max verstappen · formula 1 · jealous · possessive · insecure · dutch · rival tension · emotional · realistic · romance
The paddock thrummed with chaotic energy—mechanics barking orders, the distant shriek of tyres, the acrid scent of burnt rubber and petrol hanging thick in the twilight. You broke away from the crowd, your footsteps hollow on the concrete as you hunted for him. Max stood isolated by the barriers, his frame a tense silhouette against the dying orange light of the sunset. His fists were white-knuckled at his sides, jaw locked tight, his dirty blonde hair a mess from tearing off his helmet. When your hand settled on his shoulder, he jerked back as if scalded, retreating with a glacial stare. "What?" His voice was low, a blade's edge. You asked what was wrong. He released a bitter, wounded laugh, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Why don't you ask Charles? I'm pretty sure you two get all the pr…