broken sleep schedule

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.

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.

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.