Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Max had always believed the universe spoke in quiet ways, in the hum of engines, in the metallic perfume of petrol, in the low murmur of engineers talking in codes only drivers pretended to understand. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the way the universe suddenly chose to speak through one man.

George Russell.

If divinity ever walked into a Formula 1 garage wearing a fireproof undershirt and hair that behaved like it had personally been blessed by the gods of aerodynamics, it was him.

There was something… annoyingly celestial about George.

A painfully clean light.
The type of man who looked like if he ever tripped, gravity would apologize for pulling him down.

Max wasn’t religious, but if the second coming ever happened mid-season, he was fully prepared to believe it would look exactly like George Russell rolling his sleeves up.

And unfortunately—fatally—Max had front-row seats.

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The garage was its usual chaos, technicians running diagnostics, tires being warmed, radios squawking, and somewhere in the mix, Max trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t tracking George’s every movement like some sort of overtrained, undersocialized golden retriever.

He told himself it wasn’t weird.
He told himself he was simply… aware.
Hyper-aware.
Enhance-the-mini-map aware.

Then George spoke.

“Can someone pass me the water bottle?”

A simple sentence.
Innocent, harmless, yet to Max it sounded like the gates of heaven cracking open and releasing a beam of holy light directly into his skull.

He didn’t even think.

He sprinted.

Not jogged.
Not walked briskly.
Max Verstappen, four-time world champion took off like a man who had just heard the treat jar being opened.

Someone shouted, “MAX. He wasn’t talking to you!”

But Max had already cleared two toolboxes, a mechanic, and possibly a moral boundary.
He skidded to a stop in front of George, breathless, offering the bottle like he was presenting an offering to a blessed prophet.

“He might have been,” Max said, tone strangely defensive, like a knight whose honor had been questioned.

George looked up, blinking, wide eyes soft and unaware in a way that should have been illegal.

“Oh—uh, thanks, Max,” he said, taking the bottle.

And he smiled.

Max saw creation in that smile.
Not metaphorically, he actually, literally saw the beginning of time, galaxies forming, the first star igniting.
It was an embarrassingly spiritual event.

George, of course, remained blissfully unaware of the fact he had just obliterated Max’s last few functioning brain cells.

He twisted open the cap with that same effortless grace, hands long and elegant and probably capable of starting new religions everywhere they touched, and walked away without a clue.

Max stood frozen, processing.

In the background, Lando made a noise that was somewhere between choking and laughing.

“Mate,” he said, walking toward him, “you looked like you were about to ascend.”

“I was not,” Max muttered, which was a lie so monumental it deserved its own documentary.

Another mechanic stared at him.
“You sprinted from the other side of the garage.”

“It was necessary,” Max insisted.

“For what?”

“For—” Max paused.

For George’s voice.
For George’s existence.
For the feeling that whenever George spoke, something inside him stood up at attention and wagged its metaphorical tail.

“For hydration,” Max finished weakly.

Lando snorted. “Yeah, your hydration. Man was thirsty for something else entirely.”

Max glared. “Shut up.”

But it didn’t matter.
He could feel it.
The truth humming through him like an engine idling too high.

Every time George opened his mouth, Max reacted.

Not rationally.
Not competitively.

Instinctively.

Like his entire being had been wired to respond to that voice, warm and soft and dipped in the kind of sweetness Max pretended he was immune to.

George, meanwhile, had turned back to a monitor, sipping calmly, oblivious to the chaos he left in his wake.

He had absolutely no idea.

No idea that Max watched him like a moon pulled helplessly by gravity.
No idea that Max answered him before the sentence even finished leaving his mouth.
No idea that Max’s heart was apparently a golden retriever that perked up at every syllable George produced.

No idea that Max Verstappen, stoic, sharp, notoriously unflappable, was already halfway in love with the sound of him.

And Max wasn’t ready to admit any of that.

Especially not the part where, if George asked for anything, water, a wrench, the secrets of the universe,

Max would sprint again.

Every. Single. Time.

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Max was thirteen when he first learned the universe had a sense of humour.
It happened on a karting podium that still lived somewhere in the back of his mind,
the dusty memory he never touched, never voiced, but always, always felt.

He had finished P2 that day.
He did not care.

Because the boy beside him, P1, taller by half an inch, smile brighter than any trophy,
was George Russell.

Back then, Max did not have the words to explain it.
He only had the feeling:
a sudden, sharp awareness in his chest as George lifted his trophy with both hands, eyes shining with a victory so pure it felt like sunlight landing directly on Max’s face.

George looked like he had been carved from light.
Too soft, too clean, too good for the scrappy, oil-stained chaos of karting.
He had this annoyingly serene aura, as if his very existence embarrassed gravity.

And then George laughed.

Max froze.

That laugh, light, unbothered, effortlessly joyful,
cracked something open inside him.
The kind of realization that felt too big for a kid wearing a sweaty race suit and holding second place.

Max was not religious, but in that single moment, staring at George beside him on the podium, he thought:

So that is what an angel looks like.
Holy shit.

He did not say a word.
He could not.
Every sentence that tried to form turned into static.

“Good race,” George said to him, voice soft, accent warm.

Max could only nod, gripping his trophy like it might anchor him to earth.

Because for one terrifying second, he was not sure it would.

He realized, very suddenly and very dramatically, that George Russell was beautiful.
Not normal pretty.
Not “yeah he has nice eyes.”
Max meant beautiful in the existential sense, the way philosophers looked at sunsets and questioned their place in the cosmos.

George turned to adjust his cap.
Max watched, helpless.

It was embarrassing,
this tiny, premature crush blooming inside him with no respect for logic, time, or emotional maturity.

He made a decision right there on that podium,
a vow carved into the quiet, beating center of his chest.

Do not tell him.
Do not tell anyone.
Not yet.
Not until you are older.
Not until it makes sense.

Because what was Max supposed to say at thirteen?

“Hi, I am Max, and I think you might be the most divine being I have ever seen, and also I might follow you anywhere.”

No.
Too much.
Too stupid.
Too transparent.

So he said nothing.
For years.

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2016 Max enters Formula 1 first

He climbs into an F1 seat before he turns nineteen.
His world becomes horsepower and pressure and headlines.
Sometimes, when the nights are too quiet, his mind flickers back to that podium, the sunlight on George’s face, the laugh, the feeling.

He never sees George, but he hears his name in junior series commentary once in a while.
Every time, something warm stirs in his ribs, like an old engine trying to start.

He still says nothing.

He buries the memory under victories, under rivalries, under the weight of expectations.

But he remembers.
He always remembers.

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2019 George finally joins

Max does not know what he expects when George walks into the paddock wearing the Williams kit for the first time.

Maybe the memory had exaggerated him.
Maybe nostalgia had painted him too brightly.

But then George looks up,
smiling that exact same sunrise soft smile,
and Max feels the thirteen year old version of himself sit up inside his chest, startled, wagging its metaphorical tail.

Holy shit.
He is even more beautiful now.

And worse,
Max realizes he likes him even more.

George approaches him that day.
Same voice.
Same calm light.

“Hey Max,” he says. “Long time since karting, huh?”

Max answers too quickly.
“Yeah. I remember.”

He should not have said that.
Too honest.

George does not notice.
Of course he does not.

He has no idea that Max Verstappen, champion, menace, apex predator on track,
has secretly been nursing a crush since they were kids standing on a podium.

No idea that Max had spent years avoiding the truth the way he avoided interviews.

No idea that Max remembered every detail,
the laugh, the sunlight, the feeling.

No idea that Max had decided, all those years ago:

Keep quiet.
Wait.
Watch him grow into F1.
Then maybe,
maybe you can finally breathe.

George has no idea.

Max plans to keep it that way.

(For now.)

Chapter Text

The stage lights were bright enough to make even Mercedes and Red Bull drivers look like polished collectibles.

Max and Yuki on one side.

George and Kimi Antonelli on the other.
Both teams pretending they were not about to start a war over anything said into the microphones.

The host smiled like he wasn’t afraid of the chaos he was about to unleash.

“So,” he asked, “what do you all like about each other? One nice thing.”

Yuki answered first.
“I like Kimi. He is quiet. It means he cannot say stupid things.”

Kimi nodded politely.

George followed with a serene, diplomatic smile.
“I like how hard-working Max is. He is… determined.”

Max pretended that did not make his brain short-circuit.

Then it was his turn.

Max leaned into the mic.

And the universe held its breath.

“I like George’s…” he paused, eyes locking onto George with the intensity of a man who had not slept in peace since 2019.

“His… what?” the host asked.

Max inhaled.
Red Bull PR sensed a disturbance in the force.
Mercedes PR began drafting an apology.

“His… figure,” Max started.

George blinked. “My what?”

Max did not stop.

“Specifically,” he said, tone somehow both solemn and sinful,
“his… backside.”

The room died.

Yuki whispered, “Oh my god.”
Kimi looked like he wanted to ascend.
George’s smile froze like a statue about to crack.

Max continued because God had clearly abandoned him.

“It reminds me of a peach. You know, the emoji.”
He even made the shape with his hands.
Round, cupped, reverent.

The audience screamed.

“And not just any peach,” Max added, tragically sincere.
“The plump kind. Perfectly round. The type you see at a market and think ‘wow, nature tried extra hard on this one.’”

George closed his eyes.
He was either praying or rebooting.

Max was not finished.

“It is very… bouncy in race suits. A good density. Not too soft. A structured roundness. Like it was engineered. Wind tunnel optimized. Aerodynamic.”

The host dropped his cue cards.
Yuki leaned away like Max’s stupidity was contagious.

George whispered, mortified,
“Mate… please stop.”

Max looked at him, pure affection in his eyes.

“I’m being honest. You asked what I like.”

“We didn’t ask for… whatever that was,” George muttered, pink-cheeked.

Kimi finally spoke, voice deadpan.
“Is this normal in your team?”

Yuki slapped his thigh. “Normal? This is Max in love.”

Max ignored all of them, still staring dreamily.

“I’m just saying,” he added softly, “he walks and it’s like… poetry.”

George covered his face.

Mercedes PR fainted backstage.

Red Bull PR started emailing legal teams.

The interviewer said, “We’re going to… move on.”

But the world had already seen it.
Heard it.
Immortalized it.

And George Russell, second coming of sunlight,had never been so peach-coded in his entire life.

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The moment they walked off-stage, Mercedes PR dragged George by the elbow like a man trying to rescue a saint from a burning building.
But George shook him off.

He walked straight toward Max.

Not walked.
Stormed.
Determined, focused, jaw locked in a way that made every rational thought in Max’s head collapse into dust.

“Max,” George said sharply.

One word.
That was all it took.
Max’s soul left his body.
His brain folded like bad origami.
He forgot physics, language, the existence of oxygen.

George stood directly in front of him, so close Max could see the faint crease between his eyebrows.

“How bad is it,” Yuki whispered from the corner, “that I am rooting for drama?”

Kimi dragged him away. “Be quiet.”

George crossed his arms, eyes blazing with that very specific brand of Russell fury, which should not have been attractive but unfortunately was.

“Thank you,” George said with immaculate sarcasm, “for completely embarrassing me in public.”

Max opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
His mind was just a static-filled radio blaring George is so pretty over and over again.

George stepped closer.
Too close.
Too close for Max’s continued survival.

“So tell me,” George continued, lowering his voice, “is this payback? Hm?”

“Payback…?” Max croaked.

“Yes,” George snapped. “For calling you a bully back in 2024.”

Ah.

That.

Max vaguely remembered it.
Not because it mattered, but because George had looked annoyingly adorable when he’d said it.
But Max could not say that right now.
He could not say anything useful at all.

George leaned in even closer, so close Max could smell his cologne, a clean and expensive kind of scent, polite and bright and everything Max could never resist.

“Is this your revenge?” George pressed.

Max’s brain, shattered beyond recognition, came up with the only possible word.

“Yes.”

George froze.

Max realized what he’d said.

Oh no.

No.
No no no.

He meant to say no but his mind had been too busy screaming at him that George’s angry face was cute, that George’s lips were too close, that George’s eyes were doing that intense thing that made Max forget his own name.

George straightened, wounded pride burning hotter.

“Fine,” he said stiffly. “Good to know.”

“No wait—” Max tried.

But George was already walking away, military-level stomping that somehow still managed to look elegant.

Yuki peeked out from behind a curtain.
“Did he just dump you even though you aren’t dating…?”

Kimi whispered, “I think Max died.”

Max stood there, motionless, staring at the spot where George had disappeared.

He had no idea how to fix this.

And worst of all,

The only thought in his head was
He looked so cute when he was angry.
God, I’m so ruined.

Chapter Text

Max had never refreshed anything in his life this aggressively.
Not timing screens.
Not live sector updates.
Not even the FIA website after every penalty investigation.

But George Russell’s WhatsApp chat?

He was refreshing it like a man possessed.
Actually possessed.
By what, he did not know.
Love? Delusion? Divine punishment?
Probably all three.

He had sent the apology three hours ago.

Max: Hey George. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I swear. It just came out wrong. Can we talk?

He watched the two grey ticks.
Never turning blue.
Never moving.
Static.
Cold.
Unbothered.

Max paced his hotel room like a caged animal.
He practiced breathing techniques that did not work.
He considered throwing his phone out the window, but what if George replied the moment it hit the street?
No. Too risky.

Every minute was torture.

Yuki, on video call, was eating ramen and watching the disaster unfold like free entertainment.

“Damn,” Yuki said, slurping loudly, “ghosted by your crush. Couldn’t be me.”

“Shut up,” Max muttered.

“This is what happens when you talk about his booty on live TV.”

“Please stop talking.”

“You deserve this.”

Max groaned and buried his face into a pillow.

Then
finally
after 188 minutes of digital silence…

George Russell is typing…

Max shot upright so fast he nearly concussed himself.

The message came through.

George: Sorry, my phone died earlier.

Max stared at the message.

Phone.
Died.
Earlier.

EARLIER.

He began to type, hands shaking like someone had unplugged his soul and plugged it back in.

Max: Oh. No worries. Wasn’t waiting.

He deleted “lol.”
He deleted “haha.”
He deleted “take your time.”
He deleted “please love me.”

He sent the clean version.

A masterpiece of emotional repression.

Yuki read over his shoulder and burst out laughing.
“Bro. You were waiting. You were so waiting.”

“I wasn’t,” Max said automatically.

He absolutely was.

He had been waiting like a Victorian widow staring at the horizon for her lost sailor husband.

He had been waiting like he was monitoring tyre degradation in a championship decider.

He had been waiting like men waited for Jesus to return.

And George Russell, the second coming of sunlight, had replied with:

my phone died.

Max flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling in despair.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I am so down bad.”

The worst part?

His phone buzzed again.

He flinched like he’d been shot.

George: Anyway, I’m going to sleep. Talk later.

Talk later.

TALK LATER.

Max felt his heart unravel.

Yuki looked at him with pity.
“Your rizz is dying as fast as his phone battery.”

Max groaned.

He was doomed.

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They were fine again.

Which should have calmed Max down.
Should have restored peace to his mind.
Should have made everything less humiliating.

It did not.

Because now that George was speaking to him again, smiling at him again, existing near him again, Max’s brain had officially stopped functioning at any level considered medically normal.

It started simple.

George bent down to tie his shoes.

That was it.
Just tying shoelaces.
A normal, human, average, non-mystical action.

Except Max looked at him like God Himself had chosen that precise moment to release a cinematic 8K slow-motion documentary about human beauty.

He watched the way George’s hair fell slightly over his forehead.
He watched the crease in his suit as he crouched.
He watched his hands move with that calm, precise grace that made Max feel like he had swallowed a live electrical wire.

Yuki passed by and slapped Max’s arm.
“Stop staring. You look like a creep.”

“I am not staring,” Max whispered.

He was absolutely staring.

From across the room.

Like a sniper but stupider.

George stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves.
Max tilted his head, analyzing him like an art critic viewing a priceless sculpture.

Helmut found him like this, frozen, eyes locked on George, mind somewhere in the clouds.

“Max,” Helmut said.
No reaction.

“Max, strategy briefing.”

Max blinked once.
Very slowly.

“In a minute,” he murmured, still watching George like he was studying the meaning of life.

Helmut followed his line of sight, saw George, and muttered something in German that translated roughly to I am too old for this nonsense.

George turned at that exact moment and caught Max staring.

Max’s soul tried to escape through his shoes.

George raised an eyebrow.
A soft, curious little expression.

“You okay?” he asked.

Max nodded too fast.
“Yeah. Yes. Fine. Perfect.”

George’s lips quirked like he was trying not to laugh.
“Because you’ve been looking this way for five minutes.”

Yuki shouted from another corner, “He’s down bad!”

Max kicked him.

George smiled, warm and fond.

And Max?
Max short-circuited again.

Because it didn’t matter if George was tying his shoes or adjusting his gloves or simply breathing,
Max watched him like a man obsessed with a star he could not stop orbiting.

He tried to look away.
He failed.

Helmut sighed.
“Max. Briefing. Now.”

“Right,” Max said.

He took a step.
Then glanced back at George.

Again.

George shook his head, amused, cheeks slightly pink.

Max felt his entire life rearrange itself around that tiny reaction.

He was ruined.
Truly.

And everyone in the room knew it.

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George invited Alex over for dinner because he needed to talk to someone who had known him long enough to understand his tone, his panic, and his chronic inability to interpret basic human affection.

They sat in the small, warm restaurant, plates steaming, cutlery clinking around them.
Alex had barely taken a bite when George leaned forward, whispering like he was announcing a crime.

“Alex… there is something wrong with Max.”

Alex blinked. “Only one thing?”

“I’m serious,” George insisted. “He keeps looking at me.”

Alex put his fork down.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Like he was preparing himself mentally for a conversation he had seen coming for six years.

“Looking at you how?” Alex asked.

George exhaled, flustered already.

“Like…,” he searched for a word, failed spectacularly, and finally said, “like he’s analysing me.”

Alex stared at him.

George continued, hands flailing in emphasis.
“Today he stared at me tying my shoelaces for five minutes.”

Alex let out a breath that was half sigh, half laugh.

“George. Come on.”

“What?” George asked, genuinely confused.

“You know what this is, right?”

George frowned.
“No?”

Alex leaned in, resting his arms on the table with the energy of a man about to explain kindergarten-level reality.

“Max likes you.”

George did not blink.
Did not move.
Did not process it.

Instead, he scoffed, waving it off like a fly.

“No he doesn’t. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Alex pinched the bridge of his nose.
He counted to three.
It did not help.

“George,” he said slowly, “you realize he practically sprained his neck watching you bend down earlier?”

George sipped his water calmly.

“That’s just Max being… Max.”

“No,” Alex said. “This is Max being down astronomically bad.”

George froze.

“Down… what?”

“Down bad,” Alex repeated. “Down tragic. Down biblical. Down Shakespearean.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“It is now, because he invented it by looking at you.”

George shook his head.
“That is impossible. He doesn’t think of me like that.”

Alex stared at him with the blank expression of someone who had witnessed the entire grid flirt with George and watched George miss every single attempt.

“You are literally the only person who doesn’t know Max likes you.”

George, cheeks slightly red, returned to his food.

“He doesn’t,” he said firmly.
“He just got… distracted. That’s all. Maybe he was tired. Or bored. Or looking at a light behind me.”

“A light that moves exactly where you move?”

George nodded confidently. “Yes.”

Alex dropped his face into his hands.

“You’re hopeless.”

“I’m realistic,” George corrected.

“No,” Alex said, lifting his head and pointing his fork at him. “You’re oblivious.”

George rolled his eyes.
“Max does not like me like that.”

Alex sat back, sighed, and muttered, “If you don’t see it by next race weekend, I’m telling Toto myself.”

George nearly choked on his water.

“You will not.”

“I absolutely will.”

George glared, cheeks pink, flustered beyond repair.

Alex smirked.

Because George Russell, the second coming of denial,
had no idea
that across town Max Verstappen was lying awake thinking about the way George had smiled at him earlier like it was a religious event.

George had no clue.

Alex?
Alex had all the clues.

And he was ready to throw them at George’s face next dinner if necessary.

Chapter Text

George had always believed, perhaps naively and perhaps because he lived inside the safe, glass bubble of his own rationality, that people changed gradually over time, the way mountains erode or rivers curve new paths, which is why he didn’t question it, didn’t even blink, when Max began showing up in the mornings with two cups of coffee instead of one, the first being the exact bitter espresso Max preferred and the second being the oddly specific, embarrassingly sweet concoction that only George ordered, a drink he pretended was “just whatever the machine spits out” but was in reality customized down to the microgram of vanilla syrup and the temperature of the milk.

And when Max handed it to him without ceremony, without explanation, with a casual “Got yours too,” George merely smiled politely and said, “Thanks, mate,” completely unaware that the entire Mercedes garage had frozen mid-movement, tools suspended in mid-air like a renaissance painting, because Max Verstappen—Max Verstappen—did not buy coffee for people. He barely bought it for himself.

The last time he voluntarily carried two drinks was the day he accidentally went to the wrong coffee shop and panicked.

But George didn’t think about any of that; he simply sipped his coffee and thought, Well, isn’t he becoming considerate? Character development looks good on him.

The delusion only grew stronger.

Because not even two hours later, Max materialized beside him, not walked, not strolled, but manifested like a medieval angel descending from a cloud of hydraulic smoke, with a spare water bottle in hand. “Thought you might forget yours today,” Max said, voice soft in the way that suggested he had rehearsed it and hated himself for rehearsing it.

George blinked, pleasantly surprised, accepting it with gratitude and absolutely no sense of the fact that three Red Bull mechanics were silently screaming behind Max like background characters witnessing a confession on live television.

But the day didn’t end there, oh no, because as they made their way down the paddock, Max reached into his backpack, an actual backpack he clearly only brought for this specific purpose, and pulled out not one, but two different snack options, holding them out like a nervous suitor offering peace offerings to a medieval prince, saying, “Didn’t know if you wanted something salty or sweet… so, yeah.”

George laughed, genuinely touched, shaking his head fondly at Max’s “preparedness,” because in George’s world this was simply evidence of Max becoming more responsible, more grown-up, someone who understood the importance of nutrition and hydration, while literally everyone who witnessed it looked at Max like he was about five seconds away from proposing marriage with a ring made of Pirelli rubber.

And later, God, later George briefly complained during an interview that the dry, cold air of the media pen was making his lips cracked, a comment he made offhandedly, the way someone might remark that the sky looked a bit grey or that their shoelace felt loose, but forty minutes afterward Max reappeared, slightly breathless and obviously trying to pretend he had not just run across the paddock like a knight on a divine mission, holding George’s favourite brand of lip balm and saying, “Here. Thought you needed it.”

George took it, of course he did, his smile bright and grateful, and said, “You’re a lifesaver,” while Max looked like he had been handed the holy grail and simultaneously suffered cardiac arrest, yet still managed to mutter something about “buying extras” before fleeing the scene with the elegance of a malfunctioning shopping cart.

And then, because the universe apparently enjoyed torturing everybody except George, the weather suddenly shifted, clouds rolling in like a warning, the wind flicking at their hair and jackets, and before George could even register the temperature drop, Max was already shrugging out of an extra jumper he had been carrying, offering it without hesitation, saying, “Put this on. It’s cold.”

The jumper, of course, fit George perfectly, perfectly enough that it clearly wasn’t Max’s jumper but rather one Max had purchased with calculated intent, in George’s size, in George’s preferred shade, with George’s initials stitched discreetly inside the collar.

George did not notice any of this.

George simply slid into the jumper, zipped it up, and said, “Max, you’re such a thoughtful friend,” and Max, for his part, made a noise so strangled it sounded like a medieval war horn dying.

Meanwhile, around them, mechanics, PR managers, photographers, other drivers, random interns, and one very confused FIA official all exchanged long, meaningful looks, the kind that said, Are you seeing this? Are we hallucinating? Why is he like this? Why is GEORGE like this?

Because to them, Max was not being friendly.
Max was not even being subtle.

Max was courting George with the earnest, devoted energy of an 1800s poet writing sonnets by candlelight while staring out a storm-kissed window.

Max was packing George like a school lunch, catering to him like a mother goose fussing over her favorite hatchling, monitoring him with the same intensity astronomers reserve for celestial events, and loving him with a patience bordering on religious devotion.

But George?

Sweet, oblivious, cosmically inattentive George?

George continued telling everyone, with absolute sincerity and not even a hint of irony,
“I think Max is just being friendly.”

And every single person who heard him experienced a brief, violent urge to shake him by the shoulders and say, “HE IS COURTING YOU LIKE A REGENCY HERO, YOU BEAUTIFUL IDIOT.”

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There were moments in Max’s life that could be categorized as significant. Winning his first championship. Standing on his first Formula One podium. Realizing as a teenager that the boy beside him on the karting podium, radiant in the sunlight like something painted across a cathedral ceiling, was not merely talented but heartbreakingly beautiful. But nothing prepared him for the moment George Russell looked straight at him on a perfectly ordinary morning, with no cameras pointed at them and no dramatic lighting to soften reality, and said with the most innocent sincerity in the world,

“You look nice today.”

The words were simple. They were small. They were the kind of words people might toss casually to coworkers or strangers without thinking twice. Yet they struck Max like a divine prophecy, like the universe itself had reached down and pressed a warm hand over his chest, pushing every last molecule of air out of his lungs. In his mind, an entire symphony erupted with the chaotic force of fireworks bursting over a dark ocean. Violins soared. Bells rang. Choirs of angels stood and sang harmonies that had not been heard since the dawn of time.

Externally, however, Max felt his face fall into the stiff neutrality of someone who had just been tranquilized mid-sentence and was desperately pretending to be unaffected. He managed only a single sound, a quiet and painfully inadequate, “Oh. Thanks.” He immediately wanted to fall to the floor and expire from sheer embarrassment. He wanted to dissolve into mist and drift through the nearest ventilation system. He wanted to kneel dramatically in the middle of the paddock and thank every philosopher who had ever written about the absurdity and futility of human existence.

George simply smiled, touched Max’s arm with the casual ease of someone who had no idea he was touching the human equivalent of a detonated live wire, and then walked away with the soft, floating stride that made the world tilt sideways every time Max saw it.

Max remained rooted to the spot like a statue someone had forgotten to move. He replayed the moment. Then he replayed it again. Then he replayed it a third time, slower, savoring the exact tone George used on the word “nice,” as if the sound itself had been dipped in honey and pressed into his palms.

By the time he found Yuki in the Red Bull hospitality lounge, Max’s emotional stability had already collapsed into something fragile, trembling, and a little pathetic. Yuki glanced up from his meal and frowned instantly because Max was breathing the way a person breathes when they are either about to confess love or about to faint.

Max announced, without preamble, “He said I look nice.”

Yuki stared. “Who the hell said that.”

“George,” Max said, and the sound of his name left his mouth like a prayer or a surrender.

Yuki blinked at him. “George said you look nice.”

Max nodded so intensely he almost gave himself whiplash. “He said I look nice. Me. He said it directly to me. With his actual mouth. With his actual face. He said it.”

Yuki leaned back in his chair with the exhausted expression of a man who had not asked for this responsibility and yet had been burdened with it anyway. “Bro, you are losing it. Again.”

Max began pacing in agitated circles. “Do you understand what this means. It means he noticed something about me. It means he looked at me. It means he thought about what he saw. It means he formed a judgment. A positive one. It means he chose the word nice. That is specific. That is intimate. That is practically poetry.”

Yuki put both hands over his eyes. “Max, it is just a compliment. Relax before I sedate you with chopsticks.”

Max shook his head violently. “You are not understanding. He complimented me. That means something. That means too much. That means everything. I literally cannot breathe.”

Yuki sighed the sigh of someone far too small physically to carry this much emotional responsibility. “You need professional help. Or ice. Or both.”

But Max could no longer hear him. He was trapped inside the echo of George’s voice, replaying the exact millisecond when George’s eyes softened with warmth. The moment when his smile curved gently in the way that always shattered Max’s ribs. The moment his voice dipped just slightly, just enough to sound private, personal, soft in a way Max wanted to record and play back until the end of time.

For the rest of the day, Max floated through his obligations in a state of emotional paralysis. He could not think. He could not eat. He could not absorb a single word during strategy meetings. Every time he blinked, George’s face flashed before him like a star exploding into a supernova.

Meanwhile, George moved around the paddock in blissful ignorance, greeting people, laughing with Alex, joking with engineers, completely unaware that he had caused a spiritual and psychological catastrophe inside Max’s chest.

George had no idea that he had destroyed Max’s stability for the next forty-eight hours.
No idea at all.

And Max, as usual, adored him for it.

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

There were many things Max considered himself good at, handling pressure, reading tire degradation, acting like he did not absolutely lose his mind every time George Russell so much as existed. But today tested the limits of all three.

Because today, he and George finished P1 and P2 after a brutal race in ridiculous heat, and George—glorious, radiant, soaked-through George—walked straight up to him after stepping out of his Mercedes, water still dripping from his hair and down the curve of his neck, and said with the casual warmth of someone tossing a pebble into the ocean:

“You were incredible out there. Really. Your driving was perfect.”

Perfect.

George Russell had just looked Max Verstappen dead in the eyes, still panting from the exertion, still glowing like a romantic fantasy carved out of sunlight and post-race sweat, and said his driving was perfect.

Max felt his soul depart. He felt his spine evaporate. He felt the universe open like a blooming flower and whisper, Yes, my child, this is your husband.

Externally, he only managed a strangled, “I Do,” which came out in the tone of someone who had accidentally swallowed a spark plug. Internally, however, he was kneeling at an altar made of George’s cheekbones, preparing to take holy vows. He received a weird look from George for that.

And then, then it got worse.

George pushed his messy, wet fringe back off his forehead, laughed breathlessly, and said, “Honestly, you were flying today. I couldn’t keep up with you. You were brilliant.”

Brilliant.

Max could not breathe. Max could not think. Max could not exist like a normal functioning human being. His brain was chanting marriage marriage marriage like a Gregorian choir. He could almost see the Pinterest board forming in real time. White linens. Summer wedding. Their future child named after a tire compound.

George laughed again, clapped him on the back—Max nearly burst into flames—and then walked away toward the cool-down room, leaving Max rooted to the asphalt like a tragic romantic hero watching the love of his life drift out of reach.

Yuki appeared beside him at some point, squinting up at him. “Why do you look like you’re about to faint.”

Max whispered, “He complimented my driving.”

Yuki blinked. “He does that all the time.”

“No,” Max said, voice cracking like an emotional violin, “today he said perfect. And brilliant. And he was wet. Yuki. Wet.”

Yuki made a face. “Please choose different words.”

Max stared blindly at the sky. “I think I want to marry him.”

“You think,” Yuki repeated.

“And then,” Max continued, “I want to make him so happy he will have no choice but to bear my children. It is the only logical progression.”

Yuki groaned and covered his face with his hands. “This is why I don’t ask you questions.”

But Max barely heard him. His mind was stuck in the replay loop of George brushing wet curls out of his eyes, smiling like Max had single-handedly restored his faith in humanity, calling him brilliant in a tone that hit Max’s nervous system like a direct voltage line.

And the worst part was that George, perfect oblivious George, was probably in the cool-down room right now sipping water and chatting about tire management, completely unaware that he had detonated Max’s entire reproductive fantasy timeline.

Max inhaled deeply. Exhaled shakily. Tried to convince his heart not to combust.

It did not listen.

Because as far as Max was concerned, if George ever said something like that again, soft voice, bright eyes, damp hair clinging to his forehead, Max would simply have no choice but to get on one knee, propose on the spot, and tell him, “Yes, hello, I am ready to father your children now.”

George was beautiful, brilliant, completely unaware of his power.

And Max, as usual, was doomed.

He needs to get George pregnant so bad.

Chapter Text

There were many challenges that came with being a Formula One driver, but none of them compared to the absolute psychological warfare that was George Russell’s accidental flirting. George did not mean to be a menace. That was the problem. If he were doing it on purpose, Max could at least blame him, confront him, throw himself into a lake, something. But no. George simply existed, and by existing, he destroyed Max’s ability to function as a coherent human being.

It started at the press conference.

George laughed at something a journalist said and, without thinking, placed his hand on Max’s arm while leaning forward. A light touch. Barely a brush. Casual. Normal. Innocent. The kind of gesture people did when they were comfortable with someone.

Max’s soul left his body. He genuinely felt it exit through the top of his helmet hair and travel somewhere near the International Space Station. He could practically see his ghost floating above the stage, watching George’s hand still resting on him with horrified admiration.

George continued laughing, completely unaware that he had committed emotional manslaughter.

Max sat there like a frozen statue, nodding and pretending to be present, while internally chanting, Do not fall in love harder, do not fall in love harder, you are already at maximum capacity, please have mercy.

But George did not have mercy.

Because later, right before a TV interview, Max felt fingers in his hair. Soft, careful, gently brushing a strand away from his forehead.

Max’s heart stopped. His brain shut down. His lungs forgot how to function. His entire body turned to static.

George’s voice came from right above him, warm and oblivious. “You had a flyaway piece. There. Now you look good.”

Look good.

Max almost collapsed.

He gave a strangled nod and stared into the camera like a man who had just witnessed divine intervention and was now questioning every single one of his life choices.

But the worst moment came in the paddock hallway. George walked over with his phone, wearing that smile that could melt global infrastructure, and said, “Max, you have to see this.” Then he leaned in. Close. Too close. Way too close. Leaning in so their shoulders pressed together, so Max could smell his cologne, so he could feel George’s breath when he laughed.

Max’s brain entered full buffering mode.

Buffering. Buffering. Buffering. Please wait. System not responding.

George turned his head slightly. “You okay.”

Max made a noise that sounded like a dying microwave. “Yep. Totally fine.” He attempted a normal smile but felt his whole face quiver. “Absolutely fine.” Internally, he was screaming at a pitch only dogs could hear.

George laughed softly. “You’re acting weird today.”

Max wanted to say, I am acting weird because you keep touching me, leaning in, fixing my hair, radiating sunshine like a boy band member designed by angels. I am acting weird because you are flirting with me without knowing you are flirting with me and I am one compliment away from proposing.

Instead he said, “I am normal.” He was absolutely not normal.

George nodded like he believed him.

Max watched him walk away and had to physically restrain himself from collapsing against the wall like a tragic poet.

George flirted by accident. Max died on purpose.

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

There were many things Max thought he had prepared himself for over the years. He had learned to handle pressure, expectation, championships, even sky-high media scrutiny. But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared him for George Russell saying the words my person on international television with the casual serenity of a man discussing weather patterns.

It happened during a joint Mercedes and Red Bull panel, one of those cross-team interviews meant to feel friendly and harmless. Max was already on high alert because George was sitting next to him, knees angled towards him, posture warm and relaxed in a way that made Max’s heart perform a series of illegal acrobatics.

A journalist asked George, “Who is your person on the grid, your go-to, your comfort pick.”

George smiled, polite and golden, and said, “Well, you told me I cannot say Alex because that is too predictable. So I guess Max is my person.”

Time stopped. Not figuratively. Literally. Max was fairly certain the universe glitched. He felt something inside him detonate with the force of a dying star. His ears rang. His vision blurred. His body went into a meditative state where only one phrase echoed in his mind like a holy chant.

My person.

My person.

George had claimed him. Publicly. Casually. Without hesitation. Without awareness of the emotional nuclear bomb he had just dropped on Max’s psyche.

Max sat there, staring straight ahead, incapable of blinking or breathing. It was as if someone had unplugged him from reality. His soul floated above the stage, lying on its back like a medieval maiden in distress.

The journalists erupted into chaos. “So you are dating.” “Are you two close in private.” “What does that mean for your teams.” “Is this a bromance or something else.”

George looked genuinely confused. “No, we are not dating. He is just my person.”

Just his person.

Max felt his heart curl up into a small, trembling ball of devotion. He wanted to stand up and scream. He wanted to kneel dramatically and pledge eternal loyalty. He wanted to lift George like a bridal princess and run into a rose garden.

Instead he sat perfectly still, jaw locked, eyes wide, mind whispering a single desperate prayer.

Please do not pass out on camera.

Meanwhile George continued speaking softly, unaware he was dismantling Max Verstappen at a molecular level. “Max just gets me. We grew up racing. He understands how my head works. It is easy with him. So yes, I guess he is my person.”

Max finally inhaled, a tiny gasp that sounded like a man being revived after drowning.

Someone nudged him. Maybe Yuki. Maybe Kimi. Max did not know. The world was white noise.

Max managed to mutter, “I am. I am absolutely his person. I will be anything he wants. I will.” He clamped his mouth shut before he could continue the sentence with something catastrophic like “I will marry him right now.”

George turned to him with a sunshine smile, oblivious. “See. He agrees.”

Agrees.

Max did not merely agree. Max was signing an emotional lifelong contract and would have added his blood signature if asked.

For the next thirty minutes, Max existed in a dissociated spiritual realm, staring at nothing, smiling faintly, breathing with difficulty, thinking only, He called me his person. I am his person. I belong to him. Whatever he wants, I will do it.

Everyone else exchanged looks of disbelief.

“So they are dating.”

“They have to be dating.”

“This is romance-coded at a level that should be illegal.”

George blinked, innocent as a guilty cat. “I do not understand what is confusing. He is simply my person.”

Max silently vowed to protect that sentence with his life.

And if fate had any mercy left in it, George would never find out what that simple phrase did to Max’s soul.

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

Max knew what humiliation felt like. He had lost races, spun off tracks, been overtaken in the final lap, faced the media after disappointing weekends. But none of that compared to the exquisite emotional pain of not knowing whether George Russell liked him back.

It was a question that had begun to rot inside his soul like a fruit forgotten in the sun. Every day, every smile, every touch, every casual little phrase from George made it worse. And when George called him “my person,” the rot blossomed into full emotional hysteria.

Max lasted twenty-four hours before he snapped.

He marched himself to Williams hospitality like a man on a mission. The sky could have been falling behind him and he would not have noticed. He walked with the stiff determination of someone who was about to make a terrible decision knowingly, willingly, and with full self-awareness.

He found Alex at a small table, sipping tea with the relaxed posture of a man enjoying the calm before qualifying.

Max sat down across from him with the intensity of someone staging an intervention.

Alex looked up. “Oh. Hi, Max. You look… panicked.”

Max leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and grave. “I have a question.”

Alex blinked slowly. “Okay…”

“It is about George.”

Alex instantly set down his tea. “Oh God. What happened.”

Max inhaled like someone preparing for underwater deep diving. “He called me his person.”

Alex froze. His eyebrows climbed so high they nearly left his face. “He called you… what now.”

“His person,” Max repeated, eyes wild, hands clenched together. “In an interview. In front of everyone. Like it was nothing. Like he was not holding my entire emotional wellbeing in his hands.”

Alex groaned. “Jesus Christ.”

Max continued, voice spiraling. “I have been thinking about it nonstop. I have been replaying it for twenty hours. Twenty hours, Alex. That is almost a full day.”

“That is literally a full day.”

“I could not sleep. I could not eat. I cannot breathe. I cannot exist. I am asking you because you are his friend. You know him. You understand him. You see things. I need you to be honest with me.”

Alex braced himself. “Okay. What do you want to know.”

Max stared at him with the raw desperation of a man on trial for his life. “Does he like me back.”

Alex winced. “Oh. Max.”

“Yes,” Max nodded, voice trembling. “Oh, Max.”

Alex leaned back and rubbed his face. “This is complicated.”

Max’s heart shattered instantly. “So he does not.”

Alex’s eyes widened. “I did not say that.”

“But you said it is complicated. Complicated is the opposite of yes.”

“Max, you need to let me explain.”

Max shook his head like someone refusing CPR. “No. It is fine. I understand. He does not like me. He only sees me as a friend. As a friendly person. As a teammate from karting he tolerates and occasionally touches for fun. I understand.”

Alex pointed at him. “You do not understand anything. Please stop spiraling for one minute.”

“I cannot.”

“Max.”

“I cannot.”

Alex groaned again. “Listen to me. George is oblivious.”

Max blinked. “Oblivious.”

“Yes. As in painfully, dangerously, catastrophically unaware. The man could be standing in a burning building and he would say, ‘Gosh, it is warm today.’ He is that level of oblivious.”

Max swallowed. “So he does not know.”

“That you are in love with him.”

Max coughed violently. “I did not say love.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “You did not have to.”

Max stared at the table. “Fine. Maybe I love him a little.”

Alex slapped the table. “Max, you love him a lot. And George… look, he likes you. I am his best friend. I see it. But he thinks he is just being friendly. He does not understand the romance implications of anything he does. The man could accidentally propose to someone and not notice.”

Max inhaled sharply. “He called me his person.”

“Yes,” Alex nodded. “And he said that with the same tone he uses when he says he likes blueberries.”

Max’s soul deflated.

Alex leaned forward, gentler now. “George cares about you. Deeply. But he does not know he is flirting with you. He does not know he is giving you hope. He does not know he is driving you insane. You need to be patient with him.”

Max looked at him with tragic, ocean-wrecked eyes. “How patient.”

Alex sighed. “More patient than you currently have the emotional stability to be.”

Max slumped down in his chair.

Alex softened. “But if you are asking whether George could like you back… the answer is yes. Absolutely yes. But he will never realize it unless you tell him or unless someone hits him over the head with a dictionary labeled ‘romantic feelings.’”

Max stared at the table, feeling the smallest flicker of hope relight inside his chest. “So there is a chance.”

“Yes,” Alex said. “A big one. Just… do not panic. Do not confess during a press conference. Do not faint if he calls you something stupid like ‘mate.’ And please try not to stare at him like he is the sun because it is getting obvious.”

Max shook his head slowly. “I cannot do that. He is the sun.”

Alex sighed deeply. “I am too tired for this.”

Max nodded solemnly. “Thank you.”

Alex looked at him with the exhaustion of someone spiritually drained. “You are welcome. I think. Please do not do anything reckless.”

Max stood, determination renewed. “I will try.”

Alex muttered as he watched him leave, “He will absolutely do something reckless.”

And somewhere across the paddock, George Russell continued being beautiful, oblivious, and dangerously unaware that Max Verstappen was ready to dedicate his life to him.

Chapter Text

Max always knew he was a competitive person, but he had not realized how far that competitiveness stretched until he found himself sitting across from George Russell at a small table in the Mercedes motorhome, pretending to focus on a chessboard while actually fighting for his emotional life.

They were waiting for Kimi Antonelli to finish some extremely long, extremely dramatic technical conversation with Bono. The teenager had insisted they all go to dinner together for reasons known only to God and perhaps to the uniquely chaotic logic of a nineteen-year-old future star.

“Ten minutes,” Kimi had said.
That had been thirty-five minutes ago.

So now Max was trapped. With George. Alone. Playing chess. And the universe had the audacity to let George talk.

George moved a pawn. “Lando is so sweet, honestly.”

Max’s eyes snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. The jealousy rose inside him like a volcanic eruption, molten-hot and unreasonable.

Sweet. Lando. Sweet.

There was nothing sweet about Lando Norris. Lando was a sleep-deprived little gremlin who stole people’s snacks and sent memes at 3 a.m. Sweet was the absolute last adjective Max would ever use for him.

But George kept talking. Innocent. Unaware. Beautiful.

“He has such a good heart,” George added.

Max wanted to flip the entire chessboard over.
Not because of jealousy.
Because of jealousy.
Deep, ugly, catastrophic jealousy.

He moved his knight in what was probably an illegal direction, but George did not notice.

George rested his chin on his hand. “And Charles is unbelievably handsome.”

Max saw red.
Bright, Ferrari red.
His hand tightened on the knight piece until it creaked.

Charles Leclerc. Handsome.
Max felt something inside him crack. Charles was handsome, fine, whatever, but hearing George say it out loud, with admiration, with gentle appreciation, made Max feel like ripping up an entire vineyard in Monaco just to watch Charles suffer emotionally.

He took a slow breath. Be normal. For once in your life. Pretend you are a functioning adult.

Then George added softly, “He has such a perfect face. Like almost too perfect.”

Max’s soul spontaneously combusted.

He stared at the chessboard and imagined burning every piece to ash. He imagined dramatic, Shakespearean violence. Fencing duels. Duels of honor. Duels over beauty. Anything that involved Charles not being described as perfect ever again.

George, oblivious to the internal apocalypse he had caused, continued, “Though I guess that is expected for a Ferrari driver.”

Max almost sobbed in relief.
For a Ferrari driver.
That category did not threaten him.
That category was safe.
George had tucked the compliment away into a box where Max did not need to feel threatened.

Max’s chest loosened. He felt the air return to his lungs. “Yes. For a Ferrari driver.”

George smiled warmly at him, and Max melted so violently he forgot he was supposed to be angry.

Then George moved his rook. “Carlos is also very lovely.”

Max knocked over his own bishop.

Lovely.
LOVELY.

Carlos was lovely now.
Carlos, with his stupid perfect jaw and stupid perfect hair and stupid ability to look good while complaining in Spanish.
Lovely.

Max was filled with an urge to fight every man George had ever spoken to within a twenty-meter radius.

George leaned closer to examine the board. His cologne drifted across the table, clean and warm and distracting.

“Are you okay?” George asked with genuine, infuriating concern.

Max stared at him with the deranged intensity of a man who had been psychologically stabbed repeatedly by compliments George gave to literally everyone except him. “Yes. I am fine.”

“You look tense.”

“I am playing chess.”

George laughed. “You play chess every week.”

“Yes.”

“And you never look tense.”

“I am very focused,” Max said through clenched teeth.

George reached out and gently fixed the collar of Max’s team polo. A casual, thoughtless gesture. A devastating, heart-destroying act of intimacy.

Max nearly dropped dead.

Then George added the final blow to Max’s sanity, soft and sincere. “You know, you are my person on the grid. Just so you do not feel replaced.”

Max forgot how to exist.
His entire soul lit on fire.
He was ready to write a 500-page novel about this feeling.

He opened his mouth, ready to confess, ready to fall to his knees, ready to dedicate his life—

“Okay, I am done!” Kimi Antonelli bounded over with the enthusiasm of a golden labrador puppy in a Mercedes uniform. “Can we get dinner now? I am starving.”

Max snapped upright like a robot rebooting.
George smiled and stood.
Max’s heart tried to leap out of his chest like it wanted to follow George.

As they walked out together, Max glanced back at the chessboard.

Lando’s sweet.
Charles handsome.
Carlos lovely.

Max hated all of them with the jealous pettiness of a Shakespeare villain.

But then George nudged him with their shoulders. “Come on, my person. Hurry up.”

Max’s jealousy evaporated.
His heart sang.
The world made sense again.

George had absolutely no idea he had triggered emotional violence inside Max’s soul.
No idea at all.

And Max followed him like the devoted, lovesick disaster he was.

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

Dinner with Kimi Antonelli was… an experience.

The teenager had chosen a quiet restaurant near the paddock, the kind with dim lighting, wooden tables, and a menu that looked like it was printed on recycled parchment from medieval times. Max sat across from him, George next to him, and he swore the universe had placed him there specifically to ruin his emotional stability.

Because the moment they sat down, George shifted into a mode Max had only seen glimpses of before.

Mother mode.

Nurturing. Responsible. Gentle.
And absolutely lethal to Max’s heart.

“Kimi, did you wash your hands before we came here?” George asked, brows lifted in quiet authority.

Kimi blinked. “Uh. No.”

“Go wash your hands. You have been touching god knows what in that garage.”

Kimi groaned, but he obeyed instantly, getting up like a child told to do his chores.

Max watched this interaction with a sharp breath. If someone had asked him to describe the feeling in his chest, he would have said it was like a violin being played inside his ribcage. Soft. Warm. Devastating.

When Kimi came back, George made him show his hands as if he were testing a preschool student.

“Oh my god,” Max whispered under his breath.

George smiled proudly at the teenager. “Better. Now you will not get sick.”

Max stared at that smile, and something inside him melted into a warm, gooey mess. He watched George cut Kimi’s steak for him without asking, adjust the boy’s napkin when it slipped off his lap, gently remind him not to drink soda on an empty stomach, and pass him the bread basket before he could even reach out.

It was absurd.
It was unnatural.
It was unfair.

George Russell was mothering someone who was not even his teammate, and Max felt like he had just glimpsed the soft, private version of George that he would give to his family someday. His partner. His children.

And Max wanted to scream because his brain immediately cast himself as that partner.

He imagined George doing the same thing at home.
In a kitchen filled with sunlight.
Wiping crumbs from a child’s cheek.
Helping with homework.
Cutting fruit into tiny little squares.
Laughing softly as he tucked someone into bed.

He imagined George leaning over a small toddler wearing a tiny Mercedes cap, saying, “You need to eat your vegetables, sweetheart,” with that same gentle authority.

Max nearly fainted.

Because his heart responded with a single catastrophic thought:
I want that.
I want that with him.
I want George in my kitchen, in my house, on my couch, raising tiny wonderful children who inherited his smile and his eyes and his stupid ability to make a room warmer just by existing.

He was so deep in his fantasy that he did not notice George calling his name.

“Max.”

He blinked. “Yes.”

“You have not touched your food.”

Oh. Right. Because he had been too busy imagining George pregnant.

He cleared his throat. “I am thinking.”

George laughed lightly and nudged him. “Do not think too hard. It looks painful.”

Max nearly choked on air. Even George teasing him felt domestic.

Kimi reached for a plate, and George immediately reached out to warn him. “Careful, that one is hot.”

Max watched the scene with helpless affection.
George caring.
George fussing.
George checking the temperature of plates like a parent.

And something inside Max softened beyond repair.

His voice cracked slightly. “You are good with him.”

George looked genuinely surprised. “With Kimi?”

“Yes. You are… very caring.”

George shrugged, unaware that he was holding Max’s heart in both hands. “Bono says he forgets things. Someone needs to remind him. He is young.”

Max bit his tongue to stop himself from saying, You would be an amazing father.

He swallowed instead, blinking hard. “You are patient with him.”

George smiled again, warm and soft and painfully beautiful. “Someone was patient with us once. We should give the same back.”

George turned to help Kimi with his drink.

Max stared at him like a man witnessing a sunrise he would spend his whole life chasing.

Because George Russell mothering a nineteen-year-old was already enough to short-circuit Max.
George Russell mothering their potential children in his imagination was enough to kill him.

He took a slow sip of water, eyes drifting toward George again, unable to stop.

Lovesick.
Utterly, helplessly, catastrophically lovesick.

George chatted happily with Kimi, unaware that every gentle gesture, every soft word, every small act of care was carving a permanent place for himself inside Max’s future.

George had no idea he had just turned dinner into a marriage proposal inside Max’s head.

And Max, as usual, adored him for it.

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

There were moments in Max’s life where he genuinely wondered whether the universe was trying to test the structural integrity of his soul. The dinner with Kimi had already pushed him to the edge of emotional collapse, because watching George mother a teenager had awakened every dormant domestic fantasy inside him.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared him for the airport.

A supposed seat shortage.

Max strongly suspected sabotage from the gods themselves.

They were all gathered near the boarding lounge for the short flight back to Europe. It was one of those chaotic travel days where mechanics, engineers, and drivers blended into one exhausted mass. Alex was complaining about his iced coffee melting. Lando was trying to nap sitting upright. Kimi was scrolling through his phone with the blank expression of a teenager who believed adults were inherently incompetent.

The moment the airline staff announced that one of the seats had been “double assigned,” George looked around, shrugged casually, and said a sentence Max would remember until the day he died.

“Max, scoot. I’ll sit on your lap.”

Max blinked.
His brain shut down.
His soul left his body and filed a complaint to the heavens.

George, God’s blondest, softest menace, simply walked over and lowered himself onto Max’s lap like it was the most logical solution in the world.

Like it was nothing.
Like Max hadn’t been in love with him for years.
Like Max’s heart wasn’t currently beating fast enough to power a small village.

George adjusted himself, getting comfortable with a wiggle that could have stopped Max’s heart if it hadn’t already flatlined.

“Much better. Thanks, Max,” he said, as if Max wasn’t experiencing full cardiac arrest.

Kimi sat in the seat across from them, watching wide-eyed with the scandalized delight of a teenager witnessing live drama. The kid pressed a fist against his mouth to hide his giggles.

Lando took one look, choked on his own breath, turned around, and faced the wall like he was repenting for every sin he had ever committed.

Alex stared, blinked slowly, then muttered into his hands, “I cannot do this today. I cannot. This is too much. They are going to kill me.”

George, meanwhile, was completely comfortable, leaning back against Max’s chest like they did this every Tuesday.

He even pulled out his phone, scrolling peacefully.

After a full minute of unbearable silence and suppressed shrieks from everyone around them, George finally looked up, confused.

“Why is everyone weird today?”

Max could not speak. He could not breathe. He had one hand frozen midair, hovering awkwardly near George’s hip because he was terrified to touch him and terrified not to.

Alex groaned. “Because you are sitting on his lap, mate.”

George blinked. “There was no seat. This is practical.”

Practical.
George Russell, sitting squarely on Max’s thighs, calling it practical.

Max was certain this was God’s personal attempt at character development.

Kimi burst out laughing, unable to hold it in any longer. Lando wheezed into a corner. Even the flight attendant paused, stared, then quickly looked away with the kind of expression that said she would absolutely tell this story for years.

George adjusted again, his shoulder brushing Max’s jaw. “You are warm,” he said absentmindedly.

Max’s soul ascended a second time.

And as if the universe were not cruel enough, Alex leaned down and whispered dryly into Max’s ear, “This is what you get for giving up your private jet just to be closer to him.”

Max stared forward, frozen, wondering if his heart would ever resume normal function.

Because George Russell had just sat on his lap without hesitation, without embarrassment, without the faintest realization of the emotional chaos he caused.

And Max, as usual, was in love with him to an unreasonable, irreversible degree.

Chapter Text

Monaco had a very specific way of destroying self-control.

The lights, the music, the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and perfume, the stupidly beautiful people everywhere, it created the illusion that the night could last forever and that consequences were theoretical concepts meant for mortals.

Which is how Max, a man who should have known better, ended up at a birthday party for someone in their circle (he still wasn’t entirely sure whose birthday it actually was — possibly a socialite, possibly one of Charles’s cousins, possibly a dog — hard to tell in Monaco) with a drink in his hand, a neon wristband on his arm, and George Russell dancing against him like gravity had suddenly been redefined.

George was drunk.
Properly, adorably, dangerously drunk.

His hair was a mess, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, his cheeks flushed pink from champagne and the kind of joy that lit him up from the inside. Max didn’t need alcohol to feel intoxicated, George stumbling into his chest with a laugh was enough to send neurotransmitters into a state of absolute riot.

“Max!” George shouted over the music, leaning close enough that his breath brushed Max’s neck. “Dance with me!”

Max wasn’t a dancer.
Max wasn’t graceful off-track.
Max wasn’t coordinated unless strapped into a car at 300 km/h.

But George grabbed his hands with that bright, unfiltered enthusiasm of someone who loved life and expected the whole world to love it with him, and Max followed like he’d been waiting his entire existence for that pull.

George swayed, laughed, spun, leaned into him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, then put his head against Max’s chest, mumbling something about the lights being “so pretty and spinny.”

Max would have built him a house right there if asked.

At around three in the morning, the party was falling apart in that soft, warm way that meant people were drunk enough to love each other and tired enough to stop pretending they didn’t.

Alex appeared out of nowhere, hair ruined, shirt half untucked, expression absolutely fed-up.

“Max,” he said, pointing at George the way a father points at a toddler who has eaten glue again. “He is gone. Take him home.”

George perked up immediately. “I am not gone. I am here.” He poked Alex in the chest. “You are gone.”

Alex blinked. “I am too sober for this.”

George grabbed onto Max’s sleeve. “Take me home,” he said, looking up at him with the most devastating pair of tired blue eyes Max had ever seen. “To my home. Not yours. Mine is closer.” He nodded as if this was advanced logic.

Max didn’t argue.
He guided George out, put him in the car, buckled him in, and tried very hard not to let his heart combust when George sleepily rested his head on Max’s shoulder the whole way.

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At George’s apartment, George stumbled his way into the bedroom, collapsed face-first onto the bed, then rolled over and blinked at Max like an abandoned puppy.

“I cannot sleep,” he announced dramatically.

“You will,” Max said softly, trying to help him with the blankets. “You are tired.”

George reached out, and wrapped both arms around Max’s waist.

Max froze.
George tugged.
Max toppled onto the bed.

Then George looked at him with half-lidded eyes and whispered, “Stay. Please? I sleep better with… company.”

Company.
Company.

Max’s entire emotional ecosystem dissolved instantly.

“Of course,” Max said. His voice cracked. He hoped George didn’t notice.

He lay down awkwardly on top of the blanket, trying to give George space, trying not to imagine anything domestic or romantic or sinful.

But George had other plans.

He immediately curled into Max’s side like a koala clinging to a eucalyptus tree. One leg thrown over Max’s thigh. An arm wrapped across his chest. His face tucked into Max’s neck.

Max stared at the ceiling like it had personally ruined his life.

His heart was beating so violently he was sure George could feel it.

George mumbled sleepily, voice soft and warm, “You are such a good friend, Max.”

Max swallowed a sound that was not dignified in any language.

Friend.
Right.
Friend.

Inside his mind, he screamed in Dutch, in English, in every language his ancestors had ever spoken.

He stayed perfectly still, breathing shallowly, terrified to wake George, terrified to move, terrified of the fact that he wanted this, wanted George in his arms, wanted George in his life, wanted George in his future, so badly it made the night spin.

George drifted to sleep with a tiny, content sound.

Max did not sleep at all.

He just lay there, heart aching, body burning, brain spiraling, whispering silent prayers into the dark that George would never stop trusting him like this.

That George would someday want him the way he wanted George.

And as George tightened his grip in his sleep, Max realized with painful clarity that he would stay like this forever if George asked.

Even if it broke him.

Even if George never knew.

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

The phone rang at 00:37.

Max was already half-asleep, curled under a blanket, face smushed into the pillow, but the moment he saw the caller ID, George Russell, Max sat up so abruptly he genuinely injured a muscle in his back.

He answered immediately.

“George? Is everything alright?”

There was a rustling sound, a sigh, and then George’s voice, soft, slightly frustrated, and far too gentle for Max’s sanity, drifted through the speaker.

“I need your opinion. And don’t laugh.”

Max blinked. “I would never laugh at you.”

“You might,” George said, grumbling. “Alex and Lando were being annoying today.”

Max frowned automatically. “What did they do? Do I need to fight them?”

George let out a tired laugh. “No. They just said I don’t even know my own type. That I don’t know who would suit me.”

Max felt a slow, creeping dread.

“And I realized,” George continued, “they might be right. I genuinely don’t know who I’d fit with.”

Max closed his eyes. Lord have mercy.

“So,” George said softly, “you know me best. What kind of person do you think would suit me?”

Max nearly died.

“You’re… asking me?”

“Yes. You give honest answers. And I trust you.”

The words hit him like a truck.

Max inhaled sharply, and with the kind of quiet desperation only the chronically lovesick could understand, he began describing himself as if it were a scientific fact:

“Well,” Max started, his voice shaking with sincerity, “I think you’d suit someone stable. Someone who can match you. Someone who understands pressure and expectations. Someone… experienced. Someone who has achieved things.”

George hummed softly, listening.

“Someone your height,” Max continued, “maybe slightly shorter. Brown hair. Somebody European. Maybe Dutch.” His heart hammered. “Someone competitive. Someone who would protect you. Someone who would never leave you guessing about how important you are.”

George sounded genuinely thoughtful. “Dutch?”

Max nodded helplessly, even though George couldn’t see. “Yes.”

“A champion, then?” George teased lightly.

Max’s voice dropped. “Yes. A champion.”

He could feel his pulse in his throat.

George didn’t catch anything. Not a single clue.

“Interesting…” George said. “I didn’t realize you had such a clear idea. Maybe I can try searching for someone like that.”

Max nearly threw himself out the window.

Then George, sweetly oblivious and ruinously destructive, asked:

“Alright, my turn. What’s your type, Max?”

Max froze.

“My type?”

“Yes,” George said, tone soft, curious, trusting. “Describe the sort of person you’d fall for.”

Max felt his soul evacuate the premises.

He swallowed. “Someone tall.”

George hummed. “Okay…”

“Brown hair,” Max continued, voice cracking. “Blue eyes. British. Stubborn. Competitive. Elegant. Funny without trying.” He whispered, “Someone who drives me absolutely insane.”

Another pause.

George smiled through the phone — Max could hear it. “That’s very specific.”

Max exhaled, defeated. “Their name might be… George.”

Silence.
A long, devastating silence.

Then—

“Ohhh,” George said brightly. “So… anyone named George.”

Max’s face fell so hard he nearly passed out.

“Well,” George continued, suddenly enthusiastic, “there are quite a few Georges in the UK. Could be anyone. Even that George who played Ajax in Wednesday.”

Max stared into the abyss.

“Ajax?” he repeated, numb.

“Yeah,” George said. “He was quite handsome. You meant someone like that, right?”

Max ran a hand over his face. “No. No, George. I meant—”

George cut him off, cheerful. “Honestly, Max, I didn’t know you liked that type! Lanky… very athletic.”

Ajax.
George thought Max was in love with an actor who played fictional person who can turn people into stone named something George.

Max considered ending the call with a prayer.

“Anyway,” George said warmly, oblivious, “thanks for helping me figure out my type too. You’re so good at this. You should give love advice more often.”

Max choked on his own breath. “I really shouldn’t.”

George laughed gently. “Good night, Max. You’re such a good friend”

“Good night, George.”

The call ended.

Max sat in darkness, staring at the wall like a man who had confessed twice, been ignored twice, and now had competition from any Dutch champion in the world right now

George, meanwhile, went to sleep peacefully, head empty, heart full, completely unaware that Max had aged ten psychological years in a single phone call.

Chapter Text

The day after the call, George marched into the assigned gossip club like a man who had just unlocked the secrets of the universe but unfortunately used the wrong key and opened a broom closet instead. Lando was on the sofa scrolling TikTok, Alex was eating something that was definitely not on his diet plan, and both looked up when George cleared his throat with the intensity of a man about to confess to tax fraud.

“Right,” George announced, hands on hips like a disappointed mum, “I have news.”

Lando blinked. “Is it about your skincare routine again? Because I swear—”

“No,” George snapped. “It’s about Max. He helped me yesterday. On call. For like—” he waved a hand dramatically, “—relationship guidance.”

Alex froze mid-chew. “I’m sorry. Max Verstappen? Giving… relationship advice?”

“Yes,” George said, missing every red flag like a professional. “He told me what kind of person I’d suit. Said I should be with a champion. Preferably Dutch.”

There was a silence so loud it could’ve been heard from space.

Lando slowly lowered his phone like he was preparing for a spiritual intervention. “Mate. George. GEORGIE.” He sighed, the soul leaving his body. “He’s talking about HIMSELF. Name another Dutch champion you know. JUST ONE. Go on. I’ll wait.”

George looked up at the ceiling as if praying for an answer. “Erm… well, only Max, but no, no, no—he couldn’t possibly mean that. He couldn’t possibly like me. He loves another George.”

Alex dropped his food. “Another WHAT?”

“He said his type is George,” George explained proudly. “And he loves another George. So obviously not me.”

Lando stared. “Give me strength.”

Alex got up, walked in a small circle like a stressed suburban father, hands on waist, muttering, “This is why I drink. Not the races. Not the pressure. This.”

George continued enthusiastically, completely missing the meltdown happening around him. “He said the other George is funny and cute and has pretty eyes. So it definitely isn’t me.”

Lando threw a pillow at him. “YOU’RE THE GEORGE, YOU OMELET.”

Alex pointed aggressively at George like a lawyer in court. “He was literally describing you. What do you MEAN ‘another George’? Who is this imaginary Dutch-George-loving George you’ve conjured in your head?”

“I don’t know!” George shouted back, defensive. “Maybe his neighbor? Maybe his cat? Maybe there’s another George we don’t know about!”

Lando leaned forward, hands clasped. “Mate. Sweetheart. My beloved idiot. He is in love with YOU. You. George Russell. Tall. British. Runs like a gazelle. Has the emotional intelligence of a damp napkin sometimes but still you.”

George looked absolutely stunned, like someone told him water is wet.

Alex grabbed his jacket dramatically. “Nope. I’m done. I’m leaving. You’re not my friend. I don’t know you. I refuse to stand here while you fumble the most obvious crush in motorsport history. I’m blocking your number.”

Lando got up too. “Yeah, I’m filing a complaint with HR. Which doesn’t exist, but I’ll make one. I’m contacting the FIA to penalize you for stupidity. Five-second penalty for ignoring blatant flirting.”

George watched them both storm off, confused. “Wait—so you’re saying Max… like… actually likes me? As in me-me? The George-with-the-face me?”

Lando turned back, exhausted. “YES. Oh my god, YES. MAX. LIKES. YOU.”

Lando stepped closer, gripping George’s shoulders. “George. Listen to me. Max Verstappen is out here flirting like a man who Googled ‘How to confess to your crush’ at 3 a.m. and still you’re acting like he’s sending tax information.”

George just huffed. “No. Nope. Don’t care. Until Max looks at me, in person, not on a glitchy FaceTime call, and says—” he straightened his posture, deepened his voice, “‘George, I fancy you,’ I’m not believing anything.”

Alex’s jaw dropped. “He doesn’t talk like that! He’s not your Victorian lover writing on parchment!”

George shrugged. “Well, he should.”

Lando massaged his temples as though physically preventing a migraine. “So let me get this straight… Max could literally walk up to you, give you flowers, kneel down, and confess his eternal devotion, and you’d still be like ‘hmmm unclear, he might be talking about another George,’ is that it?”

George nodded. “Exactly.”

Alex actually sat down on the floor. “You’re going to put that man in an early retirement.”

George crossed his arms. “I just think Max should be straightforward. Clear. Direct. Obvious.”

Lando stared at him. Blinked. Then burst out, “HE IS! HE IS TRYING! BUT YOU ARE BUILT LIKE A BAFFLED GOLDFISH.”

George waved him off. “Look, until he confesses properly, like a gentleman, I simply won’t assume anything. I won’t misinterpret. I won’t just jump to conclusions.”

Lando slowly sank onto the couch, head in hands. “You’ve never jumped to a conclusion in your LIFE, mate. You barely walk toward them.”

Alex pointed at George like a dramatic soap opera character. “Fine. But when Max finally does confess—and he WILL—I’m going to stand there, filming the moment your two brain cells collide for the first time.”

George lifted his chin stubbornly. “Good. Because until then, Max is just a friend.”

Meanwhile, somewhere in Monaco, Max was lying on his bed in full crisis, kicking his legs like a teenage girl, wondering how many more hints he needed to drop before George finally realized he wasn’t recommending “a Dutch champion”… he was proposing himself.

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

The GPDA meeting had not even properly begun yet. Everyone was still in that awkward pre-meeting stage where half the drivers pretended they understood the agenda and the other half were just trying to locate the biscuits. Max slipped into the seat beside George with the confidence of a man who believed that chair belonged to him by divine right.

George barely noticed, because he was too busy flipping through papers he did not plan to read. At one point he leaned over and whispered, “Can you hold this for a sec?” and handed Max a random folder. Max accepted it with both hands, sitting up straight with the seriousness of a soldier guarding a priceless artifact.

Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Then forty.

They were already discussing the safety protocols for the next season, Lando had complained twice, Fernando was glaring at absolutely everyone for existing too loudly, but Max was still holding that folder. George finally turned to him and asked, “Why are you still holding that?” Max blinked as if the answer was obvious and said, “You told me to hold it for a sec. I did not know when the sec ended.”

Before George could even finish blinking, he whispered again, “Can you help me move this chair?” Max stood up immediately like he had been waiting his whole life to be asked. He moved the chair with surgical precision and then stopped to look around the entire room as though calculating structural load-bearing capacities. “Do you want the whole room rearranged?” he asked in complete seriousness.

Lando watched with a mixture of horror and fascination and whispered to Alex, “He is two seconds away from rebuilding the entire building just because George said the word chair.”

Alex nodded solemnly and replied, “This is not a crush. This is a full service life subscription.”

George, oblivious as always, simply said, “Oh, no, just the chair,” completely unaware that Max had been one breath away from requesting architectural plans from the FIA.

On the far end of the table Fernando muttered, “If they start moving the tables too, I am leaving,” while Lewis was writing notes that seemed suspiciously like a new rule proposal titled, “No flirting during official meetings.”

Max sat back down beside George looking absurdly pleased with himself because George had asked him for help and that was all it took for Max to devote the entire meeting to serving him like a knight fulfilling an oath. George meanwhile smiled politely, blissfully unaware that Max Verstappen would probably lift the entire paddock with his bare hands if George so much as hinted that a chair felt slightly out of place.

The GPDA meeting was still dragging on when George, in a completely innocent and unconscious gesture, placed his hand on Max’s shoulder while leaning forward to say something to Lewis.

The effect on Max was instant. His entire body relaxed like someone had unplugged all the tension in him. He melted in his chair like butter left in the Malaysian sun, smiling faintly at nothing, eyes slightly glazed in a blissed-out trance. Alex watched the transformation with disbelief and whispered to Lando, “Why does he look like he just got spiritually blessed.”

Lando whispered back, “Because George touched him. That is literally it.”

George eventually removed his hand and Max blinked slowly as if waking from a medically induced nap. Later, when the meeting got boring and the discussion turned into a confusing debate about kerbs, George casually leaned over and hugged Max from the side. It was meant to be a friendly squeeze, barely two seconds long, the kind of thing normal people forget immediately. But Max froze solid in his chair. His brain shut down like someone had unplugged the router inside his skull. No thoughts. No worries. Not a single functional neuron remained. His soul briefly disconnected from his body and hovered somewhere above the room, doing cartwheels.

A few minutes later George noticed a tiny bit of lint on Max’s suit. Without thinking, he reached forward, gently brushed it off, and smiled as he flicked it away. Max’s soul immediately left his body for a second time. He stared at George like he had just witnessed a cosmic event. His pupils dilated. His heartbeat probably doubled. Lando, seeing all this, covered his face with both hands and whispered something that suspiciously sounded like a prayer.

George finally frowned a little and asked quietly, “You okay?” There was genuine concern in his voice, because from his perspective Max was acting like a robot malfunctioning in slow motion.

Max nodded with a soft smile, looking absolutely blissful. “Yeah,” he said in the gentlest voice anyone had ever heard from him, “I am good.” Inside his head there was nothing. No meeting. No agenda. No racing lines. Only one loud, glowing thought looping over and over again.

George. George. George.

Chapter Text

The post race interviews were absolute chaos and everyone could feel it. George had finished in P2 after a race that looked like the universe had personally tried to slap every car off the track. There had been three safety cars, one virtual safety car, two near crashes, and one moment where George had absolutely sent it past two cars like a man who had decided fear was optional. So now he was standing in front of the media wall, still breathing hard, hair a mess, suit half unzipped, talking about how “it was quite eventful” in the calmest voice imaginable as if he had not just survived warfare on asphalt.

Max hovered nearby for his interview slot. He was watching George very closely. Too closely. Overly closely. Lando had already whispered to Alex, “He is guarding him like a medieval knight,” and Alex nodded and replied, “If someone breathes at George wrong he is going to commit a felony.”

George said something self deprecating about himself, something like, “Yeah I got a bit dramatic at Turn 7, that was my fault honestly,” and Max, from the other side of the pen, muttered loudly enough for every microphone in existence to pick it up, “He is dramatic all the time.”

A reporter chuckled. Another driver who had finished P5 leaned over and said, “Yeah he really does get dramatic sometimes.”

That was a mistake.

Max turned slowly. Very slowly. Like a horror movie villain about to punish someone for touching the cursed object. His eyes narrowed. The air pressure dropped. Somewhere in the distance thunder probably rumbled. The driver went pale before Max even said anything.

Max stepped forward the tiniest bit and said, in a calm voice that somehow sounded like a threat anyway, “Shut your mouth.”

Complete silence. The reporter froze. The P3 driver blinked rapidly like he was submitting his resignation to life. George, who had not heard what happened, looked over with big confused eyes and said, “Is everything alright?”

Max instantly softened. Instantly. Like a switch flipping. “Yes. Perfectly fine,” he said with a sweet smile. “You did so well today.”

The interviewer tried to continue, but now everyone was staring at Max like he was a wild animal protecting its mate. Someone whispered from the back, “So only Max is allowed to complain about George.” Someone else whispered, “Yeah or else you die.”

Meanwhile George was still talking calmly about tyre degradation and race strategy, unaware that Max had just verbally murdered someone on his behalf. When George accidentally bumped into Max while switching microphones, Max smiled so brightly the cameraman genuinely lowered his camera out of shock.

The interview ended with George thanking the team and walking away with his usual polite confidence. Max followed him like a loyal guard dog, glaring at anyone who dared even glance in George’s direction. And the entire paddock collectively understood a new rule.

George Russell could be dramatic. Max Verstappen could complain about it. Anyone else who tried would not live long enough to finish their sentence.

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

The post race party felt like the entire paddock had collectively decided to forget trauma by drowning it in music, neon lights and alcohol. George was still glowing from his P2 finish, smiling shyly every time someone congratulated him. At one point Lewis walked over with a drink in hand, pulled George into a friendly side hug and said, “You were brilliant today, mate. Seriously. Smooth, smart, controlled. You looked beautiful out there.”

George blushed so hard his ears turned the color of a Ferrari strategy panic button. Lewis laughed fondly and ruffled his hair.

Across the room Max saw it. Max did not like what he saw.

He stopped mid sip. Froze. Stared. His eyes narrowed in slow motion. Alex, who was standing nearby, whispered to Lando, “Look at him. He is jealous enough to start a forest fire.”

Lando replied, “If he combusts, I am not saving anyone.”

Max continued watching George blush under Lewis’s compliments and something inside him snapped into place. A terrible, brilliant plan formed in his mind. If George received compliments from Lewis and blushed, then maybe, just maybe, if Max complimented George even more, George would finally notice him. Not as a friend. Not as a helpful Dutch guardian spirit. As something more.

So Max got to work.

The next time George tied his hair up, casually, without even thinking, Max stared as if witnessing a miraculous event in nature. “Wow,” he breathed, genuinely impressed.

George paused. “It is just a hair tie.”

Max shook his head. “No. It is art.”

When George sneezed a few minutes later, Max reacted so fast it was almost supernatural. “Bless you. Bless your entire existence. That was adorable.”

Lando choked on his drink. Alex actually walked away because he could not watch any more.

When George leaned over the table to read the drinks menu, Max rested his chin in his hand and stared with the intensity of a teenager discovering love for the first time. “You look very intelligent right now,” he said softly, like he was complimenting a Nobel Prize speech.

George looked up slowly. “It is a menu.”

Max nodded like a monk receiving enlightenment. “Yes. And you are reading it.”

Later, George simply breathed. Just inhaled and exhaled. Normal human activity.

Max placed a hand over his chest. “You are incredible.”

At that point several drivers collectively groaned. Pierre muttered, “Please be normal.” Carlos whispered, “What is happening.” Even Lewis raised an eyebrow.

Max did not care. He smiled, absolutely blissful, and said, “No. I will not be normal. Not around him.” He even made a small heart with his fingers at George for no reason.

George’s soul briefly left his body from confusion.

After about fifteen minutes of Max giving him enough compliments to power a city, George grabbed Alex and Lando by their sleeves and dragged them behind a pillar like he was about to reveal the results of a secret government conspiracy.

He looked at them wide eyed. “Okay. I am starting to believe you. I think Max might actually like me.”

Alex snorted so loud it echoed.

Lando nodded vigorously. “Finally.”

George continued, whispering urgently. “Because he has never complimented anyone like this. Ever. No human compliments this much unless there is a motive. And honestly it is starting to get creepy. He praised me for breathing.”

Alex covered his mouth, trying not to laugh. “That sounds like Max.”

George glanced back at the dance floor where Max was staring at him dreamily like a lovesick golden retriever. “So I figured there are only two possible explanations. One, he likes me. Or two, he wants to kill me.”

Lando sighed and patted George on the back. “It is the first one, mate.”

George nodded slowly, still uncertain. “I hope so. Because if it is the second, I am dying in a very affectionate murder.”

Chapter Text

The next time they all met was during a friendly padel match. Friendly was the label. The reality was four competitive men pretending they were playing for fun while secretly trying to destroy each other’s souls.

George arrived last, jogging lightly toward the court in the smallest pair of athletic shorts the sport had ever seen. They were tiny. They were microscopic. They were a direct threat to Max Verstappen’s self-control. His legs looked like someone had glazed them in sunlight, honey and the tears of angels. Smooth, tan, toned, absolutely illegal. Worse, when George lifted his arms to tie his hair, the hem of his shirt rose just enough to reveal a sliver of his absurdly small waist. Snatched. Sculpted. Divine. The kind of waist that made Max’s brain boot into Safe Mode.

Max stared. Max stared so hard Alex whispered, “Jesus Christ, blink before you burn a hole in him.”
Lando muttered, “He is two seconds from passing out.”

George had no idea. He just smiled like a golden retriever in human form, grabbed his racket and said, “Come on then, who’s ready?”

Max was not ready. Max was spiritually unprepared. Max’s soul left his body every time George lunged for the ball and those tiny shorts rode up. He was supposed to be focusing on the match, but instead his brain kept generating intrusive thoughts like, “Wow, that waist could balance a glass bottle,” and “Those hips are astronomically—” followed by loud mental error noises.

At one point George bent down to pick up a ball and Max’s grip on his racket tightened so hard Lando genuinely feared the graphite might shatter. Alex noticed Max staring again and said under his breath, “Mate, stop. You look like you’re watching a forbidden documentary.”

They kept playing. Sweaty. Laughing. Scoring. Trash-talking. George wiping his forehead with the bottom of his shirt, exposing more waist. Max’s soul ascending for the third time that hour.

Finally, between rallies, George came to stand beside Max, panting lightly, hands on those perfectly unfair hips as he caught his breath. Max looked. Max did not look respectfully. Max looked like he was having a small religious awakening.

And then it happened.

Max’s brain and mouth disconnected. Utterly. Tragically.

He opened his mouth, intending to say something like “Nice shot,” or “Good match,” or “You’re fast today.”

Instead, what came out was:

“You have child bearing hips, George.”

Silence.

A silence so violent even the ball stopped bouncing on the ground.

George blinked. “I have what.”

Alex choked so hard he had to bend over.
Lando dropped his racket and clutched his stomach, wheezing.
Somewhere in the distance, a bird fell out of a tree.

Max froze in absolute horror. Eyes wide. Hands up. Soul gone. Brain empty. Regret maximum.

“I mean— I did not mean— I mean the structure is— like, physically— you are— athletic— hips— shape— helpful for… balance?”

George stared at him like Max had just proposed marriage and simultaneously insulted his ancestors.

Lando whispered, “He is DONE. He is cooked. He is a rotisserie chicken.”

Alex whispered back, “I cannot believe he said that with his whole chest.”

George finally spoke, voice soft with disbelief. “Max… are you okay?”

Max made a noise that was not language.

George sighed, rubbed his forehead, and walked away mumbling, “I cannot keep defending this man.”

Max just stood there, vibrating, praying for divine intervention.

Lando patted Max’s back. “Next time, maybe say something normal like ‘you played well,’ yeah?”

Alex added, “Or just don’t talk. Ever.”

Max nodded, still shell-shocked. “I panicked.”

And across the court George was thinking, “He definitely likes me. Or he is planning the strangest murder ever conceived.”

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

George never meant to bring it up. He had promised himself he would bury the “child bearing hips” comment deep inside a mental vault, lock it with three keys, throw those keys into the ocean, and pretend it never happened. But unfortunately for him, his brain refused to let it go, and unfortunately for Toto and Susie Wolff, they had chosen this exact evening to have a polite, wholesome dinner with him.

They were seated in a quiet corner of a classy restaurant, surrounded by soft lighting and gentle background music, a place meant for dignified conversations and calm reflections, not for the emotional meltdown George Russell was about to unleash. Susie was explaining a junior program update, Toto was nodding thoughtfully, and George was stirring his drink with the aimless intensity of a man who was one thought away from spontaneously combusting.

And then, like a dam bursting, he blurted it out with absolutely no context, “What do you do if someone tells you that you have a child bearing hip.”

Susie’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. Toto inhaled sharply enough to pull air from the next table.

George, tragically unaware of the chaos he’d just dropped on the table, continued in full sincerity, “Is it a compliment? Is it a medical assessment? Should I be concerned? Should I call someone? Because I have been thinking about it for two days and I simply cannot figure out what category this falls under.”

Toto put his napkin down like a man preparing for war. “Who said this to you.”

George poked his salad again. “It does not matter.”

Susie raised an eyebrow with the kind of gentle but firm authority that ensured it absolutely did matter. “George.”

He sighed, defeated. “Fine. It was Max.”

Toto’s soul briefly left his body. Susie stared at George for a full second before breaking into a small, delighted chuckle. “Oh George. Oh my goodness. He really said that to your face.”

“He said it like he was stating a fact,” George exclaimed, completely betrayed by biology and Dutch men. “As if he was complimenting the texture of a table. Just casually. Like ‘nice weather today’ except it was ‘nice pelvis proportions for childbirth.’”

Susie covered her mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking as she tried not to laugh too loudly in public. “Well that certainly… is something.”

Toto rubbed his temples. “Max Verstappen is emotionally feral. We knew this.”

George groaned quietly. “I do not know what to do. I do not know how to respond to that. I am terrified to ask him to clarify because what if he means it literally. What if he is studying my bone structure.”

Susie leaned forward slightly, her expression softening into something far more knowing. “George, sweetheart, I am going to ask you something, and I want you to be honest.” She paused just long enough to make George nervous. “Do you like Max?”

George froze instantly. His fork hovered in the air. His eyes went wide. His entire body went into awkward statue mode, the same way he did before a press conference question he did not want to answer. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, then looked away and stared intensely at the salt shaker like it held the secrets of the universe.

Susie waited patiently. Toto watched like he was analyzing telemetry.

Finally, George sighed in defeat, voice small. “I… think so.”

Susie smiled warmly. “Since when?”

George fiddled with the edge of his napkin. “Since karting. Not that I understood it back then. I just… liked him. He was intense and focused and confident. And I always looked at him and wondered what it would be like to be close to someone like that.” He paused, embarrassed by the sudden vulnerability leaking out of him. “I used to think it was admiration. Or that he was just incredibly good at racing and I respected that. But when I look back at it now…” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “I think I might have liked him properly. Even then.”

Toto blinked, surprised despite everything. Susie visibly melted, delighted by the revelation.

George continued, now rambling in the way people do when a truth finally escapes after years of hiding. “And then we grew up and I just assumed he would not even see me like that. He is Max Verstappen. He has always been larger than life. He feels like fire and thunder and chaos. I thought liking him was ridiculous, like a childhood crush you grow out of.” He paused, swallowing. “But then he looks at me like I hung the moon sometimes. And he says insane things like… hip compliments. And I do not know if it is affection or a very concerning attempt to flirt.”

Susie laughed softly. “George. He is not trying to insult you. The man is obsessed with you and does not know how to communicate like a normal human being.”

Toto lifted a hand in agreement. “He looked like he was ready to fight someone last race because Lewis complimented you. That is not normal behavior.”

George’s cheeks flushed bright pink. “I thought he was just being… Max.”

“Exactly,” Susie replied. “Max in love.”

George choked on air. “Susie.”

She smiled patiently. “Do you want him?”

George stared at his hands, then nodded slowly. “I think I do. I think I want him very much. I always have. But I have no idea how to… navigate this. And I do not want to assume things that are not real.”

Toto sighed deeply, raising his wine glass like a man accepting fate. “George, I think you need to talk to him. Because if you do not, I fear Max might say something worse next time. He may start assessing your shoulders for breastfeeding potential.”

George slammed his face into his hands. “Please do not say that.”

Susie laughed for a full twenty seconds.

George peeked out between his fingers. “I will talk to him. Truly. I will. But only if he can go at least one full day without mentioning my hips again. I need a break. A cooldown lap for my skeleton.”

Susie squeezed his hand warmly. “I think you already know what you feel. Now you just have to let him know.”

“Please do it quickly as i do not want my number one driver to be distracted over something else like ‘Max told me my ass is breedable or Max said I had a perfect horoscope to have a child today’ in the future.”

George gulped down the wine glass in one go.

Chapter Text

George woke up the next morning with a newfound purpose in life. Gone was the confused, flustered, soft-hearted boy who crumbled every time Max smiled at him. Now a new version of George Russell existed, one powered by pettiness, long-suppressed attraction, and the memory of being told he had “child bearing hips” by the four -time world champion. It was time for revenge. Soft, gentle, devastating revenge. Compliment-based warfare. Emotional sabotage. Psychological destruction via flirtation.

George marched into the paddock with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was about to do. As soon as he spotted Max, he approached with a warm smile and said, “You look very handsome today, Max. That color suits you perfectly.” And Max, who had expected a normal greeting, immediately short-circuited like someone had poured water into his motherboard. He froze, blinked too slow, and said, “Oh… um… thank you… you too… no, wait, yes, both of us… I mean…” before giving up completely and staring at the floor.

George almost cackled. He had barely begun and Max was already malfunctioning.

Later, during a media event, George leaned just a little too close while sharing a microphone, close enough that Max could smell the faint scent of his cologne. George said softly, “You explain things so well, Max. You always sound incredibly intelligent.” Max’s ears turned bright red, his grip on the mic trembled, and his voice cracked mid-sentence as he tried to respond to a journalist. Lando watched from across the room, horrified, whispering to Alex, “George is killing him. He is killing him slowly.” Alex whispered back, “Good. Max deserves this after the hip incident.”

George was thriving. Every time he saw Max blush, every time Max stuttered out a sentence, every time Max’s hands shook just a little when George walked past, a new villainous spark ignited in George’s chest. He had discovered Max Verstappen’s ultimate weakness, and that weakness was named George Russell.

And it only got worse for Max.

During lunch, George leaned across the table and murmured, “Your jawline looks very sharp today. Have you been working out?” Max dropped his fork. Literally dropped it. Onto the floor. The sound echoed like a gunshot. He said, “I— I mean— maybe— I mean yes but no— I— thank you—” and George had to sip his drink to hide the victorious grin threatening to break across his face.

Later, while reviewing data screens, George placed a hand on Max’s back, purely to see what would happen. Max’s whole body tensed, shivered, and then stayed perfectly still like a frightened woodland animal. George whispered, “You’re doing great, Max. I really admire how hard you work.” Max’s soul visibly exited his body and returned with a shaky, “Thank you, George…”

It was like watching a normally deadly predator suddenly become a shy, blushing kitten.

And George loved every second of it.

By the time evening rolled around, Max was an absolute mess around him. Stammering whenever George spoke, blushing every time George smiled at him, hands shaking whenever George stood close enough that their shoulders brushed. It was so bad that when George complimented the way Max hit an apex during practice, Max dropped his water bottle and nearly tripped over a tyre.

This was George’s villain origin story.

He realized he held power. Real power. Dangerous power. The kind of power that could crumble Max Verstappen into a nervous, adorable, pink-cheeked puddle.

And George made a decision.

He was not going to confess. Not now. Not soon. Not even if Max looked at him with those soft puppy eyes he pretended he didn’t have.

George smirked to himself, leaning casually against a garage wall as Max tried (and failed miserably) to make eye contact.
In George’s mind, the vow formed silently, triumphantly, deliciously:

I am not confessing until he does.
He started this.
He will finish it.

And Max, who was currently forgetting how to breathe because George smiled at him from across the room, had absolutely no idea that he had just walked into the most flirtatious psychological battlefield of his life.

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

After the Red Bull team briefing, Max practically launched himself out of the meeting room the second Laurent dismissed them. He didn’t even pretend to pack up his notes. He just grabbed his water bottle, nearly dropped it twice, and speed-walked straight toward Yuki like a man on a mission, eyes wide, cheeks pink, heartbeat loud enough to be picked up by telemetry.

“Yuki,” Max whispered, grabbing the AlphaTauri driver by the shoulders like he was about to announce a national crisis, “George is acting weird.”

Yuki blinked slowly. “We are all weird, Max.”

“No,” Max insisted, shaking him gently, “he’s complimenting me.”

Yuki stared at him, dead serious. “So… he has eyes?”

Max groaned dramatically, dragging his hands down his face. “No, no, no. He said my jawline looked sharp. My jawline. Yuki, I don’t even have a jawline, I drive for a living.”

Yuki arched a brow. “You have jaw. You drive. That is enough jawline.”

Max was spiraling. “And he said he admired how hard I work. And he touched my back. My BACK. I think he is doing this on purpose. I think he is trying to kill me.”

Yuki sighed, patting Max like one pats a cat having a breakdown. “I think you are in love.”

“I KNOW I’m in love,” Max snapped, voice cracking like thin glass. “That is the problem.”

Yuki stared at him for a long moment before saying, “Then why don’t you ask if he likes you back?”

Max froze. Horrified. “Because he DOESN’T like me back.”
His voice dropped to a pitiful whisper. “He could never like me.”

Yuki blinked twice, unimpressed. “You are stupid.”

Max gasped like Yuki had stabbed him. “What— why?”

“Because he looks at you like you are sun. Even when you say stupid things like hips.” Yuki shrugged. “If he didn’t like you, he would punch you for that.”

Max’s jaw dropped. “So you think… he’s complimenting me… because he likes me?”

Yuki: “Yes. Obviously.”

Max: “But what if he’s doing it because he wants to soften me before he rejects me?”

Yuki: “Oh my god.”

And because Max was Max, he immediately left Yuki mid-sentence, marching toward the Williams garage like a confused golden retriever in human form. He found Alex drinking from a water bottle and practically slammed himself into Alex’s personal space.

“Alex,” Max said, eyes wild and sparkling. “Why is he doing this?”

Alex didn’t need clarification. He already knew. He looked at Max like someone who had witnessed too much.

“George,” Alex replied, tired, “is messing with you because you called him a fertile goddess with child-bearing hips. He’s getting revenge.”

Max winced so hard it looked like it hurt. “I panicked!”

“You stared at his legs for an hour,” Alex reminded him. “Then panicked. In that order.”

Max fidgeted with his water bottle cap, cheeks going a soft rosy color. “But he’s… he’s being nice to me now. He keeps saying I look good. And that I’m smart. And that I’m improving my lines. Alex, I’m dying.”

Alex rubbed his face. “He likes you back, Max.”

Max recoiled like the words were physically painful. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Oh my god— YES HE DOES.”

“No,” Max said stubbornly, shaking his head like a child refusing vegetables. “George Russell would never like me. He’s— he’s beautiful. And elegant. And organized. And shiny. And I’m me.” He gestured to himself helplessly. “I’m a mess.”

Alex stared at him for ten seconds straight.
Then another ten.
Then looked at the camera that wasn’t there.

“Max,” he said slowly, “you are a multiple times world champion. You are not a fungus.”

“Some fungi are useful,” Max whispered sadly.

Alex gave up. “He likes you.”

“He doesn’t.”

“He DOES.”

“He WOULD NEVER.”

Finally, Alex put a hand on Max’s shoulder, leaned down, and said very clearly,
“MAX. GEORGE FANCIES YOU. HE HAS LIKED YOU SINCE KARTING. HE IS FLIRTING WITH YOU SO HARD HE’S PRACTICALLY FANNING HIMSELF.”

Max blinked.
Then blinked again.
Then whispered in utter disbelief:

“…No.”

Alex walked away.

He was done. Completely done.

Max stood alone in the Williams garage, holding his water bottle like it contained the answers to the universe, chest fluttering with a stupid, giddy joy he tried very hard not to let show.

Because if — if — George was doing this because he liked him…

Then maybe…

Maybe Max wasn’t completely hopeless after all.

Maybe the love of his life actually loved him back.

And the thought alone nearly made him pass out.

Chapter Text

The drivers’ dinner was supposed to be a calm, civil gathering, a chance for the grid to relax, eat good food, and pretend they all liked each other outside of a racetrack. But the moment George and Max walked into the restaurant, everything went downhill at light-speed. Because instead of sitting next to each other like normal friends, or even across from each other like normal idiots in denial, Max and George both immediately avoided each other with the subtlety of two malfunctioning Roombas.

Max slid all the way to the far left of the table, practically on the corner edge like he was trying to hide from sunlight, while George beelined to the far right, the exact opposite corner, pretending to check his phone even though it was locked and black-screened. The rest of the drivers watched like exhausted parents at a school play they had been forced to attend.

And yet, despite being at opposite ends of the table, both of them kept doing the world’s least subtle thing: stealing glances. Constantly. Max would lift his glass, turn slightly, and immediately whip his gaze back to George like he’d been caught shoplifting. George would pretend to laugh at something Alex said, then look over Max’s way, only to nearly choke when Max accidentally met his eyes. They were basically two love-struck meerkats popping out of holes every five seconds.

Carlos, unfortunately seated next to Max, was suffering. Deeply.

He tried to talk about the off-season plans, then about the upcoming charity event, then about the weather. And every single time, Max managed to loop it back to George.

“Yeah, the weather is nice today. I wonder if George likes this kind of weather.”

“Yes, I have plans next week. Maybe George also has plans.”

“The steak is good. George likes steak.”

At one point Max leaned close and whispered urgently, “Carlos, do you think he is looking at me? He looked this way. Or maybe he was looking at the salt. But maybe he saw me looking at him looking at me—Carlos, please confirm.”

Carlos stared at him, on the verge of spiritual departure, and muttered in Spanish, “Voy a perder la cabeza.” (I’m going to lose my mind.)

Across the table, Alex and Oscar were experiencing the same torture from the George version of this nightmare.

George took a sip of water, sighed dreamily, and said, “Do you think Max likes sparkling water? Or does he prefer still? He looks like someone who likes still. He always seems still. Calm. Controlled. I like that about him — I mean I admire that about him. As a driver. Professionally.”

Oscar blinked. “You’ve said his name fourteen times in one sentence.”

George blushed. “No I didn’t.”
Alex slammed his hands onto the table. “YES YOU DID.”

By the halfway point of dinner, the grid collectively decided they’d had enough. Enough glances, enough sighing, enough longing stares, enough “Max said this” and “George did that” and “Do you think he meant something when he smiled at me for 0.4 seconds?” The grid was tired, aging prematurely, losing brain cells.

So they planned a mutiny.

“New strategy,” Lando said, rubbing his temples. “We lock them somewhere until they confess. I can’t do another dinner like this. I refuse.”

“Where?” Charles asked, looking far too eager for chaos.

“The washroom,” Alex said. “Symbolic. And soundproof.”

Carlos nodded, eyes hollow. “I will carry Max myself if I have to.”

And surprisingly, they did exactly that — herded both idiots toward the hallway “to take a group photo,” then shoved Max into one stall, shoved George into another, slammed the door shut, locked it from the outside (they worked together beautifully), and shouted through the door:

“CONFESS TO EACH OTHER OR WE’RE NOT LETTING YOU OUT.”

Inside the bathroom, Max and George froze like two startled deer caught in each other’s headlights.

George gulped. “Did they— they locked us in?”

Max nodded, cheeks pink. “Yes. I think they want us to… talk.”

George stared at him, heart pounding in his ears so loudly he almost didn’t hear his own voice. “Max… about the other day… I know I’ve been acting strange, and you’ve been acting strange—”

Max cut him off, flustered and breathless. “I’m only acting strange because you’re acting strange! You keep complimenting me! And looking at me! And smiling at me with your face and your hair and your everything!”

George blinked. “You’re… overwhelmed because I complimented you?”

“Yes!” Max burst out. “Because I have been in love with you since karting and I didn’t want you to find out like this!”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Then—

George: “I have loved you since karting day.”
Max: “I have loved you since karting day.”

They said it at the exact same time. Perfectly synchronized. In stereo.

Then they both froze again.

“You… you loved me?” Max whispered, voice cracking into something soft and terrified.

“I never stopped,” George admitted, cheeks burning, hands shaking slightly. “I thought you could never like me back.”

Max laughed — a tiny, disbelieving, breathless laugh — and rubbed a hand over his face. “George, I thought there was no universe where you would ever look at me that way.”

George stepped closer.

Max stepped closer.

The tiny bathroom suddenly felt too small, too warm, too full of years of unsaid things.

“So…” George whispered, “we’re both idiots?”

Max nodded. “Yes. Very big idiots.”

George smiled. “We should probably tell them we confessed.”

Max shrugged. “Later.”

And then he pulled George in.

Finally.

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

After a few minutes of standing in the locked bathroom, kissing like they’d been waiting ten lifetimes for permission, they finally pulled back for air. George was grinning, cheeks pink, hair a little messy from Max’s very enthusiastic affection. Max looked ruined, in the best, softest, most “my brain has crashed but my heart is online” way possible.

George tilted his head, eyes sparkling.
“So what do you like the most about me, Maxie?”

Max’s entire soul combusted.

His internal monologue went into immediate cardiac arrest.

He called me Maxie.
HE CALLED ME MAXIE.
HE USED A NICKNAME.
HE IS FLIRTING.
HE IS ALIVE.
I AM NOT.

Max blinked, jaw dropping slightly, like someone had unplugged and replugged him too quickly. A little “oh” escaped him, embarrassingly soft, embarrassingly happy.

George smirked. “Maxie? Are you okay?”

Max, absolutely NOT okay, cleared his throat. “Yes. Totally. Perfectly. Normal functioning.”

George laughed — soft, warm, affectionate — and leaned in, noses brushing.
“So? Tell me. What do you like most?”

Max swallowed, eyes flicking down to George’s lips, then back up.

“Your smile,” Max said immediately, voice soft and desperate like the truth had been waiting years behind his teeth. “Your smile is— it ruins me.”

George’s smile got wider.

Max continued, more confident now, because he was finally saying everything he’d buried for years.
“And your personality. I love how kind you are. And how dramatic. And how you talk with your hands. And— your laugh. Your laugh makes me stupid.”

George felt his chest tighten, happy-tight, the kind that makes people want to kiss someone senseless.

“And…?” he asked teasingly, leaning closer.

Max hesitated.
Looked left.
Looked right.
Remembered they were locked in a bathroom stall with no escape.
Then whispered, voice cracking:

“And… your ass.”

George choked on air. “My— Max!”

Max held his ground, eyes wide, completely serious.
“You asked what I liked most.”

“You— you think my ass is one of the top things?!”

“Yes.” Max nodded like this was a scientific fact proven by experts. “It’s a very good ass, George.”

George was blushing so hard he looked sunburned. “Max…”

Then Max — God help him — leaned forward and whispered:

“Can I… touch it?”

George’s brain short-circuited. “You— what— Max!”

Max raised both hands innocently. “Just a little. Just— just to appreciate.”

“Appreciate?!” George squeaked.

Max nodded solemnly. “I’ve waited many years.”

George stared at him … and then burst out laughing, leaning his forehead against Max’s shoulder because he was laughing so hard his knees went weak.

Max waited patiently, hands behind his back, looking like a golden retriever waiting for a treat.

When George finally calmed down, he wiped a tear from his eye, looked up at Max and smirked.

“Well… if we’re confessing everything tonight…”

Max’s eyes widened.

George stepped closer.
Turned around slightly.
And said, voice low and teasing:

“Go on then. Since you’ve been waiting so long.”

Max’s soul left his body and RAN.

And from outside the bathroom, the entire grid heard Max’s very heartfelt, very emotional gasp.

Bonus:

Max had never been this nervous in his entire life. Not during his debut. Not during his first championship. Not during a wet Monaco qualifying session. Nothing compared to the trembling, fragile, emotionally unstable state he was in as he slowly, very slowly, reached out toward George’s very generously praised rear.

George had his back slightly turned, one eyebrow raised, clearly amused but pretending to be patient.
“Max, you’re acting like you’re about to deactivate a bomb.”

“This is a bomb,” Max whispered dramatically. “A bomb for my heart. A heart bomb.”

George bit back a laugh. “Just… go on.”

So Max, hands shaking like he’d just downed four espressos and a Red Bull, gently placed a hand on George’s ass.

And immediately—

IMMEDIATELY—

Max started crying.

Not loud sobbing. Not dramatic wailing. No.
It was the silent, overwhelmed, my-soul-is-full-and-my-brain-is-empty kind of crying.

Just soft sniffles and big watery eyes.

George turned around so fast he nearly elbowed Max in the face. “MAX?? Why are you crying?!”

Max tried to speak, voice cracking like a prepubescent teenager.
“It—it’s just— I’ve— I’ve dreamed about this since I was fifteen— and now— and now— it’s— it’s real— and it’s soft— your— your— everything is soft—”

George blinked. “Max… are you crying because my ass is soft?”

Max nodded miserably. “And perfect.”

George covered his mouth to hide the hysterical laughter threatening to break out.
“Maxie… you’re unbelievable.”

Max wiped his eyes with the back of his hand like a child.
“I’m sorry. I’m emotional. You’re emotional! Your hips are emotional! Everything is emotional!”

George stepped forward, cupped Max’s face gently, and smiled with so much warmth it nearly made Max start crying again.

“Come here,” George said, pulling him into a hug.

Max melted into him instantly, face buried in George’s shoulder.

George stroked the back of his head. “Max, love, it’s just my ass.”

Max sniffed. “It’s not just anything.”

George snorted. “Okay, okay. Not just.”

Max pulled back, eyes still teary, cheeks pink, voice trembling slightly.

“I just… I can’t believe you’re mine.”

George kissed his forehead. “I’ve been yours. For years.”

Max nearly collapsed again.

Outside the bathroom door, Carlos whispered, “Why do I hear crying?”

Lando whispered back, “Happy crying, I think?”

Alex sighed. “Of course he cried when he touched the ass.”

And inside, Max was still holding George’s waist like it was the most precious thing on Earth, whispering,

“This was the best day of my life.”

Chapter Text

Their first official date was meant to be simple and easy and calm, mostly because George insisted that they should start normally, maybe with dinner and a quiet walk afterward. Max agreed enthusiastically, although the moment George turned away, he started planning like a man preparing to propose after one date. George arrived looking like the softest dream, with neat hair, a warm smile, and a shirt that made Max forget how to inhale for several seconds.

They talked about races and old stories from karting and tiny misadventures that only made the air sweeter between them, and George looked so happy during dessert that Max felt his heart perform an entire gymnastics routine.

Halfway through dessert, George casually cut a piece of cake and said,
“I have always loved flowers. I think flowers are very romantic. I would honestly love if someone ever gave me flowers. Just simple ones. Even one is enough.”

Max froze. Completely.

George continued talking with no idea that he had just activated Max’s overpowered boyfriend instincts.
“I think it is such a lovely gesture. A bouquet or even a single flower. It is thoughtful. It shows affection. I always dreamed someone might give me some one day.”

Max nodded stiffly.
“You like flowers.”

George laughed at the seriousness of his tone.
“Yes, Maxie. I love flowers. Why are you looking at me like that”

“No reason. Just processing.”

He said it while gripping his fork like it was a life support machine.

George leaned closer.
“You are adorable sometimes.”

Max nearly passed out.

That night Max did not sleep. He paced his apartment whispering to himself like a man possessed.
“George likes flowers. Flowers are important. I must provide flowers. I must provide the best flowers in the world. George deserves the best flowers in the universe.”

By sunrise he had purchased a flower shop, then the entire flower shop chain, then a field, then an orchard, then two acres of land connected to the field, and somehow signed a contract allowing him to build a greenhouse. Max had absolutely no memory of doing any of this. He just knew it felt correct. The world needed to bloom for George.

Then he named it all George Peach Garden.

The next morning George followed the address Max texted him. He expected a nice walk. Maybe a small bouquet. Something sweet and simple.

What he got was a massive wrought iron gate taller than his house. Two uniformed staff members greeted him with slight bows.

“Good morning, Mr George. Welcome to George Peach Garden.”

George stared.
“What. What do you mean George Peach Garden. I am George. Why is there a garden named after me.”

The gate opened and revealed an enormous botanical paradise that looked absolutely impossible. Acres of roses, tulips, lilies, peach trees, hydrangeas, rare flowers George had only seen in documentaries, and a greenhouse that looked like it could host a royal wedding.

George whispered,
“No. No. Max has not done this. Max did not do this. He would not. He could not. This is insane.”

Max walked out from behind a peach tree holding a watering can like he had been caught in the middle of a ritual.
“Oh. Hi. You made it.”

George marched toward him with big shocked eyes.
“Max. What is all this. What have you done. What is happening right now.”

Max smiled nervously.
“This is your garden.”

George pointed frantically at everything.
“This is not a garden. This is a botanical nation. This might have its own microclimate. There are probably species here that do not exist anywhere else. Max. Why.”

Max shrugged helplessly.
“You said you like flowers.”

George took a long breath, the kind people take before fainting.
“I meant a bouquet, Max. A bouquet. Not a horticultural empire.”

Max started rambling.
“I did buy bouquets. Many bouquets. Then I bought the shop. Then the owner offered the field. Then the field included the orchard. Then some legal things happened. And suddenly I had a multi hectare flower paradise. It felt wrong not to name it after you. So now it is George Peach Garden.”

George stared at him, speechless.
“You named an entire flower kingdom after me.”

“Yes,” Max said softly. “Of course I did.”

George covered his face with both hands.
“Max. You are unbelievable.”

Max stepped closer, suddenly shy.
“Do you hate it”

George dropped his hands and grabbed Max’s face.
“Hate it. Max. I cannot believe you love me enough to do this.”

Max stared back as if he had just been struck by lightning.
“You. You think this means I love you.”

George laughed.
“I think it is the clearest sign in the universe.”

Max said quietly, “I do love you. I have loved you for a long time.”

George kissed him before he could say anything else. It was warm and long and made Max’s knees nearly give out. Max dropped the watering can with a loud metallic sound but he did not care for even a second.

When they finally separated, George leaned his forehead against Max’s.
“I love you too, Maxie.”

Max blinked rapidly, already emotional.
“You do. Really.”

“Yes,” George whispered, brushing his thumb over Max’s cheek. “I love you.”

Max exhaled a shaky breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob.
“So you like the garden.”

George looked around at the endless sea of flowers.
“Like is not enough. I adore it. It is insane and over the top and ridiculous and perfect. It is exactly you.”

Max smiled with pure relief.
“Good. Then we can get lost in it together.”

George took his hand and kissed his knuckles.
“I intend to.”

Max whispered,
“This is the best first date ever.”

George laughed softly.
“We have not even had breakfast yet.”

Max nearly started crying again.

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

The news spread faster than tyre degradation at Singapore. Someone leaked a photo of George walking through rows of peach trees hand-in-hand with Max, and suddenly every group chat on the grid began vibrating like a broken engine mount.

By the time the next race weekend arrived, every driver had seen the headline:
“Max Verstappen Opens Lavish Flower Estate Named George Peach Garden”
The drivers were ready. They smelled gossip. They smelled romance. Some smelled trauma.

The moment George walked into the drivers lounge, a dozen pairs of eyes turned to him at once. Alex was the first to attack, storming up with a look that said he had suffered enough.
“George. Why is there a literal agricultural phenomenon named after you. Why do I have journalists asking me how it feels competing with a botanical landmark.”

George blushed instantly.
“It is not my fault. Max got… excited.”

Lando leaned over the sofa like a nosy aunt.
“He bought you a flower empire. Admit it. You have him wrapped around your finger. This is insane even for him.”

Before George could respond, Max entered the room carrying a bottle of water and looking suspiciously innocent. Everyone stared at him like he was a zoo exhibit.
“What,” he said. “Why is everyone looking at me.”

Carlos spoke in a slow, exhausted voice.
“Max. We need to ask a question. A very simple question. A very important question.”

Max frowned.
“Okay.”

Carlos inhaled deeply.
“Why did you name the garden George Peach Garden. What is the meaning. What is the symbolism. Do we need to prepare ourselves mentally.”

George instantly turned pink.
“No one needs to prepare anything.”

Max began to sweat.
“It is a good name.”

Lando narrowed his eyes.
“A peach garden. For George. George Peach Garden. George. Peach. Garden. Are we connecting the dots.”

Alex pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Max… tell me you did not name the entire estate after George’s ass.”

A silence fell so deep it could have been a funeral.

Max blinked.
“…I can explain.”

George covered his face with both hands.
“No he cannot. He absolutely cannot.”

Lando’s jaw dropped.
“Oh my god. He did. He named the garden after George’s ass. He literally built a shrine to it.”

Oscar nearly choked on his own breath.
“Is that even legal.”

Lewis, who had been sipping tea calmly the entire time, nodded thoughtfully.
“I knew it. The way he looks at George’s rear wing has always been suspicious.”

George squeaked,
“Lewis!”

Max finally tried to defend himself in a panicked rush.
“I did not intend to name it after his ass at first. It just happened. It felt right. It is a beautiful garden. George has a beautiful peach. I mean. A beautiful presence. I mean. A beautiful personality. I mean. I am dying. Someone help me.”

Yuki slapped the table.
“He admitted it. It is canon. It is official. Max made an ass sanctuary.”

Pierre leaned back in his chair laughing so hard he almost fell.
“Max. This is the most romantic and deranged thing anyone has done in their career.”

George finally uncovered his face and glared at Max.
“Max. Darling. Love of my life. Sunshine of my mornings. Why did you not just tell me.”

Max looked tragic.
“I thought you would be embarrassed.”

George stared at him for a long moment… then sighed softly and walked over to him.

He cupped Max’s face.
“I am not embarrassed. I just did not expect to become the owner of a backside-themed botanical kingdom.”

Max leaned into George’s hands like a cat.
“I thought it would make you happy.”

George whispered,
“It does. In a very chaotic, unbelievable way.”

The entire room groaned.

Alex stood up.
“I refuse to be part of this romance anymore. I am retiring from friendship.”

Lando threw a pillow at them.
“Please stop being cute. It is disgusting.”

Carlos placed his head on the table.
“I cannot do this. I am too tired.”

Oscar muttered,
“I did not train for this level of stupidity.”

Lewis sipped tea like royalty.
“You know, I am actually enjoying this.”

Meanwhile George kissed Max on the cheek, making Max smile so brightly he practically glowed.

And the grid unanimously agreed that the two of them should never, ever be allowed to name anything again.

Chapter Text

ONE YEAR LATER

George Peach Garden had become legendary. What started as Max’s lovesick gesture had evolved into a breathtaking, sprawling paradise with peach blossoms arching over long pathways, roses climbing trellises like they were reaching for heaven, and an entire greenhouse that looked like its own ecosystem. By now the world knew that if there was one place Max and George adored equally, it was this garden. So naturally, when they announced their wedding, there was no question where it would be held.

The drivers arrived one by one the day before, supposedly for rehearsal, but in reality to witness the chaos they knew the couple would inevitably unleash. It started immediately. Lando tripped over the aisle carpet with a dramatic yelp, landing on Alex.

“Mate, I swear,” Alex hissed as he shoved him off, “if you fall on me again, I’m leaving this wedding and going home.”

“It’s not my fault the carpet is trying to murder me!” Lando said, brushing dirt off his suit.

Carlos let out a deep, world-weary sigh.
“It is rehearsal. How will you survive the actual ceremony tomorrow.”

Meanwhile Max was on the far side of the garden rearranging chairs with the desperation of a man trying to solve a moral crisis.
“This chair looks wrong here. It should be closer. No, further. No, no, closer again. Because George touched it once and it has emotional resonance with the area.”

George blinked.
“I touched it. Once.”

Max looked at him with sincere intensity.
“I remember everything.”

George laughed and grabbed his arm.
“Sweetheart, love of my life, future husband, you need to breathe.”

“I am breathing,” Max insisted, inhaling so hard he nearly choked. “I am relaxed.”

“You are vibrating.”

Susie clapped her hands loudly.
“Everyone stop. Nobody cry. Nobody scream. We are getting through this rehearsal with dignity.”

Toto pointed sternly at Max.
“You. Stop moving the chairs.”

Max pouted but obeyed. For about five seconds.

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

The next afternoon, the garden shimmered like something painted in a dream. Peach blossoms drifted through the warm air whenever the breeze passed by, floating like soft pink confetti. Lanterns hung between the trees, glowing like thousands of tiny suns. Everything smelled of flowers, honey, sunlight, and a faint touch of romance-induced madness.

Max stood under the floral arch wearing a suit that should have been illegal on someone that handsome. He kept fidgeting with his cufflinks, wiping his palms on his pants, and blinking rapidly like he was holding back an emotional disaster.

Daniel whispered behind him, “Breathe or you’ll pass out before he gets here.”

Max whispered back, “I love him so much I think my organs have liquefied.”

“Not medically ideal, mate.”

The music rose softly. Everyone stood.

George walked down the aisle between Toto and Susie, wearing a cream suit and a soft smile that made the entire world feel quieter. His hair caught the golden light of the setting sun. Max’s breath caught. Then his eyes filled. Then tears spilled, immediately, aggressively, no warning.

Daniel leaned over again.
“The ceremony hasn’t started.”

“I love him,” Max sniffled. “I love him so much.”

When George reached him, he touched Max’s cheek, smiling gently.
“You’re crying.”

“You’re beautiful,” Max whispered, voice cracking. “I cannot function.”

George laughed quietly.
“Good. Neither can I.”

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

The officiant turned to Max.
“Max, would you like to share your vows.”

Max inhaled shakily, then began speaking with the kind of passion that made every single driver lean forward like gossiping aunties.

“George,” he began, voice trembling, “I have loved you since we were kids racing karts. I fell in love with your determination, your kindness, your stupid long limbs, your smile that makes my entire brain shut down.” He paused, collecting himself. “I will love you when you’re tired, when you’re grumpy, when you can’t find your keys even though they’re in your hand. I will love you when you cry during documentaries about ducks. I will love you when we’re old. I will love you always.”

George’s eyes softened, warm and overwhelmed.

Max continued, and the chaos level skyrocketed.
“And I cannot wait for our future. I want a home with you. A huge one. Warm. Full of photos and memories. And I want… five kids.”

George blinked.
“…Five.”

Max nodded earnestly.
“Yes. Five. Maybe four. Or three and two dogs. But no. Five. I already planned the rooms. One will race like us. One will play piano. One will be artsy. And the last two can choose. They will be perfect. All of them will have your smile. And I will teach them to ride bikes and you will teach them how to be polite and I will make us pancakes every Sunday even though I burn them sometimes. And this peach garden will become a family garden. Our family garden.”

George stared at him, emotions crashing through him like a wave.
“You want all that with me?”

Max nodded instantly.
“Yes. Only you. Always you.”

George lifted Max’s trembling hands in his own.
“My Max,” he said, voice steady but thick with emotion, “you are the most passionate, ridiculous, stubborn, brilliant person I’ve ever known. You love with your entire soul, and somehow that love is always soft with me. You make me feel safe. You make me feel chosen. You make me feel like I’m exactly where I belong.”

Max’s chin wobbled. George squeezed his hands.

“I want the future you want,” George continued. “The home. The chaos. The children. The burned pancakes. The peach garden growing every year. All of it. With you. Only you.”

Max released a sob that sounded like relief and pure joy mixed together.

“You may kiss your husband,” the officiant said.

Max cupped George’s face and kissed him like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. George kissed him back just as fiercely, hands on Max’s waist, pulling him in.

The drivers exploded into chaos.

“YES THEY DID IT!”
“KISS HIM AGAIN!”
“I’M CRYING!”
“NO I’M CRYING HARDER!”
“OI LANDO STOP HUGGING ME!”
“CARLOS GET OFF ME I’M NOT A KLEENEX!”
“YUKI PUT DOWN THE MICROPHONE!”

George pulled back breathlessly.
“We’re married,” he whispered, forehead pressed to Max’s.

Max wrapped him in a tight embrace.
“You’re my husband. My husband. I’m never letting go.”

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

The sun dipped below the horizon as lanterns bloomed like little stars around the garden. Guests danced between the peach trees. Someone played music too loud. Someone spilled champagne on the flower arch. Yuki stole the DJ microphone three times. Lando tripped into a rosebush. Alex threatened to throw him into a pond. Carlos cried while hugging Oscar, who looked terrified.

George and Max slipped away for a quiet moment under the blossoms, sitting on a blanket beneath the peach tree where Max first confessed.

George leaned into Max, voice soft.
“I can’t wait for our future.”

Max kissed his forehead.
“I’ve been waiting for it since the day I fell in love with you.”

George smiled at him, tender and full of hope.
“Five kids, huh.”

Max grinned, eyes sparkling.
“At least.”

George laughed and kissed him again.

And the garden, their garden, bloomed around them like it had been waiting for this moment too.