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IN HER BUCKINGHAMSHIRE HAVEN, EVERY EVENING UNFOLDED THE VERY SAME WAY.

When the clock struck 3 p.m., the sun, ever punctual, would drape the town in a warm, golden glow, like orange sherbet melting across the sky, coating the city of her heart with a syrupy sweetness that brightened her life and the nostalgia of an ice cream cone shared with her late grandfather long ago.

Many tourists often criticized the slow, unchanging life in Milton Keynes, but Honey could never understand how anyone could possibly loathe something so grounding. It's all she has ever known, and all she would ever want. Her parents had long given up on trying to convince her to move—to explore whatever wonderland they believed she found beyond their small town when she had attended college in Cambridge—because they recognized that Milton Keynes was where her heart truly belonged. The thought of leaving it all behind felt like abandoning a piece of herself.

Honey has spent her entire life watching the early sunset from the gates of Loughton Heights, first as a student and now as a teacher. It is what she wanted for the rest of it—unchanging and unfaltering—but standing here instead, outside the Red Bull Racing factory, her lifelong routine felt impeded. Unnaturally so, as if the native sights and nature sounds of her hometown had been replaced by the crass hum of machinery and the scent of burning rubber.

In what way could something so dreadful possibly be beneficial? It simply couldn't be.

She maintained her composure as she led the kids inside the academy bus, reminding herself that change was unavoidable and essential for growth, as her psychologist had taught her—but that did not mean she had to enjoy seeing the sameness of the skyline from her youth changed by development. It did not mean that she welcomed the loss of green spaces and the urbanization encroaching on her once quaint town, or the increased traffic and noise pollution that came with it. She found no pleasure in the sight of privately owned helicopters descending onto the once tranquil fields, nor in the droned growl of imported sports cars racing through the streets.

It was 3 p.m. again. Like an unfailing clockwork, Milton Keynes was bathed in the familiar aureate light that had graced it since her birth. It should be comforting; Honey had always believed this meant some things would never change. Yet, she pondered, watching the millionaires, foreign and famous, standing next to her, that perhaps it wasn't entirely true after all.

When did her home go from lodging pensioners and young families to being a hub for high-performance racing teams? When did she close her eyes long enough for the morning strolls of the elderly to be replaced by the rush of mechanics and engineers preparing for races?

How long has it been, precisely, since Honey turned her back to the world and decided the grounds of the academy would be her sanctuary? It possibly couldn't have been more than a few years—five graduating classes, she remembered—but the exact moment of her retreat seemed to blur in her memory now.

Anxiety fluttered nervously within her, as though a hummingbird were trapped inside her chest.

Honey has always been wary of change, after all.

A loud yawn jolted her out of her thoughts. Honey startled, her hand instinctively reaching for her chest to soothe her racing heart. Max stretched beside her, his strikingly clear, light blue locking with hers; fatigue marked faint creases around his gaze. She would never be able to guess his age, if he was older by the stubble on his jaw or younger by the luminosity of his eyes. "You go through this every day? And enjoy it?" He asked her, his voice clear and smooth, just like whipped ice cream, with a lisp that softened his words like a swirl of caramel.

Honey looked away from him, a bit shy.

She paused for a moment before replying, watching Sylvester's desperate attempt to wave goodbye to Daniel. The rambunctious boy was trying to crawl out the window, only to be thwarted by Chester's head emerging from the same opening. The two best friends laughed and joked as they struggled to free themselves.

Max's tired eyes softened as he watched the scene unfold, a small smile tugging at his lips as he turned back to her, waiting for her response.

Honey grinned. How could she not enjoy it? The earnest way the children expressed every thought and emotion, every action. They were never ill-meaning, always full of pure joy and innocence, like a breath of fresh air in a world that often felt heavy and burdensome.

"Every single day," she replied. "The children may be energetic, but they are well-behaved."

"Well, no surprises there," the driver remarked. "Milton Keynes, right? A small village with what, a couple hundred people? Can't blame them for keeping it tame when their idea of excitement is dodging walkers and, you, I suppose."

Honey's grin wavered into a wary smile, uncertain whether Max was teasing her or berating her. "The population's been growing over the years," she corrected him. "The Queen might not be thrilled to hear you calling it a village, especially after granting us city status in 2022."

Max made a noise of disagreement. "Is that right?" He queried, arching an eyebrow. "The Queen might be a bit too geriatric to have the same understanding of what a city should be as the rest of us. I was told that not even people who live in Milton Keynes want to live in Milton Keynes."

Honey attempted to envision life as he lived it—immersed in wealth and fame, jet-setting across the globe every other week, never settling in one place long enough to root himself the way she had done so. It must take an emotional toll, never having a true sense of home. She couldn't fully grasp it, as her own life was far removed from that reality. The thought of constantly being on the move, never having a true sense of belonging—uninterrupted change, change, change—sounded utterly exhausting to her.

"I have two offices," she said, for a lack of anything better to contribute to the conversation. "One is at the academy, and the other is my personal workspace at home. If you would still like to talk, we could meet at either location, whichever is more convenient for you."

"Choose whichever," Max shrugged. "Distance doesn't matter. I've been out on holiday for a bit. I need to shake off that laziness before the season kicks in. It's probably just a five-minute difference, anyway."

It was actually ten, but Honey kept to herself, alongside her skepticism about the driver's perceived laziness; his neck was so muscular, strong, and defined that it was hard to believe he was anything but disciplined in his routine. Another misleading comment, where it was up to her to decide if he had meant to be misleading or if he truly believed what he was saying.

Max's nonchalant attitude was hard to navigate, Honey found. She was used to her mother's bluntness, yes, but it was paired with a sense of assertiveness that he seemed to lack. He spoke with a casual tone that made her question what he truly found interesting and what he simply said to pass the time. It wasn't clear-cut, the way her children's thousands of why's and how's were, and that ambiguity left her feeling unsettled in his presence—tense, in that suffocating throat-clogging, heart-racing manner that mirrored the anxiety she felt whenever her routine was about to shift from the summer to the fall.

Biting her lip, Honey considered her options. "My office at the academy would be best," she decided hesitently, hoping those extra five minutes of driving wouldn't be a bother. It was the logical option, considering she had to ride the bus to the academy anyway to chaperone the students—and, truly, the thought of Max showing up at her house made her skin crawl. Would he carelessly insult her mama's garden, a brash 'Well, of course you're stuck farming like everyone else in Milton Keynes!' slipping from his lips before she could stop him? She shuddered at the thought.

Max started to speak, but was interrupted by that all-too-familiar, self-satisfied chuckle that had often sent a shiver down her spine.

Honey turned around to see Headmaster Finchley approaching them with a closed-lipped smile on her highbrow face. "Miss Clarke," she said in a tone that made Honey's stomach churn,

"Headmaster Finchley!" Honey laughed nervously, trying to mask her discomfort. "What a pleasant surprise to see you here." She sparkled with an overly bright smile, hoping it would veil her unease at the unexpected encounter.

"It ought not to be surprising, my dear," Headmaster Finchley intoned with an air of connoisseurship, her eyes gleaming with a discerning spark. "I graced this... establishment with my presence for a luncheon with Mr. Horner, and found myself unable to resist checking in on you as well. I must say, I'm quite pleased with the review of your performance thus far." Honey experienced a wave of relief at the Headmaster's favorable remarks, beaming until Finchley added, "I am certain your mothers will be absolutely enchanted by you presenting a gentleman at the dinner table. On your first day, at that."

Honey's heart did a somber little dive. "Oh, no, you must've misunderstood, Headmaster Finchley! Mr. Verstappen and I will be meeting at my office in the academy, not for a personal dinner."

Headmaster Finchley raised a hand with an air of magnanimous assurance. "My dear, I assure you, I grasped the situation with impeccable clarity. Regardless, it would be rather unbecoming for you to divulge such private matters of your personal life to me." A sly grin spread across her face then, a hint of lipstick underscoring her smirk. "It is indeed most unfortunate that the Academy grounds had to close prematurely today. As your office is presently inaccessible, it seems you and this deviously handsome gentleman—I approve, of course—are fated to continue your discussion over a meal at a nearby restaurant, perhaps. Shall we say, The Oligarch? It's just a short drive from here. Of course, do not worry about the children; I will make sure they are escorted home safely."

Honey stared at the woman in shock, feeling as though she were a butterfly caught in a spider's grasp. What new scheme was brewing in the woman's devious mind?

She turned to Max slowly, mouth parting to speak, but he simply raised an eyebrow in silent agreement.

"No! " She said, almost frantic. "Let's go to my home office instead!"

Headmaster Finchley huffed with triumph.

Max Verstappen drove a car with door handles that Honey didn't know how to open.

That, she fretted, was an omen of their impending doom—the embodiment of all the things that would forever prevent any friendship from growing between them. Max was brutish with confidence, indifferent to the impact of his words, while Honey's feelings ran so deep she could fall ill from them. He cruised in cars worth more than Honey's yearly salary, while she loathed cars so much she wouldn't even learn to drive.

Their differences seemed utterly insurmountable—too vast to bridge with just a smile and a nod.

And he was heading to her private office to discuss Nikolaas, and all of Honey's failure.

Honey's mind raced with thoughts of how to escape this situation, a blind rush of panic that left her clenching her fists. Max smiled resignedly at her from his seat and reassured her with a calm voice, "I won't speed or crash or anything insane, I promise you'll be safe with me."

She stayed rooted in place, unable to move, unable to breathe. "It's... not quite that," she finally managed, her throat feeling tight as if she were about to give a presentation before a sea of expectant faces, just like in the old days. "You're probably the most trustworthy driver out there, what with being the World Champion and all," she added with a nervous chuckle, attempting to calm her racing heart. "It's just that, well, I have a bit of a personal... aversion to cars."

"You agreed to work with a Formula One team?" Max said slowly, his brow furrowing, "But you're afraid of cars?"

Honey's lips tightened into a thin line. "I didn't apply for a driver's position," she clarified, and Max laughed as if she had told him a hilarious joke, his eyes disappearing behind his crinkled smile lines.

"I'm sure Checo will be very happy to hear that," he said, and before she could reply, Max exited the car, coming to her side and opening the door for her with a charming grin. "Let's see if we can change your mind about cars," he said, offering his hand to help her in. Honey took a deep breath.

"You won't be speeding, will you?" She asked, her voice tinged with half-frenzy.

Max chuckled and shook his head. "At your pace, Miss Honey," he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "And if I push it too far, you've got my full permission to give me a hard time."

With a playful wink, he shut the door after she settled into the Aston Martin.

Honey gripped the door handle tightly; Max revved the engine when he sat down again.

"I'm sorry if I ruined the seat," she apologized frantically. "Or dirty the floor mats."

Max chuckled as he eased the car out of the company's headquarters driveway. "Don't worry about a thing, Miss Honey," he reassured her with a warm smile. "We can always get it cleaned up," he added, his grin reassuring.

It didn't calm her down at all.  She clutched her seat belt as they drove, and when she accidentally gave him the wrong directions, Max simply laughed and made a U-turn without any hint of frustration.

Careless and easygoing, Honey learned; lazy yet disciplined, brazen, and delightful. She was at a loss as to how to interpret this man who appeared to handle everything with effortless ease, yet seemed to tolerate so little.

Without meaning to, she asked, "Why do you care about Nikolaas?"

Max's fingers continued to tap against the steering wheel as he glanced over at her, a confused expression on his face as if it were a strange question to voice. "Because he's a good kid," he said simply, before focusing back on the road.

"You don't know him," Honey retorted—her hands flying from the seat belt to cover her mouth at her own rudeness.

Max shrugged. "I know enough," he said. "I trust my instincts."

Honey frowned at the ease with which Max lived. She has never been able to trust her own instincts, always second-guessing herself. She could never recall a single time she had ever just accepted life, the way Max did. It was admirable as it was frustrating to her; she could never muster the blind faith that everything she desired would simply fall into place as Max did. She would've never approached herself the way Max did, either; that is why there's millions between them, Honey reasoned. Why Charley had screamed at the news of meeting Max, and Nikolaas had stayed up for nights on end watching old race footage of him.

"And those instincts are telling you a six-year-old who has never gotten on a go-kart is promising?" She asked skeptically, wishing there was another way to phrase the question that did not cast so much doubt on Nikolaas, but it was the truth. "His love for Formula One and his ability to analyze race footage in such detail is incredible for his age, and I am amazed at his dedication, without a doubt, but that doesn't automatically equate to racing talent. Mr. Verstappen, Nikolaas has autism. He may struggle with the sensory overload; he doesn't like loud noises or bright lights, and the competitive nature of racing could be overwhelming for him. I can't tell him that he can't pursue his dreams, but as his teacher, it is my responsibility to help him understand that wanting to do something and being able to do it are two different things—"

Max didn't stop driving. His voice, low and intense, broke the silence.

"Has he even tried?" He asked her; though his gaze remained on the road, Honey could feel the weight of his scrutiny.

Honey's lips clamped shut, words dying before they could form. For someone with a Ph.D. from the University of Cambridge, she felt so small in that moment.

"No, he hasn't," she admitted quietly.

Max gave a nod, as though confirming what he had suspected from the start.

"Sometimes you have to take a chance and see where it goes," he told her. "You won't know what someone's made of until they get the chance to show it."

Honey laughed nervously. "I know that," she insisted, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "I do! But there's a lot to consider when it comes to children like Nikolaas—"

"I don't think so," Max interrupted gently. "I asked him, and he said it ready to kart. Sometimes it's best to just let things happen naturally and trust that everything will work out in the end."

With a tense expression and a rising flush of anger, Honey said, 'But what if it all goes wrong? What if he fails and ends up feeling disappointed and discouraged? What if he gets hurt? Have you considered that, Mr. Verstappen?"

"And what if he turns out to be more than anyone anticipated?" Max replied. "What if he starts gaining confidence and becomes even better than expected? What if he starts winning? Doubting him now—are you sure that's not failing him as a teacher? I met him today, and it's clear he's got a genuine passion for motorsports. He hasn't had the chance to really show what he can do. I thought it was about the cost, but now I see it's about the support he's missing. Is it because he has autism that you and his parents are holding him back, or is it because you're stuck in your own little Milton Keynes bubble and can't handle anything different?" Honey's eyes widened in shock at the blunt accusations. The driver pressed on, seemingly indifferent. "Maybe it's time to drop your fears and let him have a shot. If you don't give him a chance, you're failing him before he even gets to show what he can do."

Honey's words came out with deliberate slowness, each syllable weighed down by a heavy sense of offense. "You are overstepping your boundaries, Mr. Verstappen." she warned.

He didn't care—he didn't care at all.
"If pushing those boundaries means getting Nikolaas onto a kart, then so be it," he answered.

They had been driving without any specific destination for some time now, leaving Honey clueless about their whereabouts. She had never gone this far from home. Max became alive with each mile they put between themselves and Milton Keynes.

Their differences were utterly insurmountable—too vast to bridge with just a smile and a nod.

She watched intently as he maneuvered his sleek sports car, taking in the costly watch adorning his wrist, a timepiece that surpassed the value of her parents' house. She pondered silently: How long had it been since he'd been home? What country did he call home? What is 'home' to a man like Max Verstappen at all?

She found herself, once more, contemplating what life must be like for a celebrated Formula 1 driver, forever on the road chasing the next race, the next victory. Saudi Arabia to Japan, Spain to Monaco, constantly traveling the globe in pursuit of glory. How could anything ever be home to someone who seemed to belong everywhere and nowhere at the same time?

Max didn't seem fazed by anything at all while Honey's hands trembled uselessly.

How was it possible for him to be content without a place to belong, while Honey felt she might wither away at just the idea of leaving her family home?

"His parents do not want him," she admitted. "They've made that clear. He doesn't have any financial support from them. His siblings are more important, his mother told me."

Max acknowledged with a nod. "Family doesn't always bring happiness," he responded. "I'll cover the costs, It won't be easy, of course. We'll have to work together if Nikolaas wants to race seriously, but we'll get it done. There are solid local karting programs—I'll get him a coach when he's ready. He can start there and rise through the ranks."

"You really believe in him," Honey couldn't it believe it, her gaze fixed on the neatly folded nails in her lap. "You're so certain."

Outside the window, trees streaked past in a blur. She wished she could be more like the person her students believed her to be. The daughter her parents had hoped she would become. For a fleeting moment, she wished she could be a little braver, a bit more aggressive and fearless, and a little more like Max.

"I am," the driver told her. "You should be certain too. You're his teacher, no?"

What a strange thing to say, she thought.
She had become a teacher precisely because she had never been certain about anything in her life.

Back when Honey was much younger and unsure of her place in the world, she would sit by her parents' side and observe Judith as they wrote. Her mother hadn't started smoking at that point; it was before her mama's stroke, when the massive office had housed the comforting scent of aged, worn paper instead, like a library untouched by time. In the summertime, they would spend entire days like that, becoming as immortal as the writings of Simone de Beauvoir and the legacy of Sojourner Truth.

She had been fascinated with the way words never seemed to stop flowing from their fingertips, spending hours upon hours of her childhood simply admiring the relentless torrent of ink that poured from Judith's mind onto the page. Intrigued by the notion of knowing your mind and thought so intimately that you could express yourself with such ease, ink to paper without ever needing an eraser or a moment of hesitation.

"What's a philosopher?" Honey had asked one day, quietly ashamed of her lack of understanding. Even at her young age, she had known that it was wrong to feel that way; Wendy had told her so. Her mama always said that she didn't need to know everything—that it was alright to ask questions, since knowledge was something to be gained, not something to be born with.

But Miss Lovelace had told her that 'extremely bright individuals' had chosen her: anthropologists and sociologists, scholars and advocates. Philosophers. Revolutionists. So don't be slacking now, Miss Lovelace had warned before her adoption. You have to be brilliant from now on. Intelligent as can be, studious, and par excellence.

Honey wasn't born knowing how to be clever. She wasn't naturally insightful; she wasn't astute, or shrewd, or quick-witted. Most days, she felt as if she knew nothing at all—except that being adopted had been the greatest blessing in her life, and she feared it could be taken away if she were dull. She read literature beyond her years and studied the Oxford English Dictionary as if it were her Bible. She mimicked her mother's somber expression, wore plain flats, and when her mama offered her colorful hairpins, Honey forced herself to decline—because if being a philosopher meant she had to be serious, Honey would do anything to stifle all of her smiles for the sake of maintaining their home.

But on that warm summer day, of a year that Honey couldn't quite recall, Judith chuckled wistfully, pen dancing across the journal's pages. Their hazel eyes sparkled with amusement. "A clown," she answered, voice tinged with playful mockery. "But not the kind that brings laughter, my sweet honeycomb. A rather foolish one, the type to trip over their own oversized shoes and making a mess of things. That is what I am, my love."

Honey hadn't understood. Judith was stony-faced, far more serious than her mama, with their tousled white hair and stoic demeanor. A clown was the last thing she would have expected her mother to compare themselves to. Then again, as a child, Honey hadn't understood much about the complexities of the world. She only understood simple polarities: light and dark, good and bad, love and hate. Man and woman; smart and stupid; abandoned and adopted.

How could the scholars—the philosophers Miss Lovelace praised until her breath ran out—be anything like clowns? How could Honey, who had been born so stupid, so unwanted, and so utterly disgraceful, ever grow to be anything but a burden on those around her?

As a child, she had struggled to find her place in the world, deeming it unsafe and terrifying.

It left her scared, and that fear—that sense of rejection nestled deep within her chest since the moment of her birth—had left her feeling half-wilted, keeping her from taking root in the nurturing garden of belonging that the Clarke family had cultivated for her. It had taken effort, and dedication, and endless tears for Honey to soften the soil beneath her feet and allow herself to carve out a space in that flourishing garden. Beautiful things are not without a bit of pain, as her mama taught her; a cut of a thumb kissed by the thorns of a rose.

It was Judith, her new mother, who wasn't a woman solely—the one who wore suits every day and carried a briefcase instead of a purse and bought a dozen different kinds of tea leaves from around the world when Honey had mentioned liking a singular type—that taught her that life was not just about simple dichotomies, but the interplay of flavors in a confectioner's masterpiece, where the bitterness of cocoa enhances the sweetness of caramel, and the tartness of berries complements the richness of cream. It was Wendy who taught her to learn and embrace complexity and nuance, to appreciate the layers of life like the layers of a well-crafted dessert. Through their guidance, Honey began to see the world not in black and white, but in a myriad of vibrant colors that painted a more sweetened perspective on her existence.

Honey is twenty-six now; it's been a long time since she was that little girl who doubted the ground beneath her feet. It's been a while since she had felt stupid, as well, and although she may not possess the depth of knowledge her parents do, she carries remnants and souvenirs of their teachings with her every day.

She thought of her sweet Nikolaas, her most precious boy, who was dropped off at the gates of the academy in soiled pajamas more often than not and was only receiving an education because Honey paid for it all out of her meager paycheck. Though not his mother, she is his protector, his biggest supporter, and most importantly, his teacher.

What is a philosopher? A clown, Judith had answered.
What is a teacher, then? Honey wondered.

Could the answer be a magician?

Someone who conjures solutions for her students like a magician pulling rabbits from hats—someone who inspires wonder and curiosity, making the impossible seem possible. A devotee of the mundane, transforming it into the extraordinary through the power of knowledge and guidance. Perhaps Honey was a trickster, an illusionist who didn't believe in her own magic, yet created it for others. 

Max wasn't asking her to be certain in herself; he was asking her to be certain in Nikolaas.

And who had Honey believed in more than her students?

"Alright," she replied, the love in her heart overpowering the fear that had always held her back. This time, it wouldn't stop her, she swore. "We'll be a team. We'll make it work for him."

Max smiled as if they had already won it all.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !
fhank you to whoever reads through this monstrosity i don't have writing skills anymore ngl

but last building chapter we have the honey lion partnership so everything from here on out should be cute and fun YIPEEEE okay i'm tired bye