#max verstappen masterlist

[norristrii]

WITH LOVE, VERSTAPPEN

A wild night in Vegas left you hungover, married, and shocked to discover your new husband is Max Verstappen, four-time Formula 1 World Champion. What starts as a drunken mistake turned into something more and a question you never thought you’d ask—was this really just a stupid decision, or the best thing that ever happened to you?

pairing. Max Verstappen x wife! fem! reader.

warnings. rom-com (i tried), 10,6k words, accidental marriage, soulmates-ish, love at the first sight, my poor humor, soft! max, reader is clueless about f1, domestic fluff (literally just reader and max bullying each other white they’re married) alex s. m., lestappen bromance, pet names (schatje, baby).

YOU CAME TO LAS VEGAS FOR ONE REASON: to have fun. Maybe gamble a little, maybe dance a lot, and definitely forget about the stress of your everyday life. It was supposed to be a wild weekend with your friends—filled with overpriced cocktails, glittery outfits, and questionable decisions. You knew the Grand Prix was happening the same weekend, but you weren’t exactly a sports girl. Formula 1 meant fast cars and loud engines, and the only thing you really cared about was how the race would mess up traffic. You had no idea how much more it would mess up your life.

One night, your friend—who always seemed to know someone who knew someone—dragged you to a party she swore would be crawling with celebrities. You didn’t believe her, but you went anyway, dressed in something sparkly and slightly too short, because why not? Vegas was built for nights like this. The party was on a rooftop, lights glowing against the desert sky, music thumping through your bones, and drinks flowing like water. You weren’t sure who was famous and who was just pretending to be, but everyone looked expensive and slightly untouchable.

And then you met him.

He was tall, with messy hair and a grin that made you feel like you were the most interesting person in the room. Dutch, he said. His name started with an M—Mark? Max? You couldn’t quite remember. He was charming in a way that felt effortless, confident in a way that bordered on cocky, and somehow still made you laugh until your cheeks hurt. You didn’t know who he was, but you liked him. And the drinks kept coming. Tequila shots, champagne, something neon blue that tasted like candy and regret.

The night blurred into a haze of laughter, dancing, and whispered conversations that felt like secrets. You remembered him pulling you onto the dance floor. You remembered him saying something about fate and bad decisions. You remembered kissing him. And then—

Well, no drink could have prepared you for what came next.

───

You woke up with a headache so sharp it felt like someone was playing drums inside your skull. The room was too bright, too quiet, and far too unfamiliar. But what truly terrified you wasn’t the pain—it was the man sleeping beside you.

His back was turned, broad and bare, the sheets tangled around his waist. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction. He looked peaceful, annoyingly comfortable, like he belonged there. Like you belonged there.

You sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to your chest as if it could shield you from the chaos of whatever had happened the night before. Your dress—what was left of it—was draped over a chair like it had given up. One heel peeked out from under the bed. The other was missing entirely.

You glanced at him again, trying to piece together the night, and that’s when your eyes caught something that made your stomach drop.

A ring.

On his left hand.

Bold, shiny, and impossible to miss.

Your heart stuttered. Oh God. Did you sleep with a married man? You stared at the ring, panic rising in your throat. But something about it tugged at your memory—a flash, a moment, a laugh. You looked down at your own hand, slowly, carefully, like you were afraid of what you’d find.

And there it was. The same ring.

Only yours had a diamond. A very large, very catchy diamond.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Oh fuck.

Your heart was already racing, but it kicked into overdrive when your eyes drifted to the nightstand. Amid the clutter—an empty glass, a phone, a crumpled napkin—was a piece of paper that looked far too official for a party night in Vegas. Thick, cream-colored, with bold lettering across the top. You leaned closer, squinting through the haze of your hangover, and your stomach dropped.

It wasn’t just a piece of paper.

It was a marriage certificate.

You froze, staring at it like it might disappear if you blinked hard enough. But it didn’t. It stayed right there, mocking you with its very real, very legal presence. You reached out with a shaky hand and picked it up, scanning the names printed neatly in black ink.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

You blinked. That name sounded… familiar? Maybe? You weren’t sure. It rang a bell, but not loud enough to make sense of it. You looked down, and there it was—your own name, printed right beneath his. Only now it had a new addition. His last name. Your name, with his last name.

You stared at it, mouth slightly open, brain refusing to catch up.

You married him.

You didn’t walk. You launched yourself out of the bed like it had burst into flames, nearly tripping over the twisted sheets as you scrambled to grab your phone. Your heart was racing, your brain still foggy, and you had no idea what you were doing—only that you needed to not be in that room. You bolted to the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind you, and locked it like you were hiding from a monster. For what? Safety? Privacy? Maybe just a moment to breathe. Or maybe in case Max Verstappen woke up and decided it was time for a honeymoon on a yacht. You didn’t know what married people did. You weren’t supposed to be one of them.

The bathroom light was way too bright, and you winced as it hit your face. You blinked hard, trying to adjust, and caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. Your makeup was smeared like a bad painting, your hair looked like it had fought a tornado, and your eyes were wide with panic. You looked exactly how you felt—like a disaster. A very confused, slightly drunk, newly married disaster.

Your thumbs were shaking as you opened Google, typing in the name from the certificate as fast as you could.

Max Verstappen.

And then your screen exploded with results.

Photos. Headlines. Videos. Interviews. All of it.

“Four-Time World Champion Max Verstappen Wins in Las Vegas.”

“Verstappen Dominates Under the Vegas Lights.”

“Undeniable King of Formula 1.”

You stared at the screen, jaw slowly dropping.

There he was. The man in the bed. Standing tall in a sleek racing suit, champagne bottle in hand, sweat glistening on his skin under the podium lights. His arms were raised in victory, his grin wide and confident, like he owned the world. Another photo showed him on the top step of the podium, gold trophy in one hand, waving with the other. Cameras flashed around him. Fans screamed his name.

And okay. You could admit it.

Your husband? He was hot.

Like, really hot.

Of course he had to be the kind of guy who looked even better sweaty. Of course he had to have that smirk. That face. That body. That entire vibe. And of course he had to be one of the best athletes in the world.

“Fuck!” you hissed the second your phone buzzed in your hand, nearly dropping it into the hotel sink.

Incoming call: my girl xx

You didn’t even hesitate. You smacked the green button and brought it to your ear like it was a direct lifeline to reality.

“I think I married Max Verstappen!” you whisper-screamed the second the call connected, pacing across the bathroom in bare feet, trying not to pass out or throw up or—god forbid—wake him up. You had no idea if the feeling in your chest was joy or terror. Probably both. Definitely both.

There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end.

Then: “Y/n, what the fuck? Did you take something? Are you high?”

You let out a strangled laugh, half-sob, half-manic giggle. “No! I mean—I don’t think so? But like… I woke up next to this guy, okay? Big, hot, Dutch guy. Tall. Sleepy. Smug. And he had a ring on. And then I had a ring on. And then—” you reached over to snatch the paper from the counter again, yes you took it with you “—there’s literally a marriage certificate. Signed. With both our names. His is Max Emilian Verstappen. I googled him. He’s a four-time Formula One World Champion?!”

You stopped to breathe, then whispered aggressively, “I married a rich race car driver.”

Your best friend went quiet again, then finally said, “Wait… Max Verstappen? Like, actual Max Verstappen? The hot one who wins everything and never smiles?”

“Yes!” you hissed. “Except he does smile, and I think he kissed me last night, and he definitely slept next to me— and with me, and now I don’t know if I should cry or call Vogue and pitch a cover story as his wife.”

“Y/n, I left you alone for five minutes and you got married?!” your best friend shrieked so loudly through the phone that you had to pull it away from your ear before it shattered your eardrum.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” you whisper-yelled, pacing the bathroom like a wild animal trapped in a cage. Your bare feet slapped against the cold tile, your sheet toga flapping behind you like a cape of shame. “There were drinks! There was dancing! He had a really nice smile, okay? I don’t even like racing! I came to Vegas for overpriced cocktails and bad decisions, not a whole husband!”

You were so deep in your meltdown that you didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right outside the door.

Then—two soft knocks.

“Are you panicking in there?” a deep, amused voice called through the bathroom door.

You froze. Completely. Like a deer caught in headlights. Like someone had hit pause on your entire body.

Your eyes went wide. Your mouth opened. That voice—it was him.

Your husband.

Max Verstappen. Actual Max Verstappen. Speaking. To you.

You turned toward the door, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. “Yes—I mean no!” you called back, instantly cringing at how weird your voice sounded. You sounded like someone who had definitely married someone by accident.

There was a pause. You thought you heard him laugh. Just a little. Low and quiet. Like he found this whole thing funny.

You turned back to your phone, whispering like you were in some kind of spy movie. “Gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

“Wait, Y/n! Does he have any hot fri—”

You hung up before she could finish the sentence and dropped the phone onto the counter like it had burned your hand. You stared at the door, heart racing, brain spinning, and absolutely no idea what you were supposed to say next.

You couldn’t stay locked in the bathroom forever, no matter how much you wanted to hide from the world—or from the man waiting outside. You had to face it. Face him. Face the fact that you were somehow married to Max Verstappen.

Slowly, you reached out and unlocked the door, pushing it open just enough to peek your head out. You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe chaos, maybe cameras, maybe him halfway through packing his bags to escape this mess. But instead, you saw him standing there calmly, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and into a magazine cover. His hair was still messy, shirtless, but he looked relaxed. Too relaxed. Like this was just another normal morning.

“There you are,” he said, his voice soft but amused. “Do you want something? Coffee? Water? You look pale.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “Yeah, and you look completely fine! You shouldn’t!” you said, stepping out and slowly making your way back to the bed. You sat down carefully, still wrapped in the sheet, trying to keep your brain from short-circuiting.

He tilted his head, clearly confused. “Why?”

You stared at him, trying to find the right words. “Because you’re Max Verstappen! You’re like… F1’s big dog. The guy who wins everything. You married a random girl in Vegas!” You paused, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of it all. “Oh my god, can you imagine the drama? The headlines? The press? The fans? Your team? Your mom?”

“We can keep it secret for now, if you want,” Max said, his voice calm and casual, like he was suggesting you skip breakfast or order room service. Not like he was talking about hiding a marriage from the entire world. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking way too relaxed for someone who had just woken up married to a complete stranger. His expression was unreadable—cool, collected, almost amused.

Meanwhile, you felt like your entire body was buzzing with panic. Your heart was racing, your thoughts were spinning, and you were pretty sure your eye was twitching. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a sheet, trying to figure out how your life had turned into a headline overnight.

You stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said. Keep it secret? Like it was no big deal? You couldn’t even think straight, and he was already planning how to cover it up. Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.

“We should annul it,” you blurted out, the words tumbling out fast and loud. “Obviously.”

Max turned his head slowly to look at you, like you’d just said something completely ridiculous. His eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“Why?” he asked, voice still calm. “I like you.”

Your brain stopped working.

You blinked at him, mouth falling open, unsure if you’d heard him right. “Wh—what?” you stammered, eyes wide. “You like me? We met like—what—ten hours ago?”

Max shrugged, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “And I liked those ten hours.”

You stared at him like he’d just suggested you move to Mars. “That’s not a reason to stay married!” you said, your voice high and full of disbelief. You couldn’t believe you were even having this conversation. You were wrapped in a hotel sheet, hungover, and somehow arguing about the validity of a marriage with a man you’d met less than a day ago.

Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh. He just looked at you with those stupid, perfect blue eyes—calm, steady, and annoyingly unreadable. “It’s not a bad one either,” he said, voice smooth and quiet. But there was something in his eyes. A spark. A glint of amusement, maybe interest. Maybe even a challenge. Like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.

You clutched the sheet tighter around yourself, trying to hold onto reality, but your brain had already started to drift. You couldn’t help it. You imagined it—being his wife. Not just the ring on your finger or the chaos of last night, but the life that came with it. The luxury. The attention. The private jets and race paddocks. The kind of dinners where the wine cost more than your rent. The interviews where people called you Mrs. Verstappen. Waking up in Monaco. Falling asleep in Italy. Kisses in Singapore.

It was ridiculous. It was insane. It was completely out of your comfort zone.

And yet… it didn’t sound bad.

Okay. Maybe annulment was a little dramatic.

“Okay,” you sighed, dragging a hand through your tangled hair as you sat up straighter on the bed. The sheet was still wrapped around you like some kind of makeshift armor, and you were starting to feel like you’d need it. Your head was spinning, your heart was still racing, but you knew you couldn’t keep dodging the reality of what had happened. “We should… talk about this. All of it.”

Max’s lips curled into a smirk the moment the words left your mouth. He looked far too amused for someone who had just woken up married to a stranger. “That’s how I like you,” he said, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. “Assertive. Calm. Rational.”

You gave him a look. A sharp, tired, are-you-kidding-me look. “I’m none of those things right now.”

He shrugged, completely unfazed, his eyes still sparkling with mischief. “Still. Be grateful you married me and not Lando.”

You blinked. “Who’s that?” you asked, your eyebrows pulling together in confusion.

Max paused, then actually laughed. A real laugh. Not a smirk or a chuckle, but a full, amused laugh that made his shoulders shake slightly. “Oh wow. You really don’t know anything about Formula One, huh?”

You stared at him, unsure if you should be embarrassed or proud. “Is he, like… worse than you?”

Max tilted his head, clearly enjoying the question. “Debatable,” he said, his grin growing wider. “He’s a walking red flag though.”

You didn’t know what that meant exactly, but the way Max said it made you laugh. Just a little. Just enough to forget, for one second, that your life had completely flipped upside down.

───

The hotel breakfast room was way too quiet. That strange kind of quiet that only happens when everyone’s hungover and pretending they aren’t. Even the soft clink of a spoon against a coffee cup felt like it echoed through your skull. You were surrounded by people who probably had millions in their bank accounts, all dressed in expensive clothes and sipping tiny espressos like they hadn’t made a single bad decision the night before. But you knew better. You could see it in their tired eyes and slow movements. Vegas had worked its magic on everyone.

You sat across from Max, your very real, very hot husband of roughly ten hours, trying to act like this was normal. Like you did this kind of thing all the time. Like waking up married to a stranger and then sharing breakfast with him was just another part of your weekend plans. You picked at your croissant, trying to look casual, even though your brain was still spinning.

“So,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you tore off a piece of pastry, “tell me something about you, my husband.”

The word husband still felt strange coming out of your mouth. It made your stomach flip a little. It was weird, but also kind of exciting. You barely knew anything about Max — other than the fact that he was ridiculously attractive, strangely calm about the whole situation, and apparently some kind of international sports legend.

Max leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. “Well,” he began, “I’m Dutch, but I was born in Belgium. So technically I’m Dutch-Belgian. My mum’s from Belgium.”

You nodded slowly, pretending to take that in like it was important information. But honestly, your brain was stuck on the way he said my mum. It sounded so soft, so sweet, and it didn’t match the image of a guy with arms like his and a face that belonged on a billboard.

“I started karting when I was four,” he continued, “then got into Formula One when I was seventeen. And now I’m here—with four world championships.”

You blinked. “Casual,” you muttered, trying to sound unimpressed, even though your jaw wanted to drop.

Max gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal. He wasn’t bragging. He was just telling the truth. And somehow, that made it even more impressive. You could tell he wasn’t trying to show off. He was just… being himself.

And honestly? He was kind of a racing nerd. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up when he talked about karting, in the quiet pride in his voice when he mentioned his career. You weren’t into sports. Like, at all. But there was something really endearing about how much he cared. It wasn’t just a job to him. It was his whole world.

And because you couldn’t help yourself — because even though you didn’t follow racing, you did know the one headline that had practically broken the internet — you tilted your head and asked the question that had been sitting quietly in the back of your mind.

“Aren’t you the one who robbed Lewis Hamilton of his eighth title?”

Max didn’t answer right away. He paused, his eyes narrowing just slightly, like he was deciding how honest he wanted to be. There was a flicker of something in his expression — not anger, not guilt, just… something unreadable. But then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile. Calm. Cool. A little smug.

“That’s what some people say, yeah.”

You blinked, surprised. That was not the reaction you expected. No awkward laugh. No defensive speech. No attempt to explain or justify. Just a simple, quiet answer that carried more weight than a whole press conference. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t back down. He just sat there, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just casually admitted to being part of one of the most controversial moments in sports history.

It was the kind of energy that made your stomach twist. The kind that said he knew exactly who he was and didn’t feel the need to explain it to anyone — not the media, not the fans, and definitely not the girl he’d accidentally married in Vegas.

You chewed slowly, studying him. You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both.

But deep down — and you’d never admit it out loud — you were starting to think you might’ve married someone weirdly interesting. And dangerously charming.

“But that’s a long, boring story,” Max said with a casual wave of his hand, brushing off four world championships and one of the biggest rivalries in sports like it was nothing. Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, and gave you a look — the kind that made your heart skip a beat. There was a mischievous glint in his eye, playful and curious. “I want to know something about you, Mrs. Verstappen.”

The way he said it — so smooth, so relaxed, like it wasn’t the most insane thing either of you had ever done — made your stomach flip. Mrs. Verstappen. You’d been trying not to think about how official that sounded. How serious. How… weirdly not awful. It was ridiculous, but hearing it out loud made something flutter in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was panic or something else entirely.

You cleared your throat, trying to snap out of it. “Uh—well,” you began, suddenly feeling very aware of how painfully normal you were compared to him. He had trophies and fans and a career that spanned continents. You had… a messy Instagram feed and a half-used planner.

“Mostly I live off my dad’s money,” you said, giving a small, awkward laugh. “Because, you know, he prefers to pay me to leave him alone.” You took a sip of juice, hoping it would make you sound less ridiculous. “But I studied art. And now I sort of work in marketing? Like, social media stuff. Influencer-adjacent.”

You winced a little as the words came out. God, you sounded lame. Like you were trying to explain your life to someone who’d never had to worry about rent or job interviews or whether their post got enough likes. You were sitting across from a man who drove cars at 300 kilometers an hour for a living, and you were talking about hashtags.

Max didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just nodded, like everything you’d said made perfect sense. Like you made sense. It was strange, really — how someone so far removed from your world could listen like he’d known you for longer than ten hours. His expression was calm, open, and maybe even a little curious.

“And I, uh, moved to Monaco a few months ago,” you added, almost as an afterthought. You weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe because you wanted to sound a little more interesting. Maybe because you wanted to find some common ground with the man sitting across from you.

But that got a reaction.

Max’s eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. “No way,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You live in Monaco?”

You nodded, feeling a little sheepish. “Yeah. Mostly for the tax thing, but let’s pretend it was for the vibe.”

Max grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made your stomach flip again. “Me too.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “I’ve lived there since I was eighteen.”

You stared at him, trying to wrap your head around that. Eighteen. Already living in Monaco. Already racing in Formula One. Already building a life that sounded like something out of a movie. Meanwhile, you were still figuring out how to pay your phone bill on time at that age.

“I mean, most of the drivers do,” Max said, leaning back in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. “You live in Monaco and don’t know anything about Formula One? Even though there’s a Grand Prix happening there every year? It’s like… the biggest event in the city.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to look offended, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Hey! I do know who Charles Leclerc is,” you said, lifting your chin slightly. “He’s Monaco’s bias — the hometown hero everyone pretends they’re not obsessed with.”

Max blinked, then burst out laughing. Not just a chuckle, but a full, warm laugh that made his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle at the corners. It was the kind of laugh that made your chest feel lighter, like you’d said something genuinely funny and not just accidentally charming.

“I married the right girl,” he said, still grinning, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his luck.

You felt your cheeks warm, and you looked down at your plate, trying to hide the smile that was now impossible to fight off. It was ridiculous. You were still hungover. You were still confused. You were still technically married to a man you barely knew.

You loved every second of it.

───

You’d been in Monaco for a few days now, and somehow, without really planning it, you’d spent most of that time at Max’s place. His apartment was sleek and modern, with huge windows and a view that looked like it belonged in a travel magazine. Sometimes he came over to your place too, and it was starting to feel… normal. Comfortable. Like you’d known each other for way longer than just a few chaotic days. You went on cute dates—late-night walks by the harbor, quiet dinners tucked away from the cameras, even a grocery run that turned into a mini adventure. You’d both agreed to act like you were just dating, like the marriage part was a funny secret between you. And honestly? It worked. It felt easy. It felt right.

So when Max insisted that you had to bake a cake for your one-week anniversary, you didn’t argue. You went out and bought all the ingredients, found a beginner-friendly recipe online, and tried to convince yourself this wasn’t going to end in disaster.

Standing in his kitchen, surrounded by flour, eggs, and a very confused Max Verstappen, you gave him a look. “I’m warning you,” you said, tying your hair up and glancing at the recipe again. “The last time I baked anything, I was eighteen. It was a birthday cake for my best friend, and it was… not great.”

Max raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Well,” he said, gesturing to himself, “do I look like I’ve baked anything in my life?”

“No,” you said as you rolled up your sleeves, determined to make this cake happen—even if it ended up more like a sweet disaster than a masterpiece. Max stood beside you, watching the recipe on your phone like it was written in a foreign language. You handed him the whisk and pointed to the bowl.

“Okay, start mixing the eggs and sugar,” you said, trying to sound confident.

Max squinted at the bowl, then at the whisk, then back at you. “You’re trusting me with this?”

“You drive cars at 300 kilometers an hour,” you said, grabbing the flour. “I think you can handle a whisk.”

He gave you a dramatic nod, like he was accepting a mission, and started whisking with way too much enthusiasm. Sugar flew out of the bowl. You gasped and jumped back, laughing as tiny crystals landed in your hair.

“Max!” you shrieked, swatting at him with a dish towel.

He grinned, completely unbothered. “Precision is overrated.”

You tried to stay focused, measuring flour and butter, but Max kept sneaking little pokes at your side, bumping your hip, stealing spoonfuls of batter when he thought you weren’t looking. At one point, he dipped his finger into the mix and held it out to you.

“Try it,” he said, eyes sparkling.

You leaned in, tasted it off his finger, and paused. “Not bad.”

He smirked. “Told you. Natural talent.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was fluttering. The kitchen smelled like vanilla and sugar, and the air was warm with laughter and something softer—something sweeter.

The cake was safely tucked away in the oven, and for the first time in the past hour, the kitchen was quiet. Warm. Sweet-smelling. You leaned against the counter, catching your breath, your cheeks flushed from laughing too hard and moving too fast. Max stood nearby, watching you with that familiar smirk that made your stomach flip every time.

“You have flour on your nose,” he said, pointing at you and laughing softly.

You reached up to wipe it off, but then paused, a mischievous idea forming. You looked at him, narrowing your eyes playfully, and moved your hand toward his face.

“Oh, don’t you dare,” he warned, stepping forward just as you lunged.

Before you could get him, Max caught both of your wrists in his hands. His grip wasn’t tight—just firm enough to stop you, but gentle enough to make your heart flutter. You tried to wriggle free, laughing, but he was too strong, too steady. And honestly? You didn’t really want to escape.

He pulled you closer, slowly, until your body was pressed against his. Your chin rested just under his collarbone, and you tilted your head up to look at him. His eyes were soft now, not teasing, just… warm. You smiled without meaning to, and he smiled back, like he couldn’t help it either.

And in that moment, something shifted.

You felt it in your chest—a quiet, fluttering feeling that wasn’t panic or confusion anymore. It was something sweeter. Something softer. Were you falling for your own husband? The thought hit you like a whisper, unexpected but not unwelcome.

Max leaned down and pressed a light kiss to your lips. It was gentle, slow, like he was testing the waters. Like he wanted to make sure you were still with him in this strange, beautiful mess.

You smiled against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. “Was this part of the recipe?”

He grinned, eyes sparkling. “Obviously,” he said, and kissed you again—this time longer, deeper, like he didn’t care if the cake burned.

When the oven finally beeped, you jumped a little, startled out of the warm haze you’d been floating in. You grabbed an oven mitt and carefully pulled the cake out, setting it down on the counter. You blinked at it, surprised. It actually looked… good. Like, really good. Golden, fluffy, not burned. You tilted your head, inspecting it like it might suddenly collapse, but it held its shape perfectly.

“See?” Max said proudly, stepping beside you. “It looks fantastic.”

You laughed, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Yeah, but does it taste fantastic?” you teased, eyeing the cake like it might be lying to you.

Max didn’t answer. Instead, he turned toward the fridge and pulled out a bowl of whipped cream—dark blue, of course. “I want to decorate it,” he said, already grabbing a spoon and getting to work.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Okay, Picasso,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter to watch.

Max was focused, tongue slightly poking out in concentration as he carefully spread the whipped cream across the top of the cake. He wasn’t fast, but he was determined. You stepped closer, peeking over his shoulder, and smiled at the mess he was making. The letters weren’t perfect, the spacing was off, and the whipped cream was a little too runny—but it was adorable.

And then you saw it.

Written in slightly crooked, slightly smudged letters across the top of the cake:

Max + Y/n, always and forever

Your heart did a little flip.

You stared at the words, warmth blooming in your chest. It was silly. It was messy. It was whipped cream on a cake made by two people who barely knew what they were doing. But it was also sweet. Thoughtful. Real.

You looked up at Max, who was still focused on smoothing out the edges, and felt something soft settle in your chest. This wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t just a wild Vegas story. It was starting to feel like something more.

“Aww,” you whispered, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

Max glanced at you, eyes twinkling. “Too cheesy?”

You shook your head. “Just cheesy enough.”

───

One thing about your husband, Max Verstappen — he adored Charles Leclerc. Like, actual bromance level. The kind of friendship that involved inside jokes, constant teasing, and way too many shared podium selfies. So when the idea of a double date came up, it wasn’t dinner or drinks or something chill. No. It was karting. Because of course it was. The most on-brand plan imaginable for two Formula One drivers who couldn’t go five minutes without turning something into a race.

The guys were hyped. Already texting about lap times and trash talk before you’d even left the apartment. And you? You were nervous. Really nervous.

Alex was everything. Fashion icon. Gorgeous. Confident. The kind of girl who looked like she belonged on magazine covers and red carpets. She was Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend — the it-girl of the paddock. And you were… well, you. Clumsy. Still adjusting. The newly accidental wife of Max Verstappen who had only just learned what a pit stop was.

You clutched Max’s hand tighter as you both walked toward the karting center, your stomach bubbling with nerves and regret over the fizzy energy drink you’d chugged earlier. Your heart was racing, and not in the fun, adrenaline kind of way. More like the what if I embarrass myself in front of Monaco’s golden couple kind of way.

“Max,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, “what if they don’t like me? I mean, I’m not exactly—”

“Schatje,” he cut in gently, turning his head to look down at you. That soft half-smile was already forming on his lips — the one that always made your brain short-circuit a little. “They’re both excited to meet you. Charles has heard so much about you already.”

You blinked up at him, heart still fluttering, but something about the way he said it made you feel a little steadier. Like maybe you weren’t walking into a disaster. Like maybe you did belong here, even if you weren’t sure how yet.

You stepped inside the karting center, your nerves buzzing just beneath your skin like tiny sparks. The smell of rubber and engine oil filled the air, and the sound of distant engines revving made your heart beat a little faster. You spotted Charles and Alex waiting near the entrance, both dressed casually but somehow still looking like they belonged on a magazine cover. Max’s face lit up the second he saw them. He walked straight over and pulled Charles into one of those quick, half-hug, half-pat-on-the-back greetings that guys do when they’re trying to act cool but are clearly happy to see each other.

Before you could even process the moment, Alex stepped toward you with a bright smile and zero hesitation. “You must be Y/n,” she said, her voice warm and confident. “You look stunning, girl.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how friendly she was. Before you could even say thank you, she pulled you into a hug — not the awkward kind, but the kind that felt real. The kind that said, you’re safe with me. It was soft and strong all at once, and something in your chest loosened. Just like that, you knew: this girl was going to be your girl.

“And you’re even prettier in person,” she added with a grin, looping her arm through yours like you’d been friends forever.

You laughed, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to melt. “You’re literally so cool, this is unfair.”

Max, overhearing your comment, smirked and leaned toward Charles with a playful glint in his eye. “Maybe we should do a few laps without them,” he said, voice teasing. “You know, as revenge for that time you pushed me off track.”

Charles rolled his eyes, already used to Max’s drama. “You brake-tested me,” he replied, deadpan.

Max waved him off, already distracted by the sight of you and Alex laughing together like old friends. You could feel his eyes on you, and when you glanced over, he was smiling — that soft, proud kind of smile that made your stomach flutter.

Alex leaned in and whispered, “I think we’ll definitely find something to talk about.”

You nodded, heart lighter than it had been all day. You weren’t just the accidental wife anymore. You were part of something. Something fun. Something real.

Max walked over, his voice quieter now, just for you. “Cheer for me, schat,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. The warmth of it lingered as he grabbed a helmet and headed toward the karts with Charles, already tossing playful insults back and forth.

You and Alex sat down on the bench near the track, the loud buzz of go-karts filling the air as Max and Charles disappeared around the first corner. At first, the sound was a bit much — engines roaring, tires screeching — but after a few minutes, it started to feel kind of normal. Like background noise to a day that was already turning out better than you expected. You leaned back, letting the sun warm your face, while Alex pushed her sunglasses up and turned to you with a friendly smile.

“So,” she said, her voice light, “how’s it going? Being a WAG and all?”

You laughed softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It’s new. I didn’t grow up watching racing or anything, so I’m still learning. But… I’m happy.”

And you meant it. Even though everything had happened so fast — the wild Vegas night, the surprise marriage, the dates, the quiet mornings — it felt good. Like you’d landed somewhere that made sense, even if it was unexpected.

Just then, a blur of navy and red flew past the pit lane. Max’s kart. He lifted one hand off the wheel and waved as he sped by. Even with the helmet on, you could tell he was smiling. And without thinking, you smiled too — like it was automatic now.

Alex saw it and grinned. “You’ve got it bad,” she teased. “But don’t worry — Max is even worse.”

You blinked. “Really?”

She nodded. “He called Charles the morning after Vegas. Didn’t even say hi. Just started talking about you. Said you were funny, smart, and somehow kept up with him better than anyone else.”

Your mouth opened a little. You hadn’t known that. Max had never told you. You’d been wondering if this was just fun for him, something casual. But hearing that he’d been excited enough to call his best friend the next morning?

Your heart did a little flip.

Alex leaned closer, her voice softer now. “He’s serious about you. I’ve never seen him like this.”

Max and Charles walked over with matching grins, the kind that spelled trouble in the most entertaining way. Their hair was messy from the helmets, their cheeks slightly flushed from the race, and they looked way too proud of themselves for two grown men who’d just spent twenty minutes trying to out-drive each other.

“They’ve got two-seater karts,” Charles said, clearly amused. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and you could already tell he was up to something. “Wanna race?”

Max stepped forward, smirking straight at you like he was already imagining the chaos. “And you two are driving,” he added, handing you a helmet like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Me driving? With you in the kart?”

“Exactly,” Max said, his voice calm but teasing. “Don’t worry, I trust you.”

You stared at the helmet in your hands, heart thudding a little faster. You weren’t a racer. You weren’t even sure you knew how to start the kart. But Max was looking at you like you could do anything. Like he believed in you without question. And somehow, that made you want to try.

Charles turned to Max with a smug smile. “We’ll see which couple’s faster. Verstappen’s or Leclerc’s.”

There was something in his tone — playful, yes, but also curious. Like he was watching closely. Like he could feel there was more going on than you were letting on. You were still supposed to be just Max’s girlfriend, after all. But something about the way Charles looked at you, then back at Max, made your stomach twist. He was catching on. Maybe not the whole story, but something.

You and Alex exchanged a quick glance, wide-eyed and a little too in sync. You could tell she felt it too — the shift, the tension, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.

Alex leaned in, her voice low and full of humor. “If we crash,” she whispered, “at least we look cute doing it.”

“M’lady,” Max said with a dramatic little bow, holding the helmet like it was a crown. You laughed, nerves still buzzing in your chest, as he gently placed it on your head. His hands were careful, adjusting the straps with surprising focus, making sure everything was secure. His fingers brushed your skin, and even through the nerves, you felt a little spark — soft, warm, grounding.

You took a deep breath, the weight of the helmet settling over you like a reminder that this was real. You were about to drive a kart. With Max Verstappen sitting beside you. No pressure, right?

“I’m sorry in advance if we crash,” you said quietly, trying to joke your way through the nerves.

Max looked at you, that familiar grin spreading across his face — confident, playful, and just a little smug. “We won’t,” he said simply, sliding into the seat next to you like he’d done it a thousand times. “You’ve got this. You’re a Verstappen now.”

Your heart did a little flip at that. The way he said it — not as a joke, not as a tease, but like it meant something. Like it was something.

You glanced over at Alex one last time, catching her smile through her helmet. She gave you a thumbs-up, her eyes full of encouragement. You smiled back, grateful for her calm energy, her warmth, her quiet way of saying you’re not alone.

The countdown lights began to flash in front of you — red, red, red — and your grip tightened on the wheel. Your heart was racing now, faster than the engines around you. You weren’t sure if it was fear or excitement, but it didn’t matter.

The lights turned green, and you hit the gas a little harder than planned. The kart jolted forward, and Max let out a quick laugh beside you — not mocking, just amused. “Okay, okay, not bad,” he said, gripping the side of the seat. “Keep it steady, baby. Eyes on the track.”

You nodded, trying to focus, but everything was moving so fast. The wind rushed past your face, the engine roared beneath you, and the track curved ahead like it was daring you to mess up. Max leaned slightly toward you, voice calm but firm.

“Brake a little before the turn. Not during. You’ve got this.”

You followed his instructions, easing into the curve, and to your surprise — it worked. The kart glided through the corner without spinning out or crashing into the barrier. You grinned under the helmet, adrenaline buzzing through your veins.

“See?” Max said, clearly proud. “Natural talent.”

You barely had time to process anything — the speed, the noise, the curve ahead — before Max reached over and casually placed his hand on your thigh. It wasn’t rough or rushed. Just steady. Warm. Like it belonged there. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your heart jumped straight into your throat, and your grip on the wheel faltered for just a second. The next turn came up fast, and you almost missed it entirely.

“Max!” you shouted, half-laughing, half-panicking, as you swerved a little too wide. Your voice was breathless, your cheeks burning, and you couldn’t stop smiling even though you were trying to act annoyed.

He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t even flinch. Just leaned in slightly, his voice low and full of amusement. “What? I’m just helping you relax.”

You glanced at him, eyes wide behind the helmet visor. “You’re distracting me!”

Max grinned, completely unfazed. “Not a chance. You’re doing great.”

You shook your head, trying to focus again, but your heart was racing faster than the kart. His hand was still there, grounding you and distracting you all at once. And somehow, even with the chaos of the track and the roar of the engine, you felt safe. Like you could crash and it wouldn’t matter — because he’d be right there, laughing beside you.

The checkered flag waved, fluttering in the wind like a final exclamation point, and your kart zipped across the finish line just a breath ahead of Charles and his. The moment you passed it, your heart nearly exploded with adrenaline. You’d done it. You’d actually won — with Max beside you, coaching you, cheering you on, and somehow making you feel like you belonged in his world.

Max let out a triumphant laugh, the sound full of pride and joy. He turned to you, eyes shining. “See? Told you we wouldn’t crash,” he said, grinning as you both reached up and pulled off your helmets at the same time.

You were breathless, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, but you couldn’t stop smiling. The rush of the race, the thrill of the win, and the warmth of Max’s presence all wrapped around you like a hug. You barely had time to catch your breath before Max leaned over, grabbed your waist, and lifted you out of the kart like it was nothing.

Your feet left the ground, and you gasped, laughing as he held you close. His arms were strong and steady, and you felt completely safe in them — like the world could spin out of control and you’d still be okay as long as he was holding you.

Before you could even react, Max leaned in and kissed you. It was warm, gentle, and full of everything you’d been feeling but hadn’t said out loud. Your knees went weak, your heart fluttered, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.

As Max pulled back from the kiss, still holding you close, you both heard the unmistakable sound of clapping — slow, exaggerated, and clearly sarcastic.

Charles stood a few feet away, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, well, well,” he drawled. “Didn’t realize the winner got a kiss as a trophy. Is that FIA-approved?”

You laughed, cheeks burning, but Max just grinned and tightened his hold on you. “Oh fuck FIA.” he shot back.

───

People always say that if your marriage can survive building IKEA furniture, it can survive anything. And honestly? They weren’t wrong. Because if there was one thing Max Verstappen could do — besides win races and make your heart race — it was turn even the most ordinary task into something dramatic, chaotic, and somehow… special.

It had all started so innocently. One quiet evening, Max looked around the apartment, spotted the overflowing corner of helmets, trophies, race gloves, and random F1 gear, and casually announced, “I need another shelf.” Like it wasn’t already the fifth one. Like his personal shrine to motorsport wasn’t slowly taking over the living room.

You’d barely finished your tea before you were in the car, heading to nearest IKEA. The store was a maze of bright lights and confusing arrows, and the two of you spent way too long arguing over shelf designs and trying to pronounce the Swedish names printed on the boxes. Max insisted that sturdiness could be judged by how aggressive the name sounded. You ended up choosing one that sounded like someone sneezing mid-sentence and tossed it into the trunk, blissfully unaware of the emotional damage waiting at home.

Now, you were on the floor, leaning against the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips beside you and How to Train Your Dragon playing softly in the background. The room smelled faintly of wood and frustration. Max sat cross-legged across from you, surrounded by a chaotic sea of screws, wooden pegs, and panels that all looked suspiciously similar. He studied the pieces like he was preparing for a race — focused, intense, and slightly overconfident.

You held the instruction manual in your lap, flipping through the pages with growing dread. The diagrams looked like they’d been drawn by someone who hated happiness. You glanced at Max, who was already trying to fit two pieces together that clearly didn’t belong.

You squinted at the instruction manual, turning it sideways, then upside down, then back again. The tiny drawings made no sense, the arrows pointed in every direction, and the parts in front of you looked nothing like the ones in the pictures.

“I can’t understand a single thing,” you groaned, tossing the booklet onto your lap. “This is actual nonsense.”

Max glanced over, already halfway through trying to jam two wooden panels together. He reached for the manual, flipping it over with a smirk. “Maybe because you’re looking at the French side,” he said, holding it up and pointing at the tiny flag in the corner.

You blinked. “Oh.”

He handed it back to you, this time opened to the English section, like it was some sacred scroll. “Voilà,” he said dramatically. “Now we build.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re so annoying.”

You were twenty minutes into building the SNÖRKLIG — or whatever — shelf — and already three emotional breakdowns deep. Your patience was dangling by a thread, or more accurately, by one tiny wooden peg that refused to fit anywhere it was supposed to. The living room looked like a battlefield. Panels were scattered across the floor, screws rolled under the couch, and the instruction booklet had become your personal lifeline.

“I told you that piece goes on the bottom, Max,” you said, clutching the manual like it was sacred scripture. Your voice was calm, but your eyes were wild. You’d stared at the same diagram for so long, you were starting to see it in your dreams.

Max, sitting cross-legged across from you, held a long wooden panel sideways like it was a sword. “No, it doesn’t,” he insisted, pointing at the drawing. “It clearly goes on top. Look at this!”

You leaned over, squinting at the page. Then blinked. Then sighed. “Max… the drawing is upside down.”

He paused, looked at the manual again, then slowly rotated it in his hands. His face shifted from confident to sheepish in about two seconds.

“Oh.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “You’ve been building this thing backwards.”

Max shrugged, still gripping the panel like it hadn’t just betrayed his entire sense of confidence. “Well, it’s a shelf,” he said, voice casual. “It’ll still hold stuff.”

You stared at him, completely deadpan. “No, Max. It will fall. With all your trophies. Do you really want to explain to Christian why your 2023 championship is lying in shattered pieces on the floor because you refused to read IKEA instructions?”

That made him pause.

His eyes flicked to the mess around you — screws scattered like confetti, dowels rolling under the rug, and a pile of wooden panels that looked more like a failed art project than a shelf. He blinked slowly, like reality was finally catching up to him.

“…Maybe we should build it again,” he said, voice quieter now. Almost humble.

You didn’t respond. You just stared at him, blinking once. Slowly.

Max dragged a hand down his face, groaning like he’d just lost a race by half a second. “Oh, fuck this,” he muttered. “Can’t we just steal Charles’s?”

You blinked. “Wait… you actually want to steal a shelf?”

Max held up a screw like it was proof of his suffering. “Yes. I’d rather get arrested in Monaco than build another one of these Swedish nightmares.”

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your water. “You’re ridiculous.”

He gave you a serious look. “Schat, I drive F1 cars. I build engines in my sleep. But this shelf?” He pointed at the wobbly mess in front of you. “I’m ready to throw it out the window.”

You slid off the couch and sat beside him, bumping his shoulder. “Okay, okay. We’ll do it together. I’ll read the instructions. You build. And no making it up as you go.”

He sighed, but a small smile crept onto his face. “Fine. But if it breaks again, I’m calling Charles and asking for his shelf. I’ll say it’s an emergency.”

You snorted. “Deal.”

Max grabbed the screwdriver like he was on a mission, mumbling in Dutch as he started taking the whole thing apart. You sat cross-legged next to him, reading each step slowly while Toothless blinked on the screen, like he was silently cheering you on.

Halfway through, Max smacked his forehead. “Wait—this piece was upside down the entire time?”

───

The whole evening had felt strange from the start.

You’d just gotten back from the Red Bull event, and something heavy had settled over you, like a weight you couldn’t shake off. Everyone at the event had seemed so sure of themselves. They walked through the room with ease, dressed perfectly, laughing like they’d known each other forever. They spoke in a language you didn’t quite understand—F1 slang, sponsor talk, inside jokes that flew right past you. They belonged there. They fit.

And then there was you.

You’d stayed close to Max, smiled when people looked your way, nodded politely during conversations you didn’t know how to join. You weren’t rude. You weren’t awkward. But you felt like a shadow—present, but not really part of the picture. You weren’t one of them. You didn’t have the same shine, the same confidence, the same rhythm. You were just… there. A little too quiet. A little too unsure. A little too you.

And that thought had stuck. It had crawled into your chest and made a home there, whispering doubts every time you tried to push it away.

You didn’t belong in Max’s world. Not really.

And now, sitting in the quiet of your shared space, that realization was louder than ever. It stirred inside you, uncomfortable and sharp, making you question everything. Not because Max had done anything wrong—but because you weren’t sure you were enough for the life he lived. The spotlight. The pressure. The people who seemed born to be part of it.

You slipped off your heels slowly, one by one, letting them fall to the floor with soft thuds. The dull ache in your feet was familiar, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness pressing down on your chest. It had been building all evening, creeping in during small moments—quiet glances, awkward silences.

Max sat beside you on the edge of the bed, close enough that your shoulders touched. He didn’t speak right away, just let the silence stretch for a few seconds. Then his voice came, low and steady, but with that quiet edge that meant he wasn’t going to let it slide.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Talk to me.”

You kept your eyes forward, staring at the wall like it might offer you a way out. You blinked slowly, trying to keep your voice from cracking. “Nothing’s going on,” you said, flat and controlled, like if you said it calmly enough, it might become true.

Max didn’t respond right away, but you could feel the shift in him. The way he turned slightly toward you. The way his gaze settled on your face, searching. You didn’t have to look to know he wasn’t buying it.

“Don’t lie, baby,” he said quietly.

“No—I just think you shouldn’t be with someone basic like me,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked at the edges, soft and shaky, but honest. “I feel like I don’t belong in your world.”

You didn’t need to look at Max to know he was staring at you like you’d just said the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. You could feel the shift in the air, the way his body tensed beside you, the way his silence turned sharp.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he said, voice low but firm, no hesitation. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. What the fuck do you mean I shouldn’t be with you?”

You shook your head, tears brimming, frustration bubbling up. “I mean—I don’t know what tyre strategy works best in fucking Barcelona—“

He snorted, cutting you off before your spiral could go any further. “Neither does Red Bull, so what’s your point, schatje?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden humor in his voice. It was dry, sarcastic, but warm. And it made something inside you loosen just a little.

You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips, but the weight in your chest hadn’t quite lifted. It was still there, lingering beneath the softness of the moment. “You know what I mean,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Max tilted his head, eyes warm and steady. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “But I don’t need you to know every world champion since 1960. You’re not Sebastian Vettel.” His tone was light, teasing, but full of truth. Then he reached out, palm open, waiting. “I just want you to be my wife. My Y/n. The one who makes me laugh when everything feels too damn heavy.”

You looked at his hand, heart thudding, and hesitated for only a second before slipping yours into his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, like they belonged there.

A small smirk played at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting with mischief. “My wife Y/n, who had to Google me the morning after marriage.”

You let out a soft laugh, cheeks warming a the memory, “I thought you were footballer!”

“Just remember that you belong with me. Always,” Max said, his voice low and steady, each word wrapped in quiet certainty. He looked at you like you were everything—like nothing else in the world mattered more than you sitting right there beside him. “And the rest? Fuck it.”

You didn’t even get the chance to respond. Before your thoughts could catch up, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss into your hair. It wasn’t rushed or dramatic—it was grounding. The kind of kiss that said I’ve got you, even when your doubts were loud and your heart felt unsure. The kind that made the noise fade, just for a moment, and reminded you that with him, you were safe.

─── FEW MONTHS LATER

You were home alone while Max was away for the race weekend. Originally, you’d planned to go with him—packed your bag, even picked out your paddock outfit—but work had piled up fast, and someone had to stay back with the cats anyway. Max’s spoiled little shadows had made it clear they preferred you when he was gone, taking turns curling up beside you or watching your every move from the couch like tiny, judgmental bodyguards.

Evening had settled in quietly. The sky outside was a soft shade of blue-gray, and the apartment was filled with the low hum of your laptop fan and the occasional sound of a cat jumping down from furniture. You were slumped behind your screen, shoulders aching, eyes twitching from too many hours of emails and spreadsheets. You blinked hard, rubbed your temples, and muttered to yourself, Just one more email. Then I’m done.

And then—ding-dong.

You jumped, heart skipping. The sound sliced through the quiet like a siren.

You hadn’t ordered anything. You weren’t expecting anyone. Max was halfway across the world, and no one ever just showed up.

Brows furrowed, you pushed your chair back slowly, the cats immediately hopping down to follow you like a tiny security team. One brushed against your leg, the other sat at attention near the hallway, tail flicking.

You padded toward the door, cautious, curious, and just a little unnerved.

You opened the door slowly, still unsure what to expect—and were immediately met with a wall of white lilies. A bouquet so massive it looked like it might swallow the delivery man holding it. You blinked, momentarily stunned, the soft scent of the flowers already drifting into the hallway.

“I didn’t order anything?” you said, brows furrowing as you tried to peek around the blooms.

The man glanced down at the tag, then looked back up with a polite smile. “Are you Mrs. Verstappen?”

Your heart did a tiny flip at the sound of the name. Mrs. Verstappen. It still felt surreal every time someone said it out loud. You cleared your throat, suddenly warm all over. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

He nodded and gently passed the bouquet into your arms. “Then these are yours.”

You took them carefully, the weight of the flowers surprising, petals brushing your cheek as you stepped back inside. The cats stared up at you like you’d just brought home a jungle. You sighed, closed the door behind you, and locked it with a soft click.

You carried the bouquet to the kitchen, heart fluttering, mind already racing with one thought:

Max.

You placed the stunning bouquet into a vase, the lilies blooming like soft stars across your kitchen island. Their scent filled the room, light and calming, and for the first time all evening, the apartment didn’t feel so quiet. It felt like Max had somehow reached across the distance and wrapped the space in warmth.

As you adjusted the stems, fingers brushing against soft petals, something caught your eye—a folded piece of paper tucked gently between the flowers. Your name was scribbled across the front in Max’s unmistakable handwriting, a little messy, a little rushed, but so him.

Your heart fluttered as you pulled it free and unfolded it slowly, careful not to tear the edges.

I wish you were here. Don’t work too hard, and please—eat something other than burnt toast. Even though I’m halfway across the world, I need you to remember how deeply loved you are. Always and forever. With love, Verstappen.

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! hope u’re not disappointed y’all cuz this is literally fluff w little plot…still was fun to write <3 love love downbad! max. also yes, i love pet name “schatje” i am not sorry if it’s too many times 🤗

taglist. @lvrpiastri @athanasia-day @hott1es @scarlettxx389 @haniette xx

[verstappenverse]

Starstruck - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max swore no celebrity could ever faze him. Then you walked into the paddock and suddenly, he’s blushing, stuttering, and everyone on the grid is trying to play wingman. (Requested)

A/N: Hi guys! Sorry this one took a little longer than expected, but I hope you enjoy it. Athlete!Reader won the poll, though I tried to keep the details vague so hopefully you can imagine your own sport!

11.1k words / Part 1 / Masterlist

You technically flew to Monaco for a “holiday.”

That’s what your PR team told the press, what your manager repeated in a smile to sponsors, and what you half-heartedly echoed when people asked what brought you here, the sea, the weather, the rest.

In truth you weren’t here for a break. You weren’t here for the sun or the sea or the thinly veiled networking masquerading as leisure.

You were here for him.

It had started with a message.

Max: I’d really like that. Maybe dinner next time you’re in Monaco?

You read it twice, then again, and then you booked the flight without telling anyone why.

Now you find yourself sitting across from Max Verstappen at a tiny, tucked-away restaurant nestled in the winding streets of the old town. The kind of place without a sign out front, where the waiter lists the specials from memory and the walls are lined with wine bottles instead of framed celebrity photos. It smells like garlic and warm bread and the candlelight flickers faintly between you.

Max looks different tonight. Not in the obvious way, he’s still him, still broad-shouldered and sun-kissed, still unmistakable, but something about him feels less guarded. His hair is slightly tousled like he’d gotten ready too quickly. He’s wearing a dark shirt with the top button undone and his posture shifts just enough to suggest he doesn’t quite know where to put his hands.

What surprises you most is how nervous he looks.

This isn’t the Max the world sees, the one with ice in his veins and a fire in his chest who doesn’t flinch when the stakes are sky-high. This version of him is softer. His leg bounces slightly under the table. His fingers toy with the edge of his napkin. Every now and then he glances up like he’s making sure this is still happening.

When your eyes meet he smiles, small, tentative, completely sincere.

“I’m really glad you came,” he says quietly.

You don’t look away. “Me too.”

There’s no performance here. No need for posturing or witty deflections. Just honesty, bare and simple, and somehow that’s more disarming than any flirtation.

You reach for your glass and your fingers brush the base of his by accident. He doesn’t pull away. The silence that follows isn’t awkward it’s full. Charged. Like the space between two things about to collide.

Max can’t stop staring.

You’re here. Really here. Not behind a screen, not frozen in an interview clip or filtered through the lens of a glossy magazine, and not some half-formed thought tucked between laps during a quiet simulator session.

You’re sitting directly across from him, your foot brushing his under the table, your wine glass balanced loosely between two fingers, your eyes fixed on his with an openness that makes his throat go dry.

The booth feels too small, the table too narrow, and his heart too loud.

He fumbles his fork when the waiter clears their plates, catches it before it hits the linen, he murmurs something that was supposed to be your name, too fast, too clumsy, not nearly as smooth as he meant it to be. He’s never been this unsure of himself in his life.

You just smile like you didn’t notice or maybe you did and found it endearing. Then you lean in, eyes sharp with curiosity and ask about tyre compounds and corner speeds like it’s second nature. No hesitation, no hint of scripted interest.

You don’t sound like someone trying to impress him.

You sound like someone who knows him.

That does something to him.

You ask about his strategy from two races ago, what he thinks about the new wing tweaks, all of it with the tone of someone who’s been watching, caring. Like you haven’t just seen the highlight reels but have followed the long, gritty story in between.

For a moment Max forgets where they are, he forgets about the outside world. He just looks at you.

Then he turns the conversation back to you. He asks about your year. About how you recovered from that injury last year. About your training. About the record you broke. About the moments that left him breathless just watching it on TV.

You blink at him, genuinely surprised. “I can’t believe you know all of that?”

He shrugs, trying not to look too proud of himself. “Of course I do.”

There’s a beat, and then with a teasing smile: “Did you Google me?”

Max starts to shake his head but stops midway. “No. Well. Maybe once. But mostly I just—” He exhales, gives in. “I’m just a big fan.”

That makes you smile and it’s not the polished, camera-ready kind. It’s unguarded, head tilted slightly back, your hand brushing your hair behind one ear, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Something inside Max just aches because this doesn’t feel like PR. Doesn’t feel momentary. Doesn’t feel like something cool to mention in the debrief with the boys.

This feels like something he wants to keep.

Something real.

You move on from your sports eventually.

The conversation flows, effortless, unforced, and soon you’re trading stories that have nothing to do with your careers or the expectations that come with them. You talk about terrible hotel rooms with broken showers, airport delays that made you question your life choices, and the weird cravings that hit when you're overtired. You tell him about your first apartment, the first time you parallel parked under pressure, and the one time you got locked out wearing nothing but socks and a towel. He tells you about teenage pranks gone wrong, how his cats have torn up his apartment, the comfort food he still orders when he can’t sleep, and a story about almost burning down his kitchen trying to impress someone who never showed up.

He’s funny. Drier than you expected with a quick wit that hides beneath his usual quiet. There’s a subtle understated humour to him, sharp observations, muttered one-liners that catch you off guard. He’s shyer than you imagined when it comes to compliments. Every time you say something nice about him, his career, or about the way he sees the world he ducks his head like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

What strikes you most is the way he listens.

Not just nodding along, but really listening. Leaning in, elbows on the table, eyes focused like he’s trying to catalogue every word and reaction. Every time you glance up and meet his gaze he’s already looking at you not distracted, not scanning the room, just at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

By the time dessert comes the rest of the restaurant has faded into background noise. The low hum of voices, clinking glasses, soft jazz, none of it feels as loud as the quiet space between your knees now touching under the table. Neither of you moves away.

You don’t want to.

The bill eventually comes reluctantly splitting the spell in two he pays before you can even reach for your bag. Then he says your name just once, soft and sure, and offers you his arm.

You take it without thinking.

The walk back to your hotel is slow. Monaco at night is golden and calm, the buildings glowing under the streetlamps the pavement still warm beneath your shoes. It should feel like a movie set romantic in a way that borders on cliché, but it doesn’t. It just feels... easy.

He’s walking in step with you, his hand brushes yours once. Then again. The third time you slip your fingers between his and he exhales when you do, this quiet, breathless sound as if he’s been holding it in all evening.

When you reach your hotel the moment lingers. He stops just outside the entrance the glass doors behind you reflecting the soft amber of the lights above. His hand is still in yours, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. He looks at you like there’s something he hasn’t said yet, something he’s still gathering the courage for.

Then he speaks.

“I’ve been nervous all night,” he says, voice quiet and low, with the faintest, embarrassed smile tugging at his mouth. “I'm sorry I’m usually… not like this.”

Your heart stutters a little.

“I know,” you say, squeezing his hand gently. “It’s cute.”

He lets out a soft breath of laughter, eyes flicking to yours. “I'm not supposed to be cute.”

You tilt your head. “Too late.”

Max shakes his head lightly, then goes still again, more serious this time.

“Can I kiss you?” His voice is low, almost cautious, but there’s still something steady underneath it as if he knows exactly what he wants he’s just hoping you feel the same.

You don’t hesitate.

You nod and it’s enough.

He steps in gently as if giving you time to change your mind. His hand lifts to your face, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear before settling softly at your jaw. The other finds your waist, anchoring himself to you. He pauses close enough to feel his breath his eyes flicking to yours one last time like a question.

Then he kisses you.

It’s soft, impossibly soft. His lips are warm against yours, his hand steady at your cheek and for a few suspended seconds the entire world narrows to this. The press of his mouth, the tilt of your chin, the way he exhales into you like he’s finally breathing again.

You kiss him back just as softly. No rush. No noise. Just this quiet pull between you, gravity and understanding.

He doesn’t pull away right away. He lingers, forehead resting lightly against yours, breath warm on your lips, eyes still closed like he’s trying to hold on to the moment just a little longer.

When he finally does step back it’s only far enough to look at you properly.

You’re both smiling, a little stunned, a little dazed.

It doesn’t feel like a beginning.

It just feels right.

You don’t know about the photo until the next morning.

You’re still smiling.

You woke up smiling, warm under the sheets, limbs loose, the feeling of last night still lingering on your skin like perfume. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep thinking about it but the memory replayed itself on a loop as you drifted off.

The way Max looked at you when he asked if he could kiss you. The way his voice dipped. The way your name sounded when he said it.

The kind you can feel in your chest before your brain catches up.

The hotel curtains are still drawn, soft sunlight slipping in between the gaps, and your phone is already vibrating across the nightstand. You blink, bleary-eyed, blindly reaching for it, expecting a few notifications from your team the usual hum of a morning.

Instead there’s a message from your publicist in all caps, a dozen texts from friends asking if it’s real, and three missed calls from your manager with no voicemail which is somehow worse than if she’d left one screaming.

And then you see it.

A photo, blurry but unmistakable.

Taken from above, probably a balcony.

You and Max.

Kissing.

Last night.

The caption reads:

Spotted last night in Monaco: F1’s Max Verstappen with a VERY familiar face 👀

And then underneath in bold:

Fairytale sporting romance? Or just some summer fun?

Your stomach drops. The room tilts.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. There’s a paparazzi ban in Monaco, it’s one of the few places where people like you are meant to breathe. It’s why Max picked this city for your first real night together. No press, no pressure, just you and him and a warm night on a quiet street.

But bans only apply to professionals.

Fans? They don’t need a press badge to be invasive.

They just need a balcony, a phone, and internet access.

And by 10 AM, you’re trending.

#MaxVerstappenxY/N #PowerCouple F1’s Lion Heart Melts for Star Girl Max Verstappen Spotted on Romantic Date With [Y/N] — and he got more than just the cheque.

You scroll in disbelief. Every photo is a re-post. Every caption wilder than the last. Speculation fills in the gaps like wet cement, who planned the date, how long you’ve been secretly seeing each other, what this means for both your careers.

By the time your phone rings again you’re already numb.

It’s your manager.

You answer on the third ring.

“What the hell is going on?” she demands, breathless.

You close your eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Is it real?”

“…Yeah.”

There’s silence on the other end like she doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

“It was last night,” you say quietly. “It wasn’t meant to be public.”

Max hears about it the second he wakes up.

His phone is lit up like a warning flare. Thirty-six notifications. Two missed calls from Raymond. A voice memo from Lando that’s just him laughing so hard he can’t breathe. A string of texts from Gabi that includes one photo, three memes, and a final message:

LOOOOOL YOU’RE SO DONE

He doesn’t even click the link at first. He just stares at the flood of messages already having a sinking feeling of what they’re about.

Then he sees the photo.

It takes a second to register. His jaw tightens before he even finishes loading it. His thumb hovers over the screen like he wants to throw it across the room. It’s not even a good photo. The angle is shit. The lighting’s worse. But somehow it captures everything the tilt of your face, the line of your body leaning into his, the way his hand fits around your waist like it belongs.

“Fuck,” he mutters, pushing a hand through his hair.

Because it hadn’t even started yet.

Because the night was supposed to be just for you.

Because he didn’t get to choose when this part of his life stopped being private.

Now there’s noise. Noise that could twist something good into something suspicious. Noise that might make you run. Noise that turns quiet feelings into public debate.

He wants to call you.

Wants to drive to your hotel and apologise in person even if it wasn’t his fault. Even if he couldn’t have stopped it, but he doesn’t.

Not yet.

Instead he sends a message:

Max: I’m so sorry. Are you okay?

Then he locks his phone and stares at the wall, jaw clenched, heart in freefall because the worst part isn’t the photo. It’s the overwhelming fear that this might scare you away.

You’re not okay.

Not really.

You sit in the corner of a glass conference room that smells like filtered coffee and manufactured calm watching the people who are paid to manage your life talk about you like you’re not in the room.

Your phone is still buzzing in your lap. You haven’t looked at it in over twenty minutes. You can’t. The notifications are relentless, headlines, DMs, press requests, group chats lighting up like a Christmas tree.

You should be elated. You should be replaying the date in your head like a favourite scene from a movie, the way he touched your cheek, the nervous way he asked about your life, the way your heart soared when your lips met.

But instead you're being told you’ve jeopardised your "positioning."

Your team had called the emergency meeting within hours. In-person follow-up later. No time to breathe. No time to process. Just four people, three screens, and a mountain of PR jargon coming at you like a firehose.

“We need to control the narrative.” “It’s important to get ahead of this.” “The crossover audience is tricky, we don’t want to alienate either fanbase.” “Let’s draft a holding statement something warm but noncommittal.” “Maybe a friendly clarification. A photo with a caption. Nothing too confirmatory.”

You’re still trying to figure out when your life became a headline and a marketing plan.

Finally, someone says it.

“We could say it was just a moment. A friendly goodbye. People misread these things all the time.”

Your voice cuts through before you even realise you’re speaking.

“I kissed him.”

Everyone freezes.

Your tone is flat. Steady. More honest than anything else in the room.

You repeat it just in case they think they misheard.

“I kissed him. On purpose.”

There’s a long pause. No one meets your eye.

Someone clears their throat. Another person types something into a laptop like they’re trying to pretend they’re anywhere else.

For a second you feel completely and utterly alone.

Meanwhile the internet is still on fire.

People are already writing the story for you. Strangers speculate. Fans debate. Comment sections become battlegrounds.

You see yourself next to Max in mockup wedding invites, memes, conspiracy threads.

People compare your body language. Pick apart your outfit. Wonder aloud if you’re using him or if he’s using you.

Everyone’s saying something and yet none of them know the truth and now that moment doesn’t belong to you anymore.

It belongs to the noise.

And no one seems to care that you weren’t ready.

By the time Max walks into the paddock, sunglasses on and jaw locked, everyone already knows.

The photo.

The kiss.

You.

His name is all over the headlines, his notifications are still exploding, and the Red Bull PR team is scrambling to find a response that doesn’t sound like either denial or confirmation but really it’s pointless. The damage, if you can call it that, is already done.

He barely makes it five steps into hospitality before he hears it.

“Oh my God,” Lando calls from across the motorhome. “You kissed her?”

Max doesn’t break stride. “Good morning to you too.”

“Monaco, moonlight, beautiful girl on your arm,” Nico says, walking backward just to face him.

“Did you rehearse that?” Max mutters.

Gabi whistles low as he passes, clapping Max on the shoulder. “You waited all this time. Patience finally paid off, eh?”

“I didn’t wait—” Max starts, but then shuts his mouth when he realises the alternative is worse.

Alex shows up from the drivers’ lounge just to get his comment in. “Did she ask you out or did you stare at her in silence until she felt bad and kissed you?”

Liam snorts. “Be honest did you black out during the kiss?”

Max takes a deep breath, turns to face them, and says flatly, “It was a private moment.”

“Was being the key word,” Carlos adds holding up his phone with the photo already zoomed in.

“I’m going to kill whoever took that,” Max mutters under his breath.

They all laugh not in a cruel way, but in that affectionate, fraternal way only the paddock boys can pull off. Beneath the teasing it’s obvious they’re happy for him.

Really happy.

Even if they’ll never let him live it down, and even if they don’t know what it really means.

Pierre pipes up from the back. “We all knew you had a crush but I didn’t think you’d actually—.”

“I didn’t—”

Charles interrupts. “You lit up like a stadium when she smiled at you in the garage last month.”

“Looked like you saw God,” Oscar adds helpfully.

Max groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re all actual embarrassing.”

“And you’re in love,” Ollie sings.

“I’m not in love.”

Max snaps his mouth shut. Almost too quick. They catch it too, the way his silence stretches just a little too long. The shift in his expression. The way his jaw tightens and his eyes flick away toward the garage, like he wants to be anywhere else but inside this conversation.

Lando steps forward, this time without the smirk. “Hey. We’re just messing with you. You know that right?”

Max nods, still a little on edge. “Yeah. I know.”

Charles lowers his voice, just enough. “She’s good for you, you're good together, it'll work itself out.”

Max doesn’t say anything to that. Just offers a faint nod, barely there, but the warmth in his chest is harder to ignore this time and when he finally turns away to head toward the briefing there’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Because despite the teasing, despite the chaos, despite the fact that the whole world knows something he would’ve rather kept quiet…

You said yes.

You kissed him.

And nothing about that feels like a mistake.

It’s been a few weeks.

The media storm, once unbearable, has started to quiet.

At first it felt like the end of the world every post analysed, your names linked in bold headlines that neither of you had been ready for, but time passed and the noise began to fade. The world moved on like it always does.

What helped more than anything was Max.

You couldn’t see each other, conflicting schedules, back-to-back races, training camps, life, but you stayed connected. Constantly. Late-night texts. Middle-of-the-day voice notes. Stolen FaceTime calls from hotel rooms and paddocks and quiet corners of airports.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t public. It wasn’t for anyone else.

It was just the two of you. Figuring it out.

The world seemed to accept the silence between sightings. Without fresh photos the headlines moved on. Speculation cooled. Your PR team exhaled. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, you could breathe.

Until the clip lands in your inbox. The moment you see the thumbnail your stomach sinks.

Your ex. Sitting down for an interview. Casual. Polished. All charm on the surface.

You press play, already bracing.

“She’s always known how to keep the media’s attention she’s made a career out of it. Guess she figured it was time for a new audience.”, he says with a practiced shrug. “F1 boys love a headline. Maybe it’s the novelty. I doubt it’ll last once the shine wears off.”

You freeze.

The implication is razor-sharp.

He doesn’t name Max directly, he doesn’t have to.

Just plants the seed and lets everyone else do the digging.

Your pulse spikes. That familiar, sick feeling creeps up your spine not heartbreak, not anymore but anger. Cold and precise. Because he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You slam the laptop shut before he can say another word.

Max sees it too.

It’s impossible to miss. The clip hits social media like a lightning strike, already gaining traction before he’s even finished brushing his teeth.

At first he thinks maybe he’ll ignore it.

Then he watches it. Once. Twice. Three times.

And each time his hands curl tighter into fists.

He barely even registers what he's doing until the tweet is already sent. No checking with his team. No second thoughts. Just the weight in his chest and the need to do something.

If being respected by the person I admire most is a ‘novelty’ I’ll take it. She’s brilliant and she works harder than anyone I know. The only reason anyone’s still saying your name is when it’s next to hers. Jealousy looks bad on you.

He hits send before he can stop himself.

Over 400,000 likes in under an hour. A tidal wave of support. Thousands of replies. Screenshots. Think-pieces. Fan edits. People taking sides. People cheering. People speculating all over again.

@f1grl420: MAX VERSTAPPEN STANDING ON BUSINESS???? we’re so back. @starcrossedF1: “Jealousy looks bad on you” is the 2025 version of “you should’ve just sat there and ate your food.” @max4ever: He called her brilliant. He said he ADMIREs her. No one touch me I’m sobbing in the shower. @sillyseasonhoe: can’t believe max went from “i don’t get starstruck” to defending his girl in public like she’s a national treasure. development!!! @maxyappen: him: “she works harder than anyone I know” me: 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️ @wagsanonymous: shout out to that ex for exposing himself because now we get Max Verstappen being protective in 4K and i will never recover @y/nsoftlaunch: no cause imagine being called brilliant and the hardest worker he knows by max verstappen on MAIN??? i would ascend @maxitaxi33: Max said: I will defend her with my whole chest, your honor. @gridrama: he’s not even mad for himself. he’s mad someone disrespected HER. we’ve entered the boyfriend era.

He stares at the screen, heart pounding.

His team calls before he even sets the phone down.

“Max. Please tell me you didn’t just post that.”

He closes his eyes. “I did.”

There’s a long pause. Then, “Do you want us to delete it?”

He hesitates.

He doesn’t know. He hadn’t planned it, hadn’t thought it through. He just felt it, the fury, the instinct to protect you and in that moment the tweet had felt like the right thing to do.

But now?

Now the weight of it settles in.

Because when he posts something there’s no time to explain. No room to clarify or reframe or breathe. The world jumps on it instantly, twisting it, screenshotting it, dissecting every word. The meaning doesn’t belong to him anymore. It belongs to them.

Maybe… he’s made things worse.

He almost says yes. Almost tells them to delete it, to wipe the whole thing clean, but the worlds seen it now.

“No. Leave it.”

And then he texts you.

Max: I’m sorry I didn’t ask. I just couldn’t watch him talk about you like that.

Then he puts his phone down and stares at the ceiling wondering if speaking up for you was the right thing or if once again the world is going to make you pay the price for it.

You FaceTime him that night.

Max appears in the frame pacing across what looks like a hotel room. The lighting is dim, a bedside lamp casting a soft, uneven glow across the walls. His hair is a mess, pushed back like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and he’s wearing a worn t-shirt, barefoot on the carpet.

His voice is low when he speaks like he’s afraid someone might hear him even though he’s clearly alone.

“I shouldn’t have tweeted that,” he says without preamble, running a hand through his hair again. “I didn’t think. I just saw it and—”

“You stood up for me,” you say, gently cutting him off.

He stops pacing and looks at you through the screen, brows furrowed, eyes searching, like he’s trying to read everything you’re not saying aloud.

“I know you didn’t need me to,” he says finally. “I know you’re not someone who needs defending. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. You don’t have to prove yourself, least of all to him.”

His tone tightens slightly at the end, like just mentioning your ex leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“But,” he continues, softer now, “if you ever feel like you need backup… you’ve got me.”

You don’t say anything right away.

The words hit harder than they should. Maybe because it’s been a long day, maybe because you’re tired of being the strong one, or maybe because no one’s ever said something like that to you without strings attached.

Your throat feels tight.

“Thank you.” You smile, quiet and overwhelmed. “Really. Thank you.”

Max nods once, slowly. His gaze drops, then flicks back up.

“Are you okay?” he asks carefully, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it from you anyway.

You hesitate for a beat long enough to consider the automatic “I’m fine,” sitting on the tip of your tongue.

But you don’t lie.

“Not really,” you admit. “It’s a lot.”

He exhales sinking down onto the edge of the bed. His shoulders slump forward like someone cut the tension string holding him up.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Me neither.”

Silence stretches between you but it’s not uncomfortable it’s something else. Shared. Honest. The kind of quiet you only find with someone who gets it.

You watch him breathe eyes focused on nothing in particular.

He finally breaks the silence. “I keep thinking about Monaco.”

You smile faintly. “Me too.”

He looks up again, and the way he looks at you like you’re still the only calm thing in the storm makes something ache deep in your chest.

“I just wanted it to be ours,” he says. “For a little longer.”

You nod. “Me too.”

Weeks pass and not without ache.

You and Max settle into something quiet. Something safe. Something almost.

You text late at night, voices dropping to a softer register even through the screen. Sometimes the messages come in bursts quick check-ins between training sessions or back-to-back media rounds. Sometimes it’s just a photo: a sunset from your plane window, the view from his hotel room, a blurry snap of the cats.

There are memes. Voice notes. The occasional tired selfie that neither of you admits to saving. He calls you once right after a podium voice hoarse but light, adrenaline still humming in his blood.

“It would’ve been better if you were here.”

You tell him you watched from your hotel room, heart thudding the whole time.

“Next time,” you say. “Promise?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

Because underneath the warmth, the quiet routines, something more delicate begins to grow. Fragile in the way only real things are.

It’s not about whether you like him.

That part is clear… maybe too clear. You like the way he listens when you talk, how he remembers the smallest things you’ve said in passing. You like the way he looks at you like he still can’t believe you’re real.

But liking him is part of the problem.

Because the more you care the more terrifying it becomes.

Not because you doubt him, Max, who’s been patient and consistent. Who texts first. Who calls even when you don’t always pick up.

The fear isn’t him.

It’s the world outside of him. The headlines. The scrutiny. The endless attention and noise that doesn’t just twist the truth, it weaponises it. And you’ve survived that before… barely. But dragging someone you care about into it? Letting your relationship become spectacle before you even know what it is?

That feels unbearable.

So, somewhere along the way, the space between you grows. Max doesn’t push but you feel him noticing and he’s still trying, sending photos, sharing pieces of his day like a breadcrumb trail back to what you almost had.

The worst part is neither of you say what you really want to say.

Not because you don’t mean it or you don’t want to.

But because the moment you name it… it becomes real. And real is what you’re most afraid of losing.

Maybe that's why when you finally find yourself back in Monaco for a charity gala something inside you pulls tight the second you step inside.

The room is lit like a movie scene, warm chandeliers, glasses clinking, soft laughter bouncing off marble floors. You’re dressed to match the setting: sleek gown, high heels, every inch of you curated to look confident. Untouchable.

But your chest is buzzing. Your nerves feel loud.

Because you know he’s going to be here.

When you finally spot him across the ballroom under the soft glow of crystal lights it’s like the air gets knocked from your lungs.

Max.

He’s in a tux, tailored and crisp, but he looks uncomfortable in it. His tie’s slightly crooked, his hands shoved deep in his pockets like he’d rather be anywhere else. His hair is styled in that effortless way and his expression is somewhere between restless and focused.

Like he’s been looking for something all night.

And then his eyes find yours.

He stills.

Your breath catches.

Suddenly, it’s not loud anymore. Not glittering or glamorous or curated for press. The entire room shrinks just for a second into that same tight, breathless space you both created weeks ago in the quiet of a tucked-away Monaco street.

He doesn’t smile. Not yet.

But when your eyes meet across the crowd, it’s obvious:

It’s you.

It’s always been you.

You find a corner tucked away from the champagne trays and clinking glasses, far enough from the cameras and curated conversations that you can breathe again. There’s a potted palm beside you, some velvet rope half-draped against the wall, and the faint hum of a string quartet echoing from the ballroom.

It’s not exactly private but it’s the closest you’re going to get.

Max follows without a word.

For a moment neither of you speaks.

You just stand there, facing each other, the air between you thick with all the things you’ve been trying not to say for weeks. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. You can hear the distant laughter of people who have no idea what this moment feels like. How sharp it is. How fragile.

“Hi,” you say softly.

Max swallows. “Hi.”

He looks… wrecked.

The kind that comes from wanting something too much and not knowing if it’s still yours to want.

He watches you closely, then asks, quiet, careful, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I mean… I’m not great, it’s been a lot. But I’m okay.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than it should. You can see him working through something, words, worries, calculations he can’t quite get right.

Finally he breaks it.

“Did I mess this up?” he asks, voice quiet but rough at the edges.

You blink. “What?”

He rubs the back of his neck, that familiar gesture you’ve come to recognise, part frustration, part defense mechanism.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I thought… maybe you didn’t want to deal with the attention. Or the fallout. Or me.”

His gaze drops for a second. His voice lowers.

“Maybe you changed your mind. I wouldn’t blame you.”

You step toward him before he can spiral further. Just one step, but it closes enough distance to make your answer clear before you even speak.

“I never changed my mind.”

His eyes flick back up to yours, startled.

You take a breath.

“I’m sorry,” you add, the words coming quicker now, more rushed. “I’ve been awful to you I know I have. I just…”

You pause, trying to untangle the knot of fear and guilt that’s lived in your chest for weeks.

“I didn’t want to be someone’s headline again,” you finish. “Not like that. Not when it feels this good.”

That lands. You see it in the way his shoulders drop not out of defeat but understanding.

Max nods, lips tugging into the faintest smile. “Too late for that.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Guess it is. It’s just I’ve spent so long trying to keep control of my life to keep some part of it just mine that when all the noise started I panicked. I thought if we stayed quiet if we kept things… undefined maybe I could protect it. Protect us.”

He looks at you like he’s afraid you might disappear again.

“You know I never cared what anyone said,” he says. “The rumours, the headlines, all of it, none of that has ever mattered to me. I don’t need a label. I don’t need the world to understand it. I just want you. However you’ll have me.”

Then with no bravado, no pressure just that open honesty you’ve only ever heard from him in the quiet hours:

“But if we’re going to be a headline…”

He exhales, long and steady. His eyes stay locked on yours.

“…can we at least make it real?”

The words knock the breath from your lungs.

Because he means it. Every word. He’s just standing there hoping you feel the same way he does. Hoping you’ll stay.

You don’t speak.

Because there’s something delicate about the silence between you, something weighted and fragile and still too new to touch. The way he’s looking at you hopeful but not expectant makes your heart tighten in your chest. He’s always been like this with you. Shy. Open. Patient. Even when he had every reason to walk away.

You look at him and it hits you all over again just how much you feel. Not in the loud, all-consuming way people always talk about. A steady, slow-burning certainty that has been quietly building between you since the moment you met.

Max, who never tried to chase you, only waited for you.

Max, who asked if you were okay before he asked if you still wanted him.

Max, who never needed you to prove anything just appreciated you for you.

This is the moment you stop trying to protect something by keeping it small. You take a step forward and it feels like shedding something heavy you’ve been carrying for too long.

Another step and now you’re close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him, to see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, the way his breath catches. Your hand finds the lapel of his jacket holding him there like you’re anchoring yourself to something solid for the first time in weeks.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just waits, so unmistakably Max, as if he knows this has to come from you.

You lean in until your forehead brushes his and your lips are only a breath away.

When you kiss him it isn’t about spectacle or fear or even relief. It’s about trust.

It’s slow, the kind of kiss that says I know what this is now. His hand moves to your waist, fingers curling gently like he’s afraid to press too hard, and your body melts against his as if it remembers exactly how to fit. Your hand slips up to the back of his neck, fingertips grazing the edge of his hair, and your mouth parts slightly under the familiar heat of his.

It’s not new, not exactly, but it’s different this time. More certain.

This isn’t a maybe.

It’s the quiet, undeniable truth you’ve been holding in your chest since the moment you met him: You want this.

The kiss deepens with a growing pull, gravity finally winning. When you pull away you don’t move far, your forehead still resting against his, your breath still tangled with his.

You know in that moment that whatever comes next, the cameras, the comments, the chaos, you’ll face it together.

The next morning the paddock is already buzzing when you arrive.

You’re not technically meant to be here your schedule said “rest day” and your handler gave you a list of sponsor events you could opt into but Max texted You coming? around 7 a.m., and somehow that was all it took.

So you’re here. Casual enough to blend in, Red Bull cap and hoodie, trainers, sunglasses but not casual enough to go unnoticed. Not after last night.

It’s not that you're trying to make a statement.

But walking through the paddock toward the Red Bull garage and catching Max mid-conversation with his engineers watching the way his whole face shifts the second he sees you yeah, that does feel a little like a statement.

He excuses himself without hesitation, muttering something to GP that might’ve been coherent and crosses the garage with that focused, unmistakable walk of his.

You barely have time to smile before he’s in front of you.

“Hi,” he says, quiet and a little breathless.

“Hi,” you reply, mirroring his smile.

“I like the hoodie.”

Before you can respond, a voice cuts in behind him.

“Look who finally decided to show her face.”

You turn just as Lando appears, grinning like the cheshire cat.

“Oh no,” Max mutters under his breath.

Lando extends a hand dramatically. “I’m Lando. I’m partly responsible for making this happen you know.”

“Oh I’ve heard some things,” you say, shaking his hand, amused.

“Have you?” he beams. “All good things I hope.”

“Not even remotely.”

Lando gasps. “Max how dare you tarnish my name to your girlfriend.”

Max chokes. You blink.

Lando’s grin widens like he’s just lit a match in a fireworks store.

“I mean,” he shrugs, turning to you. “That is what this is right? Or are we still pretending we don’t all know?”

Max looks like he wants to crawl under the garage floor.

Thankfully… or not more drivers start to wander over. Charles is the first to join, hands in his pockets, looking far too smug for someone who’s barely awake.

“Bonjour,” he says smoothly, kissing both your cheeks like he was born to flirt in four languages. “It’s good to finally meet the girl who turned Max Verstappen into a softie.”

Max groans.

“We were just starting to worry his whole story was made up.” Fernando adds with a wink.

Yuki jogs up a moment later, a piece of croissant in one hand and zero regard for timing. “Is this her?” he says around a bite, then nods approvingly when you nod back. “Nice.”

Carlos whistles low, elbowing Max with a grin. “I can’t believe you pulled this off. She’s way to cool for you, you know that right?”

Max looks like he’s praying for someone to call a red flag.

You just laugh, shoulders relaxing as the teasing flows around you like warm air. It’s surprisingly… nice. You’d been expecting some tension, maybe a few awkward nods and side-eyes but it’s the opposite. They’re warm. Loud. Familiar in a way that makes it clear they’ve all been waiting for this moment.

Max slides closer beside you, hand brushing against yours. You glance at him and he’s blushing. Again. But he’s also smiling, small and stunned.

“Sorry,” he mutters under his breath. “They’re all—”

“Chaotic. Nosy” you finish for him with a laugh.

He snorts. “Yeah.”

Lando’s still talking. Alex is trying to make you bet on the race. Yuki is now offering you the rest of his croissant.

And Max?

Max just watches you with a kind of quiet pride that settles low in your chest.

You weren’t expecting peace. You knew better than to believe you could have something this good and keep it untouched.

But you didn’t expect it to break this fast.

Not like this.

The night before had been perfect. Quiet. No cameras, no pressure. Just you and Max, tucked away in a suite above the city, wine glasses half-empty on the table, the curtains drawn, the sound of his laugh echoing soft against the windows.

It was your first real night together. No stolen moments, no texts between time zones, no pretending you were just friends who talked a little too often.

You fell asleep curled against him, heartbeat finally still, breath syncing in a way that made everything feel right.

And then morning came.

And so did a new photo.

A grainy shot, snapped from across the street. Max leaving your hotel. Hoodie on. Hat low. Still unmistakably him.

It takes the internet less than an hour to spin it into something sensational:

Secret Sleepovers: Max and [Your Name] Moving Too Fast? Another PR Relationship in the Paddock? Overnight Visit or Just a Hookup? Has Max Finally Met His Match — Or His Mistake?

Your phone buzzes non-stop.

Your team calls before you can even get dressed. The voice on the other end is clipped, tense.

“We talked about this.” “You promised to be discreet.” “This undermines everything we’ve been building, your solo brand, your sponsors, your image.”

You hang up before you say something you’ll regret.

Max shows up half an hour later, he doesn’t knock just lets himself in with the extra keycard you gave him.

His hoodie’s gone. He’s already showered. He looks calm on the surface but you can tell. The tension sits in his shoulders. His jaw.

You meet him in the lounge.

He doesn’t smile.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You want to say yes. You want to pretend it doesn’t matter. But it does. It always does.

“No,” you say. “Are you?”

Max hesitates. “I didn’t think anyone would see.”

“I know.”

“I left before sunrise.”

You nod. “Didn’t matter.”

He leans against the counter, hands in the pockets of his joggers a nervous habit you’ve come to recognise.

“I didn’t mean to make it worse,” he says, quieter now. “I just wanted to stay.”

Your chest tightens. “I wanted that too.”

“But?” he asks, already hearing it in your voice.

You sigh, folding your arms. “But I can’t keep doing this, pretending like it’s easy every time a headline like this drops.”

Max flinches.

“It's not liked I planned the photo.”

“I know that,” you say, sharper than you mean to. “But it doesn’t stop the press. It doesn’t stop people from twisting it. Do you have any idea what it’s like to wake up and see yourself turned into a story you didn’t write?”

He straightens up. “You think I don’t?”

“No,” you say, instantly regretful. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” Max cuts in, eyes flashing. “You think because I’ve been in this longer I don’t care anymore. Like I’m just used to it. But I’m not. I hate it. I hate the way people talk about me or you like they know us. I hate that the second I kissed you, you stopped being a person to them and became… content. And I hate that we can’t just be us without everyone having a damn opinion.”

You blink hard, looking down. Your throat feels tight and your pulse is too loud in your ears.

“We talked about this,” he says, softer now. “I thought… I thought we were ready to be real.”

“I want to be,” you say quickly, stepping closer. “I really do. It’s not you Max. It’s never been you. You’ve been—” You shake your head. “You’ve been more than I ever expected. That’s what makes it scary. I’m scared… but I’m still here.”

Max nods slowly you know he hears you but it still stings.

“I’m trying,” you say quietly. “I’m doing everything I can.”

“So am I,” he replies. “But you keep pulling away every time it gets real.”

You freeze.

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Max says, not accusing, just tired. “You say you want this, but the second the world sees it you shut down.”

“And you don’t understand what it’s like for me!” you shoot back, voice trembling. “Every time I’m seen with you I lose control of everything. My narrative. My value. My identity. I become your story.”

Max doesn’t reply because he knows you're right and he has nothing to say to make it better.

The silence that follows is too loud. It sits between you like something breakable.

You both stare at each other, breathing too hard, neither willing to say the next thing.

Eventually, Max steps back.

His voice is quieter now. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

You nod, but your eyes sting. “Me neither.”

He reaches for the door. Pauses.

Then, softer still: “I just wanted to wake up next to you. That’s all.”

And then he’s gone.

“Okay,” Lando says, standing in the middle of Max’s hotel suite with his arms crossed. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Max mutters, not looking up from the floor.

“What happened?”

Max doesn’t answer.

Lando walks to the mini-fridge grabs two waters,and tosses one at him.

“She’s not mad because of the photo,” he says plainly. “She’s probably scared.”

Max finally looks up.

“You think I don’t know that?”

Lando shrugs. “I think you know. I just think it hurts anyway.”

Max doesn’t say anything for a while.

“I wanted her for so long,” he says. “And now that I have her I feel like I’m about to lose her every time someone opens a damn camera app.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I get it, but it’s different for her. It’s always different for women in this world,” Lando continues. “If she says too much, she's using you. If she says nothing, she's cold. There’s no version of this that doesn’t cost her something.”

Max exhales, jaw tight. “I just… I hate that she has to think like that. I hate that being with me makes her life harder.”

Lando shrugs. “You can’t change how the world sees her but you can remind her how you see her.”

Max doesn’t respond right away. His fingers drum once on his knee.

“Give her space,” Lando adds, standing. “Let her figure it out... but don’t give up.”

He claps Max on the shoulder once before walking off, leaving Max with a thought that settles deep in his chest.

He doesn't want to be another headline for you.

He wants to be your safe place when the headlines start.

Back in your apartment your best friend doesn’t say anything when you start welling up.

She just pours you tea, sits on the couch beside you and lets you fall apart.

“All he did was try to be close to me,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “And I pushed him away.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” she replies gently.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit.

She squeezes your hand. “Yes you do. You just have to stop being scared of being happy.”

It's Monza and Max is struggling.

Not just on track but in himself every corner he takes feels half a second behind where he wants to be, the car’s not responding the way it should, and nothing he says on the radio seems to fix it. He’s tense, quiet, irritable in that way only a frustrated Max Verstappen can be and everyone in the garage knows to give him space.

He qualifies P8.

GP doesn’t sugar-coat it. The data doesn’t either. The car wasn’t good today but it’s not just the car.

The last few weeks have been steady but strained a few texts, both of you circling something neither of you was ready to name again. Since the fight, since the photo, since the things you both said in anger that neither of you fully meant… the tension hasn’t left.

He doesn’t know when he’ll next see you.

He mentioned this weekend to you but he didn't directly ask.

And maybe that’s why when he peels off his helmet and steps into the back of the garage drenched in heat and frustration jaw clenched and chest still tight from the final lap—

He sees you.

And everything else stops.

You’re standing just inside the edge of the garage near the rear exit, Red Bull cap low, nervous eyes darting around the room. You’re watching him like you’re not sure if you’ll be welcome, like you know you’re intruding on something raw and you're trying to gauge the temperature before you step into the fire.

He doesn’t react at first.

He just blinks, staring like he thinks maybe he’s imagined you. Like the exhaustion and the adrenaline have finally conjured the thing he’s been wanting since he left.

Then you take a step forward and his whole face changes.

The edges soften. His shoulders drop. His lips curve into something hesitant, almost disbelieving ,and when he walks over it’s not fast or showy. It’s slow, like he’s afraid moving too quickly will scare the moment away.

You tilt your head, smiling gently.

“Thought you could use a win,” you murmur.

Max exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

He doesn’t say anything. He just pulls you into a hug, arms wrapped tight, forehead buried in your shoulder, the kind of embrace that doesn’t care who’s watching.

He’s missed you.

God, he’s missed you.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he mumbles.

You breathe him in, sun and rubber and the unmistakable scent of him. “I want to be here.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching. “Are you staying?”

You nod, slow. “If that’s okay.”

Max laughs under his breath, the sound more relief than amusement. “You kidding? I was hoping you'd crash the garage the whole damn weekend.”

Your smile falters at the edges. “I didn’t want to make things worse.”

“You didn’t,” he says, firm but soft. “You didn’t make anything worse. You just being here… I needed that.”

You glance down at your joined hands. When did your fingers start threading back through his like they never stopped?

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” you say.

Max squeezes your hand. “You came. That’s what matters.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else but a crew member calls for him in the background.

Still he doesn’t let go yet.

“You’ll wait for me?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “As long as you need.”

He steps back reluctantly walking in reverse. Then finally turns and jogs toward the back. Just before he disappears, he glances over his shoulder and shoots you a smile so full of light, it makes your knees weak.

The lights go out and Max drives like a man possessed.

Not reckless. Not angry.

Precise.

Every corner is sharper. Every move is cleaner. He carves his way through the grid with focus he hasn’t felt since the start of the season. By Lap 28, he’s up to P2. By Lap 36, he’s P1. And when he crosses the finish line nearly five seconds ahead the radio explodes.

“YES, Max! That’s the win. That’s it. What a drive, mate. Absolute class.”

When he gets out of the car, arms in the air, fans screaming, cameras flashing his eyes scan the pit wall. They find you instantly and in front of the world Max smiles as if it’s just you standing there.

He walks into the cooldown room with his suit half unzipped, sweat-soaked, still catching his breath. Charles is already sprawled on the bench sipping from a bottle. Lando’s flopped in the corner laughing at something no one else heard.

“Quite the recovery today, someone had a good night’s sleep.” Charles says, shaking his head.

“Insane,” Lando adds. “You’ve been brooding for two races straight. What happened? Did the stars realign?”

Max doesn’t answer at first.

He glances toward the garages where he knows you’re watching from the paddock. Then with a smile that’s almost bashful, the same Max who got tongue-tied when you first walked past him in the garage he just nods toward you.

Lando groans. “You’re so disgusting, it actually makes me sick.”

Charles mock-gags. “We liked you better when you were shy and grumpy.”

Max doesn’t respond. He just grins.

The party is in full swing, confetti in the air, champagne covering the floor. You find a quiet corner away from the chaos. You need a moment. A breath.

When you turn Max is already there, medal around his neck, hair damp from champagne. His eyes are bright but it’s the happiness in them that hits you.

He walks right up to you and cups your face like he needs to feel you’re real again.

“Thank you for coming,” he admits.

“Thank you for still wanting me.”

“I always want you.”

He smiles, thumb brushing your cheek.

“I don’t want to do this halfway anymore,” he says, voice low but sure. “I don’t care about the noise. I don’t care about the press. I care about you. I don't want to hide.”

Your chest tightens. “Max…”

He cuts you off before you can respond not with impatience, but gentleness.

“I know why you’re scared... or worried… I get it... how it effects you, really I do, but I want to be with you,” he says. “Fully. Publicly. Proudly. I know we can do this together.”

You stare at him, heart breaking wide open, he looks like he's going to continue but you jump in.

“I want that too. That’s what I came here to tell you.”

His relief is visible in the way he exhales, in the way his shoulders finally relax.

You don’t overthink it this time.

You just move.

The second your mouths meet everything else vanishes, the crowd, the weeks of tiptoeing around what this is. There’s no hesitation. No pause to ask permission. It’s like a wire snaps between you pulled too tight for too long and now you’re both answering to something primal. Something earned.

Max kisses like he races, focused, all-consuming. He doesn’t ease into it. He dives. One hand fisting in the back of your jacket, the other sliding up to cradle your jaw with a kind of reverence that doesn’t match the way his mouth moves against yours, open, hungry, just shy of desperate. Like he’s been holding this in for months.

You respond in kind, hands gripping his shoulders tilting up into him. He makes a sound low in his throat, not quite a moan, but something close. It sends heat straight through you.

He breaks away only when he has to, panting, lips red, pupils blown, and rests his forehead against yours.

Just the two of you. In the open. Together.

Exactly where you’re meant to be.

“So does this mean… you’re my girlfriend now?” he asks, voice quieter than you expected, and when you pull back just enough to meet his eyes, you see it the flicker of nerves still clinging to the edge of his confidence.

“Yeah,” you say, laughing through the lump in your throat. “Yeah, I am.”

Relief flashes across his face, followed by a grin that starts crooked and ends full.

“I can’t believe I’m dating Y/N,” he whispers, almost to himself not like he’s bragging, but like he’s genuinely stunned that this is real.

You laugh softly, threading your fingers through his.

He kisses you again, slower this time, lips curved in a smile against yours. You’re both laughing breathless and giddy, and somehow that makes it better, the joy is its own kind of intimacy.

The studio is tucked above a quiet bookshop near Port Hercules no flashing cameras, no buzzing fluorescent lights, just soft overhead glow and a worn velvet chair that doesn’t match the rest of the set.

You chose this place on purpose. Not because it’s trendy or sleek but because it feels real.

The interviewer is kind. A woman whose voice doesn’t sharpen when she asks questions. She starts with your career, your off-season training, the mental pressure of performance, what winning actually feels like in your body and bones.

You’re finishing a story about battling through sickness at a tournament in Chile when the tone shifts gently, the way good interviewers do. Not a trap. Just a question that’s been sitting between the lines.

“You’ve been in the headlines a lot lately not just for your achievements but for your… relationship. Would you mind telling us what’s real?”

You pause not because you’re unsure of the answer, but because you want to say it right. Your hands are folded in your lap and your voice is steady when it comes.

“What’s real is that Max is someone I care about deeply. And that caring about someone truly, not just in private but when the whole world is looking is one of the hardest things to navigate.”

You glance down for a second, collecting your thoughts before continuing.

“It’s hard to explain what it feels like when something personal becomes public before you’re ready. Especially something that matters. The attention’s never really bothered me not the way people think. It’s just part of the job, part of life. But this... what we have? That’s not noise and it shouldn’t be for public consumption. That’s personal. That’s real. And when something really matters to you it’s scary how much you want to protect it. That’s all this has ever been. Not PR. Not drama. He’s not like that and I’m not either. It was just two people figuring something out quietly at first… and then not-so-quietly and not by choice. I don’t know where it’ll go, but I know how it feels and that’s real enough for me right now”

The interviewer nods, respectful of the emotion in your voice.

You don’t say Max’s name again. You don’t need to. Anyone listening closely can hear it in every syllable.

Later that evening, your phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.

It’s him.

Max: I’m proud of you.

You don’t answer right away. You sit with it. Let it settle.

Then finally, you reply:

You: I’m proud of us.

The next evening you catch up with his race while cooling down after training just in time to see Max storm to victory with that laser-focused calm he always carried.

There he is, still in his suit, hair damp, smile crooked, standing in front of the media wall and then the interviewer says your name.

You sit up.

“Max, great drive today. But let’s switch gears for a second fans also want to know how things are going with Y/N?”

“It’s... fantastic,” he says truthfully. “I get starstruck every time she walks in the room.”

“Honestly?” Max says, glancing toward the camera with a sheepish grin. “Dating her might be the most impressive thing I’ve ever done.”

Laughter breaks out in the media pen. The interviewer raises an eyebrow, amused. “Big words from a four-time world champion.”

Max shrugs, still smiling, a little pink in the ears now. “Yeah, but have you met her? She’s cooler than me. Way cooler. She’s just… she’s the real deal.”

You stared at the screen, slightly stunned, heart thudding a little too fast. It was Max, shy and sincere, and probably pacing right now wondering if he’d said too much.

And it made you feel giddy. Like the girl who used to watch him from afar had somehow stumbled into this impossible, sweet, real thing.

You grabbed your phone and opened your texts.

You: You really said “I get starstruck” on live TV?

The reply came seconds later.

Max: I meant it.

Max: You walked into the paddock and I forgot how to talk. Still kind of do.

You: You ran away.

Max: Exactly. Starstruck.

You: Good thing I didn’t run too.

Max: Would’ve been a tragedy.

You: You might’ve forgotten how to talk but I haven’t forgotten how you made me feel. Even then you were the only thing that’s ever felt that easy and that terrifying all at once. I think I knew even then that if I talked to you I’d never want to stop.

Max: I don’t really know what to say to that. Except I’m yours. You’ve had me from the start.

You grin at the screen, cheeks warm, heart light.

The windows are open.

Sea air drifts in on a breeze that smells faintly of salt and croissants from the bakery down the block. The sky is hazy gold, the kind of soft light that makes everything feel a little warmer and a little more possible.

You’re barefoot in Max’s kitchen wearing one of his oversized shirts you’ve long since claimed as your own. The coffee’s already brewed, filling the room with the earthy comfort of routine. You lean against the counter watching him struggle with a frying pan.

He’s shirtless, boxers low on his hips, hair a wild mess from sleep and sea air. He’s trying to make pancakes. He is, categorically, not good at it.

The first one hits the pan and blackens within seconds.

“Shit,” he mutters, waving a tea towel at the smoke like he’s warding off evil spirits. ��Why is this stove so aggressive?”

You grin into your mug. “Maybe it’s not the stove.”

He turns, giving you a mock glare. “I pour my soul into this breakfast and all I get is slander.”

You smirk, holding up a slightly crispy pancake.

“I’m just saying… if this is a representation of your soul, the jury’s still out.”

He gasps, offended.

“Wow. Tough crowd.”

You nudge him with your hip, grinning.

“I stand by it. Drive like a legend, cook like a liability.”

He snorts but tries again.

The third pancake is technically edible, but it lands on the plate looking more like an amoeba than a circle. You both stare at it in silence. Then predictably start laughing.

The kind of laughter that sneaks up on you, quiet at first and then uncontrollable, head-tipping, stomach-holding kind of joy. You nearly spill your drink. He doubles over at his own failed creation.

Eventually you give up on pancakes and settle on toast and jam and each other’s company.

At the small breakfast table, your knees bump under the surface. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

Max leans back in his chair, plate empty, and watches you for a long moment. He’s forever memorising you, the shape of your smile, the way your hair falls, the curve of your wrist around your mug.

He’s always been this way with you because he never wants to take this for granted. From the very first time he saw you in the paddock the girl he’d had a crush on for years suddenly real and standing right in front of him something in him had changed.

Back then he could barely say hi. Could barely look at you without feeling like his heart might short-circuit. He didn’t know what to do with the way you made him feel, not just starstruck but seen.

Now… now you're sitting barefoot in his kitchen, eating pancakes he tried his best to make, wearing one of his shirts and smiling at him like there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

He watches the way your mouth curls at the corners when you're trying not to laugh. The little crease between your brows when you're focused on pouring syrup. He memorises it all like it's holy.

You look up and catch him staring.

“What?” you ask softly, half-laughing.

Max shrugs, but there’s warmth in his voice. “Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous,” you tease.

“Mm,” he hums, smile growing.

He doesn’t say it out loud but you can feel it how happy he is. How in awe he still is that somehow, against all odds, this happened.

You reach across the table and touch his hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles and when you speak it’s quiet. Honest.

“I like seeing this side of you,” you say, eyes meeting his. “I like that you let me.”

His eyes soften. The nerves, the years of trying to hide just how much he wanted something like this they melt away in the warmth of your voice.

“I know you don’t let many people in Max.” Your voice is softer now, more honest. “And I don’t take that lightly.”

Because you know he knows the shy boy who once froze in the paddock now has the girl he never thought he’d get. And you? You have him. All of him.

And you wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Right now in this quiet morning, in a shirt that smells like him and a kitchen that smells faintly of maple syrup and overcooked batter it’s more than enough.

More than you even knew to ask for.

Then he reaches across the table and takes your hand.

His thumb brushes the back of it once. Then again.

“I want more mornings like this,” he says, voice low but sure.

You look at him and there’s no fear in your chest anymore. No hesitation. No weight of the world pressing on your choices.

Just you. And him. And the simple, extraordinary fact that you both kept choosing each other.

You squeeze his hand gently.

“Yeah,” you say, smiling. “Me too.”

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak @taylordaughter @taetae-armyyyyy @kitty-m30w @abcdefghi09lmnopqrstuvwxyz @weekendlusting @xjval @cassiopeiia24

[barnesunlight]

say you’ll never let me go

pairing: max verstappen x teammate!reader

summary: from strangers, to friends, to some weird in between, you and max had developed a good relationship. that was until redbull decided that it was more profitable for them to have rivals rather then teammates. next thing you know, you and max are arguing at every corner— and can’t stand being in the same room together. you both want nothing more but to win, but will winning fill that hole in your heart that so desperately wants to be filled?

status: ongoing + playlist

word count: tbd

tags: lots of misogyny. fem!reader. angst, fluff, comedy, allll of it. smau mixed with actual writing. friends -> ENEMIES -> lovers? he falls first and harder. races written in the series will not be the same as races in real life! slowish updates. more will be added as the chapters are released!

chapters

chapter 01 | bring the lion out

blurbs

—

[harrysfolklore]

max verstappen masterlist

here you can find all my max blurbs, instagram concepts, headcanons and more !

ask me anything | buy me a coffee! (commissions are open)

if you want early access to my work, exclusive blurbs, tropes and polls you can subscribe to my patreon

long stories:

misunderstood hero with a heart of gold: max verstappen has never been one to read books, but everything changes when he comes across a pretty booktuber who describes him better than anyone else did before

but daddy i love him: part one | part two

in the world of formula 1, where competition runs deep and loyalties are tested, yn wolff and max verstappen found themselves caught in the middle . as the daughter of mercedes team principal and the rising red bull star, they must navigate the balance between rivalries and love.

blurbs:

max verstappen being the perfect boyfriend: a compilation: max verstappen can’t help but talk about his girlfriend whenever he cans, fans make compilation videos about it

christ-max: you invite your boyfriend max to spend christmas with you for the first time, however, your family doesn't quite believe you're dating a formula 1 world champion.

acshually: max can't stop reading pregnancy books and spilling pregnancy facts

you are the world champion: max wins his fourth championship

silent: max and driver!reader refuse to give answers in the press conference

lily: max verstappen and yn wolff welcome their first baby into the world.

smaus:

cats & dogs: every couple on the grid is getting dogs which leads to max’s girlfriend wanting one. the problem? he’s a cat dad and a cat dad only

papa bear: max becomes a papa bear when it comes to his favorite two girls

[hoolaand]

Hoolaand masterlist

💌: this is going to be updated everytime I post, luv u babes

-Max Verstappen

yapper gf + listener bf

thread of everytime max verstappen being photographed by the paps

spoilt gf x rich bf

grumpy bf x sunshine gf

Part 1: rich bf x spoilt gf: smau version

Part 2: rich bf x spoilt gf: smau version

The things we do for love

smau: thread of every intimate moment between Max and his gf

toxic! max x reader

Maneater

-Oscar Piastri

Caught red handed

Three besties

got two boys in the club, which one to choose

-Charles Leclerc

Things he does when he's with you

-Lando Norris

Three besties

got two boys in the club, which one to choosea

[sunny44]

September 30th

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Mom!Wife!reader

Warnings: pregnancy and mentions of birth

Summary: It’s Max’s birthday and he couldn’t ask for a better gift than his wife giving birth to their daughter.

Celebrating Max’s birthday had always been special, but this year felt different. The restaurant was filled with the warmth of familiar laughter. Seated at the table were Max, his parents, Victoria, and a few close friends, all smiling and sharing stories. Despite my prominent belly revealing how close we were to meeting our daughter, I felt light and content. We were in one of those cozy Italian restaurants Max loved, the air rich with the aroma of fresh pasta and fragrant herbs.

While Max chatted animatedly with his father, I noticed the sparkle in his eyes—he had always cherished these simple family moments. It made me smile. I knew how much these gatherings meant to him, especially now that we were on the brink of a new chapter in our lives.

“Are you okay, love?” he asked, noticing my gaze fixed on him.

“I’m fine,” I replied, gently caressing my belly. “She’s calm today… for now.”

He chuckled softly, placing his hand over mine to feel the subtle movement of our baby. “She knows it’s my birthday. She’s being kind to me.”

The evening unfolded beautifully, framed by joy and love. I felt complete. It wasn’t just being surrounded by the people we loved but knowing that soon, we’d be holding our daughter in our arms. As plates came and went, conversations flowed effortlessly. Victoria and Sophie, Max’s mom, exchanged ideas about the baby’s nursery. I chimed in occasionally, but mostly, I observed, lost in thoughts about how it would feel to see Max with our daughter, how he would step into his role as a father.

Suddenly, I felt a slight tightening in my belly. It was barely noticeable, a subtle pressure. I didn’t think much of it. I’d felt a few of these small contractions before, and the doctor assured me they were normal in the final weeks of pregnancy. Taking a deep breath, I shifted in my seat, catching Sophie’s warm smile. “You’re glowing, Y/n. You don’t even look like you’re so close to giving birth.”

“Thank you,” I laughed. “But I think that could change any moment now.”

A few minutes later, another tightening came, stronger this time. I tried to mask it, but my hands instinctively went to my belly, and this time, Max noticed.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He squeezed my hand, concern evident in his voice.

“Yes… I think so.” But deep down, I knew something was changing.

As the minutes passed, the contractions became more frequent. At a certain point, I could no longer hide my discomfort. The pain wasn’t unbearable yet, but it was growing more intense and consistent.

“Y/n, you’re starting to look pale,” Victoria commented, her worried eyes on me.

I sighed, trying to stay calm. “I… I think it’s happening.”

Max froze for a second, and I saw the moment he processed my words. “You mean now?”

I nodded, biting my lip as another contraction hit, sharper this time. “Yes, now.”

The restaurant, which had been buzzing with laughter and conversation moments before, grew quiet around our table. All eyes turned to me and Max, who was now on his feet, ready to take charge.

“Let’s get you to the hospital,” he said, his voice steady but his eyes betraying a mix of excitement and nerves.

The drive to the hospital felt like it lasted forever and passed in the blink of an eye all at once. I sat in the car, Max by my side, gripping my hand tightly while trying to focus on the road. The contractions continued, each one stronger than the last, making the reality of becoming parents all the more tangible.

When we finally arrived, a medical team swiftly led us to a delivery room. Max stayed by my side the entire time, holding my hand and murmuring words of encouragement. By then, I could barely think clearly. The pain was intense, but all I could focus on was the thought of seeing our daughter’s face.

Time lost meaning as the process unfolded. Sometimes, it felt like hours; other times, it blurred into a series of contractions, deep breaths, and Max’s voice reassuring me that I was doing great.

During one of the most intense moments, I looked at Max. He was sweating almost as much as I was, his face concentrated, but his eyes shone with emotion. “You’re amazing, love. We’re almost there,” he said with a smile that, despite the tension, gave me strength.

And then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, I heard the sound that would change our lives forever: the soft, sweet cry of our daughter.

She was born at 11:59 PM, in the last minute of Max’s birthday.

Tears streamed down my face as the doctors cleaned her up and placed her in my arms. She was perfect—tiny, delicate, and absolutely perfect. Max, beside me, gazed at her with an expression I’d never seen before—a mix of pure love, awe, and reverence. He kissed my forehead, then gently kissed our daughter’s head.

“She was born on my birthday,” he whispered, almost in disbelief. “The best gift I could ever ask for.”

I smiled, exhausted but utterly happy. “I think she wanted to make sure this would be an unforgettable day for you.”

He laughed softly, his eyes still locked on her. “I’ll never forget this.”

The next moments passed like a dream. Max held our daughter in his arms with a tenderness that surprised me, considering how fierce and relentless he was on the racetrack. In that moment, he was just a dad, completely in love with his little girl.

Our family, waiting anxiously in the hospital lobby, was soon notified. They quickly joined us, their faces glowing with smiles and tears of joy. Sophie cried as she held her granddaughter, and Jos looked so proud, seeing his son step into fatherhood.

“Have you decided on a name yet?” Sophie asked, her eyes sparkling as she looked at us.

Max and I exchanged a glance. We had discussed a few names but wanted to wait for the right moment. I looked at our daughter, and suddenly, it was clear. “Eva,” I said softly. “Eva Verstappen.”

Max smiled, nodding. “Perfect.”

As the night turned into early morning, the hospital grew quieter. I lay in bed, Max beside me, Eva sleeping peacefully in his arms. The silence was comfortable, filled with peace.

“I can’t believe she was born on my birthday,” Max repeated, still in awe. “It couldn’t have been more perfect.”

I chuckled softly, brushing my fingers against his cheek. “I think she wanted to make sure you’d always have this special bond.”

“I always knew this would be the best birthday ever,” he replied, kissing Eva’s tiny head with a tenderness that melted my heart.

As sleep finally overtook me, I knew without a doubt that our lives had changed forever. And I couldn’t have been happier.

Bonus scene!

Maxverstappen Instagram stories

“Today I received the best birthday gift ever, my wife gave birth to our baby girl and make these birthday the best. Both mama and baby are great”

[snoopyracing]

⋆˙⟡— max verstappen masterlist

hi! here you will find all my max verstappen fics and smaus!

⟡ i don’t currently take requests ⟡ all of my work is mine and is not to be posted anywhere else ⟡ all works marked (18+) contain smut

it’ll pass ✩ just when you think you’ve gotten everything you want in life… it goes and shows you just how unfair it can be.

[darling-flora]

MAX VERSTAPPEN — MASTERLIST ! → main masterlist ←

✰ feather feather 2

face claim : sabrina carpenter

[maxlarens]

yuck!

pairing(s): max verstappen x rb photographer!reader

summary: your aesthetic interest in max verstappen is purely professional, you swear.

part I

part II

part III

part IV

part V

[moviecritc]

MAX VERSTAPPEN MASTERLIST · : ˚ ✦ 🦢

one shots･ﾟ☆

on the edge — established relationship

fortnight — strangers to friends to lovers to strangers

second best — situationship, angst

like the movies — stranger to lovers, fast paced

smaus･ﾟ☆

starry eyes — fluff, stranger to lovers

[verstappenverse]

Starstruck

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max swore no celebrity could ever faze him. Then you walked into the paddock and suddenly, he’s blushing, stuttering, and everyone on the grid is trying to play wingman. (Requested)

2.4k words / Part 2 / Masterlist

Max had said it more than once, in interviews, on podcasts, off-handed to anyone who asked:

“I don’t really get starstruck. Doesn’t matter who it is they’re just people.”

He meant it too.

He’d stood next to Hollywood A-listers, shaken hands with legends of sports, even taken a call from European royalty once or twice and not even blinked. Cameras caught him cool, arms crossed, mouth in a tight, vaguely amused line. Just Max being Max.

Which is why no one, not his mechanics, not GP, especially not the other drivers expected his reaction when he saw you.

And least of all you, stepping out into the pit lane in your oversized sunglasses, Miu Miu jacket, and a polite, press-ready smile.

You’d been invited as a guest of Red Bull, a casual PR appearance according to your team, but secretly you’d jumped at the chance. No one knew you were a longtime F1 fan, the kind who watched practice sessions between interviews and followed race strategy like it was an art form. Now walking through the paddock in your Red Bull cap you couldn’t stop the quiet thrill that came with finally being here.

Max, meanwhile, was doing everything in his power not to stare… and failing. Badly. Because of course he knew who you were.

He’d known for years, had seen the magazine covers, the spectacle, the interviews that went viral. He’d watched a talk show clip once where you’d laughed at your own joke and something about it had stuck with him for far too long. So when you showed up actually here, in his paddock, wearing his team’s cap it did something strange to his pulse.

He was mid-conversation with Charles when it happened. Something about tyre strategy for the sprint race. Not that it mattered. The second you walked past, Max's eyes flicked to you and stuck.

Charles noticed instantly. His sentence died mid-syllable as he turned to follow Max’s gaze. A slow grin spread across the Monegasque’s face.

“Is that… a blush Verstappen?”

Max blinked. “What?”

“You’re blushing. Blushing, mate.”

Max scoffed, crossed his arms tighter, and turned back toward the screen. “No, I’m not.”

Charles wasn’t buying it. Neither was Lando who’d just strolled past and immediately clocked the look on Max’s face.

“Holy shit, is that her?” Lando whispered. “She’s even hotter in person.”

“Don’t be gross,” Max mumbled, eyes fixed on the floor now, ears burning red.

“Ooooh,” Lando said, gleeful now. “You like her. Oh my god. Max Verstappen has a crush.”

“Shut up,” Max hissed. “She’s just… she’s famous. That’s all.”

Lando grinned. “I thought you don’t get starstruck.”

“I’m not.”

The way Max refused to meet anyone’s eye told a different story and they weren’t about to let it go anytime soon.

You hadn’t noticed him at first, the paddock was overwhelming, a blur of crisp polos, tight schedules, and champagne flutes balanced precariously on trays. Everyone looked like they belonged.

You were still trying to remember where the Red Bull garage was when your handler nudged your elbow gently.

“That’s Max Verstappen,” she murmured under her breath, voice low like it was classified information. “World champion. Four times.”

As if you didn’t already know.

You’d watched Max race since the Toro Rosso days. Sat up in bed in random hotel rooms around the world at odd hours, bleary-eyed and tense, watching him go wheel-to-wheel. You’d followed every championship year like it was a personal mission gritting your teeth during the political post-race drama. You didn’t talk about that side of yourself often.

Max Verstappen was the real deal. The reason you said yes to this weekend in the first place.

So when you looked up and actually saw him standing by the garage, race suit unzipped to the waist, gloves half-pulled off, dark blond hair pushed back with a water bottle in hand you froze for a second.

And then you realised he was looking at you.

Staring, really.

Not in a weird way. Not leering or smug or the kind of indifference you were used to from other famous men. Just… wide-eyed. A little stunned. Like you weren’t supposed to be real, like he’d been caught off-guard by you in the same way you’d just been by him.

It threw you honestly. You were used to being recognised. Used to admiration, curiosity, even jealousy, all those predictable reactions people had when they saw you in person. But Max’s gaze wasn’t any of those things.

You blinked.

Smiled, soft and polite, just enough to acknowledge him without making it weird.

That’s when it happened.

Max Verstappen, four-time world champion, calm under pressure, absolute menace behind the wheel… turned bright red.

His jaw tensed, his eyes widened further (if that was even possible), and he spun on his heel so fast you thought maybe someone had called his name.

They hadn’t.

He just bolted.

You tilted your head, more intrigued than anything.

Interesting.

Later in the drivers’ briefing the teasing intensified.

Max was trying to focus, really, he was, but it was impossible when the entire row behind him had turned into a group chat with voices.

“Ask her to take a picture with you,” Oscar said, his tone perfectly casual, like he was offering sound race strategy. “You know. For your memories… or your lockscreen.”

Max didn’t even turn around. “No.”

“You could autograph her cap,” Nico offered, resting his chin on his hand. “Real smooth. Classic paddock flirt.”

“Maybe she’ll autograph something else,” Carlos added with a grin, and Lando actually choked on his energy drink, nearly snorting it out of his nose.

Max groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Can you all not.”

“Come on,” Charles chimed in, elbowing him like they were at a school dance and Max had just been too chicken to ask the pretty girl to slow dance. “She looked at you.”

Max lifted his head, giving Charles the flattest look he could muster. “She looked at everyone.”

“She smiled at you,” Charles repeated, grinning like a man who absolutely planned to make this his entire personality for the rest of the week.

“She was being polite,” Max muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s what celebrities do.”

“Yeah, but most celebrities don’t look interested,” Lando pointed out. “She lingered. I saw it. You looked like you forgot how to stand.”

“You guys are children,” Max grumbled, but the tips of his ears were going red again, a tell he’d never quite learned to control.

And they weren’t wrong. Not entirely, because hours later long after the briefing, the media obligations, and dinner Max was alone in his hotel room, lights dim, scrolling aimlessly through his feed in that half-distracted, too-tired-to-sleep state. He wasn’t even looking for anything specific. Just decompressing.

Until he saw it.

A new post from the official F1 account, a carousel of shots from the paddock that day. Drivers, fans, crew, sponsors, and there in the third photo was you.

You were standing near the Red Bull garage, head tilted slightly sunglasses on, lips curved into a small, amused smile.

Max almost kept scrolling, but then he noticed something or rather someone in the corner of the frame. Him. Just a blur of his back and shoulder in the foreground. And you, clear as anything, looking up in his direction.

Smiling.

At him.

Max’s thumb hesitated over the screen. Then slowly, like he couldn’t help himself, he zoomed in. His stomach dipped just slightly, like the drop of a rollercoaster before the first turn.

Shit.

The next day, you returned to the paddock for qualifying. The sun was brutal, and the VIP section was flooded with influencers and media people pretending not to sweat. You wore trainers, shades, and another Red Bull cap.

And then there he was again.

You spotted him across the paddock, white undershirt clinging to him and hair damp from the heat, brows furrowed as he talked with the other drivers over something technical, but the second you walked into view he straightened.

It wasn’t subtle. He stopped mid-sentence. Glanced over.

You smiled again.

Max looked like someone had kicked him in the stomach.

Alex sidled up behind him. “Say something.”

“What?”

“Anything. Literally anything.” Lando chimed in. ‘Hi.’ ‘Big fan.’ ‘Wanna get a drink?’”

Max’s mouth opened. Closed it.

Esteban sighed. “Come on mate.”

“She’s gonna leave after today you know,” Liam pointed out, voice quieter, almost sincere. “This is your shot.”

Max scowled. “You all need to shut up.”

He qualified P2. Not bad, but not what he wanted. Not when you were watching. Not when some foolish, restless part of him had wanted to impress you.

Maybe that’s why, as he climbed out of the car afterward and peeled his gloves off with shaking fingers, he made a decision.

He was going to say hi.

Even if it killed him.

You were leaning against a railing near the back of the garage half-watching the chaos of post-quali debriefs when he found you.

“Hi.”

You turned.

Max Verstappen was standing in front of you. Hair slightly askew from his helmet. Cheeks pinker than they had any right to be. And for a man who stared down anyone wheel-to-wheel at 300kph, he looked terrified.

You smiled softly. “Hi.”

He blinked, once, like his brain had stalled. Then gave the tiniest nod. “You’re… uh. You’re here for the weekend?”

“Yes,” you said, amused by his tone. “Flying back tomorrow night.”

“Oh.” His face shifted slightly, an almost imperceptible frown tugging at his mouth. “Shame.”

He hesitated, then added quickly, “There’s… uh, there’s a thing. Like, a team thing. Sunday night. Just some people. You probably get invited to fancier stuff all the time, but… if you weren’t flying out, I’d say, maybe—”

You tried not to smile too hard. “Are you trying to invite me to a party?”

Max’s ears went fully red. “I—maybe.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “You’re not what I expected.”

He looked alarmed. “Is that… bad?”

“No,” you said, eyes warm. “Just different. You always seem so… unfazed on TV. Calm. A little intimidating honestly.”

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking down briefly before meeting yours again. “I am.”

You raised a brow. “Are you sure?”

He huffed a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe not around you.”

You weren’t expecting that. For all his nerves the man had some game.

Feeling bold, you said quietly, “You know I’ve actually been a fan of yours for years.”

Max’s head jerked back a little. “You have?”

You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, though it absolutely was. “Watched every race.”

He looked stunned. “I didn’t think… I mean, most celebrities…”

“Think parc fermé is a perfume?” you offered with a teasing smile.

“Exactly,” he said, laughing nervously. “But you actually… watch?”

You nodded. “Religiously.”

Max’s mouth opened, then closed again, clearly at a loss for words. So instead he blurted, “Do you wanna take a picture?”

You blinked. “A picture?”

He flushed. “I mean—not like—I just thought, you might want one. For… memories.”

“Do you want one?” you asked, eyes twinkling.

Max looked panicked. “I—maybe.”

You stepped closer. “Let’s take one. Maybe for the both of us”

His blush deepened like you’d physically turned the heat up around him. You angled the phone and lifted it between you. Max hesitated a beat, shoulders stiff, body caught between bolt and melt and then he leaned in beside you.

You snapped the picture.

Then turned the screen toward him. “Not bad.”

He stared at it like it was the Mona Lisa.

“Can you send it to me?” he asked quietly.

Your eyebrows lifted, amused. “I don’t have your number?”

He looked like he’d just realised he was standing on a live track. “I—Shit. Right. Of course you wouldn’t have I just…”

You laughed, full and free this time. “It’s okay. Here.”

You took his phone from his outstretched hand, typed your number in, and handed it back. He stared at the contact name like it might disappear if he blinked.

He smiled. “Thanks. I’ll… text you.”

“Nice to meet you Max,” you said softly.

He looked at you for a long second. Then, just as soft. “Nice to meet you too.”

Maybe it was nothing, but it didn’t feel like nothing.

Not to either of you.

When you left that evening the grid was buzzing.

Word spread faster than a driver swap leak. One second you were seen slipping out of the Red Bull garage with a lingering smile the next everyone with eyes and a group chat had something to say about it.

Lando wouldn’t shut up. “Did you see them? He was giddy. Like full-on heart-eyes.”

Alex grinned. “He was blushing so hard I thought he’d overheated his engine.”

Even Lewis joined in. “I didn’t think Verstappen could get flustered. Man looked like he just got proposed to.”

“I haven’t seen him smile like that all year,” Yuki said dramatically.

“He didn’t even smile like that after winning his first championship,” Fernando wisecracked.

Max didn’t respond to any of them.

He just sat there, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, phone in hand, staring at your last message like it was a national treasure:

Thanks for saying hi! It was great to meet you, I hope I can see you again sometime?

He must’ve reread it ten times by now and each time it did something weird to his chest, made it feel lighter and heavier all at once.

Max’s thumb hovered just above the screen, his lips twitched when he read the message again.

“Oh my god,” Lando whispered, eyes wide with glee. “You’re down bad.”

Max finally looked up. “What?”

“You’re in love.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” Max insisted, but even he didn’t sound convinced anymore.

Because the truth was… he couldn’t stop smiling.

Couldn’t stop replaying your laugh in his head, the way you said his name, the way you admitted, so casually, so sincerely, that you’d been a fan for years.

Maybe being starstruck wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

He glanced back down at the message one last time, heart thudding hard in his chest.

Then he typed:

I’d really like that. Maybe dinner next time you're in Monaco?

He hit send before he could overthink it, locking the phone and pressing it to his knee like it was going to combust. He didn’t feel like Max Verstappen: the world champion, the paddock’s headline, the one who never got starstruck.

He just felt like a guy hoping you’d say yes.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput@blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak @taylordaughter @taetae-armyyyyy @kitty-m30w

[barnesunlight]

show a little loving | m.list

pairing: max verstappen, oscar piastri, charles leclerc x reader

summary: a ferrari driver, a mclaren driver, and a redbull driver all interested in the same girl…this won’t end well.

status: ongoing + playlist

word count: tbd

tags: eventually will be poly!!! fluff, angst, comedy. lots of tension and rivalry. no smut. actual writing with some social media bits. slowish updates. races written here will not align with real life races.

authors notes: based on this smau, i did a while ago, i decided to make this a full blown series so I can dive into everything with detail

chapters

chapter 01 | out in the dark [soon]

blurbs

—

[eveninggstar]

hearts on the circuit ⊹ ࣪ ˖

dad!max verstappen x nanny!reader

25.06.24

୨ৎ back two pages ୨ৎ back a page

‘As long as you're next to me’

Due to the fact that the your father thinks you are "too immature" to fend for yourself, he insists that you take on a minor job to earn your inheritance and allowance. Seeking advice from his friend, Christian Horner, your father arranges for you to become the nanny for Max Verstappen's 4-year-old daughter, Claudia*. Initially skeptical and viewing the you as "too childish" for the responsibility, Max reluctantly agrees to a trial period. However, Claudia quickly forms a strong bond with you, finding comfort and joy in your presence. This leaves Max to, reluctantly, asks if you want the job.

Warnings: Language, eventual smut, emotional conflict, minor age gap (20 and 26), single dad!max, nanny!reader, may add more

*claudia pronounced as cloud • ee • ah, 90% sure that the dutch pronunciation

Growing Pains. 25.06.24

Please don’t steal my work, much love ᡣ𐭩

taglist: (comment if you wanna be added)

no upstate’s for now- just until i finish my other max series

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 eveninggstar

[f1version]

max verstappen’s version general masterlist

SOCIAL MEDIA

★ apologize for loving

★ super mini max

★ 33 max’s birthday 

★ can i call you rose? — valentine’s special

WRITING

P1 in your heart — fluff, 5+1

summary: 5 times you told max his cats were P1 in your heart, and 1 time he did a grand slam.

SERIES

[ empty ]

SERIES THEY’RE INCLUDED IN . . .

★ the slip up series — one smau

★ amar x100 series — soon

MOODBOARDS / GALLERY

★ dad!max

★ rock n love — rockstar!reader

[sydwritess]

Max Verstappen Masterlist

"Mistakes happen, they happen to the best of us."

- Do You Hate me? - The Scare Queen - Mad Max - Insanely Hot - Rumors are Real

[sunny44]

You’re perfect

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Wife!mom!reader

Warnings: English is not my first language so I’m sorry for any mistakes.

Summary: you’re insecure about your body after giving birth to the twins but Max assures you that you’re perfect.

I stood in front of the bedroom mirror, observing my reflection. My eyes were fixed on the changes in my body after giving birth to the twins. Mason and Maxine are some of the best things that have happened in my life, but I couldn't help but notice that the skin on my abdomen, which used to be firm, now had soft stretch marks.

I sighed, running my hands through my hair, trying to convince myself that everything was okay.

I could hear the sound of my husband and the babies laughing in the room at the end of the hallway, and it made me smile for a moment. He was a wonderful and loving father, and the sight of Max with our children always warmed my heart. It seemed like he was made to be a dad.

However, lately, I had been feeling increasingly insecure about my appearance, especially with the transformations that pregnancy had caused.

"Max, can you come here for a minute?" I called, my voice trembling, revealing a bit of the anguish I felt.

"Of course, love! I'm coming!" he replied cheerfully. "I'll just put the babies in the playpen and I'll be right there."

When Max entered the room, I was still standing in front of the mirror. He noticed the worried expression on my face and approached me gently, hugging me from behind.

"What happened, Y/N?" he asked, his voice soft and full of concern.

I hesitated for a moment before speaking, "I... I just can't stop feeling insecure about my body. Everything has changed so much after the twins."

Max frowned, confused.

"Insecure? Love, you look amazing. You gave birth to two healthy and beautiful babies. That's an incredible achievement."

I looked away, tears beginning to form in my eyes.

"I know, but... my body is not the same anymore. The marks, the skin... I don't feel beautiful."

Max gently took my face in his hands, forcing me to look into the same eyes the babies had.

"Y/N, you made me a father. There is nothing sexier and more beautiful than that. Every mark on your body tells the story of our children. And to me, that's the most incredible thing in the world." I smiled shyly, touched by his words.

"Do you really think so?"

"I am absolutely sure of it," he replied with conviction. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and those marks only enhance the beauty you already have."

I let out a soft laugh, wiping away the tears.

"You always know what to say to make me feel better." Max smiled back, caressing my cheek.

"Because it's true. Now, let's go to their room and enjoy some time with Mason and Maxine. They are lucky to have such a wonderful mother like you."

He took my hand, and we went to their room and found the twins happily playing in the playpen. Maxine was holding a stuffed toy, while Mason was trying to grab the toy from his sister's hands. I couldn't help but laugh at the adorable scene and joined them on the floor.

"Are you having fun, huh?" I said, picking Mason up. He let out a giggle and grabbed my hair, pulling it lightly.

Max sat next to me on the floor, picking up Maxine.

"They're growing so fast. I can hardly believe it's been a few months since they were born."

"I know," Y/N agreed, watching Mason with affection. "They bring so much joy into our lives." Maxine started to babble, and Max smiled, gently rocking her.

"And they are the proof of our love. Every day with them is a gift."

I couldn't help but feel a sense of love for him. The insecurities I had would still take time to get used to but had already begun to dissipate as I watched them. Max had always been by my side, offering unconditional support and affection.

Later that night, after the twins had fallen asleep, Max and I snuggled up on the couch, enjoying a moment of tranquility together.

Max wrapped his arm around me, pulling me closer.

"I was thinking," Max began, "we should do something special to celebrate next month. Something just for the two of us." I looked up, curious.

"What do you have in mind?"

"How about a quick trip? We can leave the twins with my mom for a few days and take some time just for us. It would be good to relax and reconnect."

I smiled, excited about the idea.

"That sounds wonderful, Max. I would love to spend some time alone with you." He kissed the top of my head, seemingly pleased with my reaction.

"Then it's settled. I'll make all the arrangements."

The following days passed quickly, with Max and me planning our little escape from reality. When the day of the trip finally arrived, we left the twins with Max's mother, who was more than happy to take care of her grandchildren.

At the airport, moments before boarding the plane, I turned to him with a smile on my face.

"I really appreciate everything you do for us, Max. You make me feel special every day." He held my hands, intertwining our fingers.

"I do it because you are special, Y/N. And I never want you to forget that."

As the plane took off, I looked out the window, feeling an inner peace. Max's words echoed in my mind, reminding me that our love was strong enough to overcome any insecurity. And I knew that with Max by my side, I could face any challenge and that together, we would create a life full of love and happiness.

And so, in the comfort of Max's embrace, I thanked him for being such a special person, whom I could not only call my husband but also the father of our babies.

Bonus scene!

Max Verstappen instagram stories

“They’re just perfect”