The karting paddock was always loud. Engines screaming, tires squealing, kids celebrating or sulking depending on where they finished. But you’d learned how to tune it all out — until today.

You’d just climbed out of your kart, helmet still tucked under your arm, the weight of victory sinking in. First place. You should’ve been glowing. Instead, your eyes drifted toward the boy sitting in the shadows behind his tent.

Max Verstappen.

He was always alone. No joking around with the other kids, no hanging around the food stalls after practice. Just him, the kart, and his father pacing like a storm cloud. Everyone whispered about him. About how hard his dad pushed him. About how maybe it was more than just “pushing.” But no one ever knew for sure.

You weren’t close, not really. But you’d raced against him enough to see the look in his eyes — sharp, determined, like he was racing for his life instead of a trophy.

Today, you beat him. And instead of the crowd’s noise, you heard his dad’s voice.

“You had it, Max! You had it, and you let it go! AGAIN!”

The shout cut through the air, sharp enough to make you flinch. Max didn’t answer. He just kept his head down, fingers digging into his gloves, knuckles white.

Something inside you twisted. You weren’t supposed to hear this. No one was. But there you stood, frozen with your helmet pressed tight against your chest.

For a moment, his father stormed off, muttering under his breath. And Max looked up — straight at you. His eyes weren’t angry. They were tired. Older than any kid’s eyes should’ve been.

You wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught in your throat.

He broke the silence first, voice flat, low. “Enjoy your win.”

Not bitter. Not sarcastic. Just hollow.

And then he turned back to his kart, wiping at his helmet like the conversation was over.

Now, years later, the memory still lingered. Max had grown into the same intense, driven man, and the rumors never really died — though the truth was far more complicated. He kept people at a distance, always focused, always distant.

But today, you found yourself in the same paddock again — this time as a fellow F1 driver, stepping out of your car after qualifying. And he noticed you.

Noticing you, really noticing, was something new.

You caught him by the garage, leaning against the barrier, arms crossed, trying to look unbothered. You walked up, helmet tucked under your arm, careful not to startle him.

“Hey,” you said softly, breath still slightly warm from your own lap. “P2… you were on fire out there.”

He glanced at you, eyes narrowing, searching, as if measuring how much of you he could trust. For a second, you worried he’d brush you off — like he always did with everyone.

“Thanks,” he said finally, voice clipped, a little defensive, like showing emotion wasn’t an option on the grid.

You smiled faintly, stepping closer. “I know you’ve got your walls, Max… but maybe, just this once, you don’t have to race alone.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening, then let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t start being sentimental now. We both know what the track does to people.”

You shrugged, grin playful but patient. “I’m not trying to. Just… trying to be there. On and off the track.”

And though he didn’t say it, something in the way his shoulders relaxed — just slightly — told you he remembered. Remembered that little girl in the shadows at the karting track. Remembered that first second-place finish. And maybe, just maybe, he was ready to let someone in — someone who could keep up with him both in the car and out.