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ari-ana-bel-la · 22 days ago

Note

(hoping this ask go through.. sighs)

Imagine George or Alex with a toddler!reader who likes naming her plushie, it was all normal names like candy, baby, rainbow until one day they decided to name it after a driver. the news spread like wide fire and now all the drivers want a plushie named after them?

Estie-Bestie

The sun was warm, the garage buzzing, and the paddock unusually calm for a Thursday media day. George stood at the edge of the hospitality area, watching his four-year-old daughter, Yn, sit cross-legged on a large picnic blanket spread out just beside the Red Bull motorhome. She was surrounded by plushies—at least ten of them—all named, hugged, and carefully arranged.

“Okay, Baby sits here. Rainbow, you go next to Candy. No fighting, okay?” Yn whispered with authority, pointing each plush to their designated spot. “This is nap circle. Everyone gets cuddles. Even Monkey, even if he smells like Uncle Lala."

George chuckled from a few meters away, arms folded across his chest.

“Lando smells bad now?” Carmen asked, slipping an arm around his waist as she joined him.

“No idea. I guess Monkey picked up the vibe,” George grinned. “She’s got a whole social structure worked out. Last week she told me Candy and Rainbow were in a fight because Rainbow borrowed Candy’s hat without asking.”

Carmen laughed. “Drama starts young.”

Then, something unexpected happened.

Yn picked up a brand-new plush—a soft brown bunny with a crooked ear. She held it up, examining it like she was choosing a name from a royal decree.

George leaned in slightly, instinctively tuning in.

“I think,” Yn said, very solemnly, “I think your name is... Esteban.”

There was a pause.

A long pause.

George blinked.

Carmen blinked.

“Did she just—” George started.

“Yeah,” Carmen confirmed, eyes wide.

Yn clutched the bunny to her chest. “Esteban is a good bunny. Esteban likes hugs. He never yells. He eats pretend carrots and tells Rainbow she looks pretty even when she’s grumpy.”

George crouched down next to her. “Sweetheart, why did you name him Esteban?”

Yn shrugged. “I like it. It’s a funny name. It makes my tummy giggle. Estie-Bestie is his nickname.”

That’s when Pierre wandered over, sipping on a protein shake. “Hey hey, little Yn! What’s the plushie update today? Any new ones I need to meet?”

Yn held up the bunny proudly. “This is Esteban! My Estie-Bestie!”

Pierre choked on his drink. “I’m sorry—did you say Esteban?”

“Uh-huh.”

Pierre exploded in laughter. “Oh my God, Estie-Bestie! This is gold.”

George stood up, rubbing his face. “Please, Pierre, do not—”

Too late. Pierre was already pulling out his phone.

“This is going to make his week. Month. Life. Hold still, Yn, smile with Estie-Bestie!”

Yn posed like a pro, bunny up in the air like she’d won a Grand Prix. Pierre snapped a photo, then immediately ran off.

Within ten minutes, Esteban had the photo.

Within twenty, the entire grid had seen it.

By the time the drivers’ briefing rolled around, chaos had fully bloomed.

Esteban entered the room to an eruption of applause. Everyone was clapping. Some were even whistling.

“What—what is happening?” he asked, confused, laughing.

Lando leaned forward, grinning ear to ear. “He doesn’t know? Oh my God, he hasn’t seen it yet!”

Max pulled up his phone. “Allow me.”

The moment Esteban saw the picture—Yn holding up the bunny, captioned “Estie-Bestie reporting for cuddle duty”—he dropped into a chair, hands over his face.

“This is the greatest honor of my life,” he said dramatically. “I’ve peaked. Nothing will ever compare.”

Charles leaned in. “Estie-Bestie, huh? That’s adorable.”

Carlos smirked. “I can’t believe she named it after you. What’s so special about you, huh?”

“Yeah,” Alex added. “I’ve been bringing her ice cream all season.”

“Maybe that’s why she didn’t name one after you,” Oscar quipped. “She prefers bunnies over bribery.”

“Alright,” Lando said, clapping his hands. “We need a plushie strategy. Everyone needs a chance to be immortalized by Yn.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow. “We’re really strategizing over a four-year-old’s plushies now?”

“Yes,” they all said in unison.

The next day, gifts started pouring in.

It began with Max, who casually dropped off a soft lion plush at George’s motorhome.

“Just something for Yn,” he said innocently. “No pressure, but if she likes it… I was thinking maybe she’d name it… Maximus?”

George sighed. “You guys are unhinged.”

Oscar came next, handing over a sleepy-looking koala.

“No name suggestion,” he said humbly. “Just thought it might be her vibe.”

Carmen, now fully entertained, lined them up in Yn’s play corner. “This is officially the Plushie Hunger Games.”

By Saturday morning, Yn had a queue of plushies to meet.

Pierre gifted a penguin named ‘Pierre-Peng’.

Carlos gave her a red fox with a tiny scarf. “Just think about naming it something cool. Something like… Carlito.”

Fernando went full chaotic, bringing her a giant kangaroo that could fit three smaller plushies in its pouch. “If this doesn’t win her over, nothing will.”

George just shook his head. “You guys are hopeless.”

After qualifying, the drivers gathered around in the hospitality garden for dinner. Yn arrived with her arms full of plushies, followed closely by Carmen, who looked both amused and slightly overwhelmed.

Yn stood in front of the table like she was about to deliver a state address.

“I have announcements,” she said clearly.

The entire table went silent.

She held up the penguin. “This one is not Pierre-Peng. He is called Mr. Ice.”

Pierre looked devastated.

“Koala is named Sleepy-Boo,” she continued. Oscar gave a tiny fist pump.

“The lion is named Roary George.” Max groaned.

“The kangaroo…” Yn frowned. “...is too big. He stays in the bag.”

Fernando put a hand to his heart, wounded.

“But,” Yn said dramatically, holding up the fox, “This one… he is Carlos.”

The table erupted.

“YES!” Carlos jumped up, doing a tiny victory dance. “I DID IT! I HAVE BEEN CHOSEN!”

“I don’t understand,” Lando muttered. “I gave her that glitter unicorn. It’s literally called Lando-Corn.”

“She gave that one to Rainbow to ride,” George whispered.

“And Monkey?” Lando asked.

Yn pointed. “Monkey still smells like you.”

Later that night, George tucked Yn into bed inside their motorhome, plushies piled around her like a royal court. Esteban the bunny sat proudly at the center.

“Goodnight, Daddy,” she yawned.

“Goodnight, sweetheart. Estie-Bestie too?”

“Of course. He’s in charge now.”

George smiled and turned off the light, but not before whispering a warning to the plushies. “You lot better behave. No more recruiting.”

As he stepped out, Carmen was leaning on the doorway, shaking with laughter.

“They’re going to lose their minds over this all season.”

“They already have,” George said. “And Yn? She’s just getting started.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-♡○♡

Extra Scene

By Monza, there was merch.

Fans were wearing Estie-Bestie shirts. Carlos was signing fox plushies. Oscar got a request to autograph a koala named Sleepy-Boo 2.0.

And in the middle of it all was Yn, sitting in the paddock with a new plush—a small gray elephant.

Lando approached cautiously. “Hey Yn… what’s the elephant’s name?”

Yn thought for a long, long moment.

Then she smiled sweetly.

“Jeff.”

Lando blinked. “...Who’s Jeff?!”

George just laughed. “That’s my girl.”

1K notes · View notes

cressidagrey · 28 days ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 30: September 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Message: Belle Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Belle:

I know we’re still figuring things out. But I didn’t want to let this moment pass.

You drove a perfect race today. Monza, Ferrari, the pressure — you carried all of it and made it look easy. That final stint? Surgical.

You earned every bit of that podium. And I hope, for once, you believe it too.

I’m proud of you, Charles. Really. Congratulations.

Charles:

…thank you. That means more than I know how to say.

I kept waiting for something to go wrong. For the strategy to fall apart or the engine to give up. But it didn’t. It just worked.

And hearing that from you — It kind of made it real.

Belle:

Let it be real. You deserve to keep the joy this time. Not just the pressure. And for what it’s worth — I was cheering. Loudly. The baby might be a Ferrari fan now.

***

Instagram Stories: @/belleverstappen

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/f1girlmath:

Max lives on the grid.

Charles gets 24 hours in stories.

There’s a thesis in this. 📝

@/softforbelle:

She still posted.

Even after the birthday. After the years of silence.

She still showed up for his win.

Belle Leclerc is made of grace and titanium.

@/emotionalslipstream:

Belle Verstappen wrote a better Monza caption than Ferrari PR

and somehow still made it about him

not the noise

not the team

just Charles

@/wifemodeactivated:

Belle posting for Charles proves she’ll always be better than them.

But the feed belongs to the one who chose her first.

@/leclercfanclub:

idc what anyone says, Belle didn’t owe him a damn thing

but she still acknowledged his win

and did it in her voice

respect.

@/verstappenverse:

Charles in stories = “I’m proud of you”

Max on the grid and feed = “You’re home” 🧡

@/burnerforbelle:

“She put him in her stories, not the feed” is my new way of classifying emotional boundaries

***

The fall didn’t feel real until the pain started to bloom.

Belle hit the tile hard — first her knees, then her elbow, then her wrist. The breath fled her lungs like someone had pressed the air out of her, and for a second, she couldn’t even register the sound of the water still running above her.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t have it in her.

Only a sharp gasp, her body curling instinctively, her left hand cradling her right wrist where it throbbed in quick, hot pulses. Her knees scraped against the tile as she tried to shift, but the ache there made her suck in another sharp breath.

It wasn’t catastrophic. It wasn’t broken. But it hurt.

The baby jumbled under her skin, like he wanted to check on her, and she reached out with her good hand, pressing it against the place where her son had just kicked her.

Max wasn’t home. Max wasn’t even reachable. He was off somewhere in southern France, testing GT3 cars, in a no-signal zone, blissfully unaware that she was sitting alone and soaked on the bathroom floor, towel out of reach, shaking with adrenaline and trying not to cry.

Emilie was in Lisbon.

Lando and Oscar were both in England, simulator work for McLaren. Lily was in England too, visiting family.

Everyone she normally leaned on — gone.

Her phone had landed just outside the shower door. She crawled to it with her good hand, knees burning with every inch of movement, and once she finally grasped it, she just sat there for a moment, dripping and shivering, and stared at her contacts.

She didn't want to call anyone. She hated asking for help. Especially now, when Max wasn’t here to shield her from the vulnerability of it.

But she couldn’t drive herself.

So she texted Arthur.

Belle:

Hey. Sorry to bother you. I slipped in the shower. I think I sprained my wrist. My knees are really bruised and I can’t get up without pain. I need someone to drive me to the hospital. Are you in town?

Three dots appeared. Then vanished. Then came back.

Arthur:

Merde. Belle I’m so sorry. I’m not even in the country — I’m in Maranello. Can you call an ambulance?

Belle:

I don’t think it’s that serious. I just need help driving. It’s fine. I’ll figure something out.

Arthur:

Don’t do that. Don’t say it’s fine.

I’ll call Charles. He’s in the city. He can be there in ten. Just sit tight.

Belle stared at the screen.

Her heart sank before she could stop it.

Belle:

Please don’t. I’m fine. I’ll call a driver. Really, Arthur. It’s okay.

Arthur:

It’s not okay. You’re hurt and alone. He wants to help. Just let him. Please.

She didn’t respond right away.

She didn’t want it to be Charles. Not when she was this vulnerable. Not when the bruises hadn’t even started forming yet, but the emotional ones already ached.

But her hand was starting to shake from holding the phone too long, and her knees throbbed with every shift in position.

She closed her eyes.

Fine.

Belle:

Okay. Just… don’t make it a big thing.

Arthur’s reply was instant.

Arthur:

Promise. He’s already on the way.

Belle let the phone drop onto the towel beside her and sat perfectly still, wrapped in silence, her wet hair clinging to her back, her wrist pulsing with each heartbeat.

It was just a fall.

Just a ride to the hospital.

But the lump in her throat said otherwise.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Charles Leclerc

Arthur: You in Monaco?

Charles: Yeah, why? Everything okay?

Arthur: Belle slipped in the shower. She hurt her wrist and can’t drive. I’m in Italy. She needs someone to take her to the hospital.

Charles: Wait—what?? Is she okay?? How bad?

Arthur: Sprained wrist, maybe worse. Bruised knees. She texted me because she didn’t know who else to ask.

Charles: Of course. I’ll go. Where is she?

Arthur: At their apartment. She didn’t want me to text you. I told her I would.

Charles:…Why didn’t she want me to know?

Arthur: That’s not the point right now. Just go. Be there. Don’t make it about you. Just show up.

Charles: I’m already in the car. Send me the address

Arthur: Thank you.

***

Charles didn’t know what he expected when Arthur said go to her, but it wasn’t this.

Not Belle opening the door with her wrist wrapped in gauze and her knees bruised like she’d gone twelve rounds with concrete, her bump just visible beneath the loose fall of her dress. Not the way she moved—carefully, like everything hurt. Not the way she didn’t flinch, didn’t cry, didn’t ask.

She looked pale. Shaken. Her hair still wet from the shower, curling around her cheeks. She didn’t smile when she saw him. She didn’t frown either. She just opened the door, like he was a delivery, not her brother.

And Charles… froze.

He didn’t know what he expected. Gratitude? Relief? The way she used to light up when he came home from a race? Instead, she barely looked at him.

“I’m okay,” she said, preemptively. “We’re taking my car.”

She was giving him the honor of witnessing her pain, and only under her terms.

He blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me. You drive a Ferrari. I’m not climbing into a low-slung performance ego machine with two busted knees and a baby inside me.”

There was a sharp edge in her voice, and it made something twist deep in his stomach. But he didn’t argue. He just followed her down to the parking garage in stunned silence.

And then he saw it.

A green Volvo.

Modest. Safe. The kind of car that said I care more about surviving than arriving fast. He hadn’t even known she had a Volvo. Not really. Just memories of her mentioning needing a new car after her old one had broken down.

“This is yours?” he asked, stupidly.

Belle didn’t even look up as she unlocked it. “Second one. GP picked it.”

Charles didn’t even know where to start with that sentence. That Max Verstappen’s race engineer had apparently picked out his sister’s car or that it was the second one.

Charles frowned. “What happened to the first?”

“It got totaled,” she said. “In the wreck earlier this year.”

She climbed into the car, leaving him standing in silence.

He swallowed. A fender-bender. That’s what he had thought it had been.

Until Lewis of all people had told him that it hadn’t been that at all. A drunk driver had ran a redlight and Belle’s car had wrapped itself around a lamppost. Still…to hear her say it like this…so simply…

He hadn’t asked if she’d been scared. Or hurt. Or alone.

She winced as she buckled her seatbelt over her belly, shifting like every motion hurt. And suddenly, all Charles could see were the bruises.

The deep purple marks on her knees. The rigid tension in her jaw. The way she wasn’t meeting his eyes.

“You could’ve hit your head,” he said, too fast. “You could’ve blacked out. You’re pregnant, Belle. What if no one had picked up? What if you couldn’t get up? What if—”

“I did get up,” she said tightly, still not looking at him.

His fingers curled harder around the steering wheel. “You didn’t call me.”

“You haven’t exactly been first on my call list for a while.”

The words hit like a punch. Not cruel. Just… true. It landed heavier because she wasn’t even angry. Just tired.

“I would’ve come,” he said, his voice breaking. “If I’d known. I would’ve run.”

“I know.”

She said it so simply it wrecked him. No accusation. No pity. Just resignation.

His throat burned. He looked at her again — really looked at her. At the bump under her dress. At the bruise just visible above the knee. At the way her hand instinctively rested over her stomach, protective and automatic.

That was his little sister. Pregnant. Hurt. Alone. Because she hadn’t thought of him.

And he couldn’t even be angry about that — because he understood why.

“Your knees,” he said, voice hoarse. “They’re really bad.”

She snorted softly. “The tiles were wet. I slipped. It happens.”

But it wasn’t nothing. And Charles knew it.

“You’re pregnant, Belle.”

“Well spotted,” she said, dry as ever.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m handling it.”

She said it like she always did — like it wasn’t remarkable. Like handling it was a reflex now.

And that’s when it hit him — harder than the sight of the bruises or the bandage on her wrist. The way she sat there, composed and still, like she didn’t expect anyone to help. Like she’d stopped expecting anything at all.

“I should’ve been the one you called,” he whispered.

Belle didn’t say anything for a long time. And when she finally did, it was soft — not bitter, not sharp.

“You’ve had years to answer,” she said. “But I stopped asking.”

Charles turned his head, blinking hard, the weight of that sentence crashing down on him.

How had it gotten this bad?

“How did we get here?” he asked quietly.

Belle stared out the windshield. Then: “It didn’t get bad. You just stopped noticing when it wasn’t good anymore.”

He couldn’t breathe.

He thought about Christmases. Birthdays. The texts she’d sent during lockdown that he never answered. The way she always showed up, always made it easier, always did the work — until she didn’t.

Until she got tired of being invisible.

And now she was in pain. Carrying a child. And he hadn’t known she’d fallen until someone else told him.

He didn’t know how to fix this.

But he knew what he could do, right now.

“Let me go in with you,” he said as the hospital came into view, his voice barely steady. “Please.”

Belle looked over at him — finally. Her eyes were exhausted, but not closed off.

“…Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”

And it wasn’t forgiveness. But it was something.

Charles nodded, already unclipping his seatbelt, adrenaline flooding his veins like he was pulling into the pit lane on the final lap.

He didn’t say I’m sorry. Didn’t say I’ll do better.

Not yet. Not until she believed it.

But as he got out and walked around to open her door, he said, “I’m not letting you walk into that hospital alone.”

And right now, that was all she let him give. And all he had to offer.

***

The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and old coffee.

Belle sat gingerly on the edge of the hospital chair, her knees throbbing beneath the hem of her dress, Charles’ hoodie draped over her shoulders. She wasn’t sure when he’d taken it off — only that one moment she was shivering under the air conditioning and the next, it had been gently draped around her shoulders without a word.

She didn’t thank him. He didn’t ask her to.

Charles sat next to her, one leg bouncing, hands clasped tightly between his knees. He hadn’t stopped watching her — in that quiet, wide-eyed way that made it clear he was trying not to freak out but was, in fact, absolutely freaking out.

“Does it hurt?” he asked suddenly, for the fourth time in twenty minutes.

“Yes,” Belle said dryly, “still.”

He winced. “Right. Sorry.”

She sighed, resting her head back against the wall. “I think I broke it.”

Charles looked at her wrist, wrapped in one of those temporary velcro splints the nurse had given her after triage. “I thought you said sprain?”

“I said I hoped sprain. I also said I was standing on one foot in a wet shower with a basketball where my balance used to be.” She rubbed at her forehead. “The math isn’t in my favor.”

A nurse poked her head in. “Isabelle Verstappen?”

Belle stood carefully, Charles immediately at her side.

“You can come back now. We’ll do X-rays on the wrist and an abdominal check, just to be safe.”

Charles started to follow, but hesitated at the threshold. “Should I—?”

Belle looked at him. “You’re already here. Might as well carry my purse while you’re at it.”

His shoulders dropped half an inch with relief, and he fell into step beside her like he didn’t know how to do anything else.

The X-ray was quick. The fetal monitoring took longer.

“Any dizziness? Cramping?” the nurse asked gently.

“No,” Belle said. “Lots of movement. He kicked all the way here.”

“A boy?” Charles said suddenly, his voice hoarse. Bell turned her head towards her brother to see he him look…gutted.

She nodded. “Your nephew.”

He blinked fast. “I didn’t think I’d find out like this.”

Belle shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t think I’d tell you in a hospital gown, but here we are.”

Charles let out a breath that sounded like it hurt. “You’re going to be such a good mom.”

She looked at him, unsure how to respond to that — the sincerity in it, the quiet awe. The grief.

So instead, she offered a small smile.

“Thanks,” she said. “I hope so. He’ll be here in before christmas. Another 15 weeks or so.”

“You’re already 25 weeks?” he asked softly.

Belle shrugged. “He’s the size of a cauliflower this week. Or a soccer ball, depending on which app you ask. Very on brand, considering the kicking.

***

Charles sat stiffly in the chair tucked into the corner of the exam room, hands clenched in his lap, elbows digging into his thighs. He hadn’t spoken much since they checked in. Not since the nurse helped Belle up onto the bed, her movements slower than usual, guarded.

And now…

Now, he couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. Or the rise and fall of Belle’s belly. Or the sound.

The sound.

It was like a bird’s wings beating in his ears. Too fast, too strong, too real.

“Is that—?” he started, but his voice cracked halfway through.

Belle nodded, eyes on the monitor. “That’s him.”

Him.

A boy.

His nephew.

There was a long, stunned silence. The doppler monitor beeped steadily in the background, like it was keeping time for a life Charles didn’t even know he’d been missing.

The nurse smiled gently as she removed the probe, wiping the slick gel from Belle’s stomach. “Heartbeat looks excellent,” she said. “Very strong. And stubborn — he kept kicking the monitor.”

Belle exhaled, half under her breath. “Gets that from his father.”

Charles looked at her then.

Really looked.

Her hair was tied back in a messy braid, frizz escaping around her temples. Her wrist was wrapped in a brace. Her knees were bruised beneath the hem of her dress. She looked tired in a way he hadn’t noticed before — not just from the fall, but from everything.

And still, she was here.

Still calm. Still composed. Still doing this alone.

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I didn’t know it was a boy,” he said quietly.

Belle didn’t look at him right away. She adjusted her dress back down and sat up slowly, careful with the wrist, wincing a little as she moved.

“Well,” she said eventually, still not meeting his eyes, “now you do.”

The nurse excused herself with a warm nod, the door clicking shut behind her, and Charles was left sitting in the echo of a moment he didn’t know how to carry.

“What’s his name?” he asked, hesitating.

Belle glanced at him then — not sharply. Not warmly either. Just watching him.

“We haven’t decided yet,” she said. “There’s a list.”

He nodded. Then, after a beat:

“Can I… hear the list someday?”

Belle didn’t answer right away.

She just stared at him, unreadable, like she was trying to decide if the question cost him something or bought him something back.

And finally — finally — she said, “Maybe.”

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t forgiveness.

But to Charles, it felt like the first green shoot breaking through a scorched field.

Hope. Tentative. Small. But there.

And for now, that was more than he’d earned.

And everything he wanted.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: She’s okay. The baby’s okay too.

Arthur: God. Okay. Okay. Thanks for going with her.

Lorenzo: How bad is it?

Charles: Sprained wrist. Bruised knees. Nothing broken. They ran every test. Baby’s heartbeat is strong. Stubborn, apparently. A boy.

Arthur: Wait— She’s having a boy?

Lorenzo: ...She didn’t tell us.

Charles: No. She didn’t.

Charles: She let me come in with her. Let me hear the heartbeat. Said I could maybe see the name list.

Arthur: Maybe?

Charles: I’ll take a maybe. It’s more than I deserve.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Raymond Vermeulen

Belle:

Hi Raymond. I know Max is in the middle of testing today and I don’t want to interrupt. Please don’t panic — everything is fine now. I slipped in the shower this morning and sprained my wrist. Got checked out at the hospital, no fracture, just bruises and a wrap. The baby is okay. He’s been kicking non-stop. We’re both fine. I know Max is testing today — no need to interrupt. Just let him know when he’s finished.

Raymond:

Belle. You fell. You’re pregnant. And you think “ We’re both fine.” is going to keep him from panicking?

Belle:

He’s testing.

He needs focus, not panic. I didn’t want to worry him while he’s working.

Raymond:

Respectfully — no. You are his wife. You are carrying his child. He would fire me if I didn’t tell him the moment I knew something happened.

You are his wife. You are carrying his child. You slipped. You got hurt. You went to the hospital. He will want to know everything.

Belle: I know.

Raymond: So when I tell him — and I will, because if I don’t, he’ll fire me— do you want me to soften it, or give it straight?

Belle:

…Softly. But honestly. Lead with “Belle and baby are okay.” Then maybe “She didn’t want to distract you mid-session, but wanted you to know.” Then the wrist.

Raymond:

Noted. He’s going to freak out anyway.

Belle:

Yeah. I know. Let me know when he’s free. I’ll call.

Raymond: He’ll be free now. Testing can wait. You don’t.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie:

Just found the cutest little shop in Lisbon Don’t yell at me but I may have bought a tiny linen romper with embroidered lions (I blacked out, Belle, it was so small it looked like a pocket)

Belle:

Okay well now I’m crying a little so thanks for that

Emilie:

WAIT are you crying because hormones or crying because something’s wrong?? Belle?

Belle:

Don’t freak out I’m okay Just… slipped in the shower this morning

Belle:

Landed on my knees and wrist Baby kicked a few minutes after so I didn’t totally lose it I was at the hospital. Everything is fine. Charles is with me

Emilie:

BELLE. WHAT. You slipped?! Why didn’t you call me?? Why is Charles there?? IS MAX WITH YOU?

Belle:

Max is testing GT3s today, he didn’t see my message I didn’t want to distract him while he was driving I texted Raymond — he’s going to tell him when he can And you weren’t even in the country, Em.

Emilie:

You absolute menace I leave the country for ONE DAY and you go full final girl in your own bathroom??

Belle:

😂 That’s a dramatic way of putting it Just bruised. Wrist is sprained. Baby is fine. I promise. No bleeding. No cramps. Monitors look good.

Emilie:

Okay but also: I hate you a little right now I’m sitting in a café full of people eating pastel de nata and I just made a distressed noise loud enough to scare a baby Also I’m Googling flights Say the word and I will come home immediately

Belle:

Please don’t I’m okay I just didn’t want you to find out hours later and go full protective rage goblin on the entire continent

Emilie:

TOO LATE Also I’m keeping the lion romper Emotional compensation

Belle: Fair

Emilie: I love you. Next time you so much as trip I want a facetime. Do you understand me?

Belle:

Understood Love you too Now go eat your pastry and pretend I didn’t give you a heart attack before 10am

***

The GT3 session had been going well. Max was focused. Controlled. The way he always got once the helmet came down and the rest of the world went quiet.

The track was smooth beneath him, the car responding exactly how he wanted it to — until the pit radio crackled and Raymond’s voice came through, clipped and deliberate.

“Box this lap.”

Max blinked.

“Everything okay?” he asked, already backing off the throttle.

There was a pause.

Then: “Yeah. Just box, Max. Please.”

That please was new.

Max frowned, eased into the pit lane, and pulled into the garage with a practiced precision that didn’t match the sudden weight in his chest. The second he unbuckled and stepped out of the car, Raymond was already there — not panicked, not smiling. Still.

“Something happened,” Max said immediately.

Raymond didn’t waste time.

“Belle slipped this morning,” he said calmly. “In the shower. She’s okay. The baby’s okay. But she hurt her wrist — maybe fractured — and she bruised both her knees. She went to the hospital. She’s getting checked out now.”

Max stared at him, brain short-circuiting.

“No—what?”

“She’s fine,” Raymond said quickly, hands half-up like he was trying to keep Max from bolting. “She texted me. She didn’t want to interrupt the session. She didn’t want you to panic.”

Max didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She fell. She fell. She was alone. She got hurt and didn’t call him.

Max didn’t hear anything after “Belle slipped in the shower.”

He didn’t wait for Raymond to finish. He didn’t ask for more details. He just pulled his phone from his pocket with fingers that suddenly felt too cold, too tight, too slow.

He barely registered Raymond saying, “Max, she’s fine — they’re fine,” because his thumb was already hitting her name.

The line rang once.

Twice.

Then: “Max?”

Her voice was quiet. Soft. Tired.

“What happened?” he asked. No greeting. No preamble. Just the question that had sunk claws into his chest.

There was a beat of silence.

“Raymond told you.”

“Belle.”

“I’m okay,” she said, gentle but firm. “I slipped in the shower this morning. Bruised knees, probably sprained my wrist — maybe fractured. The baby’s fine. We got checked. Everything’s fine now.”

He sat down hard on the nearest concrete ledge, head in one hand. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“You were in the car. I didn’t want to worry you for something that wasn’t… dramatic.”

Max let out a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “You falling while you’re pregnant is dramatic, Belle.”

“I got up. I handled it.”

“That’s not the point.”

She didn’t answer for a moment. Then: “I didn’t want you driving off a track at 200 kilometers an hour because I bruised my knees and got scared.”

He closed his eyes. “You got scared?”

Her voice cracked, just slightly. “A little. But I’m okay now. I’m home. Charles drove me back. He’s… still here.”

Max didn’t reply immediately. His hand curled tighter around the phone.

“I should have been there,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

He didn’t respond. Just breathed — hard and shallow — because that image was stuck in his head now. Belle, alone. Wet hair. Bruised knees. A hand clutched to her wrist. Their son, safe inside her. And Max — miles away.

“I’m coming home,” he said finally. “Now.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I need to.”

A pause. Then her voice, soft again. “Okay.”

He swallowed. “Are you in bed?”

“Couch. With ice. And a cat.”

“I’ll be there soon.”

Charles’s voice drifted faintly in the background — a low murmur, asking something — and Belle answered without pulling the phone away: “He’s on his way.”

Max stood again, the world narrowing to a single point: her.

“I love you,” he said, fierce and quiet.

“I know,” she whispered. “I love you too.”

“Give the phone to Charles.”

Belle hesitated.

“Max—”

“I’m not mad,” he said, though his voice was already fraying at the edges. “But I need to speak to him. Now.”

There was a soft shuffle, a rustle, and a reluctant, “He wants to talk to you,” followed by silence, then:

“Hello?” Charles' voice was low. Careful.

Max didn’t waste time.

“You’re still with her?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because you’re not leaving.”

Charles blinked on the other end of the line. “I wasn’t planning to—”

“No,” Max cut in, sharper now. “I mean it, Charles. You don’t leave her side until I walk through that door.”

“I—of course. I wasn’t going to—”

“You don’t let her carry groceries. You don’t let her reach for anything above shoulder height. You keep an eye on her knees, and you make sure she drinks water and eats something that’s not toast.”

Charles was silent.

“She’s going to say she’s fine,” Max said, breath catching. “She always does. She minimizes things because she’s used to being the last priority. But she’s not. Not anymore.”

Charles swallowed. “I know that now.”

“No. You start to know it now. So until I’m home — until I see her with my own eyes — you’re staying.”

“…Okay.”

Max’s voice dropped, low and fierce. “Because that’s my wife. And our son. And they’re the most important thing in the world to me. I missed the fall. I won’t miss what comes after.”

There was a long pause.

And then, quietly, Charles said, “I’ll stay. You have my word.”

Max nodded, even though no one could see him. His hand was shaking as he brought it to his face.

“Thank you.”

***

The couch was soft, and her wrist was elevated the way the doctor had told her to keep it. Ice on and off in ten-minute intervals. Max was on his way — she could feel the momentum of it like thunder approaching. He hadn’t said how far out he was. He hadn’t needed to.

Charles hovered in the kitchen, pretending to tidy up the one mug Belle had let herself leave on the counter. His movements were twitchy, like he wanted to be useful but didn’t know how to occupy the silence.

Belle lay back with a soft huff, her knees aching with every shift in position. The bump was rounded now — her belly stretching the soft cotton of the old Red Bull hoodie she was wearing. Max’s, of course.

The front door buzzed.

Charles jumped like she’d slapped him.

“It’s open,” she called.

A second later, Lorenzo appeared, windblown and pink from the autumn. Arthur followed, clutching two paper bags.

“I heard,” Lorenzo said, without preamble. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Belle said. “I just fell. That’s all. Aren’t you supposed to be in Italy, Arthur?!”

“You fell,” Arthur echoed, exasperated. “While pregnant. That’s not just anything.”

She sighed. “Please don’t turn this into a family summit.”

“You scared us,” Lorenzo added, setting one of the bags on the counter. “So we’re allowed to overreact for an afternoon.”

He pulled out a small box and held it out. “Brought cinnamon rolls. Your favorite, right?”

Belle blinked at them. Then shook her head slowly.

“I… can’t eat those. I’m allergic to cinnamon.”

The room stilled.

Arthur blinked. “Since when?”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Since always.”

Lorenzo’s brows furrowed. “But at Christmas—every year, you made cinnamon cookies. Three. Every time. One each for me, Arthur, and Charles.”

Belle smiled faintly. “I never said I ate them.”

Charles, who had been leaning against the kitchen island, suddenly looked like the floor had tilted beneath him.

“You made them every year,” he said slowly, like he was repeating a math equation he’d never properly solved. “Individually. You decorated them. You even remembered that I didn’t like the ones with the icing glaze.”

She nodded.

“But you couldn’t eat them?”

“Nope.”

“And you still made them?” His voice cracked slightly.

Belle met his eyes. Calm. Steady. “I liked the tradition. And it made you smile. That felt like enough.”

None of them spoke.

Arthur sat down heavily in the chair beside her. Lorenzo hovered near the edge of the couch, cinnamon rolls forgotten.

Charles just… stared. His mouth opened, then closed again.

Because she’d never missed a year. Not once. Every December 24th, like clockwork — cinnamon cookies. Warm from the oven. Plated and placed on the edge of the counter.

And she had never taken a bite.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly.

“I know,” Belle replied. “That’s the point.”

Belle shifted on the couch, adjusting the ice pack on her wrist as carefully as she could with one hand. Arthur had stolen the armchair like it belonged to him. Charles sat at the edge of the coffee table, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on her like she might break again if he looked away. Lorenzo had busied himself in the kitchen — not baking, not fussing, just being there. It was more than she was used to.

The box of cinnamon rolls sat unopened on the counter.

Arthur cleared his throat. “So… are we telling Maman?”

Belle didn’t even blink. “Absolutely not.”

Lorenzo let out a low, exhausted laugh from the sink. “Agreed.”

Charles looked startled. “Wait, really?”

Belle turned her head slowly. “Do you want to be responsible for the spiral?”

“She’ll call her entire prayer group,” Arthur muttered.

“She’ll show up with a duffel bag full of vitamin supplements and five volumes of prenatal food myths she found online.” Belle raised a brow. “And then she’ll refuse to leave.”

Charles leaned back slightly, frowning. “But she’d want to know.”

“Oh, she’d want to,” Belle said gently. “But we’re not talking about normal maternal concern, Charles. We’re talking DEFCON one emotional meltdown. And the second she sees a bruise, I become a cautionary tale in every conversation for the next decade.”

Arthur stretched out his legs with a sigh. “She’s been like that since Papa died. The moment one of us gets sick, she acts like it’s a prelude to a funeral.”

“It’s fear,” Lorenzo added quietly. “But it’s weaponized. Like if she controls enough of the environment, nothing bad will happen again.”

“We love her,” Belle said, softer now. “But the only thing worse than being hurt… is watching her panic about it.”

Arthur reached over and gently nudged her uninjured foot with his.

“So we’re agreed,” he said. “This doesn’t leave this room.”

“Not until the bruises fade,” Belle said.

“And Max calms down,” Lorenzo added.

Arthur looked at Charles. “You’re unusually quiet.”

Charles looked down at the floor, then back up at Belle. “I just… didn’t realize how many things you didn’t say. Because you were protecting the rest of us.”

Belle didn’t answer for a moment.

Then: “Now you do.”

And to her surprise — maybe to his too — Charles nodded.

“I won’t forget.”

***

The elevator doors opened, and Max didn’t wait for them to finish sliding apart before stepping out.

His keys were already in hand. The moment he reached the door, he didn’t bother knocking. He let himself in like it was a matter of oxygen.

The apartment was quiet — not silent, but soft with the kind of stillness that said people were there, speaking gently, keeping their voices level.

He stepped inside, heart hammering in his chest.

He saw her first.

She was curled into the corner of the couch, legs folded beneath her, one wrist wrapped and resting on a pillow, her bump rising softly under his old hoodie. Her hair was loose now, a little tangled, and she looked exhausted — but not pale. Not shaking. Just… there.

Breathing.

Safe.

His lungs unclenched for the first time in hours.

Then his eyes registered the rest of the room.

Arthur in the armchair, leaning back with his hands laced over his stomach. Lorenzo standing at the counter, cinnamon rolls on a plate he clearly hadn’t touched. And Charles — sitting on the coffee table, just a little too close to Belle, watching her with that stunned, protective expression Max hadn’t seen from him in years.

All three of them looked up the moment Max stepped inside.

The tension in the air shifted like a current.

No one said a word.

Max crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees in front of Belle — hands hovering, unsure for the first time in a long time. His voice was barely a whisper.

“Can I touch you?”

Belle nodded.

His hands moved gently, reverently — one over her knee, the other over the swell of her bump. Then, with visible relief, he pressed his forehead to her stomach and let out a breath like it had been held since morning.

“You’re really okay?” he asked, not looking up.

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “He’s okay. Just bruises.”

His hands moved up to her waist, and then he leaned in, finally cupping her face and kissing her temple — long and careful and completely unrushed.

Only then did he glance over his shoulder at her brothers.

His voice didn’t rise, but it carried.

“Thank you,” he said. “For being here.”

Arthur gave a quiet nod. Lorenzo offered a small, surprised smile.

Charles looked like he wasn’t sure whether to stay seated or stand. Max didn’t make him decide.

Instead, Max looked back at Belle.

“You should’ve called me.”

“I didn’t want you to crash a GT3 car over a bruised knee,” she murmured.

He exhaled sharply, a laugh made of panic and adoration. “You think that’s the part I care about?”

“You’re here now,” she said.

He pressed his forehead to hers. “I’ll always be here.”

The brothers gave them space after that — drifting toward the kitchen, murmuring about tea and leftovers and whether or not Arthur remembered how to use Belle’s espresso machine.

Max didn’t move from the floor.

He just held her hand, his thumb brushing the edge of the wrap on her wrist. He hated the bandage. Hated that it was real. That she had needed anyone but him.

But she was okay.

And the baby was okay.

And for now, that was enough.

***

The apartment was quiet again.

Arthur had grumbled something about work. Lorenzo had packed the untouched cinnamon rolls with a guilty look. Charles had lingered, awkward and earnest, before Belle kissed his cheek and told him to stop looking like she was made of glass.

Now it was just her and Max.

She was back on the couch, propped up with pillows and a blanket across her lap. Max sat beside her, one leg bent on the cushion, his body angled toward hers like he was trying to physically shield her from the memory of the morning.

Neither of them had spoken much since the door clicked shut behind Charles.

Now that it was over — the hospital, the retelling, the waiting — she was finally tired. Really, truly tired in the way that settled deep into her bones. The adrenaline had faded, and with it went her deflection, her careful calm.

Max reached for her hand — her uninjured one — and pulled it gently into his lap, rubbing slow circles over her knuckles.

“You scared me,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges.

“I scared myself,” Belle admitted quietly.

He looked down at her knees, still bruised and swollen beneath the blanket. Then his eyes drifted to the wrist brace. “You’re sure nothing’s broken?”

“The scan said no fractures. Just a bad sprain. Some inflammation. The doctor said I should be good as new in a couple weeks if I rest.”

Max nodded, then tilted his head slightly. “And you’re going to rest, right? Not sneak off to your office and Studio B to ‘just review a sketch’ or organize the linen closet or…”

Belle gave him a half-smile. “You say that like I’ve ever been good at resting.”

“I’m saying it like I will hide your laptop, your phone, and maybe your entire bag if I have to.”

She laughed softly — but it faded quickly.

Max’s voice gentled. “What happened, schatje?”

Belle exhaled. “I slipped. That’s it. I wasn’t even rushing. I just… lost my balance. And it wasn’t like a movie fall, you know? It was quiet. Fast. My knees hit first. Then my wrist when I tried to catch myself.”

Max swallowed hard, his jaw twitching.

“I laid there for a while,” she added, voice barely above a whisper. “Not because I was hurt badly — but because I didn’t know who to call.”

His gaze snapped to hers. “You call me.”

“You were on track. Testing. No signal.”

“You still call me.”

Belle didn’t reply right away.

Then, softer: “I didn’t want to be the reason you lost focus. Or got hurt. Or crashed.”

Max shifted closer, cupping her face gently with one hand.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You will never be the reason I fall apart. But if you don’t tell me you’re hurting—if you ever think you have to go through something like this alone—that is what will wreck me.”

She blinked fast. “I wasn’t alone.”

“I know,” he said, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “But it should’ve been me.”

Belle leaned into his touch. “It is now.”

He kissed her forehead. Then her temple. Then the tip of her nose.

“Next time,” he murmured, “we’re putting a non-slip mat in that shower. And rubber ducks with grip soles.”

Belle let out a soft laugh, eyes fluttering closed. “So romantic.”

“Only the best for you.”

His hand slid down to her bump, and Belle covered it with her own.

“He kicked after,” she said quietly. “Right there in the hospital. Like he was saying, ‘Don’t worry, Mama, I’m still here.’”

Max didn’t speak — just rested his forehead against hers, holding their son between them with the reverence of someone who’d nearly lost everything in a heartbeat.

And in that quiet, with the fading sunlight spilling across the floor and the ache slowly retreating from her bones, Belle finally let herself feel safe again.

Because Max was here.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

***

Text Messages: Jos Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Jos: Raymond told me what happened. Is she alright?

Max: She’s okay now. Sprained wrist. Bruised knees. Baby’s fine. I’m with her.

Jos: Good. That kind of fall could have been worse. You must have been out of your mind.

Max: Still am.

Jos: I’m glad you’re there. I know what it feels like—when they get hurt and you’re not there.

Max: I didn’t know who she’d called. It wasn’t me. That was the worst part.

Jos: She didn’t want to scare you. Women do that. Try to be strong for us even when they’re the ones bleeding.

Max: She shouldn’t have to. She’s not just strong. She’s mine.

Jos: Then protect her. Not with fists or anger. With patience. With time. With the parts of yourself I didn’t teach you how to use.

Max: I’m trying.

Jos: You’re already doing better than I ever did. Tell her I’m glad she’s okay.

Max: I will.

***

They didn’t go home right away.

After leaving Belle’s apartment, the three brothers ended up walking without saying much. First toward the marina. Then past the café Charles used to swear had the best espresso in Monaco — even though none of them had gone there in over a year.

Eventually they sat on a low bench near the water, the kind that always seemed slightly too cold, facing out toward a sky smeared in gold and soft grey.

Lorenzo leaned back, arms stretched over the back of the bench like he needed more room to think. Arthur sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees. Charles stared straight ahead.

No one said anything for a while.

Then Arthur cleared his throat. “She looked small today.”

Charles didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to.

“Not weak,” Arthur added quickly. “Just… I forgot she could get hurt like that. I forgot she was carrying someone else too now.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly. “It’s not that I forgot. It’s that I didn’t let myself think about it.”

Charles nodded once, almost absently.

“I didn’t even remember she had a cinnamon allergy,” Lorenzo said after a pause. “And she’s been baking those cookies since we were teenagers.”

“I thought she liked doing it,” Charles said. “I thought it made her happy.”

“She made us happy,” Arthur murmured.

Silence again. Heavier this time.

“I keep thinking about the cookies,” Arthur said suddenly. “She didn’t think she was part of the tradition. She thought she was serving it.”

That landed like a rock in Charles’ chest.

He thought of the hospital earlier that day. The bruises on Belle’s knees. The way she’d looked at him when he asked why she hadn’t called. Calm. Not cold — just used to it.

He thought of Max — dropping to his knees beside her, hands trembling, forehead pressed to her stomach like it was sacred ground.

“I don’t want to be the kind of brother she has to survive around,” Charles said.

Lorenzo gave a slow nod. “Then let’s stop being that.”

“And start noticing,” Arthur added.

Charles looked out toward the water, letting the silence sit for a beat before saying, “Do you think she’ll ever trust us again?”

Lorenzo didn’t look at him. Just said quietly, “She let us in the apartment, didn’t she?”

Arthur stood first. “That’s a start.”

And Charles — baby brother turned golden son turned witness to everything he missed — stood too.

He didn’t know how to fix it yet.

But for the first time in years, he wasn’t pretending it didn’t need fixing.

***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc & Lewis Hamilton

Charles: I just wanted to say thank you. For being there that night. With Belle. When she had the car accident.

Lewis:

I wasn’t going to leave her. She looked like she’d been through hell. And that car was a complete wreck. She didn’t want me to call you. When it happened.

Charles: …what?

Lewis:

When I said I was going to call your phone, she grabbed my arm. Begged me not to.

Charles:

I didn’t… I didn’t know it was like that.

Lewis:

No. You didn’t. And I get it — families are complicated. But she didn’t trust you to see her hurt.

She didn’t believe she’d be safe if you saw her vulnerable.

Charles:

That’s not how I meant to make her feel.

Lewis:

Then change it. She didn’t need someone to fix the crash. She needed someone who wouldn’t look away from the wreckage.

Charles:

Do you think she still sees me like that?

Lewis:

I think she wants to see something else. But that’s on you. Not her.

Charles:

I’m going to fix it. I’m not going to be the person she’s scared of anymore.

Lewis:

Good. Then show up. Not just when she’s bleeding. But when she’s quiet.

That’s when she needs someone most.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hülkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly and Yuki Tsunoda)

Lewis: I think Charles might actually be learning. Like… real emotional growth. Apologizing. Listening. Not centering himself.

Daniel: 👏 Character 👏 Development 👏 😮‍💨 Took him fucking long enough.

Sebastian: Growth. Late, but welcome.

George: Did he cry? That’s when you know it’s real. I want misty eyes and a cracking voice.

Carlos: Crying is the bare minimum at this point. He let Belle plan his birthdays for a decade and forgot hers.

Lando: okay WHO is this Charles and what did you do with the emotionally constipated one?

Alex: Honestly though… Good for him.

Fernando: Took him long enough.

Oscar: Should we make a certificate? “Congratulations, you’re no longer a liability to your sister’s mental health.”

Logan: We should throw him a party. One he doesn’t make Belle organize.

Valtteri: I’ll bring the emotional support coffee.

David: Someone check if Charles is running a fever.

Mark: I’m just glad someone else is parenting the grid’s feelings for once.

Daniel: Progress, boys. It’s happening. Everyone hydrate and emotionally prepare.

Lewis:

He’s trying. For once, I believe him. Let’s see if he follows through.

Oscar: If he doesn’t, I vote Belle gets to slap him. On camera. For science.

Lando: I’ll bring popcorn.

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