synopsis: growing up with max verstappen consisted of hand-holding, casual touches and lingering glances that never really needed any explanation. but somewhere in-between childhood and adulthood, those "casual touches" gained meaning and distance turned into longing neither one of you could name.
genre: angst, lots and lots of angst, fluff towards the end i promise.
word count: 971
aria yaps: i think this had been rotting in my drafts since december last year lol, i finally got around to editing it and polishing it up. hope you guys are excited for the series!
warnings: j*s verstappen, mentions of child abuse (not explicitly explained)
the first memory i had of max verstappen is his hand in mine, small, warm. he was just entering the junior league for karting, i didn't know what it was at the time or what it meant for the future. i just knew that max loved driving these mini cars that would go around the race track, and i loved watching him do it.
i was eight years old and he was ten, that's the earliest memory i have of us together— or earliest memory of my entire life.
snow was falling around the racetrack and i had forgotten to bring my gloves with me, my mom had reminded me beforehand but i still forgot. too excited to see max race in the big boy leagues to remember that the weather would affect me.
"you're fidgeting," max commented, eyes not leaving the track as other boys and girls continued practicing on the track. i immediately stopped playing with my fingers to look up at him, my hand in his. his cheeks were dusted pink, not from being flustered, but from the race he had finished and the cold, "what's wrong?"
"nothing, i just forgot to bring my gloves," i murmured, not wanting to make my discomfort a burden to him. the next thing i knew was him taking off his gloves and slipping them on gently onto my hands. they were slightly too big on me. his touch was always gentle, loving, compared to what he had to experience at home.
max had always been like that, comforting, gentle, soft-spoken. he never yelled at me, never shown me the cruelty that his father had inflicted onto him as a child.
the next memory i had was when i was ten years old and him being twelve. i was late for school.
my mom was stressed out, she had to do everything herself as she was a single mother. me and my sister didn't help by waking up late, she was running around the house trying to get us ready and max had slept over the night before. he had woken up from his slumber to try and help my mom get ready for school.
"this is why you don't stay up late reading books," max scolded, no real bite in his tone. he was more reminding me than anything. i was pouting, not because he had scolded me but because i had to wake up early to get to school. i hated mondays.
he was brushing my hair back, tying it up in a ponytail before turning me around to see his handiwork, "go get your bag, and listen to your mom," you roll your eyes playfully, max was sounding like my non-existent dad.
another memory i had of us together was his dad driving to a town over for a karting championship. i was eleven and he was thirteen.
the rumble of the car had always made me sleepy, it was just easier to fall asleep in the car because of the white noise. max was holding my hand, 'to ease your nerves,' he says. it was more for him than for me. i was never nervous about him getting into an accident when karting. he almost never did.
what i was nervous about was how his dad would react to if he had placed lower than expected in the race, but i wasn't paying mind to it at this point. i was just terribly sleepy.
"stop fighting and and just sleep," max had whispered to me, i glance at him for permission, he gives a curt nod before resting my head on his shoulder, "i'll wake you up when we're there, i promise."
then there's another memory i have, i think we were fiften and seventeen respectively, he had just gotten into formula 1, his dream. he had skipped formula 2 entirely because he had so much talent.
"are you crying?" max laughed as he walks up towards me and embraced me, wiping my tears away, "why are you crying, schatje?" he asks with giggling erupting from his chest.
i was crying because i was so proud of him, i had watched him grow up to be this talented young man that had finally been accepted to race in a proper race car— a freaking formula 1 car, "i'm proud of you, maxie."
his nose was in my hair, still giggling, baffled over the fact that i was crying because i was just so damn proud, "it's not formula 1 yet, remember? still the junior team," max reminded me, but i didn't care. all i cared about was that his hard work was paying off.
then he was eighteen and i was sixteen.
"dad says that moving to monaco would sound better financially," max spoke, his eyes didn't meet mine. i didn't know if it was because he felt guilt for telling me so late or because he didn't have the courage to meet my eyes.
i couldn't speak, the words stuck in my throat. the news was just surprising, it cut deep. him moving meant seeing him less, it meant that our only way of communicating was through phone calls or texts.
max looked at me finally, but i wasn't looking at him anymore. i was looking away, out the window of the house we basically both grew up in, "say something, please," he almost whispered, but what was there to say? 'please stay, i would miss you terribly.'
that didn't sound right to you. if him moving to monaco meant it'd be better for his family financially, then who were you to hold him back?
"when are you leaving?" were the only words that left my lips as he came close, using his hands and body for comfort. his arms wrapped around my middle.
pairing: max verstappen x childhoodbestfriend!fem!reader
synopsis: growing up with max verstappen consisted of hand-holding, casual touches and lingering glances that never really needed any explanation. but somewhere in-between childhood and adulthood, those "casual touches" gained meaning and distance turned into longing neither one of you could name.
genre: angst, lots and lots of angst, fluff towards the end i promise.
warnings: j*s verstappen, mentions of child abuse (but not explicitly explained), mentions of domestic abuse, alcohol consumption, sex (not explicitly described but heavily implied). warnings will be updated as the series progresses
MAIN MASTERLIST ᰔ ASK ME ANYTHING ᰔ REQUEST A FIC!
prologue
chapter one: things i didn't know i'd miss
chapter two: the quiet between us
chapter three: wrong hands, right ache
chapter four: gravity has favorites
chapter five: almost isn't close enough
chapter six: if it didn't matter, it wouldn't hurt
summary: it was confusing, even though you were continents apart, you never understood why max never responded to your letters, until you attend the belgium gp to finally get the answers you were looking for.
inspired by the prompt,
"why did you never reply to my letters?"
"you wrote me letters?"
genre: fluffy, the fluffiest fluff i've ever fluffed.
word count: 4.4k
aria yaps: i have worked on this non-stop for two days, and i loved the way it turned out, maybe one of my favorite works. enjoy reading this as much as i enjoy writing this!!
SECOND PART ᰔ MASTERLIST ᰔ REQUEST A FIC!
she was always around max, either from the sidelines or the first person max ran to when he won a race, it was always her. not even his father, even though he held his father to the highest regard, but it was always her.
the little wrinkles on the edge of her eyes when she smiled at him, the way her lips would curl up, or the way she would giggle every. single. time. that he would come and hug her after every race finish. he remembers it all. and the way he would snuggle his face in the crook of her neck and asked her softly after he would win a race, 'did you see me win, schatje?'
she would always smile back with a laugh, 'of course i did maxie.'
it was always about max, her life revolved around him, whether he liked it or not. she adored him and maybe he adored her a little bit more. they were childhood friends, they were inseparable since they were little babies, their mothers being friends made it even harder for the both of them to not be attached at the hip.
she loved being in his presence and he loved her.
the divorce between jos and sophie was hard on max, he blamed himself and his career but she was always there to tell him that it's not his fault. that their decision was their own and she never forgot to tell max that it wasn't his fault, no matter how much they told him that it was.
she saw the way jos had pushed max to his limits, get physical with his own son and his way of escaping that life was run to her arms, she was there tending to every bruise, every wound whether physical or emotional. she was his rock and it was final. nothing anyone could ever say or do would change his name.
"schatje," max had gently woken her up from her slumber, and she stirred awake from his soft voice, she noticed where she was and finally remembered what happened.
max had finished lower than expected and jos had thrown hurtful things about max, she was there on his mother's couch, comforting him and had fallen asleep that way, with max on her lap, "are you sleepy?"
she shook her head, not wanting to admit that yes, indeed she was sleepy, but if max needed comfort then that wasn't a big deal to her, "what's wrong maxie?"
"nothing, you can sleep on my bed if you're tired. i can sleep here," max had brushed a stray strand of her hair behind her ear but she refused, she hated taking his bed because she knew how uncomfortable the couch was, she wanted him to sleep well.
but he wouldn't allow her to take the couch, so they both slept on sophie's couch almost cuddled with eachother because they were both stubborn.
max was necessarily content with how he was living his life right now, but she made it better and that's all he could ask for. was it her smile? maybe her presence? max didn't care. the first memory he could remember from his early childhood was her, and it was etched into his memory like stone.
she was content with being max's rock, she was there to keep him grounded and she too only had memories of him from her early childhood. she wouldn't replace him for the world, he was too precious for anything in this earthly world.
but there was one day, it felt like a bomb dropped on her. her father had told her that he would have to move to korea to continue work, and she didn't know how to break the news to max until a few days before she had to leave.
she knew it was wrong to keep something this big away from max, but she was so stricken with anxiety that she never got the chance to until max came over to her house and saw all the packed boxes with their belongings.
"why didn't you tell me sooner?" max was angry, she could tell, by the way he was pacing around her room, looking at the packed boxes around. max thought he meant more to her than just a measly friend, he felt frustrated— betrayed almost. why wouldn't she tell him? why would she keep something as big as this away from him?
"why didn't you say something before? why now? why before you could see me race this weekend?" max was raising his voice now, and she didn't know what to do. her eyes turned glassy and those doe eyes max loved so much just looked so sad.
she stayed quiet, a guilty look on her face. she knew max would break from the news, and she knew that it would affect his performance, but she didn't know how to stay, how to convince her father that she didn't want to go, so yet again, she stayed silent in important moments of her life.
"schatje, can you say something? say anything?!" max yelled and she flinches, she didn't know what to say or what to do, she wanted to say something, say anything. but nothing would come to her lips. it was so hard for her when he was angry like this, it reminded her of his father and his father was deathly scary when angry.
a sigh escapes max's lips when he sees her flinch, coming close to her to wrap her in a hug. tears escaped from her eyes as she held onto max tight, "i didn't know how to tell you," she whispers into max's ear but max didn't say anything to that, just held her even tighter and he did not want to let go.
"it's okay schatje, i'm not mad at you. i could never get mad at you, i'm sorry for raising my voice. i just don't want you to go," tears started to escape max's eyes too, he didn't want to see her go. he wanted her to stay, and she did too. but the universe was pulling them apart and there was nothing either of them could do about it.
the ride to the airport was tough, being only fifteen and sixteen respectively. max held her hand the entire time, not wanting to let go, he didn't want her to leave, she was his biggest support system and he couldn't imagine her gone like that.
she was the most scared of the two of them, what if her father never returned to belgium? what if she was stuck there in korea forever? what if she never got to see his pretty blue eyes anymore?
max was the one to ground her, no longer lost in her thoughts, "can you promise me we'll keep in touch? or maybe visit from time to time?" max was holding onto her hands tightly, she felt like they would bruise, she could only smile and nod.
her mother had called her over, it was time to go. she looked at max for what it felt like the last time and left her life in belgium.
dear schatje,
hi, this is the first week that you're gone and it's bene been so hard without you here with me. i forgot that you weren't here anymore and i was expecting to see your face, but when i didn't, i may or may not have almost cried.
i miss you so much. tell me how it is in korea, is it cold? do they have bears there? what about the food? is it good? can you eat it? i heard there's a lot of spiy spicy food there? honestly i don't care about what they have there, i just care about you.
when can you visit again? can you tell me if you're ever coming back? i'm so worried about you there, i miss you... so much schatje.
written with a lot of love, your maxie.
max always handed off his letters to his father, telling his father to hand it off to his mother because apparently they kept in contact and wanted to send it off to the post office on behalf of him.
he just wondered how she was doing there.
it's been months and countless of letters max had sent, and none of them replied. he was starting to lose hope, he didn't want to think that his best friend would forget about him so easily like that, but he held out hope. he knew that she wouldn't magically forget about him now that she was there.
jealousy bubbled within him when he realized that she would be meeting new people, what if she met someone like him? who enjoyed karting and wanted to steal her attention?
no, he couldn't be thinking like that. he loved her and he knew she loved him as much as he did, so he told himself to just be patient, maybe letters to korea took months to reach?
the naviety was almost laughable but he was fine with it. he just wanted to hear back from his pretty girl.
"i do not understand why you keep writing letters to that stupid girl, she doesn't reply to you and all it does is distract you," jos had reprimanded his son, but max was stubborn. he didn't care what his father had to say, he loved all of her, even when she was thousands of kilometers away. he wanted to talk, even when she never replied.
max was in the process of writing another letter, but he never listened to his father, not about her. not about how much of a distraction she's been to his career, he didn't care. he used it as motivation to get better on the track, so the next time she saw him, he would be a world champion, that's what he silently promised to her.
it had been two years, and he hadn't heard a peep back. slowly, he was starting to lose hope but he couldn't lose hope, every single time he would send off the letters, he told himself that maybe it got lost in the mail.
max kept writing though.
max's debut in f1 was explosive to say the least, his interviews would absolutely go viral by the things he was saying in them. he didn't understand why, he just said what was on his mind.
what was truly on his mind was her.
was he not good enough for her? was him being in f1 not enough to impress her? why wouldn't she write back?
oh god how he missed her.
he still wrote to her weekly, it was religious at this point. he never forgot and he always told his father to send them off to his mother and the week after that was always disappointment because he wouldn't hear anything back.
little did he know, she never received those letters.
max had slowly stopped writing letters as he got into f1, he didn't see a point in it anymore. she never replied. she didn't care. letters didn't take years to reach korea, and he finally lost hope.
winning his first championship felt empty, the pretty girl who used to be waiting for him wasn't there for him anymore. of course, he was happy to win such an impressive feat, who wouldn't? but it just... lacked her.
max indeed lost hope that she would ever write back, but never lost hope that she was out there, somewhere, watching him race every single week and beat the shit out of his rivals. she loved watching him race and that's what he intended to do until the day he died, he wanted to impress her, maybe that was his ulterior motive to becoming a formula one driver.
all just to impress his best friend who had lost contact with him for a decade now.
"you need to stop figdeting so much," her mother had scolded her, she could only laugh nervously and stop fidgeting around. she wondered why max never wrote back to her, she had written him letters. did he hate her for moving out to korea and not coming to visit belgium?
she shook the thoughts out of her head, she was here now. for his home race, and for the rest of her life. her father had now decided to move back to belgium, because and i quote, 'i don't want my daughter to lose touch with her culture'.
she was 26 now, and she had guessed that he turned 27 not too long ago. it's been so long since she talked to him and she hoped that the spark that she had been yearning for had not been lost to the passages of time.
getting the paddock passes was not easy, it was a war and a half but she managed to snag some for herself and a friend that wanted to visit belgium and would arrive later on in the week.
"how did you even manage to get paddock passes for us?" heejin, her friend that wanted to visit had asked, she could only laugh and explain how she got them, it was a war and a half. heejin laughed along with her as they both arrived and scanned their passes at the entrance.
"i'm gonna meet my best friend here— well it's complicated. i don't think he considers me a best friend anymore, but i still do," she had softly told heejin who was a big formula one fan even before meeting her, heejin raised her eyebrow when she said that.
the both of them were walking down the paddock, passing all of the different team's hospitalities. heejin raised her eyebrow at her friend, who shrugged.
"who's your best friend?" heejin had asked as they pass by the red bull hospitality, she stopped which signalled heejin to stop as well, she looked at the redbull in awe. she hadn't been to a formula one race yet, the closest she'd been was to karting but that didn't bring on the feelings she felt when standing in front of this red bull building.
"well, he's driving the number one car."
"YOUR BEST FRIEND IS MAX VERSTAPPEN?!"
"YOUR BEST FRIEND IS MAX VERSTAPPEN?!"
max had heard a girl yell, he slowly turned his head. he was confused, he didn't have a best friend— well not anymore. she had moved to korea, all memories of her stuck in his head being replayed all over and over again.
that's all he had left of her.
the other girl shushed the girl who yelled, and that's when it dawned on max. the other girl looked awfully familiar, he couldn't quite place why she looked so familiar but she looked like her, like his best friend.
"shh! you can't just yell that out in public," she clamped a hand on her friend's mouth, "they're gonna think i'm insane!" then the both of them giggled, it did sound ridiculous but now he was curious.
was she back? was that her? who was she with? is that her new best friend? is that her?
as they both walked away, max wanted to run up to them, to ask that one particular girl what her name was. what she was doing here and who she was with but all of that died when he got approached by his race engineer.
then he forgot all about that familiar girl that he saw in front of the red bull hospitality.
max would only get another glimpse of her when it was race day, they were walking through the paddock in a similar fashion, but max promised to himself that he would approach them, that he would ask but there was doubt in his heart.
what if she forgot about him?
she couldn't, right?
and so approach them he did, tapping the girl that he felt was so familiar to on the shoulder, she had turned around and they had locked eyes.
it was as if she never left.
the sparks, they all came rushing back and then his heart started beating out of his chest, he wanted to ask so many questions, why she was here, who she was with, when she came back— why she came back, why she never wrote him back.
but the only thing that left his lips were a simple, "hi."
heejin was freaking out, she could tell. she knew that heejin was a big red bull fan too, always talking about how the team was dominating and they had the better car. she had heard all about it. but the little dutchboy she left all those years ago was standing in front of her and not-so little anymore and all those thoughts about her girlfriend was forgotten.
he looked the same, but grown and decked out in red bull merch. she wanted to laugh at how innocent he looked when he tapped her on the shoulder to get her to turn around, he looked stupid, stupidly cute.
all of those feelings from when she was back in belgium came back, she almost forgot what it felt like to be around max— her max. he looked like he was going to cry when he got a good look at her, that he finally realized that yes, it's her. the one that left him in belgium all those years ago.
and maybe she could cry too.
"maxie?" a familiar nickname slipped from her lips and she didn't get a response back, but a bear hug in return.
god, her scent. it was everything to him. he fucking missed it— miss her.
"i thought... i thought you forgot about me," max buried his face into the crook of her neck, she too wrapped her arms around max and buried her face into his chest. his voice was so vulnerable, all she wanted to do was curl around him and tell him that she would never.
she shook her head as she sank into the hug, "i could never forget my maxie," she mumbled into his chest, he held onto her tighter. he never wanted to let go, not now, not ever. she was where she was finally supposed to be, right in his arms.
once they got time alone after his race, max had stolen her away from her friend and dragged her into his driver's room, locking the door and pushing her against the wall, slamming his lips onto hers. he had been dreaming about this for so long, his lips on hers.
he didn't want to so sexual with her, no not yet. being in the small driver's room where they couldn't be free out of the public eye wasn't a good place. he just wanted to touch her, hold her, love her, make sure that she knew how much he had missed this.
missed them being together.
her hands instinctively went up to hold onto his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he kissed her softly. the feelings going through him were a mix of nostalgia, longing and love. he loved her for so long and it was so like her to show up when it mattered the most.
he won it for her today, to show her, that the little max she knew still had it in him to win and to impress her even with a world championship under his belt.
she felt the softness and the gentleness that max was touching her with, she knew how much he loved her. how much he care, how much he longed for her touch and she did too, only so much more.
she had so many questions in her, on why he never replied to the letters she sent or why he never sent any himself, not knowing what happened with her letters and why they never arrived properly.
but she didn't care at the moment, all she cared about was that she was safely in his arms, never to be let go ever again.
safe to say, her lips were to the point of bruising that night. max had forbade her to go back home, or to be away from his sight. he had kissed her silly, not wanting to let her go and there she was, settled nicely in his arms.
it's not like she wanted to go anywhere anyway.
the movie in the background was long forgotten, max's lips felt like they were molded for hers. he had waited for her for so long, waited to feel her skin after so long and this just felt right, it felt right when he was with her.
"maxie— mmhh— my love, stop," she had to talk in between kisses, max didn't want to let her go, his fingers were basically imprinted onto her waist. she was straddling max as he sat upright and kissed her, so softly. like she would break if he was any harder, even though he absolutely did want to kiss her harder.
max released her from the kiss with a pout, his pretty lips were red and swollen from all the kissing they did. everything in the world just seemed to fade into the background when they were together, like everyone else in this world was so insignificant for their time and they were the only people worthy of each other's time.
"but why? i wanna kiss you, i miss you. i have waited for you for ten years, the least you can do is let me kiss you until you're sick of me," max mumbled against her lips and all she could do was giggle.
god, her laugh, he loved it.
she shook her head and left a final peck on his lips, "because i want to talk maxie, we can't just kiss whatever questions we have for eachother away," she told him but he seemed to think otherwise, she had moved back to put a bit of distance in between them, to make sure max didn't go in to kiss her again.
"oh yes we can, i don't care about the questions, schatje. i just wanna be with you, just like old days, but now it's so different because in those ten years without you, i finally realized what i felt and how i felt for you and i can't wait any damn longer to finally kiss those pretty lips of yours, so please. just let me do this for another three hours and we can talk," max begged as he pulled her closer.
she couldn't imagine kissing for another three hours as they spent the last hour doing it, but with him? she would do it for another life-time if she could.
the both of them later had the serious talk when they were done kissing each other, now wanting answers from eachother. their legs were tangled and intertwined with each other's, not wanting to let go from their skin to skin contact.
"first off, why did you never reply to my letters? i wrote you so many. so many that i lost count, i would always write to you but you never replied, why?" max's voice came out strained, all of the painful feelings from the last ten years of his life were coming out, her doe eyes looked up from where she was, laying against his chest.
"you wrote me letters? i wrote you letters, you never replied. i thought you got too busy with your karting career to reply—"
"i could never get too busy to reply to you, but i never got any of your letters, schatje," max murmured against her forehead, kissing it gently after he spoke. she hummed a response before it dawned on her, she had always sent the letters to his father's address and she knew that his father wasn't fond of her, even offering her a huge lump sum of cash just for her to stay away from his son but she never accepted it, always choosing to be beside max, no matter what happened.
she looked up and sighed, she knew what happened now, she connected the pieces, "did you send your letters off to your dad?" she asked, and max nodded before it dawned on him too.
"that fucker hid the letters from you and never sent mine..."
she could only nod sadly, but it didn't matter now. all that mattered was that they were reconnected now.
scattered around them were the countless of letters max had written to her and all of the letters from her that he never received, the years of pining, longing— all of them tucked neatly away into these little envelopes that held all of those unsaid feelings.
a soft sigh escapes her lips, she looked at all of them, there were hundreds maybe. all of them posted to where she stayed in korea but never sent, always kept in a big box where all of his letters were and hers were stuffed in there in a similar fashion.
her heart clenched when she saw how many there were, there were far more many than whatever she sent, even though she did send quite a big sum.
when max had found out, he stormed into jos' house and demanded to ask why he never sent out the letters that he wrote and a big fight broke out, she had to hold of max from physically harming his own father. then they left after given the big box filled with letters.
"there's so many..." she watched in awe as all of them were sorted by date, from the latest to the earliest, max looked up at her with those big blue icy eyes of his, he looked really sad. stuck in his feelings almost, not understand why his father would do whatever he did in the past.
max held her hand gently, pulling her into his embrace, "i have always loved you, even when i was a little kid. i just didn't understand what those feelings were, i just acted on how i felt and being away from you... i just couldn't. so i sent you my love in the form of these letters."
she left a lingering kiss on his cheek, she felt sorry for having to leave all those years ago. she should've fought, should've stood her ground on how much she wanted to stay but she was just a 16 year old kid who didn't know how to, "i know. i'm sorry i had to leave all those years ago."
"don't apologize, schatje. i have never blamed you for leaving me. i have always held love for you in my heart, even if you didn't know it."
"i always knew max, and i still do."
very willing to do a part 2 to this btw, will only do it when requested tho. not proofread, excuse grammar mistakes.
THE WEEK WE DIDN'T KILL EACH OTHER — SERIES MASTERLIST
pairing: max verstappen x ferraridriver!reader
synopsis: you and max verstappen have one thing in common: you hate losing. so when the entire f1 grid decides to make a bet; that the two of you can't last one week willingly hanging out without trying to strangle one another, it becomes personal.
genre: fluff.
MAIN MASTERLIST ᰔ ASK ME ANYTHING ᰔ REQUEST A FIC!
THE WEEK WE DIDN'T KILL EACH OTHER (MV33) — DAY ONE: FAILED AVOIDANCE
insomniac!max verstappen x ferraridriver!reader
synopsis: you and max verstappen have one thing in common: you hate losing. so when the entire f1 grid decides to make a bet; that the two of you can't last one week willingly hanging out without trying to strangle one another, it becomes personal.
genre: fluff
word count: 1.8k
aria yaps: short but sweet, just how i like it.
PREVIOUS CHAPTER ᰔ SERIES MASTERLIST ᰔ NEXT CHAPTER
it’s sunday. max won. you’re on the podium. which means you’re stuck sitting next to the one person the grid has decided to shove into your personal space for an entire week.
oscar’s there too, quiet as ever, hands folded behind his back like he’s supervising a crime scene. he was added to the groupchat, so he knows. he’s probably waiting for one of you to snap so he can say i knew it.
you take a slow sip from your water bottle, trying to cool down even though the heat feels glued to your skin. sweat clings to your forehead, your ponytail’s pulled too tight, tight enough that you can already feel the headache forming behind your eyes.
it puts you on edge, and sadly for you, max verstappen exists in your general vicinity.
“look,” max says suddenly, chin lifting toward the monitor in front of the three of you.
your car flashes on screen— your onboard from the overtake on oscar. a slightly late brake, aggressive but controlled.
“you braked late,” he comments, the tone somewhere between judgmental and concerned, which is honestly worse, “you could’ve caused an accident.”
you huff out a breath, already annoyed, “but i didn’t. and the stewards didn’t say anything.”
if max verstappen wants to end this bet on day one? he’s more than welcome. you’ll even hold the door open for him.
he makes a low, unimpressed sound, “right… you think that’s gonna fly when you’re fighting me—? wait, sorry, i forgot.” he pauses, smirk sharp and stupid, “you can’t overtake me.”
you mutter something extremely rude under your breath. oscar hears it and nearly chokes on air.
you straighten your shoulders, force yourself to breathe before your competitiveness drives you into doing something dramatic. you have to be smart. strategic. cool-headed.
(qualities you rarely possess around max, but whatever.)
“sure, verstappen, sure,” you say with a playful roll of your eyes, the kind that looks harmless even though you’re imagining throwing him off the podium stairs.
oscar snorts, badly trying to hide it.
max goes quiet. just… quiet. no comeback, no smug retort, no extra jab.
it throws you off more than the comment itself. you’re almost grateful— almost— because it makes staying calm easier.
for a second, the three of you just stand there, watching the replay loop on the large screen. your car. oscar’s. max’s. three drivers, three podium spots, three very different thoughts running through your heads.
then a marshal calls your names, announcing it’s time for the podium ceremony.
max brushes past you first, the faintest accidental touch to your arm. you pretend not to feel anything. he pretends he wasn’t paying attention.
oscar falls into step behind the two of you, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s stuck in the middle of whatever this rivalry-situationship-disaster is.
you exhale one last steadying breath.
day one isn’t even over.
and somehow, it already feels like the bet is laughing at you.
but you still follow them out, chin up, ready to claim your trophy.
and possibly ready to kill max after.
you haven’t decided yet.
you somehow ended up walking back to the hotel with max verstappen— a fate worse than death, in your honest opinion— and of course he’s wearing that shit-eating grin like it’s part of his race gear. you swear he does it just to see if he can get a reaction out of you.
you keep reminding yourself:
no fighting with max verstappen this week.
just this week.
next week you can go back to running him off the track emotionally.
the lobby doors aren’t even in sight when he decides to speak.
“you’re quiet.”
you breathe in slowly, because the urge to pin him against the nearest wall isn’t sexual, it’s violent, “you’re being a bitch.”
max blinks, “that’s the only thing i said!”
“exactly,” you mutter, “so let’s keep the conversation to a minimum, yeah? don’t you want to win the bet? less talking means less chances of us murdering each other.”
he actually laughs. you hate that it sounds… nice. easy, “you know,” he says, bumping his shoulder into yours like you’re friends or something, “i think we can be civil off track. it’s just rivalry banter. right?”
you give him a look. the kind that says: do i look like someone who believes that?
he rolls his eyes, “oh come on. you’re the most competent driver i know.”
you snort, because what the hell are you supposed to do with that? a compliment? from him?
“whatever you say, verstappen,” you sing under your breath, trying not to let it show that it landed somewhere under your ribs.
you fall back into silence, the kind that’s not exactly comfortable but… not awful, either. he doesn’t try to fill it. you don’t break it.
maybe because, for once, you both don’t feel like fighting.
or maybe because you’re both too scared of what might slip out if you talk too much.
either way, you walk the rest of the way side by side— not quite allies, not quite enemies, but something strange in between.
the elevator dings the second you step inside the lobby, like it’s mocking you, like it’s saying hurry up, get trapped in a metal box with the one person who makes your blood pressure spike.
perfect.
max steps in after you, leaning against the rail like he owns the place. you keep your eyes on the glowing panel of buttons, pretending you don’t feel his gaze sliding over you like he’s studying your edges. eventually he presses a button, and it's the same goddamned floor that you're staying at too.
you assume that max saw the reaction you gave when he pressed the button, “same floor?” he asks.
unfortunately. you nod.
“of course,” he mutters with a grin, like the universe personally arranged this just to annoy you.
the doors close. the silence is heavy, almost humid. you can hear the soft hum of the elevator. you can hear max breathing. it’s infuriating.
“you know,” he says, too casual, “you really did drive well today.”
you stare ahead, “don’t be weird.”
“i’m not being weird, i’m being—”
“complimentary. which is weird.”
max huffs out a breath, amused, “fine. then i take it back.”
that somehow makes your stomach twist, which is even more annoying, “good.”
but he keeps looking at you, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes warm in a way you absolutely refuse to interpret.
“i wasn’t lying though,” he adds quietly.
you blink at the doors, “max.”
“just saying.”
you want to groan. or scream. or maybe hit him with your helmet the next time you see him on the track. it’s too much, the sincerity, the proximity, the fact that he’s not being the usual asshole you rely on him being.
you don’t know what to do with a version of max verstappen who isn’t actively trying to piss you off.
the elevator dings again. your floor.
you walk out first, refusing to let it feel awkward, but his footsteps fall beside yours anyway, matching your pace like he’s been doing it all week. like it’s natural.
you stop at your door. he stops at the one right across from it.
of course.
of-fucking-course.
you stare at the identical gold numbers, “did they plan this?”
“i don't think so,” he says, shrugging, “just a weird coincidence.”
“that’s sick.”
he smiles, and it’s small, not the smirk he defaults to, but something softer. something more dangerous, “night, then.”
you nod, “night.”
you swipe your keycard and slip inside your room quickly, shutting the door behind you before he can say anything else.
but you stand there in the dark for a moment, heartbeat annoyingly loud, trying to understand why your chest feels tight and warm all at once.
one week of not killing each other.
one week.
but suddenly you’re not sure the problem is killing him.
you’re starting to worry the problem might be something else entirely.
you don’t sleep well. you don't sleep at all.
maybe it’s the post-race adrenaline, maybe it’s the headache finally settling behind your eyes, or maybe— and you’d rather die than admit this out loud— maybe it’s because max verstappen is sleeping ten feet away from you with only a hallway separating you.
you toss. you turn. you punch your pillow twice. none of it helps.
by 1:47 a.m., you’ve accepted defeat.
you grab your keycard, throw on a hoodie, and slip out into the hallway, planning to go find a vending machine and stress-eat overpriced gummy worms.
you’re halfway down the hall when a door clicks open behind you.
of course.
“couldn’t sleep either?” max’s voice is softer than usual, rough around the edges, like he didn’t expect anyone to hear him at this hour.
you turn around. he’s in a t-shirt and sweats, hair a mess, eyes tired but sharp enough to pin you in place.
annoyingly attractive. and annoyingly awake.
“i’m going to get snacks,” you mutter, “don’t make this weird.”
he cracks a tiny smile, “me? never.”
you glare at him, but he falls into step beside you anyway, hands in his pockets like this is normal, like you have a habit of taking midnight vending-machine trips together.
“insomnia?” you ask eventually, because curiosity wins over silence.
“since forever,” he says, “gets worse when i’m traveling.”
you hum, “didn’t think anything could make you worse.”
max laughs under his breath, “funny.”
you reach the vending machine, its humming neon lights flickering over the tiled floor. you start pressing buttons, debating gummy worms vs chocolate, when you notice max leaning against the wall, watching you.
“what?” you snap.
“nothing,” he says, “you’re just… quieter at night.”
you scoff, “so are you.”
“i’m always quiet.”
“you’re never quiet. you just mutter insults under your breath at a lower volume.”
that gets a real laugh out of him, low and warm, and you hate that it sounds… nice.
you finally choose gummy worms and a bottle of iced tea. max doesn’t buy anything— just stands there like he’s been doing this every night for years.
on the walk back, he doesn’t talk. he doesn’t tease you. he just walks next to you, close enough that your hands almost brush.
you don’t move away.
when you reach your doors again, you stop in the same spot as earlier. it feels different now— charged, soft, something in the air you don’t want to name.
“goodnight, verstappen,” you murmur, voice lower than you intend.
he hesitates before answering, eyes lingering on you in a way that makes your stomach flutter.
“goodnight,” he says, and his voice is so gentle you barely recognize it.
you slip into your room again, closing the door carefully, quietly, like being loud might break whatever… this is.
and even as you crawl back into bed, gummy worms on your nightstand, you know the truth:
you’re not sleeping tonight.
and this time, it has nothing to do with the race.
summary: he was never supposed to crash like that, never supposed to go silent, never supposed to leave you standing in a hospital hallway wondering if love was meant to hurt this much. you stayed anyway, broken, angry, loyal in a way you didn’t know how to explain, waiting for him to wake up and prove you were still his.
genre: angst (i like hurting myself)
word count: 1.2k
aria yaps: i posted this fic last year but i never got around to actually posting it into a fic format so here you go
you had never been one to ever criticize someone for their choice of profession, especially not when it came to something that paid as high as this, but you wondered if you would ever see your boyfriend in one piece after every race.
it was nerve-wracking of course, seeing him go 350km per hour and hoping his car doesn't fuck itself up and end up in a barrier before then catching into flames. he was good at his job, he loved to drive the damn car so why was it such an issue then?
max didn't understand it either. one moment you would be happy for him and the next you'd be ridden with anxiety whenever he would step into the car, he would always reassure you though. the car was fine, he got the world's best engineers working on his car, that he would be safe.
you didn't understand what had happened though, one moment he was overtaking norris and the next he was in the barrier, a gasp escaped your lips and tears brimmed your eyes when you saw car number 1 in the barrier.
you wanted to claw yourself up there and pull him out of the car yourself but you were being restrained by a few red bull mechanics, telling you that it's gonna to be okay and the marshalls were going to get him out in one piece.
"max? are you alright? talk to me mate."
no response. that's when people started panicking.
max wasn't fine, he wasn't okay. so much force had hit him, he was going max speed when he hit those barriers. he couldn't feel his face, couldn't feel his arms and legs. he felt numb, and it scared him. his ears were ringing and the helmet was suffocating him, he needed air. right now.
he didn't know what happened next, through his blurred vision he could only guess that he had been pulled out the car and his helmet was pulled off his head, he could breathe better but not by much.
the next few moments were just a black void.
you were hysterical when you found out that he was being sent to the nearest hospital, the medical center said, 'it's too big of an injury for us to handle here.' you felt like you were the one dying when you heard he had to go through surgery. you knew he shouldn't have picked this profession, it's insane. how was any of this legal and approved by the government? you didn't know.
you weren't given the specifics because you were neither lawful spouse or family, and his family was hours away from being able to come visit him so you had to sit there and wait for him to come to before you could even know what was going on with him. his profession never scared you quite like this did before.
being in a coma wasn't something on his bucket list, he prayed that he would never go through an accident as traumatic to have to be in a coma.
max could hear the voices, they weren't the clearest. he could hear bits and pieces, but never the full conversation. it was almost as if he was half-asleep and the world around him was just so incredibly quiet. he didn't know what he would do or say to you when he woke up, he was most worried about what you would say. maybe kill him before the injuries from the crash could? max wanted to chuckle from that but nothing came out from his lips, just soft breaths. signaling that he was still alive in there to the outside world.
slowly, he would start hearing and feeling less and less of what happened in the world around him. no longer being able to hear your beautiful voice, and that's what hurt the most, not knowing if you were there with him or not.
you had stayed by his side almost everyday when that happened, not wanting to leave even when the visiting hours were unavailable. always waiting nearby in a coffee shop or booking a hotel room the closest to the hospital in order to be there as soon as visiting hours started.
life felt so empty. you were used to his playful banter and teases but you hadn't heard his voice in two weeks now. you weren't religious, having some religious trauma in life, you would never devote yourself to some invisible god ever again, but you prayed. you prayed to that invisible man upstairs to wake him up, that if he were to wake up, you would start going to church, but that didn't come.
you just wanted him to get better, to open his beautiful blue eyes, look at you and tell you that he loved you. faith was hard to come by but you would always come back to that disgusting sterile smelling room and hold his hand gently, some days you would talk to him, some days you would sing to him but it didn't matter what you did because you would always be there. never missing a possible moment where he would wake up.
the doctors said it didn't look good. they hadn't been medically inducing him in a coma for a week now, he should be conscious by the first few days of taking him off the medically induced coma and you didn't know what to think. you were scared.
you had told him so many times that it made you anxious that an accident like this would happen, that he would get in that car and you couldn't see him anymore but you didn't know it was going to be this soon.
at first you couldn't believe it, it had been almost a month since you heard his voice last. he couldn't be, right? he was the most talented driver you knew, there was no way he was in a coma after a big crash. he was always careful, never taking risks that was unnecessary, right?
you were in denial, you knew it. everyone knew it. you were spiraling out of control and there was nothing anyone could do about it, unless they would magically wake max verstappen out of his comatose state.
there was a hole left in your chest when you realized that maybe he was never going to wake up from this, that you would never see his beautiful blue eyes anymore. slowly, you started to lose hope. visits became far and few between, you just wanted to get away. not wanting to see the day that his family decided that there was no more hope for him and to pull the plug.
you buried yourself in work, not wanting to think, not wanting to feel, just wanting to focus on anything else other than the gaping hole in your chest.
drinking became your best friend, hitting up bars as soon as you finished your shift. downing shot after shot, your friends and his friends were all concerned, always asking if you needed anything, if you needed them and that they were there for you, but frankly you didn't care about anyone else.
coming home drunk wasn't something that was far and few between anymore, it would be every other night, then every night and then sometimes you would sneak a flask in when you were at work. just something to numb the pain of losing your boyfriend. it wasn't enough though.
you were angry.
who cared about all of those other people when the person that mattered the most was in a hospital bed? waiting for his own death that wasn't even entirely up to him? you were angry, you wanted to scream at anything, at someone.
why did it have to be him? why did it have to be your max? why did it have to be him at the wrong place at the wrong time? why? why? why? he did nothing wrong, all his life he was a saint. he was never cruel to anything or anyone in his life, all he did was try to please the people around him, why did it have to be him?
you wished you had the answers, you still prayed. almost like a devoted follower of that stupid god most of the population of the earth believed in. you laughed at the irony of your desperation, no amount of praying or bargaining could ever bring him back, it was too late but damn, if you didn't try you knew you'd regret it.
max's family checked up on you often, sophie and victoria being the ones to ask you how you were. you always appreciated them checking up on you when you knew that they were hurting the most out of all of this, they were his family afterall. you were just… the girlfriend. your feelings were not important in this equation.
trudging through life without waking up next to him was painful, the small pitiful meows coming out of sassy and jimmy were almost even more painful. the reminder that you were in his apartment, with his cats but without him. when was he going to wake up? when were you going to wake up from this bad dream?
a ring from your phone had woken you up from your drunken adventures from the previous night, you wanted to yell at them for interrupting your sleep. you wanted to sleep forever, maybe even be in a comatose state similar to max so then you would be able to wake up together.
"hello?" you mumbled through closed eyes, very much annoyed that whoever this person was, waking you up from your sleep. you didn't even bother to check the called id.
"you need to come down to the hospital, right now."
you haven't scrambled up and got dressed any faster than you just did, you didn't bother doing your hair or even brushing your teeth. one second you were in your shared apartment, the next you were in your car, speeding past the streets of monaco to get to the hospital, maybe breaking a few laws and going as fast as an f1 car.
"schatje."
you were crying when you got there, burying your face in max's chest, you wanted to yell at him, for leaving you alone for two months too long but you didn't have it in you. his hand found its way to your hair, petting your head. a gentle kiss was left against your temple as you continued to cry against his chest, you couldn't form words, basically inconsolable.
you were eventually able to peel yourself off of him though, his hand firmly wrapped around yours, mainly for your comfort and not his. the doctor's had explained that he had to slowly learn to walk and speak again because he was in a coma for so long but the first words out of his mouth when he first became conscious was schatje which made you cry a little bit more. some of his friends and family came throughout the day and he could recognize who they were, just had a hard time speaking.
it was only at the end of the day where you two had a time for yourselves, just basking in the presence of each other, finally being able to see his pretty blue eyes look at you.
"lay… ne-next to me..?" max asked, his voice a bit scratchy for not being awake in two months, tilting his head a little to the left, a little quirk of his which you thought was cute and complied with his request. he wrapped his arm around yours after scooting to make space for you, the both of you just laying there in each other's presence, not wanting to let go.
max didn't understand how much time had passed and understandably so, but he missed you. it felt like he had just gone to sleep and succumbed to his injuries but for you, it felt like a lifetime without having to see the love of your life. the atmosphere was quiet, but comfortable. seeing max alive and in one piece was all you needed before slowly drifting off into sleep, and for once the nurses didn't kick you out after checking in on max.
recovery was hard, max had been told that he suffered damage when he got a concussion from the crash. his spine had been mostly intact but since he suffered injuries to his brain, he had to learn how to walk and talk again.
"what about happiness?" a therapist had asked max as he sat across from her. they were doing some exercises to train max's speaking, something that the doctors had mentioned would help max recover faster. max's face lit up before pointing to you, who was sitting next to him, "nice try max, but you understand what i mean."
a giggle left your lips before he tried again, with a pout dancing on his lips, "joy, winning a race?" he tilted his head cutely before the therapist let him have the answer, it was cute. he was cute but he was a fighter.
the moment the doctors cleared him of any sustaining injuries, he was ready to get on the track again, only after six months after the crash.
"you can't be serious max," you shook your head as you paced around the apartment, "it's only been six months… you should just rest for the remainder of the season and get in next year. i don't understand the rush, you have your life in front of you to compete, what's wrong with waiting a few more months?"
max shrugged, he realized after the crash that he in fact did not have his entire life to race. what if his life was taken early and he couldn't spend the rest of his life with her, what then? he didn't want to waste any time. he wanted to get his head in the game while he was at his prime and get it over with before retiring and getting away with her on a private island and living there for the rest of his life.
he didn't want to race for the remainder of his life, nope. he wasn't like alonso who was going to be on the track when he's old and frail and no longer in the top teams. he wanted to win, and that's what he was going to do, to win. he knew that him coming back so soon even after his injuries were going to be hard on you, he was scared to even bring it up in the first place.
it had only been a few months, and he was so ready to come back to racing. his fingers were basically itching for it, but he was very mindful with how you were going to feel, he always was. he hinted at it a couple times before, but her response was always different than what he wanted.
max sighed when you were obviously going to be upset with his decision, "look, i know you're worried and you do not want me in the car so soon, but you have to trust me—"
you set your back straight before looking him dead in the eyes, "i trusted you six months ago! look where that got us!" you didn't mean to yell, but you were scared and you did not want to lose him because he was driving a silly fast car. max looked hurt, and rightfully so. you sighed before you walked over to where he was on the couch, wrapping your arms around him in a hug, which he welcomed with open arms, "i'm just worried, okay? you being in that coma was the scariest thing in my entire life. i even lost hope, do you understand how scary it was for me to lose hope?"
max nods before landing a kiss on your lips, wanting to reassure you that he made a mistake and that it wasn't going to happen again. he didn't mean to leave you for those two months, but he knew that he was never going to do that to you again. he didn't want to hurt you anymore than he already did.
"trust me, i'm not gonna make the same mistake twice and i'm gonna make you proud."
and max never did. he got in the car the next week, ready to fight. baring his teeth for anyone who could get anywhere close to him. he closed out the season with multiple trophies, even though the driver's championship was out of reach.
he celebrated that season with a big smile on his face and you knew it was the right decision to let him get back to racing. as much as you didn't want to admit it, he loved racing more than he loved you and you were okay with that. you were okay with being second to his ambitions and dreams because that's what good girlfriends do, let their boyfriend's risk their lives driving silly fast cars if that meant it made them happy.
unfortunately, you anxiety wouldn't go away even after all the constant reassurance your boyfriend gave you. the nights where you were alone, wondering whether if max was going to pull through still haunted you.
of course, alcohol was still a problem for you. you turned to it when you felt like you didn't have a choice. some nights, on particularly rough anxiety ridden nights, you would sneak out. just grab a drink or two to soothe your heart. it wasn't long before max caught on though.
"where have you been?" max had asked as you entered their apartment after coming home from work, it wasn't like you came home late and came home absolutely drunk which is why you didn't think he was suspicious. there had been a break between the current races, which is why he was home before you were.
a hiccup breaks the silence as you close the door behind you, you lock eyes with max and you can see the disappointment floating in his eyes, that's when you knew that he knew but you weren't sure how much he knew.
"answer the question, liefje," max sternly spoke up once again, walking towards you, in his eyes was a challenge. he was waiting to see whether you were going to lie to his face or not. he could practically smell the alcohol from there, he went out drinking a lot too, being a formula one driver meant parties like there was no tomorrow.
you didn't know what to answer with, so you answered as vaguely as possible, "i was out with some friends," hoping that the answer you gave him would satisfy him enough without him asking too many questions, you tried to brush past him but he held onto your arm.
max had heard stories from his friends, telling him that you weren't at a good spot after the accident. that you turned to drinking and it seemed like nothing could help except for max himself.
he took one whiff and he knew it was alcohol, "which friends?" he asked, not wanting to let you slip from his fingers, he knew how dangerous alcohol addiction was and he wasn't going to let his girlfriend fall into the grasps of it.
"work friends, max— let go. i want to take a shower," you tugged on his hand that was holding onto your arm, but he was unrelenting. he stared you down, not convinced with the bullshit answer you gave him. he knew you had been out drinking, it wasn't even race week. you didn't have an excuse.
max's eyes softened, he knew that somewhere deep inside of you that you were struggling, that you needed help but you just didn't know how to reach out. was it hard to reach out to him? has he made himself so unapproachable after the accident?
"talk to me, what's going on with you?" max's grip on your arm has softened but you could only sigh and look away, you didn't know how to face him. yes, you were struggling but you didn't know how to bring it up. just like everything in your life, you needed someone to comfort you and tell you it was going to be okay and that there were people there for you, but you were stubborn almost in a similar fashion to him.
you only looked back up at him when max squeezed your arm and the eyes that looked back up at him were no longer hard and guarded, but full of vulnerability and glassy, "i—"
"you've been drinking?" max cut you off and finished your sentence for you, now you knew how much he knew of your struggles. you swear it wasn't supposed to get this bad, you promised yourself you would stop on the weeks where he didn't have races, or maybe just stop altogether but that was easier said than done.
"yes," was all that left your lips and that was the day that max swore he was going to get you through this.
max had offered to take a break like you suggested for the rest of the year, just to ease your nerves but you told him that it was a hard no for you. you knew that it was going to get much worse if you got too used to his presence, the cycle would just repeat itself once he got back into racing.
this time there was another road to recovery, just not for him. max had been nothing but helpful, always offering you help, even offering to pay for your rehab. you contemplated whether you even wanted to go or not, you didn't want to feel weak. to feel like there was something was wrong with you, that you were a freak but at the end, after endless heart-to-heart conversations with max, he was convinced you to go.
the first few months were hard, there was no way you could attend the races while going through rehab so you had to just suck it up and go through it without watching. max felt bad, of course he did. that was the love of his life that he put in that rehab center, but he knew he had to make tough decisions if he wanted you to get better.
he felt horrible not having you there for even some of the races, not because he sent you to the rehab center but because he missed you. he knew that the accident hit you hard, but not this hard. he didn't understand how much anxiety racing did to you, and he was beating himself up for it.
he should've seen the signs, should've reached out sooner before they could fester into something as serious as alcohol addiction but there was no use in beating himself up for something he didn't do in the past, as least he was doing it now after he saw the signs of you struggling.
the initial withdrawal symptoms were insane, if you weren't in rehab, you would've probably relapsed the first day there. it was hard for you and you were trying your best, and you did. overtime, you were recovering and that's all that mattered.
max had received updates of course, he requested them. he wanted to see how you were holding up, if there were any signs of improvement. the therapists there all said that you were doing splendid, that she might get out in a few months which was great news to max.
it would only take you another six months to fully recover and the first thing you did when you saw max when he picked you up was jump into his arms, he breathed out a sigh of relief after not seeing you for a couple of weeks. he could live like this.
both of them had their own battles to fight through but the most important part was that they both overcame both battles, never forgetting to support eachother, even when one lost themselves along the way.
synopsis: growing up with max verstappen consisted of hand-holding, casual touches and lingering glances that never really needed any explanation. but somewhere in-between childhood and adulthood, those "casual touches" gained meaning and distance turned into longing neither one of you could name.
genre: angst, lots and lots of angst, fluff towards the end i promise.
word count: 4.8k
aria yaps: max is super touchy in this fic LMAOAOAO, he's cute and in love but still doesn't want to admit it.
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there’s a certain kind of quiet that settles when she’s not around — not dramatic, not heavy. just… wrong. the apartment feels too still, too neat, like no one actually lives here. there’s no music playing softly from her phone in the kitchen, no faint sound of her pacing while talking to maya or sofia, no random laugh at something only she finds funny.
just silence.
i don’t know what it is she brings into a place, warmth, chaos, noise— something. whatever it is, i notice the lack of it more than i should. maybe i’m pathetic. maybe i’ve gotten too used to her being here. or maybe it’s just her.
my thumb taps my phone screen again. nothing. no new messages.
that’s the strange part. she texts. she always texts. memes, voice notes, blurry photos of her late-night snacks, commentary about random things like pigeons or a video of a cat falling off a table. and i’m not someone who enjoys texting, never have been, but i open tiktok, i scroll, i watch dumb videos because they’re the ones she’d send me.
and i like knowing what makes her laugh.
i stare at the screen longer than i should. a week. a full week. not even a “good morning” or some dumb emoji she thinks is funny. i don’t text first, not because i don’t want to, but because she told me she was visiting her mom in the netherlands, and i said “ok.”
two letters. simple. enough.
she never reads into things too deeply with me, she knows i mean it as safe flight, text when you land, don’t forget to eat, i’ll miss you. i tell myself not to think about her too much. i fail.
i pack for italy mechanically, shower, clothes, passport, training gear, all on autopilot. i tell my manager to prep the jet for the morning. i don’t double check. i don’t need to. anything to keep my mind busy enough not to fall apart over someone i’m not supposed to care about this much.
friday comes. media day, FP1, FP2 — everything feels muted. scripted. robotic. people talk, i answer, i smile when i need to. i get in the car, drive, give feedback, repeat.
still no message. that’s what finally breaks me. i pull out my phone.
You: You’ve been quiet.
before she even answers, i check her location, yeah, i know, intrusive, whatever. she’s back in monaco. landed hours ago. safe. then her replies pop in.
y/n: i thought you’ve been busy
y/n: so i haven’t texted much
it feels stiff. hesitant. unlike her. like she’s tiptoeing around me. and i hate it.
You: How many times have I told you to just text?
You: I can’t text as often because it’s race week.
y/n: i know
and that’s it. nothing else. she’s holding back, and i don’t know why. i don’t like guessing with her. i don’t want distance where there never used to be any.
someone from red bull waves me over, and suddenly i’m swallowed into meetings, cameras, run sheets, questions i’ve answered a hundred times before. i put my phone away. but my brain? still stuck on her. still wondering why silence from her feels louder than any engine i’ve ever heard.
it’s later in the day, sometime between morning media and the last engineering briefing. the track is loud, humid, restless, that kind of pre-session chaos where everyone pretends they’re calm while scrambling over setups and data.
fp3 hasn’t happened yet, but it doesn’t matter. the car hasn’t felt right all weekend, and i already know i’m going to walk into that session bracing for irritation. still, none of that bothers me the way the silence from her does.
i try to distract myself, discussing with engineers, checking settings twice, tightening gloves out of habit even though I’m not getting in the car yet, but my mind isn’t here.
it keeps circling back to her. how quiet she’s been. how she didn’t text when she landed. how the last week felt… off.
i don’t know why it gets to me like this. it shouldn’t. i’ve gone entire weeks without messaging anyone before she existed in my life. now the absence feels like something.
i pull my phone out again, i don’t even bother pretending it’s for something else and check her location. back home. monaco. settled. something loosens in my chest just knowing she’s safe.
before i can stop myself, before i can pretend i’m too busy or too focused, my thumb hits call. it rings once.
“hello?” her voice is soft. careful. surprised i bothered to call.
“you’re home," not a question, a fact.
“yeah, just arrived," she sounds like she’s still shrugging off travel. maybe sitting on the floor near her suitcase like she always does when she’s too tired to unpack.
“i know,” i say, like it’s normal. “i checked your location," there’s a beat of silence, the kind where i can practically see her blinking in disbelief and amusement. i lean against a wall, eyes closed, "i would’ve sent you the jet," it slips out casual, effortless because it is simple to me. if she needs something from me, i get it for her. that’s it.
“you were busy,” she answers, like that’s a valid reason not to ask. i hear faint voices in the background, probably maya, probably sofia. it's clear they're trying to whisper, but their effort is futile.
“i still would’ve sent the jet to come pick you up if you'd asked,” i repeat, quieter this time, "you know that," more muffled talking behind her. then footsteps, she doesn't respond straight away.
i swallow and let the real question out before i can talk myself out of it, "did i do something?” my voice drops, too low, too honest, and i hate how vulnerable it feels.
“no," she answers fast. too fast, "you didn't."
i exhale through my nose, jaw tightening, "but something’s different,” i say, because it is. because i refuse to pretend it isn’t.
“i just— forgot to text you is all," she doesn’t forget. she texts about stray cats and stupid memes and cereal brand rankings. she never forgets. but i don’t call her out, not now, not with people listening.
“okay,” i say instead, steady even if I’m not. “but don’t disappear on me," i don’t mean it possessive. i mean it like, i notice when you’re gone.
“i wasn’t trying to,” she replies, softer now. guarded.
someone from the engineering team walks up, waving at me for a briefing. i turn the phone away from my mouth, "two minutes," i go back to her, i tell her simply, "i have to go.”
“okay,” she says it like she doesn’t want the call to end but doesn’t want to admit that either. and before i can stop myself, before i can think rationally, i say it, "i missed you.”
it’s quiet. sincere. too real. there’s a sound on the other end, breath catching, and before she can answer, i end the call.
i tuck the phone back in my pocket and exhale. i shouldn’t have said that. but fuck. the paddock feels wrong without her. everything feels loud and empty at the same time and if i’m being honest with myself, qualifying, racing, trophies, podiums, none of it feels as full when she isn’t here.
i continue with free practice, locking in when i need to but honestly, the car's so shit there's no saving it, even with the amount of feedback i've been giving the engineering team.
fp3 wrings me out more than it should.
i push, adjust, adapt. do everything a driver does when the car refuses to cooperate. every lap feels like trying to tame something feral, something stubborn. the notes i give the engineers get sharper, shorter, more specific, but there’s only so much anyone can do when the foundation isn’t right.
by the time i make it back to the hotel, the adrenaline is gone and the exhaustion drops all at once. not the physical kind, i can handle that. this is mental tiredness, the kind that makes the world feel muted around the edges. i fall onto the bed without bothering to turn the lights on. the room is dim, quiet, too still.
and without thinking, i unlock my phone. habit. bad habit. unavoidable one. my thumb taps to check her location before i can stop myself. she's still in monaco, good.
late there. late enough that if the girls stayed over, they’d either be talking in hushed laughter on her couch or knocked out somewhere under a pile of blankets.
but she hasn’t texted again. silence from her is loud, always louder than any screaming engineer or chaotic paddock. for a moment, i stare at the earlier messages like they might shift into something more if i stare hard enough.
nothing does.
so I type the first thing that feels neutral enough to send without overthinking:
You: FP3 done.
it takes only a few seconds for her response to pop up.
y/n: good session?
i exhale a quiet laugh into the dark. not quite.
You: Not bad. Could be cleaner.
the message barely scratches the surface of how frustrated i’ve been this weekend, but she doesn’t need the weight of that. not tonight. there’s a pause. long enough for doubt to try and creep in. long enough for irritation at myself to flare. before that spiral settles, my fingers move again.
come. not the word i type, but the meaning sits behind the one i send.
You: Make time to come tomorrow.
it reads like an instruction, because that’s what it is. i don’t want room for hesitation. she already hesitated enough this week. her reply is slower this time.
y/n: tomorrow?? i just got home
my jaw tightens, not in anger, but in something impatient and familiar.
You: And?
because what does “just got home” have anything to do with her being here with me?
y/n: i have plans
y/n: like sleeping and… existing
You: You can do that here.
y/n: you're unusually demanding today
i don’t mean to smile, but i do. just a little. the dry humor, the dramatic complaining, that feels like her again. it feels somewhat normal. and i didn’t realize until now how much i missed normal.
You: I told you before. Just text. Just show up. It’s not complicated.
You: Don’t forget tomorrow.
y/n: fine
y/n: but maya and sofia are coming
of course they are. her shadows. her twins. i don’t care. if bringing them means she shows up, then let the whole group come. let the entire grandstand come.
You: I’ll send the passes in the morning.
You: Sleep.
there’s a beat before her reply comes through.
y/n: bossy.
the tension in my chest loosens, not gone, but lighter. it’s ridiculous how much one word can shift.
You: And yet you listen. Sleep.
this time her response takes longer. like she’s deciding something. testing the distance. then it finally appears.
y/n: goodnight
the extra word shouldn’t matter. but it does. i stare at it longer than necessary before replying.
You: Night.
once the screen goes dark, i keep holding the phone a moment longer, letting the calm settle. for the first time in days, sleep isn’t something i have to chase. because tomorrow, she’ll be in the same place as me.
not in my messages. not in a location dot. not an ache i can’t reach. physically here. close enough to see. close enough to pull back into orbit. close enough that the silence won’t feel like a missing limb.
morning comes hazy, too early and too bright. i go through the routine automatically. shower. coffee. media obligations. engineer check-ins. logistics. all of it blends together into one long, blur of movement. i’m doing everything right, everything expected, everything necessary, but there’s no sharpness to it. no engagement. i feel functional, not present.
somewhere between reviewing tire data and getting dragged into a conversation about race-pace estimates, my phone buzzes. the driver.
She’s arrived safely, sir.
i stare at the words for a second. maybe two. maybe longer. there’s a looseness in my chest i didn’t notice was tight until now, something unclenches, quiet and instinctual. relief doesn’t hit loudly, it just settles, like air finally entering lungs properly.
i send a reply, tip the driver for jumping on last-minute arrangements, then put the phone face-down. but there’s no pretending after that. she’s here. and i feel it, like gravity shifting. like the world realigning.
the meeting drags painfully on after that. voices talking about adjustments, downforce, balance, brake temps, i hear them, i respond when i need to, but none of it sticks. my focus keeps drifting toward the paddock. toward her. finally, finally they wrap up.
the moment i step out, i don’t hesitate. i don’t think about where i’m supposed to be next or who i’m meant to talk to. my body moves first, like it’s been waiting for permission. i scan the paddock and i find her almost instantly, because of course i do.
she’s walking, animated, laughing with maya and sofia. those two are chaotic enough to draw attention anywhere, but she’s the one the room shifts around. quiet gravity. unintentional spotlight. and then she looks up. the second her eyes lock with mine, everything slows, just enough to notice the feeling under my ribs. it’s not dramatic or cinematic. just… unavoidable.
her steps falter. mine do too.
the distance closes and before either of us really decides anything, my hands are on her waist. it happens automatically, like touch remembers what the mind tries to ignore. she feels familiar under my palms, grounding, warm, real in a way that nothing else in this sport ever is. her perfume hits, soft, unmistakable, and something in me settles that’s been restless for days.
“hi,” she breathes, small but steady. i give her a smile, the private kind, the one i don’t waste on cameras or strangers.
“you made it,” my voice comes out low, controlled, but there’s relief underneath it i’m not proud of, “good.”
there’s so much more i could say, should say, want to say, but words aren’t my thing. touch is easier. presence is easier. my hand shifts to her lower back, guiding her closer, subtle but intentional, as if my body can’t tolerate distance now that she’s here.
“i’ll come find you after briefing,” i murmur, close enough that only she can hear it. the tone isn’t sharp, but it leaves no space for doubt. just certainty. her friends pretend they’re not watching. we pretend we don’t notice. i pull away because i have to, not because i want to. the absence of touch feels immediate, cold, wrong.
i return to the garage, back to screens full of numbers and voices telling me what’s “possible” with a car that feels like fighting gravel and physics at the same time. the telemetry hasn’t changed. everything still looks like a battle waiting to happen. the car behaves like it’s allergic to cooperation.
yet the frustration doesn’t hit as hard as yesterday, maybe because the emptiness isn’t there now. maybe because she’s within reach.
once they dismiss me, fifteen minutes, maybe less, i don’t need direction. i don’t even pretend to think about anything else.
my mind, my attention, every impatient part of me goes straight to one conclusion, find her. because now that she’s back, the world feels like it’s running properly again. and i’m not wasting a second of it.
i steal a moment between engineers and strategy review to check my phone. no new messages from her, of course but i don’t bother waiting for one. i type before i think.
You: Where are you
y/n: vip section.
good. close enough. i don’t waste time walking, i move with purpose. i’m already near, so it barely takes a minute.
when i reach the platform, i see her before she sees me, legs folded onto the seat, leaning forward slightly on the railing, a water bottle dangling loosely from her fingers. maya and sofia are beside her, mid-conversation, loud enough to fill the space. she’s quiet in contrast, always quieter without me. i don’t know if it’s comfort or caution. sometimes i wish i knew.
i step closer, close enough that my voice doesn’t have to lift.
“busy?” i ask, low and even. she turns, that small smile forming before she fully faces me. god, i hate how something that subtle feels like a hit to the chest.
“no,” she says, shrugging lightly. “just waiting for the circus to commence," her voice softens instinctively when she speaks to me. not shy, just toned down. intentional. it feels like something reserved, and i don’t know why it affects me the way it does.
i nod once, eyes briefly scanning the track before finding her again, “stay near the garage for qualifying.”
not a suggestion, an instruction. i’ve already imagined it, her sitting near the pit wall, those headphones all the drivers’ girlfriends wear resting around her neck. she wouldn’t label herself that, not yet, but seeing her there would settle something feral and restless in me.
she blinks once, slow. then, “yeah, okay.”
no pushback. no argument. just acceptance. my hand is still resting at her waist, i don’t remember placing it there, but it feels natural, too natural. when i pull it away, it feels wrong, like undoing something I wasn’t ready to let go of.
i clear my throat slightly, “stay where i can find you after," still not looking at her fully, if i do, i’ll stay longer than i can afford.
i leave without waiting for a reply. no goodbye, no good luck, none of the soft things people expect. words fail where touch doesn’t, and i’ve already pushed the boundary more than i meant to.
work pulls me back fast. more telemetry. more data. another briefing. the car still feels stubborn and unpredictable, a machine with attitude and no cooperation.
but when qualifying starts, something clicks. muscle memory takes over. instinct sharpens. everything else, noise, doubt, frustration, burns away. i push. harder. then harder again. the lap feels violent, like wrestling the car into obedience. but by the time i cross the line, i know.
pole.
by the numbers, by the gap, by the instinct in my bones, it’s mine. the team celebrates. flashes go off. the trophy is handed to me and cameras catch the moment, but none of that registers.
my eyes search automatically, scanning the grid, the crowd, then i find her.
she’s watching me, still, focused, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and pride. her eyes shine like she’s holding constellations behind them. something tightens in my chest, not painful, just startling. grounding.
people scream my name. engines roar. but all i hear is the quiet pull between us. i lift the trophy a little higher. not for the cameras. not for the team.
just for her.
you won’t hear it, i think, steady and certain, but this one’s yours.
and god help me—
it feels true.
that night, i find a moment to steal her away, and before she even has the chance to speak, my hands are already on her. she’s standing in front of me in my hotel room, soft light from the bedside lamp washing her in gold, while i sit at the edge of the bed like someone who’s been waiting years instead of hours.
my arms wrap around her waist automatically, like muscle memory, like instinct, like something older than both of us. i pull her into my chest and bury my face into the warm spot beneath her jaw. the moment her scent hits me, something in me just—drops. unclenches. unravels.
my body reacts before my brain does.
home. that’s the word that settles in my bones.
her laugh bubbles out of her, gentle and breathy, her hands coming up to rest on my shoulders. “did you miss me?” she teases, and the sound of her voice— god, it feels like someone finally turned the world back on.
i don’t answer. i don’t need to. my grip, the way i hold her like she’s oxygen and i’ve been underwater for too long, that’s the answer. that’s everything. she shifts slightly, and her fingers slide up from my shoulder to the back of my neck. nails scratching lightly at the exact spot that makes heat curl down my spine. my eyes flutter closed. a quiet sound escapes me, half sigh, half surrender.
“you ruin me,” i breathe into her skin, just loud enough for her and no one else. the truth sits heavy on my tongue, and i say it again, slower, “you’ve ruined me.”
her breath catches, not dramatically, not like something out of a movie, just enough to tell me she heard it. really heard it.
i finally look up. she’s smiling at me, not the bright, performative grin she gives cameras or people she doesn’t trust. no, it’s the small one. the one that means i’m forgiven for every unread text, every distance, every mess i never had the courage to clean up.
i’m fucked. i’ve always been fucked when it comes to her.
i’m so incredibly in love with this girl i met all those years ago, but i swallow the words because timing is cruel, and right now, this— her in my arms, my heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with pole position— feels fragile. too important to rush.
she brushes my hair out of my face before speaking, “you should sleep,” she whispers, voice warm with affection and a little teasing, “race day tomorrow, pole-sitter.”
i shake my head against her neck, grip tightening just enough to say, not yet. not when she just got here. not when my chest finally feels full again.
her hands slide down to my jaw, gently guiding my head back so she can see me. her forehead leans against mine, close enough that i can feel each breath she takes.
i don’t mean to say it, but it slips out anyway, soft, raw, unguarded, “stay a little longer," i see her smile widens, and she nods, just once. and i swear i could live inside that moment forever.
she stays.
of course she does. she always does. and that’s the part that scares me more than anything, her consistency in a world that demands chaos from me. she pulls back just enough to toe off her shoes, letting them thud quietly against the carpet before she crawls onto the bed, tugging at my hands so i’ll follow.
i do. i’d follow her anywhere if she asked.
she sits with her back against the headboard, and i fall into place beside her, head immediately finding her shoulder like it was designed to fit there. her fingers slip into my hair, brushing through the strands slowly, methodically, long strokes that turn every thought in my head into static.
my breathing evens out. my pulse slows. she does that. without even trying, “you’re tired,” she murmurs, stating the obvious but sounding like she’s discovering something secret. i hum in response, eyes falling shut. if i speak, i’ll say too much. if i look at her, i’ll give everything away.
so i settle for silence, for the warmth of her thigh pressed against mine, for the rise and fall of her chest beneath my hand where it rests, claiming something i’m not allowed to claim.
the world outside this room is loud, cameras, interviews, pressure, expectation. but here? just her. just me. just breathing.
she shifts a little, adjusting us so i’m lying with my head in her lap. her other hand falls to my shoulder, thumb making slow circles through the fabric of my shirt. grounding me. anchoring me.
i don’t remember the last time i felt safe like this, “you know,” she says softly, “i’m really proud of you.”
my throat tightens. i swallow hard, eyes still closed. of all the praise i get, engineers, team principals, strangers screaming my name, hers is the only one that actually hits something inside me.
“pole looked good on you,” she adds, playful but sincere. i huff a quiet laugh against her leg, “everything looks good on me,” i mumble, because vulnerability is dangerous and sarcasm is easier.
she taps her fingers lightly against my forehead. “ass.”
“your ass,” i correct, without thinking.
her breath catches again. i feel it. i feel everything. my eyes snap open, and she’s looking down at me, amused, a little flustered, a little too fond for her own good. for my own good.
my hand lifts, fingertips tracing her knee absentmindedly, like i need to keep touching her or i’ll disappear. “don’t leave tomorrow,” i say, voice low, honest in a way i shouldn’t allow. “after the race. just— stay. with me.”
she doesn’t answer immediately, and those few seconds stretch and stretch, threatening to strangle me with hope. then she nods. small. sure, “okay,” she whispers.
my chest aches. sharp and sweet and terrifying. i close my eyes again because if i keep looking at her, i’m going to tell her everything. i’m going to ruin whatever fragile, undefined thing we have with the truth clawing at my ribs— that i love her. that i’ve always loved her.
that every win feels pointless if she isn’t there to see it. but for now, i settle for this.
her nails in my hair. her heartbeat under my cheek. and the knowledge that tomorrow she’ll still be here.
just a little longer. just enough.
it's funny how one night with her can change everything. the engineers notice it, they always do. even the other drivers can feel it. i'm more focused, more precise, more methodical in the way i answer pre-race questions. usually, i answer sharply, bluntly, like i'm brushing the world off with each word. today, i’m different. i'm calm, measured. the edges around me soften, just a little.
lando and oscar share those little knowing looks, like they can see right through me, see what has changed. 'he's quite nice today,' they probably think. i pretend i don't notice, but inside, it makes me grin.
later, when the interview wraps up, lando nudges me as we walk back toward the garages, “have a good night, mate?” he teases. i roll my eyes, give a shrug that’s more playful than annoyed.
“you seem better now that she’s here,” he adds, voice low enough that only i can catch the undertone.
i don’t bother hiding it, “i always am better when she’s here,” i say honestly, without thinking. because it’s true. everyone can feel it, sense it. my mood, my energy, my whole week of tension melts into something lighter just because she exists, because she’s around.
lando gives me a pointed look, “you should tell her how you feel, man,” he says, casual but not casual at all, “i’m pretty sure she feels the same way.”
i raise an eyebrow at him, skeptical, “and how would you know that?” not a snap, just curiosity. the only person she’s close to like that is me, and how could anyone else possibly know?
“i talked to her when she arrived yesterday,” he says easily, like he’s discussing the weather, “she looked as antsy as you when you haven’t seen her in a while.”
those words stick. cling. echo. i carry them with me for the rest of the day, even as i climb into the car, even as the lights go out.
antsy, i repeat to myself. my absence makes her antsy, and yet all i could think about this whole week was how much i missed her. maybe that’s why i notice everything she does. maybe that’s why it feels like she’s woven into the very air of the paddock.
lights out. away we go. the battle is brutal. the mclarens are fast, smarter than usual, but they don’t have me. i know i’m the best driver here. my record proves it. championships, wins, podiums stacked like bricks in my chest, they all say the same thing.
i fight. tooth and nail. i claw every millisecond out of this piece of machinery that barely obeys me. a midfield car might as well be a coffin for most, but i turn it into a weapon. the other drivers whisper about me afterward. i don’t care. they can talk. i don’t race for gossip. i race to win.
the race is a war. exhausting. merciless. abominable in every sense, and yet, somehow, i cross the line first. victory, but tiring.
i stand on the podium, trophy in hand, heart hammering from adrenaline, exhaustion, and the weight of everything. instinct pulls my eyes through the crowd, searching, scanning. i know exactly where she should be.
and she’s not there.
my chest tightens, panic flickers, sharp and unpleasant. she’s never missed a podium before. never. not like this. my mind races. where could she be? did something happen? is she angry?
the crowd blurs around me, the flashes from cameras like white-hot knives. everything is loud, chaotic, and she’s not in it. it feels wrong. the win doesn’t taste like victory, just emptiness, just a missing piece.
where did she go?
WHERE DID SHE GO CHAT??!??!?
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synopsis: growing up with max verstappen consisted of hand-holding, casual touches and lingering glances that never really needed any explanation. but somewhere in-between childhood and adulthood, those "casual touches" gained meaning and distance turned into longing neither one of you could name.
genre: angst, lots and lots of angst, fluff towards the end i promise.
word count: 4.6k
aria yaps: i'm like flying through these chapters since i'm just editing and not actually writing LMAOAOAO
PREVIOUS CHAPTER ᰔ SERIES MASTERLIST ᰔ NEXT CHAPTER
the whole day blurs together in my head, but i remember the important pieces. the ones that stuck.
her laughing on top of me this morning, half-asleep and warm.
her outside in the sun, looking stupidly pretty in her bikini like she didn’t even realize she could ruin someone without trying.
her cooking dinner like she didn’t just hold the whole room together with her presence.
and now, her beside me on her bed, scrolling like the world isn’t spinning weirdly fast around her.
i’m on the phone pretending to care about logistics and schedules and whatever else the universe decided to annoy me with today.
“i don’t understand why you’re calling me today,” i mutter, already annoyed, pinching the bridge of my nose, “can we deal with this tomorrow, please? it’s my day off. let me enjoy it for another few hours before you hound me about whatever the hell you're talking about.”
she’s trying not to laugh. i can see it, the way her lips twitch, the way her shoulders shake just a little. normally i’d be offended, but honestly? i get it. sometimes the bullshit i deal with is comedy material.
the call ends and i toss my phone somewhere near my pillow, done with the world.
“i’m sleeping over,” i announce because i decided that five minutes ago. i didn’t want to go back to the empty silence of my apartment. well, not empty. my cats are there. but still too quiet. too lonely, “i can’t be bothered to drive back,” i add, already making myself comfortable.
she just nods, still glued to her phone. no reaction. like she didn’t just become the center of gravity in every room we’re in.
so i do the only logical thing, i pull her into my arms.
she squeaks, an actual yelp, and glares up at me once i have her trapped, which only makes me grin.
“is this really necessary?” she asks, fake annoyed and adorable.
“we haven’t had much q-time lately, let me enjoy myself,” i mumble into her hair. she smells like fresh laundry and that berry shampoo she loves. i swear i could recognize her blindfolded.
“by crushing me to death?”
“by crushing you to death with love," i say it jokingly, but then my brain ruins it, like it always does, by shoving a thought forward that i’ve been trying to ignore for weeks.
you love her.
not like a friend. not like someone safe and familiar. not like someone who’s been part of your life forever.
no.
like someone you would choose. over and over and over again.
and suddenly, it feels like now or never.
“schatje,” i say, gently, carefully, “can we talk?”
i feel her tense. i hate it. that wasn’t the plan. but i tell her “it’s nothing serious" even though my body betrays me, i sit up, she sits up too, mirroring me like she always does.
and even now, even when my chest is tight and i’m seconds away from detonating my life, i still get distracted by her. the way her hair falls. the way she looks at me like she sees everything.
“i think… i think i love you,” finally slips out of my mouth.
it feels like exhaling a secret i’ve been choking on for years.
for two seconds, just two, i feel weightless.
then panic hits. ugly and sharp.
what if she doesn’t say it back?
what if i just ruined everything?
what if i lose her?
and before she can even breathe wrong, i fuck it up.
“no— shit. forget i said anything," the words taste like regret the second they leave my mouth. but i don’t take them back. i just… stand. run. flee.
she sits there frozen, expression blank, unreadable. like i just pulled the floor out from under her.
that’s when i know i fucked up.
“maybe i should go,” i say quietly, facing the door because i’m too much of a coward to face her.
i wait, just one beat, for her to stop me.
she doesn’t.
so i leave.
and now i’m sitting alone in my car, hands gripping the steering wheel like it might save me from myself.
the silence is loud.
my chest hurts.
and all i can think is.
i'm so fucking fucked.
because i didn’t just confess.
i detonated everything.
“you’re distracted," rupert says it like a fact, not a question. like he already knows the answer and he’s just waiting for me to admit it. i shake my head anyway. denial feels easier than honesty right now.
it’s only been a couple days since i last saw her and somehow everything feels off. my brain won’t shut up, my focus is shot, and every tiny thing reminds me of her. i don’t know why i thought i could pretend everything was fine. nothing feels fine.
rupert sighs, that annoyed, disappointed, older-brother kind of sigh.
“we can’t train unless you get your shit together,” he tells me, blunt as ever, “whatever it is, put it to the side for awhile and focus.”
i nod because arguing will only make this drag longer. my chest feels tight, and i force myself through warm-ups and routines like muscle memory can drown out thought. it doesn’t.
she still hasn’t texted me.
and i can’t blame her. i gave her a confession and took it back in the same breath— who does that? i told myself i should give her space, so i did. but space turned into silence, and now the silence feels louder than anything.
race week creeps up faster than i expected, and we’re still not talking.
monaco race week. normally it feels comfortable, somewhat of a home track, no flights, no jetlag, just routine. but this week feels different. everything feels slightly wrong. too quiet. too cold.
the team meeting drags on and i’m barely absorbing half of what’s being discussed. strategy, weather predictions, tire management, normally i’d be locked in, engaged, sharp. today my brain keeps drifting back to her. to the look she gave me before i walked out. to the silence that followed.
eventually, when the room empties and i’m left with excuses and restlessness, i cave.
against every bit of logic, against everything telling me to leave it alone, i call her.
one ring.
she picks up.
“hi,” i breathe, and immediately regret how weak it sounds.
“hi," soft. distant. careful.
the silence stretches just long enough to sting.
“are you coming to the race this weekend?” i ask, because small talk feels safer than the truth.
“i’m always here for monaco, max," her voice is calm, too calm. like she built walls while i wasn’t looking.
then her soft voice peeks through again, “are we ever gonna talk about what happened the other day?” she sounded sad, like she was holding her breath every time she waited for me to reply.
the question hangs heavy between us.
i panic.
“I think it’s best not to,” I say too fast. too defensive. too exposed.
silence again, but this time it hurts.
i swallow, then push the words out before I can stop myself, “can we forget it ever happened? i don’t want to lose you," my voice drops, softer than i mean it to, like i’m handing her the last fragile part of me and hoping she’s gentle with it.
she exhales, slow, steady, “you’re not going to lose me over some failed confession, max.”
failed.
the word sinks deep, sharper than i expect.
“i’m sorry i said that,” i tell her honestly, stomach twisting, “i don’t know what came over me.”
a beat. then she says, too quickly, “it’s okay. i have to go.”
the call ends before i can stop her.
i sit there with my phone still pressed to my ear, breathing like i just finished a race. my hands drag through my hair and i let my head fall forward, elbows on my knees.
how the hell did i let it get this bad?
how did i manage to fuck up something that mattered this much?
and why does it feel like i’m losing her even while she’s still here?
"you look like death," lando’s voice cuts through the chaos of media day like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever said. i roll my eyes because i don’t have the energy to bite back.
"it's been a long week and it's barely started," i mutter, adjusting my cap as we walk down the paddock together. cameras flash, people stare, PR waves, everything feels normal except i’m not.
lando slows his pace just enough to side-eye me, that annoying smirk glued to his face.
"you and your girlfriend— who you're not going to claim as your girlfriend but you guys already act like a couple— fight?"
he says it way too loud, way too publicly, and i have to resist the urge to shove him into the nearest wall.
"something like that," i say quietly. the words feel heavy coming out, like they’re coated in regret, "i told her i loved her and i backed off. she doesn't feel the same way, lan."
lando stops walking for half a second and looks at me like i’ve just told him i willingly drove into a wall.
"did she tell you that," he asks, voice flat, "or did you come to that conclusion before she could even give you a response? knowing you, you pushed and pulled the rug wayyy before she could even process what was going on."
i freeze.
because i know the answer.
and it’s the worst one.
i replay that night, the way she froze, the way i panicked, the way i left before she even processed the words.
i didn’t wait.
i didn’t ask.
i didn’t let her speak.
i just assumed.
"fuck," i breathe out, barely audible. i fix my cap again just to have something to do with my hands. the pit in my stomach grows heavier.
lando gives me that infuriatingly wise look brothers give before saying something annoyingly simple that ruins your whole belief system, "yeah," he nods, "sounds like you fucked up."
i glare, but it’s half-hearted.
he claps my shoulder as he starts walking again, "i have to go, mate— but i hope things are better for you and her!"
he waves, disappears down the paddock, and i'm left standing there like the world suddenly got louder.
the garage comes into view. mechanics, tools, the smell of fuel, all familiar, grounding things.
but my head is somewhere else.
fuck.
fuck.
fuck.
why am i like this?
i swallow the frustration, shove everything back down where it’s been living all week.
i have a job to do.
i still have a race to win.
i stay in bed way longer than i should. my body aches from the stillness, from the way i've curled myself into the blankets like they can protect me from reality. they can’t, obviously. max is still haunting every thought, every inhale, every attempt at distraction.
the call didn’t help. if anything, it made everything worse.
more confusing. more raw.
how could he call me like nothing happened? how could he speak to me with that calm tone when he’s the one who set my chest on fire and then walked away like it meant nothing?
i keep replaying the question in my head until it feels poisonous, did he confess just to see how i'd react and then panic when he got too close?
i try not to spiral, but being alone with my thoughts has always been dangerous territory. and lately, that’s all i’ve been, alone.
paddock passes showed up at my door this morning. no note. no explanation. but i know max, silence is its own language with him. so i assume they’re from him.
it makes my stomach twist, because it feels like he’s inviting me into his world while still keeping me at arm's length.
this week already feels too long and it hasn’t even properly started.
maya and sofia would've dragged me out of bed or forced a movie marathon or shoved ice cream at me until i felt something other than heartbreak, but they're busy. maya’s somewhere in asia posting unhinged stories and sofia’s off doing shoots and pretending to be mysterious on instagram.
so it’s just me.
and my brain.
worst duo imaginable.
thursday rolls around, media day. the city outside feels alive but i feel stuck, like i’m watching everything happen from behind glass.
i want to see him. i hate that i want to. but i do.
maybe he’s anxious. maybe he needs grounding. and like an idiot, i keep remembering the times when i was the only person who could calm him down.
my brain pulls up an old memory without mercy.
"your hands are shaking," i murmured, threading my fingers through his. he looked at me like the world was too loud and i was the only thing muting it.
"yeah, i've been anxious," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper, "i need you there next week."
"i can't, max. i have school," i cupped his cheek and he leaned into it like he'd fall apart without the contact.
"i've been so stressed, schatje. i don't know if i can do this. i need you there, can't you miss just one day of school?" his hands kept trembling and i hated seeing him like that.
"hey, stop," i said softly, brushing my thumb along his cheek, "you're spiraling before anything’s even happened."
i counted the sick days i’d taken, barely any, and sighed.
"i'll go, okay? i'll take monday off."
and just like that, the tension melted from his shoulders. breathing became easier for him.
i remember thinking, god, i’d do anything to make him feel safe.
the memory makes my chest tight. because back then, everything felt easy. unspoken. steady. like we were orbiting closer without noticing.
now everything feels sharp.
still… i get up. i get dressed. i braid my hair with shaky hands. i put on makeup i barely care about.
because despite everything, despite the confusion and hurt and silence, i still find myself walking toward the paddock, hoping seeing him won’t destroy me further.
hoping it might fix something. or at least stop the spiral.
max doesn’t come find me right away, and honestly, i didn’t expect him to. it’s media day, the part of racing he hates more than anything. cameras shoved in his face, repeating scripted answers, pretending he’s not exhausted or irritated. i’ve watched him do it a hundred times, jaw clenched, smile never fully reaching his eyes.
so i wait. and i try not to think. which, as usual, goes terribly.
my mind finally slows when i spot charles walking toward me with alexandra tucked beside him. they look annoyingly perfect, easy, settled, soft with each other in that way couples are when they know they’re safe.
“hi! it's so good to see you again!” alexandra beams, immediately pulling me into a side-hug.
“hi guys, how have you been?” i ask, polite smile on, even though my chest still feels heavy.
charles studies me for a second, head tilted, like he knows something i don't, “trouble in paradise?” he asks, which earns the smallest laugh out of me, more breath than sound.
“not in paradise,” i mutter, shrug-laughing, “just… max being max.”
they don’t push. thank god.
“we just wanted to say hi before i escort her to the vip section and head to the garage,” charles says, sliding an arm around alexandra’s waist with a familiarity that makes something bittersweet twist behind my ribs.
i hate that i envy it, that easy display of being chosen.
i hate that i want max to do the same. walk in with me. hand in mine. no confusion, no almost-moments, no running away when things get too real.
“did you want to come with us? you're headed there too, right?” alexandra asks, smiling that warm, effortless smile.
i nod because i don’t trust my voice.
we walk together and eventually reach the vip area. alexandra gives charles a quick kiss and a wave before he disappears toward the garage.
“i'm going to grab drinks and meet up with the other girlfriends,” she tells me, already scanning the room, “i’ll see you around?”
i nod again. another small smile. it’s all i have energy for.
my phone buzzes, a vibration sharp enough to cut through my thoughts.
max: VIP section?
you: yeah, i just got here
max: I know.
max: I have your location, remember?
i roll my eyes, even as my chest softens just a little.
he cares, just not in the clean, easy way i crave.
and that might be the problem.
max finds me eventually.
i'm sitting on one of the lounge couches, pretending to be invested in whatever is on my phone while slowly nursing a glass of champagne. the bubbles sting a little on the way down, but it’s a distraction, and right now i’ll take anything that dulls the noise in my head.
i see him before he sees me, that stupid fireproof undershirt, the cap, the walk i could pick out in a crowd with my eyes closed. i lift a hand in a lazy wave, pretending i'm casual about it when my pulse flickers like i’ve just been caught doing something wrong.
when he spots me, his expression shifts — softens — the kind of smile he doesn’t give cameras, or fans, or the world. just me. and it ruins me every time.
he drops into the seat beside me like he belongs there. maybe he does. maybe that’s the problem.
“i missed you,” he says quietly, like it’s fragile, like if he says it too loud it stops being true.
my heart does that annoying painful crack-swell thing and i hate that he has that kind of power.
“we saw each other a few days ago,” i remind him, matching his low tone because suddenly the air feels thin and intimate and i don’t trust my voice not to shake.
he doesn’t respond, not verbally, just reaches for my hand like it’s instinct. like muscle memory. like breathing.
his thumb brushes my skin once, slow. comforting. dangerous.
“you’re watching quali and the race from the garage this week,” he says, like it’s not a big deal, like he didn’t just casually drop a live grenade in my lap.
i blink. once. twice.
“what? why?”
my voice comes out louder than i meant and a couple of nearby vip guests glance over. i ignore them. my chest feels too full, too tight.
only family, spouses, or official girlfriends get garage access like that. not... whatever i am. whatever we are.
he just shrugs, casual, like he’s talking about the weather, “i just felt like you should be there.”
and god, it’s so him. vague and stubborn and soft in the worst possible way.
“but i’m not your girlfriend— or your wife,” i say, because someone here has to be logical.
he looks completely unfazed. another little shrug, another easy smile that shouldn’t hurt but does, “let them think what they want,” he says, tone final, “i want you in the garage.”
and that’s it. decision made. world rearranged. no negotiation.
what max verstappen wants, max verstappen gets.
and i don’t argue, even though i should. even though every rational part of me is screaming about implications and labels and meaning.
instead i sit there with his hand wrapped around mine, pretending it doesn't feel like a claim.
pretending i don’t want it to be one.
because the truth sits heavy and unbearably honest in the back of my mind,
i want to be his.
fully. publicly. undeniably.
and i want him to want me the same way, no half-measures, no maybe, no almost.
just us.
whatever us is supposed to be.
her hand is in mine while we walk, slow and unhurried, the streets of monaco glowing under streetlights. everything here is walkable if you’re willing to pretend your legs aren’t tired. if you don’t mind wandering.
media day is behind me now, the interviews, the forced smiles, the repetitive answers that always feel rehearsed. i love racing. i tolerate everything that comes with it. but the parasocial fans? the ones who think they know me? those i could do without.
but now… it's quiet. just the sound of the city and her fingers threaded through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
i should say something. anything. because everything feels fragile and temporary right now, like if i stay silent too long, this moment will slip away.
but i also don’t want to ruin it. walking beside her like this feels right. feels easy. feels like breathing.
she’s the one who breaks the silence.
“max, look— remember that gelato place?” her voice lifts, and there’s that spark, the one she never loses around me, “we ate there the first time i visited you in monaco and you spilled your gelato after your first steps out of the door!”
she’s laughing and i hate how much i love the sound of it.
i roll my eyes, but my chest warms in a way i can't control, “that was almost ten years ago. how do you even remember that?”
she squeezes my hand once, still laughing. her other hand comes up to cover her face like the memory is physically overwhelming.
“because the store clerk's faces were priceless,” she says between breaths, “they were already starstruck watching rookie max verstappen walk in and then you drop your gelato everywhere and they’re trying so hard not to laugh.”
i can’t help the quiet smile that climbs onto my face. i remember it too. i remember everything when it comes to her.
“you’re an idiot,” i say, but there’s no bite. not even close. just soft teasing.
and then she laughs again, big, unfiltered, absolutely uncool laughter, and the whole world just… quiets. everything narrows down to her hand in mine, her hair catching light as she walks, her joy echoing in the air.
for a second it feels like nothing happened between us. like i didn’t mess everything up. like she still loves me, openly, effortlessly.
and god, i want that back. i want us back.
before i can say anything, before i can choose the right words or ruin everything with the wrong ones, we reach her apartment.
she unlocks the door, steps halfway inside, then looks back at me.
“are you gonna come in?”
i freeze. because stepping inside means pretending everything’s fine. and i’m not ready to lie like that. not to her. not anymore.
i shake my head.
her expression shifts instantly, confusion, then concern. “why?”
i grab onto the first excuse that sounds believable, “i still have other things to do.”
she frowns, and i hate myself for the way her expression falls.
“what other things?” she steps closer again, standing in her doorway, waiting, always giving me the chance to be honest. and i still take the coward’s route.
“i got a text earlier — they need me back at the paddock for some filming.”
another lie. another tiny fracture.
but she doesn’t push. she never pushes. she just nods, quiet.
and then, before i can think, i cup her face gently and kiss her forehead.
the kind of kiss you give someone you can’t let go of.
she goes still at first, surprised, maybe confused, and then she melts into it, even if just for a second.
“don’t forget to text me,” she whispers.
i nod, step back, turn away before i do something even more stupid, like tell her everything i’ve been too afraid to say.
as i walk, my heart is beating too fast, too loud.
i shouldn’t have kissed her.
but she didn’t pull away.
and that tells me everything.
god.
i’m such an idiot.
i press my back against the door the second it closes behind me. my chest feels too tight and my heart is basically trying to break free from my ribcage.
max verstappen just kissed me on the forehead.
like actually kissed me.
on. the. forehead.
i slide down the door until i’m half crouched, palms on my face, because what the actual fuck.
one minute he’s cold and distant like i imagined the whole thing. the next he’s soft and warm and acting like he’s halfway to planning our wedding in monaco with matching golden retrievers.
it’s exhausting. and confusing. and so painfully max verstappen that i want to scream into a pillow.
so i do the only thing i know how to do, call the two people who are unfortunately witnesses to every questionable life choice i make, maya and sofia.
i prop my phone up on the vanity while i start taking off my jewelry. they both pick up, chaotic timing as usual, maya somewhere in the middle of the ocean, sunglasses still on, and sofia at her own vanity probably going through her twelve-step skincare routine.
“girl, you look like you just ran a marathon,” maya says immediately, “your cheeks are so red.”
i roll my eyes, “max just kissed me.”
silence.
and then—
“WHAT?!” they screech at the same time, so loud i flinch.
i hold up a hand, “not like… on the mouth. on my forehead.”
sofia inhales like she just avoided a heart attack, “you know,” she mutters, “you could’ve started with that.”
maya’s eyes are still huge. she looks offended. personally.
“so what the hell happened?” sofia asks, already sounding like she’s preparing a thesis.
i sigh, start unbraiding my hair, “okay, so… a lot. when you guys were here a few days ago… he told me he loved me—”
maya nearly drops her phone, “GIRL WHAT THE FUCK?”
“i know,” i groan, “just wait.”
“i am holding onto the side of the boat so i don’t fall off, say it faster,” maya snaps.
i drag a hand down my face, “he told me he loved me but then immediately took it back. like he panicked. so i assumed he didn’t mean it and was just… i don’t know— testing the waters? it wrecked me.”
sofia snorts, “yeah. no shit.”
“i’ve been miserable,” i continue, wiping mascara from under my eyes. “but then today i finally went down to the paddock because it’s race week and he dropped me off and then just— kissed me. and now i’m spiraling.”
maya looks like she’s about to personally swim back to europe.
“if you don’t go find him and properly kiss him— like tongue and fireworks and questionable decision kissing— i am throwing myself overboard,” she threatens.
sofia jumps in before i can respond, “okay but listen— he probably took it back because he was scared. think about it. did you say anything after he said he loved you?”
i blink. pause.
“…no.”
both of them stare at me like i’ve confessed to murder.
“i was shocked!” i defend, hands in the air, “and then he left before i could even figure out what to say.”
maya facepalms so dramatically i hear the smack, “you two are the dumbest people on earth.”
“arguably yes,” sofia agrees, “but now you need to actually talk to him. because from his side? it probably looks like you rejected him.”
my stomach twists. guilt burns.
“i’ll talk to him this week,” i start, but then my phone vibrates.
“well,” i mumble, staring at the screen, “never mind— i guess i’m talking to him tonight.”
maya whoops. sofia grins.
“good luck,” maya sings, “and don’t forget to use protection!”
i don’t even smile.
because suddenly, i’m terrified.
what the hell does he want to talk about now?
damn what does he want to talk about now? well i know, but you guys gotta wait until tmr LMAOAOAOOA
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