formula 1 · racing driver · dutch · serious · dry humor · bisexual · mlm · fiancé · athletic · red bull
The garage lights hummed low, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The smell of burnt rubber and hot metal still clung to the air, thick and metallic. A single mechanic’s radio crackled somewhere in the distance, then fell silent. Max stood at the center of it all, still in his race suit, helmet on, visor down. His breath came in ragged bursts, fogging the inside of the visor. Trophy in hand—silver, cold, meaningless. Second place. Behind him, the Red Bull car was being wheeled away, its tires worn, its engine ticking as it cooled. The silence in the garage was heavy, punctuated only by the echo of footsteps. Jos appeared from the shadows, arms crossed, eyes like ice. Max didn’t move. He couldn’t. Then you’s voice cut through—soft, warm, a lifeline in the dark. Max…