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Max sits in the quiet of his hotel room, the distant hum of the city below muffled behind thick glass. The adrenaline of the race has long since faded, leaving behind the familiar ache — not in his limbs, but somewhere deeper, in that space between ribs and heart, where everything he can't have tends to settle.
He scrolls through his feed, picture after picture of today's podium, the champagne, the fans, the interviews. Everyone smiling. Everyone watching. Always watching.
And he’s there too — the golden boy, the champion.
Untouchable. Perfect.
Alone.
He thinks of Daniel in the paddock today, beaming as always, joking with the crew, laughing with the journalists, slipping into that effortless charm that makes everyone love him. That smile that draws the world in… except Max knows it’s a mask. He knows the real version of it — the tired version, the quiet one, the one Daniel gives him when no one’s looking. That’s the one that guts him.
Because Max knows the cost of loving Daniel in silence, but it's Daniel who pays it every single day.
He wants to kiss him when he wins. Wants to pull him into his arms, bury his face into Daniel’s neck and tell him, You’re the reason I don’t fall apart.
He wants to let the cameras flash while he presses his lips to Daniel’s temple, wants to smile and not lie with it for once.
He wants to want, out loud.
But he can’t.
The world isn’t kind to men like him. Especially not men like him at the top. There’s no space for vulnerability in the kingdom he's built, no margin for anything soft. They would rip it apart — not just him, but Daniel too. Turn their love into a scandal, make them into something ugly, something to gawk at, to tear down for views and clicks and headlines.
So Max keeps it buried.
Keeps him buried.
They move through their world like strangers sometimes, side by side but never touching too long, never looking too deep. In front of others, Daniel is just the goofy friend, the old teammate, the past.
Not the man who knows how Max likes his coffee.
Not the man who holds him in silence on nights when the world feels too loud.
Not the man who taught him how to feel something other than cold.
And what kills Max the most isn’t his own restraint — it’s Daniel’s understanding.
No protests. No ultimatums.
Just that same soft smile, the one he gives when Max brushes past him without a glance, when Max pretends not to notice his lingering stares, when Max shrinks his love down into something palatable, something the world can swallow without choking.
“I understand,” Daniel says. Every time. Like it’s easy. Like it doesn’t carve him out too.
Max wants him to not understand. Wants him to yell, to fight, to demand more. Because maybe then Max could justify the pain — maybe then he could hate Daniel a little, for pushing, for asking, for making it harder.
But Daniel never does.
He just stands there, heart in his hands, and offers it anyway. Quiet. Constant. Crushing.
Max presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, willing the burn away.
He should be happy. He’s at the top of the world.
But what’s the point of a podium when the person you want to share it with has to stand in the shadows?
What’s the point of winning when the only thing you want to shout about is the one thing you can’t say?
………..
Daniel lies with his head in Max’s lap, legs curled up on the couch, one socked foot lazily brushing against the cushions. Max has the remote in hand, flipping through channels with that usual absentminded focus — not really watching anything, just searching for something to drown out the silence they don’t talk about.
The room is dim. Warm. Familiar. It smells like takeout and Max’s cologne and the lingering echo of a kiss they shared in the kitchen twenty minutes ago — the kind that’s too soft, too slow, like it carries all the things Max won’t say out loud.
Daniel scrolls through Instagram. Another photo of Charles and his girlfriend at some event. George and his fiancée. A new post from a Formula 1 WAG account — a montage of drivers' wives and girlfriends, cheering from the pit wall, hugging their partners after the race, some of them posting adorable behind-the-scenes photos, tagged with hearts and matching emojis.
He turns the screen to Max with a lazy smirk that barely hides the ache underneath.
“When do I get to be on one of these?”
Max doesn’t answer right away. He keeps his eyes on the TV, frozen halfway between a Netflix menu and a live match.
Daniel chuckles, playing it off like it’s a joke, even though it’s not.
“Imagine me in the background, screaming your name like a soccer mom with a team shirt that says ‘Max’s Boyfriend’ in glitter font.” He throws in a dramatic hand motion. “I’d go viral.”
Max smiles, soft and fond. His hand brushes through Daniel’s hair — instinctive, gentle, careful. Always so damn careful.
But he doesn’t say anything.
And that silence says everything.
Daniel turns back to his phone, pretending to scroll again. He doesn’t push. He never does.
Because he knows.
He knows the pressure Max is under. The eyes. The expectation. The ruthlessness of this world that only loves you when you’re untouchable — cold, perfect, invincible.
There’s no space for softness in that world.
No space for him.
Still, there’s a part of Daniel — quiet but constant — that aches to be claimed. Not just in the dark. Not just behind hotel doors or during long-haul flights when no one is watching. He wants to stand by Max on the track, in the sun, in front of everyone, and belong.
Because he does.
Because when Max falls asleep curled into his side, trusting him with all the pieces no one else gets to see — the fear, the doubt, the softness — Daniel feels it in his bones: this is real.
But real doesn’t always mean visible.
Max finally says something, his voice quiet.
“You’d steal all my fans.”
Daniel smiles, a hollow little laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Damn right I would. I’m a crowd favorite.”
And Max laughs too, leaning down to kiss the crown of his head, like he always does — when he’s sorry, when he’s scared, when he wishes things were different.
Daniel closes his eyes and lets it happen.
He doesn’t ask again.
Because it’s not fair to want what Max can’t give — even if it hurts that no one else knows that the love of his life is sitting right above him, fingers threading through his curls, as if that touch could erase the world they’re forced to hide in.
And the worst part?
Daniel does understand.
He always has.
………
The clink of cutlery on fine china grates on Max’s nerves like nails on glass. The restaurant is dimly lit, glowing with luxury — crystal chandeliers, gold accents, laughter that doesn’t reach the eyes. He’s seated at a long, polished table surrounded by sponsors, team execs, a few fellow drivers — all dressed up, all smiling too wide. All pretending.
Max stares down at the plate in front of him, some fancy, tiny portion of something he can’t even pronounce. He’s not hungry. Not for this.
What he wants is back home. A small apartment kitchen. Daniel barefoot, shirt half tucked, humming off-key while he flips something in a pan with absolutely no recipe. The smoke alarm probably going off. Max yelling at him to open a window while laughing anyway.
Burnt food. Cold beer. His arms around Daniel from behind. The world far, far away.
“Max.”
The voice snaps him out of the daydream. He looks up, blinking.
Carlos.
Seated beside him, glass of wine in hand, watching him too closely. There’s no smile on Carlos’s face, no joke laced in his tone. Just something steady. Honest.
Dangerous.
“You know he’s going to leave someday, right?” Carlos says low, voice just beneath the chatter of the room. “If you don’t stop hesitating.”
Max stiffens. His fork clinks against the plate.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Carlos gives him a look — the kind that sees right through all of Max’s defenses. “Yes, you do.”
Max opens his mouth. Closes it. His heart pounds, loud in his ears, louder than the meaningless conversation around them.
He tries to focus on his plate again. On anything else. But Carlos’s words hang heavy between them.
“He deserves better than being hidden like a dirty little secret,” Carlos says, quieter now. “You know he does.”
Max clenches his jaw, voice tight. “This isn’t easy. You think I want this?”
“No. I think you’re scared,” Carlos says, unfazed. “And I get it. But hiding him isn’t protecting him, Max. It’s hurting him. And you.”
Max doesn’t say anything.
Because he knows.
Every time Daniel smiles through disappointment. Every time he jokes just to keep the weight off Max’s shoulders. Every time he understands without being asked to — it breaks something inside him.
Carlos leans in just slightly. “You’re the fastest man on track. But one day, you might regret being the slowest in your own life.”
Max swallows hard.
The food’s gone cold.
And suddenly, this room — this gilded, polished world — feels like a cage. One he built himself. One that Daniel’s waiting patiently outside of, hand always held out, never demanding, never begging — just there.
But for how much longer?
Max grips his fork tighter. His knuckles turn white.
He can win every championship. Shatter every record.
But if he loses Daniel…
What’s the point of any of it?
………
The roar of the engines fades into the thunder of the crowd, but Max hears none of it.
Not the screech of tires, not the frantic voices on the radio, not the commentators yelling about records shattered and history made.
All he hears — all he feels — is the pounding of his heart and the way his eyes find him.
There he is.
Daniel.
In the stands, barely five rows up, in a Red Bull tee two sizes too big and a cap pulled low like he’s trying to blend in — but there’s no blending for Max. Not when he’s looking for him.
Daniel’s not waving a banner or screaming his name, but he’s there.
Winking.
Smiling.
His mouth shaping the words Max has memorized from him: You did it, baby.
He looks like any other fan — just another face in the crowd.
But to Max, he’s home.
The car pulls into parc fermé. The mechanics swarm. Team radio explodes with victory shouts. P1. Japanese Grand Prix. Another title-defining win. Cameras flash, the anthem booms, and still — none of it matters.
Max doesn’t even wait for the usual routine. Doesn’t rip off his helmet for the post-race interview. Doesn’t even spare a glance at the others behind him, still clambering out of their cars.
His feet move before he can think.
Like muscle memory.
Like instinct.
Like love.
Through the crowd. Over the barriers. Security trying to stop him — they hesitate. Then recognize him. Then don’t dare.
Because Max Verstappen doesn’t stop for anything.
Daniel sees him too late.
He starts to smile. “What’re you—?”
But the words never finish.
Because Max kisses him.
Hard.
Like everything he’s swallowed for the past two years finally breaks through. Like he’s tired of loving in the dark. Tired of stolen moments. Tired of regret.
The world around them halts.
A stunned silence ripples through the crowd. The podium stands still. The camera lens refocuses, the broadcasters go quiet, and for a heartbeat — a single, suspended breath — the entire world watches.
And then—
Chaos.
Screams. Cheers. Gasps. Applause that erupts like fireworks. Flags waving harder. Someone shouts Max’s name. Others are crying. A camera zooms in just as Daniel’s hand curls behind Max’s neck, pulling him closer, kissing him back with the kind of fierce relief that says finally.
Max pulls away, just slightly, forehead resting against Daniel’s. Breathless. Unshaken.
“I don’t want to hide anymore,” he says. “I can’t.”
Daniel blinks, eyes glassy. “You sure?”
Max nods, voice quiet but steady. “Fastest man in the world, remember? Took me long enough to realize what matters.”
And Daniel laughs, shaky and full of awe, pulling him in again. “You dramatic little shit.”
Max grins.
And as they stand there, locked in each other’s arms while the world screams in celebration — not just for the race, but for them — Max feels, for the first time in forever, like he’s won something real.
…….
Where's the trophy?
He just comes running over to me
……..
Daniel Ricciardo’s F1 WAG era doesn’t start quietly.
It begins with a kiss that crashes the internet, melts a thousand phones, and sends the sports world into collective cardiac arrest.
Max kisses him in Japan.
On the track. On live TV.
In front of God, FIA, and every fan with a social media account.
And just like that — everything changes.
Within hours:
- #MAXIEL trends in 47 countries.
- The clip hits 25 million views on TikTok by midnight.
- Someone posts a slowed-down version with Taylor Swift’s Alchemy playing in the background. It goes insane.
The internet collectively:
“DANIEL RICCIARDO WAG ERA LET’S GOOOOO.”