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pucksandpower · 12 days ago

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The Softest Place to Land

Charles Leclerc x endometriosis awareness influencer!Reader

Summary: in which you learn what it means for someone to love you not in spite of the pain, but through it

Warnings: chronic illness and debilitating pain

You’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten how to blink.

The heat is cloying, the air thick with perfume, champagne, and burnt rubber. Every breath tastes like exhaustion and anxiety. You haven't eaten since Dallas, haven't slept since Heathrow, and your body is starting to riot.

A camera flashes.

“Oh my god! You’re Y/N Y/L/N, right? The one with the book — what’s it called — Unpretty Pain? Can we get a selfie?”

You force a smile. “Sure.”

You barely register the phone being shoved in your face. The handler — Ashley? Amanda? Something with an A — is already yanking you gently toward the next stop, high heels clicking like a metronome of stress.

“This way, Y/N,” she chirps. “VIP area, Paddock Club. We’ve got you slotted in for a little media time before Charles arrives.”

Your stomach clenches, hard. Not the nerves kind. The pain kind.

You suck in a quiet breath through your teeth, wrap your arm tighter around your midsection, and pretend it’s just a posture thing. Posture, not survival.

Amanda-Ashley glances back. “Everything okay?”

You nod. Smile. “Yeah, just … jet lag. Sensory overload.”

She beams like that’s a cute aesthetic. “So real of you! The rawness is your brand, right?”

You want to scream. Instead, “Yeah.”

Another flash goes off. A man with a microphone asks something about motorsport and advocacy. You don't really catch it — your ears have started ringing. You're not sure if it’s the crowd, the heat, or your ovaries trying to kill you.

You answer something generic. Something charming. You have no idea what.

Pain is clawing up your back now, sharp and wrong, radiating down your thighs like a fire that won’t stop burning. The nausea blooms next. You swallow it down hard, feel bile rise anyway. Sweat beads at your brow.

You’re going to be sick. Or scream. Or cry. You’ve done all three before.

You scan for an exit, for a corner, for a goddamn breath of air.

And then you hear the name float above the din: “Charles is here!”

More camera shutters. Cheers. People move. You feel the shift like a wave, bodies rearranging themselves in perfect choreography for a man who hasn't even stepped into the circle yet.

Your handler’s already turned to greet him.

And that’s when it happens. The world tilts.

You sway forward like someone cut the strings holding you up. One high heel twists beneath you. Your knees buckle. The pain hits white-hot, like an electric shock in your pelvis.

You gasp — a real one this time, ugly and strangled and loud — and then someone catches you just before you hit the ground.

“What the hell?” A voice says, accented, low. “Careful, merde-”

You can’t see. You can’t think. You’re shaking now, trying to curl inward, trying to breathe through a body that feels like it’s turning on itself.

You know that voice though. Or rather, you know who it belongs to.

Charles Leclerc.

Of course.

He smells like cologne and sunlight, and he’s crouched beside you now, palm steady on your shoulder. Cameras flash faster. Someone’s filming. You want to disappear.

“Are you okay?” He asks, eyes scanning yours like he’s trying to diagnose something he’s never seen before.

You can’t answer. Your body’s not working.

Your breath’s coming in short, fast bursts. Your vision’s gone patchy. Your jaw is clenched so hard you think your teeth might crack.

“Can we get some help?” Charles calls over his shoulder, panic sliding into his voice now.

Amanda-Ashley is beside you too, kneeling awkwardly, whispering, “Y/N? What’s wrong? Is it — should we call an ambulance?”

You shake your head. Barely. You hate ambulances. They always treat you like you’re dramatic, drug-seeking, wasting resources. Like you don’t already live here, in this pain.

“No hospital,” you rasp. “It’s just … a flare.”

“A flare?” Charles repeats, brow furrowed. “Of what? Is it your heart or something?”

“It’s endometriosis,” Amanda-Ashley blurts. “She talks about it. It’s her thing.”

You could kiss her and strangle her in the same breath.

Charles doesn’t get it. You can see it all over his face — the confusion, the quick judgments forming in the silence between words.

“Oh.”

That’s all he says.

Just oh.

And something about that single syllable cuts deeper than the pain.

You try to push up on your elbows, try to salvage some dignity, but your body won’t move. The cramps are twisting deeper now, pressing against organs, nerves, your entire identity.

Charles catches your arm. “Hey, don’t. Maybe wait. You don’t look good.”

You laugh. It sounds like a sob. “I don’t feel good.”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something — maybe a joke, maybe an apology — but you don’t hear it.

Because the lights go out. Everything goes black.

***

The fluorescent lights above you hum with the quiet cruelty of hospitals. It’s cold — too cold — and the paper sheet under your thighs crinkles every time you shift. Which isn’t often, because even now, with meds in your system and a flat cot beneath your back, the ache is everywhere. Bone-deep. Dull and sharp all at once, like someone knifed you from the inside out and left the blade in for good measure.

You blink slowly.

Your mouth is dry. Your brain feels scrambled. The room smells like antiseptic and expensive perfume, and somewhere outside the half-closed curtain, someone’s laughing too loudly.

"Hey," a soft voice says. Not Charles. Female. Too chipper. Amanda-Ashley.

You turn your head.

She’s holding your phone, your tiny crossbody bag tucked under one arm, talking fast into her AirPods and typing on her iPad with the other hand.

"Y/N’s up," she mutters to someone on the line, before smiling down at you. "Hi, sleeping beauty. You scared the crap out of everyone.”

You try to say something — apologize, maybe, or joke — but all that comes out is a weak croak.

She leans in, lowering her voice. “Don't talk yet, babe. They gave you something — IV fluids, pain relief, something to calm the spasming or whatever. You looked bad. Like, sweat-dripping, seizure-adjacent bad. Everyone thought it was a heart attack.”

You close your eyes again.

“I told them it was endo,” she adds, quieter now, glancing around like the diagnosis is something sacred. “Anyway, we pushed your influencer lunch to tomorrow. And the team’s fine, the PR girl from Aston Martin said you were a champ just for showing up.”

You grimace.

“Do you want me to text anyone?” She asks.

You shake your head, but she’s already looking at your phone screen. “Oof. Your DMs are blowing up. Someone posted a video of you collapsing, it’s got, like, eighty-thousand views already. And — oh. Charles Leclerc asked about you.”

You look up sharply.

“He’s outside,” she says, like she’s reporting weather. “But I told him you needed rest. Plus, I don’t really think he gets it, you know? He looked kind of … weird about it.”

Of course he did.

That’s how it always goes. The minute people see the messy part — the real part — they start doing math in their heads. Calculating how much of you is still valuable.

You nod faintly. Amanda-Ashley smiles, pats your shoulder like you’re a puppy, and heads for the curtain.

“I’ll give you some space,” she says. “But we’ve got to get you back to the hotel in an hour, so, like, if you could … not pass out again, that’d be awesome.”

The curtain swishes shut behind her.

You’re alone again. And you ache. Inside and out.

So, you do what you always do: you reach for your phone. It takes a second — your fingers are trembling — but you open the Notes app and type.

Today, my body said no. Loudly. Publicly. Painfully.

I said yes anyway. Like I always do.

This is what endometriosis looks like. It’s not always soft lighting and grainy filters and curated vulnerability. Sometimes it’s vomiting in a paddock toilet and waking up under hospital lights.

Sometimes it’s showing up, even when you probably shouldn’t. Because people like us always feel like we have to.

Be gentle with yourself, if you’re reading this.

And if today, your body says no — listen.

Please, please listen.

You attach a photo — not one of the glossy professional shots from earlier, but the raw one Amanda-Ashley took just before everything went south. You’re pale, eyes half-lidded, slumped in a chair with your head leaning on your hand. A rare candid.

You hit post and set the phone face-down.

You don’t need to see the storm coming.

***

Meanwhile, Charles is pacing.

His manager already left. His handler shrugged. Amanda-Ashley told him — twice now — that she’s resting and that the “incident” wasn’t his problem. But that doesn’t sit right with him. None of it does.

He scrolls again. He’s sitting on a hard bench just outside the medical center, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, jaw clenched. The internet is a fast place. And it’s flooded with clips.

He watches one again. A shaky iPhone video: you collapse. The gasp, the stumble, the way your face goes completely slack in his arms. He lowers you gently, eyes wide, confused, like someone tossed him a bomb and told him to disarm it with his hands tied. He winces watching it back.

And then — curious, ashamed, weirdly compelled — he types your name into Instagram.

There you are. Verified. 2.1 million followers.

Profile bio: Author. Endometriosis warrior. Chronic pain is political.

He clicks on your stories. You’ve posted since collapsing.

“What the-” he whispers.

He reads it all. Then reads it again. And something in his chest shifts.

He scrolls your feed. He sees you in hospital gowns, in sweatpants on heating pads, in selfies with dark circles and IV lines. He sees book excerpts, gut-wrenching captions, threads about pelvic floor therapy and misdiagnoses and medical gaslighting. There’s nothing glamorous about it and yet you’ve made it … powerful. Honest. Loud.

And shit, he misjudged you.

He sees it clearly now: the moment you crumpled, he assumed weakness. Drama. He assumed it was some influencer thing, some stunt, some sensitivity. He’d seen too many types like that.

But this? This is something else.

He taps to your latest post again. Reads that last line. Listen.

His thumb hovers over the message button. He doesn’t know what he wants to say yet, but he knows he needs to say something.

***

Back in the medical center, your phone vibrates. And keeps vibrating.

You groan and flip it over. The post has hit 120k likes in less than an hour. The comments are flooded: women tagging each other, people sharing their own stories, thanking you, crying with you.

And then there’s the message.

From him.

Charles Leclerc

Hey. I just saw your post. I’m really sorry about what happened. And I’m even more sorry for how I looked at you.

I didn’t understand. That’s on me.

I’d really like to talk sometime, if you’d be okay with that.

You stare at it. You read it again. You don’t answer.

Not yet.

Amanda-Ashley pokes her head in twenty minutes later. “Ready to roll, warrior queen?”

You manage a smile. Barely. “Yeah.”

You don’t mention the message. But your heart’s still pounding.

***

Charles doesn’t hear back.

Not that night, not the next morning. He’s never cared this much about being left on “seen,” but now, every hour that passes makes him more anxious.

He tells himself it's guilt.

But it’s not just guilt. Because the more he reads, the more he scrolls, the more he finds himself wanting to know you. Not just the girl who collapsed. But the writer. The voice. The person who turned agony into advocacy and didn’t flinch when it got ugly.

He’s not used to that. Most people edit their truth into something shinier. But you? You bled all over the page.

And suddenly, that day in the paddock doesn’t feel like a PR event anymore. It feels like a beginning.

***

You almost don’t answer the knock.

The pain’s still crawling low in your belly like something sharp and angry is nesting there, and your body feels like it’s been dragged through gravel. You’re wearing an oversized hoodie, pajama shorts, and the heating pad’s wrapped tight against your abdomen like a second skin.

You’re in no mood for conversation. Or company. Or sympathy.

Another knock. Softer this time.

You freeze halfway between the couch and the bathroom, heart stumbling. Amanda-Ashley’s already out at dinner, and you’re not expecting room service.

Then comes the voice. Low. Familiar. Nervous.

“Hey … it’s Charles.”

You stare at the door. Then at your reflection in the mirror by the entryway. You look like exactly what you are: a woman who passed out in front of half the F1 paddock and woke up in a puddle of her own sweat and shame.

You don’t move.

“I just …” His voice trails off, muffled through the door. “I brought something. If you’re up for … I don’t know. Talking?”

You consider pretending you’re asleep. Ignoring it. Letting this all blow over like some viral moment everyone will forget about in two news cycles.

But then he says it. The sentence you weren’t expecting.

“Not to say ‘get well soon.’ I know it’s not that simple. I just wanted to ask how you are. Today.”

Your hand’s on the doorknob before your brain agrees.

You crack the door. He’s standing there in a hoodie and jeans, sunglasses perched in his hair, holding a clumsy bouquet of wildflowers that look like he picked them from three different gas stations. A few are bent. One is definitely a weed.

It’s kind of perfect.

“I know it’s weird,” he says quickly. “Me being here. I just — wanted to say I’m sorry. Not just for what happened. But for not understanding it.”

You open the door a little wider.

He blinks. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate. Every instinct screams no. You’re not camera-ready. You’re not cute. You’re cramping so hard your vision’s gone fuzzy twice this hour.

But he’s looking at you like he means it. Like he actually wants to know.

So you step aside. “Sure. But only because I don’t want to carry those flowers myself.”

He laughs, relieved, and follows you in.

You motion vaguely toward the balcony. “It’s a disaster in here. Sorry. And I’m not really … in host mode.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “I’m not in driver mode.”

You don’t bother offering him a drink. He doesn’t ask.

You settle into the cushioned chair outside, legs curled under you, heating pad still plugged in and snaked around your waist. He sits in the one opposite, placing the flowers awkwardly on the little metal table between you.

For a minute, you just sit there. The hum of the city rises from below — honking cars, distant laughter, music from a rooftop bar somewhere.

“You didn’t have to come,” you say finally.

“I know.”

“I don’t usually let people see me like that.”

“I don’t think you had a choice.”

You give him a look. He winces. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

“It’s fine,” you say, even though it’s not. Not really. “I’m just … not used to people checking in after. Most either disappear or ask if I’m pregnant.”

He nods slowly, watching you. “I Googled endometriosis last night.”

You raise a brow. “Let me guess — terrifying and vague?”

“Very,” he says. “Also, half the articles were useless.”

“Welcome to my world.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I saw your post. And then a bunch more. You write about it like it’s a war.”

“It is,” you say. “But the enemy lives inside you. And no one believes you’re really in danger.”

He nods again. Quiet. Absorbing.

You don’t usually talk like this with strangers. Or men. Or drivers with chiseled cheekbones and Monaco apartments. But somehow, the conversation feels like it’s already in motion, like you’re just catching up to it.

“What was it like?” He asks, voice low. “The moment it hit.”

You exhale slowly.

“Like my pelvis caught fire. Like someone dropped a rock in my stomach and started twisting it. You get tunnel vision. Your skin goes cold. You want to crawl out of your body.”

He flinches, and you wonder if he’s picturing it — you, not just the concept.

“I’ve raced with migraines before,” he says. “With bruised ribs. Even food poisoning once. But that …”

He trails off.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s not the kind of pain you can compartmentalize. It’s primal. It takes over everything.”

Silence stretches between you. Not awkward, exactly, more like … heavy.

Then he says, “You must feel like you’re fighting your body all the time.”

You look at him, surprised. That’s the first time someone’s put it quite like that.

“Yeah,” you admit. “It’s exhausting. Some days I wake up already apologizing to myself.”

He leans back, thoughtful. “I get that. In a different way, maybe. But I get it.”

You tilt your head. “How?”

He shrugs. “I have to be perfect. Every second. On track, off track. Smile for the camera. Be gracious in defeat. Be hungry in victory. And if I crash or choke or finish P6 instead of P1, it’s like I failed the world.”

You study him. There’s a crack in the usual polished exterior now. A realness in his posture, his eyes.

“You ever wish you could just … not?”

“Every race weekend.”

You laugh softly, even though it hurts. “Guess we both live in bodies we can’t escape.”

He nods, and then, cautiously: “Do you ever feel … ashamed?”

The word stings.

You swallow. “More than I want to admit. Even though I know I shouldn’t. Even though I teach people not to be.”

He nods again, staring out over the balcony rail. “Same.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then you add, “But I also feel proud. Some days. Like when I post something honest, and someone messages me like, ‘Hey, that thing you said? That saved me today.’ Or when I just make it through a brutal morning without crying. Or when I show up, even if I collapse afterward.”

“I think that’s brave,” he says.

You glance at him. He means it. It’s not some sponsor-polished compliment. It’s raw. Earnest.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

He offers a shy smile. “You’re different from what I thought.”

“Oh?”

“At first I thought you were just … one of those influencers.”

You laugh. “What does that even mean?”

“You know. Selfies. Sponsorships. Hashtags. Filters.”

You raise a brow. “I do post selfies.”

He smirks. “Yeah, but yours come with medical terminology.”

You grin despite yourself. “Fair.”

He sobers a little. “I didn’t realize how much strength it takes. To live like that. And then to talk about it, too.”

“It’s the talking that saves me,” you admit. “If I keep it all inside, it festers. Turns into shame. Talking makes it real. And survivable.”

He nods slowly. “I get that. When I lose a race, I have to talk about it. Press conferences, interviews. It sucks, but it helps. Makes the failure feel less … permanent.”

You’re quiet for a beat. “You’re better at this than I expected.”

He laughs. “At what?”

“Listening. Being … here.”

He shrugs, but he looks a little pleased. “I was raised right.”

You stretch your legs a bit, wincing as the cramps spike. He watches, concerned, but doesn’t ask if you’re okay again. You appreciate that.

“So what now?” You ask.

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve apologized. You’ve seen the raw, unfiltered mess. You’ve done your good deed.”

“I wasn’t trying to do a good deed.”

You cock a brow.

“I mean it,” he says. “I didn’t come to fix anything. I came because I wanted to know you better.”

You blink.

No one ever says that part out loud.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I know we’re not exactly … in the same world. But I’d really like to be friends. Or more, maybe. If you ever want to.”

You sit with that. Let it settle. It doesn’t feel rushed. It doesn’t feel performative. It feels honest.

“Let’s start with friends,” you say carefully. “And see if you survive a flare day without running for the hills.”

He grins. “Deal.”

You look out over the Austin skyline, the horizon glowing soft and orange. The pain hasn’t gone away. But it’s quieter now. Not because it’s better, because you feel seen.

You didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect him.

And maybe you’re still not sure where this goes. But for now, you’re not alone.

***

You make them write it down. That’s the only way you agree to return to the paddock.

Amanda-Ashley looks half impressed, half stressed as you dictate your boundaries while wearing compression socks, a pain patch, and your “Not Faking, Just Fighting” hoodie. Her phone is already in her hand, thumbs flying as she relays the terms to PR.

“No more than two hours total,” you say, pulling your hair into a loose braid. “And I need at least one break in a quiet space with somewhere I can sit or lie down, not just some folding chair in a supply closet.”

“Got it,” Amanda-Ashley mutters. “Adding that.”

“I’m not doing another full sweep of the paddock, either. No media gauntlet. No photos unless I agree on the spot. And no surprise driver drop-ins.”

At that, Amanda-Ashley grins. “Except Charles?”

You glare. “Not a word about Charles.”

She makes a zipping motion across her lips. “Copy that, boss.”

You take a slow breath and stare at your reflection in the mirror above the desk. You look … decent. A little pale, a little puffy around the eyes, but presentable. You’ve done this before — pushed through for panels, talks, book launches. Today isn’t special. And yet it feels like walking back into the fire.

But this time, you’re bringing a fire extinguisher.

By the time you arrive at the paddock, there’s a chair waiting for you in the shade outside the hospitality suite. A real one, cushioned, with a branded blanket folded on the back. One of the Ferrari staff nods and gestures wordlessly toward a side entrance to the building — quieter, less chaotic.

Amanda-Ashley raises her brows at you. “You’re officially terrifying.”

“Good,” you mutter.

You hold your head high walking in. Smile when you need to. Laugh when someone compliments your latest post. Shake hands with sponsors and politely ignore the second glances you know are about that video. There’s a trace of pity in some people’s eyes, but mostly, there’s respect.

Not because you’re perfect. Because you’re still here.

Charles spots you through the glass before you see him. He’s leaning against a high table with a paper cup in hand, chatting with one of the mechanics, but the moment his gaze lands on you, his whole posture shifts.

He makes his way over slowly, giving you space to breathe, to notice him, to signal whether you’re up for it.

You are. You nod once, and he’s beside you in seconds.

“Hey,” he says, quiet but warm. “You look better today.”

“Relative term,” you reply, gesturing to your heat patch and the rescue meds in your crossbody bag. “I’m functioning. That’s my metric.”

“Then you’re doing great.”

You look around. “This place is a circus.”

“I know,” he says. “You want out for a bit?”

You glance at Amanda-Ashley. She gives you a subtle thumbs-up.

You nod to Charles. “Lead the way.”

***

He takes you not to a secret driver hideout or some sleek sponsor lounge, but a quiet corner inside Ferrari hospitality, tucked near a catering station with a few couches and, blessedly, a low hum of silence. Someone offers you a hot drink.

“I always go for the hot chocolate,” Charles says, handing you a cup. “It’s not very adult, but it’s perfect.”

You take a sip. It’s rich, not too sweet, just the right kind of warm. “Okay, this is elite.”

“Told you.”

You sink into the couch, shifting the heating pad a little under your hoodie. Charles sits beside you, not too close, his knee brushing yours only when he crosses his legs.

“I watched you earlier,” he says. “Not in a creepy way.”

You smirk. “Sure.”

He grins. “I meant when you were negotiating everything. The chair, the breaks, the schedule. You were very …”

“Bitchy?” You offer.

“Precise,” he says, sincere. “Clear. Like a surgeon.”

You shrug. “I’ve had to be. If I don’t speak up, my body pays the price.”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Do you ever get tired of fighting for it?”

You meet his eyes. There’s a tiredness behind the green that only someone who's lived in pain can recognize.

“All the time,” you admit. “Today I almost didn’t come. I was scared I’d collapse again. Or that people would think I was doing it for attention. That I’d ruin something just by existing.”

“But you came anyway.”

You nod. “Because I don’t want to disappear. I’ve spent too much of my life letting pain make me small.”

He says nothing for a while. Then:

“I started your book.”

You blink. “You did?”

“Yeah. Last night. I couldn’t sleep. I read the first five chapters.”

“What did you think?”

He looks away, then back at you, almost sheepish. “I cried at chapter three.”

You pause, caught off guard.

“That one was hard,” you say quietly. “The one about the first time I passed out in a grocery store.”

He nods. “And the way the paramedic asked if you were dramatic by nature.”

You let out a dry laugh. “He actually said that.”

“Idiots,” Charles mutters.

You glance over at him. “Most people don’t get it. They think it’s all in your head if they can’t see it. Or that it’s not bad enough to matter.”

“I used to be one of those people,” he says softly.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

He takes a sip of his hot chocolate. “I used to think strength was about pushing through everything. No excuses. No softness. But you …” he trails off. “You’re teaching me something else.”

You let his words settle. Then, because it’s too much, you change the subject.

“You know they sell your face on water bottles, right?”

He groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“There’s a seven-year-old outside with a Charles Leclerc flag bigger than her body.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s in love with you.”

He gives you a bashful smile, and you don’t look away this time.

“You’re very charming,” you say.

He shrugs. “Only with the right people.”

The moment hangs there. Not romantic yet. Not dramatic. But charged with something new — respect, maybe. Mutual understanding. An unexpected calm.

“You okay to stay a little longer?” He asks gently.

You nod. “Yeah. With you, it’s easy.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he smiles. And you both keep sipping hot chocolate, like the whole world isn’t watching.

***

"Come watch qualifying from the garage,” Charles says. “I'll make sure it’s not too loud. You can borrow my mother’s headset. It’s pink.”

He says it with a grin, leaning against the side of the hospitality suite’s espresso machine, arms crossed like it’s a casual suggestion and not something that’s making your pulse skitter.

You glance up from your cup of lukewarm tea, pulse thumping behind your temples, the beginnings of a hormonal migraine tiptoeing in. “The garage? Like, the garage?”

He nods. “Yes. You’d be with the engineers, not the press. Not the cameras. No standing. There’s a corner where I sometimes sit before race briefings. You’d be okay there.”

You shake your head before you can stop yourself.

“Too much?”

“I think so,” you say, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m not sure I can handle the noise, the lights, the pressure. I’d probably be a liability.”

Charles frowns. “You’re not a liability.”

You smile — small, polite, automatic. “Thanks. But I know my body.”

There’s a beat. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t do that thing people do — where they try to convince you you’re stronger than your symptoms.

He just nods once and says, “If you change your mind, let me know. You’ve got my number.”

You do. You haven’t used it. But it’s there in your phone, under Charles 🏎️, because you didn’t know how else to label him.

***

You last exactly twenty-five minutes after saying no.

Maybe it’s the way he said it. Gentle, not performative. Like he meant it and would’ve meant it whether you were anyone or no one.

Maybe it’s the way Amanda-Ashley looked at you when you hesitated at the hotel later. “You deserve good things too, you know.”

Or maybe it's the nagging, stupid part of you that hates missing out just because your body’s doing its internal arson routine again.

Whatever it is, you start prepping like it’s a survival mission. You pack your meds, three kinds of earplugs, sunglasses, a collapsible seat cushion, your heating pad battery pack, two protein bars, and an electrolyte stick.

You wear your softest bra and your loosest pants. You bring your pain scale chart, tucked deep in your phone case like a talisman.

By the time you get to the paddock, you’re exhausted … and qualifying hasn’t even started.

***

Charles meets you at the side entrance. His eyes light up when he sees you.

“You came.”

You offer a tight smile. “Still debating if it was a good idea.”

“You look like you’re carrying a first-aid kit and a parachute.”

“I am.”

He chuckles, but then he really looks at you — your face, your posture, the slight hunch to your shoulders — and the smile fades a little.

“You okay?”

“Ask me in twenty minutes.”

He doesn’t joke again. Just nods and offers you his hand. You don’t take it, but you follow him.

The garage is everything you feared.

Too many bodies. Too much motion. A dozen overlapping sounds that slice through your skull like glass — tools clanking, engines humming, the low roar of the crowd even through the barriers.

Even with earplugs in, it’s loud. Not just volume loud, sensation loud. Your body goes into defense mode almost instantly, muscles locking down, skin hypersensitive. The lights hit your face in stabbing pulses. The scent of burnt rubber and adrenaline coats the back of your throat.

You sit down. Try to breathe. Try to focus.

Charles checks in with a thumb-up. You force one back. But your body’s already revolting. You can feel the flare brewing deep and fast, like a storm gathering behind your ribs.

Fifteen minutes in, you’re already bent slightly forward. One hand on your abdomen, the other gripping the edge of the seat cushion.

You shouldn’t have come.

You stay for another ten minutes — long enough to see Charles leave for his first lap, long enough to hear his name crackle through the headsets and see the team erupt in movement. Then you quietly tell the nearest staff member that you need to leave.

***

You don’t message Charles.

You make it back to the hotel in a daze. Amanda-Ashley’s still at the track. You take off your shoes and press the heating pad to your belly before you even make it to the couch.

You cry a little. Not because it’s the worst pain you’ve felt — it’s not. But because you knew. You knew better. You said no. You overrode yourself because you wanted to be normal for once. And now you’re paying the price.

You don’t remember closing your eyes.

You don’t hear the knock at first. But then it’s there again. Gentle. Hesitant.

“Hey. It’s Charles.”

You groan. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Showing up.”

You don’t mean it cruelly. Just … helplessly.

There’s silence. Then, “Can I come in?”

You shuffle off the couch and limp to the door, pressing the heating pad to your abdomen with one hand.

You open it. He’s standing there in his red Ferrari tee and jeans, holding two paper bags. One smells like soup. The other smells like the hot chocolate from earlier.

“I didn’t know what you needed, so I brought options.”

You stare at him. “Is that real matzo ball soup?”

He blinks. “I think so? The lady at the deli said it was good for sick people.”

You step aside. “Come in.”

***

He doesn’t make a show of it. He just sets the soup down on the coffee table, kicks off his shoes, and sinks to the floor next to where you’ve flopped back onto the couch.

You’ve switched the heating pad setting to high and pulled your hoodie tight around your knees. The cramps are white-hot. Your skin’s gone clammy again.

Charles sits cross-legged, arms resting on his thighs, eyes steady on yours.

“I overdid it,” you say hoarsely.

“I know.”

“I hate that I always do this. I say no, then I say yes. I don’t listen to my own limits.”

“You wanted to be part of it.”

“I wanted to prove I could handle it.”

“You did handle it,” he says gently. “You knew when to leave.”

You snort. “Yeah. Right before I passed out again.”

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away.

“I’ve had races where I knew I shouldn’t have been in the car,” he says. “Where my gut told me to stop. And I didn’t. And it cost me.”

You glance at him. “What did it cost?”

“Points. Confidence. Sometimes … my peace.”

You swallow hard. “I feel like I’m constantly gambling with myself.”

“I think you’re brave.”

You shake your head. “Bravery would be knowing when to rest and actually doing it.”

He tilts his head. “Maybe. But maybe bravery is coming back, even after it hurts.”

You rest your cheek against the cushion. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because I want to,” he says. “Because I like you.”

You blink.

“I like you,” he repeats, quieter this time. “Even like this.”

You want to say something witty. You want to make a joke. But the pain crests again, and all that comes out is a breathless whimper.

He doesn’t freak out. He shifts closer — just enough that his knee brushes the side of the couch — and offers his hand.

You take it. Without thinking. Without guarding.

“Does the heating pad help?”

“A little,” you murmur.

“Do you want more tea? Or — wait, do you want me to stop talking?”

You smile faintly. “No. I like your voice. It distracts me.”

He grins. “Really? I always think I sound like a cartoon when I speak English.”

“You kind of do.”

“Rude.”

You chuckle, then wince.

“Okay, no laughing,” he says, eyes crinkling. “Got it.”

You close your eyes, still gripping his hand. The pressure helps. The warmth. The solidness of him on the floor beside you, like he’s anchoring you to something stable.

You don’t mean to drift. But somewhere between his voice and the heat, you feel yourself going soft around the edges.

“I started chapter six,” he says quietly. “The part where you describe your body like a haunted house.”

You hum. Barely awake now.

“It made me think about mine. How I’ve always seen it as a machine. Something to control.”

You shift a little, murmuring something unintelligible.

“I don’t know what it’s like to be at war with it,” he adds. “But I think you’re making me understand.”

Your breathing deepens.

He watches you for a moment longer. Watches your fingers go slack around his. He stays right where he is. On the floor. Next to you.

And when your breathing evens into sleep, he doesn’t leave. He just sits there, guarding your rest like it's something sacred.

***

Race day starts slow. You wake up to sunlight stretching across the hotel room like warm fingers, the echo of Charles’ voice still tangled in your dreams.

He’s gone. But the heating pad is tucked gently by your side, still warm. There’s a post-it on the nightstand in sharp, messy writing.

Sleep well, warrior. See you out there.

It makes your throat tighten.

You spend the morning pacing yourself. Stretching. Eating something soft. Checking and re-checking your emergency kit like it’s armor. You watch the driver parade from your room with the volume low, recognizing the exact moment Charles lifts his hand to wave — tight smile, eyes scanning the crowd. You don’t think he’s looking for anyone in particular.

But part of you hopes.

***

By the time the race starts, you’re in your “quiet corner” — an unused hospitality suite two floors above the chaos. Amanda-Ashley pulled strings and favors and maybe a threat or two to get it secured. It’s dim, blissfully silent, and equipped with a mini-fridge and blackout curtains. You sit cross-legged on a loveseat with your tablet, the live broadcast on mute. One of your legs is shaking. You don’t realize it until you force yourself still.

The race unfolds like an opera of chaos: tire strategies, near-collisions, the occasional bleeped-out radio message.

And Charles …Charles is on fire.

Not literally, thank god. But driving like something’s possessed him. You watch the live telemetry, the way he edges closer to the lead with every lap. The commentators are losing their minds. You bite your lip to keep from screaming out loud.

When he crosses the finish line in P2, you’re on your feet. Alone in the quiet room, holding your breath like the crowd noise is in your bones.

Second place. Podium.

You don’t know why you’re suddenly crying. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s the strange ache of watching someone who saw you at your absolute worst crush it in front of the world. Maybe it’s just because, for the first time all weekend, something went right.

***

You don’t expect to see him after. Podium celebrations. Press. Debriefs. Parties.

You’ve been on the periphery long enough to know how these things go. He’s probably drinking champagne with CEOs or dancing under glitter cannons with the team. Maybe he’s on a flight already. Maybe the magic has a curfew.

You’re halfway through a cup of chamomile tea, dressed in your comfiest leggings and the hoodie you swore you wouldn’t wear again, when the knock comes.

You freeze.

“Room service,” a voice says, muffled but amused.

You pad to the door, heart doing gymnastics.

When you open it, Charles is standing there in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair damp from the podium spray, holding an ice bucket with an open bottle of champagne shoved into it at a crooked angle.

He looks tired. Happy. Real.

“Hi,” he says.

You stare at him. “You’re kidding.”

He lifts the bucket. “I promised you champagne.”

“I didn’t think you meant tonight.”

“I didn’t want to wait.”

You step aside.

***

He kicks off his shoes, shrugs off the shirt like it’s nothing, and flops back on your couch in a black t-shirt that fits too well.

You stand there awkwardly until he pats the seat beside him.

“Come on. Live a little. It’s a podium.”

You settle in. He pours two uneven glasses into the paper cups from your hotel coffee bar and hands you one.

You clink them together.

“To … podiums?” You offer.

He grins. “To quiet corners.”

You take a sip. It tastes expensive and fizzy and slightly warm. But you’re not complaining.

He rests his head on the back of the couch and closes his eyes for a beat. “That race was insane.”

“You looked like you were driving angry.”

“I was,” he says. “Not at anyone. Just … determined. Focused.”

“Because you wanted the points?”

“No,” he says. “Because you were watching.”

Your stomach flips.

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on a chronically ill woman in sweatpants,” you say.

He turns his head to look at you. “You make me want to be brave.”

You look away. “That’s not fair. I wasn’t brave. Not this weekend.”

“You came. You stayed. You let yourself be seen when it wasn’t easy.”

You don’t answer. Just sip.

After a while, you speak quietly. “The headlines hurt, you know.”

His brow furrows.

“After Friday,” you explain. “They didn’t say my name. Just ‘influencer collapses in paddock.’ Or ‘sick girl causes commotion.’ Like I’m some weak, tragic sideshow. Like the worst parts of me are the only ones that matter.”

“You’re not that,” he says, instantly.

“I know,” you say. “But for a second, it felt like the whole world agreed. That I’m just a body failing in public.”

Charles puts down his glass.

“I didn’t see you like that,” he says firmly. “Not for a second.”

You scoff.

“I didn’t,” he repeats. “You were in pain. And still trying to be polite. Still apologizing. Still pushing through, even when you shouldn’t have had to. That’s not weakness. That’s … human.”

You blink, eyes burning again.

“I wish I could tell you that I didn’t care what people thought,” you murmur. “But I do. I hate being the ‘chronic illness girl.’ I want to be taken seriously. As a writer. A person. A woman.”

“You are all those things,” he says.

You stare at your hands. “Sometimes I think I’ll never be able to be soft and strong. That people only make space for one or the other.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I think softness is strength.”

You smile faintly. “That’s very poetic of you.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’m a secret poet.”

You glance at him. “Have you been drinking champagne all day?”

“Maybe.”

You both laugh — this time you manage it without wincing.

Then it goes quiet. The warm, safe kind of quiet.

He looks at you. “You were the only thing I wanted to see after the race.”

That does something to you. Something wild and warm and a little terrifying.

You bite your lip. “Is this a weird podium high talking? Are you going to forget all this by next weekend?”

He frowns. “You really think that?”

“I don’t know what to think. You’re … you. I’m …”

“You,” he says simply. “And I like you. Not the edited version.”

You glance at him. “Even when I’m curled up with a heating pad and breaking into a cold sweat?”

“Especially then,” he says. “Because you still made space for me, even when you had nothing left to give.”

You don’t know what to say. So instead, you refill your paper cup and toast him again.

“To softness,” you say.

He clinks it back. “To you.”

***

You don’t remember falling asleep.

One minute you’re talking about your least favorite press questions — his is “how do you stay so calm under pressure?” (answer: he doesn’t), yours is “have you tried yoga?” (answer: yes, and screw off).

The next, you’re warm. Wrapped in something that smells like champagne and soap and him.

You open your eyes to find him still beside you on the couch, legs stretched out, your head resting against his shoulder.

He’s already watching you.

“Hi,” he whispers.

Your voice is a rasp. “How long was I out?”

“Not long.”

You look down. Your heating pad’s still on. Your cup is empty. He must’ve shifted it for you.

“You okay?” He asks.

You nod. Then, quietly, “Are you okay?”

He smiles. “I am now.”

***

It starts with FaceTime.

At first, it’s short calls. Ten minutes, fifteen. Time zones and travel schedules make everything unpredictable, but somehow, you find each other.

“Where are you now?” You ask, curled up on your couch, heating pad tucked under your hoodie.

Charles turns his phone around to show a hotel room with cold lighting and a fruit basket no one asked for. “Qatar. I think. I woke up at 2 p.m. and had machboos for breakfast.”

You laugh. “Very glamorous.”

He grins. “I miss your ugly tea mug.”

You lift it into frame. “Still alive. Barely.”

It turns into a ritual.

Late nights. Early mornings. You in bed with a hot pack and sleep mask perched on your forehead, him in a hoodie, slumped in a race simulator or half-wrapped in a hotel comforter.

Sometimes you talk about big things. Pain. Pressure. How your body betrays you. How his mind sometimes does the same.

Sometimes you talk about nothing at all.

“What’s your favorite snack?” He asks one night, half-asleep in Maranello.

You’re trying not to wince from a bad cramp. You mutter, “The peanut butter pretzels from Trader Joe’s. The ones in the tub.”

He hums. “Noted.”

***

Four days later, a box shows up at your door.

You’re in pajamas. Hair unbrushed. Bloating in full force. You only open the door because you’re expecting your new heating patches.

Instead: a full cardboard box of peanut butter pretzels. Not one tub. Four.

The note is scribbled in Charles’s handwriting:

For the worst days. Or the best ones. I don’t discriminate.

- C

You hold the note against your chest and laugh until your ribs ache.

***

The thing is, it’s getting harder.

Not the feelings — that part is easy. Too easy. When he texts, your chest lights up like something divine. When he FaceTimes, you remember what it’s like to feel wanted, not pitied.

What’s hard is the distance. And the doubt.

You’re the one with the unpredictable body, the limitations, the invisible schedules carved by pain. It’s easy to look polished on a screen. It’s harder when the flare hits at the grocery store. When you cancel plans three times in a row. When you fall asleep in the middle of a movie night because your medication finally kicks in.

Long-distance is one thing. But long-distance with you?

You start pulling back. Not on purpose. Just … slower replies. Delayed FaceTimes. You pretend to be busier than you are. You start rehearsing your excuses before you even need them.

You don’t want to ask him for more than he’s already giving. You don’t want to be the burden.

***

The spiral peaks on a Monday.

Your cramps are so bad, they make you nauseous. You cancel a podcast interview. Postpone your livestream. You spend most of the afternoon on the floor with your TENS unit and tears you don’t bother to wipe.

You don’t tell Charles. You don’t even open his last message.

You want to be someone else. Someone easier to love. Someone who can say yes without calculating pain scale numbers first.

At 7 p.m., you get a message that makes your heart stop.

Just landed. Should I grab dinner on the way or do you want to cook?

You blink.

Stare.

Re-read it.

What.

You call him instantly.

He picks up with a sleepy smile, luggage handle in one hand. “Hi.”

“Charles, what the hell?”

He blinks. “That’s a greeting.”

“You’re here?”

He nods. “Surprise.”

“Surprise? You just decided to cross the ocean?”

“Well, yes.”

You run a hand through your hair, panic bubbling fast. “You didn’t even ask. You just … flew here?”

“You were quiet,” he says, like that explains anything. “And I missed you. So I booked a flight. Is that okay?”

You don’t know how to answer.

Your stomach is in full revolt. You haven’t shaved your legs in a week. There’s an ice pack melting through your favorite sweatshirt. You are, without question, at your worst.

“Charles,” you whisper. “I’m not — tonight’s not a good night. I’m not well.”

“I can come tomorrow,” he offers gently. “Or not at all. You say the word.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

The rational part of your brain says let him go. Don’t let him see you like this. It’s too much. You are too much.

But your heart — stupid, stubborn heart — says let him in.

“Okay,” you say softly. “But only if you promise not to say anything about the state of my apartment. Or my face.”

“I promise,” he says. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

***

He knocks exactly seventeen minutes later.

You open the door in your oversized hoodie and the fuzzy socks with holes in them. Your heating pad cord trails behind you like a tail.

Charles stands there in a hoodie, a paper bag of takeout in one hand and a wary look in his eyes.

“Hi,” he says.

You stare at him.

He lowers the bag. “Still okay?”

You nod. Barely.

He takes off his shoes without being asked. Walks in like he belongs there. Places the bag on your counter and gives you a quiet once-over.

“I’m not going to say you look beautiful,” he says, “because I think you’d punch me.”

“I might.”

“But you do. Look beautiful.”

You roll your eyes … and burst into tears.

Like real, messy, overwhelmed sobs that take you by surprise.

“Hey, hey,” he says, already stepping forward. “I’m sorry. Was that too much?”

You shake your head. “I’m just … scared.”

He doesn’t touch you until you reach for him.

Then he holds you. Tight and real and unshakable. One hand on your back, the other cupping the base of your skull like you might break apart if he lets go.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he whispers.

“I do,” you choke out. “I’m too much. I know I am.”

“No,” he says, voice firm. “You’re hurting. That’s different.”

You cling tighter. “But it’s all the time. And I don’t want you to feel like I’m a project. Or a problem to manage.”

“You’re not.”

You pull back. “Then what am I?”

He exhales, touches your cheek like you’re glass. “You’re the person I flew halfway across the world to see.”

You blink.

He smiles faintly. “And I’d do it again.”

***

Later, after food and water and meds, you lie on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, head on his lap.

The TV is on mute. He’s playing with your fingers.

“Why’d you really come?” You ask.

He shrugs. “I told you. I missed you.”

“You could’ve waited a week. Or a month. Or until I was less of a disaster.”

He looks down at you.

“I didn’t want to wait until you were performing wellness,” he says quietly. “I wanted you. Mess and all.”

You stare at him.

“I thought if I showed up and it was hard, we’d figure it out. If you didn’t want me here, I’d leave. But I couldn’t keep pretending this was just a maybe.”

Your chest aches.

“I’m scared,” you say.

“I know,” he says. “Me too.”

“But it’s not easy.”

“I don’t want easy,” he says. “I want you.”

You turn into his lap and let yourself believe it.

***

“Monaco?” You repeat, like the word might dissolve if you say it wrong.

Charles shrugs like it’s no big deal, like Monaco is just … a place. A backdrop. Not his backdrop.

“Yeah,” he says, stirring sugar into your tea like he has any business making himself at home in your kitchen. “It’s a charity gala. Formal. Very, uh …” He pauses. “Gala-y.”

“That’s not a word.”

“It is now.”

You narrow your eyes. “Black tie?”

He nods. “Tuxedos. Champagne. Silent auction. Speeches. Fancy food you’ll hate. The whole thing.”

“And you want me there?”

He looks up. “Of course I do.”

You swallow. “Charles, I’m not a gala person.”

“I know.”

“I don’t even have anything to wear.”

“I’ll send options.”

“And if I flare halfway through dinner?”

“Then we leave halfway through dinner.”

“And what about the press? The headlines? You know they’ll have a field day.”

He leans on the counter, all elbows and earnestness. “Let them.”

***

You say no. Then yes. Then no again.

You picture the dress you’d have to squeeze into. The long tables and cameras and cold, white lighting. The tightness of formalwear. The noise. The bodies. The scrutiny.

And then you picture Charles. Soft smile. Steady hand. That impossibly calming way he says your name.

You hate that you want to go. You hate even more that some part of you wants to be seen.

You hate most of all that you’re afraid of ruining it.

***

The night of the gala, your car pulls up just after eight.

You’re not late. You’re strategic.

Your cane is pearl-handled, collapsible. Hidden in your clutch until the very last second.

Your dress is navy silk, perfectly tailored. Your back brace is tucked beneath the boning. Your heels are stashed in your handbag; you arrive in flats, because function is the new black.

You sit in the car, staring out at the blinding entrance of the Hôtel de Paris. The photographers. The crowd. The shimmering illusion of it all.

You breathe in. And out. And in again.

Your fingers tremble around the cane handle.

“I don’t have to go in,” you murmur to no one.

Except Charles is already there.

And then — like he can feel your hesitation — he turns. He finds your car in the crowd. And smiles.

Not that polished, polite smile he gives sponsors. But his smile. The one that means I see you.

He walks down the steps in his tuxedo and opens your door.

“Hi,” he says softly.

You blink hard. “Hi.”

“You look beautiful.”

You look away. “You don’t have to say that.”

He crouches to your level. “I want to say it.”

Your hands flutter nervously. “I-I brought heels. In case. And meds. And snacks. And my brace is on. And I ate before. And I have exit plans.”

He squeezes your knee gently. “You don’t have to explain.”

You exhale shakily. “I want to go in.”

His eyes crinkle. “Then let’s go.”

He holds your cane while you swap shoes. Waits while you steady yourself. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t pressure.

When you loop your arm through his, you feel steadier. Not because the pain’s gone. But because someone sees it and still wants you beside him.

***

The flashbulbs explode like summer storms. People turn. Cameras adjust. Whispers flutter through the crowd like a breeze.

You hear them.

“That’s her.”

“The one who fainted in Austin?”

“She brought a cane?”

“What’s she wearing?”

“She’s so … normal-looking.”

Charles’ fingers tighten around yours.

You lean in. “They're staring.”

He glances down. “Let them.”

And you do. You hold his hand. You lift your chin. You walk in.

Not like you’re floating. Not like it’s effortless. But like it matters.

***

The ballroom glows gold.

You find your assigned seats near the stage, and you’re quietly thankful to see they’ve placed a chair with extra cushioning beside Charles’.

“Did you-”

He shrugs. “Might have made some calls.”

You blink back something tight in your throat. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not pretending this is easy.”

He brushes your knuckles. “You make it look easier than it is.”

You smile. “That’s the influencer magic.”

“Mm.” He leans close. “I know better.”

***

Dinner is elegant and inedible.

You take two bites of salmon before setting down your fork. Charles slides a protein bar under the tablecloth like a smuggler.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

“You love it.”

You grin. “A little.”

He leans back, looking at you like there’s no one else in the room.

***

You don’t expect to end up beside her.

Princess Charlene.

Platinum hair swept into a knot, posture like steel. Somehow luminous and quietly intimidating at once.

Charles is whisked away for photos with Prince Albert. You’re left at the table, sipping water, wondering if anyone would notice if you disappeared into the nearest powder room and never came back.

Then-

“I follow your account,” Charlene says, voice low and clear.

You blink. “Sorry?”

She nods once. “Your writing. The post about pushing through pain — my sister sent it to me.”

You try not to gape. “Oh.”

“I liked the part where you said ‘visibility isn’t vanity.’”

You wet your lips. “I meant it.”

She turns, eyes sharp. “Most women are trained not to say things like that.”

You laugh under your breath. “Most women with endometriosis are trained not to say anything at all.”

She tilts her head. “You’re saying something now.”

You glance toward Charles.

Charlene follows your gaze. “He’s very fond of you.”

You flush. “He’s … kind.”

She considers that. “He’s more than that.”

You smile. “Yeah. He is.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then she reaches for her glass. “You’re very brave.”

You look down. “It doesn’t feel like bravery. It feels like survival.”

She clinks her glass softly against yours. “Same thing, sometimes.”

***

When Charles returns, he finds you mid-laugh beside the princess, your cheeks flushed and your posture relaxed.

“She told me the palace once served chicken nuggets at a diplomatic luncheon,” you whisper as he slides into his chair.

His eyes widen. “She didn’t.”

You nod solemnly. “She did.”

He stares at you for a moment, admiration blooming.

“Monaco looks good on you,” he says.

You snort. “I’m wearing Spanx and a heat patch.”

“Still.”

***

The evening winds down. The auction ends. The music softens. People begin to drift toward the exit, shoes in hand, makeup smudged, champagne fuzzing their edges.

You lean into Charles’s shoulder, whispering, “Can we go soon?”

He looks down. “Pain?”

You nod.

He doesn’t make a scene. Doesn’t fumble. Just stands, offers a hand, tucks your cane under his arm like it’s a clutch purse, and walks you out like he’s done it a thousand times.

***

Outside, the air is cool and clean. The sea glitters like spilled stars.

“Was that too much?” He asks.

You shake your head. “No. Not with you.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. “You were brilliant.”

“I was nervous.”

“I was proud.”

You smile. “They didn’t know what to make of me.”

“Good.”

You look up at him. “I think they expected someone easier.”

“They got someone real.”

You lean into him. “Let them look?”

He nods. “Let them look.”

***

Back at his apartment, you peel off the dress with slow, aching movements.

Your cane leans against the wall. Your brace is unstrapped. Your back screams.

Charles hands you his comfiest hoodie and a mug of chamomile tea.

You collapse onto his couch, one leg draped over a cushion, socks mismatched, makeup half-removed.

He sits beside you, still in his tuxedo, loosening his bow tie.

“You were amazing tonight,” he says.

“I was barely holding it together.”

He smiles. “That’s what made it amazing.”

You sip your tea. “They’re gonna talk.”

“They already are.”

You look at him. “And you’re okay with that?”

He shrugs. “They’ll say what they want. I know what’s true.”

You bite your lip. “And what’s that?”

He touches your knee gently.

“That you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

You look away.

He leans in. “And also … I think I’m falling in love with you.”

You freeze. The mug trembles slightly in your hands.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You sure?”

He smiles softly. “Very.”

You set the mug down. Take his hand. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe you might be lovable exactly as you are.

***

It happens slowly, like most things with the two of you.

Not with fireworks or declarations or splashy red carpet appearances.

But with quiet mornings.

With a reusable Ferrari water bottle on your nightstand and Charles’ suitcase beside your coat rack.

With your French bulldog curled loyally against his ribs, snoring.

With a heating pad perpetually plugged in on the couch, his hand resting near it, careful not to disturb.

With your world bending — not breaking — to make room for someone who never makes you feel like too much.

***

It’s been three months since the gala.

You haven’t posted much since then. Nothing obvious, at least.

A blurry photo of two croissants on a balcony table. A video of a Monaco sunset, just faintly revealing a masculine silhouette behind you. A reposted reel from a chronic illness creator, with the caption we are not defined by the convenience of our bodies.

But nothing that says, this is my person. Nothing that says Charles.

The world has noticed, though. They’ve seen the photos.

Of you in a wheelchair at the Nice airport — Charles behind you, pushing it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Of him exiting your New York book signing event through a side door, hoodie up, unmistakable jawline exposed. Of your dog being walked down the street side-by-side with Leo in Monte Carlo by one Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc, his leash in one hand and the dachshund’s in the other.

The gossip accounts are having a field day. They call it “the soft launch of the year.”

***

You’re sitting on your couch when it happens.

Legs curled under a blanket, heating pad tucked against your abdomen. Charles is beside you, fully horizontal, your Frenchie planted squarely on his chest like a sentry. His lips are parted in sleep, hand dangling off the couch, phone still clutched loosely in his fingers.

You should let him sleep. But instead, you take the photo.

You don’t overthink it. You just capture it: the soft curls of his hair, the lazy fold of his hoodie sleeve, the tiny pink paw on his collarbone. Your heating pad cord is visible in the corner. So are your compression socks.

It’s not a “perfect” picture. But it’s real. And real is what you’ve promised yourself you’d always be.

***

You open Instagram.

Ignore the five unanswered texts from your publicist. The DM request from an F1 meme page. The saved drafts of all the captions you’ve written and rewritten.

You upload the photo. Type one sentence.

Love doesn’t fix the pain. But it stays through it.

You hit post before you can change your mind. Then you drop your phone on the floor and groan into your throw pillow.

Charles stirs. “Hm?”

You turn to him. “I did a thing.”

He lifts his head slightly, groggy. “What kind of thing?”

You wince. “A relationship announcement thing.”

He blinks. “Wait, you posted?”

You nod. “You and the dog. Asleep. Couch vibes.”

He reaches for his phone, squinting at the screen.

“Oh,” he says. And then he grins.

You chew your lip. “Is it bad?”

He shakes his head. “It’s perfect.”

You raise a brow. “Even with the heating pad?”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple. “Especially with the heating pad.”

***

The post explodes.

Within ten minutes, it’s already being screenshotted and re-uploaded across the internet. Within an hour, it’s viral.

Your notifications are a tidal wave. Comments flood in.

This is the kind of love I want.

He looks so safe there 😭

The way she said ‘love doesn’t fix it. Ugh, gut punch 🥺

Disability isn’t a dealbreaker. This is proof.

The chronically ill community shows up in droves.

So do F1 fans.

Your DM inbox turns into a surreal mix of “Thank you for showing this” and “Does Charles like croissants or pain au chocolat?”

You read a few. Cry a little. Laugh a lot.

Then put your phone down again, because life is still happening. And so is your pain.

***

By early evening, you’re curled back up on the couch, forehead sweaty, jaw clenched.

Charles returns from the kitchen with a glass of water and your meds.

“I’ve got it,” he says gently, crouching beside you.

You close your eyes. “It’s a bad one.”

“I can tell.”

“I shouldn’t have posted. Stress makes it worse.”

He tucks the heating pad closer to your lower back. “You were ready. Your body just isn’t cooperating.”

You blink back tears. “What if they think I’m milking it?”

Charles scoffs. “Who thinks that?”

“Randoms. Trolls. Commenters. People who don’t get it.”

He tucks a blanket over you. “People who don’t get it don’t matter.”

“I want them to know I’m still capable. I’m not just … sick.”

“You’re not just anything,” he says softly. “You’re brilliant. And stubborn. And smart. And funny. And incredibly difficult to beat at Mario Kart.”

You sniff. “That’s because I am brilliant.”

He smiles. “And you live with pain that would flatten most people.”

You let out a shaky breath. “You make everything look easy.”

He frowns. “It’s not. I know it’s not.”

“I don’t mean being with me. I mean being … like this. Like it’s no big deal.”

He runs a hand down your arm. “It is a big deal. But loving you isn’t hard. The hard part is not being able to take it away.”

Your chest cracks open.

He sees it — all of it. And he stays.

***

Later that night, the post makes the news.

Your publicist sends a voice memo: “I’m surrendering. It’s too good. I can’t PR-manage something that pure. Godspeed.”

You laugh, curled into Charles’ side.

He grins. “Tell her thanks for the vote of confidence.”

You look at him, really look.

His face soft in the glow of your bedside lamp. His thumb tracing idle circles on your shoulder.

You never thought this kind of love was for you. Not when your body betrays you. Not when rest is your full-time job. Not when you have to plan your outfits around access to emergency bathrooms.

But here he is. Choosing you. Over and over again.

***

“So,” you say quietly. “This is real.”

He nods. “Very.”

“And public.”

Another nod. “Definitely.”

“Still time to back out.”

He chuckles. “You think I’d survive if I broke up with you after that post?”

You snort. “The disabled girlies would riot.”

“And your Frenchie would never forgive me.”

You lean into him, bury your face in his hoodie. “Thanks for staying.”

He tilts his head against yours. “Thanks for letting me.”

***

The comments don’t stop for days. But neither does your life.

You keep writing. Keep resting. Keep managing — because surviving your own body is a full-time feat.

But now you do it with another toothbrush in the holder. With Charles’ hoodie in your laundry bin. With his hand in yours under the table, squeezing three times when it hurts too much to talk.

***

At one point, a fan asks Charles in the paddock, “Is this a distraction?”

He looks straight into the camera and says, “No. This is a reminder of what matters.”

You watch the clip alone, blinking too fast. And then you go downstairs and hug him like he’s oxygen.

Because love doesn’t fix the pain. But it makes you brave enough to stay through it.

***

The love story never goes viral again. Not like the couch photo. Not like the gala.

But somehow, this part is the best part. Because love stops being an announcement and starts being a rhythm. A pattern. A daily hum you can fall asleep to.

***

It begins with a chair.

You don’t even notice it the first time. Race weekend, early spring. Australia. Jet lag is eating you alive and your pelvis feels like it’s carved from stone. Still, you come — because you want to. Because you can, with the right prep. Because Charles asked with that boyish tilt to his head and a quiet, “You’ll come, yeah?”

The Ferrari garage is the usual chaos — mechanics rushing, strategists tapping iPads, engineers adjusting telemetry like surgeons.

But in the corner, right near the monitor bank, there’s a chair.

Not one of those hard plastic folding ones, but a wide, plush, ridiculous-looking thing. The kind you’d expect in a therapist’s office. Overstuffed and low to the ground, with a supportive lumbar pillow behind it and your favorite heated cushion already turned on.

You stare. “Is that-”

Laura from Ferrari beams at you. “Charles insisted.”

You blink. “What?”

“He said if he had to sit in the cockpit for two hours, the least we could do is make sure you weren’t stuck on a barstool.”

You touch the chair cautiously, like it might disappear. “It’s … perfect.”

“He sent three options,” Laura adds with a conspiratorial wink. “Had us vote on which one matched the aesthetic.”

***

The next race, it’s already there. Same corner. Same pillow. Same quiet, intentional care.

You don’t say anything to Charles about it that night. Not directly. Just curl into him on the hotel bed after dinner, whispering, “Thank you,” into his collarbone.

He kisses your hair. “Always.”

***

His driver’s room is next.

You notice it in Saudi Arabia, after a brutal Friday practice. The air is thick, sticky. You’re sweating through your dress even in the shade, your pelvis feels like it’s made of molten steel, and you’ve pushed your body harder than you should’ve.

Charles leads you back to the tiny, makeshift space on the second floor of the Ferrari motorhome — barely big enough for two people and a camera tripod.

But now the couch is different. Softer. Blanketed.

Two throw pillows — one firm, one squishy. And your weighted blanket, the navy blue one with the tiny gold stars, folded neatly on the armrest.

You blink. “You brought the blanket?”

He shrugs. “You rest better with it.”

“You packed my blanket in your race bag?”

He lifts a brow. “It was either that or you trying to nap on a jacket again.”

You sink onto the couch. “God, I love you.”

He laughs, sitting on the edge, wiping his brow with a towel. “I’m glad. Because I asked them to build a shelf for your TENS unit next week.”

***

Sometimes, love is in the messages.

Like the ones Charles leaves with the team when he’s in the car. You’d thought it was coincidence at first, how a different Ferrari team member would stop by every twenty minutes during quali.

“Need water?”

“Charles said you were shivering last time, brought a blanket.”

“He wanted to check if you needed anything salty. Here’s some chips.”

Eventually, it clicks.

He’s orchestrating it all. Even while driving 300km/h. Even with a helmet on.

After the race, you narrow your eyes at him in the motorhome. “You’re sending people to check on me.”

He doesn’t even look up from unlacing his boots. “Obviously.”

“You’re supposed to be focusing.”

“I am,” he says calmly. “On driving. And you.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s a puddle. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” he says with a smirk. “But you love that about me.”

You chuck a throw pillow at his head.

***

The truth is, you’ve never felt safer.

Not because the pain is gone — it’s not. Not because life is easier — it still isn’t. But because someone sees you, every day, and chooses not to flinch.

Even on your worst days — when you can’t sit up, when you can’t fake the smile, when all you can do is lie on your side and cry from the pressure in your lower back — he’s still there.

Sometimes, he lies next to you without a word. Sometimes, he reads aloud from whatever book’s on your nightstand. Sometimes — your favorite — he hums.

Little snippets of melodies. Soft, careful, incomplete.

“What is that?” You ask one night, curled into his chest, pain buzzing like static in your pelvis.

“Nothing yet,” he murmurs, his fingers in your hair. “Just something I’m working on.”

***

Eventually, he records them.

It’s a surprise. You wake up one morning to three missed calls from Amanda-Ashley, one text from your publicist that says DON’T SCREAM, and a Twitter feed full of headlines.

CHARLES LECLERC RELEASES PIANO EP TO RAISE FUNDS FOR ENDOMETRIOSIS RESEARCH

‘For Her’: Ferrari Driver’s Album Honors Girlfriend’s Pain Journey

You sit up in bed, heart pounding.

Click the link.

The songs are all titled For You, Pt. I, Pt. II, Pt. III.

You recognize them. From the nights he hummed you to sleep. From the mornings you couldn’t get out of bed. From the moment he held your hand backstage at your first keynote and whispered, “I wrote something for you.”

Each song is soft. Mournful, a little. But also strong. Hopeful. Real.

The streaming profits go directly to The Endometriosis Association.

The first week, it charts in fourteen countries.

***

You call him, tears in your throat. “You wrote music?”

He sounds sheepish. “I didn’t want to tell you until it was ready.”

“It’s stunning, Charles.”

“You really think so?”

“I cried.”

He exhales. “Okay, good. Because I didn’t sleep for a month editing the damn thing.”

You laugh wetly. “And you didn’t even name one after my dog?”

“Next album,” he promises.

***

The first time he plays the songs for you live, you’re in his dimly lit music room in Monaco, surrounded by old guitars and dusty trophies. Your legs are draped over his lap, a heating pad humming beneath the piano bench.

He presses a key. The sound is soft.

His eyes never leave yours. You cry halfway through. He keeps playing.

When he finishes, he looks at you gently. “That’s how I hear you.”

You blink. “Broken?”

“No,” he says. “Brave.”

Love is in the chair at every race. The blanket in his driver’s room. The fact that your emergency meds are now stored next to Charles’ energy gels in his travel bag.

It’s in how you kiss his temple before every quali. In how he whispers, “You’ve got this,” before every panel you speak on. In how you tell him, “No, you don’t need to come,” and he shows up anyway.

Love is how he never makes you feel like you owe him anything. And how, somehow, you both feel like the lucky one.

***

One night, back in your apartment, you’re watching a movie with his head in your lap, dog snoring at your feet.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” You ask suddenly.

He looks up. “Of what?”

“This. Me. The pain. The cancellations. The heating pads. The meds. The weight of it all.”

He frowns. “No.”

You chew your lip. “Be honest.”

“I am,” he says, sitting up, taking your hand. “It’s hard. But it’s not you that makes it hard.”

You say nothing.

He squeezes your hand. “You’re not your pain, you know.”

“I am, though. Sometimes.”

He kisses your knuckles. “I know. And I love you through it. Not in spite of it.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“But you’re mine.”

He smiles. “Forever, if you’ll let me.”

***

The headlines die down. Your world stays bright. Pain still flares. Exhaustion still claws. But now, you have help carrying it.

A second toothbrush. A warm hand. A playlist of lullabies written just for you.

Love doesn’t fix the pain. But it softens the edges. And that’s enough.

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