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w3haw3ll · 2 months ago

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Red & Yellow- CL16 Part 2

12.4K Words (Masterlist)(Part 1)

Just a continuation of Part 1.

TW: Explicit scene at the end but it isn't essential to the story 18+

The hum of the paddock faded behind them as Charles led Y/N around the side of the Ferrari motorhome, away from the clatter of tools and distant calls over team radios. The air was sharp with the smell of petrol and heat, the tension between them almost suffocating.

Charles turned to face her, arms folded, jaw tight. His helmet still tucked under his arm like he’d grabbed her before he could change his mind.

“We need to talk.”

Y/N arched a brow, arms crossing instinctively. “Clearly.”

He exhaled sharply, trying to stay composed. “This thing you’ve got going on with Carlos—whatever it is—it’s becoming a distraction.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“He’s off. I can see it. He’s not focused like he should be,” Charles said, his voice steady but his posture tense. “We can’t afford to lose ground in the Constructors’. If he’s slipping, we all pay the price.”

Y/N scoffed. “So now it’s my fault?”

“I’m saying it’s affecting him, and the team. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

Her fists clenched at her sides. “Don’t stand there and act like you give a damn about the team more than I do. I’ve worked just as hard to get here.”

“I’m not questioning your work,” he shot back. “I’m questioning your judgment.”

She laughed, bitter. “Judgment. Right.”

Charles stepped in closer, eyes flashing. “This is serious, Y/N. You’re too smart not to see what this is doing.”

Her voice dropped, venom laced beneath the calm. “You mean the way you’re ‘seriously’ pretending this is about Carlos and not about you being jealous?”

He blinked, his jaw locking.

She took a step forward this time, refusing to flinch. “You don’t get to stand there and lecture me when you were the one all over that girl in the white dress last weekend.”

His face changed instantly—shocked, then tight. “What?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t see it. The internet did,” she snapped. “That photo of you with her on the yacht—your hand on her back, leaning in like you were about to undress her with your eyes? Viral in under two hours.”

“That was nothing—”

“Exactly,” Y/N cut in, eyes sharp. “Nothing. And yet, you’re here accusing me of being a distraction? You’re a walking contradiction, Leclerc.”

He ran a hand over his face, visibly annoyed now. “You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t,” she fired back. “You don’t get to act cold and distant with me, kiss the nearest supermodel in Monaco, then suddenly care who I’m seeing.”

His voice dropped low. Dangerous. “You think I don’t see the way you look at Carlos?”

“And you think I didn’t notice the way you almost kissed me?” she shot back, heart racing. “That night—you wanted to. Don’t lie.”

His eyes locked on hers then, and for a breathless second, there was silence—just the pounding of her heart and the way the tension between them coiled so tight it nearly snapped.

“I pulled away,” he said, quietly but not kindly. “Because I knew I shouldn’t want you.”

She tilted her head. “That’s your problem, Charles. You want me... but only when it’s inconvenient.”

They stood inches apart, eyes blazing, breath shallow.

He didn’t say another word.

And this time, neither did she.

Charles stepped closer again, the anger flashing behind his eyes now edged with desperation. “That photo,” he said tightly, “was a fan. Nothing more. She asked for a picture, I obliged. That’s it.”

Y/N let out a dry, disbelieving laugh, folding her arms tighter across her chest as if it might hold in the disappointment threatening to spill out. “Oh, right. Just a fan. With your hand on her lower back? And your face that close?” she arched a brow. “You expect me to believe that?”

He stared at her, frustrated. “Yes, because it’s true. It wasn’t anything.”

“Even if it wasn’t,” she said, voice lowering, colder now, “you still don’t get to use Carlos and me as some excuse to unleash whatever you’re actually feeling.”

Charles flinched at that, like the words hit deeper than she meant them to.

“I’m not doing this with you anymore,” she added. “I’m not your problem to manage, and I’m definitely not your emotional punching bag.”

Y/N turned to leave, but Charles reached out—fingers almost brushing her arm before he let them fall.

“Y/N…” His voice cracked just slightly. “Don’t walk away like this.”

She paused but didn’t look back. “I already did,” she said softly. “You just didn’t notice until someone else walked in.”

And with that, she disappeared into the garage, leaving Charles alone behind the motorhome, the noise of the paddock returning like a wave crashing down around him. The fan photo, the tension, the kiss-that-never-was—it all felt like nothing compared to the one thing he no longer had a grip on:

Her.

---

The Austrian hills rolled green under a flawless sky, the sound of engines echoing through the valley as the pit lane buzzed with activity. Teams moved with precision—tyre warmers off, radios in ears, eyes on data screens.

Charles stood just outside the Ferrari garage, pretending to review telemetry on a tablet he hadn’t looked at in five minutes.

His real focus was across the paddock, where laughter floated on the air.

Y/N stood beside Carlos, both in full team kit, leaning against the low barrier near the hospitality suite. She had her arms folded, eyes squinting up at him with a half-playful glare as Carlos gestured animatedly, clearly in the middle of one of his stories. She said something in return, and he laughed—loud, open, genuine—before reaching out to gently nudge her shoulder.

She didn’t flinch. She smiled.

Charles’s jaw tightened.

He hated how familiar they looked. How easily she seemed to glow around Carlos. How comfortable it all was—like it had always been this way. He didn’t know what made him more furious: that she’d moved on… or that she had every right to.

“Everything alright, mate?” Chris, one of the engineers, asked, glancing over at him.

Charles blinked, eyes snapping back to his screen. “Yeah. Just… checking tyre degradation data.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “That’s not your car’s feed.”

Charles looked down. It was Carlos’.

He forced a tight smile. “Right. Wrong tab.”

But he didn’t change it.

Instead, his gaze flickered back—drawn like a magnet to the girl in the red Ferrari shirt, laughing at something Carlos had said. The same laugh that used to twist in his chest when it was meant for him.

Now, it just burned.

---

The room was cool and quiet, a rare slice of calm in the chaos of race weekend. The blinds were drawn, casting a filtered grey light over the table where the debrief notes from FP3 sat untouched. Charles stood near the door, arms folded, tension practically vibrating off him.

Carlos walked in casually, glancing at his teammate with an easy smile. “You wanted to talk?”

Charles didn’t return the smile. “Close the door.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow but did as asked, clicking it shut behind him. “Okay… what’s this about?”

Charles motioned to the reports on the table, though his eyes never left Carlos. “I’ve been watching your data. Noticed some inconsistencies.”

Carlos dropped into a chair, still calm. “Inconsistencies or just bad luck?”

Charles didn’t sit. “You’ve been off for two races now. Qualifying’s been messy. You’re not hitting your marks in high-speed corners, your reaction time in the car is slower.”

Carlos frowned. “Everyone has a dip now and then. It’s early in the season.”

“And you’re spending every spare second with Y/N,” Charles added sharply.

Carlos leaned back slightly, his expression darkening. “Is that what this is really about?”

“This is about the team,” Charles snapped. “You know how important this season is. We can’t afford any distractions.”

“Right.” Carlos nodded slowly. “Because you would never let a distraction affect your performance.”

Charles’s jaw tightened. “That’s not the same.”

“No?” Carlos stood now, suddenly every inch his equal—his voice calmer, but harder. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels a hell of a lot like this has nothing to do with race pace and everything to do with the fact that I’m with her.”

Charles scoffed. “I don’t care who you’re with.”

Carlos’s eyes narrowed. “You care enough to drag me in here and throw around half-baked data to justify why you’re angry. But let’s not pretend this is about racing.”

Silence.

The truth hung in the air like static.

Carlos stepped closer, voice quiet but cutting. “You had your chance, mate. Whatever it was between you and Y/N, you chose not to act on it. You pushed her away.”

“I was trying to protect her,” Charles said bitterly.

“No,” Carlos said. “You were trying to protect yourself.”

Charles looked away, something flickering in his expression—guilt, regret, anger. All tangled.

Carlos shrugged slightly, more resigned than triumphant now. “She doesn’t want someone who’s only brave behind the wheel.”

The words landed like a gut punch.

Charles didn’t reply.

Carlos let the silence stretch before turning toward the door. “If this is how it’s going to be, maybe you’re the one affecting the team.”

And with that, he went to leave, Charles sat alone in the dim room—staring at the data that suddenly didn’t matter at all.

Carlos paused in the doorway, as if something was still burning on the edge of his conscience. He turned back, voice low but biting.

“You know what really gets me?” he said, stepping back into the room. “That night at the party—you’re the one who talked down about her. Who acted like she was nothing special. And now you're angry because she's with someone who actually sees her for who she is?”

Charles stiffened. “That’s not what I said.”

“You said you didn’t feel the same way I did about her,” Carlos snapped. “You brushed her off like she didn’t matter, like she was just some girl on the pit crew you had to tolerate. She felt wrecked by how you spoke about her.”

“That’s not—” Charles stopped, something cold settling in his chest. “Wait. How do you know that?”

Carlos hesitated.

Charles’s voice dropped. “Carlos.”

Carlos exhaled. “Because she heard you. That night, on the balcony. She was there. Heard everything.”

Silence.

It was as if the oxygen had been ripped from the room. Charles stared at him, every muscle in his face frozen, the realisation cutting sharper than any insult Carlos could have thrown.

“She what?”

Carlos nodded slowly, regret flashing across his face. “She never said anything. Just left early. Told me later—weeks later, actually. It destroyed her.”

Charles turned away, hands dragging through his hair as the weight of it sank in. The harsh words he hadn’t meant… or maybe had, in a moment of blind jealousy. The way she left. The flowers she ignored. The cold silence since. It all made horrifying, perfect sense now.

“I didn’t know,” he muttered.

Carlos stared at him a moment longer. “No. But maybe you should’ve thought about how you spoke about someone like her. Especially someone who was already trying to forget the way you almost kissed her the night before.”

Charles’s head snapped up, but Carlos was already walking out.

The door clicked shut behind him, and for once, the silence left Charles drowning.

---

The paddock had long since emptied of the chaos. The last echoes of team radios and tyre trolleys had faded into the silence of a cooling circuit. In his dimly lit drivers’ room, Charles sat hunched forward on the edge of the leather bench, his elbows braced on his knees, hands tangled in his hair.

He’d been sitting there for over an hour.

Carlos’s words replayed in his head on an endless loop.

“She heard you.”

The realisation settled into his chest like stone. It wasn’t just the flowers she ignored. It wasn’t just cold shoulders and missed glances.

She had heard him.

She’d stood there—alone, probably hopeful, probably smiling—while he’d told Carlos, in some half-cocked attempt to bury his own feelings, that he didn’t feel the same. That she was nothing more than a pit crew member. That she didn’t matter.

And it had shattered her.

And she’d kept it all to herself.

He squeezed his eyes shut, guilt clawing at the back of his throat. He remembered the way she’d looked at him during that pit stop weeks ago—like time had stopped, like she could see straight into him. That moment… the way her lips had parted slightly, how her eyes softened just before he pulled away from that almost-kiss… She had felt it too.

But she’d heard him first.

She must’ve thought it was all some twisted game. A tease. A cruelty. And he’d never bothered to ask why she shut him out. Never questioned her sudden distance. Just got angry and jealous and spiteful. And now she was with Carlos—someone who had been honest with her, who hadn’t tried to hide behind pride or fear.

Charles exhaled shakily and leaned back against the wall, eyes on the ceiling.

It had all started with him.

One careless comment. One lie he told to protect his heart.

And now hers was no longer his to reach.

---

The Budapest heat pressed down like a heavy hand, shimmering on the asphalt as the Ferrari garage buzzed to life. Y/N pulled on her gloves, tying her hair back as she moved between the prep stations. She was focused—more than usual. She had to be. It was easier than letting her mind drift back to complicated things.

Like Charles.

She hadn’t spoken to him directly since the last race. Not really. Just the occasional clipped instruction or tight nod in the garage. And he hadn’t reached out either—no dramatic apology, no awkward conversation. Part of her was grateful. Part of her hated it.

But then… things started to change.

“Hey, Y/N,” Izzy called over. “Someone already signed off the front wing allocation report. Did you get to it early?”

Y/N frowned. “No… I haven’t touched it yet.”

Izzy held up the clipboard. Charles’ signature was scrawled neatly at the bottom.

That was odd.

And then it happened again.

Tools she'd usually have to collect were already laid out for her. Her section of the garage had a chilled water bottle waiting on the stool each morning. Her workload was a little lighter, her name always remembered in strategy meetings now.

At first, she thought maybe the team had just shifted assignments. But it kept happening.

Until one afternoon, she turned a corner into the hospitality suite and nearly collided with Charles.

They both froze. His eyes flicked over her, guarded but gentle.

“Sorry,” she said quietly, stepping to the side.

Charles gave a soft nod. “It’s okay.”

He lingered for a second longer than he had to. Like he wanted to say more. Like he wanted to explain. But instead, he simply said, “You left your wrench at the car. I put it back for you.”

She blinked, surprised. “Oh. Thank you.”

He offered a small smile—hesitant, uncertain, but real—and walked away.

And slowly, over the next few days, it continued. Charles never said anything out loud. But every action spoke volumes.

No longer sharp or cold, no longer avoiding her like she was a mistake he regretted. Instead… he was just there. A silent pillar beside her, offering quiet support, steady presence, and a kind of remorse she didn’t need words to recognize.

And though she wouldn’t admit it out loud, part of her chest ached every time their eyes met across the garage.

Because even now, she still felt it.

And somehow, maybe he did too.

---

The Italian sun poured in through the open garage doors, casting golden light over the sea of red. The energy was electric—Monza always was. It pulsed in the air, in the chants from the Tifosi echoing just beyond the paddock fences, in the adrenaline tightening everyone's movements.

Y/N stood near the front of the garage, checking tyre pressures on Charles' car. The morning had been good. Uneventful. Almost… easy.

"That’s the third time you’ve checked those," came a familiar voice behind her.

She turned, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Maybe I just don’t trust your driving not to ruin my perfect setup.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, mock-offended. “You wound me.”

She laughed softly—and it didn’t feel forced, or cautious. Just natural.

Their eyes met for a beat longer than they should have, but it wasn’t intense or loaded like before. It was lighter now. Warmer. A kind of quiet understanding passed between them. They’d survived the storm. And now, here they were—on the other side, cautiously rebuilding something.

Over the past week, Charles had stopped lingering in silence and started speaking up. They shared brief conversations during track walks. Traded harmless jokes during debriefs. Once, he’d even brought her a coffee before morning prep. Not a grand gesture—just the exact way she liked it. No cream. One sugar.

She never asked how he knew.

“You ready for quali?” she asked now, tilting her head.

Charles nodded. “More than ever.”

“You’ll do well. You’re driving sharp this weekend.”

He smiled at her, something quiet and grateful in his eyes. “Coming from you, that actually means a lot.”

She blinked, caught slightly off guard by the sincerity. But then she returned the smile. “Don’t let it go to your head, Leclerc.”

“I’ll try,” he said with a soft laugh. “But no promises.”

Just then, Harriet called her over with a wave, and Y/N gave him a quick nod before jogging away.

Charles watched her go, a softness settling behind his eyes. He wasn’t trying to win her over anymore. Not with words, not with flowers. Just by showing up. Day by day. Moment by moment.

And slowly, impossibly, it seemed to be working.

---

The race weekend buzz was winding down, the humidity clinging to everything like a second skin. Y/N had just finished a late team dinner and stepped into the quiet, marble-floored hotel lobby when she heard her name.

“Y/N.”

She turned to find Carlos standing near the elevator bank, arms crossed, expression tight.

“Hey,” she greeted, though her voice carried a note of caution. “Everything okay?”

He walked toward her, jaw clenched, eyes flicking briefly toward the elevator before locking on hers. “Can we talk?”

She nodded slowly. “Sure. What’s wrong?”

Carlos exhaled sharply, trying to keep his tone level. “You and Charles. What’s going on there?”

The question hit harder than she expected. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been spending time with him,” he said, not accusing yet, but not neutral either. “Laughing. Helping him. Walking out of the garage with him. I see it.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “We’re just trying to get along, Carlos. You wanted that. Remember?”

He hesitated, but only for a second. “That’s not what it looks like. Not to me. Not after everything he said. After what he told me about not caring. After how he reacted to us.”

She blinked. “So what, now I’m not allowed to be civil with him?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?” Her voice sharpened, hurt and confusion rising in equal measure.

“I just…” Carlos sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know Charles. I know that look in his eyes. He’s not just being friendly. He wants you, Y/N. And maybe you don’t see it, or maybe you do and you’re pretending not to, but—”

She cut him off. “I don’t owe you an explanation for who I talk to.”

Carlos’s face twisted in frustration. “You think I’m just being jealous?”

“Isn’t that what this is?” she snapped. “You didn’t care about Charles being awful to me when it suited you. But now that he’s being decent, suddenly you care?”

His expression fell for a second before hardening again. “I do care. I care because I’ve been honest about how I feel, and I’ve shown up for you—while he’s spent months confusing you and hurting you and still somehow pulling you in. And now… I feel like I’m watching you walk right back into the same mess.”

Y/N looked away, throat tightening.

She didn’t have a defense. Not really. Because Carlos wasn’t wrong.

But that didn’t mean he was right either.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” she said finally, voice quieter now. “Not your feelings. Not Charles’ jealousy. Not the games. I just wanted to do my job. And now everything’s complicated.”

Carlos stared at her, face unreadable.

“Just be careful,” he said eventually, voice softer now. “I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving Y/N standing alone under the gold glow of the hotel lights, the weight of everything unsaid pressing against her chest.

---

The sun had dipped below the skyline, but the air was still thick with heat and tension. The paddock lights glared down harshly, illuminating the fury on Y/N’s face as she stormed away from Carlos.

He called her name once—twice—but she didn’t turn back.

She was done.

Done with the pressure. The confusion. The guilt. The way Carlos made her feel like her closeness with Charles was a betrayal, when really… she hadn’t even sorted out what this was. What he was—to her.

Without even thinking, her feet took her toward the one place she should have avoided—the Ferrari garage, nearly empty now apart from a few crew members clearing up. But one figure remained.

Charles.

He was leaning against the side of the car, still in his race suit tied around his waist, white fireproof top clinging to him with a slight sheen of sweat. He looked up the moment she entered.

Their eyes met—and immediately, something in his expression shifted. Concern. Confusion. Maybe even hope.

“Y/N?” he asked carefully, pushing off the car.

She didn’t answer. Just walked straight up to him, eyes burning with frustration she didn’t know where to place.

“What’s wrong?” he asked again, softer now, gaze searching hers.

“I’m tired, Charles,” she said, voice sharp. “Tired of people deciding what I feel, or who I should talk to, or whether I’m allowed to laugh with you without someone assuming I’m making a mistake.”

His brows furrowed. “Carlos.”

She scoffed. “Of course it’s Carlos. But it’s not just him. It’s everything. I’m constantly trying to do the right thing and getting burned no matter what.”

Charles stepped closer. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Y/N looked away, jaw clenched.

His voice dropped. “He doesn’t know you properly.”

She turned back to him at that—eyes narrowing. “And you do?”

Charles hesitated. Then, quietly: “I think I do. More than I want to.”

The air between them thickened, silent and electric. His gaze fell to her lips for just a second, but it was enough.

She didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

“Charles…” she whispered, unsure whether it was a warning or a plea.

“I’m not going to lie anymore,” he said, stepping into her space. “I tried to pretend I didn’t care. That I didn’t want you. But I did. I do.”

And then—

It happened.

He kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It was messy, desperate, charged with everything they’d buried beneath arguments and tension and denial. Her hands fisted into the front of his fireproofs, pulling him closer as his hands found her waist, then her back, then the nape of her neck like he’d been waiting a lifetime to touch her.

Their mouths moved together like they’d done this in a hundred dreams but never dared in daylight.

Only when breath ran short did they part, foreheads pressed together, hearts racing.

Y/N blinked up at him, lips still parted. “This… this doesn’t fix anything.”

“I know,” Charles murmured, brushing his thumb against her cheek. “But tell me you didn’t want it too.”

She didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Because in that moment, she had wanted nothing more.

Their breath still tangled in the silence, Charles kept his forehead pressed to hers, like he couldn’t bear to let the moment slip away just yet.

But Y/N's hands, which had been gripping his fireproofs just seconds ago, slowly began to push against his chest.

“Charles…” she whispered, voice shaking, not from nerves—but from what came next. “I can’t.”

He froze, eyes darting over hers. “What do you mean?”

She took a step back, the absence of his warmth like a slap to her skin. Her heart was racing for all the wrong reasons now.

“I’m with Carlos,” she said, barely getting the words out. “And that—what just happened—that’s not fair to anyone.”

A flicker of conflict crossed his face. Hurt. Regret. A trace of anger—but not at her. At himself. For kissing her. For letting it go that far.

“I know,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “I know. I just… couldn’t stop myself.”

She swallowed hard. “And I didn’t stop you. But I should have.”

They stood in a silence that felt heavier than anything they’d said. The tension from moments ago lingered, but now it felt like a weight instead of a spark.

“I need to talk to him,” she said quietly. “Carlos. I can’t lie to him. He deserves to hear it from me.”

Charles nodded, jaw tight, gaze dropping to the floor before meeting hers again. “Do you regret it?”

Y/N hesitated, pain in her chest. “No,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “But that doesn’t make it right.”

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then she stepped away fully, the air cooling between them like a curtain falling.

“I’ll talk to him tonight,” she added, already walking out of the garage. “This can’t happen again… until it’s not wrong anymore.”

And with that, she disappeared into the shadows of the paddock, leaving Charles standing alone—his lips still tingling with the taste of the kiss he hadn’t meant to steal, but couldn’t bring himself to regret.

---

The paddock was alive with the usual buzz—technicians making final tweaks, tires being shuffled, drivers slipping in and out of hospitality. But none of it registered to Y/N as she scanned the garage for him.

Charles.

She spotted him near the back of the Ferrari setup, talking with one of the engineers, arms crossed, brows knit in focus. Her stomach twisted—nerves, guilt, something more tangled underneath.

Taking a breath, she approached slowly, dodging the clutter and crew until she was just a few paces away.

“Charles,” she said, quiet but sure.

He didn’t even flinch.

He turned, said something to the engineer without so much as glancing in her direction, then started to walk straight past her.

Y/N stepped into his path instinctively. “Charles—can we talk?”

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t even look at her.

He brushed past her like she was no one. Like their stolen moment the night before had been nothing. Like she was air.

She spun around, stunned. “Seriously?”

He finally paused a few feet away, still not facing her. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach. “What the hell? You kissed me—you—and now you’re freezing me out?”

He turned slowly, eyes cool, voice clipped. “Yeah. And then you went back to him.”

Y/N blinked. “I told you—I was going to talk to him.”

“But you didn’t,” he snapped, jaw tense. “You were still with him this morning. Holding his hand walking into the paddock like none of it mattered.”

“I’m trying to do the right thing, Charles!”

“Well, don’t do it for me,” he said, voice sharp, anger simmering beneath the surface. “I don’t need your pity or your indecision.”

She stared at him, the words cutting deeper than she expected. “So that’s it?”

He shook his head once, cool and detached. “Focus on the race, Y/N. That’s all that matters.”

And with that, he walked away again—this time not just ignoring her, but leaving her with a pit in her chest and the sharp sting of rejection laced with something far worse: regret.

---

The thrum of the paddock was muffled inside the team’s motorhome, but it was no quieter in Y/N’s head.

She sat on the edge of a red-cushioned bench in the crew lounge, her team radio clutched tightly in her hands, fingers trembling—not from nerves, but from something she couldn’t quite name. Not anger. Not guilt. Just… heartache.

Harriet and Izzy were chatting near the coffee machine, laughing over something Carlos had said during the morning meeting, and Rosie was adjusting her headset with the usual pre-race focus. But Y/N felt oceans apart from them.

Because Charles had looked right through her.

And after everything—the looks, the tension, the unspoken connection, the kiss—he acted like it had never happened. Like she had never happened.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek, trying to swallow the lump rising in her throat. She had done the right thing, hadn’t she? She hadn’t wanted to hurt Carlos. She’d told Charles she needed time. That it wasn’t fair to anyone to blur the lines. And yet…

He had kissed her. He had made her feel like the world stopped spinning. And now, suddenly, he wanted nothing to do with her?

Her mind reeled back to the way he had stood in front of her the night before—broad shoulders caging her in, that look in his eyes like he finally saw her, all of her—and wanted her. She’d leaned into it. Had let herself hope for something.

And now… she didn’t know where he stood. At all.

Was it a mistake to him?

Did he regret it?

Was he angry because she hadn’t dropped everything for him the second it happened?

A wave of shame rushed through her chest.

She hadn’t meant to lead anyone on. Least of all Charles. But the more she thought about it, the more it felt like he had been building this wall just waiting for her not to climb it fast enough—so he could pretend none of it had mattered.

And it hurt. God, it hurt.

She blinked hard to clear her eyes, forcing herself to get up and head back toward the garage. Her chest was tight, her thoughts loud, but she pasted on a neutral face.

Because if Charles Leclerc wanted to pretend she didn’t exist today, then fine.

She’d pretend right back.

---

Y/N sat at the small desk in the back of the motorhome, staring at the email she had drafted to her manager. The sound of tires screeching on the track, the distant hum of the paddock—none of it mattered now. All she could focus on was the choice she had to make.

It had been building up for weeks, maybe even longer. The stress of balancing the team’s intense pressure, the ever-shifting dynamic with Carlos, and the emotional storm Charles had thrown her into—it was all too much. She had done everything she could to make it work, to find a way to fit in, but it felt like she was always one step behind, always drowning in a situation that she could never control.

She knew what she had to do.

With a deep breath, she added the last line to her email, finalizing the decision that had been weighing on her mind:

Dear Benedetto Vigna,

After much thought, I have decided to resign from my position with Ferrari at the end of this season. It has been an incredible experience working with such a talented team, but I believe it’s time for me to move forward and seek new opportunities. I will continue to give my best through the rest of the season, but I wanted to give you a heads-up about my decision so that we can make the necessary arrangements for the future.

I want to thank you and the entire team for the opportunity to be part of this journey, and I wish nothing but success for the remainder of the season.

Best regards, Y/N L/N

She read over the email again, her chest tight with the weight of the decision. Her finger hovered over the "Send" button, but she hesitated. Was this the right thing? Was she really ready to walk away from everything she had worked so hard for?

She knew, deep down, that it was. The chaos, the mixed emotions—it wasn’t worth it anymore. Her peace of mind, her happiness, had to come first.

With one final breath, she hit send.

---

The race had been a blur. Y/N had done her job with the usual precision, but her mind was elsewhere, her heart no longer in it. The email had been sent. The decision had been made.

As the cars finished their laps and the adrenaline of the race settled into exhaustion, Y/N slipped into a quieter corner of the paddock, away from the noise of the crew and the post-race excitement. She pulled out her phone, staring at the message she had just sent to Carlos:

Carlos, we need to talk. I can’t keep doing this. We’ve both been holding onto something that isn’t working. I’m sorry, but I think it’s best if we end things. I care about you, but I can’t keep pretending this is right for either of us.

Her thumb hovered over the "send" button as she felt a wave of guilt flood her chest. But she couldn’t ignore it anymore. She couldn’t keep living in a situation that felt like it was falling apart at the seams.

Finally, she pressed send.

Carlos found her a few minutes later, just as she was about to head back to the motorhome to pack up her things. His face lit up with that familiar warmth when he saw her, but it quickly faltered when he noticed the look in her eyes.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer. “What’s going on? You’ve been distant since the race.”

Y/N couldn’t hold back the sadness in her eyes. She wanted to hold him. To comfort him. But the words had to come first.

“Carlos,” she began, her voice trembling slightly. “I can’t keep doing this.”

He frowned, clearly confused. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

Her chest tightened as she forced herself to speak. “I’m leaving the team at the end of the season,” she said quietly. “And… I think it’s best if we end things too.”

His face dropped as if she had physically struck him. His brows furrowed, and for a moment, he looked like he didn’t quite understand.

“Wait… you’re leaving? And… what? You want to break up?” His voice cracked with disbelief.

Y/N nodded slowly, not trusting herself to say more. She felt like she was choking on the words she had to say, but they had to come out. For her own sake.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her heart aching for the pain she could see on his face. “But I’ve made up my mind.”

Carlos stood frozen for a moment, his hands hanging by his sides, his lips pressed tight as though he was trying to hold it all in. Finally, he exhaled slowly, his voice quiet. “I didn’t think this was how it would end… but I guess I should’ve seen it coming.”

“I never wanted to hurt you,” she said, her voice strained. “I just… can’t keep pretending anymore. I need to move on. I need to find something for myself.”

Carlos nodded, though it was clear he was still struggling to understand. “I don’t know what to say… but I guess you’ve made up your mind.”

Y/N could see the hurt in his eyes, and it made her chest feel like it was caving in. But she stood her ground, needing to do this for herself, even if it meant losing him in the process.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, feeling the weight of her decision settle heavy in her chest.

The weight of the conversation had hung heavily in the air between them, but as the final moments ticked by, Carlos and Y/N stood in the quiet of the paddock, each grappling with the aftermath. The rush of the race, the emotions of their relationship, and everything they had shared seemed to settle into a space of mutual understanding.

Carlos had taken a moment, allowing the initial shock to subside, before looking back at Y/N. His face was soft now, no longer twisted with hurt, but understanding, though tinged with sadness.

"You know," Carlos began, his voice steady but quiet, "it’s a strange feeling. Thinking everything is one way, and then realizing you’re not on the same page at all." He let out a small sigh, then gave her a faint smile, though there was a heaviness to it. "But I respect you for being honest with me, even if it sucks."

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat as she took a small step forward. She hadn’t expected him to be so calm about it, especially after everything that had happened, but somehow, it made the pain of the situation a little more bearable. She had expected anger, maybe frustration, but instead, there was understanding.

“I never meant to hurt you, Carlos,” Y/N said softly, her voice cracking slightly. “I really care about you. I do. But I know I can’t keep pretending this is something it isn’t.”

Carlos nodded, his gaze not leaving hers. He was quiet for a moment before speaking again, the words coming out slowly but with conviction. “I know, Y/N. And you’re right. We’ve both been holding onto something for the wrong reasons. I don’t want you to stay just because you feel guilty. That’s not what I want.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath, grateful for the calmness he was showing. It made the decision easier, somehow, even if her heart was still aching from the shift.

“You’re one of the best people I know,” Carlos continued, his voice quiet but earnest. “And I don’t want to lose you as a friend. We’ve been through a lot together this season. I’ll always respect you for how hard you’ve worked, and I hope we can stay friends after all of this.”

Y/N smiled, a small, sad smile, and nodded. “I’d like that, Carlos. I really would.”

He gave a small chuckle, his usual easygoing nature slipping back into place, though there was still a sadness behind his eyes. “You know, I’ll still probably try to convince you to come out with us after the races, even if we’re not together anymore.”

Y/N laughed softly, the sound easing the tension between them. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

There was a moment of quiet between them, the hum of the paddock just barely breaking through the silence. Y/N knew they’d both need time to process everything, but in that moment, there was a sense of peace settling between them. They weren’t in a relationship anymore, but they hadn’t completely lost each other, either.

“We’ll be alright, right?” Y/N asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Carlos smiled softly, nodding. “Yeah. We will.”

Later That Evening – Outside the Hotel

The next few days passed in a blur of race prep and post-race debriefs, but there was a subtle shift between Y/N and Carlos. Their dynamic had changed, but not in a way that felt painful. In fact, it felt like a weight had lifted from both their shoulders, the tension that had been there for weeks now replaced with a newfound understanding. They had both acknowledged that they weren’t right for each other in the way they had hoped, but the friendship they shared—built on mutual respect—had remained intact.

After a few days, Carlos approached her once more, catching her before she entered the Ferrari motorhome. His smile was warm, sincere. “How are you doing?” he asked, a soft chuckle escaping him. “You haven’t completely disappeared on me, so I guess that’s progress.”

Y/N smiled back, a little more brightly than before. “I’m alright. It’s been a weird few days, but I think I’m getting there. And... I’m glad we could leave things on good terms.”

Carlos gave a mock-serious nod. “Well, I wasn’t about to let you go without giving you a proper friendship to look forward to.”

They both shared a lighthearted laugh, the tension of the past few days evaporating as they exchanged a few casual words. And though things had changed between them, there was a comfort in knowing that they would continue to be part of each other’s lives in some capacity. They weren’t lovers anymore, but they had both come out of it with a mutual understanding that they were still there for each other.

It wasn’t the ending either of them had imagined, but in the end, it felt like the right one.

---

The atmosphere in the paddock was a mix of the usual hustle and anticipation for the next race. The team was focused on preparing for the upcoming Grand Prix, but the undercurrent of tension that had been building between Charles, Y/N, and Carlos was still palpable.

Y/N had kept to herself since her conversation with Carlos. She hadn’t told Charles about her decision to leave, mainly because they hadn't spoken much since their last encounter. Charles’s distance had stung, but Y/N had made peace with it, choosing to focus on her work. She hadn't wanted to drag him into her decision, especially given the mess their relationship had become.

Charles was standing near the coffee table in the motorhome, scanning through some race notes, when Carlos walked in. His face was set, but there was a glint of something else—amusement, perhaps—underneath.

“Hey, Charles,” Carlos greeted, settling into a chair next to him.

“Hey,” Charles muttered, distracted as he flipped through the papers. He had been in a particularly foul mood all morning, unable to shake the feeling that things with Y/N had taken an irreversible turn.

Carlos studied him for a moment, trying to gauge the mood before speaking. He wasn’t sure whether or not to bring it up, but the thought had been gnawing at him for a while.

“So, I talked to Y/N the other day,” Carlos said, as casually as possible. “She told me she’s leaving at the end of the season.”

Charles froze mid-turn of his page. His grip tightened around the paper as his head snapped up, eyes narrowing at Carlos. “What do you mean, ‘leaving’?” he asked, voice a little sharper than intended.

Carlos seemed unaware of the tension rising. “Yeah, she’s handing in her notice. She said it’s time for her to move on.”

Charles’s stomach dropped, a wave of disbelief crashing over him. “She didn’t tell me anything about that.”

Carlos shrugged nonchalantly, as though the news wasn’t anything extraordinary. “I think she just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. I guess it’s been building for a while, you know? She’s been struggling with all the tension around here. Plus, with everything going on between the two of you...”

At that, Charles felt a jolt of anger and confusion surge through him. Between the two of us?

Carlos didn’t seem to notice the shift in Charles’s demeanor. He continued, oblivious. “Anyway, she just needs a change. I think she’ll be happier somewhere else.”

Charles’s jaw clenched as his mind raced. He hadn’t realized Y/N was at the breaking point. The idea that she was leaving without a word to him—without any explanation—made something inside him snap. Had he really let things go this far? Had he not been paying attention?

"She didn't even tell me," Charles muttered, the sting of hurt and frustration creeping into his voice.

Carlos raised an eyebrow at him. “You two really need to talk, man. She might be leaving, but it doesn’t mean you two can’t fix things. It’s not too late.”

Charles stood up abruptly, pacing back and forth as the weight of Carlos’s words settled over him. “I... I didn’t even know she was thinking of leaving,” he muttered, more to himself than to Carlos. “I thought she was just... upset with me, but I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

Carlos looked at him carefully, a knowing look in his eyes. “You really don’t see it, do you? She cares about you, Charles. But all this back and forth, the tension... it’s been too much for her. She deserves more than that.”

Charles stopped, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I didn’t mean for things to get this way,” he admitted, his voice softening for the first time. “I just... I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I don’t even know if she still cares about me anymore.”

Carlos’s face softened. “She does. But you’ve got to show her that you care too, Charles. Before it’s too late. I don’t think she’ll wait around forever.”

Charles's eyes flashed, the realization hitting him hard. Too late. The words rang in his mind, and he felt an overwhelming sense of urgency building inside him. He hadn’t known it would take Carlos mentioning it for him to finally recognize the gravity of the situation.

---

The noise of the paddock buzzed around Charles as he walked through the corridor of the Ferrari garage, his steps growing more purposeful the closer he got to the area where Y/N had been stationed for the past few hours. Carlos's words continued to echo in his mind. She’s leaving, Charles. You need to fix things before it’s too late.

Charles had spent the entire day trying to focus on his car and race strategy, but all he could think about was Y/N and the fact that she was planning to leave at the end of the season. He felt a strange mix of anger, confusion, and hurt. Why hadn’t she told him? Why hadn’t she come to him if she was struggling this much?

As he reached the corner of the paddock, he spotted Y/N standing near the wall, speaking with a few other crew members. The sight of her made his heart ache, but his frustration only grew. It had been days since their last interaction, and she still hadn’t approached him.

She’s leaving, Charles thought again, the finality of the situation hitting him. I can’t let this happen.

Taking a deep breath, he walked over to where Y/N stood, the conversation she was having falling quiet as she turned to see him.

“Y/N,” Charles said, his voice tight with frustration. “We need to talk.”

Y/N’s expression shifted, almost wary, and she glanced over her shoulder to the others who quickly dispersed. She crossed her arms in front of her, standing a little taller, her posture guarded. “About what, Charles?”

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but the coolness in her voice stung more than he had anticipated. His frustration flared. “Carlos told me you’re leaving at the end of the season,” he said, his words blunt and direct. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Y/N took a moment to collect herself before responding, her tone calm but firm. “I didn’t think it was your business, Charles. Things between us haven’t exactly been... smooth lately.” Her gaze hardened slightly, her arms still crossed tightly over her chest.

Charles felt the weight of her words hit him like a physical blow. “So, this is how we’re doing it now?” he asked, his voice rising in frustration. “You’re just going to walk away without telling me anything? After everything?”

Y/N didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened. “I don’t owe you an explanation. You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. You made it pretty clear that whatever was between us was over.”

Charles’s fists clenched at his sides. “I wasn’t avoiding you!” he snapped. “I didn’t know how to fix things after... after everything blew up between us. I didn’t know what you wanted from me.”

“You’re right. You didn’t know,” Y/N replied, her voice edged with bitterness. “And you still don’t seem to know. You pushed me away, Charles. Every time I tried to reach out, you gave me the cold shoulder. You made it impossible to talk.”

Charles’s heart clenched as her words cut through him. He knew he hadn’t been perfect. He’d acted out of pride, out of fear, but hearing it from her—finally hearing the hurt he had caused—made him realize how badly he had screwed up.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his tone shifting as the anger bled from him. “I... I wasn’t thinking straight. I was afraid of getting too close, of messing things up even more. But I’m still here, Y/N. And I don’t want to lose you.”

Y/N looked at him, her eyes searching his face, trying to read him. She shook her head, her voice quiet but firm. “You still haven’t told me what you want, Charles. All this time, I’ve been trying to figure out where we stood. One minute you’re cold, the next minute you’re trying to get close. I don’t want to keep playing these games.”

Charles took a step forward, his eyes never leaving hers, feeling his heart pound in his chest. “I want you near me, Y/N,” he said, his voice low, vulnerable. “I want you to stay. I can’t stand the thought of you leaving, of you being with another team, cheering for someone else. I want to be the one you’re cheering for. I want to be the one to make you smile, to be the one you look to when things are tough. I’m still in this. And I need you to know that.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her emotions conflicting as she stood there, absorbing his words. She had spent so much time convincing herself that she needed to move on, that leaving would be the best option for her own peace of mind. But now, with Charles standing before her, his raw honesty making her heart ache, she wasn’t so sure.

“I’ll think about it,” she said softly, the weight of the decision heavy on her shoulders. “But you need to understand, I can’t just jump back into something without knowing for sure. I’ve been through a lot with you, Charles. I need time to think, to decide what I really want.”

Charles nodded, his expression intense but patient. “I understand,” he said, his voice sincere. “I just... I don’t want you to leave. But I won’t rush you into anything. Take your time. Just know that I’m here, Y/N. I always will be.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her thoughts swirling. There was a part of her that still cared deeply for him, but after everything, she wasn’t sure if she could open herself up again so easily. She had been hurt, and she needed to protect herself.

“I’ll think about it,” she repeated, then turned to walk away, her steps heavy, but her heart conflicted.

As she disappeared into the crowd, Charles stood there, watching her go, unsure of what the future held but knowing he’d do whatever it took to make things right.

---

Final Race of the Season – Ferrari Paddock, Morning

The energy in the Ferrari paddock was electric. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the sprawling circuit. Fans were already lining the stands, the roar of their excitement barely contained as they chanted Ferrari’s name. Inside the motorhome, the mood was one of focused optimism. This was it—the final race of the season. Charles Leclerc was in the running for the World Drivers’ Championship, and the whole team could feel the weight of the moment.

Y/N stood in her usual spot by the garage, hands resting on the edge of the railing as she watched the team bustle around her. The crew was finishing up final preparations, tightening bolts, checking the cars, and going over the strategy one last time. Everyone was working with a singular goal in mind: a championship win for Charles.

The tension in the air was palpable, but it was also mixed with an undeniable excitement. The team knew that this was more than just another race. This was history. This was the culmination of a season’s worth of hard work, sacrifices, and passion. And Charles was right there, on the cusp of greatness.

Charles had been in a quiet, focused mood since the morning, his usual confidence tempered by the magnitude of the moment. Y/N couldn’t help but notice the way he moved through the paddock, his sharp gaze scanning everything and everyone, but there was an undercurrent of nervousness that even he couldn’t hide. She hadn’t spoken to him much in the past few days, still trying to figure out her feelings after their heated conversation. But today, there was no time for anything personal; there was only the race, the championship, and the team.

Driver’s Briefing – Just Before the Race

In the briefing room, Charles sat at the table, surrounded by his team—his manager, the engineers, and team principal. The atmosphere was tense, but there was an undercurrent of excitement. Everyone knew what was at stake.

His engineer looked over the final race data one more time before glancing up at Charles. “We’re ready, Charles. The car’s in perfect condition. Just stay focused and execute the plan. You’ve got this.”

Charles nodded, though he felt a familiar tightness in his chest. It wasn’t just the car, the strategy, or the race itself that weighed on him now. It was the fact that everything was coming down to this. The championship was within his reach—but not without a fight.

“I know,” Charles replied quietly, though his voice was steady. “I’ll give it everything I have.”

The team looked to him with confidence, a few giving him reassuring smiles. But deep down, Charles knew he couldn’t do this alone. It wasn’t just the car that would get him to the finish line; it was the team, the people who had worked tirelessly with him all season long. And it was Y/N, too.

He hadn’t spoken to her much since that conversation between them—the one where he admitted his feelings, and she said she needed time to think. He knew he hadn’t given her the answers she was looking for, but today, in this moment, he couldn’t let those feelings linger. There was too much riding on this race.

Ferrari Garage – Moments Before the Race

Outside, the race cars roared to life as mechanics scrambled to make final checks. In the Ferrari garage, Y/N stood, her focus sharp as she watched Charles make his way to the car. She hadn’t seen him look so determined in a long time, his usual cool demeanor replaced by an almost electric intensity.

Y/N’s heart raced as she observed him. There was something in his eyes—something beyond the desire to win. This wasn’t just about the championship for him. This was about proving to himself that he could reach the top.

As Charles walked past her to get into the car, he glanced over, his gaze meeting hers for a fleeting second. She saw the depth of emotion in his eyes—tension, fear, hope. For a moment, time seemed to slow as they shared that wordless exchange.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she felt the weight of it all—the years of racing, the ups and downs, and the uncertainty that had hung between them. And now, it was all leading to this.

Without thinking, she took a step closer, calling out softly, “Charles…”

He paused, his head turning slightly, as if waiting for her to say more. But Y/N simply nodded, a small, encouraging smile tugging at her lips.

“You’ve got this,” she said, her voice steady but warm.

Charles held her gaze for a long moment, and the tiniest of smiles crept onto his face. “Thank you,” he said, before turning to get into his car.

---

As the cars lined up on the grid, the energy around the track reached a fever pitch. The roar of the engines, the cheering from the stands, and the palpable tension in the Ferrari garage were all one and the same. This was it.

Y/N’s heart was racing as the lights went out, and the roar of the crowd seemed to blur into the background. She was watching every moment, every turn, her attention fixed on Charles as he battled for the championship. She could see the focus in his eyes, the sheer determination in the way he drove.

The laps flew by, and with each passing minute, it became clearer: this wasn’t just a race. It was everything. And Y/N realized, in that moment, that she was still deeply invested in Charles’s journey—more than she had been willing to admit before.

The final lap was upon them. Charles was in the lead, but the pressure was immense. Every turn, every move counted. The gap between him and the second-place driver was closing fast, but Charles’s focus was unwavering. He wasn’t going to let it slip now—not after everything.

The last corner approached, and the crowd was on the edge of their seats. Charles’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his mind racing with calculations and possibilities. This was it.

As he crossed the finish line, the roar of the crowd was deafening. He had done it. Charles Leclerc had won the World Drivers' Championship. Ferrari had done it.

In the Ferrari garage, Y/N felt her heart leap in her chest as the radio crackled to life: "Charles, you’re the World Champion."

The team erupted in cheers, but Y/N stood there for a moment, stunned. Her eyes locked on Charles, who was beaming with a mixture of disbelief and joy. In that instant, it wasn’t just the victory that struck her—it was the person standing there, the man who had worked so hard for this moment, who had finally reached the pinnacle of his career.

Podium Ceremony – After the Race

Charles stood on the podium, a giant smile plastered on his face as the Ferrari anthem played. The champagne sprayed, the fans cheered, and for that brief moment, it felt like the whole world had come together to celebrate him.

And in the crowd, Y/N stood, her heart swelling with pride. This was his moment, but it felt like it was also something they had both worked toward, together. The emotions that had been brewing between them were still there—complicated and unresolved—but for now, it was enough to know that they had made it this far.

As Charles scanned the crowd, his eyes landed on Y/N. There was a brief, wordless connection—a recognition of everything they had been through, everything they had yet to say to each other.

---

Celebration Party – Ferrari After-Party, Night

The Ferrari celebration party was in full swing, a night filled with champagne, laughter, and the electric buzz of victory in the air. The club was alive with music, flashing lights, and the collective joy of the team’s hard-earned success. Yet amidst the noise and chaos, Charles felt an odd pull—a need to find someone. Someone who had been a silent, steady presence in his journey to this moment.

He scanned the room, his eyes skimming over the familiar faces of teammates, engineers, and other drivers, but something—or rather someone—was missing. The absence was a heavy weight on his chest. He knew where to look.

Charles made his way through the crowded venue, passing the large windows that overlooked the city. The balcony outside, illuminated by soft golden lights, offered a quiet contrast to the party’s excitement. And there she was.

Y/N stood alone, her figure silhouetted against the dark night sky, the lights of the city twinkling below her. She wore a simple yet stunning yellow dress, the color of sunshine that seemed to glow in the soft lighting, its fabric rippling gently in the night breeze. Her hair was loosely tied back, strands of it escaping to frame her face in soft waves.

She was gazing out over the horizon, her arms crossed lightly in front of her, lost in thought.

Charles’s heart skipped a beat as he watched her from a distance, unsure of how to approach. There was something about the way she stood there, so calm, so serene, that made everything feel even more surreal. He had just won the championship, but it was the sight of her, standing alone in that beautiful dress, that made his chest tighten with emotion.

The celebration buzzed behind them — champagne fizzed, music pulsed, laughter echoed down the marble corridors of the luxurious hotel. But Y/N stood alone on the balcony, the glow of the city casting a golden sheen against her yellow dress, her hair swaying softly in the sea breeze. She looked out over the marina where a hundred glittering boats bobbed in celebration of Charles’s newly earned title — the World Drivers' Champion.

He found her there, away from the noise and attention, as though he always knew she would be somewhere quieter, somewhere only he might think to look. His footsteps slowed as he saw her — the way she was wrapped in her own thoughts, back straight, but heavy with something unsaid.

“Y/N,” he said gently, stepping out into the warm night.

She turned to face him, eyes guarded. “Charles.”

There was a beat of silence, thick with tension. The hum of the city filled the space between them.

“I’ve been looking for you all night,” he said, coming to stand beside her, though not too close.

She gave a soft laugh, bitter at the edges. “Well, I’ve been right here. Watching you celebrate everything you’ve worked for.”

“You weren’t by my side,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t think I was allowed to be anymore,” she murmured, her eyes meeting his now — tired, a little cracked, but still burning with the same stubborn fire he remembered.

Charles looked away briefly, jaw tensing. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”

“I didn’t want it to end at all,” she admitted, voice breaking ever so slightly. “But it had to.”

He turned fully to her then, heart pounding. “Why? Why does it have to? Because of the team? Because of what we might risk?”

Her gaze hardened, but her voice trembled. “You’re the one who told me I was a distraction. You’re the one who said we couldn’t happen. And when I started moving on, you—”

“I was scared,” he cut in, desperate. “Scared of messing everything up. Scared of being weak.”

She shook her head, stepping away slightly. “And now you’re here, asking me to undo all the choices I made just to survive being near you.”

“I’m not asking you to undo anything,” he said, stepping toward her again. “I’m asking you to fight for us. Now. While we still can.”

She looked at him, expression unreadable, eyes glassy. “I love you, Charles,” she said, like a confession dragged from her soul. “But I don’t know if love is enough.”

It was his turn to break.

“I love you,” he said, voice rough, raw. “I’ve loved you through every race, every moment you looked at Carlos like you were trying to make yourself believe it could work. I loved you when you smiled at me like you hated me. I loved you when you kissed me like you didn’t know if you ever could again.”

Her breath caught, lips parting in shock — not from the words, but from the pain in his voice. He stepped closer, placing his hand gently on the railing beside her, crowding into her space just enough for her to feel the heat of him.

“You said you didn’t want to be the reason Ferrari fell apart,” he whispered. “But I’m telling you — Ferrari means nothing if I lose you. This title means nothing if I can't come home to you. If I can’t look at you on a Sunday and know you're mine.”

Tears slipped down her cheek before she could stop them. “I already handed in my resignation,” she admitted, voice cracking. “I told them I’d finish the season and then I’d go.”

“And if I asked you to stay?” he asked, voice low and urgent. “If I asked you to be by my side, not just here — but through all of it. The good. The brutal. The broken.”

Her heart thudded against her ribs, torn between logic and longing. “You’d really risk it all for me?”

“I already did,” he whispered, brushing a tear from her cheek. “I risked losing you once. I won’t do it again.”

She leaned forward then, forehead against his, breathing him in like he was oxygen after drowning. The anger, the confusion, the heartbreak — all of it spilled between them in silence, and when he kissed her this time, it wasn’t desperate or rushed.

It was home.

It was finally.

When they pulled apart, her breath still caught in her throat, she smiled through her tears.

“I’ll stay,” she whispered. “Not for the team. Not for the job. But for you. Because I want a life where you’re not just my heartbreak. You’re my happiness too.”

He pulled her into his arms, holding her tighter than he ever had before.

Outside, the world still celebrated his victory.

Inside, Charles Leclerc had finally won the only thing he had ever truly wanted — her.

---

The music hit differently now.

As Charles pushed open the glass balcony door, his hand laced gently with Y/N’s, the ambient noise of clinking glasses and layered conversations swelled back into their ears. The soft lighting of the ballroom cast a warm glow across the elegant interior, a golden haze that felt almost surreal now — like a dream stretching into reality.

People turned. Heads swiveled.

They weren’t exactly subtle.

She wore her yellow dress, hair tousled by the ocean breeze, cheeks flushed from tears and everything that came before. Charles’s hand around hers was sure. Protective. Possessive, even — but not in the way that suffocated. In the way that meant you’re mine, and I don’t want the world unless you’re in it.

Carlos noticed them first from across the room, glass halfway to his lips, mouth stilling at the sight. His eyes met Y/N’s briefly — a flicker of something unreadable — before he gave her the smallest of nods. She returned it. No shame. No explanation. Just quiet understanding between two people who knew what it meant to let go.

Charles kept her close as they walked deeper into the room, slipping past colleagues and Ferrari crew who had long speculated and whispered about what wasn’t being said. Now there was nothing left to hide.

Rosie, Harriet, and Izzy stood near the bar, mouths agape as they caught sight of the pair. Izzy elbowed Rosie with a grin, whispering something that made Harriet’s eyebrows arch with delighted surprise.

The air shifted.

Not in tension.

In clarity.

Because now, it was known. Not as a scandal, not as a misstep — but as something earned after months of misunderstandings, missed chances, and near-misses that nearly tore them apart.

Charles paused as someone handed him a fresh glass of champagne. He took it with a polite nod, but then turned — handing it straight to Y/N instead.

“For you,” he said, lips brushing her temple. “You were always part of this win, whether you stayed or not.”

She smiled — soft, shy, real. “I think I’m ready to celebrate properly now.”

They didn’t say we’re together. They didn’t need to.

They just existed — side by side, in sync, like maybe they’d always been meant to find each other through all the wreckage.

And as the party roared on and the night stretched over a blanket of stars, Charles and Y/N stood in the middle of it all — no longer watching each other from across the room, but finally, finally home. In each other's arms.

--- 18+

Charles hotel room – later that night

The door clicked shut behind them.

The silence in the room was heavy — thick — but not uncertain. It hummed with every unspoken word, every fight, every stolen glance across the garage. The walls had no idea what they were about to witness.

Charles didn’t say a word as he backed her gently against the wall, his eyes dark, burning with months of denial. His hands pressed at her waist, fingers twitching as if he still wasn’t sure she was real — here, finally, his.

“You don’t know,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

“I think I do,” she whispered back.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t soft — not at first. It was hungry, desperate, the kind of kiss that bruised lips and wrecked self-control. He pressed her hard into the wall, one hand gripping her jaw while the other slid down her thigh, hitching her leg around his waist. His body fit to hers like they were meant to come undone this way — no barriers, no more hiding.

His hands were on her face, threading into her hair as he kissed her like he needed to — like every second they hadn’t done this had been unbearable. His mouth moved over hers with urgency, but there was something else beneath it — reverence. Worship. His thumbs brushed her cheeks, his lips soft one moment and bruising the next, like he couldn’t decide whether to claim her or cherish her.

She gasped against his mouth as he rolled his hips into hers, already hard, already straining against the thin barrier of his trousers.

“Charles—”

He pulled back just long enough to meet her gaze. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

She shook her head, eyes wide and dark. “Don’t you dare.”

That was all he needed.

He lifted her, carrying her across the room and laying her gently onto the edge of the bed, eyes trailing down the dip of her yellow dress, the fabric still clinging to her curves. His hands moved with purpose, slipping the straps off her shoulders and watching the silk fall to her waist.

“Mon dieu…” he whispered, breath catching. “You’re… merde, you’re beautiful.”

Her hands reached for the buttons of his shirt, pulling him in closer, dragging him down to kiss her again — slower this time, more deliberate. Tongues tangling, lips grazing in worship. He kissed down her neck, biting softly just above her collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

She tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel him — skin on skin. Charles shrugged it off, barely breaking their kiss, and pulled her dress from her body like he’d imagined doing it a hundred times. She was left standing there in nothing but her underwear, her breath shallow, her skin flushed under his gaze.

“Putain…” he breathed, running a hand down the side of her waist. “You’re perfect.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, guiding her backwards toward the bed. His fingers skimmed over her spine as he unhooked her bra, and when she lay back against the sheets, he paused to just take her in. His hands slid along her thighs, up her hips, and then he was crawling over her, his mouth dragging a line from her collarbone to her stomach — gentle, deliberate, as if each inch of her skin mattered.

He kissed lower — reverent now — across her stomach, down her hips, until she whimpered, hands gripping the sheets.

“Charles,” she breathed. “Please.”

He growled low in his throat, eyes flicking up to hers. “You’ll have to be more specific, chérie.”

His mouth was sin, his tongue coaxing moans from her lips with maddening precision. He took his time, learning every sound she made, every stutter in her breath. When her thighs trembled and she cried out his name, he moved up her body, kissing her deeply — letting her taste herself on his lips.

“I need to feel you,” she whispered, fingers tangling in his hair.

He came up to kiss her, their foreheads pressing together. “I’ve needed this for so long,” he murmured. “I’m going to take my time.”

When he finally entered her, he went slow — achingly slow — giving her every second to feel it, to adjust, to meet him fully. Her eyes fluttered closed, a soft gasp slipping from her lips as he buried himself to the hilt.

Charles stilled, resting his forehead against hers. “You okay?”

She nodded, fingers tracing the muscles along his back. “More than okay.”

They moved together in perfect rhythm, as if their bodies had always known how to find each other in the dark. He kissed her as he thrust into her, deep and deliberate, his hand lacing with hers above her head. Their bodies tangled, twisted, breaths caught between moans and whispers.

He spoke to her in French between kisses — soft, broken phrases that made her feel like she was the only woman he’d ever wanted to say them to.

And then something shifted.

The tenderness turned to urgency. He angled her hips, driving deeper, harder, their bodies now colliding with more force — rough but never careless. Her nails dragged down his back as he groaned her name against her neck, the pace frantic, desperate, their need no longer contained.

“Charles—” she cried, her legs locking around his waist. “I’m close.”

“Let go for me,” he panted. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

And she did — with his name on her lips, her back arching off the mattress, her body trembling around him.

“Mine,” he grunted, lips brushing her ear. “You’re mine, now. You always have been.”

She whimpered, pulling him impossibly closer. “You’re mine.”

He followed with a shuddered moan, collapsing against her, their hearts racing in sync, skin slick, breaths tangled.

For a moment, they lay in silence — only the hum of the city outside and the soft sound of their breathing filled the space.

Charles brushed the hair from her face and kissed her shoulder. “That… was worth every fight.”

Y/N smiled, lips swollen, eyes glassy. “You’re worth the mess.”

And when the silence returned, it wasn’t heavy.

It was safe.

He kissed her shoulder, her temple, her jaw. “Stay tonight,” he murmured.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.

Not anymore.

21 notes · View notes

w3haw3ll · 2 months ago

Text

Red & Yellow- CL16

Enemies to Lovers x Love Triangle x Unrequited love

8.4K of 20.4K Words (Masterlist)(This has been split into 2 parts cause tumblr didn't want me to post it in one)(Part 2)

When Y/N joins Ferrari’s pit crew in her rookie season, she never expects to clash with star driver Charles Leclerc. What starts as friction quickly turns into something far more volatile: an undeniable, slow-burning connection neither of them can ignore. With teammate Carlos Sainz caught in the middle, secrets, jealousy, and heartbreak threaten to derail not just their careers—but their hearts. In the chaos of rivalries, podiums, and late-night confessions, Charles and Y/N must decide if love is worth risking everything.

The paddock buzzed with a familiar kind of chaos—the kind that pulsed under the surface, electric and invisible. Between the rows of glossy hospitality units and the towering motorhomes painted in team colors, there was a rhythm to the movement: mechanics rolled tire carts with muscle memory, engineers huddled around blinking laptops, and journalists lurked like vultures with their lenses and leading questions.

Y/N L/N had always dreamed of being part of the world she watched from behind the barriers. Growing up with a father who lived and breathed motorsport, her childhood was spent in karting garages and pit lanes, absorbing every engine note and race strategy like gospel. After years of hard work, an engineering degree, and proving herself in smaller racing series, she finally got her break—an offer to join the Ferrari Formula 1 pit crew. It was everything she’d ever wanted… but nothing could’ve prepared her for the firestorm that came with working for Scuderia Ferrari.

Y/N stood just outside the Ferrari garage, the air thick with the scent of hot rubber and engine oil, her fireproof suit slightly unzipped at the collar. The Mediterranean sun—merciless and brilliant—bounced off the asphalt, turning the paddock into a maze of shimmering heat and tension. The noise was constant: the screech of power tools, the crackle of radio chatter, and somewhere deeper, the guttural growl of a power unit being tested.

She adjusted her headset and scanned the line of crew members prepping for the next stint. Rosie leaned against a tire trolley, wiping grease from her fingers with a rag, her dark hair tied up in a messy bun. Next to her, Harriet checked telemetry data on a tablet, her brows furrowed in quiet concentration. Izzy knelt by the rear left tire, murmuring something about camber angles, her tone clipped but focused.

“Rookie, you good?” Rosie called over, eyes squinting beneath her visor.

Y/N nodded, even though her heart was hammering harder than she liked to admit. Every race felt like an exam she hadn’t studied for, every mistake a spotlight on her inexperience. She was still learning the rhythm of the team—the shorthand communication, the split-second timing. And worse, she was still learning how to keep her composure under the weight of Charles Leclerc’s scrutiny.

She caught a glimpse of him through the blur of red uniforms. He was walking toward the garage, race suit unzipped to his waist, revealing the black undershirt stretched across his chest. He didn’t look at her. He never did for long. Just a glance, a flicker of something unreadable in those stormy green eyes, and then nothing. Like she was a mistake he refused to acknowledge.

Y/N swallowed hard and turned away, focusing on the checklist in her hands. She could feel him approaching anyway, like the shift in atmosphere before a thunderstorm—charged, unpredictable.

The paddock wasn’t just a workplace. It was a stage. And this season, she was under the spotlight, like it or not.

“Y/N!”

She turned toward the familiar voice, already smiling before she saw him. Carlos Sainz jogged up, his hair damp from the heat and a grin tugging at his mouth. He offered her a cold water bottle like it was some kind of peace offering.

“You looked like you were about to burst into flames,” he teased, his Spanish accent warm, like sunlight on skin.

“I might,” Y/N said with a laugh, taking the bottle gratefully. “You guys get to sit in the cool-down room. We’re out here melting into the asphalt.”

Carlos tilted his head, mock offended. “Excuse me, we’re sweating in those cockpits. You’ve never driven an F1 car at 300 kph, I take it?”

“I’d like to keep my limbs intact, thanks.”

He laughed—genuine, loud, and easy. Around them, the garage buzzed on, but for a second it felt like they were in their own quiet corner of the chaos. Y/N didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on her. Kind, admiring… maybe a little too long.

She appreciated Carlos. From the start of the season, he’d gone out of his way to talk to her, to check in, to make her feel like more than just the "new girl" in the pit crew. But there was always that flicker in his eyes— a glimpse of something more. Yet she couldn’t give it back.

Not when her pulse did that annoying, disloyal skip every time Charles was in the room.

"Are you staying around after the race? We’re grabbing dinner—Rosie, some of the engineers, maybe even Izzy if we bribe her with wine. You should come,” Carlos said, his tone light but hopeful.

Before Y/N could answer, a shadow passed between them.

Charles.

He didn’t say a word as he brushed by, but the glance he gave her—barely a second—was razor-sharp. Disapproving. Or maybe annoyed. Or maybe nothing. But it felt like something.

Y/N blinked after him, her chest tightening.

Carlos followed her gaze, then looked back at her, his smile dimming just a little. “You don’t have to say yes now,” he said quietly. “Just… think about it.”

She nodded, voice caught somewhere between obligation and guilt. “I will.”

But even as Carlos walked off, the only thing she could think about was the way Charles hadn’t said a single word.

And how badly she wanted him to.

---

The roar of the race was deafening.

Tyres screamed across tarmac as Charles’ Ferrari screamed into the pit lane, cutting through the blur of sun and adrenaline. The world moved in heartbeats—seconds sliced into milliseconds. Y/N was already in position, crouched and focused, drill steady in her gloved hands. The choreography was second nature by now. Precision. Perfection. No time for error.

She didn’t look up. Not yet.

The car slammed to a stop with brutal grace. A symphony of movement followed: tyres off, tyres on, a blur of red suits and carbon fiber and practised speed.

Then—half a second too long—Y/N hesitated.

She looked up.

And he was already looking at her.

Through the slit of his visor, his eyes locked onto hers—sharp, stormy green, the kind of gaze that rooted her to the spot and stole the breath from her lungs. The air between them thickened, warped. Time fractured. The pit lane, the race, the engine noise—all of it blurred into background static.

There were fifty people around them, two dozen cameras, and a stopwatch ticking down to the tenth of a second—but in that frozen instant, none of it mattered. It was like the world had narrowed to just the space between them. Like his gaze had reached inside her chest and wrapped around something fragile.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Neither did he.

There was something unspoken in his stare—burning, unresolved, and impossibly loud for something that hadn’t made a sound. Anger, maybe. Longing. Or confusion, like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to pull her closer or push her away.

Her pulse thundered. Her chest ached.

The moment shattered as quickly as it had formed—like glass dropped from a height. The tyres were on, the jack dropped, and the car peeled away with a shriek. He was gone.

But the look stayed.

Y/N rose to her feet slowly, her heart still racing faster than the car that had just left. Izzy clapped her shoulder as they moved back, none the wiser.

“Clean,” Izzy muttered, nodding toward the monitors. “Good stop.”

But Y/N didn’t hear her.

All she could think about was the way Charles had looked at her, like he’d never seen anyone so clearly in his life.

And worse—like he hated that he had.

---

The roar of the crowd was thunderous, echoing across the circuit like a wave breaking against the sky. Red flags flared in the stands, and camera flashes turned the podium into a stage of light and glitter. Charles stood at the top step, champagne dripping from his fireproofs, the Monégasque anthem swelling around him like a crown.

He should’ve felt invincible.

Instead, his eyes scanned the crowd—restless, searching. His heart was still thundering, not from the race, not from the roar of Ferrari’s power unit or the weight of the trophy in his hands.

He was looking for her.

And then he saw her.

Off to the side, half-shadowed by one of the garage partitions, Y/N stood with the rest of the pit crew. Her suit was smeared with the grit of the day, her hair escaping her cap, headset slung around her neck like an afterthought. She wasn’t cheering. Wasn’t waving.

She was just… looking at him.

And when their eyes met, the noise fell away.

The champagne, the fireworks, the national anthem—they became background noise to something quieter. Something deeper. The look in her eyes wasn’t celebratory. It wasn’t impressed. It wasn’t awe. It was real. Like she saw him—not the driver, not the winner—but the man behind it all.

And damn it, that look undid him.

For a moment, Charles forgot to breathe. His fingers tightened around the bottle in his hand, his chest rising with a strange, unfamiliar ache. He’d just won the race. He should be celebrating, should be smiling, soaking in the glory.

But all he could think about was that split second in the pit lane.

The way she looked at him now.

The way it felt like she was the only one who knew he didn’t feel whole unless she was in his orbit.

Carlos nudged his shoulder with his own bottle, laughing as champagne sprayed into the air again. Charles forced a smile, lifting his arms with the others, nodding for the cameras.

But his eyes—his eyes drifted back to her.

And hers were still on him.

In the middle of the noise and flashing lights and adoring cheers, it felt like they were alone. Like that look between them held the weight of something unspoken, something inevitable.

Something they were both too afraid to say.

Yet.

The Ferrari after-party was exactly what you'd expect from a team that had just secured a Grand Prix victory—bold, decadent, and pulsing with the kind of energy only a win could summon.

Set atop a sleek rooftop in the heart of the city, the venue overlooked a sprawl of glittering lights below. Ambient lighting bathed the space in hues of crimson and gold, casting long shadows against the sleek black floors and polished chrome fixtures. Soft house music hummed through the air, the bass subtle enough to feel rather than hear. Laughter and champagne mixed like perfume, and the terrace buzzed with team members, sponsors, media, and a few faces too expensive to name.

Banners bearing the Prancing Horse logo hung between velvet-draped walls. Scattered cocktail tables sparkled under glass lanterns, and trays of prosecco moved through the crowd like clockwork. A victory party, through and through—luxury soaked in scarlet.

But all of it—the music, the lights, the celebration—seemed to fade for a beat when she arrived.

Y/N stepped in quietly, almost unnoticed at first. But the moment she moved into the light, the red of her dress caught every eye in the room. Ferrari red—deep, bold, unapologetic. The silky fabric clung in all the right places, the maxi cut sweeping over the floor like a whisper. A subtle slit ran up one side, enough to tease elegance without begging for attention. Her hair was pinned loosely at the nape of her neck, a few strands falling around her face like an afterthought.

She didn’t try to blend in. She didn’t need to.

Heads turned. Conversations faltered. Even some of the drivers glanced her way with something close to awe.

But she wasn’t looking at any of them.

She was scanning the room, her gaze steady, composed—until it landed on him.

Charles.

He stood near the bar, a drink in hand, still in his race suit undershirt and black trousers. He looked like the victory hadn’t quite settled in him yet, like he was too restless to enjoy it fully.

Until he saw her.

And just like earlier in the pit lane, it happened again—time caught in its own gravity, the world reduced to a look.

She wasn’t just stunning.

She was his undoing.

Even if he couldn’t have her.

Not yet.

It happened in an instant.

One second, Y/N was gliding down the stairs that led from the rooftop terrace to the lower lounge, the hem of her red dress trailing behind her like flame. The next—her heel slipped on the polished edge of a step slick with condensation from a spilled drink.

Her gasp barely left her lips before gravity took hold.

Time twisted.

She braced for impact—but it never came.

Strong hands caught her mid-fall, one gripping her waist, the other catching the underside of her arm just in time to stop her from collapsing against the marble floor. She landed hard against a chest she knew far too well, the scent of champagne, cologne, and motor oil clinging to the black fabric of his undershirt.

“Mon dieu, Y/N—are you okay?”

Charles.

His voice was low, strained, and a little breathless—not from exertion, but from something far tighter in his chest. His grip didn’t loosen immediately. His hand still curled instinctively at her waist, fingertips pressing into the silk of her dress like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Y/N’s heart thundered in her chest. “I—yeah. I think so. Just slipped.”

“Slipped?” he echoed, as if the idea of her falling was something he couldn’t quite process. He helped her upright, but even once she was standing, his hands lingered for a beat too long. His eyes searched hers—stormy green, unsettled.

A few members of the crew rushed over. Harriet and Rosie appeared at the top of the stairs, eyes wide.

“Y/N!” Rosie called, already hurrying down.

“I’m okay!” she said quickly, brushing down her dress, trying to shake off the embarrassment. But her voice shook more than she wanted. Her ankle throbbed beneath her weight.

Charles was still watching her. “You’re not okay. You’re limping.”

“It’s fine,” she muttered, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he still was. “I can walk.”

“You can’t,” he said, his voice firm now. Protective. “Don’t argue with me.”

Before she could stop him, he dipped down and swept an arm behind her knees, lifting her into his chest in one smooth motion. She gasped, hands gripping his shoulders.

“Charles—put me down. People are watching.”

“I don’t care,” he said flatly, already walking.

And she believed him. In that moment, with her dress flowing over his arms and his jaw tight with something unspoken, she truly believed he didn’t care who was watching. Not when it came to her.

The crowd parted for them. Whispers rippled through the room.

But Y/N couldn’t look at anyone else. Not when his heartbeat was pounding against her ribs, steady and unrelenting.

Not when the moment felt like a turning point in a story they hadn’t even admitted they were writing.

“Come on let's get a drink! I cant believe you feel like that!” Izzy exclaimed laughing. Pulling Y/N away from Charles, severing the strong connection that had brewed while the pair were intertwined.

---

The party had all made their way to the dance floor leaving the balcony reasonably quiet.

The music was softer outside, the rooftop bathed in the low hum of golden city lights and the faint clink of half-finished drinks. Some of the guests had filtered toward the lounges or disappeared into the warm night, leaving the Ferrari crew to linger in clusters of quiet laughter and softened celebration.

Charles leaned against the balcony railing, drink forgotten in his hand, his jaw tight.

Carlos joined him with a lazy grin, sipping a beer and nudging him playfully with his shoulder.

“Hell of a night, huh?” Carlos said, his eyes glinting with something more than victory. “You’re still the star, but I’ve got to admit... Y/N in that dress almost stole the show.”

Charles didn’t reply.

Carlos smirked. “She’s special, man. I mean, really—smart, funny, always knows what to say in the garage when everything’s tense. And she actually listens. It’s rare, you know? I’ve never met someone like her.”

Charles’ grip tightened around the glass in his hand.

“And she’s gorgeous,” Carlos went on, completely unaware. “Like, obviously. But it’s not just that. There’s something about her. The way she looks at people. The way she carries herself like she doesn’t even realise—”

“She’s not that special,” Charles cut in suddenly, voice sharp.

Carlos blinked, surprised. “What?”

Charles took a breath, forced a scoff. “She’s… fine. She’s new, she’s eager, and yeah, she’s nice. But she’s not different. Don’t act like she’s some mystery no one can solve. She’s just another girl on the crew.”

Silence.

Carlos raised an eyebrow, something unreadable flickering in his gaze now. “You don’t believe that.”

“I do,” Charles said quickly. Too quickly. “She’s not someone I’d waste time thinking about.”

Behind them—just out of sight, just out of reach—Y/N stood frozen.

She had been walking up from the lower lounge, a soft drink in hand, intent on catching some air. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. She hadn’t meant to hear anything at all.

But she had.

And it echoed in her ears now like a slap.

She’s not that special.

Her stomach twisted. Her chest tightened.

She turned away before either of them saw her, slipping back down the stairs, the laughter and music around her now hollow and distant.

Charles didn’t know she’d heard.

But when he turned to look over the balcony again, some part of him still felt wrong—like he’d just said something he couldn’t take back.

And maybe, deep down, he didn’t believe it either.

---

The city lights blurred past her cab window, streaks of gold and red that matched the ache sitting heavy in her chest.

Y/N sat curled into the corner of the back seat, arms wrapped around herself, the red dress that had once made her feel invincible now clinging cold and limp to her skin. She blinked hard, willing herself not to cry—but the sting behind her eyes refused to fade.

She’s not that special.

His voice kept echoing in her head, over and over, louder than the music, louder than Carlos’ praise. She had replayed the look he gave her on the podium, the way he caught her on the stairs, the way it felt like the world narrowed when their eyes met—and it all shattered under that one sentence.

She should have known better.

She told herself that all season—don’t get too close, don’t blur the lines, don’t fall for someone like Charles Leclerc.

And now she was paying for it.

---

Back at the rooftop, the night was still humming with the high of victory. Music floated through the open terrace doors, champagne flutes clinked over half-laughed stories, and the soft glow of the city lit up the skyline like a postcard.

But Charles wasn’t listening anymore.

He moved through the space with a kind of quiet urgency, eyes scanning over every face, every corner. He checked the upper lounge first, then near the bar, then the dance floor—where the music had taken hold of the more inebriated guests. She wasn’t there.

“She left?” he asked, turning to Izzy, who was busy untangling her heels from a rug near the terrace steps.

Izzy nodded absently. “Yeah, I think she left a while ago. Didn’t say much. Just kind of… disappeared.”

His stomach dropped, though he didn’t let it show. “Right.”

“Is everything okay?” she asked, noticing the shift in his tone.

He offered a faint smile. “Yeah. Just thought I saw her. No big deal.”

But it was a big deal.

Something about her absence gnawed at him. All night she’d felt like a constant in his peripheral vision—the way she moved through the garage, through the crowd earlier, through him. Like gravity. And now she was gone, and the win suddenly felt muted, detached from the celebration it was meant to crown.

He pulled out his phone without thinking, the realisation that he didn't have her number. He debated asking if anyone he knew did.

Instead, he slipped it back into his pocket with a slow breath.

He told himself she was just tired. That she had every reason to leave early. That maybe the crowd had been too much.

What he didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that she’d heard every word.

That his voice, so easy and dismissive on that balcony, had followed her all the way home.

That she was curled up on her bed now, dress still on, makeup smudged, trying to convince herself she had imagined it. That it hadn’t meant anything. That it didn’t hurt.

But it did.

And while Charles stood beneath the rooftop lights, wondering what he might’ve missed, Y/N was already building walls he didn’t yet know he’d have to break down.

---

The soft knock at Y/N’s apartment door came just after ten.

She wasn’t expecting anyone. Hair tied up messily, dressed in an oversized Ferrari hoodie, she padded barefoot across the living room. The ache in her chest hadn’t dulled—if anything, it had sharpened with daylight.

When she opened the door, no one was there.

Just a white box sitting on her welcome mat.

She stared for a moment, heart already rising with suspicion. Her fingers hesitated before she knelt down and pulled the lid back.

Inside was a bouquet—deep crimson roses, offset by delicate white freesia and soft greenery. They smelled like summer and victory and Monaco nights. They smelled like him.

Tucked between the petals was a small, hand-written card.

Hope you're alright. You disappeared last night. — Charles

And beneath that, in smaller, almost uncertain script, his phone number.

She didn’t move for a long time.

The flowers were beautiful—carefully chosen, no doubt. Expensive, but not showy. Thoughtful. It was the kind of gesture that might’ve melted her days ago. The kind of thing that might’ve opened the door to something real.

But now, all it did was tighten the knot in her chest.

She closed the lid gently. Carried the box inside like it might break. Set it on the counter, untouched.

She didn’t text him. Didn’t call.

She didn’t throw the flowers away, either—but she didn’t put them in water.

Instead, she sat by the window with a cup of coffee gone cold, watching the city pass by, wondering if it was foolish to feel so much over someone who’d proven, with just a few careless words, that she didn’t mean as much to him as he did to her.

And across the city, Charles stared at his phone, wondering why the silence between them suddenly felt so loud.

---

Three Days Later – Ferrari Garage

The garage buzzed with the usual pre-race tension—tyres being rolled, data screens flickering, radios crackling with clipped instructions. The crew moved like clockwork, heads down, focus sharp.

Except Charles couldn’t stop glancing toward the far end of the garage.

Where she stood.

Y/N was tightening something along the rear of his car, half-crouched beside Izzy, hair tucked beneath her team cap. She hadn’t looked at him once. Not during the morning meeting. Not when he walked past her to get his helmet. Not even when he let himself linger a second too long, just to see if she’d finally cave and meet his gaze.

She didn’t.

He clenched his jaw, turning back toward the engineers, but her silence shadowed him like a storm cloud.

At first, he’d been patient.

The flowers. The note. He thought she might’ve needed a little time. Maybe she was tired. Maybe she'd had a rough night. Maybe she was just being shy.

But three days?

No text. No call. Not even a nod in the garage.

It didn’t sit right with him.

He tried not to let it show—but it gnawed at him. In briefings, his leg bounced beneath the table. In sim runs, he snapped at his race engineer more than once. Even Carlos noticed.

“You alright, mate?” Carlos asked, nudging him as they walked back from the motorhome.

Charles gave a short nod. “Fine.”

Carlos raised a brow. “You’ve been driving like someone owes you an apology.”

Charles didn’t respond. Not to that.

Because maybe someone did. Or maybe he did. But that wasn’t the point anymore.

He’d reached out. He’d offered a hand—awkwardly, sure, but sincerely.

And she’d ignored him.

He told himself it didn’t bother him. That it was just ego. That she was just a mechanic, part of the team, and her opinion shouldn’t matter this much.

But it did.

It mattered far too much.

And the longer her silence stretched on, the more it chipped at something under his skin—something stubborn, bruised, and beginning to burn.

---

The Spanish sun was high, casting a warm haze over the paddock. The Ferrari motorhome was bustling—crew members shuffling in and out, espresso machines hissing, media floating nearby like vultures.

Y/N leaned against the wall outside the Ferrari garage, arms crossed, grinning as Carlos animatedly recounted a story. He was all hands and charm, his accent thick and playful as he mimicked something dramatic that had happened during a past race weekend.

“…and then I tell the guy, ‘No, no, amigo, that’s not brake fluid—that’s my sweat!’” Carlos finished with mock horror, sending both Harriet and Y/N into laughter.

Y/N tossed her head back, genuinely laughing—full and bright—and it hit Charles like a sucker punch.

She hadn’t laughed like that with him.

From where he stood near his engineers, helmet tucked under one arm, Charles pretended to scroll through his telemetry data, but his eyes kept drifting. Watching. Brooding. Burning.

Carlos reached out and gently bumped Y/N’s shoulder with his own. She nudged him back, still smiling, still not looking at Charles.

And that—that—was what really dug under his skin.

Because she knew he was watching.

He could feel it in the tilt of her head, the way she angled herself ever so slightly away from him. Everything she did was measured, intentional.

She was freezing him out.

And Charles, for the life of him, couldn’t understand why it bothered him this much.

He turned away abruptly, muttering something clipped to his race engineer and heading back inside the garage. The sound of her voice, her laughter—it followed him like a shadow.

She wasn’t just ignoring him.

She was thriving without him.

And that—more than anything—was driving him mad.

---

Race day

The roar of the crowd thundered above the track, but inside the Ferrari garage, everything moved with machine precision. Radios crackled. Tyres lined up like soldiers. Pit crews crouched like coiled springs, waiting.

Y/N stood at her post, headset snug, eyes sharp—except today, she wasn’t as sharp as usual.

Her pulse had been uneven since the lights went out.

Charles was having a solid race. P3 and climbing, milliseconds off the pace of P2. Every turn, every straight—he was surgical. Fast. Ruthless.

But Y/N couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at her in the paddock earlier. That brief flicker of frustration behind his eyes. The jealousy. The silence.

Focus, she told herself. Just do your job.

Lap 42. The call came in.

“Box, box, box.”

Charles was coming in hot. The team moved in sync. Y/N took her place, gloves tight, tools ready, adrenaline spiking. She didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

The red car screamed down the pit lane and stopped with perfect accuracy.

But her hand—her hand—hesitated.

Half a second. Maybe less. A small misread. A mistimed lock. The tyre gun faltered for just a beat longer than it should’ve.

Enough.

By the time the car dropped and Charles peeled out of the box, the damage was done. The McLaren that had trailed him jumped ahead. Then the Red Bull. He came out P5.

And the radio went silent.

Dead silent.

Y/N’s blood drained from her face as she stood frozen in place, the weight of her mistake crashing down like thunder.

She didn’t need anyone to tell her.

She knew.

Back in the garage, the team went into damage control mode—updates, strategy shifts, revised deltas. But Charles wasn’t talking. Not to his engineer. Not to anyone.

He finished P5.

And he didn’t stop in the pit lane afterward.

He drove straight to parc fermé, helmet still on, jaw locked tight. Every muscle in his body screamed restraint.

Y/N didn’t follow the others out to greet him. She stayed inside, still at her post, eyes fixed on the floor.

The mistake was hers.

And Charles Leclerc didn’t lose easily.

---

The paddock was still buzzing with post-race energy—media swarming, engineers talking in tight huddles, and mechanics silently packing up with clenched jaws. For Ferrari, the mood was sour.

Charles was livid.

He had pulled into parc fermé with smoke behind his eyes. P5. After leading the race. After earning that win. And the moment he got back to the motorhome, he demanded the data. He wanted to know why his pit stop had cost him the podium.

That’s when one of the engineers hesitated—eyes flickering, almost sheepish.

“It was… the left rear. A small delay,” they said. “Y/N had trouble locking it in.”

Everything inside Charles stilled. The name echoed.

Y/N.

Of course it was her.

Of course it was this week, when she was too busy laughing with Carlos and freezing Charles out like he didn’t exist.

His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked near his temple.

He didn’t say a word. Just turned on his heel and walked out.

He found her standing at the edge of the paddock, half-hidden near the back of the Ferrari garage, fiddling with her lanyard like she didn’t want to exist.

She looked up when she heard him coming.

“Charles—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off, voice low and cold. “Not here.”

Her throat bobbed, and she nodded, eyes wide.

He stepped in closer, eyes sharp. “Driver’s room. Now.”

She hesitated for a beat—just long enough for him to register it—and he added, quieter but harder: “You owe me that much.”

Then he turned and walked away, not checking to see if she followed. His pace was deliberate, every step a tightly coiled knot of frustration.

In the privacy of his driver’s room, the silence hit like a slap—thick with tension, charged with everything left unsaid between them.

The door clicked shut behind Y/N with a soft finality, and the tension inside the room was suffocating.

Charles stood near the window, his back to her, fireproofs still clinging to his waist, chest rising and falling with restrained breath. The silence between them roared louder than any engine.

Y/N lingered near the door, unsure whether to speak, to apologise, to run.

“I didn’t mean to mess up your stop,” she said quietly, breaking the silence.

He turned slowly, eyes sharp, voice low. “But you did.”

Her chest squeezed. “It was one mistake, Charles—”

“That cost me the race,” he snapped, stepping toward her. “One mistake that dropped me from a win to P5. You think that doesn’t matter?”

“I know it matters. I’ve replayed it a hundred times in my head already, I—”

“No,” he cut in, bitter. “You’ve been too busy laughing with Carlos all weekend to be thinking about anything else.”

That hit harder than it should’ve. Her brows drew together. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, voice low and cutting. “You don’t talk to me for days, you ignore the flowers, you pretend I don’t exist—then suddenly you make the mistake that costs me everything.”

Her voice cracked, half in disbelief, half in anger. “You think I meant to mess up? That I sabotaged you out of some petty grudge?”

Charles didn’t answer. His eyes were stormy and unreadable, his jaw tight.

“God, you’re such an arrogant—” she stepped forward, fury rising. “You can’t even fathom that someone might care about you and mess up at the same time, can you? Everything has to revolve around you—your wins, your pride, your goddamn reputation.”

“Don’t act like you know me,” he bit back. “You’ve been here five races.”

“And you’ve been impossible since day one!”

“You push everyone away,” she added, voice shaking with frustration, “then act surprised when people stop trying!”

That’s when something shifted in him.

Something dangerous.

Charles took a step forward.

Then another.

And another—until Y/N’s back hit the wall behind her with a soft thud.

He braced his hands on either side of her head, arms caging her in, the heat of him nearly unbearable. His breath was shallow, eyes burning into hers, voice husky and dark.

“Maybe I’m impossible because you make it that way.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“You get under my skin,” he murmured, his jaw tight, “and I can’t get you out. Not on track. Not here. Not anywhere.”

Her heart thundered in her chest.

She hated him.

She wanted him.

And they were suddenly so close, her chest brushing his with every breath, her lips a breath from his.

But neither of them moved.

Not yet.

The moment held—charged, breathless, suspended on the edge of something far more dangerous than anger.

The air between them pulsed—quiet but volatile.

Y/N’s back was pressed against the cool wall, but all she could feel was him. Charles stood close, so close that her breath synced with his, so close that the fabric of his race suit brushed her arm when he shifted. His hands were planted on either side of her head, caging her in without touching, his eyes burning straight into hers.

And she couldn’t look away.

His gaze had dropped from her eyes to her lips—and back again.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he was memorising the shape of her.

She didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Her heart pounded louder than any crowd. His chest was rising and falling a little too fast, his jaw tense, eyes flickering with something between restraint and surrender.

Their eyes locked again—and in that heartbeat, everything else disappeared. No team. No garage. No mistakes. Just them, suspended in a moment that felt like it belonged to no one else.

He leaned in.

So did she.

It was subtle, like gravity had shifted, like their bodies already knew what their minds refused to admit. Her lips parted slightly, breath hitching. His hand twitched beside her head.

Then—

He stopped.

Inches from her mouth.

He lingered there, eyes half-lidded, his breath warm against her skin. And then, almost too quietly:

“No.”

It wasn’t angry. It was pained.

He pulled back slowly, carefully, like it physically hurt to do it. But his gaze caught hers one more time—and that was when he saw it.

She had leaned in.

She wanted it.

And now they both knew it.

But still, Charles straightened, forcing distance between them. He cleared his throat, voice dry and clipped.

“This… it’s not happening.”

Y/N froze, every nerve exposed. The ache of the moment cracked into something defensive. She crossed her arms, shoved her heart behind her pride.

“Wow,” she said, voice light and sharp. “That full of yourself, huh?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t respond.

She forced a smirk, stepping out from under his arm. “Don’t worry, Leclerc. You’re not my type anyway.”

Her voice broke just slightly on the last word, but she covered it with a shrug.

“I prefer guys who don’t act like I ruined their lives because of one mistake.”

Charles didn’t chase her when she left. Just stood there, still breathing her in like she hadn’t just walked out the door.

And for the second time that day, he felt like he'd lost something he didn’t even know he needed.

Y/N stepped out of the driver’s room, her breath still shaky, her heart lodged somewhere between her throat and stomach. The door clicked shut behind her, the echo sounding far too loud in the narrow corridor.

She stopped to collect herself.

One second.

Two.

Just enough to blink away the sting in her eyes and steady her expression.

But then—

“Y/N?”

She turned sharply, startled—and there stood Carlos, arms crossed, brows drawn together in concern. He was leaning against the opposite wall, still in his team shirt, post-race lanyard around his neck.

“Were you just in Charles’ room?” he asked, his voice low but puzzled.

Y/N hesitated for half a second too long. She wiped her palms on her jeans, gave him a tired smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said, trying to sound casual. “Just… a disagreement.”

Carlos blinked, straightening slightly. “Disagreement?” His voice held a flicker of something—concern, maybe. Or something else. “Everything alright?”

“Nothing serious,” she lied with practiced ease. “He was frustrated about the race. I get it.”

Carlos studied her face a moment longer, eyes narrowing just slightly. “He didn’t say anything out of line, did he?”

Y/N shook her head. “No. It’s fine. Really.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he gave a small nod, falling into step beside her as she started walking down the hall.

“You shouldn’t let him get to you,” Carlos said softly. “Charles… he doesn’t handle disappointment well.”

Y/N smiled faintly, eyes on the floor. “I’m starting to notice.”

They walked in silence for a few beats.

Carlos glanced sideways at her again, voice gentler this time. “You want to get a drink with the crew tonight? Might help get your mind off everything.”

She looked over at him then—at the warmth in his eyes, the quiet steadiness he always carried—and for a second, she almost said yes. Almost let herself fall into the safe comfort of someone who hadn’t just backed her into a wall and walked away like it meant nothing.

But she couldn’t.

“Maybe,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”

He smiled, understanding threaded through it. “Okay. No pressure.”

But as they kept walking, Y/N could still feel Charles’ presence like a ghost on her skin.

And Carlos? He noticed the way she didn’t quite breathe right the rest of the night.

---

Later That Night – Carlos’ Hotel Room

The room was quiet, warm-lit by the soft glow of a floor lamp beside the window. The buzz of the post-race city outside was faint through the glass, distant and muffled—like a world they’d temporarily stepped away from.

Y/N sat curled on the sofa, her knees tucked up, wrapped in one of Carlos’ oversized hoodies he’d handed her when she admitted she felt cold. Or maybe she just wanted to feel something safe.

Carlos moved around the kitchenette quietly, pouring two glasses of water. Not pushing. Not probing. Just... there.

He handed her a glass, and she smiled gratefully, her fingers brushing his.

“You didn’t have to invite me up,” she murmured.

“You looked like you needed to breathe,” he said simply, sitting beside her with a sigh. “And I didn’t want you to do it alone.”

She looked at him then—really looked—and her chest ached with the difference between this moment and the one in Charles’ driver room. This wasn’t suffocating or fiery or sharp. It was quiet. Kind. Steady.

Carlos glanced down at his hands, fidgeting slightly, before lifting his gaze to hers again.

“I know tonight’s been a lot,” he began, voice low. “And I know Charles… well. I know how he can be.”

Y/N didn’t say anything, but her silence said enough.

Carlos leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m not gonna pretend to know everything that’s going on between you two. But I’ve liked you since the beginning. Since I saw you in the paddock your first week and you said to that Red Bull guy to get out of your workspace.”

That earned a small, surprised laugh from her. Carlos smiled gently.

“I haven’t said anything because I didn’t want to make things weird for you. I thought maybe you liked Charles, or maybe you were just too focused on work. But tonight…”

He paused, meeting her eyes. “Tonight made me want to stop waiting.”

Y/N’s breath caught. He wasn’t pressuring her. He wasn’t dramatic. He was just… honest.

“I like you, Y/N,” he said. “And I think we could be good together. If you’d give me a chance.”

She sat quietly for a long beat, the weight of the night heavy on her shoulders, the sting of Charles’ rejection still sharp in the background.

But Carlos didn’t rush her. He just waited, eyes soft and steady.

And maybe it was the way he made her feel seen. Or the way he didn’t ask her to be anything but herself.

Maybe it was the quiet she needed after the storm.

She nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said softly. “Yeah. I’ll go on a date with you.”

Carlos smiled—genuinely, tenderly—and for the first time all evening, Y/N felt like she could breathe again.

---

The cobblestone promenade shimmered under the glow of golden lamplight, casting long, broken reflections across the still waters of the marina. The breeze off the sea was warm for spring, laced with salt and the faint, lingering hum of laughter from docked restaurants and wine-soaked dinners.

Charles wasn’t meant to be here.

He’d gone for a drive along the coast to clear his head, to forget the ache still sitting behind his ribs since the night of the after-party. But Monaco had a cruel sense of irony—he knew that now—as his quiet detour turned into something else entirely.

Because there, just ahead of him, walking hand in hand along the marina…

Was Y/N.

And Carlos.

Charles stopped dead, heart plummeting in a single beat.

Y/N was laughing at something Carlos had said, her head tilted back slightly, the silk of her soft red top fluttering in the breeze. Her hand was wrapped in Carlos’s like it had always belonged there.

The scene felt… wrong.

No, not wrong.

Unbearably right. For someone else.

Charles’ jaw clenched as he instinctively ducked behind the curve of a parked Vespa, watching from the shadows like a man who had no right to.

Carlos leaned down to whisper something in her ear and she blushed—actually blushed—and nudged him with her shoulder, but didn’t let go of his hand.

They didn’t see him.

Of course they didn’t.

They were too caught up in each other, strolling slowly past the docks like they had nowhere else to be.

Charles hesitated. Every part of him screamed to turn back. To walk away. To pretend like he didn’t care.

But his legs didn’t listen.

He followed.

Not close enough to be seen. Just enough to see.

He watched as they wandered toward a quiet gelato stand near the end of the dock, Carlos stepping up to order while Y/N leaned against a nearby railing, facing the sea.

She smiled again when Carlos returned—accepting the cone he handed her, playful and relaxed.

Charles stared, heart thudding dully in his chest.

He’d had her in front of him—pressed against a wall, eyes locked on his, lips parted, wanting—and he’d let her go.

And now?

Now she looked like she’d finally found someone who made her feel safe.

And it wasn’t him.

---

The elevator ride up to her floor was quiet—charged. Carlos stood close beside her, one hand still lightly linked with hers, the other brushing the side of his thigh as if trying to resist the urge to pull her closer. Y/N could feel the tension radiating off both of them, warm and magnetic, like they were walking the edge of something dangerous and thrilling.

They reached her door.

She paused, the keycard in her hand, her heart thrumming hard in her chest. Carlos stepped in just slightly, eyes locked on hers in the low hallway light.

“I had a really good time tonight,” he said softly.

Y/N smiled. “Me too.”

A beat.

Then Carlos leaned in—and she didn’t stop him.

Their mouths met in a kiss that started gentle but deepened almost instantly, weeks of lingering glances and playful touches finally igniting into something real. Carlos pressed her back gently against the doorframe, his hand cupping her jaw as her fingers slid into the hair at the back of his neck. His lips were soft but demanding, and she responded with a soft, breathy sigh that made him grip her waist tighter.

The kiss grew hotter—his body pressing into hers, her fingers tightening, her lips parting as his tongue swept against hers. Her back arched slightly under his touch, heat flooding between them.

And then—

Y/N pulled back.

Breathing hard, her eyes fluttered open.

Carlos froze instantly, searching her face. “Did I do something wrong?”

She shook her head quickly, her palm still resting on his chest. “No,” she said, her voice low and a little shaky. “No, you didn’t.”

Carlos studied her, waiting.

“I just…” she started, eyes flickering downward before meeting his again. “It’s too soon.”

He softened immediately, his hand on her waist easing. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Of course.”

“I really like you,” she added, needing him to know. “I do. But I’m still… untangling some things in my head.”

Carlos nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face with a tender thumb. “Then we take it slow,” he said. “Whatever pace you want.”

Y/N smiled gratefully, her chest aching with relief.

He leaned in one more time and kissed her forehead gently before stepping back.

“Goodnight, hermosa,” he whispered.

“Night, Carlos.”

She watched him walk away down the hall, her heart caught in a strange place—warmed by his patience, but still echoing with the ghost of green eyes she couldn’t forget.

The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the sounds of the hallway and the distant hum of Marina nightlife.

Y/N leaned back against it, closing her eyes.

Her lips still tingled from Carlos’s kiss—soft, warm, and sweet—but her heart hadn’t caught up. Something inside her felt restless, uneven.

She pushed off the door, walking slowly into the dimly lit room, kicking off her shoes and tugging the hoodie off her shoulders. She stood there in silence, staring at her reflection in the hotel mirror.

And that’s when it happened.

The memory rushed in—unwelcome, vivid, inescapable.

Charles. Inches from her.

The way his body had caged hers against the wall of his driver’s room. His hands pressed on either side of her head, his eyes dark and unreadable, flickering with something wild beneath the surface. The tension in the air had crackled, sharp and electric, so charged she could barely breathe.

She remembered the way his gaze had dropped to her lips. The way her pulse had thundered. The way she’d leaned in—just slightly, without thinking—drawn to him like gravity.

And the way he’d pulled away, leaving her aching and humiliated in the silence that followed.

She sank down onto the edge of the bed now, elbows on her knees, burying her face in her hands.

Why couldn’t she stop thinking about that moment?

Carlos had kissed her like she mattered. Like she was treasured.

But Charles had looked at her like he wanted to destroy her... and yet somehow couldn’t bear not to touch her.

She exhaled shakily, lifting her head.

The worst part?

When Carlos had leaned in tonight—when his lips moved against hers with such care—it wasn’t him she’d been picturing.

It was Charles.

Always Charles.

Y/N lay back on the bed, her chest tight, her eyes burning.

And in the quiet, with the city glowing outside her window and her heart split in two, she finally let herself admit it.

She was in trouble.

---

The sky was just beginning to blush with the first hints of dawn, streaks of lavender and rose bleeding across the horizon. The city was still asleep, except for the distant hum of street sweepers and the occasional hum of a car slipping through the quiet Monaco streets.

Charles stood beneath the awning of the hotel’s side entrance, half-shrouded by the thick shadow of a marble column, arms folded, hoodie drawn up over his head. He didn’t know what he was doing there—not really. He told himself he’d just needed air, just a walk, but somehow his feet had led him here.

To her hotel.

And he’d waited.

He didn’t even know what for.

Until the door swung open.

Carlos stepped out into the early morning light, his jacket slung over his shoulder, hair messy, his smile soft—too soft. His expression was relaxed, a faint trace of contentment still lingering in the curve of his mouth.

Charles felt his stomach tighten.

Carlos hadn’t seen him.

Not until he took a few steps toward the street and finally glanced to his left.

His smile faltered.

“Charles?” he asked, slowing.

Charles stepped out from the shadows, the early sun glinting off the edge of his jaw as his eyes fixed coldly on Carlos.

Carlos adjusted his jacket, instantly defensive. “What are you doing here?”

Charles didn’t answer right away. His gaze shifted, lingering for half a second on the glass doors Carlos had just walked through.

“She’s inside?” he asked quietly, voice low, unreadable.

Carlos didn’t deny it.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he said, but the words rang hollow. Even he didn’t sound convinced.

Charles’s jaw ticked.

“You sure about that?”

Carlos exhaled, suddenly irritated. “What does it matter to you? You’ve made it clear you don’t want her.”

Charles said nothing. Just stared. His silence was heavier than any outburst could have been.

Carlos’s expression hardened slightly. “She deserves someone who actually sees her, Charles. Not someone who only acts like he cares when it’s too late.”

Charles’s eyes flickered, something sharp and pained flashing through them. “And that’s you, is it?”

Carlos didn’t answer.

Instead, he gave Charles a long look—one that wasn’t smug or victorious, but resolute—then turned and walked down the quiet street, disappearing into the morning light.

Charles stood there for a long time after.

Still. Seething. Hollow.

And more lost than ever.

32 notes · View notes

w3haw3ll · 2 months ago

Text

Red Flags & Riviera Nights- Charles Leclerc CL16

Colleagues to lovers x Secret romance x Playful romance

4.9K Words (Masterlist)

Y/N L/N has just been hired as a PR and media liaison for Scuderia Ferrari — a job that means balancing egos, managing public image, and trying not to fall for the Monegasque heartthrob at the center of every lens: Charles Leclerc.

TW: Smut (Its at the end and its not essential to the story.) 18+

The world outside still hummed with the buzz of the Monaco Grand Prix — fireworks crackling in the sky, champagne still sticky on pavement, and fans flooding the streets in celebration.

But inside the Ferrari hospitality suite, it was quiet. Almost reverent.

Y/N leaned against the balcony railing, her hair tousled by the evening breeze, eyes fixed on the harbor below. The yachts were lit like floating cities, the water dark and glittering beneath them. Monaco was a place of spectacle, yes — but in this moment, it was something else entirely.

Peaceful. Still.

Behind her, the door slid open with a whisper.

She didn’t turn.

“Didn’t expect to find anyone still up here,” came a voice — low, warm, unmistakably Charles.

She smiled to herself. “Didn’t expect you to be done smiling for the cameras so soon.”

He stepped beside her, not too close. Just close enough for the air to shift.

“You’re not wrong,” he said, resting his elbows on the rail. “But tonight… I think I’d rather be here.”

She glanced at him then. His curls still slightly damp from the post-race shower, shirt clinging just right in the humid night air, eyes catching reflections of the city below.

Too pretty. Too dangerous.

“That’s suspiciously poetic for someone who spent half the race swearing at his race engineer.”

He laughed — a real one, low and throaty. “What can I say? I’m multifaceted.”

“Mm,” she hummed. “Complicated.”

He looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly in that way he did when he was intrigued. “And what does the team’s dazzling new PR specialist say about complicated men?”

She held his gaze, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “They’re usually bad for business.”

“But good for…?” he prompted, voice a shade lower now.

Y/N turned to face him fully. “Trouble,” she said simply. “And I don’t do trouble.”

For a moment, silence settled between them again — charged, delicate, like something about to tip.

“I like that you don’t flirt back,” he said softly. “Everyone always flirts back.”

She arched a brow. “You say that like I’m a challenge.”

“Maybe you are,” he murmured. “But you also stayed. Everyone else went to the afterparty.”

“Maybe I like the quiet,” she replied.

His gaze softened. “Me too. Especially when you’re in it.”

There it was — the shift. The bare honesty beneath all the teasing. She saw it in his expression now, unguarded in the shadows.

“Charles…” she started, but her voice caught somewhere between caution and curiosity.

He didn’t move closer. Didn’t push.

“I know,” he said gently. “It’s just… something about tonight, it felt different.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “It does.”

And neither of them said more. They just stood there, side by side, Monaco glowing below, something quietly blooming between them — not loud or reckless, but steady. Intentional.

Something that neither of them had the courage to name just yet.

But soon.

Very soon.

The flirting was constant, moving from country to country yet nothing changed between the two.

Barcelona

The heat of the Spanish sun clung to everything — the tarmac shimmered under the afternoon light, fans were packed shoulder to shoulder behind barricades, and the Ferrari garage buzzed with movement like a well-rehearsed symphony. Y/N adjusted her headset and squinted toward the pit lane. She was in her element — coordinating driver interviews, managing social media narratives, smoothing over last-minute media chaos — but even she couldn't ignore the electricity in the air.

Or the man at the center of it.

Charles Leclerc had just climbed out of his car after FP2, race suit half unzipped and tied around his waist, helmet under one arm, curls damp from sweat. He walked toward the garage, speaking with his race engineer — all sharp nods and clipped Monegasque French — before his gaze drifted.

And landed on her.

Y/N was already looking away, eyes flicking down to her clipboard like it mattered more than the way his gaze made her stomach flip.

But then his voice came through her headset.

“You’re watching me,” he said, his mic still live.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re literally on camera. Everyone is watching you.”

“Not like you do,” he added, and she could hear the grin in his voice.

She didn’t answer. She never gave him what he wanted. That was the game they played.

Later that night, the rooftop bar of the team’s hotel glowed with golden lanterns and low music. Most of the crew had drifted off into the city, leaving behind half-drunk spritzes and the soft hum of conversation. Y/N had stayed behind to catch up on emails, a glass of sangria forgotten beside her.

“Twice in one day,” came that familiar voice.

Charles.

She looked up and there he was — fresh from a shower, hair still damp, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to be criminal. He held a glass in one hand, leaned on the railing with the other.

“Shouldn’t you be at some flashy rooftop party?” she asked, a brow raised.

“I was,” he said, stepping closer. “But it wasn’t nearly as interesting.”

“And you think this is?”

“You are.”

The words hung between them, heavier than they should’ve been. But Charles didn’t push. He leaned against the railing beside her, eyes scanning the dark Barcelona skyline.

“You always look so serious when you work,” he said after a beat. “Like the world will fall apart if one thing slips.”

“Because it might,” she answered. “This world — your world — it’s built on perception. One wrong narrative and the media runs wild.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why I’m glad you’re here.”

She turned her head to look at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. No smirk. No teasing.

“You’re not just good at your job,” he continued. “You care. And I see that.”

Y/N’s throat tightened unexpectedly. She wasn’t used to praise that felt like… understanding.

“Careful,” she said softly. “You’re starting to sound sincere.”

“Maybe I am.”

She looked at him for a long moment. And he looked back — not like a driver talking to a PR rep, but like a man seeing a woman who had been just out of reach for too long.

Then — because the tension was too much, because the moment was teetering on the edge of something too real — she stood.

“I should go,” she said, brushing her hand down her dress, suddenly aware of how intimate the setting had become.

“Y/N.”

She paused.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, voice low, serious.

“Stop what?”

“Looking at you like that.”

Her heart stuttered.

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”

And with that, she disappeared into the night — leaving him with nothing but the warm imprint of almost.

Silverstone

England greeted them with grey skies and drizzle — a typical Silverstone weekend. The paddock buzzed with umbrellas, wet tarmac, and the low rumble of engines echoing through the mist.

Y/N stood under the Ferrari hospitality awning, tapping a pen against her clipboard, watching rain bead down the plastic covering. Her schedule was tight, media outlets piling on interviews after Charles’ strong showing in FP1. He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.

She was halfway through texting a follow-up when he appeared — soaked, curls flattened against his forehead, red team jacket darkened from the rain, and smiling like he’d just won the championship.

“You’re late,” she said, not looking up from her phone.

“I got caught signing things for some young fans. Thought you’d forgive me for that.”

She glanced up. God, he was dripping — and undeniably smug about it.

“You’re going to ruin your media suit.”

“You’re going to lecture me?”

“Only if you keep smiling like that.”

He stepped closer, rainwater running down his jaw. “What if I smile like this?”

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

“Then I might tell you to grow up,” she replied — but her voice was softer than she meant.

He looked at her like he could see right through the deflection.

Inside the hospitality lounge, the two of them ducked behind curtains and bustling PR assistants, setting up for back-to-back interviews. Charles sat down, water bottle in hand, legs stretched out, and watched her — the whole time. Not blatantly. Not obviously. Just… deliberately.

When it was over, the media buzz cleared, leaving a lull in the late afternoon quiet. Y/N bent over his lapel, refastening a rogue mic pin.

She was close now — too close.

Her fingers brushed against his collarbone as she clipped the mic. The warmth of his skin. The slow breath he took in. The air changed.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

“I’m cold,” she lied.

He caught her wrist, gently, thumb resting against her pulse point — which betrayed her completely.

“You’re lying,” he said, and for the first time that day, the teasing fell away.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“You make it really hard to keep things professional,” he added, so softly it felt like a confession.

“Then maybe we shouldn’t say anything else at all,” she whispered.

But neither of them pulled back.

His fingers were still around her wrist, and hers still hovered near his chest. If someone had walked in right then, they would’ve seen it all — the storm held inside two people pretending not to want what they clearly wanted.

And still… nothing happened. Not really.

Not the kiss. Not the touch they both knew was coming — eventually.

But it was enough. Enough to leave her breathless as she walked away without looking back.

And enough to leave him gripping the edge of the chair, wondering when she’d finally stop walking away.

Budapest

Budapest in the summer was intoxicating.

Golden light spilled over the Danube in the early evenings, casting long reflections on the river’s surface. The city breathed romance and tension in equal parts — cobbled streets buzzing with life, hidden alleyways that whispered secrets, and ornate rooftops silhouetted against a fire-streaked sky.

The team motorhome was parked just on the edge of the paddock, near the hills that hugged the Hungaroring like a coiled serpent. Inside, it was cooler, quieter — a sharp contrast to the humid, sun-drenched chaos outside. But even here, in the sterile white-walled calm of her workspace, Y/N felt the heat clinging to her skin, dragging at her nerves.

She sat at her desk, typing furiously, trying to put out another PR fire — a sponsor irritated by something Charles had said, of course. She was too focused to notice the knock until it opened.

“Y/N?”

She froze.

Charles. Standing in the doorway, hair still damp from a post-session rinse, fireproofs unzipped and hanging from his waist, red team shirt slightly wrinkled. His jaw was tight, eyes darker than usual, and something in his stance made her pulse skip.

“Not a good time,” she muttered, not looking up.

“I know,” he said. “But that’s never stopped me before.”

She finally glanced at him. The way the soft Budapest light filtered through the windows made him look unreal — all shadows and heat and something dangerous.

“You need to go,” she said, standing.

“I’m not leaving.”

The tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

“Why can’t you just stop?” she snapped, crossing her arms. “Every time I start to think clearly, you show up. You smile, you flirt, and suddenly I’m not thinking about my work — I’m thinking about you.”

Charles didn’t move. But something flickered in his expression — not hurt, exactly, but something close.

“Maybe because I’m tired of pretending this is just flirting,” he said. “Maybe I’m done waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Her voice cracked. “For me to throw away my career?”

“No,” he said, stepping forward, “for you to admit that you feel it too.”

She stepped back instinctively, as if his presence was too much — and maybe it was.

“You think this is simple?” she whispered. “That we can just… give in? What happens when the rumors start? When people think I slept my way into this role?”

“Then we shut them out,” he said. “We deal with it together.”

“You can afford to deal with it,” she snapped. “You’re Charles Leclerc. I’m replaceable.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Not to me.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The low hum of traffic outside. The faint echo of laughter drifting in from the trackside fan zones. Somewhere in the city, the sun was beginning to dip behind Buda Castle, washing the skyline in gold and blood-orange hues.

“You think this is worth the risk?” she asked finally, her voice barely audible.

“Yes,” he said, without hesitation.

She looked at him — at this man who had slowly unraveled every wall she’d built, not with grand gestures, but with quiet persistence, real attention, and words that cut deeper than he realized.

“And if it all falls apart?” she whispered. “If it ruins everything?”

Charles stepped close enough that their breaths mingled.

“Then let it,” he murmured. “I’d rather crash with you than keep pretending I don’t care.”

The last thread snapped. She didn’t pull away when he cupped her jaw. She didn’t resist when he kissed her like he’d been dying to for months.

It was heat and teeth and desperation — months of tension unraveling in one perfect storm.

And when she pulled back, breathless, forehead resting against his?

“This changes everything,” she said.

“Good,” he breathed. “It’s about time.”

Zandvoort

The setting was low-key, the atmosphere thick with the tension of a race weekend. It was late afternoon, the Dutch sun just beginning to dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows over the paddock. The Ferrari garage was bustling with engineers and mechanics running through final checks, but amidst the chaos, Y/N found herself watching Charles through the corner of her eye, his presence magnetic.

After the practice session, Charles approached her, wiping his forehead with a towel. He wasn’t in a hurry — there was a quiet stillness about him. As he stepped closer, their eyes locked, and for a heartbeat, it was just the two of them in the crowded space.

“How’d it go?” Y/N asked, her voice softer than she meant it to be, an unspoken question hanging in the air. But she couldn't help herself — something about the way he looked at her made her feel seen in a way she wasn’t used to.

“Better than expected,” Charles replied, his voice low, the corners of his lips pulling into a faint smile as he glanced at her. But there was something more in his gaze — something that wasn’t just about the race.

For a moment, he just stood there, close but not touching, the space between them charged. She shifted slightly, fingers brushing against the side of her leg, but then — almost too quietly to notice — Charles reached for her wrist. His thumb moved gently against her pulse, the faintest connection.

“You look good out there,” he said softly, his voice a quiet compliment, but there was more to it — something deeper, something he wasn’t saying outright.

Y/N froze, her heart skipping a beat. She looked up at him, her pulse quickening, but before she could respond, he pulled back, his usual ease returning as the moment slipped away like sand through her fingers.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, his words barely above a whisper. And just like that, he was gone — leaving her standing there, breathless and confused by the fleeting intimacy that felt so real.

Miami

After a long day of interviews and team meetings, they found themselves alone, standing in a corner of the Ferrari motorhome. Outside, the sounds of the crowd drifted in from the track, but inside, it was just the two of them, lingering in the quiet aftermath of the race day.

Charles stood by the window, his back to her as he looked out at the city, but Y/N couldn’t stop watching him. The way he carried himself — the relaxed confidence, the sense that he was always aware of his surroundings — it all drew her in, and for the first time, she didn’t know how to hide the feeling that had been growing inside her.

“You look distracted,” she said, breaking the silence, her voice laced with a quiet curiosity.

Charles turned to face her, a small smile playing at his lips. He crossed the room slowly, like he was savoring the moment, and stopped just a few inches from her, so close that she could feel the heat of his body.

“Do I?” His voice was teasing, but there was something more — an unspoken question in the way he said it.

Y/N swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She wasn’t sure if it was the weight of his presence or the racing thoughts in her mind, but the moment felt thick with possibility.

“What’s on your mind?” she asked, her tone softer now, more vulnerable.

For a moment, Charles just stared at her, his eyes unreadable. Then he closed the distance, his gaze intense as he spoke.

“You,” he said simply, his voice low and steady. “I think about you all the time. But I don’t know if this… whatever this is… is just a distraction or something more.”

Her heart raced, the words hanging in the air between them like an unspoken confession.

“I’m trying not to think about it,” she replied, almost reluctantly. “I can’t afford to lose control — not with everything on the line.”

Charles’ gaze softened, a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

“I get it,” he said, his tone quiet but sincere. “But I don’t want to pretend it’s nothing. Not anymore.”

The air between them thickened, charged with unspoken emotions. Charles’ hand brushed hers briefly, the touch light but deliberate, and for a moment, Y/N forgot to breathe. Before either of them could say anything else, the moment was broken — Charles stepped back, running a hand through his hair with a soft chuckle.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, his usual smirk returning.

But Y/N knew. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Singapore

The heat of Singapore’s late-night race was oppressive, the air thick and heavy with humidity. It made everything feel slower, more intimate, more charged. After the race, Charles found himself walking out of the Ferrari garage, the engine sounds still buzzing in his ears, but all he could think about was Y/N.

He spotted her leaning against the wall by the pit lane, her arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd. She hadn’t noticed him yet, and for a brief moment, he stood there, watching her, as if he could somehow figure out the tangled mess of emotions swirling between them.

When she finally saw him, she smiled, though it was a little too tight, a little too forced.

“You did great out there,” she said, her voice light, but her eyes were full of something deeper.

Charles didn’t smile back immediately. Instead, he walked toward her, his movements purposeful, stopping just close enough that he could feel her warmth.

“Thanks,” he said, but the words felt insignificant. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Y/N stiffened, and Charles could see the hesitation in her eyes. The moment was heavy with everything they hadn’t said yet.

“I think about you too,” she admitted quietly, her gaze lowering to the ground. “But I can’t keep doing this. I’m not ready to get involved in something that could distract me from what I’m here for.”

Charles reached for her hand, his touch gentle as he lifted it to his lips. His gaze locked with hers, and for the first time, he wasn’t pretending to be unaffected.

“I’m not asking you to forget your work,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “But I don’t want to ignore this either. Whatever this is.”

She looked at him, her heart pounding in her chest, and for a moment, it felt like everything was about to change.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

“But you want to figure it out,” he responded, the question hanging between them like a promise.

She nodded slowly. And in that quiet moment, they both knew — something was shifting. Neither of them was sure of what it would become, but neither was ready to let it go either.

Suzuka

Japan’s Suzuka Circuit was cloaked in rain, the kind that blurred the floodlights into halos and made every surface shimmer under the night sky. It was the kind of race that demanded absolute precision — and it had taken everything out of them.

Y/N stood near the team garage, her rain jacket soaked, lips pressed tight as she reviewed notes on her tablet with wet fingertips. She hadn’t seen Charles since the debrief. Not really. Not like she wanted to.

They had been slow-burning through the past few races — brushing shoulders, sharing coffee, giving each other looks that said too much. But neither of them had dared to say the words out loud.

Until now.

She sensed him before she saw him — that specific electricity only he brought. The buzz of his presence slid down her spine before his voice cut through the patter of rain.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he asked, no pretense, no teasing in his tone. Just stormy-eyed Charles, his race suit half-zipped, soaked through, frustration evident in every taut line of his frame.

Y/N didn’t look up. She couldn’t.

“I’m not,” she said flatly.

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice was quiet, but it hit like thunder. “Every time I try to talk to you, you change the subject. Every time I get close, you pull away. I need to know what the hell that means.”

The rain softened to a mist, but the tension was a downpour. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

“It means I’m scared, Charles.” Her voice cracked, raw and wet with emotion. “It means I care about you more than I should, and I can’t afford to screw this up. If this becomes real—if we become real—and it falls apart, I lose more than just you. I lose everything we’ve built together.”

He stepped closer, shaking his head slowly.

“That’s not how this works, Y/N. We don’t lose everything—we just change everything.”

She blinked at him, chest rising and falling too quickly.

“And what if we change everything and it still doesn’t work?”

“Then at least we tried. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel the way I do about you. I look for you after every race. I memorize your expressions. I know when you’re tired, when you’re mad, when you need space. And I still want you — every version of you.”

Y/N's eyes welled, and she hated it. She wasn’t supposed to cry — not here, not in front of him.

“You deserve someone who doesn’t second guess everything,” she whispered.

Charles stepped even closer, until their chests nearly touched.

“I deserve you,” he said. “Exactly as you are.”

A long, tense silence fell between them. The only sound was the gentle hush of rain on carbon fiber and the distant hum of the paddock.

“Say it,” he murmured. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll walk away.”

But she couldn’t.

Because she did want this — all of it. The chaos, the quiet, the risk. Him.

So instead of answering, she stepped forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t delicate. It was pent-up and clumsy, lips colliding with desperation and years of wanting and not saying. Charles cupped her face with wet, shaking hands, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss like he’d been waiting his whole life to breathe again.

When they finally pulled apart, she leaned her forehead against his, both of them gasping like they’d just finished a sprint.

“We’re going to be a mess,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he laughed softly, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “But we’ll be a mess together.”

Monza

The Italian Grand Prix had always been electric, but that Sunday felt like thunder cracking through the sky.

Red smoke curled through the grandstands, thousands of Tifosi chanting Charles' name, faces painted scarlet and white. The podium was a frenzy of champagne spray, metallic confetti, and deafening applause. Charles stood tall in the center, drenched, the Monegasque flag draped over his shoulders like armor, a triumphant smile on his face — but his eyes scanned the sea of red for just one thing.

Y/N.

She was barely visible, tucked just behind the team barrier. Her radio was off, her headset forgotten around her neck. She watched him, heart aching with something too big to name. The kiss in Suzuka had rewritten everything — now, they were something real. Quietly. Carefully. Hidden.

But Charles had never been the kind of man to hide what he cared about.

He ripped off the champagne-soaked cap and handed it to one of the team engineers without breaking stride. Cameras trailed him as he stepped down from the podium, past the FIA officials, past the interviews, straight toward the barrier.

“Charles! Charles, a word about the win—”

He ignored the reporters. His eyes were locked on her.

Y/N’s breath caught when she realized he wasn’t stopping.

“Don’t you dare,” she muttered under her breath, heart hammering. But it was too late.

He ducked beneath the barrier with a speed that made the security flinch, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her to him.

“Mon amour,” he breathed, the roar of the crowd fading for a second. “You didn’t think I’d let today end without this?”

“Charles, there are cameras—”

“Let them see.”

And then he kissed her.

Not a chaste peck. Not something that could be brushed off as “friendly.” This was months of tension, of glances across the paddock, of quiet conversations at midnight hotel rooms and hands brushing in the dark — finally breaking free.

Flashbulbs erupted. The crowd screamed. The press lost its mind.

“Charles Leclerc confirms paddock romance!” “Mystery woman identified — team strategist Y/N L/N” “Ferrari’s golden boy in post-podium shock kiss”

Y/N broke the kiss first, laughing breathlessly as her hands curled in the collar of his fireproofs.

“You’ve started a war, you know that?”

“Then let them come,” Charles grinned, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I’ve already won the only thing I care about.”

Behind them, the cameras clicked furiously. The team was half-cheering, half-horrified. But for Charles and Y/N, it was like standing in the eye of a hurricane — wild all around, but calm at the center.

They were no longer a secret.

---

The hotel suite was quiet — too quiet for the way their hearts were racing.

Charles shut the door with a soft click, but the silence only made the electricity between them louder. Y/N stood in the middle of the room, still in her team gear, cheeks flushed with adrenaline and embarrassment and desire.

“I can’t believe you kissed me in front of the entire paddock,” she whispered, voice uneven.

Charles dropped his race bag near the door and walked toward her, slow, eyes dark with heat and certainty.

“I’ve waited too long to keep hiding you,” he said lowly. “Let them see what they want. You’re mine.”

Y/N’s breath hitched — she didn’t move, didn’t speak, couldn’t.

When he finally reached her, his hands slid to her waist, thumbs brushing under the hem of her shirt, warm against her skin.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he murmured against her throat, lips brushing hot over her pulse point. “How you looked in the crowd. How you looked watching me.”

Her fingers found the zipper of his fireproof undershirt, tugging it down slowly, exposing sweat-slick skin and the fierce, pulsing beat of his heart beneath it.

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” she whispered against his jaw, lips dragging lightly across his skin.

“So did you,” he growled, backing her toward the bed. “Wearing my team colors. Staring at me like that.”

Her back hit the edge of the mattress, and she looked up at him through her lashes, a smirk playing on her lips even as her breath trembled.

“And what are you going to do about it, mon chéri?”

He didn’t answer.

Not with words.

He pressed her down against the sheets, kissing her like he needed to consume her — like the race hadn’t ended, like he was still chasing victory and she was the finish line.

Their clothes hit the floor in a rush of heat and fumbling fingers, his touch reverent and rough, hers demanding and soft. Every kiss was a promise, every gasp a confession. He kissed down her collarbone, teeth grazing skin, his name falling from her lips like prayer and plea in equal measure.

“Charles—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, hands cradling her thighs, sliding up to her hips as he pressed against her. “Just like I always have.”

And when he finally sank into her, it was like the world finally made sense again — no cameras, no engines, no eyes watching. Just the two of them. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

It wasn’t just about lust — though that was there, thick and blazing. It was about knowing each other in every way. About releasing months of tension and fear and secrecy, letting it all fall away in the dark.

“Look at me,” he said when her eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed.

She did.

And what she saw — love, hunger, awe — made her fall all over again.

The night stretched long and breathless, their bodies moving like they'd been written for each other, their names whispered like secrets passed between tangled sheets.

By the time they finally stilled, tangled in silk and sweat and laughter, Charles pulled her against him, kissing the top of her head.

“You’re not just my secret anymore,” he said softly. “You’re my everything.”

43 notes · View notes

w3haw3ll · 2 months ago

Text

Velvet Trigger (Extended Epilogue)- MV1

Domestic romance x Mafia past x Soft angst

3.4K Words (Masterlist)

A follow up on what had happened previously in Max and Y/N's life. Finding new and arguably more difficult challenges.

TW: Weapons and wounds, Kidnapping

The villa was soaked in afternoon light — golden and warm, slanting through the tall windows and pooling across the stone floors like honey. The scent of rosemary wafted in from the garden, mingling with the soft crackle of the fire that burned low despite the spring heat.

Y/N stood in the nursery, one hand resting on her rounded belly, the other gently smoothing the edge of a pale green curtain. She was in Max’s oversized shirt again — one of the many he'd lost to her over the years — and her bare feet padded across the floor as she moved slowly and carefully.

The room wasn’t finished.

There were half-assembled pieces of furniture, a rocking chair still missing a screw, a mobile of stars dangling over an empty crib. Books stacked on the windowsill. A plush rabbit missing an ear sat lopsided on the changing table. It was chaos — soft chaos. The kind she’d always dreamed of having.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured to the rabbit, smiling faintly. “You’re not the only one a little unfinished right now.”

From down the hall, she heard footsteps — heavy, deliberate, familiar. She didn’t turn.

Max stepped into the doorway, dressed in grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt, hair messy from his morning run. His eyes were tired but soft, trained on her like she was the only thing in the room worth noticing.

“How long’ve you been in here?” he asked, voice low.

“Twenty minutes,” she said. “Or an hour. I lost track.”

He walked toward her slowly, the way he always did now — like every movement was measured, like touching her too quickly might undo him. He stopped behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his forehead to the back of her head.

“I missed you in bed this morning,” he said.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she murmured. “She kept moving.”

He lowered one hand to rest over her belly.

“Still doing flips in there?”

“Not flips. Kicks.” She smiled, leaning into him. “Strong ones.”

Max was quiet. She could feel the way his breathing slowed, his hand pressed a little firmer against her bump.

“You want to feel?” she asked.

“I always want to feel.”

She took his hand and guided it lower, to the place where their daughter liked to make her presence known.

And then—there it was.

A sharp little kick, like a tiny foot saying I’m here.

Max froze.

And then, slowly, he sank to his knees in front of her.

His hand never left her belly. His other one came to rest on her thigh, grounding him. He pressed a kiss just above her navel, then another. And another.

“I still don’t believe this is real,” he said, voice rough.

She threaded her fingers through his hair. “It is.”

“I used to think I wasn’t made for this. That I’d only ever be good at taking things apart — not building something. Not… her.”

“You didn’t build this alone,” she said gently. “And she’s not a weakness, Max. She’s your strength now.”

He looked up at her, eyes shining with something unspeakable.

“She’s you,” he whispered. “She’s both of us. And I swear, Y/N… I’ll protect her. I’ll protect you. Even if the world tries to take it all again.”

Y/N knelt down with him, pulling his face to hers.

“You already do,” she said. “Every day you wake up and stay. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

They sat like that for a while, tangled on the floor of the nursery, quiet and wrapped in a love forged in fire and softened by time.

Later, she found him in the study with a journal — the one she’d seen him scribbling in lately. He closed it when she entered, but not before she caught a glimpse of the words on the page:

“I don't know how to be a father. But I know how to love. And I think… maybe that’s enough.”

She said nothing. Just kissed his temple and curled up beside him, their hands over the smallest heartbeat between them.

It started with a letter.

There was no return address. No stamp. Just a single name scrawled across the front of the envelope in handwriting that hadn’t haunted Max Verstappen in years.

"Hamilton."

He stared at it on the counter for almost ten minutes before touching it. Like the paper might catch fire if he breathed wrong. Like the ghost of his past might step straight through the front door and ask for a seat at the table.

Y/N came in from the garden, brushing dirt from her hands, cheeks flushed and soft from the sun. “Hey, Max, can you—?”

She stopped.

He still hadn’t moved.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said too quickly, voice too low.

She crossed the kitchen and reached for the envelope, but he turned his body just slightly — not enough to be aggressive, just enough to block.

That was the first warning sign.

Y/N blinked. “Max.”

He met her eyes. Cold. Guarded. Not cruel — but not soft either.

That was the second.

She stepped back, folding her arms. “Tell me what’s in it.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be looking at it like it’s a landmine.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

And then — without opening it — Max walked to the fireplace, struck a match, and dropped the envelope into the flames.

The paper curled and blackened. His name — that name — disappeared in smoke.

He didn’t look away until it was ash.

---

Y/N sat on the edge of their bed, watching him move through the house like a shadow — checking locks, walking the perimeter, muttering something to himself in Dutch.

She waited until he slid under the sheets beside her, still rigid, before she said quietly, “You promised me.”

He didn’t respond.

“You said we’d talk. That we’d never go back to secrets.”

Max exhaled hard through his nose. “It’s handled.”

“No, Max. It’s burned. That’s not the same thing.”

“I’m protecting you,” he said, voice low and sharp.

“I didn’t ask for that kind of protection. I asked for honesty.” She sat up straighter, her hand on her belly. “You don’t get to carry this alone anymore.”

His eyes flicked to her bump — the growing curve of their daughter, kicking against the fabric of her nightgown.

And just like that, something in him softened. Cracked.

“He was one of ours,” he admitted, finally. “An old contact from Marseille. Said he needed to talk — called it a courtesy visit. But you don’t send a letter like that unless it’s a warning.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “You think they’re watching?”

“I know they are.”

Max got up, crossed to the window, and stared into the dark hills. His reflection in the glass was someone else for a moment — not the man who grilled peaches on Sundays and kissed her shoulder when she was half asleep.

But the man who used to make people disappear. The man who wasn’t afraid to burn entire kingdoms to protect what he loved.

“I left that life,” he whispered.

She rose and joined him, resting her head against his shoulder.

“That life didn’t leave you,” she said, repeating what she’d known for years. “But I did.”

Max closed his eyes. His arm slipped around her waist. One hand splayed across her stomach again, always drawn back to the place that reminded him what he was fighting for now.

“I can’t let her be touched by any of it.”

“She won’t be. Not as long as you’re here. Not as long as we’re together.”

He turned to her — and there was something in his eyes, that same fierce promise from the night they left Monaco, buried deep beneath the calm.

“I’ll kill them if I have to.”

She didn’t flinch.

She just nodded, reached up, and kissed him — slow and deliberate.

“I know.”

---

It happened in the softest part of the morning.

The sun hadn’t fully risen, and the sky was still painted in quiet lavender and blush. The birds hadn’t started their songs. Max had gone out early, walking the vineyard rows like he always did when his mind wouldn’t stop spinning.

When he returned, the front door of the villa was open.

The coffee pot still sat half-full. A trail of flour dusted the counter — she’d been making bread. The baby monitor was on the table, a lullaby playing softly in the background.

But Y/N was gone.

And there were no signs of struggle.

Which was worse.

Which meant someone had come quietly. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

Max froze.

For the briefest second, his chest locked and his knees almost buckled.

Then he moved.

---

Within minutes, the security feed was up. One of the backup cameras at the far edge of the vineyard had caught a black sedan. No plates. No face. Just one frame of Y/N being guided into the backseat by someone tall, gloved, and calm.

Max’s hands shook as he watched it again. And again.

Then they went still.

His face turned cold. Expressionless.

He hadn’t been that man in years — the one who knew how to break someone piece by piece, who could clear a room without raising his voice.

But today?

He would burn the world to the ground.

---

Max called a number he hadn’t touched in five years. It rang once before the voice answered.

“You said you’d never call again,” the man on the other end said.

“I lied,” Max growled. “They took her.”

There was a pause.

Then: “Where do we meet?”

Within hours, he was in a borrowed car heading toward Marseille. Every mile brought back pieces of who he used to be — the precision, the focus, the ice-cold fury.

He traced the movement of the car from the footage. Dug through old contacts. Paid off the right rats. Threatened the wrong ones.

And finally, someone talked.

“She’s being held in an abandoned chateau. They’re trying to lure you in. Said it was time you remembered who made you.”

Max smiled — and it wasn’t kind.

“They made a monster. But they forgot I never needed a leash.”

---

She was tied to a chair in the center of a dark room. The ropes weren’t tight — they didn’t need to be. They knew she was pregnant. Knew she’d be careful. Knew hurting her would be the quickest way to hurt Max.

Y/N wasn’t afraid for herself.

She was afraid for the baby.

But she was angry, too. Angry that someone thought they could use her like a pawn. Angry that Max would come and do something stupid and beautiful and reckless.

And above all — she was furious because they had underestimated her.

---

Max hit the compound like a storm.

Silent. Focused. Relentless.

Three men taken out before they could raise a gun. Two more left bleeding and begging.

He reached the door of the chamber and didn’t knock. Just kicked it in.

Y/N lifted her head — eyes wide, breath catching — and whispered, “Max.”

And for a moment, he broke.

He dropped to his knees beside her, hands trembling as he cut the ropes, pressing his forehead to hers, breathing her in like she was oxygen and he’d been drowning.

“Are you hurt? The baby? Y/N, talk to me—”

“I’m okay. We’re okay.” Her fingers tangled in his collar, gripping tight. “But if you don’t get me out of here in the next two minutes, I’m going into labor from sheer rage.”

He laughed — hoarse and wild — and swept her into his arms.

Gunfire echoed in the distance. Max didn’t flinch.

“Let them come,” he whispered. “They already lost.”

Back at the villa, Y/N curled up in bed, her cheek against Max’s chest, his arms wound so tightly around her he might never let go again.

He hadn’t spoken since they returned. Not really.

Just kept touching her — brushing her hair back, running his fingers over the swell of her belly, holding her like he was afraid she’d vanish again.

“Max,” she said softly, “we’re safe.”

His jaw clenched. “I should’ve been here.”

“You were here. You never left me. Not really.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the spot just below her ear that always made her shiver.

“If they ever try again—”

“They won’t,” she said, voice steel. “Because next time, I’ll shoot first.”

His breath caught — half in fear, half in awe.

And then he kissed her — slow and fierce — like she was his anchor and his salvation and his reason for breathing.

Because she was.

---

The contractions began in the dead of night.

Y/N tried to stay quiet at first, not wanting to wake Max. But the pain came sharp and fast, wrapping around her spine like barbed wire, and the low cry that left her lips cracked through the silence.

Max was out of bed instantly.

“Y/N?” His voice was thick with sleep, but panic bled through the edges.

She gripped the headboard, eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched.

“Hospital. Now,” she hissed.

Max’s heart thudded so loud in his ears he could barely think. He moved like a machine—bags, keys, phone. He half-carried her to the car, hands shaking every time she groaned in pain.

And underneath all of it, something cold coiled in his chest.

This was it.

This was the moment he couldn’t control, couldn’t fight his way through. This was the one thing in his life that terrified him more than anything else.

Because this was love in its most fragile form.

---

Y/N had never seen Max like this — not in the years they'd lived quietly, not even in the days of blood and fire.

He hovered like a ghost, refusing to sit, pacing the corners of the room like a trapped animal. His fingers trembled every time he touched her, and his jaw was so tight she thought it might break.

But when she cried out — he was there.

Holding her hand. Whispering her name. Pressing his forehead to hers and muttering,

“You’ve got this, schatje. Just breathe. Just one more time. I’m right here.”

She cursed. She pushed. She screamed.

And then, with the first light of dawn bleeding through the window — a sound shattered the tension.

A newborn’s cry.

Raw. Pure. Alive.

Y/N sobbed, collapsing back into the pillows.

But Max?

Max stood frozen.

Staring at the tiny, pink, screaming miracle that the nurse gently placed in his arms.

He didn’t breathe. He didn’t speak.

Just looked down at his daughter like the world had narrowed to this single, impossible moment.

“She’s… real,” he whispered, voice broken with awe.

Y/N watched him. Tears streaming down her face.

“Of course she is, Max.”

He sank into the chair beside her, still clutching the baby to his chest like she might dissolve if he blinked.

And then the tears came.

Not loud. Not ugly.

Just quiet, unstoppable tremors of emotion he had no words for. He kissed his daughter’s forehead. Kissed Y/N’s hand. And for the first time in a long, long time…

Max Verstappen broke in the best way possible.

---

1 Week later.

They named her Elena.

Tiny. Fierce. Already with Y/N’s eyes and Max’s temper, if the wailing fits were anything to go by.

Max didn’t leave her side. Not once.

He installed new security systems. Rebuilt the gate. Rerouted the alarm lines and placed two men on rotation to patrol the perimeter.

“You’re overdoing it,” Y/N said one night, curled on the sofa, Elena asleep in her arms.

Max sat still reviewing footage on his tablet.

“We’re home now. She’s safe.” Y/N continued.

Max looked up at her. His eyes weren’t cold. They were scared.

“What if I can’t keep her safe? What if someone still out there wants to hurt us? I can’t — I can’t let anything touch her. Or you.”

Y/N shifted, gently laying Elena in the bassinet. Then she crossed the room and cupped Max’s face in her hands.

“You’ve already saved us,” she whispered. “Not by building walls. Not by hiding. But by being here. Present. Real. Loving her.”

Max leaned into her touch.

“I don’t know how to be a father.”

“You didn’t know how to love, either,” she said. “And look where we are.”

His hands slid to her waist, pulling her against him, forehead resting against hers.

“You are everything,” he murmured. “You, and her. I’d burn the world for you both.”

“You already did,” she whispered back, brushing her lips over his. “Now you just have to live for us.”

---

Later that night, with Elena asleep and the world finally quiet, Max lay in bed beside Y/N. His hand rested protectively over her hip, their fingers entwined.

“Promise me something,” he said into the dark.

“Anything.”

“If anything ever happens… If you ever feel unsafe — don’t wait for me. Take her and run.”

Y/N rolled over to face him, eyes shining in the dim light.

“I’m not running, Max. Not anymore. You’re the safest place I’ve ever known.”

He kissed her, slow and reverent.

And for the first time in his life, Max Verstappen stopped waiting for the world to take something from him.

He started living like he deserved it.

---

Two years later, the world was quiet in a way Max Verstappen had never known.

The vineyard behind the villa was full and green, sloping in soft waves toward the sea. The cicadas chirped lazily in the late afternoon heat, and a breeze carried the scent of lavender and lemon blossoms through the open windows.

Inside, the house was filled with soft noise — not chaos, but life.

Tiny footsteps padded down the hallway, chasing a wooden car across the tiles. Elena’s giggle rang out like a bell, pure and delighted.

Y/N followed behind her with a basket of folded laundry tucked against her hip, the hem of her dress brushing her ankles, barefoot and golden from the sun.

She paused in the doorway to watch them.

Max was on the floor, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out as he assembled some elaborate racetrack that curved around blocks and stuffed animals and an overturned bowl of snacks.

Elena had his curls, dark and messy, and her mother’s fire. She was fearless — always climbing, always talking, always moving.

“Go, papa, goooo!” she squealed as a tiny red car flew down the ramp.

Max grinned — the kind of smile that used to be rare and hard-won, but now came easily in this soft, second life.

“She’s got your driving style,” he said, looking up at Y/N with mock exasperation. “Zero patience. All throttle.”

Y/N laughed, walking over and dropping a kiss on the top of his head before scooping Elena into her arms.

“Tell your papa that not everything has to be a race,” she whispered to their daughter, who promptly tried to wriggle free and climb back down to finish her imaginary Grand Prix.

Max stood slowly, arms circling Y/N from behind as he rested his chin on her shoulder, gaze fixed on the tiny girl who had become their entire world.

“Did you ever think we’d get this?” he asked, voice low and soft. “Peace?”

Y/N leaned back into him, fingers sliding over the wedding ring on his hand. “We didn’t just get it, Max. We fought for it.”

He kissed her neck, slow and warm. “I’d fight for it a thousand times over.”

---

Later, when the moon was high and Elena was asleep — her tiny frame curled under a blanket decorated with stars and red race cars — Max and Y/N sat on the patio, sharing a bottle of wine.

The candlelight flickered, casting golden shadows across Max’s face.

“Do you ever miss it?” Y/N asked quietly. “That other life?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just ran a thumb over her knuckles.

“I miss the clarity,” he said at last. “When things were simple. Win or lose. Kill or be killed.”

He looked at her.

“But then I see her. And you. And I think… this is the clearest thing I’ve ever known.”

Y/N’s eyes shimmered, and she reached up to cup his face. “You’re not the man you were, Max.”

He turned his lips into her palm. “No. I’m the man you made me.”

And then he pulled her close — kissed her like he still couldn’t believe she was real — and the two of them disappeared into the night, tangled in sheets and soft sighs and the slow rhythm of a love that had survived fire, blood, and war.

In a sleepy villa on the edge of Monaco, the ghosts were finally quiet.

And Max Verstappen, once a man forged in shadows, had found something far more dangerous than power.

He had found peace.

And he would protect it with everything he had.

#max verstappen fanfic #f1 fanfic #red bull f1 #fanfic #formula 1 #red bull formula one #red bull team #red bull racing #x reader #angst with a happy ending #dark romance #light angst #dark romantasy #suggestive #angst #masterlist #mafia #mafia romance

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w3haw3ll · 2 months ago

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w3haw3ll · 2 months ago

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Velvet Trigger- Max Verstappen MV1

Mafia boss x reader x "I would kill for you" x Dark Romance

Angsty, Dangerous, and addictively passionate.

7.5K Words. (Masterlist)

He ruled the world with an iron fist- until you walked in wearing red.

TW: Smut, Violence, Weapons and wounds. 18+

The Monaco courthouse gleamed in the late afternoon sun like a jewel too sharp to hold. Clean lines, golden accents, tall marble columns — all a lie beneath the surface, where power dressed itself up in procedure and called itself justice.

Y/N L/N walked in wearing red heels, and a matching high-necked blouse, and a courtroom stare that could slice through steel. She didn’t blink. Not when her client was accused of international arms trafficking. Not when she found out the prosecution’s key witness had gone mysteriously silent overnight. And certainly not when she noticed the man sitting alone in the gallery, wearing a tailored black suit and watching her like a predator.

Max Verstappen didn’t belong in a courthouse. He belonged in shadows. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t lean back. Just sat there like he owned the goddamn world and was only here for the sport of it.

Y/N continued her cross-examination like she hadn’t seen him. Like the air hadn’t shifted the second he walked in. But deep down, a single question echoed:

Why is someone like him here? For someone like Moretti?

Marco Moretti was small-time muscle — expensive suit, cheap instincts. Y/N had defended worse, but something about this case had always felt off. The evidence was shaky. The charges felt too big for the man. And now… this stranger in the gallery, still as a blade.

When the verdict was called a mistrial due to “insufficient and inconclusive evidence,” she didn’t smile. She just nodded once, gathered her files, and walked out of the courtroom with calm detachment.

But he was waiting.

“Impressive,” came the voice, low and smooth, just outside the marble steps. She turned and found him leaning against a black Aston Martin, unlit cigarette between his fingers, no lighter in sight.

“You’re either a very good lawyer,” he said, “or you’re dangerously lucky.”

Y/N arched a brow. “And you’re either stalking me or an unremarkable acquaintance.”

A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Max.”

“I didn’t ask.”

He pushed off the car, took a slow step toward her. “I don’t usually attend court. Boring. Predictable. But someone told me about you. Said you win cases you shouldn’t. Said you walk in like you own the floor and make men feel two inches tall.”

“And what, that turned you on?”

“No,” Max said softly. “It intrigued me.”

She didn’t like the way he said it. Like it was dangerous to be interesting.

“I don’t do drinks with men whose names make prosecutors nervous,” she said coolly.

“Shame,” Max murmured, stepping closer. “Because you intrigue me enough to break a few rules.”

He reached into his coat pocket and held out a sleek, matte black card. No address. Just two words in embossed silver:

L’Obsidienne Midnight.

Their fingers didn’t touch, but the air between them cracked like static.

Y/N took the card.

Not because she was interested. Not because she wanted to see him again.

But because something in her blood said you’re already in this.

Midnight – L’Obsidienne

The club was tucked away behind a row of discreet storefronts facing the Monaco harbor. No signage. Just two towering men in tailored suits and an obsidian door that opened only when her name was whispered.

Inside, L’Obsidienne was all shadows and sin. Low lighting, mirrored walls, candlelight glinting off crystal glasses and red velvet. It smelled like sex and secrets. Soft jazz played in the background, but it wasn’t the music that made her pulse race.

It was the way every eye followed her as she was led upstairs — through a black lacquer hallway, past locked rooms with muffled sounds, to a private suite that overlooked the glittering coastline.

And Max.

He stood near the balcony doors, city lights painting his face in sharp silver. No jacket. Sleeves rolled. One hand wrapped around a glass of whisky, the other tucked into his pocket like he was trying not to use it.

He turned when she walked in.

And something behind his eyes shifted.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said.

Y/N gave a tight smile. “Curiosity is my fatal flaw.”

He tilted his head. “You think this is fatal?”

“I think you’re used to people bending.”

Max approached her slowly, almost like he was circling her. “And you don’t bend?”

“Not for criminals.”

He hummed. “Then call me misunderstood.”

“I’d rather call you predictable.”

Max set his drink down and walked closer, until there was barely any space between them.

“You’re standing in my private club, in the middle of the night, wearing lipstick the color of blood,” he said, voice low and rough. “If I’m predictable, then what does that make you?”

Her breath caught — but she didn’t back down.

“Bored,” she whispered.

He laughed, quiet and dark. “God, you’re fun.”

She reached past him, grabbed the whisky from the table, and took a sip — her eyes on his the whole time.

“You know,” she said, licking a drop from her bottom lip, “most men in power come with a script. I’ve read them all.”

“And?”

“Yours is more interesting. But not unique.”

Max stepped forward, his hand grazing her waist — not holding, just lingering, like a dare.

“I’m not trying to be unique,” he murmured. “I’m trying to see how long I can look at you before I do something reckless.”

Her heart thudded. She felt it in her throat, her ribs, her spine.

Then, like nothing had happened, she stepped back and smiled sweetly. “Goodnight, Mr. Verstappen.”

And walked away again.

This time, she didn’t look back.

But Max… Max stood there long after she left, staring at the door, jaw tight, desire coiled in his chest like a loaded gun.

He’d let her walk away tonight. But he wouldn’t let her go.

---

It started with the rain.

A week had passed since their night at L’Obsidienne, and Y/N hadn’t heard from Max. No calls. No cards. No messages slid under her door with cryptic invitations.

She told herself she didn’t care.

She buried herself in her work, slammed shut the mental drawer with his name in it. She told herself it was nothing — a power play, a flirtation at most. That Max Verstappen was just another man who thought the world was his until someone made him bleed.

And yet…

Some nights, she swore she felt him watching her. At intersections. In the shadows between streetlights. His presence lingered like the taste of that whisky on her lips — sharp, smoky, and far too addicting.

Y/N walked briskly down the Rue Grimaldi, coat pulled tight, umbrella forgotten in the chaos of her exit. The storm had arrived too suddenly — a downpour that soaked her blouse, turned the stone streets slick, and blurred the edges of the world. She moved on instinct, pushing through the kind of night that felt charged, as though something was about to snap.

She was halfway home when her phone rang. Blocked number.

She ignored it. Until it rang again.

The voice on the other end was low, urgent.

“Don’t go home. You’ve been marked. You have 30 seconds to walk to the black car across the street.”

“What the hell—?”

“Go. Now.”

The line went dead.

She froze — pulse kicking. Then she turned slowly, scanning the street. There. Black Audi. Engine running. Tinted windows.

Logic screamed don’t, but her gut — the same instinct that had gotten her through impossible courtrooms and men who lied with polished teeth — said run.

She did.

Inside the car, silence reigned. The driver never spoke. Didn’t need to.

She knew exactly where she was going.

And who was waiting.

Back Entrance, L’Obsidienne – 11:57 PM

The club was closed. The alley glistened with rain and danger, slick cobblestones reflecting the red glow of a lone security light.

And Max.

He stood beneath the overhang, dry despite the storm, a storm of his own behind his eyes. Shirt sleeves rolled, collar open, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

The moment she stepped out of the car, he walked toward her — fast, tense, like a man barely holding himself together.

“You’re okay?” he asked first. Not hello. Not a smirk.

Just raw, open worry.

“I’m here,” she replied, breathless. “But what the fuck is going on?”

Max didn’t answer with words.

He took her hand.

His was warm, rough, grounding — and for a second, it felt like they weren’t in the middle of something that could end in blood.

“They were watching you,” he said finally, voice low. “I thought they might wait. I was wrong.”

“Who?” she demanded. “You’re being hunted, and you pull me into this?”

Max stepped closer. “No. You walked into my world. You showed up that night, and you didn’t look away. You knew something wasn’t right — and you stayed.”

Her voice cracked. “That doesn’t mean you get to decide where I go, Max.”

“I know,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “But I need you to be somewhere they can’t reach you tonight.”

He opened a discreet door behind the club, led her through a silent hallway and into a private elevator. They ascended without speaking, the silence thick with unfinished sentences.

When the doors opened, Monaco’s skyline sprawled before them through glass walls.

His penthouse was dimly lit, all clean lines and dark wood, the kind of quiet that hummed with secrets. A storm rolled in over the sea — lightning flashing distantly, waves crashing against the rocks below.

Y/N stood at the window, arms crossed tightly.

“You should have let me walk away after that first night,” she whispered.

“I tried.”

“And now?”

Max stepped behind her, voice low near her ear. “Now I dream about your voice every night. Your mouth. Your spine. How you never flinch, never fold. You walk into fire like it’s a game and dare me to follow.”

She turned, slowly, and their bodies nearly collided.

“You’re obsessed,” she said.

He nodded once. “Unapologetically.”

Her breath hitched. “And if I’m not interested?”

He gave a crooked smile. “Then I’ll burn quietly. But you’re here. You came.”

Y/N’s hands shook slightly. She hated that he made her feel anything — but it wasn’t fear. It was hunger. Recognition. A flame she’d never dared touch.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

Max’s eyes darkened. “Say it again.”

“Kiss me.”

He moved fast.

His mouth crashed into hers — fire, desperate friction. One hand cupped the back of her neck, the other anchored at her waist, drawing her against the hard line of his body. She moaned, fisting his shirt, dragging him closer, devouring him like he was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

It wasn’t gentle. It was war.

And she didn’t want it to end.

When he pulled back, both of them panting, her lips bruised, he said her name like a sin.

“Y/N—”

Glass shattered.

Gunfire tore through the windows — sharp, precise, and close.

Max threw her down behind the leather couch just as another round of bullets pierced the far wall. Glass rained down like glitter. She ducked, heart hammering, breath ripped from her lungs.

Max was already moving — gun in hand, tucked low. Calm.

“Don’t move until I tell you to.”

Her voice trembled. “How many?”

“Two shooters. Professional. Russian.”

“How the fuck do you know that?”

He looked at her. “Because I trained them.”

The silence was deafening.

Then his hand found hers, warm despite everything.

“I’m going to end this,” he said.

She squeezed back. “You’ll die trying.”

Max leaned in, lips brushing hers again.

“I told you,” he whispered. “I’d burn for you.”

And then he was gone — into the storm of bullets, into the night, into the war that had found her too.

And Y/N knew, without a doubt, this wasn’t just a game anymore.

This was a war she couldn’t walk away from.

Y/N had never felt quiet like this.

Not the peaceful kind. No, this was a brutal kind of stillness — the kind that sat in your chest and made it hard to breathe. It wrapped around her ribcage as she stood barefoot in the ruins of Max’s penthouse, his dress shirt clinging to her damp skin, the taste of his lips still lingering on hers.

She turned in slow circles, surveying the aftermath: shattered glass, bullet holes stitched across the window frames, the scent of scorched metal and adrenaline hanging thick in the air.

But Max was gone.

And that silence? It was turning into something unbearable.

She didn’t know if he’d made it out of the building. If he’d caught the shooters. If she’d imagined everything he’d said right before diving headfirst into a war she hadn’t asked for.

Her phone had no service.

And her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She sat down hard on the leather couch — or what was left of it — her knees pulled to her chest. She wanted to cry, but there was nothing soft left inside her to make tears. Only ash and confusion.

She should leave.

Run. Disappear. Go back to London. Pretend Max Verstappen had never come into her life like a loaded gun aimed at the part of her that still believed in good men.

But when the penthouse door finally clicked open — slow, heavy, purposeful — she didn’t move.

She didn’t need to.

She knew it was him.

Max looked like the storm he always tried to hide.

His shirt was torn at the sleeve, one hand wrapped in gauze that was already stained with blood. A dark patch marred the collar of his jacket — not his blood, she hoped, but in his world, it hardly mattered. He moved like someone who’d spent hours running on instincts alone.

And the second he saw her, his shoulders dropped. Just a fraction. But she saw it.

“Say something,” he said hoarsely.

She stood.

Then slapped him.

Hard.

His head snapped to the side. But he didn’t stop her when she pushed him back again and again, fists hitting the broad line of his chest with every syllable.

“You—don’t—get—to—decide—if—I—live!”

Max caught her wrists mid-swing, breathing ragged.

“I wasn’t going to let you die.”

“Then what was that?” she choked. “You disappear for hours. I don’t know if you’re alive. I don’t know who wants me dead. And you—God, Max—you act like it’s all just another calculated move.”

“I went after them,” he growled. “I tracked two down. The third got away.”

“And what now? You go hunting again? You kill your way back to control and think that’s enough?”

“No,” he said, quietly. “Now I keep you alive. Even if it means keeping you locked in this building until they’re all buried.”

Y/N stared at him, horrified. “That’s not love, Max. That’s prison.”

His face changed at that. A shadow passing over something already broken.

“I never said this was love.”

Her voice dropped. “Then what the hell is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Just stepped in close — close enough for her to smell the blood and smoke clinging to his collar.

“This thing between us,” he said, low, “has always had an expiration date. But until then…” His fingers brushed her cheek. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Whether we burn for it or not.”

She should’ve slapped him again.

Instead, she kissed him.

It was chaos.

It was desperate, angry, starving.

Their bodies crashed into each other like a wave against stone — all teeth and bruised lips and hands that couldn’t get close enough fast enough. She didn’t care about the cuts on his hands. He didn’t care about the blood still on his shirt. They sank into each other like people who didn’t know if there would be a tomorrow.

Max pushed her back onto the couch, his mouth trailing fire down her throat, his hands sliding up her thighs like he owned them. She arched into him, moaning into the storm of it, gasping when his grip tightened possessively.

“Tell me to stop.”

“Never.”

Her kiss wasn’t soft — it was a collision.

She clutched the collar of Max’s jacket, dragging him down to her level, their mouths crashing like thunder against a storm-split sky. His hands gripped her hips, lifting her in one smooth motion, setting her down on the kitchen counter with a thud. She gasped as the cool marble kissed the backs of her thighs — then again when his mouth followed the curve of her neck with bruising intent.

“You’re bleeding,” she breathed.

“I don’t care,” he growled into her skin.

He kissed her again — deeper, messier, like he needed to consume the part of her that made him feel alive. And maybe he did. Because Max was a man surrounded by death, and Y/N tasted like the first breath of air after being buried alive.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and he helped, yanking it over his head, revealing skin marked by ink and scars. She ran her hands down his chest, nails grazing each ridge like a claim. He hissed in pleasure.

“Don’t tease me,” he muttered against her collarbone. “Not tonight.”

“Then do something about it,” she challenged.

That was all he needed.

Max’s hands pushed her thighs apart, tugging her closer to the edge. Her breath hitched as his fingers hooked beneath the fabric of the shirt she wore — his shirt — and pulled it over her head in one swift movement.

She was bare to him, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow waves.

“Fuck,” he whispered, almost reverent.

He took his time with her, one hand running up her thigh, the other sliding around her back to draw her closer. His mouth found her breast, hot and eager, while his thumb rolled over her nipple. She arched against him, legs wrapping around his waist, grounding herself with the only thing that still felt real — him.

The kiss turned savage. Tongues and teeth. Her moans were swallowed into his mouth as he ground against her, hardness pressed perfectly against where she was already aching.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmured against her jaw. “Tell me before I ruin you.”

“You already have,” she whispered, clawing at his back. “Now finish it.”

Moments later — the bedroom.

They didn’t even make it to the bed properly. Just halfway on, halfway off — limbs tangled, sheets twisted, gasps echoing through the dimly lit room.

Max buried himself inside her in one hard, relentless thrust, both of them crying out at the suddenness of it. Her legs locked around him as he drove into her, over and over, like he could bury the pain and the fear between their bodies. Like if he kept moving, he wouldn’t have to feel how close he was to falling apart.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was possession. It was penance. It was desperation.

He kissed her like he wanted to forget. She kissed him like she wanted to remember.

Each thrust was a promise: I would burn the world for you.

And her nails down his back answered: Then burn it.

When she came, it was a cry ripped from her lungs — not just pleasure, but release, heartbreak, surrender. And Max followed with a hoarse curse, burying his face in her shoulder as if ashamed of how much he needed her.

They didn’t speak for a while.

They just lay there — skin against skin, breath against breath — the silence between them not empty, but charged.

And for the first time since it all began, they were both finally stripped of pretense.

Naked.

Honest.

Human.

The Safehouse – 3:47 AM

She didn’t remember the car ride. Just Max’s voice in her ear, telling her it wasn’t safe to stay. That the penthouse was compromised. That they had to vanish — just for a little while.

Now they stood in the dark heart of an old villa tucked deep in Monaco’s hills — a place with heavy doors, reinforced glass, and no cell signal.

Y/N sat curled on a window seat overlooking the glittering coastline, wrapped in Max’s hoodie, her hair still damp from the earlier rain. She looked like a painting of solitude.

Max leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“You should sleep,” he said quietly.

“I can’t,” she replied. “Not when I keep hearing gunshots every time I close my eyes.”

He moved closer, dropping down to sit beside her.

“I’m sorry.”

She looked at him. “For what?”

“For bringing you into this world. For not letting you walk away when I should’ve.”

“I wouldn’t have walked away,” she said after a long pause. “Even if you told me to. Not really.”

His brows drew together. “Why?”

She turned her head. “Because you were the first man who didn’t lie to me about the darkness. You showed me yours. And I… I think I wanted to be seen, too.”

Max looked at her like she’d torn open his ribcage with a whisper.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said finally. “But I don’t know how to keep you.”

And there it was — the realest thing he’d ever said.

No bravado. No armor. Just a man who was more broken than dangerous.

Y/N reached over, took his hand. “Then don’t try to protect me from your world, Max. Let me into it. Let me help you survive it.”

He leaned in, their foreheads touching, breaths mingling.

“If you stay,” he whispered, “there’s no going back. No half-truths. No out.”

“I’m already in,” she whispered. “And if you burn… I’ll burn with you.”

They didn’t sleep that night.

But they weren’t alone anymore.

Not in the ways that mattered.

Y/N sat curled in the corner of the bay window, knees tucked to her chest, watching the ocean churn below. The storm had been brewing for hours, but it hadn’t broken yet — just like Max.

She could hear him downstairs. Pacing. Shouting. Making plans with men who spoke in sharp, urgent Dutch. She didn’t understand all the words, but she understood the fear behind them. The empire was shaking — and he was trying to hold it all together with bloodstained hands.

And she hadn't seen him properly in two days.

Not really.

Not since that night in the penthouse. Not since he made her fall apart with nothing but desperation and devotion in his touch.

He hadn’t kissed her since. Hadn’t even met her eyes.

Just warred, planned, bled — alone.

Until tonight.

---

She found him in the library, the fire low, his glass untouched.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said quietly, stepping inside.

He didn’t turn. “I’m protecting you.”

“Bullshit.”

Max looked over his shoulder, and for a second, something in his eyes cracked. He looked like a man unraveling, stitched too tight for too long.

“I let you in, Y/N. That was my mistake.”

She crossed the room, defiant. “No. Your mistake is thinking you can survive this without me.”

He stood then — tall, dangerous, utterly untouchable. But she didn’t back down. She stood in front of him, toe-to-toe, her chin tilted high.

“Tell me I don’t matter,” she said. “Lie to my face if you have to.”

He stared at her. Silent. Tortured.

Then: “You’re the only thing that matters.”

He grabbed her. One swift, furious movement — his hand tangling in her hair, his mouth claiming hers like he was drowning.

She gasped into the kiss, her hands sliding beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the ripple of muscle. He tasted like whiskey and violence — like everything she craved and everything she feared.

“I can’t think when you’re near me,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down her throat. “I can’t breathe.”

“Then stop pretending,” she whispered, pushing his jacket from his shoulders. “And start feeling.”

He shoved papers from the desk behind her, lifted her onto it, his mouth never leaving hers. His fingers traced fire across her thighs, slipping under the silk robe she wore, baring her inch by inch until she was exposed beneath him.

He stepped back for just a second — to look.

“Beautiful,” he muttered. “And fucking mine.”

“Then take me,” she whispered.

And he did.

Slowly at first — savoring the arch of her back, the gasp of her breath, the clutch of her fingers in his hair. Then harder, deeper, until she was crying out with each thrust, head thrown back, body trembling.

“Say it again,” he growled.

“I’m yours,” she whimpered.

“Again.”

“I’m yours.”

When she shattered, he followed — pressing his forehead to hers, sweat-slick and shaking.

They stayed like that. Tangled. Raw. Silent.

Until the world crept back in.

---

In the dark, Max held her close. One arm around her waist, the other braced on the bed as if he were still shielding her from invisible enemies.

“They killed Misha,” he said finally, voice rough. “My second. Since we came here.”

Her heart clenched. “Max…”

“There’s no more hiding,” he said. “This ends now.”

“What are you going to do?”

His voice was steel. “Whatever it takes.”

He stood, bare and beautiful in the moonlight, and reached for a small black velvet box from the drawer.

“I was saving this. For later.”

Y/N blinked as he opened it.

Not a ring. But a chain — with a bullet casing at the end.

“This belonged to my father,” he said. “He died in this life. I swore I wouldn’t give this to anyone unless I was all in.”

He stepped forward and clasped it around her neck.

“You’re not just in this world now,” he whispered. “You own part of it. Of me.”

She stared at him. Breathless.

And terrified.

---

At dawn, she woke alone.

A glass of water. A warm robe. And a note on the pillow.

‘If I don’t come back — don’t follow. You’re stronger than this world. But I made a choice the moment I kissed you in the dark. I’d die before I let it take you.’

Below it: the ring he always wore. Heavy. Cold. Final.

Y/N sat there for a long time, storm clouds swallowing the skyline.

And then, with fire in her chest, she stood.

Because if he thought she’d let him walk into war alone — he didn’t know her at all.

----

It started with a call in the dead of night. A coded phrase from Max’s encrypted burner phone. Three words: “He’s with them.”

Y/N stared at the screen, pulse hammering. She knew who “he” was. Knew what it meant.

Leclerc. Max’s most trusted man. The one who brought her tea when Max forgot to eat. The one who held her hand when Max was being seen to after he got shot. The one who sold them out.

She didn’t wait for orders. Max was gone, but she wasn’t some porcelain doll left on a shelf.

Y/N stood in the center of Max’s war room — screens blinking with satellite feeds, dossiers spread like bloodstains on the marble table. Max was gone.

But not dead.

She could feel it.

And she wasn’t going to wait for news. Not again.

“Track his last known coordinates,” she told Yuki, Max’s tech lieutenant. “Get me a car. And a gun.”

“Max said—”

“Max isn’t here,” she snapped. “I am.”

By sunrise, she was armed, dressed in sleek black, and crossing the border in a bulletproof Bentley. Eyes cold. Lips crimson.

And that’s how she ended up in a stolen Maserati at 3 a.m., chasing down a private jet last seen landing in Marseille. Hair windblown. Heart war-bound.

Monaco was no longer safe.

----

She found Max in Marseille, crumpled in an alley behind a burned-out brothel turned safehouse. Blood soaked his designer suit. A split above his brow leaked down his temple like war paint.

Bleeding, bruised, back pressed to the stone wall of an abandoned French vineyard — surrounded by men he once trusted. Including Leclerc — Max’s childhood friend. The man who toasted him at their first kill. The traitor.

Y/N stepped into the moonlight, gun raised.

“You picked the wrong side,” she said coldly.

Leclerc laughed. “He was always going to die alone. Just like his father.”

Max’s jaw tightened, but his eyes were locked on her.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growled.

“Saving your ass.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate — she pulled the trigger. One clean shot. Straight through Leclerc’s thigh.

“Next one goes through your heart,” she said. “Try me.”

The others scattered. Some tried to fight. Most didn’t make it far.

Y/N knelt beside Max, cupping his jaw. “You left me.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

She leaned in, forehead to his. “Then let me protect you for once.”

Despite the agony, he chuckled. “God, I love you.”

They made it out. Barely.

Y/N drove like the devil was chasing them. Max passed out in the backseat, muttering half-conscious Dutch threats and her name over and over.

They hid in The Hague for two days.

That’s when the footage surfaced. Leclerc. Smiling. Sitting with Interpol. Trading files for freedom. Outing every syndicate member.

Including Max.

Including her.

“He knew where we slept,” Max growled, slamming his fist into the wall. “Where you showered. He—” He couldn’t finish. He just collapsed into a chair, trembling. “He saw you as my weakness.”

Y/N kneeled in front of him, cradling his face. “I’m not your weakness,” she said fiercely. “I’m your fucking spine.”

---

They returned to Monaco undercover — new aliases, false passports, and a plan that could only end in flames.

The vault under the Casino held the last known files. The ones Leclerc hadn’t handed over. Max needed them destroyed. Y/N needed Leclerc dead.

“I’ll be the distraction,” she said.

“No,” Max growled. “I’ve already risked you once.”

Y/N stepped closer, pressing her body to his, voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to sideline me anymore. We’re in this together — or we’re nothing.”

His hands found her waist. Fingers dug into her hips. “Say that again.”

“In. This. Together.”

He kissed her hard, furious — teeth, tongue, fire — lifting her onto the desk, muttering between each gasp: “I’d burn the whole world down… just to keep you mine.”

Fast. Desperate. Tender in the cracks. Their bodies moving like weapons — forged to fight for something bigger than power.

---

The air inside the Monte Carlo Casino was thick with money, perfume, and the quiet hiss of secrets. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting molten gold across a sea of diamonds, designer gowns, and deadly smiles.

Y/N walked in like a ghost in red silk.

Her dress clung to every curve like it had been painted on — slit to her thigh, plunging down her back, the fabric swishing with purpose. Her heels clicked softly on the marble floors as she made her way through the main gaming hall. She was all smirk and shadow, like sin wrapped in satin.

Whispers followed her.

She didn’t blink.

She didn’t smile.

She was here for one thing: Leclerc.

And the end of this goddamn game.

Through the mirrored corridors and velvet-draped rooms, she finally found the private lounge — the entrance to the underground vault where Max’s empire had once been stored in secrets and blackmail.

Two guards stood in front of the gold-inlaid double doors.

Y/N didn’t flinch. She leaned in, close enough for them to smell her expensive perfume — the one Max always said reminded him of blood oranges and vengeance.

“I’m expected,” she said, voice low, laced with venom.

They opened the doors.

Inside, Leclerc was waiting.

He stood in the center of the vault like a king on his last breath — sharp suit, smug expression, champagne glass in hand. Screens on the walls displayed encrypted data feeds, and stacks of physical ledgers lined the walls like coffins.

And behind him, in a glass case, lay the files. The files — the last link to Max’s criminal empire. The final leverage Luca thought he could wield.

Y/N let the doors shut behind her.

“You really traded all of this for immunity?” she said, eyes scanning the room. “Sold out a man who trusted you. Loved you like a brother.”

Leclerc laughed, swirling his champagne. “Max built a throne on sand and blood. I just made sure I wouldn’t drown when the tides changed.”

She stepped closer, slow and predatory.

“And me?” she asked softly. “Did I come with the price tag, too?”

He tilted his head, watching her. “You were the bonus. Pretty little thing with teeth. I never understood what he saw in you.”

Y/N’s smile was ice. “That’s because you’ve never had anything worth bleeding for.”

He moved to the case behind him, tapping the glass.

“These files are worth millions. Names, deals, bank routes. The whole goddamn skeleton of his kingdom. And in ten minutes, I’ll be giving them to Interpol.”

Y/N took another step forward, unbothered.

“What if you don’t live ten more minutes?”

Leclerc chuckled. “Please. You won’t shoot me. You’d be dead before you pulled the trigger.”

Y/N’s lips curled. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Then —

“Now,” she whispered.

The lights exploded. Smoke burst from the vents. Alarms wailed. Red strobes lit the vault like a dance floor in hell.

Max burst through the smoke, black tactical gear hugging his frame, gun drawn, eyes locked on Leclerc like a wolf seeing red. Behind him, his loyalists — masked, brutal, surgical in their movements.

“Surprise,” Max growled, voice like gravel soaked in rage.

Leclerc stumbled back, shouting for his guards.

Too late.

Gunfire erupted. Y/N dove, rolled, and fired twice — one bullet tore through Luca’s shoulder, the other into the man flanking him. Blood hit the glass.

Chaos reigned.

Max shot clean. Methodical. Calculated violence.

Y/N moved like art — ducking, kicking, shooting — the hem of her gown streaked in ash and blood, her lipstick smudged into a grin of war.

Smoke coiled. Screams echoed.

When the room cleared, Leclerc was on the floor, gasping, bleeding from his arm, dragging himself backwards with his good hand.

Max stood over him, chest heaving, face bruised.

“I should kill you,” he snarled. “But she deserves it more.”

He stepped aside.

Y/N walked forward, gun heavy in her palm.

Leclerc spat blood. “You think this changes anything? You’ll never be free of this life.”

Y/N crouched down, meeting his gaze. “No. But I’ll be free of you.”

She lifted the gun.

“And Max?” Leclerc rasped. “He’ll always be a monster.”

Y/N didn’t blink.

“Then I’ll be the monster’s queen.”

And she pulled the trigger.

One shot.

Between the eyes.

Silence.

The vault smelled like smoke, blood, and the end of an era.

Y/N stood. Max stepped beside her, slipping his hand into hers. His jaw was tight. His grip was trembling.

“I told you to stay behind,” he said.

She glanced at him.

“And miss our big finish?” she whispered. “Not a chance.”

He leaned in, kissed her temple, and whispered so low only she could hear:

“I’ve never loved anyone like this.”

The sound of the final gunshot still echoed off the marble and steel when silence fell.

The kind of silence that screamed louder than war.

Y/N lowered her arm, breath shuddering, the gun hot in her hand. Blood dripped in a slow, rhythmic patter from Leclerc’s body to the floor — a twisted, final metronome.

Max stood across from her, panting, shoulder heaving. A gash on his cheek leaked down his neck. Smoke curled around him like a halo made of fire and fury.

No one else moved.

His men were already clearing the space, securing the files, checking corners — but all Max could see was her.

Y/N. In red and ruin. Gun in her hand. Blood on her skin. Eyes full of rage and something much, much deeper.

He stepped forward, slow and sure.

She turned to him like gravity pulled her.

Neither said anything for a long moment.

Then—his voice cracked, low and raw.

“Are you hurt?”

She blinked, dazed. “I don’t think so.”

He reached out. His hands, always so steady, now shook slightly as they cupped her jaw, thumbs brushing her cheeks like she was made of glass.

“You weren’t supposed to do this,” he murmured, voice thick with guilt. “I should’ve—”

She cut him off, fierce and ragged.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare blame yourself.”

Tears burned in her eyes, but didn’t fall. Her lip trembled. “You could've died if I hadn't come. You could've died, Max.”

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “But I can’t lose you either. Not for this. Not for any of it.”

And suddenly she was kissing him.

Not softly. Not sweetly. It was fire — desperate, blood-hot, all teeth and tangled breath. Her fingers tore at his collar, his hands tangled in her hair, the scent of danger still clinging to their skin.

They broke apart just long enough to gasp—

“I could’ve I lost you,” she whispered.

“I’m right here,” he growled against her lips. “I’m always fucking here.”

He kissed her again, deeper, harder, like it was the only way he could stay grounded.

Behind them, someone cleared their throat.

Max turned, murder in his eyes, and his second-in-command raised a brow.

“We need to move,” the man said, nodding at the vault’s surveillance system. “They’ll be here in less than ten.”

Max didn’t hesitate. He yanked Y/N flush to his side.

“Burn it,” he said.

The man hesitated. “All of it?”

Max looked at the files — the empire, the leverage, the power.

Then he looked at her.

“Burn. It. All.”

---

They slipped into the tunnels beneath the casino, guided by years of contingency planning and the faint scent of sea salt.

Y/N walked beside Max, her body aching, her heart even more so.

“You killed for me,” he said quietly, as they reached the boat hidden beneath the cliffs.

She turned to him, wind lashing her hair across her face. “I killed because of you.”

He stopped her there, grabbed her wrists.

“I don’t want you to become what I am.”

She stepped forward, lips trembling.

“Then become something better with me. Let's choose something different, Max. For once.”

His breath caught.

Then he pulled her in, forehead to hers.

“Ride with me?” he whispered.

She smiled through her tears. “To the end of the earth.”

They boarded the boat together — not king and queen of a crumbling empire, but something new. Something free.

The boat roared to life.

Behind them, the vault exploded.

A tower of flame lit the night sky, raining gold and ash into the sea.

And Max Verstappen, the man who once ruled Monaco with an iron fist, kissed his love as their past burned behind them.

---

The Sicilian villa was perched high on a cliff, half-hidden by vines and moonlight. Waves crashed far below like the pounding of a distant war drum, but up here — there was only stillness.

Only them.

Y/N stood barefoot on the balcony, wrapped in one of Max’s black dress shirts. The hem fell mid-thigh, sleeves swallowed her hands, and his scent — leather and danger — clung to her like a second skin.

The wind played in her hair. Her arms were folded against the railing, but her mind was far away — back in that vault, that chaos. The gun still warm in her grip. The weight of it all still in her chest.

Then, behind her, she felt him.

Max.

He didn’t speak. He just came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his bare chest. His skin was still damp from the shower. Warm. Solid.

His lips brushed the curve of her neck.

“You haven’t said anything in over an hour,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

“I don’t know what to say.”

He kissed her shoulder.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “You did what had to be done.”

“I didn’t do it for strategy,” she whispered. “Or safety. I did it because the thought of him touching you… taking you away from me—”

Her voice broke. She turned in his arms.

“I love you,” she said, fierce and unflinching. “Even when I shouldn’t. Even when you scare the hell out of me. I love you.”

He looked at her like she was the only real thing in the world.

Then he kissed her.

Slow. Deep. No rush now — no danger. Just the weight of what they’d survived. The cost of it. The ache in their bones and hearts.

Max lifted her in his arms and carried her inside without a word.

The room was dim, lit only by the fire crackling low in the hearth. He laid her on the bed like she was breakable, but his hands said otherwise — they were hungry, reverent, claiming.

He pulled off the shirt slowly, watching it fall away, revealing every inch of her like he was memorising her all over again.

“You terrify me,” he whispered as he kissed down her sternum. “You walked into fire for me.”

“I’d do it again,” she whispered, voice catching as his lips moved lower, slower.

And when his mouth found her heat, her hands tangled in his hair, her back arching, breath stuttering. He was relentless — not rough, but thorough. Worshipping her with his tongue and lips like she was a prayer he never deserved.

When she came undone, trembling and gasping his name, he kissed her inner thigh, slow and sweet.

Then he moved up her body, his bare skin against hers — strong, scarred, real.

“I don’t want to own you,” he said, voice ragged. “I just want to belong to you.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“You already do,” she whispered.

When he entered her, it wasn’t frantic. It was everything. Bodies tangled in moonlight and sweat. Foreheads pressed. Fingers laced. The sound of skin against skin and the whispered words between gasps.

“Don’t let go.” “Never.” “I love you.” “I’m yours.”

And when they finally collapsed together — spent, breathless, undone — Max buried his face in her neck and held her so tight it hurt.

“I don’t know what comes next,” he whispered.

Y/N stroked his hair, kissed his temple, and whispered back:

“Whatever it is, we survive it. Together.”

---

Epilogue: One Year Later

The villa sat tucked into the Sicilian cliffs like it had always belonged there — old stone, overgrown roses, and warm terracotta tiles that glowed gold in the evening light. The sea stretched wide and endless below, the waves soft now. Not crashing. Just breathing.

It was peaceful here.

And for Max Verstappen and Y/N L/N, peace had been the hardest thing to learn.

Y/N was barefoot in the garden, the hem of her linen dress brushing her calves as she snipped fresh basil for dinner. Her hair was pinned up messily, a few strands loose and kissed by salt air. A radio hummed quietly from the open kitchen window — some lazy Italian love song drifting through the vines.

She didn’t flinch when arms slipped around her waist from behind.

Max.

Still impossibly handsome, though softer now. Stubble dusted his jaw, and a thin scar curved near his temple — a memory of Monaco, one she’d kissed a hundred times. He smelled like sun and lemons and the worn cotton of the T-shirt clinging to his chest.

“You’re late,” she murmured with a teasing smile, leaning back into him.

“Had to convince the old farmer down the road to part with his last bottle of grappa. Almost had to arm wrestle his goat.”

She laughed — the kind of laugh that reached her eyes now.

“Worth it?”

He held up the bottle with a grin. “You tell me.”

They stood like that for a moment — two shadows wrapped in golden light.

Then Max turned her gently, brushing her hands aside and tucking a sprig of basil behind her ear.

“You know,” he said, looking at her like she still stole the air from his lungs, “every time I see you out here like this, I think maybe this is what heaven looks like.”

She raised a brow. “Basil in my hair and dirt on my knees?”

“Exactly that.” He kissed her, slow and easy. “Perfect.”

Dinner was quiet — pasta, wine, bare feet tangled under the table. He told her about the book he was reading. She told him about the stray cat that refused to stop sleeping on their porch.

No bullets. No codes. No blood on the walls.

Just a quiet life they built one sunrise at a time.

After dinner, they sat out on the balcony, the sky streaked with pink and lavender, the stars beginning to bloom. She curled into his side, head on his chest, fingers tracing idle shapes over the faded tattoo on his forearm — the one he'd gotten for her, right after they’d burned their past to the ground.

𝘚𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬.

“Do you ever miss it?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t need to ask what it meant.

The power. The danger. The thrill of the chase.

“No,” he said honestly. “Not when I wake up next to you.”

She kissed his chest, and they fell into silence again, the kind that felt like home.

Some nights, the past still slipped in through the cracks — in dreams, in shadows, in the ache of old scars.

But every time it did, she was there.

And so was he.

Alive. In love. Free.

They didn’t get a perfect life. But they got this one. And for them, that was more than enough.

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w3haw3ll · 2 months ago

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Everyone's so interested in the Merc cooling jacket at the drivers' parade lol Kimi's being poked like a stuffed toy

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w3haw3ll · 2 months ago

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OSCAR PIASTRI SAUDI ARABIAN GP WINNER AND NEW CHAMPIONSHIP LEADER!!!!!!!

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w3haw3ll · 2 months ago

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Masterlist

Formula 1:

Max Verstappen (1) -

Velvet Trigger- He ruled the world with an iron fist- until he saw you walk in wearing red.

Velvet Trigger (Extended Epilogue)- Max is discovering the new challenges in life while still be haunted by his past ones.

Charles Leclerc (16) -

Red & Yellow-(Part 1 & Part 2) Y/N joins the Ferrari pit crew and struggles with all the other problems that came with working so near the Ferrari drivers.

Red Flags & Riviera Nights- Newly hired PR liaison for ferrari is trying hard not to fall for charles but he is making it hard for her.

Oscar Piastri (81)-

Five Summers Apart- Returning to your hometown after five years away just to be confronted with your childhood crush.

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w3haw3ll · 2 months ago

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Five Summers Gone- Oscar Piastri OP81

Enemies to Lovers × Second Chance × Small Town 5.6K Words (Masterlist) Five years ago, Y/N L/N left Melbourne without saying goodbye—no calls, no letters, nothing. To the town, she disappeared. To Oscar Piastri, her best friend and childhood crush, she shattered everything they’d built.

Now she’s back. Temporarily. And Oscar? He isn’t exactly welcoming her with open arms. Not when he’s spent years pretending he doesn’t care.

TW: Smut but its not essential to the story and can be skipped. 18+

The door to 'The Melbourne Tavern' creaked open, a gust of warm, dry air pushing in with the sound of cicadas buzzing outside. It smelled like dust and sunshine, a hint of salt from the nearby coast mingling with the earthy aroma of wood and old leather. The tavern wasn’t much to look at from the outside—a simple building of peeling white paint and rusty corrugated iron that blended with the small-town landscape. But inside, it had a kind of rustic charm that only decades of local history could create.

The walls were a patchwork of weathered timber and exposed brick, with old beer advertisements and faded photographs hanging crookedly. Some of the frames were cracked, but no one had bothered to replace them; they were part of the place’s charm. The soft golden glow of hanging lamps cast long shadows across the wooden floors, which were scuffed from years of boots and bare feet dancing to the sound of country tunes.

At the far end of the room polished oak with brass handles glowed under the light. Behind the bar, shelves lined with bottles of gin, rum, whiskey, and every kind of beer imaginable caught the light, the labels faded from the sun’s harsh glare that filtered in through the half-open windows. The taps hissed and gurgled, sending chilled streams of amber liquid into glasses that clinked softly against each other.

Near the window, the jukebox sputtered, blasting out the familiar hum of country music, though the volume was low enough to let the conversations around the bar flow freely. The sound of laughter and murmured gossip drifted over the buzz of cicadas from the porch outside, where a couple of men leaned against the rails, pints in hand, talking about everything and nothing.

The air inside felt thick with the heat of late afternoon, the sun casting a deep golden glow across everything—spilling in through the long windows, illuminating the wooden tables with their mismatched chairs. The long, worn bar counter had a few stools scattered in front of it, some occupied, some empty. A couple of regulars lounged by the dartboard, a few more tucked away in the booths by the back corner, whispering quietly, the flicker of dim candles lighting the space between them.

There was a smell in the air, a blend of fried fish and roasted meats from the small kitchen in the back. The place was both familiar and a little overwhelming, like stepping back into a dream she hadn’t quite realized she was in. Every detail—from the scratches in the tables to the old ceiling fan that lazily stirred the air above—felt like it had been here for a hundred years, holding memories of the people who’d come and gone.

The low hum of chatter from the handful of locals drinking in the dimly lit room died down as soon as she stepped through the door. And now, standing here in the doorway, she felt the weight of time—five long years of distance of lost memories, and of unfinished business.

Y/N froze at the threshold, her heart doing an awkward, painful little skip. It had been five years since she last stood in this place—five summers spent in the faraway noise of the city, with the distant hum of life and everything that wasn’t here. But now, the familiar smell of spilled beer, fried food, and wood smoke hit her like a wave, dragging her back to a time she hadn’t wanted to revisit.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, her gaze scanning the bar. The worn wooden floors creaked beneath her boots as she took a step further in, half-hoping someone would jump out and shout a cheerful welcome, but everyone was strangely quiet. Eyes flicked toward her, some curious, others with that mix of recognition and judgment that could only come from small-town gossip.

On a stool infront of the bar, Oscar Piastri sat with his back to her. His broad shoulders were tense, the back of his black T-shirt clinging to his frame. The man who had once been a small-town kid chasing dreams now stood in the glow of Formula 1 stardom. He was no longer just the boy she’d left behind—he was a racing icon, the kind of person whose name was known across the globe.

But in this pub, to the people who knew him as a child, he was still Oscar—still the young man who had once dreamed of getting out of this town. The same man who had watched her walk away without a word five summers ago.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she stepped further into the tavern, her boots echoing softly on the worn wooden floors. The sound seemed to cut through the room, catching the attention of the few locals scattered around. She felt their eyes on her, a mix of curiosity, judgment, and old gossip filling the space. But her gaze remained fixed on Oscar.

His back was still to her, but the moment he sensed her presence, he paused. The glass in his hand was set down slowly, as if he had suddenly forgotten the motion.

The years hadn’t softened him. If anything, they had made him harder—his shoulders broader, the scruff of his jaw more pronounced, his eyes darker, like he'd been worn down by something deep inside.

Her heart thudded in her chest. The space between them felt like a chasm, but the pull was the same. That magnetic tug she had always felt, the one that was impossible to ignore.

His expression was unreadable at first—until it softened just the tiniest bit, just enough to show that the years hadn’t erased everything. His lips tightened into a hard line.

But what struck her the most was the distance in his eyes. The same eyes that had once held nothing but warmth and admiration for her now seemed cold, distant, almost like she was a stranger.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low and distant, as though her name was a question he didn’t want to ask. “Didn’t expect you to come back.”

Y/N swallowed, the weight of his words sinking into her chest. She had imagined this moment in her mind for so long, rehearsing her apologies, wondering how she would explain everything. But standing here, now, with the entire tavern waiting for something—anything—from her—it felt too real, too raw.

His words hung in the air, thick with the tension of everything unsaid. Five years. She’d thought about this moment more times than she cared to admit, playing it out in her mind over and over again. She had imagined the words, the apology, the explanation. But now that she was standing here, with the dusty warmth of the tavern wrapping around them, everything she had planned to say felt inadequate.

“I didn’t plan on it either,” Y/N replied, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. She glanced around the bar, a few familiar faces still scattered around. “My aunt... she left me the house.”

Oscar didn’t respond to that, his brow furrowing. He didn’t need to. They both knew what that meant. She wasn’t here just to visit. She was here to close a chapter. The kind of chapter that had ended in a storm, the kind of chapter that had never really been finished.

She shifted uncomfortably, noticing his intense gaze on her, like he was weighing every word. Her fingers fidgeted at her sides. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed this place—the familiarity, the feel of being home. But it also hit her like a ton of bricks, the reality of what she’d left behind.

Oscar set the glass down, his hand brushing the countertop with a soft scrape. His gaze never left hers, studying her like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

“You just show up, after five years, and that’s it?” he asked, his voice sharp, his eyes cold. “No explanation? No... nothing?” The anger in his voice made her flinch.

She swallowed, guilt creeping into her chest. “I—I didn’t know how to explain, Oscar. I didn’t think you’d understand.”

His chuckle was low, bitter. “And you thought running away was easier?”

Y/N's stomach twisted. She hadn’t expected to hear that in his voice—the years of hurt, the bitterness. It stung more than she’d anticipated.

She took a small step forward, but the distance between them felt monumental. “I didn’t want to leave. But I had to.” Her voice faltered, but she pushed on. “It was personal... Too personal that I couldn't even tell you about it.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched, and his gaze flickered briefly to the floor. “You could’ve told me, Y/N. You didn’t even give me a chance to understand.” The words were raw, exposed, the kind of words that could break a person if they weren’t careful.

Oscar’s expression shifted then—anger flaring briefly in his eyes before it was quickly masked by something colder, more distant. "You think I wouldn’t have understood?" he asked, his voice tight. "You think I wouldn’t have been there for you?"

She quickly shook her head, feeling the weight of his accusation in her chest. “I thought I was protecting you,” she whispered. “But I was wrong.”

"I didn’t want to drag you into it," she whispered. "I didn’t want you to feel responsible."

Oscar’s lips twisted into something that could have been a smirk, but it was empty. "I’m not a little kid anymore, Y/N. I’m Oscar Piastri now. You think I don’t have my own burdens to carry?"

She could hear the echo of his Formula 1 fame in his words—the pressure, the expectations, the weight of a career that had taken him far from this dusty town. But beneath it, beneath the success, there was still a man who had loved her and still carried the scars of her leaving.

The bartender's voice broke the silence, offering them both drinks, but neither moved to take one. The tension in the air was thick, heavier than the summer heat outside, and all Y/N could do was stand there, staring at the man she had once loved, wondering if there was any way to undo the damage.

The silence between them was heavy, thick with everything they hadn’t said in years. Then, without warning, Oscar turned his back to her, grabbing his empty glass and beginning to inspect it.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked, his tone colder now, guarded.

Y/N hesitated, unsure of what she wanted. Everything felt wrong, like stepping into a dream she couldn’t wake up from. The man she thought she’d never see again. The town she thought she’d forgotten. And yet, standing here now, she realized she hadn’t been able to move on, not fully.

She nodded, her voice soft. “A gin and tonic.”

Oscar didn’t reply as he requested the drink from the bartender, his back still turned to her. But the tension in the room had shifted. She could feel it in the air. The unsaid things were heavier now, waiting for the moment when they would finally have to confront everything.

He handed her the glass without a word, their fingers brushing just for a second. The warmth of the gin mingled with the warmth of the evening as the first crack in the wall between them began to show.

---

The tavern was nearly empty now. Outside, nighttime had fully settled over the countryside, a velvet sky scattered with stars, cool wind sweeping in through the open windows. Crickets chirped steadily in the distance, and the scent of dry grass and old smoke hung in the air.

Inside, only a soft, flickering pendant light remained above the bar, casting a honeyed glow across the polished wood. Y/N sat alone on a stool, her fingers tracing circles in the condensation of her untouched drink. The glass had gone warm.

Oscar sat by the bar, pretending to count the bottles on the back shelf. He hadn’t said a word in ten minutes. Neither had she.

Finally, she broke the silence. “You’re quieter than I remember.”

He didn’t turn around. “You’re not.”

She let out a small, humorless laugh. “Right. I’m still the mouthy girl who left.”

Oscar turned then, slowly, a bitter smile ghosting across his lips. “You don’t get to make jokes about it.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. “I’m not trying to.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “One minute we’re planning a future, the next you vanish. Gone. No note, no message. Just—nothing. Like I never existed.”

She stared at him, jaw clenched. “You think I wanted to leave like that?”

“You didn’t stop yourself.”

“Because you made it impossible to stay, Oscar.” Her voice cracked. “You made everything about racing. Everything was about the next circuit, the next win, the next interview. There was never room for me.”

He scoffed. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” she said, her voice rising. “I came second to your career every day for two years, and I was supposed to be okay with that.”

“I was doing it for us,” he snapped. “To give us a better life.”

“No,” she said. “You were doing it for you. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe I was stupid to think I’d ever matter as much as the next podium.”

Oscar stared at her, and for a moment, she thought he might yell. Instead, his voice dropped low, tight with something darker. “I used to imagine you in the crowd. Every time I got behind the wheel. I used to look for your face.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“I used to tell myself that if I just won enough, if I just kept going, maybe you’d see me on TV and… I don’t know. Remember you loved me once.”

“I never forgot,” she whispered.

“Then why didn’t you come back?”

“Because I was scared,” she snapped. “Because every time I thought about you, I felt like I was being tortured from the inside out. Because I couldn’t remind myself that I was just someone who once mattered to you.”

Oscar’s face shifted, something soft cracking through his carefully held anger. “You never stopped mattering.”

There it was again — that unbearable ache. The one that settled into her bones the moment she saw him next to the bar.

She looked down at her hands. “I thought if I left, it would hurt less than staying and watching you drift further away.”

“You should’ve stayed.”

“You should’ve asked me to.”

That silenced him.

The air between them buzzed with the weight of everything they hadn’t said in five long years. It was too much. Not enough. Something in between.

He stood and walked slowly, each footstep with purpose until he stood in front of her.

“You think I didn’t feel abandoned?” he said, quieter now. “You think I didn’t sit in that empty apartment and wonder what I did wrong?”

Y/N’s voice was trembling. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I was being suffocated by how overwhelmed it made me”

“I would’ve made space for you.”

“You didn’t see me, Oscar,” she said, eyes glassy. “You saw a girl who was supposed to wait. Who was supposed to clap from the sidelines and smile while you chased everything we dreamed about together — but you did it on your own.”

He looked stricken. And more than anything else, he looked like a boy who had lost something he hadn’t realized was irreplaceable until it was already gone.

“I hated you for leaving,” he whispered. “And I hated myself for not stopping you.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I hated that I had to leave to save myself.”

Oscar exhaled like he’d been punched. He stepped back slightly, pacing a few steps away, running a hand through his hair. The silence returned, but now it was shaking, fragile, raw.

Then, the faint hum of a song they both knew too well began playing over the radio. He began to tap his fingers on the bar along with the melody.

Y/N froze.

Their song.

He still remembered every note.

She walked over slowly, standing beside him. “I haven’t listened to this since…”

“After you left,” he finished. “Yeah. I couldn’t. Felt like it hurt too much.”

“It still does.”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing at her. “But maybe some things are meant to hurt. If they didn’t, it’d mean they never mattered.”

She didn’t answer. She just watched him tap his fingers, the pain in his movements, the years stitched into each tap on the wooden bar top.

When he finished, she stepped forward, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. “You’ve changed, Oscar.”

“So have you.”

“But I think part of me still knows you.”

His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Then don’t go again.”

She swallowed. “I can’t promise I won’t. But I can promise I’ll try.”

He stood, close now—so close the tension between them was electric.

“I hate that I still want to kiss you,” he said, breath warm.

“I hate that I want you to.”

They didn’t kiss—not yet. The moment lingered like a breath not yet taken.

A door creaked in the distance. A chair scraped. Someone was still here.

The moment passed.

Oscar stepped back, eyes burning. “You should go.”

Y/N hesitated, heart pounding. “Yeah. I should.”

But neither of them moved.

---

The sun bore down mercilessly on Albert Park, casting a shimmer over the track and painting the race paddock in hues of black and red. The smell of gasoline and scorched rubber clung to the air, thick and sharp. Crowds pressed at the fences, their excitement electric, a kind of collective heartbeat that pulsed louder than the engines in the distance.

Y/N stood on the edge of it all, fingers curled tightly around the lanyard that bore Oscar Piastri’s name.

She hadn't planned on coming. She’d told herself over and over she wouldn’t. That she couldn’t.

But when she’d found the VIP pass slipped under her door, attached to a single note — “If you come, I’ll know” — something in her cracked.

Now she was here, at the very place she’d sworn never to return to. The world she’d tried to leave behind. The life she'd tried to untangle from her heart. But it never really left her. And neither did he.

Oscar stood by his car in the garage, helmet under one arm, race suit hugging his form like a second skin. He wasn’t looking at her. But he didn’t need to. He knew.

She didn’t know what they were now. But she knew she couldn’t walk away this time.

Not again.

Now she stood in the shade of the garage awning, watching the man she’d once loved — maybe still loved — suit up, visor down, the sun glinting off his helmet as he prepared for the race.

Oscar didn’t look at her, but she knew he knew she was there.

He always knew.

The race began with the scream of engines and a blur of motion.

Oscar took the first few corners clean, locking into P2 by Lap 3, breathing down the neck of the Ferrari in front. His movements were precise, razor-sharp. But there was something underneath — something Y/N could feel more than see.

He wasn’t just racing. He was pushing.

Too hard. Too fast. Too much.

And she recognized it. That desperate, reckless edge. He was driving like he had something to prove — or something to lose.

The commentary praised him. "He's on fire today—like a man possessed."

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

The commentators said it was brilliant. Ruthless. But Y/N’s chest tightened with every lap.

By Lap 20, Oscar was still in second but gaining, corners carved with fury, tyres crying against the asphalt. The engineers were calm, but Y/N could hear the tension in their voices as they radioed him.

“Oscar, box in five.”

No response.

“Oscar, do you copy?”

Still nothing.

Her heart climbed into her throat.

She knew this Oscar — the one who didn’t hear anything but the roar in his own head. The one who couldn’t stop until the fire inside him burned out everything around him.

Then, Lap 41.

He went wide into Turn 10, trying to force a move where there wasn’t one. The Ferrari twitched. Oscar overcorrected.

The car clipped the curb.

Sparks exploded from under the chassis. The rear end snapped.

And then it happened.

A sickening spin, tyres lifting momentarily before the car slammed sideways into the barrier with a thunderous crack that silenced the crowd. The halo held strong. But the front wing had completely disintegrated. Smoke poured into the sky.

The screen froze on the impact.

The screen showed the wreck: smoke pouring out, marshals racing toward the scene. The safety car was deployed instantly. Mechanics scrambled.

Gasps rippled through the paddock.

Y/N couldn’t move.

She didn’t breathe.

Her mouth was dry. Her body ice-cold. She felt everything and nothing all at once. Around her, the team was in motion, alarms blaring, radios crackling.

But all she could hear was the silence in her chest.

Then—movement. Oscar’s head, helmet still on, shifting.

He was alive.

But she was already running.

She didn’t wait.

She ran.

The medical center was a blur. She pushed through crowds, security, yelling voices — she didn’t care. Not when she could still see the image of his car mangled against the wall. Not when every second that passed without seeing his face felt like a countdown to collapse.

"Miss, you can't be here—"

“I have to be,” she snapped. “He left me a pass. He wants me here.”

The nurse gave her a cautious look, then sighed, stepping aside.

“Y/N?”

And there he was.

Sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, shirtless, bruised, a long scrape down his ribs, and his arm cradled in a sling. He looked up at the sound of the door.

And everything in her broke.

“You complete idiot,” she whispered.

His lips curled into the faintest smile, worn and pained. “Hi.”

She crossed the room in two steps and shoved him.

“You reckless, stupid, arrogant—” her voice broke as she hit him again, this time open-palmed to his chest, and he winced. “You could’ve died, Oscar! What the hell were you thinking?!”

“Y/N—”

“You could’ve died!” repeating as she sobbed. “I saw it. I saw your car hit that wall and I thought—god, I thought that was it. I thought I’d lost you again.”

He grabbed her wrists, gently, holding them between them. “I’m here.”

“Why were you pushing so hard?” she asked, shaking. “You were leading! You had it.”

He flinched. “I just thought that maybe if I won, you’d see I’m not the same guy you left.”

“I never needed you to win anything!” she shouted. “I needed you to fight for me. For us. Not throw yourself into a wall just to prove some twisted point!”

Tears spilled freely down her cheeks now. “You were always enough. It was never about the trophies.”

“I missed you,” he said, voice raw. “Every single day. Even when I hated you. Especially then.”

She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “You don’t get to say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you didn’t come after me. Because you let me go.”

“I thought I was giving you what you wanted,” he said, looking at her like the truth might kill him. “You left without a word.”

“Because I was falling apart!” she cried. “Because I didn’t know who I was outside of you, and I was terrified you wouldn’t love the version of me that didn’t orbit your world.”

Oscar swallowed hard. “I loved all of you. Even the parts you tried to hide from me.”

Y/N moved closer. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Then why did it feel like I was always chasing you?”

“Because I didn’t know how to slow down.” He met her gaze, broken and honest. “Until now.”

The silence between them was thick — loaded with pain, regret, and everything they'd never said.

He looked at her then — really looked — like he was seeing every version of her he’d ever loved, ever hated, ever mourned.

“You came back.”

“I couldn’t stay away this time,” she said, voice shaking.

There was a pause, the kind that holds all the weight of things finally understood.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft.

It was desperate.

A collision of grief, guilt, love and longing, five years in the making. Her fingers threaded into his curls as his hands slid to her waist, pulling her between his knees. The kiss deepened, their breath mingling, hungry and terrified and real.

His hands pulled her in, even with the pain in his arm. Her fingers gripped the back of his neck, their mouths crashing, devouring, pleading.

She pulled back first, breathing heavily. Her forehead rested against his. “Don’t do that again.”

“I won’t,” he whispered. “Unless you leave again.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Oscar’s fingers brushed down her cheek. “Promise?”

“I promise,” she said. “But you need to promise something, too.”

“What?”

“That next time you want to prove something to me… just tell me. Don’t nearly die over it.”

A breathy laugh escaped him. “Deal.”

Y/N smiled through her tears and gently, slowly, leaned into him again. This time the kiss was softer. Tender. Like the feeling of forgiveness.

And outside the walls of the medical center, the race raged on.

But here, time finally slowed.

---

Outside, the city pulsed with celebration. A dull roar of nightlife drifted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but up here, the world had narrowed into something quiet. Almost sacred.

The suite smelled faintly of rain on pavement and clean cotton sheets. The lamps cast a warm, amber glow, softening the sleek modern lines of the room. A forgotten bottle of sparkling water sat half-finished on the nightstand. The television playing the news on mute, replaying the crash over and over — the same brutal spin, the same moment Oscar’s car hit the barrier.

Y/N had turned her back to it. She couldn’t watch it again.

Instead, she watched him.

Oscar stood by the window, one arm braced on the glass, the other resting in a black sling across his torso. The light haloed around him, outlining the sharp lines of his shoulders and jaw, the mess of his dark curls slightly damp from a rushed post-hospital shower. His T-shirt was wrinkled from the day but still clung in the right places. Bruising peeked from beneath the collar, dark and angry against his otherwise golden skin.

She hadn’t been able to stop touching him since they returned. Just little things — her hand on his arm, her fingers brushing his ribs to make sure he was real.

Oscar hadn’t stopped looking at her either.

“You don’t have to hover,” he said quietly, not turning around. “I’m not going to spontaneously combust.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, heart a clenched fist in her chest. “You kind of already did.”

He finally turned.

There was something showing in his eyes emotionally stripped raw. His defenses were down, fractured open by the impact and her lips hours ago in the medical centre. The heat in his gaze wasn’t just desire. It was regret. Longing. Need.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

“For crashing?” she asked.

“For everything.”

Y/N stood and crossed the room slowly, until she was inches from him. The city lights outside cast fractured reflections across his face — half in shadow, half in gold.

She raised a hand to his chest, letting her fingers splay over his heartbeat. “Don’t be sorry right now” she whispered. “None of that is important now.”

A beat passed.

Then she added, softer, “I missed you. I hated how much, but I still did.”

He exhaled slowly. “Every time I thought I was over you… it would blindside me again. In the shower. In the car. Walking past someone who smelled like your perfume.” His hand lifted to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “Tonight, when I saw you in the garage, I thought I was hallucinating.”

“You weren’t,” she murmured. “You pulled me back.”

Oscar leaned in, breath ghosting her cheek. “I’m tired of pretending it didn’t miss you.”

“So, stop pretending.”

He kissed her gently; he put so much emotion into such a simple and delicate kiss. The kiss was telling Y/N all the words she needed to hear from Oscar. She gently lifted his shirt taking a glance at his bruises and cuts.

“I should be the one taking care of you,” she whispered.

“You are.”

She kissed the line of his jaw, breath stuttering. “You feel like home.”

He smiled against her mouth. “Then stay.”

And when they collapsed into the sheets the world outside faded. No engines. No lights. No press. Just the aftershock of something deeply real.

Oscar pulled her into his chest, his voice barely a rumble against her hair.

“This time,” he said, “I’m not letting you go.”

And Y/N, wrapped in his heat, whispered back, “Good. Because I’m done running.”

--- 18+ (CAN BE SKIPPED)

The city below them had long been quiet, but inside the hotel room, the air still burned.

Y/N lay stretched across the sheets, chest rising and falling in quiet waves, her fingers tracing idle patterns over Oscar’s bruised skin. He watched her from where he sat, propped against the headboard, eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable. His sling was off now, set aside like every other barrier between them.

Her fingers moved lower. Across the sharp dip of his hipbone. The waistband of his boxers.

She felt the shift in him immediately — the way his stomach tightened beneath her touch, the soft hitch of breath.

But he didn’t stop her.

Instead, he caught her wrist. “Don’t tease me.”

The heat in his voice made her clench around nothing.

“I’m not,” she whispered, crawling over his lap, straddling him slowly. “Unless you want me to.”

His hands gripped her hips. Firm. Possessive.

“I’ve wanted you,” he murmured, voice wrecked, “since the second I saw you again. And it’s fucking killing me how good you still feel in my arms.”

Y/N leaned in, brushing her lips over his ear. “Then take me like you’ve been needing to.”

Something in him broke.

He surged up, flipping her onto her back with a sharp exhale, mouth crashing onto hers. It wasn’t soft. It was messy, all tongue and teeth and barely contained hunger. Her thighs fell open around his hips as he pressed against her, hard and aching through his boxers, grinding into her like he couldn’t help it.

“Tell me this is mine,” he growled, dragging her panties down her legs, his fingers slipping through the wetness between her thighs.

“It’s yours,” she gasped, legs trembling. “It’s always been yours.”

He pushed two fingers into her without warning, his thumb circling her clit with practiced precision. She cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as her body bowed up against him.

“Look at you,” Oscar muttered, watching her writhe beneath him. “Dripping for me. I’ve barely touched you.”

She bit her lip hard. “Stop talking and fuck me.”

He smirked. “Say please.”

Her eyes flashed. “Oscar—”

“Say it.”

She reached down and wrapped her hand around him through the fabric of his boxers, squeezing just enough to make his breath stutter.

“Please.”

He shoved his boxers down, not even bothering to kick them off fully before lining himself up and slamming into her in one desperate, blinding thrust.

She cried out, the stretch brutal and perfect.

His hand tangled in her hair, dragging her mouth back to his as he thrust again, hard and deep. “You feel so fucking good.”

Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in deeper. He moved like a man unhinged — hips snapping, breath ragged, forehead pressed to hers.

Each thrust was laced with everything they hadn’t said. Every heartbreak. Every unanswered call. Every regret that clung to them like a second skin.

“I thought I lost you,” he panted, voice breaking. “Every day I told myself it didn’t matter — but it did. You did. You fucking destroyed me.”

Y/N cupped his face with shaking hands, dragging his mouth back to hers. “Then ruin me right back.”

And he did.

He fucked her like it was the only way he knew how to continue living. Like claiming her again might put the broken parts of him back together.

She moaned his name over and over, clawing at his back, thighs trembling around his hips as he pounded into her relentlessly. Every thrust sent stars behind her eyes. Her orgasm hit hard and sudden, clenching around him with a cry.

Oscar’s rhythm faltered. His jaw clenched. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Inside,” she begged. “Please.”

That broke him completely.

With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep and spilled inside her, hips jerking, body shaking with the force of it.

They collapsed together, skin slick with sweat, limbs tangled.

Silence settled around them like ash after fire.

Oscar didn’t speak. He just pulled her close, pressing kisses to her hair, her shoulder, her temple. Everywhere he could reach.

Y/N clung to him, heart still racing, the weight of what just happened heavy and terrifying in her chest.

But when he whispered, “I’m not letting you leave again,” she believed him.

For now, that was enough.

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