i wanted to apologize for the long unexpected break. i have been so busy with work and especially since i am in my second year of pa school and about to graduate. i’ve also been taking some time to work on my star wars blog as well:)
before i left, i had been receiving a lot of hate and i just logged out. it became something that was toxic and not worth it for me at the time. however, i came back to very kind and sweet messages and i very much appreciate it!
i promise to make a full return soon. expect something this week:)
also guys since i’m making a return im thinking of an alexandra fic based on labios mordidos by kali where the reader steals alexandra from charlessssss🧍🏻♀️🧍🏻♀️🧍🏻♀️🧍🏻♀️
you swore you would never come back to this place. not to the noise. not to the politics. not to the ghosts of your past.
but when red bull calls, you don’t hesitate.
you tell yourself it’s for the team. for the legacy. for the championship you never got to defend. it’s most definitely not for him.
not for max verstappen, standing in the garage like he’s been waiting for you to return since the day you left. he looks at you the same way he always has— like you’re something to conquer. or something he lost and can't help but want back.
and maybe the real problem isn’t that you hate each other. maybe it’s that you never learned how to stop.
(a/n) : omg hello babes! this is my slow return. i appreciate all the messages and love i have received while i was away. i have just been going through a lot recently and needed some time to get myself together before my return. idk how much i will be posting this week but i will try my best to get a few more pieces up. hope you all love this as much as i love you!
fc : bella hadid!
liked by username045, username3, lando and 1,500,000 others.
f1gossipgirls : it has been confirmed that none other than ex red bull driver and world champion, yn ln, will be taking christian horner's spot as red bull team principal. now, if you do not know the history between her and max- it is time to catch up BABYYYY. this season about to be messy. max was already asked about yn's return and seemed to be less than impressed.
-
view 137,000 other comments.
username007 : that’s not dislike that’s unresolved feelings btw
liked by f1gossipgirls
username775 : can anyone catch me up here??
↳ username110 : max and yn used to be teammates and had like a brocedes level rivalry if not worse, they could not STAND each other. they had a crash, yn got seriously injured and was forced into retirement and max was fine. but honestly i choose to believe they hate each other so bad because they are in love with each other. there were rumors that they were dating and the 'hate each other' act was to hide it. because if you watch old interviews, there is so much TENSION. and honestly after yn's crash, max became even more max than he already was. like mans turned into a monster. to say their history is complicated is an understatement.
liked and pinned by f1gossipgirls
mclarenfan4 : oh we taking that constructors and drivers peacefully thank you
username002 : this is either going to win us the title or implode spectacularly. i feel like a ferrari fan
liked by f1gossipgirls
username11 : mans is SICK to his stomach.
username78 : imagine showing up to work and your ex rival/situationship is your new boss.
username005 : max already fighting for his life and the season hasn’t started
↳ username101 : that man was blinking like he saw a ghost
username11110 : the interview had me on the floor
↳ username424 : the way he paused before saying her NAMEEE
You’re twenty. Too young, they say. Too sharp. Too emotional. Too much.
You’ve just stepped off the top step of the podium, champagne still drying in your hair, trophy heavy in your hands. The cameras loved it — the smirk, the wink, the deliberate glance down the grid toward the garage. Toward him.
Max Verstappen stands with his helmet tucked under his arm, jaw tight, eyes tracking you like you’ve just committed a crime. You beat him by three tenths. You defend the win like it’s war.
And in the media pen, when the interviewer asks how it feels to beat your teammate again, you lean back in your chair and say, sweetly: “I don’t see teammates. I see competition.”
You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. You can feel the way the air shifts. It’s an hour later when your driver's room door slams open. You don’t even jump.
“You’re unbelievable,” he snaps.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, still in team kit, scrolling through your phone like he’s a mild inconvenience.
“Hi, Maxie.”
“Don’t.”
He paces once. Twice. Stops in front of you.
“You embarrassed the team.”
You laugh. It’s sharp. “I won the race.”
“You don’t have to act like I’m beneath you.”
“Then stop driving like you are.”
Silence. Thick and volatile. He steps closer.
“You think you’re better than me?”
You stand now, nose almost brushing his. “No. I know I am.”
It’s cruel. You know it’s cruel. You say it anyway. His hands flex at his sides.
“One day,” he says lowly, “you’re going to push too far.”
“Maybe,” you whisper. “But you’ll still be behind me, Verstappen.”
You don’t know who moves first. Maybe you both do.
The shove is small but intentional. Your back hits the wall. His hands catch your arms like he didn’t mean to hold you — but he doesn’t let go. You’re breathing too hard.
“I fucking hate you,” he says.
“Good.”
Your mouth crashes into his before either of you can take it back.
It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth and anger and months of unfinished sentences. It’s hands fisting into fabric and the taste of champagne and pride and resentment.
You pull away first. Because you always do.
“Get out,” you tell him.
He stares at you like he wants to say something else. He doesn’t. The door closes.
The next morning, You don’t speak. As always.
present day
The phone rings at 2:17 a.m. You stare at it for a long time before answering.
“YN, we need you.”
The voice is clinical. Urgent. All too familiar.
Red Bull is spiraling. Sponsors nervous. Structure fractured. Christian Horner is gone.
There’s a pause.
“Team principal.”
Your laugh is hollow. “You’re joking.”
“Absolutely not. I don't have time to joke, YN.”
And suddenly you’re not in your quiet penthouse anymore. You’re back in the cockpit. The smell of fuel. The vibration through your spine. The corner that never straightened the way it should have— The flash of white. The crunch of carbon fiber. Silence.
Your hands start shaking. You swallow.
“You’re asking a retired driver. Must be desperate."
“I'm asking a World Champion.”
A beat.
“And I'm asking the only person he’s ever truly listened to.”
Him. Of course.
Your mind betrays you with the memory of his mouth on yours. Of the way he used to look at you like you were something he had to defeat or devour.
You close your eyes.
“Send the contract.”
—
The Red Bull conference room hasn’t changed. Same long table. Same muted lighting. Same air of calculation. Engineers line the walls. Strategy team at the far end.
And at the head of the table—him. Older now. Sharper. Colder. Max Verstappen doesn’t stand when you walk in. But Isack Hadjar does. Immediately. His chair nearly scrapes the floor.
“It’s an honor,” isack blurts, eyes bright. “I used to watch your championship season on repeat.”
Your lips soften despite yourself. “Don’t make me feel old.”
He grins like you just handed him the world. Max doesn’t smile. He watches. Assessing.
You take the seat at the head of the table without asking permission.
“Let’s be clear,” you begin. “I’m not here to babysit. I’m here to win.”
Slides appear. Data. Projections. Weaknesses. You cut through it all.
“Our corner entry is too conservative. We’re bleeding tenths on exit. I want the rear stability adjusted before Imola.”
One of the senior engineers hesitates. “That’s risky.”
“So is losing.”
Silence. You glance at max.
“Thoughts?”
His jaw ticks. “It’ll make the car unpredictable.”
“Only if you’re not precise.”
It’s a challenge. The room feels it. His eyes narrow.
“I’m precise.”
“Then you better prove it to me.”
Isack is practically vibrating.
“This is going to be insane,” he mutters under his breath.
The meeting ends with a mix of awe and tension. Chairs scrape. Voices murmur. Isack lingers.
“Seriously,” he says quietly, “this is the coolest thing that could have happened to this team.”
You smile at him gently. “Focus on your lap times, Hadjar.”
He nods eagerly and disappears with the others. The door clicks shut. And it’s just you and Max. The air shifts instantly. He stands slowly.
“Team principal,” he says flatly.
“My senior driver.”
He steps closer to the table.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Your pulse spikes. “Why? Afraid that you'll lose control of your team?"
“This isn’t funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
A beat.
“You left,” he says, and there’s something under it now. Something less controlled. “You don’t get to just come back.”
Your throat tightens.
“I didn’t leave by choice.”
“You could have fought.”
“I almost died.”
The words land heavy. He looks away first. Silence stretches.
“Why did you take the job?” He asks quietly.
You hold his gaze.
“Because I’m not done winning.”
That’s not the full truth. He knows it. He steps closer until the edge of the table presses into your hips. Too close. Just like eight years ago.
“Don’t play games with me,” he murmurs.
“Then stop reacting to me like this.”
His hand twitches like he’s debating reaching for you. He doesn’t.
“This won’t end well,” he says.
You tilt your head.
“It never does with us.”
His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second. There it is. The ghost of twenty years old. Champagne. Anger. Bitterness. Unfinished.
He steps back first this time.
“You’re my boss,” he says, like it tastes wrong.
“And you’re still my biggest problem.”
A flicker of something almost like a smile touches his lips.
“Good,” he says softly. “I was worried you’d gone soft.”
You don’t breathe until he leaves the room. And when the door closes, you realize the real problem isn’t the team. It’s that nothing between you has ever been simple. And it still isn’t.
You learn very quickly that winning a championship is easier than rebuilding an empire. The paddock is loud. Not physically — not yet. Testing has not even begun — but online, in interviews, in whispered phone calls between sponsors and executives.
“She has no management experience.”
“Her and Max won't be able to get along.”
“She retired. That means she couldn’t handle it.”
You read none of it. You hear all of it.
Inside, the atmosphere is split clean down the middle. Half the staff look at you like you are salvation. The other half look at you like you are a risk assessment.
You strip the strategy department down within days. Two senior analysts are reassigned. You bring in a younger data engineer who had been buried in simulation work. You demand shorter debriefs. Sharper communication. Fewer politics.
You do not raise your voice. That unsettles them more.
In the design office, you stand over schematics with sleeves rolled up, pointing at the rear suspension geometry.
“We are sacrificing rotation for comfort,” you say calmly. “Comfort does not win championships.”
An older engineer shifts. “Instability doesn’t either.”
You meet his eyes. “Instability in the wrong hands doesn’t.”
A pointed silence. Everyone knows who the right hands are.
The first official media day is brutal. Cameras flash as you step to the podium, composed in navy tailoring that still feels foreign compared to race suits.
A reporter clears his throat.
“You’re the youngest team principal on the grid. What makes you think you’re ready?”
You smile faintly.
“I’ve raced against most of the grid. I’ve beaten some of them. I understand pressure. I understand failure. And I understand this team.”
Another question.
“Isn’t there concern about your personal history with your lead driver?”
There it is.
You don’t blink.
“My personal history is irrelevant. Performance is not.”
Across the media pen, you see him. Max is being asked the same questions. He leans back in his chair, expression flat.
“What do you think about her appointment?”
A pause.
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he says evenly. “She’s a world champion. That doesn’t disappear.”
The room stills slightly.
Another reporter pushes. “But you seemed less than impressed when it was announced.”
His jaw tightens.
“I’m impressed by results. Let her work.”
He stands before they can dig further. He does not look at you. But he did not let them question you. And that is louder than praise.
The factory becomes your battlefield. You arrive before sunrise. Leave long after the lights in the simulator room go dark. In the corridors, you catch fragments of conversation that cut off when you approach.
“She’s changing too much too fast.”
“It’s reckless.”
“Maybe this is temporary.”
And then there are others —
“You see her in the sim? She still knows exactly what the car needs.”
“She caught that brake bias issue before telemetry did.”
“Max is sharper already.”
The split grows visible. You can feel it in meetings. In how some people avoid eye contact. In how others straighten when you enter a room. And in how he watches. Always watching.
It happens on a Thursday afternoon. The final aerodynamic package before testing is locked in — conservative, stable, safe.
You stare at the data projected across the wall. Then you shake your head.
“No.”
The room freezes.
“We are scrapping the secondary floor concept. I want the aggressive spec.”
An audible inhale from the head of aero.
“That hasn’t been validated at high speed tracks.”
“It doesn’t need to be,” you reply. “It needs to outperform.”
“It could destabilize rear traction.”
“It will increase downforce in medium speed corners. That’s where we’re bleeding lap time.”
Silence. You make the call. Within an hour, the entire factory knows. Within two, so does he.
Your office door opens without a knock. Of course it does.
You do not look up immediately. “You could try knocking.”
“You changed the floor.”
His voice is controlled, but only barely.
You close the file in front of you and finally meet his gaze.
“Yes.”
He steps inside, shutting the door behind him. “That spec isn’t stable.”
“It’s faster.”
“It’s unpredictable.”
“It’s responsive.”
His jaw ticks. “You’re gambling.”
You stand slowly, circling the desk.
“I am optimizing.”
“You’re not the one driving it.”
The words land harder than he means them to. You stop a foot away from him.
“No,” you say evenly. “I’m the one responsible if you don’t win.”
His eyes darken. “This isn’t about ego.”
“It never is with you.”
He takes a step closer.
“You think I can’t handle it?”
“I think,” you say quietly, “that you don’t like not being the one making the final call.”
Silence thickens.
He is close enough that you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow from years ago. Close enough that you remember what it felt like to stand like this before.
“This car needs to be drivable,” he insists.
“It needs to be dominant.”
“And if it spins?”
“Then you adapt.”
His eyes flash. “You’re asking for perfection.”
“I’m expecting it.”
A charged beat.
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t get to treat me like I’m your teammate again.”
“And you don’t get to pretend you haven’t always driven better when someone pushes you.”
That stops him.
His gaze sharpens, searching your face.
“You think this makes me better?”
“I know it does.”
The air shifts. Not soft. Not warm. But electric.
He steps closer again, until the edge of your desk presses against the back of your thighs. There is less than a breath of space between you now.
“You’re not in the car,” he says lowly. “You don’t feel it.”
Your pulse stutters — not from fear. From proximity.
“I don’t need to feel it,” you reply, voice steady. “I know you.”
A flicker. Something unguarded. Gone just as quickly.
“You’re wrong,” he mutters.
You turn, reaching for your tablet, pulling up telemetry overlays from last season.
“You overcorrect under pressure in high-speed entries,” you say calmly. “This package forces commitment. It eliminates your hesitation.”
“I don’t hesitate.”
You slide the data toward him.
“You did. Three times in Suzuka. Twice in Silverstone.”
He stares at the screen. Then, quietly:
“…That was wind.”
“It was doubt.”
His eyes lift slowly to yours. You don’t look away. He studies you for a long moment — weighing, calculating, remembering. Finally, he exhales through his nose.
“If this backfires—”
“It won’t.”
“That’s not certainty.”
“That’s trust.”
Another pause.
He shakes his head slightly, but there is no anger left in it now.
“Everyone’s saying you’re changing too much.”
“I am.”
“They think it’s reckless.”
You tilt your head. “Do you?”
His gaze softens — just barely.
“No.”
The admission hangs between you.
“They don’t know you like I do,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.
Your throat tightens unexpectedly.
“That’s not an advantage,” you say quietly.
“It is.”
For a second, neither of you move.
There is no kiss. No touch. Just heat and unfinished history and the shared understanding that you have always brought out something sharper in each other. He steps back first.
“When testing starts,” he says, regaining composure, “I’ll drive it your way.”
You nod once.
“And when it’s faster?”
His mouth twitches faintly.
“Then I’ll tell the press it was my idea.”
You almost smile.
“Of course you will.”
He reaches the door, then pauses without turning around.
“They’re wrong about you,” he says.
Before you can respond, he leaves. The door clicks shut.
Outside your office, the factory continues buzzing — divided, doubtful, restless. Inside, you allow yourself one slow breath. He does not like that you are here. He does not like that you challenge him. But when it matters — He stands beside you. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
The car is a monster. Not temperamental. Not fragile. Not theoretical. A monster.
From the moment testing began, the numbers spoke for themselves. The aggressive floor spec you forced through the factory transformed the rear stability under load. Medium speed corners — once your weakness — are now your advantage. High speed sections look effortless.
The paddock shifts quickly when something works. Doubt turns into admiration. Admiration turns into fear.
You stand on the pit wall in as Max threads the car between barriers like it was built around him. The timing screens glow purple sector after purple sector.
The engineers behind you exchange looks that say it without words: She was right.
When he crosses the line first, you do not celebrate wildly. You remove your headset calmly, nod once, and allow yourself a small breath.
He climbs from the cockpit and does not look at you immediately. He looks at the car. Then he looks at you. There is something unspoken there — acknowledgment, maybe. You do not let it linger.
The press cannot help themselves.
“He’s too aggressive.”
“Is this sustainable?”
“Are you concerned about how hard he’s pushing?”
You sit straight backed under the lights.
“If you want safe sport,” you say coolly, “go watch golf.”
There is a ripple through the room.
A reporter presses further. “He nearly lost the rear in Turn Three. Isn’t that risky?”
You fold your hands.
“He didn’t lose it.”
Across the media room, Max hears every word. Later, when they ask him about your comment, he shrugs.
“She’s right.”
He does not elaborate. He does not need to.
Publicly, you are composed. Strategic. Loyal. Privately, you are ruthless.
After the last win, you stand in the engineering office reviewing footage. He walks in without announcement.
“You wanted to see me.”
You gesture to the screen.
“Turn Three.”
He exhales lightly. “I won.”
“You nearly overcooked entry.”
“I had it.”
“You got greedy.”
His eyes narrow.
“I wasn’t greedy.”
“You were chasing an extra tenth.”
“That’s my job.”
“Not when it compromises exit speed.”
He hates it. He hates that you can see it. He hates that you are right.
“You don’t trust me,” he says quietly.
“I trust you to push,” you reply. “I don’t trust you to stop.”
Silence. His jaw tightens. Then, reluctantly:
“…I’ll adjust it.”
He hates that he listens. But he does.
-
Success does not soften you. If anything, it sharpens you both. You refuse to let him get comfortable. After a dominant win, you greet him in debrief with a raised brow.
“You missed apex in Six.”
“I was managing tires.”
“You were showing off.”
A flicker of annoyance.
“You enjoyed it.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
He steps closer to the table.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable.”
The engineers pretend not to hear. You defend him to the world and challenge him in private. He pretends he resents it. But he drives better. Cleaner. Sharper. The championship lead grows. And naturally so does the tension. Especially when Kelly appears in the garage.
At first, she likes you. She has no reason not to.
You are professional. Polite. Distant in the right ways. You give her a courteous smile in the paddock, compliment her dress once.
She thanks you for giving him a car that can win.
“That’s all that matters,” she says lightly.
You nod. “It always has.”
She knows you and Max had history. Everyone does. Rivals. Teammates. Complicated. But she assumes it is contained. Ancient. Dead.
At first, she only notices small things. He watches your interviews back at night. He replays them. Analyzes them. When reporters question your authority, his shoulders stiffen. When someone implies your success is tied to him, he bristles.
“You talk about her a lot,” Kelly says one evening, seated across from him at dinner.
Max doesn’t look up from his plate.
“She is Team Principal.”
Kelly tilts her head.
“I feel like that is not all she is to you. There is history, Max."
He doesn’t answer. And that silence says more than anything else could.
You begin to notice it too. Not from her. From him. The way he lingers in your office doorway a second longer than necessary.
The way his tone changes when you go colder. Because you do go colder.
You realize it in Spain. You are standing on the pit wall when he wins again, flawless this time, surgical in execution.
He removes his helmet and looks toward you instinctively. You do not meet his gaze.
You are suddenly aware — painfully aware — that you are proud of him in a way that is no longer purely professional.
It unsettles you. So in debrief, you are sharper than usual.
“You lifted slightly in Nine.”
He frowns. “It was optimal.”
“You could have carried more speed.”
“You’re nitpicking.”
“Yes.”
He studies you.
“You’re different,” he says quietly once the room empties.
“I’m consistent.”
“No. You’re colder.”
You turn away, stacking papers.
“You’re imagining things.”
He steps closer.
“I know when you’re pushing me.”
“And?”
“And you’re doing it harder now.”
Your fingers still on the desk.
“That’s my job.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
The air tightens. You do not give him anything.
“Focus on the next race,” you say evenly. “The walls don’t forgive mistakes.”
His eyes search your face.
“You’re trying to prove something.”
“Always.”
He exhales slowly.
“You don’t have to compete with me anymore.”
The words hit deeper than intended. You lift your chin.
“I never competed with you.”
A lie. He knows it. And instead of softening, he leans into it. If you are colder, he becomes sharper. If you withhold, he provokes. During qualifying in Monaco, he delivers a lap that borders on violent precision.
On the radio, he says calmly, “Good call on the setup.”
You answer, equally calm, “Don’t overdrive the exit tomorrow.”
A pause.
“…I won’t.”
He listens. He always listens.
Kelly watches the changes accumulate. He is more distracted. More intense. He brings up your strategy decisions mid-conversation.
“She adjusted the brake migration for sector two.”
Kelly sets down her glass.
“You admire her.”
“She knows what she’s doing.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He rubs a hand across his jaw.
“She pushes me.”
Kelly’s voice is soft but steady.
“I see that.”
A beat.
“And you like it.”
He doesn’t answer. Again.
The distance you try to create only makes everything more volatile. You challenge him harder in meetings. You interrupt him mid-sentence. You refuse to let praise linger. After another dominant win, he corners you in the corridor.
“Why are you acting like I’m underperforming?”
“You’re capable of more.”
“I’m leading the championship.”
“You’re capable of more.”
He steps closer, voice lowering.
“Is this about the car?”
“It’s about you.”
Silence.
He studies you carefully now.
“You’re scared of something.”
The accusation lands.
“I’m not scared.”
“Yes, you are.”
Your pulse betrays you. Like it always used to.
“You think I don’t see it?” he continues. “You defend me to the world, then freeze me out when it’s just us.”
“That’s called professionalism.”
“That’s not what this is.”
You take a step back.
“It’s nothing.”
But it isn’t nothing. And he knows it. He always has. He straightens slightly, expression sharpening.
“Fine,” he says. “If you want distance, I’ll give you distance.”
But he doesn’t. Instead, he drives harder. Smarter. He brings you victories like offerings. And every time you hand him data and corrections and clinical praise, the tension coils tighter.
Because success has only amplified what was already there. Unfinished. Unspoken. And becoming impossible to ignore.
The season settled into sharp rhythm. Win. Pressure. Scrutiny. Repeat. But beneath the success, beneath the polished press conferences and controlled debriefs, something far more dangerous begins to surface.
Not scandal. Not collapse. Temptation.
It happens the first time the car betrays you. Not dramatically. Not catastrophically. Just enough.
A mistimed yellow flag. Traffic in the final sector. A compromised lap. P3 instead of pole. The garage is tense. Engineers defensive. Media already circling. You keep your voice even during debrief.
“We recover tomorrow.”
Max says nothing. He leaves before the meeting properly ends. You know that silence. You feel it like a shift in air pressure.
Hours later, the paddock is quieter. The motorhome corridors are nearly empty as you step into the elevator, reviewing telemetry on your tablet.
The doors begin to close. A hand stops them. He steps inside. The doors shut. The space is too small. Too quiet. You do not look up.
“Rough session,” you say evenly.
No response. Then— His hand wraps around your wrist. Firm. Sudden. Not violent. But not gentle. You look up sharply.
His eyes are darker than usual, frustration bleeding into something more personal.
“You think you can just walk back in like nothing happened?” he asks.
The words aren’t about qualifying. They never are. Your pulse stutters, but your voice stays level.
“Nothing happened.”
A humorless laugh.
“You don’t get to act like this is normal.”
You pull slightly against his grip.
“Let go.”
He doesn’t.
“You left,” he says, low and tight. “You vanished. And now you’re here like it’s just another season.”
The elevator hums upward. Your throat tightens.
“You think you’re the only one who almost died?” you fire back.
The words hit harder than intended. His hand loosens slightly. For a second, the anger fractures. There is something raw beneath it.
“You shut me out,” he says quietly.
“I was trying to survive.”
The elevator dings. The doors slide open. Neither of you move immediately. Then he releases you. Steps back. Composure snapping into place like armor.
“Tomorrow,” he says flatly, “we win.”
You step past him.
“Yes,” you reply. “We do.”
-
It happens again.
Rain falls without apology. The race is paused. Cars lined along pit lane. Chaos suspended in gray mist.
You stand under the narrow awning near the garage entrance, headset hanging around your neck, watching droplets streak down the halo of his car.
He joins you without invitation. Close. Too close.
The awning barely covers both of you. Your shoulders nearly brush. The scent of rain and fuel fills the space.
“Track will not be forgiving when it restarts,” you say quietly.
“I know.”
Lightning flashes in the distance. Silence settles between you. Not angry. Not sharp. Just heavy.
You can feel the heat radiating from him despite the cold air. You tell yourself to step away. You don’t.
A drop of rain slides from your hairline down your cheek.
Before you can react— His fingers brush your face. Barely there. A reflex. Wiping the water away. The contact is fleeting. But devastating.
He freezes. You freeze. The world feels suspended. His thumb lingers a fraction too long. Then he pulls his hand back like he’s touched something forbidden.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re certain he can hear it.
“It’s fine.”
But it isn’t. The tension crackles. The race resumes moments later. He drives like a man trying to outrun something. You stand on the pit wall pretending your pulse isn’t racing.
He defends aggressively. Brakes impossibly late. Holds the inside in a move the commentators call reckless. You call it necessary.
He crosses the line first. The garage explodes. Cheers. Applause. Relief. You remain composed. Until your office door slams open.
He storms in, helmet still on, gloves half removed, breathing hard like he hasn’t fully left the car. The door shuts behind him. The noise outside fades.
“What are you doing?” you ask, though you already know.
He steps toward you. Still charged with adrenaline. Visor lifted. Eyes bright and wild.
“Tell me,” he demands.
You cross your arms lightly.
“Tell you what?”
His chest rises and falls rapidly.
“Tell me you’re proud of me.”
The vulnerability in it is sharper than any argument. For a moment, you see him at twenty again. Angry. Desperate. Needing acknowledgment more than victory.
Your throat tightens. You take a slow step forward. Close enough that you can see the fine tremor in his hands.
“I always am,” you whisper.
The words land between you like something sacred. His breath catches. For a fraction of a second, it feels like he might close the distance. Like he might forget everything else — titles, contracts, optics, consequences. Instead, he pulls off his helmet and sets it down on your desk with deliberate control.
“Good,” he says quietly.
But he doesn’t leave. Not immediately. He studies you like he’s trying to memorize something. Then, finally, he steps back. Professionalism sliding back into place.
“You made the right call on the tires,” he adds.
“You drove it perfectly.”
A beat. And then he’s gone. The door closes softly this time. You stand there alone, heart still racing, fully aware that each almost moment is pushing the boundary further. You tell yourself you are in control. But control has never been what existed between you. Only tension. Only restraint. And it is wearing thinner with every race.
liked by username45, username009, username11 and 2,900,000 others.
f1gossipgirls : rumor has it that kelly piquet and max verstappen have reportedly broken things off. many believing that it has to do with a certain team principal/ex teammate 👀
The tension does not explode. It erodes. Slowly. Quietly. Relentlessly.
At first, Kelly tries to be understanding. She tells herself it is stress. Championship pressure. Long factory hours.
But stress does not make someone stare at interview clips at midnight. Stress does not make someone bristle when your name is criticized. Stress does not make someone distant in bed.
It happens after Spa. Another win. Another dominant performance. Another post race interview where he defends you without hesitation.
“She knows what she’s doing,” he says when a reporter questions your aggressive mid race strategy call. “That’s why she’s in charge.”
That night, the apartment is quiet. Kelly stands by the kitchen counter, arms folded.
“You’re in love with her.”
Max stills.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
He runs a hand through his hair, already irritated. “She’s my boss.”
“No,” Kelly says steadily. “She’s never just been that, Max."
He looks away.
“You light up when you talk about her,” she continues. “You fight harder when she’s watching. You get defensive when people question her. You barely look at me when you come home from a race.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
He doesn’t have an answer. Because he doesn’t know how to articulate the truth. That it is not simple. That it is not new. That it did not start this season.
Kelly’s voice softens, but there is steel beneath it.
“I deserve someone who isn’t still fighting ghosts.”
He exhales slowly. “Kelly—”
“You don’t even deny it.”
That is what breaks it. Not anger. Not betrayal. Absence. She nods once, almost to herself.
“I hope you figure it out,” she says quietly.
Then she leaves. And he is alone with the silence.
The apartment feels different without her. Too quiet. Too honest. He sits on the edge of the couch, staring at nothing. And then memory does what it does best. You backed against his hotel room wall after a tense race. Your arms draped around his neck, pulling him in closer. His lips leaving kisses down yours. The petty comments linger in his brain.
“You think you’re better than me?”
“No. I know I am.”
He remembers the way you used to look at him — like a challenge. Like a threat. Like something you wanted to conquer and couldn’t quite manage to let go of.
He remembers the crash. The hospital. The way he never showed up publicly. The way he told himself distance was strength. He remembers the elevator. The rain. The office.
“I always was.”
He tries to sleep. He cannot. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you. Hears you. Feels the brush of your cheek under his thumb. The way you stand too close when you argue. The way your voice drops when you are trying not to feel something.
At 2:47 a.m., he stops pretending. At 3:02 a.m., he is at your door.
You are awake. Of course you are. Laptop open. Telemetry from the last race glowing on the screen. Coffee cold beside your hand. When the knock comes, sharp and impatient, your brows knit together.
You check the time. 3:02 a.m. You open the door. And there he is. Max.
Just him. Tension radiating off his body like heat from asphalt. You stare at him.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you here?”
His jaw tightens.
“She left.”
The words land heavily.
Your stomach drops.
“…Kelly?”
He nods once. Silence hangs between you.
“That’s not something you tell your team principal at three in the morning,” you say carefully.
He laughs once, humorless.
“Stop hiding behind that.”
Your pulse quickens.
“You can’t just show up here.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“That’s not my problem.”
He steps closer, forcing you to either retreat or hold your ground. You hold it.
“It is your problem,” he says quietly. “You made it my problem.”
Your eyes flash.
“I didn’t ask you to feel anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The door is still open. You close it. That is the first mistake. The space becomes smaller. More dangerous.
“You think I don’t see it?” he continues. “You pull away every time it gets close. You push me harder when it’s not about the car.”
“You’re projecting.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
His voice rises.
“You walked back into my life like nothing happened.”
“You think it was easy for me?” you snap. “You think I wanted to see you every day and pretend I don’t remember everything?”
He steps forward until your back brushes the wall.
“Then stop pretending.”
Your breath catches.
“You’re my driver.”
“And you’re lying.”
Silence. Charged. Volatile. He searches your face like he’s looking for permission. You should tell him to leave. You should step away. You don’t.
“You were the only person who ever pushed me,” he says, voice rough. “The only one who ever matched me.”
“That’s not love,” you whisper.
“No,” he agrees. “It’s worse.”
The air feels thin. His hand comes up — slow this time. Gives you time to stop him. You don’t. His fingers brush your jaw. And that is it. Years of restraint snap. The kiss is not soft. It is overdue. It is frustration and grief and unfinished sentences crashing together.
You grip his shirt like you’re trying to ground yourself. He backs you further into the wall, one hand braced beside your head.
There is nothing tentative about it. Nothing careful. It is everything you both refused to name. When you finally pull back, breathless, your forehead rests against his.
“This is a mistake,” you murmur.
“Probably.”
You kiss him again anyway. It is messy and desperate and far too intense for something that was supposed to stay buried. He lifts you slightly, and you laugh against his mouth despite yourself. The sound breaks something open. Not just tension. Fear. Vulnerability. Eventually, the anger fades into something slower. Softer. You end up tangled together on your bed, breathing evening out, silence no longer hostile.
-
Sunlight creeps through the blinds. You wake first. He is still there. Arm draped over your waist. Face unguarded in sleep. For a moment, you simply stare. Trying to understand how you got here.
His eyes open slowly. And for once, there is no armor in them. Just honesty. You both stay quiet. Processing. Finally, he exhales.
“I’ve been in love with you since we were young,” he says, voice low and steady. “I just didn’t know what to do with it.”
Your throat tightens.
“You’re impossible,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“I tried to hate you,” he continues. “It was easier.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t want to.”
Silence settles, but it is different this time. You reach for him first. Pull him closer. Rest your forehead against his.
“We can’t let this ruin the team,” you murmur.
“It won’t.”
“That’s not a promise you can make.”
“It is.”
You study him for a long moment. Then you nod slightly. He holds you tighter. For once, there is no fight in it. No rivalry. No unfinished tension. Just two people who finally stopped running. And outside your apartment, the world — the press, the paddock, the championship — waits. Unaware that everything just changed.
You are careful. Careful with doors. Careful with glances. Careful with how long your hand lingers at the small of his back when no one is looking.
Only a few people know. Your chief strategist — because she walked in on a hug that was decidedly not professional and simply sighed, “About time.”
Your performance engineer — because he is observant and loyal and pretends not to notice when Max disappears into your office after hours.
The rest of the world still believes you barely tolerate each other. It makes it easier. And harder.
And here we are, one race left. Two championships on the line. The Drivers’. The Constructors’. Both currently in McLaren hands. Mathematically, it is possible. Realistically, it is brutal. But the car is a beast. And the man driving it is sharper than he has ever been.
You stand in your office the morning of the race, reviewing final simulations for the hundredth time. The numbers are solid. The strategy is aggressive. The margins are razor thin.
A soft knock at your door.
You don’t look up immediately.
“Come in.”
The door shuts quietly.
You feel him before you see him. Max leans against the door for a second, still in partial race kit, balaclava hanging loose around his neck.
“You’re supposed to be in the garage,” you say lightly.
“I know.”
You finally meet his eyes. They are steady. Focused. Not nervous. But alive.
“You’ve run the simulations twelve times,” he says, glancing at your screen.
“Fourteen.”
A small smirk.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I trust you completely,” you reply calmly. “I don’t trust probability.”
He steps closer to your desk.
“You know I can do this.”
“I know.”
“And the car?”
“Is perfect.”
The weight of the moment presses in. If he wins, you take everything. If he loses, it will still be a monumental season — but not the one you both want. He walks around the desk until he’s standing in front of you. For once, there is no teasing. No edge. Just honesty.
“Good luck,” you say softly.
He studies your face for a second.
Then, quietly:
“That’s it?”
You arch a brow.
“You want a motivational speech?”
“I want something better.”
You stand slowly.
“Max—”
He cuts you off gently, stepping closer.
“No one’s around.”
He leans down and kisses you. Not rushed. Not desperate. Steady. Certain.
Your hands slide into his racesuit instinctively, pulling him closer for a brief, heated second before you remind yourself where you are. He deepens it slightly anyway, and you can’t help the small laugh that escapes you against his mouth.
“You’re unbelievable,” you murmur.
“I’m about to win my fifth championship,” he replies softly against your lips. “I can afford one distraction.”
The office door suddenly swings open.
“Oh my God—”
You both break apart instantly. Standing frozen in the doorway is Isack. He looks between you. Once. Twice. Eyes widening to cartoonish proportions.
“…I KNEW IT.”
You stare at him.
“Knock,” you say sharply.
He is already grinning so hard it hurts.
“This is the best day of my life,” he announces dramatically. “And the race hasn’t even started.”
Max exhales, half amused, half resigned.
“If you tell anyone—”
“I would never,” Isack says, immediately crossing his heart. “But also this explains literally everything.”
You can’t help it. You giggle. Max looks at you. You look at him. And for a brief second, the enormity of everything — the risk, the secrecy, the history — feels lighter.
“Go win,” you tell him.
He nods once. Then he leaves.
It is ruthless. Strategic. Unforgiving. McLaren fights hard. Their pace is strong. Their pit stops flawless. But your strategy is sharper. You undercut at exactly the right window. You switch to the aggressive tire compound when others hesitate. On the radio, your voice remains calm.
“Don’t overdrive Turn Three,” you remind him mid-race.
A small pause.
“…I won’t.”
He doesn’t.
With ten laps to go, he makes the move. Late braking. Perfect placement. Clinical exit. The overtake that secures everything. The garage erupts. You don’t. Not yet. You wait. Five laps. Four. Three. When he crosses the line first, the world explodes.
Cheering. Headsets thrown into the air. Engineers hugging. You close your eyes for one second.
He climbs out of the car, helmet coming off slowly. The cameras swarm. Commentators shouting.
“Unbelievable turnaround.”
“Red Bull snatch both titles from McLaren!”
He scans the chaos. Looking for one person. You step forward from the edge of the garage. For a split second, you hesitate. Then he walks straight to you. Not the mechanics. Not the cameras. You.
He pulls you into him before you can overthink it. The kiss is public. Unmistakable. The paddock collectively loses its mind. Gasps. Shouts. Flashes going wild.
For a heartbeat, everything else disappears. When you pull back, breathless and laughing, he rests his forehead against yours.
“You were right,” he murmurs.
“About what?”
“Everything.”
You smile up at him.
“Of course I was.”
The press is scrambling. Because they genuinely thought you hated each other. The narrative collapses in real time. From rivals. To tension. To this.
Isack appears behind you both, absolutely vibrating with joy.
“I am never shutting up about this,” he declares.
You laugh, wiping a tear from your cheek. Max keeps one arm wrapped securely around your waist.
“World Champion,” you tease softly.
“Team Principal,” he replies.
Against doubt. Against scrutiny. Against history. You built the car. He drove it to perfection. And somewhere between rivalry and redemption, you both finally chose each other. The season ends not with silence. But with victory. And this time— Neither of you walks away.
