chlerc

[chlerc]

the art of noticing ; charles leclerc

pairing charles leclerc x f. reader ( third person story )

every passing conversations, every casual interaction, you might think he never really remembered it. but as they say, to be loved is to be seen. he sees every part of you when you think he doesn’t.

word count 6648.

content 6 times charles showed you that love doesn’t always shout. sometimes, it can just whisper “I’m thinking about you” “you mentioned it before” + some insta stories snippets into their life!

author’s note if you can’t already tell, i think i’m the biggest acts of service person ever. this might be my favourite piece i’ve ever written

song recs for this fic you are in love

— I.

It was the sort of detail that would have escaped most — a minor oversight, inconsequential to anyone else, invisible even to the well-meaning. But not to Charles. Never to Charles.

The evening sun had just begun its slow descent behind the low rooftops, casting a gilded glow over the terrace of the little café they often frequented. Their table was nestled beneath a canopy of rustling ivy, where laughter mingled with the clink of cutlery and the amber hum of street lamps flickering to life. Glasses glistened with condensation, cradled in idle hands, catching light with the easy sparkle of summer. Their friends, an ensemble of familiar voices, were already settled, drinks ordered in advance, good-natured teasing passed across the table like bread.

Charles arrived a touch later, having been caught in traffic on his way from a sponsor meeting. He approached the table just in time to see her lean forward with a soft laugh, lifting her glass — a tall one, rim beaded with droplets and garnished with a curl of citrus, and drink. But not with a straw. And in that single, fleeting moment, something in him paused.

It was such a small thing. A negligible detail. But she always drank with a straw. Not out of necessity, but fondness, an affection for the sensation. The soft draw of liquid through narrow plastic, the idle way she would chew the end as she listened intently or toyed with it while thinking. He remembered the way she used to tuck the straw between her fingers, twirl it absentmindedly, press her lips to it as though the world might slow down just a touch if she did.

Once, he’d asked her why, half-mocking, wholly curious, and she had simply smiled, that lopsided, sunlit sort of smile that softened every part of her face. “Feels nicer,” she’d said with a quiet shrug. “I know it’s silly. I just like it. It makes things feel a little gentler.”

And she’d laughed, then, nibbling at the bendy part of the straw with a grin like moonlight skipping over still water. A laugh that, even now, echoed somewhere in his chest like an afterthought he never quite let go.

So when he saw her now, sipping directly from the glass, without complaint, without hesitation — something curled within him, quietly and insistently. She hadn’t asked. She never would. She adapted so easily it almost hurt. He saw it in the way she tucked discomfort away like loose threads, how she made do with what was in front of her, never demanding more, never even flinching when something was missing.

Even now, surrounded by friends and the gentle cadence of conversation, she said nothing and merely smiled, her fingers cradling the glass as though it had always been enough. But he knew better. He knew her.

So, without a word, Charles rose from his chair, offering a murmured excuse that went largely unnoticed, something about needing the loo, said softly enough to drift into the night air. No one questioned it. He walked briskly through the open terrace doors and into the softly lit interior of the café, his eyes scanning behind the bar until he spotted them, a small glass jar of plastic straws, almost forgotten, nestled beside the napkins.

He reached for one, black, slim, bendable and turned it between his fingers once, thoughtfully. It wasn’t much. But it was something. And perhaps that was what mattered. When he returned to the table, no one looked up, still mid-conversation, caught in the gentle swell of evening mirth. She sat with her chin tilted slightly towards the sky, her eyes gleaming as she listened to one of the others recount something foolish and likely exaggerated. The curl of her hair framed her cheeks, touched by the honeyed light of dusk, and her drink, still half-full, rested at her elbow, untouched since that first sip.

He did not speak. He didn’t need to. With the same quiet deliberation with which one might place a cherished relic on an altar, Charles leaned forward and gently slipped the straw into her glass. It slid between ice cubes with a soft clink, the citrus bobbing in its wake, and then he eased back into his seat with the poise of someone for whom this was entirely ordinary. She looked down and then, slowly, up.

Her smile, when it came, was not performative. It was not polite or surprising or reflexive. It bloomed. Her eyes crinkled into crescents, luminous with unspoken gratitude, and for a heartbeat, she simply stared at him as if committing the moment to memory, as though something in her had softened. The kind of smile that made everything else, the noise, the laughter, the summer breeze, fall away, leaving only the space between them, tender and charged with something wordless.

Her fingers curled instinctively around the straw, lifting it to her lips with a soft sip, and immediately, she began to nibble at the edge in that old, familiar way, the way that told him, without a single syllable, I’m at ease now. You saw me.

He offered a light shrug in return, feigning indifference, his expression unreadable save for the smallest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Forgot you’re intolerable without a straw,” he murmured, his voice so dry it might’ve passed for teasing, were it not for the warmth flickering behind his gaze.

She let out a breath of laughter, low and fond, her shoulders lifting slightly in a gesture that betrayed her embarrassment and her joy all at once. “Shut up,” she whispered, not looking away, her eyes still tethered to him as though the rest of the world had blurred into the periphery. And in that moment, in the simplicity of a plastic straw offered without fanfare, Charles knew what most never would: that love, when it is quiet, when it is observant and enduring, often speaks not in grand gestures, but in these infinitesimal acts of memory. Of knowing. Of seeing someone as they are, and responding without request.

He hoped she understood what he could not yet voice, that he remembered every little thing about her, not out of obligation, but out of reverence. That he noticed when something wasn’t right, even if she would never say so. That her comfort mattered more than conversation, more than appearances, more than anything else that moment had to offer.

That this, this one small straw, was not just about a drink. It was about her. Always her.

And she smiled, with that gentle, grateful radiance he knew he’d carry with him far longer than anything else the evening had to give.

The terrace had emptied gradually, chairs scraped back, goodbyes exchanged with the lingering warmth of familiarity. One by one, their friends had peeled away into the night, swallowed by car doors and street corners and the inevitable pull of Monday morning. But Charles, as always, had remained.

They walked in silence now, side by side, their footsteps soft against the pavement slick with the sheen of evening humidity. The city breathed around them — not loud, not intrusive, but alive. Distant music drifted from an open window above a bakery, the faint scent of pastry still clinging to the air. Her arms were folded lightly across her chest, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her sleeve, while Charles walked with his hands in his pockets, his gait unhurried, deliberate.

They weren’t speaking, and yet nothing felt unsaid. Her thoughts, however, had not left the café. More precisely, they had not left the straw. It had been such a small thing. Insignificant to the world. But to her, it was everything. Because he had noticed. He remembered.

She hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t looked at him in any particular way. Hadn’t sighed or hinted or pouted or reached for something she knew wasn’t there. She had simply adapted, taken the glass as it was handed to her and drank without pause. And yet, within minutes of arriving, he had noticed the absence of a thin piece of plastic. And went out of his way to make it right.

And it wasn’t just about the straw. It was never just about the straw.

It was about how much of her he still carried quietly with him. The subtle things, the gentlest of preferences, things she herself sometimes forgot to mention aloud, but which he held onto as though they were sacred. She hadn’t spoken about her odd fondness for drinking through straws in months. And yet he remembered. Not because she reminded him. But because he wanted to.

The thought made something soft unfurl within her, something fragile and aching all at once. She glanced at him now, half in shadow, half bathed in the soft glow of a passing streetlight. There was a faint line between his brows, not from worry, but from thought. As though his mind was elsewhere, tracing the shape of some silent burden he never spoke of. His jaw was faintly tensed, the vein in his temple visible when he turned his head. And yet, when he looked at her, when their eyes met for the briefest beat, there was something quiet there. Gentle. Steady. The kind of softness that made her throat tighten with something unnameable.

“Charles,” she said, her voice a murmur in the hush of the evening, barely above the rustling of leaves in the wind. He looked over at her, one brow arching faintly. “Hmm?” She hesitated, not for lack of words, but because the feeling sat so deeply in her chest, she feared it might splinter if she let it out too carelessly. So instead, she offered a smile, quiet and full of meaning, her gaze resting on his face the way one might rest their fingers on something precious.

“Thank you. For the straw.” His brow furrowed, not out of confusion, but in that way he often did when receiving gratitude for something he considered too obvious to deserve it. His lips curved faintly, and he exhaled through his nose, amused. “Hardly worth a medal, is it?”

But she stopped walking. He turned back to her, and in the pause between footfalls, something shifted. Her eyes were glassy with a sheen of emotion she didn’t quite trust herself to name. “It is,” she said, her voice firmer now, though it trembled at the edges. “You remembered. And I didn’t even ask. I didn’t hint. I didn’t even think of it myself until you brought it to me. But you remembered.”

Her hand rose, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she looked down, smiling faintly to herself before meeting his gaze again. “That’s the thing about you. You remember the little things, the soft things. The things no one else thinks to keep.” Charles was still, and in the golden light spilling from a nearby window, she saw it, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the way his lips parted just slightly, as though he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure he could.

She stepped a little closer. “You always say you’re not good with words. That you’re not the sentimental one. But you are,” she said softly, the words tumbling out now, fragile but insistent. “You don’t make a show of it, but you see me. Even when I think I’m fading into the background, you still see me. And you do these quiet, thoughtful things that no one ever asks for. That I never ask for. But you do them anyway.”

She laughed, self-conscious, shaking her head. “It was just a straw, right? But it felt like... I don’t know. Like you reached into a part of my heart I didn’t even realise was waiting to be touched.” Charles blinked, and for a moment, all the usual retorts seemed to fail him. He looked down, exhaling slowly, his thumb brushing the edge of his palm, a gesture she recognised, the way he often steadied himself when emotion crept too close to the surface.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost reverent. “I notice you,” he said. “Even when you think I don’t. I always have.” And with that, they fell into step once more, the silence between them no longer hollow, but full, thick with feeling, steeped in the quiet knowledge that sometimes, love does not arrive with trumpets or declarations.

Sometimes, it’s a straw in a glass. Sometimes, it’s a man who remembers how you like to drink, even when you forget to ask. And sometimes, that’s how you know. You are loved.

— II.

Breakfasts with Charles were never grand affairs. Not the way one might imagine in the fantasy of hotel mornings, no ostentatious silver platters beneath cloche lids, no chilled flutes of mimosa or extravagant towers of French patisserie. No, theirs were quieter rituals. Softer. Built not of spectacle, but of knowing, the sort that could only be cultivated over time and tenderness.

The hotel buffet, as ever, offered the usual suspects: lukewarm eggs in wide metal pans, wilted greens, triangle slices of pale toast barely brushed with butter, and a cruel abundance of strawberry-flavoured atrocities masquerading as yoghurts, jams, and jellies.

She had always loathed that particular brand of cloying sweetness, that artificial tang of strawberry-flavoured nonsense that seemed to follow her everywhere. It wasn’t the fruit itself, no, she rather liked that, the way the seeds crackled faintly between her teeth and the juices stained her fingertips. But the manufactured version, bright pink and plastic-tasting, reminded her of childhood medicine and cheap lollipops left too long in the sun.

And yet, even before she reached the table, before the first sip of coffee passed her lips or the sleepy fog had lifted from her thoughts — Charles always knew. He was already seated when she arrived that morning, a page of Le Monde folded neatly beside his plate, his cutlery arranged with the sort of casual precision she’d come to associate with him. His hair was damp, fresh from the shower, and he wore that vaguely rumpled Oxford shirt he never quite bothered to button all the way. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with a faint tan, and there was a small ink smudge on his thumb, always, somehow, there was ink.

As she slid into the seat opposite him, the plate already waiting for her told her everything. He’d done it again. Her toast sat unassumingly on its plate, two slices stacked slightly askew, but without a trace of tomato. Not even a smear of pulp or a rogue seed to betray its absence. They were gone, of course, spirited away onto his plate, nestled beside his eggs. She could see them now, glistening under the morning light, sliced thinly and stacked in that way he did, not for presentation, but for ease.

She didn’t even have to look at him. She knew. He had eaten them for her. Not out of obligation, not because she asked, but simply because he remembered.

She picked up her fork, her gaze flicking to the small fruit bowl beside her napkin, and there, too, was the quiet curation of his affection. No strawberry yoghurt. No pink-tinted jam. Only the fresh strawberries remained, halved neatly, their bright red flesh exposed, untouched. Just the way she liked.

And just beside it, on a tiny plate he’d nudged to her side without ceremony, was his croissant, golden and still warm, along with half a hard-boiled egg and a small wedge of brie he’d quietly abandoned from his own tray. His own breakfast, modest and picked apart, as though it had been negotiated and reassembled with her preferences in mind, not his.

“You know,” she said after a long silence, her voice still a little hoarse from sleep, “you always eat the tomatoes off my toast.” Charles didn’t look up from his coffee. He gave a faint shrug, as if this fact was hardly worth remarking on. “They’re better on mine.” She smiled. “You don’t even like them that much.”

He finally glanced at her then, his eyes soft but unreadable, the ghost of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I don’t dislike them either.” A beat passed, quiet but full. “And the yoghurts?” she asked, nodding at the abandoned strawberry pot still on the serving tray behind him, untouched. “Didn’t fancy those this morning either?”

Charles lifted his coffee cup, the steam curling around his knuckles, and took a slow sip. “They taste like regret and sugar-free chewing gum,” he said dryly. “Wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all you.” She let out a laugh, the kind that escaped before she could smooth it down, unexpectedly genuine. “But you used to eat them.”

“I used to do a lot of things,” he replied, setting the cup down with care, his voice dropping just slightly. “Then I realised how much you hated them.” There was something unspoken in the air between them then. Something that wasn’t quite said, but pressed in from the edges like morning mist creeping across a windowpane.

It wasn’t just about the tomatoes. Or the yoghurt. Or the reshuffled breakfast plates. It was about noticing. It was about care. It was about the way he saw her, not only in the big declarations, but in the minutiae most others missed. The way she peeled her fruit but left the seeds. The way she pushed the tomatoes to the side without fanfare. The way her nose crinkled at artificial scents, her disdain for strawberry-flavoured things nearly as strong as her fondness for the real fruit itself.

And Charles — reticent, observant Charles, had made it his quiet mission to preserve her comfort without ever calling attention to it. “You remember everything,” she murmured, almost to herself. Charles didn’t smile. He didn’t offer any easy reply. Instead, he simply met her gaze across the narrow table, his eyes steady and impossibly gentle. “No,” he said, after a moment. “Just the things that matter.”

She looked down then, cheeks warm, her fork idly cutting into the yolk of the egg he’d given her. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full, thick with memory and unspoken affection, like a well-worn book whose pages still smelled faintly of ink and the past.

In that moment, she realised, as she chewed the toast that no longer bore the sting of tomato, drank the coffee he always sweetened to her taste, and watched him quietly refill her glass without a word — that love didn’t always need to shout. It didn’t have to be grand or performative.

Sometimes, it was breakfast. Sometimes, it was the tomatoes he ate so she didn’t have to, the yoghurts he left untouched, the fruit bowls he edited in silence. And sometimes, that was more than enough.

— III.

The paddock was a cacophony of movement and sound — a restless tapestry of camera shutters, overlapping voices, glinting flashes, and the low thrum of engines idling in the distance. Reporters swarmed like bees, each vying for a slice of attention, microphone cords tangled at their feet and press passes flapping in the breeze like fragile flags of entitlement. It was an environment of barely restrained chaos — all gloss and noise and performance.

And she hated it. Not the sport, nor the spectacle, but this part. The part that demanded visibility. The part that left little room for silence. She stood just to the side of Charles, her figure half-shielded by his taller frame, a step behind but tethered to him by presence alone. She didn’t speak, she rarely did when cameras were involved, but her smile, soft and hesitant, held steady for the sake of politeness. She was good at that: presenting a composed exterior, even when her nerves fluttered like moths beneath her skin.

Yet her hands betrayed her. They always did. When there was nothing to hold, nothing to occupy the anxious energy that simmered beneath the surface of her stillness, her fingers defaulted to the familiar ritual of picking at her nails. The edges of her thumbnails were already raw from the morning, tiny crescents of skin peeled back in quiet punishment, and now her index finger circled the corner of her nail with obsessive precision, over and over and over again.

Charles was speaking — something about race strategy and track conditions — his voice low and measured, the cadence effortless, as if the words came from muscle memory alone. But even as he faced the journalist and nodded thoughtfully at their questions, his eyes flicked sideways. Just once. Just enough. He saw her hands. Of course he did. He always saw.

Without a break in conversation, without so much as a change in his tone, he reached down and unhooked the silver bracelet from his wrist, the one she had once described absentmindedly as fidget-worthy during a quiet moment in the back of a hotel shuttle, when she’d spun it between her fingers for an entire hour without realising.

He slipped it from beneath the cuff of his fireproof undershirt, fingers deft despite the constraints of the suit, and turned slightly, subtly, towards her. His voice didn’t falter. His words continued to flow into the press microphone, eloquent and precise, as if he weren’t doing something else entirely with his hands. Then, low enough for her ears only, he murmured, “Here. Play with this instead.”

His voice was a balm — even, warm, without judgement. As though this, too, was simply part of the routine. As natural as breathing. She glanced up at him, startled at first by the bracelet being pressed gently into her palm, the cool metal coiling like a snake across her skin. Her fingers closed around it instinctively, grateful beyond words, and her lips parted, as if to protest, or perhaps to thank him but no sound emerged.

There was only the look he gave her then, fleeting, almost imperceptible, but anchored in a softness that undid her. And so she stayed quiet, as she always did. Smiled politely at the camera. Let the storm pass around her. But this time, her fingers twisted the bracelet between them instead of worrying the edge of her cuticles to blood.

Later, someone would post the clip online, a zoomed-in snippet from the live interview, barely ten seconds long. You could see her, half-hidden behind him, shifting her weight from foot to foot. You could see her hand start to rise towards her mouth before being gently intercepted by his. You could see the bracelet passed between them like a secret. And then, as clear as sunlight, the way her shoulders lowered, her thumb idly tracing the ridged pattern of the chain links, the storm in her spine slowly dissolving.

And Charles? He didn’t look at her again. He simply went on answering questions about tyre degradation and sector times as if he hadn’t just pulled her out of the spiral and placed her firmly back into the world. It was never loud, the way he cared.

Never performative, never dramatic. But always, always present. In gestures small enough to be missed by anyone who wasn’t paying attention. In the accessories he wore, not for style or sponsorship, but for her. In the way he carried her needs like second nature, quietly, without ceremony, without needing to be thanked.

She stood beside him, her fingers wrapped gently around the bracelet that now warmed in her palm from the heat of her own skin, a talisman, a lifeline, a reminder that someone saw her even when she didn’t speak. And for the rest of the interview, while the cameras flashed and the journalists jostled and Charles slipped easily from one polished reply to the next, she didn’t touch her fingernails once.

— IV.

The room was steeped in that peculiar kind of silence that only arrives in the early hours, not emptiness, but a hush thick enough to hear the passing of time itself. Moonlight poured like melted pewter through the gauzy curtains, brushing silver over the bed linens, over the slope of the duvet where Charles lay half-curled on his side, one arm instinctively reaching out, seeking warmth where hers should’ve been. Only to find air.

His hand met the cool, undisturbed hollow of her pillow, the sheets untouched. No warmth lingered. No trace of her sleep-heavy breath or the weight of her limbs tucked close. His brow furrowed in the dark, a slight crease between his brows as he blinked himself more fully awake. There was no sound, no movement, only that unsettling stillness which made the absence of her even louder.

He sat up, the mattress creaking softly beneath his weight. His bare feet found the floorboards with a muted sigh, and he reached for the dressing gown slung across the armchair. The air was cooler than expected as he padded quietly through the hallway, passing the soft spill of lamplight under the kitchen door.

There, in the quiet glow of the refrigerator’s faint light and the soft amber cast of the counter lamp, she stood in silence. Her frame, small and pale in one of his old T-shirts, was silhouetted against the darkened kitchen like a figure carved from sleep and shadow. She was cradling a glass of water between both hands, fingers wrapped tightly around it as if drawing heat, though the liquid was cold.

Her gaze was far-off, fixed somewhere beyond the windowpane above the sink, where nothing stirred but the occasional drifting wisp of cloud. He leaned against the doorframe, his voice barely a whisper. “Couldn’t sleep again?” She turned, almost guiltily, her expression softening at the sight of him. Her smile was faint, apologetic, though he needed no apology, he’d long known her sleepless habits, her restlessness once the world went quiet and the thoughts grew loud.

“Didn’t want to wake you,” she murmured, her voice hoarse with fatigue, the barest crack threading her words. Charles crossed the room in a few quiet strides. He didn’t speak again until he reached her, until he’d taken the glass from her hands with a tenderness that made her breath catch. He placed it gently on the counter, then reached for her wrist, fingers warm and sure as they circled it.

“Come back to bed,” he said, not a suggestion, but a quiet, unwavering promise. “I’ll read to you.” She blinked up at him, her expression half amused, half disbelieving. “A bedtime story?” He offered a lopsided smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened his usually composed features into something achingly fond. “If it helps, I’ll even do the voices.”

She huffed a breath of laughter, barely a sound, really, but it melted the frost clinging to her bones, enough for her to nod, allowing him to lead her back down the hall with one arm loosely around her shoulders, his thumb brushing absent circles against the curve of her arm.

Back in the dim sanctuary of their bedroom, he tucked her in first — carefully, like something sacred — smoothing the duvet over her legs, brushing a stray wisp of hair away from her temple before retreating momentarily to the bookshelf tucked into the alcove across the room.

When he returned, he held a small, well-thumbed book in his hand. The cover was faded, the corners worn soft by time and use, one of those children’s storybooks she had once confessed brought her comfort, the kind with more whimsy than structure, tales about forest creatures in waistcoats and teacups that could talk.

He settled beside her with the ease of familiarity, one arm behind her head, the other holding the book open against his thigh. She turned towards him, head resting on his chest, and he began to read, softly, deliberately, with a cadence shaped not for theatrics, but for soothing. His voice, though deeper than the tales demanded, wrapped around each sentence with a kind of reverence, unhurried, as though willing each word to guide her gently out of her wakefulness.

“And so the hedgehog, with his scarf trailing behind him like the tail of a comet, tiptoed into the clearing where the moon had woven silver through the grass…” She didn’t respond, but her breathing slowed, gradually, like a tide beginning to recede. Her fingers, which had been nervously twisting the edge of the duvet, stilled, then curled into the fabric of his shirt. He continued reading even as her eyelids fluttered shut, even as her body grew heavier against him, her tension dissolving into the warmth of his presence.

By the time he turned the page, she was asleep, her expression soft now, no longer pinched by exhaustion, the crease between her brows smoothed as though sleep had finally offered her something close to peace.

Charles didn’t stop reading. Not immediately. He read on for a few more pages, his voice a low hum against the quiet, not for her benefit now, but simply to fill the silence with something gentle, something kind.

Eventually, he placed the book down on the bedside table and turned the lamp off with a gentle click. The darkness folded around them once more, but this time, it was not empty. He gathered her closer in his arms, pressing a kiss to her crown, and whispered into the space between them, “Sleep well, amore.”

She didn’t stir. But he stayed awake a while longer, just to listen to the rhythm of her breath, and to marvel at how something as simple as a storybook could coax sleep from the jaws of her insomnia, not because of the words themselves, but because it was him reading them.

Because sometimes, love was not in grand declarations, but in the quiet conviction of a man who would sit in the stillness of 3 in the morning, reading stories aloud just to help her find peace even when he lacked the sleep from his race schedule.

— V.

There were, perhaps, a hundred louder things one could observe in the paddock on a race weekend — the purr and growl of machinery fine-tuned to the edge of performance, the subtle orchestra of radios crackling commands, the thrum of soles against tarmac, and the easy camaraderie threaded through half-spoken jokes and short bursts of laughter.

Yet, amidst it all, Charles sat cross-legged on a bench just outside of hospitality, the sunshine glazing the shoulders of his black hoodie, his head bowed in quiet concentration over a humble collection of brightly coloured sweets.

Scattered across the small table in front of him lay three opened packets of Skittles, their glossy little forms glinting in the sunlight like enamelled jewels. He was sorting through them with a precision that bordered on the methodical, fingertips deftly flicking away the reds, oranges, yellows and greens, setting aside the coveted purples into a separate paper cup with all the seriousness of a jeweller sifting for amethysts.

To the untrained eye, it might have looked absurd — a Formula One driver, whose fingers gripped a steering wheel at 300 km/h with surgical control, now carefully hunched over sugar-coated confections like he was performing some sacred ritual. But there was something ineffably tender in the way he did it. Something unspoken and warm.

The interruption came, inevitably, in the form of laughter. “Mate, what the hell are you doing?” Max’s voice was bright with amusement as he strolled past, his cap pulled low over his brow, eyes crinkled in curiosity.

Charles didn’t even look up, merely plucked another red Skittle and dropped it unceremoniously into the discard pile. “Sorting them,” he said simply, his tone nonchalant. “She likes the purple ones.”

There was a pause. Then, the echo of laughter again — not mocking, but affectionate — as Max was joined by Carlos and Lewis, the three of them forming an impromptu audience for the quiet absurdity.

“That’s commitment,” Carlos grinned, nudging Max with his elbow. “You’re mad, you know that?” Lewis arched a brow, arms folded, a teasing glint in his gaze. “She said that, like, once?”

Charles finally glanced up then, his expression unbothered, the faintest of smirks playing at the corner of his mouth. “She mentioned it once, yes,” he replied, brushing a few more Skittles into the growing collection of purples. “But to be loved is to be seen, non?”

The words weren’t said with fanfare or boast. They were simply there, quiet and sincere, spoken in that lilting Monegasque accent of his, and yet they landed like poetry. The kind of sentence that hung in the air long after the speaker had gone back to sorting sweets.

The trio exchanged glances, that same fond amusement flickering in their expressions, before they moved on down the paddock, chuckling to themselves. But Charles remained, undisturbed, content with the small but purposeful task before him. The sun had risen higher by the time she arrived.

There was always something quieter about her presence — not shy, necessarily, but composed, inward. She moved like someone who didn’t need to fill every silence, whose stillness spoke volumes where words might fall short. Dressed in a simple sundress and trainers, her accreditation swinging gently from her lanyard, she smiled as she approached him, her eyes lifting slightly in surprise at the small paper cup he held out in her direction.

“What’s this?” she asked, her fingers brushing his as she took it from him. “Purple Skittles,” he said, leaning back, one leg crossed over the other with an easy air. “You said you liked them, that they’re your favourites.” Her lips parted, not quite in speech, more in that tender astonishment of being remembered. Really remembered.

Not in the grand gestures, not in declarations painted across sky banners or diamond-studded gifts, but in this, in purple sweets sorted by hand on a sunlit morning, because she had once mentioned, offhandedly, that she liked them best. She looked down at the cup in her hands, the colours all the same, her favourites, and then back up at him, her gaze warm, slightly glassy, as though her heart had swelled so quietly it pressed against the edges of her chest.

“You really remembered.” He shrugged, feigning indifference, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth, gentle and unmistakably proud. “Of course I did.” There it was again, that unshakeable sense of being seen. Of being watched with care, of her passing remarks held like rare treasures in the corners of his mind. She sank onto the bench beside him, her shoulder brushing his, and offered him one of the purple Skittles in turn.

“You’re getting soft,” she teased lightly. “No,” he murmured, bumping her knee with his. “Just attentive.” And for a moment, as the bustle of the paddock carried on around them, the clatter of trolleys, the murmurs of engineers, the flash of cameras, they sat in their little orbit of stillness. Just two people, elbows brushing, sharing sugar sweets beneath a springtime sun.

Because to be loved is to be seen. And to be seen is to be remembered in the quietest, smallest ways — even in the sorting of purple Skittles at half past ten in the paddock.

— VI.

There was nothing particularly offensive about spring onions. To most, they were innocuous, the sort of garnish sprinkled with habitual flourish by chefs who sought only to add colour, not controversy, to their plates. A final dusting of green, delicate and insistent, perched atop steaming bowls and glistening noodles like the feather in a cap, largely decorative and often overlooked.

But not by her. She never made a fuss. Not the kind to push her preferences loudly into the centre of a room or send plates back with disdain. Instead, her disapproval was always quiet, a subtle wrinkle of her nose, a pause just long enough before the first bite.

And then, with a kind of resigned patience, she would begin the delicate process of removing them herself, picking at the chopped spring onions with the tip of a spoon or the corner of a serviette, collecting the flecks of green into a tiny pile at the edge of her plate as though they were unwelcome thoughts she was trying to quietly set aside.

Charles had noticed, of course. Not at once, not with any grand revelation, but with the sort of slow-burning attentiveness that came from watching someone you loved simply exist.

He had seen the way she did it every time, never complaining, always careful not to appear troublesome, and something about that unspoken discomfort had stirred something in him. A quiet sort of ache, almost imperceptible, nestled beneath his ribs.

It happened first in Shanghai, in the modest, low-lit restaurant tucked behind the circuit, the kind of place frequented by locals and drivers alike, with steam fogging the windows and the scent of sesame and broth heavy in the air.

She had ordered a simple bowl of rice porridge, and he had watched as she began the routine once again, that tiny, precise extraction of spring onions from the silky surface.

He reached across the table without a word. “Let me,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, fingers already reaching for her spoon. She blinked, a little startled, as he gently angled the bowl toward himself.

He worked deftly, silently — spooning the offending garnish out with the focus of someone performing a task far weightier than it appeared. It was almost comical, how seriously he took it, how meticulously he gathered every green sliver and flicked it onto a side plate as though defusing a bomb.

When he returned the dish to her, his expression was matter-of-fact. “There. All clear.” She gave him a look — soft, amused, a little disbelieving. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” The way he said it, without bravado, without ceremony, made her chest pull painfully tight. There was something infinitely more romantic in that than in flowers or fireworks. This quiet removal of what she disliked. This small, wordless protection of her comfort.

And so it became a ritual, unspoken but unmissable. In every city, every continent, whether in posh post-race dinners with crystal glassware or street-side cafés with mismatched crockery, he would check her plate first. His eyes would scan for the telltale greens, and if they were there, he would intercept her dish with a casual, “Wait, let me get rid of those for you.”

Sometimes, he would do it even before the server had fully retreated, already lifting his fork to sweep aside the spring onions before she had a chance to touch her napkin. No one else paid much mind to it, perhaps dismissing it as habit or fussiness, but for her, each gesture felt like a quiet sonnet sung beneath breath.

Once, she had asked, her voice hushed beneath the noise of clinking cutlery and background music, “You remember every time. Why?” Charles had glanced up from her plate, his eyes meeting hers with that same unassuming warmth that always made her feel like her heart was caught between its beats.

“Because you don’t like them,” he said simply, as though it required no further explanation. And perhaps it didn’t.

To be loved, truly loved, was not always in the grand gestures. It was not in serenades or showy declarations. It was in the gentle hand that remembered what you quietly endured, and removed it before you had to ask. It was in the bowl of porridge, stripped of its garnish. In the way he handed it back with a soft smile, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to safeguard someone’s comfort, one tiny green sliver at a time.

Because, after all, to be loved is to be seen. And to be seen is to be known, not in the loudness of who we are, but in the quietest corners of what we avoid.

[chlerc]

i’d write a 10k words fic but i’m so lazy it’s crazzzzyyyy and the plot’s so off to me.

[chlerc]

been reading chinese books more than continuing my cdrama 🫩🫩 the last time i touched this much chinese was 2 years ago ++ got sm drafts to finish up

[chlerc]

rocky beginnings ; charles leclerc

pairing charles leclerc x f. reader ( third person story )

he’s been collecting rocks from every country he travelled to just because you mentioned it once back in highschool but he never thought he’d actually gift it to you till this reunion.

word count 1144.

content pinning over that one girl from highschool and collecting rocks from every country he visited just because she mentioned it was her habit once. polaroid pictures of the beaches he visited and collected rocks from, notes written with his messy handwriting on the polaroids.

author’s note i forgot where this idea came from i'm not gonna lie, i swear it was a chinese drama but i forgot which and i thought it was cute...

THE ROOM WAS AWASH WITH a peculiar blend of nostalgia and tentative conviviality, the kind that only a high-school reunion could conjure. Fragments of laughter, some sincere, others tinged with a hint of uncertainty floated through the air, mingling with half-remembered stories and recollections of days long past. Charles lingered near the periphery, a glass of tepid punch clasped in one hand while the other nervously traced the edge of his jacket pocket. His gaze flitted around the room, moving from one face to another, searching for a singular visage — her visage.

Years had passed since they last spoke in earnest. They were mere acquaintances now, connected only by the fragile threads of social media, a few cursory comments on Instagram stories, an annual exchange of obligatory birthday wishes. But once, they had been inseparable deskmates bound by shared secrets, shared laughter and shared dreams scrawled in the margins of their textbooks. She had a peculiar habit; a habit of collecting rocks from every place she visited. It was a small thing, almost whimsical, but it was something he had never forgotten.

At last, he spotted her, standing by the old trophy case, the dim light casting a soft halo around her, making her appear almost ethereal. For a moment, he hesitated, feeling the weight of time and lost opportunities pressing down upon him. But then, as though compelled by an unseen force, he began to make his way through the throng, the container in his hand growing heavier with each step he took.

She noticed him before he reached her, her eyes widening in recognition, followed by a smile that had not changed in all those years. The same delicate curve that seemed to illuminate her entire face. It began softly at the corners of her lips, as it widened, her smile seemed to spill over, brightening her eyes until they sparkled with a warm, unspoken invitation. The fullness of her lips caught the light, the subtle dimples that appeared in her cheeks adding an almost childlike charm, a hint of playful innocence. The same smile that lingered long after it faded, the same smile he never forgot. “Charles!” She greeted, her voice carrying a blend of surprise and something gentler, something like familiarity tinged with warmth. “Hello,” he replied, striving for a nonchalance that belied the quickening of his heartbeat. “It’s been quite some time.”

They exchanged the customary pleasantries; the polite inquiries about life, careers, and family. Yet, all the while, Charles was acutely aware of the container in his hand, a silent testament to years of quiet devotion. As the conversation began to wane, he gathered his courage and took a steadying breath. “I, uh, I brought something for you.” He mumbled, his voice catching slightly. He extended the container towards her, his hand trembling ever so slightly. It was a simple plastic vessel, but its contents were far from ordinary — they were the culmination of years spent thinking of her.

She looked at it, curiosity knitting her brows together. “What is this?” She questioned, accepting the container from him with a gentle touch. “Rocks,” he stated painfully obviously, almost bashful. “I remembered how you used to collect them from every place you visited. So, I started collecting them for you. Every time I travelled to a new country for the F1 season or for the holidays, I made a point of finding a beach and picking up a rock.” Her eyes widened further, her gaze moving from the container to his face and back again, a look of astonishment mingled with something else, something like wonder. “You did that? All this time?” Her voice meek like she couldn’t believe someone would’ve done that for her.

He nodded, a flush creeping up his neck. “Yes, and there’s more. I used the Polaroid camera you gave me for my sixteenth birthday. I captured a photograph of the sea in every country I visited and I wrote the date and the location on each one, in my usual messy handwriting.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bundle of polaroids, bound together with a fraying rubber band. He handed them to her, his heart thundering in his chest.

She took the photographs, her fingers brushing lightly against his, sending a spark of electricity up his arm. She leafed through them slowly, her eyes tracing the images — the endless, varied blues of oceans from around the world. She saw the dates and the names, scrawled in his familiar handwriting, each one a small, personal testament to his enduring thoughtfulness. Her eyes glistened, her smile deepening with each photograph she examined.

“Charles, I… I don’t know what to say,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “This is… extraordinary. Thank you.” He shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant, though his pulse was racing. “I just thought you might appreciate them. I remembered how much you loved collecting them, and I hoped… I hoped you still did.” She looked up at him, her eyes meeting him with an intensity that was almost disarming. For a long moment, they simply stood there, suspended in a silence that was laden with all the words left unsaid over the years — all the missed chances and unspoken sentiments. Yet in that silence, there was also a flicker of something new, a glimmer of possibility, a chance for renewal, for rekindling what had been lost.

“You always were the thoughtful one,” she said softly, her smile tinged with nostalgia. “I still collect them, you know. I never stopped.” He chuckled softly, relief flooding through him like a warm wave. “I’m glad, I was hoping that was still the case.” For a moment, they stood together in that small pocket of space by the trophy case, the rest of the reunion swirling around them like a distant, blurred backdrop. It was as if time itself had slowed, giving them a precious few moments to reconnect, to rediscover the connection that had once bound them so closely.

“I’ve missed you,” she confessed at last, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ve missed you, too,” he replied, the words flowing more easily than he had expected. “More than I can put into words.” They shared a smile — a new smile, one that spoke of second chances and the faintest hope of rekindling something once thought lost. As the evening wore on, they found themselves engrossed in conversation, reminiscing about the past, laughing over old memories, and uncovering how much they still shared in common.

And as they talked, the container of rocks and the stack of Polaroids sat beside them — a tangible reminder of time passed, and perhaps, a bridge to a future that was now just a bit more luminous, a bit more promising, with the prospect of a renewed friendship or perhaps something more — beckoning on the horizon.

[chlerc]

hidden recordings ; charles leclerc

pairing highschool-best-friend-charles leclerc x f. reader ( third person story )

you never realised how sentimental and adorable charles could be until you come across the black box tucked away in a corner of a drawer.

word count 1172.

content 5 short recordings he recorded just to remember you, and how he secretly wishes you’d stumble upon it one day. he loves you a lot, like a loooottttttt. you’re it for him.

author’s note i love this vcr love confession concept so much, it’s so cute recording things and people that means the most to you. happy chinese new year :o

THE LATE AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT FILTERED softly through the window, casting a warm, amber glow across the apartment as she worked her way through the cluttered shelves. It was supposed to be a simple day of tidying up — a routine chore that had grown overdue — but as always, the small, nostalgic things had a way of slowing her down. Dust motes danced in the air as she opened an old, wooden box tucked away in the corner of a drawer, a box she had almost forgotten. Its contents were a time capsule of sorts, filled with small mementos and keepsakes that had survived the years — photographs, letters, concert tickets, and little trinkets that had woven themselves into the fabric of her relationship with Charles.

A small smile tugged at her lips as she sifted through the items, fingers brushing over the worn edges of a photograph of them as children, their innocent grins forever preserved in time. It was a testament to how far they’d come, from childhood friends to something far deeper, a bond that had grown over years of shared experiences and memories. As she dug further into the box, her hand paused as it closed around something unfamiliar — a small, black thumb drive, half-buried beneath a stack of old letters.

Her brow furrowed in curiosity as she pulled it out, turning it over in her fingers. It wasn’t labelled, and for a moment, she wondered what it could contain. Charles was never one to leave things lying around without a reason, and this had clearly been tucked away for some time. Her curiosity piqued, she reached for her laptop, a quiet hum of intrigue settling over her as she plugged the thumb drive into the port.

The screen flickered to life, revealing a folder containing five short video files. No titles, just numbered sequences — each one simple and unassuming, yet they called to her like fragments of a forgotten story. With a small click, she opened the first file, and her heart skipped a beat as the screen filled with the familiar face of Charles, much younger, his boyish charm evident even then.

He must have been in his early teens in this first video. His hair was a little unruly, the way it always used to be when he wasn’t bothered by appearances, and there was a hint of nervousness in the way he looked directly into the camera. He cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other before speaking. “Uh, hi,” he began, his voice cracking slightly with the uncertainty of youth. “So, I’m not really sure why I’m doing this… but I guess it’s just something I wanted to keep. A reminder, maybe. For her.” There was a pause, and he ran a hand through his hair, glancing off-camera as if gathering his thoughts. “She’s always been there, you know? My best friend… even though I’m older, I still think she’s way braver than I am.”

A soft chuckle escaped her as she watched him stumble through his words, that endearing awkwardness still as familiar as ever. The screen flickered as the video ended, and without hesitation, she opened the next one. This time, Charles appeared a little older, his features more defined, his smile a little more confident.

“It’s funny,” he said, the camera slightly shaky as if he were holding it himself, “I never realised how much she means to me until recently. We’ve always been together, and it’s like… it’s always been her. I don’t know how else to explain it.” His gaze softened, and there was a vulnerability in his eyes that made her heart ache in the sweetest way. “She’s the one person who can make everything feel right, even when things are a mess. I think, no — I know, I’m in love with her. I’ve been in love with her for longer than I knew.”

The words hung in the air, settling deep within her as she paused the video, feeling the weight of his confession even though it had been made years ago. It was a piece of him, captured in time, before they had ever taken that leap from friends to something more. She pressed play again, her heart caught in her throat.

The third video was taken during what looked like a school trip. The background was noisy, filled with the laughter of classmates and the hum of distant chatter. Charles was standing by a river, looking a little winded as if he had just finished some outdoor activity. “She’s going to laugh at this,” he grinned, breathless but radiant. “She always teases me about being uncoordinated, but she’s the one who nearly fell into the river earlier. I had to catch her — again.” His smile softened. “I wouldn’t change a thing, though. She’s… she’s my favourite person in the world.”

By the fourth video, she found herself holding back tears. In this one, he was visibly older, perhaps just before he left for university. His expression was more serious, the playful boyishness replaced with something more resolute. “I’m leaving soon,” he began, his voice quieter, as though he were speaking directly to her even though she wasn’t there. “And it terrifies me. I don’t know what it’s going to be like, being apart for the first time in… ever. But I know one thing for sure: no matter where I go, or how long we’re apart, I’ll always come back to her. I have to. She’s… she’s home.”

Her hands trembled slightly as she clicked on the final video, her breath catching in her chest. In this one, Charles was as she knew him now — his familiar face filling the screen with that smile that always seemed to disarm her. “If you’re watching this,” he said softly, “then you’ve found it. I wasn’t sure if you ever would, but I hoped you might.” His eyes glimmered with affection, his smile gentle. “You’ve always been the best part of my life. From the very beginning. I made these videos because I wanted to remember — wanted you to remember — how much you’ve always meant to me. I’ve loved you for a long time, and I’m going to keep loving you for the rest of my life.”

Her vision blurred as the final video ended, the stillness of the room punctuated by the steady hum of the laptop. She sat there for a long moment, overwhelmed by the depth of what she had just witnessed — memories of Charles, preserved like fragments of a love story that spanned years. Each video was a testament to the quiet, unwavering devotion that had always existed between them, even before they had given it a name.

As she closed the laptop, her heart swelled with an indescribable warmth. This was their story — one that began in childhood and grew into something more, something profound. And as she held the thumb drive in her hand, she knew that whatever lay ahead, they would always have these memories to hold onto.

[chlerc]

nonchalant-chalant ; charles leclerc

pairing charles leclerc x f. reader ( third person story )

everybody in high school always saw him as a cold, detached and nonchalant student. but they never knew he could be so ‘chalant’ to a specific person.

word count 5390.

content 5 occasions the nonchalant guy of the whole high school turns out to be a very ‘chalant’ guy, you even left him in tears. he’s in soooo deeeepppp, like reallyyyy deep for you.

author’s note we got artistic painter charles leclerc before gta VI oh my days??? all these are sitting in drafts rotting.

— I.

Charles had always been the quiet type. The kind of person who blended into the background without much effort, his presence in the room more like a shadow than a force. His cold, nonchalant demeanour kept most people at arm's length. He never spoke more than necessary, never engaged in the idle chatter that seemed to dominate the classroom before the teacher arrived. He was distant, detached, and entirely unreadable — yet there was something beneath that frosty exterior, a subtle warmth, like a fire hidden beneath a layer of ice.

No one really paid much attention to him, except for the girls who admired him from afar. He had a sort of natural appeal, with his sharp features and air of disinterest. But he never seemed to care, shrugging off the attention as easily as he shrugged off everything else. She thought he was just another aloof, handsome boy with nothing more to offer than a pretty face.

But what no one else knew — what she herself wouldn’t have suspected — was that Charles cared more than he let on. It was in the small, nearly imperceptible gestures he made. The way he would glance her way when he thought no one was looking. The way his cold eyes would soften, just a fraction, when she passed by. He had grown used to her presence, though they were in different classes, separated by the walls of the school, by desks and timetables. Yet, every day, his gaze would unconsciously drift towards the window, hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse of her in the classroom opposite his.

That was why he had changed seats. It wasn’t an easy task, especially since the seat he wanted was by the window, highly coveted by the students who enjoyed daydreaming during lessons. His classmate who currently occupied it had refused at first, until Charles, with his usual indifferent expression, pulled out a notebook and mentioned, almost too casually, that he could get him Kimi Raikkonen’s autograph.

“You can get me Kimi Raikkonen’s signature?” his classmate had asked, eyes wide with disbelief. Charles had merely nodded. He didn’t brag about his connections; it was beneath him. But for this, he was willing to play the card.

The deal was struck. Charles traded his own seat for the one by the window, a fact that quickly spread through the school. The rumour mill worked fast, and soon enough, people speculated that he’d done it to sit closer to Léa, the gorgeous girl who always seemed to be surrounded by admirers. She sat just two rows away, close enough that Charles could, in theory, exchange casual glances or whispered conversations with her during class.

That was, at least, what she thought when she heard about the seat change. She hadn’t paid much attention to Charles before — he was too quiet, too removed from the kind of people she usually spent time with. But when her friend mentioned his sudden change of seats, she couldn’t help but wonder if the rumours were true. It seemed so typical of boys like him, drawn to the prettiest girl in the class. Not that she blamed him — Léa was undeniably beautiful.

She didn’t expect to be dragged into the mystery herself. Not until the day he stopped her in the corridor, his expression as neutral as ever, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes that she couldn’t quite place. “You’re coming with me,” he said simply, his voice low but firm. “What?” She frowned, confused by his sudden approach. “Where?”

“Just follow me.” He didn’t wait for her to argue, already walking ahead, his long strides forcing her to catch up. She followed, her curiosity piqued despite herself. Charles led her through the school, down the hallways she knew so well, until they reached his classroom. The lesson had ended just moments before, and most of his classmates were still lingering, gathering their things. “Here,” he said, stopping in front of his desk — the one by the window. He motioned for her to sit down. She glanced at him suspiciously, then at the desk. “Why am I sitting here?”

“Just sit.” Reluctantly, she lowered herself into the chair, still unsure of his intentions. The classroom buzzed softly with the sounds of students talking, but Charles remained focused on her, his gaze unwavering. 

He gestured towards the window, and she followed his gaze, looking outside. It took a moment, but then she saw it — her own seat in her classroom, visible directly through the window. Her eyes widened as realisation dawned. “You... you can see my desk from here.” He nodded, his expression still unreadable. “That’s the point.”

“You changed seats... just so you could... look out the window and see my desk?” She felt a strange mix of confusion and something else, something warmer, though she couldn’t quite name it. He shrugged, his lips quirking up ever so slightly at the corners. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s a good seat.”

She scoffed, though a smile tugged at her lips. “Right. And I suppose the view of Léa is just an added bonus?” Charles gave her a look, his eyes narrowing slightly as if to say she was being ridiculous. “I couldn’t care less about Léa.”

“Really?” she teased, leaning back in the chair, folding her arms. “Because that’s what everyone thinks. I mean, why else would you bargain for this seat?” He didn’t answer at first, instead, he looked out the window, his gaze distant. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more thoughtful. “It’s not for her.”

There was a long pause as his words sank in. She glanced out the window again, her mind racing, trying to piece together the meaning behind his actions. Charles wasn’t one to express his feelings, that much was clear. But the fact that he’d gone out of his way — made a deal with someone, even used Kimi Raikkonen’s name — just to sit here, just to be able to see her... it said more than words ever could.

She turned back to him, her teasing smile replaced by something softer. “You’re not as cold as you pretend to be, are you?” His gaze flicked back to hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw a glimmer of vulnerability in those dark eyes. But then it was gone, replaced by his usual mask of indifference. He smirked, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Don’t get used to it.” She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible, Charles.”

“And yet, here we are.” He raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly against the edge of the desk. Her smile grew, and she found herself looking at him in a new light. There was more to him than she’d ever realised — more than anyone realised. He might have been cold and distant to the world, but in small, unexpected ways, he showed that he cared.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence, “are you going to let me keep this seat, or do you want it back?” He looked at her for a moment, then out the window again. “You can have it. I’ve already seen what I needed to. So, will you stop ignoring me now?” She laughed again, a soft, genuine sound that seemed to catch him off guard. He watched her, his usual cool façade cracking just slightly, revealing something warmer beneath.

— II.

The moment Charles had heard that she was unwell, something in him shifted, though outwardly, his expression remained as neutral as ever. He had always prided himself on his self-control, on not being ruled by impulses or emotions. But this — this was different. There was an unspoken urgency in the way he grabbed his coat, barely remembering to lock his door before he left the house. In the quiet hum of the late afternoon, he made his way over to hers, his steps quick and purposeful.

He arrived at her front door, a bag of medicine in hand, and his usual calm, collected self barely masked the concern that churned underneath. When she opened the door, her face pale and her eyes heavy with the weight of sickness, he felt something tighten in his chest. Her usual spark was dimmed, and he hated seeing her like that — vulnerable and weary. But instead of showing any of this, Charles slipped into his familiar aloof demeanour, the one that gave away nothing.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice hoarse but laced with curiosity. “I was passing by and remembered I had some extra medicine,” he replied, shrugging nonchalantly, holding up the bag. “Thought you might need it.” She raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe for support. “Right, you just happened to have extra medicine on you?” He gave a slight smirk, his lips barely curving upward. “What can I say? I’m a man of preparedness.”

“Sure, Charles Leclerc, always so practical. You’re telling me you carry around medicine for no reason?” she said, a teasing glint in her tired eyes, though her tone was soft. “I do,” he replied smoothly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He made his way to the kitchen as though he’d done it a hundred times before, placing the bag on the counter. “The last time I was at the pharmacy, I bought extra. You know, just in case.”

As he busied himself unpacking the medicine, she leaned against the doorway, watching him with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. It was strange seeing him like this — so at ease in her space, acting as if taking care of her was second nature. “Charles, you’re a terrible liar,” she finally said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re telling me you just happened to have exactly what I need?” He glanced at her briefly, eyes cool and unreadable, before pulling out a bottle of cough syrup and setting it down. “Coincidence.”

“Mmm-hmm, and what about the receipt?” She stepped closer, her tiredness not dulling her wit. “Receipt?” His brows furrowed ever so slightly, but his voice remained calm. She picked up the crumpled piece of paper that had fallen out of the bag, her eyes scanning it quickly. “It says here you bought all this... today.”

Charles froze for a brief moment, his eyes flicking to the receipt in her hand. He mentally cursed himself for being so careless, but instead of admitting to his obvious concern, he rolled his eyes with feigned exasperation. “Fine, you caught me,” he said, his tone dry. “I’m guilty of being considerate. Sue me.”

A small smile tugged at her lips as she shook her head. “Why didn’t you just say so?” He shrugged, leaning against the counter, his hands slipping into his pockets. “Because then you’d make a big deal out of it, and we both know you’d never let me hear the end of it.” Her smile grew, though it was tempered by the weariness in her body. “You really think I’d make a big deal out of you caring?”

“You? Absolutely.” His voice was teasing, though there was a softness behind his words. She laughed lightly, though it quickly dissolved into a cough, and Charles’s expression tightened with concern, though he masked it quickly. He pushed himself off the counter, crossing the space between them in a few long strides. Gently, he took her arm and guided her towards the living room.

“Come on, you should be resting, not standing here making fun of me.” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “Someone has to keep you humble,” she muttered, letting him lead her to the sofa, where she sank into the cushions with a sigh. He handed her a glass of water, watching her drink with a careful eye.

“And you do a terrible job at it,” he quipped, settling himself in the armchair across from her. “I’m as arrogant as ever.” She smiled weakly, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before reopening. “You’re not as cold as you think you are, Charles.” He looked at her for a long moment, his face unreadable, as if weighing her words. “I’m not cold. I just don’t waste time pretending to care about things that don’t matter.”

“But I matter, don’t I?” she asked, her voice soft but playful, pushing him just enough to see if he’d bite. Charles exhaled through his nose, glancing away for a brief second before meeting her gaze again. “You already know the answer to that.” Her smile widened just a little, and she leaned back into the cushions, her body relaxing as she finally allowed herself to rest. “You’re terrible at hiding it, you know.”

“Hiding what?” he asked, though there was no real challenge in his voice. “Caring. You act all cool and detached, but when it comes to the people you actually care about, you’re different.” Her eyes flickered to the medicine on the counter. “Like rushing over here with medicine the second you hear I’m sick.”

“Like I said, coincidence,” he deadpanned, though there was a faint warmth in his eyes. She rolled her eyes, a tired but amused look crossing her face. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Charles.”

For a moment, there was a comfortable silence between them, the kind that only existed between people who didn’t need to fill every space with words. Charles watched her as her breathing steadied, as the weariness in her frame seemed to ease slightly. He didn’t move from his spot, didn’t leave her side, though he could have easily brushed this whole thing off and gone home.

Instead, he stayed. Because despite his insistence that he didn’t care, that he was merely being practical, there was something deeper there — something that he could never quite admit, not even to himself. He might have been cold and nonchalant to the rest of the world, but with her, he was different. Even if he would never say it out loud.

“You’re staying, right?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes already half-closed. Charles looked at her, his gaze softening just slightly. “I’m not going anywhere.” And with that, she smiled once more, a small, contented smile that lingered on her lips as she drifted off to sleep, leaving Charles alone with his thoughts and the quiet realisation that he cared far more than he ever let on.

— III.

It was one of those sunny days where the excitement in the air was almost palpable, with an entire inter-class group from their highschool planning an outing to the amusement park. It was a mix of mutual friends between the two of them, some from her class, others from his, all eager to make the most of the day. The park was alive with the sound of laughter and the constant hum of rides whirring into motion. The scent of freshly spun candy floss and buttery popcorn drifted through the air as they wandered around, hopping from ride to ride.

Everything had been going smoothly until they reached the infamous roller coaster, a towering structure of sharp loops and steep drops that sent a shiver down her spine just by looking at it. The group gathered at the base, all eyes drawn upward to the intimidating metal tracks twisting in the sky above them. “Right, who’s in for this one?” someone from the group called out, already bouncing on their feet with anticipation.

Her stomach lurched at the sight, and she immediately stepped back, her hand gripping the strap of her bag. There was no way she was getting on that thing. Heights, sudden drops, and twists? Not her idea of fun. “I think I’ll, um… sit this one out,” she said, her voice barely audible over the buzz of the group.

Her declaration caused a ripple through the crowd. With her out, they now had an odd number of people. Several heads turned towards Charles, who had been standing a few steps behind her, his hands casually shoved into his pockets. “I’m not going either,” Charles suddenly spoke up, his voice steady but nonchalant.  The group turned to look at him in surprise. Charles, the guy who rarely backed down from anything, refusing a ride?

“Wait, what? You’re skipping the roller coaster too?” one of their mutual friends asked, confusion clear on his face. “You love this adrenaline stuff!” Charles gave a half-hearted shrug, his expression as indifferent as ever. “Yeah, well, doctor’s orders,” he replied lazily, eyes glancing upward toward the coaster as if it held no real interest for him. “Doctor’s orders?” She shot him a sceptical glance, folding her arms over her chest. “What are you on about?”

He didn’t look at her, instead keeping his gaze on the roller coaster in the distance. “Yeah, something about my equilibrium. Can’t do steep drops. Inner ear issue,” he said, the lie slipping off his tongue with the smoothness of a well-rehearsed excuse.

Their mutual friends exchanged incredulous looks, some rolling their eyes, already seeing through his flimsy excuse. “Really? Inner ear? Since when?” Charles didn’t flinch, only smirking slightly. “I don’t make the rules.” Her eyes narrowed, scrutinising him. She knew Charles well enough to know when he was bluffing. “So… you’re scared of the roller coaster?” she teased, raising an eyebrow at him.

He turned his gaze to her then, his smirk widening slightly. “What do you think?” His tone was laced with sarcasm, the challenge clear in his eyes. “I think you’re only saying that because I’m not going,” she shot back, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “You’re trying to make me feel better, aren’t you?”

Charles rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe I just didn’t want you sitting out here alone,” he said, his tone light but carrying a weight she wasn’t expecting. She raised an eyebrow, though amusement danced in her eyes. “How noble of you.”

The group began to filter into the roller coaster queue, their friends throwing playful jabs at Charles for his sudden ‘inner ear problem’ before disappearing into the line. Now, with just the two of them left standing by the entrance, she turned fully to face him, still smirking. “Seriously though,” she said after a pause, “you didn’t have to stay behind. You could’ve gone on with them.”

“I know,” he replied easily, not bothering to elaborate further. He kept his gaze ahead, seemingly indifferent to the ride and the group that was now filing away. She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. “When I’m not scared anymore, you’ll go on the roller coaster with me, right?”

Charles looked down at her then, his expression softening ever so slightly. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll ride it with you,” he said, his voice steady but genuine. “And what if I never get over it?” she asked with a playful challenge in her voice, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

Without hesitation, Charles replied, “Then I’ll never ride it either.” She blinked, taken aback by how easily he said it. For a moment, the usual banter between them faded, replaced by something quieter, something heavier. His words, though casual, held an unspoken promise. She felt a warmth spread through her chest but shook her head, smiling as she broke the tension.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, though the affection in her voice was hard to miss. He smirked, leaning slightly closer. “I’ve been called worse.” They stood there together, watching the roller coaster cars rattle along the tracks, the distant screams of their friends echoing in the background. She glanced up at him again, her earlier scepticism replaced by something softer, though she tried to mask it.

“Next time, maybe I'll surprise you and actually get on,” she mused, giving him a playful nudge. Charles looked down at her, a quiet smile playing on his lips. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” They spent the rest of the day together, watching from the sidelines as their friends braved the rides. And while she didn’t muster the courage for the roller coaster that day, the fact that Charles stayed behind with her — even with the worst excuse ever — was enough.

— IV.

The rain had started without warning, a sudden cascade from the grey sky that sent students scattering beneath doorways and trees, scrambling for cover. She, of course, hadn’t thought to bring her umbrella — she never did. With a resigned sigh, she tugged her school bag from her shoulder and lifted it over her head, preparing to dash through the downpour towards the bus stop. The idea of arriving home soaked wasn’t ideal, but at this point, it seemed inevitable.

Just as she took her first step into the rain, a voice called out behind her. “Hey! Are you seriously going to run through that?” She turned, her eyes narrowing against the droplets as Charles approached, completely at ease beneath the wide black umbrella in his hand. He didn’t seem in any particular hurry, strolling towards her with his usual composed stride. His face was impassive, as always, though there was the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What choice do I have?” she replied, her tone slightly defensive as she gestured to the pouring rain. “I don’t have an umbrella.” He raised an eyebrow, as if her lack of preparation was no surprise to him. “Clearly.” She rolled her eyes, about to turn away and continue her ill-fated sprint when he spoke again.

“Here,” he said, extending his free hand. She blinked, her gaze dropping to the transparent umbrella he held out to her. “You can use this one.” Her first instinct was to sigh with relief at the prospect of staying dry, but as she took the umbrella, something about it caught her eye. The familiar outline of a car, sleek and red, was painted onto the plastic surface, a near-perfect rendition of her favourite Ferrari. She frowned, her fingers brushing the artwork. “Where did you get this?”

“Found it,” he replied smoothly, his face a mask of indifference. “Someone must’ve left it behind.” She glanced up at him, suspicion flickering in her eyes. “Found it?” Charles nodded, his expression as calm and collected as ever. “Yeah, just lying around. Lucky, huh?” She raised an eyebrow, the corners of her lips twitching upward in disbelief. “It just so happens that someone left an umbrella with this exact painting on it? You expect me to believe that?”

His gaze didn’t waver, though she noticed the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. “Why not? Stranger things have happened.” She couldn’t help the grin that tugged at her mouth. “Right, and it also just so happens that this is my favourite car, perfectly painted on this umbrella?”

“Coincidence,” he replied, deadpan. “Maybe the owner had good taste.” She laughed then, shaking her head at his stubborn insistence. “You painted this, didn’t you?” His expression didn’t change, though there was a slight twitch of his lips as he shrugged. “Like I said, I found it.”

She looked down at the umbrella again, running her fingers over the brushstrokes. Despite the rain pelting down around them, a warmth bloomed in her chest at the realisation of what he had done. He had painted this — for her — yet he wouldn’t admit it, wouldn’t take the credit.

She shook her head again, her smile widening as she glanced back up at him. “You know, you’re really bad at lying.” Charles raised an eyebrow, his tone still cool and even. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please,” she teased, stepping closer to him so she could peer into his eyes more closely. “You think I don’t know your handwriting by now? That’s your signature brushstroke on the headlights.” He remained resolute, though she noticed the faintest flush of pink creeping up his neck. “You’re imagining things.”

“Mmm, sure,” she hummed, spinning the umbrella around in her hands. “And I suppose if I were to ask Arthur about this later, he wouldn’t mention anything about you spending all afternoon painting it?” Charles finally cracked a grin, though he quickly masked it by looking away. “You really think Arthur pays attention to anything I do?”

She laughed again, her heart swelling with affection at his poorly hidden care. The rain continued to fall around them, but with the umbrella in her hand, she felt completely shielded, not just from the weather but from any of life’s unpredictable moments. That’s what Charles was like — stoic and nonchalant on the outside, but always ready to protect her in subtle ways.

“Well, thank you for finding this,” she said, her voice softening as she twirled the umbrella overhead. The painting glistened under the rain, every detail visible, every stroke done with a care that only someone who truly paid attention to her would know. “Like I said,” Charles replied, his tone still casual but his eyes warmer than before, “it’s just a coincidence.”

She chuckled again, shaking her head as they began walking towards the bus stop, her newly acquired umbrella held proudly above her head. They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the sound of rain tapping gently against the plastic surface. “So,” she said after a beat, casting him a sideways glance. “Are you going to paint all my future umbrellas too?” He shrugged, keeping his gaze fixed ahead. “Depends. Are you going to keep forgetting to bring one?”

“Probably,” she admitted with a grin. “Then I guess I’ll have to,” he murmured, and though his voice was quiet, she could hear the smile in it. They continued walking, the rain falling steadily around them, but beneath her umbrella, the world felt warm, safe.

Charles’ quiet acts of care always managed to wrap around her in unexpected ways, and though he’d never admit to it, she knew the truth behind his gestures. And as they neared the bus stop, she couldn’t help but smile to herself, knowing that he’d always be there to offer her an umbrella — whether he ‘found’ it or not.

— V.

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and quiet worry. Charles hadn’t even taken a moment to catch his breath as he sprinted through the long corridors, his trainers squeaking on the polished linoleum floor. The message from his parents had been cryptic at best, void of any real details — just that she had been rushed to hospital after an injury. His heart had been hammering in his chest since he’d received the news, and as he approached her room, his panic only grew. His cheeks were flushed, the cold sweat from his rushed journey still clinging to his skin, and his hair stuck messily to his forehead. 

He burst into the room, chest heaving, eyes wide and already glossy with unshed tears. His gaze immediately fell on her, propped up in bed with a slight smile tugging at her lips as she watched him stumble in, looking every bit as though the world had just collapsed on him. “Charles, what—” she began, but he cut her off, his voice choking with emotion as he stood at the foot of her bed.

“Don’t mind it, just a little cry...” His words came out in a strangled breath, a pitiful sound as his eyes darted across her body, searching for any sign of trauma. “They didn’t tell me what happened... I thought— I thought you—”

“Woah, woah,” she interrupted, raising an eyebrow at his distraught state. “Why are you acting like I died?” She looked at him in amusement, sitting comfortably under the pristine white hospital sheets, clearly not in as dire a state as he had imagined. But he couldn’t stop the flood of emotions that poured out of him, his words tripping over each other as he tried to explain. 

“The hospital— they didn’t clarify,” he stammered, his breath catching as he wiped furiously at his eyes with the back of his hand. “They just said you were here, and I— I ran—” His words dissolved into hiccups, his chest heaving with the effort of trying to calm down. He sank heavily into the chair beside her bed, his shoulders slumping in relief now that he could see she was, at the very least, alive and not in any critical danger. His hand reached up to wipe his cheeks again, trying to steady himself, but the tears kept slipping through his fingers.

She giggled softly, watching him with a mixture of fondness and amusement. Leaning forward, she wiped a stray tear from his cheek with the pad of her thumb, her touch gentle and warm. “Stop laughing, you bully,” he muttered, his voice thick with embarrassment as he avoided her gaze. His eyes were still red-rimmed, his breathing uneven from the emotional onslaught. 

“I’m not,” she insisted, though the giggles continued to bubble up in her throat. She shook her head, her grin widening. “You’re just really cute when you’re worried.” He shot her a half-hearted glare, still wiping away the evidence of his tears. “It’s not funny.” She chuckled again before settling back against the pillows, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at the injury she was about to explain. “It’s just a ligament rupture, Charles. Nothing life-threatening. I was on a run, twisted my ankle the wrong way. That’s all.”

He blinked at her, trying to process the words, nodding absently as his hiccups continued to break up his breathing. “Ligament rupture?” She nodded, lifting her leg slightly to show him the bulky brace that now encased her knee. “Yeah, I’ll be fine in a few weeks. They’ve just got me in here for observation.”

His shoulders sagged in relief, and he took a long, shuddering breath, though his chest still hitched with residual hiccups. He turned his gaze to her leg, his expression softening now that he knew the injury wasn’t nearly as severe as his mind had conjured. “I thought it was something worse,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers fidgeted in his lap, twisting together as he continued to avoid her gaze. “I didn’t know what to think. I wouldn’t... I wouldn’t know what to do if it was—”

His voice trailed off, and for a moment, the weight of his fear hung between them, unspoken but palpable. She reached out and took his hand in hers, her fingers curling around his in a comforting gesture. “I’m fine, Charles. You don’t have to worry about me like that.” He swallowed, his gaze finally meeting hers. “I can’t help it.” She smiled, squeezing his hand gently. “Well, now you know. I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a small, shaky breath, his hiccups finally subsiding as he allowed himself to relax. She was right here, and she was okay. That was all that mattered. But as he sat there, still processing the flood of emotions that had overwhelmed him, he realised just how much she meant to him — how the mere thought of losing her had unravelled him so completely.

“Still,” she teased, her voice lightening the mood once more. “I can’t believe you ran all the way here crying like that.” He huffed, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. “I wasn’t crying that much.”

“Oh, you were, your hair’s all stuck to your head, and your face is as red as a tomato.” She said with a mischievous grin. “Stop it,” he groaned, covering his face with his hand in embarrassment. “You’re making it worse.” She giggled again, her thumb brushing over his knuckles in a soothing motion. “I’m just saying, it’s kinda sweet. You care that much.” He peeked at her from between his fingers, his voice soft as he admitted, “Of course I do.”

There was a moment of quiet, a gentle understanding that passed between them. His hand still rested in hers, their fingers intertwined in a way that felt natural, like it had always been that way. “Thanks for coming,” she said after a beat, her voice quieter now, a note of sincerity threading through her usual teasing tone.

“Always,” he replied, his eyes finally softening, though his cheeks still held a faint blush. He gave her hand a squeeze, feeling the weight of his worry lift now that she was here, with him, safe.

[chlerc]

spaces in between ; jude bellingham

pairing jude bellingham x f. reader ( third person story )

he believed you when you said you would fly over to celebrate his birthday with him, excited to see your face. but he didn’t know it’d be that easy for you to leave him without a trace.

word count 1630.

content angst, like bad / sad ending. they don’t get a happy ever after ending. long distance friendship, she’s always here and there for him but never stayed long enough. secretly pining over each other

author’s note wrote this when i was sick, the motivation and inspiration always strikes here. always putting my boy jude through the angsty stories lol

song recs for this fic no one noticed.

The glow of Madrid’s street lights flickered in the corners of her vision as she adjusted her scarf, weaving through the late-night crowds that filled the cobblestone alleys of the city. Her heart beat in time with her steps, a rhythm that both grounded and unsettled her as she drew closer to his building. It felt surreal to be here — a place she’d only known through pixels and video calls, a place that lived solely in the stories he’d woven for her across distant lines.

The door swung open, and there he was — his face breaking into a grin, eyes bright with delight and something softer, something she couldn’t name but felt resonate in her chest. Without a word, he pulled her into an embrace, his arms wrapping around her so tightly that she could feel his heartbeat against her cheek. “Didn’t expect you’d actually come,” he teased, though his eyes held a glint of something softer, something more grateful.

“Best birthday gift I could ask for,” he added, his tone light, yet his hold unwavering as though he feared she’d slip away. Pulling back, he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his gaze lingering, studying her as though to make sure she was truly there.

“Well,” she murmured, brushing past him with a faint smile, “someone’s got to make sure you don’t spend your birthday alone.” She took in the room with its modest decor, the hints of his presence scattered in the form of art pieces, records stacked near the player, and an open notebook on the desk. He chuckled, closing the door behind her. “I told you, I don’t mind being alone.”

“Perhaps,” she replied, feigning an indifferent shrug. “But what if I do?” Her gaze met his, holding his for a moment before she turned away, pretending to inspect the records as though she hadn’t just travelled across countries to be here.

They settled into the evening slowly, an awkwardness blanketing them at first, a product of shared screens finally giving way to physical space. But eventually, laughter eased through the gaps, filling the quiet corners of his small apartment. They shared stories, exchanged quiet jokes, and lingered over glasses of wine that made the room feel warmer, the air laced with the scent of familiarity and anticipation.

As the evening deepened, they ventured out onto his balcony. The city lights stretched before them, bright and steady, twinkling with the same allure that had first drawn her to his words, to his enigmatic charm.

“Look at this view,” she whispered, her voice softened by awe. He shrugged, gazing at her instead of the skyline. “It’s just a city. It’s better with you here.” She smiled faintly, caught between the quiet euphoria of his words and the nagging reality that lingered at the edges of her mind. She knew she would leave soon, knew that this moment would end. The thought hung heavily between them, unspoken.

“Will you stay long?” he asked, finally breaking the silence, his voice a low murmur against the hum of the city. She exhaled, her breath curling in the cool night air. “I don’t know. Long enough, I suppose,” she replied, her words as carefully crafted as they were vague.

He reached out, catching her hand in his, a simple touch that anchored them amidst the unsteadiness of whatever this was. “You’re always like this,” he said, half-smiling. “Appearing out of nowhere and then vanishing like you’re a dream.”

“Maybe I am,” she murmured, meeting his gaze. “Maybe that’s all this ever was.” For a moment, the conversation hung heavy between them, layered with questions and fears neither dared voice. But then he laughed, and it softened the tension, bringing them back to a more familiar, playful place. “Well, if that’s the case, I suppose I should make the most of this dream while it lasts.”

Jude draped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer, the silence between them thick with unspoken sentiments. “You know, I don’t say this enough, but I’m glad you’re here,” he admitted, his voice a murmur in the cool night air. She looked up at him, searching his expression, and a pang of something bittersweet tugged at her. She wanted to stay in this warmth, this certainty, but she knew that come dawn, she would have to slip away.

“I’m glad I came too,” she replied softly, her voice barely a whisper. Jude’s gaze was soft as he looked down at her, thumb brushing her cheek as though memorising the contours of her face. For a brief, irrational moment, she wanted to tell him everything — that she wished she could stay, that she didn’t want to leave this, leave him. But she said nothing, instead resting her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, each beat a fleeting reassurance she knew would fade by morning.

They leaned into the quiet closeness, the moments blurring together as the evening stretched on, her laughter mingling with his in the warm light of the city. Time drifted, unbound, until the faintest hint of dawn crept across the skyline. She glanced at him, seeing the calm softness in his eyes as they drifted shut, his breathing even, and she knew that she’d fulfilled whatever it was she’d come to do.

When he finally awoke, the first rays of morning spilling through the curtains, he found himself alone. Her scarf was still draped over the back of a chair, her perfume lingering faintly in the air. He blinked, sitting up and looking around, the remnants of last night’s laughter still fresh on his lips. But the silence pressed in, weighted and still, like a final goodbye.

On the table, she’d left a small note, folded neatly with her handwriting sprawled across the front:

“Happy Birthday. See you in the spaces between.”

He laughed quietly, though it sounded more like a sigh, tracing his fingers over the words. The irony wasn’t lost on him. She’d become his obsession, his mystery, a presence as elusive as the dreams he could never quite hold on to. And though he didn’t know when — or even if — he’d see her again, he couldn’t shake the feeling that wherever she was, some part of her would always be right here, lingering in the traces she’d left behind.

With a soft sigh, he let the silence settle around him, her absence heavy in the early morning light. Her scarf, still draped over the chair, seemed almost like a placeholder, a faint whisper of her presence against the cold, hard truth of her departure. She’d left, slipped out as quietly as she’d arrived, like a carefully crafted illusion dissipating with the dawn. He ran his hand over the note she’d left behind, her familiar handwriting tracing the words: Happy Birthday. See you in the spaces between.

He let out a quiet laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh, his thumb brushing over the ink, her words as gentle and evasive as she’d been. There was a charm to her mystery, an allure to the way she moved in and out of his life, almost as though she existed just beyond his reach, a mirage in a desert he didn’t know he’d been wandering. But this time, there was an ache behind his eyes, a quiet longing that tugged with a new intensity, as though some part of him had grown tired of the chase, of these small doses of her presence that he could never quite hold onto.

A sudden impulse tugged at him. He grabbed a pen from his desk, leaning over the small note she’d left. His fingers brushed the page as he wrote, the words forming slowly, deliberately, almost as though he was afraid of what they might reveal. 

“Don't leave me without a trace; it can’t be that easy please,” he wrote, his handwriting messy and sprawling in contrast to her neat scrawl. He paused, watching the ink dry, knowing she’d never see his reply, yet there was a strange comfort in writing it all the same, as if committing his thoughts to paper might somehow reach her, wherever she was.

He lingered over the note a moment longer, then folded it carefully, tucking it into a drawer with a sense of finality he didn’t quite feel. The silence that filled the room felt heavier now, loaded with the words left unsaid, the moments that had slipped through his fingers like sand.

In her absence, he found himself tracing back through their time together, each memory sharp and vivid, yet fleeting, like flashes of light in a darkened room. He recalled the way she’d laughed under the city lights, the way her voice had softened when she’d whispered, “Maybe I’m just a dream.” It was as if she’d known she would leave, had planned it all along, and he couldn’t decide whether to be grateful for the moments they’d shared or resentful of the empty space she’d left behind.

Yet he knew that her departure, as difficult as it was to accept, had always been part of her. She was as unpredictable as the wind, as elusive as a distant star, and perhaps that was what had drawn him to her in the first place. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the window, to the soft glow of morning light that seemed to fill every corner of the room with a quiet, bittersweet warmth.

And though he knew he would miss her — miss her laugh, her voice, the quiet moments they’d shared — he couldn’t shake the sense that some part of her would always linger here, an unspoken promise hanging in the air, caught between the spaces of their fleeting time together.

[chlerc]

I LOVE MY CHINESE MEN SO MUCH. At the end of the day, it’s always the man from your roots that matters. #proudchinese i love my snooker player

[chlerc]

I feel so warm and fuzzy inside after reading your fic too, my pedophile. ☺️☺️🥰🥰 my heart go ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

wah diu, you know the way to leave ☺️😘

[chlerc]

i just read ur “because it matters” fic and it’s so well written i’m obsessed

also ur blog theme is adorable omg

i’m feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, tysm 😞

[chlerc]

soft spot ; lando norris

pairing academic-rival-lando norris! x f. reader ( third person story )

being his academic rival doesn’t justify why he’s got a soft spot for you, but he does. and he finds himself giving you everything you wanted and if he could.

word count 1361.

content he’s sharing his study notes with you because he wants you to do as well as he does though he’s sure you don’t need his notes because you’re really smart, like smarter than him. got him wrapped around your finger too!!!

author’s note surprise surprise, we got educated lando norris can you believe it?? i'm joking!! i just thought this would be a cute thing to write about, old situationship-ish-kinda inspired lolol

song recs for this fic soft spot.

Lando sat at his usual spot in the library, the steady hum of muted conversation floating through the air as he lazily twirled his pen, his textbook sprawled open before him. He scribbled half-hearted notes on the margins, his mind far from the equations in front of him. Across from him, she sat with an air of quiet determination, eyes focused, every gesture deliberate as she effortlessly worked through the problem set. There was a certain grace in the way she moved, her concentration almost tangible, and he couldn’t resist the urge to break the silence.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, her voice low but tinged with amusement, though her eyes remained fixed on her work. The scratch of her pen was soft, almost rhythmic, as if even her distraction couldn’t break her focus.

He leaned back, a smug grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Just wondering how many hours you'll spend on that before you realise I’m still ahead of you in class.” Her gaze flicked upward then, sharp and challenging, a subtle gleam in her eyes. “In your dreams, Norris. I’m just letting you think you’re ahead, so you don’t feel too bad when I crush you in finals.”

Lando’s smirk deepened, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hand. “Is that right? Because, if I remember correctly, I outscored you on the last mock exam.”

“By half a point,” she retorted smoothly, the gleam of competition still in her eyes, though a soft smile tugged at her lips. “And I was sleep-deprived.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, his voice laced with teasing. “Always an excuse with you.”

She arched an eyebrow, leaning back slightly as if conceding, though her expression told him otherwise. “Not an excuse — just facts. You should get used to it, because next time, you won’t even come close.”

He rolled his eyes dramatically, but beneath the playful façade, there was something else. He enjoyed these moments far more than he’d ever admit — the way they pushed each other, a constant dance between rivalry and something more tender, something unspoken. The tension between them hummed with an energy that was undeniable, though he’d convinced himself it was merely competition. Yet, no one else made him feel quite like she did.

And after every other gruelling lecture, she would pull him along on yet another one of her spontaneous convenience store runs. He trailed a step behind her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression one of mock reluctance.

“Do you really need something this time, or are you just dragging me out for the fun of it?” Lando’s voice was laced with faux exasperation, though his gaze softened as it lingered on her.

She glanced back at him over her shoulder, a knowing grin lighting up her face. “I like the company. Besides, I know you don’t mind.” His lips quirked into a smile he tried to hide. “I definitely mind,” he muttered, though his tone held no real conviction, and they both knew it.

“Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that,” she teased, her laughter ringing out softly as she reached for a snack on the shelf, tossing it into the basket. Her movements were effortless, as if these small, mundane moments were enough to make her day brighter. “You should be grateful I’m keeping you out of trouble. What would you even do without me?”

Lando leaned against the shelf, watching her with a smirk. “Probably live a quiet life. Go home, play video games in peace. Not have to deal with your very demanding schedule.” She laughed, a light sound that danced in the air between them. Nudging him with her shoulder, she shook her head. “Come on, you love it.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he replied, though the way his eyes lingered on her told a different story.

Later, on a night he would’ve sworn he’d never be caught in — under the dim lights of a club, with music vibrating through the walls — Lando found himself in his least favourite environment. The bass thrummed through the floor, and the crowd pulsed around him, but she was there, pulling him onto the dance floor with that irresistible smile.

“You really don’t dance, do you?” she teased, her voice barely audible over the music as she tugged him closer, her touch light but insistent. “I told you, I’m not a fan of this whole scene,” he muttered, his feet shuffling awkwardly, though his gaze never left her.

“And yet, here you are. For me,” she said, her smile widening as their bodies moved in sync, her laughter soft and sweet against the chaos of the music. He shook his head, feigning exasperation. “Only because you begged.”

“Begged?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she spun around, catching his gaze again. “Please, Norris, I didn’t beg. I knew you’d come.”

“And why’s that?” He has an eyebrow cocked up, smirk on his lips with his arms crossed. “Because you can’t say no to me.” Her voice was light, teasing, but the truth in her words hung between them, undeniable. He sighed, his hand slipping to rest on her waist, pulling her closer. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I know,” she replied, her voice dropping just slightly, her eyes locking onto his. “And you secretly love it.” Lando chuckled softly, though there was no denying the way his heart stuttered in his chest at her touch. “Yeah, okay. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

But even as he said it, there was something deeper. He didn’t want to admit how much she got under his skin, how much she’d already wrapped him around her finger. She was his academic rival, the one who always challenged him, pushed him — but she was also the only one who made him feel like this, the only one who could shift his world so effortlessly.

And yet, there were nights when his world felt like it was tipping too far. His workload piled up, deadlines looming, and he found himself cancelling their study plans more often than not. But one evening, after cancelling yet another one, he showed up to her seminar unannounced, determined to make up for lost time.

She spotted him as soon as the seminar ended, her brows knitting together in confusion as she walked over to him. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you have, like, a ton of work?” He shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, but I figured I’d spend time with you anyway.”

Her stern expression softened into something more amused. “You don’t have to come to my classes to prove a point, you know,” her hand running through his dirty brown strands. “I know.” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I just… missed you.”

The teasing look in her eyes faltered for a second, replaced by something more tender, something unspoken between them. “Well, I missed you too, you idiot. But don’t think this gets you out of cancelling our last three study dates.” He laughed, pulling her into a gentle hug. “Fair enough. I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’d better,” she replied, her face pressed against his chest, and for the first time in days, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter. “Here’s the notes I collated from our recent classes.” He tosses her his notebook, decorated with sketches of different cars and though he never said it, sharing his notes with her was just a quiet way of showing her he cared. Because he had a soft spot for her.

But late at night, when the world fell quiet, Lando often found himself thinking of her, unable to sleep. She had become the constant in his life, the one who made him feel things he never thought possible. He didn’t want to fall in love — not really — but there she was, challenging everything he thought he knew. She didn’t ask for anything, but somehow, he found himself wanting to give her everything. 

And though he fought it, though he tried to convince himself that it was just rivalry, just competition — deep down, he knew. He was already hers.

[chlerc]

god bless whatever woke me up 7 years ago and made me the person i am today for that gpa score for the first sem

[chlerc]

not related to f1 but i’m literally dropping $$ on joshua & wonwoo pcs, the seventeen trance in me is coming back…!

[chlerc]

because it matters ; charles leclerc

pairing brothers-best-friend-charles leclerc x f. reader ( third person story )

he was your brother’s best friend before he was your boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean he loves you any less than before. in fact, he definitely loves you more.

word count 5777.

content all 5 love languages, his “just because” actions, some more than the other with or without reasons but that's because he adores and loves you. 5 years age gap, she’s still studying in university!!

author’s note based off none other than my fav duan jiaxu from hidden love!! i think i died a little when i finished this drama, age gap literally always hits right when it needs to hit lol. longest fic i've ever written on here, show some love to it lolol jk, lmk how this goes i might based them off chinese actors/dramas if it's okay

— ACTS OF SERVICE.

CHARLES HAD ALWAYS BEEN A man of quiet gestures, his love language more a series of thoughtful actions than grand declarations. As her brother’s best friend and now her boyfriend, it was no surprise that his care for her manifested in the smallest, most deliberate ways. So when her birthday approached, Charles set himself the task of creating something special — something that would reflect his deep understanding of her, and his desire to make her feel cherished.

She had been allergic to milk for as long as anyone could remember, a detail most people might forget amidst the usual birthday celebrations of cake and sweets. But not Charles. He had spent weeks researching recipes, carefully altering ingredients, and practicing the art of baking. For a man who had never shown much interest in the kitchen, it was a laborious process, filled with mishaps and frustration. Yet, he persisted, determined to present her with a homemade cake crafted specifically with her needs in mind.

On the day of her birthday, she had no idea what to expect. Charles had been oddly secretive in the days leading up to it, disappearing at odd hours, and she had assumed it was part of some elaborate plan he and her brother had cooked up. But when he appeared at the door with two cakes in hand, her curiosity deepened. 

One cake was pristine — clearly store-bought, wrapped in elegant packaging, the kind of cake anyone would be thrilled to receive. Yet, it was the other cake that caught her eye. Slightly imperfect, its frosting uneven in places, but the look in Charles’ eyes when he presented it to her spoke volumes.

“I know it’s not perfect,” he said, a slight hint of embarrassment in his voice as he gestured toward the homemade cake, “but I made it myself. No milk, just how you need it.” There was a vulnerability in his words, a rare moment where his usual calm confidence gave way to the desire for her approval.

She smiled, warmth spreading through her chest as she reached out to take the cake from his hands. His efforts — his quiet, stubborn determination to create something just for her — meant more than he could ever know. She could see the backup cake sitting beside it, a safeguard in case his own attempt had gone terribly wrong. But to her, it was the one he had baked that mattered. The imperfections made it perfect, a testament to the care he had put into making her birthday special.

Carefully, she cut into the homemade cake, offering him a reassuring smile as she took the first bite. The flavor was unexpectedly good — better, even, than she had anticipated. A soft laugh escaped her as she met his gaze. “Charles, this is wonderful,” she said, her tone filled with genuine admiration. “I love it.”

His shoulders, which had been tense with anticipation, relaxed as relief washed over him. He offered her a modest smile, though she could see the flicker of pride in his eyes. “I wasn’t sure how it would turn out,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar way he did when he felt uncertain. “I bought the other one just in case this was a disaster.” She shook her head, leaning in to kiss him softly on the cheek. “You didn’t need the backup. This is perfect. It’s perfect because you made it.” 

And in that moment, as they sat together with the imperfect cake between them, she realized just how deeply Charles understood her. It wasn’t the grandeur of the gesture that made it special, but the simple act of putting in the effort — for her, and for what mattered to her. It was his way of loving her, his love language spoken through flour and sugar, through careful attention to detail, and through the quiet humility that came with wanting to make her happy.

— II. ACTS OF SERVICE.

CHARLES HAD ALWAYS BEEN METICULOUS in the ways he cared for her, a kind of attention that was never loud or overbearing but woven into the fabric of his every action. It was in the way he would always walk ahead just slightly, reaching the car first to open the door for her before she had even thought to do so herself. His hand would rest lightly on the doorframe, waiting as she slipped into the seat with a small, appreciative smile. He never made a fuss about it, never expected a word of thanks, but it was a habit as constant as the turning of the seasons. He understood that these small courtesies were his way of communicating, a language that didn’t need words.

Her bag, too, was something he would instinctively take from her as soon as they met, draping the strap over his shoulder as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Whether it was a long day of errands or a brief walk through the park, the weight of it never seemed to bother him. “You don’t have to,” she would say sometimes, though it was more out of habit than expectation. And he would shrug, flashing her that easy smile of his. “I know, but I want to, and it’s no trouble.”

Even on cold mornings, when the wind would bite at their skin and they found themselves huddling into coats, Charles was ever-attentive. As they wandered the streets with takeaway cups of steaming tea or coffee, he would take hers from her hands without a second thought, holding it between his own gloved palms to shield her from the chill. She had protested once, perhaps out of a sense of independence or stubbornness, but he had only smiled and shook his head. “It’s cold,” he’d said simply, as if the matter were already decided.

The thing about Charles was that he never made these acts feel obligatory or performative. They were woven into the quiet fabric of his love, embedded in the little moments they shared — a door held open, a bag carried, a cup kept warm. And she knew, deep down, that this was how he loved her, not with grand declarations or sweeping gestures, but with an unwavering constancy that wrapped around her like a second skin.

Each small act of care, unnoticed by others but never by her, made her feel seen in a way that words couldn’t. It was in the quiet things, the things he did without being asked, that she saw the depth of his affection. And it was in these moments, as they moved through the world together, that she knew she was cherished — not with extravagant displays, but with a love as steady and sure as the man who walked beside her.

— PHYSICAL TOUCH.

HIS LOVE SPOKE THROUGH TOUCH, in the way his hands found her almost instinctively the moment she stepped out of the lecture hall. After a long day of classes, she would find him waiting just outside, leaning casually against his car, his eyes lighting up the moment he caught sight of her. He never needed to say much. His presence alone seemed to ease the weight of her day.

As soon as she was within arm’s reach, his hands would naturally gravitate toward her. A gentle, almost unconscious brush of his fingers against hers before he intertwined them, as if to anchor her to him after hours of separation. There was something so grounding in the way he held her hand, a quiet reassurance in the warmth of his skin against hers.

It never ended there. He always seemed to need more — his arms wrapping around her in an embrace that lingered just a little longer than necessary, his hands slipping to the small of her back as he pulled her close. He would nuzzle his head against her shoulder, a gesture that spoke of yearning, of needing to be near her, to feel her, as if her presence was the only thing that could soothe his restless energy.

Even in the car, as they drove away from the university, his touch remained constant. One hand on the wheel, the other would inevitably find its way back to hers, or rest comfortably on her thigh, a quiet reminder of his desire to stay connected. At stoplights, he would lean over, pressing a kiss to her temple or her cheek, his arm slipping around her shoulders, drawing her nearer.

There was something so earnest, so unabashed about his need for physical closeness. It wasn’t just affection, it was as if touch was his way of grounding himself, of communicating the depth of his feelings without words. He didn’t need grand gestures to show how much he cared; it was in the small, intimate moments — when his head rested on her shoulder, when his fingers traced absentminded patterns on her skin, or when he pulled her into a hug so tight she could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

It was through these simple acts that she understood just how much he needed her, how much he cherished the feeling of her in his arms, beside him, within reach. His touch was his way of speaking, of saying what words could not — that in her presence, in the soft warmth of her embrace, he had found his peace.

— GIFT GIVING.

EVERY TIME HER UNIVERSITY EXAMS ended, without fail, there would be a gift waiting for her. It became a ritual, a quiet tradition he had started from the very first year of her studies. His love language was expressed through thoughtfulness, in the way he would hand her something small, but always meaningful, with a smile that reached his eyes.

He never made a grand display of it. The gifts were never extravagant, but they were deeply personal, chosen with care. A hardcover edition of her favorite novel, a delicate silk scarf in her favorite shade of blue, a handwritten note tucked between the folds of a soft leather journal. And on that particular day, after one of the most grueling exam weeks she had endured, he had something different in store.

As she stepped out of the exam hall, exhausted yet relieved, there he was, standing quietly off to the side with that familiar warmth in his gaze. He walked toward her, his hands slipping into his jacket pocket before revealing a small velvet box. She could tell, by the tenderness in his expression, that this was no ordinary gift.

“I know you've had a rough week,” he began softly, “but I wanted to give you something special.” Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the box, revealing a delicate bracelet inside. It was simple, yet beautiful — a fine silver chain with a single angel charm hanging from it. The charm was intricately detailed, with outstretched wings and a serene expression, catching the light in a way that made it seem almost ethereal.

“An angel?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, though a smile already tugged at the corners of her lips. He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. “That’s what I see when I look at you — my angel. Always looking out for me, always guiding me. I thought it was fitting.”

Her heart swelled at his words, a soft warmth blooming in her chest. The bracelet was more than just a piece of jewelry; it was a reflection of how he saw her, of the way he cherished her presence in his life. She knew then that every gift he had ever given her carried a meaning far deeper than the object itself.

Gently, he took the bracelet from the box and fastened it around her wrist. His touch lingered, his thumb brushing over the charm as if sealing the significance of the gesture. “I wanted you to have something to remind you how much you mean to me, especially when I’m not around.”

She looked at the bracelet, the charm glinting against her skin, and then up at him, her chest tightening with affection. “You don’t need to give me anything to remind me of that,” she said, her voice soft. “I know.” But he smiled, shaking his head. “I like spoiling you. It’s my way of showing you how much I care. And I’ll always have something waiting for you, after every exam, after every challenge. You deserve it.”

As they walked away from the university that day, her hand resting in his, she couldn’t help but glance down at the bracelet again. It wasn’t just a gift — it was a constant reminder of his love, of the quiet, steadfast way he always showed up for her, even in the smallest gestures. And to her, that meant everything.

— WORDS OF AFFIRMATION.

HE HAD ALWAYS BEEN GENEROUS with his words, the kind that lingered in the air long after they were spoken. Every time he saw her, no matter the occasion or the day, the first thing he would say was how beautiful she looked. It wasn’t a passing compliment, nor a routine gesture, but something genuine, as though he was reminding her of the beauty he saw in her, even when she couldn’t see it herself.

“Hey, pretty,” he would greet her with that soft smile of his, the kind that made his words feel like a caress, as though in that moment she was the only thing that mattered. But today, she didn’t feel beautiful. The weight of a bad day clung to her, pulling her shoulders down, her heart heavy with frustration and sadness. She hadn’t said much when they met, her smile strained, eyes distant. She thought she could hold it together, that if she just kept moving through the day, the weight would somehow lift.

He noticed, of course. He always noticed. As they walked side by side, his arm brushed against hers, a quiet gesture of reassurance. He hadn’t yet said anything, letting the silence linger between them like a fragile thread. But as they reached her apartment, she could feel the emotions swelling up, tightening her throat. She clenched her jaw, trying to push it down. 

“Rough day?” His voice was gentle, his eyes searching hers. She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek, not trusting herself to speak. She didn’t want to cry — crying was for kids, she thought. She was too old for that kind of release, too old to give into it. But the tension kept building, her emotions pressing against the surface like a dam about to burst.

He seemed to sense her struggle, and without waiting for her to speak, he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You know,” he began, his tone softer than ever, “you don’t have to be strong all the time.”

She blinked, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I’m not a kid,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “Kids can cry. Not me.” A warm smile spread across his face, one that carried no judgment, only understanding. “You can always be a kid with me,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “You can cry, you can fall apart if you need to. I’ll be here to take care of you, no matter what.” 

His words broke through her defenses, unraveling the tight knot she had been holding inside. The tears that she had been fighting so hard to contain began to spill over, silently at first, then in waves that she couldn’t stop. She felt herself trembling, embarrassed, but before she could apologise, he pulled her into his arms.

“There’s nothing wrong with crying,” he whispered into her hair. “It’s okay to feel overwhelmed. I’m here for you, always.” She clung to him, letting the warmth of his embrace soothe her. His hands rubbed slow circles on her back, his presence steady, calming. And as the sobs slowly faded, replaced by quiet breaths, she felt a strange sense of relief. 

“I don’t know why I always try to hold it all in,” she mumbled, her face still pressed against his chest. He tilted her chin up gently, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Because you’re strong,” he said, his eyes filled with admiration. “But you don’t have to be strong all the time. Especially not with me.”

She smiled weakly, feeling a sense of gratitude wash over her. He always knew what to say, always knew how to make her feel seen, understood. His words were more than just a comfort — they were an affirmation of her, of everything she was, even in the moments when she doubted herself. 

“You’re beautiful,” he said again, as if reminding her of a truth she often forgot. “Even when you don’t feel like it. Especially then.” And in that moment, she believed him. Because with him, she could be vulnerable, she could be flawed, and still, she was enough. His words didn’t just lift her — they wrapped around her, a blanket of warmth that made the world feel a little lighter, a little less daunting.

— II. WORDS OF AFFIRMATION.

THE MISUNDERSTANDING HAD TAKEN ROOT between them like a silent storm, creeping in with its unseen force, clouding the air they shared. She had heard something — words passed along by careless mouths — words that struck at the fragile chords of trust between them. He had sensed the shift in her, the way her warmth had slowly receded, leaving a subtle distance where once there was only ease. It wasn't like her to withdraw, and it wasn't like him to leave things unsaid.

He had always been a man of conviction, firm and clear in his affections. Yet now, as the weight of unspoken tension hung between them, he could feel the unfamiliar ache of uncertainty. She was guarded, her once open gaze now veiled by doubt. It pained him, more than he would ever admit aloud, to see the subtle wariness in her eyes. He knew there was something she was holding back, and he could guess what it was. 

The rumors. The murmured half-truths. She hadn’t asked him about them directly, but he could feel the weight of those unspoken questions in her every glance. It was the evening, and they sat across from each other in her small living room, the silence almost stifling. She stirred her tea absently, eyes fixed on the rippling surface as if it held the answers to her uncertainty. He watched her, studying the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly, the faint tightness in her lips as she held back what needed to be said.

Finally, he could bear it no longer. His voice broke the silence, low and steady. “I know you’ve heard things. About me. About us.” Her hand froze mid-stir, her eyes flicking up to meet his. There was no accusation in her gaze, only a guarded curiosity. “What things?” she asked, though they both knew she already had the answers.

He exhaled, leaning forward, the intensity of his gaze locking onto hers. “You heard wrong. Whatever it was that’s made you doubt me, it’s not true. And I’m going to prove it.” She blinked, momentarily taken aback by the firmness in his voice. She hadn’t expected him to address it so directly, nor to meet the issue with such unwavering determination. “You don’t have to prove anything,” she said softly, though the uncertainty in her voice betrayed her. “Yes, I do,” he replied, standing up suddenly, as if the very weight of the misunderstanding had propelled him into action. His jaw was set, determination etched into every line of his face. “Because if there’s even a shred of doubt in your mind, I’m not going to let it sit there. Not with us. Not with you.”

Before she could protest, he was already reaching for his phone. She watched, bewildered, as he started dialing numbers, calling the very people who had unknowingly planted the seeds of doubt in her mind. He didn’t care how late it was, didn’t care if it seemed excessive. He would go above and beyond if it meant clearing the air between them.

The first call was to one of his friends, the one who had supposedly been at the center of the rumors. He put the call on speakerphone, his voice calm yet firm. “Tell her what really happened.” There was confusion on the other end at first, but as his friend began to speak, it became clear. The situation had been misinterpreted, a harmless encounter blown out of proportion by careless gossip. His friend explained it all in painstaking detail, clarifying every point, until the truth stood there, clear and undeniable.

Still, he wasn’t done. One by one, he reached out to anyone who could possibly shed light on the misunderstanding. She sat there, silent, watching in awe as he unraveled the web of confusion with a methodical precision that left no room for doubt. He wasn’t doing it out of desperation, but out of a deep-seated need to ensure that she never had reason to question his integrity again.

When the last call ended, he turned to her, his eyes searching hers. “You don’t have to believe me,” he said softly. “You can believe them. I just need you to know that I would never hurt you. Not like that.” Her chest tightened as his words sank in. The intensity of his actions, the way he had gone above and beyond to prove himself — she hadn’t expected it. But more than that, she hadn’t realised how much she had wanted him to fight for her, for them. In that moment, the walls she had built around herself crumbled, and she was left standing in the ruins of her own doubts.

“I didn’t think…” she started, but her voice trailed off, emotion thickening her throat. She looked up at him, her heart in her eyes. “You really didn’t have to do all this.” He smiled then, a soft, knowing smile. “I did,” he said, his voice quiet yet resolute. “Because you matter to me. And I’ll go to any lengths to make sure you never forget that.”

She felt the tension leave her body, a soft exhale of relief escaping her lips. It wasn’t just the words — it was the actions. The way he had fought for her trust, the way he had refused to let the misunderstanding linger like a poison between them. He had proven, in the most undeniable way, that his love for her was stronger than any fleeting doubt.

And as he stepped closer, taking her hand in his, she knew without a doubt that he would always be there to clear the air, to fight for their connection. Because in his eyes, she was worth every effort, every moment of reassurance, every word of affirmation spoken into the quiet space between them.

— QUALITY TIME.

HE HAD GROWN USED TO the rhythm of their lives weaving in and out of each other’s. There was a silent understanding between them, a kind of unspoken dance where their schedules often clashed but their hearts always remained in step. Yet, lately, the weight of missed moments had begun to settle between them. His job, relentless and demanding, had pulled him away from her more times than he cared to admit. Meetings that stretched late into the evening, deadlines that loomed too large to ignore, and the endless stream of work that always seemed to multiply at the worst times. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but the dates they had planned — those precious hours set aside for just the two of them — had been quietly cancelled, one after another.

She had never complained, not once. Even when he’d called her, apologetic yet again for another missed evening, she’d only sighed softly and reassured him, “I understand, really.” And he knew she did. But it didn’t stop the guilt from gnawing at him, the sense that he was failing in some essential way, that he was slowly losing the very time they once shared so effortlessly.

That’s why, when she had mentioned the seminar — her voice bright with enthusiasm, as she explained how important it was for her course — he had listened intently, feeling the sting of another missed opportunity. She couldn’t meet him that evening because of it, and for once, it wasn’t his work keeping them apart. There was an irony in it that didn’t escape him.

He sat at his desk, staring at the calendar on his phone, his mind drifting from the endless emails piling up in his inbox to her, seated in that seminar hall, surrounded by classmates, absorbed in some lecture about a subject she cared about. And then, as if something clicked into place, an idea began to take root in his mind. If he couldn’t steal her away for the evening, he could at least be near her. Quality time wasn’t just about elaborate dates or grand gestures — it was about presence. It was about showing up, even in the quiet, unnoticed ways.

Without giving himself time to second-guess it, he stood from his desk, grabbed his coat, and made his way to her university. When he arrived at the building where her seminar was being held, the halls were hushed, the muted sound of voices from behind closed doors filtering through the air. He found her classroom easily enough, his steps slowing as he approached. The door was slightly ajar, and he could see her through the narrow gap, seated at one of the desks, her head tilted attentively toward the speaker at the front of the room.

He stood there for a moment, simply watching her. The sight of her — focused, engaged, oblivious to his presence — filled him with a warmth he hadn’t realised he needed. She looked so at ease, so in her element, and in that instant, the frustration of missed dates and hectic schedules faded into the background.

He didn’t want to interrupt her or make his presence known just yet. Instead, he found a seat on a bench just outside the door, settling in quietly. It wasn’t about being seen — it was about being there, about sharing even this small, seemingly insignificant moment with her.

The minutes passed slowly, the muffled sound of the lecture a quiet backdrop to his thoughts. He imagined the conversations they would have after, the way she would recount everything she had learned with that eager spark in her eyes. He smiled to himself, content to wait for her, knowing that this — just being near her — was enough for now.

When the seminar finally ended, students began to trickle out of the room, chatting amongst themselves as they passed him by. And then, there she was, stepping out into the hallway, her attention still half-occupied by something on her phone. She didn’t see him at first, but when she looked up and caught sight of him sitting there, her eyes widened in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, a soft laugh escaping her as she approached him. He shrugged, his expression easy. “I figured if I couldn’t take you out, I could at least be here with you.” She shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips as she looked at him with a mix of amusement and affection. “You didn’t have to come all the way here for that.”

“I wanted to,” he said simply, standing to meet her. His voice softened as he continued, “I miss spending time with you. Even if it’s just this.” Her gaze softened, her fingers brushing against his hand as she looked at him with that familiar warmth, the kind that melted away all the missed moments and cancellations. “I miss you too.”

They stood there for a moment, the hallway slowly emptying around them, leaving just the two of them in the quiet aftermath of the evening. There was no grand gesture, no elaborate plan — just the simple act of being there, of showing up for each other even in the smallest of ways. And in that moment, it was more than enough.

— II. QUALITY TIME.

SHE HAD BEEN TALKING ABOUT the camping trip for weeks, her excitement bubbling over with every little detail she planned. From carefully picking out the perfect spot by the lake to gathering everything they would need — the tent, sleeping bags, and even a little portable stove. She had painted a picture in her mind of them under the stars, a crackling fire in front of them, and the serenity of nature surrounding them. It was supposed to be the perfect weekend escape, a break from the world that felt just for the two of them. 

But as fate would have it, the skies had other plans. The steady patter of rain against the window seemed to mock her efforts, each droplet erasing the dream she had so carefully built. She stood at the window, watching as the downpour turned the streets into rivulets, her heart sinking with each gust of wind that rattled the glass. The bags were packed, the snacks ready, but the weather was relentless, offering no sign of clearing up. 

He watched her from the doorway, noticing the way her shoulders had slumped just a little, the way her fingers idly tapped against the windowsill in quiet resignation. She wasn’t one to show disappointment easily, but he knew her well enough to see it in the subtle tilt of her head, the way her usual spark dimmed just slightly. It wasn’t about the camping itself, really — it was about the time, the experience she had looked forward to sharing with him. 

He crossed the room quietly, slipping his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You know,” he began, his voice warm and gentle, “we don’t need the perfect weather to have a perfect time.” She leaned into his embrace, though the sigh she released was soft and defeated. “I know, but I was just… looking forward to it. I had everything ready.”

He kissed the top of her head, holding her a little tighter. “We can still do it,” he said, his voice taking on a playful edge. She turned slightly, curiosity flashing in her eyes. “What do you mean? It’s pouring outside.”

A grin spread across his face, mischievous yet sincere. “Who said anything about camping outside?” He stepped back, hands already gesturing to the living room behind them. “We can camp right here. It’s the same as long as we’re together, right?”

She blinked at him, momentarily stunned by the absurdity of the idea. But as he rushed past her, grabbing the tent from the neatly packed bags, she couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her, light and surprised. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely,” he called over his shoulder, already clearing a space in the middle of the room. “We’ve got everything we need. A tent, snacks, and each other. What more could we ask for?” It wasn’t long before the tent was pitched right there in the center of their living room, the furniture pushed aside to make space for their little indoor campsite. He worked quickly, his enthusiasm contagious, and soon the room was transformed into a makeshift wilderness — albeit with the comforts of home just a few steps away. The tent flaps were open, revealing the soft glow of string lights he had hung around the room, casting a warm, golden hue over everything.

She stood in the doorway, watching as he finished setting up the sleeping bags inside the tent, her heart swelling with affection for this man who never failed to find a way to make her smile, even when things didn’t go as planned. “There,” he said, standing back to admire his work with a satisfied nod. “Our own little campsite.” She walked over, her eyes shining with gratitude and amusement as she looked at the scene he had created. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

He pulled her into his arms, grinning down at her. “Maybe. But you’re smiling, so it worked.” She shook her head, still laughing softly as she leaned into him. “I can’t believe you set up a tent in our living room.” He kissed her forehead, his voice softening as he held her close. “As long as we’re together, it doesn’t matter where we are. This can be our adventure tonight.”

They spent the evening curled up in the tent, wrapped in blankets and each other’s warmth, the sound of the rain outside becoming a distant murmur. He made hot chocolate on the stove, and they laughed as they toasted marshmallows over the kitchen burner, pretending it was a real campfire. It wasn’t the trip she had planned, but it was perfect in its own way — intimate, cozy, and filled with the kind of memories that mattered most.

As the night deepened, they lay side by side in the tent, the glow of the lights above them softening the room into a golden haze. She turned to him, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw as she whispered, “Thank you… for always making the best of everything.”

He smiled, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. “I’d camp anywhere as long as it’s with you.” In that moment, the rain outside faded into the background, and all that mattered was the time they shared, wrapped in the comfort of each other’s presence.

IN THE INTRICATE DANCE OF their evolving relationship, the myriad expressions of love became an eloquent testament to their deep bond. As her brother's best friend before becoming her boyfriend, he seamlessly navigated the nuances of affection, his gestures echoing the depth of his feelings.

The love language of acts of service shone brightly through his thoughtful actions, from baking a milk-free cake for her birthday to setting up an indoor campsite when their camping plans were thwarted by rain.

His gestures of gift-giving, like presenting her with a bracelet adorned with an angel charm, revealed the tenderness with which he viewed her, seeing her as an ethereal presence in his life.

Words of affirmation were his balm for her insecurities, soothing her with reassurances and steadfastly clearing any misunderstandings with diligence.

Quality time was his cherished currency, manifesting in his presence at her classes and his persistent effort to share moments despite demanding schedules.

Physical touch, too, was a silent language he spoke fluently, his hands ever eager for contact and his embrace a sanctuary of comfort.

Even with a five-year age gap between them, these expressions of love transcended mere routine, weaving a narrative of devotion that was both profound and enduring, underscoring the seamless transition from brother’s best friend to cherished partners.

[chlerc]

first-time dad ; pablo gavi

pairing pablo gavi x childhood-best-friend!f. reader

he’s only ever on Instagram to post about his family and occasionally his footballing career but witnessing the first-time dad grow over time is way more sentimental and meaningful.

word count nil. social media au

content you barely see gavi as a man of many words but when it comes to his sons and the love of his life, he gets sentimental and sappy real fast

author’s note my head’s been into chinese drama too much i forgot about this draft rotting.

Liked by pablogavi, fcbarcelona and 3,493,107 others

ynusername baby gavira, august 2023 🤍

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pablogavi eres la mejor mamá que podría pedir (you’re the best mom he could ever ask for)

ynusername @pablogavi te amo mucho (i love you so much)

pedri eres la mejor mamá que podría pedir 👏(congratulations both of you)

ynusername @pedri gracias, te amo 🤍 (thank you, love you)

fcbarcelona new culer 🥹

ynusername @fcbarcelona siiiii

alejandrobalde felicidades mi hermano y la señora 👏👏 (congrats my bro and the missus)

ynusername @alejandrobalde gracias tío alejandro 🤍 (thanks uncle alejandro)

forblaugrana Project Gavi 🔜🔜

blaugrana.daily our gavi is all grown up

gavi.fanpage EXCITED!!!

joaofelix79 no puedo esperar para conocer al bebé gavi (can’t wait to meet baby gavi)

ynusername @joaofelix79 estoy seguro de que él también está ansioso por conocerte, tío Félix! (i’m sure he can’t wait to meet you too uncle félix!)

Liked by pablogavi, pedri and 2,917,193 others

ynusername el 5 de agosto de 2023 comenzó nuestro proyecto @pablogavi Jr! bienvenido mi amor 🤍 (on 5 august 2023, our project gavi junior has begun! welcome my love)

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pablogavi lo mejor que podría pedir en mi cumpleaños, gracias, la mejor esposa que podría pedir. (the best thing i could ever ask for on my birthday, thanks you, the best wife i could ever ask for.)

ynusername @pablogavi los amo mucho a los dos 😘 (i love you two so much)

pedri mismo cumpleaños que su papá 🥹 (same birthday as his dad)

pablogavi @pedri siii, el mejor regalo de todos los tiempos 😆 (yes, the best present ever)

blaugrana.page the ACTUAL project gavi with the same birthday

gavi.jpg i love this little family so much, can’t wait to watch him grow up!

fcbarcelona Welcome culer!!! 👏👏

ynusername @fcbarcelona una camiseta con su nombre? (a jersey with his name on it?)

fcbarcelona @ynusername ya te lo envié por correo 😉 (already mailed to you)

joaofelix79 por fin está aquí! (he’s finally here)

ynusername @joaofelix79 si tio félix, ven pronto! (yes uncle félix, come over soon!)

Liked by ynusername, joaofelix79 and 6,826,136 others

pablogavi oye Mateo ¿cómo ha pasado ya un mes? recuerdo que cuando tu mamá y yo nos enteramos de ti por primera vez, estábamos bastante conmocionados y perdidos, pero aún así felices. tú y tu mamá sois lo mejor que me ha pasado, ¿sabes? por favor, no crezcas tan rápido todavía. todavía tengo mucho que aprender como padre y sobre lo que tienes que enseñarme. gracias por darme la oportunidad Mateo ❤️ además, mamá tomó estas fotos. (hey Mateo, how has it already been a month? i remember when your mama and i first found out about you, we were quite shocked and lost but nonetheless happy. you and your mama are the best thing that ever happened to me you know? please don't grow up just so fast yet, i still have lots of learning to do as a father that you have to teach me about. thanks for giving me the chance, Mateo. also, mama took these photos)

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ynusername eres el mejor papá que podría pedir, mi pájaro enojado 🤍 (you’re the best dad he could ever ask for, my angry bird)

pablogavi @ynusername y eres la mejor mamá que existe (and you’re the best mama out there)

joaofelix79 Mateo es lo mejor que me ha pasado (Mateo is the best thing that ever happened)

ynusername @joaofelix79 seguro que Mateo también te quiere mucho tío Félix! (i’m sure Mateo loves you lots too uncle Félix!)

pablogavi @joaofelix79 ¿no soy lo mejor que te ha pasado? (i’m not the best thing that ever happened to you?)

joaofelix79 @pablogavi tú y tu hijo supongo 🙄 (you and your son i guess)

blaugranaplanet Mateo is growing up so fast!

livelaughlovebarca MATEO’S LITTLE ONESIES 🥹 and the bear pj’s!!!

saraguendogan Kais newest playmate soon!

ynusername @saraguendogan can’t wait 🤍

Liked by marcguiu9, _ferminlopez and 3,965,022 others

pablogavi Otra victoria en casa antes de volver a la Champions el miércoles, os esperamos a todos. força barça! (another victory at home before returning to the Champions League on Wednesday, see you all there. force barça!)

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_ferminlopez Mi hermano ❤️ (my brother)

fcbarcelona Jugón 👏 (game on)

ynusername apoyando a papá (rooting for papa)

pablogavi @ynusername te amo mi ángel (i love you my angel)

barca4life Best midfielder out there

for.blaugrana Masterclass performance

gavi.daily only the best

Liked by ynusername, pedri and 6,826,197 others

pablogavi hola Mateo, no puedo creer que ya estés cumpliendo seis meses. aprendo un poco más cada día siendo tu padre y estoy muy contento de que tú y tu mamá estén aquí conmigo. mamá y yo te amamos desde la luna y desde atrás, ¡y tus tíos también! tú y tu mamá me hicieron el hombre más orgulloso, estoy muy contento y orgulloso de llamarlos míos y nuestra pequeña familia. como siempre, no crezcas tan rápido Mateo, todavía tengo mucho que aprender. mamá volvió a tomar estas fotos...❤️ (hey Mateo, i can't believe you're already turning six months old. i learn a little more everyday being your father and i'm so glad you and your mama are here with me. me and mama loves you from the moon and back, so does your uncles! you and your mama made me the proudest man, i'm so glad and proud to call you two mine and our little family. as usual, don't grow up so fast Mateo i still have lots to learn. mama took these photos again...)

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ynusername Mateo seis meses! (Mateo six months!)

pablogavi @ynusername siiiiii mi amor (yes my love)

pedri mi pequeño está creciendo… (my little boy is growing up…)

pablogavi @pedri y te estás haciendo viejo (and you’re growing old)

mikkykiemeney Mateooo, so cuteeee!!!

ynusername @mikkykiemeney i know righttt, waiting to meet Miles!

gavi.family.fans Mateo is growing up so quickly!

forblaugrana Project Gavi coming along nicely

pablogavi.6 THE CUTEST!!!

lamineyamal ese nene es un tesorito, me lo comería! 😮😮 (you’re such a cutie pie, i could eat you up!)

pablogavi @lamineyamal por favor deja a mi hijo en paz 🤦🏻‍♂️🤦🏻‍♂️ (please leave my son alone)

joaofelix79 ¡mi Mateo favorito! (my favourite Mateo!)

pablogavi @joaofelix79 hay otro Mateo en tu vida? (there’s other Mateo’s in your life?)

Liked by ynusername, joaofelix79 and 4,615,179 others

pablogavi hola mi pequeño Mateo! no puedo creer que haya pasado un año desde que naciste. solía ​​pensar que no valía la pena celebrar mi cumpleaños hasta que llegaste tú. me alegro mucho de haber podido compartir mi fecha de nacimiento contigo y no hay nadie más a quien agradecer más que a tu mamá. gracias por hacer esto posible mi amor, @ynusername. Ustedes dos son para siempre lo mejor que me ha pasado. ¡por muchas más celebraciones de cumpleaños compartidas contigo, hombrecito! el amor de mi vida y mi Mateo, ustedes hicieron esto posible y ustedes dos siguen siendo el mejor regalo de cumpleaños. gracias por darme la oportunidad de ser tu papá Mateo, gracias por darme una oportunidad mi amor.❤️ (hey my little Mateo! i can't believe it's been a year since you were born. i used to think my birthday's weren't worth celebrating until you came along. i'm so glad i got to share my birth date with you and there's no one else to thank more than your mama. thanks for making this possible my love, @ynusername. you two are forever the best thing that happened to me. to many more shared birthday celebrations with you little man! the love of my life and my Mateo, you made this possible and you two are still the best birthday present ever. thanks for giving me the opportunity to be your dad Mateo, thanks for giving me a chance my love.)

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ynusername feliz cumpleaños al hombre que me hizo la mujer que soy y feliz cumpleaños al pequeño Mateo que me hizo la mamá que soy hoy 🤍 (happy birthday to the man who made me the woman i am and happy birthday to little Mateo who made me the mama i am today)

pablogavi @ynusername te amo muchoooo, más de lo que jamás imaginas (i love you so much, more than you ever know)

pedri feliz cumpleaños a mi pequeño Mateo, tu tío favorito es el que más te quiere! 🎂🎉 (happy birthday to my little Mateo, your favourite uncle loves you the most!)

joaofelix79 oh nooo, ¿por qué mi hombrecito está creciendo tan rápido? feliz cumpleaños mi pequeño Mateo el tio te quiere mucho (oh nooo, why is my little man growing up so quickly. happy birthday my little Mateo, uncle loves you very much)

alejandrobalde Feliz cumpleaños pequeño Mateo, espero verte en el entrenamiento más! 💪 (happy birthday little Mateo, hope to see you at training more!)

frenkiedejong happy birthday little Mateo!

lamineyamal el pequeño Mateo está creciendo bien, feliz cumpleaños pequeño! (little Mateo is growing up well, happy birthday little one!)

hctorforrt_ feliz cumpleaños pequeño Mateo, el tío Marc y yo estamos abiertos a más sesiones de niñera! 🎉 (happy birthday little Mateo, uncle Marc and I are open to more babysitting sessions!)

blaugrana Everyone calls him ‘Little Mateo’ 🥹

blaugranaplanet the cutest little Mateo!

Liked by ynusername, pablogavi and 1,800,005 others

mateogavi Feliz cumpleaños para mi! mamá y papá dijeron que este pastel era mío, así que jugué con él! el osito es muy lindo, ¿no crees que se parece a mi pijama? estoy tan feliz de haber recibido tantos juguetes nuevos de mis tíos! feliz cumpleaños a mi papá también 🧸🤍 (happy birthday to me! mama and papa said this cake was mine so i played with it! the bear is so cute, don't you think it looks like my pyjamas? i'm so happy i got so many new toys from my uncles! happy birthday to my papa too)

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pedri feliz cumpleaños pequeño Mateo, espero que te guste tu nuevo juguete! (happy birthday little Mateo, hope you like your new toy!)

mateogavi @pedri lo hice, muchas gracias tío Pedri 🐻 (i did! thank you so much uncle Pedri)

joafelix79 feliz cumpleaños pequeño Mateo, ten cuidado en el auto nuevo te tengo bien? 🏎🏎 (happy birthday little Mateo, be careful in the new car i got you okay?)

mateogavi @joaofelix79 tendré mucho cuidado tío Félix y cuando vuelvas te mostraré mis habilidades! (i will be super careful uncle Félix and when you come again, i’ll show you my skills!)

alejandrobalde sigue entrenando duro con el fútbol que te tengo pequeño Mateo! ⚽️ (keep training hard with the football i got you little Mateo!)

mateogavi @alejandrobalde señor si señor tio Alejandro! (sir yes sir uncle Alejandro!)

hctorforrt_ pequeño Mateo, espero que te guste la pista de carreras que te tengo el tío Marc y yo! (little Mateo, hope you like the race track uncle Marc and I got you!)

mateogavi @hctforrt_ me encanta, muchas gracias tio Marc y Hector! (i love it, thank you so much uncle Marc and Hector!)

marcguiu9 tío Marc te quiero mucho pequeño Mateo, feliz cumpleaños ☺️ (uncle Marc loves you so much little Mateo, happy birthday)

mateogavi @marcguiu9 Yo también te quiero mucho tío Marc!! (i love you so much too uncle Marc)

_ferminlopez creciendo bien pequeño Mateo, ¿te gusta el gran oso de peluche que te tengo? (growing up well little Mateo, do you like the big teddy bear i got you?)

mateogavi @_ferminlopez si tio Fermín! He estado durmiendo con él, mamá lo pone a mi lado por la noche. (yes uncle Fermín! i've been sleeping with it, mama puts it beside me at night)

blaugrana.daily Happy Birthday Mateo!!!

pablogavi.family Can’t believe you’re one already, happy birthday Mateo!

Liked by pablogavi, joaofelix79 and 1,928,108 others

ynusername hola mi pequeño, no puedo creer que ya estés cumpliendo un año. te amo a ti y a tu papá más de lo que jamás imaginarás, no lo olvides. Mateo, gracias por guiarme y enseñarme cuando estaba perdida como mamá primeriza. mi pájaro enojado, gracias por amarme y darnos una oportunidad. ustedes dos son las mejores cosas que me han pasado. gracias por darme la oportunidad de ser tu mamá Mateo, y gracias por elegirme mi pájaro enojado. feliz cumpleaños a los dos chicos que me hacen la mujer más orgullosa del mundo. los amo mis amores 🤍 (hey my little man, can't believe you're turning one already. i love you and your papa more than you'll ever know, don't forget that. Mateo, thanks for guiding me and teaching me when i was lost as a first time mama. my angry bird, thanks for loving me and giving us a chance. you two are the best things that ever happened to me. thanks for giving me the opportunity to be your mama Mateo, and thanks for choosing me my angry bird. happy birthday to the two boys that make me the proudest woman alive. love you my loves.)

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pablogavi Siempre juntos, no lo haría de otra manera. Estoy muy agradecida de que sois tú y Mateo. (always together, i wouldn’t have it any other way. i’m so grateful it’s you and Mateo.)

pedri ¿crees que te ves lindo en la tercera foto, eh? (you think you look cute in the third picture eh?)

pablogavi @pedri Bastante lindo obviamente 😒(quite cute obviously)

joaofelix79 la tercera foto es una broma 🤣🤣🤣 (third picture is a joke)

lamineyamal @joaofelix79 lo juro, la foto más divertida que he visto en mi vida. 😂😂 (i swear, funniest picture i’ve ever seen)

aurorapaezg feliz cumpleaños mi guapo 🤍 (happy birthday my handsomes.)

ynusername @aurorapaezg muchas gracias mi otra mitad 🥹 (thank you so much my other half.)

barcawaglife the cutest family!!!

forblaugrana Happy birthday gavira’s!

fcbarcelona Feliz cumpleaños nuestros guerreros 🥳🙌 (happy birthday our warriors!)

nikefootball Happy Birthday our star boy ⭐️

Liked by pablogavi, ynusername and 1,928,916 others

mateogavi te gustan mis conjuntos? mamá dice que me veo mejor que papá 🤫 (do you like my outfits? mama says i look better than papa.)

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joaofelix79 definitivamente te ves mejor que papá 🤣🤣 (you definitely look better than papa.)

lamineyamal cocinado por su propio hijo (cooked by his own son.)

pablogavi @lamineyamal callarse (shut up.)

mikkykiemeney the matching samba’s 🥹

ynusername @mikkykiemeney stop i LOVE it so much, all of us have one 🥹

aurorapaezg ooh luciendo mucho mejor que papá (ooh looking so much better than papa.)

pablo_gavi_fp MATCHING SAMBA’S ADORABLE!!!

pa6los cutest family ever, can’t change my mind

joselumato niño guapo 😁 (handsome kid)

Liked by pablogavi, joaofelix79 and 2,826,197 others

View all 1,246 comments

mateogavi mamá y papá dicen que no pueden creer que cumpla dos años. Pero si yo voy a cumplir dos años, ¡entonces mi papá también se hará mayor! ¡feliz cumpleaños para mí! 🐻 (mama and papa says they can't believe i'm turning two. but if i'm turning two, then my papa's getting older too! happy birthday to me!)

View all 2,916 comments

joaofelix79 feliz cumpleaños a mi chico favorito! 🐻 (happy birthday to my favourite boy!)

mikkykiemeney happy birthday to Miles’ first ever friend 🥹

katrinefogtfriis happy birthday to the most precious and handsome little boy i’ve ever met.

pablogavi Feliz cumpleaños a mi chico favorito, siempre agradecido de tenerte y permitirme la oportunidad de ser tu papá. te amo más de lo que jamás sabrás. (happy birthday to my favourite boy, always grateful to have you and allowing me the chance to be your papa. i love you more than you'll ever know.)

_rl9 Happy birthday little Mateo!

_ferminlopez Feliz cumpleaños pequeño Mateo, no puedo creer que ya cumplas dos años. Eres el chico más agradable que he conocido, mi tío te quiere mucho. 🐻 (happy birthday little Mateo, i can't believe you're turning two already. you're the nicest boy i've ever met, uncle loves you so much.)

blaugrana.daily Happy Birthday to little Mateo 🎂

ynusername lo mejor que me ha pasado 🥹🤍 (the best thing that has ever happened to me)

444daily little Mateo is growing up so fast

Liked by pablogavi, aurorapaezg and 3,185,110 others

ynusername hoy es un día especial, no sólo celebramos el cumpleaños del pequeño Mateo y Gavi. Le damos la bienvenida al mundo a Guille. No puedo creer que los 3 chicos bajo el mismo techo compartan el mismo cumpleaños, pero bueno, al menos hago 3 cumpleaños a la vez. Siempre agradecido por mis 2 hijos y su fuerte papá, que siempre ha estado ahí para mí a pesar de los altibajos de su carrera. feliz cumpleaños pequeño Mateo y mi pajarito enojado Pablo, bienvenido al mundo pequeño Guille. No puedo esperar para celebrar los 3 cumpleaños juntos. 🤍 (today's a special day, we not only celebrate little Mateo and Gavi's birthday. we welcome Guille to the world. i can't believe the 3 boys under the same roof are sharing the same birthday but hey at least i throw 3 birthday's at once. always grateful and thankful for my 2 boys and their strong papa who's always been there for me despite his ups and downs in his career too. happy birthday little Mateo and my angry bird Pablo, welcome to the world little Guille. can't wait to celebrate all 3 birthday's together.)

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pablogavi Los amo a los tres más que al universo, más de lo que jamás merecen. gracias por hacerme el hombre que soy, por hacerme papá, por el pequeño Mateo y Guille dándome la oportunidad de ser su papá. (i love all three of you greater than the universe, more than you all ever deserve. thanks for making me the man i am, for making me a papa, for little Mateo and Guille giving me the chance to be their papa.)

joaofelix79 uni más para mí para amar!!! (one more for me to love!)

lamineyamal mismo nombre ah @guillefc.70

guillefc.70 @lamineyamal si si, no puedo creer que tenga el mismo nombre que una estrella. (yes yes, can’t believe i got the same name as a star.)

mikkykiemeney another friend for miles, you and gavi make the cutest babies 😵

ynusername @mikkykiemeney he’s got a secret 🤫🤫🤫

_ferminlopez jugadores como su papá (ballers like their papa.)

forblaugrana Happy Birthday to the Gavira family, welcome Guille. 🎉🎉🎉

433 Good day for the Gavira’s

barcelona.daily Happy Birthday little Mateo and Gavi. welcome Guille!

pedri Gavi lo cronometró bien, eh? (gavi timed it right, eh?)

pablogavi @pedri si soy bueno en todo ☺️ (yeah i’m good at everything)

Liked by aurorapaezg, joaofelix79 and 2,826,910 others

ynusername bebe gavira número dos, el 5 de agosto siempre será un día especial para mí. del 2004 al 2022 y ahora 2024. Te quiero pequeño Guille, bienvenido a casa 🤍 (baby gavira number two, 5th august will always be a special day for me. from 2004 to 2022 and now 2024. i love you little Guille, welcome home.)

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pablogavi No puedo creer que esté presenciando esto por segunda vez. honrado. (can't believe i'm witnessing this for the second time. honoured.)

joaofelix79 mi hermano tiene un timing impecable eh, el pequeño Guille ya tiene buena pinta (my brother has impeccable timing eh, little Guille looking good already)

aurorapaezg mis sobrinos son los mas lindos (my nephews are the cutest)

fcbarcelona Welcome new culer! ✨

barcawags highschool lovers are the cutest

katerinefogtfriis little Guille is looking so adorable 🥹

barca4barca THE CUTESTTTT OMG!!!!!

_ferminlopez que descanses pequeño Guille y la mamá de Mateo, cuídate mucho! (rest well little Guille and Mateo's mama, take good care of yourself!)

ynusername @_ferminlopez muchas gracias fer, eres el mejor 🤍 (thanks a lot fer, you’re the best.)

pedri cuidate mucho mi hermanita descansa bien (take care of yourself too my little sister, rest well.)

Liked by ynusername, _ferminlopez and 4,826,915 others

pablogavi parece que el pequeño Mateo se está tomando bien su nuevo trabajo como hermano mayor. Debe estar muy cansado de jugar con el pequeño Guille y de cuidar a su mamá cuando yo no estoy en casa. mi pequeño Mateo está creciendo demasiado rápido y el pequeño Guille también está creciendo sano. (looks like little Mateo is taking his new job as an older brother well. he must be really tired playing with little Guille and looking after his mama when i'm not home. my little Mateo is growing up too fast and so is little Guille is growing up healthily too.)

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ynusername Concéntrate en tu pelota y recuperación. el pequeño Mateo estará en casa para cuidarme! (focus on your balling and recovery. little Mateo will be home to look after me!)

pablogavi @ynusername si señora, lo que usted diga. (yes ma’am, whatever you say.)

pedri se parece a su papá, un caballero (takes after his papa, a gentleman)

_ferminlopez sus padres le enseñaron bien, el tío más orgulloso aquí mismo (taught well by his parents, proudest uncle right here.)

joaofelix79 Necesito recompensar a mi pequeño Mateo la próxima vez que visite Barcelona nuevamente, hay muchos regalos preparados para los pequeños Guille y Mateo. (i need to reward my little Mateo the next time i visit Barcelona again, lots of presents prepared for little Guille and Mateo.)

sophangls if you observe carefully, gavi’s only on instagram to post about his family and occasionally football 😭

dani.carvajal.2 un hombre de sabias palabras, un verdadero caballero (a man of wise words, a true gentleman.)

[chlerc]

one last time ; charles leclerc

pairing charles leclerc x situationship!f. reader ( third person story )

all she ever does was to drop everything on her hands with all the deadlines looming whenever charles needed her but she wasn’t even his girlfriend.

word count — 930.

content lil angst? no label between them like kinda unestablished situationship, backburner who would never let go, letting him repeatedly break her heart! shitty charles, clinging onto her knowing he could never give her what she wanted.

author’s note i looooovveeeee marc guiu but i’m not loving the chelsea part. it’s so over for me when marc guiu leaves barca but at least i’ll see him in london! but i wanna see him in barca…

BECAUSE SHE NEVER UNDERSTOOD THE meaning of love, never understood what it meant to drop everything on her hands whenever someone needed her and never understood what they meant by a little of them was better than nothing at all. At least not until she met Charles, and there he was, her undoing.

She gazed at those bright friends of the moon and their pattern that seemed so fixed and yet ever-changing, distant lights to call her heart, to inspire dreams of other worlds. Yet there she sat, her half eaten pasta for the night and all her homework skewed on the coffee table, the state of mess as messy as what she felt emotionally.

She knew, knew it was wrong of her to agree for Charles to come over. Not when she had tons of deadlines awaiting her, soon eating her alive if she kept up with this act. She knew where this was going at the end of the night because it always ended the same way but what was she to do except for yearning? Nothing, and all she could do was witness herself dropping everything and all the deadlines she had on her hands just to spend a little time with him.

The doorbell which rang had a cherry sound, as if each visitor was a great reason for celebration, the warmth of each radiating through the soul. And he was the perfect reason, especially so when she knew Charles was on the other side of her door. “Hey bellezza. (gorgeous)” Charles greeted, shooting her a toothy smile, with deep happiness in the wells of his dimples, a spark that could always remind her that this ‘one last time’ was worth it.

She’s been through this numerous times yet whenever he stood in the hallway of her apartment, it always felt right even when it was oh so wrong. This was too domestic, watching her dachshund greet him whilst spinning in circles as he ruffled her head, it felt as if Charles was coming home to them after a long day of work.

“Hey little Leo, mama been treating you well? Did you miss papa? Papa missed you lots.” And she never corrected him calling himself Leo’s papa, not after he took up that role voluntarily and stating how it was because he was the only steady male in Leo’s and her life. “Busy night?” He skimmed at the sheets of paper cluttering her coffee table, noting the half eaten plate of pasta.

She barely shrugged, taking a seat by Charles on her dinky couch with Leo flopping on his back at the feet of Charles’, hoping for a tummy rub from him. “Nothing important, just some assignments.” And he smiled, not realising the weight of her sacrifices with all those deadlines looming whilst she simply downplayed them. “I was gonna chef up dinner for you, you know?” But how was she to know when it’s half past 9 even with her now untouched pasta, and his text to her was just so vague.

“Missed you lots this week.” His voice gruff as he shifted closer to her, his warm presence a steadying force against the emotional tumult within her. He looked up at her, a small vulnerable smile playing on his lips and then almost tentatively, he laid down, resting his head on her lap. As it usually was, her breath hitched slightly as Charles adjusted himself, his hair brushing against her arm. He nestled deeper into her lap, his body curling up in a way that made him seem almost childlike, seeking comfort and solace.

She felt the weight of his trust in that intimate gesture, and her heart swelled with a mixture of tenderness and pain. This was too much for her, too domestic for her whilst watching his eyes flutter closed, and he let out a soft sigh, the kind that spoke of a rare moment of peace. She gently ran her fingers through his unkempt chestnut hair. She could feel the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he relaxed, his breathing evening out.

Charles snuggled closer, his body molding to the contours of her legs as if he belonged there. The warmth of him seeped through the fabric of her clothes, a stark contrast to the cold pasta and abandoned homework that lay forgotten on the coffee table. In that moment, everything else faded away, leaving just the two of them in their own cocoon of transient serenity.

The intimacy of the moment was almost too much to bear, knowing it was fleeting. Yet as she cradled him, she couldn’t help but cherish it, even as she knew it would only make the inevitable heartache harder to endure, even if all this was just an on-off thing going on between them and that he could never give her more than whatever she had always yearned for. One last time, she’d always tell herself.

One day, she promised herself she would stop falling in love with him. She would find someone who liked her the way she liked Charles. But until then, she would pretend. Pretend that they were more than a situationship, that he always meant his miss you’s, that he might feel the same way someday. Always reminding herself that the ‘one last time’ was always worth it in exchange for the minimum affirmation of hope from him. Despite knowing better, she would always let Charles break her heart over and over again, because a part of him was better than nothing at all and that’s okay.

[chlerc]

When will you pay me to be your friend fatty?

GOT ME BANNED ON ROBLOX AND YOU’RE HERE FATTY???