#LeClerc

[mrsfancyferrari]

A Lover's Touch Pt 3

Summary: In a world of where soulmates can be found easily, Charles was struggling a lot to find his one. PT 3

Song: Brent Faiyaz - ALL MINE

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 4

Author’s note: Guys believe me when I said this chapter was supposed to be the last one but the stupid 1,000 text block made me not to! The FINAL one will come this week!! 😭 Please like, reblog and share this 🫶!!

Taglist: @finnishfrom1999, @sinofwriting, @scriptedinkbyxim, @unknownmystery22, @suns3treading, @4-ln4, @vyctorya, @lovebeinaprincessworld, @widow-cevans, @waywardpersonwerewolf, @freyathehuntress, @obxstiles, @tiffanyae123-blog, @uhcalli, @aileeincomplexity, @respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog, @donteventry-itdude, @leclrcg, @sabrinaselina55, @pandora108, @aykxz98, @tabisswag, @ln4girlie

Word count: 26.1k

MASTERLIST - F1

The harsh, fluorescent light of your phone screen burned into your retinas. 6:00 AM. Ugh. You groaned, burying your face further into the plush duvet.

Mark, your ever-enthusiastic cameraman, was already buzzing around like a caffeinated hummingbird, adjusting the lighting and positioning the camera for the perfect "waking up" shot.

He was practically vibrating with excitement. You, on the other hand, were clinging to the last vestiges of sleep like a lifeline.

"Ready when you are!" he chirped, his voice annoyingly cheerful for this ungodly hour.

You peeled your eyelids open with effort, forcing a semblance of alertness onto your face. This was it. Attempt number three at looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at an hour when you felt more like a grumpy cave troll. You mentally ran through the script.

"Hello guys," you began, forcing a smile that felt tighter than a drum. "Since you all loved the first part, Ferrari decided to let us do another part."

You stretched dramatically, trying to sell the illusion of a well-rested human being. "It's currently 6:00 AM, which is the time that Charles wakes up. I hate this already," you mumbled the last part under your breath, hoping the microphone didn't pick it up.

Mark gave you a thumbs up and you finally dragged yourself out of bed. The luxurious silk pajamas felt like a cruel joke. You would trade them for sweatpants and another hour of sleep in a heartbeat.

Mark followed you around the apartment as you stumbled towards the bathroom. The camera lens felt like a judgmental eye, scrutinizing every tired twitch and sleepy blink.

You splashed cold water on your face, hoping to shock your system into action. Brushing your teeth felt like a monumental task.

You changed into your gym clothes – a sleek black sports bra and leggings – trying to remind yourself that this was "work" and not some form of elaborate torture.

"Looking good!" Mark said, giving you an encouraging nod as you emerged from the bedroom. "Ready to head over to Charles's place?"

You sighed, grabbing your keys and sunglasses. "As I'll ever be," you muttered.

The drive was a blur of pre-dawn gloom and the lingering scent of sleep in the car. You tried to pump yourself up, reminding yourself that this was a fantastic opportunity.

Working with Ferrari, even in this somewhat ridiculous capacity, was a dream come true. And, if you were being honest with yourself (which you weren't, not yet), the prospect of spending more time with Charles Leclerc, the Monegasque racing prodigy, was… appealing.

You pulled up to Charles's modern apartment building and parked the car. Mark was already out, filming the building and narrating in his annoyingly upbeat tone.

You took a deep breath and plastered on another smile. This was showtime.

You straightened your clothes and walked towards the entrance, Mark trailing behind you like a persistent shadow.

You rang the doorbell and waited, your heart doing a nervous little tap dance in your chest.

The door swung open, revealing Charles Leclerc himself. He was even more impossibly handsome in person than he was on TV.

His hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd just rolled out of bed (unlike you, who had manufactured the "just woke up" look).

And then you saw him. A miniature dachshund, a sausage-shaped blur of energy, barreled towards you.

"Leo!" Charles said, a genuine smile spreading across his face.

Leo, the aforementioned sausage-shaped blur, jumped up on you, his little tail wagging furiously. You instinctively knelt down, burying your face in his soft fur.

He licked your face enthusiastically, a wet and slobbery greeting.

"Well, hello there," you said, laughing. "You're a very enthusiastic little guy, aren't you?"

Leo clearly approved of you. He was now trying to climb into your lap, a feat that his short legs were finding difficult to accomplish.

Charles chuckled, stepping aside to let you in. "He's always excited to see new people. Especially if they give him attention."

"He's adorable," you said, scratching Leo behind the ears. "I've always wanted a dachshund."

Charles led you into his apartment, a sleek and minimalist space with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of Monaco. Mark was already filming, capturing every detail of the scene.

"So, what's on the agenda for today?" you asked, trying to sound professional and not like a starstruck fan meeting her idol's dog.

"Well," Charles said, rubbing the back of his neck, "I usually start my day with a workout. Then maybe a bit of practice on the simulator. And then… whatever else my schedule throws at me."

"Sounds… intense," you said, trying to imagine yourself keeping up with that regimen.

"It is," Charles admitted. "But it's also what I love."

Leo, sensing a lull in the attention, nudged your hand with his nose. You obliged, giving him another scratch.

"So," you said, turning to the camera with a forced smile. "Looks like we're going to be spending the day with Charles, seeing what it takes to be a Formula 1 driver. First up, workout time!"

The next few hours were a whirlwind of exercise, simulator practice, and awkward attempts at conversation. You struggled to keep up with Charles's workout routine, feeling your muscles burn and your lungs scream for mercy.

he simulator was even more challenging. You crashed into every wall imaginable, earning a series of amused glances from Charles.

The whole time, Mark was filming, capturing every bead of sweat, every clumsy movement, every awkward silence.

You tried to maintain a professional demeanor, but it was hard to ignore the fact that you were spending the day with one of the most famous athletes in the world.

As the day wore on, however, you started to relax. Charles, despite his fame and success, was surprisingly down-to-earth. He was funny, intelligent, and genuinely passionate about his sport.

You found yourself laughing at his jokes, asking him questions about racing, and even offering him some (hopefully) insightful commentary on his simulator performance.

Leo, of course, was a constant presence, demanding attention and providing much-needed comic relief.

After the grueling workout and simulator session, the scent of something delicious began to waft through the apartment. You followed your nose to the kitchen, where Charles was busy at the stove.

He'd rolled up the sleeves of his form-fitting t-shirt, revealing taut forearms dotted with a light dusting of hair. The sight of him cooking was unexpectedly tantalizing.

You'd always had a thing for a man who could handle his business in the kitchen.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "But I figured we'd earned a decent lunch. I hope you like pasta. It's one of my specialties."

"I love pasta," you said, trying not to drool. "What are you making?"

"My mom's recipe," he replied, a hint of pride in his voice. "Spaghetti alle vongole. It's a classic from Monaco."

You watched, entranced, as he expertly chopped garlic and chili peppers, tossed them in sizzling olive oil, and added a splash of white wine. The clinking of pans and the sizzle of the garlic filled the room with a symphony of domestic bliss.

The scent of the sea mingled with the fragrant garlic and peppers, making your stomach rumble.

As you took a seat at the kitchen counter, you noticed the way his biceps flexed as he stirred the pasta, the muscles in his back rippling with each movement.

The clinking of plates and the sound of Charles's footsteps grew closer, bringing you back to reality.

He slid a steaming plate of pasta in front of you, the clams glistening and the sauce a perfect balance of briny and spicy. You took a bite and moaned in pleasure. It was heavenly.

"This is amazing," you said, your eyes closing in delight. "You could be a chef if you weren't a racer."

He chuckled, serving himself a plate as well. "Thanks, I enjoy cooking. It's a good way to unwind."

You both dug in, the silence between you now comfortable rather than strained. You found yourself asking him questions about his life outside of racing, and he was surprisingly open.

He spoke of his love for cooking, his family back home, and his passion for extreme sports. With each shared anecdote, the wall between you grew thinner, and the attraction grew stronger.

The meal was a delightful dance of flavors, the spicy bite of the chili melding with the salty kiss of the sea from the clams.

You watched as Charles twirled his pasta with the ease of a native Italian, his eyes lighting up with every bite. He was a man who enjoyed life, who reveled in the simple pleasures.

It was infectious.

As you ate, your legs brushed against his under the counter, sending a jolt of electricity through you. You tried to ignore it, focusing on the food and the conversation.

But with each accidental touch, the air grew charged, the tension palpable.

You weren't sure if it was the adrenaline from the workout, the intimacy of sharing a meal, or just the sheer proximity of his body, but something was happening.

You took a sip of wine, trying to cool the heat that was building in your core. Your eyes met his and held for a moment longer than they should have.

His gaze was intense, searching. You swallowed hard, wondering if he could hear the erratic beating of your heart. The room seemed to shrink, the only sound the clinking of silverware against ceramic.

Leo, ever the opportunist, hopped up on the counter, his little nose sniffing the air hopefully. You laughed, breaking the tension, and Charles handed him a clam.

The dog devoured it in one swift move, looking up at you with a goofy grin.

"So," Charles said, setting his fork down. "Ready for the rest of the day?"

You nodded, trying to ignore the way your heart was racing. You had a job to do, and getting involved with the subject of your story was definitely not part of the script.

But as the afternoon stretched out before you, it became increasingly difficult to maintain that professional distance.

As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the gleaming cityscape outside, Charles checked his watch and stood up, the leather strap of his Rolex catching the light.

"We have a Ferrari event to attend tonight," he said, his voice a gentle reminder of the world outside his apartment. "It's a charity gala. You're more than welcome to come along."

Your heart sank. An event. In the evening. With fancy people and flashing cameras and expectations of elegance. And you had absolutely nothing to wear.

"I don't have a dress," you blurted out, feeling more than a little embarrassed.

He raised an eyebrow. "No problem," he said, with a smile that was somehow both mischievous and reassuring. "I'm sure we can find something."

Before you could protest, he was already on the phone, speaking rapid-fire in Italian. You heard the words "abito" and "serata" and knew you were in for a surprise.

A few hours later, you found yourself in a luxury boutique, surrounded by garments that cost more than your last three paychecks combined.

Charles had insisted on taking you shopping, his confidence in his ability to find you the perfect dress unshakable. You felt like Cinderella, if Cinderella had been a slightly awkward journalist with a penchant for sweatpants and a fear of high heels.

The shop assistant, a sleek woman with a sharp bob, brought out a selection of dresses, each more stunning than the last.

You tried on gown after gown, each one feeling more like a costume than something you'd ever wear in real life. Too tight, too short, too revealing. Nothing felt quite right.

And then you saw it. A floor-length number in a deep, midnight blue that made your eyes pop. The fabric was soft and flowing, with just the right amount of sparkle to catch the light without making you look like a disco ball.

It was elegant, sophisticated, and somehow still felt like you. The shop assistant held it up against you, her eyes gleaming with hope.

"Let's try this one," Charles said, his voice low and encouraging.

You slipped into the dressing room with the midnight blue dress, feeling both hopeful and apprehensive. The fabric whispered against your skin as you stepped into the gown, the coolness of the material a stark contrast to the warmth of the day.

The zipper glided up your back, hugging you in a way that was surprisingly comforting. As you stepped out, you caught your reflection in the mirror.

The dress clung to your curves in a way that was flattering without being vulgar, the neckline a tasteful plunge that showed just enough to be alluring without screaming 'try-hard'.

"Well?" Charles called from outside, his voice a mix of excitement and anticipation.

You took a deep breath, letting the fabric swish around your ankles as you stepped out. His eyes widened, a smile playing on his lips. "It's perfect," he said, his voice a soft rumble.

The way he looked at you made you feel like you could conquer the world in that dress. The shop assistant nodded in agreement, her earlier skepticism replaced by a knowing smile.

"But what if I trip?" you asked, suddenly aware of the towering heels that came with the ensemble.

"Then I'll catch you," he said, his tone light but his gaze intense.

The gala was a blur of flashing lights and hushed conversations. You clung to Charles's arm, feeling like a fish out of water among the glittering sea of socialites and celebrities.

He navigated the room with ease, introducing you as his "special guest" with a wink that made your cheeks flush. The dress felt like a second skin, moving with you as you sipped champagne and pretended to know what you were doing.

The evening grew later, and the air grew heavier with the promise of something more. You found yourself drawn to the balcony, the cool night air a welcome relief from the stifling heat inside.

You leaned against the railing, watching the lights of Monaco twinkle like a million stars.

"You look stunning," Charles said, appearing beside you. He was dressed in a tuxedo that made him look like a Greek god, his hair slicked back, and his eyes dark with desire.

You took a sip of champagne, the bubbles tickling your nose. "Thank you," you murmured. "For the dress, for the invite, for today."

He leaned closer, the heat of his body radiating against yours. "It's been my pleasure," he said, his breath warm against your cheek. "But the night isn't over yet."

You didn't care that Mark was still recording in the background. You didn't care that you were supposed to be maintaining a professional boundary. You didn't care about the prying eyes or the potential scandal.

"My mother still calls you her savior," Charles said, his voice low and gruff, his eyes filled with a heat that seemed to burn through the fabric of your dress.

It had been a fluke, really – you just happened to be nearby, and your quick thinking had made all the difference.

"It's nothing," you said, brushing off the compliment with a self-deprecating smile. You took another sip of champagne, the bubbles dancing on your tongue, feeling the warmth spread through your chest.

"It's not nothing," Charles insisted, his hand finding yours on the railing. "You saved her life."

The weight of his words hit you like a freight train. You'd never thought of it that way before. You'd been in the right place at the right time, sure, but to hear him say it, with such conviction, made your chest tighten. You felt a lump form in your throat, the reality of the situation sinking in.

"I don't know what to say," you whispered, your eyes searching his.

His thumb traced lazy circles on the back of your hand. "How about 'let's get out of here early'?"

You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the truth in his eyes. He wasn't just being polite or trying to make small talk. He wanted this night to be about you, not the glitz and glamour of the event. "Are you sure?"

He nodded, his gaze never leaving yours. "Really. This event is for you, Charles. Don't leave here because of me."

Surprise flickered in his eyes, and for a moment, you weren't sure if you'd overstepped.

But then his grip on your hand tightened, and he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your neck. "You're right," he murmured. "Let's go."

The cool evening air outside was a shock to your system after the stifling heat of the gala. The noise of the party faded into a distant murmur as Charles led you away from the throngs of people.

Mark trailed behind, his camera still rolling, capturing the two of you as you moved towards the sleek Ferrari parked a few feet away. The car gleamed like a jewel under the soft glow of the streetlights, a stark contrast to the shadowy alley it was nestled in.

Charles opened the passenger door with a flourish, the scent of leather and the faint hint of his cologne wafting out. You slid in, the dress whispering against the leather seat.

He closed the door gently, the soft thud echoing through the quiet night. The moment felt intimate, the rest of the world fading away as he circled the car and slid into the driver's seat.

Mark hovered outside, his camera a silent sentinel as he documented the end of your public evening. You offered a small, private smile for the lens, a silent nod to the unspoken agreement that had formed between the three of you.

As Charles slammed the door shut, the sound reverberated through the quiet alley, a declaration of intent.

Mark, ever the professional, got in the back of the car without a word, his camera still rolling. You turned to face him, the dress's neckline dipping just low enough to tease.

"Ready to get the real story, Mark?" You winked, and he grinned back, his eyes sparkling with excitement. You knew he wouldn't miss this opportunity for anything.

The engine roared to life, and Charles pulled away from the curb with a smoothness that made you feel like you were floating. The vibrations of the powerful machine beneath you sent a thrill through your body, a delicious precursor to what was to come.

The wind played with your hair, tugging at the loose strands that had escaped from your updo. You felt alive, every nerve ending singing with anticipation.

"How did you like that?" Charles asked, his eyes flicking towards you for a brief moment before returning to the road. His question was a double entendre that sent a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed hard, the taste of champagne still lingering on your tongue. "The event?" you asked, playing dumb, your voice a little breathless.

"Mmhmm," he said, his eyes locked on the road ahead, but his smirk told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

You took a deep breath, the leather of the Ferrari seat cool against your skin. The dress felt like a second layer of sensation, caressing you with each shift of the car's movement.

"The event was fine," you said, playing along, "but I think the best part was the drinks."

Charles, ever the charming driver, flashed you a grin, the pearly white of his teeth a stark contrast against his tanned skin.

He glanced at you for a split second before turning his attention back to navigating the throng of reporters. "Really? Not my company?"

You leaned back against the plush leather of the car, a mischievous glint in your eyes that hopefully wouldn't be caught by the cameras.

"Yeah, it could be better," you teased, knowing the playful banter would translate well on social media.

Charles scoffed, a playful sound that didn't quite mask the hint of amusement. He knew you were just joking, playing your part. But something about the way his eyes lingered on you for that brief moment sent a little flutter through your chest.

You ignored it, chalking it up to exhaustion and the sheer adrenaline of the day.

The drive back to Charles' Monaco apartment was relatively quiet. The city lights blurred into streaks of color, painting the night sky with a vibrant, chaotic beauty. You replayed the day in your head.

The carefully curated Instagram stories, the perfectly timed tweets, the candid (but strategically planned) behind-the-scenes glimpses. You were a master of your craft, building a brand, crafting an image.

Once you arrived at his apartment, there was a comfortable understanding between the three of you (Charles, the cameraman Mark and yourself). You retreated to the guest bathroom to change.

You had packed a roomy jumper and sweatpants, craving the feeling of unrestricted comfort. You peeled off the restrictive dress, feeling the cool air against your skin.

The dress, beautiful as it was, felt like a costume you were eager to shed.

Moments later, clad in your comfortable clothes, you stepped out to find Charles had also changed. He was sporting a worn hoodie and sweatpants, looking remarkably relaxed.

Mark had also changed since he still had to record the two of us since the whole day wasn't over yet. Just a few hours left to go, Mark said in the car.

You sank into the plush sofa, letting out a sigh of contentment. A fluffy ball of blonde fur launched itself onto your lap. Leo kneaded his paws into your thighs, barking loudly. You automatically started petting him, scratching him behind the ears.

“There is my favourite company,” you stated, a genuine smile finally gracing your lips.

Charles chuckled, leaning back against the sofa. "He's a good judge of character," he said, his eyes meeting yours.

You felt that flutter again, that familiar warmth spreading through your chest. You busied yourself with Leo, burying your face in his soft fur, hoping Charles wouldn't notice the sudden flush creeping up your neck.

"So," Charles began, breaking the comfortable silence. "Successful day, I think. The fans seemed to like it."

"Definitely," you agree, pulling out your phone. You scroll through the comments on the latest Instagram post, a video montage of Charles practicing on the simulator. "Everyone loves seeing the behind-the-scenes stuff. It makes you more relatable."

Charles frowns slightly. "Relatable?"

"Yeah. Like you're not just a Formula 1 driver, but a person. You know, someone who plays video games and cuddles with his dog," you explained, still focused on your phone.

"And has a social media manager who tells him how to be relatable," he adds, a teasing tone in his voice.

You look up from your phone, meeting his gaze. "Hey, it's my job!"

"I know, I know," he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "And you're very good at it."

"Thank you," you say, a little flustered by his easy compliment. "Anyways let's get to the questions that the fans want answered."

You clear your throat and open a document on your phone, neatly organized with the most frequently asked questions from his various social media platforms.

"Okay, first up: 'Charles, what's your favorite thing to do in Monaco when you're not racing?'" you read aloud.

He leans back in his seat, considering. "Hmm, that's a good one. Probably just relaxing at home, playing the piano, or going for a swim in the sea."

You nod, typing furiously on your phone. "Okay, great. Next: 'What's your pre-race ritual?'"

He chuckles. "That's a secret," he says, his eyes twinkling.

"Come on, Charles! Give the people what they want!" you protest playfully.

He sighs dramatically. "Fine, fine. I always listen to the same song before I get in the car. It helps me focus."

"Ooh, what song?" you ask, already picturing the headline: Charles Leclerc's Lucky Song Revealed!

"That's definitely a secret," he says firmly, a playful glint in his eyes.

You roll your eyes, but you can't help but smile. "Okay, fine. We'll move on. 'What's your favorite track to drive on?'"

"Ah, that's an easy one," Charles says, his expression turning serious for a moment. "Monaco. It's home, it's challenging, and there's nothing quite like racing through the streets of the city I grew up in."

The questions continue for the next fifteen minutes, a mix of serious inquiries about racing strategy and lighthearted questions about his favorite pizza topping (Margherita, apparently).

As you delve deeper into the Q&A, you notice something shift in the atmosphere. The conversation feels less like a professional obligation and more like… well, a conversation.

"Alright, second last question," you say, scrolling to the bottom of the document. "What are your opinions on soulmates?"

You couldn't believe that was actually a fan question, but here it was, staring back at you. You braced yourself for a cheesy response that would make you want to gag.

But instead, Charles started smiling. It wasn't his usual polished, camera-ready smile. This was a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes and made his whole face light up.

It was like watching the sun rise after a long night. You felt your own heart flutter in your chest.

"I actually believe in soulmates," he said, his voice soft. "But I don't think it's always about finding the perfect person. Sometimes it's about recognizing when someone makes you feel more alive than you ever have before."

You looked at him, the question on your lips forgotten. His eyes searched yours, and in that moment, you felt like he could see right through you, to the core of your being. You were suddenly aware of the rapid beating of your heart, the way your breath was catching in your throat.

You took a sip of water, trying to dispel the dryness that had settled there. The room was silent except for the distant sound of the city outside, the hum of the air conditioner, and the erratic rhythm of Leo's tail thumping against the couch.

The dog had settled down now, watching the two of you with curious eyes.

You had told Charles that you didn't believe in soulmates, that you thought it was a fairytale concept. And yet here he was, speaking about them with a conviction that made your stomach flip.

Was it a coincidence? Or was the universe playing a twisted game with your heart?

"Last question," you managed to say, your voice sounding a little too high pitched for your own liking. "Have you met your soulmate and if so, can you tell the story?"

The room seemed to hold its breath as you awaited his response. Mark, ever the professional, kept the camera rolling, but you could feel his curiosity in the way his eyes flickered between you and Charles.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Charles spoke. "Yes," he said, his voice low and filled with a warmth that seemed to wrap around you. "I have met my soulmate."

You felt your heart stumble, the words hitting you like a wave of heat. The air in the room grew thick, and you couldn't quite catch your breath. You searched his face for any sign of a joke, but his expression remained earnest, his eyes locked onto yours.

"You… you have?" you managed to stutter out, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. The room grew smaller, the air denser, and it was as if the rest of the world had disappeared, leaving only the two of you and the weight of his confession.

The beat of your heart grew louder in your ears, a drumline heralding a revelation you hadn't seen coming.

"I was just a kid," he began, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through your very bones. "I had just won another go-karting race, one of the many I competed in. I was feeling on top of the world, invincible. And then I saw her."

You leaned in, captivated by the softness in his eyes as he recounted the memory. The room around you felt like it was fading away, leaving only the warm glow of nostalgia and the sound of his voice.

"What was she like?" you asked, your curiosity piqued.

Charles' gaze grew distant, lost in the haze of a cherished memory. "She was… stunning," he said, his voice filled with the kind of wonder reserved for lost treasures and forgotten dreams.

He said, his eyes glazed over with the sheen of memory. "I saw her crying by a restaurant. She was so lost in her own world that she didn't even notice me at first. Something about her… I don't know, it just drew me in."

You leaned in, the soft fabric of your sweatpants whispering against the leather couch, your curiosity piqued by the sudden vulnerability in his tone.

The way he spoke about this girl, it was like he was recounting the plot of a tragic romance novel. You had never seen this side of him before, the raw, unfiltered emotion. It was fascinating and utterly captivating.

"I went over, and she looked up at me with those eyes," Charles said, his voice a gentle murmur. "They were filled with so much sadness, but there was this… spark in them, like she was fighting to keep it all together."

Your heart skipped a beat as he spoke, the room growing warmer, the air thick with emotion. You could feel the weight of his words, the gravity of his untold story pulling you in.

"What did you say to her?" you prompted, your voice barely a whisper.

Charles took a deep breath, his eyes refocusing on the present. "I asked her if she was okay, and she just… she just broke down," he said, the memory painting a vivid picture of a moment frozen in time. "Turns out she had lost her mom a year before, and she had come to Monaco to scatter her ashes. She had gotten lost trying to find the spot."

"So, you invited her to your party?" you prompted, trying to imagine this vulnerable, beautiful girl in the midst of the glitz and glamour of a Formula 1 afterparty.

"Yeah," Charles said, a wistful smile playing on his lips. "It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I had this party planned, you see. A celebration of a big win. And when I saw her, so lost and alone, I just had to talk to her. So I did. And she looked at me, with those eyes, and she said yes."

He paused, his eyes glazed over as he recalled the memory. "The party was… different with her there," he continued. "I'd never felt so alive, so… present. The laughter, the music, the lights—it all paled in comparison to the way she made me feel."

You could see the ache in his expression, the way his smile grew tinged with a sadness that made your chest tighten. "What happened?" you whispered, your voice thick with concern.

"We had an amazing night," Charles said, his gaze drifting off into the distance. "We talked, we danced, we… connected. It was like nothing I had ever felt before."

"But the night had to end," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "And when it did, she left. Back to home, back to her life, and I… I never saw her again."

You shook the feeling off and focused on the task at hand. "What was her name?"

"Y/N," he murmured, the name rolling off his tongue like a cherished secret. "Y/N."

The room spun around you as the name hit you like a sledgehammer. It couldn't be. It couldn't be that after all this time, after all the jaded cynicism you had built up about soulmates and love at first sight, that you had been the girl in his story.

The girl he had been searching for all these years, the girl he had never forgotten.

You kept quiet, nodding, as your mind raced back to that night. The pain of losing your mom, the confusion of being lost in your city, and then… Charles. The kindness in his eyes, the comfort in his voice.

You remembered the way he had looked at you, like you were the most important person in the world. And now, here he was, telling you that you had been the girl he had been searching for all along.

His eyes searched yours, and you could feel the gravity of his gaze. He was waiting for you to take the first step, to acknowledge what was unspoken but undeniable. Your heart hammered in your chest, a cacophony of emotions echoing through your body.

You wanted to leave immediately, retreat to the safety of your own thoughts and feelings, but you remembered Mark and the camera. The story wasn't over yet, and there was no way you could abandon it now.

You had to keep going, for the fans, for Ferrari, for yourself. You swallowed hard, trying to push aside the tumultuous emotions threatening to spill over.

"So, guys!" you began, breaking the spell that had fallen over the room. "This is going to be the end of the video. I hope you guys learned a lot more about your favorite driver, Charles Leclerc. He's not just a man of speed, but also a man of substance."

"Thank you all for tuning in," you continued, your voice a touch shakier than you would have liked. "We've had a fantastic day with Charles, and we're looking forward to bringing you even more exclusive content soon. Forza Ferrari."

The camera stopped rolling, and you took a deep, shuddering breath. The weight of his confession hung in the air, as palpable as the scent of garlic and clams that lingered from lunch.

"Y/N," he started, but you stopped him, gently placing Leo down on the couch. The dachshund looked up at you with confusion, his little tail wagging slightly. You didn't dare speak his name aloud, not yet.

Your legs felt like jelly as you stood, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on you. You had to compose yourself, to pretend that everything was normal.

But how could it be? You had been the girl in his story, the one he had never forgotten. The one he had been searching for all these years.

"I… I need to go," you managed to say, your voice barely more than a whisper.

The words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the jovial atmosphere of the day. The revelation was like a bomb going off in the quiet of the apartment, leaving a deafening silence in its wake.

Mark looked at you, then at Charles, his eyes wide with unspoken questions.

"Is everything okay?" he finally asked, the first to break the tension.

You nodded, trying to ignore the way your heart was racing. "Yeah," you lied. "It's just… a lot to take in."

You started to pack your stuff, trying to ignore the heavy weight of his gaze on your back. Each item felt like it was made of lead, your hands shaking as you folded your clothes and stuffed them into your bag.

Leo watched you with sad, soulful eyes, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. He whined softly and padded over to you, his little body pressing against your legs.

"It's okay, buddy," you murmured, scratching behind his ears. His sadness only mirrored your own, a silent echo of the turmoil that was roiling inside you.

You knew you couldn't stay, not with the storm of emotions threatening to break free. You had to get out, to process what had just happened.

As you zipped up your bag, the sound seemed to echo through the apartment like a gunshot, final and decisive. You felt Charles's eyes on you, but you couldn't face him yet.

The confession was still too fresh, too raw. You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself, but it was like trying to hold back the tide.

Leo, ever perceptive to the shifts in the room, let out a mournful howl, his little body vibrating with the force of his sadness. The sound was a knife to the heart, a poignant reminder of the connection you had formed in such a short time.

You reached down to give him a comforting pat, his fur a soft balm to your shaking hands.

Turning to face Charles, you found his gaze filled with a mix of hope and uncertainty. The man who had once been your hero now stood before you as a flesh-and-blood person with his own history, his own heartaches.

The walls of the apartment felt as if they were closing in, the weight of the moment too much to bear.

"Thank you for today," you said, your voice shaky. "For the… the food, the company, and the story. It's been… enlightening."

The words felt inadequate, a pitiful attempt to bridge the chasm that had opened between you. Charles nodded, his expression a tumultuous storm of unspoken emotions. He knew.

He had to know what you were feeling, the way your heart was racing, the way your palms were sweating.

"Y/N," he started again, taking a tentative step towards you.

You held up a hand to stop him, your heart racing. The intimacy of the moment was too much. "I-I can't do this," you stammered, your eyes darting around the room for an escape route.

"What do you mean?" Charles took another step closer, his eyes searching yours for answers. The warmth of his body radiated against your back, and you could feel his breath on your neck. It was too much, too real.

You took a step back, shaking your head. "I mean, I need to think," you said, your voice trembling. "This… this is a lot to take in."

His expression fell, but he nodded, understanding. "I get it," he murmured. "It's… unexpected."

You took a step towards the door, feeling the cold metal of the handle under your hand. "Yeah," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "It is."

With trembling hands, you picked up your bag, the weight of the day's events and the unspoken confession weighing it down.

"Thank you, Mark," you said, forcing a smile as you turned to your cameraman. "You've got everything you need, right?"

Mark nodded, his eyes darting between you and Charles. "Yeah, I've got it," he said, the tension in his voice palpable. He knew something was off, but he didn't dare pry. You were grateful for his professionalism.

With one last look at Charles, you turned and walked out the door, the cool evening air a welcome contrast to the heat of the apartment. Each step away from him felt like you were leaving a piece of yourself behind.

The cobblestone streets of Monaco were alive with the sound of distant laughter and the hum of luxury cars passing by, a stark contrast to the quiet solitude of your racing thoughts.

You wandered aimlessly, the city lights blurring as the realization of what had just transpired began to take hold. You had always been the girl who didn't believe in soulmates, in love at first sight.

But here you were, the heroine of your own romantic saga, with the most eligible bachelor in the world confirming the existence of such a thing.

As you made your way back to your apartment, the weight of his words grew heavier with every step. You had been the girl in the story, the girl he had held onto all these years, the girl whose tears had etched a place in his heart.

The thought was overwhelming, a tsunami of emotions crashing down on you.

Once inside, you collapsed onto the couch, the soft cushions enveloping your exhausted body. You buried your face in your hands and let out a sob that seemed to come from the very depths of your soul.

The tears flowed freely, a cathartic release for the tumultuous day you had endured.

The emotions crashed over you like waves, one after another. The shock of finding out you were the girl in Charles's story, the girl who had changed his life. The girl he had been searching for, for so long.

The pain of knowing he had carried your memory with him, cherished it, while you had moved on, trying to forget. The guilt of never realizing the impact that night had on him, never knowing that you had left such a profound mark on his heart.

You made it home, the familiar scent of your apartment offering a small semblance of comfort. You dropped your bag by the door and stumbled to the couch, your legs giving way beneath you.

The sobs came then, deep and wrenching, tearing through your chest like claws. You couldn't stop them, couldn't hold back the tide of emotions that had been building all day.

Leo's sad eyes and mournful howl echoed in your mind, a painful reminder of the connection you had shared, both with the dog and his owner.

The taste of the saltwater tears was bitter on your lips, and your throat felt raw from the force of your crying. Each gasp for air was like swallowing a mouthful of shattered glass, sharp and painful.

As the sobs began to subside, you found yourself overwhelmed by the sudden quiet. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of thoughts and emotions that still swirled through your mind.

Your chest felt tight, as if a heavy weight had settled there, refusing to budge. You reached for your phone, the screen illuminating the darkness of your apartment.

You stared at it for a long moment, your fingers hovering over the screen.

Should you call him? Text him? Maybe just send a simple emoji to acknowledge what had happened? But what could you say? What could possibly encapsulate the tornado of feelings you were experiencing?

You felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, the winds of fate pushing you closer and closer to a decision that could change everything.

In the end, you decided to do nothing. At least for now. You needed space, time to think, to breathe. Time to figure out if this was real, if it was something that could last beyond the glitz and glamour of the Formula 1 world.

You curled up on the couch, pulling a blanket over you, and let the quiet embrace of the night wash over you. . . . .

The sun blazed down on the tarmac of the Spanish Grand Prix, casting a fiery glow across the Formula 1 circuit. In the bustling Ferrari pit, you tried to focus on the task at hand, ignoring the whispers and glances that followed you like shadows.

As the social media manager for the legendary racing team, you had a job to do, and getting caught up in the drama was not part of the job description.

Yet, it was impossible to ignore the tension that crackled through the air like static electricity. The whispers grew louder as the race approached, and your heart raced faster than the cars you were there to promote.

The object of everyone's attention was none other than the enigmatic Charles Leclerc, the Ferrari star whose performance had been unrivaled all season.

But today, as you posted updates and interacted with fans, you could feel his gaze on you, heavy and unyielding.

Each time you turned to face him, you found him looking away, his eyes haunted by a ghost from his past.

You had been ignoring him, hoping the distance would make it easier to deal with the tumultuous emotions that surged through you every time you saw him. But as you watched from the sidelines, you noticed something was off.

His usual precision was slipping, his eyes unfocused, his hands shaking slightly as he gripped the steering wheel.

You couldn't help but feel a twinge of concern. Was it the pressure of the race? Or was it something more?

As the race progressed, the gap between Charles and his competitors grew wider, his once formidable lead diminishing with every passing lap. The team's strategists were in a frenzy, shouting orders and making frantic gestures.

Yet, amidst the chaos, you remained eerily calm, a silent observer of the unfolding drama. You knew that ignoring him was a mistake, that you were the cause of his distraction.

But you weren't ready to face the truth, to confront the feelings you had buried so deep, hoping they would never see the light of day.

The air grew thick with anticipation as the final laps approached. You held your breath, your eyes glued to the screen as Charles's Ferrari began to lag.

The commentators speculated about mechanical issues, but you knew better.

It was you, the ghost of a girl he had once loved and lost, haunting him from the sidelines. Each time you felt the urge to go to him, to apologize, to explain, you forced yourself to look away, focusing on the bright screen and the flashing messages from concerned fans.

But as the checkered flag waved and the crowd roared, it was clear that something was wrong. The Ferrari crossed the finish line in a disappointing third place, the first time Charles hadn't won in months.

The team was in disarray, and the energy in the pit lane was palpable, a mix of frustration, confusion, and fear. You felt a pang of guilt, a sizzling ember that grew into a raging fire.

You had done this to him, and now you had to deal with the consequences.

The pit lane was a sea of red, the Ferrari mechanics swarming around Charles's car like a colony of ants, searching for the source of its failure.

You knew it wasn't mechanical—it was emotional. The weight of your absence was crushing him, and it was showing in his performance.

As you watched him from afar, climbing out of the cockpit with a defeated slump of his shoulders, you felt a twist in your gut. His eyes searched the crowd, desperate for a glimpse of you, but you were too far, lost in the sea of people.

The podium ceremony was a blur, the champagne tasting like acid in your mouth as you forced a smile for the cameras. You felt his gaze on you, even as he accepted his third-place trophy with a heavy heart.

You retreated to the quiet solitude of the Ferrari motorhome, the cacophony of the race fading into a distant memory. You knew you couldn't stay away from him any longer.

The distress he was feeling was palpable, a silent scream that resonated through the airwaves, reaching into the very marrow of your bones.

You found him in his private quarters, his head in his hands, the third-place trophy discarded on the floor, forgotten. His shoulders heaved with silent sobs, the pain etched deep into his handsome features.

The sight of him, so vulnerable, so broken, shattered the last of your defenses.

You took a tentative step away from him, the floorboards creaking beneath your feet. He looked up, his eyes red and puffy, the anguish in his gaze like a punch to your gut.

"I need to go," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the thunder of your heart in your ears.

The words hung in the air between you, thick with unspoken regret and a hint of desperation. You turned on your heel, the sound of his name a silent echo in the hallway.

Your legs carried you away from the warmth of his embrace, the smell of his cologne lingering on your skin like a ghostly presence.

Each step you took felt like a betrayal, as if you were leaving behind a piece of yourself that would forever remain entwined with his essence.

The cool air of the motorhome hit you like a slap in the face, the stark contrast to the fiery passion that had just consumed you both. You stumbled down the hallway, the walls closing in as the reality of what you'd done set in.

The door to the bathroom swung open, and you practically fell inside, slamming it shut behind you. The click of the lock was the final nail in the coffin of your decision.

You leaned against the cool surface, breathing heavily, trying to still the tremors that racked your body.

Your hand hovered over the sink, and you turned on the faucet, the water gushing out like a lifeline. You splashed the cold liquid onto your face, the shock sending a shiver down your spine.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror, the girl who had just walked away from the love of her life. The girl who had allowed fear to dictate her actions

The girl who had shattered the heart of a man who had been searching for her for years. her actions, leaving a wake of pain and confusion.

The water dripped from your her actions, leaving chin, pooling a wake of pain on the counter, and confusion in her mirroring the tears that path.

You felt the streamed down your sting of the cheeks. Cold water against your skin, a stark reminder of the chilling reality that awaited you outside this small sanctuary.

Fate, that cruel trickster, had brought you to this moment. You had tried to ignore the signs, to convince yourself that the whispers of destiny were just the echoes of your own desperate imagination.

But here you were, face to face with the man who had haunted your dreams for years, the man whose love had been immortalized in a tattoo that was now a constant reminder of what you had lost.

Fate really works in different ways, doesn't it? You thought to yourself, wiping away the last of your tears. It wasn't the grand romantic reunion you had imagined in your most secret of daydreams.

Instead, it was a collision of worlds, a clash of past and present that left you feeling like you were drowning in a sea of regret.

But as you stared into the mirror, the cold water on your face mixing with your salty tears, you realized that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't the end of the story.

Maybe fate had a twisted sense of humor, bringing you together in the most unexpected of places, at the most inopportune of times. . . .

"Boss, can I be in charge of Carlos and Ollie's content?" you asked, your voice steady despite the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. The hum of the racing circuit was a muffled buzz in the background of the Ferrari media suite.

Your boss looked up from his clipboard, his brow furrowed in contemplation.

"Why not Charles?" he countered, his eyes searching yours for the unspoken reason behind your request.

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sudden heat that bloomed in your cheeks.

"I just think I'd be better suited for handling their social media," you replied, hoping the lie sounded convincing. "They're more my style, you know?"

Your boss leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on you for a moment too long.

"Alright," he said finally, his voice laced with curiosity. "But if Charles needs anything, make sure you refer him to me. I don't want any… distractions."

You nodded, feeling a mix of relief and dread at the mention of Charles's name. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with the unspoken history between you and the Ferrari superstar.

Your heart skipped a beat as you thought of the last time you had been in his presence, the electric charge that had crackled between you. But you pushed those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.

"I'll make sure Carlos and Ollie are the main focus of my social media campaign today," you assured your boss, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

He studied you intently before nodding, his eyes holding a hint of understanding that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Very well," he said, his tone final. "Just remember, the team's success is our top priority. No personal issues should interfere with that."

You couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance at his implication. After all, you had kept your professionalism in check for years, even when the mere mention of Charles made your pulse race.

But you knew he had a point; the last thing you needed was to let your emotions affect your work.

The race weekend was already fraught with tension, and adding your personal drama to the mix was a recipe for disaster.

You took a deep breath and plastered a smile on your face as you turned to leave the office, the weight of your secret feeling heavier than ever.

As you approached Carlos and Ollie's side of the garage, you couldn't help but notice the way Ollie's eyes lit up when he saw you. His popularity had soared after his surprising 7th place finish in the last race, replacing the injured Carlos.

The young British driver had become the talk of the town, and your job was to capitalize on his newfound fame.

"Hey, Ollie," you said, forcing a bright smile. "Big day today. How are you feeling?"

"A bit mental, to be honest," he admitted, running a hand through his disheveled brown hair. "But good mental, you know? Ready to give it everything."

"That's what I like to hear," you replied, pulling out your phone. "I want to get some content for your socials. Something that shows the fans what you're feeling, what you're thinking before you get into the car."

Ollie grinned. "Sounds good! What do you have in mind?"

Over the next hour, you worked with Ollie, capturing snippets of his preparation. You filmed him walking the track, pointing out specific turns and discussing his strategy.

You recorded short interviews where he spoke directly to the fans, expressing his gratitude for their support and his determination to perform well.

You even managed to get a few candid shots of him joking with his mechanics, showcasing his down-to-earth personality.

As you reviewed the footage on your phone, you were impressed. Ollie was a natural in front of the camera, charming and authentic. He was a marketer's dream.

"This is great, Ollie," you said, genuinely pleased. "This is exactly the kind of content we need."

"Glad you think so," he said, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "I'm happy to do whatever helps the team."

You couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. You were using Ollie's genuine enthusiasm to further your own career, to prove to your boss that you were the right person for the job.

And maybe, just maybe, to distract yourself from the ever-present shadow of Charles Leclerc.

You snapped out of your thoughts as you noticed Carlos approaching, a slight wince on his face as he moved. "Hey, champ," you said, switching your focus to the Spaniard. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, better," Carlos replied, though his voice was still a little weak. "I wanted to see how Ollie was doing. And to offer my support, of course."

"He's doing great," you said, gesturing to Ollie. "He's a natural. We've been getting some amazing content."

Carlos smiled, a genuine smile of pride and support. "I knew he would be. He's a talented driver. He just needed the opportunity."

You felt a surge of admiration for Carlos. Despite being sidelined with his health issues, he was still completely invested in the team's success.

"We need to get you involved too, Carlos," you said. "Even if you're not in the car, your voice matters. We could do a short interview, talking about your recovery and your support for Ollie."

Carlos nodded. "I'd like that. Let's do it."

You spent the next half hour interviewing Carlos, focusing on his recovery and his perspective on Ollie's performance as his replacement.

He spoke eloquently and passionately, emphasizing the importance of teamwork and the strength of the Ferrari family.

It was a powerful message, a reminder that even in the high-stakes world of Formula 1, camaraderie and support could prevail.

As you wrapped up the interview, you felt a sense of accomplishment. You had managed to capture compelling content from both Ollie and Carlos, showcasing their personalities and their dedication to the team.

You were confident that this would be a successful social media campaign.

Just then, your phone buzzed. It was a message from your boss. "Come see me in my office. Urgent."

A knot formed in your stomach. What could he possibly want now? Had something gone wrong? Had Charles complained about something?

You excused yourself from Carlos and Ollie and hurried back to the media suite, your heart pounding in your chest. As you approached your boss's office, you saw Charles standing outside, his expression unreadable.

Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn't spoken to Charles properly since… well, since that night.

Charles was a superstar, a global icon. You were just a member of the media team. A relationship between you two was impossible, a PR nightmare waiting to happen.

So you had both agreed to pretend it never happened. To bury your feelings and focus on the job.

"Hey," Charles said, his voice low and hesitant.

"Hey," you managed to squeak out, trying to regain your composure. "What are you doing here?"

"The boss wanted to see me," he said, his eyes searching yours. "I don't know why."

Before you could respond, your boss's door opened. He beckoned Charles inside.

As Charles walked past you, he brushed his hand against yours, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of electricity through your body.

You stood there, frozen, as the door closed behind him.

What was going on? Why did your boss want to see Charles? And why did that simple touch send you into such a tailspin?

You took a deep breath and forced yourself to focus on the task at hand.

You needed to get back to Carlos and Ollie, to continue working on their content. You couldn't let your personal feelings interfere with your job.

But as you walked away, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change. That the delicate balance you had maintained for so long was about to be shattered.

You returned to the garage, where Carlos and Ollie were still chatting, oblivious to the turmoil brewing inside you.

You forced a smile and started discussing the next steps for their social media campaign.

As you were speaking, Ollie suddenly interrupted you. "Hey, you okay?" he asked, his brow furrowed with concern. "You seem a bit… distracted."

You hesitated for a moment, unsure how to respond. "I'm fine, Ollie," you said, forcing a laugh. "Just a bit stressed, that's all."

"Well, if you need anything, just let me know," he said, his eyes filled with genuine concern. "I'm happy to help in any way I can."

You smiled gratefully. Ollie's kindness was a welcome distraction from the chaos in your head. "Thanks, Ollie," you said. "I appreciate that."

You spent the rest of the afternoon working with Carlos and Ollie, trying to keep your mind focused on the task at hand.

You edited videos, wrote captions, and scheduled posts, immersing yourself in the world of social media.

As the day drew to a close, you felt exhausted but also strangely content. You had managed to create some great content, and you had successfully avoided any further encounters with Charles.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with a fiery blend of oranges and pinks, a stark contrast to the cool blue lights of the Ferrari garage.

You took a moment to breathe in the crisp evening air, feeling the weight of the day's tension start to lift from your shoulders.

As you walked back to the media suite, the clack of your heels on the concrete echoing through the deserted corridor, you couldn't help but feel a sense of unease.

The brief encounter with Charles had left you rattled, your thoughts swirling like the dust kicked up by the racing cars.

You entered the suite, the air-conditioned chill a stark contrast to the oppressive heat outside. The screens flickered with replays of the day's qualifying sessions, the sound of roaring engines a constant reminder of the race that lay ahead.

Your eyes were drawn to the monitor showing Charles's garage, his Ferrari a beacon of red in the sea of mechanics.

A hand on your shoulder made you jump. You spun around to find Ollie standing behind you, a concerned expression on his face.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice gentle. "You've been a bit… distant today."

You took a deep breath and plastered on a smile. "Just tired," you said, hoping he'd buy it. "Long week, you know?"

Ollie nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he turned to leave. You watched him go, his athletic form disappearing around the corner.

You sank into your chair, the fabric cool against your overheated skin. The office was eerily quiet now, the only sound of the faint hum of the air conditioning unit and the distant murmur of the mechanics working tirelessly in the garage.

Ollie poked his head into the media suite, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "Hey," he said tentatively. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

You forced a smile, grateful for the distraction. "Actually, yes," you replied, your voice a little too bright. "Could you grab me some water?"

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours for a moment before he turned and disappeared into the hallway. You watched him go, feeling a strange sense of comfort in his presence.

It was as if he could somehow sense the tumult inside you, offering a quiet strength that you hadn't realized you needed.

When he returned, he handed you the bottle of water with a gentle smile. "Thanks, Ollie," you said, twisting the cap off and taking a much-needed sip.

"No problem," he said, sitting down beside you.

He leaned back in his chair, his legs stretching out in front of him, and for a moment, the tension between you dissipated.

You studied his profile, the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he blinked. He was so young, so full of potential.

It was easy to see why the fans had taken to him.

"How are you holding up?" he asked, breaking the silence.

You took a deep breath. "I'm okay," you said, not quite meeting his eyes. "Just… a lot going on."

Ollie nodded, his expression understanding. "Yeah, I can imagine," he said. "Race weekends are intense."

You looked up at him, surprised by his maturity. "They are," you said. "But it's more than that."

He leaned in, his gaze intense. "Is it about Charles?" he asked softly.

You felt your cheeks heat up. "What makes you say that?"

He shrugged. "I just noticed how you two have been… off with each other."

You sighed. "It's complicated," you said, feeling the weight of your secret pressing down on you. "But thanks for noticing."

Ollie reached out and gave your hand a comforting squeeze. "Look, I know you guys have history," he said. "And if you ever need to talk about it, I'm here."

You blinked, your eyes filling with tears that you hadn't realized were there.

"Thanks," you whispered, squeezing his hand back. It felt strange to find solace in the touch of the young driver, but it was also surprisingly comforting.

The next day, you found yourself gravitating toward Ollie again, acting more like a concerned mother hen than a professional social media manager.

You checked in on him frequently, asking about his breakfast, his tire preferences, his pre-race rituals. He took it all in stride, his easy smile never wavering, his confidence never faltering.

As the race approached, you watched him from the sidelines, your heart in your throat. You had become invested in his success, not just for the sake of your job, but for him as a person.

You found yourself willing him to do well, to prove to the world that he was more than just a flash in the pan, that he had what it took to be a Ferrari driver.

As he climbed into the cockpit of the car, you felt a strange maternal pride swell in your chest. And as the lights went out and the cars roared to life, you couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement and anticipation.

Throughout the race, you monitored his progress, your eyes never leaving the screen. You watched as he deftly navigated the track, his car a sleek red streak against the tarmac.

And when he emerged from the pits after a particularly tight battle, you let out a cheer that surprised even yourself.

Ollie looked up at you, his eyes finding yours through the chaos, and grinned.

"Thanks for everything," he said, his voice a mix of excitement and nerves. "You've been like a… like a mom to me this weekend."

The words hit you like a ton of bricks, and for a moment, you couldn't breathe. "A…mom?" you repeated, your voice a little too high.

Ollie chuckled, his eyes sparkling. "You know what I mean," he said. "You've been looking out for me, supporting me. It's like… I don't know, you care about me like family."

Your heart swelled at his words, the warmth of his gratitude washing over you like a comforting blanket. You had always prided yourself on being a professional, keeping your personal life and emotions separate from your job.

But with Ollie, it was different. He had a way of breaking down your barriers, making you feel more than just a cog in the Ferrari machine.

"Just doing my job," you replied, trying to keep the tremble out of your voice.

You had seen his potential, had felt the same passion and drive that had once made you fall for Charles.

"Thank you for that," Ollie's voice echoed in your ear through the headset. "I've been a little homesick," he said shyly, the words sending a jolt of emotion through your chest.

You paused for a moment, the cacophony of the race momentarily forgotten. Homesick? The thought had never occurred to you. These drivers lived a life of glamour and speed, surrounded by adoring fans and the latest technology.

But as you considered it, you realized that behind the bravado and the smiles, they were all just humans, missing the comfort of familiar faces and places.

"What do you mean, homesick?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

Ollie's shyness was endearing, a stark contrast to the fierce competitor you had witnessed on the track.

He took a deep breath, his eyes flickering down to his hands. "It's just… my family," he began, his voice cracking slightly. "They couldn't make it to three races now. And with everything going on…"

You leaned in closer, your hand reaching out to squeeze his arm reassuringly. "It's okay, Ollie," you said softly. "You can talk to me."

Ollie took a deep breath, his eyes meeting yours. "It's just… I miss them so much," he confessed. "My mum and dad, my brother… They've always been my biggest fans, and not having them here… it's hard."

You felt your chest tighten in sympathy. The young driver's vulnerability was unexpected, but it made him all the more endearing.

"You're doing so well," you assured him, your voice gentle. "They're watching, I'm sure of it. They're probably so proud of you right now."

Ollie offered a tentative smile, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I hope so," he said, his voice a whisper.

"I'm sure they're watching," you said, your voice soothing. "They're probably at home, cheering louder than anyone here."

Ollie's smile grew, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. "Thanks," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "It means a lot to me."

You nodded, feeling a strange connection to him that you hadn't anticipated. You had been so caught up in the drama with Charles that you had forgotten the human side of the sport, the families and friends that held the drivers together when the world was screaming at them to go faster, to push harder.

"Now go out there and make them proud," you said, giving his arm a final squeeze. "I'll be right here, cheering you on."

Ollie took a deep breath and nodded, the determination returning to his eyes. "Let's do this," he said, his voice strong and resolute.

But amidst the chaos, you had missed the silent observer standing in the shadows, his eyes narrowed as he watched you with Ollie.

Charles Leclerc, the man whose touch had once set your soul alight, now looked at you with a mixture of sadness and despair.

He had seen the way your eyes lit up when you talked to the young British driver, the gentle way you touched his arm. It was a gesture of comfort, of support, but to Charles, it was a knife twisting in his gut.

He had hoped that time and distance would dull the pain of your rejection, but here it was, as raw and potent as ever.

You didn't notice him in the shadows, his eyes burning into your back as you encouraged Ollie. The jealousy that surged through him was a living, breathing entity, consuming him from the inside out.

It was a feeling he had never experienced before, not even when he had competed against the greatest drivers on the planet.

He watched as Ollie nodded, taking in your words of comfort, his shoulders straightening with newfound determination. It was a sight that should have brought him joy, the unity of his team, but instead, it filled him with an overwhelming sense of loss.

The ease with which you slipped into the role of confidant and supporter was like a slap in the face.

In the roaring silence of his thoughts, he hated the way it made him feel—so small, so insignificant.

The pit of his stomach churned as he watched you, his gaze heavy with the weight of his unspoken love. He should have felt happy and proud of Ollie's growing confidence, of the way you had taken the young driver under your wing.

But all he could think about was the warmth of your touch, the way your fingers had curled around Ollie's arm as you spoke to him. . . .

Charles coughed, a dry, rattling sound that echoed in the small, cluttered room. He felt like a deflated balloon, all the air and energy slowly seeping out of him.

The room swam slightly, the edges of his vision blurring. He hadn't eaten a proper meal in days, hadn't slept soundly in weeks.

The doctor had run tests, poked and prodded, but found nothing physically wrong.

"Stress," he'd declared, prescribing rest and a healthy diet. Easy for him to say.

He knew it wasn't just stress. It was a gnawing emptiness, a hollowness that had taken root deep inside him and was steadily consuming him from the inside out.

He'd stumbled upon the explanation late one night, spiraling down a rabbit hole of obscure websites and new-age theories to learn more about soulmates.

The closer you were to your soulmate, physically and emotionally, the more vibrant and healthy you felt.

Conversely, prolonged separation, especially without physical contact, could lead to a gradual decline, a weakening of the life force.

It sounded like utter nonsense, and yet… the symptoms matched. The fatigue, the apathy, the persistent feeling of being incomplete. It all clicked into place with a terrifying logic.

The realization had hit him like a physical blow. He loved you, truly loved you, with a depth and intensity he hadn’t thought possible.

He cherished your quick wit, your infectious laughter, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled. He loved your fierce independence, your unwavering loyalty, and the quiet strength that radiated from you.

But he also knew you didn’t love him back, not in the same way.

And now, this. This… soulmate sickness. It felt selfish, a cosmic joke at his expense.

To be bound to you in this way, to need you just to survive, and to know you didn't feel the same pull, the same desperate longing… It was unbearable.

He couldn't burden you with this. He couldn't force you into a relationship based on his need, on some pseudo-scientific mumbo jumbo.

He refused to manipulate you, to guilt you into something you didn't want. If he was destined to wither away because of unrequited love, then so be it.

He would suffer alone.

He'd rather fade away knowing he hadn't compromised your happiness than cling to you out of desperation.

“Charles!” The urgent knock on the door startled him. It sounded like Ollie.

He hadn’t even registered falling asleep. The exhaustion had been a constant companion, pulling him under at unexpected moments. He hadn't bothered to change out of his race suit after the free practice.

“You can open it,” Charles managed, his voice raspy and weak, barely a whisper. He closed his eyes, dreading the interrogation he knew was coming.

The door creaked open, and a moment later, Ollie was standing in the doorway, his face etched with horror. Did he really look that bad?

“Charles! Are you okay! You look like you’re going to die,” Ollie exclaimed, rushing to his side.

His touch, usually a comforting presence, felt jarring, almost painful against Charles’s overly sensitive skin.

Charles winced, pulling away slightly. “I’m fine, Ollie. Just… tired.”

Ollie wasn’t buying it. He crouched down, his eyes filled with concern.

“Tired? Charles, you look like you haven’t slept in a week. You’re pale, you’re sweating, and you’re practically radiating despair. What the hell is going on?”

Charles tried to force a smile, but it felt weak and brittle. “Nothing. Just a bit under the weather.”

“Under the weather? This is more than ‘under the weather,’ Charles! You need to see a doctor.”

“I did. They said it’s just stress.”

Ollie snorted. “Stress? Stress doesn’t turn you into a walking corpse! You need a second opinion. And what about you? You've been avoiding Y/N like the plague! What happened?"

That was the question he had been dreading. He knew Ollie had noticed his distance from you. Ollie, your mutual friend, the ever-observant confidant. "Nothing happened. I've just been busy."

Ollie raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Too busy to even acknowledge her existence? Come on, Charles, I know you better than that. You're head over heels for her. What gives?"

Charles sighed, the fight draining out of him. "It's complicated, Ollie."

"Complicated how? Did you finally tell her how you felt and she rejected you?"

“It’s not that simple,” Charles mumbled, looking away. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Ollie the truth, not about the soulmate theory, not about his failing health. It sounded insane, even to his own ears.

Ollie grabbed his hand, his grip surprisingly firm. "Charles, whatever it is, you can tell me. I'm your friend. And right now, you look like you need one."

The concern in Ollie's eyes, the unwavering support, broke through Charles's carefully constructed defenses. He couldn't keep it bottled up any longer.

He took a deep breath, trying to find the words. “I… I think I’m sick, Ollie. Really sick. And I think… I think it has something to do with Y/N."

Ollie's brow furrowed in confusion. "What? What does Y/N have to do with this?"

The words tumbled out of Charles's mouth before he could stop them. "Everything. I think she's… I think she might be my soulmate."

"I think that was pretty obvious," Ollie remarked plainly.

The room felt as though it was closing in on him, the walls suddenly too tight, the air too thick to breathe. The simple truth of Ollie's words hit him like a punch to the gut.

The room spun around him, and he had to fight to keep the nausea at bay.

"What?" he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "What are you talking about?"

Ollie's grip on his hand tightened. "The way you look at her, the way you light up when you see her. It's written all over your face, mate. You're smitten."

The room ilted, the gravity of Ollie's words weighing on him. "But she doesn't… She's not interested in me like that," Charles croaked, the despair threatening to drown him.

Ollie's expression softened. "Maybe not yet, but I've seen the way she looks at you. There's something there, Charles."

The room seemed to spin faster, the words echoing in his head. He couldn't bear the thought of putting his hope in something so fragile, so uncertain.

"But what if it's too late?" he whispered, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. "What if I've already lost her?"

Ollie's expression grew determined. "You haven't lost her, not if she feels the same way. And you won't know until you talk to her, really talk to her." He paused, his eyes searching Charles's desperate gaze.

"Look, I'll do some digging, see if I can get a read on her feelings. Maybe I can get her to open up, find out what's going on in that brilliant head of hers."

The offer was like a lifeline thrown into the stormy sea of Charles's thoughts. He clung to it with everything he had. "You'd do that for me?"

Ollie nodded firmly. "Of course. We're teammates, and if this is what you need to get back on your feet, I'll do everything in my power to help."

The sincerity in Ollie's voice was a balm to the raw ache in Charles's chest.

He nodded, feeling a glimmer of hope for the first time in what felt like an eternity. "Thank you," he managed, his voice cracking.

Ollie gave his hand a final squeeze before standing up. "Don't worry, mate," he said, his eyes filled with determination. "We'll figure this out. Now, get some rest. I'll talk to her today."

With that, he slipped out of the room, leaving Charles alone with his thoughts.

He lay back down on the couch, his body feeling heavier than ever. The mere mention of you had stirred a whirlwind of emotions within him, a tornado of love, longing, and fear.

He closed his eyes, willing the room to stop spinning. The quiet hum of the air conditioner was the only sound, a stark contrast to the chaos of the racing circuit outside.

The cool air washed over him, a gentle reprieve from the fever that had gripped him for days.

He knew what Ollie had said was true. He had seen the way you looked at him too, the way your eyes held his just a little longer than necessary.

But hope was a dangerous thing, a double-edged sword that could either cut through the darkness or plunge deeper into it.

The minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity as he lay there, lost in thought. His heart raced at the mere idea of you possibly returning his feelings.

The thought of your touch, your warmth, your love, was like a balm to his tortured soul. . . . .

Meanwhile, Ollie was already putting his plan into action. He knew he had to tread carefully. You, the brilliant and witty social media manager for Ferrari, were a fortress, a master of deflection and professional detachment.

He needed to find a crack in that armor, a way to see what lay beneath the surface.

He found you in the media center, furiously typing away at your laptop, a half-empty coffee cup sitting beside you. "Hey," he said casually, leaning against the doorway. "Got a minute?"

You looked up, your eyes, the color of warm honey, widening slightly at the sight of him. "Ollie. Sure, what's up?" You gestured to the chair opposite you.

He sat down, trying to appear nonchalant. "Just wanted to pick your brain about a few things for a project I'm working on. Social media engagement strategies, that kind of thing."

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. "Trying to steal my secrets, are you?"

"Maybe," he said, grinning. "A little friendly espionage never hurt anyone."

He steered the conversation deftly, asking about your role, your creative process, the challenges of managing the digital presence of a global brand like Ferrari.

You answered with your usual intelligence and enthusiasm, your passion for the job evident in every word.

Ollie listened intently, but his eyes were also searching, observing. He noticed the way you subtly avoided making eye contact for too long, the slight tightening of your jaw when Charles's name was mentioned in passing.

Finally, he decided to take a more direct approach, albeit a subtle one. "So, it must be pretty cool working so closely with the drivers, right? Charles, especially. He seems like a good guy."

A flicker of something crossed your face, a brief moment of vulnerability before you quickly masked it with a professional smile. "They're all great to work with. Very dedicated, very focused."

"Yeah, but Charles…there's something different about him, don't you think? He's got that star quality, that charisma." Ollie watched you closely, gauging your reaction.

You shrugged, feigning indifference. "He's a talented driver, that's for sure."

Ollie knew he had to be careful not to push too hard, but he was convinced he was onto something. "He seems a bit down lately, though. Have you noticed?"

You hesitated for a moment, your eyes betraying a hint of concern. "He's a professional. He knows how to deal with pressure."

"Maybe," Ollie said softly, "but everyone needs someone to talk to sometimes. Someone who understands."

You finally met his gaze, your eyes filled with a complex mixture of emotions.

"Look, Ollie," you said, your voice low, "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it's really none of my business. My job is to manage the social media, not to be a therapist for the drivers."

Ollie leaned in slightly, his expression earnest. "But you're more than just a social media manager, and I know you care about him. More than you're letting on."

Your cheeks flushed, a warmth spreading from your chest up to your ears. You felt the walls of your defenses starting to crack under his gentle probing. "Ollie, I… I don't know what you're talking about."

He leaned back in his chair, his expression understanding. "I've seen the way you look at him, the way your eyes follow him around the paddock, even when you think no one's watching. It's not just professional interest, is it?"

You felt your heart racing, the heat in your cheeks intensifying. "Ollie, you're reading too much into it. We're friends, colleagues."

But Ollie was undeterred. He leaned in, his eyes searching yours. "Are you sure that's all it is?"

You warned, "Ollie, please don't go down this road. It's complicated."

Ollie fluttered his eyes innocently, "I'm just worried about Charles. He looked so sick this morning."

You felt a knot twist in your stomach at the mention of his illness. "What do you mean?"

Ollie's eyes grew serious. "You haven't noticed? He's lost so much weight, he's pale, and he's barely eating. It's like…like he's fading away."

"Fading away?" you echoed, the concern in your voice betraying the tumult of emotions churning inside you. You had noticed the changes in Charles, but you had convinced yourself it was just the stress of the season.

Ollie nodded solemnly. "Yeah. It's like he's lost his spark."

You swallowed hard, the room suddenly feeling too hot. "What do you think it is?"

Ollie took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. He paused, searching for the right words. "I think you should talk to him, Y/N. I know you guys are friends."

"Ollie," you began, your voice a mix of confusion and wariness. "What are you getting at?"

He leaned in, his eyes intense. "It's easy, Y/N. You like him, he likes you. You're soulmates, what's difficult about that?"

You stared at him, the room around you seemingly fading away, as the gravity of his words settled into your consciousness.

The concept was so ludicrous, yet the way Ollie spoke made it sound so simple, so attainable. But it wasn't just about liking Charles; it was about the depth of feeling that seemed to be slowly killing him.

"You do like him, don't you?" he pressed.

The suddenness of the announcement for the second practice brought you both to your feet, the loudspeaker's voice cutting through the tension in the room.

"All drivers, report to your cars immediately for the commencement of the second practice session," the voice boomed over the circuit, echoing through the garages and paddock.

Ollie stood abruptly, the urgency in his voice unmistakable. "Please, Y/N, talk to him. I've never seen him like this. It's tearing him apart."

With that, he dashed out of the media center, the echo of his footsteps fading into the cacophony of the race track.

You remained seated, the weight of his words sinking into your bones.

The track's sounds grew louder as the engines roared to life, but you barely registered them. Your mind was a tumult of thoughts and feelings, a whirlwind of doubt and confusion.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, jolting you back to reality. You fished it out, expecting it to be work, but the display read 'Dad'.

The call was unexpected, especially at such a critical time during the Grand Prix weekend. You swiped to answer, the ringing cutting through the cacophony of the race track.

"Hello?" you called out, the engine's roars fading into the background as you stepped into a quieter corner of the media center.

The nurse on the line had a calm, soothing voice, which was a stark contrast to the chaos around you. "Is this Y/N?" she asked.

You nodded, forgetting for a moment she couldn't see you. "Yes, it's me."

The nurse's voice grew urgent. "Your father is asking for you. Can you come to the hospital as soon as possible?"

You felt a cold hand grip your heart. "Of course," you replied, your voice shaking. "What's wrong? What happened?"

The nurse's tone remained calm. "He's had a cardiac episode, but he's stable now. He's asking for you, though. It's important."

You nodded, the world around you fading into the background as the weight of her words sank in. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

The race weekend, the social media posts, the glitz and glamour of the Grand Prix - it all seemed so trivial now. You hastily gathered your things, your heart racing.

As you dashed through the bustling paddock, the smells of gasoline and rubber grew more pronounced, each step feeling heavier than the last.

You reached the Ferrari garage, the cacophony of tools and engines a stark contrast to the quiet urgency in your chest. The team members were busy with their tasks, the air thick with tension and focus.

You caught a glimpse of Charles, his gaze fixed on the car, his every movement precise and determined.

He looked up, his eyes finding yours across the garage. For a moment, the world around you stilled, the clamor of the track and the chaos of the garage fading to a distant murmur.

There was something in his expression, a desperate hope mixed with resignation that tore at your soul. You knew you had to tell him about your father, but the words lodged in your throat, heavy and painful.

But before you could speak, the call of the track beckoned. The pit lane opened, and the drivers were summoned to their cars.

You watched as Charles climbed into the cockpit, his movements sluggish, his eyes never leaving yours until the last possible second. The engine roared to life, and the car disappeared into a cloud of smoke and speed.

You turned away, the sting of unshed tears in your eyes. You had to get to the hospital, to be there for your father. But as you ran through the crowded paddock, dodging mechanics and engineers.

The medical center was a blur of white and blue as you sprinted past, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and the murmur of hushed conversations.

Your heart hammered in your chest, the urgency of your mission driving you forward.

You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, the cool air hitting you like a slap in the face. Your eyes searched frantically for any sign of your father's room number.

The nurse had texted it to you, but in your haste, you hadn't taken the time to memorize it.

Finally, you spotted the sign you were looking for, and your legs carried you down the sterile corridor.

The squeak of rubber soles on polished floors was the only sound in the eerie silence, the stark contrast to the thundering engines at the track a painful reminder of the world you had left behind.

You reached the room, breathless, your hand shaking as you pushed the door open.

Your father lay in the hospital bed, hooked up to a maze of tubes and monitors. The sight of him, so frail and helpless, was like a knife to the heart.

You rushed to his side, the smell of sickness and fear thick in the air. His eyes, when they met yours, were filled with a sadness that made your soul ache.

"Dad," you whispered, taking his hand. It was cold, so cold, and your heart clenched with fear.

He managed a weak smile. "You're here."

You nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I'm here, Dad. I'll always be here."

He squeezed your hand, the strength in his grip surprising you. "Your heart…it's breaking."

You nodded again, the words catching in your throat. "Yeah."

He took a deep, rattling breath. "It's not just about me, sweetheart."

You frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"

His eyes searched yours, and you realized he wasn't just talking about his own condition.

He was referring to the soulmate theory, to the connection that apparently bound him to you in a way that was literally life or death.

"What do you mean, Dad?" you whispered, the fear in your voice barely contained.

He coughed, a harsh sound that seemed to shake the very bed beneath him. "The man you love, your soulmate…he's in trouble."

Your heart skipped a beat. "Charles?"

He nodded, his breaths shallow. "You need to be with him, Y/N. He's suffering without you."

You felt your chest tighten, a cocktail of emotions overwhelming you. You had run from him, not because you didn't care, but because you didn't know how to handle the intensity of your feelings.

The fear of losing him was too much to bear, so you had pushed him away, hoping that distance would dull the pain.

But here you were, in the stark reality of a hospital room, realizing that avoiding your heart's desires was a futile attempt at self-preservation.

"He's racing now," you murmured, the words echoing in your mind like the haunting melody of a tragic opera.

The thought of Charles out there, pushing himself to the limits of his physical and mental endurance, all while suffering from this inexplicable soulmate sickness, was unbearable.

"I know, I've been keeping an eye on my son-in-law," he remarked, gesturing towards the television behind you.

"Your son-in-law?" you repeated, your eyes widening in shock as you turned to the TV mounted on the wall.

On the screen, you saw Charles, dressed in his Ferrari race suit, climbing out of the car, looking every bit the picture of exhaustion and pain.

The camera zoomed in on his face, and your heart clenched. His eyes were sunken, his skin so pale it was almost translucent.

He was thinner, so much thinner, than the last time you had seen him.

The sight was like a punch to the gut, a visceral reminder of what you had been trying so hard to ignore.

You squeezed your father's hand, feeling the coolness of his skin against yours. "Dad, I…I don't know what to do."

He looked at you with a knowing smile. "After the race, you go speak to him."

The words hung in the air, a simple command that seemed to hold the power to either save or destroy you. Your father had always been intuitive, but this…this was something else entirely.

You nodded, the gravity of the situation sinking in. "Okay, Dad," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself as the race unfolded on the screen before you. Each lap felt like an eternity, each second a silent scream in your chest.

You watched as Charles pushed the car to its limits, his movements fluid and precise, yet you couldn't shake the image of his frail form from your mind.

As the race progressed, your eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion of the last few weeks finally catching up with you.

The drone of the engines lulled you into a trance, and despite your best efforts, you found yourself slowly succumbing to sleep.

Your dreams were a chaotic jumble of memories and fears, a tapestry woven with threads of love and loss.

In the hazy world of slumber, you saw yourself standing in the garage, watching as Charles climbed into the car, his eyes locking onto yours, filled with a pleading desperation that seemed to cut through the fabric of reality.

The world around you grew dimmer, the sounds of the hospital fading away, until all you could hear was the rhythmic beating of your heart.

Your body grew heavier, sinking into the chair, as if the very essence of you was being drawn into the abyss of unconsciousness.

In the depths of sleep, you reached out to him, your soul extending across the vast expanse of the universe, reaching for the warmth and comfort of his touch.

You felt a flicker of connection, a pulse of energy that seemed to resonate through every atom of your being.

The race continued on the television, a silent, unimportant backdrop to the tumultuous emotions raging within you. The smell of antiseptic grew faint, replaced by the faint scent of engine oil and burning rubber.

You were no longer in the hospital; you were at the track, the wind whipping through your hair, the vibrations of the cars resonating in your bones.

Your eyes snapped open as the checkered flag waved, the sound of the crowd's roar jolting you back to reality. You sat up with a start, your heart racing.

You had fallen asleep, and somehow, you had missed the race.

Panic surged through you as you checked the time. The race was over, and you hadn't even been there for it.

Your thoughts raced faster than the cars had just minutes ago. Was he okay? Had he won?

You reached for your phone, your trembling hands fumbling to pull up the race results. Your eyes scanned the screen, searching for Charles's name, your heart pounding in your ears.

And then you saw it, the words that brought you back to the world of the living.

Charles had won.

The relief washed over you, a cool wave that calmed the storm in your chest. He had done it, despite his condition, despite the pain. The gravity of his victory was not lost on you.

It was as if he had conquered not just the race, but the very specter of death that had been haunting him.

You leaned back in the chair, your eyes closing once more, a smile ghosting across your lips.

As you drifted off again, the warmth of his victory seemed to wrap around you, a gentle embrace that promised everything would be okay.

When you woke up, the room was dark, the only light coming from the glow of the television screen, now displaying the post-race interviews.

You blinked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and looked at your father.

His chest was still, the monitors above his bed eerily silent. You froze, your heart in your throat. You knew he had been ill, but the suddenness of his stillness was like a knife in the dark.

You leaned closer, your eyes searching for any sign of life. The room was cold, the air stale with the scent of antiseptic and despair.

Then, you saw it—the barest flutter of his eyelashes. Relief flooded through you like a tidal wave, and you realized you had been holding your breath.

"Dad," you whispered, the word barely escaping the confines of your tightened throat.

His eyes slowly opened, and for a moment, you saw the depth of his love and understanding reflected in the pools of blue-gray.

"I'm okay," he reassured, his voice a mere thread of its former robust self. "Just took a little nap."

You couldn't believe it. The race was over, and somehow, he had won. The news was bittersweet, a victory marred by the pain of your father's condition.

Yet, in the quiet of the hospital room, the significance of Charles's win seemed to resonate with something deeper, something that went beyond the race track.

"I should go and talk to him now," you murmured to yourself, the words feeling strange on your lips. The fear that had kept you at bay for so long had been overshadowed by a new, more pressing concern.

Your father's reply was faint, a whisper that seemed to carry the weight of the world.

"Yes, you must." He paused, his gaze drifting to the television, where the post-race interviews played out. "But remember, you are in charge of your own destiny. The choice is yours to make."

You nodded, his words sinking in, as you stood up, your legs feeling like lead. The gravity of the situation was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to press down on your shoulders.

You knew what you had to do, but the fear of rejection, of causing Charles more pain, was a heavy burden to bear.

"I'll be back soon," you promised, your voice barely a whisper as you leaned down to kiss your father's forehead.

It was a promise to yourself as much as it was to him, a declaration of your intent to face your fears and follow your heart.

The corridor outside the hospital room was a blur as you rushed towards the elevator, the clack of your heels echoing off the sterile walls.

Your mind was a whirlwind of emotions—fear for your father, love for Charles, and a desperate hope that it wasn't too late to save him.

You knew that the moment you stepped into the chaos of the paddock, the real battle would begin. . . .

The roar of the crowd was a dull hum in Ollie’s ears. Sixth place. He'd squeezed every ounce of performance out of his car, and it had paid off.

But a larger sense of satisfaction bloomed within him as he looked towards where Charles was being interviewed. Third place. An incredible recovery after that. . .  moment.

Ollie remembered the haunted look in Charles’ eyes earlier, the way his shoulders slumped with a weight that seemed far too heavy for him to bear.

He'd barely managed a weak smile when Ollie had offered a few words of encouragement, a gentle reminder that perhaps, just perhaps, you had reciprocated those intense feelings.

It seemed to have ignited a spark in Charles' spirit, however fleeting.

Charles managed a strained smile for the cameras, another pat on the back from a well-meaning engineer, and a quick word of congratulations to Ollie.

The champagne showers had been exhilarating, the roar of the crowd intoxicating, but beneath the surface, Charles felt like a tightly wound spring threatening to snap.

He looked happy, he knew he did. Years of practice had conditioned him to present a picture of unwavering confidence and joy, especially after a podium win. But the truth was, he was bone-achingly exhausted.

Not just physically, from the demanding race, but emotionally, spiritually drained.

He was battling something he couldn't explain to anyone but Ollie these days, a strange, unsettling phenomenon he'd only recently learned about: soulmate sickness.

Yet, the more he thought about it, the more the stages of the sickness resembled what he was going through:

Stage One: Loneliness. It had been a subtle ache at first, a feeling of incompleteness that had settled over him a few weeks ago. He chalked it up to the pressures of the season, the constant travel, the lack of genuine connection outside of the racing world. But it had persisted, growing stronger, a hollow echo in his chest.

Stage Two: The Insistent Pull. This was the stage he was currently trapped in, and it was far more disturbing than the first. An irresistible yearning, a magnetic force drawing him towards…you. He didn't understand it. The last time he had seen you was since he entered his car, and yet, you were all he could think about. Every cell in his body seemed to vibrate with the need to be near you, to hear your voice, to feel your presence. It was a relentless, gnawing sensation that made it difficult to concentrate, to sleep, to simply exist. Two weeks he had been feeling it, and it only seemed to get stronger.

Stage Three: The Detachment. This was the stage that terrified him. The whispers he'd overheard spoke of a breaking point, a severing of the bond. The consequences were said to be devastating: a profound sense of loss, a crippling depression, a complete inability to function. He couldn't bear the thought of it. Especially since he needed you more than ever. To lose you now, when he hadn't even had a chance to…he didn't even know what he wanted to do, only that he needed you.

The celebrations were starting to wind down. He gave Ollie another quick hug, mumbled something about needing to rest, and began to make his escape.

He needed to get away from the noise, the lights, the suffocating feeling of being surrounded by people yet utterly alone.

He hurried towards the team's hospitality area, the roar of the crowd fading slightly as he entered the relative quiet of the corridor.

His stomach churned, a familiar wave of nausea washing over him. The exhaustion, the stress, the soulmate sickness – it was all conspiring against him.

He reached the small bathroom tucked away at the end of the corridor and lunged towards the nearest stall. He barely made it before the contents of his stomach erupted, a violent expulsion of champagne and whatever nervous energy had been festering inside him.

He leaned against the cool tile wall, gasping for breath, his head swimming.

This was getting out of hand.

He needed to see you. He needed to know you were alright. Just your presence, just a glimpse of your face, might be enough to calm the storm raging within him.

After rinsing his mouth and splashing cold water on his face, he stumbled out of the bathroom and made his way towards his driver's room. It was a small, spartan space, but it offered a semblance of privacy, a temporary sanctuary from the demands of the outside world.

He fumbled with the keycard, swiped it through the reader, and pushed open the door. The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn against the glare of the late afternoon sun.

He could just make out the outline of the small sofa in the corner, his intended destination.

But before he could take another step, before he could even reach the haven of the couch, the room began to swim. The edges of his vision blurred, the colors intensified, then faded into a hazy gray.

A ringing sound filled his ears, growing louder and louder until it drowned out all other thoughts.

His legs buckled beneath him. He reached out, grasping for something to hold onto, but there was nothing there. He felt himself falling, tumbling into an abyss of darkness.

And then, silence.

Charles lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious.

The keycard, still clutched in his hand, lay discarded beside him. The room remained silent, the only sound the gentle hum of the air conditioning. . . .

Ollie watched as Charles finished the interview, a weary smile plastered on his face as he shook hands with the interviewer. Then, he disappeared into the throng of Ferrari personnel, heading towards the garages.

Ollie lingered, accepting congratulations, and engaging in polite conversation. But his mind was elsewhere, replaying the scene in Charles’ eyes.

Finally, excusing himself, Ollie made his way towards the Ferrari garage. The air crackled with energy, a mixture of relief and triumph. He spotted Charles briefly, surrounded by engineers, a hand pressed to his forehead.

Then, he was gone, presumably heading to his driver's room for a moment of respite.

A knot of anxiety tightened in Ollie's stomach. He quickened his pace, bypassing the celebrating mechanics and security personnel. He needed to see Charles, to make sure he was alright.

He found the door to Charles' room ajar. He pushed it open gently. "Charles?"

The scene that greeted him made his blood run cold.

Charles was sprawled on the floor, unconscious. His face was pale, almost ashen, and his body was unnaturally still. The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning.

Ollie rushed to his side, kneeling beside him. He placed a hand on Charles’ forehead, feeling the clammy skin beneath his fingertips. He checked for a pulse, his heart pounding in his chest. It was there, weak and threading.

"Charles! Wake up!" He shook him gently, desperately hoping for a response. Nothing.

Panic clawed at him. He knew he needed to get help, but he couldn’t leave Charles alone. He grabbed his phone, fumbling with the screen as he dialed the medical team’s number.

"This is Ollie Bearman. Charles Leclerc is unconscious in his driver's room. We need immediate medical assistance!" His voice was tight with urgency.

He stayed by Charles' side, his hand gripping his wrist, willing him to wake up. He noticed a sheen of sweat on Charles' brow, and the faint tremor that ran through his body.

He was breathing shallowly, his chest barely rising and falling.

Ollie didn't know what to do. He felt helpless, utterly useless in the face of such a crisis. He just kept talking to Charles.

"Come on, Charles. Wake up. It's alright. You're safe. Just open your eyes."

He thought back to what he knew about soulmate sickness. The detachment stage.

Could this be it? Was the bond already breaking, leaving Charles vulnerable and exposed? The thought terrified him.

He needed to find Y/N now. . . .

The roar of the Formula 1 engines faded into a dull thrum in your ears, replaced by a frantic, internal rhythm pounding against your ribs. You slammed your car door shut, the metallic clang a jarring punctuation mark to the already chaotic symphony of the paddock.

All that mattered right now was him.

You felt it, a sudden, sharp pain in your chest, like a knife twisting in your heart. You staggered, clutching at your chest, trying to draw breath. What was that? The world swam momentarily, the vibrant colours of the Ferrari pit lane blurring into an indistinct mess.

You blinked, forcing your vision to focus. The pain lingered, a dull ache that refused to be ignored.

"Hey! Y/N!"

You turned, recognizing Kimi's squeaky voice cutting through the noise. Beside him, Dino looked equally concerned, his face etched with worry.

"What's wrong?" you managed to ask, your voice barely a whisper.

Kimi didn't mince words. "Charles. He's sick. Really sick."

The pain in your chest intensified, constricting your lungs. Sick? Charles? The words echoed in your head, each syllable a hammer blow. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the initial shock.

Without waiting for further explanation, you were running, Kimi and Dino struggling to keep pace. The Ferrari motorhome loomed ahead, a monolithic structure of red and black.

You pushed past team members, security guards, and curious onlookers, your only thought to reach him.

Dino led you through the maze of corridors, his usually calm demeanor replaced with a sense of urgency. You barely registered the concerned faces that flickered past.

Finally, he stopped before a door marked with Charles' name.

"He's in here," Dino said, his voice low. "The medical team is with him. Ollie's there too."

He pushed the door open, and you were propelled into a scene that instantly froze the blood in your veins. Charles was lying on the couch, his face pale and drawn. Medical personnel swarmed around him, attaching wires and monitoring his vital signs.

Ollie stood beside him, his face a mask of quiet distress.

The air was thick with the sterile scent of antiseptic and the palpable tension of the moment. Charles' eyes flickered open as you entered, and a weak smile touched his lips.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice raspy.

The sight of him, so vulnerable and weak, sent a wave of nausea washing over you. This wasn't the Charles you knew, the confident, charismatic driver who commanded the track with such effortless grace. This was someone fragile, someone in pain.

One of the medical personnel, a woman with kind eyes, approached you. "He needs to be taken to the hospital for further evaluation. We're just stabilizing him now."

Hospital. The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Your mind flashed back to your father right after your mother died, the image searing itself onto your memory.

The same pale face, the same worried faces of medical staff, the same air of helpless dread.Your father, after your mother passed, had been plagued by those sudden pains, the ones that left him gasping for breath, his face contorted in agony.

The fear was a living thing now, clawing at your throat, choking off your breath. You couldn't breathe, you couldn't move, you couldn't…

“Y/N?" Ollie's voice cut through the haze. He placed a hand on your arm, his grip firm and reassuring. "Are you okay? You look like you're about to faint."

You shook your head, trying to clear the fog in your mind. "I… I just… I don't want him to go," you stammered, your voice trembling. The memory of your father was too vivid, too raw.

"Y/N, he needs to go," Dino said gently, his voice laced with concern. "It's the best thing for him. They need to figure out what's wrong."

But you couldn't reason with the fear that had taken root in your heart. The past and the present had become inextricably intertwined, blurring the lines between reality and nightmare.

"I can't," you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes. "I can't watch him go."

Ollie squeezed your arm. "He needs you, Y/N. Even if he doesn't say it, he needs you to be strong for him." He looked towards Charles. "He needs to know that you're here, that you're supporting him."

Dino nodded in agreement. "Come on, Y/N. He'll be scared. He needs a familiar face."

The sterile smell of antiseptic assaulted your nostrils as you slipped through the ajar door of room 312. A wave of anxiety washed over you, a cold sweat prickling your skin. How had you even managed to get this far?

There he was. Charles.

He lay still against the pristine white sheets, an IV drip connected to his arm, his chest rising and falling with the shallow rhythm of sleep, or perhaps something worse. His usually vibrant face was pale, almost translucent, and dark circles underscored his closed eyes.

A jolt of panic shot through you. You hadn't seen him this bad, not even at his lowest points. This was different.

This was… scary.

As if summoned by your silent dread, a doctor, a man with kind eyes and weary lines etched around his mouth, turned from adjusting a monitor and saw you.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, then his gaze softened with something akin to recognition.

“You,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful. “You’re here.”

Before you could stammer out an explanation, he asked the question that ripped through the silence like a thunderclap. “Are you his soulmate?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and impossible. Your breath hitched.

But the intense, unwavering look in the doctor's eyes demanded an answer. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to run, to deny it, to protect yourself from the sheer, terrifying magnitude of the situation.

But looking at Charles lying so vulnerable, so… lifeless, something inside you snapped. The guilt, the regret, the overwhelming sense of responsibility coalesced into a single, choked-out word.

“Yes,” you whispered, the sound barely audible.

He studied you for a moment, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. Then, he gestured towards Charles with a nod. "Step back. Just a step."

Hesitantly, you obeyed. As you moved away, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor beside Charles’ bed stuttered, then accelerated. The line on the screen jumps erratically. Simultaneously, his hand, resting limply on the bedspread, twitched slightly.

The doctor’s expression became grave. “Now, step forward.”

You took a tentative step closer. As you did, the frantic beeping of the monitor began to slow, gradually returning to a more regular, almost soothing rhythm. Charles’ hand stilled.

The doctor turned to you, his voice filled with a somber weight. “Unclaimed soulmates… when they are separated for extended periods, it can have devastating effects. Especially on the more… sensitive soul. In Charles’ case, it has manifested physically. His life force is tied to yours."

The words felt like a physical blow. You stumbled back, your hand flying to your mouth. You? Responsible for this? For his suffering? It was too much to process.

“What… what do you mean, unclaimed?” you managed to choke out.

“Unclaimed,” the doctor repeated, “as in, the bond hasn’t been… acknowledged. Accepted. Nurtured. It exists, undeniably, but it’s as if it’s trying to survive in a vacuum. The longer it’s ignored, the weaker the connection becomes, and the more profound the impact on both individuals.”

He paused, his gaze piercing. "You can't leave this room until something is settled between you two. Understand?"

Before you could respond, he turned and quietly left the room, leaving you alone with the weight of his words and the sight of Charles, so still, so vulnerable.

You sank into the chair beside his bed, the plastic cold against your skin. Guilt, sharp and agonizing, clawed at your throat.

You had known, deep down, that you were hurting him. You had felt the pull, the undeniable connection, but you had pushed it away, rationalized it, told yourself it was just infatuation, just a phase. You were wrong. So devastatingly wrong.

A muffled sob escaped your lips. How could you have been so blind? So selfish?

The door creaked open again, and a wave of familiar faces entered the room – Pascale and Arthur. Their expressions were a mix of concern and confusion.

“What happened?” Pascale asked, her voice trembling. “What did the doctor say?”

You wiped your eyes, trying to compose yourself, but the tears kept coming, hot and uncontrolled.

In broken sentences, you explained everything – the impossible words of the doctor, the heart rate monitor, the undeniable connection. You watched as disbelief morphed into understanding on their faces.

“I’m so sorry,” you choked out, the words thick with emotion. “I neglected Charles. I didn’t know it would get this bad. I was… I was afraid.”

Pascale rushed to your side and wrapped her arms around you in a tight hug. “It’s alright,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “It’s not your fault. We should have realized… we should have seen it.”

Arthur placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. “We don’t hate you,” he said quietly. “We just want him to be okay.”

You clung to their kindness, their forgiveness, like a lifeline. “Thank you,” you whispered, pulling away from Pascale’s embrace. “Thank you for understanding.”

They stayed for a little while longer, offering words of comfort and support. But eventually, they had to leave, promising to return soon.

As the door closed behind them, the silence in the room descended once more, heavier this time, charged with unspoken words and the weight of your own culpability.

You were alone again with Charles, the beeping of the heart monitor the only sound in the room.

You stared at his pale face, at the thin lines around his mouth that hinted at the joy he usually radiated, at the dark circles under his eyes that spoke of a pain you had unknowingly inflicted.

You couldn’t hold it back any longer. The dam inside you broke, and a torrent of tears streamed down your face.

You leaned closer to him, your voice a choked whisper, barely audible above the rhythmic beeping.

“I’m so sorry, Charles,” you sobbed, your voice cracking with emotion. “I’m so sorry you had to suffer because of me. I was being selfish, I was being stupid. I was afraid of what we have, of the depth of my feelings for you. I didn’t want to be vulnerable. I don’t deserve your love.”

Hot tears splashed onto the crisp white sheets beside his hand. You reached out and gently took his hand in yours, surprised by how cold it felt.

You squeezed it gently, willing him to feel your presence, to hear your words.

“Please, Charles,” you pleaded, your voice thick with tears. “Please wake up. Please tell me you can forgive me. I promise I’ll do better. I promise I’ll never run away again. I promise I’ll cherish you, protect you, love you with everything I have. Just… please, come back to me.”

You sat there, holding his hand, crying until your eyes were swollen and your throat was raw.

The only sound in the room was the steady beeping of the heart monitor, a constant reminder of his fragile state and your overwhelming responsibility.

As the hours ticked by, exhaustion began to creep in. You leaned your head against the side of the bed, your fingers still entwined with his.

You closed your eyes, praying for a miracle, for a sign, for any indication that he could hear you, that he knew you were there.

Then, Arthur, Charles’s best friend, arrived, his face etched with worry. Trailing behind him, tail wagging tentatively, was Leo, Charles’s beloved dachshund.

“He misses him,” Arthur said, his voice thick with emotion as he knelt to unclip Leo's leash. “And… well, Charles would want you to have him. You can take care of him better than I can right now.”

Leo, sensing the tension in the room, padded over to you and nudged his head against your leg.

You knelt down, burying your face in his soft fur, the familiar scent of Charles clinging to him. Another wave of tears threatened to overwhelm you.

“Thank you, Arthur,” you managed to choke out. “Thank you for bringing him.”

That night, curled up on the uncomfortable hospital chair with Leo nestled at your feet, you felt a flicker of something other than despair. A fragile sense of purpose.

You had to be strong, for Charles, for Leo, for the future you had so carelessly jeopardized.

The hospital staff, witnessing your distress, offered you a small comfort. Since you were unable to leave Charles' side, they arranged for a cot to be placed in the room, allowing you to stay close.

The following days settled into a routine. You woke up early, washed your face, and brushed your teeth in the small bathroom. You ate the bland hospital food, forcing it down despite the knot in your stomach. You read to Charles, his favorite books, aloud.

You talked to him about your hopes and dreams, about the life you had planned together. You spent hours simply holding his hand, willing him to wake up.

Leo became your constant companion, a furry shadow that followed you everywhere. He slept at your feet, offering silent comfort.

He nudged your hand with his nose when you were lost in your thoughts, reminding you that you weren't alone.

You continued your daily apologies, each confession laced with more desperation and regret. “I was so stupid, Charles,” you'd say, your voice breaking. “I let my anger get the best of me. I should have listened to you. I should have stayed. Please forgive me.”

You didn't know if he could hear you, but you had to believe that somehow, somewhere, he was listening.

Then, on the sixth day, as you were petting Leo, your fingers absentmindedly stroking his soft fur, you felt it. A slight pressure on your hand, a subtle squeeze that sent a jolt of electricity through your body.

You paused, holding your breath. Had you imagined it?

You looked down at Charles' hand, still intertwined with yours. You waited.

And then it happened again. A definite, undeniable pressure. His grip tightened, ever so slightly.

Your heart leaped into your throat. You dropped your hand from Leo and quickly turned around to see Charles slowly open his eyes.

They fluttered for a moment, unfocused and hazy, before settling on you. Recognition dawned in their depths, a flicker of the familiar warmth you had thought you’d lost forever. Tears started forming in your eyes, blurring your vision.

"Charles?" you whispered, your voice trembling with disbelief.

He blinked, a slow, deliberate movement. He tried to speak, but only a rasping sound escaped his lips.

You leaned closer, your heart pounding in your chest. "Don't try to talk," you said softly. "Just rest."

His eyes continued to focus on you, and a weak smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. He squeezed your hand again, a silent reassurance.

"I'm here," you whispered, tears streaming down your face. "I'm right here."

You pressed the call button for the nurse, your hand shaking so violently that you could barely manage to push it. Then, you turned back to Charles, your gaze locked on his.

"Don't worry," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "Everything is going to be okay."

The next few hours were a blur of activity. Doctors and nurses swarmed around Charles, checking his vitals, running tests. You stood back, hovering anxiously, your hand still clasped in his.

As the initial flurry subsided, the doctor approached you, a grave expression on his face. Your heart sank.

"His condition is still bad," he said carefully. "But the fact that he regained consciousness is a positive sign. We'll need to monitor him closely."

He paused, looking at you appraisingly. "You staying here, talking to him, it seems to have made a difference. Keep doing what you're doing."

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. You knew you would. You would stay by his side, talking to him, holding his hand, praying for his recovery.

As the doctor retreated, the room grew quiet again, filled only with the persistent beeping of the monitors and the occasional rustle of the sheets as Charles's chest rose and fell with his shallow breaths.

You leaned closer to him, your eyes tracing the contours of his face – the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the tiny fan of his eyelashes. His skin was warm under your touch, a stark contrast to the coldness you had felt just moments before.

"You're awake," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I'm here."

You felt his fingers twitch against yours, and a tear slipped down your cheek, landing on the back of his hand. You brought your other hand up to wipe it away, but it was met with his gentle squeeze, a silent plea for you to let it stay.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a rush of feeling through you, a sensation so intense it was almost painful. Your soulmate. The man whose very existence was linked to yours. The man you had pushed away.

Guilt and love swirled within you, a powerful cocktail that made your head spin. You had never felt so much at once – the weight of your mistakes, the depth of his forgiveness.

"I love you," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. They hung in the air, a declaration of everything you had felt but never dared to say.

His grip tightened slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. And in that moment, you knew he had heard you.

"Mon amour," he whispered, the words barely a breath escaping his parched lips. It was the sweetest sound you had ever heard. Your heart swelled with emotion, the weight of his love almost too much to bear.

You leaned closer, feeling the warmth of his breath against your cheek, the softness of his skin under your fingertips. His eyes searched yours, filled with a love so deep it was almost painful.

"I'm sorry," you said, your voice choking on a fresh wave of tears. "I'm so sorry for everything."

He didn't need to say anything more. That one whispered phrase was enough.

In the days that followed, you remained by his side, holding his hand, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. You watched as his color began to return, the lines of pain on his forehead slowly smoothing out.

The doctor's visits grew less frequent, their expressions less grim. The nurses began to smile more, whispering encouraging words as they passed by.

You felt a flicker of hope, a flame that grew with each passing hour.

Leo, ever loyal, waited off the hospital bed, his little tail wagging in excitement every time you returned with tales of progress.

You whispered to him, "Your daddy's going to be okay." And somehow, you knew he understood.

Finally, the day came when the doctors deemed Charles stable enough to be discharged. The relief was palpable as you packed your bag and gathered your thoughts. The three of you—you, Charles, and Leo—boarded a private plane back to Monaco, the weight of the past week lifting slightly with each mile you put between you and the hospital.

As the jet soared through the clouds, you held his hand, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath your fingertips. His eyes remained closed, but the color had returned to his cheeks, and the lines of pain had almost disappeared. Leo lay on the plush seat beside him, his little body pressed against his leg, offering silent support.

The flight was a blur of anticipation and anxiety. You knew that once you landed, life would have to go on—the race weekend, the social media campaigns, the endless press. But for now, you had him all to yourself, and it was all that mattered.

When you arrived at his house, the sight of it took your breath away—the gleaming white façade, the lush greenery, the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean in the distance. It was a stark contrast to the sterile hospital room you had been living in.

Charles walked to his house with no support, his gait unsteady but determined. Each step was a declaration of his will to recover, to conquer the fear that had held him captive. His hand was firm in yours, a silent promise that he would not falter.

Leo trotted alongside, his eyes darting between you and his master, his excitement palpable. As the door swung open, the warm embrace of the familiar scent of leather and cologne washed over you, mingling with the faint hint of the ocean breeze that drifted in from the open windows.

You helped Charles into the living room, his eyes scanning the space with a quiet satisfaction that seemed to say, "Home." The plush couch cushions enveloped him as he sat down with a sigh, the exhaustion of his ordeal etched into his features.

Leo immediately curled up at his feet, his eyes watchful. The bond between them was unmistakable—a silent testament to the love and companionship that had endured even in the darkest of moments.

The house was quiet, save for the distant murmur of waves crashing against the shore. It was a stark contrast to the cacophony of the hospital, and you found yourself reveling in the tranquility.

You decided it was time to unload the groceries you had picked up from the doorstep, a simple task that had taken on new significance after the turmoil of the past week. The bags felt heavier than usual, laden with the promise of home-cooked meals and a return to normalcy.

As you carried the bags into the kitchen, the coolness of the marble countertops was a welcome contrast to the warmth of your skin, flushed from the effort and the emotions coursing through you. The scent of fresh vegetables and herbs filled the air, reminding you of the countless dinners you had shared here, of the laughter and love that had once filled this space so effortlessly.

You set the bags down, your hands trembling slightly. The mundane task of unpacking groceries had become a sacred ritual, a declaration of your intent to take care of him, to make everything right again.

You began to unload the bags, your eyes lingering on each item – the plump tomatoes, the crisp cucumbers, the fragrant basil – each one a symbol of life's simple pleasures that had been so cruelly snatched away from you both. The sound of the plastic bags rustling filled the kitchen, a stark contrast to the silence that had once been so deafening.

"Mon amour?" Charles called out, his voice hoarse but filled with a warmth that sent a shiver down your spine.

You froze, the kitchen utensils you were unpacking clattering against the counter. The sound seemed to echo through the empty house, a stark reminder of the tumultuous journey you had been on.

"I'm here," you called back, your voice shaky, as you made your way back to the living room, your heart thudding in your chest.

You found him leaning against the arm of the couch, his eyes searching the room as if trying to reorient himself. His gaze landed on you, and his features softened, the corners of his lips tilting up in a weak smile.

"Where did you go?" he croaked, his voice still rough from disuse.

You paused in the doorway, the weight of his question heavy in the air. It wasn't just about your physical absence during the race weekend; it was about the emotional distance that had grown between you.

"I went to put the groceries into the kitchen," you said, your voice small and tentative.

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. "No," he said, his voice a barely there whisper. "I mean, why did you leave before the race?"

Your heart dropped into your stomach, a sudden realization washing over you. You hadn't told him about your father. The accident, the hospital, the fear that had gripped you so tightly that you couldn't breathe. The fear that had made you flee, leaving him to face the race without you by his side.

You took a deep, shaky breath, steeling yourself for the confession that was long overdue. "My dad," you began, your voice cracking with unshed emotion. "He was having a heart attack."

Charles's expression grew concerned, his eyes never leaving yours. "Is he...?" He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.

You nodded, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. "He's okay," you whispered. "He's stable now."

The relief in Charles's eyes was palpable, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. He reached for you, his hand gripping yours with a newfound urgency. "Thank God," he murmured.

You stepped closer to the couch, the distance between you closing like a wound that had begun to heal. You sat beside him, your legs touching, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. You felt the rapid beat of his heart against your thigh, a rhythm that matched the racing pulse in your own chest.

"You know when I came back and saw you unconscious, my heart dropped," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "It reminded me of my father."

The words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the gentle hum of the refrigerator in the background. You felt your throat tighten as the memory of that fateful moment flooded your mind—the sight of Charles lying lifeless on the floor.

"I understand," he murmured, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. "But why didn't you tell me?"

You bit your bottom lip, the sting of his words hitting you harder than you had anticipated. "I didn't want to burden you," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "You had the race. I didn't want to distract you."

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and understanding. "You're never a burden," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "You're... everything."

Your eyes met his, and the intensity of his gaze made your heart stutter. You felt the warmth of his hand, the gentle strokes of his thumb, and the way his breath hitched when you spoke. The air between you crackled with unspoken words, a silent conversation of longing and regret.

"I know," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "But I was scared."

Scared of what? Scared of losing him? Scared of being seen as weak? Scared of the fragility of life? It was all of those things and more, a tangle of fears that had wound themselves around your heart until you couldn't breathe.

He pulled you closer, his arm around your shoulder, and you leaned into him, feeling the solid warmth of his body against yours. His eyes searched yours, looking for the answers you hadn't yet found.

"Scared of what?" he asked, his voice a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine.

You took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of his arm around your shoulder, the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. You had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. But with him, you knew you could be.

"Scared of losing you," you admitted, the words sticking in your throat. "Scared of what would happen if I didn't keep my distance, if I didn't protect us both."

His eyes searched yours, a storm of emotions swirling within them—understanding, pain, love. "You don't have to protect me," he whispered. "I'm not fragile."

You leaned into his embrace, tucking your face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—his cologne, the faint tang of antiseptic from the hospital, the warmth of his skin. "I know," you murmured, feeling the words resonate in his chest. "But I can't bear the thought of anyone I love getting hurt again."

He stiffened at your confession, his hand stilling on your back. For a moment, the only sound was the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway. "You love me?" he teased, his voice a soft caress that sent a thrill down your spine.

You nodded, unable to find the words to explain the depth of your feelings. "Of course I do," you murmured, your voice muffled by his shirt.

And then, as if a dam had broken, his features softened, and a grin spread across his face, lighting up his eyes. It was a grin that you had seen a hundred times before—mischievous, playful, and filled with a love so potent it made your knees weak.

"You love me," he repeated, his voice filled with wonder, as if he hadn't quite believed it until now. His grin grew wider, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that made him seem both younger and infinitely more vulnerable.

That grin – it was the grin that had stolen your heart the first time you saw him, all confidence and charm wrapped in one irresistible package.

As Charles's smile grew, the room seemed to brighten, casting shadows on the walls and bringing a warmth that seemed to fill the space around you. His eyes, a piercing shade of blue that had once held you captive, searched yours for the truth in your words.

"Why are you smiling so much?" you murmured shyly, feeling the heat of his gaze as if it were a tangible thing. Your cheeks flushed, and you realized that you had been smiling since the moment you had seen him standing there, alive and well.

He pulled away slightly, his eyes searching yours, a playful smirk playing on his lips. "Is it really that surprising?" he teased, his thumb still tracing lazy circles on your hand. "I'm home, I'm okay, and you're here."

You felt your cheeks burn even hotter at his words. "I just... I don't know. I guess I'm just happy," you said, your voice small and unsure. It had been so long since you had felt this unbridled joy, this sense of everything being right in the world.

His grin softened, his thumb still moving in gentle strokes against your skin. "You should smile more," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through your very being. "You look beautiful when you do."

You felt your cheeks burn even hotter, your heart racing as you looked away, trying to hide the blush that painted your face. "I don't know what you're talking about," you murmured, a small laugh escaping your lips.

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "You're smiling because you're happy," he whispered, his voice a soft caress that sent shivers down your spine. "Because you're with me."

You couldn't help but blush at his words, feeling the heat of his breath on your neck as he spoke. His hand slid from your back to your cheek, gently turning your face towards his.

"Look at me," he whispered, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made you want to melt into his embrace.

"What is it?" you muttered, your voice thick with unshed tears and fear.

The silence between you grew heavier than the weight of the unspoken words. His thumb stopped moving on your hand, and his eyes searched yours, looking for an answer you hadn't quite found within yourself.

"Do you want to be with me?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if the words themselves were too fragile to be spoken too loudly.

You felt your heart stutter in your chest, the question hanging in the air like a weightless feather caught in the stillness of the moment. It was a question that had been lingering unspoken between you for weeks, a question that had been buried beneath layers of fear and doubt.

"What do you mean?" you whispered, your voice shaking with anticipation. You searched his eyes, looking for the truth behind his words. Was he really asking what you thought he was?

Charles leaned in closer, his gaze never wavering from yours. "I mean, I love you," he said slowly, enunciating each word with a deliberate care that made your heart race. "But I know you don't like the idea of soulmates, so I'm not forcing you to be with me because you're my soulmate."

His thumb brushed against your cheek, a gentle reminder of his presence. "But I want you to choose me, because you want to. Because you can't imagine your life without me in it."

Your pulse quickened as you looked into his eyes, the depth of his emotion mirroring the tumultuous storm inside you. The warmth of his hand, the scent of his skin, the way your bodies seemed to fit together like puzzle pieces—it was all too much to deny.

Leo barked from the kitchen, the sudden noise jolting you out of the intensity of the moment. It was a mundane sound, a reminder of the ordinary world that waited outside the cocoon of your shared emotion.

You looked down at the dog, who wagged his tail, oblivious to the gravity of what had just been said. "Looks like dinner's ready," you said with a forced laugh, the tension in your voice unmistakable.

Gently, you got off Charles's lap, his hands still lingering on your hips as you stood up. You took a step back, your legs feeling unsteady beneath you, as if you had been running a marathon rather than sitting still. The warmth of his touch remained, a phantom reminder of the intimacy you had just shared.

With trembling hands, you made your way to the kitchen, the sound of your shoes echoing through the hallway. The stark contrast between the cool marble countertops and the warmth of your skin was jolting as you leaned against it, trying to gather your thoughts. The kitchen was a blur of chrome and white, but all you could focus on was the ache in your chest, a feeling that was both painful and exhilarating.

Leo trotted in after you, his tail wagging expectantly as he stared up at the counter where his food was usually placed. You managed a weak smile, reaching out to scratch behind his ear. "Good boy," you murmured, his soft fur a small comfort in the face of the tumultuous emotions swirling inside you.

The kitchen was bathed in the warm glow of the pendant lights, casting long shadows across the floor. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. You had never met someone like Charles—his passion for racing was matched only by his fiery spirit and his ability to articulate his love so openly, so unabashedly. It was both thrilling and terrifying.

Leo's expectant gaze brought you back to reality, and you forced a smile as you bent down to feed him.

"Come on, buddy," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "Let's not let your dinner get cold."

As you scooped the food into Leo's bowl, you couldn't help but feel the weight of Charles's gaze on your back. You knew he was waiting for an answer, his heart likely racing as fast as yours.

The doctor's words echoed in your mind—stay in his house until you two kiss for you to be claimed soulmates. It sounded absurd, like something out of a cheesy romance novel. But here you were, the very essence of your being seemingly tied to this one simple act.

Yet, as much as you wanted to lean in and kiss him, something held you back—an invisible barrier made of fear and doubt. You felt the heat of his gaze on you as you fed Leo, the dog's tail thumping against the floor in rhythm with the racing of your heart.

Thankfully, Charles wasn't rushing you. He knew the weight of his words, the gravity of the situation. You weren't just any girl; you were the one who had captured his heart, the one who had been by his side through the storm of his career. The one who had held him when he thought he had lost everything.

And the next race wasn't until next week. A whole week of uninterrupted time stretched out before you, a week where the only thing that mattered was the beating of your hearts in sync, the whispers of love in the quiet moments.

You felt the warmth of his gaze as you filled Leo's bowl, the anticipation thick and heady in the air. You knew he was giving you space to process his confession, to let the reality of his words sink in.

You had a week to decide, a week to explore these uncharted waters without the pressure of the racing world closing in around you. . . . 

And so, the days melted into the other. Each sunrise brought a fresh wave of dread, each shared meal a torture of suppressed emotion. Charles, bless his oblivious heart, was being... Charles. Attentive. Kind. Infuriatingly charming.

You'd noticed the changes. The softened, fond stares lingered for longer than necessary. He remembered things you’d mentioned in passing, little details about your favorite tea or the brand of editing software you preferred.

He asked about your interests, drawing you out, genuinely fascinated by your rambling explanations about video editing or your obscure love for vintage racing documentaries.

He started bringing you food – little pastries from his favorite bakery, a perfectly made cappuccino in the mornings, a comforting pasta dish after a particularly grueling day.

Each gesture, each subtle act of affection, chipped away at the wall you'd so desperately tried to build around your heart. You were falling. Falling hard.

The irony wasn't lost on you. You were terrified of the commitment, but you were already irrevocably, hopelessly in love with him.

It was during one of your marathon editing sessions, fueled by caffeine and a desperate desire to escape the reality of your situation, that Charles finally broke through.

You were hunched over your laptop, meticulously crafting a highlight reel for Ollie Bearman, your fingers flying across the keyboard.

The knock on the door was soft, almost hesitant. "Yes, Charles?" you said, not bothering to look up, your eyes glued to the flickering images on the screen.

The door creaked open, and Charles peeked his head inside. "Mon amour? Are you going to take a break?"

The pet name sent a jolt through you. He'd been using it more and more lately. Mon amour. My love. The weight in your chest intensified.

"I can't, Mon Prince," you replied, still focused on the screen. "This is due tomorrow."

"But you've been working all week," he muttered, a hint of complaint in his voice. He wasn't wrong. You'd been burying yourself in work, desperate to avoid the constant, simmering tension that permeated the apartment.

You heard a soft thump and then a rustling sound. Annoyed, you finally turned to face him. Charles was sitting on the carpeted floor, crisscrossed, his elbows resting on his knees, gazing up at you with those puppy-dog eyes that you were quickly learning were his secret weapon.

And then, as if on cue, Leo padded into the room and settled down beside Charles, mirroring his posture. Two pairs of pleading eyes were now fixed on you, radiating silent disapproval.

You sighed, defeated. "Fine. What do you want to do then?"

Charles grinned, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree. He leaped to his feet, Leo bounding up with him, his tail wagging furiously.

"Just get  really dressed up in an hour," he said, his voice brimming with excitement, before rushing out of the room, leaving you staring after him in bewildered confusion.

What was he planning?

You looked at the clock. It was already 6 PM. The sun had long ago disappeared behind the horizon, leaving a velvety sky dotted with stars.

You hadn't even realized how late it had gotten, lost in the rhythmic clacking of your keyboard.

You sighed, pushing aside the laptop, and turned your gaze to the wardrobe. The instruction to get dressed up had been vague, but you knew Charles's tastes. He loved you in red. It brought out the fire in your eyes, he'd said, the same fire that burned in his soul when he was racing.

You scanned the rack, the fabrics whispering against the metal rods as they swayed slightly from the displaced air. The red dress, a form-fitting number with a plunging neckline and a flirty skirt, hung there, a silent siren's call.

The dress was a bold declaration of intent, a declaration of the person you had been before the world had turned upside down.

You slipped it over your head, feeling the cool silk caress your skin like a lover's touch. The fabric clung to your curves, reminding you of the power of your femininity, a power you had neglected to wield in the months of your self-imposed solitude.

The dress was a declaration of war against the fear that held you captive, a declaration of the person you were willing to be again.

As you twirled in front of the full-length mirror, the skirt fluttered around your thighs.

The scent of your favorite perfume filled the air, a sweet bouquet of jasmine and vanilla, as you sprayed it on your neck and wrists, feeling the cool mist kiss your skin before it disappeared into an invisible embrace.

The anticipation grew as you applied your makeup with precision, your hands steady despite the tremble in your heart.

Each stroke of the crimson lipstick, each swipe of the smoky eyeshadow was a silent affirmation that you were ready to face whatever the evening held.

Your eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and trepidation, the reflection staring back at you was that of a woman ready to conquer her fears, or at least, ready to dance with them.

When you stepped out into the living room, the sight of Charles took your breath away. He was dressed in a tailored black tuxedo, a crimson bow tie that matched your dress, and his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, widened at the sight of you.

He looked like he had been carved from marble, every line and curve of his body a testament to his athleticism and the power that lay just beneath the surface.

"You look beautiful," he muttered, his eyes devouring every inch of you, the raw hunger in his gaze setting your skin alight.

You felt your cheeks flush at the compliment, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. It had been so long since you had felt truly seen, truly appreciated, and his words were like a balm to your soul.

You stepped closer to him, feeling the electricity arc between you, the air thick with unspoken promises.

"Thank you," you murmured, your voice a soft purr that seemed to resonate through his very being.

You reached out, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. His skin was warm, the faint scent of his cologne intoxicating.

He took your hand, bringing it to his lips, his gaze never leaving yours. "You always do," he said, the words a warm breath against your skin. His thumb traced lazy circles on the back of your hand, sending shivers up your arm.

You felt your resolve waver, the dam holding back the flood of emotions threatening to crumble under the weight of his affection.

"Where's Leo?" you asked, your voice a mere whisper.

"He's with my brother," Charles said, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "They're having a little... brotherly bonding time."

The cryptic remark sent a thrill down your spine. You wondered what kind of bonding time they could possibly be having, but the excitement of the evening pushed the thought aside.

"Ready?" Charles asked, holding out his hand.

You nodded, your heart racing in anticipation. His grip was firm, yet gentle, as he led you to the door, his touch sending waves of heat through your body.

As you stepped into the hallway, you could feel his eyes on you, drinking in every detail of your form, and it made you feel both self-conscious and incredibly desired.

The elevator ride down to the lobby was a silent dance of nerves and unspoken desires. The air was charged, and the space between you felt as vast as the Grand Canyon and as intimate as a lover's embrace.

His hand never left yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles that matched the erratic beat of your pulse.

When the doors slid open, a sleek, black limousine waited outside, the engine purring like a contented cat. The driver held the door open with a nod, and Charles ushered you inside.

The interior was a plush cocoon of luxury, the leather seats whispering against your skin as you slid into them. The scent of expensive cologne filled the cabin, mingling with the faint smell of leather and the heady perfume of the night outside.

As the car pulled away from the curb, you felt a strange mix of excitement and fear. You had no idea where he was taking you, but you had a feeling it was going to be an unforgettable night.

The city lights streamed past the tinted windows, casting a warm glow over your skin. You leaned into Charles, the warmth of his body a comfort against the cool evening air.

He pulled you closer, his breath warm against your ear. "I have a surprise for you," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate deep within your core.

You shivered, the anticipation building within you like the crescendo of a symphony. Each moment felt like an eternity as the car wove through the city streets, the suspense a delicious agony.

Finally, the limo stopped in front of an opulent, dimly lit restaurant, the name of which you hadn't even noticed in your daze. The driver opened the door, and Charles stepped out first, extending his hand to help you.

The cool evening air was a stark contrast to the warmth of the car, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

"Happy birthday, my love," he whispered into your ear as you took his hand, the words sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the chill. You looked up at him, surprised. "You remembered," you breathed, the words barely audible.

He grinned, that boyish, charming smile that made your knees wobble. "How could I forget?"

The hostess greeted Charles by name, her eyes flicking briefly to the two of you with a knowing look. You felt a blush creep up your neck as you followed him into the dimly lit dining room.

The scent of fine wine and exotic spices wafted through the air, and the murmur of conversation and clinking silverware was the only sound that broke the sultry silence.

The table was set for two, with a single red rose in a crystal vase at its center. The crimson petals matched the dress you wore, a silent declaration that you were his for the evening. The candlelight flickered across the silverware, casting shadows that danced across your skin, making your heart flutter in your chest like a caged bird desperate to break free.

As you took your seat, Charles pulled out the chair for you, his hand lingering on the small of your back, sending a thrill down your spine. You felt his warmth even as he took his own seat, the proximity of his thigh against yours setting your nerves alight.

The waiter appeared, reciting a menu that might as well have been in a foreign language for all the attention you could give it.

The only thing you could focus on was the way Charles's eyes never left yours, the way his hand found yours under the table, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin.

The food was exquisite, a symphony of flavors that seemed to mirror the tumultuous dance of your emotions. Each bite was a sensory experience, a delightful explosion that only served to heighten the anticipation of what was to come.

You sipped from your wine glass, the velvety liquid sliding down your throat, warming your insides, loosening the knots in your stomach.

But it was the dessert that truly stole the show. A rich, decadent chocolate cake, with a single, flickering candle atop it. The room seemed to hold its breath as the waiter presented it with a flourish, the flame casting a warm glow across the table.

"Happy birthday," Charles murmured, his voice a soft caress.

You stared at the cake, the reality of the situation crashing over you like a tidal wave. It was your birthday, a day you had hoped to ignore, to pass by unnoticed, but here it was, staring you in the face with all the subtlety of a neon sign. . . .

[saudianna]

charles adored when you listened to him, he relished the sight of you naked on your shaky knees, thighs trembling from being edged for what felt like hours, mascara streaked down your cheeks, cockdrunk, hands squeezing his thighs for support as you bobbed your head on his dick. charles praising you, calling you a good girl and a desperate slut. his hand tightened in your hair as you whined, breathless, mouth open and ruined, tounge lolled out for him and ready to take whatever he gave you just for a small taste.

[visualvocabulary33]

[f1post]

[thirteenandten]

gosh there's a video around of franco meeting some chinese fans and they have a leclerc tshirt and he absolutely unprompted goes like oh i know how to fake charles' signature, do you want me to sign it for you? AND HE DOES IT 😂😂😂 i just need to know if he sat his ass to learn other drivers' signatures or how the hell he came up knowing that

editing to include the video bc i was finally able to download it lol

[paddockletters]

drunken confession | charles leclerc smau

request: yes! | thank you so much and sorry took me so long pairing: charles leclerc x singer! reader summary: when Charles drunkenly posts instagram stories confessing his love for his secretly famous best friend after a podium celebration

Gossip 

Liked by carlossainz55 and 24,945 others 

Gossip: Charles Leclerc, Ferrari driver, celebrating after his win in Las Vegas. 

view all the comments

Fan1: Charles is having the time of his life 

Fan2: I swear, I love seeing him enjoy himself, he totally deserved another win 🥺

Fan3: Hope his friends keep him safe so he doesn’t do something stupid 😭😭😭

Fan4: I get it, when you're drunk you don't know what you're doing 😂

charles_leclerc

Liked by yourusername and 3,863,927 others

charles_leclerc: Heyyy… do you guys knooow my friennnd? She’s likeee… my bestest friennnd, and I’ve loooved herrr for… what, likeeee, 3 yeaaars or somethin’? i'll marry her one dayyyy

View all the comments

Fan5: Charles… WHAT THE HELL??? Fan6: This man just confessed not only that he’s in love... BUT THAT HE’S IN LOVE WITH HIS FRIEND WHO, BY THE WAY, IS THE DAMN Y/N 😭😭😭 Fan7: Y/N and Charles??? Didn’t see that coming but I love it Fan8: Offended that no one knew they even knew each other Fan9: SOMEBODY TAKE CHARLES' PHONE AWAY FROM HIM, FOR GOD'S SAKE

landonorris: When did you posted this?

Fan10: Doesn’t matter, now the whole world knows about his love for Y/N Fan11: landonorris, did you know?

Fan12: yourusername LOOK AT THIS Fan13: yourusername WE DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT THIS SECRET Fan14: yourusername SOMETHING TO SAY???

arthur_leclerc: Bro… don’t forget to send this one to mom before you propose😂

Fan15: I didn't even know they were FRIENDS and now he’s out here planning weddings 😭😭

yourusername has posted a story

Time skip 2 year later

yourusername

Liked by charles_leclerc and 2,921,973 others

yourusername: Surprise! We’ve been keeping this one to ourselves for a while… 💍❤️ Love of my life—6 years of friendship, 3 years in love (we didn´t know), and 2 years married

View all comments

Fan9: My whole life feels like a lie 😭😭😭

pierregasly: About time, mate. Knew you’d slip up 😉

carlossainz55: Charles with the accidental announcement 😂

max33verstappen: I knew it! You couldn’t keep it quiet forever. #GridMom

landonorris: Congrats to the grid mum and dad 👀

carmenmound: I’m dying… he really couldn’t wait another week for a proper announcement?

charles_leclerc: Je t’aime, ma reine ❤️

[oscpstri]

don't you make me | leclerc

leclerc x fem ex!reader, 547

you didn't think it would end this way, but when charles decided to downplay the breakup about a relationship he never even cared to tell people about, you show your ex exactly who he was dealing with.

INCLUDES: charles is a red flag but we all knew that !!, PETTY ENERGY

NOTE: got this idea bcs ive been IN LOVE with the bridge of 15 minutes ever since it came out. also inspired by my own breakup bcs i need to release this hot girl anger somewhere. love sabrina she's my queen

( masterlist | more CL16 )

Charles should have known better.

You weren't the type of girl who could be erased so quickly, not when the entire relationship was built by you brick by brick.

That's why when an exclusive interview with the grid's Monaco prince came out with Charles saying he 'gave you what he could', you were fuming. Gone were the nights of you bawling your eyes out because everything reminded you of him, now you were just looking for a way to get back under his skin.

Because you were not about to let a man who couldn't even give you handwritten letters ruin your life.

So you closed the curtain, took a week to better your headspace, and opened it like nothing had happened.

The breakup wasn't big— just enough. You were a nobody because Charles refused to hard-launch you but now you were about to turn into the hottest woman the paddock has ever seen. No one would forget you. Definitely not Charles.

Talk about a glow-up? You had a whole F1 car sized weight lifted off your chest.

You posted on Instagram. A simple three-slide post that encapsulated everything you had been up to since the week Charles had tragically let you go.

The first slide was a faceless photo, tan lines out, sunglasses on, posing like you owned that damn beach.

The second slide was a picture of the ocean. Calm, serene— much opposite to the reactions you garnered from the last slide.

The third was a selfie taken from the top, your eyes covered by the brim of a hat. A hat everyone instantly recognized— even the drivers themselves. This then probed the question to the public: Who are you and why is you wearing a Carlos Sainz hat provoking the drivers reactions?

Pierre liked your post immediately, Lando hyped you up in the comments, Alex reposted on his story with the caption 'complete Williams WAG roster', and Charles? He saw everything. And you know he did.

Because the second the paddock starts whispering your name when they find you, Charles turns to see the talk of the town. He wouldn't have had a hard time, though. Because you weren't even trying to blend in. A black mini dress, sunglasses, and a cute gold chain with a little "C" pendant dangling from it.

You let people wonder which C, but Charles knew exactly who it wasn't.

He glances at you, tight-lipped, regret simmering in his eyes.

You mustered up the sweetest PR-approved smile you could give, "Hi!"

Charles blinked. "Hey."

You leaned in, voice sweet and innocent. "Hope your season's going well. Big fan! All things considered."

You mutter the last part under your breath, walking away with a wide smile. Charles didn't respond, he couldn't, and he knew that.

His eyes follow your retreating figure all the wsy to the Williams hospitality where you find yourself beside Carlos.

"You're dangerous." He leans towards your ear, voice low and husky.

You turn to him, another wide smile on your face. "Only when I'm provoked."

He grinned. "And if I don't provoke you?"

Your smile simmers, a smirk replacing it as you take a sip of your drink. "Then you get to be the hard launch instead of the big caution sign for the next guy."

[meep-meep-richie]

Of course he recognizes him everywhere T_T

[verstappensrealwife]

Oh ma lawd🤠

Liked by Charles_leclerc

[feinzleclerc]

𝐅inally a yes | Charles Leclerc

summary :: Where you finally accept Charles' proposal.

word count :: 1.090 words.

It was hard to believe that Formula 1 had become your life. Since you were little, fast cars and the stories behind the drivers had always fascinated you. Growing up in a family where Sunday mornings meant mandatory race-watching certainly helped. But simply watching wasn’t enough—you wanted to be there, part of that world. That desire drove you to study sports journalism, always with the goal of one day covering the pinnacle of motorsport.

Your first big break came when a small European motorsports website hired you to cover the junior categories. During that time, you met Charles Leclerc. He was on the rise, racing in Formula 2 and impressing everyone with his talent. Although you didn’t spend much time together back then, Charles had a charisma that was hard to ignore. He was kind, polite, but with a hint of sarcastic humor that made every conversation unforgettable.

You were always in front of him, the interviewer. It wasn’t intentional; you were simply following orders. But soon, you became a familiar face to Leclerc—not just your face, but your name as well.

Years later, your dedication finally led you to what once seemed like an unattainable dream: working directly with Formula 1. Now, as a reporter for a global network, you traveled the world covering races. Life was hectic and full of challenges, but one thing—or rather, one person—made everything even more complicated: Charles Leclerc.

From the day you crossed paths with Charles again in the paddock, he never missed a chance to start a conversation. At first, it was just quick remarks between interviews, casual exchanges. But over time, Charles became more direct, throwing in flirtatious comments disguised as jokes.

— You know you can interview any driver, yet you keep coming back to me. It’s fate, ma chérie — he’d say with that confident smile that made you laugh despite yourself, even as you rolled your eyes in response.

Your friends in the paddock quickly picked up on the dynamic between the two of you, especially Gasly and Norris, who never missed an opportunity to tease.

— Charles, how many times are you going to get turned down before you give up? — Pierre would mock, while Lando chimed in: — I think he likes the challenge. More exciting than overtaking Max on track.

You’d just shake your head, trying to ignore their comments, but sometimes you couldn’t help but laugh, which only encouraged Gasly and Norris further. To them, your laughter was like a sign—one that you weren’t entirely shutting Charles out.

This wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Despite Charles’ countless attempts, you always had a ready excuse for not accepting his invitations: work, commitments, exhaustion... But deep down, the real reason was fear—fear of complicating your already chaotic life. Mixing work and romance wasn’t a path you wanted to tread lightly.

Everything changed during the Monaco GP. It was the most glamorous race on the calendar, and the city’s atmosphere seemed to conspire for something different. Charles, of course, seized the moment.

— You’re in Monaco, my city, and you still haven’t seen the best spots. I think it’s the perfect time to finally say yes — he said, wearing that confident look that always threw you off balance.

For some reason, your mind worked differently that day. Lately, you’d been wondering what might happen if you did accept one of Charles’ invitations. A thought struck you like a pang in your heart: you’d never know what could truly happen unless you gave it a chance.

— Alright, Charles. I’ll go. But only because you won’t stop insisting. — Liar.

His grin was so wide it was like he’d just won a race. — You won’t regret it, I promise.

When you finally saw yourself in the mirror wearing that dress, it hit you—you had agreed to a date with none other than Charles Leclerc. If someone had told you this back in the Formula 2 days, you’d never have believed them.

Charles made sure to plan everything. He picked you up at the hotel, dressed in a crisp white shirt that was both stylish and casual, contrasting with the excitement in his expression. The destination? A small seaside restaurant, far from Monaco’s bustling crowds.

— I wanted a place where we could really talk, without distractions — he explained as you walked to a table overlooking the water.

— That’s exactly what I had in mind for this... outing — you smiled.

— Away from the media?

— Definitely.

The conversation flowed naturally. Charles shared stories about his childhood in Monaco, how he started racing, and the challenges he’d faced along the way. You, in turn, talked about how your passion for Formula 1 began and the behind-the-scenes aspects of your job.

— I’ve always admired your determination — he said, his tone suddenly serious. — Not only did you make it into this world, but you’ve stood out. That’s not easy, especially for someone so... captivating.

You felt your cheeks heat up at the compliment, but before you could respond, Charles shifted the mood with a playful comment about how he deserved credit for being so persistent in getting you to that dinner.

After the meal, Charles suggested a walk along the harbor. The night was clear, and the city seemed to glow even brighter under the moonlight. He led you to a quieter spot where yachts were anchored, away from the main activity.

— Did you know my first karting win happened right here? — he said, pointing to a spot near the harbor. — I was just a kid, but that day changed everything for me.

— Maybe tonight will change everything too — you replied without thinking, immediately regretting it when you saw the smile spreading across Charles’ face.

Charles stepped closer, shaking his head. — Maybe it will.

The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of waves lapping against the boats. Before you could say anything, Charles leaned in slightly, his gaze locked on yours.

— May I? — he asked, his voice low, filled with anticipation.

You nodded, and the kiss that followed was soft yet meaningful, as if all the tension between you had finally found its resolution.

That night, something truly changed. For the first time, you stopped resisting how you felt about him.

[monkeycharles]

mclaren just made ferrari look like a happy healthy family wow

[mrsfancyferrari]

A Lover's Touch

Summary: In a world of where soulmates can be found easily, Charles was struggling a lot to find his one. PT 1

Song: After Hours · The Weeknd

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

Word count: 12.9k

MASTERLIST - F1

Charles sighed, another wave of that dull, persistent ache washing over him. It was the kind of feeling you attributed to a long day, an early morning, anything but the truth: a hollow space where his soulmate should be.

In this world, finding your soulmate was practically a given. A man simply had to pay attention to the pervasive sense of well-being that blossomed the closer he got, like basking in the sun after a long winter. Women, on the other hand, experienced the opposite. A gnawing anxiety, a yearning that intensified with proximity, only to be extinguished by the kiss that confirmed the connection.

Charles had always envied the ease with which others navigated this aspect of life. He'd seen friends practically vibrate with happiness as they zeroed in on their matches, their faces glowing with a newfound understanding.

He’d witnessed public displays of affection, the relief on the woman’s face palpable as the kiss settled the tremor in her soul. But for Charles, nothing. Just the ever-present, low-grade ache.

He was currently seeing Alexandra, a vibrant artist with paint-stained fingers and a laugh that could fill a room. He liked her. A lot. They shared a passion for old movies, bad puns, and late-night talks fueled by cheap wine.

But there was no soul-deep connection, no magnetic pull, no burgeoning sense of peace. And, crucially, no agonizing need emanating from Alexandra.

They had been upfront with each other from the beginning. A pragmatic agreement born from a realistic understanding of their world.

“If one of us finds their soulmate,” Alexandra had said, swirling the wine in her glass, “we break up. No hard feelings. Friends, maybe? If that’s not too weird?”

Charles had agreed, the thought of losing her already a small pang in his chest. The potential for a real connection, even if not the connection, felt too valuable to pass up.

He was at Alexandra's apartment now, ostensibly to help her hang a new series of paintings. The walls were already a riot of color, abstract swirls and bold strokes that somehow managed to create a sense of harmony.

She was humming softly as she fiddled with a level, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Looking at her, bathed in the afternoon light streaming through the window, Charles felt a surge of affection. He appreciated her easy smile, her quirky sense of humor, the way she always seemed to see the best in him.

But still, the ache persisted. Proof, if he needed it, that she wasn’t the one.

He handed her a hammer. "So," he said, trying to sound casual, "how are you feeling? Any, you know… existential dread?"

Alexandra snorted, a smudge of paint adorning her cheek. "Existential dread is kind of my default setting, Charles. So, no. Nothing specific." She hammered a nail into the wall with practiced ease.

He felt a pang of guilt. He was testing her, probing for signs, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe… But he knew it was futile.

Over the next few weeks, Charles found himself increasingly preoccupied with the idea of soulmates. He started paying closer attention to the people around him, subtly observing couples, searching for that telltale glow of contentment on the men's faces, the relieved serenity settling on the women's.

He noticed that happy couples were everywhere.

Everyone had found their soulmate somehow, except him. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Charles clenched his jaw, the familiar sting of frustration pricking at his temples. "Carlos, you better stop asking that question," he warned, his voice tight. He hated this. Hated the constant reminder of his perceived failure.

Charles grimaced, shoving a forkful of carbonara around his plate. "Carlos, you know the answer to that. Lay off, will you?"

Carlos just grinned, a smug, infuriatingly happy expression plastered across his face. "Just checking in, mate. You've been at this for years. How many 'almosts' are we up to now? Thirty? Forty?"

He gestured across the Ferrari cafeteria with his fork towards Rebecca, his soulmate, who was engrossed in a conversation with a mechanic.

They looked sickeningly content.

Charles felt a familiar pang of envy. In this world, finding your soulmate was supposed to be easy. A biological compass, really. For men, the joy, the sheer rightness of being near your soulmate was unmistakable, a balm to the soul.

The further away they were, the heavier the weight of longing became.

It was a system that supposedly guaranteed happiness. Supposedly.

He hadn't felt that blissful uplift even once. He'd chased fleeting moments of "almost" – a slight lift in mood, a subtle easing of his constant, low-level yearning – only to be disappointed.

A waitress at a local trattoria, a tourist sketching the Duomo, a woman he’d helped carry groceries – all dead ends.

"It's not exactly something you can force, Carlos," Charles sighed, pushing his plate away, the carbonara suddenly tasting like ashes. "It'll happen when it happens."

Before Carlos could launch into another unsolicited pep talk, the cafeteria doors swung open, letting in a gust of warm air and a whirlwind of nervous energy.

A woman stood there, slightly breathless, your cheeks flushed with a nervous energy that radiated across the room. You were… striking.

Charles immediately felt… lighter. The persistent, low-level hum of anxiety that usually buzzed beneath his skin seemed to quieten.

He felt a sense of ease he hadn't experienced in years.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," you said, your voice laced with a genuine apology. "Traffic was a nightmare. I'm… I'm the new social media manager."

You swiped a hand across your forehead, a gesture that only amplified Charles's initial assessment: you were flustered, stressed, but undeniably composed.

For Charles, the world seemed to narrow to just you. The slight tremor in your voice, the way you clutched your bag, the subtle shift in your posture as you addressed the room – it was all acutely, intensely noticeable.

He felt a strange, almost protective urge to reassure you.

But he didn't say anything. Maybe it wasn't you. Maybe it was just a coincidence, a fleeting surge of positive energy unconnected to anything real.

He looked around the room, searching for any sign that anyone else was experiencing a similar shift. Carlos was grinning like an idiot, but that was just Carlos being Carlos.

No one else seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.

“Well, welcome!” Carlos boomed, his voice cutting through Charles's internal debate. “I’m Carlos, and this brooding gentleman over here is Charles.”

You turned your attention to Charles, and your eyes met his. He felt a jolt, a small electric shock that ran right through him. Your eyes were captivating, filled with a weariness that tugged at something inside him.

He forced himself to maintain eye contact, searching, hoping for any sign, any flicker of recognition on your face that mirrored the growing certainty within him.

But all he saw was polite curiosity.

"Nice to meet you both," you said, offering a tentative smile. "I'm… Y/N."

"Welcome to the team, Y/N," Carlos said, his smile widening. "We're happy to have you."

You took a seat at the desk opposite Charles, and as you settled in, arranging your papers and fiddling with your laptop, he continued to observe you. The feeling of well-being hadn't dissipated.

If anything, it had intensified. It was like a low, comforting buzz that resonated throughout his entire being.

He stole glances at you throughout the morning, carefully monitoring his own reactions. He felt energized, focused, almost… happy.

This was it. This had to be it.

He'd heard stories, of course, of the almost instantaneous connection, the overwhelming sense of rightness. But he'd dismissed them as romantic exaggerations.

He was a Formula 1 driver, not a fairytale prince.

Yet, here you were.

"So," you began, clearing your throat, trying to ignore the uncomfortable prickling sensation building behind your eyes. It was a familiar feeling, one that always intensified around... well, around the right person. "Let's talk strategy. We need to ramp up engagement, create compelling content, and showcase the human side of the team."

Carlos, ever the professional, jumped right in. "I was thinking we could do more behind-the-scenes videos. Show the fans what a day in the life of a driver is really like."

"Excellent idea, Carlos," you said, scribbling down notes. "We can also highlight your training regimes, your collaborations with engineers, and your interactions with the team."

You turned to Charles, expecting him to contribute. But he just sat there, staring at you, a strange, almost dazed, expression on his face. The comfortable buzz he felt was almost intoxicating, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

"Charles?" you prompted, the prickling behind your eyes intensifying. You felt a slight pressure building in your temples, a familiar ache that threatened to blossom into a full-blown headache.

"Uh... yes," he stammered, snapping back to reality. "Sorry. I was just... thinking."

You forced a smile, the muscles in your face strained. You needed to get through this meeting. “Thinking about what it's like to be Charles Leclerc?" you asked, trying to keep your voice light and conversational, masking the desperation clawing at your throat.

"Yeah! I think it would be a good idea for the fans, you know? A day in the life, that kind of thing," he commented, radiating an enthusiasm that only amplified your suffering. "You think it would work?"

"Definitely," you managed, the word feeling like a shard of glass caught in your throat. "It's all about connecting with the fans, showing them the human side of the drivers. We could film you training, doing media obligations, even grabbing a coffee." You rattled off the ideas, desperate to keep the conversation flowing.

You continued outlining the PR activities planned for the season, the endless interviews, sponsor events, and social media appearances.

Your voice was steady, your demeanor professional, but inside, you felt like you were teetering on the edge of a cliff. The other members of the Ferrari PR team, seasoned professionals, seemed oblivious to your internal struggle.

"So," you said, finally reaching the end of your presentation, the word "finally" wanting to burst out of you. "That's the general overview. We can discuss specific schedules and logistics later."

Charles and Carlos shook their heads.

"Okay, great," you said, gathering your notes. "Then, Charles, which time are you free?" you asked, trying to maintain eye contact but failing miserably.

You were feeling faint, the edges of your vision blurring. "For the 'Day in the Life' video, I mean."

Charles was distracted, fiddling with the Ferrari cap in his hands. "Um, I'm free next Tuesday, I think?" he said, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"Good," you said, pushing through the fog in your brain. "I'll come over with a cameraman to record the day in your life, is that okay?"

"Sure," he grinned, his hazel eyes sparkling with genuine excitement.

You managed a weak smile in return before gathering your things and making a hasty retreat from the hospitality room. The air outside felt marginally better, but the pounding in your head refused to subside.

You had a brief meeting with the other social media managers and editors, running through the ideas you'd presented to the drivers and outlining the content calendar for the next few weeks.

You felt like an imposter, trying to project an image of competence and enthusiasm while battling a pain that threatened to overwhelm you.

It was a dull, persistent ache, a hollow pit in your stomach that resonated with an inexplicable longing. It was the Soulmate Sickness, as your grandmother used to call it, with a dramatic sigh and a knowing look. Every woman in the world knew what that meant: your soulmate was nearby.

The closer they were, the more intensely you felt the ache. It was a cruel irony of fate: men felt blissful contentment when near their soulmate, a sense of completeness and belonging; for women, it was an agonizing reminder of the connection, a pull toward someone they wouldn't truly be at peace with until that kiss.

You knew the stories. Women driven mad by the constant ache, unable to function, their lives consumed by the desperate need to find, and then kiss, their soulmate.

And now, here you were, feeling the first tendrils of that very despair wrap around your heart on your first day at your dream job.

Lunch was a torturous affair. The Ferrari hospitality room was a vibrant, bustling place, teeming with engineers, mechanics, team managers, even the drivers themselves. Every single person felt like a potential source of your pain.

You picked at your pasta, forcing down each bite as the ache amplified, a constant, throbbing reminder of the unknown man who was probably enjoying the greatest day of his life.

You told yourself it was just nerves from the new job. The pressure of living up to expectations. But deep down, you knew the truth. This wasn’t just butterflies. This was something far more profound, far more insistent.

You were close to him. Very close. Whoever he is.

You leaned back in the seat, closing your eyes and taking deep breaths, trying to regain control. The ache lessened, but it was still there, a dull background hum that buzzed beneath your skin.

You must have found your soulmate, you thought, the idea settling in your stomach like a lead weight.

here was no other explanation for it. And that terrified you.

It could literally be anyone in the Ferrari hospitality room. An engineer with grease under his nails, a stern-faced strategist, a camera-shy photographer, or even… Don’t even go there.

You didn’t need this right now. You were just starting your first day at your dream job. A job you’d worked years for, poured your heart and soul into. You couldn't let some primal, biological imperative derail your career before it even began.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, starting the engine. “Okay. You can do this. You’re strong. You’re capable. You’re going to ignore this feeling. You’re going to focus on your work. You’re not going to let some random guy you haven’t even met ruin everything.”

Easier said than done, of course. . . . .

Charles felt it the moment you walked out the glass doors of the Ferrari factory. A dull ache, a low thrum of dissatisfaction that had been a background noise in his life, suddenly amplified, blossomed into a full-blown longing.

It was a feeling he instantly recognized, a feeling every man in their world was intimately familiar with.

The closer you were to your soulmate, the better you felt. The farther, the worse.

And this… this was the worst he’d ever felt.

He’d only met you a few hours ago.

He'd found you intelligent, quick-witted, and surprisingly unfazed by his fame. He hadn’t thought much beyond that. Hadn’t needed to. He'd always assumed his soulmate would be… obvious.

A grand, sweeping feeling, not a dull ache that exploded into unbearable yearning the second you left his sight.

Now, driving home through the winding streets of Italy, all he could think about was you. Your smile, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the intelligent questions you'd peppered him with.

The longing intensified with every mile he put between them. The confirmation was undeniable.

He practically threw open the door to his apartment, the silence amplifying the hollow feeling in his chest. He needed to figure this out. He needed to figure out you.

He spent the bulk of the next few hours running through other possibilities, but it all kept centering on you. He felt an energy and inspiration around her that he didn't feel with anyone else. As his thoughts grew chaotic, he realized he needed to talk to someone.

Someone who knew him, who understood him, and who wouldn’t dismiss this as some fleeting infatuation. He needed to talk to his mother.

He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found her name. He took a deep breath and pressed the call button.

“Hi, maman,” he said, when she answered, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Charles! Mon chéri, how are you? It’s been too long.” Her voice was warm and full of genuine affection.

“I’m good, maman, busy, as always. But I wanted to ask you something. It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated? Is this about a girl other than Alexandra, Charles?” There was a knowing amusement in her voice.

He hesitated. “Maybe,” he admitted. “Look, you know about soulmates, right? About the feeling men get when they’re close to theirs?”

“Of course, I know. Why? Have you… found the one?” Her voice was laced with anticipation.

“I think so. But it’s… intense. I barely know her, but the feeling is overwhelming. It's all I'm constantly thinking about. Have I ever mentioned her? Her name is Y/N, she's new to the social media team.” He held his breath, waiting for her reaction.

There was a pause. “Someone from your work, Charles? How long has she been working there?”

“I think today was here first time. And no, I've never mentioned her to you. I didn't think anything of it before."

"And you're sure? You truly feel the ache and longing? It is not just a passing infatuation?"

"Maman, I'm sure. I can barely function."

His mother sighed softly. "I see. Well, mon chéri, I don't know her either so I won't know much. This is uncharted territory for me. But you know the rules. You know what women experience with their soulmates."

Charles groaned. "Don't remind me. The poor girls--having to deal with the pain until they get rid of it with a kiss? And if she is my soulmate and I'm just making assumptions, I'll look like a complete idiot."

"That is a risk you will have to take, mon chéri. But if it is truly meant to be, it will all work out. Perhaps you should take a chance? Is she single? And do you even know if she's interested?"

Those were good questions that Charles didn't know the answer to. "I haven't got a clue."

"Then you must find out, Charles. Do not let fear hold you back. This could be the most important thing you ever do."

He knew she was right. He couldn’t ignore this, couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. He had to find out if you felt it too. He had to know if he was right.

"Okay, maman," he said, a newfound determination entering his voice. "I'll do it. I'll talk to her. I'll find out."

"That's my boy," she said, her voice full of pride. "I have faith in you, Charles. Now tell me more about this (Y/N)..."

They talked for another hour, his mother peppering him with questions about you, your personality, your work ethic, your smile.

He described you as best he could, trying to convey the spark he felt whenever you were near.

The sterile white of the break room seemed to press in on you, mirroring the suffocating feeling in your chest. You clutched your phone, the cool plastic a small comfort against your trembling hand.

"Dad, I think I found my soulmate," you whispered into the receiver, the words heavy with a sadness that threatened to consume you.

"Really, baby? Why do you sound sad then? Do you not like them?" His voice, warm and familiar, crackled through the speaker, a stark contrast to the icy fear gripping your heart.

"I don't even know who they are," you muttered, staring blankly at the faded motivational poster on the wall. “I was just working, it was my first day, and I just… felt it. This horrible, gnawing ache. It’s constant, Dad. Like a phantom limb screaming for connection. I’m terrified."

A pause stretched between you, thick with unspoken memories. "Is it because of what happened to Mum?" he finally asked, his voice laced with a cautious tenderness.

"Yeah," you managed, the single syllable choked with emotion. The ache in your chest intensified, a physical manifestation of the dread that had been your constant companion since your mother-

"Look, sweetheart," your dad continued, pulling you back from the abyss of memory, "I know this is hard. But you can't let what happened to Mum. This is your soulmate. Maybe… maybe things will be different. You owe it to yourself to find out."

You knew he was right, logically. But the knot of fear in your stomach refused to loosen. "I don't know, Dad. What if… what if it's like what happened to Mum? What if it makes me miserable?"

"Then you walk away. You're strong, Y/N. You're smart. You can handle anything life throws at you. Just… don't let fear paralyze you."

His words, as always, offered a sliver of hope. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "Okay," you said, the word barely audible. "Okay, I'll… I'll try."

"That's my girl. Now, tell me about this job. How was your first day?" He deftly steered the conversation away from the soulmate dilemma, a tactic you were grateful for.

You spent the next few minutes recounting the whirlwind of activity that defined your first day as a social media manager for Scuderia Ferrari.

You’d always been passionate about racing, and landing this job was a dream come true. The adrenaline-fueled atmosphere of the paddock, the roar of the engines, the sheer dedication of the team – it was intoxicating.

Your responsibilities included managing their social media presence, creating engaging content, and interacting with fans. It was a demanding role, but one you were eager to excel at.

As you spoke, you deliberately pushed the unsettling ache to the back of your mind. You focused on the thrill of the job, on the excitement of being a part of something so iconic.

“It was insane, Dad. Honestly, I felt like I was dropped into a beehive. But everyone was so welcoming. And the cars… they're even more beautiful in person."

By the time you hung up, the edge of panic had dulled. The ache was still there, a constant reminder, but you felt a renewed sense of resolve. You would face this, whatever it was.

You wouldn't let fear control you. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The heat of the Jeddah Corniche Circuit presses against you, even in the relative cool of the Ferrari garage. You lift your camera, framing Carlos as he adjusts his racing gloves.

“Looking good, Carlos! Give us a little intensity for the fans.” He throws you a practiced, smoldering glare. Perfect.

Your job is straightforward: capture the behind-the-scenes energy, the pre-race jitters, the quiet moments of focus before the storm.

You’re Ferrari’s social media manager, tasked with humanizing the drivers, making them relatable, building that connection with the tifosi. You love it, most days.

You pan the camera towards Charles' side of the garage. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, stretching his neck, a tiny, nervous habit you've noticed over watching him on the TV. “Charles, a word for the fans? Pre-race thoughts?”

He stops, turns, and that devastatingly charming smile flashes across his face. “Just focused, ready to give it my all for the team. Forza Ferrari!” He winks at the camera, and your stomach does a little flip. Annoying.

You’ve felt it more and more often lately, especially around Charles. That…ache. A dull, persistent anxiety that settles in your chest, a yearning that tugs at the edges of your awareness.

And it's happening with Charles Leclerc.

You lower the camera, forcing a professional smile. “Thanks, Charles. Good luck out there.”

“See you after the race,” he says, the words laced with a casual warmth that sends a shiver down your spine.

He gives you a fleeting glance, something almost…knowing in his eyes, before turning and heading towards his car, disappearing into the controlled chaos of the pit lane.

You flush, the heat in your cheeks intensifying. This can’t be happening. You know Charles has a girlfriend. You’ve seen the pictures splashed across the internet, the Instagram stories.

It's a glamorous, very public relationship. And the rules are clear, etched into the very fabric of your society: your soulmate is someone available, someone unencumbered.

You can't steal someone else's. It's just not done.

The starting grid is announced over the loudspeakers, and the garage erupts in a flurry of activity. You busy yourself with filming the mechanics' final checks, the engineers hunched over telemetry screens, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in your chest.

You’ve always taken the soulmate phenomenon for granted. It’s just a fact of life. Everyone experiences it, this biological imperative designed to ensure connection, stability, the continuation of society.

You’ve felt the faintest twinges before, in passing, around men you’ve met briefly. Dismissible, almost forgettable. But this…this is different. This is a constant, throbbing ache that threatens to consume you, particularly around Charles.

You meticulously avoid thinking about it, focusing instead on your work. You rule out the possibility entirely.

Charles is taken. End of story.

You even make a mental list of all the other eligible men in the paddock, mechanics, engineers, even other drivers – anyone but Charles.

The race begins, a blur of roaring engines and screeching tires. The giant screens in the garage display every angle, every overtake, every heart-stopping moment. You film the reactions of the team, the collective held breath as Charles and Carlos battle for position.

The final laps are agonizing. Charles is leading, but Max is closing in. The tension in the garage is palpable. You find yourself gripping your camera so tightly your knuckles turn white.

Then, it happens. Charles crosses the finish line. Victory.

The garage explodes in cheers, shouts, and high-fives. You film it all, the raw, unadulterated joy of the team, the shared sense of accomplishment. The crowd is ecstatic.

Charles, still helmeted and dripping with sweat, is guided into parc fermé. You film him climbing out of the car, pumping his fist in the air, soaking in the adulation. He looks…triumphant. Magnificent.

You jostled for position, aiming your camera, capturing his big smile as he hugged his race engineer and the rest of the team. He moved with an exhilarating energy, a palpable buzz of adrenaline that rippled outwards.

He was a magnet, and you found yourself drawn closer, your professional detachment wavering.

And then, he saw you.

His smile widened, somehow becoming even brighter. Before you could think, could prepare, he was striding towards you, his arms outstretched. The awareness hit you like a physical blow.

The gnawing anxiety, the sharp, almost unbearable yearning that had been quietly simmering beneath the surface for weeks, now flared into an inferno.

The closer you were to your match, the more intense the yearning became. And right now, the intensity was almost unbearable.

He pulled you into a tight hug. Your phone, trapped between the two of you, emitted a muffled squeak as it was squished against his chest.

His smell, a heady mix of sweat, gasoline, and something uniquely Charles, filled your senses. It was intoxicating, addicting.

He was feeling it too. The way he squeezed you, the pure, unadulterated joy radiating off him in waves. He was basking, thriving, feeling the best he'd ever felt.

It was confirmation. Undeniable, irrefutable confirmation.

He was your soulmate. But how was that possible? He already had a girlfriend.

Your head swam. The crowd roared, but it sounded distant, muffled. The ache intensified, threatening to overwhelm you. You felt like you were going to faint.

He let go, and your legs momentarily forgot their job. You stumbled, your balance completely gone.

Charles reacted instantly. He reached out, his hand gripping your arm, effectively blocking you from the view of the nearest camera. His grip was firm, supportive. He pulled you closer, shielding you from the prying eyes.

"Sorry," you mumbled, finding your footing. Your voice was shaky. You needed to get out of here, to process this, to… to breathe. The feeling was too much.

He searched your face, his brow furrowed with concern. "Are you alright? You went a bit pale there."

You plastered on your most professional smile, even though your insides were screaming. "Just a bit overwhelmed. It's… it's a big win."

He didn't seem entirely convinced, but he let it go. "You were filming everything?"

You nodded, holding up your phone. "Got some great shots. The team's going to love it." You forced yourself to meet his gaze, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest. "Congratulations, Charles. You deserved this."

His smile returned, genuine and warm. It sent another jolt through you, tightening the knot in your stomach. "Thank you. And thank you for everything. You do an amazing job."

"It's my job," you said, the words sounding hollow even to your own ears.

"Exactly," he said, his eyes twinkling. "And you're very good at it."

He turned back to the crowd, basking in the cheers, signing autographs, and accepting congratulations. You took the opportunity to slip away, unnoticed, swallowed by the throng of red-clad fans.

You needed to escape.

You found refuge in the relative quiet of the Ferrari hospitality suite. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and the murmur of conversation were a welcome change from the sensory overload of the garage.

You found a quiet corner and sank into a plush armchair, your phone still clutched in your hand.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. This was a disaster. A beautiful, glorious, terrifying disaster.

Your mind raced. What did this mean? What were you supposed to do? Did you tell him? Did you pretend you didn't know? How could you possibly continue to work alongside him, to maintain even a semblance of professionalism, with this knowledge hanging between you?

Your phone buzzed. It was a text from your boss.

"Amazing content! The fans are going wild! Get some shots of the podium ceremony and then meet me in the strategy room. We need to plan the social media blitz for the next 24 hours."

Right. Back to reality. Back to work.

You took another deep breath, forcing yourself to focus. You could deal with this. You had to.

You grabbed your phone and headed back into the fray.

The podium ceremony was a whirlwind of confetti, champagne, and roaring cheers. You filmed it all, capturing Charles's triumphant grin as he hoisted the trophy high above his head.

You interviewed team members, capturing their jubilant reactions. You worked on autopilot, pushing down the anxiety, ignoring the ache.

Later, in the strategy room, you sat around a large table with your boss and several other team members, brainstorming ideas for social media posts, videos, and live streams. You contributed your suggestions, focusing on data, engagement, and trend analysis.

You were a machine, efficient and effective.

You glanced at your phone. A notification from Instagram. Charles had posted a photo of himself on the podium, holding the trophy. The caption read: "Forza Ferrari! Grazie Mille!"

You quickly liked the post. You had to. It was your job.

As you worked late into the night, crafting social media posts and scheduling content, you couldn't shake the feeling that your life had irrevocably changed.

You were no longer just a social media manager. You were… something more.

“Dad, I think I’m broken,” you mutter into your phone, voice barely above a whisper.

“Why is that, baby?” your father replies, his tone tinged with concern and curiosity, a familiar warmth that reassures you even now.

You sit up, grappling with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. “I think Charles Leclerc is my soulmate,” you explain, your heart thudding heavily in your chest, “but he already has a girlfriend.”

“So?” he asks, as if trying to sift through the fog of your anguish.

“What do you mean, 'so?' He already loves someone else,” your voice rises slightly, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You’ve dated other people who weren’t your soulmate, didn’t you?”

“Well…” You fall silent, realizing he has a point, but it’s not just about dating. You’ve been aware of the perfect connection that exists out there—an electrifying touch that ignites the air around you as you near your true soulmate, a sensation that you’ve yet to experience despite countless suitors.

“But this feels different, Dad,” you finally manage to articulate, your voice cracking. “I’ve felt it—this allure, this pull whenever I'm near him. It’s like I’m supposed to be drawn in, but I can’t get close enough. And now he’s with someone else.”

Your father exhales softly, and for a moment, you think he's contemplating your plight. “Sweetheart, sometimes soulmates have their own timing. Life isn’t always a clear path. It can twist and turn in ways that feel frustrating.”

You groan, flopping back down onto your bed, the familiar nagging feeling in your chest intensifying. “But it’s not fair. I don’t want to wait. What if he’s never free?”

You hear him sigh. “You’ll find your way, darling. None of this is broken. You’re simply allowed to feel.”

But feeling is exhausting. With a grumble, you hang up the phone and toss it to the side.

You pull the covers up around your shoulders, your mind spiraling into thoughts that latch onto one another like tangled threads. . . .

In a world where finding your soulmate was practically a given, it felt ludicrous to deny the truth that lingered like an uninvited guest in the back of your mind. You had tried everything to resist.

The tingling sensation of well-being that blossomed in Charles’s presence was undeniable. Every crease in his smile felt like warmth on a cold winter day, and yet every time you were near him, you felt a gnawing anxiety that scratched away at your insides, waiting for that inevitable kiss that would confirm what you both already knew.

But you avoided Charles at work—until that dreaded Tuesday arrived.

As the clock ticked toward your call time, dread clawed at your stomach. You were tasked with interviewing Charles for a video segment about his recent successes in racing, a seemingly innocent job that had broader implications—one of which was unveiling the truth of your connection.

The whole ordeal left you on edge, not just because of the content of the interview but because of the man you were supposed to be interviewing.

You arrived at his house in Monaco early, fidgeting nervously with the equipment, tapping your foot against the polished floor.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" your cameraman, Mark, asked, sensing your anxiety as he set up the camera. "It's just a video. You could probably wing it."

"You don’t understand," you said, crossing your arms tightly. “It’s not just about the interview.”

As if the universe had conspired to gift you a moment of reprieve, you heard a distraction—a small bark followed by the sound of paws padding against the floor.

You took a deep breath, prepping yourself for whatever awaited you beyond the door.

“Alright, let’s do this,” you whispered to yourself, trying to muster confidence.

You knocked, and after a heartbeat, the door swung open. There stood Charles, his tousled hair glowing softly in the morning light. Cradled in his arms was Leo, who seemed just as excited to see you.

“Hey there, superstar!” Charles greeted, his eyes sparkling with warmth as he shifted Leo to his side. The dog wagged his tail furiously, seeming to sense the tension in the air. “You made it early!”

“Yeah, um…” you fumbled your words, trying to navigate the delightful familiarity of his presence. “I figured it would be good to start on time.”

“Of course!” Charles stepped aside, allowing you into his immaculate home. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the air, and as you entered, you could feel that familiar sense of well-being swelling inside you.

It was infuriating how easily it came.

Leo plopped himself at your feet, looking up at you with expectant eyes. “He likes you,” Charles commented, chuckling as Leo nudged your shoe with his nose.

“Who wouldn’t? He’s a sweetheart,” you replied, squatting down to scratch behind the dog’s ears, trying to mask the flutter of emotions that rose within you. “You’re the lucky one, huh, Leo?”

Charles laughed, a rich sound that sent butterflies tumbling through your stomach. “He’s definitely the lucky one in this household. Come on, let’s get the cameras rolling before I lose my nerve in front of you.”

He led the way into a cozy living room adorned with art and memorabilia from his racing career.

As you settled in, you realized that despite your intentions, you could feel that gnawing anxiety creeping in. It was as if every question you planned to ask was swiftly brushed aside by the rush of feelings that accompanied Charles’s presence.

With Mark now behind the camera, you cleared your throat. “Uh, so, how does it feel to be one of the top drivers in the world?”

Charles shifted in his seat, looking relaxed but attentive. “Honestly? It feels unreal every time I put on that helmet. The roar of the engine, the thrill of the race—it’s like this exhilarating dance with danger. But, you know, having my family and a strong support system means the world.”

The sincerity in his voice stroked against your heartstrings. “That’s incredible. Speaking of support, who do you think has had the biggest impact on your career?”

He shrugged, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Aside from Leo?” he teased. “Honestly, it’s you. Your support during last week was amazing.”

Your heart stuttered, and you choked on the words that caught in your throat. “Me?”

“Of course! Whenever you’re around, things just feel easier. I can’t quite explain it,” he said softly, leaning forward as if he was letting you in on a profound secret.

The air crackled between you, and suddenly, the interview felt less like a professional exchange and more like an uncharted territory. You knew you had to breach the elephant in the room, but unease held you back.

“Charles, I—”

Just then, Leo sprang up and knocked over the camera, causing a flurry of laughter to erupt as Mark jumped up to steady it. “Leo! Not now!”

You glanced back at Charles, heat flaring up your cheeks. “Why must you distract us like that?”

Charles grinned, a twinkle in his eye. “I think he senses the chemistry.”

You shot him a skeptical look, but there was no denying the truth in his words. As the camera slowly righted itself, Charles turned serious for a moment.

“Maybe he’s trying to help,” Charles replied, gesturing toward Leo, who had taken residence in your lap, wagging his tail like a flag of friendship.

“Right, because if there’s one thing a dog knows, it’s romance,” you quipped, eliciting a chuckle from Charles that warmed you from the inside out.

“Well, he definitely knows love,” Charles said, a softness returning to his tone as he reached out to scratch Leo behind the ears.

The gesture was so tender, so effortlessly intimate, that you felt a familiar gnawing in your chest, the yearning that intensified with each stolen glance at him.

After a moment, you resumed the interview, Leo settling in your lap like a warm blanket. “What inspired your latest project, Charles? Is it something personal?”

Charles leaned back, a thoughtful expression clouding his features. “Honestly? It’s more than just art for me. It’s about connection. I want people to feel understood. When I see someone looking at my work and they smile, or their eyes light up, it makes everything worth it.”

You nodded, engrossed in his words, but all the while, the underlying tension was like a thread unspooled, weaving a fabric of dubious comfort.

“That’s admirable,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “But do you think art can replace human connection?”

His gaze sharpened, the levity of a moment ago dissipating into something contemplative. “I think art can enhance it,” he replied. “But at the end of the day, it’s about the people in our lives. The ones we cherish. The connections we nurture.”

A hint of unease slithered through you at his answer. The thought of deep connections—those that sparked a sense of well-being—made your heart race, but the yearning you felt, a subtle gnawing anxiety, was just beneath the surface, waiting to be acknowledged.

You shifted your gaze, avoiding the intensity of his eyes.

“So what else does Charles Leclerc do in a day?” you asked, trying to redirect the conversation.

Charles's expression lightened as a grin spread across his face. “Well, I hope you brought your running shoes because I have to take Leo for a walk,” he said, glancing at his dog, who perked up at the mention of his favorite word.

Leo barked, his tail wagging furiously against your lap.

You looked at Mark, the cameraman, who was observing the interaction with a knowing smile. “You up for some running?” you asked him, half-joking, half-earnest.

“Sure,” he replied, his enthusiasm infectious.

Charles rose from his chair, and Leo leapt to the floor, ready for action. “Let’s hit the trail then! I know a great path nearby that winds through the park.”

The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting a golden hue over the park where Charles and you had decided to take Leo for his much-needed walk.

The vibrant greens of the grass contrasted with the vibrant colors of the flowers that had begun to bloom, a perfect backdrop for the evening. Leo bounded ahead, his tail a blur as he explored the scents of the world around him.

Charles chuckled as he watched Leo dart after a butterfly. “He’s like a kid, isn’t he? Full of energy and wonder.”

You smiled, glancing at the exuberant dog. “He definitely knows how to enjoy life. It’s contagious, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Charles agreed, turning his attention back to you. His eyes sparkled with a warmth that sent that familiar sense of well-being blooming in your chest, an unmistakable sign of his connection to you.

Mark, the cameraman, adjusted his camera, capturing the scene. “This is great! The light is perfect here. Just keep talking; I’ll get some candid shots.”

“Sure thing,” you said, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the persistent sensation of gnawing anxiety that accompanied you whenever you got closer to someone like Charles.

“So,” you began, trying to shake off the nervous energy, “do you take Leo on walks like this often?”

“Whenever I can,” Charles said, his smile widening. “He’s my little buddy. It’s good for both of us. You know how it is—work can get hectic, but he reminds me to take a break and enjoy the simple things.”

You nodded, feeling the warmth of his sentiment wash over you. “I get that. Sometimes I feel like I’m so caught up in deadlines and projects that I forget to take a moment to breathe.”

“Hey, we should do this more often then. Get out, walk, enjoy nature,” he suggested, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.

“Sounds like a plan! I could use some fresh air,” you said, a little lighter now.

As Leo darted back to your feet, his wet nose nudging against your leg, you bent down to give him a scratch behind the ears. “Hey there, buddy! How’s my favorite dog?”

Leo responded with a happy bark, and you looked up to see Charles watching you, his gaze soft and appreciative.

“You’re great with him,” he said. “It’s nice to see.”

“Thanks! I just love animals. They have a way of making everything feel less complicated, don’t you think?”

Charles nodded thoughtfully. “Totally. They don’t judge or overthink things. They just love.”

You felt a twinge of vulnerability, the familiar yearning in your chest growing more intense as you met his gaze. “And what about people? Do you think we overthink love too much?”

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging lightly. “But it’s hard not to, especially when you know what it feels like to find your soulmate.”

“Right,” you said, your voice softer. The weight of his words settled over you, a mixture of warmth and anxiety. “But what if it’s not as simple as it seems? What if we’re all just…lost?”

Charles moved closer, his expression earnest. “You’re not lost. You just need to follow your instincts. Pay attention to what makes you feel good. That’s the key.”

“Easier said than done,” you replied with a teasing smirk, but inside, the knot of anxiety twisted tighter.

Mark was busy adjusting his lens, trying to catch the candid moments. “You two are great! Just keep being yourselves. The chemistry is palpable!”

You felt a rush of warmth at the compliment but also an echo of that gnawing feeling, the sense that something was waiting, just out of reach.

“Hey, how about a little race?” Charles suggested, glancing down at Leo, who was now eyeing a distant squirrel.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you can keep up?”

“Bring it on!” he grinned, playfully nudging you. “I’ll give you a head start.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Okay, fine. Let me know when you’re ready.”

As he counted down, you took off, your heart pounding not just from the run, but from the thrill of the moment. You could hear Leo’s paws thumping behind you, the sound of Charles’s laughter ringing in your ears.

You didn’t want to think about the anxiety, the longing, or what it might mean. You just wanted to feel free, even if just for a moment.

You reached the far end of the open field, glancing back over your shoulder to see Charles and Leo closing the gap.

Charles had an effortless grace to his stride, and even as you stood there catching your breath, you felt that familiar warmth radiating from him.

Charles caught up to you, his chest heaving with laughter. “You’re faster than I expected!”

You grinned, your chest rising and falling. “You underestimated me!”

His eyes sparkled, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift. “I did! You’re like a gazelle out here.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “A gazelle? Really?”

“Okay, maybe more like a clumsy gazelle,” he corrected, grinning as he bent over to pet Leo, who had finally returned, panting with excitement.

“Hey, no need to insult me!” you laughed, and the familiar warmth of his presence wrapped around you, banishing the anxious thoughts—if only for a moment.

“Guys, come back so we can wrap up the interview!” Mark calls from a nearby bench, his voice echoing slightly as it carries through the trees.

“Guys, come back so we can wrap up the interview!” Mark, the cameraman, calls from a nearby bench, his voice echoing slightly as it carries through the trees.

You glance back at Charles, who has a boyish grin plastered on his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. His exuberance is infectious, and for a fleeting moment, you allow yourself to forget the gnawing anxiety that usually accompanies your moments with him.

“You ready?” Charles asks, his breath coming in light pants as he straightens up, brushing stray leaves from his shirt.

You nod, the sunlight dancing in your chestnut hair as you brush your fingers through it. “Let’s go finish this.”

But as you start to walk, the gnawing anxiety returns, creeping in slowly like a shadow. The closer you get to him, the more palpable it becomes, a reminder of the connection you cannot seal. It’s a force you can’t escape.

For him, it’s a sense of peace, a warmth that envelops him, but for you, it’s an unbearable longing that only seems to worsen. 

You carry Leo in your arms, feeling the comforting weight of his playful exuberance. He wriggles, trying to escape your hold to chase after a butterfly.

“Alright, alright, little buddy,” you say, gently setting him down. He takes off, bounding with enthusiasm.

“Seems like Leo has no problem being carefree,” Charles muses, watching the puppy chase the flitting insect.

“Yeah, if only we could take a page from his book,” you say lightly, but your heart feels heavy. 

You glance back at Mark, who is fiddling with the camera, waiting for the two of you to return. You sigh, pushing the tumultuous thoughts away, if only for a moment.

You want to savor the little things—Charles’s laughter, Leo’s exuberance, the way the sun filters through the trees.

You glance back at Mark, who is fiddling with the camera, waiting for the two of you to return. You sigh, pushing the tumultuous thoughts away, if only for a moment. You want to savor the little things—Charles’s laughter, Leo’s exuberance, the way the sun filters through the trees.

As you walk back toward the bench, Leo frolics in the grass, tumbling and rolling as if to illustrate pure joy. Charles kneels beside him, scratching his ears, and you feel an unshakeable pang in your heart.

“Alright, you two, let’s wrap this up!” Mark calls, gesturing for you to take your places.

As you settle down beside Charles, you can’t help but feel the weight of your feelings bearing down. You catch his eye, and there’s something electric between you. 

“So, coming to the end of this interview, do you think you’ll win the championship this year?” you ask, your voice a mixture of professionalism and underlying affection.

“I’m confident that me and Ferrari can achieve big things this year,” Charles replies, his expression earnest, his eyes sparkling with hope.

“That’s what we like to hear,” you respond, letting the moment linger just a second longer than necessary. Your heart races, and not just from the anticipation of the race season ahead.

There’s an unspoken rhythm between you, pulsing in the air like a melody only you two can hear.

You ask more questions, the interview flowing smoothly. Charles speaks with passion about his dreams and aspirations, his love for the sport evident in every word. But all the while, you feel the gnawing anxiety that accompanies your every interaction.

You want to close that distance, to extinguish that yearning, and the idea of a kiss hangs in the air like a tantalizing promise.

“Okay, that’s a wrap! This has been ‘A Day in Charles Leclerc’s Life.’ I hope you guys enjoyed the video and enjoyed me beating him in a race,” you say, your voice light and teasing.

“No way! I gave you a head start,” Charles shoots back, laughter bubbling in his chest.

“There’s no proof,” you shrug, a playful smile spreading across your face.

“Okay, okay,” he concedes, shaking his head with a smirk. “But one day, I’ll challenge you to a real race. And I won’t let you get away with a head start.”

“Is that a promise?” you counter, your heart racing for reasons beyond the thrill of competition.

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that wraps around you. “It’s a promise. But let’s not forget—every time we race, you have to hold my hand as we get started. You know, for luck.”

You both laugh, the sound filling the spacious area, weaving through the barking of Leo, enjoying his carefree afternoon. Mark flashes a thumbs-up, signaling the end of the scene.

 You grinned, a surge of pride warming you.

“Leo, it's time to go home!” you called, your voice laced with playful exasperation.

The miniature dachshund, a furry, low-slung missile, ignored you completely. He zipped across the grass, your ID lanyard dangling precariously from his mouth like a hard-won trophy.

Charles was doubled over, his laughter echoing through the spacious park, a sound that made your heart skip a beat.

“He really likes your lanyard, I think,” Charles chuckled, wiping a stray tear from his eye.

“He likes anything he can chew on,” you retorted, but your voice was light, your frustration dissolving in the warmth of his amusement. You resumed your pursuit. “Leo! Come back here, you little menace!”

The chase continued, a comical dance of wills. Leo, fueled by mischief, weaved between trees and benches, the lanyard flapping like a tiny, rebellious flag.

You were gaining on him when he veered sharply, heading straight… for Charles’ legs.

Charles yelped, a surprised sound that only made you laugh harder. Leo, triumphant, dropped the lanyard at his feet and sat, panting, tail wagging furiously.

“Traitor!” you declared, feigning offense. You scooped up the lanyard and clipped it back onto your shirt. “He’s clearly playing favorites.”

Charles knelt, scratching Leo behind the ears. “He has good taste, wouldn’t you say?” His eyes met yours, a mischievous glint in their depths.

Heat bloomed in your cheeks. “I… suppose so.” You busied yourself with putting the lanyard away, avoiding his gaze. “We should probably get going. Mark’s almost packed up.”

Mark was indeed packing up, efficiently dismantling the equipment, blissfully unaware of the turmoil raging within you. The relief of leaving this park, this proximity, was almost palpable.

The walk back to the car was a pleasant one, objectively speaking. The air was cool and crisp, the scent of freshly cut grass lingering in the breeze.

Charles walked beside you, Leo trotting happily at his heels. It should have been idyllic. Instead, it felt like walking a tightrope strung precariously high above a chasm of suppressed emotions.

“I really enjoyed today,” Charles said, his voice soft, breaking the comfortable silence. “It was… relaxing.”

You forced a smile. "I'm happy I was able to make you comfortable," you said, the words feeling hollow even to your own ears. Comfortable for him, maybe.

He stopped walking, turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn't quite decipher. "You know," he began, tilting his head slightly. "Most interviewers just ask questions. You actually listened."

You swallowed, the anxiety tightening its grip. "That’s… kind of the point of an interview," you managed, trying to laugh it off. "Besides, it's your life. It’s fascinating."

"Is it?" He stepped closer, and the internal hum escalated into a full-blown alarm. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drummer urging you to flee. "Or are you just being polite?"

You averted your gaze, focusing on a distant tree. "I wouldn't waste my time if I wasn't genuinely interested," you mumbled.

Charles chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

Your head snapped up, your eyes meeting his. The amusement was gone, replaced by an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

Before he can respond, Mark’s voice cuts through the tension. “Y/N! Am I still giving you a ride home?”

“Uh, oh yeah…” You falter mid-sentence as a wave of panic washes over you. The realization hits you like a cold shower, drawing your attention away from Charles and back to the alarming truth.

Your bag—your essential items, including your keys—are still at Charles’ house. “Shit,” you mutter.

“Um, you can go without me,” you say, mortified now, as a flush of embarrassment floods your system. You can’t even look at Charles. “I left my bag in Charles’ house.”

A flicker of something crosses Charles’ face that you can’t quite decipher—concern? Amusement?

“Okay, see you tomorrow,” Mark calls as he turns on the ignition in his car and pulls away, leaving you alone with Charles.

Now that the silence has settled around you like a thick blanket, you feel the gnawing uncertainty of your emotions wrapping tighter.

Your conflicting instincts tempt you to stay, to dive deeper into the maddening connection of your fate and his, while another part of you urges you to run—run far, far away from this simmering tension and the anxiety that burns you from within.

“You’re okay with walking there, right?” Charles asks, his brow slightly furrowed, eyes searching yours for affirmation.

“Yep,” you manage to reply, though the word barely escapes your lips.

As you walk, Leo, Charles's loyal dog, bounds between you, a bright streak of fur and happiness that somehow lightens the weight pressing on your heart.

You steal a glance at him, noting his handsome features, the way the light catches his dark hair, and the tension in the air thickens—a familiar feeling that both excites and scares you.

The awkward silence envelops you both, filled with unspoken words and parallel thoughts. You’re lost in your own mind, analyzing what Charles meant earlier, wondering if he sensed the connection your heart insists is there.

You catch a glimpse of frustration flickering in Charles's eyes; he’s wrestling with an internal battle of asking if you feel the same, if you both belong to this invisible thread of destiny.

Before long, you arrive at his house—a cozy, unassuming space that feels utterly alive with its charm. Charles opens the door, gesturing for you to enter first while he carries Leo in his arms.

The familiar scent of cedarwood and freshly brewed coffee envelops you as you step inside.

“Just grab your bag and let’s get out of here,” you say to yourself, trying to mask the heaviness that clings to your heart.

But as you move towards the living room, Charles’s voice halts you, a note of sadness threaded through his tone. “Could you please stay for a while? Leo really likes you.” Leo barks in enthusiastic agreement, his tail wagging furiously.

Your resolve begins to soften at the sight of Charles's hopeful expression, the way his eyes shine with an almost childlike earnestness.

You look down at Leo, wagging his tail expectantly, and your heart sinks a little further. “Okay,” you finally say, a reluctant smile breaking through the anxiety.

You both settle onto the plush sofa, Leo scrambling onto your lap, his warm presence comforting against the storm of emotions inside you.

As you play with Leo, tossing a soft toy for him to chase, Charles watches you with an intensity you can hardly bear. His admiration for you lingers in the air, and you can’t ignore the flutter in your chest.

“Leo thinks you’re the best,” he says, a gentle laugh escaping his lips. “I think he has good taste.”

You chuckle, trying to mask the heat rising to your cheeks. “If Leo approves, then there must be something good about me.”

“I do think you're wonderful,” he comments, and for a moment, the world around you fades. His sincerity wraps around you, igniting that undeniable pull between you both.

“Thank you, Charles,” you muttered, your cheeks flushing, betraying the wall you had built around your heart. If Leo had any say in the matter, he certainly seemed to be steering you in Charles’s direction.

Leo decided he was ready for some action again, leaping from your lap to chase after the soft toy you had tossed across the room. The joy on his face was immeasurable, a reminder of life’s simplest pleasures.

You wondered if it was too late to change the subject before you allowed yourself to drown in the depths of connection that was blooming—an uncharted territory you feared to venture into.

“May I take a picture of you and Leo for my ‘Cute Leo’ folder?” Charles asked, his eyes sparkling like the stars. Before you could respond, he pulled out his phone, and you found yourself nodding, an odd mixture of excitement and dread flipping your stomach.

The click of the camera sounded as you smiled down at Leo in your arms, your affection for the dog pouring out in earnest.

“Perfect,” he m, glancing at the screen before a look of longing crossed his features. You caught a glimpse of the image—your face beaming with love and happiness, a stark contrast to the inner turmoil festering inside you.

“What do you think about soulmates?” Charles asked suddenly, breaking the momentary silence, the question landing heavily between you like an anchor.

You froze, your heart pounding as you looked up into those earnest eyes. “What do you mean?” you asked, trying to read his expression, warm curiosity mingling with something deeper.

“Like, just your opinion on them,” he rambled, the casualness of his tone masking the weight of the subject. “Do you think you have one? I’m curious.”

You hesitated, the words wrapping around memories you had tried to suppress. “Well, I think everyone has a soulmate, but for me, I don’t think I want to meet mine,” you said slowly, drifting your gaze to Leo, who was now engrossed in an imaginary chase.

“Why?” Charles’s question was soft yet insistent, a kind invite for you to unfold the truth. You could feel the warmth emanating from him; it was a stark contrast to the chill that had purposefully wrapped itself around your heart.

You took a deep breath. “An accident happened in my family. It changed my thoughts about soulmates. I believe they come with too much trouble and pain,” you explained, the words flowing out before you could even think them through. In that moment, you realized you were baring a part of yourself that you rarely shared, but perhaps the weight of your thoughts would be understood—especially if he might be your soulmate.

Charles’s expression fell, and you felt your heart splinter as he absorbed your words. Did he not understand the implication behind them? Did he not know that you believed the tether between you was fraught with risk?

“I see,” he said quietly, but the shift in his demeanor was palpable—the distance grew between you, as if an ocean had poured in to separate your worlds.

“Your thoughts are different, of course,” you attempted to lighten the mood, forcing a strained grin. “You’ve already found your soulmate, right?”

He nodded, but the agreement held a quiet hesitance that did not escape you.

“… with Alex.”

His heart sank as he grappled with the realization. “You think Alex is his soulmate?”

He froze, his eyes wide with realization, as if the universe had just collapsed around him.

Did you—could you—really believe that Alex was truly his soulmate?

Before he could muster a response, your phone rang, jolting you both from the oppressive silence. You glanced down at the screen to see your dad’s name flashing.

“Oh! I forgot I was getting dinner with my dad! I have to go, sorry,” you said hurriedly, shoving your phone back in your pocket, the weight of the conversation still lingering in the air.

“Do you need me to drive you there?” Charles asked, glancing at you with sincerity.

“It’s not necessary; it’s just Cantinetta Antinori,” you replied, adopting a nonchalant tone that didn’t quite mask the tightness in your chest.

“Right. No problem,” he murmured, but you caught the muted disappointment in his voice, a low tremor that tugged at your insides. It felt like a tether unraveling, and you hated it.

You stood up from the couch, leaving Leo behind as you tossed your bag over your shoulder. “Thanks for letting me play with Leo a little. See you tomorrow, Charles.”

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he said, his tone infused with an aching bittersweetness as he followed you to the door and opened it.

You hesitated for a moment, caught by the sight of him standing there, hands tucked into his pockets.

You could feel his gaze lingering on you, and you walked away, fighting the urge to turn back and reassure him, to do anything to stop that look of muted disappointment from settling in his features.

“Right, Leo, let’s go visit Maman,” he sighed, trying to infuse a sense of normalcy into the moment, the dog wagging its tail in response.

Charles shrugged off his coat, the familiar scent of lavender and simmering herbs enveloping him. “Maman! I’m home,” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the cozy, book-lined hallway.

A moment later, a woman with kind eyes and a flour-dusted apron emerged from the kitchen. “Charles! You’re back early. Did the interview go well?” Pascale pulled him into a warm embrace.

“It was… great,” Charles said, carefully avoiding her gaze.

“Great, eh? That’s good. Dinner will be ready in an hour. Why don’t you relax?” Pascale patted his cheek. "I'm making your favorite."

He managed a smile. “Sounds wonderful, Maman.”

Pascale then looked at Leo, his dog, a golden retriever, on the floor. "How have you been?"

Leo barked happily, running around her feet. Pascale laughed, stooping to pet Leo before returning to the kitchen. Charles followed, leaning against the counter, his mind replaying the events of the afternoon.

"So, what are you thinking about? Y/N?" Pascale suddenly asked, startling him.

He jumped. “Um, yeah, I told you she interviewed me, right Maman?”

“Yeah, you should be happy then,” she said with a knowing look in her eye.

“I was, and I still am. She’s amazing, beautiful, and funny but…” he paused, a shadow falling over his face.

“But?” Pascale asked, her curiosity piqued.

“I asked her about soulmates, and she said something about having an accident in her family which made her not want to find her soulmate. She also thinks that Alex is my soulmate, but I couldn't say anything because she had to meet her dad at some restaurant,” he ranted, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

Pascale looked at her son with sympathy. "Okay, fils, breathe. Now, I'm curious, do you have a picture of her?"

“Um… yes, I do,” he said, fumbling for his phone. He pulled it out and showed his mother the picture he’d taken of Y/N holding Leo in her arms earlier that day. She had an easy smile and her eyes sparkled.

Pascale smiled as she looked at it. "She is very pretty. She looks familiar, but from where?" She handed the phone back. "What restaurant was she going to?"

“She said Cantinetta Antinori,” he replied.

Pascale’s brow furrowed. "I've been there a few times." She paused, a distant look in her eyes. 

Charles, seizing on this new thread of conversation, asked, “How do you get a soulmate again?” He needed a refresher, a grounding in the established reality that you seemed determined to ignore.

Maybe if he understood the mechanics better, he could understand her resistance. He knew the theory, of course, but hearing it again, reaffirmed, might help.

Pascale considered his question carefully. "You meet them around the age of 12-13," she said slowly, her gaze drifting off as she mentally scanned her memories, searching for any significant event or interaction from that period. 

"You have an instant connection with the person, at least that's how it was with me and your father," Pascale smiled, thinking about her late husband.

Charles thought about any girls he had met at that time. Was it anyone in school or any girls who were in karting? He had always been passionate about racing, and it was through this hobby that he had met many of his closest friends. But as he went through the list of girls he had known, none of them seemed to fit the bill.

"What if you don't meet them at that age?" Charles asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What if you don't feel that instant connection?"

Pascale shook her head. "It's not always instant, Charles. Sometimes it takes time for the connection to develop. And sometimes people meet their soulmates later in life. It's not a hard and fast rule."

Charles nodded, taking in this new information. He had always thought that finding his soulmate would be a simple, straightforward process. But now he was beginning to understand that it was more complicated than he had initially thought.

"How do you know when you've found them?" Charles asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Pascale smiled, her eyes softening with affection. "You just know," she said, her voice filled with certainty. "It's like a feeling of completeness, of wholeness. It's like you've found a piece of yourself that you didn't even know was missing."

He smiled too, thinking about her. "Well, it definitely feels like that," he admitted, a blush creeping up his neck.

"Oh maman! The food!" he exclaimed, jolted back to reality by the pungent smell of burning garlic.

He leaped up, rescuing the pan just as Pascale shrieked in mock horror. "Charles! You scared me! And look at what you almost made me do to dinner." She chuckled, waving a wooden spoon at him playfully.

He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Maman. Lost in thought."

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Charles, still buzzing from his go-karting victory, walked along the familiar street towards home. The plastic trophy, a symbol of his triumph, felt warm against his palm.

His family had promised a celebratory barbeque, and the aroma of grilling burgers already tickled his senses.

He was twelve years old, practically a teenager, and life felt good.

As he passed Cantinetta Antinori, the scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes usually a comforting aroma, was overridden by something else: the unmistakable sound of crying.

It was a soft, muffled sound, but persistent enough to slice through the celebratory bubble he'd been inhabiting. Charles, usually one to avoid emotional entanglements, found himself drawn towards the source.

Behind the restaurant, tucked between the brick wall and a overflowing dumpster, sat a girl. She was about his age, maybe a little older, with long, dark hair that obscured her face. Her shoulders shook with each sob.

Even from a distance, Charles could tell she was pretty, the kind of pretty that made him feel a strange flutter in his chest he couldn't quite decipher.

Ignoring the nagging voice in his head that urged him to keep walking, to focus on the promised party, Charles approached cautiously.

The stories his older brother, Lorenzo, told about girls – complicated, dramatic stories – flashed through his mind. But he couldn't just leave her there.

"Hey," he said, his voice a little higher than usual, "are you okay?"

The girl froze, her sobs abruptly cut short. Her head snapped up, and she blinked at him, her eyes red and swollen. She frantically wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing the remnants of her tears.

"Um, I'm okay," she mumbled, her voice thick with emotion.

The lie hung in the air between them. Charles wasn't stupid. "You don't sound okay," he countered gently, edging closer. "Is something wrong?"

She hesitated, her gaze flickering between Charles and the ground. He noticed she was wearing a simple blue dress. He also felt a… something. A strange pull, like a gentle current tugging him closer.

It was faint, barely noticeable, but definitely there. It was a warm, comforting feeling, like wrapping himself in his favorite blanket on a cold day. 

"It's nothing," she insisted, but her voice cracked on the last word. More tears welled up in her eyes.

Charles, emboldened by the strange comfort that emanated from her, sat down beside her on the cracked pavement. He kept a respectful distance, unsure of how close was too close.

"Everyone cries sometimes," he said, trying to sound wise beyond his years. "It doesn't mean it's nothing."

She finally met his gaze, her dark eyes filled with a vulnerability that tugged at his heart. "It's my mom," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "She passed away."

Charles's own breath hitched. He didn't know what to say. He'd never experienced anything like that. He just sat there, silent, feeling utterly helpless.

"It was really sudden," she continued, the tears flowing freely now. "She was fine one day, and then…she just didn't wake up."

Charles reached out and awkwardly patted her arm. "I'm really sorry," he said, the words sounding inadequate even to his own ears.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Everything feels…wrong."

"I can't imagine," Charles said, wishing he could offer her more than just empty words. 

Then, an idea sparked in his mind. He held up his tarnished trophy, a shy, hopeful smile gracing his face. "My family are celebrating my win. Do you want to come and celebrate with me?"

Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering within their depths. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

Charles smiled, a genuine, bright smile that chased away some of the shadows in his own heart. "It's okay, it's my party! Come on," he said, standing up.

He held out his hand to her. She hesitated for a moment, then wiped her tears and took his hand. He pulled her up gently.

"Well, we have to be quick, my brothers might finish all the food," he said, grabbing her hand and starting to run, a playful grin on his face.

She stumbled a little at first, but soon matched his pace, a faint smile finally gracing her lips.

The aroma of barbeque hit them long before they reached the house. The air thrummed with laughter and music. A string of brightly colored lights crisscrossed the backyard, illuminating a scene of chaotic celebration.

Charles' family was large and boisterous, a whirlwind of hugs, loud conversation, and the constant clinking of glasses. 

"Hi, Maman!" Charles called out, not letting go of her hand.

Pascale, his mother, a woman built like a sturdy oak tree with a smile as warm as summer sunshine, turned towards them. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in her, still clinging to Charles' hand.

A knowing smile spread across her face.

"Charles! Congratulations, mon chéri!" She engulfed him in a bone-crushing hug, then turned her attention to her.

"And who is this lovely young lady? A friend from school?" Pascale's eyes were knowing.

Charles' eyes widened in embarrassment. He hadn't even properly learned her name! He'd been so caught up in the simple, radiating joy that had bloomed within him ever since she'd agreed to come to his party – a joy so potent it felt like sunshine warming his bones.

He leaned in and whispered in her ear, "What's your name?"

"Y/N L/N," she whispered back, her voice barely audible above the party noise.

"This is Y/N, Maman. She's celebrating with us!" Charles beamed, squeezing her hand reassuringly. The feeling of rightness was almost intoxicating for him.

Y/N offered a small, hesitant smile. "Hello, Madame." The gnawing anxiety felt almost unbearable, a constant flutter in her chest like a trapped bird.

And yet, underneath, something felt… safe when she was with Charles. It was a faint, unfamiliar sensation, easily drowned out by the anxiety, but it was there.

“Please, call me Pascale,” his mother’s smile never faltered. “Come, come, you must be starving! Let me get you something to eat.” She steered them towards the barbeque, where Charles's father, Hervé, was presiding over a veritable mountain of grilled meats.

The rest of the evening was a dizzying swirl of faces and food for Y/N. Charles, radiating an effortless confidence he'd never possessed before, introduced her to his boisterous brothers, Arthur and Lorenzo.

“So, Charles, finally found a girl who can tolerate your driving?” Arthur teased, ruffling his younger brother's hair.

“Yeah, she must have a strong stomach!” Lorenzo chimed in, winking at Y/N.

Charles flushed with embarrassment. He was too busy beaming at Y/N to notice the heat creeping up his neck. "Leave her alone," he mumbled, but there was no real heat in his voice. He was just too happy.

Y/N managed a weak smile. She felt like she was walking through a dream. The anxiety never truly left her – it was a persistent hum beneath the surface – but it was tempered by the genuine warmth and acceptance she felt from Charles's family. They didn’t treat her like an outsider, but welcomed her into their midst with open arms.

Charles, for his part, never left her side. He kept up a steady stream of conversation, pointing out funny anecdotes about his family, explaining the rules of karting, and generally just making sure she felt comfortable. The warm, happy feeling never left him, growing stronger with each passing moment.

As the evening drew to a close, and the last of the fairy lights began to flicker, Y/N felt a sharp pang of sadness. The thought of going back to her quiet, often lonely, existence was almost unbearable.

She’d never experienced anything like this before – a feeling of belonging, of being seen, of being… important.

“Thank you,” she said quietly to Charles as they stood by the gate, the last of the guests drifting away. “For inviting me. For everything.”

Charles blushed, kicking at a loose pebble on the ground. He was suddenly shy, the carefree confidence of earlier replaced by a nervous energy. "It was nothing. I had fun."

He looked up at her, his eyes earnest and a little vulnerable. "We should do it again sometime."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat. The anxiety spiked again, almost overwhelming her, making her breath catch in her throat.

But beneath it, that faint sense of safety flickered, growing a little stronger. She managed a small, hesitant smile. "Maybe."

Charles, feeling braver than he had ever felt before, reached out and gently touched her hand.

His entire body thrummed with contentment, a feeling so pure and untainted that it made his head spin. "I hope so."

Y/N, overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions swirling inside her, acted on instinct. She leaned forward and quickly pressed a kiss to his cheek, the briefest, lightest touch.

Then, before he could react, she turned and ran, disappearing into the night.

Charles stood there, stunned, his cheek burning where her lips had touched. The simple joy was now charged with something else, something electric and confusing and intensely exciting.

He touched his cheek, a goofy grin spreading across his face. Though he never saw her again after that day. . . .

[vroomvro0mferrari]

CL16 | She’s Busy

Summary: You and Charles have been friends for ages, but recently his protectiveness has reached new heights, ruining your every chance at love. It's high time you put an end to it, and you know just how.

Based on this request!

Charles x fem!Reader, friends to lovers

WC: 4.2K

Warnings: Maybe some cursing? Also, Charles shows some red flags…

Masterlist

“I can’t tonight, Cha,” Y/N told him, a small frown on her face – she knew it’d disappoint him.

“Why not? Do you have plans already?”

“No,” she lied. “I’m just really tired and I think it’s better if I stay in tonight.”

“You can stay in at my place, you’re already here. I can ditch Kika and Pierre, I can cook—”

“Charles,” Y/N protested.

“Okay, I won’t cook, we can order something and watch a movie. It’ll be so much more fun than staying in alone.” 

“I just need some alone time, okay? I’ve had a really busy week, and I just want to nap on my couch and eat ice cream. And I don’t want you to miss out on your dinner with Pierre and Kika. We can have dinner next week?” She offered as a last attempt to convince him, an awkward smile on her face.

Charles sighed. “Fine, but you’re not getting out of it!”

She nodded, slightly amused at his pouty face, before planting a quick kiss on his cheek and heading out the door. 

Y/N had known Charles for ages. They met when they were younger, still in school, and had stuck together through thick and thin. She’d been there for Charles when Jules died, when his father passed, and when he finally realised his lifelong dream of driving for Ferrari, and Charles had done the same for her. No matter how busy his life got, he was always there when Y/N needed him.

So was Pierre. Y/N had met him through Charles, as the two boys were inseparable from a young age, and she was immediately absorbed into their friendship. Pierre was incredibly accepting of her, and she quickly grew to love him just as much as Charles, even though he had moved away when they were older. It made it more difficult to maintain the friendship, especially since she didn’t see Pierre every other weekend like Charles did, but they managed.

In some situations it was good that Pierre lived in a different country; it made it more difficult for him to tell Y/N’s secrets to Charles. Now, she didn’t keep many secrets – actually, until a few months back she didn’t keep any secrets from Charles, but the change in the situation called for it.

Charles and Pierre had always been protective over Y/N, trying to keep her out of danger in any way they could. It was sweet, really, and their intentions had always been good. Besides, sometimes it was helpful; their meddling had saved her from dating a guy who was only with her for a chance at fame and to meet two Formula 1 drivers, and another boy who showed some very red flags she was blissfully oblivious to. But over the past months, Charles, who had always been worse than Pierre in this matter, started going overboard, especially when Y/N had a date.

It started off innocent enough; Charles would ask her to share her location whenever she went out with a guy, a sweet sentiment, really. After a text asking for help and, consequently, an interference from Charles, he seemed to decide it’d be better if he stuck close. And soon, Charles was always present at her dates. In the beginning, he would just hang around the location and watch the interactions from a distance. Then, watching turned into introducing himself because he “wanted to make sure if the guy’s any good”, which turned into full-on conversations and joining her dates. Frankly, it was ridiculous. He’d just grab a chair from a nearby table and join the conversation, ‘subtly’ mentioning how he’d been friends with Y/N for years, and how he’d always be her number one – “right?” 

To no one’s surprise, there wouldn’t be a second date, the poor guy would be scared shitless as Charles talked about the power he wielded in Monaco and online, not to mention, all the contacts he had. Somehow, he always knew someone from the company her dates’ worked at. More often than not, their boss, and he didn’t hesitate to mention it.

Y/N had tried to stop him, she truly had. Whenever he’d interrupted another one of her dates, and Charles would drive her home because there was no need to take a taxi when he was already there, as Charles put it, she’d ask him why he’d intimidated another one of her dates. He’d just tell her that they weren’t good enough for her, and at the glare she’d send him, he’d apologise. Y/N would know she should have pushed further than that, because the situation kept recurring, but the sad look on his face when she’d tell him off, and the puppy eyes he’d give her when he parked outside her apartment building would make her reconsider. Charles was her best friend after all, and she didn’t want to hurt him. The situation was predictable and repetitive, and she kept letting herself get fooled.

At the lack of effect her talks had, she was determined to try a different approach. That’s when Y/N decided not to tell Charles about her dates any longer. What he didn’t know wouldn’t harm him, and she could go on dates without interruptions. That didn’t mean Pierre didn’t know about them, though. With the physical distance between them and Pierre, he could keep a secret and she needed someone to talk to about her dates. And Charles’ idea of sending her location was something she wanted to keep going, just in case.

That was the plan for tonight, too. She was going on a date, and with Charles unaware and hopefully distracted by his dinner with the visiting Pierre and Kika, she’d hopefully have a normal, relaxed first date without any unusual situations. The plan had worked well enough last time, but then again, Pierre wasn’t anywhere near Charles then and God knows he couldn’t keep his mouth shut if his life depended on it.

Y/N drove home quickly from Charles’ place, hopping in the shower before she got ready for her date. She’d met the man at her regular cafe while she was grabbing her morning drink, it was a real meet cute: she’d bumped into him and spilt her tea over his white shirt. He was kind about the mishap, cute, and, most importantly, willing to take her out. 

Y/N looked at her reflection in the mirror as she put on her necklace, making sure that everything was in place before she grabbed her phone. She texted Pierre her live location and asked him one last time what restaurant he was at, just to check that she was going someplace else.

The boys were already at dinner with Kika when she sent her message. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he quickly took it out to read her message. He smiled at the text. As opposed to what Charles had just told him, that Y/N wasn’t feeling well and needed a night alone, she apparently needed to make sure her date was someplace else than where they were. It was a smart move, and he knew that she’d managed before, but to lie so blatantly to Charles, especially when Pierre had to spend the rest of the night maintaining that lie, was bold. Pierre subtly showed the message to Kika, who stifled a laugh.

You didn’t tell Charles you’re on a date? He typed back before placing his phone on the table.

Y/N’s reply was blunt: Cha doesn’t need to know.

The buzz of his phone caught Pierre’s attention, and Charles’ as well. The phone screen lit up, displaying the new message. A frown formed on Charles’ face as he read it, quickly snatching the phone from the table to make sure he read it correctly.

“What don’t I need to know?” He said, keeping the phone out of Pierre’s reach while he scrambled to get it back. What weren’t his friends telling him?

Pierre’s nerves shot up at the question and he looked at Kika for help. She jumped in without hesitation, always willing to help out her friend. “Well, Charles, she didn’t want you to know, we didn’t want you to know, that Y/N’s at home right now, working on—”

The phone pinged again, and Charles’ eyes shot from Kika’s face to phone in a split second, flitting over the new message.

You know how he gets about my dates…

Charles’ jaw tightened. “She’s on a date?” He asked lowly, “Why can’t I know she’s on a date?”

Pierre cleared his throat nervously. “Well, you do have a history of… scaring off her dates,” Pierre trails off, nervously glancing at Kika for help.

Kika nodded in agreement. She completely supported Y/N in this decision. If it’d been her, she would’ve given Charles a good telling-off months ago, but Y/N was too sweet for that. It was good that he knew the truth now; maybe he’d realise a change was needed.

“Do you know where she is? What restaurant? Or are they somewhere else?”

“Charles—”

“I know you know. Tell me.”

Pierre sighed. “Let’s just finish dinner first, and then we’ll go together, okay? Just to check the guy out from a distance,” he emphasised, hoping that was clear enough. Pierre knew Y/N wouldn’t like it, but it’d be better if he stayed with Charles. He could prevent him from doing something stupid.

Charles grumbled in agreement, quickly finishing his meal, and immediately refusing dessert when the waiter asked, before slamming some cash on the table and leaving the restaurant.

– – – – –

The two boys trailed outside the restaurant, peering inside through the window while Kika sat in the car – she refused to engage in such childish behaviours. Charles had spotted Y/N in no time. The perfectly fitted dress she was wearing, with the matching jewellery Charles had bought her a few months ago, and her hair up into a pretty updo would catch anybody’s eye. She was giggling at something the guy had said, reaching for his hand that lay still on the table until she touched it. Charles clenched his jaw so hard he feared he’d break a tooth. What was that man thinking – touching his best friend like that? Making her laugh? 

Charles scoffed before standing upright and marching right into the restaurant. He walked straight past the hostess' stand and past her table before he backed up.

“What—Y/N? What are you doing here?” He spluttered, feigning surprise at her presence. She looked up from her menu at the familiar voice, her jaw slack in surprise. How had he found out? Why hadn’t Pierre stopped him? 

He walked closer to the table. “How are you? Thought you were staying in tonight?”

“Charles,” Y/N greeted with fake enthusiasm. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Ah yes, we changed restaurants. Who is this?” He nodded to the man across from her.

“Oh, this is Tom. Tom, this is Charles. He’s a good friend of mine,” Y/N said reluctantly.

“You could say best friend. We’ve known each other for all our lives, I can’t remember a time when Y/N wasn’t there,” Charles said as he shook Tom’s hand, forcing a fake laugh out before he grabbed a chair from an empty table and sat down.

“So, how did you guys meet? I’ve never heard of you before, Tim,” Charles continued, grabbing a piece of bread from the basket on the table.

The man across from him eyed Y/N carefully. She was smiling forcefully, scratching her head as she sighed, but made no effort to get rid of Charles, so Tom smiled awkwardly at the new presence. “We met at a cafe. Also, it’s Tom.”

Charles chewed on his bread as he nodded excessively. “Hm, a cafe? Do you prefer coffee or tea?” He said before flagging a waiter down and asking for a drink.

“Charles—” Y/N tried to interrupt him, to tell him to leave, to not frighten her date, to not make himself so comfortable while he was so rudely imposing on her date. How had he even found out in the first place? 

“You know, coffee’s really not good for your health. Caffeine and such – can be addicting, give you headaches if you suddenly stop drinking it… Do you get headaches, Tim?”

“Uh—” Tom mumbled nervously while Y/N hid her face in her hands.

Charles opened his mouth to continue when Pierre slapped his hands on Charles’ shoulders. “We should go, Charles,” he told him, pushing him forward off the chair.

“I’m sure we can stay for a bit longer, right Y/N? Get to know your boyfriend for a bit?” Charles said genuinely hoping Y/N would want him to stay. Instead, she shook her head.

“Let’s go, Charles,” Pierre said forcefully, pushing his friend out of the restaurant. Charles could just barely hear the faint sounds of Y/N apologising to her date as Pierre walked him out. The apologetic tone in her voice as she told him how incredibly sorry she was her friends had interrupted – that they weren’t usually like that, that they’re just protective – almost made him feel bad, except she shouldn’t be dating random guys.

He knew it bothered her, the way he always interrupted her dates, but he just couldn’t seem to let it go. She’s his best friend, he just wanted her to be safe, to make sure the guys were good enough. And frankly, Y/N had never picked out a good guy; Charles could treat her better than every single one of them. If she’d paid attention, she’d know that too. She’d have noticed that he’d buy anything she wanted for her: clothes, jewellery (although it wasn’t intended to be worn on dates with strangers), food and drinks. He’d spend all his money on her if she’d allow it, but she didn’t. The fact that she liked him because of him and not his money, only made him want to do it more. But even besides materialistic things, he always made time for her, no matter how busy he was. He would cook for her every night if it weren’t a risk to their health, and organise movie nights, or other activities. Regardless, she never seemed to notice his attraction to her.

“What happened to watching from a distance, huh mate?” Pierre teased before getting in the car and driving the man home.

– – – – –

To say Y/N was upset would be an understatement. The incident at the date frustrated her immensely. She had told Charles, many times, that he shouldn’t interrupt her dates, yet for some reason he kept doing it – apparently, she had been too subtle. Tom was a good guy too; he was kind and respectful and seemed caring enough, and, now, because Charles had interrupted their date, he had refused a second date. He had scared off yet another one of her prospective boyfriends. The situation needed to come to an end, and apparently, not telling Charles about her dates and correcting him wasn’t good enough.

It was a few (dateless) weeks later when she had finally thought of a plan to put an end to Charles’ antics. She was staying over at her cousin’s for a few days after some heavy rainfall and water damage in her own apartment – the perfect opportunity. It had taken barely any convincing to get him to participate; as soon as she told him about the recurring issue he agreed she needed to take action.

Y/N knew Charles and Pierre were hanging out together; she’d seen the paparazzi pictures on social media, and knew that if she’d send Pierre something about being at someone else’s place, Charles would find out about it soon enough. After all, that was what happened last time as well, even though it took some time to get Pierre to admit it was his fault Charles found out about her date. So, in agreement with her cousin, she took a picture.

They were sitting on the couch, watching TV, when she posed against him, her head lying on her cousin’s chest as she smiled for the photo. His chin was just barely visible in the picture, as was his arm lying along her shoulders. Without a second thought, she sent it to Pierre, hoping her idea would work out exactly as she’d planned.

She saw Charles' status switch to online just a few seconds later. Y/N held her breath as she watched the small dots bounce at the bottom of her phone screen. Charles was typing, then stopping, then typing again, like he couldn’t decide how to start. It almost made her laugh – he was so wound up, like he thought she’d actually gone home with a stranger tonight. All she had to do now, was wait.

Finally, his message came through. Where are you?

She bit her lip to stifle her giggle. She waited a few minutes, just to let him sit in his worry, before sending back a message. She’s busy.

Charles scoffed at the text, showing it to Pierre. “What’s this? She’s busy?” He mumbled angrily while Pierre chuckled silently. Whereas Charles was too wrapped up in his worry and frustration to recognise the prank, Pierre knew immediately what was happening.

He responded. Who are you? Where’s Y/N?

He chewed on his lip as he anxiously awaited her answer. It took way too long before the message was read, and even longer before the typing bubble appeared.

Doesn’t matter. She’s busy.

Charles scoffed again. Who was this infuriating man and what was he thinking, just answering Y/N’s phone like that?

Busy with who?

She’s in good hands. Don’t worry, man.

Y/N giggled at her message while Charles gnawed at his lip. This was not good. Y/N was at some stranger’s house, nobody knew where, and the guy was in charge of her phone. This was bad, real bad. He needed to find her, to make sure she was safe.

Give her back her phone. I need to talk to her.

She’s busy.

Charles groaned in annoyance before calling her. The phone rang a few times but no one picked up.

Where’s she? I’m coming over.

Y/N giggled at her phone when she saw the text. This was too funny, and a face-to-face confrontation would make it even better. She sent him her cousin’s address, curious to see if he’d actually come over.

Not five minutes passed before a loud, rapid knock sounded at the door. Y/N’s cousin shook his head in disbelief. “You weren’t kidding. This guy is intense,” he said before opening the door.

Charles towered over the shorter man in the door opening. “Where’s Y/N?” He asked, his voice dark and aggressive as he pushed his way past him. His eyes flicked around the room until they landed on her, sprawled out on the couch, snuggled up under a blanket and watching TV, seemingly completely unbothered.

“Hey, Cha. What are you doing here?” She asked, trying to keep up the innocent act.

“What are you doing, Y/N? Why are you at some random guy’s house? You know that’s not safe!”

She rolled her eyes and sighed loudly.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me! This could’ve gone incredibly wrong, that guy could’ve murdered you and no one would have known where you were!”

God, he was so infuriating. Always bothering her on her dates, and now he’s yelling at her over a prank while she’s in her cousin’s house, it’s ridiculous, frankly.

“Don’t shout at me, Charles! Are you crazy?” She huffed. “You’re coming over here in a frenzy for nothing. It’s just a prank, I wanted to see how far you’d go. This is my cousin.” She pointed to the boy still standing by the door opening, who was very amused at the situation. 

Charles froze, the tension in his jaw loosening as confusion replaced his anger. His gaze darted between Y/N and her cousin, piecing together what she’d just said. “Your cousin?” he repeated, as though the words didn’t compute.

“Yes, Charles. My cousin. You know, family? Not some random murderer or creepy guy. You’ve met him before actually, at my birthday last year!” Y/N replied, her tone sharp as she threw off the blanket and stood up.

Charles’s face turned a deep shade of red, and he avoided her gaze, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, how was I supposed to know? The photo—you didn’t say anything—”

“Exactly! That was the point!” Y/N interrupted, throwing her hands in the air. “Charles, do you even hear yourself? Do you realise how insane this is? I can’t even go on a normal date without you barging in and acting like you’re my overprotective father!”

He flinched at her words but didn’t respond immediately. Her cousin took this as his cue to leave.

“Y/N, I was just looking out for you,” Charles finally mumbled, his voice quieter now. “You don’t understand—these guys you meet—”

“No, Charles, you don’t understand!” She shot back, cutting him off again. “I don’t need you to protect me like this. I’m not a child, and you’re not my bodyguard. You’ve been ruining my dates for months, and I’ve had enough.”

Charles’s fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to find the words. “I’m just trying to look after you! You deserve better than these guys, Y/N!”

“Why do you even care so much?” She demanded, her voice rising. “What’s it to you if I date someone? Why do you act like you’ve got some kind of say in my love life?”

Charles’s lips parted as if to respond, but nothing came out. His mind raced, but the words he needed wouldn’t form. How could he explain it? How could he tell her the truth – that he cared because he couldn’t bear the thought of her being with someone else? That he’d been selfish, sabotaging her dates because the idea of her falling for someone else drove him mad? 

“Well?” Y/N pressed, stepping closer.

“I—I just…” He looked at her, the frustration and vulnerability clear in his eyes. “Because I’m in love with you, okay?”

Y/N blinked in silence, her anger evaporating as shock took its place. “What?” She whispered.

Charles sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m in love with you,” he repeated, softer this time. “I’ve been in love with you for years, Y/N. And seeing you with other guys—it’s torture. I know I’ve gone too far, but I just… I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Y/N stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. Of all the things she’d expected, this wasn’t one of them. Her breath caught as she processed his words. All the pieces suddenly clicked into place; the protectiveness, the jealousy, the way he always went out of his way to make her happy. It had been in front of her the whole time, and she hadn’t seen it. “Charles, I—”

“I’m sorry,” he cut her off, his voice full of regret. “I know I’ve been an idiot, and if you don’t feel the same, I’ll back off. I just… I’m sorry.”

“Charles,” she said softly, stepping closer to him. He looked up, searching her eyes for any indication of what she would say, of how she felt. “I wish you’d just told me sooner. Maybe then we could’ve avoided all this.”

His brows furrowed.

She smiled at his confused expression. “I mean, I like you too, I love you too. I just didn’t know if you felt the same.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, he just stared at her, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You… you have?”

“Yes, you idiot,” she said, laughing softly. “Why do you think I’ve put up with all your nonsense?

Charles let out a breathless laugh, his shoulders sagging in relief. “I can’t believe it,” he murmured, shaking his head before running a hand over his face in frustration. “I’ve spent all this time… and I could’ve just…” he mumbled as he stared at her, trailing off in thought. kissed her, I could’ve just kissed her, he finished in his mind.

“I could’ve just…” he mumbled again, staring intently as he moved to hold her face, pulling it just a little closer. He looked into her eyes, gauging her reaction as his lips neared hers, as he could feel her short breaths on his face. She didn’t protest, didn’t show any intent to move, if anything, she came closer, brushing her lips softly against Charles’ while her eyelids fluttered closed. 

Charles couldn’t hold back any longer, pressing his lips to hers softly, hesitantly until he felt her hands slip up his chest. He could feel her fingertips pressing into his muscle as she pulled him closer, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as her fingers faintly passed the skin until they reached his hair.

It felt surreal, this was what he’d been wanting for months. He was absorbed in the moment, not noticing anything but the feeling of her, the scent of her, and the joy she gave him. In that moment it all centred around her – he realised his whole world revolved around her.

[angelluv16]

Rumor Has It

Charles Leclerc x Jenner!reader

✩: Kaia Jenner, the youngest Kardashian-Jenner, is an up-and-coming actress. When F1 driver Charles Leclerc casually calls her his favorite actress, the internet goes crazy. What starts as rumors turns into a whirlwind of drama, chemistry, and public scrutiny.

faceclaim: Cindy Kimberly, girls from Pinterest

Want to be added to my taglist?: Click here

pairing: Charles Leclerc x Jenner!reader

request: no!!

warnings: Hate, fluff, Angst, Language,

previous part | Main Masterlist | next part

-------------------------✩-------------------------

The red carpet was always a blur. The flashing lights, the endless stream of questions, the sea of cameras. But tonight felt different. The premiere of my latest film had drawn an even bigger crowd than I anticipated—probably thanks to the Jenner name, but I was doing my best to focus on what really mattered: the film.

I paused for a moment as I walked past a row of photographers, offering my best smile, keeping the nerves under control. It wasn’t easy, but it was the game I knew how to play.

"Kaia! Over here!" I heard someone call, a reporter waving me over to the side for an impromptu interview.

I stepped forward, adjusting my dress, ready to smile and answer the usual questions. “Kaia, how does it feel to be at another premiere?” the reporter asked, holding the microphone up.

"It feels amazing. I’m so proud of this project and excited to share it with everyone tonight," I said, rehearsed but still genuine.

As the interview continued, the reporter shifted topics, and I listened carefully. “We’ve been hearing a lot of buzz online, Kaia,” they said with a knowing smile. “Did you catch the interview with Formula 1 driver Charles Leclerc today?”

I raised an eyebrow, not expecting the question. "Um, no, I haven’t. What happened?"

“Well,” they continued, “during his press conference, he mentioned you. Said you were his favorite actress."

I blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, what?”

“Yep. He said you’re incredible, and he’s a big fan of your work. The fans are already going wild about it.”

I could feel my face flush as the words sank in. Charles Leclerc? The F1 driver? I had heard of him, of course, but we had never crossed paths. My mind raced as I processed it. Why would he mention me? What did it mean?

The reporter gave me a mischievous smile, sensing my reaction. “Looks like you’ve got a new fan, Kaia.”

I managed a laugh, trying to play it cool, though my heart was still racing. "Well, that’s... unexpected. But thank you."

As I walked away from the interview, my head was spinning. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. But one thing was for sure—this was just the beginning.

-------------------------✩-------------------------

liked by kyliejenner, charlesleclerc, jade_distinguinn, krisjenner and 3.6M others kaia.jenner: another premiere, another reason to wear something pretty.

view all 85,983 comments

username1: You ATEEEE this look. The moment, the queen, the icon! ♥︎ by kaia.jenner

username2: Preach

kyliejenner: Proud of you, babe! You killed it

kaia.jenner: Love you !

username3: Not me here after Charles Leclerc said he’s a fan

username4: Mother is MOTHERING.

username5: A Jenner with ACTUAL talent? We won.

username6: Not Charles lurking under this

nicksturniolo: Ate. Left no crumbs. ♥︎ by kaia.jenner

kaia.jenner: You do that every day

username7: She didn’t just walk the carpet, she OWNED it

username8: Another Jenner we don’t need

username9: Kaia Jenner to the paddock when??

carmenmmundt: A moment

username10: Did she buy this role or did mommy Kris negotiate it?

charlesleclerc: going to be streaming

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ kaia.jenner

{caption: Back In bed with coco}

-------------------------✩-------------------------

As Kaia sat back in her chair, her phone still glowing from the last message Charles had sent, a sudden wave of nerves hit her. She had been getting a lot of attention lately—especially since the premiere—but something about his words felt different. He was nervous? About watching her movie?

She had to admit, it was a little flattering. After all, Charles Leclerc wasn’t exactly known for being shy. And now here he was, nervously awaiting her movie—and possibly wanting to discuss it with her afterward?

Just then, her phone buzzed again, snapping her out of her thoughts. A new notification from Instagram.

Charles Leclerc liked your story.

Kaia blinked, frowning slightly. She didn’t think she had posted anything particularly noteworthy. In fact, her latest story was an incredibly casual photo: her curled up in bed with her cat, Coco, captioned “back In bed with Coco.” Hardly the kind of post anyone would expect a race car driver to notice, let alone interact with.

Her thumb hovered over the notification. It was just a like. Nothing else. No comment. No follow-up. Just that small action, but it felt... different. Her heart skipped a beat. Did it mean something? Or was it just another casual like from a public figure with a massive following?

Kaia couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of excitement and uncertainty. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Constantly wondering if something as simple as a like could mean more?

She quickly locked her phone and threw it onto the bed, trying to shake off the nervous excitement that had crept up on her.

-------------------------✩-------------------------

Soo Here is another Story But this time A Charles story. I've had this idea for the longest time, I always wanted to do something with The Kardashian-Jenner family and As far as I know no one has done it so here it is. Let me know what you think and if you want to be added to the taglist or my main taglist.

-------------------------✩-------------------------

[f1post]