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HONEY'S FAVORITE SOUND IN THE WORLD USED TO BE THE CALLS OF THE BEARDED REEDLING. From the fresh blossoms of March to the lingering warmth of September, she would while away countless hours listening to their merry ping-ping-ping calls and lilting trills as they flitted and twirled through the reeds and cattails by the marshlands just beyond Loughton Heights.

By the early showers of April, though, a new melody captured her heart—the soft chime of her phone.

The sound brought a grin to her face, from her groggy morning reach for the phone to the bleary-eyed, late-night hours spent marking assignments. Through lunches with nosy colleagues, bewildered by her newfound joy, to the quiet ache of Friday evenings when her children hugged her farewell for the weekend, the chime brought a glow that even she hadn't expected.

Max brought a glow that even she hadn't expected.

How could her heart not flutter when his name appeared, accompanied by pictures of playful Bengal cats, silly memes, and glimpses of places she'd only ever dreamed of visiting? He sent her stories of strangers she only knew from the news, checked in on Nikolaas' karting progress, and spoke to her with such kindness—such patience and understanding braided into every word—that it made her feel less like Honey and more like someone who could speak freely, without the nervous stutter or the constant fidgeting of her hands. Even on the rough days—when the camera's lens had blurred from the smoke that hung thick in the air, and a DNF in the race could have given him every reason to be distant or brusque, as Honey had braced for—he was unfailingly gentle.

Not for the first time since meeting him, Honey decided that she liked Max.

She truly, truly likes Max.

She just hoped, with all her heart, that he felt the same way. That he grinned when she sent him pictures of the bearded reedling that she had spotted on her morning walk and chuckled at the videos of Nikolaas dressed as a rabbit hunting for pastel blue eggs during Easter; that he could feel, even through the pixeled screen, that every Sunday cake she baked was made with him in mind—each cracked egg and sifted ounce of flour sweetened by the daydream of him standing victorious under the sun, a trophy in hand.

Maybe, once he figured it out, he'd take a day off and spend it with her eating cake.

For now, though, she had her phone and a million bytes of space, all ready to hold the moments she couldn't wait to share with him.

She pressed the record button.

Her children, all settled on mushroom-shaped cushions with squirming legs and wide eyes, fell into a hushed silence as they turned their attention towards the Tree of Knowledge—the monumental centerpiece that had sprouted from cardboard, papier-mâché, and the endless hours of Honey's summertime. The branches spread wide like welcoming arms around the small platform where today's star waited eagerly for her cue, surrounded by artificial leaves in every hue imaginable—soft greens, rusty oranges, and brilliant golds.

As the daylight faded into soft nectarine hues, casting a warm glow through the windows, Honey gave the signal to begin.

With her posture bursting with excitement and nervous glee, Anwen nodded at her. Her black hair, sleek and straight, had been woven with slender ribbons the color of Rosso Corsa, satin threads fluttering slightly with each movement. She clutched her notes close to her heart, the paper slightly crumpled from her anxious grip. The silver F1 badge pinned to her chest looked brilliant under the classroom lights.Pausing just long enough to steady her breath, she raised her chin, bright with pride.

"My name is Anwen Hasegawa," she began, her voice clear and brave. "And today, I'll be sharing the story of my first day as an F1 Kids broadcaster!"

The class erupted with cheers and applause, a joyous roar that seemed to echo off the walls. Anwen's face lit up, her blush deepening as she smiled, and Honey's heart swelled to see that spark return. After all the quiet grief that had surrounded the girl after her sister's death, seeing her happiness felt like a long-lost sun breaking through clouds.

And all of it, every bit of it, came down to Max.

Pudding-sweet, thrill-chasing Max, who somehow transformed their WhatsApp into a virtual temple for Jimmy and Sassy; open-hearted Max, who felt like more of a friend than any colleague she'd ever known. Max, who she'll see later today for the new F1 Kids shooting.

Honey's lip caught between her teeth as a warm swirl of nerves unfolded into a gentle grin.

She readjusted the focus of her camera.

"On my first day," Anwen said, bouncing on her toes. "I was really nervous and didn't know what to do, but then I got to meet Isi Browning! She is the commentator for F1 Kids, and she was very nice to me! She showed me and the other new presenter, Braydon, how to put on the special headphones, how to adjust the microphones, and even gave us some tips on how to handle live interviews. It was an awesome experience that I will never forget!"

Honey kept filming long enough until her arms ached from holding the camera steady. She captured every moment—Anwen's nervous breath hitches, the slight stumble over a word, and the way she gathered herself to finish her presentation with confidence. "And, of course," she added, beaming over towards Honey, "I want to say thanks to Mr. Max! He's the one who said I could do this and believed in me after I told him I want to be a journalist! Thanks, Mr. Max!"

"Woo!" Sylvester raised both arms in the air, cheering loudly. All the children in the classroom joined in, clapping for Anwen as they ran to give her high-fives and hugs. Honey basked in the sight of it, her heart warm as freshly brewed tea—until the tiniest click-click tickled her ears, a sound as subtle as a mouse tiptoeing across the floor but unmistakably hers to notice.

When Honey turned, there she was—Headmaster Finchley, poised in the doorway like a hawk surveying its prey. Her stilettos struck the linoleum with crisp, deliberate clicks, each one a drumbeat to Honey's growing unease. A single beckoning motion was all it took; Honey, feeling every bit the guilty child, trudged forward. The headmaster's expression was carved from stone, but the sparkle in her eye hinted at something that made Honey's palms damp with apprehension.

"Marvelous Miss Honey," she trilled, her voice dripping with the vanity of a well-fed cat atop a velvet cushion. "Bravo, my dear, on the stellar achievement of your class. Ian Holmes, Director of Media Rights and Content Creation at Formula 1, nearly collapsed with adoration after the glowing reviews of the first publication! And as for precious Anwen—oh, she nearly had me weeping. Nearly, of course. I daresay your fourth Teacher of the Year award is already waiting with your name engraved on it."

Honey's head bobbed uncertainly, her nails clicking together as she tried—and failed—to stay steady. "We only filmed one video," she offered, but Headmaster Finchley merely waved her off with a languid motion.

"Quality over quantity, my dear," she dismissed. "And you've certainly delivered quality in abundance."

Honey smiled faintly, a small twitch tugging at the corners of her lips. Headmaster Finchley's expression softened, and for a fleeting moment, she looked just as she had back then—only now, more beautiful, with streaks of gray in her hair and fine lines tracing the crow's feet around her eyes. "Congratulations," the older woman said warmly, her voice kind with sincerity. "One day, sweetness, you'll see yourself the way the world sees a flower—just beginning to bloom and already breathtaking."

But, as always, before Honey could even get a word out, Headmaster Finchley's sly smirk returned. "Indeed," she purred, reaching for her smartphone. "Indeed," she said, picking up her smartphone with a flick of her wrist. "The world is quite enchanted with you. Have you seen—what's the term?—your TikToks, darling?"

Honey blinked in surprise. "Pardon?" She offered a polite smile.

Before she could say more, a song began to drift from Headmaster Finchley's phone—We're Going to Be Friends by The White Stripes. She recognized the melody instantly, but whatever was playing on the screen remained a mystery as the secretary's voice crackled over the loudspeaker, cutting through the moment. "Attention, Class Hummingbirds! It's time for your outing. Please make your way to the car park, where the coach is waiting. Stay safe, enjoy yourselves, and don't forget to stick with your group!"

Headmaster Finchley's phone screen went dark. Honey opened her mouth to speak, but the older woman tutted sharply. "Off you go," she said briskly. "Your pupils can't be left to their own devices. You'll find out in due course, Missy."

Honey let out a slow, quiet sigh as the woman departed, offering no further instruction. Her heels clicked against the floor in a steady rhythm, like a metronome, as though still measuring Honey's steps even with her back turned.

Her own phone chimed then. It was Max's ringtone; she did not have to check to know it was him. Honey straightened herself, composing her demeanor, though a soft giggle bubbled from her lips as she read his message.

At least, she thought with relief, Headmaster Finchley wasn't around to witness it.

Small mercies, she supposed, were better than none at all.

When the bus doors swung open, the first thing Honey saw were sunflowers.

Max, dressed in his typical tight-fitting jeans and Red Bull cap, stood at the bottom—he grinned at the sight of her, wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, and Honey's heart skipped a beat. He helped her down, taking her hand to help her balance on the steps.

"Took you long enough," he said, a teasing edge to his voice. "My legs were growing tired from waiting."

A few of the other drivers were there too—Sylvester and Chester practically leaping at Daniel, as if they hadn't seen him in ages—while the Alpine drivers lingered to one side, their smiles wide as they waved to the children, calling out warm greetings. The atmosphere was filled with excitement, cameras already filming the interactions even though they hadn't entered the warehouse yet.

"We're transporting something quite priceless, Mr. Verstappen." Honey chirped playfully. "We can't possibly be in a hurry."

And it was that priceless something that caused Max's grin to stretch from ear to ear as Awen sprang from the bus with a delighted wheeze, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him. "Mr. Max!" she squealed, dashing toward him with arms flung wide. "Oh, thank you, thank you so much!"

Max grinned and handed her the bouquet of flowers. "Why are you thanking me?" he said. "I didn't do anything. I just overheard the media guys talking about F1 Kids needing a broadcaster and thought, 'I know the perfect person for that.' It's all you, though—your talent and hard work are what got you here."

Awen's face lit up with pure joy as she held the flowers close, her fingers curling around the cellophane wrapping. In her dark brown eyes, Max reflected like a star twinkling in the evening sky. "Just—thank you!" she repeated earnestly, flinging her arms around the driver in a hug that overflowed with happiness.

Max chuckled, crouching down to embrace her fully. "You deserve it," he murmured, his voice honest and reassuring. When his blue eyes flickered towards Honey, she couldn't help but see him as something grander than any sky—something boundless, something she would like to be completely enveloped in.

She smiled at him; Max smiled back.

Once Anwen scurried away, twin pigtails bouncing as she ran to show the flowers to Petunia and the rest of the children, Max stood up and turned back to Honey. "She'll do great," he said it plainly, full of conviction, the way he sounded in those interviews she had seen online.

Honey nodded, her agreement clear. "Like you always do," she said. Max shrugged, staying true to his humble nature. "I'm just doing my job," he said casually. "But Nikolaas? He's been amazing. I've seen huge progress since he started. I was looking at the videos you sent back in March compared to the one last Sunday—he's come a long way."

She nodded indulgently as they walked, following the direction of the production team as they headed towards the set. "He has," she agreed, contemplating her ward's growth in karting under the guidance of the coach Max had hired. "You inspire him very much, Mr. Verstappen."

Max wrinkled his nose, lips pulling back with amusement. "You're the real inspiration here, Dr. Clarke," he quipped, his tone light and teasing. Honey groaned, giving his shoulder a playful shove.

"Don't even," she shot back, but Max just laughed. "Come on, if you didn't want me to know, maybe don't send a LinkedIn request. Seriously, who does that?" he said, shaking his head with an amused chuckle.

"In my world," Honey emphasized, "it's just how things are done."

Max nodded. "In my world," he replied, "it's all about speed. We don't have time for formalities like LinkedIn requests. We go out for a nice, lovely evening of drinks, get to know each other face to face."

Honey crossed her arms as the production assistant ushered them into position beneath the glaring overhead lights, her gaze darting from child to child, ensuring they were all in place. She didn't respond to Max's comment right away, recognizing it for what it was—a challenge. Since they began to exchange messages, Max developed a habit of doing that: subtly daring her to pick up late-night calls that teetered on the edge of professionalism, steering their conversations toward topics that danced between too intimate for friends and not quite deep enough for something more. He never pushed, never said anything outright, but Honey could always feel the unspoken question lingering just beneath his words.

She just needed to decide how she wanted to respond.

"Alright, everyone!" The production manager called out, clapping her hands to get everyone's attention. All around them, the crew moved around the warehouse, wheeling equipment and setting up lights. The faint hum of a generator blended with the clatter of tripods being unfolded and the whir of cameras powering up. "The reception for the first video was incredible! I am very proud of everyone, and I am so happy to announce that we were greenlit to move forward with the second video for F1 Kids with many more to come. So, we'll be filming some light stuff today—cutaway scenes, establishing shots, that sort of thing. Let's make it a great day!"

Her children erupted into gleeful cheers, and Honey, too, felt the shift from the first time in the set: less fear, more wonder. Her heart beat its familiar rhythm, steady now, and her palms no longer trembled or turned clammy. It was a funny thing, really—because once upon a time, throughout a high school heartbreak, she'd tiptoed around a partner who scowled at her posting pictures online. She'd shrunk from cameras ever since that, afraid of the judgment that might follow. Yet here she was, now starring in videos that garnered up hundreds of thousands of views, standing next to a man who, instead of pulling away, gravitated closer—someone who could flirt with models at 3 A.M. without batting an eye but chose to send her screenshots of his latest Minecraft builds instead.

She's twenty-six and hasn't been on a date since her Cambridge days.

Why not Max? Why not someone like him—kind, thoughtful, someone who actually appreciated her quirks instead of tolerating them? Someone who supported her and her children without an ounce of judgment or jealousy, who drove her to be greater than she ever thought possible.

Besides, this wasn't a date. Not really. It was just... more than a LinkedIn request.

Just a nice, lovely evening of drinks, getting to know each other face to face. Just a chance to see if there could be something more between them beyond professional connections.

"I like Lyme Bay," she said lightly. "Cherry wine."

Standing beside her, Max nodded, a slight sway in his stance.

"Perfect match for some Jamón Ibérico," he said with an easy grin.

She pursed her lips. "It costs £6.99," she added—her own challenge, an unspoken warning.

I'm not from your world, Honey tried to say; I don't know anything about fancy wine or expensive charcuterie on yatchs.

Is that alright with you?

Max's answer came in the smile that lingered, his gaze flickering across her face, from the graceful slope of her nose to the soft curve of her lips. "Frugal," he quipped. "That just means we can go all out on more prosciutto and Roquefort. Next week sound good?"

Honey laughed, an indulgent sound that said she wasn't fooled. They both knew Max would gamble a sleepless weekend before the Japanese Grand Prix for far less; they both also knew Honey wouldn't allow him to. "What happened to speed, Mr. Verstappen?" she teased, her smile bright. "I can do tonight if you promise to make it an early night."

Max joined in the laughter; from the end of the line, Daniel wolf-whistled, turning the Dutch driver's face a shade of red. "I'll pick you up," Max told her. "I don't like dress shirts, by the way."

"And I don't like heels," she replied, her voice playful, like the flick of a cat's tail. "I'll see you then, Mr.—" Honey paused, her tongue dancing dangerously close to the edge of that 'V' and E-R, the syllables clinging to her lips like glitter gloss Max couldn't stop staring at. A faint smile unfurled, soft as a morning bloom.

"I'll see you tonight, Max." Honey said instead.

The Dutchman's hand, poised above his hat, faltered, and his head whipped around, surprise flashing in his blue eyes. His lips parted, thick and slow, as if a word was about to escape—but the producer stepped forward, the sharp click of the clapperboard cutting through the silence like a whip.

"Alright, everyone, listen up!" Dropping into a squat, the director leaned closer to the cameras, his voice booming with infectious enthusiasm. "On my count, I want to hear you cheer like it's the biggest moment of your life. Got it?" He paused, sweeping the crowd with a fierce, expectant look. "F1 Kids, take one, scene one! Ready? In three... two..."

Max's smile spread like sunlight, warm and effortless, a silent promise of something electric. He reached for her hand, fingers extending with a natural confidence that made her heart flutter.

His fingers, rough and weathered, found hers, and in that touch, the world seemed to freeze—just for a heartbeat. The blinding lights, the hum of the cameras, the frantic energy of the crew—everything around her faded to a soft blur. The air grew thick, almost alive with possibility, and her pulse quickened, matching the rhythm of the moment.

"One—action!"

Cheers erupted from the cast and crew, loud and raucous.

Their hands, entwined, shot into the air, raised high.

Max didn't shout, she noticed; neither did she. They both laughed, though, and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes were the same as the lines forming on her cheeks. Maybe that was all they needed—more than expensive wine or million-dollar sports cars.

Maybe that would be enough.

Something stirred deep within her—an excitement she hadn't known in years. It was as if time had paused just long enough to catch her up, to breathe life back into her.

It felt like the start of summer.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

does it feel rush? because it should HAHAH and the SAVORY DISHES NOW instead of baked goods omggg oh honey oh max my sweet sweet summer babies you are not prepared

the faster you get together the faster you fall apart (✿◠‿◠)

anyways evilness aside...

LETS GOOOOOOOO MAX VERSTAPPEN CHAMPION OF THE FUCKING WORLD FOUR IN A ROW ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

alright thank you for reading!! i appreciate any feedback and comments be it mean or nice cus i stopped caring editing like 10% in so pls point out mistakes or weird wording lolol thank you okay byebye!!