Say Her Name Again - grid (P1/2)
(Click here to read part 2)
synopsis : He compares you to his ex
starring : LN1, OP81, MV3, CL16, CS55
word count : 4.7k
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
