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thrillformulas · 8 days ago

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PLSSSS part 2 to this time tomorrow but it’s a year or so later and he’s dealt with his grief and guilt and happily ever after pls

Same time yesterday | MV³³

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟮 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘 𝗧𝗢𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗪

*can’t be read as a standalone.

✦ summary ──── It’s been eleven months since she left, and her absence haunted every aspect of Max’s life.

✦ pairing ──── Max Verstappen x she/her reader

✦ rating ──── explicit

✦ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, feelings of unworthiness, emotional angst, isolation, themes of guilt, grief and self-doubt, panic attack with descriptions of physical symptoms, struggles with self-worth, insecurity and personal trauma, healing through intimacy, smut, fingering & oral ─ (f)receiving, unprotected sex, pet names, praise, multiple orgasms, overstimulation.

✦ word count ──── 8.5k

✦ date ──── Jun. 12, 2025

✦ a/n ──── This is not very I don’t do part 2s of me, but the amount of people requesting it made me feel guilty, so here we are. YOU WIN (ILY) 🙄. All jokes aside, writing this healed something in me. Goodnight 🤍✨

MAX DIDN’T EXPECT her to actually leave.

In his stubbornness, he hoped that he’d find her back in his apartment once he returned from work a week later, when her mind would clear up and the adrenaline of the breakup would be long gone. But when that didn’t happen, and he came back to an empty place, he slowly began to panic. On the inside, of course. Because Max is the kind of person who rarely ever displays his feelings out in the open, and when he does it, it’s usually his ruthless side that comes out. He would never admit in front of anyone that he has weaknesses. The only time he’s ever done it was in front of the mirror, in those mornings when everything became too heavy to carry for a pair of shoulders already weighed by the burdens of the past.

He did not expect her to leave.

Not after everything they’d said to each other, not after the way she’d touched his face the night she walked out, and the way her lips lingered on his cheek like a goodbye she didn’t want to make real. Not after she whispered that he knew where to find her. That she was still willing to give them a chance, but this thime, they as a whole had a price. And he needed to cover it in its entirety.

When her absence has finally caught up to him, Max got angry.

Not at her, but at the hole she left behind. At himself for not begging her to stay, even though that goes against everything he is as a person. At the way grief still had its claws in his chest even when he thought he’d buried it deep enough to allow himself to love again.

She said she understood. She acted like she did for so long. But then she left. She promised she wasn’t asking for more than he could give, and then she still walked away when he couldn’t give it fast enough. It felt like betrayal to Max, twisted and misplaced, but real.

After that, he threw himself into work like he always did: training, simulation, back-to-back race weekends. Late nights at the gym, longer ones behind the wheel. But no matter how many laps he ran, no matter how fast he drove, he couldn’t outpace the noise inside his own head. At times, it felt as if it tried to deafen him completely. And sometimes, there were so many voices in there that they overlapped and he had the impression that he could go mad.

It got worse when doubts started creeping in.

What if he’d ruined something good once again?

What if she was right, and he never actually moved on, not from grief, not from guilt, not from his dead wife?

He couldn’t trust himself anymore. The same instincts that made him a four-time World Champion now betrayed him on track. He second-guessed overtakes, overcorrected in turns, and crashed into his rivals on purpose.

The paddock noticed it, so did the press. Max Verstappen didn’t make mistakes, until he did. And the worst part of all: he stopped caring.

His despair was subtle at first. It bled in during the long flights, in the lonely hotel rooms, and in the silence after a shitty race. He tried texting her a couple of times, but it was always short, dry, and empty. She responded kindly, as usual, but never let it go further. Though Max hated it, he respected that, because he respected her, even if he thought it was bullshit. All of it.

It wasn’t until one particularly sleepless night, many months after she left, that the loneliness finally did what the anger couldn’t: it made his mind quiet. It made him sit with himself and be brutally honest. Realistically, he realized that no trauma will ever completely heal. A shadow of guilt will always follow him, no matter who he ends up becoming, what he achieves in his career and who’s going to be there with him.

That night, Max stood in front of the mirror, the ring on his finger slightly sparkling in the bathroom light. It somehow looked dull, like it, too, got tired from being worn by a man who didn’t know how to let go. Only this time, he didn’t see his wife. Instead, he saw the woman who stayed even when he didn’t have the words to explain himself, the one who kissed him like she was pouring pieces of herself into the cracks of him, the one who left not to hurt him out of spite, but to save them both. Or at least try.

And he understood that the ring didn’t remind him of grief anymore. It reminded him of who managed to give it a whole another meaning. It reminded him of what he stood to lose if he didn’t start choosing life instead of loss. And just like that, still panicking on the inside, he figured a new way of feeling the pain and owning it without hurting so much.

Max’s fingers trembled, but he took it off. He took. The damn ring. Off.

And something about the silence cracked open the moment he did it. At first, it was a strange numbness, like his skin and limbs and even his thoughts didn’t belong to him. Then the trembling turned into tremors. His hands shook so badly that the ring slipped from his palm, clinking against the sink like a warning. He had a tiny impulse to put it back, but he didn’t. His breath hitched, chest rising in short bursts that couldn’t catch enough air. The walls of the room seemed to press in, tighter and tighter, so he gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. His heart thudded violently between his lungs, and he could hear it.

Then his knees gave out, and he collapsed to the cold tile floor, curled onto his side, eyes wide and unfocused as his mind raced with fear — am I dying? Is this how it ends? All alone…

He didn’t call anyone. He didn’t move, because he couldn’t. He just lay there, whispering to himself that he deserved this. That maybe this was part of it: the punishment, the penance, the cost of finally letting go. But he’d chosen grief so long, it felt wrong to be free of it. And, ultimately, he ended up convincing himself it was better that way, but every time he looked at the empty space on his finger, he wondered how long she’d wait. If she was still waiting at all.

He couldn’t stand the thought of her saying no after that, so he never texted her again.

IT’S A RANDOM Tuesday when Max is in the pet aisle, squinting at a row of identical cat food cans, wearing an old Red Bull hoodie from the early 2010s. The hood is up, casting a shadow over his face, a subtle shield against the world.

He isn’t expecting anything. Maybe a fan or two who may recognize him. But not her. However, the second she walks through the automatic doors, pushing her cart slowly, head tilted like she’s scanning the shelves for something specific, he sees her. Her hair is a little shorter now. Her coat swings open as she walks, and she’s humming softly to herself, unaware.

Until she turns, and her eyes meet his. Time doesn’t stop, but it does slow, just enough for Max’s chest to go tight. And they both realize it at the same time: they’re going to have to choose. Quickly. A nod and a half-smile, play it off like strangers passing in the middle of something ordinary.

Or talk.

Max does it before she gets the chance to. He doesn’t even glance at the shelves again. His hand reaches out and grabs two random cans of cat food, the labels facing the wrong way, something he wouldn’t normally touch. But it’s not about the cat food anymore.

It’s about how she notices the way Max squeezes the cans in his hands, and how his left hand, in particular, molds around the circular container, making her heart stop for a beat.

“Your hand’s all naked,” her mouth talks without her permission the moment he gets close enough for him to hear her; the fact that it’s the first thing she tells him doesn’t come as a suprise for either of them.

Max smiles a little, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Uh, yeah,” he says quietly, looking down at it like he hadn’t realized it himself until now. “It’s been for a while.”

They stand there, hands full of domestic normalcy, bodies not quite knowing what to do next.

“Hi,” her lips curl slightly into something that isn’t quite a smile, but not quite neutral either.

“Hi,” he echoes, voice a little raspier than he’d like. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” adds Max, glancing around like maybe the store has changed since he last looked.

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs, looking anywhere but at him.

There’s too much unsaid between them to make small talk feel right. Too many memories that exist in kitchens and beds and mornings with whispers and kisses. And yet they try.

“You look good,” Max says, his eyes flicking up and down, unsure of where to land. “Shorter hair suits you.”

She nods. “Thanks. You look…,” her voice trails off, checking him out from head to toe in order to find something nice to connect with, but when she can’t do that, she chooses to be honest instead. “Tired.”

Max smiles, but looks defeated as he does. “Not sleeping much.”

“Work?”

He hesitates. “And everything else.”

They both look like they want to leave but can’t quite make their feet move. It feels like there’s too much air between them, and yet, too many things have already been said, cried out, and broken open like bones that never healed right. Max can feel it rising in his throat. It’s bitter and sweet all at once. The fucking guilt. The longing. It’s her, actually. Right here, in front of him again, after eleven months and three days of not seeing her. Of only surviving her through old texts and ghost limbs.

His fingers twitch around the cans.

She’s standing like she’s braced for impact, but her eyes finally land all over him: his face, the hoodie she actually wore a few times before when she was waiting for him to come back home, his hand, his left hand. His bare left hand.

“This is weird, right?” Max finally asks, his voice sounding like he hasn’t spoken a single word for weeks.

She lets out a sigh. “A little, yeah,” she agrees, nodding.

And still, neither of them moves.

“You know, I almost didn’t come in,” she admits, fingers curling tighter around her cart. “I was parked outside for, like, ten minutes just sitting there. Because I realized this is your neighborhood and I’d risk seeing you,” she adds quickly.

Max feels his heart racing again before he even understands it. His throat goes dry, and when he speaks, he sounds hurt. “You didn’t want to see me?”

She blinks, startled, like she hadn’t expected the question to come out that way. “No,” she breathes. “No, Max, that’s not what I meant.”

He holds her gaze, and this close, he can see the sheen of emotion swimming in her eyes. There’s no anger in there anymore. Just, maybe, a little ache.

“It’s nice to see you,” she says. “I did want to see you so badly that I almost turned the car around, because I wasn’t sure if I could handle it.”

Max’s chest caves inward, his brows drawn together like the weight of all those lost months just landed right between his ribs. “Well, I think you’re handling it very well,” he jokes, but she doesn’t laugh, which makes his smile fade a little, not knowing if he crossed a line he shouldn’t have.

She looks down for a moment, biting at her kower lip, then back up. “I think you do, too.”

They both go quiet again, surrounded by fluorescent lights and grocery store music and the quiet chatter of other people, but none of it registers. The world has narrowed down to just them in the shortest time, like it always did. Knowing someone so intimately does that to a space, no matter how big or small.

Max rubs the back of his neck, like he’s trying to release the tension lodged there. “Listen, I don’t want to do this here. In front of the cat food and the Goldfish treats.”

His words earn the smallest smile from her, just for a second. “And what is this, exactly?”

He stops, looking around in order to get his thoughts together. “If you’re not busy, I was about to order a pizza for dinner,” Max hesitates, then adds quickly, “I swear, I just want to talk. I just…” he runs a hand over his jaw. “I haven’t been able to say anything that matters in a long time, and I want to. I owe you.”

She swallows, wary. “You don’t owe me anything, Max. Not anymore.”

He shakes his head. “I owe you my time.”

He sees the way her brow furrows, confusion flickering across her face, and Max knows she doesn’t understand what he means by that. And he can’t quite tell her that he means all the months he spent with her while only giving her a fraction of himself, because the most part was still buried in grief, clinging to a past he couldn’t change. He means the smiles she gave him that he didn’t return fast enough, the quiet ways she showed up for him while he kept one foot in a world that no longer existed. He means every second he spent being afraid to choose them, and every moment he let that fear win. What he owes her is his precious time, the kind that’s undivided, intentional, and fully present.

The time he should’ve been spending loving her without hesitation. Without conditions.

The time he still hopes to give, if she’ll let him.

THE MOMENT HE turns the key in the lock and nudges the door open, the apartment comes alive with a flurry of soft meows and pattering paws. Jimmy is the first to appear, coming out from the hallway with the usual cheeky air, followed by Sassy, who practically chirps in recognition when she sees that her owner is not alone.

The girl barely has time to step out of her shoes before the cats are circling her feet, tails high, meowing as if they’ve been abandoned for weeks. They don’t hesitate, don’t even sniff to confirm, yet the purring starts instantly, the kind of sound they only made when she used to come home late and curl up with them on the couch. Both cats cling to her like she’s their mother, like home walked back through the door after years of waiting.

Max watches it all unfold, frozen, with the cans stacked on top of the other still in hand.

“Fuckin’ assholes,” he complains under his breath, shutting the door behind him. “The only reason I even left the apartment was because they wouldn’t shut up about being hungry. And now they won’t even look at me,” adds Max, a little irritated.

She looks up with a smirk and gently takes the cans from his hand. “Allow me,” she says with a mock bow, brushing past him on her way to the kitchen with the ease of someone who still remembers exactly where everything is.

Max leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her open the cabinets to pull out the tiny cat dishes they once picked together at a pet store in Italy. Her movements are fluid, the muscle memory guiding her every gesture; the clink of the spoon against the dish, and the way she splits the food evenly, as if it still matters that Sassy used to pout when Jimmy got more.

The remembering. That’s what gets to him every single time. The way it all looks like she wasn’t away for months. The way his own pets remember her scent and presence — more than that, they crave it. And they’re not the only ones, he figures.

Eventually, Max leaves her to it and goes to order the food he promised, knowing that he will be ignored anyway, at least until the cats eat and get bored of playing. The pizza arrives just as she finishes washing her hands, and they settle on the couch like they’ve done a hundred times before, the box open between them, the cats finally dozing at their feet.

For a moment, the quiet sets peacefully around them and it almost feels like they never fell apart at all. Their legs don’t touch, but the distance isn’t as wide as it used to be. Between bites, their eyes meet, without causing unnecessary tension, just a bittersweet quiet wrapped in intimacy. He watches the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and she catches the way he still wipes his fingers on his thighs, like always.

Finishing his second slice, Max finally decides to disturb the peace. “Thanks for giving them some attention,” he says, pointing at the cats that are now back in their donut beds. “They’ve been such jerks lately.”

She glances at the cats, her gaze softening. “You know they treat you like you treat them.”

He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth lift. “I’ve been nothing but an endless fountain of joy around them since you left, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her smile falters the second his sarcasm slips out. And suddenly, the guilt wraps around her ribs like a vice, because she had no idea just how lonely it must have been. She tried to imagine it a few times, sure, but the truth is always harsher.

“Back at the store,” she begins, a little hesitant, “You said it’s been a while since you took it off.”

Max takes a moment before he nods, not immediately meeting her gaze. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when you… you know,” she says, gesturing at his hand. “I thought that was our agreement.”

He swallows, running his fingers over his jaw, which he often does when he’s struggling to think of the right thing to say. “And say what? Thank you for waiting, I’m ready to finally offer you more than the bare minimum?” he says in a sarcastic tone, shaded by a trace of anger. “You deserve better.”

She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches him with those eyes that always made him feel seen. Like she could read the gaps between his words, without needing anything else but him.

The girl shrugs. “That would’ve been a start,” she says casually, taking the pizza box and putting it on the coffee table in front of them.

Max almost flinches at the thought. It tastes so wrong in his mouth, because he doesn’t want to act as if the time they spent together was just a draft. He wants what they had and what they were. The laughter in the kitchen. Her voice humming in the bathroom. The weight of her body curling toward his in the middle of the night when she thought he was asleep. The way she used to look at him like he wasn’t broken beyond repair.

“I don’t want a start,” he insists. “I want what we left behind.”

Her brows lift slightly, her expression unreadable, but her lips part like she’s about to speak. He beats her to it.

“It’s been fucking awful,” the words come out unfiltered. “Missing you, I mean,” he explains, like the thought has been sitting on his brain for months, maybe since the second she walked out of his life. “Not just in passing. Every day.”

His hand moves without thinking, crossing a distance far greater than the space between them, and when his calloused fingers curl gently around hers, all those months of pain fade somewhere into a distant past. Her skin is just as he remembers, warm and soft like silk. The touch is tender, Max’s thumb brushing the back of her hand like he’s reminding himself that she’s real, and not just a figment of his twisted imagination.

He doesn’t want to go beyond the invisible line they’ve both drawn, but when she squeezes him gently, it’s more than a confirmation. It’s her equally strong desire to return to their own normalcy. And after that, it takes almost nothing, maybe just a look and the smallest shift in the air, and he pulls her in his lap.

Her legs straddle him, fitting there with maddening ease. Her hands wrap around the back of his neck, fingertips threading into his hair, playing with it absentmindedly like it’s second nature.

The sudden closeness forces him to breathe in sharply, inhaling her scent that fans across his lips.

“Max...” she whispers, her face tilting toward his, eyes dropping to his mouth as if kissing him is inevitable.

But he can’t have that. What good thing has ever come so easily in his life? Twice.

Max’s hand presses against her waist to push her away, and his head turns as a response. At that, she stills in his arms, eyes searching his face.

“Liefje?” she whispers again, hurt and confused.

He shakes his head, still avoiding to look at her. “I can’t.”

She frowns. “Why?”

Finally, Max’s eyes flick to hers as he swallows the lump in his throat. The blue in them is dark and faded, and it scares her a little. They’re glassy, full of things he’s never been good at saying out loud. “Because I don’t... I don’t deserve it,” he says, quiet like a confession passed through gritted teeth.

Her hands slide from his neck to either side of his face, forcing him to keep his gaze on her.

“Look at me,” she demands when he tries to look away again, but it sounds almost pleading. She can feel the way his muscles are tense beneath her, how hard he’s trying to stay composed. “You think I’d be here if I didn’t want to?” she asks.

His mouth opens, shuts, then opens again, “How could you possibly still want this?”

Her thumbs brush along his cheekbones, pressing closer, her nose brushing his. “Because you want this,” she replies simply. “I left because I thought you didn’t want us, and that hurt the most.”

Max flinches, “I did,” he nods, “Want us.”

“The ring on your finger told a different story at the time,” she smiles, a trace of sadness shadowing her face.

“I’m sorry,” it’s all he says.

She tilts his chin slightly, kissing the corner of his mouth, careful. She understands that, after all, this is their dynamic. She’ll always have to wait for him, one way or another. Do everything at Max’s pace. It may not be ideal, but it has worked in the past, when the tallest walls separated them.

He lets out a trembling breath, arms circling her waist to bring her closer.

“Please,” she whispers, “Let me kiss you.”

This time, his lips crash into hers with a desperate need. Her attempt was soft, but there’s nothing gentle in the way needs her. It’s heat and hunger and all the months of silence and aching compressed into one kiss. His fingers move to cup her face, and he groans against her mouth, finally letting go.

She shifts as the kiss deepens, slowing down until it becomes worshipful.

“I missed you,” he says again.

She smiles through the ache in her chest. “Yeah, I can tell.”

Her hips move unconsciously, but it’s enough for Max to catch her meaning. The girl slides forward and presses down right where he’s already hard beneath her. The friction hits hard between them, and they both still for a moment. Max breathes in through his teeth, and a silent gasp stutters out, all distance suddenly dissolved.

She traces down the curve of his neck, over his collarbones and lower, palms gliding across the fabric of his hoodie. It’s soft and worn, but it hides too much for her liking. So she hooks her fingers underneath it, pushing up, and Max doesn’t stop her. He lifts his arms, helps her peel it off, and the warmth of his skin underneath makes her breath catch in her throat. The muscles of his torso flex as he breathes, tight and lean, built by years of control and discipline.

But right now, he’s giving her none of that control. He just looks at her like he’s ready to rip his heart out and give it to her on a silver platter. With a smile on his face.

Her blouse is next, coming off in a smooth motion. And then, before she can say anything more, he shifts quickly underneath her. In a blink of an eye, he has her on her back, stretched out along the couch, his body poised above hers.

She barely has time to register the change in position before his mouth is back on hers, as possessive as it used to be, like the last kiss wasn’t nearly enough. Max’s lips trail down over her jaw and neck, leaving heat in his wake. Patient, he kisses along the edge of her bra, then he looks up at her. His pupils are blown wide, but there’s still that sliver of restraint behind them.

“Can I?” he asks, a tiny smile blooming in the corner of his mouth, because he already knows the answer.

She nods. “Yes.”

Swiftly, he unclasps her bra and slips it away, tossing it somewhere behind him. His hands slide down her sides as his mouth drops to her chest, breathing her in deeply. The first touch of his tongue on her nipple makes her inhale sharply, her hands flying to his back, gripping and squeezing. Max groans quietly against her skin when she arches up into him, and his hands weld themselves to her thighs to encourage her to wrap her legs around his waist. After that, he changes his position just slightly and grinds down into her, swallowing her whimpers with his mouth still latched onto her breast.

She closes her eyes, allowing herself to feel everything, all at once. His mouth moves from one nipple to the other, teasing, sucking, and she pulls him closer and closer by the shoulders, as if she can’t get enough of his weight. His presence. Him.

“Can you stay like this for a sec?” she asks in a trembling voice, the emotion evident in every word. She keeps him pressed down against her with her arms locked around his shoulders before Max can even process. “Just stay here, please.”

He lifts his head to search for her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Then, he kisses between her breasts, and rests his forehead there, listening to her heartbeat decrease in intensity with each passing second. His weight is warm and secure around her, his breathing slowing, too. She brushes his hair back with one hand, and the other strokes his spine.

“I missed you, too,” she finally says. “So much it started making me sick.”

Max’s eyes flutter closed, but he’s content to just listen, offering her the space to speak her mind.

“I had to buy a weighted blanket,” she chuckles shyly. “I couldn’t sleep, either. My anxiety was so bad I felt like I was floating out of my skin.”

Max blinks, then slowly pushes up on his forearms to look at her fully. There’s concern etched into every inch of his face, and he sounds stern when he speaks again, “You never told me it got that bad.”

She shrugs, trying to brush it off. “Didn’t want to make you feel worse. You already blame yourself for everything else.”

His jaw tightens, fingers twitching against her ribs. “That’s for me to worry, right? You should’ve told me.”

With a small sigh, she shakes her head as if it doesn’t even matter anymore. “I’m telling you now.”

Her words settle into the air between them like a sudden change in gravity, and it makes Max still completely. It takes him a second to process what she’s said, and not just the meaning, but the weight of it. That she hurt too. That while he was spiraling in silence, buried in self-loathing and racing to outrun emotions he couldn’t face, she was also falling apart as quietly.

His forehead presses against hers, but this time, the tension in his shoulders give away the war he carries in his mind, the guilt and regret in his soul, the anger, and the fear that he might still mess this up. He chokes on a breath, the kind of harsh inhale you take before something breaks and can’t be stopped.

She can feel him slowly but surely detaching, so she doesn’t hesitate to bring him back to the present moment with her. She kisses him all over, not just his lips. A sweet series of soft, scattered kisses along his cheek, his temple, his nose. His shoulders. His collarbones. She kisses him as if that would cure him of all his guilt, insecurities and self-hatred.

Max lets out a broken laugh, unexpected yet warm, as she keeps going, clumsier now. “That’s how you used to kiss Sassy when you stepped on her paws,” he reminds her. “You didn’t break me, baby,” he assures her. “It’s not your fault.”

The words hang there, heavy with understanding, because he can see she feels guilty, as if his pain is somehow hers to fix. Even now. His heart cracks at the thought of her carrying that weight, but it also warms at her tenderness and the quiet way she’s trying to make everything stop hurting. For both of them.

He sighs. “Maybe we should just finish the food, hm?” Max offers, his tone laced with hesitation, trying to give her an out, without putting too much pressure.

She shakes her head instead, then stares at him for a second. While continuing to maintain eye contact, her hand moves down between them with purpose. The metallic sound of his zipper being undone slices through the air like a whip in an empty room, and Max’s body responds instantly, looking like he’s suddenly struggling to breathe, as she pushes his pants lower over his hips.

“I’m hungry for something else,” she says, smirking at him.

The last of their clothes disappear in a blur of heat and touch, the space between them closing until it’s completely gone, and not a speck of dust can seep in. Their bodies press together, skin on skin, making Max curse under his breath, his hands roaming her waist, thighs, and ribs, remembering the shape of her all over again. After taking the ring off, he convinced himself that being alone and deprived of her entirely was the new punishment. But now, he’s surprised to find out that no amount of penance could ever be worth losing her again.

She gasps when his lips catch her off guard, kissing her deeply, hand sliding south, slipping between silk folds already wet with want.

“Shit,” he whispers through gritted teeth, barely able to contain himself. “I forgot how soaked you get from a little nipple play.”

She moans faintly into his mouth, hips lifting with ease toward his touch. His fingers stroke through her slowly, savoring her sounds, while his middle finger presses in. Just the tip, to test her patience and give her all the time in the world to open up for him.

As if he’s under a spell, Max watches her face, completely transfixed. “I swear you’re trying to kill me,” he praises her deliriously, pushing his finger deeper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Mhm,” she hums, her nails digging lightly into his back, leaving faint love scratches behind.

At that, he smiles a little smug, and starts pumping his finger with much purpose. He’s on a mission now, intending to relearn every twitch and tiny flinch, because for some reason, making her come like this has become his new life’s purpose. And the fact that she’s obscenely wet, encourages him to keep going, gliding his finger in effortlessly, the slick noises echoing between them like he’s already halfway inside her with his cock instead.

“I fucking missed it, too,” he admits, voice cracking at the way he feels her clenching around him. Every time his finger strokes against that soft, spongy spot inside, her thighs lock around his wrist like Max is her puppeteer, hips canting up, chasing more. “There it is,” he says with satisfaction.

Without pulling away, he eases in another finger, curling them with surgical precision, dragging against that same spot until she’s shaking. Her tiny gasps turns into broken moans, high and breathless, her palms squeezing his shoulders harder. Max starts scissoring them in the way he knows it’ll make her see stars, stretching her open, happy to watch her squirm and melt because of him.

“Want me to keep going until you can’t think straight?”

She tries to answer, but all that comes out is just another pathetic whimper. Her slick coats his knuckles, dripping down his palm, earning a low hum from Max while driving his fingers faster.

“So tight and desperate,” he says mostly to himself. “Let me see you,” his thumb finds her clit, rubbing delicious circles as his fingers keep fucking up into her, stretching her sweetly.

Her reaction is immediate: her whole body jerks, thighs quivering as her pussy fights to hold him in, harder than before.

“Max,” she tries to warn him in a shaky voice.

He doesn’t even hesitate. Instead, he pulls his fingers out and dives in on instinct, burying his face between her thighs like a man starved. His tongue replaces where his fingers had just been, fucking into her with messy, greedy strokes. Max grips her thighs, making sure to groan loudly into her, wanting her to hear exactly how much he’s enjoying this. She keens, hands flying to his hair as he eats her out with a kind of reckless devotion that leaves her gasping for air.

Her orgasm crashes over her with an unexpected loud cry. Her hips arch off the couch, body convulsing as she soaks his face, a warm flood dripping down his chin and onto the cushion beneath him. Max agrees satisfied, like he lives for this, licking her through it until she’s shuddering and whimpering and very much not thinking straight, trying to push him away from overstimulation.

He pulls back with a glossy mouth, chin dripping, and eyes blown wide. That clear blue has finally returned, contrasting beautifully against the bright pink of his flushed face. His hair is a mess, and he’s breathing hard like he just came. She wishes she could paint him like that, but she knows that no brush would ever do justice to the beauty she sees in him.

“My god, Max,” she laughs, still breathless, reaching up to pull him toward her. She wipes his chin with her palm, eyes half-lidded, before tugging him in for a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. “You’re such a show-off.”

He smirks, resting his forehead to hers. “Well, I am a professional.”

“Oh yeah?” she teases, brushing her fingers through his hair. “Did they add that as part of your pre-race routine?”

Max shrugs with a deceptively serious expression on his face. “Helps with focus. And finger control.”

The girl chuckles. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re perfect,” he replies quickly, leaning in to finish their kiss.

His lips are soft and plumped, and they give her the second she needs to breathe before the air shifts. Max’s hand cups her cheek, and when he looks at her, his voice drops, eyes filled with a tamed concern.

“You okay?” he asks, the kind of okay that means are you still with me?

It’s the care behind his voice that gets to her. The one that she only saw a couple of times in him, when Max really let her see the purest version of him. The version that’s not on any screen, nor the version that walks out the door everyday to go to work. This Max is too soft, afraid, and weak. Or so people would say if they’d know.

She finds it hard to speak, instead, she reaches down, fingers curling around his cock. She nudges the thick head through her folds, dragging it up and down in maddening passes, not letting him in, just coating it in the mess he made of her. It’s a sweet tease, a challenge, and a bit of revenge from her side, that gets the expected reaction out of him: Max whines, and his hips twitch in anticipation.

But before she can do it again, he bucks forward just enough to slip between her lips. Not inside. Just there. Nestled. Pressed. Bothering.

“Shit,” she gasps at the drag of his cock against her folds. Is too much already, yet not enough, her body betraying her before she can play it cool.

Max laughs at her failed attempt, dragging himself up her slit again, slow and sticky. “What do you think you’re doing, schatje?”

She moans, frustrated. “Nothing.”

He keeps going, rubbing himself through her wetness, teasing her entrance, but never pushing in. After all, she just showed him how to, didn’t she? It’s punishment for both of them, his cock is throbbing, coated in her, and every pass just winds them tighter.

“You feel that?” asks Max in a quiet whisper. “That’s how much you want me,” he continues, finally pushing in. The stretch is sweet, tight and wet and warm, and the moment he’s fully inside, everything goes still. He lets out a relieved sigh, his head dropping to her shoulder, “And this is how much I want you.”

Perfection in just the right amount. Being inside her like this shuts his brain off and, soon enough, the silence inside his skull becomes addictive.

The first thrust feels like coming home.

The second thrust brings all the memories back.

The third thrust makes her eyes roll, her hands clutching at his arms, hips trying to chase every retreat he makes.

Max has to grip her tighter to keep her in place, and gently pushes her thighs apart wider. He watches the way she spreads, how easily she welcomes him, and it lights something heavy in him, but also devastatingly tender. It pushes him to slide in again and again, deeper and deeper, and the sound she lets out has the power to knock the breath out of his lungs.

It’s not difficult to find their rhythm. That perfect pace that makes it feel less like fucking and more like a love language only they understand. Every push and pull is a new promise. Every moan, a certainty that they will keep those promises this time. As the pleasure builds, they understand it’s more than that. It’s healing. With every stroke and every breathless sound between them, they’re stitching something back together. Something they thorned and fractured because they didn’t know better, now is slowly mending, making them stronger than they’ve ever been.

Max fucks her like he’s never going to get another chance to be this whole again. Like this is the last time it’ll ever hurt, and the first time they’re finally allowed to live. Their bodies slap together, the sounds echoing like music against the walls; it’s hot, thirsty, a song made by them, just for them. He keeps her open, holding her thighs in place because he wants to see all of it. The way she takes him. The way she glistens for him. The way she gives herself so fully, without flinching. And if she can do that — if she can give him this —, then maybe he’s not broken beyond repair.

He fucks into her harder, hips slamming and claiming. It’s like his darkest side cracked open and poured out all the ugly through need, hope, love, all tangled in sweat and skin and moans and and and.

“Fuck, Max. Yes, you feel so good,” her praise makes him sob, hips jerking like he’s being praised for something holy.

He leans down to kiss her, but they’re both too far gone. It ends up being just open mouths, shared breath, moans between lips that can’t quite meet, not with how their bodies are still colliding, over and over.

“Mine,” Max spits out breathless, as he feels her start to tighten around his cock, fluttering repeatedly like her body is begging to fall apart with him.

Her hands curl around his biceps in order to be able to meet his thrusts halfway, nails digging in. “All yours,” she wails.

He shifts her legs higher around his waist, his hand sliding beneath her knee to angle her just right, and when he thrusts again, her whole body jolts. “Right there?” he asks, watching her eyes closing shut, her mouth falling open. “Ja, that’s it. That’s how my baby needs it.”

Her entire body shakes with pleasure, panting with every thrust as he drives into her with a need that’s no longer just physical. It’s every moment he missed her, every second he hated himself for letting her walk away, instead of ripping that ring off his hand, finger and all.

Max’s voice breaks against her skin, “You have any idea what you did to me for eleven months?”

She nods, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Of course you do,” Max smiles into her neck, maintaining the pace, sweat dripping from his brow as her walls spasm around him, pulling him deeper. “You know I jerked off to the thought of you every night,” he continues, the confession nearly unraveling him. “Couldn’t touch anyone else because your pretty face was everywhere I looked.”

Her fingers slide into his hair, pulling gently. “My good boy,” she purrs, and the sound he makes in response is feral, like it strips him down to his most basic instinct.

Max cries out, thrusts faltering for a second before he slams into her harder. “Say that again,” he demands in a pleading voice.

“You’re my good boy,” she whispers, then kisses his cheek, smiling as he loses himself a little more. “You always were.”

The words wreck him. He breathes wetly into her neck, almost embarrassed by how much he needs to hear it, and how much he actually craves being her good boy. Beneath his though exterior, there’s always been a constant need to belong to someone entirely. Not out of weakness, but out of a desire to be seen and chosen. To be loved, treasured, and protected like he mattered. Because as a kid, those things came rarely, if ever. And though Max learned to survive without them, part of him never stopped longing for that kind of love. The kind he once found and lost, the kind he almost recklessly pushed away. The kind she gave him, without asking for anything but his love in return.

“I didn’t let anyone else touch me, either,” she continues, breathless but determined to let him know, her fingers now tracing down his spine. “Told every guy that hit on me I had a boyfriend waiting for me at home. Did I lie, Maxie?”

He moans louder, his body surging forward like something inside him just snapped. His thrusts grow rougher, driven by the need to prove her right. To remind her that she is, indeed, his, and no one else can ever make her feel this way.

“No,” replies Max. “You’re mine,” he pants, “My little kitten, ja?”

She laughs, half-sob, half-moan, body shaking as she clings to him.

Somehow, his lips find her breast again, latching onto her nipple like it’s instinct. He sucks on it a little rough, making her head bury further into the couch cushion with a soft whimper. She’s obsessed with The Feel of Max — his weight, the way he pushes into her and how his skin presses into hers, the sound of his breath against her chest. Every cell in her body burns for him, a deep fire that’s been waiting to reignite since the moment she did one of the hardest things: removing herself from her heart, because she had to choose herself for once.

His left hand reaches for hers blindly, pulling her out of the dreamy state she’s fell into. Max threads their fingers together and pins them above her head against the cushions. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she clutches his hand tighter, her stomach flipping with emotion. Her eyes fly open, not from surprise but from the intensity of it and how light it is. It’s impossible not to feel the difference; that tiny missing weight that used to sit there like a wall between them.

Max notices the shift in how she exhales, in the way her body clings to his. He doesn’t ask, but he knows.

“I see you,” he says. “I fucking see you, baby.”

She sobs out a sigh, something between a moan and an overwhelmed yes.

“You feel so good. So good, my love,” repeats Max again and again, like he can’t say it enough. “I’m never letting anything come between us, I swear.”

His honesty is poured into every thrust, every kiss against her jaw, her mouth, her neck and shoulder. Everything she needed to hear, he’s saying now, as if he finally realizes that she’s been waiting. And he knows she believes him. He feels it. Feels it in the way her walls flutter around his length faster, needier. Sees how her hips lift to meet his and how her chest expandes rapidly.

Her stomach coils tight, pleasure rising sharp inside her, “Max, if you don’t shut up,” she cries, “I’m gonna fucking come all ov—”

He laughs softly against her lips, silencing her, but he doesn’t stop. “Make a mess for me then,” he encourages her, thumb brushing her cheek. “I’ve got you.”

He does. He always did.

With Max’s name on her tongue, his hand in hers, and every part of her clinging to him like gravity isn’t ever going to be enough again, she lets go. Her climax sends him spiraling, soaking everything, from the couch to his thighs and cock, with the kind of release that leaves no question how much she needed him. He wraps one arm around her waist in order to keep himself present as he shoves in deep one last time and stills, body shaking.

“Fuuuck,” Max chokes, forehead falling to her collarbone.

His cock throbs as he empties himself into her, her body welcoming every drop from him. His heart is hammering against her ribs, and he needs to breathe her in a few times before lifting his head, eyes glazed as they drop to where their bodies are still connected.

The sight nearly makes him come again.

Her thighs are trembling, spread wide, their slick mixed with his cum, smeared across her skin and his cock and the ruined couch. It’s absolute chaos, and he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Satisfied, he collapses onto her fully, letting his weight sink into her just like he knows she needs. The girl sighs, breath tickling his temple, her hands finding his arms, scratching soft patterns along his skin. Goosebumps rise in waves, but Max doesn’t move. He just melts into her, letting her touch soothe him.

Her body acts before her brain has time to process. Gently, she lifts his hand and presses her lips to each knuckle. One by one. Then soft pad beneath his thumb. His palm, and the faint scar across it. She remembers how he caught the knife by the blade that night, and all the blood that spilled into the sink.

“Come home,” he whispers, voice cracking from the effort of saying it aloud. “Please.”

When there’s no answer, Max’s hands grip her waist, but he can’t find the strength to get up and look at her.

“Please,” he repeats. “I want to cook for you. Fight with you over stupid shit. Watch you fall asleep on this couch again. Just… let me love you right, baby.”

She closes her eyes, breathing in deeply. Max’s scent clings to her skin, to her hair, to the air around them, and that mix of sweat and sex drives her insane. It’s in the crook of her neck, on the inside of her thighs, behind her knees, soaked into her very inhale and exhale. It’s impossible to tell where she ends and he begins.

“What did you do with the ring?”

Max stills. Not the soft kind of stillness that comes from rest after sex, but the rigid kind, where his muscles lock and his breath stops short, like her words caught him mid-step somewhere deep inside himself. And unfortunately, she feels it in the way his touch pauses, not pulling away, but no longer moving forward either.

Her heart sinks into her stomach.

She hadn’t meant it to feel like an ambush, or a test she didn’t even want the answer to in the first place. But the silence stretches just long enough that fear creeps in. And her mind is relentless, thoughts flying around, mean and uninvited: It still means something to him. Maybe more than you ever will.

But then Max’s voice cuts through all that, pushing all the dark clouds aside.

“I gave it back to her,” he says. “Took it to her grave and—”

“I’m sorry,” she cuts him off, fighting the tears in her eyes. She reaches to cradles his face in her hand, thumb sweeping gently across his cheek. His skin is warm beneath her touch, his stubble coarse. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

It’s his turn to interrupt her this time. “It’s okay,” Max assures her. “You were right. I needed to let it go if I wanted to be here. With you. It’s just… I am sorry it took so long.”

“No,” the girl shakes her head. “We can’t get mad at time for doing its thing,” she says gently.

Max’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t realize how badly he needed to hear that until it lands in him, like puzzle pieces falling into place. His eyes drift, settling on the digital clock glowing faintly on the wall. At the same time yesterday, he was lying in a cold bed, silence drilling through his ears louder than anything else. Swallowed whole by a grief so dark it didn’t even feel like sadness anymore. It was just a big hole of nothing.

A day later, he’s pressed against her, inside her, held by her. Breathing the same air as her.

Even though she didn’t say yes yet, even though he still has troubles sleeping, he’s content with the fact that the clock has reset itself for him. And for the first time since he got that call, he’s at peace.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

#max verstappen fic rec #max verstappen #mv33 fic rec #f1 fic rec #fic rec #max verstappen x reader #mv33 x reader #f1

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thrillformulas · 17 days ago

Note

Heyy there loved your latest post about the reader’s struggle with mental illness and it hit so close to home, you wrote it beautifully. I especially loved how lando mentioned it would be a process to help her heal, because it truly is. It made me want to see a follow up of their lives after her struggles where out, I think Lando would definitely hover over her and be afraid whenever she isn’t close. I also think that the fact that she kept it a secret for so long and the thought of what could’ve happened if he didn’t get there terrify him. How about you write a continuation where he is so intense about it that the reader gets upset and they get into a fight where lando reveals his concerns and how he has been feeling after the revelation and the reader realizes how much this has been affecting him. I would totally understand if you don’t want to continue this fic since the one you wrote was very complete and well written, however I think it would be amazing to show how it feels to love someone that suffers from depression and how painful it is.

Aftermath | LN⁴

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟮 𝗢𝗙 𝗦𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗦 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘

*can be read as a standalone, but I reckon it makes more sense if you have some background story

🤍 summary ──── In the messy aftermath, they are forced to realize that healing isn’t about going back to who they were.

🤍 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

🤍 rating ──── mature

🤍 word count ──── 3.5k

🤍 warnings ──── 16+, heavy angst, emotional distress, references to self-harm and feelings of worthlessness, mentions of guilt, codependency, and emotional burnout, swearing, sexual references, depiction of a supportive but emotionally intense relationship dynamic, comfort after pain.

Please prioritize your well-being while reading, my lovelies. If you click on the link to SEASONS CHANGE, you’ll find at the warnings section some (I’d like to think) useful resources.

🤍 date ──── Jun. 3, 2025

🤍 a/n ──── Listen. In theory, I don’t do part 2s. But clearly, I love emotionally wrecking myself (and all of you), so here we are. Please take this as a gentle threat and not an invitation to request multiple parts, because if it tickles my brain even slightly, I will spiral (and write it when you least expect it).

I am once again begging you on my knees to check this song out after finishing reading (not because ATL is one of my favorite bands, pfff 👀). But it brings me to actual tears has such good metaphors + it fits sooooo well from Lando’s POV ♥︎

SHE KNEW LANDO would change after what happened. She expected him to, but only to a certain extent. What she didn’t see coming was how incredibly fast he did it.

She noticed it in the smallest things at first. Like the way he asked her if she’s eaten, not like he used to, with a teasing grin and a slight suggestion to order takeout, but like he was checking a box on a list; like there was a right and wrong answer.

His kisses didn’t taste the same. He held her hand, brushed the hair behind her ear, and each move, without a doubt, was carefully measured.

Lando used to be spontaneous and loud around her, messy in a way she loved. Watching him was her favorite pastime, no matter what he was doing. Sometimes his socks weren’t matching, his texts were full of typos, and he used to laugh at her in the sweetest manner if her hair looked funny after napping or her shirts were stained with coffee or make-up.

Now, he’s precise. Hesitant. Clean and controlled. His texts look edited, manicured and made to reach a level of seriousness so uncharacteristic of him. He walks on eggshells around her, like any sudden movement might crack her open and reveal her darkest parts. He feels like someone who read an article on How to Support Your Mentally Ill Partner and took it to heart.

It simply breaks her.

Her new Lando opens doors, gently asks how she slept, brings her tea when she looks tired. Candies when she’s pissed off for whatever reason. He gives her space when she seems out of place and asks if she wants to talk when her voice is too quiet.

He was doing those things before, but now every action holds a different meaning. She knows it should make her feel cared for, but all it does is make her feel guilty.

Ashamed.

High maintenance.

The worst part is that she is aware that Lando is trying. She knows he’s doing it because he loves her. Because he’s worried. Because he’s new to this. Because he doesn’t want to take a step in the wrong direction.

But watching him tiptoe around her like she’s fragile doesn’t make her feel loved. Quite the opposite. It makes her feel like a burden, and it makes her want to scream. In his face. Loudly. With a megaphone, perhaps, to make sure he hears her loud and clear.

All she wants is for things to go back to normal — their normal. But every thoughtful gesture and every careful word is a reminder that they can’t go back there anymore. That she changed things. That she made him this way. And sadly, she doesn’t know how to tell him that his kindness is hurting her and all his trying is making her feel more alone than ever.

She catches Lando looking over his shoulder with pity.

She feels it in the way he touches her with more intent when he holds her hand, in how his fingers tighten ever so slightly when they intertwine.

She notices it in the way he hesitates before leaving, before heading to the airport and she’s not with him.

Her boyfriend is no longer the carefree, easygoing person she fell in love with. He’s tense, always on edge, always watching. He doesn’t sleep properly, doesn’t laugh the same way, as if there’s something stopping him.

It’s her that’s stopping him.

At least, that’s what the voice inside her head tells her.

She never wanted that. Never wanted him to lose himself in the mess of her mind, where things are rarely quiet. Lando is supposed to be the one and only thing in her life untouched by her ugly side, the one place where she doesn’t feel like she needs to pretend.

It makes her sick that every time she looks at him, she sees how much he’s carrying, and how much of her weight has settled onto his shoulders. It isn’t fair, and it makes everything worse than before.

Their night out was supposed to be a break from everything. An enjoyable excuse to forget about everything that happened, and just let go. That’s what she had told herself when she agreed to go out with their friends. It was supposed to be normal. Just a couple of drinks, a lot of laughter, a few hours where she could trick herself into believing that their lives are this perfect all the time.

She had wanted to see Lando relax, even just for a little while. But he hadn’t.

Instead, he had spent the entire night guarded. Not in the way he used to when they were going out, stealing glances across the room, his eyes lighting up when she caught him staring. This time, he had been tracking her, every movement, every shift in her expression, every time she excused herself from the table, and every sip of alcohol. It made her want to scream right there, in the middle of the crowded bar.

So, they left early.

Back at their apartment, the silence is deafening.

She follows him into the bedroom, their movements mechanical, as they start to change. Lando pulls his sweater over his head, tossing it onto the bed at the same time she unzips her dress, the fabric slipping off her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

“All good?” he asks in the same careful tone she’s already used to; the same tone she hates.

She nods, even though he’s not looking at her yet. “Yeah. You?”

The dry exchange of words makes her cringe. It’s like they don’t even know how to talk to each other anymore.

“‘Course. Why wouldn’t I?” he tries to shoot her a smile over his shoulder, but it’s weak and she doesn’t buy it.

“Maybe because you looked like you were being held hostage most of the night,” she shrugs.

Lando chuckles, “Was I?”

“I don’t know,” the girl replies. “You didn’t look like you were having fun. You had that face on, you know? The same one you’ve been wearing a lot lately,” her voice is laced with sarcasm, but there’s a sharp edge underneath, and he knows it’s meant to cut deeper than the surface.

Lando’s smile fades away as he exhales through his nose, clearly fighting his inner demons to keep his tone level.

“Well, I was having fun,” he insists, finally turning around. “It was nice to just be out with everyone for a while. With you.”

“You sure?” she shakes hear head in disbelief, her eyes wide. “Because it felt more like you were trying to monitor me than actually enjoy yourself. It’s suffocating,” the words are harsh, but she can’t stop them from leaving her mouth in a frustrated manner. More than that, she doesn’t even want to.

Lando’s hands pause at the hem of his shirt that he wore underneath, “What?”

Irritated, she runs a hand through her hair, while struggling to get her shoes off. “You haven’t stopped looking at me like...,” her voice trails off for a quick moment. “It’s like you’re always one step away from putting a leash around my neck. It’s suffocating,” she repeats.

His expression doesn’t change, but Lando looks genuinely curious when he asks, “Can you blame me?”

She laughs, but there’s no humor behind it. “No. I am blaming myself,” she admits it out loud.

Lando finally gets rid of his shirt, throwing it next to his hoodie while keeping his gaze on her, and all she can see behind his eyes is more fucking pity. So, she closes hers for a second, channeling every ounce of patience that’s left inside.

“I just wanted one night where I didn’t feel like some soft thing that you have to take care of.”

“I’m your boyfriend. I signed up to take care of you, and I love doing it,” he reminds her like it’s the most obvious thing.

She exhales slowly. “I’m better, Lando. I told you I am.”

Lando nods, unconvinced. “Clearly,” he says, slightly annoyed. “You promised you’ll talk to me,” he points out, “But then you started acting like nothing ever happened. Excuse me for being vigilant.”

His affirmation hits her like a slap.

Vigilant. Adjective. Carefully observant or attentive; on the lookout for possible danger.

She swallows, forcing herself to meet his gaze once again. “Yes, because I’m a ticking bomb that can go off at any moment, aren’t I?” her voice is cracking towards the end, tears flooding her eyes.

“Come on, baby. No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he insists. “Wasn’t I clear when I told you I’m all in? All I asked—”

She shakes her head, throwing the shoes on the floor, cutting him off in the process. “I am asking you to stop. I know you want to help, and I appreciate you for it. But right now, I just want to go on with our lives, and forget for just a couple of hours how extremely fucked up in the head I am. I never wanted you to change for me.”

“Yeah, but I had to!” his voice rises, irritation boiling over. “You think I can just go back to who I was, knowing what I know now? I can’t allow myself to be that blind again and just act like nothing happened. Baby, I can’t,” he says, pressing his hands together in a desperate gesture, as if he’s praying. “I won’t.”

Her jaw clenches. “It’s fucking bullshit. We were good before all this.”

“No,” Lando contradicts her. “I was good, because I had no idea you were at your lowest point, until I found you on that balcony. I was good,” he repeats, pointing at himself. “You were struggling. With me next to you, you were struggling. Do you understand how fucked up that is?”

The silence between them stretches for too long, and they both know that is about to snap at any moment. She can’t say anything right away, though. Can’t even look at him without bursting into tears.

“I get it,” she hears him speak again. “You didn’t want to worry me with all the stuff I have going on at the moment. Fine. But do you know what that feels like? To know you were falling apart and I didn’t even notice?” asks Lando, his own voice cracking now. “I feel like a fucking idiot.”

“This isn’t about you,” she points out, finally looking back at him.

“It is,” Lando contradicts her.

Her mouth opens at his audacity, but he keeps going, words tumbling out too fast for her to put an end to it.

“Because whenever I struggled, you were there. Every time I felt lost or panicked or like I couldn’t breathe, you stayed and made sure I was cared for. You always stayed,” he reminds her, his chest rising and falling quickly. “And when it was you? You hid it from me. You smiled through it. You lied to my face.”

His accusations makes her feel like a fraud. Like everything they built over time is cracked because of her silence.

She trusts him more than anyone. But somehow, the way it all played out, it doesn’t look like trust. It looks like deceit. Like fear. And that’s the part that stings the most: the idea that he might believe she didn’t let him in because he wasn’t enough, when the truth is she didn’t let him in because she was afraid she wasn’t.

And that’s what fear does to people: forces them to shut down. Isolates them.

“I never lied to you, Lando,” she says it more like a warning, stepping forward now, eyes wide and filled with unshed tears.

“You never told the truth, either.”

Suddenly, every bone in her body softens. They’re both half-naked, standing in the fragile quiet of the bedroom, the air thick with his dizzying scent and her sweet perfume.

Lando brushes a strand of hair from her cheek, his touch gentle. She leans into it without thinking, and his palm, broad and warm, cradles the side of her face lovingly.

“You were fighting for your life, and I was out there talking about work and planning stupid trips,” his words drip now like honey, unrushed yet accusing. “That’s on me. My fault.”

She shakes her head vehemently, “Baby, stop saying that,” she whispers, but Lando doesn’t stop.

“I missed it,” he continues, as if he’s mostly talking to himself. “You were right in front of me and I didn’t see you. What kind of person does that make me?”

“The kind who couldn’t have known, because I didn’t let you,” she replies without hesitation, taking a small step back.

“Yeah, because you’re so smart, is that it?”

“Lando,” she warns him, but he doesn’t seem to want to listen to her nonsense anymore.

He turns away at her subtle attempt to put distance between them, pacing toward the window and gripping the back of a chair like it might keep him steady.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” he admits, and it almost makes him laugh; the man who thought that he can do anything, has no idea how to save the only thing that matters most. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like if I look away for one second, I might lose you for good,” his voice has a different inflection, caught between defeat and the irrational urge to beg her to never leave him.

She can see how much he’s struggling to make her listen to his side, and even though she acknowledges it, she can’t accept it without denying hers.

Slowly, she walks to him and wraps her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek against the heated skin of his back. He’s warm and solid under her touch, and it makes her feel so safe. She closes her eyes, holding him tighter, like if she stays there long enough, she can absorb some of the ache he’s been carrying solely because she threw it at him in a moment of weakness.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, but isn’t sure what she’s sorry for at this point.

Lando turns around to face her, and the look in his eyes scares her now; it’s too raw, too painful. “You think I have a choice?” asks Lando, his breathing ragged. “I wake up every day wondering if you’ll ever going to let me in again. And I walk through the door every time wondering if you’ll still be here when I come back.”

Even in the dim light of the room, she can see how his eyes are now sparkling with tears; another dagger to her heart.

She sighs, knowing this is her only chance to make him understand. “I love you,” she says, the affirmation forcing Lando to look away and shake his head, knowing love won’t help this time. “But this isn’t helping me, Lando,” she cups his chin, redirecting his focus back on her. “And if I’m being honest, it’s making it worse.”

Lando exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face. “Alright. Good. Then what do you want me to do? Because I sure as hell won’t pretend I’m not fucking terrified all the time. Or is that what you want?”

“For fuck’s sake, Lando!” the word bursts out of her before she can stop it. “Yes! If you have it in you, lie to me. Pretend. Because every time I see you like this, it just reminds me of why. And I hate it. I hate that I did this to you. You fucking pity me,” she accuses him with disgust in her voice. “You treat me like I’m a child. You don’t act the same way. You don’t laugh anymore. You don’t even kiss me like you used to. And you sure as hell don’t fuck me the same way either.”

The words hang in the air like a bullet caught in slow-motion, and he freezes. She wants to push him away, but Lando wraps his arms around her waist, making sure she’s not running anywhere now that she dropped so many bombs on him.

His face twists in hurt and anger, disbelief flickering all at once. “You think this is about pity?”

The girl nods once, but determined. “I feel like I’m not your girlfriend anymore. Like all of this has become just an obligation to you.”

His arms tighten harder around her. “Yeah? You think I don’t want you?” he spits the words, incredulous. “That I don’t crave you all the fucking time?”

She has to swallow the lump in her throat before shooting her response at him, but Lando beats her to it. His jaw clenches against the side of her face, and for a second, he just breathes her in. Then he presses his lips to her cheek, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low enough to send shivers down her spine, blistering with certainty.

“Don’t you ever say that again,” he warns her. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. You have no idea what you do to me. Even now.”

She tries her best to win her right to conversation once again, but it’s like he’s casting spells, and his despair never sounded more beautiful.

“I’ll kiss you until there’s no air left in your lungs. Until you forget every single voice in your pretty head that ever made you doubt yourself,” he says it with enough confidence that it actually makes her believe him this time. “And if that’s what you need, I’ll fuck every insecurity out of you. Repeatedly, until you’ll beg me to stop. Do you understand?” his last question sounds so melodic in her ears, and all she can do for now is simply nod, lips slightly parted and palms traveling up his flexed muscles until they end up around his neck.

She pulls him in, and the second their lips meet, everything else is put in time-out. The kiss is tender, sweet, a little hesitant even. It’s not rushed or rough; it’s the kind of kiss that says I know you see me, I see you too.

By the time she pulls back, her lungs are indeed burning, and his forehead rests against her, breathless, with the ghost of his mouth still lingering on hers.

Then, as if there’s someone out there that could hear them right now, Lando speaks in a whispered voice, “I watched you sit on the edge of the balcony and I didn’t know if I’d be fast enough. That was my first thought, and then my mind went blank.”

She’s breathing hard now, so is he. But not because of the kiss anymore. It’s the weight of reality that makes them both stop and realize the gravity of the situation.

“I’m so sorry, Lan,” she whispers back.

“I lose sleep because I’m having nightmares about it,” the knife keep twisting, putting hole after hole in her heart. “I don’t fucking pity you,” says Lando matter-of-factlty. “I love you. But I am scared. That’s it.”

That’s it. The simplest way to put it.

“So stop trying to push me away,” he continues, his eyes locking onto hers with intent. “I told you then, and I am telling you now: I’m not leaving. I don’t care if we have to figure out a whole new way to be together, or if we have to relearn how to do this.”

She exhales slowly, the kind of sigh that carries months of silence and years of ache. Her eyes hold his, glassy with tears, as if she’s still trying to catch up with the weight of everything he’s just said. Every word he’s poured out tonight folds into her chest, and only once it settles does she speak.

“I know that most of the time it doesn’t look like it, but I am trying,” she says. “Even when my own mind tries to convince me it’s not worth it,” her fingers graze his jaw, tentative, like she’s afraid she doesn’t deserve the contact. “I can’t promise I won’t fall back into it sometimes, you know that. But I can promise I won’t let it win. Not like that. Because you mean more to me. Always.”

For the first time since they got back, she sees an authentic smile on his face. It’s small, but it’s there, and it gives her all the strength to continue.

“Like, promise-promise, pinky promise?” asks Lando, tilting his head, searching her face. He sounds like a little boy asking for reassurance in a world too big. It makes her want to cry and laugh all at once.

Instead, she lifts her pinky between them.

Without hesitation, Lando hooks it with hers like it’s a contract written in unicorn blood and stardust and glitter. And then, without warning, he grabs her by the waist and lifts her off the ground, making her yelp before he drops her gently onto the bed, her laughter breathless and real for the first time in what feels like forever.

He hovers over her, curls falling into his eyes, the smallest grin playing at his lips; there’s so much love behind his piercing gaze.

He kisses her then.

And she lets him in, again and again, even though they know it isn’t over. Not even close.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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