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coelacanth zine! learn a little more about this big awesome fish

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Can we have oscar or max that has a gf that has physical touch as her love language, So people just see a deadpan driver doing their own thing while reader is just wrapped their arms around the driver from the back or like pinkies together while driver is talking to some or like just having their hands on their back or neck area, etc.

WRITTEN

Red Bull Masterlist

Familiar Ground

Max Verstappen x gf!reader

quiet touches, and a love no one can ignore, when your hands on him say what words never do

_________________

By the time the paddock starts feeling loud, Max has already tuned most of it out.

The morning air is cool, sharp with the smell of fuel and coffee. Mechanics move and camera shutters click somewhere off to the side. Max stands just outside the garage, arms folded, eyes fixed on the timing screens like they might personally offend him if he looks away too long.

You slip in behind him without saying anything.

Your arms wrap around his waist easily, like they’ve done this a thousand times because they have. Your cheek presses lightly between his shoulder blades, his back solid and warm beneath you.

He doesn’t turn around, hedoesn’t ask if you’re okay, he just says, “Cold?”

“Mmh” you hum, tightening your arms a little. “You’re warm.”

“Yeah, I know.” There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his voice, barely there. “You always steal my heat.”

You smile against his back, fingers sliding under his crossed arms so your hands rest flat against his stomach. He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping a fraction.

Someone walking past would see Max Verstappen, arms crossed, serious expression, fully locked in. They wouldn’t notice the way his weight subtly shifts back into you, like he’s checking you’re still there.

An engineer approaches with a tablet. “Morning, Max.”

“Morning.”

The short meeting starts. Track temps, tyre behavior, expected wind changes. Max listens, nodding occasionally, asking a short question here and there. While he talks, your right hand drifts up his back, thumb pressing gently into the familiar knot at the base of his neck.

“Don’t” he mutters quietly, still looking straight ahead.

You grin. “You loveeeee it.”

He tilts his head forward just enough to give you better access. “I tolerate it.”

“That’s not what your body language says.”

“Hm.”

The engineer finishes, glances briefly at you, not surprised, not awkward, just acknowledging reality and walks away.

As soon as he’s gone, Max uncrosses his arms. Your hands slide down automatically, fingers slipping into his.

Your pinkies hook together.

He glances down at them for half a second, then back up. “You’re clingy today.”

You rock slightly on your heels, still behind him. “I’m affectionate, there’s a difference.”

“Is there?” he asks.

“Yes. Clingy would be me sitting on your lap in the garage.”

He considers that for a moment. “That would cause problems.”

“Exactly.”

A corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but you know better than to expect one in public, this is as loud as he gets.

You start walking when he does, hand settling naturally at the center of his back. His stride slows almost immediately, matching yours without comment. You walk like this through half the paddock, Max answering short questions, nodding at people, you trailing just close enough to always be touching.

When he stops again, you step in behind him, arms looping around his waist once more.

“Am I distracting you?” you murmur.

“No” he says immediately.

You hum. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“Because it’s not distracting” he adds. “It’s… normal.”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “You hear that? I’m normal.”

He huffs softly. “Don’t push it.”

You reach up and adjust his collar, smoothing it down where it’s folded wrong. Your fingers brush his throat, linger for just a second.

He swallows. “Everything okay?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah” he says. Then, after a beat, “Stay like that.”

You do. You rest your forehead against his upper back, hands spread over his chest from behind, feeling his heartbeat steady and sure beneath your palms. Around you, the paddock moves, louder now, faster but Max stands still, letting the noise wash around him.

From the outside, nothing about him looks different. Same posture. Same focus. Same unreadable face.

But you feel it, the way he leans back into you just slightly, like you’re holding him together without anyone else ever needing to know.

Later on, cameras rolling a second too early, journalists hovering with practiced patience. Max stands exactly where he’s told to stand, shoulders squared, expression flat, hands shoved into his pockets.

You’re beside him, no, not front and center, not hidden either, just close enough that your arm brushes his every time he shifts his weight.

A camera lens swivels in your direction and then away again, no one asks you to move, why would they?

Max answers a question about setup changes with his usual efficiency, witty, bratty short, precise, mildly unimpressed by the premise like always. While he talks, your fingers slide into the back pocket of his jeans, hooking casually like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He pauses for half a second then continues answering without missing a beat.

Someone behind the camera raises an eyebrow.

You feel it before you see it, the way Max’s hand moves, slow and deliberate, slipping out of his pocket to find yours. His fingers curl around your wrist, thumb pressing once against your pulse.

Grounding and familiar.

You glance up at him. “You okay?”

“Mm” he hums. “They’re asking dumb questions.”

You smile. “Shocking.”

A reporter laughs, a little startled, realizing you’ve spoken.

Max tilts his head slightly toward you, still not looking. “See?”

The interview wraps up. As soon as the camera clicks off, Max shifts closer, not dramatically, just enough that your shoulder presses into his side. You tuck yourself there automatically, hand flattening against his ribs.

One of the PR staff walks past and mutters, “Honestly, you two are inseparable.”

Max doesn’t respond.

You do. “He'll lose his head without me.”

Max snorts before he can stop himself, the PR staff grins and keeps walking.

As you move through the paddock, people start clocking it more openly now. Not in a scandal way, more like realization dawning.

A mechanic passes and says, “You’re basically his shadow.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Or he’s mine.”

Max squeezes your hand. “That’s not true.”

You look at him, amused. “Oh?”

“I walk into walls without you” he admits flatly.

The mechanic laughs. “Yeah, that checks out.”

Later, when Max stops to talk to Lando, you remain tucked into his side, arm looped around his back. Cameras are everywhere but you don’t move away and neither does he.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Lando asks lightly, gesturing vaguely at…you. “All the attention.”

Max shrugs. “No.”

“That’s it?”

He glances down at you briefly, quick, private then back up. “She’s not new.”

Something about the way he says it, calm and certain lands heavier than any announcement ever could.

You feel heat bloom in your chest.

When you finally leave the paddock, the noise fading behind you, Max reaches for your hand agai, this time fully, fingers threading through yours instead of just pinkies.

You glance down at your joined hands. “Bold.”

He shrugs. “People already noticed.”

“And you don’t care?”

He squeezes your hand once. “I wouldn’t do it if I cared.”

You bump his shoulder lightly. “Romantic.”

“I try.”

As you walk toward the exit together, cameras click behind you, voices calling his name. Max doesn’t turn around, he keeps walking, hand warm and steady in yours, pace matched perfectly to yours. No explanation, no statement, no performance.

Just Max Verstappen, doing his own thing...with you exactly where you’ve always been.

Fin.

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