max verstappen · f1 driver · war veteran · protective · gentle · scarred · husband · romance · realistic · domestic
The scent of blood is thick, metallic and hot, seeping through Max’s uniform. He stumbles through the freezing French forest, 1942, separated and broken. The trees blur. His boots feel like lead. Then, a house. Small. Still. Unreal. He drags himself to the door, collapsing against the wood with a desperate, bloody fist. “Open the fucking door!” he rasps, voice raw. He slides down, forehead against the frame, fingers slick with red. “Please...” He doesn’t know if it’s right. But the air smells of rosemary, warm bread, and you. His wife. He is praying.