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[sugaesthetic93]

You know how it works; mv1

what starts as a quiet dinner ends in the kind of silence that breaks everything

f!reader ୨୧ word count : ~ 1.2k

warnings : 3 apples tall child, emotional shit, panic/heightened emotions, implied neglect in relationship, arguments, language, heartbreak, mentions of crying, angst, angst and more angst, slow-burn

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 pt.6 pt.7 pt.8 pt.9

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You woke slowly.

Your body ached, but that wasn’t a new feeling. Lately, your body had been in a constant throb, physically and mentally. The sheets were tangled around your legs. Your breasts were heavy, your back sore. But for the first time in what felt like weeks, you felt the weight of rest behind your eyes.

And something else.

Voices.

Muffled and low, coming from the living room.

You sat up slowly, wincing, grabbing a hoodie and padding toward the door barefoot. One hand stayed on the wall, just to be safe. Your body still wasn’t your own, and you would’ve preferred to avoid another collision with the floor.

You followed the voices down the hall.

Max. And… Santiago?

“-you held him the whole night?” Santi said, his voice warm but laced with something deeper.

“Didn’t want to let go,” Max replied. “He… fits in my arms. I didn’t know what that would feel like.”

You stopped in the hallway, just outside the door, heart thudding.

Santi chuckled softly. “You look like shit, hermano.”

“I feel like shit,” Max admitted, and you could hear the exhaustion in his voice. “But it’s the kind of tired I can live with.”

A pause. Then, softer:

“I knew… I knew how important this was. Family. I’ve always wanted this. Him. Her.” His voice cracked. “And yet I still fucked up. I’ve hurt the only person who has never hurt me. And I can’t even tell you why, Santi. I don’t know why I reacted that way when Vic started talking about his birth.”

Santi’s tone shifted, gentler now. “She’s been holding everything together, Max. For years. I think… I think you got used to how small she made her needs seem so you could do whatever you needed without feeling like she was holding you back. I think you expected her to be okay with that because she always seemed okay with it. And that’s fucked up, Max. That doesn’t absolve you of anything, but I can see how all of this happened.”

“Fuck.”

You leaned against the wall, hand pressed to your mouth.

“I don’t want her to make herself small,” Max continued. “I’m not going to let her do that anymore. There is nothing more important than her being happy… She told me how she cried in hotel bathrooms, in fucking closets at headquarters, Santiago. And I never noticed. Not once. How didn’t I notice?”

You heard a soft sigh, a chair creaking.

“She loves you,” Santi said. “That’s why she did it. Because she loves you.”

“And obviously I didn’t show her I loved her enough,” Max answered immediately. “That stops right here and right now. That stopped the minute I stepped into this apartment and realized I didn’t even know my son had been born.”

Silence.

Then a muffled baby noise - a tiny grunt, a sigh.

“He’s waking up,” Max said quietly.

Your heart stuttered.

“I’ve got him,” Max added. “You can head out if you want.”

But Santi just chuckled again. “Nah. I want to see my nephew ruin your shirt.”

They both laughed.

- - -

You stepped into the room slowly and carefully.

Max was the first to see you.

He nearly dropped the baby blanket in his lap as he tried to stand.

“Hey - hey, you’re awake,” he said, his voice already frantic as he scrambled up from the couch, Nova fussing lightly in the crook of his arm. “Do you need something? Are you hungry? Are you cold - here, take the blanket. Do you want to sit? Shit, I should’ve brought you something already -”

You blinked at him.

He looked like a man who hadn’t exhaled in days - pale, stubbled, dark circles under his eyes - and still he stood there like he was ready to carry you on his back if you so much as wobbled.

“I’m okay,” you murmured, your voice hoarse.

Max took another second to study you, head to toe, as if making sure you were really there, really standing and really breathing. Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he stepped closer, pressed a soft kiss to your temple, and carefully handed Nova into your arms.

“I’ll make you something. Tea. Or food. Or both.”

He turned without waiting for a response and hurried into the kitchen, muttering to himself in Dutch.

You let out a breath.

And that was when Santiago stood.

He had been sitting on the arm of the couch, watching quietly - always giving you space, always knowing when you would come to him. And now that Max was gone, it was just the two of you. Like so many times before.

Nova squirmed gently in your arms, and Santi was already reaching to steady your elbow, helping you sit.

“I’ve got it,” you whispered, but you didn’t stop him.

“You’re exhausted,” he murmured. “Don’t pretend with me.”

You sank into the cushions, and for a moment, the room was still.

Nova nuzzled against your chest, eyes fluttering shut again.

Santiago watched you for a long beat. His expression was unreadable, a mix of affection and concern. Then he said:

“He’s trying. You don’t have to forgive him. Fuck, I don’t want you to forgive him but he is trying.”

You said nothing.

Just looked down at the tiny face tucked against your chest.

Santi leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You carried everyone through this. Max. Yourself. And you still managed to keep this little one safe through it all.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m not really sure I carried us through it,” you whispered.

Santi’s gaze sharpened immediately. “You did, Y/N. Even when you were at your lowest, you still held everything together. I have no idea how you do that. I don’t know how you managed it after my accident, and I sure as fuck don’t know how you did it this time. But you still did it. And Y/N, you know I love how strong you are, but you have to stop carrying this burden alone and start asking for help.”

A long silence.

Then, softer: “I would burn the whole fucking world down for you. You know that. We might not have always known each other, but the moment I realized I had a sister, I knew there was nothing I wouldn’t do for you. So please, mi amor, let me help you.”

You glanced at him, eyes glassy.

“I can try,” you murmured. “But his help… I’m not sure I can trust him anymore.”

Santi didn’t balk. “Then don’t. Not yet. But watch. Watch what he does. Watch if he stays.”

You nodded once.

And somewhere in the kitchen, Max cursed under his breath as a mug clinked loudly against the counter.

Santi was right, he was trying.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

taglist: @radcloudenthusiast@bia-n-t-d@melissa66orion@armystay89@anaylen01@kuskumu@seawaterbrain@flwrhacker@rubyybabyy@mbioooo0000@sunnytkm23@louisianalady@helianthus22@melancholymoonlightsworld@lora21@ateliefloresdaprimavera@leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake

[sugaesthetic93]

You know how it works; mv1

what starts as a quiet dinner ends in the kind of silence that breaks everything

f!reader ୨୧ word count : ~ 1.9k

warnings : 3 apples tall child, emotional shit, panic/heightened emotions, implied neglect in relationship, arguments, language, heartbreak, mentions of crying, angst, angst and more angst, slow-burn

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 pt.6 pt.7 pt.8

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He held you like you were made of glass and fire all at once, something too fragile to grip, but too dangerous to let go.

You were sobbing so hard your entire body shook against his, and Max was just... there.

Useless. Helpless.

A man completely gutted by what he had done.

“I’m sorry,” he said over and over, breathless. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

His arms tightened around you as much as they could, your bodies intertwined so completely that you couldn’t tell where yours ended and his began.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. The crying took everything out of you. You were shaking so violently that you could feel him trembling too.

So he kept talking.

“I never should’ve said what I said. Never. I should’ve realized how much it cost you. I should’ve known how scared you were. I should’ve been the one holding your hand in that hospital, not some stranger. I should’ve been there when he took his first breath-”

His voice broke, raw and hoarse.

“-when you looked at him and didn’t see me.”

You twisted, trying to get out of his arms. His words were becoming too much. But Max only held on tighter, as if he were afraid you’d disappear. As if there were somehow still room to hold you closer.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he whispered, his forehead resting against yours. “No matter how stupid it sounds, I thought that was what everyone expected of me. Keeping my word to the team. I thought that was what you expected too. I thought you didn’t want me there.”

You shook your head, still crying.

Max reached up and tried to wipe away your tears, frantic now, pressing kisses to your temple even when you flinched.

“I was so wrong. I chose wrong. I chose so fucking wrong. I didn’t notice how much of yourself you were hiding, how you always put your needs behind mine, how my lifestyle was suffocating you. Even before Nova, I didn’t realize how bad things had gotten.”

You gasped for air, your hands fisted in his hoodie, and something inside him shattered.

“I don’t care about anything except the two of you,” he said, his voice almost childlike in its ache. “Not the races. Not the titles. None of it means a damn thing if I lose you. And I realized that far too late.”

You tried to look up. Your eyes felt swollen, your vision blurred by tears until all you could really make out were shapes and colors.

Even then, you could see how devastated Max looked.

The sight of you nearly broke him - your face flushed red, your lashes wet, your eyes swollen with weeks of pain he had never noticed until it was too late.

“I love you,” he whispered, like a prayer. “I love you. I love you so much it’s ruined me. I don’t sleep. I can’t think. Every time I close my eyes, I see that hospital room and you in it. Alone.”

You hiccuped, your sobs finally beginning to quiet.

“I should’ve been there,” Max said again, his forehead pressed against yours. “I should’ve held your hand. I should’ve told you how brave you were. I should’ve kissed your fucking sweat-soaked face and thanked you a thousand times.”

His breath shook.

“And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Even if you never forgive me. Even if you never let me back in.”

He pressed a tentative kiss to your damp cheek, then another to the corner of your mouth.

“I love you. I love our son. I’m not leaving again. Ever. I swear on my life, I’m staying.”

- - -

Your sobs had softened into shivers now. Your body was exhausted.

Your muscles were limp, your throat raw, and your skin burned beneath the weight of everything that had just poured out.

Max held you tighter.

But it wasn’t desperation anymore.

It was devotion.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you to bed.”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t have the strength to.

Your whole body ached, and your mind drifted somewhere far away, filled with pain and grief and a tiny flicker of something you didn’t want to name yet, not hope. Not forgiveness.

Just… relief. Just the ability to breathe again.

Max lifted you effortlessly from the floor, one arm beneath your legs, the other wrapped securely around your back.

You probably should have told him not to. You had just had a baby. Your body was stitched, sore, and still recovering.

But he didn’t hesitate.

He carried you like you were something precious. Like you mattered.

Once he had tucked you beneath the covers, he smoothed the blanket over your legs and brushed the hair away from your face before crouching beside the bed.

“You don’t need to get up,” he said gently. “Not for anything.”

You opened your mouth - maybe to protest, maybe to ask about Nova - but Max shook his head.

“No,” he said firmly. “No. I’ve got him. You’ve done enough. More than enough.”

You blinked at him, your lip trembling.

“He’ll need to eat in a few hours.”

“I’ll wake you if he does,” he promised, brushing his thumb across the back of your hand. “But let me try first. Let me try to soothe him. Change him. Rock him. Be his fucking dad.”

Your chest tightened.

“I know I haven’t earned this yet,” Max said quietly, his eyes shining with emotions he could barely keep under control. “But you’re not alone. Not anymore. He’s my son too. And I can do this. I will do this.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

And maybe it was the tears still drying on your cheeks, or the sheer weight of your broken heart, but something inside you eased just a little.

You nodded.

Max let out a slow breath, relief thick in his throat.

“Sleep, Schatz,” he whispered. “Sleep. I’ve got you both now.”

He pressed one last kiss to your temple, stood, and slipped quietly into the hallway.

You didn’t hear anything after that.

Just the silence of finally being cared for.

- - -

The nursery was quiet except for the soft mechanical whir of the baby monitor and Nova’s tiny, sleepy breaths.

Moonlight spilled through the curtains, painting silver stripes across the floor and the pale walls. Somewhere in the apartment, a pipe creaked and Max hoped Y/N wouldn’t wake up. The refrigerator hummed faintly in the distance. Otherwise, the world seemed to have shrunk to this room.

To this moment.

Max stood beside the crib, completely frozen.

He had held trophies heavier than this. Driven cars worth millions. Signed contracts that could change careers overnight.

None of it had ever made him feel this way.

Nova rested in the crook of his arm, warm and impossibly light, a swirl of reddish-blond hair damp from sleep, his mouth still slightly puckered from his last feed. His tiny fingers twitched against Max’s ches,t nothing more than a reflex, probably.

Still, Max couldn't help but feel like he was reaching for him.

His heart clenched.

Carefully, almost afraid of disturbing the fragile peace, he lowered himself into the rocking chair. The old wood creaked softly beneath his weight.

Nova barely reacted.

For a long moment, Max simply stared.

At his son.

At the tiny nose.

At the impossibly small eyelashes resting against chubby cheeks.

At the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

At the little crease between his brows that looked so much like yours it almost hurt.

The resemblance caught him off guard every single time.

His chest tightened.

This child had barely come into this world and already Max couldn't imagine a world without him.

And he had missed the beginning. Missed the first cry. Missed the first time Nova opened his eyes. Missed the moment you became a mother.

The guilt sat in his stomach like lead.

Finally, he spoke.

“Hey, kleine Mann.”

His voice cracked immediately. He swallowed hard.

“You don’t know me yet,” he whispered. “Not really. Not how you should.”

Nova stirred slightly, his tiny face scrunching up for a second before relaxing again.

Max watched him with an intensity that bordered on reverence.

“I’m your dad. And I - I fucked it all up, buddy. Before you were even born.”

His gaze dropped.

“Should’ve been there. Should’ve heard your first cry. Held your mama’s hand. Been the first one to say your name out loud.”

His throat burned.

For years, racing had taught him that mistakes could be corrected. A bad qualifying session could be salvaged. A lost position could be fought back.

But some moments only happened once.

And he had thrown one away.

“Nova Y/L/N,” he murmured. A sad smile tugged at his lips.

“Beautiful name. Your mama... she’s always been better at naming things.”

The smile disappeared as quickly as it came.

Because thinking about you inevitably brought him back to the hospital room he had never seen.

Back to your tear-streaked face.

Back to the words you'd screamed at him while years of pain poured out.

He rocked the chair gently. Back and forth. Back and forth.

The motion seemed to soothe both of them.

“I want to promise you something, okay?”

Max leaned closer, his voice barely louder than Nova’s breathing.

“You’re not going to grow up feeling like you have to earn my love. You don’t need to win anything. You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to become somebody for me to care.”

His eyes stung.

“You just get to be. And I’ll love you anyway.”

Nova let out a tiny sigh in his sleep, a soft contented sound that made something deep inside Max ache.

Without thinking, he adjusted his grip, holding him a little closer.

A little safer.

“I’m not my dad,” he whispered fiercely. The words escaped before he could stop them. “I swear to God, I’m not going to be like him.”

His jaw tightened.

“I will never make you feel small. I’ll never make you feel like my love comes with conditions. I’ll never use it as a leash.”

His eyes drifted toward the nursery door.

Toward the hallway that led to your bedroom.

Toward you.

“You are free,” he said quietly. “You and your mama both.”

The room fell silent again. His throat tightened.

“You don’t know it yet,” he whispered, looking back down at Nova. “But she saved me.”

A shaky breath escaped him.

“Twice now.”

He smiled sadly.

“Once when I met her.” His thumb brushed gently over Nova’s blanket. “And again when she gave me you, my little gift.”

For the first time in weeks, the crushing panic in his chest loosened ever so slightly.

Not because things were fixed but because for the first time since Nova was born, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Max leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes, never stopping the gentle rocking motion.

“I’m going to be better,” he breathed.

Not a promise.

A vow.

“I have to be.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sry y'all, life and work have been crazy!!!

taglist: @radcloudenthusiast@bia-n-t-d@melissa66orion@armystay89@anaylen01@kuskumu@seawaterbrain@flwrhacker@rubyybabyy@mbioooo0000@sunnytkm23@louisianalady@helianthus22@melancholymoonlightsworld@lora21 @ateliefloresdaprimavera @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp

[sugaesthetic93]

You know how it works; mv1

what starts as a quiet dinner ends in the kind of silence that breaks everything

f!reader ୨୧ word count : ~ 950

warnings : 3 apples tall child, emotional shit, panic/heightened emotions, implied neglect in relationship, arguments, language, heartbreak, mentions of crying, angst, angst and more angst, slow-burn

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 pt.6 pt.7

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It started with dizziness.

A soft pulse in your ears and a tightening in your chest. You blinked once, then again, thinking you probably just hadn’t drunk enough water. Nursing a child was no joke.

But then you turned toward the kitchen, took one step and-

Suddenly the floor felt like it was tilting sideways.

You grabbed the edge of the doorframe, but your knees buckled anyway. Usually your body just felt heavy and exhausted, but this was something completely different.

Max was there before you hit the ground.

“Hey! Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” His voice spiked in pitch, his arms already catching you. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

Your breath was shallow, your skin cold but also too hot, too sweaty. You tried to speak, but the words tangled in your throat in a tight knot you couldn’t swallow.

Suddenly your feet weren’t on the ground anymore. Max carried you to the couch like you weighed nothing. Nova cried from the other room - shrill and panicked - but Max didn’t let go of you.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded, pressing your hair off your forehead. “You’re burning up - shit, are you feverish? When did you eat? Did you eat? Where’s your phone - fuck, I should call -”

You grabbed his wrist, weak but deliberate. You could feel cushions behind your back, and a lump that might have been the TV remote digging into your ribs, but it didn’t matter right now.

“Don’t leave.”

That was all it took to crack him open.

“I’m not,” he breathed, voice shaking. “I’m not going anywhere. Just stay with me.”

Time became a blur. A cup of water. Cool cloths. Nova crying, then quieting again. You blinking up at the ceiling, trying to slow your heartbeat.

Max eventually sat down next to you, his knees on the floor, hands on your cheeks.

“Still a bit warm, but we’re getting there,” he mumbled, fidgeting with the blanket across your chest.

His eyes roamed over your face, searching for god knows what, and all you could see was his tight expression - brows furrowed, that small crease between them, his nose slightly scrunched, lips pressed together, the three-day stubble making your fingers ache with the urge to touch it.

There was so much anguish on his face that for a moment you almost wondered if he was the one who was sick. But then you realized that anguish was because of you.

And that realization made you sit up.

Your head almost bumped into his if he hadn’t reacted instantly, pulling back with that absurd F1 reflex.

And then it hit.

All of it.

The birth. The blood. The silence. The months of being invisible. The way he hadn’t chosen you when it mattered. The way you had loved him anyway.

It detonated inside you because how the fuck did he get to care now, but not then?

“You left me,” you spat, and Max went still like you had physically struck him.

Your hands clutched the blanket in your lap, fingers white-knuckled. “You fucking left me, Max. I almost died.”

His mouth opened, but you didn’t let him speak.

“There was a voice inside me begging to call you. Fucking begging to. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t, Max, because I knew it wouldn’t matter. You would’ve picked your precious race over us!”

His face went ghost-white.

“Do you know what it feels like?” you said, voice breaking harder now. “To hold your baby for the first time and feel nothing but grief? Because the one person who was supposed to be there didn’t even know it was happening?”

“Don’t,” Max whispered. “Please-”

“And it was my own fault!” you shouted. “I tolerated your bullshit for far too long. Every single time you dismissed me, had no time for me, brushed off my concerns, I told myself that was the sacrifice I had to make. That that’s what it meant to be with you. To love you!”

Max flinched. His hands shook at his sides, and god, you were so tired of him always cowering. Where had that apologetic Max been before everything turned into a disaster?

You kept going, rage and heartbreak bleeding into every word.

“I gave you everything. My heart. My future. My fucking body. I let you convince me to have a baby even though I never wanted one! And all you gave me was silence so loud it still makes my ears ring.”

You inhaled sharply, chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight you could feel the pressure in your skull.

Max’s voice was barely a whisper. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know it would break you like this-”

“You didn’t care.” Your voice cracked. “You never cared. Not enough. Not when it counted.”

He reached out, but you swatted his hand away.

And then it happened.

You broke.

You screamed. You cried so hard you couldn’t breathe. You sank back into the cushions, the remote digging into your ribs again, and finally - finally - you stopped holding it in. All those weeks of not knowing how it would end, of feeling nothing and too much and something agonizing in between.

It all came out in violent sobs that made your lungs rattle.

Max dropped beside you instantly, squeezing onto the edge of the couch and pulling you into his arms even as you pushed him away.

You hit his chest. You sobbed into his shirt. You said things you would never remember and he would never forget.

And he held you through all of it.

Silent and devastated.

Knowing full well he might have broken something in you he could never, ever fix.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

taglist: @radcloudenthusiast @bia-n-t-d @melissa66orion @armystay89 @anaylen01 @kuskumu @seawaterbrain @flwrhacker @rubyybabyy @mbioooo0000 @sunnytkm23 @louisianalady @helianthus22 @melancholymoonlightsworld @lora21

[sugaesthetic93]

You know how it works; mv1

what starts as a quiet dinner ends in the kind of silence that breaks everything

f!reader ୨୧ word count : ~ 700

warnings : 3 apples tall child, emotional shit, panic/heightened emotions, implied neglect in relationship, arguments, language, heartbreak, mentions of crying, angst, angst and more angst, slow-burn

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 pt.6

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You didn’t hear the door open.

Nova was fussing in your arms, not quite awake, not quite asleep and you were rocking him gently in the nursery, your body moving on autopilot. Your limbs were tired. Your soul was tired. Everything was so goddamn tired.

Max found you like that: back to the door, baby on your shoulder, the dim nightlight casting soft shadows across your face while you kept the rhythm of the rocking chair going.

He stopped in the doorway and didn’t speak for a moment. Just… took it in.

The way you held his son like your bones had been made for it. The way your eyes looked so far away, even now, even still.

“I’m back,” he said quietly.

You hummed. Not really an answer. Not really anything.

“I brought diapers,” he tried, a sad sort of smile in his voice. “The weird eco ones you liked. And the cream Santi’s PA said was good for-”

“Put them on the shelf,” you said, still not looking at him.

He nodded and set the bag down.

He wasn’t sure why he had expected anything different.

You hadn’t even texted when the race ended. Not like he had expected you to. Even ignoring everything that had happened, you now had a child to care for and no time to check in on him.

But still, every time he felt his phone vibrate in his jeans pocket, he couldn’t fully crush the small, stubborn hope that it might be you.

“I did an interview,” he offered, like that might be currency between you. “Well. Sort of. I lost my shit on a reporter.”

You said nothing, just adjusted Nova gently, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

“I said his name,” Max added, stepping closer. “I shouldn’t have, I know. I should’ve asked you if that was okay, but I was so riled up and Jos said-”

That made you glance at him, and he stumbled over his words, caught off guard by your eyes on him.

“It doesn’t matter what happened, not really,” he continued, quieter now. “Bottom line is, I should’ve checked in with you first.”

He stood there, hands shoved into his pockets.

“I guess it’s fine,” you said, voice neutral. “Everyone would’ve found out eventually anyway.”

Nova started to twitch, his fingers moving in small, restless motions, and you resumed rocking him. “But thanks for telling me. I didn’t watch, so I had no idea.”

You didn’t even watch.

Max breathed in slowly. Not a surprise - not anymore - but it still hit him in a place he didn’t know how to name.

He couldn’t stop wishing, with something almost painful, that things were different.

He knelt down beside the rocking chair, eye level with your lap. His hands trembled slightly.

At first, you weren’t sure what he wanted. But then…

“Can I…?” he asked softly, reaching toward Nova.

You hesitated - just a second - then nodded.

This was new territory. Max had never held Nova like this. Never really held him at all. There had always been this gap between them, one he had created and one you had stopped expecting him to close.

But now…

Max carefully slipped his arms under the baby, lifting him against his chest like he was holding the last unbroken thing he had.

You held your breath, afraid to make the wrong sound.

Nova shifted, tiny fingers curling into Max’s shirt, and Max exhaled like he hadn’t breathed properly since he left.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “Oh my god, he’s perfect.”

You stared at them. Your son, warm against his father’s chest. Max, eyes glassy, face softened in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time - completely undone by six pounds of something he hadn’t realized he needed this badly.

He cradled Nova like he had found his heart outside his body.

And you didn’t know what to feel. So you didn’t try. You just stayed still.

Instead, for the first time since Max had come home, you said something real. Quiet. Honest.

“You missed so much.”

It wasn’t accusatory. You didn’t mean it like that.

His face twisted - grief, guilt, something so heavy it almost bent him in half.

“I know,” he said. “And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

Nova let out a tiny sigh in his arms.

Max closed his eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, something in you shifted.

Not forgiveness. Not closeness.

But maybe…

Maybe not the end. Not yet.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I swear the plot will pick up in the next chapter. I know it’s very slow-burn and a bit tedious and repetitive at the moment, but it will get better

taglist: @radcloudenthusiast @bia-n-t-d @melissa66orion @armystay89 @anaylen01 @kuskumu @seawaterbrain @flwrhacker @rubyybabyy @mbioooo0000 @sunnytkm23 @louisianalady @helianthus22

[sugaesthetic93]

You know how it works; mv1

what starts as a quiet dinner ends in the kind of silence that breaks everything

f!reader ୨୧ word count : ~ 1.4k

warnings : 3 apples tall child, emotional confrontation, mild panic/heightened emotions, implied neglect in relationship, arguments, language, heartbreak, mentions of crying, angst, angst and more angst

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Nova was crying again. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it was just in your head, a phantom echo. You were so tired that time bent in strange ways. Days and nights blurred together. You lived in three-hour intervals between feedings and diaper changes and moments where you weren’t sure if you were shaking from hormones or heartbreak.

You didn’t ask Max for help.

He was just there. Around.

It wasn’t like you were keeping Nova from him. You would never do that.

It felt more like he wasn’t able to stay too close to his son, like he blamed himself and had decided his punishment was not allowing himself to hold him, to be near him, to fully exist in this new role as a father.

You didn’t comment on it, your thoughts too cloudy.

But he hovered. All the time. Nervous energy radiating through the entire apartment. Trying to figure out how to help you without coming too close.

He had offered to make you tea that morning. You had shrugged.

He had folded a pile of laundry the night before. You hadn’t really noticed.

He had bought the pacifier brand you had mentioned in passing once, the one Santiago’s PA had recommended. You hadn’t said thank you.

You didn’t hate him.

You just didn’t have the energy to care.

Everything hurt. Still. Sitting, walking, breathing. Just existing. Your insides felt like they had been rearranged with violence, and no one had even told you when you would feel human again.

And yet, the baby needed you. So you showed up. With shaking hands and cracked lips and dead eyes, you showed up.

You picked Nova up from the bassinet, wincing at the movement.

He was so small.

You sank back onto the couch, settling him against your chest and just breathed.

Max watched from the doorway. He hovered, again.

He was trying. You could see it.

You didn’t speak for a while.

Then, out of nowhere, as you watched him rearrange the closet with too-careful hands, you asked:

“Why aren’t you on a flight?”

He froze. Turned toward you slowly.

“What?”

You stared at him like it was obvious. Because to you, it was.

“I haven’t kept track of time, but I’m pretty sure a week has passed. Your next race is in, what, two days? Tomorrow? Why aren’t you packing? Why aren’t you gone already?”

He blinked, stunned. “I - I wasn’t going to leave.”

You sighed, adjusting Nova in your arms. “Since when?”

Max looked like you had just punched him in the stomach. “Since I walked through that door and saw you with him… with our son.”

Your laugh was bitter, but quiet. “I didn’t even think staying was an option for you.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m staying. If you’ll let me. Even if you don’t, Y/N.”

You didn’t reply. Not because you were being cruel, but because your body was screaming for rest and you had already used up all your words for the day.

You just pressed your lips to your son’s temple and whispered, “Alles wird gut, mein kleiner Engel.”

Max stood there in the silence, replaying your conversation over and over, trying to understand where he had gone wrong again, realizing he had never felt further from you.

- - -

You were sitting in the nursery when he came in. Lately, it felt like you were starting to live in this room.

Nova was asleep on your chest, a tiny hand curled into the collar of your sweatshirt. You didn’t remember when you had last changed clothes.

Max hovered in the doorway, fingers twitching, like he was afraid to breathe too loudly. You didn’t look at him. Looking at him made him feel like a stranger.

“I have to go,” he said.

You said nothing.

“I tried to get out of it,” he continued, stepping inside slowly. “Tried everything. But they said if I skip another weekend, they’ll fine the team. Breach of contract.”

You kept your eyes on Nova.

His voice was tight. Fragile. “I’ll be gone two nights. I’ll take the red-eye home the second the race ends. I won’t even stay for press. I just… I want you to know I’m coming back.”

You nodded once. Just a small tilt of your head.

It was all you could offer.

He swallowed hard. “I can stock the freezer before I go. Set up the bottle warmer. Is there a formula brand you trust in case-”

“Max.”

It was the first time you had said his name in days. It made him stop cold.

You still didn’t look at him. “You don’t have to convince me.”

He stepped closer, hands shoved into his pockets like they were the only thing holding him together. “I just… I need you to know I love you. I love him. I love you both so much it’s killing me and I want to be here.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry. You just nodded again.

He crouched down beside your chair, searching your face like he was trying to find a crack, a flicker of the girl who used to wrap herself around him in hotel beds, who used to whisper “I miss you already” before he had even boarded the jet.

But all he found was your stillness.

“I’ll come back,” he said again, like if he repeated it enough, it would become true in the ways that mattered.

“I know,” you said. Not unkindly. Just quiet. Detached.

He leaned forward like he wanted to kiss you. But he didn’t. He knew better.

So instead, he pressed a hand to Nova’s back - featherlight - and then stood.

And as he left the room, you listened to his footsteps like they were thunder moving farther and farther away.

And still, you didn’t let yourself feel it.

Because if you did, if you felt anything, you were afraid you would fall apart completely.

- - -

He thought being back on track would help.

He thought the roar of the engine, the pit wall chatter, the pulse of the paddock would drown everything else out.

It didn’t.

His helmet felt heavier. His gloves tighter. The car - his safe place - felt off. Too loud in all the wrong ways.

All he could do was laugh at his own stupidity, because how had he ever thought that this would come close to seeing his girl curled up on the couch with their son in her arms?

Everywhere he turned, people were whispering.

“He missed a race.”

“She gave birth.”

“No statement yet, weird, right?”

“Do we even know the kid’s name?”

He heard it all. Felt it like tiny stones thrown at his ribs.

But he said nothing. Why would he? They were all vultures, circling, searching for a shiny piece of gossip to tear apart.

He ignored every question, every subtle nudge from the media team to “just share something short.”

He wouldn’t. Not this time. Not when the most important moment of his life had slipped through his fingers and he was still bleeding from the inside.

The moment came mid-day. He was walking through the paddock, jaw tight, when he heard a reporter say:

“Jos Verstappen says he’s disappointed his son skipped a race, but ‘what can you do, the old ball and chain.’ Direct quote.”

Max stopped.

He turned.

“I’m sorry - what the fuck did you just say?”

The cameras swung toward him so fast it was like sharks smelling blood.

The reporter repeated it, a little sheepishly now.

Max’s expression changed. Not angry, just cold.

“You think missing one race - one - for the birth of my son is something to be ashamed of?” he said, voice steady, deadly quiet. “You think the woman who almost died bringing him into this world is a ball and chain?”

Silence.

Then Max laughed. Sharp and so so bitter.

“My father can keep his damn opinions to himself. He knows nothing. He’s not even part of my team. And he definitely doesn’t know what it means to be a good father.”

The cameras flashed. Recorders were pushed closer.

“If that makes headlines, great. Maybe now people will stop acting like he speaks for me.”

He turned to leave, then paused, something seething just beneath the surface.

“For the record,” he said over his shoulder, “if I could go back and miss ten races, the entire season, just to be there when Nova opened his eyes for the first time, I would.”

And with that, he disappeared into the garage.

The clip hit the internet within minutes.

“Max Verstappen disowns his father?”

“Who is Nova Verstappen?”

“Ball and Chain? Verstappen responds with fire.”

But Max didn’t care, it was the truth.

One he realized too late.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Everything's going too be alright, my little angel"

taglist: @radcloudenthusiast @bia-n-t-d @melissa66orion @armystay89 @anaylen01 @kuskumu @seawaterbrain @flwrhacker @rubyybabyy

[sugaesthetic93]

You know how it works; mv1

what starts as a quiet dinner ends in the kind of silence that breaks everything

f!reader ୨୧ word count : ~ 1.3k

warnings : 3 apples tall child, pregnancy talk, emotional confrontation, mild panic/heightened emotions, implied neglect in relationship, arguments, language, heartbreak, mentions of crying, angst, angst and more angst

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The apartment was quiet. You could still hear the occasional car revving in the distance, but even though Monaco was the city of night, no one in their right mind stayed out too late on a Monday.

Your son was asleep in the bassinet by the window, wrapped in a pale green blanket that still smelled like hospital sheets and lavender detergent. His tiny chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms, like he was still getting used to the idea of breathing - which, in his defense, he probably was.

You sat on the couch, wearing a stretched-out shirt and the ugliest, most necessary postpartum diaper of your life. Everything hurt. Your hips, your ribs and your stitches. There was a dull ache deep in your pelvis that hadn’t stopped since you got home. But that wasn’t what was keeping you up.

It was the blood.

You couldn’t stop thinking about how the nurse had said, so softly:

“You lost a lot more blood than expected. You were close.”

Close to what?

To being another statistic? To bleeding out in a white hospital room, alone? Or to your baby entering the world without a mother?

And Max hadn’t been there.

He didn’t even know.

The door opened behind you, a soft click as it unlocked, then closed.

You didn’t turn around.

Your eyes were on the small human being stretching out his tiny fingers, trying to grab onto something solid, even in his sleep.

You heard his bag drop. His shoes being set on the shelf. Then a pause.

And finally, “You’re still up. I thought you’d be sleeping.”

A slight shift in his voice. “Did you… did you wait up for me?”

Your voice was flat. “Not really.”

He walked slowly into the living room, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him get close. His eyes flicked to the bassinet. And then -

He saw him.

His mouth parted slightly. His steps stopped altogether.

“Is that…?”

You nodded.

He didn’t know what to say but you could feel it. The tension, the panic, the breath he was holding.

“I was - I was… you have to believe me, I was going to fly back!” he blurted out, like the words had been burning his tongue. “I told my assistant to monitor my calls and tell me right away if you called. Everyone was on standby. I told them I might have to fly back when you went into labor and I -”

He cut himself off, staring at the bassinet like he had just realized he’d missed the most important moment of his life.

You finally looked at him. Your eyes were tired and so, so empty.

“You weren’t there,” you said softly. “And he was.”

Max looked like you had slapped him.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “You didn’t tell me.”

You laughed once, a hollow sound. “Of course I didn’t. Why would I distract you? You made your priorities clear.”

“Don’t say that,” he said, stepping closer. “Please, Y/N, don’t say that.”

You looked at him fully now, and it was like you were seeing him for the first time.

“I don’t think we can make this right, Max,” you said quietly. “You missed it. All of it. The contractions. The drive to the hospital. The panic when my heart rate dropped. The way I almost bled out on that table. You weren’t there.”

Max swallowed hard, blinking fast. You could almost see every thought rushing through his mind - the way his brows furrowed, his mouth poised to speak, but smoothing out at the last second. He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then he asked, “What’s his name?”

You looked down at your son.

“Nova,” you said. “Nova Y/L/N.”

His eyes flickered again. Confused. Maybe even hurt.

“Y/L/N?” he echoed.

“After my mother,” you said. “Definitely not after my father.”

Max closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he was blinking back tears. He shrugged. “I deserve that.”

“No,” you said. “You don’t deserve anything.”

It wasn’t cruel. It was just the truth.

He sank slowly onto the arm of the couch, like your words had knocked the breath out of him.

“I still love you,” he said, his voice shaking.

You nodded once. “That’s not enough anymore.”

And in the quiet that followed, you both understood.

This was the consequence.

This was the cost.

- - -

He had thought she’d yell.

He had been ready for that.

For the screaming, the rage and heartbreak poured out in German and English and tears. He had wanted it. Needed it. Deserved it.

He had figured that after all those weeks of numb silence, she had to break. That something had to happen for her to turn all that buried rage outward. And this, him not even knowing that his own fucking son had been born, had seemed like a very possible trigger.

But instead, she had sat there on the couch, quiet.

And that was worse.

That was so much worse.

Nova.

His son’s name was Nova.

Y/L/N, not Verstappen.

And he hadn’t even been there to name him.

He kept replaying it in his head.

How small the baby had looked in the bassinet.

How pale her face had been.

How she hadn’t flinched when she had said, “You don’t deserve anything.”

He had planned the speech on the flight home, had been planning it ever since his talk with Santiago. He had rehearsed it in the hotel mirror until his throat was raw.

He had been going to tell her how wrong he’d been. How he hadn’t slept for days, fuck it, for weeks, thinking about her, about the baby. How he hadn’t meant his words at that dinner, and how he sure as hell didn’t mean them now. He had wanted to be there for his child’s birth. He had needed it. To help her, to support her, to fucking be there for her.

Somehow, in all of that, he had forgotten that a baby didn’t necessarily arrive on its due date.

He had fucked up. Again.

There was no speech good enough.

She had looked at him like a stranger. Worse, like someone she used to love. Someone she hadn’t found worthy enough to call for help during one of the most terrifying moments of her life, because she had believed she wasn’t worth enough to be chosen.

And he couldn’t even blame her. It was his own fucking fault.

So he took one long, lingering look at Nova - tiny hands curled into tiny fists - and then he walked to the bedroom on unsteady feet, his own hands shaking. The hallway felt longer than it ever had.

He used to run through it laughing. Used to chase her barefoot, wrap his arms around her from behind.

Now he walked like he was about to collapse.

The door clicked closed behind him. He stood in the dark.

And then it hit him. Her words.

She had almost died.

She had almost fucking died, and he hadn’t even been in the same hemisphere.

He sank to the floor beside the bed, his back against the mattress, legs sprawled, chest caving in. The first sob slipped out before he could stop it.

Then another.

And then he was gone.

Gasping, broken, both hands covering his face like he could hold the grief in, like he could shove it back down.

He cried harder than he had in years.

And as he curled in on himself, heart cracked open, he realized what he had been trying not to admit since that night at dinner:

He had missed the beginning of the rest of his life.

And this time, there was no podium waiting at the end.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

taglist: @radcloudenthusiast @bia-n-t-d @melissa66orion @armystay89 @anaylen01

[sugaesthetic93]

You know how it works; mv1

what starts as a quiet dinner ends in the kind of silence that breaks everything

f!reader ୨୧ word count : ~ 850

warnings : child birth!!! almost dying?? blood, pregnancy, emotional confrontation, mild panic/heightened emotions, implied neglect in relationship, arguments, language, heartbreak, mentions of crying, angst, angst and more angst

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The contractions had started slowly. Deep, rhythmic pulls low in your abdomen. It felt like your body was folding in on itself and quietly preparing for war.

You checked the time. Max’s flight should have been in the air by now.

The last month of the season had started, and he was off to one place or another. You didn’t care enough anymore to remember where he was headed.

He had told you before he left, his packed bag slung over one shoulder, a frown on his face. He could tell you weren’t really paying attention to his words, muttering something about a talk he’d had with your brother.

With press time, all of free practice, qualifying and the race he would be back in five days. Probably four now, since he had started to frantically make sure to spend as much time around you as he could, even though you didn’t care.

Sometimes you tried to convince yourself it was pregnancy brain, but both of you knew that wasn’t the case.

It just hurt too much to look at him.

So you didn’t text him.

You didn’t see the point.

What would it change? He wouldn’t come. He had made that clear months ago, made it sound like the decision had already been made for him. Like you were being unreasonable for wanting a father in the delivery room.

And maybe there was a small grain of hope left in your heart, telling you that you could try to call, to reach out. Because even though your body had been heavy and all your emotions these past weeks had felt dulled - like there was an impenetrable wall inside you - you had noticed how he… tried. Tried to talk to you, tried to catch your eyes, maybe even apologize.

But just the thought of him picking up his phone, staring out of a private jet window and telling you that no, he couldn’t skip this race, made your stomach hurt even more than one of your contractions.

You were done begging to be prioritized.

That was why you breathed through the pain, alone in the apartment. The nursery was quiet, untouched. A little blue onesie hung on the back of the door, next to the hospital bag you had packed weeks ago by yourself.

You didn’t cry and didn’t panic.

You just moved.

By the time you were in the hospital, hooked up to monitors and IVs, your body felt like it was splitting open from the inside. You screamed once into the sterile air, clutching the railing of the bed until your knuckles turned white.

Still, you didn’t call him.

Not when they told you you were five centimeters. Not when the epidural kicked in. Not when the midwife told you, gently, “It’s time.”

Not even when the room became noise and motion and light and heat, and you swore you left your body for a moment just to survive the pain.

It still hurt less than what he had done to you.

At first, it was subtle, too subtle. A shift in the room. A glance exchanged between nurses.

Then voices, sharper now.

“There’s more bleeding than expected.”

“Call the doctor.”

“We need to move, now!”

Warmth spread beneath you, wrong and terrifying. Too much. You felt it before you understood it, a sickening awareness as the sheets beneath you grew damp, then soaked.

Hands were suddenly everywhere. Pressing, checking, lifting. Someone adjusted the monitors. Someone else spoke in a tone that was meant to be calm but wasn’t.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” a voice said, but it sounded far away.

Your head spun. The ceiling lights blurred together. You tried to focus, to hold onto something real, but the room tilted, slipping in and out of clarity as your body fought to keep up.

“It still hurts less,” you thought, distantly, probably even bitterly. Less than the emptiness. Less than him not being there.

Because now you knew something was really, really wrong.

And there was no one there to support you.

Giving birth to a child - his child - felt like the cruelest twist of fate and the most sacred act all at once.

And when your son let out his first cry, wet and furious and alive, you cried too.

But not from joy.

Not because you had made it after all.

But from grief.

You pressed him to your chest, skin to skin, tears soaking your gown as your heart split open in ways it never had before.

He was perfect. So small and warm. Completely yours.

And yet, there was a hollow space where something else should have been. Someone else. But you didn’t let yourself dwell on it.

You had made yourself a promise the moment the first contraction hit.

This was the line.

No more waiting.

No more hoping.

No more Max.

And in that quiet hospital room, with your body broken and your soul barely stitched together, you became a mother.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

taglist: @radcloudenthusiast

[sugaesthetic93]

You know how it works; mv1

what starts as a quiet dinner ends in the kind of silence that breaks everything

f!reader ୨୧ word count : ~2k

warnings : pregnancy, confrontation, mild panic/heightened emotions, implied neglect in relationship, arguments, language, heartbreak, mentions of crying, angst, angst and more angst, also grovel

pt.1 pt.2

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The days after that dinner blurred into weeks. And something inside you, something you didn’t even know had a name, simply shut off.

You weren’t angry anymore. Not in the way that burns. It was something worse. It was indifference.

You stopped asking where Max was flying next. Stopped texting him good luck before races. Stopped staying up to watch qualifying just to see the glint of pride in his eyes. If he kissed you goodbye before a flight, you let him. If he didn’t, you didn’t notice.

Everything was numb. Like the anger had drained all of your emotions.

You still spoke to him. You weren’t cruel, but you stopped filling in the silence between the two of you.

You slept alone more nights than not, even when he was home. Sometimes in the guest room, sometimes curled up on the couch with a hand resting on your belly, your baby kicking beneath your skin.

And Max noticed.

It started small.

Him asking, “Are you okay?” more than once. Him lingering longer in the kitchen, watching you prepare tea in the morning like he didn’t know how to bridge the space. Like he wanted to say something, maybe even apologize, but didn’t know how.

So you didn’t talk about that dinner and you didn’t offer him a way back in. You didn’t owe him that.

Your days were filled with prenatal appointments, breathing exercises, and walks by the water. You went to therapy. You read every book on childbirth you could find. You laughed with friends. Even indulged in a romance book or two. You lived.

And Max? Max raced.

He called from airports, from paddocks, from the back of speeding cars. Like usual.

But this time, you answered when you felt like it. You started to prioritize your feelings, and that included not letting him vent every time a rival surpassed his car.

Once, after a back-to-back race weekend, he came home early and found you assembling the crib alone. You had a screwdriver in one hand, your heavy belly curved against the edge of the frame, sweat sticking your shirt to your back.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t even look up. “Because I stopped waiting, Max.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time after that.

Another night, you caught him just watching you, really watching you, as you massaged oil into your belly, talking softly to the baby. His eyes looked hollow. Like he was missing something that used to be right in front of him.

He reached out once, gently pressing a hand against your stomach.

“I miss you,” he said.

You looked him dead in the eye and replied, “You should’ve thought about that before you said you don’t give a single fuck about me.”

His breath caught. He didn’t answer.

That’s when the panic started. You could see it. In how often he started texting. In the way he asked too many questions at once: “How’s the baby? Are you sleeping? Do you need anything?” but never stayed still long enough to listen to the answers.

He was unraveling in slow motion, realizing the race he needed to win was here, at home, and he was already laps behind.

- - -

During the last stretch of your pregnancy, you took care of yourself like it was sacred. You ate better. You stretched. You slept with your hands curled around your belly like a shield. You sand softly to the baby when no one was listening. And when you cried, you didn’t hide in closets anymore.

You cried in bed. In the sunlight. While talking to your mother on the phone. You relished in the crying. It made you feel somehow powerful.

Max was losing his grip. You saw it in the way he hovered near the door when he was home. You saw it in the way he tried to touch you and hesitated.

Sometimes, you almost felt sorry for him.

But then you remembered the dinner. The way he had said it so easily, “I wouldn’t come anyway.” “You know how it works.”

Like this baby wasn’t a priority. Like he wasn’t the one who had convinced you to keep it.

And now?

Now it was too late for “I’m sorry.” The time for that would have been right after the dinner, and even then, looking back, maybe even that wouldn’t have been enough.

Now he came home from races and found half-finished baby clothes laid across the couch, your phone on the charger, and your presence in another room. He found lists of hospital bag items stuck to the fridge. Ultrasound photos pinned up, ones he hadn’t seen live because he had been in Singapore or Austin or God knows where.

One night he came back at midnight, another red-eye flight, exhausted and worn, and you were on the patio wrapped in a blanket, staring out at the water. You didn’t look at him when he slid the door open.

He stood behind you, silent. Waiting.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said eventually.

You closed your eyes. The sea wind tasted like salt and freedom.

“You should’ve thought about that before.” Your voice was steady. Cold.

“I was scared,” he said.

And that made a spark of that long-forgotten anger reignite, even if only for a moment.

“Ich hatte auch verdammt nochmal Angst, Max.”

Your voice trembled. “Ich habe immer noch scheiß Angst, aber das gibt mir keinen Grund, keine gute Mutter zu sein.”

You scoffed. “You know how it works, you said… Fuck off.”

He flinched. Actually flinched.

“I didn’t think—”

“No,” you cut him off. “You didn’t.”

You didn’t wait for his excuses. You pushed yourself up from the chair, one hand on your lower back, and walked past him without another word.

You felt his eyes on you.

You always did now.

- - -

It’s the middle of the European triple-header. You know that, not because Max told you, but because Santiago called you from the garage in Barcelona that morning.

He’d wanted to show you the custom embroidery you had stitched into his new gloves: “Volveremos más fuertes.” You’d sent them as a surprise. It made him smile, and you loved seeing your brother smile. Especially after everything that happened after his accident.

You talked about how the baby is due soon, the new swaddle you bought, the fact that your ankles were now unrecognizable. You didn’t talk about Max.

Santiago didn’t push. He never did.

Maybe because finding out your father was a fucking dick and had sired another secret child gave the two of you space to have your own secrets. Maybe because meeting said half-sibling a few years later and feeling like you’d found another piece of your soul, even though the two of you grew up in completely different circles - Santi was Latino through and through, and you were that kind of half-German, half-Slavic that made your head spin - gave you both the ability to understand things that were never said out loud. Maybe because you just loved each other.

He made you feel seen. Safe. And it didn’t hurt that he and Max had a weird frenemies rivalry going on, being on different F1 teams and all that.

It wasn’t until the next day, between FP3 and qualifying, that Max cornered Santiago outside the hospitality suite. The sun was high, the asphalt shimmering, and fans were screaming in the distance. Santiago was sipping water, his prosthetic leg propped slightly forward, resting.

“Can I ask you something?” Max said, hands in the pockets of his race suit.

Santiago glanced at him, one brow raised. He wasn’t sure what this was about, but it had better be worth his time. “Yeah?”

“It’s about Y/N.”

Santiago went still.

Max took a breath like it physically hurt. “What do I do?”

Santiago blinked slowly. “What the fuck do you mean, what do you do?”

Max looked down, not sure how to continue this conversation. When he and Santiago talked, it was almost always about cars, not Y/N. Santiago didn’t like his little sister dating Max, especially since he was the one who introduced them when she came to support her brother at a race.

“She barely speaks to me. She’s cold. Distant. She doesn’t look at me anymore. I don’t know how to get her back.”

Santiago stared at him, baffled. “Wait, she talks to me all the time. Sends me pictures of the bump, baby clothes, even voice notes. I just thought… you two were fine.”

Max shook his head. “She’s not fine. Not with me.”

There was a long pause. Santiago’s jaw locked.

“What did you do.” It wasn’t even a question. Santiago knew right away it was Max who fucked up.

Of course it was Max.

Max ran a hand through his hair. “I told her I wouldn’t come to the birth. That F1 is my priority. I thought… I thought she’d understand. That I couldn’t just leave mid-season.”

Santiago’s water bottle dropped to the ground.

“You told my sister-,” he said slowly, “that you wouldn’t come to the birth of your child?”

“I didn’t mean it like that-”

“No. Shut up. Don’t you dare explain that away.” Santiago’s voice was shaking now. “Do you even realize what you’ve done to her?”

Max looked like he wanted to shrink. “I panicked. I didn’t think-”

“That’s the problem, Max. You didn’t think.”

Almost the same words Y/N had used. And maybe they were right. Maybe he should have listened more and paid closer attention, not just to his own feelings. Y/N had made it so easy always supporting him and a standing in his corner. He had never really stopped to wonder how she felt about any of it.

Santiago stepped forward, his voice low but lethal. “She is terrified of being a bad mother. You know that? She never wanted kids because she was afraid she’d fuck them up. And you? You made her go through this alone.”

“I didn’t mean for-”

“She stayed by my side for seven months after the crash. When I couldn’t walk, couldn’t drive, couldn’t breathe without thinking I’d lost everything. She missed work, she cleaned up after me when I puked from the meds, she listened to me scream in my sleep and never left. She is the reason I’m standing here right now, the reason I am the driver that I am, even with one leg missing!”

Max looked away. Shame clawed up his throat.

“She was the only person I couldn’t push away. After I lost my leg, I acted like the biggest asshole on this planet, and she still stayed and helped me. And you managed to do it in one night.”

Max’s voice cracked. “I didn’t want to hurt her.”

“You grew up with Jos fucking Verstappen, Max! You know what it means to be neglected. You know what a parent’s absence can do to a kid.” Santiago’s face was pure fury now. “And she knows too! Did you forget that her father - and I’m saying her father because I do not claim that dumbfuck as my parent - was the biggest prick and cheated on her mother all the time? She never wanted children, too afraid to mess up being a parent!”

“And now you’re becoming the very thing you swore you’d never be. The very thing Y/N was afraid of. For what? A fucking trophy?”

Max’s silence said everything.

Santiago turned away, shaking his head. “You don’t deserve her and you don’t deserve that child. But if you even want a shot at being in their life, you better fix this. I don’t know how, but you fucking fix this.”

Max swallowed, gaze on the ground. “Do you think she still loves me?” he mumbled.

Santiago looked at him for a long moment.

Then, quietly: “Of course she does. That’s the fucking problem.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I honestly didn’t think anyone would read this, so thank you so much!

The good news is that I wrote this story a year ago, and it’s been sitting untouched in my notes app ever since. It still needs a bit of tweaking and rewriting, but it’s finished and I’m planning to start posting the chapters soon.

THANK YOU FOR READING!!

“I was fucking scared too, Max.” Your voice trembled. “I’m still damn scared, but that doesn’t give me a reason not to be a good mother.”

[sugaesthetic93]

You know how it works; mv1

what starts as a quiet dinner ends in the kind of silence that breaks everything

f!reader ୨୧ word count : ~1.2k

warnings : emotional confrontation, pregnancy, mild panic/heightened emotions, implied neglect in relationship, arguments, language, heartbreak, mentions of crying, angst, angst and more angst

pt. 1

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Dinner had started out civil, almost pleasant. The kind of strained politeness that held things together just enough to survive the evening. You weren’t feeling up to it, talked with Max at least 3 times to cancel, but it was the last free weekend before summer break was over and everyone was too busy to meet up. So you ignored your swollen feet crammed into sandals that fit you perfectly before the pregnancy and bore the heat on the patio with a strained smile.

Everyone was gathered around the long oak table in yours and Max’s Monaco apartment - Max, his father Jos, his sister Victoria, and you. The food, perfectly arranged, sat untouched on your plate, your appetite barely existent these days while Jos was once again going on and on about how the new regulations sucked.

A fleeting pressure low in your stomach made you lose your breath for a second, but you smiled, putting a hand on your bump. It was a bit small for 6 months, but the doctor assured you everything was fine with little grapefruit….

Being pregnant was something you never imagined you’d be. Something you’d only agreed to because Max had looked at you with that rare kind of softness in his eyes and said, “Please. Let’s keep it.”

“Y/N?”

Victoria was swirling wine in her glass, one leg crossed over the other, gaze turned to you.

“You won’t be able to fly anymore soon, right? Not in the last few months of pregnancy. At least that’s what my doctor told me when I was pregnant with my first.”

You gave her a polite nod. “Yeah, I know.”

“Well,” she continued, her mouth in a frown, “if the baby comes early and Max is in, like, Japan or Canada, he might not make it for the birth. That must suck.”

You glanced at Max to your right, expecting… you don’t know. A reassuring smile. A soft squeeze of your hand.

Instead, he shrugged and muttered, “Doesn’t really matter. Even if I were somewhere in Europe I wouldn’t come anyway.”

Silence.

Your fork dropped onto the plate with a sharp clink.

“What do you mean you wouldn’t come?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. Little grapefruit picked this moment to assault your ribs with some more kicks.

Max didn’t look up. “You know how it is, Liefje. I can’t just drop everything and quit the race. You know how it works.” He shrugged.

The words hit like a slap. Your stomach twisted - this time not from your little baby but from rage, from heartbreak, from disbelief. For a second you just stared at him, as if waiting for him to correct himself, to laugh, to say it was a bad joke.

But he didn’t.

And something in you shifted.

You pushed your chair back and stood slowly. Your heart thundered in your chest. Your hand instinctively hovered over your bump, grounding you, steadying you.

For a moment, your mind flickered through everything you had never said out loud. The canceled plans because he was “too tired from training.” The dinners you ate alone because he was still at the simulator. The birthdays postponed, the holidays reshuffled, your life quietly rearranged around a schedule you were never part of deciding.

You remembered sitting in empty hotel rooms after races, scrolling through photos of him celebrating on podiums. You remembered telling yourself it was okay, because you loved him. Because you chose him. Because that’s what love meant, right? Adjusting. Making space. Not being difficult.

And you had done it. Over and over again.

Because you loved him.

But then your gaze dropped to your stomach, so soft and real and alive, and something in that love changed shape. It was sharper and fiercer. Less willing to bend.

“I always made space for you,” you said quietly at first, almost to yourself. Then louder, steadier. “I moved my entire life around you, Max. I stopped complaining. I stopped asking for things I knew you couldn’t give me.”

Your voice trembled, but you didn’t stop.

“I sat in the background of your life and told myself it was enough, because I loved you. Because I was proud of you even when I was lonely as hell.”

You swallowed hard, your hands curling slightly at your sides.

“But this isn’t a race weekend you can reschedule. This isn’t a podium you can watch on replay.”

Your breath shook.

“This is our child.”

Silence pressed heavy against the table. Even the distant sounds from the marina seemed to fade.

“And I need you to understand something,” you continued, voice breaking now but refusing to fall apart. “I’ve spent years putting you first. Years. And I did it because I loved you.”

A pause.

Your eyes burned.

“But I love this baby more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.”

Max looked at you, confused, maybe eben panicked. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that I have spent years watching you chase podiums while I stood in the shadows. I smiled for the cameras, kept my mouth shut, played the good girlfriend. I let you make racing your priority, even when it hurt.”

He opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak. Your vision tunneled and all you could hear were five words: You know how it works.

“I cried in hotel bathrooms. In closets in your team’s garage. In fucking closets, Max, so no one would see me fall apart. Because I knew, I knew that if I ever asked you to choose, it would never be me.”

His jaw clenched. “This isn’t fair. You knew what this life was.”

“I did. And I lived with it. I supported you even when it shattered me. But this - ” You placed a hand on your belly. “This is different.”

He shook his head slightly. “You can’t ask me to leave mid-season, miss a race-”

“I’m not asking you to quit! I’m asking you to show up for your child.”

Then your voice dropped, and you looked him dead in the eyes.

“Wenn du glaubst, dass eine Trophäe wichtiger ist als dein eigenes Kind, dann kenn ich dich überhaupt nicht. Dann bist du nicht der Mann, den ich liebe.”

His expression cracked for just a second. A flicker of pain, maybe regret. You speaking German has never been a good sign.

But then he did what he always did when cornered, he let pride win.

“I’m doing this for our future. For this kid’s future. You think missing a birth is the end of the world? Plenty of fathers do.”

You laughed bitterly. “And plenty of fathers fuck up their kids.”

He shook his head. “Don’t do this,” he said tightly.

You stepped back from him, not believing what was happening.

You turned and walked out, your vision blurred with tears. Behind you, no one said a word. Not Victoria. Not Jos. Not even Max. Only the sound of the waves hitting the marina and seagulls crying.

And that silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

btw, I know Max speaks Dutch primarly but y/n is German

“If you think a trophy is more important than your own child, then I don’t even know you. Then you’re not the man I love.”

[heartsaturn]

oscar piastri never stopped leading the championship in my heart

oscar piastri won the wdc in my heart

oscar piastri is everything in my heart

oscar piastri.

his time WILL come 😭✌️

[sleevebuscemii]

need to study the minds of oscar’s pr team in a lab like last race lando was doing press for a perfume sponsorship and oscar was. giving a speech at the new york stock exchange in a suit. this week lando’s doing an ad for luxury luggage and oscar is. receiving the keys to the city of bologna. in the same suit.

[amityandeir]

I knew Oscar would be an F1 icon from his very first race. And he is proving me right!!!

What a job from him so far this season. I love him so much

[sugaesthetic93]

NOR - VER - RUS is actually my nightmare blunt rotation

[sugaesthetic93]

I just know that some of these drivers are gonna listen to the BRAT album on repeat after this race...