#f1 series

[sydwritess]

Hi lovelys!!! So sorry it's been such a while I haven't even realized the time has gone by fast!!!!! I am still alive and well lmao I will try to get the next part to the Lando series out this weekend!!!

[lomlando]

perpetually single || MV3

summary: what happens when fans start shipping the perpetually single f1 driver and the football player they swear to hate

content warnings: being a cowboys fan 😔

word count: 780

pairing: football player!max verstappen x f1 driver!reader

SERIES: collision course || may be confusing if read as a standalone one-shot!

a/n: i know this is painfully short IM SORRY i promise this will be the shortest chapter

You had developed a reputation over the years. It was one that the media seemed oddly fascinated by. You were, in every fact of the matter, perpetually single.

Not in a tragic way. Not in a dramatic, scandal-filled way. Just consistently unattached. In all your time in Formula One, there had never been a long-term relationship, never a headline announcing a serious partner, never the quiet confirmation of someone appearing race after race in your paddock garage.

Sure, there had been dates. A few dinners here and there. A handful of photos snapped by cameras that always seemed to appear at the wrong moment. But never the same person twice, and never anything that lasted long enough for the press to turn it into a storyline.

And honestly, you preferred it that way.

Racing dictated almost every part of your life from your schedule, your travel, your sleep, your training, even the way you ate. So the idea of choosing someone, really choosing someone, felt different from everything else. That was the one part of your life that was entirely yours. The one decision no team, no sponsor, and no contract could make for you.

Of course you were picky, You were allowed to be.

Besides, there wasn’t exactly room for distractions. Not when you had finished third in the Drivers’ Championship last season, so painfully close to the top that you could still feel the weight of it some mornings. Close enough to prove you belonged there. Far enough to know it still wasn’t enough.

This year, you weren’t racing for podiums. You were racing for the title.

Someone knocked lightly on the open door before leaning in, a grin already spreading across their face. “Mega race! Another win!”

You laughed tiredly, lifting a hand in acknowledgment from where you sat on the couch. “Thanks. I think I just sweated out everything I’ve ever consumed in my life.”

Singapore had a way of doing that. The heat wrapping around you like a second suit, humidity pressing down until even simple breathing felt like a huge effort. Now that the adrenaline had faded, exhaustion settled in its place, heavy and unavoidable.

You stretched out across the couch in your driver’s room, pressing an ice pack against your forehead with a quiet sigh. For a moment, neither of you said anything, the distant sounds of the paddock celebration muffled behind the closed door.

“Have you been on TikTok the past few days?” they asked suddenly.

You shook your head without opening your eyes. “I barely had time to sleep, let alone scroll.”

“Well,” they said, dragging the word out slightly, “you and Max Verstappen are kind of the talk of the internet right now.”

You frowned, lifting the ice pack just enough to look at them. “Huh?”

“You and Max,” they repeated. “You’re everywhere. Edits, compilations, fan posts. The people are obsessed.”

That made you sit up fully, confusion cutting through the exhaustion. “I’ve never even met him.”

They shrugged, already pulling out their phone. “Doesn’t seem to matter.”

A second later, the screen was in your hands. You scrolled, eyebrows slowly pulling together as video after video appeared. Dramatic edits, slow-motion clips of your podium celebrations cut together with his touchdowns, interviews stitched side by side, captions declaring you “the power couple the world needs.”

You handed the phone back after a moment, still frowning. “I’m more confused than I was thirty seconds ago. How did people even come up with this?”

“It’s because of your Cowboys thing,” they said. “You’re always posting in merch, always talking about them. And he’s the biggest star on the team right now. Fans connect dots whether they exist or not.”

You leaned back again, dropping the ice pack over your eyes. “People are weird.”

They laughed softly. “How are you not excited? He’s, like, the biggest athlete in the world right now.”

You shrugged beneath the ice pack. “I’m not really concerned with things like that.”

They rolled their eyes. “Well, people are going to lose their minds at COTA when you two are actually together.”

You froze, lifting the ice pack again. “What are you talking about?”

Their expression shifted to mild surprise. “Wait—did no one tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“You’re scheduled to take him on a hot lap at COTA,” they said. “Red Bull wanted a crossover activation. He’s sponsored too, so it made sense. This was planned before all the shipping stuff even started.”

A long groan escaped you as you dropped back onto the couch dramatically, arm flopping over your face.

“Seriously?”

They laughed. “Some intern pitched it months ago. I heard they basically became a hero in the office this week.”

You muttered something unintelligible into your sleeve, already regretting the entire upcoming race weekend.

[lomlando]

collision course: the prologue || MV3

summary: Max Verstappen is the newest NFL it-boy. From billboards to youtube interviews, it's hard to escape him. Everyone loves him, everyone except for a certain F1 driver.

content warnings: being a cowboys fan 😔

word count: 1.2k

pairing: football player!max verstappen x f1 driver!reader

SERIES: collision course || may be confusing if read as a standalone one-shot!

a/n: im starting to think i just really like writing for max like why is he so easy to characterize. also i was totally not planning on releasing this today but i love it too much so here!

You couldn’t remember when you had started watching American football.

Maybe it had just been on in the background one afternoon and you had gotten sucked in without meaning to. Maybe it had been the only thing playing in a hotel room while you were reviewing strategies for an F4 race. Maybe it had come on after a race replay and you had been too lazy to find the remote and turn it off.

You didn’t know.

But one thing about you being an American football fan had always been painfully, undeniably clear.

Being a Dallas Cowboys fan sucked.

There had been one too many mornings, and just as many late nights, spent yelling at televisions over questionable coaching decisions, last-second interceptions, and field goals that should have been automatic points and somehow weren’t. You had sworn them off more times than you could count, dramatic declarations made to empty hotel rooms and long-suffering team members who had learned to ignore you.

And still, every time they played, one of your jerseys found its way onto your body like muscle memory you couldn’t shake.

Well, being a fan had sucked until last year, at least.

You still remembered that day with embarrassing clarity.

You had been sitting on the couch in your driver’s room, one leg bouncing restlessly while your trainer worked methodically, wrapping athletic tape around your hands with practiced precision. The room had smelled faintly of adhesive and energy drinks, the muted hum of race prep buzzing quietly in the background. Your phone rested in your lap, screen glowing brightly as your entire focus narrowed onto it.

Your trainer had been making small talk the way they always did, comfortable, half-listened-to chatter meant to keep you grounded before sessions.

You hadn’t been listening, though.

“Shhhh,” you said suddenly, snatching the phone into your hands and holding it closer to your face, completely forgetting that you were minutes away from a practice session.

Your trainer had sighed, rolling their eyes in the way only someone who had worked with you for years could get away with. “What are you even watching?”

“Shhhh,” you repeated urgently. “The Cowboys have the next pick.”

“Huh? I didn’t understa—”

“The Cowboys have selected Max Verstappen from the University of Chicago.” rung through the speakers of your phone. 

“WHO?” you had shouted instantly, bolting upright.

“Can I finish wrapping you—”

“THE GUY FROM ALABAMA WAS RIGHT THERE,” you had yelled, throwing yourself dramatically backward against the couch cushions like the betrayal was deeply personal.

“Are you talking about Americ—”

“I cannot do another year of suffering, oh my GOD,” you had groaned, dragging your barely taped hands down your face. “This is why we are never winning another Super Bowl.”

Your trainer calmly grabbed one of your hands away from your face without missing a beat, continuing to wrap it like your meltdown was just background noise.

“So,” they said evenly, securing another round of tape, “football?”

You nodded in response to your trainer’s question, still staring at your phone like it had personally offended you.

“This is the highest pick Dallas has had in a while,” you said, your voice carrying that familiar edge of invested frustration. “They got it from that trade last year. Everyone thought they were going to take the star quarterback from Alabama. Like, everyone. It was basically guaranteed.”

Your trainer hummed thoughtfully, already moving to your other hand, beginning the wrapping process with the same steady efficiency. “So, who’s this guy?”

You shrugged, the motion sharp and dismissive. “No clue. I didn’t even know the University of Chicago had a football team.”

With your now fully wrapped hand, you lifted your phone again, thumb already moving as you opened a search. Your trainer guided your other hand into position without needing to ask, years of routine making the movement automatic.

You squinted slightly at the screen as results filled in.

“Max Verstappen,” you read aloud slowly. “He’s from the Netherlands? That’s cool, I guess. Didn’t know they even knew American football over there.”

You scrolled further, your nose wrinkling as you read. “Ugh. He’s a wide receiver,” you muttered. “We so did not need another one of those.”

Your trainer snorted quietly but didn’t interrupt.

“He was their star player at Chicago,” you continued, scanning quickly. “Led them to a Division III championship.”

You paused, scrolling again, your expression flattening into unimpressed resignation. You sighed dramatically. “Still don’t agree with the decision.”

Your trainer secured the final strip of tape, smoothing it down with rehearsed hands before giving your wrist a firm, satisfied pat. “All done. This better not affect the practice session.”

You looked up, blinking as if you had momentarily forgotten where you were. Then you pushed yourself off the couch in one smooth motion, grabbing your helmet from the nearby bench.

“It won’t,” you promised, already moving toward the door, the draft coverage still lingering in the back of your mind like an unresolved argument.

Now, in the present, you could admit when you were wrong.

Max Verstappen was good. Annoyingly so.

If you hadn’t known any better, you would’ve sworn he wore magnets in his gloves, the ball snapping into his hands as if it belonged there. He caught everything. Contested passes, impossible angles, throws that had no business being completed, he hauled them in like it was nothing. And when he ran, god it was effortless. Long strides eating up turf, defenders left scrambling behind him as he tore into the end zone again and again.

You hated how easy he made it look.

By the end of the season, you couldn’t deny it anymore. He was the reason the Cowboys made it as far as they did. Even with the loss in the division championships, it was the best season Dallas had seen in a long while, exciting, competitive, hopeful in a way you’d almost forgotten was possible.

And still. The more you saw of him, the more something sour curled in your chest.

Everywhere you looked, there he was. Billboards with his stupidly confident grin. Post-game interviews where he spoke like winning was inevitable, like the spotlight belonged to him by right. Highlight reels stacked with slow-motion catches and commentators tripping over themselves to praise him.

You found yourself wishing, genuinely, for the old days again. For the nights yelling at the TV, for the frustration and disappointment and chaos of it all. You would’ve taken missed field goals and blown coverages if it meant less of this.

Less of him.

You couldn’t stand him. Not the swagger. Not the arrogance. Not the way he carried himself, like he already knew the world adored him.

And the worst part? You were completely alone in that opinion.

Around the world, people were falling for the blue-eyed Dutchman, fans, commentators, brands, even people who had never cared about football before suddenly cared about him. Social media ate him alive in the best possible way. Jerseys sold out. Clips went viral. His name trended constantly.

Everyone loved Max Verstappen. Everyone but you.

And somehow, that only made you dislike him more.

[lomlando]

the only one || MV3

summary: your offical last day as max's assistant and he sleeps through his alarm? oh boy is this gonna be interesting...

content warnings: max being not a great boss?

word count: 2.5k

pairing: max verstappen x assistant!reader

SERIES: my dear assistant || may be confusing if read as a standalone one-shot!

a/n: how is this the last part?? i have said it a lot, and still probably not enough, but i have been so so so grateful and appreciative of all the love this series has gotten! every comment, reblog, like, they have all made me smile and genuinely make me want to write and become better at it! this story has been a journey and i hope you all have truly love it as much as i have!

You walked up to Max’s apartment with two Red Bulls balanced carefully in your hands, the aluminum cool against your palms. The day was supposed to start normally. You’d pull up. He’d come down. He’d complain about the early hour but still insist on going to the gym. You’d mentally reshuffle the schedule, already anticipating the mild irritation that always came when mornings didn’t go exactly his way.

Normal.

But just as you parked, your phone buzzed.

MaxCome up. Slept through my alarm. Not ready yet.

You stared at the message for a second longer than necessary, already feeling the familiar tightening in your chest. Of course. The last day and already off track. You pictured the ripple effect, him rushed, gym late, mood sharp, everything slightly misaligned.

You typed back Okay anyway. Some habits were harder to break than others.

You let yourself into the apartment like he’d told you to, calling out softly as you stepped inside. “Hey, it’s me.”

The smell hit you first. Not coffee. Not protein powder.

But actual food. 

You stopped short in the entryway. In the many years and many times you had been in Max’s apartment, you couldn’t recall a singular time where you had smelled actual, homecooked food in it. 

Yet there Max was, stood at the stove, fully dressed, hair done, sleeves rolled up as he moved a pan with practiced ease. The counter was already crowded with toast stacked neatly on a plate, sliced fruit, a small bowl of something green you didn’t immediately recognize. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard you.

“Perfect timing,” he said easily.

You blinked. Five minutes ago, he’d claimed he’d just woken up.

He gestured toward the counter with his chin. “Sit.”

Before you could ask anything, he slid a plate in front of you. Toast, fruit, something warm and savory, and then carefully topped it with a freshly poached egg, setting it down like it mattered. He grabbed his own plate and sat beside you, already eating like this was the most natural and normal situation in the world.

You just stared at him. Amused, ever so slightly alarmed, and completely confused.

“Well?” he prompted, glancing sideways. “Eat. It’ll get cold.”

You picked up your fork slowly, still watching him like he might disappear if you looked away too long. “You texted me that you weren’t ready.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Yeah.”

“You said you slept through your alarm.”

Another shrug. “Did I?”

You took a tentative bite, chewing slowly. “We’re going to be really late to the gym,” you said, mostly out of habit. “Which is going to throw off the whole day.”

Max didn’t even look up. “I canceled everything.”

You nearly choked. “What?”

He said it like he’d canceled a teeth-cleaning dentist appointment, as if the day meant nothing.

“The gym. The meetings. Everything,” he repeated. “For today, at least.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “You haven’t missed a gym day since you had the flu two years ago. And even then it took three different doctors, me, and your mom telling you that going was a bad idea.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

“And now you just, canceled?”

He finally looked at you then, expression soft in a way that made your chest tighten. “I wanted your last day to be special.”

Heat rushed to your face. You immediately shoved another bite of food into your mouth, suddenly very interested in chewing. You avoided his eyes, nodding like that explained everything, and like your heart wasn’t doing cartwheels and backflips in your chest.

A few quiet minutes passed in a comfortable and unrushed quiet. The kind of silence you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

When you finally looked up again, you asked, “So, what are we doing today?”

He leaned back slightly, considering. “I thought I’d take you shopping.”

Your nose wrinkled before you could stop it.

Max noticed.

“Why not?” he asked, genuinely curious.

You hesitated, then sighed. “I don’t want you spending your money on me. I can buy my own stuff. I have very specific taste, and I don’t really want to spend the whole day trying on clothes and shoes and pretending I like things I don’t.”

You winced immediately after, words tumbling out too fast. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean it like— I just—”

“It’s fine,” Max cut in gently.

He stood, taking your plate without ceremony. You realized you’d eaten everything except the egg. You hated eggs but you were fully prepared to at least attempt to eat it after he cooked it for you. You just couldn’t. He paused, noticing it too, then carried the plate to the sink anyway.

He stayed quiet for a moment longer than usual. Then, almost thoughtfully, he said, “I don’t actually know what you like.”

You looked up at him.

“Not really,” he continued. “You know my schedule. My preferences. My routines.” He met your eyes. “But I don’t know yours.”

Something in his voice made your throat tighten.

“So,” he said, “what’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do?”

You blinked. “One thing?”

“Anything.”

You thought for a second, then shrugged. “I don’t know. There are a lot of things. Traveling without a plan. Learning pottery. Going karting.”

He froze. “You’ve never been karting?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He stared at you like you’d just told him you’d never seen the ocean. “That’s criminal,” he said flatly.

Before you could respond, he was already grabbing his keys. “We’re going.”

You laughed, startled. “Max, I can drive—”

He reached for your hand without thinking, fingers curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, and tugged you toward the door.

“I’m driving,” he said simply.

And just like that, your last day as his assistant was already nothing like you’d expected.

The go-kart place was also nothing like you expected.

You’d imagined something casual, an outdoor track, maybe a little chaotic, kids running around with plastic helmets. Instead, it felt very official. Polished concrete floors. Digital screens listing lap times. Staff in matching uniforms moving with perfect efficiency.

You blinked at the counter. “We have to sign waivers?”

Max grinned, already reaching for a pen. “Obviously.”

You scanned the form, eyebrows climbing higher with every line. “This is intense.”

He shrugged. “Speed usually is.”

You shot him a look. “Says the man who drives like the rules are optional.”

He laughed under his breath as he signed, completely unapologetic.

Helmets came next, then gloves. A worker gave instructions to you quickly and confidently, like everyone assumed you’d done this before. You hadn’t.

By the time you climbed into your kart, nerves buzzed low in your chest. You were adjusting your helmet strap when Max stopped beside you, already half-seated in his own kart. He paused, then straightened, stepping back toward you.

“Hold on,” he said.

Before you could ask what he meant, he leaned in, hands careful as he reached for your seatbelt. His fingers brushed your side, brief, warm, and you inhaled sharply without meaning to.

He tightened the belt, tugging once to make sure it was secure. “Comfortable?”

“Yes,” you said, then added, dryly, “Though I’m not sure why you’re worried. I’ve seen how you drive.”

He snorted, straightening. “Please. I’m very safe.”

“You’re manic,” you shot back.

He rolled his eyes dramatically, backing away toward his kart. “I’m gifted.”

The lights went green.

And suddenly, nothing else existed.

The track blurred beneath you, wind rushing loud in your ears, adrenaline burning away any lingering nerves. You laughed as you took the first turn, gripping the wheel tighter than necessary.

Max stayed just behind you.

Close enough that you could hear his engine. Close enough that you felt him there, pushing without crowding, present without overwhelming. You didn’t know how you knew, but you did.

You crossed the finish line first.

When you pulled into the pit, breathless and flushed, Max rolled to a stop beside you, lifting his helmet with an easy grin.

“Not bad,” he said. “You’re good.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You let me win.”

He scoffed. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Absolutely did not.”

You laughed, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the track.

“So,” he said, climbing out of his kart. “What’s next?”

You hesitated, wiping your hands on your jeans. “There’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

He tilted his head, attentive. “Yeah?”

“The aquarium,” you admitted. “Here. I’ve never had time.”

He made a face instantly. “An aquarium?”

You braced yourself for the rejection. In all the years spent traveling with Max, there were countless asks of if he wanted to come to museums, art galleries, zoos,and aquariums with you. Every single time it was the same; they just weren’t his thing. 

But then his expression shifted, something thoughtful crossing his face as he really looked at you. Like he was visibly seeing the way you hadn’t spent doing things for yourself all of these years.

“Okay,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, already reaching for his keys. “Let’s go.”

The museum itself was quiet, cool, dimly lit. Your footsteps echoed softly as you moved through exhibits, Max trailing close beside you. You stopped often, too often, probably, reading plaques, lingering, soaking it all in like you were afraid it might disappear if you looked away too long.

He didn’t rush you once.

When you finally reached the aquarium section, the space opened up into something vast and blue. A massive glass wall stretched before you, water glowing softly as fish drifted past in slow, mesmerizing arcs.

You stopped short.

“Oh,” you breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

You stood there together, shoulders nearly touching, gaze fixed on the quiet choreography of the sea. Schools of fish glided past the glass like thoughts you didn’t want to interrupt.

“Yeah,” Max said quietly.

But when you glanced at him, you realized he wasn’t looking at the tank at all.

He was looking at you.

The realization sent warmth blooming through your chest, sudden and disarming. “Max?”

“Almost as beautiful as you,” he said, softly, like it was obvious. Like it didn’t need to be explained.

Your breath caught.

He reached for your hand, no hesitation, and threaded his fingers through yours. The contact felt grounding.  You turned back to the glass together, standing there in shared silence, hand in hand, watching the world drift past in a slow, luminous blue. You realized, for the first time in a long while, you weren’t thinking about schedules or responsibilities or what came next.

You were just there. Together.

You left the aquarium still holding hands. Neither of you had acknowledged it out loud, but neither of you had let go either. Your fingers stayed loosely threaded together as you walked toward the exit, laughing quietly about something Max had muttered under his breath when a kid pressed their face against the glass a little too enthusiastically.

“You looked genuinely offended,” you teased.

He scoffed. “I was startled.”

“You jumped.”

“I did not.”

You laughed, the sound light and unguarded, and squeezed his hand once before you even realized you’d done it.

Outside, the late afternoon air felt warmer than it had earlier, the sky slipping slowly toward evening. Max glanced at his phone, frowning slightly.

“It’s almost dinner,” he said. “Which is impressive, considering we never ate lunch.”

“That feels on brand,” you replied.

“What do you want?” he asked. “Real food. Not a quick snack disguised as a meal.”

“Sushi,” you said immediately.

He stopped walking.

You turned back toward him. “What?”

He gestured vaguely behind you, toward the aquarium. “We just spent more than two hours bonding with fish.”

“And?”

“And now you want to eat them.”

You grinned. “Circle of life, baby.”

He shook his head, laughing. “That’s cold.”

“For real though, sushi please,” you said.

He sighed theatrically. “Fine, but I will be judging you.”

Dinner was easy in a way that surprised you.

You sat across from each other, sharing plates without thinking too hard about it. Max stole pieces off your plate. You reached for his drink. It felt domestic and dangerous and entirely too comfortable for something that was supposedly just starting.

When you finally made it back to his apartment, the door barely had time to close before his hands were on you.

Not rushed. Not frantic. Just inevitable.

His mouth found yours with heat that made your knees weaken, the day crashing back into you all at once, the karting, the aquarium, his hand in yours, the way he’d looked at you like you were finally something he was afraid to lose. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, your forehead rested against his chest.

“Aren’t you going to ask me to stay?” you asked quietly.

He froze for half a second. Then, confused, “The night?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “No. I meant the job.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you. “If I did,” he asked carefully, “would it change anything?”

You thought about it, really thought about it. Then you shook your head. “No. It wouldn’t.”

Something settled in his expression, not disappointment, exactly. Instead, it was acceptance.

“I won’t ask again,” he said quietly. “I get it now. How miserable you were. How much I demanded. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do this job without being the way I am.”

You nodded. “I know.”

“And today,” he continued, voice softer, “just showed me how much you put your life on pause for mine. I don’t want that for you anymore.”

Your chest tightened, emotion pressing behind your ribs. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, hugging him fully for the first time that day.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For understanding.”

He rested his chin on the top of your head, arms closing around you. “If Lando ever treats you the way I did,” he muttered, “I’m going to beat his ass.”

You laughed, melting into him. “I know. If you run Lars away, I'm going to beat yours.”

He tipped your chin up gently, forcing you to meet his eyes. His expression was open, unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen ever.

“You’re the only one,” he said simply. “The only one I want, the only one for me.”

Your smile came easily as you leaned in and kissed him again, slow, warm, certain.

When you pulled away, he reached for the remote, tugging you down with him onto the couch. You curled into his side without hesitation, his arm settling around you as the TV flickered on to something neither of you paid attention to.

And for once, the ending didn’t feel like loss. It felt like finally choosing each other for exactly who you both were.

Taglist!! :p

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[lomlando]

the last one || MV3

summary: the day is here, the final applicant! have you found the right one to leave? to make sure max is in the best hands possible??

content warnings: max being not a great boss?

word count: 2.7k

pairing: max verstappen x assistant!reader

SERIES: my dear assistant || may be confusing if read as a standalone one-shot!

a/n: WHOOPS! honestly i knew it had been a little bit since the last part but imagine my surprise when i was looking at the calendar today and realized actually just how long it has been IM SO SORRY! oh and i also can't believe there's just ONE MORE PART LEFT???!!!

You woke up with the strange, disorienting feeling that your life had shifted overnight. Not loudly, and not dramatically. Just quietly. Like something important had moved just a few measly inches to the left while you weren’t looking.

You lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, the events of the last twenty-four hours replaying in fragments rather than one neat and complete timeline. Max’s voice in the dark. The way his hands had shaken just slightly when he touched yours. The kiss. 

And the truth that followed it.

You were really leaving.

You were no longer thinking about leaving. You were no longer planning to leave. But, now, you were actually, really leaving.

The thought still didn’t sit right in your chest now, even though you wanted it just two weeks ago. Even though you knew it was the best thing for you and Max. It felt unreal in the way endings often did before they became unavoidable. For years, your days had revolved around Max’s schedule, Max’s needs, Max’s life. Even now, after everything, it was hard to imagine mornings that didn’t begin with him.

Especially this morning.

You rolled onto your side, phone lighting up as you checked the time. Another packed day ahead. Another day of events and appearances and obligations stacked too tightly together. You hadn’t loved the idea of it even before the events of last night, busy days like this always brought out the sharp edges in both of you. But now, knowing how close the end was, it sat heavier.

To make matters worse, this was the very last applicant.

And if you were being honest with yourself, you hadn’t liked most of the applicants. Not because they were bad. Some of them had been impressive on paper. Capable, driven, smart.

But none of them felt right, and you didn’t want to leave Max with just anyone.

You wanted someone who understood the chaos. Someone who wouldn’t crumble under the pressure. Someone who wouldn’t disappear the first time Max snapped or shut down or needed more help than he was always scared to ask for.

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face.

Maybe that was the problem. You were still protecting him.

Your phone rang, cutting through the spiral before it could go any deeper.

You glanced at the screen.

Lars.

You sat up, answering before the second ring could finish.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” he said easily, his accent warm and familiar in a way that immediately put you at ease. “It’s Lars. I hope it’s okay I’m calling this early.”

“It’s fine,” you said, already more awake than you’d been a moment ago. “What’s up?”

There was a brief pause, like he was choosing his words carefully. “I was thinking, would it be alright if I drove today?”

You blinked. “Drove?”

“Yeah,” he continued. “I figured, if I were in Max’s position, I’d want to see how someone handles the road. You said he likes to be driven around right? And, well, I enjoy it.”

Something in his tone, confident but not cocky, thoughtful rather than presumptuous, made your shoulders relax.

“That’s completely fine,” you said. “I think that’s actually a really good idea.”

“Great,” Lars replied, sounding genuinely pleased. “If you want, I can pick you up first.”

You gave him your address, confirming the time, and when you hung up, you realized something unfamiliar had settled in your chest.

Hope. It surprised you.

You hadn’t meant to let yourself feel it, you’d been burned too many times by promising resumes and impressive credentials in these two weeks, but something about Lars felt different. The résumé had been exceptional. He was Dutch, around Max’s age, former F4 competitor, super strong recommendations. He had the kind of background that suggested he understood pressure, discipline, and high expectations already.

And more importantly,  he’d thought ahead.

Before you knew it, a car pulled up outside your apartment. You grabbed your bag and headed down, spotting Lars immediately when you stepped onto the sidewalk.

He got out of the car to greet you, tall and relaxed, offering a friendly smile. “Morning.”

“Morning,” you replied, climbing into the back seat.

“You can sit up front if you want,” he said as he pulled away from the curb.

You shook your head. “I’ll let Max have that.”

Lars smiled and nodded, like that answer told him something important. He reached into the center console and passed you a can.

“For you.”

You laughed softly, accepting the Red Bull like it was a gift. “You’re already winning points.”

“Good,” he said. “I also got one for Max. Figured he’d need it, waking up this early.”

You glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “He’ll definitely drink it.”

“Yeah?” Lars asked.

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “He loves Red Bull.”

Lars chuckled. “Noted.”

As he drove toward Max’s apartment, you couldn’t help but notice the city slowly waking around you, and you felt something you hadn’t felt in days, a small, cautious optimism curling in your chest.

Maybe this wouldn’t be a disaster. Maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t be leaving Max completely unprotected after all.

The car slowed as you pulled up outside his building. You straightened slightly, heart doing that familiar, traitorous thing it always did when you were about to see him.

The back door opened and Max slid into the back seat beside you, still a little sleepy, hair slightly unruly, sunglasses already perched on his nose. He smelled faintly like his colonge and coffee.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough.

Your breath caught for half a second before you answered. “Morning.”

Lars handed him the Red Bull without missing a beat. “Thought you might need this.”

Max glanced at the can, then at Lars, surprised and pleased. “Good call.”

You watched from the corner of your eye as Max cracked it open, taking a long sip, before leaning his head back against the seat.

And for the first time since waking up, the knot in your chest loosened just a little. Maybe you had saved the best for last and just hadn’t realized it. And maybe, that didn’t have to mean everything fell apart when you left.

The car settled into motion, the hum of the engine smoothing out as Lars pulled away from the curb.

For a few minutes, it was easy, surprisingly so. Lars filled the space with light conversation, nothing overwhelming, and nothing forced. He talked about the route he usually took to avoid traffic, about a café he liked near the gym, about how strange Monaco felt when you weren’t there for racing. Max responded here and there, short answers at first, but gradually easing into it. You added comments when it felt natural, letting the rhythm of it all carry you. For the first time since you two started this whole process, it was calm.

You were watching the city slide past the window with your new found, albit, small hope when you felt it. A ever so subtle shift beside you. Not a touch, not yet, at least. Just more presence than you felt just a few minutes ago.

Max’s hand rested on his thigh, fingers loose, relaxed. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, it moved. An inch closer to you, then another inch. The back of his knuckles nearly brushed your own hand resting beside you.

You didn’t move, but your pulse spiked anyway.

Another small shift. This time there was barely a centimeter between you. Enough that you could feel the warmth of his hand without the actual contact of it, as if you were standing too close to a fire.

You glanced down before you could stop yourself, then you looked up at him.

Max was already looking away, his gaze fixed firmly out the window like the view outside was suddenly the most interesting thing he’d ever seen despite passing it almost everyday of his life for the past ten years. His jaw was tight. His posture a little too still. He didn’t look at you,  not even for a second, but his hand stayed exactly where it was.

Close. Careful. Waiting.

The realization hit you softly, not like panic but like something tender settling into place. You had only seen the expression he was wearing on his face a handful of times. 

He was nervous. 

The thought made your lips curve into a small, private smile before you could talk yourself out of it. You didn’t move your hand closer, even though you wanted to, but you didn’t pull it away either.

The tiny space between your fingers stayed open, charged, and unresolved.

Lars kept talking, blissfully unaware of the quiet war being waged in the back seat. He glanced at you both through the mirror once, smiling. “Let me know if the temperature is okay back there.”

“Yeah, It’s fine,” Max said quickly.

You nodded. “Yeah. Perfect.”

The car continued on, the road stretching ahead of you, the space still lingering between your hands like a promise neither of you was quite ready to keep, but neither of you wanted to let go of either.

But for once, the silence that followed didn’t feel heavy. It felt hopeful.

The day didn’t unfold so much as it stretched on and on, long and taut, like something pulled too tight that, surprisingly, hadn’t snapped yet.

At the gym, you moved on instinct more than intention, from checking the time, passing towels, quietly tracking what needed to happen next. It was muscle memory. Years of it. But something underneath felt different, like the rhythm you’d relied on for so long was slightly off-beat.

Max stayed close.

Not in the way he used to, all absent-minded and entitled, assuming you’d always be there, but more deliberately. Always a half-step behind you. A fraction closer than necessary. Every time you stopped walking, he nearly ran into you.

When you bent to grab your bag, you felt the warmth of his hand hover near your back, but still not daring to touch. When you handed him a water bottle, his fingers brushed the plastic instead of yours, even though it would’ve been easier not to miss.

It was like he was afraid that if he touched you, it would mean something irreversible. But in your mind, it already did. The kisses meant that. The conversation last night meant that. Did something end up getting lost in translation?

You caught his reflection in the mirror once, watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. When your eyes met, he looked away immediately, jaw tight, ears faintly pink. 

He was still, unmistakingly, very nervous. 

Maybe you were overthinking everything. Max seldomly got nervous. He didn’t even get nervous before races. And now you? You were the one that all of a sudden was making him nervous? The thought grounded you and made you smile when you turned back around.

Lars, somehow, grounded everything even more.

He was competent in a way that didn’t demand attention. Thoughtful without making a show of it. He asked questions, but not too many. Stepped in when he could. Stepped back when he should.

At one point, you realized you hadn’t had to anticipate anything bad happening for nearly an hour. The realization hit you so hard you had to blink a few times to clear it. 

At the first in-store appearance, Max stood beside you while fans filtered through, smiling, signing, posing for photos. His public face slid into place easily, but you could tell his awareness never left you.

A fan gestured for you both to step closer for a picture.

You felt Max hesitate beside you. Just for a short breath before he stepped in, careful, his arm lifting behind your back but stopping short of actually touching you, his hand just hovering a few centimeteres away from your skin. The space between you was electric as the camera flashed. The spark felt so powerful, so real, you couldn’t help but wonder if anyone else could feel it.

When the fan left, Max exhaled like he’d been holding it in. “Sorry,” he murmured under his breath.

You looked up at him. “You didn’t do anything.”

He swallowed. “I know.”

But his hand drifted closer to yours as you walked away, fingers nearly brushing again. It was as if gravity itself was trying to pull you together, but he was resisting it with everything he had.

By the end of the day, exhaustion set in deep, bone-deep, familiar, but there was something steadier underneath it. Like your nerves weren’t frayed for once. Like you weren’t bracing for impact. For the first time in a very long time, you just felt physically tired instead of emotionally spent. 

Lars still drove, just like he said he would. All day he had been nothing short of smooth, predictable, and most importantly, present.

He handed Max another Red Bull without ceremony, already opened. “Figured you’d want this. It’s been a busy day”

Max blinked, genuinely surprised. “Thanks.”

You noticed the way he said it, the way it sounded like he meant it. Maybe he could actually change his ways as a boss, but you didn’t want to stick around to see for yourself. 

When the car finally slowed in front of your building, you were already unbuckling when Max spoke.

“I’ll get out here.”

You turned to him. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s not a long walk back,” he said, quickly but gently.

Lars didn’t question it. Just nodded once. “I hope to hear from you soon.”

The night air felt cooler than it should have as you walked toward your building. The silence beside Max wasn’t awkward or heavy, it was just there, like a habit that couldn’t be fully shook away. 

Your keys rattled in your hand as you unlocked the door.

The second it closed behind you—

Max moved. Not rushed, not rough. Just, for the first time all day, very decisive.

Your back met the door, the solid wood grounding you as his hands braced on either side of you, close but not pinning you there. His body hovered inches away, his breath warm against your cheek.

You looked up at him, heart pounding.

His forehead dropped to yours, eyes closing briefly like he needed the contact to steady himself. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

Your throat tightened. “Max–”

“I’ve thought about it all day,” he admitted quietly. “Every time I stood too close. Every time I didn’t touch you.”

He cut himself off from saying anything further and kissed you. Slow, intentional. Like you were a precious vase that he was afraid of breaking.

His hand found your waist, warm and certain, and the sensation sent a shiver through you. You kissed him back without hesitation, fingers curling into his shirt like they were scared he would slip away at a moments notice.

It felt different from before. This felt earned.

When you pulled back, breathless, your foreheads stayed together, neither of you willing to be the first to create space.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you whispered. “We spent so long pretending there was nothing that now, I don’t know how to show it.”

He nodded, eyes soft but intense. “I didn’t let myself want you all of these years, and now I don’t know how to show you how much I want it. How much I want you.”

The honesty of it cracked something open in your chest.

You smiled, small and shaky, as your hands found his. “We’ll learn together, then.”

He leaned in again, kissing you slower this time, lingering like he was committing the moment to memory. When he finally stepped back, it was with visible effort.

“I should go,” he said, reluctantly.

You nodded, even though every part of you wanted him to stay.

At the door, he paused, then turned back and kissed you once more, deep, warm, and unmistakably promising. “I’ll see you bright and early,” he said softly. “I have a surprise for you.”

Your heart stuttered. “Oh?”

He smiled, already backing away. “Trust me.”

Then he was gone. And you stood there in the quiet, hand pressed to your lips with a stupid grin on your face.

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[lomlando]

the honest one || MV3

summary: after all of these years, maybe Max just needs someone, several people, actually, to tell him he really is an awful boss!

content warnings: max being not a great boss, slight language!

word count: 3.5k

pairing: max verstappen x assistant!reader

SERIES: my dear assistant || may be confusing if read as a standalone one-shot!

a/n: look, i really am very, so, sorry in advance if this chapter is controversial!

You woke up before your alarm, the awakening morning light already slipping through the curtains like it had somewhere important to be. Fridays like this always did this to you, pulled you awake before you were ready, before you could actually build up the energy to face them.

Non-race weekend Fridays had always held their own special kind of chaos.

You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling, already tired and already bracing yourself for the hours to come. Part of you almost preferred race weekends. Yeah, those were unbelievably busy too, but the structure, the predictability, the way everything narrowed down to lap times and strategy, it made them less daunting. Race weekends had a very specific kind of pressure that seemed to take its place in only a few areas. On days like today though, the pressure came from everywhere, seemingly all at once. Everyone wanted a piece of Max before the weekend started. Everyone wanted his time, his face, his voice, his presence, and somehow it always landed in your lap to make it all work.

You swung your legs out of bed and walked into the bathroom. You caught your reflection in the mirror as soon as you graced the door. You looked overwhelmingly fine, awake enough, skilled enough, and that would just have to do.

As you brushed your teeth, you began going through the day automatically, just as you always did. Sometimes in your head, sometimes out loud if you were stressed enough. Today, it slipped out of you quietly, like a habit you couldn’t stop.

“Gym first,” you murmured around toothpaste. “Two in-store events. Photoshoot in between. Podcast after lunch. Sim call with the engineers. Somewhere in there, food. Ideally, at least.”

You rinsed your mouth and leaned your hands against the sink, watching your own expression flatten as the list finished forming. You hated days like this.

They always brought out the worst in both you and Max. The constant movement, the tight schedules, the standing, waiting, smiling, the way meals got pushed later and later until hunger made everything sharp and brittle. By the end of days like this, one, or both, of you always snapped. Not always loudly or dramatically, but just enough to leave the air between you strained and quiet on the drive home.

You couldn’t remember a single Friday like this where you’d both ended the day happy with each other.

You moved back into your bedroom, pulling on clothes with rehearsed efficiency. Comfortable enough to survive the day, but polished enough to be presentable. Somewhere in between the two, as always.

As you reached for your bag, a thought crept in, unwelcome but persistent, maybe it would be different this time.

The idea surprised you enough that you paused, fingers curling around the strap. You stood there for a second, letting it sit. After everything, after late nights and long silences and one kiss you still didn’t know what to do with, it felt naïve to hope for anything different.

And yet, it was one of your last few days together.

The thought flew into your mind quietly, but it landed hard. After today, there would only be Saturday and Sunday left. Just two more days of this rhythm, two more mornings of schedules and keys and coffee runs, two more nights of dropping him off and driving home alone.

Only two more days.

You repeated it to yourself like a fact, not a feeling. Something measurable and contained. Not so long ago, you’d been counting those days with something dangerously close to excitement. Relief, at least. Now, the number sat heavier in your chest, harder to think about directly. You pushed the sensation away before it could take shape, slinging your bag over your shoulder and heading for the door.

Your phone buzzed just as you slipped on your shoes.

You glanced at the screen.

Rose, the applicant for the day, of course.

You answered as you locked your apartment behind you. “Hi.”

“Hey!” she said brightly, already at full volume. “Just wanted to make sure it’s still okay if you pick me up from the hotel this morning?”

“Yes,” you replied, forcing warmth into your voice. “Of course. I’m leaving now. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Oh perfect,” she said. “I’ll be ready.”

You ended the call and slid your phone back into your pocket, exhaling as you stepped into the hallway. Ready or not, the day was already moving. You told yourself, firmly, as you were walking down the hallway that you could get through it. That you always did. That whatever awkwardness lingered between you and Max, whatever feelings you were carefully not naming, could stay tucked away for one more day.

Just get through today. Then, only two more days. As you inched closer and closer to the elevator, though, the schedule was already ticking forward in your mind and the weight of the hours ahead was already settling onto your shoulders. 

You pulled up outside Max’s building with the applicant already bouncing her knee in the passenger seat, scrolling through her phone and narrating something you only half-heard. The awkwardness from the past few days was still there, but it was quickly being swallowed by something heavier. Stress.

It crept into the car like a fog as soon as Max stepped outside.

He looked sharp in that effortless way of his, dressed for a full day of appearances, jaw already tight like he could feel the schedule pressing down on him already. He slid into the backseat, muttered a greeting that landed somewhere between polite and distracted, and immediately started asking about the timing of the day.

“What’s first again?” he asked.

“The gym,” you replied automatically. “Then the first store event at ten.”

He nodded once, already elsewhere mentally. The drive already blurred into the beginning of one of those days.

Of course, the gym ran long because someone from his physical therapy team showed up late. Which meant the first in-store event started ten minutes behind schedule and ended twenty minutes over because fans kept lining up. Security kept wavering, but Max refused to cut anyone off once he was in front of them. You watched the applicant fidget beside you, checking the time, whispering comments under her breath about how this was inefficient.

The photoshoot was rushed. The lighting wasn’t right and someone forgot to bring the right watch band. Max ended up snapping at the stylist. Surprisingly, the stylist snapped back. Still, you stepped in, smoothed it over, and moved everyone along.

By midday, no one had eaten properly. By mid-afternoon, the car had begun to feel too small.

By the time you arrived at the second in-store event, Max’s patience was visibly threadbare. His answers were shorter and his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. The applicant, for the most part, had stopped trying to mask her irritation entirely. It didn’t help anyone’s mood that the store was also crowded, loud, and hot.

You stood a little farther back this time, tablet tucked under your arm, watching the dynamic unfold the way you had been trying to do with all of the applicants so far. Observing, measuring, and taking mental notes you weren’t sure you’d ever use again.

Someone asked Max the same question for the third time in a row, so he replied sharply. “I’ve already answered that.”

The applicant stiffened beside him. “They’re just asking.”

“I know that,” Max snapped, turning toward her now. “But we’re behind schedule and—”

“And whose fault is that?” she shot back.

The air shifted. People nearby quieted, sensing something wrong but not yet understanding what it was.

Max blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” the applicant said, no longer smiling. “You snap at everyone. You don’t listen. You don’t say thank you. You don’t even acknowledge that people are bending over backwards for you.”

You inhaled slowly.

Max looked genuinely stunned. “That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not,” she said, louder now. “I’ve been here all day. You treat everyone like they’re disposable. Like we should all be grateful to exist in your world.”

A few heads turned. Someone from the store staff edged closer, uncertain.

“You’ve never once said thank you,” she continued, voice shaking with anger. “Not to me. Not to anyone. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

Max opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You stayed where you were, heart pounding, hands clenched around your tablet. You didn’t step in, you didn’t smooth it over, you didn’t redirect.

Because she wasn’t wrong. The realization sat heavy and undeniable in your chest.

“I’m done,” the applicant said abruptly. She turned toward you, eyes bright. “I’m leaving.”

“What?” You stepped forward without thinking. “Wait,  we still have a podcast and a sim session. We can talk about this, okay? Let’s just—”

“No,” she said, already grabbing her bag. “I’m not doing this.”

She turned back to Max once, just long enough to say, “Figure it out yourself for once.”

Then she walked out, heels sharp against the floor, the doors swinging shut behind her with a finality that echoed as a thick silence followed.

When the event ended, Max paced for a moment in the garage before climbing into the car, running a hand through his hair. “That was unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

You pulled out slowly, eyes on the road.

“I mean,” he continued, “you heard that, right? Completely out of line. I’m a great boss.”

You said nothing.

He glanced at you in the mirror. “Right?”

Your fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

“Well,” you said carefully, “maybe everyone’s just hungry and stressed. It’s been a long day, after all.”

He huffed. “How’s it’s my fault people can’t handle pressure?”

“Maybe we should get food,” you suggested quickly. “Before the podcast.”

The subject shifted, just like that. Saved. Deferred.

Thankfully, the podcast went smoothly. The sim session after was clean and focused too, Max snapping back into the version of himself the engineers knew best. He was efficient, engaged, and calm. By the time it ended, evening had settled in.

“I need to get ready,” Max said, already standing. “Dinner reservation.”

“Oh,” you replied, blinking. “That wasn’t your schedule today.”

“It’s a little last minute,” he said, dismissive. “You can head out.”

You had been about to anyway. Still, the way he said it, as if he couldn’t wait to be alone, stung more than you expected.

“Okay,” you said simply.

You grabbed your bag and headed for the door. As you walked down the hallway toward the elevator, the thought crept in uninvited. Was he going on a date? Your shoulders felt heavy as you reached your car, sadness tugging at you in a way you didn’t bother fighting after the day you had.

Across town, Max adjusted his jacket in the mirror of the restaurant’s bathroom, jaw tight, mind loud.

When he stepped back into the dining room, Lando was already there, waving him over with an awkward smile.

“Hey,” Lando said, standing. “Thanks for–uh inviting me.”

Max nodded, pulling out his chair. “We need to talk.”

About you.

​​Max didn’t even wait for the menus. They’d barely sat down, water glasses not even sweating onto the table yet, the low hum of the restaurant still settling around them, before he leaned forward and asked it, flat and unguarded.

“Why are they leaving me?”

Lando blinked. Then, he leaned back in his chair, lips pressing together. “I don’t know if we should be talking about them if they’re not here.”

Max exhaled sharply through his nose. “It’s fine.” He knew it wasn’t, but at this point, he didn’t care. He needed answers for his own sanity. 

Lando studied him for a second, like he was deciding how honest he was allowed to be. “I just, kinda asked, I don’t know” he said finally. “It was the last time we played padel. It wasn’t some big plan or anything. I just mentioned it, and they didn’t really hesitate to answer.”

Something tight twisted in Max’s chest. “They didn’t think about it?” he scoffed. “At all?”

Lando tilted his head. “Not much, no.”

Max laughed under his breath, a humorless sound. “Right. So how much are you paying them?”

Lando’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Two million a year.”

The words landed heavier than Max expected. “Two million?” he repeated, staring. “Why the hell are you paying them that much?”

Lando didn’t answer right away. He just looked at Max. And something in that look made Max’s stomach drop.

“Wow,” Lando said quietly. “You really are that un-selfaware.”

Max frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lando sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I’ve watched you for years, mate. I’ve watched how you treat them.”

Max stiffened. “I don’t treat them badly.”

“You don’t say thank you,” Lando said calmly. “You just assume they’ll be there, all the time. Early mornings. Late nights. Dropping everything the second you call.”

Max opened his mouth and closed it, again.

Lando kept going, voice steady but firm. “They miss birthdays, family dinners. Whole chunks of their life because they’re keeping yours running. They manage your schedule, your chaos, your moods. They make sure you eat, sleep, get where you’re supposed to be.”

He leaned forward slightly. “I’m starting to think two million might not even be enough.”

Max swallowed, unsure of what to say. 

The waiter arrived then, cheerful and oblivious, rattling off specials. Max nodded along, and ordered automatically, his mind barely registering the words.

After that, neither of them brought you up again. They talked about racing, about the next weekend, about nothing that really mattered. But Max, truthfully, didn’t hear much of it. All he could think about was you. All he could think about was every time he’d snapped, every time he’d assumed you were fine, everytime he’d let you absorb the stress so he didn’t have to.

Two million. The number echoed in his head, not as money, but as weight, as worth.

After the dinner ended, he got into the car and just drove. At first, he told himself he was just clearing his head. That he needed the distance and space that driving alone brought. But the streets blurred together too easily, his hands turning the wheel without conscious thought, following a route his body clearly knew by heart.

When he realized where he was, he almost kept driving.

Your apartment building sat quietly across the street, familiar in a way that twisted something in his chest. He pulled over anyway. Let the engine idle. Watched a light flick on in one of the upper floors and wondered, irrationally, if it was yours. He stayed there longer than he meant to. Long enough for doubt to creep in. Long enough to almost convince himself this was selfish and  unfair and another ask he had no right to make.

But eventually, he picked up his phone.

Can you come outside?If you’re still awake.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, and appeared again.

Okay.

Relief hit him so hard it felt undeserved.

You came out a few minutes later, jacket pulled over whatever you’d changed into, movements slow and reluctant. You paused when you saw his car, as if bracing yourself, then crossed the street anyway. You didn’t ask why he was there, and you didn’t look annoyed. You just got in.

“Hey,” you said softly.

“Hey.” The word felt thin. Inadequate.

He drove without explaining, without asking your permission, and you let him. The silence wasn’t tense so much as it was careful, both of you holding something fragile between you, neither quite sure what it was yet.

The car was quiet in the way only places like this ever were. The overlook stretched out in front of you, Monaco lit up below like something unreal with soft gold and white lights spilling into the dark, the sea barely visible but always there. You’d been here a hundred times before, sometimes with Max, sometimes alone. It had always felt like a place meant for thinking, for honesty that you didn’t quite know how to have anywhere else.

Max had parked and cut the engine, but neither of you moved.

His hands stayed wrapped around the steering wheel for a moment longer than necessary. You watched his knuckles flex, relax, then flex again. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d expected.

“So,” he said. “My dinner tonight.”

You turned your head just enough to look at him. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t guarded, either. He looked tired, but also open in a way that made something in your chest tighten.

“I’m glad,” you said carefully before continuing. “That you’re getting back into the dating scene.”

That made him blink. “What?” He let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “No. It wasn’t like that.”

You frowned slightly. “No?”

“No.” He shook his head once. “I had dinner with Lando.”

Something in you lifted before you could stop it. A quick, traitorous flicker of relief, but then followed immediately by a sharp oh shit. You masked it as best you could, staring back out at the city.

“With Lando?” you repeated. “Why?”

He exhaled through his nose. “To talk about you.”

That landed heavier that he probably expected it to. You didn’t say anything, you didn’t need to. The silence between you clearly shifted, thickening, pressing in closer. Max took it as permission to continue.

“Everyone,” he said slowly, “seems to think I’m a terrible boss.”

You closed your eyes for half a second.

He glanced at you. “Do you?”

The question wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t angry. It sounded almost afraid.

You took a breath, deep and steady, like you’d practiced this conversation in your head long before tonight, because you definitely had.

“Yes,” you said, simply.

Max flinched.

You went on before he could interrupt. “You’ve never said thank you. Not once. You don’t ask how I’m doing, or if I’m okay, or if something is too much. You just assume I’ll handle it. You expect me to be available all the time. You give me impossible timelines and get frustrated when I can’t bend the world to fit them.”

You weren’t angry as you spoke. That surprised you most of all. Your voice stayed calm, even gentle.

“I don’t think you mean to,” you added. “But you haven’t even seen me, not really.”

Max stared straight ahead instead of at you, jaw tight. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” he asked quietly.

You shrugged, small and tired. “Because it wouldn’t have changed anything. You wouldn’t have changed.”

He turned to you then, urgency bleeding into his voice. “I would have.”

You shook your head, just once. “No. You wouldn’t have. And that’s okay.”

He looked stricken. “How can you say that?”

“Because I understand, now, at least” you said. “You need to be the way you are to keep everything running. You have a life that doesn’t allow for softness all the time. You have expectations, pressure from everyone everywhere, an image to protect.” You glanced at him. “I’ve made my peace with it.”

His voice cracked. “I don’t want you to leave.”

The words hung between you, raw and unguarded.

“I really like you,” he said, quieter now. “More than I should and way more than I ever planned to.”

Your heart stuttered.

For a moment, you considered it. What it would feel like to stay? To say yes? To let that admission be enough? 

“I like you too,” you admitted softly.

His breath caught.

“But,” you continued, “I can’t stay under boss Max.”

He searched your face desperately. “I can change.”

You smiled, sad but kind. “If you’re serious about this, about us,  then you have to let me go. More than ever.”

The truth of it settled between you, undeniable.

Max swallowed hard. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I understand,” he said.

Neither of you moved, but the air felt electric now, fragile and heavy all at once. Max lifted his hand, hesitating inches from your face, giving you time to stop him. You didn’t. His fingers brushed your cheek, warm and tentative, like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed. Your breath hitched. When he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed. It was careful, earnest.

The kiss was soft at first, your lips meeting like a question. Then, it deepened.

All the restraint of the past years cracked open at once. His hand slid into your hair, anchoring you. You leaned closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, grounding yourself in the reality of him. It tasted like honesty, like relief, like something finally spoken out loud.

For a moment, the world disappeared.

When you pulled apart, you stayed close, foreheads nearly touching, breathing each other in. Your eyes stayed closed longer than necessary.

It hurt. Not because it was wrong, but because it was right, and still not enough.

“I’m going to miss seeing you everyday,” Max whispered.

You nodded. “I know.”

He pressed one last kiss to your forehead,  gentle, and sweet, before leaning back.

Neither of you spoke again as the city lights shimmered below, witnesses to something that now mattered more than ever, even if it couldn’t last the way either of you wanted, and somehow, you were both going to have to be okay with it.

Taglist!! :p

@lunadi1una @jsprien213 @liciafonseca @8delirium8-blog @kevynnashley @stressed-cherry @a-beaverhausen @strawberrylov-er @sltwins @akariuta311101 @icecreamitycream @mottosblog @f1obsessor4life @juleshadalittlelamb @cherrylita @bakedlina @yumm267449 @thegirlunivers-blog @justaf1girl @celesteablack @gabrielekmi @miellette @patchoff1 @kissatelier @sunny44 @asexualbutasimp @dear-fifi @gabby-marrie15 @mayalove014 @vinylphwoar

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[lomlando]

the awkward one || MV3

summary: after the kiss, you knew it was bound to be awkward, but you didn't expect just how awkward the day could be.

content warnings: max being not a great boss, slight language!

word count: 3.5k

pairing: max verstappen x assistant!reader

SERIES: my dear assistant || may be confusing if read as a standalone one-shot!

a/n: IM BACK (i still can't fully walk but BABY STEPS)

You lay flat on your back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers if you looked hard enough. It didn’t. It never did. 

The room was dark except for the faint spill of streetlight sneaking through the gap in your curtains, casting thin lines across your bed. The sheets were twisted around your legs from where you’d tossed and turned, your body exhausted while your mind refused to follow. Every time you closed your eyes, the scene came back in full color.

The kiss.

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that might help shove the memory away. It had been late and he’d been drunk. Emotions had been high. Of course it hadn’t meant anything, of course it hadn’t. You told yourself that again and again, like the very repetition of it alone might finally make it true.

It was the timing, you reasoned with yourself still. The stress, the unspoken tension that had been building for what felt like weeks. People did stupid things under pressure all the time. You’d read about it, hell, you had lived it. This situation was no different.

Except your chest still felt tight.

Your hand lifted before you could stop it, fingers brushing lightly across your lips. The touch was barely there, feather-soft, but your breath hitched anyway. You could still remember how it had felt, how his lips had felt, warm and insistent, like he had been afraid you might disappear if he didn’t kiss you hard enough. Like he’d been holding it back for far too long and it had finally spilled over.

You dropped your hand to your chest like it had burned your lips. Don’t be ridiculous, you told yourself. He was drunk. You were tired. Monaco at two in the morning always had a way to do strange things to people.

Still, you turned your head into your pillow, a small, traitorous smile pulling at your mouth despite everything you were trying to tell yourself. The thought crept in quietly and dangerously soft. What if he liked you?

Not just relied on you. Not just needed you. But actually liked you.

The idea settled warm and unfamiliar in your chest, something almost hopeful threading through all of the anxiety. You hated how much you liked the thought. You hated how easily it made your stomach flip, how the very thought seemed to soften something inside you that you’d spent so painfully long keeping carefully in check.

You shook your head, forcing the smile away. Tomorrow would be awkward. You already knew that. You’d both pretend nothing had happened, dance carefully around each other with practiced professionalism, and you would hate every second of it.

Eventually, exhaustion won. Your thoughts slowed, tangling together until they no longer made sense, and you drifted off with the ghost of the kiss still lingering on your lips.

Across the city, Max lay awake in his own bed, staring at a different ceiling with the same hollow feeling in his chest.

The room was too quiet. No engine noise, no chatter in his ear, no hum of distraction to drown out his thoughts. He felt more sober than he had in weeks, clarity cutting sharp and unforgiving in his mind.

God, he’d kissed you.

The realization landed heavy every single time the thought resurfaced in his mind, his stomach twisting with it. He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his eyes like he could physically push the memory away somehow. He didn’t regret the kiss itself, not even in the slightess. He’d wanted to kiss you for longer than he was willing to admit.

What he regretted was everything it might cost him.

You hadn’t pulled away, but you hadn’t exactly leaned in either. He replayed it over and over, analyzing every second like telemetry data after a bad lap. Had you physically been frozen solid with fear? Had you just been too polite to stop him? Had you just been too tired to argue with a drunk man at two in the morning?

The thought made his chest ache.

His hand lifted, hesitating for just a moment before his fingers brushed across his lips. The memory was immediate and overwhelming. The way your lips had felt on his, your warmth, the way you’d gone still beneath his hand. He sucked in a sharp breath and shuddered, dropping his hand back to the mattress beside him.

Idiot, he thought bitterly. Absolute idiot.

He rolled onto his side, dread pooling low in his stomach. Had he’d ruined everything? The trust, the ease, the quiet understanding you’d built together piece by piece?

He didn’t know how he’d function without that.

You were the one constant in his life. The steady presence when everything else felt chaotic. Losing you, not just professionally, but personally, felt unbearable. Worse, it felt inevitable now, like he’d set something in motion he couldn’t undo.

He squeezed his eyes shut, the weight of the situation pressing down on him until his chest felt too small to hold it all. By the time sleep finally claimed him, it was restless and thin, filled with the same looping thought:

He’d wanted you too much, and he was almost certain it had cost him you entirely.

You hadn’t meant to stop at the convenience store in the morning. It happened the way old habits always came back.Your turn signal clicking on before you’d consciously decided, your car gliding into the familiar spot like muscle memory had taken over. The neon lights hummed softly overhead as you cut the engine, sitting there for a moment longer than necessary.

It was going to be a busy day, so Max probably wanted a Red Bull. The thought surprised you. It felt oddly out of place, like pulling an old sweater from the back of your closet and realizing you could still wear it. It felt like forever since last time you’d done this, picked up a drink for Max without thinking, without being asked. 

You swallowed, then pushed the door open before you could talk yourself out of it. Inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant. You grabbed the can from the cooler, cold biting into your palm, and paid quickly, ignoring the way your chest felt a little too tight over something so stupidly small. By the time you were back in the car, the can sat in your cup holder like an accusation.

You shook your head and started the engine. Today was about work, the drive to Nice, the watch store, the meet and greet, and the applicant. That was it. Nothing else.

Max’s apartment building came into view far too quickly. You parked at the curb, smoothing your hands over your outfit in a nervous, unnecessary gesture. You were dressed nicer than usual, tailored and intentional, the kind of look that said competent and put-together even if you felt like everything but those two words

You were still adjusting the mirror when the building’s door opened. Your breath caught.

Max stepped outside, sunlight catching the sharp line of his jaw, the clean cut of his suit fitting him like it had been designed with him in mind. His hair was styled just enough to look effortless, sunglasses tucked neatly into his jacket pocket. He looked unreal. Like he belonged on a billboard instead of your passenger seat.

You stared. And stared. So focused on how good he looked that you completely forgot to unlock the door.

Max reached for the handle, pulling it confidently, expecting it to open, and instead yanked against the resistance of the still very locked car. The force sent him stumbling back half a step, his shoulder bumping the car as he caught himself with a muttered curse.

“Oh fuck,” you blurted, fumbling for the lock. “I’m so sorry, I—”

The door unlocked with a loud click, far too late to save your dignity. Max shot you a look somewhere between amused and startled before climbing into the car.

You felt heat crawl up your neck. “I’m really sorry,” you said again, words tumbling over each other as you turned toward him. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” You knew you weren’t thinking at all, and that was the problem.

“It’s fine,” Max said, breathless laughter slipping out as he shut the door. “Guess I just assumed you had already opened it.”

You winced, but in an effort to overcompensate on the harmless mistake, because of course you thought you needed to, you grabbed the Red Bull from the cup holder and shoved it toward him. “I uh, I got you this.”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You did?”

“Yeah. I mean. I just—” You shrugged, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was. “Thought you might want one for the drive.”

“Thanks,” he said softly, fingers brushing yours as he took it.

Your pulse spiked. You reached out again without thinking, popping the tab open for him. Instant regret. The can hissed violently, foam exploding upward and cascading down your arm, cold and sticky all at once. You gasped, jerking your hand back.

“Oh my god—” Max swore. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, my fault” you said quickly and flustered. “I should’ve waited—”

Max was already leaning over, rummaging through your glove compartment like he’d done a hundred times before. He pulled out a handful of napkins and gently grabbed your wrist before you could react.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

The easy, simple contact froze you solid. He dabbed carefully at your arm, movements gentle and focused, his thumb warm against your skin. You could smell his cologne, something subtle and probably way too expensive. And suddenly the inside of the car felt far too small. Far too quiet.

When you looked up, you realized he was already looking at you. Awkward eye contact snapped into place, stretched thin and fragile. You both became acutely aware that you absolutely could have cleaned this up yourself. Even though you had always said the original flavor tasted like battery acid, it was nothing even close to that. But still, neither of you let go.

“Oh,” Max said, pulling his hand back like he’d been burned.

You inhaled sharply, reaching for the napkins he’d abandoned and started scrubbing your arm a little too aggressively.

“Sorry,” he said, throwing the remaining napkins into your lap. “I—uh.”

He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “You look good today.”

You paused. “Thanks,” you said, nodding, eyes still fixed firmly on your arm. 

“I mean, not that you don’t always look good,” he rushed on, words tripping over themselves. “You do. Always. I just meant, today especially. But not in a—” He stopped, exhaling hard. “I’m making this worse.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, nodding again like that might make it easier for him. “It’s fine.”

After that, the silence fell, slightly thick and uncomfortable, but mostly just awkward. 

“We should,” you started, then stopped, regrouped. “We should probably get on the road. Still need to pick up the applicant.”

Max’s shoulders relaxed visibly, relief flashing across his face. “Yeah. Right. Of course.”

He offered you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and twisted the Red Bull can in his hands.

You put the car in drive, pulling away from the curb as the city slid back into motion around you. Neither of you spoke, the space between you filled with everything you weren’t saying even though you both knew you needed to. 

Off to a great start, the applicant was late. That, unfortunately, was only the beginning.

You spotted her the moment you pulled up, standing on the curb with an oversized tote bag and possibly the highest high-heels you had ever seen. The dress was low cut, short, and flimsy. She had her sunglasses perched on her head like was on her way to a yacht party. You had sent her a briefing of what to wear for the event, clearly she had ignored it. 

Max saw her too, you could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened and the way his head quickly turned to look at you, mouth slightly agape. 

She leaned into the backseat with a bright, breathless smile. “Hi! Sorry, lunch traffic was insane.”

You glanced at the clock. It was 10 a.m.  But, still, you just nodded and smiled, because apparently that was your life now.

The drive to Nice stretched longer than it had any right to.

The applicant talked. Constantly. About the weather. About influencers she followed. About how she “just loved European men.” 

“So, Max,” she said at one point, voice pitching higher. “Do you, like,  ever get tired of people recognizing you?”

He shifted slightly in his seat. “Not really.”

She laughed too loudly and slapped his shoulder. “You’re so funny.”

You focused on the road.

At the watch store, the awkwardness multiplied. 

First, the applicant ignored the staff’s instructions and stood far too close to Max during photos, hovering like she was there as a celebrity too. Then, she tried to correct a sales associate on a detail about the watch, very loudly, and was immediately, politely contradicted by Max himself.

Finally, As you were standing beside Max, quietly going over the rest of the schedule, a girl approached. She was a teen, excited, vibrating with nerves.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. “Hi. I’m so sorry to interrupt, but—” She gestured vaguely between you and Max. “I just have to say, I ship you so hard.”

Your brain short-circuited. Max froze.

The girl barreled on, oblivious. “There’s, like, this whole community online. Everyone notices the way you two look at each other. It’s kind of iconic?”

You laughed weakly and Max did too, both of you echoing the same reflexive, polite sound.

“Oh,” you said. “That’s, wow!”

She beamed. “Anyway! Love you, Max. Good luck with everything.” And then she vanished into the crowd, leaving silence in her wake.

Max cleared his throat. “Right. Uhm the–the rest of the day.”

You nodded. “Right. The rest of the day”

Neither of you looked at each other.

By the time the meet-and-greet wrapped, you were once exhausted. You were ready to be home, back in your small apartment in Monaco with you feet up on the coffee table and a good show on the TV. It was supposed to be a pretty simple day all things considered, after all. All of that hope vanished quickly, though, when you stepped outside and immediately noticed the unmistakable sag of your front tire.

You swore under your breath.

Max followed your gaze. “Is that–?”

“It’s flat,” you said. “Very flat.”

The applicant peered at it from behind the both of you like it might spring back to life if observed long enough. “Oh no. Do you think it’s, like, dangerous?”

You smiled tightly, not even really sure what she meant by the question. “I think I should probably call someone to fix it.”

The wait felt endless. Conversation limped along in fragments. Stilted questions, half-answers, long pauses where no one quite knew where to look.

When the repair truck finally arrived, you nearly sighed in relief.

You were happy that the mechanic was friendly, but as the repair went on, he bordered on being too friendly. He crouched by the tire one last time, then stood, wiping his hands. “All good to go.” 

You nodded and thanked him, expecting to get the bill and that be the extent of your engagement.

Instead, his eyes flicked to you as he wrote the reciept. “So, do you live around here?”

Before you could answer, Max stepped closer,  subtle, but deliberate.

He smiled. “She’s with me.”

The mechanic blinked. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“We’re not—” you started at the same time. “We’re not—”

You both stopped again.

“together,” you finished awkwardly.

The mechanic laughed nervously. “Got it. Then, not sorry about that.” He scribbled something down and handed you a slip of paper anyway. “Just in case, it has my number on it.”

Max watched the paper change hands. His jaw tightened.

Back in the car, the silence was thick enough to choke on.

The applicant broke it, cheerful as ever. “So,” she said. “That was interesting.”

You started the engine. Max stared out the window. And no one said another word.

The applicant’s hotel drop-off was mercifully quick.

She thanked you both in a rush, something about needing to call her sister, something about how amazing the day was, and then she was gone, the car door closing with a dull thud that felt almost ceremonial.

You sat there for half a second longer than necessary. Then you and Max looked at each other.

And you both started laughing. It wasn’t polite laughter. It wasn’t even particularly graceful. It was the kind that burst out of your chest without warning, sharp and relieved, like your bodies had finally realized the day was over.

“Wow,” Max said once he caught his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was a rough day.”

You nodded, still smiling. “That’s one way to put it.”

Another laugh slipped out of him, quieter this time. “I don’t think I’ve ever been flirted with so badly and so aggressively in my life.”

“Oh, you definitely have,” you said. “Just not while trapped in my car.”

That got him again. A short, surprised laugh that made your chest feel warm in a way you tried not to analyze. But as quickly as it arrived, the moment passed.

The road back to his apartment was quieter. Not tense, exactly, and not really heavy. It was the  kind of silence that wasn’t uncomfortable but wasn’t easy either. It pressed in around you, once again filled with everything neither of you seemed willing to say.

You focused on the road. Max watched the city lights blur past the window. By the time you pulled up in front of his apartment building, your shoulders felt tight, like you’d been bracing for something all evening without knowing what.

You slowed to a stop. And that was when the universe decided to humiliate you.

The radio crackled once. Then your phone glitched. And suddenly, Sports Car by Tate McRae was blasting through the speakers at full volume.

You jolted in your seat. “Oh my god—”

The bass was loud. Aggressive. The lyrics unapologetically filthy.

Max burst out laughing. “I didn’t know this was your vibe,” he said, clearly delighted as you fumbled desperately with the controls. “I feel like I’m learning very important things about you right now.”

“I wish you weren’t,” you muttered, stabbing at the screen. “This is not— I don’t usually—”

He quieted a little as he actually listened. Really listened.

You risked a glance at him just as his expression shifted. His amusement melting into something warmer, something vaguely scandalized. His ears were turning pink.

“Oh,” he said slowly. “Oh. These lyrics are something.”

You finally managed to turn the volume down, heat rushing to your face the second you noticed him blushing.

He cleared his throat and let out a little laugh. “I mean, you know, I do technically own a sports car.”

You froze. He froze.

Your face heated instantly, pulse roaring in your ears. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, suddenly very aware of the space between you for what felt like the 12th time in the day. 

“I—” Max started, then winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nodded, staring very intently at the steering wheel. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

There was a beat. Then another. “Well,” he said, reaching for the door handle a little too quickly. “I should— yeah.”

He got out of the car without looking back. The door closed.

You sat there, hands still on the wheel, heart pounding like you’d just run a race you hadn’t trained for. You took a shaky breath, then another, trying to will yourself back into your body.

And then, in the most comedic timing ever, Sports Car blasted back on. Even louder this time. You groaned, dropping your forehead against the steering wheel. “You have got to be kidding me.”

By the time you were home, exhaustion hit you all at once.

You kicked off your shoes and collapsed onto the couch, barely bothering to move your bag off the cushion. Your phone buzzed not even a minute later.

Max.

You opened it immediately.

Forgot to mention. Got a bad vibe from that repair guy. You should lose his number.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Your mind flashed briefly to the folded slip of paper, long abandoned on the side of the road, forgotten almost instantly. You’d never even brought it into the car.

You didn’t reply. You just placed your phone flat against your chest, staring up at the ceiling as the weight of the day settled over you.

And suddenly, without drama or denial or room to argue, you realized it.

You had fallen for Max Verstappen.

The thought didn’t scare you like you had thought it would. Instead, it just sat there. Warm and certain.

Your eyes drifted closed, phone still pressed over your heart. And you fell asleep on the couch like that.

Taglist!! :p

@lunadi1una @jsprien213 @liciafonseca @8delirium8-blog @kevynnashley @stressed-cherry @a-beaverhausen @strawberrylov-er @sltwins @akariuta311101 @icecreamitycream @mottosblog @f1obsessor4life @juleshadalittlelamb @cherrylita @bakedlina @yumm267449 @thegirlunivers-blog @justaf1girl @celesteablack @gabrielekmi @miellette @patchoff1 @kissatelier @sunny44 @asexualbutasimp @dear-fifi @gabby-marrie15 @mayalove014 @vinylphwoar

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[maverist]

THE HOLIDAY Chapter 3

Chapter 1, Chapter 2... The Holiday Minilist & Main Masterlist

warnings! sfw, fem!readers, use of y/n, time zone & phone call inaccuracies, strong language, fluff & implied smut

"Hello?" Lando answers, sounding half asleep, half guilty.

"So are you ever coming home?"

"Shit- sis. Hi."

"How's it going?"

"Great. Simply lovely," he answers.

"Funny," you reply, "considering you're at Max's cottage."

He winces. "Yeah... about that, I'm terribly sorry I went off the grid. In my defense, I did tell Mum to tell you."

"Thanks," you reply dryly. "Do you know how worried Carlos and I have been?"

"Carlos-?"

A beep interrupts him.

"Fuck. Call waiting. Can you hold for a sec? Hold on. I really want to talk to you."

"Sure."

He switches lines.

"Hello."

"Lando, hi."

He stares at the screen. "Y/N? Hi. How are you?"

"Good. Everything's great. How are you?"

"Fantastic. Can you hold for a sec? My sister's on the other line."

"Sure."

He flips back.

"So... Carlos?" he asks, brow furrowed.

"He flew over here," she says. "He was worried about you. Then the storm hit and there were no flights out of Monaco, so he stayed the night."

"Right... can you hold on for a sec."

A click. Then-

"Shit- wait- I think I merged the calls. Nobody hang up."

He takes a deep breath. "Darling, can I call you back?"

You laugh. "So Max's friend, huh?"

"Please- just- hold for a sec," Lando mutters, dragging a hand through his curls, visibly stressed.

"I'm so sorry, I'm going to have to call you back," hesays to you.

You smile. "Sure. Talk to you later, handsome."

Then-

"l can't believe you've been having sex with Carlos in my apartment!"

You snort. "Still me."

"Shit. I must've lost her."

He fumbles, redials, breathless. "I can't believe you had sex with my friend in my guest bedroom, I hope it was my guest bedroom, and you didn't tell me! What happened to Carlando?!"

"Well," you say sweetly, "you've been a little hard to reach lately. What with you dodging my calls..."

Lando exhales a shaky, small, exhausted breath.

"I’m okay," he says quietly. "I'm with Y/N, Max’s friend. I just… needed space."

Your voice softens. "We know. We just wanted to make sure you were safe."

His sister's voice cracks. "You scared us."

"I know," he murmurs. "I’m sorry."

Carlos calls from the background, warm and steady, "We’ll talk when you get back, hermano."

Lando lets out a breath that sounds like relief. "Yeah. Okay." A pause. Then his sister sighs, "I'm hanging up before someone accidentally confesses something else."

You groans. "Please do."

Lando laughs, the first real laugh you've heard from him in weeks.

"Talk soon. I love you," he says.

"I love you too."

And the line clicks off.

You're still holding your phone when the call ends, staring at the blank screen like it might come to life and explain what the hell just happened.

Carlos is watching you from the kitchen doorway, arms folded, eyebrow raised. "Well?" he asks.

You exhale. "He knows."

Carlos nods once, unsurprised. "Figured."

"And... he's with Max's friend. In Surrey."

That makes him pause. "Max's friend?"

You nod.

Carlos rubs his jaw, processing. "Alright. We'll deal with it when he gets back. He's safe, that's what matters.

You soften. "You're not angry?"

He shakes his head. "At you? Never. For your brother, he's hurting, he needed space. And he's not alone, that's good."

There's a quiet moment where the two of you just look at each other, the storm outside finally easing into a soft drizzle.

Carlos glances at the clock, avoiding your eyes. "My flight's at one."

You cross your arms. "Okay... but you're not leaving without breakfast."

He smiles, that slow, warm, devastating smile that has your heart turning to a puddle on the floor. "Then I guess we'd better get started."

You start with the eggs, while he fusses with the coffee machine, the two of you bumping hips at the stove like you've been doing this for years. He steals a strawberry from your bowl, and you flick water at him in retaliation.

He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest as he sinks to the floor, with shouts of "mi amor, how could you do this to me". You laugh, something bright and unguarded, and his eyes never leave you. He's memorising everything: your laugh, your smile, the way you blush when he looks at you too long. Memorising you.

Somewhere between the fridge and the counter, his hand brushes your waist.

Somewhere between the coffee and the eggs, you lean into him without thinking.

The eggs never get cooked.

And you end up pressed against the counter, his mouth on yours, your hands in his hair, the storm outside forgotten. He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you down the hall, as breakfast lies abandoned behind you.

Later, you're lying tangled in sheets, the room warm and dim, your breathing finally slowing. Carlos lies on his side, propped on one elbow, looking at you like he's trying to memorise every detail all over again.

He brushes a thumb across your cheek. "You know… I cancelled my flight."

You blink. "What?"

He smiles, sheepish. "While you were on the phone with Lando. I just… didn’t want to go."

Your heart stutters. "Carlos…"

He shakes his head gently. "I was just thinking... why would I ever leave before New Year's Eve? That makes no sense at all." He pauses for a second. "I mean, I know I haven't asked you out amor, but I'm hoping I've got a date. If you'll have me."

You swallow, heat rising to your cheeks.

He leans in, kissing you softly, once, twice, then deeper, slower, like he’s trying to tell you something he isn't ready to say out loud.

You pull him closer, as he laughs against your mouth. You kiss him again.

And again.

And again.

The morning stretches into afternoon, all soft touches and whispered jokes and the kind of warmth that makes you never want to leave this cocoon you've built together.

While Monaco settles into a quiet, golden afternoon, Surrey is a different world entirely.

Lando sits alone in Max's cottage, the silence pressing in around him. Too many thoughts. Too many feelings he's been avoiding.

He tries to text you, twice, and deletes both. Meanwhile, you check your phone more often than you're willing to admit. Nothing. Not since the phone call. Not since he realised how much he misses you.

He tosses his phone aside, scrubbing a hand over his face. It's fear, he realises. The fear of wanting something again, the fear or losing it.

Then his phone buzzes.

He scrambles for it, pathetically... desperately, hoping, aching for it to be you.

But it's his older sister.

"Lando," she says, "you're being an idiot."

He groans. "Thanks."

"No, listen. Carlos stayed for me. He cancelled his flight home, Lando. I'm happy, really, truly happy. And you... I know I can't understand what you're feeling. Losing that championship and her must've broken your heart. But you sound lighter when you talk about Y/N. Happier. Like yourself again."

He goes quiet.

"So please think about it. You deserve to be happy."

The call ends.

A moment later, Max messages him.

Lando exhales, something shaky and decisive.

And that’s it.

He grabs his coat, Max's keys, he doesn't think, just drives to you.

You’re in the kitchen with your parents when the doorbell rings.

Your mum calls, "Sweetheart, someone's here for you!"

You freeze.

You open the door, and there he is. Wind‑flushed cheeks, curls a mess, eyes soft and terrified, but undeniably him.

"Hi," he breathes. "I… needed to see you."

Before you can respond, your dad appears behind you.

"Oh! You must be Lando. Come in, come in."

Lando looks like he’s been ambushed by kindness, and by the realisation that you've told your parents about him.

He steps inside.

It’s warm, and loud. It’s domestic in a way he hasn’t felt in months.

He sits beside you at the table, close enough that his knee brushes yours. His hand finds your thigh under the table, or he rests his arm behind your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder. He has to be touching you somehow, like he can't bear the idea of losing you.

Your parents ask him everything: how the season's been, how he's finding Surrey, how Max is, what his plans are for the winter break, whether he's eating properly in a way that parents do. He answers every question with his hand wrapped around yours.

And by the end of the night, your parents adore him. You watch him laugh with them, and something in your chest loosens, something you didn't realise you'd been holding tight. Then he squeezes you hand three times, gentle and sure, and when he turns to you, there's something in his eyes, something soft, settled, like he's already home.

Your parents leave with hugs and promises to see you both soon, the door clicking shut behind them.

You're clearing plates when he comes up behind you, hands sliding around your waist, warm, sure, dipping a little lower than necessary.

"You didn’t tell me your parents were this lovely," he murmurs into your neck, breath warm on your skin.

You laugh softly, tilting your head back to give him better access, as he presses slow, teasing kisses along the column of your throat. "You didn’t tell me you were planning on showing up at my door."

He turns you in his arms with a gentle, urgent pull.

"I couldn't stay away."

And then he's kissing you, slow, deep, certain, holding you like he's afraid you might vanish if he loosens his grip. Like he's half convinced this is a dream he'll wake up from.

You melt into him, fingers gripping his hair as he moans into you, the warmth of his body grounding you, anchoring you, pulling you closer.

You're lying together, tangled in sheets, breaths slowing as he traces lazy circles on your hip.

"So you're totally great," he says.

You sigh. "Yeah, this is a bitch."

He huffs a laugh. "Okay. Let's be adults."

You grin. "Terrifying."

He shifts onto his back, staring at the ceiling like he's bracing himself. "I travel a lot. You’re busy. I’m busy. We’re in different countries half the time."

You nod, heart thundering.

"But I want to make it work," he says. "So... let's say we just make this happen. We commit to flying back and forth as much as we can."

"Yes!" you breathe. "It's doable, definitely."

He swallows. "And then let's say in six months we hit a wall. We don't see each other enough, and when we do it's over the phone. And we start to feel the tension. We know it's not working, so we start fighting because we don't know what else to do. And then, after a long, tearful, at my end-"

You laugh softly, one loses his train of thought, smiling helplessly.

"-phone call," he finises. "We say goodbye."

Your throat tightens, tears prickling at the corner of your eye.

"That'll be it, for real. lt's not like we'll ever bump into each other. And then what's left? Two miserable people... feeling totally mashed up and hurt. Or..."

"Thank you," you whisper. You kiss him, swallowing his spiralling thoughts, his fear, your own.

When you pull back, he's looking at you. Really looking.

"I'm in love with you."

You freeze. Not because you don’t feel it, because you feel it too much.

"l apologise for the blunt delivery," he says quickly. "But as problematic as this... fact may be, I am in love. With you. I'm not feeling this way because I'm leaving. And not because it feels good to feel this way. Which, by the way, it does. I can't figure out the mathematics of this. I just know I love you. And I can't believe how many times I'm saying it, so please stop me. I also recall you promising me you wouldn't fall in love with me. Must pay better attention-"

You kiss him again, effectively shutting him up as you roll your bodies so you're straddling him. Lando smiles into the kiss, hands sliding to your waist, holding you there but now he know you won't disappear.

You pull back just enough to see him, and he looks lighter than he has in months.

"Come with me," he says suddenly. "To Monaco. For New Year’s. Carlos is there. My sister’s there. It’ll be… good. It’ll be us."

Your breath catches. "Okay," you whisper. "Yes."

His whole face lights up, bright, boyish, relieved, like you've just handed him the future he didn't think he was allowed to want.

Lando’s apartment is glowing.

Fairy lights drape across the apartment, the tree Carlos and Lando's sister picked sparkles in the corner, and the soft hum of music fills the space, filling the whole room with joy and something warm, like the start of something new.

Carlos and Lando's sister emerge from the kitchen carrying plates of food, laughing about something you can't quite hear. They look domestic in a way that makes your chest ache, like they've been doing this forever.

You and Lando stand by the tree, his hands resting lightly on your waist as you sway together. It's not really dancing, more like moving in the same direction at the same time, bodies close, breaths mingling, the world narrowing to the warmth between you.

He presses a kiss to your temple. "You look happy," he murmurs.

You smile. "I am."

He holds you a little tighter.

Lando’s sister calls your name softly.

You slip out of his arms, and she pulls you into a hug that's warm and real.

"I'm so glad you’re here, that you found each other" she says, eyes bright. "He's… different with you. Lighter. Like he can breathe again."

You swallow, touched. "I'm glad I found him too."

She squeezes your hand. "He's happy. And Carlos-" she glances toward the kitchen, cheeks warming "-he's… everything."

You both laugh, soft and conspiratorial, two women sneaking looks at their men, an unexpected, gentle end to the year.

Across the room, Lando and Carlos are talking quietly. Carlos says something that makes Lando laugh, really laugh, the kind that crinkles his eyes and softens his whole face. Lando leans in, whispering something back, and Carlos pulls him into a hug, clapping his back. It's brotherly, and grounding. It’s everything they both needed.

You and Lando's sister watch them from the doorway, sharing a look that says we chose well.

Lando's phone buzzes on the counter. He picks it up, smiling. "Mum," he says, answering. Her face fills the screen, warm, excited, already emotional.

"Look at you!" she beams. "My beautiful children! And you’ve brought company!"

Carlos leans into frame, pressing a soft kiss to Lando's sister's forehead and waving with his free hand. You appear beside Lando, his arm instinctively sliding around your waist.

His mum lights up.

"Oh, this is perfect," she says. "Next year, all of you come to ours. No excuses. I want a full house."

Lando looks back at you, soft, certain, hopeful. You look back, and it feels like a promise.

drew's notes! welcome to the third and final chapter of the holiday, i hope you've enjoyed this mini series & that you all have a magical 2026!