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valkyriexo · 1 year ago

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Invasion of Privacy | Ep. 2 - Favors

ᑉ³SYNOPSIS; In the dazzling world of fame, you have it all—a beautiful home, devoted fans, and Chan, the love of your life. But when cryptic messages start arriving, the line between adoration and obsession blurs. With each note, you feel increasingly unsafe. Now, you're on a dangerous journey to uncover the truth before it's too late.

ᑉ³PAIRING; Chan x Idol! reader. Ft. Stray Kids

ᑉ³GENRE; Smau, FF , Angst, Hurt, Comfort, mystery

ᑉ³GENERAL WARNINGS ; Violence, Sasaeng (Stalker). Mentions of a knife, mentions of blood, Home invasion, cursing, Kissing, Pain, death, Implied female reader, Certain episodes may be Suggestive MDNI

ᑉ³EPISODE WARNINGS; Death, Suggestive MDNI, Cursing

EPISODE WORD COUNT; 4.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE ;Surprise! Episode 2.. have you ruled some people out yet?

If you enjoyed this episode, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Whether it's through comments, reblogs, or sending an ask, your feedback means the world to me.

Master Post | Teaser |

The morning sun casts a warm glow over the bustling streets as you and Chan make your way through the vibrant shopping district. Surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds, you feel a sense of excitement bubbling up within you.

As you stroll arm in arm with Chan, laughter spills from your lips, the carefree atmosphere infectious as you revel in each other's company. The windows of the shops lining the street display an array of enticing goods, each one tempting you with its allure.

Entering a boutique, you're greeted by a wave of delightful scents and the soft melody of music playing in the background. You browse through racks of clothing, giggling and flirting as you playfully model various outfits for each other.

"What about this?" he asks, trying to contain his smile. You can't help but burst into laughter at Chan's suggestion, his playful grin infectious as he holds up the most outrageous garment he could find.

"This could work perfectly for the family dinner."

"Oh, absolutely," you reply with a playful grin, "I'm sure my parents would love to see you show up in that."

"You know what? I think there's a matching one for you," he says with a sly grin, disappearing into the racks of clothing.

Moments later, Chan emerges from the racks of clothing with a triumphant grin, holding up what can only be described as a fashion disaster. The dress in question is a riot of colors, with clashing patterns and textures that seem to defy all sense of style. But what truly sets it apart are the dozens of teddy bears, each one seemingly hand-sewn onto the fabric with reckless abandon.

"Voila!" he exclaims, unable to contain his laughter at the sight of the garment.

"Chan, what on earth is that?" you manage to choke out between giggles.

Chan's eyes widen dramatically, a look of mock horror crossing his face. "What? You don't like it?" he exclaims, his voice filled with playful disbelief. "To think, I put so much effort into finding the perfect ensemble, only to have my impeccable taste called into question."

You play along with his theatrics, pretending to be remorseful. "Oh, forgive me, fashion guru," you say with a grin, reaching out to pat his arm consolingly. "But that thing looks like it was designed by a kindergartener on a sugar rush."

Chan chuckles, unable to contain his amusement any longer. "Okay, maybe not the best choice," he admits, his laughter blending with yours as you share a lighthearted moment amidst the racks of clothing.

"Ooh, what do you think of this one?" you ask, grabbing a dress that caught your eye. As you hold the dress in front of you, its allure is undeniable. The flowy skirt cascades from your hands, swaying gently with each movement, while the corset top adds a touch of allure and sophistication to the ensemble.

The corset is expertly tailored. Its intricate lace-up design adds a hint of drama and elegance, drawing the eye to the sculpted lines of the bodice.

Chan's eyes light up as he gazes at you, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Absolutely stunning," he says, his voice filled with genuine admiration.

"The dress or me?" you say.

Chan's grin widens as he steps closer, his gaze lingering on you with unabashed appreciation. "Well, the dress is lovely, But you? You're dangerous"

You raise an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. "Dangerous, huh?" you echo, feigning innocence as you tilt your head, "And why's that?"

Chan's grin widens. "Well, it's simple," he says, his voice a smooth, seductive murmur, "because you make heads turn so hard they might break their necks." The words hang in the air, thick with implication, as he leans in, his lips hovering tantalizingly close to yours.. "You make it impossible to look away, sweetheart."

Before you can respond, he closes the remaining distance between you, pressing his lips to yours in a soft, lingering kiss. It's a moment of sweet surrender, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine as you melt into the embrace.

When he finally pulls away, a knowing smile plays at the corners of his lips, his eyes alight with affection. "See what I mean?" he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "Absolutely dangerous."

You can't help but laugh at his corny yet utterly charming response, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you at his words. "Smooth talker," you tease, nudging him playfully

"Smooth talker? Nah, I prefer to think of myself as a master of compliments," he quips. "But hey, if the shoe fits..."

As you glance past Chan, your laughter fades as something catches your eye through the boutique window. Your gaze falls on a figure standing farther away, amidst the bustling crowd of people passing by. Despite the distance, their eyes seem to lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

You freeze for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to make out their features through the crowd. You realize that their features are obscured not just by the throng of people, but also by an oversized hood and mask that conceals most of their face, leaving only a vague silhouette in your line of sight.

With a surge of determination, you shove the dress into Chan's hands, your urgency evident in the abruptness of your movements. "Hold this," you instruct him quickly, your voice trembling.

Before Chan can react, you turn on your heel and bolt out of the boutique, your heart pounding in your chest. Pushing through the wave of shoppers, you make your way towards them, only to find that they have vanished into the crowd, leaving behind nothing but an eerie sense of déjà vu.

"Where are you going?" Chan's voice breaks through your thoughts, his tone laced with concern as he noticed your sudden change in direction. Frustration mounts as you search fruitlessly for any sign of the stranger, your senses on high alert. But no matter how hard you looked, they were gone.

"I saw... something," you reply cryptically, your focus solely on tracking down the shadowy figure that had captured your attention.

Chan's hand finds yours, his touch grounding you in the midst of your swirling thoughts. "Saw what?" he questions, his tone gentle yet insistent.

"I-....Nothing....Nevermind," you murmur, shaking your head slightly as you try to dismiss the unsettling encounter. Despite Chan's comforting presence, the memory of the mysterious figure lingers in the back of your mind

"Are you sure?" Chan asks, his concern evident in his voice. "We can stay if you want, but if you're feeling unwell, maybe we should head home."

You consider his suggestion, feeling a sense of relief at the prospect of leaving the bustling street behind. "Yeah, let's go home," you agree, a small smile playing on your lips. "And hey, how about we cook lunch together? It could be fun."

Chan's eyes light up at the suggestion, a warm smile spreading across his face. "I like the sound of that," he says, his voice filled with enthusiasm. "Let's get going then." With his hand in yours, you allow him to lead you away from the busy street.

Once home, you kick off your shoes and settle into the cozy ambiance of your shared space. Chan wastes no time in heading to the kitchen, his enthusiasm for cooking evident as he gathers ingredients and starts preparing lunch.

As you watch him move around the kitchen with practiced ease, you find your thoughts drifting, a slight fog settling over your mind. You know you should be helping him, but the weight of your thoughts is making it difficult to focus. Your mind is a mix of thoughts, uncertainties, and unresolved questions.

"Hey, could you help me out with this?" Chan's voice breaks through your reverie, snapping you back to the present.

You blink, realizing you've been lost in your own thoughts for a few minutes. "Sorry, what was that?" you ask, your voice slightly distant.

Chan gives you a concerned look. "I asked if you could cut this cucumber for me," he repeats, holding out the vegetable and a knife.

You take them from him, trying to shake off the fog that clouds your mind. "Right, sorry," you mumble, feeling guilty for not being more present.

As you slice through the cucumber, your mind still feels preoccupied. Chan's voice brings you back once again.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his tone gentle as he looks at you.

You meet his gaze, offering him a weak smile. "Yeah, just lost in thought," you reply, though you know it's more than that.

In response, Chan sets down the ingredients he's working with and moves closer to you. There's a determined yet gentle look in his eyes as he takes your hand, pulling you away from the cutting board and towards him.

Without a word, he guides you to sit on the edge of the countertop opposite him. His touch is comforting as he stands between your legs, his hands resting on your waist.

"You seem really on edge," he murmurs, his voice filled with genuine concern. "Is there something specific that's bothering you?"

You hesitate. "I don't know," you murmur, not really wanting to reveal much.

"You don't know, or you don't want to talk about it?" Chan's voice is gentle but probing, his concern evident in the furrow of his brow.

"I don't know," you confess. "I'm just feeling.....weird."

Chan's lips brush against your neck in a tender gesture, sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine.

"Feeling weird huh....," he murmurs against your skin, his warm breath sending a wave of tingles through you. You find yourself nodding, unable to form coherent thoughts as his lips continue their mesmerizing dance along your skin. The tension that had gripped your shoulders begins to melt away, replaced by a growing sense of warmth and arousal.

"Does this help?" his kisses growing bolder, more insistent. His hands wander back down to your waist, tugging you closer. You feel the heat from his body even through the layers of clothing, his arousal pressing insistently against your stomach. You nod again, feeling your face grow hot as your body reacts to his touch. "You always help," you reply softly, melting into his comforting touch as his lips trail along the sensitive skin of your neck.

He looks up, meeting your gaze with gratitude and affection. Leaning in, you close the distance between you, capturing his lips in a tender kiss. The soft, sweet press of his lips is everything you've dreamed of and more.

He moans softly as your tongue darts out to tease at the seam of his lips, eagerly granting you access. You can taste the faint traces of peppermint on his tongue as it slips into your mouth, tangling with yours in a heated dance.

You sigh happily, losing yourself in the kiss as the world seems to fall away around you.

He slides a hand up the back of your neck, gripping your hair and using it to pull you closer to him. His mouth moves over yours, hot and hungry.

"Tell me what's on your mind, love," he urges, his voice husky with desire.

"It's...it's nothing," you breathe, gasping slightly as his hand tightens in your hair. " I was just... just thinking.." you stutter as he trails a line of hot kisses along your jaw.

"Mmmhmm" he purrs, his breath warm against your skin.

His hands slide down back down your sides, caressing your hips and then moving further south to cup your ass. He squeezes firmly, making you gasp in surprise, and then grinds his hips against you, causing a jolt of electricity to shoot through your body.

"Chan," you moan, arching your back and pressing closer to him. You want more. Need more.

"Hmmm?" he hums against your lips, kissing you again.

"You're distracting me."

He smiles, his eyes crinkling in the corners. "Maybe that's the point," he murmurs, his hand moving to your front to palm your breast through your shirt. You whimper softly as he continues to explore your body with his mouth and hands, teasing you mercilessly until you can’t take it anymore.

A faint sound interrupts the peace of the moment. It's barely noticeable at first, like a distant melody weaving its way into the room.

Chan lifts his head slightly, his brows furrowing in confusion. "Did you say something?" he murmurs, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“Chan, want you..” You beg.

He smirks against your lips and pulls away slightly, looking down at you with dark eyes. “What do you want?” he asks, voice low and husky.

“Tell me what you want, baby.... I need to know.” You swallow thickly, your face heating up at the way he stares at you with lust in his eyes.

He growls low in his throat and leans back down to kiss you again, more forcefully this time. His tongue slips past your lips and into your mouth, exploring every inch of it. The taste of him fills your senses and makes your head spin.

"You."

His hands slide under the hem of your shirt, caressing your skin. You can't help but arch your back, pressing closer to him.

"Please..." you beg.

He trails kisses down the column of your neck, his lips and teeth leaving a path of fire in their wake. He bites down on the junction where your neck meets your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and you gasp in pleasure.

His fingers deftly unbutton your shirt and push it aside, revealing the black lace bra underneath.

The faint sound interrupts the space once more, still barely noticeable.

Chan lifts his head again slightly, his brows furrowing in confusion. "Did you hear that?" he murmurs, his voice tinged with curiosity.

You shake your head, the sensation of his touch still lingering on your skin, your attention fully focused on him.

He frowns and turns his attention back to your exposed chest, placing kisses in the valley in your chest. He lets out a contented sigh and moves lower, trailing kisses along the curve of your stomach.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he murmurs against your skin. " but i know something that taste so much sweeter."

Your breath catches in your throat as his lips brush against your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin there.

He pulls back and looks up at you, his dark eyes burning with desire.

"You want me, baby?"he asks, his voice rough with need. You nod wordlessly, unable to speak. He smirks and places another soft kiss against your skin, making your whole body shudder. "Say it."

"Y-yes."

"Say my name," he commands, his fingers tracing patterns on your inner thighs.

"Chan."

"Again."

"Chan."

"Louder."

"Chan!"

"Mmmm."

His tongue darts out to lick a stripe along the seam of your panties, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body.

You can feel his hot breath on your core, teasing you through the thin material. You moan, arching up against him, and his hands move lower, slipping into your panties. His fingers brush over your folds, and he lets out a low growl as he feels how wet you are.

"So wet for me already, babygirl?" he murmurs, his lips pressed against your ear.

"Yes," you breathe, squirming under his touch. "I need you, Channie."

The sound persists, growing slightly louder this time, and you both become aware of a subtle vibration beneath you. Gradually, realization dawns as you exchange a puzzled glance.

Chan runs his other hand through his hair, his brow furrowed in frustration. "Okay," he muttered, his voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and determination. "I know I'm not going crazy."

With a sudden jolt of recognition, you shift and reach into your pocket and retrieve your phone.

You glance at the screen, irritation flaring up as the same unfamiliar number flashes over and over again. Chan shoots you a pointed look, his annoyance palpable.

"Who is it?" he mutters, his eyes narrowing.

"It's some number ," you reply, your frustration mirroring his. "They keep calling me, and I don't know who it is."

With a sigh, you decline the call and return the phone to your pocket.

"Well, whoever it is, they can wait," he growls, leaning in to continue his previous actions.

The phone vibrates once again, the display illuminating.

You both let out an exasperated groan as the ringing persists.

"This is ridiculous," he huffs, his lips curled into a frown. "Why won't they just leave a message or something?"

The phone continues to ring, its shrill sound cutting through the silence of the room. You sit up, reluctantly untangling yourself from his embrace, and reach for your phone again. "Fine, I'll answer it," you grumble, pressing the answer button with more force than necessary.

"Must be important if they're calling this many times," he remarks under his breath. You offered a strained smile in response before finally speaking into the phone, trying to keep your frustration in check as you greeted the unknown caller.

"Hello?" you say, trying to ignore Chan's comment.

"Hello, Y/N."

"Yes? Who is this? How do you know my name?" Your voice trembled with a mixture of confusion and apprehension, the unexpected familiarity sending shivers down your spine.

"I'm sorry to inform you, but there's been a fire at Y/F/N's house," the voice continued, its words carrying a weight that seemed to crush the very air around you. "They... they didn't make it out in time. I'm so sorry."

The world seemed to come to a screeching halt as the full impact of those words registered in your mind. Your heart plummeted to the pit of your stomach, a heavy weight settling over you like a suffocating blanket.

Shock immobilizes you, rendering you momentarily speechless as your mind struggles to process the news. Disbelief clouds your thoughts, and for a fleeting moment, you entertain the hope that this must be some cruel prank or a terrible misunderstanding. But the solemnity in the caller's voice leaves no room for doubt, and the reality of the situation hits you with relentless force.

"What?" The word escapes your lips in a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. It feels as though the ground beneath you has shifted.

"Your friend has passed away," the voice repeats, its tone filled with sympathy.

Your breaths come in shallow gasps as you struggle to comprehend the news, each inhalation feeling like a struggle against an invisible weight pressing down upon your chest. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment, but you fight to hold them back, afraid of what might happen if you allow yourself to surrender to the overwhelming sense of grief. Your hands tremble as you clutch the phone tightly, the cold metal offering little solace in the face of such devastating news.

Chan's irritation dissipates instantly as he sees the color drain from your face. "What's wrong?" he asks, his voice filled with worry.

You struggle to find the words, your mind reeling from the devastating news. "It's... it's ," you manage to choke out, tears streaming down your cheeks. "She didn't make it... there was a fire..."

As you relay the news, Chan's expression shifts from concern to horror as your words sink in. His features contort with disbelief, mirroring the shock and anguish etched across your own face. For a moment, neither of you can find the words to articulate the overwhelming grief that threatens to consume you both.

All around you, the morning light seems to dim, casting a pall of darkness over the room as you come to terms with the harsh reality of mortality. The laughter and playful banter of moments ago fade into the background, replaced by the deafening silence of grief.

"I never got to say goodbye," you confess. Chan's arms wrap around you in a comforting embrace, holding you close, as if trying to shield you from the pain that threatens to overwhelm you. You bury your face in his chest, his heartbeat echoing in your ears.

The phone slips from your grasp, forgotten amidst the grief. Time loses all meaning as you surrender to the overwhelming tide of emotions, the world around you fading into insignificance as you grapple with the void left behind by your friend's passing.

In an attempt to find some semblance of peace amidst the chaos, you seek refuge in the familiar routine of your self-care, the warm shower offering a brief respite from the relentless pain. But even as the water cascades over you, washing away the physical traces of sorrow, the weight of grief remains heavy upon your shoulders, a reminder of the gaping hole in your heart.

When you emerge, you are greeted by the sight of Minho, Seungmin, Felix, and Han, chatting quietly with Chan as they enjoy the lunch he had prepared.

Your heart sinks at the sight of them, a mix of surprise and apprehension washing over you. You had completely forgotten that they were supposed to come over today, and the thought of facing them in your current state fills you with dread.

Before you can retreat back into the safety of your room, Felix spots you, his gaze locking onto yours with a mix of concern and understanding. There's no escaping now. You feel a lump form in your throat as you reluctantly step into the room, their eyes following your every move.

Chan's expression softens as he catches sight of you, concern etched into his features. "Hey, there you are," he says gently, his voice a welcome anchor in the storm of emotions raging within you.

You offer a weak smile in response, attempting to mask your emotions. The weight of their collective gaze feels suffocating, and you find it difficult to meet their eyes.

Minho offers a sympathetic smile as you approach, his eyes reflecting the shared sorrow. "I'm so sorry for your loss," he says softly, his voice filled with genuine compassion.

Your throat tightens with emotion at his words, grateful for his heartfelt condolences. "Thank you," you manage to croak, each syllable heavy with the weight of your grief. You step closer to them, the fragrant scent of the flowers filling the air around you. "This means a lot."

Seungmin nods in agreement. "We're here for you," he assures you earnestly, his voice filled with sincerity and support.

You offer Seungmin a grateful nod, feeling a lump form in your throat at the sincerity in his voice. "Thank you," you whisper, your voice barely above a whisper, choked with emotion.

With a final round of supportive embraces and reassuring words, Minho, Seungmin, Felix, and Han bid their farewells, their departure leaving an emptiness in the room. As the door closes behind them, the silence settles in around you, heavy with the weight of your grief.

Your eyes catch sight of a single black rose with a white ribbon tied around it, placed delicately on the counter, near the gift basket. The ribbon, elegantly tied around the stem in a neat bow, adds an air of mourning to the scene, evoking memories of funeral bouquets and memorial services. It's presence feels out of place in the bright warmth of your home, casting a shadow of unease over the otherwise cheerful atmosphere.

Beside the rose, the torn page from a diary lies in disarray, its edges jagged and uneven, hinting at a hurried and frantic tearing. As you approach, the faint scent of ink lingers in the air, mingling with the delicate fragrance of the rose.

"What... what is this?" you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you reach out to examine the mysterious objects. Your fingers tremble slightly as you pick up the torn page, the words written upon it sending a chill down your spine.

You quietly read the note out aloud, the words sinking in with a weight that threatens to crush your spirit.

It's the same signature as the letter you received the night before, the one that filled you with a sense of foreboding.

This wasn't just a casual letter. It was intentional. Someone out there is targeting you, and you can't help but feel a creeping sense of unease at the thought of what might happen next.

Your mind races with questions, each one more terrifying than the last. Was "Her" referring to your friend? Did someone harm her? The possibility sends a wave of panic coursing through you, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggle to make sense of the cryptic message.

Then the realization sinks in:

How did it get in the house?

You frantically look around for Adam, your bodyguard, realizing he should have been by your side. Panic sets in as you rush to the door, throwing it open to find him outside. Confusion and fear intertwine as you demand an explanation.

"Adam, what are you doing out here?" you ask, your voice trembling with urgency. "You were supposed to be inside with me. Why are you here?"

Adam's expression is grave as he meets your gaze, a shadow of concern flickering across his features. "I'm sorry, Y/N," he says, his tone tinged with regret. "I sensed something off and decided to check the perimeter. Is everything okay?"

You furrow your brow, a mixture of frustration and concern evident in your voice as you question him. "How did this get inside?" you say waving the note and flower in your hand.

Adam's gaze follows the items, his expression darkening as he takes them from you, examining them closely. He hesitates for a moment, looking puzzled before responding, "I'm not sure," he admits, his voice tight with worry. "I didn't see anything, ma'am."

Your irritation grows. "Isn't it your job to do just that?" you say sharply, the edge in your voice reflecting your annoyance at the situation.

Adam, visibly flustered, stammers out . "I apologize, ma'am," He said bowing. "I'll check with the other guards on duty as well as Stacy, who was here this morning"

"Who's Stacy?" you inquire, your curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar name.

As if on cue, Aera enters through the front entrance, her presence graceful as she bows respectfully. "That would be me, ma'am," she says, introducing herself with a polite smile. "It's my English name. Most people call me Stacy. Though I must admit, I prefer Aera."

You nod in acknowledgment, still processing the unexpected revelation.

You address your bodyguard with a firm tone, your frustration evident. "Under no circumstances are you to allow anything or anyone into my home without my explicit permission. Is that clear?"

He nods in understanding, chastened by your stern reprimand. "Yes, ma'am," he responds.

You turn your gaze towards Aera, a firm expression etched upon your features. "And why, may I ask, are you here?" you inquire, your tone tinged with a hint of sternness.

Aera's eyes widen slightly, and she bows apologetically. "I... I'm sorry for the intrusion," she stammers, her voice soft with regret. "I wanted to offer my condolences, but I realize now that I've interrupted."

Aera retrieves a bouquet of flowers from behind her back, her movements hesitant as she extends it towards you with a slight bow,her eyes downcast with humility.

You nod, acknowledging her apology, taking the bouquet, delicately tied together with a pristine white ribbon, from her hands. "Thank you, Aera," you say, your voice softening slightly. "But next time, please check with me before coming over."

Aera bows again, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "Of course, I'm sorry," she says, her tone contrite. "I'll make sure to do that in the future."

As she turns to leave, Chan steps forward, concern etching his features as he approaches you, his touch gentle as he places a comforting hand on your back. Aera's gaze lingers on him for a moment, a flicker of curiosity dancing in her eyes before she quickly averts her gaze and bows once more.

"Thank you. You may go home now," you say, dismissing her with a nod. Aera bows again, her expression a mix of regret and understanding, before quietly leaving.

Turning to Adam, you gesture for him to follow suit. "You too," you say, your voice firm but not unkind. Adam bows respectfully before leaving, leaving you alone with Chan and the weight of the day's events settling upon your shoulders.

Chan notices the tension in your posture, his concern evident as he approaches you with a gentle touch.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice filled with genuine concern.

You offer him a reassuring smile, though it feels strained. "Yeah, I'm fine," you reply, though the words ring hollow even to your own ears.

Chan's gaze softens as he takes in your troubled expression. "You don't have to pretend, you know," he says softly, his hand reaching out to gently brush away a stray lock of hair from your face. "I'm here for you, whatever you need."

Chan notices your hesitation and gently prompts, "You've been on edge all day. Do you want to talk? I want to help."

As you lean into Chan's comforting embrace, the tension in your shoulders begins to ease, but the sense of unease still lingers at the edge of your consciousness. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself to voice your concerns.

"I... I feel like someone's watching me," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Chan's brow furrows with concern. "Watching you? Why didn't you tell me before?" he asks gently, his concern evident in his tone.

You hesitate, searching for an explanation. "I'm not actually sure," you admit, feeling a pang of guilt for keeping it from him.

"Well, do you think it's your mind playing tricks on you?" Chan suggests, trying to offer a rational explanation. "Now that you've won Artist of the Year, you probably just feel like more attention is on you."

"Yeah, you're right," you concede, the weight of his words resonating with you. Perhaps it was just your imagination running wild in the aftermath of your recent success.

"Besides," he adds, "you have a bodyguard. He's good at his job. You're safe with him around."

You nod, appreciating his attempt to ease your worries. "Yeah, you're right," you agree, feeling a sense of relief wash over you at his words.

"And you also have me," he adds

Chan's concern is evident in the softness of his gaze as he gently suggests, "How about a massage?"

His caring tone and thoughtful suggestion warm your heart, and you can't help but smile at his consideration. "That sounds wonderful," you reply. "But I think I just want to rest," you admit, exhaustion tugging at your limbs as the events of the day catch up with you.

Chan's lips curve into a reassuring smile as he squeezes your hand gently. "Okay." He says.

With a heavy heart, you decide against sharing the note with Chan. You don't want to burden anyone of your fears, and the thought of putting him in harm's way fills you with dread.

What if whoever sent this comes after him next?

For now, you keep the note to yourself, tucked away where no one else can find it. It's a burden you'll bear alone, at least until you can figure out who's behind this and why they're doing it.

But no matter how hard you try, the sense of foreboding lingers, a constant reminder that danger may be closer than you think.

ઇଓ Ep.3 - Knock, Knock

ઇଓTaglist in the comments! If you want to be removed from the taglist send me a dm!

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loversofthegrave · 2 years ago

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teenage sammy grappling with his intolerable attachment to his big brother one shot<3

1998, South Carolina

Summer hits full on like a hammer, shrivelling the last spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. John has them situated this time in South Carolina in the middle of a buttfuck nowhere trailer park. Sam huffs out a whoosh wafting a strand of his shaggy, greasy hair and scuffs his knock-off beat up converse into the dry dirt, the path leading up into their new home for the next week or two.

John recites his customary speech, Dean nods, ‘Yes sir’ as Dean always does. He’s John more often than dad these days. John gave Sam a name when he was born then left, like a background actor in a movie, cut from the film roll. The rumble of the impala and he’s gone.

Spider plants hang from pots on the wide trailer porch. Chipped ceramic ornaments of butterflies and lizards were placed outside. Inside, the shabby floral wallpaper and checkered armchair. The tattered cotton curtains blowing gently, and the cross hung on the wall, wonky. It was like a polaroid from the 70s, all orange hues and clashing patterns.

“What a dump,” he said gritting his teeth.

“It’s not so bad,” Dean shrugs “Kinda cozy,”

Dean’s eyes like hawks observing their new home, finding quick exits, salting the windows and doors. Safety first, look out for Sammy, like the good toy solider that he is.

Sam knows Dean can’t help it, the urgency, the attentiveness, to keep safe, guard his little brother. Sam would be lying if he said he wouldn’t want it any other way, he hopes it’s a two-way street.

Truth is, being in each other's pocket is all they’ve ever known. Dean is Sam’s brother as much as he is his only friend, his father, his mother, all rolled into one. Dean's hands being a caress and a fumbling worry of a mother’s. Dean who changed Sam’s diapers, who soothed teething pains with nimble fingers, tender rocking's and forgiving scoldings. It was all him, not a woman with satin blonde hair and porcelain skin nor the man with the grief-stricken furrowed brows and whiskey sighs. No, it was the kid with the goofy grin and the shoulders weighed down heavy with more liability than a kid should ever know, now turned leather jackets and calloused hands, felon fingers, summers caress dotted upon the bridge of a nose. Summer has always been extra generous to him, he thought, kind of face that weighs heavy on a teenage boys heart.

Looking at Dean is like hallucinating like looking through the lenses of kaleidoscope, soft orange and pink hues from the sun dipping into the horizon of the late summer dusk framing his head like an angel but an angel in the flames. An angel that could be Gabriel but an angel that could be Lucifer too, like he would readily delve into the deep, dark hell as he would fly up to the lofty, illuminated places. And Dean would for Sam.

Dean was Sam’s first everything, and it’s no surprise Sam would want that forevermore.

Sam can’t help it, this craving, it’s insatiable, like an itch irritating him under new stretched teenage skin. If he itches and itches, scratches with blunt anxious bitten nails until he draws blood. But the blood he revels in, the curving, cutting and slaughtering himself to fit into the groove of Dean’s heart, he would do anything, and he knows Dean would do the same but not in the ways Sam yearns for. Sam knows, he knows it’s twisted, he knew as soon as he was enrolled in school and how not everyone else feels that way about brothers. But he doesn’t care, not when Dean is the only grace he was given in his world of destruction and ruin, his pure drop in an ocean of chaos. Damn it if the lord doesn’t forgive him, heaven and hell are just words to a hopeless boy like Sam. When his brother looks at him, he decides to wage holy war.

But Dean doesn’t know, not really, he knows Sam loves him but no more, no less, too frightful Sam would scare him fiercely, that he would leave Sam here, loose his grace, and what is Sam without his grace? Just an empty vessel, an angel damned from heaven, forever. Think he’s sick, corrupt, disgusting. Only Sam can be the one to know this about himself, swallow the key if he must. He tries his best to shelter away these parts from Dean, distancing ever so slightly, it just makes the craving worst, he thinks, withdrawal.

So, he lives with Dean, in his shadow. Watches him, envies him, wants to be him, wants to be with him, under him. Watches him waltzing around the kitchen with sultry hips after this week's easy fuck. Probably some white trash bimbo Sam thinks harshly, doesn’t know what it truly means to have him, a boy, a man, like Dean. He goes for anything with legs and a mouth in a 1-mile radius, puts it out to anything, anyone but Sam.

“You stink Dean,” Sam mumbles under his breath

“That’s the smell of champions Sammy” Dean grins, easy and careless, throwing a wink over his shoulder. Sam shoots daggers into his back.

This is their dance, Dad goes on a hunt for a couple of weeks, Dean and Sam are holed up in a shack and they pretend that this is their normal, habit, but it’s not, they we’re and forever born in motion. Dean enrols Sam into the local (another) high school, Dean gets a short-term job working with his hands to hold them over until Dad gets back, this time at the garage. They make small talk with strangers when necessarily and act according to their roles, relocates the suspicious eyes on Sam’s stitched up hand me down t-shirts and Deans violet blooming bruises from training and hunts, keeps social services off their back. But they fit in OK around this truckers town so Sam holds it rigid, this vexation, lewdness, this jealousy brimming. Puberty is fucked, Sam likes to blame it on that.

It’s Friday, the shutters of the trailer are open and wide. Sam’s in makeshift shorts that were once jeans that he cut at the knees one town ago. The radio is static, and The Mama’s & The Papa’s is being carried through the thick-cut air, ‘you've got everything I need, and nobody can please like you, you baby and who believes that my wildest dreams and my craziest schemes will come true?’

Sam’s growth spurt mixed with food stamp fed spindly legs are propped up on the coffee table barefoot, toes wiggling, as he shovels spoonfuls of store brand cornflake knock offs in his mouth. Dean comes in wafting of oil and summer sweat after being outside tinkering with the ford pick-up truck Dad sorted out with a local hunter before he briskly left. He slaps the bottom of Sam’s foot with his greasy rag. Sam grunts.

"Up and at 'em or you're gonna be late" Dean lectures, parenting.

Sam rucks on an old 1975 Black Sabbath tour shirt that used to be Dean's that used to be Dads, now faded grey and bobbling. Pokes his feet into socks with his right toe sticking out of the hole, laces up his shoes and climbs into the passenger seat of the pick-up. Dean drops Sam off at the Pine Springs High and told him he'd pick him up, told him to ‘give ‘em hell’.

Pine Springs High was full of scraggy kids, Beavis and Butt-head boys, girls busty and leggy. Sam befriends one friend, a skinny freckled boy with thick rimmed glasses. His name is Davey. They were sat next to each other in science, dissecting a frog. Sam figures cutting open this frog is harder than the ghouls they slaughter. What did this frog ever do to anyone? Davey was informing Sam on the anatomy, pointed out the chambers of the heart, the ventricle. He seemed interested in trying to impress Sam with how smart he was. "You know a lot," stated Sam.

He smiled. He was a boy who wanted to be seen. Sam suspects with certainty he’s not in these careless halls of teenagers reeking of hormones and wariness of social status.

High school is not as gentle with kids like Sam and Davey. But Sam can tackle it, give as good as he gets. That’s what he’s been trained to do, what their dad trained him to do, those sparring sessions with Dean every other day doesn’t go to waste, as much as Sam likes to grumble and whine. The decomposition ghost of a girl in a tatty white dress with fine needlepoint lace trimmings from the 1820’s has more oomph in her thump than any of these teenagers.

Even in a Gas-mart town like this one full of greasy kids with dirty fingernails Sam still is stared at by clusters of kids. Maybe it’s the adequate collection of bruising on his body from said sparring and Victorian decomposition, or maybe it’s the fact he’s an outsider (he’s always the outsider) but Sam doesn’t mind. Cleanliness and godliness are deceptive, he’d rather wear his wounds, his ugliness. No fooling, he was torn and stitched.

Dean picks Sam up, sees the mop of brown hair and downcast face amongst the sea of chattering high-spirited kids. It reminds Dean of when he encouraged him to go to a classmate's birthday party in kindergarten, timid little Sammy protested but Dean encouraged his little brother to go, nervy on all he was missing out growing up. When Dean went to pick him up at McDonald's he spotted him, dejected, eyes glazed over. Other children around him screaming and sliding into pits filled with coloured balls. It splintered Dean to his core.

When Sam is in arm reach Dean tousles Sam's hair, and he gets a whack of the hand and a gruff in response.

“How’d it go Sammy?” Dean asks, hefting himself up into the driver's seat.

“Fine.” Sam replies, quick, sharp. “And it’s Sam,” he stresses.

Dean doesn’t know what it is these days but there’s a slight ache, a gnawing. Sam used to look at Dean like he hung the stars just for him. That Dean was God’s own reflection but now there’s a distance, an interspace and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. At first, he thought maybe it’s teenage hormones or pheromones or whatever the fuck, but Dean never remembers being that sulky as a teenager. Maybe he never got the chance. When he tries to touch Sam, he flinches, scurries away like he just spooked a rodent. Used to revel in it, they practically grew up in each other's arms. Was still sharing a bed in the motels until two years ago.

Dean would never admit it out loud to him, but he misses Sam. Misses that constant comfort of touch and affection.

They stop off at a local diner on their way back to the trailer park, Sam questions if they have enough money for the month to eat out, Dean tells him not to worry. All wooden panels, red and white checkered table clothes, a sign that reads, ‘lumber jack pancake special for $5.95!’ Dean eyes it up, breakfast at dinnertime, their lives never have rhythm or reason anyways. They slide into a booth of worn leather, Sam on one side, Dean on the other.

Sam orders a panini with ham and cheese and fries, Dean the lumber jack pancakes. When they arrive by a shy petite waitress with inky dark eyes and blushing blotted cheeks, Dean swipes a fry off Sam’s plate just to receive another swat. Any touch is better than no touch, bad attention better than none.

Sam doesn’t miss the way the waitresses' eyes linger on Dean’s profile. If he shoots a frosty glare her way Dean doesn’t have to know.

The sun with no forgiveness, a parched sky, the hillsides with purple wilting drifts of milkweed, dotting the cracks of the gas-station and garage. It was Saturday, Sam was at the garage while Dean worked. Tucked in a corner sheltered from the suns ruthless beat with his library copy of Catcher In The Rye he couldn’t return when John dragged them out of the motel inn at dawn a town back. Sam said he felt guilty, Dean told him to stop being such a law-abiding citizen.

He gazed at Dean, could smell his sweat, sharp and strong, a man, Sam’s brain applied helpfully. He was wearing overalls, wiping workman sweat from his forehead. Sam wanted to lick him, taste the salt and summer kissed skin. He knows he’s disgusting. At this rate Sam thinks he should stab his eyes out, so he can’t look. Burn his skin off, so he can’t touch.

The next Sunday, Sam sleeps in late. He finds Dean slouched on the floral couch, stretched out like a housecat watching TV. It’s always a rarity to see him in a relaxed stance, undisturbed, a recess to the constant chaos of their lives. It settles something steady and peaceful within Sam with just a hint of sadness. He mumbles a drowsy good morning and trudges to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

He pisses in the toilet, sluggish, holds himself up steady with a hand against the tiles. The splash of his piss hitting the water too loud in the quiet murmur of their trailer.

Washing his hands, he moseys around in the medicine cabinet above the sink. Inside, aimless trinkets left behind by previous owners. Tweezers with a single gemstone on them, antibiotic ointment, outdated eyedrops.

Sam finds a small capsule behind an empty bottle of aspirin. He reaches for it, revealing a lipstick, the cheap kind you pick-up at Walmart for $5.

He holds it in his hand, stares. Turns it in his palm, opens the lid with a subtle click and rotates the base.

The lipstick itself is a cherry red, obscene kind of red. The type he sees on hookers lingering around the corners at motels when he slips out at dusk to buy Dr Peppers from the vending machine with the quarters Dean made him pocket.

The garish fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, whirring like insects as he watches them showcasing their chests and unveiled legs. They always look cold, Sam thinks.

Sam looks up and scans his face in the mirror, holds the lipstick close to his nose, sniffs it. It smells like wax and chemicals, half suspected it to smell like strawberries and an angel's kiss or something, screws his nose up.

Without much reflection he smears the cherry red lipstick onto his lips, it's messy and askew not as neat as he sees on the girls in Dean's skin mags. He sets down the lipstick onto the sink and looks at himself, really looks.

The glaring red on such a boyish face like Sam's feels lewd and indecent. He feels slightly silly, embarrassed, his cheeks stain a weak scarlet. He wonders what others would think of him like this, Dean, his dad.

God, dad would probably be appalled, call him a sissy, punish him by making him do triple the training. Make him run for miles under the blazing sun.

But Dean, what would Dean think of his little brother like this? If Sam just waltzed right out of the bathroom now and stood dead in the line of Dean's vision. Would he stammer? Get all flustered and struck-dumb? Would he look at Sam and think of him as those girls he promenades to the impala, the motel room when he thinks Sam's asleep and not hanging onto every grunt and sigh coming from Dean's throat. Stores them in the hollow of his heart, imprinted on it just as sacred as the Holy Bible is to a priest.

Would he want to tenderly caress the shape of his mouth, smear the lipstick, make Sam looked wrecked? He inspects the long plains of his body, like scorched landscape, bronzed from June’s boldness.

Sam’s been trying to get used to it, his recasting body. Finally losing his baby fat, almost catching up to Dean in height much to Dean’s dismay. Just he doesn’t carry the newly stretched limbs well, feels like a puppet and someone else is yanking the strings. He hasn’t thought about it much, how others perceive him, how Dean perceives him.

Sure, Sam’s had his first kiss and fumbled under a girl's shirt in Indiana last year, let him touch her boobs. She wore lots of eyeliner, wore black bulky boots and liked Alice In Chains. Sam creamed his pants as soon as he got a soft plump handful, she didn’t seem to mind so he tried not to feel too embarrassed. He couldn’t wait to tell Dean (lied to a reasonable measure) for him to be proud of him. Dean let Sam have his first beer after he told him, “Since you’re a man now,” Dean announced, “Don’t tell Dad,” He winked. Sam never tells John their secrets.

But other than that, he’s a bit clueless, still bashful when girls look his way. Isn’t fabricated like Dean, heavied bottom lip into effortless grin that make’s girls drop and fractures their porcelain hearts, little unconsciously brutal but never intentional to be so. Sam would let Dean smash him into smithereens, shards of broken ceramic all over the tiles, if he’d wanted.

He thinks about the woman who supposedly left the lipstick here, he decides it’s an older woman, barefoot in a simple dress in the tail end of summer, her feet and the palms of her hands showed pale pink against her sunburnt skin, looked ornamental. He decided she had many lovers, wore it for them, wonders if Dean would be one. Wonders what she would think finding out a gawky teenage boy was trying on her bygone lipstick.

Wonders what it would be like to wear this for Dean, his lover.

Dean compulsive, gluttonous with the want of Sam, gushing his hands over the sides of his body, the pull of his rutting teenage hips. The neediness he sometimes gets in that platonic brotherly way bordering on hysteria whenever Sam’s hurt. All his senses submerged entirely by Dean Dean Dean, his touch, his smell, his hot breath.

Sam shoves a frantic hand down his pyjama pants and briefs, wrenches his dick with crazed tugs. Comes that exact same time there’s rough banging on the door, Dean shouting, “Come on Sam, you’ve been in there forever!” rattling the door with his presence.

Sam leaps, grimacing at the mess he made in his pants, swiping a towel and cleaning himself up in rapid motions. Rubs off the lipstick with the back of his hand, scouring his mouth.

“You jerking off in their little brother?” Dean calls out, muffled slightly through the thick wood of the bathroom door, amusement laced in his tone.

When Sam is sure he’s cleansed himself of any misdemeanours and removed all crucial evidence he swings the door open and shoulders past Dean muttering, “No Dean, I wasn’t jerking off.” How much of that Dean believes is out of his control. He pockets the lipstick.

#I wrote a wincest thing #teenchesters #should i write more #i did write a whole story to this like 13k words but I didnt like it much in the end but #here is a snippet #sammy pov figuring his feelings for his brother out #wincest #wincest one shot #weecest #weecest one shot #wincest fanfic #supernatural #spn #sam/dean #sam winchester #dean winchester #pre series sam/dean

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pinkandgoldensoul · 2 years ago

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CL#16 || Secret Motives || Oneshot

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If this is your first time here on this blog, please check the Disclaimers here.

pairing: charles leclerc x female f1 driver!reader plot: nothing in your life came easy, and so did f1: facing hardship in your first year at Alfa Romeo, you are met with a familiar face, Charles'. Supporting each other and spending time together will inevitably bind two souls that seemed meant to be or, as someone could put it, that were predestined. genre: friends to lovers, angst, fluff and comfort !tw!: mention of death (not reader's), mentions of grief, dieting and struggles with self-image, car crash, swearing, insecurities If any of the things above might trigger you, please DO NOT INTERACT. Take care of your mental health and stay away from triggers, please ♥ other notes: set in an alternative-not-really-defined 2023 season word count: 19.1k (feel free to use dividers to split the reading into chunks!)

Hope you enjoy it ♥ If you do, please let me know! Thanks in advance to whoever will like, reblog and comment!

Black. Blank. Silence. Calm. After speed, tension and rush, after the chaos and the endless chasing of time, after the high-pitched sound of the engine pierced in your brain as a usual background noise, mixed to the incessant heartbeats dictating sharp breaths, at last, stillness came. A peaceful void.

The voices of the press, of other people's expectations, of your team’s, of yours, they dissipated under the heat of the Spanish sun and they flew away with the wind's gusts. They were nothing but an agglomeration of words, sounds without shape, content without form, thus lacking meaning. You weren't underwater, but it felt like it: floating, soft, every sensation coming to you muffled, delayed, lightened.

You blinked. Imperceptibly moving your fingers, you listened to the rhythm of your heartbeats slowing down, as adrenaline gradually decreased. Your heart was pulsing harder, compelled to pump more blood in a reduced pace. «...okay? Y/n, are you okay? Can you hear me?» You heard your engineer's voice without listening. He didn't sound that worried, to be honest. You didn't care that much either. «Y/n, radio check.» A warm flush radiated through your cheeks, a tickling feeling formed in your throat, and you let out a choked cry: you were suffocating. «Can you hear me?» You let out a cough, unable to breathe. Was it… it? Was that how it felt like to die? At the thought, your mind emptied once again, enjoying the kaleidoscope of light dots dancing before your eyes in a disorganized pattern.

A sudden yelp of the crowd partly awoke you. You'd had a crash. Your car had smashed against the wall at turn 14, probably at around 120 kph; your hands had immediately left the steering wheel before the impact and were now lying lifeless onto your lap, unable to move and possibly switch the radio on, in case you could talk. But you couldn't. Not a single word would come out of your lips, parted under the balaclava, either to speak or try to breathe.

Right as you gave up to the choking clench, expecting it to hurt, to release the pressure building up in your throat and drift into unconsciousness, you noticed a shadow protecting you from the intense heat of the sun. Something tugged your seatbelt and, as soon as it loosened, your whole chest took the most out of that freedom, spasming in search of air, while panting and coughing. Something turned into a pair of hands grabbing your shoulders and carefully squeezing them, probably to get a reaction out of you. Gasping for air, you finally raised your head and your sight welcomed a bright, deep red suit, occupying your entire vision; some muffled words came from the Ferrari driver and got mixed with your engineer's voice, who kept trying to assess your state. Then, in a moment of radio silence, you captured the message of the man screaming under his helmet. Are you okay? For a second, you felt the impulse sent by your brain which asked your muscles to smile. Dying inside your cockpit after a crash, staring at his sparkling eyes could've been... sweet. Your seat in Alfa Romeo would've never been questioned again; your career in F1 would've come to a stop not due to the media's opinion or the team’s decision; you would've been remembered, politics and discussions aside, female or not. Everything you had been wanting to fix in your life, every bad habit, regret, nostalgia and sadness would disappear. But after giving in to the idea for hundredths of seconds, you immediately swept the thought away: how irrational and terribly stupid to think death could solve anything. And the mere possibility it could be used to enhance the narration of "women cannot drive in F1 and y/n's death is a clear example of it" killed you more than G force ever could. The face of your mother covered in tears while watching the race, sitting on the couch and sniffling with a tissue in hand started haunting you without a break. And watching him, bent over, trying to rescue you, eyes wide in alarm, couldn't help but make you feel miserable and ridiculous for even considering such a scenario.

With a shaking hand, you gestured your difficulties in breathing, bringing it near the throat. FUCK! A yell of frustration from him, another pant of struggle from you. Charles needed to get you out of the car, but didn’t know whether you had trouble walking, if your legs were fine after the shunt towards the barrier, if you would pass out while he was panicking trying to decide what to do. He carefully placed his hands under your armpits, beginning to lift you up; he did it with ease as you matched the movement and his effort with your hands and feet. «Oh dear! We’re so glad to see y/n out of the car!» As you kept breathing erratic and frenzy, Charles frenetically reached under your chin to help you remove the helmet and got rid of your balaclava, so that you could have an easier access to fresh air. «And we can see that Leclerc is taking off y/n’s helmet with quite a bit of rush! Hopefully everything’s okay…»

You inhaled and exhaled quite harshly, brows knitted in the effort and the struggle of the task; Charles’ hands prevented your chest from bending forward and crouching down, keeping you up and steady despite your body’s will to cave in. «Right now, Charles Leclerc is… calling for some help from the marshals, I think.» «SHE NEEDS HELP, come on!» The visor of his helmet was lifted, so that you could see his eyes searching for reassurances, which you were unable to provide. His concern pained you and only made you hyperventilate more, trying to get to talk. «Does your back hurt? Is it your ribs? Your head?» he kept asking with insistence and worry. The lost and shattered look inside your eyes gave a simple answer: You had no idea.

«Yeah, he’s gesturing towards them, he wants them to come closer… And look, he’s talking to her, probably making sure she’s alright.»

«Try breathing slower and deeply, like this. Does it still hurt?» Your fingers gripped tight his arms, reciprocating the hold Charles had on yours.

«It was a huge shunt, and it’s not hard to believe she’ll need to undergo some checking at the medical center.» «Not hard to believe indeed, considering the great crash we witnessed at lap 18 of the Spanish Grand Prix…»

You didn’t notice the medical car had arrived until you saw two doctors coming out and jogging on the gravel towards you and Charles. One of them, against your will, moved you away from Charles’ reassuring grab and began talking to you; while his words blurred in the heat and merged with the loud cheers of the crowd, your eyes were fixed upon the Ferrari driver in front of you, who was busy discussing with the other doctor.

You vainly tried to focus on his suit, on the mark the balaclava had gently pressed onto his skin, on his lips moving to articulate sounds and sentences you failed to grasp: his sight cradled you, calmed you down and helped you slowly regaining control over your breath, as you noticed your body being guided towards the ambulance which had just arrived, reluctantly letting go of Charles’ presence. # «Miss, could you please tell me your name?» You crossed your arms, visibly annoyed. «I’m y/n, I’m okay and I know I’ve had a crash.» you replied, annoyed.

The doctor flipped a page of the results from the exams they had run and then sighed, almost amused at your stubbornness. «Miss, from the data the race control has sent us, you’ve had a 17G impact, and the driver who aided you reported you had problems regaining your breath right after the shunt. You might feel fine right now due to relatively high levels of adrenaline, but it is not something meant to be underestimated.» he smiled politely. «May I go on?» You lightly nodded, pensive. You had no measure of comparison when it came to G-force in accidents, but it had definitely been the worst you had got into. No questions. «Do you remember the dynamic of the crash?» You hesitated, staring into the void in search of those moments; as the scene unfolded before your eyes, you began speaking. «I was behind Cha- I mean, Leclerc. I think he made a mistake at turn 13 and I was quicker than him in the last corner, so I wanted to overtake him before the main straight.» Unsure whether you had to continue or stop the report, you glanced at the doctor, who simply waited, silent. «Uhm… Yeah. Since I thought Charles would keep the outer line, I tried to overtake him on the inside. It didn’t work, obviously.» you snorted, sarcastic and let down by your own move. What a stupid choice.

«I shouldn’t have been so daring and optimistic.» you added. «If it helps, Leclerc didn’t seem upset at you at all about that move.» the doctor smiled in reassurance. Reasoning on his words, your eyes went wide, since only at those it struck you. You had taken Charles out of the race. For some unexplainable cause, you hadn’t considered it; seeing him helping you out felt too good to be true, a fairytale dream in which Charles had pulled over and deliberately stopped driving his race to rescue you. Of course, you had dragged him into your mistake, potentially causing damage to his car and putting his life at risk as well. What a reckless, inconsiderate move.

«Is he okay??» you asked, urge laced in your tone. «Yes. His car stopped before impacting against the barriers because of the angle in which you two touched.» the doctor calmly explained. «He was a little bit slower than you as he entered the corner and he spun a little, so your trajectories towards the wall were different.» With lost eyes, you stared once again at the void. It was your third crash of the season. At the Albert Park’s circuit, a collision at the restart had ruined your race. In Monaco, well… It had been your mistake, in qualifying, and it had prevented you from starting in the grid on Sunday. And now Montmelò. The worst shunt out of the three, which would cost a fortune to the team. You closed your eyes, defeated. You knew it would be tough, you’d always known, ‘cause it had always been.

«So, now you’ll be taken to the nearest hospital just for some more routine exams we couldn’t take here, but you should be fine.» the doctor said, standing up. «Take care, miss.» You shook the hand he had offered you, a tad confused, and turning around you were met by your assistant’s worried face. She was in her first year at Alfa Romeo as well; you hadn’t had the time to bond with her deeply, but she probably was the only one you fully trusted in the whole team. Which wasn’t ideal. # «So? Any news?» «They told me they’re taking her to the hospital for further checks, but she seems to be fine.» «Are you sure? She had serious problems breathing…» «Well, all the drivers are breathless after a huge shunt. But you know this better than I do.» Charles sighed at his manager’s words.

He had walked back to the hospitality, got changed and contacted Nicholas Todt right after, in search of news from the primary source. Then, strolling towards the media pen for the routine mid-race interviews after a crash occurred, he had spent the last twenty minutes insistently asking himself what had caused such a contact: he needed to look at some on boards to get it clear, but he wanted to talk it out with you, still worried about your conditions and confused by your driving behavior. He didn’t expect you to try for an overtake there. He wouldn’t expect any driver to. It just… didn’t make sense, for a driver like you.

When he saw you arriving at the pen with your assistant, Charles couldn’t help but leave hanging the journalist who had just begun introducing her question. His approach took you off guard, but you deeply inhaled, definitely not shocked to have him searching for explanations. «I thought you were doing some other checks at the hospital. Are you alright?» he asked, barely audible. «Yes, it was just… uhm… routine stuff. You know, for the deceleration of the impact.» «Thank God.» he let out, in a sigh, looking elsewhere. «Listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin your race… And put you in danger, of course… It- I thought there was a gap since you were going a bit slower than me, but it was nonetheless a terrible idea, and-» «Don’t worry about my race, I was struggling massively with the tires anyway.» Charles smiled, half trying to calm you down, half downplaying his frustration. «But you’re right, I made a mistake. I should’ve paid more attention to you. You know, I’m not used to rookies going at the speed of light and not having any mercy.» His gentleman smile sparked some light inside of you as well, and you naturally mimicked him. Something… something about the look in his eyes reminded of a distant memory you couldn’t pinpoint. You just shrugged it off: your assistant gently touched your shoulder, suggesting it was time to feed journalists with well-crafted lies. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ Ice cream wrapped around his fingers, he stood next to the fence watching Arthur’s kart speeding past him, waiting for him to jump off the seat and let him hit drive to the limit once again. It was Sunday, but it had rained throughout the night, so the track was green - little to no grip available for the small tires to hold on to - and, because of it, empty. No one had dared to show up in such conditions, except for, that is, two families: Leclerc's and yours. You had never properly introduced yourself to each other before that day, but you were well aware of the phenomenal performances of the fifteen years old guy eating ice-cream with his suit hanging off, ruffled hair, focused on the action. You had raced once against Arthur, his younger brother, but stupidly enough you didn't expect them to be related. Seeing the entire family at the track was unusual, indeed.

«How did the tires feel?» your father asked you. «Good, but…» «But?» your father prompted. «…but some corners are very slippery.» Undisturbed, your eyes didn't fall upon your dad's face once, lost in contemplation. It was only natural for you to miss the other question he addressed, since you were still staring at the white-suited boy, a hand gripping the metallic mesh of the fence. «Y/n?» «Uh?» «Are you listening?» he raised a brow, skeptical. «Sorry. What was the question?» you shrugged. Your dad, subtly, glanced at the point you had been staring, immediately noticing the spark of your interest. «I asked if… if you want to have a snack. It's almost lunch time.» he asked, glancing at his watch. «Yes! I'm hungry!»

You both came back with a sandwich in hand, chit chatting about the upcoming race and your latest performances. Before you could make it back to your van, heavy bullets of rain hit your skin and head: the dark clouds covering the track had turned into a waterfall without any warning. You both ran to your kart, trying to cover the seat so it wouldn't get soaked, putting two umbrellas over it, but depriving yourselves of repair. «Let's go in the trunk!» The air was humid and thick. You sat next to your dad, staring at the rain, him with crossed legs, you with a cheek resting on one of raised knees. He looked at you and laughed at your antics. «Don't be so sad, y/n. You put in a lot of laps yesterday.» «But I wanted to do more. Now we're stuck here and we can't do anything.» «That's not true. We can… enjoy the moment. Look up there, the clouds cover the treetops.» You turned your head towards the point he was showing you, but your eyes were soon caught by a figure walking towards the two of you, under a red umbrella. «Do you need help with the kart?» the man asked, with a thick French accent. You stared at your dad, only to see him indifferent to the offer. «No, thanks, we're good.» You almost rolled your eyes. He was a proud man. He had sacrificed a lot to make you enter the karting world and didn't want you to be considered less of a serious competitor because of money and facilities: you already had to face the prejudices of being a girl. He didn’t like getting help from others, since he had always provided you with everything, and wasn’t willing to give in, at all. «Uhm… I think it would be better to put the kart under our gazebo.» the man said, pointing at it. «It isn't big, but it's better than nothing.» While your father pondered the proposal, you enthusiastically smiled and thanked the man, running towards the kart and starting to push the cart. As you both placed the kart next to theirs, the man - Arthur's father - got near your once again. «We have some ice-cream, if you're hungry.» Your eyes sparkled, and your father knew there was no way of stopping you. Hervé, that was his name, called someone in French words and spoke words you were unable to understand. Your dad first smiled at you, enjoying the smile lighting up your face, then looked back at Hervé Leclerc. «Thanks for… all of this. But… Why…?» Hervé interrupted him. «I know what it feels like to give up everything for your child's dream. I respect you and your daughter a lot. We don't have a lot either, but I'm happy to share it with you.» Your father, stunned, at a loss of words, didn't get the chance to thank the man again, as Arthur and his brothers stormed with a box of ice-cream, yelling in thrill and joy as they chased each other.

A bit unsure, you waited for Arthur to serve himself first, then got near and looked at the flavors, indecisive. «Hazelnut is the best.» you heard behind you. Turning your head, you crossed a pair of big, bright, dreamy green eyes. Your heart was flinging towards them, and you felt so enchanted you wanted to show to everybody such a beautiful sight. «Don't you like it?» he asked, noticing your lost expression. «No, I love it!» you shied away, starting to fill your cup. You both sat down at a small table as Hervé and your father talked; you awkwardly smiled whenever that mysterious Leclerc's eyes would meet yours. «What's your name?» he suddenly asked, probably worn out by the silence. You played with the plastic spoon out of nervousness, flattening a curl of ice cream before answering. «Y/n. And yours?» you shyly said. «Charles.»

«Can I begin? Perfect. So, I think the first topic on the list that we need to tackle is today’s crash…»

Your lips twitched in a sarcastic smile filled with tension and hatred. «Y/n, you know this is your third crash this year and our budget-» «Thanks for asking how I’m doing and checking up on me at the medical center. Glad to see you place more value in money rather than in someone’s life.» As all the engineers slowly turned their heads to glance over at your crossed arms, your eyes pierced the wooden desk, deafening silence. «I’m pretty sure your assistant was there.» «So what? Do you think that’s an excuse? Even Charles, who drives for Ferrari, treated me better than my own team!»

You saw Alunni Bravi, Alfa’s team principal, snorting in annoyance. «Speaking of! If you two have to talk all lovey-dovey, please don’t do it in front of cameras… We’re full of problems as it is…» he said, rubbing his temples to soothe a heavy headache. «I… thought he was going to confront me about the crash.» you lowered your chin. He sighed, hid his face in your hands. «Y/n, listen… You know what we both need: results. The team needs points and the least damage possible, and you need that yourself, to prove you deserve your seat in F1. You see, we are heading toward the same direction, so why don’t we join forces instead of clashing against each other?» «Do you think I crashed on purpose?!» you asked, bewildered. «No, but you can’t afford to be too aggressive, otherwise you’ll get today’s result. It puts at risk your and other drivers’ safety, your team’s finances and gives the mechanics an awful amount of extra work.» The thought of the mechanics staying up late, not respecting the curfew, without receiving any raise for it reminded you of your dad doing the same back in the karting days, always working for you, with you. You swallowed hard your pride. Shifting on your seat to find a more comfortable position, you cleared your voice. «I’ll do better.» The team principal lightly lifted the corner of his lips. «I’m sure you will, y/n.»

Push. You’re worthy. Stronger. You deserve it. Until. You fought for this. You. It makes you feel alive. Make it.

The gym’s mirror reflected your mechanical, precise, controlled movements; you followed them with the sight, eyes and thoughts running wild across the room. The burn igniting your muscles, the sweat glowing in pearls under the neon lights, the skin wrapped inside loose-fitting clothes felt like heaven upon your body. «Okay, that’s it!» At your coach’s voice, you abruptly turned around. «What?» you asked, panting. «We’re done, you did all the reps.» she plainly said. «Already?» you asked, picking up from the ground your water bottle and taking a sip. «We’ve been here for two hours, y/n… Aren’t you tired?» she laughed at you. You shrugged, unable to perceive the weight of exhaustion. «I feel fine.» you replied. «Right, Miss Fine, let’s do a bit of stretching.»

After your coach had given you info about the diet and the workout plan for the next day, you waited for her to leave the gym before changing into a clean outfit. You removed the oversized shirt you always used and looked down at the waistband of your leggings, running the gap between the cloth and your skin with the thumb. You closed your eyes, both tasting the satisfaction of the moment and remotely despising the need for the achievement. But you couldn’t hide it: you were happy you had lost some more weight. You had been working so hard on improving your performance and proving you were putting your maximum effort into it.

It was sick, you felt it: you carried out the exercises like a machine, engaging your muscles and your core to extract all the potential benefits from the workout, convinced that it would automatically lead to better results. You struggled to define it, but it was such a self-consuming delight. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ Being fifteen was difficult. Low self-esteem, identity crises instead of identity building, paranoia, confusion, hormones taking over, fear of the future, broken illusions. Things nobody at that age is programmed to deal with it anyway.

However, being a fifteen-year-old girl competing against pimply guys proved itself to be even more challenging than teenage already managed: more so, if those underdeveloped brains couldn’t spot anything that made you a girl to their eyes. Apart from social isolation and lack of friendships and acquaintances during karting competitions, that is. You had cut your hair short so that it would be easier to put your helmet on and no strand would get in the way; you were as tall as other drivers were, in some cases even taller; and you were thin, lean, light as a feather, dancing on your kart with grace. Clearly, they expected something different: they wanted to see more than a flat chest under the fire suit, more than a nonexistent bun; perhaps a soft and lost stare, the insecurity of someone who doesn’t belong the sport, the ingenuity of the newbie, the incapability of being a serious competitor. You let them down and proved them wrong, one by one. You spared nobody, killed them with obstinate tenacity, flashing smiles only whenever you stepped on the highest stair of the podium. Unluckily, they had another reason to crack jokes about you. Behind the fence, cheering for you, helping as much as possible with the kart setups, the tires, the engine, there was your mother. In the wide multitude of fathers, uncles and big brothers, your mother was the only woman getting her hands dirty and oily to help you out. Mistrust and envy were the inevitable dues to pay, every race, every time you two entered the track holding hands. # «There are too many people.» Charles said, grumbling. «C’mon, you’re doing it for Arthur!» «He’s a lucky brother.» he sighed. Lorenzo and Charles were walking towards the heart of the small paddock and searched for their younger sibling; an impossible task, since the entire place was packed with teens they were navigating through. Slowly moving past people, Charles couldn’t help but overhear a piece of conversation. «Did you see her mom?» «Yeah, they’re both ridiculous!» «Why, what’s wrong with them?» «Arthur!» Charles called, recognizing his brother’s voice. «Finally, here you are.» Without paying attention to the hand resting on his shoulder, the blonde driver still looked astonished at his mates. «Why does her mother come to the track with her?» he asked. «Because her father died.» Charles pieced the conversation back together and blinked a couple of times, making sense of it. As a reflex, like he already knew, he immediately spotted you in the middle of the crowd, holding your cup, hugging your mother. He struggled to make out your face, with the new haircut, but he still could tell it was you, the same girl eating ice-cream and often racing with Arthur, the same driver his father had told him about. He remembered you sitting in your dad’s lap, laughing with him, under the gazebo, surrounded by the sound of the pouring rain, as he spied on the two of you from inside the van, too scared to talk to you any further and ruin the special moment between a father and his daughter. A sea of people separating you, a sidereal space of loneliness and time creating an unbreakable wall: maybe you didn’t even remember who he was. However, Charles searched for thoughts of comfort to offer to you telepathically, not really able to find much; he didn’t know what he really meant to lose a parent and didn’t want to dwell too much on it.

Still, a few years later, looking at some pictures taken on that rainy afternoon, watching your fathers half hugging and smiling to the camera, the two of you sat behind them, being reminded of hidden memories and fears, forcing tears to run inside without showing, getting a taste of the same bitter loss’ cocktail you had tasted, sitting back onto the couch and staring at the void, he would.

«Alfa Romeo has announced some major changes inside the team. In the last couple of weeks some leaks hinted at the possibility of y/n y/l/n being replaced mid-year, during the summer break.»

«I don’t think there’s anything wrong with women in Formula One, but… they need to meet certain standards, you know? And I’m not quite sure y/n is doing that.»

«She's not going to stay in the sport too long without getting results... It's a simple equation: results equal money which equals contract.»

«A lot of drivers would die to have her seat and I’m sure Alfa Romeo has started looking around to see if someone has the right profile… Because let’s face it, it doesn’t seem like y/n does.»

You put down your phone and slowly stirred a cup of coffee the team had offered you. Tiredness crawled in every hidden angle of your body. News like those were filling up the internet since Barcelona; and as if luck hasn’t been abundant enough, you’d had yet another mechanical failure, the second in the span of three races. Some malevolent voices implied they were due to the previous crashes you’d had. You truly wanted to get angry, but you didn’t care anymore. You felt defeated. It felt so miserable to be following the race from the box, sitting there, helpless, either willing to scream or cry, watching the world go round in circles, without you. After all, that feeling wasn’t new to you. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ The first time was tough. Arriving at the track, taking the kart out of the van, setting everything up; ignoring the foreign stares, resting your hands upon the steering wheel, driving the first lap. It was beyond rough. You weren’t as focused as you wanted to: you made a lot of corrections, went wide multiple times, missed the apex a couple of times. You inevitably felt frustrated by your own lack of pace and performance. That was only practice for what was to come; the first race was even harder to handle. A burden down your shoulders and chest made it difficult to breathe, your heart struggled pumping your adrenaline-fueled blood fast enough. You didn’t want to let him down. It was the secret promise you’d made with yourself without even knowing, something you’d always kept silent to others and to your own conscience.

After endless laps of chasing, constantly turning back to see how close your rivals were, examining the gaps and choosing different lines, you crossed the start and finish line and you felt hot tears wetting your skin: you had won the race. It was a strange type of happiness, a conflicting one, which you would get familiar with over time. You quickly wiped your cheeks, jumping out the kart: you just remembered running towards the podium, overwhelmed by that new brimming feeling pulsing inside of you, not capable of determining whether it caused tears to flow in joy or sadness. Proudly holding the cup you had been handed, you lifted it to the bright blue sky, and you looked at him.

With the little trophy in your hand and the helmet hanging off your fingers, you walked to the van and sat in the passenger seat, wrapped by silence. Lost gazing inside the golden reflection of the cup, you cried. Head tilted back, eyes shut in pain, you held your sobs in as much as you could.

It was tough, hitting the track for the first time after your father had passed away; but what hurt the most was that trophy, that unexpected win, which definitely meant you would have to – and could – go on without him, doing what you had always done. Your promise, your secret motive, you’d live for it: as if he watched you from the grandstands, followed you with his careful eyes, cheering for you, and driving you back home after every race, while you peacefully drifted away next to him. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ You sat on a bench inside the paddock as it emptied of life, people leaving and walking around you as industrious ants crowding the space. «Y/n!» At the call, you naturally turned around: it was easy to spot Charles, still rocking Ferrari merch, approaching you. «Hi, Charles.» «Hi.» he said, sitting next to you and looking at the setting sun.

You secretly wondered what had brought him there, absorbed, in silence. He seemed peaceful, but you knew his race hadn't been particularly rewarding because of a grid penalty at the start, and you could almost see disappointment and dissatisfaction creating turmoil inside his irises. A small realization hit you, and it raised a pinch of embarrassment in you as it did: because, since Charles was enchanted by the sunset and you were intent on reading his expressive eyes, you were both caught staring at two beautiful sights.

«Your pace was really good.» he let you know. «Are you saying this because you struggled to overtake me after your pit stop?» you asked, a bit amused. «Well...» At his hesitation, you both laughed. «You had pace and your defending was annoyingly good.» he finished with a smile. «Without the mechanical failure, it could've been an easy P6 for you.» «But I had a mechanical failure, Charles. It doesn't matter what could've been, if it hasn't happened.» you bitterly remarked, staring back at the sky. «It does matter, instead.» he looked at you. «You made a lot of progress since the beginning of the year and I'm sure you'll score your first points very soon.» «If I'm not out by mid-season.» At your lapidary comment, Charles blinked, thinking, then looked at you again. «The team needs you. I know Zhou and he's a good driver, but in terms of pace... you're better.» «But he brings the car home and I don't.» «You've always out qualified him.» he reminded you. «How do you know?» you asked, shocked. You hadn’t even noticed it yourself, how could he know? He shrugged. «Overheard a conversation.»

Charles waited a few seconds before speaking up again, still thinking. «You've worked hard to get here. Don't bring yourself down because of what other people say.» You sighed and faced the sky, a shiver running down your spine as a gust of night breeze caressed your cheek. «They're trying to drown me, Charles.» you sadly reflected out loud, dropping your head down. Charles, looking at your hand gripping the bench, put his hand upon yours. «You know how to swim, y/n. I think nobody else in the grid knows the pressure of the sport better than you do, and since you made it this far it would be stupid to let go right now.» On his features, you read a feeling you didn’t expect: regret. It was all over him, in the way he searched for words, wetted his lips, glanced around, then stared back at you. «You can count on me. For anything, really.» he added. Regret was soon replaced by comfort; the weight of his palm's skin onto yours radiated a wave of calm, quiet, peace. And as the sun dived into the horizon, offering its last rays of orange gold, on that bench isolated from chaos, you felt safe.

As you crossed the start and finish line, your eyes flicked towards the billboard in the pitlane. A rush of excitement freed the breath you had been holding all along: the race was over. «P9! Good job!» «Y/n, congrats on your first points. Had a strong pace all weekend, well done!» «Thank you, thank you, guys.»

Switching off the radio, you screamed under your helmet: in joy and disbelief, because you finally got to the place you deserved to be; in frustration, because you knew the strategy had concealed the true potential of your form and the feeling you had found with the car, making it hard to fully appreciate the results without fantasizing about what could've been. Nonetheless, thanks to the adrenaline and the G-forces loosening their grip, you felt a small weight being lifted off your shoulders: you had achieved your first milestone in F1 and nobody could contest it. Nobody could take those points away from you.

Arriving at the pitlane, the team engineers seemed to react lukewarm to the performance; the mechanics, though, engulfed you in a group hug and clapped at you, visibly satisfied and content with yours and their work as well.

«Y/n! How does it feel to score your first points in F1?» «Well, of course.» you smiled, a bit nervous at the unusually welcoming question. «I’m satisfied with today’s race, but… I think there is more work to do. Our pace deserved more and better results are definitely within our reach.» «So hungry for points after tasting them for the first time!» the journalist joked, laughing. As you tried to shy off embarrassment with a smile, holding onto the barricade a bit tighter, you felt a soft touch brushing your back, halfway between a greeting and a request of permission; the light weight lingered a few seconds, before a figure dressed up in red reluctantly positioned next to you to be interviewed. His smile only made you smile bigger and redder. «Good job!» Charles spoke in a soft tone, his fingers still vaguely tracing circles on your back, unbeknownst to the cameras facing the two of you. «You did a good job too, with George. Some fair and hard racing!» you referred to a scene you had been able to see on the screens throughout the race. «Tell me about it.» he laughed. «But what did I say? Was I wrong about your first points?» he added, subtly tickling your back with his fingertips.

Lost in the bliss of the interaction, flustered because of the heat and the cameras pointing at you, the redness of your face lit up brighter as the journalist spoke. «What’s that, Charles?» she asked, intrigued by his words. «Did you tell her she would score points in this race?» He mildly smiled, getting closer to the fence – and to you – looking down to collect his thoughts. «No, I didn’t.» he laughed. «But I was sure she would end up in the positions that matters pretty soon and… here she is!» His body involuntarily leaned over to you to answer the question, combined with the kind and gentle tone he was delivering compliments with, made you glance elsewhere and forced you to suppress a smile. «So did you guys talk about it?» the journalist teased again. «We bumped into each other in the paddock and I told her, yeah.» «You seem to trust her skills a lot.» «I do. I mean, I’ve seen her race in karting and in minor formulas a couple times and I could see it with my own eyes. She was well-known for her talent and hard work, and now she’s proving it in one of the toughest and most competitive motorsport championships of the world. To be honest, I’m not surprised and I’m happy for her because she clearly deserves it.» «Y/n, how do you feel about these words?» the journalist finally addressed you once again, waiting for your answer with a grin. «Grateful. Usually people are complaining about my performances…» you laughed, a bit uptight. «So… hearing appreciative words from a driver I highly respect and look up to means a lot.»

Charles couldn’t help but grin in delight at your words: he had involuntarily kind of followed your career up to Formula One, and the idea you had possibly taken him as a point of reference flattered him deeply. He had always known you would make it. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ Fidgeting with his Ray Ban sunglasses, Charles walked inside the paddock alongside Pierre. «The weather is so nice here.» «It’s Brazil, what do you expect?» the Frenchman snorted. «I’m just saying.» Charles replied, putting his glasses on. Not paying attention to the cameras taking pictures and videos of them as they casually strolled by, Pierre suddenly awoke from his silence and spoke. «I forgot to ask you something.» «What is it?» «You know the girl who races in F2 with Arthur?» Charles hummed, looking back at him. «Yeah, y/n. What about her?» At his best friend’s confidence, Pierre raised his brows. «Do you know her that well? I don’t even remember her last name.» «Well, didn’t expect much more than that from you.» The inevitable jokingly taps and protests Charles deserved for that comment caused laughter between the two of them. «So? What about y/n?» Charles asked, going back to the topic. «They say she’s racing for Alfa Romeo next year.» «Well, she’s leading the championship right now.» Charles said, matter-of-factly. «Yeah, but do you understand how big the news is? A woman in F1 after so many years…» Pierre lowered his head, in thought. «Alfa must be in a difficult situation if they’re doing this.» «Why?» Charles quickly inquired. «Because sponsors will court her, which means a lot of brand deals… and money to the team.»

Charles knitted his eyebrows together and walked looking at his shoes. It wasn’t possible that a talent like you would only get hired because of money. He had seen you drive, win against his brother and a lot of other good drivers, he had seen your determination every time he had celebrated one of Arthur’s podiums, because you were always in the top three. On the other hand, Charles couldn’t say he was a stranger to the financial difficulties Alfa Romeo was facing: the lack of upgrades, the never-ending waltz with sponsors and actionists, the upcoming renewal as Sauber and then Audi. Alfa danced in a sea full of uncertainty, so it probably represented the only team in the position to gamble and provide a seat for the first female driver after such a long time. Once again, his father’s words of appreciation towards you resurfaced: Charles hoped the rumor to be true, because he was sure you deserved it. # «Thank you, Esteban. Charles, I’m coming back to you: can you share with us your thoughts regarding the news too? We know your brother is racing in F2 as well and we’d like to have your piece of mind.» He raised the microphone, smiling to himself, sure he would be asked about it as soon as he had heard the question. «I’ve attended and watched some races because of my brother, as you’ve mentioned, but I think numbers speak for themselves. She’s leading the championship and from what I know she’s always performed brilliantly in minor formulas too.» «Right. We know that you and y/n share the same agent, Nicholas Todt. Were you ever introduced to one another by him?» Charles frowned at the follow-up question. «Uhm, no, we never met through him.» «Okay, thank you very much. Moving on to the next question…»

As Albon was addressed by the journalist, Pierre, sitting next to him, raised a brow and gave Charles a inquiring look, perceiving a lack of clarity in your answer. The Monegasque simply glanced over him and pretended not to see his confusion, keeping to himself that distant but lifeful memory of you. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ «And this is the end of the tour.» your assistant said, gesturing with her hands to the hospitality hall. «Thanks, it looks… fresh.» you commented, still looking around. Exiting the building, you followed her steps, going towards the media pen for some brief interviews of that Wednesday. Your first ever week in F1.

Before you could notice, your assistant waved at a girl dressed in red, focused on her phone; greeting her as well, the two approached one another and engaged in a conversation. «Hi.» As you heard that unforeseen greeting, you finally noticed Charles, whose assistant was caught talking with yours. It was the first time you were seeing him after such a long time: the rubber smell, the oily hands, karts speeding on the track for hours. A pang of nostalgia hit your stomach like a punch, paired with those green eyes you’d never been able to forget and a tiny smile onto his lips. «H-hi!» you only managed to say. «I’m sorry I didn’t congratulate you before, but I thought I’d do it once I saw you on track. Really happy for you.» «Oh, thank you.» The contrast between the deep conversation running right next to you and the silence full of untold memories sharpened the veil of embarrassment trapping you: you both couldn’t stop glancing at each other briefly before diverting gaze as soon as you got noticed. The moment your assistants seemed to be over the intense chatter, you almost sighed in relief. «See you soon, y/n!» Charles greeted, walking away. With a small hand gesture, you reciprocated his kindness with awkwardness. It was hard to hide it: receiving such a pleasing treatment from another driver warmed your heart, as much as the thought of his young face and the few moments spent together did.

Sitting onto a leather couch, pressing your knees together, you peeked at the jewelry exposed onto the crystal table coffee in front of you. Lost in contemplation, you immediately raised your head as a pair of heels echoed through the room. «So… This is the winter collection we’d like to promote.» the woman said, sitting in front of you. «We’d like you to pose and take pictures with the bracelets first and then with the entire parure on. Then, if there is the chance, you’ll be joined by one of our biggest promoters for some overview photos of both the male and female collection.» «Of course.» you nodded.

You would’ve never thought being a female F1 driver could have perks… But it did. And one of them was that an endless number of brands wanted to be promoted by you. At first you had been reluctant at the thought of spending part of your summer break going through sponsors activities and promos, but at the sight of the building location chosen for the shoot and the fine jewels laying before your eyes, the laziness left room to placid enjoyment of the moment. At least you were sponsoring some good products. # «Raise the arm a bit higher, please… Perfect! Beautiful!» Enjoying the breeze onto the balcony, you glanced over at the sea behind you, caressing your arms’ shivering skin. The light reflecting upon the water made a mesmerizing scenery to stare at, joy filling the eyes. The blissful haze got suddenly interrupted by a bunch of steps, shuffling and chatter: it all quickly marched towards you, invading the space of the balcony and disturbing your peace. In confusion, you scanned the faces of the newcomers, only to be met by the graceful figure of Charles. A rush of electricity linked you both as you made eye contact. «Y/n, this is the person I was talking about earlier, Charles Leclerc.» said the woman who had given you instructions at the beginning of the shoot. Charles couldn’t help but laugh a little. «Oh, don’t worry, she knows.» he told her. «Oh, really?» she gaped. «We’re… we’re both F1 drivers.» you said, nervously chuckling. «Right! I’m so sorry! I feel embarrassed now… Well, I see no introductions are needed, then.» she blushed heavily. «It’s okay, there’s no need to apologize.» he reassured her.

He swiftly moved next to you and started whispering without looking at you, a courtesy smile plastered on his lips all throughout as he joined you scanning the surroundings and the staff moving around erratic. «I didn’t know you were a sponsor as well.» «Didn’t expect to find you here either.» you raised brows, to display surprise. Charles simply leaned his forearm onto the handrail of the balcony and gazed inside the living area, still smirking. «Well, let’s show the world how to do this properly.» One person from the staff came back to you with the jewels you had to wear, offering Charles some as well. # «Last but not least… We’d like to have a picture with this necklace.» As it was handed to you, you stared at it in awe: your eyes brimmed with the Swarovski’s reflection of the fine piece, delicate and bright as a snow crystal under the sun. «It’s beautiful.» Charles said, stealing the words you had in mind. «It is.» you remarked. Seeing your hands open the necklace and bringing it closer to your nape, Charles immediately halted your movements touching your hands, gently stopping them. «What… What if we take the picture while I put the necklace for her?» he asked, addressing the staff. Your wide eyes read excitement and appreciation in his proposal.

Without even acknowledging the fact those movements were mere acting for the shoot, you sincerely enjoyed the moment, getting surprised by Charles’ tenderness while brushing your hair away, while you were looking down at the charm and admiring it between your fingers, unconsciously smiling. You couldn’t help but quickly turn your head and look at him, too fast to think of how close that would bring your faces, your lips a few inches away. Green, gold and pink heavenly mixed on his features as colors on a canvas, taking over your senses. «Amazing! That was awesome. Thanks!» the photographer said, getting the attention of the both of you. With a silent sign of end of activities, while the staff moved around to bring all the equipment back inside, you turned around ending up between Charles arms, still spinning around the shining charm. «Do you like it?» he murmured, fingers brushing your forearms. «It’s… It’s beautiful, really.» you replied, eyes down on it. «And you? What do you think?» you asked, smiling. «It looks absolutely perfect on you.» Flustered, since your question wanted to refer to the collection and not on the way the necklace fitted you, you mentally thanked the sponsor manager walking up to you. «Well, thank you for your time. You did an extraordinary job and I’m sure the launch of the collection will be a success!» With a thanking smile on, you didn’t expect to hear the words Charles said right after. «Can she keep the necklace?» Almost choking on your own saliva, your eyes wide opened in shock; the manager hadn’t anticipated that either, at a loss of words. «I can buy it, of course.» Charles quickly added, afraid her puzzlement was caused by the impossibility of gifting for free the jewel. «No, there’s no need to! If… if you like it that much, we’re more than happy to gift it! There’s nothing better than sponsors who love our products.»

After the weird conversation, you both stared at her walking back inside the apartment, still standing next to each other on the balcony. «Why did you do it?» you looked up at him and asked. «Because I wanted to ask you something and I need to hear a yes.» he chuckled, while you mouthed a “What?”. «No, I actually think it looks good on you, so I thought you should have it.» «What’s the question?» you quickly let out, in order to shoo away his flattering comment which made you blush. «Why don’t you join me for the rest of the summer? To work out, go to the beach, spend time together, you know.» «I can’t believe you’ve bribed me with a necklace you didn’t even pay for.» you laughed. «So? Did I hurt your pride?» Charles asked, subtly encircling your waist. «Yes, and I’d like to avenge…» you said. «But unluckily I’ll need to come along with you if I want to.» «Oh, that’s bad news.» Charles raised his brows, mirroring your playful grin. «That sounds like a plan, then.» «It does.»

Sunkissed, you enjoyed the rays tickling onto your skin, eyes shut due to the light, propped onto your hands. Waves, iodine and freedom rocking you back and forth like a baby inside a cradle, your lips naturally curved upward, in bliss. «Hey, y/n!» Turning your head in reaction to the call, you noticed it was one of Charles’ close friends. «Do you want to play table tennis with us?» «Of course!» you chirped, quickly getting up from the deck chair you were sitting on. «Who is winning?» you asked, when you came close to him. «We’ve just started, but Charles is already losing somehow.» he laughed. «Good job!» you joined him.

The inside of the yacht was finely crafted, emanating comfort and luxury, but it didn’t feel cold: decorations and clutter clearly characterized it, added a personal and unmistakable touch that made it even more welcoming. Walking to reach the guys playing on the opposite end of the boat, you were caught by a picture on a shelf, which hit you like a freight train full of memories, nostalgia and tenderness all at once: looking at it, you struggled to recognize your father’s face, realized the sound of his voice was so hard to recall. You quickly diverted your eyes from the happy stare of your dad’s, focusing on two teens in the background, sitting onto plastic chairs: you were eating ice cream with a leg huddled and the other touching the ground, while Charles sat leg-crossed, looking at you.

You couldn’t believe time had flown by so fast, so destructive, so insensitive and so careless in pulling strings that crossed the years, only to bring you in that yacht and contemplate the beauty of destiny. «Good memories, huh?» Charles’ voice surprised you, making you turn your head abruptly to glance. «Came here not to feel the burn of defeat?» you asked, teasingly. «You wish. I’m winning, I think that’s obvious.» he said, overconfident. After the quick exchange, you both looked back at the photograph, incapable of ignoring it for too long. «I didn’t know they took a picture that day.» you said, more to yourself than really talking to him. «Arthur took it. And this is why we’re also in it, even though it should’ve been just them.» Charles said, unable to hold a smile at his brother’s poor skills. «Do you think it is possible to make a copy of it?» you asked, after a couple of seconds. «I think so, yes. Do you want it?» You hesitated, then nodded towards him. «I’d like to gift it to my mom, she really likes looking at old pictures. But cut us out, I’d prefer the photo with just the two of them.» you said, pointing at the younger versions of yourself. «What?! We’re so cute, why do you want us to be cut out?» Charles asked, infecting you with his laugh. «You can make a separate picture with the cutout.» you joked. «I will, for sure. I mean, we look too good.» You chuckled at his words. «Me wearing a suit dirty with engine oil and you eating ice cream like you care about nothing else.» «On plastic chairs.» you added. «On plastic chairs.» Charles remarked, nodding and widening eyes at the umpteenth funny detail. «But the fact that it’s ridiculous makes it interesting.» «I can’t believe the only photo we have together has me eating in it.» you laughed. «We can always take new pictures.» As you felt Charles’ eyes on you, you immediately searched for them, locking stares, a bit surprised by his offer. «Charles, where are you?» someone shouted from outside. «We should go.» you awkwardly said. «Yep.» he immediately turned around on his feet, embarrassed as much as you were. # You hadn’t played table tennis a lot before, but being Charles’ teammate didn’t help increasing your winning chances. You miserably lost. «I couldn’t see anything, I had the sun in my eyes!» you tried to protest. «Your complaints are music to our ears.» «Guys, come on!» Charles pleaded in frustration towards his friends. «Nope, you promised before starting the match.» «I promised nothing, I wasn’t even there at the beginning!» you contested. «But you joined, so now you’re in this together.» You threw a desperate look at Charles, who simply covered his face with his hands and scoffed with a smile. «I think we don’t have a choice, y/n…» The idea of jumping in the water fully clothed and going around all wet until dinner made you uncomfortable and annoyed already, but you hadn’t time to ponder the dare further as Charles quickly splashed into the sea. Carefully getting close to the edge, you looked down the boat: you had never feared heights, however the blue expanse below you seemed an endless abyss, the yacht being far and far away from the coast. «Are you scared?» Charles’ friends asked, half-way amused and confused by your reticence. «Of course not.» you tried to play it cool. Charles, moving his arms to stay afloat, could read the hesitation blocking you. «I’ll catch you, don’t worry.» he shouted.

The impact with the water was softened by the waterfall of bubbles following your body and lifting you up towards the surface. Before you were able to notice, resurfacing, your body slid onto Charles’, who had swum next to the point you had fallen. The friction of your clothes brushing against each other seemed to slow you down in re-emerging: you clearly felt his skin caressing yours under the soft texture of his shirt, his fingers quickly searching for your body gliding on his. When you came to the surface, gasping for air, his hands were already firm around your waist, and you couldn’t tell if you were breathless out of effort, fear or because of the unexpected and sudden closeness with Charles' striking stare. «Are you okay?» he asked you with a husky tone. You knew he didn’t mean to do that, that probably his voice had dropped in order not to be heard – as if the rocking sound of the water wasn’t enough to hide your breaths – but his words, his presence, the unexpected intimacy of the moment made you crave to drown back down. The contrast between the warmth he radiated and the ice-cold water surrounding you dazed you, your head going in tilt. «Yeah, I’m good.» you frantically nodded, still holding tight on to him. «Let’s go, then.»

Charles’ friends had a trip planned out for the week following your adventures on the yacht in Sardinia, so they left; you and Charles, though, kept hanging out, going back to Monaco.

The days you had with him were pure fun, shading momentarily your uncertainties and doubts regarding your future in F1; and if not bright enough to put them aside, Charles was always receptive to your needs, willing to discuss them and listen, since you were both navigating the same environment. You hoped that spending time with him could help you, somehow. # «Is it that bad?» he inquired, unsure of his cooking skills. «No, it’s pretty good.» Charles tasted it and hummed in delight. «Finally! Something that doesn’t taste like death.»

A lazy movie night had suddenly turned into testing Charles’ abilities in the kitchen: he wanted to order some food, you joked he could cook instead, he took it as a challenge and he decided it was time to finally improve at it. You had teased him all along, questioning his choices, his measurements, the ingredients he was using… and you both laughed throughout the process, until you sat down with steaming dishes. Charles saw you slowly moving the fork around the plate. «Aren't you hungry?» he asked, snorting with a laugh. «Not... not really.» His amusement turned into a serious expression, surprised at your lifeless response after all the laughter you had shared just some minutes earlier. «Is everything okay?» he inquired, a veil of worry weighing upon his brows. «Yeah, I've just lost a bit of appetite because of the new diet I'm following.» You looked down as you spoke, and he noticed. As soon as the topic was brought to the table, Charles subtly clenched his jaw a bit, poked his inner cheek with the tongue, then parted his lips as if to say something. He refrained the words he was about to use, opting for some cautious ones. «I see. I know I’m not the one in charge of it and shouldn’t… interfere, but you're the lightest driver on the grid, y/n. I don't think that's needed to improve your performance.» «It's not just about the weight, I'm trying to work on my strength as well and I... I had to readjust my diet a bit.» «Fine.» he said, shaking his head. The lies adorning the truth made it feel like a whole bunch of bullshit: deep down, you knew you were going way too strict about it, that it was nobody’s but your idea, though you thought that was, indeed, the only way things would get better, the only way you would get better, the only way people could see the best in you. The only way to prove you were worthy. «I don’t know what the diet involves, but as a guest of mine, you have to taste once again the first decent dish I’ve cooked in a very long time and deeply enjoy it.» Charles rediscovered playful tone managed to pull out a shy smile from you. # You both agreed on working out together, to make it more fun - and consequently see each other more. There was an intimate complicity between the two of you, a murmured comfort in the moments you shared: smiles, fleeting exchanges of glances, jokes and laughter. Neither of you could describe it, but in each other's company your personalities matched, merged as one. The fear, the weight of expectations, the voices and malice of the people around you would lose meaning, set aside for as long as you could stare at one another.

«Here we are.» he announced, coming off the locker room. «So classy! » you laughed, pointing at Charles' shorts. «Stylish, right?» he said, looking at them and laughing as well. «Isn't your shirt too big?» «I like being comfy.» you simply said. «I see.» he kindly smiled.

Throughout the workout, you did a few circuits, alternating at machines, adding a bit of challenge and variety to what would’ve been a quite repetitive activity, if done alone. Charles had a lot of fun, enjoying your presence, peeking at you during some exercises and smiling to himself. «Time to stretch!» Andrea said. You cackled at Charles protesting pleads, while sitting on the floor. «Turn on your side and hold your knee, like this.» your coach instructed you. Charles, told to do the same, pointing his head toward your lying body. The oversized shirt you wore had risen a bit in the movement, revealing a portion of your skin and showing some ribs. Charles quickly tried to divert gaze, not wanting to be caught in contemplation, a bit flustered by it.

«We're done, guys! You can go change!» Andrea said, with a clap of hands. «It was fun.» Charles stated, searching for confirmation. «Yeah!» you replied, a bit taken aback by his sudden comment. «Maybe... We can do it more often, whenever we have the chance...?» You turned to face him before entering the female locker room and pulled a small smile. «Of course!» Charles grinned as well as he very slowly headed to the door next to yours. # You opened your bag, searching for your clean shirt, then took off the one you had on. You halted. Don't, you said to yourself. But you did; you gave in to the quick impulse of reaching the mirror of the room and checking yourself out. It seemed... fine. And the idea killed you, because it still wasn't enough, it still didn't help your performance, it still didn't look as good as you imagined it to.

You turned to take a look at your profile: sucking your stomach in, you pulled the skin above your bellybutton to make it even flatter, hands gripping under your bra, to see what you wanted to see, what others wanted to see, the unreachable goal you had been chasing for years, setting yourself up for failure. So skinny, and still not successful on track. So skinny, and still everyone despised you.

As you watched, tantalized, your ribs showing, both proud and disgusted of what you had achieved after years of obsessive discipline, you didn't notice a silhouette appearing in the reflection of the mirror. «Y/n.» You gasped. Facing the mirror once again, you avoided looking at him, vainly covering the sight with your arms. You tried to ignore it. «What are you doing?» But you couldn't: the fear he would start thinking lowly of you, that he could be ashamed of what you were doing froze your blood.

Charles had been eaten by self-doubt for a while, but had finally decided to ask you if you wanted to stay at his place until the end of the summer break, since he had been enjoying your company a ton; during the small walk from his locker room to yours, he had been rehearsing the words he needed to say in order not to freak you out or be rejected, so he definitely wasn’t paying attention while entering. He didn’t expect to be met with the sight of your almost bare chest; and above all, under the loose fire suit or a t-shirt, he had never imagined to see such a thin, small-waisted and fragile looking body. Charles got closer with caution as you stood still, walking with hesitance, not entirely sure of what the real situation concealed beneath its surface. But those ribs, the same he had clearly seen while you were stretching, were marked in his irises, fear and confusion taking over him. «Please, look at me.» he pleaded, soft. As those words left his mouth, your mask fell off, dragging tears with it, and Charles swallowed hard as a realization started to set in. «What's this, y/n?» he whispered, hoping you would tell him off, somehow, maybe reassuring him it was all a dream, prompting an explanation that he failed to find. But you cried hard and you couldn't offer any word of comfort. Charles engulfed you in a hug, feeling his heart race faster to follow the thread of his thoughts, eyes scattered around the room in search of answers, while his fingers caressed your hair through the weeping. «Why are you doing this to yourself?» Words died against your vocal folds before they could turn into sound. Your weeps were low, inaudible at times, desperate. «It’s not enough.» you breathed. A sting hit Charles’ chest. «I… I don’t know what to do… It’s never enough, Charles.» As your voice cracked, new tears fell down to fill your abyss. «Enough for what? Enough for who?» Holding your face upward, he awaited your answer. But you froze. What were you doing all of this for? If you knew it was wrong, if you felt it was wrong, then you certainly weren’t doing it for you. Was it for your team? To prove your effort, your dedication, to show that you cared about the sport above anything, above yourself as well? Was it for the press to notice you deserved that seat, that opportunity?

And then, finally, like lightning cutting through the air and reaching land, shattering your entire world, a realization struck: it had started way before entering F1. The sense of control, impulsive discipline, always aiming for unreachable perfection had been your self-destructive coping mechanism for your father’s loss. That promise you had made to yourself, to never disappoint him, never let him down, prove yourself worthy of the love he had given you broke before your eyes like glass. The oppressing fear of not being enough, of not repaying the immense sacrifices he had done for you, the idea of all his life being wasted to chase your dream had triggered the guilt you’d been living with for years.

Letting it all go against Charles’ shoulder, holding onto him like an anchor, scared of being suddenly left broken and alone in such a vulnerable moment only made his hug brace you with a firmer grip, hand caressing your hair. «It’s not your fault.» he whispered to your ear, like a lullaby. «Whatever it is, it wasn’t your fault.» Loosening the hold a bit in order to look at you, he softly wiped tears off your cheek. «We’ll solve it, I promise. You’ll never have to feel like this again or do this to yourself.» «I didn’t mean to do it.» you sobbed, shaking your head in denial. «It’s okay, y/n.» Charles pulled you back into the hug. «I’m not leaving you alone.»

You woke up early, tiredness deep inside your bones. The initial plan was to go back home and spend more time with your mom, but after the day at the gym Charles had insisted you to stop by and stay at his apartment for a little while. You had hated seeing him so heartbroken and gutted for you, since it wasn’t his responsibility to take care of you; still, he had said multiple times he wanted to help you out, that he had ways, that he knew people, proving with facts that he genuinely cared. You quickly got up from bed and headed to the kitchen to have a tasteless breakfast, bitter thoughts taking over as you opened the cabinet. The cliff of uncertainty had always been your environment since the beginning, but you had never felt so close to falling as you did in that moment. You had never been that high either, so it was only natural to be afraid of stumbling down in such a position.

Putting the moka pot onto the stove, you then walked towards the window, catching a glimpse of the waking world, a thin layer of fog hugging the skyline. Your phone vibrating onto the table distracted you from contemplating. Seeing a big “Mom” written on the screen didn’t surprise you. «Hi, mom.» you greeted, with a smile. «Hi, dear! How are you doing?» You lightly nodded to yourself. «Good, I’m relaxing a bit before the final rush.» Your mom simply hummed, leaving the end silent for a few seconds. You hadn’t told her why you had refused to come back home. It was true you had simply accepted Charles’ offer, but on the other hand you were quite relieved you didn’t have to fake calm and inner peace with your mom despite being in a stressful situation. «Y/n, how is it really going? You know you can tell me anything.» Her regretful tone urged you to provide reassurances. «It’s fine, why wouldn’t it be?» «I… I’ve heard about your seat being at risk and… I don’t like to be nosy and I know that you want to be the only one worrying and being responsible for everything, but I can’t help worrying, y/n. You and your father have worked so hard for this-» «It’s just rumors, mom, don’t worry about it.» you interrupted her. «I’ve talked with the team and they’ve reassured me about the renewal of the contract.» Lie. «Really?! And you didn’t tell me?!» she almost screamed in joy. «I wanted to wait a bit because… because there’s actually a bigger team interested and Nicholas is negotiating.» Lies. Nothing but lies. «Oh darling, I’m… I’m so happy for you. I was sure people would notice your talent! You deserve all of it! Oh, I’m so glad…» «Mom, there’s no need to cry…» you said, tears forming in your eyes as well. «Of course, right.» you heard her sniff. «But thinking of everything you and dad did back then and seeing where you are now… It makes me emotional, you know?.» «Mom…» you kindly scolded her. «Okay, I’ll stop! I have to go anyway, the shop is about to open.» «Love you, mom.» «Love you more! Bye, y/n!» As you hung up, words finally started to weigh down on you, sinking your heart like rocks. You had no reason to play with your mother’s feelings only to postpone a disappointment that you couldn’t avoid anyway.

When did you become so shamelessly cruel? Which sick part of you could only imagine Alfa Romeo was willing to renew your contract and at the same time another team was striving for having you on board next season? Not even your wildest fantasy could be that delusional. How many other people did you want to let down? Why did you keep setting impossible expectations and standards? Where did your hunger of perfection stem?

The thud of a mug being placed onto the table made you turn around. Charles had woken up to the sound of your voice and followed it toward the kitchen, unintentionally eavesdropping on the conversation, and he had tried not to interrupt or make himself noticeable. After hanging up, he saw your hand reaching your temples, and he knew right away how you were feeling. Because he had done the same exact thing with his father. He knew, better than anybody else. But at the same time, you knew as well: for once in his life, Charles didn’t feel alone in his regrets, in his doubts and struggles, and could relate to someone else’s experiences and fears. The tension between the two of you had always been an invisible string pulling you close, uncovered but present, binding lives that still had to unfold and show their similarities.

Taking a mug from the cabinet in order to make himself noticed, Charles had waited for you to stare at him. You didn’t know he had been there all along, but the truth was already emerging from his expression, sweetly scolding you, as he moved a few steps towards the stove. «You know you don’t need to protect her from everything, right?» Charles said, pouring some coffee for himself. «It seems like the only option, at the moment.» You got close and served some coffee for yourself as well. «It seems, but it never is.» Charles sighed, opening another cabinet. «Do you want biscuits?»

You turned your head while walking in fast-paced steps, trying to escape his grab. Your laugh sounded like heaven, punctuated with light rain drops sliding onto Charles' tanned skin. Running to reach you, he fell in love with every detail of the moment: the chase, the heart filling up of pure joy, your teasing steps, as you stopped to let him catch up a little, only to sprint again away from him.

With the sand becoming more compact under your feet thanks to the gentle rain, Charles was gaining pace advantage over you, until he finally managed to stop the hunt, gripping your wrist; you both almost fell as you halted, laughing uncontrollably and senseless. Your breaths were heavy, but through your smiling lips they came out as a rhythmed symphony, eyes locked, matching stares brimming with happiness. Charles' hands roamed onto your arms, while yours rested upon his chest. It felt pure, magical. Timeless. Charles was the first to break the silence, looking up to the grey clouds. «We should go home.» «Should we?» you asked, enchanted by the falling drops. «I really like it here.» I do too, Charles thought to himself. «We'll get ill, if we don't. But don't worry, I have an idea for when we come back home.» His words enlightened you. «Really? What is it?» «Follow me.» he said, taking your hand into his and locking fingers, while a smile lit his face.

Passing a hand through your damp hair, you eyed Charles entering the kitchen, away from your sight, so you decided to go change your clothes. Reponing the clothes back in the wardrobe right after, you saw Charles approaching, armed with two spoons, a can and a mischievous grin. «Is it ice-cream?» you asked, surprised. «How can it be a summer holiday without ice-cream?» «You’re right.» you smiled. Before you knew it, you were sitting upon your king-sized bed, crossed legs like two kids, bending over the can placed between the two of you. «Isn't it going to wet the comforter?» you asked. Charles hummed, in thought. «I'll keep it for us, then.» he said, grabbing it and taking off the lid. Without warning, he took the first spoon of it, leaving you speechless, but getting to taste Charles' smile while he watched your reaction. «Hey, bring it here!» you said, moving near with the spoon. Stuffing a mouthful of ice-cream, you were soon surprised by the flavor. «It's hazelnut.» you thought out loud. He grinned, looking down at the can like a little kid being caught red-handed, while he took another spoon of it. «You remember, right?» The sound of the rain falling down, you two sitting in front of the other, hazelnut ice-cream, lingering eyes. «I do.» Diving the spoon back again, you only took a few millimeters of ice-cream, observing it before quickly licking it away, in thought. And Charles noticed. «Don't you like it?» «It’s the best hazel-nut ice-cream I’ve ever tried, but… We shouldn't be eating so much of it.» «But today is cheat day.» he raised a brow, sure to win with a counterattack.

Since the night he had caught you staring at your fragile body and breaking down inside his arms, the wheel of change had been set into motion: Charles had promised to do anything to help you, and he kept up with the promise. You had dumped the coach who was supposed to follow and guide you and Andrea, Charles’ athletic trainer and dear friend, had suggested you a new one whom you had liked way better just at first glance. Without even realizing it, as you spent more and more time with Charles, you began opening up to him about it and started noticing thoughts patterns you were utterly oblivious to beforehand. His presence brought comfort, trust, support and clarity in your life, as much as fears regarding your future in F1 couldn’t be subsided completely. But Charles made life so easy. He could turn ice-cream on a rainy day into the most perfect and appealing way to spend time together. The idea he had thought through it, that he knew you’d be concerned about the diet and had chosen your cheat day on purpose so that you wouldn’t have to worry, so that you could both enjoy the moment, sparkled something inside of you, a kind gratefulness, a warm joy. You would’ve crawled closer to him, cuddled with him ‘til the daylight, either laughing or saying nothing, so that all your doubts would move away like rainy clouds. «You’re right.» you said, taking another small spoon of it. «Geez, it’s too good.» you complained, humming. Charles chuckled at your heartbroken expression, ice-cream melting in your mouth.

Spa never spared itself when it came to unpredictability. The few times you had raced there when you competed in minor formulas, chaos had taken over the results, crashes and crazy overtakes being the main characters of event-packed GPs.

The forecast had announced a small chance of rain throughout the weekend, pushing every team to choose a low downforce set up; indeed, in both free practices and qualifying only a few drizzles of rain sprayed the track, nothing crazy or unforeseen, and you had managed to earn a decent position to start at for the race. However, as you had learned over the years, Spa never ceased to amaze, playing the unexpected. # The rain falling down onto the dark asphalt, making your medium tires slide throughout lap twenty-four, after a lasting and on-going, strenuous defending against the DRS train which had formed behind you, felt like pure violence. «In sector two it's pouring.» you warned your engineer. «Copy.» «What's the forecast??» you encouraged, hoping to get them to consider the situation carefully. And get them to box, possibly. «It should rain for the next twenty minutes.»

Laps chalked up, wrapping around the tires, making them even more slippery, as every driver in front and behind you disappeared inside the pit lane and left you alone on the track, struggling with grip. «Can we box?» you asked, almost with a pleading tone. «Negative, we'd like to extend this stint.» How? Are they stupid? The tires were already quite worn out and in order to stay on track with the rain you were driving inevitably slower than everyone else, hence becoming prey of undercuts. «Guys, we're losing time! It's raining too much!» Unheard. Neglected. Nobody answered. You sighed, frustrated. «Thank you.» # The pale, yellow light of the panels installed around the track, reflecting through the thick layer of pouring water, struck Charles, who started gently braking, only to hear Xavi speak to him through the radio right after. «Safety car deployed, safety car deployed! Keep the delta positive.» Charles exhaled, relaxing a bit, as well as slowing down the car. «What happened?» he asked, more out of habit than really meaning it. As he carefully drove through Pouhon, his question was automatically answered: a car was smashed against the barriers, but he couldn’t even tell whose team the car was, due to the heavy rain. «Fuck, who is it?» Charles asked his engineer, thinking how bad the impact must have been, considering how fast that specific corner was. «I-it's y/n.» Charles didn't hear. His ears could suddenly capture the sound of the waterfall of rain crashing against the track, the engine and the power unit revving behind him, the cheers of the fans around the circuit. A piercing fear rummaged inside his bones, his stomach, crawling up his heart and clenching it, unable to process the information. Not in Spa. Anywhere, but there. Anyone, but you.

«Is she okay? Did she get out? Is she hurt?» «I will let you know.» his engineer answered, as calm as he could possibly be. Charles urgently pressed the radio button once again. «No, Xavi, I need to know! Please.» «Copy, she's still in the car.» «Is there any team radio or...?» «Not at the moment, but I'll keep you updated.»

Charles stared intently at the red lights of the cars in front appearing and disappearing before his eyes through the rain. He wanted to disconnect his brain, to forget everything, to focus on the race; but there was no way he could. # «Are you okay?» your engineer said, crackled. Breathing in and out your mouth, heavy, tired, full of fear, you looked around you, unable to see anything due to the rain. You pressed the radio button to answer, but you noticed the small activating light didn't lit up in the process. The radio was gone. Still breathing erratically, you bursted out crying. Unheard. Why did they leave you on slicks, aware of the danger? Neglected. The umpteenth race thrown to the wind, when you were fighting for good and well-deserved points. Frustrated. Your cries ricocheted inside your helmet, hoping someone would hear you, hoping someone would care, hoping efforts could be rewarded, sooner or later. # «She's out of the car, she seems to be okay.» «Was she still on inters?» Charles asked his engineer, as he drove into the pitlane after the race had been red flagged. «No, she was on mediums.» Mechanics placing a gazebo upon the car to shelter him from the rain, Charles reasoned Xavi’s words, trying to make sense of them. Everyone had stopped to put intermediate tires and, right before the safety car’s deployment, a lot of drivers already had boxed for full wets. How could she possibly drive on slicks with those conditions? What sick strategy was that? No, it could only be a joke. «Mediums? Are you sure?» Charles double-checked, hoping his engineer had got confused. «Yes, y/n hasn’t pitted since the race start.» Charles’ chest filled up with a wave of rage and deep frustration, so strong he thought he wouldn’t be able to control himself and would get out the cockpit, running towards Alfa Romeo’s garage in order to ask them what their plan was, if it was an attempt to kill you or if they were fucking blind and couldn’t see the track’s conditions. He couldn’t bear it at all; not after what had happened in Spa’s rainy days, not after losing already two of his friends on track. And Charles, while drops of rain were hitting the gazebo, indifferent to the mechanics’ movement around the car, sitting still with a downpour of feelings sliding off his hands, couldn’t even process that he had just risked losing you as well. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ The fresh smell of grass and soil itched your nose, sharp and nauseous, fueling the tears gathering above your waterline. The sun was hidden behind the soft veil of clouds, casting a feeble light on the field. A valley of grey marbles cut open new wounds. Staring at it, you recalled your mother asking you to choose a picture you liked, but you immediately regretted seeing it plastered upon the grave: the happy memory behind it would've been forever merged with mourning, grief. Death.

Birds chirped from high above a tree, drowning out your mother's weeps. How do I keep them quiet?, you wondered. How to fade out the inner noise, the chaos, the pain flowing out of your eyes? You walked out. Indifferent to the eyes pointing at you, indifferent to your mom crying louder, indifferent to her sorrow, you marched towards the gate out of Hell. How were you supposed to watch your father being buried? Your dad, the one who taught you how to walk, how to race, how to love? How could you do that? How did people cope with it? How did your mother keep her composure, holding the handkerchief close to her nose so that no feeling would run out? How didn't she scream from the bottom of her lungs, losing her voice, scratching her skin with the nails, tugging at her hair while doing so? Why was everyone seamlessly indifferent to him? Why did everyone stand his death like anything normal, a simple news to be heard and forgotten? Did anyone but you love him at all? How come you were the only one devastated by it? Why did it amplify, ricocheting inside your soul, doubling, growing stronger and more unbearable?

Birds answered your sobs with a graceful melody, as a sudden ray of sun reached your shaking shoulder. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ You managed to hold your tears before the cameras, pride poking your eyes. You wouldn't give in to provocations and feed the journalists with whatever they were trying to gain from you; Charles had told you a bit about his own press experiences, he had advised you and you had agreed with each of his reflections, hence followed his suggestion. You were stronger than that, and that was something you had learned from him: he had shown and proved it to you, how you didn’t need other’s approval and validation but your own.

Still, on the verge of falling down like glass and helplessly breaking in thousands of pieces, held back by anxiety and fear, you frantically looked left and right at the media pen in search of one person only. You had waited for him until the end of the race, your assistant long gone after your interviews, but you had felt incapable of facing the pouring rain and the walk of shame twice.

You had tried to enjoy the race from a small screen inside the pen but, to pretty much everyone’s dismay, Charles had been forced out of the track after the restart caused by your crash and had ended the race tenth after running third all along. It wasn’t fair.

As soon as he stormed inside the interviews’ area, Charles halted his steps abruptly at your sight, almost about to leave the journalists hanging and bring you far away from worries and guilt. His assistant’s hand, though, reluctantly convinced him to first get done with his duties, but not without throwing a last glance at you, who still hadn’t noticed him and were searching for his appearance. Once you did, you never lost sight of him, holding onto his frustrated body language, his shrugs full of disappointment. And then it came sudden. His hurried steps, his pained eyes, the pair of arms skillfully grabbing your waist, anchoring light, firm but not too tight: it made your world crumble and shatter once for all.

You both stayed silent, as tears reached your twitching chin and Charles wetted his lips, frowning, frustration visible through his tensed features. In a matter of seconds, he was already holding your hand, guiding you far away from the chaos, dragging you out of the suffocating atmosphere. # Charles flung his room’s door open and left your hand in order to lock it. Founding yourself in a safe place, alone, you sobbed louder, letting your brows clash upward, face crumpling. As he turned and saw you, a pang to his chest, he waited for you to crush inside his embrace. What can I do?, he asked himself. What was there to say? How could he erase mistakes from the script of your life, of his own? How could he make it beautiful and happy so that no tears, no sorrow had to be shed inside your souls? «I gave everything.» you cried. «I know.» Charles said to himself, caressing your cheek. You drank in his touch, thirsty for love, but those words didn’t empty the box of sadness trapped beneath your chest. It didn't feel enough to you. «I gave everything for this, Charles.» you tried to say, voice cracking. «I…» At the sudden thought of your father, you stopped talking and cried harder, filling a deafening silence. «I know.» Charles struggled to prevent his thoughts and breaths from running, so he tried to point all his attention upon you; putting strands of hair back in place, wiping tears away, keeping your face upward and fighting against its natural tendency to drop down. But the more he looked at you, the more his own thresholds were being knocked over. «My father...» you bit your lip. «No, it's okay, y/n.» Charles immediately pulled you back into a hug. «It's okay, don't think about it.» He couldn't listen to it. He couldn't bear hearing from you to the thoughts he was trying to subside in his own mind. Every word was a stab, a crack through the wall, willing to create a breach. However, you couldn’t surrender and suffocate in his hold everything you needed to say, so you rebelled and loosened the grip. «It's not fair.» «Y/n...» he almost pleaded. «I don't deserve it. You don't deserve it, Charles! You...» you sniffed and sobbed before proceeding. «You are worth so much more than that.» You saw his irises wavering. Then, finally, a lonely tear slowly began travelling towards the side of his nose, nestling onto his skin. «I don't know what to say.» In the way his voice dropped and trembled, you knew that was the last straw.

You sat onto the couch, both at the same time, with slow movements, hands cupping each other’s faces. You were so close you couldn't tell whether the tears falling onto the leathered couch were his or yours; there was something intrinsically intimate and desperate in crying that close, in receiving each other's sobs, foreheads touching, noses brushing. There was nothing else to be said, words wouldn’t fulfill the purpose: a stronger bond, a deeper sharing replaced unsatisfying talking. Crying had never tasted so sweet and purifying. You didn't simply feel understood: you felt felt. It was two bodies and one soul, one shared fate. And as one, you both leaned in, lips connecting softly. As everything in your life, joy had chosen its place to spring amidst the storm, nurtured by the rain falling down, lacing sorrow and tears. «I love you.» Charles said. «I love you.» you said back, still crying. «I love, y/n.» Charles breathed, leaving a kiss onto the corner of your mouth. «I love you...» he kept repeating, as a prayer, peppering kisses all over your face and then sealing his words onto your lips once more, hands holding your face as the dearest and most fragile flower of the world. «I love you so much.» you whispered. A smile crossed his face broken by sadness and mended it, like trails of gold gluing splinters of a vase.

«We shouldn't do it here.» you said, breathless. Charles leaned in and stole another kiss from your lips, which you were completely unable to resist, hands unconsciously pulling him even closer. As he broke the contact painstakingly slowly, about to smirk, Charles stopped only a few centimeters away from your face. «Sure? You seem to like it.» You jokingly patted his shoulder as you both smiled at each other, getting your bodies the farthest they had been in ten minutes. Sat upon a chest of drawers belonging to Charles’ preparation room, you stared at him, tracing with the sight his perfect features, the fireproof shirt draping him and clinging onto his skin, fingers playing with his bracelets, while you twisted the charm of the necklace he had gifted you, and you then gazed at his rosy lips, so bright and tempting. He joined your hand and caressed the charm, only to close the gap between you two once again.

You had never made out with anyone so sweetly, so tenderly, going at a gentle pace, careful of vulnerabilities and wounds, lust being replaced by a soft yearning. A bloom of butterflies spread all over your body whenever Charles' hands unexpectedly moved, making you discover angles of skin you didn't even know you had, seeking refuge in the comforting warmth of his kisses. «We need to go...» you tried to dissuade him after he began leaving quick pecks from the corner of your mouth down to your neck. «Just five more minutes.» he moaned, still caught in his tantalizing kisses. «My mom is waiting for me, Charles...» you laughed. «Mine is too.» he briefly replied, without letting his lips stray from your skin. «Another reason to go greet them.» Charles looked at you, inhaling as to refrain from kissing you again. «Fine.» he sighed. «Let's go. I also have a gift for you.» «Really?» Charles wiped your cheek as your whole face lit in joy. «Yes. But let's get out of here quickly, please.» he pleaded, smiling. # «There you are!» your mom exclaimed, gesturing towards you and Charles walking in, a shy smile as you stood a little bit too close to him. «I thought you had forgotten about us.» Pascale teased, following with the sight his son, who reached a bag abandoned on the floor and approached the three of you once again. «Early Christmas!» Charles handed a package to your mom, who opened her eyes wide, one to Pascale and, lastly, one to you. «That’s so nice of you! Can I open it??» your mom asked, thrilled. «Sure!» Charles smiled. You watched her unwrapping the paper with excitement, gaping as soon as she recognized the jacket your father wore in the photograph she was holding. «When did you take this picture?» Pascale joyfully asked, staring at the same framed photo your mom had. «Must’ve been a long time ago.» your mom said, smiling, but voice low. «Thank you so very much, Charles!» «It was y/n’s idea to print a copy for you.» he added, willing to point out the thoughtfulness was all yours. Blushing a bit, you looked up at him, fluttered. «C’mon, open yours.» Charles gently encouraged you, speaking in a lower tone. But there was no surprise: it was, indeed, the cut-out picture you had talked about, with you two only. You had expected it to be funny, a photo you two would laugh at; however, as Charles’ hand joined yours in holding the frame and stared at the picture with you, out of the blue you sensed a soft and delicate aura you hadn’t perceived the first time, as if Arthur had caught you in an intimate moment no one should’ve seen or disturbed, inside a bubble of innocence and sweetness.

Pascale and your mother felt the same way looking at you two being lost in gaze, both holding the frame, so close to each other, and smiling like two idiots. «Can we see it?» Pascale asked after an awkwardly long silence. The spell being broken, you both tilted your head up at the question. «Of course!» you stuttered, handing it over. Your mom couldn’t help but flip her eyes between you and Charles, searching for the invisible string tying the two of you. «Who would’ve thought you would meet again…» Pascale commented, handing the frame back to you. Those words warmed Charles’ heart up, as memories of the last months played in his head: it was more than simply meeting again. It was bonding, connecting on a deeper level without really knowing why, the same way you had done that rainy day; taking care of each other, supporting through hardships and enjoying little, special moments together. It didn’t feel real. And deep down, recalling his feelings on that first time you met, he had known something was different about you from the beginning. He definitely hadn’t seen the beautiful ending coming, both falling in love with each other. But he loved every second of it. # As you walked back to the hotel in your mother’s company, she looked back at the pictures Charles had given you. «You seem really happy, y/n.» A bit taken aback by the statement, you glanced at her, trying to read into her words. «I am.» you smiled, genuinely content. «Is it because of Charles?» she asked. You diverted the gaze, pressing your lips together in an attempt to hide the grin that was about to light up your face. You had never felt so comfortable around anyone, protected by the harshness of the sport, free to be yourself, loving and loved. It didn’t feel real. For the first time in years, your mother didn’t fear leaving you deal alone with your life in the majority of your trips all over the world: she didn’t have to silently check over and worry about your health, both physical and mental, because she clearly saw happiness written inside your eyes, and she had acknowledged you weren’t alone. «Maybe.» you rushed, with a mischievous grin, shrugging your shoulders. «Does he make you feel good?» At the question, your father immediately came to mind: you overlayed the feelings you had from happy memories in his company with some of the ones you’d had with Charles, and a suffused bliss permeated the both of them, almost blurring into each other. You smiled, joyfully nostalgic. «Yes, he does.»

When you received the call on Saturday evening, the bubble of happiness you had been trying to live in for a while plopped before your eyes. In silence, staring at the void, you replayed Bravi’s words in your head over and over again, in search of the deeper meaning hidden beyond those. Talking about the contract the day before a race, and not any, but Monza, which was pretty much home for the team, put you on the edge more than it would’ve normally. It must be serious, you thought.

Exiting the hotel, you saw Charles still caught signing and spending time with fans after the stellar pole position he had taken in the afternoon; you tried not to get noticed, which you managed to do successfully, and sneaked out heading to the track. # «Hi, y/n. Please, sit down.» You never stopped looking at him, watching every movement, fathoming the desk for signals and signs onto eventual sheets of paper that offered clues. «There’s a race tomorrow.» «I know. What about it?» he asked, baffled. You deeply inhaled. «You shouldn’t make huge decisions before a race, since it could affect the results of it.» «Do you think I would do that if I knew it could deny us the chance to confirm the P5 you conquered in qualifying today?» «I don’t know.» you shrugged. Bravi backed down onto the chair and reached a drawer, picking up a folder from it and placing it in front of you. «Audi is scoping the surroundings to find drivers suitable for the team and have them experienced and ready for its debut in the 2026 season. As you can imagine, it’s hard to sign contracts with drivers who are still under other teams and whose futures are still uncertain, so… they decided to take a look inside their own garden and, apart from the mistakes you’ve done due to inexperience, they were pleasantly impressed by your performance as a rookie.» Gently smiling at your loss of words, Alessandro kept talking. «They would offer a three-years contract, so that you would be part of the team throughout the transition to Audi as well and would be driving, of course, in 2026. To be fair, the contract looks more like a 1+2, since they still need to evaluate you next year… But it’s an incredible offer nonetheless, y/n.» He moved the folder towards you with his fingertips. «You can examine the contract with Todt, but please note that you have two weeks to either sign or refuse the offer.» Here it was. The passport to your dreams, the chance of your life being renewed in ways you had never even dared to imagine. What had you done to deserve it? You stopped that trail of thoughts immediately: you had worked so hard, you had been on the edge for months, reaping success but failures as well, partly dictated by the stress of the situation you found yourself in. Still, you had learned from it, you had improved, and everybody knew it, Audi knew it. It was time to let go of doubts, to judge and see yourself the same way others did, without dwelling on the negatives. What did you need to do in order to prove you deserved it? How could you turn that news into grateful motivation? There was only one answer. «We’ll have it.» you said. «We’ll have that P5.» # «Good morn- fuck, it’s 9.20.» Charles growled, one hand still wrapped around your waist, the other one checking the time on his phone. «Good morning to you too.» you chirped, turning around to face him and greet him with a quick peck on the lips. You saw Charles slightly frowning with a smile. «You seem really happy.» «I am.» you admitted, looking down. Adjusting a strand of your hair, he took the opportunity to lean in and kiss you; then, tender, he brushed the tips of your noses in a slowly intimate awakening gesture. «Is it for the race?» he asked. You raised your eyes up, in thought, then shook your head with a pout. «Is it… because of me?» Charles smirked before bursting in a loud laugh, downplaying his own suggestion. «Partly.» you answered, coquettish. «Then what is it?» he asked, wrapping his arms around your body and bringing it closer to him, still grinning. You diverted your gaze, smiling both at the thought of Audi’s offer and Charles’ curiosity. «I can’t tell you yet.» Disappointed but playful, Charles gently loosened his hold on you. «Why not?» «It’s not official.» you giggled.

He studied your expression with challenging eyes, then suddenly got on top of you, placing his hands at the sides of your head, so that you were trapped down between his detective stare and the pillow. «So, now… What’s this unofficial thing that’s making you so giggly and happy?» «Charles, I haven’t even talked with Nicholas about it…» As he widened his eyes in surprise, only in that moment, you realized you had just slipped up mentioning you two’s manager. «Did Alfa renew you??» Charles urged, now more serious. «Kind of.» you replied, nonchalant. «Audi offered me a three-years contract. But, you know, they still have the chance to drop me at the end of next year, so…» «And did you sign?» Charles asked. «No, as I told you I still need to read the contract and evaluate it. But let’s be real, I don’t think I’m getting a better offer in two weeks…» you laughed. «I still can’t believe they’ve chosen me.» «They did it because you deserve it. You’re talented, hard-working and you managed to achieve results the team hasn’t seen in years.» he said. «Also, despite some stupid journalists, fans support you and love you because they can see how much passion you put into driving, and everybody knows you are so…» «So?» you waited for him to end the sentence. «… Lovable.» «This doesn’t seem like a very technical comment, Mr Leclerc.» you laughed, patting his chest. «Was I supposed to be technical?» he asked, slowly bending down to slowly press his lips at the base of your jaw, right under the ear. «No, you weren’t, but still.» you said, caressing his hair as he pulled away.

He took a few seconds to stare at you, trying to read your expression. «Does it add pressure for today’s race?» he asked, his tone low, gentle, almost careful. «No.» you answered, lost in thought. «They made the offer before today’s results, so that just motivates me even more for the race.» «I’m so happy for you.» he added with a smile, getting close to give you a proper kiss. «And for us.» Confused, you raised a brow as he settled back to your side. «Waking up with you before free practice, warming up together ahead of qualifying… Making out to get ready for the race…» As he ended the list smugly, you pat his shoulder, earning his heaven laughter. «Travelling the world with you and sharing the passion that brought us together. Doing life with you, going at the same pace. Quite literally.» At the pun, you couldn’t help but cackle. «Don’t laugh, you’re quick with that little Alfa.» he pointed out. «Little Alfa? Are we so insignificant to you?» you joked, still laughing. «Of course not.»

You laid facing yourselves, both your pair of hands brushing, tracing with featherlike weight each other’s features, insatiable of touching, of closeness, of intimacy. No words were needed: silence was enough for you to communicate and bond, while everything else cluttered a background you didn’t even pay attention to. You had never experienced anything like it, and it was the best feeling you’d ever had. «Should we get up?» you whispered, scared to break the dreamy atmosphere. «We still have a bit of time.» Charles said, caressing your forearm. «Okay.» you smiled, completely content with cuddling in bed for a little bit more. «Okay.» he murmured. # «Safety car in this lap, y/n.» «Copy.» Waving on the straight before the Parabolica in order to put your front tires into temperature, you mentally assessed the situation. Rolling start. Four laps ‘til the end. Still P5.

You’d been extremely lucky the safety car had been deployed: you had stopped to put hard tires quite early in the race and your rear had been slipping for the last couple of laps, facilitating the comeback of Russel, who had been behind you all along, but at a safe distance. Among the sea of information your engineer had provided, one thought prevailed: let’s bring it home. # Smoke. All you were able to see was a whitish cloud of burned rubber, which entered your nostrils and made you inhale the smell of fear, danger but, most importantly, of victory. You quickly realized Perez had suffered a huge lock up braking towards turn 1: he ended up into Carlos’ rear, which caused the Spaniard to strike Verstappen as well, who was taking the outer side of the chicane to oppose Charles at the inside. An absolute carnage you didn’t expect, and that you managed to avoid.

Driving through Curva Grande, you checked your mirrors waiting for one of those cars to appear once again, to no avail. «Russel behind, at 1.5» your engineer warned. «What about the mess in turn one?» you asked, breathing heavily. «They are in the middle of the group, but they all have damage, so they’re either stopping or retiring. No need to worry about them.» «No red flag?» you questioned, scared of how big the risk would be for you if another restart was needed. «No, they managed to keep going, it’s okay.» your engineer tried to reassure you. But you couldn’t believe it. Charles’ car was ahead of you, leading the race, and you followed pretty close, despite clearly not having the same pace as the Ferrari did, in second place. # Time had taught Charles there were different tastes of happiness. To be fair, the one he had tried the most had the pinch of bitterness and loss in it, a much-demanded karmic price but probably not a sufficient reward for suffering. Whenever sadness laced joy, tangling its dark tails around the golden rush, feelings doubled and echoed louder inside Charles’ chest, a nostalgic symphony resonating all over, marking memories with the indelible sign, every time. But not that day.

He crossed the finish line waving in delight to celebrate his win in Monza, fans roaring strong enough to rock the world, a rude red awakening of passion. It felt right, deserved, earned: shared with the explosive energy of Tifosi. And shared with you.

Looking in his mirrors and seeing your Alfa made his beating heart swell in excitement and thrill, unable to fully process what was happening. Charles, being himself, would’ve loved fighting on track for the lead, in Monza, but he knew as well that his pace advantage was unfair and such a fantasy was unrealistic. Though, through the lap of honor, waving at the grandstands, he frantically searched for your car and slowed down in order to proceed side by side, grinning with his whole eyes, raising a thumb towards you with might. It felt like happiness lacing happiness, gold upon gold, far from being sickening, burning brighter than the sun.

Down the pitlane, he got out, standing on the nose of the car, throwing a fist to the sky as a loud roar followed his gesture in cheer. He ran, faster than he could, and threw himself inside the mechanics’ embrace and pats, sharing the rush and the adrenaline after achieving the dream win. His name, like a chant, echoed through the crowd, numbing his senses and unlocking the secret drawer of emotions to open and overflow, pour down as warm rain nurturing the soil of his heart. «Charles, here! Please, Charles!» the photographers asked for his attention. In vain. He had turned his head behind, searching for you, and he had found you: still sitting inside the cockpit, visor opened, hands reaching your eyes. It took nothing else for his feet to carry him next to you and lean down, touching your shoulder with love, and he smiled. You were shedding tears of happiness. «Congratulations for your first podium. You were amazing.» he tried to let you know through the helmet. You stared at him, incapable of speaking. You wanted to congratulate him as well, you needed to express your love and affection and pride so much, yet felt speechless. So, instead of talking, you started unfastening your helmet, and Charles involuntarily mirrored your movements. And as your balaclava freed your hair from its protection and you stood up gripping the halo with one hand, you did the only thing you were able to do: you pulled Charles close into a kiss. Your intention was for it to be quick, a simple and fast peck placed onto his lips in sign of gratitude; though, you didn’t feel surprised as you felt his arm wrapping around your waist to hold you up, deepening a kiss which was meant to be brief.

You both didn’t pay attention to the loud whistles, you were too lost into each other’s embrace; foreheads tenderly touching, rosy cheeks after an intense race, you two couldn’t help but grin, catching breaths. «I love you.» you whispered. «I love you more.» he replied, not as whispered, almost aiming to be heard, willing to let the entire world know. And he showed. Offering his hand to help you get out the cockpit, after you had just put down your feet to the ground, adrenaline still running high, Charles lifted you off bride-style and twirled around, both giggling. Wiping off a tear and chuckling at the same time, you held your arms around his neck when Charles reached the interviews’ area and brought you back down.

Russel was still ecstatic and thrilled narrating his race while you and Charles faced each other, silently exchanging affectionate stares and speaking a few words. «I’m so happy for you, gosh… You won, Charles!» you said, unable to contain excitement. «It was hard, but it feels so good.» he exhaled, shutting his eyes in a tired and relieved motion. «And you don’t even know how special it is to share this win with you on the podium as well.» he added, caressing your cheek.

Up from your podium step, the sea of people flooding the track, the flags, the giant prancing horse pulsing in front of you was the scenery of a movie playing all years as a ritual, but you felt like it was the first time ever seeing it: the afternoons spent on the couch watching F1 with your father suddenly disappeared, leaving room for astonishment and the childish curiosity of toddlers before the amazing simplicity of the things. Once you were handed the cup, feeling everybody’s eyes on you, especially Charles’ next to you, you raised the trophy to the sky, the crowd cheering for you. Among the choir of chants, voices, screaming Charles’ name, in that ocean of faces, in the clouds above the track, everything reminded you of your dad, and you could hear him cheering in joy for you.

Champagne already flying up in the air and drenching confetti falling down, Charles knew exactly what you were thinking as soon as he caught you scanning your surroundings, a bit lost in the overflowing feelings. He raised the champagne bottle forward, waiting for yours to join in a celebration toast. Off guard, Charles started spraying champagne all over you, engaging in an endless war nobody could enter or halt, no chance to interfere or dissuade you. You had your secret motives to celebrate; and you would both keep dancing under liquid gold until your arms got tired of holding, until your eyes got tired of staring, until your lips got tired of kissing. Until your hearts got tired of loving.

I'm really sorry if there are typos or mistakes, but it was really hard to revise such a long fic. Hope you'll be understanding 🥺 THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! ♥ I’D REALLY APPRECIATE IT IF YOU LEFT A NOTE FOR FEEDBACK, SO THANKS IF YOU DO! HOPE YOU HAVE A NICE DAY! . · ˚✧

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