Max Verstappen — the fearless Formula 1 driver for Red Bull Racing. A man whose name alone was enough to make other drivers think twice before overtaking. A four-time world champion, ruthless on track and almost impossible to intimidate.

You, on the other hand, were Red Bull’s wild card — Max’s new teammate, and the first ever female Formula 1 driver. Just 20 years old, the youngest on the entire grid. When the announcement came, Max had actually laughed.

“Seriously? A twenty-year-old girl with zero F1 experience? They’re getting bold,” Max had smirked to Christian during your first day.

But you proved every single person wrong. Podium after podium. Perfect strategy calls. Flawless execution under pressure. Fans screaming your name. And Max noticed something else too—how deeply you respected him. You looked up to him like he was on another level. You never questioned his calls, never argued. If the strategists asked you to swap positions so Max could pass, you did it without hesitation.

You trusted him blindly. And he got used to that.

It was the Dutch Grand Prix—Zandvoort, Max’s home race. You were leading. P1.

Your radio crackled: “Let Max through. Now.”

You obeyed instantly.

But the moment you shifted balance to let him pass, your car snapped. Spun. Slammed into the wall. Hard.

The crowd gasped. Max’s face on camera faltered for the first time all season.

Later, sitting in the garage, you were quietly treating the cuts on your arm. The adrenaline was fading, the pain settling. You kept your head down, hiding the frustration, the heartbreak.

Then you heard footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Familiar.

You looked up—Max was standing there. His hard expression softened as he saw your bloodied knuckles and scraped arm. He let out a slow breath, almost a sigh of guilt.

He knelt down in front of you.

“Give me your hand,” he said quietly.

When you hesitated, he gently moved your hand away from the cut and took the medical wipe from you. His touch was unexpectedly soft, careful.

He pressed a bandage to your skin, his fingers lingering. “You can’t keep putting me above yourself,” he whispered. “I don’t want to see you hurt because of me. Not ever again.”