the stories that live in my head and found their way here! welcome.
unwritten protocols universe — f1 royal!au.
they were raised within systems that taught them discipline before desire, duty before self. their lives were shaped by expectation, their futures decided long before they understood what it meant to choose. but some connections refuse to obey. unwritten protocols follows the quiet defiance of loving someone you were never meant to have — and the irreversible change that follows.
pairing: royal officer!max verstappen x wolff!reader.
max verstappen was raised between discipline and duty, trained to control damage before it spreads and keep his feelings under restraint. but some losses don’t announce themselves, they simply disappear. caught between what he was taught to be and what he was never allowed to want, max is left with memories that refuse to fade, a presence that lingers in absence, and the quiet realization that not all damage can be contained.
pairing: royal treasurer!lando norris x assistant!reader.
when lando norris is appointed royal treasurer, he expects autonomy, authority, and absolute control. he does not expect you. assigned as his assistant without his consent, you represent everything he refuses to accept: oversight, structure, and the quiet implication that he might fail. you intend to do your job. he intends to make you leave.
genre: slow burn, enemies to lovers, royal au, assistant reader, forced proximity, workplace tension, character-driven, mutual obsession in development.
warnings: workplace tension, power imbalance, emotional repression, ego conflict, manipulation attempts, professional rivalry, miscommunication, sleep deprivation, mention of dyslexia, vulnerability, slow emotional unraveling.
word count: 2.4k
TAGLIST: @fartlover300 @papayaeffect [ let me know if you’d like to be tagged! ]
a/n: quick announcement: lando is currently trying to win a war that only exists in his own head. consequences pending.
Your day begins at five in the morning with a single objective: the peak of competence.
Your hair, perfectly in place. The new clothes you bought specifically for this position. Your perfume — a signature.
You are ready.
When you arrive at the palace, it is twenty minutes earlier than your official start time. The doors open, and you are already expecting to be alone until at least eight — if everything unfolds exactly as you planned.
Because if you are right, someone will not help.
And you are already drafting the words in your mind. The formal report you will submit to the king and the royal advisor, informing them that their perfect employee simply does not wish to do his job. That he is not cooperating with you.
However, when you turn the corner, you notice something very, very suspicious.
Logan Sargeant and his patrol partner are standing perfectly still in their designated positions. But both of them look at you as if they’re not entirely sure everything is in order.
You become alert.
Logan looks like he has something to say, but when his eyes flick briefly toward the door, he seems to decide it’s better for you to see for yourself.
He simply opens it.
And then you understand.
The silhouette is unmistakable. Lando Norris is already there.
Blazer perfectly tailored, tie in place, curly hair catching the light from the chandelier, a single strand falling across his forehead, which you strongly suspect is intentional. And, of course, he wasn’t just punctual — he arrived much earlier. That should fill you with satisfaction, but you step inside hesitantly.
Beside him sits a small box with two cups of coffee, still steaming.
When he sees you, his eyes light up.
“Good morning!” he greets. “I bought coffee. It’s plain. I didn’t know how you like it, so I figured you can’t go wrong with the original setting, right?”
As he speaks, he lets the pen rest on the table and turns toward the coffee cups. He picks up the one with your name written on it — a smiley face drawn beside it, and a small heart — and extends it toward you.
His smile is ridiculous.
You look at the coffee with deep wariness.
“Did you poison it?” you ask.
He laughs. A diplomatic laugh, full of those polite “ha-ha-ha” sounds. You can tell he never laughs like that.
“Poison, that’s a good one! It wasn’t on your résumé that you were this funny.”
You take the coffee, and he walks past you, still smiling, returning to whatever he had been doing.
You bring the cup closer and smell it.
It smells like regular coffee. You take a sip. It warms you instantly.
“I finished reading everything you put in the folder last night and did what you so adorably called homework,” he says, with a strange enthusiasm, then slides a stack of papers across the table. “I know you have impressive ideas in that head of yours, but I made a few changes and added some of my own.”
The smile still hasn’t left his face. He waits for you to look at the papers, his hands clasped behind his back.
You stare at him, and finally lower your bag onto the chair and set the coffee down on the table so you can pick up the papers.
You’re both still standing while you read.
The text is good. The information is impressive — you can see that Lando is everything they told you he was in just a few lines explaining his ideas for management.
Okay.
You nod.
“May I mark what I believe should be prioritized right now?” you ask, lifting your eyes to him for only a brief second.
Lando blinks and slips his hands into his pockets.
Just a professional suggestion? No retaliation?
He nods.
You move to one of the chairs, your face still buried in the papers, and pull a highlighter from the pen holder.
“And, Mr. Norris — whatever it is you think you’re doing… don’t,” you say, without lifting your eyes from your work.
His jaw locks.
He turns his back and walks away, using the excuse of giving you space to work.
The next day, he doesn’t come. You are informed that he will be working from home.
Unusual. But acceptable.
The following day, he doesn’t come either. He needs to see a doctor.
Understandable.
Not the next day.
Your jaw tightens.
You wait for updates on his work, but you receive nothing. No reports. No communication. No evidence of progress.
Unprofessional.
He only appears in the middle of the following week.
Alive. Apparently.
The atmosphere has changed completely.
Lando remains on the opposite side of the large table you share. Now, however, he has headphones on, blasting some song loud enough that you can hear the faint spill of it every time you have to pass by him.
You don’t believe he is deliberately ignoring you until you need him to sign the papers for several financial transactions — and he does it without responding, without even listening. He takes the clipboard from your hands, signs his name, stamps it, and extends it back to you behind him, as if you were nothing more than part of the furniture.
You say something. It is clearly important. But what he does is turn the volume up even higher.
Your fists clench tightly, and you return to your seat.
Twenty minutes later, you approach him again. You still need to speak. It is part of the schedule.
He doesn’t even blink.
You glance at the clock.
Ten minutes until the meeting.
You lift your chin and decide to return to your seat once more.
Three hours later, the doors burst open with a loud bang. You don’t move, your work continues uninterrupted.
It’s Lando who finally pulls his headphones off to see what’s happening, only to be met with George Russell’s red, furious face. Oscar follows closely behind him, more composed, but just as displeased.
Lando raises his eyebrows.
“You missed your first royal meeting. I assume you have a reason,” George demands.
Lando opens his mouth to speak, but George raises his hand.
“A good one.”
Now the headphones rest around Lando’s neck, and one of his hands is on top of his hair. He looks genuinely lost.
“I’m sorry… what meeting?” he asks.
Oscar and George exchange a look.
“Unbelievable,” George says.
Oscar turns to you.
“You didn’t inform him? We’re certain the memo was sent to everyone involved.”
Only one of your eyebrows lifts. The king is speaking to you, so you stop what you’re doing and lean back in your chair. Your gaze shifts from him to Lando, who is looking at you as if only now becoming fully aware of your presence in that room.
“I tried. Mr. Norris has been ignoring me since last week and I suspect he blocked my contact and marked my email as spam, because my messages are not reaching him.”
You say all of this while looking directly at Lando’s face.
His eyes widen, just for a moment.
His stomach drops.
“I…” Lando begins, then looks at Oscar with a certain desperation, hoping for help.
“Lando, come with me,” Oscar says, already turning his back and heading toward the door.
Oscar doesn’t call for you or George, so the two of you remain where you are, watching Lando’s diminished form as he sets his headphones on the table and stands to follow the king. When the doors close behind them, George finally pushes himself off where he had been leaning and looks at you.
You take a deep breath and return to your work.
“Has he been ignoring you since last week?” George asks, his brow furrowed, trying to make sense of the information.
You simply nod, your fingers tapping lightly against the keyboard without typing anything. George sighs and runs a hand through his quiff, then looks back at you.
“Other than the obvious difficulty… has the work been going well?” George asks, genuinely curious.
You make a vague, noncommittal gesture and motion to the large manuscript beside you, beckoning him closer with your hand. George approaches and leans in to read what you’re showing him.
“This is what he did last week, on the days he actually came in and I had access to the documents. It’s a substantial amount,” you explain, flipping through the pages until you reach the specific section highlighted in yellow. “I compared the previous administration’s financial planning with what Lando developed, and what he’s proposing is something I’ve never seen before.”
George scratches his chin, reading, clearly impressed.
“Except for… everything…” you say, clearing your throat softly before continuing. “He’s good. Very good, actually.”
Intrigued, George looks at you, who is studying the papers with clear appreciation. It’s very interesting to consider that you had just reported a genuine failure in Lando’s work — a valid and obvious act of disregard — and now he is somewhere outside being reprimanded by Oscar, which is especially unusual, and in the very next moment, you are here, admiring his work.
Well, George cannot say he is unfamiliar with the feeling. Lando has always had that duality — the ability to be an absolute idiot and, at the same time, be the most brilliant person he knows.
“I believe he will present everything he has planned at the next meeting. And you will make sure he is present for that one?” George says.
You have no idea how that is going to happen, but you nod anyway.
He seems satisfied.
Then he leaves.
You don’t know what Oscar said to Lando when they left together. You only know that he doesn’t return to the office before your time to leave. You gather your things, shut down the computers, organize the space — even his side — and turn off the lights.
However, when you reach the courtyard below, you see him returning to the room. You can’t see his face well enough to identify what emotions might be reflected there.
From outside, already in your car and a little farther down the road, you glance back and see the light in the office turn on again. A silhouette moves behind the curtain. By then, you are already far enough that the building soon disappears from view.
The next day, you arrive a little closer to your official start time than usual, having stopped by a nearby café to buy yourself coffee, a small indulgence that cost you a few minutes. Lando arrives while you’re turning on your computer — silent, punctual.
“Good morning,” he says in a neutral voice, taking his seat and beginning his day.
You lift your eyes to him because, in a very different way, this is… unusual. And, of course, you are surprised.
“Is there anything important scheduled for today?” he asks, without taking his eyes off the computer.
Scratching the back of your neck, you pull the paper agenda from atop the stack of documents you need to review and open it to the current date.
“Yesterday’s meeting was rescheduled for today. Same time, two in the afternoon,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady so it doesn’t reveal just how surprised you are that he even thought to ask.
“Okay. Thank you.”
That’s when you notice it: his hair isn’t aligned the way it usually is, not a complete mess, but as if he had tried to fix it and lost the battle, and beneath his eyes, the dark circles are deep. Truly dark. And from the way his shoulders carry themselves, you wonder if he had even managed two hours of sleep the night before.
You doubt it.
You say nothing.
You sit down, refocus on your computer, and open your email. There’s an entire list of information and promotions you’ll ignore, but in the seventh email — sent at four in the morning — is Lando’s institutional address. It’s the first time his email appears in your inbox.
Your eyebrow shifts just a millimeter, and you lift your gaze discreetly toward him. He is focused on his work.
You open it. The number of attachments is impressive. The message itself is clean, professional:
“Attached are the projects, revisions, and notes from last week and this week for archiving and organization.”
Right. Professional conduct. That’s good. He did what he should have done from the beginning. You don’t want to know at what cost — that doesn’t matter.
You cast one last glance at him before opening the first attachment.
While you work, Lando’s exhausted mind tries to do something useful. He is frantic, running purely on the energy drink he had at two in the morning.
He used that time to do absolutely everything he could. Every update. Sending you everything that needed to be sent — from the accountants, from the other service departments of the palace, every invoice, every transaction receipt that needed to be documented and validated — the things that concerned you had been left untouched for the week, so he had to rush.
Of course, he had tried to do it all on his own throughout the week, but he had ended up buried under the sheer volume of responsibilities. Still, he had been working on it.
He could do it. It was merely an inconvenient difficulty, one he would overcome as soon as he managed to put everything in order.
His conversation with Oscar echoes in his head.
“She’s only here to do her job. To assist you, as we said.”
“But I don’t need this said assistance.”
“Lando, do you really think your pride is going to help you here? You just missed your first formal meeting because you refused to listen to what she had to say.”
“But I—”
“This is not negotiable.”
He scoffs. Audibly.
You notice, of course, because you notice everything, and glance at him over the top of your computer screen. He holds the look for a moment, then refuses to maintain eye contact.
So you stop looking.
And he looks.
He shakes his head.
It’s still the same beautiful face he saw when he walked into that room on the first day. He has to admit it: you are beautiful. And competent. And very intelligent. If this were a different situation…
But he doesn’t need you.
And if he can’t get rid of you, then you’ll have to leave on your own.
pairing: royal officer!max verstappen x wolff!reader.
max verstappen was raised between discipline and duty, trained to control damage before it spreads and keep his feelings under restraint. but some losses don’t announce themselves, they simply disappear. caught between what he was taught to be and what he was never allowed to want, max is left with memories that refuse to fade, a presence that lingers in absence, and the quiet realization that not all damage can be contained.
warnings: emotional abuse, parental pressure, implicit arranged marriage, childhood emotional trauma, emotional restraint, disappearing acts, unresolved tension, quiet grief, royal duty vs personal desire, slow ache, soft devastation.
this chapter explores a fictionalized father–son relationship. while inspired by stories shared publicly, the portrayal here is imagined and does not claim to reflect the truth of their real-life bond.
word count: 3.2k
TAGLIST: @ilocuras24
a/n: the fifth chapter is here! the story is reaching a very interesting point, and honestly, i'm really enjoying writing it. i hope those who read caught in the moment first are enjoying the references! and if you haven’t, i truly recommend it — but most of all, i hope you’re still able to feel this story exactly as it’s meant to be felt. thank you so much for reading.
Following the traditional weekend event schedule, you head to the tournament hosted by the royal family for the townspeople. What actually happens is a festival of food stalls selling the strangest kinds of food and teenagers in riding clothes racing around the circuit on their horses with the prospect of competing in the main category next time.
It's the same thing every year.
The noise is welcoming — children running, pots banging, people laughing and parents calling their children. You've just arrived and are looking for a place to stay. Studying the space.
But, of course, he needs to be the first thing you see when your eyes move slightly to the right.
You look at him.
Max looks back. And holds your gaze.
The safe distance between you is still there. After the avalanche of touches a dance allows, it feels wrong, almost deliberate. Like something that should have settled… didn’t.
You close your eyes.
When you open them, Lando is there. Close enough that you have to take a step back with a frown.
He approaches with that same mischievous smile he’s worn since boyhood, the kind that never learned how to behave. He stops beside you as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
You’ve never been close. That’s what makes it weird — that of all the people involved in the tournament, nobles and commoners alike, he chose you.
“I saw you two yesterday,” Lando says, too casually. “At the party. Dancing together.”
He lifts the empty plastic cup to his mouth, absentmindedly biting the rim as his eyes drift across the field. Only then do they settle back on you.
Your eyes widen, just a fraction. Your hands move behind your back, fingers intertwining on instinct.
“Hm… okay?” you reply.
The caution in your voice surprises even you. Normally, you would have denied it. Or deflected. Or attacked first, sharp and defensive. But you don’t. You soften the moment instead, shrinking it, as if that might make it safer.
Lando lets out a low laugh.
"Yeah. It was really unfamiliar for me because Max isn't really a dancer, you know?" He continues, his expression always that of someone who knows more than he wants to say.
You look at the ground, then take a deep breath. The air comes out slowly — not necessarily because you're impatient, but because you don't like the direction the conversation seems to be taking.
Not that there's anything to be said or noticed.
"Yeah. I know." You reply in a casual tone.
Lando's gaze shifts to Max, and you follow it without thinking. He talks to Ocon and Leclerc, the three of them seeming absorbed in something funny. Max is the only one who appears to have his ears in two places, attentive to something outside the circle.
You know what it is. Lando knows too.
"Ever since you got here, he's been walking around with that abandoned puppy look on his face." Lando says it, and there is no more fun in his words, only serenity.
You don't answer. Your neck heats up along with your cheeks.
"I thought it was just something from yesterday, but then I stopped to watch and... Well. Every time you're around, he seems to be walking on clouds. He always has."
The blinks of your eyes directed at the floor say that you want to give him a response. But your stomach does something strange.
You then look for Max. But he is no longer with the boys.
Lando raises an eyebrow and smiles wider.
“Hey, mate!” Lando says easily, already lifting his hand in greeting as the person steps into your field of vision.
Max.
He stops close enough that you feel the shift in the air. His gaze moves from Lando to you, quick, checking, not searching.
“Hey,” Max replies. His voice is even. Too even. “Everything alright here?”
“Yeah. All good.” Lando responds with a slight nod of his head and a very gentle step to the side, gentle enough to appear accidental. He was a little closer to you now. “I was just stealing her for a second.”
“I see.” Max says.
It’s a simple answer. No edge to it. No question either. His hand settles at his side, fingers flexing once before stilling again.
“We were just talking,” you add, a little too quickly, as if clarifying something that hasn’t actually been challenged.
Lando looks between the two of you, the corner of his mouth lifting. Absolutely amused.
“Anyway.” Lando says, stepping back at last, creating space where he knows it’s wanted. “I’ve got to go.”
He pauses, eyes flicking to Max, then back to you.
“Don’t let him step on your toes again, yeah?”
The grin is back before he turns and disappears into the noise of the field.
You can hear the sound of gravel beneath Max's feet as he moves, changing position. He puts his hand on the back of his neck and tilts his head back just a little — the goal is to get a better look at you, but the reality is that he is just trying to adjust himself.
“We always end up like this… bumping into each other by accident. Have you noticed?” Max says.
“Well,” you reply quietly, “that wasn’t an accident.”
Max shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. Like none of it does. His gaze drifts past you, toward something that isn’t there.
“He was getting too big for his boots.”
That answer makes you squint.
“You’re jealous,” you say.
“I’m not,” Max replies immediately.
Too quickly.
You stare at him.
He doesn’t look back right away.
“Max,” you press. “Do you have something to say?”
His jaw shifts. A small muscle there tightening, betraying him before anything else can.
He looks uncomfortable.
“No,” he says.
“Well, fine.” You cross your arms, a small, defensive gesture. “I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”
Max stills.
“So soon?” he asks.
There’s something in his voice now. Too quiet. Too careful.
You shrug, but the movement is tight. Your jaw clenches before you can stop it.
“This isn’t my home,” you say. “And my father needs to be there.”
It stings.
Max is ready to say something — he's going to say it. But that's the moment the universe decides to return to its tracks. One of your friends appears and grabs you by the elbow, smiling and excited, paying little attention to Max as she pulls you away.
You don't look back as you follow her, and Max remains motionless.
He swallows hard because he knows what he just lost.
THREE MONTHS AGO
Max knew what would come next the moment the television announced that the evidence against the king had been confirmed as genuine.
He was in the middle of a spoonful of cereal, enjoying one of the five days off he was given throughout the year, and needed a break.
It wasn't the information itself that bothered him.
Anyone looking in from the outside could tell that Max was upset out of consideration for the king. He had been good, and more than that: he was the father of one of his closest friends. A father who had been caught cheating and building a new family after years of appearing normal and perfect — a safe environment for everyone destroyed by the thoughtlessness of a king who let everyone down, but especially his own family.
Of course, that was bad. Very bad.
But the truth was pressing and much more superficial than that.
The basic mathematical conclusion only took away his peace because it was something he had been thinking about for days. He didn't want it to be confirmed. Not at all.
If Oscar's father were to be removed from power, then the crown would go to Oscar himself — the eldest son. So Oscar would be king and would need a queen.
And there was only one option.
You knew that too.
Sitting on your parents' shared bed in the palace next to your mother, you both watch the trial.
The tension is palpable. It is probably the most important thing that has happened to that country in decades.
When the announcement is finally made, you grip the sheet tightly and see your mother's eyebrows arch just enough to prove there is a reaction.
It's not exactly a happy moment. Neither of you jumps for joy or threatens to open a bottle of champagne to celebrate.
It's a tragedy.
But royalty is a very well-organised game of chess, and you know full well that the pieces are about to move.
Your mother leans over, kisses your forehead and slips out of bed. She's going to get ready.
She knows that when your father arrives, the two of them will have a lot to discuss.
In the office, sitting while twirling a small old piece of paper between his fingers, Max thinks about what you said.
You're leaving in two days.
He looks at the folded paper and feels his knee wobble. You gave it to him that night at eleven years old after apologising for not showing up for his birthday — something he still remembers with a strange heaviness in his heart.
Max unfolds the paper again. It's always impressive to note that the glittery coloured ink hasn't faded even after all this time.
Happy birthday, Maxie. You look very handsome today. Don't forget to smile.
Little Miss Wolff :)
And he smiles. Just a little.
The door opens.
Jos, impersonal and oblivious to the whole world happening in that empty space, enters and throws a pile of papers on the table. He then walks over to the coffee machine and takes one of the mugs available on the side to serve himself.
The sound of the machine fills the air, as does the smell, and Max looks up at his father, putting the letter in his shirt pocket.
"I heard that Sargeant almost fell asleep on patrol in the western area on the night of the party. A lapse in concentration." Jos says, still with his back to his son. He pauses, then continues, turning only his head to look at Max over his shoulder. "Can we consider the problem solved?”
With a single, stiff nod, Max confirms. Jos hums in approval.
“Good. Anything to add?”
“No.” Max replies. He rests his arms on his knees and leans forward. “That was the only mistake of the night. But I have one suggestion, and it is the same one I made at our last meeting.”
Jos is already moving again, picking up the mug from the machine that has finished its work and taking a step forward, towards the papers on the table. He says nothing, so Max continues.
“No cutting corners. Do not leave only one guard per sector. That's stupid.”
For a moment, Jos seems to think. Finally, he lets his eyebrows arch in surrender and shrugs.
"Yes. It's best to leave it as it always has been. Very well." Jos declares his final answer and seals it with a sip of coffee. "Anyway. I've been meaning to ask you this for a while. I was concerned that you might not be aware of this issue with Sargeant.”
He searches Max's eyes for a moment and blows on his coffee.
“I was told that you were enjoying the party."
The tone is casual, but Max knows what those words mean.
"I was a guest," he replies.
A short, silent laugh escapes Jos's lips.
"A guest, eh? Max, Max..." He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "Men like us don't fall for that idea. We have responsibilities."
From the sofa, Max just looks at his father and spreads his hands, shrugging his shoulders with obvious sarcasm that he can’t hide.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he replies.
Jos breaks eye contact and places the mug on the glass table with a soft clink.
A beat.
"Was it Wolff's daughter again?"
For a second, Max isn't sure he heard correctly. He tilts his head as if to listen more closely and frowns, but doesn't respond.
Jos sighs loudly. He fiddles with the papers on the table, but returns them to the surface without actually reading anything.
"Of course it was. Always the same thing." Jos murmurs, but the tone of his voice rises as the conversation deepens. "All this work for a pretty face and a waist to put your hand on. I should have seen it coming from the start."
Max stares at him with his chin raised. His knuckles tighten and he makes a great effort to keep his breathing steady.
"Look at you, you can't even find the words to deny it." Jos shakes his head again. His index finger rises and he points at Max. "But I have to give you credit for good taste. Toto is a pain in the ass, but the girl is as pretty as her mother. And in front of everyone? You're getting brave."
"Okay. That's enough," Max says, his voice firm and restrained. Authoritative.
Interrupted, the older man frowns and crosses his arms in front of his body.
"Excuse me... What was that?"
Not a single muscle in Max's expressionless face moves.
"I said that's enough," he repeats, looking directly into his father's eyes. "You're saying things you don't know.”
Another laugh, but this one brings Jos closer to the image of a father rather than a boss. It is soft, like the ones that used to be directed at Victoria. Max can sense the lecture that is coming the moment his father wipes his eyes with his fingers.
"Oh, but I do know. Yes, I do," Jos replies, nodding with his eyes still closed. He opens them and looks at Max with the expression of a man teaching a baby how to walk. "Because I've been your age. I know how a beautiful woman can distract us from what's important, and you know you're slowing down. She's holding you back."
Max's fists clench even tighter. He has to hold himself back from doing something he'll probably regret.
"Stop... talking," Max says, almost through gritted teeth.
It has the desired effect. Jos stops.
"Hm..." is all he lets out, thoughtfully.
Jos leans against the counter behind him and tilts his head to the side just enough to stare at his son as if studying something crucial.
Max is about to get up to leave, but his father's gesture, pointing at him again as if he can't believe what he's seeing, stops him.
Jos lifts his chin, a gesture mirroring the one his son had just made. It's as if he's seeing Max for the first time.
The story is all there: his son's white knuckles, the prominent vein in his neck, and the redness under his eyes.
It's all so clear.
"You're in love with her.”
Max's nostrils flare and he jumps to his feet. The expression on his face is dangerous. He looks Jos straight in the eye.
"You're still talking," Max hisses.
Jos will take that as disrespect. Of course he will. But Max won't be there to see it.
He walks past his father and heads for the door. Jos says something he doesn't hear, and when the door finally closes, Max doesn't know if the world is collapsing or if it's just his own heart beating so loudly that it's the only thing he can hear.
Max doesn't run, but he unconsciously traces a path through the palace.
His body is numb. He doesn't wave back when people wave at him, he doesn't stop when someone calls him, and he doesn't pause to answer a work-related question when one of the younger soldiers looks for him.
He just keeps going.
His heart is still beating wildly and something in his body hurts, but he can't tell where. His hands are shaking and walking is an automatic exercise.
The only thing he hears are his father's last words and you saying you're leaving in two days.
The words mix and spiral, making him feel like he's going crazy.
Until he realises where he is going.
The glass door to the garden is in front of him and Max stares at it with a sense of overwhelming familiarity. How long had it been since he had been there?
He slides the glass doors open carefully, but does not enter immediately.
From there, he observes.
Trees, flowers, bushes, small bees.
It is like watching his own memories come to life.
On the bench, it's you at ten years old, lying down, complaining about the heat.
In the middle of the flowers, it's you at twelve, spinning around while singing Everybody Loves Somebody before deciding to pick a lily and put it behind his ear.
Under the trees, it's you at fifteen, studying a subject you don't understand, but Max is surprisingly good at and can help you with.
But at the edge of the fountain…
In the past, at the edge of the fountain is you, a little younger than you are now, alone, smiling from ear to ear as you hold a book in your hands.
He wants so badly to break your perfect moment with a joke about how performative your posture looks, but... No, he can't.
So, even at the risk of looking weird, he stands there — not hiding, but held in a state bordering on contemplation.
Max is an intelligent man, he always has been, but he has never been given to art. And that's strange now because at that moment, if someone looked at him from the outside, they would not take him for someone who does not understand how to absorb the beauty of a painting.
Not even he would think so.
Because there, in that innocent moment where all duty and appearances are lifted from your shoulders and you are just a girl, Max cannot take his eyes off you.
It is the combination of details.
He cannot describe it, but he knows that the sight of your eyes along with the strands of hair that fall loosely around your face in a cascade do something to him that could be compared to turning him inside out.
Perhaps this is the feeling of awe that art lovers always describe and he never understood.
But it's not just those details.
As he looks at you, Max knows that the world seen through those beautiful eyes becomes more beautiful. And that the words that come out of that... Mouth — he can't bring himself to look — could stop a war.
Max had been with other women before. He could say he hadn't, but he would be lying. He had tried.
None of the feelings he had shared before, however wonderful they had been in their brevity, had ever reached this conclusion.
Home.
You were someone who had given him a home.
And it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.
When he comes to his senses, he is sitting in the same spot by the fountain where you were that day.
You're in love with her.
The phrase is unwelcome. It repeats itself in the back of his mind, insistent, and Max knows he will be haunted by it.
He brings both hands to his face and slides them into his hair, then lets them fall back and cover his eyes.
pairing: royal officer!max verstappen x wolff!reader.
max verstappen was raised between discipline and duty, trained to control damage before it spreads and keep his feelings under restraint. but some losses don’t announce themselves, they simply disappear. caught between what he was taught to be and what he was never allowed to want, max is left with memories that refuse to fade, a presence that lingers in absence, and the quiet realization that not all damage can be contained.
warnings: emotional abuse, parental pressure, implicit arranged marriage, childhood emotional trauma, emotional restraint, disappearing acts, unresolved tension, quiet grief, royal duty vs personal desire, slow ache, soft devastation.
word count: 2.3k
TAGLIST: @ilocuras24
a/n: YAAAAY! I'M BACK. it was a really rough time, but it's over now! i was dying to update the series, and i really hope everyone likes what i've done here. it's a slightly longer chapter (and with more developments, hehe) to make up for the days without updates! comment below if you'd like to be included in the tags!!!!
PRESENT DAYS
The night drags on.
Now Max is in his penthouse, in his pyjamas, lying comfortably on the huge double bed with his cats and exactly three pillows.
He rolls over and almost crushes Jimmy.
The cat gets startled and jumps up, disturbed. He looks at Max with eyes full of surprise at the betrayal and gracefully gets out of bed. Sassy accompanies him outside, but not before casting an accusatory glance back over her shoulder. And Max watches as they leave in the dim light.
Dramatic kids.
His eyes close again and his hand goes to his forehead.
Max tries to block out the thoughts.
The position doesn't last long because he reaches out to turn on the lamp.
What is he thinking?
To be honest, not even Max knows.
You are on the other side of town, equally awake as you stare at the expensive dress you brought to the party in your hands.
Red with small orange gems.
It was supposed to look like fire, but now it just looks too colorful.
Your mind doesn't stop for a second. It's in the room, in the dress, in the palace, and especially in a few hours ago, when you got off the plane — uncertain, out of place, anxious, and a little flustered.
Your thoughts always take you to dangerous places. Places you've always avoided pursuing. Blue eyes full of an impersonality that is easily dismantled when seen up close.
You close your eyes tightly and bring the dress close to your face. Breathing in the smell of the new fabric grounds you for a brief second. You put your feet on the floor and feel the cold tile make your body shiver when the soles touch it.
You hang up the dress and let your forehead touch the wood of the wardrobe.
On the other hand, Max still struggles with insomnia. When he finally falls asleep, the childish anxiety that devours him leads his dreams to memories that should have been forgotten years ago.
PAST DAYS
The high society ball was happening and Max was watching.
He was a guest, he had the right to be there, it wasn't a working day. However, everything seemed so boring.
He was alone. Charles had been a jerk during riding practice that afternoon, almost causing him to fall off his horse and then saying it was no big deal. An incident that didn't need to be taken into account. Well, Max didn't want to talk to him now. So he stood there, leaning against the wall with his hands in the pockets of his perfectly pressed trousers, watching Victoria steal sweets from the tables as an excuse to look at something else.
You were talking to your group. The three princesses and two other girls he didn't recognise. You looked happy, light-hearted in a way that only you were. When your smile grew a little wider, Max had to look away.
He wasn't jealous, but he wanted you to be talking to him, not them.
Someone bumps into his elbow.
Max barely reacts at first, only shifts his weight, annoyed at the interruption — until he looks down.
Lando.
Too small for the room, too energetic for the occasion, weaving his way through the crowd with absolutely no regard for personal space. His mouth is stained purple from grape juice, and his bow tie is crooked in a way that feels intentional.
He stops right in front of Max and looks up at him, squinting.
“You’re doing the wall thing again,” Lando says, accusatory.
“I’m standing,” Max replies flatly.
Lando hums, unconvinced, then follows Max’s line of sight without being subtle about it at all.
“Oh,” he says. “You’re watching the girls.”
Max stiffens and grimaces in disgust.
“I’m not,” he says immediately.
Lando grins — sharp, delighted, dangerous in the way only children who notice too much can be.
“Sure,” he says, and then, mercifully, changes the subject. “Do you want to steal desserts with me? Victoria already took the good ones.”
Max exhales through his nose. “…Fine.”
He doesn't notice, but you see him leave where he was standing. Your neck stretches instinctively, trying to follow his path — the direction Lando is already pulling him toward. Something in your chest tightens, urging you to move.
When you look the other way, your family and the royal family are chatting animatedly about something.
You take a deep breath, look at Max one last time, then turn back to your friends — smiling at the right moments, saying the right things.
PRESENT DAYS
He didn't see you arrive.
Until that moment, there had been quick, curious glances towards the top of the stairs, pretending it was part of the security protocol when, in fact, he wanted to know when you would show up there. Max was waiting for you even though he consciously said he wasn't. Esteban noticed.
He didn't say anything.
When the Wolff family was finally announced, Max wasn't around to see your grand entrance.
You, of course, inevitably scan the room with your eyes, searching for something — for someone — and you don't find it. You hear parallel conversations between the guards who say that Max had to leave to sort some things out with Jos, but you remain impassive, as if overhearing other people's business were no big deal.
Every time you look at a corner, an invisible wave of nostalgia threatens to engulf you. There are so many memories, good and bad, that you almost lose yourself.
But Nicole won't let you.
She and her son, Oscar, dressed in his official royal attire, approach. There are exchanges of polite bows and greetings before it turns into a lively conversation crowned with political caution.
Oscar flashes a small smile, stepping away and pulling you with him, out of the circle of elders.
“I hope you have fun today,” he says, ever the gentleman. “How are you?”
You take a deep breath and smile. As always, you are very good at masking your feelings and intentions.
“Everything’s fine. The party is amazing. I just saw my favourite actress talking to Mae. I think I’ll interrupt them soon,” you reply charmingly, then nod toward the clothes he’s wearing. “And I feel a slight twinge in my head every time the chandelier passes over your insignia and the light reflects in my eyes. There are so many.”
His laugh is inevitable — the classic, almost silent one with the high-pitched interference. It’s very similar to Lando’s, which you hear at that very moment from somewhere in the room.
“Well, it really is over the top,” he says, glancing down at his chest.
The smile fades a little when Nicole touches Oscar’s shoulder, indicating that they need to go. He nods.
“I hope you get to talk to that actress you mentioned. If I can help in any way, don’t hesitate to call me,” Oscar says.
He straightens, offering you one last polite smile.
“Enjoy the night,” he says.
You watch him disappear back into the crowd, perfectly at ease, his mother accompanying him and then distancing herself.
You remain where you are. Your parents have already been taken away by another group, walking to the other side of the hall with the excitement of two people who have just seen old friends.
A waiter walks past, and you grab a glass of champagne just to have something to do with your hands. You don’t drink it right away.
“I like the gems on the dress.”
The accent hits you in the back like a trap.
Startled, you bring a hand to your mouth and slowly turn around.
Max is standing there, holding a glass that mirrors yours.
“Thank you.” You reply, your gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before looking away.
Neither of you moves. Neither of you says anything. He clears his throat and looks away, taking a sip of champagne.
“It’s a nice party,” he says, a small, misplaced euphemism.
You nod and swallow hard.
“It is.”
The music swells somewhere behind you. Glasses clink. Someone laughs too loudly.
“Do you remember the last one?” Max asks, quiet.
You hesitate — just enough to be noticeable.
“Yes,” you say, breath caught.
Max blinks, as if something has crossed his mind too quickly to follow.
“Right,” he says, quieter now.
ONE MONTH AGO
You are on the balcony. The world outside is suspended and you watch it.
Not long ago, you fled the ballroom. Too many people. A world that, until recently, you were merely a spectator of, but now you would be an integral participant.
Your head was a little light from the alcohol, so you wouldn't say you were feeling melancholic. But something was bothering you.
It could have been the tight corset, the lack of air due to the number of people, the heat. Anything. Those would be convincing stories. But it was more than that.
You couldn't tell what it was, so you stayed there.
You're considering going back when someone leans on the railing next to you. He doesn't say anything, he just stays there — staring ahead, like you.
Max doesn't need to announce himself. You know it's him.
You turn to look at him. It's quick. Just enough time to take in his outline.
Perhaps too tired, perhaps influenced by alcohol — and you lie to yourself saying you would do the same if it were anyone else — you let your head rest on his shoulder.
You swallow hard. Max's breathing is ragged.
One. Two. Three seconds.
His hand finds your waist.
One. Two. Three. Four seconds.
He pulls you closer. Your bodies fit together sideways. Neither of you looks at the other's face.
Max feels like he's committing a crime. Stealing something that isn't his.
But you're not something. And he doesn't care about anything else.
PRESENT DAYS
You keep looking at him, but you don't know where to look. Max's gaze meets yours.
He still looks like that boy.
The one sitting next to a tree while you accused him of not being the person you were looking for.
The reality of that statement paralyses you in that instant. Max notices the change in your gaze and inwardly fears something he does not know.
He approaches and takes the glass from your hands. His finger touches yours as they meet, and your body registers it. Max places his glass and yours on the passing tray, and you look at him curiously. It’s like watching Max in obsessive organisation mode as he puts everything in order.
But what for?
Your hands lower slowly, awkward in a moment that feels just as awkward. Max seems to know what he's doing just as little as you do.
But even so, he goes ahead.
“Would you like to dance?” he asks, sounding hesitant and certain at the same time.
You stare at him as if a third eye had just appeared on his face.
“Dance?” you whisper.
He nods once.
“Yes. With me,” he confirms. “Do you want to?”
You look at his hand as if it were a strange object. You open your mouth to refuse, because that is what habit demands. It is what the fear of being seen dictates.
But Max remains there, holding your gaze with the same stubbornness he had at twelve years old.
“People are watching,” you say, your voice faltering.
“This is the court. People are always watching,” he retorts. His voice is dry, but there is an almost imperceptible tremor in his fingertips.
You wait for the interruption.
Nothing happens.
For five seconds, the world forgets to interrupt you. It is this silence that frightens you more than the invitation.
You don’t answer right away.
Your gaze lifts from his hand to his face, searching for something you won’t name. Permission. Consequence. A way out.
Max doesn’t move. He doesn’t rush you. He only waits — rigid, present, entirely there.
Finally, you inhale.
It’s shallow. Careful.
You place your hand in his.
The contact is brief, almost clinical at first, as if both of you are checking whether this is allowed. His fingers close around yours a second later, warmer than you expected, firmer than you were prepared for.
He waits. He wants confirmation.
You nod.
Carefully, Max guides you onto the dance floor.
You don't fit together right away. You stand side by side, out of sync for a minute before deciding to turn towards each other. It's awkward. Your bodies are used to keeping a safe distance of at least two metres. Now, the proximity feels like a system error.
"This is a terrible idea," you whisper, your eyes fixed on his tie knot because looking at Max's face is too dangerous.
"I know," he replies.
His two hands go to your waist and your body responds with memory. In that rudimentary version of touch, Max kept his fingers shy. Now he holds you tight — almost too tight, asking you to stay.
Your hands go to his shoulders and you allow yourself, almost denying, the kindness of looking at his face.
The sight could undo you.
He says nothing. There are no declarations, no flashbacks. But there is a disconcerting honesty in the way Max looks at you.
He always did that.
He always looked at you as if it were the last time he would ever do so.
Your stomach tightens and you have to look away again because it's too much.
Max leans in.
"You're stepping too hard," he murmurs close to your ear. His voice is low, devoid of any obvious emotion, but there's a trace of amusement there.
"I'm trying not to fall," you reply in the same tone.
"I won't let you fall," Max says.
And you believe him.
At that moment, it doesn't matter that people are surely watching. You just glide along without knowing exactly the meaning behind your own actions.
pairing: royal officer!max verstappen x wolff!reader.
max verstappen was raised between discipline and duty, trained to control damage before it spreads and keep his feelings under restraint. but some losses don’t announce themselves, they simply disappear. caught between what he was taught to be and what he was never allowed to want, max is left with memories that refuse to fade, a presence that lingers in absence, and the quiet realization that not all damage can be contained.
a/n: everyone, we’ve reached the end! noooo 😭😭 the end of a story that was personally very challenging for me, because it has two protagonists who are very difficult to write, but incredibly rewarding from a narrative standpoint. it’s a story that grew slowly, that developed over a long time, but brought me comfort and that i love very much. thank you to everyone who read it while it was being posted, and thank you as well to everyone who found it later and are now reaching the end of the series. you’re amazing. enjoy reading.
You’re ready to go home.
Well, almost. There’s still something you need to do.
In front of the mirror, you straighten your posture. You look at the dress you’re wearing — white, simple, perfectly fitted. You like what you see. But you also know you’re anticipating.
When you glance toward the balcony, there is no rain outside anymore. The sun has returned in full force.
Max must be arriving soon to begin his workday, and thinking about it — thinking about what you’re about to do… what you’re about to say — makes your stomach tighten with anxiety.
You hear Anny’s footsteps behind you as she finishes making the bed and approaches to adjust the pearl necklace around your neck. She gently moves your hair over your shoulder and fastens the clasp, then lets the strands fall back into place exactly as they were before.
Despite the nerves, certain memories still make your heart beat faster and force you to bite the tip of your finger to hide a smile — though it does very little to help.
When Anny steps back, you know she noticed. A small smile curls at the corner of her lips.
“Happy, my lady?”
You try to deny it, shrugging, but a soft laugh escapes anyway.
“Yes. A little.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Could it have something to do with a certain…”
You look at her through the mirror and whisper-shout, “Shhh, Anny!”
She lets out a quiet laugh and turns away, focusing on the two pairs of shoes at the foot of the bed.
“You weren’t very discreet, you know? I was told some of the staff formed a line just to see what was happening.”
Your face turns red instantly. When she turns back to you, holding the shoes in her hands, there’s a gentle smile on her lips.
“It’s a good thing. We’ve been watching this unfold for over fifteen years. It’s a relief… for everyone.”
You’re about to respond when soft knocks on the door interrupt the conversation. Both of you lift your heads, and the humor fades from your face instantly, replaced by tension.
Max.
You swallow.
“Oh! There he is. My boy,” Anny announces happily — because she adores Max. And because she adores teasing you.
Max lowers his head in a respectful nod, a warm smile on his lips.
“Anny.”
She waves her hands dismissively, signaling for him to stay, and leaves the room murmuring something about putting the shoes away. The two of you are alone.
Max watches her until the door closes, then looks back at you, curiosity in his eyes.
“Anny said ‘There he is.’” His head tilts slightly. “You were talking about me.”
You look away and bring your hand to your necklace.
“Some people gathered to… watch us. Outside. The kiss and… that.” You’re nervous, and he follows your attempt to explain with quiet amusement on his face. “Apparently they’ve been waiting for this for over fifteen years.”
He lowers his head slightly, just enough to see you more clearly.
“Ah, yes. I heard about that,” he says simply. “But they’re not the only ones.”
You lift your gaze and meet his again. There is no uncertainty on his face. None at all. He has just confessed something without saying the words, and the moment remains suspended in the intensity between you.
Max has to look away. He glances to the side and notices the suitcase.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes… I was going to find you before I left. But… yes. It was already scheduled, so…”
He stands still for a moment, chewing lightly on his lower lip. He seems to think carefully about what he’s about to say.
“Stay.”
Stay, your mind echoes. Your eyes blink slowly, your hands opening and closing at your sides, your lips slightly parted as your unsteady breathing demands space.
The word throws you off balance.
“Stay…” you murmur, as if it were something new in your vocabulary. When you continue, there is still uncertainty in your voice. “And if I stay… what happens?”
Slowly, Max steps closer until you have to tilt your face up to look at him. He holds your gaze, and one of his hands settles at the side of your neck, his thumb gently swiping over your skin.
“We’ll figure it out.”
Your hands remain at your sides, your eyes still open. Still on him.
Your Max.
His expression — warm, so honest — unravels you. When you answer, the words leave you before you can stop them.
“Okay. Yes.”
His eyes widen slightly. You hear his breath leave him, unsteady.
“Yes?” Max asks softly.
You nod.
“Yes. I’ll stay.”
He nods too — not only because he agrees, but because he needs to confirm it to himself. That this makes sense. That this is right.
This was it. It had always been this.
His other hand moves to your waist, and the smile that spreads across his face could rival the sun itself. Once again, you come undone. You rise onto your toes and kiss him softly.
He kisses you back, surprised.
When you pull away, his eyes remain closed, and he looks completely unmoored.
“I don’t think this will ever stop amazing me,” he says.
You laugh. He pulls you closer against his body and leans in for another kiss.
When you tell your parents that you won’t be going back with them, their reactions are different.
Your mother listens like she knows more than you’re saying.
And she smiles.
Her eyes are soft, and the careful squeeze of her hand around yours reveals that she understands that it’s time.
Not just time for you to leave.
But time for her to let you find things on your own.
Your father isn’t as easily convinced.
He asks more questions. Precise ones. Careful ones. And although you don’t say everything — not because you’re trying to hide it, but because you don’t fully understand it yourself yet — you don’t lie.
He watches you from behind his glasses and sees something inevitable.
His shoulders fall, just slightly, and your gaze meets his.
You’ll discover, if you ever want children, that even though they’re the best thing in your life, they’re also scary… because they grow up far too fast.
Eventually, he exhales, accepting what he already knows he cannot control.
You walk to the hangar together.
There, the air — thick with the smell of fuel and metal — takes you back to the moment you arrived. Before the kiss. Before the party. Before all of it. All that hesitation.
Now you stand in front of your parents, and they pull you into a tight embrace.
Your mother holds your face a second too longer.
Your father presses a kiss to your forehead.
Then they go.
You watch the plane as it begins to move without you. A tear slips from your eye, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand.
By the time it disappears into the sky, reduced to nothing more than a distant shape, you realize Max is looking at you.
You turn to him and smile.
He doesn’t say anything. He just smiles back.
His hand finds yours instead, fingers closing gently, as if afraid you might still disappear.
You don’t.
You’re not inside that thing.
You’re here.
With him.
The plan is simple: you’ll go back to the palace, head up to your room to collect your luggage, and then go to Max’s apartment.
It’s a last-minute plan. When he suggested you stay at his penthouse, you nearly fainted at the possibility — but you were also so excited that when he asked if you’d prefer to stay at the palace instead, you practically shouted, “NO!”, which made him laugh and grab your hand again to take you to get your things.
But of course, simple has never really been your thing.
You reach the staircase unnoticed, quietly, but—
“Well… look at that,” George announces, a wide grin spreading across his face. “It finally happened.”
Max lets out an irritated groan and drags a hand down his face, releasing a long sigh.
You notice Lando beside George, squinting as if he needs to confirm he isn’t hallucinating.
“Are we seeing the same thing?” Lando says, bending down to eye your intertwined hands more closely. “Because it really looks like Max is holding Wolff’s daughter’s hand.”
“Oh, shut up,” Max says flatly. “We need to get through, and you’re in the way.”
Charles appears on the balcony above you and cranes his neck over the railing.
“Max is dating now?!” he asks, delighted.
Oscar walks down the corridor and spots Charles leaning over. He moves closer to see for himself, Charles gesturing toward your joined hands.
“Oh,” Oscar says, a knowing smile spreading across his face.
You let out a small laugh and hide your face in your hand.
“We’re going to get my luggage,” you say.
Max panics immediately.
“Schat, don’t say that…” he tries to warn you, but it’s too late. Lando’s eyes are already wide.
“Max is going with you to your room to get your luggage?”
George nods, impressed.
“You two are getting very bold,” he says. “But after the absolute circus of all these years…”
Charles agrees with a soft, knowing “Yeah…” — the kind that comes from someone who has seen far too much, and suffered through all of it — and Oscar can only shrug with a small grimace, nodding along.
“Be safe! Seriously! This is no environment for children!” Lando announces loudly.
George turns his head away to laugh, and Charles and Oscar nearly collapse into each other under the force of their laughter.
Max raises his middle finger without hesitation and pulls you along through them.
You’re laughing now, your grip tight around Max’s hand, and even though he isn’t laughing, you see the smile on his face.
“These idiots…” he murmurs.
You smile too, tightening your grip on his hand.
“I like them.”
Max glances at you, something warm flickering in his expression.
“I do too.”
At night, you stare up at the ceiling of Max’s room. The darkness is soft, wrapped in the quiet rhythm of his breathing beside you. The sheets are warm and smell faintly like him, clean and grounding. Everything here feels solid. Real in a way that still surprises you. You can’t sleep, but not for the usual reasons.
You turn onto your side, and he’s there — lying on his stomach, his bare back fully visible now that the blanket has slipped down, covering only from his hips downward.
You watch him for a moment, committing the shape of him to memory.
Beautiful. Very beautiful.
Your hand lifts, and you trace your finger along a small scar near his shoulder, until your fingers reach his hair. You brush lightly through the short strands at his temple, your thumb barely grazing his skin — just enough to see his eyes. That’s when Max opens one of them.
“Hey… sorry,” you murmur, guilty for waking him.
You start to pull your hand away from his face, but before you can lower it, a lazy smile spreads across his lips. His hand lifts and wraps gently around your wrist, stopping you.
That tells you everything you need to know.
You shift closer, settling beside him, and he pulls you firmly by the thigh, guiding your leg over his body.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks, his voice thick with sleep, deeper than usual.
“Not yet,” you whisper. “I was looking at you.”
Max nods, then leans in and kisses you. He pulls back with a quiet laugh when he hears the small sound you make.
“So you really can’t sleep, huh.”
“Max…”
He smiles, and in a sudden motion, he pulls you on top of him.
You look down at his face, still not fully used to everything you’re allowed to see now.
Everything you’re allowed to touch.
The softness in his face doesn’t disappear, but you feel every inch of skin warm beneath his gaze. Max lets his hands slide a little higher along your bare waist, and you close your eyes, simply feeling the strength and texture of his touch.
Then the bed shifts slightly, and when you look over, Sassy is staring at the two of you as if she’s moments away from delivering a deeply disapproving verdict.
“Okay. You need to get out. This is about to get ugly,” Max tells her.
You laugh and look back at him. He exhales sharply, but you only lean in to kiss him. His hands return to you — possessive, certain — and you’re just about to deepen the kiss when a loud meow breaks his focus.
“Alright. That’s enough.” Gently, he lifts you off him, sighing as if he’s been personally wronged.
You watch him circle the bed and pick Sassy up in his arms. Despite everything, he cradles her against his chest and presses a kiss to the top of her head before carrying her toward the door. You hear him murmur, “she’s mine now. You can play with her later,” in that unmistakable cat-dad voice, and you nearly melt.
Max closes the door and turns back to you.
“Now… where were we?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think.
“I was on top of you?”
Max bites his lower lip and nods.
“Oh, right. That.”
You gesture for him to come closer, and his eyes darken as he walks toward you.
pairing: royal officer!max verstappen x wolff!reader.
max verstappen was raised between discipline and duty, trained to control damage before it spreads and keep his feelings under restraint. but some losses don’t announce themselves, they simply disappear. caught between what he was taught to be and what he was never allowed to want, max is left with memories that refuse to fade, a presence that lingers in absence, and the quiet realization that not all damage can be contained.
warnings: emotional abuse, parental pressure, implicit arranged marriage, childhood emotional trauma, emotional restraint, disappearing acts, unresolved tension, quiet grief, royal duty vs personal desire, slow ache, soft devastation.
word count: 3.1k
a/n: this chapter made me sit down, stand up, drink water, think too much, and pretend everything was under control (it wasn’t). what a difficult bunch. after a lot of thinking, writing, and stressing out… it’s done. this one took a while, and i hope you like it!
Packing your bags when you haven't even unpacked the previous ones sounds a bit pathetic. You don't want to get on a jet again.
Of course, it's been a while. A few weeks. You could have solved the suitcase problem, but the idea of going back still haunted you.
You never felt that way before. Whenever you went back there, you had a purpose.
That thought settles heavy in your chest as you fold the last piece of clothing with more care than necessary, as if neatness might make the act feel less real. Life has been like this for so long that you can’t remember a time when staying felt permanent.
In the middle of the process, however, you catch sight of your father's head peeking through the crack in the door, staring at you. He whistles as he always did to get your attention, and you smile weakly, waiting for him to come in.
He steps into the room and sits on the edge of the bed without ceremony, like he’s done a thousand times before. When you pass by him, he reaches out and squeezes your arm gently — grounding.
“You know you could call someone to help you, right?” he says. Not a lecture. A reminder.
You nod. You know he means it. But he knows you too well. Like him, you like the way things turn out when you do them yourself.
A flaw. A quality.
His eyes flick briefly to the open suitcase, then to the dress hanging from the wardrobe door. His eyebrows lift just a little as he points to it.
“I like the dress,” he says. “Very pretty.”
“I bought it with your card.”
There’s no guilt in your voice. No defiance either. Just a silly joke. He hums, amused, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Good,” he replies easily. “That’s what it’s for.”
You look at each other for a moment, then you move to pick up the dress and prepare it for storage. Your father is not leaving yet.
When you finally put the dress into the suitcase, the zip resists. You pull once. Then again, more force than necessary, jaw tightening in quiet frustration.
Before you can try a third time, his hand is there.
“Here,” he says softly.
He leans forward, one knee still pressed into the mattress, steadying the suitcase with one hand while the other guides the zip closed in a single, practiced motion. It clicks into place with a finality that makes your chest ache a little.
For a second, neither of you moves.
His hand lingers on the suitcase. Yours rests on the edge of the bed.
“Everything will be alright. Your mother and I will be there with you,” he confirms, his hand moving from the suitcase to your shoulder. The weight of it is steady. Familiar. “Your friends too.”
Friends. You nod. The word settles somewhere uncomfortable, but you don’t argue with it.
Your father tilts his head just slightly, searching your face — not for answers, just for confirmation that you’re still there. You give him a small smile in return. It’s practiced. Convincing enough.
“I’ll carry it for you,” he says, already reaching for the handle.
You follow your father with your eyes as he leaves. The suitcase in his hand seems to weigh nothing — a superpower you have always appreciated. It seems so light that he still has time to steal a bite of your mother's bagel before leaving the house with her scolding and laughing behind him.
It was at the age of twelve that Max first realised that he had become accustomed to seeing you leave without saying goodbye.
Which, of course, was a lie.
That afternoon, Max saw the plane fly over the palace and he knew you had left.
When that happened, he allowed himself a few quick minutes of fantasy.
About to go home with his mother, Max kept looking at the sky. You were there, in that big metal thing that took you a little further away every minute.
He wondered what you were doing.
Talking to your parents? Writing letters? Enjoying some sweet treats? Sleeping until you got there?
But what he really wanted to know was...
Did you feel like him? Empty?
Perhaps not. That's why you didn't mind saying goodbye.
It was a strange feeling. One he would never name. Max didn't understand exactly what it was, and if he was being completely honest, he didn't want to understand.
It was different. That's why it was a little scary. Max usually didn't care about anyone else's opinion except those who measured his talent with some kind of ruler. But you...
When the thought got there, it was time to stop.
His mother approached, and Max smiled. A small smile. One that didn’t invite questions. She rested her hand on his back and guided him toward the exit.
She didn’t ask about you.
At that time, no one did.
Following the soldiers' training was one of Max's favourite parts of his job. He didn’t have to go through every step of it, but with time spent alternating between the field and the office, he had learned a thing or two.
That afternoon, Max was sparring with Yuki, a nearly childlike smile on his face.
Yuki, much smaller than him, proved to be just as much of a threat as anyone else. It was no wonder he had managed to join the army despite being below the minimum height requirement.
“I’m waiting for you to give me back my opponent,” Pierre complained, raising his boxing glove menacingly toward Max, who dodged a well-aimed punch.
“Just let me finish this guy off and I’m all yours, big guy,” Yuki said, taking the opportunity to try to trip Max.
Max, who never played fair, took a step back and used Yuki’s momentum against him, grabbing his hand, pulling him forward, and knocking him to the ground.
“What the fuck? You didn’t even use the right moves. What a shitty fight,” Yuki cursed, not bothering to get up, raising one hand to shield his face from the sun.
With a surprised laugh, Pierre approached, leaning down beside him, Max following and kneeling as well to check on their friend.
“Mate, you took a nasty fall. Is your head still working?” Pierre asked.
Yuki covered his face completely with one hand and pushed them away with the other, already sitting up.
“Fuck off. Both of you. Both of you,” he complained, scrambling to his feet.
With a click of his tongue, Max stood.
“Look at that,” he said, pointing toward Yuki as he walked away. “He’s doing just fine.”
The conversation was about to continue when Gianpiero’s voice cut through the moment.
Pierre noticed immediately and grimaced at Max, who raised an eyebrow in response, recognising the potential shift. They exchanged a brief handshake and a pat on the back before Pierre turned and joined Yuki.
“I just received the guest list for the gala.” Getting straight to the point, GP held up the printed sheets.
Max leaned in to look, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Jos and Laurent said you’d be responsible for determining the security for the rooms and corridors.”
His posture shifted automatically. Max took the sheets from Gianpiero’s hands, already familiar with the format — the same one used for every patrol decision, every event, large or small. What was different this time was the volume.
Too many names.
Important figures from the city. Public personalities. Others less known, but eager to use the night as an opportunity for visibility. His eyes moved quickly, never lingering, already mapping faces to spaces, entrances to exits. The gala wasn’t just a celebration.
“We’ll need staggered patrols on the west wing,” he said after a moment, tapping the paper once with his finger. “Guest turnover is higher there. No dead zones between the private rooms and the service corridors.”
Gianpiero nodded, following closely. “The Wolffs are arriving tonight. Late.”
Max’s finger paused just for a fraction of a second before continuing down the list.
“Then we double coverage on arrival and keep it discreet,” he replied evenly. “No spectacle. From what I’ve heard, the outcome was… acceptable.” A pause. “We’ll keep it that way.”
Another glance at the list, and Max handed the papers back to Gianpiero.
GP didn’t leave right away. He hesitated, studying Max’s face with the kind of look that meant there was more.
“Laurent asked that you accompany them personally upon arrival,” he said finally. “Damage control. Last time they were here didn’t… land well. You’d be representing King Oscar.” A pause. “It’s diplomatic.”
Max scoffed softly, already turning away.
“I’m not a diplomat. Oscar should go.”
“He said he wanted to go. He insisted,” Gianpiero continued calmly. “George advised against it. Said it would blur the lines.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“You, on the other hand, don’t blur anything. You’re a friend of the king. And to them… you’re still one of the closest people to the former candidate for the throne. It makes sense.”
“Still one of the closest people to the former candidate for the throne?” Max repeated. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Gianpiero met his gaze with a flat, unimpressed look.
Max’s jaw tightened.
“We’ll be waiting for you at the hangar,” GP added, already stepping back.
Then he was gone.
Fucking George.
How many times had you travelled that same route? How many times had the view of the capital impressed you? It was impossible to measure that kind of thing. You could never say when you had been there for the first time. It felt like information imprinted into your DNA.
For you, it was as if you had been born in two places: your country, and that one.
Your mother had been born there — that was how your father had met her. A young woman promised to a man from another nation, one who was just beginning his political career and already seemed very promising. They would be tied to that place forever.
You were the result of that and she was always so excited about going there that time flew by in the blink of an eye.
There were only a few hours left before landing, but now it seemed like days.
You’ve already changed seats three times. You went to the fridge looking for a snack. You watched half an episode of a series and half a film. There’s a small pile of books on the seat next to you, but you don’t reach for any of them — none of the titles seem capable of holding your attention.
You take a deep breath. Shift again. Drink some water. It tastes strange now.
At one point, you walk to the back to find your mother. You talk about the gala in an impersonal way. Dresses. Familiar faces. Comments that hover just on the edge of gossip. It’s nice. For a moment, the tension slips from your shoulders.
But when she says she’s going to get some sleep before landing, the discomfort settles back into your stomach, persistent.
You return to your seat, pull the sleep mask over your eyes, and try. You tug the blanket up to your shoulders, then let them drop, defeated.
Your phone rests in the holder. You reach for it, still blinded by the mask. You know what you’ll do once it’s unlocked, and you hesitate before bringing it closer.
Exhaling, you push the mask up, freeing your eyes to stare at the screen.
Your fingers move on their own.
You don’t send a message. You don’t type anything at all. You just search. You open that already-read thread, Max’s last message hovering there, hollow.
You look at the photo again. Jimmy and Sassy asleep, tangled together. You adore both. You remember when he decided to adopt them a few years ago, saying the penthouse felt too empty.
Maybe it was true. Maybe he meant something else and chose a safer word. It’s always been like that — crossed meanings, replaced words, things left unsaid.
Again, you exhale.
The walk to the hangar wasn’t the problem. That part was easy.
What Max found difficult was standing there afterward — perfectly still, perfectly professional, dressed in a suit that fit him like armour, his face carefully arranged into something impassive.
He had learned how to control many things. Strategy. Timing. Space. Silence. Facial expressions, however, were another matter entirely. They required anticipation. And this was the one variable he couldn’t map out.
There was another problem.
Standing just five steps away, leaning casually against the wall, was George Russell — wearing the wicked smile of someone who had done terrible things and felt no regret whatsoever.
When Max arrived at the hangar, the place was already in full swing. It wasn’t only the Wolffs landing that night — they were simply receiving special treatment. Diplomatic, as Gianpiero had said. Different from the rest because of how delicate the situation was.
Engines hummed in the background. Ground crew moved in efficient choreography. Voices echoed off the concrete. Planning. Order. Everything ran on schedule.
That's when George arrived. Second, preceding Max. And that was a dangerous configuration.
Now they were staring at each other. Max looked ready to push him. George found it amusing.
"You don't look particularly excited, as far as I can judge, sir." George teased.
"Go to hell," Max said sharply.
George’s smile widened just enough to be irritating.
“You know,” he said casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “when anything isn’t going your way…”
He paused, eyes flicking over Max with surgical precision.
“You tend to lash out. A lot of unnecessary anger.”
His head tilted.
“It gets… borderline.”
“That’s not your concern,” Max replied, voice low. Controlled.
George hummed, unbothered.
“Isn’t it?” he asked, amused. “Funny. It always seems to become everyone’s concern when you’re involved.”
Max clenched his fists and was very close to doing something unforgivable when Gianpiero arrived accompanied by Laurent.
He glances at George, signalling that this wasn't over yet, but George just winked at him and approached the other two to greet them.
A diplomatic snake, Max thought.
"I've been informed that they're about to land. Just fifteen more minutes to go, everyone." Laurent announces to them.
When Max turns to look at the sky, he feels that bubbling sensation in his stomach again. Perpetual.
When he turns to the team, Laurent and Gianpiero are talking about something, but George remains silent. He no longer has the smug expression of someone who wants to ruin everything, but seems sympathetic. Softer.
He offers Max a nod that feels more like a question. Max responds with another nod.
Those are the longest fifteen minutes of his life.
When the jet lands, you grip the armrest a little tighter — and it’s not because of the jolt as the wheels touch down.
It’s anticipation.
Through the window, you watch the ground crew move into position. Luggage carts rolling closer. The stairs being wheeled to the exit. Laurent Mekies’ unmistakable grey hair among them.
Your father, who spent most of the flight chatting with the pilot, is the first to disembark.
You watch him step out wearing the wide, effortless smile he reserves for people he genuinely likes. Laurent wasn’t responsible for dismantling his plans, so there’s no reason for awkwardness there.
For some reason, though, he has always had a soft spot for George.
Even though the young man was one of the main figures in Parliament who prevented you from becoming queen — and now holds the same position your father once did, back when Oscar’s father was still king — George is pulled into a hug. From where you stand, it looks proud. Fraternal.
Sometimes your father is an odd figure. Even to you.
It is in this moment, a glass window separating you from the world, that you see him.
Your breath catches before you can control it.
He greets your father. Polite and measured on both sides. There’s laughter you can’t hear from this distance, but you know exactly how it sounds. Not fake. Just restrained.
In the middle of the conversation, when the thread slips from his grasp for just a moment, you see him glance at the jet, like he’s looking for something. It's quick.
Then his eyes are on yours.
It lasts a fraction of a second.
You look away immediately. Caught committing a crime.
The seatbelt sign switches off with a soft chime, and the cabin exhales with you.
Movement starts slowly. Bags are retrieved. Your mother walks past you and makes a passing comment you don’t quite catch. You stand when it’s time, smooth your clothes, collect what little you brought with you. Routine. Muscle memory.
The corridor to the door is empty and a little intimidating, but it’s a path you take because it’s unavoidable. Each step brings you closer to the end of the glass passage, closer to the world you left and never quite escaped.
You don’t look for him again.
Not until the door opens.
The hangar is brighter than you expect. The noise hits first — engines cooling down, instructions being called out, footsteps echoing off concrete. The smell of fuel and metal wraps around everything.
Your father turns back to say something to you, but you barely register it.
He’s there.
You pause on the bottom step just long enough for it to feel slightly awkward, but no one questions it. Then you descend, smiling.
Introductions happen quickly, efficiently. Names you already know. Titles you could recite in your sleep. Hands are shaken. Polite words exchanged. Smiles offered where required.
When it’s Max’s turn, you realise you’ve avoided his gaze the entire way down.
Now, you’re no longer separated by a glass window.
Still, there’s no drama. No hesitation. Max inclines his head slightly. Formal. Respectful. He extends his hand. You take it — and it’s hard not to make too much of it.
Hard to pretend this isn’t a touch you would recognise even in your dreams.
Someone clears their throat, and just like that, the moment fractures.
Laurent gestures toward the waiting cars, already talking about schedules, about timing, about the evening ahead. Your father responds, engaged, relaxed.
Max steps aside to let you pass. When you do, the warmth is unmistakable. Familiar.
You’re guided toward your own car. Your mother is already talking, already carrying you into a conversation you only half-follow.
Before the door closes, you look back. Max lifts his gaze, finding yours.
Once again, it’s quick.
You take your seat.
So does he.
And just like that, the moment is over — folded neatly into protocol, swallowed by motion, carried forward toward a place where everything is about to begin again.
pairing: royal officer!max verstappen x wolff!reader.
max verstappen was raised between discipline and duty, trained to control damage before it spreads and keep his feelings under restraint. but some losses don’t announce themselves, they simply disappear. caught between what he was taught to be and what he was never allowed to want, max is left with memories that refuse to fade, a presence that lingers in absence, and the quiet realization that not all damage can be contained.
warnings: emotional abuse, parental pressure, implicit arranged marriage, childhood emotional trauma, emotional restraint, disappearing acts, unresolved tension, quiet grief, royal duty vs personal desire, slow ache, soft devastation.
word count: 2.7k
a/n: i truly loved writing this chapter. this story has been following paths of its own, and those paths have left me very, very soft. it made me emotional in ways i didn’t expect. this is a dense story. it moves slowly. it carries memory, it carries silence, it carries feelings that don’t explode, but settle. feelings that grow from childhood, from small gestures, from things left unsaid. i love these characters deeply. enjoy this reading.
ps: i don’t think i was ready for how much i love them.
PRESENT DAYS
You wake up late. Very late. Your head hurts from the lack of sleep, but at least your body doesn’t feel like a bag of bricks.
For a moment, you sit down, blinking hard, rubbing your eyes before tilting your head back with a long sigh. Don’t ring the bell to call someone to help you — goodness, you’re a fully functional adult woman. You can take care of yourself.
Still half asleep, you force yourself out of bed. You stretch your arms, your spine, then turn slightly to the side. Your reflection stares back at you from the large mirror on the wall. Strange.
You look exactly the same as yesterday.
The thought makes you chuckle, soft and incredulous, because it’s familiar. You noticed the very same thing in that mirror on the morning you turned fifteen.
When your eyes drop to the small sports bag resting by the bed, you know exactly what you’re going to do.
You approve of the idea of keeping your body fully functional, but even you find it strange.
Standing in front of the ballet studio, a wave of familiarity washes over you. It’s been so long since you’ve been near this place that the idea of walking in feels almost intrusive — but you do it anyway.
It’s not class time. Your old instructor is there.
She smiles when she sees you. You smile back.
She doesn’t ask many questions. You walk to the dance floor together. She puts on a song she remembers teaching you to dance to, and you let your body follow the memory.
You float across the room. You glide.
You close your eyes. You feel. You spin. You let your body do what it wants — but it follows the art because it learned how to do so years ago. It feels good to do something you know how to do.
When the world starts to blur, you sit down on the floor. She disappears briefly and comes back with two bottles of water.
“I’m not a queen,” you say, plainly. Almost experimentally, as if testing whether the words will keep their shape once spoken out loud.
Your fingers curl around the strap of your bag, knuckles whitening before you force them to relax.
Your instructor doesn’t stop what she’s doing right away. She finishes adjusting the sound system, lowers the volume just enough for the room to breathe, then turns to you.
“I figured. Sudden?”
Her tone is even. Curious, not alarmed. She crosses her arms loosely, shifting her weight to one leg.
“I don’t know.” Your gaze drifts to the mirrored wall. Your reflection looks composed. Too composed. “I think I saw it happening. Then, the morning before the wedding was cancelled, Oscar talked to me. He asked me what I thought.”
She nods once, slow. Takes it in. Walks closer, stopping at a distance that feels intentional — close enough to be present, far enough not to crowd you.
“And what did you say?”
You swallow. Your shoulders rise with the breath you take, then fall.
“At the time, it felt good.” Your eyes drop to the floor, tracing an old mark on the wood you remember stepping over countless times.
“I agreed.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Instead, she sits on the edge of the bench, resting her hands on her knees, waiting.
“I was unhappy,” you continue, quieter now. “And it seemed like a way to escape that.”
The room fills with the low hum of the speakers, the faint sound of the building settling around you.
You exhale — something between a laugh and a sigh.
“But then…” Your fingers trace an absent line along your forearm. “I don’t know.”
She studies you for a moment longer, eyes soft but sharp — the same eyes that once corrected your posture with a tap to the ribs, that taught you how to fall without breaking.
She doesn’t answer right away.
“Are you sad?”
You flinch almost imperceptibly, then bend forward to pull your trainers off.
“My father didn’t like it,” you say.
She says nothing more.
In the car on the way home, you glance at your phone. You don’t really know what you’re waiting for — only that you are waiting.
No.
You do know.
But it hasn’t come. Not yet.
That night, back at home, restlessness settles in. You open Instagram and scroll. Familiar faces. Familiar events. An entire world happening while you’re on the other side of the continent.
His profile appears. A pink circle around his picture.
You tap it.
It’s a boomerang of Sassy and Jimmy, the two bengals wrestling on the bed. Your smile comes easily, your finger finding the heart without thinking.
The reply arrives seconds later.
A photo this time — the cats asleep on top of each other. Peace restored.
You send a 😻. He answers with 😼.
Then a message.
Max: Good night. Get some rest.
You swallow, nodding to no one. Lock the screen and pull the phone to your chest.
You fall asleep like that, dreaming of dirty blonde hair and blue eyes.
PAST DAYS
That afternoon, when you find Max, he’s alone again. But the way he stands, thoughtful, observant, tells you it’s on purpose.
You, of course, don’t like seeing him at peace like that.
With the mischievous smile of a child ready to ruin someone’s day, you approach on tiptoe. Max notices immediately. He lifts his head, resting it against his hand, and looks at you. His expression doesn’t change.
You stop. Your shoulders slump because you're a little disappointed.
“What are you doing there?” you ask, tilting your head.
He shrugs, gaze returning to the view ahead.
“Are you sad?” you press, unable to leave it alone.
Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move away either. That’s confirmation enough.
Silently, you approach him. Without waiting for permission, you wrap your arms around Max's body, and because he is sitting down, the height difference doesn't matter. It’s an affectionate hug, natural, as if this isn’t the first time you’ve done this.
Max freezes.
“What are you doing?” he asks, carefully. Quietly. Almost afraid.
“I’m hugging you, duh,” you reply, louder than him. “That’s what we do when someone is sad.”
Amidst his awkwardness, Max did not respond or react. It wasn't as if he had never been hugged before, but not like this. He hadn't said anything important, hadn't given a gift, hadn't done anything.
But he doesn’t push you away.
Instead, he closes his eyes.
You smell like grapes. He doesn’t like grapes, but for some reason, it doesn’t bother him. It’s nice. In a strange way.
Just like you.
You pull back too quickly.
“Better?” you ask, studying him like you’re checking whether the medicine worked.
His breathing is still a little awkward, but he steadies it before nodding. It’s all he can give you.
You accept it. A smile spreads across your face.
“I wouldn’t want to fight with you if you were sad,” you say.
“I don’t want to fight,” he replies.
You shrug.
“But you will,” you say easily, settling next to him without invitation. “Because I’m going to do something that’ll annoy you. But it’ll be okay. You’ll understand it’s not serious. And we’ll laugh. It’s fun.”
Max scratches the back of his neck. Everything about everything feels confusing, but he stops asking questions. He does feel better.
And you’re happy.
“Shouldn’t you be with Oscar?” he asks, trying to loosen the knot in his stomach by changing the subject.
You keep your eyes forward, lift one shoulder.
“Yes. I’m going back there. He’s busy right now… I think.” There’s no regret in your voice. “But I’d rather talk to you. He still doesn’t get my jokes.”
You don’t look at him when you say it.
He looks at you anyway.
Then he looks down and sees that your hands are close together on the seat. Max doesn't hold your hand in his, but he moves them closer until his pinky finger intertwines with yours.
You freeze, surprised. He looks straight ahead. You remain like that for a while. Silent.
A small touch, sustaining everything.
PRESENT DAYS
Before the sun rises, Max is already solving problems.
His father isn’t there that morning, so he’s in charge. He doesn’t mind. This is what he knows — building strategy, arranging pieces so the day unfolds without friction.
He’ll train later. Maybe with Charles, if he doesn’t invent a last-minute excuse. It’s happened before.
Gianpiero stands beside him, reviewing the final details before sending them to the Commander. He’s impressed.
“I think you could just change this…” He points to a small detail. “But it’s very good. Where did you learn this?”
Max lets out a low laugh, shrugging.
“I guess I’m just that good.”
Gianpiero snorts, shaking his head.
“You’re dangerous, Max. The Commander will like this. It’s clean. Efficient.”
Max nods, already scanning another page.
“Send a copy to my father,” he says without looking up. “He’ll want to see it.”
Gianpiero nods and leaves.
The sound of his footsteps fades, replaced by silence and the smell of cold coffee and paper. Max stays where he is, eyes fixed on the data, until lighter footsteps approach.
He knows who it is.
Charles knocks once and opens the door.
“Good morning, brave gentleman.”
“Morning,” Max replies, still reading. He straightens the papers, then finally looks up. “You’re early.”
Charles shrugs, dropping into the chair across from him.
“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d find you here.”
Max nods, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“Yuki will meet us there,” Charles adds, twirling a pen. “Didn’t know if it was exclusive, but he insisted.”
“That’s fine,” Max says. “Yuki’s good. Ten minutes.”
“You’re the boss,” Charles replies.
Training is as usual: punctual, organised, precise.
Max changes his uniform in silence, fastens his watch around his wrist, checks the space around him with an automaticity that was never taught. His body slips into the right mode before he even thinks about it — commands that don’t require consciousness.
Charles appears first, stretching his shoulders with deliberate exaggeration.
“You’re quiet today,” he comments casually, as if talking about the weather.
“I’m always quiet,” Max replies, without looking at him.
Yuki arrives shortly after, tossing his water bottle onto the bench with more force than necessary.
“Not like that,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Quiet in a different way.”
Max ignores him. Or tries to.
They warm up, start the series. The pace is good. Max’s body responds exactly as it should — fast, controlled, strong in the right measure. He helps his two friends with new techniques he’s picked up along the way. He doesn’t exactly lead, but the others rely on him because they trust the discipline he carries so naturally.
There are small lapses. Nothing an outsider would notice. He just needs to pull his attention back into place.
Then he hears Charles’ voice, but the words don’t register.
“Max.”
He finally looks up.
“What?”
Charles blinks, then repeats the question. Your name sits squarely in the middle of it.
“Do you know if she’s coming to the coronation gala?”
The question hangs heavy between them. Charles watches him closely, and the gleam in his eyes says things Max doesn’t want to admit right now. Among their group of friends, nothing ever stays a secret for long.
“Why would I know that?” Max asks, a little too quickly.
Yuki, who hasn’t stopped training just to be part of the conversation, lets the weights drop onto the mat with a dull thud and plants his hands on his hips, panting. He takes a long drink from his bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks between the two of them.
“So,” Yuki says, tone light but eyes sharp. “That’s a no?”
Max exhales through his nose, a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. He remembers the previous night, the brief exchange that said nothing.
“I don’t know,” he answers this time. Slower. More honest. “No one told me anything.”
Charles hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push. He stretches his neck from side to side, buying Max a way out without calling it mercy.
“Fair,” he says. “Just thought I’d ask.”
Max raises his eyebrows, a small, deliberate gesture that signals the end of the conversation, and clears his throat. Yuki looks ready to push, he rarely knows when to stop, but one look from Max is enough. He backs off.
They move back into position. The rhythm resumes. Reps, breath, impact against the mat. The familiar language of effort settles back into Max’s muscles, grounding him again.
But it’s different now.
PAST DAYS
He didn't know you were coming to town that week. You didn't tell him. Nobody told him.
So when he walked through the courtyard with his sister and saw the hem of your colourful dress following closely behind your mother, he almost stopped in his tracks, just to make sure it wasn’t a mirage.
You lifted your face from the flower you were holding and saw him. Your eyes sparkled for a moment and you raised your free hand, waving excitedly.
Heat crept up his neck.
He bowed his head in greeting and lifted his hand in return — a small, careful wave, only his fingers moving.
Neither of you could stop, so you kept walking. Your mother didn’t notice. His sister didn’t notice either.
You managed to find him after dinner.
He was talking to two other boys you didn’t know, so you didn’t interrupt. You sat beneath the tree instead, fingers curling around the strap of the small bag you carried, adjusting your grip once, then again.
You waited.
It didn’t take long.
When Max finally noticed you there, it was only a matter of seconds before he excused himself and came over.
“Hi,” he said.
You stood up. Max had always been taller than you, but now it felt unfair in a new way — sudden, unexplained.
“Hi,” you replied. “Will you forgive me for not being here on your birthday?” You hesitated, then added quickly, as if that might make it better. “I know it was last week. There was no way I could get my dad to move the trip. He had things to do at home.”
Max frowned, deep and immediate. Why were you apologising for something so small? He had almost forgotten his own birthday. Only remembered when his mother appeared with a present and Victoria had nearly knocked him out of bed in her excitement.
“It’s fine,” he said, a little awkwardly, like he wasn’t used to being important enough to apologise to. “I mean— it’s really fine.”
He paused, then added, quieter:
“I’m glad you’re here.”
"Me too," you reply, smiling. "I have something for you."
Your attention drifts away from him for just a fraction of a second as you open the bag slung over your shoulder. Max cranes his neck, trying to see what it is.
When you find it, you let out a small sound of satisfaction.
“Give me your wrist,” you say.
He does — immediately. Max doesn’t question it, but his expression shifts. Not uncertain. Curious.
You slide a small, colourful bracelet onto his wrist and tie it snugly. Your fingers linger for half a second longer than necessary.
Then you lift your own arm.
Yours is the same.
"We're connected now," you say, delighted with your own realisation.
Max stares at it for a moment. At the colour. At the knot. At the quiet fact that now there is something linking the two of you, visible and undeniable. He doesn't smile. But he doesn't take it off either.
"Oh! There's one more thing," you announce.
Your hand dips back into your bag and pulls out an envelope small enough to fit in the palm of your hand.
"Read it when you're in your room, okay?"
When you hand him the envelope, his fingers close around it a fraction too fast.
“Okay,” he says.
You’re already smiling, already stepping back, already satisfied in the way only you ever are when you decide something is done. Max watches you go, still holding the envelope, still standing exactly where you left him.
Only when you disappear does he realise his heart is beating wrong.
