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pucksandpower · 3 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.

2K notes · View notes

cressidagrey · 12 days ago

Text

A Pawfect Coincidence

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Margot Bonheur (Original Character)

Summary:

When Arthur Leclerc loses his brother’s emotionally codependent dachshund, he doesn’t just misplace a dog—he accidentally jumpstarts a full-blown Leclerc family crisis. Luckily, Leo is found by Margot Bonheur: local vet, egg chef extraordinaire, and the girl Charles Leclerc was once devastatingly in love with (and never quite got over).

Warnings and Notes:

I am feeling so bad about bashing Charles in White Horse that I figured I needed a palate cleanser, so I pulled this out of the purgatory that are my Google Docs.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Arthur Leclerc was not in the habit of losing things.

Not his phone, not his keys, and definitely not his older brother’s ridiculously spoiled dachshund, who was currently - oh, merde—nowhere to be seen.

“Leo?” he called, spinning in a slow circle in the middle of the park, panic tightening his chest.

Ten seconds ago, everything had been fine. The sun was sinking, he’d taken a casual detour through Parc Princesse Antoinette, texting a friend back while Leo sniffed a patch of grass for the fifth time. Arthur had only looked away for a moment. A moment.

And now? No leash. No golden tail. No floppy ears. No dog.

Arthur cursed under his breath, scanning every path and hedge. He jogged toward the playground. Nothing. He doubled back to the fountain, heart rate climbing like he was doing qualifying laps in the rain. Still nothing.

“Leo!” he shouted again, louder this time, drawing a few curious glances from an elderly couple and a kid eating ice cream. “Leo, come on! This isn’t funny!”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Charles. Of course.

Charles: All good with Leo?

Arthur stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he shoved the phone back into his pocket, muttering, “I am never going to hear the end of this.”

Because he could already imagine it. Charles’ blank face when Arthur admitted he’d lost the dog. The slow, silent stare of older-sibling disappointment. The inevitable “I asked you for one thing.”

And worst of all—Leo. Leo, who adored Charles more than anyone else in the world, probably off charming some stranger into giving him treats or belly rubs while Arthur had a full-blown anxiety attack in the middle of a public park.

He jogged toward the exit, breath catching. “I swear to God, if I find you eating someone’s sandwich again—”

Nothing.

Just the rustle of leaves. The empty sidewalk. And the slowly dawning realization that Charles’ dog might actually be gone.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, frustration mixing with guilt in his chest.

He was so dead.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: I need you to swear on your life you won’t tell Charles.

Lorenzo: ...what did you do.

Arthur: Hypothetically If someone was walking Leo And he maybe slipped his harness And then vanished into thin air How bad would that be?

Lorenzo: Arthur. Where is Leo.

Arthur: THAT’S THE PROBLEM. I DON’T KNOW.

Lorenzo: You LOST Charles’ dog???

Arthur: No!!! I temporarily misplaced him. There’s a difference. (He’s very small and very fast and honestly too independent for his own good.)

Lorenzo: Do you want to die. Is that it. Is this a cry for help.

Arthur: Please. Help me. I can’t tell Charles. He trusted me. He said “don’t let him eat anything off the street.” He didn’t even think to say “don’t lose him” because he believed in me. And now Leo is GONE.

Lorenzo: Where are you?

Arthur: Parc Princesse Antoinette. I’ve done three laps. I checked the bushes. I even bribed a child with gelato to help me look.

Lorenzo: You bribed a child.

Arthur: WITH GELATO. I’M NOT A MONSTER.

Lorenzo: Okay. Breathe. Dogs like routine. Try retracing the walk. Call shelters. And vets. Someone might bring him in to check the chip.

Arthur: Do you think I should fake an injury so Charles pities me before I break the news?

Lorenzo: Try finding the dog first.

Arthur: Right. Right. Operation Find The Sausage is underway.

***

Arthur retraced his steps.

Twice.

He checked every corner of the park, the shaded paths, the trash bins—because Leo had zero shame when it came to half-eaten food. Nothing. No flash of caramel-colored fur, no jingling of a collar, no yappy bark announcing his tiny reign of chaos.

He even tried bribery. Again.

“Leo,” he called, crouching low with the last bite of a croissant he’d bought from the boulangerie around the corner. “If you come back now, I’ll give you the whole thing. No questions asked. No leash. No walk of shame.”

Silence. A pigeon stared at him, unimpressed.

Arthur groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “You’re not even my dog,” he muttered.

But that wasn’t true, not really. Leo wasn’t his dog, but Charles’ ridiculous little dachshund had somehow made himself part of the entire family. He’d wormed his way into Arthur’s life with stubby legs, sad eyes, and an inexplicable talent for finding the most expensive thing in the apartment to pee on.

Arthur pulled out his phone again, hovering over Charles’ name. His thumb wavered.

Don’t you dare tell him you lost Leo, his brain screamed. He’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll never let you walk him again.

And he really liked walking Leo. The little guy made strangers smile. Old ladies waved. Children asked to pet him. Once, a girl gave Arthur her number entirely because Leo was wearing a raincoat.

Now he was just a guy pacing a park, sweating through his T-shirt, muttering to himself like he’d lost his mind. Which, fair. He kind of had.

He circled back to the park gate for the third time when a flash of hope struck—a woman with a small dog!—but it wasn’t Leo. Just a fluffy Pomeranian in a pink harness who barked at Arthur like he’d insulted her personally.

“Not helping,” he muttered, stepping aside.

Maybe someone had found Leo. Maybe he was already somewhere safe. Maybe—please, please, please—someone would scan his chip and call Charles.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: It’s getting dark. I’ve checked the entire park. Twice. Then the neighborhood. Then the park again. Still no Leo.

Lorenzo: You haven’t found him at all?

Arthur: Unless he’s developed the ability to turn invisible—NO. I even asked a guy walking a chihuahua if he’d seen a dachshund. He asked if I was okay. I said no.

Lorenzo: You need to call Charles.

Arthur: No. Absolutely not. I will fake my own death before I tell Charles I lost his dog.

Lorenzo: Arthur. It’s LEO. You lost the love of his life. You think this isn’t going to end up in a group chat?

Arthur: I CAN FIX THIS. I just need a little more time. And maybe a tranquillizer dart.

Lorenzo: For Leo??

Arthur: For me. So I can stop panicking for five seconds.

Lorenzo: Okay. Deep breath. Have you called every vet in a 2km radius?

Arthur: Yes. One of them asked if I was crying.

Lorenzo: You're two hours in, and it’s getting late. If someone found him, they’ve probably taken him somewhere. You need to start thinking damage control.

Arthur: You mean like… buy Charles a new dog?

Lorenzo: Arthur. I will block you.

Arthur: Okay okay okay. I’ll call more vets.

Lorenzo: Good. And maybe prepare a will, just in case.

Arthur: Tell Maman I loved her. Tell Charles it was Arthur Jr.’s fault. That’s what I would’ve named the new dog.

***

Margot didn’t notice him at first.

Her hands were full—reusable bags weighed down with vegetables, pasta, a bottle of wine, and the fancy sheep’s cheese she only bought when she was having a day. The sun had long since disappeared behind the hills, the sky settling into a navy velvet dusk as she trudged home through the winding streets above the port.

She was thinking about the silence of her apartment. The way her keys still felt unfamiliar in the lock. The way everything in her life was still slightly off, like a puzzle someone had forced together with the wrong pieces.

And then she heard it.

A tiny, pitiful sneeze.

Margot turned instinctively, eyes scanning the dim sidewalk—and there, right at the edge of a crumbling stone wall, sat a dachshund. Small. Muddied. Trembling slightly.

“Mon dieu,” she whispered, kneeling immediately and setting her bags down. “What are you doing here?”

The dog blinked at her with glossy brown eyes, ears drooping dramatically, like a tragic Victorian heroine.

“No collar,” she murmured, reaching slowly. “No leash. You’ve clearly been on an adventure.”

The dog didn’t flinch when she touched him. He wagged his tail once. Then sneezed again.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s get you inside.”

She looked around—quiet street, no one calling out a name, no footsteps approaching. Whoever he belonged to, they weren’t nearby.

So Margot scooped him up, balancing him against her chest with one arm while gathering her groceries with the other, and started the climb to her apartment.

Her building wasn’t far. Second floor, no elevator, uneven tile floors that made the dachshund snort when she carried him inside. He shook himself out as soon as she set him down, spraying mud across her hallway rug like he was blessing the space.

“Charming,” she muttered, flicking on the bathroom light. “Alright, monsieur, bath time.”

He did not resist. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the warm water, letting her rinse the grime from his fur, soap away the stickiness from his paws. Margot caught herself smiling as she towel-dried him, wrapping him up like a burrito and murmuring nonsense in a voice she hadn’t used in… well, a long time.

It had been almost three months since she’d moved back to Monaco.

Not a dramatic return—no big announcement, no confetti, just a one-way train ticket from Toulouse and a job offer she hadn’t expected to say yes to.

She hadn’t planned on leaving. She loved Toulouse. The city had been hers in a way Monaco never had—full of light and bustle and purpose. She’d built something there. Friends. A job. A future.

A fiancé.

Her smile faded slightly as she rubbed the dog dry.

It still stung, the way it had ended. The too-calm conversation. The finality of the phrase “I think we want different things.” The way he’d packed up and moved out like they’d been roommates all along, not five years of love and shared groceries and weekend hikes.

Margot hadn’t told anyone the full story—not even her mother. Just said she needed a change. A new pace. A return to familiar streets, even if they no longer felt like home.

The dachshund gave a content sigh, now wrapped in a fresh towel, head resting on her thigh like he’d always belonged there.

Margot looked down at him and exhaled.

“Well,” she murmured. “You’re a good distraction.”

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: He’s still not back. It’s been hours. HOURS. What if someone took him? What if he joined a biker gang?

Lorenzo: Arthur. It’s past midnight.

Arthur: YES I KNOW. THE CLOCK IS MOCKING ME. Do you think I could set up one of those “MISSING DOG” posters?? Like old-school. With tabs and everything. “Answers to: Leo. Probably judging you.”

Lorenzo: I’m going to bed. Unless you are calling emergency services, do not text me again.

Arthur: What if he never comes back. What if I have to look Charles in the eye and say, “Sorry, your dog is now one with the Monaco shadows.”

Lorenzo: Did you eat dinner?

Arthur: I shared half a croissant with a pigeon earlier, does that count?

Lorenzo: No. You’re spiraling.

Arthur: I’m spiraling because Charles is going to MURDER me and use my body as a cautionary tale for Pierre or something.

Lorenzo: Arthur.

Arthur: WHAT IF HE THINKS I DID IT ON PURPOSE. What if he thinks I took Leo to emotionally sabotage him before a race weekend???

Lorenzo: What race weekend?

Arthur: I DON’T KNOW I PANICKED

Lorenzo: Eat something. Drink water. And stop pacing the same square kilometer like a cartoon.

Arthur: ...how did you know I was pacing?

Lorenzo: Because I know you. And because the last time you panicked this hard was when you lost your passport and it was in your pocket.

Arthur: Okay, that was ONE TIME and the pocket was weirdly deep.

Lorenzo: Look. If someone found him, they probably took him home. It’s late. Vets are closed. You’ll get a call in the morning.

Arthur: What if they don’t call? What if Leo decides he likes his new life better? What if he finds someone who gives him bacon without rules?

Lorenzo: Then you’ll be replaced. Which is fair.

Arthur: ...harsh. But valid.

Lorenzo: Go home, Arthur. Sleep. Or at least lie down and stare into the abyss like the rest of us.

Arthur: Fine. But if I die of guilt in the night, tell Charles I tried my best.

Lorenzo: I’ll tell him you wept nobly into a pile of posters with your own phone number misspelled.

Arthur: Okay that’s accurate.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Joris: Morning. Charles just asked me if you still have Leo. Can I tell him yes and get back to my already overbooked morning?

Arthur: So… funny story.

Joris: No. Absolutely not. I do not have time for a funny story. You either have the dog or you don’t.

Arthur: I don’t. I lost Leo.

Joris: WHAT. You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. Tell me this is a Leclerc brother prank. I knew I should’ve never let you all have a group chat.

Arthur: I’m not joking. He slipped out of his harness yesterday afternoon in the park. I’ve been searching all night. I didn’t even go home. I’ve walked more than I did during preseason training.

Joris: ARTHUR.

Arthur: I KNOW.

Joris: DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU’VE DONE??? You lost Leo. LEO.

Arthur: I am aware!!!

Joris: Leo is not just a dog. Leo is Charles’ everything right now. You lost the one source of unconditional love he has left since the breakup. The love of his life. The only thing he’s cared about since the breakup. THE DOG WHO HAS HIS OWN MONOGRAMMED TOWEL.

Arthur: Okay in my defense that towel thing is not normal.

Joris: YOU DON’T GET TO JUDGE THE TOWEL WHEN YOU LOST THE DOG.

Joris: He cried watching a dog food commercial three weeks ago. THREE. Leo is the only thing he trusts. Leo is the only one he lets spoon him when he's sad. You lost the love of his life.

Arthur: I didn’t mean to!! I was texting back and he—he just disappeared. It’s like he melted into the pavement!

Joris: Oh my god. Oh my god.

He trusted you.

He handed over his entire emotional support system and said, “don’t let him eat anything off the street.”

And you said, “Great, I’ll just lose him completely.”

Arthur:

I bribed a child with gelato to help search. I tried. Can we not tell him yet? Maybe someone scanned the chip. Maybe he’s safe somewhere!

Joris: I swear, if we find out someone found him and called the chip number and you just didn’t answer, I am personally putting your name on a “Do Not Trust with Pets” list.

Arthur: That’s fair.

Joris: And if someone does call and Leo is fine, I’m still going to be angry. Just less angry.

Arthur: Okay. Please tell me if he’s okay. And, like. Tell Charles gently?

Joris: Gently?? GENTLY??

Arthur: He likes you.

Joris: So did Leo. AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM.

***

Joris had delivered a lot of difficult news in his tenure as Charles Leclerc’s personal assistant.

Travel mishaps. Press obligations. The time a well-meaning sponsor wanted him to pose with a falcon for reasons no one could adequately explain.

But this?

This was worse.

He found Charles outside the simulator room, still in his race suit from that morning’s promo shoot, looking relaxed in that suspiciously unbothered way that only made Joris more tense.

“Hey,” Charles said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Everything okay?”

Joris took a breath. Then another. He held up a hand before Charles could get a word in.

“I need you to remember that you love your brother.”

Charles froze. “What?”

“Just—just hold that thought in your heart for a second,” Joris continued, voice strained, hands gesturing like he was conducting a symphony of impending doom. “Because the thing is, Arthur was walking Leo. And then… he wasn’t.”

Charles blinked. “What do you mean, wasn’t?”

“Leo ran off,” Joris said, with the grave tone of someone delivering a eulogy. “Arthur looked away for maybe thirty seconds. Boom. Gone. No leash. No collar. Just vibes.”

Charles straightened. “You’re telling me Arthur lost my dog?”

Joris winced. “Arthur was walking him yesterday. In the park. And, uh… Leo slipped his harness.”

Silence.

“He what,” Charles said, very quietly.

“He… bolted. Arthur says it happened fast. He’s been searching all night, didn’t even go home. He’s calling shelters and—”

Charles dropped the knife. “He lost my dog?”

Joris took a careful step back. “Temporarily misplaced.”

“Joris.”

“He ran off yesterday evening,” Joris said, hands up in surrender. “Slipped his harness while Arthur was texting in the park. He’s been searching all night. I got the full unhinged confession this morning.”

Charles looked like someone had just unplugged him. All the light behind his eyes dimmed. “Leo has been gone since yesterday?”

“I didn’t know either,” Joris rushed to say. “Arthur didn’t tell me until an hour ago because he was apparently too busy bribing children and interrogating chihuahuas—don’t ask.”

“He lost Leo,” Charles repeated, voice rising. “He lost the only thing in my life that hasn’t let me down in the last six months.”

And there it was.

Joris had been waiting for the breakup to surface again, quietly lurking under every tired sigh, every too-long pause in conversation. Charles hadn’t spoken about her in weeks, but he also hadn’t not spoken about her. He’d just… poured all of it into Leo. Every bit of softness, every ounce of trust.

And now Leo was gone.

“He’s okay,” Joris said quickly. “Probably. He has a chip. He’s smart. And Arthur’s already filed a report and left his number everywhere.”

Charles sat down heavily on the kitchen stool, one hand running over his face.

“I knew it,” he said hoarsely. “I knew Arthur wasn’t ready. He doesn’t even like mornings. Leo’s entire personality is built around 6:45 a.m.”

“I think he genuinely thought he was doing a good job,” Joris offered. “Like… mostly.”

Charles didn’t respond. Just stared at the floor like it had personally betrayed him.

“He has a monogrammed towel,” he said suddenly, like remembering a lost heirloom. “He sleeps in my bed. He knows how to open the fridge.”

Joris nodded solemnly. “I know. You trained him well.”

“And now he’s alone somewhere. Scared. Probably judging someone else’s cooking.”

There was a long beat. Then Charles’s voice cracked—just a little, just enough.

“I can’t lose him too.”

Joris’s heart ached. He stepped forward, softer this time.

“We’re going to find him. I promise.”

Charles gave a slow nod, silent. His eyes were glassy, and he looked young—too young for the heartbreak in his voice.

***

Group Chat: Leclerc Brothers

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: So. I just spoke to Joris.

Arthur: 🥲

Charles: Tell me that this is some elaborate, deeply stupid prank and Leo is curled up in your apartment right now, wearing his stupid hoodie and judging your coffee table choices.

Arthur: I wish it was. I really, really do. Charles I swear, it happened so fast. I looked away for one second and he was gone. I’ve been searching all night. I didn’t sleep. I filed reports. I called every vet and shelter.

Charles: You lost him yesterday. And didn’t say anything until this morning.

Arthur: I panicked. I thought I could find him before you noticed. Lorenzo told me not to fake a leg injury to get your sympathy, if that helps?

Lorenzo: To be clear, I said that was a bad idea.

Charles: Leo is not just a dog. He’s not a weekend errand or a plant you forget to water. He’s mine. He’s family. He’s the only thing I’ve had that didn’t leave when things got hard.

Arthur: I know. And I’m sorry. Really, truly sorry.

Charles: I trusted you.

Arthur: I didn’t mean to break that. Please believe me.

Lorenzo: He does. He’s just scared right now. We all are.

Charles: If anything happens to him— I don’t know what I’ll do. He’s been the only thing keeping me grounded since everything fell apart.

Arthur: We’re going to find him. I swear it. Even if I have to knock on every door in Monaco and personally interview every dog.

Charles: He knows how to open the fridge, Arthur. You lost a genius.

Lorenzo: Let’s focus. No blame right now. Only action.

Charles: Joris is handling it. Of course. Because Joris always handles what we break.

Arthur: …do I send him flowers?

Charles: Send him a new spine. He probably needs one after carrying our chaos for five years.

Lorenzo: Okay, but seriously—Charles. We will get him back. And when we do, I’m buying that dog a GPS tracker, a backup GPS tracker, and probably a bodyguard.

Arthur: I already picked out a name. Sir Barkalot.

Charles: If I wasn't so emotionally ruined I’d block you.

Arthur: Fair.

Charles: I just want him home.

***

Sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains, catching on the dust motes in the air and casting soft gold across the hardwood floor. Somewhere outside, a gull screamed at an unreasonable hour, and a scooter rattled down the street, but Margot barely stirred.

She rolled over, blinking sleep from her eyes, the quiet weight of morning settling gently over her shoulders. For a moment, she forgot about everything—about Monaco, about the clinic, about the fact that her life had recently undergone a full-scale emotional implosion.

And then she registered the sound. Not her alarm. Not traffic.

Snuffling.

She squinted down toward the end of the bed.

There, curled up like a smug croissant in the exact center of her duvet, was a caramel coloured dachshund.

Sprawled out on his back, paws in the air, snoring softly, utterly shameless.

Margot groaned, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “You did not start the night there.”

The dog gave a lazy tail thump in response but made no move to vacate the space.

“Oh, I see. You’ve claimed the bed. This is your apartment now,” she muttered, sitting up and stretching.

She padded barefoot into the kitchen,and flicked the switch on the coffee machine. As the familiar hum filled the space, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

The dog trotted in a moment later, completely at ease, and went straight to the spot in front of the window where the morning sun hit just right. He flopped down with a grunt of satisfaction.

Margot stared at him.

“You’ve been here eight hours,” she said. “Eight. You’ve already decided on a sunbathing spot?”

He blinked at her. Yawned. Rolled onto his side and looked deeply unconcerned about the fact that he’d technically been lost less than a day ago.

She crouched beside him. “You know, if you were a person, this would be deeply invasive. Just showing up in someone’s life, taking a bath, stealing the blanket, and claiming the best corner of the apartment.”

The dog offered her a single, slow blink. Margot sighed.

“…but you’re not a person,” she added, rubbing behind his ears. “You’re a spoiled little drama queen with big eyes and too much charm. No wonder someone’s probably out there crying over you.”

Margot watched him for a moment, her heart doing that soft little squeeze it hadn’t done in a while.

He didn’t seem stressed. Or scared. He wasn’t pacing or barking or trying to claw at the door. He was just… here. Cozy. Safe. Like this was temporary housing on his luxury tour of Monaco.

“Okay,” she murmured, “Let’s see if I have anything fit for a prince.”

She dug through the fridge—cheese, eggs, leftover roast chicken—and eventually settled on plain scrambled eggs. Just a little. No salt. Vet-approved. She plated them onto a saucer.

The dachshund sniffed the offering when she set it down on the kitchen floor, tilted his head like he was evaluating her taste level, then devoured it.

“Right,” Margot said. “A culinary success.”

He licked the plate clean and then followed her back into the living room, where he jumped up onto the couch like he paid rent. He curled into the throw blanket she’d left bunched in the corner, eyes half-lidded, already preparing for nap number three.

Margot leaned against the kitchen counter and watched him with a strange tightness in her chest.

He looked like he belonged there. Too easily. Too naturally. Like he’d decided she passed whatever secret dachshund test he’d run last night and now this was his summer home.

And Margot—who hadn’t expected to feel anything but detached competence and maybe a vague professional curiosity—felt something else entirely.

She felt… lighter.

Not fixed. Not whole. But not quite as adrift.

“I can’t keep you,” she said quietly, to no one and only him. “You definitely have someone. And they’re probably losing their mind.”

The dog, naturally, said nothing.

He simply sighed and closed his eyes, like he had all the time in the world.

Margot stared at him for a long moment.

She hesitated. Then added, “But if not… you can stay a little longer.”

***

The clinic smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant, the way it always did first thing in the morning—clean, calm, full of potential chaos that hadn’t yet arrived.

Margot pushed through the door with a reusable tote slung over one shoulder, and the dachshund’s head poking around like that was a completely normal mode of transportation for him.

“Uh-oh,” Céline called from reception, raising an eyebrow as she spotted them. “You’ve brought in backup.”

“Temporary guest,” Margot said, lifting her hand in greeting. “Found him last night. No collar. Took him home so he wouldn’t end up in traffic or under a Vespa.”

“He’s adorable,” Céline said, already standing up to lean over the counter. “What breed is he? Besides ‘absolute heartthrob.’”

“Dachshund,” Margot replied dryly. “Clearly spoiled. Possibly royalty.”

“I mean, look at him,” Céline whispered as Margot lifted the dog onto the floor. He strutted across the waiting room and flopped into a sunbeam like he was taking a press photo.

Within ten minutes, he’d made the rounds of the break room, had a staff member attempt to make him a tiny paper crown from post-it notes, and somehow convinced the vet tech intern to feed him a single piece of chicken from her sandwich.

Margot watched it all happen with an expression of pure disbelief. “He’s been here twenty minutes.”

“He’s got it,” one of the techs whispered. “Like… star power.”

“I think he winked at me,” another muttered.

Margot rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

She finally herded the dachshund into an exam room, gently lifting him onto the table. “Okay, rockstar. Let’s figure out who you are.”

He wagged his tail, smug as ever.

She grabbed the scanner from the wall, swept it slowly over his neck, and waited for the beep.

Beep.

“Good boy,” she said absently, turning to the screen.

The name appeared.

She froze.

LEO — Owner: Charles Leclerc. Contact: +33 —

Margot’s breath caught.

Her fingers hovered above the screen.

No.

No. There was no way.

She read it again.

Charles Leclerc.

She stared at the name, the familiar rhythm of it.

The Charles Leclerc.

As in, Formula One driver. Ferrari. International star.

Of course this was his dog.

Of course this smug, emotionally manipulative, blanket-stealing loaf belonged to him.

To Charles.

As in, the boy she’d kissed under the bleachers behind the tennis courts when she was sixteen. The boy who’d held her hand at the Monaco Grand Prix and whispered that one day, he’d be the one on the podium. The boy she’d cried over for at least three months after they broke up because “life was getting too busy.”

The boy who—apparently—now owned a dachshund named Leo.

“Oh,” she said faintly.

Leo looked up at her and thumped his tail, as if he knew.

Of course he knew.

Because the universe had a twisted sense of humor.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

***

The phone rang just as Joris was mid-scroll through yet another email chain titled “RE: RE: RE: URGENT: Helmet Sponsor Placement Issue.”

He didn’t recognize the number. Monaco area code. That wasn’t unusual—his number was attached to everything from Leo’s microchip registry to Charles’ old tennis club membership.

Still, he hesitated. Then answered, already bracing himself for some kind of insurance call or dog-related ransom demand.

“Bonjour, Joris Trouche speaking.”

There was a pause.

Then: “Hi, um—Joris? It’s Margot. Margot Bonheur.”

Joris blinked.

Margot Bonheur?

He sat up straighter, every neuron in his brain suddenly pinging like a crash at turn one.

“Wait. Margot Margot?”

She gave a slightly breathless laugh. “I… think so? We went to lycée together.”

“Oh my god,” Joris said, stunned.

There was a short pause. Then a soft voice, low and slightly tentative: “You don’t happen to be missing a dachshund named Leo, do you?”

Joris sat up straight. “You found Leo?”

“Uh, yes. Last night. He sort of… found me, really. He was wandering near Rue Bel Respiro, no collar. I took him home for the night.”

Joris covered the phone’s mouthpiece and mouthed holy shit to the empty office. Then he cleared his throat. “Is he okay?”

“Perfectly fine. He had a bath, has been sleeping, eating scrambled eggs, sunbathing, and judging me silently ever since he woke up.”

Joris huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s him.”

There was a beat of quiet on the line. The kind of silence that stretched just long enough to mean something.

Then Margot said softly, “He’s yours, then?”

Joris’s mouth twitched. “No. He’s Charles’.”

Another pause.

“Ah,” she said. Barely a whisper. “Of course he is.”

Joris leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking toward the ceiling like he might spot the ghost of Monaco high school past hovering above him.

Charles and Margot.

God. He hadn’t thought about that in years. The school hallway hand-holding. The shy smiles.

Margot Bonheur. Margot with the laugh that made Charles forget how to speak in full sentences. Margot who wore oversized cardigans, tied her hair with ribbons, and absolutely ruined Charles for other teenage girls.

Sixteen-year-old Charles, gangly and earnest and completely gone for a girl with curly hair and a laugh that cracked through his walls like sunlight.

Sixteen-year-old Charles, biking all the way across town with a melted chocolate bar in July because he’d heard Margot had a bad day.

Charles, heart-eyed and hopeless, telling Joris at least three times a week, “I think she’s the one, you know?”

And then the silence. The breakup.

Racing had come calling, and Charles—still a boy, really—had chosen speed over stability, pressure over presence. Not because he didn’t love her. Because he did, too much, and thought she deserved better than goodbyes over phone calls and promises he couldn’t keep.

It was the only time Joris had seen Charles cry in a hotel hallway. No cameras. Just him and a cracked iPhone screen with her name still at the top of his pinned messages.

And now?

Now she’d found his dog.

In Monaco.

At a time when Charles was still nursing emotional wounds, pretending he wasn’t sad, and sleeping curled around that ridiculous dachshund like Leo was a weighted blanket for his soul.

Joris stared at the desk.

The universe didn’t send you things like this for no reason.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “He’ll be relieved. He’s been—look, let’s just say the household emotional stability has been tied directly to that dog’s continued existence.”

Margot made a small sound, part sympathetic and part amused. “I figured. He looked very loved.”

“He is. But also? High maintenance. Like his owner.”

Another pause. He could practically hear her raised eyebrow through the line.

“I’ll text you the address,” she said eventually, voice quieter. “I’ll be at the clinic most of the day. You or Charles can come by whenever.”

“Thank you, really,” Joris said. “This means a lot.”

When the call ended, Joris didn’t move for a moment.

Then he stood, walked to Charles’ door, and knocked.

This was going to be interesting.

And if—if—it led to something more?

Well.

He wouldn’t meddle.

Not directly.

But he also wasn’t above “accidentally” scheduling Charles to pick up Leo himself.

***

Charles was halfway through pacing the length of his hotel room for the fourth time when the knock came.

He turned sharply, the pent-up worry already pushing at his chest like pressure before a storm.

“Oui?”

Joris opened the door, face unreadable. “Good news,” he said.

Charles blinked. “You found him?”

“We didn’t,” Joris said. “But someone did.”

The world tilted slightly. His breath caught. “Wait—he’s okay?”

“He’s more than okay,” Joris said. “He was found last night. Someone took him in. He’s safe, healthy, probably being pampered as we speak.”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, barely processing the words. His knees actually went a little weak, and he leaned against the doorframe. “You’re sure?”

Joris nodded. “I spoke to the person directly. They found him near Rue Bel Respiro. No injuries. Fed him scrambled eggs.”

Charles let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “He loves scrambled eggs.”

“I know,” Joris said, softer now. “He’s okay. You can breathe again.”

Charles pressed his hand to his chest like he needed to check that his heart was still there. “I thought—I thought maybe he got out of the city. Or worse. I didn’t know what to do, Joris.”

He nodded, too many thoughts tumbling around in his head. Leo. Safe. Leo, who he’d been picturing lying under a car or lost in some alley. Leo, who had become more than just a dog—his anchor, his post-breakup coping mechanism, the one living being who never asked for anything but a lap and a few treats.

His eyes stung. He scrubbed a hand over them.

“I know,” Joris repeated. “It’s handled. You can pick him up when we’re back in Monaco this evening.”

Charles closed his eyes for a second, letting it sink in. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “He’s really okay?”

“Completely,” Joris confirmed. “He’s just waiting for you.”

Charles looked away, blinking hard. “I thought—I kept thinking about the road. Or if someone tried to take him. Or if he was scared and cold—”

“He wasn’t,” Joris said gently. “Apparently, he made himself at home. Shocker.”

Charles let out a weak laugh, finally sitting down. “God. I feel like an idiot. I should have never let Arthur take him out.”

“No argument there,” Joris muttered.

A pause.

Then Joris added, voice casual: “Oh, and maybe don’t wear that hoodie when you go to pick him up.”

Charles frowned. “Why?”

Joris sipped his espresso. “Just a feeling.”

***

Group Chat: Disaster Mitigation Team

Members: Joris, Lorenzo, Arthur

Joris: Update: Leo is SAFE. Found last night. Someone took him home, gave him a bath, scrambled eggs, and emotionally supported him through what I assume was a dramatic 12 hours. He’s completely fine. A little smug, but fine.

Arthur: OH THANK GOD. I’m not going to be disowned??? I can come out of hiding???

Lorenzo: Where was he?

Joris: Wandering near Rue Bel Respiro. A vet found him. Took him home for the night.

Lorenzo: This is the best news I’ve heard all week. Tell me who found him so I can send them a fruit basket and/or a handwritten apology.

Joris: …you’re going to want to sit down for this.

Arthur: Bro if you say it was someone from Ferrari PR I will actually combust

Joris: It was Margot.

Arthur: ...

Lorenzo: ...

Arthur: As in Margot Bonheur??

Joris: That would be the one.

Lorenzo: As in “Charles’ teenage girlfriend” Margot?

Arthur: As in “the only girl Charles ever wrote poetry for and then immediately denied it” Margot??

Joris: Yes. THAT Margot.

Arthur: NO WAY. Margot who used to make Charles forget how to speak?? Margot who literally ended all his teen crushes after 2012??

Lorenzo: Margot who knew how to shut him up with one look? That Margot?

Arthur: This is cinematic.

Lorenzo: This is fate.

Joris: I’m not saying I’m thinking about matchmaking but …I’m thinking about matchmaking.

Arthur: YES. FINALLY. She was the best of all of them. And she liked us. Remember when she brought cookies to family lunch and Maman asked if we could keep her?

Joris: The very same. Vet now. Back in Monaco. And apparently, Leo has chosen her as his new emotional support human.

Arthur: She was always my favorite. Honestly, best of all his exes. No contest. 10/10. Would support a redemption arc.

Lorenzo: Same.

Joris: I’m not saying I’m plotting anything. But I may have strategically left out her name when I told him he could pick Leo up tonight. Just… letting fate cook a little.

Arthur: Oh my GOD you’re playing the long game. I’m so proud.

Lorenzo: We support this. You have our blessing.

Arthur: If they get back together, I’m taking credit. Even though I lost Leo in the first place. Especially because of that.

Joris: Focus, gentlemen. Tonight, Charles picks up Leo. From Margot. Let’s just see what happens.

Lorenzo: You want us on standby?

Joris: No interference. No chaos. Let them talk. Let the dog do his work.

We may be watching the start of something ridiculous.

Arthur: Or something really, really good.

***

The clinic looked ordinary from the outside—white stone, blue shutters, a potted plant wilting just slightly in the sun. The kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice unless you had a limping retriever or a cat with dietary issues.

Charles had passed it before. Years ago. He hadn’t remembered until he stood outside the door, hand hovering over the handle, heart thudding with the kind of nervous energy he usually reserved for a final lap in the wet.

He wasn’t sure why he felt so anxious. Leo was safe. That’s what mattered.

And yet—he couldn’t shake it.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen Leo in two days. Maybe it was because this whole week had felt like a slow unraveling. Maybe it was because he’d been forced to confront the terrifying truth that he’d built his emotional stability on a dachshund with judgmental eyebrows.

He pushed open the door.

The bell above chimed.

Inside, it smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender. Soft music played overhead. The waiting room was empty, save for a sleepy golden retriever stretched out across the floor tiles and an older man flipping through a dog breed calendar like it contained state secrets.

He wasn’t sure why he was nervous.

It was a veterinary clinic, not a press conference. He wasn’t here to face a grid of rivals or answer uncomfortable questions about tyre strategy or heartbreak.

He was just here for Leo.

That should’ve been it.

But his palms were sweating, and there was something tight in his chest he hadn’t been able to shake since the moment Joris said, “She found him last night.”

She.

He hadn’t asked questions. He’d been too focused on the relief of knowing Leo was safe. Alive. Fed. Unbothered.

But now?

Now, something about the quiet warmth of the waiting room made his heart stutter.

“Bonjour,” a receptionist called from behind the desk. “Can I help you?”

Charles pulled off his sunglasses. “I’m here for Leo. Someone brought him in this morning?”

“Oh! Yes, he’s in the back. Quite the charmer you have there, Mr. Leclerc. Margo found him yesterday. He’s still with Dr. Bonheur. She said to send you through.”

Dr. Bonheur.

Charles blinked.

The name hit like a gear shift slamming into place.

No.

He didn’t move right away—just stood there, rooted to the tile floor, as if his body hadn’t caught up with the memory. The receptionist gestured politely to the hallway, but her voice felt distant, muffled.

Margot Bonheur.

The girl who used to tuck daisy stems behind her ears. The girl who gave him her library card because he kept forgetting his. The girl he’d tried so hard not to look up after the breakup, because he knew he wouldn’t like the feeling if he saw her happy without him.

The girl he hadn’t seen in years.

And she’d found Leo?

Of course she had.

Of course it was her.

Because fate didn’t tap you on the shoulder. It threw your dog into the arms of your teenage heartbreak and waited to see what you’d do next.

Charles swallowed hard and walked toward the back hallway, feet moving before his brain could catch up.

The door to the exam room was ajar.

He pushed it open gently.

And there she was.

Margot stood with her back to him, crouched beside a small exam table where Leo sat like an unbothered loaf. She was tying a bandana around his neck—a soft green one that made him look outrageously smug. The same springy curls. The same soft concentration in her movements. She hadn’t changed.

And then she turned.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment, the world tilted.

Margot blinked. “Oh.”

Charles opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She gave a slow, cautious smile. “Hi, Charles.”

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

Memories rushed in uninvited—bike rides and beach afternoons, shared earphones on the school bus, her handwriting on the corner of his notes. And that goodbye. That stupid, quiet, I don’t want to make you choose kind of goodbye.

Charles couldn’t speak.

He was sixteen again, sunburned and awkward and head over heels. He was seventeen and heartbroken. He was eighteen and too busy pretending he didn’t still think about her. And now he was… what, exactly?

Margot didn’t look away.

She stood, slow and steady, wiping her hands on the hem of her white coat, as if grounding herself in the motion. She looked older, yes—but not in a bad way. She looked like someone who’d lived through things and come out steadier for it.

Leo gave a grunt, apparently offended by being forgotten in the middle of his reunion fanfare, and thumped his tail once against the exam table.

That was what broke the silence.

Charles finally let out a shaky laugh, stepping fully into the room. “He looks like he owns the place.”

Margot smiled softly, folding her arms. “He acted like it. Claimed my couch, my blanket, and the best sunspot in the apartment before I’d even finished putting my groceries away.”

“I believe it,” Charles said, crouching beside Leo. The moment he touched the dachshund’s fur, something in him cracked wide open. “I thought I lost him. I thought—”

“I know,” Margot said gently. “I figured someone would be looking. He’s… unforgettable.”

Charles let his hand rest on Leo’s back. “He’s been everything. These last few months… it’s been hard.”

She didn’t press. She never had.

“I’m glad he found you,” he said finally, lifting his eyes to hers. “I mean—really. Thank you.”

Margot looked at him for a long, quiet beat. “I wasn’t expecting you to walk through that door.”

“Me neither.” He stood slowly. “When Joris said someone found him… I didn’t ask who. I should’ve.”

“Would you have come if you had?” she asked, not accusing, just curious.

Charles met her gaze. “Yeah. I would’ve.”

Her lips curved, a little surprised. A little knowing.

There was a silence, comfortable and awkward all at once. The kind of silence that could only exist between two people who used to know each other completely and now didn’t know how to begin again.

“I heard you were back,” he said eventually. “From my mum, I think. Or someone in town.”

Margot nodded. “Three months ago. I’m working here full time.”

“That’s… that’s good.” Charles shifted his weight. “Toulouse wasn’t forever?”

“No,” she said, quiet. “It was good. Until it wasn’t.”

He understood that far too well.

“Well,” she said, patting Leo’s head, “your prince is in one piece. Clean, fed, slightly spoiled.”

“Always has been.” Charles hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out Leo’s leash. “Can I… take him?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “Though he might pout for a while. I think he liked my eggs.”

Charles bent down, clipping the leash onto Leo’s harness as the dachshund made a snuffling noise of vague disapproval. “I can’t believe you cooked for him.”

“I was trying to win him over,” Margot said. “Turns out he’s an easy bribe.”

Charles glanced up, and for the first time, he smiled. Not the tired, strained smile he’d been wearing lately—but something warmer. Real.

“Can I walk you out?” he asked. “Just… for old time’s sake?”

Margot paused.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

***

Outside, the sunlight hit the street in soft amber as they stepped out together, Leo strutting ahead of them like a celebrity returning from a five-star vacation.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, their footsteps slow and in sync.

“You look well,” she said finally.

“You too,” he answered, and meant it.

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said. “For back then. For how I ended things.”

Margot looked over, surprised. “That was a long time ago.”

“Still,” he said. “I never said it. And I should have.”

She looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then: “Thank you.”

They reached the corner. Leo stopped, sniffed a bush like it owed him money, and flopped down dramatically on the warm pavement.

Margot laughed. “You may need to carry him. He’s decided he’s done.”

Charles crouched again, scooping Leo up effortlessly. “You really took care of him.”

“I was glad to,” she said.

Their eyes met again.

“Margot,” he said, quietly. “Would you—maybe sometime—want to catch up properly?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Like dinner?”

“Or coffee,” he said quickly. “Or a walk. Or, I don’t know. Something.”

She tilted her head, considering him. “Are you asking for you, or for Leo?”

Charles gave a sheepish smile. “Both.”

Margot bit back a grin. “Then maybe.”

Charles smiled back, a little stunned. A little hopeful.

And Leo—smug, full, and freshly bathed—closed his eyes in Charles’ arms, perfectly content.

***

Group Chat: Leclercs & Logistics

Members: Lorenzo, Arthur, Joris, Charles

Arthur:DID YOU GET HIM???? IS HE OKAY?? IS HE MAD AT ME??

Lorenzo: Photos. Now. I need visual confirmation of the sausage prince’s wellbeing.

Joris: Are you still breathing or do we need to send a second emotional support animal to your location?

Charles: Yes, Leo is back. No, I didn’t cry. Yes, I nearly did.

Arthur: Tell him I love him. Also tell him I’m sorry and that I accept any form of punishment he deems fit.

Lorenzo: Start with a restraining order and work from there.

Joris: And how was Margot?

Charles:Yeah—about that. You could’ve warned me, Joris.

Joris: Warned you about what?

Charles: THAT MARGOT FOUND LEO. You let me walk in there unprepared, like it was any other Tuesday! I could’ve had a heart attack! Or worse—said something weird!

Joris: I believe I said, “someone found him.” That is technically true. I just didn’t say who the someone was.

Charles: YOU LEFT OUT CRUCIAL INFORMATION Like the fact that my teenage heartbreak was about to hand me back my dog.

Arthur: Did a breeze catch in her hair at just the right moment? Was Leo smug about it??

Charles: Yes to both. He refused to leave until she said goodbye. And she tied a stupid little green bandana around his neck that somehow makes him look even more entitled. It was… weird. Familiar. Like nothing changed, but everything had.

Lorenzo: So basically: cinematic.

Joris: So… how did it feel seeing her again?

Charles: Like getting the wind knocked out of me and then immediately wrapped in a warm blanket. She was Margot. Still Margot.

Arthur: CHARLES. ARE YOU IN LOVE AGAIN??

Charles: I never really stopped.

Lorenzo: Oh.

Arthur: OH.

Arthur:Did you ask her out?!?!

Joris:Are we preparing for a slow-burn second-chance narrative?!

Charles: I asked if she wanted to catch up sometime. She said maybe.

Arthur: A MAYBE IS A YES IN DENIAL

Lorenzo: A maybe is the foundation of hope. I approve.

Joris: I’m scheduling you both for a casual Leo-themed coffee run in two days. Nothing obvious. We’re letting the tension simmer.

Arthur: You’re terrifying.

Joris: I’m efficient.

Charles: You’re all insane.

Lorenzo: And yet here you are. Smiling at your phone like a lovesick teenager again.

Joris: We’re not rushing this. No chaos. We give them space. Let Leo work his magic.

Arthur: Can I at least put together a playlist??

Charles: You’re all insane.

Joris: Yes. And we love you. Now take that dog home, feed him something outrageously expensive, and start planning your next casual run-in with Monaco’s most emotionally significant veterinarian.

Lorenzo: I’m so proud. 🥹

Arthur: Tell Leo he’s getting a new raincoat. Embroidered. “Wingman of the Year.”

Charles: He deserves it.

***

Margot had no idea why she was nervous.

It was just coffee.

With her ex-boyfriend.

Her first boyfriend. The one who used to blush when their hands brushed and left flowers in her locker with absolutely illegible notes. The one who broke her heart the way only someone young and kind and convinced he was doing the right thing could

And now… he was sitting at a tiny café table across from her, stirring sugar into his cappuccino like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like it hadn’t been years.

Like he hadn’t shown up at the clinic two days ago looking like he’d lost his entire world—until Leo launched himself into Charles’ arms, and then everything shifted. Warmth. Relief. Something deeper that still hummed under her skin if she thought about it too long.

“So…” Charles said, glancing up with a shy sort of smile. “I feel like we should start with something safe. Like weather. Or Leo’s digestive schedule.”

Margot snorted into her mug. “It’s Monaco. The weather is always smug. And Leo’s digestive schedule appears to involve manipulating humans into feeding him eggs.”

“I knew that smug face meant he was being spoiled,” Charles muttered, mock-affronted.

She leaned her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. “He was a perfect gentleman. Demanding, slightly judgy, but charming.”

“So basically me at seventeen.”

That made her laugh. “You were never demanding.”

He shrugged, a little sheepish. “Maybe not out loud. But I was kind of... all-in. With you.”

That stilled something in her chest.

She didn’t look away.

“I was too,” she said quietly.

There was a pause—gentle and heavy in equal measure. The little café noise hummed around them: clinking glasses, a scooter rattling by, someone’s dog barking at a pigeon.

Charles cleared his throat, voice softer now. “I’ve thought about reaching out. Before.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He gave her a small, honest smile. “Because I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me. And… I didn’t know if I was someone you’d be glad to hear from.”

She sat with that for a moment. The honesty of it. The way it didn’t sting, because it wasn’t said to wound.

“I was angry,” she admitted. “Back then. Not because you left. I got it. But because I kept waiting for you to stop choosing everything else first.”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “From the chaos. From me, honestly.”

“I never needed protecting,” she said. “I just wanted honesty.”

Their eyes met. This time, there was something calmer there. Grounded.

“I’m not seventeen anymore,” he said. “I can’t promise I’ll be less chaotic. But I know how to show up now.”

Margot’s lips curved slowly. “Even if I burn the eggs next time?”

He grinned. “Especially then. I feel like Leo would riot otherwise.”

She laughed again, warmth blooming in her chest. “Well. In that case…”

“In that case,” Charles echoed, brushing his fingers against the edge of her mug, just barely, “maybe this doesn’t have to be just coffee.”

Margot looked at him, really looked. And saw not just the boy he was—but the man sitting in front of her now. Tired, maybe. Bruised by life a little. But open. Trying.

And hers, maybe, if she wanted him to be again.

“Maybe it doesn’t,” she said.

And across the city, snoring on Charles’ couch, Leo Leclerc dreamed smug little dreams of eggs, sunbeams, and the chaos he’d orchestrated to make this happen.

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cutielando · 2 months ago

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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.

comments and re-blogs help us grow!

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diqldrunks · 9 months ago

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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 · 3 months ago

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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

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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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slyscoutess · 1 year ago

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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

f1version · 2 years ago

Text

LIGHTNING MCMARRIED ★ CL16

pairing: charles leclerc x fiancé! reader ( she/her )

summary: Your wedding is near and the Lightning McQueen joke continues along with the excitement.

notes: this one is set in 2024 !!!

part three of the life is a highway series ★ part four ( soon )

yourusername’s insta story

INTERVIEW — BELGIAN GP 2024

yourusername’s insta story

translation: i want to love you forever

charles_leclerc’s insta story

yourusername

Liked by charles_leclerc, pierregasly and 1,726,927 others

yourusername Can’t wait to be old and grey ❤️

👥: charles_leclerc, joris__trouche

view all comments

charles_leclerc Can’t wait to be a papa with you ❤️

yourusername Charlie 😭😭

charles_leclerc Imagine mini us running around!!!

yourusername Baby fever is real and you are it (same)

charles_leclerc I am baby fever

yourusername Get to work then!

charles_leclerc 😳😳😳

pierregasly why are you discussing your future CHILDREN here? mon dieu

joris__trouche Best wedding dress model

yourusername I was made for it

charles_leclerc The most beautiful human alive

maxverstappen1 SIMP

charles_leclerc What is that?

yourusername 😭

arthur_leclerc Hi sister in law

yourusername Hey brother in law

charles_leclerc i think i’m going to cry

charles_leclerc

Liked by yourusername, pierregasly and 2,726,827 others

charles_leclerc Mr & Mrs McQueen

view all comments

yourusername oh i love being your wife

charles_leclerc and i love being your husband

scuderiaferrari The Leclercs! 🏎️⚡️

carlossainz55 rayo mcqueen

charles_leclerc Have this discussion with my wife

leclerc_pascale je vous adore mes anges ❤️🙏

charles_leclerc ❤️❤️

sebastianvettel Best wishes to you both! ❤️

arthur_leclerc I can’t believe i lost the bet. I can’t believe you got married

lorenzotl Pay up!

charles_leclerc You had a BET on this??

pierregasly some thought you wouldn’t get married! 🤷

charles_leclerc YOU TOO ????

landonorris like all of the grid, mate! I believed in you 💪

daniel3.jpg

Liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc and 582,989 others

daniel3.jpg Life is a highway!

view all comments

charles_leclerc I need that photo of Y/n 🙏

daniel3.jpg as you wish mr. mcqueen

yourusername LIFE IS A HIGHWAY 🗣️🗣️

charles_leclerc I WANNA RIDE IT ALL NIGHT LONG!!!!

yourusername IF YOU’RE GOING MY WAY

charles_leclerc I WANNA DRIVE IT ALL NIGHT LONG

daniel3.jpg oh god

georgerussell63 I can’t believe we heard that song for 4 days in a row

lando.jpg true, I AM DONE

daniel3.jpg they’re kinda crazy

alexalbon it’s scary how well they know it

maxverstappen1 and they have that choreography too

carlossainz55 it’s so bad

charles_leclerc stop, you wish you had a theme song

lando.jpg

Liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc and 672,541 others

lando.jpg Charles likes to be called McDaddy!

view all comments

charles_leclerc Lando what the hell

lando.jpg sorry for exposing you charles! ❤️❤️

yourusername LANDO OMG 😭😭

charles_leclerc That’s NOT true

4K notes · View notes

nottivagos · 1 month ago

Text

notti's nightly thoughts (18+)

an: okaaaay soooo!! trophy partner!charles who's a needy little slut when you "accidentally" slip aphrodisiacs into his drink (and is also a masochist, poorly).

you thought it would be funny, just to see how he'd react, and oh my god, the sight is beautiful. at first it's subtle, his skin feels hotter as he stays perched on your lap, eyes slightly dilated as he looks around the busy club whilst you trace absentminded patterns on his thighs. his heart rate is pumping, he's confused about what he's feeling, but uses the cool drink he's sipping on to try and 'relieve' his problems.

well, that just makes it worse. you notice his discomfort, smirking to yourself as you watch him become all flustered and needy. at first he's whining into your ear, dick now hard in the confines of the dress trousers you dressed him in, asking- no, begging- to take him home so you can fuck him. you just chuckle, making a sly little joke that he's being a needy brat and will have to wait, but he just whimpers into your ear again pathetically.

shifting uncomfortably in your lap, he's turned around so he's facing you instead of the drunken dancers and other people in the busy club. he's too drunk on his high (and the aphrodisiacs) and needs you terribly. he starts to rut onto your thigh, like a bitch in heat, mumbling that he 'couldn't take it any longer' as he digs his fingers into your flesh hopelessly trying to ground himself onto your thigh.

at this point, you're degrading him. how dare he make a scene in public like this? you couldn't believe that he couldn't control himself, however you're feeling rather amused due to how badly he was acting whilst on the aphrodisiacs. charles is too far gone, groaning as he soaked up your degrading comments, feeling even more aroused as he knows he's making a fool of himself publicly. but he doesn't care. he needs you now, and he's going to have you one way or another.

he continues to rut, just until he cums in his pants, whimpering into the crook of your neck as he does so. he shudders on your lap, overwhelmed with the pleasure and rush of heat from the aphrodisiacs. when he comes down from the high, he's confused before the sticky feeling in his pants makes him realise what he's done.

and you're just smirking at him ever so smugly, relishing in the sight you'd just witnessed.

262 notes · View notes

bunny-jpeg · 6 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

505 notes · View notes

sunny44 · 7 months ago

Text

Passenger princess

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Secret girlfriend!reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Y/n releases her new song and the guy in the music video shocks everyone.

Inspired by the song Passenger Princess by Nessa Barrett.

Yourusername Instagram post

Liked by @dualipa, @charlesleclerc, @lewishamilton and others 9183891

@Yourusername Passenger Princess next weeeek 🏁🏎️

@lewishamilton can’t wait to listen

@yourusername I think you’ll like it

@dualipa yesss queen

@user91 I’m so exited to see the music video

@landonorris nice hair

@charlesleclerc counting the days to listen

Liked by @yourudername

@user0172 we can see that the f1 drivers are Y/n’s fans

The release of the *Passenger Princess* music video was about to happen, and I felt the nerves as if it were my first project. It wasn’t just the fact that it was a new song, but the fact that my boyfriend would be in the video, and people, besides not knowing we're together, would freak out once they saw the video and realized it was him.

I still remember when I suggested the idea of him participating.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Y/n,” he said, laughing, as we sat on my couch. Charles always seemed to find a way to make any moment fun, even when I was being completely serious.

“I’m serious! You’d be perfect for the role,” I replied, crossing my arms, pretending to be impatient. “The song is about a girl who loves being the passenger in her boyfriend’s car. Who better for that than my boyfriend, who happens to be one of the best Formula 1 drivers in the world?”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean it literally has to be your boyfriend,” he said, still laughing.

“Fine, but don’t complain after seeing me kiss and sit on some other guy’s lap in a skirt.” I said indifferently, and he immediately pulled me into his lap, kissing my face all over, making me laugh.

“Okay, I’ll do it.” He sighed, still smiling. “No one’s kissing your lips but me.”

“I knew you’d agree,” I said, and he kissed my face several more times.

“You know this is going to cause a storm, right?”

I knew. I knew the internet would go wild when they saw Charles as the lead in my video. But what they didn’t know was that Charles and I had been together for two years, and so far, no one had figured it out.

“I know, but just because you’re in the video doesn’t actually mean you’re my boyfriend. It’s just a role.”

“Alright then.”

Now, two months after we shot the video, the moment of the premiere had arrived.

The song was released last night, and people were already freaking out. Today, we were at the Monza paddock, where I’d be spending the weekend with Charles.

He was nervous, even though he wouldn’t admit it.

“Do you think they’ll notice we weren’t acting?” he asked quietly, as we sat in one of the areas reserved for the drivers, watching the preparations for the race.

I smiled.

“They’ll probably suspect and ship us because of the video, but if we don’t give any signs that we’re actually dating, they won’t be sure, love.”

Deep down, I knew the fans would go crazy. The song was already a hit, and the fact that Charles was the male lead in the video would only increase their curiosity. But our relationship had always been just ours. No speculations, no gossip.

The video was finally released, and as we stood in the Ferrari garage, surrounded by engineers, mechanics, and, of course, other drivers, I smiled as I heard my voice and looked up at a large screen where the video started playing.

I couldn’t help but smile. It was exactly how we had imagined it. Charles, next to me, shook his head with a small, restrained smile. His eyes met mine, and I could see how much he was enjoying everyone’s reaction.

The video showed scenes of the two of us, him driving a Ferrari while I sang, having fun beside him. The scenes of us exchanging knowing looks were filled with a naturalness that few could fake. Because, of course, we weren’t faking.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, right?” Lando appeared in front of us. “How did you get Charles to do this?”

“I just thought he’d be perfect for the role and, with a lot of effort, I convinced him,” I replied, trying to keep my tone casual.

“Uh-huh, sure...” Lando muttered, glancing back and forth between Charles and me. Before he could say anything else, Pierre Gasly appeared with a mischievous smile on his face.

“Hey, Charles, since when are you an actor?” Pierre teased, giving Charles a light punch on the shoulder.

“Since Y/n convinced me to do it,” he answered, still maintaining his calm tone. But I knew how much he was enjoying this whole situation.

The confusion only grew as the day went on. The video was an instant hit, and soon, comments on social media started pouring in.

#YnCharles was trending, and theories about a possible romance between us wouldn’t stop appearing. The paddock was in constant buzz, full of journalists and fans speculating whether something was going on between me and Charles.

Charles and I exchanged discreet glances and smiles while keeping our secret. We had gone through this before, watching people try to guess what was happening between us. But we had always kept everything private, just for the two of us.

By the end of the day, as the sun set over Monza, Charles and I found a moment of privacy in the Ferrari motorhome. He pulled me into a hug, kissing the top of my head.

“So, do you think they’ll figure it out now?” he whispered.

“I think it’s just a matter of time before someone connects the dots.”

Charles looked at me for a moment, his green eyes shining with that soft expression he always had when it was just the two of us.

“I don’t care if they find out anymore, Y/n. I’m tired of hiding. I just want people to know you’re mine.”

My heart skipped a beat hearing that. We had always been so careful, so reserved. But I knew Charles was right. We couldn’t keep hiding forever.

“Maybe it’s the right time,” I said, holding his face in my hands. “But until then, let’s let them have fun with their theories.”

Charles smiled, pulling me closer. “Two years together, and still no one suspects.”

“We’re good at this,” I joked, kissing him lightly.

As we embraced there, away from the curious eyes of the paddock, I knew that when the secret finally came out, we’d be ready.

F1gossip Instagram post

“Everyone was shocked to see our Lord Perceval Charles Leclerc in the new music video of singer Y/n Y/l/n’s. In the music video, Y/n is the passenger of Charles Leclerc’s Ferrari and they act like a very sexy couple.

Who else has never imagined Charles doing something like this?”

Read the full articule in the link in our bio.

Bonus scene!

Yourusername Instagram stories

“Yes, I’m a passenger princess”

518 notes · View notes

pucksandpower · 2 months ago

Text

Gridlock

Charles Leclerc x Red Bull driver!Reader

father!Fernando Alonso x daughter!Reader

platonic!Max Verstappen x teammate!Reader

Summary: when a crazed fan kidnaps you from the paddock, your boyfriend, father, and teammate are sent on a wild goose chase … but will they make it before it’s too late?

Warnings: kidnapping, poisoning, attempted murder, and actual murder

The drivers' briefing room is already buzzing when Charles slides into his seat near the back, careful to keep a neutral expression. It’s packed as usual — Max is lounging at his right, propped up on one elbow, scrolling through something on his phone. Lewis is arguing with Lando about the track limits from last week, and Fernando — seated a few rows ahead — turns in his chair every now and then, a faintly amused expression on his face.

“Where is she?” Charles mutters without looking up.

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Charles raises an eyebrow, his look pointed, before turning his phone off with an exaggerated sigh.

“She’s always late,” Max says under his breath, more to himself than anyone.

“She’s always here by now,” Charles says, crossing his arms.

Max tilts his head in reluctant agreement. You’re late, yes, but never this late — not to something this important. Usually, it’s you walking in at the last second, hair a little messy, still half-laughing at some joke you overheard outside. You’d throw out a quick apology, flash a grin at the unimpressed FIA official, and drop into your seat without missing a beat.

But five minutes have stretched into ten.

The laughter in the room starts to taper off.

“She was with you, wasn’t she?” Charles asks Max, keeping his voice low.

Max frowns. “No. Wasn’t she with you?”

“No,” Charles says sharply, suddenly sitting straighter. His leg starts bouncing under the table. Max notices but doesn’t comment.

“Relax,” Max mutters, glancing around the room like he’s hoping to spot you suddenly materializing out of thin air. “She probably stopped to talk to a fan again. You know how she is.”

“Ten minutes ago, maybe,” Charles says, glancing at the door for the fourth time. “This isn’t like her.”

“Nothing about her is like anyone else,” Max says, rolling his eyes. But Charles doesn’t even smirk.

The FIA official clears his throat, stepping up to the front of the room. “Alright, let’s get started. If your fellow driver decides to show up, kindly remind her that punctuality is part of the job.”

The comment earns a chuckle or two, mostly from Lando and Pierre, but Charles feels his stomach drop. The humor of the situation has curdled.

Fifteen minutes late.

Fernando twists in his chair again, a little deeper this time, as though he’s scanning the room. Charles catches the older driver’s eyes and shakes his head slightly. Fernando’s jaw tightens before he faces forward again.

“Where the hell is she?” Charles mutters, mostly to himself.

Max gives him a sidelong glance. “You sure you didn’t fight or something?”

Charles snaps his head around to glare at him. “Why do you assume it’s my fault?”

Max shrugs. “You’re dramatic.”

Charles looks ready to argue, but the official’s voice cuts through.

“If she’s not here by the time I finish explaining the changes to the pit exit procedure, she’ll be fined and possibly given a penalty. And yes, that’s a new regulation, so don’t act surprised.”

“She’s not going to get a penalty,” Charles hisses under his breath, ignoring the way Max raises his eyebrows again.

“You sure about that?” Max asks, leaning back lazily. “Because she’s not here. And neither of us knows why.”

Twenty minutes now.

The official starts rattling off a list of procedural updates, but it’s white noise in Charles’ ears. He keeps glancing at his phone, as if it’ll buzz with a message from you, explaining everything. Maybe your PR officer pulled you into an emergency meeting. Maybe you ran into trouble on the way here — traffic, a flat tire, something.

Maybe you’re-

The doors burst open.

Everyone’s heads snap around. Even the official stumbles over his words, startled.

Your PR officer stands in the doorway, panting, her face pale and her hair disheveled. She doesn’t look at the FIA official, or the other drivers. Her eyes zero in on Fernando, Max, and Charles, and she says three words that turn the room to ice.

“Y/N is gone.”

***

Charles is on his feet before the words even register fully, his chair screeching against the floor as it topples over.

“What do you mean, gone?” His voice is sharp, the edges fraying with panic.

Max looks frozen, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to form a sentence but can’t. Fernando’s reaction is more immediate. He strides toward the PR officer, his expression dark and unrelenting.

“Explain. Now.”

The room is in chaos. Drivers are standing, whispering, some shouting questions, but Charles barely hears any of it. His heart is in his throat, his pulse pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else.

The PR officer stumbles over her words, her breaths still uneven. “She … she was heading here. I saw her outside the paddock maybe — fifteen, twenty minutes ago? She stopped to talk to fans, like always, and then … then she never showed up.”

“You’re sure it was her?” Fernando asks, his tone biting.

“Yes,” the PR officer says, her voice cracking. “I called her, but it’s going straight to voicemail.”

Charles’ blood turns to ice. He pulls his phone out, fingers fumbling as he dials your number. It rings once. Then twice.

“The person you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time, please leave a message after the tone.”

“No, no, no,” Charles mutters under his breath, hanging up and trying again. The same result.

Max is already doing the same thing, his movements more frantic. “Straight to voicemail,” he mutters, looking up at Charles, his face pale. “This — this doesn’t make sense.”

Fernando is digging into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “She’s on my Life360,” he says, his voice clipped. He pulls up the app, but when he taps your name, his expression hardens.

“She turned off her location,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “She never does that.”

“Maybe her phone’s dead,” Max says quickly, as if the words are a lifeline.

Fernando gives him a sharp look. “She’d still be here.”

“Enough!” The FIA official steps forward, his voice raised. “Everyone, calm down. We don’t have enough information-”

Charles whirls on him, his voice nearly a shout. “She’s missing! We’re not sitting here and waiting for her to just show up!”

Before anyone can stop him, he’s bolting for the door. Max and Fernando are right behind him, and the PR officer scrambles after them, her bag bumping against her side.

They’re halfway down the corridor before Fernando grabs Charles’ arm, pulling him to a stop.

“We need more information,” Fernando says firmly, though his voice is tight. “Panicking isn’t going to help.”

Charles shrugs him off. “We are getting information!” He waves his phone in the air. “We’re calling, we’re-”

“Her phone is off!” Fernando snaps, his composure breaking for a split second. “Think. Where would she go? Who saw her last?”

“She was coming here,” Max interjects, his voice rougher now. “Her PR officer said she was coming here.” He turns to her. “Did you see anyone with her? Did anything seem off?”

The PR officer shakes her head quickly. “No, no, nothing. She was smiling, signing things — like always. But then …I don’t know.”

Fernando exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “We need cameras. CCTV. Someone at the track must have access.”

“Let’s go,” Max says immediately, and the four of them take off again, weaving through hallways, ignoring the bewildered looks from engineers and staff they pass along the way.

Finally, they find someone — a track operations employee lingering near the media center. Fernando doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“We need access to CCTV. Now.”

The employee blinks. “Sir, I-”

“Now!” Fernando barks, his voice so authoritative that the man flinches before nodding quickly. “Okay, okay, follow me.”

The group is led to a small security office, the lights dim and monitors lining the walls. Fernando explains the situation in clipped, impatient sentences while Charles paces behind him, one hand pressed against his mouth.

“Check the paddock entrance,” Max says, leaning over the shoulder of the security guard. “Around fifteen or twenty minutes ago.”

The guard types something into the system, fast-forwarding through various camera feeds until he pulls up the right one. The screen shows you walking down the paddock, your Red Bull jacket unzipped, your hands moving animatedly as you talk to a small group of fans.

“There!” Charles says, pointing.

The footage moves forward. You’re smiling, crouching down to take a picture with a young girl holding a Red Bull plushie. Then you stand, wave goodbye, and keep walking toward the briefing room.

“So where the hell did she go?” Max mutters, staring at the screen.

The footage follows you as you walk further, the paddock getting quieter as you near a shadowed section where fewer people are gathered. You stop once to sign someone’s hat. Then you keep walking.

And then-

“Stop. Go back,” Fernando says suddenly, his voice sharp.

The guard rewinds a few seconds.

There’s a figure. Blurry, just out of frame at first, but unmistakably there.

The figure steps into your path as you turn a corner. You hesitate — your posture stiffens slightly, but the camera can’t pick up your face. You’re saying something, gesturing slightly, but the figure doesn’t move.

And then, in a single quick motion, the figure grabs your arm and pulls you toward the shadows.

The four men in the room freeze.

“Keep playing it,” Max says, his voice low and urgent.

The footage continues. The figure drags you out of the camera’s view. You stumble but don’t fight back immediately — like you’re startled, caught off guard. And then you’re gone.

“Do you have cameras on that corner?” Charles asks, his voice shaking.

The guard clicks through several feeds but shakes his head. “No. That area doesn’t have coverage.”

“Who the hell doesn’t put cameras there?” Max snaps, slamming his fist against the table.

“Not the time,” Fernando says sharply, but even his calm is slipping. His hands are clenched into fists, his jaw tight.

Charles turns away, pressing his hands to his face, his breathing uneven. Max grips the back of a chair, staring at the monitor like he can will the footage to show something else.

Fernando finally speaks, his voice quiet but steely.

“We need to alert security. Lock down the paddock. Whoever took her can’t have gone far.”

“Assuming she’s still here,” Charles mutters, his voice breaking slightly.

Fernando grabs him by the shoulders, forcing him to look up. “Don’t. Don’t go there.”

Charles swallows hard, his jaw tightening.

The PR officer, who has been silent up to this point, finally speaks, her voice trembling.

“What if they’re already gone?”

The room falls silent again, the unspoken fear thick in the air.

Fernando is the first to move, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Call the stewards. Lock down every exit. And get that footage to security. Now.”

The guard nods frantically, scrambling to make calls, but Charles, Max, and Fernando are already moving — determined to find you before it’s too late.

***

Your head is pounding. The ache spreads through your skull like a dull hum, throbbing at your temples. You feel heavy, limbs refusing to cooperate, your body sagging against something rough and scratchy. The fog in your brain is thick — too thick to fight through completely — but you’re aware of three things.

One: You’re moving. The subtle, constant vibration beneath you tells you you’re in a car.

Two: Your hands are bound. You can feel the bite of plastic ties against your wrists, pinning them together behind your back.

Three: You can’t speak. There’s something gagging you — a rag or cloth shoved into your mouth and secured tight, choking any attempt to make noise.

Panic flares sharp and bright, a surge of adrenaline trying to push past the sedation still clouding your system. You crack your eyes open, but the world is a blur, hazy outlines of the car’s interior shifting in and out of focus.

From the driver’s seat, a voice cuts through the silence. Calm. Casual.

“You’re awake.”

Your stomach twists violently, and you force yourself to focus on the sound. It’s a man — his voice light and unnervingly conversational, like he’s commenting on the weather.

“I was starting to wonder if I gave you too much. Would’ve been a shame. You’re supposed to hear this part, after all.”

The fog is still thick, but your instincts are sharper now. You tug against the ties, testing for any give, but they hold firm. The seat beneath you is rough, the material cheap — some old, unassuming car.

The man keeps talking.

“Didn’t mean to be so rough back there. I’m not like one of those creeps on the news, you know? This isn’t like that. I’m doing this because I care. Because I’m a fan.”

Fan? Your sluggish mind stumbles over the word. What fan? What the hell is he talking about?

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he continues, glancing at you briefly in the rearview mirror. His face is mostly obscured by a baseball cap, the shadow hiding his eyes. “But Ferrari … Ferrari is everything to me. I’ve been watching them my whole life.”

Tifoso. The realization makes your chest tighten.

He keeps talking, his tone eerily steady.

“And Charles — he was supposed to be our champion, you know? Il Predestinato. But he hasn’t been the same since you showed up.” His voice dips slightly, edges hardening. “You’re a distraction. That’s all you are. You think you belong here? With the men who bleed for this sport? Who live for Ferrari?”

You try to make a noise through the gag, your breathing quickening, but it comes out muffled — weak.

He doesn’t notice. Or he doesn’t care.

“I’m doing what’s best for Charles. For Ferrari. He’s lost focus, but that’s not his fault. You — you’re the problem.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. “And I’m going to fix it.”

Cold washes over you like a wave.

Your pulse pounds against your ears, your heart hammering so hard it hurts. He’s serious. This isn’t a game. This isn’t a mistake.

You squirm again, trying to move, trying to do something, but your body still feels slow, heavy, like you’re wading through water. The sedative isn’t gone yet.

“Don’t bother,” the man says, his tone almost bored. “I’m not stupid. I knew you’d fight, so I came prepared. You’ll wear off the drugs eventually. Doesn’t matter, though. We’ll be where we need to be soon enough.”

The words settle over you like a weight, crushing the air from your lungs. Your breaths come faster now, quick and uneven through your nose as the panic starts to eat at you.

No one knows where you are. No one saw.

Your mind flashes to the paddock — the fans, the smiling faces. You were there one moment, walking toward the briefing room, and then —

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to shove away the terror clawing at the edges of your mind. You need to focus. You need to think.

The man keeps driving, his voice low and almost soothing.

“It’s nothing personal, you know. I’m sure you’re a nice girl. But Charles … he’ll thank me eventually. Once he wins the championship, once Ferrari is back on top — he’ll see. I’m saving him. From you.”

Tears sting your eyes, hot and useless, and you force yourself to breathe — slow, even breaths. You have to stay calm. You have to stay awake.

Because the moment you stop fighting, the moment you give in to the fear, it’s over.

***

The paddock is unrecognizable now — sirens blaring, radios crackling, and the heavy presence of law enforcement swarming the space. Team personnel, engineers, and journalists are being questioned or ushered away, their faces a mix of concern and disbelief. Charles stands to the side, fists clenched at his sides, staring at nothing in particular as police officers bark orders into walkie-talkies.

Fernando is pacing. If his shoulders looked tense before, now they’re wound so tight it’s a miracle they haven’t snapped. His phone is in his hand, the knuckles white as he grips it, as though willing it to ring.

“What is taking so long?” He growls, directing the question at no one in particular.

Max stands a little further back, hands buried in his hair as he mutters to himself in Dutch, too fast and low for anyone to understand. He’s restless — his legs shifting constantly, gaze darting between Fernando and the officers trying to establish a timeline. He finally rounds on the nearest officer.

“You’ve seen the footage!” Max snaps, his voice rising with his panic. “She was dragged off — so what are you doing?”

“We’ve sent the footage to every available unit in the area,” the officer replies, his voice calm and professional. “We’re locking down roads and alerting border security. It’s only been an hour. We’ll find her.”

“An hour is too long,” Charles says suddenly, his voice sharp enough to cut. He steps forward, finally snapping out of his trance. “Do you understand? She’s been gone for-” He stops, swallows hard. “Anything could have happened by now.”

Fernando stops pacing and turns to face the officers, his face carved from stone. When he speaks, his voice is low but steady, the weight of every word impossible to ignore.

“If this is about money,” he says, “if that’s what they want, then tell them I will give it. I don’t care how much. I don’t care.” He pauses, his voice cracking slightly. “All I want is for my little girl back.”

The officer hesitates, clearly uncomfortable under Fernando’s gaze. “We have to consider all possibilities, Mr. Alonso. Right now, there’s been no ransom demand-”

“Then what do they want?” Fernando cuts him off, his voice rising. “Because they took her for something. And every second you stand here speculating is a second wasted!”

Max looks like he’s about to explode, his anger barely contained. He tugs at Charles’ arm, muttering furiously, “We can’t just stand here and do nothing.”

Charles doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw is tight, his face pale, but his eyes burn with the same helpless rage clawing at all of them. “What do you suggest?”

Max looks around, frantic. “We find out who saw her last. There were fans — people. Somebody must have seen something.”

“And then what?” Charles shoots back, his voice shaking. “You think we’ll figure out something faster than the police?”

“Yes!” Max shouts, his composure finally breaking. “Because we care more than they do! Because she’s my teammate. Because … because she’s your-” He stops himself, shoulders heaving as he swallows hard.

Charles stares at him, the same raw panic etched into every line of his face. “She’s everything,” he finishes quietly, and Max doesn’t argue.

Fernando clears his throat, regaining their attention. “They’re right.” His voice is calmer now, but the intensity hasn’t lessened. “We know the paddock better than anyone. If there’s something the police missed, we’ll find it.”

“And if they call with a ransom?” Charles asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I’ll pay,” Fernando says firmly, no hesitation in his tone. “Whatever it takes.”

A tense silence stretches between them, broken only by the sounds of the chaos surrounding them — police radios, footsteps echoing, far-off voices.

Finally, Fernando looks up, his gaze sharp as it lands on Max and Charles.

“We start now. Every minute counts.”

And with that, they move — unwilling to let helplessness win.

***

The showroom is a husk of its former self. Dust clings to the faded red walls, peeling in long, jagged strips that curl at the edges. Empty shelves line the room, their glass panels cracked or completely shattered. A single rusted Ferrari emblem hangs crookedly above what was once a display stand. The faint smell of mildew lingers, mixing with the metallic tang of rust and decay.

You’re on the floor, your body still sluggish from the sedative. The concrete beneath you is freezing, biting through your clothes. The gag in your mouth is damp and scratchy, and your throat aches from the effort of trying to cry out, trying to scream through it.

The kidnapper hasn’t stopped talking since you arrived.

“This used to be my favorite place,” he says, his tone almost wistful. He kneels beside you, gently adjusting your position like a priest arranging a relic. “When I was a boy, my father brought me here. Showed me the cars, the engines, the history. The soul of Ferrari.”

His hands move with eerie care, tugging your arms into place, straightening your legs. He almost looks reverent, his face slack with something that might be mistaken for peace.

“And then I grew up, and I realized what it all meant. Ferrari isn’t just a team. It’s a religion. You understand that, don’t you? You’re in the sport — you must.”

He leans back on his heels, looking down at you. His lips twist into a small, regretful smile. “But you — you’re an outsider. You don’t get it.”

You try to move — jerk your head, kick your legs, anything — but your body doesn’t cooperate. He sees the flicker of effort, and his smile widens.

“Still a fighter, even now,” he murmurs, almost admiringly. “That’s good. You should fight. It makes it easier to justify what I’m about to do.”

Your muffled cry comes out as a whimper, your breathing rapid and uneven. He sighs, reaching into his pocket.

“Shhh. It’ll all be over soon.”

The gag is yanked from your mouth, and the sudden relief of being able to move your jaw is immediately eclipsed by raw panic. You open your mouth to scream, but his hand flies out and slaps you hard across the face.

The force sends a sharp, stinging pain radiating across your cheek, and your head jerks to the side.

“None of that,” he snaps, his voice sharp but not angry — like a teacher reprimanding a disobedient student. “No one’s going to hear you, anyway. We’re miles away from the city.”

He grips your jaw with his hand, pinching your nose closed with his thumb and forefinger. Your airway clamps shut, and your chest burns with the instinctive need to breathe. You thrash weakly, but his grip is iron.

“Open your mouth,” he says softly, his tone almost coaxing. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

Your body betrays you. Desperation wins, and you part your lips, gasping for air.

That’s when he takes the vial from his pocket.

The glass catches the dim light filtering through the broken windows, the liquid inside a murky, yellowish-green. You have no time to process what’s happening before he tilts the vial to your mouth and pours.

The liquid tastes bitter — like acid and rot — and your instinct is to spit it out, but his free hand clamps over your lips, sealing them shut.

“Swallow,” he commands. His voice is calm, almost soothing. “Swallow, and it’ll all be over soon.”

You gag, your throat convulsing, but your body obeys the inevitable. The liquid slides down, burning a trail that settles like fire in your stomach.

He watches you closely, his eyes unblinking, until he feels the muscles in your jaw relax, signaling that you’ve swallowed. Only then does he release you, gently patting your cheek as if in reassurance.

“There,” he says softly. “That’s the worst part over.”

Your chest heaves, and you cough violently, trying to expel whatever it is he just forced into your body. But it’s too late. You feel it already — a strange, creeping warmth that spreads from your stomach outward, curling into your limbs like poison-tipped vines.

“What-” Your voice cracks, raw and broken. “What did you do to me?”

He stands, slipping the empty vial back into his pocket.

“It’s a slow-acting poison,” he says matter-of-factly. “Tetrodotoxin. Comes from pufferfish. Not easy to get my hands on, but I’ve been planning this for a while.”

Your stomach drops. Tetrodotoxin. It paralyzes the body, shuts down the respiratory system slowly over time, all while leaving the mind conscious until the very end.

“You’ll feel it soon,” he continues, his tone apologetic. “First, it’ll be hard to move. Then, hard to breathe. But don’t worry. I imagine it won’t take longer than an hour or two.”

Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and fast, as you try to scream again, but your voice is weak, strangled by both fear and the poison already taking hold.

“I know it’s cruel,” he says, lowering his head as though ashamed. “But I had to be careful. Something more obvious would’ve drawn too much attention — raised too many questions. This … this was the best I could do.”

He steps back, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “I didn’t want it to come to this. But Ferrari is everything. And Charles … he needs to be saved. He needs to be focused. You’ve blinded him. Distracted him. Taken away his fire.”

His voice cracks, and for a moment, he looks almost human, almost like this is hurting him too.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “But you’re the problem. And I’m doing what I have to.”

He drops to his knees beside you, his hands trembling slightly as he presses them together, praying softly under his breath for forgiveness. For Ferrari. For himself.

All you can do is lie there, your body heavy and your mind screaming, as the poison begins its slow, merciless work.

***

Charles crouches in the grass, his breathing shallow and uneven, his eyes darting frantically over the area where the CCTV footage had shown you last. His hands shake as he sifts through discarded wrappers and bits of gravel, frustration mounting with every second that passes.

There’s nothing here. Just debris, just noise, just-

A scrap of paper catches his eye. It’s half-buried in the dirt, bent and weathered.

Just litter, he tells himself, his jaw tightening. His fingers hover over it briefly, the urge to dismiss it tugging at him. There’s no time for distractions.

But something stops him.

A feeling — an inexplicable pull, like some deep part of his brain is whispering: check.

With a frustrated exhale, Charles grabs the paper, yanking it from the grass and brushing off the dirt. It’s thicker than he expected — more solid, less like a wrapper and more like …

A business card.

His brow furrows as he inspects it, flipping it over. The edges are worn and faded, but the text is still legible:

Scuderia Ferrari Showroom

Branch - Est. 1978

His heart stops.

The words burn into his mind, and his fingers tighten around the card until it bends. For a moment, all he can hear is the roar of his pulse in his ears.

“No,” he breathes. “No, no, no.”

The police hadn’t mentioned anything about Ferrari. None of their theories had hinted at it, but suddenly, Charles’ thoughts are racing, piecing together fragments. You were targeted. This wasn’t random. And if Ferrari is connected …

The card shakes in his hand as he bolts upright, spinning around and screaming with everything he has.

“MAX! FERNANDO!”

His voice cracks from the force, raw and panicked.

The two of them aren’t far, just down the stretch of paddock where they’d been questioning a security guard, and they come running the second they hear him.

“What? What is it?” Max demands, his chest heaving as he skids to a halt next to Charles.

Charles doesn’t answer right away. His throat feels too tight, and he holds out the card with trembling fingers instead.

Fernando snatches it before Max can, scanning the faded words. For a brief moment, his face remains impassive — just stone. Then his brows draw together, his lips pressing into a grim line.

“This address,” Fernando says, his voice low and strained. He looks up at Charles, eyes blazing. “This is from years ago. That showroom shut down almost a decade ago. It’s abandoned now.”

Max leans over, snatching the card from Fernando’s hand. His face hardens as he reads it. “Why the hell would someone have this?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Charles says sharply, his panic morphing into resolve. He snatches the card back, stuffing it into his pocket. “She’s there. I know it.”

“Charles-” Fernando starts, his tone cautious.

“She’s there!” Charles snaps, his voice rising with desperation. “Why else would this be here? Someone left it for us to find!”

Fernando hesitates, his instincts warring with his logic. Max doesn’t wait. He’s already moving.

“Then let’s go,” Max says, his voice clipped as he starts toward the parking lot. “I’m not wasting another second.”

Charles follows immediately, his strides long and determined, the tremor in his hands betraying his urgency.

Fernando hesitates for only a second longer before caving. He mutters something in Spanish under his breath, low and furious, before chasing after them.

The three of them pile into a car, and Fernando takes the wheel, punching the address into his phone’s GPS. The abandoned showroom isn’t far — just fifteen minutes away.

Every second feels like an eternity.

Charles stares out the window, his fists clenched on his lap, the weight of his worst fears pressing heavily on his chest. Beside him, Max is eerily silent, his leg bouncing with restless energy.

Fernando’s knuckles are white against the steering wheel as he presses the gas harder, the engine roaring.

“Hang on, nena,” Fernando mutters under his breath, too quietly for anyone to hear. “We’re coming.”

***

The tires screech as Fernando slams the car to a halt in front of the crumbling remains of the old Ferrari showroom. The building looms dark and empty, its once-proud red paint faded and cracked. Vines creep along the walls, twisting around shattered windows like nature’s claim on a forgotten relic.

Charles doesn’t wait for the engine to fully stop. He throws the door open and sprints toward the building, Max and Fernando close on his heels.

The air inside is heavy, stale, and suffocating, but none of them notice. They’re moving too fast, adrenaline pumping as they take in the eerie emptiness — the broken shelves, the scattered debris, the shadows pooling in every corner.

And then they hear it.

A voice, muttering softly, the words indistinct but filled with fervor.

Fernando freezes, his head snapping toward the sound. His hand shoots out to stop Charles from rushing ahead.

“There,” he whispers, nodding toward the far end of the room.

The three of them move as one, their footsteps quiet but purposeful as they close the distance. The voice grows louder, rising and falling in rhythm.

When they round the corner, they see him.

The kidnapper is pacing in front of you, his hands clasped together in prayer. His head is bowed, his lips moving quickly as he mumbles under his breath. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t even notice them.

But Charles notices you.

“Mon Dieu …” The words fall from him like a breath he’s been holding for hours.

You’re sprawled on the floor, your body twisted unnaturally. Your face is pale, your lips tinged blue, and your chest barely rises and falls. The sight is enough to freeze the blood in Charles’ veins.

Fernando doesn’t hesitate. He surges forward, shouting, “Y/N!”

The kidnapper spins around, startled, but he doesn’t have time to react. Max launches himself at the man with a guttural roar, tackling him to the ground with such force that the two of them crash into a rusted display stand.

“Stay down!” Max snarls, pinning the kidnapper with his full weight. The man struggles, but Max slams him back down with a ferocity that makes it clear he isn’t moving.

Fernando drops to his knees beside you, his hands hovering uncertainly before settling on your shoulders. “Dios mío, nena, no …” His voice cracks, and he turns to Charles, his panic fully unleashed. “What did they do to her?”

Charles collapses next to you, his hands trembling as he brushes your hair back from your face. “Y/N? Y/N!” His voice is high-pitched, frantic. He gently shakes you, but your head lolls to the side, your eyes half-open but unseeing.

“She’s not breathing right,” Fernando says, his voice tight with terror. He presses two fingers to your neck, finding your pulse weak and erratic. “She’s fading.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Charles’ voice rises, his eyes darting between you and Fernando. “What did they give her?”

“I don’t know!” Fernando snaps, his frustration born from fear. “We don’t even know what this bastard did to her!”

Charles fumbles for his phone, his hands shaking so badly he nearly drops it. He dials emergency services, his voice cracking as he shouts into the line. “We need an ambulance! Now! She’s dying!”

Fernando leans closer to you, his hands cupping your face. “Hang on, cariño. Hang on,” he murmurs, his voice trembling. “Stay with me. Just stay with me.”

Charles is still on the phone, pacing in short, frantic bursts. “I don’t know what it is — poison, maybe? Something slow-acting. She can’t breathe, she’s barely — what do you mean how long has it been? I don’t know! Too long!”

Meanwhile, Max tightens his grip on the kidnapper, his eyes blazing with fury. “What did you do to her?” He growls, his face inches from the man’s. “What did you give her?”

The kidnapper stares up at him, his expression dazed, as though he’s only just realizing the severity of his actions. “You … you weren’t supposed to-”

Max grabs the man’s shirt, slamming him into the floor. “What did you give her?”

“Tetrodotoxin!” The man finally yells, his voice cracking. “It’s poison! It — it’s slow, but — but I didn’t mean-”

Max pulls back just enough to glare at the man. “Didn’t mean what? Lead us straight here?” His voice drips with venom.

“She’s going to die!” Charles screams from across the room, his voice breaking.

Fernando’s hands shake as he pulls you closer, his lips brushing your temple as he whispers desperately, “Please, mija. Stay with me. Please.”

The sound of sirens wailing in the distance cuts through the chaos, but no one dares to hope. Not yet.

***

The sound of sirens pierces the air, growing louder as the ambulance speeds toward the abandoned showroom. Fernando cradles you in his arms, his lips moving in a silent prayer, his tears falling unchecked. Charles hovers beside him, pacing back and forth, his hands pulling at his hair as if trying to keep himself together.

The paramedics burst through the door moments later, carrying a stretcher and medical bags.

“She’s been poisoned!” Charles shouts, running to meet them. “We think — what did he say? Teratodoxin?” He spins toward Max, who still has the kidnapper pinned to the ground.

“Tetrodotoxin!” Max corrects, his face twisted in rage.

One of the paramedics pales. “That’s … that’s serious.”

“She’s fading,” Fernando growls, his voice low and urgent. “You have to do something.”

The paramedics spring into action, gently prying you from Fernando’s arms and laying you on the stretcher. One checks your pulse, his fingers pressing firmly to your neck.

“It’s weak,” he mutters to his partner. “Breathing is shallow. Cyanosis around the lips.”

“What does that mean?” Charles demands, his voice cracking.

“It means the poison is paralyzing her muscles, including the ones she needs to breathe,” the paramedic explains quickly. “We’ll do everything we can, but this toxin is-” He stops, hesitating.

“Is what?” Fernando snaps, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“It’s one of the deadliest known to man,” the paramedic says grimly. “There’s no antidote.”

The words hit like a sledgehammer. Charles staggers back, his face crumpling as he struggles to process what he’s just heard. Fernando freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

“What are you saying?” Fernando finally manages, his voice barely above a whisper. “That there’s … nothing you can do?”

“We can try to stabilize her,” the paramedic replies, his tone cautious but not without compassion. “We’ll get her on oxygen, monitor her vitals, and provide supportive care. But the mortality rate for tetrodotoxin poisoning is …” He hesitates again, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“How bad?” Charles demands, his voice raw and desperate.

“Sixty percent,” the paramedic says quietly, his eyes darting away.

“No,” Fernando breathes, his head shaking violently. “No. She’s strong. She’s an athlete. She can fight this.” He grabs the paramedic’s arm, his grip like iron. “You save her. Do you hear me? You save her.”

“We’ll do our best,” the paramedic assures him, gently but firmly removing Fernando’s hand. “But we need to move her now.”

As they begin wheeling the stretcher toward the ambulance, Charles stumbles after them. “I’m coming with her,” he says firmly.

“Only one can ride with her,” the paramedic warns.

“I’m her father,” Fernando growls, stepping forward.

Charles looks at Fernando, and for a moment, they’re both frozen, their pain reflected in each other’s eyes.

“Go,” Charles whispers, his voice breaking. “She’ll want you there.”

Fernando doesn’t respond with words. He simply nods, his face hardening as he climbs into the ambulance beside you.

Charles stands frozen as the doors slam shut, the sirens wailing as the ambulance speeds away.

Max comes to stand beside him, his face still dark with rage. “We’re not letting her die,” he says firmly. “We’re not.”

But Charles doesn’t answer. His eyes are locked on the fading ambulance, his chest rising and falling as if he’s trying to remember how to breathe.

***

The ambulance doors swing open with a sharp metallic clang, and Fernando stumbles out behind the paramedics, who rush you through the hospital’s emergency entrance. His mind feels detached, like it’s moving slower than his body. All he knows is that you’re there on that stretcher, motionless, your skin pale and your breathing almost nonexistent.

“Trauma bay three!” A nurse shouts, running alongside the stretcher as it barrels through the fluorescent-lit corridor.

Fernando struggles to keep up, his legs heavy and his chest tightening with every step. He’s used to controlling situations, navigating chaos with precision. But here? He’s useless.

A doctor intercepts the team and starts barking orders. “Tetrodotoxin poisoning? Start oxygen. Prep for intubation. Monitor for paralysis progression.”

Fernando can barely hear the words, his ears ringing as he watches them move like a well-oiled machine. They lift your limp body onto a hospital bed and immediately crowd around you, wires, tubes, and monitors connecting to you in seconds.

“BP’s dropping!” One of the nurses calls out.

“Her pulse is gone — prepare for CPR!”

“No.” Fernando’s voice is hoarse, raw. He takes a step toward you, only for a nurse to hold out a hand, blocking him.

“Sir, you can’t be here-”

“She’s my daughter!” He shouts, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear. “Mi hija!”

The nurse’s face softens but remains resolute. “Please, let us work. We’ll do everything we can.”

Fernando doesn’t move, his fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his nails dig into his palms. He forces himself back a step, then another, until his back hits the wall of the trauma bay. From there, he watches, paralyzed, as the team fights to save you.

Your body jolts violently as the doctor performs compressions. Fernando can see the force behind each movement, the way your fragile chest heaves with every push. His breath catches in his throat, the sight unlike anything he’s ever faced.

He’s been in crashes that should have killed him. He’s watched cars flip, felt the searing heat of flames licking at his helmet, and heard the terrifying silence of blacking out mid-impact. But nothing — nothing — compares to this.

“Charging defibrillator,” a nurse announces, the machine humming to life.

“Clear!” The doctor shouts, and the electric shock courses through your body, making it arch violently before collapsing back onto the bed.

Fernando flinches, his hands gripping the edge of the doorway so tightly he feels the strain in his forearms.

“Still no pulse,” someone says, their tone tense but controlled. “Resume compressions. Push another dose of atropine.”

The words blur together. The room feels too small, the walls pressing in on him as he watches your body being battered in their attempt to restart your heart.

“Dios mío,” he whispers, the words spilling out like a plea. He presses a hand to his mouth, his knees threatening to buckle. “Please. Please, mija. Don’t leave me.”

“BP’s stabilizing!” One of the nurses suddenly shouts.

Fernando’s head snaps up, his breath hitching.

“She’s still in critical condition, but we’ve got a pulse,” the doctor confirms, his voice calm but firm. “Intubate her now. We need to stabilize her airway.”

Fernando sags against the wall, his eyes stinging with tears that refuse to fall. His legs feel weak, but he doesn’t dare move. He watches as they thread a tube down your throat, as machines start taking over your breathing, as the chaos shifts into a more controlled rhythm.

“Sir?” A nurse approaches him, her expression gentle but serious. “She’s alive. But she’s not out of danger yet. We’re taking her to the ICU.”

Fernando nods mutely, his throat too tight to speak. He doesn’t even register his feet moving until he’s following the stretcher down the hall, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

“Stay with me, cariño,” he whispers under his breath, his fists clenched by his sides. “Stay with me. Por favor.”

***

Max and Charles burst through the hospital's front doors, their faces pale and their movements frantic. They’re met with a stern-looking receptionist who immediately raises her hands.

“Only immediate family are allowed beyond this point,” she says firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Charles steps forward, his voice taut. “We’re her-” He falters, unsure how to explain, unsure of anything except the desperate need to see you. “Please, just let us in.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but we-”

“You don’t understand,” Max interjects, his voice sharp with frustration. “We-”

“I said no exceptions.”

Charles slams his hand on the counter, the loud crack echoing through the sterile lobby. “She could be dying!” He yells, his voice raw. “Do you even care?”

The receptionist flinches but doesn’t budge. “I understand this is a difficult situation, but you need to-”

“Wait,” a voice cuts in. A nurse steps forward, her brow furrowed as she looks between Max and Charles. Her eyes widen slightly in recognition. “You’re the F1 drivers, aren’t you? Verstappen and Leclerc?”

“That’s not important,” Max snaps, though there’s a tinge of relief in his voice. “Please. We need to see her.”

The nurse hesitates for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Come with me.”

They don’t wait for her to finish speaking, following her down the hallway at a near run. The sound of their footsteps echoes loudly in the quiet corridors, and neither says a word. They don’t need to. The tension between them is thick, a shared panic they’re both barely keeping at bay.

When the nurse gestures toward a waiting area outside the ICU, they see him.

Fernando is sitting in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. His usually composed demeanor is nowhere to be seen — his shoulders are hunched, his body unmoving except for the slight tremor running through him.

“Fernando,” Charles calls out, his voice shaky. He steps closer, but the older man doesn’t look up. “Fernando.”

It’s not until Max steps forward, his tone uncharacteristically gentle, that Fernando finally raises his head.

And what they see shatters them.

Fernando’s eyes are bloodshot, his face lined with exhaustion and something deeper — fear, anguish, helplessness. He looks like a man who has lived through every nightmare imaginable and come out the other side broken.

“Is she …” Max doesn’t finish the question, the words catching in his throat.

Fernando shakes his head slowly. “She’s alive,” he says, his voice hoarse, as if it’s taken all his strength to get those two words out. “For now.”

Charles sags against the wall, his legs threatening to give out. “What happened?” He asks, though he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

Fernando takes a shuddering breath, his hands curling into fists on his thighs. “Her heart stopped,” he says flatly. “They had to perform CPR. Defibrillation.” He closes his eyes, and his voice drops to a whisper. “I thought I lost her.”

The words hang in the air like a death sentence.

Max turns away, running a hand through his hair and pulling at the strands as if the physical pain might drown out the emotional. Charles stumbles to one of the chairs and collapses into it, his face buried in his hands as his shoulders shake.

“What now?” Max finally asks, his voice rough, his back still to them.

Fernando lets out a bitter, hollow laugh. “Now we wait. The toxin … there’s no cure. They’re trying to stabilize her, but it’s up to her body now.”

Charles looks up, his face streaked with tears he doesn’t remember shedding. “What are her chances?” He whispers, his voice barely audible.

Fernando meets his eyes, and the weight of his silence is crushing.

Max slams his fist against the wall, the sharp sound making them all flinch. “This can’t be it!” He shouts, his voice breaking. “She’s stronger than this. She’s-” He stops, his chest heaving as he struggles to keep himself together.

Fernando leans forward, his hands gripping his hair. “I’ve seen her fight through so much,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with desperation. “But this … I don’t know if she can fight this.”

The room falls silent, the weight of his words pressing down on all of them.

Charles leans back in the chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. “I should have been there,” he mutters, the guilt crashing over him in waves. “I should have protected her.”

Max turns to him, his expression fierce. “Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself.”

Charles doesn’t respond, his hands clenching into fists.

Fernando looks between the two of them, his eyes softening for a brief moment despite his own despair. “She wouldn’t want this,” he says quietly. “For either of you.”

But it doesn’t matter. The three of them sit in silence, the minutes stretching into hours as they wait for any scrap of news, their fear and guilt eating away at them with every passing second.

***

The hours drag on, the waiting room oppressive with its hum of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell. Fernando hasn’t moved from his seat in what feels like forever, his hands pressed together in a silent, unending prayer. Max leans against the wall, his head tilted back, eyes closed, his knuckles raw from where they struck the plaster earlier. Charles is hunched forward in his chair, his elbows digging into his knees, his face buried in his hands. None of them speak.

The sound of footsteps jolts them all. A doctor, dressed in blue scrubs and holding a clipboard, approaches. The man’s face is unreadable, his expression carefully neutral, which makes Fernando’s stomach drop.

Fernando stands first, his movements stiff and mechanical. Charles and Max scramble to their feet behind him, their breath catching as they wait for the news.

The doctor stops in front of them, his voice calm but direct. “She’s stable for now.”

Fernando’s knees almost buckle in relief. Charles lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and Max grips the edge of a nearby chair to steady himself.

“But,” the doctor continues, his tone grave, “the next 24 hours are critical. The toxin is still in her system, and while we’ve done everything we can to support her vitals, her body needs to fight through this. The damage to her heart and lungs was significant.”

“Can we see her?” Fernando asks, his voice trembling despite his best effort to sound strong.

The doctor hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Yes. But keep it brief. She’s on a ventilator and heavily sedated to give her body the best chance to recover.”

Fernando doesn’t wait for more. He strides toward the doors the doctor came through, Max and Charles close on his heels.

The room they’re led to is quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the soft hiss of the ventilator. The sight of you makes them all freeze.

You lie motionless in the hospital bed, your face pale and almost unrecognizable against the stark white of the sheets. A tangle of wires and tubes surrounds you, the ventilator tube taped to your mouth, rising and falling in a mechanical rhythm that seems unnervingly unnatural.

Fernando is the first to step forward. He approaches slowly, as if afraid that getting too close might break you further. He sinks into the chair beside the bed and reaches for your hand, his large, calloused fingers trembling as they wrap around your much smaller ones.

“Mija,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Charles stays back, his hand gripping the frame of the door. He can’t seem to look directly at you, his eyes darting everywhere but your face. “She looks so … small,” he murmurs, his voice almost inaudible.

Max steps past him, his jaw tight and his hands stuffed into his pockets. He takes a position on the other side of the bed, staring down at you with a fierce intensity. “She’s strong,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “She’s gonna make it through this.”

Fernando doesn’t lift his eyes from your face, his thumb stroking your knuckles in a steady rhythm. “I’ve seen her fight through impossible things,” he says quietly. “She’ll fight this too.”

Charles finally steps into the room, his legs feeling like lead. He moves to stand behind Fernando, his hands braced on the back of the chair. His eyes lock on your face, and the dam breaks.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, tears streaming down his face. “I should have been there. I should have-”

“Don’t,” Fernando cuts him off, his voice gentle but firm. “This isn’t your fault.”

“But I-”

“She wouldn’t want you blaming yourself,” Fernando says, his eyes still fixed on you. “She wouldn’t want any of us to.”

Max exhales sharply, leaning against the wall as if the weight of his worry is finally catching up to him. “We’re not leaving this room,” he says, his voice hard with determination. “Not until she’s okay.”

Charles nods silently, his grip tightening on the chair. Fernando doesn’t respond, just keeps holding your hand, as if willing his strength into you.

The three men settle in around you, the minutes bleeding into hours as they keep watch, waiting for any sign that you’re still fighting.

***

The world keeps moving, but for Fernando, Charles, and Max, time has frozen. The hospital becomes their whole existence, days and nights bleeding into each other as they sit vigil by your bedside.

Fernando rarely leaves the room, his chair permanently pulled up beside your bed. His unshaven face and hollow eyes make him unrecognizable to anyone who knew the fiery, unstoppable force of a man he used to be. He clings to every little improvement — the way your heart rate steadies, the slow return of color to your face — but every day that you don’t wake up feels like another fracture in his already breaking heart.

Max is the restless one. He paces the halls, his phone constantly in hand, though he never calls anyone. When he’s in the room, he’s quiet, but his energy buzzes under the surface. He tries not to look at you for too long, hating how still you are. But he’s there. Always there.

Charles is the opposite. He sits beside you in silence, watching you with an almost desperate intensity, as if willing his presence to pull you back. He rarely speaks, and when he does, it’s only to you. Quiet, broken words that he knows you can’t hear but hopes you’ll somehow understand.

They all gave up their races without a second thought. No explanations, no press releases — just silence that sent the paddock into chaos. Speculation swirled: Was this some protest? A contractual dispute? Theories ranged from dramatic to absurd, but none came close to the truth.

The first week passes. Then the second.

The doctors are cautiously optimistic. You’ve survived the critical period, but you’re still unresponsive, locked in a battle that only you can fight. Fernando listens to every update with grim determination, nodding silently before returning to his post by your side.

It’s the fifteenth day when everything changes.

The room is quiet, the afternoon sun streaming weakly through the blinds. Fernando is half-asleep in the chair, his head tilted back and his arms crossed over his chest. Max is leaned against the wall, scrolling through his phone without really seeing anything on the screen. Charles is beside your bed, as always, his hand wrapped around yours as he murmurs something in French under his breath.

Then it happens.

Your fingers twitch.

At first, it’s so faint that Charles thinks he imagined it. He freezes, his heart stopping as he stares at your hand. Slowly, hesitantly, he squeezes your fingers.

And you squeeze back.

“Mon Dieu,” Charles breathes, his voice barely audible. He bolts upright, leaning over you as his other hand gently brushes your cheek. “Y/N? Can you hear me?”

Your eyelids flutter, your brow furrowing slightly as if you’re trying to piece together where you are.

“Oh my God.” Max pushes off the wall so fast that his phone clatters to the floor. “Is she-”

“She’s waking up,” Charles says, his voice shaking.

Fernando stirs at the commotion, blinking blearily until he sees Charles leaning over you. It takes a moment for the realization to hit him.

“Mija!” Fernando is out of his chair in an instant, his hands trembling as he cups your face. “Can you hear me? It’s me, Papá.”

Your eyes finally open, squinting against the harsh light. You look around sluggishly, confusion clouding your gaze before it lands on Fernando’s face. Your lips part, and though no sound comes out at first, your expression softens.

“Papá …”

It’s barely a whisper, but it’s enough to shatter Fernando completely. He chokes out a sob, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re okay. Gracias a Dios, you’re okay.”

Charles and Max stand frozen, relief flooding their faces as tears stream down their cheeks.

“You gave us a hell of a scare, you know that?” Max finally says, his voice thick as he scrubs a hand over his face.

You blink up at him, then at Charles, your brows furrowing. “What … what happened?”

Charles lets out a broken laugh, pressing your hand to his lips. “It doesn’t matter right now,” he says softly, his voice cracking. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

You close your eyes for a moment, exhaustion pulling at you even as you fight to stay awake. “I … I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck,” you mumble.

Fernando lets out a watery laugh, his hands never leaving yours. “You’re allowed to rest, nena. You’ve been through enough.”

Your lips curve into a faint smile, and for the first time in weeks, the room feels lighter. The storm has finally passed, and the three men who love you most in the world know one thing for certain: they’ll never let you face anything like this alone again.

***

The hospital room is quieter now, though the tension lingers in the air. Fernando stands by the window, staring out at nothing, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Max and Charles have claimed chairs on either side of your bed, their exhaustion palpable but their determination to stay near you unwavering.

It’s late afternoon when the knock comes. Two officers step into the room, their uniforms crisp but their faces drawn, tired from days of dealing with the chaos surrounding your kidnapping. One of them — a tall man with a clipboard — speaks first.

“Miss Alonso, we need to ask you a few questions.”

Fernando turns sharply from the window, his expression hardening. “She’s barely awake. Can’t this wait?”

The officer shakes his head. “We’re sorry, Mr. Alonso, but we need to understand what happened while her memory is fresh.”

You swallow hard, your throat still raw from the ventilator. Charles reaches for your hand instinctively, squeezing it gently. “We’re right here,” he murmurs.

You nod, giving the officers a faint smile even though your heart pounds in your chest. “Okay,” you rasp.

The other officer, a woman with kind eyes, steps forward. “Do you remember anything your kidnapper said to you? Anything about why he did this?”

You hesitate. Your gaze flickers to Charles, who’s staring at the floor, his jaw tight. He hasn’t spoken much since you woke up, but you know him well enough to see the storm brewing beneath his silence.

“Not really,” you lie, shifting your attention back to the officers. “It was all kind of … jumbled. He wasn’t making much sense.”

The male officer frowns. “Miss Alonso, it’s important to be honest. He hasn’t spoken a word since he was taken into custody. If we’re going to build a case against him, we need to understand his motive.”

“I told you, I don’t-” you start, but the officer cuts you off.

“You’re the only one who can help us.”

You bite your lip, your eyes darting to Charles again. His fingers tighten around yours, and you know he’s listening to every word.

“I-” you falter, trying to find a way to deflect. “He … he said some stuff about racing. About being a Ferrari fan.”

Max leans forward, his brows knitting. “A Ferrari fan?”

You don’t meet his gaze. “Yeah, he — he was rambling about the team.”

The female officer’s voice softens, but there’s a firmness beneath it. “Did he say anything about why he targeted you specifically?”

You hesitate too long. The officers notice. So does Charles.

“Miss Alonso,” the male officer presses, “please. Did he give you a specific reason?”

Your chest tightens. You can feel Charles’ eyes on you now, his hand suddenly too still in yours. You know the truth will cut him like a knife, but the officers aren’t going to let this go.

Finally, you exhale shakily. “He … he said he thought Charles was distracted. That he wasn’t focused on Ferrari anymore because of me.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Fernando’s head snaps toward you, his expression a mix of anger and disbelief. Max mutters something under his breath, his hands clenching into fists. But it’s Charles’ reaction that makes your stomach twist.

He lets go of your hand and stands abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at you. He just walks to the other side of the room, his back to everyone.

“Charles …” you start, your voice cracking.

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the windowsill so tightly his knuckles turn white. “So it’s my fault,” he says quietly.

“No!” You try to sit up, but Fernando is immediately at your side, gently pressing you back down. “Charles, that’s not what I meant. It’s not your fault.”

He turns, his eyes blazing. “But it is, isn’t it? If he thought-”

“He’s insane,” Max cuts in, his voice sharp. “That’s not on you, Charles.”

“He wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t-”

“Stop,” Fernando says, his voice booming. He steps between Charles and the bed, his glare enough to silence everyone in the room. “The only one responsible is the man who did this.”

Charles’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He just nods stiffly and turns back toward the window, his shoulders slumping.

The officers exchange glances, sensing the tension but staying professional. The female officer speaks again, her tone careful. “Thank you for your honesty, Miss Alonso. We’ll let you rest now.”

They leave without another word, and the room falls into an uneasy silence.

“I didn’t want to tell them,” you say softly, your eyes pleading with Charles’s back. “I didn’t want you to know.”

Charles finally turns, his expression pained but softer. “You should have told me.”

“I didn’t want you to blame yourself,” you whisper.

He crosses the room slowly, sitting back down beside you. His hand trembles as he reaches for yours again. “I already blame myself,” he admits. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to know. You shouldn’t have to carry this alone.”

You squeeze his hand weakly, tears blurring your vision. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

Fernando and Max exchange a look, then quietly slip out of the room, giving you and Charles a moment alone.

Charles leans closer, resting his forehead against your hand. “I don’t care what anyone says,” he whispers. “You’re not a distraction. You’re everything.”

And for the first time since waking up, you let yourself cry.

***

The house in Oviedo feels like a sanctuary. Nestled in the hills, far removed from the madness of the paddock and the media frenzy that erupted after your kidnapping, it’s exactly what your father promised: peace. The smell of pine trees drifts through open windows, mingling with the aroma of home-cooked food.

You’ve spent the last week recovering, the color slowly returning to your face and the strength to your limbs. Fernando refuses to let you lift a finger, always muttering something about “not risking his hija.” Charles and Max have become equally protective shadows, hovering just enough to drive you crazy but not enough for you to complain.

It’s dinner time now, and Fernando is serving up plates of steaming paella, his movements confident and measured as he hums to himself. The dining table is small but feels full: Charles is to your left, Max to your right, and Fernando sits across from you, dishing generous portions like he’s feeding an army.

The TV hums distantly from the living room, some nightly news segment filling the silence.

“Fernando, you’ve seriously outdone yourself,” Max says, shoveling a forkful of rice into his mouth. “This is better than anything we’ve had since that steakhouse in Abu Dhabi.”

Fernando waves him off, clearly pleased with himself. “Of course it is. You think I’d let you leave here thinking otherwise?”

Charles chuckles, picking around the plate for the perfect bite. “If Red Bull knew you could cook like this, they’d hire you as the caterer.”

“Ha,” Fernando scoffs, though the glint in his eye says he’s enjoying the praise. “No one can afford me.”

You smile to yourself, leaning back in your chair, letting the banter wash over you. For the first time in weeks, things feel normal — almost like you’ve reclaimed something that was lost.

And then the newscaster’s voice cuts through the hum of conversation.

“In a shocking update,” she says, her tone grave, “the man accused of kidnapping Formula 1 driver Y/N Alonso was found dead in his cell earlier today. Authorities report that the death was accidental, citing severe anaphylaxis as the cause. It appears the suspect had a previously undisclosed peanut allergy, and somehow his food became contaminated.”

Your fork pauses mid-air. The entire table goes still.

You glance up, catching the unmistakable smirks forming on Fernando’s, Charles’, and Max’s faces. Max leans back in his chair, arms crossed, grinning like a cat who’s eaten the canary. Charles casually reaches for his glass of water, but his dimples betray him as he struggles to keep a straight face. Fernando? He doesn’t even try to hide it — he leans back with a look of pure satisfaction, a smug tilt to his chin.

They all exchange a look. A look that makes your eyebrow shoot up.

“Something funny?” You ask slowly, your tone dripping with suspicion.

Fernando shrugs, reaching for the serving spoon and adding more paella to his plate. “It’s just … a tragedy.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly, though his eyes are dancing with mischief. “The man was deathly allergic to peanuts. What a terrible, terrible accident.”

Charles clears his throat, failing to hide the ghost of a smile. “Terrible.”

“Very tragic,” Max chimes in, his voice dripping with mock sincerity.

You narrow your eyes at all three of them, folding your arms across your chest. “Okay, what did you guys do?”

Fernando looks downright offended. “Qué? Me? Nothing.”

You tilt your head, waiting.

“It’s a shame, really,” he continues, ignoring your glare. “Somehow, his meal must have gotten contaminated. Maybe there was a mix-up. A little peanut dust here, some peanut oil there …” He gestures vaguely with his fork, as if explaining an unfortunate cooking mishap. “These things happen.”

You stare at him, incredulous. Then you turn to Max and Charles. “And you two? You’re just going to sit there like-”

Max and Charles, as if on cue, exchange a triumphant fist bump under the table. Max grins proudly, while Charles looks away, attempting — and failing — to feign innocence.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head. “You guys couldn’t even pretend to be subtle?”

Fernando’s eyes gleam as he leans forward, leveling you with a look so serious it nearly catches you off guard. “Listen to me, mija. That man tried to take you from us. He hurt you. Whatever happened to him is nothing compared to what he deserved.”

There’s a weight to his words, an edge that makes you realize he means every single one of them.

“And if we happen to be a little smug about it,” Max adds with a smirk, “well, can you blame us?”

Charles finally speaks up, his voice soft but firm. “He’s gone. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

You exhale slowly, letting the words sink in. You know you should probably feel … something. Shock, maybe. Disapproval. But instead, you just feel relief. A strange, comforting relief that the man who tried to take everything from you is no longer out there.

“You’re all insane,” you say finally, though there’s no bite to your words.

Fernando grins. “You’ll thank us eventually.”

“Just eat your paella,” Max adds, grinning as he digs back into his plate.

Charles squeezes your hand under the table, his expression softening as he searches your face. “You’re okay, right?”

You meet his gaze, seeing nothing but concern and love in his eyes. You nod, your lips quirking into a small smile. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Fernando raises his glass, a little smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “To accidents,” he says, his voice deliberately casual.

Max and Charles snicker as they lift their glasses to toast, and you can’t help but roll your eyes, though there’s a small, amused smile tugging at your lips.

“To accidents,” you mutter, shaking your head as you clink your glass against theirs.

The TV drones on in the background, the story already shifting to something else, but in this little dining room in Oviedo, the four of you sit in quiet satisfaction. The world doesn’t need to know what really happened.

Some things are better left unsaid.

***

The house feels emptier without them. Fernando, Charles, and Max left yesterday morning to return to the paddock, each one reluctant to go but eventually swayed by your insistence.

“Racing is what you love,” you’d told them as you sat on the edge of the sofa, wrapped in one of Fernando’s old sweaters. “I’ll be fine here. I need to get better so I can come back too, and the sooner you get back out there, the sooner everything feels normal again.”

It had taken more convincing than you’d expected, but eventually, they relented. Still, each goodbye was harder than you anticipated — Max with a bear hug that squeezed the breath out of you, Fernando muttering something in Spanish about keeping your phone on, and Charles pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead before whispering, “Call me if you need anything.”

Now, you sit curled on the couch with a blanket and a mug of tea, watching the press conference from your laptop. The camera pans across the familiar faces of the drivers seated at the table, and your heart clenches seeing Fernando, Max, and Charles among them.

Fernando looks every bit the composed veteran, but you catch the slight tension in his jaw. Max leans back in his chair with his usual air of confidence, though his eyes dart to Fernando and Charles more often than usual. And Charles — Charles looks tired. There’s a weight in his expression that the cameras won’t pick up on, but you know it’s there.

The questions start out routine — thoughts on the upcoming race, opinions on the track layout, expectations for the weekend. They all give professional answers, though Fernando’s responses have just the right amount of dry wit to make you smile.

Then, a reporter raises their hand and is called upon.

“This question is for Charles.”

Your heart sinks. The tone of the reporter’s voice is already a red flag.

“There have been rumors circulating that the man who kidnapped Y/N Alonso did so because he believed you were distracted by her and not fully committed to Ferrari. Can you confirm whether there’s any truth to these claims?”

The room goes silent.

Charles sits up straighter, his grip tightening on the microphone in front of him. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, his lips pressed into a thin line. You hold your breath, the tea in your hands forgotten.

Finally, he speaks. His voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of raw emotion that makes your chest ache.

“I will address this only once,” he begins, his accent thick, his eyes fixed on the reporter. “The idea that someone would use my relationship with Y/N as an excuse to justify their actions is … despicable.”

You can see the effort it takes for him to stay composed, his knuckles white as they grip the edge of the table.

“Y/N is the strongest, most incredible person I have ever known,” he continues, his voice trembling slightly. “She has supported me through everything, even when I didn’t deserve it. And to think that someone would hurt her — someone who calls themselves a Ferrari fan-” He breaks off, shaking his head.

“This is the only time in my life I have ever been disgusted to share the title of Tifoso with someone else.”

The room remains silent. Even the other drivers seem taken aback, their usual smirks and easygoing attitudes replaced with quiet understanding.

Charles takes a deep breath, glancing down at the table before looking back up. “I love Ferrari. I love the fans. But if you think for one second that I will let someone use that love to justify hurting someone I care about, you are mistaken.”

Your vision blurs with tears. You wipe them away quickly, though you’re alone in the room.

“And as for Y/N distracting me?” Charles adds, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “She doesn’t distract me. She inspires me. She makes me want to be better — not just as a driver, but as a person. So if anyone thinks she’s the problem, maybe they should look in the mirror instead.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other drivers, and Fernando nods slightly, his expression unreadable but his approval clear.

Max, of course, can’t help himself. He leans into the microphone, his tone sharp. “Next question.”

The room chuckles awkwardly, the tension easing slightly, but you can’t take your eyes off Charles. He sits back in his chair, exhaling deeply, his hand trembling slightly as he sets the microphone down.

You close the laptop, unable to watch anymore. Your chest feels tight, a mix of pride, love, and guilt swirling inside you.

Charles had told the world exactly how he felt. And you’d never been more sure that you loved him.

***

The air is electric as you step out of the car in the paddock parking lot. You’ve missed this — the familiar hum of engines warming up in the distance, the rush of people weaving between motorhomes and garages, the faint scent of rubber and fuel in the air. But this time, it’s different.

You barely have time to close your car door before you’re practically ambushed.

“Careful with her!” Fernando snaps, brushing past Max and Charles as if they aren’t there. He cups your face with both hands, inspecting you like he hasn’t seen you in years. “Hija, are you sure about this? We can turn around right now. No one will blame you.”

You laugh softly, prying his hands off your cheeks. “I’m fine, Papá. I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?” Charles asks, stepping closer, his hand ghosting over your lower back. He doesn’t touch you, but he’s close enough that you feel his warmth. His green eyes search your face, his concern evident.

Max, on the other hand, leans casually against your car, arms crossed but his frown betraying his calm posture. “If you’re even slightly unsure, I’ll call Christian myself and say you’re taking another month off.”

“Guys,” you say, looking at each of them in turn, “I’m okay. I promise.”

Fernando mutters something under his breath in Spanish that you don’t quite catch, but the look he shoots Charles and Max makes it clear they’re all on the same page: hover over you until you give up and lets them.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling.

As you make your way toward the Red Bull garage, it becomes clear that you aren’t the only one who’s missed this sense of normalcy. People you’ve only exchanged passing nods with before stop in their tracks to greet you. Engineers, journalists, even the rival drivers you’ve barely spoken to — it seems like everyone has something to say.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Lando says, pulling you into an unexpected but warm hug.

“Good to see you in one piece,” Lewis adds, his tone light but his smile genuine.

“Don’t scare us like that again,” George says, shaking his head.

Even Kimi Raikkonen, who’s a guest in the paddock for the weekend, gives you a gruff nod. For him, that’s basically a declaration of undying friendship.

And then Toto Wolff steps into your path.

“Toto,” you say, blinking in surprise.

“Y/N.”

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into a hug — a full hug, his large arms wrapping around you like a protective barrier against the world.

You stiffen for a second, not because you don’t appreciate it but because … Toto Wolff? Hugging you?

You have to pinch your arm discreetly to make sure this isn’t some bizarre dream.

“Welcome back,” Toto says simply, his voice low and kind, before stepping back.

You manage to nod, your words caught in your throat.

“Alright, move along,” Fernando interrupts, stepping between you and Toto like a guard dog. He nods politely but firmly at the team principal before ushering you forward.

“Toto Wolff,” you murmur as you follow Fernando, Charles, and Max toward the garage. “I really must be dreaming.”

“You’re not,” Charles says, smiling softly. “People care about you, ma chérie. Even Toto, apparently.”

“Or maybe he’s just scouting you for Mercedes,” Max mutters, though there’s no real bite to his words.

You laugh, the sound lighter than it’s been in weeks. The paddock is alive, buzzing with energy, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not just watching it from afar. You’re part of it again.

And it feels like coming home.

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