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love to hate | verstappen

verstappen x fem albon!reader, 6.9k

max verstappen was a menace to formula 1 and an even bigger menace when it came to you. he didn't like you, you didn't like him either. he glares at you, you glare back. he kisses you, you kiss back.

INCLUDES: use of y/n, rivals to lovers, many crashes, slow burn gone wrong (its fast), set in 2025 but not accurate timeline, profanity, max and george beef, so much tension that even i'm scared, lotta f1 jargon, max and george beef, reader is george's damage control, reader is also a russell apologist (she gets schooled obv), THIS IS A MAX FIC I SWEAR, YOU GET MORE OF JUST HIM BY THE END BELIEVE ME PLEASE

NOTE: inspired by NA NA NA minus the toxic relationship aspect of it. max is soooo rivals to lovers man im gonna puke

( moments series | more MV1 )

Being Alex Albon's sister was probably the easiest thing in the world. No PR nightmare, no huge scandals, no overall gossip— Alex was a saint. Being George Russell's non-biological sister, on the other hand, was a major headache. Especially when your personal goliath was a fiery Red Bull driver who always had it out for the Brit.

Max Verstappen was a force to be reckoned with, but you loved a challenge. Every scratch, every bump, every hit that Max and George have on track somehow always leads to you.

Alex thought bringing you with him everywhere would mean him protecting you. So when did it switch to you defending George? You went from being Alex Albon's sister to George Russell's PR manager (unofficially)— a permanent figure in the paddock who always manages to get tangled up in Max and George's headlines. Some even wonder if its George beefing with Max or you.

You hate Max. He's arrogant, unapologetic, and always has something to say. Max hates you. You're loud, opinionated, and always ready to catch him on his bullshit whenever he tiffs it out with George on track.

You both had been going at each other ever since you stepped foot into your first race weekend. And what went from rants to Alex about the sheer stupidity of Max Verstappen was now glaring at each other from across the room, targeted subtweets after a race, and insults thrown via other drivers. It had even come to a point where you would deliberately walk past his motorhome when he had a bad race just to shove it in his face. Of course, he did the same back to you.

Had it all gotten out of hand? Maybe. Did anyone care? No. Did everyone else on the grid enjoy the free entertainment? Absolutely. Was Alex constantly developing a headache? Chronic.

Sure, maybe this wasn't your fight to fight, but you were defensive over the people you loved and that included unofficial brother figures.

Which is exactly why Alex was stood in front of you, Carlos holding you back. You're sure your face was probably red, fists clenched by your sides, jaw tense, and eyes looking everywhere but towards your brother.

"Calm down," Alex urges, holding you by the shoulders. "You're more worked up than George."

Your head snaps to look at Alex, eyes carrying a fire that was far too large to be burned out. "Calm down? Golden boy was all up in his face!"

During the race, Max and George were side by side. A miscalculation in distance by Turn 5 left the Red Bull with a damaged sidepod and the Mercedes a broken rear wing. This all could have glazed over if it weren't for Max beefing it out with George in parc fermé.

Alex was telling the truth, you were more worked up over this than George was. Hell, George was probably in the Mercedes motorhome continuing on like nothing happened. Yet here you were, about to throw hands over something that happened all the time.

"You're too close to George to be able to look at this objectively," Alex points out, running a hand through his hair. You could only look at him like he was a crazy person. Objectively?

"I agree, Y/N," Carlos perks up from behind you, letting go of your wrists.

You huff at this, annoyed that both drivers were on a different page than you were. "Whatever. I'm going."

Alex and Carlos turn to each other. The older quirked an eyebrow, indirectly asking if you were okay. Your brother merely sighed loudly, nodding once in reply. It's not like you would run off, it wasn't like you to run from what you were scared of. Usually when this happened, you would go to George to talk to him about it. It would only infuriate you more to hear from a first person perspective, but it's a bonding experience.

As you make your way towards the Mercedes motorhome, you spot a hoard of people in navy blue walking towards your direction. You wouldn't have thought much of it, until you notice who was in the middle of their flock.

You roll your eyes at the sight, speeding up the pace of your walk to refrain from a blood-bath erupting in the middle of the motorhomes. But of course, the devil talked— "Albon!"

You stop dead in your tracks, huffing once before slowly turning around. There, in all his glory, was the one driver you would pay to see not stand on the podium for once. The usual glint was in his eyes, blonde hair a mess. One hand was holding his helmet and the other was holding the water bottle whose straw was still in his mouth. He smirked at your rough appearance, quickly catching the way your nostrils flared and the fists you held by your sides.

"Gonna visit George?" He asks. No reply from you. This only stirs him even more.

"Nonverbal today? Interesting," he clicks his tongue, a grin appearing on his face. "See you next week then, Albon. Hope you find the courage to talk by then. Kinda missed it."

He turns on his heel, continuing his trek towards god knows where.

"What an ass," you mutter under your breath, walking away from the scene of the crime and heading into the Mercedes motorhome.

"What an ass!"

You were stood up from your seat, headphones still in as everyone around you gasps and groans at the screens. Max and George had just crashed into each other and it wasn't a cute scene. Both leading cars were now in the wall and neither drivers were happy.

George was ahead when it happened, Max right behind him. The Brit had gained a place while the Dutch was sent to pit— an effective undercut on Red Bull's part. What wasn't effective was the crazy lunge Max did when they both rounded turn 1. It was a ballsy move but there was no intention of making that corner. Next thing they know, they're both nose first into the wall.

The two drivers were furious and everyone could tell. They didn't even look at each other as they got out from their cars. Hell, they even went the opposite directions in heading back to the pit lane.

You were even more furious. You knew Max was stupid but to try and pull a move like that? He knew he couldn't make it.

So here you were, barging into navy blue and energy drinks territory with a crazed look on your face. You don't know if people didn't notice you or they did but just didn't care. All you know is that now you were in a room with a red-faced Dutch who had a ticking time bomb strapped to his body.

"You bitch! You knew you couldn't make that corner!" You stop in front of him. Max was sitting on the makeshift bed in his driver room, a towel around his neck. His hair was disheveled, suit pulled down revealing the navy blue fireproofs he wore underneath. His eyes carried a tidal wave in them— dark blue, cold, looming over like you would drown once it snapped and came down.

He placed his water bottle down, eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly before standing up. He didn't tower over you, god bless the Albon genes, but he was tall enough that you had to look up. And for some reason, you felt small.

"Did you even see what happened?" His voice mirrored his gaze— cold, quick, deep. "Or are you too high up the Russell praise train to not notice that he fucked up first."

The fire in you burned brighter, the fire in your eyes matching the ice in his. "Don't you dare put this on him. You were the stupid one."

Max could only scoff at this, a smirk on his face. "Y/N, I was stupid. But he was reckless."

He could tell from the look on your face that you wouldn't back down— wouldn't even blink at the raging possibility that maybe George was at fault too. So he grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you outside to where the screens were. You were too shocked at his quick movements to realize the contact, eyes growing wide when you notice the Red Bull mechanics who definitely saw you now.

"Watch." Max's voice brings you back to reality, your eyes going to the screen in front of you that showed the replay of what had happened before their crash. You scoff at this, arms crossing over your chest.

"Are you about to mansplain Formula 1 to me, Verstappen?" You look over at him with a smug expression on your face, eyebrow quirked in question. His face remains stoic, eyes still on the screen.

"You know this stuff as well as I do. You tell me."

You look back at the footage, shaking your head in disbelief. You were about to yawn from what you thought you had already seen, until the camera pans to another angle that shows the crash up close.

What you thought was Max being idiotic was actually Max merely responding to what George had left on the table. The Mercedes driver defends for the position like crazy, so much so that he brakes late into turn 1— illegal and egoistic. Max simply takes the move and lunges from where he is at. It was a race of egos— no one lifted.

You could only blink at the screen as it continues to replay the moment like a ghost who's mission is to torment your life. What was even worse was that you were wrong and Max Verstappen was right beside you with a stupid smirk on his face that you wish had left with the car he broke.

"Moving under braking, Y/N. Real smooth that one," he shakes his head as he chuckles sarcastically, tilting his head to look at you. "Cat got your tongue?"

You turn to look at him, sending him a hard glare before stomping your way out of there. Admitting to Max that he was right was one thing. In front of his own team? Even worse.

"That's even worse!"

You were sitting in the McLaren hospitality, wanting nothing to do with any team that would remind you of the embarrassing encounter you had with Max last week. Until of course, you decided to tell Lando about what happened. Safe to say you wouldn't be back at the papaya home anytime soon either.

While Alex was your real older brother and you regarded George as one as well, Lando was more of your annoying twin brother who you couldn't get rid of no matter how hard you tried. Because the both of you were the same age, you would always find yourself talking to him whenever the trio would get together. You had your fair share of inside jokes with the man, and this was an added one.

"God, please don't remind me," you groan, head falling to your hands. You could hear Lando's giggles echo throughout the empty driver room, his TV playing a random race replay in the background.

"Mate, George has been doing all this illegal shit," he starts. "It's about time someone bursts your bubble."

You look up at this, eyes narrowing at the curly-headed driver. "Are you saying I shouldn't defend George?"

Lando puts his hands up in mock surrender, eyebrows raised. "Hey, I didn't say that. I just meant... maybe you should start looking at this stuff from a bigger picture."

You hate to admit it, but Lando was right. Ever since the interaction with Max, you couldn't help but go to bed every night wondering if you were jumping the gun. If George isn't mad then maybe you shouldn't be pumped up as much either.

Lando left to get ready for the sprint race ahead and you followed suit. As you walk past all the bustling hospitalities, you rub shoulders with the man of your nightmares. A small smirk appears on his face again, stupid eyes lighting up with a glint. "You still on the Russell parade, mini?"

Your eyes twitch at the nickname, holding your chin up. "Why do you ask? Want me to switch to yours?"

He chuckles at this, adjusting the hat on his head. "Cute. Don't cause a fuss after the sprint, now. Wouldn't wanna prove you wrong again."

You roll your eyes at this, walking away. You promised yourself you'd lie low, stay quiet, especially after last week. And that's exactly what you did. Until shit hit the fan again.

The sky was already gloomy to begin with, dark clouds casting over the circuit despite it still being early in the afternoon. The sprint started like it usually would, engines roaring, fans shouting, engineers yelling. But by Lap 4, the rain poured like a madman.

Cars started swerving, people started retiring— it wasn't worth it to hold out this long, not when qualifying and the actual race were on the line.

The FIA being the FIA kept the race going, deeming the thunder above a sign that it was still "raceable" despite the track being halfway turned into a swimming pool. Of course, the top teams being who they were raced like pride and ego was on the line.

And that's when it happens. Red flag and the same damn Red Bull and Mercedes stuck in the gravel just like how it was last week.

It wasn't until Charles almost spun on debris when race control finally called the whole race off early. You were a thunderstorm— furious, raging, quick. Because just as soon as it had happened, you found yourself back at the garage of navy blue again.

"This was your fault," you barge into his driver's room again, eyes narrow and ablaze. The Dutchman turns to look at you, eyes the same icy cold blue that it normally was, and scoffs. "Word moves fast."

"Don't fuck with me, golden boy. This one was on you." You point a finger at him, stable, angry, confident. You were right this time, you know it.

Max puts his hands up in mock surrender, eyes carrying a certain glint you had never seen before. "Fine. Caught me. I squeezed him off the track. I admit it."

You were almost taken aback at the confession, lowering your accusatory finger. "What?"

"But," Max starts, taking a step closer towards you. "He kept his foot on the pedal. Mate thought that wet grass was the perfect time to go full Senna."

You step back, mouth slightly agape. He was right. You saw it happen. You scolded George in your head when it did— he tried to overtake Max on the outside where there was barely any grip. And on a track that was practically a puddle? He had to have known it wouldn't work.

Suddenly the air around you felt hot and you felt your knees about to give out. No way was this happening. No way were you admitting that Max Verstappen was right.

Your eyebrows were still furrowed, eyes narrowed, and jaw clenched. You leaned forward, practically inches away from his face.

"I hate you," you spat, turning on your heel.

"You only hate me 'cause I'm right. You know I'm right." You couldn't see him, but you could hear the smile on his face. Envision the way his lips were upturned into that stupid smirk you so badly wanted to slap off.

But as you walked back toward the Williams motorhome, your couldn't wipe off the burning feeling in your chest. It was rage alright, but something else was lingering— waiting to be let out. The feeling went away though as you spot the other half of the problem outside his own motorhome, talking with his Team Principal about what had happened.

You sigh in relief as you get closer, noticing that he wasn't injured.

"That was stupid, George."

"He didn't leave a space! I did what I could."

Toto sighed at this, a hand going up to rub the bridge of his nose. "Fine. But don't do this again. It cost you the race. You were in good pace."

George nods at this, earning a fatherly pat on the shoulder from the team principal. As Toto walks away, the Brit notices you standing off to the side. A soft smile appears on his face, urging you to sit next to him. "Twice in a row I haven't finished a race. I'm a clean guy but I might start raising my voice if this happens next week."

You chuckle at his posh violence. George wasn't the type to get physical, he would hash it out verbally and fire deep cuts that run through your soul— complete opposite of the raging lion back at Red Bull.

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing in exhaustion. "He could've just let me through. I can't believe that is our four-time world champ."

Normally you would back George up, mumble an 'amen' and add more whispered insults to drag Max's name, but for some reason you held back this time. You don't know if George noticed, but you felt your eye twitch slightly at his words.

Silence falls between the two of you. It was deafening. The usual banter you would have engaged in by now was nowhere to be found. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out— not an insult, not a funny metaphor, not a useless threat.

The older Brit looks up at you, a hint of worry in his face. "You okay, mini? You haven't said much."

You take a deep breath, opening your mouth to say some snarky comment so your misery would be over. Instead you say, "You never should've been there."

George twitches at this, eyebrows slightly furrowing. He sits up, blue eyes piercing into your. "What?"

You mirror his stance, gaze wandering elsewhere as you explain your point. "Sure, Max squeezed you too wide but... you tried to do the impossible in the wet."

George pauses at this, face stoic and eyes narrow. "Are you defending him?"

Your eyes grow wide at the accusation, snapping to look at the Mercedes driver who sat in front of you. You start shaking your head frantically. "No! What? Absolutely not."

George continues to look at you with the same expression. Unconvinced.

"I'm just saying... maybe don't go full Senna next time."

And that was when you knew you fucked up.

You were an F1 fan sure, but you didn't start getting into the sport once your brother was placed in it in 2019. Your knowledge of the motorsport only dated back to when Lewis Hamilton won his first championship in 2008, any hall-of-famers prior to that era you knew but weren't the most knowledgeable on. So an Ayrton Senna reference, especially when the oldest lore you knew was Crashgate, was a head-turner. And George— sweet, older brother George— definitely wouldn't be fooled.

"Full Senna?" He was intrigued, perking up at the name. "Where'd you get that from?"

Your eyes feel like they're about to pop out of their sockets. You start fiddling with your hands, not being able to maintain eye contact with George. "Just... heard it somewhere. No big deal."

He was still unconvinced but slowly nodded his head. You, on the other hand, were short-circuiting internally. You excused yourself from George, hastily walking towards the Williams motorhome so you could hide in Alex's driver room until you had to leave.

"Fuck this. What am I doing?"

"Fuck that! What's he doing?!"

That was the first thing you heard when you stepped out from Alex's driver room. George's voice echoed through the televisions that showcased the live broadcast. You hurry over to get a view as to what the fuss could be and lo and behold, the two paddock idiots had done it again.

After the back-to-back DNF's, both drivers actually stayed out of each other's hair for an entire month of races. Four weeks, not too bad. This gave you enough time to cool off and rethink the defenses you had made for George. At least, that's what you thought.

Those four weeks were the most draining weeks of your life. You were up every night rethinking every single crash, every single DNF, every single fight that you had stood first line of defense for for driver 63. You wondered if your anger was unnecessary, if you were acting out of pure emotion, if you were merely going with it because you hated being wrong.

And then when you consulted Lando about it, the only thing he gathered after an hour of ranting about how you felt, was: "Maybe it's because he's the only person who looks at you differently in the paddock."

You had frozen over the phone, eyebrows furrowing. "What?"

"He's the only one who doesn't call you 'mini', right? Despite being each other's arch-nemesis."

For the first time in a long time, Lando Norris was right.

Mini was a nickname that the grid gave to you when you first entered the paddock with Alex. The nickname simply meant a mini Albon, and unfortunately that's what everyone saw you as— just Alex's little sister. When you started defending George like a madman, the title changed to George's fiery non-biological younger sister.

You were always babied growing up, especially with Alex and George watching out for you. Hell, even when you and Lando were the same age, you were the one with the paddock princess title. You hated it.

Max only referred to your nickname twice. The second time he did, you called him out for it and he immediately backed off— hasn't said it ever since.

You thought he was just being an ass. Had worse things to call you or even deemed it insulting to Alex that you were related. It took you until now to realize that he never overstepped that boundary, even if it was a clear shot to the heart.

Then you remember the first time you stomped into the Red Bull garage— the day your perspective on George changed. When he dragged you to the replay, he didn't explain it for you, in fact he knew that you would get it with your own knowledge. He respected you, even when you were at each other's throats.

"You know this stuff as much as I do. You tell me."

You thought he was being condescending, talking down on you. But no, he was challenging you— respecting your brain, your take, your insight.

It all comes crashing down like a cold tide— Max Verstappen saw you for you, and that scared the living hell out of you.

So when Max and George had another tiff during qualifying, you stayed in your seat. You kept your focus on your brother, not bothering to get the details as to how they could have possibly fucked each other up during a pre-race.

You hear the familiar echo of footsteps walk through the motorhomes, not having to look up to know that Max was walking by. But when he looks at you, you don't look back. You could feel eyes digging into your side and it took everything in you not to look, not to spark another flame, not to glare at him as if your insides weren't turning to mush just at the thought of him.

Unbeknownst to you, the smirk on Max's face faltered. He blinked comically, mouth slightly agape, eyebrows furrowing. Where was the snarky comeback? The glare you normally shared even between five motorhomes?

When Alex walks back into the garage, you go up to him and give him a big hug. "P10! That's amazing, Alex."

He stammers slightly, arms slowly going to wrap around you. When you both pull back you notice a confused look on his face. You mimic his expression, "What?"

"You're not gonna do anything about what happened out there?" Your face falls into a deadpan expression.

"Do you want me to?"

Alex immediately straightens up at this, furiously shaking his head. "Please no."

You shake your head in disbelief, patting your brother on the shoulder one last time before making your way out of the Williams hospitality. As you do so, you come across Carlos and also give him a hug, congratulating him for the P6 he garnered right behind Alex.

You were all smiles and hugs, making your way down the motorhomes and congratulating anyone you came across regardless if they had scored points or not. And then Max is beside you. You don't know where he came from, just appeared like a gust of wind.

You turn to look at him, a blank expression on your face. "Not interested in your bullshit, Max."

You didn't fail to notice how his eyebrows were slightly furrowed, how his usual smirk didn't rest on his lips. Instead, he slightly tilts his head. "You okay?"

This makes you stop in your tracks, "What?"

Max looks around as if you weren't talking to him, closing the gap between the both of you with one step. "Are you okay?"

Your eyes bore into his. And for the first time, the looming tidal wave you usually saw was still. His eyes were like the soft waves by the seashore, warm and gentle. You look between them, blinking at his question.

"I'm fine." You swiftly move out of the way, walking as fast as you could towards the Mercedes motorhome. Max just stands there, watching your retreating figure walk into silver territory.

When you reach the George's driver room, you see him sat on the floor, head in his hands. You smile gently, an empathetic look on your face.

"Saw your laps. Unfortunate you got P8." You close the door behind you, sitting on the makeshift bed. George scoffed in reply.

"Yeah well, my prep lap was fucked 'cause Max backed up on me. I mean, what the hell was he thinking?!"

You nod at his outburst, remembering the terrible qualifying session for both drivers. "Max was petty."

"Thank you! He was!"

"But," you start. "That was crazy that you didn't get out of the way."

George snaps his head to look at you, towel dropping from his hand. "He wrecked my lap on purpose. How was I supposed to know?"

"He was on a flying lap, George. Plus, there's a reason you have side-mirrors on the car."

It was silent for a beat. You were nervous as hell. You were sure that George was already suspicious from that Senna reference you made a while back, then this? Even Alex called you up afterwards to question it.

"Who's side are you on?" George breaks the quiet. The fire inside of you started burning. You continued to stare at the ground, afraid that one look at the Brit would only add fuel.

"There are no sides here, George. I know what I saw. You fucked his lap, he fucks yours. Don't you think that makes a little sense?"

The silence was deafening but made you mad. Was he always like this? Did he always assume you'd die on this hill?

"You got that Senna reference from him, didn't you? He told you that?"

You look at George, fists clenched by your lap. "Does it matter?"

You stood up and turn on your heel. You walk out of that room before George could even get up himself and walk as fast as you can back to safety. You couldn't breathe in there, it felt like you would suffocate from the silence, the rage, the emotions.

As you reach the Williams hospitality, you fall straight into the arms of your older brother, the one person you knew could somehow immaculately fix all your wounds even if they were phantom. Alex embraces you with open arms, worried of course, but not probing. And you talk when you're ready. Talk about how heavy your mind was from babysitting an idiot. Talk about how Max left an impression on your being.

And it was in that moment, with you crying to your older brother, that you realized that you probably liked Max Verstappen. And that shattered your whole world.

Alex didn't bring it up. Didn't bring up your deep-rooted attachment to Max Verstappen. Didn't bring up your exhaustion caused by George Russell. Didn't bring up that you were cornered off in the Williams garage post-race instead of out and about. And you liked your brother because of that.

You were already suffocating, you didn't want your head to be held underwater as well.

You had already talked to George about it. You weren't going to fight his battles anymore, you weren't going to take the hit for something you didn't do, and you definitely weren't going to defend him for every stupid mistake he starts anymore.

You think it's stupid that it took you this long to realize that this was what Alex had been talking about all along— objectivity. Now you realize why Alex never jumped on the Russell train as quickly as you would even if they were both close as brothers.

A whole two months had passed. Two months of being there for Alex, two months of staying put, two months of sheer bliss. The first crashed that happened within those months, everyone turned to you— the media, the fans, the team. It sparked a flame but it never lit.

Then it happened again.

Big race, big crash. It was stupid, bad, unnecessary. Max and George walked out of it fine, but their cars and their leads were wrecked. One thing led to another and now the two were getting into it post-race— heated words, passive-aggressive jabs, snarky remarks. It carried on for a month. An entire month of endless banter, useless threats, snide comments. An entire month of everyone looking at you, expecting you to make a move. And that struck the match.

You hated it. Hated how everyone would look at you when you passed the paddock. Hated how everyone asked you what you had to say about it. Hated how the first thing you find online about yourself is the crash. You were still in the middle of it.

They both had a moment in the sprint race again. Touching tires like their life would end if a race finished clean. And once again, the paddock was buzzing and the world looked at you.

You had had enough. If George wasn't gonna say anything to make people shut up, you would.

You stormed off from your spot in the Williams motorhome, and you found yourself busting through the doors of Mercedes. You find George surrounded by the PR team, calmly spinning a narrative while the fuse inside of you only burns shorter.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Everyone looks up. Poor Kimi goes still. George blinks like he wasn't expecting you.

"I'm doing media, we can talk la—"

"No, we're talking now."

You were a rage of fury. "I told you I wasn't going to defend you anymore. I told you to sort your shit out with Max yourself. And here we are again. A mess of pride and ego."

George frowns, "Why are you coming at me? He's the one that turned into me. He's the one that doesn't give space—"

"You know exactly how he drives and you still divebombed him like you're in a videogame!"

George opens his mouth to speak, but you don't let him.

"You don't even have the decency to tell people to stay out of my business. Everyone is still waiting for me to clean up your mess! To play peacemaker! To babysit the two idiots who would rather die than have a clean race!"

Your breathing starts getting shaky, head burning from all the eyes that were staring at you. "You treat me like I'm your little sister, like I need to be protected, but all I've ever done is protect you."

George's expression falters. "I'm exhausted, George. Please. The least you could do is tell everyone to fuck off."

You step back, catching your breath, before turning on your heel and storming out before anyone could say anything.

You find yourself behind the paddock. Sitting on a curb, head in your hands, sobbing with a rage you couldn't even describe. Your mind swarmed with a million things and your chest felt like it was split open. And of course—

"Are you okay?"

You look up. Eyes red, emotions raw, heart spilled on the floor. The Dutch makes the move to sit beside you, a worried expression cast on his face.

You scoff shakily, "Don't pretend like you care."

"I'm not pretending."

You laugh once. Dry.

He asks again, "Are you okay?"

You sigh at his question, wiping your eyes. You stand up slowly. Too tired to yell. Too tired to fake it.

"Why are you the one who gets it? Why are you always the first one to ask if I'm okay?" You start, turning to look at him. "I was supposed to hate you, Max."

He doesn't smile, doesn't smirk. Just stands up right in front of you.

"Then hate me. But stop lying to yourself— stop hurting yourself. Not anymore."

Beat. The weight between them shifts.

"Why do you make it sound so easy?" Your voice cracks, eyes darting back and forth between his.

"Because when I look at you, I don't see Alex's sister or George's damage control, I see a fire."

She blinks. And all of a sudden, he put her heart back where it belonged. And this time, it wasn't shattered.

"And I'd rather burn in it than hide from it."

You don’t breathe. Not for a second. Not when the words settle over you, not when his eyes don’t flinch. The wind picks up behind you, but you don’t feel it. All you feel is the heat in your chest, the ache behind your ribs, and the way he’s looking at you like you’re real. Like you’re more than a title, more than what everyone decided you’d be.

You take one step forward.

He doesn’t move.

"Then don't hide."

Max’s jaw tenses, like he’s restraining himself. Like he’s waiting for permission. "You're killing me."

You smirk at this, the light coming back from beneath your eyes. The banter coming back to you like it never left. Your hand delicately lands on the back of his neck and you pull him forward, just inches away from your mouth. "Good. Maybe you'll finally shut up."

He surges forward, mouth finding yours. It’s not delicate. It’s not patient. It’s desperate, starved, all teeth and fury and years of swallowed words. You kiss him like you’re trying to erase every fight, every snide comment, every time you said you hated him but didn’t mean it.

And he kisses you like he knew. Like he always knew.

His hands come up fast—one to your cheek, the other gripping your waist like he needs to anchor himself—and he kisses you back just as hard. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

For once, you’re not thinking. Not about George. Not about Alex. Not about the paddock or the cameras or the fact that this is so, so messy.

You’re thinking about how he’s the only one who’s ever met the real you. And for the first time in a long time—you let yourself feel it.

When you finally break apart, gasping, he rests his forehead on yours.

"You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that." His voice was low, deep, a wreck. And you could only smile in return.

"Neither did I."

Max exhales a stunned, breathless laugh— because of course this is how it happens. Of course the kiss feels like war and peace all at once.

"Guess this means you're not the enemy anymore."

Max pulls away to look at your face, a big smile still etched in it.

"I never was."

It happens almost too casually for something this monumental.

Alex is leaning against the motorhome wall, sipping a water bottle and scrolling through his phone, when he hears familiar voices rounding the corner. He doesn’t think much of it, until he catches a low laugh that definitely doesn't belong to George or Lando.

That laugh is Max's. And you're answering it with something soft, something warm. Not your usual exasperated sigh, not the sharp defense of George— this is different.

Curious, Alex glances up just in time to see Max walking beside you, a hand brushing yours before you swat it away playfully. But it’s the look on your face that stops him cold: you're beaming. Not performing, not posturing— just effortlessly, unconsciously happy.

And then Max glances your way like you're the only person in the world worth looking at. Alex has seen that look before— in movies, in stories. Never aimed at his sister— never like this.

You notice him before Max does. Your eyes widen, cheeks flush, and your step falters just slightly. Max, ever oblivious, keeps talking until you mutters his name in warning and nudge him. He follows your gaze, and Alex watches as it dawns on him: you've been caught.

Alex just raises a brow. "So... is this where I give the protective older brother speech?"

Max pales a little. You just groan in response.

But Alex just laughs— warm and full, not a hint of menace behind it. He walks over, pulling you into a one-armed hug and presses a kiss to the side of your head.

“About damn time,” he says quietly, so only you could hear it. “I was starting to think no one would ever get you out of your own head.”

Then, to Max, with a wry grin, “Don’t make me regret this, yeah?”

Max nods, the tension in his shoulders finally easing.

Alex gives you one last look— not questioning, not protective— just proud.

“You look happy,” he says simply. “That’s all I care about.”

And you are. For the first time in a long time, you really, truly are.

The paddock was unusually quiet that afternoon, the kind of quiet that made George uneasy. No on-track chaos, no media blow-ups, and—most suspicious of all—no fiery rants from you. That alone should’ve tipped him off.

He pushed open the Williams motorhome door, expecting to find you with Alex or Lando, maybe ranting about tire strategy or laughing over some old karting story. Instead, the air shifted the second he walked in.

You were on Max Verstappen’s lap. Laughing.

Max had one arm lazily slung around your waist, and you looked at ease in a way George had never seen before. Not in the paddock. Not with anyone.

The silence cracked like thunder.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” George said, his voice low but sharp, slicing through the air like a whip.

You jolt upright, guilt flashing across your face. Max didn’t flinch, only tightened his hold slightly, like he had no intention of pretending this was something it wasn’t.

George’s gaze darted between you two, disbelieving. “This has to be a joke. You’re messing with me, right?”

“It’s not a joke, George,” you said quietly, stepping away from Max but not by much.

His jaw tightened. “So what, you’re with him now? The guy who’s made my life hell for years? The guy you swore you’d never defend?”

Max tilted his head, calm and irritating. “That was your doing, Russell.”

“Shut it.”

“Make me.”

“Max.” Your voice snapped and he stopped instantly. You turned back to George, heart thudding. “Look, I didn’t plan this, okay? It just happened. And for once, I’m not apologizing for something that makes me happy.”

George laughed bitterly. “Right. So you’re just tossing away everything for him? Years of loyalty—for what?”

Your fists clenched.

“Loyalty?” you echoed, voice rising. “You mean babysitting you every time you lost a race? Picking up the pieces after every feud you had with Max? It was fine the first time, but you got used to it. Used to lying back and watching me handle your shit."

His mouth parted slightly. You didn’t stop.

“I’ve been your therapist, your attack dog, your emotional crutch. I’ve been the girl no one takes seriously because I’ve always just belonged to someone else.”

You stepped forward, eyes burning.

“Max sees me. Not as your apologist. Not as Alex’s sister. He sees me. And deep down?” Your voice softened, trembling now. “I needed that more than I realized.”

Silence swallowed the room. For the first time in a long time, George had no comeback.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and saw it. The quiet strength in your shoulders, the steadiness in you eyes. And Max— damn him—hadn’t let go of your hand once.

George swallowed thickly. “You really like him?”

You nod.

He looked away, then back at Max. Their eyes locked. It was tense, taut, but something unspoken passed between them. A truce. Maybe not friendship— but something.

“If he hurts you,” George muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’ll drive my front wing through his car.”

Max, to his credit, just smirked. “Fair. But I won’t.”

George exhaled, already regretting every part of this moment. “Fine,” he muttered, turning toward the door. “But I’m never talking to either of you about feelings. Ever.”

You laughed, soft and teary. “Deal.”

He paused in the doorway. “Does Alex know?”

“Everyone knows.”

George groaned. “I hate this paddock.”

And with that, he left— slamming the door a little too hard on his way out.

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