while pregnant with her third child, Annabeth elena discovered that her long time boyfrind Max Verstappen had been cheating oh her with Kelly piquet. The betrayal of tearing the life that they had built together and leaving elena heartbroken while trying to raise their three kids
After the breakup, Max started a new life with Kelly, while Elena struggled to heal and move forward.
A year later, Elena met Son Heung-min at a charity event. What started as a simple friendship slowly grows into something more. Son was there for Elena during her hardest moments and became an important part of her and her children's lives. Over the years, he earned the trust and love of Leonel, Lia, and Annabeth, while helping Elena find happiness again.
Now, five years later, Elena is finally happy and ready for a future with Son.
Summary: Lando accidentally gives the media a headline, discovers that talking about the future is easier than explaining it. Japan was supposed to be about racing. It turns out to be about something else, too.
Word Count: 7.7k
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Packing together sounds romantic in theory.
In practice, it’s Louise sitting cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by immaculately folded piles organized by color, function, and something that might actually be mood, while Lando stands in the doorway holding the same hoodie he’s packed for every flight since 2019 like it’s a rescued animal.
“You’re not bringing that again,” she says, not looking up.
He hugs it to his chest. “I am bringing it again.”
“It smells like three continents.”
“It smells like comfort.”
“It smells like jet lag and poor decisions.”
He sniffs it defensively. “That’s character.”
She finally looks up, squints at him like she’s assessing structural integrity. “You can bring it if you promise not to complain when customs judges you.”
He grins. “Deal.”
Japan is already humming in the room—open suitcases yawning wide, cables snaking across the carpet, adapters piled like loose change. Louise triple-checks she’s packed ear protection. Lando narrates absolutely everything into his phone because he’s already mentally filming for Quadrant.
“This,” he says, panning dramatically across the chaos, “is peak pre-Japan energy. Very aesthetic. Very—”
“You’re blocking my socks,” she interrupts.
He swings the phone to her face instead. “Rude.”
She flicks a sock at him without missing a beat.
—
Japan hits them like a breath held too long and finally released.
Neon and quiet somehow coexisting. Order and absurdity side by side. Streets that feel curated without feeling staged. The air itself feels deliberate.
Lando switches into content mode immediately—camera up, grin locked in, narrating vending machines that sell hot soup and umbrellas like they’re miracles.
Quadrant energy, he tells himself.
He meets the crew just outside Tokyo, where the city loosens its grip and the roads begin to curve like they were designed for reverence instead of efficiency.
The cars are absurd in the best way.
Low-slung. Modified. Polished to the point of ritual. Engines tuned like instruments rather than machines.
“Okay,” Lando says to the camera, crouching slightly to fit the frame, grin already dangerous, “this is either going to be the coolest thing we’ve ever done—or the reason my mum grounds me at twenty-seven.”
The owner bows slightly, smiling, explaining philosophy more than mechanics. Balance. Feel. Respect for the road.
Lando listens. Actually listens.
When he slides into the driver’s seat, his fingers brush the wheel like it might remember things.
“This,” he murmurs, quieter now, mic barely catching it, “feels… intentional.”
They drive mountain roads dusted with fading light, neon signs blinking on as the sun slips behind ridgelines.
No racing lines. No data overlays.
Just throttle. Brake. Breath.
At one point he laughs out loud, the sound raw, surprised, caught clean on camera.
Later, leaning against the hood while steam curls into the cold air, he says, softer, almost to himself, “I think this is why people fall in love with cars before they fall in love with speed.”
The crew goes quiet.
It’s good footage.
But more than that—it’s grounding.
—
Across the city, Louise is laughing in a way she doesn’t always allow herself during race weeks.
She meets friends near a tucked-away restaurant, warm light spilling onto the pavement, the smell of broth and grilled fish curling into the cold air.
No cameras. No paddock passes.
Just coats shrugged off, menus shared, someone reaching across the table to steal dumplings from her plate without asking.
“Are you still doing the ‘I don’t like attention’ thing?” one of them teases as a couple of heads turn her way.
Louise shrugs, unfazed. “I like selective attention.”
After dinner, they wander.
Bookstores. Stationery shops that are not shops so much as emotional experiences disguised as retail.
She freezes in an aisle of pens, eyes wide.
“Oh my,” she whispers.
An hour later, she leaves with bags. Multiple. Ridiculous.
Notebooks with textured covers. Stickers shaped like clouds. Washi tape she absolutely does not need. A ruler shaped like a cat.
And then—
The pen.
Simple. Elegant. Navy blue.
An Oshawott engraved along the side, tiny and perfect.
She smiles immediately, like something has clicked into place.
They end the night with dessert from a vending machine that has no business tasting that good.
Louise walks back to the hotel alone, bags swinging lightly, city humming around her like it’s keeping her company.
⸻
Race weekend arrives the way it always does.
Inevitable. Humming. Sharp.
Louise steps into the Aston garage and everything narrows.
FP1: fastest.
Purple sectors stack like punctuation marks.
Commentators start laughing mid-sentence.
“Honestly,” one of them says, breathless, “she’s making this look illegal.”
Social media ignites.
Who said she said she was stepping back??
This is what ‘not committed’ looks like???
Someone check if Newey installed witchcraft.
Louise is calm through all of it. Focused. Almost gentle with the car, like she’s guiding instead of demanding.
In parc fermé, Lando watches from the McLaren side, helmet still on, heart doing that familiar thing—pride tangled with awe, sharpened by distance.
She doesn’t look for him immediately.
She never does.
She finishes what she’s doing first. Unclips. Listens. Grounds herself.
Then she glances over.
Their eyes meet.
She lifts a hand. A small wave.
Enough.
—
The question comes near the end of the press conference.
Which is usually when the dangerous ones arrive.
The media room has started to settle into that familiar rhythm of race weekend. Reporters are already half-packing their bags. Cameras remain trained on the drivers, but the urgency has faded. Most of the important headlines have already been collected.
Lando is sitting comfortably in his chair.
Too comfortably, apparently.
A journalist near the middle raises a hand.
“Lando, you’ve got drivers like Lewis and Fernando still competing at a very high level into their forties. Do you see yourself doing something similar?”
A few heads lift.
The question gets more attention than it probably deserves.
Lando doesn’t even need to think about it.
“No chance.”
The room laughs.
A reporter actually lowers their pen.
Lando grins.
“I mean, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe in ten years I’ll completely change my mind.”
More laughter.
“But honestly, I want kids and I want out of here.”
That earns a few surprised looks.
He notices one journalist immediately glance down to start typing.
Great. That’s definitely becoming a headline.
Lando continues anyway.
“I hope my kids would be in Formula One someday, so maybe I’ll still be around. And I’ll always love racing.”
He pauses.
Because that’s the important part.
The thing people always misunderstand.
Formula One isn’t something he dislikes.
It’s something he loves so much it consumes everything else.
“But at the same time, I enjoy a lot of things outside Formula One. Life isn’t very long.”
The room grows quieter.
“It’s not like I’m leaving anytime soon. I’ve still got a long contract. I want to achieve a lot more in Formula One.”
His fingers drum lightly against the table.
“But just not to the level of forty years old.”
A grin returns.
“I don’t want to spend half my life driving cars.”
A few journalists chuckle.
“I want to go live my life doing other things.”
The moderator moves on to the next question.
The conversation continues.
But Lando catches several reporters exchanging looks.
He already knows exactly which quote is going to end up everywhere by dinner.
⸻
After, in the quiet that follows noise, she FaceTimes him from her hotel room.
He answers immediately—still in team kit, hair damp, the kind of smile that shows up before he’s even fully registered what he’s seeing.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head.
She tilts the phone slightly, exhaustion softening her features. “You liked it.”
“I loved it,” he corrects. “That was criminal. I’m pretty sure Suzuka’s filing a formal complaint.”
She laughs—soft, unguarded, the sound she only makes when she’s past adrenaline and into something real.
Outside her window, Suzuka glows: track lights haloed in mist, distant movement like the circuit itself is still buzzing. Inside, the room is quiet. Safe. Held.
“You okay?” he asks, voice dropping.
“Yeah,” she says honestly. “Just… full.”
“Good full?”
She nods. “The best kind.”
The call settles into its usual shape almost immediately.
By now, they have a rhythm that doesn’t require any effort. Louise tells him about her day while wandering around her room looking for the charger she’d misplaced three hours ago. Lando tells her about media obligations and meetings and the increasingly absurd number of people who seem determined to ask him the same question in slightly different ways. Somewhere in the middle of it, she spends nearly ten minutes describing a dog she’d seen wearing tiny sunglasses.
“I swear it knew it looked cool.”
“It was a dog.”
“It was serving attitude.”
“It was panting.”
“With attitude.”
Lando laughs, shaking his head as she takes a triumphant sip from her mug.
The conversation drifts naturally after that, hopping between subjects the way it always does, until Louise goes quiet for a moment and looks at him over the rim of her cup.
“I saw your interview, by the way.”
“The whole thing or the clips?”
“The whole thing.”
“Good.”
“You basically announced your retirement.”
Lando groans.
“You told the world you wanted children and a life outside Formula One.”
“Eventually.”
“You said you wanted out.”
“Eventually.”
“Lando.”
“It’s an important word.”
Louise laughs into her mug.
“It’s also the least important word in the quote everyone is using.”
“That’s because everyone is determined to ignore context.”
“They’re journalists. Context is optional.”
He points at the screen.
“You’ve become one of them.”
“I literally watched the entire interview.”
“Which somehow makes it worse.”
She smiles but doesn’t immediately move on. Instead she stays quiet, turning the mug between her hands as if she’s thinking through something. It’s a small thing, but Lando notices. He always notices now. Somewhere along the way he’d learned the difference between Louise being quiet because she was comfortable and Louise being quiet because something was sitting on her mind.
“What?” he asks.
Her eyes lift.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
“Landooo.”
“Sorry.”
She shakes her head, amused despite herself.
For a second she studies him through the screen, seeming to decide whether she actually wants to ask whatever she’s thinking.
“Do you think about it a lot?”
“The retirement thing?”
“No.”
Her voice softens slightly.
“The future thing.”
Lando’s smile fades.
Not because the question makes him uncomfortable, but because he immediately understands what she means.
“A fair amount,” he admits.
Louise nods as if she’d expected that answer.
“Like next year?”
“Sure.”
“Five years?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ten?”
“Maybe.”
“Twelve?”
He laughs.
“Twelve is weirdly specific.”
She shrugs.
“I don’t know. I’m trying to establish the range.”
Lando shakes his head, smiling.
But she keeps looking at him, waiting for an actual answer underneath the joke.
So he gives her one.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I think that far ahead sometimes.”
Something shifts in her expression.
It’s subtle enough that he almost misses it. Louise has never been particularly shy with him, but for a brief second she looks uncertain.
“Lando?”
“Hm?”
“When you’re thinking that far ahead…”
She glances away before looking back.
“…am I there?”
The question isn’t dramatic. There’s no expectation behind it, no hidden ultimatum. If anything, she sounds curious.
That somehow makes it harder to answer.
Because the answer comes so quickly.
Of course she is.
There isn’t even a moment of doubt.
The challenge isn’t deciding what he feels. It’s figuring out how to explain it without making her feel cornered by it.
He rubs a hand across the back of his neck.
“I don’t really talk about that stuff much because I don’t want you to feel pressured.”
Louise blinks.
“Pressured?”
“Yeah.”
He shifts further against the headboard.
“I don’t ever want you thinking I’m secretly keeping score or waiting for you to hit some milestone.”
Her brows draw together.
“Lando.”
“I’m serious.”
He laughs softly, a little embarrassed by how difficult it is to explain.
“You’ve got your own career, your own plans, your own things you want to do. I never want you feeling like I’m sitting here expecting you to suddenly decide what the rest of your life looks like.”
The words come easier once he starts.
“Especially because everyone always acts like relationships are supposed to have some timeline. First this, then that, then the next thing. And if you’re not moving fast enough people assume something’s wrong.”
Louise’s expression softens.
“So when I think about the future…” He shrugs. “I don’t really say much because I don’t want it sounding like I’m asking you to make decisions you’re not ready to make.”
For a moment she simply looks at him.
Then she smiles.
Not amused.
Not teasing.
Just warm.
“I actually think we should talk about those things.”
That catches him off guard.
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
She tucks one leg underneath herself on the couch.
“Not because I think we need to make decisions right now.”
“Okay.”
“But because I think it’s important to know where each other’s heads are at.”
Lando listens quietly.
When Louise takes her time choosing words, it’s usually because she means every one of them.
“You know when you’re learning something new?”
He immediately groans.
“Oh God.”
She points at the screen.
“Don’t do that.”
“You’re using a metaphor.”
“Because metaphors are useful.”
“They’re dangerous.”
“They’re effective.”
He sinks deeper into his pillow.
“Fine. Continue.”
Louise smiles.
“When you’re learning something, you don’t start with the hardest chapter. You don’t open a textbook and immediately try to do the thing that takes years to understand.”
“Depends on the textbook.”
“Lando.”
“I’m listening.”
“No, you’re being annoying.”
“Also listening.”
She rolls her eyes but continues.
“You start with the basics. Then you learn a little more. Then a little more after that.”
Her fingers tighten around the mug.
“You build toward the bigger things.”
The simplicity of it settles between them.
“We don’t have to decide everything right now,” she says. “We don’t have to decide anything, actually.”
“No?”
“No.”
She shakes her head.
“I just think it’s good to talk about it. To know what matters to you. To know what matters to me.”
Her shoulders lift in a small shrug.
“To know if we’re generally heading in the same direction.”
The room feels quieter after that.
Not awkward.
Just honest.
Louise glances down at her mug before looking back up.
“It doesn’t mean I’m ready to throw my entire life into a suitcase tomorrow.”
“Good.”
She laughs.
“It means we’re talking.”
“Talking.”
“Talking.”
“And?”
“And checking whether we’re on the same page.”
Lando nods slowly.
“And?”
Louise smiles.
“And seeing if we’re walking the same path.”
Lando stares at her.
Not because he doesn’t know what to say.
Because suddenly he feels absurdly lucky.
The kind of lucky that’s difficult to explain.
The kind that doesn’t happen because of trophies or championships or contracts.
The kind that comes from finding someone who understands that a future isn’t built in giant moments.
It’s built in conversations exactly like this one.
Small.
Honest.
Patient.
Louise studies him for a moment before shaking her head.
“You know what I don’t understand?”
Lando immediately looks suspicious.
“I don’t get those couples that spend years hinting at things.”
“What things?”
“I see people talking about how they’ve been dropping hints about getting engaged for six months.”
Lando snorts.
“Only six?”
“Apparently that’s considered efficient.”
“I’m exhausted already.”
“Exactly.”
She points at him.
“That’s what I mean.”
“What?”
“If I’m with someone, shouldn’t I be able to just talk to them?”
The question comes out sounding genuinely confused.
As if she’s trying to understand a language everyone else speaks fluently.
“Why am I leaving clues?” she continues. “Why am I creating some weird scavenger hunt? Why can’t I just say, ‘Hey, what are your thoughts on marriage?’”
Lando laughs.
“Maybe because people are scared of the answer.”
“Then that’s a different problem.”
She says it so matter-of-factly that he pauses.
Louise shrugs.
“I’m not saying everyone has to want the same things. I’m saying if you can’t talk about those things openly, that’s probably a bigger issue than whatever answer you’re worried about hearing.”
Lando tilts his head.
“That’s very sensible.”
“I know.”
“Which is annoying.”
“It must be difficult for you.”
“Tragic.”
She smiles.
Then grows thoughtful again.
“I just think people treat conversations like they’re commitments.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like if you bring something up, suddenly it becomes a decision.”
“Talking shouldn’t be scary.”
“I just don’t ever want us to become one of those couples that are scared to ask each other questions.”
Something in Lando’s chest tightens.
Not painfully.
Just enough to make him pay attention.
Louise continues quietly.
“I’d rather have an awkward conversation than spend months wondering what you’re thinking.”
He understands that.
Maybe better than she realizes.
Because racing has taught him many things, but one of the biggest is that uncertainty is usually worse than the truth.
“So if one day you want to know what I think about something,” she says, “just ask.”
Lando smiles.
“Same goes for you.”
His smile grows.
“You know.”
Louise immediately narrows her eyes.
“What?”
“That was annoyingly mature.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“No, seriously.”
He laughs.
“That was a very adult conversation.”
She throws a cushion at her phone.
The image shakes violently.
Lando nearly falls off the bed laughing.
And for a moment the heaviness disappears.
Just two people.
Thousands of miles apart.
Talking about futures they aren’t ready to define yet.
But maybe, for the first time, allowing themselves to imagine.
Together.
—
Saturday breaks clean and sharp, like the air knows something important is about to happen.
The sprint grid hums with that particular kind of tension—compressed, impatient, loud without being noisy yet. Engines idle like coiled animals. Louise sits low in the cockpit, visor down, hands light on the wheel. Aston green wraps around her like it’s always belonged there, like it’s learned her shape.
Over the radio, her engineer’s voice is calm. Almost reverent.
“Okay, Louise. Same plan. Eyes forward.”
She exhales once. Centers. Lets the world narrow to lights and revs and instinct.
When the lights go out, she doesn’t hesitate.
She launches perfectly—no drama, no wheelspin, just traction and intent. By Turn 3 she’s already created daylight, carving through clean air like it owes her something.
The commentators scramble to keep up.
“And Louise immediately asserting control—look at that confidence on cold tires—”
“She’s treating this like a qualifying lap.”
“She’s treating this like a statement.”
Behind her, the pack compresses and fractures, elbows out, mistakes already forming. Ahead of her, there is only asphalt and timing screens turning purple like it’s nothing special.
She wins the sprint by a margin that makes people sit back in their chairs and re-evaluate their assumptions.
In parc fermé, helmet still on, she rests her forehead against the steering wheel for a second—not from exhaustion, but from grounding. A reminder: this is real. When she climbs out, applause follows her like a delayed echo.
Somewhere across the paddock, Lando watches.
He’s smiling. Not surprised. Just proud in that quiet, private way that doesn’t need witnesses.
—
Qualifying is louder.
Sharper.
This is where expectations show their teeth.
Louise’s lap builds deliberately—Turn 1 clean and committed, Sector 2 aggressive without tipping over, Sector 3 ruthless, no mercy left on the table. She crosses the line and the timing tower lights up.
P1.
Pole.
Her engineer laughs into the radio. “That’ll do.”
She lets herself smile then.
Not wide. Not flashy.
Satisfied.
In the debrief room, she barely sits before her phone vibrates.
Lando: Of course you did.
She snorts, thumbs already moving.
Louise: You sound shocked.
Lando: I’ll pretend I am. Makes it more polite.
She shakes her head, warmth settling somewhere deep and steady.
—
Sunday feels heavier.
Race day always does.
Louise lines up on pole again, visor reflecting the red lights, heart steady but alert. This isn’t about proving anything now. This is about execution. About respect—for the track, the race, the distance.
The start is clean.
She controls the pace from Lap 1, managing tires, managing traffic, managing expectations like they’re just another variable. Every restart, every pit window—she’s there before anyone else thinks to look.
The broadcast leans into it.
“This is dominance.”
“She’s not just winning—she’s dictating.”
When the checkered flag falls, she crosses the line first—again—with a gap that doesn’t invite debate.
She screams into the radio this time. Just once. Unfiltered. Human.
—
Behind her, the race has been messier.
Lando’s Sunday is sharp elbows and late calls that land just right. His car isn’t perfect—hasn’t been all weekend—but the team gambles when it matters.
A safety car. A clean restart. Someone else’s bad luck.
By the final stint, he’s hunting.
“P2 is possible,” his engineer tells him.
“I’ll take it,” Lando replies, already pushing, already committed.
He crosses the line second.
A bit of luck, sure.
But luck only works if you’re there to catch it.
In parc fermé, he pulls the helmet off and exhales hard, grin breaking through despite the fatigue. Podium champagne tastes the same whether it was inevitable or earned the long way around—but this one tastes especially earned.
Somewhere across the paddock, Louise is doing the same math.
Not points. Not headlines.
Just this: We did it.
⸻
The plane lifts off from Japan like it’s slipping through layers of sleep.
Tokyo’s lights smear briefly against the window before dissolving into cloud, and then there’s nothing but the low, constant hum of the jet—steady, patient, built for distance. Louise’s cabin feels suspended in time: lights dimmed to a twilight glow, window shades half-open so the moon keeps them company without demanding attention.
Lando stretches out across the couch opposite her, shoes kicked off somewhere forgotten, hoodie bunched at his waist. One arm is flung dramatically over his eyes like he’s performing exhaustion rather than experiencing it.
He peeks at her through his fingers. “You realize,” he says, voice rough with sleep and travel, “that we’re breaking at least three circadian laws right now.”
Louise smiles, already leaning into the familiar rhythm of rummaging through her bag. “You’ll survive.”
He watches her with narrowed eyes, suspicion sharpening just enough to cut through the fatigue. “That tone usually means I’m about to be emotionally ambushed.”
She doesn’t bother denying it.
Instead, she finds what she’s looking for and straightens, the corners of her mouth tipping upward just slightly.
She pulls out the pen.
It’s absurdly perfect—sleek and pale blue, cool to the touch, with a tiny engraved Oshawott tucked near the clip. Earnest. Determined. A little smug in that quiet way that feels earned.
She holds it out. “I saw it and thought of you.”
He blinks.
Once. Twice.
Then he sits up properly, taking it with care, like it might evaporate if handled too casually.
“You bought me stationery,” he says, disbelief threaded with something softer.
“You’re welcome.”
He turns it over slowly, thumb tracing the engraving. “This is… weirdly thoughtful.”
“It writes well,” she adds. “I tested it.”
That’s what does it.
His smile doesn’t widen—it deepens, settling into something private and sincere. “I love it.”
She pretends not to notice the way he slips it straight into his pocket, patting it once like a reflex, like it belongs there now.
⸻
Los Angeles greets them with warmth and that particular hush that only expensive quiet can buy.
Louise’s house sits tucked behind gates and greenery, all glass and clean lines and light that seems to pool gently instead of glaring. There’s a faint citrus smell in the air—lemon trees somewhere nearby, or maybe just memory filling in the gaps.
It feels like an exhale.
They don’t unpack.
They never do.
Bags land wherever gravity decides. Shoes are abandoned by the door. Jackets draped over chairs they’ll forget about later.
They head straight for the kitchen.
“Movie?” Lando suggests, already opening the fridge like he might find answers in there.
“Pool first,” Louise counters, tugging her hoodie over her head.
He groans. “I knew loving you would involve being cold and wet against my will.”
The pool is still, blue and inviting, catching the last of the afternoon light. They slip in without ceremony, the cool biting just enough to wake them back into their bodies.
They float more than swim.
Louise drifts closer, her leg brushing his, then tangling deliberately. Lando splashes her once—light, teasing.
She retaliates instantly, no warning, water arcing clean and precise.
“Violence,” he laughs, sputtering. “Unprovoked.”
“You provoked me by existing.”
“Unbelievable.”
They end up sprawled on loungers afterward, towels wrapped around them, skin warm from the sun. Louise eats strawberries from a bowl on the table, Lando steals one mid-way to her mouth, holding each just out of reach long enough to annoy him.
Later, they curl up on the couch—damp hair, oversized clothes, limbs fitting together without thought. A movie plays in the background, something loud and expensive and completely ignored.
Lando’s phone buzzes.
Once.
Twice.
Then again.
He frowns, lifting it just enough to see the screen. “Uh,” he says slowly. “That’s… interesting.”
“What?” Louise asks, not moving.
He sits up a fraction, thumb hovering. “McLaren just posted.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Posted what?”
He turns the phone toward her.
LE MANS. 2027.
STAY TUNED.
Below it, a single image: three helmets lined up in a row. No names. Just their designs.
Louise’s breath catches—and then she laughs, soft and disbelieving. “They didn’t even give a warning?”
“Nope,” he says, grin spreading now. “Classic Zak.”
Her phone lights up almost immediately. Messages pouring in. Screenshots. Question marks. A lone IS THAT YOU???from someone she hasn’t spoken to in months.
Lando drops back onto the couch, pulling her with him like gravity made the decision. “Guess we’re not hiding that anymore.”
She settles against his chest, listening to his heartbeat—steady, familiar, grounding. “I’m okay with that.”
He kisses the top of her head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Outside, the pool lights flick on automatically, reflections rippling softly across the glass.
Inside, the future shifts—quietly, gently—finding space around them.
And for once, it doesn’t feel overwhelming.
It feels earned.
—
It’s late, the good kind of late where the house is quiet but not asleep. They’re sprawled on the floor of her movie room— because Louise believes in purpose-built spaces the way other people believe in religion. One wall is nothing but screen. The sound system hums faintly, like it’s waiting to be asked something important.
They’re searching.
“What about this one?” Lando asks, half-distracted, pointing at a thumbnail.
She leans closer, squints. “You never watched Pacific Rim?”
“No,” he says easily. Too easily.
She freezes.
Slowly, she turns her head. “What do you mean, no.”
“I mean… I haven’t watched it.”
Her face goes blank in that way that means a system reboot is happening. She blinks once. Twice.
“You’re joking.”
He laughs, a little nervous now. “I know that robots punch monsters? Idris Elba says something cool?”
She sits up straight. Serious. Reverent.
“No,” she says. “No, no, no. This—” she gestures vaguely around them, at the room, the screen, the speakers, the darkness waiting to be filled, “—this is not a casual movie. This deserves a huge screen and immersive sound system.”
He grins. “So… now?”
She’s already on her feet. “Sit.”
The lights dim. The screen blooms to life. The first low notes roll through the room, deep enough that Lando feels them in his chest.
Three minutes in, he’s leaning forward.
Ten minutes in, his mouth is slightly open.
By the time Gipsy Danger steps into the rain for the first time, Louise glances sideways and catches him staring like he’s witnessing a religious experience.
“Oh,” she says softly, pleased. “It got you.”
By the end, he’s wrecked. Fully gone. Eyes bright, buzzing with adrenaline.
“That,” he says, voice hoarse, “might be the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.”
She nods, satisfied. “Yeah.”
—
The next day, they’re in the pool. Again.
It starts innocently—just floating, sun warm on their faces, water sloshing gently against the edges. Then Lando sinks a little, resurfaces with dramatic flair.
“ELBOW ROCKET,” he announces, splashing toward her.
She gasps. “Oh, absolutely not.”
She straightens, feet planted on the pool floor, shoulders squared like she’s suddenly fifty feet tall.
“I’m the Jaeger,” she declares. “You’re the Kaiju.”
“What—why am I the Kaiju?”
“You have Kaiju energy.”
“I do not have Kaiju energy!”
She lunges, water exploding between them. “RAHHH!”
They collide mid-pool, laughing, hands everywhere, trying to push each other under without actually doing it. He makes dramatic monster noises. She responds with exaggerated mechanical whirs.
They drift apart, panting.
“We need a drift,” he says suddenly.
She tilts her head. “You’re not compatible.”
“Rude.”
She swims closer anyway, presses her forehead lightly to his. “Okay. Drift.”
They close their eyes for half a second.
“Do you feel it?” he whispers.
She opens one eye. “I feel that you’re terrible at this.”
He laughs, water sloshing as he pulls her closer. “Teach me.”
She does—counting beats, matching breaths, pretending like this is very serious business. For a moment, it almost works. They move together, synced, until she snorts and ruins it.
They float there, tangled, the sun dipping lower.
Later, when they’re drying off on the pool edge, Lando nudges her shoulder. “You know that’s officially my favorite movie now.”
She smiles, small and proud. “Good.”
Then, after a beat: “We can watch it again anytime you want.”
He looks at the massive screen through the open doors, then back at her. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I’d like that.”
—
The sound of suitcases rolling over stone reaches the game room before voices do.
Louise is stretched out on the couch, feet in Lando’s lap, controller abandoned on her stomach while he scrolls through something on his phone with the intensity of a man pretending not to be losing.
“You cheated,” she says lazily.
“I literally don’t know how to cheat at Mario Kart,” he replies. “You’re just reckless.”
The front door opens.
Then laughter. Familiar. Tired. Home.
Louise sits up instantly. Akira lifts her head from where he’s sprawled across the rug.
“They’re back.”
As if on cue, her mum’s voice carries down the house. “We’re home!”
Lando’s head lifts.
“Do we pretend we didn’t hear them?” he asks.
Louise grins. “We’ll get yelled at.”
“Worth it?”
“Tempting.”
Footsteps approach. Her dad appears first in the doorway, travel jacket still on, his gaze moves immediately toward the television before landing on them.
Louise half-curled against Lando.
Lando’s arm draped loosely along the back of the couch behind her.
The kind of comfort that takes time.
Something softens in his expression.
A small smile.
The sort parents get when they witness something they’ve spent years hoping their child would find.
“Well,” he says mildly.
Lando immediately recognizes the tone.
The tone of a man about to be annoying.
“Looks like we missed nothing.”
Louise groans.
“Dad.”
He smiles.
Her mum follows, suitcase abandoned halfway down the hall. She takes the scene in—comfort, ease, familiarity—and her smile softens in that way it’s learned since Christmas.
“Hi,” she says warmly. “Did you feed yourselves?”
Louise answers without missing a beat. “Yes. Mostly.”
Her mother’s eyes narrow.
“Mostly?”
“Food was consumed.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Lando laughs.
“She tried to convince me cereal counts as lunch.”
“It does count as lunch.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It literally has food in it.”
“That’s not how meals work.”
Louise points accusingly.
“See? This is why he’s no fun.”
Her mother sighs dramatically.
“Thank God.”
“Excuse me?” Louise says.
“Finally,” her mum continues, completely ignoring her, “someone willing to stand up to you.”
Her dad laughs, shaking his head. “For years,” he says solemnly, “we’ve been fighting this battle alone.”
“You make it sound like I’m impossible.”
All three of them look at her.
Louise stares back.
“…rude.”
Adam lets out a laugh.
“Some things never change.”
And just like that, the house settles again—bags by the door, voices overlapping, the sense that everyone is exactly where they belong.
Dinner is… surprisingly easy.
They go to a quiet place Louise likes—nothing flashy, just good food and familiar faces. Her parents sit across from them, wine poured, menus folded away. Is familiar in the best way.
No small talk. No careful probing. Just conversation that assumes continuity—because there is continuity. Stories half-finished from last time.
“She made a presentation.”
Louise groaned.
“No.”
“She did.”
“Absolutely not.”
Adam looked delighted.
“Thirty-seven slides explaining why she needed another horse.”
Lando stared.
“A presentation?”
“A PowerPoint.”
Behati nodded.
“Charts.”
“Graphs.”
“Financial projections.”
Lando wheezed.
Louise covered her face.
Lando talks easily with her dad about golf courses, about a charity tournament coming up, about the eternal struggle of fixing a slice without losing your mind.
Louise watches them from across the table, chin in her palm, fond.
“You know,” her dad says casually, “we never did get that round in.”
Lando looks up. “I was wondering when you’d bring that up.”
Louise freezes. “Wait—what?”
Her dad smiles. “Tomorrow morning. Just us.”
She groans. “Absolutely not.”
“Relax,” her mum says. “He’s not being summoned to the gallows.”
Lando chuckles. “I mean… I like golf.”
“That’s what worries me,” Louise mutters.
⸻
The next morning smells like cut grass and sunscreen.
Lando shows up already warmed up, glove clipped neatly to his bag, posture relaxed in the way that comes from confidence rather than nerves.
Louise watches them leave from the porch, arms crossed.
Her dad tosses Lando a tee. “You playing today or humoring me?”
Lando grins. “Playing.”
“Good.”
They walk off together, conversation already flowing.
—
The golf course is aggressively peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Morning sun spills across the fairway in long, golden stripes. The air smells like trimmed grass and quiet wealth. Somewhere in the distance, a sprinkler ticks methodically. Birds chirp with suspicious serenity.
Lando adjusts his glove for the third time in thirty seconds.
Adam stands beside him at the first tee, sunglasses on, posture relaxed in a way that feels intentional.
This is not an interrogation, Lando tells himself.
This is bonding.
Very expensive, very strategic bonding.
“Driver or iron?” Adam asks casually, studying the fairway.
“Driver,” Lando answers.
Adam hums. “Bold.”
Lando resists the urge to reinterpret that as psychological commentary.
They tee off.
Lando’s drive is clean. Straight. Controlled.
Adam nods once.
“Good contact.”
“Thanks.”
They walk.
The early holes are filled with neutral topics—travel, weather in Monaco versus London, a brief detour into why bunker placement is either genius or cruel depending on your personality type.
It’s almost… easy.
Then, somewhere between discussing green speed and debating whether the slope is deceptive or just arrogant, it shifts.
Adam lines up a putt on the fourth hole.
The green is faster than it looks. The sun catches the surface in a way that makes it impossible to read at first glance.
He crouches, studying the line.
“You’re good for her,” he says lightly, like he’s commenting on the weather.
The ball rolls.
Lando doesn’t answer immediately.
He watches the putt track smoothly toward the cup.
It drops clean.
Adam straightens.
Lando exhales.
“I try to be,” he says honestly.
Adam tilts his head slightly.
“That’s not what I said.”
Lando smiles faintly.
“Then I agree with you.”
A beat.
Adam studies him for half a second longer than necessary.
Then nods once.
They move on.
—
By the sixth hole, the sun is higher. The air warmer.
Their swings have loosened. The rhythm between them is less careful now.
“You know she doesn’t slow down for anyone,” Adam says as they walk the fairway.
It isn’t accusatory.
It’s factual.
“I know,” Lando replies.
“And you don’t expect her to.”
It’s phrased as a statement, but it’s a test.
Lando shakes his head immediately.
“I don’t want her to.”
Adam glances at him sideways.
“Why not?”
“Because that’s the point,” Lando says. “That she doesn’t.”
Adam lets that sit.
“And you don’t expect her to choose,” he continues.
There it is.
The real one.
Lando keeps walking for two more steps before answering.
“No,” he says. “I expect her to decide.”
Adam stops.
Not dramatically. Just enough to make Lando stop too.
“Explain the distinction.”
Lando turns slightly, resting his club against his shoulder.
“Choosing feels like giving something up,” he says. “Like it’s a sacrifice. Deciding is ownership. It’s her saying, ‘This is what I want.’ Not what she’s settling for.”
Adam studies his face carefully.
“You’ve thought about that,” he says.
“I have.”
“Why?”
Lando shrugs slightly.
“Because she’s not someone you win,” he says. “She’s someone you stand next to.”
Silence.
A breeze cuts across the fairway.
Adam nods once.
“Good distinction.”
They resume walking.
—
By the ninth hole, they’re arguing about clubs.
“You should’ve used the seven,” Adam insists.
“It was an eight,” Lando counters.
“You overshot.”
“Because the wind shifted.”
Adam laughs under his breath. “Excuses already.”
Lando grins. “I’m in a competitive household. I’ve adapted.”
Adam smirks. “You have no idea.”
—
By the twelfth, the conversation has drifted to strategy.
“You play aggressively,” Adam observes.
“I play decisively.”
“Recklessly.”
“Confidently.”
Adam shakes his head, amused.
“That confidence,” he says, tapping his club against the turf, “that’s what she likes.”
Lando glances at him.
“She told you that?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
Adam smirks.
“I have eyes.”
Lando huffs a quiet laugh.
“She doesn’t like ego,” Adam continues.
“I know.”
“She likes certainty.”
“I know.”
“And calm.”
“I know.”
Adam looks at him sideways.
“You do know.”
“Yeah.”
It isn’t defensive.
It’s steady.
—
By the fifteenth hole, they’re laughing loudly enough to earn a pointed look from the group ahead of them.
“You cannot blame the green again,” Adam says, shaking his head.
“It was uneven.”
“It was flat.”
“It had character.”
“It had gravity.”
Lando grins. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Competition is healthy.”
“Is it?”
“For me? Yes.”
They wait for the group ahead to clear the fairway.
The sun is lower now, casting long shadows behind them.
Adam rests both hands on the top of his club and looks at Lando without the sunglasses this time.
“You love her?” he asks.
Direct.
No cushion.
Lando doesn’t flinch.
“Yes. I do.”
No hesitation.
Adam holds his gaze for a long second.
"Have you told her that?”
“Every chance I get.”
“Good.”
That’s it.
No speech.
No dramatic nod.
—
The eighteenth hole is quiet.
Both of them more focused now.
Lando’s final drive is strong. Adam’s approach shot is cleaner.
They walk the last stretch side by side, no rush.
At the edge of the green, Adam stops.
Lando does too.
Adam looks out across the course—the trimmed perfection of it, the illusion of control over nature.
“You’re not here to keep up with her,” he says finally.
Lando turns toward him.
“You’re here to run alongside.”
There’s weight in it.
Expectation.
Permission.
Responsibility.
Lando nods.
“Exactly.”
Adam studies him one more time.
Then claps him firmly on the shoulder.
“Good,” he says. “Because if you ever try to slow her down, I will beat you at golf so badly it becomes psychological.”
Lando laughs.
“That’s the threat?”
“It’s the opening move.”
They walk toward the clubhouse together.
Not interrogator and suspect.
Not father-in-law and boyfriend.
Just two men who love the same woman in different ways.
⸻
Louise is curled sideways on her parents’ bed, knees drawn into her chest, cheek pressed into her mother’s shoulder. The sheets smell faintly of something floral and home, in a way no hotel ever manages. Behati is propped against the headboard, hair loose, glasses perched low on her nose, one arm wrapped around Louise’s back with the quiet certainty of muscle memory.
Like her body has always known exactly where Louise fits.
And Louise does fit there.
Not as a champion.
Not as a headline.
Not as a name that makes rooms tilt when it’s spoken.
Just her daughter.
Behati exhales, content, thumb moving in slow circles against Louise’s arm. The kind of touch that doesn’t ask permission because it never stopped belonging.
“So,” Behati says lightly. Too lightly. The way she always does right before saying something important.
“I have… a few questions.”
Louise hums into her shoulder, smiling despite herself. “I figured.”
Louise shifts just enough to get comfortable again. “I don’t mind answering them,” she says softly. “To you.”
Behati’s hand stills.
Just for half a second.
Just long enough to say everything.
Then it resumes, warm and steady.
“Does he make you feel safe?” Behati asks.
No preamble. No cushioning. Straight to the center of the thing.
Louise doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t weigh it. Doesn’t soften it.
“Yes.”
Behati nods once. A small, decisive motion. Like ticking a box on a list she’s been carrying since Louise was small enough to fit entirely against her chest.
“Does he respect your boundaries?”
“Yes.”
“Does he listen when you talk?”
“Yes.”
“Even when you ramble?”
Louise laughs, the sound muffled. “Especially then.”
Behati smiles faintly. “Good. Rambling runs in this family.”
She shifts, angling her body so Louise’s head rests more comfortably against her chest, fingers threading lightly into Louise’s hair.
“Does he understand the parts of you that aren’t loud?” Behati continues. “The parts that don’t show up on camera. The ones that don’t perform.”
Louise’s throat tightens before she can stop it.
“Yes,” she says, quieter now. “He sees them. And he doesn’t ask them to be anything else.”
Behati exhales slowly, deeply. The kind of breath that releases something that’s been held for a long time.
“That matters,” she murmurs.
They sit in the quiet for a moment.
The room hums gently—distant traffic outside, the soft whir of the air conditioner, the steady rhythm of two heartbeats pressed close together.
Then Behati clears her throat.
“Does he challenge you?”
Louise nods. “But not by pushing. By asking questions. By making me explain myself.”
Behati chuckles. “That’s how your father got me.”
Louise smiles, then adds, almost instinctively, “He doesn’t try to win against me.”
Behati’s eyebrow lifts. “In racing?”
“In life,” Louise corrects.
That earns a real smile.
Behati adjusts the blanket around them, tucking it more securely over Louise’s legs like she’s done a thousand times before.
“Does he know how much space you need when things get heavy?” she asks.
“Yes,” Louise says. “He’s learned my silences.”
“Does he try to fix your grief?”
“No,” Louise answers immediately. “He just… sits with it. Sometimes he holds my hand and lets me breathe.”
Behati closes her eyes.
When she opens them again, there’s a shine she doesn’t try to hide.
“That’s rare,” she says softly. “You deserve that.”
Louise presses closer without even realizing she’s moved.
“Does he make you laugh?” Behati asks next, lighter now, the edge softened.
Louise snorts. “Constantly. It’s actually annoying.”
Behati laughs. “Good. You’ve always needed joy that sneaks up on you.”
She tilts her head, studying Louise’s face the way only a mother can—cataloguing changes no one else would notice, reading the small tells beneath the calm.
“Are you happy?” she asks gently.
Louise’s answer is immediate. Certain. Unafraid.
“Yes.”
Behati smiles fully now. Warm. Proud. Louise laughs and buries her face into her mother’s shoulder.
“You’re not mad?” she asks quietly.
Behati kisses the top of her head. “Sweetheart. You’re loved. You’re careful. And you chose someone who treats you well.”
Her arm tightens around Louise. “Why would I be mad?”
They stay like that for a while.
Behati’s fingers drift absently through Louise’s hair, untangling, smoothing, grounding.
“Does he know,” Behati asks eventually, “that loving you means loving someone who carries a lot?”
Louise smiles, eyes closed. “Yes. He says it’s not a burden. It’s just… context.”
Behati hums, satisfied. “Good answer.”
Louise shifts slightly, courage blooming in the safety of the moment.
“I think this might be real,” she admits.
Behati presses a kiss to her temple. “I know,” she says simply. “You don’t bring just anyone into this bed.”
Louise laughs softly.
“So,” Behati continues, voice suddenly innocent in a way that is deeply unconvincing,
“—the embarrassing section.”
Louise groans and disappears under the blanket. “Please don’t.”
Behati gently peels it back. “Too late. You agreed to answer my questions.”
“I said I didn’t mind,” Louise mutters. “I didn’t say I’d survive.”
Behati sits up slightly, clearly settling in.
“How does it feel… being someone’s girlfriend?”
Louise swallows.
“It’s weird,” she admits. “In a good way. I’m used to being… alone in things. Responsible for myself only.”
“And now?”
“Now I think about someone else without it feeling heavy,” Louise says slowly. “Like—if I’m packing, I wonder if he’ll need something. Or if he’s tired I ask myself how can I help. It doesn’t feel like losing myself. It feels like expanding.”
Behati’s eyes shine.
“Who said ‘I love you’ first?”
Louise freezes.
Then groans. Loudly.
“Oh my god.”
Behati beams. “That bad, huh?”
Louise peeks out. “Him.”
Behati’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”
“Yes,” Louise says quickly. “I think he did all the big things first.”
Behati laughs. “Alright. First kiss—who leaned in?”
“Him—But I asked.”
“Where?”
“Vegas.”
“Of course,” Behati deadpans.
Louise smiles into the pillow. “It was quiet.”
Behati’s expression softens. “Good.”
“Does he know how stubborn you are?”
Louise scoffs. “He learned the hard way.”
“How?”
“I refused to admit I was cold for three hours.”
Behati sighs. “You are exhausting.”
Louise grins. “He brought me a jacket anyway.”
There’s a pause.
Then Behati tilts her head, voice gentler again.
“Do you ever think about a future with him?”
Louise doesn’t hide this one.
“Yes.”
Behati nods slowly, decisively. “That’s all I needed to know.”
⸻
Louise sees them coming back before they reach the house.
She can tell from the way they’re walking—looser, easier, mid-conversation like they forgot the world existed outside it.
Her dad pats Lando's shoulder his. “Same time next month?”
Lando doesn’t hesitate. “Done.”
Louise raises an eyebrow. “Traitors.”
Lando slips an arm around her waist, murmuring, “He hits straighter than you.”
She gasps. “Unforgivable.”
Her mum watches them from the doorway, smile knowing, heart settled.
This isn’t a new chapter, exactly.
It’s just the same story, finally spoken out loud.
Summary: You grew up around motorsport, George’s family adopted you into the world of karting, travelling around the world following your brother and his friends. There was no written rule that you couldn’t date his fellow drivers, but there was one very clear rival to stay away from – Max Verstappen. So what happens when you fall in love with the one man your brother hates more than anyone.
Warnings: Not a happy ending, soft Max, 18+, smut, heartbreak, praise kink, writer!reader, Kelly mentioned, no condom mentioned.
Word Count: 5526
A/N: This is my first story back for a while! Please be kind because this took me way longer than usual to write a one-shot. Remember to comment and share too. Thank you!
Song inspo: Ethel Cain: Crying during sex, Lana Del Rey: Young and beautiful, Cigarettes After Sex: Apocalypse, Ethel Cain: Crush, Taylor Swift: The smallest man who ever lived, Lil Peep: your favourite dress, Charlie XCX: Everything is Romantic, Band of Horses: The Funeral, Olivia Rodrigo: Traitor.
There will not be a part 2 to this story.
Monte Carlo. When people tell you that Monaco is a place separate from the rest of the world, they’re right.
Even after all these years, even after countless race weekends spent alongside George, you still found yourself breathless every time race weekend arrived. The Mediterranean sea glittered beyond the harbour, yachts bobbing beneath the afternoon sun. This place looked like a painting on the front of a postcard or a framed piece of artwork you’d see in your Grandmother’s lounge.
You stepped outside of the Mercedes hospitality suite and watched the hustle and bustle of a busy and iconic race weekend. Only Monaco would smell like expensive perfume and fuel, all at once.
“Please don’t disappear again,” George wrapped his arm over your shoulder, appearing from somewhere behind you.
You raised an eyebrow. “I’m old enough to explore on my own, in a place I’ve lived in for four years.”
George snorted at your reply. “Yeah, and last year you didn’t get lost and ended up panicking into Charles’ shoulder, no?”
Your gaze dropped to the floor as you remembered your awkward encounter with the Ferrari garage. But before you could answer, George’s phone buzzed.
“Shit, I’m late,” he placed a gentle kiss into your hair before running back into the suite and up the stairs.
You laughed as he rushed away, already slipping back into ‘racing driver George’ and out of ‘big brother George.’ But to you, he was simply, George. He was the one who helped you through heartbreaks, who celebrated birthdays and once drove over six hours to your university after you got a B on a test. Truth was, regardless of being adopted, George never treated you anything but blood.
Before you could even take in the anticipation of the race weekend starting again, a laugh drifted across the paddock. You didn’t need to look to know that sound. He was standing outside the Red Bull suite, can in hand, skinny jeans sprayed to his legs and his cap pulled low over his blonde hair, but you could recognise his blue eyes anywhere. He was talking, laughing, animated in the way only Max Verstappen could when he was describing something he loved. So probably sim racing.
You’d met him before, of course. It was pretty unavoidable. And you knew enough about him – he liked racing, he hated losing, and he hated your brother.
He and George could barely survive sitting in a media room together without creating enough tension to make everyone incredibly uncomfortable in the vicinity.
Max had always existed in the edge of your life, rather than in it. You grew up alongside Lando and Alex, you lived in the same building as Charles – you were even close with Oscar. But Max, he was like forbidden fruit.
But as though sensing you looking, Max glanced across the paddock. You could feel how your eyes widened and your throat bob. For a brief second, neither of you looked away, and just slightly, his mouth twitched. Not exactly a smile, it was more of acknowledgement. You returned it politely before yielding and looking away first. The interaction wasn’t more than three seconds but by the time you looked back, he had already resumed his conversation.
You could’ve sworn you imagined it, a symptom of the Monaco heat. But the fate of Monte Carlo always has other plans.
By the time the sun had started to set over the harbour, golden and unhurried, you were overlooking the track from above on a balcony, looking down at the mechanics buzzing around like ants.
You sipped on a cold bottle of water, the icy liquid sliding down your throat as you heard him again. Not a laugh this time, it was his voice. Low and husky as he switched between Dutch and English. You didn’t mean to watch him but your eyes couldn’t pull themselves away from the tall blonde as he effortlessly strided through the paddock.
And like the moon pulls the tide to the shore, his eyes reach yours.
You could feel your body react, your legs weak, your hands trembling, head swimming.
“Media all done!” George exclaimed, snapping you from your trance.
You quickly turned on your heels, your brother walking towards you with his arms out stretched. Instinctively, you fall into step with him, turning as you walk away, Max’s eyes still firmly gazed upon you.
–
You could already hear the party as you ascended in the lift. Music was reverberating off of the walls, laughter rising like waves and the unmissable sound of a champagne cork popping. It was the true birthday party of the rich and famous. Charles had a gift for the best parties.
“Happy birthday!” you said when you finally found him amongst the crowd. Pressing a kiss to his cheek and handing over the bottle you had brought with you.
Charles' eyes lit up immediately. “You came alone, cheri?”
“Yeah, well George is–” you searched for the right word and not the version he used earlier. “Decompressing after the race.”
Charles laughed, the kind that came from his chest and the type that only comes from knowing George too well. “Yeah, he wasn’t too happy about the DNF.”
“Ohh–I’m aware.” You laughed.
He shook his head, already being pulled away by someone else, his hand briefly squeezing yours before he disappeared into the crowd. You watched him go with an easy smile and let yourself settle into the back of the room. You knew most of these faces. Lando was already in the corner doing what Lando has always done at parties – performing for a small audience who were in awe of him. Alex caught your eye from across the room and raised his glass in greeting.
For a short while, it was easy. A passing waiter handed you something sparkling and you stationed yourself near the window where the harbour was glittering navy — you let the conversations come to you, rather than chasing them. Monaco was different once the sun had set, it became softer somehow. More honest.
You were deep in conversation with Pierre about nothing and everything when the air in the room became thicker.
It was almost like you felt it before you saw it — it was like the entire room shifted. A few heads turned, the music didn’t pause, the record didn’t scratch but it might as well have.
He had a specific quality of not seeming to try, and yet being impossible to ever miss.
He came in unhurried, pausing briefly to greet Charles with a handshake that pulled into something warmer; old friends who have been with each other since the start. Charles and Max had a history that predated all of this, karting circuits from when they were barely teenagers and the whole world was still ahead of them.
You desperately tried to concentrate on what Pierre was saying. Nodding along at the right times, but your eyes kept wandering back to the tall blonde by the door. Max moved through the room with an ease. You somehow ended up outside, the cool evening hair prickling your skin as the waves crashed into the shore. Your body leaned against the pillars, hair sweeping behind as the wind picked up.
“You’re George’s sister,”
His accent wrapped around the words. It wasn’t a question – he knew who you were.
“I am,” you replied, carefully sipping on your drink.
“I’ve seen you at race weekends,” his head titled slightly. “You cling to George, huh.”
“I don’t cling to–”
His smirk stopped you from finishing your sentence. “You like watching from balconies. Specifically above pit lanes.”
Your stomach did something inconvenient — swirling around like a washing machine on a spin cycle.
“I like the view from up there.”
“Mhm.” He hummed. “It’s better from the pit wall.”
There was nothing in his voice to suggest he meant anything from it, but your heart didn’t know the difference. “I don’t like to get in the way.”
He didn’t say anything, he just smiled as he took another sip of his beer.
Your brain hadn’t registered the next words that uttered from your mouth, having no time to take them back before he had heard them. “You’ve been watching me, watch you.”
Max’s mouth pulled at the corner. “You were watching me first.”
You opened your mouth but closed it.
Lando had materialised beside you, with the same supernatural timing only Lando could perfect. “Finally, I’ve been trying to find you!” He looked briefly between you and Max before his eyes narrowed. “We’re bringing out the cake.”
You giggled at the excitement of a 20-something-man still being excited about cake. “Okay, okay, I’m coming.”
Lando’s hand carefully placed in yours.
Max’s eyes caught yours before you were led back into the room. He didn’t speak, just a small wink with his signature smirk before he turned back to face the view of Monaco.
“You know you’re playing with fire, right?” Lando muttered.
“What are you talking about?” You shrugged, pretending that there was absolutely zero chemistry between you and your brother’s sworn enemy.
“Just be careful. There’s only so much saving I can do.” He placed a gentle, friendly kiss on your cheek before heading straight to the table where the cake was carefully being sliced.
—
It was three weeks later before you saw Max again.
Silverstone was always the same, in a blink of an eye the sunshine would turn into a storm.
You hid under an awning next to the Red Bull garage when the heavens decided to open. Your poor choice of outfit for the Great British weather had found you hiding away from the downpour as you watched it beat off the tarmac.
“Who decides to wear sandals to the British Grand Prix?”
“Someone who’s lived in Monaco too long.” You laugh.
There was a brief moment where you both just smiled, the only noise was the rain hitting the floor, before either of you spoke again.
“Will you get in trouble again for speaking to me?”
Your brows furrowed together, unsure of what he meant by it. “I didn’t–I wasn’t–”
“I heard what Lando said to you at Charles’ party.” Max fiddled with his fingers as he spoke to you. Was the great Max Versappen…nervous?
“They’re just…protective,” you muttered softly.
“I would never…I wouldn’t hurt you?” His voice cracked, as if he was upset at the thought of others thinking he would break my heart.
You reach your hand out to place on his shoulder, the gentlest of touches sending sparks through your nervous system.
“Let me take you on a date.” It was less of a question and more of a statement. “Let me take you on a date and prove that I wouldn’t hurt you.” His words tumbled out of his mouth at the same speed he drives his car.
“Max–” you wanted to say yes. Whatever had taken control of your body had won.
“You don’t want to?”
“I do–it’s just–my brother wouldn’t like it.”
He opened his mouth to attempt to defend but with perfect timing, you could hear your name being called. “I’m sorry Max.”
The entire race weekend, it rained. You hoped it would wash away whatever these feelings were for Max. Instead it just brought them to the surface. It was like the universe was dangling a very beautiful carrot in your face. Everywhere you would turn, he would be there.
You spotted him outside of the Red Bull garage on Saturday morning, his race suit tied around his waist as he laughed at something one of the engineers had said. You saw him again during the drivers' parade, rain dripping from the brim of his cap as he stood talking to Oscar and Lando. Then again after qualifying, when George had been midway through a conversation and Max had appeared on the television screen mounted above the hospitality suite. He rolled his eyes and huffed out of the room. Each sighting felt ridiculous.
You weren't sixteen. You weren't developing some embarrassing schoolgirl crush.
You were a grown woman who knew perfectly well that pursuing anything with Max Verstappen would be complicated at best and catastrophic at worst.
Yet every time your eyes found him, your stomach betrayed you.
By Sunday evening, after the race had ended and the paddock had begun its usual process of packing itself away, you were exhausted.
Not physically. But emotionally.
By the time you finally reached your hotel room, all you wanted was sleep. Unfortunately, sleep seemed to want nothing to do with you.
It was pathetic. Every time you commanded your body to sleep, it ignored you. You groaned and buried your head in your pillow.
Your phone buzzed from the nightstand. You ignored it first, thinking it would be an email or a notification you could deal with in the later hours of the morning.
A few seconds later, it buzzed again. You rolled over, reaching for your phone. The bright light stinging your retinas as you adjusted them to read the message.
Unknown: One date. It can be our secret.
Unknown: Well and Charles’ because he reluctantly gave me your number.
You smiled at the thought of Max begging Charles for your number. Adjusting the pillows behind your back, you rested against the headboard and typed back.
You: Where would this date be?
Three dots appeared quickly.
Max: I have a spot.
Max: Is that a yes?
You pondered it for a moment. It was just a date. It wasn’t a declaration of love. George would never have to know.
You: It’s a yes.
You placed your phone back on the nightstand, gently sliding yourself back under the covers and onto the cool pillowcase. Even with the butterflies flapping their wings inside your stomach, your eyelids became heavy and finally drifted to sleep.
—
He had sent you the location two days before your date. You chose a specific day when you knew George was preoccupied with a Petronas sponsor dinner and he would be far away from Monaco for at least two days.
Max gave you a deliberately vague location and two very clear messages.
Max: Wear something warm.
Max: And no sandals.
You laughed, a small, understated laugh that made the butterflies appear in your stomach again.
The taxi driver dropped you at the bottom of a winding path that climbed steeply behind the city, the kind of route that tourists never found and locals kept to themselves. Monaco from below was one thing. Monaco from above, you were quickly realising, was something else entirely. Even after four years of living in this beautiful city, there were still hidden gems to be found – like this one.
You climbed the winding path, the Monaco skyline rising behind you. He was already there when you finally reached the top.
Max was sitting nervously across a checkered blanket, a small picnic basket laying next to him. You’d been only plenty of dates in your time, but never quite as thoughtful as this.
He stood once he saw you emerge from the foliage that covered the path.
“You came.” There was almost relief in his voice.
“Didn’t you think I would?”
His eyes dropped to his shoes, which suddenly became very exciting to him. "I thought maybe you changed your mind."
"I nearly did," you admitted. "About twelve times."
That made him smile. His mouth did that thing, the corner pulling upward. "But you didn't."
"But I didn't,” you echoed.
You awkwardly settled next to each other on the blanket, focusing on your breathing as Max pulled out a crusty-loaf of bread, the kind from that little bakery facing the harbour, and a selection of cheeses and spreads – it was like he already knew what your favourite foods were.
“Apart from following George–” Max stopped, winking as he teased you, “what else do you do?”
You chewed on a piece of the bread, drowned in a mountain of salty butter. “You mean what do I do for a job?”
“Mhm,” Max nodded.
“I’m a writer,” you admit, like you were keeping it a secret. “It’s no F1 driver, but there’s something about writing that perfect article and seeing it printed, sitting on the stands as you walk to work, there’s nothing like it.”
“Would you write about me?” He asked, his teeth grazing his lip as he looked into your eyes.
You laughed, most likely from nerves of being this close to him. “I write about politics and business, Max, I’m not a sports journalist.”
“There’s always a first for everything right?” He joked.
For a moment, you simply sat together, comfortable in the silence. The world beyond the blanket seemed to fade away as he leant closer, his thumb brushing softly across your lip, wiping away the last trace of butter. Your breath caught. The space between you seemed to dwindle until it was almost nonexistent, your heart hammering against your ribs as his gaze flickered to your mouth. Then, finally, his lips met yours.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative in a way that surprised you.
For someone who has spent his life hurtling into corners at impossible speeds, Max kissed like he was afraid of startling you.
Your hand found his arm without thinking, fingers curling into the sleeve of his jacket as his thumb remained against your cheek. The world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact. The distant hum of Monaco below faded. The yachts, the traffic, the endless noise of the city disappeared until there was only him.
When he finally pulled back, neither of you moved very far — his forehead resting lightly against yours.
“I had it all planned out, but turns out the best things happen naturally,” he whispered.
“You had it planned out?” you repeat, smiling at the image of Max planning the ultimate romantic moment.
“Every guy does. The moment they plan to kiss the girl they like.”
You could feel your cheeks turn crimson. “You know,” you start. “You’re not what everyone says you are.”
“Mad Max?” His eyebrow raises.
For a second you just looked at him. The world around you completely melting away.
But the moment was ruined when the realisation hit you like cold water. The thought of your brother finding out. If he would ever forgive you, if he would ever speak to you again. If he would punch Max square in his extremely chiselled jaw.
“We don’t have to continue tonight,” his lips raised, but not in a smile.
The words should’ve relieved you. Except they didn’t, they hurt.
You looked away, down at the city stretching beneath the cliffside. Attempting to convince him that the lights sparkling below were far more interesting.
He didn’t press, he just linked his hand with yours. “Let me take you home.”
You nodded, excepting that the both of you knew this relationship would be nothing more than stolen moments.
Max’s car stopped idle outside your apartment building. The engine cut to a stop as he pulled the key from the ignition.
“Thank you for tonight, Max.” You could feel your cheeks burning as your eyes met again.
“For what it was worth, if this was the first and last date of ours–” his hand gently laid rest on your cheek. “I will remember it forever.”
–
Work became the perfect excuse. Deadlines piled up, meetings ran late, and attending race weekends with George became increasingly difficult. But that didn't stop Max. The messages continued, slipping into your day when you least expected them, and before long they turned into late-night FaceTime calls, stretching far longer than either of you intended.
At first, the calls were harmless. Well at least that’s what you told yourself.
He'd call from the hotel he happened to be in that week, still wearing his signature Red Bull polo, his hair damp from a shower after media duties. You'd answer from your apartment, curled beneath a blanket with a laptop balanced on your knees.
You tried to convince yourself that it was friendly. But your heart begged to differ.
The more you learned about him, the more impossible it became to reconcile the person the world saw with the man you spoke to every night.
He was funny and protective and undeniably loyal – to everyone around him.
You spoke about your childhoods, the pressure of your careers, dreams and aspirations you’d never told anyone else.
There was a four week break between Zandvoort and Monza. George was locked in at Brackley working on the car with Mercedes, which meant you were in Monaco with your laptop and a deadline.
You padded over to the kitchen, treating yourself to a pint of Ben & Jerry’s after finishing an article for a paper you were asked to guest write on. You pulled the spoon to your mouth, the cold ice cream the perfect reward after pouring your heart out onto the page. Before you could curl yourself onto the sofa, the buzzer chimed.
The only people who came to visit your apartment in Monaco were either George, who wasn’t even in the country, and the postman, who already visited this morning.
You picked up the telecom. “Hello?”
“Hi, uhm, it’s Max.”
You smiled, your eyebrows joining together in an emotional pattern of confusion and happiness.
“Hey, I’ll buzz you up.”
You frantically ran around your apartment, closing the lid of your laptop, throwing away chocolate wrappers and hiding your notes before the knock came at the door. You fixed your shirt, an old band-tee you pulled on along with your joggers – considering you weren’t expecting any company.
Max stood at the door, an overostentatious bouquet of flowers in one arm and an expensive box of chocolate in the other.
“I thought you might be on your own,” he smiled.
You stepped back to let him in.
He handed you the flowers first, and your fingers brushed his when you took them. You both pretended not to notice.
“Thank you, Max.”
You found an empty vase and placed the flowers on the kitchen table, opening the chocolates as you took an awkward seat next to him on the sofa. Both of you sat there in silence, for what felt like an eternity. Speaking over the phone for the last few weeks had felt easy but suddenly, face to face with him again, your nerves had gotten the better of you.
The both of you sat trying to think of what to say. You thought about opening your laptop and sharing the article you’d finished, or turning on the TV to drown out the silence.
Max shifted on the sofa, setting the box of chocolates on the coffeetable, his knee gently brushing yours. You watched his striking blue eyes, they seemed to look straight through you, lingering across your face, searching for something.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he said quietly, voice low and rough around the edges.
You could feel your breath catch in your throat. You turned back toward him, and that was all it took. His hand came up, softly cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, and before you could register, he leant in, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t though.
The first kiss was soft, almost hesitant. It was just the warm press of his lips, the faint taste of his toothpaste. When you sighed into it, he deepened the kiss, still careful, still giving you every chance to stop. Your fingers found the front of his t-shirt, curling into the fabric as you pulled him closer.
Max made a quiet sound in the back of his throat and wrapped his arms around you, drawing you into his lap as you started to straddle him. His hands slid down your back, mapping the curve of your spine through your old band tee.
“You’re sure?” he murmured against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. His voice was husky, but his blue eyes glimmered as they stared into yours.
“More than sure,” you whispered.
He leaned in and kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue brushing yours slow and sensual. His hands slipped under your shirt, palms resting warming against bare skin, stroking up your side before tugging the worn fabric over your head. He tossed it across the apartment, and pressed another kiss along your collarbone and down to the swell of your breasts.
You automatically arched into him with a gasp as he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue swirling. His other hand cradled your breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. Every touch was electric. He worshipped you with his mouth, switching sides until you were trembling in the palm of his hands.
“Max…” His name came out of your mouth, needy and breathless.
He lifted you effortlessly, standing with you in his arms, your legs wrapped around his waist. “Bedroom, schatz?” he asked against your neck.
You nodded, and he carried you to your bedroom, not stopping the press against your lips. He laid you down on the bed like you were something precious, then pulled back to strip off his own shirt and jeans. The pure sight of him – the lean muscle, the faint lines on the lower part of his stomach, the obvious bulge in his boxers, it made your mouth salivate.
He joined you on the bed, covering your body with his, keeping most of his weight on his forearms. His mouth found yours again as his hand slipped down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your joggers and panties. He groaned softly when he felt how wet you already were.
“You’re so perfect,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the sensitive spot beneath your ear. Two fingers parted your folds, circling your clit with featherlight strokes before sliding inside you. He pumped them slowly, scissoring and stretching you while his thumb kept up the pace against your clit. Your hips rocked against his hand, moaning into his shoulder as he whispered praise against your skin. “Just like that, you’re so good for me.”
When you came for the first time, it rolled through you, thighs trembling around his wrist. He kissed you through it, mumbling about how beautiful you looked.
He barely gave you a moment to catch your breath before he was sliding down your joggers and thong, kissing every inch of exposed skin. His boxers shortly joined the pile of clothes on the floor. His cock was heavy and flushed, curving up to his stomach. He took it in one hand, stroking once as he looked back at you.
He settled carefully between your thighs, rubbing the throbbing head of his cock through your slick folds. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said softly. Max pushed in slowly, inch by inch. You both moaned at the stretch, filling you to fullness.
“Fuck, you’re incredible.” He breathed.
You wrapped your legs around his waist again, heels digging into the small of his back. He rolled deep thrusts that dragged against your sensitive spot. One hand laced with yours, the other cradled your hip, angling you so he could go even deeper. Every thrust was accompanied by a kiss across your body. He whispered your name like a prayer, telling you how long he had thought about this moment.
You came with a broken cry, clenching around him tighter after burying himself deep with a low groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside of you, the sensation of him pulsating inside of you.
For a long moment you stayed like that, tangled together, breathing in each other. Max pulled out carefully and disappeared into the bathroom. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and a glass of water. He cleaned you gently between your legs, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, then helped you sit up to sip your drink.
He pulled you into his chest once you were both settled under the covers. His big arms wrapped around you, one hand stroking along your arm. He kissed the top of your head, a little press of affection that made your heart ache in the best way.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, tilting your chin up so he could see your eyes.
“More than okay,” you whispered. You moved in to snuggle closer, his skin was warm, heartbeat steady under your ear.
He smiled, pulling you in tighter. You fell asleep like that, wrapped in Max’s arms, feeling safe and cherished. The rest of the world and its complications felt like a million miles away.
–
The weeks that followed blurred into one another. Your work schedule had begun to swallow you whole. Between deadlines, meetings, late night edits, flights to different time zones, and your offer to write a guest article, your work had consumed every single moment of your spare time.
You finally submitted it. You knew that your brother wouldn’t necessarily appreciate the Russell name being attached to it, but you thought of plenty of ways to get around it – one of them using your signature ‘puppy dog’ face.
The season had continued to move, and between races across the world and your job taking control, you never saw Max after that night.
Phone calls and texts became few and far between; you told yourself that you were just both busy. That your jobs were demanding this side of the year.
Abu Dhabi came round quickly, the final race of the season. George had practically got on his knees and begged you to come along.
“You’ve missed half the season now,” he complained one evening. “People are starting to think you’ve disappeared.”
You laughed and reluctantly agreed to come along. A part of you scared to face Max, another part excited to see him again.
The paddock during the last race of the season always had a particular buzz about it. The media were relentless chasing the championship leaders, fans running after the drivers for them to sign caps and Netflix cameras desperate to find the drama.
But the world seemed to stop when you finally saw him. He was talking to a reporter when you caught eyes, a smile started to slowly creep across your lips as you remembered the taste of his against yours. Except, as you got closer, a woman stood beside him. Her hand rested in his, her long, sleek, black hair sweeping behind her. She was the kind of woman you see photographed on the front of a magazine.
Max was completely still. Like a deer caught in the headlights – or a man who had finally been caught out.
The entire paddock seemed to fade into one spotlight on them both.
George followed your gaze, blissfully unaware of the real reason. “That’s Kelly,” he started. “Max’s girlfriend.”
“Oh, right.” It was all you could summon. Words now unable to be formed as the lump in your throat formed.
When you both made it to the Mercedes suite, George ran off to a meeting with the team, leaving you alone with your thoughts. The night air was warm, too warm. You weren’t sure if your hands were clammy from the humidity or the nerves of seeing him with another woman.
“Hi,” his voice was quiet.
You couldn’t look at him, you just watched the string of mechanics buzz by.
“Hi.”
He scooched closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours. The sparks were still there, but they didn’t feel as bright now. “I was going to tell you.”
“Really, Max? Because from the looks of it, you got what you want from me and now you have a beautiful model on your arm.”
He moved in and held onto your hand, careful to look around if anyone would notice. “It’s not like that–she–Kelly, she’s a long time family friend and my dad–”
“Just stop, Max.”
“We would never have worked.” His words felt like a slap. “George would never have let you. You know that.”
Your whole body felt like it was shaking now. You pulled out the completed article from your handbag. “I was going to give this to you after the race,” you pushed the papers against his chest in a fist of rage. “I wrote about you.”
You could feel a single tear slip down your cheek. “The man nobody else sees off the track.”
He caught the papers, just before they began to fall from the floor. The headline read ‘The Man Behind the Lion.’
“Goodbye, Max.”
He looked down, his eyes blurred by the tears that had begun to form, but he focused on the final line of the article.
‘Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Max Verstappen is not because he’s fearless, but somewhere between the trophies and champagne fueled podiums and impossible expectations from fans and the team, is that there is a man who is loyal and pure of heart.’
And for the first time since you met him, you understood why your brother hated him so much. Because Max Verstappen could never be pure of heart.
