#mv3 x reader

[akatnelli]

HIS WORLD. m. verstappen

max finally introduces you to Lily and his cats, expecting nerves and chaos but when they adore you instantly, he realizes you already feel like home.

requested: yes

content ,, max being nervous, fluff, lowercase writing

max had been nervous all day, which was saying something considering he drove at 200 km/h for a living. he’d introduced you to his friends, family and even his team but this felt different. more important. more personal. today, he was bringing you home. not just to his apartment, but to his little world he kept tucked away from everything else. his daughter, lily. his cats. the parts of himself he didn’t let many people see.

“you’re overthinking it” you teased from the passenger seat of his audi rs6 abt, noticing how tightly his hands gripped the wheel.

max huffed out a laugh, glancing over at you. “i’m not.”

“you are.”

he sighed, the corner of his mouth twitching “okay. maybe a little.”

that made you smile, reaching over to rest your hand on his thigh. “it’s going to be fine.”

but max wasn’t worried about you. not really. he knew you were gentle, patient and warm in ways he wasn’t always sure how to be. what worried him was lily. she was only one — unpredictable, clingy and at the centre of his entire universe and his cats? jimmy, sassy and donatello were somehow even more judgemental.

if they liked you, max thought, maybe this could really be something.

—

the second the apartment door opened, chaos greeted you. jimmy was the first one there, weaving around max’s legs before spotting you and freezing. sassy sat a little further back, watching like she was assessing your soul. donatello, the youngest, came barreling forward with zero hesitation, rubbing against your ankles.

“well” you laughed softly, crouching down to let him sniff your hand. “hi to you too”

max blinked. donatello didn’t warm up to anyone that quickly.

then came the tiny patter of feet, bare on the hardwood floors of the apartment.

“dada!”

max’s face softened instantly as lily waddled into the room, tiny curls bouncing as she launched herself toward him. he scooped her up with ease, pressing a kiss to her cheek before glancing at you.

“and this” he said quietly, almost cautiously “is lily”

your heart melted immediately. she stared at you with wide curious eyes, little fingers gripping max’s shirt. for a moment, max held his breath waiting to see if she’d hide or cry.

instead, lily leaned towards you. you smiled, holding your hands out. “hi, lily.” to max’s complete shock, she let you take her.

and just like that, she settled against you like she’d known you forever.

max stood there, staring.

his daughter, who usually took forever to warm up to new people, was resting her head on your shoulder, playing with the necklace around your neck while donatello circled your feet and Jimmy cautiously came closer. even sassy, who hated everyone, jumped up onto the couch beside you.

“you’ve got to be kidding me” max muttered.

you looked up, laughing “what?”

“she doesn’t do that.”

“do what?”

“like people.”

lily giggled at something, tiny hands reaching for your hair and you laughed with her, careful and gentle as you shifted her onto your lap. jimmy jumped beside you, letting you scratch behind his ears, while Donatello batted at lily’s little sock. even sassy, curled up against your leg.

max just stood in the doorway, completely stunned. it was like watching the most important parts of his life fit together without effort.

—

later that evening, max found you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, lily in front of you with her toys scattered everywhere while the cats lazily stretched around you. you were helping lily stack little blocks, clapping softly every time she knocked them over, laughing like it was the greatest thing in the world.

lily squealed happily, reaching for you again.

jimmy was asleep in your lap, sassy had claimed your foot, donatello was trying to steal one of lily’s plushies and max… max felt something in his chest he hadn’t felt in a long time.

home.

he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, just watching.

you looked up eventually, smiling “what?” he shook his head, smiling to himself “nothing.”

but it wasn’t nothing.

because for the first time in a long time, max could picture it, coming home after race weekends and seeing this. you. lily. the cats. warmth. chaos. love.

a future.

he crossed the room and sat beside you, pressing a kiss to your temple while lily instantly crawled into his lap.

“you know” he murmured against your skin, “i was worried today.” you turned to him, surprised “why?”

his fingers brushed lily’s back as he smiled softly “because if they didn’t like you…”

he glanced at the cats sprawled all over you, then at lily, who was half asleep in his lap.

“…i’d have a problem.”

you laughed, nudging him.

but max only pulled you closer, looking at the picture you all made together and with lily safe between you, cats piled around your legs, and your hand tangled in his, max realized something terrifyingly simple.

he didn’t just want you in his life.

be wanted you in all of it. forever.

© AKATNELLI : do not copy, repost or modify any of my work.

[akatnelli]

❪SAFE HERE❫ ─────── ˙⋆✮

pairing: max verstappen x reader

summary: when max is invited to a quiet Sunday dinner with your family, he expects nothing more than a meal but instead finds warmth, safety, and the kind of love he’s never known.

word count: 1.3k

request: yes / no

max had never liked family dinners. growing up, they had never been easy, never warm, never something he looked forward to. dinner meant silence so sharp it could cut, expectations heavier than the plates in front of him, and words that always seemed to carry more weight than they should. there was never softness in it, never comfort. so when you asked him if he wanted to come to your parents house for sunday dinner, he almost said no out of instinct alone. but then you looked at him, all casual and warm, like inviting him into your life was the most natural thing in the world, and max found himself agreeing before he could overthink it.

the driver there was easy, your hand resting over his on the centre console while you rambled about your mother making to much food, your younger brother definitely asking him a thousand questions about racing, and your dad pretending he wasn’t excited to see him. max smiled at that, glancing over at you. he was used to people being excited because he was max verstappen. world champion, race winner, the face people wanted photos with and stories from. but your family had never treated him like that. they didn’t seem interested in what he could give them, only in who he was when the helmet was off.

the second you stepped through the front door, your mother was already pulling you both inside because it was too cold to be standing there. she kissed your cheek, gave max a quick smile, and immediately started asking if he was hungry. your younger brother barely looked up from where he was sprawled out on the couch, muttering a lazy “hey, max” before asking if he wanted to play FIFA later. it was so normal it almost made max laugh. then your dad appeared from the kitchen, drying his hand on a towel and held out his hand.

“good to see you again, son.”

son.

the word harder than it should have.

not champ. not max. not world champion. just son. like he was welcome here, like he belonged in this house as something more than just a guest.

dinner itself was chaos in the best way. your brother kept stealing food from your plate, your mother kept scolding him and piling more onto everyone else’s, and your dad was making terrible jokes that had you laughing so hard you nearly choked on your drink. max sat there quietly at first, watching it all happen around him, feeling almost like an outsider looking in on something he didn’t quite understand. then your mother refilled his glass without asking. your brother dragged him into some stupid argument over football teams. your dad asked him how training at been, not racing, not media, just training, like he genuinely cared about how max was doing.

it was strange, the kind of strange that made his chest feel tight, because nobody wanted anything from him. no pressure. no expectations. just… him.

after dinner, everyone moved into the living room. your brother had insisted on a FIFA match, and max had let himself get dragged into it, sitting cross-legged on the floor while your father watched from the armchair. your mother hovered in the doorway, cleaning up but still half-listening. the room felt warm, the kind of warmth that came from too many people in one place, laughter filling every corner of the room. it felt lived in. real.

then your brother lost and groaned, muttering something about dads being annoying.

it was harmless, just teasing, but your dad laughed and shook his head before saying “careful. some dads deserve this title.”

your brother frowned. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

max’s stomach twisted. he knew where this was going before anyone else did.

your dad leaned back in his chair, his expression calm, almost thoughtful. “there’s a difference between pushing your kid to be better and hurting them because you can’t control your own anger. some men think fear makes their kids stronger. it doesn’t. it just teaches them how to survive.”

the room went quiet. max stared at the controller in his hands, unable to look up. your dad didn’t look at him. didn’t make it obvious. but everyone knew. they all knew enough.

your dad sounded angry. not awkward. not pitying. angry. like what happened to max mattered enough for someone else to be furious about it. it made his throat close up.

for years, max had convinced himself it had been necessary. that it had made him who he was. that it was worth it because he’d won. but sitting here, in this warm living room, surrounded by people who loved eachother so easily, it suddenly felt ugly. wrong.

before he could stop himself, he stood up to quickly, muttering something about needing air.

outside, the cold hit him instantly, but it didn’t help. his chest felt tight, his breathing uneven. he gripped the porch railing and stared into the dark, trying to get himself together. it was ridiculous. he’d handled championship deciding races, media storms, crashes at 200mph but one family dinner had him feeling like he was falling apart.

the door opened a minute later and you stepped out, closing it softly behind you, blocking out the noise from inside. you didn’t say anything at first, just moved to stand beside him.

“max?” you asked gently.

he let out a shaky breath. “your dad hates him.”

you knew exactly who he meant.

“yeah” you said simply.

max laughed bitterly, wiping a hand over his face. “he said it like it was obvious. like hurting your kid automatically makes you a bad father.”

you turned towards him, your expression soft. “because it does.”

that broke something in him.

his eyes burnt and before he could stop, tears slipped down his cheeks. he turned away immediately, embarrassed, angry at himself for crying, but you reached for him before he could put distance between you. your hands caught his face, grounding him and the second you did, max folded.

he wrapped his arms around you and buried his face into your shoulder, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him upright. the tears came hard then, mess and unrestrained, years of hurt cracking open all at once. he hated crying. hated feeling weak. but you didn’t make him feel weak. you just held him tighter, one hand rubbing slowly up and down his back, the other tangled in the his hair at the back of his head.

“it’s okay” you whispered against his temple. “you’re okay.”

his breathing broke into shaky gasps. “i don’t know why this is happening.”

you pressed a kiss to the side of his head, your voice so soft it almost hurt.

“because you’re safe.”

safe.

the word lodged itself deep in his chest. max didn’t know if he’d ever felt that before. not really. not growing up. not in racing. not anywhere.

but here, in your arms, outside your childhood home with warm lights spilling through the windows and your family inside waiting for him, he thought maybe this was it.

maybe this is what it felt like. to be loved without conditions. to be cared for without having to earn it. to exist without fear.

after a while, the door opened again. your dad stepped outside, holding a blanket in his hands. he looked at max, really looked at him, and there was no pity there. just understanding. quiet, steady understanding.

he scrapped the blanket over max shoulders and gave them a firm squeeze.

“your mum says if you’re going to stand out here all night, atleast don’t freeze.”

it was such a simple thing, but max laughter through the tears still stuck in his throat. your dad smiled faintly before heading back inside, leaving the two of you alone again.

max stood there wrapped in that blanket, your arms still around him and felt something in him shift. something old and broken loosening for the first time.

for the first time in his life, home didn’t feel like a place he had to survive. it felt like this. like you. like warmth and laughter and people who wanted nothing from him except to stay.

and for the first time, max let himself believe he deserved it.

© AKATNELLI : do not copy, repost or modify any of my work.

[myghostandme]

I Thought You Liked It

Max Verstappen x f!reader

Summary: You and Max secretly hate Valentine’s Day, but you both pretend to care.

Warnings: misunderstandings. Please let me know if there are any more.

Word Count: 1.5k+

More Valentine's Day Fics

You don’t hate Valentine’s Day.

Not in the dramatic, rant-about-it-online way some people do. You don’t roll your eyes at couples or make bitter jokes about overpriced roses. It’s not that.

It’s just that you’ve never liked being told when something is supposed to matter.

You don’t like that affection suddenly becomes scheduled, that restaurants become battlegrounds for reservations, that love feels louder on one specific date than it does on the quiet, ordinary Tuesdays when it actually lives. You prefer the small things: coffee handed to you exactly how you like it without asking, fingers laced together in the car, the way Max rests his hand on your waist without even looking.

You assume he feels the same.

Max has never been performative. He doesn’t post long captions or stage surprises for cameras. If he does something, it’s deliberate and private. He doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t waste gestures either.

So when you ask one evening, trying to keep your voice light and as casual as possible: “So… are you doing anything on the 14th?”. You don’t exactly expect the shift.

He’s standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, phone in one hand. He looks up at you, and there’s the smallest pause before he answers.

“No. Why?”

It’s barely noticeable. A fraction of a second. But you know him.

That pause settles somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.

Oh.

He’s thinking about it and he’s definitely planning something.

Maybe he was waiting to see if you’d bring it up. Maybe it matters to him more than he lets on. Maybe you’ve misread this entire time.

You shrug like it’s nothing.

“Just checking.”

He nods once, and the conversation moves on, but it doesn’t really move on. It lingers. It reshapes itself into assumptions.

Because what he hears is something different.

He hears: She expects something.

And Max has never been good at guessing expectations, so when he thinks there is one, he locks onto it with the same intensity he brings to everything else.

Neither of you clarifies.

And that’s where it starts.

The Week before

You don’t talk about it again, but suddenly it exists between you in a quiet, invisible way.

You catch yourself thinking about it while scrolling through restaurant options you already know you’ll hate. Candlelit tables with limited menu and too much couples around you. The exact kind of place you’d normally avoid. Still, you book one. The confirmation email lands in your inbox and makes you feel strangely nervous.

You tell yourself it’s important to him.

Maybe he doesn’t show it, but maybe he wants one night that feels deliberate. Maybe he’d be disappointed if you brushed it off. Maybe you’ve been too casual about something that matters more than you realized.

So you order a gift that feels thoughtful but not overwhelming. You buy a dress that’s softer than your usual style. You rehearse, in your head, what the night is supposed to look like.

Meanwhile, Max is doing the exact same thing in his own quiet, methodical way.

He calls ahead to confirm reservations at a place he knows you wouldn’t normally choose, because he assumes that’s the point. He buys flowers, which he almost never does, because that feels like the expected move. He stands in a store longer than he’d like, staring at something small and understated that he thinks you’d wear, telling himself that if he’s going to do this, he’ll do it properly.

He doesn’t complain about it. He doesn’t question it.

He just commits.

Because if you care, he cares.

February 14th

When he knocks on your door, he’s holding a bouquet that looks slightly too red to be natural.

You open the door and immediately clock everything at once.

The flowers. The way he’s dressed just a little more put together than usual. The fact that he looks almost… tense.

He clocks you too.

The dress. The effort. The way you’re trying to look relaxed and not overthink it.

“For you,” he says, holding out the flowers in a way that’s careful but not overly soft.

“They’re beautiful,” you reply, and you mean it, even if your stomach tightens slightly.

You both look like you’re about to attend something formal, something structured. Something neither of you actually likes.

The drive is quieter than usual, not in a bad way, just in a concentrated one. Max focuses on the road like he does before a start, very composed and controlled. You glance at him once or twice, wondering if you’re overthinking everything.

You reach over eventually and rest your hand on his thigh, grounding yourself. He covers it with his own without looking away from the road.

That part feels normal.

That part feels like you.

The moment you walk into the restaurant, you both know.

It’s worse than expected.

Pink candles line every surface. Rose petals are scattered across white tablecloths like someone lost control of a florist. A violinist plays something slow and cinematic in the corner. The hostess beams at you with an enthusiasm that feels aggressive.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“You too,” you both answer in identical, neutral tones.

The table is small, intimate in a way that feels forced. There’s a single candle between you, flickering dramatically. The air smells like perfume and champagne and something overly sweet.

Max pulls your chair out, and you thank him. He sits across from you, posture straight, jaw slightly tight.

You both try.

You really do.

You make polite conversation. You ask about his day. He asks about yours. You comment on the ambiance in a way that avoids being sarcastic.

But you notice the way he stares at the menu like it’s a strategic puzzle. He notices the way you keep adjusting your napkin, smoothing it over your lap.

The waiter approaches with a smile that suggests this is his favorite night of the year.

“And what are we celebrating tonight?”

There’s a fraction of hesitation.

“Valentine’s,” you both say at the same time.

It sounds rehearsed. Obligatory. Because it is.

The waiter nods approvingly and moves on.

Silence settles between you again, heavier this time.

Max looks at the heart-shaped appetizer placed in front of you, then at you.

“You hate this, don’t you?” he asks, finally.

The question lands softly, but it splits everything open.

You blink. “…You don’t?”

He frowns, genuinely confused. “I thought you liked it.”

“I thought you did.”

The realization spreads slowly across his face, mirrored by the same one on yours.

“I booked this because I thought you’d be disappointed if I didn’t,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

“I bought the flowers because I thought you expected it,” he replies immediately.

There’s no accusation in his tone. Just clarity.

You stare at each other across the candlelight, and the whole evening suddenly feels absurd.

“I don’t care about the day,” he says after a moment, leaning back slightly. “I care about you. The date doesn’t change that.”

You feel something in your chest loosen.

“I don’t like being told when I’m supposed to do something romantic,” he continues. “If I do something, it’s because I want to. Not because it’s February.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I thought if we didn’t do something, you’d think I didn’t care.”

His eyebrows pull together slightly. “You think that’s how I measure that?”

The answer is obvious. Of course not.

You both sit there for a moment, the violin swelling unnecessarily behind you.

“We could leave,” he says.

There’s no hesitation this time.

“Yes,” you reply immediately.

You leave before dessert.

The hostess looks faintly scandalized, but neither of you slow down. The cold air outside hits your skin and feels like relief. No candles. No expectations. No music trying to narrate your feelings.

You both exhale at the same time, and this time, you laugh.

Not polite laughter. Not controlled.

Real laughter.

“I can’t believe we did that,” you say, shaking your head.

“I can’t believe we both thought the other one liked it,” he replies, almost as if he doesn’t believe it..

In the car, the tension is gone. He reaches over and laces his fingers through yours, grounding you in that familiar way.

“I don’t hate Valentine’s,” he says after a while, eyes still on the road.

You glance at him.

“I hate pretending,” he clarifies.

That makes sense. It fits him perfectly.

You squeeze his hand. “Me too.”

Back at his place, you both change into comfortable clothes, the kind you actually live in. You order takeout that arrives in paper bags instead of silver trays. You sit on the couch, knees touching, plates balanced carelessly.

There are no candles.

No speeches.

No schedule.

At some point, you lean into him, and he wraps an arm around you automatically, like he always does. His thumb traces slow circles against your side, absentminded and grounding.

“I was worried you’d think I wasn’t doing enough,” he admits quietly, almost like it surprises him to say it out loud.

You tilt your head up to look at him. “You always do enough.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, but his arm tightens slightly around you, like that’s answer enough.

Midnight passes unnoticed.

There’s no dramatic kiss or grand declaration.

It’s just the two of you, comfortable and close.

And for the first time all evening, nothing feels staged.

It just feels like the real version you.

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

©2025-2026 myghostandme. Please do not translate, copy, or take credit for my work.

[myghostandme]

Valentines Dinner Party

Max Verstappen x f!reader

Summary: Two anti-Valentine’s drivers get placed next to each other and end up realizing that mutual disdain might be the best kind of chemistry.

Warnings: very,very light romantic tension, sarcasm and dry humour, social awkwardness. Please let me know if there are any more.

Word Count: 1k+

More Valentine's Day Fics

You and Max do not secretly hate Valentine’s Day.

There is nothing secret about it.

You have both, on separate occasions, publicly referred to it as “forced scheduling of emotions,” and neither of you walked the statement back. Ever.

You have both declined Valentine’s sponsor activations. You have both ignored suggestive captions drafted by PR teams. You have both, very deliberately, treated February 14th like any other day on the calendar.

You are not heartbroken.

You are not bitter.

You simply dislike being told that affection must happen on command.

Which is precisely why being seated together at the end of a long, elaborately decorated dinner table beneath a glitter banner feels like targeted psychological warfare.

The moment you walk into the private dining room, you register the damage immediately.

Pink candles scattered across every free surface. Rose petals decorating white linen. A champagne tower catching the light like it’s part of a proposal. A Polaroid photo station in the corner with a glittery backdrop and heart-shaped props.

Max steps in seconds after you and your eyes meet across the room almost immediately.

There is no greeting or smile. Just shared recognition and the exact same thought of: “This is absolutely unbearable.”

The host beams at you both. “You made it! See? It’s just dinner.” It is not just dinner because just dinner wouldn’t include a seating chart.

Couples sit paired neatly along the long table, fingers already intertwined, knees angled toward each other like they’ve rehearsed the posture.

And at the very end stand two empty chair. Which you presume or for you and Max.

While you just stare at the chairs like they are insulting you by just existing, Max exhales through his nose, slow and sharp. “Unbelievable.”

You sit without comment, smoothing your napkin over your lap, trying very hard to stay calm.

“This is humiliation,” you say evenly.

He nods once, agreeing. “Targeted humiliation.”

While the first course is served, conversation rises around the table in gentle waves. Couples share anecdotes about how they met, how long they’ve been together, who planned what surprise.

You and Max on the other hand, sit slightly angled away from the rest of the table, mostly observing.

Someone starts the playlist. A mix of slow, acoustic covers start to weave through the room. Most of them sounding too romantic when they are slowed down.

Max tilts his head subtly. “Is this really necessary?”

You glance toward the speaker. “If someone proposes, I’m leaving.”

“If someone slow dances,” he replies calmly, “I’m coming with you”

You don’t smile but the corner of your mouth twitches suspiciously.

Appetizers arrive in beautiful arrangements and even the butter is sculpted into something that resembles a heart.

You lean closer, voice low. “That’s aggressive.”

“It’s unnecessary,” he replies dryly.

Across the table, someone reaches across to wipe sauce from their partner’s mouth. You both look away at the exact same time, noses wrinkled in disgust.

Halfway through the second course, the host stands and claps lightly.

“Okay! Couples game!” You and Max go both completely still.

The rules are explained with far too much enthusiasm. “And our singles,” the host adds brightly, gesturing toward you both, “can observe and take notes.”

“We’re not participating,” you and Max say simultaneously.

Someone, slightly tipsy already, grins. “You two should just date already.”

Silence falls faster than anyone expects. You roll your eyes instinctively, but Max doesn’t. Instead, his jaw tightens.

“No,” he says flatly.

Not joking or amused. Just firm.

The conversation stumbles forward again, but something subtle shifts. So subtle that only you can feel it.

Later, during a particularly intimate exchange about love languages, someone across the table laughs and says, “She’s too intense to date anyway.”

You’re about to respond something sharp and dismissive like you always do, but Max beats you to it.

“She’s not.” His voice isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s certain, like he knows you inside out.

The table moves on quickly, distracted by wine and stories and slowly escalating sentimentality.

But you don’t. You feel his words slowly settle in your chest. How certain he sounded.

The room grows louder as glasses refill and voices rise. The air feels thicker, scented heavily with a mix of different perfumes and something overly sweet.

You both lean back in your chairs at the exact same time.

“This is exhausting,” you say.

“Yes,” he replies.

Your eyes meet. And this time, you smile.

Not your usual sarcastic one and not the performative one you’ve been wearing all evening either.

Just relieved. Because no matter how horrible it is, at least you are not alone in this.

The host announces a slow dance portion “just for fun!”, and someone knocks over a glass of wine. There’s laughter, mild chaos, someone arguing playfully about anniversary dates.

The room feels smaller and Max shifts slightly closer.

“Want to leave?” he asks quietly.

It isn’t romantic in any way, more like he knows you are just as fed up about the evening as you.

You nod once and you both slip out of the room without offering an excuse or announcing your exit.

Even when you grab your coat nobody says anything.

The hallway outside is quiet and cool.

When the front door finally closes behind you and the cold night air hits your skin, you both exhale at the same time.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Streetlights glow softly against the pavement. The world feels real again.

“Well,” Max says dryly, hands in his coat pockets, “that was a nightmare.”

You laugh. Real laughter. Uncontrolled and light.

“I don’t hate Valentine’s,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now that there’s no audience.

You glance at him.

“I hate just pretending.” The honesty in his voice is simple, stripped of irony.

You nod slowly. “I don’t hate relationships. I hate the expectation that they have to be… staged.”

“If I do something,” he says carefully, “it’s because I want to. Not because someone circled a date.”

You understand that immediately. Because that’s how he operates in everything.

He slows his steps.

“If I was going to do something,” he continues, more measured now, “it wouldn’t look like that.”

You swallow.

“Good thing it’s almost midnight,” you reply lightly.

He huffs a small laugh. “Yeah.”

But neither of you turn away.

Instead, you keep walking. Side by side. Steady footsteps echoing faintly through the night.

And somehow, that feels far more intimate than anything that happened inside.

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

©2025-2026 myghostandme. Please do not translate, copy, or take credit for my work.

[myghostandme]

The Girl Who Waited

ex!Lando Norris x f!reader x Max Verstappen

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Summary: When you return, it isn’t for closure or revenge. It’s because you no longer need permission to take up space.

Warnings: confrontation with former partner, emotional fallout from past infidelity, public scrutiny, gossip, themes of emotional closure and growth Please let me know if there are any more.

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: For those who came back as themselves, knowing their worth. This story does not reflect on the real drivers. No Lando hate.

I just wanted to say that this story isn’t about becoming harder to be loved. Softness was never the flaw. It was just given to the wrong place. You don’t have to change yourself to be loved. You are beautiful just the way you are and the right person will see that.

The paddock feels smaller than you remember.

Not physically, if anything, it’s louder, brighter, more crowded than ever, but emotionally. Like a place you once lived in that you’ve now outgrown. You step through the gates with Max beside you and feel it immediately: the pause, the ripple, the moment where everyone recalibrates their understanding of who you are now.

You don’t rush. You never rush any more.

Your heels click against concrete with intention, red soles flashing briefly when you step. The dress is black, cut clean and unapologetic, sunglasses shielding your eyes from scrutiny you no longer fear.

Max’s hand rests on your lower back. It’s not possessive. It’s anchoring.

“You okay?” He asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

And you are.

You can sense people looking at you differently.

They don’t smile the same way. They don’t speak to you like you’re an extension of someone else. There’s curiosity now, laced with caution and respect.

You catch reflections of yourself in glass. You look tall, composed, and still. This time, you don’t flinch away from the image.

The girl who waited would’ve softened, would’ve smiled to reassure everyone that she was still kind.

You don’t.

Lando sees you before you see him. Like he always used to.

It hits him like a physical blow. The way you move. The way you don’t look for him. The way Max fits into your space like it’s natural, practiced.

You look… finished.

Not broken. Not angry. Just finished.

Oscar notices his stillness. “Mate,” he says quietly.

Lando doesn’t answer. Instead, his chest tightens with a realization that arrives far too late: you didn’t come back to fight for him. You came back because you were done running.

The media notices you immediately. Photographers angle for shots. Reporters whisper. Names are typed into headlines before anyone’s confirmed anything. You don’t give them fuel. You don’t hold Max’s hand for show. You don’t lean into him for effect. You simply exist beside him in a comfortable and confident kind of way.

Somehow, that seems to unsettle people more than spectacle ever could.

The first time you and Lando cross paths, it’s unavoidable. A narrow corridor with nowhere to retreat.

He stops short when he sees you. Really sees you.

“You look different,” he says.

You tilt your head. “So do you.”

There is no warmth in your voice, but there isn’t cruelty either. Just truth.

“I heard you were back,” he continues, like he doesn’t know what else to say. “I wasn’t sure it was real.”

You offer a small smile. “It is.”

Your gaze flicks to Max, who stands a few steps away, watching calmly.

“Is this…” Lando hesitates. “Is this serious?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you glance at Max, who meets your eyes with quiet certainty.

“Yes,” you say finally.

Something in Lando’s face collapses.

The confrontation that follows isn’t dramatic. Just two people standing in the quiet aftermath of everything they never said.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he says.

“I know,” you replay.

That’s what surprises him most. “You know?”

“Yes.”

He laughs weakly. “Then why does it feel like this?”

You inhale slowly. “Because intent doesn’t erase impact,” you say. “And love doesn’t survive being taken for granted.”

His eyes shine.

“I would’ve changed.”

You shake your head gently. “You would’ve resented me for asking.”

Silence stretches between you.

“I loved you,” he says.

You nod. “I loved you too.”

And for the first time, it feels more like a goodbye instead of a wound.

Max doesn’t ask questions afterward. He doesn’t need to. That night, in the quiet of the hotel room, he sits beside you on the bed, shoulder brushing yours.

“You okay?” He asks again.

You lean into him this time.

“Yeah,” you say. “I really am.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding something in.

The races pass. Japan. Bahrain. Miami.

Each weekend, the narrative shifts slightly. People stop framing you as Lando’s ex. They stop calling Max a rebound. They start seeing you as what you are now: Max Verstappen’s partner, but more importantly yourself. Not necessarily as an extension to someone.

You weren’t arm candy. Not a statement.

More like a constant that’s there when he wins and when he doesn’t. You learn his silences. He learns yours.

You realize something quietly, one night on a balcony overlooking a city you can’t really remember the name of:

This isn’t revenge. Because revenge burns hot and fast.

But this, this is steady.

Monaco is the turning point. You wear red. Not because of symbolism. Not because of headlines.

Because you want to.

Max offers you his arm when you step onto the dock, cameras exploding around you. He doesn’t look at them. He looks at you.

“Ready?” He asks.

You smile, real and unguarded.

“Always.”

That night, as the city glitters below, you rest your head against his shoulder and feel something unfamiliar settle in your chest. And that something is safety.

The entire weekend, Lando watches from afar. He doesn’t approach again. He doesn’t need to, because somewhere between the way you laugh now, lower and steadier, and the way Max looks at you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, Lando finally understands.

He didn’t lose you to Max.

He lost you to himself.

The last race of the season is loud and bright and overwhelming. Max wins and when he finds you after, sweaty and grinning, he pulls you into a hug that’s all relief and triumph and something deeper.

“I couldn’t do this without you,” he says quietly.

You look up at him. “I know,” you answer, but there isn’t arrogance in your voice. Just trust.

Later, when the noise fades and the world narrows to just the two of you, Max traces slow patterns along your arm.

“You’re not soft anymore,” he says thoughtfully.

You arch a brow. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” he says immediately. “It means you know your worth.”

You smile, resting your head against his chest.

“I didn’t lose who I was,” you say. “I just stopped giving it to people who couldn’t hold it.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I can.”

You might not wear sundresses anymore. But sometimes, rarely, you smile the same way you used to. Not because you’re naive, but because you’re free.

Taglist: @pharmasennapuff @alessa-the-enchantress @vinylphwoar @bigdaddy32587 @f1obsessor4life @d160 @charlesgirl16 @96mcobo @stuffyownswrld @skynel09

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

©2025 myghostandme. Please do not translate, copy, or take credit for my work.

[myghostandme]

The Girl Who Waited

ex!Lando Norris x f!reader x Max Verstappen

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Summary: You disappear without explanation and rebuild yourself where no one can reach you. Grief first, then control, then choice.

Warnings: grief and emotional distress, depression-adjacent themes, social withdrawal/isolation, identity reconstruction after trauma, mentions of unhealthy coping (non-graphic). Please let me know if there are any more.

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: For the quiet becoming. For the days no one saw, and the strength that grew there. This story does not reflect on the real drivers. No Lando hate.

For a long time, nothing happens. 

That’s the part people never talk about. That space in time between heartbreak and reinvention where the hours just blur together. The days, where you wake up and forget, just for a second, and then remember all over again. 

You move through it like a ghost. You don’t answer messages. You don’t explain absence, and you don’t correct anyone when they say your name like it still belongs on the paddock.

You just exist. In small, survivable increments. 

At first, the crying is constant. 

It ambushes you in grocery stores, in taxis, in the shower where the water is loud enough to hide the sound. You cry until your chest aches and your body folds in on itself like it’s trying to disappear. 

You cry because you miss him. You cry because you don’t. You cry because you loved someone who let you believe you were enough. Until you weren’t. 

Some nights, you sleep in his hoodies. Some nights, you shove them into the back of a drawer like they might burn you if you look too long. 

The phone stays face-down.

You don’t block him yet because that would mean acknowledging permanence. Instead, you let the messages pile up like unopened mail. 

“I know I hurt you.” 

“I’m getting help.” 

“I don’t recognize myself either.” 

You wonder how long it took him to stop recognizing you. 

Eventually, the tears slow. Not because it hurts less, but because your body gets tired of holding that much grief. 

You wake up one morning and realize you haven’t cried yet. The absence of it feels wrong and suspicious. So, you sit on the edge of the bed and wait. 

Nothing comes. The thing is, you don’t feel better, but what you do feel is quieter. 

To get your mind off that new feeling, you start walking. No destination and no headphones. Just moving through the streets that don’t know your name. You walk until your legs ache and your mind finally shuts up. 

You start to notice small things again. The sound of heels on pavement, the way light hits glass, the rhythm of your own breathing. 

It’s the first time in months you feel like you’re inside your body again. 

The first thing you change isn’t your clothes. It’s your posture. You stop folding inward to make yourself smaller without realizing it. 

Instead, you begin to take up the space you’re in. 

The haircut comes next. It’s nothing dramatic. Just something cleaner and sharper. Something that frames your face instead of hiding it. 

You stare at your reflection afterward, unsure how to feel. Because the girl that looks back at you doesn’t look softer or sadder. She looks awake. Like a fire that just started burning. 

You don’t throw away the sundresses. You could never, but you stop reaching for them. 

You try something darker, something more structured. Something that doesn’t flutter when you move. It feels strange at first, like you’re wearing someone else’s skin. But it also feels safe in a way. 

The Louboutins happen on a rainy afternoon. 

You hadn’t planned it. You were just killing time, sheltering from weather that matched your mood. The boutique is warm and quiet, smelling faintly of leather and something expensive you can’t name. 

You look at them like you once looked at race cars. With awe, but also with distance. Like they belong to a different life. 

“I’ve always wanted them,” you admit quietly, more to yourself than anyone else. 

The sales associate smiles gently. “Then you should try them.” 

They fit perfectly. Of course they do. 

When you stand, something shifts. It’s not confidence. It’s the feeling of control. 

You buy them with no guilt and when you walk out with the box tucked under your arm, rain taps against the pavement like it’s applauding you. 

That night, you line your lips in red for the first time. You don’t recognize yourself immediately, but you don’t look away either. 

There are other things that change too. You stop apologizing for everything. For taking time. For saying no. For existing without explanation. 

You realize how often you used to soften your words, round your edges, make things easier for people. 

You don’t do that any more, and somehow it makes you feel lighter. 

After some time, the silence becomes intentional. You don’t fill it with distractions. You sit with it. You learn what your thoughts sound like when they aren’t echoing someone else’s expectations. 

You start liking your own company, and that surprises you most of all, because you never liked it. You meet Max on a Wednesday. It isn’t dramatic. There are no cameras. No paddock noise. Just a quiet café and a mutual friend who makes the introduction casually, like this moment won’t matter. 

It does. 

He recognizes you instantly. Of course he does, but the thing is, he doesn’t react. 

There isn’t any kind of curiosity that is shaped by gossip in his eyes. He isn’t awkward about it. He doesn’t mention Lando. Not once. There is just recognition, the kind that says he sees you as yourself and not as an extension of Lando. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hi,” you reply. 

Conversation unfolds naturally. It’s not flirty, but it isn’t forced either. Just honest in a way you didn’t realize you missed. 

He talks about racing like it’s a problem to solve, not a persona to maintain. You talk about leaving without explanation and not regretting it. 

He listens. Really listens. 

When you stand to leave, he notices your shoes. 

“They’re nice,” he says simply. 

You smile. “They’re new.” 

“They suit you,” he adds after a moment. “Not the shoes. The choice.” 

With his words, something warm settles inside your chest. 

You don’t rush anything with him. You don’t want to. Because you’re not looking for a replacement. You’re looking for peace. 

Max doesn’t push. He doesn’t crowd. He exists beside you like he knows exactly how much space to give. 

That feels new. It feels good. 

By the time you step into the paddock almost a year later with your heels steady, sunglasses shielding your eyes and lips dipped in red, the girl who waited is gone. 

In her place is someone who knows exactly what she’s worth. And she isn’t waiting for anyone anymore. 

Taglist: @pharmasennapuff @alessa-the-enchantress @vinylphwoar @bigdaddy32587 @f1obsessor4life @d160 @charlesgirl16 @96mcobo @stuffyownswrld @skynel09

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

©2025 myghostandme . Please do not translate, copy, or take credit for my work.

[myghostandme]

The Girl Who Waited

ex!Lando Norris x f!reader x Max Verstappen

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Summary: You loved him in patience and sundresses, believing that staying was the same as being chosen. You were wrong.

Warnings: emotional neglect, repeated infidelity, betrayal, imbalanced relationship dynamics, heartbreak. Please let me know if there are any more.

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: For those who loved gently, and stayed longer then they meant to. This story does not reflect on the real drivers. No Lando hate.

You learned early how to wait. 

It wasn’t something you were proud of. It was something you absorbed, the way people absorb weather. You waited because love, you believed, was patient. Because if you loved someone enough, you made room for them to arrive late, to be distracted, to be unfinished. 

And Lando Norris was always unfinished. 

You met him before the noise swallowed him whole. 

Before every smile was content, before every sentence was clipped for interviews, before the paddock decided who he was supposed to be. Back then, he laughed too loudly and apologized for it. He talked with his hands. He worried aloud, and he was sweet in a way that felt unguarded. 

You loved him there first. 

The paddock liked you. 

That was the first thing people said about you. 

“She’s so sweet.” 

“She’s so normal.” 

“She’s good for him.” 

You wore sundresses that moved when you walked, light fabrics that caught the air as you waited by garages or leaned against railings. You didn’t dress for attention. You dressed for comfort, for warmth, for the versions of yourself that still believed gentleness would be enough. 

Lando noticed you like that. 

He always reached for your hand without thinking. Always leaned his head toward you when things got overwhelming. You grounded him by trying to soften the edges of his world. 

“You keep me sane,” he told you once in a hotel room somewhere between time zones, forehead pressed to yours. You always smiled at that and kissed his cheek. You never told him that sanity takes work. 

At first, nothing was wrong. 

Or maybe everything was, but it was small enough to ignore. 

He cancelled plans, but he always apologized. He forgot to text back, but he blamed the schedule. He flirted a little too easily, but everyone said that was just who he was. 

And you believed them. 

You believed love meant trusting someone even when it pinched a little. 

You learned to recognize the sound of his phone buzzing and not look. You learned not to ask who he was messaging when his smile tilted private. You learned not to flinch when girls leaned too close in photos. 

Because he always came back to you. 

Because at night, when the world quietened, he curled into your side like it was instinct. And that had to mean something, right? 

The first time you realized you were waiting alone, you were standing outside the McLaren garage. 

It was late. The track lights buzzed overhead. People had started packing up. You’d been there for almost an hour, leaning against the wall, sundress cooling against your legs. 

You didn’t mind. 

You scrolled through old photos you never posted. You watched mechanics move past you like you were part of the scenery. 

When Lando finally appeared, he blinked like he’d forgotten something. 

“Oh shit,” he said softly. “You’ve been here the whole time?” 

You smiled automatically. “Yeah.” 

Guilt flickered across his face, but it was quick and shallow. 

“I got pulled into something. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you said. 

And you meant it. 

You always did. 

His behaviour didn’t change overnight. 

It repeated. Small things slowly accumulating. 

Late nights he couldn’t explain clearly. Stories that didn’t quite line up. Girls that appeared in the background of photos and disappeared before you could ask. 

You told yourself not to be that girlfriend. 

The one who questioned. The one who doubted. The one who made things harder. 

So you stayed soft. 

So when he suggested a trip to Milan, it felt like a peace offering. 

He’d been distant for weeks. His answers distracted, his movements restless in a way that made your chest ache. You chalked it up to pressure. To stress. To the sport chewing him up like it chewed everyone eventually. 

You finished your fitting early. The dress was yellow. You liked how it made you feel light again. Like yourself. 

You didn’t text him. You wanted the surprise, and maybe you also wanted to remind him that you were still here. 

The hallway was quiet. Too quiet. 

You remember noticing the smell first. Something unfamiliar and expensive. Something sweet. Not his cologne. Not your perfume. 

Your key turned easily. That detail stays with you longer than anything else. You stepped inside. 

“Lan-” 

The world died in your throat. 

You didn’t see bodies clearly. Your mind refused to catalogue details. But you saw enough. Shoes that weren’t yours. Laughter that wasn’t meant for you. Lando’s voice, pitched lower, intimate in a way that had once been reserved for you alone. 

Time seemed to slow and then he looked up. 

And the look in his eyes told you so much more than any of the details. It told you that this wasn’t the first time. 

Because his face didn’t look shocked. 

It looked caught. 

“Wait-” he said, standing too fast. “This isn’t-”

You raised your hand. 

“No.” 

Your voice was quiet in a controlled kind of way. And calm. Almost too calm. 

The girl scrambled, muttering apologies you barely heard. You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t. Your eyes stayed on him, searching for something you weren’t sure existed any more. 

“How long?” You asked softly. 

He hesitated. 

The hesitation was answer enough. 

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” he said. 

Something inside you cracked. 

“So there was a way you planned to?”  You asked. 

He stepped toward you. 

You stepped back. 

“I love you,” he said desperately. “This didn’t mean anything.” 

You smiled, but it felt wrong on your face. 

“That’s the problem,” you said. “It should have.” 

You turned, but you didn’t run, didn’t scream, didn’t collapse. 

You just waked out in your sundress, holding yourself together on instinct alone. 

The door closed behind you and the girl who waited stopped waiting. 

When you disappeared, no one understood it at first. You didn’t announce anything, didn’t post, didn’t explain. You simply… just stopped being available. 

Lando called. 

Then texted. 

Then sent messages that blurred together in tone and separation. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I messed up.” 

“Please just talk to me.” 

You listened to one voicemail. Just one, but when his voice cracked while saying your name, you turned the phone off. 

The crying came later. In private. It’s the ugly kind where you are gasping for air. You cried on bathroom floors and hotel beds that didn’t smell like him. You cried until your chest hurt and your eyes burned and your body felt emptied out. 

You replayed everything. 

Every moment you’d ignored. Every excuse you’d accepted. Every time you’d waited. 

And slowly, quietly something hardened. 

Not into anger, but into clarity. 

You packed away the sundresses. You don’t throw them out. Instead, you folded them carefully because they still belonged to someone. To someone who loved deeply and trusted easily. To someone you loved so deeply, but also to someone who you couldn’t be anymore. 

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

©2025-2026 myghostandme . Please do not translate, copy, or take credit for my work.