“This is a very sad little road car.”
“I can see that.”
“You said it.”
You popped the bonnet and got out, wrapping your arms around yourself as the cold hit properly. Max immediately looked at you.
“Where’s your jacket?”
“In the back.”
“And you didn’t put it on?”
“I was a bit busy trying not to be murdered by the countryside.”
He rolled his eyes but moved before you could protest, opening the back door and pulling your jacket out. Instead of handing it to you he stepped close and draped it around your shoulders himself.
The movement was quick but his hands lingered at your collar, tugging the fabric closed around you.
You looked up. He was close enough that you could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the sleep-creased side of his face, the focus in his expression that had nothing to do with engines or racing or winning.
“Better?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moved, the cold air curled between you and his hands dropped away slowly.
Max cleared his throat and stepped back. “Bonnet.”
“Right,” you said quickly.
He inspected the engine like he could forcce it into behaving. You stood beside him watching with absolutely no useful input. After a minute he sighed and lowered the bonnet.
“What?” you asked.
“I think it’s the battery.”
“I told you it was dead.”
“I meant the car battery.”
“Oh.”
He looked at you.
You looked back.
“Don’t,” you warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
“I was thinking many things.”
“Like?”
He wiped his hands on his joggers, glancing once down the empty road before looking back at you. “Like I’m taking you home.”
Your stomach gave a small, stupid dip at how easily he said it.
“You don’t have to do that.”
Max raised a brow. “Your car is dead. Your phone is dead. And you're standing on a road that looks like the opening scene of a crime documentary.”
You roll your eyes.
“I can wait with you until recovery comes.”
“At three in the morning?”
“You’re here now.”
“Yes,” he said simply. “So get in my car.”
You gave him a look. “Bossy.” The corner of your mouth twitched before you could stop it.
He pulled out his phone. “I’ll call someone to sort the car. You can deal with it tomorrow.”
You looked back at your car, sitting abandoned under the weak glow of his headlights. “I hate leaving it.”
“It’ll be fine.”
There was something steady in his voice, something that made it hard to argue so you didn’t, you just pulled your jacket tighter around yourself and nodded.
“Fine.”
Max’s expression softened a little, like he knew that was the closest thing to surrender he was going to get from you.
He opened the passenger door for you.
You stared at him. “Are you seriously doing the gentleman thing?”
“Get in before I change my mind.”
“Too late. I expect princess treatment now.”
He snorted. “You are a nightmare.”
“And yet you came.”
The words slipped out lightly, almost teasing.
But Max didn’t answer straight away he just looked at you, the humour fading from his face.
Then he exhaled through his nose. “You’d have done the same.”
You paused, fingers resting on the open car door. “Would I?”
Then, almost too quiet to catch, he said, “Yeah. I think you would.”
You didn’t know what to say to that.
It was warm inside his car, and smelled faintly of his hoodie, his cologne, and the late-night world he seemed to exist in better than anyone else. Max shut the door walked around to the driver’s side and got in.
You glanced over.
He kept his eyes forward. “Don’t say anything.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say thank you.”
His hand rested on the gearshift for a moment before he looked at you.
“Okay,” he said. “You can say that.”
You smiled faintly. “Thank you Max.”
His gaze flickered over your face, just briefly, before he turned back to the road.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Anytime.”
Anytime.
You turned your head towards the window, watching your dead car shrink in the side mirror as he pulled back onto the road. For once the silence didn’t feel like a fight and behind the wheel Max kept both hands steady, driving you home like it was the easiest thing in the world to come for you when you needed him.
If I had a nickel for each time Lando got bored at a press con to the point of comparing foot size with someone he also tends to smack on the ass, I would have two nickels
which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it’s happened twice
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