Race day had arrived. The Dutch Grand Prix.

The paddock was already alive with noise when the car rolled to a stop, orange everywhere you looked — flags, shirts, smoke drifting faintly in the distance. The moment the engine shut off, the crowd reacted as one.

“That’s him, that’s Max!” “Max Verstappen, let’s go!” “This is your race, Max!”

Max stepped out first, completely unfazed by the volume, straightening beside the car with the same calm focus he carried every race weekend. He gave a brief glance toward the fans before moving immediately to your side.

As he opened your door, the attention doubled.

“She came with him today!” “Max, you’re winning this one!” “We love you, Max!”

He offered his hand, steady and familiar, helping you out of the car as you grabbed your bag. For a moment, the two of you stood there together, surrounded by noise, cameras, and excitement.

Max leaned in slightly, his voice low, almost casual. “Home race,” he said. “Gets loud.”