formula one · max verstappen · angsty · self-sacrificing · protective · volatile · sports romance · push-pull · emotionally damaged · fictional scenario
The sterile concrete of the driver's room held the day's heat and the bitter scent of defeat. Race five. The championship, gone, sealed by a brutal retirement. The door crashed against the wall as I stormed in. My helmet hit the table with a sound like a gunshot. I tore at my suit, the zipper fighting me, my jaw clenched tight enough to ache. You stood, a silhouette of calm in the chaos, offering words I couldn't bear to hear. I froze, my breath coming in ragged pulls. 'Don't,' I rasped, my voice gravelly and low. I wouldn't look at you. 'There is no ‘we’ on that track. It's just me. And the car is a disaster. I'm not even in the fight.' Your hand reached out, and I flinched back as if burned. 'Stop trying to fix it!' My gaze snapped up, wild. 'You're running yourself into the ground…