I DON’T HATE YOU - MV33
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Model!reader
Summary: You should hate him. Everyone else would. He would. But you don’t.
And in the quiet, when the future feels too heavy to carry, you wonder if hate might have been easier to live with.
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|• 0:33
“You look at me like I’m see-through,” he says, voice raw, tears clinging to every word.
And he’s right.
You are looking through him.
You can’t look at him anymore—not properly. Not the way you used to. It hurts too much. More than you can explain. More than you want it to.
“Used to be someone that meant something to you.”
A dry laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “Yeah,” you say softly. “So was I. Once.”
Max steps forward instantly, instinctive, desperate—reaching for you like muscle memory. Maybe your arm. Your shoulder. Your waist, if you’d let him.
You step back before he can touch you.
“Don’t.”
Your voice is sharp, tight with everything you’re holding back. The word lands harder than you expect it to.
“I—” You stop. You don’t even know where to begin. You can’t look at him, but you can’t move either. Your body feels frozen, trapped between leaving and staying, between screaming and breaking apart completely.
All you can think about is what you found out days ago.
What Max has just confirmed.
He’s been busy lately—you thought it was racing. Formula One. The GT3 series. Endless travel. You understood. You always did. And you—you had been busy too. Busier than ever.
Every magazine wanted you on the cover. Every brand wanted your face, your body, your name. If you weren’t flying somewhere, you were walking a catwalk. And when you were home, you were training, counting calories, pushing yourself to look like the version of perfection everyone expected.
Maybe this was your fault.
Maybe you should’ve followed him more. Been there more. Like Kika. Like Alexandra. Always present. Always supportive.
Maybe he needed you—and you weren’t.
The thought makes your chest ache.
But no.
No, this isn’t on you.
This was his choice. Not yours.
You were still his, even across oceans and time zones.
He was supposed to stay yours.
“I didn’t mean anything,” he says, and he looks—God—destroyed. Guilty. Broken. Like he’s already punished himself a thousand times over. “Please.”
You bite down on your lower lip until it hurts.
“Don’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “Don’t say that.”
His breath stutters. “I swear, it was just—”
“Stop.”
Silence stretches between you. Thick. Suffocating.
You finally look at him then—not because you want to, but because you need to see it. Need to know if you imagined the cracks, the way his eyes won’t quite meet yours.
“How long?” you ask.
He exhales shakily. “It only happened once.”
The words don’t land like he expects them to. They don’t explode. They don’t echo. They just… sit there. Heavy. Unimpressive. Almost pathetic.
“Once,” you repeat quietly.
“Yes,” he says quickly, nodding like that helps. “I swear. One stupid night. I was drunk, you were away, and I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched. “I hated myself the second after. I never saw her again.”
You close your eyes.
Once.
Once is supposed to be easier, isn’t it? Easier to forgive. Easier to survive. A mistake, not a pattern. A lapse, not a betrayal with roots.
But it doesn’t feel easier.
It feels pointless.
Because once was still enough.
Once—and she’s pregnant.
The words burn as they form in your head. Once, while you and Max had been struggling for months. While you were swallowing every vitamin on the planet, timing cycles, listening to doctors, convincing your body—begging it—to be a home for something that never came.
Once.
And it happened for her without trying. Without effort. Without years of hope and disappointment clinging to every negative test.
Your chest tightens painfully.
You did everything right.
And it still wasn’t you.
That’s what finally breaks you.
Your breath hitches, tears flooding your eyes. Your knees feel weak, your insides wrong—like there’s a noose tightening around your chest.
Before you can fall, you sink onto the couch behind you, elbows on your knees, face buried in your hands.
And then—
The dam finally breaks.
These aren’t quiet tears. They don’t slip prettily down your cheeks or smear your mascara in a cinematic way.
They are loud. Broken.
Your sobs tear out of you as your whole body trembles, shoulders shaking, breath coming in sharp, painful gasps.
You’re so tired.
So fucking tired.
You’ve been working so hard—trying to keep Max happy while your body kept failing you. Trying to keep the world impressed while it hollowed you out. Trying to stay upright when all you wanted was to lie down and disappear.
Max moves toward you instinctively, but you stop him when you finally look up.
Your face is streaked with tears and mascara, eyes red-rimmed, skin pale and wrecked.
“You know what’s worse?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer. He can’t.
Because right now, nothing feels worse to him than watching you fall apart—and knowing he caused it.
He’s at fault for your tears. For the ache in your chest. For the emptiness clawing through you.
“I don’t hate you,” you say.
Your voice shakes. The words feel wrong in your mouth.
You hate yourself for them.
Because you believe him when he says it was once. Because you believe he’d never do it again. Because you believe he’d spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to you.
And the way you look at him still hurts—because it isn’t love anymore.
It’s damage.
He wants to ask what the price would be for you to look at him like he still matters. He’d pay it. Whatever it is.
When your crying grows louder, when your whole world collapses in front of you, his tears finally fall too—eyes as red as yours.
You shouldn’t stay.
You shouldn’t forgive him.
How would you explain this? To the public. To your friends. To your family. That he cheated. That he would be a father—to a child that isn’t yours—and you stayed anyway.
“I just—” Your voice is hoarse, raw. You swallow, a sob catching in your throat. “I hate that everything is falling apart… and I’d still end up in your arms.”
A breath leaves Max’s body—relief and guilt tangled together. Heavy. Suffocating.
He deserves the weight. He built it himself.
You’re just too in love to walk away.
Because the worst part is this: Max never changed. He was still kind. Still gentle. Still loving. Flowers after every show. Your favorite sweets waiting in every hotel room. A bracelet you looked at too long suddenly appearing a week later.
You called him in the middle of the night—he always answered. You felt insecure—he reassured you before you even asked.
He loved you perfectly.
So this really was just a slip-up.
One that hurt like hell.
One that would follow him forever.
“Can I hold you?” he asks finally, voice barely holding together.
You hesitate.
Then you nod.
Max is beside you instantly, lifting you onto his lap. You straddle him without thinking, your face finding the familiar hollow of his neck. You cling to him like he isn’t the reason you’re breaking.
Your body shakes in his arms. Your sobs soak into his shirt, mascara staining the fabric.
“I should hate you,” you cry against his skin, fingers clutching him.
He only nods.
“I should hate you,” you repeat, another sob ripping through you. Another image of her—pregnant, glowing—burning behind your eyes.
“You would have every right,” he whispers, arms tight around your waist.
He holds you like he could undo it all. Like this could erase the damage.
It can’t.
“You promised me,” you say, muffled. “You said you’d never do something like this.”
He nods again, tears sliding freely. He will carry this forever. Every breakdown. Every reminder. Every time he looks at his child and doesn’t see you in it.
“I know,” he says. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
“Didn’t you remember,” you whisper, voice barely there, “that I was all you wanted?”
Max breaks.
He doesn’t answer—because there is no answer that won’t destroy you both.
He just pulls you back against his chest and holds you while you cry.
And you let him.
Because you don’t hate him.
And maybe that’s the most heartbreaking part of all.
𓇢𓆸
The nursery is painted a soft, careful neutral.
You chose it together. Something that wouldn’t feel too hopeful. Something that wouldn’t jinx it.
Max stands in the doorway sometimes, hands in his pockets, staring at the empty crib like it might accuse him. Like it already knows the difference between what should have been and what is.
You don’t decorate it right away. You take your time. You always do now.
There are days when things almost feel normal again. When he makes coffee the way you like it. When he kisses your temple without thinking. When you laugh at something stupid on TV and forget—just for a moment—that something is missing.
Then there are days when a baby cries in public and your chest tightens so suddenly it steals your breath.
Max notices every time.
He never says her name out loud. He never talks about the other pregnancy unless you bring it up—which you don’t. He doesn’t complain when you go quiet. He doesn’t rush you when you pull away.
He knows he forfeited the right to demand anything.
Sometimes, late at night, you wake to find him watching you instead of sleeping. His hand rests lightly on your stomach, reverent, terrified, like he’s afraid even hope might be too loud.
“You okay?” you ask once.
He nods. Always nods.
But his eyes are different now. Softer. Older. Permanently haunted.
You stay.
You build a life that looks whole from the outside. You smile in photos. You hold his hand in public. You don’t correct people when they call you strong.
But something fragile never quite grows back.
You love him. You really do.
And sometimes that feels like the punishment—for both of you.
Because every time he holds you a little too tightly, every time his apologies sit unsaid between heartbeats, you remember the truth you never speak aloud:
You didn’t stay because it didn’t hurt.
You stayed because you didn’t hate him.
And some nights, when the house is quiet and the future feels heavy, you wonder if hate would have been easier to survive.
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Well... that was devastating. I'm Sorry...❤️🩹 Still hope you liked it 🥰
xoxo babygirl
