First, Any Na’vi

"What remains of us"

outbreak! Joel miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel doesn't die after the brutal encounter with abby because you saved him on time.

wc: 4k>

warnings: angst,mentions of blood, mentions of murder (reader becomes violent), fluff, mentions of broken bones. english is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. Written in a rush.

a/n: so uhmm. How are we feeling? I personally feel broken by the events from episode 2 so I rewrite the story while i was free in the morning to help me cope with the grief and joel is alive.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Something felt wrong in your bones the moment the snowstorm hit harder than expected.

Not just the kind of wrong that came with whiteout conditions and freezing wind — this was deeper. Ancient. It whispered through the trees like a secret from another world, brushing icy fingers down your spine. A warning dressed up as weather. You felt it in your chest, in the weight behind your ribs, where your breath stayed too long before escaping.

Your skin burned from cold, your limbs throbbed with fatigue — but none of it compared to the way your heart pounded. Not from exertion.

From fear.

“Hey, you alright?” Jesse called ahead, pulling his scarf down just enough to glance at you.

You nodded too fast. “Yeah, just—cold.”

Ellie was further up the ridge, carving her own path through the deepening snow with the horse, unaware of how your whole body shook with more than frost. You hadn’t told them. Couldn’t. How do you explain that your body knew something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet? That every step forward felt like walking away from safety?

Your heart was screaming in a language older than logic. Since the morning. Since Joel left before you could fully wake up.

The echo of his voice still lingered in your memory — low and warm, brushing against your ear as you stirred under the covers.

“Get some more sleep, darling”

But he hadn’t kissed your forehead like usual. He hadn’t lingered. And when you finally did get up, your gut twisted when you saw the empty space in the stable, the saddle still had damp with snow.

Joel was out there with Dina; you had no idea under what circumstances. And the sky had turned gray with anger.

You shook your head, tried to focus on Jesse’s voice. Tried not to feed the panic unraveling in your chest like a pulled thread. But the cold in your mind spread, and no matter how tightly you gripped the reins, no matter how fast your horse moved, the feeling remained.

Something was wrong.

You finally found a rundown outpost, an old hunting cabin half-buried in snow and swallowed by pine trees. The roof sagged, one of the windows was cracked, and the door barely held on its hinges, but it was shelter. You and Jesse pulled your horses inside the narrow lean-to out back, while Ellie stomped snow off her shoes and kicked the door open with more force than necessary.

Inside, it was cold and smelled like old weed and damp rot, but you didn’t care.

There was a radio.

You didn’t hesitate. Your gloves were off before Jesse could even say anything. Your fingers moved over the knobs, turning dials, trying to find the frequency Jackson always used for patrol check-ins.

A burst of static.

Then another.

Finally, a signal.

Your breath caught. “Jackson patrol, do you copy?”

Ellie moved closer. Jesse pulled his scarf down, suddenly silent.

“Joel? Dina? Come in.”

Only static.

“Come on,” you muttered, heart hammering, twisting the dial again. “Joel, please, respond.”

Nothing.

The silence wasn’t ordinary. You knew silence. This wasn’t delay. It was absence.

Your body went rigid, every instinct screaming louder than your racing thoughts. Your limbs moved before you made the decision. You were out the door and into the snow again before Jesse or Ellie could stop you.

Jesse called after you.

But Ellie was already grabbing her rifle.

“Where are you going?” Jesse yelled, chasing behind.

“Something’s wrong!” you snapped, swinging onto your horse. “I just know it!”

Ellie mounted up beside you, eyes wide and fierce. “Then we’re not wasting time.”

Jesse hesitated, glancing between you both and the radio inside.

“You don’t even know if that’s where they went—”

“I know,” you growled, already riding. “I feel it.”

Ellie followed without a word.

The snow clawed at your skin like it wanted to peel the truth away. The wind howled as if it knew what was waiting ahead. But you didn’t stop.

Because something had happened.

And Joel and Dina were out there.

You and Ellie rode hard, the snow whipping across your faces like knives, the hooves of your horses lost beneath the storm. You could barely see five feet ahead — but then, in the distance, a glow.

“Shit,” Ellie hissed beside you, pulling her hood lower.

You followed her gaze. Through the trees, past the slope of the hill — firelight. Orange, flickering, wrong. It wasn't from a patrol cabin or torch post. It rose in a bloom, too wild to be controlled. You slowed your horse as your stomach dropped.

“It’s from Jackson,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Ellie.

It wasn’t the whole town, not yet. But something was burning. And it was enough to send a coil of panic twisting through your gut, feeding that same deep certainty that had been clawing at you all day.

“Come on,” you growled, spurring your horse harder, cutting off the cold fear before it could settle. “We are too far.”

And it wasn’t long before you saw it, the lodge.

It sat crooked and hunched near a clearing, like it had been dropped there by accident. One of the side windows was shattered. Smoke was seeping through cracks in the boarded upper floor. The front door hung ajar, barely moving in the wind.

You pulled hard on the reins. Your horse bucked a little, skidding in the snow. Ellie drew her rifle and slid off hers.

Your eyes locked on two shapes near the side of the lodge.

Horses.

Your heart stopped.

Joel’s and Dina’s.

Both were tied loosely, their coats soaked with snow, hooves pawing nervously at the ground. Alone. No movement near the front entrance. No voices. No patrols. No sounds but the wind and the creak of the old building groaning under weight it wasn’t meant to bear.

You slid off your horse.

“Ellie…” you whispered, your voice barely audible, breath clouding in front of you.

She already had her knife out.

“Oh shit...”

You didn’t wait for backup. Couldn’t.

Because Joel’s horse was here. And he wasn’t.

And whatever was inside that building, you felt it—It was about to break you open.

The sound of screams of agony and a body hitting the ground echoed down the hallway like a gunshot.

You knew that sound. It was torture. It was pain.

Your boots thundered down the corridor of the lodge, Ellie at your side, a worry and desperate look in her eyes. She’d followed the path like a wolf hunting a pray, her eyes screaming please don’t let it be too late.

You didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. Your heart was stuck in your throat, and the only thing that moved was your body, in fast motion, furious, drawn to the man who should have never left your side in the first place.

Then you saw it. The door, a from inside, screaming slipping from the lips you used to kiss every day. Joel’s screams.

You didn’t wait. You didn’t breathe. You kicked the door open and your world shattered.

Joel was on the floor, a mess of blood and pain and something worse. His legs bent at unnatural angles. One hand barely raised in instinct. His face, bruised, bleeding, one eye swollen shut. His body twitched like it wasn’t sure if it should keep trying.

And above him, a woman. Blonde. Rage carved into her face like she’d practiced it. Her arms raised again, a golf club in her grip, stained red.

She didn’t see you at first. Her eyes were solely focus on Joel, but you weren’t having that.

You roared, not screamed, roared and tackled her with everything you had, all your weight, all your fury. You slammed her into the wall with a force that cracked wood. The club dropped from her hand and hit the ground.

“No more.” you growled.

Her people came fast, like shadows. One tackled Ellie to the ground. Another raised a knife.

But they hadn’t counted on you.

You were already moving, eyes wild, mind gone. You fought like someone who had nothing left but him.

You weren’t skilled like Joel. You didn’t need to be. You were desperate. Right now, you were desperate.

Fists cracked bone. You took hits but didn’t stop. Didn’t feel them. You were pulling someone off Ellie, dragging them by their collar, throwing them into a chair that splintered on impact. You used what you had — a piece of wood, a broken lamp, your fists, your fury.

And they couldn’t stop you. Because you couldn’t be stopped.

The blonde tried to rise again. You met her halfway and slammed her back to the floor. She spat blood. You didn’t flinch.

“Get away from him!” you screamed.

The crack of your shotgun echoed like thunder as the first shell slammed into one of the men flanking her. Blood hit the wall. Chaos exploded in every direction.

“Who the fuck—?!” Abby turned, fury and shock colliding in her face.

You dropped the shotgun, drew your blade, and charged.

The first one that tried to reached for you got a knife through the ribs. You shoved him off like he was made of paper. The next came at you with a bat, you caught the swing and used his momentum to slam him face-first into the fireplace bricks.

“You don’t get to touch him,” you hissed. “Not him.”

Abby swung the club toward your face. You ducked.

Then you hit her. Right in the gut. The force of it sent her staggering back, wind knocked from her lungs.

“You wanna kill him?” you growled. “Try me first!”

She looked at you like she wanted to, but she hesitated.

And that was her mistake.

Because Ellie broke free just long enough to grab your dropped shotgun and aim it at her. “Step back,” she spat, blood in her teeth, voice shaking but solid.

“Now.”

Abby looked between the two of you. At Joel — bleeding, still breathing — at her fallen group. Then she backed off, raising her hands slightly.

“This isn’t over,” she said.

“Yeah,” you snapped, “it is.” You said, pointing your gun right between her brows.

Your shotgun echoed in the stillness of the room.

The blast slammed into her chest, and her body jerked back like a puppet with its strings cut. She hit the floor; eyes wide. No final words. No redemption. Just silence.

Ellie flinched.

You stood over Abby’s body, breath hitching, heart pounding in your ears. The room reek of blood and then there was silence, except for Joel’s ragged breath.

You dropped beside as your knees had finally given out.

“Hey,” you whispered, your voice cracking into pieces. “Joel, look at me. I’m here. I got you.”

His one good eye fluttered open, dazed, unfocused. There was blood crusted at his brow, dried and fresh, a cruel mask across the face you’d kissed so many times before.

“Y-you---"he rasped, voice like torn gravel.

You nodded, cradling his face in your hands, not caring that blood smeared across your palms. “I’m here. You’re safe. Don’t you dare go anywhere.”

His breath stuttered, chest rising too slow, too shallow. His eyes couldn’t stay fixed on you. They wandered, like he wasn’t fully in the room anymore.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered, leaning close. Your forehead rested against his, warm against cold.

“Hurts,” he mumbled, eyes slipping closed again.

“No, no,” you said quickly, your hands gently patting his face. “Stay with me. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Help’s coming, okay? Just—just hold on.”

But he didn’t answer. His breathing slowed.

Your heart lurched in panic. “Joel!”

Nothing.

You pressed your fingers to his pulse—still there, but faint.

“Don’t you do this,” you choked out. “You fight, dammit. You’ve been through worse, haven’t you? Don’t you leave me now.”

You’d already faced your worst nightmare. Now you were living in it, holding it in your arms.

Joel lay limp and broken on the floor, his breath rattling against the stillness. His face was swollen and unrecognizable on one side, purple and black with bruising. One eye swollen shut. Blood trickled from his nose, his mouth, the side of his head. His legs—

Don’t think about the legs. Not now.

“Hey,” you whispered again, voice hoarse. “Joel. You still with me?”

A faint groan. Barely audible.

But it was enough.

He was still here.

You pulled off your jacket and shoved it under his head. Your hands were shaking, but your mind was locked in: every first aid trick you’d learned from scraps of survival guides, emergency manuals, anything Joel had ever shown you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. You had paid attention.

You just never thought you’d be using it on him.

Dina stumbled in, still pale and groggy, her hand gripping the wall. “Ellie?” she rasped. “Wh—what the fuck happened…?”

You didn’t look up. “You were drugged. Ellie is moving the bodies. We need the space.”

Dina staggered past, gagging at the sight of blood, but she didn’t hesitate. She knew. The air had changed.

This was a war zone. A zone you had built in seconds because you didn’t know what else to do. You blinded yourself; you had become a murderer monster just to save Joel.

You pulled Joel’s shirt open — shredded, stained with red. Purple splotches across his ribs. Swelling. At least two broken.

Your voice cracked. “You’re gonna hate me for this, Joel. But I have to move you.”

“Don’t…” he mumbled, almost unconscious. “Just… leave me—”

“Shut up,” you said, fierce now, your tears splashing onto his collarbone. “Don’t you dare say that. You don’t get to give up.”

Ellie appeared, face pale, blood on her shirt, Dina behind her with a blanket and an old mattress from the back.

“We cleared the room,” Ellie said. “It’s just us now.”

“Good,” you said. “Help me splint his legs. We need to keep him still until we can get him out of here.”

You tore up a curtain and grabbed two broken chair legs. It wasn’t perfect, but nothing about this was. Ellie held Joel’s leg as steady as she could, while you worked the makeshift splint around the worst of the fractures.

Joel screamed.

It was guttural, raw as if he was being dragged through hell.

You didn’t flinch. “I know,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his as you tied the cloth tight. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”

You felt his breath against your skin, shallow and hot.

His lips moved. “Why?” he whispered.

You leaned back and looked at him. “Because I love you,” you said simply.

His eye fluttered open — just barely. And for one fragile second, the pain slipped away. There was only you and you brush the hair from Joel’s face. He was burning up. You needed to clean the wounds. Stop the bleeding. Keep him warm.

Keep him alive.

And somehow, by the grace of whatever broken god still watched over you all, you would.

You pressed a damp cloth to his temple where skin had split beneath Abby’s final blow. His blood soaked through instantly. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Your hands moved on their own now. Wash. Compress. Tie. Splint. Whisper to him. Stay with me. Please stay with me.

Ellie and Dina had gone quiet. Standing behind you. Watching. Waiting for direction.

Then your voice broke through the stillness.

“Go back to Jackson.”

Ellie flinched, like she hadn’t expected you to speak.

You didn’t look up. You were holding Joel’s hand — limp and calloused in yours.

“We need help,” you said, barely audible. Your voice was shot. A raw whisper. “Tell Tommy… tell him to send help. We need to get Joel back there.”

Silence. Just the sound of Joel breathing. The sound of blood dripping from the club Abby left behind.

“Please,” you added, and that word cracked like bone. “Please. I can’t carry him by myself. He’s—he’s too heavy. He’s—”

You swallowed hard. Your fingers curled tighter around Joel’s hand.

Ellie stepped forward. “We’re not leaving you.”

You finally looked up, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. “You have to. We need a stretcher, a team. Horses. Anything. I can keep him alive for a few more hours. But I can’t move him like this.”

Ellie’s jaw clenched. Her knuckles went white. “I don’t want to leave you with him like this.”

You reached out, brushing Joel’s graying hair from his brow with trembling fingers. “I’ve got him.”

A pause.

Then Dina touched Ellie’s arm. “I’ll go,” she said gently. “I’ll ride. I’m faster. You stay.”

Ellie nodded, eyes not leaving yours.

You left a loud gasp “No,” you said quietly, lifting your eyes once more to Ellie’s. “Ellie… you go with Dina. I’ll stay here.”

Ellie’s shoulders stiffened. Her brows pulled together like she was bracing for another blow. “What? No. I’m not leaving you and him.”

You sat back on your knees, your hands bloodied, trembling. Joel’s chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged motions beneath you.

“You have to,” you said, your voice breaking. “You have to, Ellie. Dina shouldn’t be riding alone.”

Ellie looked at Joel. Looked at you. And shook her head. “I can’t leave him like this. I can’t.”

You grabbed her hand.

That startled her.

It startled you too.

But you held on, grounding her, pulling her attention back to your face. Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“Please,” you said. “Please. Help me save him.”

Ellie’s eyes filled. Not with tears — not yet — but with everything she couldn’t say. The guilt. The fury. The fear that maybe… it was too late.

But you looked at her like there was still something worth fighting for.

And Ellie, for the first time in what felt like forever, let herself believe it.

She swallowed hard. Nodded once.

“I’ll go.”

Your chest caved with relief. Joel let out a faint groan beneath you, and you turned back to him, brushing your thumb against his jaw.

“I’m here, baby,” you whispered. “I’m right here.”

Ellie hesitated at the doorway. “Will he be okay?” she asked before daring to step a foot outside the room.

You nodded, but it was instinct, automatic, hopeful, desperate. The truth lodged in your throat like a splinter you couldn’t spit out.

“I don’t know,” you said softly, voice trembling. “I—I need to stop the bleeding. His leg is bad. His ribs—fuck, I don’t know how much damage they did.” Your eyes flicked over Joel’s body again, breath catching at the way his chest rose unevenly. “But he’s breathing. And that’s something.”

Ellie stepped closer, still pale, still wide-eyed, her clothes soaked with blood—some hers, some not. “What do you need me to do?”

You looked up at her then, and for a split second, she looked like a kid again. Shaken. Haunted. But standing tall.

“Just go back to Jackson and bring help,” you said, your voice barely more than a breath.

Ellie’s eyes burned. She nodded once; jaw clenched. “Okay. Okay. Just hold on, please.”

You gave her one last look. “I’ll keep him breathing.”

She was gone the next second—boots pounding out the door, calling for Dina. You were left in the broken room, just you and Joel and the slow drip of blood on floorboards.

You pressed your hands to the worst of the wounds, breath shaking. “You hear that, Joel?” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. “Help’s coming.”

He didn’t speak. But his fingers twitched again, slow, and curled around your wrist.

It wasn’t much but it meant he was still here.

That night felt heavy like wet ash. Outside, the snowstorm had died to a bitter hiss. The wind still screamed through cracks in the lodge, but inside, everything had gone quiet—except for the sound of Joel’s ragged breath and the low creak of floorboards every time you moved.

You’d done everything you could.

His legs were splinted crudely with a broken table leg and belts. His wounds were packed with gauze you tore from your own coat lining. You boiled snow over a fire in the next room just to clean the worst of the blood from his side. You weren’t a medic. But you were a woman in love. And that made you terrifying.

He’d faded in and out of consciousness, his lips murmuring your name between groans, sometimes not even sure it was real. You sat beside him, your back against the bloodstained wall, holding his hand in both of yours.

But then it went still.

You hadn’t realized how quiet it had gotten until the sound stopped completely.

“Joel?” you whispered, leaning close.

No answer.

You shook his shoulder, gently. Then harder. “Joel.”

Nothing. His head lolled to the side. His skin felt clammy beneath your palm.

Your breath broke in your throat. “No, no—please, no. Joel—” You cupped his cheeks. “You stay with me; do you hear me?”

Still nothing. And then a twitch.

His brow twitched. His lips parted, barely, and a broken whisper slipped out.

“…Sarah.”

The name came out like a breath lost in time. You froze. Your heart cracked open.

His eyes fluttered beneath closed lids, a flicker of life.

In his mind, it was Austin again.

The smell of smoke and gasoline in the air. Sirens in the distance. Sarah was laughing, running ahead of him, calling back over her shoulder: “Dad, come on!”

And he was smiling. Genuinely smiling. He could hear her. Feel her hand in his again. It was warm. Real.

He turned and they were on the couch. Watching a movie. She was leaning against him, head on his shoulder. He’d just said something dumb. She rolled her eyes. He didn’t want to blink—afraid it’d all vanish.

But then came the gunshot.

Her warmth gone. He spun. He screamed for her. And when he looked down—

You were there.

In the memory. Not Sarah. You. Covered in blood. Crying. Calling his name.

Joel, please. Please.

Your hands were glowing with firelight, trembling as they pressed against his chest.

He tried to reach for you. He couldn’t move. The world was slipping.

And then—your voice cut through the haze.

“Joel, please. Please don’t do this.”

His heart stuttered once. Then again. A sharp inhale tore through his chest as if he’d been drowning.

“Joel!”

He coughed, body shaking, and your hands caught him just in time.

You sobbed, half-laughing as you gripped his cheeks again. “You scared the shit out of me—oh my god” you sobbed.

He looked up at you, dazed, confused. Then his eyes cleared, just a little.

“You were crying…” he mumbled, lips cracked.

“Yeah,” you whispered, brushing your thumb beneath his eye. “Yeah, I was.”

He blinked slowly. “Stop...”

“I won’t,” you promised. “I’m here. I’m staying.”

And as the fire cracked quietly, Joel leaned ever so slightly into your palm, the pain pulling at him, but your voice anchoring him.

The night lingered like a wound that wouldn’t close.

You didn’t sleep.

Your body screamed for rest, but you stayed next to Joel—watching the way his chest rose and fell, slow and shallow, praying it wouldn’t stop again. Every time his breath caught or he groaned too hard, your stomach twisted into knots.

The lodge was cold. Blood had dried into the floorboards. The fire in the next room was too far away to warm either of you, and you didn’t dare move him to get closer.

So you pressed your body to his side gently, just enough to share warmth without causing him pain.

“Still with me?” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open, sluggish and heavy. “Yeah…” His voice was more gravel than sound.

You breathed out a shaky laugh, your forehead resting lightly against his temple. “You’re stubborn as hell, y’know that?”

Joel let out a faint puff of breath—maybe a laugh, maybe a wince. “…Learned from the best.”

Your throat clenched. You reached for his hand again, interlocking your fingers with his—gingerly, so you wouldn’t brush the torn knuckles.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.

His eyes moved—slow, searching—until they landed on you again. Then he mumbled something you barely heard.

Silence settled like snow. You closed your eyes, listening to the wind groaning against the walls. Time stretched, only broken by Joel’s breath stuttering again.

Then—his fingers twitched around yours.

Then you whispered, “Joel?”

He made a sound.

“I love you.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were glassy with pain. But then he squeezed your hand, and his voice came soft, barely a breath.

“I love you too.”

It felt like the first time he had told you those three words and that had broken you in the gentlest way.

You buried your face in his shoulder, careful of the bruises, and let yourself cry—not in panic, not in fear. But in overwhelming, soul-shaking relief. He was alive.

He was alive.

Joel woke to the soft hum of voices and some old machines. The scent of cleaner stung his nose before the light even reached his eyes.

His body was pain, muted but deep, like a dull echo in his bones. He tried to move, but something warm and heavy rested on his side.

Your head.

You were slumped in a chair beside him, your cheek pressed gently to his arm. Your fingers were laced with his, your grip loose with sleep but still holding on. Still there.

The light in the room was soft, filtering through the curtained window like morning fog. Outside, life stirred in Jackson. But here, it was quiet. Just the two of you.

Joel blinked slowly, his throat dry, the taste of cotton still on his tongue. His gaze drifted down to you. There was a crease between your brows even in rest. You looked exhausted. Pale. Eyes ringed with shadows.

But you were here.

He breathed your name, raw and hoarse.

You stirred at the sound, your head lifting slowly as if from the depths of a dream. Your eyes met his, still sleep-warm but wide with shock. Disbelief flickered, then relief so powerful it made your lips tremble.

“Joel…” you whispered, leaving a sob behind.

His smile was small. Barely there. “You didn’t leave.”

Your hand came up to cup his cheek. “Never,” you said. “You scared the hell out of me.”

He swallowed hard, his hand tightening weakly around yours. “How long?”

“Three weeks,” you said, voice shaking with the memory. “You were unconscious the first few days back. Fever wouldn’t break. They weren’t sure if you’d make it through the second night…”

He looked at you again, really looked. “And you sat here the whole damn time?”

You gave a soft, broken laugh. “Where else would I be?”

His good eye softened. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

You leaned closer, resting your forehead to his. “You promised me once you wouldn’t leave me.”

He nodded faintly, his eyes closing for a moment as your breath mingled.

Your fingers brushed his temple, so gently, as if afraid he’d fade again like some half-formed dream. Joel’s skin was warm beneath your touch, warmer than it had been in days, and that alone nearly broke you all over again.

“It’s going to take time,” you whispered, your voice barely louder than the hum of the machines. “To heal. For everything.”

Joel didn’t say anything, but you felt the tremor in his breath.

You threaded your fingers more tightly with his. “But I’m not going anywhere. You hear me?” you said, firmer now, voice catching on the tears in your throat. “I’m not leaving your side. You will get sick of me.”

His lips parted like he wanted to argue, maybe even protest, but then he looked at you again. Really looked. The cut on his brow. The bruising on his cheekbone. The pain behind his eye, and beyond that, the softness that only came when it was just you.

“You shouldn’t have had to—”

“I had to,” you cut in, gently but unshakable. “Because I love you. Because I couldn’t lose you. And I won’t.” you paused to take a deep breath before continuing, “You and I will grow old together, and we will die peacefully in farm, together.”

Joel blinked. His hand tightened slightly in yours again, like the only strength he had left was meant for that one touch. His voice was barely a whisper when he said, “I don’t deserve you.”

You leaned in and kissed his forehead, bruised, stitched, healing. “You’re mine, Joel. And I’m yours. That’s not about deserving. That’s just how it is.”

Silence fell, heavy but not suffocating. The kind of silence where you could finally breathe again. Where you knew, he was going to live.

Joel let his head rest back into the pillow, the edge of a tear slipping from the corner of his eye.

“Okay,” he whispered, smiling at you.

You smiled through your tears, the kind that burned hot down your cheeks but carried no pain—only release. Relief. Love.

You shifted in the chair, reaching up to brush a bit of hair back from his forehead, careful not to touch where it was most tender. His skin warmed beneath your fingertips. Alive. He was alive. The reality of that still hadn’t fully settled in.

“I’m gonna be here when you wake up,” you promised, voice like a hush of wind through leaves. “Every morning. Every damn day if I have to. You focus on getting better.”

Joel's smile trembled, worn and crooked, but it was his. The first real smile you'd seen in so long it felt like a lifetime ago. His good eye drifted shut, but not before his fingers gave yours one more squeeze, like he couldn’t bear to let go even in sleep.

You watched him as his breathing evened out again, slow and steady, like the beat of a familiar song you never thought you’d hear again. The machines hummed softly beside him. The faint glow of a streetlamp outside filtered through the hospital window, painting golden lines across the bedsheets.

You rested your head by his side again, your cheek brushing his arm, eyes closing just for a moment. Not to sleep, but to hold the feeling. The warmth. The miracle.

He was still here.

And you would be, too. Always.

Reader being jealous of their older boyfriend being shipped with another driver

• feat : mark webber, jenson button, fernando alonso, mika häkkinen, lewis hamilton, kimi räikkönen, sebastian vettel, nico rosberg

• genre : crack, suggestive

• A/N : not gonna lie, I love making these

Oi diva sou eu denovo,andei pensando em um Enzo todo submisso a mulher,com aquela cara de coitado,daqueles que choram por medo de perder a mulher,eu amo um homem com cara de coitado.

𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐀, aqui está! Desculpa a demora, tô tendo ideias muito mirabolantes e complicadas de se passar para a escrita 😭 mas acredito que consegui passar essa vibe Enzo homem pobre carente da coitadolandia que prefere morrer do que perder a mulher dele em vida, que faria de tudo por ela e deixa ela ser o mulherão que ela é.

^᪲notas da autora: homem bobo carente pela esposa em quantidade exorbitante!, homem romântico e escritor de cartinha para a lobinha dele!, 40's!, guerra com tempo encurtado!, enzo militar!, muito choro e alegria!, citação de sangue e feridas!, sexo!, sexo desprotegido (já sabem meu aviso, né lsdnetes?)!

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃ você pede e a vampgi escreve.

𝐎 𝐀𝐍𝐎 era 1944 e o mundo se desmoronava em ruínas. Os lares haviam sido rachados com as dores e sangramentos da Segunda Guerra Mundial. Os homens lutavam no campo de batalha, distantes de seus lares, das esposas e filhos, enquanto as mulheres tentavam manter a esperança viva nas pequenas cartas que, vez ou outra, chegavam com notícias de seus amados. Muitos soldados se mostravam inabaláveis diante do horror, mas a maioria não conseguia esconder as lágrimas quando encarava a iminência da morte.

Naquela tarde, na minúscula base médica no front latino -americano, lotada e onde o cheiro do sangue misturava-se ao odor forte de medicamentos e à fumaça que parecia impregnar cada canto; Soldados estadunidenses, brasileiros e de outros países da América passavam de um lado para o outro entre a vida e a morte. Enzo Vogrincic estava quase sem forças. Seu corpo estava encostado em uma parede manchada de mãos ensanguentadas, provavelmente de algum outro soldado ou médico que falhou em manter a vida. A camisa do uniforme verde camufla dele estava toda ensanguentada de batalhas passadas, mas seu ombro esquerdo estava com uma mancha de um sangue vivo e molhado.

Ele respirava ofegante, mas sua dor física era insignificante comparada ao medo que o corroía por dentro. Seus olhos de uma cor entre um tom de castanho médio e o mel estavam marejados, vermelhos e vidrados no além. A mandíbula travada denunciava o ranger dos dentes e escancarava a dificuldade de não soluçar tanto. Ele chorava.

De repente, um soldado chamando Fernando, muita das vezes sério, mas bom e compreensivo, se aproximou numa tentativa de acalmar os ânimos feridos em latência de seu amigo. Ele conhecia Enzo de antes da guerra, em encontros familiares, na casa de ambos onde suas respectivas esposas riram e conversaram bastante. Sabia da força de vontade e resistência do uruguaio, mas também sabia que a guerra cobrava um preço até dos mais bravos cavaleiros.

"Aguente firme, meu companheiro. Já já você vai ser atendido". Fernando disse quase gentil. Preocupado, sabia que Enzo era um dos melhores homens deles em campo.

"Não é a bala...". Enzo murmurou baixinho, a voz cortando enquanto afundava a cabeça nas mãos calejadas. "Porra, não é só isso, Fernando".

Fernando o olhou meio de lado, sem entender muito do que se tratava. "Então... o que é?".

"E se eu morrer, e se eu me for sem sequer poder dizer novamente o quanto eu a amo? Minha florcita, Fernando... ela é tudo para mim".

Um outro soldado, que deitado em um catre de madeira caindo aos pedaços, de perna ferida e gemidos profundos de dor, balbucionou em lamentação algo sobre ter força e coragem, sobre não deixar os seus demônios tomarem conta de tudo. Enzo riu em meio a tantas lágrimas.

Ele enxugou o rosto na manga comprida que cobria seu antebraço, mas logo outras mais velozes caíram. "Vocês não entendem. Minha esposa... ela". Parou, com um fungada baixinha, se sentindo completamente despedaçado. "Ela é a coisa mais linda que existe. Os olhinhos dela... tão escuros, como jabuticabas". A voz entrecortou uma vez e ele se lembrou de você. Da sua imagem, da sua risada. Ele se lembrou de como você sempre o esperava. Do sabor de seus bolos, do seu tempero tão gostoso. "E o cabelo dela... enrolado, sabe? Sempre com aqueles bobs, tão formosa, tão... minha. E se eu nunca mais viver isso?".

A frase era cheia de chamego, de dengo, da realidade do quanto Enzo era completamente devoto por você. Agarrado a sua beleza e sua alma como uma âncora. E o silêncio que se seguiu foi uma reação disso. Todos ali tinham algo ou alguém para qual voltar depois do céu nublado, mas Enzo não se importava em transparecer esse processo com mais tristeza.

Logo os médicos chegaram. Revestidos com linhas, pinças e um único propósito: salvar o maior número de vidas. Um deles levou Enzo para uma sala menor. Tinha um catre pequeno no canto, pior do que o do soldado que recitou sobre força, e sentado, observou a área médica.

Em uma mesinha próxima, uma bacia com água fervente e álcool era usada para esterelizar os utensílios. Ali também tinham um frasco éter, bandagens e mais. O médico estava concentrado, abrindo alguns botões do uniforme de Enzo até poder tirar a manga e expor a ferida. Foi com um pedaço de gaze umidecido em algo que evitou maior infecção no ombro afetado do soldado.

Ele percebeu os olhos marejados de Vogrincic, mas não comentou. Todos ali tinham as suas vezes de cair em prantos. E a escassez de matérias mais eficazes, levou o velho no jaleco a usar o resquício de éter para dar uma anestesia geral em Enzo, visto que o estado emocional poderia comprometer a situação e piorar ainda mais a dor.

Enquanto se encarregava de tirar a bala, o senhorzinho, de cabelos brancos e muito vivido, encontrou algo que o fez repensar suas escolhas de vida. No bolso do uniforme de Enzo, uma carta intacta, não lida por ninguém a não ser a mente de seu próprio escritor. O envelope externo tinha um prólogo da mensagem.

"De um homem comum, para seu grande amor.

Eternamente seu marido,

Enzo V".

Ele pensou que talvez a pessoa destinada para ler aquele papel, nunca fosse receber essa carta. Mas provavelmente pôde sentir o amor de Enzo Vogrincic durante grande parte de sua vida. E sim, você sentiu. Ele sorriu, e guardou a carta novamente no mesmo bolsinho.

__________

Quase três anos de guerra depois, ele voltava. Após tanto sangue e bombardeios, o mundo tinha conseguido subir minimamente até a paz. A guerra finalmente acabou e os céus estavam limpos. Os soldados estavam animados, alguns tinham um dedo a menos, um olho ferido. Outros sequer puderam voltar vivos. Mas Enzo tinha pelo o que agradecer, depois de todo aquele tempo de agonia estava voltando para os braços de sua florcita.

Olhando para o horizonte belo atrás da janela, ele sorriu para a vida. "Me espere, pode ser na estação, ou até em nossa casinha... só me espere, minha amada. Eu voltarei hoje". E então, o trem embarcou em viagem.

Em uma manhã límpida, o sol brilhava mais, como se até ele parecesse saber da chegada da paz naquele lugar. A cidade de Montevidéu estava em um alvoroço. Mulheres de toda a cidade, sendo elas, filhas, mães, esposas, vestidas com a elegância da época e com sorrisos mais que afetuosos se reuniam na estação ferroviária do centro da cidade. Você sequer tinha conseguido dormir naquela noite, o coração quase explodindo de tanta saudade.

Colocou seu melhor vestido, um na altura dos joelhos, de um tecido de poá, muito gostoso e leve. O favorito de Enzo. Ele dizia que a florcita dele ficava mais formosa com aquele vestido. Acompanhado de um cinto fininho, é claro.

Já na estação, se podia ver muitas mulheres despedaçadas, que provavelmente já sabiam da morte de seus homens, e só esperavam o uniforme deles como uma triste e fervorosa lembrança do que eles tinham feito para um mundo melhor. Sem respostas e apenas uma esperança guardada no peito, se sentou em um banco.

"Volte para mim, meu marido. Volte que eu te tomo em meus braços". Rezava para si.

De longe era possível ouvir os cantos felizes dos soldados, as vozes roucas que ressoavam ao som de alguma música de Frank Sinatra. Mas foi no barulho da locomotiva, que então, anunciou a parada. O trem finalmente chegava em Montevidéu e de lá de dentro, a festa parecia grande.

Os soldados estavam dançando de um lado para o outro, em fim, em paz. De repente, um ajudante do motorista começou a entrar em cada um dos vagões e em todos, suas palavras calmas eram as mesmas. "Peguem suas coisas rapazes, e voltem para a felicidade". Enzo tomou aquelas palavras como suas, as repetiu para os amigos próximos, as lágrimas voltando as olhos bonitos enquanto suas mãos tremiam na alça das malas.

Sem seguir ordens ou serem finos e educados, todos eles desceram, se esbarrando e até malas caindo. E de repente não havia sequer espaço na estação. Os homens corriam e seguravam suas mulheres nos braços, beijavam suas filhas com saudades e sentiam o carinho de suas mães. Enquanto outras passavam pela dor da perda. A mala na mão de Enzo vacilou dos dedos trêmulos quando te viu e as suas pernas também. Você usava o vestido de poá favorito dele, você se lembrou. Tinha prometido que usaria exatamente aquele na volta dele.

Estava linda. Estava estonteante, como uma princesinha e as lágrimas desceram forte pelas bochechas dele. Quando estava um pouco mais perto de ti, se deixou cair. Em uns tropeços de ansiedade e o peso das bagagens trazidas, ele se deixou deslizar até os seus pés.

Com joelhos no chão, ele segurava em seu vestido, as mãos fortes até demais que pareciam só matar a saudade quando cravadas em seu corpo. "Florcita... minha amada e formosa florcita". O rosto vermelho do homem se enterrou nas suas mãos delicadas quando você resolveu se ajoelhar perante dele, ele amou sentir o seu toque outra vez, sentiu falta dele. Seus lábios se arrastaram por sua pele, ele beijou ali como se tivesse encontrado um bom minério. Com um biquinho nos lábios marcados pela demora desse reencontro, os olhos ardentes, ele sussurrou. "Eu voltei... para nós. E-eu disse que voltaria".

Rindo para os ventos da cidade, você não demorou em rodar as mãos pelo rosto de Enzo, para beijar aqueles cabelos cheios dele. Para o levantar.

Já estando de pé, o uruguaio te abraçava, te tocava com o pensamento mais leve de todos. Sabendo que ele poderia não estar mais ali, mas estava. Você deslizou um dedo pelos lábios de seu marido e logo deixou um beijo meio tímido e marejados de lágrimas ali. Manchando a boca dele, que te olhava como um bebê. "Sim! Sim, você voltou, meu querido". Exclamou.

Ganhando mais ânimo, Enzo te ergueu no ar mesmo aos beijos, e a girou contra ele em um momento quase íntimo para uma demostração pública, mas ele nem sequer se importou. Um pouco tontos, perderam o equilíbrio ali e acabaram no chão, mas aquela pequena dor não afetou nenhum dos dois. E ao invés disso, a risada de vocês se misturou com choro e contra seus lábios, em meio a um beijo do século, ele respondeu.

"Eu sou e serei eternamente seu, florcita".

Mesmo estando no chão, o soldado não resistiu em ficar assim por mais um pouco, abraçados, ele te colocou para se sentar no colo dele e acariciou seu belo rostinho. "Somente seu". Tinha um tom brincante, porém choroso em sua voz. Ele com um semblante de menino perdido, admirava-te, os seus olhos de jabuticaba madura iluminando a vida dele.

Quando estavam finalmente em casa, sem uniformes ou amarras, não demorou para cair em dengo. Em um estado de completa exaustão, o homem apenas sorriu enquanto a seguia para cada quanto da casa de vocês. Quando você descia para a cozinha, ele descia, quando ia ao banheiro ou para o quintal, ele ia igual. Naquele momento em questão, você preparava a massa do bolo favorito dele, de trigo com brigadeiro de maracujá.

Agarrado por detrás de ti, as mãos fortes de Enzo na sua cintura enquanto o rosto se entregava ao bom cheiro do perfume que marcava o seu pescoço. "Você vai fazer bolo?". Ele perguntou, olhando de mansinho para a panela.

"Vou sim, meu bem". Ele te apertou ainda mais contra ele e tudo que respondeu antes de seguir o interessante aroma de seu pescoço foi um... "Eu gosto do seu bolo".

"Todos os dias, há treze anos, você diz essa mesma frase".

"Eu sei". Beijou seu ombro delicadamente e encostando a bochecha ali, ele te olhava enquanto o bolo era preparado. Você era tão linda, a mulher mais formosa e a flor mais cheirosa de Montevidéu. A música abafada pelo rádio que precisava de consertos o animava, e ele balançava o corpo junto ao seu em meio a risadas.

Mais tarde, naquele mesmo dia ainda, Enzo adormeceu completamente no chão mesmo da sala de estar, só com a brisa do ventilador e uma calça de tecido macio, e enquanto você dobrava as roupas que estavam separadas para ir a máquina de lavar, encontrou algo que você não esperava.

A carta. Com um cuidado para não rasgá-la, desdobrou o papel para ler, mas tudo que encontrou foram as mais belas e românticas das palavras do mundo. Transcritas naquele pedaço de papel amarelo, em uma letra rebuscada e culta, a carta dizia:

"Minha doce esposa,

Sei que essas palavras podem nunca chegar até você, mas preciso escrevê-las. Preciso, pelo menos, tentar. Eu estou sentado num lugar onde a dor e o desespero tomam conta de todos. Meu ombro está ferido, mas a maior ferida está no meu peito. É o medo de não poder voltar para você.

Porque você é tudo que eu tenho de mais precioso. Sempre foi. Quando fecho os olhos, vejo seus olhinhos de jabuticaba brilhando, vejo os cachinhos que você enrola nos bobs com tanto cuidado... E meu coração dói por saber que posso nunca mais tocar seu rosto.

Eu rezo para que Deus me permita voltar, para que eu possa segurar as tuas mãos de novo. Mas, se isso não acontecer, saiba que te amei com cada parte de mim. Você é a razão de eu estar aqui hoje, lutando. De eu ser quem sou.

Eu queria poder te abraçar agora, sentir seu cheiro, ouvir sua risada... Você é surreal, minha florcita, etérea demais. Minha mulherzinha. Se eu não voltar, por favor, prometa que será feliz. Viva por nós dois.

Com todo o amor que cabe em meu peito,

Enzo V".

E então, você chorou. Por ler o medo de Enzo de te perder, pelo sentimento tão latente que ele ainda tinha por você. Sempre teria. Porque soldado ou não, Enzo Vogrincic, não poderia em nenhuma circunstância, ser definido de outra maneira a não ser, completamente seu.

A carta foi guardada na gaveta da cômoda, entre as suas vestes, segura e que você um dia, diria abertamente a ele que havia sido tocada por suas palavras.

Bônus.

Quando finalmente então, Enzo acordou, a casinha estava em um silêncio confortável. A sala de estar era iluminada apenas por um pequeno abajur, seu corpo estava coberto por um macio lençol que você havia deixado sobre ele ainda quando era cedo. Ele sentia sua cabeça pesada, ainda um pouco grogue graças ao sono e com alguns segundos de recobrar o equilíbrio, se ergueu. O uruguaio te chamou uma vez, "Florcita". Te chamou outra. E você nada.

Com um bico do tamanho do mundo nos lábios, andou de um lado para o outro nos cômodos da casa, foi ao banheiro da área de baixo, na cozinha, no quintal. Logo, só restava um lugar, o quarto de vocês.

"Florcita? Minha formosa florcita?". Disse ao entrar, batendo na porta baixinho para avisar da sua presença. E você não estava na cama. Pensando um pouquinho onde estaria, ele se surpreendeu com o barulho do chuveiro caindo no azulejo do banheiro. Sorriu.

Vogrincic sentiu o seu pobre coração quase parar. Tirando a calça do seu pijama e a cueca junto, o homem caminhou nu até o banheiro com passos de cachorrinho, leves e que não fossem bem ouvidos por você.

Assim que entrou, derreteu completamente com a visão de você. Com o shampoo no cabelo, os olhinhos fechados. A mente dele não conseguia processar direito quando olhava para você. Seu corpo era muito, para um homem tão pouco como ele. Ele caminhou e entrou no box, tomando o seu corpo nos braços dele.

"Enzo!". Você gritou surpresa, apertando ainda mais os seus olhos.

Ele beijou seu pescoçinho, deslizando devagar a língua ali e deixando uma marquinha vermelinha, te trazendo cada vez mais contra ele. "Oi", sussurrou todo carente. "Preciso de você... deixa eu te comer, florcita". Pediu. Ele lhe ajudou a tirar o shampoo e suspirou quando você abriu um olho.

Sua cabeça encostou no peito dele, quando o uruguaio a prendeu contra a parede. Aquele seu olhar, aquela maldita transição entre a sua doçura usual e o tesão deixava ele completamente aos seus pés. Podia fazer tudo que você o pedisse. Ele ficou assim agarradinho por alguns minutos, mas não demorou para sentir o pau dele roçando a parte interna de sua coxa.

"Deixa, florcita... eu preciso sentir você me apertando... por favor".

Acenando suavemente, você percebeu como os olhos dele te admiravam por completo, as sobrancelhas franzida quase como se implorasse para foder você depois de dois anos e nove meses longe por conta daquela miserável guerra. Você talvez, não soubesse como fazia feliz a esse uruguaio, você ser a mulher dele. Como ele poderia morrer, mas não viver sem você.

Enzo te pegou no colo com uma facilidade indescritível, sem dar a mínima para o banho, desligou o chuveiro. Ele te guiou até a cama, a deitando com aquele carinho que foi sempre parte dos momentos quentes de vocês. A expressão amoada, de pobre coitado, denunciava o amor que residia naquele homem louco por você.

Ele se sentou na cama, as pernas grossonas bem abertas para que você pudesse encaixar a sua bucetinha no pau dele com a extrema perfeição. "Vem, senta em mim, mi florcita".

Com uma risadinha, que levou o arzinho da sua respiração para o rosto dele pela proximidade, você engatinhou para se sentar no colo do seu marido, uma perninha de cada lado antes de segurar o membro dele daquele jeitinho que o fazia agarrar mais forte seu quadril, e gemer baixinho e rouco no seu ouvido. Sem fazer muito alarde, você o encaixou no seu buraquinho carente, e sentou nele para que ele sentisse seu apertinho. O que você fazia com ele, a forma como você se movia sobre ele, como acelerava e desacelerava e encaixava o pau dele todinho dentro de você o deixava alucinando. Você era a dona daquele homem.

"M-mi amor... assim- eu te amo". Ele gemia, se encostando na cabeceira da cama, como quem sabe a esposa que tem, apenas relaxando enquanto você montava em Enzo com o conhecimento de quem tem um homem na palma da sua mão.

Seus gemidos faziam ele gemer mais, e suas mãos no peito dele faziam as dele apertar ainda mais seu quadril. Você acelerava, cada cavalgada que carregava menos fôlego, porém mais velocidade.

E no fim da noite, depois de quase três anos de angústia tenebrosa, Enzo Vogrincic se sentia realizado por estar de volta. Dormindo bem agarradinhos, o pau do homem ainda dentro de você, ele sabia que tinha o ouro da vida.

Você adormeceu de conchinha com ele e ainda de olhos abertos, mas quase caindo em sono, ele deixou um beijo na sua bochecha. "Até amanhã, esposa. Irei sonhar com você".

^᪲𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄 — Prontinho, revisado e depois de muitas lágrimas. Espero que esteja ao seu gosto, @lilablanc.

Knight!Ghost who comes back from a year of battle to discover Knight!Johnny has taken his place as Princess!Reader's personal guard, and as her lover (He can tell by the way her eyes light up when he talks. By the way, her face flushes, and her fingers grip at her skirts when he sets his hand on the small of her back and leans down to whisper in her ear.)

He has no right to be upset. He did this to himself. He only left because the princess told her she loved him, and he panicked. Immediately, he went to the king that night and had asked him to put him in the war.

But god did it make his blood boil when he caught sight of Johnny's gloved finger linking with hers. It made him damn near irrational when he'd turned a corner going down the hall just in time to catch sight of Johnny pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.

But nothing, and I mean NOTHING, made him angrier than when he'd learned that she'd begun to sneak out with him too.

Dress down into the same less commoners dress and slip out the castle walls into the night. Go to the same tavern and dance to the same songs, then breathlessly pull each other into the same room before running back home, laughing the same way as they'd rush to beat the sunrise.

thinking about pervert!clark kent and my brain is allll fuzzy 😵‍💫😵‍💫

pervert!clark . . . would definitely use his x-ray vision to peek under your clothes and see your lingerie, he can’t help himself, you always have the cutest lace sets, it’s like you do it on purpose just for him. delicate lace hugging your soft skin, sheer fabrics barely covering you, tiny little bows and intricate details that he knows you chose carefully. he’s memorized every lace pattern, every bow, every strap placement. that he could sketch them blindfolded, that he knows which sets are your favorites, which ones you wear when you’re feeling confident, playful, soft.

pervert!clark . . . would use his heightened senses to smell everything about you. from the soap you use, perfume, even your natural scent. it’s addicting to him and he can’t get enough of you. he’d always be standing just a bit too close, savoring it all. he might even smell areas you were just sitting or standing just to inhale the vanilla warmth of your lotion, the floral sweetness of your perfume, the fresh, clean scent of your shampoo.

pervert!clark . . . would listen in on your private conversations or alone time. he’d overhear you sharing secrets to your friends, possibly about him. your voice dropping into a hush, playful, teasing, as you talk about him. about how he’s so tall, broad, strong. about how his voice does something to you, how his hands are so big, how you can’t stop thinking about him, how you wonder what it would feel like to be touched by him—

pervert!clark . . . he’d overhear your intimate time, listening in on your moans as you touch yourself to thoughts of him. those soft little gasps, the hitch in your breath, the way your sheets rustle, the way your voice catches when you try to stay quiet. the way you whimper his name, the way you sigh, the way your heartbeat spikes. he’s already rock hard, just listening to you fall apart for him—without him even being there. even while you’re in the shower, he’s outside the door—listening, the soft hum of a song you don’t even realize you’re singing, the sighs of relaxation when the heat soaks into your muscles, he’s probably getting off too as he uses his x-ray vision to see through the walls. and he tries not to. he really does. but then you sigh, body shifting under the heat of the water, and he caves. his x-ray vision flickers on. and there you are—completely bare, steam curling around your skin, water tracing paths down every curve. you have no idea. no idea that clark is right outside your door, stroking his dick, his grip tight as he chases his orgasm, biting his lip so hard it nearly bleeds. no idea that he’s watching you, hearing you, soaking in every fucking second. that if you even cracked that door open, you’d see him standing there—flushed, panting, wrecked just from looking at you.

pervert!clark . . . with his super speed could disappear right before your eyes, and you’d never know he was there. he’d be in your room, possibly watching you sleep as he fucks his fist in the dark corners of your room. it’s too easy to be right here, in your space, watching over you while you’re completely unaware. and fuck—you look so soft. so peaceful. so vulnerable. he’d probably open up your closet or drawers needing to feel a piece of your clothing between his hands, even the smell of you, he’d hold the shirt up to his face, palming himself through his sweats as he breathes you in, again and again, inhaling the sweet smell as it conveniently muffles the desperate little moans slipping past his lips.

pervert!clark . . . would sneak into your room while you’re gone, running his hands over your blankets or pillows. the satin sheets feeling like liquid under his fingertips. then he does what he always does—he buries his face in your pillow, inhaling deeply, letting your scent fill his lungs like it’s something he physically needs to survive. would you feel his presence in your sheets when you slide into bed tonight? would you toss and turn, restless, wondering why your skin tingles, why your breath comes just a little quicker?

clark hopes so….

a/n ; i have so many thoughts for this cause our boy ck is already a bit of a freak and i’m alr thinking of a part two 🫣 lmk if you guys like ! show me luvv 😚

Rodrick Heffley headcanons [2]

author's note: some more headcanons because i'm surprised by how many people liked the first ones

here's the first part

----------------------

His main love language is acts of service

and maybe physical touch.

Rodrick is always making sure you have your favourite snack

or that you ate in general.

He'll definitely play the drums while you're in the same room as him

when it's late at night and he finds you asleep while he'd been playing he's gonna be surprised

maybe even worried

but he ends up sleeping next to you.

Sometimes he makes bad jokes

or sometimes they're too mean

but he doesn't realize it until you bring that up

then he will awkwardly apologise.

He always had a messy room

even when his mom tried to tidy it

but when you come over

he'll try to make it look as clean as possible

just for you.

Rodrick is not the type for big dates

he prefers "doing nothing" dates

or nap dates

but when you two just started dating

or even before that

he'd put up the most absurd things just to impress you.

Anyways

one time you and him were at his place

sitting on the couch

just watching a movie (that you forced Rodrick to watch)

and suddenly he pulled you into a side hug

like tight

and right in that moment Greg came in

because he wanted to play videogames

but then he saw the two of you hugging like that

and he had to record this moment

and show it to everyone in front of Rodrick

just to embarass him

and that's exactly what happened.

Right in front of his parents too.

They didn't react too much

because they already knew you two were together

but it still amde Rodrick embarassed

and of course think about revenge.

befire taking his revenge he told you the wole plan

even if you kept telling him it was useless

but...yeah he didn't really listen to you.

overall he can be sweet

just not in front of the others.

----------------------

hope you like it, please leave a heart ❤️

🔴 with Webber!reader x Jenson x Sebastian.

Living with your brother had it's perks, him living in a penthouse and all.

But it had it's downsides too. Like when you had to sneak your hookups out without him knowing. It didn't help that they were his friends and colleagues.

To be honest it was only a matter of time before he caught you.

Warnings: disgusting smut, crying, dacryphilia, sub reader, sub sebastian, dom jenson (hear me out), overstimulation, forced sex?, use of the colour system, PinV sex, Oral, cum, facials you know the drill, Jenson being mean af

requested from my prompt list

He finally caught you the day after his win in Monaco 2012.

He'd gone out partying all night so you had the place to yourself and you decided to invite a couple of friends over.

Those friends happened to be Sebastian Vettel and Jenson Button. No biggie.

They both knew about your situationship with the other, and you didn't get to see them that often, so you had planned that while they were both in Monaco you'd have a bit of fun with them both.

And it's not like they didn't mess around on their own either.

Sebastian arrived first, having rushed through his duties in his impatience to join you.

Before you'd even shut the door he had you up against the wall, whispering about all the things he wanted to do to you, feeling frustrated after your brother ‘stole his win’ (his words not mine).

Fucking his biggest rival's little sister was certainly a great way to let out his frustration, and you were happy to take everything he had to give.

He undressed you slowly, making sure to tease you as much as possible while he peeled your clothes off your body.

He was halfway through getting you to your second orgasm using his fingers, when Jenson barged in.

The bastard didn't even knock, he just opened the door, gasped in fake surprise at the sight of you getting ravaged on the couch and closed the door behind him.

“God, look at the state of you two, couldn't even wait for me” he tutted as he prowled towards you like a predator.

Seb hadn't stopped his ministrations and you were currently hurtling towards your peak. Jenson chuckled at you barely being able to keep your eyes open with the pleasure.

“Aw babygirl are you going to come on Seb's fingers?”

You nodded as the pleasure overcame you and you clamped down on Seb's fingers as you rode your high.

Once you had finished, Jenson dragged him away from your weeping cunt and sat him on the couch next to you.

“Let's give her a break and take care of this mess, hmm?”

Seb gasped as Jenson lowered his head and licked up the underside of his leaking cock.

He wasted no time sinking down completely, making Seb choke on his spit.

You had no idea Jenson was so proficient at blowjobs, but the sight of him swallowing around Seb's cock really did something to you.

“Fuck Jenson-” Seb moaned “don't stop”

Jenson pulled off for a second to answer “Don't worry baby, I'm not going to stop until you're crying”

Seb whimpered and Jenson sank back down to the base, deepthroating him expertly.

It took Seb an embarrasingly short amount of time to come after that, and he pulled Jenson off him by the hair.

Jenson himself was flushed but he sat up and looked at the two of you mischievously.

“Now then, given that you two brats decided to be greedy and start without me, you're going to fuck, and I'm going to watch. And if you stop before I say so, I will tie you both up and tease you all night and leave you here for Mark to find, understood?”

You and Seb looked at each other with a twinkle in your eyes.

“Yes Daddy”

You were just goading him at this point, you knew it would drive Jenson mad, and it did. He groaned and rubbed his face.

“Right, come on then.” He sighed, slapping your thigh “Any position you want, get to it.”

You decided to ride Seb, and it was wonderful. He was so thick, grazing all the right places inside you, that this didn't feel like much of a punishment at all.

You came for the third time just as you thighs were starting to burn from the effort, so as you came down, Seb pulled out and you changed position, now laying on the couch with Seb above you as Jenson watched on.

Seb fucked you hard immediately, slightly overstimulating you, and his hands wandered over your flesh, squeezing and pinching as they went.

The real punishment started when Seb came inside you and stopped his thrusts to pull out gently.

“Ah ah! What do you think you're doing?” Jenson said, looking up from his phone “keep fucking her Seb”

You both froze.

“But-“ Seb started but Jenson interrupted him

“This is your punishment for being impatient little fuckers, so get back inside her while you're still hard and take it like a man”

Seb blushed and reluctantly pushed back into you.

You were both so sensitive it sent shocks through your systems.

“Fuck” Seb muttered as he put some of his weight on you in favour of grinding his hips into yours.

“Feel so fucking good around me schatz”

You whined “It's too much Jense, m'gonna come”

Jenson just laughed.

“Is it too much or are you going to come baby? It can't be both”

Jenson talking down at you shouldn't have been as hot as it was, but you were clenching around Seb as you got closer to another orgasm.

“Gonna come” you gasped out.

“Then come baby, I'm not stopping you”

And you did, your fourth orgasm washed over you but Seb kept going as per Jenson's instructions and he himself came again not long after that.

Jenson sensed he was going to pull out so he grabbed Seb's hips and pushed him flush with you.

“Don't you dare pull out, Sebby. Keep going. It's what you get for being greedy little sluts”

He guided Sebs hips back and forth, using Seb to fuck you, not giving his dick time to get soft again as you both felt tears of overstimulation cloud your vision.

“Can't Jenson” Seb gasped, he was shaking like a leaf “It's too much, I can't keep going”

You shared the sentiment, you weren't sure you'd be able to come again, the pleasure bordering on pain.

Jenson pushed on Seb's hips particularly hard and he let out a sob into the crook of your neck.

“Yes you can” Jenson said tenderly “I know you can, Sebby”

Seb let out a wanton moan and Jenson asked “Colour?”

Seb's shaky voice replied, muffled by your skin “green”.

Jenson looked at your tear stained cheeks and you also gasped out ‘green’.

“There you go, you can both give me one more then”

Seb's hips slapped into yours with renewed vigour, he was determined to see this to the end, his impressive stamina coming in handy in this situation.

Jenson decided to help you along and give you a hand, literally.

One of his hands went to Seb's hair, yanking his head back and licking into his mouth as he panted like an animal, and the other slithered down you body and started rubbing circles onto your clit.

The touch sent a jolt of electricity through you and you found yourself right on the edge again, and the pleasure was too much for you as you sobbed your way through your orgasm.

Seb’s hyper sensitive cock didn't survive you clamping down on him and he also came with a wretched sound, muffled by Jenson's mouth on his.

Jenson helped Seb to pull out carefully, and he slumped down to a kneeling position on the floor.

He instructed you to do the same and got his painfully hard cock out of his pants to finally get the relief he'd been denying himself.

The sight of you and Seb on your knees for him, his two favourite brats, tears staining your cheeks, eyes wet and lips puffy, was enough to get him off in record time as he groaned out a curse and spurted streaks of white over both of your faces.

“My perfect whores, fuck- so good for me, you did so well”

He stroked your heads as he waited for his head to stop spinning.

You all got washed up and went to bed very late, after a nice (takeaway) meal and a couple of drinks to wind down.

The next morning you woke up with Seb, Jenson being a heavy (and late!!) sleeper, and decided to get up and get some breakfast.

What you didn't expect was for Mark to be in the living room, holding your discarded clothes and a Redbull shirt.

You froze in the doorway and you stared at each other, your eyes full of fear and his full of anger.

“So you're sleeping with a Redbull driver, huh?” he cocked his head “Last I heard, there's only two of those. And it's definitely not me. So tell me, who is in your room right now?”

“Well I should hope you're not sleeping with your own sister” Seb's voice resounded from behind you, and you cursed the man internally.

“Ah! Nice of you to join us, Seb! What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” Mark's eyes flashed with anger.

Seb just chuckled and wrapped an arm around you “I was invited by your lovely sister, do you want a play by play of everything we did on your couch?”

Mark's eyes widened and he looked at the couch with disgust.

“Also that is my shirt you're holding, so I will let you make your own conclusions”

He walked towards a livid looking Mark and ripped his own shirt from his grasp, before going to sit down in the kitchen.

“You coming schatz? I thought you wanted to make breakfast?” he called from the other room.

You gave an apologetic look to your brother before following Seb's path.

Mark took a second to regain his composure before doing the same.

“How long has this been going on?”

You sighed, of course now he was going to be nosy.

“A few months… maybe a year”

Mark would have been outraged except… he just frowned, he definitely heard you with someone a few weeks ago, and it definitely wasn't Seb.

In fact he was pretty sure he recognised the accent he’d heard through the wall.

“But what about…” he looked at Seb quickly before deciding he actually didn't care about possibly hurting his feelings and blurted out “Jenson!”

You stared at him blankly. “What about Jenson?”

He narrowed his eyes at you “Well I know you fucked him… recently”

“And why would you think I'm fucking Jenson?”

And because your luck always ran out at the very worst of times, Jenson himself strutted through the door, shirtless, and sporting a smug grin.

“Someone mention my name?”

He walked towards you, pecked you on the cheek and sat down on the other side of Sebastian.

Marks eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his skull, and you could see the cogs turning in his mind.

“You… you're fucking BOTH OF THEM?!”

You could barely contain your smirk as you answered.

“Yeah? This is what the young people are doing these days, Mark. You should give it a go, it might help you unwind!”

He didn't even dignify that with a response, turning on his heel and stomping out of the room.

You, Seb and Jenson looked at each other and burst out laughing.

You were definitely inviting them over more often.

The One Left Behind

Max Verstappen x Lewis Hamilton’s ex!Reader

Summary: your first love was a seven-time world champion with a chip on his shoulder who would stop at nothing to finally get that eighth … even at the expense of you. Your second (and last) love is a five-time world champion with racing in his blood who proves, once and for all, that he would give it all up for you without even being asked … and regret absolutely nothing

Based on this request

The rain taps softly against the glass walls of the penthouse. The lights of Monaco shimmer beyond the windows, reflections dancing across the polished floor like scattered stars.

You sit cross-legged on the oversized couch, Lewis sprawled beside you, his legs stretched out, an arm slung casually over the backrest. He’s scrolling through his phone, something about sector times and telemetry, but his attention isn’t fully there. Not tonight.

“Lewis,” you say, gently nudging his side with your foot.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up.

You nudge him harder, and this time he glances your way, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “What’s up?”

“I need you to focus for, like, five minutes.”

“I am focusing,” he says, holding up his phone as evidence. “Race prep.”

“On me, Lewis.”

That gets his attention. He sets the phone down on the coffee table, screen still glowing with data, and leans back, giving you his full, undivided gaze. “Alright, I’m all yours. What’s on your mind?”

You hesitate for a moment, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweater. The words are there, sitting heavy on your tongue, but saying them feels like stepping off the edge of something solid. Still, you’ve been together for almost six years. If you can’t have this conversation with him now, when can you?

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, your voice steady but quiet, “about us. About the future.”

Lewis tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “What about it?”

You take a deep breath. “I want to get married, Lewis. I want to have a family. With you.”

His expression shifts, not into shock or annoyance, but something harder to read. He doesn’t respond right away, which only makes the silence stretch uncomfortably between you.

“I know the timing’s not perfect,” you add quickly, trying to fill the gap. “I know you’re in the middle of-”

“The most important season of my career?” He finishes for you, a wry smile softening his tone.

“Yeah, that.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Babe, it’s not that I don’t want those things with you. I do. You know I do.”

“Do I?” The question slips out before you can stop it, and you see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Of course you do,” he says, his voice low, almost defensive. “Six years. That’s not nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing. But sometimes it feels like we’re stuck in the same place. Like we’re … waiting for something that never comes.”

Lewis scrubs a hand down his face, the faintest hint of frustration breaking through his calm demeanor. “It’s not that simple, love. You know how much this season means to me. Winning an eighth title, it’s history. Legacy. Everything I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And what about after that?” You press, leaning closer. “What happens when you get it? Then what?”

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, he looks almost … unsure. It’s a rare thing, seeing Lewis Hamilton unsure of anything.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never really thought about it. Not in detail.”

“Well, maybe you should,” you say, your voice soft but firm. “Because I have. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with just being … your girlfriend forever.”

Lewis winces at the word, like it stings. “That’s not what you are to me. You’re everything. You know that.”

“Then prove it.”

He leans back again, running both hands through his hair as he exhales sharply. “God, you don’t make this easy, do you?”

“It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be real.”

For a long moment, he just looks at you, his dark eyes searching your face like he’s trying to solve some impossible puzzle. Then, slowly, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, his voice steady now, resolute. “When I win this season — when I get that eighth title — I’ll retire.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, a small, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. “I’ll retire. I’ll hang up my helmet, put a ring on your finger, and we’ll start trying for that family you’ve been dreaming about.”

You stare at him, equal parts stunned and skeptical. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Lewis, you can’t just say that to shut me up.”

“I’m not trying to shut you up,” he says, reaching for your hand. His fingers are warm, steady, and when he looks at you now, there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. “I’m saying it because I mean it. When I win, it’ll be the perfect ending. The perfect time to step away. And then it’s just us. No races, no travel, no distractions. Just you and me.”

“And a baby,” you add, because if you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big.

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, and pulls you closer until you’re half in his lap. “And a baby,” he agrees.

It feels like a promise, one sealed with the way he presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapping around you like they’re anchoring you to him.

But somewhere, deep down, a small, cautious voice whispers: what if he doesn’t win?

***

The suite is silent except for the faint hum of the minibar fridge and the muffled sounds of celebration filtering in from somewhere outside. It’s as if the entire world is rejoicing, but here, in the confines of this hotel room, everything feels like it’s crumbling.

Lewis hasn’t said a word since you got back. He walked in, dropped his helmet bag by the door, and slumped onto the edge of the bed, still in his team gear. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly between his knees.

You stand a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest, unsure whether to approach him or leave him to his thoughts. The weight in the room is unbearable, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

“Lewis,” you say softly, testing the waters.

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

You take a tentative step closer. “I know it hurts-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting you off. His voice is hoarse, raw from the screams and protests he let out over the radio hours ago. He still hasn’t looked up.

You flinch but press on, refusing to let the conversation die. “I’m just trying to help.”

“There’s nothing to help,” he snaps, finally lifting his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his expression a mix of devastation and barely restrained fury. “It’s done. Over. What’s there to say?”

Your heart twists at the sight of him like this — so broken, so unlike the unshakable man you’ve always known. “I just thought-”

“Don’t you get it?” He interrupts, his voice rising. He stands abruptly, towering over you, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to sit here and dissect how it all fell apart. I want to forget.”

You step back, your own emotions starting to fray at the edges. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. You need to face it.”

“And what good would that do?” He shoots back, pacing the room now like a caged animal. “Would it give me my title? My win? Would it change the fact that I got robbed tonight?”

His words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Me too.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s different. More fragile. You can feel it cracking under the weight of what you need to say next.

“Lewis,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “About what we talked about. Before …”

He stops pacing, turning to look at you with a frown. “What?”

“A few weeks ago,” you clarify, taking a shaky breath. “You said when you won, you’d retire. That we’d start … building a life together.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as he stares at you.

“I know you didn’t win,” you continue hesitantly, “but does that really change anything? Can’t we still-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, holding up a hand. His expression is hard now, a stark contrast to the vulnerability he showed earlier. “Don’t do this right now.”

“Why not?” You ask, frustration creeping into your tone. “Because it’s not convenient? Because it’s easier to bury yourself in racing than deal with what’s happening between us?”

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice rising again.

“Isn’t it?” You challenge, taking a step closer. “You made me a promise. And now, what? You’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen because things didn’t go your way?”

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You don’t get it. You’ve never understood. Racing isn’t just something I do — it’s who I am. Walking away now, without that eighth championship … I can’t. I won’t.”

Your chest tightens, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “So what about me? What about us? Do we just stay on pause forever while you chase this thing that might never happen?”

His face twists with something you can’t quite place — anger, regret, maybe both. “This isn’t just about you,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “I’ve given everything to this sport. Everything. And I’m not quitting until I finish what I started.”

“So I’m just supposed to wait?” You ask, your voice cracking. “How long, Lewis? Another year? Two? Five? When is it going to be enough?”

“I don’t know!” He shouts, the words bursting out of him like a dam breaking. “I don’t know, alright?”

The room falls silent again, the weight of his outburst settling over both of you.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters after a moment, shaking his head. “Not right now.”

Before you can say another word, he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door.

“Lewis, wait,” you plead, your voice trembling. “Don’t walk away from this. From me.”

He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around. “I just need some air,” he says, his tone clipped.

And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that makes you flinch.

You stand there for a moment, frozen, staring at the door as if willing him to come back. But the only sound is the muffled celebration outside, a cruel reminder of everything that’s been lost tonight.

Finally, your legs give out, and you sink onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands as the tears come. They’re hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wrack your body.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. None of it. You were supposed to be celebrating together, planning your future, looking ahead to the life you’d been dreaming of for so long.

But instead, it feels like everything is slipping through your fingers, and no matter how hard you try to hold on, it’s all crumbling around you.

You don’t know how long you sit there, crying into the silence, but when the tears finally stop, you’re left with an emptiness that feels even worse.

And for the first time in six years, you wonder if maybe Lewis Hamilton isn’t the man you thought he was. Or maybe he is, and that’s the problem.

***

One Year Later

The glass facade of the clinic looms above you, pristine and intimidating. Every time you glance at the sign — Centre de Fertilité de Monaco written in bold looping letters — your stomach churns. You’ve been standing outside for almost fifteen minutes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed tightly against the chill in the air.

The city is alive around you, luxury cars humming down the streets, the faint sound of waves crashing against the marina in the distance. But you feel like you’re in a bubble, trapped in your own swirling thoughts.

This is what you want. You’ve thought about it a hundred times, planned every detail, read every article, and filled out every form. And yet, your feet refuse to move.

“Just go inside,” you whisper to yourself, though the words feel hollow.

You take a step toward the door, but your hand falters just shy of the handle.

“Y/N?”

The voice is familiar, low and slightly accented, and it stops you in your tracks. You turn to see Max Verstappen standing a few feet away, a look of surprise etched across his face. He’s dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, but there’s no mistaking him.

“Max,” you breathe, startled.

He takes a step closer, his brows knitting together. “What are you doing here?”

You glance at the clinic sign and then back at him, your heart hammering in your chest. “It’s, uh … personal.”

Max’s eyes narrow slightly, curiosity and concern mingling in his expression. “Personal enough that you’re standing outside looking like you’re about to throw up?”

Your face heats, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself, as if that could shield you from his gaze. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He pauses, studying you. Then his eyes flicker to the sign again, and something seems to click. “Wait … are you-”

“Yes,” you blurt, cutting him off. There’s no point in pretending now. “I’m here to get artificially inseminated.”

Max blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. “Oh.”

You look away, embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal. Lots of women do it.”

“Without anyone here to support you?” He asks, his tone soft but pointed.

You shrug, your voice defensive. “It’s my decision.”

Max doesn’t respond right away, and when you finally look back at him, he’s frowning. “Why?”

The question catches you off guard. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want a baby,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And you can’t … I don’t know, meet someone?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right, because it’s that easy.”

Max shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yes, Max,” you snap, your patience wearing thin. “I’ve been serious about this for a long time. Just because my relationship didn’t work out doesn’t mean I should have to give up on what I want.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he says quietly, “So you and Lewis really broke up.”

You nod, swallowing hard. The mention of Lewis still feels like a punch to the gut, even after all this time. “Yeah. A while ago.”

Max hesitates, his hands shoved into his pockets. “And now you’re just … what? Picking a random donor from a catalog and hoping for the best?”

The words sting, and you glare at him. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” He presses, his voice still calm but insistent. “You deserve more than that. You deserve more than a child fathered by some random man you only know as lines of descriptions on paper.”

That’s the moment you break. The tears you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe even months, come flooding out. You cover your face with your hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use.

“Hey,” Max says quickly, stepping closer. “Hey, don’t-”

But you can’t stop. It’s all too much — Lewis, the clinic, the choices you’ve had to make on your own.

“I just want-” you choke out, but the words dissolve into another sob.

“Come here,” Max says softly, wrapping an arm around your back and gently tugging you closer. You collapse against him, your face buried in his shoulder as the tears keep coming.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles over your back. His hoodie smells faintly of cologne and something clean, like fresh laundry.

After a while, your sobs start to quiet, and you manage to pull back, wiping at your face. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” Max says, his voice low. He tilts his head, his blue eyes soft but serious. “You’re clearly not in the right state of mind to be making life-changing decisions.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this. I’m saying maybe today isn’t the day. You’re upset. And I don’t think you should do something this big while you’re feeling like this.”

You hesitate, his words sinking in.

“My apartment is just around the corner,” he continues. “Why don’t we go there? We can talk, or not talk. Whatever you want. But at least give yourself a little time to think.”

You hesitate, glancing back at the clinic. The weight of the decision presses heavily on you, but so does the thought of going through with it now, like this.

“Okay,” you whisper finally.

Max nods, a small, reassuring smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Come on.”

He keeps his hand on your back as he guides you down the street, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel entirely alone.

***

Max’s apartment is modern, sleek, and surprisingly warm. The large windows overlook the Monaco skyline, the twinkling lights of the city reflecting off the sea in the distance. You sit on the plush gray couch, clutching a mug of tea Max handed you just moments ago. The ceramic is warm in your hands, grounding you as the weight of everything presses down on your chest.

Max settles in the armchair across from you, his long legs stretched out, one elbow resting on the armrest as he watches you carefully. He hasn’t said much since you got here, and you’re grateful for it. But now, with the tea steeping between your fingers and his steady gaze on you, you feel the urge to fill the silence.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max shrugs lightly, a faint, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “Start anywhere.”

You exhale shakily, staring into the dark liquid in your mug. “Lewis and I were together for six years. Six years of my life … and for a long time, I thought we wanted the same things.”

Max’s brows knit together, but he stays quiet, letting you continue.

“I thought we were building something together,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to get married. I wanted kids. He said he did, too. But there was always something in the way — another season, another championship, another goal. And I kept waiting because I believed in him, in us.”

Your voice cracks, and you take a sip of the tea, letting the warmth soothe your throat. Max leans forward slightly, his blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s both comforting and unnerving.

“And then last year …” You pause, trying to steady your voice. “He promised me that if he won his eighth title, he’d retire. That we’d finally start the life we talked about. And I believed him. I really believed him.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his knuckles pressing against his chin as he listens.

“But he didn’t win,” you continue, the memory still fresh, still raw. “And instead of keeping his promise, he said he couldn’t walk away. Not without that eighth.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

You glance at him, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “I thought maybe I could wait. Maybe I could put my dreams on hold for him a little longer. But it wasn’t just about the title — it was about him always choosing racing over me, over us.”

Max leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “So you broke up.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t keep waiting for someone who would never choose me.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. You’ve said them to yourself before, in the quiet of your bedroom, in the midst of sleepless nights, but saying them out loud now feels different. More final.

“And now you’re here,” Max says after a moment, gesturing faintly toward the direction of the clinic outside the windows.

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes again. “I still want a family. I’ve always wanted that. And after everything with Lewis, I realized I can’t keep putting my life on hold for someone else. If I want a baby, I have to make it happen myself.”

Max stares at you, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I get it,” he says finally. “I do. But … I don’t know. It just feels wrong. Like, you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you say, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Not everyone gets a happy ending. Some of us just have to make do with what we have.”

He shakes his head, leaning forward again. “That’s not what I mean. I mean someone like you shouldn’t have to settle for this. You’re smart, beautiful, caring. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Hell, if it were me-”

He stops abruptly, his face coloring slightly as if realizing what he’s about to say.

“If it were you, what?” You ask, your voice softer now, curious.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “If it were me, I wouldn’t have made you wait. I wouldn’t have let you go, period. I would’ve dropped everything the second I got out of the car in Abu Dhabi.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut — not because they hurt, but because they’re so unexpected, so honest.

“You don’t mean that,” you say quietly, though your heart betrays you, fluttering in your chest.

Max’s gaze is unwavering. “I do. You deserve someone who sees you as their priority, not as something they’ll get to when it’s convenient. If I had someone like you …” He trails off, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t need anything else.”

The room falls silent, and you don’t know what to say. Your hands tighten around the mug, and you feel your cheeks flush under his intense stare.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, leaning back. “That probably crossed a line.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising even yourself. “It’s … nice to hear. I guess I just don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” He asks, his brows furrowing.

“Because if that were true, Lewis wouldn’t have left,” you admit, your voice breaking. “If I were really worth all that, he wouldn’t have walked away.”

Max shakes his head vehemently, leaning forward again. “That’s not on you. That’s on him. He couldn’t see what he had. That’s his loss, not yours.”

You blink back tears, his words cutting through the doubt and self-blame you’ve been carrying for so long.

“Look,” Max says softly, his voice gentle now. “You’re not alone in this, okay? I know it feels like it, but you’re not. And whatever you decide to do, just … don’t rush into it because you think you have to. You’ve got time, and you’ve got people who care about you.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you all over again. You nod, unable to speak, and Max offers you a small, reassuring smile.

“Finish your tea,” he says, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab us something stronger. Tea’s good for a talk, but this feels like a whiskey kind of conversation.”

You laugh softly, the sound surprising you. For the first time in a long time, the weight on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

***

The first time you showed up at Max’s apartment unannounced, it was a particularly bad day. The ache in your chest had been unbearable, the quiet of your own place suffocating. You hadn’t even thought twice before texting him: You home?

His response came within seconds. Always. Door’s open.

You found him lounging on the couch, his two bengals sprawled out lazily beside him. When he saw you, he didn’t ask questions. He just stood, grabbed two Red Bulls from the fridge, and let you curl up on the floor to play with Jimmy and Sassy while he sat nearby, chatting about nothing in particular until the knot in your chest loosened.

It became a ritual after that. On the days when life felt too heavy, you’d make your way to Max’s. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you wouldn’t. But more often than not, you’d end up on the floor with the cats while Max watched with quiet amusement.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Jimmy pounces on the feather toy you’re dragging across the rug, his sleek body moving with a precision that reminds you of Max on the track. Sassy, the more aloof of the two, lounges nearby, watching her brother with disdain until she decides to join in.

You’re lying on your back now, laughing as the two cats leap over you, chasing the toy you’re holding above your head. It’s the first time you’ve laughed all day, maybe all week, and it feels good.

“Careful, Jimmy,” Max calls from the couch, his voice warm with affection. “She’s not a scratching post.”

You tilt your head to look at him, still holding the toy above you. He’s sitting sideways, one arm slung over the back of the couch, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Jimmy would never hurt me,” you say, grinning as the cat lands lightly on your stomach before darting off again.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Max warns, shaking his head. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s perfect,” you counter, turning your attention back to the cats.

Max chuckles softly, but he doesn’t respond. You’re too distracted by Sassy’s sudden burst of energy to notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his smile fades into something softer, something deeper.

After a while, you sit up, your hair slightly disheveled and your cheeks flushed from laughing. Jimmy jumps into your lap, purring contentedly as you stroke his fur.

When you look up, Max is staring at you.

“What?” You ask, your brow furrowing.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are warm, almost tender, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Nothing,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re just … happy. I like seeing you like this.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you glance away, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s the cats,” you say lightly, trying to brush it off. “They’re good for my mental health.”

“It’s not just the cats,” Max says, and there’s something in his tone that makes you look at him again.

He’s leaning forward slightly now, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked on yours. You feel your breath catch, the air in the room shifting, thickening.

“Max …” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.

“You don’t see it, do you?” He says softly, his voice almost reverent.

“See what?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“How incredible you are.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unshakable. You stare at him, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“Max, I …”

Before you can finish, he’s on the floor in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you don’t pull away.

“You’re amazing,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “You’re strong, and kind, and funny, and … God, Y/N, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak.

“Max,” you say finally, your voice trembling. “This … this is a bad idea.”

“Why?” He asks, his hand still resting against your cheek.

“Because I don’t want to ruin this,” you admit, your eyes filling with tears. “You’ve been my rock these past few months. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly. “I promise you, you won’t. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way.”

You’re silent, your heart warring with your head. But when he leans in, his lips brushing softly against yours, all your doubts fade away.

The kiss is gentle at first, hesitant, as if he’s afraid you might pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand sliding into your hair as he pours everything he’s been holding back into the kiss.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

Max chuckles softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Yeah. Wow.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. This wasn’t what you expected when you came here tonight, but now that it’s happened, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice filled with uncertainty.

“It’s okay,” he says, cutting you off. “We’ll figure this out, whatever it is. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I promise.”

And to your surprise, despite the broken promises still shattered beneath your feet, you really do believe him.

***

The bedroom is bathed in the soft golden glow of the evening lights spilling through the windows. The Monaco skyline twinkles faintly in the distance, but you’re not paying attention to it. You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, his warmth seeping into you as his fingers draw lazy patterns on your back.

You’re lying on your side, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His free hand brushes through your hair, the motion slow and soothing. Every so often, he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head or your temple, murmuring something sweet against your skin.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, his voice low and gentle.

“I’m just … content,” you reply, tilting your head to look up at him. “This is nice.”

He smiles down at you, his blue eyes soft with affection. “Yeah, it is.”

His fingers trail up to your jaw, tilting your face up so he can kiss you. It’s slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and sends warmth blooming in your chest.

When he pulls back, his lips linger near yours, his breath fanning against your skin. “You know, I could get used to this,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice.

“You mean you’re not used to it already?” You tease, nudging him lightly.

“I mean forever,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone makes your heart skip a beat.

You smile, your fingers idly tracing the lines of his collarbone. “Forever sounds nice.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of your breathing and the occasional distant hum of the city below.

After a moment, you glance up at him, your heart beating a little faster. “Max?”

“Hmm?” He hums, his fingers still trailing along your back.

“Have you ever thought about … kids?” You ask hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stills for a moment, his hand pausing mid-motion before he shifts slightly to look down at you. “Kids?”

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly nervous. “Like, have you ever thought about having them?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his brows furrowing slightly as if considering your question. Then, to your surprise, he lets out a soft laugh.

“Honestly?” He says, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I’ve thought about it pretty much daily since I met you.”

Your eyes widen, and you push yourself up onto your elbow to look at him more closely. “Seriously?”

He chuckles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t thinking about it before. But now? With you? I think about it all the time.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling at his words.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he continues, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “We haven’t been together that long, but … I don’t know. When you know, you know, right?”

You nod, unable to speak, your throat tight with emotion.

“And I know,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re it for me, Y/N. There’s no one else. There’s never going to be anyone else.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you laugh softly, leaning into his touch. “You’re really something, Max Verstappen.”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “So … what do you think? Would you want to have a baby with me?”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The question is so outlandish, so unexpected, and yet it feels right.

“You’re serious?” You ask, your voice trembling.

“Dead serious,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re going to be an amazing mom. I can already see it.”

You laugh, covering your face with your hands as the weight of his words sinks in. “This is insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face. “But it feels right, doesn’t it?”

You look at him, at the way his eyes shine with hope and love, and you know he’s right.

“It does,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He beams, his grin so wide it’s almost boyish. “So … is that a yes?”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss him. “Yes, Max. Let’s have a baby.”

He kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer. The kiss is different this time — deeper, more urgent, filled with the promise of what’s to come.

When you pull back, you’re both grinning like fools, your foreheads pressed together as you laugh softly.

“This is happening,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

“It is,” you reply, your heart swelling with joy.

“And just so you know,” he adds, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I’m not leaving this bed until we make it happen.”

You laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he counters, flipping you onto your back as his lips find yours again.

The night stretches on for what feels like forever, filled with laughter, whispered promises, and the kind of love that feels like forever.

***

The moment you see the two pink lines on the test, your heart stops. For a second, you don’t breathe, don’t blink, don’t move. Then, a rush of emotions crashes over you all at once — joy, disbelief, terror, excitement. You sit on the edge of the tub in your bathroom, staring at the test in your shaking hands, trying to make sense of it.

“Max,” you whisper to yourself, and the thought of him steadies you.

He’s in the kitchen when you step out, his back to you as he busies himself with something at the stove. The faint smell of eggs and toast fills the air, but you can barely focus on it. Your hand tightens around the test in your pocket.

“Morning,” he says when he hears your footsteps, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile. “Hungry? I made breakfast.”

You don’t answer, your feet rooted to the floor.

“Y/N?” He says, turning fully to face you now. “Everything okay?”

You nod, though you’re pretty sure you don’t look convincing. Your chest feels tight, and suddenly, you don’t know how to say the words.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

His hands find yours, grounding you in the way only he can. You take a deep breath and pull the test out of your pocket, holding it up between you.

Max stares at it for a moment, his eyes wide.

“Is that-”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “It’s positive.”

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, a slow, disbelieving grin spreads across his face.

“We’re having a baby?” He asks, his voice almost a whisper.

You nod, your own tears welling up as you watch his expression shift from shock to pure, unfiltered joy.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, the words finally sinking in.

Max lets out a breathless laugh, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off the ground. “Oh my God, Y/N, we’re having a baby!”

You laugh through your tears, clinging to him as he spins you around. When he finally sets you down, his hands frame your face, his eyes searching yours.

“Are you okay? How do you feel? Do you need anything? Oh my God, we need to call the doctor, right? That’s what we do next?”

“Max,” you say, cutting him off with a laugh. “I’m okay. We’ll figure it all out.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding quickly. “Okay. But, wow … we’re having a baby.”

The way he says it, like he can’t quite believe it, makes your heart swell.

From that moment on, Max is all in.

***

Max surprises you at every turn. Where you once thought the worlds of racing and family couldn’t coexist, he proves you wrong with every thoughtful gesture, every sacrifice, every time he puts you first.

At first, you hesitate to bring it up. You know how important racing is to him, how much of his life has been dedicated to it. You don’t want to be a distraction, don’t want to pull him away from something he loves.

But Max is quick to shut down any of those thoughts.

“You and this baby come first,” he says one night, his hand resting gently on your still-flat stomach. “Always.”

You blink at him, your throat tight. “You don’t have to say that, Max. I know how much racing means to you.”

“And I know how much you mean to me,” he counters, his voice firm. “This doesn’t have to be one or the other. We’ll make it work. I promise.”

And he does.

***

You don’t feel ready to travel yet, and Max doesn’t push you. He understands when you tell him you’re not ready to face the paddock, to face him. It’s still too raw, too soon. Max doesn’t question it.

“It’s okay,” he says, kissing your forehead. “You don’t need to explain. You do what’s best for you. I’ll come to you.”

And he does.

Even in the middle of the season, when his schedule is packed and his commitments are endless, Max never misses a single appointment. He’s always there, whether it’s for the early check-ups or the first ultrasound.

“Can you believe that’s our baby?” He whispers during the first scan, his voice filled with awe as he watches the tiny flicker of the heartbeat on the monitor.

You can’t answer, your own emotions overwhelming you. Instead, you squeeze his hand, and he leans over to press a kiss to your temple.

***

The weeks pass, and soon it’s time for the big ultrasound — the one where you’ll finally learn the baby’s gender. Max is in São Paulo for the Brazilian Grand Prix, and you’ve convinced yourself he won’t make it back in time.

“It’s okay,” you tell him over the phone the night before. “You’ve got a race to focus on. I’ll record everything for you.”

“Y/N,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not missing this.”

“But-”

“I’ll be there,” he promises. “Trust me.”

True to his word, Max walks into the clinic the next afternoon, still in his favorite set of sweats for traveling, his hair slightly disheveled from the flight.

“Max,” you say, standing up from your chair in the waiting room, your heart swelling at the sight of him. “You made it.”

“Of course I did,” he says, pulling you into his arms. “I told you I would.”

The ultrasound room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the machine and the occasional click of the technician’s keyboard. You’re lying on the examination table, Max sitting beside you, holding your hand tightly.

“Are you ready to find out?” The technician asks, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile.

You glance at Max, and he nods, his excitement barely contained.

“Let’s do it,” you say.

The technician moves the wand across your stomach, and a moment later, the screen lights up with the image of your baby.

“Congratulations,” she says, her smile widening. “It’s a girl.”

A girl.

Max lets out a laugh, his hand flying to cover his mouth as he stares at the screen. “A girl,” he repeats, his voice filled with wonder. “We’re having a girl.”

You laugh through your tears, your heart full to bursting. Max leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“For what?” You ask, your own voice shaky.

“For this. For her. For everything,” he says, his eyes shining as he looks at you.

You don’t have the words to respond, so you just squeeze his hand, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

And in that moment, you realize: Max was right. Racing and family don’t have to be at odds. They can coexist, as long as you have someone who’s willing to make it work. And Max? He’s more than willing. He’s all in. Always.

***

It’s been a long start to the season, and the 2024 championship is already shaping up to be a nail-biter. The RB20 is much more unwieldy than its predecessor, the points gap narrowing with a DNF in Australia. The pressure is on, and you know it. Max knows it too.

But despite everything — the late nights, the media frenzy, the endless travel — he never wavers in his commitment to you and the baby. Even as the world watches him fight for the title, Max’s focus always returns home.

As your due date approaches, the Japan Grand Prix weekend looms closer on the calendar. Suzuka is pivotal, everyone says. The kind of race that could determine the championship. The team is counting on Max to deliver.

But Max doesn’t seem fazed by any of it when you bring it up one evening in bed, your hand resting on your swollen belly while his fingers gently trace circles over the skin.

“You know Suzuka’s right around the corner,” you say hesitantly, watching his expression.

“Hmm,” he hums, his eyes focused on your stomach, his lips quirking into a small smile when he feels a kick.

“Max.”

He glances up at you, his gaze softening. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I just … I know it’s an important race. And my due date is so close. What if-”

“I’m not going to Japan,” he says firmly, cutting you off before you can spiral.

You blink at him, startled. “What?”

“I’ve already told Christian and Helmut. They’re putting Liam in the car for the weekend.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he says, his voice steady. “This is our daughter we’re talking about. There’s no way I’m missing her arrival, not for any race, not for anything.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you blink them back quickly. “But the championship-”

“Doesn’t matter as much as this,” he interrupts again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Y/N, I love racing, but you and our baby? You’re everything. You’re my world. If I have to miss a race, so be it.”

You stare at him, your throat tight, and you can’t stop the tears this time. “I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I love you too. More than anything.”

***

When the weekend of the Japanese Grand Prix arrives, you’re still pregnant, and Max is at your side, refusing to let you lift a finger.

The race plays out on the television in the background while Max spends most of the day doting on you. He rubs your feet, makes you tea, and checks on the hospital bag for the millionth time, making sure everything is in order.

“Max, sit down,” you say, laughing softly as you watch him double-check the contents of the bag again.

“I just want to make sure we’re ready,” he says, zipping it up and placing it neatly by the door.

“We’re ready,” you assure him, patting the space next to you on the couch.

He finally sits, pulling you close and resting his hand on your belly. “You’re sure she’s not coming today?”

“She’s not on your schedule, Verstappen,” you tease, and he laughs, leaning in to kiss your temple.

***

But she does come.

Two days later, in the early hours of the morning, the first contraction wakes you. At first, you’re too groggy to register what’s happening, but when the second one hits, you gasp, clutching at the sheets.

“Max,” you manage to get out, shaking his shoulder.

He bolts upright, his eyes wide and alert. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think … I think it’s time,” you say, your voice trembling.

Max is on his feet in an instant, grabbing the hospital bag and helping you out of bed with remarkable calmness for someone who was sound asleep just seconds ago.

“You okay?” He asks, his arm around your waist as he guides you to the car.

You nod, though your breaths are shallow. “Yeah. Just … hurry.”

***

The hours in the delivery room pass in a blur of pain and anticipation. Max never leaves your side, his hand gripping yours tightly through every contraction, his voice steady and reassuring as he encourages you.

“You’re amazing,” he says, brushing the hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’ve got this. Just a little more, liefje. You’re so strong.”

When the moment finally comes, and the sound of your daughter’s first cries fills the room, both of you dissolve into tears.

“She’s here,” Max whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s really here.”

The nurse places the tiny, wriggling bundle in your arms, and you look down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it takes your breath away. Max leans over your shoulder, his face close to hers, his tears falling freely now.

“She’s perfect,” he says, his voice breaking.

You glance up at him, your heart swelling as you see the pure adoration on his face. “She looks like you.”

“She looks like us,” he corrects, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek.

***

When the nurse takes her to be weighed and cleaned up, Max stands frozen for a moment, watching her with wide eyes. Then, when they bring her back, he hesitates.

“You want to hold her?” You ask, smiling through your exhaustion.

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the most precious thing in the world. “Can I?”

“Of course,” you say, carefully passing her to him.

Max cradles her in his arms, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving her face. He looks utterly awestruck, his tears still streaming down his cheeks as he rocks her gently.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m your papa. And I already love you more than anything.”

Your heart clenches as you watch him, the way he holds her like she’s the most fragile, most important thing in the world.

“You okay?” You ask softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

He nods, but when he looks at you, his expression is serious. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “If you or she ever said the word, I’d stop. I’d walk away from racing tomorrow and never look back.”

“Max-”

“I mean it,” he says, cutting you off gently. “I don’t need any of it. All I need is right here.”

Tears spill down your cheeks as you reach for his hand, your fingers lacing through his. “You don’t have to stop, Max. I don’t want you to. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he says, his gaze dropping back to your daughter. “You and her — you’re everything.”

The three of you stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other and the overwhelming love that fills the room.

And as you watch Max rock your daughter, his eyes shining with tears and joy, you realize that this is it — this is the life you always dreamed of.

***

The Australian Grand Prix marks the beginning of the 2025 season, and the paddock is alive with its usual chaos: reporters shouting questions, cameras flashing, and engineers rushing to and from garages. But for you, it feels like an entirely different world as you step onto the paddock with your daughter perched on your hip.

She’s bundled in a tiny Red Bull jacket Max had custom-made, her baby blue eyes wide as she takes in the flurry of activity around her. She giggles as a gust of wind tousles her fine blonde curls, and you can’t help but smile, brushing them back into place.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Max, who stands beside you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

He glances at you, his expression soft but resolute. “You’re my family. I want everyone to know.”

Your chest tightens, equal parts touched and nervous. “It’s just … people are going to talk.”

“Let them,” Max says simply, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. Then he shifts his attention to your daughter, gently tickling her chin. “Aren’t they, prinsesje? Let them say what they want.”

Her delighted squeal pulls a laugh from him, and for a moment, your nerves melt away.

But the attention is immediate. As soon as you cross into the paddock, a ripple of recognition sweeps through the crowd. Photographers pause, their lenses snapping up. Team personnel do double takes. Whispers spread like wildfire.

You’re prepared for it — at least, as much as you can be. What you’re not prepared for is running into Lewis.

You spot him before he sees you, standing just outside the Ferrari hospitality area in conversation with Fred Vasseur. Your stomach twists as you consider turning around, but before you can move, Lewis glances up.

He freezes.

His gaze locks on you, then drops to the baby in your arms, and his expression shifts from shock to something darker. He mutters something to Fred and strides toward you, his movements purposeful and tense.

“Y/N,” he says, stopping a few feet away. His eyes flicker to Max, who hasn’t left your side, and then back to you. “What … what’s this?”

You take a steadying breath. “Hello, Lewis.”

He ignores the pleasantries, his attention fixed on the child in your arms. “Is that your-” He stops, his jaw tightening. “Is that his?”

Max steps forward slightly, his hand now firm on your back. “Yes,” he says evenly, his voice calm but unyielding. “She is ours.”

Lewis’s eyes narrow, his gaze darting between you and Max. “How long has this been going on?”

“Lewis, I don’t think-”

“How long?” He snaps, his tone sharper now.

You glance at Max, who gives you a reassuring nod. Turning back to Lewis, you say, “A little over two and a half years.”

Lewis exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to process the information. “Two and a half years. So, what? You moved on that fast?”

“Don’t do that,” you say quietly, your grip tightening on your daughter. “It wasn’t fast. You know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is bitter, his expression unreadable. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you didn’t waste any time replacing me.”

Max stiffens beside you, but you place a hand on his arm, silently urging him to let you handle it.

“I didn’t replace you,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I moved on. There’s a difference.”

His gaze softens for a moment, flickering with something like hurt. But then he looks at Max again, and the hardness returns. “With him?”

“Yes,” you say firmly, your chin lifting.

Lewis laughs bitterly, running a hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”

“Lewis,” Max interjects, his tone measured but with an edge of steel. “This isn’t about you. It’s about her. And our daughter.”

“Your daughter,” Lewis repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Right. And you think this is going to work? Bringing her into this circus?”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he stays calm. “It’s already working. She’s happy. We’re happy.”

Lewis scoffs, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is happiness? Dragging a baby into this environment? Do you even understand what kind of life you’re giving her?”

You step forward before Max can respond, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “Don’t you dare judge me. You don’t get to do that. Not after everything.”

Lewis falters, his anger giving way to a flicker of guilt. “I’m not trying to-”

“Yes, you are,” you interrupt. “I get it, okay? You’re hurt. But you don’t get to stand there and act like you know what’s best for me or my family. Not anymore.”

There’s a long, tense silence. Finally, Lewis looks away, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I just … I didn’t think it would end like this,” he mutters.

Neither did you. But you don’t say it. Instead, you adjust your daughter in your arms, her tiny fingers clutching at your jacket, grounding you.

“It’s not about how it ended,” you say softly. “It’s about how we move forward.”

Lewis looks at you, and for a moment, you see the man you loved — the man who promised you a future he could never give. His eyes drop to your daughter, and his expression shifts, softening in a way that makes your heart ache.

“She’s beautiful,” he says quietly, almost reluctantly.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Max steps closer, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. “We should go,” he says, his voice low but kind.

You nod, giving Lewis one last look before turning away.

***

In the Red Bull motorhome, you sink into a chair, your emotions crashing over you. Max kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he studies your face.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, though tears blur your vision. “It’s just … hard. Seeing him. The way he looked at me.”

Max leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t owe him anything. Not your guilt, not your sadness. Nothing. You’re here with me now, with our daughter. That’s all that matters.”

His words soothe you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too,” he says, his voice unwavering. Then he glances at your daughter, who’s dozing peacefully in her stroller. “And I love her more than anything.”

You smile through your tears, your heart swelling with gratitude and love. No matter what challenges lie ahead, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

Nine Months Later

The final race of the 2025 season is a sea of chaos and celebration. The Yas Marina Circuit glows under the floodlights, the air electric with cheers as Max steps onto the top of the podium for the fifth time in his career. Champagne sprays from the bottles, glistening under the lights, but Max barely seems to notice.

His eyes search through the crowd, scanning the blur of faces until they land on you. There you are, cradling your daughter in your arms, her little Red Bull ear protectors sitting snugly over her head. She’s clapping her hands in that uncoordinated, infant-like way that makes his chest ache with love. And you — God, you. Your smile is soft but radiant, tears glinting in your eyes as you look up at him.

Max feels his heart tighten, his grip on the champagne bottle slackening. He’s been chasing dreams for as long as he can remember — titles, wins, perfection on the track. But now, looking at you and the life you’ve built together, he knows none of it compares to what he has waiting for him off the podium.

He knows what he has to do.

As the podium ceremony winds down, Max fumbles at the inside pocket of his race suit. His fingers brush over the small velvet box he’s carried with him for weeks, waiting for the right moment. This is it. There’s no better time.

Lando Norris, standing to Max’s right after clinching second place, notices his movement and raises a brow. “What are you up to?”

Max doesn’t answer, too focused on what’s coming next. His fingers close around the box, and his pulse quickens.

He steps forward, champagne still dripping from his suit, and motions to the crowd below. “Can we … can someone help her up here?” He calls, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

You blink, confused, as several Red Bull mechanics glance at each other before moving to you. One of them gestures toward the podium. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “You’re part of this moment.”

“What? No, I-” you stammer, clutching your daughter closer. “I’m fine here-”

“Y/N,” Max says from above, his voice carrying across the noise. His tone is warm but insistent. “Please. Come up.”

Your heart races as you glance around, overwhelmed by the attention, but the mechanics are already helping guide you to the platform. Before you know it, you’re being hoisted onto the podium, your feet landing on the cool metal as you steady yourself.

Max steps toward you, his eyes locked on yours. His gaze is tender, but there’s a flicker of nerves there, too. The crowd’s roar dulls in your ears as he takes a deep breath, his focus entirely on you.

“Y/N,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. He drops to one knee, the champagne bottle rolling away unnoticed. In his hand is the small velvet box, now open to reveal a sparkling diamond ring.

The crowd erupts.

Your breath catches.

“Y/N,” Max says again, louder this time, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I once thought winning a championship would be the best moment of my life. But then I saw you. Holding our daughter, looking at me like that, and I realized the best thing I’ve ever done has nothing to do with racing. It’s us. It’s you. It’s her.”

Tears blur your vision, your hand covering your mouth as you stare down at him.

“I love you,” he continues, his voice cracking. “I love you more than anything in this world. You’ve given me everything I never knew I needed. You’re my family, Y/N, and I don’t want to wait another second to make it official.”

He swallows hard, his hands shaking as he holds the ring toward you. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, everything seems to stop. The crowd, the cameras, the other drivers — it all fades away. All you can see is Max, his face open and vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen. The man who’s always so composed under pressure, the fierce competitor, is looking at you with nothing but love and hope.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking. Then, louder. “Yes, Max. Yes!”

The crowd explodes into cheers as Max lets out a breathless laugh, his face lighting up in relief and joy. He stands quickly, wrapping one arm around your waist while slipping the ring onto your finger with the other. It fits perfectly.

Before you can say anything else, Max cups your face and kisses you, his lips warm and urgent against yours. The kiss is met with an even louder roar from the crowd, but all you can focus on is him — the way his hands tremble slightly, the way he pulls you closer as if afraid to let go.

Your daughter giggles in your arms, and Max pulls back just enough to glance down at her. He grins, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “What do you think, prinsesje? Did Papa do okay?”

She babbles something incomprehensible, and the three of you laugh.

***

Later, in the quiet of his driver’s room, the chaos of the podium ceremony behind you, Max pulls you into his lap as you sit together on the small sofa. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her stroller nearby, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm.

Max toys with the ring on your finger, his expression thoughtful. “You know,” he says, his voice soft, “I’ve won a lot of things in my life. But this … this is my greatest victory.”

You smile, resting your forehead against his. “You’re pretty good at making me cry today, Verstappen.”

He chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Get used to it. I plan on spending the rest of my life making you cry happy tears.”

You hum, leaning into his touch. “Good. Because I plan on spending the rest of my life loving you.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. “Deal.”

And in that moment, with Max holding you close and your daughter sleeping nearby, you realize that this — this is your podium. Your victory. Your forever.

***

The night is impossibly quiet for Abu Dhabi, the hum of the city dulled by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. The celebrations are over, the crowds dispersed, and now it’s just the three of you. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her cot near the foot of the bed, her tiny face relaxed in peaceful dreams.

You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, the weight of the day finally catching up with both of you. His chest is warm against your back, his heartbeat steady as his fingers lazily trace patterns on your arm. The ring on your finger catches the faint glow of the bedside lamp, a small, perfect reminder of the life-changing moment you shared hours ago.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, shifting slightly to glance up at him.

Max’s gaze is soft, his blue eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “Just thinking,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse from the day’s shouting and champagne sprays.

“About?”

He pauses, his fingers stilling on your skin. You can feel the hesitation in him, the way his body tenses ever so slightly. It’s not like Max to be unsure — he’s always been decisive, charging into life with the same fearless determination he has on the track.

“Max?” You press gently, turning fully to face him now. “What’s on your mind?”

He exhales a long breath, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he starts, his accent curling warmly around the words. “But after today … I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

His hand moves to yours, thumb brushing over the ring he gave you just hours earlier. He stares at it for a moment before meeting your gaze, his eyes clear and steady.

“I’m going to retire,” he says softly.

The words hit you like a jolt. For a second, you’re sure you misheard him. “Retire?” You repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Max,” you say, your brow furrowing. “You just won your fifth title. You’re at the peak of your career. Why would you …”

He shifts slightly, sitting up so he can look at you more directly. “Because I don’t need it anymore,” he says simply. “I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted in racing. More than I ever thought I could. But now …” He pauses, his gaze flicking briefly to the cot where your daughter sleeps. “Now I have something I want more.”

Your chest tightens, emotions swirling in a chaotic mess you can’t quite untangle. “Are you sure? I mean, Max, this is huge. Racing has been your entire life.”

“I know,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “And I’ll always love it. But I don’t want to spend the next ten or fifteen years chasing something I don’t need, not when it means missing out on moments with you. With her.” He nods toward your daughter, his face softening.

You sit there in stunned silence, trying to process what he’s saying. “But what about the team? And your fans? You love the thrill of it, the competition-”

“Y/N,” he cuts you off gently, reaching for your hand again. “I love you more. I love our family more. And I don’t want to be the kind of dad who’s always gone, always distracted. I’ve seen what that does. I don’t want that for her.”

His words hit you square in the chest, a wave of emotion crashing over you. Tears prick at your eyes as you search his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But all you see is love and certainty.

“You’re really serious about this,” you say softly, your voice trembling.

He nods. “I’ve thought about it for months. After last season, I told myself I’d give it one more year. One more title. And then I’d walk away. Today, seeing you and her in the crowd, knowing everything we’ve built together … it made me realize I’m ready.”

You reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his jaw. “Max … I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you’re okay with it,” he says, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Say you’ll let me stay home and annoy you every day.”

A laugh escapes you, watery but real. “I think I can handle that.”

He leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because this is what I want, Y/N. You, her, our life together. That’s enough for me. More than enough.”

For a while, you just sit there in the quiet, wrapped up in each other. Your mind is still racing, but your heart feels full, overflowing with love for the man beside you.

“So,” you say after a moment, your voice lighter, “what’s the plan? Are you going to call Christian in the middle of the night and drop this bombshell on him?”

Max chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I’ll give him a day or two to recover from the title celebrations first. Then I’ll tell him.”

“And how do you think he’s going to take it?”

“Oh, he’ll try to talk me out of it,” Max says, rolling his eyes. “He’ll tell me I’m too young, that I’ve got years left in me, that I can win even more. But I’ve already made up my mind.”

You smile, resting your head against his chest. “He’s going to miss you. They all will.”

“I’ll miss them too,” he admits. “But this isn’t goodbye forever. I’ll still be around — just not on the grid.”

“And me?” You ask, your voice teasing. “What if I’m not ready to have you home all the time?”

Max grins, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you closer. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

As the night stretches on, the weight of the day starts to fade, replaced by a quiet sense of peace. Max lies back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you’re nestled against his side.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy but warm, “I used to think racing was everything. That I’d be lost without it.”

“And now?” You ask, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“Now I know it was just a part of me. A big part, yeah, but not the most important one. Not anymore.” He pauses, his hand brushing over your hair. “You and her … you’re my everything now.”

Tears sting your eyes again, but this time they’re tears of joy. “Max,” you whisper, your voice catching. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he says, his words a soft promise against your skin.

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you know that no matter what the future holds, you’ll face it together.

***

The room buzzes with an electric energy, the kind that only the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony can create. It’s a night to honor champions, to toast to a season of victories, and to revel in the highs of motorsport. The crowd is a mix of drivers, team principals, engineers, and journalists, all dressed to the nines. You’re seated in the front row, a place reserved for the most important people in the room.

Max is on stage, holding his freshly polished World Championship trophy, the applause still roaring from the moment his name was called. His tuxedo fits him like a glove, and there’s a boyish grin on his face that makes him look impossibly proud — and a little nervous.

In your lap, your daughter wiggles, her tiny hands clutching at the hem of your sparkling gown. She’s too young to understand what’s happening, but the excitement of the room has her wide-eyed and curious. You adjust her slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as you watch Max step up to the microphone.

“Wow,” Max begins, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of the crowd. “What a year. What a … career.”

There’s a ripple of surprise at his choice of words. You feel it too, a sharp intake of breath as he pauses. He hasn’t told anyone outside of your family and a select few about his decision yet, and it hits you that this is the moment.

“I want to start by saying thank you,” Max continues, his accent thick with emotion. “To everyone who made this season possible. To my team at Red Bull — Christian, Helmut, GP, the engineers, the mechanics — every single person who has been part of this journey. We did this together. Five championships in the last five years … it still feels surreal.”

The room breaks into another round of applause, but Max raises a hand to quiet them.

“But tonight isn’t just about this trophy or this season,” he says, his voice steady despite the emotion creeping into it. “It’s about something bigger. About knowing when it’s time to close one chapter and start another.”

Your heart races, and you tighten your hold on your daughter as Max’s words hang in the air.

“When I was a kid, all I ever wanted was to race,” Max says, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “I grew up at circuits, watching my dad, dreaming of being in Formula 1. And for the last decade, this sport has been my whole life. It’s given me everything. It’s taught me more than I ever imagined — about hard work, about resilience, about pushing beyond what you think is possible.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking down to where you’re sitting. The faintest smile plays on his lips as your gazes meet, and you see the love and certainty there.

“But these past two years,” he continues, his voice softening, “I learned something else. That as much as I love this sport, there’s something I love more. Someone I love more.”

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, heads turning to you. You feel your cheeks flush, but you keep your focus on Max, your heart pounding.

“Last season, I became a father,” Max says, his tone warming with pride. “And it changed everything. It changed the way I see the world, the way I see myself, and the way I think about my future. I realized that as much as I love racing, I don’t want to miss the little moments … the things that really matter.”

The room falls completely silent, everyone hanging on his every word.

“So,” Max says, his voice unwavering now, “tonight, as I accept this trophy, I also want to announce that this was my last season in Formula 1.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by stunned silence. Your daughter squirms in your arms, oblivious to the magnitude of what’s just been said.

Max smiles faintly, taking in the shocked faces in the room. “I know it might seem sudden,” he says, “but this is something I’ve thought about for a long time. I’ve achieved everything I could have dreamed of in this sport. I’ve worked with the best team in the world, competed against the best drivers in the world, and I leave with no regrets. But now, it’s time for me to focus on the next chapter of my life. On my family.”

He glances down at you again, and this time his gaze lingers. “Y/N, you and our daughter … you’re my everything. You’ve given me a reason to look beyond the racetrack, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.”

Your vision blurs with tears, and you can’t help but smile up at him. The crowd erupts into applause, some people rising to their feet in admiration and respect.

After a moment, Max raises a hand again, signaling for quiet. “I want to thank the fans,” he says, his voice growing steadier. “You’ve been with me through every win, every loss, every crazy overtake and late-breaking move. You’ve pushed me to be better every single day. And while I won’t be on the grid next season, I’ll always be part of this sport. It’s in my blood, and it always will be.”

The applause grows even louder this time, the room filling with a wave of emotion and admiration. You clap along, your daughter bouncing slightly in your arms at the sound.

When Max steps down from the stage, he comes straight to you. The cameras follow his every move, the flashes almost blinding as he crouches in front of you.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak.

He reaches for your daughter, lifting her into his arms with ease. She giggles, grabbing at the shiny lapel of his tuxedo, and Max laughs softly, the sound breaking through the tension in the room.

“We did it,” he says, his eyes locking with yours.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. “We did,” you whisper back.

***

The rest of the night is a blur of congratulations, handshakes, and emotional farewells. But through it all, Max stays by your side, his arm around your waist or his hand in yours.

As the event winds down, you find yourselves back in the car, your daughter sleeping peacefully in her car seat. The city lights blur past the windows, and Max leans back against the seat, exhaling deeply.

“That went better than I thought,” he says, his voice tinged with relief.

“You were incredible,” you tell him, resting your head on his shoulder.

He glances down at you, his expression soft. “Are you happy?”

You smile, lacing your fingers with his. “More than I ever thought I could be.”

And as the car carries you through the quiet streets, you realize that this is just the beginning of a new adventure — the one Max always knew was waiting for him.

***

Two Years Later

Lewis doesn’t plan to be on this street. He’s never liked taking the busy Monaco thoroughfares, even after all these years of calling the principality home. But a morning run had turned into aimless wandering, and now he’s here, jogging along the promenade, music blasting in his ears, trying to clear his head.

The past two years since Max retired have been strange. No fierce wheel-to-wheel battles with Verstappen, no reminders on the track of the rivalry that defined his career for so long. And yet, Max still lingers in his thoughts — like an echo, a shadow, a specter. Every headline about the Verstappens pops up in his feed: Max is spotted at home with his family. Max is thriving in retirement.

But it’s not Max that Lewis thinks about most. It’s you. It’s always been you.

Lewis slows his pace as he nears the bakery that used to be your favorite. He has no idea if you still come here, or if Monaco even feels like home to you anymore. He shakes his head, chastising himself for thinking like this. You’re gone. You’ve been gone.

But then, he hears it. A child’s voice, high-pitched and sweet, chattering happily. He instinctively looks over, and his feet stop moving altogether.

There you are.

You’re walking hand-in-hand with Max. Max, who looks completely at peace, a little older but no less recognizable. Beside him, a little girl. She’s animated as she talks to him, her tiny hand curled securely around his. And then, there’s the stroller. A navy blue, high-tech design Lewis recognizes from catalogs. Inside is a baby boy, fast asleep, his chubby face serene as he snoozes against the soft fabric.

Lewis feels the air leave his lungs.

You don’t see him. You’re busy talking to Max, laughing at something he says. You’re dressed casually, a flowy sundress swaying around your knees, sunglasses perched on your nose. Your free hand rests on the stroller handle, the gesture almost instinctive. The sight of you like this — effortless, happy, and surrounded by a family — sends a sharp pang through Lewis’ chest.

It’s everything he could’ve had. Everything he pushed away.

His feet are rooted to the spot. He should turn around, jog in the other direction, forget he ever saw you. But he can’t. He watches, transfixed, as your daughter stops mid-sentence to look up at you. “Mama,” she says brightly, tugging Max’s hand. “Can I have a croissant?”

Max chuckles. “You already had one,” he tells her, his voice gentle.

“But they’re so good!” She says, throwing her head back dramatically.

Lewis can’t stop staring. The little girl is Max’s spitting image, but there’s something about her smile, the way her nose scrunches, that reminds him of you.

And then, she notices him.

Your daughter’s bright eyes land on Lewis, and she grins like she’s just seen a new friend. “Hello!” She says, waving enthusiastically with her free hand.

You glance up, confused at first, following her gaze. Lewis freezes.

But it’s not him you’re looking at. It’s a man unloading bags from his car in front of him, and you nod politely before turning back to Max and your daughter.

Lewis exhales shakily, a mix of relief and a pang of disappointment. He steps back, half-hidden by the awning of a nearby café, watching as you and Max resume walking.

The little girl waves once more, still beaming, before Max gently nudges her along. “Come on, prinsesje,” he says. “Let’s not keep your brother waiting for his nap to be over.”

Lewis stays there, unmoving, as you all walk away. He watches the way Max leans toward you, saying something that makes you laugh again. He watches the way your daughter skips a little ahead, still clutching Max’s hand, her voice bubbling with excitement as she points to a pigeon fluttering by. And he watches you look down at the stroller, adjusting the blanket over the baby boy who sleeps so peacefully, oblivious to everything around him.

It’s a picture-perfect scene. A life filled with love and joy, one that Lewis now realizes — painfully, completely — he could have been part of.

The memories flood in uninvited.

The nights spent on this same Monaco promenade with you, your hand slipping into his as you admired the lights reflecting off the water. The quiet mornings when you’d sit at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and talking about what life might look like after racing. The promises he made and didn’t keep.

He thinks about the last time he saw you, about the anger and hurt in your eyes, about the way he walked out that night because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words you needed to hear. And now, here you are — walking down this same street with someone who isn’t afraid to put you first.

Lewis sinks onto a nearby bench, running a hand over his face. His chest feels tight, his breathing shallow. He thinks he’s moved on, that he’s made peace with the choices he’s made. But seeing you, seeing your family — it’s a wound he didn’t even realize was still open.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at the spot where you disappeared from view. Minutes? Hours? Long enough for his playlist to loop back to the beginning.

A group of tourists wanders past, laughing and snapping photos of the marina. Lewis doesn’t look up. He stays on the bench, shoulders slumped, the weight of what he’s lost pressing down on him.

By the time he makes it back to his apartment, the sun is setting over Monaco, casting the city in hues of orange and gold. He heads straight for the balcony, leaning heavily on the railing as he stares out at the water.

It should be a beautiful view, but tonight it feels empty.

For years, racing has been his everything. It’s been his escape, his purpose, his identity. But now, for the first time, he wonders if it was worth it.

Because no trophy, no title, no amount of glory could fill the space you once inhabited.

And for the first time, Lewis feels like the one who’s been left behind.

omg the little Alonso fics are TOO cute!!! Can I please request one where little Alonso has a little crush on a driver and how the others react especially her papa? 😂

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo, babygirl 💕

The Baby-Crush

The sun was high over the paddock, the heat intense enough to send most of the drivers straight to the designated cooling area after their morning practice laps. The “sweating area,” as they’d all jokingly dubbed it, was packed with drivers catching their breath and throwing back water bottles like they’d just crossed a desert.

Suddenly, the calm was broken by a pattering of tiny feet.

“Papá!”

Every driver’s head whipped around to see the sight they’d been waiting for all season — three-year-old Yn Alonso running at full speed through the paddock, her dark hair bouncing as she scanned for her father. Even with the humid weather, she was dressed in a white fluffy dress, with a big green bow, to not only represent her daddy's team, but to also keep her hair from slipping over her eyes.

Fernando's grin grew as she hurtled towards him. He knelt down to catch her, arms wide open, as she nearly toppled him over in a flying hug.

“Mi niña,” he laughed, scooping her up and holding her close. “What are you doing here, pequeña?”

She beamed at him, then, without a word, wiggled to be let down, her big brown eyes already scanning the room. As soon as her feet touched the ground, Yn’s eyes locked onto Charles, who was laughing with Carlos.

Charles noticed her stare and broke out in a huge grin. “Ah, there she is!” He knelt down, stretching his arms out wide. “Come here, Yn!”

Without a second thought, Yn sprinted straight into Charles's open arms, bypassing every other driver without a glance. Fernando's smile froze. Carlos raised his eyebrows, nudging Lando as he stifled a laugh.

Charles lifted Yn effortlessly, spinning her around as she giggled and clung to him, her little arms wrapped around his neck. “You’re getting so big!” he said, poking her nose gently, earning a bright giggle.

“You’re her favorite, Charles,” Pierre teased, crossing his arms with a playful pout. “I remember when I was the favorite.”

Yn looked over at Pierre with a big smile but tightened her grip around Charles’s neck. “Charlie!” she insisted, pointing at him as if to make it clear who her favorite was.

Lando laughed, nudging Max. “Charles has a new fangirl, and she's got the Alonso seal of approval. How does it feel to have Fernando’s blessing?”

But a low, grumbling sound interrupted the teasing. Fernando had crossed his arms, a deep frown etched on his face. “Blessing? What blessing? I did not give any blessing. This… this is betrayal. By my own hija.”

Max raised his hands in mock surrender, struggling to contain his laughter. “Hey, hey, don’t look at us, mate. Looks like she’s got a bit of a crush on Charles.”

Fernando’s eyes narrowed as he watched Charles gently bouncing Yn in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder with a content sigh. The other drivers snickered as Fernando muttered to himself, pacing a bit and shaking his head.

“Charles,” he said, his voice half-joking, half-serious, “that is my daughter, not some… Ferrari groupie.”

Charles looked over at Fernando with a grin, carefully placing a tiny kiss on Yn’s cheek. “Don’t worry, Fernando. I am a gentleman.”

Yn’s cheeks turned pink as she let out a giggle and hid her face in Charles’s shoulder, peeking out with a shy smile. Charles, absolutely charmed, looked back at Fernando. “See? She’s happy.”

Carlos leaned in, smirking. “You’re in trouble, Charles. Fernando looks ready to put you in the barriers next race.”

But Charles, clearly enjoying himself, pretended not to notice the jealous glares from both Fernando and the other drivers. He cradled Yn a little closer, leaning his forehead against hers, as her tiny fingers played with the zipper of his racing suit.

“Charlie,” she whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, “are you gonna win?”

Charles softened, nodding earnestly. “I’ll do my best, just for you, okay?”

Fernando let out a frustrated sigh. “Oh, so now you’re winning races, huh? Where was that last season?”

Everyone burst into laughter as Charles sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “What can I say, Fernando? I have a good-luck charm now.” He tapped Yn’s nose, and she burst into giggles again.

Lando was practically in stitches. “Mate, you’ve got a tiny Alonso fangirl giving you her blessing. You’d better win next weekend!”

Yn, sensing the attention, pointed her little finger at Lando. “No,” she said firmly, still clinging to Charles. “Charlie’s best.”

Carlos wiped away a fake tear. “Ouch! Betrayed by someone so young.”

Fernando finally stepped forward, determined to reclaim his daughter. “Okay, okay, ya es suficiente, little one. Come back to Papá, alright?”

Yn hesitated, looking between her father and Charles, before giving her dad a quick look of mischief.

“No!” she squealed and snuggled closer to Charles, making him laugh as he hugged her back. “With Charlie!”

Fernando’s face was priceless — part horrified, part amused, and all exasperated. The other drivers were practically doubled over with laughter, watching Fernando’s meltdown unfold.

“Yn,” Fernando said in his best “dad” voice, “Charlie drives for Ferrari. Ferrari, Yn. Alonso girls do not cheer for Ferrari.”

She blinked, clearly not understanding a word he’d said, before patting Charles’s cheek lovingly. “Charlie’s nice.”

George Russell chuckled, giving Fernando a pat on the back. “Face it, Fernando. She’s got taste.”

Charles, now thoroughly enjoying himself, made a point to keep her entertained, bouncing her on his hip, whispering silly things that made her giggle uncontrollably. At one point, he looked over at Fernando with a wink. “Look, I’ll take good care of her, Fernando. She’s safe with me.”

Fernando rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile now, despite his reluctant acceptance. “If you so much as put one scratch on her, Charles…”

Charles gave a mock salute. “Understood, sir. Only the best for the Alonso princess.”

For the rest of the day, Yn stayed glued to Charles’s side, happily babbling about who knows what as he patiently listened, asking her questions and looking thoroughly invested. At one point, she tugged on his sleeve.

“Charlie,” she said, looking around before leaning close to his ear, her voice a loud whisper, “don’t tell Papá, but I like red.”

Charles chuckled, glancing over at Fernando, who was watching the two of them suspiciously from across the room. “Our little secret,” he whispered back.

By the end of the day, Yn was dozing off, still in Charles’s arms, her tiny fingers clinging to the front of his suit. Charles carried her back to Fernando, who shook his head, finally resigned.

“Alright, fine,” Fernando said, reaching out to take his daughter. “But just remember, Yn, Papá is still your number one fan, okay?”

Yn blinked sleepily and gave him a nod. “Number one,” she mumbled, and Fernando’s heart melted a bit.

But just as he thought he’d won, she gave Charles one last sleepy grin. “Charlie, you’re number two.”

Fernando groaned, and the whole paddock dissolved into laughter as Charles gave her a final cheeky kiss on the cheek.