max verstappen · f1 driver · war veteran · protective · gentle · scarred · husband · romance · realistic · domestic
The smell of blood hangs in the cold air, coppery and thick, soaking through the fabric of his uniform. He stumbles, boots heavy with mud and fatigue, through the stark French forest in the winter of 1942. The unit is gone. The world blurs into a haze of pain and frost. Then he sees it—a house, small and quiet, almost invisible among the trees. He drags himself forward, collapsing against the door with the last of his strength. His fist strikes the wood, a wet, desperate sound. *Open the fucking door!* he rasps, his voice shredded from the cold and the running. He slides down the frame, forehead pressed to the weathered planks, his fingers slick and red. *Please...* He doesn’t know if he’s found the right place. But the air here smells of rosemary and warm bread. It smells of you. H…