The Bet And The Fall

Classified Information

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Francesca Howard (Original Character)

Summary:

Liam Lawson tries to flirt with Red Bull’s new CTO.

Turns out, she’s Dr. Francesca Howard.

Also known as Max Verstappen’s wife.

And the mother of his son.

Oops.

Warnings and Notes: 

....Poor Liam is really going through in this.

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

Liam Lawson liked to think he had good instincts.

They had served him well in his racing career—knowing when to attack, when to defend, when to push and when to back off.

But apparently, those instincts failed him spectacularly the day he walked into the Red Bull factory for his seat fitting and met Francesca Howard for the first time.

He had heard the name before, of course. Everyone in the industry had. Francesca Howard—brilliant, ruthless, and the woman who had taken over as Red Bull Racing’s Chief Technology Officer after Adrian Newey’s departure.

What Liam hadn’t heard, however, was that she was also absolutely stunning.

She stood near the RB21 chassis, tablet in hand, deep in conversation with a few engineers. Her tone was sharp but calm, confident without arrogance, completely in control of every discussion around her.

And, Liam noted, she had a hell of a presence.

He adjusted the sleeves of his hoodie, rolling his shoulders back. He was good with first impressions. No harm in introducing himself, right?

He took one step forward—

And suddenly, he felt a hand grip his arm like a vice.

“Nope.”

Liam turned, startled, to find Gianpiero Lambiase looking at him like he was the biggest idiot to ever walk into the Red Bull garage.

Liam frowned. “What?”

GP sighed heavily, like this was already too much effort. “Don’t do it.”

Liam blinked, confused. “Do what?”

GP nodded toward Francesca. “Whatever you’re about to attempt over there—just don’t.”

Liam scoffed. “I’m literally just introducing myself.”

GP leveled him with a look, looking at him like he had just tried to run slick tires in the rain. “And yet, I’m still telling you not to.”

Liam folded his arms. “Why? Is she scary?”

GP snorted. “Not to me.”

That wasn’t an answer.

Liam narrowed his eyes. “Alright, what’s the deal?”

GP sighed again, rubbing his temples like he was too old for this conversation. “Lawson. I know you think you’ve got game. But trust me—not this time.”

Liam tilted his head. “What, is she taken or something?”

GP didn’t even bother looking up from his laptop as he muttered, “Something like that.”

Liam hesitated, suddenly feeling like he was missing some critical piece of information.

But then he shook it off. How bad could it be?

“C’mon,” he said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

GP sighed again, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “rookies never learn” before shaking his head.

“Fine,” he said, stepping back and folding his arms. “Do what you want. But when this backfires, I’m not saving you.”

Liam rolled his eyes and kept walking.

How bad could it possibly be?

At worst, Francesca Howard would roll her eyes at him and shut him down politely. No harm done.

So he straightened his shoulders and walked over.

He liked to think he was pretty smooth, after all. 

Not in an arrogant way—just in a self-aware way. He had a certain charm, an easy confidence. People liked him. Women liked him.

What was the worst that could happen? Mild embarrassment? He’d survive.

So he walked up to Francesca Howard, clearing his throat as she studied something on her tablet.

“Miss Howard,” he greeted smoothly, flashing his most easygoing grin. “Liam Lawson. Figured it was time we officially met.”

She looked up, brow arching slightly, her expression somewhere between amused and unimpressed.

“Dr. Howard.”

Liam blinked. “Huh?”

Francesca tilted her head. “I have two doctorates. If you’re going to address me formally, at least get it right. Otherwise, you can just call me Francesca. It’s my name.”

Liam froze.

Two doctorates?

Two?!

He cleared his throat. “Uh. Right. Dr. Howard.”

Her smirk did not help his sudden feeling of impending doom.

Behind him, GP sighed loudly.

Liam could feel himself slipping.

Not in a physically tripping over a curb way—though, honestly, he wouldn’t put that past himself at this point—but in a mentally trying to keep up and failing spectacularly way.

Francesca Howard was too smart for her own good.

Or, rather, too smart for his own good.

And she knew it.

“So,” he started, recovering as best as he could. “Two doctorates, huh?”

She gave him a patient smile, the kind teachers gave students who had just asked an embarrassingly obvious question.

“Yes,” she said. “One in Aerospace Engineering, one in Physics.”

Liam nodded slowly, stalling for time.

“Right. Cool. Just… y’know, casual, two whole doctorates.”

Francesca smirked. “You only need one to replace Adrian Newey. I like to be thorough.”

GP, still lurking nearby, snorted loudly.

Liam ignored him.

“Well,” Liam said, shifting his weight, trying to regain some sense of control in this conversation, “I guess it’s a good thing we have the best of the best in charge.”

Francesca hummed, looking entirely unaffected. “I know.”

Liam blinked. “You know?”

“Yes.”

“No hesitation?”

Francesca shrugged. “Why would I hesitate? It’s a fact.”

Liam opened his mouth, then shut it.

Then opened it again.

Then shut it again.

There was no winning here.

Behind him, GP sighed loudly, shaking his head. “I told you, kid.”

Liam Lawson had officially lost control of this conversation.

Dr. Francesca Howard—too smart for her own good, owner of two doctorates, and completely unbothered by his attempts to charm her—had thoroughly handed him his ass in a simple conversation.

And now, he was trying to figure out how to exit gracefully without admitting defeat.

(There was no graceful exit. He was so screwed.)

But before he could say anything else, a new voice cut in.

“You’re making this too easy for her.”

Liam turned—only to freeze at the sight of Max Verstappen walking into the garage.

With a baby in his arms.

Liam blinked. What.

Francesca’s expression instantly softened, her entire demeanor shifting as she abandoned whatever she had been working on and zeroed in on Max and the baby.

“There’s my boy,” she murmured, ignoring Liam completely as she reached for the baby, lifting him easily into her arms.

Liam blinked. What the hell was happening?

The baby—who had Verstappen blue eyes and a suspiciously familiar frown—giggled, grabbing at Francesca’s hair. 

“Did Papa bring you to see me?” she cooed, pressing a kiss to his tiny forehead.

Max, standing there with all the smugness of a four-time World Champion who knew exactly what he was doing, crossed his arms. “He missed you. You’ve been working too much.”

Francesca hummed, rocking the baby slightly. “That’s because someone keeps breaking parts, Maxie.”

Max did not look even a little guilty.

Liam, meanwhile, was still trying to process the absolute madness unfolding in front of him.

Papa?!

My boy?!

MAXIE?!

“What,” Liam said, voice slightly higher than normal, “the actual hell is going on?”

Francesca turned to him, just now remembering he existed.

She sighed but lifted her left hand, flashing a wedding band so obvious that Liam genuinely hated himself for not noticing it earlier.

Liam’s entire brain short-circuited. 

“We’re married,” she said casually. 

Liam choked.

“You’re—WHAT?!”“You’re—” He pointed between them. “Since when?!”

Max grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “A while now.”

Liam turned back to GP, who looked entirely unshocked by this development.

GP sighed. “Tried to warn you.”

Liam needed a second.

No—he needed several seconds.

Because nothing about this situation made sense.

Dr. Francesca Howard—Red Bull’s new Chief Technology Officer, terrifyingly smart, and the owner of two doctorates—was married to Max Verstappen.

And, apparently, they had a whole baby together.

A whole baby.

Liam had spent months hearing rumors about who would replace Adrian Newey. He’d even done his research—looked into Francesca’s background, her achievements, the way she was basically a walking encyclopedia of aerodynamics and engineering.

But nowhere in his research had it said, Oh, by the way, she’s married to a four-time World Champion.

And definitely nowhere had it mentioned, They have a baby together, too.

Liam opened his mouth, then shut it. Then opened it again.

Then shut it.

Francesca, still holding the baby like he was the only thing in the world that mattered, raised an eyebrow. “You okay, Lawson?”

Liam pointed between her and Max, looking vaguely like he was on the verge of a breakdown.

“You—you—” he sputtered. “This—How did nobody tell me this?!”

Max, clearly enjoying every second of this, shrugged. “We don’t exactly make announcements.”

“You—” Liam gestured wildly at Francesca holding the literal Verstappen baby. “—You have a whole kid together!”

Francesca tilted her head, unimpressed. “Yes, Liam. That’s generally how it works when you’re married.”

Liam let out a strangled noise.

Max chuckled. “You thought you had a chance with her, didn’t you?”

Liam groaned, dragging both hands down his face.

GP, still entirely unshocked, clapped a hand on Liam’s shoulder.

“Lesson learned?” GP asked, smirking.

Liam exhaled sharply, looking so very done with this entire team.

“Right,” he said finally, voice still slightly higher than normal. “So, just to recap—”

He pointed at Max.

“Four-time World Champion, absolute menace on track, king of the grudge-holders.”

Max smirked. “Correct.”

Liam turned to Francesca.

“Chief Technology Officer, too smart for her own good, owner of two doctorates—”

Francesca looked far too amused. “Correct again.”

Then Liam gestured wildly at the baby.

“And now you—together—have a whole child?”

Francesca, unfazed, adjusted the baby against her hip. “Would you prefer we only had half a child?”

Liam let out a deeply pained groan.

Max chuckled. “You’re making this too easy for her.”

Liam ignored him and turned back to GP, who was completely unbothered, like he had seen this exact scenario play out before.

“You knew,” Liam accused.

GP snorted. “Obviously.”

Liam threw his hands in the air. “Does the entire team know?!”

Max shrugged. “The ones who pay attention.”

Liam pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t want to know.”

Francesca, still holding the baby like Liam’s existential crisis was just background noise, turned to Max.

“I’m assuming you didn’t just come down here to break the rookie?” she asked dryly.

Max grinned. “No, I wanted to see you. And I think Joshua missed you.”

As if on cue, the baby—Joshua, apparently—made a happy babbling noise and patted Francesca’s face.

Francesca melted. “Oh, my love, I missed you too,” she cooed, kissing his forehead.

Max leaned down and kissed Francesca, quick and familiar, like it was second nature.

Liam immediately looked away.

“Right,” he muttered. “Nope. That’s enough for me today.”

Max pulled away, still looking far too pleased. “You sure? I could tell you how we met.”

Liam pointed aggressively at him. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

Max just laughed.

Liam exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Okay. Fine. You win.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “We were playing a game?”

“I don’t know, Verstappen,” Liam muttered. “But if we were, you won.”

Francesca, still very much focused on her baby, hummed. “I always win.”

Liam shot GP a pained look. “Does she ever turn it off?”

GP snorted. “Nope.”

Max, smug as ever, leaned in slightly. “She’s always been this way, mate. You just had the misfortune of walking into it.”

Liam groaned. “I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

Max grinned. “Not a chance.”

GP clapped a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “We’ll let this slide, since you’re new, but you might want to brush up on team dynamics before making a fool of yourself again.”

Francesca, finally tearing her attention away from her son, smirked at him. “You’ve learned an important lesson today, Liam.”

“Oh yeah?” he deadpanned. “What’s that?”

Francesca tilted her head, eyes sharp with amusement. “That I’m completely out of your league.”

Max let out a bark of laughter.

GP clapped a hand on Liam’s shoulder, offering zero comfort. “You’ll be fine, mate. Just... maybe do your homework next time.”

Liam shot him a deeply betrayed look. “You really let me dig my own grave, huh?”

GP shrugged. “I considered warning you. Then I didn’t.”

Liam groaned. “This is actual bullying.”

Francesca, clearly still amused, adjusted Joshua on her hip. “To be fair, you also called me Miss Howard.”

Liam winced.

Yeah. That had been a mistake.

“Right,” he muttered, shaking his head. “My bad, Dr. Howard.”

Max, absolutely no help at all, laughed.

Francesca pressed a kiss to Joshua’s temple before looking back at Liam, her expression turning mockingly sympathetic. “It’s okay, Liam. You’re not the first person to underestimate me.”

Liam groaned again.

“I wasn’t underestimating you,” he muttered. “I was just—” He gestured vaguely. “I don’t know! Trying to be nice!”

Max smirked. “By flirting with my wife?”

Liam turned bright red.

“Okay,” he said quickly, backpedaling so hard he could have reversed an F1 car. “I wasn’t flirting. I was just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “—being polite.”

GP snorted. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Liam exhaled deeply.

Francesca, clearly having had her fun, glanced at Max. “I have a meeting soon. Can you take Joshua?”

Max nodded, easily reaching for the baby. “Of course.”

The moment Joshua was in his arms, he lit up, giggling happily as Max bounced him slightly.

Liam watched, still trying to adjust to this absolute fever dream of a reality.

Max Verstappen—the most intense, hyper-focused, emotionally guarded driver on the grid—was a whole dad.

And, somehow, it actually suited him.

Liam shook his head, still slightly dazed. “I need to sit down.”

Max chuckled. “You’ll get used to it.”

Liam seriously doubted that.

Francesca, still smirking, patted his shoulder. “Don’t take it too hard, Liam. You never stood a chance.”

Liam groaned.

Max grinned. “Welcome to Red Bull.”

enough | mv1

500 celly request: prompt #33- “why wasn’t i enough?” w/ max

author’s note: teehee this hurt my feelings and i hope it hurts yours too 😋

warnings: hurt no comfort

word count: 1.9k

you’re wearing the dress he loves when it all falls apart.

the floor length gown that max zipped you into hours ago, humming as you smoothed the red silk fabric down, him pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder like he doesn’t know how to stop touching you.

you thought you were happy then, or you were at least pretending well enough that everyone around you believed it.

now, as you step back into the luxurious hotel room, max close behind you, the silence is oppressive and unbearable.

you don’t move to unzip the dress, and he doesn’t move to help you either. the tension in the room is palpable, but neither of you say anything to diffuse the situation.

the fight inadvertently started at the red bull gala, with one stupid lighthearted comment from christian, which instead landed like a grenade between you and max.

—————————

“still not engaged, verstappen?” christian teased, clapping max on the back with the grin that you barely managed not to grimace at. “you better put a ring on her before someone else decides to.”

everyone involved in the conversation laughed, max laughing as you force a brittle smile onto your face to play along.

but you don’t miss the way max’s hand tightens on your leg under the table, the tension that seemed to snap into existence.

and the rest of the night the crack seemed to keep spreading between the two of you. you played it off, but you know the tension was bound to boil over as soon as you got out of the public eye.

cracking a bit more with every media censored answer, every fake laugh, every glance you saw him give you out of the corner of your eye.

—————————

you knew this wasn’t about a ring.

it was about everything the ring meant that he couldn’t seem to promise you, the roots he would never lay down, the timelines that never came to fruition.

your eyes watch him now as he paces the room, tugging his cufflinks off his suit jacket as he pries the bowtie off his neck with rough movements. his suit jacket is shoved down his shoulders, hitting the chair in the corner of the room with more force than is necessary.

“you’re mad,” he mutters, his voice low as he looks up at you, slipping off your earrings, facing away from him.

it’s not a question, like he knows what every microscopic shift in your facial expressions tell him.

you swallow thickly, unclasping the necklace from around your throat. “i’m not mad,” you say quietly, which is true. you’re heartbroken. and that’s so much worse.

heartbreak is a silent killer, the kind of sadness you don’t know how to address out loud without falling apart, and you can’t bring yourself to say anything further.

he exhales through his nose, running a hand over his forehead like he’s been dealing with a headache from this future conversation all night. he cards a hand through his hair, scratching briefly at the crown of his head.

“you knew what this was,” he grits out, jaw tight. “you knew what my life was like when we started all of this.”

you flinch like he slapped you.

not because he’s being too harsh, or lying, but because it’s fully the truth. you’ve always known something like this might happen, and you decided to love him anyways.

“max, i can’t..” you start, fighting off the lump of emotions rising rapidly in your chest. “i can’t just keep following you around forever. i can’t keep putting my own life and career on hold, waiting for a future that might never happen.”

he turns to face you, and you feel your lip tremble at the conflicting emotions on his own face. his shirt is slightly rumpled, the first few buttons shoved open.

he looks exhausted. but he looks so beautiful and wrecked all at the same time, so far away even though he’s standing less than ten feet away.

“you’re asking me to stop,” he says, his tone flat and calculating, like he’s discussing strategy and not your relationship. “you want me to give it all up. to what, settle down with you?”

“i don’t want you to give anything up,” you whisper, eyes shining with tears. “i just want you to want something with me.”

the space between you might as well be a chasm with the way he looks at you, and you feel your throat close up with emotion.

you can tell that this is the end, even if neither of you say it outright. but it’s been over for a long time. you just managed to keep avoiding it every time he would smile at you from a podium or surprise you with hotel upgrades when he knew you were coming along for a race.

the tension between you is thick, but fragile, like a glass pane waiting to shatter upon impact.

max drags a hand down his face as if he’s trying to scrub the conversation away from existence, his eyes landing on you again.

“i can’t be who you need me to be,” he mutters, his tone softer and almost apologetic.

everything that has been building up seems to break wide open, the metaphorical glass shattering between you.

you don’t cry or scream, instead just nodding solemnly and walk past him toward the balcony, your heels clicking on the marble floor as you pass by.

the cool night air almost stings as it hits your face, heavy with salt from the waves crashing against the rocky shore not even two miles from the room, past the busy city.

your head is pulsing as you blink out the tears threatening to spill out of your eyes, looking down to the streets below. you know he loves you, but everything tonight almost seemed to cement your worst fears.

you hear him behind you, the subtle creak of the balcony door swinging shut again barely audible over the sound of the cresting waves. you’re gripping the railing beneath you so hard your knuckles are white, and you’re unaware you’re shivering until you feel the weight of his suit jacket being placed over your shoulders.

he stands close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, but not close enough to touch any part of you. the whole world seems to be holding its breath, witnessing the fragility of the moment unfurling on this small little balcony.

for a long moment, neither of you say anything, just staring out at the same city where you two had met years ago.

and then you ask the only thing that’s been circling in your head since you got back here, the words breaking loose before you can think to stop yourself.

“why wasn’t i enough?”

you don’t even attempt to look at him as you say it, you know you can’t. you keep your gaze forward, lip trembling when you feel him shift closer to you, his hand cupping your cheek like it’s the last time he’ll be allowed to touch you.

max’s lips brush over your forehead, and you can feel him trembling as he presses a kiss to your skin.

you make a quiet, pained sound, eyes looking away from him even as he guides your face toward him. the way he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t shut down your question with comments of how you are enough for him.

the city goes on without you, like everything is still moving forward even as you stand here, feeling like this is the end of the only thing you thought was stable in your life.

it’s like the waves crashing are mocking you, freely moving about the shoreline as you stay frozen in place, shaking again.

“i’ll get my stuff,” you say finally, not looking at him as you subconsciously pull his suit jacket tighter around your shoulders, shifting away from his warm touch.

you can’t look at him. because if you do, you’ll crumble and stay like you always have. you’ll pretend it’s enough to warrant getting put behind his racing, until something happens and shakes everything loose again.

you know he wants to try and fix this, some small hopeful part of you wishing he will just kiss you, pull you in tight enough against his chest until you can forget this night happened.

the stupid bit of hope that your love for each other is enough to fill in the cracks fades more, and you both know it. the jealousy that’s been simmering low in your body for never getting priority in his life has been rotting inside you for months, the way racing will always be his first loyalty, and his biggest love.

you were always going to be second.

the wind catches your hair, whipping a strand against your face so hard you have to blink, finally sending a tear down your cheek. you wipe it off quickly, ashamed that you’re seeming to fracture into pieces while he stands stoically beside you.

max lets out a shaky breath, his hand coming into view in your peripheral, like he’s going to reach for you again. “you don’t have to..” he starts, voice shaky and raw with emotion.

you could stay.

you could turn towards him, let him wrap his arms around you, let your forehead rest against his chest and hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat and feel his breathing shake because he thought he was going to lose you.

you could let him kiss the corner of your mouth, whisper apologies as he takes you to bed and makes promises to you for a future he doesn’t want, promises he can’t keep.

but it would only delay the inevitability of what you both fully realized tonight. and it’s going to hurt worse the longer you keep it going.

your hands find the railing of the balcony again as you steady yourself, sighing.

“i can’t keep being the thing you come back to when you’re done chasing after what you really want.” you whisper, so quiet against the sound of the waves that you’re not even sure he’s heard you.

a small piece of yourself wants to look at him, to see him crying too, but you don’t. you don’t want to remember him like this, torn between you and the life he’s chosen over you time and time again.

max shifts on his feet again, and you can tell he’s fighting the urge to pull you into him and kiss your worries away.

the unspoken realization that this is over hangs between the two of you, and the knowledge that letting you go is the only right thing he can do right now.

and worst of all? you don’t hate him for it. you could never hate him.

you love him too much to make him choose, and he loves you too much to lie about what that choice would be.

the lights of the city blur into fuzzy stars behind the unshed tears still shining in your eyes, and you let out a shaky breath.

you turn, careful not to meet his gaze, and brush past him back into the empty room where your suitcase sits still packed by the door from your rushed flight here.

max doesn’t follow you back in, but you can feel the weight of his eyes on you as you grab the few things you unpacked earlier for the gala, wincing to himself when he hears you sniffling.

but for the first time in a long time, he lets you go without any plans on how to fix this, and you leave the room knowing that he never will.

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

Don't ever hesitate. Reblog this. TUMBLR RULE. When you see it, REBLOG IT.

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devoted to you : kth | sm masterlist

🌷synopsis: "you’re a bratty idol with a temper. he’s a silent trained and skilled bodyguard who can’t speak his mind. you don’t get along, but you both can’t seem to get one another off each other’s mind.”

character analysis: taehyung is a silent knight in shining armor. it drives you insane. he can never speak his mind, but under that thick layer of introvert lies a beautiful soul.

⇆ a/n: if you'd like to be added to the taglist, send me an ask ! <3

⇆ fic type: social media, enemies to lovers

⇆ main pairing: bodyguard!tae x idol!reader

⇆ side pairing: sope

⇆ warnings: explicit language, smut, mature themes, alcohol usage, etc !

⇆ status: updates everyday (when i can)

CHAPTERS-

characters - yn’s besties

characters - taehyung’s group

prologue - new bodyguard

chapter one - a reason

chapter two - absolute shit

chapter three - no idea

chapter four - look at him

chapter five - so different

chapter six - kinda cute

chapter seven - having fun

chapter eight - good stylist

chapter nine - hopes up

chapter ten (bonus) - doing this right

chapter eleven - crossing the line

chapter twelve - work on me

chapter thirteen - temper tantrum

chapter fourteen - big deal

chapter fifteen - getting attached

chapter sixteen - back nd forth

chapter seventeen (timeskip) - so boring

Hii babe, I have another little request if you’re taking them!

Could you write something Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader where she’s super stressed because she’s about to take her final exams (like the French bac) and she hasn’t started revising at all?? It’s literally in a month, and she feels completely overwhelmed and behind.Like she’s spiraling a bit, maybe crying over highlighters and making dramatic “I’m gonna fail” speeches while Kimi just tries to calm her down and support her. Maybe he helps her organize her revision or just stays with her through the stress, reminding her that she’s smart and capable even if she doesn’t feel like it.Basically soft academic panic + golden retriever boyfriend energy. Only if it inspires you of course!! But I’d love that dynamic.

𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞: 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | final exams in a month, panic sets in tears, chaos, and dramatic speeches. kimi stays, calms, organizes, and reminds: you're capable

warnings | gf!reader, academic stress, panic attack elements (crying, overwhelm), comfort, fluff, golden retriever boyfriend energy

word count | 1.5 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇 f1 masterlist

You're surrounded by highlighters. One is drying out on the edge of the bed without its cap, another is chewed between your fingers, and several more are scattered across the desk like witnesses to a crime.

Your notes are everywhere: some open on the floor, others crumpled, one pinned to the wall with washi tape like that’s going to help you absorb information through osmosis.

Your heart is pounding, your eyes are burning, and your thoughts are racing a mile a minute. You don’t even know where to start. You haven’t touched a single flashcard, haven’t opened the first topic, and the bac is in a month. One month. Thirty days. What can you do in thirty days? Go over the entire syllabus? Prepare text commentaries? Review philosophy, history, math? Sleep? No. Sleep is no longer an option.

You feel your throat burn. You're about to cry for the third time this afternoon—and it’s because of a damn dried-up highlighter.

And then, you hear the door open.

"Hey, amore..." says a familiar voice, soft, almost carefree.

Kimi walks in with a bag of croissants in one hand and his jacket slung over his shoulder. He has that smile he always wears when he sees you... but it fades the moment he takes in the disaster that is your room. And you.

"What happened here?"

You turn with a kind of hysterical laugh caught in your throat.

"What happened?" you repeat, your eyes wide. "Kimi, the bac is in a month! A month! And I haven’t started anything! I’m completely lost, I’m going to fail, my life is going to be ruined, I won’t get into university, and I’ll end up… I don’t know! Selling defective highlighters from a street stall while crying!"

You toss a tissue at your face and sigh. You're being dramatic you know it. But you're so overwhelmed you can’t help it. Everything feels too big, too hard, and you feel so, so small in front of it.

Kimi walks toward you carefully, like he’s afraid of spooking you.

"Are you crying because of…?"

"Yes, because of a highlighter!" you yell, pointing at the pastel yellow one that has tragically died on the floor. "It was dry and that was the last straw!"

He lets out a soft laugh and crouches beside you. With the kind of tenderness only he has, he runs a thumb over your damp cheek and wipes away the tear.

"At least you cry in style," he says, and you let out a choked laugh between sobs.

"Don’t make fun of me," you mumble, letting yourself fall against him. Your forehead rests against his chest, and you feel his arm wrap around you.

"I’d never do that. I'm here for this, right? To hold you while the world falls apart because of some exams."

He closes his eyes and rests his chin on your head. His voice, calm, steady, warm, filters through your chaotic thoughts like an anchor.

"You’re going to be okay. I promise. We’ll do this together, okay?"

You don’t say anything, but your hand clutches his shirt. Because even though everything in your head is spinning out of control... he always manages to stop the chaos, at least a little.

You don’t know how long you stay curled up against him. It could be minutes or an eternity. All you hear is his calm, steady breathing, like he’s trying to regulate yours with his. And in a way, it works. Your heart no longer beats with the same violence, and the tears though not completely gone have stopped flowing uncontrollably.

"Does your head hurt?" he asks quietly.

You nod, not lifting your face from his shirt. His hand moves gently across your back, drawing little circles that, for the first time in hours, make you feel like you’re not alone in this wreckage.

"Okay, listen," he says softly, pressing a small kiss to the top of your head. "I know it all feels like a giant mountain right now, but we can break it down. Step by step. Day by day. I’ll help you, amore. Want to start?"

"I don’t even know where…" you whisper, voice cracking.

"From the beginning. Tell me which subjects you need to prepare."

You take a breath, pull back slightly, and look at your desk in resignation.

"Literature, history, philosophy, english, geo, and math."

Kimi nods like it’s not a monstrous list.

"Perfect. Then we’re going to make a schedule. A real one. With breaks, time to breathe, and…" he reaches into the bag he left on the desk, "croissants as rewards."

You can’t help but laugh.

"You’re going to motivate me with pastries?"

"I’m going to motivate you with love and pastries. Which is objectively better than any educational system."

He hands you his phone, already open on a scheduling app. You look at it, surprised.

"You had this ready?"

"I know you, amore. I had a feeling."

You start dividing the days by subjects, assigning realistic study hours, leaving room for breaks, and marking small “rewards” at the end of each day. Kimi does it all with infinite patience, listening without judgment, suggesting instead of imposing.

"This is insane," you whisper at some point, watching the schedule take shape.

"No," he corrects you, taking your hand, "this is what you do when you decide to fight instead of give up. And you always fight even when you cry over highlighters."

You sigh. There’s still a pinch of anxiety in your chest, but it no longer fills the whole space. Because now he’s there, sharing it with you.

"What if I don’t make it? What if I run out of time?"

"Then we’ll improvise. Or you’ll do your best. Because you’re brilliant, even if you don’t feel like it today. I know that. And I’m not going anywhere. Even if you have to study twenty hours straight and yell at me because you don’t understand Rousseau."

You look at him. He has that soft, silly smile that always disarms you.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"Don’t thank me yet," he replies, standing up to grab your flashcards. "The battle against the note mountain hasn’t even started. But don’t worry. I brought reinforcements. And croissants."

You laugh. For the first time in days, you truly laugh.

And while he starts sorting your notebooks by color, as if that were a war tactic… you realize maybe you can do this.

Because you have Kimi. And with him, everything feels a little less impossible.

Days passed. Some were chaotic, full of tears, existential dread, and internal battles with the voice in your head telling you you wouldn’t make it. Others were miraculously productive, with full hours of focus, checkmarks on your calendar, and that almost-forgotten feeling of progress.

But the best part was that Kimi was there for all of it.

He became your official study partner. He sat beside you, even if he didn’t understand a single word of your philosophy texts. He read your outlines, quizzed you, and gave you a kiss every time you got one right. He learned how to pronounce Spinoza without laughing and ended up having opinions about Victor Hugo. More than once, you caught him doodling nonsense in the margins of your pages while you reviewed.

"Is this a philosophical pig?"

"No, it’s Descartes… in cochon mignon version," he replied seriously, like it made perfect sense.

And you laughed. You laughed so hard you forgot, for a second, all the stress.

That particular night, you were both lying on your bedroom floor. Your notes were stacked, and your head was resting on his lap. He was stroking your hair absentmindedly while you repeated phrases quietly.

"‘L’homme est condamné à être libre…’" you murmured.

"That guy sounds intense," he said, and you smiled.

"It’s Sartre."

"Couldn’t he just say ‘do what you want but take responsibility’?"

"Wouldn’t be existentialism if it were that easy to digest."

"Touché," he said, kissing your forehead.

You fall silent for a few seconds. Your eyes sting a little from exhaustion, and that familiar twinge of insecurity creeps in.

"Do you really think I can do this?"

Kimi stops stroking your hair and makes you look at him.

"Y/N… I don’t think. I know. You’re smart—smarter than you give yourself credit for. You’re scared, sure, but that doesn’t mean you’re not capable. Look at you: you’ve been fighting this for days, organizing, reviewing, moving forward. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re scared. You keep going. And not everyone does that."

You feel a knot form in your throat. You’re not sure if it’s because of his words, his voice, or the way he looks at you like you're everything good in the world packed into one person.

"Can I give up for just a little bit?"

"You can give up for as long as you need," he whispers. "And I’ll stay with you until you’re ready to start again."

You wrap your arms around him tightly. And for a moment, between notes, highlighters, and philosophical theories, you feel safe.

And just a little bit braver.

Media Day Mayhem

Charles Leclerc x Wife!Reader

Summary... What should’ve been a simple twenty-minute press conference turns into full-blown chaos when Charles brings the kids along—and then the kids get their own turn behind the mic.

Warnings: Pure fluff, kid chaos, dad!Charles, teasing, swearing mentioned by children (in French), banter, major secondhand embarrassment

A/N: you guys... the way I had too much fun writing this! I hope you guys enjoy this little story. I would love to actually see a moment like this in the future maybe. That would be iconic. I hope you guys enjoy it. Please let me know what you guys wanna see next!!

If you loved this story and want to support more F1 fics and soft chaos like this, feel free to buy me a matcha 🍵 or reblog/comment to share the love!

As always—happy reading, and have a beautiful day today

Like, comment, reblog, enjoy :)

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

The press conference was supposed to last twenty minutes. Just a few pre-weekend questions before FP1, some sponsor shoutouts, and a bit of media fluff. Charles had done this a hundred times. Easy.

What he hadn’t done a hundred times was a press conference with all three of his children clinging to him like magnets to a fridge.

“Mila, baby, don’t twist that,” Charles says quietly into his mic, gently removing his daughter’s hand from the cord running down his chest. She’s seated sideways on his lap, twirling the cable like it’s spaghetti. His twin boys, Luca and Jules, are squished on either side of him on the small bench Ferrari provided — all three with messy chestnut curls identical to their father’s.

“Charles, you’ve had a strong start to the season. What would you attribute that to?” a reporter asks.

Charles smiles, glancing down quickly at Luca, who’s trying to sneakily remove one of his shoes.

“Uh—consistency, for sure. And a lot of work with the team during the off-season,” he answers, his voice smooth despite the circus unfolding around him.

“I want to talk!” Jules blurts out, grabbing at the microphone in front of his dad. “I’m fast too!”

“You are very fast,” Charles replies automatically, pressing a quick kiss to his son’s temple as reporters chuckle.

“I beat Mila in the hallway!” Jules announces proudly.

“You cheated!” Mila screeches.

Charles coughs to cover his laugh. “Okay, okay, let’s not yell, we are live on camera, darlings.”

Another journalist attempts to move things along. “Charles, what’s your mindset going into qualifying tomorrow?”

Before he can answer, Luca pipes up: “Papa said the car was ‘a pain in the—’”

Charles snaps his fingers in front of him. “Luca! What did we say about telling secrets?”

Jules leans toward the mic. “Mummy says we can’t say ‘merde’ either.”

Charles hides his face with his hand for a beat as the media room loses it with laughter.

From the wings, you — Y/N — shake your head, arms crossed but clearly amused. Charles glances over at you like please come rescue me, but you're already motioning for the boys to come to you.

“Alright, boys, go with Maman,” Charles says, ushering them off the bench.

“Can we get snacks now?” Mila asks, hopping down and walking backwards toward you.

“Only if you stop tattletelling,” Charles replies sternly.

Jules makes a face as you crouch and hold their hands on either side of you, whispering something that makes them all go quiet and pouty at the same time.

Charles watches for a second longer than he means to—how you always manage to calm them down like magic—before turning back to the mic.

“Apologies. Where were we?”

“Honestly?” one of the reporters grins. “This is better than Drive to Survive.”

Charles laughs. “Welcome to my real full-time job.”

As he tries to finish the final question, he feels a small tug at his pants. Mila has snuck back on stage with her stuffed bunny.

“I forgot Bun-Bun,” she whispers.

He grabs it quickly and hands it to her with a gentle ruffle to her hair. “Okay, allez, go sit with Maman now.”

She nods seriously, then skips off.

Charles clears his throat. “Anyway—thank you all. I think I’m going to go find a quiet corner to cry in now.”

The media room erupts into chuckles again as Charles walks off, applesauce pouch tucked in one hand, baby wipes in the other, and you waiting with a knowing smirk and two giggling little boys tugging at your sleeves.

Charles barely made it three meters off the stage before Mila tugged on his sleeve and declared, “It’s our turn now.” He blinked, confused, until he spotted the row of miniature chairs being set up at the front of the room—and the Ferrari PR team, looking far too pleased with themselves as they waved the kids forward like VIP guests. Jules had already climbed onto one of the seats, Luca was dragging a juice box across the floor like it was part of his media kit, and Mila marched toward the microphone like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment. Charles stared for a beat, caught between horror and awe.

This was not on the schedule, he thought, eyes narrowing. Whose idea was this? Did Y/N sign off on this? Is this revenge for the broken espresso machine?

He looked toward you for backup, but you were already leaning against the wall, arms crossed and smirking like you’d known this was coming all along. When you caught his eye, you shrugged playfully and whispered, “You survived your press conference. Good luck surviving theirs.”

Charles let out a breath, resigned, and folded his arms across his chest. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered under his breath, watching his children take the stage with terrifying confidence.

Ferrari may build the fastest cars in the world, but nothing moves quicker than my own kids when there’s a microphone involved.

The Ferrari media tent is buzzing with cameras, press badges, and a surprising amount of juice boxes.

——

A journalist clears their throat. “Alright… first question for Mila. What’s it like having a Formula One driver as a papa?”

Mila: “Loud.” Jules: “Fast.” Luca: “Sweaty.”

Everyone bursts into laughter. Mila shrugs. “He yells a lot on the radio. I don’t think he knows we can hear it sometimes.”

Charles covers his face with both hands.

Another reporter tries to keep a straight face. “Jules, if you were in charge of Ferrari, what would you change first?”

Jules (serious): “Make the cars green.”

Luca: “And add rocket launchers!”

Charles chokes.

Mila (disapproving): “That’s not safe. I’d make the suits pink and add glitter so they sparkle on TV.”

Reporter: “What do you think Papa says the most on race day?”

Jules: “Merde.”

Mila: “No! He says ‘focus.’ And ‘where’s my drink?’” Luca: “And ‘WHY ARE THE TYRES GONE?!’”

The room is losing it. Charles is whispering something to Y/N, who is fully crying from laughter.

A hand goes up from a British reporter. “Luca, if you won a race, what would be the first thing you'd do?”

Luca (without hesitation): “Call my mumma.”

Everyone collectively awws—until he adds:

Luca: “And then eat a chocolate croissant the size of my head.”

Mila (muttering): “That already happened.”

Reporter: “Jules, do you like watching the races?”

Jules: “Only the start. Then I get bored and play Hot Wheels.”

Mila: “I watch the whole thing. I have a clipboard and give Papa scores.”

Luca: “She gave him a 6 last time and he almost won.”

Mila: “He messed up the overtake.”

Charles looks wounded.

Final question from a German journalist: “Mila, what advice would you give your Papa before his next race?”

Mila leans into the mic like a pro.

Mila: “Be brave. Go fast. And don’t cuss if the tires fall off.”

Everyone in the room breaks into applause as Charles walks forward, scooping Luca into his arms while Mila and Jules are immediately surrounded by press taking photos and asking for high fives.

Y/N slips a hand into Charles’, her smile wide. “They handled that better than you did.”

Charles grins, eyes still on his little trio. “They’re natural born media drivers.”

——

Back at the hotel that evening, Charles was flat on his back on the couch, eyes closed, two juice box wrappers on his chest. You were sitting cross-legged beside him, flicking through the photos already going viral online—Mila adjusting her mic like a pro, Jules midair off the chair, Luca holding up fingers like he was flashing a gang sign.

“Next time,” Charles murmured, eyes still shut, “we tell them I only have one child. Maybe two, max.”

You smiled, brushing curls from his forehead. “Sure, baby. But admit it… they kind of stole the show.”

He cracked an eye open, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m not even mad.”

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

Emergency Contact - Max Verstappen x Reader

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender hand soap—the soft, almost apologetic kind they keep in private hospitals tucked into the hills of Monaco. Outside the tall windows, the sky was still a dusky lavender-grey, the sea just beginning to glisten like a spilled secret. The city hadn’t quite stirred yet. The yachts in the harbor rocked lazily in the hush of dawn, and the streets—usually alive with the quiet luxury of another world—were still.

You weren’t sure if you were dreaming.

Your body felt like mist. Bones suspended in honey. There was a dull ache in your side and a whisper of pain behind your temple, like the aftertaste of something sharp. Machines beeped softly around you in a rhythm that felt too slow, too gentle for what had happened.

The crash. Rain-slick asphalt. Screeching tires. A flash of headlights. Then nothing.

You blinked. Once. Twice. The world wavered like a watercolor before it cleared.

And there he was.

Max was seated beside your bed, shoulders hunched forward in a way that was so unlike him it made something twist inside you. His Red Bull hoodie was wrinkled and slightly damp near the hem, like he’d stepped out into the rain and hadn’t noticed. His hair was a mess. His hand was in yours.

And his eyes—stormy and rimmed red—were locked on your face like it was the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

He didn’t speak at first. Just let out a breath so shaky it nearly broke you.

“I thought I lost you.”

The words were hoarse. Ragged. Like he’d been screaming them in his head all night. You tried to smile, but your face didn’t quite cooperate.

“I’m okay,” you managed, voice soft and a little raw. “I think.”

“You’re not okay,” he snapped, then caught himself, breathing in hard through his nose. He looked away, eyes glossing over the sterile white of the hospital walls like he could will himself back into control. “They said… it was close. You weren’t waking up. I didn’t know what the hell was going to happen.”

Your fingers tightened weakly around his.

“I put you down as my emergency contact,” you whispered. “Didn’t think you’d actually have to come rushing over in the middle of the night.”

Max laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. More like a sharp exhale of disbelief.

“I’ll always come rushing,” he said. And then quieter, like a confession to the silence: “I should’ve told you that before.”

There was a pause. Long enough to hear the ocean hum somewhere far beyond the window. Long enough for you to read it on his face before he said it.

“I love you.”

The words weren’t dramatic. They didn’t explode into the air like fireworks. They landed quietly, like snow on an already beautiful morning. But they shook something loose inside you nonetheless. Something you’d kept hidden beneath your ribs for too long.

You stared at him. The Max you knew—fierce, untouchable on the track, rarely unguarded—was gone. In his place was something softer, realer. His knuckles were pale where he gripped your hand, and his thumb kept brushing over yours like a prayer.

“I love you,” he said again, as if repeating it would make it true in both your hearts at once. “I should’ve said it sooner. I just… I didn’t want to mess this up. But when I saw them wheel you in, when they said you weren’t waking up—nothing else mattered.”

You swallowed hard. Eyes stinging.

“Say it again.”

He leaned in, forehead brushing yours, so close you could feel the words before he spoke them.

“I love you.”

And that was it. That was everything.

The world know him as the champion. The racer. The living legend. He’d wear his fireproof suit like armor and chase glory at two hundred miles an hour.

But this morning—this fragile, golden, precious morning—he was just Max. Yours. And that mattered more.

A Year to Celebrate - [Mini Verstappen Series]

Dad!Max Verstappen x Mother!Reader (Established Relationship)

Photo Credit: Pinterest

Format: Social Media

A/N: This is the last Social Media AU I have planned for now when it comes to Mini Verstappen. More may eventually get posted.

Previous Part → Next Part Mini Verstappen Masterlist

maxverstappen1

Liked by ynverstappen, victoriaverstappen, and 294,186 others

tagged: ynverstappen

maxverstappen1 Happy Birthday, my love. Another year older, and you grow more beautiful by the day.

View all 835 comments

fan17 Why do I feel like Nico had a hand in designing Y/N's cake?

fan42 Max, please stop simping on main... we get it!

fan87 Does she age at all? Seriously, I don't think she's aged a day since we've been getting pictures of her.

maxverstappen1

Liked by ynverstappen, danielricciardo and 756,457 others

tagged: ynverstappen

maxverstappen1 Happy Anniversary, mijn leeuwin. Married for three years and together for 7. We have shared and been through so much in that time. You becoming a mom to our boys, always being able to support each other in whatever we accomplish, and loving me through everything that comes our way.

ynverstappen Love you, mijn leeuw ☺️❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

fan42 New fan here. They've only been together how long??

fan78 Wow, time really does fly by. I still remember when Max first started posting pictures of Y/N to his instagram stories.

fan17 Look at Y/N practicing her dutch!

Feb 2, 2028

ynverstappen

Liked by danielricciardo, victoriaverstappen, and 578,231 others

ynverstappen Going through this beautiful journey one last time

kimi.antonelli When you are no long Mum's youngest child... 😭

View all 452 comments

fan52 Her nails are pink. Does that mean that they're having a girl?

fan28 I would die if they are finally having a girl.

fan37 Is that Max ducking out of the first picture?

fan93 Dude, we know it’s you who got her pregnant. There’s no need to hide.

fan75 Are we just going to pretend not to see what Kimi posted as a comment? When did Max and Y/N adopt him?

July 3, 2028

maxverstappen1

Liked by sophiekumpen, charles_leclerc, sebastianvettel, and 625,095 others

maxverstappen1 I've grown up with so many amazing women in my life. From my mom, my sister, to my wife, and now my daughter. My life wouldn't be the same without these women in it.

danielricciardo Whoever owes me money, pay up! I told you all!!!

pierregasly No! You were supposed to have another boy. alex_albon Pretty sure that's not how conception works. You can't just choose whether you have a boy or a girl. landonorris Can I mail you your winnings?? Or do you take Cash App?

View all 1,382 comments

fan38 Max is FINALLY A GIRL DAD!!!!

fan57 Confirmation that all of Max's kids have Nic/k names?

fan92 As much as I’m here for Max finally being a girl dad… Y/N finally no longer being the only woman in the house. Now that’s something I can get behind.

fan76 Sophie must be so happy to finally have a granddaughter.

fan20 I hope we get some pics of Max having a tea party with his daughter when she's older. I demand to see photos of Max staring the camera down in a tiara.

fan45 Is Max trying to beat Checo in having children as well?

Nov 20, 2028

Mini Verstappen taglist: @karmabyfernando, @barcagirly, @sachaa-ff, @iamahallucinationnn, @glow-ish, @nonsensical-nonsence, @champomiel, @gothicwidowsworld, @lighttsoutlewis, @itsalwaysgay, @minkyungseokie, @mynameisangeloflife, @ursforever129, @aundercover, @bborra, @mindless-rock, @cixrosie, @barcelonaloverf1life, @taylorslovesswifties13, @konsti081, @mellowarcadefun, @smnthnclj, @brekkers-whore, @thedecalcomania-blog, @xoscar03, @em-gvf01, @haikyuen, @shelbyteller , @geniusalpaca, @princessria127, @mysticalnightenthusiast, @green-thots, @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp, @ellelabelle, @lilypat, @dreamercrowd

♪ — 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗦𝗘 𝗠𝗘 max verstappen x fem! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . You spend a season running—from him, from the feeling, from everything it could become, you call it a game, a fun chase. But in the end, under the lights of Abu Dhabi, something finally gives (3.1k words)

( main master list | more of max verstappen ) ( requests )

Venice, Italy – The Balcony

Venice smells like rain and old stone, like secrets exhaled from the cracks of a city that remembers everything. The air is thick with the ache of something ancient, ghost stories that cling to damp bricks and kiss your skin when you’re not looking. The Grand Canal glimmers below like a mirror that only reflects the past, gondolas gliding with a lazy elegance that belies the electricity in your chest.

You're on the balcony, fingers curled around cold iron, your silk dress slipping from your shoulder like it’s trying to escape before the storm hits. But the storm isn’t in the sky. It’s behind you—six feet of tension and temptation, wrapped in Dutch stubbornness and Red Bull blue.

“You keep finding me,” you murmur without turning, eyes on the water, on the world, on anything but him. But your voice is softer than your smirk, tinged with something dangerously close to longing.

Max steps closer, his presence like thunder. You can feel it before you hear it. The air tightens.

“You keep running,” he says, each word low and even, but there’s something trembling beneath the surface. A ripple in the calm. A warning.

You turn just enough to meet his gaze, and it hits you—harder than it should, as always. That ridiculous face of his. Beautiful in a brutal kind of way. All edges and sharp lines softened only by the strange gentleness he saves for you alone. His eyes, glacial and guarded with the world, melt when they land on you.

And you hate that you love it.

“It wouldn’t be fun if I didn’t,” you say, letting your smile curl slow and wicked like the smoke of a dying candle.

He’s too close now. The kind of close that sets off every alarm in your body but makes you want to stay anyway. He plants his hands on either side of you, caging you in without touching you—just heat and threat and want, radiating off him in waves.

“You left me in Amsterdam,” he says, voice a blade that nicks something just beneath your collarbone. “Again.”

You arch a brow. “Poor baby. Did you miss me?”

His jaw ticks, eyes darkening just a touch. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.

And that silence—it says everything.

Your heart’s racing, traitor that it is. You wonder what would happen if you said yes. If you told him you missed him too. If you told him you keep running not to escape—but to be chased.

“Tell me,” Max whispers, his breath a brush of fire against your mouth, “do you ever miss me?”

You don’t speak.

You kiss him.

And the second your lips crash into his, it’s war. His hands fly to your waist, your hair, your jaw—gripping like he’s terrified you’ll vanish again if he lets go. You drag your fingers through his hair, yanking just to hear that sound he makes when he loses control.

He’s never gentle with his love. It’s always been a wildfire. And this—this is an inferno. Burning every city you’ve touched, turning history into ash.

But you let him.

You always let him.

Paris, France – The Empty Bed

The morning is quiet in that cruel way only Paris knows—silver light slicing through the curtains like judgment, the kind that peels back the night and asks, what did you think this was?

Max wakes slowly, the warmth of dreams evaporating as his fingers search for you in the sheets. He’s still half-asleep when he reaches out, expecting the curve of your waist, the softness of your thigh, your breath dancing against his neck.

But all he finds is cold linen.

And silence.

His eyes crack open, and the room tells him the story before his brain does.

You’re gone.

Again.

The pillows still hold the ghost of your perfume—amber and something floral, sweet and defiant. The scent clings to the air like a dare, like a memory that refuses to leave, and it makes his chest tighten in that infuriating way only you can.

The sheets are twisted, evidence of a night spent tangling and unraveling. His hoodie is draped across the armchair—yours now, apparently, because you steal things you don’t ask for. Like hoodies. Like hearts.

On the nightstand, he sees it. That familiar scratch of your handwriting, scrawled in black ink on hotel stationery like you were in a rush—or maybe you just didn’t care.

Je t’aime bien plus quand tu dors. I like you much more when you sleep.

He stares at the note for a moment too long. Not blinking. Not breathing. Not sure if he wants to laugh or scream.

“Fucking hell,” Max mutters, dragging a hand over his face. His voice is low, wrecked from sleep and something worse.

You always do this. Slip away while the world is still dim, while his guard is down. Like a thief who only wants the thrill of the chase, not the prize. Never the prize.

And he should hate it. Hate you. Hate the games, the vanishing acts, the lipstick on his collar and the cigarette burns in his soul.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sits up, bare-chested and exhausted, the note still in his hand like a brand. His thumb smudges the ink, and it feels like desecration, but he doesn’t stop. He never stops.

He reaches for his phone, voice steady even as his pulse betrays him.

“Call Lena,” he says to no one in particular, to the room, to the ghost of you still echoing in the corners.

A pause. Then—

“Book me a flight to Tokyo.”

Tokyo, Japan – The Hotel Room

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft finality.

Tokyo hums behind the glass, neon lights bleeding into the night like bruises—red, violet, electric blue. The air tastes like rain and sakura petals, like a story just starting even though it’s been written a hundred times before.

And he’s already there.

Max Verstappen, framed by the window like something out of a fever dream. Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable. Jaw tight. Still wearing Red Bull team gear, like he came straight from the paddock, still humming with engine heat and fury and the weight of a thousand expectations. But none of them matter now.

Not here. Not with you.

Your pulse stutters in your throat. Just a beat.

“You’re in my room,” you say, voice even, but there’s something sharp under the surface. Surprise, maybe. Or dread. Or hope you’re not ready to name.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches you with that look—the one that’s both fire and glacier, the one that melts and freezes you in the same breath.

“This is new,” you say again, a touch more amused this time.

“You’re predictable.” His voice is calm. Icy. Like he rehearsed this moment on the plane. “Every time you run, you come here.”

You click your tongue, letting the silence stretch as you cross the room, hips swaying, heels clicking against the polished wood like punctuation marks in a poem no one dares read aloud.

“And yet . . .” you purr, eyes glittering, “you still chase me.”

You reach out—just the ghost of a touch, fingers aiming for his collar, for something real—and that’s when he moves.

Fast.

His hand closes around your wrist, not hard but firm, pulling you into him like gravity always wins.

Suddenly, it’s skin on skin. Heat on heat. Breath shared and shallow. You’re close enough to feel the thunder of his heart. Or maybe it’s yours.

“I don’t want to chase anymore,” he says, low and rough and dangerous.

Your smirk wavers, just for a second. A crack in the mask. “That’s a shame.”

You twist, slipping from his grasp like smoke between his fingers—like you always do.

But Max follows. He doesn’t give you space to run this time. He crowds you back, herding you across the room with silent fury until your back hits the glass. Tokyo sprawls out behind you in chaotic beauty, but all you see is him.

“You think this is a game?” he growls, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet.

Your eyes narrow. Your chin tilts up like a dare. “Isn’t it?”

His hands land on your hips. Not to restrain. To anchor. To remind.

“Not to me.”

Then he kisses you.

Not gently. Not sweetly.

He kisses you like punishment. Like confession. Like he’s empty and you’re the only thing that can fill the void.

It’s teeth and tongue and fingers in hair. It’s breath stolen and given back. It’s every late-night call, every whispered don’t go, every bruised heart and burning look. It’s everything he’s never said carved into the curve of your lips.

When you finally pull apart, gasping, dizzy, wrecked— He doesn’t let go.

And for once, neither do you.

Monaco – His Apartment

It took a lot to get you here.

Phone calls you ignored.

Voicemails left in the middle of the night—raspy and tired and a little desperate.

A dozen texts that never quite said please, but every word was laced with it.

And finally, Max himself. At your door. Rain-soaked and stubborn. Eyes wild with something too tender for a man like him.

He said your name like a confession. Said come with me like a vow. Said I don’t want to chase anymore with his voice cracking like the sky.

And somehow . . . you said yes.

So now you’re here.

Wrapped in one of his hoodies, perched on his marble kitchen counter like a question he’s still afraid to answer. The sleeves swallow your hands, and the hem brushes your bare thighs. You look too soft in his space. Too dangerous.

Because this isn’t a hotel.

It isn’t Tokyo or Madrid or a back alley in Singapore.

It’s his home.

And the sunlight in Monaco is different.

Softer. Gentler.

Less about the thrill of pursuit, more about the ache of what comes after.

Max moves through the kitchen like he’s done this before—like this is normal. Like you are.

He’s barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, eyes focused as he flips something in a pan with the kind of precision that usually only lives on race tracks.

It’s unnerving.

This quiet. This domesticity.

The hum of something almost peaceful blooming in your chest.

You stare. Unblinking. Curious. Like he might vanish if you stop.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, without turning around.

You hum, stretching lazily, your back arching like a cat in sunlight. “I’m trying to decide if you’re real.”

That gets him. He turns, spatula still in hand, expression unreadable but eyes locked on you like you’re the only fixed point in the world.

“And?”

You swing your legs. Feet bare. Heart not quite. “Jury’s still out.”

He huffs a laugh, low and warm, shaking his head like you’re something ridiculous and holy all at once. He mutters something in Dutch under his breath—something you can’t quite catch but feel all the same.

But he’s smiling. Small. Barely-there. Real.

And it hits you, quietly, like all the best truths do:

This is what it looks like when a wildfire learns to stay.

The Côte d'Azur – Mid-Summer

You’ve never spent more than one night with Max.

It’s always been fleeting. A few hours wrapped in linen sheets, breathless silences in penthouse suites, the distant hum of a city that never quite felt like yours. Always a whisper of what could be—never enough time to see it through.

But then summer arrives like a dare. And somehow, he convinces you to stay.

At first, you think it’s a trap. Some beautiful illusion disguised as reality—a mirage with his arms around you and the Mediterranean just outside the window.

But the days bleed into one another with startling ease.

Mornings become late afternoons.

Late afternoons become dinners on the balcony, wine-stained laughter and fingers interlocked beneath the table.

And suddenly, you’re not counting hours anymore.

You’re just . . . here.

And it’s disorienting. The way he touches you now—like you’re made of something delicate. Not fragile like glass, but rare like a secret he never wants to lose. Like he’s not trying to catch you anymore, just hold you. Just keep you close enough to memorize the shape of your stillness.

One afternoon, you find yourselves on a quiet stretch of beach.

The sun melts over the horizon in shades of gold and fire, and Max lies beside you, one arm flung carelessly across his eyes, the other tracing patterns on your stomach. His fingers are lazy. Warm. Reverent.

“Stay,” he murmurs, almost too softly to hear.

You glance sideways, catching the shadow of him behind golden lashes. “I already am.”

He turns, props himself up on an elbow. The sand clings to his skin. His voice, however, is clean and clear.

“No.” There’s a catch in the word. “Stay after this.”

The wind tugs at your hair. The sea sighs behind you. And your throat tightens like it always does when he shifts the rules of the game.

“Max—”

“I’ll win for you,” he says, sudden and sharp. Like a promise he’s been holding on his tongue all week.

“Every race. Every championship. I’ll give you everything. Whatever it takes. Just . . . don’t leave.”

You let out a soft, startled laugh. Because what else can you do? He already wins. He already conquers the world at 300 kilometers per hour.

“You already do that,” you say, your voice a breath away from shaking.

He shakes his head, brushing a thumb across your cheek, his touch feather-light but grounding. “Not for me,” he whispers. “For you.”

And gods—it’s terrifying. The way he says it. Like it’s simple. Like it doesn’t change everything.

Because you were never meant to be loved like this.

Not so completely. Not so sincerely.

You were born to run. To vanish. To slip between fingers and leave only the echo of your laughter behind.

But lying there, in the afterglow of a half-formed future, Max’s heart beating steady against your shoulder, your fingers tangled in the space where promises go to rest . . .

You wonder. And yet. Maybe you don’t want to run anymore. Maybe—for once—you want to stay.

Round Fourteen – Singapore

It took weeks for Max to convince you.

Calls that stretched into the early morning. Messages you left on read. Voice notes you almost didn’t listen to. He begged without shame—told you he didn’t care if you stayed in the paddock or the hotel or halfway up Marina Bay Sands—he just wanted you there.

And god, you wanted to say no. But the way he said your name made it sound like home. So you came.

You wore black. Slipped into the paddock with quiet grace and sunglasses big enough to hide the hesitation in your eyes. Max spotted you immediately—grinned like the sun came back just to light up the weekend.

He kissed you like he’d already won.

But then Sunday came.

And Max didn’t.

The win streak snapped like a rubber band, loud and cruel. A slow pit stop, a strategy that unraveled, traffic that swallowed him whole. He didn’t even make the podium.

And the thing is—you didn’t care.

You didn’t care about the trophy or the points or the standings. You only cared about him—the way he clenched his jaw, the way he avoided your eyes after the race, the way his hand slipped from yours before you could ground him in something softer.

But somewhere in the mess of post-race silence, a horrible thought bloomed.

You ruined it.

You, with your cursed presence and clumsy heart. You broke the rhythm. The magic. The momentum. He had begged you to come, and you came, and he lost.

So you left.

Quietly. No note this time. No cryptic French.

Just your absence. Your perfume in the sheets. Your toothbrush missing from the sink.

And when Max returned to the hotel—tired, aching, and already looking for you—you were gone.

He stared at the untouched wine glass you left behind and felt the loss like a punch to the ribs. And then he assumed the worst.

She left because I didn’t win.

Because that’s what you do, right? You chase winners. You haunt champions. You don’t stay for failure.

Something cracked open inside him that night. Not anger. Not even grief. Something quieter. Something hollow.

So he did what he always does.

He drove.

Japan. Qatar. Austin. Mexico. Brazil. Vegas. 

Every race, he drove like he could undo the loss in Singapore. Like he could put the broken thing between you back together with lap times and champagne.

And he won.

God, did he win.

But every time he looked up at the crowd—at the garage, the grid, the VIP lounge— You weren’t there.

No slow smile behind oversized sunglasses. No click of heels across the concrete. No ghost.

Max kept driving. But the victory never tasted sweet again.

Abu Dhabi, The Final Race

Lap 58 of 58.

Nineteen wins. A season written in gold and sweat.

A symphony of records shattered, rivals silenced, legends carved into carbon fiber.

Max takes the checkered flag like a man possessed. Not with hunger. Not with fury. With purpose.

He parks the car. Throws the wheel aside. Climbs out to the roar of a world on its feet.

And still, he feels . . . incomplete.

Until he sees you.

Not in the VIP suite.

Not hidden behind tinted paddock glass.

You’re on the other side of parc fermé—leaning against the rail, heels digging into the concrete, that unmistakable silhouette framed by twilight and floodlights.

For a second, he thinks he’s hallucinating.

The ghost he’s been chasing all season.

But then you tilt your head, and that teasing, infuriating smile curves across your lips—so real it knocks the wind out of him.

You came.

You came to him.

And god, it guts him—because for once, you’re not the one disappearing into the smoke and silence.

You’re not the one he has to run after.

This time, you found him.

He’s still standing on the podium when his eyes catch yours again.

They hand him champagne. He barely notices.

His gaze never leaves you—not through the anthems, not through the trophy lift, not through the artificial rain of celebration.

Because nothing else matters. Not the title. Not the cameras. You’re here.

Later, in the half-lit quiet of his hotel suite, you walk toward him like a slow exhale, barefoot and sure, wearing one of his shirts like you never left in the first place.

You press a kiss to his jaw, soft and smug. “You look hot when you win.”

Max laughs, breathless, the sound cracking open something inside him.

“I win for you,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your skin.

You don’t run.

You don’t vanish with the sunrise.

You stay.

Fingertips in his hair, lips at his throat, body tucked into the space beside him like you were made to be there all along.

And maybe—just maybe—the chase is finally over.

Or maybe . . .

Maybe this is what it feels like when you both stop running.