FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( max verstappen x girlfriend!reader ) ( 1.2k wc )
⤷ what happens when an independent girlfriend and a very gentlemanly, chivalrous Max Verstappen are in a relationship where, no matter how hard he tries, you just won't let him do things for you?
( my m. list | more of MV3 ) ( requests )
You were the kind of woman who did things for herself. Grew up that way. Not out of stubbornness, not really—it was more survival instinct turned second nature.
You opened your own doors. You paid your own bills. You drove your own damn car (with a valid license, thank you very much).
Max Verstappen, on the other hand, was a gentleman. Capital G Gentleman. He held doors, carried bags, and insisted on walking closest to the street, even if it meant getting hit by a rogue bird scooter or even Charles Leclerc.
Which is what made dating you . . . a little frustrating for him.
“You’re my girlfriend, schat,” he’d complained to you over and over, “I want to spoil you. Why won’t you let me do things for you?”
And you always laughed, sweet and low. “Because I can do them myself.”
“Yeah,” Max would huff, “But you shouldn’t have to.”
It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate it—it was that you weren’t used to it. That kind of gentleness had always felt like something from a storybook. But Max was different. He meant it. Every time he tried to make you feel like a princess, it wasn’t performative. It was just who he was.
Still, habits die hard.
Even tonight, after a perfect dinner date—wine, laughter, one too many appetisers—you walked yourself to the car like always. You were scrolling through your buzzing phone, a message from your best friend lighting up the screen as your heels clicked steadily against the concrete of the underground parking lot.
Max didn’t notice you had paused. With a hand in his pocket, he made his way over to the passenger door, expecting you to reach the handle before him like you always do.
Max didn’t realise you were a meter behind. Not really. He was deep in thought—his hand already reaching for the handle on your side, not expecting anything, just doing. His mind was somewhere between Should I take her to that little vineyard next weekend? and god, she looked good tonight, when he heard your steps stop beside him.
You looked up from your phone and raised a brow, amused. “Max?”
He blinked. “Yes, schatje?”
And for the first time . . . he’d opened the door for you.
You smiled. No teasing, no smug quip—just warmth in your gaze as you leaned forward, pressing the softest kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, baby.”
Max blinked again, stunned, and then—he grinned. No. He beamed. And as you slid into the seat, completely unbothered, Max’s mouth stretched into something close to villainous glee.
When he sat in the driver’s seat, he just took a moment, not even starting the car, but looking at you with this cute smile that slowly widened the more he looked between your eyes.
By the time he was driving through the roads of Monaco, he was full on giggling. A "Heh. Heheheheheh." escaped under his breath, a cartoon villain chuckle if you’d ever heard one. It grew louder, more triumphant. You loved it when Max laughed like this, a usual sight in his streams; scrunched nose and crinkled eyes with his teeth showing in his smile.
When he stopped at a red light, he was buzzing. “Did you see that?” he asked like he’d just won a Grand Prix. “I opened the door for you!”
You raised an eyebrow. “You did.”
“You let me.”
You snorted. “I was texting!”
“I won,” he said dramatically, head thrown back in glee as he started driving again once the light turned green. “That was the greatest moment of my life.”
“You literally won the world championship—”
“This is better.” He whispered like it was some sort of secret, “I have four of those championships, but I only have one of this.”
The whole way home, Max couldn’t stop smiling. Grinning like an idiot, eyes crinkled and squinted and nose scrunched, humming to himself like a ma man, eyes gleaming with chaotic joy. You leaned your head against the window, giggling every time he said something like, “I can die happy now,” or “Do you think there’s a trophy for Most Romantic Door Opening?”
But it wasn’t over.
Oh no.
As the car eased into the garage and the engine turned off, you moved to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Alright, come on—”
“NO.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Don’t move,” Max said, already leaping out of the car like it was on fire. “Don’t. Move. Don’t get out, don’t even breathe!”
“MAX—”
“I MEAN IT!” he shouted across the hood, which he had jumped on in hopes of getting to your side of the car faster than just walking around.
You watched, stunned, as your Formula One world champion boyfriend lunged across the hood like a man possessed. Dress shirt half-untucked, what a sight. he slid off the hood at your side.
You crack the door open and start to get out—but you are quickly shoved back in your seat with the door slamming shut in your face.
You blinked up at him, lips twitching.
He held up a finger, signalling “give me a second”, chest rising and falling as he straightened his shirt. Fixed his posture. Ran a hand through his hair like he was about to walk into a royal ball.
Then, with the gravitas of a knight, he slowly opened the car door.
“My lady,” he said with a bow, extending his hand.
You laughed. Laughed. It bubbled up from your chest and spilt out, uncontrolled. “You are so dramatic.”
“Shhh,” he whispered, eyes twinkling. “Take my hand.”
You did.
He helped you out like you were made of glass. Tucked your hand into the crook of his arm like you were royalty. Walked you up to the elevator, then your shared apartment like he was on some period drama set, absolutely giddy with pride.
You were still laughing when you reached the front door. Shaking your head.
“If this is how you get when I let you open one door,” you teased, “I’m never letting you open one again.”
Max stopped. Froze, his jaw dropped.
His face crumbled—comically horrified, like a man who had just realised he’d wished on a cursed monkey’s paw.
“No. No, no no no—wait. You can open some! Not all of them—I’ll pick which ones—WAIT, PLEASE DON’T TAKE THIS FROM ME.” The Dutchman shook you from your shoulders.
You cackled as you stepped inside, him following quickly in step, pleading dramatically. “I’m begging you, schatje. You can open the fridge. Open your own texts. But let me have the doors, PLEASE—”
“You’re so ridiculous,” you giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck.
His hands slid to your waist, still pouty. “I’m ridiculous for you.”
You kissed him again, slow and sweet this time. “Fine,” you whispered against his lips. “You get the car doors.”
Max lit up again.
“I’m going to start timing myself,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Make it a sport. Beat my personal best to the passenger side.”
“You’re the fastest man in the world, Max,” you said with a grin. “Use your powers for good.”
