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The 2025 season had been a rollercoaster for Red Bull. After a shaky start with Liam Lawson struggling alongside Max, Yuki Tsunoda got the call-up from the junior team mid-season, swapping seats just in time for his home race in Japan.
He wasn't dominating like the Dutchman, but he held his own mentally, bouncing back from crashes and bad luck without crumbling. That's what Max noticed most.
They weren't exactly buddies. In the garage, sure—banter over setups, shared debriefs, the usual teammate stuff. But outside? Nothing.
It started casually after a double points finish in some European track—too much champagne, too little restraint. From there, it became a thing. No strings, just release.
Max loved pushing buttons, teasing Yuki until the smaller driver snapped back with that fiery energy. Yuki loved the control, the way Max—untouchable on track—let go in private. They'd mess around, rough and intense, then crash out like nothing happened. Come morning, it was back to professional distance.
But somewhere along the way, for Max, it shifted. He started noticing things. The way Yuki carried himself after a tough weekend, head high even when the car let him down. How he fought through the pressure of finally driving for the senior team after years in the shadows, especially after Red Bull had dropped him from promotion talks before.
Yuki was strong—mentally unbreakable in a way that reminded Max of his own grind. It wasn't just the heat anymore; it was admiration turning into something deeper. Real feelings. Scary ones.
Off-season hit, and Yuki headed home to Japan for the holidays. Max, meanwhile, had some brand collaboration in Tokyo. Perfect excuses.
December 30th, the night before New Year's Eve. Max texted Yuki: Hey, in Tokyo for work. Meet up?
Yuki smirked at his phone. Straight to the point, Verstappen. He figured it was the usual—Max in the mood, wanting to blow off steam before the new year. They hadn't hooked up since the season wrapped, and Yuki wouldn't mind one last go. He replied: Sure. Your hotel?
No. Restaurant. I'll send the address.
It was a private room in a restaurant. Quiet. Traditional. Too intimate for something meaningless.
Yuki didn’t comment. He just ate. He always enjoyed food—Max noticed that too.
Whiskey kept coming. Words started slipping.
Max leaned back, staring at the table like it was suddenly very interesting.
“Why don’t we try?” he said.
Yuki blinked. “Try what?”
Max looked at him. Serious. No teasing. No grin.
“You know. Something real. You’re still going to races next year. We could… travel together.”
Silence.
“I'm not that kind of Verstappen,” he said.
“Do you think I don't fuck every teammate I've had? Pierre, Liam, even that one season with Nyck back in the day—it's just convenient. Nothing more. Don't go reading into it.”
He was laying it on thick, voice dripping with that casual dismissal he was so good at. Trying to build a wall out of sarcasm and old hookups, brick by brick. Push him away before anything got messy.
Max didn't flinch. Didn't look hurt. He just took a slow sip, eyes locked on Yuki the whole time.
“Yeah?” Max said finally, tone light. “Pierre told me the opposite, you know. Said you ghosted him for weeks after Singapore '22 because he tried to make it 'something.' And Liam? Kid's still half in love with you.”
Yuki's smirk faltered for half a second. He hadn't expected Max to know that. Or to call it out so calmly.
Max shrugged, setting the glass down. “I don't care about the past, Yuki. I know the stories. I know you push people away the second it stops being easy. But I'm not them.”
Yuki laughed—short, almost bitter. “You're exactly like them. Horny after a good result, bored in the off-season. You'll get over it by Bahrain.”
Max shook his head, still unfazed. “Maybe. Or maybe I've watched you fight through every shitty thing this team threw at you this year and thought, 'Damn, I actually like this guy.'”
He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, voice dropping. “You can keep throwing up walls all night. Tell me it's nothing, tell me you've done this with everyone. I know it's bullshit.”
“Fine,” Yuki muttered, finally looking up. “Say I even think about it. There’s a thousand reasons it’s stupid.”
Max tilted his head, waiting. No interruption. Just that infuriating patience.
Yuki exhaled through his nose.
“I’m chatty as hell, you know that already,” he started, words spilling out faster than usual. “Like, stupidly chatty. I talk to everyone. And yeah, I flirt. A lot. With guys mostly, but girls too when I’m in the mood.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Yuki echoed, voice pitching up. “That’s all? You won’t care?”
“I’ll notice,” Max said calmly. “But I know you. I’ve seen you do it all season. Doesn’t mean you’re going home with them.”
Yuki huffed, undeterred. “And the texting thing. I’m absolute garbage at it. I’ll read your message, think ‘I’ll answer when I’m home,’ and then I forget. For days. Sometimes a week.”
Max’s mouth curved, just a little. “You left me on read for five days after Vegas.”
“Exactly!” Yuki threw his hands up. “And you’re still here asking for this? You should be running.”
Max just shrugged.
Yuki stared at him, half exasperated, half something softer he didn’t want to name.
“You’re not supposed to be this okay with my shit,” he muttered. “You’re supposed to hear all this and think ‘yeah, too much work.’”
Max leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and steady.
“I’ve watched you deal with every bit of shit this year. A little flirting and bad texting habits? That’s nothing.”
Yuki opened his mouth—probably to fire off another excuse—but the words stalled. He looked away, jaw tight, leg bouncing under the table.
“You’re really fucking annoying, Verstappen.”
-
They didn’t talk much on the walk back to Max’s hotel. The Tokyo streets were alive with pre-New-Year energy, but the two of them moved through it quietly, shoulders brushing every few steps. Yuki’s hands were stuffed in his coat pockets, breath fogging in the cold, stealing glances at Max like he was still deciding whether to bolt.
The suite was on a high floor, all sleek lines and city lights spilling through high windows. Yuki stepped inside, kicked off his shoes, and let out a low whistle.
“Wow. So nice,” he said, spinning slowly to take it in—the massive bed, the view over Shibuya crossing blinking below. Classic Yuki: filling the silence with chatter the second he felt it creeping in.
Max didn’t answer with words. He just shrugged off his jacket, crossed the room, and kissed him. Hard. Like he’d been holding it back since the restaurant. Yuki made a surprised sound that turned into a laugh against Max’s mouth, hands coming up to grip the front of Max’s shirt.
“You talk too much,” Max muttered between kisses, backing him toward the bed.
Yuki smirked, nipping at Max’s bottom lip. “You like it.”
Max’s answer was another kiss, deeper this time, one hand sliding up to tangle firmly in Yuki’s dark hair. He tugged just enough to tilt Yuki’s head back, exposing his throat, and pressed a line of hot kisses there.
“Say it,” Max said against his skin, voice rough, low.
Yuki’s breath hitched, but the defiance was still there. “You wish, Verstappen.”
Max growled and spun him around, pushing him down onto the bed. Clothes came off fast: Yuki’s sweater yanked over his head, Max’s shirt buttons giving up without a fight. There was no slow build tonight.
Max was on fire, every touch urgent, possessive. He pinned Yuki’s wrists above his head with one hand, the other working lube and prep with impatient precision.
When Max finally pushed inside, it was hard and deep, exactly how they both liked it when the tension had been simmering too long. Yuki arched off the mattress, nails digging into Max’s shoulders. The room filled with the sounds of skin on skin and gasped breaths.
Max set a relentless pace, hips snapping forward, hand still fisted in Yuki’s hair to keep him right where he wanted him. Every thrust pulled a broken sound from Yuki’s throat, his usual chatter reduced to moans and half-formed versions of Max’s name.
“Say it,” Max demanded again, voice ragged, slowing just enough to make Yuki whine in protest.
Yuki’s eyes were glassy, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. He tried for a smirk, but it came out shaky.
“Make me.”
Max did. He angled his hips just right, drove in harder, and Yuki’s bravado cracked like glass. His legs wrapped tight around Max’s waist, pulling him deeper, head thrown back against the pillows.
“Fuck—Max—”
“Say it, Yuki.”
A pause, just the sound of their breathing and the city far below.
Then, soft, almost lost in the rhythm of their bodies:
“I’m yours.”
Max stilled for half a heartbeat, like the words had punched the air out of him. Then he kissed Yuki again—messy, desperate, full of everything he hadn’t said out loud yet—and moved with renewed purpose, carrying them both over the edge.
“You’re mine,” Max said, breathing into Yuki’s hair.
Yuki didn’t say anything. He just pressed closer, secretly smiling to himself, like he hadn’t tried to avoid this two hours ago.
-
Almost three months in, and it was nothing like what Yuki had warned about.
Quoting his own greatest hits: “I flirt with everyone, I ghost texts, I’m not that kind of Verstappen, blah blah blah.”
Bahrain testing, February 2026. Yuki’s officially the reserve driver—track time limited, most days spent in the simulator or on media duties while Max with his new teammate.
Yuki watched them like a hawk.
Every laugh Isack pulled out of Max in the garage, every pat on the back after a long run, every shared meal—Yuki noticed. And he hated it.
One night in the hotel, after Max came back late from a team dinner Yuki hadn’t been invited to, Yuki was already in Max’s room.
Max barely got the door closed before Yuki started.
“You were sitting next to him the whole time, huh?”
Max kicked off his shoes, tired. “Yeah. Seating chart. You know how these things go.”
Yuki crossed his arms, leaning against the desk. “He’s funny now? You kept laughing at his stupid stories.”
Max raised an eyebrow.
Yuki’s voice went up half an octave, childish and sharp. “You don’t even laugh at my stories anymore. Maybe you don’t like me anymore.”
Max paused, jacket halfway off. “Yuki. We were literally on the phone this morning for an hour while I was stuck in traffic.”
“That was this morning,” Yuki muttered, looking away. “Now you have your new favorite teammate.”
Max exhaled, half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“You’re gonna try to sleep with him, aren’t you?” he blurted, voice low but venomous.
Max stopped dead. “What?”
Max’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, voice dropping dangerously quiet.
“I’m not you.”
The words landed like a slap.
Yuki’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked gagged—shocked, stung, furious because it was true. He’d thrown that exact line in people’s faces for years: it’s just convenient, nothing serious. Now it was being used on him, and it burned.
“Did you just—did you just throw my own slut era in my face?!”
Max shrugged, trying not to laugh. “You literally said, and I quote, ‘Do you think I don’t fuck every teammate I’ve had? It’s just convenient.’ New Year's Eve, third glass of whiskey.”
Yuki’s face went red. “I was trying to scare you off!”
“Didn’t work,” Max said, stepping closer. “And now look at you. One smile from Isack and you’re ready to fight him.”
“I will fight him,” Yuki hissed. “I’m small but I’m scrappy.”
Max finally cracked, laughing so hard he had to lean against the wall. “You’re the most hypocritical person alive. You flirted with half the grid, ghosted everyone, and now you’re mad I said ‘good run’ to my teammate?”
Yuki pointed an accusing finger. “You said ‘great sector two, mate’ and you TOUCHED HIS SHOULDER.”
“Oh my god.” Max wiped his eyes. “You’re insane. I love it.”
-
Max pulled Yuki closer on the bed. Yuki was half-draped over him, one leg hooked possessively over Max’s thigh, like he was staking territory even in his sleep.
“Come here, my jealous boyfriend,” Max murmured, reaching up to kiss Yuki’s temple softly.
Yuki groaned, burying his face deeper into Max’s neck. “I hate that you remember everything.”
“Yeah, well, I especially remember you whispering ‘I’m yours’ while I—”
“SHUT UP,” Yuki yelped, slapping a hand over Max’s mouth so fast it made a cartoonish smack. His ears were practically glowing red.
Max, being Max, licked Yuki’s palm. Slowly. Deliberately.
Yuki screeched like a horrified cat, yanking his hand back and wiping it frantically on Max’s T-shirt. “You’re disgusting! Gross! Animal!”
Max just laughed, low and warm, letting Yuki squirm and complain while he held him tight.
They settled again, Yuki’s head on Max’s chest now, watching like a curious puppy as Max scrolled absently on his phone. Every swipe, every double-tap—Yuki’s eyes tracked it all, ready to pounce if a certain French name popped up.
Finally Max tossed the phone onto the nightstand with a dramatic clatter.
“Hey. Fun fact,” he said, voice light and way too pleased with himself. “Isack told me something today.”
Yuki side-eyed him hard. “What.”
Max grinned into the dark. “Kid’s have a massive crush on you. Since last year. Said he’s planning to confess the second he wins a race this season.”
Yuki blinked. Then snorted. “You’re just making shit up to mess with me.”
“Nope,” Max said, popping the ‘p’. “Dead serious. He even pulled me aside after debrief, all nervous, asked if you were taken. Wanted to know if he should ‘respect the bro code’ or whatever.”
Yuki propped himself up on one elbow, staring down at Max. “And you’re… not jealous? Like, at all?”
Max looked up at him, blue eyes dancing. “Nope. Kid doesn’t have a chance.”
Yuki rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. “Too confident, Verstappen.”
Max reached up, tugging Yuki back down until their noses brushed.
“Damn right I’m confident,” he whispered. “I’ve got the jealous, clingy, pouty version of Yuki Tsunoda in my bed right now, whining every time I breathe in someone else’s direction. Why would I be jealous when I’ve already won?”
Yuki groaned again, but this time it was softer, defeated. He dropped his forehead against Max’s collarbone.
“So annoying.”
Max just smiled in the dark, pressing another kiss to Yuki’s temple.
“Sleep, jealous boy. No one’s stealing me. Especially not a kid who still gets starstruck when you say ‘good luck’ to him.”
Yuki huffed, but finally relaxed, breath evening out against Max’s neck.
“…You better not help him win any races,” he muttered drowsily.
Max chuckled quietly. “Not a chance.”