hello! just finished reading "say her name again" and i love it very much! i see that you mentioned about the angst, no happy ending version for pt.2 so i wonder if the idea is still up in your plan? can i humbly ask you to consider to write it someday when you feel like it?
I'm glad you loved it <3 Yup, the idea is absolutely still on the table. And as much as I would love to tell you guys I'll be posting it soon, it looks like it's going to take be taking a really long while. I have a lot of other stuff planned and with school starting back up where I am (not to mention that it's impossible to find time in nursing school + being the president of an organization) I'm trying to write as much as humanly possible.
Never the less it will be posted, it's just going to take a really long while sadly. Thank you so much for all yall's patience <3
★ Imagine saying your boyfriends full name in front of his family ★
: CS55, MV3, GR63, CL16
————————————————
★ Carlos Sainz ★
„Carlos Sainz Vázquez de Castro!“ The moment his whole name left your lips, Carlos Jr, Carlos Sr, Reyes and a few of Carlos cousins looked at you with big eyes. Before your boyfriend could ask you what’s wrong, his mother was already ushering the rest of the men away so you two could talk in private. When Reyes passed by you, she gave you the supportive-mom-look. Carlos Sr was the last to leave the room, putting a hand on his sons shoulder. For a second, it looked like he wanted to give his son some advise, but he just shook his head at him. He left the room, but not before giving you a kind smile.
Seeing his whole family rushing out of the room made Carlos sweat. However, he knew it would be stupid to panic. Putting on the most calm smile he could manage in this moment, he stood up and made his way to you. „Mi, amor. Have I already told you how beautiful you look today?“
★ Max Verstappen ★
„Max Emilian Verstappen! Where is MY ice cream?“ Oh boy, this is not a sentence Max wanted to hear. The moment the words left your mouth, both his mother and sister turned to him, shock written on their faces. „Max, what did you do? You can’t just eat your girlfriends food.“ his mother whispered to him, acting like he just ruined her new rose bushes. His sister Victoria was giving him the biggest side-eye in the history of Formula 1, muttering to him that „you are a dead man man, bro“ and shaking her head in disappointment.
The moment you entered the room, his mother and sister immediately got up. Victoria couldn’t help herself and shot Max a cheeky smirk, loving that her older brother was in trouble. His mother however promised you that Max will definitely replace the food he had eaten and will get even more. Meanwhile, Max was sitting stunned on the sofa. He couldn’t believe how quickly these two threw him under the bus. But all of this was quickly forgotten when he saw your raised eyebrow, your beautiful arms crossed over your even more beautiful chest. „Now, Schatje, let me explain….“ Oh boy, he truly was in trouble.
★ George Russell ★
George was talking to his father on the phone, going over the next race weekend with him, when he suddenly heard you yell from the bedroom. „George William Russell! Come here this instant!“ Now, George knows you rarely get angry at him. So whatever happened must have really made you mad. Both George and his father were quiet for a moment, the shock still in the air from your yell. George was already panicking, thinking about all the things he messed up in the past few hours, when his fathers voiced brought him out of his spiralling thoughts.
„Listen here, my boy. This is a very difficult situation you will have to face. But don’t forget, you must apologise. It doesn’t matter if you did something wrong or not. But to keep the peace in your relationship, be the man and apologise. Buy her flowers and take her out for dinner tonight. And whatever happens, don’t even try to argue. Your mother and I both love you and we will pray for you.“ With that, his father ended the call, leaving George to his own device. If George thought he was panicking before, then he currently must have a heart attack.
★ Charles Leclerc ★
Charles and his brothers were sitting outside on the balcony, when you suddenly appeared in the doorway. „Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc. Is there anything you have to tell me?“ you asked, wearing a smile that was sweeter than sugar itself. Charles might not always be the smartest man on earth but even he knew that this was just an ironic question. Arthur and Lorenzo both looked at him, sporting different expressions on their faces. While Lorenzo looked at his little brother with pity, Arthur wore a huge, satisfied smirk.
Lorenzo knew the best thing they could do was to let you and Charles talk in private, so he quickly shoved Arthur through the door. Before Lorenzo could leave himself, Charles was already grabbing his arm. „Please, Lollo. Don’t leave. Please….“ whispered Charles, desperate eyes already on his big brother. „I’m sorry, Charlie“ with that, Lorenzo freed himself of his younger brothers death-grip, giving you a kind smile before leaving. Charles heard his little brother complain that he didn’t want to leave, that „I bet five bucks Charles will have to grovel for a week“ before Lorenzo finally dragged Arthur out of the apartment. Turning his attention back to you, he hesitatingly stood up, giving you an unsure smile. Yeah, Charles was a dead man walking.
Summary: Max always thought you never asked for much because you didn’t need much, low-maintenance to a fault, until he finally overhears the truth.
4.4k words / Masterlist
Max had always appreciated how easy you were to love.
You didn’t demand. You didn’t sulk over missed dates. There were no passive-aggressive comments about him not posting you enough or forgetting to text back when a race weekend swallowed him whole. You never made him feel guilty for the parts of his life that were already complicated. When he was travelling or exhausted, you simply kissed his forehead and told him to rest. When his schedule changed last minute, you never got upset, never made him sit through a tense silence or apologise for the same thing five different ways, you just shrugged with that soft little smile of yours and said, “We’ll figure it out.”
You weren’t just low-maintenance, you were selfless, unshakeably chill in a way that made loving you feel almost effortless. You understood the pressure, the travel, the media, the endless demands on his time, and you never tried to add yourself to the list of things he needed to manage.
You made room for his life before he even had to ask. You bent around the complicated edges of his world so naturally that, after a while, Max stopped noticing how much you were bending at all.
It was refreshing. Comforting, even. Being with you never felt like another obligation waiting for him when he got home. You were warmth, quiet, peace… but it also made it easy for Max to coast.
Because when you said you didn’t need flowers, he believed you. When you told him birthdays weren’t a big deal, he took your word for it.
When you said you didn’t mind that his attention was always half-distracted by Red Bull, his sim rig, his phone, or whatever new team crisis was unfolding in the background, he didn’t stop to wonder whether you meant it. He didn’t ask himself if you were genuinely fine with being loved in the gaps, or if you had simply learned to make your wants small enough that they never became inconvenient.
He didn’t notice that every time you said, “Don’t worry about it,” you were teaching him that he didn’t have to.
Until he saw the way your smile dimmed at Daniel’s girlfriend’s birthday party.
The boat was filled with champagne and noise, a private Monaco affair organised by Daniel, of course, because no one else could make a birthday party feel quite that excessive and still somehow charming. There was a neon sign glowing above the bar, a curated playlist that seemed suspiciously full of songs Daniel liked more than his girlfriend did, and custom cupcakes with everyone’s faces printed on them. Max didn’t even know you could do that.
You sat beside him with a drink in hand, your shoulder brushing his every now and then as the boat rocked gently against the water. To anyone else you looked perfectly fine, but Max had started paying closer attention now.
Your laugh came half a second too late, your smile faded too quickly, and your eyes kept drifting back to the couple across the deck.
Daniel’s girlfriend had her arms slung around his neck, his jacket draped over her shoulders, and a glittery tiara with Birthday Girl written across the front sitting slightly crooked on her head. Daniel kept adjusting it for her, grinning every time she swatted his hand away, and when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple without seeming to think about it. Thoughtless in the best way, like loving her out loud was simply instinct.
“You made it!” Daniel said, pulling Max into a hug before turning to you with even more enthusiasm. “And you look amazing. Seriously, come on, look at you.”
You laughed, a bit surprised, and looked down at yourself like you hadn’t expected anyone to notice.
Max noticed that.
Daniel’s girlfriend came over next, glowing, happy, adored. She hugged you tightly and thanked you both for coming, then turned to show you the bracelet Daniel had bought her. It was delicate and expensive, the kind of jewellery Max would never have picked out on his own because he would have convinced himself he didn’t know what he was doing and given up before trying.
“He surprised me with it this morning,” she said, beaming. “And he pretended he forgot my birthday for, like, ten minutes, which was evil, but then he had breakfast set up on the balcony.”
Daniel, overhearing, lifted his glass. “Romance is alive and well ladies and gentlemen.”
Normal Daniel. Loud, teasing, affectionate Daniel, who made a spectacle out of caring because he had never been embarrassed by warmth in the same way Max sometimes was, but then Max looked at you.
You were smiling. Of course you were smiling.
You were always polite. Always kind. Always good at being happy for other people, even when something inside you was quietly aching. There was something different about it then, something Max had never noticed before because he had never had reason to look for it.
Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.
You didn’t look devastated, you didn’t withdraw your hand from his arm or go quiet in a way anyone else would pick up on. You just looked at the bracelet on Daniel’s girlfriend’s wrist, then at the flowers, then at the wall of photos, and for half a second your expression morphed into something almost wistful.
Max felt it like a punch he had no right to react to.
The conversation moved on around him. Daniel was talking about the cake, someone else was laughing about how long it had taken to get the decorations right. His girlfriend was telling you how Daniel had been secretly planning it for weeks, badly, apparently, because he almost exposed himself several times.
You laughed at the story.
You said, “That’s really sweet.”
Max heard the softness in your voice.
For the first time all night, Max looked at the party properly. He looked at the flowers. The photos. The custom menu cards with her name on them. The cake Daniel had apparently taste-tested three times because the first one “didn’t feel like her.”
Then Max looked at you.
You were standing beside him with nothing from him except your own practiced understanding.
No flowers.
No post.
No planned birthday dinner he hadn’t rescheduled.
No little public signs that he was proud to love you.
No evidence, really, that Max Verstappen had ever looked at the woman beside him and thought, she deserves to feel chosen.
His stomach twisted, because suddenly he remembered your last birthday with a clarity that made him feel slightly sick.
He had been in Milton Keynes for simulator work. He’d called you late, later than he meant to, and you had answered in bed, face lit softly by your phone screen. You had smiled like you were happy just to hear from him. He had apologised again for not being able to be there. You had said it didn’t matter and he had promised to make it up to you. You had said, “Don’t stress, honestly. I had a nice day.”
Had you?
Had you really?
Or had you said that because it was easier than admitting you had wanted him there?
He thought about the flowers you always claimed not to need. The birthdays you said weren’t important. The dates you never demanded. The posts you never asked for. The attention you pretended not to miss.
Beside him, you glanced up. “You okay?”
Max blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the gentleness of your voice. That made it worse somehow, even now you were checking on him.
“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Fine.”
You studied him for a moment, clearly not convinced, but you didn’t push. You never pushed. You simply nodded and looked back towards the others, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve.
Max hated that too. He hated that you gave him space even when maybe he deserved pressure.
He hated that you had made yourself so easy to keep that he had forgotten keeping you was still something he had to actively do.
For the rest of the night, he couldn’t stop watching you.
He watched Daniel’s girlfriend pull you into photos, watched you laugh as someone handed you a party hat you refused to wear for about ten seconds. He watched you compliment the decorations, watched you ask questions about the planning, watched your fingers lightly brush over one of the flower arrangements when you thought no one was looking.
You liked flowers.
Of course you liked flowers.
Maybe not in the over-the-top, expensive, social-media way, but you liked them. He could tell by the way you touched the petals carefully, the way your face warmed when Daniel’s girlfriend told you Daniel had chosen them because they reminded him of a dress she once wore in Monaco.
Max stood there, silent and increasingly irritated with himself.
How many things had you convinced yourself you didn’t need simply because he had never offered them?
How many wants had you softened into jokes so they wouldn’t feel like demands?
How many times had you made yourself smaller around his life and called it love?
Later, when everyone gathered around the cake, Daniel made a speech. A terrible speech, because it was Daniel, so half of it was jokes and the other half was him pretending not to get emotional. Then he spoke about how his girlfriend made his life better. How she put up with him. How she deserved more than one night of being celebrated, but he hoped this was a decent start.
Everyone laughed.
His girlfriend cried.
You smiled.
Max felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.
He complimented you in private, usually quietly, usually after you’d done something for him. He told you he loved you, yes, but often in bed, or before hanging up, or in passing when one of you was leaving. He assumed you knew. He assumed choosing you privately counted the same as making you feel chosen.
On the drive home you were quieter than usual.
Your head rested against the window, city lights sliding over your face in brief flashes. Your heels were in your lap because you had taken them off the second you got in the car, and your fingers played absently with the strap like your mind was somewhere else.
Max kept glancing over. Usually he liked quiet with you, it was comfortable and easy, you didn’t need to fill every silence.
Tonight the quiet felt full of everything you weren’t saying.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked eventually.
You turned your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was lovely.”
Lovely.
The word sat between you.
Max swallowed. “Daniel did a lot.”
“He did,” you said, and your voice was warm. “It was really sweet.”
There it was again. That careful admiration.
Max’s hands flexed around the steering wheel. “You like that kind of thing?”
You looked at him properly then, brows lifting a little. “What kind of thing?”
He shrugged, trying to sound casual and failing. “All of it. The flowers. The photos. The big party.”
You looked away and gave a small laugh, the kind that tried to make a truth sound harmless. “I mean, I don’t need all that.”
Max’s chest tightened.
That wasn’t what he had asked.
“I didn’t ask if you needed it.”
Your fingers stopped moving against the shoe strap and for a moment you said nothing. Then you looked down and smiled again, but this one was worse than the one at the party because it was meant only for him, meant to reassure him, meant to protect him from feeling bad about something he had already done.
“I just think it’s nice,” you said carefully. “For her. Daniel clearly put a lot of thought into it.”
Max nodded once, jaw tense.
Thought.
That was the word that stayed with him.
You didn’t need a private room full of flowers or a custom cake or a wall of photographs. You probably didn’t even want something that big, but you wanted thought. You wanted evidence that he had paused, considered you, and chosen to make you feel loved on purpose.
Max, who could analyse tyre degradation over fifty laps, who could remember tiny setup changes from races years ago, who could spend hours perfecting a sim lap by half a tenth, had somehow convinced himself he was incapable of remembering to buy you flowers.
“I should have done more for your birthday,” he said.
You went very still.
The car felt smaller suddenly.
“Max…”
“No,” he said, because he knew that tone. He knew you were about to let him off the hook again. “I should have.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
You exhaled quietly and looked out of the window again. “I told you it was fine.”
“I know you did.”
“Then why are you bringing it up?”
Because I finally saw your face, he wanted to say. Because I finally realised you have been asking for so little that I stopped giving you even that and I do not know how to forgive myself for not noticing sooner.
But Max had never been good with words when they mattered most.
So he said, “Because I think you say things are fine when they're not.”
Your mouth pressed together. That tiny movement cut through him more than any argument would have.
You weren’t angry, but part of him wished you were. Anger would have given him something to meet, something to fix, something loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it, you just looked tired and that was worse.
“I don’t want to be difficult,” you said after a while.
“You're not difficult,” he said immediately.
You gave him a small, sad smile. “I know. I just mean… your life is already a lot. You have so many people needing things from you all the time I never wanted to be another thing on the list.”
“You are not a thing on the list.”
“Aren’t I?” you asked softly.
Max didn’t answer fast enough, once again words failed him, he hated himself for that.
You turned your face back towards the window, and the reflection showed him the truth he had been avoiding all night. You weren’t crying or making a scene. You weren’t asking him to turn the car around or apologise in some grand dramatic way. You were simply sitting there beside him carrying a hurt that had clearly existed long before tonight.
He figured you’d be home from your errands by now.
Probably curled up somewhere in the apartment, wearing one of his hoodies like you always did when he was away for more than a few days. Maybe on the sofa with your knees tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, or half-watching one of those comfort shows you liked to put on in the background while you waited for him. The thought came easily, warmly, and Max found himself smiling before he had even opened the door properly.
He liked coming home to you.
He liked the small signs of you scattered through his space. Your shoes by the door, your hair tie abandoned on the coffee table, your mug in the sink because you always forgot to rinse it. Your presence had softened the apartment in ways he hadn’t realised he needed, turning it from somewhere he slept between races into somewhere that actually felt like home.
The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, but not empty.
Max kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, already turning toward the living room when he heard your voice from the bedroom. Then he heard your best friend’s name, and realised you were on the phone.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He was about to call out, to let you know he was back, but something about your tone made him stop before the words left his mouth. So he stayed quiet, halfway down the hall, one hand still resting against the wall.
“I’m not upset he did all that for her,” you were saying. “It’s sweet. It is.”
There was a pause.
Max’s body went strangely still.
He knew, instantly, what you were talking about.
“It’s just…” You exhaled shakily. “He’s never done anything like that for me.”
The words hit him hard. Max stared at the floor, heartbeat slowing into something heavy and uncomfortable.
“I don’t ask for much,” you continued, and your voice was smaller now, like you were embarrassed to even say it out loud. “I know I don’t. I never wanted to pressure him or make him feel like he had to go out of his way when his life is already so much. I thought if I was easygoing and low-maintenance, it would make things easier on him.”
His throat tightened.
“But sometimes—” Your voice broke so softly he almost missed it. “Sometimes I wish he’d do something without me having to ask.”
Max’s fingers curled around the edge of the wall.
He could feel every careless assumption he had ever made beginning to turn over in his head, one after another, each one worse than the last.
You didn’t care if he forgot plans, if he came home distracted, if he said he would make it up to you and then didn’t, because something else came up and you smiled like it was fine.
“Maybe I enabled it by alway saying I was fine... but I don’t need grand gestures,” you went on, voice wobbling now. “I know that’s not really him, and I don’t want him to be anyone else. I don’t want a big show just for the sake of it, but it would be nice to feel special sometimes… to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
Max’s chest ached.
He looked toward the bedroom door, but he couldn’t move.
“I just want to know he wants to do those things for me,” you whispered. “Not because he’s apologising or because someone else did it first… because he loves me enough to notice.”
Max couldn’t breathe properly.
He hadn’t known.
He really hadn’t known.
He thought you meant it when you said you didn’t care about birthdays, anniversaries, flowers, or all the romantic things he had always been bad at. He had thought that was part of what made you you. Unbothered by the kind of performative relationship stuff he had never known how to do properly.
The conversation ended a few minutes later.
He heard the soft rustle of sheets then your footsteps moving across the bedroom floor. Max reacted too late, still trapped in the weight of what he had heard and only barely managed to step back into the hallway before you came out.
You stopped when you saw him.
For one awful second, neither of you said anything and then he smiled and wrapped you in a hug pretending like he hadn’t heard a word.
That night Max sat alone in the dark of the living room for a long time, head in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything except sit there in the silence and let every word he had overheard replay in his head until it felt carved into him.
He kept hearing your voice.
“to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes.
God.
How many moments had you swallowed your disappointment before he could even notice it was there, dimming yourself down just to be easier to love?
It gutted him.
You hadn’t asked him for the world. You hadn’t asked him to become someone he wasn’t. You only wanted to feel considered. Somehow he had made the best thing in his life feel like she had to be grateful for whatever was left of him at the end of the day.
You deserved fireworks, even if you were the kind of girl who said she didn’t need them. You didn’t want more from him. You just wanted to matter enough for him to give it anyway.
You didn’t expect anything to change.
Max was always kind, attentive in the ways he knew how to be. He noticed when you were cold and passed you his hoodie without making a big thing of it. He reached for your hand in crowded places because he liked knowing exactly where you were. He remembered how you took your coffee, which side of the bed you preferred, the shows you put on when you needed background noise. He loved you. You knew he did.
So when he suggested you take a weekend off together “Somewhere quiet, just us” you didn’t overthink it. You figured he wanted to disappear for a couple of days, somewhere without cameras, team radios, sponsor obligations, or someone asking him about tyre degradation.
It wasn’t until you stepped onto the lakeside dock in Switzerland that you realised something was different.
The cottage was small but charming, tucked away by the water with warm wood walls, soft cream blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place glow with the late afternoon light. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t the kind of place chosen to impress anyone, it felt private, thoughtful, almost painfully intimate.
Inside there were your favourite snacks arranged in the kitchen. Your favourite wine chilling in the fridge. Your comfort blanket folded over the armchair by the window. Your favourite book was already resting on the bedside table, the old, worn copy you had once told him you reread whenever your head felt too loud.
You frowned, turning slowly back to him. “Did you… did you set this up?”
Max leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite managing it. “Maybe.”
You narrowed your eyes, sceptical. “What’s going on?”
His smirk softened a little. He just looked at you and there was something unusually careful in his expression, something that made your chest tighten before he had even said a word.
“I listened,” he said.
You blinked. Max glanced down briefly, like the words felt awkward in his mouth, but when he looked back up he didn’t look away again.
“I didn’t realise how much I’d taken for granted,” he continued quietly. “How much you gave by never asking. You made it easy for me, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve stopped trying.”
Your throat tightened.
“Max…”
“No, let me say it,” he murmured, taking a small step closer. “You always said things were fine. That you didn’t need flowers, or birthdays, or plans, or all the extra stuff and I believed you because it was easier because it meant I didn’t have to think about whether you were only saying it so I wouldn’t feel bad.”
You swallowed hard, looking away before your face could betray too much.
He walked you further inside, his hand warm at the small of your back, and that was when you noticed the little table by the window. It had been set for two, facing the lake as the sun began to lower behind the mountains. Candlelight, flowers, two plates, homemade pasta that looked slightly lopsided and very clearly like his doing, and a little folded note beside your place.
You stared at it for a second before picking it up.
In his messy, all-caps handwriting, it said:
I SHOULD HAVE MADE YOU FEEL SPECIAL BEFORE NOW. I’M GOING TO DO BETTER.
Max’s face shifted immediately, concern cutting through the nervousness. “Schatje…”
You shook your head quickly trying to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. “I wanted to be cool,” you whispered. “I wanted to be the girlfriend who didn’t care about all that stuff. I thought if I asked for too much then I’d just become another pressure for you.”
Max stepped closer and cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped out despite your best efforts.
“You are the most important person in my life,” he murmured. “You always are.” His voice dropped softer, rougher. “I wish I could give you the world and I’m sorry it took me this long to show it.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the nervous set of his mouth and the careful way he held you, like he understood now that easiness was not the same thing as not needing anything.
Then you finally kissed him.
Later that night you were curled against his chest with the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the cottage wrapped in that quiet, golden kind of warmth that made everything outside feel very far away.
Max had one arm around you, his hand resting beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin.
You smiled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the soft fabric as you listened to the steady beat of his.
“So,” you mumbled, voice sleepy but teasing, “is this a one-time gesture or…”
Max’s chest moved beneath you as he chuckled. “Oh no.”
You tilted your head slightly. “Oh no?”
“No,” he said, tightening his arm around you. “You’re getting so much romance now it’ll annoy you.”
You looked up at him trying and failing not to smile. “Really?”
He nodded solemnly, like he was discussing race strategy. “Really. I’m talking airport reunions. Flowers for no reason. Random poetry.”
“Poetry?” you repeated, laughing already.
“Bad poetry,” he corrected. “Very bad. Rhymes way too much.”
“Oh, God.”
“And a cheesy playlist,” he added, completely serious. “Maybe several. One for the car. One for when I’m away. One with songs you’ll make fun of me for.”
You laughed properly then, burying your face in his neck as warmth spread through your chest. It was never about the playlist, or the flowers, or whatever terrible poetry Max Verstappen might attempt in the name of love.
It was that he was thinking about it. That he had finally understood the difference between you not needing to be spoiled and you still deserving to be cherished.
Max turned his head and pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’m serious,” he murmured, quieter now. “I don’t want you wondering anymore.”
Your laughter softened. You lifted your face again, looking at him through the firelight. “Wondering what?”
“If I think about you,” he said. “If I notice. If I care enough to try.”
Your throat tightened, but this time the feeling wasn’t painful. Max brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I do,” he said. “I’ll show you better now.”
For a moment you just looked at him, then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before tucking yourself back against him.
“That sounds perfect.” you whispered, smiling against his neck.
served with: all the drivers on the grid + retired x fem!gf!reader
chef's note: you thought you were careful. But a laptop left open or a notification at the wrong time leads to the inevitable: your bf finding out exactly what people write about him online—and the fact that you’ve read it all.
Alpine
Franco Colapinto
He is unfiltered chaos, he finds a fic where he’s described as a "passionate Argentine poet" and won't stop reading it out loud in a dramatic voice.
"Y/N, did I really 'whisper like the pampas wind' in this chapter? Because I can do that for you right now."
He thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world.
Pierre Gasly
He finds the "fluff & smut" tags and gives you a slow, devastating smirk.
"So, you like it when the fictional Pierre takes you to a private beach in St. Tropez? Interesting... I should take notes on how to improve."
He’s actually very flattered.
Aston Martin
Fernando Alonso
He is amused and legendary. He scrolls through a "mastermind" trope fic with a raised eyebrow.
"They think I’m a villain? I like this. It gives me ideas for the next race."
He doesn't find it weird at all; he just thinks it proves how much of a "great" he really is.
Lance Stroll
Total embarrassment. He turns bright red and closes the laptop immediately.
"Why are they writing about me being a 'mafia heir'? Y/N, I just want to play tennis!"
He’s very shy about it and asks you (very politely) to never read those while he’s in the room.
Audi
Gabriel Bortoleto
He is genuinely curious. He wants to know how the "plots" work.
"Wait, so in this story, I’m a barista? Why would I be a barista when I can drive a car?"
He finds the "alternate universe" concept fascinating and keeps asking questions until you are the one embarrassed.
Nico Hülkenberg
The mature tease. He finds a "slow burn" fic and starts timing how long it takes for the fictional versions of you to kiss.
"Chapter 15? That’s very inefficient, Y/N. I could have done that in Chapter 1."
He treats it like a lighthearted joke.
Cadillac
Sergio Pérez
He’s a bit bewildered by the "Y/N" concept.
"Who is Y/N? Is that you? Why are you dating a fictional version of me when the real one is right here?"
He’ll pull you into a hug, reminding you that "real life is better than the stories."
Valtteri Bottas
He loves it. He’ll look for fics that involve his coffee or his "adventures" in nature.
If he finds a funny one, he’ll probably tweet a reference to it just to see the fans go wild.
He thinks the creativity is "top tier."
Ferrari
Charles Leclerc
A blushing mess. He finds a "Coffee Shop AU" where he’s a struggling artist.
He gets very quiet and shy, hiding his face in his hands. "Do they really think I’m that romantic? It's a bit much, isn't it?"
He secretly bookmarks one of the "pure fluff" ones to read later.
Lewis Hamilton
He appreciates the "aesthetic" of the writing.
He’ll comment on the descriptions of his outfits. "They got the brand of my boots wrong in this scene, but the emotional depth is quite good."
He finds it artistic and isn't bothered by it at all.
Haas
Esteban Ocon
Serious and perplexed. He reads the "enemies to lovers" fics and gets genuinely confused.
"But I’m not your enemy! We’ve always been together! This is factually incorrect!"
He takes it a bit too literally, needing you to explain that it's just for fun.
Ollie Bearman
He wants to die. He is so young and the idea of "fanfiction" about him makes him want to hide under the bed.
"Please tell me you didn't read the 'Alpha' ones. Oh god, you did, didn't you?"
He becomes a stuttering mess for the rest of the day.
McLaren
Lando Norris
Peak hysteria. He’s cackling, rolling on the floor, and probably texting the link to Max or George.
"Y/N! This one says I have 'abs like a washboard'! Have they seen me?!"
He’ll tease you relentlessly, calling you "his favorite fangirl" for the next month.
Oscar Piastri
He reads a "hurt/comfort" fic with zero expression.
"The pacing is a bit slow. And I don't think I'd ever say 'my darling' three times in one sentence. It's not efficient for conversation."
Inside, he's actually quite touched by the "comfort" parts.
Mercedes
George Russell
He’ll actually give you a "critique" on the grammar and the "realism" of the paddock descriptions.
"A bit far-fetched, don't you think? But I must say, the author captured my leadership qualities quite well."
He’s secretly very proud to be a "main character."
Kimi Antonelli
He’s still new to the fame, so seeing himself in a story is surreal.
"Why am I a werewolf in this one, Y/N? Is this a metaphor for my driving style?"
He’s very sweet about it, even if he doesn't fully "get" it.
Racing Bulls
Arvid Lindblad
He thinks it’s cool that people take the time to write stories about him.
He’ll ask you if you’ve written any yourself. "If you wrote one, would I be the hero? I hope I'm the hero."
He’s very cute and supportive of your "hobby."
Liam Lawson
He’ll find a "grumpy x sunshine" fic and point at the "grumpy" part. "Accurate. Very accurate."
He’ll use the fictional scenarios to tease you, like: "In the story, I bought you flowers after a fight. Maybe I should do that too?"
Red Bull
Isack Hadjar
He loves the "bad boy" tropes. He’ll walk around the house acting out the lines from the fic.
"Oh, was I 'dark and brooding' in Chapter 4? Let me show you brooding."
He finds it a huge ego boost.
Max Verstappen
He doesn't understand the "fan" part of "fanfiction."
"Why would you read about me when I am sitting right here? I am the real Max. The story isn't real. It's just words."
He isn't mad; he just finds it a very "weird" use of your free time.
Williams
Alex Albon
He’s worried about what the cats would think.
"Y/N! What if Paddock sees this?! This is scandalous!"
He’ll end up giggling with you over the ridiculous "soulmate" tropes, finding the whole thing very endearing.
Carlos Sainz
He doesn't even look surprised. He just pulls you onto his lap and looks at the screen with a wink.
"I see I’m quite the romantic lead in this one. Want to see if I can do better than the fictional Carlos?"
He’s 100% confident and loves it.
Additional Drivers
Daniel Ricciardo
He wants to do a "dramatic reading" of the best fics for his YouTube channel.
"And then Daniel looked at Y/N with his big, beautiful teeth..."
He makes it so funny that you can’t even be embarrassed anymore.
Jenson Button
He finds it very "sweet."
He’ll read a "relationship goals" fic and tell you that he’s glad people see how much he loves you.
He’s very mature and finds the fan-love quite touching.
Sebastian Vettel
He’ll get concerned about the "privacy" and "internet safety" aspect of the site before realizing it’s just fiction.
"Y/N, is this site secure? Also, why is fictional Seb so obsessed with bees? I mean, I like them, but three chapters about a garden?"
Yuki Tsunoda
Loud Denial. "I don't talk like that! I don't say 'b-baka'!" (If it's an anime-style fic).
He gets very defensive in a hilarious way, but he’ll eventually ask you to read the "cute" parts to him before bed.
Hi! Can you write a request for Charles Leclerc where his fiancee has the habit to get lost in the paddock (because she’s not around there much because of her job). And the social media and the fans always think it’s cute. And Charles always losing his mind because of it. The Ferrari Team has already a search them for her.
Missing: Future Mrs Leclerc
Charles Leclerc × Fiancée!reader
Synopsis: Charles’ fiancée keeps getting adorably lost in the paddock, sending Ferrari into search‑mode every race while fans eat it up — and Charles slowly loses his mind trying to keep track of the woman he loves.
You arrive at the paddock with Charles, hand in hand, sunglasses on, smiling for the cameras. Everything is normal. Everything is fine.
And then someone says your name.
A journalist, a fan, a Ferrari staff member — it doesn’t matter who. You turn your head, answer politely, and Charles lets go of your hand for two seconds.
Two.
Seconds.
And when he turns back?
You’re gone.
“Not again,” he mutters, already rubbing his forehead.
Carlos walks past, clapping him on the shoulder. “Lost your fiancée?”
“She was right here.”
“She’s an adult, mate.”
“She has the directional awareness of a baguette.”
Carlos snorts. “Good luck.”
---
Meanwhile, you are absolutely not lost.
You’re just… exploring.
You don’t come to the paddock often — your job keeps you traveling, and you only manage a handful of races each season. So when you do come, everything feels new again. The garages, the hospitality units, the fans waving from behind the barriers — it’s all exciting.
You’re halfway through admiring a display of vintage Ferrari helmets when a group of fans spots you.
“Oh my god, it’s her!”
“She’s so cute, she’s lost again.”
“Someone tell Charles!”
You laugh, waving shyly. “I’m not lost, I promise.”
They don’t believe you. They never do.
One girl holds up her phone. “Can we take a picture? Charles is going to freak out when he sees this.”
You grin. “Sure.”
You pose, chat for a moment, and then continue your little adventure — blissfully unaware that your disappearance has already hit social media.
---
Back in the Ferrari garage, Charles is pacing.
“She cannot have gone far,” Fred Vasseur says, trying to be reassuring but failing miserably.
“She gets distracted,” Charles insists. “She sees one interesting thing and— pouf — gone.”
Fred sighs. “We know.”
Because this is not the first time.
Or the second.
Or the fifth.
In fact, Ferrari has an unofficial protocol for this now.
A mechanic approaches. “Boss, the hashtag is trending again.”
Charles groans. “Which one?”
“#FindCharlesFiancee.”
He drags a hand down his face. “Merde.”
Another mechanic adds, “There’s also #LostButMakeItFerrari.”
Fred pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Activate the search.”
And just like that, the entire Ferrari team springs into action.
Mechanics check the hospitality area. Engineers sweep the walkways. Someone radios McLaren to ask if you’ve wandered into their motorhome again.
Carlos sends a selfie: Found a cat. Not your fiancée. Continuing search.
Charles is two seconds away from losing his mind.
---
You, meanwhile, are having a lovely time.
You’ve somehow ended up in the Red Bull garage — not on purpose, but because you followed a very cute dog and didn’t realize where it was going.
Max raises an eyebrow when he sees you. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I know,” you say sheepishly. “I got… sidetracked.”
He sighs, but he’s smiling. “Charles is going to combust.”
“I texted him!” you protest.
Max checks your phone.
You did not text him.
You texted Carlos.
Max shakes his head. “Come on. I’ll walk you back before he starts a full paddock evacuation.”
You follow him out, waving goodbye to the dog.
---
Charles spots you before you spot him.
He’s mid‑rant with a Ferrari engineer when he freezes, eyes widening like he’s seen a ghost.
You’re walking beside Max, chatting happily, completely unaware of the chaos you’ve caused.
Charles storms over.
“Amour.”
You blink. “Hi, baby.”
“Hi?” he repeats, incredulous. “Hi? Do you know how many people are looking for you?”
You look around.
A lot of people are looking for you.
Some wave when you make eye contact.
You wince. “Oops?”
“Oops,” he echoes, hands on his hips. “You disappeared.”
“I didn’t disappear,” you argue. “I was just—”
“Lost,” Max supplies.
“Exploring,” you correct.
Charles groans. “You cannot just wander off.”
“I didn’t wander off,” you insist. “I followed a dog.”
Max nods. “It was a very cute dog.”
Charles glares at him. “You are not helping.”
Max shrugs. “She’s safe. That’s what matters.”
Charles sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Amour, please. Stay with me.”
You step closer, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stress you out.”
He softens immediately — because he always does with you.
“I know,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “But every time you get lost, social media explodes, the team panics, and I age five years.”
You laugh, leaning into him. “I’ll try to be better.”
“You say that every time.”
“And I mean it every time.”
He kisses you again, longer this time. “Come on. Stay with me.”
You nod, taking his hand.
He holds it like you might float away if he loosens his grip.
---
Of course, ten minutes later, you get distracted again.
This time by a little girl holding a handmade sign that says CHARLES CAN I HAVE A HUG?
You stop, crouch down, and talk to her. She’s sweet, shy, and absolutely thrilled when you offer to take her to Charles yourself.
But when you turn around?
Charles is gone.
You blink. “Oh no.”
The little girl giggles. “Did you lose him?”
You sigh. “Unfortunately… yes.”
She pats your hand. “It’s okay. My mum loses my dad all the time.”
You laugh. “Thank you.”
You walk her toward the Ferrari garage, and the moment Charles sees you — with a child — his panic dissolves into something soft and warm.
He hugs the girl, signs her sign, takes a picture with her, and sends her off beaming.
Then he turns to you.
“You lost me this time.”
You grin. “See? It happens to everyone.”
He narrows his eyes. “Not helping.”
You kiss his cheek. “You love me.”
He sighs dramatically. “I do. Unfortunately for my blood pressure.”
---
Later, when the chaos has settled and Charles is finally in his race suit, he pulls you into the back of the garage.
“You know,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “one day, when we’re married, I’m going to put a tracker on you.”
You laugh. “Like a cat?”
“Exactly like a cat.”
“You wouldn’t.”
He kisses you, slow and warm. “I would.”
You smile against his lips. “You know the fans think it’s cute, right? Me getting lost?”
He groans. “They encourage you.”
“They do.”
“They make edits.”
“They do.”
“They think it’s adorable.”
“It is.”
He pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. “I just want you safe.”
“I am safe,” you whisper. “Because I always find my way back to you.”
He melts — completely, utterly, hopelessly.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “But stay with me today. Please.”
summary: when your brother’s teammate, oscar, decides to rage bait him by hitting on you, it actually turns into something else entirely (or maybe that was his plan all along) but he may or may not (he definitely) fucks it up
face claim: ruby lyn & random pinterest baddies
author’s note: shoutout to my fav @piastreline for hyping me up while making this!!! hope it lives up to your expectations loool
ynnorris
♡ liked by lando, oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and others
ynnorris trench coat buttoned to the TOP
view all comments
piastreline and these ballerina ass slippers. what’s going on?
lando why are you so performative
⤷ ynnorris why are you so bitchless
oscarpiastri cute cat 👍🏻
⤷ ynnorris thanks 👍🏻
⤷ lando delete this
oliviarodrigo only brit i like
⤷ louispartridge_ ???
user67 im sensing oscar has a little crush…
⤷ user5 how did you even reach that conclusion
⤷ user67 trust me on this guys
⤷ user14 you’re DELUSIONAL
oscarpiastri
♡ liked by lando, mclaren, ynnorris and others
oscarpiastri mega weekend 👊 big thanks to the papaya team and a special someone who was there to support me today
view all comments
lando what. who?
⤷ ynnorris why? scared someone will steal your boyfriend?
charles_leclerc great job son
⤷ ynnorris why would you not censor j*b 😕
user67 wait… yn was at the gp today…
⤷ user9 ohmygod be serious rn she was there for her brother
⤷ user67 no HEAR ME OUT
ynnorris do you have a mirror in your pocket? because i can see myself in your pants
♡ liked by oscarpiastri
⤷ lando ????????????????????
oscarpiastri
♫ · you might be sleeping - jakob, clairo
♡ liked by oscarfan5, mclaren, ynnorris and others
oscarpiastri very much needed break
view all comments
mclaren recharging
lando is that my sister you PEDO
⤷ oscarpiastri she’s a year younger than me…
⤷ lando damn right PEDO
user8 ohmygod? aesthetically pleasing post? clairo? he’s in DEEP
ynfan1 IS THAT YN IN SLIDE THREE HELLO???
⤷ ynosctruther right like is this a soft launch???
⤷ partypooper maybe they’re just friends lol
oscarslefttoe i’m shaking this is too couple coded
ynnorris these shorts don’t look good on you… they’d look better on my bedroom floor looooool 🫦
⤷ oscarpiastri fair
⤷ lando WHAT THE FUCK
⤷ norrisfan7 oh i just know the pr team hates her
⤷ ynnorris THEY CANT STOP ME HEHE
user67 need them to kiss rn
ynnorris
♡ liked by oscarpiastri, iheartynosc, user67 and others
ynnorris guys chill im just doing charity work (teaching him how to dress)
view all comments
oscarpiastri i dress fine actually
⤷ ynnorris no you don’t
⤷ oscarpiastri no i don’t…
user67 TEACHING HIM HOW TO DRESS IS GF BEHAVIOR SORRY
piastriluv the last slide … she’s leaning into him??? guys hello.
lando im blocking you both
⤷ ynnorris love you too big bro
ynlover you two look like the couple that argues in ikea and then kiss in the parking lot
⤷ ynnorris …maybe
oscarfan89 they are either deeply in love or deeply unserious no inbetween
user14 oscar loves women who bully him confirmed
iloveop81 oscar blink twice if she’s holding you hostage in a thrift store
f1gossip
♡ liked by user19, ihateynnorris, oscarfumbleastri and others
f1gossip “GOD NO”? 👀🔥
Oscar Piastri shuts rumors down hard when asked if he and Y/N Norris are dating and fans are LOSING it. In a new paddock interview, Piastri responded to a question about his rumored relationship with Y/N with a quick: “God, no… me and Y/N? No. I don’t see her like that at all.” No clarification. No “we’re just close friends”. Just straight rejection or was it?? Clips are going viral, with some fans calling his response cold, while others argue he was simply trying to shut down speculation. What do you think? Was this: A) just poor wording, B) a public rejection, or C) something he’ll regret later?
view all comments
user81 bro could’ve said ANYTHING else
user7 imagine hearing the guy you like react like that… yikes
norrishearts 🚨🚨 fumble of the century
oscarmidasstri that was unnecessarily harsh wtf
user2 did he just call her undateable?
user56 he didn’t mean it like that
⤷ user65 then he shouldn’t have said it like that
iluvyn wtf? y/n is literally an angel
landonorizz i just know lando is going to bury him alive
user67 oh
⤷ user99 it’s so bad we’re even losing user67
unfollow oscarpiastri | cancel
ynnorris
♫ · all i wanted - paramore
♡ liked by lando, alexandrasaintmleux, 18lovers and others
ynnorris reconnecting with nature after whatever the frick that was…
ynnorris has turned comments off on this post
f1gossip
♡ liked by ynosc4ever, user67, ilovecillianmurphysobad and others
f1gossip Well… that escalated quickly. 👀 After THAT interview, Oscar Piastri and Y/N Norris were spotted meeting last night — first seen talking quietly while walking, then caught kissing on the street shortly after. No statements have been made by either party yet, but we’re pretty sure actions speak louder than podcasts, interviews, and PR teams. Enemies to lovers?Miscommunication to makeout? What chapter are we in??? 🫣🔥
view all comments
user70 I WAS JUST RECOVERING FROM THE INTERVIEW WHAT
random3 i bet lando is somewhere punching a wall rn
⤷ user67 he’s quitting to start his very own matchmaking business actually
loveyn if he apologized like that i’d forgive too tbf
user69 imagine going to make up and then that happens on the street im screaming
ynoscfan3 i love communication
⤷ oscarsimpastri that wasn’t communication that was desperation in 4K
georgerussell63 fav romcom
user67 WE ARE SOOOOO BACK
ynnorris
♫ · crush - ethel cain
♡ liked by oscarpiastri, lando, mothercain and others
ynnorris make up… make out… same thing…
view all comments
oscarpiastri i prefer the latter
⤷ ynnorris who?
⤷ oscarpiastri me
⤷ ynnorris asked 🤣🤣
lando FINALLY
⤷ lando wait wrong acc
⤷ user67 FINALLY
ethelcainlover22 ethelcainlover22
⤷ ynnorris marry me
⤷ oscarpiastri ?????
user7 he is down bad
papayagirl everybody act surprised
oscarfan8 yk oscar is a dog person.. are you gonna get a dog too?
⤷ ynnorris my cat is like oh no no no we’re not getting a dog don’t even thing about it girl
Would u do a fic about maybe the reader gets flowers from a brand but she pulls the “I thought these were from you” prank on lando and when hes pretending that he’s not jealous the reader starts to read out what the note says making it seem like it’s from an admirer and lando gets jealous
Who Sent You Flowers?
Lando Norris x Girlfriend!reader
Synopsis: A brand sends the reader flowers, and she pretends she thinks they’re from Lando. The second she reads the note like it’s from a secret admirer, Lando’s fake calm completely cracks — jealous, flustered, and very much not handling it until she finally tells him it was all a prank.
Moonlight Radio: Ty 💛, I loved writing this one! I hope u like it!
You’re halfway through unpacking the PR packages dumped outside your flat door when you spot it — a huge bouquet, all soft pinks and creams, wrapped in tissue paper that looks far too fancy for a Monday morning. You blink at it, tilt your head, and then grin because you already know exactly what you’re going to do.
Lando’s in the kitchen, hair still damp from his shower, hoodie half‑zipped, eating cereal straight out of the box like a menace. He glances over when he hears the rustle of paper.
“What’s that?” he asks, mouth full.
You hold the bouquet like it’s the Holy Grail. “I thought these were from you.”
He freezes. Actually freezes. Then he tries to play it off, leaning back against the counter like he’s the picture of calm. “Uh… yeah? I mean— maybe? Could be.”
You bite back a smile. “Could be?”
He shrugs, too casual. “I send you flowers sometimes.”
“You’ve never sent me flowers.”
“That’s not true,” he argues, pointing at you with the cereal box. “I sent you that one— that one time.”
“That was a cactus.”
“A plant is a plant.”
You lift the bouquet to your nose, inhaling dramatically. “Well… whoever sent these has excellent taste.”
His jaw ticks. It’s tiny, but you catch it. “Right. And who’s that then?”
You pretend to look confused. “Dunno. There’s a note.”
That gets him. His eyes snap to the little envelope tucked between the roses. “A note?”
“Mhm.” You slide it out slowly, deliberately, like you’re unwrapping a secret. “Should I read it?”
He tries to act uninterested, but he’s already pushing off the counter, drifting closer. “If you want. I don’t care.”
You open it.
You absolutely do not read what’s actually written — a generic “Thanks for collaborating with us!” from some skincare brand. Instead, you improvise.
“‘To the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen…’”
Lando’s head jerks up. “Sorry?”
You continue, keeping your face perfectly straight. “‘I hope these flowers make you smile the way you made me smile when I saw you last week.’”
“Last week?” His voice cracks. “Where were you last week?”
You pretend to think. “Hmm… coffee shop? Grocery store? Pilates? Hard to keep track.”
He blinks at you like you’ve just confessed to a double life. “And you… smiled at someone?”
“I smile at lots of people.”
“Yeah but—” He gestures wildly. “Not like— smile‑smile.”
You raise a brow. “What’s smile‑smile?”
“You know.” He waves his hand in a circle. “The one you do when you’re being all cute and— and you scrunch your nose a bit and your eyes go all soft and— you know the one.”
You absolutely do not know the one, but you’re delighted he does.
You keep reading. “‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Maybe we can meet again soon?’”
Lando’s mouth falls open. “Meet again? No. No, no, no. Absolutely not.”
You bite your lip. “Why not?”
“Because—” He throws his hands up. “Because you’re my girlfriend?”
You hum thoughtfully. “Well, he doesn’t know that.”
“He should!” Lando snaps, pacing now. “You should wear a sign or something.”
“A sign.”
“Yes. A sign that says ‘I belong to Lando Norris, do not send me flowers.’”
You snort. “That’s a bit long.”
“I’ll make it shorter. ‘Back off.’”
You’re laughing now, but he’s too worked up to notice.
“Let me see the note,” he demands, holding out his hand.
You clutch it to your chest. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll get jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
You stare at him.
He stares back.
“Okay, maybe a little,” he mutters.
You finally crack, laughing as you hand him the real note. “Baby, it’s from a brand.”
He snatches it, eyes scanning the actual message. His shoulders drop instantly. “Oh my god.”
You’re still laughing when he looks up at you, betrayed. “You’re evil.”
“You should’ve seen your face.”
“I thought some guy was trying to steal you from me!”
You wrap your arms around his waist, tugging him close. “No one’s stealing me.”
He buries his face in your neck, grumbling. “Still don’t like it.”
“You don’t like what?”
“People sending you flowers.” His voice is muffled, soft. “I should be the one doing that.”
You smile into his hoodie. “Then do it.”
He pulls back, eyes narrowing with determination. “Fine. I will. I’ll send you so many flowers you’ll get sick of them.”
“I don’t think that’s how flowers work.”
“Watch me.”
You kiss him, and he melts instantly — jealous, dramatic, ridiculous, soft Lando in all his glory.
When you pull away, he mutters, “I’m buying you a cactus too. Just to stay on brand.”
You laugh. “Perfect.”
And he grins, because as long as you’re laughing in his arms, he doesn’t care who sends what — you’re his, and he’s yours, and that’s the only thing that ever really matters.
synopsis : How he apologizes after comparing you to his ex
starring : LN1, OP81, MV3, CL16, CS55
word count : 4.7k
includes : swearing, some tears, use of (Y/N)
Lando Norris
Once his head had finally caught up to every vile thing he’d said to you, he found himself standing outside your shared bedroom door. His mind told him to wait, to give you space—anything to keep his mouth from making things worse than they already were. But as your muffled sobs seeped through the door, uneven and broken, that thought didn’t stand a chance.
His hand lifted before he could stop himself, knuckles knocking softly against the dark wood that now felt like a barrier he didn’t know how to cross.
“Love…?” he called out, voice quieter than it had ever been, uncertain in a way that didn’t suit him.
On the other side, the sound of your crying faltered, the small, uneven hiccups coming to a sudden stop. He didn’t know which thought had shattered his heart first, the fact that you were trying to hide it from him or that he was the reason you were crying in the first place.
“I know you’re awake…”
The silence that followed felt heavier than the noise had been, pressing against his chest, making it harder to breathe. Lando swallowed, his forehead coming to rest against the door for a brief second, his eyes squeezing shut in hopes that he could somehow fix this.
“I didn’t mean it,” he sighed, like the words might reach you through the wood, like they could undo what had already been said. “Any of it. I was just—” He cut himself off, exhaling shakily. “I was being an idiot.”
After another moment of silence, he called out your name again.
Lando wanted nothing more than to walk in and hold you close, whispering apologies into your ear even after the comfort of sleep draws your eyes close. But he knew he had no right to ask anything of you. Not after he purposely made you feel replaceable just to get a rise out of you.
The brunette let out a quiet sigh, turning his back to the door as he slowly sank down onto the carpeted floor. His head tipped back until it rested against the wood with a soft thud, eyes falling shut as he searched for the right words. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t try to fill the silence with something half-formed or poorly thought out. Because right now you’re halfway out the door of your relationship, and whatever he said next would either have you stepping back in and giving him the chance to fix things or stepping out and leaving him for good.
“Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it. I know what I said was unforgivable. I was angry, yeah—but that’s not an excuse. It doesn’t make it okay. I said things I knew would hurt you, things I knew you’d take to heart, and I said it anyway. I was horrible and I hate that it came out of my mouth in the first place.”
Silence met him again, but he kept going.
“Please believe me when I say I didn’t mean any of it. Not a single word. If I could go back and slap some sense into myself, I would in a heartbeat. I’d beat me up for even thinking of it. You’re not too much. You’re not difficult. And there’s no one in this world who could ever replace you.”
He swallowed hard, biting his lip as it began to tremble. “I was just… scared, I think. Of messing everything up. Of not being enough for you. Because I know that if anyone’s replaceable here, it’s me. You deserve someone better—someone who doesn’t lash out, someone who’s actually there for you. And I want to be that someone. I try so hard to be half the man you deserve but…I keep proving that I’m not that person.”
He let out a shaky breath. “And instead of talking to you about it, I just… threw it back at you. Projected everything I’m insecure about onto you.” A quiet, humorless huff left him. He shook his head faintly, even if you couldn’t see it. “Brilliant plan, yeah?”
Another pause.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me…but if by some miracle you do, I will spend every second of my life making it up to you. I swear it... Please, darling…” he murmured, the plea quiet, stripped of anything that could even resemble pride.
He shut his eyes, feeling the tears he’d been holding back finally fall. He was so lost in his head that he missed the soft shuffle on the other side and the faint click of the lock as it gave way. The door opened slowly behind him, and without warning, Lando tipped backward slightly, caught off guard.
His eyes flew open, and there you were. Standing in the doorway, your gaze rimmed red, fragile in a way that made his chest tighten instantly. Even like this, you were still the most beautiful thing his eyes had ever had the pleasure of laying on.
“You idiotic prick,” you spat, your voice breaking despite the bite behind it. “Why didn’t you just tell me? And what in god’s name makes you think I’d ever want anyone else?”
He didn’t even hesitate. The moment he saw you, he scrambled to his feet and pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly like he was afraid you’d vanish if he didn’t. A string of apologies and thank yous tumbled from his lips, rushed and uneven, pressed into your hair, your temple, anywhere he could reach
“Do you really want to go back to her?” you mumbled into his chest, your voice small, laced with hurt and exhaustion, like the question had been spiraling in your head the moment he’d said it.
His breath hitched.
“No—God, no,” he said immediately, pulling back just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to cup your face like he needed you to understand, like he needed to erase the doubt right then and there. He shook his head, pulling you closer again as if you might slip through his fingers.
“Not for a second. I don’t want anyone else. I’ve never wanted anyone else the way I want you.”
It broke his heart knowing he’d planted those thoughts in your head, knowing that he was the reason you were even asking that in the first place. But if it took the rest of his life to undo that damage—to prove, over and over again, that you were the only one he chose—then he would.
Oscar Piastri
Despite the digital clock clearly displaying the ungodly hour, there was no chance of him sleeping tonight. His mind replayed it over and over again, every word, every pause, every shift in your expression as he picked it apart, criticizing himself, thinking of a million different ways he could have said it better—anything but the way it had come out.
Oscar dragged a hand down his face, exhaling quietly as he stared up at the ceiling. He had been trying to be rational, to make sense of it the only way he knew how, but he knew this can’t be fixed by just logic alone. Because when it came to you, his head was never the one at the wheel. Not when everything about you— your eyes, your lips, your touch—left no room for logic to begin with. No, you were one of the few places he’d let his heart pull the strings. And he wasn’t about to lose you because of a moment of fractured control.
You woke the next morning with a pounding head, the remnants of last night settling heavily in your chest as the memories slowly unraveled. For a fleeting second, you wished it had all been a bad dream. But the dull ache behind your eyes said otherwise.
You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and stretched, letting out a quiet breath. As you inhaled, the faint scent of something cooking drifted through the air, warm and unfamiliar in the aftermath of everything. And no matter how upset you were, your stomach didn’t seem to care about your relationship problems.
So you pulled yourself out of bed, padding quietly toward the kitchen. There, you found him standing by the stove, movements careful as he worked over a pan, an apron tied loosely around his waist, faint streaks of batter and flour dusting the fabric. He stilled the moment he sensed you, shoulders tensing ever so slightly before he turned his head.
His eyes found yours almost immediately, and for a second, neither of you said anything.
“Morning,” he murmured softly.
“Morning,” you replied.
It felt like walking over broken glass—each step measured, both of you too afraid of what might happen if you misstepped.
He glanced back at the stove briefly, then at you again. “I… made breakfast.”
With the spatula still in hand, he gestured toward the table. A stack of pancakes sat neatly arranged, topped with a melting slice of butter, maple syrup glistening over the edges, and a light dusting of powdered sugar. Beside it were small plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, and an assortment of fruits—the kind of spread that made it obvious he hadn’t just guessed. He’d remembered. And then added more, just to be sure.
You offered him a tight-lipped smile before taking a seat. Little did you know that by doing so, you had wordlessly started the second step of his plan. Because of course he had a plan. Oscar had spent all night thinking of anything and everything that could show just how sorry he was. He set the spatula down carefully, wiping his hands against the apron before reaching for his phone on the counter and keeping it in his apron pocket.
“I know you probably don’t want to talk yet,” he started, his voice quieter now, more cautious, like each word had been rehearsed and rewritten a dozen times. “And that’s okay. You don’t have to.”
“I just…” He exhaled softly, eyes flickering to the table for a second before returning to you. “I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t trying.”
There was a small pause. “So I thought I’d start with something I know how to do.”
Another one. “And then… if you let me, I’d like to try the part I’m not very good at…talking”
Oscar exhaled quietly as he took a seat on the other side of the table, gaze fixed solely on you.
“I’ve been going over last night... And you’re right. It isn’t fair that I alone make the decisions regarding our relationship. I made it sound like your feelings were inconvenient. Like they were something I had to work around instead of something I should’ve listened to.” His voice softened just slightly. “And that isn’t fair to you.”
“And bringing her up…” He inhaled slowly, like he was choosing each word with care. “That was unnecessary. It didn’t add anything to the conversation. It just hurt you. I didn’t mean to, but no matter the intent… you were hurt.” His gaze dropped briefly before returning to you. “And I can’t even begin to say how sorry I am.”
He paused for a moment before continuing, quieter this time. “But what I can’t make up for in words… I can try to make up for in actions. Starting with this.”
He reached into the pocket of his apron, pulling out his phone before placing it carefully on the table and sliding it toward you. Your brows knit together slightly as you looked down at the screen. It was an email with your name standing in clear text—followed by Paddock Access: Approved. You read it once more, then thrice, taking it in, before looking back at him.
There was a shy smile on his face—small, almost uncertain.
“I would love to celebrate my next podium with you,” he said softly. “And the one after that. And all the ones after that. I want to show the world how lucky I am to be loved by someone like you.”
His fingers twitched slightly on the table, like he was holding himself back from reaching for you again. You looked down at the phone in your hands before letting out a small breath.
“I’d like that too,” you smiled, the first one since this all started. “And maybe… we take it slow. Not every race. Just… once in a while. We’ll figure it out as we go.”
His gaze softened as relief flickered across his face, subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders easing in a way they hadn’t since last night.
“Okay. Slow is good.” This time, when his hand moved, he didn’t hesitate as much—resting it lightly over yours on the table, careful, giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t. And for now, that was enough.
Max Verstappen
If anyone could see him right now, they’d think he’d gone mad—pacing aimlessly, hand running through his hair till it stood in every direction. It’s been hours since you walked out the door, and with every second that passed it seemed he had fallen farther into insanity. You’d left. No message. No hint of where you’d gone or when you’d come back—if you came back at all.
Max exhaled harshly, dragging a hand down his face before reaching for his phone again, even though he already knew what he’d see. Nothing. No reply. No missed calls. No sign that you’d even looked at his messages.
Come back.
I didn’t mean it.
It’s been hours, schat.
Can you just tell me you’re okay?
Please.
He scoffed under his breath, tossing the phone onto the couch as he let out a frustrated bellow. Max knew apologies alone couldn’t mend what he’d broken—you didn’t deserve that, just as he didn’t deserve you. You’d been trying so hard, and he’d thrown it back in your face in a way that didn’t just make you question his love, but yourself—your worth, your efforts—all for the sake of winning and justifying his priorities. And now, he didn’t even know where you were.
His jaw tightened as he grabbed his keys without another thought. Sitting here wasn’t going to fix anything.
By the time he got back hours later, the apartment felt even quieter than before—like it had already adjusted to your absence. And that’s how it stayed for days—4 to be exact. Four days of unanswered messages. Four days of pacing the same floors, of sleeping on a bed that felt too big without you in it. Four days of replaying every word he’d said until even he couldn’t stand the sound of his own voice in his head anymore.
He walked back into the apartment, shoulders heavy after another day of searching—still nothing. As the door creaked open, he froze. Because there, on the couch was you.
For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there, staring like he wasn’t entirely sure you were real—like if he moved too quickly, you might disappear again. And for a long, suspended second, neither of you spoke.
“(Y/N)?” he whispered, your name slipping past his lips like an answered prayer.
“Max?” you called out.
You immediately notice the dark circles under his eyes, exhaustion etched into every line of his face, like sleep had become something he didn’t deserve the moment you left.
“What ha—”
Before you could even finish, he hurriedly stepped inside and slammed the door closed, the force so strong you’d think it broke from the hinges. He crossed the space between you in seconds as his arms wrapped around you, his hold desperate—almost tight enough to hurt.
“You’re okay. Thank fuck you’re okay,” he murmured, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as he took in a deep, shaky breath—like a man who had been deprived of oxygen for far too long.
“I’ve been driving through every street for days looking for you,” he admitted, his voice rough, uneven. “I’ve called your friends, your family—hell, I even went online to see if anyone had seen you.”
“I was staying at a friend’s,” you mumbled, your hand moving slowly up and down the curve of his spine while the other clutched at the fabric of his shirt. “I told her not to tell you. I though being here just added more to your plate…so I left.”
He shook his head so quickly you thought he might give himself whiplash as his grip tightening for just a second.
“No. Never,” he said immediately, the words tumbling out before you could even finish. “I was stupid. Scream, cry—fuck, hit me if you want to. But please don’t leave again… please…” His voice wavered with every word, breaking in a way you had never heard before.
Max never begged. And yet here he was, begging you to stay—because while his honesty had been the very thing that pushed you away, it was now the same truth unraveling through his desperation, leaving him with nothing left to hide. For a moment, the only thing filling the space between you was the sound of his uneven breathing, the way his grip on you hadn’t loosened in the slightest—as if letting go meant risking it all over again.
“I didn’t mean any of it,” he said finally. His arms loosened just enough to look at you properly, though his hands still lingered like he wasn’t ready to lose the contact completely.
“I was a complete ass. And—you’re not needy. I’d give you the whole world if you asked. I love how hard you try to fit your life into mine, and I should be the last person making that harder than it already is.”
The words kept coming, rushed and uneven.
“And I’ll go,” he added, “To dinner. With your family. We can bring them to the paddock if you want. Or take a trip with them during the season break—whatever works, I’ll make it work.” He continued on like he’d already memorized a list to do in his head, each one carefully planned.
“And I’ll make it up to you. Not just today—every day. I’ll show you I meant it… all of it.”
A second of silence passed before you finally nodded. His shoulders dropped, like he’d been carrying something unbearably heavy and had just been given permission to set it down, even if only for a moment.
For the rest of the night, you sat and talked about everything. So much so that the moon’s light was eventually taken over by the morning rays of sun that began to peek through the curtains. And even then, the ache in your chest didn’t disappear. A reminder of feelings that would take time to fully mend.
Max knew you were still hurt. He didn’t try to fix everything overnight. He didn’t drown you in empty promises or grand gestures that would fade as quickly as they came. Instead, he showed up—in the small, consistent ways.
He swapped the Red Bull polo for something nicer the night you went to dinner with your parents, showing up a little earlier than needed, nerves tucked beneath that usually composed exterior. He greeted them properly, firm handshakes and polite smiles, but it didn’t take long before those smiles turned genuine—before he leaned into their questions, listened intently, and answered with a sincerity that had nothing to do with cameras or interviews.
You couldn’t help but smile as they laughed with him, as they got to know him—not as Max the driver, not as the name people cheered for on race weekends—but as the man who sat beside you, whose hand found yours under the table without hesitation.
And it didn’t stop there.
When something mattered to you, he treated it like it mattered to him too. He started asking about your plans—really asking, not just nodding along. He checked his schedule against yours, not the other way around. And on days he was busy, he’d send you texts or a bouquet of flowers with a gift or two. There were moments where he’d catch himself before speaking—pausing, thinking—choosing his words more carefully than before. Not because he was afraid to be honest, but because he was learning how to be gentle with it.
Charles Leclerc
You walked around town for a while, drifting through your favourite spots in an attempt to clear your head. When you finally came back, you fond Charles sat on the couch, one leg bouncing slightly. His gaze was sharp as he stared ahead, fixed on something that wasn't there. It looked like his mind was running a hundred miles an hour with his body trying yet failing to stay still. And the moment the door closed behind you, his eyes snapped up, softening at the sight of you.
“Chérie,” he whispered, wasting no time and making his way toward you.
He took your hands in his, his touch careful as it always way. His eyes searched yours quietly, trying to read what you weren’t saying out loud. Until finally, you broke the silence.
“I’ve been thinking,” you started.
“So have I,” he replied, “And before you say anything—please, let me say something first.”
You hesitated, then nodded faintly. He exhaled, like he’d been holding everything in for too long.
“You shouldn’t have to compete with my past. And I hate that I made you feel like you had to compare yourself to anyone. Especially her. I don’t want someone who fits into my life perfectly. I want you… exactly as you are. And I was wrong for making you feel like anything less than enough.”
Your heart can’t help but practically melt as his words. You feel the corners of your eyes prick with tears, but this time, they weren’t that of sadness.
“Charles…”
“I know you have your own world. A world you’d build long before I came into the picture. And I would never forgive myself if I became the reason you had to choose between that and me…”
He paused, swallowing slightly before going on.
“But the thought of losing you...”
His grip on your hands tightened just a little, not enough to hurt—just enough to keep you there.
“I don’t want it to be ‘my life’ and ‘your life'. I want it to be ours. I want to be part of your world the same way I want you in mine. And maybe right now it means that I don’t get to have you there beside me everyday, but that’s okay. You could be on the moon for all I know and I’d still feel how much you love and support me.”
You let out a teary laugh. One of his hands came up to wipe it away, while the one intertwined with yours was lifted to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to the back of your hand.
“So please, ma moitié… don’t leave,” he whispered, “you said we need to think about where we’re going… and I want to go wherever you go.”
Your breath caught slightly at that, your hand coming up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing softly along his skin.
“I’m not going anywhere, Charlie,” you smiled.
He leaned into your touch without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut. A breath he didn’t realize he was holding finally slipped out.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured
“I know,” you whispered. And for a moment, nothing else mattered. Just the two of you standing there, learning how to meet each other halfway.
Carlos Sainz
You hugged your knees tighter as you silently cried on your shared bed. From the other side of the door, a faint knock broke through your thoughts, followed by a familiar voice calling out to you.
“Amor? May I come in?” His voice was muffled through the wood, but the concern in it was unmistakable.
You cursed under your breath at his gentlemanly nature—still knocking, still asking for permission, even when the door was unlocked. Wiping quickly at your cheeks, you told him to come in, hating the way your voice faltered at the end. As the door creaked open, the soft light from the hallway spilled into the dim room. Carlos stepped in slowly, his eyes immediately finding you curled up on the bed, eyes puffy and rimmed with red. His brows drew together at the sight.
“Cariño…” he whispered, closing the door gently behind him.
Crossing the room in a few quiet steps, he climbed onto the bed and pulled you into his arms, guiding your head against his chest like it was the most natural place for you to be. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading softly through your hair as if to soothe something he didn’t quite understand yet.
“Was it something I said that upset you?” he asked, voice low, careful. “You don’t have to tell me right away. I’m happy to wait until you’re ready, amor.”
Despite everything, your heart softened at his words. God… how did you manage to get someone like him?
Biting your bottom lip, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as you tried to piece your thoughts together. It took a while before you finally found the courage to speak, your voice coming out quieter than you intended.
“A while ago… you said Becca never had a problem with it,” you murmured, your gaze dropping to his chest. “And I know you didn’t mean anything by it but… it just made me feel like I was supposed to be okay with it too. Like… if she could handle it, then I should be able to as well.”
Your grip on his shirt tightened slightly.
“And when I can’t, it just makes me feel like I’m the one making things difficult. Like I’m the problem.”
“Cariño, no…” he whispered, shaking his head lightly against yours. “That’s not what I meant.”
He let out a quiet breath, frustration flickering—not at you, but at himself. He silently cursed his English. For all his fluency, moments like this still tripped him up, leaving too much room for things to come out wrong.
“What I meant was… I thought you were okay with it,” he tried again, slower this time, choosing each word more carefully. “Not that you should be. I just assumed you were, because you never said anything before. That’s on me. I wasn’t trying to compare you to her, or say you should act like she did. I just explained it…badly.”
You nodded, seeming to understand now, though the ache hadn’t fully left your expression.
“I just… can’t help comparing myself to her sometimes, you know?” you admitted quietly. “She’s pretty, confident, so… perfect. And I’m just… me.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his brows knitting together at your words.
“Exactly—you’re not her. And I don’t want you to be,” he said gently. A small exhale left him as his gaze softened. “You’re you. And that’s what I love about you.”
His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, wiping away the remnants of your tears.
“So please don’t ever think you have to compare yourself to her. Because to me, you’re perfect, mi amor.”
He lingered for a second longer, as if making sure the words had truly reached you this time, before leaning in and sealing them with a soft kiss to your lips—gentle, unhurried. You curled into his chest instinctively, and his arms wrapped around you like they belonged there, like they always had.
One hand settled at the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair in slow, soothing strokes while the other held you close at your waist, steady and certain. You stayed like that until the comfort of sleep began to pull you under, the world slowly fading into darkness.
And he didn’t move. He just held you, like he had all the time in the world to show you he meant it. Because Carlos would have stayed like that forever if it meant you’d finally see that you were not something temporary in his life. Not something replaceable or uncertain, but the one place his eyes always returned to, the one touch he always reached for, the one love he chose over and over again without hesitation.
includes : angst, shouting, arguments, misunderstandings, doctor!reader for charles
Lando Norris
Lando never really had the best track record when it came to taking criticism or being under pressure. As soon as he heard something negative, he’d immediately put up walls to protect his ego. It came out as defensiveness, words thrown faster than he could think. He was always too prideful to step back yet too overwhelmed to admit he might be wrong. It was no different when it came to your relationship.
It had been hours of going back and forth, voices raised, patience worn thin, the crux of it being his absence. Missed dates, shorter replies, the growing distance between you, all of which you tried to gently bring up. With the championship fight and the expectations everybody had, you understood that the pressure he was under was eating away at him. Maybe that’s why he snapped so easily, why every word from you felt like another reminder that he wasn’t doing enough. Not only was he failing as a driver, but as a boyfriend too—and Lando hated failing. So he fought it the only way he knew how.
“Fuck! I swear Magui was never this much of a headache.”
“Maybe you should go back to her then!”
“Maybe I will!”
Lando’s chest rose and fell quickly, adrenaline still buzzing beneath his skin, the argument echoing in his ears—but something shifted when you didn’t respond. His brows furrowed, the anger still lingering as he looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to yell, to scream, to say anything at all. Not because it was something you would do, but because it was what he was used to—what fights had always been like with Magui. Loud, messy, volatile. They’d shout until their voices gave out, throw words they didn’t mean just to see who would break first, only to come back hours later and pretend none of it had mattered. It was easier that way—easier to fall back into each other than to confront what had actually gone wrong. But this was nothing like that.
And as he looked at you now, tears quietly gathered in your eyes, standing there without raising your voice, without fighting back, he realized—he crossed a line—a line he didn’t know how to come back from.
Your lips parted slightly, like you were about to say something, but nothing came out. Just a quiet, shaky breath as your gaze dropped to the floor, like you were trying to hold yourself together in front of him. And just like that, the anger drained out of him all at once. In its place was immense guilt mixed in a flurry of panic.
“Hey…” he called out, voice a stark contrast from just a second ago as his hands hovered over you unsure. His heart beat more frantically with each second that passed. As a soft sob tumbled out of your lips, he felt his stomach twist.
“Hey—no, I didn’t—I didn’t mean that, okay? That was just—I was mad. I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I said it to get a reaction, alright? I wasn’t actually—”
“Considering it?” you finished for him, your expression tightening. You weren’t too sure what hurt more—being compared to his ex, or how easily her name had come up as an option, like it was an easier choice than staying. It sat wrong in your stomach. “You can’t just say things like that, Lando…”
“I was pissed!” he snapped, frustration creeping back in—not at you this time, but at himself, at the situation, at how badly he’d handled everything. “You kept going on about me not being there, like I don’t already know that!”
“Do you think I enjoy begging for your love like it’s something I have to earn? I’m telling you this because I care about us, because I wanted to fix it. But if loving you means being compared to someone else—like you’d run back to her the second I fall short…then maybe this isn’t something worth fixing at all.”
And just like that, his blood turned ice cold, body frozen while you hurry past him into your shared bedroom.
He frantically reaches for you, but you quickly slip from his hold, “I don’t want her. I don’t—(Y/N)!”
You shut the door with a loud bang, and the silence after draped over the room like a velvet curtain, muffling even the faintest whispers. As he stood alone in the quiet, he realized how badly he’d fucked up this time, running a hand through his dark curls.
Oscar Piastri
The McLaren driver was known for his calm, almost unshakable composure on and off track. Even under immense pressure, he never rushed into reaction, choosing instead to pause for a moment and think, to understand before he spoke. It was one of the things you loved most about him, with arguments typically consisting of calm understanding instead of venomous words spilled in the moment.
But like fetid gasoline feeding a fire already out of control, that same stillness could be maddening. Especially now, as you paced the living room, while he simply watched as if this were just another problem for him to solve.
The media had been getting to you lately. Their constant claims that your absence from the paddock meant you didn’t care enough about your boyfriend’s career grew harder to ignore. But the truth was, it was his decision to keep you away from that part of his life—far from the paparazzi, far from the drama. He said it was safer this way, told you to ignore it, that it was all just noise. But it was easier said than done. And with each passing day, the comments only grew louder—more speculative and more absurd than the last, with your want to join him in his upcoming race growing along with it.
“Please, Oscar. I’ll stay low, try not to get too much attention. You won’t even know I’m there,” you begged for what was the nth time that night.
“No, that’s literally impossible. I don’t want you to get mauled by a bunch of people with cameras. End of discussion,” he said with a tone of finality to his words.
Your jaw tightened, a bitter laugh escaping you. “So how long do you expect me to sit here, Oscar? I don’t want our relationship to be some secret you’re trying to hide—Like I’m something you’re ashamed of.”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes had squeezed shut for a brief second, as if he could will the tension away.
“You’re making this into something it’s not,” he replied, trying to keep his voice low and controlled. “Trust me, I’m only trying to make things easier.”
Oscar wasn’t too keen on the idea of people prying into his life more than they already do, and even more so on his relationship. You had reassured him countless times that you understood it came with loving him, that you were prepared for the attention, the questions, the constant curiosity. You told him you could handle it. But no matter how many times you said it, it never quite sat right with him. He knew how invasive they could be, how quickly curiosity could turn into scrutiny, and keeping you as far from it as possible was his way of protecting you from everything that came with dating him. Even if it meant keeping you at a distance.
“Easier for who?” you shot back, hands gesturing wildly through the air. “Because it’s definitely not easy for me. I’m the one dealing with it—every comment, every assumption. I’m the one being told I don’t care about you when I’m literally asking to be there!"
“I don’t understand why this is such a big deal. I’m doing this for you,” he muttered, almost to himself. He took a deep breath, letting out a laboured sigh. His control had frayed and for a second, Oscar lost his composure. And before he could stop his tongue, it slipped.
“God, this was never a problem with Lily...” A beat of hush fell over the room, so thick it was suffocating for both of you. You stared at him in disbelief as all the fight in you dissolved in an instant.
“…What?” you whispered, his words hitting harder than anything he’d said so far. You weren’t a stranger to the name. It was his ex, the one fans never failed to compare you to. The mystery beauty that complimented his silence, the perfect engineer girlfriend to the racing driver boyfriend. You’d spent so long trying not to let it get to you, brushing off the comments, the comparisons, the way people spoke about her like she was something you were meant to measure up to. But hearing it from him was a type of hurt not even the criticism of a thousand fans could measure up to.
His head lifted slightly, like he hadn’t quite registered what he’d said at first—like the realization came a second too late. But it did come. And by then, it was already too late. And he can’t help but feel a tug on his heart as you take a step back from him, the small distance between you now feeling like a chasm. He stood up, arms lifting slightly—not enough to reach for you, not enough to touch—but hovering there, uncertain, like one wrong move might push you even further away.
“I didn’t mean tha—”
“Then what did you mean?” you asked, your voice breaking despite your best effort. “Because it sounds like I’m too much for you. Like caring about you, wanting to be part of your life, is somehow… inconvenient.”
What he once tried to keep as a civil discussion has now quickly turned into a landmine with just a moment of miscalculation. He opens his mouth but immediately stops himself, fearing that he may say that wrong thing again. But that silence, that hesitation, was possibly worse, for it was an empty space your mind filled in for yourself. Your laugh came out hollow, shaking your head as you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to give yourself a semblance of comfort.
“Right. I think I get it now,” you murmured, glassy eyes drifting to the hardwood floor, unable to meet his gaze. But he so desperately wanted you to—because in the moments where he didn’t know what to do, you always did. You always knew what to say, how to move forward, how to steady him when everything felt like it was slipping through his fingers. That was what he loved about you, how you wordlessly took control when he couldn’t anymore. And now, as he stood there searching for something—anything—to fix what he’d just broken, you stayed quiet.
“I know you don’t want the media involved. But that’s your life… and I’ve made peace with the fact that it comes with you.” You paused, biting your lip as a stray tear fell down by the apples of your cheek. “I want to love you loudly, Oscar. I want the whole world to know just how happy you make me. But I won't stand here and be compared to someone just because I love you differently than she did.”
You didn’t look at him, didn’t offer a single word to soften the blow. You just stood there, quiet, distant, like you had already taken a step back from him in a way he couldn’t follow. Oscar opened his mouth, the words sitting right there—an apology, an explanation, anything that could pull you back—but nothing came out.
Before he could speak, you quietly turned and walked back to the bedroom. As you shut the door behind you, the soft click of the lock echoed far louder than any slam ever could. And on the other side, Oscar stood there, staring at the closed door as the weight of everything settled in all at once, mind already clamoring on how to fix this.
Max Verstappen
Max wasn’t the type to sugarcoat things. Where others softened their words or thought things through twice—Max said it as it was. He was honest and direct, sometimes too direct. But in times of thoughtless anger, that same honesty could easily be formed into sharp daggers, callous to how deep it may cut or whom it may hit. And you were no exception.
“You’re not listening to me,” you snapped, frustration finally spilling over.
“I am listening,” Max shot back immediately, tone sharp. “You’re just repeating the same thing over and over again!”
“Because you’re not getting it!”
“No, I don’t!” he said, exhaling harshly. “Schatje, it’s one dinner. There’s gonna be a bunch more.”
“It's dinner with my family, Max. You know how long they’ve been waiting to meet you. And with your impossible schedule, it’s probably going to be another year before you can fit them in,” you argued.
You’d planned this dinner months ago, carefully working around his race calendar, shifting dates, doing everything you could just to make sure he could be there. It was the first time your family would finally meet him—something they’d been asking about for far too long—and despite how unpredictable his schedule was, he’d promised he’d try. And for a while, you let yourself believe that this time he actually would.
He rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re acting like I’m never going to meet them. It’s a race weekend and right now I just want to rest. You know how this works.”
“And you knew about this dinner,” you countered immediately, no plans of backing down.
With that, the last thread of his patience finally snapped, frustration spilling over before he could stop it. Max felt it instantly—the rush of adrenaline, the narrowing of focus, everything else fading into the background. It was the same clarity he had on track, when instinct took over and hesitation meant losing. And right now, that instinct didn’t know the difference between racing and you.
“God, why does everything have to be such a big deal with you?” he screamed, his hands flailing through the air as if it would help him make his point. “I swear Kelly never made any of this complicated.”
Your voice went quiet, stopping dead in your tracks the moment you heard her name. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You knew exactly what he meant. She was the daughter of a former Formula 1 World Champion—someone who grew up around this world, who understood the sacrifices without needing them explained. She fit into it seamlessly.
But that didn’t mean you hadn’t been trying. Max knew that. He saw it every time you brushed off his cancellations, never complained, told your family he was “just busy,” reshaped your plans around him and stayed by his side even when it felt like there was no place for you in his ever-changing schedule. And yet here he was, reducing all of that to “complicated”.
“All I’m saying is she was never so fucking needy. Even with a kid, I didn’t have to keep choosing between everything and her. She didn’t make everything into a problem but with you there’s always something. I’m already under pressure, I don’t need more of it when I come home.”
With every word that left his lips, it felt like another cut carved into your already broken heart, until finally—
“Well now you don’t have to.”
And just like that, the battle was over with neither of you emerging as the winner. Max looked at you, still heaving, and for the first time since it started, he was at a loss for words. Only the quiet realization of what had just been lost in the heat of trying to win. Through blurred vision, you grabbed your bag and made your way to the door, making sure to slam it on your way out.
Max blinked once, like he hadn’t fully processed what you’d said. It was like watching a crash. A battle of instinct and pride, of words thrown too fast and too hard, until one of you finally spun off track. And now there was only the wreckage. Not of a race, but of something far harder to fix.
“Fuck... godverdomme” he mumbled, sitting down on the couch with his head in his hands.
Charles Leclerc
Charles had never been good at keeping the people he loved at a distance. He liked having them close where he could see them, reach for them, know they were there. So being with someone whose schedule was as flexible as plywood quickly became the root of many of your problems.
You had built your life long before him. Years of relentless studying, sleepless nights, and exhausting shifts had led you to the life you lived now—standing in hospital halls at ungodly hours, tending to people at their most fragile, putting their lives before your own.
You weren’t about to let that go. Not for anyone. Not even him.
“I’m sorry, mon amour,” you murmured softly, already tired from the day you just had and the fight draining whatever strength you had left. You stared up at him as you rubbed circles onto the temple of your head, trying to relieve the building headache. “I really can’t come to this one. I have—”
“Another patient, another shift, I know,” Charles cut in, his voice softer than yours—but edged with something you couldn’t quite ignore. “It’s always something.”
You paused, the words catching in your throat.
“It’s not just something, Charles, it’s my job.”
“I know that. I’m not saying it’s not important, I just—” He exhaled, the sound heavy like it was a weight he'd been carrying for too long “I just thought maybe this time you could try. It’s been weeks since you’ve come to one.”
Guilt flickered in your chest. It gutted you how you couldn't be there for him like either of you wanted to, instead forced to support the Monegasque from miles away. “And trust me, I really want to be there. But people need me—”
“And I don’t?” The words came out sharper than he intended, and he winced almost immediately after.
He knew it was selfish of him to think that. He absolutely adored what you did—how passionate you were, how you gave so much of yourself to people who needed it most. He wasn’t a stranger to sacrifice, but what you did was something else entirely. Selfless in a way he could never quite put into words. Never for the money. Never for the recognition you deserved. Just there to help.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he added quickly, softer now. “I know what you do matters, I’ve always known that.”
Silence lingered between the two of you, heavier now.
“I’m just…not used to this” he exhaled, the sound tired, conflicted. “With Alex, I didn’t have to ask this much before.”
Your breath hitched, just barely, like your body reacted before your mind could catch up.
“With Alex…” You repeated it softly, like you were testing how it sounded out loud. Like maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much the second time. But no matter how many times you repeated it in your head, it did.
Alexandrea Saint Mleux, art history graduate, influencer, fashion icon and Charles’ ex. The woman who was almost always photographed beside Charles back when they were dating. She was there for the races, the events, the cameras—always just a step behind him. Which meant that when she left, there was a space beside him that sat empty. He told you that your love and support was enough, that it made every second with you even more special. But standing here now, hearing her name fall so easily from his lips, it didn’t feel like enough.
“I see.”
“Hey—no, that’s not what I meant,” Charles rushed out immediately, the shift in your tone making him realize how much he’d underestimated his words. “I didn’t mean it like that, I just—”
“No, it’s okay. I understand.” you cut in gently.
Not angry. Not loud. And somehow, that made it worse. Charles faltered, his words catching in his throat as he watched you. The way your shoulders had gone still, the way your voice had softened into something distant, and how your already tired figure seemed to deflate even more because of him.
“I can’t be there the way she was. I can’t just drop everything and follow you around the world, and I won’t pretend that I can,” your voice remained steady despite the glassy sheen in your eyes. “And I’m not going to apologize for having a life outside of you. For having something that matters to me just as much as racing does to you. But I’ve been trying. Trying to show up when I can, trying to make time, trying to be there in the ways that I’m able to.”
Your lips pressed together.
“But I’m not her. And I shouldn’t have to feel like that makes me less… like I’m not enough for you.”
“You are enough. You’ve always been enough, I swear—” he said quickly, stepping closer now, panic starting to seep into his voice before you cut him off.
“But it doesn’t feel like it. Not to you, not to me…” you whispered.
“Mon amour…” he murmured, his voice breaking in a way it rarely did. He reached for you, hesitating just before his hand could touch you.
“I’m going out for a bit. I think…we need some time to think about where this is going.” You stood up and grabbed your coat by the rack, slipping it on with slightly trembling fingers as you adjusted the fabric, avoiding his gaze.
Your hand hovered over the door handle for a second, hope flickering in his chest that maybe you'd turn back around. But that was quickly extinguished as you walked out the door, the click echoing far louder than it should have. And when it shut behind you, it left Charles standing there, staring at the space you once filled.
Carlos Sainz
It was no secret that the Spaniard was one of if not the most attractive man on the grid. Dark tousled hair that always just fell in that perfect way, brown eyes that could leave you mesmerized if you stared too long, and a body that looks like it was chiseled by God himself.
Ever since you started dating a few months ago, you watched as women threw themselves at Carlos, fawning and sometimes blatantly flirting with him as you walked by his side in the paddock.
You tried not to let it bother you, knowing where his heart truly lay. It was through small gestures—like how his hand would instinctively find yours or the way his gaze would always drift back to you no matter who stood in front of him—that helped eased your worries. It was enough reassurance in a world that constantly tried to pull his attention elsewhere.
But today was just different. The fans were more…handsy. And so, throughout the day, you found yourself holding his hand a bit tighter or pressing up against him a bit more. It all came into a boiling point once you got back into the comfort of your hotel.
“Mi amor, is everything okay? You’ve been distant all day.” His warmth envelops you as he hugs you from behind, his touch bringing a sense of comfort to your inner turmoil.
You let out a quiet breath, arms crossing over your chest as you leaned back against him, the weight of everything finally settling in now that it was just the two of you.
“It’s nothing, Carlos…” you murmured.
He frowned slightly, resting his head on top of yours. “It’s clearly something if it’s troubling you this much, Cariño.”
You bit your lip in embarrassment, knowing it sounded small when you tried to say it out loud. Some may say petty even. But this wasn’t small to you, and you didn’t want to pretend it didn’t loom over your shoulder every time you went out.
“It’s just… Earlier with the fans...” you trailed off, fingers tightening slightly against your arms as you searched for the right words.
Carlos stilled behind you for a moment, a sudden spike of worry hitting him. “What about them?”
Had someone said something to you while he wasn’t listening? Gotten too close when his back was turned? Touched you when he wasn’t there to stop it? A long list of worst case scenarios started to form in his head as you took your precious time thinking of your next words.
You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor. “The way they were acting. The way they kept touching you…” you swallowed. “It just felt a little too much.”
He let out a quiet breath of relief, the tension in his shoulders easing as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his touch gentle, grounding. “Amor… they’re just fans,” he murmured. “They get excited. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I know,” you nodded quickly, almost too quickly. “And I’m trying to get used to it. I just don’t like the thought of other women practically fondling my boyfriend in front of me, you know?”
He hummed in agreement, holding you tighter and listening attentively as you poured your heart to him. He was neither trying to disregard your feelings nor defend their actions. Having to watch women swoon over your lover every day was no easy sight, and if he were in your shoes, he definitely wouldn’t be as kind nor patient as you are now.
“I’m not asking you to push them away,” you said softly, turning slightly in his hold, just enough to glance up at him. “I’m just asking for some sort of boundary”
“I understand. I’m sorry,” he murmured softly. “Becca never really had a problem with it, and I assumed you wouldn’t either.” His voice was gentle, no hint of malice in sight—but the words themselves didn’t carry the same warmth. Your hands gently pushed against his chest, the way your body went stiff in his hold not going unnoticed.
“Becca?” you whispered, your face unable to hide the faint pang of hurt at the mention of her name.
You’d never admit it, but you had always envied how easily she seemed to handle it all—the attention, the fans, the constant eyes on him. She had looked so secure, so sure of herself, so certain of her place beside him, like she belonged there without ever having to question it. And you… you weren’t. Not in the same way.
You couldn’t quite shake the thought that he could find someone better—someone prettier, someone who fit into his world without hesitation, someone who didn’t have to learn how to stand beside him. So hearing her name now didn’t just sting, it was a quiet confirmation of something you had been trying so hard not to believe.
“I see…” you mumbled, your throat suddenly feeling dry. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I was asking for that much.”
His brows furrowed in confusion as he gently pulled back, just enough to get a better look at you. And despite how you tried to hide it, he didn’t miss the slight gloss in your eyes, the way your lashes clung together as the tears began to gather.
Panic set in almost instantly.
“Hey—no, no, no,” he murmured, his hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that had already begun to fall. “Mi vida, what are you talking about?”
But you only shook your head faintly, your hands coming up to wrap around his wrists—not to pull him closer, but to still them. The worst part was that the poor man had no idea what he’d said to make you so upset. Because while the name might have meant absolutely nothing to him, it meant everything to you.
Before he could pry any further, you quickly slipped away to your shared room, head hung low as your palm muffled the small sobs that escaped. Now he was left alone standing in the living room utterly confused.
an: Gosh dang this took me a while to make. As always, hope you guys liked it! Would love to hear your thoughts, whatever it might be. Toodles <3
(In the works) Jumped to the Wrong Conclusion: P1 P2
(In the Works) Just a Friend?
CHARLES LECLERC
I Choose You: P1 P2
Just one dinner together was all you asked for. But for a man who moves at three hundred kilometers an hour, he was too slow when it mattered most. Now, Charles' world slows to a crawl as he's left wondering if there's still a chance to mend what he'd broken.
pairing: charles leclerc x gf!reader, max verstappen x friend!reader
Part 1, Part 2
word count: 3.7k
outline: Just one dinner together was all you asked for. But for a man who moves at three hundred kilometers an hour, he was too slow when it mattered most. Now, Charles' world slows to a crawl as he's left wondering if there's still a chance to mend what he'd broken.
Across the city, in another hotel room, you were curled against Max on the couch. Your tears had finally quieted, replaced by the kind of exhaustion that hollowed everything out. He just stayed there beside you, one arm loosely around your shoulders, until your hiccups had finally evened out.
Max glanced down slightly. “You asleep?” he murmured.
Met with silence, he carefully shifted away and eased you down onto the couch, making sure your head rested properly against a pillow. He grabbed a spare blanket the hotel provided and draped it over you, movement slow and deliberate so as to not wake you. As he turned to leave, his familiar ringtone cut through the silence. Fishing his phone out his pocket, he sees the name.
Charles “Inchident” Leclerc. He declines it and shoves it back into his pocket. Again, it buzzes. He rolls his eyes, lips pursing into a thin line. Max glanced back at you—curled up on the couch, face still faintly damp from tears. He let the phone ring for another second before finally answering, his voice low and flat.
“What,” he answered, moving to the hotel balcony and shutting the sliding doors behind him.
“Max.” From the tone of Charles’ voice, he was sure he knew. Max leaned his elbows against the balcony railing, the night air cool against his face as the city lights flickered below.
“She told you to leave her alone.” There it was—the confirmation Charles needed. He was silent. The Dutchman’s words were the truth, yet it was a truth he still wasn’t ready to accept. The tension hung thick between the two racers, stretching across the quiet line.
“You and I both know I can’t do that. Please, just let me see her”
“You had months to see her. To fix this. And you didn’t. Now she wants space. Funny how you had no problem giving it back then—so for once in your life, Leclerc, you’re going to respect it.”
“Max—”
“No.” His tone sharpened slightly. “You’ve already done enough tonight.”
“Please Max…” Charles whispered.
Max had seen him vulnerable before. He’d heard the way Charles’s voice softened whenever he spoke about the people he’d lost in his life. And right now, it was no different. It was the voice of a man who knew he might have already lost you—but also knew that not trying would haunt him far more than the loss itself. Max sighed quietly as he stared out at the city. For a moment, the anger in his chest wavered, replaced by something dangerously close to pity.
“You really screwed this up, you know,” Max said bluntly as he shifted his weight against the railing. “For someone who drives at three hundred kilometers an hour without blinking, you’re unbelievably slow when it actually matters.”
Charles let the words settle. Normally he would have snapped back—thrown something equally sharp in return. Tonight, he didn’t have it in him.
“How is she?” he asked instead.
“If you think her crying her eyes out from the moment she got here until she passed out on my couch is ‘okay’, then she’s doing amazing. No thanks to you at least.” he answered, not caring how his words may affect him. On the other end of the line, the Monégasque closed his eyes, the image of you sitting alone forcing its way into his mind once again—whether he wanted it to or not. For the past few hours, as he drove mindlessly down the roads of Japan, that picture had permanently ingrained itself in his thoughts.
“Putain…” the brunette breathed under his breath. “I’m a shit boyfriend”
“Glad you know. You want a medal with that?”
Charles knew how blunt Max could be. He wasn’t one to sugarcoat anything. It carried over with every press conference and interaction they had. Every word that left his mouth was the raw truth that stirred within him. So having to hear the extent of his fuck ups tonight from him made it one hundred times worse.
“But for what it’s worth, she still loves you,” he continued. ”So if you’re planning to screw this up again, do everyone a favor and let her go now.”
Charles felt those words settle heavily in his chest.
“I’m not letting her go,” he said quietly.
“Then you better start acting like it. Stop with the bullshit excuses and actually show up. Because with the way you’re treating her, she could easily leave your ass and you won't see me stopping her.”
“I will. Just…” he started, hesitating. “Stay with her tonight.”
“Obviously.” Max couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Go to sleep, Charles.”
“I don’t think I can”
“Good” Without another word, Max ended the call. He walked back inside and looked at your sleeping figure for a moment. You shifted, tugging the blanket closer, tear stains barely visible yet eyes a bit puffed.
“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath—though it wasn’t clear if he meant Charles. Or you.
You woke up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you pushed yourself up from the couch. The sun peeked through the thin drapes, casting the space in a warm, golden glow. Your head throbbed faintly. You blinked a few times, glancing down at the blanket wrapped around your shoulders before looking around the room. Right, Max’s place.
Just then, the blonde pops out from the bedroom.
“Morning” he says, sending a small smile as he makes a beeline to the in-room coffee machine. “You want some?”
His eyebrows raise as he waves one of the drip coffee bags to you. You nod, movements still slow from waking. You rubbed your temples, trying to ease the dull ache sitting behind your eyes as the memories from the night before began creeping back in.
Max glanced over his shoulder briefly, noticing the way your shoulders tensed as you sat there. He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he finished pouring the water through the drip bag before walking over.
“Careful, it’s hot,” he warned, placing the mug gently on the low table in front of you.
As you stared at the mug in your hands, the bitter aroma familiar, you couldn’t help but reminisce about the simple life you had lived before. Everything had been so easy then. So predictable. Only for it to all change the moment the Monégasque boy walked in.
The small bell above the café door rang softly as it opened, announcing his arrival. You remembered looking up from behind the counter, half distracted by the stack of cups you were drying. He stepped inside, sunlight spilling in behind him, the faint scent of cedar and spice following him through the door. Every step he took closer to the counter made the butterflies in your stomach flutter harder, though you had no idea why.
“Good morning, Madame. May I please get an espresso?”
He smiled—soft, a little shy—his eyes warm as they met yours. For a brief second, it felt like time slowed down. His eyes were mesmerizing. It was green like a lush forest yet blue like a clear sky, all brought together by a sliver of brown.
At the time, you had no idea who he was. To you, he was just another handsome stranger passing through the café. Someone with a charming accent and a smile that lingered a little longer than most customers'. As he stared at you expectantly, you realized how long you’ve actually been staring.
“O-of course,” you’d managed, hoping he couldn’t hear the slight tremble in your voice.
You turned quickly toward the espresso machine, busying your hands so he wouldn’t notice the way your heart had suddenly started racing. The familiar hiss of steam filled the small café as the shot poured. Behind you, you could feel his gaze. When you turned back around, the espresso cup resting carefully on its saucer, he was still watching you.
“Here you go,” you smiled, sliding the cup across the counter.
“Merci,” he replied, fingers brushing yours for just a second as he picked it up.
One encounter turned into many after that.
The memory faded slowly as the warmth of the coffee mug returned you to the present. Across from you, Max watched quietly.
“You’re thinking about him,” he said as a matter of fact.
“Is it that obvious?” you mumbled, taking a sip of the beverage.
“Yeah, no. Everyone I know stares at their drink for like five minutes in silence, watching it go cold,” he jested, still keeping that signature Verstappen resting face.
Despite everything, a faint huff of amusement left your nose. You took another small sip of the coffee. It was bitter, stronger than you were used to, but the warmth grounded you.
“I don’t know what to do,” you admitted quietly.
Max leaned back against the couch, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you for a moment. He purses his lips, debating whether he should tell you of their conversation last night. But with the way you looked so defeated, uncertain, like you needed something to hold on to—he figured you deserved to know.
“He called last night after you fell asleep. He sounded like shit.”
Your body visibly tensed, the mug in your hands pausing halfway to your lips.
“Oh.” The single word came out quieter than you intended.
Max watched your reaction carefully, noting the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your gaze dropped immediately back to the coffee in your hands. You knew to yourself you couldn’t stay hidden forever. And deep down inside, you didn’t want to. You just needed time—not to punish him, but to figure everything out. How you felt, where things had gone wrong, and whether any of this could still be fixed.
“What… did you tell him?” you asked carefully, still not looking up.
“What he needed to hear,” he answered, voice unwavering. Despite how vague it sounded, his tone alone was enough for you to know Charles’ feelings had not been spared last night.
With a deep sigh, you buried yourself deeper into the couch, swirling the mug in your hands and its contents. “I just want to forget any of this happened. For things to go back to how they used to be…when we were happier.”
Max rolls his eyes. “Look. You have two choices, and that’s definitely not one of them. Pretending last night didn’t happen isn’t going to fix anything. You can’t keep living like that. You know it, he knows it. All you can do now is move forward with or without him”
You looked at him, a bit shocked at his straightforwardness.
“I mean it,” he continued. “If loving him hurts you more than it makes you happy… then walk away.”
The words settled heavily in the air. Because part of you knew he was right—there was no clean way back from something like this, no simple undoing of what had already fractured between you. With every missed schedule and every broken promise, what once was only a small crack had spread quietly through the foundation of your trust, leaving it brittle, trembling, and just barely holding on. The silence was broken as a knock echoed from the hotel door, pulling both of your attention toward it.
Max frowned slightly, “I didn’t order room service.”
He pushed himself off the couch and walked toward the door, glancing back at you briefly before looking through the peep hole.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me” he mumbled, stepping back and opening the door.
Max stepped aside just enough for you to see past him. Your stomach dropped. Standing in the hallway, hair messy, eyes tired and rimmed with red was Charles. The man looked like he hadn’t slept at all. Yet as his eyes found you across the room, all traces of exhaustion were shoved back and replaced with relief.
“(Y/N)...” he sighs, taking a step into the room. But before he could put a foot inside, Max quickly stops him, standing firmly as an arm stretches out to block his path.
“I just want to talk.” he pleaded, bloodshot eyes never leaving yours.
“Only if she wants to, mate” Max spoke softly as he glanced back at you briefly, his expression unreadable but tone protective.
They looked to you, waiting for your decision. You take a moment to really take in his state. He wasn’t the polished driver from magazine covers or race-day headlines. The charming smile and effortless confidence the cameras loved so much were nowhere to be found. Instead, standing there was the man you knew.
The one who sat quietly beside you after a race that hadn’t gone his way. The one who would bury his face into your neck late at night, holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping the world from swallowing him whole. The one who’d let silent tears flow, knowing you’d be there to wipe every one off. The version of him reserved only for your eyes.
And right now, he looked like he was barely holding himself together. His gaze never left yours, like he was afraid that if he looked away—even for a second—you might disappear again. After what felt like an eternity, you send a small nod. Despite his hesitance, Max stepped aside with a quiet huff. As Charles walks past, he takes him by the arm, his hold not strong enough to bruise but still firm.
“Don’t screw this up again,” he whispered, letting go of his arm and closing the door. Knowing you two need some space, he opted to move to the bedroom. Just before disappearing inside, he glanced back at you.
“Just give me the word and he’s out of here.” Knowing him, he wouldn’t hesitate to do it either.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room suddenly quieter than before. Now it was just the two of you. For a moment, neither you nor Charles moved. He stayed near the entrance like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to take another step. Even from where he stood, he could see the toll this has put on you. The light in your eyes—the one he adored, the one that always seemed to glow when you looked at him—had dulled. Faint, but not gone.
How long had it been like that? How did he not notice? There was so much he wanted to say. A thousand apologies crowded his chest, fighting to be the first one out. He wanted to beg, to plead, to somehow prove to you that what you meant to him hadn’t changed—had never changed. Even if it meant getting down on his knees right there in front of you. But the words stayed stuck in his throat, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Say something. Anything.
“I’m so sorry.” The words were raw. Honest. “I promised you I’d be there, and I wasn’t. I kept you waiting… and worst of all, I made you question my love for you.”
His voice faltered slightly before he continued.
“You’ve given me more than I ever deserved. You were always there when I needed you—always beside me, no matter where I was. And when you needed me…” He swallowed. “I couldn’t even show up.” His gaze dropped briefly before he continued.
“I took your love for granted. I got so used to it being there that I started expecting it. Like it was something that would always be waiting for me.” The silence between you felt impossibly heavy. “I forgot that you didn’t have to wait for me. That you didn’t have to drop everything or put it on hold just to fit my schedule.”
He took a slow, shaking breath, “I understand if you never want to see me again. I’d understand if you disappeared without saying goodbye. But if there’s even the smallest chance you’d still have me… I’ll spend every minute, every hour, and every day showing how much you mean to me. I will give up everything if it means I get the chance to prove that loving you was never something I deserved, but something I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of.” His voice wavered, feeling the familiar pricks of tears in his eyes.
“Because none of it means anything if you’re not there with me.”
The words lingered in the air between you. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. From behind the bedroom door, the faint sound of Max moving around reminded you that he was still there. Still listening. Still ready to step in if things went wrong. You shut your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before standing up from the couch and letting the blanket fall back into the cushions.
“You really hurt me, Charles.” you say, arms crossing in front of you as if it would shield your already broken heart.
“I know.”
“Apologies and flowers wont fix it.”
“I don’t expect it to.”
“It’s going to take a lot of time.”
“I’m ready to try. However long it takes.”
You studied his face carefully, searching for any hint that this was just another promise that would eventually be forgotten. You took a step forward, the cold wood of the floor pressing against your bare feet as the distance between you slowly began to close.
“How do I know things won’t just go back to the way they were?” you asked, taking another careful step.
“It won’t”
“You can’t just promise things like that, Charles. I need you to actually be there” You moved closer, each step deliberate, bridging the space between you.
“I will”
“It’s not easy to forget something like this” You said, your eyes locked on his.
“I’m not asking for you to forget about it,” he continued. “I’m asking for the chance to start something new. To do better.”
“And if I don’t want to?” You stopped, looking up at the man you had entrusted your heart to—the same one who had crushed it in one night, and yet now was asking for one more chance to pick up the pieces and earn the right to mend what he had broken.
His expression faltered, his heart practically stopping at the thought. In his mind, the fans, the checkered flags, the podiums—all of it fades into something dull and meaningless. He imagines a future spent scanning the crowds, hoping to catch a glimpse of you that will never come. Victories where no one waits for him in the paddock. Trophies that feel far heavier than they ever did before.
“If you don’t…” he repeated quietly. “I’ll spend the rest of my life being grateful you ever let me love you at all.”
Even as you stood right in front of him, within arm’s reach, he stayed still. His hands hovered at his sides, fingers twitching slightly before curling into his palms as his eyes searched your face quietly. After a beat of silence, you closed the distance, pulling him into your arms. He froze for a moment, letting the familiar warmth sink in, before carefully wrapping his arms around you, holding you close as if you were sand slipping through his fingers.
“One shot. If you ever make me feel like that again…” you paused, your voice steady. “I’ll be gone.” Charles nodded without hesitation. Relief washed over him from head to toe, the weight he’d been carrying a lot lighter now. He nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck, relishing the familiar scent of your perfume, the softness of your skin, and the quiet rhythm of your heartbeat, all a subtle reminder that you were here.
“Thank you, that’s all I need” he breathed, letting the world fall away around you both.
A small, shaky smile tugged at your lips. From behind the bedroom door, there was a sudden muffled thump followed by Max’s voice. You both let go, Charles keeping you close by the waist. Right on cue, the bedroom door opened and Max leaned out, arms crossed.
“So,” he said, glancing between the two of you. “Are we hugging, crying, or breaking up?”
You sighed. “We’re… working on it.”
Max narrowed his eyes slightly at Charles. “Working on it…” he repeated.
“No more bullshit,” Charles reassured, sending the Dutchman a smile. Max studied him for another second before nodding once.
“Good.” Max said, walking over to pat him on the back. In a split second, his smile dropped before pointing to the door leading to the hallway. “Now if you’re gonna fuck it out, the door’s wide open. I won’t hesitate to kick you both out right now.”
You and Charles shared a quiet laugh, the tension between you finally loosening. He turned to you and placed a palm to your cheek, taking a second to memorize what he could have lost but now working to deserve.
“Thank you, Mon cœur. Je t'aime de toute mon âme” he whispered as he pulled you close, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head before resting his forehead against yours. You both knew it wouldn’t be fixed overnight. It would have to be built slowly, with consistency and presence. It was a simple but small start to a chance he wasn’t going to waste.
And true to his word, he spent every second proving it. Not through grand gestures or empty promises, but in the quiet, steady ways that mattered most. He showed up—on time, every time. In the chance he was late, it was immediately met with apologies and reassurance of how close he was. Calls that once went unanswered were now the first thing he reached for. Messages never left unread for more than an hour. No more “later’s,” no more waiting. Just him, choosing you, again and again.
The races never stopped. The world never slowed. But somehow, he learned to make space for you within it all. Flights were rearranged. Schedules adjusted. Even in the chaos, you were no longer something he fit in—you were something he made time for. And little by little, the distance that once felt so vast began to close, not in leaps, but in small, deliberate steps.
Trust didn’t return all at once. It came silently—when he walked through the door when he said he would, when his hand found yours without hesitation, when you no longer had to question if he would choose you.
And this time, he did. Every single time.
an: And that concludes my first Formula 1 fic!! I'd love to hear your thoughts, feedback, and more in the comments or tags. If you guys are interested in a max ending, let me know <3 Thank you so much for reading!
