Synopsis: Childhood friends turned F1 royalty, Max and Ciara finally realise the love everyone else saw coming — and now he’ll burn the world down before he lets anything touch her.
Moonlight Radio: A video popped up on my 'for you page' of little Max and Michael having a hug and I just couldn’t resist writing this one. I’ve had the character Ciara Schumacher in the bank for awhile, so I thought this is the perfect time to use her. (And keep her in mind as I’ve got big plans for her and max in the future!)
The paddock had always been loud, but nothing compared to the noise that followed Max Verstappen and Ciara Schumacher when they walked in together.
It wasn’t just attention - it was orbit. Cameras swung, heads turned, and even seasoned journalists straightened up like schoolchildren. They were the couple everyone watched, the one every tabloid tried to decode, the one every fan adored. The golden boy of Red Bull and the daughter of the greatest driver the sport had ever seen. The legacy pair. The inevitable duo.
But to them, it was just… them.
Max’s hand rested on the small of her back as they walked toward the garage, thumb tracing slow, absent‑minded circles. He always did that - grounding himself, grounding her, reminding the world she was his without ever needing to say it.
“You’re staring,” Ciara murmured, not looking up from her tablet.
“I’m allowed,” Max replied, not even pretending to deny it.
“You’re supposed to be focusing on FP3.”
“I am. I’m focusing on the most important part of FP3.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “I’m not part of FP3.”
“You’re part of everything.”
He said it so casually, like it was a fact of physics. Like gravity.
—
They had known each other since they were six - two tiny kids running around the karting track while their fathers watched with crossed arms and identical smirks. Jos and Michael had been rivals, friends, and co‑conspirators in equal measure. And nothing delighted them more than the way their children gravitated toward each other.
There were photos - hundreds of them - of Max and Ciara sitting on tyre stacks, sharing juice boxes, falling asleep on each other’s shoulders during long race weekends. There were videos of them racing each other in karts far too big for them, screaming with laughter, shouting accusations of cheating.
And there were the bets.
Their fathers had started making them before Max and Ciara even understood what romance was.
“Five euros says they’ll start dating at sixteen,” Jos had said once, arms crossed as he watched the two kids bicker over who got the last packet of crisps.
Michael had laughed. “Sixteen? Please. They’ll be too busy racing. Twenty-one.”
“Eighteen.”
“Twenty.”
“Fine. Twenty.”
They shook on it.
Neither of them won.
Because Max and Ciara didn’t get together at sixteen, or eighteen, or twenty. They didn’t even realise what they were to each other until they were twenty‑three, sitting on the roof of Max’s Monaco apartment, legs dangling over the edge as the city glittered below them.
She had leaned her head on his shoulder. He had kissed the top of her hair. And suddenly everything made sense.
They didn’t fall in love. They grew into it.
—
“Ciara, can I get a quick interview?”
A reporter stepped in front of her now, mic raised, smile too eager. Max stiffened beside her instantly, shoulders squaring, jaw tightening. He didn’t like when people swarmed her. He didn’t like when they pushed too close. He didn’t like when they forgot she was a person, not a headline.
He didn’t like anything that made her uncomfortable.
But Ciara touched his arm lightly - a silent I’m fine - and he exhaled.
“Sure,” she said politely.
The reporter beamed. “How does it feel being part of the biggest power couple in Formula 1?”
Ciara laughed softly. “I don’t think about it like that. We’re just… us.”
“And your father — the legend himself — did he ever imagine you’d end up with Max?”
“Oh, he absolutely did,” she said, eyes sparkling. “He and Jos used to make bets about it.”
The reporter’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“Really,” Max cut in, voice warm but firm, stepping closer so their arms brushed. “And for the record, they were both wrong.”
The reporter laughed, thanked them, and moved on.
As soon as they were alone again, Max leaned down, murmuring, “You okay?”
“Perfect.”
He kissed her temple. “Good.”
—
Later, after FP3, after debriefs, after the chaos of the paddock settled into its usual hum, Ciara found Max sitting on the pit wall, helmet beside him, staring out at the empty track.
She slid in beside him. “You’re quiet.”
“Thinking.”
“About?”
He hesitated. Max Verstappen didn’t hesitate often. “You.”
She nudged him. “That’s not thinking. That’s your default setting.”
He huffed a laugh, but his eyes stayed serious. “I saw the way that cameraman shoved past you earlier. You almost tripped.”
“Max—”
“I should’ve been there.”
“You were in the car.”
“I still should’ve been there.”
She turned fully toward him. “You can’t protect me from everything.”
“I can try.”
“And I love that you try,” she said softly. “But I’m okay. I’ve been in this world my whole life.”
“That’s exactly why I worry,” he muttered. “You grew up in the spotlight. You grew up with pressure. You grew up with expectations. I just… I want to make it easier for you.”
“You do,” she whispered. “Every day.”
He looked at her then - really looked - and she saw it all in his eyes. The devotion. The fear. The love that ran so deep it scared him sometimes.
“Max,” she said gently, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He swallowed. “Good.”
—
That night, they returned to their hotel, exhausted but buzzing with the familiar pre‑qualifying adrenaline. Ciara curled up on the bed while Max paced, still wired.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” she teased.
“I’m thinking.”
“You think a lot.”
“Only about you.”
She threw a pillow at him. He caught it easily, smirking, then crossed the room and sat beside her.
“You know,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I used to get jealous.”
“Used to?”
“Okay, still do.”
“Of what?”
“Anyone who gets to be near you. Anyone who gets to talk to you. Anyone who looks at you like they have a chance.”
She laughed. “Max—”
“I’m serious,” he said, voice low. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. Since you beat me in that stupid kart race and stuck your tongue out at me.”
“I remember.”
“I knew then,” he said. “I knew you were it for me.”
Her heart squeezed. “I knew too. I just didn’t know I knew.”
He leaned his forehead against hers. “We were always going to end up here.”
“Always.”
—
The next morning, as they walked into the paddock again - hand in hand, sunlight catching on their matching bracelets - a photographer muttered to another, “They’re the it couple, aren’t they?”
Max heard it.
He didn’t care.
He leaned down, kissed Ciara’s cheek, and whispered, “They have no idea.”
Because the world saw glamour, legacy, perfection.
But Max saw the girl who shared juice boxes with him at six.
The girl who held his hand during his first kart crash.
The girl who sat beside him on rooftops and made the world quiet.
The girl he would protect with every breath he had.
The girl he loved long before either of them understood what love was.
And as they stepped into the garage, fingers intertwined, he knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Their fathers hadn’t lost the bet.
They’d just underestimated how inevitable it really was.
🇬🇧 02.07.2026 | F1 Grand Prix of Great Britain: Media Day
Silverstone, UK. 02nd July, 2026. Oscar Piastri (AUS) McLaren F1 Team MCL40. 02.07.2026. Formula 1 World Championship, Rd 9, British Grand Prix, Silverstone, England, Preparation Day. Photo credit should read: XPB/Alamy Live News.
