RESET, a MV33 slow-burn enemies-to-friends-to-lovers fic, in progress. Will contain mature content.
They told you Formula One was a man’s world. What they didn’t tell you was how much of yourself you’d have to carve away just to stay in it.
You’ve fought your way up from the scrapheap of motorsport- no old-money family, no safety net, nothing but talent and grit. Now you’re here. On the grid. With a minimum salary, a contract that barely qualifies as legal, and a plan: keep your fucking head down, make yourself fucking essential, score some fucking points.
You didn’t come here to make friends. Definitely not with him.
But Max Verstappen is impossible to ignore. Sharp-edged, impossible, infuriating- and somehow the only one who understands that brutal, animal part of you that just wants to win. The part that doesn’t flinch from the blood.
You don’t like him. You don’t trust him. And yet… when everything else is politics and performance, he’s the only one who makes you feel real.
This was never supposed to be a love story. It was supposed to be survival. But when you're driving with Max, they’re the same thing.
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
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General Authors notes: Please feel free to send any feedback- encouraging, harsh, or otherwise. Interaction with the story, proof that people care enough to read what I've spent hours (and hours and hours) on is what keeps me going- not necessarily just positive feedback. I understand the story exposition is long- so are all the other parts, so please just bear with me. It will be worth it.
Your chest keeps fizzing like you’ve chugged champagne. You’re smiling too much- an unprofessional, too-big, too-real smile- and every time you catch yourself, you try to smooth it out. It lasts three seconds. Maybe four.
Because she’s right through those doors. Your car.
Your car.
You’re still trying to get used to seeing her in her full glory. You can practically see her in your mind’s eye- the AT04 is sitting at the mouth of the garage like a creature waiting to be woken up- glossy white and navy, halo gleaming, the sun making the paint sparkle like it’s in water.
Your name sits on the sidepod in bold white letters.
Your number on the nose.
Your branding.
Your fucking signature hand painted on the halo.
You couldn’t breathe when you got to see her in person.
Because the last time a car was built for you, you were nineteen and grateful for anything that didn’t explode under you at turn-in. You’ve spent your entire life climbing into machines shaped around someone else’s priorities- someone else’s ergonomics, someone else’s driving style, someone else’s future.
But this- This is yours. Your car. Your future. Your team. When you walk into this garage, the mechanics greet you with nods, smiles- respect- and someone hands you your helmet like they’ve been waiting specifically for you. You haven’t had that in years.
Your gloves. Your seat fit. Your drink bottles labeled with your number. Your name on your drivers’ room door. Your name printed on hundreds- no, thousands- of brand-new t-shirts already walking around the paddock like you might be a real, actual Formula One driver.
Fans- your fans- wearing your colors. Your number. Magic. It’s all fucking magic.
“And here,” a comms person is saying, handing you a stack of media schedules, “after the second stint you’ll do the ESPN segment, then Sky, then a crowd walk- are you listening?”
You are. You’re just also staring at a little girl outside the paddock security checkpoint- eight, maybe nine- who’s holding a sign with ‘66’ drawn in glitter glue. Her dad lifts her so she can see you, and when she realizes you’re looking back, she beams so hard her entire face rearranges. You smile back, small and instinctive, and give her a little wave that makes her squeal and bounce in her father’s arms. It lingers with you- just for a beat. Long enough to warm the softest, most breakable part of your chest.
Then-
“There you are,” a familiar voice calls out, warm, but touched with a bit of mischief.
You turn just in time to catch Gavin striding up, half a headset on, clipboard tucked under one arm like he’s already drowning in data. He hooks a finger lightly through the crook of your elbow and tugs you out of your media handler’s orbit before they can stop him.
“My turn,” He glances back over his shoulder when your handler starts to fuss, unimpressed. “She does actually have to get in the car if you want people to like her.”
Your handler makes an exasperated noise, but Gavin’s already sweeping you into the garage with the calm urgency of someone who knows where you need to be.
“You good?” he asks once you’re side by side, his voice pitched lower now. Less show, more check-in.
“Yeah,” you say. And you mean it. "You?"
Gavin just exhales through his nose. “First day of school. Hope I packed the right snacks.”
You grin and let him help you shrug into your fire suit the rest of the way. Helmet in hand, gloves half-on, you nod once to the crew. The session clock is winding down to the start.
And then- finally- there’s just you and the car.
You kneel beside her, close enough to see your reflection warped in the curvature of the halo. Close enough to smell the sharp tang of fuel and polishing compound from this morning’s cleaning. The bustle of the paddock fades. The cameras, the glitter signs, the voices- all of it dissolves.
None of it touches you.
Not when you're here- kneeling beside the AT04 like it’s something sacred, something yours, something pulled from your ribs and shaped into carbon and voltage and breath.
Your hands move over the chassis in slow, searching strokes, reverent as prayer. You’re not looking. You’re learning. Mapping it. Claiming it. Letting it imprint itself into your palms and your memory and whatever instinct in you has always known how to tame something wild and unruly.
You will spend nine months with this creature- because that’s what it is, not a machine, not an object, but a living thing born in carbon fiber and the tears of engineers.
Nine months.
A season. A sentence. A promise. A lifetime of dreams compressed into the length of human gestation. Something in you recognizes the symmetry. Nine months carrying this machine through heat and travel and danger and scrutiny. Nine months of feeding it your best, your worst, your secrets, your skill. Nine months of becoming something together.
You run your fingers down the chassis like you’re memorizing it by touch alone. You are. This is the closest thing to motherhood you’ve ever known.
Not in the soft, pastel, storybook sense. In the primal way. The violent way. The way nature intended- where instinct overrides logic and devotion arrives like a lightning strike. The kind where mothers lift cars and walk barefoot across deserts and fight monsters with their bare hands and are called to be such a higher version of themselves that it borders on inhuman.
You felt it instantly. The moment you saw the AT04 in person, painted in your colors, wearing your number, carrying your name- your heart just… opened. No hesitation. No caution. Just recognition.
You are mine. I am yours. We belong to each other now.
No one warns you how fast it happens. How fierce it is. How sudden the urge is to protect, to nurture, to offer up your own body for its sake. Your thumb brushes along a seam in the bodywork, and you swear the car hums beneath your touch. Like it knows. Like it’s answering you. You think of how a baby recognizes the rhythm of the mother who carried it.
You’ve only known the AT04 for a handful of days. But in the bizarre, impossible way that racing makes time feel elastic, you love it with an immediacy that borders on feral.
“Car is ready for you in two minutes,” Gavin calls over his shoulder as he looks uptrack before crossing the pit lane.
And then it’s happening, holy shit, it’s happening. Someone picks up your headrest and you climb in and suddenly all the noise in the world disappears into the cocoon of your helmet as the car comes alive around you.
Hydraulics prime. Engine snarls. Fuel pump hums. Steering wheel lights up like a city skyline. Your heartbeat syncs to it.
Your team radios through. The Haas is rolling out in front of you. Okay. Okay okay okay. Go-time. Brake, paddle, feather. Act like you’ve done this before. You’ve literally done this before.
Gavin and Richard want five laps of making sure the wheels don’t fall off, two of burn, then pace it out for feel. Pit stop practice, and then some bolts ons for data. You mind spirals off into the dozen scenarios they gave you- flow-vis, rakes, switching parts. You should feel overwhelmed. You should feel like you’re suffocating under the weight of expectation and responsibility and the million things you need to remember. You are, kind of.
But you also feel awe.
Because this- right here, right now- is everything you’ve ever wanted. The last eight months. The last five years. Your whole goddamn life. You tighten your belts. You breathe in. And then you drive your car onto a Formula One track for the first time as a real, actual, signed driver.
The car hits the track with such a clean, obedient throttle response that you laugh- actually laugh- inside your helmet. A sharp, electric little sound you haven’t made in months. You can’t help it. The first two corners feel like a dream, even if you’re just easing into them- light steering, responsive front end, rear sticking just enough to let you lean on it without praying.
Holy shit, this is mine. Turn 3 makes you giddy. Turn 4 makes you euphoric. And then turn 7.
Turn 7 sobers you up hard.
You tip the car in with the same confidence you carried through the previous corners, and the correction is immediate. Not violent. Not dramatic. Just a sudden, decisive no. The rear steps out fast and clean, a sharp sideways flick that steals the air from your lungs and sends a jolt of pure adrenaline straight up your spine.
Oh.
Your hands react before your thoughts do. A flash of countersteer, a breath held too long, a half-beat where the world narrows to grip and balance and whether this thing is about to loop you into the run-off. For one cold second, you are very aware that this car does not know you yet- and does not care that you feel entitled to it.
You catch it. Just barely. Overcorrect a fraction, feel the chassis protest, then settle again beneath you like a big animal deciding- this time- not to throw you.
Your pulse hammers. The giddiness is gone. Replaced by something quieter. Sharper.
This isn’t a car that forgives assumptions. She isn’t the car you climbed in last summer. She hasn’t been tuned, sanded down, or softened by months of development work and compromise. She’s fresh. Powerful. Slightly feral. She has more potential than restraint, more capability than discipline, and will happily hand all of that back to you sideways if you don’t listen.
It isn’t punishing you.
She’s introducing herself.
You back off- not in fear, but in respect. You stop telling it what you want and start asking what it prefers. Softer inputs. Different entry. A longer breath on throttle. You let the car talk, let it show you where it wants the weight, how it wants to be loaded, where it rewards patience instead of bravado. Your heart rate steadies into something usable. The panic drains away, leaving focus in its place. Help the team. Get the feedback. Log everything.
This isn’t about taming the car or making great lap times. You’re not here to break her in or force her into submission. You’re here to feel every quirk and imbalance, to understand the machine exactly as she is right now- not ideal, not later, not in theory. This version. The one she is today.
You settle into the lap, letting the initial high bleed out of your nerves until what’s left is function: listening, feeling, interpreting. The brakes get noticeably softer when the carcass temp is high. It porpoises a little under acceleration. The belts come through the seat in a way that tells you, immediately, that the seat still isn’t wide enough for your ass- pressure points you’ll feel by the end of the run. There’s a faint, high-pitched whine in sixth that wasn’t there on the out lap. You log it all. Use your code words. Trivial things on the radio. Important stuff mentally. Calmly. No drama. This is data. You knew she was going to be unpolished.
Your radio crackles. “Okay,” Gavin says, measured, thoughtful. “We’re seeing some of that on our side too. Let’s box and make a few small changes.” Relief, honestly. Not because anything’s wrong- but because it’s right to stop here. To adjust. To see what can be fixed before the end of the session.
“And while we’ve got you in,” he adds, almost casually, “let’s do a pit stop practice.”
Your stomach tightens. You knew it was coming. You know the brakes feel like wet cardboard. And you know- the actual #1 priority today isn’t lap time or balance or aero correlation. It’s not murdering the crew. You could be faster than the RB19 and none of it will matter if you spear your car straight through Scott- Front Right Gunner- your first time in the lane.
The car rolls down pit lane. Speed limiter on. Calm. Controlled. You line up the marks in your head, recalibrate for the feel you don’t quite trust yet.
It’s fine. Left foot, left foot, left foot- you’re on target-
No, you’re not.
You’re fast. Too fast. The brake pedal goes long, soft as marshmallows, and your brain lights up all at once. “Shit- shit- shit- ” You stand on it, heart slamming, willing the car to listen, to please listen, as the box rushes toward you far quicker than you intended.
The lollipop man actually hops back a step, hand shooting out like he could stop seventeen hundred pounds of composite and fury with his palm.
Your stomach drops through your fireproofs. This is not a rookie mistake. This is a children’s karting mistake. You shut the car off with movements that feel too big, too loud. Inside the helmet, you’re boiling in shame.
You know what you meant to do. You know what should’ve happened. You even know, on paper, it’s not entirely your fault, that the telemetry will back you up- the brakes are long, soft, unpredictable- but facts don’t matter when your team no longer looks at you the same way they did ten seconds ago.
You slide out of the cockpit too fast. You’re already apologizing before your feet hit the ground.
“I’m so sorry- I misjudged- there was more fade than I thought- ” The words fall out in pieces, jumbled and breathless, like if you can just say them fast enough, maybe it’ll undo something.
No one waves you off. No one tells you to shut up. That’s worse. Because they’re all too professional to let it show. Too professional -not comfortable enough- to say what you can already feel coiling in your gut like lead.
Don’t fucking run us over next time.
You have to fix this, immediately. Because nothing stings like a team that starts standing just a little farther back.
════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════
Yuki’s session ended forty minutes ago. You didn’t see him come in, busy signing trading cards and posters in hospitality. Actually, you haven’t seen him since you traded nods at briefing this morning, high-fived before interviews. Testing means one driver at a time- no overlap, no double runs- just a relay of feedback and function and figuring it the fuck out. He’s done his laps. Now it’s your turn. You step into the garage and stop short.
She’s waiting for you, half-prepped and half-patched, like someone caught mid-surgery. It knocks you back for a second- not fear, not even nerves, just the jarring mismatch between what you’d imagined and what’s in front of you.
She’s ugly.
Brutally, unflatteringly, aggressively ugly. The awkward teenager phase.
Flo-vis paint smears the front wing in sticky neon green, thick brush strokes turning carbon fiber into a science experiment. Aero rakes are already being bolted onto the chassis- those ridiculous metal prongs like your baby woke up with braces. It’s humiliating and holy all at once, because this is the work. This is the path.
And Jesus Christ, is it work. Everything about it is hot- the motor, the exhaust, the floor, you can feel the heat from the track practically slow-cooking your ass, lap over lap. Stop over stop.
You climb out, helmet off, sweat slicking down your back, and a gearbox specialist meets you before your boots hit the ground.
“Di you feel that mid-shift?” he asks, handing you a tablet.
“Yeah,” you nod, wiping your face with a towel. “More likely mechanical than aero- felt like a lazy release, not dirty air.”
“Nice. We saw that too.”
Then you’re back in.
Out. In. Out. In.
Laps blur into sectors, into charts, into the ache of muscle memory trying to rewrite itself in real time. Your gloves squelch when you grip the wheel now, sweat pooling in the seams, and the heat’s chewing through your fireproofs like you’re wrapped in heat tape.
But it’s working.
Not the car, she still needs some love, but you.
You stop trying to drive it like the AT03. Stop expecting the balance to come from the same places, stop demanding she behave like her older sister did. You stop imposing who you were last season. And instead- you listen.
Tiny floaty moment at the upshift? You adapt. Lazy traction on exit? You finesse. The AT04 doesn’t want domination. She wants a dance partner.
She wants a ballerina. So you become one.
By the time the sun streaks across this mid-day sky, the flo-vis has dried and cracked off in green flakes, the aero rakes are gone, and the data keeps stacking- row after row of numbers that say: she’s learning. You’re learning. Together.
You climb out for what might be the tenth time- maybe more- your brain is a stew of feedback and tire degradation, but your hands are steadier now. You know where the mode buttons are without thinking. You know the car’s mood. You know her limits. You’re beginning to understand her like a mother understands a child’s first cries. What sounds she makes when she’s hungry, where she can go faster. What cry tells you she’s tired, stretched to her limit. When she’s about to shit herself.
And you love her.
God, you already fucking love her.
At the lunch break, you hand your gloves off to an intern you don’t recognize, peel your fireproofs down to your waist, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the dark reflection of a screen. Flushed. Drenched. Grinning.
There’s still a hundred things to test. Dozens of problems to solve. But you don’t feel like an imposter wearing someone else’s suit. You feel useful. You feel like yourself. You feel like a driver.
And right now, a very hungry one.
You follow the scent of food like a bloodhound, dragging your aching body to the back of the garages. This is pit lunch- not the hospitality bullshit across the paddock with linen napkins and a chef who wants to explain your made-to-order plate. No sponsors. No execs. No menus. Just calories and efficiency.
A long table is set up against the wall, mercifully in the shade. It’s actually… nice. Rice balls wrapped in seaweed. Grilled chicken. Pasta salads. Fruit in plastic containers sweating under the Bahraini sun. Electrolyte mixes in neon colors. Protein bars stacked like ammo.
Technically, you’re supposed to eat in hospitality- clean, changed, presentable. But you’re filthy, your hair is plastered to your neck, your fireproofs are half-zipped, and you don’t want to talk to anyone who might ask how it feels to be here.
This? This is perfect.
Compared to the sad, limp, folding-table garbage you survived on at Dale Coyne- Sysco garbage masquerading as lunch- this feels indulgent. And more importantly, it’s fast. Dense. Built to keep bodies moving. You’re also burning calories at a pace that would scare your any nutritionist. You need to eat- a lot- if you’re going to hold onto the muscle weight you fought all offseason to put on.
Yuki, predictably, has beat you here, and the moment you step into the area, you spot him mid-chew, hair sticking out in every direction like he’s just rolled out of a wind tunnel. “HEY!” he shouts, as if you’ve been separated for days, not mere stints. His mouth is still half-full of rice ball when he jogs over, beaming and waving like you didn’t just swap seats in the same car half an hour ago.
You laugh- genuinely, despite the sunburn, the sore knuckles, the exhaustion. You’ve both been running your own races all day long, orbiting each other like caffeinated moons. This is the first time you’ve stopped at the same time since the car kicked to life this morning. You snort. “Hi, Yuki.”
He stops in front of you, looks you up and down- fireproofs, smeared sunblock, hands still tacky with flo-vis residue- and grins. “You look disgusting,” he says cheerfully.
“You look like you lost a fight with a California roll.”
He looks down at his shirt, then at the rice ball, shrugs. “Eh.” He pops the rest of it into his mouth.
You don’t know why, but the sight of him- the familiarity, the casual chaos, the absolute lack of self–seriousness- pops something warm and buoyant in your chest. You’ve been floating all day, giddy and frantic and breathless with reverence for your car, but Yuki is grounding in the way a little brother is grounding. Well, how you would imagine one would feel, anyways.
Annoying. But comforting.
“Did you fix the turn-in?” he asks, already poking the side of your jaw like it’s a doorbell. “You had the car twitchy. Looked like shit.”
“We were testing the limits, dork. It’s fine now,” you deadpan, slapping his hand away. “Keep poking my head and I’m going to actually bite you.”
He gasps, dramatic. “You cannot bite me. I am your SENIOR driver. More wise. More old. More tall.”
“You’re not older, definitely not smarter, and you are literally a fingertip taller than me.”
Yuki stiffens. His expression drops into solemnity, like you’ve invoked a serious thought. “That fingertip,” he says gravely, “means a lot. Wait, when is your birthday?”
You burst out laughing- loud, unrestrained, the sound of actual joy instead of adrenaline. A couple mechanics glance over, smirking. Someone mutters something about “the short division” as they walk by.
Yuki elbows you lightly. “You ready for this season?” he asks, softer.
You bump him back, shoulder to shoulder. “Yeah,” you breathe. “You?”
He nods, eyes sparkling. “We gonna cause problems.”
“Big ones.”
“And beat some people.”
“Ideally, yes.”
“And eat good food.” He takes another bite of his rice ball and grins right through it, rice in his teeth.
You grin back. “The most important priority.”
“Priority number one,” Yuki confirms with authority.
Then- piercing through the soft hum of pit lane life- a sharp, two-note whistle slices the air. Your whole body flinches. You know that whistle. That’s your handler. And that’s the you’re going to be late for your fan engagement whistle.
You glance over your shoulder to see him already stalking toward you from the other end of the garage, brow furrowed, iPad under one arm, the other hand flapping like he’s guiding a toddler out of a sandbox. His eyes flick from your dirt-smeared race suit to your sweaty hairline and visibly grease-streaked jaw. His jaw ticks.
You can practically hear the internal monologue: She’s filthy. She’s wet and sweaty and disgusting. She’s supposed to be in the middle of a crowd in thirty minutes.
You cringe. Lowkey, you’d been hiding. Just for a second. You hadn’t meant to avoid the next thing on your schedule- you just... forgot it existed. Forgot this wasn’t the job. That this wasn’t all it was. You start to rise, peeling yourself away from the table. Your knees crack. Your calves twinge. You feel like you’re molting out of a second skin made of heatstroke and axle grease.
But before you can go, Yuki catches your sleeve- soft, a quick tug- like he’s pulling a loose thread.“I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly.
And something in you loosens, just a half-inch, just enough to feel like you’re not about to float away again. “Me too,” you say.
He nods. “Okay. Go work. Try not to hit anyone with the car.”
“It was ONE pit stop, Yuki- ”
He’s already speed-walking away. You yell after him, “YOU OVERSHOT YOUR MARK IN BRAZIL!”
“I WAS ON SLICKS IN THE RAIN!” he calls back, breaking into a jog.
You laugh again as your handler starts pulling you in the other direction- bright, breathless, stupidly happy- heart lighter than it’s felt in months. Yes. This is your teammate. Your friend. Your gremlin. The garage feels different when he’s in it with you- lighter, louder, younger. Like the whole season is about to burst into something wild and alive.
And honestly? You can’t wait.
But your handler is already checking his watch. “Quick fix-up,” he says, ushering you into the side corridor that leads to the team’s private hospitality suite. “Hair. Face. Shirt change. Ten minutes until you’re up.”
You peel off your fireproofs with a grunt, hands slick with sweat and grease, and scrub your face with one of the chilled towels they keep in the mini fridge. He hands you a fresh polo, a comb, and a tinted moisturizer stick- his version of a pit stop.
“You good?” he asks lightly, as you pull your hair into a sleek ponytail. His tone is casual, but his eyes track your movements carefully. “First proper crowd out there. We put Danny out at the same time. You’ve worked together, yes?”
You grin, confident. “Yeah, yeah. Me and Danny, that’s great. I’m good.”
“You sure?” he checks again, smoothing your collar. “They’re pretty fired up.”
“Yeah.” You flash a smile, more out of habit than hubris. “I’ve done press. I’ve done fans. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
He hums, not quite agreeing, not quite arguing. You can see the flicker of something more serious in his eyes- he’s seen the crowd. He’s seen the size. The signs. He’s walked the barricade already this morning and knows exactly what’s waiting on the other side of that gate.
But he doesn’t say any of that. You’re good with people. That’s part of your whole thing. Maybe you’ve got it handled. So he just nods, passes you a bottle of water, and walks you out of the paddock. General area.
It is, in fact, your first rodeo.
You’ve never been in the middle of anything like this. It hits you in waves- even hotter than the heat off the tarmac, shimmering, warping the air around you. The noise. The bodies. The flash of cameras. Your own name shouted with the kind of enthusiasm you never dared imagine for yourself.
You smile. Automatically. Perfectly. Your press-training kicks in with frightening precision: shoulders soft, chin angled slightly down, eyes bright but not manic. You’ve controlled this image for years. Every interview. Every social post. Every pit wall appearance. Every carefully calculated expression of confidence.
So why- why- why is your first instinct disbelief? Why does your second instinct sound like guilt? Why is your third instinct panic?
It makes no sense. You constructed this version of yourself. You crafted her like a weapon- polished her until she gleamed. You held yourself at gunpoint to be the girl who deserved this.
And yet here you are- Hyperventilating behind a flawless smile because a crowd of people are excited to see you. A crowd whose energy just keeps getting bigger. Your handler nudges you to the left- another cluster of fans, another wall of sound. More fans, more hands, more eyes. And now you’re overwhelmed like some kid who wandered onto the wrong stage by accident. Your outside stays perfect.
But inside? Inside something is buckling. Not breaking- no, you won’t allow that- but bending under a weight you didn’t realize could be this heavy. Because you wanted this. You dreamed of this. You chased this across continents and contracts and sleepless nights and humiliations and failures.
So why- why now, when it’s finally happening- does a hot wave of guilt rise up your throat like shame? Why does your first real thought- beneath the adrenaline and the surreal delight- feel like I don’t deserve this. Someone better should be standing here. Someone cooler. Calmer. Less… freaked out. Someone who isn’t trembling so slightly, but enough that you have to keep shifting your grip on the Sharpie to hide the shake. You sign again- another hat, another notebook- and you keep your voice bright when you say “Of course!” and “Thank you!” and “Nice to meet you!” But inside you’re spiraling.
Why me? Why me? Why me?
Why do they care? Why are their eyes shining for you when Yuki has been here longer, when Max could walk by at any moment, when Checo has an entire nation who adores him?
Why you?
Your guilt coils tighter. You feel like an imposter wearing your own face. Like someone who should be bowing or apologizing or stepping aside so a real driver can stand in this spot. You feel like a liar. Like you tricked them. Like you choreographed your whole personality to earn their faith, and now that they’ve given it to you freely, you don’t know where to put it.
“I’m so proud of you.” “My daughter loves you.” “Thank you for inspiring us.” “It means everything to see a girl on the grid.” Sweet. Earnest. Said through grins that split faces and, every once in a while, a mess of tears.
The first one makes your eyes sting with something sweet and gentle. The third warms your ribs. By the tenth, your heartbeat is starting to pick up- too fast, too high. By the seventeenth, it’s becoming something else entirely. Something alive. Something with weight. Something with teeth.
Nothing you haven’t seen online- words on a screen- but here, face to face, it hits differently. Here, it feels sharp. Real. Like a hundred tiny hooks snagging your skin.
Because it’s not just admiration they’re handing you. It’s legacy. It’s history. It’s pieces of themselves. It’s pressure, coiled tight and invisible, threading itself through every “you inspire me.”
You are carrying something enormous. You are carrying every girl who has ever loved motorsport. Every girl who was told she couldn’t. Every girl who looked at a starting grid and didn’t see herself.
And they’re not looking at the car. Not the team. Not the numbers on the board. They’re looking at you.
Your smile holds. Perfect. Bright. Exactly what the cameras want. Inside, you’re bleeding.
You wanted this. You built your whole career on this- marketed yourself as the proof-of-concept. Give me the chance and I’ll represent us. And you meant it. God, you meant it.But that was theory. That was pitch decks and sponsorship blurbs and feel-good profiles on page nine of Motorsport Weekly. Anything you needed to say to convince a girlboss coffee company to send you $3,000 and a box of t-shirts. This? This is reality. This is a young girl’s eyes shining with belief.
She’s older than the girl you saw at the fence this morning. Fifteen, tops. Old enough to choose her own faith, her own clothes, her own heroes. A hijab frames her face neatly, pinned with care, the fabric a soft neutral that doesn’t try to compete with the heat or the noise or the spectacle around her. She isn’t pushing like some of the adults you’ve seen today or bouncing or flailing like the younger kids. She waits. Patient. Certain. Like she knows exactly why she’s here.
Something in your chest tightens once you take the implication of it in.
Because if she’s old enough to choose to wear a symbol her faith- old enough to commit to something that will shape how the world sees her- then she’s old enough to know exactly who she’s placing her belief in now.
And she’s placing it in you.
When your eyes meet hers, she lifts what she’s been holding. It’s a drawing- but not a childish one. Clean lines. Careful proportions. Your car rendered with startling accuracy, the angles right, the stance aggressive and alive. Your helmet, too- your number precise, your colors exact. She’s talented. Really talented. This isn’t a spur‑of‑the‑moment scribble. This took time. Attention. Reverence.
You step closer without thinking.
She hands it to you with both hands.
For a second, you forget how to breathe.
You take it carefully. Gently. Like it might shatter if you move too fast. She smiles- not wide, not performative. Just proud. Like she gave you something important, and you understood that it was. She doesn’t have anything for you to sign. She doesn’t want anything from you.
“Thank you,” you say, and your voice drops without your permission. “This is… incredible.” And it is- it really, really is- but the second the word leaves your mouth, your throat threatens to close. There’s something acidic sitting behind your sternum. Some kind of guilt that won’t go away, because she looks at you like you hung the stars over Bahrain. Like you built the car with your own hands. Like you are everything good and possible in the world.
And she deserves someone who isn’t on the edge of tears. She deserves someone who isn’t locked inside their own chest. Someone who doesn’t feel like they’re faking every step. Someone who isn’t counting their own heartbeats to make sure they’re still standing. Someone who feels grateful the right way. Whatever the fuck that means.
You, yourself? The flesh and blood inside the suit? You’re not a symbol. You’re not a hero. You’re not a movement. You are just a driver. Just a girl who happened to like cars who worked and worked and worked, and clawed her way up, and now you’re here- holding something you never asked to hold.
They try to nudge you along- keep walking, keep smiling, keep signing and waving and the entire time you’ve been trying to dig a little deeper, find a little more, be a little more. You knew it was coming- despite your best attempts, you are a finite resource. You’ve been wondering when you’ll hit bedrock.
Clink. Bedrock.
You take one tiny, singular step back. And of all things, you think of your mother.
She called you at three A.M. this morning- because she miscalculated the time difference and tried to catch you when she got off work. You missed it. Called her back at 5:30 AST instead, which, in hindsight, was probably better. Crying and driving those backroads in winter is unsafe.
And Jesus, did she cry.
At first it was the normal stuff. The expected stuff. How she wished she could see you today. How she wanted you to promise you’d be careful. How proud she was. Normal mom-cry things. The kind you know how to hold without falling apart.
You take another half-step back.
And then- without warning- there was a nineteen-year-old girl on the other end of your line.
Not Marissa, your mother. Not the woman who raised you and packed lunches and learned how to budget vet bills and mortgage payments and feed thirty dayworkers on the ranch during branding. A girl. One who loved racing. One who talked about it like it still lived under her skin.
She didn’t dramatize it. She didn’t make it tragic. She just… told you. About open-wheel cars she built with whatever she could afford. About local tracks between the neverending stretch between Austin and Dallas- circles with names nobody talks about anymore. About racing on weekends and working during the week and sleeping in her truck because hotels cost too much. About how fast it made her feel. How alive.
Stories you’ve all heard before, sure, but she said it with such a hiccup to her voice that it felt important for you to listen to them again. She said she did it as long as she could.
She didn’t talk about when she stopped. You know that story, too. Cowboys are hot. Condoms are not. Shotgun wedding. Ranch life. Real life. The kind of life doesn’t leave room for dreams like that, even if it’s a beautiful life with a full house and a full heart.
There wasn’t bitterness in her voice. Just acceptance. Like she’d folded that version of herself up neatly and stored it somewhere safe. Like the animal that loved to go wheel to wheel with grown men could be tamed into a party trick she called on for the occasional recreational circuit. When time allowed. When money allowed. When the kids allowed. When the ranch allowed. And then she said, quietly, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say it:
“The only person I ever had to look up to was Lella Lombardi.”
She laughed a little. Not happy. Not sad. Just… honest. “Her career was over before I was even born. Half a point. That’s all she ever scored.” A pause. “I didn’t care. I just needed proof.” And then- softer still-
“There’s proof now.” That’s when you’d pressed your fingers into your eyes and gone silent. Because if you spoke, you’d sob. You think of her now. Of that call. Of the weight in her voice. And of the pride. How it felt like a hand on your back and a thousand-pound anchor around your ankles at the same time.
Another half-step back.
What if you drop it? What if you crash out of Q1 and all of this- all of this hope- gets shredded on impact? What if you fail? Not just yourself, not just the team, but them. What if they start to believe, all over again, that girls don’t belong here?
You’re fully backing up now, half-steps be damned, when you collide into something solid. “Woah, Hollywood- easy.”
It’s Danny. You twist just enough to see his grin, arms half-raised. He hadn’t been far behind you in the line- and he looks every bit the media darling he is- hair pushed back, cap on backwards, gigawatt smile- a practiced extrovert built for this kind of chaos. “You havin’ fun yet?” he teases, all sunshine and dimples. “C’mon, this is your crowd! Look at all these people!”
He means it kindly. You know he does. He thinks you’re in your element. That this- this hurricane of lights and bodies and noise- is the stuff you thrive on.
And it can be. But this isn’t a paddock Q&A or thirty person factory tour group. This isn’t controlled. This is raw voltage. Thousands of volts of expectation surging through your skin. And Danny’s been doing this for a decade. He doesn’t remember what it’s like to be ten minutes old and made of exposed flesh.
You try to smile back. It wobbles. Danny doesn’t notice. “Let’s grab that group over there,” he says, already nodding toward a tight knot of fans waving flags and wearing your merch. “They’ve got your shirts on- go on, Superstar.”
You don’t move. You can’t. The pressure’s mounting in your chest- tight, quiet, invisible. The kind of panic that doesn’t scream. You’re done. You’re done you’redoneyouredoneyoure- Your handler sees it before you can even think the words. The off-beat blink. The way your jaw flexes just a second too long. The smile that’s turned to static- glossy and hollow and just a little too perfect. Like you’re not really here.
A hand touches your elbow. Gentle. Firm. Your handler. “I think that’s enough for now.”
Danny blinks. “Oh. Yeah?” He looks between you both, a little sheepish. “You sure?”
You blink, and give the automatic, people pleasing response. “I- what? No, I can- ” But you can’t. Your pulse is a hummingbird. Your skin is too tight. The noise is turning into pressure, into heat, into-
The handler guides you backward before you can protest. “Just a breather,” he murmurs, his body shielding you from the crowd’s line of sight as he steers you back through the paddock gates, but not through the paddock. A side path, an alley, you don’t know. Behind the hospitality buildings, into that weird nowhere-space of half-privacy- air-conditioning exhaust humming, crates stacked, staff slipping through with trays.
The second you’re out of view, your body folds.
Two hands brace on the rim of a trash can. Your forehead nearly touches your knuckles. You’re sucking in air too fast, too shallow. You’re going to throw up. You’re going to throw up in the paddock. You’re going to-
A voice cuts in behind you. “Again?” You stiffen. You’d recognize that voice if you went deaf. He sounds like he’s already mentally looping the footage. There’s a dry, almost clinical amusement in it. Not cruel. Just Max-being-Max. Cool. Unfussed. Slightly superior. “You’re not gonna throw up again, are you?” he adds. “Like Zandvoort?”
Zandvoort. P3. Cooldown room. Spinning room. Helmet off and panic-slamming the restroom door and stomach emptying before you could even get the congratulations out of your mouth. If you weren’t about to vomit, you’d laugh. His comment punches through the fog, the pressure, the nauseating swirl of look at me look at me look at me oh god stop looking at me.
You swallow hard and croak, “No.” Then, because your pride is dead and buried six feet under, you add: “Just… checking if anyone left something important in here.”
It’s a pathetic joke. Weak. Limp. Dry. But strangely? You’re not embarrassed. Not even a little. Because if anyone is destined to witness every one of your ugliest, worst-timed, least-goddess-like moments-
it’s Max Verstappen.
Why fight it.
Whatever.
You keep your palms braced on the trash can, breathing in slow, shaky pulls, the nausea ebbing now that your brain has somewhere firmer to stand. You glance up just enough to glare. “Go away.”
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Max steps closer- not close, just within conversational range- hands in his pockets, head tilted like he’s assessing a gearbox failure.
“I could,” he says, “but this is the best thing I have seen all day, no?”
You scoff, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Your handler steps in like you’re guardian angel before you can come up with a scathing reply. Calm as ever, clipboard under one arm, phone in the other, radiating absolute indifference to your current humiliation. “She lasted almost three times as long as you did, so there’s that.” he says.
Max blinks.“…What?”
Your handler doesn’t even pause. “Your first time? Spain? You made it eight minutes. We had to extract you from the fan zone like a toddler off a bouncy castle. You looked like you were going to start swinging so we made up an urgent interview for you.”
Max’s jaw drops. You go still, turning your head just enough to see his expression crack into one of pure, horrified betrayal.
“Eight,” your handler says cheerfully, already tapping something into his phone. Max’s jaw actually drops. He clearly hadn’t expected that detail to be aired so casually. In public. In front of you.
You freeze- then the laugh hits you like a punch. And you absolutely lose it. You feel better. Immediately, you feel so much better. It bursts out of you, sharp and bright and unstoppable. “Eight minutes?” you wheeze, hand bracing on the trash can for balance. “Jesus, Max, that’s barely- ”
Your brain catches up. Your surroundings catch up. Work. Professional. Yeah. You slam your mouth shut so fast your teeth click. But the implied word? Oh, it hangs there. Electric. Obvious. Undeniable.
Foreplay. Barely foreplay.
Max’s head turns toward you with the slow precision of a man rotating a sniper scope. Annoyed. Irritated. And unfortunately for him- absolutely- holding back a smirk. He hates that it was funny. For a split second you think he might actually snap back with something clever, something surgical. He opens his mouth like he’s about to. Closes it. Tries again.
Nothing lands.
You can see it happen- the comeback stalls somewhere between his brain and his pride.
“Shut up,” he snaps instead, sharp but cracked through with a laugh he didn’t authorize. He gestures vaguely in the direction of the pit lane. “Go… go worry about your shitbox.”
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It’s a glittering ballroom filled with obligation.
Logo-latticed backdrops. High tables with trendy cocktails. Ice sculptures melting into event rugs. The hum of industrial AC fighting against the heat of hundreds of over-perfumed bodies and egos in tailored suits. It smells like money and ambition and a whiff of end-of-day deodorant failure.
These sponsors don’t represent teams. They represent the sport itself. The people who keep money in Formula 1, in the FIA’s, in Mohammed Ben Sulayem’s pocket. Who buy whole weekends, influence calendar decisions, and send their darlings into the paddock in branded polos with all-access badges.
Attendance isn’t optional. There’s no driver, no team, no principal who could escape this fate. It’s a diplomatic battlefield in sequins. You walk in as a complete unit- The Bulls. Max, Danny, Checo, Yuki, and you.
It might be a genius strategy, or it might be a PR disaster just waiting to happen, depending on who you ask. You’ve been paired off by vibe and necessity. Danny gets Max. You get Yuki. No one gets Checo- he’s fine. Checo’s already peeling off toward a cluster of Latin American telecom executives. He throws you a nod as he goes, and you trust him to manage himself. Checo isn’t your problem.
Max hangs close to Danny. He looks good- black sport coat, sharp lines, severe posture- but it’s clear he has no interest in mingling. His eyes are already scanning the exits like he’s plotting a prison break. You can practically see the mental math: how many drinks until I’m allowed to leave?
Yuki, though. Yuki is your problem. He’s glued to your side, fidgeting with the button on his jacket.
Danny gives you a look across the small cluster of them. His eyes sparkle. You both know what’s about to happen. PR deployment mode: initiated. You and Danny slip into it without needing to speak. A well-oiled social engine. If you can help it, you’d like to stay together. Lean on Danny, let Danny lean on you.
It’s you who introduces Yuki to a group of hospitality logistics VPs, looping in his Kanagawa roots, his favorite sushi spots in London, gently correcting his English when needed, smoothing the edges with a graceful “he means this”- so subtle, they don’t even realize you’ve saved him from saying “I shit myself after eating bad salmon” instead of “I had food poisoning.”
It’s Danny who shields Max from a conversation with a high-energy executive who wants to pitch him a streaming docuseries idea on camera crew access to his “intimate inner circle.” Danny throws himself into the line of fire like a lunatic- yes, he’d love to be followed to the toilet for six weeks- and by the time the guy’s laughing, Max has slipped away clean.
It becomes a rhythm. Easy charm. Hard pivot. Graceful exit. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. You and Danny are unstoppable. Tag-teaming. Handing off. Laughing under your breath at each other’s bits. Sculpting the group’s reputation in real time.
It’s honestly kind of fun. Even Yuki’s starting to thrive a bit- now that he’s fed, watered, and only being asked to speak when you’ve paved the road smooth in front of him. Max… not thriving, per se, but holding it together with Danny steering him gently like a shopping cart.
You want to keep going like this. You’re good at this. You and Danny, together, are great at this.
But god, it’s slow.
You’re still in one corner of the ballroom. You’ve made it to maybe ten percent of the room. You’ve both got at least three “must-hit” groups still queued in your heads. Danny slinks up next to you after a round of pleasantries.
He leans down, murmuring in your ear.“Think we’ve gotta split, sweetheart.”
You groan, nose wrinkling. “I know. I just hate it.”
He nods solemnly, conspiratorially. “We’re a beautiful beast together. But we’ve got one more hour and a mountain to climb.” You glance at Max and Yuki behind you. They’re both standing in awkward silence without the direction of their dedicated liaisons. Schoolchildren waiting for their chaperones to tell them where to be.
You sigh. “I’ll take my short king and hit the end of the room.”
Danny smirks. “I’ll deal with tall, blond, and broody.”
You both start to move- and then pause, instinctively glancing back at each other. “Find me if anything good - or terribly, terribly bad- happens,” you say.
“Obviously.” You and Yuki peel off toward the east side of the ballroom- your half now. He sticks close to your elbow like a baby duck in a suit.
You're immediately struck by how much more efficient this is without Danny, and how much less fun it is. No playful banter at your back. No cheeky backup when someone corners you with a questionable product pitch. No deep reserve of easy charm to fall into if you want to take a break and just smile.
Now it’s just you and Yuki. And Yuki is- god love him- a lot. At first, it goes alright. You swoop through a conversation with a group of Eastern European investors. They’re interested in broadcast rights, digital integration, overlays for livestream viewers. You know the brief and dance them through the right talking points- how Red Bull’s digital fan engagement is higher than any other team’s, how Redline’s Twitch streams draw younger viewers, how F1’s American expansion creates new markets.
Yuki is nodding emphatically. “I hate my Twitch chat sometimes,” he adds.
There’s a pause.One of the investors chuckles, but it’s confused. You cut in, smoothing. “He means the spam bots. Lots of crypto scams lately, makes branding look bad.”
“Yeah, and like… weird comments,” Yuki says with a little laugh.
You freeze. Smile still plastered on your face. There’s another pause. He doesn’t mean to be chaotic. He’s just honest. You pat his shoulder gently, redirecting. “But he handles it like a pro. Makes it look easy. Total natural in front of the camera.”
Conversation after conversation, Yuki is enthusiastic- which is better than disengaged, but it means your brain is working twice as hard. Every brand pitch turns into a game of how fast can I smooth this over.
He’s not saying anything catastrophic, thank god. He’s just missing the beats. The little cues. The rhythm of business-speak. He jumps in too early, asks questions that are a bit too blunt, asks a crypto sponsor if their flagship coin is “still crashing or not anymore.”
You want to clap a hand over his mouth and redirect him like a toddler. You want to shake him and kiss his cheeks in the same breath. God, you love him.
But fuck, he’s exhausting. The whole time you’re talking- negotiating, smiling, steering- you’re also mentally duct taping every little social fissure, plugging holes in the conversational dam, deflecting stray grenades of well-intentioned honesty. You're playing high-stakes verbal chess with a raccoon beside you.
You reach the last table- someone from a champagne brand who is deeply excited about targeting Gen Z. “We’re launching a low-ABV spritz. Very pink. Very trendy. Think fun but aspirational. Right in there for people who are sober-curious, but not serious about it, if you know what I mean. Do you two drink?”
Yuki lights up. “Too much! The salarymen at home-” You hook him under the arm and turn away before anyone can hear him finish and press your lips together. It was going so well.
You spot Danny lingering at the perimeter of the ballroom with a flute of something, scanning the crowd for you like a soldier waiting for a recon unit to return. The second you make eye contact, you beeline toward him with laser focus, Yuki still jabbering beside you about how weird the sponsor’s cologne was or something about his shirt not fitting. You’re not listening. You’re trying to calculate if you can make a clean handoff without being obvious.
Danny sees the look in your eyes and smirks.
You lean in close, speaking low so Yuki can’t hear. “Take him.”
Danny sips. “Why?”
“I have to hit Amex and Allwyn, and I cannot do it with him interrupting to ask if someone’s necklace is real or saying ‘that’s boring’ when someone talks about ROI. He’s not being rude on purpose, he just- he’s like a puppy. A rich, poorly socialized puppy.”
Danny grins, but doesn’t budge. “No dice. You want me to take yours? You take mine.”
Your eyes narrow. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
You glance over your shoulder. Max is parked by the Montblanc display, arms crossed and obviously bored, saying absolutely nothing while a sponsor drones on about brand alignment. At least he looks good. The man can stand still like it's an art form.
You sigh. “Fine.”
Danny beams, already shifting to intercept Yuki. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
You take three steps toward Max before he speaks without looking at you. “Where’s Danny?” he asks, still staring ahead, not even pretending to be subtle about his irritation. He follows your line of sight- sees Danny already knee-deep in a long-winded pitch with Yuki hanging beside him.
“Swapped,” you say, tone breezy, like it's not a big deal.
He turns to look at you then- really look- eyes narrowing. His voice is quiet but flat, edged with something sharp and unreadable. His jaw flexes. “You traded to get me.” He says it like an accusation, not a question. “To make yourself look better?”
There it is. That flash of something wounded beneath all the irritation. The kind of disappointment that doesn’t come from this room, this moment- but from every other time someone’s treated him like a trophy to be won or a checkmark to be exploited. He’s so used to being used, he doesn’t even wait to be proven right anymore.
You blink. “Jesus, no. Don’t flatter yourself. I traded to get rid of Yuki.” Max pauses. You let it hang a moment before adding, “You were just the unfortunate consequence of that deal.”
He stares at you, unreadable again, and then- reluctantly, maddeningly- his mouth twitches. Just barely. But he follows when you move, and you take that for agreement, no matter how begrudged. You both pivot in sync, facing the sponsor ahead like nothing happened- except now the air between you hums with something slightly steadier, slightly sharper.
The rules of engagement remain intact. For now.
The Amex rep greets you both with an easy smile, flanked by two younger employees in his circle and a communications liaison who immediately starts her stopwatch-brain ticking. You lead with warmth- nothing sugary, just polished and efficient. Max is content to let you take point, hanging half a step behind you with his hands tucked in his pockets like he has nowhere better to be.
Which, for once, he doesn’t.
You talk them through the basics- thank them for their sponsorship expansions at the American races- your home races, you remind them. “And I saw the concierge program is growing in Europe?” you ask, smoothly shifting the focus. “You’ve got new perks rolling out ahead of summer travel, right?”
They perk up immediately. One of the execs actually nudges the other, a subtle impressed gesture, like she read the notes.
Max says nothing. Not because he’s bored- because, for once, he doesn’t have to. There’s no looming expectation that he keep the room spinning with corporate soundbites. You’re doing the lifting without breaking a sweat, steering the entire exchange like a pro. When you glance his way, it’s not a demand. It’s an opportunity.
“They’re doing a special access tier for Monaco,” you say casually, just loud enough for him to catch. “Sounds like a pretty slick setup. Premium suite access, private marina transfers, whole nine yards.” You tip your head toward him slightly. “You know anything about that?”
Max blinks, but only for a beat- then catches the handoff for what it is. A layup. Clean. Easy. Like a real conversation, not a trap.
“Bit, yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t use the concierge stuff myself much, but my mum’s obsessed with it. They got her the suite upgrade at New Years and a car from the airport- she hasn’t stopped talking about it.”
The sponsor’s smile grows. The woman who had been scanning the room for her next mark now reorients fully toward him, interest piqued.
“Oh, that’s great to hear. Real user stories like that always land better than whatever our marketing team puts together.”
Max shrugs modestly, and you bite back a smile.
Nailed it.
As the conversation naturally turns toward transition, you gently redirect, summing up with a sincere note of gratitude and a promise to follow up. Max mirrors your energy without even thinking about it. When you finally step away, Max exhales. Not dramatically, just a little breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
A few tables over, Christian watches from beneath the rim of a crystal tumbler- just sparkling water, but he sips it like it’s something stronger. Shameless eavesdropping. His eyes track Max without meaning to. It’s not that the kid’s never looked competent at one of these things. He’s just never looked like he belonged.
Until now.
He’s not performing. He’s not white-knuckling it. He’s standing at ease, a hand loosely tucked into a pocket, watching you close out the final lines of your pitch to the Amex exec. You’ve done most of the talking- by design- but Max hasn’t disappeared into the carpet. You’ve teed him up cleanly twice now, and he’s taken both openings without flinching. Hell, on the last one, he even offered something insightful. Not canned. Not rehearsed. Just... relevant.
Christian’s seen him try before. Seen him fumble through talking points, overthink a press line, shut down when a partner asks a follow-up question that veers even an inch off the media sheet.
But now?
Max looks, God help him, comfortable.
Not playing second fiddle. Not ducking out. Not barking at a handler for overbooking him or sending angry glances toward the nearest exit.
And it’s not like Danny’s not here- Christian’s eye flicks across the room to catch him animatedly chatting with Yuki near the bar, one hand motioning broadly like he’s telling a story he probably shouldn’t be. Danny had always been the ideal foil. Friendly, easy, reliably funny. A human buffer. The best pairing Christian had ever gotten out of Max for sponsor work.
But Danny’s standing right there, and Max has never looked more at ease than he does beside you.
Christian leans just slightly, turning toward the man next to him.
“You seeing this?” he murmurs.
Jos doesn’t move at first. Then, without looking over, just says, “I’ve been seeing it.”
Christian lets out a small, almost disbelieving laugh, more breath than sound. “Jesus. I didn’t even know he could look like this at one of these things. I always thought Danny was our ceiling.”
There’s a pause. Jos doesn’t answer right away. He’s watching you both carefully- like he’s measuring something only he can see. Max doesn’t even know he’s being observed.
Then finally, Jos speaks. Quiet. Reserved.
“Lots of potential there.”
It’s an innocuous enough comment. But it hits the back of Christian’s neck in the wrong way. He glances over. Jos’s posture is still. Hands behind his back. His expression gives very little away- just the faintest trace of satisfaction in the set of his mouth. Not pleased. Not proud. Just... satisfied. Like something is going according to plan.
Christian hears “potential” and thinks media polish. Fewer PR headaches. Maybe even letting Max take lead on sponsor engagements without someone babysitting.
He doesn’t press. Just lifts his glass again and watches you nod Max through the next step in the rotation- effortless, like the two of you have been doing this for years.
Jos doesn’t stop smiling.
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Series Masterlist
I have some formatting stuff to clean up, but I will get to it tomorrow!
SHIT IS ABOUT TO GET REAL, guys. War is over. We are officially out of the enemies stage of this enemies to friends to lovers.
What was your favorite Max versus 66 spite fueled scene?
Series Masterlist
Teaser: The rally shakedown brings a mixed bag and an awkward dinner. When Max sees something he was never meant to see, an interesting question begins to form.
════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════
Jos finds you crouched beside the car, just after the second session.
Your gloves are off. Your hands are raw. Pink, cracking around the knuckles, fingertips trembling as you hold them over the exhaust like a campfire. Steam rises off the tips like sacrament. You don’t even flinch when the heat bites back.
It’s freezing. January wind cutting through the trees like razors, the cold coiled deep into the tarmac- but you? You’ve done fourteen kilometers, three times over, without complaint. Just got out. Warmed your hands. And now you’re going again.
No camera crew. No engineer hovering over your shoulder. No one asked you to do it.
You’re just built like this.
Jos stands a few feet behind, watching. Quiet. Intrigued.
He’s seen this before. In Max, mostly. That rabid kind of hunger. That need to get better, even when no one’s looking. Especially when no one’s looking. But Max had to be dragged into it as a boy. Screamed at. Pushed until his knuckles bled on karting wheels in the snow.
You? You do it on your own.
There’s a little smudge of grease across your cheek. Your hair’s knotted at the base of your neck messily, strands frozen to your temples in the wind. You don’t look like anyone’s fantasy, not at this moment. But Jos sees it.
The totality of you.
Beautiful, yes. Of course. Even crouched and shaking by the heat of your own exhaust like a starving animal, you’re a vision. Lean, lethal. Razor-cut cheekbones, wide eyes, clever mouth. All presence. All bite. But it’s not that. Not really.
It’s the way you don’t need to be told to suffer. The way you welcome it.
You’re freezing. Exhausted. The setup is clean but you want it cleaner, and that’s why you’re going back out before anyone else. You’re a little track rat- racing’s dirtiest compliment.
And Jos? Jos is delighted. This- this- is why he chose you. Why he’s spent months force-feeding Max just enough rope to get tangled in you.
You’re young. Twenty-two. Still raw. But look at you- already hard on yourself in all the right ways. Already driving until your nerves fray, your fingers lock, your body betrays you. You’ve got just enough polish for the brand. Just enough venom for the track. Just enough desperation to be useful. You’re everything he could have hoped for and more. Perfect on camera, perfect under pressure, and above all: hungry.
So, he lets you go. Let’s you burn gas and track time and crawl around the wheel well of your own car all in the name of study. Tells the mechanic to let you, the cameraman to film you, and the budget to fuck off. He doesn’t interrupt until he absolutely has to.
Jos checks his watch. The crew’s over-time. Overtime he technically signed off on when he said nothing earlier- because he wanted to see how long you’d last. See what kind of feedback you’d give when the light began to fade and your fingers went stiff with cold. When your breath started fogging up the windshield again, and nobody was left to impress.
And you hadn’t disappointed.
You’re halfway through resetting the dash, engine still ticking warm, eyes scanning data that technically isn’t yours to analyze. Max had climbed out for good three runs ago, Ivor two, but you’ve kept going, kept pushing. Kept chewing on the car like there’s something personal between you.
He steps forward now, hands in the pockets of his Verstappen.com jacket. “Girl.” You look up. “That’ll be your last run.”
You blink. “Oh.” There’s a pause- half second, no more. Like you hadn’t considered there would be a limit. Like you’d forgotten that icy weather and labor laws should matter. Like maybe, if no one told you to stop, you simply wouldn’t. Then, a nod. “Okay.”
You stand and stretch your shoulders, then crouch again to unplug the dash tablet. You’re careful with it, despite your own fatigue. Still just as sharp as you were four hours ago. Still logging quiet mental notes.
Jos watches you for a moment longer. Watches the way you pass the device to the nearest tech, then run a sleeve under your nose. He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t praise you, either.
Just turns and heads toward the pit.
Your steps are heavy, boots half-frozen with slush and packed gravel. You peel off your gloves, shove them into your helmet bag, and fish out a spare beanie to tug over your damp hair. Your hands shake a little from the cold, but it’s more annoying than concerning.
As you start packing your things- helmet, balaclava, a few crumpled wrappers from the spicy chips you got at the airport- you glance up, assessing the pit area out of reflex. Not because you expect anything, but because it’s habit. Just checking.
There’s the back corner of the tent where Ivor and Max had changed- open on two sides, tarped on the others. A couple of damp crates pushed together, jackets hanging from a jerry-rigged rack. It’s not just your team here, though. It’s a shared service park. There are two other teams under the next canopy over, and you can see a few of their crew still lingering near the heaters, stripping off gear and chatting with each other. You can’t exactly ask half the track to look the other way while you change.
So, no.
You glance toward the edge of the gravel lot, where the blue port-a-potty squats against the fence. You used it once earlier- it was already borderline unusable. Slush tracked in, wet toilet paper disintegrating on the floor, the smell of cold piss thick like some kind of awful male air freshener. You can’t imagine what it’s like now. No, thank you.
You pause, consider whether a car door or a van might offer enough cover. But it would take coordinating with someone. Asking. It always requires asking.
And honestly? You’re tired of asking.
It’s not a big deal. Not really. Your suit’s already soaked through, and the Audi’s heated. You’ll survive twenty minutes of damp fabric sticking to your hips. It’s uncomfortable, sure, but you’ve been much worse off in much worse places.
This? This barely registers.
So you zip your bag shut, loop the strap over your shoulder, and decide to ride in your fireproofs. No complaint. No fuss. You don’t even think about it that hard. It’s just how things are.
By the time you make it to the car, Max and Ivor are already there- Max leaning against the passenger door, quiet as ever, and Ivor flapping his arms like a cartoon character, trying to get circulation back to his fingers.
Jos unlocks the rental Audi with a chirp and throws a look over his shoulder.
“Ivor, up front with me,” he says. “Want to talk through some strategy on the way back. I see those two enough already.”
Casual. Dismissive. Too easy.
You don’t blink, just trail behind them as they load in, all wet hair and gravel-caked boots, trying to ignore the deep and existential concern clawing at your chest. The upholstery. It’s beige. You glance at the creamy fabric seat in the back. Then down at your race suit. Then back at the seat.
You huff a soft breath through your nose and offer a tight-lipped smile, already lying your new team jacket on the seat and settling in with the careful delicacy of someone sitting in a borrowed wedding dress.
Ivor stops yammering at Jos and twists in the front seat, noticing you settling in, still damp. “You didn’t change?” The tone is pure disbelief. Not cruel- just naïve.
You glance up at him, patient. “No.”
He blinks. “Why not?”
You tilt your head, the smallest smile curving at the corner of your mouth. “Where’d you change?”
“Uh- ” He frowns, trying to recall. “In the back of the tent with the… other…” His voice falters. You watch him piece it together in real time. “…boys.”
You hum softly, polite as ever. “Mm.” You don’t say it outright. You don’t have to. You just leave the noise hanging there, easy and unbothered, like this isn’t your thirtieth time having to gently walk a group of men through the revolutionary concept of I cannot strip in public, actually.
A beat. Then- “Oh.” The sound of realization more than embarrassment.
The car ride back is short but silent. Wet boots squeak against the rubber mats, and the heater ticks as it battles the cold. Jos parks just outside the hotel, throws it in park, then glances back over the seat. “Dinner?” he says, casual, like it’s an afterthought. “Unless, of course, anyone has… other arrangements. If there’s any F1 business the… senior members of the team need to talk through,” he says lightly, “Ivor and I are happy to peel off and give you two space.”
It’s too easy. Too practiced. And the reaction is immediate.
You’re sitting upright, spine too straight, forcing your expression to stay open and easy. Your brain is running calculations behind your eyes. You’re not sure what Max told him, if anything. But the suggestion of alternate plans feels… specific. Loaded. Like it might have been angled deliberately. God, if this is about the kiss… You could kill Max with your bare hands. Just dive across this backseat and wrap your hands around- you swear to fucking god-
“Oh, I think dinner as a group makes the most sense,” you squeak, voice a little too bright. “We can discuss tomorrow’s game plan anyways.”
Jos lifts one brow, but lets it slide. Max says nothing. Ivor, for his part, beams like he just won something. He’s already mentally rearranging the table so he can sit beside you. Maybe ask you about the track. Maybe just… hear your voice for longer than a lap debrief.
“Right,” he says as he pops the door, amused. “Just thought I’d ask. Let’s get checked in and meet at the restaurant in fifteen.”
Check-in is quick- mercifully so. You’re first to the desk and first to get your key, offering a polite smile that barely masks the buzzing anxiety under your skin. You leave the boys behind without a second thought. As soon as you round the corner toward the elevators, you break into a clipped, silent power walk.
You check the time. Twelve minutes left. No. Wait. Eleven. You lost time fumbling with your ID. And the elevator hasn’t even arrived yet. You practically jog down the hall once the doors open, jamming your keycard into the slot like it personally wronged you. The green light flashes, and you’re inside.
Ten minutes.
You drop your bag on the bed, tear off your soaked suit, and flick on the bathroom light.
Nine fucking minutes.
You pause. You close your eyes. And then you silently, furiously scream.
Does Jos not have a wife? A daughter? Any concept at all of how long it takes to transform from a waterlogged rat into someone who looks vaguely capable of discussing strategy over a €17 glass of wine?
Nine minutes. This- this- is the greatest injustice of being a girl in this sport. Not the porta-potties. Not the lack of changing rooms. Not even the constant side-eye in driver briefings.
It’s this.
That a grown man will look you dead in the eye and expect you to be both competent and polished in NINE. FUCKING. MINUTES.
You rip a comb through your damp hair, toss in something that promises “frizz control” and probably lies. There's no time to check. Mascara. Concealer. One singular dot on the zit coming in at your temple. Dab dab dab. No time for anything else. Your skin will just have to rawdog it tonight.
What to wear- what to wear- fuck, fuck, fuck. Top and bottom? Too many choices. Dress. Easy. Done. The black velvet one from the Christmas party. High neck. Safe. Acceptable. Team-issue softshell. You peel on a pair of tights while still damp, cursing them the entire time like they’re personally responsible for every microaggression you’ve ever endured in motorsport.
Your hotel room is a blur of movement, limbs, fabric, zippers, and fingernails clamped around a nylon waistband. The final step is trying to shove your ID, credit card, and a stick of gum into the world’s smallest dinner purse while half-speed walking toward the door.
Your shoes aren’t on yet.
Doesn’t matter.
You’re moving.
You yank the door open, catch it with your foot, jam a mule on one foot, purse squashed in your armpit. Second shoe, door slams behind you. You’re out.
Still arranging everything in your arms as you reach the elevator. Still slightly damp. Still furious.
But you’ll make it. And you’ll look like you’ve been ready all day. Because you are a goddamn professional. Your heels click softly against the marble as you approach the hotel restaurant, breath just barely recovered from your mad dash through the lobby. Hair still damp at the nape, but tamed, mostly. Dress smoothed down. You check your reflection in the glass door once, twice- then again in the polished brass as you reach for the handle.
Jos is already waiting by the entrance, arms crossed loosely, glancing at the host stand with the air of a man who’s both impatient and scheming. He lights up when he sees you.
“You’re punctual,” he notes, pleased.
You smile. “I try.”
He gestures toward the entrance, then waves the host off with a casual nod. “We’ll wait here for the others.” There’s a pause before he adds, “How were your holidays?”
You keep your posture open, tone breezy. “Quiet, this year. I spent Christmas Day with my race engineer and his family. Just something easy, since they were trying to pack- board games, a roast.” Polite. Casual. A test. You watch his face carefully, waiting. He doesn’t mention Max. So neither do you.
“I also made my move,” you offer, voice light. “I’m near Monaco now. It just makes sense for sponsorship business- easier to take meetings in person, keep a foot in the media.”
“Smart,” Jos says.
He sounds like he means it.
And still- still- he doesn’t ask if Max helped. Doesn’t mention the Red Bull dorms. Doesn’t raise a brow at your suspicious proximity to his side of town. Just gives you a slight nod, as if you’ve passed some unspoken test.
Your shoulders begin to ease, just a little. If Max had said something… If he’d mentioned anything- the kiss, the factory, the wine- you think Jos would have brought it up by now. Or at least hinted. But there’s nothing. Just cordial small talk and the occasional calculating glance, like Jos is still working some long game in his head.
You can live with that.
Jos glances past you, eyes catching on something through the glass. “Ah- look who’s finally made it.”
You turn just in time to catch Ivor outside the restaurant doors, pausing at the windowed wall to catch his reflection in the mirrored panel beside it. He leans in slightly, adjusting the collar of his sweater- a Redline quarter-zip that he clearly thinks looks mature- and flattens a few strands of damp hair with a practiced sweep of his palm. He exhales once. Checks his breath against his wrist. Straightens his posture.
Then pulls the door open- and nearly jumps out of his skin.
He wasn’t expecting an audience.
His eyes go wide when he spots you and Jos already standing there, both watching. He startles like a teenager caught mid-pep talk, then schools his expression into something brighter, warmer- bashful, yes, but unbothered, like maybe he meant to do all of that with an audience.
“Hi,” he says quickly, eyes darting to yours with the eager glow of someone trying very hard to be charming. “You look nice.”
“Thank you,” you reply easily, already smiling.
His shoulders lift, just a bit. He tucks his hands in his pockets, bounces slightly on the balls of his feet like he’s waiting for a treat. If you asked him to sit, he’d probably do it without question. There’s something doggedly sweet, if not a little dumb, about the way he orients himself entirely toward you, even with Jos standing right there.
The restaurant doors swing open again, and Max steps through, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, jaw tight. He doesn’t look at you- not even for a flicker. Just takes in the host stand, the soft clatter of silverware in the distance, and the fact that the rest of you are already assembled.
Jos straightens and approaches the podium, giving the host a brief nod now that the full party is here. As he steps away, you lean subtly toward Ivor, your voice pitched low. “Make sure to thank Jos for the opportunity to drive today,” you murmur, genuinely.
He blinks at you, wide-eyed, as if surprised you’re speaking to him at all. “Sorry- what was that?”
You do him the mercy of repeating it, just as softly, as the group begins to trail behind Jos and the host- the same calm, gracious tone, like this is something you just assume all drivers pass along eventually. “It’s good business,” you add as you walk, your voice still low but warm. “Sponsors like to feel appreciated. Always thank the person holding the checkbook.”
He nods, mouth parted slightly like he wants to thank you just for speaking to him. His eyes are wide and sincere, full of the kind of eager gratitude that makes him feel ten years younger than you, even though he’s legally an adult. He straightens his sweater again and quickens his pace to stay beside you, nodding like he’s memorizing the moment.
Max is a few steps behind, but the distance feels wider than that- like he’s following the group, not necessarily in it. At the table, Jos moves to the sit, gesturing toward the seat beside him with a vague air of orchestration. “Ivor, why don’t you- ” he starts.
But Ivor is already dropping into the seat next to you, practically beaming. “Here good?”
“Perfect,” you say, offering him a polite smile that makes him visibly sit taller. And it is, because with Jos across from you, and Ivor beside you, Max takes the last remaining seat, kitty corner to yours. No touching elbows. No accidental eye-to-eye arrangements. Comfortable. Safe.
════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════
Max trails the group like an afterthought, half a step behind, gaze stuck somewhere between the wine-dark carpet and the exit sign he wishes he could follow instead. If he had his way, he’d be upstairs already. Clean. Comfortable. Controller in hand. Instead, he’s here- crammed into another one of his father’s team-building charades, pretending not to feel the hooks tugging at him from every direction.
Dinner starts the way it always does: with Jos performing hospitality like it’s part of a race weekend strategy. The subtle push of a chair here, a too-casual suggestion there. Max clocks it all. Jos wants him to sit next to you. Badly. Even goes so far as to motion for Ivor to take the other seat- but the kid, God bless him, dives into the chair next to you before Jos can finish his sentence.
Max doesn’t bother hiding his amusement. That’s the first win of the night.
He takes the remaining seat without a word, nods once at the waiter, and zones out before the wine list even hits the table.
When the menus arrive, he barely skims. Orders grilled chicken and steamed vegetables out of habit, skips the sauce, skips the starch. He already knows what it’ll taste like: bland and penitent. Fuel and punishment in equal measure. Every bite a quiet reminder that the season’s coming quick in a sport where every gram is accounted for.
He hates this part. Hates the food noise. Hates the arithmetic of it all- the macros, the scale, the subtle shame of ‘let me ask the chef, sir.’ He hates being hungry. Hates eating in company when he can’t actually enjoy it.
And still, he’s somehow amused.
Because you’re sitting beside across from his father, absolutely radiant in your decorum, perfectly polite as you try to fold yourself into the conversation like it’s instinct. Soft posture. Gentle nods. A measured smile here and there. Jos tries his usual thing. The baited questions, designed to build bridges. Something about sim data. Something about setup translation. Max doesn’t bite. He lets you handle it- because of course you do. With precision, grace, and just enough warmth to seem cooperative without actually offering anything real.
That, for some reason, makes him want to laugh.
Of course you’re acting perfect. Composed. Untouchable. You're fresh-faced, sharp, well-dressed- and completely pretending you weren’t making out with him three weeks ago on company property.
God, he’s almost proud of you. If he had it in him to feel anything too clearly right now, it might even be admiration.
Instead, he’s just... hungry.
Not for you, no- not like that. Just hungry. Full stop. Because dinner, for him, is grilled chicken and plain vegetables, and the smell of garlic bread drifting across the table feels like a personal attack. The scent turns his stomach. Not from nausea, but from irritation. He hates this part of the pre-season- this fucking cut. The calorie math. The constant noise around food. The sheer impossibility of enjoying anything when every bite feels like failure.
Jos turns the pressure up, tries again with a remark about shared baselines and mutual trust. Max is sipping sparkling water out of a short-stemmed glass like a child at a wedding. That alone would piss him off if he had the energy to care. Let his dad stew.
You, instead, begin to talk to Ivor. And that’s when the entertainment really starts.
Because Ivor- God help him- is all in. Puppy-eyed. Practically wagging. Trip-over-his-own-shoes enthusiastic. He leans in when you speak, nods too hard when you mention tire choice, fumbles through compliments about Zandvoort like he stayed up all night rehearsing them. You’re patient. Kind. You give him just enough to keep him breathing, not enough to encourage the hallucination.
You’re kind about it. Warm, even. You tilt your head and offer small conversational encouragements, the kind that keep him from drowning without throwing him a rope.
Jos is fuming quietly. Max can tell by the way he thumbs the stem of his wine glass- calculating and annoyed. This dinner was supposed to be something else. Something Jos designed. Something…not this. Instead, it’s a slow-motion derailment.
Max watches the whole thing like it’s playing out on a screen. By the time dinner hits the table, he can’t tell if he’s more secondhand embarrassed or impressed that the kid is still going. He’s definitely impressed that there’s still patience in your expression- but the moment the table is cleared, the illusion unravels quickly. Chairs scoot back in a fever. Jos disappears toward the bar, citing business, and the three of you make for the elevators.
The elevator doors close. Max doesn’t look at you, or at Ivor. Doesn’t have to. He can feel the desperation rolling off him in waves. He can practically hear the imaginary tail thumping against the floor.
Silence stretches. You’re scrolling on your phone. Ivor is fidgeting like he’s winding himself up for something. Max notices the shift- posture squared, jaw set, breath pulled in like he's bracing for impact.
Then- just past the third floor- Ivor swings an elbow up onto the mirrored wall and half-turns toward you. Like he’s posing. Like this is the moment in the movie where he says the thing that wins the girl. And Max clocks it instantly. The setup. The tilt of the head. The overconfident lean.
Oh, God.
He’s going for it. It takes everything in Max not to laugh.
"So, um… if you're not, like, super tired or anything,” Ivor says, voice a little too loud, a little too rehearsed, “we could... I dunno, hang out a bit more? I brought my laptop. We could watch footage. Or play FIFA or something. If you want."
Max keeps his face neutral. His eyes forward. Barely. His lips twitch so hard it almost hurts.
Because- FIFA? You? The absolute balls on this kid.
The kamikaze instinct it must take to look at you- you, with your sharp mouth and steel-core posture and impossible résumé- and think: maybe. Not a rational maybe. Not one born from chemistry or context or even a hint of reciprocation.
Just pure, blinding, testosterone-fueled hope.
It’s laughable. It’s admirable. It’s suicidal.
Max respects it the way you might respect a moth for flying straight into a bonfire. Misguided. Doomed. But damn, look at it go.
What’s worse- he doesn’t even know what he’s messing with. You’re not cruel, but you’re dangerous. When you want to be. And this kid, with his overgrown golden retriever energy and half-grown confidence, is trying to pet a jaguar.
Max braces himself for a bloodbath.
But it doesn’t come.
You handle it with surgical precision. A tilt of the head. A little smile that’s halfway between kind and pitying. And that soft, sweet-laced voice you pull out for public appearances and people who mean well. “That’s real sweet,” you say gently. “But I think I’m just going to head to bed. Long day.”
Ivor- bless him- deflates just slightly. Like a balloon letting out a little air through a pinhole. “Oh. Yeah- yeah. Of course. Totally. For sure. No worries.”
The elevator pings on the third floor. His floor. He hesitates for half a second. Max sees the impulse flicker in his eyes- Say something else. Salvage it. But then, in the one single flash of self preservation this kid has shown all night, he bails.
“Goodnight,” he says, still hopeful.
“Goodnight, Ivor,” you reply, kind enough that Max almost feels bad for him. Almost. The elevator doors close, and it’s just the two of you now. Max doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
He keeps his eyes forward, fixed on the digital numbers ticking upward, but his jaw twitches- just once. Then again. It’s the effort of keeping the laugh down, of refusing to let it surface, of not letting the sheer absurdity of the moment win.
Because what the fuck was that?
Ivor. Eighteen. Barely out of karts. Green as spring grass. Hasn’t even locked down a full-time rallycross seat, let alone survived the brutal machinery of motorsport long enough to know how fast it’ll chew him up and spit him out. And he thinks he’s going to chase you?
Max doesn’t look at you, but he doesn’t have to do that either. He’s already seen the way you handled it- graceful, warm, unbothered. The exact kind of gracious that makes a kid like Ivor believe, however stupidly, that maybe he has a chance tomorrow.
You’re always kind like that. Too kind, sometimes.
He presses the pad of his thumb against his mouth and tries not to laugh again. It’s not even about jealousy or territory or the fact that he’s kissed you- not really. He knows what this is. He knows what you are.
You’re accomplished. A full-blown Formula driver who took a podium in, essentially, a rental car. You’re clever, sharp-tongued when you want to be. Cool under pressure. You command attention without trying. You’ve been breaking records while still breaking in your racing boots.
You moved across an ocean by yourself. You drive everything like you’re chasing blood. You’re sharp, composed, ruthlessly prepared. Max has spent months trying to antagonize you into cracking, and instead he's... studied you. Accidentally. Intimately.
You’re also beautiful. Max doesn’t have to like you all the time to admit that. Doesn’t have to want you to recognize why someone else might.
And not in the way girls who hang around garages get called pretty just for showing up. You’re fit. Strong. Expressive. Real. Curves that pull at the seams of your suit, long hair that somehow still looks okay after a helmet. Big eyes. And so goddamn capable that sometimes it feels like a sick joke.
It’s not exactly the first time he’s taken stock- but the ease with which the mental image assembles itself is… irritating. Like his brain had it filed under frequent use. He doesn’t even know why he’s thinking about it. Just that the information’s… available. Ready. Like muscle memory.
You’re also mean, when you want to be. Not obviously. Not tonight. Not to Ivor.
But Max knows it’s there. He’s seen it. And, though he’ll never say it out loud, that might be the part he likes - if there was a part of you he liked- most. The quiet capacity for violence. That flicker of calculated cruelty when someone underestimates you. The way not a single soul will believe him if he insists you can be, kind of, a bitch. That you can be petty.
Ivor has no idea what he’s playing at. You’re so far out of his league, that Max wants to grab the kid by the collar and diagram the gap in chalk. Just draw it out on the nearest whiteboard with arrows, circles, and a polite ‘in your fucking wet dreams.’ Not even to be cruel. Just to save him the trouble.
Still, you’d never say it. You’re too polite.
The elevator dings. Max steps out first, shoulders still twitching with leftover laughter he hasn’t let himself fully feel. You follow a few steps behind, phone in hand, scrolling with easy disinterest like nothing about the ride up- or Ivor’s kamikaze attempt- registered at all.
You both turn down the same hallway. He doesn’t say anything. You don’t either. He stops in front of his door. So do you. Max lets out a small, disbelieving exhale through his nose.
You glance over, just once, expression unreadable. Not surprised. Not flustered. Just tired. Both of you just stand there for a second, silent, eyes flicking between your doors- side by side- then back at each other.
Unbelievable.
Of course.
It’s not even subtle. Not a “huh, what a coincidence” type of thing. This is deliberate. Engineered. Like someone thought close proximity would breed chemistry- or at least make surveillance easier.
Max turns to face his door, the faintest shake of his head giving him away. Not angry, not really. Just done. Done with the playbook, done with the scripts, done with being puppeteered like he’s still nineteen and too dumb to notice.
There’s a quiet pause as you each swipe your keycard. Lights blink green in unison. Side by side. No goodbye. No drama. Just the soft, snick-click of twin hotel doors swinging open- two tired, irritated people stepping into two identical rooms with one thin wall between them. Max pushes into his first.
And immediately recoils.
The smell hits him like a slap- wet Nomex, sour and metallic, with just enough sweat and grit baked in to qualify as aggressively unpleasant. It’s not unexpected, but it still pisses him off. The whole duffel stinks like a gym bag that’s been marinating in a rally car footwell. He flips the light on and exhales through his nose, sharp and unimpressed.
He has spares. Several, actually. That’s not the problem.
But if he lets this set stew in the bag overnight, he’s going to spend the entire flight home sitting next to something that smells like a damp locker room. Absolutely not. This has to be handled. Immediately.
Max has a system for this. It’s not complicated, but it’s efficient. Precise. Just like the rest of his gear prep.
He moves through the room with mechanical precision: socks first, balled and wrung out before being draped on the edge of the desk. Balaclava over a hanger and hung on a knob of the dresser. Coat on the bathroom hook. Top and bottom baselayers peeled apart spread over the desk chair, he’s sure to avoid touching. His gloves, still tacky from the fresh wheel wrap, go on the nightstand. His helmet gets its own place- centered, upright, vents open, perched on the suitcase rack and angled toward the heater.
The room starts to take on the look of an exploded gear hamper.
Max runs out of hooks.
He surveys what’s left- the worst of it, his race suit, damp and stinking faintly of fuel and metal and him. No good place for it. No more hangers. He eyes the adjoining door, where the extra base board heater is.
That’ll do.
He crosses to the door with his suit in hand, fingers bracketing the stiff collar, and pops it open without much thought- planning to throw it over the top edge like a laundry line and call it a day. A trick he’s used a hundred times.
What he expects to see is the second half of the hotel’s double-door system. What he sees instead is a yawning gap. An opening.
Your room.
Your door’s already open. And you’re right there.
Max freezes. Completely. There’s a half-second of genuine panic- his spine locking, brain scrambling for a retreat button- as the realization dawns that he’s not just in his room anymore. He’s intruding. That door wasn’t supposed to be open. He wasn’t supposed to see anything. He half expects you to whip around, teeth bared, ready to light him the fuck up for crossing a line.
But you don’t move.
Because you’re asleep.
You’re lying across the foot of your bed, sprawled belly-down and unconscious, lit faintly by the blue glow of your laptop. Your arm drapes over the keyboard, one hand still curled around a notepad like you passed out mid-analysis. The screen flickers with grainy dash cam footage from your run, timestamped, playing on loop. Every few seconds, the sound of gravel crunching softly bleeds into the shared silence between rooms.
You’ve already spread your gear across your room, and he realizes you must have had the same idea as your own suit is slung over your part of the double door.
He doesn’t shut the door. Not right away.
Not because he’s trying to spy. He’s not.
But because he’s already looking.
And for whatever reason- maybe it’s that your tank top’s twisted slightly, riding up just enough to reveal a thin strip of lower back. Your hair’s spread across the sheets in glossy waves, longer than he remembers it being, catching the blue cast of the laptop light. You’re not drooling or snoring or anything- just breathing slow and even, like you finally let your body have a second to quit- he can’t make himself stop right away.
There’s something about it that catches him off guard. Not in a sentimental way. Not even in a particularly pleasant way. Just- off balance. Disarming. There’s a softness to it. Not quite girlish, but close enough to rattle him.
He’s known you for how long now? Worked with you for how many weeks? And still, he hasn’t quite made peace with this particular contradiction. That you can be the most exasperating creature in existence by day- demanding, assertive, a biter- and then, somehow, without warning, look like this. Small. Still. Real.
It shouldn’t feel so intrusive to look. But it does.
And it shouldn’t register as anything. But it does.
Max feels… annoyed. With himself, mostly. Annoyed with you, for that matter. This is ridiculous. You’re annoying. And not in a charming way, either- in a perpetually pissed-off, you-pick-fights-with-gravel kind of way. You challenge. You bite. You overcorrect. You make things harder than they need to be.
But you’re also... a girl. A pretty one, if he’s being honest, which he won’t be.
The fuck is he doing?
He yanks his eyes away, finally, and mutters something low under his breath in Dutch- something like Jesus- as if chastising himself is enough to neutralize the moment.
And then, because he’s not a creep, and because the last thing he needs is you waking up and catching him mid-stare, he tosses the suit up and over the top of his door with a flick and retreats- back into his own room, back into his own head.
Both doors stay cracked. Not wide- just enough to keep the air moving, enough to let heat circulate between the two rooms so all the gear can dry. He doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t see a problem with it. It’s practical. Efficient.
He leans around the corner once- just long enough to knock the switch on the inside of your door with the back of his knuckle, leaving you to bathe in the blue light of your laptop. You don’t stir. Good. He didn’t want to startle you. He didn’t even linger. Just figured he’d turn out the light before he started gaming. Save the turtles and all.
He settles in. Pulls his controller from his bag and kicks on the console like it’s muscle memory. Puts his headset on one ear. Lets the boot up music for Rocket League fill the silence. Time blurs in matches and the mechanical sound of his joysticks hitting the controller case in rapid fire - an hour, maybe two, maybe more.
Then he hears it. A sound he doesn’t place at first. Soft. Not quite crying. Not quite talking. Something between a gasp and a tiny- no. He pauses his game immediately. Listens. Nothing. Then-
A thin, strangled whimper. His brow tightens. He pushes the headset off fully now, tilting his head like he’s trying to triangulate the noise. It’s not the hallway. Not the heater. Not the elevator.
It’s you.
He doesn’t recognize it at first, because he’s never heard a sound like that come out of you- never quiet, never fragile, never… scared. It throws something off inside him, unsettles him in a way he can’t name.
Then a crash- sharp, scraping. A sick thump of something- someone- falling off the bed.
He stands instantly.
He’s halfway to the adjoining door before he even realizes he’s moved. Heart knocking hard- not out of worry, exactly, but out of the punch of adrenaline that comes with hearing someone panic.
And then you’re there.
Bursting through the gap in the cracked adjoining door, stumbling into his room like someone shoved you. Your shoulder hits the frame, then your back slaps against the wall as you blindly try to anchor yourself.
You’re shaking. Breathing too fast. Eyes glassy and wide like you can’t quite figure out where you are, like the walls are wrong or the air is wrong or you are wrong. You’re not crying, but you’re right on the edge of it- quiet tears slicking the lower rims of your lashes, your mouth pulled tight in that half-swallowed panic.
Max freezes. Completely. He’s never seen you scared. Never seen you undone. Never seen anything but teeth and edges and steel and snark. He doesn’t know what to do with this version of you- soft, trembling, lost in the fog of a nightmare. The closest to vulnerable you’ve ever been around him was when you told him your family was nice and immediately changed the subject.
You track the room, vision skipping from his suitcase to the heater to the balcony curtains- until your eyes hit him. Recognition slams into you like a blow. And instantly- instantly- the panic mutates into something else.
Embarrassment. Fury. Shame.
“Fuck,” you breathe, barely audible, voice cracking for the first time in front of him. You shove off the wall like it burned you.
You lunge for the doorframe, grabbing your race suit, your baselayer, anything hanging in the way, even if it’s half-falling, half-dragged. You snatch everything off your side of the doorway at once, movements jerky and defensive, like you’re trying to erase the fact that this moment ever existed.
Max opens his mouth- he doesn’t even know what for. To say you’re fine? To say don’t worry about it? To say something stupid like hey, relax?
You slam your door shut before he gets a single sound out.
He stands there for a few seconds- more than a few, because what the fuck was that- then slowly turns back toward his own bed. The game controller is still there, screen still on pause. Max picks it up, flops down onto the mattress, unpauses. Tries to play.
He gets through a goal, maybe two, before he crashes. Not in-game. Just mentally. He shuts off the game, not because he's tired, but because he hasn’t registered the last ten minutes of it. His eyes were on the screen, yeah, but his brain’s been somewhere else entirely. He brushes his teeth, pulls off his hoodie, climbs into bed. Shifts around a few times before settling on his back, staring at the ceiling, arms folded over his chest.
At first, it’s just guilt. Not big, emotional guilt- more like the echo of being caught watching something he shouldn’t have. Like he’d seen you naked, even though you weren’t. You were just scared. Embarrassed. Shaking. That wasn’t for him to see.
He’s not sure why he keeps thinking about it- the sound of it. That startled yelp, the thud, the way you stumbled through the door like you'd been dropped into the wrong hotel room on the wrong planet. You didn’t cry. Not exactly. But there was something in your eyes- blurry and startled and small in a way that made him feel weirdly out of place in his own room.
He turns over onto his side.
You weren’t supposed to look like that. Not you.
Not the girl who throws a ream of paper at his head. Not the girl who would rather drive without half of her basic safety gear than let him get one over on her. Not the girl who bites back at him in board rooms without so much as blinking. That version of you- the one with the tank top twisted up just slightly, the one who left your laptop running at your feet like it wasn’t the thing you fell asleep working on- he doesn’t know what to make of her.
He doesn’t even realize he’s still thinking about it until his brain drifts to Christmas Eve.
To the way your voice shifted when your mom called. He was there, sitting on the floor next to you like an idiot, pretending not to listen. But he heard it. Heard you say I miss you too, all soft, and then sit there for a long moment after the call ended, not saying anything at all.
You miss your family. It seemed... nice. Normal. You seemed like someone who was loved.
And that’s the part that sticks under his ribs a little, that scratches behind his thoughts like sand in his eye. He squints up at the ceiling, wondering if that’s what makes it all so confusing.
Because if you have a good family- if no one hurt you- then what is it? Because if someone loved you- if you had a nice home and people who missed you and called just to check in? What made you like this? So fast. So sharp. So goddamn relentless.
He’s been told all his life that pain makes winners. Pressure makes diamonds. That you need suffering. That you have to pay for it- whatever ‘it’ is. Glory. Skill. The right to win.
You’ve got it, no doubt. So where did it come from?
You bled today. Literally. He saw the raw skin on your knuckles when you peeled off your gloves and started poking at your tablet. But he used to think that was new- rookie behavior from someone just close enough to getting their shot to get desperate. Or performative. Or just part of your act.
Now, for the first time, he’s not sure. What if it wasn’t new? What if you’ve always been like this? Not just ambitious, but driven. Not just composed, but locked down. He doesn’t want to psychoanalyze you. He doesn’t want to care, really. But his curiosity itches now that he’s seen a crack. And it’s not the kind of crack he can forget, because it looked a little too familiar. The way you slammed the door like you’d seen yourself- and hated what was showing.
He pulls the blanket up to his shoulders, breathing slow, not sure if he’s trying to warm up or disappear beneath it. Maybe it was just a bad dream. Maybe he’s reading too far into it. Or maybe it’s the first time he’s seen that you’re not polished, not even trying to be. Not perfect. That there’s something gnawing at your edges too, and it’s not just loneliness. And maybe he doesn’t hate knowing that.
He turns to face the wall, eyes catching on the soft spill of light edging beneath the adjoining door. It’s the only glow left in the room now- warm and pale against the carpet. You must still be awake. He shuts his eyes again.
He’s not thinking anything in particular, but the question loops anyway, quiet and persistent:
Are you fucked up too?
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Series Masterlist
Previous Chapter/ Next Chapter
Teaser: Dinner with Danny has become an increasingly common fixture in your schedule. A quiet dinner turns into a pressure test when Max crashes.
The tomatoes are a little mealy. You’re trying not to take it personally.
One by one, you test them with your thumb- looking for something ripe, something with a little give, something that smells like sunshine instead of a warehouse. You’ve been standing at the same produce display long enough that the shopkeep has stopped watching you and moved on to restocking strawberries behind you.
Your phone is pressed between your shoulder and your ear, “…and then he asked if I wanted anything,” you say, flicking one tomato over to the ‘maybe’ corner of the crate, “and I asked for a whiskey, obviously. And he says it’s ten in the morning.”
Silence. Not full silence- Bailey’s still breathing, still technically on the line- but you can hear her judging you. Not even subtle about it. She’s practically vibrating with disapproval, which is rich coming from someone who once spent six months of her life refusing to drink anything but Smirnoff Ice.
You scoff. “Jesus Christ, I thought I called my cool older cousin who snuck me my first 4Loko in the parking lot of a high school football game, not my fucking mom.” Bailey makes a noise, somewhere between a guilty laugh and a gasp, but you don’t give her the chance to defend herself. You knew her when she was nineteen- she has no room to tell you when is an acceptable hour to start drinking.
“So, anyways, then I say ‘so what,’ and then he says he has gin, so we drank two gin and tonics and said zero words to each other for the entire hour and a half flight.” You pause for emphasis, plucking another tomato from the flat. Too soft. Back it goes. “And I think that might’ve been the best experience I’ve ever had with Max.”
Bailey cackles. “You’re telling me this man owns a private plane- like, big plane, fancy plane- and is single, and you’re not fucking him? What the hell is wrong with you?”
You snort, snatching a few decent slicing tomatoes from a separate bin and dumping them into your bag. “If literally anyone besides my blood cousin said that, I’d shoot them dead in the street.”
“Okay, damn,” Bailey laughs, not even pretending to be sorry. “Just saying. Hate sex is still sex.”
“He drives me insane.” God, if she knew the half of it, she would never let it go. There’s a pause as you inspect a bunch of basil with suspicion. You shake it once. No slime. Nice aroma. Good enough. “I’m making dinner at Danny’s again tonight,” you add, offhandedly. Distraction tactic.
“Oh?” Bailey pounces. “That’s been happening a lot, eh?”
You squint against the sun and shift your tote to the other shoulder. “God, can you quit being such a horn-dog?”
“I’m married with a three-year-old.” she groans. Shit, you forgot to send Mathew a present. “My entire day revolves around negotiating screen time and wiping someone else’s ass. You’re out here living this super cool Monaco girl life and acting like a fucking nun. Give me one crumb.”
You stop and glance down at your handwritten list, tapping your phone screen with your knuckle to check the time. “Danny’s just…” You shrug. “He’s nice. Great kitchen. Likes my food. Buys whatever groceries I tell him to. Good company. It’s fun, that’s all.” There’s a noncommittal hum on the other end. Bailey is unconvinced. “It’s not like that,” you add.
“No one’s saying it has to be like that, but… he is cute. And tall. And I looked him up- the interviews? The accent? Come on, there’s got to be something there. Actually,” she says slowly, “the only time you’re not having dinner with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Aussie is when you’re in Italy…”
You roll your eyes. “Ehhhh.”
“That’s it? Ehhhh?”
“There’s nothing wrong with him,” you admit, stepping aside so someone can reach past you for the potatoes. “I just- don’t want to. I just want to drive my car and not get fired for inappropriate conduct.”
“You suck.”
You grin, teeth sunk into your bottom lip. “I know. I’m just- I want to do well in Bahrain. I’ve been working my ass off. New procedures, new people, new tracks, new machinery- I think my hands are going to fall off from all of the note taking.”
“And you love it.” It isn’t a question.
You sigh- soft, fond, tired in that good, purposeful way. “Yeah. I do. I really do.”
“You sound smitten.”
“With work,” you emphasize, “Gavin’s incredible. Like… spooky good. He listens, he gets me, he’s already finishing my sentences in debriefs. It’s freaky.” You grab a lemon, rolling it between your palms. “I mean, I’m not sleeping, everything hurts- but Bailey, the car. The car. I haven’t even seen her fully put together yet, just renderings and parts on stands, but she’s already so damn sexy.”
“Mmm,” Bailey teases. “So you are seeing someone.”
“I hate you,” you mutter, biting back a smile.
“No, you’re just in your grind era,” she concedes. “So what’s the schedule? You’re back from Italy for, what… five minutes?”
“Three days, if you count today,” you correct. “Then back to Italy for prep, then flight after flight after flight for shakedowns and unveiling parties. It’s nonstop.”
“And you love that too.”
You soften, tuck the phone tighter into your shoulder, drop your voice, almost shyly. “Yeah. I really do. It just… feels like I’m right on the edge of everything, you know? Like I can feel it right there. Close enough to touch.”
There’s a beat of silence- real silence this time- warm and knowing.
“You sound happier,” Bailey says gently.
You swallow, throat tightening in that way it does when someone accidentally hits a truth you didn’t know was exposed. “I’m… getting there. I still… miss you guys, you know. But I’m getting settled. Figuring it out.”
“Good,” she murmurs. “You deserve that.”
You sniff once, mostly to dispel the feeling. “Don’t get sappy on me.”
“Suck my dick.” You snort. That sounds more like her.. “Okay, well, I think my gremlin is waking up. Keep being mysterious and difficult. Love you.”
“Love you more.” You hang up, slip your phone into your back pocket, and turn toward the checkout. You’ve got a dinner to make.
You bike over to Danny’s apartment with your coat zipped tight and your tote bag thumping against your hip. The air bites at your cheeks, crisp and winter-bright, but the ride is short enough that you don’t really mind.
The concierge at Danny’s building barely glances up from his desk when you wheel your bike into the lobby- just gives you a tiny, knowing nod, the one reserved for people on the “frequent fliers” list that you’ve landed yourself on over the past few weeks of this.
You swear he even smiles a little when you pass.
By the time you’re knocking once- pure formality, you never wait- Danny’s already opening the door. “Hollywood,” he grins, stepping aside. “Whatcha got for us today, huh?”
“Oh,” you feign, “you thought I was cooking?”
He huffs a laugh, shutting the door behind you as you immediately kick your shoes off by the entryway. Your coat goes on the hook. Your tote bag lands on the counter with a soft thump.
You don’t even pause. You move like water- straight to the kitchen, opening his fridge before he’s even crossed the room.
“Did you get the stuff on the list?” you ask, already pulling out the two bulbs of garlic, the basil, the shallots, the container of cottage cheese he absolutely overbought, and the bell peppers stacked like jewels on the bottom shelf.
“Of course I did,” Danny says, settling on the opposite side of the island, chin propped in his hand. “I’m a very obedient sous-chef.”
“You’re not my sous,” you say, sorting vegetables by size like you’re triaging an ER. “You’re my wallet.”
Danny snorts. “Happy to be of service.”
You roll your eyes, turn the tap on, and start rinsing tomatoes one by one, your sleeves shoved up past your elbows. It doesn’t take long for your words to start tumbling again- because you haven’t actually had a normal conversation all day, and Danny is there and smiling like he might want to hear what you have to say.
“So- Italy was good,” you begin, slicing the first bell pepper down the center. “Busy. I swear the factory campus is like a little maze with the department set-up instead of the open floor. Twice I busted into electrical instead of aero.”
Danny watches you move, eyes warm, posture loose. “Did you have to ask directions? Tell me you didn’t spend twenty minutes trapped in a broom closet.”
You point a knife at him without looking up. “It was five. And it wasn’t a broom closet. It was procurement and they were very surprised to see me, and very reluctant to let me go.”
“That’s worse,” he laughs.
“It’s fine. I’m acclimating,” you say, lining bell pepper halves on a sheet pan before moving on to the tomatoes. “Besides, Gavin’s a dream. Like- actually a dream. We went over every procedure, like, four times. He had the documents indexed not just for the team, but for my own records- before I even asked for them. That’s literally never happened before. And he’s really patient. Not in a condescending way. Just… patient.”
You pop another tomato stem off with your thumb and split it into quarters on the tray.
“And the guys in the garage?” Danny asks.
“I like them,” you say honestly. “No weirdness. No assumptions. No ‘smile, sweetheart’ energy. It feels…” You hesitate for a moment. “It feels like they want me there. Like they’re excited.”
Danny’s smile tilts soft. Proud.
“Big vibes,” he says.
“Huuuge vibes,” you confirm.
You spritz a bare minimum amount of oil over the vegetables, add salt, pepper, chili flakes, and grab an entire head of garlic. You don’t measure anything. You never do. Danny watches like it’s performance art.
“You’re back again soon, yeah?” he asks, shifting his weight, arms crossed casually over his chest.
“In like two days,” you sigh. “Italy again, then I’ll see all y’all for shakedowns, media, the launch… it’s nonstop until March. I barely get time to do laundry.”
“Want me to throw a load in for you?” he teases.
“Absolutely not,” you deadpan. “You’d shrink my socks.” Let a man, no matter how well intentioned, pull your underwear out of the dryer? Yeah, fuck no.
He squints at you. “Okay, that one was fair.”
You slide the loaded tray into the oven, set the temperature, and wipe your hands on the dish towel you brought over from your place last month that Danny swears he didn’t realize wasn’t his. He’s watching you like you’re the evening’s main event: shoulders loose, hair rumpled from running his hands through it, eyes warm in the soft kitchen light. There’s a certain… attention in the way he looks at you. Not intense. Just hopeful. Waiting for something.
“Anyways,” you say lightly, rinsing the chicken next and patting it dry, “they gave me my travel schedule for the next month.”
“Yeah?” Danny brightens, leaning forward. “Hit me.”
As you talk, you shake so much of so many seasonings on the chicken that you can’t see the chicken itself anymore. Oven. “Italy, then England, two days blocked out for ‘TBA’ travel, then straight back to Italy again, then Monaco, then Bahrain for a big on-site prep week before official pre-season.” You hesitate as you open the oven to put the protein in.“It’s… a lot.” A lot of flights. A lot of new beds. A lot of new rooms. A lot of new faces. A lot of time to, essentially, be homeless.
Danny grins, nodding. “Busy. But that’s good, yeah? Means they really want you on top of everything.”
“Yeah, totally,” you say, trying to match his enthusiasm. “It’s just- ” You hesitate. You’re not really sure what to do with your hands. You straighten the towel, again. Pull out another head of garlic to peel. “It’s just a lot of… being alone, I guess. New country, new team, new apartment. I love it, but it’s- ”
“Mmh,” Danny interrupts- not rudely, but softly, like a hum slipping out on instinct. “But you’re killing it. Seriously.”
You blink. “…yeah.”
“Like, this is what you wanted, right? This exact thing.” His voice is warm, reassuring. “It’s good. It’s all good.”
You nod slowly. It is good. That’s true.
It just isn’t what you were trying to say.
You crush the garlic under the flat of your knife and scrape it into a bowl. You don’t even think you need more garlic, but it’s something to do. “I mean, it’s fine,” you try again, gentler. “Just… long days. Long nights. And the hotel was kind of quiet, and I- ”
“But you’re loving it,” Danny says brightly, as if picking up the part of the sentence he prefers. “Right? You said Gavin’s amazing. The team’s excited about you. It’s all lining up.”
“Yeah,” you say again, deflating a little. “Yeah.” You trail off. Vulnerable. More exposed than you meant to be.
You move beside him to grab the baguette he’d purchased from the counter- some fancy artisanal bakery he insisted on- and he shifts just enough so your shoulders brush. Not intentional. But not accidental either. You shift away. You keep cooking. You keep ignoring the heaviness pooling somewhere low in your chest.
You swallow. He means well. He always means well.
But every time you try to turn the conversation toward the quiet ache- the nerves, the loneliness, the sheer weight of stepping into Formula One- he pats the feeling on the head and sends it on its way. Cheerier. Lighter. Safer.
Danny’s still smiling. Still watching you. Still proud in that glowy, uncomplicated way he always is. “Busy girl,” he murmurs, leaning against the counter. “New team, new country, new everything… and you still cook me dinner.”
His tone dips just enough that the words land somewhere between teasing and testing. Like he’s holding out a line to see if you’ll take it- if you’ll say you like being here, that it means something, that you’re doing it for him and not just because you’re lonely and you like cooking and you’re bored and he has a nicer stove than you.
You shrug like it’s nothing. It is nothing.“You have good knives.”
“Right,” He laughs- loud, genuine- and it echoes pleasantly off the marble, covering whatever reaction flickered there. “The knives.”
He doesn’t notice the way you turn back to the oven a little too quickly. Or maybe he does. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t say anything. You grab the sheet pan, give the vegetables a poke, and clear your throat.
“Pour us some wine?” you ask.
Danny jumps up, relieved to have something tangible to do. “Thought you’d never ask.”
You’ve just pulled the tray of blistered tomatoes and softened peppers from the oven, the steam fogging your face as you lean back to avoid a burn, when a knock lands on Danny’s front door.
You freeze- not because it’s ominous, but because Danny reacts like someone just hit the resume button on a memory he forgot he had.
“Oh- shit,” he murmurs under his breath, the soft kind of “oh shit,” like something he should’ve remembered twenty minutes ago instead of right now.
Danny jogs out of the kitchen toward the entryway- still out of your sightline- muttering a friendly, “Coming!” You can’t hear the actual voice on the other side of the door, but Danny’s response is immediate, warm, and way too casual.
“Hey, mate! Yeah- come in, come in. Smells good in here, yeah?”
You go still, one hand curled around a roasted bell pepper, thumb hovering over the wrinkled skin. Your ears perk, trying to place the cadence of that greeting, but the words are muffled.
Your mind clicks through possibilities like a Rolodex.
A neighbor?
A business contact?
Some random Monaco rich friend he forgot to mention?
Danny’s footsteps pad back toward the kitchen- and then his head appears around the corner with an expression that is way too innocent to be innocent.
“Uh,” he says, tapping the wall with his knuckle, “do we have enough for one more?”
You stare at him. Not blink. Not glance. Just stare.
One more? One more? You are currently roasting approximately four pounds of tomatoes, three bell peppers, a small nation’s worth of garlic, a tray of chicken breasts, and enough herbs to season half of Italy.
Do you have enough for one more?
You could feed his entire floor. You could feed the concierge. You could feed the next three unexpected guests with Tupperware leftovers. So your stare doesn’t soften. “...yes?” you say finally, voice flat.
Danny gives a tiny, sheepish wince, like he knows exactly how stupid the question was the moment it left his mouth. He beams. “Great! Awesome. Cool. I’ll, uh- yeah. Just bring him back.” Him.
You narrow your eyes. “Danny. Who- ” But he’s already gone, disappearing around the corner before you can finish the question. Your stomach does a little flip- annoyance or nerves or some ugly cocktail of both- as you wipe your hands on a dish towel.
The quiet murmur of voices filters from the hallway, Danny’s bright and welcoming, the other a low rumble you still can’t make out clearly enough to identify.
That’s when it hits you, that odd little realization. That someone- some man- is about to see you standing in Danny Ricciardo’s kitchen in your socks, smelling like roasted tomato and basil, cooking enough food for a family of six, and you’re not really sure how you feel about that.
You straighten, square your shoulders, and brace yourself for whoever the hell Danny has apparently invited to dinner. Footsteps. Socked, but the kind that don’t belong to someone short or slight or gentle. The kind you recognize before you even see him.
Danny rounds the corner first, beaming like a golden retriever who’s proudly dragged something dead into the house.
And then-
Max.
Max steps in behind him.
Your heart drops straight through your ribs.
For half a second, no one speaks. Not Danny. Not Max. Not you. Danny clears his throat. You stare at him, betrayal carved into every line of your face. You continue staring. You continue to continue staring at him because what the fuck, Daniel. What the actual fuck.
“It’s Max!” Danny gestures between you both, oblivious to the crackling static breaking open in his own kitchen.
Max nods once, jaw tight. “Hi.”
It’s a fairly neutral “hi.” Perfectly normal, even if a little clipped. Polite, or trying to be.
You force your spine straight. “Hi.”
Max stands just barely in the entryway, hands shoved into the pockets of his joggers, shoulders coiled tight like someone pulled him out of his natural habitat and dropped him into enemy territory. Danny, radiating golden retriever energy, claps him on the shoulder. “Stay. Seriously. It’s perfect timing.”
Max immediately shakes his head. “No, I can’t. I’m cutting. I’m not- ” He gestures vaguely toward the stove, like the scent of roasting vegetables might leap at him. “I shouldn’t. I’ll just go.”
Danny scoffs. “Bullshit. I know how you get. You need to eat.”
“I am eating,” Max snaps back, sharper than you’ve ever heard him towards Danny, but Danny doesn’t seem taken aback. The irritation cuts quick and too loud for how small the kitchen is. He waves a hand in this vague, irritated gesture and- for a flicker of a second- his eyes dart toward the stove, then the floor, then to Danny, then back to the counter.
It’s strange. Restless. Like he’s uncomfortable in his own skin.
He won’t look at you directly, not long enough for you to read anything, but you catch the way his gaze keeps tugging toward the roasting vegetables in the oven, the bowls on the island you’re pulling out, the very idea of food. He looks away just as quickly, like he’s trying not to be caught staring.
“I’m just not eating- whatever this is,” he mutters, waving his hand at your prep area. His tone comes out almost defensive, but it doesn’t match the way he keeps sneaking glances toward the kitchen. Or the way his jaw tightens at the smell.
Danny rolls his eyes, completely unfazed. “Relax, mate. She’s all about the macros. Keeps it crazy lean.” And then, because Danny can never resist proving a point- he lifts the hem of his shirt with one hand, flashing a tight, cut strip of abdomen like his stomach is a peer-reviewed source. “See?” he grins. “Eating like this? I’m shredding.”
You keep your eyes firmly on the roast pan. Not because you’re blind. Objectively, you’re sure it’s a nice view. But because the last thing you need is Danny Ricciardo thinking you’re admiring him. Things are already… complicated. He’s hovering closer. He’s sweeter. He’s filling in the empty spaces in your week with sunshine and warmth, and you’re painfully aware of the slope you’re standing on.
So you ignore the display completely- intentional, surgical ignorance. Danny’s grin flickers as he drops his shirt. Just for a second.
Max shoots him a look- snappish, tight, irritated- and it hits you that you’ve been on the receiving end of Max’s snarl plenty, but you’ve never actually been an observer of it. Not like this. Not directed at a friend. Not with this weird undercurrent of panic that you can’t place.
You don’t give him anything. No confirmation of calorie counts or macros or methodology or any of the other fluff you’d be falling all over yourself to give to any other dinner guest. You just turn back to your roast pan and scrape up another piece of roasted garlic, methodical, even though your fingers are trembling. “Dinner’s fine,” you say, voice steady. “There’s plenty.”
Danny exhales in relief like you’ve done him a massive favor.
Max moves into the kitchen slowly, like he’s approaching a live wire. You can feel him behind you- even standing two meters away- like a heat source or a gravitational force you didn’t ask for. The air seems thick. Strange. Electric in that awful, unspoken way. Danny, blissfully unaware, hops back onto his stool and starts chattering about his day.
You focus on the stove like it’s a lifeline- because it is.
If you stay busy, you don’t have to talk. If you stay busy, you don’t have to look at him. If you stay busy, you won’t have to acknowledge that Max Verstappen is sitting ten feet away in Danny’s kitchen like a human landmine.
So you work.
You work like you’re auditioning for a chef’s knife commercial.
Everything else goes straight into the blender with the roasted veggies. You don’t measure- you just let your hands feel it out. Cottage cheese, salt, a pinch of cinnamon for warmth, a splash of stock. Lid on, dial turned, and the blender roars to life, swallowing every sound behind you.
Danny’s voice becomes a hum. Max becomes a cooling temperature in the room. You become movement. You pour the molten orange soup into a pot and set it on a low flame, stirring without thinking.
Then the bread.
You slice the baguette at a perfect angle, each crostini identical- as thin as you can make them without having them fold under their own weight, like every gram you can shave off is one extra bite that can be had somewhere else. A quick season and you slide them into the oven.
You still don’t look at Max.
The chicken comes out next- steaming, perfectly cooked. Danny comes up behind you as you’re sliding the last baking dish onto the counter. You’re wiping your hands on a dish towel when he slips into your space- closer than friends stand, but not close enough to be scandalous. Just close enough that you can feel the warmth of his chest at your back.
You set a piece of chicken on the cutting board and your knife glides through it in flawless, even slices. Paper thin. Delicate. Like you’re making offerings instead of dinner. His hand lands on your shoulder, light and warm. “Jesus, Hollywood,” he murmurs- soft praise, proud, admiring- “you absolutely crushed this.”
You go stiff.
Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just- tight, contained, spine straightening under his touch like someone tugged a wire. Danny doesn’t notice. He squeezes once, affectionate, then lets his hand glide off your shoulder like nothing in the world is strange about it.
But something is. Something in you. Something sharp and embarrassing and complicated coils right under your ribs. And you don’t know what to call it, how to focus on it, so you just focus. on. the. food. So you start assembling.
And this is where you lose the plot completely.
Crostini off the tray. A touch of softened tomato, spread in a perfect swipe. Three thin, but immaculate, slices of chicken. A tiny sprinkle of diced basil. A thin drizzle of balsamic glaze. A pinch of flaky salt so precise it may as well have been arranged with tweezers.
And then again. And again. And again. Would it be more efficient cooking to batch these? Absolutely. But that would imply you’re trying to finish. That would imply you’re cooking.
You’re not cooking anymore.
You’re channelling stress into architecture. You’re manifesting avoidance through fine motor control. You’re creating an edible arrangement because the alternative is… acknowledging the men at the counter.
Max, who hates you. Max, who you hate. Max, who kissed you on Christmas Eve. Max, who- unfortunately, miserably- knows something no one should ever know about you. Max, who now knows that at the grand age of twenty-two, you get night terrors. Max, who is probably doing the math of your existence here
You try not to visibly cringe. Waking up choking on a gasp, heart clawing up your throat, pressing yourself back against the wall of his hotel room before you were fully conscious- hands braced behind you, eyes stinging with tears that hadn’t fallen yet. And Max, barefoot on his carpet, standing there like he’d been about to reach for you, or call someone, or do something.
Just staring at you. Taking you in. Seeing you.
It makes your stomach curdle with embarrassment- no, humiliation. Almost anger. You can’t think about it without wanting to crawl out of your own skin. You’d barely gotten yourself back under control before you realized what you were doing, where you were, who you were in front of.
And now he’s here. Again. Looking. Taking inventory of your life like he’s entitled to it. You can feel it- like a physical force, like gravity isn’t a universal constant but something determined by where Max Verstappen is pointing his eyes.
You don’t turn. You don’t look at him. But you feel it. You feel him taking in every piece of this scene. You. Danny. The soup. The quiet, subtle familiarity you’ve built in this apartment. The way you know where the cutting boards are.
And you know what it must look like. It must look like Danny is someone to you. It must look like you’re someone to Danny. And you hate that. Not because you dislike Danny. You don’t. You like him. You genuinely enjoy being around him. His company is easy. He makes Monaco feel less hollow, less sharp. He’s warm in a city that you don't know well enough to feel anything but cold in.
But for four weeks now you’ve kept half an eye on the distance. You’ve always managed it - the leaning, the touches, the invitations. Not shutting him down, not leading him on. Holding that invisible line where comfort lives but complication doesn’t.
It was fine. Safe. Balanced. Until now.
Until someone else is in the room - someone who will make assumptions, who will draw conclusions, who will maybe say something to someone else. Someone who has already seen a version of you that you can’t take back -
With Max ten feet away, eyes on you like he’s trying to solve an equation that refuses to balance - everything about Danny’s touch, no matter how benign, feels… foreign.
Misplaced. Misinterpreted. Like you’ve suddenly stepped into a role you didn’t audition for, wearing someone else’s skin.
And you don’t know why the fuck it hits you like that. You don’t know why your whole body says no when Danny leans in with that open, effortless affection that never bothered you before. You don’t know why the idea of Max thinking anything about you - about your relationship with Danny - makes something inside your ribs twist uncomfortably.
Not because you care what Max thinks of you. Not because his opinion matters.
But because this impression - this illusion of easy infatuation - isn’t true.
You’re not doing anything with Danny. You’re not leading him anywhere. You’re not trying to create a picture for anyone to interpret. You’re just friends.
You’re just-
You swallow hard.
You’re just a girl in a kitchen, cooking dinner trying not to shrink under the weight of being misunderstood. Under the weight of
You’re just… here. Just existing. Just trying not to be so fucking alone.
You clear your throat, quietly. “Soup’s done. Can someone grab bowls?”
It’s a plea for space.
Danny perks up immediately. “Yeah, yeah- I’ll get them.”
He slips away, humming to himself, and the kitchen expands around you again- air returning to your lungs in one big, shaky exhale.
For a beat, it’s just you and the simmer of soup.
_______________________________________________________________
Max hadn’t meant to stay.
He really, really hadn’t.
He told himself he was only here out of politeness - out of respect for Danny’s insistence, out of some vague social obligation he couldn’t articulate. He told himself he’d hand over the package, say something casual, and get the hell out. But the second he had stepped fully into Danny’s apartment, something territorial had flared hot and sharp in his chest.
Because you were not supposed to belong here. Not in this kitchen. Not with his best friend. Not moving around Danny’s space like you’d done it a hundred times.
Except- you were. You are.
You’re barefoot in his friend’s apartment. Your hair is tied up haphazardly, comfortable enough not to care. You open Danny’s drawers without asking. You adjust the flame on his stove like it answers to you. You drop used spoons into the sink with the ease of someone who’s done it a dozen times.
And then -
Without turning, without offering him even a glance, you slide a bowl of soup and a plate of crostini across the island toward him.
Not with warmth. Not with hostility. Just… politeness. Clinical. Functional. Like this is what you do here - feed Danny’s friends, whoever they are, whether you like them or not.
Like this is routine. Like you belong here.
Max stiffens.
He doesn’t want it.
He doesn’t want this from you - this small domestic gesture, this bowl of effort, this thing that feels like care even though he knows it isn’t meant for him. He doesn’t want to sit here and pretend this is normal, that you’re normal, that anything about the two of you sharing oxygen is normal.
He doesn’t want to appreciate something you made.
But the smell… God, the smell.
It crawls under his ribs before he can fight it - roasted tomatoes, sweet garlic, basil blooming against heat. His stomach clenches so hard it’s nearly painful. Max swallows hard, irritation blooming under his tongue. He shouldn’t be here.
He shouldn’t have agreed to come upstairs.
He should’ve given Danny his stupid fucking sim plug-in and left.
He should’ve gone home and eaten boiled chicken out of a Tupperware like he’s supposed to.
He tells himself he’s not going to finish it. It’s fine. Just a few bites. Just enough to get a taste, to be polite and take his leave. He tells himself he won’t react. He tells himself he won’t make a thing of it.
But then he takes the first spoonful.
And every single thought he had evaporates into thin fucking air.
Holy shit.
Holy fuck.
The soup hits his tongue and his whole body goes quiet. His chest, his shoulders, the anger coiled under his ribs… everything goes still. Because it’s good. Unfairly, stupidly, devastatingly good.
Warm, bright, layered - the taste of roasted tomatoes and basil and garlic, but with a depth he can’t quite place, something soft and slow-cooked and entirely unlike anything he’s let himself have in weeks.
Max freezes. Because he knows this taste. Not this soup exactly, but the shape of it. The memory of it. He takes another spoonful, and the world tilts- just slightly, just enough.
It tastes like being nine.
Like the holiday week he got to spend with his mum, when the world was small and soft for exactly six days in a row. When the house smelled like laundry powder and Hagelslag and pine candles and Mum made tomato soup that steamed the cold out of his fingers and nose after he and Victoria spent the afternoon building lopsided snowmen in the garden.
Like thawing out. Like being wanted. Like ‘Opwarmen, lieverd.’
And the feeling hits him so hard it almost makes him angry. Another spoonful - hotter this time, basil hitting the back of his throat. He didn’t mean to take that one either. Or the next. But something ugly and hungry and desperate is unspooling in him, and he can’t stop it.
Not for you.
No.
It’s this.
This bowl of something warm. This food that tastes like care. This little plate of crostini that looks like it belongs in a restaurant. This glue of attention and thought he hasn’t felt wrapped around him in… God. Weeks. Since he started this godawful cut. Months, maybe. Maybe when Kelly slammed the door on his whole fucked little existence. Years?
Max isn’t hearing anything. Nothing. Danny’s talking about the yacht charter sponsorship, waving his hands like the words matter. You’re chiming in occasionally- merchandising strategy, travel plans, shakedown timelines, meeting schedules- but none of it penetrates the haze Max is in.
His jaw tightens. He forces himself - physically forces his hand away from the bowl - just to break the spell, to breathe, to stop inhaling the goddamn soup like someone’s going to rip it away from him.
He reaches for a crostini instead, like that’s safer.
It isn’t.
The moment he bites into it, something volcanic rolls through him - not longing, not softness, but rage.
Because it’s perfect.
Perfect in the way nothing he’s allowed to eat ever is. Crispy, balanced, bright, salty, and- above all- filling. Not in a macros-and-meal-prep way. In a human way. The kind of thing someone makes when they’re not just feeding people, but thinking while they do it.
He takes another spoonful, jaw tight, tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth like he’s holding something in place. He doesn’t look at you. He can’t. If he does, he’ll… he doesn’t even know. Snarl? Say something stupid? Admit something he doesn’t want to admit even to himself- the thing that feels sick, sharp, almost shameful?
Whatever it is, he’s not doing it.
This isn’t about you anyway. He refuses that. The hands that made it don’t matter. You don’t matter.
He doesn’t want you.
He wants this.
He wants someone who cares enough to make something warm. He wants someone who thinks ahead. He wants someone who believes food should taste like something. That he deserves food that tastes like something. Even when it’s an accomodation. Even when he’s cutting. He wants the small, invisible gestures that say here, eat, I’ve got you for a second.
Just… something decent. Something that feels good. Something that fills him without making him feel weak or guilty.
And you - without looking at him, without speaking to him, without even thinking about him - have managed to manifest that so effortlessly -for Danny, of all people- that Max wants to put his fist through the countertop.
He shoves another crostini in his mouth.
Fuck Danny.
Fuck this kitchen.
Fuck how good the food is.
And fuck the way his throat goes tight when he realizes how long it’s been since anyone fed him something with actual love behind it. Even if it’s not, technically, for him. It tastes like it is, and that’s close enough.
He takes another bite - smaller this time, slower - and the tension drains from behind his eyes before he can stop it. His shoulders drop a fraction. His jaw unclenches. His pulse stops pounding in his ears.
He hates that he can feel himself getting less angry as he eats. Hates that the food works. Hates that he’s predictable enough for it to matter.
But with the edge of hunger dulled, the world stops feeling like sandpaper.
And Max becomes aware of the room again. Aware of the air, the way it shifts when you move. Aware of the humming fluorescent under-cabinet lights, the faint eucalyptus of Danny’s diffuser, the warmth from the oven lingering in the galley space.
And aware- almost painfully- of the dynamic unfolding in front of him.
Danny, leaning on the counter like he owns the place. You, moving through the kitchen like you’ve been here a hundred times. The ease, the choreography, the familiarity of bodies that have shared space before.
It grates immediately.
Danny is circling you in the way he always circles someone he likes- bright-eyed, loose-shouldered, casual in a way that is anything but accidental. He laughs at something you say, the sound warm and round and eager. His hand comes up to your shoulder again, fingertips brushing the cotton of your shirt.
And Max sees it.
Clear as day.
Danny likes you.
Max knows this the way he knows braking points - instinctively, immediately, with the ease of a man who has spent half a decade reading Daniel Ricciardo’s tells before Daniel Ricciardo knows he’s showing them.
And it’s not the obvious things. Because with Danny, the obvious things mean nothing.
Danny is always warm. Always leaning. Always touching shoulders, nudging elbows, laughing too loud, grinning like he’s in on a secret he hasn’t told the room yet. He is tactile with everyone- women, men, fans, friends, engineers, sponsors,-
Affection is not a tell with Danny Ricciardo. It’s baseline behavior. So it’s not that.
It’s the other things.
The little deviations from the script Max knows by heart.
The memory of that night after the year-end party sits stubbornly in his mind like a pebble in a shoe.You, standing in the doorway of that hotel room, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing, saying - very politely, very sweetly - that you would rather drink from a racing boot than spend another second near Max.
(Dramatic. Entirely unnecessary. He hadn’t been that irritating.)
Danny sitting on the edge of the sofa after, quietly stewing at him, mumbling something vague-but-not-vague about how you were apparently worth knowing.
And Max had filed that away, taken note, figured that was that. Disaster avoided. Chalked it up to a single time issue, a single point in time brought on by a bit of proximity, a bit of booze, and the fact that you had worn a tight shirt and looked- no.
That it was just the natural “new shiny thing” response most men had when you appeared in a room for the first time.That it would pass if Max simply jammed enough gears, blocked enough lanes, and made the whole ordeal impossible enough that Danny would drop it naturally. It’s worked on Danny before.
So Max had interfered - subtly, effectively, almost instinctively. A snide comment here, a strategic derailment there. Just enough turbulence that Danny would lose interest before that night went anywhere for him. And for a while, Max thought it had worked. Thought he’d dodged the whole stupid mess. Thought he’d never have to hear about the bow in your hair or the rip in the back of your jeans or the stupid nylons you wore underneath again.
Except…here you are. In Danny’s kitchen. Barefoot. Moving around like you’ve been here a hundred times.
That matters. Because Danny rarely focuses on anything longer than thirty seconds unless he’s in a car or in love. That’s how Max knows. This is interest. Not crush-at-first-sight interest. Real interest. Confident, grown-up interest.
So all of that - all the data points, all the soft tones, all the careful leaning-around-you - makes perfect sense.
What doesn’t make sense is you.
Because he’s seen women with Danny. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands if you count grid parties and sponsor events and the endless parade of beautiful faces who orbit F1 like migrating birds. Women don’t resist Daniel Ricciardo. They can’t. Not really.
Danny is touched by God - Max has always believed that, even back when he didn’t believe in anything. A birthright to charisma. A light he never had to earn. A smile that softens entire rooms. A laugh that pulls people in like gravity.
Max remembers being younger, greener, clumsier at the edges - a rookie trailing behind him through paddocks and hotel lobbies, trying to figure out what fucking gene he was missing. Danny could walk into a room and turn strangers into friends within minutes. Max… couldn’t. Still can’t.
He tried to study it the way he studied telemetry. How Danny leaned in when someone spoke. How he touched elbows or shoulders in passing. How he made people feel like the only person in the room. Max never learned that trick, but Danny never minded him staying close. Never minded softening the room a little so Max could survive in it.
So this - what’s happening in front of him - does not track.
Because Danny is doing what Danny does. The low voice. The warm grin. The jokes tossed gently in your direction. The casual lean-in, close enough that most women melt into a puddle without realizing they’re doing it.
But you…?
You’re not glowing.
Your shoulders stay tight, just a fraction tense. Your smile sits shallow, fixed into place like something stitched on rather than offered. Your eyes flick up at Danny’s face- not with that warm, instinctive, unconscious brightness Max is used to seeing in women around him. No. More like you’re checking where he is in your periphery. Logging him. Keeping him in the corner of your vision the way someone keeps track of a hot pan.
Not unhappy. Not annoyed. It just seems like you’re… bracing? Polite. Contained. Placating.
Max feels his jaw tighten as he watches you put together a bowl for Danny. The motion is fluid, your wrist turning cleanly- but your shoulders stay slightly raised, as if someone asked a question you don’t want to answer.
He frowns. It doesn’t match. It doesn’t fit.
It’s… strange.
Your body doesn’t angle toward him. You don’t soften, don’t lean, don’t unconsciously offer anything. If anything, you hold yourself straighter. More controlled. Like you’re managing something delicate- managing you, managing him, managing the space between you.
His brows draw together in a deep, sharp line. What the hell is that?
He tries- he genuinely tries- to reason through it.
Maybe she’s stringing him along. No. Your eyes don’t glint. There’s no half-smirk. If you were steering this… you’d look steadier. More self-assured.
Maybe she’s shy. You? Absolutely not.
Maybe she does like him and is just being careful. But where’s the telltale warmth? Where’s the unconscious lean-in?
It’s not there. None of it is there. What is there is something Max doesn’t have a clean word for- a stilted politeness, a brittle kind of grace, like you’re trying very hard not to make waves for reasons Max can’t fathom.
He catches the way you look at Danny’s hand when it brushes yours as you settle into your seat. Not with flirtation. Not with affection. Not even with annoyance. Just a quiet, inward wince that you smooth over before Danny even registers the contact.
Something here is off. Not wrong, exactly, it’s evident you’re not upset- just… misaligned. A puzzle piece jammed into a space it doesn’t fit. And he can’t figure out why it bothers him.
He shouldn’t care. You’re… you. He barely tolerates you. You barely tolerate him.
And yet-
Danny’s talking, hands flying, outlining the sponsor commitments each of you will have for the charter deal. Max sits across from you, bowl in hand, pretending not to watch you but catching every flicker of your expression in the reflection on his spoon.
Eventually Danny pauses long enough to take a drink, and you take that sliver of silence and slip something into it.
“So, um…” you begin carefully, pushing the stem of your glass in a slow circle. “Gavin and I were going over some race-situation simulations earlier this week. And I’m actually a little worried about something, if you have any insight.”
Danny brightens instantly. “Fire away!”
You wet your lips. Your posture is good, composed, but your fingers are restless against the condensation on your glass.
“If I qualify anywhere from like… P10 to P15, I’m stuck in the mess,” you say, exhaling softly. “The dirty air just- sucks. I’ll cook the tires trying to free myself. No clean laps. No chance to show what I can do. It’s… frustrating.”
You say it lightly. Matter-of-fact. Almost breezy, like you’re rattling off someone else’s problem. But it costs you something to admit. Max sees that immediately. The tiny downturn at the corner of your mouth. The way you look down rather than at either of them.
It’s not fear of traffic. It’s not even frustration with the physics.
It’s the quiet, heavy knowledge that talent can’t drive around physics - not in a midfield car. Not in this era. Not with how the air behaves when you tuck behind another car’s wing. Not with how much fucking momentum it requires to get a pass over and make it stick with these wide-bodied monsters.
And you know it.
You’re not whining. You’re not making excuses. You’re stating a tactical truth and exposing the pressure underneath it. You need clean air. You need space. You need a chance to show something exceptional.
Because “good enough”… Max can see it in your face - good enough isn’t going to cut it for you.
Good enough gets you swallowed by the midfield. Good enough gets you a contract extension at best, two years of scrapping, a couple of highlight reel moments. Then the team brings in the next hotshot from Formula 2. And you’re out. Forgotten. A trivia question.
Rookies don’t get time. Especially on this team.
They get one season - maybe less - to prove they’re not just drivers.
But prospects. Stars. Someone a top team should steal.
He remembers that same pressure - not spoken, not taught, but carved into him. The knowledge that “good” was useless. That “okay” was failure. That if he wasn’t remarkable immediately, he’d never rise out of the midfield quicksand.
Some rookies don’t get that. Sometimes, the true greenies are delusional, convinced they’ll out-brake God and get noticed just for surviving. They don’t know yet what it’s like to be out-paced, out-engineered, out-gunned and still have to produce week in and week out.
You’re not delusional. You’re aware. Max gets it, what you’re actually trying to say.
Danny doesn’t. Danny doesn’t even see it brush past him. “Ah, you’ll be fine!” he beams, dismissing the concern with a wave of his hand. “You’re fast! And you’ve got great instincts! Just out-brake everyone. That’s what I always did.”
Your shoulders shift- small, controlled. A retreat, Max thinks. Not consciously. An instinct.
Still, you try again. “It’s not really about being brave on the brakes, it’s about- ”
“We don’t need to get into all that,” Danny chirps. “Trust me. You’re gonna kill it.”
You look down at your drink. That’s the only movement. Your expression stays the same, polite and neutral- but your body closes by a single degree. Max notices that. Not with sympathy. Not with insight. Just… observation. A fact catalogued.
You opened. And then you closed.
He doesn’t know what to make of it. He doesn’t try to know. He just watches.
Danny barrels ahead, still oblivious. “Seriously, if you’re in traffic, just dive-bomb somebody. Or hold outside. People don’t defend the outside enough- ”
Max cuts him off without meaning to.
“She’s right.”
It lands like a slap in the air.
Both of you look at him. Danny, startled. You, with your breath caught like he surprised something out of you.
Max doesn’t know why he spoke. He doesn’t examine the impulse. Maybe it was the chance to rub it in that you’re fucked this season, maybe it was to keep Danny from continuing to say stupid shit and making it worse- he doesn’t care.
He just reaches for his last crostini, speaking through the tail end of a bite like it’s an afterthought. “A midfield car in dirty air is fucked.” He shrugs, casual. “If she can’t get past someone within a few laps, that’s her race done.”
Danny blinks. “Okaaaay, Mister Sunshine- ”
Max keeps going, because now that he’s started, it’s easier to keep talking than to sit in the conversation he created. “She’s thinking ahead. Most rookies don’t even consider that. They think they’re going to send it every corner and magically get free air.” He glances at you then, just before turning his attention to scraping the last atoms from his bowl. Just for a second.
Nothing soft. Nothing kind. Nothing sweet. Just acknowledgement.
You had a point.
Your reaction is tiny.
So small Max almost misses it. Your shoulders drop by maybe a millimeter- a subtle release of tension so quick and so quiet that anyone who wasn’t already watching you wouldn’t catch it. You don’t smile. You don’t thank him. You don’t even look at him. But something in you unclenches, and Max pretends he didn’t notice. He immediately looks away, jaw tightening, as if refusing the possibility that he gave you anything you needed, even by accident.
He didn’t. That’s not what happened. He was just correcting Danny. That’s all.
Danny, who is not helping himself. Danny, still oblivious to everything he’s missing, gestures wildly with his drink. “It’s not that dire- ”
“It is.” Max says it with a blunt firmness that cuts right through Danny’s sunshine. “If she cooks her fronts trying to get free, she’s dead. Might as well pit for ice cream.” He’s leaning into the irritation on purpose now. “At least she’s at least aware she’ll be in a shitbox at the back of a DRS train.”
Danny points his spoon at him. “It’s not a shitbox- ”
Max rolls right over him. “Compared to the top teams? It absolutely is.”
Your eyes flick toward him. Not grateful. Not soft.
Danny, still trying to wrestle the conversation back to something bright, waves his spoon again. “Okay, sure, clean air is important, blah blah. I’m just saying - she’s talented. She’ll be fine.”
The word fine hits the table like a dull weight. Max sees your fingers twitch once on the countertop. Not a reaction. Not really.
Just enough of one to betray that “fine” is the exact thing you’re terrified of being.
And nobody says a word more about it. The conversation dies an ugly, uneven death- Danny’s relentless optimism finally running out of steam against the blunt force of Max’s realism. The topic lies there between the three of you like roadkill.
You’re the one who moves first. A clean transition. An escape hatch. A pivot out of a topic you clearly regret bringing up.
Max watches you cross to the counter- muted grace, hair falling forward, sleeves pushed to your elbows. There’s a brief pause as you set your bowl down, your hand bracing on the counter’s edge, gathering yourself before-
You glance back at him, quick, and for a moment he almost checks behind himself to see who you’re actually talking to. And then- in a shocking act of voluntary civility-
“Do you want seconds?”
For a beat, he honestly thinks he misheard you. You never offer him anything. Not without corporate coercion. And now you’re willingly offering him more food? He blinks. “…What?”
You just nod toward his empty bowl- already scraped close to polished. “Another serving?”
Max stares at the bowl as if it betrayed him. The first round was plenty filling- chicken, crostini, the soup- he’s not hungry. He could eat three more bowls.
But he’s also cutting weight. His brain flips open a mental spreadsheet and starts crunching: macros, calories, tomorrow’s workout, if he still has enough room for a G&T before bed. He sees the exact moment you register his hesitation. Your shoulders relax by a fraction, posture softening into something almost professional- race-weight-management mode.
“It’s only, like… a hundred fifty calories,” you say quietly, matter-of-fact. “Maybe one-seventy-five. It’s mostly roasted veggies. You’re fine.”
Max hates- hates- that that seals it.
He shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “Sure. Yeah. Second bowl.”
You nod like you didn’t just commit an act that goes against the entire established universe of your interactions and move back to the stove. Max watches you for a moment longer than he means to.He doesn’t like how aware he feels of you. How aware you feel of him.
You move around Danny’s kitchen with that same clean, economical precision he’s seen in the garage- but stripped of fire, stripped of armor. Your hair is pulled up, nothing fancy, just twisted and clipped, a little mussed from the stove’s heat. Your clothes are soft, lived-in. Clothes meant for comfort, not competition.
And even though Danny keeps pelting the room with forced sunshine- bright praise, easy jokes, that relentless buoyancy you clearly can’t sink into- you still look soft. Not relaxed, not exactly. But gentle. Calmer than you should be with Max sitting ten feet away, watching you like an opponent he can’t quite decode.
You ladle the soup, steam curling in delicate ribbons around your wrist. You tilt the pot just so, steady the bowl with your thumb. You’re not thinking about it- you’re just doing it. A quiet, domestic choreography.
And it hits Max- hard- that you look like you could belong here.
Not here specifically, but somewhere.
Someone’s girlfriend in a warm kitchen. Someone’s daughter cooking a family recipe. Someone’s sister bustling around like she owns the place. Someone’s mom, even- not because you look old, but because you move with a kind of unconscious competence. An instinct for care you don’t even seem aware you’re showing.
It shouldn’t feel strange. He’s already seen this version of you. The hotel. The adjoining doors. You asleep in a massive pair of sweats and a tank, hand still on your notebook- soft and clean and utterly unguarded. Girlish. Human. Real.
He didn’t like it then. He doesn’t like it now.
Because now he can’t pretend it was a one-off. Now he can’t pretend you’re one-dimensional. Now he can’t trap you neatly into the box he built for you. Now he has to admit that your soup is good and that your data analysis is the best he’s ever had and that maybe you aren’t all evil and that you have great taste in wine and that, annoyingly, you are a really good –
You’re human in a way he doesn’t want you to be. In ways that make his skin crawl.
You set the bowl in front of him with careful intention, managing not to brush his fingers. And that somehow makes it worse.“Thanks,” he mutters, low and awkward. Too quiet for normal Max, too rough to be polite. You answer with the smallest nod, almost imperceptible- two people who have agreed, silently and against their will, to admit civility exists even when sober.
Danny, oblivious, grins like the sun. “See? Look at us! Team dinner!” Neither you nor Max dignify that with a response.
Max finishes his second bowl slower than the first. Not slow, but slower- enough to look normal. Enough to hide the fact that if he followed instinct, he’d have inhaled it again.
He sets the empty bowl down. Max isn’t proud of how long he keeps tasting the last traces of the soup on his tongue. It was good. Too good. Two-bowls-and-could-easily-take-a-third good.
The kind of good that makes him sit back a little heavier on the stool, pretending he isn’t replaying the flavors in his head. Pretending he isn’t already calculating how often this kind of dinner happens here, in Danny’s kitchen - and precisely how easily one might find themselves getting invited back.
He’ll tell himself later it was about the food. He’ll tell himself that for days. But right now, in the warm little pocket of light coming off Danny’s pendant lamps, it’s simpler: Tonight felt… okay.
Quiet. Human. Not the flat silence of his penthouse - the echoing, untouched rooms, the sterile kitchen stocked with food he never eats. Not the heavy kind of solitude he usually drags home from the paddock.
This was different. Not soft. Not sweet. But tolerable. Predictable. Familiar in a way he can’t quite name. He got to see Danny. He got a meal that made him feel something like alive.
And you - stiff, strange, glancing at him like you’d rather be anywhere else - you weren’t
horrible. You weren’t warm, either. But you didn’t grate on him the way he expected you to. That part was almost disappointing.
You’re already moving through the familiar motions - gathering dishes, wiping the counter, sliding Danny a teasing, “Your turn,” as you hand him a stack of plates. Danny smirks and starts to get up, shoulders rolling, sleeves pushing back.
This is a rhythm, Max realizes. A pattern. Cook, joke, clean, settle.
An easy little loop he is not part of.
Something about it irritates him. Not jealousy - he won’t give it that name - but a low, bristling awareness that Danny is about to step into a tidy, domestic moment. The kind of gesture that strengthens a bond. The kind of shared movement that leaves people looking comfortable together.
Max doesn’t want to watch that. And because, more simply, he wants Danny to keep inviting him back. Being useful never hurts that cause. Danny heading for the sink threatens that.
So Max stands. “I’ll do it,” he says, already stepping forward, already reaching for the bowl in Danny’s hand.
Danny freezes, blinking like he’s trying to make sure Max didn’t accidentally slip into Dutch. “You… will?”
Max shrugs, casual to the point of dismissal. “Yeah. You hosted. Consider it a trade.”
This is a lie. This is not a trade. This is strategy. But Danny’s face warms, a small grin breaking through - touched, surprised, pleased. Exactly what Max intended. A deposit into the friendship bank.
“Damn, mate,” Danny says. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
You pause halfway out of the kitchen, laptop cradled to your chest, eyes flicking between the two men like you’re trying to understand the little ‘bro moment’ unfolding in the kitchen. But whatever confusion sparks across your face doesn’t linger - you turn toward the TV, already focusing on syncing your laptop. Fine. Good. Max prefers you that way.
He moves around the kitchen with a nonchalance he almost pulls off. The dishes clink softly, the faucet runs low. He isn’t rushing. He isn’t flustered. He’s simply… present.
Useful.
In a way that leaves Danny with a little glow of gratitude and positions Max, subtly, quietly, exactly where he wants to be.
A natural part of the evening. Someone who might be invited back. Someone who belongs here. He catches himself thinking that last bit and clamps down hard on the impulse. That’s not what this is. It’s just opportunity. Access.
A good meal, tolerable company, nothing else.
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Series Masterlist
Your consolation prize for no max win.
On the real though I had this pretty much ready Sunday night and then one sentence looked at me funny and I rewrote the last six pages ✨
As always this machine runs on comments, please leave me one!!
Not in temperature, God, no- it’s perfectly regulated, of course- but in tone. Gold ribbons wind around every banister. Candlelight flickers over frosted pine boughs. There’s laughter from the next room, a jingle of bells from one of the kids shaking a gift too early, and Sandy’s voice calls out something affectionate that ends in a chuckle. Jos doesn’t smile. He checks his watch. Again.
Max is late.
Not fifteen minutes, not even ten- six. Six minutes past the agreed-upon time. But the thing about rules in the Verstappen household is they are binary. You are either on time, or you are not. There’s no such thing as almost on time. No such thing as close enough.
Jos’s fingers flex around his coffee cup. His jaw ticks.
He hears the car before anyone else does- those finely tuned ears that learned to pick out an engine’s imperfections long before he ever picked out Max’s. The growl of the exhaust cut, a door thudding shut, footsteps.
Too fast, Jos thinks.
Max is trying to make up for it- whatever it is. Trying to shrink the sin of being late into the steps between the car and the door. He won’t run, of course- Max knows better than to confirm guilt so plainly- but Jos hears the urgency in the way he climbs the steps. A half-jog. A breath held in the throat.
The door swings open.
And there he is.
Max’s hair is a little messy, like he finger-combed it before getting out. His jacket is zipped too high. He looks around the room, eyes scanning and settling, like he’s hoping someone else might notice him first- someone not Jos.
No such luck.
Max’s eyes catch his. For half a second, he falters. “Hey,” Max says. It comes out lighter than it should. Like he might be able to joke his way through it. “Miss me?”
Jos lifts one brow. Slow. Controlled. His answer is a beat of silence. “I said eight-thirty.”
“I landed at eight-seventeen,” Max replies, too quickly. “Traffic out of the airport- ”
Jos’s gaze sharpens.
“Traffic?”
The word slices through the warm air. One of the kids’ toys makes a crashing noise in the next room, and someone giggles, but Max barely hears it.
“Max Emilian,” Jos says. “You have a plane. A car. A driver to deliver said car. There was no weather delay.”
Max opens his mouth. Shuts it. The blood in his ears is loud. There’s a beat where Jos doesn’t say anything else- just studies him. Evaluating. Waiting for the excuse Max won’t give, because he knows it won’t be enough. There’s no excuse that ever is. Jos steps forward, just enough to lower his voice. “Where were you last night?” Max doesn’t answer. And that silence is everything Jos needs to hear.
Max’s spine straightens, but it’s more reflex than resolve. He shifts slightly, hands in his pockets, eyes low. Trying not to look fifteen again. Trying not to be fifteen again. But the posture is there, buried deep in muscle memory. It always is around Jos.
"You knew what time we were eating,” Jos says, voice low, biting. “You knew when everyone was arriving. But you made them wait.”
“I didn’t- ” Max starts, falters.
“You did.”
A child’s laugh rings out. Victoria calls from the kitchen, something about the strudel. Max wishes he were there. Not here. Not pinned down like an insect on the board of Jos’ inspection.
“I know you went to Christian’s,” Jos says suddenly. “I know you saw GP. That was yesterday. You had all night.”
Max could lie.
It almost forms on instinct- some vague excuse about delays, about the plane, about weather. But he knows better. He’s not stupid enough to try and lie to Jos. Not bold enough. Not suicidal. He swallows once. “I was tired.”
“Tired.”
“Stayed in Milton Keynes.”
Jos steps closer, eyes narrowing. “Where, exactly?”
Max's jaw flexes. “The factory.” Jos lifts both brows- surprised, but not entirely. The tension between them stretches, warps slightly.
“The factory,” he repeats, tasting it. “All night.” Max gives a single, reluctant nod. And just like that, the atmosphere shifts. Jos straightens slightly, and for the first time since Max walked in, he seems almost... curious. Interested.
“Hmm.” It’s not approval. Not yet. But it’s no longer punishment, either. It’s inquiry. “And her?” Jos asks, voice deceptively mild. “Did she go see family?”
Max hesitates. But there’s no pause in his answer. “No.” Not I don’t think so. Not Probably not. Just no. Jos hums again- this time deeper, slower. Like a man watching a puzzle finally click into place.
He doesn’t grin- Jos never grins- but there’s a ghost of satisfaction that touches the edges of his mouth. “Well,” he says, clapping Max once on the shoulder. Not affectionately. Strategically. “Glad you made it. You’re just in time.”
And then he turns, walking into the living room with a sudden lightness in his step.
Max stays in place for a second longer than he should- cheeks hot, hands suddenly fists in his pockets- before forcing a smile and moving into the living room. The kids attack his legs. Sandy pulls him into a quick side hug. Victoria tosses a gift onto his lap. The room is bright, welcoming, loud.
And Max laughs, because that’s what he’s supposed to do. And he smiles, and he hands expensive gifts from far away places around the room, and he tries not to think about how easily Jos let him go.
And he can still feel the ghost of green wax under his fingernails.
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You wake slowly, the kind of slow that feels like you’ve waterboarded yourself with red wine. Your mouth is dry, your skin a little too warm, and your head... fuzzy. Not quite pain. Just soft around the edges. Like your skull’s been packed with cotton.
Your first thought is that Max isn’t here.
Your second thought- sharper, warier, scarier- is that Max not being here currently implies that he was here previously. That Max not currently being in your room implies that he was previously in your room. That Max not currently being in you bed implies-
And oh, was he. He was there when you fell asleep. You remember that much. And if your memory can be trusted- and that’s a big if right now- you’re pretty sure you shifted during the night. Not far. Just a little turn, a curl toward something solid. Toward him. And he was still there. Still warm, still real.
Unless you hallucinated it. You’re not sure.
But either way- he’s not here now. No sound. No trace.
You push up slowly, hands braced on the mattress, blanket sliding down your back. The dorm is quiet- muted in the way only early holiday mornings can be. No slamming doors. No hallway chatter. Just stillness.
The laptop’s been closed and tucked neatly onto the side of your desk that functions as a nightstand. The blanket- your blanket- you realize, was pulled up higher sometime during the night. Tucked just under your shoulder. Tucked.
The bottle and glass are gone. No trace of the crayons. No scrap of a single coloring page.
Outwardly, there are no signs that this morning is any different than the roughly one hundred and six other mornings that you’ve woken up in this room. No champagne corks on the floor. No shoes kicked off next to the wall. No smell of wine on the air. Just the faintest, ghostlike impression of him where he might have been, and only because you remember.
You swing your legs off the bed, pull the door open, and shuffle barefoot to the railing. One hand drags through your sleep-mussed hair as you lean your weight into the cool metal, peering down into the lobby below.
It’s spotless.
No pizza box on the ottoman. No empty bottle. Just a neat stack of coloring sheets and the crayon cup- perfectly filled. Your jacket- no longer tossed lazily over the chair like you'd left it- is folded. Folded. Draped carefully over the backrest like someone wanted it to look like it had never been touched.
It hits you, then, slow and dull at first: He erased it. Everything. Like he wanted you to wake up and wonder if he’d ever been here at all.
And maybe… he did.
You’re not offended. That’s the strange part. You’re not hurt or rejected. It doesn’t sting. It’s smart. Sensible. Clean.
Because what happened- what actually happened- was so monumentally fucking stupid that pretending it didn’t happen is the only logical course of action for a person with a working brainstem.
Your thoughts finally catch up to your body- sluggish and stilted and blinking in the daylight like they’ve just been slapped awake.
You made out with Max Verstappen.
Not in a dream. Not at gunpoint. Not as a gloating farewell while you watched the life fade from his eyes with your hands wrapped around his throat, like you’d fantasized once or twice before.
In your dorm. On your bed.
Tongues and everything.
Jesus Christ.
Max fucking Verstappen.
World champion. The crown jewel of Red Bull. The literal face of your career pipeline. That is not just a teammate. That is not just a friend. That is- if you squint- kind of your boss.If you don’t squint, he definitely is -or was- Gavin’s boss.
You rub your forehead with the heel of your palm, then rub harder, like you might be able to scrape the memory clean from your skull. But it’s not going anywhere. It’s sitting in your chest like warm battery acid.
No evidence, you remind yourself. He made sure of that. No trace. No proof. Just… pretend it didn’t happen. Yeah. Good plan. Nothing happened. What happened? Exactly.
Anyways. Gavin. Yeah. Christmas.
You slip back into your room and check your phone. Nearly ten.
Shit.
You never sleep this long- not unless you’re sick or deeply, catastrophically hungover. Which, to be fair, might actually apply here. You swipe through your notifications, but nothing pressing has come through. Gavin is supposed to pick you up at eleven, and while he’s not the type to care about punctuality for social events, you are- especially when you're about to walk into his family Christmas like a stray he brought home from the kennel.
You're not in family-Christmas condition, either. Not even close.
You grab your toiletries bag, fish out a clean outfit from your small closet- something simple but polished. A soft forest-green blouse with a flattering neckline, your best pair of jeans, and a pair of slip-on black leather sneakers that give just enough structure to pass as put together. It's festive-adjacent. That’s enough.
You shrug everything into your arms and make your way down to the locker room, grateful- truly grateful- for the one upside of being in the factory on Christmas Day: it’s completely empty. No engineers. No junior drivers. No interns loitering near the vending machines.
Just stillness.
The locker room is dimly lit and perfectly quiet, motion sensors flicking the lights on one row at a time as you walk in. You kick off your slippers and pad toward your usual spot, tossing your clothes onto the bench as you go.
The locker rooms are technically gender-neutral, but only because you’re the first woman to force the conversation. Realistically, they’re men’s locker rooms that you’ve carved space into. You don’t mind, not really- it’s common across the sport- but it does mean you’ve become a master at quick changes and towel origami. You’ve got it down to a system: fast, efficient, not a second wasted.
You turn the water on, hot as your skin can handle, and step under the stream.
At first, it's just routine. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Shampoo. Condition. Exfoliate if you have time. But somewhere between the water hitting the top of your spine and the steam loosening the edges of your hangover, your thoughts start to slide back in.
Not gentle. Not slow. They crash.
The kiss.
God.
You press a palm to the tile, bow your head, and squeeze your eyes shut, like maybe that’ll help. It doesn’t.
You’d been drunk. Not wasted, but definitely tipsy. That much is true. But you remember everything. The warmth of his mouth. The confidence of it- like he’d been planning it for hours. The soft parting of his lips. The shared breath. The moment he dragged your bottom lip between his teeth like he was claiming something.
Your stomach turns over on itself. Not with guilt. With heat.
Absolutely not.
No. Bad. Wrong.
You shake your head under the stream, trying to force the thought out. You lather up your body like it might help scrub it from your skin.
It doesn’t.
You were stupid. You let your guard down. You were half-drunk and lonely and caught in the cozy little trap of twinkle lights and crayons and Max fucking Verstappen saying kiss me like it was a line in a dream you weren’t supposed to remember.
But you do remember. Every second. Every micro-adjustment. The texture of his mouth. The tiniest inhale when you opened to him. The heat curling in your belly when he deepened it.
You whimper- out loud- and then slap a hand to your mouth, like someone might hear.
Get a grip.
You rinse off and wrap yourself in the towel, heart thudding wildly. You were supposed to be showering to calm yourself down, not…whatever this is. You blow out a slow breath and step out, towel still wrapped tightly around your chest like you're holding something in.
You’re fine.
You’re going to Gavin’s family Christmas.
You’re going to have mashed potatoes and cider and weird English food and maybe awkward small talk with one of his cousins and definitely not think about the senior driver in your program rearranging your molecular structure with his mouth.
Nope.
Except- you kissed the most senior driver in your program.
You are going to be fired.
Worse- worse than being fired- he’s going to tell someone. He might say “fuck you” and tell everyone. You’ve just handed Max Verstappen a smoking gun and your only prayer he won’t use it is that being associated with the likes of you might be more embarrassing for him than he’s willing to stomach.
You’re going to be “that girl.” The one who came up through F1 kissing people. And not even in a smart way. Not even to get ahead. Not for a seat or a sponsor or anything useful. Just for him. Just for fun. Just because you were drunk and reckless and lonely, and it felt so good to be wanted.
You force your feet to move towards your bench, mumbling like an insane person, words tumbling out under your breath like a prayer laced with self-loathing. “Drunk. Dumb. Fired. That’s what you should be. Fucking idiot.”
Underwear. Pants.
Why him? Of all the men you could’ve been messy with- men with power, with money, with leverage- why did you pick the one who has absolutely no inclination to use any of it for you? Why not a team principal? A board member? A billionaire son who could at least get your name on the right donor list?
If you’re going to throw away your hard-earned dignity, shouldn’t you at least be able to spend it?
Bra. Shirt.
But no. You kissed Max fucking Verstappen. The one person who already knows you’re a threat and now knows you’re a fucking idiot, too.
Belt. Socks. Shoes.
You lean forward towards the locker room mirror and blend concealer under your eyes, trying not to acknowledge the slight tremor in your hand. You’re already pushing it, time-wise. Gavin’s picking you up in- what, twenty minutes? You’re supposed to be charming. Grateful. A sweet little American orphan dropped into the middle of his family’s Christmas.
You dab gloss over your lips. And bam. Flashbulb. Memory. Tongue.
God.
A jolt of heat runs down your spine like someone dumped a shot of whiskey straight into your bloodstream. Your stomach flips, not in panic this time, but in that low, thick ache you’ve been trying to ignore since you stepped out of the shower.
You grip the edge of the counter and breathe.
His mouth. His mouth- God, it was so good. Too good. Infuriatingly good. You remember the exact way he’d pressed in, the pressure of it, the sharp inhale he’d taken through his nose when you matched him, opened right up and gave as good as you got. Like your bodies had been waiting for it. Like the kiss had been locked and loaded for weeks and you just hadn’t pulled the trigger until now.
Your eyes snap shut.
“No. Nope. Shut up.”
You speak to no one in particular, just the feral, hormonal banshee version of yourself echoing in your brain. Last night wasn’t fun. It wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t some star-crossed moment worth remembering fondly. It was a mistake. A workplace crime.
You leave the locker room wrapped in steam and regret, skin scrubbed raw and throat dry as dust. The second you step back into the hall, your head reminds you- loudly- that you’re still hungover. The lights feel too sharp, the air too still. You pad into the kitchen and make a beeline for the tap, practically collapsing against the counter as you fumble for a clean glass.
You chug. Pound, really. One glass. Two. Half of a third. You breathe through your nose, press your palms to the counter, and try to will your stomach not to turn on you. In the middle of it all, you spot the wine glass in the sink- rinsed. Set aside neatly, not washed, but placed like someone didn’t want to leave a mess behind.
You glance toward the bottle of water on the counter and then to the time on the microwave display- 10:58. Shit. Shit.
Your phone buzzes on the table and confirms what you already know:
Gavin: I’m out front. No rush.
FUCK.
You whip around, already grabbing your coat, then jog out of the kitchen and into the lobby- moving on pure autopilot, rehearsing a bland smile and generic holiday pleasantries in your head. Just get to the car. Be polite. Pretend you’re not on the verge of spiraling.
But you stop short. Your boots skid faintly on the concrete, heart lurching before you even know why. The chaos of last night- the wreckage of bad decisions and worse posture- is gone. Just like you saw from the rail. …but not gone-gone. Not erased. Curated.
Your jacket’s been folded neatly and laid over the back of the chair where you sat- just like you saw. The coloring sheets are in a tidy pile- just like you saw. The crayons, previously flung all over the table, have been gathered and stacked in the paper cup. Just. Like. You. Saw.
What you didn’t see from outside your door is…stuck on the cup. Something small. Metal. You move closer.
A keychain.
Silver. Or maybe it used to be. The surface is dulled now, worn smooth along the edges like something thumbed in quiet moments over the course of years. The paint is long gone- if it was ever there at all. But the shape is unmistakable. A Formula car.
And it’s not just sitting there.
It’s hooked- intentionally, pointedly- over the green crayon. That green crayon. The one he desecrated your livery art with. The one you tried to murder him over.
You stop. Blink once. Then again. You look toward the door instinctively, like you might see his silhouette fading down the hallway, like you’ll catch some trace of what it’s supposed to mean.
And all the while, Gavin- your new race engineer, your boss in all but title, the one man who seems to genuinely give a damn about your career- is sitting outside in a car, waiting to escort you into his house. You’re supposed to go smile. Make small talk. Pretend to be the girl worth all this effort.
Instead you’re frozen in place, staring at a silver keychain and wondering-
Did he forget it?
Because that would be odd- taking a keychain off your keys, after meticulously cleaning up your entire mess, and just accidentally leaving it behind. Like that. Over that crayon.
Or did he leave it on purpose?
And if he did leave it…
What the fuck?
You blink hard and pocket it, swallowing the pressure behind your eyes. Leaving the building doesn’t help. Seeing Gavin, sliding into his car for what should be a fun day out doesn’t help. You sit stiffly in the passenger seat of Gavin’s car, spine barely touching the seatback, hands buried deep in the pockets of your jacket. One of them curls instinctively around the keychain, cool and unfamiliar against your fingers. Your thumb glides over the tiny worn contours, a curve here, a dip there, tracing out the shape of the Formula car like maybe you’ll find some explanation tucked in its details.
You don’t. Just guilt. So much guilt.
You shouldn’t have kissed him. You shouldn’t have let him kiss you. You shouldn’t be sitting here now, pretending your entire life isn’t smoldering behind you like a garbage fire in the rearview.
Gavin’s voice cuts in from the driver’s side- warm, easy, blissfully unaware.
“…they were just excited to see their cousins again. We do Christmas breakfast with Ella’s lot, but we all end up back at the house eventually. You’ll find it nice.”
You blink, drag your hand from your pocket and grip your knee instead. “Right. Sounds nice.”
He glances at you, smiling. “You’ll be fine. Mom’s thrilled. She’ll pop in today.”
Your stomach drops. Right. His kids. His mom. His wife. And suddenly- your hangxiety is obliterated by something worse. Much worse.
Ella.
Oh God.
You’d been so focused on your own screw-up, your own spiraling shame about Max and the kiss and the keychain- that you forgot the real reason you should be terrified right now.
Ella has to hate you.
Gavin’s thirty-seven. You’re twenty-two. Not bad to look at on a good day. A rising star in a sport that demands total immersion. You and Gavin already spend more time together than is normal. Than is appropriate. Than any healthy marriage could reasonably tolerate.
And now she’s supposed to watch him uproot their family- her family- rip their kids out of school, sell their house, and move to another country… because of you.
Because of your career.
Because his job is to think about you every day. To know you better than you know yourself. To anticipate your needs before you speak them. To follow your heartbeat through telemetry and translate it into milliseconds and map switches and cornering strategy.
His job is to be obsessed with you. And Ella’s supposed to smile through it.
You feel a cold sweat break along the back of your neck. If the roles were reversed, you’d hate you too.
No. You’d loathe you.
You’d want to throw the smug little prodigy out of the moving car and then back over her with a minivan full of second-grade art projects.
You press your lips together tightly and try to nod when Gavin says something about one of the kids. You think it was about Legos. Maybe Minecraft. You’re not sure. He pulls into the space in front of a modest detached house that’s so tight to the next one they might as well have bought a semi. Your chest’s too tight and your thoughts are too loud.
You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be going to this dinner, staying in this house. You should have said no. You should have stayed in bed and begged the universe for a do-over.
Instead, you're here.
Clutching a keychain you don’t understand, with a kiss you shouldn’t remember stuck on repeat in your brain, about to walk into a house of people you definitely don’t deserve to be around.
You’re so tightly wound you think your bones might creak with every step you follow behind Gavin. Your nerves buzz under your skin like static, fingers still buried deep in your coat pocket, clutched around that damn keychain like it might hold your body together through sheer pressure. You don’t know what you’re more scared of- Gavin noticing how not-okay you are, or Ella opening the door and confirming everything you’ve convinced yourself is true.
Gavin pauses just before the front step, turns back to glance at you.
“You alright?” he asks, quiet.
You nod too quickly. “Fine.”
He eyes you for a beat longer, but the front door swings open before he can press it. And then-
Oh.
Ella.
She’s- God, she’s beautiful, first of all. Tall and willowy and pretty in that way that comes from zero pretense and zero time to care about it. Hair thrown up. No makeup. Bare feet and a chunky knit sweater that looks like it’s been worn every Christmas for the last decade, and the second she sees you, she lights up.
“Oh my god, you’re here!”
You barely get your hand out of your coat pocket before she’s wrapping you in a hug. A real one- tight and warm and slightly swaying, like you’re not some guest but family she hasn’t seen in months. She squeezes the back of your coat and rocks you just once on her heels.
“There she is,” she says, pulling back with a smile so genuine your throat stings. “You poor thing, Gavin said you didn’t have anywhere to go. I told him he should’ve dragged you over last night.”
She doesn't let go completely, just loops an arm around your shoulder and pulls you inside like a stray she found on the front porch.
You blink. Stunned. It takes your brain a second to recalibrate. This is… not what you expected. She’s not sizing you up. Not lingering on your figure. Not even looking at Gavin. There’s no frost. No cold scrutiny. No warning behind her eyes.
Instead, she fusses gently over the cuffs of your coat, coaxes it off your shoulders, and leads you into the warmth of their living room like she’s glad you’re here. Like she’s been waiting to meet you. Her energy is distinctly big-sister-meets-foster-dog-mom- maternal, maybe, but not condescending.
And instantly, unmistakably, she radiates one truth that disarms you more than anything else:
This woman is not insecure.
Not in herself. Not in her life. Not in her marriage.And you’re suddenly warm and sock-footed in the middle of someone else’s house, blinking like you’ve just stepped out of a snowstorm and into someone else’s life.
There’s tinsel hanging from one corner of the ceiling fan and a half-packed box labeled KITCHEN? blocking the hallway like a doorstop. Stockings hang at odd heights on the banister, and someone little has written “MERRY CHRISSMAS” in marker on the side of a moving box- two S’s, backwards R.
The house smells like cinnamon and butter. You smell like hangover and guilt.
And still- somehow- you’re here. Upright. Awake. Following Ella into the kitchen with your hands knotted together, fingers curled tight around a cold silver keychain you still haven’t made sense of. You tuck it away in the pocket of your jeans.
The chaos of it all is like walking into the middle of someone else’s dream- warm and noisy and already in motion. You feel like you missed your cue.
“Kettle’s on,” Ella chirps over her shoulder. “Kitchen’s in survival mode, but we’ll manage. Gavin said you cook a bit, right?”
“I- yeah,” you say, a half-beat late. “I do.”
It slips out easy, automatic, and instantly you think of your mom. Marissa raised you better than to show up to a woman’s house on a holiday and not offer to help. You hear her voice in your head like a warning label: at least have the decency to stir something.
You scrub your hands in the sink and reach for a towel just as Ella is elbow-deep in a mixing bowl. She gestures toward a pile of half-peeled potatoes like it’s been decided you live here and she’s collecting on rent.
“If you want to start those- ”
“Absolutely.”
The rhythm is familiar. Peel. Cube. Stir. There’s comfort in the motion- something to keep your hands busy, your thoughts from unraveling.
You kissed Max Verstappen.
Nope.
Mashed potatoes.
You kissed Max Verstappen and he cleaned your room like a ghost and left a keychain like a riddle and now you’re in Gavin’s kitchen pretending you’re not the contamination in someone else’s holiday.
Focus. On. The. Potatoes.
Across the counter, Gavin and Ella move like they’ve been doing this for years- which, of course, they have. He knows where she keeps everything; she finishes his sentences without thinking. He grins when she swats him with a spoon. It almost makes your chest ache, but instead, it steadies you. There’s something soothing about watching people who work.
And Ella- God, Ella- keeps you involved without making a show of it. Hands you the whisk, the salt, the baby carrots. You end up shoulder to shoulder, laughing when Gavin drops a spoon and demotes himself to the “junior team.” You feel lighter, for a second.
Dinner is warm chaos. Your potatoes are fine. It seems like there’s a kid everywhere, despite there only being two. Race car and karate noises. You’re “Dad’s racer,” according to Owen, four, who climbs you like a jungle gym the second he’s dismissed from his plate. Lily sits beside you, careful and curious, showing you how to use a Christmas cracker. Insisting you trade her when you get a pink paper crown, because clearly you would want her poop-brown crown instead. You trade her.
You haven’t felt this kind of noise in far too long. It’s chaos and kindness and it shouldn’t feel good, but it does. And all the while, the keychain burns in your pocket.
It’s in your hand as you try to sleep- not because you care about it or anything, God no- but because your phone’s dying and it gives your fingers something to do. The metal edges click gently against your palm as you lie in a twin bed dressed in pink flannel sheets, surrounded by glitter art and a nightlight shaped like a fox.
It smells like no-tangle shampoo and sugar cookies. The air feels clean, like it’s never held an argument. Through the wall, you can hear Gavin’s low voice and Ella’s laughter as they take turns reading to the kids, soft and ordinary in the best way.
You turn the keychain once more between your fingers and wonder if all girlhood bedrooms smell like this- like innocence and sleep and something warm baking downstairs. Yours did, you think. Close enough, once.
Morning is blur and sunlight and coffee. Boxes stacked by the door. You help them load boxes into the lorry- kitchenware, toys, a house dismantled piece by piece. You pretend not to notice Ella swipe under her eye as the house that held her babies fades in the rearview of the family Volvo- though from your seat, wedged between Owen and Lily, she can probably see more of your forehead than the street.
They stop at the factory on their way out of town- hug you tight before they leave you on the curb- real hugs, like you belong. Ella makes you promise to visit when you get to the AlphaTauri factory. Gavin tells you, “Get ready to work your ass off in Italy,” like it’s a joke, not a predetermined outcome.
And then they’re gone.
Somewhere between folding your clothes and dropping everything you own off at the post office, your thoughts of Max must’ve gotten packed into one of the boxes and taped shut- because you don’t think of him. Not the kiss, not the keychain, not the way he looked at you right before. You don’t think of anything at all, really.
Not while you’re packing.
Not on the plane.
Not when the taxi lets you out on a dim stretch of pavement in front of a narrow stone building that smells faintly like seawater and smoke.
It’s late. The street’s quiet. You drag your bag up the steps and unlock the door to what’s supposedly your new apartment- a single room, half the size of your dorm, echoing like a church.
You set your things down, pull out the pillow and blanket you’d bought for the Milton Keynes dorm, and lay them on the floor. Your laptop hums to life on the tile beside you, its glow washing the walls in silver. You stretch out on the floor, the air cool against your cheek, and tell yourself you’re fine. That this- this emptiness, this quiet- is what you wanted.
And just as your breathing starts to even out- Ding.
It takes you four full days to work up the courage.
You tell yourself it’s not that deep- Monaco is technically just there, the edge of the marina can’t be more than ten minutes by bike- but it feels like crossing some invisible threshold into another species of existence. The thought of brushing shoulders with the world’s richest people? Of running into a coworker in the wild while buying soap or bread? Of making eye contact with a billionaire in a baby blue sweater set while you’re sweating over Euros?
Yeah. You’ll pass.
But by the fourth day, the apartment feels too small. Too plain. Too quiet.
The first day, you’d felt good. Hopeful, even. That rare lightness that only comes with starting fresh. The apartment’s small- a conjoined kitchen and living area, and you can hear dough being slapped through the floorboards, but it’s yours. It has it’s own bathroom and a dedicated bedroom, no matter if it’s small. No roommates. No teammates. No one to ask permission before taking up space. You cleaned every corner, purchased some marked-up staples from the closest market you could find, and told yourself you could do this. You would do this.
Then came the second day. And the silence. Apparently, saying hello makes you suspicious. Like you’re selling something. Or worse- American. The man across the street who slammed the door in your face. The woman who put her cigarette out and walked away while you were mid-sentence. The realization that you are, in fact, a stranger here- and not the romantic kind. The other kind. The kind who doesn’t belong.
You nearly gave up. Nearly ate your own loneliness with a plate of carbonara at the restaurant below your building.
And then- Nonna. Your landlady. Chef of aforementioned carbonara. You tried to explain- something about the neighbors, the cold shoulders, the man who wouldn’t even answer your question. She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing like she was assembling a hit list. “Ah, non sei tu,” she declared, stabbing a finger toward your face. “It’s them. The French are… temperamental.”
She said the word like it tasted bad.
“We are right on the outside, you know? Troppo vicino a Monaco. Everyone thinks they are better than they are because they smell the money from the city.” She crossed herself- an exasperated gesture, not a religious one. “Bah. Don’t worry. You’re not the problem.” You didn’t know if you believed her, but it was the first time since landing that someone had spoken to you like you weren’t a burden. Like you weren’t in the way.
She introduced her grandsons. They introduced you to the flea market. You came home with a carved bedframe, a lopsided desk, a dresser, a set of chairs that don’t match the table that was already in your apartment, and a bike you absolutely had to have.
You weren’t planning on it. Not even remotely. But it’s… perfect. Lightweight, sporty, with sleek handlebars and a cream frame that manages to feel both romantic and fast. The kind of bike you can see yourself weaving through cobbled streets on with sunglasses and a bag full of groceries. You’d straddled it for one test ride through the stalls and that was it- you were sunk.
It ended up costing more than your bed frame and your dresser combined. You try not to think about that too hard. Still, you love it. Love her, actually, because everything sleek and lovely and fast in your life is a woman, naturally.
It feels irrational- buying a bike like this. But a car isn’t happening anytime soon, and there’s something so freeing about having your own set of wheels. You don’t need help. Don’t need a ride. Don’t need to wait for a taxi or spend another cent on Uber. You can go wherever you want. You can leave whenever you want.
That part felt important.
But it helped. All of it. The unpacking. The ache in your arms from lifting furniture up the stairs. The smell of floor polish. The ritual of things becoming yours.
You bought sheets. Ordered a brand-new mattress online after being sufficiently terrified by Luca of the idea of punaises. Set up the bed. Parked your bike in the kitchen nook where she can catch the light. It’s still small, still raw, but the space has shape now. Texture. Weight. Even your loneliness feels more manageable when it has a place to sit.
You haven’t thought about Max.
Well- not much.
You’ve been too busy learning how to light the pilot on your stove, where to buy cheap butter, how to stop flinching when the outlets spark every time you plug something in. There hasn’t been space for flashbacks or regrets or the strange little hum that fills your chest every time you open the junk drawer in your kitchen and catch sight of the keychain, tucked quietly at the bottom like it belongs there.
It didn’t start there.
On day one, it lived in your nightstand. Because, logically, that’s where you’d put something small and personal and difficult to define. Nightstands are for things that don’t belong out in the open- things you want close, but not seen.
It made sense. Right up until day two.
That’s when you unpacked your vibrator.
Which, obviously, also belongs in the nightstand.
And while each object makes perfect sense in the drawer on its own, together they felt… wrong. Deeply, viscerally wrong. The juxtaposition was too strange. Too loaded. Like putting a grenade next to a teddy bear. Like forcing two items into intimacy that should never, under any circumstances, be allowed to share a drawer.
You held them both in your hands for a full minute, just staring, like the answer might reveal itself if you looked long enough. And then you evicted the keychain. Quietly. No ceremony.
Now every time you open the junk drawer in the kitchen- looking for a bit of tape, or a new pack of matches, or nothing in particular- your eyes catch on the shape of it. The curve of metal. The dull glint. The tiny silhouette of the Formula car.
But today- today, you wake up with the kind of buzzing boredom that only comes after too many consecutive days alone with your own thoughts.
And finally, you think- Fine. You’ll go.
Just to see it. Just to say you’ve done it. You’ll ride your overpriced, beautiful dumb amazing bike across the border like you have every right to be there.
So you get dressed.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing that screams trying. Just… something that won’t get you laughed off of the street by a trophy wife in linen trousers and designer sunglasses.
You pull out a skirt- black, simple, structured- with shorts underneath in case the breeze is feeling predatory. Tights, because it’s winter, even if only a mocking of one. A black sweater- fitted, clean lines, maybe a little too tight if you’re being honest, but it balances the skirt. Neutral. Clean lines. You stare at yourself in the mirror longer than you mean to.
It’s fine. It’s simple. It's… European? Probably?
You blow-dry your hair for the first time since landing in France. Tie half back with the same ribbon you wore to the pub, mostly because you don’t trust the humidity. Swipe on a bit of concealer. Mascara. Lip balm. Enough to look put together without looking like you tried to look put together.
Because you're not trying to impress anyone. Obviously.
You just don’t want to stand out. Or stand out wrong. What do Monaco people even wear on a Tuesday? Do they even have Tuesdays? Or is it just one long, unbroken champagne brunch?
You ignore the voice in your head spiraling down that rabbit hole and pack your bag like you would to cross any border: passport, phone, cash, a tampon. You definitely shouldn’t need it- your IUD keeps things light and erratic, barely-there most months- but you’re a just in case kind of girl. Always have been. Also, maybe- maybe- you can hold it hostage in exchange for friendship if someone else needs one. A kind of social currency. An offering. A little in.
Just in case.
You wrestle your bike down the outdoor stairs that separate your door from the rest of the world and kick off down the street, follow the lefts and rights down the hill. You figure there’ll be signs. Or a checkpoint. Maybe even a photo-op- something to commemorate the moment you cross from mere mortal into Monaco-adjacent.
There’s nothing.
You round the last switchback above the Cap-d’Ail port and… that’s it. No border sign. No camera flash. No music from the skies. Your phone doesn’t even buzz. You check Google Maps just to be sure and- yep. You’re in Monaco. You’ve officially been to Monaco.
Just like that.
It’s also… kind of gray. Visibility is low today, and the waterfront is half-drowned in mist. You can’t even see the ocean, only the wet shimmer of metal railings and the fog-washed stacks of luxury flats pressed into the cliffside.
You had built it up in your head. Like entering Monaco would feel like stepping through a portal- like everything would suddenly sparkle or smell like wealth or people might recognize you. Like the air would be different. Thinner. Louder. Warmer. More postcard-like.
But no one claps. No one gasps. No one even looks your way.
Your hands are barely on the handlebars now, just letting gravity carry you down, down, down. The soft click of your freewheel is the only sound competing with the occasional hiss of a passing car. Then- Just barely on the French side, past a bend in the narrow road, the buildings and the fog break. And there it is.
Marquet Beach.
Small and tucked into the buildings, but real. Sand. Sea. A gentle slope of pebbles and salt-kissed concrete.
Your stomach flips with glee. Giddy, full-body, I’m-a-little-kid-again joy.
You slow the bike just enough to swing a leg off. The tires crunch lightly over the packed stones as you guide it toward the low wall separating the sidewalk from the beach. You lean it there- no lock, no hesitation- and drop down onto the cool stone ledge.
Oh my god.
You’re actually at the beach.
Your chest floods with something warm and slippery and unnameable. You forgot how much you missed this. Real beach. Real ocean. Not just a glance from the window of a hotel, not a blue smudge past the paddock fence, not an indulgent “look but don’t touch” while flying city to city like a corporate prize pony.
No- this is different. This is yours. For no reason but because you wanted to see it. Because you biked here. Because you live close enough now to go on a whim.
And it hits you all at once- The last time. The actual last time.
It had to be after Japan. Before you even were with Indy. That long-haul flight back, your mom picking you up from the airport, your dad already waiting with the truck loaded. You drove straight to the coast for a few days before getting back to the grindstone of scraping enough seats together to keep your career afloat.
God, that trip. You remember being tired. Bone-deep tired, even off the best win of your life. But the beach helped. You remember the chill of the Oregon wind, the way your dad made you stop and watch the waves crash and told you, “You forget sometimes how good it feels to be small.”
It’s not the same, not the same endless cliffs and ten-thousand pound waves smashing the shore with holy violence, but it’s close. Close enough to crack something loose in your chest. You kick your shoes off right there on the curb next to your bike and step barefoot into the sand, tights still clinging to your toes. Whatever. You’re not precocious.
The sand is half rock, and sharp in places. You wince, step gingerly, hopping and tiptoeing through the worst of it like you’re playing some private game, giggling at yourself. You want to run- god, you want to run- but it hurts too much. Still, you don’t stop. You don’t even hesitate as you reach the edge of the surf and keep going, straight into the water. Calf deep.
The shock of it- icy, electric- steals the breath from your lungs. You burst out laughing.
Not from anything funny. Just- Because this is real. Because the water’s really here, and it’s cold, and salty, and touching your skin in a way that feels like proof. Because you’re barefoot in Monaco in the middle of winter, grinning like a fool, with no plan and no one to impress.
It’s too much.
You bend forward with your hands on your knees, laughing into the wind, cheeks pink and hair whipping across your face. You must look unhinged- some random girl giggling alone on the beach like she’s had a full break from reality. But you don’t care.
You don’t care.
There’s no one to see. No one you know. No crew, no team, no press officer. Just the soft hush of the tide and the distant sounds of the street behind you. This isn’t the version of the Mediterranean that lives in postcards or on the walls of travel agents' offices. This is something closer. Grittier. More intimate. The sky’s gone a little grey, the rocks are damp, and everything feels heavy and honest. It doesn’t feel like a movie. It doesn’t feel like a dream. It feels like yours. Like something small and wild and completely unearned, and all the more precious because of it.
You glance down at your legs, goosebumps climbing over your thighs, and you just-
You can’t believe you waited four days to come down here.
You’re not thinking about the kiss. You’re not thinking about the ghost of Gavin’s voice over the holidays or the strange, wordless ache in your chest that lingers whenever you slow down.
You’re just here.
Knees knocking, breath fogging, heart beating.
You’re here.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel the thinnest slip of joy uncoil in your chest. You don’t need it to be warm or beautiful or easy.
You just need it to be real.
And this is. This moment is.
Even if it’s fleeting.
Even if you’ll go back to your tiny apartment above a restaurant in a country where no one speaks your language and your only real furniture is a desk and a bed frame and a bike you shouldn’t have bought. Even if you’re still scared, and lonely, and more out of your depth than you want to admit.
This is real. And it’s yours.
For a moment longer, you let the water lick your ankles and you don’t move. You don’t speak. You just let yourself exist.
Small, quiet, and free.
You slosh your way out of the sea like some soggy cryptid, the soles of your feet already stinging from the crushed shell grit and smooth rocks you’d been too thrilled to register on the way down. It’s only when you spot your bike still leaned casually against the post that you realize-
God, you’re an idiot.
You left it.
Your beloved bike. Your one major indulgence. Your most prized possession. You didn’t even lock it.
You practically scamper over, heart thudding once, just once, before your brain kicks in: It’s Monaco. Where crime exists the same way thunder does in a snow globe- hypothetical.
Still. You give the handlebars a loving pat and whisper, “Don’t ever scare me like that again,” like the thing might run off on its own next time.
There’s a spigot built into the promenade wall, low to the ground, probably for children and sandy dogs. You crouch down, twist the knob, and do your best to rinse the sand from your ruined tights, watching cloudy water spiral down the gutter. Your feet are soaked, your calves are cold, your skin feels tight, but you feel... weirdly okay.
No one’s rushed you. No one’s asked what you’re doing. No one’s looked twice.
You jam your wet feet into your sneakers- not ideal, but you’re not super worried- and start pushing your bike up the gentle incline of Avenue de la Marquet, damp thighs sticking to your skirt.
You don’t even know where you’re going.
But the streets are pretty, and there’s something serene about walking with purpose even if the purpose is loose. There’s a sleepy shimmer to everything- post-holiday lull, grey skies softening the edges of the white stone walls. The slow season. Monaco’s idea of peace.
You find a café that looks… fine. Nice enough to be inviting, plain enough not to make you feel like an interloper. Not too crowded. Not too manicured.
You don’t go in.
You’re soaked, after all. And there’s a chill in the air that hasn’t quite reached miserable, just refreshing if gaslight yourself. The Med has nothing on a northern winter.
So you just sit.
You wheel your bike around and lean it against the side of the iron patio railing, then drop into one of the little wrought-iron chairs at a corner table and stretch your legs out long beneath you. The cold metal kisses through your tights. You press your palms to the tabletop and let the cold of that seep in too.
Your skirt’s damp. Your sweater clings. Your tights are sponges below the knee. But you don’t care.
It’s one of the first times you’ve let yourself just be.
No stage. No teammates. No one from back home asking what it’s like. No brand manager, no trainer, no stopwatch, no goddamn crisis. Just your heartbeat and the slow churn of the sea and the occasional soft scrape of tires on cobblestone as whatever people who live in Monaco go to wherever people who live in Monaco go.
You sit there like that for a while. Quiet. Satisfied. No rush to do anything at all.
The waiter comes out after a few minutes- young, polite, and only faintly puzzled by your state of damp dishevelment. You order a cappuccino and a pain au chocolat with the clearest pronunciation you can muster, which he seems to pity you for. He gives a small nod, retreats inside, and you go back to staring out at the street like some strange, content sea creature who’s just flopped herself onto land.
It comes quickly.
The cappuccino is in a thick, white porcelain cup- hot enough that you have to cradle it through the handle. The foam is cloud-soft and topped with the lightest, laziest dusting of cinnamon. One sip and you nearly moan- God, how is it this good?
How is everything this good?
Because the pain au chocolat is warm, still warm, like it was pulled from the oven just for you. The pastry shatters under your fingers with the first pull, flakes catching on your knuckles, and the chocolate is melted. Not just soft. Melted. And rich, and a little bitter, and maybe this is what religion is.
You take one bite.
Then another.
Then you actually have to sit back in your chair for a second, hand on your chest like you need to brace yourself for what’s happening.
It’s decadent. Sinful. Like this little piece of Monaco- this tiny patio table with your bike leaning nearby and your shoes squelching and your tights drying in the sea breeze- has declared itself a sanctuary for indulgence. A shrine to pleasure. You tear another piece of pastry off and pop it into your mouth. You're not thinking about racing. You're not thinking about work. You're not even thinking about the mess you were a few days ago.
You don’t think much of the Vespa the first time it buzzes past- zippy little thing, murdered out and matte. Monaco is full of them, after all. It glides by again a minute later, a little slower this time, but you're halfway through licking a flake of pastry off your thumb and don’t give it much thought.
Until it pulls right up to the curb next to your table.
Until the helmet comes off.
And then- holy shit.
Danny Ricciardo is standing over you, dark curls squashed flat from the helmet, a grin stretched across his face so wide you think it might crack the sky open. He's all denim jacket and sunglasses and cheekbones- bright, buzzing, and bigger than life. Classic Danny.
“Hollywood?!” he says, shocked and delighted, his voice a full octave brighter than it should be this early in the day. “What the hell are you doing here?”
You freeze with a half-eaten piece of pastry in one hand. The last time he saw you, you were halfway out the door of his hotel room. “Danny?” you blink, then break into a grin. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I live here, ya cunt,” he laughs, pulling off his sunglasses to give you the full warmth of his face. Oh. Yeah. He lives here.
He doesn't sit down- he flops, uninvited, into the chair across from you like it’s his God-given right. It makes you smile wider. His energy is magnetic. Happy to see you in a way that makes your chest feel warmer than the cappuccino.
“I just got back from Oz last night. Swore I was gonna stay in- but then I see this soaking wet woman double-fisting a pastry outside my favorite café, and… c’mon. I had to check.”
You laugh, leaning back in your chair as the moment settles around you. “You recognized me from the back of my head?”
“Nah,” he shrugs, elbow on the table. “But the ribbon did seem familiar. So? Monaco now? No working up to it, huh? Just day 1, jumping straight to the playground?”
You sip your coffee. “Well. I wouldn’t say in Monaco. I just moved into a little apartment over the border- a ways above Cap-d’Ail. Still getting my bearings, took a little bike ride.”
“You really did go full Euro, huh? Didn’t even fight it.” He whistles, nodding at the matte black frame leaning against the patio rail.
“It’s cute,” you defend it instantly. “And sporty. And practical.”
“It’s adorable,” he agrees easily. “Looks like something a cool French art student would ride to their part-time gelato job.”
You narrow your eyes. “I resent the way you had that comment ready to go.”
“I mean that in the best way, Hollywood.” And the way he says it- Hollywood- like a nickname he’s always called you, like he’s always known you, like you’re already in on the joke. It’s a little warmer than it should be, maybe, but not pushy. Just on the edge of deniable.
He lets the silence hang a second, eyes scanning your face. “I’m really glad to see you.”
It’s soft. Almost too soft.
You blink, surprised. But the sentiment lands gently, like a stone into still water.
You smile. “Yeah… me too.”
Danny orders a cappuccino of his own, skim milk- grinning like it’s the most natural thing in the world to plop down and stay a while. He tugs his chair a little closer to yours with his foot and leans back like this was definitely the plan all along.
You raise a brow, eyeing the sun-brushed tint of his skin. “You’re tan.”
He hums, pretending to inspect the backs of his hands. “Italian genes,” he claims, entirely too casual.
“Right,” you deadpan. “Nothing to do with the two weeks you just spent in Australia.”
He shrugs, all false innocence. “Could be my mum’s olive undertone. Could be beach days and barbecues and not a cloud in sight.”
You sip your cappuccino, trying not to wince as your tights squish a little inside your sneakers. The saltwater is cold even now, creeping up from your ankles like it’s plotting something.
Danny watches you for a long beat, head tilted just slightly, eyes narrowed like he’s solving a puzzle. His smile twitches at one corner. “You, though….” he starts slowly, “....have got a very specific… vibe right now.”
You glance at him warily over your cup. “What kind of vibe?”
You fidget, suddenly all too aware of your still-damp ankles and the way saltwater has dried stiff at the very end of your sleeve. Your hair’s frizzy and wind-tossed in a way that doesn’t look effortless, just chaotic. You can feel it curling against your cheeks.
He leans forward, elbows braced on the table, inspecting you like a curiosity. Danny’s smile spreads, slow and smug. “Did you- hang on. Did you go in the ocean?”
“No,” you say too quickly.
Danny doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Just waits, the corner of his mouth twitching like he already knows. You try to redirect, looking away like maybe the passing Benz will offer salvation. It doesn’t. He shifts slightly. “You didn’t,” he says, voice warm with disbelief. “Did you?”
You stare down at your cappuccino. “I- no,” you mumble again, weaker this time.
He tilts his head. “You are dripping.” You clamp your knees tighter together under the table, trying to trap the evidence. “Tell me you didn’t walk yourself straight into the sea.”
You hesitate. It’s not shame, not exactly- because you don’t regret it. Not one second of it. The air had smelled like salt and freedom, and your chest had been tight in that way it gets when too much is crammed inside. The water was shockingly cold, and it stole the breath right out of your lungs, but it also gave something back. Something light and breathless and freeing.
Still, saying all that out loud feels like exposing a soft underbelly. A chink in the armor, even if you can’t name it. You don’t know what kind of girl you’re supposed to be here- but you’re almost certain it’s not the kind who jumps into oceans alone in January, soaking her tights and ruining her blowout just because the air felt good.
You shrug, trying to make it look casual. “I don’t know. It just... happened.”
“It just happened,” he repeats, clearly amused.
You don’t offer anything else. You’re not about to tell him the truth- that you’d felt like you might burst out of your own skin if you didn’t do something. That the quiet had been too loud. That you needed to feel something other than nerves, other than isolation, other than pressure. That the cold slapped you into aliveness. No. God, no. You’re not telling anyone that.
So you shrug again. “Felt like it.”
Danny huffs a laugh- not cruel, not mocking. Just amused. Pleased, even.
“You walked yourself into the freezing January sea.”
“It wasn’t freezing,” you lie. “It was brisk.”
“Oh my God.”
Danny doesn’t say anything right away- just looks at you, and you force yourself not to shrink under it. His smile is wide and a little disbelieving, like he’s witnessing a plot twist in real time. But there’s a softness there, too. Something careful and charmed. Like he’s thrilled to learn this about you.
“You tried so hard to look nice this morning, didn’t you?” he says gently, teasing but affectionate.
You open your mouth to deny it- but the wind-wrecked hair, the wet socks, the salt still drying at your hairline all give you away.
“Maybe,” you admit. “Briefly.”
Danny leans back with a grin like he’s committing this entire story to memory.
“Amazing,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
You laugh, trying to steer the conversation back toward neutral ground, but it’s already softened between you. Somehow, that brief moment- your impulse dive, his teasing- has cracked the morning open. You talk for a long while without really meaning to. About his vacation. About sports culture back home versus here. About booking flights through the team and how surreal it is to have a travel liaison for your life. About how Monaco isn’t built for normal people, and France is only pretending to be.
The cappuccinos dwindle. The pastry flakes across your plate. The small talk rolls on, effortlessly- racing shorthand, weather, pre-season jitters, bikes vs Vespas. Nothing serious. Nothing deep. But that’s the thing with Danny- he makes it easy. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t pry.
He does, however, perk up when you mention cooking. You’re not bragging- you’re just offhandedly describing how you cobbled together something edible your first night in the apartment.
“You cook?” he asks, suddenly far too interested in the arrangement of sugar packets on the table.
You hesitate. “Yeah, a bit. I mean, I had to learn. Lived away from home more than not since fifteen. Can’t exactly keep under weight or under budget eating out all the time.”
“Mmm.” His eyes sparkle- actually sparkle. “What kind of stuff?”
“I like simple-ish things. Hearty stuff. One-pan meals, stews, anything that makes the place smell good while it’s cooking. My mom’s an incredible cook, so I kind of grew up absorbing it. I just… like feeding people. It’s nice.”
Danny hums, noncommittal on the surface, but there’s something glinting in his eyes. A slow-spreading, barely-contained grin. He nods, like he’s filing away a critical piece of information for later use.
You keep talking, light and fond, your voice warming at the edges. “I don’t know, there’s something really satisfying about it. Making something from scratch, watching people enjoy it. Especially when they’ve had a long day. Or they’re tired. Or hungry and pretending they’re not.”
He says nothing to that- just looks at you a second longer than necessary, then glances out toward the street with a contemplative sip of his coffee.
You don’t think much of it. But when the last sip is gone and the plates are stacked, he hesitates.
You catch it- that half-second where his eyes flick away and then snap back, a flicker of a decision being made. He clears his throat softly, then goes out on a limb with the most casual voice he can muster. “You doing anything right now?”
You tilt your head. “Why?”
He smiles, still light, still warm, but you can see the edges of it- how he’s trying to keep this from getting weird, how he’s trying to feel out the line without crossing it. “I was just thinking… I mean, my place is like, five minutes from here. If you’re not busy. I could show you the view? It’s not like- ” He backtracks a little, hands up. “No pressure, obviously. Just figured… you’re new to town. Wouldn’t mind the company.” You blink. He looks so damn sincere. Not pushy. Not expecting anything. Just- Danny.
You nod. “Sure,” you say. “Why not?”
He grins, relieved and thrilled all at once. “Great. Bring the bike. I’ll race you there.”
“You’re on a motorized vehicle.”
“You’re scrappy, I believe in you.”
You roll your eyes and grab your bike. He tosses his helmet back on, and just like that, you coast off behind him- Monaco unfolding in front of you, your wet tights squelching and your heart a little lighter than it was an hour ago.
It’s barely a five-minute ride, but Danny makes it feel like a scene from a cheesy movie. You’re pedaling at a steady clip,, trying to stay cool even though your feet are still damp and your skirt keeps catching the wind, when the low buzz of his Vespa loops around behind you. Then again. Then again.
Every time he gets a few meters ahead, he swings a casual U-turn and starts the dance all over- cruising past, grinning, circling back like a pigeon doing laps.
You glance over your shoulder and stand up on the pedals. “You planning on actually getting there or just stalking me like a weirdo?”
He gasps- mock scandal. “Excuse me? I’m being considerate! Being a gentleman.”
“You’re doing laps.”
“I like your pace!” he calls back, grinning as he pulls up alongside you, still perfectly relaxed on his Vespa.
You narrow your eyes, breath puffing in the cool air. “Pretty convenient excuse for someone who’s spent the last ten minutes drafting off me.”
He laughs, the sound swallowed by the wind. “Hey, you’re the one taking all the good lines. I’m just trying to keep up.”
You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling. “Sure you are.”
He flashes a quick, boyish grin before accelerating just enough to glide ahead, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t wait up, superstar!” Danny weaves side to side in front of you like a human hazard cone. “Admit it, Hollywood. You love the view.”
“You’re gonna eat curb if you keep swerving like that,” you warn, coasting a few feet behind him as the Vespa wobbles in and out of the narrow lane. The air is soft and damp from the sea, still carrying a hint of salt, and your hair sticks to the nape of your neck in loose curls.
Danny calls over his shoulder, “S’called confidence. Look it up!”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling- genuinely, fully. Despite everything- Monaco’s polished weight, the sharp edges of being new, the thousand things you don’t know yet- today has been easy. Shockingly easy. No posturing. No pressure. Just good coffee, sea air, and a surprise run-in with someone you’re increasingly sure you can call a friend.
By the time his building comes into view, tucked behind a stretch of road, your cheeks ache from the smile you haven’t managed to wipe off. Danny ducks into a shaded parking garage beneath the building and coasts into a spot near the elevator. You roll up beside him and put your foot down, steadying the bike.
He’s already halfway to the elevator before you realize- he hasn’t taken his helmet off.
You smother a laugh behind your hand, biting down hard on the inside of your cheek. He punches the elevator call button like it owes him money, totally unaware that he’s still wearing it. The chin strap dangles, flopping every time he turns his head.
You lean your bike against the wall and follow, arms folded, expression innocent.
“Do I need a helmet to go inside?” you ask dryly.
“Nah,” he grins, swinging his leg over. “Only need one if you fall for- ” He gestures vaguely, eyes darting skyward. “I don’t know. The view.”
You blink. “Smooth.”
“I try.”
You don’t say anything. Not yet.
You follow him into the elevator, where he punches in the floor number with what you can only describe as boyish enthusiasm. You press yourself into the corner, trying very hard to keep a straight face as he chatters easily- about how nice the view is, how the apartment came furnished but still needed “a little zhuzh,” how the water pressure is surprisingly great.
The helmet is still on.
It bobs a little as he talks.
You bite the inside of your cheek, shoulders shaking just enough to be suspicious.
The elevator dings.
He steps out, motions like a game show host to his hallway. “Home sweet- what?”
You’ve stopped walking, doubled over slightly, laughing quietly.
“What?” he asks again, looking back at you with a grin that’s already starting to twist into something more sheepish. “What did I do?”
You straighten slowly, eyes sparkling. “Daniel.”
His brows lift in mock innocence. “Yes?”
“You still have your helmet on.”
He blinks. Reaches up. Touches it.
Groans. “God- ”
“You’ve had it on since the garage,” you say, grinning. “The entire time.”
“I was excited, alright?” he protests, pulling it off and ruffling his hair. “I haven’t had company in a while.”
You arch a brow. “Clearly.”
He’s flustered, but not embarrassed. Not really. He just laughs, unlocking the door and swinging it open wide, still shaking his head as he gestures you inside.
You step inside, and the laughter fades into quiet appreciation.
The apartment is so him- warm, sunlit, lived-in. The kind of place that smells faintly like espresso and linen, with boots by the door and plants that are miraculously alive. The furniture isn’t flashy, but it’s quality. Real wood, clean lines, worn leather, sunlight pooling on polished floors. He has photos hung and framed in the living space, though you’re too far to tell of what exactly. A surfboard leaned in the corner that you’re confident he actually can ride.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch along one wall, offering a view of the water framed by the clusters of terracotta rooftops below. You can’t even begin to guess how much a place like this costs in Monaco, and frankly, you don’t want to.
And the kitchen- God. The kitchen is incredible.
It’s not industrial or pretentious, just ready. Heavy-bottomed pans. Cast iron on the stovetop. A spice rack that’s seen action. It’s the kind of kitchen that makes you want to roll your sleeves up and cook something slow and rich, just to do it justice.
You take it in, impressed despite yourself. He might not act like it, but Danny Ricciardo lives well. He’s a grown man. It’s a little surprising- not because he shouldn’t live like this, but because, maybe, you hadn’t expected it. Most of the men you’ve known didn’t… live like this. They existed in apartments. In team housing. In garages and hotels. Their places were temporary, messy, unfinished. Cleaned only for company or convenience. Shelves empty, tube posters tacked to the wall. Takeout boxes and unwashed coffee cups. Dom had it pretty together, sure, but he doesn’t really get credit for that since he still lived at home.
He barely lets you past the threshold before he stops you just inside the entryway. “Alright,” he says, slipping off his shoes and rubbing his hands together like he’s about to present a TED Talk. “Grand tour. Don’t blink.” You raise an eyebrow, but he just steps behind you and gently places his hands on your shoulders.
“Okay,” he says, turning you slightly to the left. “Kitchen. Fully functional.”
He pivots you a little more. “Living room. Couch good for napping. Television mostly used for sports and food documentaries.”
Another gentle shift. “Balcony- sunset-facing, decent view, bang up spot for a night cap.”
You snort, but he’s already moving on. One more pivot, this time pointing toward a door down a short hallway. “Bathroom. Self-explanatory. It has soap. I promise.”
Finally, he gestures to the only other closed door in the apartment, straight ahead.
“And that’s the bedroom,” he says, hands sliding into his pockets, tone casual but faintly teasing. “which we are not touring today, thank you very much, because I am a gentleman and this is not a date.”
You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself, biting back a comment.
He grins, pleased, and steps around you again. “Right, you want anything? Tea, coffee?”
You’re still smiling when you nod. “Coffee’d be great, thank you.”
You perch at the edge of a barstool at the kitchen island while he fusses with the coffee machine, going on about some unbelievable beans he brought back from Perth. The whole thing should feel intrusive- being here, this personal space, this part of his life- but somehow it doesn’t. Somehow, it feels like a break in the noise.
The kind where your cheeks hurt and you lose track of time and you don’t even notice that your feet are still damp in your shoes. The kind where something tight in your chest eases just long enough for you to breathe like you’re not constantly trying to stay ahead of it all.
Danny is easy in a way most people aren’t. Not easy like simple- he’s clever and quick and annoyingly self-aware. But easy like sunlight. Like you don’t have to do anything to enjoy it, it just is.
And right now, that’s everything.
He flips the kettle on next, reaching for one of those fancy tea tins that only show up in the homes of people who really care about tea- or have someone in their life who does. You glance over as he prepares both drinks side by side, and something catches.
You tilt your head. “Wait… you’re not having coffee?”
He glances at you, then shrugs, eyes still on the label. “Nah. Tea for me.”
“Oh.” You blink. “If I’d known that, I wouldn’t’ve asked for- ”
“Don’t be weird about it,” he says, waving you off. “You’re allowed to want caffeine. I’m just not in the mood for espresso without milk.”
“You on a health kick or something?” you ask lightly.
“Cutting,” he confirms, almost sheepish. “Holiday damage. Got a little too friendly with me mum’s lasagna.”
At the mention of lasagna, he opens the fridge like it offended him personally. He peers inside for a moment, then shuts it with a dramatic sigh and leans on the counter like he’s just received devastating news.
“You know,” he says, mournfully, “I’d suggest we go back out for a meal, because I’m starving, but I’m supposed to be serious about what I eat now. Serious, like… weighing things. Can you believe this?”
You snort, lifting your mug to hide the little smirk tugging at your mouth.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think I can afford to eat in Fontvieille anyway,” you mutter.
He looks over his shoulder at you, brows inching up, like he’s considering arguing just for the principle of it- because obviously you wouldn’t be paying for yourself- but after a beat, he lets it slide.
Danny bends down, pops the fridge open again, and stares inside like the act alone might magically summon a take-out box.
“I have nothing to eat,” he whines, dragging out the vowels like a complaint about a personal injustice.
You lean farther over the counter, elbow propped on the island, peering into the fridge like maybe he’s got some kind of rich-guy food blindness. “You have eggs, two kinds of cheese,look- veggies, some chicken, and bread,” you point out, ticking them off one by one on your fingers. “That’s a meal. That’s several meals.”
“That’s not food,” he huffs, like you’ve suggested he eat drywall. “That’s… ingredients.”
You stare at him. “What do you think food is made of, Daniel?”
He straightens up, closes the fridge with the softest little kick, and sighs like you’ve missed the point entirely. “Something already hot, already plated, preferably delivered.”
You fold your arms across your chest. “Quit being a baby and just put the chicken in a pan. You can figure out the rest while it cooks.”
Danny gives you a look- part skeptical, part pout- but after a beat, he pushes off the counter and grabs the pack of chicken from the fridge. He makes a dramatic show of rinsing the chicken, then digs around for a pan. The gas clicks a few times before it catches, the blue flame catching under the skillet with a soft whoomf. He tosses in the chicken with all the delicacy of someone who does not give one singular fuck, and it lands with a wet sizzle that makes you wince.
“Happy?” he says, brandishing the tongs with flourish. “Chef. Cheffing.”
“Mm-hmm.” You sip your coffee, keeping your expression neutral as he stabs at the chicken once, maybe twice, like it’s already failed him.
Then his phone buzzes. He picks it up, eyes flicking across the screen. He doesn’t wince, doesn’t frown. Just hums thoughtfully and taps the corner of the phone against his palm. “I should, uh- yeah. I’ve gotta make a quick call,” he says, casual as anything, already heading toward the hallway. “Do me a favor and just… keep it from burning down the kitchen?”
You arch a brow. “You mean, watch your chicken?”
He’s halfway to the balcony now, waving you off over his shoulder. “You’re the best!”
You mutter something unprintable under your breath but slide off the stool anyway, moving toward the stove like it’s a babysitting gig you didn’t agree to. You let your fingers trail across the counter as you pass, idly taking stock. You like kitchens. You like this one. Which is why what you see next feels like an attack.
No salt. No pepper. No oil. No garlic. No Love. It’s raw chicken in a hot pan. That’s it. Your lips part slightly in disbelief, like you’re witnessing a tragedy in slow motion. You can hear it trying to sizzle but it’s so dry it’s barely managing.
You blink once. Then again. Is this a bit?
You glance toward the balcony. Danny’s voice drifts faintly through the glass- easy, unhurried, definitely not urgent. You can’t make out the words, but there’s a laugh in there. He’s not working. He’s not fixing a crisis. He’s just… out there.
You look back at the pan.
It stares up at you. Mocking you. Daring you. Practically begging for help. If chicken could look dry before it was even fully cooked, this would be the one. The smell isn’t right, either- hot metal and nothing else. No oil. No seasoning. Just raw protein sizzling itself into oblivion.
Your stomach turns with secondhand guilt. You grew up on a ranch- you know what goes into raising food. The feed. The cold mornings. The hands that do the work. A life was lived. Beady eyes, pecking at feed, living its little chicken life in its little chicken barn with its little chicken friends- and this is the send-off? This insult? A chicken didn’t live and die just to end up like this. Not in your presence.
But- you clench your jaw. It’s not your food. It’s not your kitchen. Seasoning another person’s food has to be one of the ruder social crimes. Right up there with rearranging their room or critiquing their driving.
You’re still locked in combat when Danny wanders back into the kitchen, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. He mouths a lazy sorry- no real remorse behind it- and goes straight for the fridge. Grabs a glass of water. Scrolls something on the TV screen. Makes absolutely no move to take back over. He’s not even pretending to care.
“Danny,” you say. He hums absently, still mid-scroll.
“Danny.”
His gaze flicks to you. “What?”
“Daniel.” That gets him. He smiles- slow and foxlike, the corners of his mouth curving up in advance of the punchline he hasn’t delivered yet. “Uh-oh. Government name. That bad?”
“Please let me fix this chicken.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then another. You’re serious. “I am begging you.”
There’s a pause- just long enough for something unreadable to pass across his face. His posture relaxes by degrees, like he’s just released some hidden tension. He leans against the counter, crossing his arms, barely containing the upward twitch of his mouth.
“Hmm,” he says, gaze sliding to the pan like he’s just now noticing it. “Is it… bad?”
You blink at him, incredulous. “Is it-? You didn’t fucking season it.”
“Did I not?” he says, brow creasing with performative surprise. Danny hums thoughtfully, nodding like he’s genuinely considering your words. But his eyes are too bright. His voice is too casual. There’s just a little too much amusement tucked behind the corners of his mouth.
Danny’s mouth curls slow and smug, like a man who just watched his evil plan work exactly as intended. Alright,” he finally concedes, lifting his hands in surrender. “If it’ll make you feel better…” You shoot him a warning glance- don’t make this about you- but you’re already reaching for the pepper mill.
The big four- SPOG. There’s nothing that can’t benefit from SPOG. Salt. Pepper. Onion. Garlic. The teeniest spray of oil, he did say he was cutting, afterall.
You flick your eyes toward Danny’s pantry- organized, stupidly so- and grab a stock carton and pour just enough into the pan to deglaze. The aroma lifts immediately, steam curling with the scent of browning spice. You clamp a lid over the pan to let the chicken simmer, trapping the moisture inside.
He’s still watching you. Not saying a word. Just… watching.
You ignore it. Mostly.
The chicken’s on track now, but something’s off. You frown, scanning the countertops. No sides. No carbs. No sauce. No nothing.
You lift the lid. The chicken stares back at you, but it seems happier. Yeah, okay. You’re already this deep. Might as well go full rescue mission.
You scrape the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon, coaxing up the fond into the stock- those sticky browned bits from where Danny’s war crime of a sear barely survived. A squeeze of tomato paste. It smells promising. You add a bit of yogurt for some body, then season the whole thing generously. Nothing fancy. Just the basics. Enough to taste like comfort.
The sauce bubbles gently. You scrape it all to one side of the pan and toss some roughly chopped zucchini, carrots, and cauliflower from the fridge. You stir once, twice, then lower the heat and clamp a lid on. Let it steam in peace.
You’re reaching for a spoon to taste when it hits you.
You stop mid-motion, something catching in your chest- not alarm, exactly, but the weightless drop of realization. You stand there for a moment, quiet, tracing back the steps in your head.
The phone call.
The fridge complaint.
The pathetic chicken toss.
The fake helplessness.
Your eyes shift slowly toward the far end of the kitchen. Danny’s leaned against the counter, half-scrolling his phone, half-watching the water glass in his hand like it might tell him something new. He isn’t looking at you, not exactly, but when you still- really still- he senses it. His gaze flicks up. Meets yours. And there it is. That tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a grin. Not smug. But he knows exactly what he’s done.
He knows you know.
You don’t say anything. You just stare at him for a beat longer than necessary. He holds your gaze like a man already caught, with no plans to apologize. You turn back to the stove. You finish what you started.
Whatever. Free dinner.
He doesn’t say anything as you finish at the stove, but he moves- quiet and purposeful, like he’s been waiting for his cue to be useful. Plates appear out of the cabinet. Forks and knives follow. He opens a drawer and pulls out napkins, then leans into the fridge for a bottle of white, holding it up like a question.
You nod once. He nods back, like you're both in on some wordless, invisible contract.
“I’d offer to help with the food,” he says, popping the cork with a satisfying thwip, “but I feel like-.”
“No you wouldn’t.” you interrupt with a murmur, still stirring gently, just to keep your hands moving. Just to avoid looking at him again while the kitchen still smells like something you accidentally put your soul into.
He hums, amused. “I respect that.”
You slide the pan off the burner, scooping the chicken and vegetables onto the plates he’s already laid out. Danny watches like you’re doing something sacred. Like you’re pouring gold. He doesn't speak until you hand him his plate.
Then:
“You made this?” he asks, like you might have magicked it out of thin air.
You blink at him. “Yes, Danny. I made dinner out of your abandoned chicken.”
He lowers into the chair slowly, eyes still glued to the food. “No planning? No recipe? No measurements?”
“Nope.”
He takes the first bite and groans- actually groans- like something devastating just happened to his taste buds. “Are you kidding me?” You shake your head, trying not to laugh out of embarrassment more than anything. “No, seriously,” he insists, pointing his fork at you. “You just… do this? You just throw shit in a pan and it turns out like this?”
“It’s not that impressive,” you mutter, cheeks warm.
“It is! It’s incredibly impressive. I feel like- Jesus, I feel like I should be paying you for this.”
You roll your eyes. “Now you’re just being dramatic.”
You glance down at your plate, trying to hide the twitch of a smile tugging at your mouth. It’s good. You know it’s good. But the praise makes you itchy. You didn’t do it for praise. You, technically, didn’t do it on purpose. You spear a carrot and change the subject. “How were the holidays, anyway? Home with family, I assume?”
Danny lights up. Like really lights up. Like it spills across every inch of him. “Yeah, yeah, finally,” he says, gesturing lightly with his fork. “Perth. Full house. My sister’s kiddos are getting massive- like, I blinked and they’re suddenly trying to wrestle me every time I walk through the door.”
“You love it,” you murmur, chin resting on your hand.
“Course I do,” he says. “My parents… mate, they’re the best. Got ‘em a side by side this year so they can ride the trails when we are out on our bikes, they’d been wanting to go. It’s great to get to treat ‘em a bit, ya follow?”
Your smile softens. “That’s really nice.”
He shrugs, but his dimples betray him. “It is. It was. Makes you forget all the bullshit, you know?”
You push the last of your veggies around your plate, buying time. The praise has quieted, the food is nearly gone, and the wine’s settled warm in your stomach, loosening something in your chest. The kitchen hums with the kind of comfort that feels earned. Lived in.
Danny takes another bite- slower now, like he’s savoring. The noise has faded to forks clinking gently against ceramic. You glance over at him, then back down at your food.
“My family’s done a lot for me,” you say, quietly. Not dramatic. Not even sentimental- just true. “Everything I’ve got, I’ve had to work for, but I didn’t get here alone. My mom… my dad. Shit, my brother. They gave up a lot.”
Danny looks up, chewing slowly.
You take a sip of wine, steadying your voice. “It must feel good, you know? Getting to do the same in return. Giving back. I imagine your family’s probably proud as hell of you.”
For a second- just a second- something flickers across his face.
He sets his fork down with a soft clink and leans back in his chair, like the air’s gotten a little heavier. His mouth twitches like he's about to say something- something real. His thumb taps once against the base of his wineglass. Then once more.
And then it’s gone.
“Anyway…” he says, too bright, too smooth, pushing straight past whatever that was, and you smile, reflexively, trying not to blink too hard at the gear change. It’s jarring. But before you can even register how sharp the turn was, something much worse hits you.
Shit. You asked about his holiday.
Which is normal. That’s a normal question. That’s something a normal person says after a cozy dinner and a shared bottle of wine and- shit. Because now it would be normal- expected, even- for him to ask about yours.
“...what about you? Did you go home for the holidays?”
Just like that.
The question drops between you like it’s nothing- but it makes your breath hitch.
You shake your head before he even finishes asking. “No.”
Danny blinks once. “Ah. Were you by yourself then?”
You shouldn’t flinch. You don’t flinch. But it’s instant- like a mental record scratch loud enough to hurt.
Fuck.
Were you by yourself?
No. Not even a little. You were on your dorm bed, half-laughing, half-drunk, making out in the dark with the one person in the world you swore you’d never touch.
What the fuck do you say?
You lie so easily it makes you sick.
“All alone,” you say. Like it was the most boring, benign truth in the world. Like Christmas Eve wasn’t spent horizontal, hot-mouthed and half-drunk under the glow of a team-issue laptop with Max fucking Verstappen in your goddamn bed.
You even give him Gavin. Tossed him out like a life preserver, like he was the one who saved you from holiday loneliness. Tell Danny about helping them pack and the names of their children and bring up budgets and timeline and focus and now Danny is nodding along, like it all makes sense. Like he believes you. Like he has no idea.
But what if he does?
What if Max told him?
Danny and Max are close. Not you-and-Max-on-Christmas-Eve close, but the real kind- years-in-the-trenches, trade-secrets-and-insults kind of close. The kind built on long flights and inside jokes and trust. Close enough that if Max said anything, it probably would’ve been to Danny.
What would he have said?
He would’ve laughed about it, maybe. Called you desperate, or stupid, or sad. Told Danny you were a mistake. Maybe said it didn’t mean anything- because it didn’t, right? That’s what you’ve been telling yourself. A dumb, weird, fucked-up mistake between two people who’d been running on adrenaline and loneliness too long.
What if Danny is just playing along- sipping his water, giving you an out, because you just confirmed yourself as a liar?
If he doesn’t know, then congratulations- you’ve just created a secret. One you weren’t planning on carrying. One you definitely weren’t planning on crafting from scratch, no planning whatsoever, over a goddamn dinner plate.
And for what?
To avoid a five-second confession? “I wasn’t alone.” That’s all you’d have to say. That’s it.
But saying that would mean inviting the follow-up. The who. The why. The entire trail of wreckage you’ve been sweeping under the rug for almost a week.
Not that it was anything serious. You kissed him- yes. Laid next to him- yes. But it wasn’t a thing. It wasn’t emotional or carnal or soul-shaking. It was just hot. Fun. A little breathless, a little reckless. Something sharp and stupid and glittering on a night where neither of you had anywhere else to be.
This isn’t a big deal. It’s not the end of the world. You’ve said worse lies to better people.
It’s just… not a good feeling.
Not when Danny is kind to you. Not when he seems to genuinely like being around you. Not when you’ve already noticed how easy it is to be near him without second-guessing yourself until now.
You didn’t want to ruin that.
And yet, you can feel the crack now- spiderwebbing under the surface, only visible if you shine the light just right. You’re annoyed. Not at Danny. Not even at Max. Just at yourself, for letting something so inconsequential get this far under your skin.
Just a lie. Just a secret. You’re really good at both.Years of deflection, press training, team media days, trauma survival mode. You know how to answer a question without ever answering it. You know how to say “everything’s fine” with enough ease to sell out stadiums.
Still, your stomach churns.
It’s been a good afternoon. A good evening. You’ve talked more than you expected to, laughed more than you thought you would. For two people who barely knew each other, it’s been… easy. Nice.
But still, the current has shifted.
Maybe it’s the weight of the lie sitting in your stomach. Maybe it’s the way Danny had shifted earlier- so suddenly, so sharply- like a paddle shift in his soul. Maybe it’s just the hour. The soft-falling hush of night settling outside his apartment windows.
Whatever it is, the moment doesn’t extend. It doesn’t reach for one more glass of wine. It doesn’t wander toward the couch or a movie. It doesn’t ask what tomorrow looks like. It just… ends.
You smile as you reach for his plate. “Let me get this.”
Danny sits back slightly, his hand lifting in a vague motion- “You don’t have to- ”
“I want to. Least I can do.”
You stack both your plates, carry them to the sink, rinse and set them neatly aside. It gives your hands something to do. A gentle transition, not an escape.
“Thanks again,” you say, brushing your fingers on a towel. “For everything.”
Danny leans on the counter, his smile warm and slightly lopsided. “You kidding? Thanks for coming.”
You collect your things- your shoes, your bag- and make your way to the door. Danny follows, not hovering, just keeping pace. You open it yourself. He pauses like he might say more, might ask if you need a ride or offer to walk you down- but you’re already stepping into the hallway, tucking your hair behind your ear as you go.
“Night,” you say, looking back with a soft smile.
“Night, Hollywood” he echoes, hand braced against the doorframe, his own smile just as easy. And that’s it. You walk down the hall and don’t look back. You’ll see him again. You’re sure of it.
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A/N: *SHAMELESS BEGGING* I really, really miss talking about this fic with you guys, or just talking to you guys in general, and it helps keep me motivated (hyperfixation), so I would love to hear from some of you guys!
Feel free to talk about whatever you want, but let me prompt you with this if you would like: We have two issues going on with Danny and why he ultimately isn't going to get anywhere with 66. I'm curious what you guys have picked up on. One is fairly obvious, one is more subtle (or at least, was the first few times they interacted) but all of the signs are becoming increasingly more apparent each time they interact. I would apologize for the spoiler but considering it's a MV fic I think you all saw that coming.
I am so so happy to announce that Max will be around pretty much constantly from here on out. I am so, so excited to share their dynamic and how it moves and changes
Look, I love you guys that read RESET and like or follow. I do. And I get that it’s off-season. I get that it’s a time investment. I get that sometimes you just want to enjoy a story and not have to think beyond that.
BUT
There are several readers who have at various points been SO, SO helpful in keeping my spirits lifted and their comments have been robust, beautiful, thoughtful things that not only make me feel good but also make me think deeper about my own story at times and I want to reward that. I recognize that every word you write is time out of your pocket spent to make me happy and I appreciate the shit out of that.
So- if you have been one of those commenters, (or you would like to leave a thoughtful comment about the plot, the fic, a scene, a chapter, a character- anything that has genuine heart to it) please send in an ask for a one-shot or short fic (2k or less).
I will select at least three to post in the next several days.
RULES:
1) Please submit the ask under your username- if you don’t want your name displayed, please tell me and I will copy and paste the ask into the post. Don’t bother submitting if you’re not going to give the story feedback (for my frequent fliers, don’t worry I have your name tattooed on my soul.)
2) Cannot request RESET- Based fics, though I am happy to write for Max. We will get there but it interferes with my headcanon writing process currently
3) pretty much everything is on the table- I will write for any driver so long as they’re an adult in the fic if it’s explicit
