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ONCE, MAX HAD DATED A SWEDISH RACE DRIVER.

She was alright—blonde, slim, with long, straight hair she always cursed when it got caught under her helmet. Like him, she came from a family of drivers. She had a natural sense for speed, even if she'd started karting later than most, and grew up with the pressure that came with racing at a professional level. Their relationship had worked well enough; Max appreciated how she just understood-how she never needed him to spell out the demands of his career or the sacrifices it required. He loved that about her more than he ever loved her, if he was being honest with himself.

Either way, the relationship didn't last a year-not quite, anyway. He's not sure. He doesn't really remember. It had ended much like it began: hundreds of miles apart, with a quiet understanding that their paths were pulling them in different directions and a mutual respect for each other's ambitions. Nothing dramatic, just a calm acknowledgment that their time together had simply run its course. It was never going to be forever. Nothing is forever in their world.

After her, all his relationships had followed the same predictable course—an unspoken inevitability and a quiet, mutual acceptance. He got their understanding, their patient, "It's fine, Max," after weeks of no contact and a couple of sleepless nights when he finally flew them out to see him. They got his credit card number and the hours of attention after being photographed in his arms. For them, it was worth it. For him, it's just the way life has always been.

With Honey, though, under the endless overcast of stars he's ever driven beneath, he dares to hope—just this once—that things might be different.

He is twenty-six now. Almost twenty-seven. He needs to put on glasses after staring at his monitor for too long now; his back aches in the morning as well. Every juice is too sweet, and the pictures his sister sends of his nephews fill him with ideas he would've never had before.

His parents are in their early fifties.

For some reason, he only sees them ten times a year.

Life moves fast; Max doesn't want to think later on that he spent too little of it living outside of his car than in it, too caught up chasing down tenths in Jeddah and podiums in Miami, pursuing more victories than memories while the people who helped him reach those heights fade away, lost in the rearview mirror of his racing career.

He doesn't want to look back and see the place Honey could've had in his life, all the laughter, all the could-be love, and the shimmer of her blush faded in his mind until he is left with nothing but his name on rusted trophies and the lingering echoes of what-ifs.

He doesn't want it to be like before.

It's the only thought that kept his hands from shaking as he came to a stop in front of Honey's driveway, stepping out of his new car with an easy smile that could not hide the flustered red flush creeping up his neck. She looked breathtaking—the sort of woman who inspired all those late-century French paintings of lily ponds and sunset gardens, her smile a rapid brushstroke, full of sweetness, softness-all those words Max will never be able to speak out loud without feeling like a moron. He couldn't stop thinking of them, though; Max had never scrubbed anything off his hands besides grease and motor oil, but if he'd had the skill, he would have traded wrenches and his steering wheel for brushes and Ultramarine Blue just to capture the way her eyes reflected the moonlight above, wide and shimmering with dotted whites and deep, dark pupils.

"Max," she called, her voice a blend of defeated mirth and quiet exasperation. One hand covered her lips as if to stifle a laugh, while the other brushed away a stray curl of her brown hair that had slipped into her face. "Oh, Max," she repeated, and without trying, he understood everything she wasn't saying.

He also knew, with startling clarity, that he was in trouble—the deep, undeniable kind-because somehow, Honey could fill a single word, a single call of his name, with more meaning than anyone else ever had.

Nobody said his name the way she did; free from the sharp edge of his mother's regrets, the forced courtesy of his co-workers, the shallow greed of his ex-girlfriend. Her voice carried a fondness that felt almost too generous, too kind, for someone like him-someone more accustomed to boos and jeers than cheers, who has spent a lifetime convincing himself he didn't deserve otherwise if he wanted to be number one.

Max leaned against the godawful Prius he had purchased with only a bit of mortification, giving an indifferent shrug. "It's got an engine and four wheels," he replied. "What more does a car need? Honestly, this is already better than a Williams."

Honey laughed, even if she didn't fully get it.

Max wanted to be the guy making her laugh like that every day.

He extended his hand, and Honey accepted it, her long, colorful skirt swirling lightly around her ankles as she walked with him around the car. He opened the passenger door, watching as she slid into the seat, the ease of her movements noticeable without worrying about her dirtying the interior of his Aston Martin. "Thank you," she said with a sincerity that tugged at something deep in his chest, as if she didn't realize he'd trade every car he owned, no questions asked, just to hear her say his name like that one more time.

"Of course," he replied, tongue-tied and overwhelmed, closing the car door with care he had never put into a car door before walking around to the driver's side and sliding in himself. Before he could start the engine, Honey reached over and tapped his forearm, her dandelion-yellow nails brushing softly against the fine hairs on his skin.

"Look," she said, flipping her phone to face him. On the screen played a familiar scene-Nikolaas, weaving around the track in his go-kart, carving smooth, confident loops. "He's really getting good," she added with a proud smile, caramel eyes sparkling with affection.

"He is," Max agreed, a natural sense of pride washing over him. "Can you send me that video? I want my dad to see it."

Honey nodded, her smile widening as she tapped the screen. A soft ping signaled the video had reached his phone. "Did your dad teach you karting, Max?" she asked, her curiosity genuine. It was nice-no judgment, no baggage. Someone who didn't flinch at the mention of Jos or try to unpack his view of his father. "You said karting was what he really loved."

Max made sure to drive slow and steady, coasting easy. It was slower than he'd ever choose on his own, keeping what felt like a mile of space between them and the car ahead, but Honey looked peaceful, shoulders loose, face turned to the window with that calm vibe. Max figured he could live with it-for her. "When I was very little," he replied, staring straight ahead at the empty road leading out of Milton Keynes. "My Dad had his own go-kart team as well while he was still in F1. He ran the team, sold karting engines, oversaw the mechanics, managed the drivers-his focus was always on karting. When it was my time, of course, he taught me everything. I would not be the driver or person I am today without him."

Honey grinned, and though he knew that someday it might fade at the mention of Jos, today, she was simply happy for him.

"I'm very appreciative," Max insisted, though there wasn't much need for it. "My mom, too. She raced against guys like Button, Fisichella, Trulli-names that made it to F1. She was faster than all of them. I'd send her Nikolaas' videos, of course, but she misunderstood why I was sending them."

Honey laughed at the subtle awkwardness in his tone, understanding what he was implying. It was the truth; his mom would tease him, asking if Nikolaas might be her bonus grandson one day. He figured it was better to keep things under wraps for now-no need to spoil the surprise before it was ready.

"Well, she must be a delightful force to reckon with," Honey replied. "I'd love to meet her one day. We can sit down, share a cup of tea, and commiserate over our boys giving us gray hairs far too young with your refusal to slow down."

"Pascale might even help you cover the gray if you invite her," Max joked. At Honey's unsure expression, he explained. "She's Charles's mom-Leclerc, the Ferrari driver. I'm sure she's dealt with her fair share of gray hairs, too."

Outside of the car window, the summer sky had darkened far beyond what he anticipated, the warm orange clouds of the setting sun kissed with silvery shadings as faint stars began to blink into view. Max wasn't the type to admire any of the scenic views his ex-girlfriend's would force him to pose for to post on Instagram, but this particular evening had a serene beauty that even he couldn't deny. Still, Honey only looked at him. "Are you close to him?" She asked.

"We grew up together," he said plainly, not knowing what else he could say to capture the history of it all: that peculiar bond of racing against each other since childhood without quite crossing the line into friendship. "We had a tough relationship to start with in go-karting, clashed quite a bit. We were both fighting at the front and wanted to win. And at that time we weren't really communicating because we were young, in our teens. It's gotten better-we really respect each other. We sometimes see each other in Monaco, in a restaurant or wherever. Same with the other drivers."

"I can't imagine that," Honey said self-consciously, her fingernails scraping against the seatbelt material. "I grew up-You see, I'm adopted. My biological parents could no longer care for me, so I moved around a little until my adoption process was finalized. I don't have any childhood friends, or any meaningful relation, except for Miss Love-Well, I am grateful for the family I have now; my mothers are everything to me."

"Of course," Max replied, voice soft.

Honey nodded. "Of course," she agreed.

The road stretched endlessly ahead, and they still had a while to go before reaching their destination. Max wasn't one to dig too deeply into someone's personal life, but wasn't that the point of a date? To figure each other out, piece by piece?

"I'll admit," he said, glancing her way. "I'm not really sure what philosophers actually do."

"It's okay," Honey said, a ripple of laughter in her voice. "I don't know a thing about Formula One! Nikolaas does his best, bless him, but somehow, it all slips right through my mind when he talks about it."

"We can learn from each other, then," he said with a grin. Honey nodded, her eyes sparkling. "Deal," she replied. "You'll be my tutor, and I'll be yours-we'll fix each other's blind spots."

"Private lessons, Miss Clarkle? I'm intrigued," Max said with a sly grin, throwing her a sidelong glance. Honey stared at him, surprised into silence, until she noticed his daring look. She rolled her eyes but smiled, her hand briefly resting on his forearm for a second that felt far too short.

"Let me warn you now, Mr. Verstappen," she said with a playful glint in her eye. "I am an incredibly sought-after educator, so don't think for a second you'll be getting off easy with me. I expect nothing less than your absolute best in our lessons."

It was playful; a joke laced with the barest hint of innuendo, a half-truth scattered into a teasing smile. And yet Max could read Honey's words as clearly as she seemed to read his: she wasn't here-wasn't in this, with him, miles from her home and her child on a Friday evening after a long day at work-for anything casual. This wasn't a fling or a fleeting infatuation. Honey was seeking something real, something lasting.

Max didn't believe in religion or fate. He wasn't one for higher powers or anything like that. But, if destiny had any say in things, he was thankful it led him to this moment. In his brand new, shit Prius, next to a beautiful woman who seemed to want the same things he did.

It could be everything.

"I've really only thought about that," Max replied, a little too truthfully for it to sound like a joke. But Honey didn't appear afraid of his intensity; she just pressed her head against the headrest, staring at him-admiring him with a gentle expression.

Did she also ache in the morning, Max wondered?

Did her vision blur after spending an hour too long grading papers?

Did she ever look at her students and wonder, What if?

Max didn't know what it was for Honey. What made her, at just twenty-six, want to plant her feet on the ground while others their age kept reaching for the sky. All he knows is that for him, though, she had become the face in his mind when he imagined that quiet, wistful what if-that she could be the one to fill the gaps of that dream.

"Good," Honey whispered, her smile doing something to Max's chest that no lap time ever could. She reached for the radio, asking for his favorite song. Max lied, naming the first song that came to mind, not wanting to admit how little music crossed his thoughts. Honey lied too, claiming it was her favorite, though he could see her struggling to mouth the lyrics from the corner of his eye.

The sun dipped low behind them, casting warm light across the dashboard. It felt like a scene lifted from a film, the kind Max might've scoffed at for being too sentimental, but here, in this moment, it was nothing short of perfect. It felt exactly as it should be: lovely. It felt lovely.

He'd feared, at first, that without Nikolaas' silent steadiness or the easy distraction of her students to smooth the edges of their feelings for each other, things would be awkward-too exposed, too unrefined. The drive from Milton Keynes to Essex was long, and small talk had never been his strength. Silence, he figured, would be inevitable. But miles passed by, and songs began and ended, and he learned that Honey preferred marmalade on her toast in the mornings over jam; that her favorite movie was Up, and that she had never, ever attended a wedding; the same way she had never attended a funeral before, either, until Anwen's sister passed away from cancer a year ago.

He discovered that Honey's voice never wavered, even when she was sad, and that her hands were always cold, no matter the season. He also learned that she didn't mind his one-handed driving, as long as the other hand was wrapped around hers.

Her favorite painting was Landscape with Snow by Vincent van Gogh, and naturally, her favorite Doctor Who episode was the one about him. She adored bearded irises, miniature goats, the color yellow, butterscotch milkshakes-and whenever she saw the ocean, she couldn't help but sit up, her excitement impossible to hide.

"You didn't, Max!" Honey gasped, turning to face him with wide, startled eyes.

Max smiled to himself as he searched for parking near the boardwalk. The hour was late enough for the parking lot to be nearly empty, early enough the air remained full of life-the rhythmic crash of the tides merging with the faint echoes of distant laughter. Families trickled away, their day at the beach etched into sleepy children with sun-kissed cheeks, trudging behind parents laden with coolers and towels. Through her open window, the salty breeze teased Honey's hair as she drank in the scene. Her smile brightened at the sight of street vendors calling out their prices-at the slow, lazy glide of seagulls wheeling overhead with hopeful cries, and the final streaks of wine-red light stretching across the sky, bathing the growing dusk in a soft, golden warmth.

Max's gaze shifted, and he found himself smiling too-not at the scenery, but at her.

"Miss Honey?"

A teenager called out loudly, looking a touch bewildered as she waved energetically from a nearby ice cream stall. Honey's smile broadened as recognition dawned, peeking her head out of the car as Max slowed down just enough for her to call out. "Elle! Hello, darling! How are the university applications coming along?" She shouted back, waving happily enough that her bracelets jingled with each movement.

Elle beamed, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she shouted back, "I just need one more reference letter, but I'm nearly there!"

Honey gave her a cheery thumbs-up. "Keep an eye on your inbox!"

Elle screamed happily, even as her ice cream cone threatened to topple over.

Max kept his hands steady on the wheel, shaking his head with a touch of disbelief.

"I honestly can't tell if that was a fan or one of your students," he admitted, continuing to drive towards the end of the parking lot, closer to the pier. The restaurant he had made reservations at was just a short walk away, enough to enjoy the sunset before dinner.

Honey leaned into her chair, a wistful glimmer in her eyes. "She was one of the students from my very first graduating class," she shared, her smile gentle. "I started out teaching the older kids, but kindergarten is where my heart truly lies."

Max turned the car into the parking spot nearest the pier and glanced at her. "That has to be such a surreal feeling. Watching them grow up like that."

Honey turned her smile to him, a knowing gleam in her eye. "It's a beautiful thing. And you'll feel it too-when Nikolaas wins his first race, and the first person he turns to is you."

Max couldn't fathom what he'd do when that day came.

How could he possibly adore Nikolaas more than he did now-feel more pride for another person without his heart bursting at the seams?

"Come on, as if," he replied, turning off the engine. "He'll be straight to you first, of course, like I don't even exist. Now, if I were Vettel or Hamilton, it'd be a different story."

Honey got out of the car before he could rush to open her door for her, placing a hand on his chest with a laugh as they almost ran into each other. "One day," she said, giving him a playful nudge. "You'll see how much he likes Verstappen too."

Max lifted the hand resting on his chest, threading his fingers through hers. "Maybe once I've got my fourth championship," he said with a grin. "I've seen his tier list. He sent it to my business email-my PR manager couldn't stop laughing when she saw it."

Honey wrinkled her nose. "Sylvester figured out how to send emails last year after watching his father work remotely," she said apologetically. "She convinced him it was Roblox. He's been sending all sorts of things to people ever since. I'm sorry, Nikolaas must've asked him to send it to you."

"It's fine," Max insisted, guiding them through coolers and sand-covered people heading off the beach. "Honestly, I'd like to talk to Nikolaas more often. If that's okay with you, of course-"

"Max," Honey told him. "Nikolaas would love that. He's been asking if you'll be there for his first Winter championship event."

"Really?" He paused, spinning around to face Honey with a surprised look. "Those don't start until September. I'll have to tell my publicist to clear my schedule for that weekend-assuming there's no race. If there is, I don't know what I can do, but maybe I'll 'suddenly' get sick and can't compete-"

Honey squeezed his hand. She looked too fond, shaking her head. "You two," she said; it felt a bit like a scolding, a bit like love. "Always thinking of the future. Let's slow down, just for tonight. We'll figure it out together when the time comes."

Max stared at her, unable to deny that his mind was already racing ahead. Thinking ahead was second nature to him-on the track, off it in the sim, with his team, with his family. There were always things to plan for, to consider, to strategize. But as he looked into Honey's eyes, everything else seemed to fade away. All he could see was what he wanted right in front of him: gentle, steady, wrapped in a sweetness that was almost too much to bear.

"Alright," he agreed, sounding a bit clueless, like an idiot, his accent heavier than usual-but it made her smile all the same, and as long as he kept that up, at least he knew he was doing something right. "Alright, I can do that. I'll need some from you, though, Dr. Clarke."

What is it?" She asked, her voice eager, trusting without hesitation. Max wanted to kiss her.

"Your Discord," he said instead, clearing his throat. Seeing her confused expression, he chuckled. He took her hand and guided her toward the restaurant.

He'd teach her all about it between the herb tagliatelle and the Fiano di Avellino.

Honey's birthday is the twentieth of March.

Coincidentally, it is also the International Day of Happiness.

Max found it incredibly fitting-so, naturally, he told her. However, as dinner went on, he learned something else about Honey: she carried her humility like a second skin, almost to the point where it felt more like self-deprecation than modesty. Every compliment met a soft, dismissive smile, like she didn't quite believe him, before she redirected the topic with practiced ease.

But, in the same way Max figured he'll be the one to pick up laundry after her and wash all the forks and pot lids, it felt alright; Manageable, like something he can help her with-in the same way she'll help him keep his socks in pairs and peel off the jeans that fit just right.

"But, of course, there's more to that argument," Honey went on, two glasses of wine deep, elbow resting on the table and words flowing freely. Max had stopped understanding the specifics of what she was saying somewhere between 'intersectionality' and 'the importance of feminist literature in modern society.' He simply nodded along, trying to memorize the softness the candlelight cast on her face as she spoke. There's nothing clever or intelligent he could add to the conversation-he barely completed his secondary education. More than that, he was content to just listen and indulge in the warmth of her presence.

Here, at the lone table at the end of the pier-exactly where he'd hoped for-with the sound of the ocean waves crashing beneath them, they did not have to pretend for the sake of others.

Honey could talk about whatever she wanted, and Max could watch her without worrying about more pictures of them together ending up on Twitter.

It was just a real shame that even out here in the middle of the ocean, England still managed to reek.

He leaned forward, his fork held too loosely in his grip for some reason. "I'll introduce you to Susie," he said, his words coming quick and a little rough despite not drinking anything at all. "She's the director of F1 Academy-the, uh, women-only single-seater racing championship."

Honey nodded, her eyes as round and sparkling as twin moons, touched with the rosy glow of wine. "That sounds amazing," she replied, her voice a pitch higher than usual. "Though, I must admit, the thought of attending a race with you is somewhat scary, Max."

Max laughed at that, a run of giggles that bubbled up from deep within him. "Why?" he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. Reaching for his glass of water, he cursed under his breath as a splash escaped, landing square on his shirt. "You shouldn't be," he assured, brushing it off with a grin. "I'll make sure you and Nikolaas get the full VIP experience-top-tier, no shortcuts. You'll be in the garage, of course. And don't worry about the noise; I already got matching noise-canceling headphones for both of you. Problem solved."

"Max," Honey giggled, the sound tumbling out like champagne bubbles as she shook her head. Her hand darted across the table, her fingers tangling warmly with his. Max's gaze lingered there, through the clutter of the empty breadbasket and the half-full wine bottle, the flowers he'd brought disappearing beside the beauty of the freckles on her wristbone. "No, no—Max—Max! Max Emilian—What a lovely name! Why don't you go by that instead of just Max?"

Max wasn't exactly paying attention, if he were being honest. His mind was preoccupied, replaying that suave move he'd seen in a movie—the one where the guy effortlessly took his date's hand and kissed it, all charm and no awkwardness. But when Max tried to lift his own hand to attempt the maneuver, he misjudged entirely, his fingers flailing as though he were aiming three feet to the left of where her hand actually was.

He felt like he was three feet to the left.

It was—weird.

And, damn, it fucking reeked.

Max scanned the pier, searching for the source of the smell. The darkness enveloped everything, the ocean murmuring softly against the shore. The scent was faintly familiar, dredged from memories of nights in Amsterdam where smoke clouded all of his memories—but now it carried a sharper, more pungent edge.

That's when he saw it: a red light, flickering faintly in the distance.

It glimmered through the gaps in the wooden planks of the pier, like the ember of a far-off fire.

He didn't need to hear the teenagers' laughter to know where it was coming from.

The smell made it obvious.

"Schatje," Max drawled, his words as languid as smoke curling through the air. "I don't want to alarm you, but..."

Honey's grin didn't waver. If anything, it widened, her eyes closing in playful defiance. "But what, Max?" she teased, leaning in close. "You know you can't scare me."

A laugh bubbled out of Max before he could stop it. He raised a hand to stifle it, missing his mouth and brushing his nose instead.

"I think we're—" Another giggle slipped out, unbidden. "Schatje, I think we're high."

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

rip bozo max ofc his first date with honey would go wrong LMAO next chapter is going to be a lil funny tho :3 thank you for piastrified for the idea <3

also also all of you should apply to bigger than texas by piastribakery!! it is an f1 applyfic with an alt grid :3 it will be very very fun!! it might feature grown up nikolaas and anwen at some point

anyways thank you!! i hope you guys enjoy the chapter lmk ur thoughts okay bye