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dreamauri · 2 months ago

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♪ — 𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗢𝗠𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗕𝗟𝗘 - chapter four max verstappen x fem! driver! reader ( angst ) series summary . . . a mortal who dared to defy the impossible. Of grit forged in fire, and dreams that refused to yield. In a world where heroes are born, and few rise to become legends. You are a force to be reckoned with. Unshakable. Unstoppable. Indomitable. (11.4k words)

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III - THE DEVIL WEARS LOUBOUTIN . . . ( your eighth year in Formula one, 2019 ) content warning . . . ( contains non-descriptive smut, Yn is 27 years old in this chapter, really fucking longer ass chapter, mention/allusions to sexual assult/r*ape, 2 seconds of angst brocedes)

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The days after Fernando Alonso left McLaren felt like stepping into a void. The garage, once alive with his sharp wit and unshakable confidence, now seemed eerily quiet. Every corner of the space felt haunted by his absence—the chair he used to sit in during debriefs, the mug he left behind on the engineering desk. You’d known it was coming for months, ever since he began hinting at conquering Le Mans and the WEC. Still, hearing him say it aloud in his dry, matter-of-fact tone had been like a punch to the chest.

For the rest of the 2018 season, you soldiered on, but the fire that once drove you began to flicker. Fernando was the anchor that had kept McLaren steady, the mentor who had guided you through the turbulence of F1. Without him, you felt unmoored. Every debrief, every race weekend, every night spent with your engineers tinkering with setups felt like a shadow of what it used to be.

Zak Brown had noticed.

“You’re still one of the best, Yn,” he told you during an end-of-season dinner, leaning forward in his chair as if his intensity could will you to stay. “We’re rebuilding, yes. But you’re the cornerstone of that rebuild. The team needs you.”

You swirled your glass of wine, staring at the liquid instead of his face. “The team needs Fernando,” you said softly. “But he’s gone.”

Zak didn’t have an answer for that, and deep down, neither did you.

“You're the one winning the championships. Not him.” He reminded you before giving up.

It became clearer as the season wrapped up that staying wasn’t an option. Fernando’s departure left a hole too vast to fill, and every race weekend reminded you of that. The cheerful new recruit, Lando Norris, was a spark of hope for McLaren, his youthful enthusiasm infectious. But it also made you feel like an outsider, like a relic of an era that had already passed.

“Yn, you’re leaving, aren’t you?” Lando asked one evening during post-season testing. His voice was softer than usual, his typical banter replaced with genuine concern.

You sighed, giving him a small smile. “I think so. It’s not you, Lando. It’s just . . . not home anymore.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I’ll miss you, you know. I was looking forward to having you around.”

“I’ll miss you too, rookie,” you said, ruffling his hair playfully. “But you’ll do great here. I know it.”

When the time came to recommend someone for your seat, you didn’t hesitate. Carlos Sainz had been a rising star, consistent, quick, and brimming with charisma. Over dinner with Zak, you brought it up.

“I think Carlos is the right fit,” you said, setting your fork down as you leaned forward. “He’s got the experience to help guide the team, but he’s young enough to connect with Lando.”

Zak nodded slowly. “He’s on our list, but . . . are you sure you want to leave? There’s no guarantee you’ll get the same support somewhere else.”

“I’m sure,” you said firmly. “Carlos will thrive here, and so will Lando. I’ll be cheering from somewhere else.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The moment your departure from McLaren was announced, the calls started rolling in. Ferrari, as always, was the loudest voice in the room. You met with their representative in a sleek, understated restaurant in Maranello, the ambiance a reflection of their reputation—elegant, timeless, but cold.

“We’ve wanted you for years,” the representative said, his hands clasped on the table between you. “This is your moment to become a legend. The Scuderia needs a driver like you, someone who understands the sport at its core. Youll wear red—be the first female in red.”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening around your glass. “It’s a tempting offer, but I need time to think.”

His expression wavered for a fraction of a second, a crack in the polished veneer. “Think carefully, Yn. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

But something in your gut felt uneasy. Ferrari had an aura of greatness, yes, but also a suffocating intensity. They weren’t just offering you a car; they were offering a cage gilded in red and gold.

Instead, you found yourself drawn to Sauber. The quieter and caler sister team, more unassuming, but it felt right. Fred Vasseur welcomed you with open arms, his down-to-earth demeanour a stark contrast to Ferrari’s high-stakes negotiations.

“You’ll have space here to grow,” he said during your first meeting at the factory. “And we’ll have the Ferrari engines next season. It’s the best of both worlds.”

That had sealed the deal. Joining Sauber allowed you to keep Ferrari at arm’s length while finding your footing in a team that wouldn’t smother you with expectations, but still having the ability to detach from sauver when you deemed you were ready to dive into the pool of red.

Carlos, now officially confirmed at McLaren, called you the day after the announcement.

“You recommended me, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice warm with gratitude.

You chuckled. “I might have mentioned your name once or twice.”

“Well, thank you,” he said sincerely. “But I’m still going to miss you in orange.”

“You can't stay that.” You warn him laughing. “It's papaya now,” you remind him, smiling to yourself.

“I’ll miss it too,” you admitted after a minute. “But you’re in good hands. Lando’s a handful, though, so watch out.”

“I think I can manage,” he said with a laugh. “Good luck with Sauber, Yn. And thank you—for everything.”

As you hung up the phone, you felt a weight lift off your shoulders. The next chapter was uncertain, but for the first time in months, you felt ready to face it.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The moment you crossed the finish line in P2 in Australia, everything slowed down. You stared at the steering wheel, half-expecting someone to say, “Just kidding.” But instead, your engineer’s voice crackled over the radio, a mixture of disbelief and triumph.

“P2, Yn. That’s P2. Incredible job. Take a bow!”

Your breath caught, then escaped in a shaky laugh. “No way. Are you sure? P2?”

Your voice quivered, a mix of disbelief and pure, unfiltered joy.

“Affirmative,” your engineer confirmed. “You earned it.”

The cooldown lap felt surreal, the cheers from the crowd overwhelming even through your helmet. As you pulled into parc fermé, the reality of your achievement hit you full force.

Standing on the second step of the podium, champagne dripping down your face, you beamed at the roaring crowd. Your teammate, Kimi Raikkonen, had finished just—a bit—behind you in P8. He strolled into the garage after the race like it was just another Sunday drive.

“Not bad,” he said, barely looking up as you ran toward him, trophy in hand.

“Not bad?” you gasped, holding the trophy under his nose like proof. “Kimi, I’m carrying this team already. What’s your excuse?”

His lips twitched ever so slightly into what could only be described as a Kimi smile. “I’m happy for you,” he said in his signature deadpan tone. “Just don’t get used to it.”

“Too late!” you teased, spinning on your heel to join the team photo.

The team crowded outside the garage, laughter and cheers filling the pit lane as they gathered for the photo. You sat front and center on the edge of the stage, your grin impossibly wide. The trophy sat on your lap, polished to a mirror shine. The mechanics hoisted your nameboard high, the words "P2" emblazoned in bold letters. As the cameras flashed, you pumped your fists in the air, yelling, “This is just the beginning!”

“Alright, superstar,” one of the mechanics called, chuckling. “Don’t let it get to your head!”

“It’s already there!” you shot back with a playful wink.

Two weeks later, in Bahrain, you shocked the world again, but this time there was no disbelief—just sheer, uncontainable joy. The moment you crossed the finish line, P1 flashing on the leaderboard, the tears came. Your engineer’s voice was nearly drowned out by your own sobs. You could never get over this feeling, no matter how many wins you've got.

“Yn, you’re! P1, we won! P1! Bring it home!”

You screamed so loud it echoed in the cockpit. “Yes! Yes! Oh my god, yes! Thank you, guys.” Even though the car had nothing to do with the win.

Your voice cracked as you made your way to parc fermé, where your team was already waiting with the Cuban flag, and an overwhelming amount of love. Climbing onto the top step of the podium was like a dream. You raised the trophy above your head, cheering with so much force your throat hurt. The champagne sprayed everywhere, soaking your suit as you celebrated like there was no tomorrow.

Kimi met you in the garage afterwards, his face the same stoic mask it always was, but his eyes held a spark of pride.

“Not bad,” he repeated, crossing his arms.

You grinned, holding the trophy aloft. “I’m sorry, do you mean spectacular? Phenomenal? Record-breaking?”

Kimi smirked—actually smirked. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, it’s already there,” you quipped, grabbing him by the arm. “Now, come on. You’re sitting in the front row of this team photo.”

When you won again in China, the paddock buzzed with your name. The cameras couldn’t get enough of you as you stood on the top step, draped in the Cuban flag, the sound of your anthem filling the air. You couldn’t stop smiling as the champagne-soaked through your suit. The cheers were deafening, but it was the sight of your team below, jumping and hugging each other, that made your heart swell.

Back in the garage, Kimi was waiting with the usual deadpan delivery. “I thought you were supposed to be figuring things out,” he said, raising a brow. “Not winning everything.”

You set your trophy on the table and leaned against it, crossing your arms. “I guess I’m just that good.”

Kimi shook his head, the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. “I’d ask you to slow down, but I think you’re just making my life easier. Keep it up.”

You laughed, grabbing your trophy again as you headed out for another team photo. You stood at the centre, your arm around Kimi, who muttered something about hating the cameras but stayed by your side anyway.

As the cameras flashed, someone from the back yelled, “Three races in, and she’s already a championship contender!”

You turned to Kimi, winking. “Looks like I’m getting used to this after all.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You had been lounging on the sofa, half-watching old race replays, when your phone buzzed on the coffee table. Seeing Toto Wolff’s name flash across the screen was a surprise. You hesitated before answering, your pulse quickening.

“Yn,” his deep, measured voice greeted you. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

“Not at all,” you replied, though your heartbeat told a different story.

Toto Wolff didn’t call drivers for casual chats.

“There’s an opportunity we need to discuss,” he continued. “We want you at Mercedes. Effective immediately.”

You sat upright, the phone nearly slipping from your grip. “Wait—what? Toto, that’s . . . I’m flattered, but why now? What’s going on?”

There was a pause on the other end, just long enough to make your stomach churn. “Valtteri’s situation is complicated,” he finally said, his words careful. “We believe you can contribute to the championship fight. You’ve shown incredible promise this season, and we think you’d be a perfect fit.”

The email notification pinged, and your gaze darted to the laptop. There it was: a contract with the iconic three-pointed star in the header. Mercedes. The team every driver dreamed of joining.

Your breath hitched. “This is . . . I mean, this is huge. But why me? Mid-season replacements aren’t exactly normal.”

“Because you’re the best option, Yn,” Toto said firmly. “And I wouldn’t offer this if I didn’t believe you could handle it.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. Mercedes was the best team on the grid, and this was the kind of opportunity you couldn’t turn down. But his tone made it clear: you weren’t being courted as a rising star. You were a solution. A temporary fix.

“I’ll think about it,” you murmured, though you already knew your answer.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The paddock felt different when you arrived in Azerbaijan wearing styled Mercedes gear. The silver and black suited you, but it felt alien. Cold. The team welcomed you with polite smiles and distant handshakes, their warmth reserved for Lewis. The weight of their expectations settled heavily on your shoulders, a constant reminder that you were here to fill a gap, not to be part of the family.

Walking into the garage, you spotted Lewis chatting with Bono, his race engineer. He turned as you approached, his trademark grin flashing, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Welcome to the team,” he said, extending a hand. “Big shoes to fill, huh?”

You forced a smile, shaking his hand. “Thanks, Lewis. Good to see you again.” Was it though?

He nodded, his gaze assessing. It wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t warm either. You couldn’t blame him; you were an outsider stepping into a space that had been meticulously tailored to him and Valtteri.

Over the next few days, you threw yourself into the work, poring over data and pushing yourself during practice sessions. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched. Judged. The engineers rarely approached you unless it was strictly necessary, their conversations always drifting back to Valtteri.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The car was a revelation, every corner an exercise in precision, every straight an adrenaline rush. By the time the final laps rolled around, you were leading the race. Your heart thundered in your chest as the checkered flag inched closer.

“Yn, this is it,” your race engineer said over the radio, his voice brimming with restrained excitement. “Stay focused.”

But then came the call that shattered everything.

“Yn, hold position. Let Lewis through.”

“What?” Your voice cracked, the word instinctive. You’d heard about team orders for second-seat drivers, but experiencing it firsthand was a different kind of pain.

“Team orders,” the reply came, calm and unwavering. “Let him take the win.”

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened. This was it. This was what being the second driver meant. It didn’t matter how well you drove or how hard you pushed; you were here to serve.

“Understood,” you said, the words burning like acid as you slowed just enough for Lewis to breeze past.

Crossing the line in P2 should’ve felt incredible like it did in Australia, but all you felt was hollow. You climbed out of the car, your movements were mechanical as you walked to your team, finished up your post-race interview and walked straight to the cooldown room before the podium. The crowd roared, oblivious to the storm raging inside you.

Lewis clinked his champagne glass against yours, a rehearsed smile plastered on his face. “Great job out there,” he said, his tone light. “Team effort.”

You forced a laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Team effort.”

The words tasted bitter.

Back in the motorhome, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind a crushing emptiness. You sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the wall as the muffled sounds of celebration echoed outside. Your phone buzzed with messages of congratulations, but you couldn’t bring yourself to answer.

A knock on the door startled you. It was Toto. He stepped inside, his expression unreadable.

“You did well today,” he said, his voice low.

“Did I?” you replied, your tone sharper than intended. “Because it doesn’t feel like it.”

His brow furrowed. “This is part of the job, Yn. You knew that when you signed the contract.”

You looked away, your throat tightening. “I didn’t think it would feel like this,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Toto sighed, placing a hand on your shoulder. “It gets easier,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction. “You’ll find your place.”

Find your place?

As the door closed behind him, you weren’t so sure. The echoes of the podium celebration felt like a cruel reminder of what you’d given up. You were wearing the colours of a champion, but inside, you’d never felt further from the glory you once dreamed of. And it was just a P2 finish.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The paddock felt different as you arrived at the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve for the Canadian Grand Prix. Maybe it was the heavy sky, the threat of rain mingling with the tang of tire rubber in the air, or maybe it was just you. Monaco had drained you. Back-to-back podiums were usually cause for celebration, but P2 and P3 had left you hollow. You’d walked away from those races feeling like a shadow of yourself, your competitive spirit dulled by circumstances you couldn’t control.

For once, you hadn’t dressed up. No statement heels or fitted blazers, no bold sunglasses perched on your nose. Instead, you wore your team kit, a pair of faded yoga pants, and Converse sneakers that had seen better days. You didn’t have the energy for anything else. The thought of slipping on heels and striding through the paddock with your usual confidence felt like pretending too much.

You plastered on a smile as you made your way to the autograph session, signing hats and posters for the younger fans who clustered around you. Their bright eyes and excitement tugged at something in you, something you hadn’t felt in weeks.

By the time you climbed into your car, the nerves had settled into a quiet hum beneath your skin. The race started cleanly enough, but it didn’t take long for chaos to find its way in. Lewis locked up into Turn 10, his tires smoking as he ran wide.

“Lewis is compromised,” came the call over the radio. “Yn, we need you to hold position and assist.”

“Copy,” you said through gritted teeth, shifting your focus to damage control. The rest of the race was a blur of defensive manoeuvres and calculated risks. You did everything you could to protect his position, but it came at a cost. When the checkered flag fell, he was in P3. You were in P5.

You parked your car in the back of parc fermé, far from the podium celebrations. The silence around you was deafening as you pulled off your gloves and helmet, your hands trembling slightly. When you tried to climb out of the car, your legs gave out, and you collapsed back into the seat, gasping for air. Your chest felt tight, each breath shallow and sharp like glass shards in your lungs. Panic attack, was if?

“Yn?” a voice called out, distant and distorted. A pair of hands reached for you, but you flinched away, shaking your head.

“I—I’m fine,” you managed to choke out, though it was a blatant lie. Your vision blurred as tears welled up, and the world tilted dangerously. You felt a pair of strong arms lift you from the car, the fabric of a race suit brushing against your cheek.

You barely registered the commotion as they carried you to the little ambulance that’s always on standby. Everything felt surreal, like you were watching yourself from a distance. The doctor’s voice was calm, but the words didn’t sink in. All you could hear was the pounding of your heart and the voice in your head telling you this was it—this was the beginning of the end.

Later, after they’d cleared you to leave, you found a quiet corner behind the motorhome. Your legs wobbled as you lowered yourself to the ground, your back pressing against the cold metal. You hugged your knees to your chest, burying your face in your arms. The tears came hard and fast, your body shaking with the force of them.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered to the empty air, your voice cracking. “I’m not good enough.” You whisper multiple times even if none of it was your fault. But somehow it still was your fault.

The words hung there, echoing in the small space. You didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until a shadow fell over you.

“Yn?” It was Seb’s voice, soft and hesitant. He crouched down beside you, his brow furrowed with concern. “What’s going on?”

You wiped at your face hastily, trying to compose yourself. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe you. Of course, he didn’t. “Bullshit,” he said gently. “Talk to me.”

Your shoulders sagged under the weight of his gaze, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I’m so tired, Seb. I’m tired of giving everything I have and feeling like it’s not enough. Like I’m not enough.”

He sat down beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Yn, you’re one of the best drivers on this grid. Don’t let one bad weekend make you forget that.”

“It’s not just one weekend,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s everything. The team, the politics, the constant pressure. I feel like I’m losing myself.”

Seb was quiet for a moment, then placed a hand on your shoulder. “Then find yourself again. Do what makes you happy, not what everyone else expects of you.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You dragged yourself into the paddock, your exhaustion visible in the slouch of your shoulders. Gone were the days when you strutted in with perfectly styled hair, bold sunglasses, and a confident smirk that dared anyone to question you. Today, you barely managed yoga pants, an oversized team shirt, and a pair of worn running shoes. The sheen of confidence you used to wear as armor felt too heavy to carry, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable. Still, you forced a smile on your face.

“Yn! Yn!”

The excited voice of a child pulled your attention. Turning, you saw a young boy—no older than seven—bounding toward you, clutching a miniature diecast of your car in one hand and adjusting a bucket hat identical to the one you often wore. His cheeks were flushed with excitement as he stopped in front of you, practically vibrating with energy.

“You’re my favorite driver! I want to be just like you when I grow up!” His words came out in a single breathless rush, his wide eyes gleaming with adoration.

Your heart clenched, the heaviness you’d felt earlier lifting ever so slightly. Crouching down to his level, you took the diecast from his hand and signed it with a practiced flourish.

“Just like me?” you teased, ruffling his hair. “You’re going to be even better than me. And when you are, I’ll be the one asking for your autograph.”

His grin stretched impossibly wide, and you booped his nose, chuckling softly when he giggled. Waving him off to his parents, you stood and watched him bounce away, a bittersweet ache spreading through your chest.

I have to win this race, you thought, steeling yourself. You weren’t entirely sure who you were trying to prove yourself to—your fans, your team, or maybe even yourself. But one thing was clear: failure wasn’t an option.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The race was brutal. Every second behind the wheel demanded your full focus. You’d clawed your way to P1 with sheer grit, defending your position against Lewis with everything you had. The car was teetering on the edge, but so were you, digging deep into reserves of energy you didn’t think you had.

“Yn, defend harder!” your engineer barked over the radio.

“Don’t tell me what I already know,” you snapped back, your voice tight with exertion as you fought to keep Lewis behind you.

You thought you had it. The checkered flag was so close you could almost taste the victory champagne. But then, Toto’s calm yet firm voice came over the radio.

“Yn, swap positions with Lewis. Team orders.”

Your hands froze for a fraction of a second on the steering wheel, the world around you dulling as the words sunk in. Team orders. They were stripping P1 away from you.

“No,” you replied, a sharp edge in your voice.

“Yn,” Toto’s tone brooked no argument. “Swap positions. Now.”

Every fiber of your being rebelled, but the weight of the team—of your career—pressed down on you. Grinding your teeth, you eased off the throttle and let Lewis pass, watching P1 slip from your grasp.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

That evening, you found yourself at the bar in your hotel, nursing a drink that did little to numb the sting of disappointment. The bartender was chatty, spinning stories that you barely registered. You offered the occasional nod or hum of acknowledgment, but your mind was elsewhere, replaying the race in a relentless loop.

“Mind if I join you?” a familiar voice asked, breaking through your haze.

You turned to see Lewis sliding onto the stool beside you.

“What do you want?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Easy there. Just wanted to check on you.”

You snorted, turning back to your drink. “I’m fine.”

Lewis signaled to the bartender, ordering a drink for himself. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You don’t look fine, Yn. You’ve had too much to drink. Let me help you to your room.”

You hesitated, your head fuzzy from the alcohol but not enough to ignore the exhaustion weighing you down. With a reluctant nod, you allowed him to guide you toward the elevator after he downed his glass and tossed a 100 bill on the counter.

In the hallway leading to your hotel room, you fumbled with the keycard, your fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. Lewis took it from you with a soft chuckle, opening the door and stepping inside with you.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, expecting him to leave.

But he didn’t. The door clicked shut behind him, and he lingered, his presence suddenly feeling oppressive.

“You know,” he began, his voice soft but laced with something darker, “I see the appeal.”

You frowned, turning to face him. “What are you talking about?”

His fingers brushed the straps of your dress, and you instinctively stepped back, your heart hammering in your chest.

“I’ve heard the stories,” he continued, his tone almost mocking. “Jenson, Fernando… you’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

The words hit you like a slap, your breath catching in your throat. “What—what are you saying?”

He smirked, leaning in closer. “Do you sleep with all your teammates, Yn? Or is it just the ones you think can help you get a seat? Are you going to sleep with me too?”

“Stop,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

But he didn’t stop. The next moments blurred together, your protests weak against the haze of alcohol clouding your mind. You felt trapped, your body frozen as tears streamed down your face. A deep sense of shame and helplessness overwhelmed you, leaving you feeling icky and used.

When it was over, you curled up on the bed, tears soaking the pillow as Lewis left without a word. Alone in the dark, the weight of what had happened crushed you, the vulnerability you’d tried so hard to hide now exposed for the world—or at least one person—to see.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, stabbing at your eyes and forcing you awake. For a fleeting moment, you felt disoriented, your body heavy and your head throbbing. But as the memories of the night before came flooding back, it felt like a freight train had slammed into you at full speed.

You gasped, sitting up abruptly, the sheet pooling around your waist. Your chest heaved as the shame and disgust clawed at your insides, twisting into an unbearable ache. Tears spilled down your cheeks uncontrollably, your hands trembling as you tried to pull yourself together.

Why didn’t I stop him? Why didn’t I fight harder?

The thoughts spiraled, each one cutting deeper than the last. You hugged your knees to your chest, rocking slightly as sobs wracked your body. Your heart felt like it was tearing itself apart, and your body felt hollow—violated. Swallowing a plan B pill that you kept in your suitcase and never thought you’d use.

By the time you returned to Monaco, your sadness had curdled into something sharp and hot. The despair was gone, replaced by a fiery dripping red anger that consumed every thought. You couldn’t let him get away with this.

Without hesitation, you picked up your phone and dialed a familiar number.

“Nico? It’s Yn,” you said, your voice clipped and cold.

“Yn?” Nico sounded surprised. “What’s going on?”

“Can you let me into your building? I need to deal with something,” you replied, not bothering to explain further.

There was a pause before he sighed. “Fine. Just . . . don’t make me regret this.”

Armed with a metal baseball bat, you stormed into the garage where Lewis stored his prized car collection. The sight of his flashy vehicles—the Pagani Zonda, the McLaren P1, the custom Ferrari—only fueled your rage.

Without a second thought, you swung the bat with all your might, the satisfying crack of metal meeting glass echoing through the space.

“You bastard!” you screamed, smashing the windshield of the McLaren. The shards of glass scattered across the floor like glittering confetti.

Gripping the bat tightly, you moved to the Ferrari, scratching the word “CHEATER” with a key—that you had bought for this occasion—across the hood in jagged letters.

“Yn, what the hell are you doing?!”

Lewis’s voice rang out from the entrance of the garage, frantic and disbelieving. You turned to see him rushing toward you, panic etched across his face.

“Stop! Stop this right now!” he yelled, reaching for the bat.

You stepped back, swinging the bat threateningly in his direction. “Don’t you dare come near me,” you spat, your voice venomous.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Nico standing near the entrance, his arms crossed as he watched the chaos unfold. He didn’t move to stop you, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t get to tell me to stop,” you seethed, your grip tightening on the bat as you moved to the McLaren. “You don’t get to tell me anything after what you did!”

“Yn, listen—”

“LISTEN?!” you cut him off, your voice breaking. “You didn’t listen to me last night, did you? So why the hell should I listen to you now?”

With another swing, you knocked off the side mirrors of the Zonda, the metal clanging as it hit the floor. Lewis lunged forward, grabbing the bat this time and yanking it out of your hands.

“Stop this!” he shouted, his voice desperate. “You’re acting crazy!”

You stepped back, glaring at him with a fury that burned hotter than the Monaco sun. “Crazy? You think I’m crazy? You’re lucky this is all I’m doing! You were trying to get me pregnant, weren’t you? Three fucking rounds, huh? Trying to get rid of me, are you?!”

He looked at you, his chest heaving as he held the bat in one hand. “Yn, I—”

“Don’t.” Your voice was low, trembling with barely contained rage. “Don’t you ever think about laying your hands on me again. You hear me?”

His face fell, guilt and shame flickering across his features, but you didn’t give him a chance to respond. You turned on your heel and stormed out of the garage, the echoes of your words hanging heavy in the air.

As you passed Nico, he raised an eyebrow but said nothing, simply stepping aside to let you leave.

“This is like 2016 all over again,” Nico sighs to Lewis. “Only apparently you two are worse and you did something to really piss her off.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The German Grand Prix had been a disaster. Every detail of the crash replayed in your mind on an endless loop—the way the car spun out, the helpless slide into the gravel, the sickening thud of the barriers stopping you dead. The team radio had been a cacophony of voices—panic, disappointment, and commands you’d barely heard through the pounding in your chest.

And then there were the fans. Thousands of them, who had traveled across the world to see you fight for glory. Instead, they saw you fail.

You let out a shaky breath as the hotel room walls closed in around you, your mind racing with guilt and frustration. You couldn’t sit still, not like this. Grabbing your jacket, you left the room and wandered to a small, dimly lit bar tucked away from the chaos of the city.

It wasn’t the kind of place you’d usually go—not a noisy club where you could lose yourself in the crowd, but somewhere quieter. Somewhere where the whiskey could speak louder than your thoughts.

The amber liquid burned as it slid down your throat, and you welcomed the discomfort. Staring blankly into the depths of your glass, you listened to the muffled hum of conversations around you. It wasn’t enough to drown out the self-recriminating voices in your head, but it helped.

“You look like you’ve had a hell of a day,” a familiar voice cut through the haze.

You blinked and turned, startled to see Max Verstappen easing onto the stool beside you. His hair was slightly mussed, his usually sharp demeanor softened by weariness. He didn’t look smug or gloating, just . . . tired. A half-smile tugged at his lips as he raised his own glass.

“To twinks,” he said, his tone light but edged with an amused challenge.

It was so absurd, so unexpected, that a chuckle escaped you before you could stop it. Shaking your head, you lifted your glass to meet his. “To twinks,” you echoed, your lips curving into a faint smile.

The clink of glasses rang out between you, and you took another sip. For the first time all day, the knot in your chest loosened ever so slightly.

“Rough race?” Max asked after a moment, his eyes flicking over you knowingly.

You snorted, setting your glass down with a dull thud. “That obvious?”

He shrugged, leaning an elbow on the bar. “I saw the crash. Looked like hell. Thought you might’ve murdered someone when you stomped off the track.”

“Not yet,” you quipped, swirling the ice in your glass. “But give me five minutes and another drink.”

He chuckled, the sound low and genuine. “Let me guess—you’re blaming yourself.”

You turned to him, your brow furrowing. “I’m not blaming myself. I just . . .” You trailed off, biting the inside of your cheek. “I feel like I let everyone down. The team, the fans . . . myself.”

Max studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned closer, his voice softer but firm. “It’s racing. Shit happens. If the fans are real, they’ll stick by you. If they don’t? Screw them.”

You blinked, taken aback by his bluntness.

“Seriously,” he continued, his gaze unwavering. “You think I haven’t screwed up? We all do. What matters is how you come back. And knowing you . . .” He smirked, tilting his head slightly. “You’ll come back swinging.”

His confidence in you felt like a balm on a wound you hadn’t realized was so deep.

“Thanks, Max,” you murmured, meaning it more than you could express.

He shrugged, finishing his drink. “Don’t mention it. But if you really want to feel better . . .” He paused dramatically, his eyes glinting with mischief. “We could keep drinking and talk about how much we hate Lewis.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Oh, that’s a long conversation.”

Max grinned. “I’ve got all night.”

Hours later, the two of you stumbled into his hotel room, tipsy and laughing uncontrollably at some story Max had told about a time he’d accidentally insulted his team principal in Dutch.

“Wait—wait,” you wheezed, clutching your sides. “He really thought you called him a what?”

“A soggy pancake,” Max confirmed, deadpan.

You collapsed onto the couch, tears of laughter streaming down your face. “You’re an idiot.”

He flopped down beside you, his grin wide and unrepentant. “Maybe, but at least I’m a funny idiot.”

Your laughter faded into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes after hours of shared vulnerability. You looked over at Max, and for a moment, you saw him differently—not as another oponent, but as someone who understood the weight of the sport.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said quietly, your voice sincere.

Max met your gaze, his expression softening. “Anytime.”

Before you could overthink it, the lines between playful banter and something more had blurred entirely, leaving the air between you charged with an undeniable tension.

It started with the briefest hesitation, the kind that comes just before a decision you can’t take back. Then your lips were on his, the taste of whiskey and a hint of something uniquely Max lingering between you. His response was immediate, his mouth moving against yours with equal fervor, igniting the tension that had been simmering all night.

His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer as if trying to eliminate any remaining space between you. The urgency in his touch was matched only by the way your hands tangled in his hair, tugging slightly as a low sound escaped his throat—a mix of surprise and need.

At some point, you’d ended up straddling his lap, your legs bracketing his thighs as he leaned back against the couch. The world outside the dimly lit hotel room faded away, leaving just the two of you, caught in this reckless moment.

His hands hovered at your hips, fingers grazing your skin through the fabric of your shirt. There was a hesitancy in his touch, almost as if he was waiting for permission—waiting for you to decide where this was going.

“You’re full of surprises,” you murmured against his lips, breaking away just enough to catch your breath.

His lips curved into a smirk, his breath warm against your skin as he tilted his head to look at you. “And you’re bossy,” he quipped, his voice low and teasing, though his gaze held a flicker of something deeper—something vulnerable and unguarded that made your heart skip a beat.

You chuckled, the sound breathy and light as you shifted slightly, your hands trailing up his arms. “You like it,” you replied, your voice a mix of challenge and playfulness.

Before he could answer, you pinned his wrists above his head, pressing them into the couch. His eyes didn’t look t you in surprise or defiancy. It was more of . . . admiration.

“This what you had in mind?” he asked, his voice a mix of need and lust, though the way his chest rose and fell betrayed the effect you had on him.

“Something like that,” you said with a small smirk, leaning down to capture his lips again.

The kiss was slower this time, deeper, your movements deliberate as you savored the moment. Your heart pounded in your chest, the sensation almost deafening, but it wasn’t from nerves. This wasn’t about love or romance—it was raw, unfiltered need. It was about silencing the crushing weight of failure and replacing it with something electric, something alive.

His wrists flexed slightly against your grip, testing your hold but not resisting, as if letting you take control was part of the game. His breath hitched when your lips left his to trail down his jaw, brushing against the curve of his neck where you felt his pulse thrumming beneath your lips.

“Not what I expected tonight,” Max murmured, his voice rough as you pulled back to meet his gaze.

You arched a brow, your fingers loosening their hold on his wrists but not letting go entirely. “Disappointed?”

His grin returned, but his gaze softened. “Not even close.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was late in the evening, and the email sat open on your laptop screen, the Red Bull logo at the top almost mocking you. You’d read it three times already, and it still didn’t feel real. An offer for a seat at Red Bull Racing? It felt surreal, and yet.. . . . wrong. Especially since it came out of nowhere.

You didn’t even bother to calm down as you stormed over to Max’s suite. Knocking would’ve been polite, but this was urgent. Instead, you banged on the door until he swung it open, looking more confused than annoyed.

“What the—Yn?” Max asked, brows furrowed as he took in your frazzled expression.

You shoved your phone toward him, the email glaringly bright in the dim hallway. “What the hell is this?”

Max glanced down, his blue eyes scanning the screen. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Is this—wait, you got an offer from Red Bull?”

“No, Max, it’s a recipe for apple pie,” you snapped sarcastically, your voice laced with frustration. “Of course, it’s an offer! Did you know about this?”

His head jerked back, startled by your tone. “No! Why would I? Do you think I’d keep something like this from you?” His defensiveness was immediate, his hands raised as if to ward off your accusations.

You blinked, thrown off by his reaction. “Wait . . . so you didn’t know?”

“No! I’m not in charge of who they send offers to!” Max exclaimed, his voice softening when he noticed the confusion on your face. “Yn, I swear, I had no idea.”

Your anger began to dissipate, replaced by an odd mixture of relief and confusion. “Oh . . .” you muttered, lowering your phone. “I just—I thought maybe you— . . . put a word in for me because we slept together . . .”

“No no, I’d never—no.” Max’s lips curled into a thin, bitter smile. A moment passes and, his eyes light up with excitement as he took a step close, realization dawning upon him. “You’re going to be my teammate!”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The Hungarian Grand Prix circuit buzzed with life, and for once, the chaos of cameras and journalists didn’t bother you. Maybe it was the new team kit—the Red Bull logo emblazoned on your chest—or the knowledge that you’d just broken yet another record: three teams in a single season. The flash of cameras was relentless as reporters shouted questions, all variations of the same theme.

“Yn, why leave Mercedes?” “What led to your sudden move?” “Is this a statement about their performance?”

You kept your smile polite, offering no comment as you walked briskly toward the Red Bull motorhome. Let them speculate. The truth was your own, and for now, that was enough.

The first thing that hit you when you stepped into the garage was the warmth—not the temperature, but the atmosphere. It was nothing like Mercedes. There, everything had been pristine, clinical, and cold. The walls seemed to echo every word you spoke, and conversations felt like transactions. No one greeted you unless it was mandatory. Here, though?

“Welcome to the family!” someone called out, their smile genuine as they clapped you on the back.

Another handed you a branded bottle of water, already chilled. “You’re going to love it here, Yn. It’s about time we got you in red and blue.”

The chatter wasn’t just directed at you, either. Everyone in the garage seemed connected, laughing and talking like old friends. It felt… warm. Human.

And then there was Max.

“Yn!” His voice was unmistakable as he jogged over, his grin wider than you’d ever seen it. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was more excited than you were about this move. “You made it,” he said, gesturing grandly to the motorhome. “What do you think?”

You looked around, taking in the relaxed energy. “It’s… different,” you admitted, trying not to let the emotion creep into your voice. “Nice. Comfortable.”

Max leaned against the wall, his arms crossed but his grin unwavering. “Translation: better than Mercedes.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched into a smile. “Don’t get cocky. I’m still settling in.”

“Right, right.” He straightened, motioning toward the coffee station. “Want a tour? Or are you too busy signing autographs for the photographers out there?”

You laughed, nudging his arm as you passed him. “Not all of us have been in the spotlight since we were teens.”

Max followed, his expression softening. “You know,” he said, almost casually, “I grew up watching you. Back when you were still racing in juniors.”

You froze mid-step, turning to look at him. “Seriously?”

He nodded, his cheeks tinting pink as he shrugged. “Yeah. You were… impressive. Still are. It’s kind of surreal having you here.”

Your heart hammered in your chest at his admission, but you forced a chuckle, brushing it off. “You realize you’re making me feel ancient, right?”

Max smirked, leaning closer with a teasing glint in his eye. “Nah, just iconic.”

Media days with Max were a surprising mix of chaos and ease. You’d both flit from photoshoots to commercials to filming for Drive to Survive, with him cracking jokes to keep the mood light. Somehow, between the flashing cameras and rehearsed soundbites, he’d nudge you with his elbow, offering a quiet, “You’re stealing the show, you know.”

You’d roll your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “I’d say you’re exaggerating, but we both know you love the attention.”

“I’d rather share it with you,” he shot back, smirking in that infuriatingly charming way that always made your stomach flip.

It was effortless with him. Unlike anyone else.

"Okay, Max, this time can we both look at the camera?" you teased, swatting him lightly after he made yet another goofy face during a shoot.

He grinned shamelessly, leaning closer. "What? They like it when I show personality."

You rolled your eyes, unable stop the smile tugging at your lips. "Pretty sure your personality is going to get us kicked out."

Moments like these with him felt light and playful, almost childlike in a way that made your chest ache. It reminded you of Fernando—how he’d been a constant presence, a mentor, a partner in the chaos of racing. But this? This was softer, younger, unguarded. With Max, there was no need to carry the weight of years of experience or expectations. He didn’t just meet you where you were—he made the world brighter, easier to navigate, just by being in it.

And he adored you.

You felt it in the way he’d sneak up behind you in the garage, his arms wrapping around your waist as he lifted you off the ground.

“Guess who?” he’d whisper, and you’d laugh even though it was obvious.

"Max, put me down before someone sees!"

"Not until you guess," he’d tease, holding you tighter, his grin audible in his voice.

Then there was the rose. On your birthday, he’d appeared in front of you, fidgeting awkwardly with a single red flower in his hand. His ears were pink, and he avoided your gaze as he thrust it toward you.

“Here,” he mumbled.

You blinked, surprised, before gently taking the rose from him. “Max, did you… get this for me?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at you. “Yeah, well… you said you liked roses once, and I saw it, and—look, if you don’t like it, I can—”

“Shut up,” you interrupted, pulling him into a tight hug. “It’s perfect.”

You’d never seen him smile so big, his arms wrapping around you like he never wanted to let go.

Max loved you in ways he didn’t know how to put into words. He loved the quiet moments, the ones where you whispered praises after a long day, your fingers brushing through his hair as he rested his head in your lap. He loved the way you kissed him—soft and slow, like you had all the time in the world, and then playful and quick, laughing against his lips when he tried to pull you back for more.

And after podiums? Those were his favorite.

The high of a race win or even a second-place finish wasn’t complete until he was tangled up in bed with you, the night filled with soft laughter and touches that felt like promises. The mornings after were just as special, waking up to your fingers combing through his hair, your voice a gentle hum as he buried his face in your neck.

“Morning, champ,” you’d tease, your voice still heavy with sleep.

“Morning,” he’d mumble back, pulling you closer. “Let’s stay here all day.”

You’d chuckle, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Tempting, but you’ve got a media briefing in two hours.”

He groaned dramatically, but his grip didn’t loosen. "They can wait."

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The steam from the shower still clung to the room as Max sat on the edge of the bed, a towel loosely draped around his shoulders. You stood behind him, carefully drying his hair with another towel, your touch gentle as if trying to smooth away more than just the water droplets. You were too quiet, your usual spark dulled by the weight of a bad race.

“Racing is not always about winning,” Max said suddenly, his voice soft but sure.

You paused, fingers tangled in his damp hair. “Are you quoting Cars? The movie?”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced up at you. “Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “But it’s true.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “That’s rich, coming from you. Mr. ‘Win or Die Trying.’”

He didn’t laugh, though. Instead, he reached up and lightly squeezed your wrist, his touch grounding. “I mean it, Schat. You’re too hard on yourself. P5 isn’t the end of the world.”

You sighed, resuming your task, the towel moving through his hair in slow, deliberate strokes. “It’s not about the number. It’s about letting people down.”

Max was quiet for a moment, his head leaning into your touch. “The people who really care about you don’t measure you by a trophy,” he said. “Trust me, I know.”

There was something in his voice—something raw and unspoken—that made your chest ache. You didn’t push, though. Max never opened up easily, and you’d learned to let him share on his own terms.

When his hair was finally dry, you tossed the towel aside and crawled onto the bed beside him. He pulled you into his arms without hesitation, his body warm against yours as you nestled into the crook of his shoulder.

You played with his hair absently, the strands softer now that they were dry. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner, and for a while, you let the stillness soothe you.

Then, without really meaning to, you broke the silence. “My parents divorced before I was born.”

Max shifted slightly, his head tilting so he could see your face. “Yeah?” he prompted gently.

You nodded, your fingers still threading through his hair. “My mom was a ballerina. She was... not the greatest. Beautiful, talented, but toxic as hell. And my dad? He was this random college dropout mechanic who probably should’ve stayed far away from her.”

You felt Max’s arms tighten around you, his quiet presence encouraging you to keep going.

“I lived with my dad,” you continued, your voice softer now. “It wasn’t easy, but he made it fun. Watching races with him—those were the best days. It didn’t matter how hard things were; seeing the cars, the speed, the drama... it made everything feel exciting. Like maybe life could be something more.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening. “But then he got sick. Cancer. And suddenly, it was just me and my mom.”

Max’s hand found yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “She didn’t make it easy, did she?” he asked quietly.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Not even close. She tried to make me into her mini-me—this perfect ballerina with the perfect body and the perfect life. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t cut out for it.”

Max didn’t laugh, but you could feel the sadness in the way he held you closer.

“I got into racing because of my dad’s brother,” you went on. “I was visiting my grandma, and he took me to a local track. I fell in love with it right away. After that, I’d sneak out every weekend just to race.”

A faint smile crossed your lips as you remembered. “Once my mom found out, she was furious. She said, ‘If you’re going to play boy sports, you might as well look the part,’ and then she chopped my hair off.”

Max’s brow furrowed. “She cut your hair?”

“Yeah. And when it grew back, she’d pull on it during arguments. So one time, I cut it myself just to spite her.”

His hand slid up to cup the back of your head, his touch protective. “That’s... awful,” he said, his voice tight.

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “It’s whatever. People didn’t make it easy, either, when they found out I was half Persian. They’d say things like, ‘Oh, that’s why you’re so exotic-looking,’ or make dumb comments about my name.”

Max didn’t say anything this time. Instead, he curled into you, his face pressing into the curve of your neck. You felt him exhale shakily, and when you glanced down, you realized his eyes were damp.

“Max?” you whispered, your fingers brushing his temple.

He blinked quickly, trying to compose himself. “I just... I hate that you went through that,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. “You didn’t deserve it.”

His sincerity caught you off guard, your heart squeezing painfully in your chest. You tightened your grip on him, your fingers stroking soothingly through his hair.

“I’m here now,” you said softly. “And I’m okay.”

Max nodded against you, his arms wrapping around you as if to anchor himself. “You’re more than okay,” he whispered. “You’re amazing.”

For a moment, the world outside the hotel room didn’t exist. It was just you and Max, tangled together, your shared wounds binding you in ways words never could.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The chill bit at your skin as you stood outside the Red Bull HQ, wrapping a thick scarf around Max’s neck. His breath came out in small puffs of mist as he shivered slightly, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. It was November, and the cold had settled into the city like an uninvited guest.

“You’re gonna catch a cold if you keep standing like that,” you murmured, your voice a quiet mix of concern and care as you adjusted the scarf, making sure it covered him properly. Max looked up at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

You took his hand without thinking, pulling him toward the street as you both crossed toward the restaurant. His hand was warm in yours, but it wasn’t enough to ease the tension that seemed to cling to you lately. Max noticed the way your jaw clenched every so often, the quiet strain in your eyes that had only deepened as the championship battle grew more intense. The race against Hamilton had been hard on you, and he could see how much it was wearing you down, how you kept it together outwardly but were quietly unraveling inside.

Max couldn’t look away from you as you led him through the city streets. The way you held his hand, the way you moved with such purpose, but also with a subtle weight—he could feel it, the pressure pressing down on you, and it made his chest tighten.

When you reached the restaurant, a little place you two had come to know well, Max let you guide him inside. The warm air hit you both like a gentle wave, but it did nothing to lift the heaviness that had followed you around lately. Max, ever so observant, studied you while you scanned the menu. He didn’t know how to help, how to ease the worry from your brow, but it killed him to see you so stressed.

His gaze shifted to the table, to the way your fingers gently tapped on the menu as if lost in thought. He couldn’t help but notice how you unconsciously brushed your hair behind your ear, a gesture so small yet intimate, and it only made his heart race.

But there was something gnawing at him, something unsettling, and it wasn’t the race. It was Fernando. He had seen the texts—those little moments when your phone buzzed with his name, when your smile softened in a way that made something twist uncomfortably in his chest. Fernando was always checking in on you, reminding you to eat, wishing you luck, and offering words of comfort when you lost. Max wasn’t blind, he saw how you responded to him, to his kindness, and it made something inside him burn with jealousy.

He never liked it, the way Fernando seemed to be in your life in a way that felt too familiar, too close. It didn’t help that there was this unspoken connection between you two, a connection that Max could feel but couldn’t quite place. It reminded him of something—something like the bond he shared with you, the way he needed you, and suddenly he didn’t want to share that with anyone else.

It was late one night, after you’d both collapsed into bed together. The air was heavy with the remnants of shared intimacy, your warm breath still mingling with his, when you slipped into the shower to clean up. Max stayed behind, still feeling the lingering echoes of your touch on his skin, his mind racing. And then, without thinking, he reached for your phone, the device you always left unlocked with no second thought. He didn’t know why he did it, but he had to know what was going on.

Scrolling through your messages, he found the ones from Fernando—text after text filled with care, support, and something else that felt too familiar, too much like his own feelings for you. And in that moment, he couldn’t breathe.

With a shaky breath, Max deleted every single message from Fernando and blocked his number, sealing the distance in a way he never dared before.

He didn’t want to lose you. You were his. You were everything.

When you stepped out of the shower, still wet and flushed from the heat, Max pretended like nothing had happened. He gave you that half-smile, the one he always wore when he was hiding something, and he pulled you into his arms without saying a word.

But as you sat together at dinner, watching you study the menu, his fingers brushed against yours, holding you tighter than before. He didn’t want to share you with anyone else. You were his anchor, his safe place. And just like that, as your laughter filled the space between you, he found himself lost in your presence once more, the weight of everything else fading into the background.

Max watched you as you looked up from the menu, your eyes meeting his with a soft curiosity, unaware of the battle raging inside of him.

“Max?” you asked, breaking the silence between you two.

He shook his head, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just thinking about how lucky I am,” he said, his voice steady, even though his heart was hammering in his chest. He squeezed your hand, the motion a promise, but also a way to keep you close.

“You’re lucky?” You raised an eyebrow at him, clearly teasing, but there was a warmth in your tone that made him feel lighter for a moment.

He nodded, his thumb tracing circles over your skin. “Yeah. I’m lucky you’re with me.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The sun was setting over the Abu Dhabi skyline, casting a warm golden hue over the circuit. The air was thick with anticipation, and you could feel it in every corner of the paddock. Your heart raced faster than it had all season. It was the final race of the year, and everything hinged on this moment. You didn’t need to win, you just needed to finish above Lewis in the points to clinch the championship. It was as simple, and as terrifying, as that.

You stood outside the car, your hands running through your hair as you tried to calm your nerves. The weight of the day, of the season, pressed down on you like a heavy blanket. Your mind raced, analyzing every scenario, but all you could do was push forward.

Before the race, Martin Brundle came over for the usual pre-race interview, his familiar voice cutting through the buzz of the pit lane. The camera crew was ready, the lights blinding, but you forced yourself to focus. “Yn, how are you feeling going into today? It’s been such a tight season. You’ve come so far.”

You smiled, trying to play it cool, but your stomach fluttered. The nerves were there, but you couldn’t let them show. Not now. Not today. You straightened your shoulders, looking directly at the camera. “It’s normal, it’s okay,” you chuckled, trying to calm yourself with the words. “I mean, it’s okay to feel nervous, right? It’s a big race. But I’m happy either way. Win or not, it’s been an incredible season, and I’m proud of how far we’ve come.”

You blew a kiss to the camera, your fans cheering from behind the screen. Your voice cracked slightly as you said the last part, but you quickly covered it up with a laugh. It wasn’t the first time you’d been in a pressure-packed situation, but this—this was different. This wasn’t just another race. This was the race.

As you climbed into your car, the roar of the engines around you, the scent of gasoline and tire smoke, it all felt so surreal. Your hands were steady on the wheel, but your heart pounded so loudly it almost drowned out the noise of the pit. The starting lights counted down, and when they went out, you were off.

From the very beginning, you knew this race wouldn’t be easy. Lewis was relentless, fighting you at every corner, every straight, and the gap between you was closing faster than you expected. The tension in the cockpit was suffocating, each lap feeling like an eternity as you and Lewis went back and forth, pushing each other to the limit. Every move, every decision mattered. Your thoughts were a blur of strategy, but there was one thing you couldn’t shake—the weight of the championship on your shoulders.

The radio crackled to life, your race engineer’s voice cutting through your focus. “Yn, hold your line, we’ve got this. Stay calm, we’re tracking every move.”

“I’m trying,” you replied, your voice tight, but you knew there was nothing you could do but focus. “I just... can’t let him pass.”

The battle with Lewis continued, and by the time you crossed the line, you were exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. You hit the brakes, beginning the cool-down lap, but everything seemed to slow down. It was like the world had frozen, and for a moment, all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat. The crowds blurred in the distance, the sound of their cheers faint against the rush of blood in your ears.

Your eyes locked onto the lights ahead, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to exhale. You had done it. No matter what happened now, you had done your part.

The radio clicked again, and your engineer’s voice came through, calm and measured at first, but you could hear the joy just beneath the surface.

“You’ve done it,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “Yn, you’ve done it. You are the World Champion.”

And just like that, the world snapped back into focus. Your vision blurred as tears filled your eyes, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You gripped the steering wheel, your chest tightening, and before you knew it, a few tears were slipping down your cheek. The emotion hit you all at once—the relief, the exhaustion, the joy. You had made it. You had earned it.

Through the radio, you could hear the cheers of the team, the pit crew, your engineer. You could practically feel the excitement radiating from them, even as you spoke. “Thank you. Thank you to everyone. We’ve made it... I—” Your voice cracked, and you couldn’t help it. “I’m so proud of this team. Please, please thank Max for being the best teammate anyone could ask for.”

The words tumbled out of you, and they meant more than you could express. Max had been there every step of the way, a constant support when things got tough, always by your side. He was more than a teammate. He was family.

As you pulled into the pit lane, the roar of the crowd was still loud in your ears, but the world around you felt like it had shifted into slow motion. The car came to a halt, and before you could even jump in their arms, the team was around you. The pit crew and engineers were cheering, clapping you on the back, and hugging you in a whirlwind of celebration. Your heart was still pounding from the intensity of the race, but the joy—oh, the joy—made everything else fade away.

You looked around at your team—your family, and as you stood up from the car, your eyes landed on someone. Fernando. He was standing just the othe other side of Parc Ferme , leaning against the wall, arms crossed. You didn’t have to think twice. Your feet moved before your brain could catch up, and before you knew it, you were standing in front of him, helmet and gloves in hand.

You dropped the helmet onto the ground, flinging your arms around Fernando in one swift motion. The feeling of his arms wrapping around you was instant, comforting, grounding. He pulled you into him tightly, almost as if he was afraid you would slip away if he let go. You clung to him for a moment, the weight of the season, the race, and the championship finally settling on your shoulders.

When he pulled away, he cupped your cheeks gently, his touch warm and reassuring. You leaned into his palm instinctively, your eyes closing for a second, savoring the moment of peace. Fernando’s eyes were soft, full of pride, and for a fleeting second, it felt like everything in the world had aligned just for this.

"You did it," Fernando murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve earned it.”

You smiled at him, your heart swelling with gratitude. There were so many people who had supported you along the way, but Fernando—Fernando had always been there, in ways both big and small. His presence in your life felt like a quiet strength, one you had relied on more than you ever admitted.

“Thanks, Fernando,” you said softly, your voice almost breaking, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, surrounded by the chaos of the celebration, but existing in your own bubble of shared understanding.

Later, after you’d finally caught your breath, the post-race interview called. You made your way toward the cameras, your legs still shaky but steadied by the adrenaline pumping through your veins. You stood in front of the microphone, your heart still racing, and your hand moved to brush your damp hair from your face. The weight of the moment hit you again, but this time, it was a different kind of weight—a weight of triumph, of victory. You had earned this, earned everything that came with it.

And then came Jenson, your former teammate, his smile wide as ever. “The Indomitable Yn Ln,” he said, his voice filled with admiration and humor.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light, but full of emotion. It felt like a lifetime ago when you had first earned that nickname. Now, here you were, standing in front of millions, re-earning it with every race, every challenge you overcame.

You raised the mic to your lips, ready to speak, to say something profound, to share your gratitude. But when you opened your mouth, nothing came out. Instead, a smile spread across your face, wide and genuine, the kind of smile that could only come from sheer, unadulterated happiness. It wasn’t the words you had prepared that mattered. It was this moment, right here, right now, that spoke louder than anything you could ever say.

And that was enough.

The Indomitable Yn Ln, that sounds so nice.

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