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oddlydescriptive · 30 days ago

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Reset, Chapter Eighteen

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The factory isn��t quiet, exactly.

Not yet.

It’s slipping into late afternoon and the sun’s already disappeared, casting long shadows across the mezzanine and throwing the aluminum banisters into soft relief. Most of the lights on the engineering floor are set to low power, but the glow of monitors still pulses behind frosted glass walls- slim bands of white-blue cutting through the dim like runway lights.

You walk slowly, tin tucked under one arm, the lid clinking gently against the edge with every step. There are only a few people still in, mostly aero guys- half-tired, half-hyper- working out final tweaks on next year’s car. The RB19 diagrams have been pinned up to the forefront of the workshop like some sacred relic. Everyone's itching for January. When the calendar flips, wind tunnel time restarts from period 6 to period 1, and this becomes a body. A beast.

You pass by Alessandro’s desk and pause.

He’s still there, hunched over a rendering, thumb pressed into the edge of his cheek like it’s the only thing keeping his skull upright. He doesn’t look up at first- just keeps scrolling, scrolling, the muscles in his jaw twitching subtly.

You knock lightly on the frame of the partition with your knuckle. “You’ll go cross-eyed.”

He glances up, startled- then softens. “You’re still here?”

You just shrug and lift the tin slightly. “I live here- what’s your excuse?”

That earns a faint smirk. “Trapped by love,” he mutters, gesturing lazily toward the screen. “Or masochism. Jury’s out.”

You step into the space and perch on the edge of his desk, knees barely brushing the underside of a pile of CAD printouts. You set the tin down between you and flick the latch open with your thumb.

The smell hits instantly- warm vanilla, browned butter, something like toasted sugar. Familiar. Comforting.

Alessandro tilts his head. “What’s this?”

“Cookies,” you say simply, nudging the tin his way. “Holiday tradition. Heart failure. Family recipe.”

He raises a skeptical brow but selects one anyway, carefully avoiding the ones with slightly cracked edges like it matters. He takes a bite. Chews once. Stops. And then- “Holy shit,” he says around a mouthful, sitting back like the chair suddenly reclined. “You made these? In our kitchen?” You nod. “They’re- ” He holds the half-eaten cookie up like it’s evidence. “They’re perfect.”

You grin. “My talents are many.”

He chuckles- low and genuine- and shifts his chair slightly to the side, angling toward you like this is just... normal. Like this is what people do on Christmas Eve. Talk. Share sugar. Pretend the world doesn’t feel quite so hollow without family in it.

Alessandro leans back in his chair, still chewing the last bite of cookie like it might buy him time to phrase the question gently. He wipes his fingers on a napkin, then eyes you sideways- not unkind, just curious.

“So,” he says, voice low, easy, “you’re really not doing anything tonight?”

You shrug, careful with the motion. “Not tonight, no.”

You mean it to sound casual. Light. Like it doesn’t matter. Like this- perched on the corner of a desk, surrounded by aero renderings and wiring diagrams, wearing two-day-old mascara and passing out cookies like a Girl Scout- is exactly what you had planned all along.

And maybe it is. In a way.

“But,” you continue, tapping the edge of the cookie tin with one nail, “Gavin’s picking me up tomorrow. Christmas dinner with his family.”

Alessandro’s expression flickers- surprise, then something warmer. “No shit?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m going to help pack up their place afterward, too.”

He frowns. “Pack up?”

Oh. He hadn’t heard yet. “They’re moving,” you say, smile tugging at your lips now, this time real. “Got the job. Officially. My race engineer next season.”

Alessandro lets out a low whistle, mouth parting. “Damn.” He shakes his head, impressed. “Good for him.”

“Good for me,” you correct. “I get to drag someone I actually like with me to Faenza.”

That part’s true, and easy to say. You are over the moon. Having Gavin- brilliant, intuitive, work-himself-to-the-bone Gavin- by your side next year is the first thing that’s made this whole F1 seat feel remotely survivable. He’s the one who came sprinting across the paddock at Zaandvoort like his life depended on it to make sure you got a second shot in the car last season. It’s not just comforting. It’s foundational. Like maybe you won’t have to claw your way through every corner of the paddock alone anymore.

But even now, even saying it, something flickers under your ribs. “I’m really lucky,” you add. Quietly. Like you’re trying to remind yourself.

And you are. You know that. You have a contract. You have plans for Christmas. Either is more than a lot of people get. Being wanted, welcomed, at someone’s table, even if you’ve never been there before.

It’s not nothing.

But it’s not home.

And now, with Alessandro looking at you like he’s not buying the cool-girl act you’ve been wearing all day, something small unravels. Just a little. He laughs under his breath, then quiets. “Still. Kind of a bummer, isn’t it? Spending Christmas Eve here?”

You pause. Look down at your hand, where your thumb is still idly rubbing at the side of the tupperware. Then you shrug again, like it’s nothing. “It’s fine. I like it here.” And you do. Mostly.

You like the quiet. The familiar hum of the engineering bay. The ghost of adrenaline soaked into every hallway and blueprint. You like the feeling of proximity to something important. You even like the way the factory floor smells like machine oil and ozone from the welder and burnt rubber.

But underneath that- underneath the thin shell of practical gratitude and easy deflection- is the ache.

The kind that sits behind your ribs and presses in when the day winds down and there’s nothing left to distract you. When you’re not watching sector deltas or coordinating logistics or elbow-deep in data. When you remember what this night usually is.

And now?

Now there’s a cookie tin. A paper napkin. And Alessandro, kind and warm and here- but not family. Not staying. You press your palms against the edge of the desk and tilt your head, offering him an easy smile. “Tomorrow’ll be good. I’m excited.”

And you are. Just not for tonight. You’re not going to cry about it.

It’s just Christmas, afterall.

Alessandro finishes the last bite of his cookie with a satisfied hum, then glances at the time. Something about the look makes your stomach drop a little, like you already know what he’s going to say.

He closes his laptop with a soft snap, tucks it away into his bag, and begins the quiet ritual of shutting down for the night. His coat goes on. His scarf. The leftover coffee in his mug is dumped unceremoniously into the trash can. You stay perched on the edge of his desk, still loosely holding the cookie tin, still pretending- successfully or not- that this doesn’t feel like something ending.

He pauses once everything’s packed and looks at you with that slight tilt of his head, the way these geeky types sometimes do when they’re not quite sure how to be kind without making it awkward.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice low, not patronizing.

You offer him your best smile- it’s not quite real but it’s good enough to fool people who don’t know you very well. “Yeah. ‘Course. Tell your wife I said merry Christmas.”

He raises a hand in a lazy wave as he heads toward the side door. “Wish me luck with the monster-in-laws.”

And then he’s gone.

Just… gone.

The door clicks closed and the space feels louder in the absence of his presence. You shift your weight, still sitting on the desk like maybe if you just don’t move, you won’t have to feel the silence creeping in.

Eventually, you slide off and make your way back into the corridor. The lighting is softer now- half the overheads switched off, casting everything in a faint, dusky amber. You find one of the composite techs by the copy machine- Kai, maybe? You think that’s his name. You’ve seen him around the floor, always head down, always polite. You offer him a cookie wordlessly, and he blinks at you, surprised, before murmuring a thank you and retreating to whatever last task he’s wrapping up. No conversation. No warmth. Just transactional.

One more person gone a few minutes later.

In the fabrication area, someone’s still fiddling with a mounting bracket. You don’t recognize his name, but you recognize the stress in his shoulders. You drop two cookies on the corner of his worktable as you pass and keep walking before he can say thank you.

You’re halfway back to the lobby before you realize you’re walking slower than before. Like every step closer to being alone is something heavy dragging behind you. A weight in your heart, not your body.

The factory is thinning. You hear it in the way your sneakers echo more now. Feel it in the way every automatic door you pass slides open with a sound that seems louder than it should. No phones, no chatter, no coffee machines to take the edge off the silence.

It’s Christmas Eve, and all around you, the walls feel like they’re expanding- one more person leaving, one more laugh fading, one more emotional mile placed between you and a house full of people yelling over each other to pass the gravy.

You imagine the noise. The chaos. The messy kitchen with five different casseroles warming. Someone defending the cookie tray from kids and husbands up to no good. The lights too low. The music too high. The fireplace screaming, the stove overworked, and the windows fogged.

Your mom’s garish wrapping paper. Your brother’s Christmas Coffee that will get you fucked up in a hurry. The smell of cloves and cinnamon and a brisket smoked for a half-day. Someone yelling from the porch that the dogs are in the garbage. Your dad yelling that it definitely isn’t his dog (it is, God bless you, Chili.) A kitchen too full. A living room too loud. A chair saved for you, even when you were halfway across the country.

Maybe they saved you one tonight. The thought kills you.

Upstairs, the dorm hallway is empty- just the low hum of the lights and the leftover smell from your cookies wafting from the communal kitchen. You shoulder your dorm door open with more force than needed, half out of habit, half out of wanting something to resist. Something tangible to shove this feeling into.

Twenty-two Chrismas Eve’s you’ve lived through- all loud, some with family arguments that got a little too personal, one in Florida, some you were too young to remember. But you’re certain you’ve never wanted one to be over so badly. One where you crawl into bed at -you check the time on your phone- 5:13 P.M. and pull the covers over your head and pray you sleep twelve hours through.

But there’s this little part of you- this nagging, stubborn part- that begs you to see it the whole way through. To do Christmas, even if it’s not doing you. Fuck this. You’re drinking. At the very least it’ll get you to sleep faster. You kick off your sneakers and move straight for the bed, crouching low to dig out the half-case of Cab Sauvs from home. Your mom had shipped them out the week after Thanksgiving, and they had only arrived last week.

Six bottles. A folded note still tucked inside the flaps, her handwriting looping like a ribbon:

“Figured you might want a little something to make it feel like home. We miss you. Love you, Sweetpea.” – Mom & Dad

You take them out one by one, lining them up along the narrow desk in a little private ritual.

14 Hands. A classic. Everyone in the state drinks it- restaurants, weddings, PTA fundraisers. A good workhorse bottle. Then Chateau St. Michelle - solid, if a bit over-represented. Your mom probably snagged both at Costco for 10 bucks a pop. Good filler bottles. Good “drinking by myself, but it’s not a special occasion” bottles. Nice.

Then a Prosser one, a boutique label you’ve never seen with a hand-drawn label of a painted hillside. You hold it for a moment longer. She must’ve asked someone at the shop for a recommendation. Or guessed. Either way, it’s hopeful.

Next, the hometown wine. Not the best, not by far. But it’s close to the house. You’ve driven past it a hundred times on your way to the feed store or the river. It smells like 21st birthdays and tastes like sneaking a bottle from the house for a 4th of July bonfire. Objectively, terrible. Emotionally, like nostalgia. God, was she trying to make you cry? You move on from it before you can let anything serious take the shape of homesickness.

And then- the Walla Walla wines. The good shit. Just two. One of them your favorite: a Dunham- deep, heavy, rich with pepper and cedar and something you can never quite name but always know. Your mom never forgets it. It’s the “if she’s having a bad day, open this” bottle. The “she’s on the podium, open this” bottle. The one she keeps on hand for you like some people keep Tylenol.

The last one is another gamble- something she thought you’d like. You probably will. You always do. Her success rate with you is almost alarmingly high.

You arrange them again in order of importance: not by quality, but by comfort. St Michelle on one end, the Dunham on the other. You let yourself sit back on your heels and stare at the row for a long moment. There’s no label that fixes the tight knot behind your breastbone. No vintage that unravels the part of you that wants to be home so badly it hurts. But it helps. A little. Enough.

You don’t let yourself linger in the silence too long. You follow the plan.

The plan you made last week, when it became obvious that no miracle was coming. No last-minute sponsor ticket, no discounted standby flight, no flash of divine intervention that would land you in your mother’s too-warm kitchen, being bullied into a third helping of sweet potato casserole.

You reach for your phone and call the pizza place down the road. It’s a little joint with a crispy crust you like, and they’re still open another three hours. You order a plain cheese- because if it’s going to be a sad Christmas, it might as well be consistent.

And then, you change. If nobody’s going to be around, you might as well dress for it.

You slide another bin out from under the bed, one hand already pulling your ponytail loose as you kneel down. Inside is your usual mess of comfort clothes. You dig through layers of leggings and old Dale Coyne joggers that you’d love to burn if they hadn’t splurged on Nike Pros- pushing past anything too thin or too new. You want something sturdy, but broken in. Soft. Comforting.

Your hand lands on a familiar gray fabric, and you freeze. Just for a second. Just long enough to decide they’re perfect.

You tug the sweatpants free from the bottom of the pile. They’re oversized, stupidly soft, and the lettering down the leg is cracked in the way only a thousand wash cycles can manage- Puerta Performance. You step into them without ceremony, pull them up over your hips. They’re long in the legs and slouch low at your waist, like they were made for someone nearly a foot taller who needed room for balls. They were.

The fact that they’re not technically yours- that they used to belong to your first boyfriend, Dominic- isn’t something you dwell on. It doesn’t mean anything. Not really. You’re still on good terms. Still text. Still sent as many Indy tickets as you could everytime the circus came to town. You don’t think about it too hard. They’ve been your go-to forever. Lived in every closet you’ve had since before Indy, before Japan, before Florida.

The first time you wore them was just after the worst night of your life. Pulled out of a drawer, carefully slid up each leg in a part of his family’s motorhome you had never been allowed to see, a quiet ‘lo siento’ whispered every time you flinched. Wrapped up like giving you the thickest pair of sweats he owned might fix it, somehow. Like clean fabric might make you forget the feeling of someone else’s blood on your firesuit. Might make you forget about cigarettes and police reports and county jails. Might keep you soft.

It didn’t.

But you didn’t give them back, and he never asked. Not when you wore them on the plane to Florida. Not when you shared pits and podiums and pizza binges. Not when you lived four steps away and shared the same laundry room. Not when you rolled them into the bottom of your bag for Japan and even if it hadn’t been said- he wasn’t going to see them again. He knew it. You knew it. But you were nineteen and a coward.

And racing doesn’t wait for you to grow up and be brave.

You grab a tank top from the back of your chair and pull it on, soft cotton clinging to your skin. Shrug on a zip-up a sponsor gave you that surely costs more than anything you’ve bought for yourself in awhile.

Welp.

It’s Christmas Eve. You’re dressed like a college student home for break, and the pizza place is still open for another few hours. That’s enough. It has to be, because it’s the best you’ve got. So you pocket your phone, your badge, and pick a bottle of wine.

The one from Prosser.

The Costco bottles don’t feel weighty enough. No doubt drinking a gas-station wine on the floor of your dorm would sum up your misery nicely, but it also feels like wallowing- like you’re trying to be miserable- and you don’t have the energy to be performative about it. You’re not wasting your favorite bottle, either. And the neighbor’s wine- the one from home, the one that tastes like dusk on the back porch and hobby races and post-branding bonfires- might make you cry.

Prosser it is.

The bottle dangles between your fingers, heavy, weighty, right as you descend the stairs and rummage through the break room for a corkscrew. There should be one in here. Surely. The factory hosts enough hushed dinners and churns out enough functioning alcoholics that surely- empty drawer. Empty drawer. Drawer of pens. Spoons. Forks. Random cables and wire nuts (?). Empty drawer. Carving knives.

You sigh. There’s probably one in storage upstairs, where they keep the linens and cups and knives and all the shiny shit they put out when a sponsor is here, but you’re not doing a lap around the factory. Fuck that.

You open the cable drawer and root around for the loose screw you spotted in your survey. No screwdriver. But you've got good grip strength and ran out of fucks to give about a week and half ago. You brace the bottle between your knees and twist it in. One turn. Two. You grind your palm against the screw until the threads disappear and the cork bulges slightly under the strain. Then, carefully- deliberately- you press the heel of your hand down, popping the cork inward with a quiet thup and watch it disappear straight into the red under the added weight of the screw.

That’ll do nicely.

You lift the bottle before you even make it back into the lobby, tilt it, and take a sip straight from the neck. Just a taste.

The wine hits your tongue full-bodied, dark, and velvety. Rich with tannin. A little dry, but not sharp. There’s something peppery at the back- almost smoky- and a soft heat that lingers just long enough to make you want more. Fuck, that’s good. Your mom did good work. Of course she did.

You exhale through your nose, swallow once more for good measure, then set the bottle down on Nicole’s place at the front desk. You hover a moment, fingers still wrapped around the neck of the bottle. Considering. The wine is good. Too good. Dangerous, even. It’s the kind that invites you to slide down the neck of the bottle without ever looking back- rich enough to pretend it’s dinner.

You take another sip.

Just one more.

You make a soft, involuntary noise- half sigh, half moan- and let the bottle tip back onto the counter with a gentle clink. Your mouth feels warm. Your chest, a little warmer. And for a second, you honestly consider it.

Fuck dinner.

The place is empty. The lighting’s dim. You could curl up in a pleather armchair, work your way through half the bottle, and let the quiet hum of the security system lull you into pretending this lobby is a living room. Pretend you’re not alone. That it’s not Christmas Eve. That the warmth in your stomach is joy, not just cabernet.

You are one- one- minor lapse in executive function away from sitting cross-legged in this sad little lobby, sipping on an empty stomach like a divorced woman on the worst Hallmark set ever built. And honestly? That doesn't sound awful.

You reach for the bottle again. Pause.

“No,” you mutter aloud, like you need to hear it to make it real. “Food first. Be a grown-up.”

You’re not sure whose voice you’re trying to channel, exactly. Maybe your mom. Maybe Gavin. Maybe your own better judgment, wherever she is these days. You drag your hand down your face, give yourself a little shake, and force a deep breath.

“It’ll be even better if I let it breathe,” you reason, already edging toward the door. “Tannin, air, science. All that shit. And I can drink more if I eat first.”

You tug your zip-up tighter, tuck your chin against the collar, and try to make yourself laugh at how pathetic this is. Your big Christmas Eve plan: wine, pizza, and… you open the drawer in the middle of the desk, suddenly remembering- oh, yeah. Coloring sheets. Wine, pizza, and coloring sheets stolen from the reception desk. Hell yeah. Real grown-up hours.

You pull out a stack of them, set them next to your bottle, and make a little stop motion with your hand like ‘stay’ as you back away. Like it all might just grow legs and leave you for Christmas Eve dinner like everyone else did tonight.

“Don’t go anywhere,” you tell it. Then you spin on your heel, hands shoved into your jacket pockets, and head for the door before you change your mind. The automatic doors part with a mechanical hiss, and you step out into the damp, too-warm December night.

Your shoes slap against the wet sidewalk as you cut through the parking lot, hands buried in your jacket pockets, head ducked low like you’re bracing for wind that never comes.

It’s only a five-minute walk, one you’ve done before, but tonight it feels quieter. More hollow. The only sound is the low hum of streetlights and your own footsteps, the distant thrum of tires passing over wet asphalt somewhere beyond the fence.

The pizza shop glows ahead- neon sign flickering a little above the front window, half-lit garlands limp against the glass. The bell over the door jingles when you step inside, startling you just a bit with how loud it sounds in the dead air.

Ghost town.

There are only two people here: a guy in the back by the oven, moving like he’s got music in his ears, and the kid up front- barely more than a teenager, all limbs and nerves, standing behind the counter like he just got hit by a freight train. His eyes go wide the second he sees you, mouth parting just enough to forget what it was doing before.

You clock it immediately. That locked-in, eyes-wide look. The nervous dart to your face, then away again, like he’s seen a ghost- or worse, recognized someone famous. Your stomach drops.

Fuck. Fuck, no. Not tonight.

But the onlny way out is through, so you pull your wallet from your pocket, step up to the counter. "Can I get a small cheese?"

There’s a beat of silence. Then- “Uh. Yeah. Yep. Of course. Totally.” He types one letter at a time, like you’re going to combust if he presses too fast. His eyes flick to your face, then to your collarbones, then- oh. Yeah.

It hits you mid-breath. Not recognition. He just thinks you’re hot.

You glance down and suddenly see it through his eyes. The tank top clinging like skin. The zipper of your jacket parted just enough to frame your bare collarbones. The waistband of your sweats slouching too low, the hem of your tank just high enough to flash your belly button if you shift wrong.

Jesus. He’s not a fan. He’s a teenage boy with a brain hardwired for boners. And somehow, hilariously, you’re not even annoyed. Not really. You fold your arms across your middle, lean your hip into the counter, and smile just enough to be polite. His ears go pink.

Bless his heart. Poor baby.

You slide your card across the counter. “Takeaway, please.”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, right,” he says, like he forgot you ordered anything at all. “The cheese.”

You raise an eyebrow as he slides the receipt toward you, still avoiding eye contact.

You sit, drop onto the hard bench by the window, stretching your legs out with a casual sprawl. The kind that says yes, I know you're looking. He lingers by the counter, pretending to check something on the till. Then straightens up, clears his throat like he’s winding up for a high dive. “So... you’re, um. American, yeah?” You glance up. He flushes immediately. Face and neck. Like you just caught him naked. “I just- the accent and all that-”

“Yeah,” you say. You could help him out a little. Throw him a bone, a detail. A story. But why, when he’s doing such a good job of chewing on his own foot already?

“Oh. Cool. That’s- cool.”

You let the silence stretch long enough that he fidgets, then fold your arms loosely over your stomach. Honestly, it’s sweet. He’s trying. Not in a creepy way. Just in that innocent, starry-eyed, holy-shit kind of way. It’s been a while since someone spoke to you without knowing who you are. Without a camera in their hand. Without an angle.

He shifts from foot to foot. “You here on holiday, or- ?”

“I live here,” you say, gently. “Work brought me over.”

“Oh. Right. That’s cool.” He pauses, bites the inside of his cheek. “Do you like it?”

You hum. “Sometimes.”

Another beat. He glances toward the back- his coworker still hasn’t come out. He wets his lips. "It’s just that- uh, sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but… just didn’t expect someone like you to walk in tonight.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Someone like me?”

He makes a strangled sound. “No- I mean- I just meant- uh, you look really- ” He aborts the sentence entirely.

You smile. Warm. Kind. “Don’t worry. I know what you meant.”

He exhales, visibly relieved. “Right. Cool.” You go back to staring out the window, hiding your grin behind a hand. Poor kid.

The oven guy finally notices the hold-up at the counter and ambles up, one earbud still in, balancing your pizza box on his palm like it’s piping hot treasure. He doesn’t even look at the kid- just thrusts the box forward and deadpans, “Cheese to go.” The kid takes it with all the coordination of someone handed a live grenade.

And then the older guy’s eyes land on you. There’s a pause. A flick of recognition, maybe. His brow furrows, and he pops the earbud out like he’s going to ask- Are you- ?

But you’re faster. Not hurried, just precise. “Thanks. Happy Christmas,” you say smoothly, plucking the box from the teenager with a sly little grin- one that tugs at the corner of your mouth like you’re in on the best kind of secret.

The man’s mouth opens, a syllable dangling on the edge. You’re already pushing the door open. The bell above jingles again.

Gone.

You’re halfway down the block before you let the smile unfurl into something wider, nearly a laugh as the warmth of it creeps into your shoulders, makes you walk a little taller. There’s a buzz in your veins that has nothing to do with wine or sugar. It’s the kind of hit you’ve always chased, even off-track- leaving people stunned. Scrambling. Remembering.

You don’t necessarily love people knowing who you are all the time. It’s happening more and more. You do, however, love being unforgettable. And they don’t need to know your name for that kid to go back to class after the holidays and brag about the hot older girl that came in on Christmas Eve and totally, trust me bro, definitely, was flirting with him. They don’t need to know your name to be the “Hey, remember that one girl?”

You press your hand flat against the warm cardboard, your dinner tucked under your arm, and grin like you’ve just stolen something. You’re still alone. But you’ve got a pizza, a bottle of wine, and a little giggle out of tonight. That’s one more thing than you planned on getting, and at least your mom won’t kick your ass for drinking before dinner.

__________________________________________________________________

You’re halfway through your pizza, the crust gone soft in its own warmth, the grease shining faintly. Your wine glass sits nearby- half full now, smudged at the rim, little legs of cabernet curling down the sides like the memory of movement. The Prosser bottle rests where you left it, screw still sunk inside, cork bobbing like a ghost ship on deep red seas.

And you? Well, you made a plan. You’re sticking to it. You’re coloring.

Spa-Francorchamps, lines clean and sharp across printer paper, spread flat in front of you. You’ve got your elbows on the table, one foot tucked beneath you, the other bouncing gently to the quiet rhythm in your head. A green crayon- because apparently that’s what you decided La Source should be- is pinched lightly between your fingers. Absentminded. Almost dreamy.

You don’t really know why you picked Spa. Maybe because it was the first time it felt real. Not just racing- Formula 1. Your name on the time board, not as a curiosity or a backup, but as a driver. Maybe that’s why.

Or maybe you just liked the way the lines curved. Spa always felt like a track someone painted by hand. A little mythical. A little special, even back when you were running it on an Xbox wheel on Forza.

You exhale slow, the kind of breath that rolls out in waves when your chest has been too tight for too long. Days, at least, you think. Maybe weeks, maybe years, but what does it matter. You’re a little warm with wine. You’d shed the jacket a while ago- got too warm, too relaxed to care about anything but comfort.

It’s okay. It’s not home. Not the Christmas Eve you grew up on- no mess of cousins, no arguments over who gets the biggest piece of dark meat, no dogs begging for scraps. The lights in the factory lobby are soft, glowing just enough to keep the dark at bay, and outside the windows it’s still too warm, still too cloudy. No snow. No magic.

But there’s something here. Full belly. Soft buzz. Familiar colors filling familiar corners of a track you once tamed. Will get to tame again. You’re not happy. But you are okay. You tell it to yourself everytime you start losing focus on your sheet- start getting sad. This is okay. I’m okay.

The television on the far wall glows quietly, casting flashes of old race footage across the lobby tiles. It’s a rerun- Sebastian Vettel, 2012, Brazil. One of your favorites. You’d pulled it up an hour ago, more for company than focus. You haven’t been watching closely. The glass in your hand is far more interesting, its wine dark and full-bodied, swirling slightly each time you lift it. But even half-listening, you know exactly where he is in the race. The crash. The comeback. The wet track and that championship point hanging by a thread.

It’s not an underdog story, not really. He was always going to win. But it’s still a good story. Great driving. A little desperate, a little reckless, a little real. You like that. Under the feed, the place hums with a soft, sleepy quiet- the kind that only settles over spaces meant for chaos, now still. A little comforting. A little unnerving, like an empty school. Which is why, in retrospect- despite all of your wallowing and wishing for someone to talk to- your reaction to the sound of the side door opening is panic.

Crayon-clenching, stomach-dropping panic. Because who the fuck is clocking into work at 8:48 P.M. on Christmas Eve? The sound itself isn’t loud or startling- just the gentle hiss of hydraulics and a soft metallic click as the latch catches- but it might as well be a fucking gunshot for the way it spikes your pulse.

You hold your breath. Your mind starts cataloging possibilities. Engineer? Cleaning staff? Maybe someone forgot a phone, a wallet, something dumb and harmless. You want it to be that. You need it to be that. But there’s a steady pace to the walk- unhurried, deliberate- and that feels… wrong. Like whoever it is isn’t in a hurry. Or confused. Or looking. Like they know where they’re going, and it’s not to the lab or the offices or the factory floor.

They’re coming here.

Shit.

Your body stays still- but something deep in your chest begins to thrash. Your wine glass is half-full and far from reach. The pizza box is open. The TV is still playing. There’s no chance in hell this place looks empty now. You’ve left a breadcrumb trail of you across every surface- the crayons, the jacket slung over the chair, the bottle open beside your glass. It’s clear someone’s here. Someone walking in wouldn’t even have to look twice. They’d know.

You set your crayon down. Gently. Quietly. Stand. Not fast. Not loud. But steady. Deliberate. The kind of movement that says you will not be caught sitting down if this goes sideways. The muscles in your thighs brace like you're waiting for lights out, your spine tense, jaw locked. You angle your body halfway toward the hallway, halfway toward the front doors. Measuring. Calculating.

The lobby feels different now- smaller, tighter. All the soft comforts from a few minutes ago now sharpened into weak points. You clock the exits, your options. The stairs up to your room are a no-go. Nowhere to go from there. A trap. The other hallway is a blind corner. You don’t like blind corners. The main doors are just behind you- locked from the outside, but open from inside- your best plan if you need it. You’ve been running sprints like a madman for two months. You like your odds in a race more than a fight.

Because you’re alone. And not in the “I miss my family and it’s Christmas,” way that had you feeling sorry for yourself two breaths ago. You’re alone in the way a girl is when it’s dark and quiet and shadows are moving and sounds are growing too long and there is nobody to hear you.

And not just alone. Not just a girl by herself. You’re a girl by herself with a press badge, a Wikipedia page, and a face that’s been plastered across TikTok and tabloid thumbnails since Spa. Your stomach twists. Not with fear, not exactly. Just that primal unease. That tiny ripple in your gut that whispers you might not be safe. Not yet. Not until you know.

The footsteps pause. Start again. Louder now. Closer. You flick your eyes toward the hallway entrance just as a shadow rounds the corner- broad, familiar.

Fuck. Of course.You don’t ask why. You don’t ask how. Of fucking course. You’d recognize that bastard’s walk anywhere. But even still- just before he comes into full view- your heart’s still kicking against your ribs like maybe, maybe, this is someone else. Maybe this is a stranger. A threat. A reason to run. Because that might’ve been easier than what you’re about to deal with.

It would’ve been easier than Max.

And then he’s there.

And then he stops.

And then he stares.

And then he opens his stupid fucking mouth. He pauses when he sees you, his sharp blue eyes scanning the scene. His lips twitch, somewhere between a smirk and a sneer. “This is just sad,” he says, breaking the silence. You roll your eyes hard enough to see the back of your skull, unclench your fists, and flop back down in your chair. Pick your crayon up. Starting grinding it into the curve of Eau Rouge hard enough you feel it in your forearm.

But he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for something worth his time. You glance up at him, unimpressed, and then back at your coloring page. “‘M not judging your Christmas. Don’t judge mine.”

Max shrugs, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, stepping farther into the room. “What, family wouldn’t take you back?”

Your head snaps up this time, eyes narrowing at him. Oh, fuck you, buddy. You sit straighter now, crayon still in hand but forgotten, the words hitting bone. “Can you not be an asshole for five seconds?” you snap, your voice biting. “As my Christmas present?”

You just… stare at him. Not blinking. Not breathing, really. Just still- elbows on the table, fingers wrapped around the crayon like you’re deciding whether to snap it in half. Fuck off is carved into every inch of your posture. You’re not scared of him. Never have been. But you are waiting for the punchline. For the dig. For the sick little twist of the knife he always finds a way to deliver.

Because this is what he does. He finds your bruises and presses- methodically, joyfully, like he’s testing for weakness. So you sit there and dare him. Go on. Say it. Say whatever shitty thing you came all the way here to say.

You’re convinced he’s here for that reason alone.

No way this is a coincidence. He detoured here. You don’t know what brought him to this town, to this country, tonight. Some liquor-soaked dinner with a friend or a date or your boss. You don’t care. You wouldn’t put it past him to fly here specifically to fuck with you. To blow tens of thousands of dollars on runway fees and expend a small country’s carbon emissions to see if he can make you cry on Christmas.

And he must know he’s got you dead to rights. Alone, sad, half-drunk, coloring like a six-year-old while the rest of the world wraps gifts and pulls casseroles from ovens. He has every tool he needs to tear you apart.

But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t dig. He just stands there.

Still. Quiet. Less smirking now. Less postured. Not softer, exactly- but off. Like a dog that forgot how to bark. You narrow your eyes. He’s never backed off before. Not once. Which means it’s not kindness. It’s not mercy. It’s… something else.There’s something about his face, his stance, that doesn’t track. He’s dressed like he’s been out- jacket zipped up, hair windblown, keys still in one hand- but he looks… untethered. Like knowing your dog is sick because it quit chewing on the rug.

You can’t place it, but you feel it. It buzzes against your skin like static. Makes your shoulders itch. He looks like someone who wants to fuck with you- for fun, for sport, for whatever twisted reason this asshole does anything- but can’t quite bring himself to commit.

His head tips a fraction, mouth parted like he almost has something ready- some snide little insult queued up and waiting- but it dies before it makes it to air.

That’s what’s getting you. Not the fact that he’s here, not even what he said. But the stillness. The hesitation. The flicker of restraint from the one person who never holds back with you. And not because he suddenly grew a conscience- don’t be stupid- but because something’s off.

Why the fuck are you here, Max?

He shifts his weight slightly, shoulders still hunched like he’s not sure if he’s staying. Then, finally, he speaks. “Depends,” he says, voice low and flat. “What did you get me?” It’s not biting. Not sharp. Not kind, either. Just… tired. Dry. A flicker of something almost like humor, buried beneath all that brooding.

You squint up at him, a little disoriented from waiting for the strike that still hasn’t quite come. For him to call you sad or pathetic or make fun of you drinking by yourself at work on Christmas. Instead you got… a joke, maybe? Something you’re not sure how to respond to without the mediation of Danny’s presence and the social lubricant of four drinks.

It comes out before you really mean it to. “What do you want?” It’s not soft, but not jagged, either. Not aggressive. Your tone matches his in that strange middle ground between I don’t like you and you haven’t pissed me off (yet). A little genuine curiosity, because you have no idea what someone like him would ask for from someone like you, even as a joke.

Max doesn’t answer, not out loud. Just stands there for another beat, head tilted slightly. His eyes flick toward the wine glass sitting next to your crayons, still half-full. He tips his chin in its direction- barely a nod. A silent ask, like it costs too much pride to say the words.

You blink at him. Seriously? But you’re still too off-balance to fight about something as petty as a half glass of cab. You don’t say anything, don’t move your arm, just give the subtlest flick of your fingers in his direction. A silent go ahead.

He takes it.

Fingers wrap around the glass, and for a moment he just frowns into it like he’s trying to remember how this works. Then he sips. Leans his hip against the edge of the table, the glass still in hand, posture loose but guarded. He doesn’t make a comment about the wine. Doesn’t praise it or sneer at it or ask where it’s from. Just drinks it. And for one, strange moment, it registers that this is the most normal he’s ever looked near you.

You go back to your coloring. Or try to. The crayon scrapes across the page, dragging red wax into the curves, about halfway done, now. You can feel him beside you without looking. A heat source. A glitch in your field of vision. The weight of his silence presses into your thoughts harder than any insult would have.

He’s not saying anything.

Not breathing too loud. Not hovering. Not staring at you, at least not that you can tell. But he’s there, and it throws off the whole balance of the room. You shift slightly in your chair, cross one leg under the other, then switch back again, like rearranging yourself might change the physics of the moment. Trying to pretend he isn’t messing with your nervous system just by existing that close to your shoulder.

You adjust your grip. Try again.

Still there.

You can feel him, the way you’d feel someone standing behind you in an empty stairwell- just close enough to make every hair on your body pay attention. Just close enough to ruin the quiet.

“Sit down,” you mutter, finally. Your eyes stay fixed on the page, but the edge in your voice sharpens slightly. “You standing there is weird as fuck.”

Max doesn’t move for a second. Then, without a word, he drags the nearest chair out and drops into it, spine still stiff, still in that fight-or-flight posture like he’s not convinced he won’t bolt at any second. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you. Neither of you speak.

And it’s okay like that, for a minute. Still a little odd. The quiet stretches a little too long. Your eyes flick to the wine bottle- closer to him now than to you. Your glass, too. Still in his hand.

You want another sip. You hesitate. You could ask. Or not. Go get another glass form the kitchen. Could leave it alone, pretend you don’t care, let the silence keep you guarded. But your mouth is dry, and the heat in your chest has begun to taper off. The wine had helped. Asking implies he can tell you no. Getting up feels like…defeat. Acceptance, that he’s here, in this space too, not just borrowing it.

You sigh, just a little, and stick your hand out without looking. Not a word. Not a dramatic gesture. Just palm-up, fingers loose, expectant.

He understands.

The stem clicks lightly between your fingers as he passes it over, no hesitation, no snark. You pause your coloring- no sense risking red wine on Eau Rouge- and bring the glass to your lips. One sip. Then another. It’s even better now. Breathing has softened the tannins, brought out the heat, the pepper. A little richer, rounder. You hum quietly through your nose, pleased, and pass it back to him without ceremony.

No eye contact. No acknowledgment. Just a transaction.

Your fingers graze his as you release it. Neither of you flinch. You pick your crayon back up.

But then your mind starts drifting- too much space between the words in your head, too much wine swirling around the little christmas-themed aches in your chest- so you flip through your stack of printed tracks, trying to re-anchor yourself. Find your next project.

Zandvoort catches your eye. You pause. Twisting and narrow and brutal, like a rollercoaster track trying to bite you back. You don’t speak- just slide it across the table, casual, like you’re handing someone a menu.

Here. Maybe it’ll be less weird if he has something to do.

You go back to your own sheet.

For a while, he doesn’t move. He just sips from the glass. Refills it. Sips again. Every so often, you can feel him glance sideways, but he says nothing. The silence isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s… holding. Eventually, he lets out the smallest huff of disbelief under his breath. Not quite a laugh. More like an incredulous exhale. The kind that says I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this without needing to say it aloud.

And then- finally- he leans forward and grabs a crayon. Not a blue or a red or an orange. A green one. Not what you would have expected him to go for. It’s odd, realizing you had an expectation of what his crayon preference might be. A thought you hadn’t realized you ever held until you see him contradicting your assumption in real time.

He starts shading in the banking at Turn 3 with the careful irritation of someone trying very hard not to feel dumb. You glance sideways. Just a peek. Casual. Or at least, you hope it looks that way.

Max is hunched forward slightly, brow furrowed in concentration as he drags a streak of green along one of the banked curves. His hand moves with that same ridiculous precision he brings to the sim lab. As if coloring were a job. As if the lines matter. As if anyone, anywhere, will ever see it.

And then it hits you. He’s Max fucking Verstappen.

World Champion. Multi-millionaire. Face on posters in bedrooms. Invited to galas and paddock clubs and palaces, probably. A guy with more options than most people have in a lifetime.

And he’s here. With you. In the factory lobby. On Christmas Eve. Coloring.

You blink once, slowly, watching the way his jaw flexes, the way the tendon near his temple tics faintly. He’s not smug. Not mocking. Not baiting you for a reaction. He’s just… here. Quiet. Tense. A little hunched. Like he can’t quite relax, but can’t quite leave either.

And suddenly, you realize. You thought he was here to be an asshole. He’s not. If he was, he’d have already done it. He’d have made a spectacle of it. He had all the right ammunition. Would’ve raked your night over the coals and seasoned it with whatever creative cruelty he had left in his back pocket.

But he hasn’t. He’s here. Drinking your wine. Not talking. Not smirking. Not being nice, exactly. But not being Max. And that’s what really makes it click. Because Max Verstappen doesn’t sit next to people he loathes and behave. Max Verstappen doesn’t enter a truce without reason. And if he’s not here to win something or prove something…

Then he must be here because this is the best he’s got.

You were so consumed with your own self-pity- your own quiet ache of missing cornbread and brisket and four kinds of potatoes- that it never occurred to you how pathetic this must be for him. To walk through a side door and settle into this very specific quiet. To tolerate you, of all people.

That whether he ended up here by accident or design, this- this- was the best idea he had for Christmas Eve. That maybe the reason he hasn’t picked a fight is because he can’t quite stomach the energy it takes to be cruel. Not tonight.

And the more you think about it, the worse it gets.

Because it would take a crisis- a full collapse- for Max to willingly enter a truce with you. To share a wine glass and color quietly beside you without barbs or blame. And, if you’re honest, it took the same to get you here too.

Oh, God.

You’re both sad.

Oh, God.

You don’t know what to do with the realization. The quiet, slow-spreading understanding that he’s not just here- he’s here, with no agenda and nowhere better to be. That he might be lonelier than you are.

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. Of course he has emotions. Of course he gets sad. He’s a person. With a brain and a heart and whatever arrangement of nerves make up the part of you that aches when the holidays feel too soft for how fucking hard your life is.

You know this. Logically.

But logic has never stood a chance against the Max Verstappen you’ve been at war with. The Max Verstappen you’ve had to armor up against for months now. You’ve spent so long flattening him into something sharp and unpleasant- an annoyance, a jackass, a wall- that it’s unnerving to see him as anything else. To have your field of vision adjust, ever so slightly, until the picture doesn’t quite match what it used to.

You shift in your seat, uncomfortable.

Because now the air is heavier. Not tense, not hostile, but full. Full of something you don’t know how to name. Not sympathy. Not friendship. But something. Something you don’t want to hold, but can’t quite set down. Emotional discomfort prickles across your arms like static.

God.

Should you say something?

You hate this part. The should I say something part. The emotional fog of maybe he’s sad and maybe I should care- but if you care, what does that make this? What does that make you?

You hate how quiet it is. How intimate this feels for two people who don’t even like each other. You hate that the part of your brain responsible for small talk is suddenly clanging like a fire alarm.

It’s probably just you, just your stupid need to make things smooth, and comfortable, and bearable for the world around you- the part that makes you so good at marketing and so natural with difficult sponsors- but you swear the air is starting to feel humid with unsaid things. Dense with meaning you don’t want to sift through. Your fingers shift on the crayon. Too tight. Too aware. You let out a slow breath through your nose and glance sideways again.

He’s leaning forward now, elbow braced on the table, one knee bouncing faintly beneath it. His head is slightly tilted, entirely locked into his picture. He hasn’t looked at you since you handed him the page. Hasn’t spoken since that dry, brittle joke. He’s not even trying to perform. Not for you. Not for anyone. Just coloring. Quiet.

And it’s so much worse than if he’d come in guns blazing.

Your tongue presses against the roof of your mouth. You swallow. Hard. Then- reluctantly- you ask, “...Did you go to Christian’s?” It slips out too casually. Too flat. It’s not warm. Not really kind. But it’s something.

Max freezes. Not dramatically- just a subtle pause. The faint bounce of his knee stills. The crayon stills. Even his breathing, maybe. He looks at you with the vaguest expression of suspicion, like you just spoke to a ghost and he’s not sure he saw it too.

You regret it immediately.

Why the fuck did you say anything? You’ve cracked the silence open like an egg on concrete- messy, irreversible- and now he’s going to shut down or lash out or-

“Yes,” he says. Simple. Crisp. He drops his gaze back to the page, and for a second, you think that’s the end of it. Just a meaningless affirmative. Nothing else offered. But then-

“I stopped to say hello. On my way to…” His voice trails off, but the sentence stays hanging in the air. Unfinished.

On his way to what? Where? Why doesn’t he want to go? You could ask. You're not going to.

Because it’s weird enough already. Because his version of Christmas includes dropping by Christian Horner’s house on the way to some unknown destination, and the idea that he can just stop in on his team principal on the way to Belgium- or Monaco, or wherever he’s dodging from- is such a bizarre, untouchable kind of strange that it makes your brain fog over. That’s not your world. Not your life.

And for a moment, it seems like that really is it- that your one attempt at human interaction has evaporated like breath on cold glass. Until Max- awkwardly, like it physically costs him something- clears his throat.

“Does your family…” He stops. Tries again. “Do they do anything?”

You blink. You weren’t expecting a return volley. You glance at him, but he’s still not looking your way- just dragging his crayon along the inside edge of a turn like it’s the most natural thing in the world to sit in an F1 factory on Christmas Eve and ask you personal questions with no inflection in his voice whatsoever.

You shrug. “Yeah.” You reach for the wine glass- and wrap your fingers around the stem like you need the excuse. Take a long sip. Then another. “They do the whole thing,” you add after a beat, voice casual enough to pass.

You stop there.

There’s more, obviously- the way your dad plays the piano while everyone eats dessert on the couch, the seventeen half-eaten dishes, the smell of cinnamon and fried food and hairspray- but talking about it out loud feels like scraping skin over gravel. So you don’t. You just take another sip and let the ache settle quiet behind your ribs.

You sit back in your chair and roll the stem of the glass between your fingers. “What about you?” you ask, then immediately regret it. Because what about him?

Like the crayon, you realize you don’t know. Not really. You’ve never pictured him as a child in pajamas or holding a plate of food or doing anything human at all, really- just teeth bared in a helmet, champagne in hand. You can’t imagine Max Verstappen opening presents.

But you’ve asked now, even if you wished you hadn’t. And he wishes you hadn’t asked either. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even hesitate before pointedly not answering. His jaw flexes once, sharp and silent, and he shifts in his chair like the question itched him beneath the skin. Then he flicks his fingers toward the glass in your hand- a silent, impatient little gesture. Give it.

Wine. Okay. You can do that.

You give it without a word, watching as he lifts it from your grasp, barely glancing down. He tips the glass up to his mouth like it might save him from the question still hanging in the air. Then he frowns. Swirls the glass. Tilts it again. Nothing.

He sets it down with a dull clink and looks at the bottle. “Vur sad little Christmas,” he mutters, his accent thicker now, vowels spreading like melting butter, “is out of fuel.”

You blink. That wasn’t quite English. Not really. Your lips twitch, involuntarily. His tone is dry, a touch sardonic- but soft at the edges. Something about the way he says it, the way the words drag a little at the end, immediately trips your radar.

Because it’s not fuel. Not the way he says it. It’s fuhl. And Christmas comes out almost like Krihsmess. The vowels stretch. The consonants roll in that particular, sleepy way that belongs to cloudy, brick-stacked cities and tired boys from the flat bits of Europe.

Your lips twitch. You bite the inside of your cheek. Because fuck, he’s getting drunk. The wine, and whatever else he had before he got here, is doing its job.

It’s not obvious if you’re not looking for it. His face is still all sharp control. But his voice? That’s telling on him. Whispering things he would never willingly give away. Every word out of his mouth is sliding, lazy around the edges, slipping back into a dialect you know he tries hard not to let surface. You’ve heard it before, buried beneath interviews, in old Red Bull media days when you tracked his career like a sport in itself. But never like this.

You press your knuckles to your mouth, fighting the smile that wants to bloom there. Not because it’s funny. But because you know this. That quiet betrayal. That precise moment when the warmth hits and you stop sounding like the version of yourself you were trained to be- and start sounding like the people who raised you. Like the streets you came from. Like the walls you grew up inside.

You know that moment intimately. You’ve lived it.

He catches the corner of your reaction and narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Nothin’,” you say quickly, voice a little too high.

Max’s eyes narrow like he’s squinting into sun glare. Defensive. Immediate. Suspicious in that prickly, unyielding way he gets when he thinks he’s being made fun of. Which- fair. “What?” he demands again, clipped.

“Nothin’,” you say, too fast. You press your lips together tighter. Fight the upward tug of your mouth with everything you’ve got. But your cheeks are already warm, your eyes glittering with the effort of keeping it down.

He tilts his head. “You’re laughing at me.”

You shake your head. Absolutely lying. He knows it. You know he knows it. Max stares, eyes narrow and sharp and blue, and then glances down at the wine glass in his hand like maybe he can blame this on the alcohol and walk away before he has to deal with whatever the hell this is.

You huff out a breath and say it, fast and low. “Your accent.” His face doesn’t change. Doesn’t twitch. But something flickers behind his eyes. You wince, immediately raising your hands in surrender. “Not in a mean way,” you rush to add. “It’s just- god, it’s thick all of a sudden. Like, lowlands-thick. Like… if Coulthard was Dutch. ”

Max’s eyes narrow so hard you swear you can hear it. “You’re one to talk,” he fires back, tone laced in dry amusement. “You sound like a fucking cowboy.”

Your mouth drops open.

“I do not- ” you start to argue. Stop. Replay it in your head. That last word. Not. Long and flat and dragging through the dirt like you’re from East Texas. You clamp a hand over your mouth, eyes wide. “Oh my god.” Max doesn’t laugh- not fully. But his lips twitch. His shoulders loosen. He tips his head slightly, as if he’s finally caught you with your own pants down. You shake your head, half-horrified. “I sound like my mom.”

He smirks. “It’s bad.” You groan and drop your forehead to the table. And that’s when it happens. The laugh. Small. Dry. Incredulous.

Max fucking Verstappen laughs.

It’s barely more than a huff of breath, a sound pushed through his nose, but you feel it like a power outage- every light inside you flickering with surprise. Because it’s not cruel. Not smug. Not weaponized like usual. It’s quiet and human and stunned by itself, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

You peek up at him from under your arm.

He looks equally appalled.

“I need more wine,” you announce, abrupt. You snatch the empty bottle and your glass with one hand, gathering up your crayon and coloring sheets with the other. Your movements are a little too fast, a little too loud, like maybe if you just start talking and rustling and walking quickly enough, you can outrun the awful knowledge that you just shared an honest-to-god laugh with Max fucking Verstappen.

It’s not phrased like an invitation. Not even close.

“Got more upstairs,” you mumble. Just a statement. Nothing more.

Maybe you meant to come right back down. Maybe you were just going to grab the bottle and sit in the hall with your shame for a few minutes before rejoining your sad little coloring table and staring at Eau Rouge until you forgot how human he sounded. That was the plan. Sort of.

And then you hear it. Footsteps. Behind you. You don’t look back. You don’t need to. That presence- that shadow moving just a beat behind your own- is unmistakable now. You hear the faint creak of the stairwell railing, feel the draft shift as he follows you up the narrow stairs, and suddenly your spine goes rigid.

Fuck.

This isn’t a bar. This isn’t a team dinner or a hotel suite where everyone’s pretending to be civil for PR. This is your room. Your tiny room. You slow, almost hesitate at the top of the stairs. There’s no grand entry. No threshold to stand behind and reconsider. Just one step and then you're in- a windowless box with a bed and a desk and a shelf and exactly two square feet of walking space between them.

Your mouth is dry.

You glance back at him for the first time since leaving the lobby, and Max- idiot- just stands there like this is normal. Like this isn’t the strangest, most intimate possible turn of events for two people who routinely threaten to strangle each other telepathically.

He doesn’t even look amused anymore. Just… there.

You look away. “It’s a mess, you don’t have to-” you mutter, instantly regretting it, like maybe if you hadn’t said anything, he wouldn’t notice. Your dorm was never meant for company, certainly not Max Verstappen. The bed’s unmade- covers kicked to one side. A half-folded pile of laundry has colonized your only armchair, still topped with the towel you used earlier and forgot to hang. The bins under your bed are still askew from when you went rooting through them like an animal before you left to pick up your pizza.

But he’s already stepped in. And now it’s real. Now he’s inside. The room is warm. The lights are low. You don’t even look at him. Just cross to the desk, crouch, and pull the cardboard wine box off the floor. Five bottles left.

Costco bottles are out, immediately. You’re not serving Max Verstappen $10 wine, even if it’s better than the price lets on. Even if he deserves it. He probably bathes in bottles older than you on a weekly basis. Not the neighbors, either. Too nostalgic. Too loaded. And if you're honest, it's not that good- you just like the way it tastes like a memory. That just leaves the Walla Walla ones- the Dunham, your favorite- and the wildcard your mom picked. It should be fine. Great, even, if the one you just drank is anything to go by. But you don’t know for sure, and you can’t deal with the idea of Max staring down his nose at something thin or sharp or vinegary if it’s one of those bottles your mom pity-bought because she was three tasting deep and honey, they were just so nice. She’s known to do it.

Dunham it is. You would’ve drank it first if you had felt more like celebrating and less like throwing a tantrum, less sad, less melancholy, less fucking alone- but- you’re not… alone now, are you? It’s not exactly company, but technically, yeah. You’re not alone. Dunham it is.

You pull the Dunham bottle from its slot like it’s a sacred object, cradling it in one hand while you open your desk drawer with the other. There's a smattering of office supplies in there- half-dried pens, a stapler, a wad of post-its with tire pressure notes on them- but mostly it’s tools. Not a full kit, nothing impressive. You’d had to leave all your proper gear in America, but you’ve scavenged enough since landing here. Tool reps. The mechanics. A trip to Machine Mart or two. Just enough to make things work.

You pick through the drawer until you find what you need: a fat screw, a pair of dikes, and your favorite little stubby wrench. It’s not the ideal method, but it works. Has worked. You line the screw up with practiced fingers, hold the bottle steady, and drive it into the cork with mechanical precision.

Different strategy this time. Instead of pushing the cork all the way through, you wedge the base of the bottle between your thighs, grab the screw with the dikes, and heft the wrench in your other hand- ready to tap it out, slow and controlled.

You're just winding up when Max’s voice cuts through the room. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You glance over, not breaking your hold. “Opening the wine.”

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “With a wrench?”

“Unless you’re packing a corkscrew in those skinny jeans, Verstappen,” you deadpan, shifting your grip, “this is the show.”

A beat passes. Then, Max, voice flat- “This is not a normal show.”

You grin- just a little, teeth sharp with amusement as you raise the wrench. “Watch and learn, bucko.” And you give the first gentle tap. Max, blessedly, shuts the fuck up. You brace your thighs tighter, hold the bottle steady, and give the cork three taps.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound is soft, patient. Controlled.

On the third, the cork slides free with a gentle pop- clean, unshredded, not a drop of wine spilled. You set the wrench aside like a finishing move and lift the bottle by the neck with an almost casual flourish, like there, done. Max says nothing.

But he’s watching you the way he sometimes watches a pit crew in the American circuits duct-tape a bumper back onto a stock car and send it screaming back onto the oval- like it offends every ounce of his high-tech, finely tuned, aero-obsessed sensibilities… but some deeply buried, primitive part of him respects the hell out of it anyway.

Because that was kind of impressive. Degenerate. But impressive.

He's grown up rich. Wealthy. Tucked neatly into a world where wine bottles are opened with carbon-handled keys or one of those sleek, pressurized pin systems used on the truly rare vintages. Certainly never a bottle pinched between someone’s thighs and hammered open with a wrench like it was a fucking Jiffy-Lube oil change.

You pass him the glass without ceremony, barely looking up. The pour’s generous- generous enough to signal that you might as well stay awhile. He takes it, careful not to brush your fingers, and stays exactly where he is- two steps inside the doorway, like he’s worried the floor might fall out if he moves any farther.

He’s just holding the wine, taking a sip, looking around with those same tired eyes. Like he’s not in Max Verstappen’s brain right now. Like he’s just a guy, in a sad little room, on a sad little holiday, following the only other miserable person in the building without thinking too hard about why.

You’re not sure what the etiquette is here. You don’t know what this is. The silence between you isn’t hostile anymore, but it’s not exactly warm either. Just quiet. A little awkward. Like both of you forgot how to be people for a second. The smart thing would be to head back down to the lobby. More neutral. More space. Less... this.

But this is your space, shitty as it is. Familiar, functional, lived-in in the way a hotel room never really is. You know how the light hits the floor in the morning, how the baseboard heater hums when it kicks on. You feel safe here. Even with him.

So you don’t move.

You lean forward instead, grabbing the cup of crayons and a fresh coloring sheet from the stack, then slide off the desk chair and onto the floor. You sprawl. Take up space. Let your body stretch out across half of the sad little postage stamp of your floor, your pajama-clad legs half-crossed, toes flexing in your socks.

Then, quietly, without looking up: “There’s more there. You can use the desk, if you want. Just throw the laundry on the bed.”

you hear the subtle scuff of his shoes against the tile. Hesitant. Like he’s approaching a wild animal- or a bomb with a ticking clock and unclear instructions. A moment later, the quiet shuffling of paper. He’s flipping through the coloring sheets. Reading the options. Probably judging them. Tracks. Liveries. You’re pretty sure there’s more than one of him in there, since they came from the front desk.

You don’t look up. You stay focused on your page- sweeping your crayon across the tail section of a generic Bulls livery- but your ears catch every motion behind you, sharp and alert, even if your expression doesn’t shift.

You expect the chair to make a noise. Expect him to sit like a normal human being at a desk. Like you said he could.

He doesn’t.

Instead, you hear the faintest rustle- the zipper of his softshell scraping on the laminate- and then the slow, deliberate sound of some man over the age of twenty five settling themselves to the ground.

Your eyes flick up. Barely. Just a glance sideways.

There he is. Max fucking Verstappen. Laid out on your floor. Not with you, exactly- he’s as far as he can possibly be in the cramped space without backing into your desk- but still beside you. Elbow down. Shoulders curled forward. His long legs bent awkwardly to fit the geometry of your tiny dorm room. Like he’s trying to minimize himself. Or disappear.

He places the wine glass between you with a soft tap and leans slightly to fish a crayon from the cup. Doesn’t say a word. Just starts coloring. And something in you releases, just a notch. Because now the wine glass is right there- within easy reach. You don’t have to ask every time you want another sip. You don’t have to break the fragile rhythm this has somehow become. You’re… sharing?

You settle back onto your elbows for a moment, watching the tip of his crayon glide over the paper. He’s quiet- focused, or pretending to be- and for once, not a single part of him seems weaponized. No sharp comments, no loaded glances. Just… silence. And color. You glance at the wine glass between you, then down at your own page.

Alright.

You slide onto your stomach, legs bent at the knees and swaying idly behind you, and pick up where you left off. Just a little more red on the nose cone, then the diffuser. You don’t realize how long you’re there, how long you’ve been smoothing wax into every corner, how time has started to drip instead of tick- until you’re fully locked in.

And you are, locked in, that is. Trading red for navy for yellow in turn. The wine’s warm in your stomach, your head pleasantly fuzzy. It wraps around your brain like gauze, softening the edges of everything until it’s just you, your paper single-seater, and the sacred task of getting this shading just right. Yellow over yellow over yellow, layering to make the light bounce right where you rub wax on wax- almost like a glow.

In the background, you hear him. Max. Not breathing hard or talking or fidgeting like a child- just... not settled. His motions are restless. Color, pause. Shift. Sip. Sigh. Color again. Pause longer. Another sip.

You don’t look. You don’t engage. It’s not your problem if he’s bored. He could’ve left at any point. Still could. You didn’t invite him to your floor, didn’t ask him to drink your wine or share your crayons or sit awkwardly close enough that you can hear the shift of his clothes against your floor when he adjusts. Not your issue. Not your job.

You lean forward, reaching for the brighter of the two yellows- your final pass to really bring that beautiful nose to life-

Swipe.

Your brain takes a full two seconds to register it.

There’s a hand on your page. Not just any hand. His hand. And it’s holding a green crayon.

Green.

GREEN.

Right across the nose cone. The nose cone. Which you had painstakingly left open. Purposefully saved for last, like a crown jewel. Which you had been actively reaching for with the exact right shade in your grip. You freeze. Stare.

There it is. A crooked, casual, green swoop right across the tip of the car like it belongs there.

“Max,” you breathe, voice sharp and flat all at once.

Max doesn’t look sorry. Not even a little. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t backpedal. Just glances sideways, one brow raised, glass tipped loosely in his other hand.

“What?” he says, too casual. “Green. Christmas.”

Your mouth falls open. Words scatter. You blink. “That’s- no- that’s not- what’s wrong with you?”

He has the audacity to smirk. “You were obsessing.”

You scoff, huffing through your nose. “I was not obsessing.” He doesn’t even dignify you with a response, just a look- delighted blue eyes saying sure you weren’t.

God, he’s such an ass.

But- he’s not being cruel. Not mean, not biting. Just a dumb schoolboy with too much wine and no concept of boundaries, clearly thrilled by how easy it is to get a rise out of you right now. You grumble under your breath and twist your coloring sheet a few degrees away from him, throwing one elbow out wide in a clear territorial maneuver. He huffs a quiet laugh, and you can already tell he’s going to be a problem. Head down. Focus restored.

For a second, it works.

The next time his hand darts out, you’re ready. You block him with the crayon in your off hand- deflecting like you’ve trained for this your whole life. “Don’t,” you warn, eyes narrowed. You jab an elbow toward him without looking, but he evades. Then waits. Two seconds. Four. You let your guard down just a little- back to coloring in the last bits of the halo- when suddenly-

Swipe. It lands. More green- on your sidepod, for God’s sake. The sidepod.

“Oh, you bastard!” you gasp, half-sputtering, half-laughing. Not because it’s okay- you were so close to being done- but because the audacity is just so stupid and somehow hilarious in a way that wine makes everything. You grab for the page, then his wrist, but he’s already leaning back like the smug little asshole he is, admiring his handiwork. So you snatch the crayon out of his hand- remove the tool of destruction right out of his grip.

He looks briefly scandalized. Then delighted. He blinks at you, mock offended, hand still outstretched between you like this is a diplomatic negotiation. “Give it back.”

“No.” You say it fast, fierce, like the word’s been sitting on your tongue for years and finally found its moment. “You’ve lost crayon privileges.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters, letting his hand drop, but his eyes are bright now- sharper than they’ve been all night. Not angry. Not smug. Just surprised. Entertained, even. You’ve caught him off guard, and for once, he’s not trying to hide it.

He leans back onto one hand, glass dangling loosely in the other. “You’re hoarding.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You vandalized my livery.”

He huffs through his nose. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s honest. And quieter than before. Quieter than you expected. Your thumb rolls slowly over the waxy paper wrapper of the crayon. His eyes flick down to the movement. You watch his gaze track it, then lift. You’re ready for another jab. Ready for him to press. But he doesn’t.

He just looks at you. And for some reason, that’s worse.

You meet his stare like it’s a challenge. Like maybe you’re still playing. But the moment hangs- odd, suspended- until you realize something about his face. About the way the light sits against his cheek, the way his mouth tips ever so slightly to one side. How different he looks when he’s not scowling or calculating. How young he looks without the armor.

You lose the thread.

Just for a second.

Oh.

He’s-

You blink hard and tear your eyes away, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Jesus. It’s just the wine. You shake your head like it’ll clear the thought.

He laughs- quiet, deep, from somewhere in his chest- and extends his hand again, a little more pointed this time. “Come on. Quit playing.”

You glance down at the crayon in your grip. You’re white-knuckling it now like it’s something worth defending instead of literal children’s art supplies. And for a second- just a second- you forget what the hell you’re doing, because when you look up, his eyes are on yours again, steady and unflinching. He’s close. Much closer than you realized. Those stupid cheekbones. That stupid mouth. God, he really is pretty when he’s not snarling.

You clear your throat. “Still no.”

Max’s brows lift just slightly. Not in offense. In interest. You see it flicker across his face. Something small and sparking. A game.

His gaze drops to your hand, then back up to you. He doesn’t move right away- just watches, like he’s calculating risk, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll flinch. And when you don’t, when you lean back slightly on your free hand and mirror his smug little look- That’s it. The corners of his mouth lift. Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile. Something crooked and barely formed. “Okay,” he says softly, “your funeral.”

And then he lunges.

You yelp, scooting back across the floor with a laugh caught in your throat, crayon clutched to your chest like a trophy. He’s faster. His long reach closes the gap easily, and now you’re dodging, rolling onto your side with a clumsy twist of limbs and fabric and wine-fueled reflexes. It’s not graceful. Not even close. But it’s real. It’s ridiculous.

It’s fun.

You squeal when his fingers almost snag your wrist, twisting just out of reach. “You’re cheating!”

“You started it,” he growls, grinning full now- genuine and wild- and for a second, you’re not thinking about stolen sodas or slammed doors or podiums or fights or Christmas or any of the shit that lives between you. Just this. The stupidest game in the world.

Just him and you and a crayon and a laugh you didn’t know you still had in you.

You curl around the crayon protectively, breathing hard, wine haze buzzing behind your eyes. “You’re gonna have to take it from me.” There’s no teasing in it now. No laughter. Just the sharp, wordless thud of bodies trying to outmaneuver each other. Max is focused. You’re focused. The wine is irrelevant, the coloring pages forgotten. This isn’t about crayons anymore. It’s about the principle.

You twist again, pivot your hips, make a break for the other side of the room- but his hand catches your ankle mid-scramble, pulling you back with enough force to collapse you into a heap. You curse, breath knocked half out of you, but he’s already crawling up the floor space after you, practically feral. You twist, arms tucked in, guarding the crayon like it’s nuclear launch codes.

“Give it,” he growls, low and laughing and way too close.

“Get bent.” And that’s when he does it. Max pins your wrist. One hand, firm. The other comes for your fingers.

Oh shit.

He starts prying them open, one at a time- careful, deliberate, methodical. Your heart rate spikes. You thrash under him, try to jerk your arm back, but he’s stronger. Steadier. His grip doesn’t falter. He’s laughing now- quiet and smug and goddamn infuriating- but not stopping.

You grunt, trying to twist free, but your side’s already to the floor, and he’s braced over you, weight held up just enough not to crush you, but enough that you’re not going anywhere. You let out a frustrated sound- something halfway between a growl and a gasp- as he peels another finger loose.

Three down. Two left.

“No,” you hiss, wriggling like it’ll help, but you’re losing ground. Literally. Physically. And emotionally. Because he’s going to win. You can’t let him win.

You squirm. Twist. Dig your heels in and push, just enough to get a sliver of leverage- not much, but enough to roll your hips hard and lurch toward him with all your weight. It’s not graceful. It’s not smart.

It is effective.

Max doesn’t see it coming. His balance breaks for half a second- just long enough for you to launch into him like a linebacker. You both go down in a blur of limbs and elbows and shocked, wordless noise.

The desk takes the hit first. A hollow bang echoes through the room, followed by the sudden explosion of coloring sheets and data printouts raining down like confetti- fluttering paper and half-loose crayons skittering across the floor in a storm of chaos. You land half on top of him, half in the wreckage, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

For a beat, neither of you move.

Just staring at each other. Eyes wide. Limbs tangled. Mouths open like did we just- ?

And then laughter.

Real, deep, gut-pulling laughter, ripped from both of you in stunned, breathless waves. Max folds first, face turned into his own shoulder like he can’t believe it, shaking. You follow suit, breath hitching, tears burning at the corners of your eyes because what the fuck was that? What the fuck are you doing?

There are crayons under your thigh. His knee is jammed between your calves. Your ribs hurt from laughing, your elbow’s probably bruised, and Max Verstappen- perpetual bastard, walking headache, F1 World Champion- is laughing with you on the floor of your too-small, too-warm dorm room like the two of you don’t know any better.

And maybe, for a minute- you don’t.

The laughter slows- first his, then yours- softening into breathless exhales and fading chuckles that taper off like static. The room quiets around you, thick with the remnants of sound. You blink up at the ceiling, still catching your breath, body curled awkwardly where you landed, limbs in soft collision with his.

And then it hits you.

Where you are. How close. How tangled.

Max’s thigh is still pressed between yours, his arm crooked under your shoulders like he forgot to move it. His shirt is pulled slightly off-center, jacket collar tugged loose where you grabbed him, exposing a line of skin at his neck. You feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours- too steady for someone who just laughed that hard. Too careful.

He’s quiet now. Looking at you. Really looking.

Your gaze flicks up- meets his. And- fuck. There it is.

A flicker of heat in the air between you, sharp and unmistakable. His lips part, just slightly. His brows pull together like he’s trying to process something in real time, something he didn’t expect to feel. Something he shouldn’t feel. You don’t move. Neither does he.

But god, if one of you did…

If he shifted a little closer, if you tilted your chin up just a bit- your mouths could meet. It would be easy. Stupidly easy. And you wouldn’t stop it. You don’t even think you’d be mad.

All you can think about was the way he stared at you, through you, in the rearview mirror that night after Christian took you out for beers. Your breath hitches. He hears it. He swallows.

The air turns molten.

It’s the first time you’ve felt this- this thing between you- like it might not be hatred. Like it might be something with teeth and heat and tension, a live wire strung taut between the two of you that no one was ever supposed to touch.

But here you are. Hovering. Right above it. And he’s not backing away.

And then your phone. It rattles against the floor with a brzzzz brzzzz brzzzz that might as well be a grenade. You flinch. Max blinks, startled too, the spell between you sliced clean through like it was never even there.

You roll away in a scramble- off his arm, out of the heat- grabbing for the phone like it’s a lifeline. The screen lights up: Mom 💐. FaceTime.

Jesus Christ.

You clear your throat and hit accept, already forcing a smile to your face. “Hi, Mama.”

“Merry Christmas, baby!” comes the immediate, sunshine-soaked reply, all syrup and sparkle. Your mom’s face fills the screen, warm and aglow, her curls pulled back, lipstick immaculate, an apron on over one of her good dresses. “Oh, honey, it’s so good to see your face. You get my wine?”

You sit up straighter, trying to keep the heat out of your cheeks. “I did. I’m drinking it right now, actually.”

She squints through the screen. “Wait- are you still in your room? That doesn’t look like the lobby.”

Your eyes flick to Max before you can stop yourself. He’s sitting up now, legs crossed haphazardly beneath him, hair slightly mussed. He’s not looking at you, but he’s listening. Of course he is.

“Uh,” you say, trying to keep it breezy. “Came up to get a second bottle.”

“Oh?” your mom sings, voice lilting like she already knows exactly what’s going on. “You sound a little put together for gettin’ after a whole bottle on your own,” she adds, mock-solemn. Christ, the woman doesn’t miss a thing.

You stifle a groan. “I wasn’t alone.”

“Oh?” She leans closer to the camera. “Who’s there with you?”

And then Max- fucking Max- leans just enough for his face to enter the frame, one brow raised like he’s challenging you to stop him.

Your mother’s eyes light up. “Ohhh.”

“Mama, no- ”

“Honey, don’t you Mama me. Is that Max Verstappen in your dorm room?” You make a strangled noise in your throat, but she’s already on a roll.

“Well, hi there, sugar,” she says, clearly delighted. “You are just as pretty in person as you are on TV. I mean, I see what all the fuss is about now.” She gives you a sly glance.

Max, bless him, has no idea what to do with that. “Uh… thank you?” he says, hesitant and deeply confused.

“Oh, of course. And you’re bein’ so sweet to keep her company tonight. I told her, I said, You’re not foolin’ anybody pretendin’ you don’t care about the holidays. And now look at you, all cozied up with a boy and coloring.”

“Mama,” you mutter, half-mortified, half-amused. “We’re not- he’s just- ”

“I didn’t say anything,” she says with perfect Southern innocence. “You’re the one who sounds guilty.” Max chokes on his wine. You shoot him a glare. He holds his hands up- not my fault.

Your mother beams. “Well, I just wanted to check in and say hi before it got too busy. And tell you the blackberry pie came out fine. So fine, actually, that your daddy, Kaleb, and your uncle got into it last night after I went to bed and I had to make a new one this morning. Gave ‘em a piece of my mind this morning, let me tell you.” She tuts, like even the thought of it pisses her off.

“Get ‘em good, Mama. You tell ‘em.” You laugh softly, warmth blooming behind your ribs. You can imagine the three of them, hunched around the island with a couple forks. Feeling a little too brave off of Coors light and Pendleton and God knows what else the men in your family get to drinking when left unsupervised in a shop for too many hours. Nobody would dare to touch Marissa’s Christmas pie sober. That’s the Lord’s pie. That pie is for Baby Jesus.

“But I’m real glad you’re not alone.” She gives Max a parting smile, eyes already somewhere else in her kitchen- cataloguing what else she needs to finish before the bigger family gets there, because there’s no worker bee like a Southern woman before Christmas dinner. “Y’all behave yourselves, I’m just gonna set-” the camera angle begins to shift. Not end- just tilt, go a little off center, like the phone’s been set against a mixing bowl. “There. I have to start the potatoes, holler at me if you have anything to say.”

Max looks over at you. “Did she just…”

“...set us down? Yeah. She’s got shit to do.” Sure enough, you catch a glimpse of your mom’s kitchen- all wood and stone and old tile countertops, the smell of roasted garlic and butter you can practically taste through the screen. Marissa’s muttering faintly to herself, moving in and out of frame, stirring something in a Dutch oven. You hear her talking to someone in the background.

It makes you smile at the screen faintly, the warmth of wine and the fact that even just in this small way, you can be a part of it- when Max smirks beside you, eyes dancing. “You do sound like you’re from the same place.”

You groan again and throw yourself back onto the carpet, eyes to the ceiling, already regretting everything. But your smile still won’t quite go away. It’s not for him. It’s for her. For home, and not even Max can dull the shine of this call. “Her accent’s way stronger. ‘S just harder to tell over the phone.”

The peace, the sweetness of hearing your mom cook, the odd conversation between you and Max- is broken by footsteps. Fast ones. A blur moves behind your mom’s frame. A blur in a carhartt hoodie and bedazzled jeans and a ball cap full of hair. Marissa clocks it too late.

“Bailey- don’t you touch that roll!” Too slow. A hand snakes into frame and snatches one off the tray cooling beside the oven.

“BAILEY!”

Then the camera swings wildly again, and you’re face-to-face with her: your cousin, Bailey, triumphant, cheeks puffed full of stolen bread, grinning like the absolute menace she is. She ducks into a corner, the phone clutched in one flour-dusted hand.

“Well, well, well. Cousin,” she says around a mouthful of carbs, “your mama says you got a boy in your room.”

You blink. “That’s- Bailey.”

“In your room,” she repeats, scandalized, like she’s reading it out loud from the Ten Commandments. “On Christmas. Give me something juicy, I’ve got a two year old. I haven’t heard a good story in- God. So, is this a hostage situation orrr…”

You exhale a laugh despite yourself. “Grow up. It’s not like that.”

Bailey leans in, peering, turning the phone just enough to get a look at Max, who’s frozen halfway through a sip of wine. Still sitting on the floor like a very guilty golden retriever. “Who’s this?” she asks, dramatic as hell. “Introduce me to your holiday miracle.”

You roll your eyes. “This is Max.”

Bailey stares.

Then leans closer.

Then squints.

“Wait,” she says slowly, “wait a minute. Is that- ?”

Max braces himself- you can see it. You know he’s thinking: Here it comes. The gasp. The oh my god, Max Verstappen?! You’re certain he can already hear it bouncing around in his little antisocial brain, alarms blaring. You brace yourself, too. Because you know what’s about to come out of her beautiful, lovely, big-fat fucking mouth and it’s not what he thinks it’s going to be.

“Oh my god,” Bailey breathes. “Like… Diet Coke Max?”

Max blinks.

You cough, choking down your laughter. “Yes.”

Max blinks. “What?”

Bailey gasps theatrically, a hand to her heart. “Quarter Max?” You lose it. Cackle, teeth bared.

Max turns to you, slowly. “What the fuck is Quarter Max.”

You shake your head. Still laughing. “Nothing.”

Bailey is delighted. “So it is him. Oh my god.” Max’s eyes snap to you, clearly reeling, his answered questions still branding around between you- what the fuck is Quarter Max?

You nod solemnly. “Yes.” Neither of you elaborates for him.

Bailey, now vibrating with energy, flips the camera around and runs screaming down the hallway. “Y’ALL. SHE’S WITH DIET COKE MAX.” The phone tips. You’re treated to a sideways view of a doorframe, a dog bed, and the echoing hollers of other cousins demanding explanations. Some are in on it, some aren’t, all of them now want to be in on whatever the fuck y’all’s crazy cousin is screaming about.

And then your mom, poor, sweet, under-informed Marissa, off-screen- “What does that mean?!”

Max looks stunned. “You’ve been talking about me,” he says slowly, a little shell-shocked.

You lift the wine glass and sip. “Only the important things.”

He just stares at you, then glances toward the phone- where chaos still reigns- and mutters, “What the fuck is Quarter Max?”

You grin into the glass, debate whether you should dignify him with an answer. He’s in on the joke, maybe the butt of it, technically, just… needs a little more context. What harm can giving him the puzzle piece do? “The jukeboxes at home take coins called Quarters.” Max’s face is slow to process. Like he’s putting two and two together in real time. The Diet Coke incident. The jukebox standoff. The fact you had him kneeling on the floor of some locals pub begging for your spare change. Her fucking cousin(s) know. She’s been telling stories. Laughing about him. He stares at you, somewhere between betrayed and impressed. “You’ve been talking shit.”

You nod, biting your lip. “Relentlessly.” He mutters something in Dutch and leans back against the wall like he’s rethinking every choice he’s ever made.

Bailey laughs like it’s the best thing she’s heard all week, and the camera tips as she shoves the phone back toward Marissa, who yells something unintelligible about setting the table through the chaos of clattering pans and shouts from the background. There’s more laughter, more chatter- names called out, someone asking about biscuits, someone else yelling no, not that knife- until finally, with a flurry of sweet goodbyes and one last ‘gotta go, sweetheart’ from your mom, the screen goes dark.

Silence.

You’re still holding the phone. Your fingers slide across the black screen once, twice, like you’re not quite ready to let go of the feeling. The noise. The background warmth. The easy rhythm of home.

But it’s quiet now. Just you and Max and the four thin walls of your dorm room.

You blink once, then glance around like you’ve just remembered where you are. The mess is everywhere- crayons scattered, coloring pages wrinkled and overlapping. You take a breath- too shallow to steady anything- and start to move. Not because it needs to be done, really. But because it gives your hands something to do. Something safe. Something that makes you feel less like you might accidentally say I miss them out loud.

You kneel and start gathering the pages first- carefully at first, then faster, like it helps. Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches from where he’s sunk against the wall, his fingers still loosely wrapped around the glass he snatched back from you when he realized you told people about it all. The Diet Coke. The 20p, or the Quarter, or the whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Told people about him.

You're humming something- tuneless, cut off halfway through. Your hair slips out of its tie and falls forward. A strap of your tank top slips to the side, just a bit, as you scoop crayons back into their little plastic cup, one after another. Max doesn’t help. Doesn’t offer. He just watches.

He’s thinking- trying not to, but he is.

Because you’re doing something simple. Casual. Normal. Something you probably do all the time. And all he can think about is that phone call. That kitchen. That voice calling for Bailey. The screech of laughter and rustle of bodies and the dim clang of silverware.

They sounded fun, he thinks.

It slips out.

“They sound fun,” he says aloud, too quiet to sound casual.

You glance over your shoulder at him. Just a flicker. Your throat moves when you swallow. “They are,” you say. Your voice is thin, stretched out over too many feelings and too much wine. You stack the coloring sheets together, one hand smoothing down the corners. “They’re a lot. But they’re… home.” It hangs there. The silence. The unspoken.

You have a place to be and can’t get there.

He could get to his family, no problem. He’s just… not. You don’t know why, and you’re not asking. He fills the glass again, careful not to spill. Doesn’t push you for more, which you’re grateful for.

You’re quiet as you climb onto the bed, shifting the wrinkled comforter into something resembling order. Your laptop’s still perched on the far side of the mattress, and you drag it over, flip it open. The screen lights your face in soft blue. You curl your legs under yourself, shifting a pillow behind your back, and gesture vaguely toward him. “I was gonna put a movie on,” you say. Then, eyes on the laptop instead of him: “What do you wanna watch?”

It’s casual. Easy. But you don't ask if he wants to stay. And he doesn’t ask if he can.

You mull it over, thumb hovering over the trackpad as the little carousel of thumbnails spins slowly on screen. Max sips more wine in silence, settles onto the furthest edge of your bed, like he hasn’t quite figured out if this is an invite or a test. Maybe it’s both.

He seems like a crude humor guy. Like the type who still quotes Step Brothers without irony and probably thinks Superbad is a cinematic achievement. Which… okay, no judgment. You like that stuff too. Comfort food for the soul. Millennial gold.

For half a second, Borat flashes through your mind. You smirk. Too risky. Even for Max. You're not trying to get fired for ruining Christmas with cultural insensitivity. Not tonight.

Your eyes snag on a familiar poster. Talladega Nights. Yes.

It’s perfect. Low stakes. Just enough racing to be familiar, but far enough from Formula 1 not to feel like homework. Plus- bonus points for mocking your country, not someone else’s. (Mostly.)

You click it. The title screen boots up with that weirdly aggressive intro music, and something unspools quietly in your chest.

Your mom’s old SUV had a DVD player that ate discs like a woodchipper, and Talledega Nights got jammed in it before your ninth birthday. For the next six years, you watched it on loop every time you drove further than ten minutes from home. You must’ve watched it two hundred times on road trips. Kaleb used to mouth every line from the backseat while you begged your parents for literally any other movie, but now…

Now you miss it.

You click play, trying not to linger on that thought.

“Alright,” you murmur, settling back against the wall, eyes flicking up toward Max. “Hope you like America.” You pause. “And NASCAR.” He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Just moves slowly to sit on the floor beside your bed, back against the frame, wine glass balanced between his fingers.

The screen goes dark. And then, the immortal words: “America is all about speed. Hot, nasty, badass speed.”

You bite back a grin. Max huffs. Not quite a laugh. But not not a laugh, either. You don’t make it ten minutes into the movie before the quoting starts.

You mumble along with the punch lines under your breath, lips twitching. Max doesn’t even bother pretending he hasn’t seen it. When Ricky Bobby starts praying to little baby Jesus, both of you laugh- not because the joke is fresh, but because it is so goddamn stupid. Because it’s familiar.

It’s easy, for a minute. Too easy. So, naturally, you ruin it. “Talked to Danny lately?” you ask casually, not looking at Max- just watching the screen, as if it’s a throwaway comment. It’s not. You’re genuinely wondering.

You’ve been trying to avoid texting Danny too much- no more than he texts you. Do your best to be an easy friend. An un-annoying friend. A friend he might want to keep around for longer than three weeks.

He glances up at you- barely a beat of delay. “Yeah.” He takes a sip of wine. “Couple days ago. He’s in Perth.”

“Right, right.” You nod like you didn’t already know that from Instagram. “Holiday with the family?”

“Yeah.” He pauses. Adds, “Surfing. BBQ. Being….Australian, or whatever.”

You snort. That sounds about right. Max doesn’t say anything else for a second. Just sips again. Eyes on the screen.

But he’s not watching anymore.

He’s turning something over in his head- he’s transparent like that when he’s trying not to be. You’ve noticed he didn’t inherit Jos’s subtilty. The movie’s still playing, Ricky Bobby still blazing gloriously across the screen, but Max is suddenly too still. Too deliberate. “You two still… hanging out?”

Your head tilts, just a little. “Me and Danny?”

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah.”

You narrow your eyes. “Not since the party. Why?”

“No reason.” Another shrug, a sip, a pass of the glass, his eyes still fixed forward. He shifts beside you, kicks his legs out next to yours, the twin mattress groaning beneath the movement. His knee brushes yours by accident- both of you flinch- and he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding back the complaint all night.

“This bed,” he mutters, grimacing. “Jesus. This has to be the worst bed in the world.” You don’t look at him. Just sip wine, gaze flicking toward the screen. He doesn’t stop. “Seriously. How do you bring anyone back here?”

You turn your head. Slow. Stare at him like he’s sprouted a second nose. “Bring…” you echo, blinking. “A man?”

He shrugs, already regretting the question. “I mean… yeah.”

You huff. Dry. Amused. “To this? My dorm? At my job? With six square feet of personal space and cameras in the lobby?” You raise your brows. Let the silence do the rest. Hard, hard pass.

Max looks at you like you’ve just confessed to living in your car. In a blizzard. With no shoes. Twists to look at you fully, like maybe he’s just misheard. “Wait- so you just go to their place every time?” he asks, incredulous, like this is the part that’s difficult to wrap his head around.

You stare at him. Truly, honestly stare. “Max. I don’t have anyone to go to.” He starts to say something, stops. Blinks. His brows pull in slightly, confusion breaking up the usual arrogance. “I’ve literally said this before,” you continue, voice flatter now. “Multiple times. Danny literally just asked me. You’ve been in the room. I don’t have time for a social life. Or friends. Or whatever it is you think I’m doing in my free time. Christian took me out for beers with you, for God’s sake.” You take another sip, wave your fingers like you’re dismissing the conversation.

Max frowns like he’s trying to replay those conversations in his head. You can see the wheels turning, slowly, like he’s trying to file this under “unlikely but technically plausible.” But it just doesn’t compute. “You’re telling me,” he says finally, like each word costs him something, “you haven’t… hooked up with anyone since moving here?”

For fucks sake, he’s not letting it go. You sigh, like you’re trying to explain something to the world’s dumbest dog. “Correct.” His mouth opens. Then closes. The silence that follows is almost insulting in its length.

“…Not even once?”

“Nope.”

“Since you got to Europe?”

You nod. “Mmhmm.” Max just sits there, stunned. Processing. Watching you like you’re a rare insect he found in his bathroom sink. It takes him way too long to realize you’re not kidding.

Max is quiet. A little too quiet. He’s not shocked anymore- he’s analyzing. Assessing. Like he’s trying to puzzle out some hidden, catastrophic flaw that would make you, you, un-fuckable. As if this is some logic problem, and he’s waiting for the answer to reveal itself.

Then- dry, deadpan, one corner of his mouth twitching like he’s suppressing a smirk- “Maybe you should try talking less.”

Your eyes snap to him. “Shut the fuck up.”

He huffs a soft laugh through his nose. “Just saying. Might help.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He ignores that. Or maybe enjoys it. Probably both. “No, I’ve figured it out,” he says, a little more animated now, as if he’s truly cracked the code. “You like saying no.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen you. At events. At dinners. You- ” he lifts his hand, gestures vaguely, “- set the bar so high no one could ever reach it. Then you get to shoot them down. Keep all the power.”

You stare at him for a beat, jaw clenched, but you don’t fire back right away- because the worst part? Is that he’s not entirely wrong. Not really. Just smug about it. And so very Max. You roll your eyes and grab the wine glass instead. “You think you know everything.”

He shrugs, but that smirk- that fucking smirk- lingers. “Not everything. Just enough.”

You take a long sip of wine, then tilt your head toward him- sweet, patronizing, eyes wide with mock praise. “That’s a very astute observation,” you say, tone dripping with teacher-to-preschooler energy. “Especially coming from someone with the emotional control of a five-year-old. Very good!”

Max huffs a breath of laughter- quiet, begrudging, maybe even a little impressed. “Or,” you continue, push the glass back into his hand, “hear me out- there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.” He raises a brow, skeptical.

You know Max doesn’t want to hear the truth. But he keeps fucking pressing for it, so goddamnit, you’ll give it to him. You’re so sick of explaining yourself to boys, and you know what, he deserves to be uncomfortable.

You go on, deadpan. “I just don’t feel like going through the inconvenience of shaving my legs, making small talk, hauling myself to someone’s apartment just to get my left lip rubbed like a fucking stress ball for thirty seconds and asked if I came yet.” You pause. “It’s not my fault men are incompetent. Why bother with them at all, honestly?”

Max chokes on the wine.

You don’t flinch. Don’t laugh. Just raise a brow and look back towards the screen, unbothered, like you’ve simply recited your grocery list.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still recovering from his wine misfire, then leans in just slightly- one elbow braced behind him, the other hand cradling the glass like he’s about to lay down wisdom.

“So what I’m hearing,” he says, slow and mock-thoughtful, “is that you’re just really bad at picking hookups.” You glance over, deadpan. He nods, all condescending concern now. “That’s fine. That’s fixable. You just don’t know the tricks.”

You blink at him once. Slowly. “Oh,” you say, voice flat. “There’s tricks, huh?”

He shrugs, smug and infuriating. “Obviously.”

You turn your whole head to look at him now. “Please,” you say, dry as bone, “do enlighten me, Casanova.”

Max shrugs, casual, like he’s discussing using wets at Silverstone in March. “You kiss them.”

You stare at him. Flat. Blank. Like he’s just explained paddle shifting to you. “No shit,” you deadpan. “You kiss someone before you sleep with them. Groundbreaking.”

“No, no,” he insists, sitting up a little straighter, the glass in his hand sloshing just slightly. “Not like that. Not during. Before. Like, early. Test run.”

You blink, the corner of your mouth twitching with restrained laughter. “A test kiss.”

“Exactly,” he says, as if this is a widely accepted, peer-reviewed strategy. “If they’re a bad kisser? Don’t even bother. If they’re okay, maybe. But if they’re really good- like really good? That’s almost always sex worth remembering.”

You blink again, slowly. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

But you’re grinning now. Just barely. Because he’s dead serious, and he doesn’t even realize how much he’s leaning toward you while making this Very Important Point. You keep poking at him, grinning wider every time he bites. “Okay, professor. What makes a good kiss, then?”

Max doesn’t answer right away. He swirls the last sip of wine in the glass like it’s something to contemplate. You don’t even care if he didn't offer you the last swallow of your own wine, because you’re testing something. “Mmm,” he hums, infuriatingly nonchalant. “Can’t give away the answers before the test.”

Your brows shoot up. Oh. Oh. He’s really doing this.

You sit up straighter, practically vibrating now- glee thrumming behind your teeth. You know exactly where this is going, and it’s hilarious. He thinks he’s being smooth. You think you’ve never seen anything so transparently thirsty in your life. He’s trying to half-drunkenly flirt his way into your mouth like it’s a clever psychological tactic. On Christmas, no less. For shame, Max.

He leans back just slightly, like this is no big deal. Says it like he’s offering you a sample tray at the fucking supermarket. “Yeah,” he nods, casual, “kiss me. Then we’ll see if that’s your problem. Science.”

You almost burst out laughing. Does he- does he- think you were born yesterday? That you’re going to fall for this little power play? That he’ll let you kiss him- like he’s doing you a favor- and then what? Rank it? Pat your head? Tell you he approves?

Absolutely the fuck not.

Your grin sharpens, toothy and electric. “No, thank you,” you say sweetly, like you’re declining a timeshare. You pause, letting the silence stretch- just long enough for him to think that’s the end of it.

Your grin turns razor sharp as you lean back onto your elbows, eyes glittering with mischief. “But hey,” you say, all false magnanimity, “you’re welcome to kiss me. And I’ll let you know if you seem like you might be decent in bed. Science, and all.”

That lands.

Max’s mouth twitches- just barely- but you see it. A flicker of something bruised under the surface. He masks it quickly, but not quickly enough. For half a second, he looks like you’ve just outmaneuvered him in his own fantasy- a fantasy where he was the one in control, the one doling out favors and deciding outcomes.

And now? Now he’s the one on his back foot.

You can see the irritation bloom across his features- not because he’s angry, but because he knows you’ve seen through him. Knows you’re right. Knows if he wants this kiss- and oh, he wants it- he’s going to have to do it your way now. Swallow the pride. Take the step.

You’re tricky. You’re sharp. You’re not some girl dazzled by a half-drunk Max Verstappen in a twin bed on Christmas night. You’re a challenge he didn’t see coming, and he’s annoyed because part of him loves it.

He stares at you a moment longer. Considering.

The air shifts.

You’re still close- so close- and the buzz in your bloodstream crackles again as his eyes drop, just once, to your mouth. When he looks back up, it’s different. Looser. Pretending it’s no big deal. Playing it cool.

“Okay,” he says, shrugging one shoulder like he couldn’t care less. Like he’s just humoring you. Like this is purely academic. “Why not.” And you bite your tongue to keep from smiling. Because you won. He leans in- slowly, almost like he’s giving you time to back out. But you don’t.

You don’t move. You barely even breathe.

And then his lips touch yours.

It’s soft. Shockingly soft. Firm in pressure, but not forceful- just the sure contact of one mouth meeting another with no fanfare. No tongue. No push. Just warmth and shape. Skin on skin. A delicate drag as his bottom lip shifts against yours. A breath, exhaled.

Your spine straightens. Nerves fire.

The contact isn’t hungry or possessive- if anything, it’s careful. Like he’s taking a first pass. Feeling it out. Like this isn’t just some cocky play to get in your pants, but something he actually wants to feel.

Your whole body responds on a microscopic level.

Your chest lifts with a sharp inhale, and suddenly your skin feels too tight for your frame. Heat curls low in your stomach, slow and slinky, and your hands twitch slightly against the bed, fingers flexing with the effort of staying still.

Behind your ribs, your heart gives a stutter. Not a pounding gallop, but a heavy thud. Like it’s recalibrating. Like it just noticed something your brain hadn’t caught yet. Your lips part slightly, reacting more than deciding- but there’s no escalation. Not yet. It’s still simple. Still closed. But everything inside you is wide awake.

His lips are warm, not chapped- slightly dry at the center, where the soft of his lower lip drags against yours. You feel the texture of him. The difference in shape. The way his top lip presses a little firmer, the way his bottom one lingers. The faintest catch of breath between you when he shifts- like neither of you are sure what comes next, but neither of you are pulling away.

Your thighs tighten, abs bracing without meaning to. It’s like a silent alarm went off in your body, a thousand small muscles contracting in the same moment.

You feel the wine in your bloodstream like a hum. Feel your fingertips tingle. Feel the entire front of your body start to buzz with the nearness of him- even though you’re not touching anywhere but your mouths. The rest of your bodies are still a breath apart.

And it’s intimate in a way you didn’t expect. In a way that makes it hard to think. Hard to blink. Hard to remember that this was supposed to be a joke. That you were supposed to win.

And just when you think it’s over- when you think he might pull back, break the tension, let it stay light and unspoken- you realize with almost a sense of relief: a kiss without tongue doesn’t really count. Not for adults. Not in the way that matters. Not in the way that leaves fingerprints on your ribs. If he stops now, you can both pretend it didn’t happen.

But he doesn’t stop. Instead, his lips shift. Just slightly. His mouth parts. And then there is tongue. Not forceful. Not aggressive. He doesn’t invade- he offers. Soft. Warm. A quiet invitation. And without thinking, without calculating, you accept. Your mouth opens to meet his like you’ve done it a thousand times before. Like there was never going to be any other outcome. And then- there.

The press of it- your tongue sliding against his, a tentative flick that turns into a rhythm before either of you consciously guide it- sends a shock straight to your spine. It’s not messy. It’s not greedy. It’s precise, like you’re figuring out the way his body wants to speak yours, and yours is already fluent.

Push and pull. Pressure and retreat.

You feel the shift in him immediately- his hand bracing against the mattress to keep from closing the last few centimeters between your bodies. His breath hitches, and the way he tips his chin tells you he’s chasing more. Not rushing. Just following. Syncing to the same tempo you are. Your teeth graze- just barely- and you feel him smile against your mouth like he felt it too. Like he liked it.

And something clicks into place you didn’t know was missing.

Heat pools low in your belly, rising slowly, steadily, until your whole torso feels flooded. Your palms burn against the sheets. You’re still not touching anywhere but your mouths- but it feels like so much more. It feels like the kind of kiss people look back on. The kind that burns into the inside of your skull and lives there forever.

You’re both panting now- barely, but enough. Breath warm between you, barely contained. Your lips sting in the best way, swollen and wet from where he kissed you like he meant it, like he knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t care who got wrecked in the process.

Then his teeth catch your bottom lip. Just a graze. A scrape and a tug, slow and deliberate, before he lets go. And leans back in. This one’s different. Already. There’s a charge behind it- an intention. It lands deeper, darker, laced with something that makes your hips twitch with the need to chase him. Makes you want to fist your hands in his hoodie and pull him flush against you, want to feel the weight of him, the shape of him, press your body against something solid and real and hot. But just as you start to shift, just as your hand flinches to move-

Max freezes.

It’s not big. Just a second. A half-second. His body stiffens, his hand curls tighter into the bed, his mouth pulls just the slightest bit away. Not enough to break contact, but enough to break momentum.

And then- he’s retreating. Eyes wide. Lips still parted. Breathing hard like he’s been running, or fighting, or caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Something forbidden. He blinks down at you like he’s startled by his own body. Like he doesn’t quite recognize what just came out of him.

You’re still. Still wanting. Still stunned.

And he looks-

Panicked. A little. Gutted. Maybe. Or like he just remembered who you are. And who he is. And what a terrible, terrible idea this probably is. But still, he doesn’t move further away. Doesn’t bolt. He just stares- wild and stunned- like he’s caught somewhere between what did I just do and why can’t I stop?

He recovers. Of course he does.

You see it flicker across his face like a muscle memory- panic replaced by bravado, by that smug, bulletproof mask he wears in a press conference after he ran someone over on the way to P1. The tilt of his lips creeps back into a smirk, slow and curling, like he’s already rewritten the scene in his head and cast himself as the one in control.

“Well…” he murmurs, voice low, rough from want, “what’s the verdict?”

Cocky. Fucking. Bastard.

Your pulse is pounding. Your lips are tingling. Your body’s still practically vibrating from where his mouth touched yours, where his tongue- Nope.

You sit back. Just enough to put a breath of air between you. Your palms find the edge of the mattress, grounding. You force your breathing to even out, force the blood to cool beneath your skin even as you feel how flushed you are. He’s watching you closely now- too closely.

But you’re… you. And he’s Max. And you’re not going to give him the satisfaction.

You hum. Shrug, like this is just another Tuesday. Like you didn’t nearly melt into a puddle on your own sheets. Like you weren’t fifteen seconds from humping his leg like a dog in heat. You shoot him a sideways glance and smirk right back.

“Mmm…” You let it hang there. Let the anticipation curl. “Decent.”

His brows lift. A flash of disbelief, of protest. “Decent?”

You grin wider. Innocent. Infuriating. “Yeah. Not bad.”

Like you didn’t just come this close to dragging him under you and making very, very bad choices. He stares at you like he doesn’t know whether to be insulted or turned on.

Max looks at you like he might actually say it- that you’re full of shit. That decent is a goddamn crime. That you should be ashamed of yourself, lying like that with your cheeks flushed and your lips still parted like they miss him already.

His jaw twitches. But he doesn’t say a word. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, casual and sharp, like the kiss was just a thing that happened and not what it was. Scoffs- barely audible. Then leans back against the pillow like none of it touched him at all. Like he isn’t still riding the same high. Like the movie he’s seen four times this year is suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet.

You mimic him perfectly. A little mocking. A little delayed. You wipe your mouth too, soft and slow. Scoff- just as light. Settle yourself back into the other side of your pillow, leaving a space between you that feels too big and too small all at once.

And you watch. Or… pretend to. Because the truth is, you’re aware of everything. Of the way his knee shifts a fraction closer every time he adjusts. The drag of his breath when it catches just a little too long. The warmth radiating from the place where his shoulder brushes yours- barely. But it’s there. You could measure it in microns.

You don’t blink at the screen. Don’t laugh at the dumb jokes you’ve heard a hundred times. You’re too busy trying to keep your body still. Trying not to respond to the electric, alive sensation of almost.

Almost touching. Almost saying something. Almost doing it again. And then somewhere between Ricky Bobby screaming about fire and the rise of the final music cue- your body betrays you. Your lashes flutter once. Your limbs go heavy. And before you can chase down the last sparks still buzzing under your skin- you’re asleep. Just like that.

And Max doesn’t move a muscle. Not for a long, long time.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════ A/N: Hiatus is OVERRRRR. Sorry to kill y'all. No excuses. But here is nearly 50 pages of good, good stuff. I went through a bit of a hard time in terms of motivation and comparison, but it was you guys who interact with the fic on a deep level- with these amazing, reflective comments and asks that spurred me through this writers block. So thank you for that, and please keep them coming because it's truly so meaningful <3

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #max verstappen x female oc #mv33 #mv1 #max vertsappen fic

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oddlydescriptive · 1 month ago

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Hello! Lots of new friends today- which is crazy because I haven’t been active in a month (I am so sorry).

Can I ask WTF caused this??? Did someone mention it somewhere I can’t see or something? 😭

Also, I am still working on Reset with urgency, I SWEAR. Fighting for my life out here yall. The new interaction has lit a fire under me and we are making the damn thing happen. I was getting very discouraged by how difficult it was to get readers compared to the amount of work I have been doing- especially when the tags are full of short fics with hundreds or even thousands of interactions (I know I shouldn’t compare, and that one shots do well for a reason, but it does get to you.)

Anyways this is a long winded way to say welcome if you’re new, I’m sorry if you’ve been here- I love you all 🥲

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oddlydescriptive · 3 months ago

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What’s your “the one that got away” fanfic? The one that didn’t get finished but you will NEVER forget about?

#fanfiction #f1 #din djarin x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 fanfic #rough day

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oddlydescriptive · 3 months ago

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Lmfao remember when I told @finn-dot-com the main storyline was going to be 50 chapters? Lmao funny joke it’s taken me 17 chapters to cover four months of content and they haven’t even kissed!!! JAIL FOR ME!! lol so funny!!!! 😭😭 hilarious joke 😭😂😂

1,374,838 chapters later maybe they’ll hold hands

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oddlydescriptive · 3 months ago

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I am dying of laughter. Max's emotionally undeveloped brain is screaming danger alarms and he doesn't even know why. He's acting like he's a 15year old.

Poor Danny just catching strays here. If this wasn't a clearly MaxV fic I would have rooted for Danny.

Max becoming an asshole on purpose: meh

Max becoming an asshole because he lacks emotional maturity and doesn't understand the idea that maybe he actually could maybe possibly 'like' someone: chef's kiss

Jos as always is a delight. I was wondering if we will get to see more of 66 and Jos in a professional setting? Like in a ralley race? We all know how Jos was as a coach for max. I am interested to see how he would be like with 66.

66: unlocking Sabrina carpenter vibes - singing busy woman and espresso while dancing in the shower, rising like a Phoenix rather than an emerging butterfly.

Danny: heart eyes, in love, stricken - violently shaking max saying " do you see this man? Do you see this absolute goddess?

Max: BEGONE THOT - let's leave room for the holy Spirit - keep it PG

Loves this chapter so much. I would dare say this is almost my number one favorite but it's hard to choose between this one, kneeling max, screaming 66 meltdown, or interview scenes

Absolutely can't wait for her official F1 debut. Max will be miserable. And I would rejoice in his misery.

Love you, wish you the best❤️😘

Honestly, if it wasn’t a MaxV fic I would root for Danny too. Maybe not in his current form (like I said we will see what isn’t clicking with them) but by the end of the fic he definitely is an amazing friendship that has grown so much as a person. Danny’s character just gets stronger and stronger throughout the story.

And yes- we are about to see Max’s perpetual crash out slide in a direction nobody really saw coming. (Except us, obviously 🫣) God, he’s so emotionally stunted sometimes.

All this aside, your messages ALWAYS make me smile. I love reading your takes. Literally every time I post I wonder what time it is and what part of your day I will interrupt 😂❤️

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oddlydescriptive · 3 months ago

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Reset, Chapter Seventeen

Series Masterlist

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You didn’t get flown out for the final race. Didn’t get a dress code email for the prize giving ceremony. Didn’t get a hotel keycard left in an envelope at the front desk. You watched the last race of the season from your dorm, curled up on your twin bed with a plate of freezer dumplings and a laptop that buffered at least twice before the stream caught up.

Red Bull won everything, obviously. Verstappen took the final checkered flag like it was inevitable. The team celebrated in a blaze of champagne and perfectly lit content loops. You closed the window before the podium interviews even started.

No one called. No one needed anything.

And honestly, that made sense.

You’re still under contract through December 31st- still, technically, Red Bull property- but AlphaTauri’s already been announced. You’re not just development anymore. You’re not just RedBull Racing anymore. You’re forward-facing. Pipeline material. And while no one has said it aloud, the shift’s been happening for weeks.

They’re phasing you out.

Quietly. Gently. Efficiently.

Your data access had been the first thing to go- little changes, gradual redactions. You still had log-ins, but fewer dashboards showed up when you used them. Then the assignments started thinning out. Weekly reports became biweekly summaries. Dev meeting invites stopped appearing unless someone had a specific question for you. A sim anomaly. A question about a comment you had left on the braking data a few weeks ago.

It’s not personal. It’s not even cruel. It’s just… logistics. And you got it. You get it. You do.

You’re not their girl anymore. Or, won’t be. Not in the gears-and-axles sense. You got exactly what you wanted. You’ve stopped being a cog. Now you’re something shinier. Something public. A face. A product. A name.

You’d had more access than you probably should’ve from the beginning. More control. More input. They’re only pulling back what they’d loaned in the first place.

Still.

You’d built your entire life around this place since they dumped you on the factory steps in August- broke, jagged, desperate, hungry for anything more than the Indy career you had torched to the ground. This badge. These halls. The windowless sim rooms and bitter instant coffee and shared dorm showers. It’s become your whole ecosystem.

And now?

Now you’re bored.

Not in the casual, oh-I-have-nothing-to-do sense. Not in the Instagram scroll, maybe-I’ll-go-for-a-run way. You’re untethered. No real tasks. A measly four calendar holds before the end of the year. No Gavin- he’s traveling with the team. No Alessandro- burning PTO like a matchbook before the winter build surge. No Danny- off wrapping up his last days with McClaren. Stuck, just like you. Stuck, right here in purgatory.

Lying on your back in a sterile little dorm room with your legs curled up like a child and your phone battery at nine percent. Watching the forced-air heating ruffle a stray paper on your desk, trying not to fall asleep before the year-end party even starts.

It’s not loneliness, exactly. You’ve survived worse. Objectively, you have zero complaints.

But it’s quiet in a way that makes your skin itch.

There are big things coming. Huge things. A race seat. Brand deals and sponsors. Points, even, if you play your cards right. But right now? Right now you’re still technically Red Bull. Still on their payroll. Still sleeping under their roof.

You’re not part of the machine you live in anymore. And the weight of that contradiction is making you feel… something. Not numb. Not sad. Not exactly.

Just unmoored.

The day’s gotten away from you in your spiral- cold gray light stretching thin across the dorm ceiling, your phone buzzing occasionally from across the room and left unread. You should be doing something. Hair. Makeup. Picking out an outfit for this evening’s staff year end party. Anything.

Instead, you’ve just been… still.

You can’t quite name it. The feeling in your chest like a tether’s been cut. The quiet hum of weightless boredom, pressed under the skin like a bruise that never quite blooms.

You’re still training. Still working. You show up to the gym like it’s your job- because it kind of is. Because it’s the only thing that hasn’t shifted beneath your feet lately. The rhythm, the discipline, the ache. It reminds you of the summer. The purgatory of Jos’s house. The hours you carved open just to fill them with movement. With sweat. With anything that kept you from unraveling entirely.

But this has been different.

Since you got here- since the AlphaTauri shook the marrow out of your bones and left you wrung out and trembling for your life in an ice bath- you’ve been training with intention. Not just survival. Not just control. Not just maintenance. You’ve been trying to build.

For the first time in your life, the goal isn’t to disappear.

It’s to expand.

IndyCar never cared if you were strong. They cared if you were light. No driver weight minimums. Junior series, whatever flavor you drove in any given year, same thing. Lighter was faster. Coaches, engineers, principals- always asking the same questions.

How light can you get and still drive? How many days can you go without carbs before your body starts eating your reflexes?

Smaller was better. A decade of conditioning that turned your own hunger into an enemy. Every pound scrutinized. Every calorie accounted for. Racing in those worlds meant being barely there- meant learning to cut yourself down until you fit inside the mold.

The only real advantage to being a woman in that system? You were already small. Naturally lighter. It made the weight targets a little easier- sometimes. While your male teammates were scraping muscle off themselves to make weight, skipping meals and running hot just to cut grams, you were coasting in under the line. Not because it was healthy. Not because it was fair. But because being born smaller meant you starved less.

But now?

Now you’re in F1.

Now there's a minimum. A fixed number. Now it doesn’t matter if you’re naturally small- because every pound you don’t carry is another pound your competitors get to fill with power. With strength. With muscle that helps them outdrive, outmuscle, outlast you.

You’re no longer rewarded for taking up less space. You’re punished for it. So you’ve changed.

You’ve been eating like it matters. Training like it’s math- input and output, time and tension. Your body, for the first time since before you got your first period, isn’t a compromise. It’s becoming a weapon.

You sit up slowly. Peel off your clothes. One layer at a time. Hoodie, socks, leggings, tank. Until you’re just in your underwear and bra. Cotton. Soft. Familiar.

Then you reach for the full-length mirror leaning against the wall and drag it onto the bed with you. Set it up agasint your pillows so you can see yourself. All of you. Up close.

And then you look. Really look. Take stock.

Your thighs are thicker now. Solid. Corded with new muscle, the kind that moves when you shift and flexes without trying. They press together, heavy and warm and proud. They flow into hips that have grown wider, fuller, more anchored somehow. Your waist is still there- narrow, defined- but the curve from rib to hip to thigh is smooth and deep and fucking stunning.

You twist slightly, propping yourself on one arm, and turn your attention lower.

Your ass is outrageous.

You blink. Then smile. Every inch of it earned from loading squats three times a week until you might have cried with exhaustion. It lifts high and round, fuller than it’s ever been. It’s the reason most of your jeans have become… hazardous, lately. You only have a handful of pairs left that fit at all, much less well. The shape is almost surreal- like someone photoshopped you and forgot to undo it. But it’s not fake. It’s earned. It balances the line of your back, the curve of your hips, the strength in your thighs.

You shift your hips again, slowly. Watching the way everything follows. The drag of your skin, the flex and pull of muscle. And it’s not just power. It’s not just the function of it.

It’s beautiful.

There’s a sensuality to it that catches you off guard.

Not sexual. Not quite. Not the kind of thing you’d show off for someone else. This isn’t about being wanted. You haven’t been touched in months. Haven’t been kissed. Haven’t felt the pressure of someone else’s palm against your skin or the heat of a gaze that wanted this body.

And that’s okay.

Because right now, this moment isn’t for them.

It’s for you.

You look at your stomach- still lean, but no longer hollow. Muscle built up through dedication, not revealed by deprivation. Your shoulders roll back as you shift upright, and your back pulls taut, muscles threading together like ropes under skin.

And then your eyes land on your chest.

Your bra- nothing fancy, just plain cotton- stretches over you in a way it never used to. Full. Rounded. Heavy in a way that’s new. Like your body finally got the message that it’s safe to have things now. That you’re allowed to take up space.

You trail your fingers from your sternum outward. Over the shape of yourself. The dip of your waist. The rise of your hips. The flare and the fullness and the heat pooling under your skin, not from desire- but from recognition.

This is not the body you left America with.

Not the one built for hunger. Not the one that fought, that starved, that was sold in sponsorship dollars and calories just to survive. Not the same one that felt powerless and drowned and vulnerable in pits full of men with egos that outpaced their cars.

This one is yours.

All of it. The strength. The softness. The sex appeal.

And yeah, it’s probably a little vain, the way you pose. The way you tilt your chin and arch your back and stare at your own reflection with a smirk you didn’t know you still had in you. But you don’t care.

You love her.

This new shape. This new presence. This walking, breathing proof that you are here. You deserve this space. You are every inch of who you make yourself to be.

You pull your knees up to your chest, still sitting on the bed, mirror between them, and rest your cheek on your own shoulder, watching the way your arms curve around yourself.

It’s not lost on you how much trauma lived in the old body. In the bones that didn’t bend. In the skin that always felt too tight. In the way people looked at you like a novelty or a threat or a product.

This body isn’t for them.

It’s for you. For who you’re going to be.

And it’s perfect.

Eventually… you move. Not quickly. Not decisively. Just… gradually. Like heat returning to numb limbs. You get up, still in your underwear, and pad barefoot across the cold dorm floor to the narrow wardrobe tucked beside your desk. It’s small, just to hold the things you can’t afford to let wrinkle. You’ve only opened it a handful of times since you got back from Brazil.

The contents aren’t much. A few basics. A pressed pair of jeans with a sharp, precise crease ironed down the front. Slacks. A simple blazer. At the right end, your suit hangs crisp in its plastic wrap, the one you wore to push your contract at Helmut, back when the words “development driver” still felt like something borrowed.

You touch the fabric out of habit. The pants look… impossible. Maybe, if you hold your breath and pray to Sara Blakely and her Spanx gods- oh, and don’t eat all night- but honestly, you’re looking forward to the catering spread. Besides, it’s just the staff party- it’s really not that serious.

You let them hang.

Instead, you let your fingers walk a few hangers to the left. Fingers brush something soft. Velvet. Rich, forgiving, quietly festive. Not ugly sweater festive, but more like ‘yes, we are acknowledging it’s December.’ You pull it forward.

The dress is red. Not race-car red, not attention-demanding. Just… warm. A little saturated. The kind of color that makes your skin look golden and your hair a little darker in contrast. Sleeveless. High-necked. Hits just above the knee. Enough stretch to move with you. To let the body you’ve built exist without apology.

You hold it up to your chest, glance toward the mirror still propped on your bed, and nod once. Quietly. Like you’re letting yourself agree with the version of you that smiled at her own reflection twenty minutes ago. It’s not a statement dress. It’s not supposed to be.

You pull on a pair of black nylons- semi-sheer, a soft little balance between flirtation and formality. The kind you used to wear for media days in junior formula, when you wanted to look polished but not severe. They slide up with the faintest whisper, snug but not constricting. They feel like intention.

Shoes next- your simple black pumps. Not casual, not party heels. Just clean, classic. You slip them on and they still fit the way only leather can- with loyalty. Like no matter how much the rest of you changes, these shoes will still love your feet. That feels like something. A single, stable detail in a body and world that’s otherwise brand new.

You perch on the edge of your desk to do your makeup rather than move the half-clean laundry that lives on your chair. Try not to sit in your compact while you plan your face.

Nothing heavy. Nothing loud. Just light coverage. A little shimmer. A soft sweep of blush across the apples of your cheeks that makes you look sunlit, even under factory-grade fluorescents. You gloss your lips with something pink and sheer, add a touch of mascara. Pretty. Festive. The kind of face that looks like someone you’d want to talk to at a work party without checking a credential first.

Your hair’s a little unruly from lying around until it air-dried, but it still curls easily under your hands. You twist it up in loose, polished sections, pin it in place, and finish it with a narrow ribbon tucked just above the nape of your neck. The bow is barely anything- thin, dainty. Just a little touch.

And when you finally step back from the mirror and take it all in- dress, tights, pumps, makeup, the slight shimmer on your collarbone- you don’t feel like a driver or a ghost or a PR obligation. Not really.

You feel like a girl going to a party at the end of the strangest, most transformative semester of her life. A little out of place. A little nostalgic for something that hasn’t even fully ended. Quietly proud. Quietly melancholy.

You smooth your hands down your dress once, just to feel the fabric hug your ribs. Time to say goodbye- quietly, professionally, beautifully- to the place that made you feel like someone valuable again. Even if they’re already learning how to do without you.

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The party’s better than expected.

Not flashy, not loud- just the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the low warmth of staff laughter echoing against the high factory walls. Someone’s strung lights across the ceiling beams, giving everything a soft golden tint. There’s music playing low from the overheads, just enough to keep the room moving. Food’s decent. Little platters of fussy fingerfoods that strike a balance between upscale and approachable. Drinks are free. Everyone’s at that perfect midpoint between polite and tipsy.

You’re leaned against a high table near the edge of the floor, nursing something red and fizzy in a plastic flute. The dress is holding up. The shoes haven’t betrayed you. And you’re laughing- real laughter, open and soft- because Ollie from dev is holding court like his life depends on it.

“I swear to God,” he’s saying, wide-eyed, one hand gesturing wildly, “the second I mentioned it, he looked at me like I’d confessed to a murder.”

Nicole’s giggling politely beside him- dark hair curling over her shoulders, dress tastefully low-cut, clearly groomed and pressed to the nine- and Ollie is doing absolutely nothing to hide the way he’s looking at her.

It’s not subtle.

He is making full, direct, devotional heart eyes every time she opens her mouth. You’re only half listening to the story at this point. Mostly you’re laughing at the sheer audacity of his infatuation. Like he doesn’t even care that you’re standing right here, clocking every stolen glance like it’s your actual job.

Ollie says something else- something about a lost data package and a RedBull fueled all nighter that left him hallucinating on his drive home- and Nicole tilts her head, clearly humoring him.

“That’s… so wild,” she says, all doe-eyed and glittery.

Ollie looks like he’s going to combust. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing again. You sip your drink instead, cheeks warm. For the first time all day, you feel… present. A little girlish. A little like you belong. And yet, despite the comfort of that- you feel it.

You can feel Jos moving through the room.

It’s not oppressive. Not threatening. He’s not circling like a shark, and you’re not prey. It’s just… something you’re aware of. Like tracking a storm in the distance. You always know where he is.

And honestly?

You’ve resigned yourself to it.

You know he’ll find you eventually. That’s the nature of Jos. He always does. Always appears at the edge of a moment you thought was yours, all gravel-voiced analysis and heavy handshakes and that particular brand of European proximity that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.

And you’re not exactly afraid. You never have been.

If anything- God, you almost missed him.

Jos is a lot. An exhausting amount. But he’s also sharp. Dangerous in the way only brilliant men can be. Talking to him is like fencing with live wire- strategic, quick, crackling. But you’ve never felt like the target. Not really.

You’re not sure what that makes you.

An ally, maybe.

A co-conspirator.

Because Jos doesn’t talk to you like you’re lucky to be here. He talks to you like you’re a weapon. Like you’re leverage he trusts to understand what you’re worth. Like you’re playing a game with him- and unlike with most men in this sport, with Jos, the game doesn’t end with you losing. You think. Probably. So far, at least.

Still, there’s a sliver of something colder beneath it all. A flicker of discomfort you haven’t fully looked at yet. You don’t let yourself think about that too hard. Not here. Not now.

Instead, you set your drink down and laugh again- high and bright, because Ollie has just managed to turn a telemetry error into a flirtation, and Nicole is playing along like she might just let him win. You play with the ribbon in your hair, glance sideways across the room- And, sure enough, Jos is watching. Not close. Not obvious. Just… waiting.

You adjust the strap of your dress, smooth your hands down the velvet one more time. Your glass is nearly empty. Nicole’s laughing again, Ollie’s blushing so hard it’s a health concern, and somewhere across the room, Jos Verstappen is waiting for you.

So you decide- fuck it.

If he’s going to find you anyway- if he’s already watching- you might as well meet him on your terms. Even if those terms are flimsy. Even if they exist mostly as a way to keep your spine straight and your voice level and your heart from pounding through your ribs.

You slip away from the table, leaving Ollie mid-laugh and Nicole mid-smile. Neither of them notices you go.

You push off the table and cross the floor without fanfare. Slow, steady, unbothered. Your heels click softly against the concrete. The lights above throw gold over your shoulders, and you hold your posture just right. Not stiff. Not girlish. Just composed. Whole.

You don’t know what compels you, exactly. It’s not submission. It’s not allegiance. It’s something quieter. Resignation, maybe. Or- God, maybe curiosity. You’ve danced around this enough times to know it’s coming. He’ll find you eventually. Might as well see what happens when you make the first move.

Jos tracks you the whole way. He’ss standing near the back, half-shadowed by a pillar and positioned with surgical precision- close enough to be in the mix, far enough that no one casually wanders into his orbit. He’s talking to someone from powertrains, nodding along like he’s interested, but his eyes flick toward you the moment you cross the floor.

Not obviously. Not openly. Just with the kind of stillness predators have right before they strike. Arms folded. Drink untouched. He shifts his weight once, almost imperceptibly, like he can’t believe his luck but is already plotting how to use it.

You keep your shoulders relaxed. You walk like you have nowhere in particular to be.

Jos smiles when you reach him. It doesn’t quite touch his eyes.His gaze flicks over you once- just once- but it’s loaded. Evaluating. Not lecherous, but not empty either. Like he’s cataloging the value of your appearance for some unseen ledger.

“There she is,” he says, low and pleased. “I was wondering when you’d come say hello.”

You smile. Easy. Controlled. “Thought I’d save the best for last.”

He laughs once, a short sound, dry and amused. “I like the dress.”

You resist the urge to fidget. “Thanks. Needed something that fit.”

Jos’s eyes flash at that- just a brief glint of approval, the kind that makes your skin feel seen in a way that’s not quite comfortable. Not inappropriate. Just intentional.

You sip your drink- what’s left of it- and let a small silence settle between you. The music hums along in the background. Conversation rolls across the room like static. You glance over your shoulder once, scan the space like you’re keeping track of exits. Then turn back.

And with practiced casualness, you say, “You hear about anything running this winter?”

Jos’s attention sharpens, just slightly. Barely a twitch in his jaw. But he clocks it. You keep your eyes on the middle distance and take a sip of your drink- mostly for the pause it offers- and then, casually, like you’re mentioning the weather: “I’ve been a little bored.”

Jos tilts his head. Interested. “Is that so?”

“Just... stir-crazy.” You keep your tone light. Bright. “Haven’t been in a real car since they flew Max in for brake testing.”

He gives nothing away. Just waits.

You glance out over the room like it doesn’t matter, like you’re not carefully placing each word. “I was thinking- if anything came up. A testing slot. A rally drive. Anything like that.” There. Gentle. Palatable. No pressure. Not desperation. Not even an ask, really. Just a statement. A floating suggestion.

Your voice doesn’t shift. Your shoulders stay easy. But your stomach coils tight. Because even now- even with this new body, this new deal, this new version of you- there’s still something about asking that feels like folding. Like peeling open your ribs.

Jos’s mouth twitches. Just the corner. “Hm.” That’s it. Just that. But you know him well enough to catch it. That sound- small, smug, delighted. It’s the sound of a trap closing.

Because you came to him. Because you asked.

No matter how subtle. No matter how casual. You asked. And it thrills him. Because Jos Verstappen lives for this.

He hides it well- he always does- but it’s there. The faint shift of weight toward you. The satisfied tilt of his head. The way his eyes sharpen just slightly, like the game he’s been playing has finally started to swing in his favor.

“You want me to make a call?” he asks, smooth and quiet, like it costs him nothing.

You lift a shoulder. “Only if it’s not a headache.”

He hums, looking away for a moment, already flipping through names, contacts, favors- building the scaffolding in his mind. He lets the silence stretch just long enough to prove he holds the reins. Only then does he speak.

“It wouldn’t be a single-seater,” he says finally. “Rally, most likely. Scandinavia. Snow. Cold. Not much exposure. Barely any pay.”

You don’t hesitate. “Send my paycheck straight back to the team,” you say. “Call it a sponsorship. I don’t care what it is.”

That gets his attention.

Jos studies you, eyes narrowing just slightly. Not with suspicion. With curiosity. Like he’s just thrown a line out, expecting it to hang in the water for a while- and you bit down before it even landed.

It was a test. A measure of your grit. Of your desperation. Of your understanding.

And you passed.

He leans back ever so slightly, nodding once, like he’s filing something away. “That sounds like a good time, does it?” he asks, tone dry but edged with something almost amused.

You hold his gaze. Steady. “Yes. It does.”

Another beat. He looks at you for a moment longer- really looks. Like he’s trying to figure out if you’re naive or ruthless, and whether or not it matters.

Then, almost fondly: “You’re smart to ask.”

There’s no threat in it. But there is a temperature. A charge beneath the compliment. He wants you to know you’ve made the right choice. That you’re wise to seek him out. That there’s more where that came from, if you stay close.

Jos smiles again, all teeth and calculation disguised as generosity. “I’ll be in touch. Keep your gear bag packed.”

And just like that, you’ve traded yourself for a favor. You feel it settle in your ribs. Weightless. But not free. The kind of thing that won’t show up in contracts or inboxes, but that you’ll carry all the same. Jos slips away only a moment later.

One minute he’s promising to make a few calls, and the next he’s clapping someone on the back and gliding into another conversation- like he hadn’t just offered you a taste of something sharp and sweet with a leash hidden inside.

You’re left standing near the perimeter of the room, drink still in hand, blood still humming from the conversation. It's not adrenaline exactly. Not fear. Just the slow, uneasy swell of something that feels like a contract being signed without ink.

You can feel him before you hear him. The shift in temperature. The static at your back. Max. Predictable, honestly. That Jos would drop you off right in his periphery. Fitting, truly. Inevitable.

You don’t see him approach- he moves like a shadow under a locked door. Silent. Sure. Unwanted.

But this time? You’re not caught off guard. You’re not off balance. You’re not scrambling to please, or prove, or endure. You’re tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that scrapes everything polite out of your chest and leaves nothing behind but sharp teeth and sharper instincts.

And you’re not afraid of him anymore.

Max takes position just behind your left shoulder, close enough that the heat of him skims your skin without touching it. Like a dare. Like he wants you to turn.

You don’t flinch.

You just wait. He wouldn’t have stepped forward if he didn’t have something to say. Fucking say it, Max.

“You really going for the full set, huh?” he says at last, voice low and dry. Venom tucked under every syllable like it’s something elegant. “Sponsorship. Seat. Verstappen family holiday invite.”

You blink once. Slow. Unbothered. “Jesus.”

You turn your head over your shoulder- just enough to catch the line of his mouth, the cut of his eyes. The disdain’s still there, as always, but there’s something else now. Something darker coiled just behind it. “Is this your idea of a Christmas card?” you ask.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t have to. The accusation’s already in the air between you. He’s not here to be clever. He’s here to see what you’ll do.

You inhale, sharp and silent. Then pivot on your toe, full-body now, facing him square for the first time. He’s close. Closer than you expected. Closer than anyone should be in a room full of champagne and fairy lights and factory staff pretending they aren’t watching.

You meet him at eye level. No posture. No smile. No spin.

Just you.

“I’m sorry I’m not subtle enough for you,” you say, voice steady. “But some of us don’t have the luxury of pretending we don’t need favors.”

You take a half-step forward. Not aggressive. Not passive. Just enough to reclaim the space he thought he’d filled.

“Look,” you go on, tired and clear and done with it, “I’ve got nothing to sell but my drives and my time. That’s it. So yeah, if Jos wants to hand me a favor, or a drive, or a fucking photo op, I’m going to take it. I’m going to smile, say thank you, and take everything he gives me. Because I’m not in a position to be picky.”

His jaw tightens. Barely. Just enough.

And maybe you should stop there. But you’re so fucking done. With him. With this. With the way he’s hovered all season like a storm cloud and acted like you were the one blocking the sun.

So you don’t stop.

“Seriously,” you add, biting now, “why are you standing here? Why don’t you go find another junior employee to intimidate? Do some scouting for next season. You love that shit.”

Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t budge.

But his silence isn’t power anymore. Not to you.

In two weeks, you’re out of his factory. Out of his immediate orbit. You’re done tiptoeing through his moods like they’re weather patterns. So you lean in. A breath closer. Just to twist the knife. Just because you can.

“Or maybe,” you murmur, “you want me to yell at you again.” His expression doesn’t change. But his pupils sharpen. You see it. The flash of it. That dark, sick little thing he doesn’t want to name.

You remember it. That day in the boardroom. The way he stood there, watching you unravel like it was art. Practically licking his fucking chops in the blood of a kill. Like he’d finally pulled the right string and the whole thing came tumbling down and God, wasn’t that just so satisfying.

You raise your brows now, almost playful. “Seemed like you loved it.” The air between you tightens.

Not with fear. With something else.

Something heavier. Twisted. Threaded through with adrenaline and ego and the fact that you don’t technically need to be any nicer to him than he deserves anymore- but fuck, you’ll still take the last word.

Your drink sweats in your hand. Somewhere, someone across the room laughs too loud. A champagne cork pops. Max breathes in. Sharp. Controlled. You can see the words on his tongue. You can see the war inside him- the want to snap back. To grab. To tear. But he doesn’t.

He flicks his gaze down your body instead.

Not long. Not crude. Just one slow, scalding drag of assessment. Like he’s not even sure if he’s sizing you up or taking you in. Then he tilts his head. Just a little. Voice flat. “Careful.”

You smile. Not sweet. Not kind. Just knowing. “Or what?” you say, cool and easy. “You’ll call HR? Kick me off the team?” You let the smile grow sharp. “Oh, wait. You can’t. I’m already leaving.”

His eyes narrow- barely. He’s trying so fucking hard not to react. To be cool. Detached. Unbothered. And he almost pulls it off. Almost. Because this? This isn’t a fight.

Not yet. This is play. The sick kind.

Two wild animals circling the same patch of dirt. Teeth bared, tails twitching. Neither of you quite sure if this is about dominance or the last laugh or mutual destruction- but God, don’t you both want to find out.

You take a sip of your drink. Cool and steady.

And Max- quiet, scalding Max- just stands there. Watching.

Your phone vibrates in your clutch.

You wouldn’t normally check it in the middle of a cold war reenactment with Max Verstappen, but almost everyone on your short, carefully curated no-Do-Not-Disturb list is in this room, except your parents and-

You pull it out.

Danny Ricciardo [8:42 PM] bailing on mclaren. headed your way. party still good or should we find a pub? 20 mins out

You blink. And then you smile. It hits like a burst of light- like someone cracked open a window in a room you didn’t know was suffocating you. Danny.

Your maybe-friend. Your only safe person in the entire Red Bull ecosystem. Someone who isn’t looking at you like he’s devastated you’re leaving, or like he’ll forget your name the second the paperwork clears, or like he’s waiting for God to strike you down mid-sentence.

(Max, that last one. That look is all Max.)

You type fast.

You [8:43 PM]still rolling but up to you. everyone here keeps looking at me like a kicked puppy. wouldn’t mind a drink that doesn’t have ‘compote’ or ‘infusion’ in it.

There’s no reply for a minute.

Two.

Five.

Max, then, checks his phone beside you, his thumb hovering just a little too long. You glance at him- because you can’t not- and for the first time, he looks mildly annoyed. That makes you feel excellent. The night does have hope after all. You sip your drink just to keep from smiling.

Your phone buzzes again.

Danny Ricciardo [8:51 PM]let’s go out. I’ll text when I’m close.

You straighten, pulse skipping just once. You’re not going out in this. Not with Danny. Not to a pub. Velvet dress? Ribbon hair? Absolutely not.

You glance at Max, who’s still scrolling, now with an expression like he’s trying to burn holes through his phone. Good. He can stay here with his bad mood and his weird dad. You’ve got plans. “Bye,” you murmur, not bothering to wait for him to look up.

You disappear through the side doors, heels clicking across tile. Up the stairs. Down the dim dorm hallway that’s somehow still home even when it’s already starting to forget you.

Inside your room, you move fast. Dress peeled off in one motion. You keep the nylons- they add a little warmth, and they make you feel like your legs have a little secret armor- and pull on a pair of shredded black jeans. High-rise, frayed knees, familiar as a favorite memory. A memory that is a little tight over the ass, but it’ll do.

A sleeveless top. Tighter. Cropped just enough to make your waist look like something sculpted- enough that it just barely kisses the waistband of your jeans. Black, because of course it is, but with a slight sheen that catches the dorm light.

You let your hair down. Shake it out. Pin the bow back in, low at the base of your skull.

Quick check in the mirror- yeah. That’ll do. Cute. Sharp. A little youthful. A little fuck-you. A little fuck-me.

Exactly right.

You grab your jacket. Lip gloss. Your phone. And when you leave this time, it’s not with a sense of something ending. It’s with a thrill in your chest like maybe- finally- something is about to begin. The all black is fitting- like Danny’s come to save you from your own funeral.

You’re practically skipping by the time you spot the rental SUV idling just past the front doors.

Factory lights still gleam overhead, pooling muted white against the cold pavement. You’re flushed from the party, from the hallway sprint, from the stupid quiet thrill of knowing someone actually wants to see you.

You wave once, already grinning.

Danny rolls the window down, half laughing already. “There she is! Backseat, Hollywood.”

You stop short. “What?”

He grins wider, too casual. “You’ve got the back.”

You blink. There’s a half-second- maybe less- where your brain tries to find a joke there, or context, or anything to make that sentence mean what you want it to mean.

But then you round the side and open the door-

Oh.

Okay.

That’s fine.

This is fine.

Max is in the passenger seat, half-turned toward the window, jacket collar flipped up like he’s shielding himself from the entire world. He doesn’t even look at you. Your brain tries to recalibrate.

Because you’d assumed. Of course you did. Danny texted you. Danny said let’s go out. Danny is your friend. And for a few fragile minutes, you let yourself believe that meant just you and him. That it would be easy. Familiar. Comforting.

And now-

Now you’re crawling into the backseat behind the same man you had a little verbal sparring match with not seven minutes ago. Perfect.

You clamber awkwardly across the console, half-kneeling on the leather, and stretch your arms around Danny in the world’s least ergonomic side hug.

He laughs, warm and immediate. “That’s one way to say hi.”

“You’re lucky I’m flexible,” you mutter, chin nearly in his shoulder.

“You’re lucky you smell good,” he shoots back, arms slipping around your waist just long enough to squeeze.

You pull back, cheeks pink from wind and exertion, and slide fully into the backseat.

Danny eyes you through the rearview mirror. “You look nice.”

You roll your eyes, adjusting your seatbelt. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“No, I’m saying it like you’re trouble.”

From the front, Max shifts. Says nothing.

You glance at the back of his head. His silence is louder than the engine.

Great.

This is going to be fun.

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You’re practically folded over the center console, laughing about something stupid- Danny said a phrase wrong, or you did, and now the two of you are tangled in some inside joke Max doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to. You’re taking up space like you live there- laughing, leaning in too close to Danny, warm in a way Max hasn’t seen from you in weeks. Maybe ever.

And it’s not just the posture. It’s the presentation.

Your hair spills over your shoulder, catching the light from the streetlamps overhead. Loose. Shiny. Feminine in a way that makes his throat tighten.

Your shirt rides up slightly at the back, just enough to reveal the soft curve of waist where the jeans cling a little too perfectly- black denim, snug in all the places that would make anyone stare, especially now, with your new body- louder, prouder, stronger than the one Max last saw at a weigh-in this summer. Sheer black nylons that aren’t entirely see-through, but just enough to make his eyes linger before he can snap them away.

He doesn’t look. He shouldn’t be looking. He isn’t looking.

But he can’t stop seeing.

He tries not to. Shifts in his seat like that’ll stop his peripheral vision from functioning. Like the heat creeping under his collar isn’t his problem to deal with.

He hates this.

Because it’s not just the way you look- it’s the way Danny’s looking at you. The way you’re looking at Danny. All warm and open and lit up from the inside. Like Danny’s safe. Like he’s yours. Like he’s seen something Max hasn’t.

There’s a ribbon in your hair.

A fucking ribbon.

Tied low, trailing down the back of your neck where your curls fall loose and messy, like you meant for them to look that soft. That touchable. But Max can’t stop looking at it. He hates that bow. He hates what it implies- what it softens. Like you’re approachable. Sweet. Like there’s anything gentle about you.

And he hates that it works.

Danny said it first- you smell good- and Max hasn’t been able to un-smell you since. Now Max can’t stop noticing. Something soft and expensive and a little sweet, something that clings to the heater vents. Wraps around his throat. It’s subtle. Effortless. Exactly the kind of scent that doesn’t try to draw attention but does anyway. Warm. Light. Clean. A little vanilla, maybe. A little powder. Something soft and domestic and utterly disarming, soaking into the the edge of his patience with every breath.

He wants to roll down the fucking window.

You look good. And that should be annoying. Just another fucking thing about you that takes up too much space. But it’s worse than annoying.

He hates all of it. He hates how cute it is. Not loud. Not styled to seduce. Just naturally, infuriatingly attractive. He wants to make Danny turn the car around. Wants to shout something just to ruin the mood you and Danny are building without even trying.

Because it undermines everything. The bow, the perfume, the gloss on your lips- none of it belongs on someone like you. Someone who’s clawed her way into every room, swinging elbows, spitting fire, refusing to take a single inch without drawing blood.

But now you’re in Danny’s car looking like this?

Like a girl?

Because for the first time- the first time- Max doesn’t see you as a rival, or a nuisance, or a pressure point to push until you scream.

For the first time, he sees you as a woman.

And he hates it. Hates that it’s you. That it’s now. That it's happening at all. Because you’re not supposed to be this. You’re supposed to be sharp edges and smug retorts. A storm in a Red Bull polo. Someone to fight with. Someone to prove wrong.

You’re not supposed to be cute.

You’re not supposed to be beautiful.

But you are.

And now you’re glowing in the backseat like some perfect fucking contradiction, all honeyed edges and storm-wrought eyes, and Max-

Max can’t breathe.

Because the same power that makes him want to throw something through a wall every time you talk is the same thing that’s pulling at his nerves right now. That’s twisting under his skin like a wire.

You are so goddamn alive.

Every room you walk into, you change the temperature.

Every time you speak, you rearrange the gravity.

Max clenches his jaw. Because the worst part- the part he can’t admit, even to himself- is that this isn’t new. Not really. That presence you carry, that fire, that thing that pisses him off every time you open your mouth- that’s what this is. You’re a problem. You’ve always been a problem.

And now he’s seeing what that problem looks like in black jeans and soft perfume and a bow tied at the back of your head like a dare. You’re not just a problem. You’re alluring. You’re dangerous. And Max is hating every single fucking second of realizing it.

When the car pulls up in front of the pub, you unclip your seatbelt with a soft click and glance between the two of them.

“I can check it out first,” you say, hand already on the door. “Make sure it’s halfway subtle. Not filled with factory staff or a Max fan club.”

Danny huffs a laugh, but you’re already slipping out- shoulders squared, leather sneakers hitting pavement with that easy, practiced rhythm that says you’ve never once considered asking permission to take up space.

You cross in front of the SUV, slicing clean through the headlights. And for a second- just a second- Max forgets to breathe.The way your hips move. The way the sheen of your tights catches the light through the ripped in the denim at the back of your thigh. The bow bouncing softly behind your hair as you go.

Danny’s eyebrows shoot up.

He’s watching, too. Staring, really. Full tilt. Blatant.

And not in the way Max is- bitter and defensive, trying to smother it before it spreads. Danny’s looking like someone genuinely pleased to see you. Someone who likes watching you walk. Someone who wouldn’t mind seeing you keep going and not come back, just so he has an excuse to follow.

And Max-

Max hates that, too.

You disappear into the pub, shoulders back, posture casual. And the moment the door swings shut behind you, Danny exhales.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “She looks good.”

Max doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look. Tries not to. But he can feel you out there, just like he’s always been able to feel it- occupying more than your share of the air.

Danny exhales through his teeth, a little laugh catching at the end. “She always like that?”

Max flicks his eyes toward him, annoyed already. “Like what?”

Danny shrugs, eyes still tracking the door you just disappeared behind. “You know. All... that.”

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t know what that even means. The ribbon? The legs? The presence?

Danny glances at him. A little softer now. Still watching the door, but quieter. More careful. “You knew her first, man. What’s her deal?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Max could say a dozen things.

Her deal?

Where would he even start?

He could say you are stubborn. Sharp-tongued. Obsessive. You don’t bend unless something breaks you. You’re exhausting and impressive and sometimes so fucking loud in his head it drowns out everything else.

But the truth is simpler. The truth is worse.

All Max really knows is how much it takes to break you.

That’s it.

How long you can hold your breath in the fire. How much pressure you absorb before something cracks. What your voice sounds like when you’ve been holding back a scream for hours, for weeks. What it’s like to push you into a corner until the only thing left is fight.

It’s not knowledge. It’s pathology.

And it makes him feel a little sick.

He looks away, jaw tight. “I don’t know her.” And it’s the truth, but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say. Not when Danny’s looking at him like he wants a reason to justify feeling something warm- like he’s hoping Max can explain the thing Danny’s become infatuated with. But Danny doesn’t push. Cuts himself off as your figure comes darting back across the parking lot.

You push open the car door and duck back in, breath puffing in the cold. “It’s decent,” you report, tugging your jacket tighter. “Not a lot of quiet corners, but if we can get y’all to a table fast, there’s a good chance we can get a drink or two in before the whole town realizes Verstappen’s here for pint night.”

Danny snorts and grabs the handle. “Copy that. Deploying cover fire.”

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The three of you head inside. It’s warm, a little cramped, but charming in that British-pub-on-a-Friday kind of way. Low ceilings, scuffed wood, red walls. A few tables of locals already deep into their second round, but no one looks up long enough to register who just walked in.

You claim a booth near the back- narrow, loud, good enough- and offer to grab the drinks. Danny rattles off his usual, Max mutters his without looking up, and you head to the bar, sharp-heeled and half-smirking as you go.

You come back balancing three pints in your hands, pushing one toward each of them and settling into the seat across from both. Max takes his without thanks. Danny gives you a soft, sideways look that you pretend not to see.

Small talk kicks up, carried mostly by Danny. Easy stuff. You all pretend for ten minutes that the last few months haven’t been a professional and emotional meat grinder. You have problems. Danny has problems. Max has problems. You talk about none of them. Instead, racing gossip. Car updates. A truly unhinged story from Danny about a team principal with food poisoning in Singapore. You didn’t need to know that much about Zak Brown, honestly, but you’re laughing anyways.

And then, half a beer in, Danny leans back. One arm stretched across the booth. His gaze lands on you.

“So.” He takes a slow sip. “Hollywood. You talked to anyone since moving?”

You blink. Oh. “Like… romantically?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Or whatever you call it when it’s mutual.”

You nearly choke on your beer. You cough once, cover your mouth, and wave a hand like it’ll clear the air. “Oh my God.”

Danny laughs immediately. “That bad?”

“That’s hilarious,” you sputter, wiping your mouth. “Genuinely. Peak comedy.”

Max shifts slightly, glass still in his hand but eyes cut sharp across the table. Maybe you shouldn’t talk about your life in front of him, but honestly, there’s nothing to tell. Not really.

You shake your head. “Danny. I live in a dorm room above the factory. Everyone I interact with is either married, under the age of twenty, or- ” you gesture lazily, without even looking- “him.”

Danny turns to glance at Max and immediately huffs a laugh. “Right. Right.”

Max doesn’t blink. Just lifts his beer and takes a long, steady sip.

You lean back in your seat, finally grinning. “Where do you think I’m meeting people? The break room? Am I supposed to flirt with the espresso machine?”

Danny’s shoulders are shaking now, head tilted back in open laughter. “Listen, I don’t know your life.”

“No. But you should. Because it’s deeply, profoundly celibate. Probably for the best. I don’t really plan on doing the whole distance thing.”

Danny’s still grinning when he gestures with the rim of his pint toward you. “Okay. No distance. Fair enough. So, theoretically- if someone not married, not a minor, and not mean,” he says, throwing a glance at Max that’s almost too quick to track, “were to, say… express interest. Someone from F1. That’d be off the table?”

You raise an eyebrow. “From F1?” The suspicion in your voice is thick enough to chew on. Profound. Amused, because this is a joke, clearly.

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “What? We’re not all emotionally stunted.”

You snort. “Okay. Let’s break that down.”

Danny lifts his hands. “I’m just asking questions.”

“Uh-huh. Let’s fuck one of my new coworkers,” you say dryly, “whose dating pool is a puddle. Like, I have seen more water on the floor of my shower.” Danny nearly spits his beer, but you keep going. You’re on one, now.

“Yeah, fantastic idea. Let me join the glorious tradition of passing around the same three girlfriends like a paddock carnival prize. I’ll get murdered in my sleep by a group of jealous ex-WAGs and my tombstone will just say ‘should’ve known better.’”

Danny’s howling now, and even he looks slightly ashamed about how funny he finds it. Max hasn’t said a word, but you can feel it- the bristle, the shift in his posture. That thing he does when he’s trying to stay above it and failing completely. Like he does not want to appear to be enjoying this conversation in any manner, yet can’t quite help it.

And then he speaks. Mistake. “They’re not all like that,” he says, quiet but pointed.

You both turn to look at him. Just one of those slow, synchronized movements that would be funny if it weren’t so precise. Danny raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” You just sip your beer, staring at him over the rim.

Because if Max Verstappen- the reigning king of WAG turnover- is about to defend the honor of the grid, you’re going to need another drink.

And you both wait.

And Max?

He says nothing. Because he can’t. Because his most recent ex was literally the mother of his former teammate’s child. Kelly. Kelly fucking Piquet.

She was with Daniil. Had a baby with him. Then moved on to Max like it was a change in season. And Max, to his credit- or to his utter lack of shame- never said a word. Just took what he wanted, like he always does.

The silence stretches.

Danny takes a sip of his beer. You take another.

And the look you both give him- matching, amused, pointed- is louder than anything either of you could’ve said. Max doesn’t flinch. But the muscle in his jaw ticks.

Yeah. That’s what you thought. Down, boy.

The conversation drifts. Eventually, even Max and Danny start talking- about tire strategy, about something ridiculous Christian said in a meeting last month, about a simulator bug that made the steering rack twitch even under a full shutdown like a haunted marionette. You know the one. You had to unplug the wheel entirely each night just to keep it from scaring the shit out of you after 9 pm.

You half-listen, sipping your beer, watching the crowd thicken near the bar. Observe the slow turn of a face or two across the room- but everyone goes back to their own beers, their own conversations.

You’re part of the table, but not the conversation. Just a warm body holding one corner down. And honestly, it feels kind of nice. To not be the one driving the story. To let your posture soften, to let your brain go quiet for a minute.

Max is talking to Danny now- something about the setup in Brazil and how god-awful the outside line was that weekend. You’re half-listening, enough to track the rise and fall of his voice, the occasional gesture of his hand, but your mind drifts.

Danny is still nodding along. Still laughing in the right places. But you notice it- once, twice, then again.

His eyes keep darting over to you.

The first glance is quick. Curious, even. The second lingers longer. Long enough that you glance up and catch it. He doesn’t look away. By the third time, he’s full-on watching you.

Like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen in weeks. Like maybe he’s not just being polite anymore.

You glance down at your drink, the rim of your glass smudged with a faint print of gloss, and try not to fidget. It’s not romantic. Not exactly. But it’s focused. Intentional. He’s looking at you like he forgot what Max was even saying.

And Max notices.

You feel it in the fractional pause in his cadence. The way his voice flattens slightly at the edges. His story loses shape. His next sentence tapers off like he’s forgotten the punchline or just doesn’t feel like delivering it anymore.

There’s a lull- brief but open- and Danny jumps on it like he’s been waiting all night for the gap. Turns to you fully.

“You really are fun, you know that?” he says, leaning a little closer, the kind of grin on his face that usually means trouble- but not in a mean way. Somewhere between beer two and beer three, and all of him just buzzing with charm and distraction.

You blink, startled out of your haze, but smile anyway. “I hope so. Would hate to be boring on top of everything else.”

Danny’s smile softens. His voice drops half a register. “No. Not just fun. Like- bright. You glow when you’re around people you like.” That makes you pause. It’s sweet. Really sweet. And unexpected. You’re not exactly sure what to do with it.

Not in a romantic way. Not really. It’s just Danny being Danny- charming, loose around the edges, ADHD running the conversation like a DJ with a broken crossfader. You’ve gathered that he’s always this side of a flirt, especially after a couple drinks. But still, something about the way he says it lands. The way his attention keeps snapping back to you like a rubber band.

You smile, wide and sheepish. “You’re just saying that because I got the drinks,” you tease, nudging his foot under the table.

Danny laughs. “Maybe. But it’s still true.”

Max, across from both of you, exhales like he’s trying not to audibly gag. And then- because he cannot help himself- he drops the hammer. “Right,” Max says, voice flat. “Just wait ‘til you see her lose it in a meeting. Then you’ll really see her glow.”

You blink.

Danny turns.

Max sips his beer, casual. Lethal. “Full meltdown. Everyone stopped talking. I think someone apologized to her, which was insane, because she was the one yelling.”

You can feel the flush rise up your chest like a fuse.

Because how dare he. You stare at him. Stunned. Furious. You can’t even speak yet.

Because he left out everything.

He left out the weeks of poking and prodding. The whispered digs. The anonymous feedback dropped into your reports. The pointed questions in front of senior staff. The deliberate redactions in your sim notes that made you look wrong even when you weren’t.

The mother-fucking-Diet-Coke.

He left out how he made you snap. Just this. This version. You, unhinged. Overreacting. Embarrassing. And now he’s feeding it to Danny like you’re some unhinged liability who just couldn’t keep her pretty little mouth shut in a meeting.

Max takes a slow sip of his beer. God, he looks so fucking pleased with himself.

But then- Danny laughs. Hard.

You blink again, confused.

Danny’s eyebrows go up. “No way. Her? C’mon.”

He looks at you, grinning. “You? You’re the meltdown type?”

Your mouth opens, words fighting their way up your throat, then closes again. Because what are you supposed to say? That it’s true? That you did raise your voice, that you did storm out, that you did send a stack of paperwork flying over the top of Max’s head and let it rain down like confetti?

That Max got what he wanted?

Danny leans back. “Nah. Don’t believe it. Not Hollywood. Not our girl.” He says our girl, like Max might share a claim to any part of you but your absolute contempt.

You glance at Max. He’s still staring into his glass. But his jaw is tight now. Just slightly. Like the moment didn’t go the way he planned. Danny bumps your foot under the table again, teasing. “You’d have to be a menace to get her to snap.”

You lean forward slightly, eyes still locked on Max, voice just loud enough to cut through the hum of the pub.

“Yeah,” you say. “A real fucking menace.”

Max doesn’t flinch. But his next sip of beer is sharp, and silent. But you can’t gloat on it for long, because there’s something about the room, the bar, the energy that’s… changing. You sneak a glance over the boys.

A couple glances from across the pub. Someone nudging someone else. A phone tilted in your direction, not discreetly enough. The laughter from your table a little too loud, your faces a little too familiar.

You’re not famous-famous. Not like them. But you’ve got enough edge now that your name rings a bell. And when you’re sitting across from two men who look very much like Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo on a Friday night, wearing a shirt that fits a little too well and a bow in your hair that people seem to notice more than they should- it adds up.

You clock it before either of them. So you slide your empty glass across the table and say, “Time to go.” No one argues.

Outside, the air is colder than you expect. Your breath fogs. Max shrugs into his coat without a word. Danny smiles, easy and relaxed, spinning his keys once before offering them to you.

“You good to drive? We can get a cab if we need to.”

You nod. “One beer. You guys had, what, two? Three?”

Max grunts. Danny grins, a little shrug, boyish. “I was thirsty.”

You slide into the driver’s seat. Max takes the passenger side without asking, which- yuck. Bad manners. Danny climbs in back. The plan’s simple: drop them off at the hotel. You’ll take Danny’s rental car back to the factory, bring it back to him tomorrow.

Easy.

But when you pull up to the curb, the quiet lingers just a little too long. You put the car in park. Danny leans forward between the seats, voice low and warm.

“You want to come in? Just for a drink. Hotel bar or my room- whatever’s less weird.” You blink. Not thrown off, not uncomfortable- just surprised. Max stiffens beside you. Danny’s smile doesn’t waver. “Just to hang out. You’ve been in factory jail for weeks.”

You glance at him. Then Max. Then back again. “I mean- sure,” you say, casual. “I’ll come in for a little.”

And that’s when Max says it. “I’ll come too.”

You turn.

Danny blinks.

Max’s expression doesn’t change. Still casual. Still detached. “If we’re doing a nightcap. Why not.”

Danny hesitates. Just a beat. “You literally said you were going straight to bed.”

Max shrugs. “Changed my mind.”

You stare at him. “You really don’t have to- ”

Max cuts you off. “I want to.”

And that’s it. Decision made.

You press your lips together, amused despite yourself. Danny sighs, a little dramatic. “Alright. Boys’ night plus you, then.”

You shake your head and kill the engine. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Max’s jaw ticks as he gets out. He’s already regretting all of it. But the idea of Danny and you alone- in a hotel bar with mood lighting, or on a couch, or anywhere near a bed- is worse.

If Danny falls for you, Max won’t survive it. He is not losing custody of his best friend to you.

So tonight?

He’s not letting either of you out of his sight.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

One drink turns into four.

You’re not even sure how. One minute you’re perched on the edge of the couch in Danny’s hotel suite, shoes still on, sipping something floral and deceptively strong. The next, you’re flat on your back on the carpet, legs splayed out under the coffee table, laugh-crying into your forearm.

You can’t breathe. You cannot breathe.

Because Max- Max- is pacing the room, red-faced and animated, shouting over Danny while they argue about whose fault it was that the side of Max’s caravan sheared off halfway through their marketing stunt at the RedBull Ring five years back.

“No, no, no- you hit me!,” Max says, pointing aggressively with his gin and tonic like it's a laser pointer of truth. “You always do this- !”

“I was being cinematic!” Danny yells, already wheezing. “It was for the shot!”

“For the shot?! It was a caravan, not a drone sequence! You tipped my caravan over!”

You’re howling.

There are tears streaming down your face. Your stomach hurts. You’re half convinced you might actually piss yourself on the floor of a Milton Keynes hotel if they keep going. And you don’t know if Max is actually funny or if you’re just drunk enough to believe he is- but either way, this is the funniest thing you’ve heard in weeks.

Maybe ever.

You manage to lift your head just enough to wheeze, “Please stop talking- I can’t breathe- ”

Danny falls off the arm of the couch, landing next to you in a heap. ““I was winning!!” he gasps again, absolutely beside himself.

Max throws his hands in the air, grinning like a lunatic. “You were going to kill us!”,

You’re laughing so hard now that it’s silent- just your mouth open, body shaking, face buried in the hotel carpet.

You should not be this happy. Not here. Not now. Not with them. But God, for the first time in months, the ache behind your ribs isn’t heavy. It’s light. Not this isn’t terrible, not this is actually kind of enjoyable, but genuine, rib cracking fun.

You can’t help but think it again, horrifyingly, as he gears up for another round of arguing with Danny. Max Verstappen- stone-faced, growling, rage-fueled Max Verstappen- might actually be funny. The world is upside-down. And you’re just drunk enough to love it.

At some point following drink four, Danny tries to scoot closer to you on the couch.

It’s not dramatic- just a lean-in, knee bumping yours, shoulder dipping slightly in your direction as he cracks open another story. You don’t really clock it. You’re still laughing, still breathless from whatever Max just said about how fucking terrible the sausages they cooked at the end were.

But Max sees it.

Max clocks it immediately.

And before Danny can even shift his weight again, Max moves- fast and thoughtless, dropping down right between you like he’s claiming a spot that was always his. “I mean, you could taste the propane,” he cuts in, reaching across you both for a half-empty can of tonic. “I think that’s when I realized I am an awful cook.”

Danny blinks. His arm is still outstretched where it was trying to find the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

Now it’s hovering awkwardly in midair behind Max’s neck.

You blink too, a little disoriented, because now Max is suddenly close- like really close- one leg pressed against yours, his shoulder brushing yours every time he gestures. He’s not even looking at you, just ranting about how Danny “none of it was the same after he left,” but the space between you has evaporated.

Danny tries again a few minutes later- after he stands to make another round of drinks, another bout of story-laugh-shouting that has you giggling into your wrist, head thrown back against the couch cushion.

Danny drops on the arm of the couch as he hands you your drink, shifts toward you. Barely. Just trying to close the distance. Maybe bump your shoulder. Maybe nudge his knee next to yours again.

Max leans back.

Elbows wide. Legs spread. Like he’s stretching- only somehow, his stretch ends with his knee fully pressed against yours and his arm slung behind you on the couch. Not quite touching you. But close enough that the heat of him is a presence. Enough to make you stand too, vacate the space Max clearly needed to manspread into, and drop down on the far side of the couch. Max between you and Danny. Again. It’s fine. It’s better even, because you can kick your feet up.

Danny narrows his eyes. Clears his throat. Mate, you are fucking this up for me.

Max doesn’t even glance at him. Doesn’t notice. Or rather, he pretends not to. Just keeps sitting there.

Because as far as he’s concerned, he’s just protecting his friend. That’s all. Keeping things in check. Hogging Danny, maybe, but only because he doesn’t want him tangled up with someone who ruins everything she touches.

That’s the reason.

And it keeps happening. You’ve noticed, even through the gin haze.

Every time Danny leans in- just slightly- Max inserts himself like it’s a sport. When Danny shifts toward you on the couch, Max shifts further. When Danny makes a joke, Max cuts in before you can answer. When Danny starts a story, Max finishes it.

You’ve moved to the armrest. Then the cushion beside it. Then leaned onto the floor with your back to the couch.

Each time, Max finds you.

It’s gotten to the point where you’re halfway through a laugh and suddenly there’s a knee pressed into yours and Max is talking again, louder, sharper- about you, at you, through you.

Like just by existing, you’ve ruined something that was his.

You try to ignore it.

Try to keep drinking. Keep smiling. Talk less, if only it means trying to hang onto the little bit of joy left in the night.

But the last straw comes when Danny tosses an arm across the back of the couch, joking about some fucked up F1-themed wedding he saw on Instagram- complete with matching helmets- and Max just has to cut in.

“Hey, maybe you can sell your wedding to SkySports,” he says, all casual menace. “Or maybe not. Wouldn’t want a public meltdown broadcasted when you go full-bridezilla.”

Your entire body stills, because what normal fucking person would ever say that?

Danny freezes, stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares like his favorite dog just shit on the floor of the White House. And for a long moment, the room is just… quiet.

Then, you turn your head. Slowly. You speak. Too sweet. “Max?”

He glances over, cocky as hell.

You smile. Bright. Lethal. “I would rather lick the inside of a fucking racing boot than sit next to you for one more minute.”

Danny chokes on his drink. You stand, grab your phone, and type out a rideshare request in record time.

Max shrugs, already halfway smug. “I’m just-.”

You cut whatever bullshit he had loaded up off at the knees. “-you were just shutting the fuck up, thanks.”

You don’t even wait for a reply. Just turn to Danny- softening your expression, letting the warmth return. “Thanks for tonight,” you say, and mean it. “I had fun. I’ll see you around.”

And then you’re gone. Door swinging gently shut behind you.

Danny stares at it. Still holding his lowball glass of ice. Still seated on the couch, still half stuck in the dream where he was supposed to be the one walking you out. Getting a real date set. Maybe a kiss, if he’s being wishful. At the very least, not ending the night like this.

Max exhales. “You’re welcome.”

Danny turns slowly. “Sorry?”

Max shrugs. “You were about to make a mistake. I saved you.”

Danny just stares. “You think she’s a mistake?”

“I know she is.”

“Right.” Danny nods, lets it hang for a moment. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

Silence.

Max sits back like it’s a game he just won. Like he didn’t just gut the night with a single, well-placed knife between her ribs.

“I liked her,” Danny says, finally. Quiet. Not for sympathy. Just the truth.

Max doesn’t say anything. Because he could see Danny liked you, at least a little. And he did fuck it up. On purpose. He watched Danny lean in- watched him light up like you were something precious- and he couldn’t let it happen.

Not because he wanted you. But because Danny did. And something about that felt too threatening. Too unstable. Too real. So he ruined it.

And he’s still not sorry.

Because in Max’s mind, he didn’t sabotage Danny’s shot with a good thing- he saved him from a bomb that hadn’t gone off yet. He just doesn’t know how to explain that in a way that doesn’t make him sound like the jealous asshole he refuses to believe he is.

So instead, he leans back. Folds his arms. And lets the disappointment settle between them, thin and quiet and heavy as sleep.

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Series Masterlist

A/N: Back from the dead with a 31 pager! Definitely struggling a little bit recently, and I hate that feeling of being 'in debt' to you guys with chapters, so I am going to try to make a push for a few releases this week, don't hate me if it doesn't go accordingly.

On my hands and knees begging for feedback and your commentary on the story as it quite literally is my only mental reward for the hours I am putting in. It makes my little ADHD brain go brrrr

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv33 #mv1 #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1

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oddlydescriptive · 3 months ago

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When I get bored I go back and re read the whole series again

Sorry I’ve been a little MIA I have like… 45 pages to release tomorrow. I got a little bit stuck, but not too bad. I have tomorrow off to post and edit. ❤️

Also random but I got a goat. She’s cool.

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oddlydescriptive · 3 months ago

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Just finished the most adorable chapter ever. 66 and Danny are so cute together. I feel like their dynamic is so sibling coded I am going to die.

Also, how many other people know of her 'Dramatic' antics? Are there whispered rumored about her? That she walked right in with a cowboy hat and a contract and apparently they couldn't say no? Doses anyone secretly know about the meeting in which she bamboozled Max with her screams? Do they admire her? Are they scared? Are they all absolutely in love?

Also, please tell me Max is going to loose his Dutch shit when he sees how goon she is with Danny. He might think she is stealing his best friend. Lol.

Also. What do you mean we are getting closer to the scen where this whole thing started?are you referring to the... The kiss? I might just actually die.

As always love to see your updates. 😘

Yes. The kiss is nigh. 🫣 Don’t worry if it feels like a weird time- it won’t kill our tension. I promise.

And we will see how her relationship with Danny plays out- I feel like as we see him more, Yuki really starts to fill in that sibling role of deeply unserious but still caring. Danny and her do become close close friends, however. I’m curious if anyone has picked up on the little breadcrumbs of the personal styles and dynamics that will ultimately become a great source of stress between her and Danny. (If not it’s okay, we’ve just barely laid the foundation. But when you do finally see it later on, you can definitely look back to their very first handful of moments and go OH! it was there the whole time.)

As for the screaming match, I think that’s been locked down pretty hard as a need to know thing- RedBull doesn’t want that kind of internal conflict exactly advertised (that doesn’t mean Alessandro and Ollie and their little dev team didn’t gossip about it over coffee.) Can you imagine what the press would have to say about Max, king (and villain) of the grid, showing abusive behavior to a female rookie? Yeah, Christian’s gonna keep that as quiet as he can.

But in general, I think the energy surrounding her is mostly contained to the factory for now- to the people who work with her and know that she is NOT a hack, she is NOT a stunt, and she IS very talented and willing to work hard. But- we are starting to see the curiosity, from business and personal perspectives, starting to crop up from some very legitimate people.

And finally….

Oh, Maxie boy. He’s going to have some feelings. I can’t even speak to them really because I don’t even know where to start. Who fucking knows with that boy. Well, you’ll see. It will take just a little more time to flesh it out properly, deliciously, but believe it or not- things have been set into motion.

More Jos in the next two chapters as well!

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oddlydescriptive · 3 months ago

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Reset, Chapter Sixteen

Series Masterlist

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It’s not even a busy morning.

No press. No track time. No simulation schedule hanging over your head. Just a quiet kind of factory day- the kind that almost tricks you into thinking this job is normal.

You pull your door closed behind you with a soft click, the second-floor dorm hallway half-lit in the way Milton Keynes always is this early. Gray light through narrow windows. The hush of coffee brewing somewhere in the distance.

You glance down at the clipboard in your hand- notes, updates, nothing urgent- and step toward the terrace that lines the upstairs dorms. You’re barely awake. Hair not exactly styled, just swept up in a claw. Wide leg jeans that suit your age more than your role. A team polo you pulled out of the designated not-clean-but-not-dirty chair in your room.

Just a normal morning.

And then you see him.

Danny Ricciardo.

Right below you, in the open stairwell where the lobby meets the meeting rooms. Standing there like he’s always belonged. Like he hasn’t just changed the chemical makeup of your morning by existing in your field of vision.

You freeze.

Not because you’re nervous. Not because you’re panicking. Not exactly.

It hits you like a silent echo- how close it was. How this whole thing almost unraveled without warning. Like realizing your rearview is filled with the aftermath of a crash you somehow missed by inches while you were doing your makeup in the mirror.

You’d known the names floating around- of course you had. You’d studied the landscape like a battlefield. Watched the rumor mills spin up smoke and shadow.

Because you knew, of course. Everyone knew. The whispers were loud in the hallway: that big names were still unsigned. That teams were taking meetings in side rooms and sending polite feelers to anyone with a name and a pulse. That the paddock doesn’t sleep- and monogamy isn’t owed to drivers. Especially not to drivers like you.

That’s why you wrote your contract like a war plan. The minimum salary. The forfeited sponsorships. That humiliating seven-million threshold handed over like a blood tithe just to guarantee your place on the starting grid. Every line item cut with one thought in mind- make yourself the obvious choice. Make yourself cheaper than the next best name.

And now, that name is standing ten feet away. Laughing.

You grip the rail. Just for a second. Because your heart’s doing that weird thing it does when adrenaline hits late. After the danger’s passed. When it’s just you, standing in the wreckage that didn’t happen.

Reserve contract. Has to be. It’s all that’s left. You suddenly feel every inch of the reality you’re standing in. Your contract had felt brilliant at the time. Ruthless. Efficient. And now, with Danny here- smiling like the sun- it feels like maybe it was just barely enough. Like if you’d hesitated. Blinked. Taken one extra breath. He’d be in the seat. And you wouldn’t. And you don’t know what about that hits first. The pressure or the shame.

He’s here. In the building. On the books. And if you’re right, his name now sits directly behind yours on the team hierarchy. Not just metaphorically. Literally. And that means the pressure to stay ahead- the pressure to deserve being ahead- just turned lethal.

Pressure, because now there’s a man with wins under his belt and charm for days seated just behind you on the roster. And shame, because- fuck- you like Danny. You’ve liked him since the days you had less than 500 instagram followers. As a driver. As a presence. As someone who made the sport seem lighter, once. And now you like him as a person. What little you know of him, anyway.

And you’re not proud of this, but a part of you wonders if he resents you. If he was eyeing the seat you now occupy. If he was waiting for the call you got. He must’ve been, right?

Because you know how this game works.

You’ve spent your entire adult life studying it like a second religion. No one just… sits out. Not someone like Danny Ricciardo. Not someone with the record, the name, the fans. He didn’t come back into the Red Bull ecosystem just for photo ops and test laps. He was waiting. Watching. Poised in the wings for someone to blink.

And for one horrifying moment, you think- what if he wasn’t waiting for someone. What if he was waiting for you specifically. To fail. To flinch. To fall just short. What if your seat was his backup plan?

And you know that shouldn’t matter. But it does. Because he’s Danny fucking Ricciardo. And you’re the girl who got signed onto what you’re pretty certain was the cheapest contract of the year.

You swallow hard. Try to bury the thought. But it’s like trying to swallow glass. The pressure builds in your chest- slow and mean and impossible to name. A compound emotion. Embarrassment and fear and defiance all braided together so tight they could strangle you.

You shift your weight. Adjust the sleeve of your jacket. The smile is already sliding into place before he even notices you. Not a real one. Not reight now. More like a brace. Something to soften whatever comes next. To protect against the possibility that when he does see you, the first thing in his eyes is regret. Or worse- disappointment.

Because that’s the sickest thought of all, the one you don’t dare say out loud: What if he thinks you don’t deserve it? What if he’s right?

And then-

Danny glances up. Catches you.And the entire moment shatters. He lights up like it’s a goddamn Pixar movie. Bright, unfiltered, delighted. Like someone’s plugged him into a socket. “There she is!” he shouts, like this is a reunion and not the second time you’ve spoken in your life.

You blink. Half-smile. “Morning.”

Danny cups a hand around his mouth. “You gonna come say hi, or do I need to find a ladder?”

You exhale. You don’t want to laugh. But you do, just a little. You make your way down the stairs, heartbeat still slightly off-tempo, half-expecting the awkward twist that usually comes with this kind of moment- something territorial or weird or backhanded.

But Danny? Danny grins like the sight of you just made his day. “Didn’t think I’d see you here this early,” he says, slouching comfortably against the wall like this is all casual. “Fuck me, I didn’t even think I’d see me here this early.”

You don’t tell him 8:30 a.m. is typically about the time you pause your real job and start fucking around with the development team. Just… play it cool. “Factory day,” you say. “You?”

He shrugs, all loose limbs and mischief. “Same. Bit of onboarding. Bit of PR nonsense. Got to sign my name under the rules they only made because of me. You know. Legacy stuff.” He’s wearing Red Bull gear, but it looks lived-in on him already. Like the team doesn’t weigh him down. Like he fits here in a way you’re still learning to.

That pulls a quiet laugh from you. “Did you get your own PowerPoint slide?”

“Oh yeah. Slide three. Big photo. Caption said ‘Don’t.’”

You huff once. “That probably tracks.” Danny smiles at that- wide and uncomplicated. Like he’s actually glad to be talking to you. You’re still trying to find the edges of that. Of him.

“How’s it going?” he asks. “Since the big news?”

You shrug. “Busy.”

“Good busy?”

You pause. “Overwhelming busy.” He hums in understanding, doesn’t push. Just sips his coffee. For a beat, neither of you speak. You could leave. Say you’ve got sim. But you don’t. Not yet. “You’re- what, reserve and media?” you ask.

“Yeah. Chief Vibes Officer.” He grins, teeth flashing, and tilts his head. “You’re not doing press?”

You shake your head. “Not until after lunch. Thought I’d sit in on some development meetings.”

Danny makes a face like he’s genuinely impressed. “God, I don’t miss those.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, I don’t mind. They’re interesting. Besides, I’m still in my earn your keep phase.”

“You say that like it ends.” You glance sideways, a little surprised by the honesty in it. But it’s not bitter. Just... real. From someone who knows. His voice isn’t heavy, not exactly. But there’s something buried under the words- fatigue, maybe. Or memory. A flicker of something unspoken.

And then, like he’s shaking it off, he claps his hands together once- sharp enough to break whatever thread had started to pull taut between you. “Hey, at least Italy has the better food between the factories.”

You snort. “Fuck, I hope so. I already miss the food in Brazil. Seasoned.”

Danny groans like it’s physically painful. “Right? I really need to stop signing for all these British teams. I would consider defecting for some good fucking food.”

You lift a brow. “You defecting to Ferrari?”

“I said defecting, not self-sabotaging.”

You laugh, and the last of the tension melts off your spine. Whatever pressure you'd built in your chest- about him, about the seat, about what you thought he might think of you- starts to loosen, piece by piece.

And Danny? He just smiles again, a little more quietly this time. "Trust me," he says, tone gentler now, like it's meant to land somewhere between reassurance and promise. "You're gonna be just fine."

He stretches, arms overhead with a theatrical groan like he’s been standing for hours instead of minutes. “Well,” he says, checking the time on his watch like it has anywhere to be, “I should probably go pretend I care about lighting angles and camera placement.”

There’s something a little boyish about the way he moves- light on his feet, like he’s just breezing through life. You wonder what it’s like to carry a career like his and still manage to smile like that. To be adored, displaced, recalled, and still show up to the factory like the air doesn’t feel different now.

You step toward the other hallway, toward the quieter, secure wing where the development offices live, but pause when he calls out again.

“Hey,” he says, a little more offhand this time. “You staying in for lunch, or…?”

You blink. “Probably? Why?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. If we’re both stuck here, maybe we could- ” He hesitates, not quite finishing the thought, then picks it back up like it wasn’t supposed to matter. “Grab food. Or hang out after. Whatever works.”

There’s a pause. Not long, but enough for something warm to bloom in your chest. Confused. Cautious. Curious.

Your heart doesn’t exactly leap. It just shifts. A small flicker, like the hallway lights adjusting overhead- brightening half a stop without explanation. Something about the offer lands in you sideways. Not with suspicion. Just… disbelief.

You’ve been scraping by for so long- focused, feral, alone in the way ambition often is- that it takes a beat too long to recognize the shape of it. Human interest. Social warmth. An invitation that doesn’t come with a contract or a press schedule or a steering wheel. Just... Danny. With a coffee in one hand and a casual offer in the other. You realize, with something like awe, that this might be the first time a fellow driver- someone with history, with wins, with fans and sponsors and goddamn lore- has looked at you and offered company without calculation.

You nod before you’ve really thought about it. “Yeah. Sure. If timing works.”

Your voice sounds normal, you think. Hopefully. It doesn’t betray the small chaos behind your ribs. Because what the hell do you even say to that? Is this what people do? Just… ask? There’s a theory somewhere in your head about how to make friends on the grid. Something about shared flights and coffee orders and long-haul bonding. But theory and practice don’t always match.

Still. You’re not an idiot.

You know what it feels like when someone doesn’t want you around. Max made a fucking science of it. So whatever this is- whatever Danny is offering- it feels… like the opposite. And that’s almost too much to process at once.

Danny flashes that easy grin again, quick and blinding. “Cool. I’ll find ya. See ya round, gr-” He stops in the middle of his sentence, looks like he’s thinking for a half a beat- if you didn’t know better, you’d think he’d forgotten your name.

You just look at him back. “What?”

Danny shrugs and steps back a smidge. “Nothin’. Just gonna have to find something to call ya. Grid barbie doesn’t quite fit. Sounds a bit sexist, no? Don’t you worry, it’ll come to me. Anyways-” And just like that, he’s gone- walking backward for a few steps like he’s trying to make you laugh again, then turning down the hall with a lazy wave, whistling something you don’t recognize. You’re left standing in the same spot, clipboard tucked under your arm, pulse just slightly irregular in a way that doesn’t feel like stress. Not really. Just… disorientation.

Because what even was that?

He wasn’t flirting. That wasn’t flirting. You’ve had flirting. You’ve had sponsorship flirting and juvenile flirting and grown-up flirting and transactional, barbed wire flirting from someone who used to wrap your braid around his fist in bed. That wasn’t this.

This was-

God, was that him trying to be friends?

You stare at the space he left behind for a second longer than necessary. You feel- God, it’s so stupid- but you feel almost giddy. Not like a crush. Not really. More like someone cracked open a window in a house that’s been closed for months. The air smells different now. Better. Freer. Hopeful, in a way that doesn’t have teeth.

You shake your head once, trying to collect yourself, and turn toward the dev wing. You breathe out. Light. Uneven. Not quite a laugh, but close. It doesn’t mean anything. Not really. Just lunch. Just company. Just a man who seems pathologically incapable of treating the world like it’s sharp.

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The dev meeting wraps twenty minutes early- an honest-to-God miracle in a room full of engineers who usually treat meeting end times like polite suggestions. You shake a few hands, nod through a couple of quick debriefs, and find yourself drifting.

You don’t head straight back to your dorm. Don’t even head toward the sim bays like muscle memory usually dictates. Instead, your feet angle toward the media wing- just to see. Just to wander. You’re curious, so what? Who wouldn’t be?

The door’s open when you get there, spilling light and laughter into the hallway like someone left a window cracked. You pause in the entryway, half-shadowed behind a corner, and watch.

Danny Ricciardo is on camera- mid-segment, clearly- and putting on an absolute fucking masterclass in media control. He’s sitting on a high stool in the center of the frame, arms folded in mock-serious concentration, brows furrowed in exaggerated focus.

The screen behind him flashes:

“DANIEL RICCIARDO: AUTOCOMPLETE INTERVIEW” We let Google finish the question… he has to answer it.

The current prompt glows across the screen: “Does Daniel Ricciardo…”

He clicks the next reveal.

“…actually own a winery?”

Danny gasps, hands over his heart like he’s just been outed on national television. “Who told you,” he deadpans. “Was it Max? I knew he couldn’t keep a secret.”

Off-screen, the crew laughs. Danny leans forward, palms braced on his knees now, like he’s letting everyone in on the joke. “Okay, sort of. Vineyard, no. Label, yes. By which I mean I drank an entire bottle of red once and said, ‘I could totally do this.’ Then I found someone a lot better at making wine than me. So here we are.”

The room crackles with laughter.

And God- he’s good at this. So good. Like the camera isn’t even there. Like being adored is just his default state. The energy he radiates isn’t smug, it’s symphonic- timed, practiced, pitch-perfect. Confident without taking up all the oxygen. Self-deprecating without selling himself short. You’ve seen so many people, drivers or otherwise, try to thread that needle and end up strangling their entire personality in the process. But not Danny.

Danny makes it look easy. Like the whole press junket is a party he’s hosting, and the rest of you are just lucky to be invited.

You lean against the doorway, out of sight, arms crossed, biting back a grin.

Another question pops up on the screen behind him. “Is Daniel Ricciardo…”

He smirks. “Dangerous.”

“…driving for McLaren 2023?”

Danny gasps again, mock betrayal in his voice. “Wow. Google really doesn’t keep up, huh?” He shakes his head. “Nope. I ghosted them. Swiped left. Got back together with my ex. You know how it is.”

He says it with such lightness, like the thing that nearly derailed his career is just a punchline now. Like he’s taken the weight of it and cracked it open to let everyone see it’s hollow. You wonder how much practice that took. You wonder if it ever hurts.

And then-

He sees you.

Danny’s whole face lights up, brighter than it already was- which should be impossible, and yet. “Hey! Look who it is!” He gestures, voice still warm, still very much on. “Come here!”

You blink, startled. Point to yourself like me? But he’s already nodding, waving you into frame. “C’mon, c’mon,” he says. “You gotta help me out. I need backup.”

It’s still filming. You know that. You feel the familiar click of the PR instinct sliding into place- shoulders back, smile calibrated, voice dialed to somewhere between approachable and sharp. You step into the light, ponytail bobbing, eyes wide and charming.

“Morning,” you say, like you haven’t been standing off-camera for three minutes analyzing his social strategy like it’s your second job. “Is this a self-roast session or an interview?”

Danny mock-gasps. “Both. Welcome to Red Bull. Sit down. Suffer with me.”

The crew laughs again, and someone rolls a second stool into frame. You take it, legs crossed, posture clean. The screen refreshes.

“Daniel Ricciardo how many…”

Danny holds out his hands. “Please let it be ‘race wins.’”

“…tattoos?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “You’ve got a few, huh?”

“Oh, this one is fun.” He starts holding his fingers up, mouthing the numbers out to himself like even he’s lost track. He tugs his shirt collar down just enough to flash a small one on the tawny stretch across the top of his pec, like he’s checking that yep, still there.

You fake a scandalized expression. “This is family programming, Ricciardo.”

Danny shrugs, drops his shirt. “I ran out of fingers. They can Google it. It’s what got us here.”

The next card loads.

“Does Daniel Ricciardo like…”

He reads the first word, then glances sideways at you. “Oh no. I’m scared.”

“…pineapple on pizza?”

You snort before he even answers.

Danny places both hands over his heart. “God, this question is a trap. I did such a good job of not actually answering this last time.”

You lean into him, into the camera. “There’s a right answer here. Remember, you’re technically half-owned by an Italian team next season. Tread lightly.”

“I knew this was a test.” Danny shifts, eyebrows raised. “Okay. Fine. Yes. On occasion. But- hear me out- it should have a little pizzazz. Like a chili oil drizzle or gorgonzola instead of regular cheese.”

You nod slowly, solemnly. “Acceptable.”

And just like that, the rhythm clicks. You can feel it. The give-and-take, the volley. You’ve done media before. You’ve done it well. But it’s rare- so rare- to be in the room with someone who matches the pitch without overpowering it. Someone who knows how to throw the spotlight and share it.

You’re still half-analyzing the mechanics of it when the crew resets the card deck. The energy in the room has shifted. Brighter. Looser. Like the two of you cracked something open without even trying.

Danny glances your way, a touch more real this time. Less of the act. Just him. “You’re pretty good at this.”

You flash a grin. “I’ve had practice.”

He leans back, clearly pleased. “Remind me to drag you into all my media slots. This is way more fun with a co-conspirator.” You don’t say anything. Just laugh. But something about the word co-conspirator sticks in your chest longer than it should.

The cameras cut. Someone says, “Good energy, that was perfect,” and you smile, shake a few hands, make your thank-yous sound casual, your drop-in sound planned. But the minute you step off the raised platform and out of the light, Danny’s at your side again- just as bright, but realer now, a little more dialed down.

“So,” he says, like it’s been an open question all morning. “You still up for lunch?”

You blink, mildly surprised he remembered. Or that he meant it. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Cool,” he says, like that’s that. “C’mon. I’ve got a spot.”

You fall into step beside him, back through the factory’s front doors and out into the frigid slap of November in Milton Keynes. The wind’s cutting today- blunt and rude- and you shove your hands in your jacket pockets before your fingers go numb.

Danny seems unfazed. Practically bounces as he walks, hood up but otherwise loose-limbed and grinning like he knows something good’s ahead. He keeps getting about two steps ahead before he pauses, realizes you’re behind, and circles back like a dog on a lead.

You squint sideways. “You’ve got a spot?”

“Yeah.” He nods, steps landing in rhythm against the damp pavement. “Used to go all the time when I worked here. Haven’t been back since like… 2018? Been a minute.”

Your mind races. A spot. What the hell does that mean in Danny Ricciardo terms?

Because sure, he started out normal. You know the story. Western Sydney. Grit, hustle, charm. But that was a decade ago. Since then, it’s been yachts and private jets and red carpet appearances and wine labels. And sure, he acts down to earth- seems like someone you could talk shit with at a gas station- but it’s easy for people to act like whoever they want if they haven’t touched their own bank account in six years.

And now you’re just walking, cold air clawing at your cheeks, and you realize you’re spiraling over lunch. Over lunch. Because you have no idea where this man is taking you. And more importantly, how much it’s going to cost.

You’re not like… broke-broke. Not totally, anymore, at least. But your contract’s so backloaded it may as well be theoretical. You still owe more to your parents for Indy than an entire year’s salary of development work. And after rent, groceries, and trying to look remotely camera-ready without being on a Red Bull-grade salary? You’re not exactly in blow fifty on lunch without heart palpitations territory. Much less a hundred.

You could just ask. But somehow, what’s the price range on your lunch spot doesn’t quite feel like the vibe. Like you might ruin it all by not seeming cool enough.

You follow him around the corner, past the long block of factory units and into the side street you didn’t even know existed- where the pavement dips and the air smells faintly of diesel and something fried.

And then you see it.

A kebab cart. With an old blue canopy, a propane tank bungeed to the frame, and a handwritten sign taped to the side that says Cash Only.

You blink. Danny lights up like Christmas. “Yes!” he shouts, half-jogging the last few steps. “He’s still here!” The guy behind the cart looks up and blinks like he’s seeing a ghost. Then breaks into a grin.

“Ricciardo?” the man says, voice tinged with a thick Midlands accent.

Danny throws his arms wide. “Back from the dead, mate.”

They clasp hands over the steaming grill like it’s a reunion episode. You hang back for a second, stunned. Not at the food- you love a good cart- but at how happy he looks. Like this is the best part of his day.

He turns to you mid-laugh. “You good with lamb?”

“Uh- yeah, totally.”

“Two lamb wraps!” Danny calls, slapping the cart like it’s sacred.

You go to pull your card out of your pocket, but he waves you off. “Don’t even think about it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I owe you for the pineapple-on-pizza solidarity. Risky take where you’re going,” he says, deadpan. You try to argue, but the vendor’s already handing over two warm foil bundles and Danny’s already crumpling a few bills into the guys hand. He grabs two Cokes from the little cooler and nods toward a tiny table with mismatched plastic chairs shoved into the sidewalk.

You sit.

And it’s… warm. Not the air- God, no, it’s freezing- but the vibe. The foil-wrapped kebab is glorious, greasy perfection, and Danny immediately has sauce on his cheek. He doesn’t notice. You don’t tell him.

“Okay,” he says, through a mouthful, “but be honest. You thought I was taking you somewhere fancy.”

You pause, chewing. “I considered it.”

He laughs. “I knew it. You were spiraling.”

“I was preparing,” you correct, trying not to grin. “Like a rational adult with a questionable salary-to-lifestyle ratio.”

He snorts. “Hollywood, you really thought I was gonna drag you to some overpriced bistro for lunch?”

You stop mid-bite. “What?”

Danny wipes his hands on a napkin, leans back, smug. “Hollywood,” he says again, like it’s a fact. A label. A discovery. “That’s what I’m calling you.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “…Why?”

He ticks off fingers as he goes. “You’re American. You’re beautiful. You’re great on camera. You’ve got that whole flair-for-the-dramatic thing. And- ”

You cut in, immediate. “Hold on- dramatic?”

He blinks, caught mid-thought. “What?”

“You said I’ve got flair for the dramatic,” you say, pointing at him with a slightly greasy finger and barrel past the rest like you didn’t hear it- like the word beautiful didn’t just casually detonate in Danny Ricciardo's mouth like it was no big deal. “Define that. Because that’s a loaded fucking phrase, Ricciardo.”

Danny blinks at you, amused. “Oh, you know. The whole vibe.”

“No,” you say flatly. “Spell it out. What vibe.”

He grins. “Theatrical. Cinematic. Bit of a main character thing going on.”

You tilt your head. “And that’s dramatic?”

He laughs, surprised and delighted. “That right there. See? That tone? Case in point.”

You sit back, arms crossed. “Calling me dramatic is dramatic.”

Danny just grins harder and stampedes ahead in the conversation, completely unbothered. Like he’s got something he just can’t wait to say. “...And…Christian told me you walked up to Helmut with a contract. In the middle of a party. In a cowboy hat.”

You freeze for half a second, because, fuck, that is exactly what you did. Then exhale sharply through your nose and roll your eyes so hard you physically tip your head back like a teenage girl. “Jesus Christ. He told you that?”

He laughs. “You did, didn’t you?”

You lift your head slowly, eyes half-lidded. “It wasn’t- ” You stop, think better of it, and shake your head. “You know what? Doesn’t matter.”

Danny leans in, practically beaming. “That’s a yes.”

You jab a finger toward him. “I am not confirming anything.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re stuck with it. The hat, the entrance, the eyes. Hollywood.”

You lift your head, squinting at him. “You know nicknames are supposed to be collaborative, right?”

Danny grins. “Nope. Not taking suggestions.”

You shake your head, but it’s helpless. He’s already taken the name and run with it, and somehow it doesn’t feel mocking. It feels… affectionate. Light. Like being given something instead of having something taken.

And as you both dig back into your food, sitting there in the brittle, biting cold with your Cokes sweating on the plastic table, you feel it again- that giddy, unfamiliar warmth.

A friend. Yeah. You and Danny Ric are friends.

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Series Masterlist

A/N: GUYS GUYS GUYS I have the next chapter ready for tmmrw and we are GOING places. Remember allllll those chpaters ago how this story started? WE ARE ALMOST THERE.

Also sorry for the single chapter last week, a little overwhelmed with all the details I had to coordinate and just life in general, but I am generally doing well. Shameless pandering warning: I cannot stress this enough, but the comments, asks, messages etc are what keep me going. Don't get me wrong I love to see others liking and interacting with the story silently, but people giving enough of a shit to write something about what they think is the highest compliment I can receive. And it's free. I give you hours and days and weeks (and months and years) of my time, and I really, really appreciate when you give me just a few minutes of yours.

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv33 #mv1 #max verstappen x female oc #max vertsappen fic #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1

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oddlydescriptive · 3 months ago

Text

Reset, Chapter Fifteen

Series Masterlist

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You blink down at your name.

Not penciled in. Not scribbled beside someone else’s in a one-week deal. Not pinned under a subheading that reads “development” or “reserve.”

Printed. Centered. Bold. Just above-

Driver - Scuderia AlphaTauri

2023 FIA Formula One World Championship

It’s the first thing on the page. The part that matters. The part no one can take back once it’s signed. The pen beside it gleams and glitters like it knows what it’s about to do. Like it was manufactured and designed for destiny.

You expected this to feel aggressive, like a negotiation. Like they might have flown you across the world to make you sharpen your teeth and sharpen your pencil and justify-

It doesn’t.

Because they’ve accepted your terms. At face.

And everyone in the room seems uncomfortable with it. The room is too quiet. The backs in the room are all stiff. Franz Tost sits opposite you, still as glass, eyes betraying more uncertainty than you'd expect from a man who’s overseen hundreds of contracts. If he’s unnerved, it’s not by the numbers- it’s by you. The way you haven’t blinked. Haven’t shifted. Like you're already halfway through next season in your head and this part is just the math.

No Helmut. No Christian. A stark reminder that for all the ways RedBull has their hands in his team, it is still his team. This is his meeting. You’re to be his driver. Legal flanks him on either side. The younger one is sweating.

Not a lot. Not dramatically. But enough to darken the collar of his white shirt and leave the bridge of his nose shiny under the conference lights. He keeps tapping the cap of his pen against his notepad- click, click, click- like it might summon a clause that will fix this.

The older one is still. Neat. Composed. But not unmoved. His eyes flick between you and the paper like he’s bracing for impact- like someone’s going to speak up and say, Wait. Is this really okay?

You can’t tell if this is an opportunity for the young man- a stretch goal on his year end, the kind of thing where someone tapped him on the shoulder and told him this would be good practice at sitting in the driver's seat- or if he’s a full fledged representative that called in the senior man as back-up like he preemptively expects this entire thing to blow up in his face.

And in the corner, half in shadow, stands a junior staffer with a tablet and the kind of tight-lipped discomfort usually reserved for witnesses at the scene of a crash. He’s the one who’s going to initial the meeting minutes after this- the one that says that legal is not lying- the driver was present, the driver was informed, the driver understood.

The driver agreed.

They start reading.

Not for your benefit. You could recite this thing from memory. You wrote it. You weaponized it. It’s yours.

But they read it anyway. Because they have to.

Because this contract- if you can call it that- is just barely on the right side of legal. Because someone, somewhere, will need to see the receipts. Will need to double-check the little box that says: Clause 4.1 no objection. Clause 4.2 no objection. Clause 4.3 no objection.

Because this isn’t just a signing. It’s a goddamn slaughterhouse.

“Base salary,” the young lawyer says, voice deliberately level, “of one hundred thousand euros. As per FIA minimums.” Not judgmental. Just... surprised. Like he expected you to have held out for more. Like maybe they all did. Like this is, objectively, the worst contract signing he’s ever underwritten. It is.

You don't blink.

“No performance bonuses were asked for,” the junior continues, pausing like he thinks you might start protesting.

You aren't.

“Team will retain 100% of sponsorship income brought in by the driver until a threshold of seven million euros is met…” He trails off a second too long, then forces himself to continue. “After which, a standard 80/20 payout applies for all new sponsors sourced. With an amendment- half of the driver’s share to be redirected into a bonus pool for team support staff.”

Franz watches you now. Not unkindly. More like he's watching someone volunteer to get hit by a train and genuinely can’t tell if they understand what’s coming. They don’t know what to make of you.

Not just because the terms are lopsided- but because you’re fine with them. Worse: you’re calm. Worst of all: you wrote the fucking contract.

Legal glances up again. The younger one- he’s waiting for your input. It’s in his eyes. That quiet, pleading look you’ve seen on a hundred mechanics when you turn down diagnostics on a knocking motor. Are you sure? You still have time. Like maybe, for all the ways you seem startlingly competent for a middle-class farm kid, writing contracts is some fatal flaw in your arsenal. Like maybe you’re too stupid, too uneducated, too naive to know what you’re leaving on the table.

They all think you’re being exploited. And they’re right. But they think they are the ones doing it.

That’s the funny part.

“All work-related travel, conditioning, and training will be covered by the team… but the driver will cover and coordinate her own personal lodging and living expenses otherwise,” he tacks on. Eyes flick toward you like you might have forgotten to ask for that one. Like maybe you didn’t know you could.

You don’t flinch. Already nodding. Already breathing in the fire. Because what they don't know- what none of them can know- is that this isn’t surrender. This is design.

You're not signing a contract. You're building a Trojan horse.

One that rolls right through the gates of Formula One under the cover of humility, underdog grit, and an expense report that looks like a fucking joke. They’ll let you in. Because they think they’re getting a deal.

And you’ll make sure that when the season ends, they can’t afford to let you out. You’ll be cheap. You’ll be clean. You’ll work the long hours, kiss the cameras, say all the right things. You’ll memorize every rulebook and learn every engineer’s name by heart. You’ll bleed metrics.

You’ll sit on the edge of the paddock like you belong to everyone and no one. Until you don’t need to.

Because this is the plan: Make yourself indispensable. Make yourself so cost-efficient, so productive, so damn good that when contract season comes back around next year, they’re shoving a piece of paper under your nose as fast as they can.

They’ll keep you because they have to.

Because your cost-to-output ratio is unbeatable. Because no junior driver in the pipeline can deliver what you’re about to deliver, not for what they’re paying you. Because you’ll be winning points off scraps. Because you’ll be charming the press into writing praises no one asked for. Because you’ll be making it impossible to imagine the team without you.

Let the other rookies come with their trust funds and family sponsors. Let them get PR campaigns and highlight reels and debuts that came preloaded with marketing consultants.

You’ve got something better.

You’ve got math.

By the time AlphaTauri realizes you’ve outpaced their margins, they’ll be so goddamn reliant on you they couldn’t cut you if they wanted to. Even if you make some mistakes, even if you do or say a few wrong things, put a car or two into the wall- you’ll be doing so many things right for pennies on the dollar that it’s not going to fucking matter.

Let them think you’re naive. Let them worry they’re taking advantage. You’re building a board.

Franz clears his throat. “There’s one thing we added,” he says. “Bonus structure. Points-based. We are still establishing details with his team, but you’ll be on the same program as Yuki.”

You blink. “That wasn’t in my proposal.”

Franz tilts his head. “No,” he says. “It wasn’t.”

Another pause. Like he’s trying to read the edge of your silence. Process. It takes longer than you’d like to admit to chew it over. Not because you’re opposed to more money, but because- why? You doubt it’s generosity, or pity, or goodwill. Nothing is given for free between the cover pages of a Formula One contract. You give him a single long, unreadable look. “Fair enough.”

And then all that remains is a signature. The young lawyer glances down at the page, then back at you. Christ, he’s twitchy. You reach for the pen. Sign your name with steady hands.

Franz shakes your hand. You pose for a picture. They all watch you like they’re afraid you don’t know what you’ve just done.

But you do. You really, really do.

You keep the pen in your hands, rolling it through your fingers. You’ve already decided you’re stealing it. If there was a pen you could ever justify stealing, it’s the one that signed your contract.

Franz leans back slightly in his chair. Not relaxed. Not triumphant. Something closer to... resigned. Like this was always going to be the natural end to things since FP1 at Spa.

Like even he knows what this moment is. A beginning, sure- but the kind where someone lights a match without quite knowing how it’s going to catch. He clasps his hands together loosely, resting them on the table. Breathes out. And then, voice low, meant for discretion: “Oh, Yuki will be partnering with Pierre’s engineer.” Your gut reaction is, oh, good. You get Mattia. But he’s not saying it like you’re going to get Mattia- not saying it like he’s delivering news that should please you, exactly. “We’ll be hiring.”

You look up.

His expression is unreadable. Professional. But there’s something almost careful behind it. Like he knows what he’s offering- and what he isn’t.

“Mattia Spini’s moving up,” Franz says. “He won’t be on the wall as a race engineer next season.”

It lands with a soft thud in your gut. You swallow it down. You liked Mattia. He seemed to like you. He got you this far, steady in your ear, even if he was borrowed. But you know better than to think anything in this world stays fixed just because you need it to.

“We’ll likely promote internally,” Franz continues, tapping once against the tabletop. “But when the shortlist is made... if you have a preference, you’ll be able to weigh in.” You don’t answer right away. Not because you’re stunned. You’re not.

It’s just- strange. To be asked. To be considered.

Like somewhere, deep down, they’re acknowledging you’ll need more than just a steering wheel if this whole insane experiment is going to work. You’ll need an anchor. A voice you trust when you’re strapped into a missile at two hundred miles per hour, blind and weightless and hunting for fractions of a second that most people will never even know exist.

It matters. It matters that they’re even telling you, much less your input. It matters more than your salary. More than the bonus clauses. More than all the shit they’ll write about you when the news breaks.

Your race engineer will be the difference between survival and oblivion, and Franz is sitting here telling you they give a shit about finding someone that will work for you. You’ve spent years cramming yourself into gear, into cars, into spaces that weren’t made for you- making them fit with a smile and glitter- and for the first time since you’ve been paid to race in any capacity, you’re seeing it. Being reminded of it. Feeling it. This space is being built around you.

He watches you quietly. Like he knows you’re thinking it through, even if your face doesn’t give anything away. Finally, you nod. Short. Sharp. Measured. “Thank you,” you say. He inclines his head. No promises. No guarantees. Just the thin, fragile thread of something like mutual understanding.

And just like that- the biggest moment of your life to date is over. Past-tense.

You’re outside the boardroom before you even realize you’ve moved. The air, even in hospitality, is heavy- warm and thick in the way only Sao Paulo can manage before 9 AM- but you hardly feel it. Your phone is already in your hand. The screen glows against your palm.

Home. It’s all you can think about- that the signature is burning in your chest, that it’s written into your skin- that you can tell them now. It’s real. It’s official. It’s going to go live within the hour.

You stare at it for a beat.

It’s 4:47 AM in Washington. You do the math twice just to be sure.

No one should be up, not really. Your dad might be awake- just maybe. This is about the time he rolls out of bed to start the first round of coffee and crack the porch door open for the dogs. Wander around the kitchen in his ancient, threadbare flannel pajamas, coffee mug in one hand and the other scratching his ass like it’s his god-given right. Probably making a meal out of whatever baked thing your mom left covered on the counter the night before- biscuits, a slab of coffee cake, maybe cookies if she’s on her period and it’s a sweet tooth week.

He’d be hunched over, squinting through his old reading glasses and bitching about the corn prices or flipping through yesterday’s mail, yawning loud enough to wake the dead. That deep, painfully dramatic dad-yawn that somehow always has the subtlety of a bear- like he wants the rest of the house to know- yes, I’m up at 5 A.M., and yes, it makes me better than the rest you.

You never thought you’d miss shoving your pillow over your head to drown out the noise he made every morning, but, you do. You smile quietly at the image, then hit call before you can overthink it. Three rings. Then four. And then-

“Y’ello?” Your father’s voice, rough and unmistakable, thick with sleep and irritation. You can hear the click of a mug being set down on wood.

“Dad?”

“Mmm?”

“Can you- can you get Mom?”

That gets his attention. A pause. Chair scraping. Something creaks in the background.

“‘S okay?” you hear him mutter, and then louder, “Marissa! It’s her. Pick up the other line.”

You hear the shuffle. The static shift of the receiver. And then-

“Baby?” your mom says, panic already winding its way into her throat. “What’s wrong? Something happen? Y’okay? You hurt?” The sound of the mother of a racecar driver- always half expecting the worst when someone calls in the middle of the night. You hadn't meant to scare her.

“No, no, no- ” you say quickly, breath catching somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I’m okay. I’m- Mom, I’m under contract.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then?

Your mother screams.

Not politely. Not joyfully. She screams like you just walked through the door after five years missing and holding a championship trophy in each hand. You physically flinch, yanking the phone away from your ear with a yelp. You can still hear her through the speaker, shrieking across time zones.

“Oh my GOD!”

“Andrew! She signed it! SHE SIGNED IT- ”

“I can hear her, Marissa! Jesus, woman, I can’t hear nothin’- ”

You hold the phone at arm’s length, half-laughing, half-crying, heart jackhammering in your chest. If she yells any louder, you might not need to call. She’ll reach you. “I’m serious,” you say, finally bringing the phone back to your ear. “I signed it. It’s done. I’m going to be on the grid.”

You hear something clatter- maybe her coffee cup. Maybe your dad smacking the kitchen table in triumph. It’s hard to tell over the sounds of chaos.

“She did it,” your dad mutters in the background, low and proud.

“She did it,” your mother repeats. “Our baby’s gonna be in Formula One.”

And there’s something in their voice that makes it real. Real in a way that contracts aren’t. Real in the way home makes things real. And God, does it feel good. You wish you could talk to your brother, too, but he’s definitely still asleep. He can sleep through a trainwreck, a car crash in his bedroom and even, somehow, an earth bending scream from Marissa LeChriste.

Besides, he might need… time. To process this in his own way. He’s happy for you, you know he is. He fought for you, sacrificed for you, bled for you the same your parents did. But it’s a lot to chew on. All that the family gave. All that he gave, especially. The older brother of a history-making little sister. And he’s still… there. In his childhood bedroom on the ranch he was born at. You try not to linger on it, instead focus on what’s in the here, the now, the people on the other line.

The sound of your mother’s voice, the laughter caught in your father’s throat, the brittle, clumsy pride of two people who loved you before you ever proved a thing. Hugs and kisses and little pats of affection that settled between your pigtails whether your 4-H pig ran wild through the sale barn and barely scraped up red-ribbon at the county fair -there’s always next year, baby- or you had won a kart race against boys an entire class above yours. It didn’t matter. It was never conditional. Not with them. You soak it in like sunlight through a window you know is about to slam shut. Because you can feel it coming- the snap of the world spinning faster, the headlines, the eyes, the expectations. This is the last clean moment you’ll get before it all becomes noise.

And noise it becomes. One minute you’re sitting on the Red Bull data wall for FP1- headset on, posture stiff but attentive, listening in on the live telemetry feeds you’ve only ever seen reflected through a four-second delay in Milton Keynes- and the next, you’re being peeled out of your seat by a PR handler mouthing “five minutes” and pointing down the paddock like it’s an evacuation drill.

You barely have time to set your headset down before someone’s unzipping your team jacket and tugging it off your shoulders, handing you a crisp white one to replace it.

Red Bull off. AlphaTauri on.

One shirt for observation. One shirt for performance.

Your body barely keeps up with the swap. You’re walking and nodding and answering questions before your brain catches up with the sound of your own voice- cheerful, composed, just this side of wholesome.

“Yes, it’s real now.” “Yes, I’m grateful for the opportunity.” “Yes, I’ve always believed in this.” “No, I don’t think I’m here as a symbol, but I do think it’s a big step for the sport. I’m here to drive, first.”

The media pen feels like a trap built out of retractable lanyards and grins. Microphones shift like weapons. Flashbulbs pop like landmines. You’ve been coached for this- have coached yourself for this- your whole life. Media training, social strategy, PR debriefs- but it’s different when you’re the subject, not the side note. When you’re at the epicenter of the quake, not picking and choosing your interactions in the aftershocks of it.

You are- officially- the story now.

And they want every piece of it.

The American girl.

The wildcard.

The gamble that paid out.

The first of your country, the first of your gender in a generation.

One of the most promising emerging talents the sport has seen in- well, since Max Verstappen.

And you give them what they want. At least the version you’ve picked out, curated and combed and cleaned into something captivating. Tidied and refined into something non-lethal with a thousand practiced smiles in the mirror, and thousand gentle “Hi, y’all”’s said out loud in the quiet of hotel rooms. Something marketable and almost sweet. Hair slicked into a neat high ponytail. Polo tucked in just so. Your accent just a little softer, a little sweeter, unmistakably southern without letting your drawl affect your pronunciation. The All-American Girl With Just Enough Grit.

The kind who says thank you. The kind who knows how to credit the team first and herself last. The kind who smiles when she’s supposed to. The kind who thanks every interviewer, every person who hands her a coffee or a plate, every person who speaks with her. The kind who thanks them all. The kind who thanks them again.

You give them humble. Grateful. Polished. Not too hungry. Not too loud. Not too aggressive. Not too emotional.

Palatable.

You act like you still can’t believe it’s happening. Like you’re just so honored. So amazed. So lucky. You’re not lucky. You’re here. And you’ve never once been amazed by yourself. You’ve only ever been certain. You built this girl. You’re going to ride her all the way to the grid.

And between every interview, every press stop, every hastitly-changed shirt and cap- you're back on the wall. Back in your Red Bull role. Back behind a screen, reading tire degradation curves and telemetry deltas while the chatter on the wall crackles in your ear. Feedback from engineers, from analysts- all blending into a song you know by heart, to a gentle lullaby you can hum along to.

You know the day ends, the the cars are put away after practice, that eventually the flashes go out, that you crawl back to your hotel room at some point and sleep and redress and do it all again. More computers. More waving and thanking and signing. More sitting at the data wall. More polite tugs on your sleeve and you’re back in the hallway, stripping one polo for another like a spy swapping passports. Back to media. Back to flashbulbs and smiles. Back to back to back to back to back to-

Everyone wants something.

Interviews. Sponsorship pitches. Press kits. A fifteen-second reel. A moment for the TikTok account. A soundbite for the 6 PM email push. A still for the archive. But, even through the noise, there’s something on your mind- a footnote, a pinging reminder in your brain everytime you see him step past you in the hallway or at the data wall- a mental note that you need to find a breath of quiet- there’s still someone you need to talk to.

You wait until it’s quiet in the pits. When FP3 is a fading memory and quali doesn’t quite loom close enough to be pressing. Not race-day chaos. Not post-brief shuffle. Just the in-between kind of silence. The kind where no one’s really looking. No one’s really listening.

Gavin’s checking tire temps on a monitor, tapping through columns of green and yellow. His headset rests around his neck, one foot up on the rung of his high-top chair. The screen casts soft blue light over the fine lines under his eyes. Tired. Focused.

You approach, stand beside him for a beat too long without saying anything.

He glances over. Blinks once. “Everything okay?”

You nod. Shrug. Then: “So. Uh.” He turns toward you fully now, eyebrow raised. You clear your throat, suddenly hyper-aware of every syllable. “Sounds like there’s… gonna be a position opening up,” you say. “Race engineer. AlphaTauri.”

A beat. His eyes narrow. Not in suspicion- just calculation.

You press forward before you can second-guess the timing, if you’ve caught him at some catastrophically inopportune moment. “I know you’ve always said you want to go that route. That you’d like to engineer full-time.”

He nods slowly, arms folding over his chest.

“But I also know you’ve got a wife. Kids. A home.” He’s talked to you about them before- at the factory, when he’s there later than he should be to play pretend with a development driver he shouldn’t have cared to work with, and that shouldn’t have cared to work with him. A family- aa wife, a son and a daughter, both about the age for primary school. You bite the inside of your cheek. “And, I mean- Faenza’s not close. It’s not a commute situation. It’s… a new life.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just watches you for a moment. “I’ve heard.”

You blink. “You have?”

Gavin’s expression tightens just slightly. “Word gets around. Quietly.” Of course it does. It’s a paddock. Even secrets leak on polished shoes “I hadn’t planned on applying,” he admits. “I didn’t think I’d get it. And even if I did… it’s a lot. For the family. Uprooting them. Starting over. It’s not just about me anymore.”

You nod, slow. You get it. Of course you do. You wouldn’t ask him to pick between his career and his kids. You’re not cruel. You’re not naive.

“If it’s about them,” you say, voice quieter now, “then prioritize them. No question.” His gaze softens. Something flickers behind it- gratitude, maybe. Or guilt. “But if it’s not…” You inhale. “If it’s fear. Or timing. Or not knowing if anyone would even want you there…”

You pause. “I would.” His eyes widen just a little. You smile, but it’s the small, earnest kind. The kind that tugs. The kind that says I mean this. “I’d want you there, Gavin,” you say. “If it were up to me, you’d be the one.”

It’s not, of course. You don’t sign contracts. You don’t approve hires. But you can put in a word. Franz told you that you could. That’s got to count for something. You keep your voice steady. “You’ve shown up for me. Every time. Even when you didn’t have to. If it were up to me, you’d have the job. No question.”

Gavin doesn’t answer right away. But the way he exhales- slow, thoughtful- tells you he’s not brushing it off. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “That... that means more than you think.”

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You can feel the race in your teeth.

That’s how messy it is.

The data wall is humming- literally and otherwise. It radiates heat from the monitors and adrenaline from the team, and you sit just left of the engineers like a polite shadow, headset snug over your ears, eyes locked on tire deltas and live track overlays.

You’re not meant to speak. Not on this wall. Not on race day- especially when it’s going like this. You know your place. But you are meant to learn.

And Jesus, what a classroom.

Every call is electric. Fuel strategy, pit stop predictions, undercut windows. You catch yourself mouthing along to the decisions as they’re made, cross-checking against what you would have done. It’s not arrogance- it’s instinct. All that time in the sim, buried in spreadsheets and overlays, has rewired the way you see things. There’s rhythm in the numbers. Logic in the chaos. Even the mess has patterns.

You love the car. Driving it is instinct, fire, breath. But this- this- is its nervous system. And you’re getting to see it live. Not practice, not quali- but the lifeblood of a living, breathing, changing race as it happens.

You sit still, eyes forward, soaking up every breath of commentary, every twitch in the team’s posture, every half-muttered debate about tire deg curves and ideal intervals. You’re nobody in this moment. Just an extra headset. But you know it’s a gift to be here.

Unfortunately, the race? The race is a disaster from lights out.

First, there’s the safety car. Too early, too long. It eats up laps the Red Bulls desperately need to break to the front. Then- lap 7- Max clips Hamilton. You flinch before the audio even kicks in.

“Car 1. Five-second penalty,” race control announces. Max’s radio explodes.

The pit wall tenses. You can feel it like a storm front. Still- he fights back. Checo holds his own. It’s not pretty, but the cars are still in it. Until, of course, they’re not. Because on lap 65, just as everyone’s starting to count their breaths toward the finish, another safety car emerges.

P6 and P7. Checo ahead of Max.

The team makes the call. “Let Max pass. He might catch Leclerc.” You feel the temperature shift. Someone mutters under their breath. You watch the names swap on your screen- Checo giving Max the position. No hesitation. No drama.

Except, when the safety car breaks and it’s back to racing, Max isn’t gaining. On the final lap, the pit wall tries to set the place swap back. “Give the place back.” Checo fought for that position. Checo needs those points for year end. It’s fair. It’s logical. It’s right.

Silence. Not on the radio- on the wall. Max says nothing. GP repeats the instruction.

Then, “I told you already,” he snaps. “Don’t ask me that again. I gave you my reasons.” Your breath sticks in your throat. Max crosses the line. Doesn’t lift. Checo finishes behind him.

He fucked him over.

You don’t even realize you’ve taken off your headset until someone on the wall slams theirs down next to you. It’s quiet- too quiet- for a garage that just finished a Grand Prix. The data flickers on your screen.

Checo: P7. Charles: P4. And just like that, the fight for second in the championship has narrowed to a coin toss.

No celebration. No claps. Just an entire team, staring at a screen like they can’t believe what they just watched. Treason. Cain and Abel. You sit there, pulse thrumming in your ears, eyes fixed on the monitor in front of you.

Max Verstappen. Two-time World Champion. And absolutely not the kind of man who gives things back. Even when it doesn’t matter. Even when they’re not his to keep.

All of RedBull racing is vibrating from the inside out, and you don’t hesitate to clear your seat and start moving. Every step through the garage feels like a minefield- anger, confusion, thinly veiled damage control masquerading as technical debrief. It’s not just the pit wall. It’s hospitality. It’s every hallway. It’s everyone.

Everyone has a theory. A reason. A name to blame.

And you want no part of it. Any opinion, reaction, or thought on the matter is not yours to have- and you’re not willing to stick around long enough for someone to ask you for it. No ma’am.

So you retreat.

Not all the way- there’s nowhere to go all the way. Not in São Paulo. This setup’s different. There’s no towering Red Bull Energy Station like in Europe, no private deck with espresso machines and polished floors and perfectly chilled lighting. Here, the drivers�� quarters are close- low-ceilinged, temporary, slapped together in a hurry. Small personal pods branching off from a central common area. Privacy or comfort. You don’t get both.

You opt for neither, really.

Just a couch in the shared space. Laptop open. Head down.

The world hums around you- thick, buzzing, relentless. Your phone vibrates against the arm of the couch with a steady, insect-like insistence. Email notifications. WhatsApp messages. Missed calls. Pings from PR. Slack threads lighting up like Christmas.

Your inbox is already swollen, practically heaving under the weight of it all. Press requests. Quotes wanted, urgently, on the record. Sponsor soft pitches dressed up as congratulations. Inquiries from brand managers who smell blood in the water and want you to ride the wave.

And worse- questions.

Real ones. You were in the pits, what happened between Max and Checo?Do you worry driving for a pipeline that seems to have conflicts like this?

It’s too much. Too fast. Too tangled. You could spend an hour answering the first twelve notifications alone and still fall further behind. So you don’t. You silence the phone with a single flick of your thumb- bury it screen-down under your knee- and turn your attention to the only thing you can control.

You start typing.

Clean. Crisp. Observational. Nothing emotional. Nothing editorialized.

Just notes on the race itself- pit stop strategies acrosss the teams, changes to the tyre lifespan during safety car deployment. Data points. Habits. Things you would have filed back to Milton Keynes if you were still just another cog in the machine.

You type like it’s armor. You type like you can build a wall high enough to keep the noise out.

You do not think about what just happened on track.

You do not think about the look on Christian’s face when Max crossed that line. The sharpness in Checo’s voice over the radio. The dead silence that settled over the wall like dust after impact.

You just work.

You’re halfway through an email to the internal media team when the door snaps open- hard enough to rattle the hinges- and Max storms in like he owns the oxygen and all of your personal space along with it.

You don’t look up. You don’t have to. The shift is immediate- the temperature drops, the air goes electric. That heavy, simmering stillness that happens just before the clouds split open and the sky tries to tear itself apart. Only Max carries that kind of weather around with him.

He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t even pretend you’re a real person. Just slams his bag onto the floor hard enough that you hear something inside it crunch and starts pacing- tight, clipped lines- like the room itself owes him a fucking apology.

He could go to his own driver room. He should go to his own driver room. That’s the appropriate venue for a children's tantrum at this level of professionalism.

But no. Today you are the unlucky bastard standing between him and total emotional detonation. And, apparently, the sight of you- sitting quietly, typing, minding your own damn business- is personally offensive.

“You’re still here?” Max snaps, his voice sharp and rough down the middle. You don’t lift your hands from the keyboard. Just glance up, slow and deliberate, like you’re peering at a housecat throwing a tantrum over spilled food. It’s almost funny, if you tilt your head and squint at it.

In another lifetime- maybe even just a few weeks ago- you would have ducked your head. Would have slipped out, apologized for taking up space that you were perfectly qualified to stand in.

But that was before.

Before the screaming. Before he cracked open your ugliest tendencies and delighted in them. Before the bar. Before the coin toss. Before you made him kneel- over a twenty-pence piece and the stupid, glorious principle of it. Before you signed your name to a contract that made it impossible for him to simply snap his fingers and make you disappear.

You’re still leagues beneath him in title, in weight, in the pecking order of the paddock.

But you're not a ghost anymore. Not just a guest flinching in borrowed space. You exist. You have mass. You have shape. You’re official. And you’re not so easy to erase. He can't pretend you don’t exist anymore without looking like a lunatic.

So you keep your ass in the seat.

“Didn’t get the memo?” he pushes. His pacing carves trenches in the carpet. “They’re giving me a thirty-foot berth. Everyone else figured it out. Thought you’d be smarter than this.”

You blink, slow and unimpressed. “I’m just answering emails,” you say evenly. Almost lazily. Like you haven’t even noticed his storm clouds gathering an arm’s length away.

Max snorts- a sharp, derisive sound, pure disbelief that you haven’t scrambled to make yourself smaller yet. . Like the very idea of you existing here, peacefully, is some new, unholy offense. “Of course you are.”

You tap the return key. Calm. Measured. Then- because you’re you, and Max is Max, and you’re just a little drunk on the idea that you can swing back- you look up properly, arching one brow, and deadpan- “Sorry. Did you need the couch for your tantrum?”

It’s dangerous, what you’re doing. Picking at him like this. But it’s also kind of fun.

His jaw tightens. His fists flex at his sides. You watch him. Calm. Unbothered. Like he’s a thunderstorm you already decided isn’t worth outrunning. He stares. You stare back. And then, low and venomous, he bites.

“Go fuck yourself.”

You don’t flinch. You laugh. A real laugh. Bright and sharp enough to slice through the tension, just like you’ve been handed the world’s easiest layup. “No thanks,” you say easily, flashing a smile that could cut steel. “I’m not really into solo play.”

You tilt your head, mock-thoughtful, like you’re helping him understand. Like you’re teaching manners to a particularly thick-headed dog. You let it hang for a beat. Another. Let the innuendo breathe. Then, sweetly, with just enough of a bite to slice him clean- “More of a team player myself, you know?”

He deserved it. You know it. He knows it. But from his reaction, you might as well have hit him.

Max’s whole body stiffens- tight, defensive, predatory. You see it ripple through him in real time: the way his nostrils flare, the way the cords of his neck pull taut, the way his jaw works so hard you half-expect the bone to crack straight through.

You don’t look away. You watch it. You savor it. Because God, he’s so easy to piss off.

For a flicker of a second- a flash in his eyes so fast you almost doubt it- you catch it. Amusement. Real. Ragged. Wild.

God help him, you think some part of him actually enjoys this.

Like against his better judgment, he thinks you’re funny. Like somewhere, deep under the layers of fury and bruised ego, there’s a traitorous part of him that wants to laugh too.

But Max Verstappen has never met a feeling he couldn’t crush into dust. You watch him smother it so violently that if you weren’t staring straight at him, you might have missed it. Without a word, he turns- shoulders rigid, movements jerky- and storms out. The door rattles so hard it bounces half-open again behind him, swinging uselessly on its hinges.

You stare at the empty space for a moment. Feel the ghost of the storm he left behind. Then you tip the toe of your sneaker out- casual, easy- and nudge the door shut.

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Author's note: Sorry guys- I went through it last week, and had to take a breath. I had been dealing with some discouragement in general, not a big deal, but Thursday got a call nobody wants to get. Had to pivot from writing fanfic to writing an obituary :/. Idk I have a lot of feelings about it, good and bad. It was a life well lived; I just wasn't quite ready to say goodbye like that. Happy sad.

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