Summary: Max always thought you never asked for much because you didn’t need much, low-maintenance to a fault, until he finally overhears the truth.
4.4k words / Masterlist
Max had always appreciated how easy you were to love.
You didn’t demand. You didn’t sulk over missed dates. There were no passive-aggressive comments about him not posting you enough or forgetting to text back when a race weekend swallowed him whole. You never made him feel guilty for the parts of his life that were already complicated. When he was travelling or exhausted, you simply kissed his forehead and told him to rest. When his schedule changed last minute, you never got upset, never made him sit through a tense silence or apologise for the same thing five different ways, you just shrugged with that soft little smile of yours and said, “We’ll figure it out.”
You weren’t just low-maintenance, you were selfless, unshakeably chill in a way that made loving you feel almost effortless. You understood the pressure, the travel, the media, the endless demands on his time, and you never tried to add yourself to the list of things he needed to manage.
You made room for his life before he even had to ask. You bent around the complicated edges of his world so naturally that, after a while, Max stopped noticing how much you were bending at all.
It was refreshing. Comforting, even. Being with you never felt like another obligation waiting for him when he got home. You were warmth, quiet, peace… but it also made it easy for Max to coast.
Because when you said you didn’t need flowers, he believed you. When you told him birthdays weren’t a big deal, he took your word for it.
When you said you didn’t mind that his attention was always half-distracted by Red Bull, his sim rig, his phone, or whatever new team crisis was unfolding in the background, he didn’t stop to wonder whether you meant it. He didn’t ask himself if you were genuinely fine with being loved in the gaps, or if you had simply learned to make your wants small enough that they never became inconvenient.
He didn’t notice that every time you said, “Don’t worry about it,” you were teaching him that he didn’t have to.
Until he saw the way your smile dimmed at Daniel’s girlfriend’s birthday party.
The boat was filled with champagne and noise, a private Monaco affair organised by Daniel, of course, because no one else could make a birthday party feel quite that excessive and still somehow charming. There was a neon sign glowing above the bar, a curated playlist that seemed suspiciously full of songs Daniel liked more than his girlfriend did, and custom cupcakes with everyone’s faces printed on them. Max didn’t even know you could do that.
You sat beside him with a drink in hand, your shoulder brushing his every now and then as the boat rocked gently against the water. To anyone else you looked perfectly fine, but Max had started paying closer attention now.
Your laugh came half a second too late, your smile faded too quickly, and your eyes kept drifting back to the couple across the deck.
Daniel’s girlfriend had her arms slung around his neck, his jacket draped over her shoulders, and a glittery tiara with Birthday Girl written across the front sitting slightly crooked on her head. Daniel kept adjusting it for her, grinning every time she swatted his hand away, and when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple without seeming to think about it. Thoughtless in the best way, like loving her out loud was simply instinct.
“You made it!” Daniel said, pulling Max into a hug before turning to you with even more enthusiasm. “And you look amazing. Seriously, come on, look at you.”
You laughed, a bit surprised, and looked down at yourself like you hadn’t expected anyone to notice.
Max noticed that.
Daniel’s girlfriend came over next, glowing, happy, adored. She hugged you tightly and thanked you both for coming, then turned to show you the bracelet Daniel had bought her. It was delicate and expensive, the kind of jewellery Max would never have picked out on his own because he would have convinced himself he didn’t know what he was doing and given up before trying.
“He surprised me with it this morning,” she said, beaming. “And he pretended he forgot my birthday for, like, ten minutes, which was evil, but then he had breakfast set up on the balcony.”
Daniel, overhearing, lifted his glass. “Romance is alive and well ladies and gentlemen.”
Normal Daniel. Loud, teasing, affectionate Daniel, who made a spectacle out of caring because he had never been embarrassed by warmth in the same way Max sometimes was, but then Max looked at you.
You were smiling. Of course you were smiling.
You were always polite. Always kind. Always good at being happy for other people, even when something inside you was quietly aching. There was something different about it then, something Max had never noticed before because he had never had reason to look for it.
Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.
You didn’t look devastated, you didn’t withdraw your hand from his arm or go quiet in a way anyone else would pick up on. You just looked at the bracelet on Daniel’s girlfriend’s wrist, then at the flowers, then at the wall of photos, and for half a second your expression morphed into something almost wistful.
Max felt it like a punch he had no right to react to.
The conversation moved on around him. Daniel was talking about the cake, someone else was laughing about how long it had taken to get the decorations right. His girlfriend was telling you how Daniel had been secretly planning it for weeks, badly, apparently, because he almost exposed himself several times.
You laughed at the story.
You said, “That’s really sweet.”
Max heard the softness in your voice.
For the first time all night, Max looked at the party properly. He looked at the flowers. The photos. The custom menu cards with her name on them. The cake Daniel had apparently taste-tested three times because the first one “didn’t feel like her.”
Then Max looked at you.
You were standing beside him with nothing from him except your own practiced understanding.
No flowers.
No post.
No planned birthday dinner he hadn’t rescheduled.
No little public signs that he was proud to love you.
No evidence, really, that Max Verstappen had ever looked at the woman beside him and thought, she deserves to feel chosen.
His stomach twisted, because suddenly he remembered your last birthday with a clarity that made him feel slightly sick.
He had been in Milton Keynes for simulator work. He’d called you late, later than he meant to, and you had answered in bed, face lit softly by your phone screen. You had smiled like you were happy just to hear from him. He had apologised again for not being able to be there. You had said it didn’t matter and he had promised to make it up to you. You had said, “Don’t stress, honestly. I had a nice day.”
Had you?
Had you really?
Or had you said that because it was easier than admitting you had wanted him there?
He thought about the flowers you always claimed not to need. The birthdays you said weren’t important. The dates you never demanded. The posts you never asked for. The attention you pretended not to miss.
Beside him, you glanced up. “You okay?”
Max blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the gentleness of your voice. That made it worse somehow, even now you were checking on him.
“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Fine.”
You studied him for a moment, clearly not convinced, but you didn’t push. You never pushed. You simply nodded and looked back towards the others, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve.
Max hated that too. He hated that you gave him space even when maybe he deserved pressure.
He hated that you had made yourself so easy to keep that he had forgotten keeping you was still something he had to actively do.
For the rest of the night, he couldn’t stop watching you.
He watched Daniel’s girlfriend pull you into photos, watched you laugh as someone handed you a party hat you refused to wear for about ten seconds. He watched you compliment the decorations, watched you ask questions about the planning, watched your fingers lightly brush over one of the flower arrangements when you thought no one was looking.
You liked flowers.
Of course you liked flowers.
Maybe not in the over-the-top, expensive, social-media way, but you liked them. He could tell by the way you touched the petals carefully, the way your face warmed when Daniel’s girlfriend told you Daniel had chosen them because they reminded him of a dress she once wore in Monaco.
Max stood there, silent and increasingly irritated with himself.
How many things had you convinced yourself you didn’t need simply because he had never offered them?
How many wants had you softened into jokes so they wouldn’t feel like demands?
How many times had you made yourself smaller around his life and called it love?
Later, when everyone gathered around the cake, Daniel made a speech. A terrible speech, because it was Daniel, so half of it was jokes and the other half was him pretending not to get emotional. Then he spoke about how his girlfriend made his life better. How she put up with him. How she deserved more than one night of being celebrated, but he hoped this was a decent start.
Everyone laughed.
His girlfriend cried.
You smiled.
Max felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.
He complimented you in private, usually quietly, usually after you’d done something for him. He told you he loved you, yes, but often in bed, or before hanging up, or in passing when one of you was leaving. He assumed you knew. He assumed choosing you privately counted the same as making you feel chosen.
On the drive home you were quieter than usual.
Your head rested against the window, city lights sliding over your face in brief flashes. Your heels were in your lap because you had taken them off the second you got in the car, and your fingers played absently with the strap like your mind was somewhere else.
Max kept glancing over. Usually he liked quiet with you, it was comfortable and easy, you didn’t need to fill every silence.
Tonight the quiet felt full of everything you weren’t saying.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked eventually.
You turned your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was lovely.”
Lovely.
The word sat between you.
Max swallowed. “Daniel did a lot.”
“He did,” you said, and your voice was warm. “It was really sweet.”
There it was again. That careful admiration.
Max’s hands flexed around the steering wheel. “You like that kind of thing?”
You looked at him properly then, brows lifting a little. “What kind of thing?”
He shrugged, trying to sound casual and failing. “All of it. The flowers. The photos. The big party.”
You looked away and gave a small laugh, the kind that tried to make a truth sound harmless. “I mean, I don’t need all that.”
Max’s chest tightened.
That wasn’t what he had asked.
“I didn’t ask if you needed it.”
Your fingers stopped moving against the shoe strap and for a moment you said nothing. Then you looked down and smiled again, but this one was worse than the one at the party because it was meant only for him, meant to reassure him, meant to protect him from feeling bad about something he had already done.
“I just think it’s nice,” you said carefully. “For her. Daniel clearly put a lot of thought into it.”
Max nodded once, jaw tense.
Thought.
That was the word that stayed with him.
You didn’t need a private room full of flowers or a custom cake or a wall of photographs. You probably didn’t even want something that big, but you wanted thought. You wanted evidence that he had paused, considered you, and chosen to make you feel loved on purpose.
Max, who could analyse tyre degradation over fifty laps, who could remember tiny setup changes from races years ago, who could spend hours perfecting a sim lap by half a tenth, had somehow convinced himself he was incapable of remembering to buy you flowers.
“I should have done more for your birthday,” he said.
You went very still.
The car felt smaller suddenly.
“Max…”
“No,” he said, because he knew that tone. He knew you were about to let him off the hook again. “I should have.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
You exhaled quietly and looked out of the window again. “I told you it was fine.”
“I know you did.”
“Then why are you bringing it up?”
Because I finally saw your face, he wanted to say. Because I finally realised you have been asking for so little that I stopped giving you even that and I do not know how to forgive myself for not noticing sooner.
But Max had never been good with words when they mattered most.
So he said, “Because I think you say things are fine when they're not.”
Your mouth pressed together. That tiny movement cut through him more than any argument would have.
You weren’t angry, but part of him wished you were. Anger would have given him something to meet, something to fix, something loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it, you just looked tired and that was worse.
“I don’t want to be difficult,” you said after a while.
“You're not difficult,” he said immediately.
You gave him a small, sad smile. “I know. I just mean… your life is already a lot. You have so many people needing things from you all the time I never wanted to be another thing on the list.”
“You are not a thing on the list.”
“Aren’t I?” you asked softly.
Max didn’t answer fast enough, once again words failed him, he hated himself for that.
You turned your face back towards the window, and the reflection showed him the truth he had been avoiding all night. You weren’t crying or making a scene. You weren’t asking him to turn the car around or apologise in some grand dramatic way. You were simply sitting there beside him carrying a hurt that had clearly existed long before tonight.
He figured you’d be home from your errands by now.
Probably curled up somewhere in the apartment, wearing one of his hoodies like you always did when he was away for more than a few days. Maybe on the sofa with your knees tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, or half-watching one of those comfort shows you liked to put on in the background while you waited for him. The thought came easily, warmly, and Max found himself smiling before he had even opened the door properly.
He liked coming home to you.
He liked the small signs of you scattered through his space. Your shoes by the door, your hair tie abandoned on the coffee table, your mug in the sink because you always forgot to rinse it. Your presence had softened the apartment in ways he hadn’t realised he needed, turning it from somewhere he slept between races into somewhere that actually felt like home.
The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, but not empty.
Max kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, already turning toward the living room when he heard your voice from the bedroom. Then he heard your best friend’s name, and realised you were on the phone.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He was about to call out, to let you know he was back, but something about your tone made him stop before the words left his mouth. So he stayed quiet, halfway down the hall, one hand still resting against the wall.
“I’m not upset he did all that for her,” you were saying. “It’s sweet. It is.”
There was a pause.
Max’s body went strangely still.
He knew, instantly, what you were talking about.
“It’s just…” You exhaled shakily. “He’s never done anything like that for me.”
The words hit him hard. Max stared at the floor, heartbeat slowing into something heavy and uncomfortable.
“I don’t ask for much,” you continued, and your voice was smaller now, like you were embarrassed to even say it out loud. “I know I don’t. I never wanted to pressure him or make him feel like he had to go out of his way when his life is already so much. I thought if I was easygoing and low-maintenance, it would make things easier on him.”
His throat tightened.
“But sometimes—” Your voice broke so softly he almost missed it. “Sometimes I wish he’d do something without me having to ask.”
Max’s fingers curled around the edge of the wall.
He could feel every careless assumption he had ever made beginning to turn over in his head, one after another, each one worse than the last.
You didn’t care if he forgot plans, if he came home distracted, if he said he would make it up to you and then didn’t, because something else came up and you smiled like it was fine.
“Maybe I enabled it by alway saying I was fine... but I don’t need grand gestures,” you went on, voice wobbling now. “I know that’s not really him, and I don’t want him to be anyone else. I don’t want a big show just for the sake of it, but it would be nice to feel special sometimes… to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
Max’s chest ached.
He looked toward the bedroom door, but he couldn’t move.
“I just want to know he wants to do those things for me,” you whispered. “Not because he’s apologising or because someone else did it first… because he loves me enough to notice.”
Max couldn’t breathe properly.
He hadn’t known.
He really hadn’t known.
He thought you meant it when you said you didn’t care about birthdays, anniversaries, flowers, or all the romantic things he had always been bad at. He had thought that was part of what made you you. Unbothered by the kind of performative relationship stuff he had never known how to do properly.
The conversation ended a few minutes later.
He heard the soft rustle of sheets then your footsteps moving across the bedroom floor. Max reacted too late, still trapped in the weight of what he had heard and only barely managed to step back into the hallway before you came out.
You stopped when you saw him.
For one awful second, neither of you said anything and then he smiled and wrapped you in a hug pretending like he hadn’t heard a word.
That night Max sat alone in the dark of the living room for a long time, head in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything except sit there in the silence and let every word he had overheard replay in his head until it felt carved into him.
He kept hearing your voice.
“to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes.
God.
How many moments had you swallowed your disappointment before he could even notice it was there, dimming yourself down just to be easier to love?
It gutted him.
You hadn’t asked him for the world. You hadn’t asked him to become someone he wasn’t. You only wanted to feel considered. Somehow he had made the best thing in his life feel like she had to be grateful for whatever was left of him at the end of the day.
You deserved fireworks, even if you were the kind of girl who said she didn’t need them. You didn’t want more from him. You just wanted to matter enough for him to give it anyway.
You didn’t expect anything to change.
Max was always kind, attentive in the ways he knew how to be. He noticed when you were cold and passed you his hoodie without making a big thing of it. He reached for your hand in crowded places because he liked knowing exactly where you were. He remembered how you took your coffee, which side of the bed you preferred, the shows you put on when you needed background noise. He loved you. You knew he did.
So when he suggested you take a weekend off together “Somewhere quiet, just us” you didn’t overthink it. You figured he wanted to disappear for a couple of days, somewhere without cameras, team radios, sponsor obligations, or someone asking him about tyre degradation.
It wasn’t until you stepped onto the lakeside dock in Switzerland that you realised something was different.
The cottage was small but charming, tucked away by the water with warm wood walls, soft cream blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place glow with the late afternoon light. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t the kind of place chosen to impress anyone, it felt private, thoughtful, almost painfully intimate.
Inside there were your favourite snacks arranged in the kitchen. Your favourite wine chilling in the fridge. Your comfort blanket folded over the armchair by the window. Your favourite book was already resting on the bedside table, the old, worn copy you had once told him you reread whenever your head felt too loud.
You frowned, turning slowly back to him. “Did you… did you set this up?”
Max leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite managing it. “Maybe.”
You narrowed your eyes, sceptical. “What’s going on?”
His smirk softened a little. He just looked at you and there was something unusually careful in his expression, something that made your chest tighten before he had even said a word.
“I listened,” he said.
You blinked. Max glanced down briefly, like the words felt awkward in his mouth, but when he looked back up he didn’t look away again.
“I didn’t realise how much I’d taken for granted,” he continued quietly. “How much you gave by never asking. You made it easy for me, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve stopped trying.”
Your throat tightened.
“Max…”
“No, let me say it,” he murmured, taking a small step closer. “You always said things were fine. That you didn’t need flowers, or birthdays, or plans, or all the extra stuff and I believed you because it was easier because it meant I didn’t have to think about whether you were only saying it so I wouldn’t feel bad.”
You swallowed hard, looking away before your face could betray too much.
He walked you further inside, his hand warm at the small of your back, and that was when you noticed the little table by the window. It had been set for two, facing the lake as the sun began to lower behind the mountains. Candlelight, flowers, two plates, homemade pasta that looked slightly lopsided and very clearly like his doing, and a little folded note beside your place.
You stared at it for a second before picking it up.
In his messy, all-caps handwriting, it said:
I SHOULD HAVE MADE YOU FEEL SPECIAL BEFORE NOW. I’M GOING TO DO BETTER.
Max’s face shifted immediately, concern cutting through the nervousness. “Schatje…”
You shook your head quickly trying to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. “I wanted to be cool,” you whispered. “I wanted to be the girlfriend who didn’t care about all that stuff. I thought if I asked for too much then I’d just become another pressure for you.”
Max stepped closer and cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped out despite your best efforts.
“You are the most important person in my life,” he murmured. “You always are.” His voice dropped softer, rougher. “I wish I could give you the world and I’m sorry it took me this long to show it.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the nervous set of his mouth and the careful way he held you, like he understood now that easiness was not the same thing as not needing anything.
Then you finally kissed him.
Later that night you were curled against his chest with the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the cottage wrapped in that quiet, golden kind of warmth that made everything outside feel very far away.
Max had one arm around you, his hand resting beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin.
You smiled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the soft fabric as you listened to the steady beat of his.
“So,” you mumbled, voice sleepy but teasing, “is this a one-time gesture or…”
Max’s chest moved beneath you as he chuckled. “Oh no.”
You tilted your head slightly. “Oh no?”
“No,” he said, tightening his arm around you. “You’re getting so much romance now it’ll annoy you.”
You looked up at him trying and failing not to smile. “Really?”
He nodded solemnly, like he was discussing race strategy. “Really. I’m talking airport reunions. Flowers for no reason. Random poetry.”
“Poetry?” you repeated, laughing already.
“Bad poetry,” he corrected. “Very bad. Rhymes way too much.”
“Oh, God.”
“And a cheesy playlist,” he added, completely serious. “Maybe several. One for the car. One for when I’m away. One with songs you’ll make fun of me for.”
You laughed properly then, burying your face in his neck as warmth spread through your chest. It was never about the playlist, or the flowers, or whatever terrible poetry Max Verstappen might attempt in the name of love.
It was that he was thinking about it. That he had finally understood the difference between you not needing to be spoiled and you still deserving to be cherished.
Max turned his head and pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’m serious,” he murmured, quieter now. “I don’t want you wondering anymore.”
Your laughter softened. You lifted your face again, looking at him through the firelight. “Wondering what?”
“If I think about you,” he said. “If I notice. If I care enough to try.”
Your throat tightened, but this time the feeling wasn’t painful. Max brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I do,” he said. “I’ll show you better now.”
For a moment you just looked at him, then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before tucking yourself back against him.
“That sounds perfect.” you whispered, smiling against his neck.
summary: She’s given him her all, keeping his life on schedule without complaint, but now it’s her turn to shake things up. She's leaving him in just two weeks.
content warnings: max being not a great boss
word count: 2.5k
pairing: max verstappen x assistant!reader
SERIES: my dear assistant || may be confusing if read as a standalone one-shot!
a/n: ITS HEREEEE! nawr because i had so much fun writing this like im ACTUALLY so stupid super excited for this series
Max, I love you. I’m your biggest fan, please send me—
You sighed, dragging the email into the trash.
“Seriously, he needs to take his business email out of his Instagram bio,” you muttered under your breath.
Mornings always looked the same. Blue light glasses perched on your nose, emotional support blanket wrapped around your shoulders, laptop balanced on your knees. Max’s inbox was the most consistent thing in your life. You’d learned early on that it was faster to just keep it bookmarked—front and center—ready for whatever chaos awaited overnight.
Your fingers tapped next again and again, skimming the latest flood of messages that had piled up while you were asleep. Most of them weren’t worth your time, fan mail begging for signed driver cards, free merch, or worse, his phone number.
Filtering through that mess was easily your least favorite part of the job. Max was perfectly capable of checking his own emails, eventually. But every morning, before he even woke up, it was your job to make sure his inbox looked spotless.
Your phone alarm blared suddenly, cutting through the quiet. You glanced at the clock: 7 a.m. sharp.
Another sigh. You closed the laptop, tucked it under your arm, and pushed the blanket off your legs before heading to the door.
Your studio apartment in Monaco wasn’t exactly the dream. Max had requested—more like insisted—that you move closer six months into the job. And when Max requested something, there was rarely an option to say no.
Keys in hand, you slipped downstairs and slid into your car. You turned on the seat warmer, for the passenger side, of course, stopped by the convenience store for a Red Bull, and headed toward Max’s luxurious penthouse to pick him up for the gym.
Just like you did every day.
You pulled up to the curb and picked up your phone. The Here. text was practically muscle memory by now. Short, simple, and the same every morning. Max, your mom, and your best friend back home were the only pinned chats at the top of your messages.
You reached across the passenger seat to test the warmth of the cushion. Warm, but not too warm. You quickly shut off the heater, he always complained if it got left on too long. You switched your music over to light instrumentals, low enough to fade into the background while you drove him between commitments.
Everything you did ran like clockwork now, fine-tuned around his habits. You knew what he liked, what he couldn’t stand, and every tiny detail in between. It wasn’t efficiency so much as self-preservation—every well-timed adjustment kept you safe from one of his early-morning lectures.
It didn’t take long before he appeared at your car door, opening it with practiced ease and sliding into the passenger seat. You reached for the Red Bull waiting in the cupholder, popped it open with one hand, and passed it to him. He took it without looking, as usual.
“What’s planned for today after the gym?” he asked, taking a sip before setting it down, halfway on the console, halfway in the cupholder like he owned the car himself.
“You’ve got two video shoots—one for ORB, one for Ford—lunch with your dad, social shoots for ORB, dinner with investors, then you’re free for the night.”
“What about paddle?”
“What about paddle?” you echoed, glancing over at him.
“Lando and I made plans to play before lunch.”
“Max, did you tell anyone about these plans?”
“No, but you know I don’t like my schedule so tight.”
You exhaled through your nose, already bracing for the rest of the day. “Max, those things have been on the calendar for months. You can’t keep making plans during work hours.”
You eased the car to a stop in front of the gym.
He pointed to the clock on your dashboard before stepping out. “Looks like you have an hour to fix it. Don’t cancel on Lando or Dad.”
The door shut harder than necessary, and you winced.
You muttered a few quiet expletives, then let out a breathy laugh. “Unbelievable. I don’t even make his schedule.”
Pulling out your phone, you dialed the Red Bull comms manager.
“No, no, I understand. Thank you anyway, he’ll be there for sure.”
You hung up and leaned your head against the headrest, groaning at the clock. 15 minutes left to fix this.
“I was on such a good streak of him not yelling at me,” you said to yourself, scrolling through your contacts. There was one more person you could try.
You tapped on Lando Norris. You’d only gotten his number because you’d once needed help getting a very drunk Max into his apartment. Still, it was worth a shot.
To your surprise, he answered after two rings.
“Hello?”
“Lando? This is Max’s—”
“Right-hand man, yeah, I know,” he said with a laugh. “Everything okay?”
“Uh, yeah. Just checking, are you supposed to be playing paddle with Max before lunch?”
“Yes? Why, what’s up?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if there’s any chance you could move it to later in the day? He’s got back-to-back shoots, and he didn’t mention it to anyone.”
“Just texted him. Will eight o’clock work, you think?”
You blinked. Honestly, speechless over how easy that was. “Uh, yeah. That’s perfect, actually. Thank you so much.”
“No problem. I know how he can be,” he said before hanging up.
By the time the clock hit 8, Max walked out of the gym, hair damp, phone in hand, same as he did every day.
“You got lucky,” he said, sliding into the seat. “Lando texted me and said he needed to move paddle.”
You only nodded, keeping your eyes on the road.
“Don’t let them schedule things that close together again,” he added.
You wanted to remind him that you didn’t handle his scheduling. You wanted to remind him how out of the many things you did quietly manage for him every single day, that was the one thing you did not have to worry about.
But you didn’t. You never did.
“I’ll make a note of that,” you said, instead, shifting the car into gear and pulling out toward his first commitment of the day.
Despite Max being a royal pain in your ass, he was never that to anyone else. Always polite, always charming, always perfectly composed. He smiled for the cameras, thanked every crew member, and acted like he hadn’t just handed you a scheduling disaster two hours ago.
The first shoot ran over, naturally. You stood just off set, answering texts and calls from PR and the comms team while keeping one eye on him. He looked like he was born for this. For all of the bright lights, cameras, the constant hum of attention. You, on the other hand, were apparently born for crisis control.
“His outfit for the Ford shoot hasn’t arrived yet, he told us to tell you. That you would fix it” the stylist whispered urgently, rushing over to you.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Of course he did.”
Five minutes later, you were sprinting across the parking lot, car keys in hand, off to pick up the missing garment yourself. When you returned, slightly winded, Max didn’t even blink before reaching for the clothes as if they’d been there all along.
Between shoots, you handed him a towel, a protein bar, a fresh Red Bull, all without a word. He didn’t thank you, but he took them like he always did.
By the time you both got back in the car, your phone was buzzing nonstop. PR wanted confirmation on his post-shoot interview slot, his dad’s assistant was trying to move lunch, and the Red Bull team wanted to push up his next event by fifteen minutes. You were juggling it all while merging into Monaco traffic.
“You know,” Max said casually from the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone, “they should really hire someone to handle my scheduling.”
You turned your head just enough to glare at him before refocusing on the road. “Yeah. Imagine that.”
He didn’t even look up, but you caught the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
After the investors' dinner, you barely had time to breathe before heading to the paddle courts. The sun was dipping just enough to turn the sky gold, the city still buzzing around you. Max adjusted his sunglasses, scrolling through his texts.
“Lando’s already there,” he said. “Don’t make me late.”
When you pulled into the lot, you spotted Lando immediately, leaning against the fence, grinning and giving you both an excited wave.
“Made it on time?” Lando called out as Max stepped out of the car, looking down at his watch. “That’s a first.”
You stayed in the car while the boys talked to each other, your phone in hand, already drafting an email about tomorrow’s rescheduled shoot, hoping to get around an ‘overloaded’ schedule early.
Max grabbed his paddle bag from your backseat and tossed you a look. “You’re staying, right?”
You raised an eyebrow without looking up from your phone. “In case you forget how to hold a paddle?”
He rolled his eyes. “In case I need something.”
You sighed and turned the car off. Because of course you were going to stay. You always did.
You followed the boys onto the courts, taking up space on the bench you always sat on when you stayed at the courts.
“I’m going to change,” Max said, disappearing into the changing rooms.
Lando’s eyes flicked to you. “You know, I don’t know how you manage him all day. Honestly. You’re like, superhero-level organized.”
You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or groan. “It’s mostly endurance and Red Bull,” you said dryly.
“No, seriously,” he said, stepping closer. “I’d pay double whatever he pays you to work for me. Two million a year?”
You physically coughed at the number out of pure surprise. Two million a year. That was way more than double what Max paid you. That was more than enough to finally get at least a one-bedroom apartment and not a studio. Your first instinct was to say yes, right here, right now. But before the words could escape, the changing room door swung open.
“Ready?!” Max called from inside.
You blinked. He always seemed to have perfect timing. You laughed quietly, shaking your head. Of course he had to come out right now.
Max strutted onto the court, towel over his shoulders, still scrolling on his phone. Lando picked up a paddle, grinning at him. “Ready to lose?”
“You’re on,” Max shot back, smirking.
By the time the match ended, Max had disappeared to the bathroom once again to change. Lando turned to you, leaning on the fence. “So, you’re thinking about my offer, right? I was being serious.”
You hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yes, I will take your offer.”
“Wait—think about it for a few days,” Lando said, raising an eyebrow.
“I’ve already made up my mind,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll give Max two weeks. Enough time to find someone else, train them, make sure he doesn’t completely implode on them.”
Lando laughed, shaking his head. “That’s actually impressive. Most people would just bolt. You’re solid.”
“I’m loyal,” you said lightly. “And apparently crazy.”
He grinned. “Fair enough. Well, still think it over anyway. You never know.”
You shook your head. “Nope. I’ve thought it through. Two weeks, then the new job starts.”
And just like that, the decision was made, but you knew the next two weeks promised to be very interesting.
When Max reemerged, you instinctively packed up his gear while him and Lando continued to talk and tease each other. By the time you both slid back into the car, the sky had deepened into a dark navy, and streetlights stretched across the Monaco streets. Max leaned back in the seat, stretching his arms, and within minutes, his head lolled slightly to the side. He had always had a habit of dozing off if you were driving at night.
You drove in silence, the hum of the engine filling the space, enjoying the rare moments of calm after a day of chaos. Your phone buzzed on your lap. Your mom. You hadn’t spoken to her in a few days. Max’s packed schedule had left barely a moment for your own life.
You hesitated, glancing at the sleeping figure beside you. Then, carefully, you answered. “Hi, Mom,” you whispered, keeping your voice low.
“Finally! I’ve been trying to reach you. Are you okay? How’s everything?” Her voice was warm and familiar.
You smiled faintly, pressing the phone closer. “I’m fine, just, busy,” you said quietly, glancing at Max, who stirred slightly but didn’t open his eyes. “I just wanted to talk for a minute.”
“Of course, I just—”
Before you could finish, Max’s head lifted, blinking sleepily, irritation creeping into his voice. “You couldn’t wait until I’m back home?”
You muttered an apology to your mom before quickly hitting the end call button. Something inside you snapped. The two years of constant juggling and reworking his schedules, waiting on him hand and foot, managing his quirks, keeping every moving part in line, it all suddenly felt too heavy to carry in silence.
“I’m leaving, Max! I’m actually leaving this job!” you said, louder than you intended, voice carrying in the quiet car.
Max froze, eyes wide with shock. “What do you mean? You can’t do that?” he said slowly, his voice catching in disbelief.
“Yes, I can,” you said, forcing calm into your voice, but letting a hint of frustration bleed through. “Look, I’m giving you two weeks. Two weeks to help you find someone else, train them, and hopefully make sure you don’t completely scare them off.”
He went quiet. You could feel the tension in the car surge. It was so thick you swore you could physically feel it. For a moment, it was just the hum of the engine and your own heartbeat.
You tried to gauge his reaction, and for the first time all day, or maybe for as long as you had known him, you couldn’t. There was no playful smirk, no teasing remark, no nostrils flaring, no raised eyebrow, no eye roll. Just quiet.
“I—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head, sighing further into the seat.
You softened slightly, leaning back in your seat, too. “Max, I’ve thought about this for a long time. I like keeping things running smoothly for you, I like knowing everything is under control, but I need to look out for myself, too. And yes, the timing isn’t perfect, but I’m going to try my best to make this transition easier for you.”
He finally exhaled, running a hand over his face, and the silence stretched again. The weight of your words hung between you.
You finally pulled up in front of his penthouse, engine idling. Max didn’t say anything, didn’t even glance at you. He opened his door and stepped out, shoulders stiff. You watched him go inside without another word.
You sat there for a second, staring at the blinking streetlight outside of his apartment that he always commented on. Two weeks. That’s all he had before the world you’d kept running for him would start to shift, before he’d have to face just how indispensable you really were.
You took a deep breath, bracing yourself. Two weeks. Enough time to help him adjust, but not enough to undo the decision you had already made.
summary: the public tries to make sense of the relationship you and max share with oscar. some say you’re cheating on max with oscar, others say max is the one cheating with him. you say let the world keep guessing. the only people who deserve to know the truth about the special relationship you three have with each other are those closest to you.
pairing: max verstappen x reader x oscar piastri
fc: madelyn cline
request: Can I order a byob (established relationship) and a host special with Maxcar + reader poly?? Maybe with guilty as sin playing in the background 👀 - @prozacandprosecco
warnings: cheating allegations • misunderstandings • fluff • attempts at humor • likely a mistake or two • time skips • bending the f1 schedule to my will for shits & giggles
vicious speaks: how do i join someone else’s relationship? on a more serious note, i completely fell in love with this couple and it is going to be so hard letting them go 🥲 who knows, maybe i’ll come back to them again in the future, expand on The Great War™️ if anyone wants that 👀
tea party masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri and others
yn you do not wanna know what i had to promise in order to get these two out of their team kits and into normal clothes 🥲
view all comments
maxverstappen1 😏 ♥︎ by author
oscarpiastri and we will be cashing in on said promise!
⤷ yn oh, i bet 😉
⤷ ynmaxcar 🤨
fan oh ynmaxcar i will never be able to form a solid opinion on you
fan this friendship will always feel so random to me lmao
fan my faaaaves
f1gossip 👀
fan yn: this is my boyfriend max and his boyfriend oscar ♥︎ by author
⤷ fan NOT HER LIKING THIS HELLO
fan was that promise a threesom-
⤷ fan SCREAM
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
texts from the love triangle (but better) gc
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
liked by f1wagsoffical and others
f1gossip Excuse me, sir? Who has you looking like that? 👀
view all comments
fan no cause i could’ve sworn i heard a woman laughing
fan is he hiding a girlfriend???
fan i’d pass out if i was on the receiving end of that look 😮💨
fan whoever it is has him so blushy omg
fan is this the beginning of his soft launch era?
fan where is deuxmoi when you need her
⤷ fan 🙄🙄🙄
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
yn has added to their story
♫ The Blue Nile ・The Downtown Lights
caption: trying to sweat off our hangovers 🥲
likes and replies
maxverstappen1 liked your story
maxverstappen1 can’t wait to see you guys tonight ❤️
⤷ yn we’re so excited!!
nicolepiastri liked your story
fan i’m here for it 😌
victoriaverstappen liked your story
fan did you mean to post this to your close friends? 😭
alexandrasaintmleux liked your story
fan bring back shame
logansargeant liked your story
fan odd way to get caught cheating
flavy.barla liked your story
fan hot.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
maxverstappen1 has added to their story
caption: home ❤️ oscarpiastri yn
likes and replies
oscarpiastri liked maxverstappen1’s story
oscarpiastri finally ❤️ ♥︎ by author
yn liked maxverstappen1’s story
yn missed you sooo much 😚
⤷ maxverstappen1 missed you more, baby ❤️
ediepiastri liked maxverstappen1’s story
fan umm…😭
charles_leclerc liked maxverstappen1’s story
fan do you not know that they’re having an affair or do you just not care?
sophiekumpen liked maxverstappen1’s story
fan OH. i think i get it. and i’m obsessed 😌
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
race weekend
liked by yn and others
redbullracing Did someone say something about heart eyes? 😍
view all comments
fan haha that’s funn-REDBULL RACING?!
fan what do you guys know…
fan admin i hope you don’t lose your job for this
fan cheating with his girl and then smiling in his face is CRAZY
fan plot twist: oscar’s cheating with both of them
⤷ ynmaxcar double plot twist: they’re a throuple
⤷ fan yeah, sure 🙄
fan they way he looks at him omg <3
fan ynmaxcar would make a hot couple why lie
fan yn in the likes…so shameless
fan oscar ‘heart eyes’ piastri strikes again
fan i want whatever tf they’ve got going on
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
texts from the love triangle (but better) gc
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
liked by f1gossip and others
f1wagsofficial Yn has made it to the paddock!
view all comments
fan is she there for max or oscar lol
fan SHE’S SO HOT
fan she’s so unbothered
fan there are rumors she’s cheating with oscar, rumors MAX is the one cheating with him, and rumors that all three are dating each other and she doesn’t gaf about any of it 😭 #myqueen
fan this weekend is gonna be so entertaining
fan who invited the cheater 🫠
fan looking good 😍
fan i might not know what’s going on but i do know she looks good
fan guys have we considered the fact that whatever’s currently going on with her, max, and oscar is none of our business?
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
liked by redbullracing and others
yn belgium, you were real 🖤❤️💛
view all comments
oscarpiastri best part was having you with us 🧡
⤷ maxverstappen1 what he said ❤️
⤷ yn ilysm 🫰🏼
fan gorgeous girl 💞
fan love when hot ppl date each other
fan i’m sorry for thinking you were crazy ynmaxcar
⤷ ynmaxcar forgiven
fan ya’ll got room for one more? asking for a friend 👀
hattiepiastri had so much fun judging oscar’s outfit with you
⤷ yn no cause wtf was that monstrosity 😭
⤷ oscarpiastri it’s called fashion!
⤷ yn osc…
f1wagsofficial this is the closest to a confirmation we’re gonna get i fear
fan i guess you guys are kinda cute…
⤷ maxverstappen1 we’re really cute ♥︎ by author, oscarpiastri
⋆˚✿˖° max verstappen x f1 reporter! reader — max is in love with someone, and everyone is trying to figure out who it is
⋆˚✿˖° a/n: this is one is for liyah @foreveralbon for a very very belated birthday gift !! i'm so glad we met each other and i'm really glad to be your moot :))) you're so kind and smart, cheers to more memories !!
⋆˚✿˖° inspired by i know love for my so close to what event
⋆˚✿˖° fc: leia immanuel (artdr3am on ig)
liked by maxverstappen1, lauracwinter, and 6,924 others
yourusername thanks @.maxverstappen1 for deciding to drop the news in my interview when i was just asking about the new setup for this weekend 🥲
user5 MOTHERRRRRR
maxverstappen1 red bull have told me to consult them next time
↳ yourusername letting us know there’ll be a next time? got my notes ready
user6 “so the new front wing seems to be working, excited for pace this weekend?” “i have a girlfriend” 99.9% accuracy
↳ user7 lmaooooo literally what happened
lauracwinter congrats on your first big news drop mid-interview
↳ yourusername thanks laura 💞
user8 face card never declines omg
user9 literally goals in every way i want to be a journalist so bad
↳ user10 same i eat up her content
user11 guys are you still trying to figure out max’s gf or are you normal?
↳ user12 are any of us normal at this point
[Selected Excerpts from Baku Post-Qualifying Interview with Max Verstappen]
Q: So, Max, pole position after a tricky qualifying. How are you feeling?
MV: Yeah, long one. Lots of things happening, but the car felt good and we were able to put it on pole.
Q: Throughout the season, we’ve seen that the RB21 has been more suited to low-downforce tracks, like Monza and Baku. With the floor update, how optimistic are you when it comes to the rest of the tracks?
MV: Well, you know, it’s working, and we already made a step forward in these past few races. The team is working hard and we will see if we can keep the pace.
Q: Good to hear. With pole in the bag, looking ahead to tomorrow, what are you hoping for? Any last-minute preparations?
MV: Just to stay in the lead out of Turn 1. And I mean, not too much I can do. (smiling) I’ll probably just discuss with the team and then also my girlfriend.
Q: Alright, thanks, Max. And congrats again on pole.
liked by mv1glazer and 9,285 others
f1gossip throughout the weekend, fans have noticed that max verstappen was beaming at any mention of his girlfriend (who he brought up most of the time). while we don’t know who the mystery wag is, she clearly makes him happy!
user13 he’s so in love it’s sickening
user14 i know a yearner when i see one
↳ user15 have we considered he’s madly in love rather than a yearner
user16 guys this isn’t funny anymore…who is his girlfriend?
user17 i swear he always chooses to mention his gf during his interviews with @.yourusername to piss her off while she’s busy talking technical
↳ user18 ikkkk lol he just diverts the conversation
user19 max please just give us some hints i beg of thee
↳ user20 he’s too private to do that i fear
user21 DOWN BAD 🗣️
user22 oh my god did anyone see those fragments on his interview?? she’s literally talking abt qualy and he’s like “my gf 😁”
↳ user23 i saw that too!! he literally is incapable of not mentioning his girlfriend
↳ user24 and it’s only during @.yourusername interviews to annoy her
liked by redbullracing, yukitsunoda0511, and 15,072 others
maxverstappen1 nice starting position for the race tomorrow
redbullracing best seat in the house for tomorrow 👊
user25 “nice starting position” AS BRO IS ON POLE ARE WE DEADAHH
↳ user26 he’s just nonchalant like that
user27 HELLO THE LAST SLIDE???
↳ user28 soft launch except he already said he had a girlfriend
↳ user29 who is she !!
user30 …is no one talking about qualifying?
↳ user31 i fear that gave me 3 heart attacks
user32 yippee max on pole ^-^
user33 max you better lock tf in tomorrow we can still win wdc
liked by f1, lauracwinter, and 8,961 others
yourusername saturday done, onto race day :)
user34 she is so stunning omg
user35 PLEASE WHO IS MAX DATING
↳ user36 what makes you think max told her? he’s private
↳ user37 yeah but they’re more friends than the other journalists
user38 a queen in and out of the paddock
user39 i need her predictions for the race like now
↳ user40 i’m sat for her post-race questions where she grills them
user41 hi lovely can you tell max to hard launch his gf? xoxo
↳ user41 i mean…he confirmed everything except who she is…
↳ user42 maybe he will if he wins the race tomorrow ??
↳ user43 one can only hope 😔
user44 can all these fake fans get out of the comments and stop asking about max?
↳ user45 ong like she’s a journalist max isn’t gonna tell her everything
yourusername posted to their story!
caption: morning prep
yourusername posted to their story!
caption: a little more than an hour before lights out 🍵
user50 replied: HOLY SHIT???? IS SHE WITH MAX’S GF RN?
↳ user51 replied: omg now that i think abt it, it looked like there was a girl with max’s cap
user52 replied: she’s infiltrated red bull… is max finally about to hard launch?
user53 replied: what’s the drink?
↳ user54 replied: there are bigger fish to fry than the drinks stay strong soldier
liked by redbullracing, verstappencom, and 302,574 others
maxverstappen1 race day full send 👊
user55 bro did NOT have to add that pic of his gf
↳ user56 he’s a lucky guy if his girlfriend is also on the sim a lot lol
user57 lfggggggg you got it max 🔥
user58 him and his gf are the same person i fear
↳ user59 and she probably keeps up with racing analysis since he says he debriefs with her sometimes too
user60 time to seal the win
↳ user61 DUDUDUDU MAX VERSTAPPEN
user62 who is she??
↳ user63 no one knows 😕
↳ user64 i wish i could tell you mate
user65 can we focus on supporting max? anyways, CMON MAX 🗣️
liked by verstappencom, yourusername, and 369,184 others
f1 MIGHTY. MAX. IS. BACK. 😤 Back-to-back wins for the reigning world champion ✌️
verstappencom never count max out 👏
user66 LET’S GO MAX 5 TIME WDC WE CAN DO IT
user67 insane job with the grand slam
↳ user68 now he’s tied with hamilton
user69 HELLO IS NO ONE GOING TO TALK ABOUT HIM KISSING HIS GIRLFRIEND
↳ user70 i thought the interviewer knew who it was i didn’t think it WAS the interviewer
user71 the light is back in my eyes
user72 max is so Downbad bro couldn’t even last a race weekend before hard launching
liked by mv1glazer and 39,207 others
f1gossip after his win, max verstappen went over and kissed his girlfriend, @.yourusername, who happens to be an f1 reporter! this comes after the red bull driver had been cryptic about his girlfriend’s identity after revealing that he was in a relationship earlier this race weekend
tagged: @.maxverstappen1, @.yourusername
user73 oh she’s gorgggg 😍
user74 wait. so you’re telling me max has been talking about his girlfriend TO HIS GIRLFRIEND???
↳ user75 AND she pretended to talk about his girlfriend as if she wasn’t lmaoooo
user76 it’s all making sense why he was so giggly during those interviews now
user77 the mystery has been solved we did it folks
↳ user78 lol i’m lowk surprised they’ve kept it this long with how lovestruck max is
↳ user79 i know right like you’re defending 4x champ stand up
liked by maxverstappen1, sophiekumpen, and 103,859 others
yourusername my favorite driver (i’m biased) <33
maxverstappen1 i love you schatje 🫶
↳ yourusername love you more max 💗
sophiekumpen thanks for putting up with him
↳ yourusername oh it’s definitely not a hard task sophie :)
user80 oh my god max is so boyfriend coded
user81 i pray for a love like this
↳ user82 he’s literally so Lover Boy TM in this
↳ user83 the flowers! the flowers!!!
user84 yup we’ve lost him
user85 i actually need more of her interviewing him now that they’re public
↳ user86 omg yes they’ll be so chaotic and endearing all at once
liked by yourusername, verstappencom, and 406,183 others
maxverstappen1 i won today and a year ago ❤️
yourusername cheesy 👎
↳ maxverstappen1 you love it though
↳ yourusername yeah yeah congrats on the win maxy
user87 can max fight??? that face card 🤩
user88 they match each other’s energies so well
↳ user89 chaotic and then serve
user90 god the karting date looks so cute
↳ user91 @.maxverstappen @.yourusername who won?
↳ maxverstappen1 only because she cheated
↳ yourusername i didn’t. stay mad 😋
user92 are we just ignoring the fact that they’ve been dating for a year?
↳ user93 honestly impressed at their ability to keep it under wraps, all the power to them
user94 i’ve only had them as my otp for a day, but if anything happened to them, i’d kill everyone here and then myself
user95 i have finally seen true love and it ends up being max fucking verstappen
summary max follows and interacts with a studygram account but no one can figure out why (he's trying to get her attention)
study influencer & chemistry student x max verstappen
series masterlist ★ masterlist
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆☕︎⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
♥︎liked by maxverstappen1 and others
yourusername three things i wished i knew before going to university:
[continue reading]
view all comments
user i'm going to uni next year and these are great! thank you<3
user so useful!! gained a new follower🫶
user you are my fav account ever❤️
user uhm— why did max like this?
user he started following her too!
user sorry, who is max??
user max verstappen, a f1 driver
user what is he doing here?
user no clue lol
user great advice!! point #2 specially, i wished someone would have told me this before i started
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆☕︎⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
yourusername last minute study session for tomorrow and i thought i would share some things i always do before an important test:
[continue reading]
view all comments
user just read all of her posts and her tips are amazing!! my new obsession
user you inspire me to sit my butt in the chair and study🙏🙏 i owe you my life
maxverstappen1 great post!
user lmaooo what could he possibly be in studygram for??
user he took the 'study engineer and build your own car' jokes too far😂
user maybe he just likes her content?
user hear me out—what if he likes her??
user i mean...i can see it
user girl you are a life saviour i swear to god
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆☕︎⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
yourusername posted a story
final review // test day! let's go
↪story replies
friend we got this💪💪
yourusername let's get it💪💪
maxverstappen1 good luck! ♥︎liked by yourusername
yourusername thank you☺️
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆☕︎⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
yourusername my video on what it's like being a women in stem, where i talk about misogyny and gender bias in science, is out now on youtube
view all comments
user you put into words things i couldn't, this is great🫶🫶
user watched this whole video and then stalked your whole page, and i might be in love with you too, you are sooo smart
user same! max you are not special, i love her too
user the fact she captured every women's experience in stem i love her
maxverstappen1 loved this! ♥︎liked by author
user max is supposed to be focusing on this weekend and instead he is watching her one-hour-long video about misoginy in science🤭
user she liked his comment!!
user one step closer maxie...almost there...
user how about we don't assume a man can only like women's content if he's trying to get into her pants??
user sorry if it came across that way, i really wasn't! i think he is a fanboy and truly enjoys her content
user oh okay sorry, i saw some people suggesting that and it sucked. under her post about misogyny too, mind u!
user yeah i saw those too they are disgusting. she's awesome!
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆☕︎⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
yourusername study with me live now, come join me🫶🫶 link in stories
view all comments
user be right there<3
user perfect timing as always
maxverstappen1 ❤️
user imagine trying to study and having a four time world champion in your notifications like this:
user lmaoooo
user naming you in my graduation acknowledgments bc i don't think i would have made it this far without you
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆☕︎⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
yourusername posted a story
another exam passed! // giving this f1 thing a chance...
↪story replies
maxverstappen1 and? what's the verdict?
yourusername i loved it<3
maxverstappen1 maybe you would love it even more if you saw it up close😉
yourusername well, i do love testing an hypothesis...
maxverstappen1 so...coffee? tomorrow?
yourusername [phone number]
yourusername text me❤️
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆☕︎⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
yourusername posted a story
coffee date // bc yall been wondering, yess i decided on a team
↪story replies
user not her soft launching a bf😭😭 poor max
friend date????? since when do you have a boyfriend???
yourusername girl i have so much to tell you🤭
↪story replies
user the red bull cap omgggg she acknowledged him!!
user my good friend max verstappen must be jumping from excitement rn
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆☕︎⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
yourusername i bet we'd have really good bed chem
view all comments
friend not the chem puns😂
yourusername 😊😊
user soft launch alert
user no max! don't open instagram!
user he must be heartbroken rn💔
user he didn't even like this post he must be busy crying himself to sleep😂
user she is so beautiful no wonder that man has been trying desperately to get her attention
user that man😂😂 why is he is voldemort
user sorry i'm a lesbian and i don't watch sports to me he's just a man🤭
maxverstappen1 good luck on your test!
user he lives !
yourusername thank you❤️
user he got a heart!!! someone check if he's okay
user 😂😂
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆☕︎⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
yourusername good luck socks?
view all comments
friend i am not lying when i say you are the only reason i'm surviving finals😩🫶
yourusername same babe
friend liar...😂
user that last pic...their interaction on her last post...what if...?
user i think you're onto something bestie...
user her eyes>>
maxverstappen1 good luck boyfriend?😉
user OH MY GOD ?????
user IM SCREAMING PLS LET THIS BE REAL
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆☕︎⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
f1gossip formula 1 champion max verstappen and study influencer yourname lastname are rumoured to be dating after being spotted together out on the town ahead of this week's grand prix
view all comments
user i have no one to talk to about this !!!
user when i tell you i have been waiting for this😭😭
user max is proof you should never give up on your dreams, because you might romance your favorite influencer into dating you!
user and when they confirm this at the race...
user the picture?? they are ADORABLE
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆☕︎⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
yourusername he was my number one fan so i became his too
view all comments
user stop this is too cute !!!!!!!!
user he did it. he actually did it.
user max hab confirmed🤭🫶
maxverstappen1 love you❤️
yourusername love you too❤️
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆☕︎⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
maxverstappen1 my girl<3
view all comments
user he knew what he wanted and BOY HE GOT IT
user she is GORGEOUS i get you max
user they are so wholesome🥺🥺 perfect example of why you should always try
✎ — max verstappen x fem!personal assistent!reader
✎ — summary: You only took this internship as his personal assistent, because in order to be considered for promotions into the communications department, you needed some paddock experience. But you weren't prepared for the rather charming driver, who seemingly has never had a good personal assistent before.
✎ — word count: +15.2k
✎ — warnings: fluff, slow burn, use of [Y/N][Y/LN]
masterlist
Thursday – Media Day
The early Budapest morning drapes the hotel driveway in a warm golden haze, softening edges but catching just enough light to make everything sparkle in a way only the 8 AM summer sun can. You lean against the sleek navy Honda Red Bull rented for the weekend to get their driver from the hotel to the paddock and back. The quiet hum of the waking city is surrounding you while you wait for him, wide-leg pinstripe trousers grazing your hips with effortless precision, black high-neck top hugging your frame in all the right places. Your dark brown leather tote hangs heavy at your side, stuffed with the day’s arsenal of necessities: folders with important notes, chargers, snacks, deodorant, basically a lifeline in this chaotic new world. From the hotel entrance, a tall figure steps into view. Max Verstappen. His gaze sweeps the driveway laying out in front of his feet, expecting the usual—driver, assistant, perhaps a nervous intern—but then it lands on you. His breath catches, a flicker of surprise—or maybe pleasure—passing through his eyes. You don’t flinch. Confidence is your armor. You step forward, voice calm and professional, but threaded with a hint of unapologetic ease. “Good morning, Mr. Verstappen. I’m [Y/N][Y/LN]. Your new assistant, as you should probably know.” You extend your hand. He takes it like a pro, not someone thrown off by the latest addition to his team. “Max, please. It’s my pleasure.” A slight smile touches his lips—brief, measured, kind in his own way. You pull the car keys from your purse and reach out to hand them over. “I figured you’d want to drive us to the paddock.” Max blinks, just enough to lose the perfect moment for grabbing them unfazed but not enough to lose control. His fingers brush yours for a heartbeat—electric, casual—before he walks around the car, scanning your face, noting the way you stand: poised but relaxed, the kind of presence that says you know exactly what you’re doing. You slide into the passenger seat without hesitation, the click of the door sealing the start of something quietly charged. Outside, Budapest hums to life, the race weekend just beginning, and already the air between you feels like a fast, unforgettable lap. The city blurs past as you head onto the highway to get to the track —ornate buildings, shuttered balconies, the slow churn of a tram. The Honda hums steadily, Max’s left hand loose on the wheel, the right shifting with practiced ease. He hasn’t said much since leaving the hotel, just a polite, “Did you put on the seatbelt?” and a nod when you adjusted the AC. So you open the black folder resting on your lap ever since you pulled it out right after getting in. “The PR team expects the media to lead with the incident at Silverstone. Obviously.” You flick through the notes, schedule already annotated in your head. “There’s the press conference around noon, then a one-on-one with The Race. Dutch media in the afternoon. I’d suggest drawing a line—early.” Max’s jaw tightens slightly; you catch it in your periphery. “I don’t want to talk about the fucking crash,” he says, voice cutting through the calm like gravel on asphalt. “It’s stupid. We all have to move on from that. There’s a race ahead, and I can’t live in last Sunday. I can only change the outcome of the next one.”
You look at him, not startled—just thoughtful. There’s no apology in his tone, but there’s something in it. Something tired, maybe. Grounded in a way, that is beyond his age. “I fully agree with you on that. Learning from mistakes is crucial, and so is applying that at the next opportunity.” A small pause, not for effect, just to let the words land. “Honestly I’d advise you to be as real with the media as you were with me just now.” Max glances over—not a long look, just a flick—but enough to register something: that you’re not here to smooth his edges or rewrite his tone. That maybe — just maybe — you get it. The car rolls to a stoplight. A cyclist pedals past. A man with a coffee waits at the corner, the last branches of the city buzzing around him. “You said ‘advise,’” he mutters, quiet, almost to himself. You catch the curve of amusement at the corner of his mouth and raise a brow, teasing. “Too formal for your taste?” “No,” Max says, shifting into gear. “Just not used to assistants who talk like comms directors.” You smile. “Well, maybe you just never had any good assistants so far.” The Honda hums on. The circuit is still a few kilometers of road away—but something has already started to click into place between the two of you already.
The sun hits the tarmac of the Hungaroring sharp and clean, warming the outdated, gravelly paddock paths as the Honda glides to a stop in the parking lot. Max steps out first, cap flattening his hair, lanyard already taken out of his navy backpack and clipped around his neck, his pace effortless — years of race weekend routine distilled into instinct. You follow two steps behind, phone in hand, thumb gliding over the lockscreen. Slack notifications, one calendar shift, two journalists pinging for “a quick five minutes” of Max’ time. “Media briefing first at the motorhome,” you say before he can ask for the schedule again. “Then the official FIA press conference. Lunch after. The Race with Jon Noble. You finish with an interview for some junior reporter from Autosport NL.” He glances back, the visor of his cap shadowing his eyes, but not the amused puff of breath that escapes him. “You read minds too?” “No, just emails,” you answer, not looking up from the screen. The paddock hums around you—mechanics in fireproofs and team polos, camera crews wheeling gear, heat rising in soft waves from the concrete. Conversations pause mid-sentence, heads tilting subtly at you and Max. You’re not in team kit. No logos, no navy polo like he is wearing. Just your black high-neck top and pinstripe trousers, effortless and precise, the kind of outfit that says you belong everywhere but nowhere in particular. A Sky cameraman does a double take. A Red Bull junior ducks his head, confused. You don’t flinch. Max doesn’t slow either—but now he’s walking beside you instead of ahead. By the time you reach the motorhome steps, he’s firmly at your side. You slip your phone back into your tote, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “I’ll have coffee brought up,” you say as the door opens. “I don’t like coffee,” he adds automatically. You blink, unbothered. “Noted. Anything else you want then?” He shakes his head. “They’ve got Red Bull up there, so I’m good, thanks.” He steps inside first, and for a heartbeat, the paddock’s gaze lingers on you, just long enough to make you aware of the quiet gravity you carry, effortless and precise.
You quickly learn Max, besides coffee, also doesn’t like having to wait — not in line, not for journalists, definitely not for answers. So you don’t make him. By noon, the two of you have already slipped into some sort of an unspoken rhythm. You move beside him through every hallway, just out of frame in every camera shot, handing him a water bottle when he needs it, making it vanish again when he doesn’t. When his hair starts to rebel before the next interview, your fingers fix it with a light touch, and an even lighter comment: “You look like someone who slept on a plane in some ungodly uncomfortable position. Let me fix that real quick.” He grins and doesn’t protest. No one else notices, but Max does. The calm. The smoothness. No scrambling, no last-minute panic, no forgotten details. You answer his questions about details from the PR briefing he forgot with quiet efficiency, deflect unreasonable requests of journalists with charm, always one step ahead. You’re good at this—too good for someone who hasn’t done this before. It throws him off his game just slightly, and he’s not used to it. After the press conference, you’re already waiting when he descends the steps, loosening the collar of his race kit. In your hands: a simple boxed lunch, iced Red Bull, protein bar tucked neatly between napkins. “Media team said you’ve got a free hour,” you offer. “I found a calm spot near the hospitality exit if you want to eat there. But if not, I’ll eat with the comms girls.” He blinks, caught a little off guard. Then: “No—stay.” You raise a brow, amused. “I should know who my PA is, right?” he adds, lips twitching. “You could be an axe murderer for all I know right now.” You laugh, soft and slightly surprised. “You sure about that? Maybe I’m more of a poison kind of killer. Could have spiked that lunch.” “I don’t know, but you gotta take risks in life, you know,” he mutters, already following you toward the quiet corner you scoped out.
Tucked behind a row of motorhome trailers, shaded and hidden from the worst of the heat and attention. You both settle on the low edge of a service crate—makeshift, but comfortable. “So,” he says, unwrapping his sandwich, “assume you studied this somewhere by how good you’re at this. Where’d you go to uni?” “St. Andrews,” you reply, sipping your drink. “Did my bachelors in communications and marketing.” “Isn’t that… like an elite school?” He nods, mock approval in the gesture. “So you’re what — a posh little English girl?” “It wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds. Half my time I spent finishing group projects alone. It’s remarkable how little effort some people put into a degree they’re basically paying 200 grand for.” “That is glamorous. In an F1 sort of way.” He smirks. “Favorite school subject?” he presses next, interrogating you. “History,” you answer automatically. “Though I’m guessing yours was anything but math?” “I actually liked math,” he shoots back, almost offended. “And physics. Didn’t hate them as much as everything else. But I wasn’t doing homework between kart races either way, no matter the subject.” He leans back on the crate, posture relaxed, gaze flicking toward you as he pretends this is casual. You cross a leg, toe tapping lightly on the gravel as you finish your lunch. “Okay,” he says, eyes bright, “big question. Is Red Bull your favorite team?” You hum thoughtfully, pretending to consider. “I think I’m supposed to say yes.” “I’d rather you be honest.” “Then no,” you admit. His eyes glint with mischief. “Now I wish you had lied. Am I your favorite driver at least?” You let the pause stretch, teasing. “You’re… in my top five.” He scoffs, dramatically offended. “Top five? That’s it?” “I’ve known you for like four hours, Verstappen,” you deadpan. “Let’s see how the weekend goes before I make any life-altering decisions and betray my family.” “Oh, so you come from a family of racers?” “No, but my dad watches the race every Sunday and he thinks there’s no one better than Charles Leclerc in a red Ferrari car. If I disagreed, he’d probably have a heart attack,” you joke. Max throws his head back, laughing—real, unpolished, open-throated. Lunch stretches longer than it should, neither of you mentioning it. Somewhere behind you, the paddock churns on. But here, tucked behind the trailers, it’s quiet.
By five, the sun has grown heavier on the tarmac, stretching long shadows across the media pen as the last interviews wrap up for the day. You’re still shadowing Max, always just a step behind or beside him—offering subtle signals, nodding at PR coordinators, guiding the rhythm of questions with clipped one-liners and quiet eye contact passed between handlers. Max breezes through it all, confident, almost careless. He has the experience of having done this a hundred times before and the silent confirmation that no matter if he would mess up an answer, there is nothing Red Bull could do. They need him too much. You don’t say a lot, but he’s attuned to the shifts in your posture: the tilt of your chin in disbelieve of the audacity when a question is about to veer too sharp, the way you linger a moment longer at his side when the cameras click off. There’s a quiet system. Unspoken, but understood. Back inside the motorhome, the air is cooler and you peel the sticker tag from your lanyard and pull a small protein bar from your tote. “Hungry?” you offer casually, holding it out to him. Max shakes his head, but his expression softens at the gesture. “You’re the most considerate, well-prepared PA I’ve ever had in my career.” You blink, snort a quick half-a-laugh, disbelief wrapped in amusement. “And it’s only my first day.” He tilts his head, a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t feel like it.” You glance at him, unsure whether to thank him or deflect, but he keeps looking—serious now, stripped of performance. “You don’t strike me as someone just trying to get a first impression right,” he adds quietly. The words land differently. Not flirtatious, not flattering. Just… his honest take on you, his perception of your character after mere hours. And somewhere in your chest, something clicks. Not loudly. Just a shift, a subtle change in gravity. You cap your water bottle and nod. “Well, you’re right about that. I’m not.”
The paddock is quieting now, around 5:30 PM. The golden light of a sinking sun stretches across the grid of trailers and fences, catching on every chrome edge, every helmet visor on the shelves. A few engineers still linger near the back of the hospitality unit, voices lower and tired, going over data for tomorrow. You check your phone. “I have to go by comms,” you say, half to Max, half to yourself. “Quick debrief on tomorrow’s media timings. I’ll head back to the hotel with them.” Max nods, grabing his backpack and throwing it over his shoulders. Then, as you reach for the door handle, he says it—not loud, almost uncertain, almost as if he’s testing the words: “But you will ride to the paddock again with me tomorrow morning, right?” You glance back at him, trying to read his expression and make something of his question. He’s not teasing. Just looking at you with that quietly focused attention, like he’s already thinking about the next day, the next briefing, the next circuit—but wants to pencil you into the plan. You smile, that same soft one he caught earlier at lunch. “Yeah, Max,” you nod gently. “I will.” He gives a short nod, like that’s all he needed to know. The door swings open, warm evening light spilling in, and this time, you step out first—not behind him, but side by side, walking him to the exit of the paddock before heading back to the motorhome for your last meeting of the day.
Friday – FP1 and FP2
On Friday, the air smells of rocks and stones warmed by the sun and the last bit of moisture from last night’s rain evaporating — the unmistakable scent of a European summer morning, one could say. It’s barely eight o’clock yet, but Budapest is alive already: mopeds buzzing in the distance, hotel staff moving with quiet efficiency around the entrance to make everything perfect, and your phone vibrating twice with reminders before you even see him. You’re early. You always are. Standing by the sleek navy Honda like yesterday, you shift your weight onto your back foot, folder tucked neatly under your arm. Today you’re in white straight-leg jeans— trying to look polished without looking like you’re trying — paired with a Red Bull shirt tucked in. Loafers are the same as yesterday, your leather purse slung over your shoulder with that just-prepared-enough confidence. You flip through the first page of the day’s schedule while the sun climbs steadily, golden and unobtrusive. The jingle of car keys announces Max descending the hotel stairs. You glance up, offering a lazy smile. His hair is perfectly glued in place with wax, though he pushes it to the right repeatedly, a habit you’ve already noticed. He aims the key fob toward the car; the lights flash once in acknowledgment that the holder has arrived.
His gaze finds you before you can greet him properly —and lingers a beat longer than strictly necessary. “You always this early?” he asks, his tone casual. You glance over the top of your folder. “When the e-mail says 8:30 sharp, I’ll be there to leave 8:30 sharp.” That earns you a grin, but before you can launch into your neatly rehearsed breakdown of his Friday media and race obligations, he softens, interrupting with something different: “Did you get back okay last night?” The question catches you slightly off guard—not because it’s odd, but because it’s considerate. Something about the way he asks it—as if he thought about it after you left—makes your posture shift subtly. Though you recover quickly, arching an eyebrow, mock smugness in your expression, but you don’t feel smug at all. “There are shuttles for team members like me, you know.” He unlocks the car again, just to be certain and opens his own door, but his gaze drifts across the roof toward you. “Then why were you riding with me yesterday?” You let the question hang just long enough before meeting his eyes again, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. “Because,” you say, snapping your folder closed with satisfying precision, “it’s much cooler to arrive with the future world champion in a nice, fast car.” Max stares at you for a beat — doesn’t blink, doesn’t speak. And then the corners of his mouth tug upward in a slow, quietly pleased smile. There’s a subtle shift in his posture too, like you’ve just said something he’ll replay later, not necessarily the car part, maybe not even the compliment itself. Just the way you said it—effortless, certain, like you already knew something he’s still having a hard time learning to believe. “Future world champion, huh?” he murmurs, sliding into the driver’s seat with that easy, practiced motion. You shrug, slipping in beside him. “Well. Let’s see how free practice goes first.”
The engine hums to life beneath you, a soft vibration that seems to fill the cabin without rushing it. This time, the silence doesn’t feel like space that needs to be filled. It’s comfortable in a way, expectant. You tilt your folder toward him eventhough he wouldn’t glance at it, the paper crisp beneath your fingers. “First up,” you begin, “Sky Sports at the garage. They want a bit before practice. Thoughts on—I don’t know—what. They always want your thoughts on something. You’d think they got everything yesterday, but…” He glances sideways, a flicker of amusement over your commentary tugging at his lips. Outside, the Honda glides toward the circuit, tinted windows reflecting the rising sun to anyone catching sight of your car, the engine’s low hum steady and confident. The river flashes silver to your left, light bouncing off the water in little joyful sparks. Max drives like he always does: smooth, controlled, but with a quiet intensity that makes the car feel alive. You open another page in your folder somewhere between two traffic lights, catching a glimpse of the Parliament building in the distance as it proudly sits next to the Danube. The pages are tabbed, corners annotated in neat ink. “So,” you continue, scanning your writing in the print, “FP1 is scheduled for 11:30, but you’re supposed to be in the garage at 10:30 for pre-session briefing with your team. Media debrief is after FP1, then another sit-down with your race engineer. Quick lunch today — no more than 30 minutes. FP2 starts at 3pm, which means you gotta be in the garage by 2:30. Strategy meeting for saturday is at 4:30 sharp.” Max snorts lightly at the seriousness in your tone and how you list all of his different schedule obligations. You don’t look up. “Then one final media round in the hospitality suite, and you’re officially released.” “Released,” he repeats, amusement in his voice. “You make it sound like I’m being let out of prison.” “Well,” you reply, flipping the page, “depends how FP2 goes, honestly. And it’s you who hates media and doesn’t make it a secret.” He throws another side glance, the smile he bites back betraying him anyway.
Traffic slows as you get closer to the paddock parking lot, engines of other cars humming and tires crunching over gravel and asphalt. Max checks the mirror, shifts gears, then — like an afterthought — asks, casual but deliberate, “You gonna be in the garage today?” You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head in playful challenge. “I mean… if that’s what you want.” He doesn’t answer right away, just smiles and looks at the last bit of road ahead, the circuit already in sight. It’s not the measured, press-friendly smile. It’s a real smile. He shifts lanes, easy, natural. “It is,” he says eventually, voice even. “What if I need something last-minute before a session? Or someone has to tell me if my hair’s doing that stupid thing again like yesterday?” You roll your eyes, light and teasing. “Guess I’ll be there then.” “Thanks. I wouldn’t survive it without you.” A small laugh escapes you—soft, genuine, caught off-guard. “How did you do it before me then?” “I don’t know… I must have been dead before I met you,” he mutters under his breath. You both pretend not to hear it. Outside, the landscape shifts: chain-link fences, directional signage, the occasional cluster of fans pointing toward some other car, another driver inside perhaps. The paddock is just around the corner. You tuck your notes back into the folder, glance out the window to ground yourself. “Alright,” you say, voice low, steady. “Ready to do this?” Max exhales slowly, like flipping a switch. Focus snaps into place, hands firm on the wheel. “Yeah. Let’s go to work.” But as he eases the car into the paddock lot and slows near his assigned spot, his gaze flicks toward you one last time before he gets out. “And you’re staying in the garage, right?” You smile, quiet but certain. “Well, I’m not backing out now.”
You step out into the paddock parking lot, the car door clicking shut behind you, and the roar of activity hits immediately—cameras snapping, radios buzzing, mechanics pushing trolleys over asphalt, fans screaming and shouting and pointing, PR handlers striding with precise purpose. You sling your purse over your shoulder, folder again tucked tight under your arm, and fall into step beside Max, matching the subtle rhythm of his pace. You can feel the glances the moment you cross into the Paddock bubble behind the security gates — curiosity flickering in sharp, almost imperceptible arcs. Today you’re in uniform, but walking with Max makes you belong here immediately, even though yesterday was the first time anyone had seen you in the paddock. He doesn’t glance back at anyone as he moves toward the motorhome, tugging absently at the hem of his polo. You follow a step or two behind, the sounds of the paddock folding around you, until the sliding doors swallow him and you. He veers left toward the drivers rooms; you go right, heading straight for the garage. The temperature shift hits you before anything else: cooler, clinical, a haven of mechanics and machinery. The air carries the scent of engines warmed and worked, a subtle metallic tang mixing with rubber and oil. It’s alive, pulsing with purpose—the mechanical heartbeat of the team. A junior engineer barely glances at you as he passes a headset across the narrow stretch of floor beside the monitors. “You can stand here,” he says without introduction, voice clipped and overly confident, almost careless. “That way you won’t get in anyone’s way.” You nod, sliding the headset into place, adjusting it just so that it doesn’t flatten your hair too much. Around you, the garage breathes: voices crackle over comms, tires roll into view, laptops and iPads flicker to life and screens go back to black. You’re part of the scene—but only just. No one asks your name. No one tells you what’s happening. They probably assume you’re just another intern or maybe even only a guest, another temporary shadow in their world. You let the quiet that headphones bless you with linger for a heartbeat, letting the visual rhythm of the garage settle into your bones. Then you pull out your folder again, pen poised, notes ready—because Max will ask, and you intend to have answers before he even thinks to voice the question.
He strides in, race suit half-zipped, fireproof undershirt clinging to his abs, chest and shoulders like it was sewn onto him. The second his body entered the garage he is papably at ease—like his body belongs in this noise, like the garage is muscle memory, home and refuge. His eyes skim the room, catching every detail in half a second, until they catch on you. And then—light. A quick spark that makes the corners of his mouth twitch upward. You lift a thumb in his direction, a silent code: All good. Don’t worry about me. Go do your job. But instead of brushing past, he angles toward you, wiping a hand down the back of his neck. “You alright?” His voice cuts through the static of comms and air guns. “Why are you standing over there?” You gesture toward the barricade separating the observation area from the part of the garage where actual work is being done. “That’s where they told me to go. Figured it’s better not to get in the way.” Max frowns, quick and sharp. “That’s bullshit.” You blink. “It’s—” “No, really,” he says, cutting you off softly, but firm, like he’s making room for you and gently tries to push you into it. “You work for Red Bull. You’re not in anyone’s way. How are you supposed to help me from behind a barrier?” Before you can answer, he’s already reaching over, fingers brushing the inside of your elbow. “C’mon.” “What?” “Just jump over. It’s quicker than walking around.” For a second, you hesitate—conscious of the eyes, the lines you shouldn’t overstep, the unwritten rules. Then you plant one hand on the railing, and he steadies you as you swing over. It’s awkward, graceless, but threaded with a flicker of adrenaline. A couple of mechanics glance over, eyebrows raised. Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t make it a scene. “This is my new PA,” he says, almost casually, to the engineers at the workstation. “She’ll be around from this weekend on. Probably running circles around us.” One by one, heads turn. GP, then Tom, Brad, Lee—each giving a nod or a brief smile. “Christian’s floating around somewhere,” Max adds. “But I assume you’ve met him already.” “Hi,” you say, folder clutched against your chest. It comes out steadier than you feel. You don’t belong in this part of the garage. You know it. They know it. But Max just rewrote the script—and now you do. While he leans in to discuss something either highly important or impossibly silly with GP, you hover a half-step away and thumb open your phone. A sponsor rep you chased earlier needs a follow-up, so you hammer the reply out right there—noise pressing at your skull despite the headphones that loosely only cover on ear, smell of hot brakes thick in the air. This isn’t where that kind of work is supposed to happen. Media unit, hospitality, anywhere quieter—yes. But here? It is where Max left you, and so you stay.
Just before he slips into the car, he glances back. That unreadable, half-lidded look. Then a small nod, as if to say: good. Please stay. Somewhere behind you, the in-house Red Bull photographer lifts his lens. The wide shot catches everything—Max, suited and smiling faintly, engineers leaning close, you standing with headset and folder, typing furiously on your phone. Later, when socials announce FP1 is underway, that’s the picture they choose for some odd reason.
FP1 winds down in a familiar blur — tyre blankets are being tugged back on, laptops snapping shut, a few grumbles about grip in sector two. Max peels himself out of the car, helmet and gloves quickly dumped onto the shelf, race suit unzipped just enough to breathe. He’s reaching for his watch when you appear at his side, not hovering, just there, as if you’ve always been. “You’ve got fifteen until the data meeting,” you say, offering him a bottle of electrolyte water and a protein bar — the same kind you handed him yesterday, the one he demolished before even glancing at his lunch. He takes them with a short huff of relief. “You’re a lifesaver.” “It’s just a bar,” you shrug, downplaying it. “Lunch isn’t until after the briefing. Didn’t want you to crash.” Max tears the wrapper open with his teeth, laughter soft in his chest. “You’d be surprised how many people forget how tough racing is on the body.” You glance toward the engineers, who are already shoulder-deep in data. “Well. I read somewhere, that the future world champion needs balanced blood sugar.” That earns you a look featured by a smile — amused, but steadier underneath. “You’re gonna keep calling me that?” he asks, voice lower now, casual only on the surface. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t.” He swallows, lifts the water bottle to his lips. “No. I like it.” Then, with the same ease he shifts gears on track, he’s already sliding toward debrief mode. “See you after for lunch?” “Be waiting,” you reply, already walking away, folder tucked close, stride brisk, heart hammering in ways you refuse to acknowledge.
You’re already waiting when Max finds you — plate in front of you, water half-finished. He arrives with his own tray and a can of Red Bull, sliding into the chair across the small window table. The umbrella outside throws a patchwork of shade over his face, softening him in a way the garage lighting never does. He digs in without checking the time, without twitching toward the door. It looks like he trusts you to keep the day moving. Between bites, his eyes lift — not hurried, just curious. “So how’d you end up in motorsport, anyway? Not exactly your standard summer internship.” You swallow, sip your water. “Well like I said yesterday, my family’s always been into it. I kind of grew up orbiting F1. When it came time for uni, I figured it’d be nice to work in this world somehow.” Max leans in a fraction, nodding. “So you’re one of those.” “One of what?” “The ones who actually like this circus.” That earns him a laugh from you. You try to hide it with your hand. “Yeah. F1 comms is fascinating — watching how it all gets shaped. It’s perhaps one of the most carefully threaded public images out there. But… I also used to steal my brother’s kart on weekends. At six I thought I’d be the next Susie Wolff.” You grin at the memory. “Turns out, I was not very good.” “Really?” He raises a brow, skeptical. “I crashed more than I finished,” you admit, dry as dust. “And I hated getting my hands dirty. This”—you gesture at your folder, your crisp Red Bull polo—“this is probably as close as I’ll ever get to motorsport.” Max tilts his head, assessing. “Let me be the judge of that.” You blink, lips twitching. “What, you gonna challenge me to a kart race? So I can humiliate myself in front of you?” He shrugs, mock-casual. “Could be fun, you know.” Your smile lingers longer than it should. His too. A beat stretches — warm, almost familiar — before Max exhales, pushing back his chair with reluctance. “Shame lunch isn’t longer.” You rise as well, brushing a crumb from your shirt. “You’ll survive. Think of the protein bar after FP2.” He smirks. “And the world champion pep talk.” “That too,” you say, and the two of you fall back into a stride — not you trailing behind this time, but side by side, all the way to the garage.
This time entering the garage, you walk straight through to the monitors and workbench. No sidestepping barricades this time, no pretending you don’t belong. The late sun slants soft gold across the clean white garage walls, spotlighting the shift in you as much as the space. Max is half-listening to something Christian is going on about, tugging his race suit into place. For a heartbeat, his gaze flicks over. The corners of his mouth twitch upward — not quite a smile, but something like recognition. You meet it with an amused look, and he answers with a small nod before turning back to Horner. The garage breathes like a single, restless organism. Mechanics move in tight choreography only they know, cords snaking across the floor, telemetry feeds glowing blue and red. You weave through it as though you’ve been doing this for years — though your shirt still smells faintly of discount detergent and plastic packaging, and your phone keeps buzzing with calendar alerts you’re afraid to miss. You settle into the control alcove behind the engineers, headset hanging around your neck like jewelry you were gifted and are unsure to wear. Nobody stops you. One of the older engineers even nods as he passes you — distracted, but not dismissive. Progress from this morning. Meanwhile Max is being strapped in, helmet on, gloves flexing over his fingers. His visor is still lifted, and you catch the way his eyes narrow — the exact moment the switch flips to race mode. You glance at the screens, then down at the neat paper printout spread across the counter: tire compounds, wind data, run-plan notes. You don’t understand half of it, but the nearness to the heartbeat of the race is thrill enough. Definitely not what the job description had promised.
The second practice session opens with an eruption — engines roaring alive, vibration tearing straight through your chest. It should rattle you, but it doesn’t. You stay rooted, eyes locked on Max’s data feed, mentally ticking through the boxes you prepped for. Ten minutes in, your phone buzzes. Comms. You answer with the clipped calm of someone who doesn’t have time to waste. “Eighteen-oh-five is fine. I’ll make sure he’s briefed… yes, I know we already moved that. No, it won’t run long.” You hang up, slide the phone back into your jeans pocket — only then notice the media camera across the garage aimed straight at you. Red light on. Probably collecting B-roll. It’s too late now.
On track, Max is carving Sector 2 like it owes him a debt. The timing screens flash: purple, green, green. When he rolls back in for tweaks, he looks almost casual inside the noise and frenzy of the garage. His visor lifts. “[Y/N] — can you get Brad that thing you mentioned this morning in the car?” The tire guns shriek around you, but you don’t even blink. “Already sent it.” A grin cracks under the sweat-damp hair clinging across his forehead — a knowing look, like this is what it feels like to share a wavelength. The rest blurs: tire changes, telemetry lines chasing each other across glowing screens, Max sending lap after lap into rhythm. You forget the clock in the way only people who love what they do can. Him in the car. You by the wall. Head nods lining up like you’ve done this for years. By the time he climbs out of the car again — flushed, smiling — the online feed is already humming. Someone’s clipped the shot of you behind the monitors, lip caught between your teeth as you study a screen. The comments are multiplying, fast.
username1 i don't think i have seen this girl in the rb garage before
username2 That’s not his usual PR rep, is it?
username3 why does she kinda look like she’s running the place?
You don’t see the comments. You don’t see anything but Max cutting through the knot of engineers, gloves half-peeled, words already forming. “Good session, don’t you think?” You glance at the screens on the wall. “P3 overall, long run looked sharp. I heard GP mention something about the rear, though. Don’t know what that’s all about.” His eyes flicker, quick and impressed. “Yeah. I’ll talk to him and Tom. We need to fix it or the weekend’s screwed.” It’s nothing. Just debrief chatter. Just another line in the noise of the garage. And yet— the way he looks at you, like you’ve always belonged here, makes it feel like everything.
The sun slips behind the Hungaroring paddock, soft orange bleeding into brushed pink. The sharp edges of the day have dulled — no more tire smoke, no more headset crackle, no more logistics shouted over engines. Just the afterglow. You lean against the low wall outside hospitality, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly through the day’s content, ckecking what was relevant today. The glass beside you reflects streaks of sunset, turning your hair molten, your expression unreadable from the outside. Your lanyard sways with each idle refresh of Instagram. Then — footsteps. You don’t have to look up to know who it is. He walks like he has all the time in the world, yet somehow is always exactly on time. Max’s hair is damp from the shower, darker at the temples, freed from the last stubborn bit of wax. He’s swapped fireproofs for a Red Bull polo and skinny jeans, one shoe half-laced like he gave up halfway. Heat still lingers on his cheeks, a faint pink. “You waiting for me?” You glance over. “That depends. You driving me home again? Also, your left shoe isn’t tied. Don’t trip.” He grins, bends to lace it. “Guess I am driving you back.” You push off the wall, and as he comes up — now with two laced shoes — you fall into step beside him like it’s muscle memory and something you have been getting used to. No instructions needed. Your strides sync without thought. Near the paddock gates, you tap his shoulder with your phone. “By the way,” you say, opening a photo you found when you waited for him, “social team’s having a field day. Meme accounts too.” He squints at the screen. A screenshot from FP1 — the second he’d helped you over the barricade. Overlaid text: When your PA intern has main character energy and you’re just a side quest. Max snorts, loud enough to turn heads. “That’s criminal,” he laughs, shaking his head, leaning closer to squint at the caption again. “I should frame that.” You’re both still laughing when the shutter clicks. A soft snap from somewhere in the distance. Unnoticed. Unimportant. Except the frame is good — too good. Good lighting, perfect angle, Max’s smile tilted toward you, real and unguarded. By the time you reach the exit, the photo’s already climbing through fan accounts. You’re not tagged. But that doesn’t stop the comments.
username1 did any of the gossip pages find out who the f*ck she is??
username2 that's the same girl who was also in the garage during fp2... new wag alert?
↳ username3 i mean she did make him laugh rather lively
But those comments are still somewhere in the near future, a storm for overnight, when everyone who works in the paddock sleeps but fans are wild awake around the globe. Right now, it’s only the two of you, slipping past the last stragglers of camera crews into the lavender wash of a Hungarian dusk. You don’t touch, but the air between you hums with something practiced — like a song you both know by heart but aren’t comfortable to sing aloud. Max glances sideways. “You want to grab something to eat before we head back?” “Depends,” you say, lips tugging at a smile. “Are you buying?” He rolls his eyes and chuckles. “I just drove fifty laps. You should be buying.” “You really have no clue how much an intern makes, do you? If I’m buying, I can’t pay rent, dumbass.” His laugh spills out, quick and unguarded, and then he nods — deal struck. And just like that, you both fade into the falling light: two silhouettes slipping out of frame, and straight into speculation.
Saturday – FP2 and Qualifying
You’re five minutes early on Saturday morning. As you always are. The hotel lobby doors sigh shut behind you, soles gliding over the polished tiles without quite clicking annoyingly. Your leather tote swings lightly from one shoulder, on your phone already half-dialed with the driver’s number in case Max makes you wait. The sky above is a flat, pale gray, the kind of overcast that presses down on you, thick with humidity — storm-brewing, expectant.
You’re prepared. Of course you are. Soft-shell jacket zipped halfway, dark jeans neat but easy, black loafers catching the faint damp in the air. Hair pinned back just enough to look intentional and to withstand any showers of rain or mist. It’s saturday. Quali day — some would say the most important day of the Hungarian Grand Prix weekend. You walk towards the car, to be on time, to be there first. But someone else beat you to it. Max leans against the Honda like it’s his throne, one foot casually crossed over the other, arms folded across the navy of his team polo. A cap covers his hair, his watch glints faintly in the gray light. Dark skinny jeans. Not scrolling through his phone. Not checking the time. Just there. Waiting. For you. You blink once. Then a second time in utter disbelieve. “You’re early.” His mouth curves, smug in a way that’s maddeningly subtle. “You usually get here at 8:25.” You falter mid-step. “So… you came at 8:20?” He shrugs, loose and easy. “Thought it’d be nice if I waited on you for once.” It shouldn’t catch you off guard. It really shouldn’t. But the way he says it — no edge, no joke, just plain and sure — settles warm in your chest. Or maybe it’s the way he moves forward, hand finding the door handle on the passangers side and swinging it open like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You stop, pulse kicking up as the hinge creaks open. His hand rests light on the frame, his gaze steady on yours. No performance. No irony. Just a gesture. You clear your throat. “What’s this?” Max tilts his head, eyes glinting. “It’s a car door. It opens.” “That’s not what I—” The words break, too thin, too breathy, a little frustrated perhaps. And his smile sharpens, just enough to tell you he heard it. You slide inside, careful, because suddenly the scent of his cologne feels too close and your pulse is distractingly beating in your ears. He shuts the door with a neat flick of his wrist, and a moment later the driver’s side opens. He settles in with a low exhale, the casual kind that still feels deliberate. You catch it — the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He likes this. Catching you unsteady, making you forget what you were trying to say, getting under your skin. You’re usually so composed, scaffolding built from years of knowing your worth, your goals, your red lines. Sharp edges, steady footing. And now here’s Max Verstappen — Formula 1’s Dutch lion, racing monster in human form — quietly savoring the fact he can make you stammer. The car pulls away from the curb. You glance sideways. He’s watching the road, but the corner of his mouth is still lifted, smug as ever. You shake your head, half-smiling despite yourself. He’s dangerous, maybe. But at least he’s polite about it.
The car glides through Budapest’s waking streets, the tires humming softly against damp asphalt, before rolling onto the highway to the track. Early cafés flicker awake, their neon signs half-lit, spilling warmth onto wet sidewalks. Beyond them and the city borders, fields stretch green and quiet, the sky still brooding above like it hasn’t quite decided whether to rain or just keep everyone on their toes. Inside the car, it’s a bubble of calm. Max’s hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the soft glow of the dashboard. Every now and then he glances sideways. “Alright. Let’s hear it.” You don’t look up from your notes. “Engineering briefing at 9:10, media touchpoint with Sky Sports at 10:15, and then it’s time to get ready for FP3.” He nods once, absorbed, leaning slightly into the rhythm of your voice. You flip the page. “You should be in the garage no later than 12:10 sharp. FP3 starts at 1. After that, lunch, a quick pre-Quali meeting in the garage, and we’re hopefully good to go into Qualifying at 3pm.” Another nod from him. Both hands settle on the wheel, back straight, listening like you’re reciting poetry. But it’s just logistics. Your logistics. You tap the next line, voice steady. “Assuming a Top 3 quali — and I do assume that — post-session media is staggered: Qualifying photo first, F1 press conference second, then general press.” Max glances at you. “And if not?” “If not, it all shifts by fifteen minutes and you’ll have to get the ‘we’ll bounce back stronger’ line ready in three languages,” you reply deadpan, eyes still scanning your notes. A beat. Then Max laughs — low, warm, the kind of tired, early morning laugh that fills the small space around you and drifts into the dashboard hum. “You’ve already planned the comeback speech?” “Well, it’s either I do it now or someone will text you later,” you shrug, page still poised. He studies you, more thoughtful now. “You really think I’ll be Top 3?” You finally look at him. “Have you lost your sanity overnight? Of course I do. You don’t? You’ve been nothing but great all season.” Not flirtation. Not blind optimism. Just plain, steady truth. And it catches him a little off guard. A thousand people in the paddock want him to perform. Dozens expect it. But your belief isn’t transactional. It isn’t performative. It’s measured, practical, unwavering — the quiet sort of confidence that feels like a hand on his shoulder without touching him. You flip to the final page. “Oh — and I rescheduled the Dutch radio interview to after the race. Didn’t want you worrying about it before Sunday afternoon.” He hums softly. “Good call.” You close the folder. “That’s the day.” Max nods, thoughtful, eyes briefly drifting to you before returning to the road. He takes one hand off the steering wheel and gently places it on the stick shift. Just slightly, he leans closer, like he wants to linger in this bubble of order and calm a moment longer. “Thanks,” he murmurs, quieter now. “For the Quali pep talk… and all the other stuff.” You just nod. It’s your job. But something in the air between you tells you it’s becoming more than that, a pulse that doesn’t need words to exist.
The car hasn’t even rolled to a full stop before the air tilts — a current of noise and light waiting to swallow you whole. Cameras click in rapid bursts, phones lift like antennae, voices rise and blur together into one restless thrum. The paddock lot is much more alive with motion than the days before: fans pressed to barricades trying to get a glimpse of their stars, photographers circling like flies drawn to sugar, team staff weaving past with coffee cups gripped like lifelines, lanyards flashing as they move. Max steps out first. The moment he does, flashes ignite, a ripple of recognition breaking across the crowd — warm, immediate, and already bordering on suffocating. You slip out a beat later, bag slung over your shoulder, jacket zipped halfway against the morning chill. Without thinking, you fall a step behind. Not submission — strategy. It’s smoother this way: he commands the spotlight, while you orbit at its edges, free to watch, to manage, to keep things flowing. That’s when you see her. A girl no older than sixteen, standing just off the barricade in a faded Verstappen 33 cap, unofficial jacket hanging loose on her frame. Her phone trembles slightly in her hands, screen glowing. You catch her standing there like this before Max does — the nerves, the longing hovering in her small, shaky stance. So you nudge his elbow gently, tilt your chin toward her, guiding him wordlessly in her direction. “Want me to take it?” you ask softly, already extending your hand as if to tell her it’s okay. She nods, eyes wide, the brim of her faded cap dipping with the motion. You take her phone, step back, frame them against the paddock chaos. “Big smile,” you prompt, gentle but sure. “This one’s going on the wall in your room, right?” Max flashes a grin on cue. Click. Then it’s two boys next — twins, no taller than your legs, sneakers scuffing nervously against the asphalt. Then another girl. Each time you move quickly, efficient, one clean shot per phone, all vertical. Max doesn’t resist, doesn’t need to. The rhythm steadies under your direction, smooth as a well-oiled engine. He barely speaks; you keep him flowing forward. By the last one, you hand the phone back with a quiet, “Here you go, sweetheart,” a small nod at the grateful dad beside her. And then you’re moving again. Sidestepping a camera crew, slipping back into position just half a step behind him. Max glances over, the faintest tug of amusement at his mouth. “What?” you ask. “You might’ve missed your calling as security detail,” he murmurs under his breath. You smirk, rolling your eyes. “If I did that instead of being your PA, you’d be late to every meeting.” A beat. He exhales, almost like he’s trying not to let it show. “I know.” You check your watch, the habit automatic. “Engineering briefing in the motorhome in five. Then media. Sky’s been moved to the right paddock lane, so we’ll need to loop back after.” He doesn’t ask how you know, doesn’t question the logistics. Just a single focused nod, and he keeps walking. The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. The air is thick with hot brakes and warm asphalt, the background hum of engines bleeding through. Someone calls Max’s name behind you, but neither of you turns. You just keep moving — fluid, aligned, unknowingly choreographed. Past team reps, junior drivers, crew balancing laptops and precarious trays of coffee. No one stops you. And that’s the part that catches you off guard: the strange, quiet gravity of it. How natural this feels already. Like you’ve been doing it for years. Like you were built for this pulse, this rhythm. But it’s only day three. Only just the beginning. And yet — you’re already waiting in the garage when he arrives for FP3. Because of course you are.
The garage hums alive like it already did yesterday, only is it even more electric today — engineers bent once again over glowing monitors, the low drone of generators threading through clipped shouts for tools and static-laced comms. You slip in along the edges, ducking past a tire trolley, brushing against someone’s elbow. GP stands hunched at the workbench, coffee in one hand, pen in the other. He barely looks up. “You’re here early,” he says. “Not possible,” you counter, sidestepping a coil of cables. “Max is just late.” That earns the faintest twitch of a smile. You’ve only exchanged fragments with him these past two days — nods, logistics, the occasional dry jab across Max’s shoulder — but there’s already an ease to it now. A kind of shared orbit, born more from necessity than choice. “Where the hell even is he?” you ask. GP sips his coffee, shakes his head. “Probably still fixing his hair.” You huff a soft laugh. “As if it won’t be ruined the second the helmet goes on. Not exactly sponsor-friendly conditions in here.” “You’d know,” GP replies, dry as sand. “Aren’t you the one scheduling all his charm offensives?” You’re halfway through a retort when the atmosphere shifts. Heads turn. The current changes. It’s a clear sign that Max has arrived. He slips in through the side entrance, racesuit half-zipped, damp hair re-styled by a simple hand gesture after the walk between motorhome and garage. His eyes cut quickly through the room, scanning, weighing — then settle on you. A flicker of a smirk touches his mouth before he speaks. “Good. You two are getting along,” he says, nodding between you and GP. “That should improve my performance — if the people closest to me can actually communicate.” “Right,” GP mutters, eyes never leaving the data. “Because F1 is basically group therapy with occasional laps.” “Careful,” you murmur, not quite smiling. “Communication is important. I’d know.” The comment slides out too lightly, almost unthinking. But Max stiffens, arms crossing. His jaw tenses, a line sharpened by something unspoken. GP raises a brow, clearly ready with another dry remark — but Max cuts him off. And that’s enough.” The words are casual, half-joking, but edged. GP chuckles under his breath and retreats into his sheets of numbers, muttering about “focus” and “less drama, more delta.” You don’t rise to it. You only check your watch, nodding toward the car. “Ten to green. You ready to go?” Max unfolds his arms, steps closer. His voice drops low. “Yeah. Thanks for staying on top of it.” You meet his eyes. “Always.” For a breath, there’s something else under the routine — something charged, too delicate to name. But a mechanic calls his name, and just like that, he turns away. Climbs into the cockpit. Helmet down. Visor sealed. The spell breaks. FP3 begins.
The pit lane thrums like a living thing — metallic growls stacking one on top of another until it’s more vibration than sound, rattling up through your legs as the cars streak past. Max is gone in a blur of navy and colorful sponsor logos, the echo of his engine cutting sharper than the sunlight flashing off the tarmac. From where you sit at the garage’s edge, you catch only the afterimage. The rest you read on screens: green sectors blooming, delta lines holding steady, but you are mostly staring at the monitors broadcasting the scenes from the track or your phone. Your headset rests half-cocked, like you can’t quite decide if you want the world piped into your ears or not. The folder on your lap is forgotten, a prop more than a tool. Sunlight angles through the shutters in warm slices, catching on floating dust until the whole air seems painted in gold. Around you, the crew moves with seamless precision — not chaos, though it seems like chaos to you, only rhythm. And on the timing sheets: Verstappen P2. +0.173. Not disastrous. But not what Max wants. You track his car through Sector 2, watching the throttle traces, brake pressure, wheel angle — data that should feel cold, yet hums with life when it’s his. He drives like he’s a neurosurgeon holding a scalpel, not a racing driver holiding steering wheel. Slicing, exact, inevitable. And then your name breaks into your ear. Low, amused. “Hey. Camera’s on you.” It’s Lee laughing from a couple meters away. Your head snaps up, too late. One of the trackside feeds has betrayed you: world feed, garage shot. You. Just sitting there. Too still, too focused on Max’ onboards. You can already imagine the captions, the freeze-frames, the Twitter threads spinning into existence. Who’s the girl in the Red Bull garage? Heat creeps up your neck and ears. You force a small, professional smile, nod once, then drop your eyes to the data like it’s the only thing that matters. Posture straight. Face neutral. Sip from your bottle. Pretend you don’t feel your skin buzzing with a million invisible eyes. Four minutes later, Max barrels back in. Tyres screech, the car halts on the marks, the swarm descends. He doesn’t move much, doesn’t lift the helmet, but when the visor slides up, his eyes find you instantly. Just for a beat. You’ve learned his expressions these past two days — the sharpness, the restraint. But this one is different. Not frustration. Not relief. Something quieter, but alive. Calculation, threaded with pulse. He says something into the radio, his tone as even as ever. But his fingers tap one-two-three-four against the wheel, restless, betraying. And though the camera isn’t on you anymore, it feels like his gaze still is. And your stomach drops — not unpleasantly, not entirely. More like a step missed on a staircase. Or maybe like gravity just remembered you.
The lull after FP3 feels like exhaling after holding your breath too long. The garage thins, voices scattering — GP deep in conversation with Bradley, Horner tossing Max some thumbs-up quip you can’t quite catch. The air is warm with the ghosts of worn-down tyres and lingering engine heat, layered faintly with the bitter trace of someone’s abandoned coffee. It’s only early-afternoon, but your body swears it’s lived an entire day already. “I’m hungry,” Max says suddenly, quiet enough that it brushes past only your ears. A beat. “Wanna grab lunch?” You blink — surprised, but pleasantly so. He’s asking this time. “Yeah,” you answer a bit too quickly, too eager. “Sure.” The hospitality suite feels like stepping into another world. It’s cooler than the garage. The lights here don’t shine as clinically bright. Air-conditioned hush pressing against your skin until the chaos of the pit lane feels like a dream receding. You both take plates — pasta, chicken, nothing that could weigh him down — and find a table tucked near the window. Golden light cuts across the table in soft stripes, painting the moment in something that feels less like work, more like… something unnamed, hovering at the edges.
Max eats like an athlete: mechanical precision, bites measured out of habit. But his shoulders aren’t drawn so tightly anymore, and the edges of his posture have blurred. He looks less like a driver between sessions and more like a man finally letting adrenaline sink into his bones, like he’s thinking about something he’s unsure to share. Then, without warning, his voice cuts the quiet. “I have to win this championship.” Your fork pauses mid-air. You glance up. He’s not looking at you — not directly. More like somewhere past your shoulder, like the thought has been sitting there all along, waiting for daylight. “I know I should say I want to,” he continues, voice low but steady. “But it’s not that. I have to.” You don’t interrupt. You let him speak. “2020…” He exhales, shakes his head. “I was okay. I gave everything I had. But it didn’t matter. That car couldn’t take the fight to Lewis. Not the way I needed it to. Or maybe…” His jaw flexes. “…maybe I didn’t do it justice enough.” “And this year?” you ask softly. “This year,” his eyes finally meet yours, sharp and unblinking, “I’ve got a chance. Not a guarantee. But a shot. And I’m not going to waste it.” Conviction rings in him like a struck chord — clear, resonant, impossible to ignore. You set your fork down, nodding slowly.
“I know you won’t,” you say. “I’ve seen the work you put in. Every second of it since I started at Red Bull, even before to be honest. You’ve got the car, the team, the discipline. And the talent, obviously.” A faint, almost reluctant smirk tugs at his mouth. “But more than that,” you add, leaning in just slightly, “you’ve got the mindset for it. You don’t crack. You don’t flinch. That’s what it takes to win a title. At least, from what I’ve seen… as a long-time spectator. So you might not want to make too much of what I’m saying.” The smirk lingers, softer now. His gaze holds yours a little too long, steady, deliberate. It doesn’t feel like silence. It feels like weight. Like intention. You sip your water, letting the glass linger at your lips a beat longer than needed, as if the coolness can rinse the weight of his words from your chest. “So,” you say, aiming for lighter, “how do you switch off? From all this championship pressure?” A quiet laugh escapes him, not unkind but dry. “I don’t.” Your brow lifts. “Seriously?” “Seriously.” He shrugs, deliberate, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I get home, I eat, I go sim racing. That’s how I stay sharp. I keep my head in it.” “Full immersion. Twenty-four seven.” You tilt your head. “Doesn’t that ever burn you out?” “No.” The answer lands with the same precision as a braking point. “Because the only thing worse than burnout would be losing. This—” he gestures with his fork, vague but weighted, “—this is everything right now.” You let the pause stretch, then try again, softer. “And the people in your life? Friends, family… partner?” He leans back, folds his arms, the posture more thoughtful than defensive. “My dad’s worse than me,” he says. “Sometimes I think he dreams in lap times. He might actually want this championship even a little more.” The corner of your mouth pulls upward, quietly, even if it pinches somewhere beneath your ribs. “My friends understand. They know I’m not the guy who texts back right away or shows up to birthdays. They let me be who I am.” He taps his fork against the plate, then stills. “And I don’t have a partner, so… that’s nothing I have to worry about.” Your pulse skips — one sharp misfire — before steadying again, like nothing happened. “Oh.” The word is too quiet, too small, and you bury it under another bite of pasta, as if chewing could disguise the way it lands somewhere you weren’t expecting. If he notices, he doesn’t say. Or maybe he does and chooses not to. “I don’t think I’d be a good partner anyway,” he adds after a beat, voice even. “Not right now. It’s hard to explain to someone that the championship always comes first.” You nod, slow. You think about what the most casual seeming answer to this could be and settle for “Makes sense.” The silence that follows is longer, denser — not heavy, not empty, just charged in a way you can’t quite name and would rather not have to think about. You clear your throat, check the time, push gently at the air between you. “You’ve got a strategy meeting in ten. Want me to walk you over?” He nods once. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” When you rise, your shoulders brush for a second — barely. But neither of you moves away.
The walk back from hospitality settles into a kind of companionable quiet. Max drifts half a step ahead, hands loose in the pockets of his jacket, his gaze narrowed not on the path but on some thought chewing at him from the inside out. Not the pasta. Not the strategy. Something heavier and private. You don’t ask, don’t press what has his brows furrowed like that. You just match his pace, let the silence breathe. By the time the garage comes into view, the air has shifted once again — sharp, electric. Mechanics moving around the car for some final touches before Qualifying with practiced precision, tyres stacked in the corners, screens glowing with reruns of data streams. Another phase of the weekend is already beating forward, and you slip into it without thought, stream with the flow around you. “Meeting in seven,” you murmur as you draw level with Max again, your voice pitched low for his ears only. “Tom and Lee have the sector data ready. You’ll cover Q1 through Q3 projections now, then race prep tonight, depending on how quali shakes out.” He nods, barely turning his head — but this time, when his shoulder grazes yours, it lingers an instant longer. Deliberate. Anchored. “And GP wants a quick check on the balance changes from FP3,” you add, eyes forward. “Thinks you’ll like the tweaks on rear grip.” A flicker at the corner of his mouth, more felt than seen. “About time we do something about that,” he mutters. You allow yourself the smallest smile in return, quick as a spark from a match.
The clock tumbles forward, minutes dissolving into briefings, whiteboards, and data sheets scrawled with deltas and projections. Max slips into his focused persona— sharp, economical, eyes darting between telemetry and his team of engineers, every gesture precise, measured. You hover close but never in the way, a quiet shadow in the current of motion, offering only what’s needed from you, which frankly spoken isn’t a lot. Every second counts now, and everyone knows it. When the garage shifts gears for Qualifying, the atmosphere charges like static before a thunderstorm storm. Radios spit updates minute after minute. A torque wrench clangs against concrete. Mechanics dart with focused urgency, their movements almost balletic in their coordination. You find yourself by the car just as Max reappears from the driver’s room, race suit zipped, gloves dangling from his hand. Light slips through the shutter gaps, striking across his face in streaks of molten gold. He starts on the earpieces and pulls his balaclava over his head, adjusts the fit, when you step closer — not too close, just enough. “Not luck,” you say, your voice threading neatly through the garage noise, “but I’m wishing for your success out there.” He glances over, one brow arched beneath the edge of his helmet. “And,” you add, bone-dry, “a little well-timed traffic for Lewis. Maybe an Aston Martin mid-sector two?” The sound that bursts out of him is quick and unguarded — a laugh, bright enough to cut straight through the hum of the garage. “Let Hannah know. Maybe the junior team can pull a few strings.” He clips the radio pack into place with practiced ease. You tilt your head, a faint smile playing at your lips. “But you don’t really need that, do you? You can beat them fair and square.” For a breath, his gaze catches yours — steady, unflinching, something unspoken tugging between you. And then, with a soft click, the visor drops, cutting you off from him again. You step back, headset in hand, pulse quickening — not for lap times, not for data. For him.
You don’t blink through the final sector of Max’s push lap. Not when the delta ticks down — +0.02, +0.01 — not when the rear twitches slightly at Turn 13. And not when the clock stops once he crosses the finishing line. P3. Just 0.101 off Bottas. The garage deflates in a ripple of disappointment — radios stay calm, shoulders drop, a wrench is clattering harder than intended onto the floor. Max doesn’t join them in their misery. No scream, no swear. Just helmet off in parc fermé, gloves stripped sharp, and the walk back: wordless, rigid with the kind of fury that hides behind clenched teeth. You’re already waiting by the monitors, folder in hand, expression perfectly neutral. Or almost. Because he sees it — a flicker across your face. Disappointment. Not in him. For him. And somehow that slices deeper than the tiny gap to Bottas ever could. He stops beside you, helmet swinging loosely in his grip. Neither of you speak until the cameras are gone, until it’s just the two of you and the flat replay running overhead. “Media in twelve,” you say softly. “Comms is leaning into the margin. Promising launchpad for tomorrow — strategy advantage, tyre life. You know the drill.” He exhales hard through his nose, still staring at the screen. “But I told them,” you add, gentler, “you might want to speak freely instead of repeating the empty words of good pr.” It’s small, but something shifts at his mouth. Not quite a smile. A release. He unzips his suit halfway, heat rolling off him as the anger begins to bleed into exhaustion. “You’re allowed to be pissed off,” you tell him, voice low. “You drove the wheels off that thing. They know it. We know it.” That word lands. We. His eyes snap to you — really look at you. For a moment, the atoms inside him realign. “I had the pace,” he mutters, half to himself. “Don’t know where I lost it. I’ll check the data. But I can win tomorrow.” “I know you can,” you say. And you mean it. The PR girl hurries past, clipboard raised, waving him toward the pen. He doesn’t move. Not right away. “Just be honest,” you tell him, holding his gaze. “You’re better when you are.” A beat. Then he pushes off the wall, tugging his sleeves higher. “Right. Let’s get this shitshow over with.” But as he brushes past, his fingers tap once against your arm. Just once. Like a silent thank you. You feel it long after he’s gone and it feels oddly good. So good, it scares you a bit.
After media, the paddock feels unhinged. Not from any scandals or headlines, but from the weather. Wind claws at the vinyl walls of hospitality tents, ripping at them like sails. Umbrellas skitter across the asphalt in terrified flight. Rain doesn’t fall so much as hurl itself sideways, slashing anyone caught in the open underneath the almost anthracite sky. It growls overhead, low and vindictive, like it’s been personally offended by the presence of everybody in the paddock. You duck just under the lip of the Red Bull awning, rummaging through your leather tote without flinching while the storm does its best to unmake the Hungaroring. Behind you, someone curses their drenched team polo. A cameraman further down the row wipes at his fogged-up lens, swearing under his breath. And then Max is there. At your shoulder. Cap pulled low, jacket zipped to his chin, the faint scent of cologne and sweat clinging to him in equal measure. You don’t even look up, just snap open the small, black umbrella with a flick of your wrist — clean, precise, a tiny act of control in weather chaos. A smug little smile tugs at your mouth. “Prepared?” His voice is warm, amused, a tease carried on the storm. “Always,” you deadpan, stepping out into the downpour like it’s nothing. He falls into stride with you instantly, so close his elbow bumps yours now and again. The umbrella tilts between you, straining against the wind, more symbolic than useful. You feel the shift before you see it — the subtle lift of his arm, the pause, the way it hovers just behind your shoulders. Not touching. Not quite guiding. Just… there. Present and trying to keep some of the raindrops off of you. It doesn’t protect you from a thing. You’re both soaked in seconds anyway. But the gesture softens the storm, and that softness stays. You don’t bother with words — the rain drowns every noise, pressing against your eardrums until the rest of the paddock feels on mute. Just you, Max, and the hiss of water on asphalt. Jacket sleeves slick. Shoes splashing. His nearness steady, like instinct. At the lot, the car sits exactly where he left it that morning, wipers on the windshield sitting still at the streams that run down the glass. Max moves ahead, jogs the final steps, and pulls the door open for you like it’s second nature. Routine, even. You look up at him from beneath the umbrella. No words. None needed. His gaze lingers a fraction too long, a heartbeat stretched thin, before you slip inside, rain dripping from your collar. He shuts the door carefully — like you’re something breakable, as if you were made out of sugar — before circling around to the drivers side. The windows fog as he starts the engine. Outside, thunder rolls deep and insistent. Tomorrow is race day. But tonight, the storm has the final word.
Sunday – Race
The rain carries that grounding, earthy tang of wet asphalt, the kind that belongs only to early Sunday mornings on race weekends at the track. You push the Honda door open and snap the Red Bull Racing umbrella open with a satisfying click. Droplets scatter off the navy canopy, the fabric taut and gleaming. The paddock is slick and silver-grey, puddles holding fractured reflections of team jackets and fans huddled close together under shared umbrellas or cheap plastic raincoats, the air humming with that peculiar cocktail of nerves and anticipation a wet race always brings. Max doesn’t move out of the car. He stays in the driver’s seat, wipers dragging back and forth in a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm. His gaze is fixed on the rain-streaked glass, jaw tight. You can’t quite tell if it’s nerves or focus, and that little mystery makes you linger. Leaning casually against the car, folder tucked to your chest, you angle the umbrella like a shield against the mist. “Good news,” you say, voice light, teasing but laced with the polish of professionalism. “Today you only have to do what you’re best at — just racing, a bit of media, and a press conference earned by winning. No team lunches, no awkward sponsor smiles, no handshakes with billionaires.” The corner of his mouth twitches, shoulders easing just enough to betray amusement. A soft chuckle slips out, low and quiet. “A wet race will be fun,” he says at last, eyes still following a single bead of water tracking its way down the glass. “More of a challenge.” You tilt your head, lips quirking. “Isn’t throwing yourself into a carbon-fiber rocket at 300 kilometers an hour challenging enough?” This time, his eyes flick toward you. Brief. Sharp. Warm.
“Not for me.” Something in your chest flutters, traitorous and insistent. Charming. Infuriating. Entirely magnetic. You steady your posture, refusing to let it show, and instead toss him a small, conspiratorial smile. He finally moves, shaking himself out of whatever quiet space he’d been in, turning just enough to catch the curve of your expression before his focus shifts again toward the paddock entrance. Then, with the easy confidence that always seems stitched into him, he pushes the door shut and starts striding forward. You fall into step beside him, umbrella tilted just so the space between you feels deliberate — close, but not forced. Rain splatters against your shoulder where it’s not covered by the umbrella, its muted rhythm creating a strange kind of privacy inside the chaos of Hungaroring. The journalists and fans realizing who’s just arrived, even the distant thunder of engines firing up — all of it fades to background. Just you. Just him. And the quiet electricity that hums in the space where his laughter usually lives, in the split-second heat of his gaze when it meets yours. “Ready to face the chaos?” you ask, words laced with teasing. He grins, eyes sparking even against the storm. “After you.” With a quick motion, he plucks the umbrella from your hand and holds it over both of you, the gesture threaded with a subtle intimacy neither of you comment on. You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, leather strap biting against your team jacket, and fumble for your paddock pass. He glances down, umbrella steady above you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Paddock pass ready?” he asks, tone playful, edged with softness.
You shoot him a sideways look, half-smile tugging at your mouth. “Always.” With a practiced flick, you snap the lanyard free from your bag — multiple cards clattering together in a little fanfare of preparedness. Max raises a brow, mock-impressed. The amusement sparks between you, light and unspoken. Then the first wave of fans surges inside the paddock, cameras flashing like lightning, and the moment slips away in a staccato of shutters and shouts.
Max’s pace slows, and suddenly the dynamic shifts — the umbrella is back in your hands, angled carefully as he leans over to sign autographs. You lean a little closer as well to shield him from the drizzle, your knuckles grazing the sleeve of his jacket each time you adjust. The rhythm of the crowd is wild — pens tapping, voices rising, flashes firing — yet there’s something oddly private in the way you move with him, syncing the click of your umbrella with the clatter of Sharpies across glossy photos. “You’re doing really well for your first weekend,” he murmurs, low enough that only you catch it. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, as if it’s half a tease, half a truth. “Do you think they’d let me do this if I wasn’t?” you shoot back, eyes catching his for just a second too long. His glance in return is sharp, deliberate — a look that says he notices, really notices, you in the middle of all this chaos. When the crowd finally thins, you step aside, offering the umbrella back to him with a polite gesture. He only shakes his head, easy and stubborn, taking it himself but keeping the cover over both of you. And just like that, the roar of the paddock recedes to background static. Now you walk in step, shoulders brushing lightly as you navigate puddles that mirror the washed-out banners from the motorhomes to your left and right. It feels less like dodging chaos and more like sharing a rhythm no one else sees — his quiet checks to make sure you’re still beside him, the way his eyes soften when they catch the outline of your profile in the grey light, the silence between words that feels anything but empty. Professional, yes — but threaded with something warmer, something playful and spiy that hovers in the space between you. By the time you reach the Red Bull motorhome, the rain dripping steady around you, it feels like the world has folded into a bubble: rain, cameras, noise on the outside, and just this… whatever this is, walking with him. He holds the door open with an exaggerated little flourish, a wink under the edge of the umbrella. It dips between you as you pass, and for a heartbeat the air hums — sharp, charged, the kind of awareness that lives just beneath the surface, daring both of you not to name it.
The Red Bull garage thrums like a living thing when you arrive — a heartbeat of motion and light and heat. Mechanics lean over the car like sculptors, fingers tracing metal lines with precise obsession. Engineers pace in tiny arcs, tablets glowing in their hands, screens flickering with data that pulses and hums like a biological organism, translating metal and motor oil into its own secret code of DNA. The smell of burnt rubber, warm tires, and just a faint hint of espresso floats in the air, grounding you in the controlled chaos. You linger a few steps back, headset snug over your ears, folder clutched like a talisman, watching Max materialize already in fireproofs, his race suit lazily zipped to his waist, sleeves dangling behind him like careless banners. He glances at you, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reaches for his water bottle. “You look… serious,” he says, low, casual, but carrying that flicker — amusement or charm, you can’t tell. You tilt your head, letting your hair fall back, and step closer. “I don’t envy you out there,” you say evenly, but the weight behind your words is unmistakable. “Wet track, limited visibility, full grid of egos, everyone scheming for any sort of advantage.” Max chuckles — low, confident, a laugh that belongs to someone utterly in his element. He flexes his fingers around the branded bottle, taps the flexy straw a quiet rhythm.
“It’s fine,” he says simply. “Wet races… they feel better to win.” His eyes flick to yours, almost daring you to argue. You raise an eyebrow. “So, the risk of landing in the wall and perhaps getting a concussion is part of the fun?” you tease. “I mean yeah,” he grins, leaning forward just slightly, energy coiled sharp as wire. “Everyone else is nervous, cautious… I like the chaos. Makes it feel better when you come out on top.” You nod, half-smiling, letting a sliver of admiration creep into your posture. “I’ll… be here, keeping the chaos contained from this side,” you reply, tapping your headset lightly. “Make sure the media, PR, and the world see the right Max.” He tilts his head while starting to zip up his suit, scanning you a beat longer than necessary. “You make it sound… way too easy. You know the British have it out for me,” he says, tone dropping subtly, intimate. There’s a warmth there, just for you, subtle and unspoken. You straighten, trying to hide the flutter in your chest. “Easy isn’t the point. You make winning look easy. I just… make sure people see it that way, even the British media.” Max smirks again, flapping his gloves together like a challenge. “Then… I better not let you down and ruin your plans.” You glance at the monitors, then back at him. “You won’t. Just… trust yourself. And maybe don’t forget there’s a [Y/N] watching, who hates when things don’t go the way she intended.” He shakes his head, grabbing his balaclava and helmet next. “You’re going to ruin my reputation as a cold, unshakable driver,” he mutters. Then, with a sharp grin: “Or maybe… I’ll lean into it. Makes me even more unpredictable out there.” And just like that, the garage pulses with a different electricity. You’re not just an observer today — you’re part of the rhythm, part of the heartbeat. Max is focused, competitive, untouchable in his element. And yet, he’s letting you in, letting you see the calm under the storm. GP pulls Max away seconds later to talk over some last minute instructions for the race. You watch him as he nods at whatever message GP has for him. He pulls the balaclava over his head and you unfortunately loose the sight of his dark blond hair. That’s before you loose sight of his face entirely as he straps on his helmet and gets into the car. It’s your moment to take your place by the screens and let the crew do their thing before it’s time to go to the grid and wait for the lights to turn off.
Rain hisses against the Hungaroring asphalt, each drop catching the gray sky like liquid mirrors. You grip the edge of the garage railing, headset snug, pulse thrumming not from the storm but from the chaos unraveling before you. On the big screen, the grid launches the moment the five red lights vanish. Engines scream, wet tires spray mist that erupts into blinding sheets across the first corner. Then—snap—crash. Valtteri Bottas loses control, fishtailing across the racing line. You hear the collective gasp through your headset. Cars swerve, some collide. And then—Norris smashes into Max. Your stomach lurches as the navy Red Bull spins, slamming briefly into gravel before clawing its way back onto the track. Hands tighten around the folder you’d only set down a minute ago. Mechanics shout from their seats, voices rising over the low drone of the garage. Engineers pace like predators, eyes flicking from screens to car to screens again. Max isn’t calm on the comms—his voice clipped, edged with anger. “What the fuck happened there? Check my car!” “Max, one of the McLarens hit you. We’re looking. So far everything looks good to go,” GP replies, measured, trying to calm him down, have him focus on the track again. You inhale sharply. He’s okay—he’s not panicking—but the debris strewn across the track glints wet under the rain on the screen. Lap two brings a red flag. The world seems to hold its breath for a moment, chaos frozen mid-frame. And then the cameras catch you leaning forward, eyes locked on Max’ onboards, headset on, lips pressed together tight with concern. The commentators notice. F1 TV captions you as “Max Verstappen’s partner.” Your head snaps toward the screen. “What the f—?!” you mutter, half-laughing, half-panicked. Twitter erupts—memes, speculation, wild theories. A few seconds later, the caption updates: “Max Verstappen’s personal assistant.” Too late. The digital storm has already begun. Fans argue, journalists speculate, tabloids light up like fireworks. Max’s car is rolled into the garage. He remains strapped in, helmet still on. GP approaches, tight smile in place, leaning into the halo. Max nods a couple of times, then throws his head back, laughter breaking through, low and genuine. GP glances toward you, smirking, and gestures for you to join them. You hesitantly step forward. Max turns his head just enough—visor up—and you catch the glint of his blue eyes framed by lines that hint at a grin. His voice is low, amused, but there’s still steel underneath. “You okay over there? Don’t let the internet chaos get to you.” You bite your cheek, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “I’m fine. Just… focused. I know how the circus rolls.” Focused. That’s the truth. You track hashtags, relay messages, thread the team’s rhythm. The outside world may misread your role—or your presence—but you know exactly where you belong: here, beside him, monitoring, protecting, silently ensuring he has every advantage he can get off-track, even when rain and chaos conspire against him in the race. Max roars back onto the track once the red flag lifts. Damage slows him slightly, but he’s relentless—muscles taut, eyes narrow inside the helmet. You jot down notes for the post-race debrief, but your gaze keeps flicking to his onboards. He’s unshakable in his determined own way, magnetic in focus, and somewhere in the corner of your mind, a small thrill runs through you: you’re part of this storm now. You’re part of his rhythm. And the world—confused, speculating—can wait until the final lap is over.
The media pen is a swarm of umbrellas, microphones, and camera lenses—a jostling, chaotic contrast to the slick, rain-soaked track you just left behind. You fall just a step behind Max, letting him take the front, but your eyes never leave him. Even battered, even stretched thin by the red-flag chaos, he carries that unshakable calm and carelessness that makes your pulse skip anyway. Journalists pivot toward him, pens poised, flashbulbs snapping. Someone leans in, voice sharp through the drizzle: “So, Max… I’m sure you saw the F1 TV captions. Can you clarify?” Max leans casually against the barrier, one hand wrapped around a water bottle, the other propping him up as if the chaos were nothing more than background noise. There’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—the kind that says he’s amused, aware, untouchable.
“Well,” he starts, eyes glinting, mischief tucked into every word, “I wouldn’t trust F1 TV for reporting my or anyone relationship status…” He pauses, letting the tease hang just long enough to make everyone lean forward. Then he gestures toward you—two steps beside him, phone in hand, team jacket still damp from the rain. “She works for Red Bull. She’s been my PA this weekend—a very good one.” Journalists lean closer, hunger in their eyes for a follow-up. Max gives none. No concrete denial, no concrete confirmation—just the faintest shrug, a blink, that lingering smirk. You roll your shoulders back, keeping your expression measured, professional, even as a little thrill snakes through your chest. “That’s everything he said,” you murmur quietly into the voice memo you’re recording, tapping send to PR. You catch his eye. He nods ever so slightly, half-smile still teasing, longer than it should. Cameras click. Tweets will fly. Headlines will explode. But here, in this pocket of controlled chaos, you and Max share a private understanding: no one outside the garage—or the paddock—needs the real answer. Not yet. Especially not when neither of you could give the other one abou what there is between you, not even if pressed. He isn’t just shielding you from the press. There’s a little spark of mischief in him, too—maybe because the assumption hasn’t been corrected. Maybe because he likes the thought. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel the same thrill, though you wouldn’t admit it out loud. You step back just enough to give him space, fingers tightening around the folder. In the rain, among microphones and flashing lenses, you’re a quiet anchor—and he seems to need it.
You leave the Hungaroring together, the bustle and flash of media fading behind you. Max is once again in the drivers seat controlling the car. The city lights coming closer and smear against the misted windows, turning the car interior into streaks of warm amber. Rain taps softly on the roof, a gentle percussion that mirrors your still-racing heartbeat. Max drives with quiet focus, but there’s an ease now — shoulders loosening, jaw unclenching — the subtle exhale after a weekend that could have gone sideways a dozen times. You glance over, catching him in profile. Streetlights flicker across his face, painting shadows and gold over the sharp planes of his jaw, the curve of his smile. You can’t help it — a small grin escapes you. “Well,” you begin, voice teasing, light, almost conspiratorial, “you survived your first weekend with me. I’d promise not to bother you during the break but—” He cuts you off, that devilish half-smile in place, one that’s been dancing in your mind all weekend. “Please bother me. Actually—let me bother you. How about dinner sometime? I’m kinda tired of always only having lunch with you.” Your stomach flips. Heat creeps up your neck, into your cheeks. Professional composure deserts you entirely. A soft, unsteady laugh slips out. “Then I’d be happy to bother you during the break,” you say, trying for casual, but it’s impossible to hide the flutter in your chest. He chuckles, low and easy, eyes flicking to yours briefly before returning to the wet road ahead. The silence that follows hums, thick with electricity — not awkward, just charged, like the calm pulse between two magnets drawn together. Your hand brushes the edge of your folder, meaningless, a quiet anchor in the shared tension. For the first time this weekend, it’s not about schedules, cameras, or chaos. It’s just the two of you, the rain pattering, the glow of Budapest spilling over the dashboard, and the quiet understanding that whatever this is — professional, personal, or something thrillingly in between — it’s no longer fleeting. The car hums along, tires whispering over wet asphalt. In that moving, intimate cocoon, something delicate and undeniably real has begun that potentially could threaten your career.
radio: i had this in my drafts for a couple of weeks now and felt too insecure to post it, cause I don't think it's particularly good... but I'm currently also working on a longer Oscar fic and didn't want to leave you hanging without anything... therefore: enjoy it and leave some love if you did <3 kind regards as always!
Synopsis: Max Verstappen’s girlfriend accidentally becomes rookie Kimi Antonelli’s unofficial “grid mum” after repeatedly rescuing him from chaotic rookie disasters, leaving the whole paddock teasing Max and the kid clinging to her like his emotional support adult.
Patreon - Exclusive Content
A/n: Also, congratulations to Kimi for his double Grand Prix wins! 👏❤️
Kimi Antonelli had been in Formula 1 for exactly three races when the paddock collectively decided one thing:
He needed supervision.
Not because he wasn’t talented — the kid was terrifyingly fast, all elbows and instinct and raw, unpolished brilliance — but because he had the emotional self‑preservation instincts of a golden retriever puppy who’d just discovered traffic.
And somehow, without ever applying for the job, you became the designated adult.
It started innocently enough.
1. The First Incident
You were leaning against the Red Bull garage wall, scrolling through your phone while Max finished FP2, when a blur of blue and white nearly collided with you.
“Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t see— oh. Hi.”
Kimi Antonelli, cheeks pink, curls sticking to his forehead, eyes wide like he’d been caught stealing biscuits.
You smiled. “You okay there?”
He nodded too fast. “Yeah. I just— I lost my water bottle. And my pass. And my trainer. And maybe my sense of direction.”
You blinked. “How long have you been wandering?”
“Twenty minutes.”
You sighed, took him gently by the shoulders, turned him around, and pointed. “Your garage is literally right there.”
He stared at it like it had materialised out of thin air.
“Oh.”
You patted his back. “Go. Hydrate. And maybe… don’t run into walls.”
He nodded earnestly, like you’d just given him the secrets of the universe.
And that should’ve been the end of it.
But no.
2. The Second Incident
Two days later, you found him sitting on a tyre stack, looking like a kicked puppy.
“What happened now?” you asked, already bracing yourself.
He held up a hand, wrapped in an ice pack. “I burned myself on the tea machine.”
You blinked. “How.”
“I thought the light meant it was ready.”
“Kimi… the light literally says hot.”
He looked genuinely betrayed. “I thought it meant go.”
You sighed, took the ice pack, adjusted it properly, and muttered, “You’re going to give your team a collective heart attack.”
He perked up. “But not you?”
“Oh no,” you said. “I’ve accepted my fate.”
He grinned — bright, relieved, boyish — and something in your chest softened.
3. The Third Incident (The One That Did You In)
Max found you in the hospitality lounge, arms crossed, glaring down at a sheepish Kimi.
“What did he do?” Max asked, already sounding resigned.
“He tried to fix his own visor tear‑off,” you said.
Max winced. “Oh no.”
“And he used scissors.”
Max winced harder. “Oh no.”
“And he cut his race glove.”
Max stared at the kid. “Mate.”
Kimi shrugged helplessly. “It was an accident.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You are not allowed near scissors anymore. Or adhesives. Or anything sharp. Or anything that plugs in.”
Kimi nodded solemnly. “Okay.”
Max raised a brow at you. “You know you don’t actually have to parent him.”
You shot him a look. “Someone has to.”
Max smirked. “You’re cute when you’re bossy.”
You elbowed him. Kimi pretended not to hear.
4. The Paddock Notices
By race five, the entire grid had caught on.
Lando: “Where’s your mum, mate?”
Kimi: “She’s not my mum.”
Oscar: “She packed you snacks.”
Kimi: “…okay but that doesn’t mean—”
Charles: “She fixed your collar before the driver parade.”
Kimi: “It was crooked!”
Lewis, patting his shoulder: “It’s okay, kid. Happens to the best of us.”
Max, deadpan: “She’s my girlfriend, not his mum.”
Carlos: “Tell that to the way she scolded him for not wearing sunscreen.”
You: “HE WAS TURNING PINK.”
Kimi: “I burn easily.”
Max: “You’re Italian.”
Kimi: “I burn easily.”
5. The Moment It Became Official
It was Monaco.
Kimi had qualified P4 — a miracle, a masterpiece, a rookie’s dream — and he was vibrating with nerves before the race.
You found him pacing behind the Mercedes garage, helmet in hand, breathing too fast.
“Hey,” you said softly. “Look at me.”
He did, eyes wide and terrified.
“You’re ready,” you told him. “You earned this. You belong here.”
His throat bobbed. “What if I mess it up?”
“You won’t,” you said. “And even if you do, you’ll learn. That’s what rookies do.”
He exhaled shakily.
You reached up, adjusted the strap of his balaclava, smoothed a wrinkle on his suit, and said, “Now go drive like the little menace you are.”
He laughed — small but real.
And then he hugged you.
Not a polite hug. A full, desperate, clinging hug.
Max walked up mid‑hug, blinked, and said, “Should I be jealous?”
Kimi pulled back instantly. “Sorry! Sorry, Max, I didn’t—”
Max ruffled his hair. “Relax, kid. She’s everyone’s mum now.”
You glared. “I am not—”
But then Kimi looked at you with those big, hopeful, puppy eyes and said, “Can you… maybe… stay near the garage during the race? It helps.”
And that was it.
You were done for.
6. The Aftermath
Kimi finished P5.
He ran straight to you before anyone else.
Max watched, arms crossed, amused. “You created a monster.”
You shrugged. “He’s sweet.”
“He’s clingy.”
“He’s eighteen.”
“He’s adopted you.”
You smiled. “Maybe I adopted him first.”
Max’s expression softened, warm and fond. “You’re good, you know that?”
You nudged him. “You love it.”
He kissed your temple. “I love you.”
Kimi, from behind you: “Do you think I could get a snack now?”
Max groaned. “Oh my god.”
You laughed, looped an arm around the rookie’s shoulders, and said, “Come on, kid. Let’s feed you before you pass out.”
And that was the moment the paddock officially crowned you:
Grid Mum.
Feared by engineers.
Beloved by rookies.
Respected by veterans.
And absolutely, undeniably, irrevocably stuck with one Kimi Antonelli.
A wild night in Vegas left you hungover, married, and shocked to discover your new husband is Max Verstappen, four-time Formula 1 World Champion. What starts as a drunken mistake turned into something more and a question you never thought you’d ask—was this really just a stupid decision, or the best thing that ever happened to you?
pairing. Max Verstappen x wife! fem! reader.
warnings. rom-com (i tried), 10,6k words, accidental marriage, soulmates-ish, love at the first sight, my poor humor, soft! max, reader is clueless about f1, domestic fluff (literally just reader and max bullying each other white they’re married) alex s. m., lestappen bromance, pet names (schatje, baby).
YOU CAME TO LAS VEGAS FOR ONE REASON: to have fun. Maybe gamble a little, maybe dance a lot, and definitely forget about the stress of your everyday life. It was supposed to be a wild weekend with your friends—filled with overpriced cocktails, glittery outfits, and questionable decisions. You knew the Grand Prix was happening the same weekend, but you weren’t exactly a sports girl. Formula 1 meant fast cars and loud engines, and the only thing you really cared about was how the race would mess up traffic. You had no idea how much more it would mess up your life.
One night, your friend—who always seemed to know someone who knew someone—dragged you to a party she swore would be crawling with celebrities. You didn’t believe her, but you went anyway, dressed in something sparkly and slightly too short, because why not? Vegas was built for nights like this. The party was on a rooftop, lights glowing against the desert sky, music thumping through your bones, and drinks flowing like water. You weren’t sure who was famous and who was just pretending to be, but everyone looked expensive and slightly untouchable.
And then you met him.
He was tall, with messy hair and a grin that made you feel like you were the most interesting person in the room. Dutch, he said. His name started with an M—Mark? Max? You couldn’t quite remember. He was charming in a way that felt effortless, confident in a way that bordered on cocky, and somehow still made you laugh until your cheeks hurt. You didn’t know who he was, but you liked him. And the drinks kept coming. Tequila shots, champagne, something neon blue that tasted like candy and regret.
The night blurred into a haze of laughter, dancing, and whispered conversations that felt like secrets. You remembered him pulling you onto the dance floor. You remembered him saying something about fate and bad decisions. You remembered kissing him. And then—
Well, no drink could have prepared you for what came next.
───
You woke up with a headache so sharp it felt like someone was playing drums inside your skull. The room was too bright, too quiet, and far too unfamiliar. But what truly terrified you wasn’t the pain—it was the man sleeping beside you.
His back was turned, broad and bare, the sheets tangled around his waist. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction. He looked peaceful, annoyingly comfortable, like he belonged there. Like you belonged there.
You sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to your chest as if it could shield you from the chaos of whatever had happened the night before. Your dress—what was left of it—was draped over a chair like it had given up. One heel peeked out from under the bed. The other was missing entirely.
You glanced at him again, trying to piece together the night, and that’s when your eyes caught something that made your stomach drop.
A ring.
On his left hand.
Bold, shiny, and impossible to miss.
Your heart stuttered. Oh God. Did you sleep with a married man? You stared at the ring, panic rising in your throat. But something about it tugged at your memory—a flash, a moment, a laugh. You looked down at your own hand, slowly, carefully, like you were afraid of what you’d find.
And there it was. The same ring.
Only yours had a diamond. A very large, very catchy diamond.
You blinked. Once. Twice.
Oh fuck.
Your heart was already racing, but it kicked into overdrive when your eyes drifted to the nightstand. Amid the clutter—an empty glass, a phone, a crumpled napkin—was a piece of paper that looked far too official for a party night in Vegas. Thick, cream-colored, with bold lettering across the top. You leaned closer, squinting through the haze of your hangover, and your stomach dropped.
It wasn’t just a piece of paper.
It was a marriage certificate.
You froze, staring at it like it might disappear if you blinked hard enough. But it didn’t. It stayed right there, mocking you with its very real, very legal presence. You reached out with a shaky hand and picked it up, scanning the names printed neatly in black ink.
Max Emilian Verstappen.
You blinked. That name sounded… familiar? Maybe? You weren’t sure. It rang a bell, but not loud enough to make sense of it. You looked down, and there it was—your own name, printed right beneath his. Only now it had a new addition. His last name. Your name, with his last name.
You stared at it, mouth slightly open, brain refusing to catch up.
You married him.
You didn’t walk. You launched yourself out of the bed like it had burst into flames, nearly tripping over the twisted sheets as you scrambled to grab your phone. Your heart was racing, your brain still foggy, and you had no idea what you were doing—only that you needed to not be in that room. You bolted to the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind you, and locked it like you were hiding from a monster. For what? Safety? Privacy? Maybe just a moment to breathe. Or maybe in case Max Verstappen woke up and decided it was time for a honeymoon on a yacht. You didn’t know what married people did. You weren’t supposed to be one of them.
The bathroom light was way too bright, and you winced as it hit your face. You blinked hard, trying to adjust, and caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. Your makeup was smeared like a bad painting, your hair looked like it had fought a tornado, and your eyes were wide with panic. You looked exactly how you felt—like a disaster. A very confused, slightly drunk, newly married disaster.
Your thumbs were shaking as you opened Google, typing in the name from the certificate as fast as you could.
Max Verstappen.
And then your screen exploded with results.
Photos. Headlines. Videos. Interviews. All of it.
“Four-Time World Champion Max Verstappen Wins in Las Vegas.”
“Verstappen Dominates Under the Vegas Lights.”
“Undeniable King of Formula 1.”
You stared at the screen, jaw slowly dropping.
There he was. The man in the bed. Standing tall in a sleek racing suit, champagne bottle in hand, sweat glistening on his skin under the podium lights. His arms were raised in victory, his grin wide and confident, like he owned the world. Another photo showed him on the top step of the podium, gold trophy in one hand, waving with the other. Cameras flashed around him. Fans screamed his name.
And okay. You could admit it.
Your husband? He was hot.
Like, really hot.
Of course he had to be the kind of guy who looked even better sweaty. Of course he had to have that smirk. That face. That body. That entire vibe. And of course he had to be one of the best athletes in the world.
“Fuck!” you hissed the second your phone buzzed in your hand, nearly dropping it into the hotel sink.
Incoming call: my girl xx
You didn’t even hesitate. You smacked the green button and brought it to your ear like it was a direct lifeline to reality.
“I think I married Max Verstappen!” you whisper-screamed the second the call connected, pacing across the bathroom in bare feet, trying not to pass out or throw up or—god forbid—wake him up. You had no idea if the feeling in your chest was joy or terror. Probably both. Definitely both.
There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end.
Then: “Y/n, what the fuck? Did you take something? Are you high?”
You let out a strangled laugh, half-sob, half-manic giggle. “No! I mean—I don’t think so? But like… I woke up next to this guy, okay? Big, hot, Dutch guy. Tall. Sleepy. Smug. And he had a ring on. And then I had a ring on. And then—” you reached over to snatch the paper from the counter again, yes you took it with you “—there’s literally a marriage certificate. Signed. With both our names. His is Max Emilian Verstappen. I googled him. He’s a four-time Formula One World Champion?!”
You stopped to breathe, then whispered aggressively, “I married a rich race car driver.”
Your best friend went quiet again, then finally said, “Wait… Max Verstappen? Like, actual Max Verstappen? The hot one who wins everything and never smiles?”
“Yes!” you hissed. “Except he does smile, and I think he kissed me last night, and he definitely slept next to me—and with me, and now I don’t know if I should cry or call Vogue and pitch a cover story as his wife.”
“Y/n, I left you alone for five minutes and you got married?!” your best friend shrieked so loudly through the phone that you had to pull it away from your ear before it shattered your eardrum.
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” you whisper-yelled, pacing the bathroom like a wild animal trapped in a cage. Your bare feet slapped against the cold tile, your sheet toga flapping behind you like a cape of shame. “There were drinks! There was dancing! He had a really nice smile, okay? I don’t even like racing! I came to Vegas for overpriced cocktails and bad decisions, not a whole husband!”
You were so deep in your meltdown that you didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right outside the door.
Then—two soft knocks.
“Are you panicking in there?” a deep, amused voice called through the bathroom door.
You froze. Completely. Like a deer caught in headlights. Like someone had hit pause on your entire body.
Your eyes went wide. Your mouth opened. That voice—it was him.
Your husband.
Max Verstappen. Actual Max Verstappen. Speaking. To you.
You turned toward the door, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. “Yes—I mean no!” you called back, instantly cringing at how weird your voice sounded. You sounded like someone who had definitely married someone by accident.
There was a pause. You thought you heard him laugh. Just a little. Low and quiet. Like he found this whole thing funny.
You turned back to your phone, whispering like you were in some kind of spy movie. “Gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
“Wait, Y/n! Does he have any hot fri—”
You hung up before she could finish the sentence and dropped the phone onto the counter like it had burned your hand. You stared at the door, heart racing, brain spinning, and absolutely no idea what you were supposed to say next.
You couldn’t stay locked in the bathroom forever, no matter how much you wanted to hide from the world—or from the man waiting outside. You had to face it. Face him. Face the fact that you were somehow married to Max Verstappen.
Slowly, you reached out and unlocked the door, pushing it open just enough to peek your head out. You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe chaos, maybe cameras, maybe him halfway through packing his bags to escape this mess. But instead, you saw him standing there calmly, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and into a magazine cover. His hair was still messy, shirtless, but he looked relaxed. Too relaxed. Like this was just another normal morning.
“There you are,” he said, his voice soft but amused. “Do you want something? Coffee? Water? You look pale.”
You blinked at him, stunned. “Yeah, and you look completely fine! You shouldn’t!” you said, stepping out and slowly making your way back to the bed. You sat down carefully, still wrapped in the sheet, trying to keep your brain from short-circuiting.
He tilted his head, clearly confused. “Why?”
You stared at him, trying to find the right words. “Because you’re Max Verstappen! You’re like… F1’s big dog. The guy who wins everything. You married a random girl in Vegas!” You paused, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of it all. “Oh my god, can you imagine the drama? The headlines? The press? The fans? Your team? Your mom?”
“We can keep it secret for now, if you want,” Max said, his voice calm and casual, like he was suggesting you skip breakfast or order room service. Not like he was talking about hiding a marriage from the entire world. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking way too relaxed for someone who had just woken up married to a complete stranger. His expression was unreadable—cool, collected, almost amused.
Meanwhile, you felt like your entire body was buzzing with panic. Your heart was racing, your thoughts were spinning, and you were pretty sure your eye was twitching. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a sheet, trying to figure out how your life had turned into a headline overnight.
You stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said. Keep it secret? Like it was no big deal? You couldn’t even think straight, and he was already planning how to cover it up. Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.
“We should annul it,” you blurted out, the words tumbling out fast and loud. “Obviously.”
Max turned his head slowly to look at you, like you’d just said something completely ridiculous. His eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet.
“Why?” he asked, voice still calm. “I like you.”
Your brain stopped working.
You blinked at him, mouth falling open, unsure if you’d heard him right. “Wh—what?” you stammered, eyes wide. “You like me? We met like—what—ten hours ago?”
Max shrugged, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “And I liked those ten hours.”
You stared at him like he’d just suggested you move to Mars. “That’s not a reason to stay married!” you said, your voice high and full of disbelief. You couldn’t believe you were even having this conversation. You were wrapped in a hotel sheet, hungover, and somehow arguing about the validity of a marriage with a man you’d met less than a day ago.
Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh. He just looked at you with those stupid, perfect blue eyes—calm, steady, and annoyingly unreadable. “It’s not a bad one either,” he said, voice smooth and quiet. But there was something in his eyes. A spark. A glint of amusement, maybe interest. Maybe even a challenge. Like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.
You clutched the sheet tighter around yourself, trying to hold onto reality, but your brain had already started to drift. You couldn’t help it. You imagined it—being his wife. Not just the ring on your finger or the chaos of last night, but the life that came with it. The luxury. The attention. The private jets and race paddocks. The kind of dinners where the wine cost more than your rent. The interviews where people called you Mrs. Verstappen. Waking up in Monaco. Falling asleep in Italy. Kisses in Singapore.
It was ridiculous. It was insane. It was completely out of your comfort zone.
And yet… it didn’t sound bad.
Okay. Maybe annulment was a little dramatic.
“Okay,” you sighed, dragging a hand through your tangled hair as you sat up straighter on the bed. The sheet was still wrapped around you like some kind of makeshift armor, and you were starting to feel like you’d need it. Your head was spinning, your heart was still racing, but you knew you couldn’t keep dodging the reality of what had happened. “We should… talk about this. All of it.”
Max’s lips curled into a smirk the moment the words left your mouth. He looked far too amused for someone who had just woken up married to a stranger. “That’s how I like you,” he said, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. “Assertive. Calm. Rational.”
You gave him a look. A sharp, tired, are-you-kidding-me look. “I’m none of those things right now.”
He shrugged, completely unfazed, his eyes still sparkling with mischief. “Still. Be grateful you married me and not Lando.”
You blinked. “Who’s that?” you asked, your eyebrows pulling together in confusion.
Max paused, then actually laughed. A real laugh. Not a smirk or a chuckle, but a full, amused laugh that made his shoulders shake slightly. “Oh wow. You really don’t know anything about Formula One, huh?”
You stared at him, unsure if you should be embarrassed or proud. “Is he, like… worse than you?”
Max tilted his head, clearly enjoying the question. “Debatable,” he said, his grin growing wider. “He’s a walking red flag though.”
You didn’t know what that meant exactly, but the way Max said it made you laugh. Just a little. Just enough to forget, for one second, that your life had completely flipped upside down.
───
The hotel breakfast room was way too quiet. That strange kind of quiet that only happens when everyone’s hungover and pretending they aren’t. Even the soft clink of a spoon against a coffee cup felt like it echoed through your skull. You were surrounded by people who probably had millions in their bank accounts, all dressed in expensive clothes and sipping tiny espressos like they hadn’t made a single bad decision the night before. But you knew better. You could see it in their tired eyes and slow movements. Vegas had worked its magic on everyone.
You sat across from Max, your very real, very hot husband of roughly ten hours, trying to act like this was normal. Like you did this kind of thing all the time. Like waking up married to a stranger and then sharing breakfast with him was just another part of your weekend plans. You picked at your croissant, trying to look casual, even though your brain was still spinning.
“So,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you tore off a piece of pastry, “tell me something about you, my husband.”
The word husband still felt strange coming out of your mouth. It made your stomach flip a little. It was weird, but also kind of exciting. You barely knew anything about Max—other than the fact that he was ridiculously attractive, strangely calm about the whole situation, and apparently some kind of international sports legend.
Max leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. “Well,” he began, “I’m Dutch, but I was born in Belgium. So technically I’m Dutch-Belgian. My mum’s from Belgium.”
You nodded slowly, pretending to take that in like it was important information. But honestly, your brain was stuck on the way he said my mum. It sounded so soft, so sweet, and it didn’t match the image of a guy with arms like his and a face that belonged on a billboard.
“I started karting when I was four,” he continued, “then got into Formula One when I was seventeen. And now I’m here—with four world championships.”
You blinked. “Casual,” you muttered, trying to sound unimpressed, even though your jaw wanted to drop.
Max gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal. He wasn’t bragging. He was just telling the truth. And somehow, that made it even more impressive. You could tell he wasn’t trying to show off. He was just… being himself.
And honestly? He was kind of a racing nerd. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up when he talked about karting, in the quiet pride in his voice when he mentioned his career. You weren’t into sports. Like, at all. But there was something really endearing about how much he cared. It wasn’t just a job to him. It was his whole world.
And because you couldn’t help yourself—because even though you didn’t follow racing, you did know the one headline that had practically broken the internet—you tilted your head and asked the question that had been sitting quietly in the back of your mind.
“Aren’t you the one who robbed Lewis Hamilton of his eighth title?”
Max didn’t answer right away. He paused, his eyes narrowing just slightly, like he was deciding how honest he wanted to be. There was a flicker of something in his expression—not anger, not guilt, just… something unreadable. But then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile. Calm. Cool. A little smug.
“That’s what some people say, yeah.”
You blinked, surprised. That was not the reaction you expected. No awkward laugh. No defensive speech. No attempt to explain or justify. Just a simple, quiet answer that carried more weight than a whole press conference. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t back down. He just sat there, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just casually admitted to being part of one of the most controversial moments in sports history.
It was the kind of energy that made your stomach twist. The kind that said he knew exactly who he was and didn’t feel the need to explain it to anyone—not the media, not the fans, and definitely not the girl he’d accidentally married in Vegas.
You chewed slowly, studying him. You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both.
But deep down—and you’d never admit it out loud—you were starting to think you might’ve married someone weirdly interesting. And dangerously charming.
“But that’s a long, boring story,” Max said with a casual wave of his hand, brushing off four world championships and one of the biggest rivalries in sports like it was nothing. Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, and gave you a look—the kind that made your heart skip a beat. There was a mischievous glint in his eye, playful and curious. “I want to know something about you, Mrs. Verstappen.”
The way he said it—so smooth, so relaxed, like it wasn’t the most insane thing either of you had ever done—made your stomach flip. Mrs. Verstappen. You’d been trying not to think about how official that sounded. How serious. How… weirdly not awful. It was ridiculous, but hearing it out loud made something flutter in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was panic or something else entirely.
You cleared your throat, trying to snap out of it. “Uh—well,” you began, suddenly feeling very aware of how painfully normal you were compared to him. He had trophies and fans and a career that spanned continents. You had… a messy Instagram feed and a half-used planner.
“Mostly I live off my dad’s money,” you said, giving a small, awkward laugh. “Because, you know, he prefers to pay me to leave him alone.” You took a sip of juice, hoping it would make you sound less ridiculous. “But I studied art. And now I sort of work in marketing? Like, social media stuff. Influencer-adjacent.”
You winced a little as the words came out. God, you sounded lame. Like you were trying to explain your life to someone who’d never had to worry about rent or job interviews or whether their post got enough likes. You were sitting across from a man who drove cars at 300 kilometers an hour for a living, and you were talking about hashtags.
Max didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just nodded, like everything you’d said made perfect sense. Like you made sense. It was strange, really—how someone so far removed from your world could listen like he’d known you for longer than ten hours. His expression was calm, open, and maybe even a little curious.
“And I, uh, moved to Monaco a few months ago,” you added, almost as an afterthought. You weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe because you wanted to sound a little more interesting. Maybe because you wanted to find some common ground with the man sitting across from you.
But that got a reaction.
Max’s eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. “No way,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You live in Monaco?”
You nodded, feeling a little sheepish. “Yeah. Mostly for the tax thing, but let’s pretend it was for the vibe.”
Max grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made your stomach flip again. “Me too.”
Your jaw dropped a little. “You’re kidding.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “I’ve lived there since I was eighteen.”
You stared at him, trying to wrap your head around that. Eighteen. Already living in Monaco. Already racing in Formula One. Already building a life that sounded like something out of a movie. Meanwhile, you were still figuring out how to pay your phone bill on time at that age.
“I mean, most of the drivers do,” Max said, leaning back in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. “You live in Monaco and don’t know anything about Formula One? Even though there’s a Grand Prix happening there every year? It’s like… the biggest event in the city.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to look offended, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Hey! I do know who Charles Leclerc is,” you said, lifting your chin slightly. “He’s Monaco’s bias—the hometown hero everyone pretends they’re not obsessed with.”
Max blinked, then burst out laughing. Not just a chuckle, but a full, warm laugh that made his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle at the corners. It was the kind of laugh that made your chest feel lighter, like you’d said something genuinely funny and not just accidentally charming.
“I married the right girl,” he said, still grinning, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his luck.
You felt your cheeks warm, and you looked down at your plate, trying to hide the smile that was now impossible to fight off. It was ridiculous. You were still hungover. You were still confused. You were still technically married to a man you barely knew.
You loved every second of it.
───
You’d been in Monaco for a few days now, and somehow, without really planning it, you’d spent most of that time at Max’s place. His apartment was sleek and modern, with huge windows and a view that looked like it belonged in a travel magazine. Sometimes he came over to your place too, and it was starting to feel… normal. Comfortable. Like you’d known each other for way longer than just a few chaotic days. You went on cute dates—late-night walks by the harbor, quiet dinners tucked away from the cameras, even a grocery run that turned into a mini adventure. You’d both agreed to act like you were just dating, like the marriage part was a funny secret between you. And honestly? It worked. It felt easy. It felt right.
So when Max insisted that you had to bake a cake for your one-week anniversary, you didn’t argue. You went out and bought all the ingredients, found a beginner-friendly recipe online, and tried to convince yourself this wasn’t going to end in disaster.
Standing in his kitchen, surrounded by flour, eggs, and a very confused Max Verstappen, you gave him a look. “I’m warning you,” you said, tying your hair up and glancing at the recipe again. “The last time I baked anything, I was eighteen. It was a birthday cake for my best friend, and it was… not great.”
Max raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Well,” he said, gesturing to himself, “do I look like I’ve baked anything in my life?”
“No,” you said as you rolled up your sleeves, determined to make this cake happen—even if it ended up more like a sweet disaster than a masterpiece. Max stood beside you, watching the recipe on your phone like it was written in a foreign language. You handed him the whisk and pointed to the bowl.
“Okay, start mixing the eggs and sugar,” you said, trying to sound confident.
Max squinted at the bowl, then at the whisk, then back at you. “You’re trusting me with this?”
“You drive cars at 300 kilometers an hour,” you said, grabbing the flour. “I think you can handle a whisk.”
He gave you a dramatic nod, like he was accepting a mission, and started whisking with way too much enthusiasm. Sugar flew out of the bowl. You gasped and jumped back, laughing as tiny crystals landed in your hair.
“Max!” you shrieked, swatting at him with a dish towel.
He grinned, completely unbothered. “Precision is overrated.”
You tried to stay focused, measuring flour and butter, but Max kept sneaking little pokes at your side, bumping your hip, stealing spoonfuls of batter when he thought you weren’t looking. At one point, he dipped his finger into the mix and held it out to you.
“Try it,” he said, eyes sparkling.
You leaned in, tasted it off his finger, and paused. “Not bad.”
He smirked. “Told you. Natural talent.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart was fluttering. The kitchen smelled like vanilla and sugar, and the air was warm with laughter and something softer—something sweeter.
The cake was safely tucked away in the oven, and for the first time in the past hour, the kitchen was quiet. Warm. Sweet-smelling. You leaned against the counter, catching your breath, your cheeks flushed from laughing too hard and moving too fast. Max stood nearby, watching you with that familiar smirk that made your stomach flip every time.
“You have flour on your nose,” he said, pointing at you and laughing softly.
You reached up to wipe it off, but then paused, a mischievous idea forming. You looked at him, narrowing your eyes playfully, and moved your hand toward his face.
“Oh, don’t you dare,” he warned, stepping forward just as you lunged.
Before you could get him, Max caught both of your wrists in his hands. His grip wasn’t tight—just firm enough to stop you, but gentle enough to make your heart flutter. You tried to wriggle free, laughing, but he was too strong, too steady. And honestly? You didn’t really want to escape.
He pulled you closer, slowly, until your body was pressed against his. Your chin rested just under his collarbone, and you tilted your head up to look at him. His eyes were soft now, not teasing, just… warm. You smiled without meaning to, and he smiled back, like he couldn’t help it either.
And in that moment, something shifted.
You felt it in your chest—a quiet, fluttering feeling that wasn’t panic or confusion anymore. It was something sweeter. Something softer. Were you falling for your own husband? The thought hit you like a whisper, unexpected but not unwelcome.
Max leaned down and pressed a light kiss to your lips. It was gentle, slow, like he was testing the waters. Like he wanted to make sure you were still with him in this strange, beautiful mess.
You smiled against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. “Was this part of the recipe?”
He grinned, eyes sparkling. “Obviously,” he said, and kissed you again—this time longer, deeper, like he didn’t care if the cake burned.
When the oven finally beeped, you jumped a little, startled out of the warm haze you’d been floating in. You grabbed an oven mitt and carefully pulled the cake out, setting it down on the counter. You blinked at it, surprised. It actually looked… good. Like, really good. Golden, fluffy, not burned. You tilted your head, inspecting it like it might suddenly collapse, but it held its shape perfectly.
“See?” Max said proudly, stepping beside you. “It looks fantastic.”
You laughed, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Yeah, but does it taste fantastic?” you teased, eyeing the cake like it might be lying to you.
Max didn’t answer. Instead, he turned toward the fridge and pulled out a bowl of whipped cream—dark blue, of course. “I want to decorate it,” he said, already grabbing a spoon and getting to work.
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Okay, Picasso,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter to watch.
Max was focused, tongue slightly poking out in concentration as he carefully spread the whipped cream across the top of the cake. He wasn’t fast, but he was determined. You stepped closer, peeking over his shoulder, and smiled at the mess he was making. The letters weren’t perfect, the spacing was off, and the whipped cream was a little too runny—but it was adorable.
And then you saw it.
Written in slightly crooked, slightly smudged letters across the top of the cake:
Max + Y/n, always and forever
Your heart did a little flip.
You stared at the words, warmth blooming in your chest. It was silly. It was messy. It was whipped cream on a cake made by two people who barely knew what they were doing. But it was also sweet. Thoughtful. Real.
You looked up at Max, who was still focused on smoothing out the edges, and felt something soft settle in your chest. This wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t just a wild Vegas story. It was starting to feel like something more.
“Aww,” you whispered, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.
Max glanced at you, eyes twinkling. “Too cheesy?”
You shook your head. “Just cheesy enough.”
───
One thing about your husband, Max Verstappen—he adored Charles Leclerc. Like, actual bromance level. The kind of friendship that involved inside jokes, constant teasing, and way too many shared podium selfies. So when the idea of a double date came up, it wasn’t dinner or drinks or something chill. No. It was karting. Because of course it was. The most on-brand plan imaginable for two Formula One drivers who couldn’t go five minutes without turning something into a race.
The guys were hyped. Already texting about lap times and trash talk before you’d even left the apartment. And you? You were nervous. Really nervous.
Alex was everything. Fashion icon. Gorgeous. Confident. The kind of girl who looked like she belonged on magazine covers and red carpets. She was Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend—the it-girl of the paddock. And you were… well, you. Clumsy. Still adjusting. The newly accidental wife of Max Verstappen who had only just learned what a pit stop was.
You clutched Max’s hand tighter as you both walked toward the karting center, your stomach bubbling with nerves and regret over the fizzy energy drink you’d chugged earlier. Your heart was racing, and not in the fun, adrenaline kind of way. More like the what if I embarrass myself in front of Monaco’s golden couple kind of way.
“Max,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, “what if they don’t like me? I mean, I’m not exactly—”
“Schatje,” he cut in gently, turning his head to look down at you. That soft half-smile was already forming on his lips—the one that always made your brain short-circuit a little. “They’re both excited to meet you. Charles has heard so much about you already.”
You blinked up at him, heart still fluttering, but something about the way he said it made you feel a little steadier. Like maybe you weren’t walking into a disaster. Like maybe you did belong here, even if you weren’t sure how yet.
You stepped inside the karting center, your nerves buzzing just beneath your skin like tiny sparks. The smell of rubber and engine oil filled the air, and the sound of distant engines revving made your heart beat a little faster. You spotted Charles and Alex waiting near the entrance, both dressed casually but somehow still looking like they belonged on a magazine cover. Max’s face lit up the second he saw them. He walked straight over and pulled Charles into one of those quick, half-hug, half-pat-on-the-back greetings that guys do when they’re trying to act cool but are clearly happy to see each other.
Before you could even process the moment, Alex stepped toward you with a bright smile and zero hesitation. “You must be Y/n,” she said, her voice warm and confident. “You look stunning, girl.”
You blinked, caught off guard by how friendly she was. Before you could even say thank you, she pulled you into a hug—not the awkward kind, but the kind that felt real. The kind that said, you’re safe with me. It was soft and strong all at once, and something in your chest loosened. Just like that, you knew: this girl was going to be your girl.
“And you’re even prettier in person,” she added with a grin, looping her arm through yours like you’d been friends forever.
You laughed, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to melt. “You’re literally so cool, this is unfair.”
Max, overhearing your comment, smirked and leaned toward Charles with a playful glint in his eye. “Maybe we should do a few laps without them,” he said, voice teasing. “You know, as revenge for that time you pushed me off track.”
Charles rolled his eyes, already used to Max’s drama. “You brake-tested me,” he replied, deadpan.
Max waved him off, already distracted by the sight of you and Alex laughing together like old friends. You could feel his eyes on you, and when you glanced over, he was smiling—that soft, proud kind of smile that made your stomach flutter.
Alex leaned in and whispered, “I think we’ll definitely find something to talk about.”
You nodded, heart lighter than it had been all day. You weren’t just the accidental wife anymore. You were part of something. Something fun. Something real.
Max walked over, his voice quieter now, just for you. “Cheer for me, schat,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. The warmth of it lingered as he grabbed a helmet and headed toward the karts with Charles, already tossing playful insults back and forth.
You and Alex sat down on the bench near the track, the loud buzz of go-karts filling the air as Max and Charles disappeared around the first corner. At first, the sound was a bit much engines roaring, tires screeching—but after a few minutes, it started to feel kind of normal. Like background noise to a day that was already turning out better than you expected. You leaned back, letting the sun warm your face, while Alex pushed her sunglasses up and turned to you with a friendly smile.
“So,” she said, her voice light, “how’s it going? Being a WAG and all?”
You laughed softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It’s new. I didn’t grow up watching racing or anything, so I’m still learning. But… I’m happy.”
And you meant it. Even though everything had happened so fast— the wild Vegas night, the surprise marriage, the dates, the quiet mornings—it felt good. Like you’d landed somewhere that made sense, even if it was unexpected.
Just then, a blur of navy and red flew past the pit lane. Max’s kart. He lifted one hand off the wheel and waved as he sped by. Even with the helmet on, you could tell he was smiling. And without thinking, you smiled too—like it was automatic now.
Alex saw it and grinned. “You’ve got it bad,” she teased. “But don’t worry—Max is even worse.”
You blinked. “Really?”
She nodded. “He called Charles the morning after Vegas. Didn’t even say hi. Just started talking about you. Said you were funny, smart, and somehow kept up with him better than anyone else.”
Your mouth opened a little. You hadn’t known that. Max had never told you. You’d been wondering if this was just fun for him, something casual. But hearing that he’d been excited enough to call his best friend the next morning?
Your heart did a little flip.
Alex leaned closer, her voice softer now. “He’s serious about you. I’ve never seen him like this.”
Max and Charles walked over with matching grins, the kind that spelled trouble in the most entertaining way. Their hair was messy from the helmets, their cheeks slightly flushed from the race, and they looked way too proud of themselves for two grown men who’d just spent twenty minutes trying to out-drive each other.
“They’ve got two-seater karts,” Charles said, clearly amused. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and you could already tell he was up to something. “Wanna race?”
Max stepped forward, smirking straight at you like he was already imagining the chaos. “And you two are driving,” he added, handing you a helmet like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Your eyebrows shot up. “Me driving? With you in the kart?”
“Exactly,” Max said, his voice calm but teasing. “Don’t worry, I trust you.”
You stared at the helmet in your hands, heart thudding a little faster. You weren’t a racer. You weren’t even sure you knew how to start the kart. But Max was looking at you like you could do anything. Like he believed in you without question. And somehow, that made you want to try.
Charles turned to Max with a smug smile. “We’ll see which couple’s faster. Verstappen’s or Leclerc’s.”
There was something in his tone—playful, yes, but also curious. Like he was watching closely. Like he could feel there was more going on than you were letting on. You were still supposed to be just Max’s girlfriend, after all. But something about the way Charles looked at you, then back at Max, made your stomach twist. He was catching on. Maybe not the whole story, but something.
You and Alex exchanged a quick glance, wide-eyed and a little too in sync. You could tell she felt it too—the shift, the tension, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.
Alex leaned in, her voice low and full of humor. “If we crash,” she whispered, “at least we look cute doing it.”
“M’lady,” Max said with a dramatic little bow, holding the helmet like it was a crown. You laughed, nerves still buzzing in your chest, as he gently placed it on your head. His hands were careful, adjusting the straps with surprising focus, making sure everything was secure. His fingers brushed your skin, and even through the nerves, you felt a little spark—soft, warm, grounding.
You took a deep breath, the weight of the helmet settling over you like a reminder that this was real. You were about to drive a kart. With Max Verstappen sitting beside you. No pressure, right?
“I’m sorry in advance if we crash,” you said quietly, trying to joke your way through the nerves.
Max looked at you, that familiar grin spreading across his face— confident, playful, and just a little smug. “We won’t,” he said simply, sliding into the seat next to you like he’d done it a thousand times. “You’ve got this. You’re a Verstappen now.”
Your heart did a little flip at that. The way he said it—not as a joke, not as a tease, but like it meant something. Like it was something.
You glanced over at Alex one last time, catching her smile through her helmet. She gave you a thumbs-up, her eyes full of encouragement. You smiled back, grateful for her calm energy, her warmth, her quiet way of saying you’re not alone.
The countdown lights began to flash in front of you—red, red, red— and your grip tightened on the wheel. Your heart was racing now, faster than the engines around you. You weren’t sure if it was fear or excitement, but it didn’t matter.
The lights turned green, and you hit the gas a little harder than planned. The kart jolted forward, and Max let out a quick laugh beside you—not mocking, just amused. “Okay, okay, not bad,” he said, gripping the side of the seat. “Keep it steady, baby. Eyes on the track.”
You nodded, trying to focus, but everything was moving so fast. The wind rushed past your face, the engine roared beneath you, and the track curved ahead like it was daring you to mess up. Max leaned slightly toward you, voice calm but firm.
“Brake a little before the turn. Not during. You’ve got this.”
You followed his instructions, easing into the curve, and to your surprise—it worked. The kart glided through the corner without spinning out or crashing into the barrier. You grinned under the helmet, adrenaline buzzing through your veins.
“See?” Max said, clearly proud. “Natural talent.”
You barely had time to process anything—the speed, the noise, the curve ahead—before Max reached over and casually placed his hand on your thigh. It wasn’t rough or rushed. Just steady. Warm. Like it belonged there. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Your brain short-circuited.
Your heart jumped straight into your throat, and your grip on the wheel faltered for just a second. The next turn came up fast, and you almost missed it entirely.
“Max!” you shouted, half-laughing, half-panicking, as you swerved a little too wide. Your voice was breathless, your cheeks burning, and you couldn’t stop smiling even though you were trying to act annoyed.
He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t even flinch. Just leaned in slightly, his voice low and full of amusement. “What? I’m just helping you relax.”
You glanced at him, eyes wide behind the helmet visor. “You’re distracting me!”
Max grinned, completely unfazed. “Not a chance. You’re doing great.”
You shook your head, trying to focus again, but your heart was racing faster than the kart. His hand was still there, grounding you and distracting you all at once. And somehow, even with the chaos of the track and the roar of the engine, you felt safe. Like you could crash and it wouldn’t matter—because he’d be right there, laughing beside you.
The checkered flag waved, fluttering in the wind like a final exclamation point, and your kart zipped across the finish line just a breath ahead of Charles and his. The moment you passed it, your heart nearly exploded with adrenaline. You’d done it. You’d actually won—with Max beside you, coaching you, cheering you on, and somehow making you feel like you belonged in his world.
Max let out a triumphant laugh, the sound full of pride and joy. He turned to you, eyes shining. “See? Told you we wouldn’t crash,” he said, grinning as you both reached up and pulled off your helmets at the same time.
You were breathless, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, but you couldn’t stop smiling. The rush of the race, the thrill of the win, and the warmth of Max’s presence all wrapped around you like a hug. You barely had time to catch your breath before Max leaned over, grabbed your waist, and lifted you out of the kart like it was nothing.
Your feet left the ground, and you gasped, laughing as he held you close. His arms were strong and steady, and you felt completely safe in them—like the world could spin out of control and you’d still be okay as long as he was holding you.
Before you could even react, Max leaned in and kissed you. It was warm, gentle, and full of everything you’d been feeling but hadn’t said out loud. Your knees went weak, your heart fluttered, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.
As Max pulled back from the kiss, still holding you close, you both heard the unmistakable sound of clapping—slow, exaggerated, and clearly sarcastic.
Charles stood a few feet away, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, well, well,” he drawled. “Didn’t realize the winner got a kiss as a trophy. Is that FIA-approved?”
You laughed, cheeks burning, but Max just grinned and tightened his hold on you. “Oh fuck FIA.” he shot back.
───
People always say that if your marriage can survive building IKEA furniture, it can survive anything. And honestly? They weren’t wrong. Because if there was one thing Max Verstappen could do—besides win races and make your heart race—it was turn even the most ordinary task into something dramatic, chaotic, and somehow… special.
It had all started so innocently. One quiet evening, Max looked around the apartment, spotted the overflowing corner of helmets, trophies, race gloves, and random F1 gear, and casually announced, “I need another shelf.” Like it wasn’t already the fifth one. Like his personal shrine to motorsport wasn’t slowly taking over the living room.
You’d barely finished your tea before you were in the car, heading to nearest IKEA. The store was a maze of bright lights and confusing arrows, and the two of you spent way too long arguing over shelf designs and trying to pronounce the Swedish names printed on the boxes. Max insisted that sturdiness could be judged by how aggressive the name sounded. You ended up choosing one that sounded like someone sneezing mid-sentence and tossed it into the trunk, blissfully unaware of the emotional damage waiting at home.
Now, you were on the floor, leaning against the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips beside you and How to Train Your Dragon playing softly in the background. The room smelled faintly of wood and frustration. Max sat cross-legged across from you, surrounded by a chaotic sea of screws, wooden pegs, and panels that all looked suspiciously similar. He studied the pieces like he was preparing for a race — focused, intense, and slightly overconfident.
You held the instruction manual in your lap, flipping through the pages with growing dread. The diagrams looked like they’d been drawn by someone who hated happiness. You glanced at Max, who was already trying to fit two pieces together that clearly didn’t belong.
You squinted at the instruction manual, turning it sideways, then upside down, then back again. The tiny drawings made no sense, the arrows pointed in every direction, and the parts in front of you looked nothing like the ones in the pictures.
“I can’t understand a single thing,” you groaned, tossing the booklet onto your lap. “This is actual nonsense.”
Max glanced over, already halfway through trying to jam two wooden panels together. He reached for the manual, flipping it over with a smirk. “Maybe because you’re looking at the French side,” he said, holding it up and pointing at the tiny flag in the corner.
You blinked. “Oh.”
He handed it back to you, this time opened to the English section, like it was some sacred scroll. “Voilà,” he said dramatically. “Now we build.”
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re so annoying.”
You were twenty minutes into building the SNÖRKLIG—or whatever—shelf—and already three emotional breakdowns deep. Your patience was dangling by a thread, or more accurately, by one tiny wooden peg that refused to fit anywhere it was supposed to. The living room looked like a battlefield. Panels were scattered across the floor, screws rolled under the couch, and the instruction booklet had become your personal lifeline.
“I told you that piece goes on the bottom, Max,” you said, clutching the manual like it was sacred scripture. Your voice was calm, but your eyes were wild. You’d stared at the same diagram for so long, you were starting to see it in your dreams.
Max, sitting cross-legged across from you, held a long wooden panel sideways like it was a sword. “No, it doesn’t,” he insisted, pointing at the drawing. “It clearly goes on top. Look at this!”
You leaned over, squinting at the page. Then blinked. Then sighed. “Max… the drawing is upside down.”
He paused, looked at the manual again, then slowly rotated it in his hands. His face shifted from confident to sheepish in about two seconds.
“Oh.”
You stared at him, deadpan. “You’ve been building this thing backwards.”
Max shrugged, still gripping the panel like it hadn’t just betrayed his entire sense of confidence. “Well, it’s a shelf,” he said, voice casual. “It’ll still hold stuff.”
You stared at him, completely deadpan. “No, Max. It will fall. With all your trophies. Do you really want to explain to Christian why your 2023 championship is lying in shattered pieces on the floor because you refused to read IKEA instructions?”
That made him pause.
His eyes flicked to the mess around you—screws scattered like confetti, dowels rolling under the rug, and a pile of wooden panels that looked more like a failed art project than a shelf. He blinked slowly, like reality was finally catching up to him.
“…Maybe we should build it again,” he said, voice quieter now. Almost humble.
You didn’t respond. You just stared at him, blinking once. Slowly.
Max dragged a hand down his face, groaning like he’d just lost a race by half a second. “Oh, fuck this,” he muttered. “Can’t we just steal Charles’s?”
You blinked. “Wait… you actually want to steal a shelf?”
Max held up a screw like it was proof of his suffering. “Yes. I’d rather get arrested in Monaco than build another one of these Swedish nightmares.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your water. “You’re ridiculous.”
He gave you a serious look. “Schat, I drive F1 cars. I build engines in my sleep. But this shelf?” He pointed at the wobbly mess in front of you. “I’m ready to throw it out the window.”
You slid off the couch and sat beside him, bumping his shoulder. “Okay, okay. We’ll do it together. I’ll read the instructions. You build. And no making it up as you go.”
He sighed, but a small smile crept onto his face. “Fine. But if it breaks again, I’m calling Charles and asking for his shelf. I’ll say it’s an emergency.”
You snorted. “Deal.”
Max grabbed the screwdriver like he was on a mission, mumbling in Dutch as he started taking the whole thing apart. You sat cross-legged next to him, reading each step slowly while Toothless blinked on the screen, like he was silently cheering you on.
Halfway through, Max smacked his forehead. “Wait—this piece was upside down the entire time?”
───
The whole evening had felt strange from the start.
You’d just gotten back from the Red Bull event, and something heavy had settled over you, like a weight you couldn’t shake off. Everyone at the event had seemed so sure of themselves. They walked through the room with ease, dressed perfectly, laughing like they’d known each other forever. They spoke in a language you didn’t quite understand—F1 slang, sponsor talk, inside jokes that flew right past you. They belonged there. They fit.
And then there was you.
You’d stayed close to Max, smiled when people looked your way, nodded politely during conversations you didn’t know how to join. You weren’t rude. You weren’t awkward. But you felt like a shadow—present, but not really part of the picture. You weren’t one of them. You didn’t have the same shine, the same confidence, the same rhythm. You were just… there. A little too quiet. A little too unsure. A little too you.
And that thought had stuck. It had crawled into your chest and made a home there, whispering doubts every time you tried to push it away.
You didn’t belong in Max’s world. Not really.
And now, sitting in the quiet of your shared space, that realization was louder than ever. It stirred inside you, uncomfortable and sharp, making you question everything. Not because Max had done anything wrong—but because you weren’t sure you were enough for the life he lived. The spotlight. The pressure. The people who seemed born to be part of it.
You slipped off your heels slowly, one by one, letting them fall to the floor with soft thuds. The dull ache in your feet was familiar, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness pressing down on your chest. It had been building all evening, creeping in during small moments—quiet glances, awkward silences.
Max sat beside you on the edge of the bed, close enough that your shoulders touched. He didn’t speak right away, just let the silence stretch for a few seconds. Then his voice came, low and steady, but with that quiet edge that meant he wasn’t going to let it slide.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Talk to me.”
You kept your eyes forward, staring at the wall like it might offer you a way out. You blinked slowly, trying to keep your voice from cracking. “Nothing’s going on,” you said, flat and controlled, like if you said it calmly enough, it might become true.
Max didn’t respond right away, but you could feel the shift in him. The way he turned slightly toward you. The way his gaze settled on your face, searching. You didn’t have to look to know he wasn’t buying it.
“Don’t lie, baby,” he said quietly.
“No—I just think you shouldn’t be with someone basic like me,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked at the edges, soft and shaky, but honest. “I feel like I don’t belong in your world.”
You didn’t need to look at Max to know he was staring at you like you’d just said the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. You could feel the shift in the air, the way his body tensed beside you, the way his silence turned sharp.
“Don’t ever say that again,” he said, voice low but firm, no hesitation. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. What the fuck do you mean I shouldn’t be with you?”
You shook your head, tears brimming, frustration bubbling up. “I mean—I don’t know what tyre strategy works best in fucking Barcelona—“
He snorted, cutting you off before your spiral could go any further. “Neither does Red Bull, so what’s your point, schatje?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden humor in his voice. It was dry, sarcastic, but warm. And it made something inside you loosen just a little.
You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips, but the weight in your chest hadn’t quite lifted. It was still there, lingering beneath the softness of the moment. “You know what I mean,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
Max tilted his head, eyes warm and steady. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “But I don’t need you to know every world champion since 1960. You’re not Sebastian Vettel.” His tone was light, teasing, but full of truth. Then he reached out, palm open, waiting. “I just want you to be my wife. My Y/n. The one who makes me laugh when everything feels too damn heavy.”
You looked at his hand, heart thudding, and hesitated for only a second before slipping yours into his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, like they belonged there.
A small smirk played at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting with mischief. “My wife Y/n, who had to Google me the morning after marriage.”
You let out a soft laugh, cheeks warming a the memory, “I thought you were footballer!”
“Just remember that you belong with me. Always,” Max said, his voice low and steady, each word wrapped in quiet certainty. He looked at you like you were everything—like nothing else in the world mattered more than you sitting right there beside him. “And the rest? Fuck it.”
You didn’t even get the chance to respond. Before your thoughts could catch up, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss into your hair. It wasn’t rushed or dramatic—it was grounding. The kind of kiss that said I’ve got you, even when your doubts were loud and your heart felt unsure. The kind that made the noise fade, just for a moment, and reminded you that with him, you were safe.
─── FEW MONTHS LATER
You were home alone while Max was away for the race weekend. Originally, you’d planned to go with him—packed your bag, even picked out your paddock outfit—but work had piled up fast, and someone had to stay back with the cats anyway. Max’s spoiled little shadows had made it clear they preferred you when he was gone, taking turns curling up beside you or watching your every move from the couch like tiny, judgmental bodyguards.
Evening had settled in quietly. The sky outside was a soft shade of blue-gray, and the apartment was filled with the low hum of your laptop fan and the occasional sound of a cat jumping down from furniture. You were slumped behind your screen, shoulders aching, eyes twitching from too many hours of emails and spreadsheets. You blinked hard, rubbed your temples, and muttered to yourself, Just one more email. Then I’m done.
And then—ding-dong.
You jumped, heart skipping. The sound sliced through the quiet like a siren.
You hadn’t ordered anything. You weren’t expecting anyone. Max was halfway across the world, and no one ever just showed up.
Brows furrowed, you pushed your chair back slowly, the cats immediately hopping down to follow you like a tiny security team. One brushed against your leg, the other sat at attention near the hallway, tail flicking.
You padded toward the door, cautious, curious, and just a little unnerved.
You opened the door slowly, still unsure what to expect—and were immediately met with a wall of white lilies. A bouquet so massive it looked like it might swallow the delivery man holding it. You blinked, momentarily stunned, the soft scent of the flowers already drifting into the hallway.
“I didn’t order anything?” you said, brows furrowing as you tried to peek around the blooms.
The man glanced down at the tag, then looked back up with a polite smile. “Are you Mrs. Verstappen?”
Your heart did a tiny flip at the sound of the name. Mrs. Verstappen. It still felt surreal every time someone said it out loud. You cleared your throat, suddenly warm all over. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”
He nodded and gently passed the bouquet into your arms. “Then these are yours.”
You took them carefully, the weight of the flowers surprising, petals brushing your cheek as you stepped back inside. The cats stared up at you like you’d just brought home a jungle. You sighed, closed the door behind you, and locked it with a soft click.
You carried the bouquet to the kitchen, heart fluttering, mind already racing with one thought:
Max.
You placed the stunning bouquet into a vase, the lilies blooming like soft stars across your kitchen island. Their scent filled the room, light and calming, and for the first time all evening, the apartment didn’t feel so quiet. It felt like Max had somehow reached across the distance and wrapped the space in warmth.
As you adjusted the stems, fingers brushing against soft petals, something caught your eye—a folded piece of paper tucked gently between the flowers. Your name was scribbled across the front in Max’s unmistakable handwriting, a little messy, a little rushed, but so him.
Your heart fluttered as you pulled it free and unfolded it slowly, careful not to tear the edges.
I wish you were here. Don’t work too hard, and please—eat something other than burnt toast. Even though I’m halfway across the world, I need you to remember how deeply loved you are. Always and forever. With love, Verstappen.
babsie radio ! hope u’re not disappointed y’all cuz this is literally fluff w little plot…still was fun to write <3 love love downbad! max. also yes, i love pet name “schatje” i am not sorry if it’s too many times 🤗
taglist. @lvrpiastri @athanasia-day @hott1es @scarlettxx389 @haniette xx
