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pucksandpower · 5 months ago

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Wildest Dreams

Charles Leclerc x pop star!Reader

Summary: you seem to have it all — a successful singing career, complete with a sold out world tour and countless adoring admirers — until an out of control fan sends everything crashing down. With no end to your panic attacks and anxiety in sight, your management team decides to send you to Monaco, where they hope the stringent privacy laws will give you space to recover in peace. What no one can anticipate is that along the way you’ll find love in the form of a piano-playing Formula 1 driver who helps you remember what it means to find joy in your music again

Warnings: descriptions of an aggressive fan interaction and panic attacks

The bass thumps through the stadium, vibrating up through your bones, and the lights are so blinding you can barely make out the sea of fans screaming your name. You’re smiling, though. At least, it feels like you are. Your muscles know how to hit their marks even when your mind isn’t entirely there.

You reach for the microphone stand, letting the chorus carry your voice, a glittering sound that hovers above the crowd. The audience swells, their energy feeding into yours. It’s always like this. As exhausting as it gets, performing feels like standing at the edge of an open window — terrifying, thrilling, and impossible to look away from.

“Sing it with me!” You shout, holding the mic out to the crowd.

They scream back the lyrics. Thousands of voices, cracked and messy, but earnest. For a second, you think you could stay here forever, suspended in this moment.

And then it happens.

The music stutters. Just a second — barely noticeable. You catch the band faltering behind you. Drums off beat. Guitar missing a note. A glitch in a perfect machine.

At first, you think it’s nothing. Someone tripped on a cable. Someone fumbled. It’s a live show. Things happen. But then, the corner of your vision snags on something that shouldn’t be there — movement from the side of the stage.

He comes from nowhere, a shadow slipping past the edge of the lights, fast and jagged like an animal.

You freeze.

He’s on the stage. He’s on the stage.

It takes a second too long for your brain to register it. The security guards stationed by the barrier scramble too late. The man — wild-eyed, his face twisted with something you can’t name — launches himself toward you, a sharp glint of metal flashing in his hand.

A scream catches in your throat, choking on the shock. You’re paralyzed for a second, the space between you and him folding too fast to react.

And then he’s there.

He grabs your arm, fingers like claws, and jerks you forward.

“No-” It comes out as a gasp, not a command, and suddenly the whole world tilts sideways. The microphone drops from your hand, clattering against the stage floor, and you hear the audience roar in confusion. Cheers turn into screams — panicked and raw.

You struggle — instinct kicking in before fear takes over. “Get off me!”

You twist in his grip, adrenaline making your muscles feel like they’re tearing. The man’s breath is hot against your ear as he says something — words tumbling too fast and fractured to understand. His free hand still clutches the knife, too close to your skin.

This is when everything breaks.

There’s a blur of black uniforms, and the weight of him is yanked off you so fast you stumble backward, landing hard on your hands and knees. The crowd’s screams crest into something deafening. Security tackles the man to the ground, and for a second all you can hear is the thud of bodies hitting the stage, fists pounding into flesh.

“Get him out — get him OUT!” Someone shouts.

You press your hands to your ears, everything tilting too sharp, too loud. The lights feel like knives cutting into your skull. Your breath comes in shallow bursts, like you’re breathing through a straw. You try to stand, but your legs give out.

Your heart’s racing so fast it feels like it might punch out of your chest.

“He … he just-” Your voice cracks. You can’t even finish the sentence.

A stage manager rushes toward you, wide-eyed. “Are you okay? Y/N, look at me — are you hurt?”

You shake your head violently, even though you’re not sure if you mean it. Are you okay? What does that even mean right now?

The man is dragged off the stage, kicking and snarling. You see his face for a brief second — twisted into something feral, like he thinks you belong to him. Like he’s owed you. The sight makes your stomach twist, and you have to look away before you throw up.

Someone shoves a water bottle into your hands. You can’t remember who. Your hands shake so badly the water spills down your wrist.

“Should we stop the show?” The stage manager asks, but it’s not really a question. It’s an out. A lifeline dangled in front of you, waiting for you to take it.

But you don’t know what to say. If you stop the show, you’ll have to explain what just happened. If you keep going, you might pass out before you finish the set. There’s no right answer.

The crowd is still buzzing, restless and electric, as if waiting for you to reassure them this was all part of the performance. Like maybe the crazed fan was just another surprise.

“I-” Your voice catches, brittle and weak. “I don’t know.”

Someone touches your shoulder — too light to be comforting, too heavy to ignore. “Y/N, if you need to end it, we can. No one would blame you.”

Wouldn’t they, though? Wouldn’t they pick this apart on social media, frame-by-frame, asking why you couldn’t just handle it?

Your throat feels like it’s closing up. The lights are too hot, the noise too much. It feels like the whole world is leaning in, waiting for you to crumble.

And then it happens.

You break.

It’s not a dramatic collapse. There’s no scream, no cinematic fall to the floor. It’s quieter than that — just a slow unraveling, thread by thread, until all that’s left is the mess underneath.

You drop the water bottle.

Your knees hit the stage again.

And then you cry.

It’s not the pretty kind of crying, either. It’s ugly — snot and hiccuping sobs that make your chest hurt. You bury your face in your hands, trying to hide from the audience, from the cameras, from yourself. But there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to escape the weight pressing down on your ribs.

You hear someone — maybe the stage manager — swear under their breath. “Shit. We’re cutting it. Get the lights down. Now.”

The stage goes dark in an instant, but the damage is done.

You know what comes next. The headlines. The viral clips. The think pieces dissecting every second of this moment, every tear, every breath you couldn’t catch.

“Y/N?” Someone asks softly, crouching beside you.

You can’t even lift your head. Your chest is heaving, your nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt. All you can think is I can’t do this. I can’t do this. Not again.

“I’m so sorry,” the voice says, closer now. You feel a hand on your arm — gentle, not prying. “We’ll get you out of here, okay? Just breathe. You’re safe.”

But you’re not safe. Not really.

Because the fan wasn’t the first. And you know he won’t be the last.

The sobs come faster, ripping out of you in jagged bursts. You’re vaguely aware of someone wrapping a blanket around your shoulders, as if that could hold you together.

The crowd is still out there — restless, confused. Waiting.

And all you can do is cry.

***

The blinds are drawn tight, shutting out the morning light, but the world outside is still there. You can feel it pressing against the windows, thick and suffocating, like it’s waiting for you to crack them open and let it all pour in.

You sit on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in a throw blanket you barely remember being given. Your body feels like it doesn’t belong to you — like you’re a puppet someone left slumped in a chair.

Voices hum and swell around you, muffled but relentless. They’ve been at it for hours. Your family. Your manager. The people who care about you, supposedly. They’ve all flown in, clutching their opinions like lifeboats.

“She needs professional help,” someone says sharply. It’s your manager, Grace. She paces the length of the penthouse suite, heels clacking against the marble floor with every angry step.

“She doesn’t need rehab!” Your mother snaps from somewhere near the kitchen. You can hear the frustration in her voice, brittle and sharp. “She’s not a drug addict. Why are you acting like she is?”

“She’s traumatized,” your sister chimes in. “Putting her in rehab would only make things worse.”

“And what do you suggest?” Grace fires back, hands on her hips. “She stays here and … what? Pretends everything’s fine?”

The walls feel like they’re closing in, the voices bouncing off every surface, sharp and loud. You press your forehead against your knees, trying to disappear inside yourself. It doesn’t work.

“Look at her,” Grace says, her voice low but pointed. “She hasn’t spoken all morning. This isn’t just about last night. This has been building for months. You all know it.”

You flinch, just slightly, but it’s enough to send a ripple through the room.

“Don’t talk about her like she’s not here,” your sister warns, her voice tight with anger.

“Well, she’s not exactly engaging with us, is she?” Grace retorts, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m doing my job. I care about her. But you can’t expect me to pretend that this-” She gestures toward you, slumped on the couch like a ghost. “-is sustainable. She’s not fine. And none of you want to admit it.”

“Don’t make this about you,” your mother snaps. “We are not sending her to some clinic to be paraded around like she’s broken. That would destroy her.”

“Destroy her?” Grace barks out a bitter laugh. “What do you think this is doing to her right now? She had a public breakdown on stage in front of thousands of people! Do you have any idea what’s waiting for her online?”

“Enough!” Your father’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. He’s been silent for most of the conversation, standing stiff by the window, arms crossed. Now he steps forward, pinching the bridge of his nose like the argument is physically hurting him. “Stop fighting. This isn’t helping.”

For a moment, there’s blessed quiet. Just the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft tick of a clock somewhere in the room.

“Rehab isn’t the answer,” your mother says again, this time softer but no less firm. “She’s not some Hollywood cliché who needs detoxing. She’s our daughter. She’s traumatized. That’s not the same thing.”

Grace blows out a breath, frustration curling off her in waves. “Then what? What’s the plan? Because if you think this just goes away with time, you’re fooling yourselves. She can’t even step outside without getting mobbed by cameras. She needs space.”

The word hangs heavy in the air. Space. You cling to it like a lifeline.

Your sister sits down on the armrest of the couch beside you, placing a tentative hand on your shoulder. “Do you want to go somewhere?” She asks gently. “Just to get away for a bit? Somewhere quiet?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The thought of leaving this room — of facing the outside world — makes your chest tighten like a vise. But staying here feels just as unbearable.

Grace watches you carefully, arms crossed over her chest. “Look,” she says, her tone shifting from sharp to calculated. “If you won’t consider rehab, fine. But you need to go somewhere. Somewhere you can breathe without a camera in your face.”

Your mother gives her a skeptical glance. “And where exactly do you suggest?”

“Monaco,” Grace says without hesitation. “Strictest privacy laws in the world. Paparazzi can’t follow her there — not without getting arrested. No one can film her, no one can take her picture. It’s safe.”

That feels like a promise you’re not sure you can believe in.

Your father raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “And you just happen to know this because …”

Grace gives him a tight smile. “Because this isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with something like this.”

“Monaco?” Your sister echoes, frowning. “What is she supposed to do there? Sit in some fancy hotel and wait to feel better?”

“Exactly,” Grace says, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “She rests. She doesn’t have to be on all the time. No performances, no interviews, no one breathing down her neck. Just … time to get her head straight.”

Your mother looks unconvinced. “She needs more than a vacation.”

“She needs a break,” Grace counters, her voice firm but not unkind. “And right now, Monaco is the only place I can guarantee she’ll get one.”

The room falls into another uneasy silence, everyone waiting for someone else to make the next move.

Grace sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Look, I know you all want what’s best for her. I do too. But pretending this is something she can just push through isn’t going to work. If she stays here, the pressure will crush her. We’ve all seen it happen before.”

Your father shifts uncomfortably, like he hates that she’s making sense.

Finally, Grace looks at you, her expression softening for the first time all morning. “What do you think?” She asks quietly. “Do you want to go?”

It feels like everyone in the room is holding their breath, waiting for your answer.

But you don’t have one. You can’t think beyond the next minute, the next breath. The world feels too big, too loud, too sharp. You don’t know what you want. You don’t know if you even care.

Your sister squeezes your shoulder gently. “You don’t have to decide right now,” she murmurs.

But Grace shakes her head. “No. She does. The longer we wait, the harder this gets. This-” she gestures around the room, frustration leaking into her voice again. “-isn’t working. She’s drowning, and none of you seem to see it.”

Your mother bristles. “Don’t you dare-”

“She needs to get out of here,” Grace says, cutting her off. “Before it’s too late.”

The words hang heavy in the air, the finality of them settling over the room like a weight.

And for the first time all morning, you feel something other than numbness. It’s small, barely noticeable — a flicker of something that might be relief. Because maybe, just maybe, getting away — really away — is exactly what you need.

Grace leans forward, her expression soft but determined. “Monaco,” she says again, like she’s offering you a lifeline. “What do you say?”

***

The jet touches down with a soft bump on the runway at Nice Côte d’Azur Airport, and you jolt awake from a sleep so light it barely counted. The low hum of the engines winds down, and the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom.

“Welcome to Nice. Local time is 11:42 AM. Weather is clear, 22 degrees Celsius. Please remain seated until we’ve come to a full stop.”

You sit up slowly, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on your bones. Your mouth feels dry, and there’s an ache deep in your chest that hasn’t left since the night everything went wrong. The cabin is dim, but even the weak sunlight filtering through the windows feels too bright.

Grace is already on her feet, tugging her bag from the overhead compartment. She glances down at you, scanning your face like she’s trying to gauge how much of you is actually here. “You good?”

You nod, even though the answer is no. It’s always no. But that’s the answer everyone expects, so you give it.

“Let’s move, then,” Grace says, her voice clipped but not unkind. She’s been running on fumes, too, trying to stay two steps ahead of everything — flights, accommodations, press rumors. She’s doing her best. You know that.

But it doesn’t make any of this easier.

You reach for the sunglasses perched on your lap and slide them on. They’re oversized, swallowing half your face, and the tinted lenses turn the world into a duller, slightly safer version of itself. It’s a fragile kind of armor, but it’s all you have.

The plane door hisses open, and the warm Mediterranean air slips inside. It smells like saltwater and jet fuel, a strange combination that makes your stomach flip.

“Okay, let’s go,” Grace says, nodding toward the exit. “Straight to the car. No stopping.”

You stand slowly, clutching the strap of your bag like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Every movement feels heavy, like you’re swimming through molasses. You follow Grace down the narrow steps of the jet, keeping your head low, as if shrinking into yourself will make you invisible.

The tarmac is bright and blinding, and your skin prickles with the heat. A sleek black car waits just a few feet away, engine humming softly, driver standing at the ready.

But then you see it.

Beyond the airport fence, just far enough away to be contained but close enough to be seen, a cluster of people is gathered. Fans. Some are holding signs with your name scrawled across them in glittering ink. Others have their phones up, cameras trained on the plane like they knew you were coming.

Your heart stops, just for a second.

And then it starts again — too fast, too loud, slamming against your ribcage.

“They’re not supposed to be here,” you whisper, but your voice is barely audible over the pounding in your chest.

Grace follows your gaze and swears under her breath. “Ignore them. They can’t get to you.”

But it doesn’t matter. They’re still there. Their eyes are on you, their phones are on you, and suddenly the ground feels like it’s shifting beneath your feet.

Your breath catches in your throat, sharp and painful.

“It’s okay,” Grace says quickly, stepping closer to you. “They’re behind a fence. You’re fine.”

But you’re not fine. The fence isn’t enough. The sunglasses aren’t enough. Nothing feels like enough.

Your vision blurs at the edges, and your lungs feel like they’ve shrunk, leaving no room for air. The noise in your head gets louder — memories slamming into you all at once: the man’s grip on your arm, the microphone hitting the stage, the screams from the crowd.

You can’t do this. You can’t do this.

“Y/N.” Grace’s voice cuts through the static in your brain, sharp and insistent. “Look at me. You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe.”

You shake your head, gasping for breath that won’t come. The world tilts sideways, and for a second, you think you might pass out right here on the tarmac.

“I can’t — I can’t-” Your voice breaks, and panic claws its way up your throat, sharp and relentless.

“Okay, okay.” Grace moves fast, slipping between you and the fence, blocking your line of sight to the fans. “Breathe. Just focus on me.”

The driver approaches, concern etched into his features, but Grace waves him off. “Give us a minute.”

You clutch the edge of the car door, knuckles white, trying to find something solid to hold onto. Your chest feels like it’s caving in, and tears sting your eyes, hot and unwelcome.

“Listen to me,” Grace says firmly, crouching just enough to be at eye level. “You’re not on stage. You’re not there. You’re here. And nothing bad is going to happen.”

The words are meant to ground you, but they float past like smoke. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to shut out the world. Trying to make yourself smaller.

Grace’s hand lands gently on your arm, not pulling, just there. “In through your nose,” she says softly, like she’s guiding a child. “Come on. You’ve got this.”

You suck in a shaky breath, and it catches halfway, but it’s better than nothing.

“Good. Now out through your mouth. Slow. That’s it.”

The air comes out in a stutter, but you follow her lead. In. Out. The panic is still there, sharp and insistent, but the edges start to blur just enough to make it bearable.

“See? You’re doing it,” Grace murmurs. “Just a little more.”

Another breath. And another. The tarmac stops spinning, and the pounding in your chest eases, just slightly. You’re still shaking, but the panic isn’t quite as sharp anymore.

“There we go,” Grace says, relief softening her voice. “You’re okay.”

You nod, even though you don’t quite believe it.

“Let’s get in the car, yeah?” She says gently, her hand still resting on your arm. “We’ll be at the apartment soon. No one can get to you there.”

The thought of the apartment — a place with walls, with locks — feels like the only lifeline you have.

You let Grace guide you into the car, sliding into the cool leather seat. The door shuts behind you with a reassuring click, and the tinted windows turn the world outside into a blur. The fans are still there, but they’re just shapes now — distant and meaningless.

The driver slips behind the wheel, and the car glides forward smoothly, leaving the airport behind.

You lean your head against the window, the cool glass soothing against your skin. Your hands are still trembling, and your chest still aches, but at least you’re moving. At least you’re away from the fence.

Grace settles into the seat beside you, pulling out her phone and firing off a quick text, probably to your team. “You did good,” she says without looking up.

You don’t answer. You don’t feel like you did good. You feel like you barely survived.

The car glides onto the highway, the Mediterranean stretching out in the distance, sparkling under the sun. It should be beautiful, but all you can think about is how far you are from home.

The apartment in Monaco is supposed to be a refuge — a place where no one can reach you. But you know better than anyone that no place is ever truly safe. The fear follows you, no matter where you go.

“Almost there,” Grace murmurs, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You’re going to be okay.”

You rest your head back against the seat and close your eyes, trying to believe her.

But the truth is, you don’t know if okay is something you’ll ever feel again.

***

The silence in the apartment feels suffocating. Days have blurred together, each one stretched thin and lifeless. Grace left three days ago — urgent work stuff, she had said, promising she would be back soon. But her absence hangs heavy in the air, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Too many thoughts.

You sit curled on the couch, scrolling through the same apps again and again, looking for something — anything — to hold your attention. But everything feels distant. Even messages from your family feel like they’re coming from a world you can’t reach. They’re checking in every day, sure, but no amount of emojis or reassurances will change the fact that they’re thousands of miles away.

And you? You’re here. Alone. In this rented apartment with towering walls of glass and not much else.

Your stomach growls, and the noise breaks the heavy quiet in the room. You groan softly and curl deeper into yourself, trying to ignore it. But then a sudden, vivid craving hits you.

It’s not just hunger. It’s that craving — the one you haven’t thought about in years.

Your mom’s pasta. Specifically, that simple tomato-and-garlic spaghetti she used to make on weeknights when you’d come home from school. You can practically smell it — fresh basil, lots of olive oil, that rich comfort of home cooked into every bite.

The craving grips you so hard that for a moment, it’s the only thing you can think about.

The thing is, ordering it wouldn’t be the same. Even if a fancy Monaco restaurant could somehow recreate it, it wouldn’t taste like hers. And you’re desperate for that — something familiar, something safe. Something to anchor you.

You sit up slowly, chewing your lip.

You could go out. Just this once.

Your mind drifts to the last time you were out in public — those fans at the airport fence, the panic that had swallowed you whole. But you remind yourself: this is Monaco. There are laws here. Strict ones. No paparazzi, no public filming.

You’ll be fine. Right?

You slide off the couch and move toward the mirror by the front door, hesitating only a second before putting on your sunglasses. The oversized lenses feel like a flimsy shield, but you pull on a baseball cap anyway, tucking your hair up underneath it.

You glance at yourself in the mirror. It’s not much of a disguise, but it’ll have to do.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Just in and out. Quick.”

The grocery store isn’t far — just a few blocks from the apartment. You clutch a reusable tote as you step out the door, heart thumping a little too hard in your chest.

The streets of Monaco are bright and clean, the kind of picturesque perfection that should calm you. But every step feels heavier than the last, like you’re wading into unknown waters. You focus on the task ahead — pasta, garlic, tomatoes, basil. Nothing complicated.

You tell yourself it’ll be easy.

But the city feels too open. The sky, too wide. You pull the brim of your cap lower, keeping your head down as you pass luxury boutiques and sunlit cafés.

Finally, you spot the grocery store. Relief trickles through you. Just a little further.

The automatic doors slide open with a soft *hiss*, and the cool air inside wraps around you like a small mercy. You exhale.

You grab a basket and move quickly down the aisles, avoiding eye contact with the handful of people browsing nearby. It feels like you’re being watched, but you know it’s just paranoia clinging to you from the airport incident.

You find the pasta easily enough. Next, olive oil. Then a bundle of fresh basil. You reach for the tomatoes — ripe and bright — and drop them into your basket with care. It’s almost done. Almost over.

Then you hear it.

“Wait … is that-”

Your heart stops.

You keep your head down and turn away, hoping — praying — that they’ll second-guess themselves. But the whispering spreads like wildfire.

“It’s her. I swear it’s her!”

A couple of girls with phones raised approach from the next aisle. You catch their reflection in the shiny packaging of a can of beans, and panic prickles at the base of your spine.

They’re already snapping photos.

Your heart slams against your ribs as you whip around, heading for the checkout.

“Y/N! Oh my God!”

The name cuts through the air, loud and clear, and suddenly it’s like the whole store shifts focus. Shoppers turn. Heads swivel.

Your breath catches, and a wave of dizziness crashes over you.

You make it to the front of the store, but by now, more people have noticed you. Some are pulling out their phones. Others are whispering, excitement buzzing in the air.

They’re not paparazzi, but it doesn’t matter.

You bolt out of the store, leaving the basket behind.

The sun feels blinding as you hit the street, and the sound of footsteps follows you — people moving fast to catch up, phones aimed like weapons.

“Y/N, can we get a selfie?” Someone calls out, too cheerful, too loud.

The walls close in, and you can’t breathe.

You need to get away. Now.

You turn down a narrow street, heart pounding in your ears. But the footsteps are still there. Someone’s still following.

You push forward, scanning the street for an escape, but everything looks too open, too exposed. You spot an alleyway, leafy and shaded, and veer toward it without thinking.

Your feet hit the cobblestones hard, and the cool shadows swallow you whole. But you keep running, legs burning, lungs screaming for air.

The alley twists and turns, and you don’t know where you’re going — you just know you have to get away.

And then-

You slam into something solid.

Or someone.

The impact knocks the air out of you, and you stumble backward, heart racing, sunglasses slipping down your nose.

Strong hands grip your arms, steadying you before you can fall.

“Whoa,” a voice says, low and surprised. “Easy.”

You blink, dazed, trying to make sense of what just happened.

The man’s chest rises and falls under your hands, and for a second, all you can hear is the sound of both your breaths, mingling in the stillness of the alley.

His hands steady you gently, warm through the fabric of your jacket. For a moment, everything blurs — the edges of the alley, the sounds from the street behind you, your own heartbeat thundering in your ears. All you can feel is the solid presence in front of you.

“You okay?” The man asks, voice low and careful, like he’s speaking to a frightened animal.

You shake your head without meaning to. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, and your chest feels like it’s wrapped in iron bands, squeezing tighter and tighter.

“Hey, hey,” the man says quickly, tilting his head to look at you under the brim of your cap. His voice stays calm, soothing. “It’s okay. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

You try, but it’s no use. The air won’t come.

He shifts, crouching slightly so that he’s eye-level with you. “Alright,” he murmurs. “We’re going to sit down, yeah? It’ll be easier.”

You don’t resist as he gently lowers you both to the ground, sitting cross-legged on the cobblestones. His hands stay on your arms, not holding you down, just there — anchoring you.

“You’re alright,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “It’s just your body playing tricks on you. We’ll get through this.”

The kindness in his tone is almost unbearable, and you bite down on your lip, hard, trying to keep from breaking down completely. Your sunglasses slip down your nose, but you’re too shaken to care.

“Okay,” the man says softly, “listen to me. Look at me. In through your nose, real slow.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, desperate to get a grip on yourself, but the panic is relentless, squeezing tighter and tighter.

“Hey, open your eyes,” the man urges gently. “Just focus on me. Can you do that?”

Something about his voice — steady, grounded — makes you listen. You force your eyes open, though it takes everything in you.

“There you go,” he says, smiling slightly, like you’ve already done something right. His eyes are warm and kind, crinkling at the edges. “Now, breathe with me, okay? In through your nose.”

He inhales deeply, showing you how, and you try to mimic him. The breath catches halfway, ragged and shaky, but it’s something.

“Good,” he murmurs, still calm. “Now out through your mouth. Slowly.”

You exhale, and it stutters on the way out, but the pressure in your chest eases just a bit.

“There we go,” the man says. “Again. In through your nose. Nice and slow.”

You follow his lead again, and this time, it feels a little easier. The world isn’t spinning quite as fast, and the ground doesn’t feel like it’s going to drop out from under you.

He keeps breathing with you, slow and steady, until the worst of it passes. The iron bands around your chest loosen, and you can finally get a full breath.

“See?” He says softly, still sitting close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. “You’re doing it.”

A lump rises in your throat, and you swallow hard, trying to keep it down. It’s been so long since someone’s been this gentle with you.

The man leans back a little, giving you space but not leaving. “I know it feels horrible,” he says, his voice low and empathetic. “But it won’t last forever. I promise.”

You nod weakly, swiping at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Sorry,” you manage, your voice hoarse and barely audible.

“Don’t be.” He shakes his head, brushing it off like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve been there.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You have?”

“Yeah.” He offers a small, knowing smile, though there’s a flicker of something sad in his eyes. “When I was younger. My godfather died in an accident, and I didn’t really know how to deal with it. For a while, I used to get these panic attacks out of nowhere. Thought I was going crazy.”

His admission catches you off guard, and for a moment, the world feels a little quieter. Less threatening.

“I get it,” he continues, his voice soft but sure. “It feels like you’re drowning and there’s no way out. But there is. You just have to breathe through it, even when it feels impossible.”

You blink, still trying to process everything — his story, the way he’s sitting here with you on the dirty cobblestones, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Does it ever … go away?” You ask quietly, not sure if you really want to hear the answer.

He tilts his head, considering. “It gets better,” he says after a moment. “But it takes time. And it helps when you’re not going through it alone.”

Something tightens in your chest again — not panic this time, but something softer. Loneliness, maybe. Or the weight of everything that’s happened, pressing down on you all at once.

The man watches you carefully, as if he can sense the shift in your mood. “What’s your name?” He asks gently.

You hesitate for a second, unsure whether you want to tell him. But there’s something about him — something genuine — that makes you trust him, if only a little.

“Y/N,” you whisper.

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling again. “I’m Charles.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell, and you’re too drained to think about it. All you know is that, for the first time in days, you don’t feel completely lost.

Charles shifts slightly, adjusting his position on the cobblestones. “Mind if I ask what happened? Why were you running?”

The question hangs in the air between you, and something inside you shifts, loosens, like a knot finally starting to untangle. You’ve been holding everything in for so long, clenching your teeth and forcing yourself to get through each moment without falling apart, but now the dam cracks wide open. It’s like the words have been waiting, boiling under the surface, desperate for release.

You inhale sharply, eyes stinging. “I-” Your voice wobbles, but you press on. “I’m a singer. I was on tour …”

The words spill out, halting at first, but Charles stays quiet, his gaze steady, listening without a flicker of impatience.

“It started during one of the shows,” you continue, hands trembling as you clasp them in your lap. “Everything was going fine — until it wasn’t. This … this fan rushed the stage, and I just froze. Completely froze. He was coming straight at me, and I couldn’t even-” Your breath catches, and you press a fist to your mouth, as if you can shove the memory back down.

Charles shifts a little, making sure you’re still steady on the ground, but he doesn’t say anything. He just listens.

“They tackled him before he got too close, but I … I lost it.” Your throat tightens painfully. “I started screaming, couldn’t stop. They had to cut the mic — God, it was all over the internet the next day.” You laugh, but it’s a thin, brittle sound. “Every headline called it a breakdown. Which — yeah, it kind of was, I guess.”

Charles’ face stays calm, focused. There’s no pity in his expression, only quiet understanding. That makes it easier to keep going.

“I thought it’d get better after that, but it didn’t.” You shake your head, feeling like you’re unraveling as you speak. “The panic attacks just kept coming every time I thought about performing again. I felt trapped. And then the airport happened …”

You glance away, biting down on your lip so hard it stings. “I saw all the fans lined up by the fence, taking pictures, and I just — I couldn’t breathe. Everything caved in again.” Your voice is cracking now, raw and exhausted. “It’s been like that every day since. I can’t sleep, I can’t leave my apartment without thinking someone’s going to-” You choke on the words.

Charles doesn’t say anything, just shifts a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. That quiet presence grounds you, keeps you from spiraling too far.

“And now I’m here,” you murmur, gesturing vaguely around you. “In Monaco. Supposed to be getting better, but … I’m not. I feel like I’m drowning. And today …” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, voice dropping to a whisper. “I just wanted to make some stupid pasta.”

The tears hit before you can stop them, hot and unstoppable. “I needed it,” you manage between sobs. “My mom used to make it for me — simple tomato and garlic spaghetti — and I just … I really wanted it. I thought if I could make it, maybe I’d feel normal again. Just for a little bit.”

You press your palms to your face, trying to stem the tide of tears, but they keep coming. “But I left everything back at the store. All the ingredients. I ran out, and now I can’t go back, and I just-”

The weight of everything — the panic, the isolation, the craving for something familiar — crashes over you, and all you can do is cry.

Charles stays quiet for a moment, letting you ride out the wave of emotion. Then, softly, he says, “Hey.”

You sniffle, peeking at him from behind your hands.

“I think,” Charles says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I have everything you need for that pasta at my place.”

You blink at him, thrown off by the sudden shift in the conversation. “What?”

He nods, still smiling gently. “Yeah. Tomatoes, garlic, spaghetti, olive oil — pretty sure I’ve got all of it.”

You stare at him, overwhelmed and disoriented by how easily he’s offering exactly what you need. “You don’t have to-”

“Come on,” Charles says, standing and offering you his hand. “We’ll make it together. I’ve been told I’m not too bad in the kitchen.”

The kindness in his voice cracks something open in you again, but this time it’s not panic — it’s something softer. Hope, maybe.

You hesitate for just a second before slipping your hand into his. His grip is warm, solid. Steady.

He pulls you gently to your feet, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a flicker of something like relief.

“Pasta for dinner?” Charles says, still holding your hand as he tilts his head toward the end of the alley. “What do you think?”

You manage a shaky smile. “Yeah. Okay.”

Charles’ smile deepens, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel like maybe — just maybe — you’re not drowning after all.

***

Charles’ apartment is tucked on a quiet street, close to the harbor but far from the chaos of the main city. He leads you up a narrow stairwell, his hand lingering lightly on your back, a reassuring presence. You’re still jittery, the weight of what happened earlier pressing down on you, but Charles seems calm — like nothing fazes him. It’s comforting in a way you didn’t expect.

He unlocks the door and pushes it open with a casual, “Make yourself at home.”

Before you can even take a step inside, a blur of cream-colored fur bolts toward you, yipping excitedly. A small dachshund launches itself at Charles’ legs first, wagging its whole body like his happiness can’t be contained.

“Hey, Leo,” Charles says, crouching down to ruffle the little dog’s ears. Leo’s tail thumps wildly, and he licks Charles’ chin enthusiastically.

Then the dog turns to you, nose twitching as he sniffs curiously before deciding you’re a friend. With a delighted bark, he jumps against your shins, demanding attention.

“Leo,” Charles laughs, scooping him up before the dog can trip over himself. “You’re too excited, baby.” He holds the squirming dachshund in his arms, scratching behind his ears. “This is Y/N. Be nice, okay?”

Leo wriggles in Charles’ grip, tongue darting out toward your face, eager for kisses. Despite everything — despite the panic, the exhaustion — you can’t help but smile. Something about Leo’s pure, boundless joy is infectious.

“Can I?” You ask, holding out your hands, and Charles grins, passing the little dog over.

Leo practically melts into your arms, licking your cheek with enthusiasm. You laugh softly, a sound that surprises even you — it’s been a while since you’ve felt light enough to laugh.

“He likes you,” Charles says, his eyes warm as he watches the interaction.

“I think I like him too,” you admit, pressing your nose to Leo’s soft fur.

Charles steps aside, gesturing for you to come further in. “Come on. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

You follow him inside, cradling Leo as the dog rests his head contentedly against your shoulder. Charles’ apartment is bright and modern, with big windows that let in the soft afternoon light. It’s stylish but not showy — comfortable, lived-in.

As you step deeper into the space, your eyes catch on something: a row of helmets lining one wall, polished and carefully displayed on shelves. Nearby, there’s a stack of racing tires leaning against the wall, and framed photographs of what looks like racecars.

You glance around, taking it all in. “What’s with all the helmets?”

Charles glances over his shoulder, an amused smile playing at his lips. “Ah, that.” He gestures to the shelves. “I’m an F1 driver.”

You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Wait … like Formula 1?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I drive for Ferrari.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning as you try to reconcile the man who just helped you through a panic attack with the image of a world-famous racing driver. You don’t follow motorsports — your life has always revolved around music — but even you know Ferrari.

“Wow,” you manage, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I, um, I had no idea.”

Charles laughs, and the sound is warm, not mocking. “That’s okay,” he says, shrugging it off like it’s no big deal. “You’ve had other things on your mind.”

You feel your cheeks warm with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I probably should’ve known. You must think I live under a rock.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “Honestly? It’s kind of nice. Most people freak out when they find out what I do.” He tilts his head, studying you with a playful glint in his eyes. “But you? You’re just worried about your pasta.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “I really am.”

Charles grins, clearly pleased to have lightened the mood. “Come on,” he says, nodding toward the kitchen. “Let’s see if I actually have everything we need.”

He leads you through the apartment, Leo trotting happily at your feet. The kitchen is open and modern, with sleek countertops and a large island in the middle. It’s the kind of kitchen that looks like it belongs to someone who knows what they’re doing — though you suspect Charles probably doesn’t get much time to cook.

He moves easily through the space, opening cabinets and pulling out ingredients. “Alright,” he says, setting down a few items on the counter. “We’ve got tomatoes, garlic, olive oil … and spaghetti.” He turns to you, raising a brow. “How’s that sound?”

“Perfect,” you say, feeling a little lighter already.

Charles smiles, his expression softening as he watches you. “Good. Then let’s make some pasta.”

***

After dinner, you help Charles rinse the dishes, working side by side at the sink. It feels strangely domestic, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him in the quiet kitchen, water running over plates, Leo curled up at your feet. Charles hums to himself as he scrubs a pan, and you catch yourself smiling — not because you have to, but because you want to.

When everything is clean and put away, Charles nudges you gently with his elbow. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s relax a bit.”

He leads you into the living room, a cozy space with deep couches and big windows that overlook the marina. The soft hum of the city outside filters through the glass, mingling with the sound of Leo’s paws clicking across the floor.

As you settle onto the couch, something catches your eye: a sleek black piano tucked into the corner of the room, polished to a shine. You sit up a little straighter, curiosity piqued.

“You play?” You ask, nodding toward it.

Charles follows your gaze and smiles. “Yeah, a little. Nothing professional, but I like to mess around when I have time.”

You lean forward, intrigued. “Can you play something for me?”

Charles tilts his head, considering, then shrugs. “Sure. Why not?” He crosses the room, sits down at the bench, and runs his fingers lightly over the keys, warming them up with a few random notes.

You stay on the couch for a moment, watching the way his hands move — deft and confident, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Then he glances back at you, a playful gleam in his eye.

“Do you know Coldplay?” He asks.

You nod, a flicker of excitement rising in your chest. “Yeah, of course.”

He smiles and turns back to the piano, pressing a few familiar chords. The soft, haunting opening of “The Scientist” fills the room, the notes flowing effortlessly from his fingers.

You feel the first swell of emotion as the melody settles around you like a blanket, warm and comforting. Charles plays with quiet intensity, his head tilted slightly to the side, lost in the music.

Then the lyrics drift into your mind unbidden, and before you can second-guess yourself, you open your mouth to sing.

“Come up to meet you, tell you I’m sorry. You don't know how lovely you are …”

Your voice is soft at first, hesitant, but the music pulls you in, makes you forget the tension knotted in your chest. Charles glances at you from the corner of his eye, and something shifts in his expression — like the light inside him just got a little brighter.

You keep singing, your voice growing stronger with each line.

“I had to find you, tell you I need you. Tell you I set you apart …”

Charles grins as you get more comfortable, his fingers dancing across the keys with a little more flair now. He slows the tempo slightly, matching the rise and fall of your voice perfectly.

Without thinking, you slide off the couch and move toward him, sitting down on the bench beside him. The wood creaks under your weight, but neither of you seem to notice.

“Nobody said it was easy …”

Your voice wavers slightly on the word easy, the emotions threading through your tone without you meaning them to. Charles doesn’t say anything — he just keeps playing, like the music is his way of holding space for you.

When you hit the next line together-

“No one ever said it would be this hard …”

-it’s like the air between you thickens, heavy with unspoken things.

You finish the verse in perfect harmony, your voice blending with the soft notes of the piano. And for a moment, everything else — the anxiety, the exhaustion, the noise in your head — fades away.

When the last chord drifts into silence, you realize you’re smiling, a real, unguarded smile.

Charles leans back slightly, his hands resting on the keys as he turns to you. “You have a beautiful voice,” he says quietly.

You feel your cheeks warm under his gaze. “Thanks,” you murmur. “That was … nice.”

“Yeah,” Charles agrees, his eyes sparkling with something you can’t quite place. “It was.”

For a moment, neither of you move. The room feels suspended in time, like the music has cast some kind of spell over everything.

Then Leo trots over, pressing his nose against your leg, and the spell breaks. You laugh softly, reaching down to scratch behind his ears.

Charles watches you for a moment longer, then nudges you lightly with his shoulder. “So,” he says, his voice teasing, “any plans for tomorrow?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Not really.”

“Well,” Charles says, drawing out the word like he’s building up to something. “I was thinking of taking the yacht out for a bit. Maybe you’d want to come?”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised. “You have a yacht?”

He grins, unapologetic. “I do. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, though. Just something to get away from everything for a few hours.”

The idea of spending a day on the water — away from prying eyes, away from the noise in your head — sounds almost too good to be true.

“Are you sure I won’t be intruding?” You ask, though you already know your answer.

Charles shakes his head, his expression sincere. “Not at all. It’ll be fun. Leo will come too,” he adds with a playful wink.

You laugh, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. “Alright,” you say. “I’m in.”

***

The yacht rocks gently as you step aboard, the crisp breeze off the Mediterranean whipping through your hair. The sun glints off the water, dazzling and endless, and Leo is already scampering ahead, his tiny paws tapping happily on the deck. Charles follows closely behind, carrying a cooler and a bottle of wine under one arm like this is just another day for him.

“Welcome aboard,” Charles says with a grin, setting down the cooler. He gives the yacht's railing a quick pat. “It’s not a superyacht or anything, but she does the job.”

You laugh softly, shielding your eyes against the sun. “It’s more than enough.”

The yacht isn't enormous, but it’s sleek and beautiful, just like everything else Charles seems to surround himself with. A couple of cushioned sunbeds are arranged at the front, and there’s a small dining area shaded under a canopy. Leo wastes no time climbing onto the sunbed, claiming it like a king, tail wagging furiously.

Charles catches your look and shrugs with an easy smile. “He thinks he owns the place.”

“Clearly,” you say, grinning, feeling lighter than you have in days. It’s hard not to, with the sun on your skin and the promise of a peaceful day out at sea.

Charles casts off the ropes with practiced ease and starts the engine. You sit cross-legged near the bow, letting the wind ruffle your hair as the boat glides out into the open water. For a while, neither of you speaks — you just sit in companionable silence, watching Monaco’s coastline grow smaller behind you, the glittering city shrinking into the horizon.

Eventually, Charles kills the engine and drops anchor somewhere far from shore, where the water is crystal clear and the world feels blissfully quiet.

He turns to you, leaning casually against the railing. “So,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Do you swim?”

You raise an eyebrow, already suspicious. “Yeah … why?”

Charles grins, and before you can react, he lunges toward you. “You look hot. I’m doing you a favor.”

“Charles, no!” You shriek, scrambling backward, but it's too late. He hooks an arm around your waist and lifts you effortlessly off the deck.

“Don’t you dare!” You shout, laughing despite yourself.

“Dare?” He echoes, grinning wickedly. “Oh, I dare.”

Then he throws you over the side of the yacht.

You hit the water with a loud splash, the coolness shocking your skin. For a moment, everything is muffled — just the sound of bubbles rushing past your ears and the soft sway of the sea surrounding you. You surface quickly, gasping and sputtering.

“You are so dead!” You shout, treading water and glaring up at him.

Charles leans over the railing, grinning like a kid who just pulled off the perfect prank. “You said you could swim!”

“That’s not the point!”

He laughs — this carefree, delighted sound — and before you can protest further, he vaults over the side of the boat and plunges into the water after you.

He surfaces with a splash, slicking his wet hair back from his forehead, his grin still firmly in place. “Now we’re even,” he says, swimming closer.

You roll your eyes, though you’re laughing too, the tension between you dissolving with the salt water. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told,” he says with a cheeky shrug, floating lazily beside you.

The water is warm and buoyant, cradling you both as you drift together. For a while, you just float there, surrounded by nothing but the sea and sky. There’s a peace to it — a kind of freedom that you didn’t realize you’d been missing.

Then Charles’ grin softens into something quieter, more sincere. He drifts closer, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth of his skin, even through the water.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “You’re not still mad, are you?”

You smirk, giving him a light splash. “Maybe just a little.”

Charles chuckles, then reaches for you — his hand finding your waist under the water, steadying you as the gentle current pulls at your limbs. His touch is light, careful, as if he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you let yourself float closer, the air between you humming with something unspoken. His gaze flicks to your mouth for just a second — so quick you might’ve missed it if you weren’t looking for it. But you are.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you close the distance, pressing your lips to his.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if you’re both testing the waters. But then Charles tilts his head, his hand tightening on your waist, and the kiss deepens — slow and unhurried, like you have all the time in the world.

The water laps gently around you, but it feels like everything else — the sea, the sky, the boat — fades into the background. There’s just the warmth of Charles’ lips against yours, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat where your hand rests lightly on his chest.

When you finally pull back, breathless, Charles’ forehead presses lightly against yours, his grin returning in full force.

“So,” he murmurs, his voice low and playful. “Still mad?”

You laugh, your heart lighter than it’s been in a long time. “Not even a little.”

Charles grins, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. “Good,” he says, his voice soft. “Because I really didn’t want you to be.”

You smile, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel like maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Leo barks from the yacht, his tiny form bouncing excitedly along the edge as if to remind you both that he’s still there.

Charles glances up at the dog and laughs. “Looks like Leo’s getting jealous.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “Better get back before he starts plotting revenge.”

“Good idea,” Charles agrees, giving your waist one last squeeze before reluctantly pulling away.

He swims toward the yacht, reaching up to pull himself back onboard with effortless grace. Then he leans over the side, offering you his hand.

You take it, and he hauls you up easily, his arms steady around you as you find your balance on the deck.

“Not bad for a first date,” Charles teases, water dripping from his hair as he gives you a cheeky grin.

You raise an eyebrow, wringing the water from your shirt. “Is that what this is? A date?”

Charles shrugs, grinning. “It could be.”

You laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are,” he says, his smile widening.

You can’t help but laugh again, the sound carried away on the breeze as the yacht rocks gently beneath your feet. Maybe this is ridiculous. Maybe it’s spontaneous and reckless and exactly what you needed.

Either way, you’re not about to overthink it.

Not today.

***

Charles tilts the bottle of wine, filling your glass with a smooth stream of red before refilling his own. The late afternoon sun filters in through the windows, casting long, golden streaks across the hardwood floors of his apartment. The air feels easy between you two — comfortable in a way that feels new but natural, like you’ve fallen into a rhythm neither of you had to try too hard to find.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, your lyric notebook balanced in your lap, the pen twirling absently between your fingers. It’s the first time in weeks — months, really — that you’ve felt the itch to write. The pages are filled with old scribbles, half-finished ideas, and false starts, but today something feels different. There’s a spark, a sense that maybe this time it will stick.

Charles wanders back toward the couch, a glass of wine in each hand. “What are you working on?” He asks, setting your glass down on the coffee table and sliding onto the couch beside you.

You hesitate for a second, fingers tracing the edge of the notebook. “It’s … a song,” you admit softly. “Or, it’s the start of one. I haven’t written anything in a while, but now I think I’ve got something.” You chew on your bottom lip, a little shy. “I just don’t know where to take it from here.”

He leans in, his shoulder brushing yours as he peers into the open notebook. His eyes skim the lyrics you’ve scratched onto the page.

“He said, ‘Let’s get out of this town, drive out of the city, away from the crowds.’”

Charles reads it aloud, slow and thoughtful. “I like that,” he says, tapping the edge of the notebook with one finger. “It sounds like … an escape.”

You nod. “Yeah, that’s the vibe I was going for. But I don’t know what it sounds like — like, I have no idea what the melody would be.”

Charles takes another sip of his wine, studying the words for a beat longer before setting his glass down. Then, without a word, he stands up and heads over to the piano.

You blink, surprised. “What are you doing?”

He glances back at you with a small, playful smile. “Helping.”

He sits down at the piano, rolling his shoulders like he’s about to play a concert. His fingers hover just above the keys, teasing a few notes to test the sound, adjusting the weight of his hands. Then, slowly, he begins to play. The first few notes are tentative, like he’s searching for something just out of reach.

You watch, mesmerized, as he falls into the melody — soft, dreamlike chords that seem to float through the air. It’s gentle at first, and then it starts to shift, becoming something more steady, more certain. He hums along quietly, head tilted, eyes closed, as if he’s feeling his way through it.

After a few moments, he glances over at you. “What do you think so far?”

Your heart skips a beat, and you scoot closer to the piano. “It’s beautiful.”

He smiles, pleased, and keeps playing. “Come here,” he says, patting the spot on the bench beside him.

You slide onto the bench, your thigh brushing against his as you sit down. The music wraps around you like a cocoon, and for a moment, the rest of the world falls away. Charles’ fingers glide effortlessly over the keys, filling the room with that delicate, hopeful sound.

“Try singing what you’ve got,” he suggests, glancing at you with a look that’s both encouraging and a little mischievous. “I’ll follow your lead.”

You take a breath, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves in your chest. But there’s something about the way Charles looks at you — like he believes in you without a shred of doubt — that makes you want to try.

So you do.

“He said, ‘Let’s get out of this town, drive out of the city, away from the crowds.’”

Your voice is tentative at first, but as the melody begins to take shape beneath you, you feel yourself relax into it. The lyrics come more easily now, flowing out in a way that feels almost effortless.

“I thought heaven can’t help me now … nothing lasts forever, but this is gonna take me down.”

Charles smiles as he plays, nodding slightly to encourage you. His fingers never falter on the keys, steady and sure. The notes swell, lifting the words, giving them wings.

The next lines slip from your lips without hesitation, the music carrying you along.

“Say you’ll remember me, standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset, babe …”

Charles hums the harmony under his breath, and it sends a shiver down your spine. There’s something magic in the way the song is coming together, as if the music and the words have been waiting all along for this moment — this exact combination of notes and timing and connection.

You lose yourself in the lyrics, the melody unfurling like a secret finally spoken aloud.

“Even if it’s just in your wildest dreams, ah-ah, ha. Wildest dreams …”

The final chords linger in the air, sweet and melancholic, as your voice trails off into silence. For a moment, neither of you moves. The room feels suspended in time, like the last note of the song is still hanging between you.

Charles turns his head toward you, his gaze soft and unreadable. “That,” he says quietly, “was incredible.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, the adrenaline of the song still buzzing under your skin. “It felt … right,” you whisper, almost in disbelief.

He smiles, and there’s something in his expression — something tender, something knowing — that makes your breath hitch.

Before you can think twice, Charles leans in.

His lips brush against yours, warm and careful, like a question waiting to be answered. And you answer it, leaning into the kiss with a soft sigh, your hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck.

The kiss is slow and unhurried, just like the song — like you have all the time in the world to figure out where this might go. His hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you — no fans, no cameras, no expectations. Just you and Charles and the quiet hum of something new unfolding between you.

When you finally pull back, Charles rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Wildest dreams,” he murmurs, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

You smile back, your heart still racing. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Wildest dreams.”

***

The yacht rocks gently on the still water, the evening air warm and soft against your skin. The sky is a canvas of fading oranges and purples, the last light of day slipping into the night. You and Charles are seated across from each other on the yacht’s deck, surrounded by flickering candles, plates of pasta, and a bottle of wine nearly emptied between you.

Charles twirls a forkful of spaghetti, his other hand resting lazily on the table, fingers tracing circles on the wood. There’s an easy silence between you, one that has become familiar in the last few weeks — a silence that speaks more than words sometimes can. The kind where you don't feel the need to fill every gap with conversation because being together is enough.

But tonight, there’s something behind Charles’ quietness — something thoughtful, like he’s working up the courage to say what’s on his mind.

You sip your wine, watching him as he chews on his pasta and glances out at the horizon, his brows slightly furrowed. “What’s up?” You ask, sensing the shift in his mood.

He blinks, almost like you’ve caught him off guard. Then he smiles, a little nervous. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

You set your glass down and lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. “That sounds serious.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not serious, exactly. Just … something important.”

You tilt your head, waiting.

Charles exhales softly, the kind of breath you take when you’re gearing up to say something that matters. “The summer break is almost over,” he begins. “In a few days, I’ll be flying out to the Netherlands for the next race.”

You nod, trying to keep your expression neutral, even though the thought of him leaving tugs at something inside you. The past few weeks with Charles have felt like a bubble — something delicate and safe, like you’ve both been hiding from the world together. And now the bubble is about to pop.

He taps his fingers lightly against the table. “After the Dutch Grand Prix … we race in Monza. The Italian Grand Prix.”

You raise your eyebrows slightly, waiting for him to get to his point.

“It’s Ferrari’s home race,” he explains, his eyes flicking to yours. “It’s always a really special weekend for me. It’s … a lot of pressure, but also really meaningful.”

You nod slowly. “That makes sense.”

Charles shifts in his seat, leaning closer to you. “I was thinking … I’d really like it if you were there.”

The words hang in the air between you, delicate and tentative.

You blink, caught off guard. “At the race?”

He nods, studying your face carefully. “As my guest.”

There’s a long pause as you try to wrap your head around the idea. Charles at a race is a public Charles — a version of him that exists under a magnifying glass, scrutinized by cameras and fans and reporters. It’s a world that feels miles away from the quiet, private moments you’ve shared with him on his yacht or in his apartment.

Charles seems to sense your hesitation, because he adds quickly, “You wouldn’t have to interact with anyone if you didn’t want to. You’d have a VIP pass — my personal guest pass. It would get you into places the fans can’t go.”

You bite your lip, your mind racing. “Charles, I don’t know …”

“I get it,” he says softly, reaching across the table to take your hand. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, soothing and patient. “It’s a lot to ask, I know. And I don’t want to pressure you. But it would mean a lot to me if you came.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten. This isn’t just about a race — it’s about you being part of something important to him.

“I don’t want to put you in a position where you feel uncomfortable,” he continues. “If it’s too much, we don’t have to do it. But … I think you’d enjoy it. And you wouldn’t be alone. I’d make sure of that.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, weighing your options. The idea of being surrounded by people — fans, photographers, reporters — makes your heart race with anxiety. But then there’s Charles, sitting across from you, his green eyes soft and hopeful, asking you to be there for something that matters to him.

“Would I really have a place to hide if I needed to?” You ask, your voice hesitant.

Charles nods, squeezing your hand gently. “Absolutely. There are private areas for drivers and their guests. No fans, no cameras. And if you want, I’ll introduce you to some of the other drivers — they’re good guys. But only if you want.”

You let out a slow breath, feeling the tension in your chest loosen, if only a little. “Okay,” you say finally. “I’ll come.”

Charles’ eyes light up, and the smile that spreads across his face is so genuine it makes your heart skip a beat. “You will?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Yeah. I’ll come to Monza.”

Charles grins, and before you can say anything else, he’s out of his seat and leaning across the table to kiss you. It’s the kind of kiss that’s filled with gratitude and excitement, a kiss that says thank you without words.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and he’s still smiling, like he can’t help himself. “You’re amazing,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

You laugh softly, your cheeks warm. “I’m just coming to a race.”

“It’s more than that,” he says seriously, his hand cradling the side of your face. “It means more than you know.”

His words linger in the air between you, and you realize that saying yes to Monza wasn’t just about the race — it was about showing up for Charles, being there for him the way he’s been there for you.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in for another kiss, and for a moment, everything feels right.

***

The air around Monza buzzes with energy, a whirlwind of cheers, Ferrari red, and Italian pride. The grandstands are a sea of waving flags and chanting fans, their roars echoing through the paddock even after the race is over. Charles has just crossed the finish line first, and the entire circuit feels like it’s vibrating from the weight of it — Ferrari’s golden boy has won at home.

You watch the celebration unfold from the safety of the private viewing suite Charles arranged for you. From here, tucked away from the chaos, you see the team erupt in joy, mechanics and engineers throwing themselves at each other in wild celebration. The commentators’ voices, crackling over the monitors in the room, narrate Charles’ victory lap with giddy enthusiasm.

“Charles Leclerc wins the Italian Grand Prix! What a race! What a moment for Ferrari!”

You smile softly, knowing how much this means to him. Even from the suite, you can see the glint of happiness in his eyes as he climbs on top of his car, throwing his arms in the air. The crowd chants his name, the fans surging against barriers, trying to get closer to their hero. Charles punches the air and lets out a joyous roar before jumping down to embrace his team.

But your smile is tinged with anxiety. You know what comes next: endless interviews, the champagne-soaked podium, media obligations, and swarms of fans. Part of you wonders if he’ll even have a moment to breathe, let alone a moment to sneak away to find you.

You sit back, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, heart fluttering with a mix of emotions — pride, nerves, and that ever-present thread of uncertainty that’s lingered since you first said yes to coming here.

The minutes crawl by, and you try to distract yourself, fiddling with your phone and glancing every few moments at the screen broadcasting the race aftermath. Charles is still out there, getting pulled in every direction. You watch him hug mechanics, shake hands with journalists, and answer rapid-fire questions while grinning through it all.

He’s in his element. Confident, radiant, unstoppable.

But all you can think about is how much you want to see him.

Just when you’ve convinced yourself to give him space, the door to the suite creaks open — quietly, almost suspiciously — and Charles slips inside, still wearing his race suit, damp and sticky from champagne. His hair is a mess, waves clinging to his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed from exertion. He smells faintly of sweat, champagne, and adrenaline, the chaotic mixture of victory.

“Charles?” You whisper, sitting up, startled. “What are you — aren’t you supposed to be-”

“Shhh,” he grins, breathless, holding a finger to his lips. “I escaped.”

He’s like a kid sneaking out of school, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Before you can say anything else, Charles strides across the room and pulls you into his arms without hesitation. You barely have time to react before his lips are on yours — urgent, warm, and full of something that feels dangerously close to gratitude and relief.

The kiss takes the breath out of you. His hands slide up your back, pressing you closer as if he needs to make sure you’re real, like victory only means something if he can share it with you.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his rapid breathing against your skin. He’s still grinning, like the joy of the win hasn’t even begun to wear off.

“You,” he murmurs between breaths, “are officially my good luck charm.”

You laugh, breathless and dizzy from the kiss. “I think your driving might’ve had something to do with it.”

He shakes his head, eyes locked on yours, a gleam of playful determination in them. “Nope. It was you.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth spreading through your chest is undeniable. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.” He presses a quick kiss to your temple, still grinning like he can’t help himself. “But I’m right.”

Charles takes a step back, still holding your hand as if letting go might cause you to disappear. “I didn’t want to stay out there without seeing you,” he says, softer now. “I just … I wanted you here, with me, for this.”

Your heart flutters, and you don’t know what to say, so you just squeeze his hand in response.

“I don’t care about the interviews or the photos,” he continues, brushing a stray curl from your forehead. “This is what I wanted. Just this.”

You exhale a shaky breath, overwhelmed by how easy it feels with him — how natural, like you belong here despite all the noise and chaos swirling just outside this room.

He glances down at himself and grins sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m probably disgusting.”

“You kind of are,” you tease, brushing a damp curl off his forehead. “But I’ll allow it, just this once.”

He laughs, low and soft, the sound vibrating against your skin as he leans in for another kiss. This one is slower, more deliberate — like he’s savoring the moment, like he knows it’s fleeting and wants to make every second count.

When he pulls back again, there’s a flicker of something more serious in his eyes, something that makes your chest tighten. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For being here. For coming.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and you feel a lump rise in your throat. “Of course,” you manage, your voice barely audible.

Charles takes a step back, exhaling slowly as if trying to gather himself. “Come with me to my driver’s room?” He asks, a hint of that playful glint returning to his eyes. “I need to hide for a bit longer.”

You nod, smiling. “Lead the way.”

He slips his hand into yours and pulls you gently toward the door, glancing down the hallway to make sure no one’s spotted him. The halls are buzzing with activity — team members shouting, media swarming — but Charles weaves through the chaos like it’s second nature, keeping you close behind him.

When you reach his driver’s room, he ushers you inside quickly, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

“Safe,” he whispers, grinning.

You barely have time to process before he’s kissing you again, backing you gently against the wall, his hands on either side of your face. There’s a fervor to the kiss now, a kind of desperation that only comes after holding something in for too long.

When he finally pulls away, both of you are breathless, your foreheads pressed together. “I told you,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Good luck charm.”

You laugh softly, still catching your breath. “You really are ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he admits, his grin widening. “But I won in Monza, so I think I’ve earned it.”

You can’t help but smile, your heart full in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. And for the first time in what feels like forever, the chaos of the world outside doesn’t seem so overwhelming — because right here, in this stolen moment, it’s just you and Charles. And that’s enough.

***

Sunlight filters softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the sheets. The familiar scent of Charles — his cologne, mixed with a hint of sweat from yesterday’s excitement — wraps around you like a cocoon. His arm is slung loosely over your waist, and his chest rises and falls in steady rhythm, his breath warm against the back of your neck. It feels safe. For once, you feel like the chaos of the world can’t reach you here.

And then your phone rings.

The sharp, jarring sound slices through the quiet morning. You groan, disoriented, fumbling blindly on the nightstand until your hand closes around your phone. Charles shifts behind you, murmuring sleepily but not waking.

You squint at the screen. Grace.

Before you can think better of it, you slide your thumb across the screen and lift the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“What the hell, Y/N!” Grace’s voice cuts through the line, sharp and unrelenting. You wince, instinctively sitting up, trying not to disturb Charles as your pulse begins to race.

“What are you-”

“Don’t even start,” Grace interrupts, her tone laced with frustration. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be out in public? Let alone at a Grand Prix? I thought you were supposed to be laying low, taking time to recover.”

Your stomach drops. “What are you talking about?”

“The pictures, Y/N!” Grace huffs. “They’re everywhere — Twitter, Instagram, even some sports blogs. You were at Monza, weren’t you?”

You blink, heart pounding now. “What pictures?”

“The ones of you in the VIP suite, for starters. And a couple from the paddock exit too — probably some fan with a long lens. They’re blurry, but it’s definitely you.”

Your throat tightens. You and Charles had been so careful — at least, you thought you had. You didn’t talk to anyone, stayed tucked away from crowds, and only left his driver’s room when the paddock had mostly cleared out. But now it’s all unraveling.

Grace’s voice barrels on, not giving you a chance to respond. “Do you realize how this looks? You’re out at public events now, so obviously you’re feeling well enough to get back to work. Your team is already asking me when we can restart your tour dates. They think-”

“Grace-”

“-they think this whole thing was just overblown. Maybe you just needed a break, but now you’re good, right? If you’re ready to attend races, you can-”

“Grace, stop!” You blurt, your voice cracking. Your head spins as the walls start closing in. The pressure, the expectations — everything feels like it’s crashing down on you all at once.

You clutch the blanket tight around you, trying to hold yourself together, but the familiar sensation of your chest tightening makes it hard to breathe. It’s happening again — your mind racing, spiraling into the panic you thought you’d escaped.

Charles stirs beside you, sitting up now, his brows knitting in concern. “What’s wrong?” He asks, his voice rough with sleep, but the moment he sees the look on your face, he’s wide awake.

You barely register him. Your heart pounds violently in your chest, and your breath comes in shallow gasps. Grace’s voice keeps drilling into your ear, relentless, a never-ending stream of words about tours and schedules and deadlines.

You can’t answer. Can’t breathe.

Charles sees it — he sees you unraveling — and in one smooth motion, he plucks the phone from your trembling hand and presses it to his ear.

“Y/N is busy,” he says, his voice low and firm. “She’ll call you back.”

“Wait, who is-”

Charles doesn’t let her finish. He ends the call with a click and tosses your phone onto the nightstand. Then he’s back at your side, cupping your face in his hands, his touch steady and grounding.

“Hey, hey — look at me,” Charles murmurs, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You try to nod, but the panic is clawing at your throat, making it hard to focus on anything except the tightness in your chest and the overwhelming sense of failure that threatens to swallow you whole.

“Breathe with me,” Charles whispers, his forehead resting against yours. “Come on, just like before. In, slowly … now out.”

His voice is a lifeline, pulling you out of the storm raging inside your head. You grip his wrist like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality and try to follow his lead — inhale, exhale, again and again, until the tightness in your chest begins to ease.

“That’s it,” he soothes, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “You’ve got this.”

After a few more breaths, the world starts to come back into focus. The sharp edges of panic soften, and the spinning in your head slows to a manageable hum. Charles stays close, his presence warm and steady, as if daring the panic to come back and try again.

When your breathing finally evens out, Charles shifts slightly, but he doesn’t let go of you. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asks softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You shake your head, still too raw to explain everything that just happened. But Charles doesn’t push. He just nods, his thumb brushing soothing circles on the back of your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice hoarse.

“Don’t,” he says immediately, his brow furrowing. “You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

You drop your gaze, your fingers twisting nervously in the blanket. “Grace thinks I’m ready to go back to everything. She thinks because I went to the race, I should be able to start working again.”

Charles’ hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together. “And what do you think?”

You swallow hard, guilt prickling at the back of your mind. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m ready. But what if everyone expects me to be? What if-”

“Hey,” Charles interrupts gently, tilting your chin so you have to meet his gaze. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else expects. You don’t have to do anything until you want to. Not Grace, not your team, not anyone.”

You blink, the weight of his words sinking in. “But what if-”

“No,” he says firmly, his green eyes unwavering. “Listen to me. You are allowed to take your time. You are allowed to say no. And if anyone has a problem with that, they can deal with me.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the sound somewhere between a sob and a chuckle. “You’re going to fight Grace for me?”

“If I have to,” Charles says with a grin. “But I think I’d win.”

The corners of your mouth lift, a small smile breaking through the storm of emotions. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” he says confidently. Then his expression softens, and he squeezes your hand. “You’ve been through a lot, mon cœur. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

You nod slowly, the knot in your chest loosening a little more. For the first time in what feels like forever, you start to believe that maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to put yourself first.

Charles leans closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Whatever you need, I’m here. No pressure, no expectations.”

The words settle over you like a blanket, warm and comforting. And for the first time in a long while, the crushing weight of other people’s expectations lifts — just a little.

Charles shifts, pulling you gently into his arms, and you curl into him without hesitation, resting your head against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, a quiet reminder that you’re not alone in this.

“We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs into your hair. “One day at a time.”

And somehow, with Charles holding you like this, you believe him.

***

The familiar opening notes of Cars play softly from the TV, the colorful animation flickering across the screen in the dim light of your apartment. You’re curled up comfortably on the couch, Leo nestled between you and Charles, his small, warm body shifting every few minutes as he tries to snuggle deeper into the cushions. He paws insistently at your hand, his tail wagging whenever you stop petting him.

Charles laughs quietly beside you, clearly amused by Leo’s persistence. “I think he likes you better than me now,” he teases, running a hand through his messy hair and leaning back against the couch.

You smile, scratching behind Leo’s floppy ears. “Maybe I just have better petting skills.”

Charles grins, his arm draped casually over the back of the couch, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. “Unfair advantage,” he murmurs, tilting his head toward the screen as Lightning McQueen barrels into Radiator Springs.

It’s peaceful — easy, even. For the first time in a long while, the constant buzz of anxiety in your chest has quieted. Charles is beside you, Leo’s warm little body sprawled between you both, and the world outside feels far away, like it can’t touch you here.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

Your heart skips a beat. You glance at Charles, who raises a brow but doesn’t seem concerned, probably assuming it’s nothing more than a delivery. Leo lets out an excited little yip and hops off the couch, his tail wagging as he scampers toward the door.

You pull your blanket tighter around yourself, feeling the familiar trickle of anxiety starting to creep back. “Did you order something?”

Charles shakes his head, giving you a curious look. “No. Were you expecting anyone?”

You frown. “No.”

Before you can think to stand or tell Charles to wait, the door swings open — without so much as an invitation — and Grace strides inside, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.

“Y/N, we need to talk,” Grace announces, her tone brisk and no-nonsense. She’s balancing her phone in one hand and a folder in the other, looking like she’s just come from a meeting. “I’ve been trying to call-”

Her voice trails off mid-sentence as she looks up and takes in the scene before her — Leo skittering around the room, the two half-empty wine glasses on the coffee table, and you huddled on the couch in sweatpants and a hoodie.

And then her gaze shifts to Charles.

For a split second, Grace freezes. She stares at him, her mouth opening slightly, confusion flickering across her features. Then she does a sharp double take, and her eyes widen as recognition clicks into place.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, blinking as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. “You’re … you’re Charles Leclerc.”

Charles shifts slightly beside you, offering a polite but slightly awkward smile. “Uh, yes.”

Grace’s eyes flicker between the two of you, as if trying to piece together a puzzle that doesn’t make sense. “You’re … here. In Y/N’s apartment.”

“Yes,” Charles repeats calmly, his tone light but cautious, as if he’s waiting to see where this is going.

You watch the realization spread across Grace’s face, her expression shifting from disbelief to something resembling stunned amusement. “Wait — are you two … together?”

Your cheeks burn under her gaze, and before you can answer — or even figure out what to say — Charles gives a small, easy shrug. “We are,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Grace blinks, visibly thrown off her game. “Since when?”

Charles glances at you, his eyes warm. “A little while now.”

There’s a beat of silence as Grace processes this new information. Then she lets out a half-laugh, half-exhale, clearly bewildered. “I mean … obviously I knew you were in Monaco, but — Charles Leclerc?” She looks at you with a mixture of shock and something close to admiration. “I guess I can’t say I saw that coming.”

Leo prances back toward the couch, demanding attention from both of you again. Charles leans down to rub the little dachshund’s head, his expression calm and unbothered, like this is the most natural situation in the world.

Grace, however, is not one to be easily distracted. She clears her throat and crosses her arms, focusing on you now. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You’ve been staying under the radar all this time, but now you’re … dating a Formula 1 driver?”

You glance at Charles, who gives you a reassuring look, his hand resting lightly on your knee beneath the blanket. It’s subtle, but the touch steadies you.

“Yes,” you say quietly, meeting Grace’s gaze head-on.

For a moment, she just stares at you, as if trying to decide how to respond. Then she lets out a long breath, shaking her head. “This is … unexpected.”

Charles chuckles softly beside you, clearly amused. “That seems to be the general consensus.”

Grace narrows her eyes at him, though there’s no malice in it — just the cautious protectiveness of someone who cares deeply about you. “And you’re … serious about this?” She asks, her gaze flickering between you and Charles.

“I am,” Charles replies without hesitation. His voice is steady, sincere. “Very.”

The simplicity of his answer makes your heart squeeze in your chest. You glance at him, finding that familiar warmth in his expression — like you’re the only thing that matters to him in this moment.

Grace watches the exchange closely, her sharp gaze softening just a fraction. Then she sighs, pressing a hand to her temple. “Okay,” she mutters, almost to herself. “This is … a lot.”

You shift uncomfortably, the anxiety from earlier threatening to bubble back up. “Grace, I didn’t plan any of this,” you say quietly. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but … I’m happy. For the first time in a long time.”

Grace’s expression softens further at your words, and she lets out a slow breath. “That’s all I care about,” she admits, her voice quieter now. “I just want you to be okay.”

Charles gives her a small, understanding smile. “I want the same thing.”

For the first time since she walked in, Grace seems to relax, her shoulders loosening as she takes in the scene once more — the cozy apartment, the soft lighting, the half-finished movie on the TV, and the way Charles’ hand rests protectively on your knee.

“Well,” Grace says finally, rubbing the back of her neck. “This is … definitely not how I expected this conversation to go.”

Charles chuckles. “Life is full of surprises.”

Grace shoots him a wry look but doesn’t argue. Instead, she gives you a small, tired smile. “I guess if you’re happy … then that’s all that matters.”

You feel a weight lift off your shoulders at her words, the tension easing just a little. “I am,” you say softly, and for the first time in a long time, you truly mean it.

Grace nods, seemingly satisfied — for now, at least. “Okay, well … I guess I’ll leave you two to it, then.” She glances at Leo, who’s now sprawled dramatically across Charles’ lap. “And your dog.”

Charles grins, scratching behind Leo’s ears. “He’s good company.”

Grace rolls her eyes, though there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll let myself out.”

She heads toward the door but pauses just before stepping out. “Y/N?” She calls softly.

You look up, meeting her gaze.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she says sincerely. “Really.”

You offer her a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Grace.”

With that, she gives you a nod and slips out the door, leaving you and Charles alone once more.

The room feels lighter now, the tension from earlier dissipating into the warm, easy atmosphere you’d shared before Grace arrived. Charles turns to you, his expression soft and amused.

“Well,” he murmurs, “that went better than I expected.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Yeah. Me too.”

Charles leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Told you — we’ll figure this out. One day at a time.”

And somehow, with him beside you, that feels like enough.

***

The Instagram Live notification pings on Nora’s phone as she sprawls across her bed, scrolling aimlessly.

@yourusername is going live now.

Her thumb hovers over the screen for a second. Nora hasn’t seen a post or update from you in months, and the gossip forums have been buzzing with wild theories — everything from burnout to secret rehab stints. It’s been radio silence since your tour abruptly ended, with no official word on what had happened.

But now you’re back? On Live? Nora’s heart races with excitement and curiosity as she taps the notification, the screen loading just in time for your face to appear.

The video is a little shaky at first, as if you’ve just propped your phone up on something last minute. You’re sitting cross-legged on a couch, wearing a cozy hoodie that looks two sizes too big and barely any makeup.

The person Nora sees looks different from the polished pop star she’s used to — more real. Your eyes flicker nervously between the camera and something off-screen, as if you’re not sure whether this is a good idea.

“Hi, everyone,” you start, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The live chat immediately explodes with greetings.

OMG SHE’S ALIVE

We missed you so much!

Are you okay? What happened?

You smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Uh, I’m not really sure how to do this, but I just … I wanted to talk to you guys. To explain everything.”

The chat rolls by so fast that Nora can barely keep up, but she keeps her eyes glued to the screen, her heart thumping. This isn’t the usual PR-filtered message, it feels personal.

“I know a lot of people have been wondering where I’ve been,” you say, shifting slightly on the couch. “The truth is … I had to step away from everything for a bit. Things got really overwhelming. It wasn’t just one thing — it was a lot, all at once.”

Your voice wavers slightly, and Nora finds herself leaning closer to her phone, feeling the vulnerability in your words.

“The last few months of the tour were … hard. I started having panic attacks. At first, I thought I could push through, you know? Just keep going. But I couldn’t.” You pause, taking a deep breath as if the memories are still too close. “One night, a fan ran on stage, and something in me just … broke. I couldn’t pretend I was okay anymore.”

The chat slows slightly, the flurry of emojis replaced by supportive comments.

It’s okay, take your time.

We’re proud of you for talking about this.

We love you no matter what.

Nora can feel the wave of empathy through the screen. She has always admired you for your strength, but this — seeing you raw and open — makes her respect you even more.

“I know I kind of disappeared,” you continue. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone. I just needed time to figure things out … away from the cameras, the shows, everything.” You smile sadly. “And that’s why I didn’t say anything earlier. I wanted to come back when I was ready, not when someone told me I had to.”

The chat fills with heart emojis, and Nora finds herself tapping one as well, caught in the warmth of the moment.

Just then, there’s movement in the background. Someone off-screen calls your name, the sound muffled at first. The camera wobbles slightly as you turn your head.

“Hang on a sec,” you say with a small laugh, glancing toward the doorway.

The viewers — Nora included — watch with curiosity as a figure steps into the frame. A man in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his dark hair slightly tousled as if he’s just woken up from a nap.

Nora’s eyes widen. Wait. No way.

It takes a second for the recognition to sink in, but when it does, the chat explodes.

WAIT IS THAT CHARLES LECLERC?

OMG WTF IT IS HIM

Y/N AND CHARLES?! HOW?!

Charles strolls into the room casually, clearly unaware that you’re on Instagram Live. Leo scampering at his feet, barking happily.

“Do you want pasta or pizza for dinner?” Charles asks, his voice soft with that unmistakable Monaco accent.

You let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “I’m … I’m on Live right now,” you whisper, as if trying to warn him.

Charles blinks, his gaze shifting to the phone propped up in front of you. His eyes widen slightly, but then he gives a sheepish grin, as if to say, well, the damage is done now.

“Oh,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hi, everyone.”

The chat is in chaos.

CONFIRMED. THEY’RE TOGETHER.

I CAN’T BREATHE WTF

LEO FOR PRESIDENT!

Nora can’t believe what she’s seeing. Charles Leclerc — Ferrari’s golden boy, Monaco’s favorite son — standing casually in your apartment, talking about dinner like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You give him a look that’s equal parts amused and mortified. “You just outed us to the entire internet.”

Charles chuckles, completely unfazed. “Oops.”

Leo, as if sensing the excitement, jumps onto the couch beside you and wiggles his way onto your lap. You scratch behind his ears, looking between the dog, Charles, and the phone as if wondering how this all escalated so quickly.

“Well,” you say with a helpless shrug, “I guess … surprise?”

The chat is relentless now, a mix of fans freaking out, congratulating you both, and demanding answers.

HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN A THING?

THEY’RE SO CUTE TOGETHER I CAN’T 😭

DO YOU NEED A THIRD?

Charles leans over the back of the couch, peeking at the comments on the screen. “They seem happy,” he observes, his lips twitching with amusement.

“Yeah, well, they’re also never going to let us live this down,” you mutter, but there’s no real annoyance in your voice — only fondness.

Charles smiles, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Could be worse.”

Nora can’t help but grin at the interaction. It’s rare to see celebrities in such an unguarded, domestic moment, and the fact that it’s you and Charles Leclerc makes it even more surreal.

“Well,” you say, addressing the camera again, “I guess now you know. This is Charles. Charles, meet … everyone.” You gesture vaguely at the phone, and Charles gives a small, amused wave.

“Ciao,” he says with a playful grin.

The chat is relentless with heart-eye emojis, fire emojis, and messages about how happy everyone is to see you smiling again.

“Okay,” you say, glancing between Charles and the phone, “I think that’s enough excitement for today. Thanks for listening, and … thanks for being patient with me.” Your expression softens. “It means more than you know.”

Charles leans in again. “So … pasta or pizza?” He asks quietly, his voice just for you.

You laugh, the sound light and free, as if the weight on your chest has finally lifted. “Pasta. Definitely pasta.”

With one last smile to the camera, you reach for your phone. “Okay, we’re going to make some dinner. Love you guys. Talk soon.”

And just like that, the screen goes black, leaving Nora — and the rest of the internet — in stunned, delighted disbelief.

***

The energy at the Australian Grand Prix is electric, a swirling mass of noise, speed, and anticipation. The grandstands vibrate with thousands of cheering fans, the scent of burnt rubber and adrenaline thick in the air. It’s the first race of the season, and the world’s eyes are locked onto Melbourne’s Albert Park Circuit. But right now, all you can focus on is Charles.

You stand behind the barrier with the Ferrari team, the red-clad crew surrounding you as they watch the final lap on a sea of screens. Your heart thunders in your chest, each corner of the circuit feeling like a heartbeat skipped. It’s not just nerves — it’s pride, excitement, and a flicker of disbelief. Charles is about to win. The lead he built throughout the race holds steady as he tears through the last straight, the commentators’ voices booming through the loudspeakers, growing more frenzied.

“Charles Leclerc comes through the final corner … and wins the Australian Grand Prix!”

The Ferrari pit wall explodes into wild cheers. Engineers and crew members throw their arms in the air, shouting and hugging each other. Flags whip through the air, and the roar from the grandstands becomes deafening. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your hands clutched together, knuckles white with tension.

“He did it!” Someone from the team shouts beside you, their voice almost drowned out by the collective noise.

You can’t help but laugh, a giddy, breathless sound that surprises even you. There’s something surreal about witnessing it all — seeing Charles cross the finish line and knowing how much this win means to him. It’s the perfect start to his season, and part of you is so proud that you feel like you might burst.

Charles brings his Ferrari to a screeching stop in parc fermé, right beside the boards marked P1. Without missing a beat, he jumps out of the car, tearing off his helmet as the crowd erupts again. His face is flushed with triumph, damp with sweat, and his grin stretches wide, full of unbridled joy. He climbs onto the nose of the car, throwing his arms in the air to soak in the cheers and applause.

You feel your chest swell, warmth blooming from within at the sight of him — your Charles, victorious, on top of the world.

Then it happens.

He jumps down from the car, his eyes searching the crowd. He’s supposed to go be weighed in. The cameras are supposed to be on him for the formal celebrations. But Charles doesn’t care about any of that. As soon as his gaze locks onto you, standing among the throng of Ferrari team members, everything else fades for him.

He takes off running.

“Wait-” someone from the team starts to say, confused by Charles’ sudden sprint.

You freeze as he barrels toward the barrier, helmet still in one hand, the other hand brushing through his tousled hair. Your heart slams against your ribs as you realize what he’s about to do.

“Charles-” you start, but it’s too late.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t hesitate. In front of everyone — Ferrari, journalists, FIA officials — Charles sprints towards the barrier in a few smooth steps, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. And before you can even react, he’s cupping your face with both hands and kissing you.

The world falls away.

The crowd’s noise becomes a distant hum as Charles’ lips press against yours, firm and desperate, like he’s been waiting all race to get to you. His hands hold your face as if he never wants to let go, his thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. The kiss is everything — celebratory, intense, and filled with a raw kind of joy that makes your knees weak.

For a moment, you forget where you are. All you know is Charles — his familiar scent, the roughness of his jaw, and the way his lips move against yours, like he’s trying to pour every bit of emotion into this one moment. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands gripping the front of his race suit, pulling him closer.

When you finally pull back, breathless, Charles’ forehead rests against yours. His grin is impossibly bright, and the look in his eyes makes your heart flip.

“Hi,” he whispers, his voice low and full of laughter, like he can’t believe he’s standing here with you after all of it.

You laugh, trying to catch your breath. “Hi.”

Around you, the team starts cheering again, even louder this time. Someone whistles, and another engineer yells, “That’s our boy!” as if Charles’ kiss is part of the victory itself.

It’s then that you realize what just happened. You glance over Charles’ shoulder and catch sight of the cameras — the journalists on the other side of the barrier, the fans in the grandstands with their phones raised. The internet is about to explode.

“Charles,” you murmur, half-laughing, half-panicking, “everyone saw that.”

“I know,” he says, his grin widening. He doesn’t look the least bit sorry. “Let them.”

You shake your head, but a laugh escapes you anyway. There’s no point in worrying about it now. The moment has already happened, and — surprisingly — you don’t regret it.

Charles pulls you into another hug, squeezing you tight against him. His suit is thoroughly damp with sweat, but you don’t care. All you care about is the way he holds you, the way he whispers, “Thank you for being here,” against your hair.

“You didn’t make it easy to say no,” you tease, your words muffled against his chest.

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You know me. I never play fair.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His green eyes are warm and shining with happiness, and for a second, everything feels perfect. The noise, the cameras, the crowd — it all fades into the background, leaving just the two of you standing together in the aftermath of his victory.

Someone from Ferrari taps Charles on the shoulder, reminding him that he still has obligations to do. He groans, clearly reluctant to leave your side, but you give him a gentle nudge.

“Go,” you whisper. “I’ll be right here.”

He kisses you one more time, quick and soft, before finally turning toward the waiting media. As he jogs back down the pit lane, the crowd cheers even louder, the energy electric with both victory and the revelation of your relationship.

You stand behind the barrier, watching as Charles throws his arms around his team and gets swept into the celebrations. A part of you knows that the media frenzy is only just beginning — that by the time you check your phone, social media will be ablaze with photos and speculation.

But for now, none of that matters. All that matters is the way Charles looked at you, like you were the most important person in the world.

And as the Monegasque anthem plays over the speakers and champagne sprays into the air, you smile, knowing that this — this moment — is exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

The stadium hums with anticipation, a low buzz of excitement rippling through the crowd as thousands of fans fill every seat. The lights are dimmed, leaving only the faint glow of phones peppering the darkness. It’s been well over two years since you last stood on a stage, and tonight marks the beginning of your long-awaited comeback tour.

Your heart thrums in your chest — not from nerves, but from exhilaration. This is the moment you’ve dreamed of, the one you thought might never come.

Backstage, you take a deep breath. The setlist is memorized, the band is ready, and the stage awaits. But there’s one song you’ve kept secret until tonight. One that means more to you than anything you’ve ever written. And Charles — your Charles — is somewhere in the audience, waiting to hear it for the first time.

The stage manager gives you a nod, signaling it’s time. The lights drop completely, plunging the arena into black, and the crowd erupts into cheers. You walk onto the stage, the soles of your boots vibrating against the platform as the energy of thousands of voices surrounds you. You step into the spotlight as the first few notes hum through the speakers.

The crowd’s roar crescendos as they finally see you, and you offer them a soft smile. Then you lean toward the microphone, your voice amplified but intimate, as if speaking to an old friend.

“New York,” you begin, grinning as the crowd cheers even louder at the mention of the city’s name. “Thank you for being here with me tonight. I’ve waited a long time for this moment, and I can’t tell you how much it means to me to be back on this stage.”

The crowd roars, chanting your name, the sound enveloping you like a warm embrace. You pause for a beat, your hand resting lightly on the mic stand. “For those of you who’ve been with me from the beginning … you know it hasn’t been an easy road. But here we are, and I feel more alive than I ever have.”

A wave of cheers crashes over you again, and you feel your heart swell in gratitude.

“Tonight,” you continue, a mischievous glint in your eye, “I want to do something a little special. I’ve got a song — one you’ve never heard before. I wrote it for someone very important to me.” You pause, your gaze sweeping over the crowd, imagining Charles out there somewhere, hidden among the sea of faces. “This one’s called The Alchemy.”

The arena erupts into applause and whistles, the fans feeding off your excitement. The band strikes up the first few chords, a shimmering pulse of sound that builds slowly. You close your eyes for a moment, feeling the rhythm settle in your chest. And then you start to sing.

“This happens once every few lifetimes. These chemicals hit me like white wine …”

Your voice is clear and powerful, carrying through the stadium with ease. The crowd sways along, captivated by the song even though they’ve never heard it before. The verses flow effortlessly, the words spilling from your heart as if they were written only yesterday.

“What if I told you I'm back? The hospital was a drag. Worst sleep that I ever had …”

The memory of those dark months flashes briefly in your mind, but you push it away. That’s not where you live anymore. This song isn’t about what you lost — it’s about what you found.

As the music builds, your thoughts drift toward Charles, and a grin tugs at the corners of your mouth as you reach the next verse.

“So when I touch down, call the amateurs and cut ‘em from the team. Ditch the clowns, get the crown. Baby I’m the one to beat …”

The crowd catches onto the energy, cheering as if they know exactly who you’re singing about. And then, at last, you reach the line that you’ve been holding close to your heart since the day you wrote it — the line meant just for Charles.

“Where's the trophy? He just comes runnin’ over to me …”

The audience erupts, but you barely hear them. You can only picture Charles, the memory of him bounding over the barriers in Melbourne, high off a win and still drenched in sweat, just to kiss you in front of everyone. That moment plays like a movie in your mind, the emotion of it surging through your voice as you sing.

The song carries on, the lyrics unfolding like pages in a story — your story. The fans are swaying, waving their arms in time with the music, some already singing along despite hearing the song for the first time. You feel weightless, completely immersed in the moment, knowing that Charles is somewhere out there, listening.

As you belt out the final chorus, the band swells around you, lifting the song to its peak.

“Cause the sign on your heart said it’s still reserved for me …”

Your voice soars over the crowd, and when you sing the final line, your heart feels like it might burst.

“Honestly, who are we to fight the alchemy?”

The song ends, the last note lingering in the air before the crowd explodes into applause. The stadium feels alive, vibrating with energy, and for a moment, you just stand there, basking in it. This is what you missed — the connection, the joy, the sense of belonging.

You step back from the mic, catching your breath, and glance toward the side of the stage. There, just out of sight from the audience, you spot Charles. His arms are crossed over his chest, a proud grin stretching across his face, and his eyes gleam with something that looks a lot like love.

You give him a small, almost shy smile, and he mouths the words, “I love you.” Your heart swells, and for a second, everything else fades — the lights, the noise, the crowd. It’s just you and Charles, exactly where you’re meant to be.

Turning back to the audience, you grin and raise a hand in the air. “Thank you, New York!” You shout into the mic, and the crowd roars in response.

You can feel it in your bones — this is just the beginning. The tour, the music, the life you’ve rebuilt. And Charles will be with you every step of the way.

As the next song begins and the crowd’s cheers grow louder, you glance toward the wings again. Charles is still standing there, watching you with that same proud, loving smile.

And you know, without a doubt, that the alchemy between you two is something no one could ever fight.

3K notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 1 month ago

Text

wait, what? — ih6

smau + real life

lewis hamilton x !daughter reader

isack hadjar x !model hamilton reader

Isack grew up idolizing Lewis Hamilton — posters on the wall, interviews memorized, the whole deal. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the moment he unknowingly asked out his daughter. One minute, he’s shooting his shot… the next, he’s dating a Hamilton.

fc : halima saadiyah

not proofread — still trying to brainstorm ideas for new series— send me any requests!

—

whotfisnaya

liked by lewishamilton, kikagomes, charles_leclerc & 1,348,308 others.

whotfisnaya : can’t talk rn doing hot girl shit

(also ferrari get your shit together or so help me god😁🔪)

—

kikagomes : my gf lover angel gave me flowers when i landed this morning 💘💋🤩🥹

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : take notes pear, this is why she is mine

liked by kikagomes

pierregasly : I lost her to you a long time ago..i just quit fighting

username00 : don’t feel bad pierre, it’s just part of the hamilton charm

liked by whotfisnaya & kikagomes

lewishamilton: Bub. What did we say about threatening the new team already? At least give them a full season.

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : my patience is out. i choose violence.

lewishamilton : I will not be making any further comments on that. You look beautiful, princess! Miss you.

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : thank you fatherrrr💘 see you this weekend!

liked by lewishamilton

charles_leclerc : welcome to the ferrari family, naya!

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : idk how you’ve made it this long leclerc…i would’ve crashed out and burnt everything to the ground like 3 years ago

liked by charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc : I’ve thought about it…but i just keep going back

whotfisnaya : stockholm syndrome. ferrari free my man from these chains

liked by charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

georgerussell63 : only 6 races into the season and I already miss you (somehow)

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : you try so hard to act like you don’t love me but i think you cried harder about me leaving than you did about dad

lewishamilton : can confirm

whotfisnaya : tell big man toto to be prepared because i am coming over next race

liked by georgerussell63

georgerussell63 : mario kart?

whotfisnaya : sigh. yes GR

carlossainz55 : psssst. it doesn’t get any better naya

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : im glad you’re free my friend

whotfisnaya : gonna start some mid season contract negotiations for him — im tired

whotfisnaya : WHO WANTS 8 (🖕🏻) TIME WORLD CHAMPION LEWIS HAMILTON ON THEIR TEAM

liked by carlossainz55, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63, pierregasly, lando, olliebearman, and oscarpiastri

lewishamilton : naya honey there is a reason I have professionals do this

—

f1 added a post to their story!

seen by 12,453,389.

—

There’s something about the Ferrari red that still doesn’t feel real. I’ve spent most of my life watching my dad win in silver, black, even turquoise—but red? It still throws me.

Still, I can’t lie… he wears it well.

I stroll into the paddock, dodging cameras and a few fans with sharp eyes. Sunglasses on, credentials tucked into my jacket, I keep my pace casual. Familiar.

“Look who decided to show up,” Dad calls before I even reach the Ferrari garage. He’s leaning against the wall in his race suit, arms folded, exuding the exact same energy he’s always had before lights out—calm, confident, and just a little smug.

“Didn’t want to miss my favorite guy in red,” I say, stepping in for a quick hug. He pressed a kiss to my temple.

Charles appears beside him, grinning as always. “You mean me, right?”

“You’re definitely top three,” I tease. We share a hug.

We fall into easy conversation—something about tire strategy, Charles’ espresso addiction, and how dad had to clear things with Ferrari after my recent…comments online.

It’s comfortable here. Familiar. But after a while, I shift my weight and check the time.

“I’m gonna go find Ollie,” I say, casually, but I see the way Dad lifts an eyebrow.

“Just friends,” I remind him before he can say anything.

“I didn’t say a word,” he replies with a smirk.

Charles, of course, does. “That’s not what your dad’s face says.”

I roll my eyes and walk backward toward the exit. “You two need new hobbies.”

—

The Haas garage is less polished than Ferrari’s—more wires, more noise, more energy. It feels alive.

Ollie spots me right away, lifting his helmet slightly and grinning. “You’re late.”

“You’re early,” I shoot back.

We fist-bump and fall into step, walking along the edge of the garage. “We’re still on for that sim day next week?” he asks.

“Obviously.”

As we walk, someone else joins us— shorter than Ollie, dark curls, relaxed smile.

“Oh—Naya, this is Isack. Isack, Naya.”

I offer a small smile. “Hi.”

Isack returns it, maybe a little too quickly. “Hey. Uh… sorry, are you new to the paddock?”

Ollie snorts. “You could say that.”

I shrug. “I’ve been around a while.”

He holds out a hand. “Well, it’s cool to meet you. Are you, like… press or PR or something?”

I shake his hand, biting back a grin. “Something like that.”

Ollie coughs pointedly but doesn’t say more. I shoot him a look—don’t you dare ruin this.

Isack turns slightly red, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re probably used to being around all this, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say, eyes flicking back toward the sea of red where my dad is doing media interviews. “You could say it runs in the family.”

—

I didn’t mean to hang around the garage that long. Really, I didn’t. But somehow, after Ollie wandered off to a briefing, I was still there—leaning against a pit wall, sipping on a bottle of water, chatting with Isack like we’d known each other longer than just a few hours.

He was easy to talk to. Surprisingly easy. Funny in a quiet way. Charming in a not trying too hard kind of way.

“So, you’re not press. You’re not PR. But you are paddock fluent,” he says, leaning on the wall next to me, arms crossed.

I smirk. “Observant.”

“And you won’t tell me what you actually do?”

“I like mystery.”

He laughs. “Alright, Miss Mystery. You coming to the after-party tonight?”

I tilt my head. “Depends. Are you going?”

“I might now,” he says, eyes glinting. “If I knew someone cool would be there.”

My smile softens, but I keep my voice even. “I’ll think about it.”

He pauses for a beat, and I can feel the shift—the way his tone gets just a little more serious, like he’s testing the water.

“Okay, real question,” he says. “Do you want to get coffee sometime? Like, not here. Somewhere… quieter. Just us.”

For a second, I just blink at him. He still doesn’t know. Still doesn’t realize who I am.

And it’s kind of… nice.

“Are you asking me out, Isack Hadjar?” I ask, folding my arms with a playful smile.

He grins, a little sheepish. “I think I am, yeah.”

I pretend to consider it, tapping my chin. “Hmm… you’re cute. And bold. I respect that.”

“So is that a yes?”

“Maybe,” I say, letting the word hang. “But only if you promise not to freak out when you find out who I am.”

His smile falters, just a little. “Should I be scared?”

I grin. “Terrified.”

Just then, I hear someone call my name—one of the Ferrari PR girls, waving me over.

“Duty calls,” I say, stepping back.

He watches me go with a slight frown. “Wait, are you actually someone famous or—?”

I shoot him a wink over my shoulder. “You’ll figure it out.”

Lando and Max stood next to Ollie and the rest of the rookies who were watching intently.

“He doesn’t have a clue who she is, does he?” Max asked with a smirk present on his face.

“Nope.” Ollie said with a chuckle.

—

whotfisnaya

liked by olliebearman, isackhadjar, charles_leclerc & 2,277,843 others.

whotfisnaya : i was told no more threatening ferrari so idrk what to caption this paddock dump

—

charles_leclerc : out of all the pictures you chose THAT one naya

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : that’s what you get for stealing my phone charles

scuderiaferrari: thank you naya. we appreciate you for trying

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya: id appreciate you guys trying some actual strategy

liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and carlossainz55

username00 : NAYA😭

isackhadjar : so nice to meet you today, naya!

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : nice to meet you love!!

olliebearman : and to think you tried to tell me the ears weren’t a fashion statement

olliebearman : i look GOODt

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : bitch u look good with a t at the end…or whatever tf saweetie said

georgerussell63 : half of our mario kart time was taken up by you and toto gossiping

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya: god forbid a girl and her bestie catch up

whotfisnaya : still gave me enough time to beat your ass

georgerussell63 : i demand a retrial

whotfisnaya : you just want to hang again

georgerussell63 : blah blah details

username7 : her and toto gossiping omg

—

whotfisnaya added to her story!

seen by lando, olliebearman, lewishamilton & 2,278,358 others.

lando : does he know yet?

whotfisnaya : girl ur so nosey…and no

olliebearman : get in there isack!!!!

whotfisnaya: hate u 💘

lewishamilton: Hm. Who?

whotfisnaya: I don’t kiss and tell father but you will meet him soon.

lewishamilton : Sigh. I’ll go ask Toto.

whotfisnaya: that man would never spill my secrets, not even to you.

—

I wasn’t even nervous. Okay, maybe a little. But it wasn’t like a real date, right? Just coffee. Just… two people getting to know each other, in a quiet café tucked away from the chaos of race weekends. No pit lane, no photographers, no Ollie looking smug in the background. Just me and Isack and some overpriced espresso.

He was already there when I arrived — black hoodie, cap pulled low, sunglasses on like we were undercover spies instead of two mildly recognizable faces. He stood up when he saw me, smile soft and completely unguarded.

“You made it,” he said, sounding almost surprised.

“I said I would,” I replied, sliding into the chair across from him. “Do I strike you as unreliable?”

“Not at all,” he grinned. “Just… cool enough to bail at the last second if something better came up.”

I shrugged. “You’re lucky I like coffee.”

We talked for over an hour. About everything and nothing. He told me about his first karting crash, the fact that he still forgets to pack socks on travel weekends, and how much he actually hates running, no matter what his trainer says. I told him about the cities I’d lived in growing up, my obsession with baking shows, and my ongoing feud with Ferrari’s coffee machine.

(That part almost gave me away. But he didn’t catch it. Not yet.)

At one point, he leaned back, just watching me over the rim of his cup.

“What?” I asked, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.

“You’re hard to figure out.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Not at all.”

The silence between us was warm, not awkward. Comfortable. Which is probably why I blurted it out before I could overthink it.

“So… I’m having a birthday thing at the end of this month. It’s kind of a mix of family and friends, not a huge party, but you should come.”

He blinked, like I’d just asked him to join me on a trip to the moon. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Why not?” I took another sip of my coffee and added casually, “You’re fun. I like you.”

He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that didn’t need any clever reply.

“I’d love to come,” he said finally. “What should I wear? Are we talking jeans or, like, red carpet-level fancy?”

I laughed. “Definitely not red carpet. Just… look nice. And maybe be ready for a few surprises.”

His brow furrowed. “What kind of surprises?”

I smirked. “You’ll see.”

—

whotfisnaya

liked by isackhadjar, georgerussell63, olliebearman & 2,389,294 others.

whotfisnaya: life’s been cute or whateva

—

lewishamilton: I always thought I spoiled Roscoe the most and then I came back and you had ordered him every vegan item off the menu.

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : that’s my boy right thurrrr— he asked me for it all and I deliver

lewishamilton : yeah on my credit card

whotfisnaya: duh

georgerussell63 : so honored to be included in a dump alongside your soft launch

whotfisnaya : only added because carms looks so cute

carmenmmundt : love you naya❤️❤️

liked by whotfisnaya

georgerussell63 : BETRAYAL

olliebearman : oh so we’ve moved into a soft launch era?

whotfisnaya: I literally should have never taught any of you men that phrase

—

isackhadjar

liked by whotfisnaya, olliebearman, yukitsunoda0511 & 424,289 others.

isackhadjar : lovin’ life

—

olliebearman : getting close with the in laws I see?

this comment has been deleted

olliebearman : who is the lady?!

isackhadjar : nunya

olliebearman: that’s a weird way to spell naya.

whotfisnaya: oliver stop being a menace

yukitsunoda0511 : 🔥🔥

username00 : him having Lewis’ daughter in his likes and his dad comforting him must feel amazing

—

lewishamilton

liked by whotfisnaya, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63 & 4,397,298 others.

lewishamilton : Happy birthday to my favorite girl in the world. Watching you grow into the woman you are today has been the greatest privilege of my life. You’re smart, bold, kind, and full of fire — just the way I always hoped you’d be. Keep chasing what sets your soul on fire. I’ll always be in your corner. Love you endlessly.

—

olliebearman: ofc the one day isack avoids instagram- sigh. HAPPY BIRTHDAY NAYA LOVE YOU

charles_leclerc : happy birthday mini hamilton! can’t wait to celebrate you.

georgerussell63 : to the biggest most lovable menace on the planet— happy birthday!

susie_wolff : Happy Birthday Sweet Girl!

scuderiaferrari : happy birthday naya!! 🎈🎈

mercedesamgf1 : happy birthday naya! we miss you so much!

—

The thing about hosting your birthday in Monaco is that there’s always a yacht, always a DJ, and always a guest list full of people who look like they belong in a GQ spread.

Mine wasn’t over-the-top — not by Monaco standards, anyway. Rooftop terrace, ambient lights, too many photographers across the street pretending not to be watching.

I spotted Isack the second he walked in, wearing a button-down that was definitely ironed by someone else and looking very out of place in the best way possible.

He kissed my cheek when he found me. “Happy birthday, Miss Mystery.”

“Glad you came,” I said with a grin. “Feeling brave?”

“Honestly? A little nervous,” he admitted. “I’ve seen three world champions already and I’ve been here five minutes.”

“Mm. You might want to stay nervous.”

I took his hand and pulled him gently toward the center of the terrace, weaving past Red Bull engineers, a retired footballer, and a couple of Ferrari mechanics.

And then—there he was.

Dad, standing by the bar, dressed in a sleek suit and sipping on sparkling water.

“Hey,” I said, walking up to him. “Someone I want you to meet.”

Dad turned, already grinning.

“This is Isack,” I said, as casually as if I were introducing him to my barista. “My boyfriend.”

Isack froze. Completely.

“Isack,” Dad said, offering his hand with a knowing smile. “Good to see you again.”

Again.

Isack blinked. Twice. Looked between us. “Wait. Hold on.”

I tried not to laugh.

“You’re…” He looked at Dad. “You’re her…?”

“Father,” Dad said smoothly. “Did she not mention that?”

“I—no. She definitely didn’t.”

I took a sip of my drink, trying not to smirk. “Felt like it would ruin the surprise.”

Isack turned back to me, eyes wide, voice half a whisper. “You’re Lewis Hamilton’s daughter.”

“Took you long enough.”

Dad clapped him on the shoulder, a little too hard. “Welcome to the family, son.”

Isack looked like he was questioning every life choice he’d ever made. I leaned in, voice just for him.

“close your mouth, love. you’ll catch flies.” i said and pushed up his chin.

—

“Oh no,” Isack muttered under his breath. “Why are they all here.”

“Because I have amazing friends,” I said sweetly. “And they love watching you suffer.”

“Hadjar!” Lando called, arms already spreading like he was about to hug him just to whisper something evil in his ear. “So you’re the one dating the princess of Formula One, huh?”

Jack whistled low. “You’ve got some guts, man.”

Kimi, deadpan as ever, tilted his head. “Did you think we wouldn’t find out?”

“I didn’t know!” Isack said for what was probably the seventh time tonight. “She didn’t say anything!”

“He called Lewis ‘sir,’” Ollie chimed in again, grinning like this was the best day of his life. “It was so formal.”

“Wait, did you?” Lando asked, barely holding in his laughter. “Like, a ‘Hello, Mr. Hamilton, may I date your daughter’ type situation?”

“He panicked!” I added, giggling. “Tried to act like they hadn’t met before.”

“I had no idea!” Isack groaned. “You all suck.”

“I’m just saying,” Jack said, nudging Kimi. “If I found out my girlfriend’s dad was seven-time world champion Lewis Hamilton, I’d have walked straight into the Mediterranean.”

Kimi nodded, stone-faced. “We still might throw you in.”

“Please do,” Isack said, face in hands. “End it.”

Lando gave him a brotherly clap on the shoulder. “Look at it this way. You’ve already peaked. Can’t go higher than impressing Lewis Hamilton.”

Ollie leaned into me with a smirk. “You know he didn’t even realize until Lewis introduced himself back?”

I sipped my drink. “Timing is everything.”

Isack looked up at me then — red-faced, wide-eyed, but grinning. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Only a little,” I teased. “But hey — you’re handling it like a champ.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like an F1 champ or…?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Jack said dryly.

Kimi cracked the faintest of smirks. “We’ll see how you qualify next weekend, Hamilton’s boyfriend.”

—

whotfisnaya

liked by isackhadjar, lando, lewishamilton & 4,389,387 others.

whotfisnaya: long story short…i love isack and isack loves my dad (the selfie is warming my heart by the second)

—

username00 : dating your idols daughter?? wasn’t familiar with your game isack

olliebearman: neither was he

whotfisnaya : oliver be nice

lewishamilton : Welcome to the family, Isack. We love you even if you are oblivious sometimes.

liked by whotfisnaya, lando, isackhadjar and olliebearman

olliebearman : is it cheating since he will be mentored by the goat?

lando : he fr just skipped ten levels

isackhadjar: love you the most even if you embarrassed me in front of my goat

liked by whotfisnaya

—

🦋🐞💋🫶🏻🧜🏻‍♀️

1K notes · View notes

cressidagrey · 1 month ago

Text

It's a Match!

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Lydia Colbert (Original Character)

Summary:

When Arthur Leclerc decides his brooding brother Charles needs a love life, he does the obvious: he makes him a secret dating profile. With their mother’s help and absolutely no permission, Arthur impersonates Charles on Raya—and Chaos ensues. Until one suspiciously perfect woman (with a dachshund) changes everything.

Warnings and Notes:

Catfishing is obviously bad, even when it's played for laughs in this story. Thanks to the internet for helping me come up with some unhinged online dating stories.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Lorenzo stood in the kitchen, nursing a glass of wine and watching Arthur scroll through his phone at alarming speed.

“So,” Lorenzo said slowly, “he’s not coming to dinner?”

Arthur didn’t look up. “Nope. Texted me twenty minutes ago to say he was ‘in a complicated emotional place’ and ‘needed to listen to piano alone.’”

Lorenzo exhaled. “Jesus.”

“He also said he thinks he might be ‘unlovable at a molecular level.’”

“Did he actually say that?”

“Verbatim,” Arthur said, flipping screens. “Followed by a photo of Leo looking like a tired therapist on his day off. and the crying emoji. Twice.”

Lorenzo dragged a hand down his face. “It’s been three months since Sophie.”

“Technically, two months, twenty-one days,” Arthur said, glancing at the clock. “But who’s counting.”

Lorenzo sighed. “He needs help.”

“He needs therapy,” Arthur said with a snort.

And then Arthur’s eyes lit up like a cartoon character with a plan. “He needs a girlfriend.”

Lorenzo froze. “Arthur.”

“Hear me out.”

“No.”

Arthur put his phone down slowly, deliberately. “I’m making a Raya profile.”

Lorenzo blinked. “You’re what?”

“Not for me. For him. I’m going to fix it. The spiral. The sad playlists. All of it.”

“You want to impersonate Charles on a dating app.”

“I want to rescue him. Emotionally. Romantically. Digitally.”

Lorenzo stared at him. “Arthur. That is identity theft.”

“That is love,” Arthur replied. “I’m Cupid with a Wi-Fi connection.”

“You’re Cupid with a death wish. You’re going to catfish people as our brother?”

“Not catfish. Curate. Like a gallery. Of his best self. It’s not lying. It’s… repackaging.” Arthur stood and began pacing. “Charles is clearly not going to do this himself. He’s too busy posting moody black-and-white stories of Leo looking out windows with captions like ‘we all leave eventually.’ I mean—what are we even doing?”

“You’re being insane.”

“It’s matchmaking!” Arthur said, pointing at Lorenzo like a man unveiling a conspiracy theory. “He’s clearly not going to do it himself. He’s still following his ex on Instagram, liking her stories at 2 a.m., and writing playlist titles like 'slow laps and slower heartbreak.' He needs help. I’m being a hero. Do you remember what he said last week? That he was thinking of deleting Instagram and starting over under a new name in the Alps? That’s not healing. That’s the first act of a French drama where he falls in love with his housekeeper’s goat.”

Lorenzo pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you think putting him on a dating app is the answer?”

“With me controlling it? Yes.”

“You’re barely qualified to manage your own love life!”

Arthur ignored that. “It’s foolproof. I’ll use good photos—Ferrari gala, that one boat pic, something with Leo so women know he has a soul. And I’ll write the bio. Sexy but a little tragic. Like if James Bond cried at Chopin.”

“This is criminal.”

“This is charitable.”

“You’re going to end up matching him with someone who thinks astrology is a political stance!”

“Then I’ll filter for that! Lorenzo, trust me. I’ve seen what’s out there. These women are feral—but one of them might just be perfect.”

Lorenzo sighed. “Just don’t use that photo from Mykonos.”

Arthur looked offended. “The shirtless boat one? That’s the opener.”

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Arthur: hey bestie question do u have any good pics of charles

Joris: Of course I do?? What for?

Arthur: nothing shady promise

Joris: Arthur. What are you doing.

Arthur: do u want him to die alone and spend the rest of his life crying into his dog

Joris: What???

Arthur: do u want Leo to be his emergency contact forever

Joris: Arthur WHAT are you doing

Arthur: just send me the Monaco yacht one and the one from Singapore last year you know the one. the good hair day.

Joris: Arthur. Are you making a dating profile for him

Arthur: no. (not legally)

Joris: You’re insane. He’s going to kill you.

Arthur: worth it he’s brooding to “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” again i’m desperate

Joris: …check your inbox and delete this chat before he finds it I’m not going down with you

Arthur: ur an accomplice now welcome to the operation code name: Raya Redemption

Joris: God help us all

***

Text Messages: Lorenzo Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Joris: Lorenzo. We have a situation. A serious one.

Lorenzo: If this is about Charles lying on the floor again, I’ve already poured myself a drink.

Joris: No, this is worse. Arthur is making him a Raya profile.

Lorenzo: ...I know.

Joris: YOU KNOW???

Lorenzo: He told me over dinner while Charles was listening to Debussy in the dark and crying into Leo.

Joris: He just asked me for high-resolution thirst traps. High-resolution, Lorenzo.

i just sent him photos. under duress.

Lorenzo: why would you send him photos???

Joris: BECAUSE HE SAID CHARLES WAS BROODING TO TAYLOR SWIFT AND I PANICKED.

Lorenzo: that… tracks. Let me guess. Monaco yacht and Singapore hair day?

Joris: Yes. And he used the phrase “do u want Leo to be his emergency contact forever” like this was a national crisis.

Lorenzo: That does sound like Arthur. You’re an accomplice now. Welcome to the pit.

Joris: He named the operation Raya Redemption.

Lorenzo: Of course he did.

Joris: Should we… tell Charles?

Lorenzo: Not until Arthur gets at least one date out of it. I want to see where this goes.

Joris: Your family is unwell.

Lorenzo: That’s the most accurate thing you’ve ever said.

***

Arthur Leclerc cracked his knuckles, opened the Raya app, and began typing with the enthusiasm of a man who once made a Tinder bio for Pierre Gasly that had just said “French. Fast. Flexible.”

He had Spotify’s Ultimate Seduction playlist in the background, two open tabs of Charles’ most photogenic Instagram photos, and the moral compass of a raccoon in a jewelry store.

“Let’s make some magic, baby.”

He hit “Create New Profile.”

Name: Charles Age: 27 Location: Monaco (obviously) Profession: Formula 1 Driver. Winner of your heart. Photos:

Shirtless boat pic from Mykonos (for the people)

Shirtless post-workout mirror selfie, beads of sweat on his chest

Shirtless with Leo in his arms

Shirtless from the beach in Sardinia, wet curls, gaze angled to the sun like a Renaissance oil painting with commitment issues

BONUS: A picture of just his hands, veins out, no explanation

Bio :

Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives through the Italian countryside and strong espresso.

Swipe right if you can keep up—on the track or off it.

Arthur read it back and grinned.

“Perfect. Bit mysterious. Bit unhinged. Bit sexy. Very me—I mean, Charles.”

Then came the matching filters.

Looking for: Women Age range: 21–35 Distance: Global Interests: Dancing, cooking, racing, danger, chaos, espresso martinis Turn-ons (optional): Confidence. High heels. Deep playlists. Women who look like they could ruin my life in Italian.

Arthur sat back, admiring his masterpiece.

“This,” he muttered, sipping Coke from a wineglass, “is how you get Charles off the floor and into someone’s arms.”

He hit publish.

Fifteen minutes later, the first like came in from someone named Hot4Horsepower.

Arthur grinned. “And so it begins.”

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (aka Arthur Leclerc with a mission)

@/Hot4Horsepower: hey charles ;)) i love fast cars and slow burns what’s your lap time in bed?

@/charles_leclerc: Hi. First question: Have you ever watched an actual Grand Prix or do you just like the racesuits?

@/Hot4Horsepower: i like the tight suits and the adrenaline also i once watched drive to survive season 3

@/charles_leclerc: So no actual race experience. Strike one. Next: How do you feel about dogs with emotional trauma?

@/Hot4Horsepower: uh what are you okay?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m not the one who used “lap time in bed” as an opener.

***

@/LenaOffline: sooo… if we date, can i come to Monza in your suitcase?

@/charles_leclerc: Can you fit in a suitcase?

@/LenaOffline: ...maybe??

@/charles_leclerc: Follow-up: Do you have a criminal record?

@/LenaOffline: not convicted

@/charles_leclerc: Next question: how many cardboard cutouts of me do you own?

@/LenaOffline: just the one! and one of Carlos for symmetry!

***

@/JulesUnfiltered: charles i already have our wedding vision board saved. do you want a spring ceremony or winter elopement?

@/charles_leclerc: Let’s backtrack.

Have we met?

Do you own a scrapbook labeled “Operation Husband”?

Be honest.

@/JulesUnfiltered: only the digital kind!!! also i emailed your management about matching tattoos

***

@/Lola.LateAgain: would u date someone who only dates for clout asking for a friend

@/charles_leclerc: That friend sounds suspiciously like you.

@/Lola.LateAgain: rude. anyway, how famous are you really?

@/charles_leclerc: Famous enough to Google. Not famous enough to be having this conversation willingly.

***

@/RoxieWithIssues: hey charles you ever been to ibiza?? bc i’ve got a villa and handcuffs jk unless?

***

@/JoWithAView: charlessssssss if we dated u could crash into me any time xx also do u still talk to seb? bc i had a dream abt u both

@/charles_leclerc: What kind of dream?

@/JoWithAView: the kind i can't describe here but i made a Pinterest board

***

@/MilfInSector1: hi baby u like older women? i make a mean carbonara and bad decisions

@/charles_leclerc: Define “older.” Define “mean.” Define “bad.”

@/MilfInSector1: 55 Spicy 2008 tattoo of Alonso’s face on my thigh

@/charles_leclerc: …This was a mistake.

***

@/AlinaUnbothered: omg ur real??? like i thought this was a bot. or worse. pierre.

@/charles_leclerc: Define “worse.”

@/AlinaUnbothered: someone not emotionally devastated. r u?

@/charles_leclerc: I once wept to a Debussy piano solo while making risotto. Does that count?

@/AlinaUnbothered: ur perfect. i collect tiny ceramic frogs. is that a dealbreaker?

@/charles_leclerc: Only if they’re haunted.

@/AlinaUnbothered: some of them are

***

@/ToeSucker88: u have beautiful feet pls send pics i have a collage due

***

@/Cleo.CalmDown: Hey cutie. Do you like handcuffs?

@/charles_leclerc: Depends. Are we talking F1 steering wheel tethers or prison time?

@/Cleo.CalmDown: Whichever gets you sweating. Also, I once dated two brothers at the same time. You have any siblings?

@/charles_leclerc:…

***

@/FreyaLikesFire: Hi Charles. I don’t actually watch F1 but I think you’re the guy who plays the piano in that viral TikTok, right?

@/charles_leclerc: …Yes. And I also occasionally drive very expensive cars. Do you know what DRS is?

@/FreyaLikesFire: Isn’t that the drug that makes hamsters fight?

@/charles_leclerc: That’s not even close.

***

@/SashaWanders: If I was your Ferrari, would you drive me fast or slow?

@/charles_leclerc: You would probably overheat and break down before we made it out of Q2.

@/SashaWanders: Kinky.

***

@/IsabelButSpicier: I don’t really care what you do as long as you’re hot and sad.

@/charles_leclerc: You just described every Ferrari strategy debrief. But okay, go off.

***

@/ClaraAfterDark: Let’s cut to the chase. I don’t cook, I don’t clean, but I will emotionally destroy you in under ten minutes. Interested? You look like you cry after sex. I find that hot.

***

@/NinaKnowsBest: Hi future baby daddy How do you feel about naming our first child ‘Ferrari?’ Girl or boy doesn’t matter x

@/charles_leclerc: That child will be bullied from kindergarten to Monaco GP.

@/NinaKnowsBest: Not if they’re hot.

***

@/EmTheEnigma: Let’s play a game: if you had to choose between your dog and me, which one would you kiss goodnight?

@/charles_leclerc: Leo. No hesitation. ***

@/EvaInParis: Hey babe. Do you come with the Ferrari or do I have to steal one?

@/charles_leclerc: Hi. Have you ever been convicted of grand theft auto?

@/EvaInParis: LOL I plead the fifth.

@/charles_leclerc: This is Monaco. We don’t have the fifth. Goodbye.

***

@/SofiaOnSet: What’s your star sign? Asking to check if our birth charts align. I will not date another Virgo. I’ve had four. They all cried.

@/charles_leclerc:

I’m a Libra.

Are you planning on picking our wedding date using astrology?

Be honest—have you hexed an ex?

@/SofiaOnSet: That’s private.

@/charles_leclerc: So that’s a yes.

***

@/MayaWearsBlack: Can we skip the small talk? I only date drivers and DJs. You’re lucky you’re both hot and famous.

@/charles_leclerc:

Would you love me if I worked at a bakery?

How many drivers have you “dated”? Please round to the nearest dozen.

Do you know how to spell “empathy”? No autocorrect.

@/MayaWearsBlack: Who needs empathy when you’ve got a paddock pass?

@/charles_leclerc: Your honesty is terrifying. Goodbye.

***

@/TatianaFromIbiza: Let’s get married in Mykonos. I’ll bring the champagne, you bring the tux.

@/charles_leclerc: How do you feel about prenups?

@/TatianaFromIbiza: I’m an experience, not an investment.

@/charles_leclerc: You are a lawsuit waiting to happen.

***

@/BiancaWithIntentions: soooo if i date u, do i get paddock passes? asking for my sister (and me, obviously)

@/charles_leclerc: That depends. Would you say your intentions are: A) Romantic B) Opportunistic C) “Saw Drive to Survive and decided to try my luck”

@/BiancaWithIntentions: D) All of the above lol

***

@/VeraUnfiltered: I think you’re the one. I already told my therapist about you. She says I’m too impulsive but what does she know?

@/charles_leclerc: How long ago did you swipe right?

@/VeraUnfiltered: Twelve minutes. But I can feel things.

@/charles_leclerc: Like restraining orders approaching in the distance?

***

@/RomyInRed: Would you date someone who has been banned from Ibiza?

@/charles_leclerc: Follow-up questions:

What did you do in Ibiza?

Was it arson?

Are you legally allowed to leave the country?

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: bro

Arthur: we have a situation

Lorenzo: what did you do

Arthur: it’s not what I did it’s what the women of Raya have done to me

Lorenzo: Arthur.

Arthur: I opened the messages for Charles and I’m genuinely afraid

Lorenzo: Afraid of what??

Arthur: of toe pics witchcraft and one woman who casually mentioned she has a tattoo of Alonso on her thigh like. full face. 2008 Renault colors.

Lorenzo: I’m going to be sick.

Arthur: they’re all insane one of them collects haunted ceramic frogs another said she wants Charles to crash into her

Lorenzo: You created this account You brought this on yourself This is karma. This is divine justice.

Arthur: I was trying to help Charles find love but apparently Charles’ vibe attracts women who have cursed amulets and open warrants

Lorenzo: Delete it.

Arthur: No. I can fix this. I just need filters. And maybe an exorcism.

***

Pascale was in the kitchen, folding linen napkins with the serene efficiency of a woman who had raised three sons, lived through Charles’ La La Land phase, and once confiscated a bottle of cologne that smelled like “heartbreak and leather.”

Arthur hovered in the doorway like a raccoon with a secret.

“Maman?”

“Yes?”

“…I need to confess something.”

She looked up, suspicious. “Did you crash another scooter?”

“No. Worse.”

She put the napkins down slowly. “Go on.”

“I made Charles a Raya profile.”

A beat of silence.

“And I’ve been pretending to be him. Vetting the women. And—please don’t yell—but I think I might’ve… accidentally turned him into a sex symbol with commitment issues.”

Pascale blinked once. Then reached for her wine glass. “What exactly does that mean?”

Arthur swallowed. “One woman sent a voice memo that was just her breathing heavily. Another wrote an essay about his collarbones. And someone named ‘MILFInSector1’ offered to show him her Alonso tattoo. On her thigh, Maman.”

She closed her eyes. “Show me the profile.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m disappointed. In your taste.”

Arthur handed over the phone like it was radioactive.

She scrolled through in silence.

First: shirtless boat pic. Then: shirtless workout mirror selfie. Then: Charles shirtless on a beach, looking like he was about to write a tragic sonnet about the sea.

“Arthur,” she said slowly. “Is he wearing a shirt in any of these?”

“Technically… no.”

She tapped the screen. “This one looks like he just seduced a widow on the Italian coast and then vanished before sunrise.”

“That was the vibe!”

She gave him a look. “And this one? With Leo? Shirtless again?”

“It’s the dog dad bait. Women love a soft side.”

“He looks like a cover model for Brooding Bachelor: Mediterranean Edition.”

Arthur grinned. “Exactly.”

Pascale sighed like she’d aged ten years in five minutes. “Read me the bio.”

Arthur cleared his throat.

“Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives through the Italian countryside and strong espresso. Swipe right if you can keep up—on the track or off it.”

Pascale stared. Then sipped her wine with great purpose.

“You wrote this like he’s a walking cologne commercial with a god complex.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment. We’re fixing it. Sit down.”

They sat down at the table. Pascale adjusted her glasses like she was about to perform surgery.

“First, we’re removing at least three of the shirtless photos. Leave one. Two max. Any more and he looks like he’s trying to sell protein powder and regrets.”

“Can we keep the Leo one?”

“He’s shirtless and holding the dog. That’s double bait. You’re not stacking emotional manipulation with abs.”

Arthur sulked. “The steering wheel hands?”

“That one can stay. It’s tasteful. Mysterious. Almost… cinematic.”

Arthur perked up. “Knew you’d get it.”

“Now,” she said, rewriting the bio, “‘Swipe right if you can keep up’ makes him sound like he’s running from Interpol. We’re dialing it back.”

They replaced it with:

“Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays. Quiet mornings, loud engines. Looking for someone kind—with a sense of humor and a stronger tolerance for espresso than me.”

Arthur blinked. “That’s… actually kind of good.”

“I raised you,” she said simply.

She also added a hard filter: “No users with the words ‘feral,’ ‘MILF,’ or ‘toe’ in their usernames.”

Arthur blinked again. “How do you know this much about dating apps?”

Pascale sipped her wine and smiled. “Darling. I may be a widow. I’m not dead.”

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (still illegally operated by Arthur)

@/AnaSaysMaybe: So… are you actually looking for something serious or just another Italian summer situationship?

@/charles_leclerc: Ideally something meaningful. No drama. No performative sadness.

@/AnaSaysMaybe: But you're a Ferrari driver.

@/charles_leclerc: Touché.

***

@/SimoneAtSunset: Okay but real talk: Is the “piano at night” thing a metaphor for vulnerability, or are you actually playing piano?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m actually playing piano.

@/SimoneAtSunset: That’s either the hottest thing I’ve ever heard or the most manipulative.

***

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Your profile is giving tragic espresso husband. I love it.

@/charles_leclerc: That’s… oddly flattering. Thank you.

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Just a heads up though—I don’t reply to texts between the hours of 11 p.m. and 4 p.m. And I ghost people when Mercury’s in retrograde.

@/charles_leclerc: So you ghost people… for sixteen hours a day?

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Self-care x

***

@/AstridOnFire: You had me at “piano at night.” I melt for emotionally repressed men with a flair for the dramatic.

@/charles_leclerc: I’m… not sure that’s the healthiest criteria, but alright.

@/AstridOnFire: It’s okay, I fix people.

@/charles_leclerc: That is the least reassuring sentence I’ve ever read.

***

@/CamilleOnCamera: Are you actually looking for a relationship? Or are you just here to cry to Chopin and pretend you're okay?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m open to something real. Why?

@/CamilleOnCamera: Because I don’t do emotions, but I do look great in photos. So if you want a beautiful mutual breakdown, I’m your girl.

***

@/JulietteFromNowhere: You seem genuinely lovely, but just so you know—I bring a lot of intensity to relationships. Like, “sent my ex a Spotify playlist titled ‘Haunt Me Forever’” energy.

@/charles_leclerc: …Out of curiosity, how long after the breakup?

@/JulietteFromNowhere:Six months. But I made the playlist during the relationship. Just in case.

***

@/ZaraLikesChaos: Do you believe in soulmates or is that too cringe?

@/charles_leclerc: I think it depends. Soulmates, maybe. Destiny, yes.

@/ZaraLikesChaos: Good answer. Anyway, my tarot reader says I’m going to marry someone with intense eyebrows. I’m pretty sure it’s you.

***

@/TaliaWithoutLimits: What’s your opinion on monogamy?

@/charles_leclerc: Essential, if I’m being honest.

@/TaliaWithoutLimits: Shame. I’m more of a… rotating-cast-of-men kind of girl. But I thought maybe I’d make an exception if you were taller.

***

@/NaomiNotNice: You look like you feel things. I like that in a man.

@/charles_leclerc: …Thank you?

@/NaomiNotNice: Do you mind if I name our first child Enzo?

@/charles_leclerc: We haven’t even met yet.

@/NaomiNotNice: Manifesting.

***

@/MilaInMotion: What’s your relationship with your mother like?

@/charles_leclerc: Close. She helps with most of my major life decisions.

@/MilaInMotion: Oh. Yeah. That’s going to be a problem for me. I’m allergic to mother-in-laws.

***

@/DaphneOnTheRun: Your dog is adorable. I trust men more when they’re dog people.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo is the most stable relationship I’ve had.

@/DaphneOnTheRun: Same. My ex stole my cat in the breakup, but I got the espresso machine. Also, I burned his passport.

@/charles_leclerc: Wait what

***

@/EvaAfterMidnight: Hi. If we go out, please don’t talk to me about F1. I’ll pretend to care, but it’s mostly for the photos.

@/charles_leclerc: …Charming.

***

@/LucieOffGrid: Hi. You have a dog, a soul, and a tragic vibe. I’m intrigued. I live on a boat most of the year. No Wi-Fi. I churn my own butter.

@/charles_leclerc: That’s incredibly niche. How do you… date people?

@/LucieOffGrid: I don’t. I just appear in their lives, ruin them, and disappear again. Like fog. Or ex-girlfriends.

@/charles_leclerc: Oh dear God.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: progress report

Lorenzo: this can’t be good

Arthur: we are still getting weirdos…but they are technically better weirdos?

Lorenzo: Define “technically”

Arthur: no toe pics no thigh tattoos no one’s tried to hex him with moon water yet

Lorenzo: So… less weird?

Arthur: less weird but not normal

Arthur: example: one girl churns her own butter and lives on her boat another just sent him her cat’s star chart

Lorenzo: I don’t know if this is evolution or a new form of crisis

Arthur: they’re soft weirdos now like chaotic but moisturized

Lorenzo: and you haven’t found anyone normal?

Arthur: define “normal” because one girl said she’s emotionally allergic to mothers another made a Spotify playlist titled ‘haunt me forever’ for her ex boyfriend

Lorenzo: You deserve this

Arthur: excuse me I’ve filtered out the truly cursed ones

Lorenzo: That’s like bragging about evacuating only some of the haunted dolls

Arthur: baby steps we’re moving in the right direction

***

Arthur was sitting cross-legged on the couch, hoodie up, blue light permanently etched into his retinas. His thumb moved on instinct now, scrolling through Raya like a war veteran—twitching every time he saw the words “feral,” “open relationship,” or “wanna crash into me?”

He was ready to give up.

And then.

@/lydiacolbert

Her profile popped up like a glitch in the system. A miracle in neutral tones.

Photos:

Lydia petting a small cream dachshund on a sunny terrace.

Lydia on a bike, holding her face in the sun.

Lydia laughing in Mykonos. Natural. Unbothered. Beautiful.

Lydia holding a flower pot like it’s an award she just earned.

Lydia’s dog—in a sweater. A blue sweater and a pink collar. Judging the camera.

Bio:

Currently accepting applications from people who enjoy quiet mornings, dry wit, and very judgmental dachshunds. Looking for something real. Or someone who won’t mind that my dog hates 90% of men.

Arthur sat up straight.

He reread it.

Then again.

“Charles,” he whispered to no one. “This is her. This is the one Leo won’t bark at.”

He clicked into the profile, skimmed her answers.

Interests: Cooking. Books. Dogs. Art museums. Sarcasm. Mild chaos. Turn-ons: Honesty. Calm confidence. Emotionally intelligent introverts.

Arthur blinked. “Oh my god, she’s hot and sane.”

He hit match faster than Charles on a quali lap in Monaco.

Seconds later: MATCHED.

Arthur stood, fists in the air. “YES. YES. FINALLY.”

Leo—who was asleep on a pillow in the corner—lifted his head in alarm. Arthur turned to him, grinning.

“Buddy,” he said breathlessly, “you’re getting a sister.”

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: I FOUND HER WE’RE SAVED

Lorenzo: You matched with a therapist?

Arthur: Better. Model. Dachshund. Judgmental. Possibly magic. Mild chaos. No witchcraft.

Lorenzo: …What’s the catch?

Arthur: There is no catch.

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (operated by Arthur Leclerc, matchmaking menace)

@/lydiacolbert has matched with you. ✅

@/lydiacolbert: Hi Charles. I don’t usually message first, but your dog looks exactly like mine when he’s silently judging me for talking to men on the internet. I respect that kind of energy.

Arthur stared at the screen.

Then sat bolt upright.

“She’s perfect.”

Leo looked up from the corner, unimpressed.

Arthur cracked his knuckles and whispered, “Do not ruin this.”

He typed back—cautiously, like approaching a feral cat that might also own a book deal.

@/charles_leclerc: Hello. I think Leo and your dog would get along. Or at least agree to judge us quietly from opposite sides of the room.

@/lydiacolbert: That’s honestly the most romantic thing I’ve read on this app. Désirée only tolerates people who can make risotto and don’t talk during movies. She once growled at a man who suggested pineapple on pizza. She was right.

Arthur blinked. Whispered, “Marry her.”

He texted Lorenzo immediately.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: She messaged FIRST.

Lorenzo: Who??

Arthur: LYDIA. Dog girl. Sanity girl. Flower-pot-on-a-bike girl.

Lorenzo: And?

Arthur: She’s funny. She’s dry. Her dog’s name is Désirée. She likes risotto and hates pineapple on pizza. I think Leo just wagged his tail at the screen.

Lorenzo: …You’re not qualified to handle this.

Arthur: I KNOW. I need backup. Should I respond with poetry or just ask her what her dog’s birth chart is?

Lorenzo: Respond like a normal person. And don’t mention astrology.

***

Back in the app, Arthur took a breath. And for once, he typed like Charles would.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo once refused to walk for three blocks because someone in a Juventus jersey smiled at him. I trust his instincts more than my own at this point.

@/lydiacolbert: A man after my own heart. Or at least after my dog’s high standards. What’s your risotto strategy?

Arthur choked on his Coke Zero.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “She’s real. She’s emotionally literate. And she cooks.”

He took a beat. Typed.

@/charles_leclerc: Parmesan. Patience. A disturbing number of YouTube tutorials. And wine. Always wine.

@/lydiacolbert: Noted. Désirée says we’ll allow one date.

Arthur stared at the message. Then slowly turned to Leo.

“Buddy,” he whispered. “We might’ve found her.”

***

Group Chat: Raya Redemption HQ 💘🐾

Members: Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale, Joris

Arthur: EVERYONE SHUT UP AND LOOK AT THIS WOMAN

Arthur: screenshot of Lydia’s profile ✨Model. Dachshund. Wears linen. Reads books. Owns plants. Emotionally stable.✨ WE ARE NO LONGER IN CRISIS

Lorenzo: Did she send you toe pics?

Arthur: NO. She sent a message about her dog judging her for messaging men. It was dry. It was flirty. It was sane. She makes risotto and hates pineapple on pizza. I’m in love for Charles.

Joris: So… we’re not deleting the app after all?

Arthur: No. We’re framing this match and hanging it above the fireplace.

Pascale: Arthur, I swear to God, if you are still pretending to be your brother, this woman deserves better than whatever Cirque du Soleil act you’re pulling.

Arthur: Maman, relax. I’m being tasteful. No shirtless photos, no espresso metaphors. We even discussed dogs before pasta.

Lorenzo: That’s the most terrifying sentence I’ve read today.

Arthur: I’M DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT. Even Leo approved. He wagged his tail. Once.

Pascale: You bribed him with ham, didn’t you?

Arthur: That’s beside the point.

Joris: Okay, but real talk—what’s the plan here? Are you going to tell Charles at some point, or is he just going to find out he’s dating someone from an app he never downloaded?

Arthur: We’ll ease him into it. Like exposure therapy. Step 1: Let him spiral less. Step 2: Keep messaging Lydia until she’s emotionally invested. Step 3: Gently reveal the deception. Step 4: Wedding.

Lorenzo: You skipped “tell the truth” and “deal with the emotional fallout” in your little master plan.

Pascale: I raised criminals.

Arthur: You raised innovators.

Pascale: When Charles finds out, I’m making all of you explain it to him. In person. While I film it.

Arthur: You’ll thank me when he’s married to the elegant Parisian woman with a judgmental dachshund and a normal relationship with emotional intimacy.

Lorenzo: Or he’ll drown you in the Monaco marina.

Arthur: That’s a risk I’m willing to take.

***

Charles took a sip of his espresso and opened Twitter with the innocent hope of seeing race predictions or maybe a meme about Pierre’s new sunglasses.

Instead, the first thing he saw was a tweet with his face and the words:

@/paddocktea:okay but WHO is running charles leclerc’s raya account(s) bc i just found TWO and they are… spiritually different??? exhibit a: “Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives and women who don’t ask too many questions.” vs “Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays. Looking for someone kind and espresso-tolerant.” one of these was written by a shirtless man with cologne in his eyes and the other by someone’s extremely French mother

[2 screenshots attached]

Charles blinked.

Scrolled.

Opened the replies.

@/feralgirlsf1: first version: "I will ruin you in Lake Como" second version: "I will feed you carbonara and never leave" who is writing this man’s character arc

@/drive_me_delirious: I KNOW ARTHUR MADE THE FIRST ONE. I KNOW IT IN MY BONES. but who made the sad poet rebrand? because I want to thank her

@/alonsohater420: Pascale Leclerc. That’s my theory. That woman raised sons and keeps receipts.

@/feralforferrari: “Winner of your heart” STOP WHO LET HIM TYPE THAT???

@/leoclubfanpage: not me cross-referencing shirtless beach pics with his Instagram to determine authenticity 💀

@/wifedashboard: someone said the new bio sounds like his maman made it and honestly?? not wrong

Charles put down his espresso with surgical care.

Then clicked on the screenshots.

First one:

Shirtless. Mykonos.

Shirtless. Beach.

Shirtless. Leo.

“Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights.”

He audibly choked.

Second one:

Sweater. Steering wheel.

“Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays.”

***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc and Lorenzo Leclerc

Charles: WHAT IS THIS

Lorenzo: …Good morning?

Charles: WHY AM I TRENDING FOR A RAYA PROFILE I’VE NEVER MADE??? WHY ARE THERE TWO OF THEM??

Lorenzo: Define “trending.”

Charles: Lorenzo. There are slideshows. There are threads.

Charles: There are comparative analyses of which version of my fictional dating self is hotter.

Charles: Someone said the first one was “sex on a Vespa” and the second one was “grief with a good red.”

Lorenzo: ...Okay but that’s honestly fair.

Charles: WHO. DID. THIS.

Lorenzo: I think now’s a good time to ask if you are in the country…

Charles: LORENZO.

Lorenzo: Okay. Fine. The first one was Arthur. The second one was… a joint operation.

Charles: WHAT.

Lorenzo: Arthur made the original profile without your knowledge. You were spiraling. He panicked. Then he asked Maman for help and she helped him rebrand you into someone… softer.

Charles: YOU LET MAMAN EDIT MY FAKE DATING PROFILE??

Lorenzo: She cut out the shirtless pics. You should be grateful.

Charles: I AM GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

***

Group Chat: Les Leclercs

Members: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale

Charles: ARE YOU ALL OUT OF YOUR MINDS???

Charles: I woke up to find out I apparently have not one, but TWO dating profiles.

Charles: TWO. ON RAYA. WITH BIOS.

Charles: AND PHOTOS. OF MY BODY. WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE.

Arthur: hi love would you like a chamomile tea and a therapist or should I start running

Charles: YOU PUT “WINNER OF YOUR HEART” IN THE BIO.

Pascale: I removed it. The first one made you sound like a cologne ad that’s banned in most countries. The second one is tasteful. Sophisticated. A man with depth and a signature pasta.

Charles: YOU REBRANDED ME AS A TRAGIC HUSBAND?!?

Arthur: you’re welcome

Charles: WHAT WOULD POSSESS YOU TO DO THIS

Arthur: you said “I’m emotionally unlovable at a molecular level” while listening to Debussy

Arthur: you were spiraling I intervened with vibes and wi-fi

Lorenzo: Arthur called it “Operation Raya Redemption” We even had a shared folder

Charles: A FOLDER???

Arthur: look bro we were just trying to get you off the floor and into the emotional arms of someone whose dog wears sweaters

Charles: WHAT DOES THAT MEAN

Lorenzo: …Arthur. Now is a good time.

Arthur: right okay so

Arthur: you got a match

Charles: NO.

Arthur: YES.

Pascale: She messaged first. That’s a good sign. Confident. Emotionally balanced.

Charles: NO ONE IS EMOTIONALLY BALANCED IN THIS FAMILY

Arthur: her name is Lydia she’s a model she lives in Paris and she has a dachshund named Désirée who wears sweaters and hates most men so obviously, she’s perfect

Lorenzo: She likes sarcasm, risotto, and espresso. She messaged to say your dog looks like hers when judging her for dating. You flirted about risotto for like six messages.

Charles: I DID WHAT??

Arthur: technically I flirted but I was channeling your tragic poet energy so it was spiritually accurate

Pascale: She’s very elegant. Also, she uses punctuation in her messages. We vetted her.

Charles: YOU VETTED HER??

Arthur: Maman and I read her Instagram captions. She passed. No star sign rants. No frog collections. Her bookshelf had actual books.

Charles: I’m going to lie down and scream into a pillow.

Arthur: you’re welcome.

Lorenzo: You should at least meet Lydia.

Pascale: She has excellent hair. You owe it to Leo.

Charles: …what does Leo have to do with this

Arthur: he wagged his tail when he saw her dog’s photo it was a sign

Pascale: I really think she’s a good match, Charles. She didn’t even bring up racing. Just said your dog looked adorable.

Charles: I AM DELETING THIS APP I AM DELETING THIS FAMILY CHAT I AM DELETING MYSELF

***

Charles was sitting on the floor. Because of course he was.

His phone sat on the couch above him, like a bomb. Still open to the group chat where his family casually confessed to identity theft and matchmaking in one breath.

He sighed.

Then, like a man opening a cursed scroll, he opened the Raya app. Logged in with the password Arthur had supplied: Pinsàroulettes16 (Arthur was not subtle.Charles should probably consider himself lucky that nobody had hacked it yet.)

New Matches: 1 @/lydiacolbert ✅

He blinked at the name.

Then the profile.

Paris.

Model.

Cream-colored dachshund in a blue sweater.

Laughing in Mykonos.

Holding a flower pot like it told her a secret.

Judgmental but kind eyes.

Her bio:

Currently accepting applications from people who enjoy quiet mornings, dry wit, and very judgmental dachshunds. Looking for something real. Or someone who won’t mind that my dog hates 90% of men.

Charles stared.

Then scrolled to the messages.

@/lydiacolbert: Hi Charles. I don’t usually message first, but your dog looks exactly like mine when he’s silently judging me for talking to men on the internet. I respect that kind of energy.

@/charles_leclerc (aka Arthur): Hello. I think Leo and your dog would get along. Or at least agree to judge us quietly from opposite sides of the room.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo once refused to walk for three blocks because someone in a Juventus jersey smiled at him. I trust his instincts more than my own at this point.

@/lydiacolbert: A man after my own heart. Or at least after my dog’s high standards. What’s your risotto strategy?

@/charles_leclerc: Parmesan. Patience. A disturbing number of YouTube tutorials. And wine. Always wine.

@/lydiacolbert: Noted. Désirée says we’ll allow one date.

Charles sat very still.

Then read it again.

He felt something ridiculous tug at the corner of his mouth.

Leo stretched next to him and sighed—like even he was judging him a little less now.

Charles hesitated.

Then, for the first time, typed something himself.

@/charles_leclerc: Would Désirée tolerate a walk with Leo sometime next week? I promise not to suggest pineapple on anything.

He hit send.

Then set the phone down.

And muttered to Leo, “If I marry her, you’re getting a tux.”

Leo rolled over, unimpressed.

***

Charles arrived early. Like, way early. Like, sat-down-twenty-minutes-before-the-reservation-straightening-the-salt-shakers early.

Leo was wearing his least-offensive harness—the navy one Pascale called “respectable.” Charles had asked his mother to steam his shirt because he would have burned it. And he’d spent ten minutes standing in front of his cologne collection with the expression of a man selecting a weapon for emotional battle.

He went with the subtle one. The one that didn’t smell like haunted heartbreak on the Riviera.

Now he was trying not to pass out.

He kept checking his phone—not for messages, but to reread hers. Like they were prayers. Or sheet music. Something steady. Predictable. Beautiful.

He was on the fourth reread when he heard a soft “Hi.”

And he looked up.

And that was it.

Time? Paused. Brain? Empty. Soul? Gone. Sold. Stolen.

Because yes, Lydia looked like her pictures. The soft light, the clean lines, the effortless grace. But in real life, she looked like sunlight through linen curtains. Like the kind of quiet joy you don’t realize you’ve been missing until it’s there, in front of you, wearing ankle boots and a knowing smile.

And behind her, trotting like a tiny fashion editor late for brunch, was Désirée—new sweater, same disapproval.

Charles stood too fast. Knocked his knee on the table.

“Hi. Bonjour. Sorry. I’m—hi.”

Lydia tilted her head, smiling like someone who wasn’t startled by awkward men but delighted by them.

“That’s a lot of hellos.”

“I panicked,” he confessed, trying to smile but probably just grimacing.

“Well,” she said, settling across from him, “panic suits you.”

They sat. Leo gave Désirée a slow blink. Désirée gave Leo a look that said You are lucky I’m in a tolerant mood. Neither barked. It was, Charles decided, a miracle.

They ordered drinks. A croissant for him. An oat milk cappuccino for her. Two biscuits for the dogs. And the conversation just... happened.

They talked about risotto (“Saffron?” “Obviously.”) About books. About espresso machines (“Manual or capsule?” “Is that even a question?”). About why Désirée once growled at a barista for adding whipped cream. (“It was a crime against coffee,” Lydia said, without irony.)

And with every laugh, every dry observation, every easy silence, something in Charles started to settle. Like maybe he wasn’t broken. Like maybe he was just… waiting.

Until the warmth in his chest got too dangerous.

And he blurted it out.

“I need to confess something.”

Lydia paused, cappuccino halfway to her mouth. “Okay. I’m listening. Should I be concerned?”

Charles exhaled. “Maybe.”

She leaned in slightly. “Did you lie about being able to make risotto? Because honestly, I’d survive.”

“No. I can make risotto.”

“Then what is it?”

Charles swallowed. “This profile. On Raya. It wasn’t me. Not at first. It was my brother. Arthur. He made it without telling me.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“And then,” Charles continued grimly, “my maman got involved. She edited it. There were… filters. There was a group chat. I only found out after it went viral on Twitter.”

Lydia blinked.

Then leaned back. Processing.

Then she squinted.

“Wait—both versions of your profile were real?”

Charles groaned. “Yes. One was Arthur’s masterpiece. All shirtless photos and chaos. The other was… Arthur’s chaos, edited by a woman who once made me redo a thank-you note because it wasn’t emotionally sincere.”

And then—

She laughed.

Not a polite giggle. Not a smirk.

A full, head-back, eyes-crinkled, joyful laugh.

“You’re telling me,” she gasped, “your mother edited your Raya profile?”

Charles nodded miserably. “She cut the shirtless photos. Said I was ‘the first one made me sound like a cologne ad that’s banned in most countries.’ Her words. Not mine.”

“I love your family already,” Lydia said, still wheezing. Désirée sneezed under the table, as if in agreement.

Charles looked at her sideways. “So… you’re not running?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “But I am making fun of you for this forever.”

He laughed—really laughed. The kind that surprised him. The kind that had been stuck behind his ribs since Sophie. The kind he didn’t know he missed until this exact moment.

Then Lydia, still grinning, reached across the table and stole half his croissant with zero shame.

Charles blinked at her, stunned.

“So… am I meeting your mum on the second date or the third?” He nearly choked on his espresso.

She leaned closer and said, very softly, “I’m really glad you showed up—even if it took your brother, your mother, and a deeply haunted dating app to make it happen,”

And Charles, soft, stunned, grinning like a fool, thought:

I’m screwed. She’s it. Leo’s going to need a tux.

***

Group Chat: Les Leclercs

Charles: I met her.

Arthur: WHO LYDIA??

Charles: Yes.

Arthur: IS SHE REAL OR WAS THAT PROFILE A TRAP LAID BY A SUPERNATURAL ENTITY??

Charles: She’s real. And not a ghost. Unless ghosts can steal your croissant and your soul in the same hour.

Lorenzo: Define “steal your soul.”

Charles: She laughed at my confession. Not at me. With me. Said she’s making fun of me forever and then ate half my pastry like it was her birthright.

Lorenzo: ...I think you’re in love.

Arthur: WAIT. BACK UP. YOU TOLD HER???

Charles: I panicked. She asked what my risotto confession was and it just— came out.

Pascale: And what did she say?

Charles: She laughed. Like, full-body, eyes-crinkled, gorgeous laugh. Then said she loved my family already.

Pascale: She has taste.

Arthur: I AM A GENIUS.

Lorenzo: You’re a liability.

Arthur: A romantic visionary. I BROUGHT THIS WOMAN INTO OUR LIVES.

Charles: You catfished her.

Arthur: Tomato, tomahto.

Pascale: Invite her to Sunday lunch.

Charles: Already did.

Arthur: WHAT

Lorenzo: WHAT

Pascale: Good boy.

Charles: She said yes. She wants to meet the people responsible for her favorite romantic heist.

Arthur: I’m going to cry

Lorenzo: Please don’t.

Arthur: Do you think Désirée would let me hold her?? Or is that reserved for emotionally mysterious men and premium-grade deli meats?

Charles: She said you need to pass an emotional vibe check.

Arthur: I AM an emotional vibe check.

Charles: Anyway. I like her. I really like her.

Arthur: Can I make a speech at the wedding?

Charles: Absolutely not.

Arthur: ...Too late. Already drafting one.

1K notes · View notes

cherry-leclerc · 27 days ago

Text

pride ☆ cl16

genre: smut, manipulation, erotic literature, egotistical reader+charles, rivals to "lovers", tennis!reader, a bit of fluff and humor, mentions of depression, mentions to suicide, mentions of alcoholism

word count: 14.1k

pride (noun) — a feeling of deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one's own achievements, the achievements of those with whom one is closely associated, or from qualities or possessions that are widely admired.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...pwp, unprotected sex, cowgirl, doggy style, fingering, fingers in mouth bc why not?

inspired by red sex (re-strung) [rakhi singh] !

cherry here!...thank you all for being so patient with me and for sticking around—welcome to the twisted world of prideeee mwah!

You’re both on opposite sides of the world with very little knowledge about one another when they break the news.

You and the Monegasque like to think that your guys’ reaction was quite valid.

“Fuck!”

Smashing your tennis racket against the green court, you let out a yell slithered with a deep trace of agony, feeling your vocal cords threaten you to snap with how raw and cruel the sound is. That alone makes your manager, Lisa, flinch harshly, quickly covering her ears as she squints her eyes with bewilderment. Up and down, you raise the paddle, each time crushing it harder against the concrete, pieces of plastic flying everywhere as your face burns red with fury. And for a moment there, the blond woman who’s devoted most of her life to you and your religiously famous family, begins to wonder—what the fuck have I gotten myself into?

Letting go of the racket, you stomp on it this time until it’s no longer recognizable. Lisa curses beneath her breath, somehow having it mixed with a wince as she takes a steady step back before hugging her tablet against her chest as some sort of shield, just in case you decide to swing at her next. Lord knows you have it in you. Grinding your teeth, your dark eyes finally meet hers as you inch closer, enough that you can spit at her if that was really your intention. She prays it’s not.

Who got the cover?

“Fuck!”

Throwing his steering wheel worth more than life itself, Charles lets out a yell, something that catches everyone around him by surprise because he’s not usually like this. He doesn’t normally lose his temper this way, and if he ever does, it’s definitely not in front of his loyal team.

As soon as it makes its impact with the floor, it shatters into a million little pieces, making him scream until his throat hurts, foot stomping all over, making things much, much worse. Isaiah, his manager, nearly makes a run for it as soon as the Monegasque reaches for his helmet, chucking it towards the nearest wall, a loud crack following rapidly. He hears the murmurs behind the heat of his ears, he hears the way the mechanics all mumble to one another, but honestly, he doesn’t give a single fuck about any of that right now.

Who got the cover?

Right—the cover to the most prestigious magazine of all time. Generations and generations of actors, singers, models, entrepreneurs—athletes—who have fought their way against one another for it. To stand out in ways very few can.

Vogue.

Everyone has the same goal—to be the face printed onto the front page. It’s plain and simple. But to get there was the trouble.

May’s issue. That’s where you’re trying to be. And the funny thing is that you should've been chosen by now. You’ve been having your best season yet. Becoming a professional tennis player has always been a part of your destiny, since birth. It’s just the way things have played out in your favor. How exactly? Well, because your father injected his talent into your veins—he was no ten-time Grand Slam winner for no reason.

Your entire childhood has been filled with luxury all thanks to him. You saw trophies shine brighter than stars, you felt medals weigh heavier than boulders, and you savored all his accomplishments as if they were your own. And in hindsight, they sort of were.

Like it was just yesterday, you can still picture him, forming a gun with his fingers, shooting it at you with a proud smile, crinkles indicating his pure euphoria. Three fingers, aimed at you and your two older brothers—one to indicate Bennett, one to indicate Vinnie, and one to indicate you. Your mother never liked that stupid celebration of his, she never understood it, but you didn’t really care about that—it was never meant for her, so why was it to matter?

You remember the way you’d tag along to his tennis practices, to his prestigious photoshoots, and you remember how much you loved it. Time and time again, you begged him to teach you how to play, how to win. Only that was where you learned his secret to success.

“You have to view everybody else as the loser,” he’d advise with a cigarette in his mouth. You rarely saw him smoke, but when you did, he became a little bit more open and honest. He’d cover your nose with a spare towel to prevent you from inhaling too much second hand smoke and made you swear not to tattle on him, and you always promised the exact same thing: this is just between you and I. “Think of yourself as the winner. Think about winning because there is no other option. Do you want to be pitied?”

“No,” you’d respond firmly. “I want to be just like you.”

He’d laugh, always that same laugh. The one that sounded like it was fading into the clouds, but at the same time, more alive than ever. Your eyes would twinkle, indicating your admiration towards him like no other.

“There’s only one me, sweetheart.” A sly smile. “But there’s only one of you.” Blowing a gray puff of smoke into your face, you’d giggle, digging it deeper into the clean rag. “And I think that’s worth more.”

He died a few years later. Your mother blamed it on the drugs, your brothers blamed on the fame, but you blamed it on the heartbreak of being left to die in the dust as soon as new blood entered the game. Whatever it was, it ruined what was left of your family.

Only recently, you’ve been going through a rough patch yourself. You can’t put a finger on the last time you won a match, one that boosted your ego the same way it boosted your paycheck. The thrill was dying and apparently so was your talent. So, yeah, you need the Vogue cover.

You needed validation.

“You’re s-still under consideration, Charles,” Isaiah stutters, tucking his chin in order to avoid his strict gaze. “You just need to stand out, that’s all.”

He knows what Isaiah means by that—he needs to win again in order to gain their attention.

Quite frankly, the Ferrari driver never really cared for things like this. He never understood what the fight was for, it was never a part of his agenda. Until this year. When Lewis first joined the team, the Monegasque was quick to be waterboarded with all of his accomplishments—his championships, his race wins, his pole positions, his podiums. Everything about him screamed utter perfection.

And regularly, he wouldn’t let that get to him. This was his friend, he should be proud of that, but all of the comparisons are what wore him down eventually, one sucker punch at a time. Then, the opportunity to be the face of Vogue’s May issue came up.

“Wow.” Lewis whistled, brown orbs trained onto the screen where Zhou took his Ferrari on a test run. He smiled, dimples forming. “That’s a pretty big deal, innit?”

Was it? To be fair, the green eyed driver couldn’t tell, but the way the Brit said it made him think, yeah—it was a massive deal. Charles chuckled, arms crossed with his excitement building up higher than any skyscraper planted on Earth. “It’d be kinda cool to get it, I suppose.”

“Cool?” Lewis teased light heartedly. “It’ll set you for life, man, that’s what it’ll do for ya.”

And he couldn’t help but ask, he couldn’t help but feel confused. The Monegasque titled his head, thick brows knitting together. “Set me for life, how?”

Just then, Zhou pulled back into the garage, gaining Lewis’ attention, and he’s about to walk away, but before he had the chance to, he shrugged sheepishly.

“I’d put a heavy layer of respect onto your last name, that’s for sure.”

And he was right. Getting the cover of Vogue would make everyone take him seriously. He’d no longer be the one hiding in Lewis’s shadow, he'd no longer be the scapegoat or Ferrari's dry spell—he’d be the one.

He needed it.

“You’re up against Charles Leclerc,” Lisa said all at once, waiting for you to throw another tantrum. But it never comes. Instead, you ask—

Who’s that?

Isaiah freezes. “How do you not know who she is?”

Charles sighs. “I don’t have time for this, just tell me, will you?”

The black haired man shakes his head, swiping a finger along his tablet for a split second before flipping his screen towards him. There, with the brightest screen ever, the Monegasque squints, reading your name, followed by a last name that comes off far more familiar than he’d like to admit.

“Wait a second—she’s the daughter of that one tennis player? You know, the one who won eight Grand Sla—”

“Ten,” Isaiah corrects him like a little know-it-all before deflating beneath the harsh glare. “But yes. That would be her. She’s had a spectacular year. Well, up until—”

Lisa’s eyes widened. “How do you not know who Charles Lecelrc is?”

“Leclerc,” you repeat, furrowing your neat brows. “Leclerc, Lerclerc, Lecelerc…huh?” And then it hits you harder than a tide. You snap your fingers loudly. “Hold on! He’s the son of that one driver so long ago, uh, what’s his name? Ju…Ju…”

“Jules Bianchi?” Lisa offers, making you nod fiercely. She laughs. “Only that’s not his son, he’s his godfather. His father was Hervé Leclerc. He passed away a couple years ago.”

“Oh,” you mumble. “Yeah. My father used to be friends with his, I think.”

Charles rubs his eyes. “My father used to be friends with hers. I remember now.”

Isaiah grins, as if his realization might mean something to him. It doesn’t. “She’s been having a bit of bad luck on court, but she’s one of the highest grossing tennis players of all time.”

“So what?” Charles shoots back. “I’m one of the highest grossing drivers of all time, aren’t I? Are they seriously pitting me against a nobody?”

“—he looks like such a snob,” you declare, grabbing a small towel from your duffel bag, patting yourself dry, no longer interested in practicing, though you could really use it. “Like he assumes everything is for him. It’s obnoxious.”

“—she looks like a petty little princess,” Charles announces, slipping his gloves off as he reaches for his water bottle, chugging down most of it in less than a second. Pulling away from his straw, he rolls his eyes. “It's like she thinks everything will fall into the palm of her hand. It’s obnoxious.”

Lisa bites her tongue.

Isaiah bites his tongue.

Sitting down on a wooden bench, the one your father and yourself would rest on most Sunday’s growing up, judging the way your brothers would attempt to play tennis, never really as good as you two, you hum, waving her off. “Doesn’t matter—they’re going to pick me over him, anyways.”

“There’s no way they’re going to choose her over me,” Charles points out, walking into his driver's room as the black haired man follows him squeamishly. “They’d have to be out of their minds in order to do that.”

Lisa makes a face. “Here’s the thing, honey…”

Isaiah lets out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, so here’s the thing…”

They want you guys to fight for it.

“Fight for it?” Charles echoes, scoffing sourly. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Fight for it?” you ask, face pinched up. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

Isaiah shakes his head, tapping his fingers against his tablet, the sound itself making the Monegasque clench his jaw. It was quickly starting to irritate him. “Make the best athlete win.”

Lisa smiles, trying to encourage you. “Make the best athlete win.”

A loud cackle rolls off the tip of your tongue, making her question your sanity. “Give me a break! Formula One drivers are not athletes.”

“Tennis players aren’t even athletes!” he pipes up, laughing at the thought of you and him being placed on the same level. “If anything, that takes her out of the equation, they should just give me the issue.”

“It belongs to me,” you declare, your voice breaking with how disturbed you were at the fact that you had to go through any of this. “I should be on the cover of Vogue, not him.”

Lisa licks her red lips. “And you will be, don’t worry. We just have to beat them to it. Shouldn’t be too hard, you’re a prodigy at what you do, everybody loves you—they’ll see that.”

“You’re the best at what you do, Charles,” Isaiah reassures his client. “We just have to jog their memories up a bit. After, they’ll have no other choice than to pick you, you’ll see.”

You don’t know why you ever doubted yourself.

He doesn’t know why he ever doubted himself.

You’re one of the best athletes of all time.

He’s one of the best athletes of all time.

You’ve got it locked down.

He’s got it locked down.

You smile, nodding with a mischievous look in your eyes. “You’re right…”

“You’re right…” Charles whispers, nodding with a roguish smile.

It’s obviously going to be me.

You’re in Monaco.

You’re here for a match he doesn’t quite care about, but he finds himself attending anyway. He wants to see what he’s up against, if you will.

Smack!

Piercing green eyes struggle to keep up with your figure as you glide from side to side with such ease, following the neon ball, rapidly firing it back to your opponent with a certain determination in your eyes. The kind he's never seen before, the kind that doesn’t let the other player respond on time.

The kind that makes you win.

Bowing gently, you wave towards the massive crowd of people that celebrate you, chest rising hard and fast as you soak in this much needed victory. This is what sports were all about. This is what you knew like the back of your hand. This is what you’ve come to memorize.

This is what you were made for.

He pays close attention to the way you talk, how soft your voice comes across besides the fact that you look tough enough to snap back if necessary. He pays close attention in the way your eyes glint with excitement. He pays close attention in the way you wink at the camera, signing it with a white marker nicely before doing a quick finger gun, shooting sheepishly, and making your way off the court, leaving everyone to lose their minds at the infamous move your father was once known for.

As soon as you disappear, the Monegasque is fast to rise to his feet, following after you. And no one asks questions, no one wonders where he’s headed. That way—he reaches you in a second.

“I’m a huge fan!” he shouts, watching as you come to a halt. “Can I get a signature?”

Spinning back to face him, he’s instantly hit with a whiff of florals, which is weird because you’re practically drenched in sweat. Only, you don’t look half as gross as the other girl—you appeared to be absolutely breathtaking. Stunning. Radiant.

“Do I know you?” you ask, pink lips forming into a suspicious smile, slightly startled by his presence, he can tell.

The brunette grins, extending his arm out towards you. “I’d say so.” Linking your small hand into his, you giggle, somewhat dreamy eyed over his broad stature. “I’m Charles Leclerc.”

In less than a second, your face drops, suddenly scratched with hatred. Ripping your hand back, you pull it to your side, wiping it down against your skirt for good measure. “No wonder you looked so…familiar.” A beat. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

You use that word quite lightly, enough for him to know that you don’t mean it. By now, you’ve crossed your arms, bumping your hip out as you look up at him with a sense of boredom. He didn’t even want to be here, but of course, the fact that he was is what stroke your ego sickeningly well. He shrugs, tilting his head smugly. “Came to see you play. You were flawless out there.”

“You don’t mean that.” A click. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason why?”

And he doesn’t hesitate even by a bit.

“I want you to turn down the Vogue cover.”

Silence, then: “Sure.”

He blinks. “What?” You nod, continuing your march back to your dressing room, hearing the way he follows you like an abandoned stray. You bite back all kinds of snarky comments before he speaks up again. “Why are you making this so easy for me?”

Opening the door, you jut your head to the side, catching his confused expression. He hadn't expected this when he first showed up. He didn’t expect this when he first spoke to you. He simply didn’t expect this at all. A slow smile slowly starts to spread across your lips as you play with the golden knob. “I never stood a chance. You’re Charles Leclerc—it was bound to be you.”

He feels himself start to feel bad for pushing you to this. Pity. It’s not something he’s completely accustomed to, but you’ve brought it out of him it seems like, and now he’s left perplexed. “Wow. That’s, uh, really kind of you.”

“Kindness doesn’t always make you successful in life,” you note, stepping inside, leaning against the doorframe. “Sometimes you just have to be the bigger person and admit defeat, you know?”

“Sure,” he says. “The bigger person, yes.”

You giggle. “Yeah! And we both know that isn’t you, right?”

“Right,” he agrees before coming to the quick realization of what you’re actually saying to him. “Wait—are you calling me small?”

“Well…” Forest green nails tap against the wooden, slightly chipped frame as his blood begins to boil. And there it is again, his burning irritation. “If the shoe fits.” Flashing a dopey smile, you wave gingerly. “It was so nice to finally put a face to the man I’m going to outbeat!” you cheer before shutting the door right in his face.

Staring directly at your name that is spelled out in fancy cursive, the Monegasque hums to himself, glaring and wishing it was harsh enough to kick your door down.

Yeah. You definitely weren’t going to go down without a fight.

You extend your stay in Monaco for one reason and one reason only.

His home race.

You studied him later that night, after he chased you down like a desperate bloke. You read all the articles you were able to find on him, took notes too. He was young, he was successful, and he was a heartbreaker. It's no wonder everyone stupidly falls for him. But much like you, he was sort of stuck in a predicament—he wasn’t winning as often as he once used to.

Which is why it catches you by surprise to see him zip past the checkered flag, claiming first place as if it was something he was born to do. And maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t, and maybe your opinion didn’t matter.

You hated seeing him gloat like a champion, something he clearly was not. Electricity flies through the air as he stands on top of his car, screaming with triumph as he jumps down, running towards his team who waits for him with open arms and loud chants of Italian. You don’t need to understand any of it to know that he’s made them proud.

Up on the podium, drenched in champagne that probably cost more than one’s college tuition, the Monaco native raises his trophy with pure accomplishment. You partially respect it, but you can’t help but feel your stomach twist at the sight.

You find him heading to his motorhome, shoulders high and mighty, and it takes all of you to not sucker punch him on his way there, though you heavily considered it.

“I’m a huge fan!” you call out, making him stop dead in his tracks. “Can I get a signature?”

Charles lets out a mocking laugh, facing you with his golden baby on full display, showing off without missing a beat. “If that’s what you want, then yes—I’ll give you anything you ask from me.”

You physically have to stop yourself from squirming. You wouldn’t dare stroke his ego in that way or any other. Swallowing, you regain your composure before it slips away again, and you narrow your eyes with subtle warning. “I’m not here to have you flirt with me, I’m here to have you back down.”

It takes him a second to register what you're asking him to do, but once he does, all he can do is chuckle, eyes crinkling childishly. “You’re insane.”

An eye twitch. “Then you must be too because if I recall correctly, you begged for the same thing from me a couple days ago, no?”

The Ferrari driver rolls his eyes, a certain flush painting his cheekbones. “I didn’t beg, it was a simple request.”

“Fine then, call it what you want,” you sigh. “I’m requesting the same thing as you. You have to say you’re no longer interested in accepting the cover and move on.”

Green eyes flicker with amusement, seeing you for who you really were. Not some sweet girl, no, but rather someone willing to track him down just to ask him to do her a simple favor. In your own manner, but still. A couple mechanics walk by, patting him on the shoulder as they exchange a couple words of wisdom before running off. He lets out a soft breath. “I think I get you now,” he states, making you frown. A nod. “Yeah. I get where you’re coming from, I get why you don’t want to back down first.”

“And why is that?” you challenge, raising a neat brow with curiosity to see how he might turn this around.

Charles licks his pink lips, leaving them moist and wet. “You’re used to getting your way in life, so the one time it doesn’t work out, then you’re desperate enough to ask for your opponent to give up and let you have it.”

Your stomach churns with his accuracy. “Aren’t I in the same position to say the same thing about you?”

Slapped with the precision of playing the same game as you, the Monegasque rolls his jaw, mixing it with a dark smile. His grip tightens around his trophy, knuckles turning as white as paper as he tries his best to remind himself that you’re a girl—a pretty one, too—and that he can’t take out his anger on you in ways he wishes he could.

“Alright then, yeah,” he agrees. “We’re the same, you and I. It’s a shame we’re not friends the same way our father’s once were.”

“Right,” you mutter. “Shame.”

A moment lingers.

“Why do you want to be on the cover of Vogue so bad, anyways?”

You flinch. “I don’t know—why do you?”

He flinches. Then, he fixes himself, seeming to be the same Charles as before. Fun and easygoing. Yeah right. “Come out and have dinner with me, won’t you?”

You can’t help the blush creeping up because despite the fact that you hate his guts right about now, you’re able to admit to yourself that Charles fucking Leclerc is strikingly beautiful. You hum, biting down on your bottom lip subconsciously before shaking your head adamantly, as if that will be enough to hold you back. “I already told you, I’m not here to have you flirt with me.”

“And I’m not flirting,” he shoots back, pushing you into a pool of embarrassment. “I’m simply inviting you out for dinner.”

I have a proposition for you.

You scoff playfully. “A proposition?”

“Mhm,” he hums. “I promise you that I’ll make it worthwhile, you’ll see.” When you fail to make up your mind, he sets the golden cup down onto the floor and walks closer to you, making you freeze almost as natural instinct. Leaning down, he comes close to your face, grinning teasingly. “Unless you’re too scared to find out what it is…”

“You’re not as intimidating as you think you are,” you whisper, staring intently into his colorful eyes. Being this close lets you see that they aren’t just green, but they also have a thousand other colors mixed in them. In any other scenario, you would have let yourself be a fool, but in this one, you push back the need to memorize them in all their glory. “And I am not scared—I’m just not interested in wasting my time on you.”

“Oh, no—you wouldn’t be wasting it on me,” he points out, extending back up to his full height, looking down at you, heat shooting through his body, one that he’s quite familiar with. He makes a face. “You’d be wasting it on us. Isn’t that intriguing?”

And fuck it, it was.

Which is how you find yourself cooped up in his Monaco flat because according to you, you’d rather die a slow and painful death than be seen out in public with him. God forbid people think you two got along, or worse, were dating. A complete nightmare is what that would be.

Filling up your glass with red wine, the brunette finds a spot right besides you, making note of the way you’re able to maintain eye contact for so long. And honestly, he was filled with awe because of it.

“You father was my favorite tennis player, you know?”

Any mention of the first man you once loved is enough to soften you up a bit. Your shoulders let loose, your smile becomes a bit more sincere, and you’re suddenly not that cold and strict. “He was?”

“Yeah,” he says, opening up because it was true. “His post celebration was my favorite thing to do growing up.” Doing a sloppy gun with his fingers, he clicks his tongue smoothly. “My mum wasn’t a big fan, though. When I did it, at least. Said it was too violent for a little kid to learn and do. A bad example?”

“I suppose she’s right,” you laugh. “My mother hated it, as well. Tried to get my father to come up with something else countless times, but his heart…” You look down onto your lap. “His heart was set on it for us.”

He doesn’t ask what you mean by that because he knows what your father’s celebration already meant. It was aimed at you and your brothers—not as an act of violence, but rather out of love. Very few understood that, and once he heard him explaining to his father in one of their hangouts at his house growing up, he understood it too.

With splotchy cheeks, your eyes connect back with his, letting out a dry chuckle. “Anyhow—what is it that you wanted to talk to me about?”

Looks like the subject wasn’t something you wanted to touch up on too much, so he followed your change of topic. “I want us to take a business-trip together.”

A beat. “A business-trip? Just you? And me? Alone?” He nods boyishly, grinning as if nothing and you can’t help the mocking giggle that slides up your throat. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard! Oh my God—you seriously think I would accept, just like that?”

He was hoping you would, and he was feeling pretty confident about it too, up until now. Charles sets his glass down, sighing tiredly because apparently he was dealing with an immature girl who seems to be the only female in this world who wouldn’t jump at the chance he’s given her.

“And what for, too, man?” you question, still laughing, tears forming in the corner of your eyes. “If you would be so kind enough to explain, of course—”

“Shut up and maybe I will,” he ricochets back, making you raise a brow with his snappy response. A pause. “I want us to come to an agreement by ourselves.”

“What does taking a so-called ‘business-trip’ have to do with anything?”

“It would allow us to get to know each other, for starters,” he points out. “Not just by what we think we know about one another, but rather the truth.”

“I don’t think the rumors are that far off about you,” you joke, making him roll his eyes at the fact that you don’t seem to be taking this as seriously as him. You purse your lips, a wobbly smile threatening to slip. “Sorry, continue.”

“We could work on our communication skills,” he adds. “That way—”

“Are you trying to fuck me?”

He sighs. “—you don’t jump to any conclusions. Much like now.”

You shrug.

“I can learn how to understand you from your perspective, you can learn how to understand me from mine.”

“As if that would ever happen,” you mumble stubbornly against the rim of your glass, silently sipping on the alcoholic beverage as the Monegasque edges closer to snapping due to your many disruptions.

“And lastly, we can come up with a mutual decision on who deserves to have the Vogue cover.”

“You’re telling me you have faith in this plan of yours?” you ask.

“I do.”

“And you’re telling me that you and I can come to an agreement without ripping out each other's throats?”

“I think we can.”

Your safest bet is to debrief with Lisa. She can tell you what to do, how to do it, and beat him at his own game, once and for all. But something deep inside tells you that you can have the best spin off of your entire life if you really thought this through.

You can have him fall in love with you.

Yes. You can do that. You can play it up real nice, and you can have him falling faster than he’s ever known. Then, once you have him, you would gently—ever so fucking gently—have him give you what you want without him even realizing because he’ll be too busy thinking that if anyone deserves it, then it’s probably going to be the girl that he adores.

Green eyes watch as you weigh your options and that gives him enough space to come up with a plan of his own because his idea didn’t blossom from nowhere—no. It was meant to benefit him.

He was going to have you fall in love with him.

You won’t see what hit you until it’s too late, and by then, you would’ve already handed him the one and only thing he's been chasing after. That stupid cover. You’d think it was your idea, perhaps, but you wouldn’t care too much about it because you love him and you’d want him to have it, not you.

“All in?” he asks, extending his hand out for a shake to make things official.

You nod, fitting your delicate hand into his. “All in.”

And like Lisa and Isaiah once said.

Make the best athlete win.

You two settle on having this ‘business-trip’ up in Switzerland. You’re in between seasons, he’s in between seasons—it just works. Plus, you’ve never been there.

The breeze is cool against your skin upon arrival, enough for you to grow goosebumps. He smiles because eating outside was your idea. Rubbing your arms up and down to try and gain some warmth, you chew slowly on your grilled salmon. “I’m glad we chose this place. It’s always been a dream of mine to visit.”

“Yeah?”

You nod.

“I come here all the time.”

You drop your stare, frowning theatrically. “Do you have to try and one up me every time?”

Charles laughs, dropping his fork against the porcelain plate, causing a loud clink to ring through the air. “I wasn’t trying to, my bad.” Biting down on your giggle threatening to fly out, you look away, your side profile on full display. The gentle wind that kisses you makes his heartbeat quicken. Just a tad bit. He forces a cough, regaining your attention once again. “I want you to teach me how to play tennis.”

Amusement strikes your soft features. “Are you being serious?”

“Completely.” A beat. “And I’ll teach you how to drive a Formula One car. Sort of.”

This time you let out a snort, finding his words genuinely appalling because there’s no way any of that can happen without an argument taking place. “Why would we do any of that?”

The brunette rolls his eyes, resting his arms against the table. Like this, you’re able to admire his muscles that pulse like the feeling between your legs. Oh God, no, not him, anyone but him. Swallowing, you raise a brow, feigning indifference.

“We’re here to learn about one another, right? See who deserves the chance to be on Vogue—in order to understand you as an athlete and vise-versa, we need to be in each other's shoes.” He sighs dreamily. “Show me the struggle or whatnot.”

“Or whatnot?” you tease.

“Well…yeah,” he says, orbs still trained onto you. A certain flush paints your cheeks now that the temperature has dropped. “I just don’t think tennis is that hard, is all.”

Almost in a reflex, you sit up straight, narrowing your eyes with darkness. “Oh, and driving a car is?”

“Actually, yeah, I do think driving a car for a living at a fast velocity is much more difficult than chasing after a neon green ball like some Golden Retriever.”

The absolute nerve that this guy has.

Hitting him with a dirty glare, you scoff. “Please! All you do is go around in circles like some manchild who doesn't know the difference between left and right!”

“That happened one time!” he argues, recalling the mishap he had back at the airport. You snicker, sliding your legs up, sitting criss-crossed as he leans back against his chair in return. Sighing tiredly, his shoulders sag, a large hand coming up to rub his temples. “Just…trust me, m’kay?”

You don’t—not fully—but if you wanted him to like you, you needed to suck it up and go with it. Play along to the best if your ability and not be so snappy.

Forcing a smile, you nod sweetly, surprise clearly locked in his eyes.

“Sure—I trust you, Charlie.”

That fucking nickname came out of fucking nowhere.

And it’s fucked with him all fucking night and now he can’t fucking think straight anymore because the only fucking thing living in his fucking head is you and your fucking voice that sounds like fucking honey and he bets that if you said it one more fucking time then maybe he’d fucking risk whats left of his dignity and for God’s sake what the fuck was he thinking asking you to do this and better yet why the fuck were you wearing the smallest and tightest tennis dress he has ever fucking seen in his fucking entire life and why was he fucki—

“Ready?” you ask, hitting the ball in his direction as he snaps out of this trance you suddenly have him in, pushing away the spiral you’ve caused.

Gulp. “R-ready.” Great, now he’s tongue tied. Another gulp. “I’m ready.”

Turns out, it’s not as easy as he once thought it’d be. He completely missed the mark and now you’re on your forth racket because apparently breaking them was a silly little thing you do when things didn’t go your way.

“I’m usually an avid instructor, what the fuck are you on, man, are you fucking joking?”

Bright red crosses the bridge of his nose as he wipes away a drop of sweat. He winces, squinting hard due to the burning sun, but also, your killer glare that is harsh enough to make a grown man cry if he really thought about it for too long. “I-I’m sorry, let me try again. I promise I’ll get it right this time.”

Without saying anything, you strut to the opposite side of the court, looking over your shoulder to warn him like—don’t screw this up. It’s both attractive and scary. You’re asking for something simple, something easy, and somehow, he finds the way to mess up his serve for what seems like the millionth time that day.

He can tell you want to beat him with the purple racket next. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m trying, but my forearm hurts!”

“Because you’re not holding it right!” you yelp, marching up to him once again and snatching the paddle from him harshly. “Fuck it, let’s do your thing now.”

You hate Charles Leclerc.

He’s showing off now, yeah, that’s exactly what he was doing. You gave him so much shit for not being able to excel in your world, and now he’s returning the favor.

“My neck hurts so bad,” you groan, massaging it as he lends his hand for you to grab, helping hoist you out of the car. There was a race track nearby, a lousy one kind of, but it’s enough for you to get the gist of driving a Formula One car. You were scared to step on the accelerator a tad bit too hard, you were scared when you spun into the barrel, and you were more than scared when he zoomed past you with ease. You swore you heard him laugh at you behind his helmet.

Taking in the fresh air, you sigh contently, shutting your eyes and thanking God for living to see another day. The Monegasque snickers, sharing a quick conversation with the owners who begged him for a photo and his signature before making his way back to you. “Not so easy, is it?” A beat. “Ha—and this doesn’t even come close to the real thing. That’s where you should be terrified.”

“I did just fine,” you grit, pushing your sweaty hair back. Your face is flushed, bare, and angelic. It’s nearly too much for him to take in. Switching his gaze back to the open track, he brings his arms to rest on his hips. “How do you do this for a living?”

A hum. “How do you play tennis for a living?”

“Fair,” you say, shrugging with a yawn. “Can we head back now?”

As soon as you make it past the door, you eagerly rush towards the couch, plopping down lazily as the green eyed boy sighs, reaching for a blanket from a nearby cabinet. You’re so fast asleep that you don’t seem to notice the moment he covers you up, but you do cuddle into the warmness like a maternal instinct that has suddenly kicked in.

He doesn't have much to do either because quite frankly, this thing between you and him has been enough to keep him occupied. He thinks of shit he can get done in the meantime. See, usually he’d hop into his at home stimulator, but right, that couldn’t be the case being so far away from Monaco. He could binge watch that one show Pierre had nagged him on for so long, but that doesn’t sound too appealing.

But you did.

Grabbing his computer that sits on the edge of the kitchen island, he’s quick to open up a new tab, Googling your name. Instantly, a million different articles come up, some solely focused on you, others on your family, and a lot of them about your career.

But only one in particular catches his eye.

“Holy…” Scroll. “Shit.”

Your father died before his. Charles thought it was heart failure, that’s what his mum told him it was the moment he asked why he wasn’t coming around as often anymore, but now he’s left in a puddle of doubt.

“What are you doing?” a raspy voice questions over his shoulder.

Flinching, the brunette turns back to face you, color draining from his usually lively face. His eyes flicker up towards the clock that hangs on the wall and that’s when he finally notices that it hasn’t in fact been five minutes of your deep slumber, but rather two hours. Had he really been this caught up?

“N-nothing.” He slams his screen shut. “You look much better, you really did need a quick nap, didn’t y—”

In a flash, you lean over, picking up the electronic device once again and freezing as soon as you read the same title you’ve been re-reading ever since that God forsaken journalist published it with zero respect towards you and your family.

“She doesn't know what she's talking about,” you mutter, exiting from the page before rudely throwing the computer back onto the table, making him frown because he wouldn't be too surprised if he finds a crack on it next time he opens it. “I swear to God, if I ever meet this so-called Lissie Mackintosh, I’ll curse her out so good, she won't ever want to write another article in her life ever again.”

Charles bites down on his tongue, choosing not to admit that he knows Lissie, and that she was actually a super cool girl. It's probably best that he keeps that piece of information to himself. Hesitantly, he licks his dry lips, looking up at where you remain tense. “I—”

“Do you agree with what she wrote about me?”

Honestly—he doesn't even know where his opinion stands given how you've reacted.

He swallows. “I don’t think you should care what I think.”

You don’t like his response, he can tell in the way you shift position, avoiding him now almost. You wish he had lied, you wish he had lied to you and said, you know what, no, I don’t agree with what Lissie wrote, and you do reserve the right to sue if you really wanted to.

But he didn’t, of course he didn’t—he doesn’t know you like that yet.

Nodding rigidly, you murmur an lame excuse to flee, and he finds himself wishing he had said something else to make you stay.

Even if that just meant having you in silence.

Whoosh!

Letting out a yelp, your eyes grow wide, watching as the tennis ball hits the fence with a loud smack. Charles laughs. How was that? “Not bad,” you respond, grabbing another ball and hitting it back towards him with a simple smile. “That was actually really good, Charlie.”

His jaw ticks.

Cutting him off on a curb, a move he probably wouldn't have pull, but you somehow managed to make it work, he finds himself swerving to avoid crashing, and the fact that he was scared of that happening in the first place is enough to make his stomach roll because how did you manage to do that so smoothly?

How was that? you ask once you climb out of your car, excited as ever.

The Monegasque tilts his head, helmet still on. “You were…” He lifts his visor up, green eyes twinkling with amusement. “A natural—you were a fucking natural.”

You blush.

It's a hard thing to admit to yourself, but you were starting to enjoy having Charles as a companion.

And unbeknownst to you, he felt the same way.

That afternoon, during dinner, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. He tried, he really did, but the more you rambled on and on about how much better you were at driving than him and at playing tennis, the more he realized that you weren’t all that bad.

“I think the choice is clear—it should be me who gets to keep the cover.”

But fuck, why couldn’t he have met you in different terms?

Sitting up straight against his chair, the brunette makes a face of disagreement. “I don’t think so, actually…” A loopy grin. “If anything, I should be the one who gets it—I think I’ve outshined you in both your own sport and mine.”

“Bull!” you yelp, fighting the urge to kick him under the table. “That's just your opinion.”

“You did the exact same thing!” he argues back, wondering if you truly knew that you were being a hypocrite of some sort. “If we both don’t agree with one another, then we haven’t made a decision, no?”

He was right.

Annoyed, you stand up, chair screeching. “Fuck you.”

The sun turns from golden to pearl white and you two haven’t spoken a word to each other ever since. You shouldn’t be mad, you shouldn’t be upset, you’re well aware, but you truly thought he’d let you have it by now. He’s been looking at you differently, you’ve caught him a couple times throughout the weeks, especially during your lessons, but you suppose he wasn’t quite there yet.

And, well, now that you know that—you’d take a different approach and be more straightforward with your intentions.

Knocking on his door, you wait impatiently, playing with your hair as a way to pass time, but really it was only three seconds. With a swing, you find yourself face to face with the Monegasque who looks like he just awoke from a late nap. You muster up a warm smile. “I wanted to apologize. About before. My outburst wasn’t…necessary,” you finish with a struggle because something tells him you don’t mean it, not completely. “I wanted to invite you out for a cup of coffee. What do you say?”

As expected, it was a yes.

Peeking an eye over to where he grabs your guys’ order with a charming smile, and a giggly barista who wishes there weren’t a drastic language barrier between them, you stifle a gag, forcing a tight grin when he returns. “Thanks,” you chirp, fluttering your lashes flirtaciously, hoping the blond girl was still looking—she was. And you don't know why that satisfies you.

Or why you felt a pang of jealousy in the first place.

“What’s your dream?” you ask after a few minutes of walking in silence. Mid-sip, he raises a dark brow. You nod gingerly. “What do you wish for in life?” A beat. “And you can’t say winning a world championship—that’s too basic.”

Charles sticks his tongue out with humor before bumping his shoulder against yours, making you laugh dreamily. Realizing how stupid you sound, you straighten out your lips, ignoring the need to pinch your arm for being so soft all of a sudden.

“To not be so prideful.”

His confession catches you off guard because of course you knew he was such a thing, but the fact that he knows it too is what blew your mind—the fact that he admits to it. Drinking carefully, you taste the rich flavor of dark roast and hum to yourself, as if still weighing in his words.

A beat. “I think being prideful isn’t always a bad thing.”

The green eyed boy shakes his head with a simple click of his tongue. His gaze lingers for a moment too long, and it should be intimidating, but it’s not. Charles rolls his jaw, gently running his hand through his hair. “What’s your wish?”

“To not be so prideful.”

This gets a laugh out of him, one that’s laced with mirth. “See—this is why we’re so alike. You and I just…get each other, you know?”

You hate that he’s spot on about it. You hate that he knows the way you think because he’s too busy thinking the same.

She’s playing me, Charles thinks to himself, realizing what game you’re taking part in because as stated before—you two are practically the same person.

You smile tightly. “I like that.” A beat. “Don’t you?”

The Monegasque forces a grin. “Yeah. Me too.”

It’s hard not to get in any kind of trouble when you’re with him. Getting pulled over for going over the speed limit on your way back to the AirBnB is a harsh reminder.

And he’s honestly a bit ticked off with you, but he does a good job at hiding it. “That’s alright, I’ll pay for it.”

You sigh. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

Sharing a sweet smile, one that’s soft as jello, the brunette gingerly grabs the ticket from your grasp, sending a reassuring look. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t worry about something like this.”

Oh yeah, you think to yourself as you blink stupidly. He’s playing me. You would know—you’re doing the exact same thing.

“You’re such a dream,” you mutter, clenching your teeth with a fake smile of your own.

What are the odds?

The kiss was a total accident. It wasn’t a part of your plan. It wasn’t a part of his.

It’s been three weeks now and neither of you have given up. You flirt, he flirts back. You wear a short dress, he walks around shirtless. It’s even, it’s fair, and it’s messing with your head.

He honestly didn’t think it’d be this hard.

He’s tried his best to get you to fall for him, but every time he tries to wink smoothly, you bite your lip seductively. At times, he even thinks about just surrendering and letting you have the cover, then, he reminds himself that you’re just brainfucking him, and that instantly slaps him back into reality.

But the kiss—that came to mess with you both.

It’s early morning, and you two are yet to change, comfortably lounging in pjs. It’s a funny view, to see him in anything other than fancy linen. Instead, he stretches coolly on the couch with plaid cotton pants and a simple white tee. Meanwhile, you wear an a pair of shorts with an oversized t-shirt that once belonged to Vinnie—or was it Bennett’s?—whatever, doesnt matter.

“I bet I could I could draw a constellation with all the moles you have,” you hum, lazy feet kicked up as he flickers his gaze to where you are. In a separate couch, not too far from him, but the floral scent radiating off your body is enough to convince him that you were closer than he'd like. He thinks it’s too tempting, and it was—you were tempting him to cross the invisible line.

Charles raises a brow. “Wanna try?”

This is the game, this is what you both are into. Silently, you walk over, laying right besides him as you rest an arm gently over his firm chest and draw a finger along his face with a teasing smile. His breath hitches, realizing how much power you have over him now that he’s given it up, and how much he’s enjoying all of this. That can’t be a good sign. “From here,” you whisper, drawing shapes. “To here—it looks like a heart.”

“Yeah?”

Your stomach flips with how he’s looking at you, and suddenly, your hand feels clammy. You get the sense that you’re enjoying this more than you'd like. That can’t be a good sign. You nod. “You know, beauty marks are a portal into your past life. It’s where your loved one once kissed you.” A giggle. “Looks like you were quite lucky.”

Green eyes focus on the corner of your lips, smiling softly. “Looks like you were too.”

You blush, bringing a hand up to your cheek. “I hate mines. Doesn’t look half as good as yours.”

This gets a frown out of him, as if he’s genuinely bothered by you not liking a mole of yours. It was small, and not really there, but if you pay close attention—just like him—then you’d learn to appreciate it. “What are you talking about? It makes you look like a doll.”

A beat. A blink. “You think I look like a doll?”

Charles chuckles, sitting upright as you follow along, still astonished by how much his words meant to you. “Are you kidding? You have got to be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

A surge of affection bubbles within you as you look away, biting down onto your bottom lip. Compliments—they were never something you could ever receive. It always seemed like the most difficult task, but now that you have him here, with a sincere look in his eyes, you learn that you kind of like it.

So long it comes directly from him.

His attention is stuck on you like superglue, you feel it tug you closer and closer. You try to ignore it, God knows you’ve tried to ignore it, but the more either of you try to fight it, the more it…feels right.

He didn’t know a kiss could feel like this—so hot and cold, all at once. One one side, he know he should be running from you, he knows you’re not the kind to fall in love, but the other side of him is screaming with satisfaction because he never knew you'd taste so goddamn intoxicating.

You should probably pull away, you should probably remind yourself that he’s not one to count on, but you almost can’t seem to help it. Not when his long fingers run through your hair with the need to ease your nerves or with the way he sighs contently against you whenever you move your lips at a certain angle.

This was just—

The plan.

He has you. He comes to the conclusion that he has you now.

You have him. You come to the conclusion that you have him now.

“Do you—”

“Yes,” he answers in a heartbeat. “Do you—”

“Yes,” you answer quickly. “Is that even a question?”

He smiles.

You don’t want to. You really don't want to share your past trauma with him.

But if you want this cover to be yours, you have to pull at his heartstrings a bit. Enough.

And it looks as if he was thinking about doing the exact same thing.

You lick your lips numbly, twiddling with your fingers. “I just want to preface that I’m not a bad person.” Charles nods, smiling reassuringly. “Okay then—ask away.”

It was his idea. To each get ten minutes to ask each other all the hard hitting questions. All the questions that would help you and him resonate with one another. It sounded easy, but it wasn't.

“Are you still close with you mum? With your brothers?”

You swallow. “Not after my fathers death, no, we’re not as close as before.”

“Have you ever cheated in any match of yours?”

You grind your teeth. “Yes.”

His eyebrows raise with surprise. “How?”

“Using hand signals.”

“Huh.” A beat. “Clever.”

“What’s your biggest fear in life?”

“Being a loser.”

“But you’ve lost many matches before,” he rebuttals.

“Sure—but I’ve never lost a Grand Slam.”

His lips quirk. “Don’t you think that that’s a possibility?”

“Only if I allow it.”

Charles laughs. “You quite a tough girl, you know that?

“I do know that,” you answer confidently. “But it’s also called having a winners-mentality. It helps eliminate the competition. It helps you overachieve.” You can tell that he's amused with the way he leans back against his chair, manspreading as if his life depended on it. “It allows you to—”

“Why do you want to be on the cover of Vogue? Why do you deserve it?”

Your breath gets caught in your chest. You knew this would happen. You knew that he would bring this up sooner or later, but you just didn't think it would bother you this much.

“If I answer truthfully…” you start, slowly and unsure. “You promise you won’t judge?”

“Promise,” he reassures you with zero hesitance.

You could lie. You could make something up that would be enough to gain his sympathy and call it a day, but this somehow felt like therapy, and you somehow felt as if he might understand. Gathering you words, you look up at him blanky. “I don’t want to be a failure.” A beat. “Like my father.”

You father? And failure? In the same sentence?

That’s just unheard of.

“Just hear me out,” you say, adjusting yourself and licking your lips in preparation to explain. “I’m sure you don’t agree with what I’ve said, but I want a Golden Slam. I want it because he never got it.”

The Golden Slam. Of course you'd go for the Golden Slam.

“He was an amazing tennis player, but he wasn’t always the best father,” you mumble, sort of wishing to take it all back, but no. You're in too deep. “I first noticed us starting to grow apart the moment my career started to pick up.”

Charles remembers that. He remembers all the headlines of your father coming face to face with his own daughter and how everyone all around the world started to place bets. First it started with millions, then it went to billions, and then it started to move on to real estate properties and businesses, and later even children. It was a fucked up world of gambling. One you had no clue you were a part of.

“I started beating him at his own game, one he dominated for years before me. And he—he didn’t like that.” Your cheeks burn up with the reminder of once being your fathers favorite, to later being someone he resented harder than anyone else in life. “He stopped talking to me, but our matches still continued. I think it had to do a lot with me.”

“How so?” Charles whispers, too afraid to make you shy away.

You shrug. “I think he wanted to win against me—even just once. But apart from that, things were never really the same.”

The green eyed boy nods rigidly. “And what does Vogue have to do with this?”

“Technically nothing,” you respond lamely, then smile menacingly. “I just want to rub it in his face, that’s all. That I’m still able to accomplish things he never could.” A short chuckle. “That’s the ideal situation for me—that’s it.”

The competition was never between you and him. Not the way he once thought it was.

It was between you and your father.

“You get where I’m coming from, don’t you, Charlie?”

His chest tightens.

You smile flirtatiously. “Athlete to athlete here, you understand what it means to win, right?”

In this moment, one he never thought he’d be a part of, he wonders that if by answering this question he’d be signing his life away to you. It nearly felt like it with the way you were looking at him right in the eye, sharp and smooth. He shivers, intimidated by you and your cold stare. “I do.”

“Great,” you whisper, leaning in to peck his lips and leaving him to accept it with a heavy sigh. What about Lissie? Your eyes darken at the mention of her name. “What about Lissie?”

His gaze flickers curiously once again. “Do you agree with what she wrote you?”

He switching up the question on you. You had once asked him if it mattered to him, and now he was doing the exact same thing to you. It was smart. You roll your eyes, separating yourself. “In a sense, yes. Maybe.”

The article was published a year after your fathers death.

To the public and your mother—he died of alcohol poisining.

To your brothers—he died because of all the dark enegry surrounding his fame.

To you—he died of heartbreak.

But in reality.

“I think it had to do a bit with everything,” you claim calmly.

Lissie Mackintosh was an up and rising journalist, one that caught the eye of many. Specifically, the world of Formula One. And there came a time where she published a single piece of article once every few weeks on her blog she was known for. Honestly, you never cared enough to learn the name. It gained attention—lots of it—so much so, that people were always anticipating for the next piece to drop, always excited to read away.

But then, she went on a long hiatus. And when she came back.

Shit hit the fan.

She had chosen to switch it up a bit and write about the world tennis. Out of all things…tennis.

She dove into your life as if it was already hers. You didn’t like that. You didn't like that what seemed to be the most interesting topic to her was your father’s death. Because that meant digging. And boy, did she find out about a lot of things.

In her now taken down article, the Brit wrote about how the possibility of your talent might have pushed your own father to pass away before getting the chance to reach his sixties. Suicide wasn’t a conspiracy before that, but after millions clicked to read, it sort of was.

It made your mother go crazy. She started blaming you because maybe you did have to do with his drinking problem, maybe you did have to do with his depression.

Maybe you did have to do with his death.

Bennett and Vinnie—well, they were always momma’s boys so there wasn’t even a second thought for them to choose her.

And that left you. Just you. Alone and pensitive.

Did you have to do with his passing?

And even you can admit to something like that in private—yes. You probably did have to do with it.

You killed his ego. You killed his winning streak. You killed his fanclub.

And honestly, you didn’t care if he killed himself by drinking his way to his grave.

But Vogue? Vogue was just the cherry on top. And you pray—pray—that when you get it…he’ll see how successful his descendant was able to become without his help.

You hope he rots in Hell for outcasting you out of pure jealousy.

“I think he just gave up on life, is all,” you wrap up right when the timer rings. “It happens, ya know?”

“Yeah,” Charles murmurs, looking you in the eye to see if you were truly as soulless as you sounded. “I suppose that could be it.”

Humming softly, you start the ten minutes up again and smile brightly over at him, making him snap out of his sticky daze. “Looks like it’s your turn, Charlie. First question…” Silence. “Did I scare you?”

Heat rises to his ears. “Wha—no. Not at all.”

You eye him suspiciously. Once. Twice. Three times. Four even. Then, you push it aside. “Alright then—have you ever cheated on a race?”

Fuck. Of course you’d return the question. He grinds his molars before smiling tightly. “I have.”

“How?”

“My mechanics made my car light enough to win, hence, allow me to drive faster.”

“How did you not get caught?”

“The FIA agent checking my car at the time was easy enough to bribe.”

“Who did the bribing?”

A beat. “I did.”

“Wow,” you whisper with a loopy grin. “I mean, wow—I didn’t think you’d have it in you when I first asked.”

“Can we move onto the next question?” he grumbles, ashamed to be identical as you.

“Yeah, yeah, no, yeah,” you say, a teasing smile slipping once before letting it fall. “Just—which race was it?”

This is what he didn't want you asking. And he could lie. He really, really could. But he doesn’t.

“Monaco.”

“Oh shit!” you exlaim, letting out a loud laugh and clapping excitedly as he withers with embarrassment. “That day! That I went to see you race—you cheated?”

Green eyes flip with danger. “I saw your coach sending you hand signals the day I went to go see you play—in Monaco,” he snaps back, making your lips part with surprise that he had even noticed. “So I wouldn't be talking if I were you.”

This gets you to shut up because yeah. The day he went to go pay you a visit was the day you cheated for your win. It seems like the universe keeps finding ways to remind you two that you're looking into a mirror when you’re looking at each other. Biting the inside of your cheek, you brush him off, thinking of your next question.

“Do you hate anyone?”

“You,” he answers, half-jokingly, half-serious. “Only when you get on my nerves, though.”

You giggle. “Which is almost always?”

Charles’ lips quirk. “Which is almost always, correct.”

Nodding, you squint your eyes, making his stomach twist like a pretzel. “Why do you deserve to be on the cover of Vogue?”

Pause. “I don’t want to be a failure. Like many people that I know.”

You encourage him with a gentle nod. “Do you mind explaining?”

His blinks feverishly. “I want to be better than my father. Better than Jules.” Your eyebrows dart up with surprise. He continues. “I love them—God, do I still love them—but they never reached their full potentials. Given, yeah, their deaths had a lot to do with that, but I guess that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Being forgotten?” you speak up. “You’re afraid of being forgotten…just like them.”

The brunette grimaces. “Part of me thinks that I’m doing this for them, but I know that’s not the truth—I’m doing this for myself.” His jaw clenches and it’s almost as if you’ve spilled truth serum in him. “I’m selfish. I’m vain.” Connecting his gaze up to yours, his eyes soften like a child pleading for help. “But I wasn’t like this before…”

“Oh, Char—”

“And the thing is that I don’t hate it,” he says meekly, almost embarrassed to be admitting something as dumb as this. “No, I don’t, and you want to know why? Because it has helped me win. It has helped shape me. Everything else can fail on me in life, but my ego won’t. It’s the only thing I have.”

Athlete to athlete, you get what I mean, don’t you?

Plump lips part, pink and wet. And you do. You do get where he’s coming from. You understand because you’re just the same. Resting a delicate hand over his, you feel his skin, warm and calloused from gripping onto a steering wheel for a living.

“I do,” you whisper. “I get you what you mean.”

And just like that, his ten minutes are up.

And you're both left confused on who deserves May's issue more.

Because both reasons are pretty fucking good.

You’re down to the last week in Switzerland and Lisa keeps calling you and saying—

“This isn’t a good idea, how many times do I have to keep reminding you? He’s obviously going to choose himself, you’re obviously going to choose yourself. Both of you—you're just wasting each others time.”

You sigh tiredly, rubbing your eyes because she really was starting to sound like a robot. “I actually do think that we can come up with a mutual decision, him and I.”

“Jesus, it’s like talking to a brick wall,” you hear her mutter before clearing her throat. “Don’t let him sweet talk you is all I'm asking, okay? Men are deceiving.”

“Women are deceiving. It's the number one thing I learned from college," Isaiah speaks through the static. Right now, if the Monegasque were to look out the window, he’d spot you on a call, much like him, but he’d be too busy dealing with his manager to linger on about it. “I’m starting to think you like wasting your time on her.”

“What?” the brunette accuses. “That’s not true.”

“Right,” Isaiah hums suspiciously. “Whatever you say. Just don’t let her sweet talk you—that’s another thing they're good at.”

Goodbye now, Isaiah.

Bye-bye, Lisa.

Hanging up, you squint towards the wide window where Charles peeks out. “Ready?” he hollers.

“Ready,” you confirm.

It was a two-in-one kind of day. Usually, you either play a round of tennis or you race a few laps, but due to your trip coming to an expiration date, you’ve both decided to wrap it up and give your sports a farewell before going your separate ways and moving on with life.

He was going to miss it, though. Especially now that he’s so good at it.

“Fifteen-love,” he calls out, making you blink with bewilderment. For the past few weeks, he’s gone from not knowing how to play, to sort of keeping the game alive. But never—ever—has he scored a point on you. Charles snickers. “You can serve if you’d like.”

“Don’t say it like you’d be doing me a favor,” you snap, shooting daggers at him for even assuming you’d be into that. “Just hit the damn ball.”

The game continues and your anger begins to burn.

Thirty-love.

Forty-love.

Panting, you let out a scream, crashing your racket against the court. He flinches at the sound, watching as you quickly lose what’s left of your temper. “No, no, no, no, no!” you shout, raising the paddle before smashing it twice as hard. “Fuck me! No! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Relax,” he tries soothing you from a large distance. “It’s just a game.”

Freezing, you breath hard as your movements come to a pause, an eye twitching with irritation. “Relax? Are you seriously telling me to…relax?”

Charles doubles down. “I’m just saying—it’s no big deal. Losing is a part of life.”

“No,” you spit out. “Loosing is a part of your life. Of Jule’s. Of your fathers and mines, so please—don’t you dare add me into the mix.”

Here, in a tennis court that you’ve rented out for an hour or so, it dawns on him that even though you two may agree on many things in life, and though you may be more alike than if he were to have a twin—you two were never really going to get along. Not at all. Because you’d always remind him how much better you thought you were. And how could that ever work out when he thought the opposite?

The drive to the race track is laced thick with tension.Neither of you say anything up until he instructs you to your car, keeping steady eyes to where you push the helmet over your head and fix your attire. And he can tell that you're still sore about losing to him.

And you take it out on him on track.

You press on the gas angrily, with no sense of precaution of keeping you and him safe from crashing. Though, he sort of thinks that if you were to collide, then you wouldn’t care either.

What you wanted to do was beat him at his own game—and you do.

“She was faster than you by two seconds,” the man behind the counter explains, eyes trained on the data in his computer. Charles freezes, eye twitching. Say that one more time. The man sighs. “Actually, by one, but hey, that’s still pretty good for being a newbie.”

“Ha!” you cheer, rubbing it in his face. “Faster than a Formula One driver, who would’ve thought?”

Two seconds was bad, but for some reason, one was worse. Yeah, it was, because that meant he was nearly there—but you somehow managed to win.

They gift you a trophy for that. A trophy that doesn’t last long.

“Can I see that real quick?”

“Sure,” you answer, handing it to him with a simple smile.

“Thanks.” In a single movement, he throws it onto the floor, a loud crack following as you gasp. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he yells out, stomping the tiny broken pieces until they practically turn into dust. “Fuck me! No, no, no, no, no!”

And despite not liking what he did, you’re not mad. You’re more so…satisfied.

Rolling your eyes as he breathes hard, not really wanting to apologize, but doing it anyways, you shake your head like a parent scolding their four year old.

“Relax, Charlie. Losing is a part of life, isn’t that so?”

Forcing a tight grin, he hums sourly, leaving you to yourself.

Back at the house, the view is particularly beautiful today. It always is, but right now? The sun shines bright, the birds chirp beautifully, and it looks like just the right time to make peace.

Let’s have dinner outside tonight, you had said the moment he awoke from his nap. You had taken one before him, hence why you were able to start up on dinner. To celebrate our last few nights together. You know you’ll miss it.

He knows he will. He knows he’ll miss having you around, even if it’s just to get him mad. He knows he’ll miss his private lessons and watching you swing with those mini skirts you like to wear. He knows he’ll miss hearing the sound of your voice, especially when you yell at him.

He’s just going to miss you.

Chewing gently, you wash down your food with a bit of sparkling soda. Peach, to be exact. You purse your lips, your free hand playing with the tall grass. From here, the mountains stand out in green and the flowers replicate a rainbow. It was gorgeous.

“Will you be biased?” He raises a brow with subtle confusion as you shrug, playing with a nearby tennis racket that had been lying around for a while now. He had been practicing his backhand a couple days ago, and it appears he left it out in open. You pretend it’s a guitar, slowly stroking your fingernails along the plastic. “Based on your decision, will you be biased?”

“I actually think I’ll be fair,” he answers truthfully. “And you know what? I think you deserve it.” You freeze, heart caught in your throat by his words. He smiles, popping a dimple. “Will you be biased?”

A beat. “I was actually thinking about being fair...” Your eyes soften. “I think you deserve it.”

“Oh.” Okay then, definitely unexpected. “So what do we do now?”

You knew about his intentions all along. You knew about his project to get you to fall in love and choose him for the Vogue cover—you just never thought it’d work.

He knew about your intentions all along. He knew about your project to get him to fall in love and choose you for the Vogue cover—he just never thought it’d work.

“I don’t know,” you admit, chewing on your bottom lip, lashes fluttering. “I have no idea.”

A moment of silence lingers upon the open blue sky, filling your mind with a race of it’s own because how is he so composed? How is he so unbothered? And how is he so goddamn handsome? It's a crime of it's own, his looks.

Your delicate fingers continue to strum up and down, avoiding his gaze because suddenly something as simple as that is intimidating to you. It takes a second for him to process that you're nervous. The strong and independent girl you've always been is long gone and that get's a sweet smile out of him.

"I wish we had met sooner," he confesses, hoping that will receive some sort of reaction out of you. Real, fake, anything at this point. He's desperate. And you do. React, that is. Gazing up at him, your round eyes soften up, young and beautiful, and he triple swears that his heart gets caught up in his throat and it's no longer his own, but rather yours. The green eyed boy nods gingerly. "Wouldn't it have been nice to have known each other since kids?" A snort. "I mean, our fathers were friends, why couldn't we have been too?"

"Because people like you and I aren't meant to get along,” you rebuttal, still playing with the racket.

"Don't do that."

You blink. "Do what?"

Charles rolls his eyes, scooting closer to you and making it hard for you to breathe. "Don't push me away."

"I-I'm not," you stutter. "I'm just telling the truth. Look at us...we consider each other a threat and we're not even a part of the same sport, it's ridiculous." A beat. "And you're trying to convince me that we could've been friends if we had met under different circumstances?" This time you have to laugh, which bothers him. "The way things are...are the way they're supposed to be."

He's looking to contradict your words. He's thinking, the wheels are spinning, and you can see it.

"No," you let out, picking up the racket and placing up towards your face as some sort of shield that might keep you from him. From making a mistake. He frowns, thick brows knit tightly together. You wince poorly. "Let's just...not, yeah?"

He doesn't answer. Nope. He simply continues to move forward until he kisses you, tennis racket still stuck between you both, making you freeze. It's an odd kiss, you both know that's true, but what he's trying to prove to you is that nothing really matters to him.

Not as much as you.

A simple peck and you're hooked.

How could either of you have fallen for this trap?

Straddling the Monegasque, you keep a desperate hand in his hair as you play with it, the other holding steadily onto his broad shoulder. “Y-you should be on the cover,” you pant against his lips as he shuts you up by squeezing your hips harshly, making you let out a whine.

“Non—it should be you,” he groans, imagination running wild when your begin to draw circles back and forth. “Fuck.”

It’s as if a wave of yearning has finally caught up to you two, leaving you with no room to act normal. Instead, he eagerly slides your panties to the side as you whimper at the sudden stretch.

It burns, and you deeply consider biting down onto his shoulder, but something in your brain tells you not to, too afraid to appear sensitive. Which you were, but he didn’t need to know that.

“God, you were made for this,” he praises when you start bouncing up and down, hair swaying from side to side. You moan softly against his ear. “So pretty—having you like this.”

“Char—” you begin, but fail to conclude your sentence when he starts sucking on your neck. It's brutal, it's barbaric, and it's making you loose your patience. Leaning back rudely, he reaches out to keep you in place, too distraught at the thought of having you leave him, even for a second. You don't, though.

Cradling his cheeks with both soft hands of yours, you graze his skin gently, almost as if you can't quite believe any of this was happening. It's an innocent moment, one that belongs to both of you, and suddenly you were an angel up on top of him to claim and write your name on.

Smiling to yourself, your eyes flicker back and forth, admiring his nose, his lips, his everything. He lets you do just that, too busy doing the same. Then, a lazy finger starts to play with his lips and he’s left to just accept your childlike behavior, the corner of his mouth tempting to let out a grin of his own.

“Open,” you whisper gingerly, instructions loud and clear. His green eyes darken and he raises a brow. You nod, watching as his lips slowly start to part, leaving you to hum.

Once his mouth is on full display, you poke his tongue, making his stomach churn, flinching a bit along the way. You tap his teeth, focused on how white and straight they were. They couldn’t have been veneers. Was he truly this perfect?

He observes your curiosity. He feels it too. But the weirdest part of all is that he’s not telling you to stop. It’s something interesting to him, something that’s never happened, and probably never will again.

Then, it’s a singular finger. Then two. Then three.

Then…he realizes.

It’s a loaded gun. You’ve formed a finger gun—inside of his mouth. Your eyes sparkle with something he can’t describe, but all he knows is that you like seeing him spiral with hesitancy.

“So pretty,” you mumble, keeping your hand in place and his eyes close for a second before opening up again, this time unusually lustful. “Having you like this.”

You have control. You did this to claim control. That’s why. But two can play this game.

Moving his head to the side, your fingers slip out of his mouth, making you giggle happily to know that you’ve gotten to him. But what you seize to remember is that he has you in a vulnerable position.

Pushing a digit along your sensitive clit, you squeal with pleasure. He mocks you with a big kiss, though it’s messy and not quite right. His speed quicken and you can’t help but squirm stupidly, therefore, clenching around his cock.

“Do that again, do that again.” You repeat your actions, watching his eyes shut with pleasure and his jawline tick. “That’s it, baby, just like that.”

You don’t get the chance to do it again because before you know it, he’s pushing you off and fixing you fiercely onto all fours. You cry out, already missing his warm touch that seemed to not have mattered to you a few weeks ago, but now appeared to be the lost important thing.

Thrusting in rapidly, the brunette grunts when your arms give out, ass up in the air for him to keep his gaze stuck on. He chuckles, somehow enjoying your lack of words as you babble on and on about God knows what.

“Repeat after me—I deserve to be on the cover of Vogue.”

“It should be y-you,” you stammer. “Not me.”

“That’s sweet, baby, but it needs to be you.” Reaching your g-spot, Charles sighs when he feels it pressed against his tip. “I don’t want it anymore.”

And something clicks inside of you. Forgetting the intensity that shoots through your body, you disconnect yourself, pulling your dress back down angrily and furrowing your brows with accusation.

“Oh my God—you feel bad for me, don’t you?”

He blinks once before pulling his pants up. “What? No!”

“Why the change of heart, then, huh?” you question, feeling a burst of fury swirl inside of you. “You heard my sob story about my daddy issues and now you want to play the role of being some sort of savior complex, right?”

“That’s not true!”

Sharing a bitter laugh, you shake your head with disappointment, and during it, he narrows his brows sharply. “If you don’t mind me asking—why do you suddenly want me to have the cover?”

Silenece.

Charles scoffs. “Oh, fuck you. You’re doing the exact same thing! You pity me!”

“I do not,” you snap, standing up and walking back towards the direction of the lively house. “I was just trying to be nice, you asshole.”

Chasing after you with long strides, the Monegasque shares a sarcastic chuckle. “Let me tell you one thing and one thing only, alright?”

“What?” you challenge, spinning back to face him. His skin is still flushed, and his collar is still wrinkled, but he look just as handsome as before, making your stomach flip. You lift your head up. “What is it?”

The green eyed boy stiffens. “I don’t need your permission to accept something that has always belonged to me.”

“I’m sor—belonged to you?” Your face drowns with annoyance. “This was never a competition, you were never in the running, please!”

“Is that really what you think?” he rebuttals. “Do you really think that a tennis player like you has a chance against a Formula One driver like me?”

A beat.

Stick to fucking, princess. That’s all you're good for, anyways.

He feels the sting right away, and he knows he deserves it not long after.

Your lips open dryly, then close, a trace of hurt coloring your irises. “I never want to see you again.”

“Done,” he confirms, nostrils flaring as he pushes past you, entering the AirBnB without a doubt that you were insane.

Completely—and utterly—insane.

You haven’t seen him in three months, but honestly, that’s probably for the best.

Whatever happened in Switzerland feels like a fever dream by now, and none of it makes sense anymore. Did you two really think you could come to an agreement by yourselves?

Because of that, no one has been chosen for May’s issue, and time was ticking. And a result, and because the date is closing in on you, an emergency meeting has been declared.

Just you. Lisa. Isaiah.

And Charles.

Entering the spacious office, one that has about a million photos of you and your family, the Monegasque starts to wonder if your manger was secretly a super fan that just lucked out on working with you. It was extremely creepy.

“Hello you two,” Lisa welcomes with a bright smile and red lips. “What a beautiful day to have you here with us!”

“Thanks for hosting, Lisa,” Isaiah chirps happily. “Why don’t we get started?”

They both call you out on your sense of delusion. For thinking that a trip to Europe might’ve helped to make a decision amongst you two without the need of them. Clearly that wasn’t the case.

“Since you two couldn’t make a decision like two grown adults, looks like we’ll just have to settle with a simple round of rock, paper, scissors.”

You face drops. “That’s it? That’s your solution to all of this?”

“Yeah, man, what the fuck?” Charles yelps, sending a glare over at Isaiah who looks ready to wither away. “A child’s game is bullshit.”

Lisa narrows her beady eyes with subtle threat. “You either play, or you don’t—it’s your choice. One round.”

“What if we tie?” you murmur, orbs stuck on the Monegasque who keeps his eyes trained on you as well. “What happens then?”

“You share the cover,” Isaiah says. “It was always an option.”

“No,” Charles responds. “It’s not.” He smiles. “Let's play.”

“Fine then,” you hum, tilting your head. “Let’s play.”

One round. Just you and him.

But you want to humiliate him—one more time.

Only he had the same thought as you.

Rock.

Paper.

Scissors.

Shoot—

“A gun?” Isaiah ponders with pure confusion, squinting and rubbing his eyes tiredly. But he’s not imagining it, in front of him, you and Charles shoot—a hand formed into a gun.

Your breath hitches because you know he’s using your father celebratory against you. He’s aware that he now knows something that you wouldn’t want anyone finding out about. Your family secrets, your history of cheating—any of it.

His breath hitches because he knows that you’re threatening him just the same. You now know something that you can hold over his head. His actual point of view over Jules and his father, his history of cheating—any of it.

It’d ruin both of your careers.

You were even, it was fair, but—

“I can’t work with him.”

“I can’t work with her.”

With that, Charles exits Lisa’s office, not sparing a single goodbye to any of you. You flinch, eyes following him as he leaves before the door even clicks shut, having you remind yourself that this really was over.

Parting your lips, you stand up, sharing a look with both managers from very different worlds of sports, before abandoning them to try and understand what just happened.

“Do you have a clue as to why she doesn’t want to do it?” Isaiah asks, attention glued on the wooden door, almost as if waiting for either of you to come back.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m a hundred percent sure that she wants to—that’s just her pride talking.” Lisa angles her head over to Isaiah. “You have any clue as to why he didn’t want to go through with it?”

Isaiah shrugs. “He’s the exact same way—it’s his pride.”

Mixing pride with pride?

It never works out.

And it never will.

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cutielando · 3 months ago

Text

jealous boy | charles leclerc

synopsis: in which Charles gets jealous of his new teammate

a/n: based on this request!

pairing: jealous!charles leclerc x girlfriend!reader

my masterlist

The day had finally come.

Lewis Hamilton’s first official day as a Ferrari driver.

The news had rocked the motorsport world, and as someone who had grown up idolizing Lewis, you couldn’t help but be excited. Even though you were now dating Charles, Ferrari’s golden boy, the childhood fan in you was practically vibrating with anticipation.

You had always been a Lewis fan.

Posters of him covered your bedroom walls when you were younger, and you’d spent countless hours watching his races, celebrating his victories, and defending him in heated debates with your friends. He had been the reason you fell in love with Formula 1 in the first place.

So, seeing him finally don the iconic red suit felt surreal.

Charles, however, did not share your enthusiasm.

Well, at least not entirely.

You didn’t notice it at first.

You were too busy scrolling through social media, liking every post Ferrari had made about Lewis’ arrival, rewatching the welcome video they had put together, and even pulling up old clips of his greatest wins to reminisce.

It wasn’t until you let out an excited squeal that Charles, who had been sitting beside you on the couch, finally snapped.

“Okay, that’s enough”

You blinked, looking up from your phone to see him frowning at you.

“What?” you asked, your voice laced with confusion at his outburst.

“This,” he gestured toward your phone, “is enough”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, frowning slightly.

Charles huffed, crossing his arms over his chest like a toddler.

“You’ve been talking about Lewis all day. Watching videos, liking posts, and acting like he’s the best thing to ever happen to Ferrari”

You tilted your head, confused by his sudden shift in mood.

“Charles, you know I’ve been a Lewis fan forever. This is huge for me. For the sport. For Ferrari. What are you on about?"

“For you, huh. I don’t see you getting this excited over me” he emphasized, pouting slightly.

You laughed, reaching out to poke his cheek as you finally understood what he was so mad about.

“Charles, I literally go to every race to support you. I wear your merch. I wake up at ungodly hours to watch practice sessions. You're my boyfriend. Of course, I support you” you said.

“Doesn’t feel like it right now” he mumbled.

Your heart softened at the sight of his pout. Charles wasn’t usually the jealous type - not when it came to other drivers, at least.

But seeing you gush over someone who was now technically his teammate? That was different.

“Are you seriously jealous?” you teased, grinning.

“No” Charles said, scoffing at you.

“You totally are” you raised an eyebrow, enjoying teasing him.

“I am not jealous” he crossed his arms tighter, looking away. “I just don’t like hearing my girlfriend go on and on about another driver.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

“Charles, Lewis was my childhood hero. I can be excited about this and still love you, you know”

He sighed, finally meeting your gaze.

“I know. It’s just… he’s Lewis Hamilton. Seven-time world champion. One of the greatest of all time. And now he’s in my team, in my garage, and my girlfriend is acting like she’s about to faint every time she sees a new picture of him in Ferrari red.”

You chuckled, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Charles, I promise you, no amount of childhood admiration can compare to how much I love you.”

He hesitated before finally melting into your embrace, resting his forehead against yours.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“Positive” you said, kissing the tip of his nose.

He sighed dramatically.

“Fine. But if I catch you wearing a Hamilton-Ferrari shirt before you wear mine, we’re breaking up” he said, his tone dead serious.

You gasped, pretending to be offended.

“Charles Leclerc, are you really making me choose?”

“Yes, and you better choose wisely" he smirked.

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“You are ridiculous, you know that?" you asked, shaking your head at him, but smiling.

“And you are mine,” he murmured against your lips, tightening his arms around you. “No matter how much you love Lewis.”

“No one compares to you, Charles” you said, grinning.

“Good.” He smirked. “Now, let’s go get you a proper Ferrari shirt - with my number on it.”

And just like that, his jealousy was gone, replaced with the warm satisfaction of knowing that, no matter how much you had admired Lewis Hamilton growing up, your heart belonged to him.

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diqldrunks · 11 months ago

Text

CAPTIVATED; cl16 [smau]

nav | inbox (open) | main masterlist

a/n: ik this took like a week but i got distracted with max… 😶‍🌫️

cw/tw: part two to OBSESSED <3 i’ve left it here just in case charles doesn't win bc i don’t want to jinx it 😭 p3 will be post race/summer break

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

twitter

instagram

yourusername just posted!

liked by charles_leclerc, bradpitt and 734,324 others

yourusername ✓ after auditions, chemistry testing and five different variants of scripts, i’m extremely happy to announce that i will be acting alongside brad pitt in the upcoming film ‘F1’ which will be in cinemas in 2025!! i’m going to be truthful and admit i don’t really know how formula 1 works, but i have dts to get me started 🤭 (is being attractive a requirement for drivers bc damn?)

84,173 comments…

user5 CHARLES LECLERC FOUND DEAD 💀

user6 2025 cannot come fast enough

user7 OMFG CHARLES AND CARLOS ON THE LAST SLIDE

user8 he’s liked the post which means he’s seen it too 🙏

scuderiaferrari ✓ hopefully we’ll see you in the paddock this season to give you the real experience and maybe wearing some red? (liked by charles_leclerc and yourusername)

user9 shut 💥 the 💥 fuck 💥 up 💥

user10 ADMIN?!

user11 Y/N AND CHARLES BOTH LIKED IT?!

yourusername i think i have some red clothes hidden somewhere that i could find ❤️ (liked by charlesleclerc and scuderiaferrari)

charles_leclerc cannot wait ❤️

user12 CHARLESY/N INTERACTION OMFG 🤭

charles_leclerc just posted!

liked by yourusername, scuderiaferrari and 98,087 others

charles_leclerc ✓ starting p1 for tomorrow babyyyyyy. unexpected but it feels good. we’ll give our best tomorrow for the last race before holidays 😘

18,623 comments…

user13 LETS GO BABYYYYYY 💪

user14 Y/N IS IN THE LIKES?!

user15 SHE 😭 FOLLOWED 😭 HIM 😭 BACK 😭 LAST 😭 NIGHT

yourusername ✓ congratulations charles! i cannot wait to see you in action tomorrow ❤️

user16 DOES THIS MEAN-

user17 charles will have a heart attack if he sees this y/n you still have time to delete the comment

charles_leclerc ✓ ❤️

user18 these red hearts are giving me hope(?)

f1gossip just posted!

liked by charles_leclerc, user19 and 18,625 others

f1gossip actress y/n l/n, who revealed last week that she would be staring in the ‘F1’ film alongside brad pitt, has been seen wearing ferrari merch at the belgium grand prix! above are the posts from her and her friends instagram stories. y/n’s name has been linked to f1 before, as ferrari driver charles leclerc has been very vocal about his long time crush on her!

5,732 comments…

user20 not charles in the likes 💀

user21 NO BUT I SHIP THEM

user22 i need him to win please i beg

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

charles taglist (lmk if you want to be added); @llando4norris @rana030 @cloud-55 @loloekie @tallrock35 @mel164

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goldenroutledge · 4 months ago

Text

don’t you remember

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

word count: 2.3k

prompts: ❛ you don’t have to keep me company, i’m fine by myself. ❜ & ❛ can you look at me? please? ❜

summary: running into charles at your favorite spot might be fate’s way (or leo’s way) of bringing you back together.

warning(s): some angst but a happy ending!

masterlist || be my valentine blurb event 💌

You don’t miss Charles Leclerc.

You don’t miss the constant travel, the way he softly snores on planes, how his head used to rest against your shoulder, subconsciously finding comfort in your presence even in his sleep.

You don’t miss his curt, one word responses when words got sharp and petty arguments grew between you. You don’t miss his forgetfulness, his habit of brushing the important things under the rug, knowing that you’ll still be there to deal with them later. Once upon a time, his carelessness endeared you, like when he’d kiss you no matter who was watching. That trait of his ultimately turned against you.

You don’t miss the sound of him practicing piano, at any hour day or night. You don’t miss the way he poured his heart out to the piano and saved nothing for you.

Nor do you miss the pitter patter of Leo’s paws through the halls when he wakes you up in the middle of the night, curling up at the foot of your bed. Okay, maybe you do miss that a little bit.

You don’t miss how after standing by Charles for years, cheering him on from the start, his one true love means more to him than you ever could; having a real shot at claiming the World Driver’s Championship. It’s the only prize he could keep his eyes on, one that you could never compare yourself to, knowing that achievement would be larger than life for him. Everything, and everyone else, coming in second place.

That’s exactly why you couldn’t spare any more time denying the obvious. Months were spent convincing yourself that it was the right decision, reassured by the common saying that people either grow apart or they grow together. The breakup might have been sudden, but you’d grown so far apart that he was out of your reach, and you had grown out of his. Each of your paths had no intersection in sight.

It’s what led you to bail on him at the last minute, deciding to randomly stay home instead of accompanying your boyfriend to a race weekend. Charles had mastered the art of avoiding tough conversations; you’d only done the same. It didn’t break your heart any less knowing that Charles and Leo would arrive home to an empty apartment come Monday.

Sure the furniture, the decorations, the art work, his beloved grand piano… the material things remained. However your clothes, your belongings, your pictures, your presence, it was all gone. Any trace of the years you’d spent together, gone as if they never existed in the first place. If Charles wanted space, this was the only way you knew how to give it to him. Maybe, just maybe, he’d come to regret it.

Seeing his family around has been hard. His beloved mom and brothers now hesitate to rush to your side and talk to you like they used to. They might smile out of habit, recognizing your familiar face before they remember what’s happened between you and Charles. Like the flick of a light switch, you were strangers, despite once upon a time being embraced as a member of their close-knit family.

Social media doesn’t serve much of a purpose for you these days. Your friends understand that being tagged in countless fan edits and gossip posts about your breakup has got to burn. If the breakup itself wasn’t wounding enough, you’re forced to relive it with each notification. Embracing the new routine has been good for you, offering stability that life with Charles simply couldn’t-

You drop your pen, pausing from writing in your journal as the incessant barking of a dog interrupts your train of thought. The sound grows louder with each one.

You take one glance of your surroundings, and that’s when you see him. Leo Leclerc, barreling towards you as quickly as his little legs can take him. He’s now the reason your face lights up in the midst of a rather torturous journaling session.

“Leo! What are you doing over here?” You can’t help but pet him. His tongue hangs out of his mouth and his abandoned leash drags against the grass beneath him.

You then realize that if Leo got away, Charles must not be too far. You hope it’s his assistant taking the dog for a walk today. Then again, your quiet hideout spot is along one of Charles’ favorite trails to run. The hair on the back of your neck stands up when you hear the sound of his voice, calling Leo’s name in hopes that he’ll reappear.

Leo, none the wiser, gives kisses to your exposed skin and barks out in excitement. You cringe, knowing that Charles definitely isn’t too far away after hearing the familiar sound.

He rounds the corner, and upon spotting his dog, Charles is more relieved than anything else. “Leo! There you-,” …Until he sees who Leo ran off to find in the first place. “Y/n? Is that you?”

You wave politely, still trying to calm Leo down from his burst of enthusiasm. “Hi, Charles.”

“I, uhh, didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Makes two of us. Looks like Leo had other ideas.”

Charles smiles, approaching slowly as if he’s intruding on the moment. “You scare me when you run off like that.” He mumbles to Leo, catching his own breath as he was clearly in the midst of a workout. “I’m sorry, he still hasn’t learned much about obedience.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Your words are melancholy, and you try to keep the smile on your face despite knowing this will probably be the last time you see either of them. Unless this happens again, of course. Talk about irony. It’s almost as if Charles was summoned here as you were writing about him. You close the journal with haste, hoping Charles didn’t see his name clearly written at the top. “I guess Leo’s not as over me as you are.”

You regret saying the words immediately after they come out. Heat rises to your cheeks, luckily the sun is partially to blame. Charles’ expression hardens, unsure of what to say or do. “You have no idea what this has been like for me, finding that note on your nightstand, telling me you were leaving.”

“Forget it, Charles. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, whatever you may think, it could not be farther from the truth.” Instead of bidding you adieu, leaving this awkward moment for your memory to replay before you fall asleep tonight, he sits down beside you. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what happened between us, trying to understand how it happened in the first place. Can you just tell me why you did it? Or tell me what I did to cause it?”

You shrug. “People grow apart, Charles. Nothing lasts forever.”

He laughs bitterly. “Glad to see you’ve turned so cynical. Me too.”

“Not cynical, just realistic. Our breakup has helped me realize a lot of things, actually.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s probably time to move to a bigger place, for one. Where I don’t run into my ex at my favorite sitting spot.” Charles freezes like a deer in headlights, until you nudge his arm with your elbow. “Relax, I’m just kidding. Kind of.”

“And you still have jokes. Good to know.”

Leo has calmed down and snuggled up between you and Charles. By the looks of it, he’s dozing off into an afternoon nap. Your heart warms at the sight of him, and though he’s just a dog, you can imagine that he’s feeling content between the two people that adopted him.

“You can come see him anytime, you know.”

“And that’s not just a ploy to get me back into your apartment?”

“You mean our apartment? It used to be yours too.”

“Exactly, used to be.”

“But it doesn’t have to be like that anymore. We can work it out, we can talk about everything that brought us here. Will you give us that chance?”

Your heart pangs with sadness at the reminder that this is all an illusion. Charles isn’t yours anymore, neither is Leo. He can feel your mood change at the mention of your old life together, and the distance that’s wedged itself between you now. “On second thought, you don’t have to keep me company, I’m fine by myself. You should get back to your workout, Charles.”

Absent-mindedly, you doodle on a blank page, hoping it will convince him you’re too busy for this. There’s no way he can let this conversation fall between his fingers. “Well, I need to rehydrate. So I’m staying.”

“Still stubborn, I see.”

“We spent years together, Y/n. You can’t tolerate me for more than five minutes?”

“You know what Charles? I wanted to be nice, to try to extend some kind of olive branch of friendship but I don’t think I can. We ended things for a reason and we can’t be friends.”

“Ended things? You mean, when you fled our apartment in the middle of the night?”

“Spare me. Things were long over between us. You just never had the balls to end it officially. Or at least wish me a good rest of my life.”

“I’m sorry, Y/n, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. Leo still sits by the door waiting for you. I must be some kind of idiot because I listen for the door, too. Hoping that one day maybe you’ll walk through it and come back home to us.”

“There is no home for me to come back to, Charles.” You mumble, but he’s insistent on finishing everything he’s been wanting to say to you since you left.

“And as for reaching out, you don’t know how badly I have wanted to. How close I have been to pressing send on some things I probably shouldn’t say, but do you know what stops me?”

“What stops you?”

“The thought of you carrying on, of being happy, maybe being happy with someone else who can give you everything you want. I never wanted to impose on your life because you made it clear that you don’t want me there anymore.”

“Are you insane? That’s not what happened at all! You ‘left’ me so you wouldn’t feel guilty about choosing your career anymore. I left because I didn’t want there to be a choice at all. You say that I left you, but it was mutual. You left me first.”

“Well, I was wrong. I could feel us growing apart and I didn’t do anything to stop it.” Charles shakes his head. “But Y/n, if I knew this is where we would end up, I would change everything. I should’ve never let you let me go. I should’ve fought.” You stay still, ignoring a tear that slips down your cheek and splatters onto the hardcover of your journal. “Y/n, can you look at me? Please?”

Leo’s woken up from the sound of Charles’ voice, alarmed at the distress in his dad’s voice, and the sadness radiating from his mom that he hasn’t seen in far too long. You lean down to kiss the daschund’s head before standing up.

“I should go.”

The dog is quick to follow you, and his cries are unmistakable, as if begging you to stay. Poor Leo never did anything to you. It’s a shame that he suffers from the decisions you and Charles made.

“If you won’t stay for me, will you stay for him?” Charles calls out, finally out of options now that he’s said what’s been weighing on his chest. He walks towards you and takes your free hand in his to stop you. His eyes share a similar look to your own, betting it all on one last plea.

“I can’t change the past. I can’t apologize enough for my mistakes. But if you can look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel for me anymore, I will let you go. I will wish you a good rest of your life and never bother you again if that’s what you want.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because I love you, mon chéri. I always have and I always will. And if you decide to walk away, just promise me you won’t forget that.”

You nod, still teary-eyed. “Fine. I won’t.”

“So what’s it gonna be? Do we have to say goodbye?”

“It’s going to take time, Charles.” You look down at the ground, focusing on Leo walking around you.

Charles’ eyes have watered, and you resist the urge to engulf him into a hug. “However long it takes, I’ll be here. I can’t lose you.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“You are. You’ve always been there for me, even when I don’t deserve it.” Charles takes a deep breath, composing himself. “But that’s going to change. I’m going to be someone who deserves you.”

You smile softly. “You’re not so bad, Charles. For what it’s worth, I shouldn’t have left the way I did. I never wanted to lose you either.”

Charles beams at you with hope in his eyes. He wants to hold you, to remind himself that you’re here in front of him after all this time, but he stops himself.

Instead, you take him into your arms, reveling in his familiar embrace. He wraps his arms around you, and his chest feels lighter. “Thank you.” He murmurs into your ear, wishing the moment to last forever.

You both chuckle as below you, Leo barks happily and wags his tail ferociously. “Me? You should be thanking him. If he hadn’t run off and found me here, we would’ve never ran into each other. We got Parent-Trapped by our dog.”

Charles leans down to pick Leo up, sighing in contentment as he looks between you two with admiration. “I guess we did, didn’t we?”

“But something tells me we were always meant to find our way back to each other. Isn’t that right, Leo?”

Leo barks at the sound of his name, confirming what you’ve both known all along; some things are just meant to be.

💌: thanks for reading! comments & reblogs are greatly appreciated! feel free to request more from my be my valentine blurb event

taglist: @marjorieswrld (add yourself here!)

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halsteadlover · 1 year ago

Text

𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

• Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Female!Reader.

• Requested: nope.

• Summary: a thread of why you and Charles aren’t just friends.

• Warning: none just fluff.

• A/N: I had this one on the drafts for so long I even forgot about it so I’m posting it now since it’s been a while I posted something lmao I’m still learning with the social media au so beat with me but here it is, I hope you’ll like it ❤️

Instagram

Tagged: charles_leclerc

Liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, landonorris and other 627.815

yourusername @charles_leclerc I told you we should’ve taken some acting classes.

View all the comments

charles_leclerc What do you mean acting classes baby? I was pretty good convincing everyone you were just a friend 🙄

carlossainz55 😐

landonorris 😐

pierregasly 😐

yourusername 😐

charles_leclerc I hate you all

yourusername @charles_leclerc Oh is that so?

charles_leclerc @/yourusername Baby I just put a giant diamond on your finger. Please don’t even start right now.

yourusername @charles_leclerc Damn ok no need to be so harsh 😔

charles_leclerc @/yourusername I can hear you giggling mon amour. Now come back to bed I’m not done with you yet.

General tag list: @hngbrooks, @alexxavicry, @halstead-severide-fan, @mrspeacem1nusone, @allivzs, @omniaimy, @cursedashes, @kmc1989, @klovesreading, @firetruckstuckley, @23victoria, @buckybarnessweetheart, @fanaticlove16, @ajordan2020, @multi-fandom-lover7667

Charles Leclerc tag list: @dallaav, @softicecr3eam, @halsteadbrasil, @bwormie, @ssprayberrythings, @mynameisangeloflife, @Scaramou, @ironspdy, @earlgreyflowers, @rxclessmorgan7, @bubu40777168,@hiireadstuff, @lilithhs-world, @yujnrq, @aurora-maria, @decafmickey

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bunny-jpeg · 8 months ago

Note

Charles Leclerc + pudding chomeur + sangria

bakery menu

thank you for ordering from the menu! orders are still open, so please hit me up! i'd love to make something up for you, these have been a ton of fun and i hope to make more in the future! thank you for all the support! a nice short and sweet prompt for the lovely people at home!

pudding chomeur ("i don't share.") + sangria (drunk sex) served by charles leclerc (formula one)!!

cw: smut/pwp, drunk sex, facetime calls (sorry max!), jealousy, a touch of possessive behavior (but he loves you so much), doggy style, dirty talk, everyone's drunk

charles never considered himself to be a possessive man. there was no reason to be, jealousy was never a good look on him. he had beautiful green eyes, but he was no green eyed monster. but he very much didn't like how max was talking to you.

he also didn't like that the wold champion was eyeing your cleavage then looking to charles in the near distance of the club you were all at. those blue eyes looked to charles, almost daring him with what he was going to do next. max practically had you cornered while you rambled in your drunken state, what was charles going to do?

the devil was a talker, and he was currently in charles' ear.

back in your apartment, charles' hands rarely left your body. you stumbled a little into the apartment as you kicked off your heels and ended up on the couch. but you weren't on there long before charles had you back on your now-bare feet and headed towards the bedroom. charles held onto you tightly as he walked into the room, only to let you go as he pushed you onto the bed.

"strip." he said, flushed in the face and a little out of breath. something came over your charming, loving boyfriend when he got enough alcohol in him. pink in the cheeks down to his neck and his insatiable need for you.

"strip?"

he nodded as he started to undo his linen white shirt, his hands were a little shaky as he got his shirt off, he wore no undershirt and then worked on the belt of his pants. you got your dress off before charles has the chance to rip it off of you.

"you're mine."

"charles."

"say it."

you sat on the edge of the bed, now naked. you then swallowed and said, "i'm yours, charles." you shifted in your spot, "now and forever."

he got his slacks off and soon his underwear. he admired your nude form once you slipped your lace panties off. he watched them fall to the ground before he pounced on you. he pressed himself against you for a moment before he got you on your elbows and knees. your face pressed into the mattress, you moaned as he brushed his cock up against your cunt. "say it again."

"i'm yours, charles." you moaned as you arched your back a little. that was what he liked to hear. it polluted his brain more than the alcohol and it made his cock twitch.

"that's what i like to hear. i'm never sharing you, you are mine and mine alone." he didn't need max's hands all over you. not all over what was his. he continued to rub against you before he sank his cock into you. he covered your body mostly with his as he got all the way the root of his cock.

"charles!" you squeaked as you held onto the covers under you. his pace wasn't gentle, it was rough and it made the back of your skull throb with the intensity of it. when charles was drunk, he fucked you like an animal. a far cry from the gentle pretty boy most thought of his as.

he couldn't help it, something about you mixed with hard liquor made everything fire off in his brain. he needed you, he hungered for you. as he fucked you till you were moaning, he grabbed his phone from his pants that were on the bed. he propped it up on the pillows and as he drunkingly fucked you, he called the only person he could think of.

before max could even say hello, he was greeted to the sounds of your fucking. from your high pitched noises to the creak of the bed. he could see you, but most of all see charles' hungry, drunk gaze.

max chuckled and said, "i guess you're sharing now." his voice low as he admired how charles was fucking you. it was messy sex, the kind of sex that the predestined shouldn't be having.

he said through a tense jaw, "i don't share." then continued to shove your face further into the bed. he looked towards the camera and saw max on the screen, "don't put your hands on her again."

max shifted a little in his bed and was all smiles. even in the low light of the room, charles could see the heat in the drunk verstappen's face. in only fueled him to fuck you harder. max said quietly, "no need to be so rough her, mate. she's not going anywhere."

charles could tell that max's other hand was down the front his sweatpants. he knew that bastard was jerking off to this. he looked back to the back of your head as he loomed over you. his thrusts were hard and made you whine with each movement.

only he could drive you crazy. your noises were angelic and it bled pleasure into charles' head. he briefly looked at max on screen and smiled. all three of you were painfully drunk. max's heavy pants could be heard, but you were lost in your own sexual euphoria. charles continued to fuck you roughly, he watched your ass bounce against his cock as he fucked you right into the mattress.

"please, charles." you whined as you felt everything fill your head. it was painfully hot. there was nothing else quite like it. you drooled onto the bed as he fucked you. the pleasure made your head feel heavy. it was a sick sexual heat that left you clamoring for more. you were drunk and your lover was drunk.

"i got you, baby." he said, he could feel the sweat down his back as he rutted up inside of you, "you look so beautiful. tell me who you belong to, who fucks you just right." who owns you, were the unspoken words.

you whined, not knowing max was on call, "charles. fuck, you, it's you!' and you clawed at the covers, you felt the urge to climax. you moaned heavily as he continued to fuck you.

you both didn't last long, and neither did max. you came first with a harsh moan which only spurred charles to finish inside of you with a loud groan, that bordered on high pitched. and max bit into his palm as he came to not alert you that you were being filmed. charles wiped his eyes to focus himself before he turned off the call without even saying goodbye, leaving max to clean up his own mess. the phone was put further on the bed before charles got you onto your back.

he admired your sweaty features and your blissed out state. he licked his lips before he hiked up your hips, "i'm not done with you. i'm going to mark you so max never touches you again."

the next morning, charles woke up and checked his phone through bleary eyes. he had very recollection of last night once the two of you got home. he noticed that he was on facetime with max for over half an hour. he assumed he had fallen asleep while they had a conversation.

that was until he checked the text message that the driver sent him. the words made charles' eyes go wide.

'she looked good under you. maybe next time i can join." <3

506 notes · View notes

nottivagos · 2 months ago

Text

notti's nightly thoughts (18+)

an: i feel really bad that i haven't been active fic-wise in a long while. i'm currently in a little bit of a slump, so have a vampire!charles draft that's been sitting in my notepad for too long as an apology <3

charles moaned as you pushed your breasts into his face. his tongue automatically came and swirled over and around the plush flesh, tracing messy lines of saliva across your skin ever so pathetically.

your arms wrapped lovingly around his neck, encasing charles’s face in your boobs for a moment. smiling contently down at him, he brought his head up briefly, his flushed expression meeting your ever so alluring gaze. his large hands came to grope at the supple mounds, his hungry yet pleading eyes meeting your slightly now darkened expression.

he was already salivating embarrassingly like a dog. straddling his lap, you felt his growing, desperate erection graze over your clothed cunt. biting his lip, charles’s widened, enamoured eyes fixated back onto your breasts, his calloused thumbs now rubbing your nipples into sensitive peaks ever so meticulously.

“that’s it, charles,” you breathed. “good boy,” you praised ever so smoothly as a rush of heat curled up your spine from the lowly burning pit in your belly.

charles moaned at your words as you pressed your boobs back into his face, now slowly rutting your hips against his clothed erection. his mouth now peppered the flesh in feverish, hot-mouthed kisses with an animalistic passion.

“such beautiful breasts,” he rasped, as you wrapped your arms around his neck again, hips rolling slowly in his lap. nipping the skin with his fangs, he muttered, “i need to feed from them so badly,” into the flesh as he left unnoticeable wounds which he flicked away with a swipe of his tongue easily.

charles groaned not only at the friction of your rut in his lap, but at the taste of you on his tongue. it was no mystery that your blood had become a drug to charles, the richness overwhelming his senses even at a small droplet. no, if anything, it made his brain short circuit and turn him into a begging, horny mess of a vampire, leaving him with an incurable lust for more, which you couldn’t help but relish in and torture him for.

as his mouth found your right tit, a moan escaped your lips as your hips came to a sudden halt. charles began to suckle on the sensitive nipple, his tongue swiping over it, making another rush of heat run up your spine. your nails dug deeply into his bare shoulders, hissing as he sucked harshly on the bud of nerves, the hot saliva of his mouth on the skin afterwards intoxicating.

charles whined as you then dragged your hands down his smooth chest, tracing the skin ever so slowly. shuddering, the overpowering pheromones of the blood pumping and surging like electricity through your veins, overwhelmed his senses as his hips now buckled towards your clothed cunt needily.

in that moment, you pulled yourself away from the now whimpering vampire. eyes widened and confused, charles’s green eyes met your devilishly darkened gaze, silently pleading for you to give in, so he could alleviate the pathetic pent up torture he was currently coping with.

“please,” a pathetic groan mixed with a small whimper escaped the vampire’s lips. “let me taste you, amour. i’ve been so good all week!” he whined, pathetically inhaling your scent as he found solace in the crook of your neck. “need you badly,” he mumbled into the skin, nipping it timidly.

chuckling dryly, you shuddered slightly at charles’s sharp fangs on your skin again, the feverish nips on your bare collarbone causing your body to tingle with anticipation. “you’re such a needy thing for me, aren’t you, charles? always so willing to please me for your reward.”

he whined against your skin, nodding. charles was too drunk on your strong scent of blood to form a single coherent thought in his head, the now growing wet patch in his boxers a strong indicator of all that his brain could comprehend.

his clothed erection was now stark when you glanced down at it straining in his boxers, just begging to be set free. smirking, you raised your gaze back up to the vampire’s where you were met with green puppy-like eyes, ever so doey and desperate for you to cave in to what he wanted.

“do you need help with that?” you questioned ever so sweetly, batting your eyelashes despite the evil grin plastered on your face. he bit his lip sheepishly, eyes not able to stay on your own, as your hand then grazed over his boxers, before squeezing his length abruptly, “let me help you with that, charles.”

charles whimpered, cheeks burning a dark crimson, mixed with embarrassment and his growing arousal. he then gulped, his adam’s apple bobbing, before nodding sheepishly again, his humiliated gaze flicking over the rotten smirk which had formed on your lips.

your hand then cupped his burning cheek, rubbing a soothing thumb over the reddened apple ever so lovingly. “use your words, charles,” you whispered, your breath fanning onto his parted lips. “tell me what you want me to do,” you added lowly.

charles gasped softly, a harsh intake of breath catching in his throat as he looked up at you with those dazed green eyes. you chuckled again, thumb now coming to graze over his bottom lip, “if you tell me what you want me to do, then i’ll let you feed from my tits,” you promised simply, “because that’s what you want right?”

charles then bit his lip hesitantly. “i want you to jerk me off whilst i taste you again,” he whispered, green eyes locking onto your own gaze. “please,” he added, “you don’t know how badly i need this.”

“oh charles,” you cooed, fingers tracing across his jawline, before pouting as you looked down at him. “i do know how badly you need it,” you murmured, pressing an approving kiss on his forehead. “and because you were such a good boy and used your words,” you added, “who am i to refuse you of such a request?”

almost instantly, charles’s mouth locked onto your right breast again, sucking and nipping at the plush flesh like a starved man. his fangs sunk deeply into the supple skin, suckling the blood ever so messily without a care in the world.

gasping, your fingers trailed down his bare front again, fingertips hooking the elastic waistband of his boxers as you pulled them down to his ankles swiftly. charles’s cock bounced against his lower stomach, precum smeared all over the agitated tip. your hand wrapped around the shaft, thumb grazing the throbbing slit, causing charles to whine as you then smeared the glistening slick around the yearning length.

pushing your front into his face again, charles groaned as he became encased by your breasts. your hand pumped up his shaft slow and steady as he whined, sucking harsher, causing you to moan and bite your lip in response. “you like that, charles?” you breathlessly asked, flicking your hand quicker as you increased your tempo on the assault of charles’s angry cock.

charles moaned against your skin in response, the vibrations sending sensations through your entire body. charles’s hips started to buckle forward, whining whilst you jerked even faster, chasing the release that was closer than he thought it was, gulping down your blood and sucking you dry in the process.

“charles,” you gasped out breathlessly, cheeks burning a rosy crimson. “fuck,” you bit your lip, “such a good boy for me. keep going.”

his saliva and blood congealed on your breast, running down your chest as he messily fed off of you without a care in the world. gutturally groaning into your skin, his stomach was in knots as hot cum spurted out of his tip and onto both of your lower stomachs, adding another substance in the mess on your body.

your chest heaved as you let charles’s cock soften in your hand, before letting it fall out of your hands. looking down at the man with blood smeared messily all around his face with a dazed expression, you smiled contentedly as you met charles’s green eyes again.

“such a messy thing,” you muttered breathlessly, rubbing a thumb against charles’s jawline. “but you’re my messy thing,” you giggled, lowering yourself so you could rest your forehead on his own.

“i love you, ma chérie,” charles whispered, green eyes glistening upwards as your boob continued to bleed out slightly.

“i love you too, charles,” you whispered back, with a soft smile. “but let's go and get cleaned up shall we? i think you and i both deserve a nice shower after that,” you added, kissing him softly on the lips basking in the moment. <3

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slyscoutess · 1 year ago

Text

paring: charles leclerc x fem!social media! reader [ has faceclaim ] summary: Strange comments started circulating about your image, your networks and even your work, all because of a viral video, now your boyfriend, not at all jealous, can no longer hide your relationship. writer: The faceclaim of choice was @ mharessa on Instagram, but there is a reason for the choice, everything here is a funny story that is kinda of happening right now in Brasil, with some modified details, I hope you like it ;3

liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, olliebearman and 111.051 others

scuderiaferrari From the grid to your feed. 😎🇯🇵

tagged: carlosssainz55, charles_leclerc

view all 2.075 comments

pipesancheez55 y/n knows exactly what we want to see. Charles and Carlos

charlooos and who's that??? pipesancheez55 she is the admin and social media for Ferrari, and close friends with both boys 55sainz_ now say it in a velvety voice: thank u yourusername

leciceecream admin I hope your metabolism is not accelerated, we are praying for you sweetie!!!

c2loover admin, do you know you are getting married???

bearbooy admin girl, i don't know how to tell you this, but it seems like you were invited to a wedding and you're the bride

carlitoswifey she needs to get a protective order leclerclnoffspring Charles please protect our mother

ln554 I think she's so cute with charles, such a shame she's going to marry that ugly

lestappenheart wtf is going on in this comment section????

liked by andferrari007, joris_trouche, yourusername and 1.611.648 others

charles_leclerc 愛しています日本 🤍

tagged: andferrari007, joris_trouche, yourusername

view all 4.116 comments

yourusername oooh how pretty are this pictures!!! who take them???

charles_leclerc annoying random girl in the last picture, think she is a stalker or something like that lechairpastry oh well, your stalker is being stalked, charlie

drawstaars16 you're neve beating the babygirl allegations

lechairbbg allegations?? that's 100% confirmed supermaxmaxmax he is the definition of babygirl

vanillaleclerc y/n in the last picture, she's hagging with her boys before her marriage

cliatalianfanclub charles, did y/n ask you to be her bestman???

scuderiafanclub charles, ask y/n if her metabolism is accelerated

pastrypapaya we alredy know she has THE called to greatness lestcarlando and the looks does match

mariaferrari ask y/n how the wedding preparations is going!!!

lestappenheart IN HERE TOO??? WTF

liked by iamrebeccad, scuderiaferrari, yourusername and 1.002.910 others

carlossainz55 choose your race week face

view all 5.249 comments

carlandochild when he raises his eybrows >>>>>

ascescuderia I busted 3 time confirmed scuderiacharlos soo true

sainzthinker I just know yourusername take the pictures

yourusername I actually did, and receive no credits for it, can you believe it??? xxemilian I can believe that you have a accelerated metabolism

lec16r did y/n already send you the invitation for the wedding???

beccacarlosluv so when is y/n's wedding???

love4wags you proclame yourself y/n's big brother, are you the one who's going to walk her down the isle??

carlandobaby Do you think she will lose the baby weight fast??

mickrussel are you going to the wedding or is Lewis taking your seat there too??

lestappenheart you guys are kind of impossible right now WTF IS GOING ON??

liked by carlossainz55, lovingwags, yourusername and 21.224 others

iamrebeccad Editorial for russhmagzine

view all 201 comments

carlossainz55 😍

wtfisakmsargeant i'm going to steal your gf carlando_mclaren so early

beccasaainz ARE YOU GOING TO BE THE MAID OF HONOR???

verstappen1655 you are y/n's friend, do you know if she have a accelerated metabolism????

yourusername Forget that spaniard, let's runaway together I BEG

iamrebeccad already packing wait a minute charloslovers y/n's fiance did you know you lose to a woman???

scuderiawaglovers is y/n a woman of god???

lestappenheart I give up honestly . . . Looking good Rebecca!!!

liked by charles_leclerc,scuderiaferrari, iamrebeccad and 21.648 others

yourusername Alexa, play Lost in Japan by Shaw Mendes

tagged: joris_trouche, charles_leclerc

view all 2.116 comments

babygirllechair did she leave the church??

trixpastry girl, did you asked for restriction order already??

supermaxmaxmax CONGRATS ON THE WEEDING, such a shame is not with charles

vanillaleclerc this is not very curch lady of you

sainzz55_ Charles is going to be the bestman and going to cry for the lost of the love of his life on the wedding

landonorris Please, let me be in the weeding

pastrypapaya NOT YOU TOO lestcarlando HE IS SO CHRONICALLY ONLINE

stalkerusername what a beautiful picture, it's a shame that your clothes are apparently becoming less and less cloth, but that will never take away your beauty

lestappenheart oh now I know what is happening

stories responses in instagram dm

scuderiasainzz SUCH A CUTE BABY

ynthinker I just know you were giggling like a proud mother on the bts of this

csj55_ HOW CUTE

sargeantblues Did you loose the baby weight fast after giving birth to this one?

norrizsainsz Is he the one who will take the rings on your wedding day?

stalkerusername God has blessed you with immeasurable talent, and these boys are so lucky to be with you while you are still working

charles_leclerc stories responses in instagram dm

charlieleclec I love how good of a friends you guys are, hope it keeps that way when she marries

cslestappen4 MAMA AND PAPA

maypastrylover Yes, Charlie, keep her mettabolism accelereted!!!!

druvoichmaxie She does seem to have it all in his check list

kikagaaasly Training to be best man in her wedding??

alobonorussel Saying your goodbyes before her husband makes her quit her job to be a full time church lady???

yourusername stories responses in instagram dm

xoxoleclerc SUCH A POOKIE

scuderiaicecream your future husband will not like this

tsunodagaasly going to make a quick time travel to see who you marry in the end

chaynloverrs don't make risk runaways with charlie, you have a stalker

monacopredestinado Are you speeding up his metabolism too?

scuderiawags4life DON'T GO BACK TO MONACO, I BEEEG

liked by scuderiaferrari,lilymunh, yourusername and 1.543.698 others

charles_leclerc showing beauties hidden behind cameras 🤍

tagged: yourusername

view all 4.116 comments

yourusername you take more pictures of me than I take of you, and me taking pictures of you is my job

charles_leclerc some beauties deserve more attention than others lechairsainz He says this and there are more photos of Carlos

ln1644 I wanted their friendship for me

alonsovettel friendship? they are clearly dating and this is a hard launch carlandofishy okay grandma, let's take you back to bed

lecvanillaas I love her being his best friend

jorisfavwag suddenly no one is asking about her metabolism

scuderiahamilton charles ruinning a wedding

pastrypapaya such a homewrecker lestcarlando I hope her future husband knows that her and Charles' friendship comes first

cliqueleclerc future husband screaming, crying and throwing up now

lestappenheart His gallery is just her and everyone else thinking it's friendship

liked by vertappwifey,rosinglovers, mhefandoom and 8.585 others

lovingwags Tired of everyone calling it friendship, possessiveness or worried about obsessed fans?

Either way, Charles Leclerc just kissed Scuderia Ferrari social media manager in front of everyone during his post-race victorious celebration. We need to comment that apparently he had an unsuccessful hard launch yesterday and in recent days we saw a man saying he would marry his, now assumed, girlfriend.

When asked about the matter, Charles simply replied that they had "already taken care of it and the man would never come close to his lover, there was no saint or religious entity that would do otherwise." Charles is known for being jealous, his jealousy being one of the rumors of one of his old breakups, this may have been what sparked the fire for him to admit his girlfriend to the world. What do you think?

view all 475 comments

verstappenmothering Delulu twitter girls WERE RIGHT

yummylechair FUCK YEAH WE WERE yncliquee WE KNEW OUR PARENTS VERY WELL

ynthinker Where were you when the photo of her sitting on his lap on the beach went viral? The photo he reposted on his launch

miniverstln MAMA AND PAPA. MAMA. AND. PAPA

lechairyourname the position of his hands, this man needs to be touching her 24/7

norrizzcunt THE CRAZY STALKER LOST IN MONACO AND SHE KISSING CHARLES IN CHINA

maziemillian SHE'S A VERY LUCKY WOMAN sainnzchair and he's a very lucky man

whatamaxemmil Thank u random dude for making my parents hard launch their relatioship!!!!!

liked by landonorris,carmenmundt, yourusername and 1.789.309 others

charles_leclerc I try one more time to make it clear, the one right there is mine 🤍 If there is anyone in this world who will marry her, it's me, the ring hidden in the closet proves it.

tagged: yourusername

view all 4.116 comments

yourusername I love you so much cutie patotie, pookie bear, literally the man of my life and for my life

charles_leclerc i love you way more, my princess, i love u more than italian man love me riddleleclec FUCK THAT ROME ASS AND JULI GIRL, I WANT WHAT THIS BITHCES HAVE

yourusername WHAT RING??? RUE ( joris_trouche ) WHEN WAS THIS???

joris_trouche We went out to choose around the third week of your relationship landonorris LMAO WHAT A SIMP charles_leclerc no need to expose this here

olliebearman MAMA 'N PAPA

nenasainzz OLLIE norrizlala ONE OF US FOR REAL

lewishamilton I'm happy for you both, wish all the love in the world for your relationship ❤️

sebastianvettel I'm glad you can finally show your love to the world ❤️

yourusername omg thank u, just know you are my all time favorite driver ( and ferrari driver ) and the best father in law I could ask for!!! charles_leclerc your boyfriend and bestfriend are both drivers IN FERRARI???? carlossainz55 we are catching strays here

iamrebeccad GIRLFRIEND STEALER ALERT

francisca.cgomes we need to start plan b to get our girl back iamrebeccad okay . . . but what is plan b? carlossainz55 forgetting plan b just like me, how cute cariño yourusername leave my girl alone, sainz 🫵👊 carlossainz55 That's it, I'm notwalking you down the isle anymore 😤 yourusername no need to get aggressive, let's talk ☹️

cliqueleclerc I AM A CHILD OF A FUTURE HAPPY MARRIED COUPLE 😭😭

1K notes · View notes

pucksandpower · 1 month ago

Text

Mon Soleil

Charles Leclerc x high school sweetheart!Reader

Summary: you don’t belong in the shadows, but selfishly Charles loves that you’re only his there (in which Charles Leclerc has kept his girlfriend hidden from the world for years and years … until he didn’t)

The door shuts softly behind him.

That in itself is telling — Charles always shuts it gently when he’s trying not to bring the world inside with him. Shoes scuffed, travel-worn jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes a little too tired to be young, he exhales like the weight of the grid is still pressing against his spine.

Silence greets him, familiar and warm. It’s not the absence of noise, but the presence of peace.

He walks through the apartment slowly, like something might break if he moves too fast. The city hums outside, Monaco golden and quiet beneath the early evening sky. From the living room, the sliding balcony doors are cracked open just enough to let in the scent of sea salt and sun-warmed stone.

That’s where you are.

Curled up on the balcony chaise, legs tucked beneath you, a loose cardigan slipping off one shoulder. There’s a book in your lap, but it’s long since fallen shut. Your eyes are closed, head tipped toward the sky like you’re soaking in the last of the daylight. Hair soft, skin glowing in the low sun — it hits him all at once, how desperately he’s missed you.

Charles leans against the doorframe, watching for a moment, throat tight.

“Mon soleil,” he says softly, barely more than breath.

You blink your eyes open, slow and sleepy, like your mind’s still somewhere inside the pages or the sunlight or the quiet. Then you smile.

“Hey,” you say, voice rough with rest.

He crosses the distance in seconds. The moment his lips brush your temple, everything else dissolves — the cameras, the interviews, the brutal double-header, the fake smiles. All of it gone. You tilt your head so he can press a second kiss just under your ear, and his arms wrap around you from behind, grounding.

“You’re home early,” you murmur.

Charles huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. “It’s nine.”

Your fingers find his. “Early for you.”

He exhales, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “Didn’t want to go to the after-party. Couldn’t take another question about the championship.”

“Did you win?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, simply, gently. Like you mean it and nothing else. No noise. No expectations.

He closes his eyes.

“You know they had me filming a social media bit with Lewis twenty minutes after I crossed the finish line?” He says, muffled against your collarbone. “I was still sweating. I hadn’t even called Maman yet.”

“Sounds like a dream job.”

Charles snorts. “Yeah. The dream.”

You twist a little to look at him. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like something he hasn’t said yet is still sitting there, waiting.

“What is it?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he brushes your hair back, fingers gentle at your temple, then your jaw. The kind of touch that says you’re real. I need that right now. You lean into it.

“They want me to fake date someone,” he says finally, eyes fixed on yours. “For a brand thing. PR stunt. ‘Broaden my audience appeal.’ Some model who’s apparently very into vintage cars and barely has a pulse.”

You blink.

He watches you, gauging the flicker of emotion across your face. “I said no,” he adds, quickly. “Obviously. I didn’t even let them finish the pitch.”

Your voice is dry. “But you told me anyway.”

“I had to,” Charles says. “It’s your life too.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Do you think they’d actually push it?”

He sighs. “They’re not stupid. They know I’d walk before I let them touch this.” His thumb presses to the space over your heart. “But they’re not used to me saying no to everything else.”

“You’ve said no to a lot.”

He smiles faintly. “Yeah, but only when it’s worth it.”

You reach for his hand, the one still resting on your shoulder. Your fingers link instinctively.

“Was it hard?” You ask. “To say no?”

“No,” he says immediately. “What’s hard is not being able to tell the world why.”

There’s something deeper in that — something that aches.

You look at him. “You’d want to?”

He hesitates.

“I would,” Charles says quietly. “But I know what it would do to you.”

That stings, a little. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s true.

He sees it in your expression. “Hey,” he says, gently. “I didn’t mean that like — like you can’t handle it. I know you could. I just … I like this. Us. The quiet. The privacy.”

“I like it too,” you admit, leaning your cheek into his shoulder. “But sometimes I think … maybe I’m hiding.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately, and there’s something fierce about it, the way his arms tighten around you. “You’re not. You just like peace. And that doesn’t mean you’re hiding.”

You shrug.

He shifts to face you more directly, hands cupping your jaw now. “You don’t belong in the shadows,” Charles murmurs, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks. “But selfishly, I love that you’re only mine there.”

You exhale a shaky little laugh. “That’s kind of possessive.”

He smiles. “Yeah. It is.”

“You’re usually not.”

“Not with the world, no,” he says. “But with you? Yeah. I am. I want to be.”

You look at him for a long time.

There’s still sea breeze in the air, warm and thick with salt. The sun is low now, slipping behind the hills. The light on your skin is rose-gold, and he looks at you like you hung the sun there yourself.

“I wrote today,” you say finally.

His eyes brighten. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Couple thousand words. Not great ones. But better than the last few days.”

“I want to read them.”

You raise a brow. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

“I’m not ready.”

He doesn’t push. “Okay.”

You smile, just a little. “But I like that you ask.”

Charles leans forward, brushing his lips across your forehead. “Always will.”

The wind stirs a strand of hair across your cheek, and he tucks it behind your ear with a kind of reverence.

“How long are you home for?” You ask.

“Five days.”

“Before Spain?”

“Yeah. I was going to train tomorrow, but I think I’ll take the morning off.”

Your voice is quiet. “For rest?”

“For you,” he says, and the way he says it makes your heart stumble.

“Charles-”

“No,” he says, gently. “You don’t have to earn it. I want time with you. You’re the only place I feel human lately.”

You swallow.

He leans in and kisses your cheek, slow and warm. Then your jaw. Then your neck, just above your pulse. You shiver slightly, but it’s comfort more than anything else — being found, being known.

“You want to go to bed?” He asks quietly.

You nod.

So he takes your hand, and it’s not rushed — it’s not hungry or dramatic. It’s grounding. Soft. He guides you inside, flicking off lights as you go, easing you into your shared room like he’s placing you somewhere safe.

In the bedroom, he pulls off your cardigan for you, brushing your shoulders with his hands. He peels back the covers, helps you climb in, then joins you. Not an inch of space between your bodies. His arms come around your waist from behind, holding you steady.

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re not hiding,” he whispers. “You’re home.”

You reach back for his hand under the sheets. “Even when I’m quiet?”

“Especially when you’re quiet.”

He’s tracing patterns across your ribs now, soothing. Breathing slow. The world doesn’t exist here.

“Mon soleil,” he murmurs again, a little sleepier this time. “Even when the lights go out.”

You hum. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“I always come back to you.”

And in the hush of the room, you believe him.

He holds you closer.

Outside, Monaco sleeps.

Inside, he dreams only of you.

***

The car pulls up to the curb in front of the Palais de Tokyo, slow and deliberate like it knows what’s waiting outside.

Flashes ignite immediately — paparazzi like moths drawn to the promise of fame. The bulbs flicker against the polished black of the car, against the glittering heels stepping out before them, against the tension sitting thick in Charles’ chest.

He glances over at you.

“You sure?” He murmurs.

You nod, hands smoothed over the deep navy fabric of your dress. His fingers brush over yours where they rest in your lap — one soft, grounding touch.

“Okay,” he breathes. Then he adds, a little lower, “Stay close to me.”

The door opens.

The noise hits first — camera shutters, yelling voices, someone shouting his name in five different accents. It’s not unusual. It’s just … amplified. Paris amplifies everything. This isn’t a race weekend. This is Fashion Week. Which means the crowd outside isn’t just motorsport fans — it’s models, influencers, press junkies, people who invent rumors for fun and watch them come to life in real time.

You step out first.

And it’s small, the moment. Barely three seconds between your heels touching pavement and Charles following behind you, hand briefly ghosting the small of your back.

But it’s enough.

The buzz changes pitch the second he emerges.

There’s a flicker — a sharp inhale among the crowd, someone saying “Wait, who is that?” and another whispering your name as a question. Not as a fact. Just an idea. But ideas are dangerous here. Ideas spark headlines.

“Keep walking,” Charles mutters under his breath, close enough for only you to hear. “Just smile. Straight through.”

You nod. You’ve done this before — stepped through this minefield together. But something feels different tonight. Sharper.

Inside, the noise doesn’t follow. The air changes. The show hasn’t started yet, and the room is full of champagne flutes, soft designer scents, the low hum of fashion people pretending not to care who else is watching. You don’t drink — your fingers toy with the stem of a glass while Charles excuses himself for a brief interview across the room.

You watch him go.

He’s good at this. Too good. Easy smile, charming accent, sharp tux — he blends in so well it’s almost hard to remember how badly he used to flinch under attention.

The memory hits like a whisper.

***

It was at school, back in Monaco. He’d shown up to class ten minutes late, hair still wet from training, a smudge of grease on his collar. You were already sitting near the back, half-hiding behind a copy of Little Women.

He slid into the seat next to you, awkward and quiet. Everyone knew who he was. Charles Leclerc — the golden boy. The kid with the karting trophies and the tragic backstory. But up close, he didn’t seem golden. He seemed … tired.

He hadn’t spoken until three days later, when you’d accidentally left your notebook behind after class. He ran it out to you — literally ran. You were already halfway down the hall when he called your name.

You turned.

He held it out. “You forgot this.”

You took it, quietly. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, then blurted, “You write poems in the margins.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You read it?”

“No, I mean, just that one page. The one on the train. It was … good.”

You tilted your head. “You read poetry?”

“No,” he said, too quickly. Then, “Sometimes. I don’t understand most of it.”

You smiled. “That’s okay. Most people don’t.”

He paused. “Can I sit next to you again tomorrow?”

You nodded.

That was it. That was the moment it began.

Not with a spark. But a softness.

***

Now, across the room, Charles finishes his interview and makes his way back to you, expression slightly tight.

“Are we okay?” You ask under your breath.

He kisses your cheek. “Fine. One of the photographers caught a weird angle of us getting out of the car. It’ll blow over.”

You nod slowly. “You sure?”

“No,” he admits, low. “But I’m pretending.”

The lights dim then, and conversation dissolves into applause as the show begins. Your friend’s collection floats down the runway — fluid and sharp, dramatic and quiet all at once. You squeeze Charles’ hand, and he leans in to whisper, “He’ll be huge after this.”

You smile. “I know.”

But it doesn’t last.

After the show, as the crowd floods the exit, there’s a moment — a flash of something too fast to be fully seen. A journalist stepping forward, recorder in hand.

“Charles, Charles, one question?”

He stops out of habit. You hesitate beside him.

The journalist glances at you, sharp and curious. “Is this your girlfriend?”

Silence.

For a second — just one — he doesn’t say anything. The beat stretches, too long, too brittle.

Then, “No comment.”

You flinch, barely. But he feels it. Of course he does.

He wraps a protective arm around your waist, not possessive but anchoring. “We’re here supporting a friend.”

The journalist tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Right. So the matching entrance was just coincidence?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

You can feel the tension in his body, coiled and barely held.

He pulls you away before it escalates. No scene. Just a quick exit, one hand in yours as you disappear back into the private car waiting in the alley.

The moment the doors shut, the silence is deafening.

You stare out the window.

He speaks first. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” you say, too quickly.

“But it didn’t sound like-”

“I know, Charles.”

Another pause.

“I just …” he sighs. “It wasn’t the moment.”

You nod. “It never is.”

He closes his eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not. But it’s true.”

There’s a sharp quiet between you now, the kind that doesn’t come from anger but from ache.

Charles leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair. “I’m trying to protect you.”

You stare at him. “And I love you for it. But I’m not breakable.”

“I know that.”

You exhale, soft. “Do you?”

He turns to face you fully. “I do. But you didn’t see the headlines they almost ran after Monaco. They twist everything. I don’t want you swallowed up in that circus. I want you safe.”

“And I want you honest.”

His jaw tightens.

You look away. “This is the first time in months we’ve fought.”

“I hate it.”

“Me too.”

The car pulls up to the hotel. You walk inside together, quiet, each step heavy with words unspoken. You ride the elevator without touching. Not out of distance, but because neither of you knows how to fix this yet.

The second the hotel door clicks shut, Charles exhales.

You kick off your shoes, walk toward the window. The Paris skyline is lit in gold and white. The Eiffel Tower gleams in the distance, unbothered.

You don’t hear him cross the room, but you feel it when his hands come to your waist.

“I didn’t say it,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But I thought it.”

You swallow.

His lips brush your shoulder. “I always think it.”

“I know.”

His hands move slowly, drawing you back into him, arms around your waist. His voice dips lower. “I’m yours. Always. Even when I can’t say it out loud.”

You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “You shouldn’t have to hide the things you love.”

“I’m not hiding,” Charles says, quiet but certain. “I’m guarding. There’s a difference.”

Your eyes search his.

He leans in, forehead resting against yours. “Don’t shrink from the light,” you whisper.

“I don’t,” he breathes. “I just want the light to stay mine.”

You kiss him first.

And then everything slows.

There’s no rush in the way he undresses you — just reverence. His fingers skim your spine, your ribs, the sides of your thighs. You feel his breath at your neck, his lips brushing over your skin like apology and promise all at once.

He lifts you gently, lays you back against the sheets with a kind of sacred care. Like the whole world could fall apart and he’d still hold you steady. Every movement is deliberate, grounding. He touches you like you’re sunlight made tangible — something fleeting he wants to memorize again and again.

His hands stay on your hips, firm and steady, even as his mouth whispers over your skin — your collarbone, your chest, your stomach.

“I don’t need the world to know,” he murmurs, voice thick. “But I need you to know.”

“I do,” you breathe. “I’ve always known.”

He kisses you like that’s the only answer he’ll ever need.

When it’s over, your limbs tangled, breath synced, he brushes a strand of hair off your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For freezing.”

You shake your head. “You were scared.”

He holds you tighter. “I just want to keep you.”

“You have me.”

He nods.

Outside, Paris lives loud. Inside, Charles stays quiet — arms around you like gravity.

He says it again, barely audible.

“Mon soleil.”

And you fall asleep knowing he means it.

***

It’s early when Charles wakes, the sky outside a soft watercolor of dawn. The city’s barely breathing yet, Paris muted under pale blue and silver. The sheets are warm. You’re tucked against him, one arm slung across his ribs, your face buried somewhere near his collarbone.

He stays still for a moment.

Watches you.

You’re beautiful in the way only people at rest can be — unguarded, soft-edged, not thinking of the world or the weight of it. And Charles, for all his fame, for all his speed, has always worshipped slowness with you. He memorizes the shape of your mouth, the curve of your spine under the duvet. It makes him ache, how safe you look here, next to him. Like maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t ruined that yet.

He slips out of bed carefully, not waking you. Pads across the hotel room barefoot, dragging his fingers through sleep-mussed hair. There’s a note of stillness in him this morning, unusual but welcome. The weight of last night is still there, but it’s different now. Muted.

Your suitcase sits open in the corner, a paperback wedged between layers of clothing. The spine cracked, corners worn.

But it’s not the book that stops him.

It’s the manila folder on the desk.

The pages are stacked neatly, a thick rubber band holding them together. His name’s not on the front, and you haven’t told him much — only that it’s your second book, slower going than the first. But the edges are filled with your handwriting, your margin notes, your scratched-out titles.

He tells himself not to look.

Then he does.

Just one page, he promises.

Then two.

Then-

A line.

To the boy who lives at 320 km/h but holds me like I’m fragile porcelain.

Charles stops breathing for a second.

The words blur.

He sinks into the desk chair, pages cradled in his hands like they might shatter. He flips through more — just a few at first, then faster, scanning blocks of dialogue and prose, your voice echoing in every line. It’s fiction. Of course it is. But he knows himself in the spaces between. In the way the protagonist runs from everything except her. In the way he comes back. Always.

There’s a passage — midway through — that hits too close.

He doesn’t know how to rest. His body hums even in sleep. But when he touches her, something changes. It’s not desperation — it’s reverence. He holds her like she’s a map, and he’s finally found home.

Charles exhales, long and slow.

He reads on.

The world never asked him who he was. They only told him what to be. But with her, he can become something else. Someone honest. Someone flawed. Someone who doesn’t always win but is still worth loving.

He closes the manuscript after that, heart pounding. A different kind of pressure — intimate, unbearable, right under his ribs.

You see him.

You always have.

And suddenly, he wants to speak. To tell you everything he never quite knows how to say out loud.

So he finds a notepad in the hotel drawer. Quietly, without thinking too much, he writes.

***

Letter one.

Found tucked inside your book the next morning.

I am so tired of being the world’s Charles Leclerc. But I never tire of being yours.

***

Letter two.

Slipped between your sketchbook pages a few days later.

Sometimes I think you’re a quiet kind of genius. The world sees flashes, but I get the whole storm. You make me want to be more than fast. You make me want to be still.

***

Letter three.

Folded into the pocket of your jacket before he leaves for Spain.

I dreamt once that we lived in a house by the sea. No press. No racing. Just your words, my hands, and time. I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve that. But I want it.

***

He doesn’t sign them.

Doesn’t say they’re from him. Doesn’t need to.

You’d know his handwriting anywhere.

***

The morning after you return from Paris, you find the first one.

It’s there, plain as anything, pressed between two chapters of the book you’ve been reading for weeks. You weren’t even sure where you’d packed it. But it finds you.

You don’t say anything.

You just … sit with it.

Read it twice. Three times.

Then you place the paper back inside the pages and slide the book onto the nightstand like nothing happened.

When Charles stirs, you’re already watching him.

He groans a little, stretching. “What time is it?”

“Still early,” you murmur.

“Mm,” he rolls closer, eyes half-lidded. “You’re staring.”

“Maybe.”

He grins. “Lucky me.”

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s longer than usual. Slower. More certain. His hands come up to cradle your face, a little confused but not resisting.

When you pull back, he’s blinking at you. “What was that for?”

You shrug. “Felt like it.”

He hums, pulling you in again. “Do it again.”

So you do.

***

That day, he flies out for a press shoot in Spain. You stay in Monaco, returning to your writing, to your own quiet world.

But something’s shifted.

You start noticing the notes.

They don’t come every day. They’re not dramatic or poetic. They’re just him. Honest. Raw. Tucked where you least expect them — inside your journal, between the receipts in your wallet, once even in the fridge, stuck to the almond milk.

And still, you don’t mention them.

Because that’s the thing about Charles.

He’s loud on track. Loud when he’s winning. Loud when he’s fighting.

But when he loves — it’s quiet.

***

A few nights later, you’re on FaceTime. He’s sprawled across a hotel bed, hair wet from a shower, wearing a T-shirt that used to be yours.

“You find any new letters?” He asks, casual, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

You tilt your head. “Should I be looking?”

He smirks. “Maybe.”

You smile. “No new ones today.”

He feigns offense. “That you found.”

“Exactly.”

He laughs, soft and real. “You like them?”

“I do.”

There’s a pause.

“Even when I’m not good at saying it out loud,” Charles murmurs, “I’m thinking about you.”

“I know.”

He leans back, arms crossed under his head. “I think about how we met, sometimes. How I didn’t talk for like two weeks. You probably thought I was an idiot.”

“I thought you were shy.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. You were always rushing somewhere, but you looked like you were trying not to bump into anyone.”

He laughs. “Because I was. Monaco’s small but brutal.”

You soften. “You’ve always been good at seeing everything.”

He nods. “But you were the first person who saw me. Before the racing. Before the trophies.”

“I still do.”

He swallows hard.

***

Later that week, another letter finds you inside your typewriter cover.

Letter four.

I don’t always know who I am to the world. Sometimes it changes by the hour. But with you, I never have to wonder. You anchor me. You make the noise stop. I hope I do the same for you. Even if I don’t say it, I’m trying.

You fold it gently, slide it under your pillow.

He’s not with you tonight, but the space beside you feels a little less empty.

***

A few days later, you call him out of the blue.

He answers on the second ring, breathless. “Everything okay?”

You smile. “Yeah. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

He sighs, soft and happy. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks.

You blink. “Stop what?”

“The notes. The letters. If it’s too much.”

Your heart twists. “Charles. No. I love them.”

He lets out a breath. “Okay.”

You add, quieter, “I keep them. All of them.”

“I know,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I figured.”

***

That weekend, he comes home.

No cameras. No entourage. Just him, shoulders looser than they’ve been in months.

You open the door in sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, and he smiles like it’s the only thing he’s been waiting for all week.

“Hi,” you say.

He drops his bag and kisses you before you can say anything else.

Later, curled up on the couch, his head in your lap, he murmurs, “You wrote about me.”

You pretend not to know what he means. “Everyone writes about you.”

“No,” he says, tilting his head to look up at you. “You wrote about me.”

You brush your fingers through his hair. “I write about what matters.”

He closes his eyes. “I hope you always do.”

You kiss his forehead. “And you’ll keep writing letters?”

He grins. “Until I run out of hiding spots.”

You smile. “Then you’ll just have to start saying them.”

He nods. “I will. One day.”

But until then-

The notes are enough.

***

He sounds like someone else on the phone.

The call comes after the sprint race in Miami, crackling with poor reception and exhaustion. He’s finished P2, and the media's already torn him apart for not converting pole into a win. Again. You can hear it in his voice — the frayed edges, the clipped tone he tries to soften for you.

“They said I’m not aggressive enough,” Charles mutters. “That I’m too emotional. That I’m-” he breaks off, breathing hard. “That I don’t have the killer instinct.”

You’re silent for a moment. “Do you believe them?”

“No,” he says, too fast. “But maybe … I don’t know. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m-” he trails off again, breath catching in his throat.

You sit up straighter, your grip on the phone tightening. “Charles.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

“Charles, look at me.”

“I can’t,” he whispers. “You’re not here.”

And that’s all it takes.

You’re already moving, throwing clothes into a carry-on bag with more purpose than coordination. You book a last-minute flight while brushing your teeth, your laptop balanced on the bathroom counter. The Miami heat feels a world away, but you can already see it — the chaos of the paddock, the swarm of cameras, the sound bites dissecting his every word.

And underneath it all: him.

Raw. Alone.

Not anymore.

***

By the time you arrive, the Sunday sun is already bruising the skyline, and you haven’t slept in seventeen hours. But the moment you step through the paddock gates, heart pounding behind your lanyard and sunglasses, you know exactly what you’re looking for.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s talking to an engineer, brow furrowed, body wound tight like wire. But then someone taps his shoulder, nods in your direction, and Charles turns.

His whole face shifts.

Like breathing after holding it too long.

He doesn’t say anything. Just strides across the paddock like the ground might collapse between you if he doesn’t close the distance fast enough. And then he’s there — eyes wild, chest rising and falling fast.

“You’re here,” he breathes, voice cracked.

You nod. “Of course I am.”

He grabs your wrist — not roughly, but with urgency. “Come with me.”

He pulls you through a back hallway you’ve never seen before, past mechanics and closed doors, until he finds an unlocked storage closet that smells like tires and adrenaline. He drags you in, shuts the door behind him, and exhales like he’s finally allowed to fall apart.

And then-

His arms are around you.

Just like that.

He buries his face in your neck, hands shaking at your waist. “I couldn’t do it anymore,” he whispers. “I tried. I really tried.”

“I know,” you say, threading your fingers into his hair. “I know you did.”

“They said so many things,” he murmurs against your skin. “Not just about driving. About who I am. About what I’m not. It was so loud, and I just — I needed you.”

You pull back just enough to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. “Charles. Listen to me. You are not what they say. You’re still my Charles. Not just Ferrari’s. Not theirs.”

His eyes close, a single tear slipping down. “You always say the right thing.”

“No,” you say, brushing it away. “I just say what’s true.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you — hair a mess from travel, skin tired from the flight, sunglasses still tangled in your hair. And he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Like if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, the world will take you too.

Your back hits the supply shelf with a soft thud, and his hands are on your jaw, your shoulders, your waist — everywhere at once. You kiss him back just as fiercely, anchoring him with every breath.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.

“You’re still mine,” you whisper. “Always mine.”

***

That night, the hotel room is dark and quiet, lit only by the faint glow of Miami’s skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. You’re on the bed, curled up in one of his shirts, freshly showered, still buzzing from the day.

He sits on the edge, towel around his neck, hands braced on his knees like he’s holding himself together.

You crawl over to him slowly, wrapping your arms around his torso from behind.

“Hey,” you murmur against his shoulder.

He exhales. “I keep thinking I have to be perfect. Not just on track. Everywhere.”

“You don’t.”

“I know,” he says. “But they make it feel like I do. Like if I’m not smiling enough, or fast enough, or hard enough, I’m … replaceable.”

You press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “You’re not.”

He turns to face you, eyes dark and heavy with everything he’s been carrying.

“You always know how to make it stop hurting,” he whispers.

You crawl into his lap, straddling him slowly, hands cupping his cheeks.

“Because I love you,” you say simply.

His lips find yours again, slower this time. Less desperation. More reverence. His hands slide under your thighs, then up your back, anchoring you to him like you’re the only solid thing he has left.

“You’re my girl,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “My warmth. My sun.”

You kiss his temple. “Then let me be.”

And he does.

He lays you back on the sheets like you’re fragile and sacred all at once. His touch is soft but sure, worshipful, his hands tracing every inch of skin like it’s familiar scripture. He whispers in French sometimes, half-prayer, half-plea. His mouth brushes over your collarbone, your ribs, the inside of your wrist.

“Mon soleil,” he says again and again. “My girl. My warmth. My sun.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, breath catching as he kisses a slow trail along your sternum.

“You don’t have to prove anything here,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “But I still want to show you.”

His voice trembles — not from nerves, but from feeling. Too much of it, barely contained.

“If I crash out of everything,” he says, forehead resting against yours, “I want to crash into you.”

Your heart stutters.

“I’d catch you,” you breathe.

His lips find yours again, and this time it’s softer. Slower. Full of promises neither of you speak aloud. He moves like he’s memorizing you. Not rushing. Not conquering. Just … loving. Tracing you with quiet devotion.

When it’s over, he doesn’t let go. Just holds you to his chest, face buried in your hair.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Eventually, you say into the silence, “I’m coming to the next race.”

He nods, arm tightening around you. “Good.”

“I’ll be at the track. No press. Just watching.”

He kisses the crown of your head. “Knowing you’re there changes everything.”

You press a hand to his heart. “It’s still yours, you know. Even when you think you’ve lost yourself.”

He closes his eyes. “You always bring me back.”

***

And in the morning, before you leave for the airport, you find another note.

Folded into the pocket of your hoodie.

His handwriting, scrawled but certain.

You saved me this weekend. You keep saving me. I love you more than the silence between races, more than the moments I win. You are the only finish line that matters.

You don’t cry.

But you hold it to your chest for a long time before tucking it into your wallet.

Where all the others live.

***

The mirror glints with a kind of reverence.

Your reflection blurs around the edges, not because of the makeup or the soft updo or the silk pooling at your ankles, but because tonight — the first time ever — you are not just his secret. You’re stepping into the light with him.

He’s behind you in the hotel room, shirtless and warm from the shower, towel still low on his hips. His eyes are on you like you’re something he dreamed up. Slowly, he crosses the floor, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You look like starlight,” Charles murmurs against your skin.

You smile softly. “That’s poetic.”

“It’s just true.”

Your fingers rest lightly over his. “You still sure about this? We can still back out. Stay here. Order room service. Watch old races until you fall asleep in your pasta again.”

He laughs quietly, that low, melted sound. “And miss the chance to show you off? No, mon solei.”

He kisses your shoulder, breath warm. “Besides,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper, “you’ve been mine in the shadows for too long.”

***

The carpet is a blur of white lights and velvet ropes, of camera flashes and murmured names, but his hand never leaves yours.

Not once.

You step out of the car together, and everything slows.

You feel the collective intake of breath from the press line, from the onlookers who’ve speculated, dissected, whispered. Your dress shimmers under the strobes, and his tux is impeccable — tailored like the life he lives — but it’s the way he looks at you that steals the attention.

Not just affection. Not even pride.

A kind of awe. Like he can’t believe you’re real, and that you chose him.

It’s the kind of look that writes headlines before they’re even typed.

Charles doesn't falter. He doesn’t glance around to see who’s watching. His eyes are only for you. Fingers laced, thumb rubbing the inside of your wrist in slow, grounding circles.

You hear one journalist gasp softly into her mic, like she’s realizing it in real time.

“That’s her,” someone murmurs. “The girl Charles Leclerc looks at like she hung the stars.”

And still, his eyes don’t leave yours.

“Too late to run?” You whisper as cameras flash like lightning.

He grins. “You run, I follow.”

A dozen questions are hurled in your direction as you move down the carpet together.

“Is this your girlfriend?”

“Are you official?”

“When did it start?”

Charles only smiles — polite but cool. Still untouchable. But his hand never wavers in yours. He lets the silence answer for him.

A look. A touch. A truth held in the space between bodies.

The world sees it.

And for once, you let them.

***

Later, when the speeches are done and the champagne has long gone warm, you both slip away.

Charles leads you up to the rooftop of the venue — one of those quiet, off-limits spots only someone like him could access without question. The wind brushes against your skin, and the lights of Monaco twinkle in the distance, reflected on the sea like fallen stars.

You kick off your heels the second the door closes behind you.

“God, I thought I was going to trip over a camera cable and faceplant into Toto Wolff,” you mutter.

Charles laughs, pulling off his bowtie and pocketing it. “I was watching your feet the entire time, just in case.”

You walk to the edge of the rooftop together, city stretched out below you like something painted. He stands behind you again, wrapping his arms around your waist, just like in the mirror hours ago.

“Everyone was staring,” you say, voice quieter now.

“Good,” he murmurs.

You turn your head, just enough to see him. “Not too much?”

He shakes his head. “I wanted them to see. Finally.”

There’s a silence — comfortable, but heavy with something unsaid. You rest your head against his shoulder and close your eyes, letting the night soak into your skin.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.

“For what?”

“For being brave. For letting them see the real thing.”

He exhales slowly. “It wasn’t hard. Not with you next to me.”

You feel him shift behind you, hands moving, and then he’s stepping around to face you. His expression is unreadable — tender but serious, eyes darker than usual under the moonlight.

Then he pulls something from his jacket pocket.

A ring.

Small. Delicate. Not flashy.

Two stones nestled together, pressed into a slim gold band.

One for his birth month. One for yours.

Not a proposal.

But something more sacred, somehow.

A promise.

“Charles-”

“I don’t want headlines,” he says quietly. “I don’t want statements. I don’t even want to trend on Twitter.”

He takes your hand.

“I want you to know, here and now, that even if no one ever saw us, if this had stayed ours forever — I would still love you like this. With everything.”

He slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly.

“It’s not for the world,” he adds. “It’s for you. For us. For the days you stayed when I gave you nothing but exhaustion and travel and chaos. For the nights you held me when I came home empty. It’s a reminder. That no matter where I am, what I win, how loud it gets …”

He cups your cheek.

“You are still the only thing I want to come home to.”

You’re crying before you can stop it.

He pulls you into his chest, rocking you gently as you try to speak.

“You always make me feel like I’m not just … orbiting your world,” you manage. “Like I belong.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes.

“You are my world.”

You shake your head slowly, overwhelmed. “You’re always giving and giving. Aren’t you tired?”

His expression softens. “I am,” he admits. “But I’m less tired when I’m with you.”

You lean your forehead against his, the ring cool against his skin.

“I’ll wear this every day,” you whisper. “Even if it’s just for me.”

He smiles. “It’s always just for you.”

***

Much later, back in the hotel room, you sit on the balcony while he undresses inside. The city hums below, faint and electric. The air smells like salt and roses.

He comes out in soft cotton and bare feet, moving quietly.

And he sees you — bathed in the golden spill of the balcony lights, skin glowing, hair a little undone from the night, ring catching the faint glint of stars.

It mirrors the first night you sat like this, back at the beginning.

When he came home unraveling and found you, grounding him without even trying.

Now, he stops in the doorway, watching you like he’s memorizing it.

Like if he looks away, the light might disappear.

You glance up. “What?”

He smiles, slow and quiet. Walks over and leans down to kiss the top of your head.

“Mon soleil.”

You tilt your face toward him, teasing. “You’re really not gonna retire that nickname, huh?”

“Never,” he says simply, kissing your temple again. “Because it’s still true.”

You shift so he can sit behind you, and he wraps his arms around your waist, legs bracketing yours as you both look out at the water.

“The world saw you tonight,” he says after a long silence.

“And?” You murmur.