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ijustwannabecool · 2 months ago

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White Flag - PT. 3

Charles Leclerc x Fem!Driver!Reader

Summary... Two exes on the same team. They broke up before the season started. Now they’re forced to work together through 23 races, 5 continents, and one very awkward off-season.

A/N: Thanks for your patience. Part 3 is a go. I've been really busy with work and my computer broke so I'm writing on my phone and its taking forever, but I'm back baby!!!!!! Enjoy all the magic ;)

Have a good day. Happy Reading and love ya. Thanks for being patient with me, my darlings :)

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Part 1 & Part 2 <- Read before you read this part :)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Azerbaijan

The streets of Baku are slick with heat. Everything’s close here. Tighter than most. No space to breathe. No space to run.

You’ve been riding high for weeks.

Wins. Points. Glances in motorhome hallways. His hand on your lower back when no one’s watching. The kind of soft, secret love you never thought you'd feel again.

He brings you coffee most mornings. You steal his socks when you stay the night. He never says anything, just smiles when he finds them tucked in your bag.

So maybe you’re not prepared when it happens.

Maybe you forgot what it felt like to wonder where you stood.

Friday – Paddock Arrival

You’re walking toward the media center when you spot her.

Tall. Blonde. Sharp sunglasses. That curated, casual cool that only exes seem to perfect. A linen shirt just barelyunbuttoned, gold jewelry catching the sun like it knows exactly where the cameras are.

You know her name. Everyone does.

Élodie.

PR girl turned occasional model turned motorsport muse. A summer constant for Charles before you.

You saw her tagged in old photos. Monaco boat parties. Summer breaks before you existed in his world.

You don’t say anything.

Not at first.

You just watch from across the paddock.

And then you see it.

Her hand on his arm. His polite laugh. The way he doesn’t step back. The way he tilts his head like he’s listening to her.

And that?

That’s all it takes.

You don’t blow up.

You don’t flinch. You don’t storm over. You don’t start a scene.

You just take a breath that feels like fire and keep walking.

That night, when he texts, “Come over?”

You stare at the screen for ten full seconds.

Then type: “Think I’ll stay in tonight.”

He calls. You don’t answer.

You watch the phone ring until it stops, screen dimming like the end of a movie.

Saturday – Quali Day

You arrive early.

You’re all business. Head down. Hair up. Laps in. No smiles.

He arrives late.

Eyes tired. Jaw set. No music in his ears. No easy stride.

P1: You. P6: Him.

Your lap is perfect. Sharp. Controlled rage in the form of sector times.

His is messy. Missed braking. Flat-spotted tire. Distracted.

Ferrari Hospitality – Post-Quali

The room’s almost empty. Just you, your untouched pasta, and your laptop with your own lap overlay on replay.

He walks in, chest rising too fast, hands still stained from the gloves.

“You’re mad,” he says, not even sitting.

You stab at your food, not looking up. “I’m focused.”

“Focused, my ass,” he snaps, voice low but sharp. “You didn’t even look at me all morning.”

You drop the fork. “Fine. You want to talk? Let’s talk.”

He crosses his arms. “Please.”

You glare. “You smiled at her.”

“Who...Élodie?” He scoffs. “Are you serious?”

“She touched your arm.”

“She touches everyone’s arm.”

You stand. “And you let her.”

“She was saying hi.”

“She was testing you.”

His mouth parts. “Is that what this is about? Some harmless—”

You laugh once, bitter. “It’s never harmless. Not with her. Not when you used to love her. Not when the world saw it.”

He steps forward. “I didn’t want her then. I sure as hell don’t now.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you whisper.

He looks like he’s going to say something. Then stops.

It’s too quiet.

He exhales. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

You clench your jaw, still not convinced.

“And if I made you feel like that for even a second…” His voice cracks just slightly. “I’m sorry.”

It lands.

But not all the way.

“I need time,” you say.

He nods. “Then I’ll wait.”

That Night

You don’t go to his room.

But you pass it.

And you pause.

Just long enough for him to hear your steps outside the door.

He doesn’t open it.

But he texts you: “Still yours. Always.”

Race Day – Sunday

The strategy plays out flawlessly.

You lead from the first corner. He holds P3. Defends hard when Oscar tries a divebomb on Lap 34.

When the checkered flag falls:

P1: You. P3: Charles.

The team explodes.

But you?

You don’t celebrate loudly.

You don’t scream into the radio.

You just exhale.

Charles’s Motorhome

You wait until the crowd dies down. Until the press rounds are over. Until the engineers stop knocking on doors and the sun starts bleeding into the Caspian Sea.

Then you go to him.

You don’t knock. You don’t have to.

The door is already unlocked.

He’s sitting on the edge of the small couch, race suit unzipped, hair still damp from the shower, head in his hands.

When he looks up and sees you, he doesn’t smile.

He just breathes.

Like he’s been holding it in for hours.

You step inside and close the door behind you.

The click of it sounds like a secret.

He doesn’t move. Not at first.

So you do.

You walk over, slow, measured, the buzz of the paddock a dull hum outside the thin walls.

When you stop in front of him, he looks up again, eyes flicking over your face like he’s afraid it’ll be the last time.

You sit on his lap. Swing your leg over. Straddle him without a word.

His hands find your hips, instinctively.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

You cup his face. Both hands. Thumb dragging over the stubble on his jaw.

“You’re still mine, right?” you whisper.

His brow furrows like he wants to cry. “Always.”

You lean your forehead against his. Eyes closed. Skin to skin.

“Next time,” you murmur, “don’t laugh at her jokes.”

“I wasn’t,” he breathes.

“You smiled.”

“I was thinking about you.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Liar.”

He nods. “Only sometimes.”

You smile. Soft. Real.

Then finally—finally—you kiss him.

Not frantic. Not possessive.

Just deep. Slow. Forgiving.

He pulls you closer until there’s no air between you.

And when you break apart, still pressed chest to chest, he murmurs:

“I thought I lost you.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.”

Then you rest your head on his shoulder, your fingers playing with the chain around his neck.

And for the first time since she showed up…

You feel steady again.

-----

Singapore

Ferrari Hospitality – Thursday Night

The air in Singapore wraps around you like syrup. Thick. Warm. Still.

Night race. City lights. Lanterns swaying over marina water. The paddock bathed in neon and humidity.

It should feel heavy.

But for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t.

Everyone’s out. PR dinner for the junior drivers. The grid scattered across rooftop bars and private clubs.

But not you.

You’re barefoot in Charles’s motorhome kitchen, wearing his old Monaco hoodie and slicing mango with a plastic knife while the air conditioner hums softly in the corner.

He’s lying on the couch behind you, one arm slung over his face, legs still in race shorts.

“You’re going to cut your hand,” he mumbles without moving.

You smirk. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You pop a slice in your mouth and lean your hip against the counter. “You want some?”

He peeks out from under his arm. “Only if you feed me.”

You walk over slowly, wedge of mango held between two fingers.

He opens his mouth lazily, but at the last second, you shove it into his cheek.

He chokes. You laugh so hard you drop another slice on the floor.

And when you lean down to clean it up, he grabs your wrist.

You freeze.

Not because he’s holding you. But because his touch is soft. Reverent.

You straighten slowly, eyes locking with his.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says.

You nod. “Trying to stay out of my own head.”

He shifts, makes room for you on the couch.

You settle into the space beside him, your legs tangling, your head falling naturally to his shoulder.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” you whisper after a long silence.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Then don’t.”

You look up. “It’s not that simple.”

“It could be,” he says.

You blink. “You really believe that?”

He shrugs. “I believe in you.”

And god, you want to cry. Because no one’s ever said that and meant it like he does.

You kiss him, slow and unhurried.

And when he carries you to bed later, he doesn’t take off your hoodie.

He just pulls you close, buries his face in your neck, and whispers:

“We’ve got this.”

Quali Day – Saturday

He goes P3. You go P2.

No games. No tension. Just clean driving and the sound of your names lighting up the timing board.

Afterwards, you share a quiet moment behind the garage. No one else around. No cameras. Just you and him, helmets still in hand, sweat cooling on your backs.

You fist the fabric of his fire suit lightly.

“Do you ever think about what it’s going to feel like?” you ask. “When it’s public?”

He nods. “All the time.”

“Are you scared?”

He shrugs. “Only if you are.”

“I’m not scared of loving you,” you say.

He smiles. “Then we’ve already won.”

You lean into him. Rest your forehead against his chest.

He sways you slightly. Like he can feel the victory coming too.

Race Day – Sunday

It’s not a win. But it’s enough.

P2: Charles. P3: You.

On the podium, you stand beside him, champagne in hand, crown of misted sweat curling your hair.

You clink bottles.

He winks.

And when you’re walking off-stage, he brushes his pinky against yours.

It’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

-------

USA, Circuit of the Americas (Austin, Texas)

Thursday – Media Day

Texas air is dry and wide. Big blue skies, a thumping country playlist in the background, and the kind of sunshine that makes even bad days feel golden.

You land in Austin late Wednesday night. Separate flights. Separate cars.

But by Thursday morning?

Your coffee is already waiting in Charles’s motorhome.

Soy milk, one sugar. Lid off, straw in. His doing.

It’s not hiding anymore. Not here.

The Ferrari press room is busy. You’ve got an interview block with F1TV. He’s paired with you, for chemistry, obviously.

The interview setup was painfully bright. Studio lights, clip-on mics, two white chairs, and a laminated segment title that read: "Finish Each Other’s Sentences."

You groaned when you saw it. “Isn’t this usually for rookies?”

Charles smiled without even looking up from his water. “Or married couples.”

You shot him a look. “We’re not married.”

“Yet.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to bite back the grin already tugging at your lips.

They started recording almost immediately.

“We’re going to begin with something simple,” the producer explained from behind the camera. “I’ll start the sentence—you finish it. Each other’s, not your own.”

Charles leaned forward, chin propped lazily on his fist. “We’re professionals.”

You glanced at him sideways. “We’re disasters.”

“First one,” the producer called. “My teammate’s most annoying habit is...”

You both answered at the same time. “Overthinking.”

You blinked, turning sharply to him. “Wait, me?”

Charles shrugged, deadpan. “You take forever to pick a tire strategy.”

You jabbed your elbow into his ribs. “You take forever to pick a playlist.”

Next one: “If we weren’t racing, we’d be...”

You answered, “On a beach.”

Charles said, “At home.”

Your head turned to him, slowly.

He was already looking at you.

The producer let out a slow whistle behind the camera. “Okay. That was… intimate.”

Ten minutes later, you were standing near catering when you spotted Lando, arms folded across his chest like a disappointed older brother.

“So,” he started, leveling a look at the two of you. “Just to clarify, you’re not back together?”

You raised your eyebrows, reaching for a banana. “Why would you say that?”

Charles sipped from his water bottle like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Because we are not telling the world.”

Lando didn’t even blink. “I saw you feed her a grape in the hallway.”

You snorted. “It was a slice of apple.”

Carlos strolled in next, hands in the pockets of his Williams track pants. “You guys are dating again.”

Charles shrugged. “Maybe.”

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You live together again.”

You laughed. “No.”

He pointed with his chin. “You left the hotel this morning wearing his hoodie.”

You hesitated. “It’s… comfortable.”

Pierre wandered over, sunglasses perched too low on his nose. “Told you all. They’re back on.”

George chimed in with a smirk. “I give it two days before you soft launch on Instagram.”

You raised your hands dramatically. “There will be no launch. There will be no soft. There will be no nothing.”

And then, of course, Lewis walked by, hands in his pockets, sunglasses hiding his smirk.

“There’s a lot of something,” he said smoothly, not even breaking stride.

You and Charles looked at each other. And for once? Neither of you denied it.

You’re back in Charles’s motorhome, curled up with your feet in his lap. Your hair’s damp from a shower. He’s wearing your favorite grey hoodie, the one he tried to steal in Monaco.

Charles runs a thumb over your ankle. “You okay with everyone knowing?”

You pause.

“I think I am,” you say. “It feels… safe. With them.”

His voice is quieter now. “And the rest of the world?”

You turn toward him. “Not yet.”

“I can wait,” he says. “As long as I get to keep this.”

You lean in, resting your forehead against his. “You’ve always had it.”

He kisses you.

Long. Deep. The kind of kiss that feels like a decision.

Friday – Practice

You arrive in the paddock separately.

But inside? You share a water bottle. He ties your wristband tighter when it’s too loose. You correct his helmet strap before FP1.

Carlos mutters: “Yeah, totally just friends.”

Saturday – Quali

You qualify P1. He’s P4. The paddock cheers for both of you, but it’s the way he looks at you after your final lap, like you hung the damn moon, that gives everything away.

Oscar, backstage: “They’re like… glowing.” Lando: “I hate how soft this is.” George: “I think I cried a little.”

Sunday – Race Day

He doesn’t win. You don’t either.

P2: You. P5: Charles.

But you finish, hand brushing his when you walk back to the garage, smiles lingering on your faces like the secret is still just yours.

That night, the grid goes out for dinner.

Lando raises a glass to “the worst-kept secret in the paddock.”

Lewis adds, “Protect it. Don’t let the noise ruin the real.”

And for the first time, you’re not scared.

Not of being seen. Not of being known.

Because the people who matter?

They already see you.

And they still chose to sit at your table.

-----

Mexico

Thursday – Media Pen

The air in Mexico City is thin. Not metaphorically, literally. High altitude. Short breath. Long days.

You’re used to pushing your limits, but this weekend? You feel every step.

Not because of the track.

Because of everything else.

The points gap is shrinking. The world is watching. The cameras are close. Too close. And you’re trying to pretend that your heart doesn’t skip every time Charles brushes your hand in the garage.

You answer the usual questions.

“Yes, the car feels good.”

“Yes, we’re confident going into quali.”

“No, there’s no extra pressure.”

You lie cleanly. Casually. Rehearsed.

But when someone asks, “You and Charles seem closer than ever. Has that helped the team dynamic?”

Your smile slips for half a second.

Then you recover. “We’ve always had chemistry,” you say. “Even when it wasn’t easy.”

Charles, in the pen next to you, glances over.

And smiles.

Friday – Practice Sessions

You’re fast.

He’s faster.

Not by much. Just enough to make it a game.

Every lap you close the gap, he finds another tenth. Every time he outbrakes you into Turn 4, you take it back in Sector 3.

It’s fun. It’s flirty. It’s frustratingly addictive.

And it’s starting to look a lot like foreplay.

Carlos says nothing. But he’s watching.

Friday Night – Private Dinner

It’s not a date. It can’t be. Not here.

But the restaurant is quiet. The table in the corner is yours. And when Charles reaches for your hand across the table halfway through your pasta…

You let him hold it.

No one’s looking.

Or so you think.

Until your waiter comes by with the dessert menu and smiles too knowingly.

Charles just shrugs. “We’ll take two spoons.”

You’re lying in bed, side by side, your legs tangled under the sheets and your fingers playing with the edge of his T-shirt.

He’s staring at the ceiling.

“I want you to win it,” you says quietly.

He turn to face you. “What?”

“The championship,” you says again. “If it’s between us… I want you to have it.”

His heart lurches.

“Don’t say that,” he whisper.

You look at him, eyes soft but serious. “You deserve it.”

“You do too.”

He kisses your forehead. “Not this year.”

You press your face into his chest and enjoy the silence.

Because the truth?

You’re not sure what it would feel like to win without him beside you.

Saturday – Quali

You go P2. He goes P1.

He beats you by two-hundredths of a second.

You watch his pole celebration from the garage, pretending to smile, even though your chest aches a little.

Later, he finds you sitting alone in the data room, sipping water and reviewing lap deltas.

“You’re pissed,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

You look up. “You beat me.”

He steps closer. “By less than a blink.”

You nod slowly. “Still counts.”

He crouches in front of you, hands resting on your knees. “You’re still the better driver.”

You meet his eyes. “Not today.”

He lifts one hand and tucks your hair behind your ear.

“I don’t care what the numbers say,” he whispers. “I know who I’d put everything on.”

Your heart breaks a little. And heals all at once.

Sunday – Race Day

The race is chaotic.

Tyre degradation. Double yellows. A late safety car.

But in the end, you finish P1.

Charles, P3.

It’s the second-to-last race of the season.

You’re leading the WDC.

By five points.

Podium Room

You sit beside him, both of you drenched in champagne and sweat. He hands you a towel.

You wipe your face.

You lean into his side.

And when you think no one’s looking, he whisper:

“I don’t want to win without you.”

And you says,

“You won’t.”

--------

Las Vegas GP

Thursday – Welcome Night

Vegas is chaos disguised as celebration. A glittering distraction. A neon fever dream. And somehow, this city, loud and cracked at the seams, feels quieter than the storm building inside you.

You and Charles are tied. On points. On momentum. On the line between love and legacy.

And there are only two races left.

“Is this the airport or a catwalk?” Carmen mutters, squinting at the camera crew waiting outside.

You smirk. “Both. Welcome to Vegas.”

You’re flanked by Lily and Carmen, weaving your way through a sea of suitcases and fluorescent fan signs when you finally spot him. Charles, exiting a sleek black car like he’s in a Bond film. Hair perfectly tousled. Aviators too expensive. Strut annoyingly effective.

“You’re late,” you say as he falls in step beside you.

He doesn’t look at you, but his voice is warm. “You’re glowing.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

Still no glance. “Still worked.”

Thursday Night – Dinner at the Bellagio

The private dining room is perched on the 43rd floor, all glass and skyline. Your families are already seated when you arrive.

Your mom waves you over, cheeks flushed. “You missed the toast! Charles’s mom already tried to sneak in a wedding joke.”

“I did no such thing,” Pascale says, fake-offended. “I simply said you two make a perfect pair. That’s not a proposal.”

Charles slides a hand to the small of your back. “Please don’t encourage her.”

Your dad raises his wine. “You’ve got all of us here in Vegas. You sure you’re not eloping tomorrow?”

You laugh, cheeks hot. “We’re just racing, remember?”

Charles glances sideways. “Are we?”

You shoot him a look. He smiles like it’s nothing.

But your mom and his mom catch it.

And they say nothing.

But they see everything.

You’re wrapped in a blanket, Charles beside you, drinks in hand. The city is a blur of movement below.

“Abu Dhabi’s in two week,” you murmur.

“Don’t remind me,” he sighs.

You look at him. “Are we ready for that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts slightly, voice quiet. “My mom asked me tonight if I would be okay if you won.”

You freeze. “What did you say?”

He exhales. “I said yes. Because I would be.”

You blink, throat tight. “That’s a lie.”

“No,” he says softly. “It would hurt. But not like losing you would.”

Silence hangs between you.

“I love you,” you whisper. “More than I want to win.”

He leans in. Foreheads touching. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

Friday – WAG Suite, a.k.a The Real Paddock Power

You’re curled up on the couch of Lily’s suite with Carmen, Kika, and a few others, feet tucked under you, champagne in hand.

Lily passes you a snack. “So. Still pretending you’re single?”

You smirk. “I’m not pretending. I’m… filtering.”

Kika raises an eyebrow. “You told the media your ‘ideal weekend’ was pizza and a movie alone. Meanwhile, Charles posted a story of someone’s knee in his lap.”

You cough. “Could be anyone’s knee.”

“Sure,” Carmen drawls. “And my boyfriend never overshoots turn one.”

They all laugh.

Kika leans closer, smirking. “So what’s next? Secret marriage in Monaco?”

You roll your eyes. “No weddings. No announcements. Just us.”

“And the entire grid already knowing,” Lily grins.

You hide your face behind a pillow.

“God,” you groan. “I hate how obvious we are.”

“Sweetheart,” Carmen says gently, “you’re not obvious. You’re in love.”

Meanwhile

“You think they’ll make it through Abu Dhabi?” your dad asks, sipping from a lowball glass.

Arthur shrugs, glancing toward the table where you and Charles are laughing. “Depends who finishes ahead.”

“I don’t care who wins,” Lorenzo adds, more serious. “I just want them to get through it intact.”

“They’ve got fire. That’s the good news,” your dad says.

Arthur smirks. “And the bad news?”

“They’ve got fire.”

They all laugh.

A beat passes. Then your dad murmurs, “She really loves him, you know.”

Lorenzo nods. “He loves her too. He just… overthinks.”

Arthur leans back. “Then he better not mess it up this time.”

Friday Night

Charles runs his fingers down your arm. “I used to be scared of you.”

You look up from your pillow. “Me?”

“You were everything I didn’t know I needed.”

You smile. “And now?”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Now I’d rather lose to you than never feel this again.”

Saturday

Charles goes P1. You go P2. The front row is Ferrari red.

The moment you step off the track, you hear the cheer.

And then you feel it, his fingers brushing yours.

No one’s watching. You’re sure of it.

So you kiss him.

Just once. Soft. Quick.

Enough to feel real.

Sunday

The race is chaos. One red flag. Two safety cars. You nearly clip a barrier. Charles blocks Max like his life depends on it.

P2: You P3: Charles

But it’s not the podium that everyone talks about.

It’s you, gripping Charles’s face post-race in the cool-down room, whispering something that makes him laugh, truly laugh, for the first time all weekend.

No cameras catch it.

But the paddock knows.

Later that night, you’re sitting side by side on an overturned crate, suits still half-zipped, sharing a water bottle.

“We’re tied,” you say.

He nods. “I know.”

“Two races left.”

Another nod. “I know.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Are you scared?”

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then: “No. Because whatever happens, you’ll still be mine.”

You smile.

“You really believe that?”

“I know it.”

--------

Abu Dhabi

The desert is unforgiving.

It bleeds heat into your bones and tension into your chest.

Abu Dhabi has always been the jewel of the calendar, but this year, it isn’t a finale, it’s an execution. One race. One track. One title.

And two hearts on the line.

You and Charles.

Tied.

It couldn’t be scripted better. The season that started in ruins, heartbreak stitched under red Ferrari race suits, has come down to this: one last lap.

And no one, not the media, not the paddock, not the fans, knows what’s about to happen.

Not just on track.

But off it too.

Wednesday

The jet lands just past midnight, the tarmac shimmering from heat despite the late hour.

You step down with sunglasses already in place, because even if the sun isn’t up yet, the world is watching.

Charles descends behind you. For the first time in months, there’s no strategic delay, no quiet choreography to avoid suspicion. You walk side by side.

“You think anyone knows?” you whisper as you pass the cameras.

“I think everyone knows,” he says.

“Think anyone will ask?”

He glances sideways. “They won’t have to. Not after Sunday.”

Thursday

The paddock is buzzing. Cameras, journalists, influencers, all swarming like bees around a championship honeypot.

You’re seated beside Charles in the press conference. Ferrari PR didn’t even bother pretending this year.

Every question is barbed.

Every smile is rehearsed.

“Charles, you’ve never won a world title. Y/N’s leading on wins. Does that add pressure?”

“No,” he answers smoothly. “It adds fuel.”

“Y/N, can you separate your feelings for Charles from the race itself?”

You smile. “I’ve done it for twenty-two races. One more shouldn’t be hard.”

Charles snorts beside you.

You elbow him beneath the table.

The journalists catch the moment. And you know that picture will be everywhere before the end of the hour.

Ferrari has rented you both a secluded villa for focus and privacy.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, chopping vegetables with more aggression than needed.

Charles leans against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re going to lose a finger.”

“I’m going to lose my mind,” you mutter.

He walks over, gently taking the knife. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

You meet his eyes. “Don’t I?”

He tilts your chin. “No. Just fast.”

You laugh, a shaky, exhausted sound. “What if we crash? What if I ruin everything?”

Charles doesn’t flinch. “Then we rebuild. Like we always do.”

Friday

FP1: You top the charts. Charles trails by three-tenths.

FP2: He fights back. Finishes P1 by a margin so slim it takes the stewards five minutes to confirm it.

The garage is electric. The engineers speak faster. The fans chant louder.

But it’s the look Charles gives you across the paddock; calm, focused, and tender that leaves you breathless.

It’s not rivalry anymore.

It’s reverence.

Saturday

The paddock is silent before Q3.

You sit in your car, hands on the wheel, Charles beside you in the next garage.

Through the comms, your engineer whispers, "You’ve got this."

You breathe in. Exhale. The lights flash green.

And you fly.

You set a blistering lap.

And then Charles goes one better.

The front row is red again, him on pole. You beside him.

It’s poetry. Tragic, beautiful poetry.

You’re both in race suits still, sitting on the balcony floor with takeout containers between you.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He nods. “Me too.”

“But not of the race,” you clarify. “Of what comes after.”

Charles reaches for your hand. “Whatever happens tomorrow win, lose, crash, podium, I’m with you.”

Tears sting your eyes. “Even if I beat you?”

He smiles. “Especially then.”

You lean in. Forehead to forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

Sunday

The sun rises slow and unforgiving.

The grid is chaos. Drones. Celebrities. National anthems. Your heartbeat in your ears.

You don’t speak much. There’s nothing left to say.

Formation lap. Lights out.

And then: war.

You trade positions. He cuts you off in Turn 3. You slipstream past him in Lap 11. A safety car resets everything on Lap 29.

You pit first. He stays out. Then he pits. You regain the lead.

Then:

Lap 53 of 55.

Charles is behind you by four-tenths. DRS is open.

The fans are on their feet.

You hear his voice in your head: Whatever happens...I’m with you.

You defend into Turn 9. He tries to dive into Turn 11.

And on the final lap, he’s right there.

You don’t blink.

You don’t flinch.

You cross the line.

P1: Y/N Y/L/N – World Champion

The car stops. You scream into the radio. The team erupts.

You jump out. Charles is already there, helmet off.

And in front of the entire world, he wraps his arms around you.

Lifts you off the ground.

Kisses you.

A full, real, soul-shattering kiss.

The world gasps.

And you don’t care.

Because love was never supposed to survive Formula 1.

But yours did.

“Y/N, how does it feel?”

You laugh through tears. “Heavy. Fast. Beautiful.”

“Charles, you’ve been chasing this for years. How are you feeling?”

He smiles. “Like the right person won.”

“And… the kiss?”

You look at him. He shrugs.

You answer: “That was magic.”

Epilogue

You’re in Monaco. The season’s over. The sun is gentle again.

There’s a scrapbook on the coffee table.

Inside it: a photo of two Ferrari drivers kissing in Abu Dhabi.

And a note Charles left in the front pocket:

We didn’t just finish the race. We started everything.

He finds you in the kitchen, stirring tea with one hand, flipping through a magazine with the other.

“You know,” he says softly, wrapping his arms around your waist, “you’re still the fastest person I know.”

You smirk. “Faster than you?”

“Always.”

The laughter is easy now.

There are moments of stillness, sunsets over the harbor, dinner with family, Charles asleep with his head on your lap while you watch replays of the season.

One night, you’re on the balcony, wine glasses in hand, watching the city sparkle.

“I used to be scared this wouldn’t last,” you whisper.

Charles turns to you. “And now?”

“Now I want forever.”

He pulls something from his hoodie pocket. A small, velvet box.

“I was going to wait until the gala next month,” he murmurs. “But maybe now’s better.”

You freeze.

The box stays closed. His thumb brushes over it like a promise not yet spoken.

“No pressure,” he says. “Just... someday?”

You nod, throat tight. “Someday.”

He kisses your knuckles. “One last lap, huh?”

You smile. “No. The first of many.”