Hii I love all of your fics so much! I was wondering if you could write a fic a bit of an angsty one - something along the the lines of max perhaps being sort of neglectful towards his wife and family in general (too much time with everything else racing wise). Wife has someone pay more attention towards her and kid (no cheating tho) and max kinda wakes up and realises what he could potentially lose
Take For Granted
Max Verstappen x Wife!reader
Synopsis: Max gets lost in racing until you’re left doing everything alone. When he finally sees how distant he’s become, he chooses to show up, rebuild, and make your family feel whole again.
Warning: Angst, Neglect, Loneliness
Moonlight Radio: hi ty! I hope u like this!
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ʙᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀɴᴇᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴍᴘᴀᴄᴛ ɪꜱ ʙɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ♡
The house is quiet in a way that feels heavy.
Not peaceful. Not calm. Just… quiet.
You’re sitting on the living‑room floor with your daughter, her tiny hands patting at the wooden blocks you’ve stacked for her. She knocks them over again, giggling, and you smile because she deserves to see you smile. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re lonely in a way that feels embarrassing to admit.
Max should be home by now.
He said he’d be home by seven. It’s half past nine.
You don’t check your phone. You don’t need to. You already know the message waiting for you will be something like sorry, got caught up at the factory or meeting ran late or I’ll be home soon - except soon never means soon anymore.
Your daughter crawls into your lap, warm and soft and smelling faintly of the baby lotion you put on her after her bath. You kiss the top of her head and hold her close, letting her weight anchor you.
You don’t cry. You’re past crying.
You just sit there, in the quiet, and wait.
—
— Max
Max doesn’t realise he’s sprinting until he’s already halfway down the corridor of the factory, keys in hand, bag slung over his shoulder. He’s late. Again. And he hates it. He hates the way his stomach twists when he thinks about you sitting at home, waiting for him. He hates the way he’s become the man he swore he’d never be - the man who lets racing swallow everything else.
He loves racing. He loves you more.
But lately, he hasn’t been acting like it.
He gets into the car, starts the engine, and exhales sharply. He should’ve left hours ago. He should’ve been home for dinner. He should’ve been the one giving your daughter her bath, reading her a story, tucking her in.
He should’ve been there.
He drives faster than he should, guilt clawing at him with every passing streetlight.
—
— you
You’re in the kitchen now, rinsing bottles, wiping counters, doing the small repetitive tasks that keep your hands busy and your mind from spiralling. Your daughter is asleep upstairs. The house is still quiet.
You hear a knock on the doorframe.
“Hey.”
You turn.
It’s Daniel.
He’s leaning against the doorway, jacket half‑zipped, hair messy from the wind. He gives you a soft smile - the kind people give when they’re worried but trying not to show it.
“Thought I’d drop off the stuff you asked for,” he says, lifting a small bag of groceries. “Didn’t want you running out of milk again.”
You smile back, grateful. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he says gently. “But I wanted to.”
Daniel has been around more lately. Not in a weird way. Not in a threatening way. Just… present. He checks in. He helps carry things. He plays with your daughter when he visits. He listens when you talk.
He notices you.
Not romantically. Not in a way that crosses any lines. Just in a way that feels like someone finally sees you again.
He sets the groceries down and leans on the counter. “You okay?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
He gives you a look - the kind that says he doesn’t believe you but won’t push.
“Max still at the factory?”
“Probably.”
Daniel hesitates. “You know… you’re doing an amazing job. With her. With everything.”
Your throat tightens. “Thanks.”
He squeezes your shoulder - warm, reassuring - and then steps back. “I’ll get out of your hair. Call me if you need anything.”
You nod again, and he leaves.
The house is quiet.
You stand there for a moment, staring at the groceries, wondering when you started needing someone else to fill the gaps Max left behind.
—
— Max
He sees Daniel’s car pulling away as he turns onto the street.
His stomach drops.
He parks quickly, gets out, and walks toward the house, heart pounding. He knows Daniel. He likes Daniel. He trusts Daniel. But seeing him here - at your home, at night, when Max should’ve been the one inside - makes something sharp twist in his chest.
He opens the door quietly.
You’re in the kitchen, back turned, wiping the counter again even though it’s already clean.
“Hey,” he says softly.
You freeze for a second before turning around. “Hi.”
He steps closer. “I saw Daniel leaving.”
“Yeah. He dropped off some groceries.”
Max nods, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease. “Right.”
You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t ask. The silence stretches.
He hates it.
He hates how unfamiliar it feels - this distance between you, this carefulness, this quiet.
He steps closer again. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
You nod. “Okay.”
“I should’ve been home earlier.”
“Yeah.”
He swallows. “I’m trying.”
You look at him then - really look - and he feels the weight of everything he’s missed. The exhaustion in your eyes. The loneliness. The resignation.
He reaches for your hand.
You let him take it, but your fingers don’t curl around his.
It breaks him a little.
—
The next few days are the same.
Max leaves early. Comes home late. You handle everything - the meals, the naps, the tantrums, the laundry, the endless cycle of domestic tasks that never seem to end. You don’t complain. You don’t ask for help. You don’t ask Max to stay home or slow down or choose you.
You just… stop expecting him to.
Daniel stops by twice. Once to drop off a toy he found that he thought your daughter would like. Once to bring you coffee because he was “in the neighbourhood.”
Max notices.
He notices everything.
He notices how your daughter lights up when Daniel walks in. He notices how you laugh more when Daniel’s around. He notices how Daniel kneels on the floor to play with her, how he listens to you talk about your day, how he fills the space Max keeps leaving empty.
He notices how he’s losing you.
Not to Daniel. But to the quiet.
To the loneliness.
To the absence he’s created.
—
It happens on a Thursday.
Max comes home late again - nearly ten - and finds you sitting on the couch, staring at the baby monitor. Your daughter is asleep, but you’re still watching the screen like you’re afraid she’ll disappear if you look away.
He sits beside you.
You don’t move.
“Talk to me,” he says quietly.
You swallow. “About what?”
“About us.”
You keep your eyes on the monitor. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“There is,” he insists. “There’s a lot.”
You exhale slowly. “Max… I don’t want to fight.”
“I’m not trying to fight.”
“Then what are you trying to do?”
He hesitates. “Fix it.”
You finally turn to him, eyes tired. “You can’t fix something you’re never here to see.”
The words hit him like a punch.
He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “I know I’ve been gone a lot. I know I’ve been… distracted.”
“Neglectful,” you say softly.
He flinches.
You don’t say it cruelly. You say it like a fact.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
“I love her.”
“I know.”
“But you don’t feel it,” he says, voice cracking.
You look down at your hands. “I feel alone.”
He feels something inside him fracture.
You continue, voice quiet. “I feel like I’m raising her by myself. I feel like I’m living by myself. I feel like I’m married to someone who’s never home. And when he is home, he’s exhausted or distracted or thinking about the next race or the next meeting or the next thing he has to do.”
He swallows hard. “I didn’t realise it was this bad.”
“That’s the problem,” you whisper. “You didn’t notice.”
He closes his eyes.
You don’t cry. You don’t yell. You don’t accuse. You just sit there, calm and quiet, telling him the truth he’s been too busy to see.
He reaches for your hand again.
This time, you pull away.
And that’s when he breaks.
—
The next morning, Max doesn’t go to the factory.
He doesn’t go to the simulator.
He doesn’t go to meetings.
He stays home.
He wakes up early, makes breakfast, feeds your daughter, changes her, plays with her, lets her crawl all over him while he lies on the floor laughing.
You watch from the doorway, arms crossed, unsure whether to trust this sudden shift.
He sees you.
He gets up, walks over, and cups your face gently.
“I’m here,” he says softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You nod, but you don’t melt. Not yet.
He doesn’t expect you to.
He spends the entire day with you both - taking your daughter to the park, pushing her on the swing, carrying her on his shoulders, letting her tug at his hair. He holds your hand when you walk. He kisses your temple. He listens when you talk.
He’s present.
Really present.
And for the first time in weeks, the quiet feels warm again.
—
It’s not perfect overnight.
There are moments when you still feel unsure. Moments when Max still feels guilty. Moments when the distance between you feels like something you’re both learning to cross again.
But he tries.
He tries so hard.
He starts coming home earlier. He starts saying no to unnecessary meetings. He starts carving out time - real time - for you and your daughter. He starts noticing things again — the way you hum when you cook, the way your daughter scrunches her nose when she laughs, the way the house feels different when he’s actually part of it.
He starts being the man you married.
One night, after dinner, you’re sitting on the couch with your daughter asleep upstairs. Max sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch.
He takes a breath. “I was scared.”
You look at him. “Of what?”
“Of losing you,” he says quietly. “Not because of someone else. But because of me.”
Your chest tightens.
He continues, voice soft. “I got so caught up in racing that I forgot racing isn’t my whole life. You are. She is. And I don’t ever want to make you feel alone again.”
You swallow. “I don’t want to feel alone again.”
He reaches for your hand.
This time, you let him take it.
Your fingers curl around his.
He exhales shakily, relief washing over him.
“I love you,” he whispers.
You lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I love you too.”
He wraps his arm around you, pulling you close, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip.
You don’t slip away.
You stay.
—
Weeks later, the house feels different.
Lighter.
Warmer.
Alive.
Max is in the living room, lying on the floor with your daughter sprawled across his chest, babbling happily as she pats his cheeks. He laughs - a soft, warm sound - and kisses her forehead.
You watch from the doorway, heart full.
He sees you and smiles, reaching out a hand.
“Come here.”
You walk over and lie beside him, your head on his shoulder, your hand resting on his chest. Your daughter reaches for your face, giggling, and you kiss her tiny fingers.
Max looks at you - really looks - and his eyes soften.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.
You smile. “Good.”
He kisses you - slow, gentle, full of everything he hasn’t said and everything he’s learning to say now. Your daughter squeals between you, and you both laugh, pressing your foreheads together.
The quiet in the house is no longer heavy.
It’s peaceful.
It’s home.
And Max holds you both like he finally understands what he almost lost - and what he’ll never take for granted again.
ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ: ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱ, ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ, ᴇxᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: ʀᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ - ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ʀᴇϙᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ
ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.
ɪᴛ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ, ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛɪɴɢ.
