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slowpitstop · 2 months ago

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jeeeeeeeez it’s so good 🥲

Since Forever

Max Verstappen x Schumacher!Reader

Summary: there’s been one constant in Max’s life since his first wobbly toddler steps in the paddock — he’s loved her since he was ten, through scraped knees and family vacations — and now it’s time that the rest of the world knows it too

Warnings: depictions of Michael Schumacher post-accident which are entirely fictitious because none of us truly know how he’s doing nowadays

The Red Bull garage smells like brake dust, adrenaline, and over-commercialized energy drinks. It’s chaos in that organized, obsessive way Formula 1 teams thrive on. Engineers speak in clipped, caffeinated sentences. Tires hum against concrete. Data streams across ten thousand screens.

And then you walk in.

“Is that-”

“No way.”

“Schumacher?”

You’re used to it. The way your last name wraps around every whispered sentence like a secret. Like a warning. Like a prayer. You keep your shoulders back, walk straight through the center of the garage in black trousers and the team-issued polo. The Red Bull crest is stitched onto your chest like it’s always belonged there.

Christian sees you first.

“Look who finally decided to join us,” he says, striding forward like he hasn’t been texting you at ungodly hours for three weeks straight.

You smile, small and knowing. “You know, most teams onboard a new staff member with an email.”

“You’re not most staff. You’re a Schumacher.”

“Still have to sign an NDA like everyone else, though, right?”

Christian laughs, claps you on the shoulder. “Welcome to the team. We’re all thrilled. And Helmut — well, he’s pretending not to be, so that’s basically the same.”

“Flattering.”

You don’t say more because you don’t need to. You feel it before you see it. The shift. Like gravity getting heavier in one very specific corner of the room.

And then-

“Y/N?”

His voice slices through the garage like it was built for this very moment. Not loud, not urgent — just certain. You look up. And Max is already moving. He doesn’t walk, doesn’t run. He just moves. Like the world rearranges to let him reach you faster.

He’s halfway through a debrief. Headphones still hanging around his neck. One of the engineers tries to catch his sleeve.

“Max, we’re still-”

“Later.”

He says it without looking, eyes locked on you. The garage quiets. Not because people stop talking, but because no one can pretend they’re not watching. The way his mouth tugs into a smile. The way his eyes soften — actually soften.

You don’t realize you’re smiling back until you feel it ache in your cheeks.

“Hey,” he says when he stops in front of you. He sounds different now. Not the Max the media knows. Not the firestorm in a race suit. This Max is … quiet. Warm.

“Hey yourself,” you say.

He doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds yours like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s what he’s always done. Like no time has passed at all.

And the silence in the garage goes from curiosity to stunned disbelief.

“You’re actually here,” Max says, voice low. “You didn’t change your mind.”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Thought you might remember what this place is like.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You mean competitive? Chaotic? Full of emotionally repressed men pretending they don’t need therapy?”

He laughs, really laughs. It’s the kind that creases the corners of his eyes. The kind that makes even Helmut Marko glance over from a screen with a raised brow.

“You’re gonna fit in just fine.”

“I’m not here to fit in, Max. I’m here to work.”

He squeezes your hand gently. “Yeah. Okay. But maybe also to see me?”

“Debatable.”

He grins. “Liar.”

And just behind him, leaning against the edge of the garage like he’s watching a slow-motion movie unfold, Jos Verstappen crosses his arms. The old-school paddock fixture, the human thunderstorm. He sees your joined hands, sees the ease between you and his son, and — for the first time in years — he smiles. A real one. A soft one.

You spot him. “Uncle Jos.”

That does it. That cracks the surface of the paddock.

“She called him Uncle Jos.”

“Did she just-”

“Holy shit.”

He pushes off the wall and walks over with that casual menace that makes grown men flinch. But not you. Never you.

“You’re late,” Jos says, but his voice is warm.

“I’m fashionably on time,” you shoot back.

“You’re your father’s daughter.”

You nod. “And you’re still terrifying. Some things never change.”

Jos chuckles. Then he puts a hand on your shoulder. And the garage collectively forgets how to breathe.

“Good to have you back.”

Max watches the exchange like it’s some kind of private miracle. Like he can’t quite believe it’s all happening out loud, in front of everyone. You look up at him, still holding his hand. He looks down at you like nothing else matters.

“You’re going to make me soft,” he mutters.

“You were already soft,” you reply.

He huffs, drops your hand only to throw an arm over your shoulders instead. Casual. Familiar. Ridiculously comfortable. And no one — not a single soul in the garage — misses the way you lean into him like you belong there.

Because you do.

“So,” Max says, glancing back at Christian, who is clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Does she get a desk? Or do we just give her mine?”

“She’s your performance psychologist,” Christian says. “Not your shadow.”

“Close enough,” Max says.

“Jesus Christ,” mutters someone in the back.

You elbow him. “You’re making this worse.”

“I’m not making anything worse,” he says, turning back to you. “You think I care what they think?”

“Max.”

“They’ve always talked. Let them talk.”

You sigh. But it’s the kind of sigh you’ve always saved for him — half exasperated, half enamored. “This is going to be a circus.”

“We were always the main act, anyway.”

It’s true, and he knows it. From karting in the middle of nowhere to Monaco summers and Christmases in St. Moritz. You and Max were a constant. A unit before you knew what that even meant.

And now here you are. Older. A little more tired. A little more careful. But still you.

A comms guy in a headset leans over and whispers something to Christian, who nods.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Christian says. “Much as I’m enjoying the reunion special, some of us still have a car to run. Y/N, your office is upstairs. We cleared the far corner for you — less noise, more privacy.”

“Perfect,” you say.

Max doesn’t move.

“Max,” Christian warns.

“In a second,” he replies, and somehow it’s not bratty, just firm.

You turn to him, squeezing his wrist this time. “I’ll see you after?”

“Try and stop me.”

And then — just when you think he’s going to let you go like a normal person — he leans in. Presses his lips to your temple in the most casual, unremarkable, intimate gesture in the world.

And that’s the moment the garage truly loses its mind.

Phones are out. Whispers spiral.

Max Verstappen kissed someone in the middle of the garage.

Max Verstappen is in love.

You pull away, roll your eyes at the attention, but Max just smirks and says, “Told you they’d talk.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, walking toward the stairs.

“You used to like that about me.”

You don’t turn around. Just throw a hand up over your shoulder in mock surrender. “Still do.”

And Max?

He watches you go with that same expression he used to wear when he crossed finish lines as a kid. Like he’s already won.

***

When you open the door to the Monaco apartment that evening, you don’t even get your bag off your shoulder before Max says, “You’re late.”

He’s barefoot, shirtless, still damp from the shower, a tea towel thrown over one shoulder like he’s playing housewife. The smell of something lemony and warm wafts from the kitchen. He’s already made you dinner. Of course he has.

“I said I’d be home after eight,” you reply, dropping your bag and slipping off your shoes. “It’s eight-oh-six.”

“Which is late.” He walks toward you, frowning like you’ve personally offended him.

“You sound like my dad.”

Max stops in front of you, looks down with that slow smile that always disarms you more than it should. “Your dad liked me.”

You snort. “My dad made you sleep on the sofa for five straight summers.”

“Because I was thirteen and in love with you. He was protecting his daughter l.”

You laugh, eyes softening. He leans in, presses his lips to your forehead. “You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“I’ll fix that.”

“You’re not a sleep aid.”

He pulls away, grinning. “I am if you let me be.”

You smack his chest and walk past him, straight to the kitchen where there’s already a mug waiting on the counter — chamomile, oat milk, two teaspoons of honey. Exactly how you like it. You don’t even remember telling him the ratio. He just knows.

“You unpacked my books,” you say, surprised.

Max shrugs. “You’ve had those same four boxes for three years. Figured it was time someone gave them a shelf.”

“In your apartment.”

He leans against the counter, arms folded. “You live here.”

You tilt your head. “Do I?”

Max raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got three drawers in my closet, your toothbrush is in my bathroom, and I bought non-dairy milk for your weird tea. You live here.”

You take a sip and sigh. “You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“You didn’t argue.”

“Because you unpacked everything before I even had time to look for a place.”

He shrugs again, smug. “Felt like a waste of time. You were gonna end up here anyway.”

You hate that he’s right. You really do. But he’s so smug and soft about it — never controlling, just sure. Sure of you. It’s terrifying. And wonderful.

“You didn’t even leave a single box for me,” you say, feigning irritation.

“I left one,” he says. “It’s in the bedroom.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

He looks at you, serious now. “It’s the one with your karting suit in it.”

Oh.

The memory crashes into you, vivid and sharp.

***

You’re nine years old and your leg is bleeding.

Not a little. Not a scratch. Bleeding.

Max is already beside you on the asphalt before anyone else reaches the track. He’s crouched down, pale, shaking, trying to keep your helmet steady with trembling fingers.

“You’re okay,” he says, but he sounds like he might cry. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”

“I’m not crying,” you snap.

“Good,” he says. “Because if you cry, I’ll cry. And I’m not crying.”

Then he takes your hand.

And doesn’t let go.

He holds it all the way to the ambulance, all the way through the stitches. Jos tried to pry him off you once. Michael stopped him.

“She’s fine,” Jos said.

But Michael just smiled.

“She will be,” he said, “because he’s not going anywhere.”

***

Back in the kitchen, Max watches you closely. You set the mug down and turn to him.

“That’s why you left the box?”

He nods. “Didn’t want to touch that one.”

You take a slow breath. The air feels thick with everything you’re not saying.

“Did you keep it?” You ask. “The one from your first win?”

“Framed it,” he says. “It’s in the sim room.”

“Next to your helmets?”

He nods. “Next to your letters.”

Your throat tightens. “You kept them.”

Max looks at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “Of course I kept them. You wrote me every week for two years.”

“I didn’t think you’d still have them.”

“They’re the only reason I got through that time. You know that.”

You do. God, you do.

***

Another flash: summer in the south of France. You’re thirteen. He’s fourteen. Your families have rented a villa together, as always. It’s hot and lazy and stupidly perfect.

You’re floating in the pool, eyes closed, and he splashes you on purpose. You scream. He laughs.

Later, he sits beside you on the balcony, his leg brushing yours under the table. He doesn’t move it.

“I think I’m gonna marry you one day,” he says, out of nowhere.

You nearly choke on your lemonade. “What?”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re not serious.”

He looks at you. Really looks at you. “I am.”

Your dad walks out just then, sees you both with flushed faces, and sighs so loud it could be heard across the bay.

“I swear,” Michael mutters, half to himself, “he’s going to marry her. Jos owes me fifty euros.”

***

Now, standing in your shared kitchen in Monaco, you lean against the counter and say, “My dad predicted this, you know.”

Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. He told me when I was twelve.”

“What?”

“We were in Italy. You had that meltdown after you lost the junior heat.”

You remember it. You remember throwing your helmet and screaming into a tire wall. You remember Max just sitting beside you until you stopped.

“He came over and said ‘You’ll marry her one day. I hope you realize that.’”

You stare. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

Max shrugs, looking down at the mug in your hand. “Didn’t want to scare you off.”

“You were twelve.”

“Still could’ve scared you off.”

You laugh, soft and disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

He leans in, presses a kiss just below your jaw. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

***

Later, you’re curled up on the sofa, legs over his lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your ankle. The TV’s on, some mindless movie you’re not watching. You’re both too tired to talk, but not tired enough to stop touching.

Max breaks the silence. “They think I’ve changed.”

You glance at him. “Who?”

“The team. Everyone. They look at me like I’ve become someone else.”

You shift, sit up slightly. “Because you hugged me in the garage?”

“Because I let them see it.”

You frown. “Do you regret that?”

Max turns his head to you, slow and deliberate. “Never.”

Then, quieter, “I just didn’t expect how much it would shake them.”

You study his face. There’s a war behind his eyes — one part him still battling the image he built, the other part desperate to tear it all down for you.

“You’ve always been soft with me,” you say. “They’re just catching up.”

He exhales, long and tired. “They’re going to ask questions.”

“Let them.”

“You know I don’t care about the noise,” he says. “But I care about you.”

You nod, moving closer until your forehead rests against his. “You make me feel safe.”

“I want to.”

“You do.”

He closes his eyes, breathes you in. “Then I don’t give a damn what they think.”

You smile. “There’s the Max I know.”

***

You fall asleep that night in his t-shirt, tucked into his side, his hand splayed across your hip like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far.

The last thing you hear before sleep claims you is his voice, soft and certain in the dark.

“You’ve always been mine.”

And you don’t say it out loud — but you know it, too.

***

Dinner in Monaco is supposed to be discreet.

But nothing about Max Verstappen sitting at a corner table with you — his arm stretched lazily along the back of your chair, his thumb tracing absent circles into your shoulder — feels subtle.

Not to Lando, at least.

He spots you from across the restaurant. He’s walking in with a few friends, half-distracted, arguing about who’s paying the bill when he stops mid-sentence.

“Wait, no fucking way.”

Oscar glances at him. “What?”

Lando squints.

“No way.”

At first he sees just Max. Max in a black linen shirt, sleeves pushed up, hair tousled like he’d showered and walked straight here without looking in the mirror once. Relaxed. Like he’s not the reigning world champion with the weight of four back-to-back seasons on his shoulders.

But then he sees you.

You’re laughing.

Not polite chuckle laughing. Full body, shoulders-shaking laughing. One hand over your mouth, the other pressed to Max’s forearm like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the present.

And Max-

Max is smiling. Not grinning like he does after a fastest lap. Not smirking like he does when he overtakes someone into Turn 1. Smiling. Wide, open, boyish. Like it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world can fuck off.

“Mate,” Lando whispers, stunned. “He’s pouring her wine.”

Oscar follows his gaze. “Holy shit.”

Max tilts the bottle just right, careful not to spill a drop, and doesn’t even blink when you steal a sip from his instead. He lets you do it. Like it’s happened a thousand times. Like it’s yours anyway.

Lando keeps staring.

“Are they-”

“Looks like.”

“When did-”

Oscar shrugs. “You’ve known him for a while, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I-” Lando shakes his head. “I just didn’t think …”

He trails off, watching Max lean over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Not hurried. Not performative. Just gentle.

Max, being gentle.

“I’ve gotta say something,” Lando mutters.

Oscar blinks. “Why?”

“Because if I don’t, I’ll explode.”

And before Oscar can stop him, Lando peels off from the group and makes a beeline for your table.

***

You’re still laughing when you feel the shadow loom over the table.

“Now this is a sight I never thought I’d see,” Lando says, hands in his pockets like he’s wandered into a museum exhibit.

Max doesn’t even flinch. “Hi, Lando.”

You look up, grinning. “Hey.”

Lando stares between you both like he’s waiting for someone to yell Gotcha!

“You’re smiling,” he says to Max, incredulous.

Max raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And you’re touching her. In public.”

“She’s mine,” Max says easily. “Why wouldn’t I touch her?”

Lando sits himself down at the edge of your table without asking. “No, see, this is wild. You’re smiling. You’re pouring her wine. You just-” He points at Max. “You tucked her hair. You tucked her hair.”

“Are you having a stroke?” You ask, fighting another laugh.

“Don’t play it cool,” Lando says. “This is monumental. I’ve known this guy for years. He barely makes eye contact with me, and now he’s feeding you olives.”

Max calmly pops one into your mouth. You chew it slowly, grinning.

Lando’s jaw drops. “That. That. Right there.”

“Glad you stopped by,” Max says dryly.

“You like him like this?” Lando asks you, scandalized.

“I love him like this,” you say, just to watch Lando’s face implode.

Max smirks, proud. “Careful. You’re going to choke on your disbelief.”

Lando leans back in the chair, still staring like he’s just discovered aliens live in Monaco and go by the name Verstappen.

“When did this happen?”

You glance at Max. “Depends. Do you want the karting story? The vacation story? The letters? The part where my dad called it before I even hit puberty?”

Lando blinks. “Letters?”

“She wrote me letters for two years,” Max says, like it’s common knowledge.

“I-” Lando stutters. “What? You wrote him letters?”

“Every week,” you say.

“She was in Switzerland. I was doing F3,” Max adds.

“And you kept them?”

Max’s voice softens. “Of course.”

Lando looks like he might cry. “I thought you were a robot.”

“He’s not,” you say. “He’s just careful.”

Max shrugs. “She knows me. That’s all.”

A beat of quiet falls over the table, warm and strange. Lando frowns down at the half-eaten bread basket like it’s going to offer some kind of emotional clarity.

Then-

“Wait. Does Jos know?”

“Of course he knows,” Max says.

Lando laughs. “Oh, God. I bet he flipped. He hates when anyone distracts you.”

You sip your wine.

“Jos adores her,” Max says.

And as if summoned by prophecy, Jos fucking Verstappen walks into the restaurant.

Lando nearly knocks his glass over. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Jos spots you first. He nods once at Max, then walks over to the table with all the urgency of a man browsing a farmer’s market.

“Y/N,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses you on the cheek.

Lando drops his fork.

“Hi, Uncle Jos,” you say, smiling.

“Good to see you,” Jos replies, warm and surprisingly soft. He looks at Max, gives him a firm nod. “She settling in?”

“Perfectly,” Max replies.

Jos claps him on the shoulder once — approval, affection, something else unspoken — then disappears toward the bar.

Lando stares after him like he’s just seen a ghost.

“Since when does Jos smile?” He hisses.

Max smirks, takes a slow sip of wine. “Since forever,” he says, “with her.”

***

After dinner, Max laces his fingers through yours as you walk along the quiet Monaco street. The ocean glimmers to your left. The lights are low, golden. Your heels click softly against the cobblestones.

“You okay?” He asks.

You glance up. “More than.”

“Sorry about Lando. He means well.”

You smile. “It was kind of funny.”

He chuckles, squeezes your hand. “I meant what I said, you know.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

You stop walking, tug him gently so he turns to face you. “Even the part where I’m yours?”

His voice is low. Serious.

“Especially that part.”

You lean in, forehead against his. “Then you’re mine, too.”

“Always have been.”

The city hums around you. Somewhere, someone laughs. A boat horn echoes softly in the harbor.

And Max kisses you like he’s never known anything else.

***

It starts, as most things do in the Red Bull motorhome, with Yuki Tsunoda standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He’s hunting for snacks — something chocolate-adjacent and preferably smuggled from catering. He’s halfway through opening a cupboard when he hears voices coming from the other side of the thin wall that separates the corridor from Helmut’s little meeting nook.

One voice is unmistakable. Gravel and grumble and full of slow-burning nostalgia.

Jos Verstappen.

Yuki stills.

“I said thirteen,” Jos says. “Michael said sixteen.”

There’s a beat of silence, the sound of a spoon clinking gently against ceramic. Helmut, Yuki guesses, is stirring his sixth espresso of the morning. Probably about to scoff at whatever nonsense Jos is peddling.

But Jos goes on. “We had a bet.”

Yuki blinks. A bet?

“On Max and Y/N?” Helmut sounds surprised. “You’re telling me that’s been going on since-”

Jos chuckles, low and fond. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see them.”

There’s a pause. “I said they’d kiss first at thirteen. Michael said they’d get secretly engaged at sixteen.”

Yuki’s jaw drops. He forgets the cupboard, forgets the snack, forgets why he’s even standing there. He presses his ear closer to the thin wall.

“What actually happened?” Helmut asks.

Jos laughs. Really laughs. Not the bitter kind — the real kind. The kind that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape.

“Turns out,” he says, “Max gave her a ring pop when they were ten and called it a promise.”

There’s the scrape of a chair being pushed back. Jos again. “He said — and I swear, Helmut, I swear — he said, ‘It’s not real, but I’ll make it real later.’”

Helmut mutters something in disbelief, but Yuki’s not listening anymore.

Ten.

Ten years old.

***

It’s impossible to unhear.

That’s what Yuki decides an hour later, legs bouncing under the table in the drivers’ debrief while Max sits across from him looking utterly, maddeningly normal.

Except … not.

Max is focused, sure. He’s got the data sheet in one hand, telemetry open on his tablet, and he’s nodding at something the engineer says. But his foot taps. His eyes flick, just once, toward the clock on the wall.

And then, suddenly, he shifts forward, cuts the meeting off mid-sentence.

“Give me five.”

The room stills.

The engineer frowns. “You want-”

“Five minutes.”

“No, of course, just, uh, okay?”

Max’s phone is already in his hand. He’s out the door before anyone can question it.

Yuki waits a beat, then rises too. He murmurs something about needing the loo and slips out after him, ducking into the corridor just in time to see Max rounding the corner toward the hospitality suite.

He slows when he hears the door open, then Max’s voice — low, quiet, more intimate than Yuki’s ever heard.

“Hey. Did you eat?”

There’s a pause. Yuki’s heart thumps. He knows it’s you on the other side.

“Max,” you say, fond and exasperated. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I had a bar earlier. And a banana.”

“A banana,” Max repeats like it’s an insult to your entire bloodline.

“I’m working.”

“I’ll bring you something.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

Another pause. Then your voice, softer. “You’re supposed to be in the debrief.”

“I’m supposed to make sure you’re okay.”

Yuki has to slap a hand over his own mouth to keep from reacting out loud.

Max’s voice again, lighter now: “Did you drink water?”

“You are such a-”

“Did. You. Drink.”

You sigh. “Yes. I drank water.”

There’s a smile in Max’s reply. “Good girl.”

Yuki practically blacks out.

***

When Max returns to the meeting five minutes later with an unopened granola bar still in his hand, nobody says a word. Nobody dares.

Except Yuki.

He waits until they’re in the sim lounge, just the two of them, while Max’s seat is being adjusted and the engineers are fiddling with telemetry in the back.

Then, “So … ring pop?”

Max freezes. Just for a second. Then he shoots Yuki a look.

“Where did you hear that?”

Yuki grins. “Jos and Helmut. Thin walls.”

Max sighs, shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny it.

“She still has it,” he mutters.

“No way.”

“In a box.”

“Oh my God, Max.”

Max shrugs. “It wasn’t for anyone else.”

Yuki leans back, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “You were in love at ten.”

Max just smiles. “Yeah. And I still am.”

***

Later that afternoon, you wander into the garage between meetings, one hand in your pocket, the other rubbing a spot at the base of your neck where stress always seems to collect. Max finds you before you even reach catering.

He always does.

“You didn’t finish your bar,” he says, holding up the wrapper like it’s damning evidence in a courtroom.

You give him a look. “You checked?”

“I check everything.”

He moves closer, smooths a wrinkle from your shirt with one hand, then slips the other to the small of your back. His touch is warm. Steady. His body shields you automatically from the chaos behind you — people moving, talking, planning — but all you feel is him.

“I had coffee,” you offer.

“Not food.”

“Coffee is made of beans.”

“Y/N.”

You laugh. “Okay. I’ll eat. Just don’t tell Yuki I’m stealing his instant ramen.”

Max smirks. “About that …”

You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. He just overheard something.”

“Max.”

He kisses your temple. “It’s fine.”

“Define fine.”

“He found out about the ring pop.”

Your mouth drops open. “You told him?”

“Jos told Helmut. Yuki eavesdropped.”

“Oh my God.”

Max shrugs. “I gave you my first promise. And I’m keeping it.”

You fall quiet, heart doing somersaults in your chest. You’re suddenly ten again, sticky-fingered and sun-drenched, holding a cherry-flavored ring pop while Max grinned at you like he’d just won Le Mans.

You reach for his hand now, fingers threading through his.

“You have kept it.”

He nods, solemn. “Every day.”

***

Jos watches from the hallway, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Yuki sidles up next to him.

“They’re pretty intense,” Yuki mutters.

Jos glances at him.

“She’s the only person he ever listens to,” he says.

Then he smiles.

Again.

Yuki shakes his head. “Unreal.”

***

The Red Bull garage is silent in that way only disaster can command.

Not the loud kind of disaster. Not the chaos of spinning tires or radio static or desperate engineers shouting into headsets. No, this is worse. This is the silence that comes when the pit wall realizes, together, that the lap isn’t going to finish. That the car isn’t going to limp back. That there’s only carbon fiber confetti, blinking yellow flags, and a flickering onboard camera showing Max Verstappen’s helmet motionless in the cockpit, framed by smoke and gravel.

He’s not moving.

“Red flag. Red flag. That’s Max in the wall.”

GP’s voice crackles through the comms, tight with alarm.

“Talk to me, Max.”

Nothing.

Then-

“I’m fine.”

The radio comes alive again. Gritted teeth, labored breath.

“Fucking understeer. Car didn’t turn. I said it didn’t feel right this morning.”

You’re in the garage, watching on a monitor, a pen stilled in your hand and a racing heart thudding in your throat. The medical car is already on its way.

***

The medical center smells like antiseptic and tension.

He’s on the bed when you get there. Suit unzipped to his waist, skin smudged with gravel dust and the beginnings of bruises.

And he’s angry.

“I’m not doing a scan,” he snaps, tugging at the strap of his HANS device like it personally betrayed him. “I’m fine.”

“Max,” the doctor says with all the patience of someone who’s dealt with world champions before, “you hit the wall at a hundred and seventy. We’re doing a scan.”

“I said I’m fine-”

“Max.”

Your voice.

Quiet. Steady. Unmistakable.

He turns. The fury in his shoulders drains almost instantly.

“Schatje.”

You cross to him, not rushing — because if you rush, he’ll think you’re panicked. And if you’re panicked, he’ll dig his heels in deeper.

You cup his jaw gently, running your thumb across the spot just beneath his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed for a second. He exhales, jaw loosening.

“Let them do the scan,” you say softly.

“I don’t want-”

“It’s not about what you want right now.”

He sighs. Mutinous. “I hate this part.”

“I know you do.” You nod, brushing sweat-matted hair from his forehead. “But I need to know you’re okay. I need the scans.”

He opens his eyes again, searching yours.

“Just a formality,” you whisper. “You’ll be out in twenty minutes.”

He hesitates. Then finally, “Okay.”

You turn to the doctor. “Go ahead.”

The doctor blinks at you like he’s watching a unicorn read a bedtime story to a lion.

Max doesn’t argue again.

GP, standing just behind the exam curtain, looks like he’s aged five years in twenty minutes. He leans toward you when Max disappears into the back for imaging.

“That was witchcraft.”

You shrug. “It’s just Max.”

“No,” GP says. “That was magic. He looked like he was about to throw a monitor at me.”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“He would’ve thrown it at me,” the doctor chimes in, still stunned. “And now he’s apologizing to the nurse. Who are you?”

You smile softly. “Just someone who knows how to talk to him.”

***

Jos arrives fifteen minutes later, face stormy and footsteps sharp. The room collectively inhales.

You’re seated in a plastic chair, eyes on the monitor that shows Max’s scan progress. You don’t turn around when Jos enters. You don’t have to.

He stops just behind you.

“Is he hurt?” He asks.

“Not seriously,” you answer. “But they need to check for microfractures. The impact was sharp on the right side.”

Jos is quiet for a long moment. Then his hand, heavy and warm, settles on your shoulder.

“You got him to agree to scans?”

You nod. “He was being Max.”

“That sounds right.”

GP, standing by the sink with a paper cup, watches the moment unfold like he’s witnessing history.

Jos Verstappen. Smiling.

Max reappears ten minutes later, changed into clean Red Bull kit, hair still damp from a quick shower.

You rise. “All clear?”

“Yeah.” He moves straight into your arms. “Just bruised.”

You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I told you it was fine.”

Max turns to Jos. “Hey.”

Jos scans him up and down, then nods once. “Could’ve been worse.”

Max shrugs. “Could’ve been better, too.”

“You’ll get it tomorrow.”

Max tilts his head. “That’s optimistic for you.”

Jos’s hand is still on your shoulder. “She makes us all softer, apparently.”

Everyone in the room hears it.

GP actually drops his cup.

Back in the garage later, Max sits on a folding chair while you rewrap the compression band on his wrist.

“It’s not tight, is it?”

“No.”

“You’ll tell me if it is?”

“Of course.” He smirks. “You’ll know before I say it anyway.”

You smile. “True.”

Max glances around the garage. “They’re all looking.”

You nod. “Let them.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.”

He takes your hand in his. “Thanks for earlier.”

“You were being impossible.”

“You love it.”

You grin. “I do.”

***

Outside, the paddock buzzes with gossip.

Inside, you kneel in front of him, fingers moving expertly over tape and skin. And Max looks down at you like he did when he was ten years old with cherry candy on his finger, asking you to keep a promise he hadn’t yet learned how to name.

And still, somehow, keeping it anyway.

***

Max is late.

Which isn’t unusual — especially not after a race weekend, not when media has clawed its way through his post-crash interviews like blood in the water. He told you he’d try to be back by seven, but it’s pushing eight-thirty, and the pasta you made sits cold on the counter while you curl up on the couch in one of his hoodies, a blanket around your shoulders and a book cracked open across your knees.

The apartment smells like rosemary and garlic and something so distinctly him that it makes your chest hurt. You should be used to this place by now — your name on the buzzer, your shoes by the door, your shampoo next to his in the shower — but some days it still feels like walking around in someone else’s dream.

The book is old. Max’s, clearly. Worn at the spine and dog-eared in ways that suggest he’s either read it a thousand times or used it to prop up furniture. You only picked it up to pass the time. You weren’t expecting it to feel like a trapdoor.

You weren’t expecting the letter.

It slips out from between two pages around chapter eleven, delicate and yellowed and folded into a square so neat it feels like it was handled by trembling hands. Which, you realize instantly, it probably was.

Your name is written on the front in Max’s handwriting.

But it’s Max’s handwriting from before.

When he still dotted his Is with a slight curve, when his Ts slanted just a little to the left, when his signature hadn’t hardened into something that looked more like a logo.

Your breath catches. You unfold it slowly.

And read.

March 5th, 2014

Y/N,

I don’t know what to say to you, so I’m writing this instead. Everyone’s talking, but no one is saying anything real. I hate it. I hate seeing the photos. I hate hearing my dad whisper when he thinks I’m not listening. I hate that I wasn’t skiing with you in France. I should have been.

You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.

You’ve always been braver than me. I don’t think I ever said that out loud, but it’s true. Even when we were kids and you crashed in Italy and your leg was bleeding and you didn’t cry — I almost did. I think I loved you even then.

I don’t know if you’ll come back to racing. I don’t know if I’ll see you in the paddock again. But if you do when you do I hope you come sit in my garage. Right in front of me. I hope I can look up and see you, just like before.

Because I drive better when you’re there. I always have.

Your Max

***

By the time you finish reading, you’re crying. Quietly. The kind of tears that don’t shake your shoulders, that don’t come with heaving sobs or gasps for breath — just the steady, unstoppable kind. The kind you didn’t know you were holding back.

The kind that were never just about the letter.

***

Max finds you like that.

The apartment door opens with its usual soft click, followed by the sound of keys in the dish and shoes kicked off against the wall. He calls out, “Schatje?” the way he always does.

When you don’t answer, he moves through the hallway, brow furrowed.

And then he sees you. Still on the couch. Eyes red. Shoulders small.

“Hey-”

He crosses to you instantly, crouching down so you’re face to face.

“What happened?” He asks, voice gentle, hands finding your knees. “What is it?”

You don’t speak. Not right away. You just reach for the folded piece of paper on the coffee table. Place it in his hand.

He looks down. Sees it. Recognizes it.

His eyes widen — then narrow. Carefully, he unfolds it.

You watch his throat work through a swallow as he reads.

Then he looks back at you.

“You found this?”

You nod. “It was in the book.”

He exhales. Drops the letter into his lap and reaches for your face, brushing your tears away with his thumb. His touch is featherlight. Reverent.

“You kept it,” you whisper.

“Of course I did.”

“I didn’t know-”

“I didn’t write it to give it to you.” Max’s voice is quiet. “I wrote it because I didn’t know how else to talk to you. You were gone. Everyone kept telling me to stay focused, to push through. But I missed you so much it made my chest hurt. I didn’t know if you’d ever come back.”

You press your forehead against his, and he leans into it like gravity is pulling him there.

“You never left me,” he murmurs. “Even when you did.”

Your breath hitches.

“I used to look at the garage before a race and pretend you were there. I’d pick a spot and tell myself, she’s sitting right there. She’s watching. Make it count.”

You sniff, choking on a watery laugh. “That’s why you got better?”

He smiles softly. “That’s why I survived.”

A pause. Then-

“I thought you might hate racing after … everything.”

You shake your head. “No. I hated losing it. I hated what it became without him. Without you.”

He shifts beside you, pulling you gently into his lap. You curl into him without hesitation, your cheek pressed against his collarbone, his hand sliding up your back and resting there, like it always does.

“I was scared,” you admit. “To come back. Not just to the paddock. To you.”

Max doesn’t flinch. He waits. Lets you speak.

“I knew if I saw you again, I wouldn’t be able to pretend we were just kids anymore. And that scared the hell out of me.”

“Why?”

“Because I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. And I didn’t know what that would mean.”

He kisses your temple. “It means you were always mine. Even when you didn’t know it yet.”

You shift to face him again. “Did you really mean it?”

“The letter?”

“Yeah.”

He holds your gaze, unwavering.

“I still mean it.”

You smile. “I sit in your garage now.”

“And I drive like I used to.”

“No,” you whisper. “You drive better.”

He grins. “Because you’re here.”

“Because I’m home.”

***

Later, much later, when the dishes are cleaned and your tears have dried, he pulls you into bed and tucks the letter between the pages of the book again.

“I want it close,” he says.

You trace the edge of his jaw. “Me too.”

Then he pulls you to his chest, your head against his heartbeat, and whispers against your hair:

“Promise me you’ll never leave again.”

You lift your chin. “Promise me you’ll always write me letters.”

He smiles.

“Deal.”

***

You don’t notice it right away.

The photo.

You’re sitting on Max’s couch, legs tangled with his, a shared blanket draped over both your laps, when your phone starts vibrating on the table.

Once.

Twice.

Then nonstop.

Max lifts his head from where it rests against your shoulder, brow furrowed. “That your phone?”

You reach over to check it, already expecting a handful of texts from your mother or maybe Mick with some new meme. But it’s not that.

It’s dozens — no, hundreds — of messages, pinging in rapid-fire succession from people you haven’t spoken to in years. Old classmates. Distant cousins. PR reps. Journalists. Even Nico Rosberg, who once jokingly told you he’d know before the internet if anything happened between you and Max, has sent you a simple message:

So … it’s out.

Your stomach twists.

“Y/N?” Max asks again. He’s sitting up now.

You click one of the links. It takes you to a Twitter post — already at 127,000 likes in under twenty minutes.

A photo.

Of you.

And Max.

It’s clearly taken the night after the race, when you and Max walked along the water after dinner, just the two of you, winding down through the dimmed cobblestone streets where no one was supposed to notice.

He’s standing behind you, arms wrapped around your middle. His face is tucked into your shoulder, eyes closed, and your hands rest on his forearms. There’s a soft smile on your face. The kind of moment that wasn’t meant to be seen. Quiet. Intimate. Entirely yours.

It’s not yours anymore.

The caption: IS THIS MAX VERSTAPPEN’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?

Max takes the phone from your hand before you can process much more. He stares at the screen, expression unreadable.

You murmur, “Max …“

He doesn’t speak.

You’re already scanning through the quote tweets and reposts, the chaos unraveling fast.

Whoever she is, he’s IN LOVE.

That’s not just a fling. Look at the way he’s holding her.

His face in her shoulder? Oh this is serious.

Wait. Wait. Wait. IS THAT Y/N SCHUMACHER?

Your heart hammers in your chest. You feel stripped bare.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “Someone must’ve followed us.”

Max shakes his head slowly, jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter.” He turns the phone over, screen down.

“Max …“

“I don’t care. I don’t give a shit who sees it. I’m just pissed they took it without asking.”

You hesitate. “It’s everywhere.”

He meets your eyes. His gaze is clear. “Then let it be everywhere.”

***

You think that might be the end of it. Just one photo, one viral tweet.

But you underestimate the sheer velocity of Formula 1 gossip.

By the time the sun rises, the image is on every motorsport news outlet. Paparazzi camp outside your apartment building. Journalists send emails with subject lines like “Verstappen’s Secret Girlfriend: A Deep Dive” and “Schumacher Family Ties: Romance in the Paddock?”

Christian texts you. Let us handle it. Don’t say anything. Max will be briefed before press.

You reply. I’m sorry.

His response comes a second later. Don’t be. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.

You almost cry again.

***

But nothing — and you mean nothing — could have prepared you for Jos.

You’re sitting in the Red Bull motorhome the following weekend when Yuki bursts in with his phone held up like a holy relic. He’s breathless, half-laughing, half-screaming.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. You guys. Look. Look.”

“What?” Max asks, bemused, glancing up from his telemetry notes.

Yuki throws his phone on the table. “Your dad.” He’s pointing at Max.

Max raises a brow. “What about him?”

“HE COMMENTED. PUBLICLY.”

You frown, inching closer to see.

The photo’s been reposted on Instagram by a gossip account. The caption is asking for confirmation. A sea of users is speculating. Arguing. Debating theories. And right there, in the middle of it all, under his verified name:

@josverstappen7 About time.

There’s a moment of pure, undiluted silence.

Then-

Max snorts. Actually snorts.

You blink. “He what?”

“He’s never commented on anything in his life,” Yuki gasps. “That man barely smiles.”

Max looks a little stunned. Then a slow, crooked grin stretches across his face.

“He likes you,” he says, quiet and proud.

You blink. “He’s always liked me.”

“Yeah, but now the world knows it.”

***

The paddock can’t stop buzzing. It’s not just that Max Verstappen has a girlfriend — it’s who she is. The daughter of Michael Schumacher. The girl who practically grew up beside him. The one everyone assumed had vanished from the scene. The one no one dared to ask about.

Even Helmut gives you a brief nod of approval in the hallway.

But it’s not over. Of course it’s not. There’s still the press conference.

***

You’re not there when it happens — you’re finishing up a private session with a Red Bull junior driver who nearly fainted during sim training — but you hear about it immediately.

The moment.

The question.

The quote that breaks the internet again.

Max is calm, cool as always in the hot seat. Wearing his usual navy polo, fingers tapping the table rhythmically while the journalists volley back and forth about tire strategy and engine upgrades.

And then-

A Sky Sports reporter leans in, trying to be clever.

“So, Max,” he says, “the internet’s in a frenzy over a certain photo from Monaco. You’ve been quiet about your personal life for years, but … care to confirm?”

There’s laughter from the room. A few mutters. Even Lewis shifts in his seat to glance over.

Max doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t scoff.

He just tilts his head slightly, expression softening.

“She’s not new.”

A pause.

“She’s always been there.”

***

When you see the clip, it hits you like a wave.

You watch it alone, in the empty Red Bull lounge, curled into one of the oversized chairs with your laptop on your knees and your heart in your throat.

The way he says it — without fanfare, without nerves — makes you ache.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t evade.

He just tells the truth.

Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

***

You don’t have to wait long before he finds you.

He walks in still wearing his lanyard and sunglasses, head slightly tilted.

“You saw it?”

You look up from the laptop and nod. “You really said that?”

“I meant it.”

“I know,” you whisper.

He sits beside you, pulls you into his lap without hesitation, arms snug around your waist.

“They’ll keep asking,” you murmur.

“Let them.”

You smile softly. “You’re not worried?”

“About what? Loving you in public?” He shrugs. “I’ve loved you in private since I was ten. I can do both.”

You press your forehead to his.

“They’re going to write stories.”

“Then I hope they write this part down.” He kisses you, slow and steady, like punctuation.

***

On your way out of the motorhome, your phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from your brother.

Tell Max if he hurts you, I’ll find a way back to F1 just so I can crash into him on lap one.

You laugh. Max, peeking over your shoulder, rolls his eyes.

“I like Mick,” he says, deadpan.

You grin. “Then be nice to me.”

“I’m nice to you every morning.”

You bump his hip. “You’re also mean to me every morning.”

“That’s foreplay.”

You laugh. Out loud. Bright and sudden.

And this time, you don’t care who hears it.

***

The drive is quiet.

Not tense, not awkward, just quiet. The kind of silence that lives in the space between heartbeats, between memories that never stopped aching. The kind of quiet that comes with going home.

Your fingers are looped with Max’s across the center console, neither of you speaking. You’re an hour outside Geneva, climbing into the familiar, secluded hills that line the lake. The roads are winding, shaded, and Max handles them like second nature — like he’s driven this route in dreams a hundred times before.

He probably has.

You definitely have.

You haven’t brought anyone back here in years.

Not since the accident. Not since everything changed.

But Max isn’t just anyone. He never was.

“I’m nervous,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies, eyes still fixed on the road.

You twist the hem of your sweater. “It’s not that I’m worried about him meeting you. It’s just … it’s different now. You remember.”

“I remember everything.”

You glance over at him. “Do you?”

Max finally turns to you, just briefly, but long enough for you to see the honesty in his expression. “He used to tell me I wasn’t allowed to marry you unless I learned how to heel-toe downshift.”

A small, watery laugh escapes your lips.

He squeezes your hand. “I got good at it. Just for him.”

You blink hard. “I just want him to know.”

“He knows.”

“Max-”

“He always knew.”

***

The estate hasn’t changed much.

The front gate still creaks a little. The garden still bursts with the same wild lavender and pale roses that your mother always insisted were Michael’s favorite, even though he could never name a single one correctly. The driveway curves the same way, gravel crunching under tires as Max eases the car into park.

You hesitate before getting out.

He doesn’t rush you.

Instead, Max leans over, presses his lips to your temple, and whispers, “Take your time. I’ve got you.”

You nod, even though nothing about your chest feels steady.

***

Your mother meets you at the door.

She pulls you into a hug instantly — tight, wordless, and lingering longer than usual.

Then she reaches for Max, and to your surprise, she hugs him too.

He hugs back.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says softly.

Max only nods.

She turns toward you. “He’s in the garden.”

***

You lead Max through the long corridor, past the living room where your father once danced around in his socks to ABBA to make you laugh. Past the kitchen table where Max, age fourteen, carved your initials into the wood with a butter knife when he thought no one was watching. (You never told anyone. You ran your fingers over it for years.)

The sliding glass doors to the garden open slowly. The breeze hits first — cool, gentle, still carrying hints of mountain pine.

And then, you see him.

He’s sitting under the willow tree, just like always, his wheelchair angled slightly toward the sun. There’s a blanket draped across his knees, and a small radio plays softly on the stone table beside him — some old German song you half-remember from childhood.

His eyes are open. Alert.

Your breath catches.

Max is silent beside you.

You step forward first.

“Hi, Papa.”

His eyes flick to yours.

Your voice breaks immediately. “I brought someone.”

Max takes a slow step closer.

Michael’s gaze moves to him.

There’s no flicker of surprise. No confusion. No question.

Just … calm recognition.

As if he knew you were coming all along.

“Hi, Michael,” Max says, voice low, steady. “It’s been a while.”

There’s no response. But Michael blinks, slowly, and Max takes it like a nod.

You kneel beside the chair. Take one of your father’s hands in both of yours. “You look good today.”

He doesn’t answer. He hasn’t, in years — not in full sentences. Sometimes a sound. A shift of the eyes. But it’s not the voice you grew up with. Not the laugh that echoed across karting paddocks. Not the firm, confident tone that once told Max he was going to win eight titles just to piss him off.

But his hands are warm.

You press your forehead to his knuckles, eyes closed.

“I missed you.”

Max kneels beside you.

He doesn’t say much at first.

Just lets his hand fall gently on your back.

Then, in a voice softer than you’ve ever heard from him, he says, “You were right.”

There’s a pause.

“You told me once that I’d marry her someday.” His thumb brushes a slow, grounding line along your spine. “I used to think you were joking. I was nine. I didn’t even know how to talk to her properly.”

You let out a breath that trembles.

Max continues, “But you saw it before we did. You knew.”

Michael’s eyes shift again. Toward Max. Then to you.

Still no words.

But something passes between the three of you. A ripple. A current. The invisible thread that’s always been there.

You blink hard, but tears fall anyway.

“I wanted to tell you before anyone else,” Max adds. “We didn’t mean to make it public. But now that it is — I wanted you to know.”

You choke on a sob.

Max moves instantly, both arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

You don’t resist.

You bury yourself into him, the tears shaking through your body, your grip fisting the back of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, over and over. “I’m sorry I waited so long to bring him.”

He strokes your hair. “You brought me now.”

“He doesn’t even …“

“He knows,” Max says again. “He knows.”

You look up at him, eyes red, cheeks damp.

And he says it, not for the first time, but with a weight that anchors you to the earth:

“I love you.”

Your voice cracks. “I love you too.”

Michael’s hand twitches.

You freeze.

Then, slowly — almost imperceptibly — his fingers curl around yours.

Max sees it too.

His voice breaks a little. “Thank you, Michael.”

***

You stay in the garden for hours.

Max pulls an extra chair over and doesn’t complain when your head falls against his shoulder. He lets you speak. Lets you cry. At one point, your mother brings out coffee. He thanks her in gentle German. She smooths your hair down like you’re six years old again and then kisses your father’s forehead with practiced tenderness.

Michael watches everything. Quietly. Distant but present.

You catch Max whispering something under his breath at one point, leaning just slightly closer to your father.

You don’t ask what he said.

Later, as the sun dips low over the lake and the shadows stretch long across the grass, Michael’s eyes start to close. His breathing slows.

You press a final kiss to his cheek.

Max pushes your hair behind your ear, kisses your temple.

The way he carries your grief — without fear, without pressure — makes something in your heart crack open.

“I wasn’t ready,” you whisper in the hallway later.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad we came.”

“I am too.”

You pause.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever — when we were kids — imagine this?”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he smiles.

“You were all I ever imagined.”

***

Victoria doesn’t knock.

She never has. She has a key, the code, and more importantly, Max has always told her, “Just come in. You don’t need permission.”

But today something feels different the moment she steps through the door.

It smells like vanilla and something warm and sweet. There’s music, soft and low, playing from the kitchen. Stevie Wonder, maybe? She toes off her shoes, sets her weekend bag down by the stairs, and follows the faint scent of pancakes.

And then stops dead in the hallway.

Because Max is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms slung loosely around someone else’s waist. And that someone is barefoot, in one of his old Red Bull t-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh, hair tied in a messy knot, flipping pancakes with an ease that can only come from familiarity.

She recognizes you instantly.

As the girl Max would talk about when he was sixteen and swearing up and down he didn’t believe in love. As the girl who used to show up on the pit wall and make her brother forget to breathe. As the one name he never said bitterly.

The one girl he never had to get over, because he never stopped waiting for her.

You.

Y/N Schumacher.

And Max is kissing your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Whispering something low and private, like he’s done it a thousand times before. You laugh — really laugh — and Max’s hand slips beneath the hem of the shirt like it’s instinctive, fingers resting warm against your hip.

Victoria blinks.

Not because it’s jarring, but because it’s not.

Because it looks like he’s home.

She clears her throat, and Max turns his head lazily over his shoulder.

“Hey, Vic.”

You turn too, startled, spatula still in hand.

“Oh! Hi, sorry, I didn’t know you were coming today. I would’ve-”

“She’s here,” Max says to you, then to Victoria, “You’re early.”

“I didn’t know I had to schedule a slot now,” she teases.

Max rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

Victoria steps fully into the kitchen, scanning the countertop cluttered with batter, coffee mugs, and fresh strawberries.

“This is … surreal,” she murmurs, setting her sunglasses down.

“What is?” Max asks, biting into a strawberry you just sliced.

You swat at him. “That was for the topping.”

He grins. “I have training later, I need carbs.”

Victoria watches all of this with quiet fascination.

Max is … soft.

Not weak. Never that.

But soft. Like velvet over steel. Like he’s stopped fighting air and finally has something solid to hold onto. Like the sharp edges of his world have finally rounded into something resembling peace.

She pulls out a stool at the counter.

“Okay, I need to hear everything,” she announces, folding her arms. “How long has this been going on? When were you planning on telling your favorite sister?”

Max reaches for a mug. “Technically, I told you when I was nine.”

You blink. “You what?”

Victoria smirks. “You what?”

Max shrugs, pouring coffee. “Told her I was gonna marry you. At dinner. After karting in Genk. You had that sparkly lip gloss and made me crash into a barrier.”

“Oh my god,” you say, half-laughing, face warm. “That wasn’t even — Max, you were such a menace back then.”

He leans in, voice low. “Still am.”

You swat at him again, cheeks flushed.

Victoria watches with something like awe.

“I knew it,” she says softly. “I knew when I saw you with her at Spa. You stood differently.”

“I did not,” Max replies, sliding a pancake onto a plate.

“You did. Like the noise stopped.”

He doesn’t argue.

You glance at him, puzzled.

Victoria turns to you. “You calm him. I don’t think he even realizes how much.”

“I do,” Max says immediately, gaze fixed on you. “I realize it every day.”

You go quiet.

He reaches for your hand and squeezes once.

Victoria sips her coffee. “So … are you living here?”

Max answers before you can. “She’s not going anywhere.”

You smile down at the pancakes. “He unpacked my boxes before I could even choose a closet.”

“I built you a desk,” Max adds.

Victoria raises a brow. “You hate assembling furniture.”

“I made GP help.”

You burst out laughing. “You yelled at the instructions.”

“They were wrong,” Max mutters.

Victoria watches you both, a soft look settling over her features.

“You’re good for him,” she says, quieter now. “He’s still Max, but … I’ve never seen him this happy. Even when he won the championship. It wasn’t like this.”

You glance at him.

Max is already looking at you.

“She’s always been it,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “Even when she wasn’t here.”

You press your lips together.

He leans in again, presses another kiss to your temple.

Victoria pretends to gag. “God, you’re disgusting.”

Max smiles. “I know.”

But you notice the way he pulls you in closer. How he kisses your knuckles when you pass him the syrup. How his eyes keep coming back to you like he’s still making sure you’re real.

You’ve been through everything.

Secrets. Distance. Paparazzi. The weight of family names. The ache of watching a parent disappear in pieces.

But this?

This is the part you never thought you’d get to have.

Pancakes and Stevie Wonder and barefoot Saturdays. Max leaning against you like it’s the only place he’s meant to be. Victoria grinning across the kitchen island like she’s always known.

You hand her a plate.

“Tell me if it’s too sweet,” you say.

Max nudges your hip. “It’s perfect.”

You look up at him.

So is he.

So is this.

#max verstappen x reader

4K notes · View notes

slowpitstop · 2 months ago

Text

I Dare You – IH6 (part one)

summary: A girl, a boy, a slow burn, a bunch of F1 drivers, too many parties and just enough tension to ruin your week

word count: 5.6k

isack hadjar x reader

note: hello my lovelies! this is the first fic I'm posting on tumblr and I hope you'll like it!!! This is part 1 so please comment and repost to give me any motivation to write part 2 otherwise this will end up in the bins of my projects along with my draft masters thesis lmao

Paris, April 2025

Your breath feels so loud it almost drowns out the music pulsing in the background. You recognise Niagara Falls by The Weeknd. The bass notes are shaking your bones but not as much as his eyes do.

Isack is looking at you, not moving an inch. His lips are slightly parted and all you want is to crash into them, hard, not sweet.

You stand two meters apart, fists clenched, while he is leaning against a cluttered table like you’re not melting in front of him.

“I dare you,” he smiles.

Something twists inside you and your veins ache. You take a step. Then another.

4 months ago - London, January 2025

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” Everyone around you screams while you snort out a huge laugh watching your friend miserably fall out of a handstand.

“Victor freaking Martins. You have to stop doing things like this or else you cannot complain about all the compromising videos I have on my phone,” you say as you lend him a helping hand.

You two keep dancing for a while, the music pounding in the crowded London apartment you somehow ended up in with a mix of friends and a bunch of strangers too. The lights are low and the air is buzzing with perfume, sweat and cheap champagne. It’s loud and chaotic and a little too hot but the energy feels good.

A little later, breathless, you slip away to get a drink, weaving through the crowd. You find a quieter corner with a table full of bottles and pour yourself an iced tea. Near the table, two guys are talking in French. You don’t mean to listen but you catch the words anyway.

The tall one, standing next to you, points to a girl in the crowd and smirks.

“C’est déjà Halloween?.” (Is it already Halloween?)

You follow his gaze and freeze. That’s your friend Marla, the same one you hyped up a few hours ago when she was choosing her outfit: orange overalls and a sheer green mesh long sleeve shirt. Sure, she looks a bit like a fashionable vegetable, but who cares? She loves it.

That is when you notice the other guy, shorter, half-hidden behind his friend. He has a boyish grin on his face and bursts of laughter when the tall one adds “En tout cas, c’est exactement comme ça que j’imaginais une citrouille danser” just as Marla throws herself into some heartfelt moves. (Anyway, that’s exactly how I imagined a pumpkin would dance)

He leaves but the other one lingers. He turns, catches you watching him.

“Hi,” he says, completely oblivious to your death stare. “Having a good night?”

His accent is thick and unmistakably French. You blow out a breath, like a bull in a kid’s cartoon.

“You Frenchies really like talking about people in front of them thinking no one can understand, huh?”

He blinks, confused. His smile fades. Now that you see him clearly, you clock the details of his vaguely familiar face: dark curls, Roman nose with a beauty mark, eyes the color of hot chocolate. But none of that matters.

“You think nobody here understands French?” you’re almost yelling now over the music.

“You can understand French?” he asks.

“Je suis à moitié française, bien sur que je comprends. Et surtout ce que tu dis sur mes amis,” you snap while pointing at Marla. (I am half French, of course I understand. And especially what you say about my friends)

He has recovered his composure now, and frowns.

“Eh, j’ai rien dit, perso.” (Hey, I didn’t say anything myself)

“Ouais enfin t’as bien rigolé.” (Yeah, well you sure had a good laugh)

He shrugs.

“Bah ouais. C’était drôle.” (Well yeah. It was funny)

Your eyes narrow and you give him a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“I think it is funnier that two guys standing stiff as planks in a corner are commenting on a girl who’s just dancing and having fun.”

“Woaw, relax,” he says, holding his hands up. “You’re scary.”

“And you’re an idiot,” you say before you can think.

He raises an eyebrow and the space between you snaps tight. You’re about to say something else but your words catch behind your teeth. Maybe you overreacted. It was just a dumb comment. Marla had said she was going for chaotic sexy vegetable vibe, so why were you so angry?

Because he had that smug, boyish grin that made your stomach slightly twist and you didn’t like how that felt. Feeling a bit stupid and not ready to admit it got to you, you put your drink on the table a little too hard, and head back to the dancefloor as he watches you go.

When you come back to your friends, Victor wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“Why were you talking to Isack?”

“Who?”

He tilts your head toward the guy you just argued with.

“Him. He raced with me in F2, you don’t recognise him? Isack Hadjar. Really good, just made it to F1 with Racing Bulls.”

The rest of his words feel like they echo from underwater.

“You’re going to see him a lot this year actually, since you’re interning with McLaren.”

Your eyes lock with Isack’s across the room and for a second, you wonder if he is just as thrown off as you are.

March 2025, Melbourne GP - Wednesday evening

The restaurant is fancy in a subtle way but the wine still costs more than your rent. The McLaren team fills the space with warmth and noise: engineers and mechanics are trading jokes while Zak Brown at the head of the table is sitting like the godfather of the whole operation.

You are seated between Oscar Piastri and one of the data analysts who is obsessed with tire degradation. Someone raises a toast to the start of the season and you clink glasses even though you are still convinced someone will soon realise you are an imposter and revoke your badge.

You were not supposed to be here, not really. Not at a literal F1 team dinner. You were a final-year engineering student at MIT and your school had this partners program where the lucky nerd who topped the year in each discipline gets to do their final semester with a real-world placement. Most get stuck designing powertrains for scooters but somehow, you got McLaren. The email even said that Zak Brown himself, a fellow American, helped launch the programme years ago. You remember rereading the name like: wait, that Zak Brown?

When you called Victor after getting the internship, he hallucinated for ten whole seconds and then said something that sounded like:

“You made it to F1 before me. I hate you. I’m so proud. I still hate you.”

Despite growing up in the U.S., summers at your grandparents’ in France meant everything to you: the tiny village in Essonne just an hour from Paris, your grandma’s terrifying Peugeot and Victor Martins. You met him when you were kids, racing bikes down gravel alleys. He got into karting first, obviously. Then one day you tried it too, just for fun and… you were awful. But something still clicked in your brain, not on how to drive the damn thing but how it worked. This spark steered you early on, toward engineering and eventually one of the best schools in the world.

You smile at the memory while someone refills your glass.

Thursday evening

You are in the hotel gym which is small but well equipped. You usually prefer running outside, especially early in the morning when the city is quiet but today the heat is too brutal. The air conditioning of the gym is a relief. Cool and steady, it matches the rhythm of your breath as you run on the treadmill.

You like the treadmill for your interval sessions, the fact you can precisely control the speed. Your feet hit the belt in a steady pattern, sweat building on your skin. You are focused and in the zone when the door swings open.

Isack walks in with his trainer, chatting. Your heart skips a beat, not for him obviously, but out of surprise, and you pretend you didn’t notice him.

But of course, you notice. He is wearing a fitted black t-shirt and training shorts and as he moves through warmups, his sleeves ride up his biceps. Then he starts on the weights. You see him in the mirror, the way his arms flex naturally with each movement, controlled and easy. He is focused, jaw clenched and hair damp at the edges. Shit.

You catch yourself staring a little too long and suddenly your foot slips. A loud noise echoes as your shoe hits too hard and you try to regain your balance.

Isack’s eyes snap to you.

Your cheeks are heating and you feel mortified. He smirks, part amusement, part something you can’t quite place.

You return your eyes to the screen in front of you, pushing the speed up in some desperate attempt to outrun your embarrassment. The weight of his gaze lingers, itching the back of your neck. You focus on your breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

Later

You are down at the hotel lobby vending machine at 1am because jet lag is eating you alive and there is nothing in your room but cool air and silence. You punch the button for crisps and the machine does nothing. Of course.

You are about to kick it when you hear a voice behind you.

“Maybe try saying please.”

You turn. Isack Hadjar, in sweatpants and a hoodie, with messy hair.

“Maybe try minding your business,” you mutter, not even looking at him.

He leans on the machine. You can feel him there like static electricity, right under your skin. He finally breaks the silence.

“You’re still mad about New Year’s?”

You roll your eyes and sigh.

“No, I don’t care. Why would I be mad? I don’t even know you.”

“Fair enough” he smiles, then adds: “I wasn’t trying to be a dick to your friend, you know that, right?”

“Fine,” you say, half to him, half to yourself. “Noted.”

You nod. He nods too. Not defensive, not smug, just… honest. There’s a beat. One too long. He looks exactly like the pictures you found online when you googled his name like a total idiot after that New Year’s argument. Same eyes. Same muscular silhouette. Same effortless charm that pisses you off just a little.

Except now he’s right in front of you. Real and warm and too close.

The crisps fall with a mechanical noise and break the spell. You snatch the bag and step back without another word, heart doing something stupid in your throat. You feel him looking at you the whole way to the elevator.

Race Day

You are in the McLaren garage, yawning. The first Grand Prix of the season is about to start but you are still half asleep, from jet lag and a few nights of tossing and turning in your bed. Friday practice and Saturday qualifying had gone well for the McLaren boys, which made you genuinely excited. Everyone knows it, this season, McLaren is onto something.

The crew slowly clears from the grid and the cars start their formation lap. You are looking at a detail on a spare piece of the car with one of the mechanics when a wave of noise breaks behind you. You turn toward the TV screen just in time to see the replay: Isack’s car is in the wall. Your stomach drops. How is that even possible?

“Shit, that’s embarrassing,” says an engineer in the background.

You follow his exit on the screens, and even though he does not take off his helmet, you can see he is devastated. On his way back to the garage, Anthony Hamilton stops him to give him some comfort. You lean back, fingers brushing your face. He must feel awful. You should feel something else, some sort of vengeful smugness, but you don’t. There is no satisfaction at all, just some uncomfortable feeling in your chest.

A few hours after the Grand Prix and celebrations at McLaren’s, you are walking in the paddock hallway. You don’t mean to run into him. Not really. You’re just cutting through the back hallway to bring data logs to your trackside lead when he is suddenly there, half leaning on a wall and phone in his hands.

Isack’s suit is rolled down to his waist. He looks pissed. He sees you before you can turn around. Too late. You force yourself toward him.

“How are you?” you ask.

He shrugs. You open your mouth but he cuts you before you can speak, looking exhausted.

“Look, I’m not in the mood for banter, honestly.”

“I don’t want to banter” you protest. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. About the crash.”

He pushes himself off the wall like your words physically annoy him. He looks at you, trying to decide if you’re lying. You hold his gaze but he looks away first.

“C’est vraiment la honte putain. Je me suis affiché comme un con sur mon premier Grand Prix en F1,” he mutters as he kicks a rock with his shoe. (This is so fucking embarrassing. I made a fool of myself at my first F1 Grand Prix)

You look at him, surprised by the sudden confession.

“It was just a stupid mistake, you have plenty of time to prove everyone wrong. Actually, it’s a pretty cool redemption arc story, you know.”

Then you add, because you are apparently incapable of stopping and need to fill this unbearable silence:

“I’ve watched footage of your F2 races. You have talent.”

His head tilts and he shows his usual smirk.

“You’ve stalked me?”

You feel your entire face becoming red, realising your mistake.

“No, I mean, I watched Victor's. You just happened to be in them.”

“You said you looked at my races, though.”

“God, fuck off.”

He laughs and it settles somewhere low in your stomach. Someone calls his name from down the paddock so he gathers his gear and starts walking back.

You call out, trying to save face:

“I still think you’re an idiot! By the way.”

He glances over his shoulder, a wide smug grin on his face. You try to ignore the warm and irritatingly happy feeling that blooms through you.

China GP, March 2025

Sunday mornings in the paddock seem to always be a little chaotic but today it’s the good kind. You’re sitting on an overturned crate near the Red Bull hospitality area, sipping something over-caffeinated. Around you, a loose group of rookies and Lily, Alex Albon’s girlfriend, who somehow manages being surrounded by chaos and still look elegant.

Someone, probably Ollie, just sparked a heated debate about who would survive longest on a desert island.

“You’d be dead in two days,” Kimi says, pointing at him. “You got lost inside a shopping mall.”

“I was eleven!” Ollie squeaks.

Laughter breaks out. Liam is mid rant about survival tactics and the object he would bring with him “I’d hunt some fishes, with like, sticks. Or a sharp spoon”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Isack smirk. You don’t look at him, you’re careful not to.

“Since you guys are asking, I would bring Liam and eat him for protein,” says Ollie out of the blue.

Liam smiles. “Kinky.”

You choke on your drink and Lily mutters “Oh my God”.

“What about you?” she turns to you. “How long are you lasting out there?”

You shrug. “I know how to boil water, I can tie knots and I don’t complain. Also I have watched all seasons of Survivor religiously.”

Lily whistles. “Damn. Attagirl.”

You try not to glance at Isack but you fail. He feels you staring and tilts his head toward you but you turn back to Lily a little too quickly, gulping your drink.

Then, salvation: Alex Albon appears from around the corner. He heads straight for Lily.

“There you are,” he says, smiling. “Come on, I’m saving you from this testosterone soup.”

Lily stands and kisses him on the cheek. “Please get me out.”

You hop off the crate too to follow them. Lily loops her arm through yours and you glance back, just briefly. Isack’s eyes are still on you, unreadable.

Sunday evening

Someone has the bright idea of heading up to the hotel rooftop. It’s one of those in-between evenings where the post-race buzz still lingers but there’s no party, just too much dopamine and nowhere to put it. Someone brings snacks, someone else pulls out their JBL and the music mixes with the honks of Shanghai in the distance.

The sky is dark but it’s a nice night. String lights are throwing a golden halo over everyone’s head. You pull a hoodie over your sundress and sit cross-legged on the ground, sipping a Coke zero.

Ollie points a finger at Kimi.

“Truth or dare.”

A wave of protests erupts until Ollie threatens to switch the music to his Bangers only playlist.

Kimi is challenged to serenade a picture of Toto Wolff with a Backstreet Boys song. He does, terribly, and Ollie discreetly films the moment for future blackmail. Liam makes Lily answer whether Alex has ever cried during sex. He hasn’t, but he has cried watching The Notebook, apparently. You don’t know who dared Arthur Leclerc to try pushups on the roof ledge, but you stopped watching after the second one.

Eventually, it lands on you.

“Truth or dare?” Isack asks through the laughter.

You hesitate. He is leaning back on his hands, casual, but he looks at you like he knows you won’t pick truth. And maybe it’s pride or the rush of your second Grand Prix, but you say:

“Dare.”

Isack sits up straighter. “Walk the ledge.”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

He points to the low concrete ledge that lines the edge of the building, maybe half a meter wide.

“That’s so dumb,” you say. “What if I die?”

“I said walk, not fall. Are you scared?” he says and you catch the smile he is trying to hide. “Come on, I dare you.”

“Fine,” you concede, already standing. “Just to prove a point.”

Alex says your name like a warning but you wave him off. You climb onto the ledge, carefully, the night breeze making your sundress float up. Your feet balance quickly, muscle memory from years of martial arts and being stubborn. Halfway across, the wind picks up. You flinch. Your arms extend for balance but you wobble a bit.

And then he’s there. Quiet and sudden, next to the edge, reaching his hand out instinctively.

You don’t think. You grab it.

The second your palm touches his, a jolt goes through your fingers, sharp and electric. Like the spark of static from an old sweater. You let go immediately. He flinches too.

“What the hell was that?” you mutter.

“Static,” he says, staring at his hand like it betrayed him. But his voice is a little off.

You climb down fast, cheeks flushed. Lily grins at you like she knows exactly what just happened.

Somewhere in the English countryside, April 2025

You don’t really know whose house this is, only that Ollie found the party and wherever Ollie goes, Isack follows. Victor is here too, sipping a beer next to you. You are sitting in a pair of lounging chairs in the back garden with a small group. You’ve had maybe three beers. Four? You’ve stopped counting. Enough to feel loose and light, stretched out with your legs over Victor’s.

It’s been a strange few weeks. Japan feels like a blur and Bahrain is coming soon, but right now you’re in this bubble back in Europe with everyone. You miss Liam. He hasn’t been around much since the news, the fact that he got demoted to Racing Bulls hit him hard. You hope the memes you send relentlessly and the appreciation messages you text him are cheering him up a little.

But everything else is going surprisingly well. You are three Grands Prix in, and you’re not just surviving, you’re actually doing something. You have caught a few people off guard with how quickly you’ve picked things up. Your work is helping engineers tweak things, even small things. You’re useful. You’re wanted. Sometimes you catch yourself smiling for no reason at all, like you have finally found your place.

You suddenly tune back into the conversation the boys are having. Someone brought up MMA and some dramatic fight from last week, and now all the hormonal late teenagers around you are losing their minds.

“Wasn’t Adesanya the first one to come in with that insane striking record?” Ollie asks around.

You take a sip of your beer before responding.

“Nope. Germaine de Randamie was undefeated in 46 kickboxing fights before she got into MMA. Try again, sunshine.”

The group turns to stare at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Wait, you follow MMA?” Ollie says, clearly stunned.

Victor bursts out laughing.

“Of course she does. She did taekwondo for twelve years and boxing for five.”

Everyone laughs, quite impressed, before the conversation shifts. Amid the chatter and clinking bottles, Isack, who has barely looked at you all evening, tilts his beer slightly in your direction.

“You’ve been hiding this side of you.”

You reach for your beer, barely holding back a smug grin.

“You never asked.”

“Maybe we’ve been training in the same gym, do you know La frappe in Paris?”

“Sorry, I only train in tough cookie places,” you smile. Isack lets out a laugh.

“Putain,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You can be so cocky.”

You shrug, innocent.

“Just telling the truth.”

“What? You think you could take me?”

“I know I could take you,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He lifts a brow, his mouth twitching.

“You sure? You’re all talk.”

You lean back in your seat. You did not notice, but the garden has gone quieter as most people have drifted back inside because of the cold. It’s just you, Isack and Victor now. The air feels different somehow. You're both a little too competitive, a little too tipsy and neither of you knows when to back down.

Victor gets up and glances between you and Isack.

“I’m going for a wee, I do not want to see what this turns into,” he says, pointing between you two. “And I swear to God, if I come back and find you rolling in the bushes, I’m calling your mums.” You flip him off as he leaves.

Silence. Then, Isack stands and offers you a hand.

“Come on, let’s settle this.”

You give him a look.

“You’re not serious.”

“I dare you.”

Before either of you can think any better, you are both on your feet, half-fighting, half-laughing. He’s quick, but you’re quicker, dodging a grab and slipping around him. You aim for his ribs, gentle but cocky and he screams with exaggerated offense.

At some point, you throw a lazy leg kick that he somehow catches. You both lose your balance and roll into the grass, breathless. You manage to pin him for half a second before he flips you with way too much ease. He ends up above you, hands wrapped around your wrists, pressed into the grass. You stop giggling. His curls are a mess and he's panting a little.

His eyes flick down to your mouth and you suddenly realise how close your faces are. Now all you can think about is how your lips are almost brushing his. How they looked like when he laughed two seconds ago. How they might feel.

You can hear your own heart in your ears. Your skin is burning, in the places where he touches you, where he doesn’t. What the hell am I thinking? You’re drunk. That’s all it is. Just the beers and the grass and the way he’s looking at you like you’re some kind of mystery he wants to solve with his mouth.

He breathes out, slowly and his lips almost touch yours when��

“OLLIE BROKE A TABLE!!” someone screams from inside.

You both get up within a second like you have been electrocuted, barely looking at each other.

“I.. I’m going to see what that was,” you mumble, already moving.

You don’t wait for him to respond and just run.

Essonne, France, April 2025

The sun is bright over your heads. You squint as you wipe sweat off your forehead with the bottom of your shirt. Victor misses his shot and groans.

“Sucker” you tease, snatching the ball.

“I’m not a sucker, I’m distracted,” he says, looking at you. “You’ve been in a mood all day. Spill the tea.”

You roll your eyes and dribble past him, taking a shot that bounces off the basketball rim. He takes the ball, still looking at you like he is not going to let this go.

“What’s going on with you and Isack?”

You freeze for a second too long.

“Nothing.”

“Oh come on. You were flirting with your eyes at that party like it was a full-time job.”

You try to dodge him, literally and figuratively but he runs into you lightly, grinning.

“I’m serious! You’ve been weird ever since. What happened?”

You press your lips together. Bounce the ball twice.

“Nothing happened, okay?”

Victor raises an eyebrow, smirking. You cave.

“Fine. We almost kissed.”

He blinks and his jaw drops.

“WHAT?”

“We were messing around on the grass. It got stupid. We were drunk. And then someone yelled about Ollie breaking something and I panicked and left. And I haven’t talked to him since.”

Victor makes a noise between disbelief and amusement.

“You ghosted him?”

“I didn’t ghost him.”

He just stares.

“I just… avoided him. For the rest of the party and at the Bahrain GP.”

He drops the ball and throws his hands up dramatically.

“You’re unbelievable!”

You throw your hands up as well.

“Hey, it’s not like it’s just my fault. He also hasn’t reached out.”

“But why don’t you reach out? You like him.”

“I don’t like him.”

He squints at you again.

“You look at him like you want to fuck him and kill him at the same time.”

“Shut up!” you throw the basketball at his chest. He dodges, laughing.

“You do! You’ve got the murder eyes and the horny eyes!”

You chase him across the court, swearing in French under the spring sun.

Paris, April 2025 (back to the beginning)

You don’t really want to be here but Marla begged and honestly, there wasn’t much to do tonight anyway. You are only in Paris for the night, crashing at her place since your early train to visit your family and Victor leaves from the Austerlitz station.

The party you found yourselves in is hosted by a Red Bull crew member, a celebration after the triple header. The apartment is full of people. A mix of F1 people, friends of friends and party crashers. There is French rap humming in the background and wine glasses everywhere.

You are sitting on the kitchen counter in a short skirt and large sun-faded Carhartt t-shirt, both stolen from Marla’s wardrobe an hour ago. Your hair is loose and your legs swing lazily as you sip a very bad rosé.

Marla stands beside you, arms crossed, the neck of a beer bottle tucked between two fingers like a cigarette.

“I get she is lonely after the divorce, but she could literally find anyone else. I always have to be the one going, ‘Mom, that man brought a coupon to your birthday…’”

Your attention slips and your eyes drift toward the living room. Paris + Red Bull party equals Isack Hadjar, prince of the evening. He has been laughing for half an hour now with two guys you vaguely recognise from the Racing Bulls garage and a girl with a backless dress and perfectly blown out hair. You haven’t seen him since England apart from a glance at the media pen at the Saudi GP, but now he’s here, on home turf, like the party belongs to him. Of course he’s magnetic. Did a magnificent season debut. Everyone knows his name here. You wish you didn’t.

“You’re not even listening to me,” Marla complains.

“I am!”

Marla tilts her head.

“You’ve looked at him like six times in two minutes.”

“No I didn’t,” you say too quickly.

The girl next to Isack says something and touches his arm. He doesn’t pull away. You grit your teeth and gulp your glass of wine in one go before reaching to pour another one. Marla watches, unimpressed.

“Anyway,” you say, desperate to steer the conversation elsewhere, “please tell me more about your new step dad.”

“Fine,” she sighs. “He wears leather bracelets. Plural. And he plays the didgeridoo.”

Later in the evening, you are standing by a dying potted plant, pretending to check something on the wall. Your glass is still half full but your head is light from the wine.

You turn to head back to the kitchen and slam right into someone. Your wine nearly spills down your front. A hand reaches, steadying your arm.

“Careful,” he mutters.

You look up. Isack.

“Maybe look where you’re going,” he says, pulling his hand back like he regrets touching you.

“Are you mad at me?” you say abruptly, the wine talking through you.

His brow lifts, caught off-guard.

“What?”

“You’ve stayed a mile away from me all night, hovering around…” you glance at the girl with the backless dress across the room “... whoever,” you mumble.

He exhales.

“I’m being weird? You’re the one who’s been ignoring me for weeks. You barely hang out with the guys anymore. And you look right through me like I don’t exist.”

“I haven’t been…”

“Yes, you have,” he cuts in. “Just admit it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

He lets out a dry laugh.

“It is to me. You got scared,” he says like he’s daring you to deny it.

You cannot hold his gaze as you look away without replying.

“Then say it,” Isack says, calmer now. “Say there’s nothing between us. Say it and I’ll walk out that door. You’ll never have to deal with me again.”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, because you don’t know how to lie right now. The silence stretches and his expression doesn’t change.

“Yeah,” he says, voice flat. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he turns and walks away.

You stay frozen for a second. Maybe two or three. And then the air rushes back into your lungs. Heart pounding, you push through the crowd. You shove your wine glass into Marla’s startled hands on the way.

He is already halfway down the corridor when you catch him just as he slips into the pantry to get his hoodie, all the guest’s jackets being oddly packed next to the food shelves.

You follow him inside and the door clicks shut behind you.

He turns around, clearly irritated.

“What now?”

You take a shaky breath, words tumbling out before you can stop them.

“I don’t know what I feel, okay? And it’s so unfair of you to ask that because I cannot think when you’re around, and… and I feel like an idiot. Like I’m drowning in something I don’t understand, and you’re just standing there like it’s nothing.”

His expression softens.

“You didn’t say anything either, after England,” you say through your breath.

“Because you acted like it was a mistake,” he replies while running a frustrated hand through his hair.

“I got scared,” you whisper.

He meets your gaze.

“So did I.”

You are way too aware of every detail right now, the cramped room, his eyes, the way his presence makes your chest tighten while he is in front of you, waiting for you to say something, anything.

Your breath feels so loud it almost drowns out the music pulsing in the background. You recognise Niagara Falls by The Weeknd. The bass notes are shaking your bones but not as much as his eyes do.

Isack is looking at you, not moving an inch. His lips are slightly parted and all you want is to crash into them, hard, not sweet.

You stand two meters apart, fists clenched, while he is leaning against a cluttered table like you’re not melting in front of him.

“I dare you,” he smiles.

Something twists inside you and your veins ache. You take a step. Then another.

You’re in front of him now. So close you can smell his cologne and feel his breath on your lips. His hand slides to your jaw, gentle but sure and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is nothing like you imagined. It’s worse. Rougher, hotter, messier. Your teeth bump. Your hands are in his hair. His fingers dig into your back like he doesn’t believe you’re real.

You grip the front of his shirt as Isack exhales into your mouth. There’s too much noise in your head and not enough space between you. He flips you around, lifts you onto the table and you pull him closer between your legs.

One of his hands slides up under your skirt and his fingers leave burning marks on your thigh. He kisses you like he wants you to feel every inch of it, like he’s daring you to pull away. His lips trace the shape of your jawline before returning to your mouth. You let out a moan.

It’s not soft, it’s not perfect. But it’s just right.

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