sansaaaaaagirl

[sansaaaaaagirl]

Charles Leclerc, it's Valentin

---Charles is that type of guy

The kind who seems serious, not very social, maybe even a little arrogant. You might think he’s a complete show-off, maybe even a little insufferable. But trust me—he’s not.

When I say he’s not, I mean Charles is different. In private, he’s a carefully sweet kind of man. The kind who hides his affection behind playful annoyance, who teases more than he compliments, but when he does, oh—when he does—it lingers in your mind for days.

Oh, come on, girl. He’s that guy. The kind who, if you ignore him for a few hours, will text you:

'Are you breaking up with me?"

And no, of course, you’re not. You just needed a moment alone, some space to breathe. But Charles? He’s a golden retriever in search of love.

Your love.

He’s also that guy who, on Valentine’s Day, won’t even text you “Happy Valentine’s.” Not because he forgot. Not because he doesn’t care. But because to him, you’re worth more than just a simple message.

Picture this:

You’re lying on your couch, wrapped in a blanket, peacefully scrolling through your phone. It’s February 13th. The clock reads 11:40 PM. You’ve been waiting, anticipation buzzing in your veins, wondering what your very real, very charming boyfriend has planned for you at midnight.

But Charles isn’t here. He’s in Monaco, finalizing preparations for the upcoming season—photo shoots, interviews, an overloaded schedule that keeps pulling him away.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Until a sudden knock on your door disrupts your thoughts.

"Miss Leclerc?"

Miss Leclerc?

You’re not married to him. Hell, you’re not even engaged. He doesn’t take things that seriously, right? This is moving too fast. But… well, there’s no other Miss Leclerc in your house.

"Yes?"

"This package is for you."

You take the package, thank the delivery man, and close the door behind you. It’s just a regular box, nothing out of the ordinary. You assume it’s something Charles ordered under your name, just another package.

At least… that’s what you think.

Of course! Here's the continuation of the story:

---

You place the box on the coffee table, eyeing it with mild curiosity but no real urgency. Maybe it’s something Charles forgot to mention, something unimportant.

Still, something in you hesitates.

You reach for the tape, tearing it open with careful fingers. Inside, there’s another box—sleek, black, with the golden embossed initials CL.

Your heartbeat stumbles.

Lifting the lid, you find a neatly folded piece of paper resting on top of delicate red tissue paper. His handwriting—messy, rushed, undeniably his—stares back at you.

"You didn’t really think I’d let you spend Valentine’s alone, did you?"

Your lips curve into an involuntary smile.

You push aside the tissue paper to reveal what’s underneath—a deep red dress, smooth and silky beneath your fingertips. It’s stunning, effortlessly elegant, and unmistakably you.

Tucked beneath the fabric is something else. A plane ticket.

One-way. Monaco.

Your breath catches.

Your phone buzzes.

Charles: Open the door.

Your head snaps up, pulse hammering. There’s no way—no way—

Another knock.

This time, you don’t hesitate. You rush to the door, flinging it open. And there he is.

Charles Leclerc. Standing in your doorway, slightly breathless, dressed in his usual effortlessly put-together way, hair tousled from travel, holding a bouquet of white roses in one hand and a ridiculous, lopsided grin on his face.

"Happy almost Valentine’s, chérie."

You stare at him, speechless. He should be in Monaco. He *was* in Monaco.

"You—"

"I caught an earlier flight," he interrupts, stepping closer, tilting his head slightly as he watches your expression. "You thought I’d really let a package be my grand romantic gesture?"

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. "You’re impossible."

His grin widens. "And yet, you love me."

You roll your eyes, but he’s already pulling you into his arms, his familiar scent washing over you, his touch warm, grounding.

And just like that, your Valentine’s Day begins twelve minutes early.

[sansaaaaaagirl]

winking like his father for real

[sansaaaaaagirl]

BE MY LOVER

I have to make a warning, no part of this fanfic is insulting or hateful towards Charles' current girlfriend. Let's be clear

There is no further warning.

(actually yes, I'm not a professional at writing fanfics, sorry)

###

The hours slipped away, minutes ticking down like grains of sand in an hourglass. Every second mattered as you sat in front of your computer, sifting through Ferrari’s sales reports, sponsorship deals, and revenue projections—anything and everything related to business.

You played a crucial role here, and you knew it. But you also understood the importance of pacing yourself.

After hours of staring at the screen, nursing every sip of coffee as if it were fuel keeping you alive, exhaustion crept in. Needing a break, you stepped out into the paddock’s open-air courtyard, hoping the crisp evening air would clear your head.

It had been a grueling week in Monza. A race like no other, one that required seizing every moment, every opportunity to boost the drivers’ popularity.

Or rather, his popularity.

Charles Leclerc wasn’t the type to engage much. Reserved, quiet—he rarely spoke unless it was to his brother or his mother. You respected that. After all, he wasn’t obligated to chatter mindlessly through life. But still, communication with him was essential for your job.

And damn, was it necessary.

You had worked tirelessly to keep his brand alive, to maintain his impact, to ensure his image never dulled. But it was difficult.

Difficult when the rumors kept swirling, relentless, whispering about his life—about what he did and didn’t do.

The worst part? Those rumors often involved you.

Speculation ran rampant. People claimed you interacted too much, that you looked like a couple. But in reality, this was just work. Nothing more. Occasionally, you had leaned on each other—shared burdens, vented frustrations—but it had never been about love or attraction. Right?

"Nice evening."

His voice broke through your thoughts. Green eyes watched you with amusement.

"You think so?" You leaned against the railing, exhaling. "I’d say it would be a nicer evening if you didn’t give me so much work."

"Oh?" He smirked, feigning offense. "You handle that. I’m the one risking my life at over 200 km/h, and you don’t hear me complaining."

"That’s different, Leclerc. What’s unfair is being dragged into things that don’t concern me." Your voice hardened, making your frustration clear.

"That’s just people talking," he said nonchalantly, pointing at you.

"Yes, but I don’t want to be called a homewrecker. Or hear people saying you’re a womanizer."

"So… you care about me?" His smirk widened.

"I care about your image, idiot." You shot back, irritation lacing your words.

"You know what?" He stepped closer, the air between you charged. "Forget it. Have dinner with me."

You laughed outright. The idea was ridiculous. Impossible.

He had a girlfriend.

"Don’t laugh, I wasn’t finished," he said, his teasing tone fading into something more serious."It’s a work dinner. You know, business."

"Just the two of us?" You arched a brow. "The marketing assistant and the Ferrari driver, alone in a restaurant? What do you think people will say?"

"Relax, you’re not that special." He rolled his eyes, grinning. "It’s not just you. I invited other staff members too."

"Are you sure?"

"Do I look like a liar?"

And though you wanted to say yes, you held back, keeping the conversation light. A dinner, likely a lavish one—how could you refuse?

"My girlfriend will be there," he added casually. "So no one will say a thing."

"Fine."

-

The restaurant was buzzing with quiet chatter, forks clinking against plates, glasses being refilled. The scent of truffle pasta and aged wine lingered in the air. You adjusted the pearl necklace resting against your collarbone, a subconscious gesture as you stole a glance at your reflection in the mirrored reception. The dress you wore was understated—black, fitted just enough to be elegant, yet casual enough to avoid raising eyebrows.

You weren’t here for a date. You reminded yourself that as you turned back toward the small group from Ferrari’s social media team, their laughter blending into the background noise.

Then the room shifted.

The energy changed the moment Charles walked in.

He wasn’t alone.

She was with him—his girlfriend, perfectly poised, her hand curled around his arm, as if staking a claim. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, her expression faltering for just a second when she noticed you.

It was subtle, but you caught it.

“Oh,” her eyes seemed to say. *You invited her.*

The irony almost made you laugh. It wasn’t as if you wanted to be here. Charles had extended the invitation with an air of indifference, claiming it was just a work dinner, something the team did every now and then to keep morale high. Nothing personal.

And yet, it felt personal.

He made his way through the room, greeting colleagues, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries. She stood beside him, playing her role—the supportive girlfriend, the picture of effortless charm. Except, when her gaze flickered back to you, the warmth in her expression dimmed just a little more.

You refused to let it get to you.

“Enjoying yourself?”

The voice was familiar, low and teasing. You turned just as Charles stopped beside you, his head tilting slightly as he studied your face.

You rolled your eyes. “I was. Until now.”

He smirked. “Good to know I have that effect on you.”

Before you could respond, she stepped in, seamlessly inserting herself between you two.

“Darling,” she said, fingers curling around his wrist, her voice smooth, almost too sweet. “They’re waiting for us at the table.”

Charles barely reacted, just glanced at you for half a second longer before letting himself be pulled away.

You exhaled slowly, fixing your posture.

It was going to be a long night.

---

The seating arrangement was strategic—probably unintentional, but still ironic. You were directly across from Charles, his girlfriend seated beside him, your colleagues spread around the table in casual conversation. Wine was poured, plates were passed, discussions drifted between race strategies and upcoming PR campaigns.

But there was an undercurrent beneath it all.

Charles was a master at subtlety when he wanted to be. His fingers traced the rim of his glass lazily, his attention seemingly elsewhere, yet every so often, his gaze found you. A brief flicker of something unreadable.

You ignored it.

Or at least, you tried to.

“You’ve been working closely with Charles lately, haven’t you?”

The question came from one of the PR managers, but it was his girlfriend who reacted first. Her grip on her fork tightened just slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line.

You smiled politely. “It’s my job.”

“She’s good at it too,” Charles added, his voice casual but deliberate. “Though, she does like to boss me around.”

A few chuckles rippled through the table. You shot him a look. “Someone has to make sure you don’t ruin your own career.”

He smirked. “And here I thought you just liked giving me a hard time.”

His girlfriend’s posture stiffened.

You took a slow sip of your wine. If she wanted to pretend she wasn’t watching your every move, that was her problem.

The rest of dinner continued in that same unspoken game. The conversations around you became white noise, blurred by the tension that neither of you wanted to acknowledge. But it was there, simmering beneath the surface, hidden behind carefully chosen words and fleeting glances.

When the meal was over and people began saying their goodbyes, you felt a presence at your side before you even turned.

Charles.

His voice was low enough that only you could hear. “Are you coming to the afterparty?”

You glanced at him, then at her. She was watching—of course she was.

You exhaled a quiet laugh. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

He tilted his head, as if considering it. Then, with a smirk, he murmured, “Since when do we care about what’s a good idea?”

And just like that, the game continued

It was already 4 a.m. The vodka you had grabbed a while ago had long since been forgotten, yet you ignored all the signs telling you it was a bad idea, mainly because you wanted to take this as a break, not as a punishment.

You danced and danced, feeling carefree. At no point did you cross paths with Charles and his girlfriend, but you figured it was because she probably didn't want you there, so you simply ignored it.

From the dance floor, you made your way to the bar for another drink. The effects of the alcohol, the flashing lights, the heat, the sweat, the music—all a mixture of sensations telling you one thing:

You were drunk.

The dizziness made you stumble, causing a chuckle to rise inside you. You reached for your glass, about to grab it, when a large hand landed on your wrist, yanking the drink from your grasp.

"I think you've had enough, don't you?" he said, looking at you.

"Do you?" you shot back. "Give me the glass."

"I guess now I'll be the one to make sure you don't get yourself into trouble," he teased, mocking your state.

"Pfft," you laughed, amused. "In your dreams, Charles."

In your dreams.

He simply watched, taking you in. You were disheveled, but not enough to look a mess. Your makeup was a bit smudged, but the lipstick had completely faded. Your face was relaxed, flushed.

"I’ll take you to the hotel," he said, his tone determined.

"The party’s not over," you protested like a child.

"Sweetheart, the party's over for you."

And like a gentleman, he took your arm and led you, practically like a couple, to his sleek car. He opened the door, guiding you inside with ease.

He slid in beside you, letting out a sigh before looking at you. His lip curled into a smirk.

"And your girlfriend?" you teased. "She'll be mad if she sees this."

"And the media? I thought you cared about that more," he challenged.

"Don't you care about your girlfriend?"

"And why would you want to know if I care or not?" he asked. "Is this an interview?"

"Go to hell, Leclerc," you snapped.

"We're on our way there," he mocked.

The window was down, letting the wind blow against your face, making you feel sleepy and relaxed, a sense of peace washing over you, unlike anything else.

Lost in the calm, you didn’t even realize you had reached the hotel. But since you were so relaxed, Charles didn’t make any move to get you out. Instead, he just stared at you for a long moment.

Admiring you.

"Sleeping beauty," he teased. "We’re here."

You shifted slightly at the sound of his voice, your eyes barely open, enough to catch the way he was looking at you. His usual arrogance was still there, but something else lingered—something unreadable, something intense. You blinked, trying to shake off the fog of alcohol and exhaustion, but the weight of his gaze kept you frozen in place.

"Stop staring at me," you murmured, your voice husky.

Charles just smiled. "You looked too peaceful. I thought it would be a crime to wake you."

Rolling your eyes, you tried to sit up, but the sudden movement caused a wave of dizziness to wash over you. You staggered, and before you could react, his hand was on your thigh, steadying you. The warmth of his palm, even through the fabric of your dress, was enough to make you acutely aware of how close he was.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice quieter now.

You swallowed hard, breath catching in your throat. The space between you had closed dangerously, and neither of you made any move to pull away. His eyes lingered on your lips, and instinctively, your tongue darted out to wet them. It was a simple movement, but it made him grip you tighter, as if he were holding himself back.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" you joked, trying to regain some control.

Charles chuckled quietly, shaking his head slightly. "You think too highly of yourself."

"Do I?" You tilted your head and studied him. "Then why haven’t you moved?"

His smirk faltered for a split second, and in that moment, you knew. The tension that had been building for months, buried under sarcastic remarks and fleeting glances, had reached its breaking point.

"Maybe," he said, his voice softer now, almost hesitant, "because I don't want to."

Your breath caught in your throat. It was the closest either of you had come to admitting there was something, something neither of you was willing to name, something far more complicated than either of you had been willing to admit.

And then he moved.

Slowly, deliberately, his hand slid from your thigh to your waist, his fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of your dress. He leaned in, his warm breath grazing your skin, giving you every chance to stop him, to push him away.

You didn’t.

Instead, you closed the distance, and your lips met his in a kiss that was anything but hesitant. It was deep, slow, and consuming, the kind that made your whole body melt into his. His hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss, as though he’d been waiting for this just as much as you.

And maybe he had.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads resting together. His fingers still lingered on your skin, as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

"Tell me this is just the vodka," he whispered.

You knew it wasn’t.

But you weren’t ready to say it aloud. Not yet.

"I don’t know," you said. "Testing it would make you quite the man."

He looked at you for a moment longer, and without wasting another second, he kissed you again.

"It’s a shame we can’t do this outside the hotel," he said, pretending to sound disappointed.

"I have a bed for two," you replied.

[sansaaaaaagirl]

I'm going to do more damn Kimi Antonelli stories BECAUSE NO ONE DOES IT.

[sansaaaaaagirl]

BE MY BABY

Warnings: I actually did this for fun. I'm not a professional.

When I play the song, it's so that you open your fucking Spotify and vibrate like I did when I wrote it.

The bar buzzed with energy as another Saturday night stretched into early morning. It was 3:30 a.m., and the crowd hadn’t thinned much. You maneuvered effortlessly through the rush, pouring drinks and exchanging small talk with customers. Three years as a bartender in Monaco had taught you how to handle everything from impatient patrons to complicated cocktails. You loved the rhythm of it, the mix of chaos and artistry.

Yet tonight, as with every other night for the past seven months, your eyes drifted to a particular corner of the bar.

Charles Leclerc.

The name was one everyone in Monaco knew. A Formula 1 driver with Ferrari, he epitomized the glamour of the city’s elite. But his presence in this tucked-away, unassuming bar always puzzled you. Most of Monaco’s glitterati chose the flashy lounges along the waterfront. This place, hidden within a gallery and catering to locals, seemed out of character for someone like him.

Still, he came regularly, always polite, always composed. He usually sat with a small group of friends or occasionally alone, nursing a drink while observing the room. And though the two of you had exchanged only a handful of words, you couldn’t ignore the way his gaze often lingered on you.

"One Moscow Mule," his voice broke through your thoughts.

Snapping back to the present, you nodded, your hands moving with practiced ease as you prepared his drink. When you placed it in front of him, he looked at the glass for a moment, then up at you. His green eyes held yours just long enough to send a small shiver down your spine.

"Thanks," he said simply, his voice warm.

You offered a polite smile and turned to your next customer, determined not to overthink the exchange.

---

By the time your shift ended at 5 a.m., exhaustion had settled into your bones. The last patrons had trickled out, leaving behind an empty bar and the soft hum of the dishwasher. Following protocol, you exited through the back alley, welcoming the quiet streets after the night’s noise.

As you walked, the sound of footsteps behind you made your heart race. You turned quickly, ready to defend yourself, only to find Charles standing a few feet away.

"Jesus! You scared me!" you exclaimed, clutching your chest.

"Sorry," he said, though the amused curve of his lips suggested he wasn’t entirely repentant. "I couldn’t let you walk home alone."

"Are you drunk?" you asked, skepticism lacing your voice.

He chuckled softly. "Do I seem drunk?"

You narrowed your eyes, still unsure what to make of this unexpected encounter. "Why are you here?"

"Because I care," he said, his tone earnest. "It’s late, and it’s not safe for you to walk home alone."

"Monaco’s one of the safest places in the world," you replied. "And my apartment isn’t far."

"Still," he insisted, "let me walk you. Please."

There was something disarming about his sincerity, and though every instinct told you to say no, you found yourself nodding.

---

The walk was slow and quiet at first, the streets of Monaco bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. Charles walked beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

"So," he began, breaking the silence, "how did you end up working at that bar?"

You hesitated, unsure why you felt the need to share. "I moved here three years ago," you said eventually. "It was supposed to be temporary—a chance to start fresh after some… setbacks. But I ended up staying. The bar became a kind of home."

"Setbacks?" he prompted gently.

You glanced at him, debating how much to reveal. "Let’s just say life didn’t go as planned. I needed a change, and Monaco seemed like a good place to start over."

Charles nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I can understand that. People think my life is perfect, but… it’s not always easy."

"Really?" you asked, genuinely curious. "From the outside, it looks like you have it all."

He smiled faintly. "Appearances can be deceiving. The pressure, the expectations… sometimes it feels like I’m living for everyone else."

The vulnerability in his words surprised you. For the first time, he seemed less like the untouchable star and more like someone who understood struggle.

By the time you reached your building, the sky was beginning to lighten, streaks of pink and orange painting the horizon. You hesitated at the entrance, reluctant to end the conversation.

"Do you want to see the sunrise?" you asked on impulse.

Charles’s face lit up with a smile. "I’d like that."

---

The rooftop offered a stunning view of Monaco’s coastline, the first rays of sunlight glinting off the water. You sat side by side, knees drawn to your chest as the city woke around you.

"It’s beautiful," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Not as beautiful as this moment," Charles said softly.

You turned to find him watching you, his expression open and unguarded. Your breath hitched as he leaned closer, his hand brushing against yours.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice low.

You nodded, and he closed the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was tender and unhurried. The world seemed to fade, leaving only the warmth of his touch and the soft glow of the rising sun.

When the kiss ended, he rested his forehead against yours, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Maybe I’ll have to come to your bar more often," he teased.

"Maybe you will," you replied, your cheeks flushing as the sun climbed higher, bathing Monaco—and your heart—in light.

---

Over the next few weeks, Charles became a more frequent visitor, not just to the bar but to your life. He’d sit at the counter, asking about your day, sharing stories from his races, and slowly weaving himself into your world.

What started as quiet companionship grew into something deeper—a connection built on late-night conversations, stolen moments, and a mutual understanding of what it meant to start over.

And as the days turned into months, you found that Monaco, once a place of escape, had become home in a way you never expected—because now, it wasn’t just a city. It was the place where you had found him.

[sansaaaaaagirl]

LITTLE THING

Explicit language, manipulation, toxic behaviors, distress.

summary:

Kimi is a highly ambitious and busy young man, and his life takes a dramatic turn when Mercedes F1 discovers his talent, propelling him into the spotlight. However, this newfound attention and success come at a cost—sacrificing large parts of his personal life. Despite everything, Kimi is determined not to lose the only love he has ever known in the process.

The bedroom door creaked open, allowing slivers of light to spill into the room. The disturbance pulled you from your peaceful slumber, prompting you to lift your head from the pillow to see who dared to interrupt. Your reaction wasn’t one of surprise or joy. Instead, your gaze settled on Kimi—exhausted, disheveled, and slowly making his way toward the bed.

He made a half-hearted attempt to greet you, but the sight of your cold, unwelcoming expression stopped him in his tracks. The look on your face wasn’t one meant for friends. It was sharp, laced with frustration and the unspoken question: *What the hell are you doing coming home at this hour?*

4 AM.

For anyone else, this would have been a clear betrayal of trust—a late-night excuse too flimsy to hold weight. But for Kimi, a young F1 driver with a grueling schedule and relentless ambition, it was almost expected. Almost.

The endless hours of training, practice sessions, and races consumed him. It consumed both of you. And you? You were tired. Tired of feeling like you came second to the roar of engines and the fleeting applause of spectators.

“I was practicing,” he muttered, his voice an attempt to justify his lateness. He didn’t want to add to the tension that hung thick in the air, though his words only deepened the crack forming between you both.

“I know,” you replied curtly, your tone sharper than you intended. “But is staying out until 4 AM also part of your training?”

Your words cut through him, and his eyes flickered with something—guilt? Annoyance? It was hard to tell. He sighed heavily, running a hand through his messy hair before sitting at the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, but you stayed rooted in place, your arms crossed over your chest like a barrier.

“It’s not like that,” he said quietly, almost pleading. “You know how important this is to me, how much I’ve—”

“And what about me, Kimi?” you interrupted, your voice rising slightly. “Where do I fit in all of this? Or have you forgotten that I exist when you’re out there chasing something that barely leaves space for us?”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, unable—or unwilling—to meet your gaze. The silence that followed was deafening, a sharp contrast to the noise of your internal turmoil.

“I’m doing this for *us*,” he finally said, his voice strained. “Everything I’m putting myself through, it’s so we can have a future, so I can give you—”

“You’re doing this for *you*,” you snapped. “Don’t pretend it’s for me when I’m the one who’s left alone, night after night, wondering if I even matter to you anymore.”

His head whipped around, and for the first time that night, his tiredness gave way to something darker. His eyes burned with intensity as he leaned closer, his voice low and deliberate.

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed. “Don’t act like I’m some selfish bastard when I’ve been breaking myself into pieces for this. For *us*. You think I don’t feel the weight of this? That I don’t fucking hate what it’s doing to you? To us?”

You flinched at his tone, but you refused to back down, your own anger simmering beneath the surface.

“Then stop,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “If it’s breaking you, if it’s breaking *us*, why can’t you just stop?”

His laugh was bitter, almost cruel. “Stop? You don’t get it, do you? If I stop, I lose everything I’ve worked for. Everything. And then what? You’ll still be here, won’t you? Waiting for me to fail?”

The words hit harder than they should have, a toxic mix of guilt and manipulation that left you reeling. You wanted to yell at him, to shove him away, but instead, you felt tears sting your eyes.

“You’re losing me, Kimi,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Is that enough to make you stop? Or am I just another sacrifice for your dream?”

The room fell silent again, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air. Kimi’s face crumpled, the anger in his expression melting into something far more vulnerable. But you didn’t wait for his response. Instead, you turned your back to him, lying down and pulling the blanket over your trembling form.

You felt him move, heard the quiet sound of his breath as he hesitated. You half-expected him to leave, to slam the door and disappear into the night. But instead, he stayed. His hand hovered over your shoulder, unsure, before finally retreating.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, his voice cracking. But the words felt empty, a promise you weren’t sure he could keep.

And as the clock ticked on, you both lay in the suffocating silence, two people trapped between love and ambition, unable to find a way out.

The room remained engulfed in a suffocating silence, broken only by the sound of your breathing, heavy and loaded with unspoken emotions. As you lay with your back to Kimi, trying to steady the tremble in your body, something shifted. It wasn’t a word or a sudden movement—it was an energy, a quiet surrender.

His hand moved again, this time with more certainty, gently resting on your shoulder.

“Please…” he whispered, his voice rough, cracked with exhaustion and guilt. “Don’t turn away from me.”

You didn’t respond immediately, but you didn’t pull away either. His hand slid down your arm, finding yours under the blanket. He held it tightly, as if afraid you might disappear.

“You’re right,” he said after a long pause. “I’m losing you, and it’s my fault. I’ve been so blinded by what I want to achieve that I forgot what truly matters.”

Slowly, you turned to face him, your eyes meeting his. There were tears in his gaze, a vulnerability he rarely showed.

“Kimi…” you started, but he shook his head, cutting you off.

“Let me finish. I’m here because I love you, because you’re the only thing that keeps me grounded when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. But I’ve been a fool. I’ve put my dream ahead of you, of *us*, and there’s no excuse for that.”

His words formed a lump in your throat. For months, you had waited to hear him say something like this, something to remind you that you still mattered to him.

“So, what do we do now?” you asked, your voice trembling.

Kimi held your gaze, his hands clutching yours with desperation.

“I’m going to change. I can’t give it all up because this is part of who I am, but I’m going to find a balance. I’ll make sure you feel like you’re part of my life, not someone left on the sidelines. I can’t promise it’ll be easy, but I want to try—with you.”

The sincerity in his voice disarmed you. You took a deep breath, letting the weight of resentment begin to lift.

“I don’t want you to give it up, Kimi,” you finally said. “I just want to feel like I’m still here with you, that I’m not a shadow in your life.”

He nodded quickly, as though your words were a lifeline.

“I will, I promise.” He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I don’t want this to be the end of us.”

For the first time in weeks, hope flickered in your heart. You gave him a small smile, fragile but genuine, and allowed yourself to melt into his embrace. The warmth of his arms was a silent promise, a step toward something better.

That night, for the first time in a long while, you both fell asleep together, with no distance or silence between you—only the commitment to rebuild what had been broken. The path ahead wouldn’t be easy, but at least now, you knew you’d walk it together.