Hello. Can you maybe write a story where it's y/n first time in the paddock and George/Lando/Max show y/n everything and reassure her? I really love fluff in the paddock! Thank you so much, I really enjoy reading your stories
The Paddock’s Best Friend
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: Fluff, morning anxiety, crowds, camera flashes, excessive cuteness
Summary: Stepping into the chaotic Formula 1 paddock for the first time with Max Verstappen is terrifying, but his grounding presence changes everything. As you navigate his fast-paced world, an exchange of handmade friendship bracelets with the fans turns you into the paddock’s favorite fixture.
Author's note: I am so incredibly in love with how this turned out, it was so comforting to write, love you all and let me know what you think, xx
The alarm on the bedside table of the Monaco apartment didn’t so much wake you up as it rescued you from a state of semi-conscious tossing and turning. It was five in the morning, the sky outside the window a deep, bruised purple that had not yet given way to the gold of a Mediterranean dawn.
Beside you, the mattress shifted. A heavy, warm arm slid across your waist, pulling you back against a chest that radiated a ridiculous amount of heat. Max mumbled something into your shoulder, a low, gravelly string of Dutch that your brain was far too tired to decode.
“Max, let go,” you whispered, your voice raspy. “The alarm went off. We have to get ready.”
He groaned, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck. “Five more minutes. The engineers don’t even have their coffee yet.”
“You’re the one who told me the traffic into the track gets brutal if we leave past six,” you reminded him, gently prying his fingers away from your hip.
That seemed to do the trick. One of Max’s eyes cracked open, clear and bright despite the ungodly hour. A slow, lopsided smile crept onto his face as he looked at you, taking in your tangled hair and the slight tightness around your eyes that betrayed just how nervous you were. This wasn’t just another weekend. This was your first time traveling with him to a race, your first time stepping foot inside the Formula 1 paddock as his girlfriend.
“You’re still worried,” he stated softly, sitting up and letting the duvet fall around his waist. He reached out, his thumb catching a strand of hair and tucking it behind your ear. His hand lingered on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a slow, deliberate circle. “Look at me. Y/N. It is just a parking lot with big motorhomes. Nothing more.”
“A parking lot filled with hundreds of cameras, journalists, and millions of people watching who I am,” you murmured, looking down at your hands.
Max caught your chin, tilting your head up until you were forced to meet his gaze. The playful, competitive edge he usually wore was entirely absent, replaced by a quiet, fierce sincerity. “They are looking at me because I drive a car fast. They don’t matter. You are there with me. I hold your hand, we walk in, we go to the room, and you have coffee. That’s it. Okay?”
You took a deep breath, trying to absorb some of his absolute certainty. “Okay.”
“Good,” he said, slapping his hands against his knees as he swung his legs out of bed. “Now go get dressed before I take the long shower and leave you with the cold water.”
The drive to the track was a blur of flashing streetlights, the low rumble of the car’s engine, and the quiet music playing from the dashboard. Max drove with one hand casually resting on the steering wheel, his other hand stretched across the center console, his fingers tightly intertwined with yours. Every time he felt your grip tighten, he would give your hand a reassuring squeeze, not saying anything, just letting you know he was there.
By the time the car pulled into the designated driver parking area, the sun was fully up, casting a bright, unforgiving light over the massive structures of the circuit. The noise hit you the moment you cracked the car door open, the distant whine of support series engines warming up, the clatter of air guns from the pit lane, and the low, constant hum of thousands of people moving with purpose.
Your stomach did a violent flip. You stayed in the passenger seat, your hand frozen on the door handle.
Max didn’t get out right away. He turned off the ignition, unbuckled his seatbelt, and turned his entire body toward you. He reached across, taking both of your hands in his. They were trembling, and he noticed immediately.
“Hey,” he said, his voice dropping into that specific, calm register he used when things were getting chaotic around him. “Look at me.”
You turned your head, your eyes wide. “There are so many people, Max. The photographers are already at the turnstiles. I can see the lenses from here.”
“They are always there,” he said gently. “They want a picture of me looking grumpy in the morning. That is their job. Your job is just to walk next to me. You don’t have to smile for them, you don’t have to look at them. You just look straight ahead, or you look at me. Can you do that?”
He reached into the back seat and grabbed his team backpack, pulling out a pair of dark, oversized sunglasses. He didn’t hand them to you, instead, he carefully slid them onto your face, adjusting the frames until they sat perfectly on the bridge of your nose.
“There,” he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Now you are a mystery. They don't know if you are looking at them or if you are asleep walking.”
A small, breathy laugh escaped your lips, and the tight knot in your chest loosened just a fraction. “You think you’re very funny, don’t you?”
“I am very funny, yes,” he grinned, leaning over to press a quick, firm kiss to your forehead. “Are we ready?”
You took one long, stabilizing breath, nodding your head. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
The moment your feet hit the asphalt, the reality of Max’s world became undeniable. He reached for your hand immediately, his long fingers locking securely with yours, his grip firm and unyielding. He carried his own backpack over one shoulder, his posture relaxed, looking for all the world like a man taking a casual stroll in a park rather than walking into a high-pressure sporting arena.
As you approached the paddock entrance, the clicking began. It was a rapid, mechanical sound, like a flock of metallic birds, as dozens of photographers snapped photos in rapid succession. You felt a instinctual urge to shrink back, to pull your hand away and disappear behind him, but Max’s grip only tightened. He didn’t speed up. He kept a steady, measured pace, his eyes fixed forward, occasionally glancing down at you with a small, private smile that was meant only for your eyes.
He tapped his pass against the turnstile, waited for you to scan yours, and then guided you through the rotating metal bars.
The paddock itself was staggering. Huge, multi-story hospitality buildings stood lined up like modern glass villas, each adorned with massive team logos. People dressed in identical team kit hurried past, carrying tires, clipboards, and headsets.
Max didn't stop to chat with anyone, though several people called out his name or nodded as he passed. He kept his focus entirely on navigating you through the crowd, guiding you with a gentle hand on the small of your back whenever a motorized scooter or a group of mechanics wheeled a set of tires past.
He led you toward the massive Red Bull hospitality building, pushing open the heavy glass doors. The sudden shift from the humid morning air to the cool, air-conditioned interior was an instant relief. The smell of high-end espresso and fresh pastries filled the air.
“Max! Morning,” a voice called out. It was Bradley, his trainer, who was already sitting at one of the tables with a laptop open. His eyes shifted to you, his expression immediately softening into a warm, welcoming smile. “And you must be Y/N. It’s so great to finally meet you.”
“Hi, Bradley,” you said, your voice a little quiet but steady.
“Don’t let him drag you around too fast,” Bradley joked, gesturing to Max. “He forgets normal people don’t walk at race pace.”
“She is doing perfect,” Max defended, a hint of pride in his voice as he looked down at you. “We are going up to the room first. Is the coffee machine working?”
“Freshly serviced,” Bradley nodded.
Max led you up a flight of stairs to the upper level of the hospitality unit, where a row of private driver rooms was located. He unlocked the door with his pass, stepping aside to let you enter first.
The room was compact but incredibly functional. A comfortable leather sofa sat against one wall, a large television screen hung opposite it showing live timing screens, and a wardrobe held several sets of clean racing overalls. On a small table in the corner sat a personalized water bottle, a physiotherapy table, and a small coffee setup.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the noise of the paddock vanished completely. The room was perfectly soundproofed.
You let out a massive breath you felt like you’d been holding since five in the morning, your shoulders dropping. Max watched you, a soft look appearing on his face. He dropped his backpack onto the floor and walked over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you tightly against him.
You buried your face in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his laundry detergent and the faint trace of his cologne. His chest rumbled as he spoke. “See? We survived the monster outside.”
“It was a lot,” you admitted, your voice muffled against his shirt. “The cameras are so loud.”
“I know,” he murmured, his hand gently stroking your hair, his fingers running through the strands in a rhythmic, calming motion. “But you are inside now. This room is yours for the weekend. Nobody comes in here without knocking, nobody bothers you. You can stay here all day if you want, or you can come down to the garage with me. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands resting on your hips. “Do you want that coffee now? I make it for you.”
“You know how to use the machine?” you teased, a genuine smile finally breaking through your nerves.
Max feigned offense, throwing his hands up. “Of course I know how to use it! I am a professional athlete, Y/N, I need my caffeine. Just watch.”
You sat down on the leather sofa, watching him navigate the espresso machine with surprising efficiency. He was so completely different in this environment, so assured and grounded, that it was impossible not to feel a sense of security washing over you. He wasn’t the formidable three-time world champion the world saw, he was just Max, making sure you had enough sugar in your cup.
He walked over, handing you a perfectly made cappuccino, and sat down right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He didn't immediately start looking at data or checking his phone. He just sat there with you, sipping his own drink, letting you get accustomed to the environment at your own pace.
“So,” he said after a few minutes of quiet. “Do you want the grand tour before the meetings start? The garage is quiet right now. The mechanics are just doing final checks. It is the best time to see the car.”
You looked at the closed door, then back at him. The initial panic had subsided, replaced by a growing curiosity. You wanted to see the world he lived in, the machine he commanded. “Yeah. I’d love to see it.”
Max’s face lit up, that boyish enthusiasm that always surfaced when he talked about racing making an appearance. He stood up, offering his hand to help you up from the couch.
Before opening the door, he stopped, turning to face you. He reached out and carefully adjusted the collar of your denim jacket, his fingers brushing against your neck. “If it gets too much, or if the noise is too loud, you just tap my arm twice. Then we come straight back here. Clear?”
“Clear,” you smiled, touched by how attentive he was being.
He opened the door, and this time, as you walked out into the corridor, you felt a little more solid on your feet. Max kept his hand firmly clasped in yours as he led you down the back stairs of the hospitality unit and through a connecting covered walkway that led directly into the rear of the Red Bull garage.
The garage was a masterpiece of clinical engineering. It looked more like a high-tech laboratory than a car workshop. The floors were spotless gray resin, reflecting the bright overhead LED lights. Rows of computer monitors lined the walls, displaying complex graphs and scrolling numbers that looked like absolute gibberish to you.
And there, in the center of the bay, was the car.
It was stripped down, some of its carbon fiber bodywork removed to reveal the intricate, terrifyingly complex maze of wires, pipes, and mechanical components underneath. Several mechanics were huddled around it, working with quiet, intense focus.
The moment Max stepped into the garage, the atmosphere changed subtly. There was a palpable sense of respect, a quiet acknowledgment of his presence. Several mechanics looked up, offering quick nods, their eyes naturally drifting to you with polite curiosity.
“Gianpiero,” Max called out, catching the attention of a tall man with a headset resting around his neck.
GP turned around, a sharp, analytical expression instantly melting into a warm smile when he saw Max and you. “Ah, Max. Morning.”
“GP, this is Y/N,” Max said, his arm sliding around your waist, pulling you into his side with a clear gesture of possessiveness and pride.
“A pleasure to finally meet you, Y/N,” GP said, shaking your hand. “Max has told us a lot about you. Mostly good things, don’t worry.”
“Don’t believe him, he lies,” Max shot back playfully, though the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable. “I wanted to show her the car before we get busy.”
“Go ahead, just don’t let him touch anything,” GP joked to you. “He’s terrible with a wrench.”
Max rolled his eyes but laughed, guiding you closer to the side of the car. He pointed to the cockpit, his voice dropping into that enthusiastic, technical tone he used when he was genuinely excited about something.
“Look here,” he said, leaning over the side pod. “This is where I sit. It’s completely molded to my body. If it’s even a millimeter off, you feel it after fifty laps. And the steering wheel, look at all the buttons.”
You leaned in, fascinated by the sheer compactness of the space. “How do you even remember what they all do when you’re driving that fast?”
“It becomes muscle memory,” he explained, his hand resting on the roll hoop above the seat. “Like typing on a keyboard without looking. You just know where everything is. This one is for the differential, this is for the brake balance, this one tells GP I think the strategy is stupid.”
You let out a genuine laugh, the sound echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged garage. Max looked down at you, his eyes soft and incredibly focused, clearly delighted that he had made you laugh and feel at ease in his space.
He spent the next twenty minutes showing you every detail of the garage. He took you to the back where the tires were kept in their heated blankets, letting you touch the thick, smooth rubber. He explained how the temperature affected the grip, how a few degrees could change the entire feel of the car. He showed you the wall of helmets, pointing out the specific design features on his current one.
Throughout it all, he never left your side. If a mechanic needed to get past with a tool trolley, Max’s hand was instantly on your hip, gently guiding you out of the way before you even realized you needed to move. He shielded you from the chaotic elements of his world, creating a safe, quiet pocket of space just for the two of you.
Eventually, the garage began to fill up. More engineers arrived, laptops were fired up, and the quiet, morning preparation transition into the high-stakes buzz of a race day.
Max looked down at his watch, a slight sigh escaping his lips. “I have to go to the engineering meeting now. It will take about an hour.”
You felt a tiny prickle of the old anxiety return, but before it could take root, Max caught your chin with his fingers, forcing you to look at him.
“You have options,” he said firmly. “You can sit in the back of the garage with headphones on and watch the screens, or you can go back upstairs to the room. Bradley is up there, and if you need anything, you just tell him and he gets it. What do you want to do?”
“I think I’ll go back to the room,” you said, offering him a reassuring smile. “I want to read my book, and it’s a bit quieter up there.”
“Okay,” he nodded, looking completely satisfied with your choice. He walked you back to the stairs himself, refusing to let you walk back through the hospitality building alone. At the door of his private room, he stopped, turning to face you fully.
He put his hands on your shoulders, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It wasn't the quick, rushed kiss of someone who was distracted by a looming meeting. It was deep, grounding, and completely present.
“Thank you for coming,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours. “It means a lot to me to have you here.”
“Thank you for taking care of me,” you replied, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady, calm beat of his heart.
“Always,” he smiled, giving your shoulders a final squeeze before turning around to head toward his meeting.
You spent the rest of the day split between the quiet sanctuary of the driver’s room and the high-energy environment of the garage during the practice sessions. Max had arranged a set of noise-canceling headphones for you, plugged directly into the team radio feed. Sitting on a high stool at the back of the garage, listening to Max’s calm, precise voice communicating with GP amidst the roaring thunder of the engines passing the pit wall, you realized something.
The paddock was loud, chaotic, and terrifyingly fast, but as long as you were with him, you were perfectly safe.
By the time the European season was in full swing, your presence in the paddock had transitioned from a rare, anxiety-inducing occurrence to a regular, comforting routine. You no longer kept your eyes glued to the asphalt when walking through the turnstiles. You had learned to navigate the sea of cameras with a quiet confidence, your hand always securely tucked into Max’s.
It was during the race weekend at Silverstone that things began to change in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
The British fans were legendary for their passion, and the walk from the parking lot to the paddock entrance was lined with hundreds of people pressed against the metal barriers, hoping for an autograph, a photo, or just a glimpse of their favorite drivers.
Max was signing a cap for a young boy when you noticed a group of teenage girls near the front of the barrier. They weren’t calling out Max’s name. They were calling out yours.
“Y/N! Y/N, over here, please!”
You blinked, surprised, pointing a finger at your own chest in a silent question of *Me?*
The girls erupted into excited nods, waving frantic hands. Max looked up from the cap he was signing, a broad, amused smile breaking across his face as he realized what was happening. He nudged your elbow gently. “Go on. They want to see you.”
Nervously, you walked over to the barrier. The girls looked ecstatic, their eyes wide.
“Hi,” you said, offering a warm smile.
“Hi! We are such huge fans of you,” one of the girls, a brunette wearing a Red Bull cap, said breathlessly. “We love seeing how supportive you are of Max, and your outfits are always so beautiful!”
“Oh, thank you so much,” you blushed, genuinely touched by the unexpected compliment.
“We made something for you,” the girl continued, reaching into her small bag. She pulled out a delicate, beaded bracelet. It was made of blue, red, and yellow beads, spelling out your name in small white letter blocks, flanked by two tiny plastic hearts. “It’s a friendship bracelet. We made a matching one for Max that says his name, but we wanted you to have this one.”
Your heart melted completely. You looked at the little piece of handmade jewelry, feeling a rush of genuine warmth. “Oh, this is absolutely beautiful. Did you really make this yourself?”
“Yeah!” the girl beamed. “Can I give it to you?”
“Of course,” you said, extending your wrist over the barrier. The girl carefully tied the braided string around your wrist, her hands shaking slightly with excitement.
You immediately reached into the barrier, giving her a quick, gentle squeeze of her hand. “Thank you so much. I’m going to wear it all weekend. I promise.”
When you walked back to Max, who was finishing up his last few autographs, you held up your wrist proudly, showing off the bright beads. “Look what I got.”
Max took your hand, examining the bracelet with a soft, genuinely pleased look on his face. “Look at that. You are more popular than me now. I should be careful, otherwise they will stop asking for my signature.”
“Shut up,” you laughed, but you kept the bracelet on. True to your word, the television cameras caught flashes of the bright blue and yellow beads on your wrist throughout the weekend, every time you were shown sitting on the pit wall or walking through the hospitality unit.
The phenomenon didn't stop at Silverstone. Two weeks later, in Hungary, a young boy handed you a bracelet that spelled out *SUPER MAX* in Red Bull colors, asking if you could give it to him, while handing you a second one that said *TEAM Y/N*. In Belgium, a group of fans gave you a collection of intricate, braided bracelets in the colors of the Dutch flag.
By the time the summer break arrived, the jewelry box on your dresser in Monaco was overflowing with colorful plastic beads, elastic strings, and handmade charms. Every single one of them represented a fan who had spent hours putting them together, just to hand them to you for a fleeting five-second interaction at a racetrack barrier.
One evening, while Max was training on his simulator in the living room, the familiar, rhythmic clicking of his paddle shifters filling the apartment, you sat at the dining table, sorting through the mountain of bracelets.
You felt an immense sense of gratitude, but with it came a slight sense of guilt. These people were giving you so much of their time and affection, and you were always caught empty-handed, only able to offer a quick thank you before Max had to be ushered into his next media session.
An idea began to form in your head.
The next day, you went down to a local craft shop in Monaco. You spent an hour browsing the aisles, eventually leaving with several large paper bags filled with thousands of acrylic beads in every color imaginable, spools of strong elastic cord, and dozens of tiny silver charms shaped like racing cars, helmets, and four-leaf clovers.
When Max finished his training session that afternoon, he walked into the kitchen to find the entire island counter covered in organized plastic trays of beads.
He stopped, blinking at the sight. He walked over, picking up a tiny charm shaped like a steering wheel, holding it up to his eye. “What is all this? Are we opening a jewelry factory?”
“I’m making bracelets back,” you explained, cutting a length of elastic string. “The fans are always giving them to me. I thought it would be really nice if I had some to give back to them the next time they ask for a photo or hand me one.”
Max’s expression softened completely. He walked around the counter, sliding his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as he watched your fingers deftly slide a blue bead onto the string. “That is a very sweet idea, Y/N. They are going to love that.”
“Do you want to help me?” you asked, turning your head slightly to look at him. “It’s actually very relaxing.”
Max laughed, a rich, genuine sound. “Me? My fingers are too big for these tiny things. I will drop them all over the floor and the cat will eat them.”
“Come on, just try one,” you pleaded, nudging a tray of red and white beads toward him. “Make one for yourself. Or make one for me.”
Max sighed dramatically, but there was a bright twinkle in his eye as he pulled up a barstool and sat down next to you. He picked up a piece of string, his large, calloused hands looking completely ridiculous against the delicate material. He concentrated intensely, his tongue poking out slightly from the corner of his mouth as he tried to thread a tiny white bead with the letter *M* onto the cord.
“This is harder than driving at Spa in the rain,” he muttered, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.
You burst into laughter, leaning against his shoulder. “You’re doing great, Max. Keep going.”
For the next two hours, the apartment was quiet, save for the soft clinking of plastic beads and the occasional groan from Max whenever a bead slipped from his fingers. By the end of the evening, he had successfully created a single, slightly uneven bracelet that spelled out your name in alternating red and blue beads. It was a little loose, and the knot at the end was massive and slightly messy, but to you, it was the most precious thing in the world.
You immediately slid it onto your wrist, right next to the high-end watch he had bought you for your birthday. “I love it. I’m never taking it off.”
Max smiled, looking incredibly proud of his handiwork. “Good. Because I am never doing that again. My eyes hurt.”
The Dutch Grand Prix at Zandvoort was an absolute sea of orange. The smoke from the flares hung thick in the air, the music from the grandstands was deafening, and the energy was entirely electric. It was Max’s home race, and the pressure on him was immense.
Your canvas tote bag was heavy that Thursday morning as you walked down the track entrance path. Inside, carefully packed into small organza bags, were fifty handmade friendship bracelets. You had spent the last two weeks of the summer break making them, creating different variations. Some said *ZANDVOORT*, some said *MV1*, some said *ORANGE ARMY*, and a few special ones simply said *THANK YOU*.
As expected, the crowd at the paddock gate was packed tight, a wall of orange shirts and waving flags. The moment Max appeared, the crowd erupted into a roar of cheers. He immediately walked over to the line, signing shirts and caps with practiced efficiency.
You followed a few steps behind him, your heart beating a little fast, but this time, it wasn't from fear. It was from anticipation.
A group of women near the front of the barrier called out to you. “Y/N! Welcome back! We missed you over the break!”
You walked over to them, a bright, genuine smile on your face. One of the women, holding a large Dutch flag, reached out, offering you a bright orange braided bracelet. “We made this for you! Welcome to Zandvoort!”
“Thank you so much,” you said, accepting the gift. But instead of just saying thank you and moving on, you opened your canvas bag. You reached inside, pulling out one of your own organza bags. Inside was a beautiful, bright orange and blue beaded bracelet that spelled out *ORANGE ARMY*, complete with a tiny silver car charm.
You handed it to her. “I made something for you, too.”
The woman froze. She looked down at the little bag in her hand, her eyes widening in absolute shock. The girls standing next to her let out collective gasps.
“You... you made this?” the woman stuttered, her voice shaking.
“Yeah!” you smiled, feeling a wonderful rush of happiness. “I spent the summer break making them because you guys are always so sweet to me. I wanted to make sure I had something to give back to you.”
“Oh my god,” one of the other girls cried, covering her mouth with her hands. “Y/N, that is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done! Can I please get one too? I have a bracelet for you!”
“Of course!” you said, happily exchanging your handmade creations for theirs.
Within minutes, word seemed to spread down the barrier like wildfire. The fans realized that Max Verstappen’s girlfriend wasn't just accepting gifts, she was actively trading them. The atmosphere at the barrier turned into a joyful, chaotic celebration. You moved down the line, chatting with the fans, exchanging stories about how difficult it was to find the right letter beads, and slipping your handmade bracelets onto the wrists of ecstatic teenagers and grown adults alike.
Max, who had finished his side of autographs, stood a few feet away, watching you. Bradley stood next to him, a broad smile on his face.
“Look at her,” Bradley said, chuckling. “She’s running the show now, Max. You’re just the opening act.”
Max didn't say anything, but the look on his face spoke volumes. His eyes were warm, filled with a deep, quiet admiration as he watched you laugh and connect so effortlessly with the people who supported him. There was no trace of the nervous girl who had been afraid to get out of the car in Monaco. You were entirely in your element, radiant and completely accepted.
When you finally walked through the turnstiles, your arms were covered up to your elbows in bright orange and Dutch-themed bracelets, and your canvas bag was completely empty.
Max caught your hand the moment you cleared the gates, pulling you into his side. He looked down at your multi-colored arms, a soft laugh escaping his chest. “I think you need a bigger bag for the next race.”
“They were so happy, Max,” you said, your eyes shining with excitement. “One girl almost cried. It was the best feeling ever.”
“I know,” he said softly, squeezing your hand tightly. “You are very good with them, Y/N. They love you because you are real. You don't just walk past them.”
By the time the paddock reached Monza, the narrative around you had completely solidified. You were no longer just referred to by the commentators as *Max Verstappen’s girlfriend*. You had become a beloved fixture of the paddock in your own right, often referred to by the fans on social media as the *Paddock’s Best Friend*.
Videos of your interactions at the barriers had gone viral on TikTok and Instagram. Fans started a trend of designing specific bracelets just to trade with you, creating complex, beautiful patterns. The official Red Bull social media accounts even posted a photo of your arms covered in beads, captioning it: *The real jewelry champion of the paddock.*
On Friday morning in Italy, the Ferrari fans, the legendary Tifosi, were out in full force. Even though Max was their main rival, the respect they had for the sport was undeniable.
As you walked down the line, a young Italian girl, no older than ten, was standing at the barrier with her mother. She was wearing a red shirt, but she was holding a small, handmade bracelet made of red and green beads, looking at you with wide, timid eyes.
You walked straight over to her, bypassing several older fans, crouching down to be at eye level with her. “Hi sweetie,” you said gently.
“Ciao,” the little girl whispered, her face turning pink. She extended her hand, offering the bracelet. “For you. Because you are nice.”
“Thank you so much,” you said, your heart melting into a puddle. You accepted the red and green beads, sliding them onto your wrist immediately. Then, you opened your bag. You had made a few special ones for this weekend, using red, white, and green beads to match the Italian flag, spelling out the word *AMORE*.
You handed it to her. “This one is for you. I made it myself.”
The little girl’s face lit up with a smile so bright it could have lit up the entire pit lane. She grabbed the bracelet, hugging it to her chest, before suddenly reaching over the barrier to wrap her small arms around your neck.
You caught her, hugging her back tightly, completely ignoring the flashing cameras of the photographers who had gathered around to capture the moment.
When you stood up, Max was waiting for you a few feet away. He didn't say anything, but as you walked toward the hospitality building, he slid his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
Later that afternoon, after the second practice session, you were sitting in the driver’s room, sorting through the new batch of bracelets you had received that morning. The door opened, and Max walked in, looking tired but relaxed, his hair slightly damp from the shower after stripping out of his race suit.
He didn't say anything as he walked over to the sofa. He simply laid down, stretching his long legs out, and rested his head directly in your lap.
You smiled, your fingers naturally finding their way into his short, blonde hair, gently massaging his scalp. Max let out a long, contented sigh, his eyes closing as he relaxed under your touch.
“Good session?” you asked softly.
“Yeah, the car feels good,” he mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion. “A few things to fix with the balance, but it’s okay.”
He was quiet for a moment, the only sound in the room being the distant, muffled echo of the support race cars on track. Then, without opening his eyes, he reached up, his large hand finding your wrist. His fingers brushed over the thick stack of colorful plastic bracelets that covered your skin, eventually settling on the slightly uneven, messy red and blue one that he had made for you weeks ago.
He opened his eyes, looking up at you from your lap, his gaze incredibly intense, filled with a warmth that was meant only for you.
“You know,” he said softly, his thumb rubbing over the beads of your name. “When I first brought you here, I was so worried you would hate it. This place, it can be very ugly sometimes. Everyone is always shouting, everyone wants something from you, and there are cameras everywhere.”
He reached up, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his touch incredibly tender. “But you came in, and you changed it. You made it a nice place. Not just for me, but for the people outside too. I am very proud of you, Y/N.”
A lump formed in your throat, your eyes stinging with sudden, happy tears. You leaned down, pressing your lips to his, a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of absolute safety and love.
“I love being here with you, Max,” you whispered against his lips. “I’m not scared anymore.”
“Good,” he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he pulled your head back down for another kiss. “Because you have a lot of bracelets to make tonight, and I am not helping you with the letters again.”
You laughed, the sound bright and clear, filling the quiet room. Outside the soundproofed walls, the paddock was as loud, fast, and chaotic as ever, but inside, wrapped in the arms of the boy who had shown you how to navigate it all, you had never felt more at home.
