When you close the door - mv3
𖤓 He left you waiting. For three years. For birthdays and promises and "I'll call you"s that never came. Then he missed your birthday for a sponsor dinner and you stopped waiting. A year later, he shows up at your door. He says he loves you. He says he's sorry. He says he'll wait. You have to decide if some doors are worth opening again.
𖤓 max verstappen x fem!reader, angst, ambiguous ending, emotional unavailability
𖤓 warnings: being someone's second choice, a year of silence, one door, no happy ending (but also no sad ending? it's just… an ending)
𖤓 note: my first time writing for max so pls be nice to me!! idk what to call this genre either. it's not fluff, it's not really sad, it's just… that feeling when someone finally shows up and you don't know if it's too late or if you're just too tired to find out.
𖤓 listen to: "the night we met" by lord huron while reading this or "exile" by taylor swift ft. bon iver. or just sit in silence and feel things. i'm not your mum.
Abu Dhabi at the end of the season smells like champagne and regret.
You've been here before. Too many times. Standing in the shadow of the podium, watching him celebrate, watching him forget you exist until the cameras turn off and the crowd thins and he remembers that you're still here. Still waiting. Still stupid enough to believe that this time might be different.
The paddock is emptying out. Trucks are being loaded. Engineers are saying goodbye, slapping each other on the back, promising to see each other in a few weeks for winter testing. Everyone is tired. Everyone is ready to go home.
You don't know where home is anymore.
Max finds you in the back hallway of the paddock, his driver's room already packed up, his flight already scheduled, his eyes already somewhere else. He's still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist, his fireproofs clinging to his chest. There's champagne in his hair. There's a medal around his neck.
He looks like everything you've ever wanted and everything you've learned not to need.
"You're leaving," you say. It's not a question.
"Early flight." He rubs the back of his neck. "You know how it is."
You know how it is. You've always known how it is. There's always a flight, a race, a simulator session, a sponsor dinner, a thousand things that matter more than you. And you've always understood. You've always been the easy one. The one who doesn't make a fuss. The one who smiles and says "it's fine" and means it less every time.
"Okay," you say. "Safe flight."
He hesitates. For half a second, something flickers across his face — guilt, maybe. Or recognition. Or just exhaustion.
"I'll call you," he says.
You've heard that before too.
The thing about Max is that he's not cruel.
That's what makes it so hard.
If he were cruel, you could hate him. If he forgot your birthday, if he snapped at you, if he made you feel small on purpose — you could walk away and never look back. But he doesn't do any of that. He remembers your birthday. He sends flowers. He texts you after every race — good race, sorry I was busy, thinking of you.
And there's a difference, you're learning. A person can be kind and still leave you hollow. A person can mean well and still make you feel like you're disappearing. A person can love you — or something like it — and still never choose you first.
You met Max three years ago, at a sponsor dinner in Monaco.
You were working for a hospitality company, the kind of job that put you in rooms with important people and expected you to smile and pour champagne and not exist too loudly. He was already a world champion. Already a name. Already the kind of person who walked into a room and sucked all the air out of it.
You didn't expect him to notice you.
He asked for your number. Called you the next day. Showed up at your apartment with takeaway and a story about a simulator session that had gone wrong. He was awkward in the way that very famous people sometimes are — unsure how to be normal, unsure how to exist in a space where no one wanted anything from him.
You liked that about him. The awkwardness. The way he looked at you like you were the first person who'd treated him like a person in months.
"You're different," he said, that first night. "You don't want anything from me."
You laughed. "I don't know what I'd even want."
He smiled. It was small and private and it made your chest hurt.
Or maybe it wasn't easy — maybe you just didn't notice the cracks because you were too busy falling. He was attentive. He made time. He flew you to races, introduced you to his family, let you wear his jacket in the garage when the air conditioning was too cold.
You thought you were building something.
You didn't realize you were just… fitting into his life. Not building together. Just existing in the spaces he left empty.
The first time he canceled on you, it was for a sponsor dinner. You understood. Of course you understood. He was a world champion. He had obligations. You weren't going to be the girlfriend who complained about that.
"Next time," he said. "I promise."
The second time was a simulator session. Urgent, last-minute, something about setup changes. He sounded stressed on the phone, distracted, already halfway out the door.
"It's fine," you said. "Go."
"You're the best," he said. "I'll make it up to you."
Not because he forgot — Max doesn't forget things. But because there was always something else. Another race. Another obligation. Another person who needed him more than you did.
And you let it happen. You let yourself become small. You stopped asking for things because asking felt like begging, and you refused to beg anyone to love you.
The second year was harder.
You started noticing things. The way he'd check his phone during dinner. The way he'd say "I love you" like it was punctuation, not poetry. The way he'd hold you at night but his mind was already somewhere else — already in the next race, the next season, the next thing he had to win.
You tried to talk to him about it.
"Are we okay?" you asked, one night in Monaco, after a race you'd watched from the garage, standing in the corner where no one would ask you to move.
He looked up from his phone. "What do you mean?"
"Us. I feel like… I don't know. Like I'm not a priority."
He put his phone down. His face was open, confused, genuinely trying to understand.
"Of course you're a priority," he said.
"Then why do I feel like I'm always waiting for you?"
He didn't have an answer.
The almosts started to pile up.
Almost stayed for dinner. Almost called when he said he would. Almost chose you over a sponsor dinner, a media day, a flight he could have taken later.
You started keeping track without meaning to. A mental list. Evidence, maybe, for a case you didn't want to win.
Abu Dhabi, Year 2: He left the afterparty early to walk you back to your hotel. You thought maybe — but then his phone rang, and he took the call, and you walked the rest of the way alone.
Monaco, Year 2: You were crying in his driver's room after a bad race — not his, yours. Something at work, something stupid, something you should have been able to handle. He held you for exactly three minutes. Then he had to go to a meeting.
Spa, Year 2: He said "I love you" first. For the first time. You were standing in the rain, umbrella broken, both of you soaked. He kissed your forehead and said it like it was easy. You said it back. You meant it. You're still not sure if he did.
The thing you never told anyone — not your friends, not your family, not even yourself on the nights you couldn't sleep — was that you were scared of being easy to leave.
Because Max had left people before. Not cruelly. Not dramatically. He just… moved on. Outgrew them. Forgot to call. And you saw yourself in their faces sometimes — the old friends who didn't come to races anymore, the exes no one mentioned, the people who had loved him and been loved back, briefly, before becoming someone he used to know.
You didn't want to be someone he used to know.
So you stayed small. You stayed quiet. You stayed.
And he kept not noticing.
The betrayal wasn't dramatic.
That's what made it hurt.
It was your birthday. You'd been together for two years. You'd spent both birthdays with him — the first in Monaco, takeaway and a cake he'd clearly bought that morning, the second in the paddock, quick and rushed and forgotten the second the race started.
This year, you'd made plans. Nothing big. Just dinner. Just the two of you. He'd promised.
"I'll be there," he said, three days before. "I cleared my schedule."
You believed him. Because you always believed him. Because hope was a disease and you'd stopped trying to cure it.
The day came. You put on a dress. You lit candles. You waited.
So sorry. Something came up. Rain check?
You stared at the message for a long time. Your phone screen glowed in the dark of your apartment. The candles flickered. The food got cold.
You didn't ask what. You didn't want to know. You didn't want to hear about a meeting, a call, a crisis that mattered more than you. You didn't want to be understanding anymore.
The next morning, you scrolled through Instagram and saw a story. Max, at a restaurant, with some people you didn't recognize. Laughing. Drinking. Looking like he didn't have a care in the world.
You turned off your phone. You went back to bed. You didn't cry — you were too tired for crying. You just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling something inside you shift.
Not break. Not snap. Just… shift.
Like a door closing. Quietly. Without drama.
That's what surprised you. A year ago, you would have called. Would have asked for an explanation, a justification, a reason to keep believing. You would have fought for him.
But you were tired. So tired. And somewhere along the way, you'd stopped believing that fighting meant anything to someone who never had to fight for you.
He called three days later. You let it ring.
He texted: You okay? Haven't heard from you.
You typed: I'm fine. Just busy.
You deleted it and put your phone in a drawer and went for a walk. The city was cold. Your breath fogged in front of you. You walked until your feet hurt and then you walked some more.
You thought about the last three years. The almosts. The cancellations. The way you'd made yourself small so he wouldn't have to make room.
You thought about the girl you used to be — the one who laughed too loud, who asked for what she wanted, who didn't know how to make herself smaller because she'd never had to.
You wondered if you could find her again.
You didn't break up with him.
That's the other thing you never told anyone. There was no conversation, no tearful goodbye, no moment of closure. You just… stopped reaching. And he didn't notice.
Or maybe he did notice. Maybe he felt the distance and chose not to close it. Maybe he was relieved — relieved that you'd finally stopped expecting things from him, finally stopped being someone who needed to be chosen.
Because you stopped asking.
The messages slowed. The calls stopped. His name appeared on your phone less and less. And then, one day, you realized you hadn't spoken in three weeks.
The year without him was strange.
Not bad. Not good. Just… different. You had to relearn how to exist without waiting. Without checking your phone. Without planning your schedule around someone who never showed up.
Your friends noticed the change.
"You seem lighter," one of them said, six months in. "Like you're not holding your breath anymore."
You hadn't realized you'd been holding your breath.
But you had. For years. Waiting for him to choose you, to show up, to prove that you mattered as much as the races and the trophies and the endless parade of obligations. Waiting for him to look at you and see something worth staying for.
You started living. Small things at first — coffee with friends, a new hobby, a trip you'd been putting off. Then bigger things. A new job. A new apartment. A new understanding of what you deserved.
You thought about him less.
Not never. Just… less. He'd appear in your mind sometimes — at night, when you couldn't sleep, or in moments that reminded you of him. A song. A scent. A sunset that looked like the one in Monaco.
But the ache was duller now. An old wound, not a fresh one.
You started to think you might be okay.
He texted you eleven months after your birthday.
Out of nowhere. No context. Just your name.
You stared at the message for a long time. Your phone felt heavy in your hand. Your heart did something stupid — something that felt like hope, even after everything.
Not because you were angry. Not because you didn't want to. Because you didn't know what to say. Hey felt like too much and not enough. Hey felt like the beginning of something you weren't sure you wanted to start.
Hey felt like him, after all this time, still not knowing how to show up properly.
You put your phone down. You went back to your life.
He showed up at your door on a Tuesday.
No warning. No text. Just a knock, steady and insistent, the kind of knock that said I'm not leaving until you answer.
You looked through the peephole and felt your stomach drop.
He looked different. Thinner, maybe. More tired. His hair was longer, curling at the edges. He was wearing a hoodie you didn't recognize and jeans that looked like he'd slept in them.
His voice was hoarse. Like he'd been rehearsing what to say and still hadn't figured it out.
The silence stretched. He shifted his weight. Stuffed his hands in his pockets. Pulled them out again.
You should have said no. Every logical part of your brain was screaming at you to say no. He left. He didn't call. He missed your birthday and didn't even remember to apologize. He let you disappear from his life and didn't come looking until now, a year later, when it was convenient for him.
But there was something in his face — something small and scared and unfamiliar — that made you step aside.
He walked in. Looked around. Your new apartment, your new life, the spaces you'd filled without him.
"It's different," he said.
He stopped in the middle of your living room. Turned to face you. His hands were shaking. You'd never seen Max's hands shake before. They were always steady — on the wheel, on the podium, on the rare occasions he'd touched you.
"I know I fucked up. I know I —" He stopped. Rubbed his face. "I don't have an excuse. I don't have a reason. I just… I didn't know how to —"
You didn't help him. You just stood there, arms crossed, watching him struggle.
"I thought about you every day," he said finally. "Every single day. And I still didn't call. I don't know why. I don't — I'm not good at this."
"Being… there. Being present. Being someone who stays."
The words hung in the air.
You thought about the last three years. The cancellations. The almosts. The way you'd made yourself small so he wouldn't have to make room. The way he'd let you.
He looked at you. Really looked. Like he was trying to memorize your face.
"Because I can't —" He exhaled. "I can't keep pretending I don't care. I can't keep pretending you don't matter. You matter. You've always mattered. I'm just —"
He looked up at you, and for a moment, he looked young. Not like a world champion. Not like someone who'd won everything there was to win. Just someone who didn't know how to say what he meant.
"Of you. Of this. Of how much I —" He stopped. Swallowed. "I've never been good at letting people in. You know that. You've always known that."
"You didn't call. You didn't text. You didn't show up to my birthday and you didn't even —"
You stopped. Took a breath.
He looked at his hands. Then at you. Then back at his hands.
The words were quiet. Barely audible. Like he was confessing something he'd never said out loud.
"I miss you," he said again. "I miss the way you laugh. I miss the way you'd roll your eyes at me when I talked too much about racing. I miss falling asleep next to you. I miss waking up and knowing you were there."
"I miss you," he said. "And I don't know how to — I don't know if I deserve to ask for another chance. I probably don't. But I can't — I can't keep living like this. Pretending I'm fine when I'm not. Pretending I don't think about you every single day."
You thought about the year you'd spent learning to live without him. The nights you'd cried. The mornings you'd woken up reaching for someone who wasn't there. The moment you'd finally stopped checking your phone for his name.
You thought about the girl you used to be — the one who waited, who hoped, who believed that if she just loved him enough, he'd learn to stay.
She was still in there somewhere. Fainter now. But still there.
"What do you want from me?" you asked.
He looked at you. His eyes were wet.
"Everything," he said. "I want everything. I want — I should have said it before. I should have said it a hundred times. I love you. I love you and I'm sorry and I don't — I don't expect you to forgive me. I just needed you to know."
You could feel yourself at a crossroads. One path led back to him — to the familiar ache, the waiting, the hoping. The other led forward — alone, but whole. Not healed, maybe. But not bleeding anymore.
You thought about the door you'd closed in your chest a year ago. The one you'd locked and bolted and told yourself you'd never open again.
He was asking you to open it.
"I love you," he said again. "I've always loved you. I just didn't know how to show it."
You looked at him. Really looked.
And you made your choice.
"Okay. You said what you needed to say."
He waited. Hoping, maybe, for more.
You didn't give it to him.
"I'm not going to tell you it's fine," you said. "Because it's not. You hurt me. You left. You didn't call. And I spent a year learning how to live without you."
"I don't know if I can go back to the way things were."
"Then what are you asking?"
He stood up. Walked toward you. Stopped a few feet away — close enough to touch, far enough to give you space.
"I'm asking for a chance," he said. "Not to fix things. Not to pretend the last year didn't happen. Just… a chance. To show up. To try."
You thought about the almosts. The cancellations. The birthday you spent alone. The way he'd let you disappear without a fight.
You thought about the girl you used to be — the one who would have said yes without thinking. The one who would have opened her arms and let him back in and pretended the last year didn't hurt.
She wasn't gone. But she wasn't in charge anymore.
"I need to think," you said.
"That's not a no either."
He nodded again. "I know."
You walked to the door. Held it open.
He walked toward you. Paused in the doorway. Looked at you with an expression you couldn't name — hope, maybe. Or fear. Or both.
"I'll wait," he said. "However long it takes. I'll wait."
He stepped through the door.
You closed it behind him.
You didn't open it either.
You stood there, hand on the wood, listening to his footsteps fade. They stopped halfway down the hall. He was waiting. Giving you time. Giving you space.
You could open the door. You could call him back. You could let him in and see what happened.
Or you could walk away. Go to bed. Wake up tomorrow and keep living the life you'd built without him.
You didn't know which choice was right.
Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Maybe that was the point.
You took your hand off the door. Walked to your bedroom. Sat on the edge of your bed and stared at the wall.
In the hallway, you heard him exhale.
Then footsteps. Fading. Fainter. Gone.
You didn't know if he'd come back.
You didn't know if you wanted him to.
You lay down. Pulled the covers up to your chin. Stared at the ceiling.
And somewhere, in the space between what you'd lost and what you might still find, you let yourself breathe.
You're at a coffee shop when you see him.
Not Max. Someone who looks like him. Same build, same jaw, same way of moving through a room like he owned it.
Your heart does something stupid.
Then you realize it's not him, and your heart settles.
You order your coffee. You sit by the window. You watch people walk by.
A text. From a number you haven't saved but still recognize.
I'm in town. Can we talk?
You think about the door. The hallway. The way he'd said "I'll wait" like he meant it.
You think about the girl you used to be. The girl who waited. The girl who hoped.
You think about the person you are now.
Then you delete that too.
You put your phone in your pocket. Drink your cold coffee. Watch the rain start to fall.
The door is still closed.
You're the one who decides if it opens.
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