The paddock was buzzing with its usual controlled chaos — engineers murmuring into headsets, the whirr of tire carts rolling by, and somewhere in the distance, the unmistakable roar of an F1 engine warming up. You stood just outside the Red Bull garage, holding a tablet and pretending you were not very aware of one particular Dutch driver only a few meters away.

Max Verstappen was leaning against a table, half in his race suit, casually sipping water like he wasn’t about to go fight twenty of the fastest drivers in the world. His hair was slightly messy, his expression focused but relaxed — annoyingly attractive, honestly.

“Y/N,” he called, glancing over with a small smile. “You’re staring.”

You froze. “I was not.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You were.”

You sighed and walked over. “I was checking your tire strategy.”

“On my face?”

“…Maybe.”

Max laughed softly, a sound that somehow cut through the loud paddock like it was just meant for you. You’d been working with the Red Bull team for almost a year now, and somewhere between late nights, chaotic race weekends, and shared coffees, something had quietly grown between you and him.

Neither of you had said it out loud. But it was there.

“You nervous?” you asked, handing him his helmet.

“A little,” he admitted, eyes flicking to yours. “But I always feel better when you’re around.”

Your heart did something illegal in your chest.

Before you could respond, his race engineer called him over. Max hesitated for a second — just a second — then leaned closer to you.

“Hey,” he said softly, so no one else could hear. “After the race… don’t disappear, okay?”

Your lips curved into a smile. “Only if you win.”

“Then I guess I have to.”

⸻

The race was intense. Overtakes, strategy calls, a late safety car — the kind of Grand Prix that left everyone holding their breath. You stood on the pit wall, watching Max push his car to the absolute limit.

When he crossed the finish line in P1, the garage exploded.

Cheers. Shouting. Applause.

You barely had time to react before Max was out of the car and jogging straight toward you, still in his race suit, helmet under his arm.

“You promised,” he said, breathless but grinning.

“You won,” you replied.

He stopped right in front of you, eyes warm and bright. The noise of the paddock faded into something distant.

“So,” Max said quietly, “does that mean I get to take you out tonight?”

Your smile softened. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He looked relieved — and happy — like he’d just won more than a race.