✎ — max verstappen x fem!personal assistent!reader
✎ — summary: You only took this internship as his personal assistent, because in order to be considered for promotions into the communications department, you needed some paddock experience. But you weren't prepared for the rather charming driver, who seemingly has never had a good personal assistent before.
✎ — warnings: fluff, slow burn, use of [Y/N][Y/LN]
The early Budapest morning drapes the hotel driveway in a warm golden haze, softening edges but catching just enough light to make everything sparkle in a way only the 8 AM summer sun can. You lean against the sleek navy Honda Red Bull rented for the weekend to get their driver from the hotel to the paddock and back. The quiet hum of the waking city is surrounding you while you wait for him, wide-leg pinstripe trousers grazing your hips with effortless precision, black high-neck top hugging your frame in all the right places. Your dark brown leather tote hangs heavy at your side, stuffed with the day’s arsenal of necessities: folders with important notes, chargers, snacks, deodorant, basically a lifeline in this chaotic new world. From the hotel entrance, a tall figure steps into view. Max Verstappen. His gaze sweeps the driveway laying out in front of his feet, expecting the usual—driver, assistant, perhaps a nervous intern—but then it lands on you. His breath catches, a flicker of surprise—or maybe pleasure—passing through his eyes. You don’t flinch. Confidence is your armor. You step forward, voice calm and professional, but threaded with a hint of unapologetic ease. “Good morning, Mr. Verstappen. I’m [Y/N][Y/LN]. Your new assistant, as you should probably know.” You extend your hand. He takes it like a pro, not someone thrown off by the latest addition to his team. “Max, please. It’s my pleasure.” A slight smile touches his lips—brief, measured, kind in his own way. You pull the car keys from your purse and reach out to hand them over. “I figured you’d want to drive us to the paddock.” Max blinks, just enough to lose the perfect moment for grabbing them unfazed but not enough to lose control. His fingers brush yours for a heartbeat—electric, casual—before he walks around the car, scanning your face, noting the way you stand: poised but relaxed, the kind of presence that says you know exactly what you’re doing. You slide into the passenger seat without hesitation, the click of the door sealing the start of something quietly charged. Outside, Budapest hums to life, the race weekend just beginning, and already the air between you feels like a fast, unforgettable lap. The city blurs past as you head onto the highway to get to the track —ornate buildings, shuttered balconies, the slow churn of a tram. The Honda hums steadily, Max’s left hand loose on the wheel, the right shifting with practiced ease. He hasn’t said much since leaving the hotel, just a polite, “Did you put on the seatbelt?” and a nod when you adjusted the AC. So you open the black folder resting on your lap ever since you pulled it out right after getting in. “The PR team expects the media to lead with the incident at Silverstone. Obviously.” You flick through the notes, schedule already annotated in your head. “There’s the press conference around noon, then a one-on-one with The Race. Dutch media in the afternoon. I’d suggest drawing a line—early.” Max’s jaw tightens slightly; you catch it in your periphery. “I don’t want to talk about the fucking crash,” he says, voice cutting through the calm like gravel on asphalt. “It’s stupid. We all have to move on from that. There’s a race ahead, and I can’t live in last Sunday. I can only change the outcome of the next one.”
You look at him, not startled—just thoughtful. There’s no apology in his tone, but there’s something in it. Something tired, maybe. Grounded in a way, that is beyond his age. “I fully agree with you on that. Learning from mistakes is crucial, and so is applying that at the next opportunity.” A small pause, not for effect, just to let the words land. “Honestly I’d advise you to be as real with the media as you were with me just now.” Max glances over—not a long look, just a flick—but enough to register something: that you’re not here to smooth his edges or rewrite his tone. That maybe — just maybe — you get it. The car rolls to a stoplight. A cyclist pedals past. A man with a coffee waits at the corner, the last branches of the city buzzing around him. “You said ‘advise,’” he mutters, quiet, almost to himself. You catch the curve of amusement at the corner of his mouth and raise a brow, teasing. “Too formal for your taste?” “No,” Max says, shifting into gear. “Just not used to assistants who talk like comms directors.” You smile. “Well, maybe you just never had any good assistants so far.” The Honda hums on. The circuit is still a few kilometers of road away—but something has already started to click into place between the two of you already.
The sun hits the tarmac of the Hungaroring sharp and clean, warming the outdated, gravelly paddock paths as the Honda glides to a stop in the parking lot. Max steps out first, cap flattening his hair, lanyard already taken out of his navy backpack and clipped around his neck, his pace effortless — years of race weekend routine distilled into instinct. You follow two steps behind, phone in hand, thumb gliding over the lockscreen. Slack notifications, one calendar shift, two journalists pinging for “a quick five minutes” of Max’ time. “Media briefing first at the motorhome,” you say before he can ask for the schedule again. “Then the official FIA press conference. Lunch after. The Race with Jon Noble. You finish with an interview for some junior reporter from Autosport NL.” He glances back, the visor of his cap shadowing his eyes, but not the amused puff of breath that escapes him. “You read minds too?” “No, just emails,” you answer, not looking up from the screen. The paddock hums around you—mechanics in fireproofs and team polos, camera crews wheeling gear, heat rising in soft waves from the concrete. Conversations pause mid-sentence, heads tilting subtly at you and Max. You’re not in team kit. No logos, no navy polo like he is wearing. Just your black high-neck top and pinstripe trousers, effortless and precise, the kind of outfit that says you belong everywhere but nowhere in particular. A Sky cameraman does a double take. A Red Bull junior ducks his head, confused. You don’t flinch. Max doesn’t slow either—but now he’s walking beside you instead of ahead. By the time you reach the motorhome steps, he’s firmly at your side. You slip your phone back into your tote, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “I’ll have coffee brought up,” you say as the door opens. “I don’t like coffee,” he adds automatically. You blink, unbothered. “Noted. Anything else you want then?” He shakes his head. “They’ve got Red Bull up there, so I’m good, thanks.” He steps inside first, and for a heartbeat, the paddock’s gaze lingers on you, just long enough to make you aware of the quiet gravity you carry, effortless and precise.
You quickly learn Max, besides coffee, also doesn’t like having to wait — not in line, not for journalists, definitely not for answers. So you don’t make him. By noon, the two of you have already slipped into some sort of an unspoken rhythm. You move beside him through every hallway, just out of frame in every camera shot, handing him a water bottle when he needs it, making it vanish again when he doesn’t. When his hair starts to rebel before the next interview, your fingers fix it with a light touch, and an even lighter comment: “You look like someone who slept on a plane in some ungodly uncomfortable position. Let me fix that real quick.” He grins and doesn’t protest. No one else notices, but Max does. The calm. The smoothness. No scrambling, no last-minute panic, no forgotten details. You answer his questions about details from the PR briefing he forgot with quiet efficiency, deflect unreasonable requests of journalists with charm, always one step ahead. You’re good at this—too good for someone who hasn’t done this before. It throws him off his game just slightly, and he’s not used to it. After the press conference, you’re already waiting when he descends the steps, loosening the collar of his race kit. In your hands: a simple boxed lunch, iced Red Bull, protein bar tucked neatly between napkins. “Media team said you’ve got a free hour,” you offer. “I found a calm spot near the hospitality exit if you want to eat there. But if not, I’ll eat with the comms girls.” He blinks, caught a little off guard. Then: “No—stay.” You raise a brow, amused. “I should know who my PA is, right?” he adds, lips twitching. “You could be an axe murderer for all I know right now.” You laugh, soft and slightly surprised. “You sure about that? Maybe I’m more of a poison kind of killer. Could have spiked that lunch.” “I don’t know, but you gotta take risks in life, you know,” he mutters, already following you toward the quiet corner you scoped out.
Tucked behind a row of motorhome trailers, shaded and hidden from the worst of the heat and attention. You both settle on the low edge of a service crate—makeshift, but comfortable. “So,” he says, unwrapping his sandwich, “assume you studied this somewhere by how good you’re at this. Where’d you go to uni?” “St. Andrews,” you reply, sipping your drink. “Did my bachelors in communications and marketing.” “Isn’t that… like an elite school?” He nods, mock approval in the gesture. “So you’re what — a posh little English girl?” “It wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds. Half my time I spent finishing group projects alone. It’s remarkable how little effort some people put into a degree they’re basically paying 200 grand for.” “That is glamorous. In an F1 sort of way.” He smirks. “Favorite school subject?” he presses next, interrogating you. “History,” you answer automatically. “Though I’m guessing yours was anything but math?” “I actually liked math,” he shoots back, almost offended. “And physics. Didn’t hate them as much as everything else. But I wasn’t doing homework between kart races either way, no matter the subject.” He leans back on the crate, posture relaxed, gaze flicking toward you as he pretends this is casual. You cross a leg, toe tapping lightly on the gravel as you finish your lunch. “Okay,” he says, eyes bright, “big question. Is Red Bull your favorite team?” You hum thoughtfully, pretending to consider. “I think I’m supposed to say yes.” “I’d rather you be honest.” “Then no,” you admit. His eyes glint with mischief. “Now I wish you had lied. Am I your favorite driver at least?” You let the pause stretch, teasing. “You’re… in my top five.” He scoffs, dramatically offended. “Top five? That’s it?” “I’ve known you for like four hours, Verstappen,” you deadpan. “Let’s see how the weekend goes before I make any life-altering decisions and betray my family.” “Oh, so you come from a family of racers?” “No, but my dad watches the race every Sunday and he thinks there’s no one better than Charles Leclerc in a red Ferrari car. If I disagreed, he’d probably have a heart attack,” you joke. Max throws his head back, laughing—real, unpolished, open-throated. Lunch stretches longer than it should, neither of you mentioning it. Somewhere behind you, the paddock churns on. But here, tucked behind the trailers, it’s quiet.
By five, the sun has grown heavier on the tarmac, stretching long shadows across the media pen as the last interviews wrap up for the day. You’re still shadowing Max, always just a step behind or beside him—offering subtle signals, nodding at PR coordinators, guiding the rhythm of questions with clipped one-liners and quiet eye contact passed between handlers. Max breezes through it all, confident, almost careless. He has the experience of having done this a hundred times before and the silent confirmation that no matter if he would mess up an answer, there is nothing Red Bull could do. They need him too much. You don’t say a lot, but he’s attuned to the shifts in your posture: the tilt of your chin in disbelieve of the audacity when a question is about to veer too sharp, the way you linger a moment longer at his side when the cameras click off. There’s a quiet system. Unspoken, but understood. Back inside the motorhome, the air is cooler and you peel the sticker tag from your lanyard and pull a small protein bar from your tote. “Hungry?” you offer casually, holding it out to him. Max shakes his head, but his expression softens at the gesture. “You’re the most considerate, well-prepared PA I’ve ever had in my career.” You blink, snort a quick half-a-laugh, disbelief wrapped in amusement. “And it’s only my first day.” He tilts his head, a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t feel like it.” You glance at him, unsure whether to thank him or deflect, but he keeps looking—serious now, stripped of performance. “You don’t strike me as someone just trying to get a first impression right,” he adds quietly. The words land differently. Not flirtatious, not flattering. Just… his honest take on you, his perception of your character after mere hours. And somewhere in your chest, something clicks. Not loudly. Just a shift, a subtle change in gravity. You cap your water bottle and nod. “Well, you’re right about that. I’m not.”
The paddock is quieting now, around 5:30 PM. The golden light of a sinking sun stretches across the grid of trailers and fences, catching on every chrome edge, every helmet visor on the shelves. A few engineers still linger near the back of the hospitality unit, voices lower and tired, going over data for tomorrow. You check your phone. “I have to go by comms,” you say, half to Max, half to yourself. “Quick debrief on tomorrow’s media timings. I’ll head back to the hotel with them.” Max nods, grabing his backpack and throwing it over his shoulders. Then, as you reach for the door handle, he says it—not loud, almost uncertain, almost as if he’s testing the words: “But you will ride to the paddock again with me tomorrow morning, right?” You glance back at him, trying to read his expression and make something of his question. He’s not teasing. Just looking at you with that quietly focused attention, like he’s already thinking about the next day, the next briefing, the next circuit—but wants to pencil you into the plan. You smile, that same soft one he caught earlier at lunch. “Yeah, Max,” you nod gently. “I will.” He gives a short nod, like that’s all he needed to know. The door swings open, warm evening light spilling in, and this time, you step out first—not behind him, but side by side, walking him to the exit of the paddock before heading back to the motorhome for your last meeting of the day.
On Friday, the air smells of rocks and stones warmed by the sun and the last bit of moisture from last night’s rain evaporating — the unmistakable scent of a European summer morning, one could say. It’s barely eight o’clock yet, but Budapest is alive already: mopeds buzzing in the distance, hotel staff moving with quiet efficiency around the entrance to make everything perfect, and your phone vibrating twice with reminders before you even see him. You’re early. You always are. Standing by the sleek navy Honda like yesterday, you shift your weight onto your back foot, folder tucked neatly under your arm. Today you’re in white straight-leg jeans— trying to look polished without looking like you’re trying — paired with a Red Bull shirt tucked in. Loafers are the same as yesterday, your leather purse slung over your shoulder with that just-prepared-enough confidence. You flip through the first page of the day’s schedule while the sun climbs steadily, golden and unobtrusive. The jingle of car keys announces Max descending the hotel stairs. You glance up, offering a lazy smile. His hair is perfectly glued in place with wax, though he pushes it to the right repeatedly, a habit you’ve already noticed. He aims the key fob toward the car; the lights flash once in acknowledgment that the holder has arrived.
His gaze finds you before you can greet him properly —and lingers a beat longer than strictly necessary. “You always this early?” he asks, his tone casual. You glance over the top of your folder. “When the e-mail says 8:30 sharp, I’ll be there to leave 8:30 sharp.” That earns you a grin, but before you can launch into your neatly rehearsed breakdown of his Friday media and race obligations, he softens, interrupting with something different: “Did you get back okay last night?” The question catches you slightly off guard—not because it’s odd, but because it’s considerate. Something about the way he asks it—as if he thought about it after you left—makes your posture shift subtly. Though you recover quickly, arching an eyebrow, mock smugness in your expression, but you don’t feel smug at all. “There are shuttles for team members like me, you know.” He unlocks the car again, just to be certain and opens his own door, but his gaze drifts across the roof toward you. “Then why were you riding with me yesterday?” You let the question hang just long enough before meeting his eyes again, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. “Because,” you say, snapping your folder closed with satisfying precision, “it’s much cooler to arrive with the future world champion in a nice, fast car.” Max stares at you for a beat — doesn’t blink, doesn’t speak. And then the corners of his mouth tug upward in a slow, quietly pleased smile. There’s a subtle shift in his posture too, like you’ve just said something he’ll replay later, not necessarily the car part, maybe not even the compliment itself. Just the way you said it—effortless, certain, like you already knew something he’s still having a hard time learning to believe. “Future world champion, huh?” he murmurs, sliding into the driver’s seat with that easy, practiced motion. You shrug, slipping in beside him. “Well. Let’s see how free practice goes first.”
The engine hums to life beneath you, a soft vibration that seems to fill the cabin without rushing it. This time, the silence doesn’t feel like space that needs to be filled. It’s comfortable in a way, expectant. You tilt your folder toward him eventhough he wouldn’t glance at it, the paper crisp beneath your fingers. “First up,” you begin, “Sky Sports at the garage. They want a bit before practice. Thoughts on—I don’t know—what. They always want your thoughts on something. You’d think they got everything yesterday, but…” He glances sideways, a flicker of amusement over your commentary tugging at his lips. Outside, the Honda glides toward the circuit, tinted windows reflecting the rising sun to anyone catching sight of your car, the engine’s low hum steady and confident. The river flashes silver to your left, light bouncing off the water in little joyful sparks. Max drives like he always does: smooth, controlled, but with a quiet intensity that makes the car feel alive. You open another page in your folder somewhere between two traffic lights, catching a glimpse of the Parliament building in the distance as it proudly sits next to the Danube. The pages are tabbed, corners annotated in neat ink. “So,” you continue, scanning your writing in the print, “FP1 is scheduled for 11:30, but you’re supposed to be in the garage at 10:30 for pre-session briefing with your team. Media debrief is after FP1, then another sit-down with your race engineer. Quick lunch today — no more than 30 minutes. FP2 starts at 3pm, which means you gotta be in the garage by 2:30. Strategy meeting for saturday is at 4:30 sharp.” Max snorts lightly at the seriousness in your tone and how you list all of his different schedule obligations. You don’t look up. “Then one final media round in the hospitality suite, and you’re officially released.” “Released,” he repeats, amusement in his voice. “You make it sound like I’m being let out of prison.” “Well,” you reply, flipping the page, “depends how FP2 goes, honestly. And it’s you who hates media and doesn’t make it a secret.” He throws another side glance, the smile he bites back betraying him anyway.
Traffic slows as you get closer to the paddock parking lot, engines of other cars humming and tires crunching over gravel and asphalt. Max checks the mirror, shifts gears, then — like an afterthought — asks, casual but deliberate, “You gonna be in the garage today?” You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head in playful challenge. “I mean… if that’s what you want.” He doesn’t answer right away, just smiles and looks at the last bit of road ahead, the circuit already in sight. It’s not the measured, press-friendly smile. It’s a real smile. He shifts lanes, easy, natural. “It is,” he says eventually, voice even. “What if I need something last-minute before a session? Or someone has to tell me if my hair’s doing that stupid thing again like yesterday?” You roll your eyes, light and teasing. “Guess I’ll be there then.” “Thanks. I wouldn’t survive it without you.” A small laugh escapes you—soft, genuine, caught off-guard. “How did you do it before me then?” “I don’t know… I must have been dead before I met you,” he mutters under his breath. You both pretend not to hear it. Outside, the landscape shifts: chain-link fences, directional signage, the occasional cluster of fans pointing toward some other car, another driver inside perhaps. The paddock is just around the corner. You tuck your notes back into the folder, glance out the window to ground yourself. “Alright,” you say, voice low, steady. “Ready to do this?” Max exhales slowly, like flipping a switch. Focus snaps into place, hands firm on the wheel. “Yeah. Let’s go to work.” But as he eases the car into the paddock lot and slows near his assigned spot, his gaze flicks toward you one last time before he gets out. “And you’re staying in the garage, right?” You smile, quiet but certain. “Well, I’m not backing out now.”
You step out into the paddock parking lot, the car door clicking shut behind you, and the roar of activity hits immediately—cameras snapping, radios buzzing, mechanics pushing trolleys over asphalt, fans screaming and shouting and pointing, PR handlers striding with precise purpose. You sling your purse over your shoulder, folder again tucked tight under your arm, and fall into step beside Max, matching the subtle rhythm of his pace. You can feel the glances the moment you cross into the Paddock bubble behind the security gates — curiosity flickering in sharp, almost imperceptible arcs. Today you’re in uniform, but walking with Max makes you belong here immediately, even though yesterday was the first time anyone had seen you in the paddock. He doesn’t glance back at anyone as he moves toward the motorhome, tugging absently at the hem of his polo. You follow a step or two behind, the sounds of the paddock folding around you, until the sliding doors swallow him and you. He veers left toward the drivers rooms; you go right, heading straight for the garage. The temperature shift hits you before anything else: cooler, clinical, a haven of mechanics and machinery. The air carries the scent of engines warmed and worked, a subtle metallic tang mixing with rubber and oil. It’s alive, pulsing with purpose—the mechanical heartbeat of the team. A junior engineer barely glances at you as he passes a headset across the narrow stretch of floor beside the monitors. “You can stand here,” he says without introduction, voice clipped and overly confident, almost careless. “That way you won’t get in anyone’s way.” You nod, sliding the headset into place, adjusting it just so that it doesn’t flatten your hair too much. Around you, the garage breathes: voices crackle over comms, tires roll into view, laptops and iPads flicker to life and screens go back to black. You’re part of the scene—but only just. No one asks your name. No one tells you what’s happening. They probably assume you’re just another intern or maybe even only a guest, another temporary shadow in their world. You let the quiet that headphones bless you with linger for a heartbeat, letting the visual rhythm of the garage settle into your bones. Then you pull out your folder again, pen poised, notes ready—because Max will ask, and you intend to have answers before he even thinks to voice the question.
He strides in, race suit half-zipped, fireproof undershirt clinging to his abs, chest and shoulders like it was sewn onto him. The second his body entered the garage he is papably at ease—like his body belongs in this noise, like the garage is muscle memory, home and refuge. His eyes skim the room, catching every detail in half a second, until they catch on you. And then—light. A quick spark that makes the corners of his mouth twitch upward. You lift a thumb in his direction, a silent code: All good. Don’t worry about me. Go do your job. But instead of brushing past, he angles toward you, wiping a hand down the back of his neck. “You alright?” His voice cuts through the static of comms and air guns. “Why are you standing over there?” You gesture toward the barricade separating the observation area from the part of the garage where actual work is being done. “That’s where they told me to go. Figured it’s better not to get in the way.” Max frowns, quick and sharp. “That’s bullshit.” You blink. “It’s—” “No, really,” he says, cutting you off softly, but firm, like he’s making room for you and gently tries to push you into it. “You work for Red Bull. You’re not in anyone’s way. How are you supposed to help me from behind a barrier?” Before you can answer, he’s already reaching over, fingers brushing the inside of your elbow. “C’mon.” “What?” “Just jump over. It’s quicker than walking around.” For a second, you hesitate—conscious of the eyes, the lines you shouldn’t overstep, the unwritten rules. Then you plant one hand on the railing, and he steadies you as you swing over. It’s awkward, graceless, but threaded with a flicker of adrenaline. A couple of mechanics glance over, eyebrows raised. Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t make it a scene. “This is my new PA,” he says, almost casually, to the engineers at the workstation. “She’ll be around from this weekend on. Probably running circles around us.” One by one, heads turn. GP, then Tom, Brad, Lee—each giving a nod or a brief smile. “Christian’s floating around somewhere,” Max adds. “But I assume you’ve met him already.” “Hi,” you say, folder clutched against your chest. It comes out steadier than you feel. You don’t belong in this part of the garage. You know it. They know it. But Max just rewrote the script—and now you do. While he leans in to discuss something either highly important or impossibly silly with GP, you hover a half-step away and thumb open your phone. A sponsor rep you chased earlier needs a follow-up, so you hammer the reply out right there—noise pressing at your skull despite the headphones that loosely only cover on ear, smell of hot brakes thick in the air. This isn’t where that kind of work is supposed to happen. Media unit, hospitality, anywhere quieter—yes. But here? It is where Max left you, and so you stay.
Just before he slips into the car, he glances back. That unreadable, half-lidded look. Then a small nod, as if to say: good. Please stay. Somewhere behind you, the in-house Red Bull photographer lifts his lens. The wide shot catches everything—Max, suited and smiling faintly, engineers leaning close, you standing with headset and folder, typing furiously on your phone. Later, when socials announce FP1 is underway, that’s the picture they choose for some odd reason.
FP1 winds down in a familiar blur — tyre blankets are being tugged back on, laptops snapping shut, a few grumbles about grip in sector two. Max peels himself out of the car, helmet and gloves quickly dumped onto the shelf, race suit unzipped just enough to breathe. He’s reaching for his watch when you appear at his side, not hovering, just there, as if you’ve always been. “You’ve got fifteen until the data meeting,” you say, offering him a bottle of electrolyte water and a protein bar — the same kind you handed him yesterday, the one he demolished before even glancing at his lunch. He takes them with a short huff of relief. “You’re a lifesaver.” “It’s just a bar,” you shrug, downplaying it. “Lunch isn’t until after the briefing. Didn’t want you to crash.” Max tears the wrapper open with his teeth, laughter soft in his chest. “You’d be surprised how many people forget how tough racing is on the body.” You glance toward the engineers, who are already shoulder-deep in data. “Well. I read somewhere, that the future world champion needs balanced blood sugar.” That earns you a look featured by a smile — amused, but steadier underneath. “You’re gonna keep calling me that?” he asks, voice lower now, casual only on the surface. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t.” He swallows, lifts the water bottle to his lips. “No. I like it.” Then, with the same ease he shifts gears on track, he’s already sliding toward debrief mode. “See you after for lunch?” “Be waiting,” you reply, already walking away, folder tucked close, stride brisk, heart hammering in ways you refuse to acknowledge.
You’re already waiting when Max finds you — plate in front of you, water half-finished. He arrives with his own tray and a can of Red Bull, sliding into the chair across the small window table. The umbrella outside throws a patchwork of shade over his face, softening him in a way the garage lighting never does. He digs in without checking the time, without twitching toward the door. It looks like he trusts you to keep the day moving. Between bites, his eyes lift — not hurried, just curious. “So how’d you end up in motorsport, anyway? Not exactly your standard summer internship.” You swallow, sip your water. “Well like I said yesterday, my family’s always been into it. I kind of grew up orbiting F1. When it came time for uni, I figured it’d be nice to work in this world somehow.” Max leans in a fraction, nodding. “So you’re one of those.” “One of what?” “The ones who actually like this circus.” That earns him a laugh from you. You try to hide it with your hand. “Yeah. F1 comms is fascinating — watching how it all gets shaped. It’s perhaps one of the most carefully threaded public images out there. But… I also used to steal my brother’s kart on weekends. At six I thought I’d be the next Susie Wolff.” You grin at the memory. “Turns out, I was not very good.” “Really?” He raises a brow, skeptical. “I crashed more than I finished,” you admit, dry as dust. “And I hated getting my hands dirty. This”—you gesture at your folder, your crisp Red Bull polo—“this is probably as close as I’ll ever get to motorsport.” Max tilts his head, assessing. “Let me be the judge of that.” You blink, lips twitching. “What, you gonna challenge me to a kart race? So I can humiliate myself in front of you?” He shrugs, mock-casual. “Could be fun, you know.” Your smile lingers longer than it should. His too. A beat stretches — warm, almost familiar — before Max exhales, pushing back his chair with reluctance. “Shame lunch isn’t longer.” You rise as well, brushing a crumb from your shirt. “You’ll survive. Think of the protein bar after FP2.” He smirks. “And the world champion pep talk.” “That too,” you say, and the two of you fall back into a stride — not you trailing behind this time, but side by side, all the way to the garage.
This time entering the garage, you walk straight through to the monitors and workbench. No sidestepping barricades this time, no pretending you don’t belong. The late sun slants soft gold across the clean white garage walls, spotlighting the shift in you as much as the space. Max is half-listening to something Christian is going on about, tugging his race suit into place. For a heartbeat, his gaze flicks over. The corners of his mouth twitch upward — not quite a smile, but something like recognition. You meet it with an amused look, and he answers with a small nod before turning back to Horner. The garage breathes like a single, restless organism. Mechanics move in tight choreography only they know, cords snaking across the floor, telemetry feeds glowing blue and red. You weave through it as though you’ve been doing this for years — though your shirt still smells faintly of discount detergent and plastic packaging, and your phone keeps buzzing with calendar alerts you’re afraid to miss. You settle into the control alcove behind the engineers, headset hanging around your neck like jewelry you were gifted and are unsure to wear. Nobody stops you. One of the older engineers even nods as he passes you — distracted, but not dismissive. Progress from this morning. Meanwhile Max is being strapped in, helmet on, gloves flexing over his fingers. His visor is still lifted, and you catch the way his eyes narrow — the exact moment the switch flips to race mode. You glance at the screens, then down at the neat paper printout spread across the counter: tire compounds, wind data, run-plan notes. You don’t understand half of it, but the nearness to the heartbeat of the race is thrill enough. Definitely not what the job description had promised.
The second practice session opens with an eruption — engines roaring alive, vibration tearing straight through your chest. It should rattle you, but it doesn’t. You stay rooted, eyes locked on Max’s data feed, mentally ticking through the boxes you prepped for. Ten minutes in, your phone buzzes. Comms. You answer with the clipped calm of someone who doesn’t have time to waste. “Eighteen-oh-five is fine. I’ll make sure he’s briefed… yes, I know we already moved that. No, it won’t run long.” You hang up, slide the phone back into your jeans pocket — only then notice the media camera across the garage aimed straight at you. Red light on. Probably collecting B-roll. It’s too late now.
On track, Max is carving Sector 2 like it owes him a debt. The timing screens flash: purple, green, green. When he rolls back in for tweaks, he looks almost casual inside the noise and frenzy of the garage. His visor lifts. “[Y/N] — can you get Brad that thing you mentioned this morning in the car?” The tire guns shriek around you, but you don’t even blink. “Already sent it.” A grin cracks under the sweat-damp hair clinging across his forehead — a knowing look, like this is what it feels like to share a wavelength. The rest blurs: tire changes, telemetry lines chasing each other across glowing screens, Max sending lap after lap into rhythm. You forget the clock in the way only people who love what they do can. Him in the car. You by the wall. Head nods lining up like you’ve done this for years. By the time he climbs out of the car again — flushed, smiling — the online feed is already humming. Someone’s clipped the shot of you behind the monitors, lip caught between your teeth as you study a screen. The comments are multiplying, fast.
username1 i don't think i have seen this girl in the rb garage before
username2 That’s not his usual PR rep, is it?
username3 why does she kinda look like she’s running the place?
You don’t see the comments. You don’t see anything but Max cutting through the knot of engineers, gloves half-peeled, words already forming. “Good session, don’t you think?” You glance at the screens on the wall. “P3 overall, long run looked sharp. I heard GP mention something about the rear, though. Don’t know what that’s all about.” His eyes flicker, quick and impressed. “Yeah. I’ll talk to him and Tom. We need to fix it or the weekend’s screwed.” It’s nothing. Just debrief chatter. Just another line in the noise of the garage. And yet— the way he looks at you, like you’ve always belonged here, makes it feel like everything.
The sun slips behind the Hungaroring paddock, soft orange bleeding into brushed pink. The sharp edges of the day have dulled — no more tire smoke, no more headset crackle, no more logistics shouted over engines. Just the afterglow. You lean against the low wall outside hospitality, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly through the day’s content, ckecking what was relevant today. The glass beside you reflects streaks of sunset, turning your hair molten, your expression unreadable from the outside. Your lanyard sways with each idle refresh of Instagram. Then — footsteps. You don’t have to look up to know who it is. He walks like he has all the time in the world, yet somehow is always exactly on time. Max’s hair is damp from the shower, darker at the temples, freed from the last stubborn bit of wax. He’s swapped fireproofs for a Red Bull polo and skinny jeans, one shoe half-laced like he gave up halfway. Heat still lingers on his cheeks, a faint pink. “You waiting for me?” You glance over. “That depends. You driving me home again? Also, your left shoe isn’t tied. Don’t trip.” He grins, bends to lace it. “Guess I am driving you back.” You push off the wall, and as he comes up — now with two laced shoes — you fall into step beside him like it’s muscle memory and something you have been getting used to. No instructions needed. Your strides sync without thought. Near the paddock gates, you tap his shoulder with your phone. “By the way,” you say, opening a photo you found when you waited for him, “social team’s having a field day. Meme accounts too.” He squints at the screen. A screenshot from FP1 — the second he’d helped you over the barricade. Overlaid text: When your PA intern has main character energy and you’re just a side quest. Max snorts, loud enough to turn heads. “That’s criminal,” he laughs, shaking his head, leaning closer to squint at the caption again. “I should frame that.” You’re both still laughing when the shutter clicks. A soft snap from somewhere in the distance. Unnoticed. Unimportant. Except the frame is good — too good. Good lighting, perfect angle, Max’s smile tilted toward you, real and unguarded. By the time you reach the exit, the photo’s already climbing through fan accounts. You’re not tagged. But that doesn’t stop the comments.
username1 did any of the gossip pages find out who the f*ck she is??
username2 that's the same girl who was also in the garage during fp2... new wag alert?
↳ username3 i mean she did make him laugh rather lively
But those comments are still somewhere in the near future, a storm for overnight, when everyone who works in the paddock sleeps but fans are wild awake around the globe. Right now, it’s only the two of you, slipping past the last stragglers of camera crews into the lavender wash of a Hungarian dusk. You don’t touch, but the air between you hums with something practiced — like a song you both know by heart but aren’t comfortable to sing aloud. Max glances sideways. “You want to grab something to eat before we head back?” “Depends,” you say, lips tugging at a smile. “Are you buying?” He rolls his eyes and chuckles. “I just drove fifty laps. You should be buying.” “You really have no clue how much an intern makes, do you? If I’m buying, I can’t pay rent, dumbass.” His laugh spills out, quick and unguarded, and then he nods — deal struck. And just like that, you both fade into the falling light: two silhouettes slipping out of frame, and straight into speculation.
Saturday – FP2 and Qualifying
You’re five minutes early on Saturday morning. As you always are. The hotel lobby doors sigh shut behind you, soles gliding over the polished tiles without quite clicking annoyingly. Your leather tote swings lightly from one shoulder, on your phone already half-dialed with the driver’s number in case Max makes you wait. The sky above is a flat, pale gray, the kind of overcast that presses down on you, thick with humidity — storm-brewing, expectant.
You’re prepared. Of course you are. Soft-shell jacket zipped halfway, dark jeans neat but easy, black loafers catching the faint damp in the air. Hair pinned back just enough to look intentional and to withstand any showers of rain or mist. It’s saturday. Quali day — some would say the most important day of the Hungarian Grand Prix weekend. You walk towards the car, to be on time, to be there first. But someone else beat you to it. Max leans against the Honda like it’s his throne, one foot casually crossed over the other, arms folded across the navy of his team polo. A cap covers his hair, his watch glints faintly in the gray light. Dark skinny jeans. Not scrolling through his phone. Not checking the time. Just there. Waiting. For you. You blink once. Then a second time in utter disbelieve. “You’re early.” His mouth curves, smug in a way that’s maddeningly subtle. “You usually get here at 8:25.” You falter mid-step. “So… you came at 8:20?” He shrugs, loose and easy. “Thought it’d be nice if I waited on you for once.” It shouldn’t catch you off guard. It really shouldn’t. But the way he says it — no edge, no joke, just plain and sure — settles warm in your chest. Or maybe it’s the way he moves forward, hand finding the door handle on the passangers side and swinging it open like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You stop, pulse kicking up as the hinge creaks open. His hand rests light on the frame, his gaze steady on yours. No performance. No irony. Just a gesture. You clear your throat. “What’s this?” Max tilts his head, eyes glinting. “It’s a car door. It opens.” “That’s not what I—” The words break, too thin, too breathy, a little frustrated perhaps. And his smile sharpens, just enough to tell you he heard it. You slide inside, careful, because suddenly the scent of his cologne feels too close and your pulse is distractingly beating in your ears. He shuts the door with a neat flick of his wrist, and a moment later the driver’s side opens. He settles in with a low exhale, the casual kind that still feels deliberate. You catch it — the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He likes this. Catching you unsteady, making you forget what you were trying to say, getting under your skin. You’re usually so composed, scaffolding built from years of knowing your worth, your goals, your red lines. Sharp edges, steady footing. And now here’s Max Verstappen — Formula 1’s Dutch lion, racing monster in human form — quietly savoring the fact he can make you stammer. The car pulls away from the curb. You glance sideways. He’s watching the road, but the corner of his mouth is still lifted, smug as ever. You shake your head, half-smiling despite yourself. He’s dangerous, maybe. But at least he’s polite about it.
The car glides through Budapest’s waking streets, the tires humming softly against damp asphalt, before rolling onto the highway to the track. Early cafés flicker awake, their neon signs half-lit, spilling warmth onto wet sidewalks. Beyond them and the city borders, fields stretch green and quiet, the sky still brooding above like it hasn’t quite decided whether to rain or just keep everyone on their toes. Inside the car, it’s a bubble of calm. Max’s hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the soft glow of the dashboard. Every now and then he glances sideways. “Alright. Let’s hear it.” You don’t look up from your notes. “Engineering briefing at 9:10, media touchpoint with Sky Sports at 10:15, and then it’s time to get ready for FP3.” He nods once, absorbed, leaning slightly into the rhythm of your voice. You flip the page. “You should be in the garage no later than 12:10 sharp. FP3 starts at 1. After that, lunch, a quick pre-Quali meeting in the garage, and we’re hopefully good to go into Qualifying at 3pm.” Another nod from him. Both hands settle on the wheel, back straight, listening like you’re reciting poetry. But it’s just logistics. Your logistics. You tap the next line, voice steady. “Assuming a Top 3 quali — and I do assume that — post-session media is staggered: Qualifying photo first, F1 press conference second, then general press.” Max glances at you. “And if not?” “If not, it all shifts by fifteen minutes and you’ll have to get the ‘we’ll bounce back stronger’ line ready in three languages,” you reply deadpan, eyes still scanning your notes. A beat. Then Max laughs — low, warm, the kind of tired, early morning laugh that fills the small space around you and drifts into the dashboard hum. “You’ve already planned the comeback speech?” “Well, it’s either I do it now or someone will text you later,” you shrug, page still poised. He studies you, more thoughtful now. “You really think I’ll be Top 3?” You finally look at him. “Have you lost your sanity overnight? Of course I do. You don’t? You’ve been nothing but great all season.” Not flirtation. Not blind optimism. Just plain, steady truth. And it catches him a little off guard. A thousand people in the paddock want him to perform. Dozens expect it. But your belief isn’t transactional. It isn’t performative. It’s measured, practical, unwavering — the quiet sort of confidence that feels like a hand on his shoulder without touching him. You flip to the final page. “Oh — and I rescheduled the Dutch radio interview to after the race. Didn’t want you worrying about it before Sunday afternoon.” He hums softly. “Good call.” You close the folder. “That’s the day.” Max nods, thoughtful, eyes briefly drifting to you before returning to the road. He takes one hand off the steering wheel and gently places it on the stick shift. Just slightly, he leans closer, like he wants to linger in this bubble of order and calm a moment longer. “Thanks,” he murmurs, quieter now. “For the Quali pep talk… and all the other stuff.” You just nod. It’s your job. But something in the air between you tells you it’s becoming more than that, a pulse that doesn’t need words to exist.
The car hasn’t even rolled to a full stop before the air tilts — a current of noise and light waiting to swallow you whole. Cameras click in rapid bursts, phones lift like antennae, voices rise and blur together into one restless thrum. The paddock lot is much more alive with motion than the days before: fans pressed to barricades trying to get a glimpse of their stars, photographers circling like flies drawn to sugar, team staff weaving past with coffee cups gripped like lifelines, lanyards flashing as they move. Max steps out first. The moment he does, flashes ignite, a ripple of recognition breaking across the crowd — warm, immediate, and already bordering on suffocating. You slip out a beat later, bag slung over your shoulder, jacket zipped halfway against the morning chill. Without thinking, you fall a step behind. Not submission — strategy. It’s smoother this way: he commands the spotlight, while you orbit at its edges, free to watch, to manage, to keep things flowing. That’s when you see her. A girl no older than sixteen, standing just off the barricade in a faded Verstappen 33 cap, unofficial jacket hanging loose on her frame. Her phone trembles slightly in her hands, screen glowing. You catch her standing there like this before Max does — the nerves, the longing hovering in her small, shaky stance. So you nudge his elbow gently, tilt your chin toward her, guiding him wordlessly in her direction. “Want me to take it?” you ask softly, already extending your hand as if to tell her it’s okay. She nods, eyes wide, the brim of her faded cap dipping with the motion. You take her phone, step back, frame them against the paddock chaos. “Big smile,” you prompt, gentle but sure. “This one’s going on the wall in your room, right?” Max flashes a grin on cue. Click. Then it’s two boys next — twins, no taller than your legs, sneakers scuffing nervously against the asphalt. Then another girl. Each time you move quickly, efficient, one clean shot per phone, all vertical. Max doesn’t resist, doesn’t need to. The rhythm steadies under your direction, smooth as a well-oiled engine. He barely speaks; you keep him flowing forward. By the last one, you hand the phone back with a quiet, “Here you go, sweetheart,” a small nod at the grateful dad beside her. And then you’re moving again. Sidestepping a camera crew, slipping back into position just half a step behind him. Max glances over, the faintest tug of amusement at his mouth. “What?” you ask. “You might’ve missed your calling as security detail,” he murmurs under his breath. You smirk, rolling your eyes. “If I did that instead of being your PA, you’d be late to every meeting.” A beat. He exhales, almost like he’s trying not to let it show. “I know.” You check your watch, the habit automatic. “Engineering briefing in the motorhome in five. Then media. Sky’s been moved to the right paddock lane, so we’ll need to loop back after.” He doesn’t ask how you know, doesn’t question the logistics. Just a single focused nod, and he keeps walking. The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. The air is thick with hot brakes and warm asphalt, the background hum of engines bleeding through. Someone calls Max’s name behind you, but neither of you turns. You just keep moving — fluid, aligned, unknowingly choreographed. Past team reps, junior drivers, crew balancing laptops and precarious trays of coffee. No one stops you. And that’s the part that catches you off guard: the strange, quiet gravity of it. How natural this feels already. Like you’ve been doing it for years. Like you were built for this pulse, this rhythm. But it’s only day three. Only just the beginning. And yet — you’re already waiting in the garage when he arrives for FP3. Because of course you are.
The garage hums alive like it already did yesterday, only is it even more electric today — engineers bent once again over glowing monitors, the low drone of generators threading through clipped shouts for tools and static-laced comms. You slip in along the edges, ducking past a tire trolley, brushing against someone’s elbow. GP stands hunched at the workbench, coffee in one hand, pen in the other. He barely looks up. “You’re here early,” he says. “Not possible,” you counter, sidestepping a coil of cables. “Max is just late.” That earns the faintest twitch of a smile. You’ve only exchanged fragments with him these past two days — nods, logistics, the occasional dry jab across Max’s shoulder — but there’s already an ease to it now. A kind of shared orbit, born more from necessity than choice. “Where the hell even is he?” you ask. GP sips his coffee, shakes his head. “Probably still fixing his hair.” You huff a soft laugh. “As if it won’t be ruined the second the helmet goes on. Not exactly sponsor-friendly conditions in here.” “You’d know,” GP replies, dry as sand. “Aren’t you the one scheduling all his charm offensives?” You’re halfway through a retort when the atmosphere shifts. Heads turn. The current changes. It’s a clear sign that Max has arrived. He slips in through the side entrance, racesuit half-zipped, damp hair re-styled by a simple hand gesture after the walk between motorhome and garage. His eyes cut quickly through the room, scanning, weighing — then settle on you. A flicker of a smirk touches his mouth before he speaks. “Good. You two are getting along,” he says, nodding between you and GP. “That should improve my performance — if the people closest to me can actually communicate.” “Right,” GP mutters, eyes never leaving the data. “Because F1 is basically group therapy with occasional laps.” “Careful,” you murmur, not quite smiling. “Communication is important. I’d know.” The comment slides out too lightly, almost unthinking. But Max stiffens, arms crossing. His jaw tenses, a line sharpened by something unspoken. GP raises a brow, clearly ready with another dry remark — but Max cuts him off. And that’s enough.” The words are casual, half-joking, but edged. GP chuckles under his breath and retreats into his sheets of numbers, muttering about “focus” and “less drama, more delta.” You don’t rise to it. You only check your watch, nodding toward the car. “Ten to green. You ready to go?” Max unfolds his arms, steps closer. His voice drops low. “Yeah. Thanks for staying on top of it.” You meet his eyes. “Always.” For a breath, there’s something else under the routine — something charged, too delicate to name. But a mechanic calls his name, and just like that, he turns away. Climbs into the cockpit. Helmet down. Visor sealed. The spell breaks. FP3 begins.
The pit lane thrums like a living thing — metallic growls stacking one on top of another until it’s more vibration than sound, rattling up through your legs as the cars streak past. Max is gone in a blur of navy and colorful sponsor logos, the echo of his engine cutting sharper than the sunlight flashing off the tarmac. From where you sit at the garage’s edge, you catch only the afterimage. The rest you read on screens: green sectors blooming, delta lines holding steady, but you are mostly staring at the monitors broadcasting the scenes from the track or your phone. Your headset rests half-cocked, like you can’t quite decide if you want the world piped into your ears or not. The folder on your lap is forgotten, a prop more than a tool. Sunlight angles through the shutters in warm slices, catching on floating dust until the whole air seems painted in gold. Around you, the crew moves with seamless precision — not chaos, though it seems like chaos to you, only rhythm. And on the timing sheets: Verstappen P2. +0.173. Not disastrous. But not what Max wants. You track his car through Sector 2, watching the throttle traces, brake pressure, wheel angle — data that should feel cold, yet hums with life when it’s his. He drives like he’s a neurosurgeon holding a scalpel, not a racing driver holiding steering wheel. Slicing, exact, inevitable. And then your name breaks into your ear. Low, amused. “Hey. Camera’s on you.” It’s Lee laughing from a couple meters away. Your head snaps up, too late. One of the trackside feeds has betrayed you: world feed, garage shot. You. Just sitting there. Too still, too focused on Max’ onboards. You can already imagine the captions, the freeze-frames, the Twitter threads spinning into existence. Who’s the girl in the Red Bull garage? Heat creeps up your neck and ears. You force a small, professional smile, nod once, then drop your eyes to the data like it’s the only thing that matters. Posture straight. Face neutral. Sip from your bottle. Pretend you don’t feel your skin buzzing with a million invisible eyes. Four minutes later, Max barrels back in. Tyres screech, the car halts on the marks, the swarm descends. He doesn’t move much, doesn’t lift the helmet, but when the visor slides up, his eyes find you instantly. Just for a beat. You’ve learned his expressions these past two days — the sharpness, the restraint. But this one is different. Not frustration. Not relief. Something quieter, but alive. Calculation, threaded with pulse. He says something into the radio, his tone as even as ever. But his fingers tap one-two-three-four against the wheel, restless, betraying. And though the camera isn’t on you anymore, it feels like his gaze still is. And your stomach drops — not unpleasantly, not entirely. More like a step missed on a staircase. Or maybe like gravity just remembered you.
The lull after FP3 feels like exhaling after holding your breath too long. The garage thins, voices scattering — GP deep in conversation with Bradley, Horner tossing Max some thumbs-up quip you can’t quite catch. The air is warm with the ghosts of worn-down tyres and lingering engine heat, layered faintly with the bitter trace of someone’s abandoned coffee. It’s only early-afternoon, but your body swears it’s lived an entire day already. “I’m hungry,” Max says suddenly, quiet enough that it brushes past only your ears. A beat. “Wanna grab lunch?” You blink — surprised, but pleasantly so. He’s asking this time. “Yeah,” you answer a bit too quickly, too eager. “Sure.” The hospitality suite feels like stepping into another world. It’s cooler than the garage. The lights here don’t shine as clinically bright. Air-conditioned hush pressing against your skin until the chaos of the pit lane feels like a dream receding. You both take plates — pasta, chicken, nothing that could weigh him down — and find a table tucked near the window. Golden light cuts across the table in soft stripes, painting the moment in something that feels less like work, more like… something unnamed, hovering at the edges.
Max eats like an athlete: mechanical precision, bites measured out of habit. But his shoulders aren’t drawn so tightly anymore, and the edges of his posture have blurred. He looks less like a driver between sessions and more like a man finally letting adrenaline sink into his bones, like he’s thinking about something he’s unsure to share. Then, without warning, his voice cuts the quiet. “I have to win this championship.” Your fork pauses mid-air. You glance up. He’s not looking at you — not directly. More like somewhere past your shoulder, like the thought has been sitting there all along, waiting for daylight. “I know I should say I want to,” he continues, voice low but steady. “But it’s not that. I have to.” You don’t interrupt. You let him speak. “2020…” He exhales, shakes his head. “I was okay. I gave everything I had. But it didn’t matter. That car couldn’t take the fight to Lewis. Not the way I needed it to. Or maybe…” His jaw flexes. “…maybe I didn’t do it justice enough.” “And this year?” you ask softly. “This year,” his eyes finally meet yours, sharp and unblinking, “I’ve got a chance. Not a guarantee. But a shot. And I’m not going to waste it.” Conviction rings in him like a struck chord — clear, resonant, impossible to ignore. You set your fork down, nodding slowly.
“I know you won’t,” you say. “I’ve seen the work you put in. Every second of it since I started at Red Bull, even before to be honest. You’ve got the car, the team, the discipline. And the talent, obviously.” A faint, almost reluctant smirk tugs at his mouth. “But more than that,” you add, leaning in just slightly, “you’ve got the mindset for it. You don’t crack. You don’t flinch. That’s what it takes to win a title. At least, from what I’ve seen… as a long-time spectator. So you might not want to make too much of what I’m saying.” The smirk lingers, softer now. His gaze holds yours a little too long, steady, deliberate. It doesn’t feel like silence. It feels like weight. Like intention. You sip your water, letting the glass linger at your lips a beat longer than needed, as if the coolness can rinse the weight of his words from your chest. “So,” you say, aiming for lighter, “how do you switch off? From all this championship pressure?” A quiet laugh escapes him, not unkind but dry. “I don’t.” Your brow lifts. “Seriously?” “Seriously.” He shrugs, deliberate, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I get home, I eat, I go sim racing. That’s how I stay sharp. I keep my head in it.” “Full immersion. Twenty-four seven.” You tilt your head. “Doesn’t that ever burn you out?” “No.” The answer lands with the same precision as a braking point. “Because the only thing worse than burnout would be losing. This—” he gestures with his fork, vague but weighted, “—this is everything right now.” You let the pause stretch, then try again, softer. “And the people in your life? Friends, family… partner?” He leans back, folds his arms, the posture more thoughtful than defensive. “My dad’s worse than me,” he says. “Sometimes I think he dreams in lap times. He might actually want this championship even a little more.” The corner of your mouth pulls upward, quietly, even if it pinches somewhere beneath your ribs. “My friends understand. They know I’m not the guy who texts back right away or shows up to birthdays. They let me be who I am.” He taps his fork against the plate, then stills. “And I don’t have a partner, so… that’s nothing I have to worry about.” Your pulse skips — one sharp misfire — before steadying again, like nothing happened. “Oh.” The word is too quiet, too small, and you bury it under another bite of pasta, as if chewing could disguise the way it lands somewhere you weren’t expecting. If he notices, he doesn’t say. Or maybe he does and chooses not to. “I don’t think I’d be a good partner anyway,” he adds after a beat, voice even. “Not right now. It’s hard to explain to someone that the championship always comes first.” You nod, slow. You think about what the most casual seeming answer to this could be and settle for “Makes sense.” The silence that follows is longer, denser — not heavy, not empty, just charged in a way you can’t quite name and would rather not have to think about. You clear your throat, check the time, push gently at the air between you. “You’ve got a strategy meeting in ten. Want me to walk you over?” He nods once. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” When you rise, your shoulders brush for a second — barely. But neither of you moves away.
The walk back from hospitality settles into a kind of companionable quiet. Max drifts half a step ahead, hands loose in the pockets of his jacket, his gaze narrowed not on the path but on some thought chewing at him from the inside out. Not the pasta. Not the strategy. Something heavier and private. You don’t ask, don’t press what has his brows furrowed like that. You just match his pace, let the silence breathe. By the time the garage comes into view, the air has shifted once again — sharp, electric. Mechanics moving around the car for some final touches before Qualifying with practiced precision, tyres stacked in the corners, screens glowing with reruns of data streams. Another phase of the weekend is already beating forward, and you slip into it without thought, stream with the flow around you. “Meeting in seven,” you murmur as you draw level with Max again, your voice pitched low for his ears only. “Tom and Lee have the sector data ready. You’ll cover Q1 through Q3 projections now, then race prep tonight, depending on how quali shakes out.” He nods, barely turning his head — but this time, when his shoulder grazes yours, it lingers an instant longer. Deliberate. Anchored. “And GP wants a quick check on the balance changes from FP3,” you add, eyes forward. “Thinks you’ll like the tweaks on rear grip.” A flicker at the corner of his mouth, more felt than seen. “About time we do something about that,” he mutters. You allow yourself the smallest smile in return, quick as a spark from a match.
The clock tumbles forward, minutes dissolving into briefings, whiteboards, and data sheets scrawled with deltas and projections. Max slips into his focused persona— sharp, economical, eyes darting between telemetry and his team of engineers, every gesture precise, measured. You hover close but never in the way, a quiet shadow in the current of motion, offering only what’s needed from you, which frankly spoken isn’t a lot. Every second counts now, and everyone knows it. When the garage shifts gears for Qualifying, the atmosphere charges like static before a thunderstorm storm. Radios spit updates minute after minute. A torque wrench clangs against concrete. Mechanics dart with focused urgency, their movements almost balletic in their coordination. You find yourself by the car just as Max reappears from the driver’s room, race suit zipped, gloves dangling from his hand. Light slips through the shutter gaps, striking across his face in streaks of molten gold. He starts on the earpieces and pulls his balaclava over his head, adjusts the fit, when you step closer — not too close, just enough. “Not luck,” you say, your voice threading neatly through the garage noise, “but I’m wishing for your success out there.” He glances over, one brow arched beneath the edge of his helmet. “And,” you add, bone-dry, “a little well-timed traffic for Lewis. Maybe an Aston Martin mid-sector two?” The sound that bursts out of him is quick and unguarded — a laugh, bright enough to cut straight through the hum of the garage. “Let Hannah know. Maybe the junior team can pull a few strings.” He clips the radio pack into place with practiced ease. You tilt your head, a faint smile playing at your lips. “But you don’t really need that, do you? You can beat them fair and square.” For a breath, his gaze catches yours — steady, unflinching, something unspoken tugging between you. And then, with a soft click, the visor drops, cutting you off from him again. You step back, headset in hand, pulse quickening — not for lap times, not for data. For him.
You don’t blink through the final sector of Max’s push lap. Not when the delta ticks down — +0.02, +0.01 — not when the rear twitches slightly at Turn 13. And not when the clock stops once he crosses the finishing line. P3. Just 0.101 off Bottas. The garage deflates in a ripple of disappointment — radios stay calm, shoulders drop, a wrench is clattering harder than intended onto the floor. Max doesn’t join them in their misery. No scream, no swear. Just helmet off in parc fermé, gloves stripped sharp, and the walk back: wordless, rigid with the kind of fury that hides behind clenched teeth. You’re already waiting by the monitors, folder in hand, expression perfectly neutral. Or almost. Because he sees it — a flicker across your face. Disappointment. Not in him. For him. And somehow that slices deeper than the tiny gap to Bottas ever could. He stops beside you, helmet swinging loosely in his grip. Neither of you speak until the cameras are gone, until it’s just the two of you and the flat replay running overhead. “Media in twelve,” you say softly. “Comms is leaning into the margin. Promising launchpad for tomorrow — strategy advantage, tyre life. You know the drill.” He exhales hard through his nose, still staring at the screen. “But I told them,” you add, gentler, “you might want to speak freely instead of repeating the empty words of good pr.” It’s small, but something shifts at his mouth. Not quite a smile. A release. He unzips his suit halfway, heat rolling off him as the anger begins to bleed into exhaustion. “You’re allowed to be pissed off,” you tell him, voice low. “You drove the wheels off that thing. They know it. We know it.” That word lands. We. His eyes snap to you — really look at you. For a moment, the atoms inside him realign. “I had the pace,” he mutters, half to himself. “Don’t know where I lost it. I’ll check the data. But I can win tomorrow.” “I know you can,” you say. And you mean it. The PR girl hurries past, clipboard raised, waving him toward the pen. He doesn’t move. Not right away. “Just be honest,” you tell him, holding his gaze. “You’re better when you are.” A beat. Then he pushes off the wall, tugging his sleeves higher. “Right. Let’s get this shitshow over with.” But as he brushes past, his fingers tap once against your arm. Just once. Like a silent thank you. You feel it long after he’s gone and it feels oddly good. So good, it scares you a bit.
After media, the paddock feels unhinged. Not from any scandals or headlines, but from the weather. Wind claws at the vinyl walls of hospitality tents, ripping at them like sails. Umbrellas skitter across the asphalt in terrified flight. Rain doesn’t fall so much as hurl itself sideways, slashing anyone caught in the open underneath the almost anthracite sky. It growls overhead, low and vindictive, like it’s been personally offended by the presence of everybody in the paddock. You duck just under the lip of the Red Bull awning, rummaging through your leather tote without flinching while the storm does its best to unmake the Hungaroring. Behind you, someone curses their drenched team polo. A cameraman further down the row wipes at his fogged-up lens, swearing under his breath. And then Max is there. At your shoulder. Cap pulled low, jacket zipped to his chin, the faint scent of cologne and sweat clinging to him in equal measure. You don’t even look up, just snap open the small, black umbrella with a flick of your wrist — clean, precise, a tiny act of control in weather chaos. A smug little smile tugs at your mouth. “Prepared?” His voice is warm, amused, a tease carried on the storm. “Always,” you deadpan, stepping out into the downpour like it’s nothing. He falls into stride with you instantly, so close his elbow bumps yours now and again. The umbrella tilts between you, straining against the wind, more symbolic than useful. You feel the shift before you see it — the subtle lift of his arm, the pause, the way it hovers just behind your shoulders. Not touching. Not quite guiding. Just… there. Present and trying to keep some of the raindrops off of you. It doesn’t protect you from a thing. You’re both soaked in seconds anyway. But the gesture softens the storm, and that softness stays. You don’t bother with words — the rain drowns every noise, pressing against your eardrums until the rest of the paddock feels on mute. Just you, Max, and the hiss of water on asphalt. Jacket sleeves slick. Shoes splashing. His nearness steady, like instinct. At the lot, the car sits exactly where he left it that morning, wipers on the windshield sitting still at the streams that run down the glass. Max moves ahead, jogs the final steps, and pulls the door open for you like it’s second nature. Routine, even. You look up at him from beneath the umbrella. No words. None needed. His gaze lingers a fraction too long, a heartbeat stretched thin, before you slip inside, rain dripping from your collar. He shuts the door carefully — like you’re something breakable, as if you were made out of sugar — before circling around to the drivers side. The windows fog as he starts the engine. Outside, thunder rolls deep and insistent. Tomorrow is race day. But tonight, the storm has the final word.
The rain carries that grounding, earthy tang of wet asphalt, the kind that belongs only to early Sunday mornings on race weekends at the track. You push the Honda door open and snap the Red Bull Racing umbrella open with a satisfying click. Droplets scatter off the navy canopy, the fabric taut and gleaming. The paddock is slick and silver-grey, puddles holding fractured reflections of team jackets and fans huddled close together under shared umbrellas or cheap plastic raincoats, the air humming with that peculiar cocktail of nerves and anticipation a wet race always brings. Max doesn’t move out of the car. He stays in the driver’s seat, wipers dragging back and forth in a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm. His gaze is fixed on the rain-streaked glass, jaw tight. You can’t quite tell if it’s nerves or focus, and that little mystery makes you linger. Leaning casually against the car, folder tucked to your chest, you angle the umbrella like a shield against the mist. “Good news,” you say, voice light, teasing but laced with the polish of professionalism. “Today you only have to do what you’re best at — just racing, a bit of media, and a press conference earned by winning. No team lunches, no awkward sponsor smiles, no handshakes with billionaires.” The corner of his mouth twitches, shoulders easing just enough to betray amusement. A soft chuckle slips out, low and quiet. “A wet race will be fun,” he says at last, eyes still following a single bead of water tracking its way down the glass. “More of a challenge.” You tilt your head, lips quirking. “Isn’t throwing yourself into a carbon-fiber rocket at 300 kilometers an hour challenging enough?” This time, his eyes flick toward you. Brief. Sharp. Warm.
“Not for me.” Something in your chest flutters, traitorous and insistent. Charming. Infuriating. Entirely magnetic. You steady your posture, refusing to let it show, and instead toss him a small, conspiratorial smile. He finally moves, shaking himself out of whatever quiet space he’d been in, turning just enough to catch the curve of your expression before his focus shifts again toward the paddock entrance. Then, with the easy confidence that always seems stitched into him, he pushes the door shut and starts striding forward. You fall into step beside him, umbrella tilted just so the space between you feels deliberate — close, but not forced. Rain splatters against your shoulder where it’s not covered by the umbrella, its muted rhythm creating a strange kind of privacy inside the chaos of Hungaroring. The journalists and fans realizing who’s just arrived, even the distant thunder of engines firing up — all of it fades to background. Just you. Just him. And the quiet electricity that hums in the space where his laughter usually lives, in the split-second heat of his gaze when it meets yours. “Ready to face the chaos?” you ask, words laced with teasing. He grins, eyes sparking even against the storm. “After you.” With a quick motion, he plucks the umbrella from your hand and holds it over both of you, the gesture threaded with a subtle intimacy neither of you comment on. You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, leather strap biting against your team jacket, and fumble for your paddock pass. He glances down, umbrella steady above you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Paddock pass ready?” he asks, tone playful, edged with softness.
You shoot him a sideways look, half-smile tugging at your mouth. “Always.” With a practiced flick, you snap the lanyard free from your bag — multiple cards clattering together in a little fanfare of preparedness. Max raises a brow, mock-impressed. The amusement sparks between you, light and unspoken. Then the first wave of fans surges inside the paddock, cameras flashing like lightning, and the moment slips away in a staccato of shutters and shouts.
Max’s pace slows, and suddenly the dynamic shifts — the umbrella is back in your hands, angled carefully as he leans over to sign autographs. You lean a little closer as well to shield him from the drizzle, your knuckles grazing the sleeve of his jacket each time you adjust. The rhythm of the crowd is wild — pens tapping, voices rising, flashes firing — yet there’s something oddly private in the way you move with him, syncing the click of your umbrella with the clatter of Sharpies across glossy photos. “You’re doing really well for your first weekend,” he murmurs, low enough that only you catch it. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, as if it’s half a tease, half a truth. “Do you think they’d let me do this if I wasn’t?” you shoot back, eyes catching his for just a second too long. His glance in return is sharp, deliberate — a look that says he notices, really notices, you in the middle of all this chaos. When the crowd finally thins, you step aside, offering the umbrella back to him with a polite gesture. He only shakes his head, easy and stubborn, taking it himself but keeping the cover over both of you. And just like that, the roar of the paddock recedes to background static. Now you walk in step, shoulders brushing lightly as you navigate puddles that mirror the washed-out banners from the motorhomes to your left and right. It feels less like dodging chaos and more like sharing a rhythm no one else sees — his quiet checks to make sure you’re still beside him, the way his eyes soften when they catch the outline of your profile in the grey light, the silence between words that feels anything but empty. Professional, yes — but threaded with something warmer, something playful and spiy that hovers in the space between you. By the time you reach the Red Bull motorhome, the rain dripping steady around you, it feels like the world has folded into a bubble: rain, cameras, noise on the outside, and just this… whatever this is, walking with him. He holds the door open with an exaggerated little flourish, a wink under the edge of the umbrella. It dips between you as you pass, and for a heartbeat the air hums — sharp, charged, the kind of awareness that lives just beneath the surface, daring both of you not to name it.
The Red Bull garage thrums like a living thing when you arrive — a heartbeat of motion and light and heat. Mechanics lean over the car like sculptors, fingers tracing metal lines with precise obsession. Engineers pace in tiny arcs, tablets glowing in their hands, screens flickering with data that pulses and hums like a biological organism, translating metal and motor oil into its own secret code of DNA. The smell of burnt rubber, warm tires, and just a faint hint of espresso floats in the air, grounding you in the controlled chaos. You linger a few steps back, headset snug over your ears, folder clutched like a talisman, watching Max materialize already in fireproofs, his race suit lazily zipped to his waist, sleeves dangling behind him like careless banners. He glances at you, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reaches for his water bottle. “You look… serious,” he says, low, casual, but carrying that flicker — amusement or charm, you can’t tell. You tilt your head, letting your hair fall back, and step closer. “I don’t envy you out there,” you say evenly, but the weight behind your words is unmistakable. “Wet track, limited visibility, full grid of egos, everyone scheming for any sort of advantage.” Max chuckles — low, confident, a laugh that belongs to someone utterly in his element. He flexes his fingers around the branded bottle, taps the flexy straw a quiet rhythm.
“It’s fine,” he says simply. “Wet races… they feel better to win.” His eyes flick to yours, almost daring you to argue. You raise an eyebrow. “So, the risk of landing in the wall and perhaps getting a concussion is part of the fun?” you tease. “I mean yeah,” he grins, leaning forward just slightly, energy coiled sharp as wire. “Everyone else is nervous, cautious… I like the chaos. Makes it feel better when you come out on top.” You nod, half-smiling, letting a sliver of admiration creep into your posture. “I’ll… be here, keeping the chaos contained from this side,” you reply, tapping your headset lightly. “Make sure the media, PR, and the world see the right Max.” He tilts his head while starting to zip up his suit, scanning you a beat longer than necessary. “You make it sound… way too easy. You know the British have it out for me,” he says, tone dropping subtly, intimate. There’s a warmth there, just for you, subtle and unspoken. You straighten, trying to hide the flutter in your chest. “Easy isn’t the point. You make winning look easy. I just… make sure people see it that way, even the British media.” Max smirks again, flapping his gloves together like a challenge. “Then… I better not let you down and ruin your plans.” You glance at the monitors, then back at him. “You won’t. Just… trust yourself. And maybe don’t forget there’s a [Y/N] watching, who hates when things don’t go the way she intended.” He shakes his head, grabbing his balaclava and helmet next. “You’re going to ruin my reputation as a cold, unshakable driver,” he mutters. Then, with a sharp grin: “Or maybe… I’ll lean into it. Makes me even more unpredictable out there.” And just like that, the garage pulses with a different electricity. You’re not just an observer today — you’re part of the rhythm, part of the heartbeat. Max is focused, competitive, untouchable in his element. And yet, he’s letting you in, letting you see the calm under the storm. GP pulls Max away seconds later to talk over some last minute instructions for the race. You watch him as he nods at whatever message GP has for him. He pulls the balaclava over his head and you unfortunately loose the sight of his dark blond hair. That’s before you loose sight of his face entirely as he straps on his helmet and gets into the car. It’s your moment to take your place by the screens and let the crew do their thing before it’s time to go to the grid and wait for the lights to turn off.
Rain hisses against the Hungaroring asphalt, each drop catching the gray sky like liquid mirrors. You grip the edge of the garage railing, headset snug, pulse thrumming not from the storm but from the chaos unraveling before you. On the big screen, the grid launches the moment the five red lights vanish. Engines scream, wet tires spray mist that erupts into blinding sheets across the first corner. Then—snap—crash. Valtteri Bottas loses control, fishtailing across the racing line. You hear the collective gasp through your headset. Cars swerve, some collide. And then—Norris smashes into Max. Your stomach lurches as the navy Red Bull spins, slamming briefly into gravel before clawing its way back onto the track. Hands tighten around the folder you’d only set down a minute ago. Mechanics shout from their seats, voices rising over the low drone of the garage. Engineers pace like predators, eyes flicking from screens to car to screens again. Max isn’t calm on the comms—his voice clipped, edged with anger. “What the fuck happened there? Check my car!” “Max, one of the McLarens hit you. We’re looking. So far everything looks good to go,” GP replies, measured, trying to calm him down, have him focus on the track again. You inhale sharply. He’s okay—he’s not panicking—but the debris strewn across the track glints wet under the rain on the screen. Lap two brings a red flag. The world seems to hold its breath for a moment, chaos frozen mid-frame. And then the cameras catch you leaning forward, eyes locked on Max’ onboards, headset on, lips pressed together tight with concern. The commentators notice. F1 TV captions you as “Max Verstappen’s partner.” Your head snaps toward the screen. “What the f—?!” you mutter, half-laughing, half-panicked. Twitter erupts—memes, speculation, wild theories. A few seconds later, the caption updates: “Max Verstappen’s personal assistant.” Too late. The digital storm has already begun. Fans argue, journalists speculate, tabloids light up like fireworks. Max’s car is rolled into the garage. He remains strapped in, helmet still on. GP approaches, tight smile in place, leaning into the halo. Max nods a couple of times, then throws his head back, laughter breaking through, low and genuine. GP glances toward you, smirking, and gestures for you to join them. You hesitantly step forward. Max turns his head just enough—visor up—and you catch the glint of his blue eyes framed by lines that hint at a grin. His voice is low, amused, but there’s still steel underneath. “You okay over there? Don’t let the internet chaos get to you.” You bite your cheek, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “I’m fine. Just… focused. I know how the circus rolls.” Focused. That’s the truth. You track hashtags, relay messages, thread the team’s rhythm. The outside world may misread your role—or your presence—but you know exactly where you belong: here, beside him, monitoring, protecting, silently ensuring he has every advantage he can get off-track, even when rain and chaos conspire against him in the race. Max roars back onto the track once the red flag lifts. Damage slows him slightly, but he’s relentless—muscles taut, eyes narrow inside the helmet. You jot down notes for the post-race debrief, but your gaze keeps flicking to his onboards. He’s unshakable in his determined own way, magnetic in focus, and somewhere in the corner of your mind, a small thrill runs through you: you’re part of this storm now. You’re part of his rhythm. And the world—confused, speculating—can wait until the final lap is over.
The media pen is a swarm of umbrellas, microphones, and camera lenses—a jostling, chaotic contrast to the slick, rain-soaked track you just left behind. You fall just a step behind Max, letting him take the front, but your eyes never leave him. Even battered, even stretched thin by the red-flag chaos, he carries that unshakable calm and carelessness that makes your pulse skip anyway. Journalists pivot toward him, pens poised, flashbulbs snapping. Someone leans in, voice sharp through the drizzle: “So, Max… I’m sure you saw the F1 TV captions. Can you clarify?” Max leans casually against the barrier, one hand wrapped around a water bottle, the other propping him up as if the chaos were nothing more than background noise. There’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—the kind that says he’s amused, aware, untouchable.
“Well,” he starts, eyes glinting, mischief tucked into every word, “I wouldn’t trust F1 TV for reporting my or anyone relationship status…” He pauses, letting the tease hang just long enough to make everyone lean forward. Then he gestures toward you—two steps beside him, phone in hand, team jacket still damp from the rain. “She works for Red Bull. She’s been my PA this weekend—a very good one.” Journalists lean closer, hunger in their eyes for a follow-up. Max gives none. No concrete denial, no concrete confirmation—just the faintest shrug, a blink, that lingering smirk. You roll your shoulders back, keeping your expression measured, professional, even as a little thrill snakes through your chest. “That’s everything he said,” you murmur quietly into the voice memo you’re recording, tapping send to PR. You catch his eye. He nods ever so slightly, half-smile still teasing, longer than it should. Cameras click. Tweets will fly. Headlines will explode. But here, in this pocket of controlled chaos, you and Max share a private understanding: no one outside the garage—or the paddock—needs the real answer. Not yet. Especially not when neither of you could give the other one abou what there is between you, not even if pressed. He isn’t just shielding you from the press. There’s a little spark of mischief in him, too—maybe because the assumption hasn’t been corrected. Maybe because he likes the thought. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel the same thrill, though you wouldn’t admit it out loud. You step back just enough to give him space, fingers tightening around the folder. In the rain, among microphones and flashing lenses, you’re a quiet anchor—and he seems to need it.
You leave the Hungaroring together, the bustle and flash of media fading behind you. Max is once again in the drivers seat controlling the car. The city lights coming closer and smear against the misted windows, turning the car interior into streaks of warm amber. Rain taps softly on the roof, a gentle percussion that mirrors your still-racing heartbeat. Max drives with quiet focus, but there’s an ease now — shoulders loosening, jaw unclenching — the subtle exhale after a weekend that could have gone sideways a dozen times. You glance over, catching him in profile. Streetlights flicker across his face, painting shadows and gold over the sharp planes of his jaw, the curve of his smile. You can’t help it — a small grin escapes you. “Well,” you begin, voice teasing, light, almost conspiratorial, “you survived your first weekend with me. I’d promise not to bother you during the break but—” He cuts you off, that devilish half-smile in place, one that’s been dancing in your mind all weekend. “Please bother me. Actually—let me bother you. How about dinner sometime? I’m kinda tired of always only having lunch with you.” Your stomach flips. Heat creeps up your neck, into your cheeks. Professional composure deserts you entirely. A soft, unsteady laugh slips out. “Then I’d be happy to bother you during the break,” you say, trying for casual, but it’s impossible to hide the flutter in your chest. He chuckles, low and easy, eyes flicking to yours briefly before returning to the wet road ahead. The silence that follows hums, thick with electricity — not awkward, just charged, like the calm pulse between two magnets drawn together. Your hand brushes the edge of your folder, meaningless, a quiet anchor in the shared tension. For the first time this weekend, it’s not about schedules, cameras, or chaos. It’s just the two of you, the rain pattering, the glow of Budapest spilling over the dashboard, and the quiet understanding that whatever this is — professional, personal, or something thrillingly in between — it’s no longer fleeting. The car hums along, tires whispering over wet asphalt. In that moving, intimate cocoon, something delicate and undeniably real has begun that potentially could threaten your career.
radio: i had this in my drafts for a couple of weeks now and felt too insecure to post it, cause I don't think it's particularly good... but I'm currently also working on a longer Oscar fic and didn't want to leave you hanging without anything... therefore: enjoy it and leave some love if you did <3 kind regards as always!
