Heartburn (3)

Oh my god... this is sooo beautifully written... i cried😭😭

POV

Imagine as you lay across his lap, he breathes hums of your favorite song that he memorized just for you.

Imagine as your vision blurs because he’s such a pretty sight to fall asleep to.

Imagine as a warm smile spreads across your face and you whisper your love to him because he has to know.

You don’t know why the urgency of your feelings is there but the warmth of his hand sweeping your hair across your cheek is enough to halt any thoughts. 

Imagine as his eyes grow teary because he loves you so deeply and he cannot picture life without you.

Imagine as he places a shiny ring on your finger because he never plans on leaving your side. 

Imagine as you smile warmly up at him and whisper ‘yes’ before you fall asleep to his gentle humming.

Imagine being in love.

Now imagine his point of view.

Imagine as he cradles your head with gentle hands like he’s carrying glass.

Imagine him trying to steady his breathes long enough to hum your song because you look so confused and he just wants to settle your mind. 

Imagine he watches your eyes glaze over and his body strains to hold his weight and your own without breaking.

Imagine him glancing away to wipe his tears because your smile is slowly tearing him apart and you whispering your love is the same as whispering goodbye.

Imagine his eyes growing teary because you’re getting colder and colder and he can’t do anything to stop the slowing of your heart.

Imagine him placing a shaky hand on your cheek to ground himself and hold you one last time.

Imagine as he slides a ring onto your finger, the ring he was supposed to propose with tonight at your birthday, the ring that promises you’ll be with each other until the end.

Imagine as sobs heave through him and he struggles to continue humming your song as you whisper ‘yes’, because he finally has his answer but this isn’t how he wanted it.

Imagine as his scream rips through the air when your eyes close.

Imagine being in love until death do you part.

Imagine breaking his heart.

---

For Her - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: She came to support him. Instead, she was met with hate and a paddock full of people who acted like she didn’t exist. But if there was one thing about Lando Norris, it was that he loved out loud (3.2k words)

content: protective boyfriend, public relationship, public displays of affection, romantic grand gesture

AN: happy new season guys!!! what a race, I hope china will be kinder with my heart :') here's another fic for our race winner! muah <3

........................................................................

The first race of the season should have been magical.

It should have been the kind of morning you’d always imagined—walking through the paddock with the giddy excitement of someone witnessing greatness up close, feeling the electricity in the air, the intoxicating mix of tire smoke, adrenaline, and champagne already waiting for its moment in the podium spray. You had thought of how proud you would feel watching Lando, how thrilling it would be to see him in his element, how belonging you might feel in a world that, until now, had existed for you in stories and through screens.

You had not imagined being denied entry.

"Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step back."

The security guard barely spared you a glance, already moving on to the next person in line, his voice impassive, as if he had done this a hundred times before and you were simply another face in a sea of hopeful girls who had tried to talk their way into the paddock.

You gripped your lanyard a little tighter, your heart skipping slightly. "I have a pass," you said, voice gentle but firm as you lifted it to eye level, the McLaren logo glinting in the sunlight.

The guard exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. "We've had a lot of fans trying to sneak in today. If you don’t have the right accreditation, I can’t let you through."

Your stomach twisted.

"I do have the right accreditation," you tried again, as kindly as possible, despite the heat creeping up your neck. "I’m with McLaren. My boyfriend-"

"Yeah, that’s what they all say."

The words were clipped, dismissive, and spoken with the kind of flat finality that suggested he had already decided you were lying.

Embarrassment coiled in your chest, wrapping itself around your lungs, making it suddenly difficult to breathe.

You stood there, cheeks burning, as people brushed past you, throwing curious glances your way. The seconds stretched endlessly, each one more excruciating than the last.

It wasn’t until a McLaren staff member recognized you—"Oh, she’s with Lando," they had said offhandedly—that the security guard finally stepped aside, not bothering with so much as an apology.

By the time you walked through the gates, the joy you had carried that morning had dulled into something smaller, something fragile.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

...

The McLaren motorhome stood like a beacon in the paddock, its sleek glass windows reflecting the bustle of team personnel moving inside. You exhaled slowly, shaking off the earlier embarrassment, and made your way toward the hospitality lounge, longing for something warm and familiar.

A latte, perhaps. Something to reset the day.

You stepped up to the hospitality counter with a practiced sort of grace, the kind that had been instilled in you from your childhood—shoulders back, chin lifted, a polite smile even when you wanted to disappear.

The woman behind the counter was stunning in a sharp, effortless way, her McLaren uniform crisp, her dark eyes shrewd, assessing. She barely looked up when you stepped forward.

"Good morning," you greeted, your voice light, pleasant. "Could I get an oat latte, please?"

The woman’s gaze flicked to you then, sweeping over you in a way that wasn’t unkind but wasn’t exactly warm, either.

"Are you with media?" she asked, already sounding bored.

You shook your head, still polite. "No, I’m—"

"Hospitality is for team guests only," she interrupted, her words clipped, a polite but unmistakable dismissal.

There was something about the way she said it, the way her lips curled just slightly, that sent something sharp down your spine.

You held up your accreditation again, your expression kind but unwavering. "I am a team guest. It is my first race though! I'm with Lando."

A pause. A flicker of something in her gaze.

And then, a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Ah," she said slowly, like she was only just now realizing. "Of course you are."

There was something else behind her tone, something you recognized.

You had met people like her before, in glittering lobbies, at perfectly curated events, in spaces where perception was everything. People who measured others in careful glances and quiet, ruthless judgments.

The woman tilted her head, her smile suddenly saccharine. "I’m afraid we’re only serving certain guests at the moment."

The words landed with the soft cruelty of a velvet dagger.

She wasn’t saying no outright.

She was refusing you while pretending it was about something else entirely.

You stared at her for a moment, your fingers tightening slightly over the strap of your bag.

You could have fought. Could have pointed out that this was ridiculous, that you had every right to be here, that her behavior was as transparent as it was petty.

But instead, you simply let out a soft breath and smiled.

Not the kind of smile that was warm and grateful.

The kind of smile that veiled the frustration you were feeling.

"No worries," you said gently, dipping your head, your voice smooth, graceful. "I wouldn’t want to trouble you."

And with that, you turned and walked away, back straight, head held high, because if nothing else—you were not the kind of woman who begged.

But it still stung.

...

The hotel room is quiet except for the faint murmur of the city outside. The occasional car hums past beneath the window, the distant noises of Melbourne nightlife drifting in through the small gap in the balcony door. Inside, the glow from the bedside lamp casts soft golden light over the pristine sheets, the half-finished cup of tea you abandoned hours ago, and your phone—face-down, untouched, deliberately ignored.

You had set it aside like it burned you.

And in a way, it had.

You don’t need to look at the screen to know what’s waiting for you there.

A photo. You, walking alone through the paddock, caught at an unflattering angle—your hands adjusting the strap of your bag, your gaze flicking off to the side. Out of context, impersonal, just another frame in someone else’s story.

But the caption beneath it?

That made it personal.

The caption beneath it, however, was anything but subtle.

"Classic gold digger. No personality, no job, just another wag looking for a paycheck."

The replies were worse.

"She looks so full of herself. I bet she spends his money like crazy."

"Lando deserves better. She looks disgusting."

"Does she even like racing or just his wallet?"

You had expected something like this eventually. Being seen always came at a cost.

But expectation doesn’t soften the blow.

It doesn’t make the words less sharp. It doesn’t stop them from settling in the quiet places of your mind, the ones that whisper in the dark when the world is still.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hand over the sheets, willing away the tightness in your throat.

It’s fine.

You were raised to handle things like this with grace, with an understanding that women who stand beside successful men are often reduced to spectators, accessories, footnotes in their own stories.

You know who you are. You know your worth.

And yet, knowing doesn’t stop the sting.

A keycard beeps at the door.

Then, the soft sound of it swinging open, of footsteps—light, easy, carrying a kind of restless energy even now.

"Hi, darling," Lando’s voice fills the space before he does.

You don’t turn immediately, letting yourself blink once, twice, composing yourself in the quiet before offering a small smile as he steps inside.

He looks effortlessly disheveled—his hair still damp from the rain outside, his McLaren polo slightly untucked, the fabric creased like he’d run a hand over it one too many times.

He is still buzzing—from the high of the weekend, from the thrill of being back in the car, from the sheer joy of doing what he loves.

And then he looks at you.

And everything shifts.

His grin falters. His brows pull together.

"Hey," he says again, but softer this time, slower. "What’s wrong?"

You hesitate, fingers brushing against the sheets. "It’s nothing."

Lando stills.

"You’re upset."

It’s not a question.

You exhale, tilting your head slightly, lips curving in something almost amused. "No big deal, this is your weekend."

But Lando doesn’t smile.

Instead, he moves—crossing the room in three long strides, sinking down in front of you, his hands warm against your thighs, his gaze level, intent.

"Tell me," he says, quiet but firm.

All day, you have been ignored, dismissed, treated like an inconvenience. And yet, here he is, giving you his undivided attention, his entire world narrowing down to this moment, to you.

You hesitate. Then, finally, you murmur, "People weren’t exactly kind today."

His grip on your legs tightens just slightly.

"Security thought I was a fan trying to sneak in. Hospitality wouldn’t serve me." You let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "And now there’s a photo of me online. People saying I’m a disgusting gold digger."

Lando doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, he reaches for your phone, flipping it over with careful precision before scrolling. He doesn’t need you to guide him—he finds it immediately.

His jaw tightens.

And then, in a tone so low and steady that it makes your stomach flip:

"Are you joking?"

You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, pushing himself up, pacing now, running a hand through his curls.

"Such bullshit," he starts, turning sharply, voice too controlled, too even, "that after everything—after how much effort you’ve put into being here, after how much of your life you’ve adjusted for me—these people had the nerve to treat you like that?"

You shift under his gaze, biting your lip. "Lando, it’s not—"

"No, no, hold on," he interrupts, hands in the air like he needs a second to process. He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

"Because from where I’m standing, you’re the easiest person to love in any room, and I genuinely don’t understand how anyone could be that dense."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, jaw tight. "Honestly, I don’t even know whether to be pissed or impressed by their level of dickheadness."

He stops, inhales sharply, then turns back to you.

"Tomorrow," he says, voice steady now, decisive. "We fix this."

You raise a brow. "We?"

Lando tilts his head, giving you a look like you have just asked if the sky is blue.

"Obviously."

...

There are very few things in life that can silence an entire paddock.

Lando Norris walking in hand-in-hand with you is apparently one of them.

The usual morning commotion—the hurried strides of engineers, the murmured strategy discussions, the distant hum of espresso machines—all of it seems to slow, the air shifting as one by one, heads turn.

Eyes follow you as you move through the paddock, curiosity crackling in the air like static before a storm.Conversations taper off, whispers trailing in your wake, phones discreetly lifted, cameras capturing the moment in real time.

Lando, of course, is unbothered.

If anything, he thrives under the weight of their attention. His grip on your hand remains firm, steady, unwavering, his strides unhurried, his smirk bordering on self-satisfied.

He wants them to see.

It’s deliberate—the way he holds you close, the way his fingers brush over yours in soft, thoughtless patterns, the way his head tilts toward you slightly every time you speak, like you are the only thing worth listening to.

There is no question about what this is.

There is no question about where you belong.

He makes sure of it.

And then, with perfect, almost cinematic timing, he steers you toward McLaren hospitality.

Right to the coffee bar.

The barista from yesterday stands behind the counter, the same sharp-cut uniform, the same perfectly applied lipstick, the same calculating gaze.

Only now, it falters.

She sees Lando before she sees you, her posture straightening, professional mask slipping into place like second nature. But then, her eyes flick toward you—toward your hands intertwined, toward the subtle, unspoken intimacy of the way he keeps close.

You watch as realization dawns.

Oh.

Lando leans against the counter, effortless, grinning.

"Two oat lattes," he says, voice bright, easy, amused. "One for me, one for my girl."

The silence that follows is exquisite.

The barista hesitates—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to see it.

Panic.

"Of course," she says, voice smooth but not quite as sharp as before.

And just like that, there are no shortages, no waiting, no excuses.

The coffees are made within seconds.

Lando watches, humming thoughtfully, tapping his fingers lightly against the counter as she slides the first cup toward him. He lifts it to his lips, taking a slow, exaggerated sip before letting out a long, obnoxiously satisfied hum.

"Mm," he muses, shifting his weight, sparing her a glance. "Tastes better today."

His smirk is dangerous.

"Must be the service."

The barista’s lips press together just slightly.

You take your coffee, cradling the cup in your hands, offering her a soft, serene smile.

"Thank you," you say lightly.

You watch as she winces.

And Lando, the ever-efficient instigator that he is, takes it one step further.

"You know," he muses, as if the thought has just occurred to him, "I think I should make this a tradition."

He turns to you then, eyes bright with mischief, voice just loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear.

"Morning coffee," he says smoothly. "Every race weekend. For the foreseeable future."

The barista looks like she wants to disappear.

You, on the other hand, can’t help but smile.

...

The checkered flag had waved, the roar of the crowd still vibrating through the air, but none of it mattered—not the celebrations, not the flashing cameras, not the McLaren team swarming the pit wall in victory.

Because the moment Lando climbed out of the car, eyes scanning the chaos, he found you.

And then—he ran.

Straight toward you, helmet discarded, race suit half-unzipped, curls a disheveled mess from the heat of the cockpit.

You barely have time to react before he collides into you, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

You shriek—an actual, real shriek—as your feet leave the pavement, the entire world tilting as he spins you in circles,laughter spilling from his lips like he can’t contain it.

And then—he kisses you.

Right there, in front of thousands of fans, in front of cameras, reporters, his entire team.

Hard. Fierce. Like he’d won the race and you in the same breath.

The world erupts around you—cheering, chanting, Oscar groaning dramatically in the background.

"Oh my god. You two are disgusting."

None of it matters.

Because Lando is grinning against your lips, breathless, victorious, yours.

When he finally sets you back down, he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t even try to.

Instead, he beams down at you, cheeks flushed, curls damp with sweat, voice all cocky, all Lando.

"So, did I impress you or what?"

You roll your eyes, fond and exasperated all at once. "Eh. You were alright."

He gasps. Actually gasps.

"You’re joking." He turns toward the cameras, mock-betrayed. "Did you guys hear that? I win a Grand Prix, and she says I’m ‘alright.’"

You bite your lip, pretending to consider. "You were pretty fast, I guess."

"Pretty fast?" he repeats, positively scandalized. "Babe. I am literally the fastest man in Australia right now."

You burst out laughing. "I was kind of rooting for Oscar."

Oscar, mid-drink of water behind you, chokes.

"Lies." Lando pulls you back in, forehead resting against yours, his voice dropping into something softer, something just for you.

"Say you’re proud of me."

You sigh dramatically. "I guess I’m—"

"Say it."

You grin, heart pounding. "Fine. I’m proud of you, Norris."

He hums, satisfied, smug, still absolutely glowing. "Thought so."

...

Lando was still riding the high when he got to the media pen, his race suit unzipped to his waist, curls damp with sweat, and that stupidly charming grin still plastered across his face.

It wasn’t just a ‘first win of the season’ grin.

It was a ‘my girlfriend is here, and I just won a whole-ass race for her’ grin.

The interviewer barely got a word in before Lando pointed directly at you, standing just off-camera.

"Her."

You blink. "Me?"

"Yeah, you!" He turns back to the cameras, nodding enthusiastically. "Let’s just get this straight—I did this for her. Like, entirely. One hundred percent. Full motivation. If she hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve parked it in a gravel trap on lap ten."

The interviewer laughed. "So, you’re saying she’s your good luck charm?"

"Absolutely," Lando replied, dead serious. "I mean, have you seen her? Look at her."

The camera did not pan to you, thank god. The poor guy running the live feed probably had no idea what to do.

But Lando? Oh, he was just getting started.

"She walked into this paddock today looking like an actual goddess, completely unaware that she is, in fact, the sun incarnate, and people want me to talk about tire degradation? No. I want to talk about her."

The interviewer tried so hard to stay professional.

"You—uh, you had great pace today—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Lando waved him off.

"Lando, I don’t think—"

"Listen, I need to emphasize something." Lando leaned in, tone conspiratorial. "Do you know how lucky I am? Not only is she breathtaking, but she’s also, like, annoyingly smart. Like, did you know she reads all the time? Real books.Not just memes and Twitter threads like me."

He gestured vaguely, suddenly overwhelmed by his own emotions.

"She doesn’t even realize how much people admire her. But I see it. I see everything. And I just think the world needs to start appreciating her at my level."

"That is… very sweet." The interviewer was visibly struggling to keep up.

"Just had to get that out there."

"Well, congratulations on the win, Lando," the interviewer finally managed, skimming over his list of unanswered questions he had prepared.

"Thank you." He nodded seriously, finally letting go of the mic. "And big thanks to the team, of course."

You rolled your eyes from behind the cameras, suppressing a smile.

...

The internet had seen many things, but no one was prepared for Lando Norris using his post-race interview as a full-blown love letter. 

"Lando’s race pace was great, but his girlfriend propaganda was even stronger."

"THE WAY HE JUST POINTED AT HER IMMEDIATELY I CAN’T."

"Lando Norris said ‘this win is for my girlfriend’ and proceeded to recite a romantic sonnet on live TV. My standards are ruined."

Later, as the two of you curled up in the hotel room, finally away from the cameras, Lando buried his face in your neck with a content sigh.

"You know," he murmured, voice sleepy, warm, full of love. "I really did win that for you."

You ran your fingers through his curls. "I know."

"I meant every word, too."

You smiled. "Don't you think it was a bit much?"

"I don't think it was nearly enough," he said, already half-asleep, grinning like he had never been happier.

Eunoia // Ch. 20

eunoia (noun): beautiful thinking, the possession of a well-balanced mind, which exhibits goodwill and kindness

Pairings: Hybrid! BTS x reader

Summary: You are a world famous director and you have dedicated your life to your job.You have everything you could ever dream of; wealth, recognision, talent, your friends and family. But loneliness ins’t cured by success. So what happens when you somehow rescue seven hybrids? Can they fill the void?

Genre: Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, eventual smut

Word Count: 10.7k+

Warnings: past abuse, past sexual abuse, cursing, past violence, mentions of blood

Masterlist

Chapter 1, Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 chapter 18 Chapter 19

Many thanks to my incredible beta reader <3

The taglist is now closed

Los Angeles wore its hot and dry summers with pride. You were sweating the moment you stepped out of the private jet, your shirt sticking to your back and your jeans stifling your legs. Above, there was no cloud in sight but an endless expanse of blue and the white-yellow of the sun. An orange hue tinted everything around you, strange and dizzying.

Inside the airport, the AC froze the sweat on your back bringing sweet relief to your burnt skin. The midday sun needed only a couple of minutes. Picking up your suitcases, you headed to the parking lot and got into the SUV. John got into the driver’s seat because when it came to John, he was always the one driving. He only allowed someone else to do the job when it was for official events like red carpets. Overseas, he would turn on the GPS and navigate the streets with ease.

You climbed into the backseat with Taehyung, reluctant to leave him alone. He had barely spoken a word to you the whole trip. He would answer every question with a nod and you were starting to doubt he could understand anything you were saying.

Half an hour into the flight, your eyes were drooping and John’s head was dropping back on his chair. You had been tired from promotions to begin with when you had first arrived in Seoul. The late hour of the auction, the anxiety, and the early visit to the police department had only made it worse. You woke up to the captain announcing you would be landing in ten minutes and to kindly put on your seatbelts.

You were finally back in Los Angeles, its beaches and palm trees. There had been a few dark moments in the blood-red ballroom that you had doubted you would see Los Angeles again. Maybe that’s why it looked more beautiful than ever because you had nearly lost it. One slip and your last memory of it would be watching it grow smaller through a jet’s window.

Keep reading

---

I would marry you with paper rings

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Colette Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary: 

May 2016

How Max Verstappen wins his first f1 race and goes home to show his girlfriend his trophy…and maybe something else too...

December 2024: 

Max brings his family home from the hospital and finally gets to give his fiancée a proper ring. 

Author Notes: Huge thanks to @llirawolf for holding my hand through this!

May 2016: 

The roar of the crowd was deafening, but Max Verstappen barely noticed. His ears were ringing, his chest felt tight, and his grip on the steering wheel had turned his knuckles white. He barely registered the voice of his race engineer crackling through his headset.

“Unbelievable. Unbelievable, Max.” 

The words didn’t feel real. 

“You are a race winner!”

It felt like they belonged to someone else’s story, someone older, more experienced—someone who wasn’t an 18-year-old kid still trying to figure out the enormity of it all. He blinked hard, trying to process the magnitude of what just happened.

The pit wall erupted in cheers as he drove toward the podium, his hands trembling on the wheel. It wasn’t just any win—it was the win. At 18 years and 227 days old, Max Verstappen had become the youngest race winner in Formula 1 history.

He had done it. 

As the team crowded around him in parc fermé, he couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face. Christian Horner was there to hug him, Helmut Marko clapped him on the back, and Daniel Ricciardo tousled his sweat-soaked hair. The cameras flashed relentlessly, capturing every angle of his historic moment.

And still…the most important person was not there. 

Colette was back in Monaco. 

Hours later, once he finally got to his phone…after he was back in his hotel room, there was a message from her waiting for him. Of course, there was. 

I am so proud of you, Maxie. Soak up every moment, enjoy it. You deserve this, so, so much. We’ll celebrate when you are back home, mon coeur. You were amazing out there today and I love you so much. 

Somehow these 5 sentences meant more to him than any other accolade ever could. 

He stared at the trophy perched on his nightstand. The weight of it—both physical and symbolic—was overwhelming.

He’d spent years working for this moment. His entire life had been shaped around the pursuit of success, of proving he belonged on the top step of the podium. But now that he’d done it? He would give anything to share this moment with the girl he loved. 

Colette had been his constant long before Formula 1 entered the picture. She’d seen him at his worst, supported him when no one else believed in him, and always reminded him of who he was outside the car. 

She was his staunchest supporter and the first person that woul dcall hi out for being an idiot. 

She grounded him, cosetted him, cared for him, cheered for every win and held him after every failure. 

She was the one thing in his life that he could trust unconditionally…that loved him for who he was and not what he could do. 

Of course he had driven this car to victory. And Colettte would never take credit for any of his wins…but Max knew the truth. 

This win wasn’t just his—it was theirs.

The idea hit him in the early hours of the morning, somewhere between the adrenaline still coursing through his veins and the exhaustion pulling at his eyelids.

He needed to show her how much she meant to him, how much he wanted her to be part of this journey—not just as a girlfriend, but as his partner in everything that came next.

But how do you capture something so big?

By 7 a.m., Max was wandering the quiet streets of Barcelona. The city felt different in the early morning light—calm, peaceful. He had no real plan, just an address for a small jewellery store he’d googled hours before.

His Spanish wasn’t great, but he figured he could manage. He needed something. Something to show her just how much she meant to him.

He had bought his sister a handbag the first time he had scored points in F1…but handbag didn’t even come close to being enough for Colette. 

So there he was…in that jewelery store. 

The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside, and a man behind the counter greeted him warmly, raising an eyebrow at the young man who looked like he hadn’t slept.

“You’re here for something important, aren’t you?” the man asked knowingly, his accent thick but his tone kind.

Max hesitated, glancing down at the glass cases filled with glittering jewellery. He’d never done anything like this before. He had never even bought Colette a pair of earrings on his own. He had bought her other stuff, of course he had. Birthday gifts and stuff for christmas but… “Yeah, uh... I need something… special. For my girlfriend.”

The man smiled knowingly and pulled out a tray of rings. “Something like this?” he asked, gesturing to a selection of delicate designs.

Max’s eyes landed on a gold band with a small, heart-shaped diamond. It wasn’t flashy or oversized—it was understated, elegant, and perfect.

Just like Colette. 

***

Hours later… Max was back in Monaco. 

The trophy tucked under his arm, bag thrown over his shoulder as he unlocked the door to their apartment. 

He wasn’t sure if Colette was already home from work…he hadn’t called ahead telling her either. 

“Max?” and there she was, already dressed in her pyjamas as she stared at him wide-eyed, coming out of the kitchen. 

“I won,” he blurted, grinning like a kid showing off a school project. 

THat was all he needed to say, before she was throwing herself in his arms. His bag hit the floor, as he hugged her and she kissed him, cupping his cheek, rapid fire french that he would never learn to understand as quickly as she spoke it, intermixed with english and her horribly accented dutch. 

And for just a moment Max got to hold his girlfriend…the best trophy he had ever won. 

“I am so proud of you, mon coeur,” Colette whispered and he leaned his forehead against hers, her words a balm to something that he didn’t even know. 

“I brought you something.”

Before she could say anything, he plopped the Pirelli cap on her head, by now dry, though it had been drenched in champagne by Kimi and Seb and he adjusted it until it sat crookedly over her brown curls. “There. Perfect,” he said, his voice raw. 

Perfect. 

Colette laughed, patting it down, and then pulled him into another kiss. “I am so proud. You were incredible this weekend,” she told him fiercely. “Shouldn’t you still be celebrating?” she teased him. 

“I am,” he said, his voice softening. “With you.”

Any celebration with her was better than any other. 

“You want to see the trophy?” he asked her, feeling like a little boy that dragged his karting trophy to Colette for her approval again. 

And just like she had suffered through every time of 12 year old Max showing his trophy off to her…18 year old Max did the same, handing it to her. 

She took it, a metal on metal clink rattling around the inside. 

“What’s...?” she started, tilting the trophy to look inside. Her breath caught, as she fished out the ring from the bottom of it. “Max...”

“It’s not an engagement ring,” he rushed to explain, his cheeks turning pink. “I mean, our fathers would probably kill us both if we got married right now. But it’s... it’s a promise.”

Colette carefully set the trophy down, her hands trembling as stared at the delicate gold ring in the palm of her hand. 

“I wanted you to know that it’s always going to be us,” Max said, his voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest. “Through everything. You and me. This is my promise to you.”

It was always going to be them. Always. 

“I don’t need a fancy piece of paper to tell me what I already know,” Max said softly. “I love you. And I’ll spend the rest of my life with you. In Sickness and In Health and however that whole thing goes.” 

Tears filled her eyes as she looked up at him, her lips trembling with a smile. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

He grinned. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.” 

Colette just looked at him, brown eyes warm and loving…and filled with tears. 

“I do. God, I do,” she promised him fiercely. “Go on then. Put it on me,” she teased him. 

His fingers were trembling when he picked up the ring and slid it on her finger. A perfect fit. Like he had somehow known. 

“This is going to be hard to top one day, you know,” Colette told him, wiggling her fingers, the diamond sparkling on her hand. “You do have exceptional taste in rings.”

Max chuckled, pulling her into a hug. “Challenge accepted.”

December 2024: 

The late December air was crisp as Max carefully carried the baby carrier through the front door of their apartment, his movements uncharacteristically slow. He was used to the precision of controlling a 200-mile-per-hour machine, but carrying his newborn daughter… was an entirely different level of responsibility.

Colette watched the whole thing with some amusement and a whole lot of love. Max had already driven so slowly home from the hospital that there had been multiple blaring car horns behind them, but Max hadn’t cared one bit about that. 

She was tired, her body aching from the delivery, but her heart was so full it threatened to burst.

“Welcome home, ma lutine,” she murmured softly, brushing her fingers over the baby’s tiny hand, as Max set the carrier down on the living room floor. 

Max crouched to unbuckle their daughter, who was snoozing peacefully despite the excitement of the day. “I think she’s already a Verstappen,” he said with a chuckle, glancing up at Colette. “Sleeps through the chaos, just like her dad.”

Colette laughed lightly, shaking her head. “We’ll see how long that lasts,” she teased him. “You gonna get the cats?” she asked.

Max nodded, moving towards the bedroom where he had put them just minutes before. 

Colette heard the door open and seconds later, she could feel two sets of feline eyes were already watching from the bedroom doorway —Jimmy, usually, the more laid back boy…and Sassy, the fierce girl with a name that fit her personality far too well.

“Okay, guys,” Colette murmured. “Be nice. She’s your baby sister now.”

Max crossed back over to them, crouching down beside the seat, unbuckling Charlie with ease, his movements careful and deliberate. “You think they’ll be jealous?” he asked, casting a quick glance at Jimmy and Sassy, who hadn’t moved but were clearly observing every detail.

“They’ll get over it,” Colette said with a soft laugh. “I think Sassy’s already plotting her strategy.”

Sure enough, as soon as Colette lifted Charlie into her arms, Sassy bounded down the stairs, tail high and ears forward. She paused a few feet away, her nose twitching as she sniffed the air. 

“Hi, Sassy,” Colette cooed, kneeling down to let the curious cat get a closer look. Sassy tiptoed forward, her tiny paws making no sound on the marble floor. She stopped just short of Colette’s knees and craned her neck, sniffing cautiously at the bundle in her arms.

Charlie let out a soft coo, her tiny fist waving in the air, and Sassy’s ears twitched forward in fascination. Then, in a move that made Colette’s heart melt, Sassy stretched up on her hind legs and gently tapped at the edge of the baby blanket, as if to say, What’s this?

“See? She’s already making friends,” Colette said, grinning as she stroked Sassy’s head.

Max, meanwhile, was coaxing Jimmy towards them. The cat was watching the scene with a skeptical look, his yellow eyes narrowed. “Come on, mate,” Max said, holding out his hand. “She’s not going to steal your spot. I promise.”

Jimmy hesitated for a moment before coming the last few steps. Unlike Sassy, who had no sense of personal space, Jimmy kept his distance at first, circling wide around Colette and Charlie as if evaluating whether this tiny human posed a threat to his kingdom.

“Jimmy, it’s okay,” Colette encouraged, holding out her hand toward him. “Come say hi.”

Eventually, Jimmy padded closer, his movements slow and deliberate. When he finally reached Colette, he sat down primly and stared up at Charlie, his expression one of cautious curiosity.

“She’s not so bad, right?” Max said, crouching down beside Jimmy and scratching behind his ears.

Charlie let out another soft noise, and Jimmy’s head tilted slightly, his ears swiveling to catch the sound. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he leaned forward and gave the edge of the baby blanket a tentative sniff, followed by a single, gentle nudge of his nose.

“Oh, Jimmy,” Colette said, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re such a good boy.”

Max laughed, the sound warm and full of love. “I think they’ve decided she can stay,” he said, wrapping an arm around Colette’s shoulders.

Later that evening, after Charlie had been fed and settled into the bassinet they’d placed in the living room, Colette found herself staring at the collection of trophies they kept on the shelves over the TV. Max’s career was neatly cataloged there— All the important wins, each moment of triumph immortalized in gleaming metal and glass.

Charlie stirred softly in her arms, and Colette pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead before stepping closer to the shelves. “Do you see all these trophies, Charlie?” she whispered, swaying gently. “See? these are all Papa‘s,“ Colette cooed. “He has more. These are just the ones that are the most important to him. Your tonton Cha has some too…”

Her eyes slid over the championship trophy from last year…over to the very first one. It was a little scuffed from being handled so many times, but it still gleamed in the soft light of the room. “And this one…this one is extra special. This is from when Papa won his very first race. And do you know what else?” She smiled, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “This is where he hid a ring for me eight years ago.”

She glanced back at her daughter, but Charlie had already drifted back into her newborn sleep, oblivious to her mother’s musings. 

“You didn’t check, did you?” Max’s voice broke the quiet, startling her.

She turned to find him leaning casually in the doorway, his arms crossed and a knowing smirk on his face. He was still wearing the same hoodie and sweats he’d changed into after coming home from the hospital, but somehow, he looked effortlessly handsome.

“Check what?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“The trophy,” he said, nodding toward the one in her hand. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been eyeing it ever since we came home.”

Colette raised an eyebrow. “You tell a girl you hid her engagement ring in there, what did you expect, Verstappen,” she teased him. 

“You are right,” Max agreed seriously, with a nod, plucking Charlie from her arms to put her in the Moses Basket they had put next to the couch.

And then he plucked that trophy from the shelve, only to upend it until a velvet box came tumbling down. 

Colette’s breath caught as he flipped it open to reveal a stunning ring—a delicate gold band, not unlike the one he’d given her all those years ago, but this time, the diamond was much larger, more brilliant. It sparkled in the light, catching every angle perfectly.

Her free hand flew to her mouth as her eyes welled up with tears. “Max…”

“Shush. Let me do this right,” he teased her, as he got down on one knee. “I had this for months,” he told her. “I thought about giving it to you after the Monaco Grand Prix, then after the championship celebration, but none of those moments felt right. This—bringing Charlie home—this feels right.”

Colette could only nod, too overcome with emotion to speak.

“I know we’ve been doing things our own way,” he said with a small smile. “And I wouldn’t change a single thing. But this... this is my way of saying I’m all in, for the rest of my life. With you. With Charlie. With everything that comes next.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she finally found her voice. “You didn’t have to do this. You already gave me everything I ever wanted.”

“And now I’m giving you a little bit more,” he said seriously. “So. Colette Marie Eugénie Veronique Leclerc, will you do me the incredible honour of becoming my wife?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Max reached for her left hand, his fingers brushing over hers as he carefully slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly, just as she knew it would.

“You even got the order of my names right,” she teased him, as he stood up and he snorted as he pulled her into a hug. 

“Hush,” he gave back, pressing a kiss to her temple. 

They stood there for a moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, the trophy forgotten on the shelf and the ring gleaming on her finger.

In the bassinet, Charlie let out a tiny squeak, and they both turned to look at her, their smiles growing.

“She approves,” Colette said with a laugh.

Max chuckled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Of course she does. She’s a Verstappen.”

As they sat down together, Colette resting her head against Max’s shoulder, they couldn’t help but marvel at the life they’d built. 

It had been a long journey to get here, but every step had been worth it.

I feel like TWIG needs some angst so imagine George finding out that you and your little ones got into a car accident

You are so right, anon 💕 Sorry it took me a bit to get to this one but I had to make sure I was in the writing mindset for angst!!

Warnings: Minor descriptions of car crash, injuries, and shock

It wasn’t quite the same as the real thing; stuffed in a replica of the recent Mercedes chassis facing a large arched screen displaying the virtual circuit of Baku. After almost a decade in the sport, George could have driven those streets with his eyes closed but he knew there was no place for cockiness behind the wheel. Every turn and choice must be meticulously calculated and perfected to pull every second out of the care safely. 

He was just starting another flying lap in the sim when the tone of the speaker tore him from his focus. One of the technicians spoke to him through the windowed wall of the simulator booth,  “George, your phone keeps ringing out here. It’s your wife. Why don’t you take five?”

A spark of concern flickered in his chest, wondering why you were calling multiple times when you rarely so much as messaged him when he was at the factory. He climbed out of the simulator and stepped through the door into the adjacent room that held a few long desks stocked with computers housing impressive data sets and graphs. The employees that took up the seats kept their attention on studying the results of the session while George picked up his phone from where he had left it at the table at the back. 

He noticed three missed calls from you and before he could call you back, his screen filled with your name and contact image with another incoming call. The urgency had his stomach churning and he stepped out into the hallway for a moment of privacy as he answered it.

“Hey, my love, sorry, I was in the sim.” he spoke into the phone, trying not to sound too worried, “Is everything okay?” 

“Hey, yeah, we’re okay,” you answered. 

He could hear the tension in your voice, the slight waver to your words. Somewhere in the distance, there was chatter and the muffled sound of an announcement. 

“I just…” you tried to continue but your words seemed to halt. 

George sat down in a chair in one of the small lounges in the factory, “Love, what is it? You’re scaring me.”

“Sorry,” you breathed, your exhale shaky, “I’m with the kids at the hospital. We, uh…there was…fuck.”

He could tell how shaken you were by the fact you were unable to even piece sentences together but the fact he was only being given bits of the story was sending him into a spiral. With a tight breath, he pressed urgently, “Are you okay? Are they okay?”

“Yeah, no, yeah, we’re fine.” you assured him quickly, “Some bruises but…we’re all fine. Just…got into a little car accident. Came here to be checked out just in case.”

George was filled with equal parts relief and dread. Relief that you were all okay but dread that there had been enough of an accident to have you think about going to the hospital to get checked out. He didn’t even have to think about it before he stood up from the bench and started back down the hallway towards his private room, replying, “Okay…okay, my love, I’m on my way, alright? I have your location, I’ll head to you right now. Stay put, okay?”

“Okay,” you echoed in an exhale lined with a moment of relief, “Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh my God, baby, do not be sorry. I’m just glad you’re okay. I just have to change and I’m coming right to you now.”

“Okay, I love you.”

The shock-stemmed flatness of your voice was chilling.

“I love you too,” George replied easily, his tone extra warm and gentle, “I’ll see you soon.”

He was sure he had never changed faster in his life, tugging off his sim-ready race suit in exchange for his street clothes before he had even alerted his team that he had to go. When he returned to the simulator room to say he was leaving and why, he didn’t even wait for a response before he was closing the door behind him and making a beeline for the stairs of the factory. 

The parking lot of the Brackley headquarters was packed but George’s reserved parking spot wasn’t too far from the front doors of the building. He checked your location on his brisk walk to his car, zooming in on the map to see what hospital you were at and, once he was sitting behind the wheel, he typed the location into the GPS in his car. 

It was ironically a sunny day in England that day, the roads dry and clear as he navigated through the countryside from Brackley to Cambridge. He silently cursed the hour-and-a-half drive as his impatience was settling on his shoulders but he didn’t let it deter him from focusing on the roads ahead. The piece of mind came with the awareness that you were okay.

Once he was parked outside the Addenbrooke Hospital on the southern point of the city of Cambridge, he was hurrying across the lot towards the entry doors, phone pressed to his ear as he called you. You directed him to where you were waiting and once he emerged through the double doors into the waiting room of the wing you were in, his heart was racing. 

You stood from your chair at the sight of him and he rushed to meet you, swallowing you up in a careful embrace. You clung onto him tightly, fingers clutching the back of his shirt and your eyes screwed shut as you buried your face in his neck. He could feel your heavy sigh of relief in his arms as if the tension and stress had been completely dissipated from your body with a simple hug from him. 

Across the waiting room, your two children were distracted by some toys in the corner, playing together, unbothered, as if it were just another day. Watching them for a moment over your shoulder, the only thing George could notice about them was the blue bandaid on your son’s temple.

You pulled away from his embrace a little, voice still a little shaky from the shock as you updated him on the well-being of your children, “She’s the best out of the three of us, basically completely unharmed. Little guy’s cut was from the impact…hitting just the right part of his carseat. I took the worst of it.”

George tore his attention away from the children to look back at you, finally getting a proper look at you up close. It was then that he noticed the bruising over your nose and down your right cheek and jaw, colouring your skin in purples and greens. His eyes trailed down your profile to where you held out your trembling hands, your right wrist wrapped in a bandage.

“Just a minor sprain,” you assured him before he could worry too much. You tried to make light of it with a soft, “The paramedic said it was likely from how hard I was holding onto the wheel when we were hit. She said it was like my ‘mama bear’ instincts took over, trying to keep control of the car the best I could.”

George pulled in a shaky breath and moved back in to hug you again if needing to feel you there, that you were really okay. Your arms smoothly wrapped around his shoulders as he pulled you close, both of you just holding onto each other for a moment. 

“What happened?” George finally asked. He felt as though he had been keeping that question on the tip of his tongue since you had first called him, wanting to know but also wanting to save himself from knowing the cold hard truth. 

You sniffled and pulled back just enough to look at him, although your eyes were downcast as if in shame, “Some idiot made a right turn at an intersection without looking. I braked and swerved just enough to not get entirely t-boned but he hit almost directly on the front driver's side. Hence,”

You held up your sprained wrist.

“Saved the kiddies though.” you mumbled. 

George gently set a hand on your face and pulled you in to press a kiss to your head as if he could pour all his love into that simple action. 

The power behind it had your eyes welling with tears and you whispered out a shaky, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

George tenderly trailed the back of his finger over your uninjured cheek to swipe away a stray tear, “What on earth do you have to be sorry about right now?”

“We took your C63.” you whimpered, another heavy tear dripping down your cheek, “It’s…so fucked. So, so fucked. I know how much you love it…how much you protect it and I didn’t think—”

“Shhh,” George hushed you softly, gently rubbing your biceps comfortingly as he stared into your tear-filled eyes, “The last thing on my mind right now is the car. I hadn’t once thought about the car since you called me. You, the kids…that’s all I care about right now. That’s all I care about ever.”

“Okay,” you choked out through a sob, lifting your hands to hide your face as you burst into tears in the middle of the hospital waiting room. 

George’s arms encircled you and he pressed another kiss to your head, cradling you against his chest and surrounding you with his love and comfort. As much as he adored that car, he truly didn’t care about it in that moment as he held you in his arms. He had trusted you with it, knowing you were always a safe driver, but the one thing that he always knew was the scariest part of driving was that you can’t control what anyone else on the road does.

As he held you, he whispered words of reassurance to you, reminding you with a serious, “We can fix up a car…we can get a new car…but I can’t get a new you.”

His comfort had the damns breaking, causing you to let out your bottled up emotions into his neck with a sobbing, “I was so scared.” 

His heart nearly broke at your confession and he rubbed his hand over your back, comforting you in the only way he knew how and the only way he could offer, “I know, my love. I’m here. I got you.”

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White Horse - Chapter 23: June 2024 - Part 4

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The smell of fresh croissants filled the apartment by the time Belle heard the knock at the door.

She padded barefoot across the kitchen tiles, hair still messy from sleep, and opened it to find Emilie standing there — oversized sunglasses perched on her head, a tote bag dangling from one arm, and a smug, very satisfied smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"You brought pastries," Belle said, immediately stepping aside to let her in.

"I also bring gossip," Emilie said, sweeping dramatically into the kitchen. "And judgment. Lots of judgment."

Belle laughed under her breath and grabbed two mugs from the shelf. "Coffee?"

"Obviously," Emilie said, dropping the tote on the counter. "You’ll need it for this."

Belle handed her a cup and sat down at the table, folding her legs beneath her. "Okay, what did you do?"

Emilie beamed. "I may or may not have verbally eviscerated Charles last night."

Belle blinked. "You what?"

"Ran into him and Alexandra while you were busy being majestic and ignoring his fifty desperate texts," Emilie said, taking a sip of coffee like she hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb into the kitchen. "He stomped over, full of righteous panic, and I… handled it."

Belle covered her mouth with her hand, trying not to choke on a laugh. "Handled it how?"

"I told him," Emilie said sweetly, "that maybe, just maybe, if he had spent half as much time seeing you as he does now trying to fix his own guilt, he wouldn't be in this mess."

Belle’s eyebrows shot up. "You said that?"

"And more," Emilie said brightly. "I told him he doesn’t get to be upset about the horse. Or the apartment. Or the job. Because every one of those things was him not noticing, not you hiding."

Belle stared at her, heart twisting — with affection, with shock, with a deep, raw kind of gratitude she couldn’t quite put into words.

"You’re terrifying," Belle said softly.

Emilie grinned. "And yet you love me."

"I do," Belle admitted, smiling even as she felt the sting of tears at the back of her throat. "I really, really do."

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes — Belle tearing apart a croissant, Emilie scrolling through her phone — before Emilie casually said, "Oh, and by the way, I also had a date last night."

Belle blinked. "You what?"

Emilie sipped her coffee like it was no big deal. "With Lando."

Belle nearly dropped her croissant. "With—LANDO?"

"Don’t yell," Emilie said, laughing. "You’ll scare the cats."

Belle gaped at her. "You had a date with Lando Norris and you’re just… casually dropping that like it’s nothing?"

"I mean, it’s not nothing," Emilie said, suddenly a little shy, cheeks pinking. "It was… nice. Really nice."

Belle set her coffee down carefully. "You like him."

"I might," Emilie admitted, voice soft. "I really might."

Belle sat back, a slow, warm smile spreading across her face. "You deserve nice."

Emilie shrugged, but she was smiling too. "He makes me laugh. A lot. And he listens. And he doesn’t… I don’t know. He doesn’t expect me to be anything but what I am."

Belle reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "That sounds pretty good to me."

"It is," Emilie said, squeezing back. 

"And if he hurts you, I’m telling Max," Belle added. 

Emilie laughed — a real one, full and bright and fierce. "Please do."

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

Belle: Hi Lando Emilie told me you two had a date recently.

Lando: 😳 uh yeah we did

Lando: I swear I was a perfect gentleman. Please don't kill me.

Belle: I'm not going to kill you. I just wanted to say something.

Lando: okay (this feels scarier somehow)

Belle: Emilie is one of the kindest and strongest people I know. She’s had enough people treat her like she’s second choice, or temporary, or just an option. I won’t let anyone add to that.

Lando: I would NEVER I mean it I really like her

Belle: Good. Because if you hurt her — if you make her doubt even for a second that she’s loved— you’ll be answering to me.

Belle: And I may not shout. I may not make a scene. But I promise you — you will know exactly how thoroughly you've disappointed me.

Lando: understood

Belle: I believe in people getting second chances. But I also believe in protecting the people who matter. Emilie matters. So if you care about her — really care — don’t let her ever question that.

Belle: That's all. Thank you for listening.

Lando: yes ma'am I promise I really do like her. A lot.

Belle: Then show her. Every day.

Lando: I will.

Lando: Also I think you might be scarier than Max.

***

Max balanced the box of pastries in one hand and rang the doorbell with the other, Belle tucked close to his side.

From inside, he could already hear the low thud of feet — Luka, probably, trying to beat everyone else to the door. There was a scramble, a shout, and then Tom's voice, stern but fond, cutting through the noise: "Let her answer it properly, boys!"

Belle smiled up at Max, her hand slipping into his as the door finally swung open.

Victoria stood there, baby Hailey cradled against her chest in a wrap, her hair in a messy bun and an exhausted but beaming smile on her face.

"You’re late," Victoria teased, stepping aside to let them in. "I was starting to think you got lost."

"We had to detour for these," Max said, holding up the pastries.

Victoria snorted. "Bribery. Classic."

Inside, the house looked like chaos disguised as domestic bliss — toys strewn across the living room, Luka and Lio arguing good-naturedly over a pile of Lego, Tom trying (and failing) to get them to clean up before guests arrived.

"Uncle Max!" Luka cried, barreling into him.

Max huffed as the kid hit his side like a tiny missile but grinned and ruffled his hair. "Hey, champ."

Belle crouched to greet Lio properly, getting a shy grin in return before he wrapped himself around her leg like a barnacle.

Max’s heart twisted — the sight of Belle, already so natural, so gentle with the kids, even now. 

Victoria plopped down on the couch, motioning them over. "Come on. Come meet your niece properly."

Belle followed, a little hesitant, while Max dropped the pastries on the table and shrugged off his jacket. Sophie appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel and greeting them both with kisses on the cheek.

"You're looking well," Sophie said kindly to Belle, squeezing her hand. "Keeping it all together, I see."

Belle just smiled — small, soft, almost bashful. Max knew the truth behind that smile. Knew how much it cost sometimes to keep it together.

Victoria grinned wickedly and, without warning, untied Hailey from the wrap and thrust her gently into Belle’s arms.

"Practice," she said, laughing when Belle let out a startled breath.

Belle blinked down at the tiny bundle, hands adjusting instinctively. Hailey made a soft cooing sound and settled immediately against her chest, tiny fingers curling into the fabric of Belle’s sweater.

Max sat down beside them, watching Belle like he was memorizing the moment.

It felt like the right time.

He slid his hand onto Belle’s knee, grounding her, smiling when she glanced at him — a question in her eyes.

He nodded, barely a tilt of his head.

Belle took a deep breath, looking down at Hailey, and then up at Victoria and Sophie.

"I guess we’ll need the practice," she said quietly.

Victoria paused mid-sip of her coffee. "What?"

Belle’s cheeks pinked. She shifted Hailey carefully into Max's arms, and Max cradled the tiny girl easily, used to the weight of something precious.

"We’re having a baby," Belle said, voice trembling but sure.

Silence.

Then Sophie gasped, hands flying to her mouth. Victoria’s coffee cup clattered against the table.

"No," Victoria breathed. "You’re serious?"

Max grinned, pride swelling in his chest. "Completely."

Victoria made a noise — somewhere between a squeal and a gasp — and surged to her feet too.

"Oh my God," Victoria said, practically vibrating. "Are you serious? You’re serious??"

Belle smiled — small but real — and Max thought he might physically explode from how proud he was of her.

"About three months," Belle said quietly.

Victoria burst into happy tears immediately. Tom wandered into the room just in time to see her practically tackle Belle in a careful, weepy hug.

“You sneaky little thing!” Victoria cried. “You didn’t say anything!”

Belle laughed, breathless and teary all at once, hugging her back.

Sophie was still standing frozen for a moment — and then she crossed the room in three strides and pressed her hands gently to Belle’s cheeks, her smile breaking wide and a little broken.

"I’m so happy for you," Sophie whispered, voice thick. “My sweet girl. You’re going to be such a good mom.”

Max swallowed hard around the lump in his throat as Belle leaned into it, tears slipping down her own cheeks.

Victoria clapped her hands once, bright and chaotic. "This is amazing!" she said. "Luka! Lio! You’re going to have a new baby cousin!"

Luka whooped and ran in circles around the couch. Lio just grinned shyly and latched back onto Belle’s leg.

***

The late afternoon light slanted warm through the apartment windows, dust motes swirling lazily in the golden air. Belle sat cross-legged on the couch, wearing one of Max’s Red Bull hoodies — it nearly swallowed her whole — flipping idly through a book she hadn’t really been reading.

Max was stretched out beside her, long legs hanging off the edge, his hand absently tracing the seam of the couch between them. It was quiet in the way it only ever was with him — no pressure to fill the space, no need to perform. Just breathing, just being.

Belle felt him shift, roll onto his side to face her. She looked up from her book and smiled automatically, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Max hesitated.

Then, in a voice so soft it made her chest ache, he said, "Can I...?"

His hand hovered mid-air between them, uncertain. And for a second Belle didn’t understand — until she realized his eyes weren’t on her face.

They were on her stomach.

Still flat. Still unchanged. But growing. Quietly, invisibly.

Their baby.

Belle’s breath caught in her throat.

She nodded, just once, not trusting herself to speak.

Max moved carefully, like she was made of something fragile. His palm settled, featherlight, against the soft curve of her belly — and he exhaled a shaky little laugh, pressing his forehead against her shoulder.

"You can’t feel anything yet," Belle whispered, smiling into his hair.

"I know," Max said, his voice low and reverent. "But you're there. Both of you."

Belle let the book slip from her hands and wrapped her arms around him instead, feeling the way he cradled her so instinctively — like she was precious. Like she was his whole world.

After a long moment, Max pulled back slightly, still resting his hand against her.

"It’ll take a while before you show, won’t it?" he asked, voice gentle, almost reverent.

She nodded, smiling wetly. "First pregnancies usually do. Maybe not until four or five months in."

Max made a soft, thoughtful noise, still tracing tiny circles with his thumbs. "Good," he said. "More time to enjoy it before everyone starts trying to figure it out."

Belle laughed shakily, threading her fingers into his hair. "They’ll have to get through you first."

The look in his eyes — tender, fierce, protective — made something tighten in Belle’s chest. A thought that had been lingering there for days, tugging quietly at the corners of her mind.

Max was leaving soon.

 Flying to Spain for the Grand Prix.

 Another weekend of cameras, flashing lights, noise — and pretending.

Pretending she didn’t exist.

 Pretending this didn’t exist.

Belle bit her lip, heart thudding a little too hard against her ribs.

It wasn’t just about the hiding anymore.

 It wasn’t about keeping things private for their own peace.

 It was about the quiet ache of being invisible. Of loving and being loved and still acting like she had to apologize for it.

She could handle being unknown to the world.

 But she didn’t want to be invisible to it — not when Max was the best, most real thing she had ever dared to hold.

"I don't want to hide anymore," she said suddenly, the words spilling out before fear could swallow them down.

Max blinked, startled, lifting his head properly to look at her — really look at her.

 Like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"You don’t have to," he said immediately.

 No hesitation.

 No question.

 Just simple, devastating certainty.

Belle’s heart twisted painfully at the way he said it — like there had never been another option in his mind. Like loving her in the open was as natural to him as breathing.

She smiled — a little shaky, but sure. Anchored by him. By them.

"We don’t have to announce everything," she said, voice low but steady. "Not the baby. Not yet."

Her hand slid down to cover his, where it still rested over the soft, flat plane of her stomach — a touch so gentle it made her ache.

"But... us," Belle said, eyes searching his. "Our marriage. You. Me. I’m tired of pretending you’re not my home."

Max’s entire face softened — the kind of rare, quiet smile he only ever gave her.

 Like something sacred.

 Like something permanent.

"Okay," he said simply, voice rough around the edges. "Okay. We'll tell them."

And just like that, Belle exhaled — slowly, shakily — a breath she'd been holding for too long.

Not because she didn’t trust Max. But because she was finally starting to trust herself.

To trust that loving someone openly didn’t make her a burden. That maybe — just maybe — she could take up space without needing permission.

Belle leaned forward and kissed him — slow and sure — and Max kissed her back like he was promising her something without words. Like he was stitching the vow right into her bones.

No more hiding. No more shrinking. No more apologizing for what they had built.

Just them. Together.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: Hey. Are you free to come to the Spanish Grand Prix?

Jos: I can be. Why?

Max: Belle and I are going public. About the marriage.

Jos: ...Finally. About time.

Max: Yeah, well. We wanted it to be ours first, you know?

Jos: I get it. What do you need from me?

Max: Honestly? Run a little interference. The media’s going to lose their minds. And Charles… ...Charles might combust.

Jos: You mean Charles is going to make it worse by running around like a headless chicken.

Max: Basically.

Jos: I’ll handle it. I'll be there. I’ll keep the worst of it off Belle.

Max: Thanks, Papa.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Heads up. Belle’s coming to the Spanish GP.

Lando: WAIT WHAT

Lando: LIKE ACTUALLY IN THE PADDOCK???

Max: Yes.

Lando: HOLY SHIT

Lando: MAX. MAX YOU CANNOT JUST DROP THAT ON ME LIKE THAT.

Max: What, did you think I was going to keep her hidden forever?

Lando: I mean YES???

Lando: BRO YOU GOT SECRET MARRIED AND YOU’RE JUST LIKE "oh btw here’s my wife" AT A WHOLE GRAND PRIX???

Max: Exactly. Soft launch. Race weekend edition.

Lando: THIS IS NOT A SOFT LAUNCH. THIS IS A NUCLEAR LAUNCH.

Max: You'll survive.

Lando: Will I?? Charles might physically explode on track. And the entire grid is going to lose their minds.

Max: Good. They deserve a little excitement.

Lando: I’m not emotionally prepared for this level of chaos.

Max: Too late. Prepare yourself.

Lando: I NEED A SUIT. AND ARMOR. AND POPCORN.

Max: Belle likes popcorn. Maybe bring some.

Lando: I'M TAKING THIS VERY SERIOUSLY, MAX.

Max: So am I. See you in Barcelona, mate.

Lando: I’m going to faint.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: 🚨🚨🚨 EMERGENCY 🚨🚨🚨

Oscar: Oh no what now

George: You can't just start like that and expect me not to panic.

Daniel: I LIVE for this energy. Continue.

Lando: Belle is coming to the Spanish GP. IN THE PADDOCK. WITH MAX. OFFICIALLY.

Lewis: ...well. That’s one way to drop a bomb.

Carlos: Wait, WAIT. Publicly?

Lando: YES.

Oscar: oh my god.

Lance: Charles is gonna combust like an overheated engine.

Zhou: Charles is going to find out and collapse in parc fermé.

Fernando: I'd pay money to see it happen live.

Nico H: Is anyone placing bets on HOW he finds out?

George: He’s either going to see them together and short-circuit or he's going to hear the rumors swirling and spiral in slow motion.

Daniel: Imagine him walking into the paddock, seeing Max holding Belle’s hand, and just… Rage quitting life.

Sebastian: Peace and love, but Charles needs to sit down and shut up. 

Lando: I am 100% recording his reaction. I don’t even care anymore.

Oscar: Charles: "Hey Belle, why are you in the paddock??" Belle: "I'm with my husband." Charles: System error. Please reboot.

Lewis: Someone get medical personnel on standby.

Carlos: I'M STILL PROCESSING THIS He doesn’t even know Max married her yet. He still thinks Belle’s secret boyfriend is sugar daddy Fernando. 

Zhou: No but seriously. WHO is going to tell Charles??

Daniel: It’s going to hit him like a freight train of bad decisions.

Oscar: We need an over/under on how long he lasts before he confronts Max.

Lewis: Five minutes tops.

George: Two minutes if Belle is holding Max's hand.

Alex: Negative five seconds if they kiss.

Fernando: I want a front row seat. No regrets.

Carlos: I kinda hope Max punches him first if he says anything stupid.

Daniel: You say that like Max wouldn’t absolutely end him with one (1) look.

Lando: I’m bringing popcorn.

Oscar: I’m bringing a camera.

Zhou: I'm bringing bail money.

Lewis: And I’m bringing peace and emotional support. (And also a camera.)

Mark: This is going to be biblical.

Nico R: If Charles survives it without crying, it’ll be a miracle.

Daniel: Imagine forgetting your sister’s birthday, her horse, her marriage, and then getting bodied by reality in one weekend. Elite.

George: This is going to be the greatest off-track drama of the season.

Carlos: And we get to watch it unfold in 4K.

Sebastian: Prayers for Charles.He’s going to need them.

Oscar: Charles isn't surviving this.

George: Neither am I tbh.

Lando: see you all in Spain let the games BEGIN.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Guess what. 

Emilie: 👀 What??

Belle: I’m going to Spain with Max. To the Grand Prix. Officially.

Emilie: WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT LIKE… WALKING INTO THE PADDOCK AS MRS. VERSTAPPEN OFFICIALLY OFFICIALLY?? 😭

Belle: Yes. We’re not announcing the baby yet. Just… us. No more hiding. No more pretending.

Emilie: I’M SCREAMING internally because I’m in public and I don’t want to get arrested but STILL

Belle: 😂😂😂

Emilie: I am so proud of you, Belle. So, so proud. You’re going to walk in there and light the place up and Max is going to look at you like you hung the stars.

Belle: He already does. 🥹

Emilie: DID YOU WANT ME TO CRY AT THE GROCERY STORE?? BECAUSE MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

Belle: 😂 Sorry not sorry. (Also… any outfit suggestions for my "Hey, I'm married to a World Champion" debut? 👀)

Emilie: DON’T MOVE. I’m pulling outfit options right now. We’re about to make Monaco’s most famous secret the event of the weekend.

Belle:  Thank you for always being in my corner. 🖤

Emilie: Always. Now let’s pick a dress that’s going to make half the paddock faint. 😘

***

The doorbell rang, followed almost immediately by the sound of keys jingling and a familiar voice calling, "Don't panic, it's just me — and I'm armed."

Belle laughed, rising from the couch just as Emilie shouldered her way into the apartment, arms overflowing with shopping bags. Designer logos peeked from between brown paper and bright ribboned handles. Emilie kicked the door shut with one foot and dropped the pile dramatically onto the coffee table with a satisfied huff.

"I come bearing offerings," she declared.

Belle raised an eyebrow. "You robbed an entire mall?"

"Selective raiding," Emilie said sweetly. "And it’s called urgent fashion triage, thank you very much."

Belle shook her head, grinning as she started rifling through the bags. Soft silks, crisp white linens, sunlit yellows and rich blues — it was like someone had bottled the Spanish sun and turned it into clothes.

"You didn’t have to," Belle said softly, touched despite herself.

"I wanted to," Emilie said, plopping down onto the couch and already pulling out outfit combinations. "You’re about to walk into your first race weekend publicly as Mrs. Verstappen. You deserve to look and feel like a goddess while doing it."

Belle smiled, the word Mrs. Verstappen settling warm and giddy under her skin.

"And," Emilie added slyly, "it’s not like I needed much of an excuse for retail therapy."

Belle nudged her playfully with her foot. "You could always come too, you know. To the race."

Emilie gave her a look.

"I’m serious," Belle said, teasing. "Spain. Sunshine. Chaos. You could watch Lando drive. In person. Maybe even cheer him on."

Emilie snorted, but the tips of her ears turned suspiciously pink. "I am not that far gone," she said primly.

"Uh-huh," Belle hummed, utterly unconvinced. “Didn’t you watch a whole Twitch stream last week just to watch someone play virtual golf?”

"Shut up!" Emilie insisted, tossing a silk scarf at her. "Besides, Lando has a job to do. And so do I — making sure you don’t accidentally show up to the paddock in, like, a ballgown."

Belle laughed, holding the scarf up against herself. "Don’t worry, I am not planning ont that."

They spent the next hour going through outfits — laughing, discarding things, planning. Belle felt lighter with every minute, like the fear and tension of the last few weeks were finally cracking open to make room for something else.

When Emilie made her try on a soft linen dress and spun her around to admire her in the mirror, Belle caught her own reflection — flushed cheeks, bright eyes, the smallest, secretive curve of a smile.

She almost didn’t recognize herself.

Almost.

But this version — the one standing taller, shining quietly, no longer shrinking — this was who Max loved.

This was who she was meant to be.

And she wasn’t going to hide anymore. ***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Heads up. I’m bringing Belle to Spain.

GP: Hold on. Like… bringing her bringing her? Publicly?

Max: Yeah. No more hiding.

GP: Max. Have you thought this through? The timing, the media, the team — And, oh, I don’t know, maybe CHARLES??

Max: He’s not a factor. Not after how he treated her.

GP: I get it. Believe me, I get it. But you realize this is going to set off a bomb, right?

Max: Maybe it should.

GP: Max—

Max: He didn’t just forget her birthday. He forgot her. For years. He doesn’t get to dictate when or how Belle gets to be seen.

GP: (three dots appearing) (long pause)

GP: Okay. If you’re sure, I’m with you.

Max: I’m sure. We’re done pretending she’s not my wife.

GP: Alright. Just warning you — Christian and Gemma are going to have a heart attack. I’ll bring popcorn.

Max: Bring tequila too. For Christian. He’s going to need it.

GP: Noted.

GP: And Max? Good for you. She deserves to be seen.

Max: She deserves everything.

***

Max sank into the chair across from Christian’s desk, casually tossing a Red Bull can from hand to hand like he had all the time in the world.

Christian Horner leaned back in his chair with a sigh that sounded both long-suffering and suspicious. Across the table, Gemma — Red Bull’s long-suffering PR manager — tapped her pen against her notepad nervously, already bracing herself for whatever Max was about to drop into their laps.

Next to her, GP looked disturbingly calm, which only made Christian more suspicious.

Max finally set the can down, grinning faintly.

"So," he said, with all the innocent charm of a man about to light a building on fire, "I’m bringing Belle to the Spanish Grand Prix."

Silence.

Christian blinked.

 Gemma stopped tapping her pen mid-air.

 GP just nodded slightly, like he'd known this was coming for weeks. (Because he had.)

Christian leaned forward slowly, hands folded neatly. "When you say ‘bring Belle’..."

Max shrugged, far too nonchalant. "I mean bring her. Publicly."

Christian stared at him for a beat. "As in... she's coming as your wife."

Max grinned wider. "Exactly."

Another heavy pause.

Gemma looked like she was calculating seventeen separate crisis plans in her head.

Christian opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

"And," Christian said carefully, "does Charles know yet?"

Max leaned back in his chair, utterly relaxed. "Nope."

Gemma made a small, audible squeak.

Christian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Max."

Max shrugged again, unbothered. "He had plenty of time."

"And he still doesn’t know?"

"Nope."

Christian exchanged a long look with GP, who simply lifted his coffee cup like you’re the one who wanted to manage Max, not me.

Gemma finally found her voice. "Are you planning to tell him before Belle walks into the paddock in Barcelona wearing a Red Bull pass and a ring?"

Max tilted his head, pretending to think about it. "I mean... should I?"

"YES," Christian and Gemma said at the same time.

GP just sipped his coffee and smiled.

"Max," Christian said slowly, like he was explaining something to a very excitable cat, "you realize this is going to break the internet."

Max grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Good."

"Belle is Charles Leclerc’s sister," Gemma stressed. "And you — you’re you."

"Which is why I married her," Max said simply, like it was obvious.

Christian scrubbed a hand over his face. "Do you have any idea the PR nightmare this could be?"

Max's grin widened. "Or," he said, "it could be great for the team. Verstappen and Leclerc bloodlines finally uniting. Think of the headlines."

Gemma looked like she was about to pass out.

Christian sat back, muttering something about needing a drink.

Max just leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, voice suddenly quieter but infinitely more serious.

"I’m not hiding her anymore," he said. "We agreed. She deserves better than that."

And despite everything — the chaos, the incoming storm — Christian found himself softening.

Because for all his recklessness, Max Verstappen had always been terrifyingly clear when it came to the people he loved.

"Alright," Christian sighed, raising his hands in surrender. "Bring your wife."

Max’s smile turned into something real, something proud.

"And Max?" Christian added as he stood.

Max glanced up.

"Maybe... maybe text Charles first."

Max smirked. "I’ll think about it."

GP, sipping his coffee: "He won't."

Gemma, resigned: "We’re going to need extra security, aren’t we?"

Christian: "And maybe a therapist on standby."

Max just whistled, hands tucked behind his head, already picturing Belle in his garage, wearing his team colors, no longer a secret.

Finally, finally, where she belonged.

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Luke Crane: Alright, boys, ready to get smoked by Max again?

Chris Lulham: Speak for yourself. I’ve been training.

Gianni Vecchio: Training what, exactly? Snack-eating speed?

Max: (laughs quietly) Just try to keep up.

Luke: (mock serious) Max, now that you’re a married man, you should slow down for us mortals.

Chris: Yeah, about that— Max. Max. Are we ever gonna talk about that?

Gianni: Yeah, mate. "Oh, I’m married," casually dropped in the middle of a press conference like you were ordering lunch.

Chris: You just YOLO’d your marriage announcement. No names, no details, just vibes.

Max: (grinning) Was there supposed to be a PowerPoint?

Luke: YES.

Gianni: Honestly, yes. Slides. Charts. Maybe a dramatic reveal with smoke machines.

Chris: At least a "guess who?" game. We deserve that much.

Max: (smirking) You’ll meet her soon.

Gianni: (suspicious) When is "soon"? Before 2040?

Max: (grinning wider) Spain.

Chris: Spain what?

Max: I’m bringing her to the Spanish Grand Prix.

Chat: 

SHE’S COMING TO THE SPANISH GP

OMG THE MYSTERY WILL BE SOLVED

WE’LL FINALLY MEET MRS VERSTAPPEN

Chris: (wheezing) WAIT WHAT.

Gianni: You’re bringing your wife to a race weekend?

Max: (shrugs casually) Yeah. Thought it was time.

Luke: (mock offended) Wow. Betrayal. We get a cryptic marriage announcement and now a surprise reveal.

Gianni: No hints? No clues? No scavenger hunt?

Max: (laughing) Nope. You’ll see.

[Chaos continues with chaotic racing and Max being suspiciously smug.]

[About 45 minutes into the stream…] [Soft knock. Belle’s hand appears in frame — a mug of tea sliding onto Max’s desk.]

Gianni: (high alert) WAIT. WHO WAS THAT.

Luke: Was that THE WIFE???

Chris: ENHANCE. ENHANCE.  CLIP IT. CLIP IT IMMEDIATELY.

Max: (without missing a beat) Thanks, Schatje.

Chat: 

GUYS THAT WAS HER HAND I’M NOT OKAY

MAX SOFT LAUNCHING HIS WIFE VIA TEACUP DELIVERY I’M SCREAMING

"Thanks, Schatje" I’M SOBBINGGGG

HE SOUNDS SO IN LOVE WTF

She’s the real MVP bringing him tea mid-race 😭😭

Gianni: Max, you just BROKE the internet with a hand cameo.

Chris: Soft launch supremacy.

Luke: I need to know everything immediately.

Gianni: If Spain isn’t a full reveal, I’m rioting.

Max: (smirking into his mic) Be patient.

****

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1MemeHub:  MAX JUST SOFT LAUNCHED HIS WIFE WITH A TEACUP DELIVERY LIVE ON STREAM 😭😭😭 "Thanks, schatje." I'm NOT OKAY.

@/GridGossip:  Max: "You'll meet her soon." Also Max: casually introduces her hand and then acts like it’s a normal Tuesday. THE SPANISH GP IS ABOUT TO BE HISTORIC.

@/TifosiTears:  Not to be dramatic but if we don't get a full face reveal of Mrs. Verstappen at the Spanish GP I'm organizing a formal protest outside Red Bull HQ.

@/SoftLaunchDetective: The fact that he called her "Schatje" in front of thousands of people and didn’t blink??? That’s LOVE your honor. That’s SOULMATES.

@/F1WivesClub: Me: I don't care about the drivers' personal lives

Max Verstappen, midstream: "Thanks, schatje."

Also me: building a shrine to Mrs. Verstappen immediately

@/mysterymrsverstappen: Hello yes this account is now entirely dedicated to figuring out who Mrs. Verstappen is. Applications for sleuths open now.

↳ @/GridGossip:  Are we 100% sure it’s not Isabelle Leclerc?

***

The sun was already low by the time Belle found Max in the living room, stretched out on the couch with Jimmy curled on his chest and his phone in one hand. He looked up immediately when she approached, setting everything aside without hesitation.

She hesitated at the edge of the rug, twisting the hem of her sweater between her fingers.

Max sat up straighter, instantly alert. "Belle? What's wrong?"

She shook her head quickly. "Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I just—" She swallowed, breathing through it. "I was wondering if you could... if you would come somewhere with me tomorrow."

Max’s eyes softened. "Anywhere."

Belle smiled faintly but didn’t move closer yet. The words were heavier than she expected, even though she’d thought about them all day.

"It’s... the anniversary of my father’s death," she said quietly.

Max didn’t interrupt. Just waited, the way he always did when she needed time to find her words.

"I go every year," Belle continued. "I bring flowers. I sit with him for a while. Just… talk. Tell him what he’s missed." Her voice cracked, and she wrapped her arms around herself. "It’s silly, maybe. But I—I don’t know how not to go."

"It’s not silly," Max said immediately, voice low and certain. "Not even a little."

Belle blinked hard, willing the prickling in her eyes to settle.

"I usually go alone," she whispered. "I always have. But... I don’t want to go alone this year." She hesitated, lifting her gaze to meet his. "Will you come with me?"

Max caught her hands in his, steady and warm.

"Of course I’ll come," he said, like it wasn’t even a question. Like he would’ve followed her to the ends of the earth if she asked.

Belle leaned into him, breathing him in — cedarwood, laundry detergent, and something that was just Max — and let herself be held.

"I want him to meet you," she murmured against his chest, voice small. "Even if it’s just... like this."

Max’s arms tightened around her.

"I’d be honored," he said simply.

Belle closed her eyes.

Maybe this year wouldn’t be quite so lonely after all.

***

The air was crisp and still when they arrived at the small cemetery just outside the city, the afternoon light casting long shadows between the rows of headstones.

Max kept close as Belle walked ahead of him, a simple bouquet of white roses, lavender, eucalyptus cradled in her hands. She moved with a kind of quiet certainty, like her body knew the way by heart even if her mind was somewhere else entirely.

They wove through the headstones until she stopped in front of one — clean, simple, with her father's name carved carefully into the stone.  A small lantern stood by the base, unlit but lovingly maintained, and Max could tell just by looking at it that Belle came here often. That she cared.

He stayed back a respectful step while Belle knelt, arranging the flowers neatly at the foot of the grave.

For a long moment, she just stayed there — head bowed, fingers brushing the stone as if in greeting.

Then, without looking back at Max, she started talking. Softly. Gently. Like she was sitting across from her father at the kitchen table, not kneeling at his grave.

"Hi, Papa," she said, her voice trembling just slightly. "It’s me."

Max felt something tighten in his chest — the rawness of her affection, her grief, her love — so undimmed by time.

"I’m sorry I haven’t been by as much lately," Belle continued. "It’s been a... complicated year."

She smiled, small and sad.

"You wouldn’t believe it," she said, voice light but strained. "Charles won Monaco. And nobody noticed it was my birthday."

Max saw her knuckles whiten slightly where they rested on her knee.

"Not even them," she whispered. "Not even Maman."

She brushed a hand quickly across her cheek, but kept her shoulders straight.

"I waved at Charles in the garage," Belle said. "I smiled. And he smiled back, and he didn’t even know."

Max stepped closer, crouching behind her without touching — just there. Just near enough that if she reached back, he’d be right there.

"I didn’t get angry," Belle said, voice softer now. "I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just... let them forget. And then I walked away."

Her hand touched the stone again, almost like she was offering her father a secret.

"And I’m not alone," she said, a thread of something stronger — pride, maybe — weaving through her voice. "I got married, Papa."

She glanced over her shoulder then, finding Max’s eyes. He smiled — slow, steady — and nodded once, like he was promising he was still right here.

"I married Max," Belle said, turning back to the grave. "You would’ve liked him. He’s... he’s good.  He’s steady in all the ways I needed and never thought I deserved."

Max swallowed thickly, feeling the burn at the back of his throat.

"And," Belle added, after a moment, her hand slipping instinctively to her stomach, "we’re having a baby."

The words hung there, delicate and astonishing.

Belle exhaled shakily.

"I wish you were here," she whispered. "I wish you could meet him. Or her. I don’t know yet."

Max stood, quiet but unmovable behind her, heart thundering with all the things he could feel but couldn't say.

Belle leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently against the cool stone.

"I’m trying, Papa," she said, voice almost breaking. "I’m trying to build something better. A family where nobody feels invisible."

Max’s hands fisted at his sides — not in anger, but in fierce, helpless loyalty to her. He would help her build that. Whatever it took.

Belle stayed like that for another minute — breathing, grounded, tethered to something older and deeper than grief.

Then she sat back, wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket, and turned toward Max.

He crouched down fully this time, opening his arms without a word. She came into them instantly.

For a while, they just stayed like that, kneeling together in the cold grass — Belle tucked into Max’s chest, Max shielding her like he could somehow carry the weight she never should have borne alone.

He pressed a kiss into her hair.

"I’m proud of you," he murmured against her scalp. "He would be too."

Belle nodded against him, and Max felt the faintest smile against his hoodie.

And right there, in the middle of a cemetery, surrounded by stillness and memory, Max knew it more clearly than anything:

Whatever happened — whatever came next — Belle was never going to walk alone again.

Not as long as he was breathing.

***

Lorenzo sat at his kitchen counter, staring at his phone like it might suddenly produce the answers he didn’t have.

The photo was still open on the screen:

 Belle, in a field of soft gold light, her arm tucked gently around the neck of a stunning white mare.

 Fleur.

He knew that name because Belle had written it herself — answering a question of a random user. 

She looked happy.

Peaceful, even.

And God, didn’t that just twist the knife deeper.

Because they hadn't given her that peace.

 They hadn’t even noticed she was still missing it.

It wasn’t the horse that gutted him, not really.

 It was what the horse represented.

The life they’d taken from her when she was thirteen.

 The dreams she never said out loud again, because what was the point?

They sold Blanche.

 They let her sacrifice everything quietly so Charles could race — so

Arthur could race — and none of them had asked her what she wanted in return.

 They just… assumed she’d move on.

But Belle hadn’t moved on.

She’d waited.

She’d mourned.

 And when none of them circled back for her, she found her own way.

Without them.

Without him.

Across the room, his coffee sat untouched. Cold now. Like the pit sitting in his stomach.

Arthur was taking it badly.

 Charles even worse.

Charles had been chewed out by Emilie a few days earlier — that much Lorenzo knew. Charles had tried to brush it off when he called later, voice tight and wounded, but the shame clung to him like smoke. Emilie hadn’t been polite about it, either. She had torn into him, sharp and clear and deserved, and Charles hadn’t even fought back.

Arthur was spiraling in his own way.

 Blaming himself.

 Telling anyone who would listen that he should have noticed Belle wasn’t okay. That he should have seen the signs when she started pulling away. That it was his fault she felt so forgotten.

But it wasn’t Arthur’s fault.

Not entirely.

And it wasn’t Charles’ alone, either.

It was Lorenzo’s.

He was the eldest. The one who was supposed to look out for them all when their father died. The one who was supposed to notice when Isabelle stopped smiling at family dinners. When she started standing a little farther away from them at the tracks. When she stopped volunteering information about her life, one tiny piece at a time, until there was nothing left she offered freely.

He had failed her. Worse than any of them.

Because he should have known. He should have seen her.

He should have protected her — from the weight of being overlooked, from the steady erosion of love measured only in podiums and points and wins.

And he hadn't.

He was ashamed.

Because he should have seen it coming.

 He was the eldest.

He was supposed to watch over them all.

And instead, he had let Belle fade out of their lives like smoke slipping through a crack in the window.

Maman wasn’t handling it well either.

Their mother’s texts to Belle had gone unanswered for days. Her voice on the phone trembled more now, and she had started reaching for familiar things — old traditions, old recipes — like baking a lemon tart would somehow undo the years of not seeing her only daughter clearly.

But no amount of lemon tarts couldn't fix this.

Nothing could fix the years they spent forgetting.

And now?

 Now Belle had a horse again — something he knew, deep down, she had dreamed about every day since the first had been taken from her.

But she hadn’t shared it with them.

She hadn’t shared any of it.

Because they hadn't earned it.

Lorenzo closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the counter.

How had they been so blind?

How had they let it get this bad?

He didn’t know where Belle lived now. He didn’t know who had given her that horse. He didn’t even know if she would ever want to come home again.

But he knew this: She had found happiness without them. And maybe — maybe — she was finally living the life they never thought to fight for on her behalf.

He just didn’t know if he would ever get the chance to tell her he was sorry.

And worse— He wasn’t sure he deserved it.

***

The private jet hummed quietly beneath them, the kind of low, steady sound that usually lulled Belle into a light doze. But not today.

Today, her nerves were a live wire.

She sat curled against Max’s side, his hand resting warm and steady on her thigh, their fingers loosely tangled together. Across from them, Jos Verstappen flipped idly through a magazine, a half-finished cup of coffee forgotten on the table beside him.

It wasn’t that Belle was afraid of Jos.

 He’d been nothing but kind to her — gruff sometimes, but protective in a way that made her feel safe, not small.

Still.

 Telling your father-in-law that you were pregnant — especially when your marriage was still a secret to most of the world — felt a litle daunting.

Max must have felt her tension, because he squeezed her hand, grounding her.

“You ready?” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

Belle nodded — small but firm.

Max leaned forward slightly, clearing his throat. “Dad?”

Jos looked up, eyebrows raised, expectant.

“There’s something we wanted to tell you,” Max said.

Jos set the magazine down slowly. His expression was unreadable — patient, but sharp-eyed in that way that always made Belle feel like he saw more than he said.

Max’s thumb brushed soothing circles against the back of her hand.

Belle took a breath. "I’m pregnant," she said, voice soft but steady.

The words seemed to hang in the air for a second, floating between them, too big and too small all at once.

Jos blinked.

 Once.

 Twice.

Then he leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms slowly — and Belle couldn’t tell if he was about to yell, laugh, or both.

"You’re serious?" he said gruffly, but there was no bite to it — just something thick in his voice, something a little stunned.

Max smiled — that rare, raw smile that he reserved for the few people he trusted most.

 "We just found out a few weeks ago."

Belle tightened her fingers around Max’s.

Jos stared at them for a long moment — at their clasped hands, at Belle’s steady eyes, at Max’s quiet pride.

And then — to Belle’s utter shock — Jos smiled.  A real, honest smile, tugging awkwardly at the corners of his mouth like he wasn’t used to the feeling.

"Good," Jos said roughly. "You’ll be a great mother," he added, looking at Belle — and then, after a beat, to Max, "And you’ll be a better father than I ever was."

Belle’s throat tightened painfully.

Max squeezed her hand again, and she felt the slight tremor in it — the way those words hit him deep, carving something open and healing at the same time.

"Thanks, Pa," Max said quietly.

Jos nodded once, gruffly — like he couldn’t say more even if he wanted to — then grunted, reaching for his coffee.

"Hope you’re ready for no sleep and a lot of diaper changes," he muttered, like the most Jos blessing imaginable. "You’ll need all the patience you can get. Verstappen babies aren’t exactly easy."  A faint grin cracked across his face. "Take it from experience."

Max groaned dramatically. "Don’t scare her."

Belle laughed, watery and surprised — the nerves in her chest unraveling into something lighter. Something real.

Outside the plane windows, the sky stretched out wide and endless and new.

And for the first time in weeks, Belle let herself feel it too — The future.

 Opening up, bright and brave, and theirs.

***

Text Messages: Christian Horner & Fred Vasseur

Christian: Fred. Just a heads-up.

Fred: What now.

Christian: Belle will be in the paddock tomorrow. With Max.

Fred: What do you mean, with Max?

Christian: Exactly what it sounds like. Publicly. No more hiding.

Fred: Merde. Does Charles know??

Christian: Not as far as I’m aware.

Fred: You’re telling me Max Verstappen is about to make his marriage to Charles Leclerc’s sister public during a race weekend.

Christian: You might want to prepare your garage for a Leclerc meltdown.

Fred: I’m not paid enough for this.

Christian: Neither am I. (But at least it’s not my golden boy spiraling in public this time.)

Fred: I need a drink. And possibly a tranquilizer dart. For Charles.

Christian: Good luck. You’ll need it.

***

The hotel room was quiet, except for the muted hum of traffic outside and the low flicker of a Formula 2 race replay on the television. Max was already half-asleep, sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown lazily over the pillow where Belle had been sitting moments ago.

Belle sat cross-legged on the small lounge chair by the window, her phone in her lap, scrolling aimlessly — or, at least, pretending to. Her heart wasn’t in it. It hadn’t been all evening.

Her thumb hovered over the Instagram app again.

Tomorrow was going to change everything.

Tomorrow, she would walk into the paddock — into his world — not hidden behind whispered conversations or secret glances. She would walk in as his wife. Openly. Proudly.

For the first time, there would be no pretending.

And it felt… terrifying.

But also good. Right.

A smile tugged at her lips as she glanced back at Max, who mumbled something incoherent in his sleep and shifted closer to her empty side of the bed. Her heart clenched in that stupid, overwhelming way it always did around him.

She tapped into Instagram and stared at her profile.

@isabelleleclerc

It looked strange now. Wrong. Like a version of herself she was finally ready to grow beyond.

Belle took a slow breath and, with deliberate fingers, typed.

@belleverstappen

She paused for a heartbeat — not out of fear, but out of reverence. Out of the gravity of it.

This wasn’t just about a name. It was about a life she chose. A future she was building, one steady, stubborn step at a time.

She hit save before she could second-guess herself.

The screen flickered for a moment. Then it was done.

Belle Verstappen.

She set the phone down and padded quietly across the room, slipping into bed beside Max. His arm immediately found her, pulling her close in his sleep, like it was instinct.

She tucked her head against his shoulder, her hand resting lightly over the secret they still carried between them — small, invisible, but growing stronger every day.

No more hiding. No more shrinking.

Tomorrow, the world would know.

And for the first time in her life, Belle wasn’t afraid of being seen.

She was ready to be claimed — not by the spotlight, but by the people who mattered.

By the man beside her.

By herself.

***

Iris Flowers

Ollie Bearman x fem!reader

From this request

Summary: You and Ollie had been dating since secondary school and everyone was envious of your perfect relationship. But not everything was as perfect as it seemed.You had a terminal illness, and even though Ollie was always with you, your body couldn't take it anymore. On your birthday, a year after you died, Ollie came to visit you.

WARNINGS:terminal illness,very angst, death,cemetery,not edited writing

A/n: I literally cried while writing,I hope you will like it

You and Ollie have been dating since secondary school. Everyone around you was talking about the perfect harmony and bond between you.Everyone wanted that "fabulous" relationship. Of course you weren't that happy behind the scenes.Since childhood you had a heart condition that got worse as you got older

You knew this disease had fatal consequences, Ollie knew too, but he was always trying to support you.He was trying not to let you quit, doing everything he could to discourage you if you tried to refuse a treatment.Of course, it was very difficult, especially from a young age, it was even more difficult to fight them.

And you were tired, in your heart and in your body, your pure heart that couldn't take any more stopped beating one day.It was so hard for Ollie to digest your death, not to mention getting used to it, the shock he felt when he got the news, his heart stopped when you died.Everything started to feel very difficult, it was very difficult to live and breathe for him

Of course, as the days progressed, Ollie had to move on with his life, and you'd want that too.But he never forgot you you were his soul mate you were his everything.For a while he was just devoted to his work and people around him were worried about him but it was all he could do to stop thinking about you.

But there was a special reason that Ollie was standing by the grave with iris flowers in his hand that day. It's been a year since you've been gone and today is your birthday.Ollie knew how much you loved Iris flowers, he left them on your grave and stared at the sky for a while to keep from crying."Happy birthday darling, I am here,I brought you your favorite flower, just like these flowers, I wanted to give you some comforting news."

Ollie tells you what he's been up to lately, he bluntly talked about how hard it was to get over you, he said he was trying to keep his promises to you.Tears filled his eyes as he spoke, and he was struggling not to cry.He missed you so much and it made his heart hurt.

"I don't want to lie to you Y/N, I feel like a piece of my soul has died.I tried, I really tried, but no matter how much I tried, it always seemed to make things worse I give myself to work but I know I worry people around me but it doesn't work without you" he sniffed "I wish you were here".

Then he thought of what you talked about before you died "Remember when you asked me to date someone else to replace you? I think I'm going to be single for my whole life"he chuckled to himself "There's not single soul that will ever replace you. I hope you know that, wherever you are"

"My beautiful angel thank you for...for all these beautiful years. I just wish I had more time to spend with you. Sorry I always far because of racing. I'm so.... sorry". He couldn't hold back any longer and started crying now he needed your hug more than ever.Then he felt a hand on his arm and looked over to see an old lady smiling slightly and handing him a napkin.

The old woman looked at the grave as Ollie thanked her and wiped his eyes."You seemed to love her so much. May I know who is she?"A soft smile formed on Ollie's face and he looked at your grave."I really do, she's my beloved" The old woman looked sadly at Ollie. "Sorry, it must be very hard for you" Ollie glanced briefly at the woman, then back at the grave. "It is. She was everything to me. I still feel like I'm just waiting for her to come back"

The woman rubbed Ollie's arm and slowly walked away. A white butterfly landed on your tombstone, causing Ollie to smile.He knew your soul was with him somewhere around here."My beautiful darling, every time I can come to you, no matter how hard it is, I will bring you these flowers. My sweet paradise, please don't suffer any more where you go, or I will never forgive myself for leaving you alone." he put his hand on the ground in your grave "I love you darling happy birthday again, i will come again soon" before walking away he took one last look at your grave and remembered you as you were holding the iris flowers in your hand because you always wanted to be remembered like that...

oh i think i have a request 🤭 maybe max starts to date reader cause of a bet but he ends up actually falling in love with her…kinda angst but maybe fluffy and happy ending as well?

The Bet and The Fall

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max starts dating you on a bet never expecting to fall for you, but as your relationship grows he must confront the fallout of his careless gamble.

4k words / Masterlist

You never thought the end of your year would involve Max Verstappen.

The first time you saw him, he’d been exactly what you expected. Quick wit, easy smirk, and just enough arrogance to carry the weight of his success. He’d walked into the bar with a confidence that commanded attention, his laughter spilling into the room like it belonged there. And maybe it did.

You didn’t think much of him then. He was just another face, another fleeting encounter on a night out. But fate or something cruelly ironic had other plans.

It started with an accident, a spill of your drink when you turned too quickly, bumping straight into him. His reflexes were sharp, of course, the glass never hit the ground.

"Smooth," he’d said, voice tinged with amusement as he set the glass down.

You’d laughed it off, brushing away your embarrassment. "Thanks for the save. You’re faster off track than I thought."

That had earned a raised brow and a crooked grin. "You know who I am?"

"I’m not living under a rock."

Max shrugged, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t look like the type who goes to parties like this.”

Your laugh was genuine, surprising even yourself. “And what does that mean exactly?”

"Nothing bad." he said, watching you closely. "But I’m good at reading people."

"And what do you read from me?"

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… you seem like you’re trying to figure out how you ended up here.”

“You’re not wrong,” you admitted, glancing around the room. “I’m here because my friend insisted. Apparently I need to ‘live a little.’”

Max’s smile widened, and there was something disarming about it, “And are you? Living a little?”

You shrugged, feeling oddly at ease despite the absurdity of the situation. “I guess I am now.”

He’d offered to replace your drink, and you’d let him, thinking it was nothing more than a kind gesture. He shifted slightly closer, the noise of the party fading into the background as the two of you talked.

The conversation flowed more easily than you expected. Max was charming in a way that felt unpolished, his humour dry and his smile boyish despite the confidence he carried. He asked questions about you, what you did, where you were from, and he actually seemed interested in your answers.

At some point, you forgot who he was. You forgot that you were talking to someone whose life was splashed across headlines and social media. And when your best friend eventually came to drag you away, Max had looked genuinely disappointed.

When he asked for your number as you were standing up to leave, you hesitated.

"I don’t usually do this," you admitted, handing him your phone anyway.

"I don’t either," he replied, though the glint in his eyes made you doubt that.

Still, he’d texted you the next day and slowly things started to unfold.

What you didn’t know at the time was that across the room someone had been watching the entire interaction with a smirk plastered on their face.

Max had been sitting at a table with his friends earlier that night, a drink in his hand and an argument brewing. It wasn’t unusual competitive personalities clashed even off the track. But tonight Daniel had been relentless, poking at Max’s habits, his so-called inability to "settle down."

"You don’t even know how to date properly," Daniel joked. "I bet you wouldn’t last two weeks with a normal girl."

Max rolled his eyes. "And what does that even mean?"

"It means," Daniel said, grin widening, "you’re all about control. You don’t let anyone in unless you’ve already decided it’s worth your time. Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the spontaneity?"

Max scoffed. "You’re talking like I don’t know how to have a real relationship."

"Because you don’t," Daniel shot back, laughing. "Prove me wrong. Bet you wouldn’t last a month with someone who isn’t already part of your world. No models, no influencers, no one born into racing. A normal person. You’d combust."

Max leaned back, unimpressed. "I could date anyone I wanted."

Daniel’s eyes gleamed with mischief. "Alright, Verstappen. Prove it." He gestured toward the bar, where you stood unaware of their gaze. "Her. One month. Bet you can’t do it."

Max followed Daniel’s line of sight, lips twitching as he took you in. You were laughing at something a friend had said, head tossed back, easy and unguarded. There was no designer handbag, no polished effort to impress.

Max smirked, arrogance slipping easily into his voice. "Easy."

"Oh, is it?" Daniel teased. "She doesn’t look like the type to fall for your usual tricks mate."

"She’ll fall," Max said, confidence unwavering. "They always do."

Daniel arched an eyebrow. "Alright then." He held out his hand. "If you pull it off drinks are on me for the rest of the year."

Max clasped Daniel’s hand without hesitation. "Deal."

What he didn’t anticipate was how easy it would be to approach you or how different you would be from what he expected. When he wandered over to the bar, leaning casually against the counter, he didn’t have to try hard to strike up a conversation. You were warm, quick-witted, and entirely uninterested in the weight of his name.

You didn’t look at him like he was Max Verstappen, Formula 1 World Champion. You looked at him like he was just a guy who spilled your drink and owed you a new one. It caught him off guard, that refreshing lack of pre-tense.

Max had meant for it to be a game, a challenge to prove his point. What he didn’t realise then was that he’d just placed a bet against his own heart. And for the first time in his life, he was about to lose.

Looking back, you’d wonder if you should have noticed the cracks sooner.

Everything felt perfect. Max was attentive, charming, and surprisingly easy to talk to. He wasn’t just the Max Verstappen the world saw he was softer with you, more thoughtful. He’d remember small details, how you liked your coffee, the book you were reading, the song stuck in your head.

He made you laugh too, really laugh, the kind that bubbled up unexpectedly, catching you off guard, leaving your cheeks aching and your stomach fluttering. And when he kissed you for the first time his hands cradled your face, careful and deliberate, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers if he wasn’t gentle enough. There was something almost reverent about the way he touched you, like he was holding something fragile, something precious, something he wasn’t sure he deserved but wasn’t willing to let go of either, and when he finally pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw, you realised something terrifying.

You had fallen fast, and you had fallen hard.

What you didn’t know was that Max hadn’t expected to fall at all.

A month came and went, but by then Max wasn’t counting anymore. The bet was long forgotten, buried under the weight of late-night conversations, stolen glances, and the way your laugh seemed to echo in his mind long after you were gone.

At first, it was easier to ignore the way something shifted in his chest whenever you were around, the way his mind drifted to you even in moments when he should have been focused. He told himself it was just intrigue, a fleeting distraction that would fade once the bet was over. But then, moment by moment, the reality became impossible to ignore.

It was the way you laughed, unrestrained, unselfconscious. The kind of laugh that made people turn their heads, infectious and full of life. The way you talked with your hands, so animated and expressive that he found so captivating. The way you challenged him, never intimidated by his sharp edges or his reputation, meeting him head-on with quick wit, making him feel like he didn’t have to be Verstappen, the calculated driver, the public figure, with you he could just be Max.

He fell without realising it, like slipping into a warm bath, slow, comforting, inevitable.

The tipping point came on what should have been a regular, quiet evening at your place. You’d insisted on cooking dinner for him brushing off his protests about how he could just order something instead. The kitchen was chaos, vegetables half-chopped, sauce simmering too quickly, flour dusting your shirt, but you didn’t seem to care. You were too busy laughing at yourself, muttering about how you were definitely not cut out for MasterChef.

“Come on Verstappen,” you teased, tossing him an apron. “You can’t be a world champion and not know how to chop an onion.”

Max caught the apron midair, a mock look of horror on his face. “I don’t think that’s in the championship requirements.”

“Well it’s in mine,” you quipped, tying your own apron behind your back. “Get chopping.”

Max leaned against the counter, watching you with an expression that would have given him away in an instant if you’d turned to look at him.

“You’re staring,” you teased after a while.

He smirked. “Maybe I like what I’m seeing.”

You rolled your eyes, but the blush on your cheeks betrayed you.

It was a simple moment, but it lodged itself in Max’s chest like a permanent fixture. He knew then it wasn’t just intrigue or infatuation, he loved you. And that terrified him.

The closer you got, the harder it became for him to bury the truth. He tried telling himself it didn’t matter, the bet had been stupid, something meaningless that had quickly been replaced by something real. But every time he saw the trust in your eyes, every time you looked at him like he was the best thing to ever happen to you, the guilt churned in his stomach.

There were nights he barely slept, lying awake in bed with the weight of it pressing down on him. What if you found out? What if you looked at him with disgust, walked away without giving him the chance to explain? He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t lose you.

Every moment with you, big or small, was another thread tying him closer to you. He didn’t know how it happened so fast, but he couldn’t imagine his life without you in it. You were his home, his safe place, and he was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you.

One evening, the two of you sat curled up on the couch in his Monaco apartment, a movie playing in the background that neither of you was paying much attention to. You rested your head on his shoulder, and he pressed a kiss to your hair, his heart aching with how perfect it felt.

But then you spoke. “You’re quiet tonight. Everything okay?”

The words made his chest tighten. You always noticed. Even the smallest shifts in his mood never escaped your attention.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

You tilted your head to look at him, your eyes searching his face. “Are you sure? You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

The guilt surged, and for a fleeting moment, he considered telling you. The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, but then he imagined the way your expression would change, the way you’d pull away from him, he couldn’t bear it.

Instead he leaned down to kiss you hoping it would be enough to distract you. You sighed into the kiss, your hands finding their way into his hair, and for a moment he let himself believe it was enough.

“I love you,” you murmured against his lips, your voice soft and certain.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours. “I love you too,” he said, his voice trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

He adjusted the blanket over you and pressed another kiss to the top of your head. “Get some sleep liefje.”

Max buried the secret deeper after that night, convincing himself that it was better this way. You wouldn’t forgive him, he was sure of it, and he couldn’t risk losing you.

But the guilt didn’t go away. It lingered like a shadow, growing heavier with every passing day. He started overcompensating, showering you with affection, he’d buy you flowers every day, plan spontaneous dates, and do anything he could to keep you happy.

And it worked. You were happy. You loved him. And Max loved you so much it hurt.

The fear of losing you consumed him. It drove him to be better, to be the man you deserved, but it also ate away at him. He avoided certain conversations, terrified that you’d somehow stumble upon the truth. He cut Daniel off sharply whenever he brought up the bet, even if you were nowhere near, his tone cold and final.

“Don’t,” he snapped when Daniel jokingly mentioned it in passing. “It’s not funny.”

Daniel raised his hands in surrender, the mere mention of the bet made Max’s chest tighten, the fear creeping back in. He couldn’t let you find out because Max knew one thing with absolute certainty, if you ever did he’d lose you.

No matter how hard he tried the fallout was inevitable.

The night had started out like any other, one of those glitzy, over-the-top events Max had to attend where champagne flowed like water and conversations were laced with artificial charm. You had never particularly liked these parties, but for Max you endured them.

Maybe that’s why you had stepped outside. The ballroom was too loud, too stifling, too full of people who smiled too widely and spoke in half-truths. You had wanted air, a moment to breathe away from it all, and then you heard it.

Max’s voice, unmistakable even in the distance, low and edged with something uncharacteristically uneasy. You followed it instinctively, your heels clicking against the marble floors as you rounded the corner toward the balcony. You weren’t eavesdropping, at least that wasn’t the intention but something in his tone made you pause just before stepping into view.

"I didn’t think it’d go this far," Max said, his voice quiet with exasperation. "It was a stupid bet Daniel. A fucking drunk, meaningless bet. And now I—now she—”

His words cut off abruptly like he couldn't even bring himself to say it out loud, but the damage was already done.

Your heart stopped.

The world seemed to tilt under your feet, the music and laughter from the party fading into white noise. Bet. The word hit you like a punch to the stomach, knocking the air from your lungs.

You didn’t hear the rest. You didn’t need to.

A choked breath escaped your lips before you could stop it, and that tiny sound was enough to break whatever bubble of secrecy Max had been operating in. His head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in alarm as he registered your presence.

"Shit," he muttered, his entire body tensing.

You didn’t wait for an explanation. Your feet were already moving, the panic clawing at your throat as you turned on your heel and pushed past the doors leading inside. You needed to get out.

"Wait—"

Max was already chasing after you, shoving past Daniel, who muttered a quiet curse calling out for Max as he realised what had just happened, but Max didn’t hear him, or maybe he didn’t care. His focus was on you weaving through the crowd as you dodged between people your vision blurred with tears.

When Max found you, you were already halfway out the entrance.

"Wait," he called, his voice raw with panic. "Please just listen it's not what you think—"

"Don’t," you bit out, whirling to face him. "Don’t insult me by pretending this wasn’t exactly what it looks like."

His face crumpled, "It wasn’t supposed to be like this."

"Then what was it supposed to be Max?" Your voice shook, the weight of betrayal pressing down on your chest. "A joke? Something to laugh about with your friends? A game to pass the time until you got bored?"

"No," he said stepping forward, hands reaching for you like he could fix this if he just got close enough. "At first-when we first met I…it doesn’t matter, but not anymore. Not for a long time. I swear, I didn’t mean for this to happen-"

"But it did," you cut him off, voice breaking under the weight of it all. "And you let it happen. You let me believe in this, in you, while you knew—"

"I fell for you too," he rasped, his desperation tangible. "I swear to god, I did. And now I can't—" His breath hitched, words failing him. "I can’t imagine my life without you."

"Stop," you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. "You don’t get to say that. Not now. Not when this," you gestured between you, "was built on a lie."

His wiped away his own tear that had fallen. "But we were happy, that was real." he pleaded, voice breaking. "I tried so fucking hard to make you happy everyday, to make everything perfect. Doesn’t that count for something?"

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head as fresh pain sliced through you. "No, Max. It doesn’t. Because it was never real. You don’t get to build something on a lie and then act like the good parts outweigh the truth."

He reached for you again, but you stepped back, the distance between you feeling impossibly vast.

"I can't do this, Max. I can't be with someone who—" Your voice faltered. "Someone who made me love them knowing it was never real."

"It is real, I swear I lov-" he pleaded, but you just turned away.

And this time, when you walked away, you didn't look back.

Max tried everything to win you back. Texts, calls, presents, even showing up at your door unannounced. But you ignored him, too hurt to entertain the idea of forgiveness. It wasn’t until over a month later that he finally got through to you.

A knock at your door interrupted the quiet of your evening. You weren’t expecting anyone. And when you peeked through the peephole, your stomach twisted. Max, again.

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the lock, but before you could turn away, his voice came through the door, muffled but unmistakably determined.

"I’m not leaving until you talk to me."

You sighed, pressing your forehead against the wood. A couple of weeks ago you would have let him sit there all night. Now, all you felt was confused. But… you unlocked it, pulling it open just enough that you could stand in the door.

"Max—"

"Wait," he cut in gently, his eyes desperate. "Please. Just let me say this."

"I messed up," he admitted, his voice raw with regret. "I know I did. And part of me wishes I could go back and never agree to the stupid bet, to stop it before it ever started." He swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours. "But I can’t. And the truth is… I don’t know if I’d want to."

You reached for the door, but he pressed on.

"Because the bet led me to you. And I don’t regret that. I regret lying. I regret hurting you. But I could never regret you." His voice broke slightly. "I love you. Not because of some stupid decision, but because of who you are."

He took a step closer to the door careful, like he knew he was balancing on a knife’s edge.

"Because of the way you ramble when you're excited. The way you always text me when you see something that reminds you of me, no matter how small. The way you—" He let out a shaky breath. "The way you make me feel like I've finally found something that matters more than everything I ever thought I wanted”

"I know I don’t deserve another chance," he continued, voice softer now. "But if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that I’m not the guy who made that bet. I’m the guy who loves you. And I swear, I will never stop trying to be better for you."

Silence wrapped around you both. You swallowed hard, fighting against the warmth creeping into the cracks he had just reopened. "You had months, Max. Months to tell me the truth. And you didn’t. You let me find out like that…why?”

His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a long moment, he just stared at the ground, his breath coming uneven.

"Because I was scared," he admitted, "scared that if I told you, I’d lose you. That you’d look at me like you did that night, like I was just a mistake you regretted. I kept telling myself I’d find the right time, that I’d make it up to you before you ever had to know, and I fell for you, really fell, and suddenly telling you felt like handing you a reason to walk away."

For all the ways you wanted to stay angry, to hold onto the betrayal, there was something devastating about the way he said it.

"So you lied instead," you murmured.

His lips pressed together, his head bowing slightly. "I did. And it was the worst decision I’ve ever made." His eyes lifted back to yours, full of something desperate. "But I swear to you, losing you showed me exactly what kind of man I never want to be again."

"I don’t know if I can trust you again," you whispered.

Max nodded, no trace of frustration, just quiet determination. "I’ll earn it," he vowed. "No matter how long it takes."

Your gaze flickered to the flowers in his hands. Slowly, hesitantly, you reached out, fingertips brushing against his as you took them.

It wasn’t a yes. Not yet.

But it wasn’t a no, either.

And the way his lips parted slightly, the hope in his eyes you knew he’d wait for as long as you needed. A beat passed before you sighed and pushed the door open wider.

"Come in, just for a bit."

He paused, like he was afraid to move too fast, but the second you stepped back he followed slipping inside. You set the flowers down on the counter, fingers brushing over the petals as you tried to steady yourself.

"You’ve been eating right?" he asked a flicker of that familiar concern in his expression.

You huffed a small, reluctant laugh. "Seriously? That’s your first question after all that?"

Max shrugged, tentative in his smile. "I’ve been worried."

You rolled your eyes, but your chest ached in a way you hadn’t let yourself acknowledge in weeks. You had missed him, his presence, his quiet care, the way he always paid attention to the little things.

"Yes, I’ve been eating," you said, shifting your weight awkwardly.

"Good." He nodded, then hesitated. "Can I—sit?"

You hesitated to, then gave him a small nod. "Yeah. Just… don’t push your luck."

Max smiled at that, he walked over to the couch sitting at the far end, after a moment you sat down to, tucking your legs beneath you. Neither of you spoke at first. The air still felt heavy, but not unbearable. Max rubbed his palms over his thighs, glancing at you before looking away again.

"This is weird," you admitted.

"Yeah," he agreed, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "But not bad, right?"

You exhaled, staring down at your hands. "Not bad."

His grin widened, "Let’s order something, whatever you want.” his voice dropped, teasing. "Just don’t steal my fries."

"Who says I’d want your fries?" you murmured.

Max smirked. "You always want my fries."

You huffed dramatically, turning your attention back to your phone. "Fine. I’ll order my own. Happy?"

"Not yet," he murmured, the teasing edge in his voice softening into something else. "But I’m getting there."

You chuckled, rolling your eyes, but the warmth creeping into your chest was impossible to ignore. No, it wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But when Max stole a fry from your box later, grinning at you like he hadn’t just started a war you realised, it was a start, a real one.

Crazy Cravings

Max Verstappen x wife!Reader

Summary: pregnancy cravings can make you (and your husband) do crazy things … neither of you particularly minds

Warnings: 18+ content and pregnancy

You sit in the Red Bull Racing garage, feeling the warm Spanish sun on your face through the open door. The roar of engines and whirring of power tools surrounds you as the mechanics prepare for the race.

Your eyes are drawn to the iconic blue and silver cans scattered around the garage. Those tantalizing cans of Red Bull that everyone else seems to be drinking so casually.

Everyone except you and Max, that is.

You rub your rounded belly, feeling your precious cargo kick and squirm inside you. At six months pregnant, your cravings have been … intense, to say the least. But none more powerful than your longing for the crisp, fizzy taste of Red Bull.

The caffeine is off limits, of course. You would never dream of jeopardizing your baby’s health. But oh, how you crave that sweet, energizing flavor that used to be such a routine part of your life.

Max emerges from the back room, his bright grey eyes instantly finding you. He strides over, that effortless confidence and raw athleticism making your heart flutter, even after all these years. His gaze drifts to the Red Bull can in a mechanic’s hand and a grimace crosses his face.

“Liefje, are you alright?” He murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I know how much those are torturing you lately.”

You force a smile, not wanting him to worry. “I’m fine, Maxie. Just … ignoring the siren call of carbonated temptation.”

His thumb strokes your cheek as he studies you, clearly not convinced. Max has been so incredibly supportive during this pregnancy, abstaining from Red Bull himself in solidarity. Cutting out his biggest vice, just so you don’t have to be tormented by the sight and scent of it everywhere.

“We should get you out of here,” he says, looping an arm around your waist to help leverage your bulk out of the chair. “The smells can’t be helping those crazy cravings.”

You open your mouth to protest, not wanting to pull him away from his work, but a fresh wave of dizzying desire hits you as a mechanic cracks open another can. The fizzing hiss and unmistakable scent make your mouth water uncontrollably.

“Max ...” you whisper, feeling your throat tighten with barely restrained craving and hormonal tears prickling your eyes.

He follows your yearning gaze to the Red Bull can and understanding dawns. “Oh, liefje ...” Scooping you into his arms, he strides from the garage, shooting an apologetic look at his crew.

Once outside in the fresh air, you bury your face against Max’s shoulder, inhaling his familiar, comforting cologne as he carries you to the motorhome. He eases you onto the couch, brushing kisses along your forehead and temple.

“I’m so sorry, schatje,” he murmurs, anguish lining his handsome features. “I hate seeing you suffer like this. If there was any way I could make the cravings stop ...”

You catch his hand, lacing your fingers through his calloused ones. “Max, you know I would never actually ask you to give up Red Bull, right?”

He shakes his head fiercely. “Not being able to have it for nine months is nothing compared to your sacrifice, carrying our baby. I don’t deserve you.”

Pulling him down beside you, you cup the chiseled line of his jaw, making him meet your gaze. “I happen to think you deserve the very best, Mr. Verstappen. And right now, the very best for both of us would be ...” Your voice cracks with fresh longing. “A damn Red Bull.”

Max’s eyes blaze with sudden determination, that iron willpower that has made him a champion coming to life. “Then that’s what I’ll get you. If those tossers at Red Bull Company won’t make a safe, caffeine-free version for pregnant women, I’ll personally make them regret it.”

You laugh shakily. “Max, you can’t just bully a corporation into creating a new product line for one person’s weird craving!”

“You’re not just one person,” he growls, tangling his fingers in your hair and bringing his forehead to rest against yours. “You’re my everything. And our baby deserves for its mother to be happy and have her cravings satisfied.”

Pressing a fierce kiss to your lips, he adds, “I’m calling them right now. And then straight to the CEO, if I have to. I’ll get you that Red Bull if it’s the last thing I do.”

True to his word, the indomitable Max Verstappen spends the next several days working every possible connection and calling in every favor. You catch bits of conversations, his clipped tones making it clear just how serious he is about this bizarre quest.

“No, I don’t care if it’s not ‘cost-effective’. This is for my very pregnant wife ...”

“She’s risking her health to grow an entire person! The least your company can do is make a freaking caffeine-free energy drink ...”

The crew quickly learns not to open any Red Bull around you, lest they face the wrath of an overprotective Max. Which is slightly embarrassing … but also incredibly sweet.

Your hormones most definitely approve.

Finally, there’s a break in the stalemate. Helmut Marko himself shows up at the motor home, those bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows furrowed.

“Max, this is ridiculous. They will not reconfigure an entire product line just because Y/N is having a little … craving.”

You brace yourself for the explosion, but Max just levels Helmut with that intense stare. “If you could experience these cravings yourself, you would be singing a different tune. Y/N is sacrificing everything to have our baby. The least Red Bull can do is give her a safe option to have the flavor she misses so much.”

Helmut’s expression softens slightly at the obvious devotion in Max’s voice. “You know that corporate will never go for it. Not for just one person ...”

“Then make it for all the other pregnant women dealing with the same issues,” Max returns, unruffled. “Or is a company that plasters ‘Gives You Wings’ on every can really too cowardly to follow through on empowering people?”

You suck in a shocked breath at his daring play. But the flicker of anger and resigned capitulation in Helmut’s eyes shows that it worked.

“Fine, you little shit,” the older man growls. “I’ll talk to product development. But I’m not making any promises!”

Except somehow … Max’s sheer bullheaded tenacity eventually batters through all the corporate resistance and red tape. Three weeks later, an unmistakable bright blue can appears on the counter, the iconic Red Bull logo stamped across it.

“What’s this?” You ask in confusion.

Max slides an arm around your waist, beaming proudly. “Open it and see.”

You crack the seal, sniffing cautiously … and almost melt at the nostalgic, beloved scent of Red Bull. But just as you start to panic about caffeine, you notice the slightly different flavor.

“Max, is this ...”

He nods, grinning. “Zero caffeine but all the taste you’ve been craving. No more tears over those damn energy drink cans, okay?”

Throwing your arms around him, you yank his head down to capture his mouth in a grateful kiss. “Have I mentioned lately how incredible you are?”

“Once or twice,” he jokes, then sobers, cupping your belly. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make you and our baby happy.”

“You’re giving me everything I ever wanted and more.” You take a long pull of the perfectly flavored liquid, sighing in blissful satisfaction. “We hit the jackpot with you, Max Verstappen.”

He kisses you again, reveling in your obvious enjoyment. “The only jackpot I need is right here.”

***

Your baby bump has popped out to truly impressive proportions now at eight months along. What started as an innocent craving for Red Bull has escalated into an all-out physiological war.

Nothing seems to satisfy you for long — you’re a walking bundle of hormones and insatiable desires.

From the plush solitude of the Red Bull hospitality suite, you try not to gaze wistfully toward the Ferrari encampment. But you can’t resist fixating on the tantalizing cones of rich gelato constantly streaming from their hospitality tent.

Watching a couple of Ferrari mechanics stroll by, licking at scoops of pistachio and stracciatella, is enough to kickstart a powerful new yearning. Your mouth waters shamelessly as they pass, the creamy dessert leaving you weak in the knees. Before you can overthink it, you’re shuffling toward the entrance, one hand cradling your belly.

“Scusi,” you call out hesitantly as you peek inside. “Mi dispiace … is it possible to get some gelato?”

You half expect to be waved away — it’s well known that the Ferrari team is notoriously insular and protective of their spoils. But the cheerful greeting you receive is instantaneous and overwhelming.

“Madonna mia! Look at this beautiful piccina!”

Suddenly you’re engulfed by a whirlwind of chattering Italian voices, greeted by smiling faces from the team of elderly signoras who comprise the Ferrari hospitality staff. Weathered hands pat your belly and cheeks, clucking sympathetically at your swollen state.

“You poor bambina, absolutely enorme! Of course we’ll get you some gelato to refresh you. And biscotti too! You need to keep up your energy, si?”

You’re ushered toward a plush sofa, various grandmotherly types fussing over you like you’re the most delicate, precious thing. It’s … surprisingly wonderful. They clearly adore babies and pregnant women. You get the sense that indulging a mother-to-be is hardwired into their very beings.

A tray of gelato cups appears, the rainbow of flavors almost dazzling in their variety — chocolate, pistachio, prickly pear, lemon, stracciatella. Before you can reach for one, it’s plucked from your grasp.

“No no no! Leave it to Nonna Maria.” A stout signora with a green paisley dress and frosted silver curls shakes her head sternly. “I’ll start you with the lemon to whet your appetite. Then a nice creamy stracciatella as a proper treat for the bambino.”

The tangy flavor of the lemon gelato hits your craving exquisitely. As soon as you’ve polished off that cup, Nonna Maria presents another brimming with the creamy chocolate chip perfection of stracciatella. You moan in appreciation, unbothered by the chorus of approving noises from your doting new entourage.

Before you know it, you’ve been plied with cups of hazelnut, strawberry, and caramel flavors as well. These hospitable Italian ladies simply won’t be deterred from pampering a future mamma. As you scrape the last smears of gelato from a ramekin, a new grandmother settles on the sofa beside you.

“Now ... tell Nonna Gina what this little maschietto or bambina has been craving, eh?” She pats your belly affectionately. “We have chefs who can whip up anything your heart desires!”

Is it a pregnancy thing, this sudden wave of tears that blurs your vision? Or just being so insanely touched by the kindness and maternal care of these lovely strangers? You blink rapidly, swallowing hard.

“Honestly … gelato has been my biggest craving these past couple days. I don’t know if I can eat another bite.”

A chorus of disapproving gasps and tuts rises from the assembled grandmothers. “Bah! This pregnancy has ruined your appetite, piccina,” one crows, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ll soon get it back to rights, don’t you worry.”

For the next hour, you’re lavished with attention, fussed over and coddled like the most precious jewel. Cold drinks and chilled towels appear to keep you comfortable as the nonnas take turns sitting with you, petting your belly and swapping outrageous birth stories.

Their colorful Italian voices swell and ebb as they bicker over whose recipe for pasta al ragu is most authentic, who has the most grandchildren, and whose first-born grandson is most handsome.

It’s chaos and noise and overwhelming affection … and you’ve never felt so utterly content.

As the afternoon light slants golden through the awning, a familiar figure appears in the entrance, haloed by the fiery rays.

“Liefje? I’ve been looking everywhere ...” Max’s disbelieving gaze sweeps over the scene in front of him — you, surrounded by a veritable coven of grandmotherly Italians who seem entirely absorbed with you. “What in the world ...”

A chubby signora with a bright orange shawl wrapped around her ample form hops up, beaming widely. “Ahh! We have been absolutely spoiling your beautiful wife, of course. Did you know she had a craving for gelato? Well, no problem for us — we have taken her like one of our own bambinas!”

The others cluck and murmur in outraged agreement at his shocked expression.

“We absolutely will not let a piccina in such a state go hungry or uncomfortable! Now you sit down so we can get you a plate of some proper food too!”

Max gapes at you, utterly nonplussed as you grin back at him with unabashed glee, utterly stuffed with Italian desserts and reveling in the indulgent babying. You pat the space beside you invitingly.

“You’ve got to try Nonna Gina’s tiramisu, Maxie. It’ll knock your socks off.”

He settles beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulders and still looking rather dazed. But the instant the first warm smile and pat lands on his arm or knee, Max’s expression melts. This team of fussing Italian grandmothers has clearly adopted you both as their own.

Nonna Maria reappears, shoving a plate stacked with crispy arancini, indulgent risotto alla Milanese, and a creamy slice of tiramisu into your husband’s hands. “Eat up! You need to keep your strength up too, caring for this sweet cosa bella.” She plants bristly kisses on both your cheeks before scurrying off again.

Max watches her go, then turns to you with a bemused chuckle, squeezing you close. “Well, schatje. I have to hand it to you — at least your pregnancy cravings bring you to some … interesting places.”

You hum in agreement, perfectly content as you snuggle against his side. “Can you really think of a better place for me to nest?” You grin as another nonna appears to pat his cheek, welcoming him into the chaotic fold. “I think I may have just found my second family.”

He tilts your chin up, eyes sparkling with warmth. “Anything that makes you happy and keeps our baby healthy.”

As he kisses you tenderly, surrounded by clucking encouragement and rapturous croons of “bello, bellisimo” from your new Italian grandmothers, you know you’ve never felt so blissfully cherished.

You and Max make your way slowly back to the Red Bull motorhome, stuffed to the gills with gelato and trailed by a gaggle of besotted well-wishers calling out farewells and advice.

“I still can’t believe you managed to befriend the entirety of Ferrari hospitality,” Max laughs, helping ease you onto the couch in his driver’s room. He nudges your belly playfully. “This little one is shaping up to be quite the international charmer!”

“Says the man who single-handedly compelled Red Bull to create an entirely new product line,” you point out, patting your swollen middle contentedly. “I have a feeling this baby is going to be the most spoiled child on earth.”

Max settled beside you, gathering you close with a tender smile. “Can you blame all our people for wanting to give the world to you two?” His thumb traced your jawline reverently. “You’re carrying a little miracle, liefje.”

Your breath catches, as it so often did when he looks at you like that. Like you’re his entire universe. With so much pure adoration and love shining in those grey eyes.

“Our miracle,” you correct softly, cradling his calloused hand over your belly. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Not just supporting me … but giving me everything I could ever dream of.”

He opens his mouth like he wanted to protest, but you press on, needing him to understand how treasured he makes you feel.

“You don’t stop until I’m happy. Even when I get these raging, random cravings that probably seem crazy, you move heaven and earth to give me whatever I need. Most people would never ...”

“Neither of us is most people,” Max interrupts fiercely. He presses a searing kiss to your lips, then the swell of your abdomen. “You and our little one are my entire world. I’ll spend every day showing you how much I love you both, how grateful I am to have you in my life.”

Hormones raging, you pull his mouth back to yours, savoring the taste and feel of him surrounding you. When you finally part, you rest your forehead against his.

“In that case, you better rest up for tonight,” you tease. “I have a feeling that someone’s going to get a craving for sardines and waffles right around midnight.”

***

At nine months pregnant, you feel like a blissfully beached whale.

Your belly protrudes so massively that you can barely see your feet anymore. Simple tasks like tying your shoes or rolling over in bed have become awkward geometric obstacles. Max has to help you up from every chair or couch, his strong arms levering your frame into a vertical position.

Lingering in the paddock is no longer an option either. You’ve been gently but firmly ordered back home to Monaco to prepare for the baby’s arrival.

Thank goodness your nesting instincts are going full tilt — otherwise you might go stir crazy waiting for this little one to make their grand debut. You’ve rearranged and re-organized the nursery a dozen times, washed and rewashed all the tiny onesies and miniature accessories, and baked enough lactation cookies to feed an army of nursing mothers.

Really, there’s only one craving occupying your mind now …

The thump of shoes in the hall makes you look up eagerly. Max appears in the doorway of the sunlit nursery, loose waves of brown hair framing his face. The plain white tee stretches enticingly across his chest and shoulders, making your mouth water for an entirely different reason than food.

“Hey schatje,” he greets, eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes in your flushed cheeks. A knowing smirk tugs at one side of his mouth. “Were you just ... thinking about me?”

You shake your head adamantly, wincing as the motion makes your whole body ache in protest. “Maybe just a little. This particular craving is getting out of control.”

Crossing to you in two strides, Max cups your jaw and brings your lips crashing together in a searing kiss. His tongue sweeps demanding and possessive into your mouth, making you whimper faintly. That intoxicating masculine scent of fresh sweat, motor oil, and sandalwood surrounds you in an alluring cloud.

After all these years, just the taste and smell of your husband is enough to drench you in molten wanting. Baby or no baby, Max Verstappen is still the sexiest goddamn thing on two legs.

“Mmm, I know exactly what you need,” he rumbles against your neck, nipping a tingling path along your sensitive skin. “Luckily for you, I’ve got a free schedule all afternoon to help take care of this craving ...”

He scoops you into his arms effortlessly, cradling your heavy weight against his chest to carry you to the bedroom. You twine your arms shamelessly around his neck, luxuriating in the hard strength of his body against yours.

“Aren’t you worried about ... squashing the baby?”

“Not at all,” he deposits you carefully on the bed. Those bright grey eyes darken with blazing lust. “I’m going to take such good care of you and our little one.”

His hands and mouth seem to be everywhere at once — caressing, nibbling, and stroking every sensitive inch he can lavish adoring attention on. You keen softly when he dips his tongue into your navel, rubbing reverent circles over the tight swell of your belly.

“You’re so gorgeous like this,” Max murmurs, lips brushing the crease where your torso and bump meet. “So ripe and round and radiant with our child. My beautiful, strong girl ...”

All you can do is lie there gasping, overwhelmed in the best possible way. He strips you methodically, leaving a trail of scorching, openmouthed kisses over every newly exposed inch.

“My sexy little pregnant wife,” he husks, tongue dragging up the slick crease at the apex of your thighs. “Can’t resist this craving can you, liefje?”

His fingers plunge inside you, curling expertly as his mouth closes over your throbbing bud. You throw your head back shamelessly, mindless with pleasure as Max devours you.

So good, so unbearably good …

He ravishes you thoroughly, sending gushing waves of release crashing through your body over and over again until you’re gasping and quivering. Atoms of blissful satisfaction hum in your bloodstream as you float back into sweet oblivion.

An insistent nudge against your belly slowly rouses you. Max looms over you, hair deliciously rumpled and eyes glittering wickedly. “Did I satisfy that craving sufficiently? Or should I keep going?”

Your mouth curves in a greedy smile, hands gliding over his flexing shoulders and chest. “Again, please ...”

It had long since become a running gag around the paddock and team — before you were advised to stop flying. When you couldn’t be located, someone would joke that you must be off ravaging your utterly besotten husband yet again.

Max took the ribbing with surprising grace, grinning unrepentantly whenever his shirt collar revealed another blossom of lovebites discoloring the skin of his throat.

You really didn’t care about the teasing. You’re indulging an entirely healthy and normal craving — just a wife thoroughly appreciating her man.

“Can you believe people used to call this a punishment?” You giggle breathlessly one afternoon.

Max nips a stinging path along the soft skin of your inner thighs, tracing tantalizingly close to your heated center. He laves his tongue soothingly over the reddened marks, leering up at you from between your parted legs.

“Let them call it whatever they want. I’m just taking advantage of your hormones making you insatiable for me.”

“Mmm, well I can’t seem to resist your obscenely perfect body either,” you admit with a lazy stretch. “Maybe we really are being punished.”

One dark brow wings up eloquently as Max drags his eyes over you in a deliberately insolent perusal. Taking your leg in hand, he licks an achingly slow, filthy stripe up the crease where thigh meets hip.

You choke on a whimper, whole body jolting as he sucks a blossom of wet kisses into the satiny expanse of your inner thigh. Those bright grey eyes hold yours in wicked challenge as his clever tongue massages and swirls over your sensitized flesh.

“This certainly doesn’t seem like punishment to me,” he husks darkly. “Does it feel like punishment when I do this ...” His mouth moves higher. “Or this ...”

By the time he finishes torturing you into a quivering, needy wreck, you’re more than ready to beg.

“Please, Max!” You sob, bucking helplessly against the maddening sensations. “I need you, oh god I need you so bad ...”

He settles heavily over you, nuzzling your hair aside to trail searing kisses along your damp throat. “Then you shall have me. My needy wife can have whatever she craves ...”

It’s midway through one such shattering round of lovemaking that Max’s phone begins to ring shrilly. You try to disentangle, burning embarrassment tinting your cheeks, but he simply growls and clutches you tighter.

“Leave it!” He bites out, surging forward to recapture your mouth in a bruising clash of teeth and tongue between thrusts. “I’m busy ... satisfying … my wife ...”

After, as you lie tangled in a sweaty heap of satiation, you can’t resist asking with a wry smile, “Was that another craving I just demanded you satisfy?”

Max props himself up on one elbow, thumb stroking idly along your abdomen as his piercing gaze roams over your flushed, disheveled form.

“Whatever my wife needs,” he responds huskily. Those burning eyes promise infinite carnal delights to come as they caress your body. “I’ll always crave giving her everything she desires.”

He stretches beside you, a blissful smile curving his lips as you snuggle up against his side to exchange lazy kisses.

You’ve got a sneaking suspicion this is one craving that might outlast the pregnancy ...

13. “Ibuprofen and a Red Bull is not an appropriate breakfast.” Max Verstappen Fluff please🫶🏼🙏🏻

Breakfast of Champions

Verstappen x gf!Reader

Note: It would’ve been so easy to do it the other way around but I couldn’t get past the idea of hungover reader wanting to end Max with his Maxplaining while hungover 🤓 (wanna give him head so good his glasses steam up)

Masterlist

wc 457

“Max! Can you shut the fuckkkk uppp?” You call out loudly, head practically splitting in half with the noise of the simulation creeping up the hallway, burying your head deeper under the fluffy pillow as Max races the sim in the living room, not bothering with his headphones while Team Redline aren’t on it with him.

Max laughs breezily and rolls his eyes slightly at your words but doesn’t make any effort to stop the sim or come and check on you, it’s entirely self inflicted after a late night you had last night with Kika Gomes (ever the bad influence) and Magui Corceiro. He hears a soft thud and he glances to the door and then back to his sim, back to the door, where you’ve appeared, trudging to the kitchen like a wounded animal, then back to the sim. He glances at you, clattering about in the kitchen, duvet wrapped around your shoulders like some kind of ancient conqueror despite being nothing than a hungover wag.

He can’t help but laugh at the image, not bothering to finish the race he’s halfway through and would inevitably win, moving back from the wheel to approach you as you stare daggers at him over the can of Red Bull pulled from the fridge, sinking back a couple of small white ibuprofen.

“Breakfast of champions, eh? But actually, Red Bull and ibuprofen is not an appropriate breakfast, schatje. Maybe I’ll make you a protein shake or a smoothie, huh?” He offers, moving behind you despite the large duvet between your body and his, rubbing the parts of your neck that are exposed, pressing a kiss just below your ear as he reaches to take the Red Bull out of your hand.

“Max Emilian Verstappen, I will cut you if you take this energy drink from me and God knows you’ll bleed Red Bull you fucking hypocrite.” You half snap, glaring at him, his head falling back in a raucous laugh at how feral you seem to be this morning, probably drinking more last night than you were used to.

“S’bad for you liefje. Come, I’ll fill you up with a different kind of Red Bull to cheer you up.” The duvet’s pushed from your shoulders and you’re swung up into the air, legs wrapping instinctively around his hips as he heads to the bedroom.

You let out a low effort whine but it becomes a mown easily enough when he slaps your ass to quiet you.